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The Obligatory "Do I want to interact with this person" Reference Sheet
Who am I? -
I'm Squishins :)
Beyond that, I'm just the character in whatever role I'm in.
---
What do I write about? -
I enjoy writing tales focusing on the misadventures one or two people. Stories that can range from carefree slice of life comedies where the protagonists just get up to goofy, episodic shenanigans, to perilous journeys of survival that mar the immortal souls of our heroes. I have a particular affinity for narratives with military or apocalyptic settings, and with power dynamics between characters, whether that be a power imbalance or two forces of will butting heads.
---
How do I go about my writing? -
The limited first or third person perspective of an individual is my default; I admit that I have a lack of grand vision that limits my ability to plan and execute on either multi-person or large scale narratives. That said, I enjoy dynamic, off-the-cuff types of stories. I don't intend to ever railroad the events of the roleplay into particular outcomes, or make certain tropes mandatory. I enjoy giving as much creative freedom to the other party as possible, to create an experience that I alone could never have come up with. For those curious, I typically respond daily, with a schedule that usually allows me to be active for prolonged periods each day.
---
Do I write sexual content? -
Well, of course. I think you'll be hard pressed to find something that I'm not into. Except smelly things; I don't do stinky.
---
Do I write fandom content? -
Sometimes, but if I do it's in the context of the greater universe of the subject, rather than specific characters. I just find it difficult to immerse myself in a story when I'm constantly trying to maintain a well established and canon personality.
---
"This was possibly one of the most generic reference sheets I've seen, I still don't know if you'd be a match for me" -
Yeah, I get it. I'm not the bookworm type and I've never been very good at writing these kinds of self-profiles. But, if you haven't been scared off yet, I've got examples of writing to prove that I can, in fact, put words together.
Who am I? -
I'm Squishins :)
Beyond that, I'm just the character in whatever role I'm in.
---
What do I write about? -
I enjoy writing tales focusing on the misadventures one or two people. Stories that can range from carefree slice of life comedies where the protagonists just get up to goofy, episodic shenanigans, to perilous journeys of survival that mar the immortal souls of our heroes. I have a particular affinity for narratives with military or apocalyptic settings, and with power dynamics between characters, whether that be a power imbalance or two forces of will butting heads.
---
How do I go about my writing? -
The limited first or third person perspective of an individual is my default; I admit that I have a lack of grand vision that limits my ability to plan and execute on either multi-person or large scale narratives. That said, I enjoy dynamic, off-the-cuff types of stories. I don't intend to ever railroad the events of the roleplay into particular outcomes, or make certain tropes mandatory. I enjoy giving as much creative freedom to the other party as possible, to create an experience that I alone could never have come up with. For those curious, I typically respond daily, with a schedule that usually allows me to be active for prolonged periods each day.
---
Do I write sexual content? -
Well, of course. I think you'll be hard pressed to find something that I'm not into. Except smelly things; I don't do stinky.
---
Do I write fandom content? -
Sometimes, but if I do it's in the context of the greater universe of the subject, rather than specific characters. I just find it difficult to immerse myself in a story when I'm constantly trying to maintain a well established and canon personality.
---
"This was possibly one of the most generic reference sheets I've seen, I still don't know if you'd be a match for me" -
Yeah, I get it. I'm not the bookworm type and I've never been very good at writing these kinds of self-profiles. But, if you haven't been scared off yet, I've got examples of writing to prove that I can, in fact, put words together.
Cold...
He hated the cold...
---
From a monotonous grey sky that stretched out beyond the horizon, came the first wisps of snow for the year. Minute flecks of pure-white drifting downward on what was, to them, just one more journey in the endless cycle that they were apart of. Their fall from the heavens was graceful, serene, with no purpose at all in their innocent existence...
Their journey was the polar opposite to that of whom they drifted upon.
The tiny flakes of snow landed gently upon oil-smeared flight goggles, the miniscule nature of the flakes unable to prevent them from melting away at the faint heat held in the lenses. Beneath the laminated glass, a pair of unfocused eyes stared lazily upward, the grey reflection of the clouds dulling the deep green rings. Behind them, a scattered mind, rattled to pieces and thrown into the wind like scraps of paper. Scattered, but not entirely lost. Slowly, piece by piece, the fragments found their way back to their host.
First came sensation, along with all of it's consequences. A throbbing in his head that must have been simulating what it was like to have a sledgehammer trying to escape his skull. A steady, but no less intense ache in his back, joined by a choir of innumerable smaller pains all across his body. At least with the pain came the ability to assess himself; without looking away from the blurry but no less defined clouds, he moved his fingers, and then his hands, then feet. Flexions that he wasn't acutely conscious of doing, as if his body were taking stock of itself on it's own.
