Palimpsest
Serf
- Local time
- Today 8:00 PM
- Messages
- 3
- Pronouns
- He/Him
♥︎ Hey there. I'm Pal, and I'm looking for a new story to get lost in!
RP has been something of a lifelong hobby for me (with breaks here and there). I've always been a very avid reader, so trying my hand at writing my own stories was just the next logical step. I'm usually drawn to character-driven plots with a darker bent, and I love a torturous slow burn, morally gray scenarios & people, and historical or fantasy settings that put the eerie and the tragic at the forefront. That said, I'm not completely married to the macabre; I'm always down for a classic high fantasy romp or some urban fantasy. (And I will always have a soft spot for schlockier, b movie-type of horror!)
I've included a little writing sample at the end of the post.
✦ About Me
RP has been something of a lifelong hobby for me (with breaks here and there). I've always been a very avid reader, so trying my hand at writing my own stories was just the next logical step. I'm usually drawn to character-driven plots with a darker bent, and I love a torturous slow burn, morally gray scenarios & people, and historical or fantasy settings that put the eerie and the tragic at the forefront. That said, I'm not completely married to the macabre; I'm always down for a classic high fantasy romp or some urban fantasy. (And I will always have a soft spot for schlockier, b movie-type of horror!)
I've included a little writing sample at the end of the post.
✦ About Me
- My Writing: I’m flexible with word counts (depending on what the scene calls for), but you can expect at least a couple of paragraphs from me. Replies where there's not much action might average at around 600-1500+ words, action or transition scenes might be lower so they feel fluid and snappy. Third person, past tense.
- The Pace: Since I am unfortunately employed, I tend to be a slower-paced writer. I might take a few days to get a reply out, and I’m more than happy to wait a few days (or more!) for you in return. I don't like being pressured to respond faster and I won't ever pressure you either.
- Characters: I'm only interested in playing men right now. All of my characters are in their 20s or older, and I’m really into writing characters in their 30s and 40s! I prefer to have one main character, but I love coming up with various NPCs to keep the world populated.
- Romance & Dynamics: I'm a bit of a sucker for romance, whether it’s the main focus or a side dish. I only play MxM. Regarding dynamics, I want to avoid the "weak little thing x dominant brute" archetypes (they just feel so... cardboard cutout), but beyond that, I’m down for almost anything!
- Explicit Content: I’m open to explicit scenes if the story leads there naturally, but I don’t like to linger on the smut for too long. I’m also completely fine with a tasteful "fade to black" if that’s more your speed! On the other hand, I'm a total gorehound. I'd be willing to tone things down at your request, but I'd really prefer to RP with someone who revels in horror as much as I do!
- Fandom: I'm not interested in doing any fandoms right now. OC only.
- Face Claims: I use realistic face claims, written descriptions, or sometimes my own art. Please, no AI or anime face claims.
✦ What I’m Looking For
I’m only looking for partners who are 20 or older, due to the nature of the stories I'm into and for my own comfort.
- More than anything, I’m looking for a partner who wants to be a co-creator. I love lengthy plotting, worldbuilding, and just generally yapping about our OCs and the trouble we get them into! I appreciate flexibility and someone who’s happy to toss ideas at the wall with me.
- If you’re not having fun or want to change directions, don't be afraid to let me know! We can always work something out. And if you ever need to drop the RP or take a break, no hard feelings at all; a quick heads-up is all I ask.
- I also ask that you don't use AI to generate your replies to me. It's disappointing when I take the time to write something from scratch and my partner has AI generate their response in seconds. I do not care if your writing isn't 100% perfect, or if your grammar slips sometimes, or if you make a typo here and there, as long as it's written by you.
✦ Stories I'm Itching To Tell
Edit: I'm really only looking to do the supernatural plot below, since I already have a couple of fantasy/historical RPs in the works!
Right now, I’m craving something paranormal and small-town, set in the 70s or 80s. Suburban ennui, cliques, paranoia and class divides, all with a dash of something sinister creeping under the surface. I'm very flexible about the specifics of this, but here are two possible skeletons we can build off of:
Edit: I'm really only looking to do the supernatural plot below, since I already have a couple of fantasy/historical RPs in the works!
