femalevol3nt RoleplayGateway

Name: Hillary, Hill, Hillarah, Hilldog, Kim Jong-Hill.

Availability: I'm online every day, usually between 8:00 PM and 1:00 AM. It really just depends on the day, what my work and school schedules are like, and if I'm in the mood to write...but it's pretty rare for me to hit a block. If you can hold my interest early on, we're golden.

Gender: I'm a chick, if my handle wasn't evident enough. I prefer to write male characters, but I'm comfortable with either gender. In terms of pairings, it really just depends on what you're looking for. I'm fine with platonic, maleslash, femmeslash, or your plain ol' hetero couple. I would much rather have things happen organically, however, if we decide to ship our characters together. Otherwise, it gets boring. Fast.

Age: Twenty-five. I would rather you be older than eighteen.

Seeking: Someone who I can gel with out of character as much as in character. I'm a nerd. I create playlists for writing projects, I sketch characters, I search for face-claims. Essentially, I'm all for creating a mini-fandom with my writing partner. I want someone who takes their writing seriously, but realizes that 1.) it's still just a hobby and 2.) it should be enjoyable (for both of us).

Frequency: I'm online every day, usually between 8:00 PM and 1:00 AM. It really just depends on the day, what my work and school schedules are like, and if I'm in the mood to write...but it's pretty rare for me to hit a block. If you can hold my interest early on, we're golden. My replies tend to get a little lengthy (800-1200 words or more, depending), especially if I'm setting up a scene. Though it varies, it can take a day or two to get a response from me (longer if the post is emotionally driven, less if it's back-and-forth dialogue). I will always warn you ahead of time if I'm going to be absent for more than a few days.

Medium: Exclusively e-mail. I've tried forums and messengers...just not my cup of tea. You might be able to convince me to try Google Docs or One Drive, but only if we're working on a sizable work of fiction (novella, series, stand-alone novel).

Writing Style: 3rd person, past tense. It's what I'm most familiar with.

Timezone: EST

Roleplay Background: I've been writing with partners for thirteen years, on my own for longer. I'm not going to throw a thesaurus at your head with every post, but I will expect you to 1.) know how to string a proper sentence together, 2.) use the vocabulary that your formal education instilled in you, and 3.) write something with substance, not just fluff for the sake of filling space or matching the length I've written.

Original Universes Y/N: I prefer AU's rather than strictly canon if we're doing fandoms. Otherwise, I love world-building. Let's create a country, a planet, a universe together. As long as we don't get so involved in all the details that our storyline suffers, I'm happy.

Themes of Interest: I enjoy darker themes. Psychological thrillers. Drug abuse. Delving into the human psyche and trying to understand what makes a person tick. In terms of genres, I like futuristic dystopias, space westerns, post-apocalyptic worlds, alien invasions. I can write historical fiction that requires research and having our characters strictly conform to the time period. Conversely, I can write something with tons of purposeful anachronisms.

Theme Blacklist and/or limits: I hate your typical slice-of-life stories where all we ever do is describe the daily goings-on of our characters. What's the point?! I'd sooner shoot myself in the foot than sit through another pairing-based roleplay where Character A is a professor and Character B is a student who, despite the fact that they're straight-edge and straight-A, decides to sleep with said professor in order to...improve their grade? Because they're secretly sex-addicts? Just...no. I'm also going to say no to most YA fandoms (Harry Potter, Twilight, Mortal Instruments, His Dark Materials, Divergent, Maze Runner, Hunger Games, etc., etc.) unless you can convince me otherwise with a mind-blowingly awesome plot.

As for triggers, I don't really have any. I've written hurt/comfort, rape scenes, pure smut, graphic sex scenes, partners in abusive relationships...I mean, the list goes on. It can be awkward, but not impossible to write about. I prefer not to fade to black with NSFW scenes, but there is a point where where sex becomes gratuitous and I might suggest that we skip for the sake of my sanity...and trying to come up with another tasteful word for genitals xD

Writing Samples:

A loud, persistent whining sound filled the workshop as wood touched metal and in a matter of seconds, the cherry plank was split in half; a pair of calloused hands picked up the piece that had fallen to the floor.

It was times like this--when he was focused on a specific task--that Evan Sinclair could push out the thoughts that usually plagued his mind. As per usual, his coveralls were coated with a fine layer of sawdust, safety goggles pinned across his slate-blue eyes. Obscenities fell from his lips as he touched his scroll saw to the strip of cherry, splintering the end of it. He sighed and flung the ruined piece towards the ever-growing scrap pile in the corner of his workshop.

