BittyBobcat
Llama hand
Heyo! I'm Bitty and I use any pronouns. Other nicknames like Bit, Cat, or pretty much anything else are cool too. I'm not picky.
Before I say anything else, I would like to say that the title of this thread is denoting a preference and not necessarily a hard line. I generally don't write romance with another person's character, but I'm open to writing it if I've gotten to know my RP partner well enough (I probably won't think to consider it as an option unless you explicitely mention it though, and this doesn't mean all my characters are romancable). That said, since I'm not comfortable RPing romance with strangers because there's a lot of weird things you can end up falling into through that, pretty much every RP with me here is going to start off platonic (unless I already know you, of course, in which case you might get some leeway).
Here's some quick info about me, my style, and expectations for my RP partners. My specific interests are further down this post:
- I've been roleplaying for about 4 years and writing for as long as I can remember
- I say 1x1 like "one times one" and no one can stop me
- I generally write 200-500 words per post, though I'll do the occassional 1000+. I don't expect exact mirroring in length (especially not on those 1000+ posts), but semi-lit to lit is my preference for my partner's posts (wimpy posts from time to time are completely understandable, though).
- I'm cool with playing multiple characters if needed, but I don't require that of my partners
- Weekly replying is my usual rate (though do expect this to slow down from time to time because Life) but I'm cool with partners with slower rates as long as I'm informed going into it so I don't have to constantly go "Are they ghosting or planning to reply later?"
- I usually write in third-person past-tense, but if there's a reason to switch that up then I'm perfectly willing to do so. Partners of mine don't need to mirror that style if they don't want to so I ask that my partners allow me to keep my usual style as well unless there's a specific reason for it beyond mirroring
- I usually recycle characters, but I always do my best to make sure they fit the setting. The overlap is primarily a collection of themes and common backstory elements
- I really enjoy worldbuilding in custom settings (though moreso in the "I wonder if this affects this" than the maps and intracate political structures kind)
- Hopefully this goes without saying: I'm very much LGBTQ+ friendly. In fact, you might've guessed by now, I'm not cis (or het for that matter)
- I don't have an age requirement for my RP partners, but I do require that they act appropriate and mature. By which I mean be willing to communicate, be prepared for some elements that may be considered mature (mental illness/trauma and responses to it, addiction/similar things that might not technically fall under that label, dangerous and stressful situations, etc), and generally have the common sense to not be a jerk or anything like that
- That being said, I will avoid certain topics if asked. Please don't try to RP with me if you want to avoid serious themes altogether because I don't think we'd be good RP partners, but if you're trying to avoid specific ones then I don't mind
- You probably meet this standard, but just in case: I expect some amount of contribution from my RP partners. I won't complain about not knowing what to do sometimes, but if RPing with you feels like trying to force feed a dog medicine then we won't make good RP partners.
- Generally, my pull into RPs comes from investment in characters. I'm not a "fight scenes and action all the time" kind of person as the parts I enjoy most about RPing are things relying on the relationships between characters. I hold nothing against you if you are the more action-only type, but, if that's the case, I'm probably not the partner for you
So, with all that out of the way, let's get to the fun part. I've got all the stuff that interests me (and hopefully might interest you) sorted into four categories. General for miscellaneous info that doesn't really apply to anything specific such as genres I like and vague cravings, Characters for OCs of mine, Plots & Settings for specific settings/plots I have in mind (the plot proposed doesn't necessarily have to be used to use the setting paired with it), and Fandoms for fandoms I'm interesting in roleplaying in (though I feel obligated to say that I only really like fandom RPs for the setting and don't RP with canon characters).
Before I say anything else, I would like to say that the title of this thread is denoting a preference and not necessarily a hard line. I generally don't write romance with another person's character, but I'm open to writing it if I've gotten to know my RP partner well enough (I probably won't think to consider it as an option unless you explicitely mention it though, and this doesn't mean all my characters are romancable). That said, since I'm not comfortable RPing romance with strangers because there's a lot of weird things you can end up falling into through that, pretty much every RP with me here is going to start off platonic (unless I already know you, of course, in which case you might get some leeway).
Here's some quick info about me, my style, and expectations for my RP partners. My specific interests are further down this post:
- I've been roleplaying for about 4 years and writing for as long as I can remember
- I say 1x1 like "one times one" and no one can stop me
- I generally write 200-500 words per post, though I'll do the occassional 1000+. I don't expect exact mirroring in length (especially not on those 1000+ posts), but semi-lit to lit is my preference for my partner's posts (wimpy posts from time to time are completely understandable, though).
