caustic
𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞
ღSo, I have a hankering for this plot, as I usually do, but hey, surely someone else out there might have the same craving.ღ
I crave Serial Killer x Detective.
I've several ideas for this pairing. However, I'd also love to hear your thoughts!
I'm 24, no notable triggers, with inclinations towards darker plots and themes.
I'm okay with mature themes around the board.
I consider myself a literate, detailed roleplayer, perhaps advanced, but it's all subjective.
I don't have a WC or reply quota, quality over quantity, patience is a virtue.
I'm a bit sickly, so sometimes I need to take small health breaks.
I greatly prefer Discord for OOC.
but will use whatever you prefer.
You needn't be a perfect writer to contact me, I take in all skill levels.
Some themes we can explore this pairing with:
♚themes; angst ; slow burn; psychological ; gritty & dark; macabre; slight fluff; survival; thriller ; mystery ; the human psyche ; beasts ; revenge ; moralistic complexities ; phobias ; toxicity ; musically inspired ; death ; romance ; platonic ; mental illness (but only if played accurately) ; addiction ; death ; noire ; mafia & crime ; modern; post-apocalyptic; dystopia and utopia; rivalry; drugs; hard, moralistic choices; serial killers; fantasy elements; sci-fi element; futuristic or historic; shifters and were-beasts; ♚
♚
other pairings;
corrupt officer/mafia leader
undercover officer/mafia leader
officer/sex worker
detective/killer
detective/grand thief
ghost detective/murder
ghost serial killer/detective seeking to solve a case
I'll supply a sample below, albeit, a dusty one, but one none-the-less.
I RP in the third person, past tense and first person.
The role I'd prefer is the role of the detective.
♚Samples♚
I crave Serial Killer x Detective.
I've several ideas for this pairing. However, I'd also love to hear your thoughts!
I'm 24, no notable triggers, with inclinations towards darker plots and themes.
I'm okay with mature themes around the board.
I consider myself a literate, detailed roleplayer, perhaps advanced, but it's all subjective.
I don't have a WC or reply quota, quality over quantity, patience is a virtue.
I'm a bit sickly, so sometimes I need to take small health breaks.
I greatly prefer Discord for OOC.
but will use whatever you prefer.
You needn't be a perfect writer to contact me, I take in all skill levels.
Some themes we can explore this pairing with:
♚themes; angst ; slow burn; psychological ; gritty & dark; macabre; slight fluff; survival; thriller ; mystery ; the human psyche ; beasts ; revenge ; moralistic complexities ; phobias ; toxicity ; musically inspired ; death ; romance ; platonic ; mental illness (but only if played accurately) ; addiction ; death ; noire ; mafia & crime ; modern; post-apocalyptic; dystopia and utopia; rivalry; drugs; hard, moralistic choices; serial killers; fantasy elements; sci-fi element; futuristic or historic; shifters and were-beasts; ♚
♚
other pairings;
corrupt officer/mafia leader
undercover officer/mafia leader
officer/sex worker
detective/killer
detective/grand thief
ghost detective/murder
ghost serial killer/detective seeking to solve a case
I'll supply a sample below, albeit, a dusty one, but one none-the-less.
I RP in the third person, past tense and first person.
The role I'd prefer is the role of the detective.
♚Samples♚
3rd person, past tense.
To leave the confines is to sleep with death, to stay in the confines is to wish for death.
Born abnormal, as they said. Perhaps presumptions stemming from stigmas attributed to being an orphan, or rather- Thom's favored theory- set framework structured by an overbearing adoptive "mother" whose compassion echoed hollow, bound by vanity entwined with pity that sickened him, doting only for appearances, not from tender seeds of love.
In regards to his parental relations, if that was all he knew, what would render desire to stay?
'There shall be nothing here to miss, and no one shall miss me.'
A thought- one dripping with vitriol, so saturated with a cynical venomosity acute enough that it wavered Thom's focus. All those about him appeared to align with the belief that he lived in a senseless reverie, sundered from reality, yet, if he were to have a say, they lived within an illusion molded by foreboding and mythos, and he grasped conceptions they condemned out of ignorance.
Since youth, Thom felt allured, magnetized, to the world that lay beyond the banal visage of the town, where no strict rules and regulations governed his life nor his dreams; where foliage grew dense, and a provocative sense of mystery flowered and enveloped like ivy. However, forever did the ability to elope eluded him until finally, chance revealed itself and two eves prior he slunk away when all fell into the embrace of sleep, set to venture, brimming with exhilaration in a stark almost humorous opposition to the present tense. Where, for now, Thom floundered with a sliver of regret, utterly lost, pining for the quench of fresh, unsullied water, perhaps accompanied by the warmth of liquor and a hearty meal. To at last curl into bed with promises of comfort a simplistic sleeping bag placed upon frigid earth could not provide.
Regardless of a situation not particularly fortuitous, Thom concluded ambling without aim within the woodlands proved ever more titillating than the mundanity he grew accustomed to. Often had he heard rumorous whispers that spoke of remote villages, landscapes distinct and foreign, beasts that devoured, their hunger perpetual, yet, all Thom unveiled thus far from within the forest were trees and their littered leaves- green growth as far as the eye could see.
Albeit, traces of life subtly presented themselves as if the undergrowth tucked away secrets of its own. However inconspicuous, Thom noted trodden paths- a sign of humanity, perhaps,- and marks upon the trees he could not decipher.
