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Hey hey!
I'm in my late 20's, CET, and looking for character driven stories with grittier themes, stakes that make me wanna rip my hair out, and stupid people to top it off. I write in third person, past tense. My post frequency is daily/every other day usually, but I'll always let you know if something else is up (got a vacation coming up late july for example). I absolutely LOVE OOC chatter, gushing, sharing pics and music and rambling! If something's up, you wanna stop the roleplay, just communicate--it's totally fine, I won't ask. Personally I get all anxious for days before I finally get the guts to write that message, so don't worry. Sometimes it just doesn't feel right.
If it's not too fucky I'd like to see a sample of yours. I really value having similar styles in writing! <3
Themes: Gritty, magic (or hinting at), stakes, combat, gloomy, mentally heavy, high intensity, broken societies, corrupt leadership, happiness that feels out of reach. My RPs end up in the Dark Alley.
Romance: Just about anything that isn't a final product (slowburn/chaoticburn). I like tension, enemies to lovers and similar things, good ole' flirting disguised with disdain and sarcasm, forced proximity, I shouldn't be drawn to you, hurt/comfort, hell I'll take some fluff too. As long as they struggle, we're doing something right lmao.
Be advised: I ball with GPT for grammar and advice. I also may use AI art. Let me know if you don't want to see any AI art and I'll keep it to myself. It's a little hard to keep Pinterest boards free of it but I'll try ;w;
This is admittedly more based off a vibe, cause I'm aching to explore writing more morally gray/villain territory characters. I was considering trying to write it with myself but wanted to toss it out and see if anyone would bite first.
Triggers:
Writing samples
I would love a sample of yours too, see if our styles mesh!
I'm in my late 20's, CET, and looking for character driven stories with grittier themes, stakes that make me wanna rip my hair out, and stupid people to top it off. I write in third person, past tense. My post frequency is daily/every other day usually, but I'll always let you know if something else is up (got a vacation coming up late july for example). I absolutely LOVE OOC chatter, gushing, sharing pics and music and rambling! If something's up, you wanna stop the roleplay, just communicate--it's totally fine, I won't ask. Personally I get all anxious for days before I finally get the guts to write that message, so don't worry. Sometimes it just doesn't feel right.
If it's not too fucky I'd like to see a sample of yours. I really value having similar styles in writing! <3
Themes: Gritty, magic (or hinting at), stakes, combat, gloomy, mentally heavy, high intensity, broken societies, corrupt leadership, happiness that feels out of reach. My RPs end up in the Dark Alley.
Romance: Just about anything that isn't a final product (slowburn/chaoticburn). I like tension, enemies to lovers and similar things, good ole' flirting disguised with disdain and sarcasm, forced proximity, I shouldn't be drawn to you, hurt/comfort, hell I'll take some fluff too. As long as they struggle, we're doing something right lmao.
Be advised: I ball with GPT for grammar and advice. I also may use AI art. Let me know if you don't want to see any AI art and I'll keep it to myself. It's a little hard to keep Pinterest boards free of it but I'll try ;w;
The idea in question lol
This is admittedly more based off a vibe, cause I'm aching to explore writing more morally gray/villain territory characters. I was considering trying to write it with myself but wanted to toss it out and see if anyone would bite first.
Doc x Any - Institution/lab, slow/chaotic burn, harley x joker vibes maybe
I'm feeling a semi villainess (MC) -- a head of operations for unethical testing, against a battered subject with an insane past (prolly also a semi villain)- a war legend , with some latent or barely contained powers.
She knows exactly what she's doing. He says she's got no idea.
Ya feel?
I could potentially swap roles.
I'm feeling a semi villainess (MC) -- a head of operations for unethical testing, against a battered subject with an insane past (prolly also a semi villain)- a war legend , with some latent or barely contained powers.
She knows exactly what she's doing. He says she's got no idea.
Ya feel?
I could potentially swap roles.
Triggers:
—Bad things involving kids (unless it needs mention for lore or char's backstory).
