[archivedobliviting]

                 life is oblivion erupting, for a brief moment,

                         into non-oblivion in order so that oblivion may proclaim, “i am”.                             the assumption being, that living things are aware enough                                            to make such a proclamation. (cont.)                             abelard richter ; independent ; semi-selective ; multi-verse

[dishly]

« PERMANENT PLOT CALL!!!  » ok, so, i am finally done revamping my child. i think. ha!  if you want to maybe write a thingie with me (and i promise i won’t drop it this time, i really won’t) pls inbox me or smth. or! add me on aim @ d.orchestra (mutuals only my bbies) (idk when i’ll be online next i have to go to work but yea u try it) but u have to be serious about plotting bc i want to develop this muse a lot more w/ ur help. + another update,, i’m gna be making a directory sort of page  for all of my rp blogs you can find me on which will be cool!  gna bring this little fart back and make a gal soon. if ur interested in my other characters too idk msg me about that! ily!

[dishly]

« mon pere !! »

(...)

“I fucked up, Olly. I’m sorry.”

Except he couldn’t open his lips and the most he could do was just acknowledge his presence. He nodded, his own gesture of good morning, you little shit, till his eyes fell back on the page in front of him. The house was already warmer with the boy. He didn’t mind it at all.

Our wounded little ‘un has a series of three dreams, or maybe more, but there’s three that he’ll remember for as long as he doesn’t try and swallow them whole. The last one he lives in for a duration of ten minutes. And it has his coarse, un-maintained brows knitting together as he sleeps. It’s a nightmarish thing that he’s in. He’s at a place he’s sure he’s never seen before, and there’s tall grasses, ones that’ll tickle his knees when he wades through. There’s a spot for him, a tiny stool for a tiny boy amidst the sea of green. It’s ok for a moment, perhaps calming for the regular that doesn’t need people around to feel comfortable. And then, scanning the horizon, there’s dozens of people advancing towards him. Their faces are heavily distorted, like someone circled their finger in the wet paint of someone’s freshly made portrait. The Indistinct, they’re called, and he’s seen them quite a few times before. Been dreaming of them at least once a month for as long as he can remember. They line up in single file, maybe twelve rows in total surrounding the scared thing. They take turns, and their time, touching his hands, and when he looks down they’re the hands he’s had when he was five years old. Tiny, inscribed with black marker ink. He remembers that time at The School. He was told to cover his hands in permanent marker by another boy (one of the older lads) staying there because if you do, you’ll gain super human strength. He believed him. And the fumes were too much. There was a fall and the knocking of his head off the side table. Now there’s a scar, a long one there still today. Shadows bled over round eyes and crimson dribbled from a small nose. He was punished. Because he took the blame. Told not to be a rat. At The School, being a rat was the worst offense—the worst thing to be called. And he couldn’t have that. It’s a test of strength. Each of The Indistinct try tearing a finger off and he cries out when they do. Only he’s stuck in place and all writhing is internal. Most fail to succeed in their mission, and they’re left with slumped shoulders and if their faces weren’t so indistinct, they’d be in a glower. He has an indescribable weightiness filling the cavity of his chest—sad that he can’t give them what they want. But it’s also laced with anger! At himself! Because he shouldn’t want them to feel good! One of them manages to tear off his littlest finger and in the real world, in Jiyong’s bed, our child’s breathing is irregular. Lashes flutter over ruddy cheeks. He stirs, and it’s subtle, but enough to shift his arm sling and send a burning surge of pain up his spine. There’s a whimper-thing. It’s in time with someone ridding him of his left thumb. The crowd cheers, hoots and hollers as they display their prize in the air and blood renders green grass red. It seeps onto his already-dirtied white shoe. He’d pass out in the real world. But instead he wakes up. In good time, consciousness awakens his shaken body and he doesn’t have to open his eyes to conclude that it’s dark, that it’s late and he’s slept far too long. He knows this because there’s that familiar sinking feeling in his chest, the one telling him that there’s a lot of people sick and in immense pain and his absence makes that possible. But then he remembers that he’s sick too, and in immense pain, and he’s been laying with his arm not-right so now when he moves he draws in a hiss that sounds as though there’s a layer of film covering his vocal chords. Sounds gross, and he’ll clear his throat to lessen the chance he’ll have to hear that ever again. It’s wet and dry at the same time. Doesn’t know if he needs water or to cough until his lungs collapse. Probably both. There’s something