Coming to a fork amidst a clearing, wearied, Thom settled against a grand oak, whose limbs sprawled skyward.
Well, this is a lovely predicament.
With little in the way of forethought, Thom found himself calling out, his voice reverberating, fragmenting the ghostly silence that seemed to haunt him throughout his trek.
"Hello?"
Chiding himself at once for such a foolish action, Thom shuddered, a peculiar sensation of trepidation beginning to gnaw away at him. What amongst him could he have awoken; fluttering the eyelids of creatures with snarling maws, perhaps?
Moreover, Thom began to reflect if he had made a grave mistake, one of which would lead him to starve in depths where none of those he left behind would find, yet another statistic to be fodder for the local fairytales.
To leave the confines is to sleep with death, to stay in the confines is to wish for death.
Born abnormal, as they said. Perhaps presumptions stemming from stigmas attributed to being an orphan, or rather- Thom's favored theory- set framework structured by an overbearing adoptive "mother" whose compassion echoed hollow, bound by vanity entwined with pity that sickened him, doting only for appearances, not from tender seeds of love.
In regards to his parental relations, if that was all he knew, what would render desire to stay?
'There shall be nothing here to miss, and no one shall miss me.'
A thought- one dripping with vitriol, so saturated with a cynical venomosity acute enough that it wavered Thom's focus. All those about him appeared to align with the belief that he lived in a senseless reverie, sundered from reality, yet, if he were to have a say, they lived within an illusion molded by foreboding and mythos, and he grasped conceptions they condemned out of ignorance.
Since youth, Thom felt allured, magnetized, to the world that lay beyond the banal visage of the town, where no strict rules and regulations governed his life nor his dreams; where foliage grew dense, and a provocative sense of mystery flowered and enveloped like ivy. However, forever did the ability to elope eluded him until finally, chance revealed itself and two eves prior he slunk away when all fell into the embrace of sleep, set to venture, brimming with exhilaration in a stark almost humorous opposition to the present tense. Where, for now, Thom floundered with a sliver of regret, utterly lost, pining for the quench of fresh, unsullied water, perhaps accompanied by the warmth of liquor and a hearty meal. To at last curl into bed with promises of comfort a simplistic sleeping bag placed upon frigid earth could not provide.
Regardless of a situation not particularly fortuitous, Thom concluded ambling without aim within the woodlands proved ever more titillating than the mundanity he grew accustomed to. Often had he heard rumorous whispers that spoke of remote villages, landscapes distinct and foreign, beasts that devoured, their hunger perpetual, yet, all Thom unveiled thus far from within the forest were trees and their littered leaves- green growth as far as the eye could see.
Albeit, traces of life subtly presented themselves as if the undergrowth tucked away secrets of its own. However inconspicuous, Thom noted trodden paths- a sign of humanity, perhaps,- and marks upon the trees he could not decipher.
Coming to a fork amidst a clearing, wearied, Thom settled against a grand oak, whose limbs sprawled skyward.
Well, this is a lovely predicament.
With little in the way of forethought, Thom found himself calling out, his voice reverberating, fragmenting the ghostly silence that seemed to haunt him throughout his trek.
"Hello?"
Chiding himself at once for such a foolish action, Thom shuddered, a peculiar sensation of trepidation beginning to gnaw away at him. What amongst him could he have awoken; fluttering the eyelids of creatures with snarling maws, perhaps?
Moreover, Thom began to reflect if he had made a grave mistake, one of which would lead him to starve in depths where none of those he left behind would find, yet another statistic to be fodder for the local fairytales.
1st person.
A cigarette lay between my fingers in suspension, and you look at me, knowingly, while we tango in a limbo where smoking is a lesser form of fodder to the beast that got us here in the first place.
And on the bed, we sit apart as opposites, you clinging to mere slivers of sobriety and me, strung out and coming down, as if tugged by gravity, aching yet again for the taste of intoxication.
"Will it always be this way?"
An utterance murmured from you in a tone monotonous, and, moreover, I find myself inclined to query if they trickled from the confines of your beautiful mind by mishap, released through inebriation. The question carries its weight in perpetuity akin to the monster that stalks us; a question you ask almost every eve now.
Inhaling sharply, I bite my tongue, and if that sentiment were literal, I'd be bearing down until scarlet rivulets seeped from it and the acrid taste of metal encompassed my taste buds.
Speaking would render no aid, there is nothing left to say that would accommodate you; I've ripped a hole beyond recovery in our canvas and its vastness yawns between us like an opening maw, lined with the fangs of our failings.
A cigarette lay between my fingers in suspension, and you look at me, knowingly, while we tango in a limbo where smoking is a lesser form of fodder to the beast that got us here in the first place.
And on the bed, we sit apart as opposites, you clinging to mere slivers of sobriety and me, strung out and coming down, as if tugged by gravity, aching yet again for the taste of intoxication.
"Will it always be this way?"
An utterance murmured from you in a tone monotonous, and, moreover, I find myself inclined to query if they trickled from the confines of your beautiful mind by mishap, released through inebriation. The question carries its weight in perpetuity akin to the monster that stalks us; a question you ask almost every eve now.
Inhaling sharply, I bite my tongue, and if that sentiment were literal, I'd be bearing down until scarlet rivulets seeped from it and the acrid taste of metal encompassed my taste buds.
Speaking would render no aid, there is nothing left to say that would accommodate you; I've ripped a hole beyond recovery in our canvas and its vastness yawns between us like an opening maw, lined with the fangs of our failings.
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