The eyes blinked slowly, just once.
Following sensation was thought, detached from reality in such a way that it could be considered basic sentience rather than sapience. Associations of abstract concepts swirling together to form the groundwork of what would grow to be lucid ideas. The notion of time itself emerged from the cloud, not being recognized in itself, but providing a foundation onto which more coherent thoughts could build upon; that reason could finally make it's reappearance. Cold... why was it so cold...?
His mouth parted slightly, drawing in a slow breath of crisp air.
Next to return was memory. Not all at once, but in a stream that had to be unshuffled before it could be comprehended. A low flight through a remote valley, the tops of green firs dashing past an open cockpit, a feeling of exhilaration followed by dread. Rapid pops rattling off in time with new holes in canvas, a wretched grinding noise before a fiery burst, and the vision of shimmering water below rapidly ascending to meet him. Huh, he'd never seen water do that before...
A low groan escaped his lips, the faint vapor being carried away by a calm wind.
The last bit of him to return home was awareness. Consciousness. Like a lost pet finally returning to-
---
Davenport drew a sharp breath as he finally woke up, eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to clear his vision. With a trembling hand, he reached up and worked his fingers into the head strap of the goggles, ripping them off of his head and discarding them, revealing the world in all it's muted winter dullness. The garbled splash they made drew his attention, his pounding head turning to peer at his surroundings. His aircraft had landed - or rather, crashed - in a creek, the gentle flow unbothered as it bubbled and sloshed around the airframe. His neck seemed to audibly creak in disapproval as he turned his head forward again, eyes taking in the smoking engine and ruined instrument panel. Fuel was leaking from the tank in the upper wing, each drop landing with a sharp hiss onto the engine below it. Flexing his legs, and taking absolutely no delight in doing so as the pain from simply moving radiated up through his body, he began to take stock of his situation.
He was in the same forested valley that he had been flying over, one that he'd now understood was not safe to be doing so in. While his clearly very mortal body was protesting any act of movement his mind quickly came to two certain conclusions: He could either stay here and face capture and persecution as an irregular militant, or he could move his ass and get out. The thousand and one unpleasant sensations in his body were pleading for the first option, but he knew he only had one real choice.
With gritted teeth, he overcame the stiffness in his fingers, finding the shiny steel clasp of his waist strap and prying the lever up, releasing him from the his leather padded domain. Gripping the side of the open cockpit, he summoned his strength and his will, and with a strained heave he clambered out of the hollow enclosure, losing the battle to gravity as he tipped over the edge and into the shallow water with an inelegant splash. The impact against the smooth river stones sent a fresh wave of agony through him, the pain in his head nearly blinding even as he lay on his back with the frigid water flowing through his matted blonde hair.
It was all he could do to roll over, get his numb hands beneath him, and force himself upright, leaning against the ruined frame of his Airco DH.4 to support himself. One breath, one step. Another breath, another step. If that's what he had to do to keep moving, then that's what would be done. His jaw clenched at each step, but despite the enormous effort, he managed to take two steps. Three steps. Four steps sloshing through the water, and before he knew it, he was walking out of the lazy current and onto the shore. His boots bit into the fine sand, leaving clearly defined impressions as they sank in, but he hadn't the presence of mind to cover his tracks.
He was absolutely freezing. His soaked clothes wicked away his body heat into the gentle breeze, leaving his digits numb and muscles trembling as he trudged onward onto the hard-packed earth of a trail following the curve of the creek. He looked left, and then right. There was absolutely no indication of where he should go, and so with a mental shrug he turned right, holding his arms tight as though he were clinging onto the heat left within him. His legs moved almost like that of a toy soldier, his body swaying with each step, but he persisted. Despite the chill that was seeping into his very bones, despite the aching, stinging, throbbing and hurting his body was experiencing, there was a fire within him that refused to be snuffed out. It was almost as though he were driven by spite, by the indignity of being dumped into an environment that he particularly disliked.
Why here? Why couldn't he have tanked it somewhere tropical, somewhere nice. Fuck, he hated the cold...
He hated the cold...
---
From a monotonous grey sky that stretched out beyond the horizon, came the first wisps of snow for the year. Minute flecks of pure-white drifting downward on what was, to them, just one more journey in the endless cycle that they were apart of. Their fall from the heavens was graceful, serene, with no purpose at all in their innocent existence...
Their journey was the polar opposite to that of whom they drifted upon.
The tiny flakes of snow landed gently upon oil-smeared flight goggles, the miniscule nature of the flakes unable to prevent them from melting away at the faint heat held in the lenses. Beneath the laminated glass, a pair of unfocused eyes stared lazily upward, the grey reflection of the clouds dulling the deep green rings. Behind them, a scattered mind, rattled to pieces and thrown into the wind like scraps of paper. Scattered, but not entirely lost. Slowly, piece by piece, the fragments found their way back to their host.
