Post by Eowyn Walker on Jul 5, 2010 18:29:50 GMT -5
HELLO MY NAME IS EOWYN ELIZABETH WALKER AND I AM SIXTEEN YEARS OLD. I'M A HUMAN AND I'M AN ARISTOCRAT AND I WAS BORN ON 07/01/1869 IN BRITAIN. MY NATIONALITY IS ENGLISH. PEOPLE SAY I LOOK LIKE EMILY BROWNING. THEY ALSO SAY THAT I AM ENIGMATIC, PERCEPTIVE, INDEPENDENT, PRIVILEGED, AND LETHARGIC. TO BE HONEST, I'M BEING PLAYED BY CHLOE.
CODEWORD: -admin edit-
ROLE PLAY SAMPLE:Though he fancied himself rather infallible, there were many things Mikhail did not understand: the draw of African music, the conversion ratio of Egyptian to Portuguese money, and the success rates of Nikolas’ womanizing skills. His ignorance toward the proper order of priority concerning Desmond, however, apparently takes the cake.
Impatience turned his limbs jittery, little currents of neediness travelling out from his core. The thought that Dez might not show up danced before him rather cruelly. He refused to acknowledge it, leaning back and feigning nonchalance, if only out of stubbornness and the impossibility of the idea that Dez would stand him up. When said man finally stepped into view, he felt a great, stupid smile spread across his face. Oh, he probably looked completely ridiculous, but he wasn’t the sort to care, and had he been, he would have at least been comforted by the fact that his lover looked equally ridiculous, if not more. The brunette was covered in mud, soaked head to toe from the rain. The darkness obscured his view a bit, but Mikhail admired the shadows playing across tanned skin.
Finally.
Pushing away from the wall, he wasted no time in striding forward to plant his mouth firmly on Desmond’s, burying his hands in the head of dark hair. It was a wet kiss (to be expected when one participant had been caught in a storm that would likely bring down the entire palace), and he could taste the rain between their lips, feel the dewy moisture when he eventually pulled back.
“You’re a right mess,” he murmured lovingly, almost as an afterthought, running his fingers down the side of other man’s face, cheekbone to neck, warmth radiating beneath wet skin. He didn’t quite pull back the appropriate distance, still inches away from Desmond’s mouth, glancing down at it every few seconds as if he might like to swoop in for another kiss. And he would. But it was a panicky kind of euphoria that laced the atmosphere there. It’s the kind of excitement that burns in your chest and turns your stomach, that pulls you in every direction all at once, mixes you up until you’re standing outside yourself, watching everything unfold with a racing heart and desperate mind.
It runs you through.
His breath expelled in short, frequent bursts, and Mikhail could almost see it fog in the cool air. Thunder rumbled outside – a not-so-gentle reminder of where they were, what they were. “I was worried,” he started, bearings out of reach, but not quite caring, “that you might not make it.” His words tumbled over one another, perfectly hopeless. It was always like this: intense and… rushed, really. Like every moment must contain years worth of devotion. Sometimes later, alone in his rooms, he cursed himself for being in such a hurry that they couldn’t just enjoy this.
Like with most people in his life, now and then Mikhail wasn’t quite sure how he and Desmond ended up like this. Which, well, maybe it was better, because there were a few moments in the beginning where perhaps he hadn’t been quite as suave he might have liked to imagine. There were times when he’d been unsure, and even worse when he was sure, only he didn’t quite know how to go about it, how to navigate this thing between them. In some ways, he hoped Dez had forgotten those parts, so that their record remained unmarred, and it seemed things had always been this easy, this fundamental.
It was pure luck, he supposed, that they’d managed to reach this place. Everyone went through their lives searching for all the people they were supposed to be with – friends, lovers, rivals – setting themselves out like little beacons, passing across those equally adrift, while he seemed to simply stumble across the correct fit.
Something unnamed curled in his chest, warmed his extremities. He ran the pad of his index finger over the soft hair at the base of Desmond’s neck, feeling the skin before letting his hands drop to the brunette’s wrists. His gaze drifted down, over muddied garments as he entwined their fingers. It was the first time he’d really looked properly, without the frantic need to kiss distracting him, and all he managed to grasp was the bloodied cloth wrapped around his lover’s palm, knotted tightly to cover what he could only imagine was a giant, gapping wound. Several emotions filtered across his face; even he wasn’t sure what he was feeling.
Stepping back, Mikhail peered at it more clearly, the threat of a crisis setting him into problem-solving mode as he tried to gauge whether a doctor would be necessary. Though, to be honest, he mightn’t be able tell either way. Bandaging people – wasn’t that kind of a female thing? No one had ever taught him how to take care of someone like that… but he wanted to, if that counted for anything. Part of him felt that he ought to make some sort of grand gesture, like yelling, “Who did this to you? I’ll have them beheaded!” or something along those lines, but he’d never actually had someone beheaded, and he didn’t really want to start now. In the end the answer was so simple it took him several moments to start from the beginning and ask, “What happened?”
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