Examples
These are the examples for /~disillusioned. I try to give what I get, but I'm not going to pack it full of fluff and irrelevant info, even if you do. I can write at 200 - 300 word reply easy, but I'll only write 500-plus word replies if I feel the scene calls for it. I'm definitely a quality > quantity roleplayer. That said, one-lining gets old fast.
PB, Threading
For once, Patrick wanted a decent breakfast. He wanted hash browns, and eggs sunny-side up, and pancakes soaked in butter and syrup, with orange juice on the side. But instead, he got up every morning at 8:00 AM to have plain oatmeal, Cheerios, plain biscuit, and/or an apple, with water and white skim milk. No butter, no syrup, no flavor. It was the same for every other meal of the day: Bland, boring, colorless, standard. It had gotten to the point where sometimes he went hungry until lunch, just so he would be ravenous enough to eat everything off his plate, because otherwise, he couldn’t force himself to get anything down. St. Martin’s was the type of place that subtly advertised that they would break a boy’s spirit, and they were doing a fantastic job where he was concerned.
Today was one of those days. He’d woken up hungry, and had intended on going down to eat—but one look at the boys, so identical in their gray slacks and blue blazers, and Patrick couldn’t even make it past the doorway to the dining hall. He merely turned and went back the way he came, up the main stairs to the senior dormitory, where he threw open the top of his personal trunk. Digging through, he procured a half-eaten bar of dark chocolate and a Jolly Rancher.
“Fucking shit,” he cursed under his breath, shutting his trunk and crawling onto his bed. Patrick sucked despondently on the Jolly Rancher, green apple flavor stinging the backs of his gums, almost numbing him. He hated candy, but chocolate didn’t settle well with him. “Are we in prison?” he demanded of what he thought was the empty dormitory. “Fucking hell.”
[ their reply here ]
Patrick’s first class was at 9:00 AM. He figured he might nap for half an hour, even though he’d already gotten about nine hours of sleep. When he first came in as a wild and unruly 14-year-old, Patrick could have stayed up until 4 AM and functioned well enough in a full day of classes. Now, as an 18-year-old with a broken spirit and thoughts blacker than coffee, he spent an unhealthy amount of his free time sleeping. It would be obvious to any health or mental professional that he was depressed, but Patrick didn’t often consider that. He just knew sleeping, more often than not, was one of the few things that could take him away from Saint Martin’s.
Hearing one of his roommates, Patrick sat up, peering across the bed to see Adam. Yet another thing that could take his mind off the hell he was in. “Hey,” said Patrick, smiling slightly. “I don’t know. I guess I couldn’t humor the thought of shit in my mouth.” He rolled until his feet touched the floor, and padded over in gray argyle socks to sit across from the other boy. There was an almost polite distance between them, but Patrick knew to be cautious. The temptation to simply grasp Adam and possess him was sometimes too great in class, and that was with fifteen or so more boys around. Alone, with an hour to spare... It was just too appealing to risk.
“What are you doing up here? I thought you’d already gone down.”
[ their reply here ]
Patrick would've preferred not having to make small talk. He would've preferred laying Adam out on the floor, the fabric of his blazer taught across his shoulder blades as he ran his mouth over every square inch of his beautiful brown skin. Over face, over throat, over nipple, over--... Patrick tore his mind away from those thoughts with the same pleasure of tearing duct tape off one's skin. Sometimes his desire just ate him up from the inside, so much that it took every ounce of self-control to stay in his own bed. He often wondered why he even bothered hiding it in the first place. If he were to be kicked out for indecent exposure, or improper behavior, or whatever stuffy name they would give it--wouldn't it be worth it? To just...
His eyes followed the motion of Adam's arms, the crack summoning goosebumps to rise along his skin. Fuck, this boy... Patrick was watching him intensely, his eyes dark and narrowed. But when he noticed where his attention had concentrated, he quickly withdrew his gaze, looking to Adam's legs stretched out before him.