Without another word, he ripped off his goggles and dropped them onto the bench. His short fuse was a mixture of his Irish blood and father's temperament, though he maintained that he was a perfectionist when it came to his craft. Either way, it wasn't anything a few minutes outside of his shop couldn't fix. He let out a huff and wiped his hand across the week's worth of scruff on his jaw, effectively clearing away bits of sawdust that clung to the coarse hairs.

His workshop was located in the spare bedroom of his townhouse in South Boston. From the start, the place had been a fixer-upper. He’d stripped and re-stained the hardwood floors; fixed the stairs; replaced the cabinets in the kitchen; and built a dining table with matching chairs. There was still much work to be done, but his day job often got in the way of renovations. It had taken him the better part of a year just to get the major stuff out of the way--the plumbing still needed to be redone, as well as some of the electrical wiring in the upstairs rooms...work that would, unfortunately, need to be hired out to finish. His heavy footfalls echoed in the empty space as he headed downstairs. It was going to be a long day, he knew, but he didn't mind the work. It was calming. Cathartic.

His father had been a carpenter, though if you had told him as a kid that he'd pick up his father's mantle, he would have said that you were fucking nuts. Their relationship, or lack thereof, had never been easy. Harvey Sinclair drank like a fish and spent more time in pubs with barflies and other sordid characters than he did at home with his son. It was something that Evan had always resented the man for, not being there when he needed him. Harvey never showed up to a single one of his son's football games, or offered to chaperon on class trips, or did anything that parents were supposed to do with their kids. On the weekends, he brought his son along on jobs--which usually meant that Evan did most of the work while his father barked orders from the dually between sips of cheap liquor.

No, no, that joist goes over there; Lift with your legs, Evan; Quit fucking up.

Most of what he had learned about woodworking, he got from his old man, standing over his dad's shoulder to make sure the lubricated bastard didn't cut a finger off.

He wasn't always a drunk. In fact, for the first eight years of Evan's life, his dad was what you could have called an upstanding citizen, at least on the surface. He went to church, looked both ways before crossing the street, and did his job well. Home life was a different story. Though he'd never laid a finger on Evan's mother, they were always shouting at each other. That was, of course, before his mother finally had enough and left Harvey for good.

After that, things went downhill pretty fast.

Evan set to work making a pot of coffee. For twenty-nine, he looked older, haggard. It was mainly in the way his eyes were hardened, wrinkles starting to pinch his face into a permanent grimace; there was no doubt that the man had seen things far beyond his years. He stood at a little over six feet, though you couldn't tell it when he was perpetually slouching. He had a lean build, almost reminiscent of his younger, more athletic days...were it not for the paunch beginning to show itself beneath his too-tight shirt.

As the coffee pot hissed, black liquid trickling into the glass carafe, he let his back settle against the edge of the counter, his gaze travelling to the calendar posted on his refrigerator. It was barely ten in the morning, though he had an Addicts Anonymous meeting downtown at eleven.

Evan wasn't much of a drinker for the first twenty some-odd years of his life, using his father as an example of what he hoped he'd never be. At eighteen, he'd enlisted in the army to help pay for college, served his four years, and got the hell out after his second tour of duty in Iraq. In a lot of ways, he missed the lifestyle, the camaraderie and brotherhood that he had among the soldiers he'd served with.

After he'd been honorably discharged, he went to college using his G.I. bill, majoring in architectural engineering. It was, inevitably, where he'd meet his wife.

June was an art major from Atlanta. If asked, he would have said that he fell in love with her accent first--a sultry, dulcet tenor. She had a way of talking that could charm the pants off of anyone...but for reasons that he never could quite figure out, she had set her sights on him.

After college, they were married and moved back to his hometown--she worked at a magnet school as an art teacher and he picked up odd jobs until finally landing a gig with a large construction firm. For a while, things were easygoing, simple. Sure, they had their fair share of arguments, but nothing too serious...no more than any other couple.

They had just started discussing the prospect of children when she got sick.

It began as a blip on a routine blood test.

More tests were ordered.

Specialists were referred.

And then one day they found themselves sitting, ashen-faced, in an oncologist's office.

After months of getting the run-around, of being shuffled down the line, of being told not to worry, that it was just a precaution, they finally got the news they'd been dreading.

Cancer. Stage three pancreatic.

Strangely? It was almost a relief to know what they were up against, even if the diagnosis came with an expiration date.

