MxF Descriptive tales of a flawed psyche.

[dramatis personae]

#long-term, #short-term, #frequent, #multiple-per-week
#fandoms, #original characters, #character-driven
#medieval-fantasy, #low fantasy, #cyberpunk
#story-based, #world-building, #romance​

Hello, and thanks for taking a look at my thread! I’m always happy to meet new partners and see what kind of story we might build together. If you enjoy exploring what makes characters tick — their wants, fears, and contradictions — we’ll probably click right away. I’m drawn to writers who like depth and consequence, and stories where characters grow because of what they feel, not just because of the events around them.

If you prefer to keep things simple and mostly external, my style might feel a bit heavier than you want, and that’s totally okay. I love a good overarching plot, but I like the characters to be the ones driving the story. And despite all this seriousness about craft, I’m pretty laid‑back OOC. I take the story seriously; myself, not so much!

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mindset

• I value open and direct communication. My goal, always, is to make things fun for both of us. If you're not enjoying it, getting busy, or losing interest, just let me know! I don't take these things personally, and I’d much rather adjust than guess.
• I enjoy partners who contribute with ideas, NPCs, and world flavor so we’re both shaping the narrative instead of one person doing the world-building. I’ll be doing this by default, and I’d appreciate if you’re up for sharing the creative load.
• As for planning: if we map out every beat from the beginning, it starts to feel like homework — if we plan nothing, we’ll walk circles around one another's character, waiting for the plot to come on its own. I prefer the middle ground: enough structure to get us started and keep us aligned, and enough freedom to let the characters lead and surprise us from time to time.
• My characters run the moral gamut, and that means some stories will be darker, or hotter than others. I’m comfortable exploring all that, and I don't have set ratios, but I need partners who approach those moments with thoughtfulness: understand and show the psychology at play, be open to discussing boundaries before and during, and make sure these scenes genuinely deepen the story. I don’t write for shock value or personal gratification.
• I tend to invest in my partners and the stories we build, so a collab with real foundations matters more to me than chasing one craving. That’s why I list themes first and not plots — I’m here for creative chemistry that can carry us through multiple stories, not a two‑week sprint that fizzles out.

word-bank and themes: Verisimilitude courtly love, patching them up after combat, bad person x good person strong woman x stronger man, exes falling right back into it partners in crime/adventure, monster x person, older x younger Stockholm & Lima syndrome, destructive relationships elite man x courtesan, arranged or tribal marriage​ Person versus self — Person versus society, nature, technology ascension & descent, tragedy & rebirth in any order, exploration of the psyche the hero's journey but also its opposite, corruption & destruction, magic with consequences, politics & intrigue, mental health issues done justice the password is wuthering heights, but will you spot it, them the big questions healing or creating emotional trauma, adventure and quest, coming of age forbidden love (no porn tropes please), religion & cults, duty vs desire shared (traumatic, optional) background or experience and many more​

genres & their fandoms: Medieval Fantasy Historical & Modern Futuristic (Overwatch) Sci-Fi (Star Wars) Cyberpunk (Altered Carbon, Blade-runner)​ favorite fandoms: Forgotten Realms (but with a higher price on magic) A Song of Ice and Fire (Game of Thrones) Harry Potter/Wizarding World (18+) The Witcher​

characters

• Give me flaws, quirks, regrets, and choices that grow naturally out of who the character is. Tropes can be a fun starting point, but I’m most excited, and truly invested, when a character feels like a person with internal cohesion and texture.
• Most of my characters are ready to drop into a story, each tied to themes I’m eager to explore. Some are flexible and can be adapted to different settings; others are more fixed in their worlds. I can write some canon characters, but it depends on the setting, and I still create new OCs whenever the mood hits. I’ve posted a few sheets here, but the rest (all 40 something of them) live rent‑free in my brain.
• For character portraits I use realistic digital art or photographs, but I can also go without. Please nothing anime — sorry friends, it's just not my thing.

