Mx Female Hear the Devil's Choir [MxF] {Fantasy, Dystopian, & Steampunk Characters Inside}

[Scarlet Hymn]

Picture Source
Search Status: Closed.​

Hello all! My name is Scarlet, and I’ll just get right down into exactly what I’m looking for. I am looking for an experienced writer with an absolute and technical fuckton of patience and creativity, a desire for just amazing fantastic adventure, someone who will grow too ridiculously invested in the characters involved, and wants this delicious seasoning of erotic elements generously sprinkled on this juicy-as-fuck steak/portabella mushroom/whatever the hell you want of a plot. Because some like making the distinction fairly quickly, let me tell you that I do not give an absolute fuck what kind of genitals you are sporting in real life. You prepared to play a genetic gal/trans woman for me? We good. We so good. Now prepare to read, captain!

Patience.
So here’s the thing… and let me be honest. I am not going to be online every day. I will not be able to write every day. I take a lot of time. I wait until I have this enormous chunk of time and then I invest a healthy amount of myself into each post. I have a lot of things going on in my life and this is entirely for fun - and I am under no illusion otherwise. While I will try to get a post in at least once a week while undergoing classes, there is just no guarantee that that will happen. I need someone who is fully prepared for that. I can make no exceptions. That said, I will absolutely return the favor. I will never push you or threaten to leave if I don’t get a response for some time or if you’re posting for someone else, but not for me. I’ll let you know if I’m just not feeling it anymore if it’s been a long time, but it’s unlikely. I may check in on you after a few weeks. You are free to do the same. Feeling dried out on our stories? While I’d love to be told so I’m not left waiting, I am totally ditch-friendly.

Creativity.
It happens to all of us. Sometimes I’m so full of ideas, my mania kicks into gear and I’m frothing at the mouth with potential scenes. Then sometimes my brain has taken an early vacation without notice and I’m just a hollow shell of a person. You are totally allowed to be within the parameters of both states, but just for this reason - you gotta’ know that the story can’t rely on me alone. Or else it’ll be stuck on a setting of meth-like speed for all of a few weeks and then hit the slowest crawl you’ve ever fucking seen. Even if they’re bad, even if they’re all of one word descriptors, please contribute ideas, present scenarios - just give me something to know that those beautiful gears are spinning.

Fantasy Adventure.
As of this posting, this is what I’m craving, and I am craving it hardcore, man. I don’t want just a single storyline. I want little plots. I want our characters to explore, to ditz about, to tumble from one thing to the next. Dungeon delving in the morning and fighting off hordes of undead by supper. I want it to be stupid fun. I want it to be a D&D adventure gone off the rails.

Setting.
This will include both the setting and the means of which I will role-play by. Let's start setting. I hate the real world. I absolutely suck at geography, I sweat the small details (i.e. looking for actual place names and realizing I've put thirty-minutes I could have been writing into research that came up with no result), and when we use past settings, I've been rapped on the knuckles more times than I can count for blatant misuse of anachronism. Unless otherwise stated for certain characters*, I will be using fantasy worlds only . We can definitely have 'esque' worlds, borrowing from modern or Victorian or what-the-hell-ever. We can definitely have futuristic worlds or apocalypse worlds or whatever, so fucked over you could hardly recognize it as Earth. NEXT. My favorite path to role-play by is private messages. My second is threads. I will not role-play over chat, Skype, or any messenger service. I can be convinced to email, but I really have to like your proposal and you have to ask me very nicely.

