[open] —midnight muse. - Forum

　　　 [open] —midnight muse.

Lycanthus
Streetmusician

Lycanthus wrote:

hello there! i almost never do open rps, but i'm bored, delirious from sleep deprivation, and in the mood to try new things. before we get started, i just need to hammer out a few things. please take the time to read them, as i've taken the time to write them out.

general information:
• i'm lysander. i'm 21, wannabe english major and rper of 9-10 years.
• no godmodding, ghosting, whatever people call it now.
• absolutely NO drama. if you can't solve it civilly, i don't want to see it in this thread.
• no character sheets! just jump in. surprise me. (;
• please write a minimum of 1-2 paragraphs!
• sometimes i write a crapload, but i'm really flexible. don't worry about mirroring.
• keep it pg-13 for the kiddos, as per site TOS! swearing is totally fine.
• modern setting, modern characters. i would highly prefer realism.
• out of character text needs to be marked appropriately.
• third person pov.
• grammar, please.
• looking for ONLY 1-2 people to join!
• have fun!

there's no specific plot in mind. i just want to get to know other people and their characters casually.
thanks for reading!

x

Lycanthus
Streetmusician

Lycanthus wrote:
Jonah didn't exactly have an indestructible ego, contrary to popular belief. He did have a habit for self-aggrandizing, for pretending to be more (much more) than who he really was, but it never really did any good in the long run. It was... a game, of sorts. A game of charades. Each encounter, each little white lie being something of a one-act, one-man play that Jonah found himself starring in more often than not. Whether that be by choice or by circumstance. He didn't know which or what difference it made.

But as always, whenever the curtain fell, so did the mask.
(—and oh, how quickly it crumbled.)

The ever frightening topic of self was to be avoided at all costs. Whenever asked to describe himself, Jonah always opted for adjectives that he didn't believe in: cute, sexy, hot— pick your poison. It didn't matter what it was, who it was, or for what purpose because as long as he could fool others into believing him, there was a small, fleeting chance that he, too, could fool himself with the lies that he so often told. Maybe they'd even come true somehow, by some miraculous act of providence or by some kind, unseen god who managed to feel some tiny drop of pity for this cruel joke of an existence Jonah was living— every day.

Because he was running away.

From what? Who knows.
From the future.
From his past.
From his fears.
From his very own fucking shadow.

He didn't stop to look back.

Fortunately, Jonah was pretty damn good at it— the running away thing. It was great, really! Steeping himself so deep in denial that no ounce of fear or uncertainty could get to him? Practically routine. Heck, what was fear to someone like Jonah, right? Because he owned the world, as far as he was concerned. Didn't just fucking own it. Topped it. Dominated it. Except he didn't. Somewhere in that constantly-whirling mass of thought of his, he knew that he was just faking it all so he could have some fucking peace of mind.

It didn't matter though. As long as it worked, it was fine. He could live this way. (—for now.)

Didn't stop him from having sleepless nights though.

1:28AM. The numbers seemed to blur despite their brightness, especially against the near pitch-black darkness that surrounded him. Something was occupying his thoughts— something akin to a vague, ominous dread that he couldn't quite put his finger on. A creeping darkness, tiny, but most certainly there, and Jonah needed something to distract himself from it. He recalled passing a café on the way back from work the other day— a quaint little place called Midnight Muse, open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It seemed like the perfect place to get away from his thoughts.

With that, Jonah rose from his bed, changed into a sweater and jeans, tucked his phone and wallet in his jacket pockets, and left.

x

Cthulu
National star

Cthulu wrote:
There were normally rings around his eyes, subtle but there, and he chalked them up to genetics. He got his sharp face, dishwater brown locks from mom. Dark circles and physique from dad. Nasty, outburst-intentions from mom, callousness from dad. Today he nursed a coffee with one sugar and a splash of whiskey, the rings under his eyes stuff a raccoon would be proud of.

Archie hunched at his table-for-one in an odd sort of languid position, lacking visible signs of stress but not relaxed, either. His legs were stretched out with one crossed over the other. His elbow claimed a quarter of the cheap surface (fake wood, maybe?) and hung over the edge of it. He toyed with a bright screen with his other hand. Scrolled past whatever. News. Cheap news. Facebook. Stupid jokes and stupider memes. He knew he'd been moving on autopilot a while back but didn't bother to stop because what was the point? He wouldn't go home. Didn't have the energy to do anything else before the caffeine kicked in. And even then.

He was feeling restless and tired and bored and fucking fed up with no way out. Numbness seemed the way to go.

Kit
National star

Kit wrote:
Dark hair frames Thea's face, locks spilling out from a loose ponytail and obscuring the lenses of her glasses. She's been sitting there nearly motionless for hours now, only ever moving to take a sip of coffee or type another line, fingers flying rapidly over her keyboard as frames scroll past on the screen. A heavy exhaustion lingers around her, a fog weighing on her shoulders despite being three cups of coffee down---all the caffeine does now is make her fingers shake, and it colors her cheeks a flush pink that was almost charming, if it didn't contrast so heavily with the bruise blossoming across her nose.

This time of night, the frequent flyers at Midnight Muse were of the odd variety: a couple argues loudly in the corner over their respective drug use, while most patrons sit silently in the glow of a laptop or phone screen, cradling coffees. Thea only meant to escape yet another argument with her father, one that had left her with bruises and him with bite marks, but here she is, her work being constantly interrupted with phrases like "no, you definitely do more crack than i did, especially last week". And still, her patience holds out, until one of them walks by, knocking into her secluded table and sending her half-full cup of coffee spilling all over, the dark liquid seeping in between her keys.

"Hey, fuckface!" she shouts at the retreating figure, voice cutting sharp through the stillness, standing up and running after her---she only reaches the door and, when looking outside, sees no one. "Jesus, shit," she mutters, rushing back to her laptop and shutting it off, mopping up the coffee with a handful of napkins and hoping not all her data was lost.

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