writing style

• I love posts that show me what a character is feeling through their behavior, tone, or those subtle tells. Give me the how, the what, and the why — that’s what gets me hooked.
• Word counts don’t matter to me — what we do with them does. I tend to write a few paragraphs because I enjoy sitting in my character’s head and responding to everything she picks up while keeping the story moving. Expect deliberate, internally‑driven prose in third‑person past that doesn't sacrifice atmosphere either; samples are in the next post.
• You don’t need to match my hyperfixation devotion to grammar and syntax, nor my habit of overthinking‑everything prose. What matters most is the collaboration — offering hooks, raising stakes, adjusting the pace, and helping the story grow in ways neither of us could manage alone.

quirks

• Please don’t move my character or make their choices without checking in OOC. If you want to influence their decisions or steer the story to a particular direction, give me a nudge first!
• I prefer not to stack multiple comments or lines of dialogue in a single post so both characters have space to react to whatever actually lands for them. Since we don’t always know what that will be until it’s on the page, I love partners who aren’t precious about every line and can adjust, add, or remove things to keep the scene flowing naturally.

If you’ve made it through all of this without rolling your eyes, you’re already my kind of person. Send me the OC or theme that grabbed you, and let’s see what kind of delightful chaos we can co‑author! ♥

 

[dramatis personae]

writing samples:
I will not show you only my best work, that'd be setting up some unrealistic expectations; instead, I will show you samples from various types of roleplay responses since they vary depending on the circumstances.

Spoiler: Average 1

She wasn’t sure she disliked him leaning back — it simply wasn’t the reaction she usually drew from drinking partners. Her body had been on the advance, claiming the space between them with that unspoken dare, and his had pulled away. She let him talk about traders and prices, chalking the retreat up to caution, but that wasn’t a bad thing. If he was a smuggler, he could be just as dangerous as she was, and she preferred her company just a shade less capable than that — easier to handle.

But when he mentioned her taking his clothes, her eyes slipped from his and her smile curled into a grin. Gods, he really was tired — tired enough not to be thinking with his cock. Any man with blood still running hot would’ve caught the implication, even the slow ones. Instead of picturing his clothes on the floor beside half of hers, he’d taken it literally. Nith could work with that!

She glanced back up as he leaned forward again, catching the tail end of his gesture toward his temple. She didn’t have time to unpack it before he tilted his head and offered more drinks — and when he smiled, asking that question, the exhaustion behind it made whatever wicked thought she’d had slip out as a quiet, genuine breath of laughter. He was trying to match her, he really was, but he didn’t have the strength for it. Endearing…

“That’s some confidence,” she couldn’t help muttering, softer than her laugh, her tone dropping into that low, conspiratorial register meant only for the space between them. “But I don’t work on promises.” She leaned in again, the grin fading into something subtler, more deliberate. “You want me poking around, figuring out what this thing can do, where it starts and where it bites? Then you give me something upfront.” The flirtation was gone, burned off like morning fog, leaving her expression clear, and focused.

“What’ve you got?”

Now she looked him straight in the eyes, unblinking and with her eyebrows shooting up, almost as ruthless as one would expect from a horned, tailed killer — almost.

Spoiler: Average 2

Never again would she cross the river alone after midday. This brave guard had happened to be passing by this evening, but how likely was it that he'd be there the next time she'd volunteer to do odd jobs just to earn her employer's good graces? Not very likely at all, she gauged. She wasn't a lucky woman. The gods had smiled down upon her this time, but she wouldn't spit on their blessing by putting herself in such an uncharted territory ever again.

His baritone, now referring to her own little self, pulled her eyes back up to him, strained neck or not. Did he just call her brave? Ironic as it might have been, her eyebrows wrinkled in a dance of denial; she was ready to object to that characterization. She still remembered the discomfort of her rapid heartbeat when the two men began their chase. Her throat still ached from holding back that whine the moment she'd felt safe enough to let the terror she'd experienced spill out. Min'dalar didn't feel brave. But she'd not talk back to him, that she had promised herself already — at least until he, too, was in good hands, and with his injury being taken care of.