* One such exception should be found below as of 9/9, however, he has a modern-esque setting I've called 'Fractured Earth'. It is my huuuuuuuge preference that we use this over present times. More info below.​

Erotic Elements.
Make no mistake, though I want our tale based in plot, I love smut. It’s fucking glorious. Gimme’ a role-play-tiramisu where the coffee infusion is all delicious eroticism saturating the rich cakey-story insides, ya’ feel me? I don’t want one session to be lasting us twenty posts (on account of my slow posting, it’ll take forever), but it’s god-damned amazing and it’s totally cool if it happens frequently. I like it hot and quick and gritty and real. I want it to erupt because our characters have this crazy chemical connection that they can’t deny any more or 'fuck, killing that dragon was exhilarating so we should screw' or ‘I’m confusing very passionate emotions like hatred and sexual yearnings with one another, so let’s bang and sort this shit out’. For the specifics, I do not have an F-List and am unlikely to get to making one (last time I tried, the fucker disconnected on me when I finished and totally didn’t save everything I’d taken all of fifteen superbly-important minutes to do). I am pretty vanilla, I’d say. No urine, feces, vomit, snuff, severe bodily harm, rape, bimbofication, warp, humiliation (treat my boys with respect, yo), etc. Off the bat, I like real. It could be rough, sensual, loving, but real. Yes to oral, anal, vaginal sex, rough sex (your character could stop him from what he's doing long enough to throw him to the ground and ride him into ecstasy, but next time he may just grab her by the throat and fuck mercilessly against the wall), clothed sex, light bondage, so on. As long as you know my paradox - I love internal, vaginal cumshots, but I hate pregnancy stuff. Not my deal, yah dig? Unsure of if I’m good with something? You’re always free to ask! You can also send suggestive gifs on what you're thinking (but jfc, give me a NSFW warning please).

Writing.
I know, I know. You’ve come so far reading all this shite. Just a little more to go. We have to connect as writers. We just have to. I have absolutely amazing partners (and really it’s their fault for my high expectations, so feel free to blame them), so I’m picky about adding to who I have (and I really want both of us to be happy). For this, I require a sample. It can be something old, something you’d just written, an active or inactive role-play thread. Whatever you think really exemplifies your style. Please send me this on your first message. If I don’t think we’ll pair well, I’ll just tell you, “No, thank you”. When we start, maybe you won’t like my style, and you can tell me “No, thank you”. In the hopes of whittling that down, I have some samples provided below. To give you some idea of what I click with, I like detail. I like length. I like quality and quantity working together. I like writers that can construct good characters that I feel for. I like writers who don’t take themselves too seriously. I like writers who are flexible and considerate and who will prioritize us having a good time and enjoying ourselves (I’ll return the favor).

Here are some samples of my own writing. While the length of the post will always vary, the quality will range about the same. I expect equal quality. Doesn't have to have as many words, but I desire that it has as much thought put into it.

• An introduction for a universe-traveling thief preparing to, unsuspectingly, steal from a powerful, seductive witch.
  
  See more

  [*]It was frigid in Enthaga. It was always frigid, without the justification of wind, with no sun to temper its rancor, only skyward rows upon rows of objects and beauty, a stained-glass window and clockwork dynasty of millions of a million worlds. The sheer artistry of it all, the utter awe that it inspired, was enough to abate one’s impatience, head reeling back as though crooking their neck would truly allow them to witness the scope of such a place. A place that was not truly a place, where if one were to attempt to exit, they would find no doors or windows; where smashing apart the walls would simply bring them back to the other side. It was a pocket world, existing as a benign tumor on the skin of others, between others, eternally out of view save for the number who knew to access it. One such individual stood at the base of a column composed of golden items, beloved treasures that, despite their haphazard placement, had been lovingly categorized and memorized and placed in an order that would require a plethora of highly intelligent brains to comprehend the pattern.
  
  Sulhis Enthum-El liked to consider himself intelligent, but he was not so arrogant to believe that the genetics his creators had used to construct his body with and the matter that was not matter that comprised his soul could equal up to the strange being that called Enthaga home. Athryn was their name, scaling their laboriously constructed items of increasing preciousness, the arachnid legs of their abdomen gentle as a swath of silk as they found purchase on even smooth surfaces. Two arms, spindly and fine, carefully prodded through a batch of artifacts, the tentacles of his chest catching any that deigned to fall out of place, tenderly placing them back. For some time, he did this, Athyrn tunneling himself through his acquisitions as the man made of nothingness awaited below.
  
