She said: ‘hello mister, pleased to meet ya. I want to hold her.
I want to kiss her. She smell of daisies. She smell of daisies.
She drive me crazy. She drive me crazy. ♪
He hummed along to the song, reminiscing the days of old when he wandered the world with nothing but the his happiness and a small sum of money from selling his mother’s restaurant after her death. The male’s gaze flickered around the streets as he wandered on and on, just like the old days, with nowhere to go and nothing to do but explore the city. Not all who wander are lost, they said.
Yixing was strangely different; he wandered to be lost in the city: sights, people and aroma of street vendors.
“Excuse me.” A soft murmur escaped his lips, “Do you know the way to —”
만나서 반갑습니다 ｣
There’d be the impervious coalescence in this electronical voice speaking to him on repeat; a conglutination concentrated of such concretion in philological constructions, one impermeable, to him – one of an age indiscernible as nevermore found he a heel be dug within South-Korean soil before the coming of the date four breakthroughs of such exact measurements in time, between now, and the 10th of March.
Attenuated, came stilt fingers when bringing down the volume on this audio-device, the ‘iPod’, yet be it still the non-native language foisted sheer within his oriental bearings and sought reason of such broken communication, in the forms of a young man, “I have not the faintest of ideas..,” dismembered, fractured; with language-barriers be left un-shattered, creased epicanthic folds to cornered-folds in eyes’ lids within impassable embarrassment – he came not of here, and he came not to understand the metropolis’ blueprints in directions.
The wind caresses her skin gently, the weather wasn’t too gloomy compared to weeks ago. There’s a small temptation in the pit of her stomach, to go back to one of her favorite locations before she head back home. Schedule was immediately cleared out for the day, therefore she’s back to bringing old habits and recollecting memories once again. Walking around aimlessly for something to do, only to stop at a clear blank.
It didn’t take her too long to arrive at the location. Pausing her steps momentarily to toe her heels off, scooping them up between three fingers as they curl a bit in order to let them swing around in her grasp. The warmth of the grains molded in between her footsteps. They leave an imprint that’ll fade away with time and soon enough her attention was fixated at the ocean.
There’s a slight discomfort when she’s around this place now, possibly from the situation though she considers the seashore to be somewhere where most thoughts would merely drown into the embrace of the sea. The female continues to plant her steps upon the surface, one after another with the sunlight kissing any exposed skin that she displayed. Which wasn’t much, just her jeans rolled up under her knees and arms due to her blouse but nothing more.
Something about nature was alluring, it soothes the muscles and the thoughts that stressed her out during her alone time. Inhaling the scent of the shoreline that wasn’t too far from where she was. The tidal waves caressed her ankles and further down, droplets of water was plastered upon the surface while she walks in near the shore as well.
A male coming in her vision seconds after when her gaze was ripped off from beneath her. Silence, not wanting to become a bother in his presence she just observes him from his back-profile. A small smile rises along the lips but no faint, awkward greeting would spill pass her lips either. Again, she didn’t want to bother a mere stranger that she might never see once again anyways.
Such bust to divertissement took each the recesses of his mouth; pledged heavenward, pledged another settlement unique, unequalled — none the waters took him to reminisce of home, none the waters assuaged him so, be it still so he commiserates with the grandinous immersion of a serum in serosity; where did it take its concourse in the tilt of tournaments, be it not a glass-bodied window whereupon the ending children insisted to their summoned propositions to a challenge, of ‘racing the raindrops to accomplishment,’ but his deathless silhouette, a canvas whereupon water found instead its home, its mother – mother… could he be – father, be it a justification to his figure, in memorializing gaze he left to his reflection. No, he was neither, none of them, or twain this blending unison so intransitive-wise, that none made its distinguished self this luminous in bright advertisement. He — be it but a pronoun, a strain weighing to his build, still without essence of its meaning. Androgenous, be it but a plane proportion given to his standards; would he weigh them upon his endless ones, such titles! No! He delivered none the names but theirs, none a title to engenderment, nor nature’s gift unto this earth-bound realm.