—Excessive details of gore (I'm good with it generally, but several paragraphs make me too squeamish).
Please let me know yours.
—Excessive details of gore (I'm good with it generally, but several paragraphs make me too squeamish).
Please let me know yours.
General word bank, quotes, vibes
Opposites. Forced proximity. Enemies to X. Friends to enemies to lovers rot. Dark magic. Knight. Royalty. Shifting loyalties. Regret. Longing. I want but I can't. Haunted. Substance/alcohol abuse. Bad coping mechanisms. Military. Mission gone wrong. Survival. Mermaids. Sirens. Broken cities. Criminal underworld. Fragile masks. Fractured identities. Mental illness. In too deep. Assassins. Vengeance. Woo curse words!
Say that again. Fucking say it.
I want the universe to bend.
I ceased to be a human and became something else.
Think I wouldn't notice?
Opposites. Forced proximity. Enemies to X. Friends to enemies to lovers rot. Dark magic. Knight. Royalty. Shifting loyalties. Regret. Longing. I want but I can't. Haunted. Substance/alcohol abuse. Bad coping mechanisms. Military. Mission gone wrong. Survival. Mermaids. Sirens. Broken cities. Criminal underworld. Fragile masks. Fractured identities. Mental illness. In too deep. Assassins. Vengeance. Woo curse words!
Say that again. Fucking say it.
I want the universe to bend.
I ceased to be a human and became something else.
Think I wouldn't notice?
Writing samples
Alric's sleeve stifled the sneeze at first. Lyra held her breath, counting precious seconds, starting to feel a semblance of relief–
And then it exploded out of her anyway.
Her jolting rattled the whole space, and within seconds, the whole moment had turned into something out of a play. She hit the wall as the closet door flew open. Alric barged straight out, dagger first, and lurched into the person at the other side. Lyra slipped out of the space and looked to the sides. After making sure nobody else was coming, she looked back in time to see him on the floor. He finished the woman off, his dagger dripping in the aftermath.
Lyra leaned against the wall and sheathed her weapons. Then waited. Not for a verdict, or an answer to her many questions. But for what would inevitably come next.
"And an assassin… We could've asked her questions, you know."
The words settled with new weight in her stomach. She threw a sidelong glance at the bloody mess on the floor, watching him pocket the vials. He was still muttering about things that had gone wrong. Blaming. Mulling on possibilities.
"The clever do not answer questions," she replied simply. The urge to tell him to fuck off thundered under her skin, and likely showed in her eyes, too. But stronger was the urge to rip the Rhavari head from her shoulders and toss it to the street.
As Alric rose, Lyra moved her hands to the hilts at her thighs and kept them there.
"Who'd you piss off?"
She pushed off the wall.
"Her," she stated. "And maybe her friends."
She made for the exit. It could all wait. She had one more place to look, and no more fucks to give until she got there.
Once out, she led Alric around the structure, where the rubble formed a slope to higher floors. This area was still shadowed, but the winds blew through the cracked hollows of the fallen spires as if coaxing the sun to light them up. Lyra scanned cautiously, more meticulous this time. The area was uncomfortably silent, and somehow, that rattled her more.
She hadn't recognized the Rhavari woman, and wasn't sure how much she knew.
At first glance, this angle of the building looked impossible to breach. But then Lyra ducked under a broken pillar. The space filled with thick air and darkness. The glimpses of daylight faded early, granite crackling gently under her boots as she moved, until she reached the makeshift door at the end.
She'd caught it from the moment she'd gone under. The subtly metallic and undeniable smell of blood, sifting through the rubble like mist.
At the end of the narrow path, Lyra pulled the handle, slowly, as if doing so would cause a ripple in time. To undo what she suspected could've been done.
She waited for a beat, taking a silent breath. Then entered the room.
Their living space was enough for a small crowd, and when lit up, movement was hard to miss.
Lyra pretended not to see the body, at first. The pooled blood. The sprawled limbs. For a delirious moment, she called out to the Priestess like she was still with them. Breathing, living.
