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I have dark, emotional space prince feels (my week has been lost to fan fiction #noshame)
I don't have a plot, but have some thoughts. Let's flesh something out if you feel like hitting me up!! I am cool with TFA & TLJ timelines. Also cool with AU - you want Ben Solo? I gotchuu. A modern setting? Ok!
Before reaching out, here is some stuff you should know about me as a roleplayer:
- Currently looking for either short term or long term depending on how we vibe. I have an ultra busy work schedule and I travel a lot.
- I write a lot. Sometimes walls of text. I literally cannot help it. You don't need to match me at all, lol.
- This will definitely be explicit. I see him as dominate, aggressive and carnal. A hair pulling, throat grabbing, lip-biting, up against a wall kinda guy if yanno what I mean
- Open to OCs or Reylo.
- Can play Kylo, or can play opposite.
Ya dig? PM me here or email me firstname.lastname@example.org. Also feel free to hmu up if you've dropped me or I have not replied to you in a while. I guarantee it's all love babesSSSS
So - it seems that, for me, the planning stage is where things unravel. I have a lot of half started roleplays out there because either one or both of us have lost touch/ became too overwhelmed to get the ball rolling.
That is no fun! I do love to write and roleplay, but I hate over-plotting. I am a wizard at twists and turns and adding drama.. so let's just go with the flow, yes? In the spoilers below are intros. Before the spoilers are brief descriptions of what to expect from the intro/setting.
If you are interested in an intro, please do write a response and send it to email@example.com
If you have an intro of your own that you would like to give a test drive, feel free to send it my way.
Zombie apocalypse/ post apocalypse. This can be either MxF or FxF. Odds are I will toss in other characters as we go.
Myra St. Pierre knew something was wrong when her parents didn't return her phone calls; up until a few days ago, they were militant about calling every evening (and texting ill conceived texts to her iPhone at most inconvenient points throughout the day).
Manicured fingers dialed the memorized number over and over.. she lost count after the fourth time, which marked the second hour of her trying to get a hold of her folks. Today was Sunday - her allotted time to spend hours on the phone (or, more recently, Skype) with ma and pa - though for some reason, they still weren't around. At this point, worry had dissolved into misplaced frustration.. had they gone out of town without telling her, or something? The girl sat on her kitchen counter, legs crossed as she munched on strawberries and stared at her cell-phone, willing it to ring so she could drive out the sense of urgency deep within the pit of her stomach. After some contemplation, the lean young woman hopped off of her counter and decided she'd make the hour and a half drive into cottage country to pay her folks a visit. Myra could use some country air, the city seemed stuffier than usual today. Myra had never been fully comfortable within the city limits, though her residence here was unavoidable: she worked and studied here, this was where she was carving her life out.
At twenty-three, Myra had one year of school left; she'd already gone through to become a practical registered nurse, and was currently upgrading to Paramedic status. She worked part time in a clothing store that appealed to preteens who wished to dress quite risky, though she also taught dance at the local Y to an all ages, all girls class. Myra loved to dance, it had been her primary passion once and she contemplated pursuing it as a career.. before she had bills to pay. Dancing paid off in subtle ways, though: it kept her in shape, which motivated her to jog every day and attempt at healthy eating, and maintained stamina. As a result, she was toned yet not muscular, her core thin and lithe and interrupted by hips and chest. Myra shed her unflattering flannel pajamas and replaced them with a pair of jeans and a bright yellow t-shirt, off setting her muted complexion. Leaving her one-bedroom apartment, she hopped into her clunky pick up truck and began towards her parents home.
She found herself speeding without much justification, curiously eyeing emergency response vehicles as they whipped by. With concern vibrating inside her chest, she finally reached her parents' cozy home, the place that she'd grown up in. The lights were on, which was a good sign she supposed. Entering through the front door, she was alarmed to realize that there was blood everywhere. Her jaw unhinged, following a trail of entrails to the master bedroom, where her mother stood against the wall, blood and other horrible things dripping from her mouth. Myra held her breath as tears of pure fright spilled from her eyes. Before she had time to comprehend what was happening, her mother was shuffling her way towards Myra. "M..mom? Mom, what happened?" Myra choked out. Her mother growled in response, her expression inhuman.