  A soft chirp drew Sulhis’ attention to his left shoulder, a small fox-like creature draped upon his person, with tiny, kneading fingers on his forepaws, claws just barely avoiding scratching into the cloth of the man’s black cloak. The creature’s eyes were wide, like starlight amidst black and shimmering fur, his curling tail a smoky plume. The man raised a gloved hand, rubbing the creature’s snout, tolerating the nips of powerful teeth. “Bexion,” Sulhis growled low, his voice a lilting tenor, as he watched the beast lick long fingers from irises of silver moons. His companion barked nervously in response, pushing on his shoulder until he stood straight, shadowed from the orb lights of paper lanterns that spiraled the room.
  
  Turning, Sulhis stared into the many eyes embedded in a shifting, technicolor crest, Athryn leaning unbearably close with equally unbearably curious eyes. “Your friend still does not seem to like us,” they noted, voice warbling like a creek bubbling over many stones. As though to assuage it, they raised a hand, a morsel of food resting gently on thick, black claws. It was offered to Bexion, whose hackles had raised and turned a frightening scarlet, burning through a range of colors like ensorcelled fire. Despite the aggressive, fearful display, the pink nose wrinkled and moved, face drawing closer to the proffered piece, and it leaned in carefully, eyes wary. Sharp teeth gingerly took the chunk of meat, and the man dared to not wonder from what it had come from. Athyrn made a rumbling sound in their chest, like a singing waterfall, which he had grown to known was the collector’s chuckle.
  
  “What have you for me?” Sulhis asked eagerly, thumb tapping repetitiously against his index finger in hopes of allaying excitement. Not only for the ware that the collector undoubtedly had, the question an ancient song and dance between the two of them that bordered on politeness, but for the mark that he had been given by the Book of Infinite Wonders. It was a silly name, he’d had to admit, but it came with the artifact and it wasn’t comfortable with the idea of being renamed. The tentacles of Athryn’s chest produced an oddly shaped glove, which secured around the wrist in intricate metal rings, lined with words and whispers that spoke to him when he silently read them. There was a metal spine extending from the wrist to enrapture the index and middle finger, with a swirling gem faceted between the two knuckles, though the others were left bare, covered to the knuckle with a soft, smooth polymer. It was a beautiful piece that fused technology and magic, forged by a mad aethermancer, augmented by his brilliant, resentful daughter.
  
  “We know what you are seeking. We will give you four- no, five pieces of your choosing that do not exceed eight hundred meters,” Athryn offered, scrambling with its lanky fingers to accompany the numbers pronounced. On any other day, it was as tempting an offer as Bexion’s morsel was, but Sulhis shook his head.
  
  “We’ll see, my friend. I have to know what it does first,” Sulhis replied, having already handed Athryn his price for the current item, and he took the gorgeous thing from wispy, intrigued tentacles. Without hesitation, he affixed it around his left hand, snapping the clasp shut, and the gem sighed sweetly in his ear, its depths shimmering lavender tears. A pause and then he looked up, a handsomely featured face earnest, considering, the mouth cover of his clothes down to bare the expression upon smirking lips. “How about, if I decide not to keep it, I’ll trade it to you first, before Omran, no matter how much the rapacious little amphibian begs,” he offered and Athryn seemed more pleased them before, if scant, his voice squabbling, hands waving him away.
  
  With his prize in tow, Sulhis left Enthaga as he had come, through an ugly, disturbing painting of a stag’s slaughtered corpse, ravenous dogs left to slaver over the kill. The visit to his pocket, Taiuth, was more than brief, gathering what was necessary into his bag, collecting items he had numbered before he had made the trip to see Athryn. There were not many, as he did not expect this to be an entirely difficult, or drawn-out job. The newly acquired glove saw to shorten his spent time. The Book’s instructions given, he found himself in a city, called Crisalain. It was not farfetched as what he had seen in other worlds, his anchorpoint created just outside of the city walls. Though his ensemble was exotic, of black and dark cobalt silks, with a regal tapestry of metal and tassels bound to his left hip, he was not wholly out of place. Bexion was, however, and was hidden amidst his things, starlight eyes peeping from the puckered gap of leather.
  