He wished for more of his public encounters to have been this smooth and the contrast of those words with their previous encounter a few days ago pushed the corners of her lips up a little. It was only fitting that the wounded man chuckled at the same time, pushing Min'dalar to smile wider. However, her eyes latched onto his own as he laughed harder, a laugh that didn't seem all that natural to the brunette. It caused her chest to tighten in worry and her glance to dive a little deeper, wondering what exactly was going on past his own eyes. He looked away and she relieved him of their scrutiny, but kept her smile up even if it was mostly out of kindness at the beginning. She could well understand if the man's tongue was rolling to burn the excess energy from his earlier scuffle; her job was to make him think she hadn't even noticed, and it was a job she took on quite eagerly.

"The bottle, bed and stitches will be on me, good-" she offered with newfound, warm confidence, but cut herself off when she realized she was about to call him a good lord once more. "I- I suppose I didn't ask you about your name amidst all this," she mused out loud, walking towards the warehouse he'd set his sights on, and left it up to him to share it at his leisure — title, name, surname or anything else he might feel like volunteering.

Spoiler: Something richer

Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between fury and longing, and her eyes searched his face like it held the cure to a fever she'd been burning with for years. Her fists remained clenched in his tunic, refusing to let go, and then she saw it: his resolve faltering, the tension draining from his body like blood from a wound. His shoulders slumped, his jaw slackened, and for a breathless moment, he looked as though he might collapse into her, into everything they'd once been, everything they had been shaped to become. Gods, how she ached for the familiar slope of his shoulders beneath her palms! The things she had once touched without thought had now become phantom limbs in her memory — missing, aching, impossible to forget. She was desperate to reclaim them, to stitch the torn edges of their past back together with the heat of her hands.

Her heart surged, wild and reckless, mistaking this weakness for surrender. She leaned in, lips parted, ready to claim what had always felt hers, but instead of meeting her mouth, his hands gripped her shoulders — not with passion, but with restraint. He held her still, he held her back, and the hope that had bloomed inside her, fragile and foolish, withered in an instant. Her eyes flared with fury, lips drawn taut with the pressure of words she could barely contain—rage poised to spill over, ready to lash out at the only man who had ever held her heart.

"Clear my head?!" she whispered incredulously, voice low and fraying. "Gods, I've tried! I've begged for silence! But you're in there, Tristifer, always. You haunt me!" Her grip tightened, her knuckles whitening. "I see you in my dreams. I hear your voice in empty corridors. I feel you in places you've never touched — places Lord Arryn claimed, when it should have been you." Beneath the fury lay an ache unspoken, buried deep. Myranda would never admit how unprepared she'd been for Arryn's touch, how she had burned for Tristifer instead, for months.

And what of him? Had he ever felt the same? Had he ever burned?

"Have you forgotten me?" she demanded, her voice sharp with accusation. She didn't move, she didn't flinch, but pain was etched inside her eyes. Her gaze lingered on the arch of his brow, the curve of his mouth, features more familiar than Lord Arryn's handsome, forgettable face. "Found peace in the arms of another?" Let them call her jealous, let them whisper. She didn't care — not tonight, not with wine in her blood and fire in her chest. She stayed where she was, burning, trembling, and heartbreakingly close — her fists still curled in his tunic, her eyes locked on his, daring him to be the one to step away. If he did, she would shatter. If he didn't, she might set this whole castle ablaze.

"Is that why you're running? After all these months?" Her eyes flicked between his, wild and wet, as the dam of her restraint finally broke. Her words poured out in a violent rush, heedless of who they might wound or drag under. "Was your love so little? Your promises so empty, Tristifer?!"

He didn't want her kiss but Myranda couldn't accept it, not yet. Her hands made another desperate attempt to pull him down, closer, nearer, mouth to mouth — hers again.

