#waitsdeath

               YOOSUN’S HANDS settle on hyewon’s shoulders, light as feathers. ❛ you’ve looked close to nodding off for hours now, ❜ she chides, though not unkindly. ❛ go to bed. i’ll wrap up the rest of the paperwork. you can CHECK IT OVER in the morning, if you’d like. ❜ but there’ll hardly be anything to correct, she knows. she’s been doing this for long enough such tasks have become almost mindless, draining as they are. ❛ PLEASE ? ❜

@waitsdeath // Send me a 🚶 and I’ll introduce you to an NPC in my muse’s life.

Isra Manansala was one of Layre’s cousins (descendant, if you may) that she lived with during the Spanish occupation around the late 18th century. Layre (still known as Lilliana after the mass baptism in the early 1600s) sold bananas in the town talipapa (market) while Isra sold fresh fish. But during the night, the cousins were part of a small theatre group that held musical plays in an underground crypt of Santa Rita Catholic Church which were satirical propaganda against the Spanish. Layre sang, and Isra danced - and she was a very good dancer, with elaborate costumes designed by another of the members Eris, and accompanied by Maricel (Isra’s sister) on the grand piano. Isra is a single mother, and has raised her daughter Tala (Kristala) with the help of her sister and cousins.

@waitsdeath​ // what is my reputation in the rp community?

@waitsdeath​ ft. hye won.

“shit- shit fuck—-” SCREEEEEEECH!

she should have listened to liam about fixing her fucking brakes. she should have listened to everyone telling her what to do because clearly she had no clue on what she’s doing. her bike screeched to a halt which save to say didn’t cause much damage around, except for the grocery shopping that popped off from her front basket and now scattered allover the road.

without seeing the girl calling out in warning, sienna hopped off her bicycle and braced herself for a retaliation, gunmouth cocked and ready to fire. but as soon as she lifted her head up from rummaging the mess on the ground and trying to salvage what she could from her shopping, her expression softened. apologetic, even - now realising what damage she must have caused.

sherry sighed, then she angled her head to look at the other differently. finally, she swallowed and averted her gaze. she  knew  about reputation and rumours, knew how they wrapped themselves around ankles like hostile vines, all too keen to let someone trip over them. after all, everyone knew that her own success could not be split from the fact that her parents had lost their lives and left her with pools of blood and wealth, with encrypted journals and unfulfilled promises. she had been seven when they had been taken from her, but few still cared about this.

it was easier to either say that she was only as successful as she was because of what her parents had left behind  or  to expect impossible feats from her. both happened with remarkable frequency; perhaps she should start to keep score. if nothing else, it might provide her with some  traces of entertainment.

( and was that not a sad thought? to seek amusement in what was quite not enough to make her cry? )

she had heard about the other, too. she had not paid attention to all the rumours, not when she knew from experience how often they . . . misrepresented the truth, but there were always things one was bound to hear when navigating the circles of the city that felt she belonged to them. sometimes, it almost felt like they had little other concerns, that digging up dirt about others was all they cared about.