  A behemoth tower oversaw the city, glimmering, unwarranted, beneath the dying light of a bruised sky, leaving the beholden breathless. It took time for Sulhis to slip through taverns, prying the gossip and tales from drunken lips, coaxing what he figured to be true. They spun their lore, their breaths of ale weaving fears and beauty, of superstition. Of, eventually, a woman.
  
  It was in the cusp of night that Sulhis affirmed his journey, slipping through the pool of a shallow mirror in an inn’s backroom and arriving in the dust of a glorious library. A floor length mirror stood behind him, and he silently thanked the gift of his birthright - for it often wasn’t accurate, and was sometimes keen to placing him in compromising situations. The library nearly rivaled Enthaga with its numerous nature, its richness of history, so far as he had heard. Though a few nearby harbored broken spines, many were tenderly cared for, their pages undoubtedly crisp and would sing should one turn to the next. Much as he wanted to remain, to record each in a vast, devouring memory, there was something that the Book had told would be vital to him. Something that he would want, even more so than this library, than its inhabitants. Something that would, inevitably, bring out the hunger inside of him.
  
  Searching through his things, Sulhis pulled an eyepiece from his bag, which he affixed over his left eye. It doused half of his world in a shifting blue before resuming to normal, making him witness to the caress of magic, to the intricacy of spells and their binding. Carefully, quietly, he crept through the vast room, Bexion leaving his things to skitter amidst the shadows, dancing deftly around the obstacles that stood to overcome him, leaving his companion behind. He returned shortly after his departure, chuffing low, hardly audible in even the piercing silence. The man followed the fox to a door, its cherry wood and metal otherwise unassuming, but its age was apparent. Time saturated this place, breathed with it, baring beautifully ancient scars, but he did not stop to admire. There was an occupant of this place, and he did not know of her position - simply that she may exist, and that she was not a force to be reckoned with. But, alas, reckoned with she was about to be.
  
  With Bexion’s agility and loyalty, it did not take long to find a room, and as Sulhis’ hand lingered over the knob, his ear lobe burned. A piece of jewelry, of emerald and silver that clung to the curve of his ear, whispered, ‘In there, Enthum-El. In there.’ The creature pulled a small, silver circle from his things, tiny hands making it seem large, but it was snug in the man’s palm. He placed it to his lips and whispered long dead words, then pressed it gently to the wood of the door. It was rendered silent, even as he turned the knob, even as old wood gave way and offered him passage, it uttered not a sound, though it would only last but a short time.
  
  The sight that he was met with nearly gave him away. Though her back was turned to him, a balcony awaited across from him, and a woman stood in its maw. Liquid darkness was her hair, a fleeing waterfall, contrasted against the white of her dress, the softness of her curves that strained to be seen amidst the kiss of wind. When he had heard of ancient witches that communed with necromancers and nasty, fruitful magic, he had been keen to picture something else, though he was not ready to test the truthfulness of city-people talk. Bexion tugged on his pants, gesturing to the door against a different wall. Sulhis crept, damning the distance with which he would have to return. He could shift the anchorpoint to nearby, but it was costly and it was in his preference not to. Another time to wonder, he supposed, approaching the door, which was entirely alight with magicks thanks to the eyepiece that bared them to the world. Raising the hand with the newly given glove, the tapestry of the spells unveiled themselves, and he made careful, precise movements with his fingers. He was undoing the spells, rewriting them, as though working backwards, working loose each and every thread. It was a piece that he’d been itching to get his hands on, literally, for ages, and now its use was coming to fruition. Something wondrous was behind this door.
  