What happened next was a blur. Myra felt herself being grabbed by her mother's fleshy hands, and the middle aged woman roared like a fucking animal. Myra ran, grabbing a cast iron frying pan and defending herself. She beat her mother's head in, afraid for her own life. Myra immediately ran out doors, fell to her knees, and heaved. What the hell was going on?! Just as killing her mother was a blur, her decision to get back into her pickup truck and drive home was vague.
Days passed, and Myra locked herself in her apartment.. Chaos and death and warnings of apocalyptic proportions filled the media, but before any sufficient details were given, all power was cut. The redhead was running out of food and water; she knew that she'd die if she didn't nourish herself. So, she went to her closet and employed the hand gun her father had given her before she moved out and braved the outside world.
The streets were abandoned besides corpses - the scent of rotting flesh was stomach turning. The woman found the nearest grocery store, which had already been raided, and entered with a flashlight and a gun. Holding her breath, she began to shakily pile cans into an open duffel bag. Hearing stirring beside her, she raised an uneasy hand that held her gun. "Who's there?" She asked, her blatantly feminine voice harboring paper-thin bravado and downright horror, "..if you don't say anything in, like, three seconds, I'm going to shoot."
Intergalactic treasure hunters. Open to world building, just toss it all in as we go. Can be either MxF or FxF
Her ancestors had been colonizing settlers of star systems beyond the milky way, introducing new ways of life to fuse with the already existing beings of worlds far and beyond. Through the natural progression of revamping social and political structures, new socio-economic landscapes began to form out of need.
Almost immediately, an elite and secretive royal harem was developed in the farthest outer worlds. The most promising young girls of utmost wealth and class were brought here to be taught all that they would need to know to be self-sufficient in the world of royalty and politics. They studied everything from diverse cultural customs to table manners.
Girls like Denali who had a lot of natural zest were scouted by mysterious organizations impartial to geopolitical climate. Assassins, bounty hunters, freelance murderers. The harem was paid by one of these organizations and Denali was assigned a trainer, a brutal older man. He subjected her to brutal training, turning her from a highborn girl to a woman who would have no future other than assignments from the mysterious 'Galactic Reclamation Agency'.
The moment she turned eighteen, she was given her first assignment: secure an illegal slave ship. Make sure it gets to where it need to be for max profit. From that moment on, she resented every bit of her life.
Hearing whispers of a long lost ancient temple harboring long-forgotten riches was too enticing for her to let go. She collected the evidence, she gathered the information. Denali went rogue, and was technically now a fugitive. The Galactic Reclamation Agency, or GRA, was not happy with a former agent on the loose.
It might have been fate that she was here on the same planet at the same time with a pilot needing purpose. Scoping the bar out for potential partners, the woman was pointed - more than once - in the direction of said pilot.. so she approached them.
Her naturally blonde hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, her conventionally pretty face was void of makeup. Her nails were short, cracked, her hands calloused from years of training. She wore the muted, dusty clothing common to this place. Holstered on both curve of her hip were high powered pistols. She did not look like a highborn as she approached the pilot and invited herself to sit next to them.
"Denali," she boldly introduced herself, shaking the pilot's hand. "I hear you're a pilot. Are you open for hire?" She asked.
Twenty-three year old Wesley Davidson stood still as a statue, both hands slipped casually into the front pockets of his black slacks. Photo flash interrupted his vision - he couldn't see much other than hot white light - but he'd been at this for a while (four years, just about), he'd long ago adjusted to what sort of system shock photographers initiated. Wesley’s naturally smoldering gaze met the lens of every camera, his lips turned up into an effortlessly devilish smirk.
Ah, the Grammy's. As one fifth of the mega-pop-force The World Alight, Wesley was already a veteran of the elitist music award show. Tonight he would be presenting as well as performing, but he wasn't nervous. Wes was never nervous when it came to performing. He'd been born to be on stage, that much was clear. The California native was an entertainer through and through; he had a raspy, bluesy voice that thrust him into the spotlight. Wes was capable of belting soaring notes as well as serenading in low, sultry tones. Given the fact that he was part of a pop act, he was also capable of singing on-point while going through the motions of rigorous synchronized dance routines.
Wes squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, recalling his publicist's rants about him slouching. "These people worship you, Wesley," she'd insist as she adjusted his tie or brushed lint away from his shoulders. He'd stare down at the little middle aged woman with an arched brow, responding as a typical teenager getting lectured would; all sighs and mumbled dismissive agreements. "Put on your game face. People pay a lot of money for photographs of you. Make sure they're worth it. Stand tall and look bored." She advised time and time again and it always prompted a little giggle from the pair of them.
Somehow, Wes had become the most recognizable of the group. He was the youngest, hitting super stardom when he was just sixteen. His easy, megawatt smile was perhaps the first thing people noticed about him, next was most likely his vibrantly blue eyes. He had an all American quality to him with his disheveled blonde locks and shallow dimples every time he grinned. Not to mention the high set cheekbones, square jaw, height of six-foot-one or his athletic, lean build. Wesley was a household name with his photos plastered all over the bedroom walls of teen girls.
He was surrounded by yes men; there wasn't a person on the tour crew who ever told him to cool it. When he wanted something, he charmed his way to it. Wesley was security's worst nightmare, never checking in with producers or telling his bodyguards where he was going; he pretty much did whatever the hell he felt like. It wasn't that he was bratty - because he certainly could be, considering the buckets of cash he was raking in - but he was chaotically adventurous. There was no way Wes would ever be confined to a hotel room for too long, and when he wanted to try something he just did it; his first bout of binge drinking was when he was fifteen, he was a chronic pot smoker and sometimes he liked to pop funny colored pills before hitting up the VIP at the world's most exclusive clubs.
All the while, he maintained a boy-next-door sort of vibe. Though it was possible that hints of his inner bad-boy had risen to the surface, which only fueled fan's support. He was a sweetly dangerous. Wes reached up, loosening the black tie against his fitted white button down shirt, cracking his neck as he approached a sweet young thing that he'd met a couple of times in passing. The man extended in arm, bowing to her in a gentlemanly way before standing tall next to her, an arm draped around her frame. The photographers blasted them with flash after flash, eating up America's sweetest pop acts one next to the other.
Fandom - Star Wars: The Force Awakens M x F only for this one, please. Kylo Ren finds a Force-sensitive OC, trains her as his apprentice OR she turns him to the light side
The saga he spent pursuing, capturing and fighting Rey had been a dazzling failure on his part. The girl, a lowly scavenger who spent the majority of her life crawling in the sand looking for trinkets, had defeated him. While that much was unacceptable, something much more important had blossomed out of the turn of events; others with the same sensitivity to the Force began awaken on various worlds through various galaxies. Rey was not unique, a fact immediately realized by Kylo Ren
Kylo Ren, commander of The Order, began to engage and recruit all who were showing a strong enough connection to the Force. With Luke in self-exile, they needed to act quickly before anyone else intervened. With that in mind, Ren went on an aggressive campaign to ensure that each notable Force-sensitive being was accounted for. The options were very clear once he encountered those who were Force sensitive; either they trained with him, or they were killed.
Some of them chose death.
Tonight on this backwater planet, Kylo Ren arrived with a purpose. Once landed, the man walked with a purposeful stride flanked by his personal guard. He was dressed in his recognizable First Order garb; black on black, his helmet fierce and shining in the seemingly endless starshine of this terrible, scummy planet. Once he found her, it didn't take much to convince her to leave with him, which he had expected.
Had she made a show to an opposition of him, he would have eliminated her as an option to be trained. At this point in the campaign - and in his life - it was becoming easier and easier for him to end lives.
The man walked with his shoulders squared and his spine straight, standing at his full height of six-foot-three. He sensed the fear that his presence inspired in common people, as well as the shock and awe of the fact that he seemed to have traveled here for one person; the girl at his side. Once they boarded his command shuttle, he tasked troopers with guarding her until they arrived to an undisclosed First Order base ship. Ren instructed that she be taken to a room not unlike his interrogation facilities aboard The Finalizer. This room lacked his infamous restraint chair, however.
He entered the room alone, standing in the door in stillness and silence for a moment. He flicked his black hood down and removed his helmet, holding it at his side. He was not going to hide his face from her, there was no need. Kylo circled her, sizing her up with each slow and purposeful step. Rounding her, he stood directly in front of the girl. Endlessly dark eyes positioned atop aristocratic cheekbones searched her face, his full lips turned into an almost smug smirk. His posture was near perfect and he was made up of hard lines, from his broad shoulders to his long and powerful limbs.
"You're more powerful than you know," he declared, savoring the sensation of the air buzzing and crackling in the space between them, only observable to someone as sensitive as him. "I can feel it. Otherwise I would have never come for you."