"Christ," he murmured, turning his gaze toward the window set in the wall of the dormitory. The sky was a pale, almost sickly blue, a lone wispy cloud traveling slowly across the pane. Then he glanced at his watch. 8:16. He looked over at Adam again, eyes noticing a piece of fuzz stuck to the thigh of the other boy's pants. Patrick reached over, flicking off the fuzz, though he kept his hand there, lingering. He slowly withdrew his hand, looking intently into Adam's eyes. This was such a perfect moment. Shielded from view by the beds, it would be so easy to just spread Adam out on the floor, strip off every item of clothing, make him come... He could do it before 9 o' clock. But he couldn't.
Patrick looked away, back towards the window. "I've got Bio in less than an hour... Shit, I don't want to go." He shifted over until they were side-by-side, then leaned against Adam's bed. Everything seemed sharp and clear, his mind working five times as quickly as usual, as though he were facing an oncoming car. "I'm going to kiss you in a moment," said Patrick, "unless you stop me." A kiss was just a kiss, nothing more, nothing less. But the lust it would inspire would satisfy him for at least another day. That was how Patrick passed the sentence--one day at a time. For Adam, for graduation. He didn't know which was harder to wait for.
PB, Threading
A little hole-in-the-wall place, Pigeon was a popular scene, especially amongst UC Berkeley students, but, for obvious reasons, Michael hadn't been there in a while. The only thing that had changed about it was the clientele and employees; otherwise, Pigeon was exactly the same. It still had that rustic feel to it, with its mismatched chairs and odd folksy jazz music playing from the hidden rock speakers like the types found in gardens. But, above all else, Pigeon still had memories, some of which Michael had forgotten until he took in the familiar scent of coffee and fresh dessert. He and Alex had gone on numerous dates and outings with friends here. As he sat down, Michael hoped he hadn't a mistake in choosing this setting for their first meeting in four years. It was the only convenient place he knew they both would find.
Michael didn't order anything while he waited. He was too nervous, and instead occupied himself by messing with the sugar packets. As he constructed a small collection of Sweet and Low, Michael wondered if Alex would recognize him. Four years wasn't a long time, but a lot could change in a person, jumping from 18 to 22. Michael's hair was longer, nearly brushing his shoulders; he'd lost a little weight in his face, making his cheekbones stand out in a way they hadn't at 18; his skin was darker from spending too much time on Newport Beach. The changes were not only physical; there was a jaded confidence to Michael's presence that hadn't been there when he and Alex were dating, as well as a nervous, restless quality to his mannerisms. It was the type of bearing and behavior that suggested he had experienced a bit more of the world since he was a feckless 18-year-old. But right now, more than anything, he looked worried. What if Alex didn't show up?
[ their reply here ]
Back when they had first started dating, Michael couldn't believe his luck. Alex had seemed a little tamer, back when they were 17, but it was obvious from the moment Michael first laid eyes on him that he was different. He was unlike anyone he had ever met; even now, watching him cross the cafe to meet him (and for one excruciating moment, Michael imagined it was under different circumstances), there was something that set Alex apart from everyone else. Michael's stomach dipped, his heart flickered, his lungs constricted; it was pathetic how seeing Alex could still affect him so strongly. It made Michael want to touch him and see if he was still real. Briefly, a flash of Alex's bare back, the bumps of his spine, flickered across his thoughts; the image dried his mouth as though it was salt. Real or not, Michael reminded himself, Alex wasn't his anymore. If he had ever been to begin with.
His easy smile slid into place on his lips, smirk tugged comfortably to one side. "Yeah," he replied, then simply demolished the structure on his own. "You look good." But Alex had always looked good; even when Michael dressed slick, in clothes that indicated a man that thought too highly of himself, that was undeniable. But it was still nerve-wracking to realize how seeing him could still shake him up, as though there was meaning between them and the way their eyes met.
"How're you doing?" Michael asked, not wanting to risk an awkward pause. "I mean, what've you been up to? How's life?"