sweet chiming in his ears, and he wonders if he’s still dreaming. Maybe a happy ending to that Hell of a horror film. It’s faint, serene and he couldn’t, for the life of him, name the composer. Never could do that so well. Can play the shit out of the piano himself, but couldn’t name Moonlight Sonata (he could—be nice!!) if he heard it. He’s no prodigy in that sense and it’s always disturbed his mother. Maybe it makes him a little ashamed, too. If he were young again, the sound of piano would make his finger itch with crave, make him want to hop on the bench and mess about on it. But she ruined that for him. And he hasn’t played for amusement in a long, long while. Last time he tried, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Because they remember they have to be perfect and when they’re not mother won’t love me.   You’d think hearing it would make him miserable, but he’s still young sometimes, his heart is, and it fills him with a pleasant delight. He grazes a thumb over the birthmark on the wrist of his wounded arm. There’s a tiny smile to evolve over dry lips, and he opens his eyes. He’s no longer swarmed with whiteness and the potent medicine smell isn’t in his nose. He’s not in the hospital anymore and that’s enough to lift any lingering traces of sorrow in his bones. He’s still disoriented, there’s still so much his mind has left to absorb, and he’ll do it, slowly. Danger and threat aren’t his first instincts here. He’s in clothes that aren’t his, who do these belong to? and if he weren’t himself that fact would probably make him embarrassed. But when you’re raised in a place with hundreds of children you’re bound to be a little shameless, in that regard. The clothes are nice, but he wonders if they’ve tossed out his jacket, too. He liked that thing. It was special. He makes a mental note to go dumpster-diving later. A dumpster-date. There’s a table set up next to the bed, a dish of soup, water and a spoon, too. And next to that...his blonde-headed friend! He hasn’t left yet! His insides chirp, guts glow, but his outsides remain quiet and flat (because he is still disoriented after all) aside from the sheepish grin planted right square on his face. It’s too genuine, the light in his eyes, and it’s always there when he sees his friend. Always will be, I reckon—no matter what he does to him. Grind him into the dirt with the heel of his boot, spit on him and he’ll still worship the ground Jiyong walks on. Because his untarnished perception of Jiyong is that his actions are justified by the Greater Good. You mustn’t think of people as ill-intentioned, That’s just the way our boy is. Not such a great boy.  A silent huff, he shifts, and pulls himself up with his good arm. It takes a long while to do because he has to be mindful of the arm sling. It’s uncomfortable, and he can’t maneuver himself quite right to fix the pillows, so he’ll let them remain unadjusted and awkward behind him. He’d like to crane his neck, lean in closer and read the small print on the web page his friend’s browsing. But he hurts and his eyes are shit. If he knew it was an article on tai chi he’d probably find that a little amusing. He’ll try and turn towards the food now, slowly but surely. Shuffles to the edge of the bed and dangles his legs off like a kid. Being out from under the blankets feels like breathing air for the first time. He hadn’t noticed he’d been sweating. But rightfully so, as his night’s been a little rough on the noggin. Even with over a day’s worth of sleep, he’s still exhausted by the thought of it. Instead he’ll think about something else, like how the clothes are sticking to his skin in some places. The thin cotton shirt drapes off his shoulder, eyes are puffy, his hair looks like the home of a bird-family and is it even possible to look like more of a mess? When will he stop looking a mess. Extra careful in his movements, coiling blunt fingers around the spoon’s handle. The soup’s grown cold now, but he doesn’t mind at all. Hasn’t eaten in forever, supposedly. Sip sip. And another sip reserved for that glass of water. Fascination takes over him, briefly, at the chilled condensation collected around the shaft of the glass. He draws little shapes in the fog, squares and triangles. A lopsided happy face with a phallic nose. Admires a droplet of water racing over his finger’s knuckle before his eyes flicker up to his friend. Whose preoccupied with the article. Why does he suddenly feel shy? Because he remembers that his friend hasn’t spoken an actual word to him yet. Should he ask now? He should ask now. Now is a good time and here is as good of a place as any. He’s scared to ask. But he shouldn’t be scared. They should be open, right? Jiyong most likely saw him naked.   “...I like soup.” Not just the soup. But soup in general. Cool. He didn’t mean for it to come out like that. That’s not even close what he meant to say. A pause. Eyes downcast, adjusting the position of his arm in the sling. He shuts his eyes. Lets wary lips part, and he speaks. “Did—something happen? To you—”

[hellanne]

by Ana Noble

[dishly]

19.

i rly love you guys for this one!  -► development meme: accepting!!!

