lazytowns
homemade dynamite
searching.
lemme' introduce myself. i'm renè. i'm seventeen and balancing school with two minimum wage jobs so that i can support my cherished son— my cat, sir whiskers. when i'm not lurking on the forums you can find me watering my garden or waiting for sherlock season five.
that's me done, your turn. i'm looking for a friend more than anything. someone who's happy to babble in ooc chat with me, loves making playlists and fanarts/edits of our characters. i'm looking for a partner who i can relate to; someone close to my age who won't nag me for replies because they too are busy. i have a kik so that we can keep in touch when i'm feeling too lazy to do my replies. also to send memes.
i don't have any trigger warnings or limits— cussing, gore, substance abuse, the vertical tango— all are fine by me. if anything, i gravitate towards edgy characters and roleplays when it comes to my originals.
'quality over quantity' is my mantra. i write anywhere between ten sentences and ten paragraphs, it mostly depends on the happenings of the roleplay and what i've had for lunch. i don't expect you to write as much or even more than me and that must be mutual. no expectations, just a lil bit of fun.
as for shipping, i'll write mxm or fxm (in which i would play the female, sorry ladies. **unless we're doubling and we both get some sugar.)
i tend to play one lead character and adopt a bunch of npc's who will serve as my expendable minions and plot fodder. i'd hope that you do the same to help advance the plot and add depth to the roleplay.
shit i do
i tend to play one lead character and adopt a bunch of npc's who will serve as my expendable minions and plot fodder. i'd hope that you do the same to help advance the plot and add depth to the roleplay.
shit i do
sad nerd shit
⋆ guardians of the galaxy ******** hella craving i saw volume II and started reading the comics
⋆ the heroes rise trilogy
⋆ mass effect andromeda
⋆ pacific rim *********************** i'm always craving this
⋆ the maze runner *** books or movies
⋆ fury (that bomb ass tank movie)
⋆ the hunger games (we can set it years prior to the novels/films)
⋆ uncharted series
⋆ the heroes rise trilogy
⋆ mass effect andromeda
⋆ pacific rim *********************** i'm always craving this
⋆ the maze runner *** books or movies
⋆ fury (that bomb ass tank movie)
⋆ the hunger games (we can set it years prior to the novels/films)
⋆ uncharted series
just plain shit
⋆ gods in the modern age mortal world (could be nordic, egyption, etc. like they wake up and realize nobody believes in them anymore, it'd be funny. plus they have tons of demi-god grandkids that they try to adopt)
⋆
try before you buy
just some writing samples to show that i don't always type in lower case (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧
- super long reply
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A lone figure floats down the dusky, deserted market strip. From a distance you'd think it's an aged commoner by the set of fragile hands protruding from the cloak to cradle a tattered satchel. Beneath the cloak are two bare feet that are tarnished with flecks of dried earth. The person leisurely hobbles onward, limping as though the jagged cobblestone path was wearing at their feet. They look like a ghost, draped in a pure white cloak that hangs over their head and flows down their back in a spill of rippling silk.
But this is no ghost. It is, however, a legend.
The lone soul gazes up at the sky, looking to the stars for company. With this, a gentle breeze blows the hood off their head and a mess of rich blonde locks tumble out. Her hair is tucked back with silver pins, embezzled with gems that glimmer in the starlight. The jades of her eyes do the same.
This is Princess Isadora.
She halts. Closes her eyes, relishes in the feeling of the cool evening breeze pushing back her hair. It was a pain to keep it tucked away under this hood all day. The tranquil silence is broken by a grating, nasally voice.
"That's a lotta' jewelry for a commoner."
Isadora's slender brows pull into a frown. She turns around, slowly, rigidly, giving herself time to loop the satchel over her shoulder and hide it at the small of her back. It sits awkwardly atop of her cloak, the strap sinking in between her breasts. She stares the strange man down, noting the way his sinister smile glimpses a set of silver-capped teeth that wink in the moonlight. Her eyes are like those of a doe staring down the barrel of a hunter's rifle but she maintains her composure. Back straight, hands folded firmly at her front.