  In a few breaths, the spells were broken, the enhancements made null, and Sulhis worked to still his heart. It had only been moments since he’d crept from her door, but it had felt like hours tinkering, the glove working as smoothly as anything Athryn had given him. With another silencer, he opened the door, slipping inside, shutting it behind him. A glass encased box awaited him, its figures shining from behind its face like the teeth of a wicked grin. His heart was slamming in his chest. It was to be his. Damn the anchorpoint, it could be moved. With a soft sheen of magic coating the edges of the glass, he had but one more barrier. He lifted his hand and began to configure, until his fingers slipped. His heart nearly stopped in his chest, for he knew it the moment that it happened, could do little to prevent it. The spell went off.
  [*]
• The start of some hot and heavy downtime between a lascivious beast of a man and his perfectly enticing warrior companion. (NSFW)
  
  See more

  [*]The desire that bound Kietsayl was molten, augmented and deepened by Zareh’s sultry need, illustrious and vibrant, wringing along the threads that tethered his soul, electrifying his body with every press of her hips. He watched, aided, as she just as eagerly shed her insolent clothes, granting freedom, fervently baring the last, wretched barrier to her flesh. As he had begun to consider it, ready to impatiently loose it from its place, she tugged at his own shirt, his figure long forgotten about in light of her own. Avidly, they worked it off together, revealing the planes of his muscles, though he swore she may be able to see his pounding heart even through them. When he’d been freed of the errant threads, his body pressed against her own as desperately as she had pulled him back down, seeking her silken flesh as though it was the most natural thing to do. He ached with her words, teeth gritting as though to keep him from breaking down to the restless demands of either of them. His mind was quickly becoming a heated haze, begging to be barren of thought. It was unlike him, to be so plunged in his appetite, and he fought to collect himself, groaning against her lips for her lascivious zeal, feeling her writhe and rub against him. He didn’t doubt she would feel his own arousal, steel between his legs, a hard ridge that lined to his belly all the more encouraged by her playful teasing. Now she teased him, as wonderfully brazen as a fiery temptress.
  
  Enthralled by the graceful, needy movement of her beneath him, Kietsayl was still yet gripped by the entertainment of it - he was amused that she was seeking to taunt him, a creature of primality as he was, of timeless seduction, of base carnality. Woven into every fiber of his being, of his birth. And yet, he was falling for it, breath a hot pant, thirsty and anxious to throw his careful attentions to the wind, to ravage her as senselessly and passionately as she goaded him to, conscious of the endeavor or not. No… not yet. He wanted more. Needed it. Even as he emboldened her efforts, one arm an iron band that slipped around her waist, keeping her pressed to him, body rocking against her own. He swore he could feel the warmth of her yet through the hindrances that laid between them, impetuous, reminding.
  
  Coming up for air from Zareh’s lips, painfully entranced as he was, Kietsayl nipped the lobe of her ear, kissed her neck beneath it in an attempt to orient himself. Not that he’d admit it. “Zareh,” he growled in warning at her tormenting, voice throaty, hardly more than a forced whisper. “Patience,” he added, then sat up, belying his own command by gripping the end of her shift and tearing a jagged line to the top, all the way until the form of her was revealed amidst its remnants. “We’ll find you another,” he teased wryly, clearly unabashed, unapologetic by his expression, which could only be described as enraptured. A cobalt gaze was busy consuming her; mussed lavender locks in a fearless halo upon the sheets, swollen lips, the naked, desirous figure of her. Her own eyes, filled with inebriated, bold passion, inspired his hunger, stoked him in waves that rode recklessly through him. His hands were on her only just before his lips, the left palming a breast, thumb toying with her nipple until it formed a blush peak. He offered her one more ardent kiss before he’d moved farther down, closing his mouth over her other nipple, tasting her satin skin.
  
  Much as he desired to savor it, as though he could sate his famine there alone, his promise called to him, his need. His want to see her burn more beautifully than she thought she already was. Kietsayl trailed himself yet farther down, climbing off the bed as his lips grazed over her belly, her hip. He knelt on the floor at the edge, pulling her body to meet him there.
  