19. What were your character’s deepest disillusions? In life? What are they now?The term adoption was spoken of as if it were a magical thing. When he left The School, he’d hoped for magic. Love, a mother and father, maybe some siblings, and a normal life. But the situation he was brought into was less than favourable. A single mom, no siblings, not enough love. The only thing he achieved was normality. It’d be not normal to have a family with parents that loved each other, siblings, and continued support. He didn’t discover that until he went to a real school! Maybe his situation wasn’t exactly bad, but at least back then he could have all the fun he wanted! And play!! I guess he’s grown out of that. He can’t be a child forever. 

Currently, he’s realizing that not everyone is good and true. It’s a painful thing for him to come to terms with. Well, not for him, but for people around him to witness. He’s slowly wrapping his head around it…slowly…but surely!

[dishly]

18 and Not Very Daddy

ok,, so come off anon and fight me

[dishly]

45, 48, 50

i rly love you guys for this one!  -► development meme: accepting!!!

45. is your character pragmatic? think first? responsible? all action? a visionary? passionate? quixotic?answered!

48. how are your character’s gestures? vigorous? weak? controlled? compulsive? energetic? sluggish?olly makes a lot of hand gestures when he speaks. he feels like he can better express himself that way. on days where it’s sunny or if he’s in a bright room, he is notably more energetic with his movements. and his mood is brighter to go along with it. if it’s gloomy, he’ll be gloomy. his movements will be more weak and sluggish. sometimes he can be quite shy, but if the weather’s good he’ll definitely act more impulsively! he also likes to feel his surroundings. it keeps him grounded. some dust on a windowsill? he’ll collect some of that on his fingertips.

50. what are the prevailing facial expressions? sour? cheerful? dominating?he’s commonly got this curious look on his face. almost straight-faced but with his eyebrows a little raised, mouth slightly agape. mostly because he’s always actually curious about a thing. curious about how you’re feeling. curious about some text on a poster he sees all blurry in the distance. when he’s happy, his teeth show a lot so he covers his mouth unless he’s comfortable around you. even then he might still do it out of habit. when he’s embarrassed he’ll suck his lips into his mouth sometimes. to suppress a nervous laugh or something. maybe wince a little, squint his eyes. he’s a shy little bug.

[suqmydiqtbh]

my little forest imp hehe 🍄🍄🍄 (x)

[dishly]

1-5

i rly love you guys for this one!  -► development meme: accepting!!!

1. how does your character think of their father? what do they hate and love about him? what influence - literal or imagined - did the father have? as a young lad he grew up with the knowledge that his father was a great man, and that’s about it. he was a great man—had curly hair and a lovely smile. knew how to make everyone around him happy. he was quite like you. the orphanage director told him in a sweet, slow voice. and so that’s how he pictures him. a likable character. what olly doesn’t know (aside from why he left him) is that his father’s a lot more like him than he thinks. and he’s out there somewhere, still. growing up without a father didn’t have much of an influence on him. that’s what he thinks. but it’s impacted a lot of things in his life. like self esteem issues (a psychological thing—not knowing if he’s considered manly enough) and relationship issues (staying in toxic situations too long, having mostly female friends). 

2. their mother? how do they think of her? what do they hate? love? what influence - literal or imagined - did the mother have?he’s never met his real mum, and isn’t aware that she passed away due to some drug related incident. he thinks she’s just “missing” like his father. because her death isn’t exactly something to tell a young boy, right?  he was raised in a special sort of orphanage until he was ten years old, in which he called the director “ma”. this woman set the foundation of what he is today, basically, and trained him in piano. a small part of him believes that she’s his real mother. anyway, he was adopted by a piano teacher who filed through the children in search of one with musical talent. she’s a fairly strict woman, but not considered evil by any means. this woman taught him to be mannerly. and to correct his posture (which he only really does around her). 

3. brothers, sisters? who do they like? why? what do they despise about their siblings?not applicable.