"Indeed, too much for your filthy paws to handle." There's a safe distance between them, five odd meters, and Isadora's confidence spans through it. Her words are flavored with the type of bitterness that branches from disgust. Silence lingers, a sudden tension substituting for any words that need be said.
"Ya' satchel don't look too flash." The goon pipes up. He takes a stretched, lesiurely stride forward, bringing his spindly frame out of the shadows and into the open moonlight. His rat-like features twist into a malevolent, gap-toothed smile as he continues. "I can hold onto tha' for ya', lighten the walk home."
"What satchel?" Isadora shoots back, maybe a little too fast. Her dainty knuckles are whitening, clasped nervously at her front.
"This one, luv'." A third voice chimes in, this one far more smooth and low than the other. His plump, hungry fingers reach for the satchel strap on Isadora's shoulder and his other hand snakes up her waist.
And then he yelps, cries out in pain. His hands disappear into the darkness and he cradles them at his front.
"Boss! She fuckin' bit me!" Between his panicked, phlegmy breathing, excited giggling can be heard. "I can't feel ma' pinky! It burns!"
- average reply
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Mean Girls has always been a favorite of his. As a young lad living in a trailer park Sid had peeped through the thin slit of an ajar door, past his unconscious mother's shoulder and over to a cracked television screen. After the woman had drunk herself into a deep, numb sleep she'd leave the film to play on loop. Maybe she forgot to turn it off, maybe she wanted to drown out the violent bickering of the neighbors. Even when his mother was this far from wake, Sid would not dare tread beyond his den. He could barely hear the dialogue over the clamorous drone of his mother's snoring snoring so one of his favorite scenes was the one where the girls attack each other in the cafeteria. They'd hiss and growl, clamber over tables to claw at each other and bite.
He'd laughed at the time. He'd never thought that prison would be the same.
That is until he's slammed onto the cold tiles of the cafeteria, swept off of his feet by a nose-dive tackle from a hefty veteran. Something cracks when Sid hits the ground and he can't tell if it was his skull or a frail rib. Maybe his dignity? He writhes under the older man's merciless grip, pinned underneath two white-knuckled fists that have clamped onto the tangerine fabric of Sid's jumpsuit. He fires insults but they escape his lips in the form of wheezes and puffs, he still needs to catch his breath after having a violent lungful of it knocked out of his chest. His own two spindly hands wrap around the bulky wrists of the other's. Fine grey hair splinter from the mans fingers and " F U C K D E A T H " is engraved into his skin with blotchy charcoal ink. Sid gulps.
"You listen 'ere, pretty boy." The veteran's gruff warning spills onto Sid's face in a mouthful of sickly breath that reeks of smoke and plague. Ah, nostalgia. Smells like home. "Newbies like you ain't welcome to the apple juice, let alone two of em'." The veteran edges closer, nearly pressing his crooked nose to Sid's. To exaggerate his point he tightens his grip on Sid's shirt.
"Ay, is tha' so?" Such audacity should not come from a man in Sid's position. He drags his words out slowly as he squeezes them from his chest, breathing steadily through his nostrils. "Ye' can have 'em back if ye' like, doubt it's yer' first golden shower anyways." - the quick 'n dirty
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"C'mon, we can do this the hard way or the painful way."
A hearty chuckle rings from her lungs and echoes through the stillness of the night. There's something about the firmness to her voice that suggests Sulracha isn't joking. Cold, metallic bones that scarcely resemble human fingers click around their ankles, the augmentations creaking with the strength of her grip. She propels backward with a grunt, unceremoniously dragging the writhing body across the earth. They must have done something quite bad to earn a bounty this large to their name— she knows it, the man kicking for freedom knows it too. She purposefully tightens her grip to warn him not to continue, the tips of her her jagged digits clawing into his skin. When she speaks again all humor is gone from her voice.
"These glove are new and I'd really hate to get blood on them. Cut it out."
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