Spoiler: A chonky starter

The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine clung to the air like a velvet curtain, heavy and indulgent. Myranda had overseen the menu herself, selecting dishes that evoked comfort and abundance: venison glazed with honeyed rosemary, trout stuffed with lemon and herbs, and the Vale's finest cheeses arranged like a painter's palette. The servants had outdone themselves, and the hall responded in kind — laughter rising in waves, tankards clinking like bells, and long tables groaning beneath the weight of food and satisfaction. The nobles were content, flushed with wine and ease, but Myranda felt none of it.

She did not belong here. The seat she now occupied, cushioned and gilded, had once been promised to her sister — the firstborn daughter of Lord Royce, destined to serve as the honorable Lady Arryn. But the gods, ever cruel and capricious, delighted in meddling with the lives of small, fragile mortals. Alysanne's riding accident had been brutal. Though her mind remained sharp, her legs would never bear her weight again. A cripple, they now called her. And a cripple, no matter how noble, was no match for the Lord of the Vale.

Two promises had crumbled. Her own, years-long betrothal had dissolved like morning mist, her intended sent to wed another — lesser in station, lesser in coin. Lord Royce had made up the difference in dowry, but the insult lingered, bitter, perhaps unspoken. Myranda had been handed over instead of Alysanne, a poor substitute wrapped in finery and anger.

Alysanne had been born first to make the Royces proud — so proper, so delicate, so unfailingly polite. She never whined, never wearied of her lessons. She didn't sulk, didn't chase whims. She was perfect: as a daughter, as a lady, as Lord Arryn's intended. And Myranda had reveled in her own imperfections, because Tristifer never asked her to be anything else. They'd race through the halls as children, reckless and laughing, and he hadn't blinked when her stones struck his back. A bruise, a scratch — he 'd bore them like love marks, paid in full for the blaze of her stare and, later, the kisses that followed: deep and devouring, lessons in longing no tutor would ever teach.

She had not forgotten.

Lord Arryn might have stolen the gift she had long saved for Tristifer — taken it with ceremony and entitlement — but he had not claimed her heart. That remained untouched, buried beneath years of defiance. He sat beside her now, as comfortable as ever, as entitled to her presence as he was to the bed in her chamber. But comfort was not intimacy, and proximity was not possession. He knew little of the storm that brewed behind her eyes. He had scolded her — first with soft coaxing, then with sharper insistence — to finish her meal, to play the part of the content bride, but her plate remained half-full, and her mind far too crowded. Thoughts churned behind her brow, relentless and loud, refusing to be silenced by food, or feigned affection. They clawed at her, memories and regrets, and the burning ache of something lost, something stolen right before it would truly be hers.

Tristifer.

His ghost had no trouble haunting her dreams and she could still smell his hair, still feel the heat of his bearded cheek against her palms from the night before. She swore cinnamon still coated her fingertips, so why was he toying with her now? Her heart cried out for him, wild and aching, and no amount of sweet wine could match the taste of his mouth. Where in the seven hells was he?!

Her eyes moved slowly, with all the restraint she could summon, past the lords of the Fingers, past the banners of Belmore and Coldwater, searching for his darling eyes. Patience and subtlety were not her gifts, but she gave it her damndest. Her expression remained composed, her posture elegant, her goblet a loyal companion — ever closer, ever emptier. It had painted her pale cheeks a betraying blush, soft and blooming, laying the groundwork for trouble. She knew eyes were on her — some admiring, some appraising, most still skeptical — but she didn't care. A fire roared in her chest, and the heat of it shimmered behind her eyes, barely held at bay, threatening to spill out the moment she'd see him.

Then Lord Arryn rose, and the hall quieted. Her eyes swept past familiar faces, searching, still searching. Lord Redfort remained where she'd last seen him, unmoved, a fixture in her mental map. But then — finally — the dark head that had until now melted into the sea of nobility lifted, distinct and unmistakable. There you are!