  With hardly more warning than a kiss of her inner thigh and a mischievous glance to her face, he laved her heated sex with his tongue, at once impassioned, ravenous by the scent of her, the taste. The voluptuous tingles of pleasure trickled down his spine through the bond in response, resonating in a drunken buzz, pulsing at the base of his spine. He needed more. Not for the shared physical bliss, but of her, for her. He needed more of Zareh in more senses than he would have been comfortable with, if he’d had the mind. Curling his arms around her thighs - one hand cradling her leg with long fingers, the other easily reaching up to tease her breast - he held her to his lips. She was sweeter than mead, than honey, and he sought to drink more than his fill.
  [*]
• For current, active samples, please visit my role-plays 'My Lady's Appetites', 'God on the Mountain', and 'Portal - The Heartsreach Chronicles' (most recent).

Characters.
* Please note that my faceclaims are not exact and I will NEVER 'make' you find one for your character.
The characters that I present are ones I have worked hard on. Some will have existed in my collection for years, others have been in the works for just weeks or months. While I definitely don’t require you take as long to think yours over, I want your characters to be real characters. I want them to have personality, to have a thoughtful background, to have feelings, and dreams, and so on. None of my boys will appreciate having sex with cardboard cutouts. That shit burns. The types I am typical to play are ambitious, fierce, cunning, comedic, you name it. I try to keep broody edgelords at a way distance. Some of my men are sexually aggressive, some need to be coaxed into releasing their fire. Some are lean, some are muscular. Some know how to swing a blade, some to utter a spell, some to slip others into the enchantment of their charm. If you want to know exactly what kind of traits I like in opposing female characters - I am a total sucker for some muscle, some definition. For personality? Strong women. Confident women. Maybe it's not their looks that they're comfortable with, but they're sure as fuck sure that they can get the job done they need to. Maybe they have the occasional lapse in vulnerability and all they need is a litle nudge. Ultimately, they can stand on their own, without the affections of another character to assure her. I also love feisty, sexually aware women. Ones who can just absolutely make my character want to lose their mind, but who also are harshly feeling the raw effects of the attractive man in their midst. Make him want to take her in a room full of strangers. For random, totally unnecessary shit, I like short women to pair with my tall gents. Tall women are great too, but I love size differences. I also love tattoos. Tattoos are fucking awesome. There's many more traits that I enjoy, and yours absolutely does not have to encompass all of this, but if you include at least half, reading each post may have my eyeballs pressed to the screen.

Enough of the endless dribble! Let’s get to the best stuff, shall we? Here are my leading gentlemen, some barebone information, and a plotling or so. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask. Unless I answered it PERFECTLY clearly in here, there are no dumb questions.

in his name.
[ high fantasy / fractured earth modern / daemon lord / multifaceted ]

Long ago, he was the daemon god of domination, the Lord of Lords, and he had once waged a bloody war against the daemon patheon. He was put down by the gathered power of the Hands and Gods, who worked perilously against time, against fate. They had trapped him in a rapt slumber, in a darkness they’d thought that he could not escape, but his strength, his planted seeds of power, wormed him from this wretched sleep.

Despite their efforts, he is without memory, clawing at the reaches of his mind to retrieve the shreds of memories that dance from his grasp. Though he wanders in the flesh of mortals, he is not lacking his lethality and very well may once more rise. In such a vulnerable state, it is possible, with a guiding hand, that even such imperious powers may be put to ‘good’ use - or to wreak destruction more devastating in its second coming.

• Fractured Earth lore stolen from one of my female character's bios.