- I'm cool with playing multiple characters if needed, but I don't require that of my partners
- Weekly replying is my usual rate (though do expect this to slow down from time to time because Life) but I'm cool with partners with slower rates as long as I'm informed going into it so I don't have to constantly go "Are they ghosting or planning to reply later?"
- I usually write in third-person past-tense, but if there's a reason to switch that up then I'm perfectly willing to do so. Partners of mine don't need to mirror that style if they don't want to so I ask that my partners allow me to keep my usual style as well unless there's a specific reason for it beyond mirroring
- I usually recycle characters, but I always do my best to make sure they fit the setting. The overlap is primarily a collection of themes and common backstory elements
- I really enjoy worldbuilding in custom settings (though moreso in the "I wonder if this affects this" than the maps and intracate political structures kind)
- Hopefully this goes without saying: I'm very much LGBTQ+ friendly. In fact, you might've guessed by now, I'm not cis (or het for that matter)
- I don't have an age requirement for my RP partners, but I do require that they act appropriate and mature. By which I mean be willing to communicate, be prepared for some elements that may be considered mature (mental illness/trauma and responses to it, addiction/similar things that might not technically fall under that label, dangerous and stressful situations, etc), and generally have the common sense to not be a jerk or anything like that
- That being said, I will avoid certain topics if asked. Please don't try to RP with me if you want to avoid serious themes altogether because I don't think we'd be good RP partners, but if you're trying to avoid specific ones then I don't mind
- You probably meet this standard, but just in case: I expect some amount of contribution from my RP partners. I won't complain about not knowing what to do sometimes, but if RPing with you feels like trying to force feed a dog medicine then we won't make good RP partners.
- Generally, my pull into RPs comes from investment in characters. I'm not a "fight scenes and action all the time" kind of person as the parts I enjoy most about RPing are things relying on the relationships between characters. I hold nothing against you if you are the more action-only type, but, if that's the case, I'm probably not the partner for you
Nobody ever gave much thought to the peacocks.
They stood, shining and scattered across the grounds like shards of bottle-glass after a particularly rambunctious party. Each of their polished metal gears clicked and whirred with a deliberate grace that never failed to fill a minute or two of awful conversation before it inevitably turned to politics or interpersonal drama (which, when it came to the royal family and their guests, was really just politics with a thin veil). As far as the outside world was concerned, they were curious trinkets designed for nothing further than decoration.
No one gave much thought to the peacocks or the fact that their tail feathers, beautiful as they might be, were just as much metal as the rest of them and sharper still than there was any decorative reason for. Not once had their eyes stopped for even a moment as they slid over serrated talons that would be found on no living, breathing peacock. And when the birds—if they could be called as much without doing the warm, feathered beasts a disservice—turned to watch them with unblinking eyes, never did they wonder if it was anything beyond registering a new object in the area.
Luca knew better.
He hadn’t gotten the chance to see them in action before (he suspected he wouldn’t want to anyway), but he had borne witness to the aftermath. Some poor fool who decided to climb over the fence in the middle of the night—maybe in an assassination attempt, maybe just to find some warm furnace wall to rest against until morning. Whatever the case the result was the same.
Hundreds of wounds. Each shaped into the single segment of a chevron V that matched with no blade Luca had ever encountered. Each made within a similar timeframe, for the blood that encrusted them seemed in no place to be hampered more by the halting of the hearts’ beating than the others.
It wasn’t until he knocked on the workshop door to ask if he might continue his latest project and he caught a familiar glimmer of white metal feather tipped in crimson out of the corner in his eye before the door was slammed in his face that it clicked.
The following sleepless nights spent listening to the incessant whirr from the creatures stalking just outside his window gave Luca plenty of time to think about the peacocks, and now he rather wished he hadn’t because now he had to make his way through a yard full of them.
In other words, he was a dead man walking… or perching, to be more accurate.
Seeing as Luca valued his life, he wasn’t running into this half-cocked (though, given the context, he almost wished that to be the literal case—he couldn’t imagine the machines could function well if they were missing half their workings). He spent the better part of an hour watching from the windowed nook in the stables’ rafters where he had shoved himself after the initial attempt on his life, forming as much of a plan as he could manage.
He could only make out two from where he sat—Luca thanked whatever small sliver of luck was still on his side for a full moon and an unclouded sky that allowed the gleaming, white machines to be visible against the shadowed grass—but it seemed they rotated post about every ten minutes or so.
There were six of the foul fowls, one for each of the Graymin siblings (a thought he chose not to dwell on for the moment). He only managed to tell because there was one with a slightly dented feather that had disappeared for five rotations before finally returning to its post.