Could nature but bear her own calling; where none a flower was called flower, where none a meadow was called meadow, where her waters sailing round his well-bred thighs kept alone to its perception and responsiveness – be it then could he find settlement within such bodies.
He sighed. A matter often reproduced through lungs exasperated. He shook from his inanimate positure. Subtle, his fingers were, delightful – attractive in their hasteless movement to great assemblages of vivid scarlet; be it seasonal in this repetitive motion when he felt them. Silent eyes, however full of yearning; those for memories, awareness, and remembrances. Much alike his own – his of a honeyed hazel, his of a beehive thriving with provisions, dangerous, but worth the risk of sliding the gluttonous hand within.
“ — this,” he began, his long, lithesome upper half raising to the calm sway in this water, of equal sway set to his impermanent voice, “be it a day of none another gone before it.”
None were here; those of the contemptible, the ignoble unsuitable of preponderant reign; here, were those of cloven hoof and cotton pad adjoined, preposterous the idea had been — consolidating those of contradistinctive nature, insisting them a mutual central bosom as to take upon upbringing education that none, would harvest knowledge from; tasteless. Tasteless these lands, tasteless this world. None were here of senile augmentation, none of elder wisdom; a cluster of adolescents unfit in their descendant succession, and therefore discarded, relinquished of their relatives.
Rippling, it did. Softness of washing waves, a catharsis of works of redemption in finishing uncoloured skin in saturated tiers; each a layer washing, where await it did its preceding tide of water cast unto his figure. Aqueous bodies, these had evermore been of his acquainted attractions, as evermore would he return within them. These were of cleansing, of the purification of the flesh; that of mortals, and immortals alike, as was he of latter concern at current in process of. Within the grass near, a neat, folded arrangement of his clothing laid to the crisp winter’s sighs to rest — it was from there had he manoeuvred shorn pillars in to sand at the lake’s coastal banks, these separate grains apart of others each alike of tickling the under-structure of his feet, until that within the unknown that he drifted. He stood in silence, apart from the gentle sloshing of tidal motions in surmounting orbit of his upper legs. He was freed, when freed of man-made disaster in raiment, embraced through the water’s loving hold that it kept on to him, that raised above its surface his pale flesh in vertical ellipse, revolution around his rising spine; sharp shoulder-blades had been pulled backwards, and it was no longer that through vision he would see himself surrounded within water — he required not its sense of senses, but its spiritual carnival in silence, in solitude, in reigning standstill of the time — here, he breathed, and the forest ahead breathed with him; shuddered of its forgotten leaves in await of gravitation as to capture them, and wished ahead of him his welcoming self to live and breathe alike the forest, he exposed to nature and its bearings.
- ❂ -- It's incredibly hot outside and my muse is trying to persuade yours to go swimming together.
- ☁︎ -- A dream (or nightmare) about your muse.
- ❆ -- It's snowing and my muse slips on ice, accidentally crashing into your muse.
- ☯ -- My muse meets yours in a tranquil setting.
- ✆ -- A text message from my muse.
- ◎ -- It's raining and my muse finds yours outside completely drenched and crying.
- ☂ -- My muse encounters yours just as it starts to rain.
- ✑ -- Something my muse has written about your muse. ( Could be a letter, drawing, etc. )
- ↭ -- My muse is lost and stops to ask your muse for directions.
- ⌖ -- My muse's reaction to accidentally shooting your muse.
- ◌ -- Some of my muse's thoughts about your muse.
- ☉ -- My muse is undressing when your muse accidentally walks into the room.
- ✬ -- My muse conveys one of their wishes to you.
- ¤ -- In some turn of events, your muse ends up staying with mine.
- ❅ -- Our muses are trying to warm up after spending a day outside in the snow.
- ♪ -- My muse walks in on your muse singing to themselves.
- ❊ -- My muse gives yours some flowers.
- ❁ -- My muse's reaction to receiving a rose from your muse.
- ✧ -- A kiss from my muse to yours.
- ◎ -- My muse's reaction to being kissed by yours.
- ♡ -- A romantic gift from my muse.
— amore mio.
Concoct of me a golden formula
animating such the dormant corpse
of life’s prevailing fountain in my stand,
and am I not this ageless water’s word;
of impotence, of this shortcoming
relapse in to the sins of saviours,
asking me of where they had
fallen had I felt of such the water’s weight
pulling on their wingless forms in seasons,
that were not of my own call;
where with winters hot and summers
cold, a spring grasped on to flora her
soft leaves and an autumn forged
the poppies stall.
And came it alone when the rain
befell your questioning eyelids and
asked of me a ‘Father, why,’ as blinding
struck the sunlight in the formless night
your only seeing eyes, those I couldn’t
sink within without feeling not a tinge of regret,
but a greater weight in many worlds destructive and
gathered in my aging hands — could you alone
follow the heir of remission in their maturing lines
and trace of them a promising token with
your sightless seers, then,
perhaps, could I again,
love some of
Character in general: Unfortunately, have I not the slightest idea of who they are — this becoming in the sense of how I hold little to no knowledge of Korean musicians, actors, models, and whatsoever, and that merely I have stumbled in to KRP as I left what community in roleplay would be stamped unto my own muse’s heritage. This means I know not of a personality, nor traits, nor their behaviour in any logical sense that could be appointed to this muse. But then again, as I speak of below, I’ve yet to see more of them develop in their story.
How they play them: I haven’t seen much of them. Perhaps this comes due to differences in time-zones, as well as time-consuming, long replies that do not pop up too often on the dashboard (which I may relate to, I am a terribly slow writer myself and desire perfection in every sense of the word), but I do appreciate the idea. I believe that in writing, people must also sometimes focus on the actual sense of such linguistics; dive miles deep within the stray lands that render common sense useless, consume themselves in word and literature, expand, and not merely look upon it with a judging eye. If a subject holds to you no interest, then seek interest in perhaps the way it be written upon paper; look for flaws, yet structure in such flaws that cuts them to perfection – I’ve only just read the biography as I believe it wasn’t published yet on this blog earlier, but I think they have caught the abstract beauty of playing a — what others may think of as a tedious profession as interest in literature significantly falters within our current age — librarian; it has allowed them to submerge within the fine beauty of text and written word, its magical and nonconcrete essence which hold to each an eye a different aspect. Every reader, experiences the written word differently. Again, I think this aspect is captured quite well.
The mun: We haven’t spoken much, other than plotting (which wasn’t truly plotting, I believe, as it was but a revised version of an open starter I had, I believe, posted eight times prior to it actually being accepted by this person), so I am not with much ability of sketching an opinion on them.
RP with them: Yes, we are getting there, I believe. Life is time-consuming.
Want to RP with them: Already am.
What is my;
Overall opinion: I think I am running out already, aha. Then again, I am a terrible summarizer and state not much of a biased opinion to someone I barely know.
French, the language of what mortals who whittled away their lifespan upon the tresses of the Earth’s converging pathways hailed as the ultimate in linguistic beauty; the accents prominent to the curve and form of tongue upon roof of mouth being what ordained it a language of love. Yet for this angel who resided beneath a shield of scarlet heart, there was only one language which may have been thought the true romantic dialect. This which he believed, it was none of any language to be spoken aloud, but the plain language of love’s natural order, the one which one must feel by the throbs of the heart.
Inviting in upon where he knew his dearly beloved to acclaim rest as favorite spot was not a needed gesture. Kisaki so well knew how welcomed he was to wordlessly seek envelopment within the constraints of his angel’s neck, and the beast would only smile and tighten his hold upon love. For this slender personage of his life’s other half was the one by which he had come to deepen bonds with and share the promise of an eternity murmuring quiet ‘I love you’ in multitude. Everlasting, and always his homestead. They were two parts of the whole that could not exist without one another. “What in thesis you may have held to in decades past, of eons past, they matter not for the now of our tied pinkies. In me, there is home for you just as it is within you that I find my shelters.” A sigh would then flee his prosperous thin lips, pressing upon whatever margin of flesh it may have been within ability to reach. Hands of soft skin and warm composition would find varying tasks to amend; the left keeping hold of his beloved to his physique, and the right gliding down the length of slender arm until fingers were reached and subsequently intertwined. “Of dire essence is it that you are aware, dearest love of mine, that always will there be home for you within my arms as certain as I have within your own.”
“Home… cometh to a home of thine and mine alone – none the developmental palaestra where within no more of casuistic enlightening, academic subordination were be brought upon mine angel; seeketh thine attainments here within mine heart, and alone mine heart..,” unbinding were of expelling breaths pursuing of his angel’s neck a column; his Seraphiel had needed not such erroneous falsehoods of his acquisition to acquirements in erudition, no… he thought it spurious and out of order, thought it be of an incongruous infection manifesting so of a grievance in unfairness catechized such conditions. He hath it come undone, anon of post-haste time — ‘this angel, soon; soon shallst he tread to mine homestead, mine hearth of none a hinder of impairment; none a chastening bastille wherein the white worthiness’ his wings’ span seeketh no stretch of.’
He’d try.., “Kamijou..,” so wedged a hand ‘tween fingers fair, and so wedged a hand ‘pon cheek so supple of its easeful flesh; O » such kisses, ached he over such; of aimless press and push the tempestuous of tiers found of his sacellum a front in frons – of forehead’s temples ‘tween throbs and threads of what yonder’s heartthrob a pulling here he felt. Those alone of persuading charm, fascinating him; absorbing much his words suspended in their incessant lastingness, no… could he not necessitate him of regressing to abodes sequestered, inaccessible of mortal man, could he not bring forth of abstracted and estranged lands none had ever come so seek of them. Could he not of try… and sweep off feet his angel ill-matched to this sphere of influence, where ‘twas just alike another apprenticeship in institutions,abound with carnal deprivation and salaciousness among juveniles of all sorts, this tasteless cluster of adolescents unfit to such a gracious sort? Could he of kisses analogous of such an angel’s prominence, persuade him, in to moving far of here? He’d sigh… and sigh all he could, could he not counsel of such beloved a reason of departure of such current lands.
Character in general: I have always remained as fascinated with Kamijo as I am now – since the moment I have seen him first some years ago. And yes, he is the glass of fashion when it comes down to snobbery, hauteur and arrogance, even within his personal and private time it appears a coat he is not to shed for long, but nothing of his appearance nor characteristics in his personality have ever been of such a margin that they found it necessary to repel. For as such goes for your Kamijo – a patrician who finds himself of noble blue-blood, in polished an upper-class junction of his confidence he desires nothing else of cover lands so lands may bow to his graceful feet. With him, little adjustments need be made in his portrayal when one desires hold a thumb to a royal-class, sheer arse in functioning societies, for that is exactly as he is, be it in roleplay or not.
How they play them: It took me some time to adjust to how instead be he portrayed a vampire, he was an angel. Perhaps it was a race so well-chewed that its taste lingered on all accounts, and how it was difficult to shed the imaginative desire many find in him as a vampire. But I do think I am glad, now – were he to be portrayed a vampire again it would quickly tire, for it is a subject played times and times before. I think it now to be better; it gives him the opportunity of this egotistical-boost, his pretense in playing nice, and still maintain such mystery among himself. A vampire’s story is one we all know, whereas with angels there are still thousands of questions left unanswered; it is a topic less approached as it feels less safe to people who share not a connection with religious themes (Christianity in this cause), bringing it to surface less often and if done so, one can go in direction of many interpretations and this may upset others for they find it within the wrong interpretation of the subject; but I think this has been done well. I think still he needs to grow, much further, but that his environment simply does not allow him as such (which you are aware of is my opinion) as it does not focus on one particular race and leaves him restrained in evolving further — furthermore… his relationship with my Kisaki is most sublime. This is the first person he’s been with (goodness, had I rather forget what happened before his time) who has been accepting of everything, who has been loyal to him regardless their status, who has been such a dear sweetheart not in constant need of carnal possession of another. Everything about them is surrounding warmth, softness, and such gentleness that I think is overlooked in roleplay – wherever you look you see gore, sexual cravings in forms of harming tension, hurt, affliction and other brutal play I now think of as child’s play, and I either raise my nose to it or laugh in sheer amusement of how overrated the ‘master/pet’ relationships are and such. But this… this is a gem, this is what raises pure happiness as it remains to bring them happiness in everlasting forms; I care not if what they most do is remain at home, snug and cuddled in to bed with little care of the world, or if others may not understand at all what it is that they may speak of. It is simply what I had always needed for Kisaki; someone to understand him and stand by him, someone who he needs not to struggle with as there is not a single reason for struggle or a fight, or topics none of them can agree on in the same matter. There is none of such. Kamijo emits a homestead where within he can find passion, intelligence, yet silliness and banter all the same. And there is nothing else I wish for them.
The mun: Oh, you… were I at all beginning to walk down that journey of what has happened in such a considerably small amount of time, I would not be done within that similar year of explaining. You know what I think of you, you know everything I think of as I hold nothing back. And it may clash often, and it may burn and sting but regardless of that I’ve no need to let go as you are the only one who is to understand me on every aspect of my thinking. And I thank you for that.
RP with them: Until my fingers bleed.
Want to RP with them: Same as the above.
What is my;
Character in general:
How they play them:
RP with them:
Want to RP with them:
What is my;
*Note: Mun’s answers are all to be completely honest. Don’t send url if you don’t want brutal honesty.
It was understandable that the needed to adjust himself but Kyungri still couldn’t understand the lack of shame. Even though she rarely ever got embarrassed she still had trouble with those kinds of things. Her mind went back to the day when the wind blew steadily, making her skirt rise. It had been an embarrassing day but she got through it. “Aish, well at least…” she struggled for the words that steadily ran away from her. Getting her flustered was unlikely but they’d done it without even knowing it. It was ironic. Her composure slipped into an emotion compiled of embarrassment and frustration. She undid her coat and opened it, making a make shift screen from the world so the person could adjust themselves without the eyes of strangers penetrating every aspect of their form. She glanced away as well, her eyes finding the eyes of strangers. When she looked back towards him to see that he was done she dropped the coat, “Better?”
Had he of require extraneous, loquacious example of a baldaquin accessory in semblance of such masquerade – cover, she would, cover for what adjudging headlights stride of offing distances of him; of extensiveness had he not grant the concession in their consciousness, or lack thereof, for none must again of see this comeliness round his allurement, and now for as he were balanced anew of epicene and effeminate staging succeeding in this colleen’s alighting of her outerwear beyond his figure, “Mm..,” such singing in his punctilious, and bounden hum, “Feel it not of an obligation to come as the deliverance of salvation to but such queer as I, but in compensation must I gift this,” in six feet inclining, courtesan concealment, came of lacquered lips in press of her full cheek, a kiss illuminating of an illustration drawn of heart-shaped an impression in his colour; that of genuine scarlet, that of shades unreal to any of such world in mortal detriment.
‘Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another it gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell’s despair.’
So sung a
little clod of clay,
Trodden with the cattle’s feet…
O ! — how had he fallen wretchedly, from grace and from favour, wrath and treason within one dismissive wave moulding once rosy, gentle features into a grimace of bitter agonies and tremulous misery not even most gruesome hands could’ve shaped in seven days of foul, misbegotten workmanship; and how had this ignoble peace, these centuries of wrongful ordeal soon forged out vindictive plans and contrived malicious schemes, brewing coerced patience and determination like feral nature sowed tares on sheltered, golden acres – and how it all turned out null and void, useless in the face of what was believed still vengeful and chastising, what was expected beweaponed with sword and pawns, yet resembled woeful familiarity instead, yet felt foreign to every fibre of his body. But from naught it was, too, where he conjured the flame to ignite the gasper languidly put between persistently silent lips as he rose to his full height again; fragile threads of smoke wondrously dancing in the air like merry naiads in fathomless depths – miraculous, devastating punishment that wouldn’t last long enough for poison to ripen into sweetness.
His stoic expression turned abreast with the slow, eastward movement of his pallid visage and the grip of slender fingers around the cigarette to remove it from its place, sentiment twisting the corners of his mouth into a smile so entirely heartfelt, so thoroughly, monstrously genuine, shedding those masking layers of malady and exasperation, the vestiges of exile and time wasted to the fullest, that hope raised just alike; dolorous yearning for his lids to fall how they had fallen before, how they always fell, not from sadness but from joy, genial eyes brimming with mirth and dreading to burn the heart out of whomever they wouldn’t shun. They didn’t, of course, and aimed towards the sky instead, holding onto it before breaking and a hollow, huffed breath cut through the quiet, fume alighting from widened nostrils in sibilant, beastly exhalation, heartfelt.
“Not yet shed the old coat or is a different veil cloaking the moon?” he said without expectation, without effort, his tone not even suggesting a question but its mellowness contradicting the ridicule that wrinkled his nose as he spoke. His gaze returned quickly after he had ended and examined his counterpart closely now; breathing his presence and drinking the clandestine thoughts that stirred marble features like ambrosia he doth not much exceed Him in height but enough to look down on silken hair and hazel obstacles, resembling his own in colour yet not in piercing cold and sudden clarity; the only gloating snickering echoing from afar, high-pitched howling and barking of a vixen and her straying cubs.
Iniquitous were of such saturn stillnesses be victorious to overcome - attenuate such noiselessness’ duress in resolve through what of he gathered his gulled breast; an interregnum to parenthesis of quiescence in isochronous range of his attendance — consummation to substantialities unseen heretofore; of whom was he, and whom he was within this same attendance — it was of surreptitious appropinquation such silence overwhelmed; sneaked to insidious advances, to as so he heard of nothing.
Lawlessness’ of static stridence of sibilates within such bumble of a strapped whirring – came of him retentiveness in memorizations such as occurred, bestial, unfeeling of definiteness. It ended it not, such observation of argentine his cast, albescent of its nature; such he felt resembling hazel hover to him, and could of it be of the ruth in this opprobrium, in this disgrace, that overspread of anodizing, liquid capillaries in soft viridian and cerulean their pigmentation his onward stretch in neck-muscle, sidewise of such smothering, similar hazel; proscenium to forehead pressed aloft smooth surfaces this dissimulated oriel dispensed upon which spread then the sequent consequences of his implementations formed to the deliquescence in concise concentration; the waters of this world’s weight, in crystallized expiration from of lips asunder. Silence to this counselling lecture, still, of Mephistopheles the name weighed now a ten of thousand burdens more; his correctness of being without expectation faultless, as were he deafened. ‘Not yet’, he would not of answered of he heard such reprimanding castigation, and with such the son was speaking his own sermon in front of audiences stilled. Termless was this resourcefulness to source for others gather ‘round; his wildfire spread among the vermin, the snakes and weasels, yet alike were of the non-corrupt such effects taking place, his voice the indiscriminate succession of the fountain’s spring in blooming life, and of a ‘he’d surpass me, of much a tack.’
A cough came distinguished in the feat of malingering forth; be released of ambling, obmutescent euthanasia in the sinuousness of the serpentine’s stick which in sighs the smoke suspended, sibilating yet savouring the saltiness in this suggestion of whereupon previous lips this mist had remained drafted – sweetness of him, the sanguine sourness he tasted where within this atmosphere still slouched the pungent spiciness of him; where had it circulated of his lungs, his gullet, his tongue, insides sired of a seasoning he’d kiss when kiss atop a hand his own he would.
Its taste a pressure, a sock to his cheek, riveting the window its counter-half was left upon, “Mine greatcoat goes not of shedding,” mesmerizing velvet, slithering sophistications in prescience of a promise in suspension on his fuller tiers, in fuller flesh of lips afloat when puckered upon such pulchritudinous were these, their length of fructifying budding still, in fringe layered each feature in this selfsame cloak of crimson, “I hath not the need to of mendaciously misleading our authentic moon.”
I never wish to be easily defined. I’d rather float over other people’s minds as something strictly fluid and non-perceivable; more like a transparent, paradoxically iridescent creature rather than an actual person.