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Gabbit
Esprit d'escalier professionnel
- Joined
- Jun 4, 2019
Nice to meet you, I'm Gabbit:
I'm also a lot of other people—some of those people I already know while others, as yet, have yet to be created. Hopefully, that's where you come in. See, I can't put these wonderful people out there in the aether until someone else comes along and though the magic of RP we have ourselves a lot of drama, pathos, character development, plot, conflict and all the things that fall in between: including sex. Let's not kid ourselves here, I do know where I am after all.
That said, I'll fill you in on the particulars:
ᘞ I'm a story-driven kinda gal. However, I believe that sex has its place in storytelling as much as anything else does and I really enjoy writing the emotions of characters in some of their most vulnerable moments. That said, I feel that sex should be in service of the story and never the other way around. Anything less cheapens the integrity of the narrative, the characters, and well... even my own emotional investment. Besides, it's the culmination of all those things listed above that makes the end result so much more delicious.
ᘞ I enjoy a lot of aspects of BDSM and tend to play submissive characters: To that, the purpose in my mind of BDSM is to reveal truth, to see things in others under the gloss of what's polite or seemly. Spanking, bondage, discipline, all that shouldn't just be a way for the dominant to throw his weight around, (or even something for the submissive to graciously absorb.) I'm not interested in brutality or ego stroking some dom, that's all a bit too cliche for me. BDSM is a much more cerebral game where physical components meet mental barriers; that ability to peel back the layers through struggle is where truth exists. I like to write about ways to see the humanity in my characters by pushing their boundaries. Spanking or bondage is all well and good, but those are just tools to examine what really makes up another person. That's where the real intimacy lays. So yeah... let's make a beautiful mess.
ᘞ Submission is earned.
ᘞ I will not play with underaged partners, nor will I play with people who enjoy or engage in ageplay. EVER.
A more complete list of kinks and particularities resides here.
ᘞ I enjoy a lot of aspects of BDSM and tend to play submissive characters: To that, the purpose in my mind of BDSM is to reveal truth, to see things in others under the gloss of what's polite or seemly. Spanking, bondage, discipline, all that shouldn't just be a way for the dominant to throw his weight around, (or even something for the submissive to graciously absorb.) I'm not interested in brutality or ego stroking some dom, that's all a bit too cliche for me. BDSM is a much more cerebral game where physical components meet mental barriers; that ability to peel back the layers through struggle is where truth exists. I like to write about ways to see the humanity in my characters by pushing their boundaries. Spanking or bondage is all well and good, but those are just tools to examine what really makes up another person. That's where the real intimacy lays. So yeah... let's make a beautiful mess.
ᘞ Submission is earned.
ᘞ I will not play with underaged partners, nor will I play with people who enjoy or engage in ageplay. EVER.
A more complete list of kinks and particularities resides here.
ᘞ I consider myself a very advanced writer, my ideal partner would be the same. I need someone who can keep up with me in terms of world-building, story craft, and character development. More than that, however, I need someone who can consider things from a literary standpoint, consider context clues and divine their own characters actions by considering mine. This is so much more than a few misspellings and subject/verb agreement errors, (because let's face it, we're human and I make those too,) but if your writing is rife with those as well, I'll definitely be bowing out.
ᘞ I'm a strong paragraph writer, though I understand the need for flexible posts. Not everything we write needs to be exacting and full of detail and sometimes something pithy, sharp and to-the-point makes for a better emotional impact. Brevity is the soul of wit and all that...
ᘞ I'm not very good at in medias res sorts of storylines where our characters may already have an established history. That said, if you have something in mind I'm open to the possibility of starting one if you think your idea will jive with me.
ᘞ I don't much care for canon stories or playing already established characters. Sorry folks, I left my fan-fic days a long time ago.
