wunderkind

[wordsnquotes]

Am well. Thinking of you always. Love.

Albert Camus, The Plague (via wordsnquotes)

[theunquotables]

I have always loved everything about you. Even what I didn’t understand.

Albert Camus (via punlovsin)

[liberatingreality]

I have noticed that even people who claim everything is predetermined and that we can do nothing to change it, look before they cross the road.

Stephen Hawking

[bostonpoetryslam]

Something wild was here and you are not alone. Landfill, we have a question for you, about the bones of things. Library, we have questions about the bones. We spend our nights saying it wrong, and yet we run so you can dream of running, so you remember, good or bad, that the world glows bright.

Richard Siken, “Confession,” featured on the Rubin Museum of Art  website (via lipfused)

[misbhved-deactivated20160610]

nose crinkling at the mention of them being adorable (it definitely wasn’t a word that she’d use to describe them, most definitely not), her tongue darted out to wet her lips once again as she kept her gaze glued on the child resting comfortably in the male’s arms. “right. adorable.” her gaze flickered to meet his before returning back to the younger one once more. hasty to turn the conversation to something else that she could relate to, she was eager to agree to his next statement. “too bad. else it’d be a lot more fun. i mean, with people around my age, at least. plus, you seem like you’re planning on spending the whole day playing with… the children.”

[milbro]

“Not my whole day, no.” The obvious distaste displayed prompts a disbelieving frown, with undertones subtly recommending her to cease and desist, conclude her display of bad attitude. Even though he is not particularly fond of young children himself, and probably will continue to be politely detached in the near future, he knows enough to treat the growing infants like human beings in their wake, not irritable flies. Protectively, in a manner that seems purely instinctual, he lightly rubs the back of the child he’s carrying, who, in turn, appreciatively smiles and rests his head (apparently, the big arms of the lecturer are comfy enough to stimulate light sleep). “'M far from a chaperone. Nothing in this world is free.”

[jeonque-blog]

“Good thing too.  There’s nothing sillier than wearing lenseless frames, don’t you think?” Lips twisted in a brief grimace to punctuate her words, she nods firmly to herself before returning her gaze to meet his.  She knows her personality can be a little…startling to some (she’s rather upfront about her opinions, and not everyone’s comfortable with that), and so she simply flashes her signature smile, all pearly-whites and well intentions.  “They make you look charming.  Nothin’ to be ashamed of, I promise you.” And it’s more to comfort him than anything- a harmless compliment she hopes will assuage the crimson painting his cheeks.  A pause, and then a hand is extended towards him.  An invitation of sorts.

“I’m Naeun, by the way.” 

[milbro]

“Milo.” Brisk and upfront, his hand meets hers to engage in a brief yet enthused shake, solely consisting of three strong pumps. His palms are clammy, mildly dampened by his own sweat, a result of peaked nerves; regrettable that Naeun is meeting Milo while he’s distracted, personally preoccupied by personal thoughts. He grimaces apologetically, the fourteenth sheepish expression of the hour at only ten past. Reserves his judgement on the fashion sense of others –– mainly because they conflict with his conversational partner, and in that moment he does not possess the energy to assert an opinion nor debate an idea which does not overly concern him. The compliment flies over him, doesn’t address her opinions, doesn’t even compliment her name: for all her words he responds with a non-committal hum, “Mmn.”

[milbro]

knowing your partner well makes writing together a lot easier. tag this with the people you enjoy roleplaying with but want to get to know better.

BASICS:  

name: DJ (finally found an alias that doesn’t half suck––) preferred pronouns: they, them. sexuality: bisexual by default (super homoflexible tbh) taken or single: perpetually unsure! three facts: currently drinking ice-cream soda and it’s rank; travelling is in my blood; i put 90210 as my AIM zipcode ‘cause I live in the UK. 

EXPERIENCE:

how long (months/years?): three years, [ x ] best experience: too many! three years is a super long time––

MUSE PREFERENCES:

female or male: male or non-binary.  favorite face: uuuhhhhh hh hh h. tomo kurata. i like male poc models but i’m trying to move out of the model part––. i wanna try playing raul castillo, olly alexander ... animated faces too, dying to try ned flanders oof.  least favorite face: i’ll play with anyone, and similarly i’ll play any face i have muse for. i haven’t really avoided a face before?? simply not had muse for it, uh, sweats, uh, was that a cop-out answer haha ? multi or single: single.