  Much as the world had tried to stop it, the Fracturing had long since occurred. The thin skin between earth and the world of beasts had burst like a bubble and humankind floundered for a long time in the aftershocks. Cities were ravaged, countrysides infested, civilizations left dead or destitute or running for the hills. In time, however, as it has a tendency to do, humankind slowly gathered itself to its feet. People adapted. People learned. Small towns that had fortified themselves lived long enough to see them turn into sprawling metropolises. Armored caravans bumbling along open territory was a normal, low-risk occurrence. Farmers employed expert trappers and their guns were a little more frightening than the typical shotgun, but life and normalcy ultimately resumed. There were underwater cities then, some in the air, and others climbing so high into the sky it looked straight out of the science-fiction section comic book section, but it resumed. Innovation was at a high. Hell, even some monsters were integrated into the fabric of society, working under careful supervision. Things could finally move on.
• The daemon gods include a whole fuckton of original lore of mine. I can fill you in or you can find out as the story goes! Let me know!
• Several plotlings, depending on how we want to alter this character/course of the role-play, whether to compassion or to desolation. Some ideas could be that followers of his arrange a ritual and capture one that’s supposedly pure of heart, or whatever they crap they think is gonna’ work. This woman is used to bring him forth from his rest, her soul a sacrifice for his clutches of domination, but for whatever reason, the ritual is interrupted. Maybe an amateur hunter interrupts them, destroys seals of protection, and he consumes their souls instead. Maybe one of them has a heart attack. Whatever the reason, the ‘lamb to slaughter’ is spared, save that her soul is now tied to his own and neither can exist without the other. Is the bond of a daemon god impose on her very thoughts? Does she feel the sins of his past crawling on her skin?
• There’s also the simple route of a summoner (either an expert who has been researching how to do this for years or a beginner who got really fucking lucky) manages to successfully awaken him, but can she control the aggression growing inside of him? Can she temper the very Lord of Lords?
• Have to discuss an overarching plot with this - an enemy in the long run. Maybe another daemon? Another god?

the punished glade.
[ high fantasy / adventure / gods of the wood ]

He was born in the time of the old gods, the ones considered selfish few, who bent ears only to those who chose to help themselves. The forest deity he fervently devoted himself to in his youth, Stra’oomath, groomed him beyond his mixed blood to be filled by the spirit of the wood, to be engulfed in its enveloping nature. Though his loyalty was unshakable, his legs ached, his dreams haunted by the world beyond, pained at the thought of a boy becoming a man passively in the confines of the trees. It was with great consequence that he was willing to face later that he set out, and one year became ten. Ten became hundreds. And centuries later, he sheepishly returned. The monks of his home were long gone, and the temples of his youth were left crumbling and desecrated.

Now a man, he has dedicated himself to righting his wrongs, building the temples back to their former glories. Clearing the monsters and bandits and trash from his homes. Searching high and low for the ancient relics consecrated in the name of his god. The devout ranger, armed with a sardonic, sarcastic, and impatient nature, is perfectly ardent, perfectly ready to do what must be done.

• This character fulfills most desires for simple size differences, as this man is 7’3”. He is partially human.
• Your character could be something as simple as someone who takes up residence in one of the temples that he is preparing to fix. Could be someone unlucky enough to hold a relic that he needs (and perhaps, when he finds her to take it back, they find a rather dangerous third party wants the same thing).
• Plotling: When he finds her dying in the woods, be it from an animal attack, starvation, misfortune, or a mysterious backstory-turned-deadly, his god eagerly whispers to him. It tells him to bury her body in a shallow grave amidst an ancient tree’s roots, upon where he is to wait for three days. On the third night, beneath the light of moon and stars, she rises again, living, herself… mostly. For now the heart of a forest god dwells within her, and its will may challenge her own.

the smoking gun.
[ science-fiction / on the run / love-hate ]

Brought forth into the world as an enhanced soldier for a world war in the galaxy next over, he was headed in the usual direction of dramas of the era. Exceptional strength and speed, a ridiculously modified visor permanently connected to blind eyes, the ability to fuse with technology and impart its secrets as quickly as someone asking a question. With the abilities of his suit and his lethal ability, he was a perfect killer, a perfect modern assassin. That was until the company funding it went belly up and everyone in Roth Genetic Systems knew they were fucking toast.. By the time they started to liquidate the last of their assets, including experiments like him that ‘never existed’, he was already in the proverbial solar wind.