"Kathari."
Sleeping, maybe. Just resting, like she tended to around noon.
A cold rush bit Lyra's skin.
"Ina?" A whisper now.
Another breath. Another flash of hesitation before the illusion broke.
Lyra got to the floor with staggering thuds and climbed on top of the old woman. Her lungs filled with dread as her fingers splayed wide over the thin form beneath her. Searching, hoping.
Ina's chin was tilted slightly upwards, and her head had nearly severed from her neck. The blood had stopped dripping, and now pooled unceremoniously, clinging to fabric and skin. Her mouth was open, lips chapped, one eyelid drooping.
Lyra's nose flared as a wave of hot anger unfurled in her veins. The Rhavari. She'd been around some of them. Heard them chat over tea–logistics, numbers, even heard them quip at each other.
Now, the memories clung to her eyes like char.
She didn't linger too long. Just enough to recite an inaudible prayer under her breath and reach for one of her daggers. The coat rustled against Ina's coarse fabrics. Lyra dragged a heavy hand across her ribs and pointed the glass tip to her chest.
Her vision blurred at the edges.
But did she have to see? She knew exactly what to do.
…She just wished she didn't have to.
Her head hung from her shoulders. Her voice cracked through the silence, low and breathy, at the edge of collapse.
"Thari ki mahar."
The moon welcomes you.
She lifted her hand. And with one strangled breath of defeat, she plunged the dagger through Ina's heart.
The blade nicked brittle bone and tissue. Lyra leaned down, hair splaying like dark tendrils over their bodies. Her fingers still grasped tightly around the hilt, sticking out of the old woman's chest like a prize nobody wanted.
The Priestess didn't gasp or jolt. Just laid there motionless–all her fire buried in the rubble of a war that wasn't supposed to be hers.
Wasn't supposed to be theirs.
A moment later, Lyra rose. Regardless if Alric had seen, spoken or moved, it didn't take long before she was face to face with him. Her gaze was as dark as death itself, with the inevitable tide of anger roaring under her skin, tightening every muscle in her body.
She held her blades still, pointed–ready.
"There's your master," she grated, voice low. "We're even."
And then it exploded out of her anyway.
Her jolting rattled the whole space, and within seconds, the whole moment had turned into something out of a play. She hit the wall as the closet door flew open. Alric barged straight out, dagger first, and lurched into the person at the other side. Lyra slipped out of the space and looked to the sides. After making sure nobody else was coming, she looked back in time to see him on the floor. He finished the woman off, his dagger dripping in the aftermath.
Lyra leaned against the wall and sheathed her weapons. Then waited. Not for a verdict, or an answer to her many questions. But for what would inevitably come next.
"And an assassin… We could've asked her questions, you know."
The words settled with new weight in her stomach. She threw a sidelong glance at the bloody mess on the floor, watching him pocket the vials. He was still muttering about things that had gone wrong. Blaming. Mulling on possibilities.
"The clever do not answer questions," she replied simply. The urge to tell him to fuck off thundered under her skin, and likely showed in her eyes, too. But stronger was the urge to rip the Rhavari head from her shoulders and toss it to the street.
As Alric rose, Lyra moved her hands to the hilts at her thighs and kept them there.
"Who'd you piss off?"
She pushed off the wall.
"Her," she stated. "And maybe her friends."
She made for the exit. It could all wait. She had one more place to look, and no more fucks to give until she got there.
Once out, she led Alric around the structure, where the rubble formed a slope to higher floors. This area was still shadowed, but the winds blew through the cracked hollows of the fallen spires as if coaxing the sun to light them up. Lyra scanned cautiously, more meticulous this time. The area was uncomfortably silent, and somehow, that rattled her more.
She hadn't recognized the Rhavari woman, and wasn't sure how much she knew.
At first glance, this angle of the building looked impossible to breach. But then Lyra ducked under a broken pillar. The space filled with thick air and darkness. The glimpses of daylight faded early, granite crackling gently under her boots as she moved, until she reached the makeshift door at the end.
