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5 yrs ago
Current rpg’s biggest issue? the gender binary
2 likes
6 yrs ago
im a fool in fool clothes
2 likes
6 yrs ago
pussi
6 yrs ago
the nyc commute grind reveals why adults pass out at 9 pm daily
4 likes
6 yrs ago
its a dick suck dick world ya know
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F R A N K I E
Nonbinary || 20 || Gay || EST
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Most Recent Posts

In Strings 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay



Place: Jamie's Apartment -> Ashley's Apartment
Interacting With: Jamie




It was about two in the morning when Jamie left Ashley to shower down. As always, he locked the door behind him. The clicking of the mechanisms, the casualness of the action-- it was all fire in Ashley's sex-addled head, burning away the hours of pleasure and leaving behind only the heady scent of sweat and the knowledge that they were all alone once again.

This is how the game always ended, and in fifteen minutes it would start up again. This was routine. Natural.

Don't take it personally, kid.

Ash found themself staring silently up at the glossy white ceilings, full of thoughts and, at the same time, truly empty. The running shower one room over is enough white noise to not drive them completely mad from the thick, uncomfortable nothingness that was Jamie's bedroom. Slowly, Ashley shifted onto their side and stared down at their hand, eyes focusing in on the taunt purple string that curled around their middle finger. Following it with their eyes, Ash watched it lay a complicated pattern over the hard-wood floors, vanish under strewn clothes and papers, and finally completely disappear beneath the white door that led to the master bathroom. Each time Jamie moved inside of that room the thread tugged, rippled. They could feel him whisper-singing songs from the last show he had directed. It was annoying. It was attractive.

Ashley wished they cared less.

Their eyes wander upward again, focusing in on an open binder that seemed to have a new, marked up script in it. Ash sat up slightly and squinted through the dark to catch a few character names, and when some of the dialogue looked familiar they flipped to the first page. A Chorus Line stood out in bright red letters against a coffee-stained printer sheet. Butterflies formed in their stomach, small, fickle things that beat against their ribcage, and they couldn’t help but smile. A Chorus Line was Ash’s favorite show growing up. Nonna often complained about seeing Broadway shows, but when it came to A Chorus Line she would always take the lines over whatever the film adaptation offer. Both of them, enraptured by the show’s rawness, saw the revival at least five times before it went on tour. It was absolutely beautiful, and absolutely everything Ashley wanted to be.

They were tracing over Sheila’s lines with a pointed finger when Jamie emerged from the bathroom. His smile was about as sharp as his cheekbones, which were to say— too sharp. Ash was always afraid of cutting themself on either.

“What are you looking at, kid?” He asked, sauntering over like a panther or a lion.

“Nothing really.” Ash said, pushing the binder to the edge of the nightstand. In the same, smooth second, Jamie snatched it from the corner and leafed through the inked pages with trained confidence.

“You were talking about this show before.” He said. The string around Ash’s finger tightened, pulsed. They felt seen in all the worst and best ways– a cocktail of unsettling emotions formed in the pit of their stomach.

“Was I?”

“You was.” He laughed, “You said you wanted to be Sheila a month ago.”

“I… Didn’t think you’d remember, honestly.” Ashley said, voice just barely holding back the edge of their usual scathing sarcasm. Jamie wasn't really the type to remember valuable things, especially when they weren’t directly aiding him.

“Well, I did, kid, and I want you to audition.”

“You want me to audition?”

“Yes. It’ll be great– you’re already assured a spot on account of—“

“I don't want a role because I sleep with you, Jamie.” Ash said, the words catching uncomfortably in their throat. Jamie’s eyebrows furrowed, formed dark mountains, and then he laughed like Ash had uttered a gut-wrenching joke.

“I’m casting you because you’re talented, Ash. Remember–“ He lifted his hand, tugging hard at the purple string connecting their middle fingers. “No strings attached, right? Audition, Ash. We need you in this show.”

“If-if other people found out–” Ash was silenced with a finger thrust against their lips, and Jamie leaned in with all the subtle danger of praying mantis readying to strike. He smiled, and Ash shook with anticipation.

“No. Strings. Attached. Audition.” It wasn’t a question this time. Ash leaned back and pouted, holding back a scowl and a sigh and a slap to the face. It was a small price to pay— giving up power in order to play your favorite role in your favorite show. It was small. It was still against their principles.

But who could find out?

It was a small price to pay for fame.

The nod was almost involuntary (almost), but it still felt like it knocked the wind right out of their chest. Jamie grinned and ran his shiny fingers through Ash’s tousled hair, tangling the pretty curls into nests. The bed dipped as he settled down next to them, and Jamie’s kisses were superheated and enough to chase away the storming anxiety in their gut.

“You’ll be a star.” Jamie said and pushed Ash down into the sheets for round two.




Somehow, Ashley made it to their own bed last night, and somehow, they managed to beat their alarm by five minutes. Mid-morning sunshine cut through their dirty window, burning holes into their eyelids until Ashley could barely stand it. Dust fluttered peacefully through the beams, coming to rest on their bohemian-style bedspread and their scuffed tile floor. The lacing and silks they had hung in front of the window weeks before had, once again, collected in a heap below the windowsill, leaving the room bare to the blistering light of the sun. They’d have to get to that some other time.

Ashley's apartment was the epitome of a "shoebox". The kitchen was only about six paces away from their bed, and the bathroom door was half-blocked by the single loveseat Ash had managed to shove in despite the lack of any real living room. The tiled floors were covered with countless cheap rugs and silks, but the ugly green poked through in spots much too complicated to cover. Their bed took up most of the space, and for good reason. It was big enough for guests and covered in enough pillows and blankets and stuffed animals to bed a small army.

Most of everything in the room were gifts, from family or friends or past lovers, but the few things that were fundamentally Ashley's had their own corner. Dance shoes, playbills, candles, crystals; they all sat on their corner dresser in a neat manner, starkly contrasting the cluttered messiness that was the rest of the room.

A voice in Ash's head whispered 'home' and it was more right than it probably meant to be. This was home; being alone and warm and comfortable with their thoughts and their actions. Being completely in control of their environment. Yes, this was home.

Sitting up was more of a struggle than it should have been. The ache in their lower back was still nothing compared to the ache of their head, though, so they fought through the overbearing pulsation and managed to stand and shuffle towards the bathroom.

Minutes of daily routine later, they returned to their bed and dreamed briefly of skipping work and just going straight to the dance studio. Alas, the bills on the nightstand blared like a ticking time bomb, threatening to blow Ashley’s entire plan out of the water. Money first, and then pleasure.

Pleasure.

Next to the pile of bills was a purple and lipstick stained ticket to some masquerade event that was going on in the city. Jamie had pressed it against their lips last night at the bar and had whispered: “We’ll be the hottest ones there. Wear something nice, something real nice.” They didn’t have a chance to say no. Jamie probably wouldn’t have paid attention to such a dismissal anyway.

Ash plucked up the ticket with pressurized grace and examined the flimsy thing. Something something SPECTRUM something SPRING FUCKING FLING… It would have been more interesting if it read like that. Ash slammed the ticket down and stood again, moving to settle in front of their DIYed vanity. Edison light bulbs lit up as they flicked the switch in the side, and they leaned in to closely examine their unpainted face.

Eyebags hung down to their cheekbones, dark purple, almost like bruises. Their lips were cracked and dry from the constantly running electric fan that hangs on their headboard, and bright red hickeys led a fantastical and wild trail down to their chest and further. They looked positively exhausted, and absolutely like some college-aged slut.

Ash covered most of their imperfections with concealer and foundation and layers of contour powder. Their eyes turned from sleepy and purple to lazy and red and glossy– and their eyelashes reached up to brush girlishly against their eyebrows. It was always a treat to dress up after a long night of pleasing pretentious director-types, so they did their hair in a neat updo and layered up on reds and oranges and yellows in an effort to better portray the spring mood outside their creaking and dust-coated apartment.

With each layer of makeup and fabric they added, the little, anxious parts of them began to be sealed away. Like armor, they were protected from the rawness of the outside world by the glittering items they spent most of their paycheck on, and that itself was performance in a way.

By the time they were fully clothed they were already twenty minutes late for their retail job, so with all the effort of a sloth they slinked down their grubby walk upstairs and started out into the garbage-filled streets of downtown Boston.



In Strings 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


In Strings 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Hola GMs~ Judith and Ashely are both complete



In Strings 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
xxx
slams that interested button
ill do first impressions sometome during my class today! if anyone wants to have a certain relationship woth jolie please pm me!
@dragonbutts aw fuck yeah dude! love this!!



Andrimar eyes HORUS, expression lax and eventually warm as Zevemar and Io vouch for his "innocent" inclusion in their matters. As for the fight itself, Andrimar's eyebrows raise and he slowly nods as he takes in both Zev's all too small explanation and Io's grand speech on how the fight itself started. He relaxes, straightens his back, and manages to tame his wild hair until it is back up in a casual updo. It must have fallen out in his rush to make sure everyone is okay.

"Well, I am glad you were able to defend yourselves, and you, HORUS," He reaches out and gives your hand a firm shake, HORUS, and he seems to ignore the stiffness in your smile. "Thank you for aiding my son. You are not from around here, right? I would love for you to join us for dinner, just to pay you back for your help and give you a little taste of, er, Alanla home cooking."

Andrimar bites his lower lip and elbows Zev, unable to hide his soft chuckle, "Well. It's an elf twist on Alanla cooking. I might require some aid in the kitchen, though, if any of you want to help." He bows his head in a quick thanks, "Come, come along. It's best to be inside after dark as of late." And Andrimar begins walking back towards the street he came from.

For those who choose to follow him and have half a mind to glance around through the darkened streets, you may notice a shift in the shadows, or the glint of something metallic of the few and far between lamp lights. Those manage to see through the dark, dark Illian night: for a second you swear you see a figure in one of the passing allies, rolling a poster or paint onto an empty brick wall, and when you pause for a millisecond to scope it out further you find a cloaked person. They turn to you, just for a moment, and you are greeted with a reflection of yourself in their completely featureless, mirror-like mask. The mask lingers, and then turns away, hidden again by the hood. The person returns to rolling on the poster after the brief pause and seems to pay you no mind.

You manage to catch a glimpse of the poster if you walk by it; it seems to be some sort of artwork of a woman's shadow, backlit by a holy blue light. There is no text. You are free to stop and inspect further if you wish. If not, you continue to follow Andrimar back home, where he welcomes you into the fire-warmed living room with open arms.


if need be in the end i could very easily switch jolie to a male fc ;))) LOLOL jk. but if allowed to double up later i can make a mans or enby

Place: Nyx's Apartment → Hekate’s Crystals & Curios
Interacting With: Julian @murdoc





Cynthia woke up to the pounding of a cellar door and her father's accursed screams in her ear. Whatever dream that created them, these memories of sound-- no, ghosts, was forgotten the moment she made eye contact with the crumpled Swan Lake Ballet poster on the opposite end of the wall. It was a nostalgic piece, that poster; gotten when her father had once taken her to see a local performance of the show during her middle school years. It was the first and last gift he ever got her. The intense eyes of Odette stared down at Cynthia, almost poignant in their judgment, and Cynthia stared back with the levelheadedness of a teenager who could truly not care less. It's been two months since she put up that poster, two months since she settled her mattress down across from it, and two months since she had gotten used to Odette's endless, endless judgment. It had turned from a discomfort into a source of normalcy, somehow.

At least they weren't her father's eyes.

"Don't you miss him?" Odette asked, mouth unmoving, eyes unmoving. Judgment. Cythnia had learned to not grant her any sort of response until she had her morning coffee. She moved with the grace of routine, stepping over still-filled boxes and strewn about clothes until she was head to head with her favorite gadget, her 2014 Keurig Coffee Maker Trademarked. One cup of simple black coffee later and Cynthia was back on the foot of her bed, staring at Odette with benign attention.

"Don't you miss him?" Odette repeated. The glossy black sheen on her eye gave the illusion of shifting back and forth, and then Odette said, "He would hate for your room to be like this."

The room in question was the messy studio Cynthia had no interest in ever cleaning up. The rent was cheap due to the drafty factory style windows on the far left wall and the drippy bathroom, the floors were unpolished and cold no matter the temperature outside, and the ceiling was covered in a popcorn-like texture that made her vaguely uncomfortable when she looked at it. She only used the apartment to sleep and eat in any way; no work could be done here, so there was no point in giving it any order. It was a mess when she arrived and it would remain that way for the rest of its natural life.

"He's not here, so I don't care about that." Cynthia said, blinking only once as if to punctuate her disinterest. Odette made a sound similar to the scraping of metal against concrete, a disconcerting shrrrrk shrrrrk. Cynthia sipped her coffee, cursed when it burnt her tongue and lifted her head in time to catch Odette's whispered:

"I think you care a lot more than you want to admit." The scraping sound stopped. Cynthia frowned in a way that made her seem childish; she lowered her face, jutted out her lower jaw, and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Odette tutted, angry, maybe, or just disappointed, and Cynthia opened her eyes as the poster continued, "There is nothing wrong with missing your father, Cynthia."

"My name isn't Cynthia here, it's Nyx." Cynthia sipped her coffee.

"My comment still stands for Nyx as well."

"We aren't two different people."

Sip, sip.

"You certainly act like someone new, when you're out here alone, all alone.

"It's to fit in. I have to fit in, people need to trust me. Daddy won't let me come home unless I get a lot of work done--"

Sip.

"So you want to go home?"

"No! No, I like it outside. I like talking to people. I like drinking and doing the things I used to do. I did ballet last year and I was so good even, even after all the- all the. No. I like it here. There's work to be done here. I like to be busy."

Odette paused, her eyes almost appearing soft, comforting. She looked like a mother shrouded in pure white feathers and stark shadows; a monochrome painting of maternity, of protection, of love.

shrrrrk shrrrrrk

She said, "There is nothing wrong with missing your father, Cynthia."

And Cynthia stood up and threw her mug at the stained wall beneath the poster.

"I don't miss him! I don't miss that sorry fucker, that monster, I hate him! I hate him! I hate both of you!"

Coffee pooled across the hardwood floor, soaking a pair of already ruined underwear and a few old letters sent from her home address. The mug was shattered, green and white bits strewn across a field of other ruined ceramics. She would have to buy a new mug today, to replace it. Another chore to add to the list. Odette remained absolutely silent, a glossy, rumbled, coffee-stained poster as she always had been.

Her phone, which was still shrouded in her thick comforter, rang out shrilly. Her alarm. She had work in an hour. Cynthia stood and smoothed down her bedhead as she reached over and clicked it off. The cracked screen darkened, and she pulled the phone from its charger and moved silently toward the bathroom, collecting clothes as she walked along. Her shower was quick and cold, another downside to the apartment, and she finished her morning routine with a face of smokey makeup (the people who visited her workplace loved it, said she looked positively witchy, said she looked hot) and a mouth full of minty-cold toothpaste.

Back out in the studio, she dodged a few chips of ceramic and sat down on the foot of her bed to pull on her dark, dark combat boots. They were platformed and marked witch latin on the heel, a single phrase that meant "speed". Once clothed, she pulled her nearby backpack on to her lap and, as she did every morning, organized the items within. Black hair, vials of holy water, knives upon knives, bibles, spell books, teeth in ziplock bags, graveyard dirt, ash, and her favorite-- a rotted noose curled around everything in the bottom of the bag. Everything seemed to be ready for the day. Cynthia placed the spell books and more occult oddities on the top, just to keep prying eyes sated, and she stood and threw it over her shoulder.

"I'm going to work, mom. I'll be back after the witching hour." Cynthia said as she grabbed her keys and paused by the door. No response came. She left without another word.

The walk to Hekate's wasn't long. She lived a mere four blocks away, and autumn in Salem this year was cool enough for her to wear her self-patched leather jacket. Cynthia breathed in the fresh air and sighed, happy, truly, to be out and about and doing the things she was taught to do. Hunt Witches.

Cynthia considered her workplace as she rounded the corner and saw it there, just a yard away. Working at an apothecary made the most sense; where there were components, there were witches. She got the job thanks to her efficiencies and seeming interest in the occultish aesthetic of everything in the store. Miriam was suspicious, a prime target for spying as of right now. Her son was nice and probably involved as well. She was playing it cool, for now.

Cynthia entered the store and immediately went to work to help with the opening. She took up the cashier area once everything was fine. Julian was nowhere to be seen, which was expected. He was often late. Sometimes Miriam complained in hushed whispers that he was "a bit lazy". Most children were these days. Cynthia settled down on the counter as she watched the day's first few costumes enter and begin to oogle the collections of herbs and crystals, and her only reprise from the boring action came as Julian slipped in through the front door.

"No problem at all, Jules." She said in lieu of greeting, "It's been pretty slow so far. It's bound to pick up soon though. Hopefully." She smiled, all trained friendliness and professionalism, and with her knee pushed her own bag further down the shelf, away from Julian's. ”Up late last night?"
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