4. what type of discipline was your character subjected to at home? strict? lenient?as i said before, his mother’s parenting approach was authoritarian. he was taught that obedience=love, so he’d always respect his mother’s wishes unconditionally. even if it meant that he’d have to practice piano for three hours before playing outside with his friends. because if his mother smiled, then he could be happy, too. and being adopted is a privilege, so he has to show that he’s the best boy he can be around her. again, he hasn’t thought about how this has affected him but its clearly made more shy with a significantly low self-esteem. these days, though, away from home he’s grown a bit more rebellious. being away from her makes him feel free. but he can’t shake the guilt that wracks his bones. 

5. were they overprotected as a child? sheltered?he wasn’t exactly sheltered, he just had to earn any bits of freedom he could. he had a curfew but his mother wasn’t concerned enough to monitor what he actually did during the times he was out. she has a great deal of trust in him because he’s proven that he’s worthy of being trusted. olly knows about a lot of things, he just hasn’t done a lot of those things himself. not because he’s scared, but because he’s afraid of the guilt. his guilty conscience is wild!

[dishly]

40-45

i rly love you guys for this one!  -► development meme: accepting!!!

40. how is their sense of humor? do they have one? he likes sarcasm and irony, puns and dad jokes. he can deliver some pretty morbid jokes too, as that’s how him and his friends back home joked around. funeral jokes, self harm jokes. yanno. he is a growing teenage boy, after all. but he knows when the time’s not right to mess about like that. if the tone of the room is serious, he’ll certainly cover his mouth and swallow his laughter. he wouldn’t want to offend anyone. and. if he has a crush on you or something he will laugh at everything you say, probably. 

41. is your character aware of who they are? strengths? weaknesses? idiosyncrasies? capable of self-irony? what a loaded question! 1) he’s sort of in this stage where he’s struggling to grasp who he is exactly and what he is. like i mentioned earlier, he’s still growing. there’s always time to learn things. 2) a notable strength of his is kindness and his big heart, but it’s also easily considered a 3) weakness of his as it’s transformed into his complete selflessness. he’d likely take the pain from someone and transfer it to himself for just about anyone. he’s a sentinel/healer of sorts. he’s also too damn naive for his own good. pull the most complex story out your ass about how you’re somehow related to rihanna and he’ll believe it. 4) he pulls his sleeves over his hands/wears fingerless gloves a lot because of this weird birthmark he’s got on his hand. looks like lightening spread over it or something. he doesn’t like to talk about it much. and he avoids smiling because he hates his teeth. they’re all gap-y and wonky, as he’d say. 5) of course he’s capable of self-irony!!! he’s british!!!

42. what does your character want most? what do they need really badly, compulsively? what are they willing to do, to sacrifice, to obtain? he wants to protect those he loves and ultimately, be loved and appreciated unconditionally in return. and he also needs that to survive. he’d go mad if left on his own for too long. he’d let himself wallow in his own misery and lonesomeness and get into this really dark place in his head. he’s clingy and gross, that way. he’s got some problems that need solving. and he’s always sacrificing himself for those he’s close with. that’s both the way he was raised and something in his blood naturally. he’d also like to thank the orphanage director. because she’s been the most influential woman in his life. gave him his title. she’s the only one who knows him, so to speak.

43. does your character have any secrets? if so, are they holding them back?there’s this huge secret dwelling within his small self that he’s too afraid to let out. because he doesn’t know what’ll happen if he does. and he doesn’t want it to be some great big thing. he was told that if he tells, he’ll be taken advantage of. and he needs to avoid that at all costs, i guess. there are days where it’s almost unbearable to hide, but he manages. he’ll let the secret happen in secret.

44. how badly do they want to obtain their life objectives? how do they pursue them? he’s too young to have all that figured out. but it’d be nice if he could figure out his purpose on this earth. why he is the way he is. it’s pretty low on his objective list for the time being, but in order to pursue such a thing he’d have to do an awful lot of running around, talking to lots of different people.

45. is your character pragmatic? think first? responsible? all action? a visionary? passionate? quixotic?you could say that he’s mostly driven by passion. in the moment passion. and he’s awful visionary/quixotic, too. he believes things will work out for the best. and he likes things to happen as if his life were one big movie. let’s go sit on the roof of that building while the sun rises and smoke a cigarette. i know, i don’t smoke, but it’d just feel right. sort of mentality. let’s hold hands while we walk down the beach’s dock as if we’re a couple. in regards to his motives behind doing things when he’s on his own, he doesn’t really do much thinking before he acts. he just goes with what feels right. with others, if the vibe you’re emitting is stand-off-ish he’ll most likely bury that curious, adventurous side of him. he’s an energy-matcher and doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

[dishly]

dad: whaddya got there, son

son: soy milk

dad: hola milk, soy tu padre

[painted-bees]

Character solidifying!