WRITING PREFERENCES:

fluff, angst or smut: time and place for everything! i don’t like being restricted to one genre on my muses, i like aus and trying out different verses–– character building, y’know, since everything revolves around one main man haha.  long or short replies: either! both! neither! depends on my mood.  best time to write: yeah, weekends, after work, varies.  are you like your muse(s): kinda like milo! we overlap in certain interests (i don’t spend time researching and reading purely for milo, there are coinky-dinks in his knowledge); same political alignment (playing someone who you fundamentally disagree with is so difficult!); and of course I love atlantis, super interested & inspired by it. i guess milo and i share a similar work ethic. we’d be friends! if he was alive and kicking we’d chill, but we’re far from mirror images. he’s an INTP & i’m an INTJ. uhhh, muses i’ve had in the past? not really,, i tend to do the extroverted types, reckless and brave or uh, really funny and naive. experiment with different deconstructed tropes and traits. i tried playing a muse that had an uncanny resemblance, personality-wise, to myself once but i didn’t like it, for various reasons.  tagging: jeongaeul; misbhved; joonguar; shyvnkim; velverei; blvckmgc tagged by: puncturist

[milbro]

back on friday! bear with.

[play-listings]

Visit Original Link

[misbhved-deactivated20160610]

kids were never her thing, and she doubted they ever will be. added on to that would be a whole bunch of them, and their lively, naive selves always seemed to get on her nerves in a matter of time; the combination of how a child was pieced together never did tickle her fancy. the fleeting moment of horrid surfaced on her expression, and disappeared just as quickly as she watched him pick one of them little… creatures up.

“…. there are… so many of them.”

[milbro]

“I know. Adorable right?” He addresses his new hip attachment, rather than Ash, subtly reminding her that the youngsters aren’t hearing impaired. His hand opens to reveal a flat palm, perfect for high-five-ing, and after some gentle prompting Milo’s new favourite child follows through with a giggle to boot. Children do not exactly thrill the young professor either, but he tolerates them, smiles at them, bandages them up when they need it. Probably because he remembers tender ages, grappling for some sort of guidance that wasn’t always provided. “Not too many adults about though.”

[hanarichinspiration-blog]

Fill this in:

[milbro]

Describe your character’s laugh: Different laughs for different occasions, although notably Milo’s laughs are barely audible. A wheeze accompanied by a good ol’ slap on the thigh when he’s on the cusp of tears due to laughing so much, gasps for air in between, his face turns bright red, you can picture it. A quick nose exhale when he reads something funny, usually when marking papers. A shy smile and a couple of silent shoulder raises for those uncomfortable, forced laughs in social settings. 

Some features of their typical morning routine?: Aims to get to work for 10 am, and this is usually a struggle. His skin care routine usually takes up the bulk of his time but his morning is littered with various tasks –– feed the cat, tamper with the boiler until it works, locate a clean pair of socks. Still spends 10 minutes crooning to himself in the mirror as he gels his hair, can’t help it. And instead of using an extra 10 minutes to get a little shut eye, he opts for getting engrossed in a chapter he’ll never finish in such tight time restraints. Rides his bike to work unless the day promises rain, stops on the high street to get some breakfast, usually a sweet egg sandwich. 

It’s just a regular weekday, what are they wearing?: Corduroy trousers, smart and pretty easy to cycle in. A shirt and occasionally a bow tie or tie, depends on how hot/cold it is but usually he’ll just wear a block colour shirt, leave the top button open to be edgy. Complete with a blazer in some shade of brown or army green, or a knitted sweater or vest, maybe even a waistcoat. Colourful socks –– yellow, green, purple, orange (any colour but white and black). Polished patent leather shoes, so shiny you can see your face in ‘em. 