She flinched, her pulse pounding in her ears. Her feet shifted beneath her, ready to move — to stand, to shout, to grab his hand and demand answers. The rest of the room could burn, her husband included, for none of them mattered. Her fingers curled around the arms of her chair, bracing herself, but before she could rise, Lord Arryn turned his head toward her. She didn't need to meet his eyes to feel the weight of his gaze. It pressed against her skin as his voice filled the hall, words she barely registered. Her chest swelled, not with pride or duty, but with the sight of Tristifer — her intended, her coward. The ache of longing tangled with fury, and she wanted nothing more than to silence her husband mid-sentence, to leap from her seat and flee to Redfort, to steal Tristifer away like they were still reckless teens chasing each other through the halls.

But she did not.

The silence of this hall was a cage, and every noble within it a lock. There was no escape, not without consequence, not without scandal. She could bear the cost herself, but Lord Royce? He had staked his redemption on her, placed his hopes in a daughter he knew was never built for quiet obedience. And still, she sat. Immobile, the only thing quiet about Myranda was her mouth, for every other thing about her screamed of her true, wild nature. Her face reddened as if amidst fervent lovemaking, yet there would be no release here, no pleasure, only the cruel tension of restraint. The carved arms of her chair bit into her palms, unforgiving and cold, grounding her in place like shackles. She longed to move, to scream, to shatter the stillness with something real. But she remained a statue, her breath shallow, her heart a drumbeat of defiance. The hall was a prison dressed in finery, and she its most restless captive.

She spoke to him as soon as Lord Arryn turned his attention elsewhere — as he spoke of the Sistermen's defiance, of this moment in history the banners ought to sign with their loyalty — but not with her lips. Burning eyes beckoned as much as they cut him, shifting from desperate need to torturous demand, yet it was not enough. His appearance set her skin on fire, because she still remembered the feeling of his embrace — always so close, yet too far, for he liked his rules and modesty a little too much. He had always been the first to pull away from her kiss, leaving her wanting, and chasing after him. Just a few more months, he'd tell her, then we will be husband and wife. It would be right then, he'd told her, and she'd tamed her hands, her lips, her teeth, all so she wouldn't have to face eyes ridden with guilt till the day of their wedding. But that day had not come, and it never would.

Lord Arryn laid out his plan—long-winded as ever—and it was only out of irritation that Myranda spared him a glance, severing the fragile thread between her and Tristifer's eyes. She prayed he wouldn't vanish in that moment, wouldn't slip away while her attention was forced elsewhere.

She sank back into her chair, fingers curling around her chalice, lifting it to her lips only to find it maddeningly empty. Her nose wrinkled in quiet displeasure, and her glassy eyes sought out the petite handmaiden hovering nearby. The girl rushed forward, refilling her cup with practiced haste, earning no more than a flicker of acknowledgment. Though she looked at the girl, her gaze kept drifting back to Redfort; tonight, she would not let him escape his new prison. She stared at him with quiet ferocity, with longing and possession braided into every glance. Her eyes clung to him—loving, suffocating, claiming—until she could conjure a reason, any reason, to excuse herself from the high table.

Many more samples upon request; you can also check my most recent stories in my signature or post history, though keep in mind my writing adapts to the personality of the character I am playing and my fellow writer's energy.

kink list:

Favorite

Story and character-driven intimacy
Realistic depictions
Romance
Anatomically correct characters
Traditionally masculine men
Affection, touching, cuddling, dating
Foreplay, teasing, intercourse & outercourse
Imperfections in characters and sex

Yes

Consensual & dub-consensual scenarios
Dark themes & violence
Age Differences
Ahegao
Aphrodisiacs
Clit Play
Condoms
Disabilities
Drug / Alcohol Use
Fingering (Vaginal)
Food Play
Foreplay
Multiple Orgasms
Potions / Injections
Pussy Worship
Queefing
Sexual Frustration
Squirting
Stuckage
Teasing
Vaginal Sex (Receiving)
Vaginal Virginity