[dishly]

Specify a character and leave a number in my ask, if you’re feeling so kind!

1. How does your character think of their father? What do they hate and love about him? What influence - literal or imagined - did the father have?

2. Their mother? How do they think of her? What do they hate? Love? What influence - literal or imagined - did the mother have?

3. Brothers, sisters? Who do they like? Why? What do they despise about their siblings?

4. What type of discipline was your character subjected to at home? Strict? Lenient?

5. Were they overprotected as a child? Sheltered?

6. Did they feel rejection or affection as a child?

7. What was the economic status of their family?

8. How does your character feel about religion?

9. What about political beliefs?

10. Is your character street-smart, book-smart, intelligent, intellectual, slow-witted?

11. How do they see themselves: as smart, as intelligent, uneducated?

12. How does their education and intelligence – or lack thereof - reflect in their speech pattern, vocabulary, and pronunciations?

13. Did they like school? Teachers? Schoolmates?

14. Were they involved at school? Sports? Clubs? Debate? Were they unconnected?

15. Did they graduate? High-School? College? Do they have a PHD? A GED?

16. What does your character do for a living? How do they see their profession? What do they like about it? Dislike?

17. Did they travel? Where? Why? When?

18. What did they find abroad, and what did they remember?

19. What were your character’s deepest disillusions? In life? What are they now?

20. What were the most deeply impressive political or social, national or international, events that they experienced?

21. What are your character’s manners like? What is their type of hero? Whom do they hate?

22. Who are their friends? Lovers? ‘Type’ or ‘ideal’ partner?

23. What do they want from a partner? What do they think and feel of sex?

24. What social groups and activities does your character attend? What role do they like to play? What role do they actually play, usually?

25. What are their hobbies and interests?

26. What does your character’s home look like? Personal taste? Clothing? Hair? Appearance?

27. How do they relate to their appearance? How do they wear their clothing? Style? Quality?

28. Who is your character’s mate? How do they relate to him or her? How did they make their choice?

29. What is your character’s weaknesses? Hubris? Pride? Controlling?

30. Are they holding on to something in the past? Can he or she forgive?

31. Does your character have children? How do they feel about their parental role? About the children? How do the children relate?

32. How does your character react to stress situations? Defensively? Aggressively? Evasively?

33. Do they drink? Take drugs? What about their health? 

34. Does your character feel self-righteous? Revengeful? Contemptuous?

35. Do they always rationalize errors? How do they accept disasters and failures?

36. Do they like to suffer? Like to see other people suffering?

37. How is your character’s imagination? Daydreaming a lot? Worried most of the time? Living in memories?

38. Are they basically negative when facing new things? Suspicious? Hostile? Scared? Enthusiastic?

39. What do they like to ridicule? What do they find stupid?

40. How is their sense of humor? Do they have one?

41. Is your character aware of who they are? Strengths? Weaknesses? Idiosyncrasies? Capable of self-irony?

42. What does your character want most? What do they need really badly, compulsively? What are they willing to do, to sacrifice, to obtain?

43. Does your character have any secrets? If so, are they holding them back?

44. How badly do they want to obtain their life objectives? How do they pursue them?

45. Is your character pragmatic? Think first? Responsible? All action? A visionary? Passionate? Quixotic?

46. Is your character tall? Short? What about size? Weight? Posture? How do they feel about their physical body?

47. Do they want to project an image of a younger, older, more important person? Does they want to be visible or invisible?

48. How are your character’s gestures? Vigorous? Weak? Controlled? Compulsive? Energetic? Sluggish?

49. What about voice? Pitch? Strength? Tempo and rhythm of speech? Pronunciation? Accent?

50. What are the prevailing facial expressions? Sour? Cheerful? Dominating?

[reverieo]

(...) If his eyes could speak, they would say, it’s going to be alright, when he looks at him again. Nimble fingers attach a couple of wires on him and then he hears footsteps behind him, with four or five extra set of helping hands come in.