They didn’t seem very fast. Their short, stumpy legs—however elegant—could only cover so much ground in a step. Granted, it didn’t seem as if they were in any rush (the prowling way they turned their heads every few seconds to get a full sweep of their temporary territory attested to that), but he couldn’t imagine they’d be much quicker when it came down to it.
Given this pinprick of hope, he mentally charted his route. First to the bush he could hide behind, then to the flowerbeds, lay behind the fountain… on and on it went until he could imagine himself finally reaching the boathouse. It would be simple, he told himself. Quite literally a walk in the park.
To his credit, he did make it to the halfway point unnoticed. But one poorly timed trip and a clattering of garden-variety pebbles interrupted the precise whirring he’d fallen into the rhythm of and Luca made a mad dash for his next hiding spot, the fountain.
He shoved his back against it, holding a hand over his mouth lest his breathing grow too erratic to go unheard.
Silence. Then a quiet, click-click-aack. And another pause.
The unmistakable sound of spinning gears multiplied.
It had called its friends.
He glanced to his side, half expecting to see a metal beak staring back at him, but saw nothing aside from a bed of plantar rocks. For a dry-mouthed moment, Luca weighed the chances that reaching over would lead to him losing a finger.
Behind, the whirring’s growing closeness grew louder, and his decision was made for him.
His hand closed around the smooth, cold rock for only a second before he hurled it as far as it would go in the opposite direction of the boathouse.
There was another pause, gear quieting as whatever risk-assessment calculations the peacocks held ran, and then the clicking began to grow fainter. Luca breathed a muted sigh of relief and peeked around the corner just to be sure his path was once again safe.
Until he found a familiar be-beaked face inches from his own.
Damn his luck.
In a surge of panic-fueled strength Luca hadn’t even known he was capable of, he snatched another rock and slammed it into the creature’s head. Without taking a single moment to check what damage he’d done to it, he scrambled to his feet and bolted toward the bank of the river where he knew the boats were docked.
The ground flew beneath him, grass blurring into dirt and mud that, by some miracle, he avoided slipping in. All the while, a new creaking of the gears filled his ears like a thousand ice cubes cracking as they were dropped into warm liquid.
He chanced a glance over his shoulder and immediately regretted it.
The peacock’s feathers had folded up and over its back, then down so their tips reached the ground. Using these as a prop, it walked as a spider with an uncountable number of limbs, each one digging into the ground and kicking up clumps of clay as it ran.
With that image burned sharply in his mind, his legs churned faster still.
When he reached the boats, he realized with a lurch in his stomach that the knots were thick and tight. Having left the castle in such a hurry, he’d had no chance to gather supplies, and there wasn’t a single knife or other useful tool on his body.
Still, he leapt into a dinghy and began frantically tugging at the rope holding it to the dock.
The gleaming white monster of knives and teeth didn’t slow.
His fingers scrabbled uselessly against wood and thread, earning him more than a few splinters in the process. He could almost feel the heat of steam flowing from cracks within the machine’s exterior.
Luca pulled his hands back in an attempt to reassess where to pull at the knot.
A bladed feather slammed down in their place.
Luca scrambled backward and beneath one of the dinghy’s benches. Knives flickered between the cracks, but it provided cover enough that his torso wasn’t instantly punctured.
The white metal flashed so brilliantly in the moonlight that he couldn’t distinguish feather from head. It all dissolved into a flashing mass of cuts and rage. For a split second, he watched its mouth open as if to call for the others just in case the unlikely event that it lost its quarry came to pass, but no sound came out. The beak he could now see was crushed seemed too far gone to function properly—and, with it, any sounding equipment it possessed.
Somehow, in this chaos, he felt himself drifting backward as if caught in the river’s current.
Between death-defying rolls away from the blades, he felt it increase. The force pulling him back was speeding up and, at the same time, the number of pointed impacts against himself and the boat’s bottom lessened until, finally, there were none.
He coughed, uncertain nerves prickling behind the adrenaline roaring in his ears. Light filtered down from above.
With a terrified slowness, Luca pushed himself out from under the dinghy’s bench and sat up.
The coast drifted by quickly now that he was drifting into the stronger currents. Along it ran a white metal peacock with a half-broken skull, apparently unable to leave the property-line. He watched it, eyes wide and silent, until eventually he passed the far reaches of the castle’s grounds and the bird slowed to a frustrated stop, still attempting to caw for its allies.
Luca sat up straighter and glanced along the boat’s sides. The rope was still tied to the boat, but when he fished the trailing end out of the water he found that it had been cut cleanly by what had to be one of the bird’s own blades.