She'd caught it from the moment she'd gone under. The subtly metallic and undeniable smell of blood, sifting through the rubble like mist.
At the end of the narrow path, Lyra pulled the handle, slowly, as if doing so would cause a ripple in time. To undo what she suspected could've been done.
She waited for a beat, taking a silent breath. Then entered the room.
Their living space was enough for a small crowd, and when lit up, movement was hard to miss.
Lyra pretended not to see the body, at first. The pooled blood. The sprawled limbs. For a delirious moment, she called out to the Priestess like she was still with them. Breathing, living.
"Kathari."
Sleeping, maybe. Just resting, like she tended to around noon.
A cold rush bit Lyra's skin.
"Ina?" A whisper now.
Another breath. Another flash of hesitation before the illusion broke.
Lyra got to the floor with staggering thuds and climbed on top of the old woman. Her lungs filled with dread as her fingers splayed wide over the thin form beneath her. Searching, hoping.
Ina's chin was tilted slightly upwards, and her head had nearly severed from her neck. The blood had stopped dripping, and now pooled unceremoniously, clinging to fabric and skin. Her mouth was open, lips chapped, one eyelid drooping.
Lyra's nose flared as a wave of hot anger unfurled in her veins. The Rhavari. She'd been around some of them. Heard them chat over tea–logistics, numbers, even heard them quip at each other.
Now, the memories clung to her eyes like char.
She didn't linger too long. Just enough to recite an inaudible prayer under her breath and reach for one of her daggers. The coat rustled against Ina's coarse fabrics. Lyra dragged a heavy hand across her ribs and pointed the glass tip to her chest.
Her vision blurred at the edges.
But did she have to see? She knew exactly what to do.
…She just wished she didn't have to.
Her head hung from her shoulders. Her voice cracked through the silence, low and breathy, at the edge of collapse.
"Thari ki mahar."
The moon welcomes you.
She lifted her hand. And with one strangled breath of defeat, she plunged the dagger through Ina's heart.
The blade nicked brittle bone and tissue. Lyra leaned down, hair splaying like dark tendrils over their bodies. Her fingers still grasped tightly around the hilt, sticking out of the old woman's chest like a prize nobody wanted.
The Priestess didn't gasp or jolt. Just laid there motionless–all her fire buried in the rubble of a war that wasn't supposed to be hers.
Wasn't supposed to be theirs.
A moment later, Lyra rose. Regardless if Alric had seen, spoken or moved, it didn't take long before she was face to face with him. Her gaze was as dark as death itself, with the inevitable tide of anger roaring under her skin, tightening every muscle in her body.
She held her blades still, pointed–ready.
"There's your master," she grated, voice low. "We're even."
Don't have the firepower … If they deploy—
The words snared her cold, almost violently. She hadn't seen them, but by description, the quads—the Striders—had sounded like giant, walking dogs with laser systems that were easily taken out. They had not been described as unstoppable, mechanical gods.
She relayed his information to the rest of the Helldivers: what to look for, where to shoot, and to fall back toward the Southeast bunker if it all went to shit. She didn't know if it was functional or not–but it was the only option. The whole area sizzled with chaos, the ridge floor hot like an overworked machine. Two people were overlooking the hillsides, trying to take out the cannon turrets. The rest of the squadron had walked straight into a patrol on the South. And Alena was here. Here. With Lance in shambles and a medic barely hanging on.
And a guy that didn't understand they'd come to save him.
Get your deadweight out.
Her skin pulled tighter, but she didn't question it. Not now. He'd come for his item, not for them, regardless of their intention. Even if they had come for him.
As he closed in on the crate, she lifted her rifle steady against the shoulder and scanned the perimeter. Callous trees, large shadows, burly rock, and faintly glinting plate. The threatscan pulsed with her heartbeat, while the heatmap flared quietly on this side of the site. Some stray robots took punches from her bullets. She would hold here and cover him until he was done. Then they'd get to safety. That was the deal. That was what was going to happen. Nothing else.
