Hey! if you stumbled across this post, welcome! this is a smol, semi-active multi-muse RP blog. All of my muses are OCs ( with one exception, but i play him as if he were an OC either way ). My activity is somewhat unpredictable, but I always show up again - eventually. If you follow me here, please be patient with this blog!

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                                         guidelines & about page

his dog is also a horse that barks

he chose his own last name at the end of his route and called himself CLIZZARD

'orange juice for me', 'very well, then i will have a double-chocolate-strawberry-vanilla-parfait-with mocha-hazelnut-caramel-sauce-rainbow-sprinkles-chocolate-flakes-and-whipped-cream'

"Your hair looks… good. and your waist is… very supportive." [dont gotta say]

This is it. The typical, cliche, romantic, cat-got-your-tongue moment, when a guy shows up at your door before a prom night and he's speechless because you look so. damn. good. It's what every girl dreams of. It's what Andrea has dreamt of ( even if it's hard for her to admit ). It is, even, a moment she had hoped to have with Wylan specifically if only to get the upper hand over him, that'll show him. Can't get him to lower his guard by any other means so her looks have got to be her last resort, and even her looks don't usually do the trick because they both god damn well know he has always liked what he sees. He's just. So infuriatingly nonchalant. Andrea doesn't expect any particular reaction from him this time, etiher. After all, Wylan has seen her in most of her flimsiest best outfits, and although the eyes have wandered and winked and lingered for longer than is considered just friendly, platonic appreciation, he has not once fumbled with his words. So when she's fixing her hear in the mirror, hairtie between her teeth to bring it all up in a high ponytail, and she hears those words -- seemingly genuine, hesitant, almost as if he's... struggling? to say them, she pauses in her movements, turns around,

True, she hadn't yet told him what this new part-time job of her was about. Apparently he hadn't expected it to be this. It's not exactly her usual vibe, indeed. But she hadn't expected his reaction to be so perplexed, either. A pause, where they both look at each other, as if in a daze, as if something is about to happen that both of them have always brushed off as impossible --

"you're fucking kidding me, right?" She scoffs in disbelief, breaking the tension. No, no, this isn't that moment. This cannot be that moment. Absolutely not.

The Vitschy, as a race, relied on constancy. They communicated with perpetual motion as they undulated along the set tracks of their set role in the hive. Their insides were churning chemical works that were always and forever emanating reassuring pheromones. The slightest waver of their antennae, the slightest waft of sour scent through their spiracles, contained the shattering of the livelihood– nay, the world that a Vitschy’s typical signals embedded themselves in. Every movement had meaning for Vitschy. Every movement was grounded in patterns, tradition.

Fintan moved at random. Skaa’s feelers caught the scent of his saliva kissing the air as his finger glided across his lips– a slow, savoring, predatory motion at odds with the careless whirling of his finger through his hair (and his hair spritzed her with its pungent oils). Worse, Fintan’s bell-like voice clamored as he tried to bind Skaa with metaphors– knights, warriors, and girls, oh my!

There was no rhyme or reason to any of it. Yet Fintan was circling in like a hawk, leaving Skaa to wonder what he hunted. All her writhing antennae could discern was that he mocked her resolve against bowing to the humans who would ghettoize and erase her kind.

So what wish is in your heart  ?

That question was the last thing she expected from the fae. Her scent sweetened abruptly with surprise, and she staggered. ‘I–’ her mouth parts moved before she could stop them, clattering against that overused vowel key before she could stop them. With the spell that left Fintan’s lips, something squeezed her heart hard, setting her fluids racing through her carapace.

Then her antennae vibrated agitatedly as she covered her mouth parts. ‘No, I have read the children in my classes the stories! You’ll bewitch me!’

Indeed, even letting the word “children” pass her mandibles revealed too much about what had just crushed the organ in her chest.

The more cornered Skaa felt, the more it agitated the fae too -- it does not make Fintan nervous, on the contrary, it excites him, to see this strange being so shaken. Yes, see, even if humans refused to believe, to acknowledge how much they have lost and how they have driven away all that is mythical and out of their grasp or control, the stories live on. Perhaps that is why he, too, lives on. And now! Even the teacher has come to remember the tales; what an absurdity to have the roles reversed; the teacher who learns a lesson, the alien who fears as humans do.

Bewitch, she cried, as if it were that simple. He hasn't decided yet what precisely he'll do - if he even can do anything to her. Likely never will make up his mind, for Fintan's curses were always cast impulsively, for fickle, shallow reasons. Her fear is not wholly unfounded, indeed, the children's stories portray fae quite well, but to already be accused of witchcraft -- he is no sorceress. He laughs darkly, mockingly, as if to confirm her fears ( i am that very witch! ), laughs so hard he hugs his stomach and lets himself fall on the grass, rolling over in delight. At least, his answer should offer some comfort;

'No witchcraft, no trades, no bargains to be made today,' He'd been merely curious about her desires, even though she does give him ideas --would it be possible, to cast a spell on this beetle-like thing, which is not of this earth? For today, at least, Fintan has no intention to find out.