What is their preferred mode of transport for long journeys and why?: Doesn’t like driving for journeys that are more than three hours. He’ll drive to Daejeon, but not Busan. Prefers the train or coach for longer journeys. Trains are quicker and more efficient but he usually finds coaches easier to relax in –– probably because there isn’t enough room for him to unpack his mobile encyclopaedia and get to work. 

Name one aspect of their childhood or adolescence that has shaped a large part of their persona today: Hard to choose one, since every detail of his childhood has caused him to grow, children are impressionable by design... The dreary night in November when he witnessed his Grandfather coming undone, the rock the usually held them stable, weeping into two fingers of whiskey. Babbling on about the short-lived joys in life, the volatile nature of happiness. Something about a warm gun. It marked the beginning of the end, but it’s become something of an ethos, for him.  

Name one form of injustice that they simply cannot tolerate: Police brutality –– governmental institutions not being held to account in general. 

Are they more of a doer or an observer?: Observer. People are interesting. Observing is a form of doing in any case. 

Name one thing that tends to impress them: Faith. 

Which aspect of the arts can they most appreciate?: Literature. Never ceases to amaze.

Which common traits do they seek in both associates and lovers?: Maturity.

Do they reflect the whereabouts or era that they were raised into?: Values are definitely forward thinking. He’s been eased into the technological era yet shows zero sign of it, purchased his first mobile phone roughly a year ago. Clothing reflects his upbringing somewhat, suits are not for special events, for him, just a regular aspect of everyday life. His soft rock music taste definitely reflects the era he grew up in, with occasional slow jazz records that scream of his Grandfather’s influence. Milo exudes a mixture of Americana 1920s Art Deco and colourful 1960s England, hard to put a finger on. 

What would be a safely enjoyable order at a restaurant?: Milo is painfully aware of food poisoning, he gets it on the regular. Safe? Well, since meat, dairy and fish are usually the riskiest bets, something carby (he is guilty of finding salads mind-numbingly boring). Italian. Pasta. Or a vegetable curry with rice. But he’d never order them unless hampered too –– he’ll always go for the riskiest, dodgiest sounding meal there is to offer. C’est la vie.

Describe their social circle, what is their role within it?: The comedic relief. A good majority of his friends are intellects, colleagues and past partners on various expeditions, so they understand his humour. Those who don’t tend to find him funny anyway... Maybe quirky is the word. He’s interesting to watch. 

In a word, what is their ultimate aspiration?: Brilliance.

[milbro]

khthvn:

He wasn’t sure what had spiked his anxiety. Maybe it all stemmed from the idea of a slacking grade. It wasn’t something he could really afford. Junhyou was prone to fits of worry even though with the amount he studied regularly he really shouldn’t have any concerns. It was just his nature he thought. He swallowed after the long lecture, rubbing his tired eyes as he waited for the classroom to clear out as he headed towards the front table where the professor stood. “Uh,” He stuttered right away. He was pretty sure this is the first time he’s ever spoken to the man. He swallows the forming lump of nerves as he plays with the hem of his shirt thinking of the proper words. “I think there was some mistake on my last quiz.” He finally manages. “I was just wondering if you would go back over it and see if you made the correct score?” He asks with a tilt of his head. “Oh! My name is Junhyou as well. It’s just not common for me to get something that low.” He adds with a hopeful smile.

“Uh, I have a faculty meeting in half an hour, so it’ll have to be brief but sure! And we can always schedule something in if I don’t answer all of your questions––” His packing is paused, signature brown leather satchel-style briefcase stylishly resting on a table in the large lecture theatre, and he knits his slender fingers together before looking upwards and addressing the figure he’s speaking to. There are brash and loud personalities that amble into his theatres and his quaint classrooms, but Junhyou is not one of them. A quick search in the memory archives confirms his suspicions that they’ve hardly exchanged more than a couple dozen words since the beginning of the academic year (and all of them have simple pleasantries such as ‘thank you’ when the door is held open or when a paper is handed back). Before he starts looking for his grading diary, Milo clears up as much information as possible. “The one last week? What exactly did you get? And do you have a copy of the paper? I don’t carry all of them with me, just have my diary.”

