prosopagn0sis-a

[prosopagn0sis-a]

@iknowwhataradiois

here's the thing about letting people in — walls falling like jericho — and them barging in with their dirty boots on; about learning their habits and preferences, their walking pattern and daily routine — it stays with you. right now, miriam keeps all of what jill gave her stuffed in her ribcage, close to her heart.

it's not like fate wanted or needed a friend, but once she made one it was hard to accept being pushed away. usually, she was on the other side, ignoring people and throwing them away like trash, never finding anyone worthy of her precious time. and yet, here she stays in the raccoon city police station, lunch box in her hand, face to face with someone she genuinely liked. what she said was genuine, too — miriam did not expect or need an explanation, but was smart enough to know it's best if she helps jill approach her, if the latter ever decides she wants to spill her guts. maybe valentine didn't know how? or maybe she was scared?

seemed like this was exactly the case. the body language, the nervousness in her tone, the way she stutters with her words. something serious is going on, something they cannot solve with a bottle of wine and a happy yet illegal cigarette.

“never doubted you'll be okay,” the shorter woman exhaled slowly, analyzing whatever pieces of information she was being fed now and comparing them to the latest news. there were bells ringing here and there, but to actually have solid proof (and therefore help, obviously) she needed stronger evidence. “listen, i will not push you for answers and i will not hold it against you if you won't return the calls, but at least take the food, because you look like you are starving yourself.”

miriam pauses for a second. she's so stubborn, she never gives up, so as jill is about to leave, the younger girl makes a step forward — not blocking the way, but signaling the conversation's not over. not yet. not like this.

“you're a cop,” the girl states matter-of-factly. “so, i'd like to report a crime. a guy not only tried to bite me, but eat me three days ago. at work.”

she fakes a smirk.

“if you really need to get back to work, it makes a great opportunity for us to spend some more time together.”

[prosopagn0sis-a]

@iknowwhataradiois

it is bad, jill jut doesn’t know it yet, blissfully unaware of how much of a shithole raccoon city is. it’s not secluded from the civilization at all and yet it feels like everything’s so far away it’s unreachable by any means of transportation — and any means in general.

it’s hard to escape this place, like it’s always holding you with cold hands; wrists and ankles trapped in a painful grip.

and yet, both of the girls came there willingly.

now, for miriam, it was crazy to settle here. but it was also cheap — cheap enough to support herself and pay the fuckin’ debt she got herself into while she lowered her guard.

fuck her father and fuck his new girlfriend and fuck everything in general, the super-nice-girl-cop included.

miriam is grateful for dropping the subject, for an attempt to lighten up the mood; she offers jill a well-practiced smile and nods.

“exactly,” she confirms. just as she’s about to open her mouth again, a lightning lights up the night sky, shining through the diner windows; a loud thunders follows it few moments later.

well, fuck.

the stripper didn’t flinch at the sound, used to listening to grenades, gunshots and variety of other noises — broken glass tables, screams, fire alarms. living with her father was a rollercoaster sometimes — more often than not.

“how good of a driver are you, on a scale of one to ten?”

the roads in raccoon city are mostly alright. with some holes here and there, but alright — yet miriam’s used to driving cars with summer tires during winter and winter tires during summer, with inexperienced or drunk people who couldn’t navigate during a downpour; been a victim of a car accident while an idiot of a client kept insisting on going to his place through a storm. she’s more than careful since then.

obviously, miriam wouldn’t take jill’s word for granted, but was curious how the other woman would rate her skills nonetheless.

[prosopagn0sis-a]

@multiwarfare

as unbelievable as it might sound, fate herself been interrogating people before. unlike her silly little toy soldier friend playing war, she didn't have to care about geneva convention nor human rights while doing so.

it's the same with valeria.

counting the damage. for now, it's just a split lip that's swollen, probably few broken ribs and a black eye, nothing major. yet.

she's aware she's just meat on the hook, ready to be turned into whatever the butchers are tasked to, although for now, it's perfect, because when she did not talk in front of las almas' men, they brought her to the person she was hoping to talk with in the first place — el sin nombre herself.

angry people tend to slip. tend to forget they should've kept their mouth shut about certain details. fate has to balance on the thin line between enraging valeria but not to the point of getting herself killed.

easy peasy.

“chuja zrozumiałam,” the younger hisses in response, smirk appearing on her face. “mój streak z hiszpańskiego na duolingo zakończył się na pierwszym dniu. so how about we stick to english, so we both understand each other, hm?”*

*polish for: i didn't understand shit. my duolingo streak for spanish ended at day one.

[prosopagn0sis-a]

i am now on @prosopagn0sis. will be catching up to things eventually.

[prosopagn0sis-a]

" twilight? what is that?"

hot werewolves and hot vampires having beef, basically.

— fate

[prosopagn0sis-a]

❝ who  are  you?  ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ.. ?

@𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒅𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏  and  @ᴀɴɢsʜᴇʟ  ⸻  dungeons  and  dragons  &&.  baldur's  gate  influenced  aasimar  clerics  written  by  𝓈𝑜𝒻𝓉𝒾𝑒  &&.  ʏᴇʟᴇɴᴀ.

                                            ​​​​​​​                      no...  not  today,  𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖. ❞

© promo.

[prosopagn0sis-a]

kuina. you're the sun of my life. but you're also the dumbest person i know. it's a "no" to increasing your chances of dying out of games. are we clear?

— unmei

It doesn’t bite! …I think. It do got teeth though…

-Kuina

[prosopagn0sis-a]

Multiple bingos heehee

are you fate's type?

you forgot to check "extremely stupid".

— f

[prosopagn0sis-a]

mmmm i always wanted to have rabies.

— unmei

But what if I found a stray dog and wanted to bring them home to The Beach…?

-Kuina

[prosopagn0sis-a]

Prometheus

are you fate's type?

i'd travel through both space and time to make sure you will never be alone.

— yours forever

[prosopagn0sis-a]

[prosopagn0sis-a]

@kingfishered (otto 'könig' pauritsch)

fate doesn't deserve someone as considerate as otto. she doesn't deserve the thoughts behinds his actions — being given space and asked about her feelings. poor boy thinks it's him who did or said something wrong. he must be anxious, so fucking anxious, and fate lets out a string of curses in her head as she takes a deep breath. the urge to rip all of her hair out is gone the instant she hears otto's worried voice.

whatever this man has done to her is unbelievable. indescribable. insane.

few things happened.

she raised her voice — yelled — in order to regulate her emotions. snapped, because they took the better of her. now, she's still mad, but that doesn't mean otto deserved her outburst. her iq is high, but so is her eq. she understands where this rage comes from, she knows why she let her anger out.

otto pulled away — to give her space, but perhaps there's more behind it. his anxiety must be over the roof and it's her fucking fault — and she gets even more mad at the thought of fucking up all the work she — they — put into calming the man's nerves. keeping his stress as low as possible and help him regulate it in safe, healthy, non harmful ways.

otto thought the outburst is his fault — that he's hurt her, which she would have liked, but that's something they have to talk about, and she cannot do that yet. just because she's aware of something and possess the knowledge of how to proceed, doesn't mean she's able to do so.

miriam gets up from the bed; slowly, to not scare off the gentle giant. smoking is prohibited in the airbnb they rented, but it has a balcony. with a cigarette and a lighter, she makes her way towards the sliding door.

“that's not your fault,” fate says once outside, letting in the cold breeze. her hands are still shaking as she tries to light up the cig. the urge to put a knife in the man's hands for him to carve his name on her skin is almost as strong as the stubbornness of her head that keeps helpless pleas of being hurt as a sign of affection stuck in her throat. “you didn't do anything wrong.”

in fact, she wants to add, you're the perfect example of how a person should treat their lover. their friend. their partner?

respect, care, sympathy.

nothing she's familiar with.

a man who breaks spines with his bare hands, shatters people's skulls with the back of his guns, crushes their bones under his weight offers her nothing but gentleness.

a shiver runs through her body. it's cold outside, and all she has on is otto's shirt. it's a habit at this point, stealing trinkets of his here and there, to keep a part of him always by fate's side.

because she desperately wants him to stay and knows he will leave. what she does is prolonging his stay presence.

“you didn't do anything wrong,” she repeats, accentuates, exhaling smoke in the other direction. “i'm just fucked up, that's all.”

she says it so casually like she's talking about the weather.

Otto was startled by the outburst, by the sudden raised voice and by being pushed away. He must have read the situation wrong, done something wrong, but he didn’t know where. He was careful not to touch her again, in case he made things worse, pulling his hand back close to his body.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, and in his voice it showed clearly that he was worried, unsure how to navigate this, “I don’t want to— that’s why I am asking.”

His concern for her overshadowed his hate of being called delicate, even if he knew the gentle placement of his hand on her cheek and his soft words would be seen as so. He didn’t like having his own vulnerability pointed out to him.

He moved away from her, further back on the bed, hoping that some space might help her calm down. She had pushed away his touch, after all. Maybe she wanted him to leave? Part of him wanted to, the part that was scared of making whatever this was worse like he already seemed to have done, but the other part - the part that disliked seeing her in distress - forced him to stay.

“Did I do something wrong? I don’t—” he had no idea what he was doing here, “What happened?”

[prosopagn0sis-a]

@eclipsecrowned (john 'soap' mactavish)

irma's used to adapting to situations. that's what she did her whole life. there were places she preferred over the others, but social gatherings like this one was at the bottom of her list.

she feels out of place. completely.

it's not the dress. well, it is, but not as much as the company. when everybody's dressed up so fancy and when there's so many people, irma's perception is disturbed. with their back straightened and their dress blues, she's helpless. it's a blur. recognizing anyone familiar is a challenge. and she has to smile way more than usual.

treating it like a game is one of the possible answers to her struggles. the whole place is just a giant hide and seek playground and she can begin her hunt anytime she wants.

he father is easy to spot, she knows him too well, but he's busy shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries, so irma looks for someone to actually keep her company, talk to her, make the night bearable. someone like gaz, someone like johnny.

she finds a familiar looking figure over the bowl of punch. she saw the drink getting spiked earlier, another game of hers. not stalking, but people watching, and she'd recognize the person who did that easily. counted the numbers of medals on their uniform, the order they were pinned to the fabric. maybe they'll be a victim of her future prank. or maybe not. she's yet to decide, to share this idea with soap.

it's not like she put effort into sneaking up on him; the man's been long lost in his own head. her question, seemingly, brought him back to earth.

“sorry -- dance?”

she nods at his words, grey orbs trying to reach johnny's eyes, ineffectually as always. this time though, the eyeliner isn't smudged and, in fact, irma doesn't look like she's hoping to give her old man a heart attack.

“it's spiked,” irma then nods at the bowl, but only after mactavish agrees for a dance. she already reaches for his hand, about lo lead not only the way, but also their moves.

“i'm confident in my abilities,” the girl assures. “can teach you not to step on your partners.”

“care to dance?” to soap, because i haven't gotten to ada's how-do-i-see-the-relationship-between-them post yet. for this prompt. — irma. or miriam. or mira. call her however you want. // @prosopagn0sis

It isn't true what they say. You can go back to your childhood.

Or, at least, you can be ditched like a formal date who won't put out. It's not the team's fault, really -- The Captain has hands to shake, and Gaz medals to receive, and LT, well... The less known about what he gets up to in a classy place like this, the better. Plausible deniability is the best answer to any questioning about Simon. It's not Soap's first tango, either. Only the second.

So he zones, at the very edge of the evening, staring down the punchbowl. It seemed a different color than it had been before some some Boat Service lad had staggered through. Maybe it was the shift in lighting, as the sun sank lower beyond the windows. Or maybe it was spiked with something fun.

And maybe the wee plonker had laced the punch with something a bit of mischief.

Soap had been weighing his options, whether to play lab rat or not, when she spoke up. The slight Sergeant startled at the sudden question at his side. "Fuck," he hissed, willing himself back down to baseline. Looking at Irma, he realized how deep in thought he had been, and laughed.

"Sorry -- Dance?"

The music at the venue had come across vaguely lift-like, a Clockwork Orange style repetition of tones and vibes meant to be tuned out as the evening dragged on. It had been more than helpful in causing Soap to zone out over punch.

And yet, he'd take anything at this point. Company kept him from playing guinea pig, or getting distracted over the refreshment table. Shrugging his broad shoulders, Soap pulled back from the wall. He couldn't leave it at that, though -- bending at the back, he bowed playfully at Irma. He even extended his hand, more to catch his falling beret than to offer the lady. Righting himself, he tucked the beret back into place.

"Sure, yeah. I'd like that. Brought the steel-toed dancing shoes, aye?" There's a twinkle in his blue eyes, laughter in his voice. They might live to regret this, with or without all the toes God gave them, but it beat skulking around the event.

[prosopagn0sis-a]

♦ "𝖲𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗉." ♠ \\ 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖠𝖢𝖤 𝖮𝖥 𝖲𝖯𝖠𝖣𝖤𝖲.

Hi. Some may remember me or not, but I'm back. Welcome to my blog featuring my OC from the show Alice in Borderland, Yukina Kuwahara. For the hype of the upcoming Season 3, I have decided to return from a long break from roleplaying, to reestablish old connections and build new ones. I am perfectly open to all when it comes to interactions, so don't be shy to send a cheeky ask or DM if you want to plot anything / just chat. This post will simply serve as a directive for posts such as Muse Info, Rules, Etc. DIRECTIVE - MUSE INFORMATION - RULES IN INTERACTING - MORE TO BE ADDED

[prosopagn0sis-a]

Let my boot help your fucking face kiss the concrete.

[prosopagn0sis-a]

Interesting... 🤔

are you fate's type?

almost, almost...

— unmei

[prosopagn0sis-a]

[ INTERRUPT ]  for shorter muse to stop during the middle of a conversation and stand on a chair/sit on a table so they can be eye level with the taller one. 

@kingrusso for this prompt.

one. more. word.

she's about to snap; oh, how she thrives in arguing, but this time, it's almost impossible to voice her opinion. she could do that... right onto nick's chest. he doesn't look down to talk straight to her face.

so she grabs a chair. she really does, in the middle of his monologue — puts it right in front of him, stands on it and grabs the collar of his shirt to pull him closer to her face.

“listen here you little shit—”