She wouldn't have to choose who to save. Wouldn't allow it.
"Quads," AT said, "one minute."
Sickening glops of steel feet stirred the air. She collected her breath, aimed, and clicked another stray trooper. But even then, thoughts rushed her mind like a storm-torn sea.
She parted her lips, air bubbling in her throat like regrets. She had to, didn't she? He was their only link to the distress signal, and their only chance of gunning down the monstrosities they'd come up against.
"South's burning."
"Need distraction!" Alena called, "now! Survivor West—"
Swoosh.
A blinding light. A shockwave. A splitting sound. She slammed into the rock, punching a misplaced gasp from her throat. Scarlet and gray color cracked her vision like lightning through smoke, and her rifle knocked out of her grasp.
[WARNING] ARMOR DAMAGE. CHECK HULL.
Alena staggered back, reaching for the weapon, coughs echoing from her helmet. Her vision was duller now. Her armor had taken a burn somewhere, but wasn't fully breached.
The fucking turret.
She trudged low, clumsily, past the smoking crater, ripping up another seeker to hurl over the ridge. That laser wasn't just close. It was right around the bend.
It would start with them. Shatter them to pieces. And then, it would obliterate the whole site.
"Nades, seekers, fire–make em stop!" she spewed into the radio. It felt like the world was trembling for a grand finale. Airborne explosions ensued, grenades popping, and clanking of steel followed by: "One quad's stumbling". Sounds loudened and dulled at the same time. Somewhere on higher ground, dirt kicked straight up.
Alena drew a long breath. Countless, erratic thoughts scratched inside her skull. Higher ground.
By the hilltop.
Her gaze flickered North.
"Levi?" she heaved. "Levi, come in."
Static, then scrambling. Heart pounding.
"He's gone sarge. Ran straight out. But he--he got 'em to turn."
It wasn't the words that cut her. It wasn't the smoke and the wind and the embers fighting in front of her visor. That bozo had sprinted from cover and doomed himself to buy her time.
She chewed her lip again, blinking like she had dust in her eyes.
And it'd dared work.
"Fall back," she gritted. "Bunker."
Then, to the man. "Time to go."
Her head was still tilted upwards when she moved, as if she could see everything that was going on on the hilltop. Every steel paw against the ground sent shockwaves through her nerves. The thumps, the mechanical churning from whatever signals that fueled their decision, dual machine guns raining death over the same spots, over and over–making sure death stayed where death was. A vision of bare bones and dust, where blood had sunk into the earth.
She'd taken several steps by the time the strider had taken one, and yet, it felt as if it'd close in any second. That it could sense her every move: her teeth grinding, her nerves trembling against her bones. Seconds boomed by like goddamn church bells in her ears.
By the time she'd reached the injured, she felt a coppery tang over her tongue.
"Get up soldier," she urged Tanner as she dropped by him, circling an arm behind his back. "You'll be fine."
Beside them, Lance was already putting away his grenade. He propped himself on his arms after, lifting his chin up. Blood coated his left leg, and more of his armor was breached at the calf, but he still seemed to have energy. The stim was still doing its job. Good.
"Shit, we actually found one," he exclaimed, watching the man approach. Alena started helping Tanner up. His body sagged slightly, and between ragged breaths, he was still struggling to hold his head up.
"We're rounding the site that way," she informed. "A bunker South. You know it?"
The words snared her cold, almost violently. She hadn't seen them, but by description, the quads—the Striders—had sounded like giant, walking dogs with laser systems that were easily taken out. They had not been described as unstoppable, mechanical gods.
She relayed his information to the rest of the Helldivers: what to look for, where to shoot, and to fall back toward the Southeast bunker if it all went to shit. She didn't know if it was functional or not–but it was the only option. The whole area sizzled with chaos, the ridge floor hot like an overworked machine. Two people were overlooking the hillsides, trying to take out the cannon turrets. The rest of the squadron had walked straight into a patrol on the South. And Alena was here. Here. With Lance in shambles and a medic barely hanging on.