Warm blood dripped down his forehead, and—judging by the stinging along his limbs—other, thankfully nonvital, places as well. Dropping the rope, he laid back on the floor of the dinghy, eyes facing the sky. And he laughed. An incredulous, manic, wet sort of laugh.
Distantly on the horizon, the twilight-purple sky became edged with orange.
They stood, shining and scattered across the grounds like shards of bottle-glass after a particularly rambunctious party. Each of their polished metal gears clicked and whirred with a deliberate grace that never failed to fill a minute or two of awful conversation before it inevitably turned to politics or interpersonal drama (which, when it came to the royal family and their guests, was really just politics with a thin veil). As far as the outside world was concerned, they were curious trinkets designed for nothing further than decoration.
No one gave much thought to the peacocks or the fact that their tail feathers, beautiful as they might be, were just as much metal as the rest of them and sharper still than there was any decorative reason for. Not once had their eyes stopped for even a moment as they slid over serrated talons that would be found on no living, breathing peacock. And when the birds—if they could be called as much without doing the warm, feathered beasts a disservice—turned to watch them with unblinking eyes, never did they wonder if it was anything beyond registering a new object in the area.
Luca knew better.
He hadn’t gotten the chance to see them in action before (he suspected he wouldn’t want to anyway), but he had borne witness to the aftermath. Some poor fool who decided to climb over the fence in the middle of the night—maybe in an assassination attempt, maybe just to find some warm furnace wall to rest against until morning. Whatever the case the result was the same.
Hundreds of wounds. Each shaped into the single segment of a chevron V that matched with no blade Luca had ever encountered. Each made within a similar timeframe, for the blood that encrusted them seemed in no place to be hampered more by the halting of the hearts’ beating than the others.
It wasn’t until he knocked on the workshop door to ask if he might continue his latest project and he caught a familiar glimmer of white metal feather tipped in crimson out of the corner in his eye before the door was slammed in his face that it clicked.
The following sleepless nights spent listening to the incessant whirr from the creatures stalking just outside his window gave Luca plenty of time to think about the peacocks, and now he rather wished he hadn’t because now he had to make his way through a yard full of them.
In other words, he was a dead man walking… or perching, to be more accurate.
Seeing as Luca valued his life, he wasn’t running into this half-cocked (though, given the context, he almost wished that to be the literal case—he couldn’t imagine the machines could function well if they were missing half their workings). He spent the better part of an hour watching from the windowed nook in the stables’ rafters where he had shoved himself after the initial attempt on his life, forming as much of a plan as he could manage.
He could only make out two from where he sat—Luca thanked whatever small sliver of luck was still on his side for a full moon and an unclouded sky that allowed the gleaming, white machines to be visible against the shadowed grass—but it seemed they rotated post about every ten minutes or so.
There were six of the foul fowls, one for each of the Graymin siblings (a thought he chose not to dwell on for the moment). He only managed to tell because there was one with a slightly dented feather that had disappeared for five rotations before finally returning to its post.
They didn’t seem very fast. Their short, stumpy legs—however elegant—could only cover so much ground in a step. Granted, it didn’t seem as if they were in any rush (the prowling way they turned their heads every few seconds to get a full sweep of their temporary territory attested to that), but he couldn’t imagine they’d be much quicker when it came down to it.
Given this pinprick of hope, he mentally charted his route. First to the bush he could hide behind, then to the flowerbeds, lay behind the fountain… on and on it went until he could imagine himself finally reaching the boathouse. It would be simple, he told himself. Quite literally a walk in the park.
To his credit, he did make it to the halfway point unnoticed. But one poorly timed trip and a clattering of garden-variety pebbles interrupted the precise whirring he’d fallen into the rhythm of and Luca made a mad dash for his next hiding spot, the fountain.
He shoved his back against it, holding a hand over his mouth lest his breathing grow too erratic to go unheard.
Silence. Then a quiet, click-click-aack. And another pause.
The unmistakable sound of spinning gears multiplied.
It had called its friends.
He glanced to his side, half expecting to see a metal beak staring back at him, but saw nothing aside from a bed of plantar rocks. For a dry-mouthed moment, Luca weighed the chances that reaching over would lead to him losing a finger.
Behind, the whirring’s growing closeness grew louder, and his decision was made for him.
His hand closed around the smooth, cold rock for only a second before he hurled it as far as it would go in the opposite direction of the boathouse.
There was another pause, gear quieting as whatever risk-assessment calculations the peacocks held ran, and then the clicking began to grow fainter. Luca breathed a muted sigh of relief and peeked around the corner just to be sure his path was once again safe.
Until he found a familiar be-beaked face inches from his own.
Damn his luck.