He was right there beside her for every CT scan, every doctor's appointment, chemotherapy treatment, surgery. For months, he watched her struggle and fight. In and out of the hospital. In excruciating pain or so weak she could barely hold her head up. The disease had metastasized and spread to her stomach, her intestines.

By the end, she was ready to go and he was devastated.

He didn't hit a tailspin right away, too numb to do much of anything. He worked, mostly. Tried to take his mind off of things. Kept himself busy. But after meeting up with a couple of old army buddies at the bar, things started to snowball pretty fast. He soon became a regular at the local watering hole, ordering drinks until he was broke and stumbling home, or buying a handle of liquor at the store after work and drinking until he was blue in the face. More than once, he found himself in a drunk tank at the police station for some public disorderly charge, or assault. There, he met dealers and other addicts, looking to make friends and sell their poison. Within a month, he graduated to cocaine. It was a cleaner high than being plastered, and it meant that he could get work done without having to worry about being sloppy.

And then late one night, he was driving home from a dealer's house with an eight ball in his pocket and an open bottle of whisky stuffed down beneath his seat. The officer that pulled him for weaving between lanes smelled the liquor and upon further inspection, found the bag of coke stuffed down in Evan's pocket. He spent twelve months in prison for the drug charge--mandatory for possession of a Class B substance--and it could have been worse; he got paroled a month before his original release date. Fortunately, it had been his wake-up call...at least in terms of hard drugs. When he got out, he was without a job and down to his last hundred dollars in the bank, close to losing the house he'd shared with his wife.

He sold the place at a loss for a cheaper townhouse in Southie--a real piece of shit in comparison, where the heat only worked half of the time and the air conditioning was nonexistent. It wasn't long before he started picking up the bottle again. Evan was lucky to have a parole officer who cared enough about him to give him an ultimatum--either get help, or he was going back to prison for violating the terms of his parole.

To say that he was reluctant would have been an understatement.

He was used to doing things on his own, used to being self-sufficient and independent. But one thing was for certain...he didn't want to go back to prison. He wasn't a career criminal, and to be stuck in the same square footage with murders and rapists wasn't what sprung to mind when he thought of a good time.

So, after he'd finished a few cups of coffee, he headed down to the community center...some place that held bi-weekly AA meetings. His PO had suggested it...which basically meant that Chuck would know if Evan was showing up or not. He sat outside in his pick-up for half an hour, chain-smoking cigarettes and staring at the front doors...as if he actually had a choice in the matter.

The room the meeting was held in was comfortable. It looked more like a classroom than anything else, with rows of desks and a whiteboard at the front. A guy, probably in his late forties, sat next to the board and waited for everyone to file in. Evan grabbed a cup of coffee from the pot at the back of the room before taking a seat next to one of the huge, floor-to-ceiling windows that ran one length of the classroom.

He watched silently as people began to filter in. Some looked worse off than he did, rail-thin with legs shaking and fingers tapping on their desks; tweakers, if he had to venture a guess. Others had a certain calmness about them that was simultaneously unsettling and contagious.

Within a few minutes, the guy at the front had gotten to his feet and started with some housekeeping items: when the next meeting would be held and where; places where members could do their community service; classes that the center was offering that week.

"I see we've got some new faces in the group. That's great! One at a time, I want you to get up, come to the front of the room, and introduce yourself." The counselor smiled. "Hey, don't worry if you're not good at public speaking. We're all here for the same reasons."

One by one, the newer faces got up to stand next to the whiteboard. Most would fidget as they said their spiel, and some looked as though this wasn't their first group session. When no one else got up, Evan slowly rose to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly as he made his way to the front.

"Uh...hey. Name's Evan." He gave the customary pause, feeling more uncomfortable by the second. "Been in Boston most'a my life. Guess I'm here 'cause I'm down to my last get-outta-jail-free card..." A couple of people chuckled under their breath before he continued.

"I dunno if you'd call me an alcoholic or not, but I like to drink. Got in trouble for snorting coke...picking fights with people. So, yeah. That's pretty much it." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing at the instructor as if asking for permission to leave, before clearing his throat and shuffling back to his seat.

The counselor began to slow-clap, which was accompanied by intermittent and poorly timed applause from a couple of the older members. Eventually, he transitioned into his PowerPoint presentation, going into the effects of drugs on the body...the sort of shit you saw in health class. Black lungs, holes in the brain, nasal cavities that had collapsed in on themselves. For the most part, Evan tuned out the man who had introduced himself as Kevin.

Instead, he stared out the window as his thoughts reeled.

Submitted October 22, 2014 at 12:28PM by femalevol3nt http://ift.tt/129gSK3 RoleplayGateway