[milbro]

shyvnkim:

To say that the rain had been expected would be quite an understatement. The weather had been dry and humid the past couple of days and Soohyun had predicted rain for the past couple of days due to the turmoil the heat has weaved through the city. Yet of all the hours where rain could kick in, now is the least he’d expect it to come when he’s thrown into the confines of the library, stuck within the clock hour of a little past 8 in the evening. He had wished to go home earlier than 10 because lately that seems to be the only time where he can safely say he hasn’t missed a thing on his to do list yet that proves to be a bit difficult as it doesn’t seem as if the storm is halting anytime soon. Fingers run down the spine of the book in his hand, his eyes skimming through the page of the one he holds in the other. A deep sigh emits from the pits of his lungs as he turns his attention to his company for tonight, a bit relieved that he even has one. A yawn spills out of his lips before he can even control it, saying, “I’m sleepy. This thunderstorm is emphasizing my exhaustion.”

“Ah, I’m the opposite: keeps me awake, I always find it easier to read with rain,” he confides in a low mumble and then exhales deeply, his breath perfectly timed with the quick flip of a page in the hundreds. Doesn’t need to pause reading to maintain conversation. Briefly, he thinks of the warm cafes with an ambiance, a bustle about them, the thunderstruck libraries that amplify nature’s soundtrack, and the hushed murmurs on morning and evening trains, the rattle of the refreshment trolley. Milo has always found it easier to concentrate when exposed to atmospheric sound as opposed to clinical silence. Others are not so lucky. 

Nestling a book he’s read thrice in his lap, Milo expects new insight to emerge from the withered yellow pages. The way he clutches the spine of it loosely, crosses his ankles underneath the table, considers and lingers over certain words... Suggests his conquest isn’t too successful, thus far. Professor Thatch always appears deceptively disorganised, constantly rushing somewhere with atrocious hair and numerous scraps of disordered paper, however he has a tick-list and he makes his way through it. Slowly but surely. “Want a lift home? I brought the car today, saw the forecast.” 

[misbhved-deactivated20160610]

just by looking at how he was struggling with an explanation for this, she shakes her head conclusively. “if it’s not either of that, then i suppose you shouldn’t mind it much.” pressing her lips together, she scans the area once again with a small shrug. “i doubt it’s anything big anyway. perhaps they’re just curious about you.”

[milbro]

“It is unnerving though...” Of course he’s familiar with the weight of a couple of gazes, but when there is some form of exchanging information; numerous pairs of quiet and expectant eyes make him suspicious. Small children naturally make him wary, not exactly uncomfortable but cautious. Children’s birthday parties with mute children? Freak him out. He swoops down to pick up an expectant toddler, arms raised towards him and all, and the young fella quickly becomes a hip attachment. A wave of calm restores his inner serenity, concludes his miniature panic attack.

“Hey little one.”

[viperslang]

you have been carrying the corpse of a songbird in the crater of your windpipe. you don’t know how to exit your wound. your breath begs you to release its bare body from this ritual of rigor mortis . you have murdered the harness that hoisted yr hosannas. you mentor yourself for yr own renaissance - try to love the lapses, the blunders, the vicissitudes; you try to trust the inflections in the margins, the anomalies in between the lines. you know that in the thickest ink, all we do is lie. yet, the gospel of your argot is no longer penciled by faith but by fear. your mouth is as naked as a heresy. every time you try to speak, it seems the words are a rattle of a prisoner’s bowl against the oubliette’s iron-rust. you stutter your desires like the babel of coins at a laundromat. you make rooms out of your loneliness. you walk barefoot on the cool marble of each day’s unnamed grave. there is no word in this language soft enough to pronounce anyone’s absence. age, as you have learned, is a loss of options; fewer doors to return to and the gist of all heartache isn’t what you have lost but what you didn’t have anymore to lose. 

Scherezade Siobhan©

[madeintokyo]

He is pessimistic, almost misanthropic when the rose-colored sun bursts through the tall window of his bedroom, hot fingers bleeding on pale sheets and moon-kissed face; the intrusive heat [ although very light, it is still palpable, the way the solar rays permeate his edgy bones ] startling him awake but it is not something unwelcome, no, he honestly doesn’t mind– The warmth, that is. His eyes slip shut at the clock which spells 9 AM, however, a failed attempt to will himself to sleep again prompts him to roll out of bed, freshen up a little and whatnot. Just because he woke up earlier than usual does not make him any less petulant, though, you will still catch him kissing his teeth sometimes at whatever that moves even if it isn’t remarkably irritating. Suffice it to say, he is akin to a child in the morning.