'come, share with me thing,' He gestures at the floor, as a human would invite a friend to sit for a chat, or a drink; 'a secret, a wish, a song you want to sing?'

Wait, what? Maybe this was intentional, he doesn’t fucking know, but there’s no preparation for this outcome. The conversation hadn’t been comfortable for either of them, so it had been instinct for Wylan (the real Wylan, not the jokester nor the assassin) to offer an escape rope to pull them both out. Besides, the bulk of things had been released. The ‘important stuff’ as it were. One of them is a killer. One of them is a liar. Quid pro quo. Get some drinks. Instead, Drea had flipped not the table, not the room, but the house.

“No? The hell do you mean? And since when did you ever care what I thought? This was something you’d just slap me over if anything. And… pf.” A heavy sigh as he now has to think more about it. Was he perhaps preoccupied with the reverse question, the one she also brought up? Did he care more about it than he himself realized? “I don’t know. You’re still you, I’m still me. It’s not like either of us have been deceiving each other. Wasn’t my intent anyhow. I’m still… y’know. All this.” An empty gesture to his person, no elaboration but implicit assumption could mean anything from his personality to his behavior.

“And you’re still definitely, all that, aren’t you?” A brow attempts to lift, a softened expression from the furrow that had crumpled his features. “…so you think that me, a guy who ended up killing people to pay off debts and because he got in with the wrong crowd, is going to judge you for being confused and scared when you were younger? Like I have some right to? Fuck. I mean I could. I could go over there and slap you right now. And then you’d kick me in the nuts or report me to the FBI as a killer. And then things escalate.” He stops, another empty shrug as he fights for thought or word.

“I don’t want do to that. I don’t want things to change between us. Why do you think I even decided to tell you this? I trusted you, this wasn’t supposed to change that. Which, in lovely retrospect, seems stupid.” He laughs, a lift of his chest before hands fall on his knees. “I sat down and wanted to talk to you because I thought you’d … I dunno, understand? And look past it? I didn’t want anything else. This isn’t some character moment where now you unlock a new feature of being my friend, or… I don’t… ah.” What did he want out of it? What did he want her to say? “Neither of us want to be felt sorry for. In my case, it was all stupid shit I brought on myself so I don’t deserve it. But hey. Just don’t… do the FBI thing. I don’t want to have to stop you. Because I would.” There’s a flash of a viridian gaze at the Spaniard. How honest the threat was a question and how much was the usual lift of humor as a response to stress?

“Just felt like you deserved to know. In the end.”

Since when did she care-- the blush deepens, oh, he’s not allowed to comment on it, to point it out! One of the few times in history that she’s had a chance to catch him off guard and she can’t enjoy it -- because of course.

When he gestures at himself -- sitting there, an ordinary dude, chilling on the sofa; when he puts it like that, all that doesn't seem a big deal, and neither does all of her, likely. Just her. Just Wylan. Secrets or not, they've always had an organic, genuine, messed-up bond. Their secrets put some strain on the relationship, but it doesn’t transform it. Of course, she knew that she didn’t want that. She doesn't seem him differently. Maybe as a more nuanced, complex, interesting person. More of an asshole than before, too.

Andrea just hadn't applied the reverse logic. And he has to say it out loud for that to become a possibility, or a truth. He puts it very plainly, as if it's a given. Humans are blind like that, flawed like that. It was a given that she didn’t change how she thinks about him, but not how he thinks about her. For a moment, he paints the picture very clearly, stunning her into silence. Then his logic spins out of control with wild assumptions.

Reporting him to the FBI, backstabbing a friend -- an absurd hypothesis yet he talks as if she’s already commited the act; I trusted you, I would stop you, don’t do it -- she washes her stupor down with the glass of wine. This gives her face a new ( better ) reason to become slightly flushed.

The end, he says? '--Are you an imbecile?' Fucking don't think so. 'Listen ( the wine glass slammed back on the table simultaneously, adding more gravity ), I think it's fucking rude that you kept your batman tricks a secret. It gives you an unfair advantage because you can basically spider-man your way into my house and steal all the toilet paper. You're a smartass and an asshole, but like you said -- that's nothing new.' This is the usual Andrea, spurred into anger, frustrated, aggressive, spicy. Hot and bothered. Ready to slap a bitch. Looks like she's about to maul him, actually, prodding his chest ( not at all gently ) with each word and pushing him deeper into the sofa.

'So, report you?! You said we're friends. We're having too much fun messing around, so why would--?' A flash of embarrassment, of self-consciousness -- she doesn't often straight-out admit to enjoying their time together -- 'If you say that again I'll murder you first. Fucking imbécil. Y te lo merecerías.' All that pushing and the heated words got her almost straddling him where he sits. Characteristically, this is the point where a bashful admission follows;

'A-anyway. Gracias. Por decir que nada cambiará entre nosotros.' This, mumbled, and Spanish, because he doesn’t understand a word of it. Uncharacteristically, she has no cheeky line to add to the bashful admission. Why not? Hell if she knows. Though she didn’t much point it out, he’d showed his own glimpses of vulnerability, of uncertainty. Because she wants to acknowledge that she doesn’t want anything to change, either? 