[ their reply here ]
Michael smiled wryly. "Ah, yes, your art," he replied quietly. "I was wondering if you were still doing it." When they first started getting to know each other, Michael thought Alex's artistic visions were utterly charming. Michael himself possessed little artistic ability, and Alex's talent was a novelty. However, just months into their relationship, Michael had secretly come to despise the pieces Alex seemed to slave over, fixing them, talking about them, putting him on hold when "inspiration" hit. It was stupid to admit that Michael was jealous over a few paintings or knick-knacks or whatever Alex was working on at the time, but it ate him up at the time. By now, Michael had expected to find Alex with a real job, but he was surprisingly relieved to hear that he was still working on his art.
The waitress came by. Michael hadn't even looked at the menu, as small as it was, but he said the first thing that came to mind: Cafe mocha, easy on the whipped cream. It had been the same thing he'd ordered back when he was 18, and still fostering an enormous sweet tooth. His tastes had changed since then. At least, Michael thought as he looked over at Alex, some of them had.
"What are you working on now?" he asked, figuring this was the safest thing to say.
[ their reply here ]
Michael didn't consider himself a man of many talents; his interest was volatile and his dedication was nonexistent. He didn't enjoy doing things; he enjoyed being around people. Not even necessarily talking to them, but simply watching them. Michael was the type of person who could sit on a mall bench and be content with watching the world pass him by. He had always been an observer, fine-tuning it to a skill; consequently, it was easy for him to catch the way Alex looked at the waitress, the way she smiled and walked away with a different walk than she'd used to approach them, pushing her hair away from her face self-consciously. It was the same way he had noticed too much when they were young, analyzing every one of Alex's remarks and looks not aimed at him until all the was left in his head was jealousy that pressed hard and unforgiving in the pit of his gut.
Wetting his lips, Michael flicked his eyes out the window until the waitress was gone, surprised at how easy it was to return to jealousy. But it wasn't the raw feeling as though something had ripped open inside him to consume him; it was as though someone had doused the flame with water, and only embers remained, shining dimly through wet coals. But he hadn't felt jealous in a long time, and it was almost a relief to know he was still capable of it.
"I guess however you want to remember me," Michael replied, dismissing the possibility Alex opened with his words. "But it's not that I thought you would quit. You always said you wanted to make a career out of it, I just wondered if that had been possible." He shrugged. "It's a hard world out there, you know." Michael sighed, although not in sadness; it sounded almost sardonic as he stretched backwards, long and languid, exuding all the airs of a man who probably skated through life with the least amount of effort as possible, reaping the best rewards.
PB, Threading
Like any good artist, Remy had an image. She had certain pecularities that many found odd, but had evolved with her in such a way that they were much a part of her as her hair or her feet. Everything about her was ambiguous and often perplexing, from the ethereal paleness of her skin to the way she often propped unsmoked cigarettes in her mouth. Whether she was going out or just going to class, she always tended to look like she was either too involved in her own thoughts to notice anything around her, or that she was completely aware of everything; and no matter what was said or done in her presence, she always kept up her plush, engimatic smile.
Her ability to keep her cool, biting composure was the reason she was walking to her film TA's office, appearing not in the least bit worried about why he had asked to discuss her project evaluation in private during his office hours instead of just giving it to her in class like he had the other students. However, her complacency could also have been attributed to the fact that she and her classmate Jordan had just been smoking pot in her dorm, angling the smoke outside through her tiny, screened window so as not to get caught. She would've been down at the meal hall right now, loading up on macaroni and cheese and pizza, had she not taken just a few hits before remembering her meeting with Raleigh. It was cool and windy for June, so she'd detoured to throw on some new clothes, afraid the permanent stoner-smell of Jordan's room had permeated her clothes. She hadn't smoked enough to get too high; the crisp air cleared her head as well, so by the time she got to the building, Remy just felt slightly tired and a little dizzy.
She had some trouble finding the room, as she rarely had reason to go up to the third floor, but Remy found it eventually -- exactly at three o' clock, which was when her TA had asked her to come in. Remy knocked on the door to announce herself, then simply opened the door and stepped inside. She noticed Raleigh, sitting behind a desk, immediately, and walked over.