In a surge of panic-fueled strength Luca hadn’t even known he was capable of, he snatched another rock and slammed it into the creature’s head. Without taking a single moment to check what damage he’d done to it, he scrambled to his feet and bolted toward the bank of the river where he knew the boats were docked.
The ground flew beneath him, grass blurring into dirt and mud that, by some miracle, he avoided slipping in. All the while, a new creaking of the gears filled his ears like a thousand ice cubes cracking as they were dropped into warm liquid.
He chanced a glance over his shoulder and immediately regretted it.
The peacock’s feathers had folded up and over its back, then down so their tips reached the ground. Using these as a prop, it walked as a spider with an uncountable number of limbs, each one digging into the ground and kicking up clumps of clay as it ran.
With that image burned sharply in his mind, his legs churned faster still.
When he reached the boats, he realized with a lurch in his stomach that the knots were thick and tight. Having left the castle in such a hurry, he’d had no chance to gather supplies, and there wasn’t a single knife or other useful tool on his body.
Still, he leapt into a dinghy and began frantically tugging at the rope holding it to the dock.
The gleaming white monster of knives and teeth didn’t slow.
His fingers scrabbled uselessly against wood and thread, earning him more than a few splinters in the process. He could almost feel the heat of steam flowing from cracks within the machine’s exterior.
Luca pulled his hands back in an attempt to reassess where to pull at the knot.
A bladed feather slammed down in their place.
Luca scrambled backward and beneath one of the dinghy’s benches. Knives flickered between the cracks, but it provided cover enough that his torso wasn’t instantly punctured.
The white metal flashed so brilliantly in the moonlight that he couldn’t distinguish feather from head. It all dissolved into a flashing mass of cuts and rage. For a split second, he watched its mouth open as if to call for the others just in case the unlikely event that it lost its quarry came to pass, but no sound came out. The beak he could now see was crushed seemed too far gone to function properly—and, with it, any sounding equipment it possessed.
Somehow, in this chaos, he felt himself drifting backward as if caught in the river’s current.
Between death-defying rolls away from the blades, he felt it increase. The force pulling him back was speeding up and, at the same time, the number of pointed impacts against himself and the boat’s bottom lessened until, finally, there were none.
He coughed, uncertain nerves prickling behind the adrenaline roaring in his ears. Light filtered down from above.
With a terrified slowness, Luca pushed himself out from under the dinghy’s bench and sat up.
The coast drifted by quickly now that he was drifting into the stronger currents. Along it ran a white metal peacock with a half-broken skull, apparently unable to leave the property-line. He watched it, eyes wide and silent, until eventually he passed the far reaches of the castle’s grounds and the bird slowed to a frustrated stop, still attempting to caw for its allies.
Luca sat up straighter and glanced along the boat’s sides. The rope was still tied to the boat, but when he fished the trailing end out of the water he found that it had been cut cleanly by what had to be one of the bird’s own blades.
Warm blood dripped down his forehead, and—judging by the stinging along his limbs—other, thankfully nonvital, places as well. Dropping the rope, he laid back on the floor of the dinghy, eyes facing the sky. And he laughed. An incredulous, manic, wet sort of laugh.
Distantly on the horizon, the twilight-purple sky became edged with orange.
So, with all that out of the way, let's get to the fun part. I've got all the stuff that interests me (and hopefully might interest you) sorted into four categories. General for miscellaneous info that doesn't really apply to anything specific such as genres I like and vague cravings, Characters for OCs of mine, Plots & Settings for specific settings/plots I have in mind (the plot proposed doesn't necessarily have to be used to use the setting paired with it), and Fandoms for fandoms I'm interesting in roleplaying in (though I feel obligated to say that I only really like fandom RPs for the setting and don't RP with canon characters).
- Found family. I literally never get tired of it
- A good balance of angst, fluff, and hurt/comfort. I don't like grimdark "everything sucks all the time" because that gets boring quick, I need something to lighten things up on ocassion
- I'm down for pretty much any genre, but fantasy, semi-realistic (meaning realistic with some specific unrealistic elements like superpowers or werewolves), and sci-fi are some of my favorites
-Urban Fantasy
- Superheroes but make it dark by thinking about it too hard because the genre in general is full of things most people would consider wrong or likely to cause problems. Child soldiers, lack of superhero regulation (because, honestly, if they were an actual part of law enforcement that'd be fucked up), etc.
- Werewolves/werecreatures/hybrids (bonus if they act a little bit like the animal they turn into so you get fun moments like werewolves chasing frisbees)
- A character has unexpectedly acquired a child for some reason and now they have no idea what to do with it (bonus if they try to convince themself they're not going to start getting attached to/caring about the kid and then proceed to do exactly that)
Last edited:
