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4 yrs ago
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" ᴍʏ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ɪs ʙʀᴜᴛᴜs, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴍᴇ ʀᴇx "

what's up? my name's murdoc, and i hail from the land of endless, burning summer (singapore), and i probably spend way too much time on the internet. as you can see above; they/them are my preferred pronouns, but i'm pretty much fine with anything as long as you're not being a dick about it. realistic RPs are my jam, tho i like a bunch of other things, too. long story short, there's not a lot i won't do, ya feel? i'd say my writing hovers around casual/advanced, though work makes it kinda impossible for me to post longer replies regularly bc i'm slow as molasses. anyways, i'm terrible at these things (as you can probably tell by now), so i'm just gonna cut my losses and bounce before i start rambling like some senile, wine-soaked grandma. feel free to hmu if you wanna RP tho. PEACE.

Most Recent Posts

Everyday - Spendtime Palace
The Passenger - Iggy Pop
I Won't Hurt You - The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band
Volk - Thom Yorke
SkyWorld - HYUKOH
Weekend Wars - MGMT
The Rover - Interpol
Lotus Flower - Radiohead
Bukowski - Modest Mouse
Garage Palace (feat. Little Simz) - Gorillaz


ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ: ᴀʏʟᴇᴀɴɴᴀ @ayzrules, ᴊᴏʜɴᴀᴛʜᴀɴ @shylarah



Growing up, his father often said that he was he was a monster wearing a boy’s skin — a changeling.

But when it came to his youngest, the King of Argenyonne did always have a flair for the dramatic.

As a child, Dirk would often hear his father mutter disparaging remarks about him under his breath, saying things about how much he took after his mother, about how having him was a mistake. At first, the young prince was perplexed. How could a person be a mistake? And didn’t all fathers love their children? Dirk knew the man was capable of warmth. After all, he saw how happy the King looked whenever he was around Prince Moritz, Nicolas, Julius, and Princess Claudia. None of that kindness, however, ever extended to him. Rather than treating him like a son, King Andreas only saw Dirk as an inconvenience.

Even so, Dirk would often try to impress the King, to show him that he was just as worthy of love as the rest of his siblings. But it seemed that matter what he did, it was never good enough — he was never good enough. And every little mistake he made was magnified tenfold under the scrutiny of his father. But as the years passed, Dirk’s desperation to please turned into apathy. If the King was content to act as if he didn’t exist, then there was no point in keeping up the charade, was there?

And so, the already precocious Dirk became a hellraiser. Gone were the days of stiff-collared shirts and delicate ballads on his favourite pianoforte. Instead, what replaced them were guitar solos loud enough to thunder through the entirety of Tjällhofte Castle’s residential wing, and all the way up to the heavens. Dirk also became known for his outrageous disregard for the standard dressing conventions of Argenyonne. Over the course of a year, he allowed his hair to grow long, far longer than a proper gentleman’s had any business being. Much like his mother, he had thick, dark hair that began to curl past a certain length.

It was also around this time that Dirk began to cultivate his own style of dress. He’d always hated the shirts, vests, and jackets he’d been made to wear — all of them in grey, white, or navy. Imagine that! An entire closet full of the same, boring thing, and it was a very large closet indeed.

Now, much of it has been usurped by pieces that were a little more… unorthodox. It’s no secret that the youngest Prince of Argenyonne had a soft spot for anything silken, embroidered, or both at the same time.

Which was why Dirk found himself rather puzzled by the expression his valet was making. Was it confusion? No, perhaps mortification would be a better word to describe the goggling, slack-jawed look that the man’s face appeared to be frozen in.

“Your Highness…! I beg your understanding, but you simply cannot wear that to the ball!”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?” Dirk asks simply, without looking away from his reflection in the mirror.

The young prince was clad in a loose, silk shirt of pearlescent white, unbuttoned just enough to show off his collarbone, and the thin, silver chain hanging around his neck. The front of the shirt was casually half-tucked waistband of his trousers, which was a gift from one of the most sought-after designers of Argenyonne (who also happened to be a relative on his mother’s side). Made from the finest Borsian cotton, it was dyed a pale, dusty pink, and cut off right above the ankles.

Over his shoulders was a billowing, grey greatcoat, cut from lighter material than your usual fare; and as Dirk does a spin in front of the mirror, the layers of chiffon on the hem flutters in the breeze. The coat is just a little too big for him – he has to keep shrugging his shoulders to keep it from slipping – but the entire ensemble seemed to give him the appearance of a rakish boulevardier, or perhaps a pirate that was exceptionally fashionable. His feet, however, were still bare. No point stomping about in his boots when he hasn’t even decided what to wear yet, right?

“It’s a little…” The valet’s voice trails off, hands anxiously clasping and unclasping as he frets over how to speak without offending. In the end, he settles for a suggestion, rather than criticism. “Why don’t we try something a little more conventional?”

At the mere mention of conventional, Dirk almost seems offended. Deciding to take a break from preening in the mirror, he pads towards his valet, steps rendered soundless by the plush carpet.

“Klaus,” he begins, voice tinged with the stern, somber gravity that his father often spoke with. It was a useful skill to have when it came to dealing with household staff. “You must know the importance of making a strong first impression.”

“Well, yes but—”

“I know, I know. It wouldn’t do to have a prince making a fool himself in front of hundreds, would it?” Once, twice, Dirk nods in understanding. Then, he all but dances away, swinging open the door to the walk-in closet, and spins around to face his valet once again. “But these are just clothes, man. Worst case scenario: they’ll be talking about how Prince Diederik dresses like a charlatan who swindles poor, innocent heiresses out of their inheritance.”

For a moment, Klaus is speechless, but that was sort of the norm for him. It was then that Dirk seized his change to fling a linen cloak over Klaus’ head, which earns him yet another strangled ‘Your Highness!’ from the valet as he struggled to free himself. Dirk just laughs, grabs his favorite pair of boots, and starts pulling them on.

“Lighten up, Klaus. No time to waste!”




The trip to the ballroom is uneventful. After all, there wasn’t much mischief he could get up to flanked by not one, not two, but four bodyguards. All of them were dressed in identical black suits, and really, they had to weigh at least a ton between them. Once or twice, Dirk had tried to make them laugh by cracking a joke about how they all looked exactly the same, but he might as well have been talking to a brick wall.

It’s a welcome relief when they made it to their destination, mostly because of how three of his bodyguards – along with Klaus – were made to remain outside. Dirk would’ve gladly flung himself from the third-floor balcony if he had them following him around all day. Still, he’s a little caught off guard when the herald announced his arrival. Was he supposed to bow, curtsey, do a little dance? Due to Dirk being fifth in line to inherit the throne, his teachers had been exceptionally lax when it came to lessons on etiquette. And right now, as he was being put on the spot, he almost regretted not paying more attention to their teachings

But at the sight of Princess Ayleanna, instinct takes over, and Dirk sinks into a bow that was only slightly off-balance. There’s a radiant smile on his face when he straightens once again, reaching up to push a few stray locks out of his face. The beaded bracelets around his wrists made a jangling sort of noise whenever he gestured.

“It’s great to be here, Princess. You look dazzling this afternoon.” Dirk’s accent is a strange mixture of Argenweise, Borsian, and a touch of something else that was difficult to place. Aciran, maybe? He has, after all, picked up most of the local dialect from watching Aciran-produced movies. Dirk couldn’t help but feel that the subjects they broached were often more practical than things like: I would like to know where the nearest zoo is.

With another, better-practiced bow, he takes his leave of Princess Lea. It’s an easy matter to lose his bodyguard in the crowd, ducking and weaving like he does; and eventually, Dirk finds himself standing next to someone with real, honest-to-goodness blue hair. For a second or two, he mentally rifles through the names and faces he’d been made to memorise before he came here, though his efforts soon come to naught. Whoever this was, they weren’t royalty, and that was perfect by him.

“Mind if I have one?” Dirk asks, and plucks a glass of champagne from the tray the man was holding. He eyes him curiously, head tilting to the side like an inquisitive cat, before the corners of his mouth quirk up in the beginnings of a smile. “I like your hair. It’s sick.”


@murdoc first off I never commented on the name. MacGuyver fan?

Secondly, while I know Dirk is the family black sheep, and not widely liked by the public, would his image change if he found himself crown prince of another country by way of marriage, and bringing the favor of a large and lucrative empire with that?


Unfortunately, no. That's a little before my time, I think.

That's an interesting idea. I'm a little busy at the moment, but definitely going to send you a PM when I get the time. :D

@ayzrules Finally done! Hope everything is in order. \o/

I'll try to get a post up sometime in the next couple of days. Activity might be a little spotty though, since I'm on vacation. If no one wants to wait, feel free to carry on without me for the time being.
@ayzrules Sorry, been kinda busy. I'll move my guy over together with the kingdom sheet once it's done. ;U
@ayzrules Still working on the Kingdom Info, but here's Dirk. Let me know if he's terrible, and I'll fix whatever needs fixin'. ミ(o*・ω・)ノ

Working on a prince. He'll be done this weekend probably. :^)




Location: Practice Room → Basement
Interacting with: Yuzuru @OliveYou



“Are you eating well? Have you been getting enough rest?”

“Dad—”

“Is anyone picking on you? You have to tell me if anyone’s picking on you. Your mom and I are worried, you know?”

“Dad, I’m fine. How’s mom?”

“Oh, hang on, I’ll just…”

Some rustling followed by a muffled shout fills Jasper’s left ear. He fiddles with a loose string in his hand for a few more moments before a familiar voice all but bursts from the phone, nearly making him jump out of his skin in shock.

“Jasper Nam! Oh my God, why haven’t you called?”

“Hi, mom. Yeah, sorry, I’ve been kinda busy preparing for stuff.”

The call only ends a full twenty minutes later, after reassuring his parents that he wasn’t going to die of starvation, and also apologising for being a terrible son who never phoned. Most calls with his parents follow a similar pattern – them grilling him about every last detail of his daily life, and Jasper doing his best to placate them without sounding too annoyed. By the end of it, he’s winded, almost like he just ran a marathon, but he really couldn’t fault them for worrying. He was living away from home for the very first time.

Truth be told, South Korea still felt more like home to Jasper than the States. He was born here, spent the majority of his childhood years within the sprawling metropolis of Seoul, and he was always better at Korean than English, anyway. Time and time again, he would get looks from people when he spoke to them as fluently as a local would, some even reacting with disbelief, though that was something he’s long since gotten used to.

Here, holed up in an empty practice room, Jasper has spent the past few hours doing vocal warm-ups and memorizing choreography. It was evaluation day, that much he knew, and he wasn’t about to be caught off-guard like last time. He feels a chill run up his spine when he remembers the cold, disapproving stare of one of the managers when he messed up the choreography for his performance. In AS Entertainment, it was something of an open secret that Jasper was born with two left feet, or at least that was how it seemed whenever he tried to move his body in any meaningful way. Perhaps he was just too tall — long, gangling limbs weren’t exactly conducive for dance, after all. Or maybe his

Whatever the reason, it still didn’t change the fact that he needed to work on his dance skills (or lack thereof). Achieving success in the K-pop industry wasn’t as simple as being good at one thing, you had to be the full package. Singing, dancing, not to mention looking like you just stepped out of a fashion magazine, were all important factors that contributed towards the making of a star. That’s what Jasper tells himself as he watches a practice video on his phone for what seemed to be the thousandth time. Just how did these people dance so effortlessly?

And then, the intercom rings out across the entire building, summoning every single trainee into what Jasper has since dubbed The Basement™ — capitalized for an extra sense of doom, obviously. He still hasn’t gotten the choreography down perfect yet, but he should be able to get through this without any slip-ups, right? God, he hoped so. The last thing he needed was another dance-related mishap.

With a sigh, he climbs back onto his feet, wincing a little at the high-pitched squeak his sneakers make against the flooring. No time for a shower, it seems. If he was the only one who showed up late for evals… he shuddered to think of the consequences.

Using a towel, Jasper dries the sweat from his face. He also pulls off the shirt he’s wearing to swap it out for a new one — more laundry for later. It’s only after he douses himself with a generous spray of citrus-scented deodorant that he starts to head for the basement. On the way there, he passes by a gaggle of trainees that seemed more intent on stalling for time than facing the inevitable. They hovered just outside the basement door, whispering amongst themselves about something he couldn’t quite catch.

“Um, excuse me. Are you guys going inside, too?”

At the sound of his voice, the group’s conversation grinds to a screeching halt, and they turn to look at Jasper with such perfect sync that he wanted to back away slowly, then run for the hills once he was out of eyeshot. But after an uncomfortably long moment, one of the group finally decides to head inside, causing the rest to follow suit, though not before shooting him a look that could only be described as disdainful.

Deciding not to waste any more time, Jasper slips inside the room as well, and casts his eyes about for an empty seat. Most of them were already taken, of course, so he couldn’t exactly be choosy about who he wanted to sit with. In the end, he finds himself awkwardly hovering on the outskirts of another trainee’s personal bubble. What was his name again? It definitely started with a Y — Yuji? Yuta? He’s seen him around the building before, mostly practicing dance, but for the time being, he was having a bit of trouble remembering his name.

Ah, doesn’t matter. He’ll figure it out along the way.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” He asks, gesturing to the empty seat next to the other. Jasper’s voice is surprisingly soft and gentle when he speaks, though he doesn’t get a response before the first trainee is being called up on stage.



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