ᘞ I prefer long-term RP's over one-shots or shorts. Expect fairly quick turnaround on my posts as well as a bit of favoritism for certain people. I tend to only keep a handful of writing partners at all times since, and I cannot express this enough: I AM A SLOW, METHODICAL, PERFECTIONIST and five-hundred words can sometimes take me an hour to write. There are some people out there that can gold star plow their way through a myriad of stories, but I've tried that and found my writing to come out lacking, so if I deny your request for rp, it's probably that I'm full up.
ᘞ I'm a strong paragraph writer, though I understand the need for flexible posts. Not everything we write needs to be exacting and full of detail and sometimes something pithy, sharp and to-the-point makes for a better emotional impact. Brevity is the soul of wit and all that...
ᘞ I'm not very good at in medias res sorts of storylines where our characters may already have an established history. That said, if you have something in mind I'm open to the possibility of starting one if you think your idea will jive with me.
ᘞ I don't much care for canon stories or playing already established characters. Sorry folks, I left my fan-fic days a long time ago.
ᘞ I prefer long-term RP's over one-shots or shorts. Expect fairly quick turnaround on my posts as well as a bit of favoritism for certain people. I tend to only keep a handful of writing partners at all times since, and I cannot express this enough: I AM A SLOW, METHODICAL, PERFECTIONIST and five-hundred words can sometimes take me an hour to write. There are some people out there that can gold star plow their way through a myriad of stories, but I've tried that and found my writing to come out lacking, so if I deny your request for rp, it's probably that I'm full up.
I'm an absolute sucker for a few settings/aesthetic backdrops/vignettes/whathaveyou. Now, I understand that a lot of things I enjoy are not only ragingly cheesy, or even trite, but as tropes go, I embrace all of them with absolutely no concern for what popular culture has done to them. Sometimes even bad tropes can be good with the right kind of writing, dammit!
And so, the list:
ᘞ Judeo-Christian horror. Secret societies, templars, demonic possession. If you can find it in a Constantine comic, I'm probably game.
ᘞ Vampires. They're my favorite little monsters.
ᘞ Historical RP - If you can find it as a costume drama or a bodice ripper, it's already a selling point for me. Extra points to anyone out there that loves the 18th century as much as I do and would enjoy RP centered around the time of the enlightenment.
And so, the list:
ᘞ Judeo-Christian horror. Secret societies, templars, demonic possession. If you can find it in a Constantine comic, I'm probably game.
ᘞ Vampires. They're my favorite little monsters.
ᘞ Historical RP - If you can find it as a costume drama or a bodice ripper, it's already a selling point for me. Extra points to anyone out there that loves the 18th century as much as I do and would enjoy RP centered around the time of the enlightenment.
Please check back. I'll have this section finished as soon as I can!
Samples of my writing. Made with only the finest ingredients!
The plane ride into New York provided her plenty of time to peruse the catalog of lots that were going up at Sotheby's as well as do a bit of work. Her shipment of Patrón was late, and the new east doors for the club didn't meet the cities fire code and would have to be returned, but other than those two small snafus she was free and clear to enjoy a bit of retail therapy in New York. Stretching back, she'd look about the cabin and towards the older lady sitting next to her, worrying a set of beads as they flew over Nevada.
She had to ask about them, and the lady, in turn, gave her a surprised though warm smile as she explained that she wasn't very good at flying and that she was going out to meet a friend in New York whom she hadn't seen since they were very small.
Al loved stories like that, loved meeting people and finding out who they were—even if it was just a tiny glimpse. She couldn't do that in first class, oh no. Up there was a load of self-important stuffed shirts that traded futures and only ever wanted to brag. The way Al looked at it, she paid for the privilege of sitting next to someone that might have a bit of something interesting to tell her.
Collected stories. Collected lives. Little miracles beaded together as easily as a rosary.
"Are you nervous?" The voice that asked was softly husky, atypically feminine in the soft rasp that lingered always on somewhere between sleepy and sultry—as if smoke always lingered in her vocal cords.