And a guy that didn't understand they'd come to save him.
Get your deadweight out.
Her skin pulled tighter, but she didn't question it. Not now. He'd come for his item, not for them, regardless of their intention. Even if they had come for him.
As he closed in on the crate, she lifted her rifle steady against the shoulder and scanned the perimeter. Callous trees, large shadows, burly rock, and faintly glinting plate. The threatscan pulsed with her heartbeat, while the heatmap flared quietly on this side of the site. Some stray robots took punches from her bullets. She would hold here and cover him until he was done. Then they'd get to safety. That was the deal. That was what was going to happen. Nothing else.
She wouldn't have to choose who to save. Wouldn't allow it.
"Quads," AT said, "one minute."
Sickening glops of steel feet stirred the air. She collected her breath, aimed, and clicked another stray trooper. But even then, thoughts rushed her mind like a storm-torn sea.
She parted her lips, air bubbling in her throat like regrets. She had to, didn't she? He was their only link to the distress signal, and their only chance of gunning down the monstrosities they'd come up against.
"South's burning."
"Need distraction!" Alena called, "now! Survivor West—"
Swoosh.
A blinding light. A shockwave. A splitting sound. She slammed into the rock, punching a misplaced gasp from her throat. Scarlet and gray color cracked her vision like lightning through smoke, and her rifle knocked out of her grasp.
[WARNING] ARMOR DAMAGE. CHECK HULL.
Alena staggered back, reaching for the weapon, coughs echoing from her helmet. Her vision was duller now. Her armor had taken a burn somewhere, but wasn't fully breached.
The fucking turret.
She trudged low, clumsily, past the smoking crater, ripping up another seeker to hurl over the ridge. That laser wasn't just close. It was right around the bend.
It would start with them. Shatter them to pieces. And then, it would obliterate the whole site.
"Nades, seekers, fire–make em stop!" she spewed into the radio. It felt like the world was trembling for a grand finale. Airborne explosions ensued, grenades popping, and clanking of steel followed by: "One quad's stumbling". Sounds loudened and dulled at the same time. Somewhere on higher ground, dirt kicked straight up.
Alena drew a long breath. Countless, erratic thoughts scratched inside her skull. Higher ground.
By the hilltop.
Her gaze flickered North.
"Levi?" she heaved. "Levi, come in."
Static, then scrambling. Heart pounding.
"He's gone sarge. Ran straight out. But he--he got 'em to turn."
It wasn't the words that cut her. It wasn't the smoke and the wind and the embers fighting in front of her visor. That bozo had sprinted from cover and doomed himself to buy her time.
She chewed her lip again, blinking like she had dust in her eyes.
And it'd dared work.
"Fall back," she gritted. "Bunker."
Then, to the man. "Time to go."
Her head was still tilted upwards when she moved, as if she could see everything that was going on on the hilltop. Every steel paw against the ground sent shockwaves through her nerves. The thumps, the mechanical churning from whatever signals that fueled their decision, dual machine guns raining death over the same spots, over and over–making sure death stayed where death was. A vision of bare bones and dust, where blood had sunk into the earth.
She'd taken several steps by the time the strider had taken one, and yet, it felt as if it'd close in any second. That it could sense her every move: her teeth grinding, her nerves trembling against her bones. Seconds boomed by like goddamn church bells in her ears.
By the time she'd reached the injured, she felt a coppery tang over her tongue.
"Get up soldier," she urged Tanner as she dropped by him, circling an arm behind his back. "You'll be fine."
Beside them, Lance was already putting away his grenade. He propped himself on his arms after, lifting his chin up. Blood coated his left leg, and more of his armor was breached at the calf, but he still seemed to have energy. The stim was still doing its job. Good.
"Shit, we actually found one," he exclaimed, watching the man approach. Alena started helping Tanner up. His body sagged slightly, and between ragged breaths, he was still struggling to hold his head up.
"We're rounding the site that way," she informed. "A bunker South. You know it?"
I would love a sample of yours too, see if our styles mesh!
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