“I’ll just drink all the fuckin’ cider, shawty. Like you could hold me down long enough to do that, anyway.” It already went wrong in concept.

Oh, this is going nowhere. She’s not testing it out if he’s resisting, that wasn’t part of her description. Whatever. ‘Literally how am I a shawty, though.’ Never cared much about height, not even when faced with a taller barky boy.

“Ow! Well... uh, sorry?” One hand is nursed with the other, a gentle wringing as he gives her room. Quite the assault, one would say. But unfortunately for the huge tsundere spicy pepper BITCH stranger Raguna wasn’t dissuaded. Manners for him were a mindset rather than a means to an end after all.

“Just because you don’t need it doesn’t mean I won’t offer. It looked like a pretty bad fall. What were you even trying to do over here?”

Ah, this is exactly the type of character she hates. Pushover. Wuss. Not an ounce of fighting spark. A bore. At least if he were a girl she could get some cute reactions out of him. ‘Yeah? None of your business. Just because you’re asking doesn’t mean I’ll tell you.’ She grimaces, leaning closer, testing if he’ll back down if she closes in on him.

It is none of his business. Primarily because she looked stupid as she fell down and is well aware of it. And the fall isn’t worse than the usual trophies she collects, scraps and bruises are part of her daily routine. ‘What about you then, pumpkin? Been staring at my ass, huh?’ As for what the hell she was doing. Well. It doesn’t matter. If American Fucking Batman is capable of doing funky stunts, they can’t be that hard to pull off. 

“You say that like I don’t know it already, like you don’t know it already.” Wylan shrugs, her words indeed not impacting well or doing anything to dissuade him or cast his gaze aside. There were openings to be found, but Wylan did well in hiding them. And chances were with Drea’s personality she wouldn’t have the tools needed to pry apart those old bones and expose the beating mess of glass that dwelled deeper within the man. But she has a point too. His offer is for his own comfort and nothing for her. What else could he tell her? Details? His life is a sad one as soon as the rollercoaster stops at the station.

Perhaps it’s the double realization that causes his expression to soften, and then look away. She gets the victory regardless, through some extension of the cut. Though not as deep as the scars he catches out of the corner of his eye. He’s so often focused on her face or tits or ass maybe he hadn’t thought deep enough before. He should be embarrassed. For himself as a man and himself as a sleuth.

“Damn. Alright. That puts a few things into perspective.” Wylan finishes his glass of alcohol, takes the opportunity to get up and pour himself another- and while he’s at it for Drea too. Her glass is set in front of her, and he sits down next to her. They’d bared each other more than expected. One hell of a way to ‘reconnect’ after so much time. Drea being a scared thing. Wylan being a dangerous thing. Sounds like a lot of bullshit, clashes hard with the kind of friendship they had before. Puts a damper on what should be a fun night. Wylan pulls her away from the party for this?

“So now what. Get ourselves totally smashed? Go back to the club and do something we’ll regret in a more positive way? You’re the first civilian I’ve told about this.. like this.. so I have no fucking idea how to cap it off. Maybe I should’ve prepared a powerpoint or something. Put a little chart at the end about stock prices going up.”

Yes. What she wants is to get so wasted she won't remember a thing about it, and him to get so wasted he won't remember a thing, either. Then they can move on like usual, pretend nothing happened, pretend she's still the spunky girl with too much bite and guts and him the annoying troll getting a laugh out of her temper. Forget about the scars. Forget about the masks. Pretend they’re not there. She opens her mouths, says, after a silence that goes on for too long;

'...No.' Frowning, uncertain of this answer herself, but the words pour out remarkably easily, even if they're -- vulnerable. 'No, I want to fucking talk about this. I mean - how -- what do you seem me as now? What do you think of me?' Ridiculous for her to say such a line. Corny. Straight from a movie script. But she doesn't mean, what do you feel about me, this isn’t a rom-com, this isn’t a confession -- she means, what is your opinion of me, now. What do you see me as. Nevertheless, the words make her blush. The filled glass is a convenient point to focus her stare on from now on. It means she cares about what others think about her, what Wylan thinks of her, while her façade is all about  how she doesn’t. give. a fuck. She’d not blink if she was standing in front of him stark naked. This is another type of nudity -- of vulnerability, of opening up to him and acknowledging it, too. She can’t be the only one feeling like that. Surely he -- cares about what she thinks of his true profession, his life full of lies, the danger he poses, the paranoia he must feel --

“You’ll drown before I do, shawty.”

teniras​:

juice? she needs something stronger than that.

Oh, my bad. Apple cider.

ciri is low. juice in general is low. time for low-effort relatable muse.