Right now, I’m craving something paranormal and small-town, set in the 70s or 80s. Suburban ennui, cliques, paranoia and class divides, all with a dash of something sinister creeping under the surface. I'm very flexible about the specifics of this, but here are two possible skeletons we can build off of:
Option A: Our characters are in their early twenties now, but the freedom they once dreamed of as teens has led them into a cold, indifferent world that they aren't prepared to navigate. Without the structured routine of high school or the safety net of their old friend groups, they find themselves adrift. Everyone else seems to be moving on–moving towards something better–while they're still spinning their wheels in the exact same place they'd been left in at graduation. They bounce between monotonous, low paying jobs, loiter in the empty park at night and spend the rest of their free time at home, unable to make any new connections in a town where every face is already familiar.
As they wrestle with the grief and uncertainty of growing up, a creeping, otherworldly presence begins to stir at the edges of their quiet little community. Soon it will disrupt the monotony of their lives and draw them together, but they may come to regret the price of their newfound connection. [I prefer this one, but don't hesitate to ask for option B if you'd like to do that instead]
As they wrestle with the grief and uncertainty of growing up, a creeping, otherworldly presence begins to stir at the edges of their quiet little community. Soon it will disrupt the monotony of their lives and draw them together, but they may come to regret the price of their newfound connection. [I prefer this one, but don't hesitate to ask for option B if you'd like to do that instead]
Option B: Our characters are older now, in their late twenties or thirties. Years ago, something terrible happened in their town. The locals chose to conceal or forget the event and move on with their lives, unaware that what they buried wasn't quite dead. Whether one of our characters moved away while the other stayed, or they both hightailed it out of there as soon as they could, something they cannot name draws them back to their hometown's mystery... and to each other.
I want the mood here to emphasise the suffocating boredom and isolation that many people, especially those on the fringes, can feel in such small communities. I’d also love to weave in a subtle strangeness and sense of unease from the start, slowly ratcheting it up as our characters start poking their noses where they don't belong.
I'm interested in playing around with a clash of personalities, too. Former jock who peaked in high school and is now floundering, paired with a rebellious outcast who refuses to clean his act up (both clinging to a rose-tinted past in their own ways). Or maybe even two lost people who'd barely interacted before, brought together by necessity and developing a bond neither of them realised they'd been missing. I've got an angry, burnout loser who I'd love to pit either against another outcast or someone who has (or seems to have) their stuff together. :-) For reference, here's the song that made me wanna do a plot like this, hahah.
✦ Other Themes I'd Love To Play With:
- Settings:
Gothic castles, magical academies, declining empires and apocalyptic ages,spooky road trips. - Tropes: Dragons,
knights (the mercenary type), monsters and monster hunters (and/or lovers), royal decoys, cursed magical objects, court intrigue and drama, necromancy,body horror, fame-seeking band members making a deal with the devil and regretting it. - Dynamics:
Scary attack dog x the "handler" holding the leash.Rival magical scholars (lots of pining and tension).Arranged marriages.- Childhood friends to enemies to lovers.
- Classic enemies to lovers.
- Older characters finding love later in life.
- REPRESSION. I love repression and internalised self-hatred and characters who fight tooth and nail against what their heart desires.
Sample (changed out to a more modern period-ish one):
"Ash, I'm heading out!" Michael called over his shoulder. "Get Jenny out of bed, she'll be late again!"
He caught her faint call of, "Why can't she get herself out?" on his way down the stairs, and felt a surge of relief at being too far away to quip back. If he did, they'd be fighting for the last word until sundown. Ashley had finally hit that age where backtalk was becoming an instrument of self-expression, right alongside the big hair, ripped jeans, and Madonna’s Like a Virgin. He couldn’t exactly judge her, having raised a similar kind of hell at seventeen, but as the only functioning adult in the house, it was his job to maintain a stern facade.
Outside, the cold morning wind tugged at his hair and clothes as if urging him to hurry. It needn't have bothered. In a couple of strides, he had already closed half the distance between his house and the shop. The big yellow sign–Dixon's Video Rental–came into view just as the sun completed its lazy climb over the mountains. Michael grinned; his punctual streak remained unbroken. It was a shame no one was around to notice.
No one but the dog, anyway.
Old Amber lay sprawled on her side, the rise and fall of her chest barely perceptible until Michael leaned down to run his fingers through her knotted fur. The rhythmic thump-thump of her tail against the pavement was the only sign that she was aware of his presence. Amber was a fixture of the town's geography, always dozing outside the store, begging for scraps at the diner, or nosing through the trash in the back alleys. Her turquoise collar had frayed years ago, and the letters punched into the metal tag were scuffed to illegibility, but no one had ever bothered to claim her. Old Amber belonged to the street. Or perhaps the street belonged to her; Michael couldn’t remember a time when the mutt hadn’t been there.
He couldn’t remember a time when Dixon Video wasn't permeated by the smell of plastic, either, or a time when the overhead lights weren't a touch too bright and the linoleum floor wasn't an unflattering shade of never-been-scrubbed white. Sometimes, in his dreams, he found himself wandering a labyrinthine version of the shop where none of the rows and rows of movie titles made any sense.
The front door was already unlocked; someone had flipped the hanging sign to "Open". On the counter, the old radio struggled to croon over its own static, tuned to a local jazz station.
A wailing trombone heralded Crystal Dixon’s emergence from the back room. She was a natural-born multitasker, trying to walk, tie up her hair, and keep the strap of her gym bag from sliding off her shoulder all at once.
"Hi, Mick," she mumbled through the plastic tie between her teeth, nodding at his raised hand. Before he could blink, she had her brown hair secured in a tight, high ponytail. She jammed her garishly yellow, store-issued baseball cap onto her head, and with a sinking feeling Michael realized he would have to fend off boredom by himself for the day. The hat only went on when Crystal had somewhere else to be.
Crystal was the only person he knew who wore her work clothes outside of work. Half her wardrobe was probably store merch, but that was the price of having a father who owned a struggling business. Every bit of free advertising counted. Michael imagined himself walking around in a "Valley Motel" shirt too, if his dad ever cared enough to get them printed.
"Some new movies came in," Crystal said. "In the back. Dad wants you to line them up straight at the front this time."
He snorted. "Yeah, that's what’s drawing in the customers–a direct eyeful of Joel's erotic drama selection."
"Hey, you know those usually go straight to his personal collection. I think he’s got some classics in there this time." She hitched her bag higher, but it slid down the moment she relaxed her shoulder.
"Didn't open it yourself?"
"Thought you could use the entertainment," she said, her tone suggesting that she thought he wasn't getting much elsewhere.
"Thanks!" he called after her. A casual wave was her only reply before the door swung shut.
The cardboard box was waiting in the back, untouched as promised, its top neatly taped shut. Michael pulled the boxcutter from his pocket and split the seal in one smooth motion, pausing to savor the glide.
The selection inside was as eclectic as ever: several experimental dramas from directors whose names he couldn't pronounce, an X-rated flick brazenly placed on top of the stack, and a couple of older but still popular titles he flagged as potential time-wasters for the weekend. Joel never let him take new releases home, not until they’d been rented four or five times at least. 'It’s only fair to the paying members,' he’d say. Michael always had to bite his tongue at that; he didn't want to risk being sent back to work at the motel.
The only people in town who rented with any regularity were the tenth graders, who beelined for the horror section the second they stepped inside the store. They’d stopped trying to shoplift tapes once Michael agreed to let them watch the R-rated slashers in the back room. He doubted they’d care for Godard’s work. Luckily, he didn't either; otherwise, he'd be waiting a long time to see it.
He grabbed a random case from the box, flipping it over to stall having to actually stock the shelves.
The Ultimate Alien Terror. On the front, a dark, featureless figure loomed, shrouded in blue and glaring white. A new version of the classic horror thriller, starring Kurt Russell.
The man himself was pictured on the back, handsomely rugged in a thick winter coat, framed by flavor text boasting a "truly frightening experience." While the mention of the titular "Thing" piqued his interest, Michael didn't have time to figure out a way to convince Joel to let him borrow it before he heard the telltale jingle of the front door. He dropped the tape back onto the stack and hurried to the counter, resisting the urge to vault over the laminate top. He managed to shuffle around the side like a respectable adult just in time to greet his first visitor.
"Hey, what's up? What can I help you... with?"
He trailed off. A stranger stood in Dixon’s Video.
He caught her faint call of, "Why can't she get herself out?" on his way down the stairs, and felt a surge of relief at being too far away to quip back. If he did, they'd be fighting for the last word until sundown. Ashley had finally hit that age where backtalk was becoming an instrument of self-expression, right alongside the big hair, ripped jeans, and Madonna’s Like a Virgin. He couldn’t exactly judge her, having raised a similar kind of hell at seventeen, but as the only functioning adult in the house, it was his job to maintain a stern facade.
Outside, the cold morning wind tugged at his hair and clothes as if urging him to hurry. It needn't have bothered. In a couple of strides, he had already closed half the distance between his house and the shop. The big yellow sign–Dixon's Video Rental–came into view just as the sun completed its lazy climb over the mountains. Michael grinned; his punctual streak remained unbroken. It was a shame no one was around to notice.
No one but the dog, anyway.
Old Amber lay sprawled on her side, the rise and fall of her chest barely perceptible until Michael leaned down to run his fingers through her knotted fur. The rhythmic thump-thump of her tail against the pavement was the only sign that she was aware of his presence. Amber was a fixture of the town's geography, always dozing outside the store, begging for scraps at the diner, or nosing through the trash in the back alleys. Her turquoise collar had frayed years ago, and the letters punched into the metal tag were scuffed to illegibility, but no one had ever bothered to claim her. Old Amber belonged to the street. Or perhaps the street belonged to her; Michael couldn’t remember a time when the mutt hadn’t been there.
He couldn’t remember a time when Dixon Video wasn't permeated by the smell of plastic, either, or a time when the overhead lights weren't a touch too bright and the linoleum floor wasn't an unflattering shade of never-been-scrubbed white. Sometimes, in his dreams, he found himself wandering a labyrinthine version of the shop where none of the rows and rows of movie titles made any sense.
The front door was already unlocked; someone had flipped the hanging sign to "Open". On the counter, the old radio struggled to croon over its own static, tuned to a local jazz station.
A wailing trombone heralded Crystal Dixon’s emergence from the back room. She was a natural-born multitasker, trying to walk, tie up her hair, and keep the strap of her gym bag from sliding off her shoulder all at once.
"Hi, Mick," she mumbled through the plastic tie between her teeth, nodding at his raised hand. Before he could blink, she had her brown hair secured in a tight, high ponytail. She jammed her garishly yellow, store-issued baseball cap onto her head, and with a sinking feeling Michael realized he would have to fend off boredom by himself for the day. The hat only went on when Crystal had somewhere else to be.
Crystal was the only person he knew who wore her work clothes outside of work. Half her wardrobe was probably store merch, but that was the price of having a father who owned a struggling business. Every bit of free advertising counted. Michael imagined himself walking around in a "Valley Motel" shirt too, if his dad ever cared enough to get them printed.
"Some new movies came in," Crystal said. "In the back. Dad wants you to line them up straight at the front this time."
He snorted. "Yeah, that's what’s drawing in the customers–a direct eyeful of Joel's erotic drama selection."
"Hey, you know those usually go straight to his personal collection. I think he’s got some classics in there this time." She hitched her bag higher, but it slid down the moment she relaxed her shoulder.
"Didn't open it yourself?"
"Thought you could use the entertainment," she said, her tone suggesting that she thought he wasn't getting much elsewhere.
"Thanks!" he called after her. A casual wave was her only reply before the door swung shut.
The cardboard box was waiting in the back, untouched as promised, its top neatly taped shut. Michael pulled the boxcutter from his pocket and split the seal in one smooth motion, pausing to savor the glide.
The selection inside was as eclectic as ever: several experimental dramas from directors whose names he couldn't pronounce, an X-rated flick brazenly placed on top of the stack, and a couple of older but still popular titles he flagged as potential time-wasters for the weekend. Joel never let him take new releases home, not until they’d been rented four or five times at least. 'It’s only fair to the paying members,' he’d say. Michael always had to bite his tongue at that; he didn't want to risk being sent back to work at the motel.
The only people in town who rented with any regularity were the tenth graders, who beelined for the horror section the second they stepped inside the store. They’d stopped trying to shoplift tapes once Michael agreed to let them watch the R-rated slashers in the back room. He doubted they’d care for Godard’s work. Luckily, he didn't either; otherwise, he'd be waiting a long time to see it.
He grabbed a random case from the box, flipping it over to stall having to actually stock the shelves.
The Ultimate Alien Terror. On the front, a dark, featureless figure loomed, shrouded in blue and glaring white. A new version of the classic horror thriller, starring Kurt Russell.
The man himself was pictured on the back, handsomely rugged in a thick winter coat, framed by flavor text boasting a "truly frightening experience." While the mention of the titular "Thing" piqued his interest, Michael didn't have time to figure out a way to convince Joel to let him borrow it before he heard the telltale jingle of the front door. He dropped the tape back onto the stack and hurried to the counter, resisting the urge to vault over the laminate top. He managed to shuffle around the side like a respectable adult just in time to greet his first visitor.
"Hey, what's up? What can I help you... with?"
He trailed off. A stranger stood in Dixon’s Video.
If any of this sounds like your cup of tea, please shoot me a message! I’d love to hear about what caught your eye and start throwing some ideas around.
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