Gerty. That was her name, short for Gertrude apparently. "Oh, no. Well... maybe a little. We got on so well as children, but then her parents moved and we lost touch. Then one day I was telling my granddaughter about her and she found Prudence, that's my friend, well she found her on the uh... the Facebooks! Poor Prue, her husband died of pancreatic cancer you see, and that she's been living with her son and his children now, and they all wanted to meet me, too." She'd flushed at the minor bit of celebrity, to have been remembered by someone she hadn't seen in over sixty years was obviously touching.
Al grinned, "you two will have a marvelous time, I'm sure."
They chatted till Gerty fell asleep somewhere over Ohio, right before she'd patted Al's hand. She smelled like Pond's Cold Cream and talcum powder, and Al committed it to memory as that touch of DNA passed between them as it always did. Every touch was like that. No matter how brief, she'd carry that little bit of that person forever. Gerty herself wasn't long for this earth. She was a mess of bad cholesterol, triglycerides, and high blood pressure. Al could have cleared it up in seconds, reversed years of fried chicken and late-night cigarettes—but she didn't. She never did, she wasn't allowed to and it always killed her a little bit.
Only problem was, she never died.
She had to ask about them, and the lady, in turn, gave her a surprised though warm smile as she explained that she wasn't very good at flying and that she was going out to meet a friend in New York whom she hadn't seen since they were very small.
Al loved stories like that, loved meeting people and finding out who they were—even if it was just a tiny glimpse. She couldn't do that in first class, oh no. Up there was a load of self-important stuffed shirts that traded futures and only ever wanted to brag. The way Al looked at it, she paid for the privilege of sitting next to someone that might have a bit of something interesting to tell her.
Collected stories. Collected lives. Little miracles beaded together as easily as a rosary.
"Are you nervous?" The voice that asked was softly husky, atypically feminine in the soft rasp that lingered always on somewhere between sleepy and sultry—as if smoke always lingered in her vocal cords.
Gerty. That was her name, short for Gertrude apparently. "Oh, no. Well... maybe a little. We got on so well as children, but then her parents moved and we lost touch. Then one day I was telling my granddaughter about her and she found Prudence, that's my friend, well she found her on the uh... the Facebooks! Poor Prue, her husband died of pancreatic cancer you see, and that she's been living with her son and his children now, and they all wanted to meet me, too." She'd flushed at the minor bit of celebrity, to have been remembered by someone she hadn't seen in over sixty years was obviously touching.
Al grinned, "you two will have a marvelous time, I'm sure."
They chatted till Gerty fell asleep somewhere over Ohio, right before she'd patted Al's hand. She smelled like Pond's Cold Cream and talcum powder, and Al committed it to memory as that touch of DNA passed between them as it always did. Every touch was like that. No matter how brief, she'd carry that little bit of that person forever. Gerty herself wasn't long for this earth. She was a mess of bad cholesterol, triglycerides, and high blood pressure. Al could have cleared it up in seconds, reversed years of fried chicken and late-night cigarettes—but she didn't. She never did, she wasn't allowed to and it always killed her a little bit.
Only problem was, she never died.
"The world you are entering is entirely unlike the one you have known. Nothing will be what it seems, there are as many alliances and betrayals in the harem as any court of any country. Know that whatever physical force you use against another will be shown back to you threefold. If you act out you will be punished. If you are cheeky or sass your superiors you will be punished. If you do anything outside of what you are supposed to..." He smiled, certain she could see the pattern of his words. "This does not mean that you will be completely defenseless, however. All of your strength will lie in your ingenuity, your intelligence and whatever acumen you see fit to employ."
Aldoncia listened to all of this with a sinking feeling that pushed against her guts until she nearly doubled over. Her head spun as she stared at the gorgeous fabric of the cushions just under them until the patterns became a blur of nonsensical shapes. She felt like she was going to be sick. Everything he described was entirely against her nature. She was frank, straightforward, a wretched liar. There wasn't a clandestine, subtle bone in her body!
Instinctively seeking comfort, Aldoncia's hand reached down, grasping the half of the figurine that lay hidden in the folds of her kaftan. The Vizier took notice of this, observant as any raptor he reached over and flung the fabric to the side. Before she could stop him though he had grabbed the broken figurine, studying it carefully before looking back at Aldoncia. "A precious item I take it?"
Aldoncia didn't even think as she made to grab for it, though he was far quicker and deftly kept it far from her reach.
"Ah, ta, ta..." He tutted, voice heavy with warning. "Now answer the question."
Her darting eyes flicked to the alabaster captain in his hand as she replied, "It's... not important." The lie tasted like sawdust in her mouth, but maybe if he thought it was worthless he would hand it back.
It had only the opposite effect.
"Well, since it's worth nothing it has no place in here." In a hiss of silk, he moved to drop it out of the window.
Panic erupted, rising through nerves as a means of self-preservation. It was only a little figurine and a broken one at that, but for her, there was part of herself in it. A past that, should he throw it away, would take part of herself with it—forever gone, overwhelmed by an uncaring crowd as they crushed it... her... beneath their feet. "No, no! Please! Please don't." The blood drained from her face as he dangled the figurine out into the waiting street below, voice cracking with emotion as she begged. "Please, it's all I have left of them. Please, let me have it back. Please... please."
He laughed softly and brought the figurine back into the palanquin, then with a swift but deliberate movement he tucked the figurine into the sash of his own kaftan. The broken sea captain sank, the hat in his tiny alabaster hand still held high as if he were waving goodbye to Aldoncia before disappearing beneath dark, watery waves of silk. "Let us consider this incentive. If you do well for me, you will see your little treasure again."
Aldoncia listened to all of this with a sinking feeling that pushed against her guts until she nearly doubled over. Her head spun as she stared at the gorgeous fabric of the cushions just under them until the patterns became a blur of nonsensical shapes. She felt like she was going to be sick. Everything he described was entirely against her nature. She was frank, straightforward, a wretched liar. There wasn't a clandestine, subtle bone in her body!
Instinctively seeking comfort, Aldoncia's hand reached down, grasping the half of the figurine that lay hidden in the folds of her kaftan. The Vizier took notice of this, observant as any raptor he reached over and flung the fabric to the side. Before she could stop him though he had grabbed the broken figurine, studying it carefully before looking back at Aldoncia. "A precious item I take it?"
Aldoncia didn't even think as she made to grab for it, though he was far quicker and deftly kept it far from her reach.
"Ah, ta, ta..." He tutted, voice heavy with warning. "Now answer the question."
Her darting eyes flicked to the alabaster captain in his hand as she replied, "It's... not important." The lie tasted like sawdust in her mouth, but maybe if he thought it was worthless he would hand it back.
It had only the opposite effect.
"Well, since it's worth nothing it has no place in here." In a hiss of silk, he moved to drop it out of the window.
Panic erupted, rising through nerves as a means of self-preservation. It was only a little figurine and a broken one at that, but for her, there was part of herself in it. A past that, should he throw it away, would take part of herself with it—forever gone, overwhelmed by an uncaring crowd as they crushed it... her... beneath their feet. "No, no! Please! Please don't." The blood drained from her face as he dangled the figurine out into the waiting street below, voice cracking with emotion as she begged. "Please, it's all I have left of them. Please, let me have it back. Please... please."
He laughed softly and brought the figurine back into the palanquin, then with a swift but deliberate movement he tucked the figurine into the sash of his own kaftan. The broken sea captain sank, the hat in his tiny alabaster hand still held high as if he were waving goodbye to Aldoncia before disappearing beneath dark, watery waves of silk. "Let us consider this incentive. If you do well for me, you will see your little treasure again."
There were two rules Grand-Mère absolutely insisted upon from her kin during social functions:
One - never drink more than two glasses of alcohol.
Two - never sit or stand about in corners when there were people to talk with and entertain.
Well, she'd definitely broken both of those rules in spades.
The fourth glass of wine was already halfway finished as the atmosphere changed. At first, Ondine thought perhaps she was just that drunk. The French took their vin seriously, and the Malbec she'd been drinking had been particularly excellent. The soft brume of brain fog did much to temper the edge she'd been feeling all day. Enough, at least, that she wouldn't go to bed tonight with a case of lock-jaw after clenching her teeth all day. Chemical crutch or no, she couldn't help but notice the near imperceptible brush of something butting up against her psyche, like an invisible hand reaching out and spreading across the crowd.
There was nobody near her, but it felt almost as if she'd been touched. Uncomfortable, she'd side-eye the towering ficus next to her before backing up slightly to hide (badly) among its greenery.
Taking another sip, she'd look out to find the source, and in so doing, locked gazes with a man across the hall who was speaking to her grandmother. The searching hand, brushing out over the wave of people like fingers dragged through water just as suddenly became a pointed antenna that locked upon her. In turn, her own fingers clasped about the delicate stemware, as if asking for the liquid contained within to work faster.
It didn't, of course, if anything the opposite effect happened as he pulled away and turned towards her. She suddenly felt intensely focused, utterly fixated on him and all the nuance and subtleties he presented under other, the far more overt qualities. Certainly he was tall, though compared to her, most everyone was. No, it was as if he seemed taller than everyone else by mere bearing. The cut of his suit was equally impeccable, highlighting the masculine breadth of his shoulders in a way that made it abundantly clear padding wasn't necessary.
The Mozart piece that had been playing faded out then, conversation dimming with it until Beethoven's Egmont Overture began to play, the violins and cellos thrumming low through the floorboards as he started to walk towards her. Suddenly the pitch of her heartbeat went into overdrive, pushing the lingering haze of alcoholic stupor out of her brain so that only the electric hum of heightened awareness consumed her.
Goddammit.
He was totally killing her buzz.
One - never drink more than two glasses of alcohol.
Two - never sit or stand about in corners when there were people to talk with and entertain.
Well, she'd definitely broken both of those rules in spades.
The fourth glass of wine was already halfway finished as the atmosphere changed. At first, Ondine thought perhaps she was just that drunk. The French took their vin seriously, and the Malbec she'd been drinking had been particularly excellent. The soft brume of brain fog did much to temper the edge she'd been feeling all day. Enough, at least, that she wouldn't go to bed tonight with a case of lock-jaw after clenching her teeth all day. Chemical crutch or no, she couldn't help but notice the near imperceptible brush of something butting up against her psyche, like an invisible hand reaching out and spreading across the crowd.
There was nobody near her, but it felt almost as if she'd been touched. Uncomfortable, she'd side-eye the towering ficus next to her before backing up slightly to hide (badly) among its greenery.
Taking another sip, she'd look out to find the source, and in so doing, locked gazes with a man across the hall who was speaking to her grandmother. The searching hand, brushing out over the wave of people like fingers dragged through water just as suddenly became a pointed antenna that locked upon her. In turn, her own fingers clasped about the delicate stemware, as if asking for the liquid contained within to work faster.
It didn't, of course, if anything the opposite effect happened as he pulled away and turned towards her. She suddenly felt intensely focused, utterly fixated on him and all the nuance and subtleties he presented under other, the far more overt qualities. Certainly he was tall, though compared to her, most everyone was. No, it was as if he seemed taller than everyone else by mere bearing. The cut of his suit was equally impeccable, highlighting the masculine breadth of his shoulders in a way that made it abundantly clear padding wasn't necessary.
The Mozart piece that had been playing faded out then, conversation dimming with it until Beethoven's Egmont Overture began to play, the violins and cellos thrumming low through the floorboards as he started to walk towards her. Suddenly the pitch of her heartbeat went into overdrive, pushing the lingering haze of alcoholic stupor out of her brain so that only the electric hum of heightened awareness consumed her.
Goddammit.
He was totally killing her buzz.
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