Maybe

Non-con (case-by-case)
Anal Sex
Fingering (Anal)
Gaping (Vaginal)
Rimming

No

1st & 2nd person persp.
Unrealistic sex
Unrealistic bodies & characters
Zoophilia, animal anatomy & anthropoids
Hyper / Macro / Micro / Mega
Bathroom-related kinks
Extreme bodily fluids
Diapers & Infantilism
Flexibility & Contortionism
Vore

 

[dramatis personae]

plots:
My mind has been on my Drow and Drow‑inspired sadistic priestesses lately. These characters work best with a storyteller who either knows the basics of Drow lore or is willing to read a little, and who’s comfortable honouring what drow culture is meant to explore. Their narratives involve violence, the abuse of side characters, and — in Rhea’s case — cycles of harm and domination between the main characters themselves.

Spoiler: Some things about Drow

Drow are a subterranean elven people shaped by generations of life in the Underdark and by the brutal, theocratic rule of the spider‑goddess Lolth (or Lloth). They are not simply “evil elves”; they are the product of a society built on paranoia, cruelty, and relentless competition. Their culture teaches from birth that power is the only safety, that weakness invites death, and that betrayal is not a moral failing but a survival skill. This makes them one of the most psychologically intense peoples in the Forgotten Realms: elegant, intelligent, magically gifted, and deeply damaged by the environment that raised them.

A typical drow character is sharp‑minded, observant, and socially dangerous. They’ve been trained to read a room instantly, to anticipate threats, and to hide any emotion that could be exploited. Their cruelty is often calculated rather than impulsive—an ingrained belief that dominance must be demonstrated to avoid becoming prey. Even their beauty is weaponized: a mask of sophistication over a worldview built on fear, ambition, and indoctrination. Trust is nearly impossible for them; alliances are temporary, affection is suspect, and vulnerability is lethal. When playing a drow, you’re often portraying someone who has never known unconditional safety.

Drow culture is intentionally oppressive and disturbing. It is a matriarchal theocracy where Lolth’s dogma demands treachery, emotional suppression, and ritualized violence. Children are raised in an environment where compassion is punished, where advancement often requires sabotage or murder, and where even family ties are transactional. Their society normalizes slavery, torture, and the dehumanization of outsiders. These themes are not meant to be comfortable—they’re meant to explore how environment shapes morality, how trauma becomes culture, and how individuals might resist or succumb to that conditioning.

I'd like to pair Mal'thrae another drow — two exiles surviving together on the surface while she remains in Lolth’s service. I imagine a blend of romance and exploration, a journey across unfamiliar lands threaded with religiously driven killings, fraught devotion, and the slow pull of sexual discovery. It’d be an adventure wrapped in the chaos of cult loyalty, forbidden desire, and the emotional wreckage that follows both.

Rhea, who is barely half a Drow even after everything that they've done to her, is an even more extreme character. Born into the cult of Loviatar and raised to worship everything Drow, she pairs best with a character who has ambition, vision, and few moral qualms, someone who can meet her intensity without flinching.

Themes like violence, abuse and psychological manipulation can be explored on a narrative and emotional level, with the degree of detail shaped by what both writers are comfortable handling. I’m not interested in pain for its own sake, but I’m happy to write it when it serves the story and deepens the characters’ arc.

Spoiler: Rhea

Core Traits

• Devout disciple of Loviatar, trained as both a religious figure and an enforcer.
• Impulsive disciplinarian, shaped to administer pain as ritual, punishment, or devotion.
• Occasional killer, though never by intention — her upbringing taught her to escalate until stopped.
• Twisted worldview: strength justifies action; dominance and submission are spiritual currencies; power dynamics shape every relationship she forms.
• Emotionally intense, but incredibly loyal; she loves even harder than she whips.

Interesting features

• Moral ambiguity and corruption arcs
• Religious devotion vs. personal flaws
• Authority, obedience, and rebellion
• Slow‑burn trust building with someone equally formidable

Tone & Themes

• Dark fantasy
• Psychological tension
• Violence as ritual and ideology
• Trauma‑shaped belief systems
• Exploration of control, resilience, and transformation