“We’ll take over.” They say, fully knowing not to wait for a response as he just steps back from the bed. If his eyes could speak, they would say, it’s alright, you’re in good hands, as he slinks towards the walls of the room instead. But his eyes maybe aren’t enough so there’s another smile that takes over him instead, and they say pretty much the same thing. His face starts to sting because bloody hell, he never smiles this much in a span of three months – but he does, with a careful eye in the boy being treated. 

[dishly]

there’s too, too much in his head to fully register the ironic kalimba tunes jingling within their tiny spot. and he clings to the other like he’d die in an instant if his lithe-boy body dared to part from him. maybe it’s a little too tight. too close. maybe jiyong won’t notice. or maybe he will. how wonderful it feels to be touched by someone important to him. how wonderful to finally be in the presence of someone he knows. it’s been nothing but swarms of strangers for the past few weeks. all bound by that same look of perplexity when their eyes meet his a fleeting moment. a double-take usually. a look that’s sometimes even offered thrice. something that screams i’d love to watch you longer but i mustn’t on account of me being in an incredible rush, and i have important business to take care of elsewhere. everything moves so fast around him. like vehicles, of course. he waited a moment too long.

and olly’s so good at waiting. wouldn’t be if it wasn’t put into practice so frequently. waiting to grow taller or instance. milk’ll grow you some but it makes his stomach feel like a cloud. five-six is where he’s stood for as long as his memory stretches. five-six is shameful for a boy, said someone, somewhere, probably. perhaps a quote by this pesky critter who’s made a home out of his subconscious called self-conscious. but it’s not only that. he’s spent a lot of time waiting on girls who say one thing and do another. that’s why he’s here with his shoelaces dragging over foreign soil. and we can’t forget how he’s waited for the one in the white coat. 

there was a point where he’d avoided looking at the fountain at all. the first summer in the absence of his good friend, the first missed summer he hung around the thing for eight hours doing nothing at all. staring at rocks. meddling with a loose thread straying from his shirt’s tail. tying it in a bow around his finger tip. he spoke with an elderly lady who asked him what he was waiting for. she accompanied him a short while and spoke of her recent travels to japan. because bringing up a korean friend means bringing up japan as a country. she’d also confessed her sudden spurt of happiness after divorcing her husband of fifty years. elderly people are interesting. a person who leaves you alone without a word is not worth waiting for, her crackling voice advises, and he tries to tell her she’s wrong in the kindest way he could muster. maybe he should have believed her then. ...is a thought prodding at his mind by the time the second summer swings around. flight delays are common so he should wait a few hours to be sure. his friend’ll turn up at the brink of sundown with a suitcase full of things—a souvenir for our boy (hopefully) and an apologetic smile (any smile will do). but there’s none of that. and he’s paranoid. he wants him so much to be good and well and safe. so he checks the news for plane crashes. there’s nothing. that’s great. he just couldn’t make it this time. maybe he’s busy. people are sometimes busy, olly. you know that. maybe he has a new friend to visit. don’t be silly.

the most recent summer he spent the entire night at their meeting spot. driven to a state of near delirium. he’d mulled over the idea of the other’s death. and he didn’t like that at all. he’d submerged his body in the shallow waters of the fountain, thin fingers tracing over forgotten coins at the floor, their copper-pure state marred with green. they were his bed of roses and he was a corpse awaiting salvation.

he remembers the cold against his skin, how it soaked through his clothes and rendered his lips a pale shade of blue. he remembers praying. hoping. wet eyes searching for stars to wish upon but the thicket of fog above too dense to see through. and that might have been a sign. by morning he was found by a family friend and dragged home by his soggy collar to be met with a very unhappy mum and a suspecting father. you bet he was ill for a few days after that. bed-ridden with a hot pack slung over his shoulders.

the parting of the elevator’s doors has him craving a deep inhalation of air, a sort of way to prepare him for the route ahead, but it’d surely hurt his body to do so and he knows it’ll taste like sickness. on another note, he doesn’t know where they’re going (he doesn’t know about hospitals) and a great portion of him hopes for it to be home. jiyong’s home. but that’s just not feasible at this point. that’s not realistic. and you have to accept reality for what it is. he’s always struggled with that concept. like right now, with how he’s keeping his eyes shut because of the weird looks he’s getting. it’s inevitable. so faith’s placed in the white-coat’s mission to bring him to safety.