"Hey, Pfotenhauer," she greeted, sitting down on a chair opposite his desk. "You wanted to see me. So what's up?" Remy grinned. She had a tendency to talk to everyone like they were good friends, which didn't bode well with some people--but after sitting in film for a few days, she had gotten the impression that Raleigh wouldn't really mind her offbeat quirks.
[ their reply here ]
Remy watched as the papers fell from his desk, scattering all over the floor in a way that suggested putting them back in some semblence of order was going to be a very frustrating and tedious task. She considered helping Raleigh collect them again, but he didn't seem too concerned by it - in fact, he seemed perfectly okay with simply pretend nothing had happened - so Remy decided to ignore it, too. And when he mentioned her tardiness, Remy laughed. She wondered how he would react if she told him she was lucky to have been just twenty seconds late, considering less than twenty ago she had been getting high with her best friend, an art student who created her most meaningful works when she was baked as a loaf of bread.
When it seemed Raleigh was ready to get down to business, Remy sat forward, resting an elbow on her crossed knees, and cupped her chin in her hand. She could tell by the tone of his voice, flustered or unsure as it was, that what he was saying was worth listening to -- but when he had explained the purpose for her being there, Remy wasn't sure what to make of it. She was shocked, to say the least, but of course it didn't show on her face. In fact, it almost seemed like she had expected him to ask.
To work with Martin Rock, a director of award-winning short films, and Raleigh Pfotenhauer, who was surely going to make a name for himself, was a dream come true for any aspiring film-maker or actor. In fact, although the production was occurring off-campus, she had heard many of her classmates discussing it and whether or not they would be opening auditions of any kind. She knew, in this competitive school, that any opportunity was a good opportunity, and to work alongside with Rock and Raleigh (as she affectionally called them in her head) would be a once-in-a-lifetime chance. Any ambitious, die-hard film student would accept the invitation, no questions asked--and Remy was no exception.
"Really?" she asked, laughing a little at her dimwitted response. "Hell yes, I'm interested. Excuse my language." She scooted forward in her chair, green eyes flashing with excitement. "What would I be doing? When would I start?"
[ their reply here ]
As Raleigh spoke, excited and frenzied, a smile spread over Remy's red lips. It was kind of adorable how worked up he got; it pleased Remy that she had given the right answer. It was clear that the production was important to him, and that this opportunity really wasn't something to take lightly. Any experience in film was good experience, but to work with someone so passionate and so obviously brilliant was truly the best practice an aspiring artist like herself could hope to get. Nevermind the fact that passing up work with these two men would be just plain stupid, or that acting wasn't even her field of study.
The Parker family was a creative, flamboyant bunch. Her mother and father were very creative in their own ways; they were very liberal with raising their daughter, and always tried to foster her creativity. Despite this, they were extremely selfish, and growing up, Remy always felt like the only person that had faith in her was herself. The fact that Martin Rock and Raleigh Pfotenhauer wanted her was extremely flattering and inspiring.
His excitement was contagious, and Remy found herself almost bubbling over with curiosity and questions. "Well, as you probably know, acting isn't my major," she began, thinking it would be best to clear up any misunderstandings. "I'm actually studying Dramatic Writing... But, I mean, I'm not opposed to expanding my horizons, so to speak." She smiled a little, shifting in her seat to lean closer. "I do have some questions, though. What's the character like? What kind of play is it?"
[ their reply here ]
Remy watched patiently (albeit a little puzzled), as Raleigh dug around his desk. Flyers, miscellaneous papers, menus for a place down the street that had great eggrolls... Remy had to keep herself from smiling too fully; she was amused by how scatterbrained he seemed to be. Theatre nerd, she thought to herself, but not meanly. It was actually pretty endearing.