He struggled, a fish out of water, a noticeable stranger, until he hitchhiked to a distant planet renown for its rather nefarious nature. There, he fit right in, became a mercenary for hire until the residing gang in power snatched him up and agreed to all terms faster than he could say, ‘shit ton of money’. He’s been working for them ever since, and he’s never felt more at home. Problem is, the gang aren’t the only people realizing that he’s a valuable resource, and some are thinking of attaching shorter of a leash than others.

• The sort of pairing that I am thinking for this is either an Intergalactic Bounty Hunter, someone lawful, or someone seeking him out as a resource for another company. Either way, I want him to be captured and technically at a disadvantage. But I want there to be chemical attraction, and I want that to be simmering harshly between them during export, and I want him to torment her and tease her even if he’s bound up, all the way until they realize that - for whatever reason, they’re both in danger and they have to work together.
• This character is highly sexually aggressive given an opening. His visor can scan humans and feed him readings, from thermal and heart rate to the slight contractions of the pupils. He definitely uses this if it’s to his benefit. If you give me the all clear by telling me her (YC’s) desire (heart beating faster, cheeks blushing, more than one thing preferably because I am DENSE), I will absolutely have him take advantage of it, even if his hands are cuffed behind his back. Maybe he flirts obscenely, maybe he backs her into a corner, shoves his thigh between her legs and rubs perfectly enough for her to wish he was thrusting into her instead. It can be dub-con to con, but no rape.

he's the big bad wolf.
[ steampunk / high fantasy / bounty hunter ]

Please note on the setting! I want this world a fusion of both steampunk and high fantasy. Steam and metal cities, walk outside to the country side and BAM - dragon.
There once was a useless, needless war, and blood quenched the lands of both sides, and neither wanted to concede the endless defeat. That was until one decided they would play dirty and they secondhandedly composed a team of specialists. These specialists were called the Children of Heresy. That, of course, wasn't known until all was said and done and the war was won and the team was thrown out like yesterday's trash. All that had been known during the war was that they were specialists in death. They didn't warn, they didn't threaten, they just went straight for the throat.

It has been many years since the war has ended and he was played and used and chewed up. He used to reason that he was young, that the Heretics were all purposely convinced of the evils of their enemies, that they were promised a nice place to settle down and their families pulled from debt. Now he knows how dumb that is. Pardoned for his warcrimes, he can only take solace in the fact that there is peace. There is a bloodstain on his past and the past of every country she seems to find, but there is peace anyway. For now. Until then, he works to reconcile the crimson on his hands. You got a problem, he fixes it. The dead rising from the swamp? He's set to blasting the necromancer in the face that's conjuring them. Existential creature waking the neighbors? He'll shut the portal down. Door a little creaky? He's bought some new hinges and built a new door. Can't pay his much? It's... it's fine. Owe him a favor. He's got pockets full of them. Until then, he chases down any face that pops up on the wanted papers with shiny coin to back them faster than a hawk after a hare. He's good. It might only give him enough to pay the rent on a temporary flat and buy a few things, but it's good enough. Strong liquor and the company of his humorous, mechanical, batlike companion, Belfry, is enough to get him through the night.

• Inspirational song.
• Would love to try a love-hate relationship at first, something that develops into more down the line, with a character on the run that he's captured. Maybe they hit some trouble on the way to him delivering her? Maybe shit is a little more complicated than at face value?
• YC could be a Daughter of Heresy that he knew down the way. Could just be an adventurer he joined up with for a fight.
• Not quite sure what I want with him as a story in general besides the above, but really open for ideas. Do note that he is one such character who may need to be paired with someone who's a little more forward in regards to sex, especially if they are a criminal, but he does have the potential for great passion once he's been given that direction.

Send me a pm and let's get plotting~! [:​