where he’s taken he hates. there are medical machines. trays of things. a desolate, white bed affixed to the center of the room. he’ll be carefully placed on it by steady hands, a small, bony thing to a sheet of recycling paper. people have died on here. his skin crawls. his body throbs. hot tears streak his cheeks and he feels awfully feverish. 

jiyong’s got this expression on him, it’s a smile but not the one he’s used to. this one’s a lot more broken, maybe, and it sears a big ugly scab into his heart. it feels like pity but it’s not. he’s trying to tell him something without words. here’s our child, in critical condition and worrying so much about another. why won’t you talk to me. he wants to say it but it doesn’t feel right. when he’s let go of, anxiety courses thick throughout emptied veins and the hands of fear clasp around his lungs.

if it was in him to act out in the presence of authority, he’d let out a cry, resist, and scramble for something to hold onto with his good arm. before jiyong’s out of his sight olly says, quiet, in secret, you won’t leave, right? promise you won’t leave, and then masked people smother him. blue eyes are bleary, a mix of fatigue and worry ever-present. his hair’s damp and it sticks his neck. he hates this so much. no and don’t are phrases that’d sift through scared teeth. but he keeps quiet. masked people tell him it’s okay in their mother tongue. he understands that much. but he won’t believe it.

a knife’s taken to his bloodied shirt. he’s only got one of those. he’s put to sleep. he dreams he’s in the ocean.

[dishly]

HIGH SCHOOL/UNIVERSITY MUSE PROMPT! TAG! YOU'RE IT! With this, you're supposed to answer this ask with chronological order from high school all the way up to uni with how your character kept up with their appearance. Provide pictures! Send this ask to ten of your favorite blogs anonymously or not!

                                                                      ♥ ♥ ♥

ok! olly is still young so i’m going to cheat and predict his future looks because i know what the future has in store for him i am the all-knowing mun

here we have some unfortunate oh no, what is that freshman year looks ((though one might argue he styles himself relatively the same to this day)) a vest on top of plaid. some christmas socks. a cute little beaded bracelet from a girlfriend of his. wore it everywhere. didn’t take it off in the shower ((not very hygienic of him i guess)). at this point in time he didn’t really care how he dressed but his mum insisted on positioning each curl on his head every morning. believe it or not. take it or leave it!! also, he still had baby fat in his cheeks. he was a carefree angel-baby!

then we have this hipster-esque sophomore get up. where he shopped primarily at yard sales and thrift stores. his glasses aren’t prescribed and he has a pimple on his lip that won’t leave him alone!!! he’s a little apathetic at this point. and he doesn’t smile a lot because someone called him snaggletooth. which isn’t fair because a lot of people in his school have imperfect teeth! he’s probably picked on because he’s fragile looking.

he lives his life as if he were in a movie. and he’s the virgin best friend character that people ship with the main but doesn’t actually end up getting the main because he’s too scared to do anything and the main is too oblivious. but also maybe he doesn’t get with the main because he doesn’t know how to dress himself. ://

then there’s age seventeen where plaid made a strong comeback ((a family friend works at a store that sells a lot of it and his mum gets discounts)) ((he can’t bring himself to tell her that he doesn’t like plaid)). and he usually has headphones glued to his skull. an accessory of sorts. he’s doing rebellious teenage things. spray painting dicks on public property. because all ((a lot of them)) teenage boys have an obsession with drawing dicks ((don’t ask me why)). he styles his hair like this until someone points out that he has a receding hairline. how dare they! 

current time. eighteen/nineteen yrs old. his hair is whatever. and he likes to wear this black jacket thing wherever he goes. he wears a lot of knitted sweaters, weirdly embroidered blouses and oxfords. he’s going through a weird phase. he looks cute though! 

in the future he’ll get his hair cut, pierce his nose, and become more comfortable with himself!! no more being shy about his teeth! let’s wish olly a healthy, happy glo up!!! 

[voirdeces-deactivated20170721]

dusk bleeds through sheer curtains while sunlight diminishes into thin rays. the screen illuminates a small fraction of flourishing darkness and rests in front of tearing scleras burning from the lack of moisture. leo hasn’t blinked for a total of five minutes and refuses to do so ( either voluntarily or out of unalloyed consciousness, he can’t really tell ). the strain undoubtedly worsens his astigmatism but the movie playing from his laptop creates an undivided focus on its breathtaking cinematography and almost leaves him in tears— almost. then there’s loud knocking on leo’s door that causes him to flinch away from immersion and regain a sense of distorted reality. he blinks once, twice, relieving dry eyes before croaking a hurried response,

“come in!”

fingers repeatedly press down on the ‘lower volume’ key before his sleeves wipe away the tears glazing over dark pupils. sensitivity cannot be revealed. leo clears his throat and fixes the expression on his face, stiffening every muscle as lips purse into a straight line. nonchalance is achieved. he’s forced to hide his feelings once again.