"A sunflower?" she repeated, sounding more surprised than dubious. Curiosity piqued, Remy again lifted a thin, dark eyebrow, regarding Raleigh with a sort of wry look. No one would ever describe Remy Parker as a "sunflower," with her long, dark hair and mysterious disposition. "So, you can't really tell me the plot. You don't have a script. You described my character as a flower... Well, you can understand why at this point I might be a little skeptical, right?" She laughed softly, mostly to herself. "And what exactly am I going to have to do? I mean, what happens next? Do I take you two out for dinner, give you a nice romantic evening to thank you?" Remy giggled again, shaking her head, realizing she was probably just a little more high than she realized.
"I'm sorry, that was stupid," she said, her smile seeming a little self-conscious. "I just don't really know what the fu--heck I'm supposed to ask, or how to react or anything, I've never been in this kind of situation, you know. So, I guess the best thing is for you to tell me all the important information, tell me when and where to show up and all that, and... I'll listen and obey like a good little student, or intern, or whatever I am."
Fandom: Harry Potter, AIM
Sirius felt all the color drain from his face when he took in James' stony expression. He couldn't tell if he was angry; he didn't look angry, more... disappointed? Or just beyond anger, like he got sometimes with Snivellus. "James, I--" Sirius began, just as James let the curtain fall from his hand. It shut halfway, leaving only a sliver of his form visible. "Looks like you two are a little busy," he heard James said, his voice muffled through the velvet. Sirius' heart was still hammering in his chest, and he rushed to interrupt him. "James, I'm--we really--" He looked between the boy and Remus, struggling for words. Luckily James put him out of his misery, cutting him off. "Save it - I have Quidditch." He turned and left, his broom hitting something on the way out, making Sirius cringe.
The silence in the room felt deafening, pressed hard against his ears. Sirius tore back the hangings, stumbling out of the bed and sitting uneasily on his own. That did not go well -- at all. But he couldn't make sense of James' reaction. He wasn't above yelling - in fact Sirius had expected it - but he wasn't happy about it either... His words had left him feeling sick and helpless. How could he have been so stupid, getting into Remus' bed like that... But, it wasn't like Remus had objected, or even helped control some of the damage. Sirius couldn't be expected to be the only one to protect their relationship. "Thanks for the help," he spat, immediately getting off his bed and going to his trunk, angrily pulling out clothes.
[ their reply here ]
Being mad at Remus didn't make any sense. He didn't make James come and see them, and it wasn't as if he knew what was going on. However, Sirius was projecting and wasn't really concerned with being rational at the moment. "Yeah, Remus, just a bit," the black-haired boy grunted as he pulled a sweater out from the bottom of his trunk. It was caught under a heavy textbook he never brought to class, and when he pulled it free there was the distinct sound of ripping from within the case. Shit. That sounded like his History of Magic book... For some reason that horrible sound was enough to make Sirius stop, one arm in his sweater, and think about what he was doing. There was no point in going after James. Right now he would be in the Great Hall, stuffing his face with his teammates, and they wouldn't be able to talk. Then he had his match, and afterwards quite possibly a date with Madam Pomfrey... Sirius sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead and shutting his trunk, collapsing on top of it.
"On second thought," he mumbled, "no..." Another sigh. "I'm not mad at you." He didn't explain his reaction any further, merely sliding his torso off the trunk and rising to his feet. He pulled his sweater all the way on, not caring how ridiculous he must've looked with that over his boxers, and sat on his bed once more, a little less distressed. "I don't know what to do about him. For once James didn't say exactly what he was feeling," he smirked wryly.
[ their reply here ]
Sirius watched him dress out of the corner of his eye, and then gazed at his face for a long moment. Quickly, he looked around, just in case Peter was skulking about, and sat beside him, placing his hand boldly over Remus'. "Yeah, he will, won't he," Sirius said thoughtfully, staring at their interlocked fingers. It was not like him to make such romantic gestures, but Remus was different... and Sirius wasn't quite sure how to deal with him, though these little things seemed to have worked well on in the past, so he figured that was safest. His eyes darted back up to the other boy's face. "I guess we might as well stay here, then, since we've been... un-invited to the Quidditch match." His black eyebrows bounced up and down on his forehead suggestively. "You look like shit, though," he added uncharitably.