He does try to subdue his grumpy feelings by leaving his home, taking himself out to the rather busy streets and sipping on the cool air like it’s his favorite coffee to loosen up, while the soft cacophony of the city plays as his music. Hardly aware of where he is heading to, he is soon thrust back into reality once his feet reach a route he knows pretty well. Hesitance grips him for a bit before he decides that it is okay, so he simply walks on until his thirst demands to be quenched immediately. Until a seemly cafe – and is that Milo Thatch? – drops into sight. He sways over to the lecturer, the name of the drink he will be ordering already on the tip of his tongue but first, he glimpses over the man’s shoulder from behind only to see sheets of paper filled with symbols of a dead language, or whatever.

He points to the most peculiar one. “Good morning; what does that mean?”

[milbro]

Tea to warm his aged fingers, to kick start blood circulation that is helplessly slow on early Spring mornings. As always, Milo Thatch is an almost untouchable vision to see: metaphorically knee deep in paper, a God of analysis in his own right, scribbling away and murmuring to himself furiously (in perfect time to the rhythm of his fountain pen quill scratching paper). It is a day off, and he should be relaxing, but a morning walk rapidly turned into an unforeseen morning epiphany and alas, a familiar waitress feeling sorry for him replaced the blotchy napkins on table 15 with decent stack of paper from the business printer. Bad mistake. She joked about wanting a 15% share in his profits and he smiled, gratefully, before continuing to write, continuing to think and continuing to logically arrange. 

Everything has a place on his temporary desk and amazingly, it looks a lot like home. Fruity steam shrouding barely legible Latin, Greek and Atlantean, veiny hands resting against wood and a bed head that no college student could possibly match. This is the quirky charm of Milo Thatch: adaptable to the point of making every environment his environment. Endearing. His only portable research is contained in a fiddly mobile device which he has trouble navigating, large fingers jabbing impatiently at the screen, and he knows he should go home but he’s almost at a breaking point and––

The longest coherent train of thought to grace his mind in the passing weeks is interrupted, by an innocently curious soul. He doesn’t anger –– he does the same thing to startled scholars on a daily, and cannot bring himself down to the level of a hypocrite, even subconsciously. Cracks his knuckles, stretches his neck and looks up, hesitating before speaking. “It’s a prayer. A mantra. I’ve only just realised this, but, yes, uh. Has a place in a ritual.”

[milbro]

What was your first love like?

FOR THE NEXT FIVE QUESTIONS MY MUSE CAN NOT TELL A LIE.

Turbulent. I remember us in polaroids, snapshots in time, but that isn’t quite right; we were dynamic in a way that stills don’t understand, that photographs don’t do justice. I remember more of her than us, in all honesty. She wanted more from me. More time, every hour, every thought. Brilliant physician. I gravitated towards her. Believed she was fiercely independent, but the way she searched blindly for a hand in her cycles of vulnerability said otherwise. We pretended to be carefree, and felt like playing house half of the time –– sickeningly addictive. In reality our love was hardly stable, but that was the charm of it all –– fickle, youthful and spontaneous. She… Didn’t understand me. At all. Loved the platonic conception of me, loved what others thought of me, loved being fascinated with me, studying me, and I liked being her project. I remember her gut wrenching jealousy; she grew jealous of inked paper and inanimate objects, threatened to set fire to my literary collection twice, and although I grew jealous of the wind licking her hair, I couldn’t quite comprehend her insecurities. One Winter she tattooed a star the size of my thumbnail on her hipbone. One Summer she came back from a trip to Greece and I didn’t recognise her. But I loved her in a way that Autumn loves the Spring, and succeeded in sweeping her off the worn soles of her feet every now and again. We were not soft, our love was not tender at the best of times; it was the colour of sharpened kitchen knives, the taste of bitten cheeks, the sound of the raging sea. I remember it fondly.