First came sensation, along with all of it's consequences. A throbbing in his head that must have been simulating what it was like to have a sledgehammer trying to escape his skull. A steady, but no less intense ache in his back, joined by a choir of innumerable smaller pains all across his body. At least with the pain came the ability to assess himself; without looking away from the blurry but no less defined clouds, he moved his fingers, and then his hands, then feet. Flexions that he wasn't acutely conscious of doing, as if his body were taking stock of itself on it's own.
The eyes blinked slowly, just once.
Following sensation was thought, detached from reality in such a way that it could be considered basic sentience rather than sapience. Associations of abstract concepts swirling together to form the groundwork of what would grow to be lucid ideas. The notion of time itself emerged from the cloud, not being recognized in itself, but providing a foundation onto which more coherent thoughts could build upon; that reason could finally make it's reappearance. Cold... why was it so cold...?
His mouth parted slightly, drawing in a slow breath of crisp air.
Next to return was memory. Not all at once, but in a stream that had to be unshuffled before it could be comprehended. A low flight through a remote valley, the tops of green firs dashing past an open cockpit, a feeling of exhilaration followed by dread. Rapid pops rattling off in time with new holes in canvas, a wretched grinding noise before a fiery burst, and the vision of shimmering water below rapidly ascending to meet him. Huh, he'd never seen water do that before...
A low groan escaped his lips, the faint vapor being carried away by a calm wind.
The last bit of him to return home was awareness. Consciousness. Like a lost pet finally returning to-
---
Davenport drew a sharp breath as he finally woke up, eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to clear his vision. With a trembling hand, he reached up and worked his fingers into the head strap of the goggles, ripping them off of his head and discarding them, revealing the world in all it's muted winter dullness. The garbled splash they made drew his attention, his pounding head turning to peer at his surroundings. His aircraft had landed - or rather, crashed - in a creek, the gentle flow unbothered as it bubbled and sloshed around the airframe. His neck seemed to audibly creak in disapproval as he turned his head forward again, eyes taking in the smoking engine and ruined instrument panel. Fuel was leaking from the tank in the upper wing, each drop landing with a sharp hiss onto the engine below it. Flexing his legs, and taking absolutely no delight in doing so as the pain from simply moving radiated up through his body, he began to take stock of his situation.
He was in the same forested valley that he had been flying over, one that he'd now understood was not safe to be doing so in. While his clearly very mortal body was protesting any act of movement his mind quickly came to two certain conclusions: He could either stay here and face capture and persecution as an irregular militant, or he could move his ass and get out. The thousand and one unpleasant sensations in his body were pleading for the first option, but he knew he only had one real choice.
With gritted teeth, he overcame the stiffness in his fingers, finding the shiny steel clasp of his waist strap and prying the lever up, releasing him from the his leather padded domain. Gripping the side of the open cockpit, he summoned his strength and his will, and with a strained heave he clambered out of the hollow enclosure, losing the battle to gravity as he tipped over the edge and into the shallow water with an inelegant splash. The impact against the smooth river stones sent a fresh wave of agony through him, the pain in his head nearly blinding even as he lay on his back with the frigid water flowing through his matted blonde hair.
It was all he could do to roll over, get his numb hands beneath him, and force himself upright, leaning against the ruined frame of his Airco DH.4 to support himself. One breath, one step. Another breath, another step. If that's what he had to do to keep moving, then that's what would be done. His jaw clenched at each step, but despite the enormous effort, he managed to take two steps. Three steps. Four steps sloshing through the water, and before he knew it, he was walking out of the lazy current and onto the shore. His boots bit into the fine sand, leaving clearly defined impressions as they sank in, but he hadn't the presence of mind to cover his tracks.
He was absolutely freezing. His soaked clothes wicked away his body heat into the gentle breeze, leaving his digits numb and muscles trembling as he trudged onward onto the hard-packed earth of a trail following the curve of the creek. He looked left, and then right. There was absolutely no indication of where he should go, and so with a mental shrug he turned right, holding his arms tight as though he were clinging onto the heat left within him. His legs moved almost like that of a toy soldier, his body swaying with each step, but he persisted. Despite the chill that was seeping into his very bones, despite the aching, stinging, throbbing and hurting his body was experiencing, there was a fire within him that refused to be snuffed out. It was almost as though he were driven by spite, by the indignity of being dumped into an environment that he particularly disliked.
Why here? Why couldn't he have tanked it somewhere tropical, somewhere nice. Fuck, he hated the cold...
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