Fandom: Twilight, Threading
Alice didn’t know how she’d lasted this long. Undoubtedly, Jasper had noticed something awry, but he obviously hadn’t been able to place it. When she came back from that hunting trip, a simple necessity gone wrong, she had felt empty. Numb. She’d shoved the pain, shamefully unbearable as she picked herself off the ground, covered in dirt and worse, deep inside her—a stake in her heart—where she could never ignore it but where she could at least hide it. Whatever he’d read from her, it hadn’t been incriminating. But, like poison, the agony and pain crept out of its hiding place and into her veins and her bones. Every single thought sent a kaleidoscope of futures scattering across her vision, the imminence changing so rapidly it dizzied her. She felt like a child, stumbling off a rollercoaster; green in the face, sick to her stomach, unable to focus. Alice knew better to trust her future, especially now. It was perfectly clear, by this point, that she didn’t have a future anymore. It was less out of courage and more out of necessity that Alice left the basement and crept up the stairs to Jasper’s study. Courage had nothing to do with it. If she was noble, Alice would never had committed her crime—the worst thing she could think of—in the first place. Dignity, bravery… They meant nothing to her now. Evidently, they never had. It would kill her to tell him, but she knew it had to be done. The devastating amount of guilt she felt was overwhelming. Alice knew Jasper had to suspect something, now. “Jasper,” said Alice quietly, barely peering out from the doorway of his study. If she was able to cry, she would undoubtedly have been sobbing already. “I--…” How could she say it? How did she explain to her life what she had done? “I slept with someone else.” She could barely hear herself say the words, but Alice knew Jasper had heard them. [ their reply here ]
The expression of shock and pain on Jasper’s face and the way he struggled to keep his composure was more than she could bear, but Alice couldn’t look away. She deserved to watch and see what her sin had caused him.
“I’m sorry,” she choked out, her voice trembling. Her dark eyes were torn and despaired. “I’m so sorry… It didn’t mean anything.” Immediately after the vampire—she didn’t even want to think his name—had gotten off of her, she’d been unable to climb out of her anguish and regret. Although scared, she stepped further into his study, her eyes locked on his face. Her own agonized expression felt like nothing in comparison to what she saw in Jasper’s. She had to be a true monster to cause this much agony.
“I never meant to hurt you, Jasper.” All the cliché things that had been said to countless lovers by countless cheaters had never meant so much… and yet they meant so little. “I love you more than anything. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” She reached out, tentatively, to touch his arm.
[ their reply here ]
She flinched when Jasper pulled away, but had she been expected anything less? It was selfish to expect him to accept her comfort. Decades before, Alice hadn’t wanted his comfort either. Remembering this, she slowly withdrew her hand from his arm, not touching him at all.
“It didn’t,” she whispered, looking up at him, her face vulnerable and crushed with regret. She was begging him slightly for… what, exactly, Alice didn’t know. If not understanding, then just not to leave her. Not yet. Not ever.
“You are the only one... The only one I’ve ever needed.” Jasper had been the only one literally ever since she could remember. It was his face she saw when she was changed; his existence that became her destiny. The first and only one to truly love her, to make love to her. It devastated her that she had done this to him. And every second that ticked by, she saw a different outcome...but not one of them could change what had happened.
[ their reply here ]
There was no doubt in her mind that this incident would never happen again. Just the hours she’d spent, agonizing over her guilt, had been enough to teach Alice that lesson. But the pain she was inflicting on Jasper was enough to make sure she committed it to memory.
Unfortunately, Alice didn’t catch on to Jasper’s reasoning. She looked up at him, wary, when he grabbed her arms. She kept very still beneath his hands, struggling to compose herself, knowing that this might be the last time she was so close to him. Shaking her head lightly side to side, Alice’s eyes clearly expressed her confusion.
“It didn’t,” she replied, her voice still hushed and broken. “It was irrational, I—” She shook her head again, unable to go on, except to say, “Jasper, I love you. I’ve only ever loved you.”