[dishly]

he’s positive that if he didn’t tear his eyes away from that paper a second earlier, they’d have shriveled up into teeny raisin-things and tumbled out of their sockets, rolled off the desk and straight into the trash. where they belong, he’d say. along with his hands. there’s just so many things he wants to create. but his fingers won’t cooperate with him. and his brain’s in this constant state of over analysis. an art elective would be fun and easy, they said!!! five sketchbook pages full of disproportionate side profiles and look who’s having the time of their lives, now. it certainly isn’t him.

he’s decided to shove all his papers aside, tuck himself into a little ball on his desk chair and let his eyes come to a close. stretch the hem of his sweater over his knees and just simply rest. but...of course, he’ll grow bored of that real quick. want to move onto more exciting things. like his roommate. you have a better chance of improving if you draw from real life, he tells himself in the rugged voice of his professor. so he’ll try it. bring paper and a pencil with him.

here our curly-kid is, after a knock, response, and opened door, all skin and bones against the boy’s door frame. long sleeves hide his graphite-stained fingertips and he’s got a sketchbook against his thighs. he first regards the other with a look of excitement, as if he’s got the cure to cancer on his tongue. it changes to a look of curiosity (thick brows raised), and then concern (blue eyes narrowed). something doesn’t feel quite right in here.  he’s good at picking up on strange atmospheres. he thinks.

“——something wrong?” he brings himself closer. worried.

[nacholatkes-deactivated20151014]

let's do a weird headcanon thing.

[dishly]

1. what they smell like: well, he hasn’t exactly seen a shower in a week so he probably smells like wind (from wandering outside), dirt (from laying on the ground), and armpit. before this mess—when he had a place to live—he’d smell of shampoo and a subtle cologne. not a strong, musky dad-smell. 2. how they sleep: as small and incognito as he can make himself. mostly to preserve body heat. before he was homeless as well. 3. what music they enjoy: he likes everything! as long as it’s arranged and written nicely. he enjoys playing the piano, as well. 4. how much time they spend getting ready every morning: in the past he’d take about 30 minutes. 15 to shower and 15 to get dressed, brush teeth, and maintain his hair. he doesn’t exactly get ready anymore. but in the mornings he does like to go to a public restroom and wash up. look just a little presentable. 5. their favorite thing to collect: weird antique things. he likes to hear the stories behind how they came to be. not too scared of an object being haunted though. 6. left or right-handed: right-handed. 7. religion (if any): he’s not sure of his religious beliefs. but sometimes he prays to God. 8. favorite sport: to watch? soccer. but he’s never been too good at playing sports. 9. favorite touristy thing to do when traveling: take photos, check out their antique stores. 10. favorite kind of weather: sunny with a faint breeze. 11. a weird/obscure fear they have: being mistaken for a male prostitute. 12. the carnival/arcade game they always win without fail: the one where you have to climb the rope ladder thing!

[justanotherrpmeme]

bold which habits your muse has

nail biting | throat clearing | lying | interrupting | chewing the ends of pens | smoking | swearing | knuckle cracking | thumb sucking | muttering under their breath | talking to themselves | nose picking | binge drinking | oversleeping | snacking between meals | skipping meals | picking at skin | impulse buying | talking with their mouth full | humming/singing to themselves | chewing gum | leg jiggling | foot tapping | hair twirling | whistling | eye rolling | licking lips | sniffing | squinting | rubbing hands together | jaw clenching | gesturing while talking  | putting feet up on tables | tucking hair behind ears | chewing lips | crossing arms over chest | putting hands on hips | rubbing the back or their neck | being late | procrastinating | doodling | shredding paper | peeling off bottle labels | forgetfulness | running hands through hair | overreacting | teeth grinding | nostril flaring | slouching | pacing | drumming fingers | fist clenching | pinching bridge of nose | rubbing temples | rolling shoulders