Bop Its Neo
Arber
[]Uhhhh this is the first time I've ever posted on this website so take it with a grain of salt
I was originally on shamchat, but the creator stopped working with the Capta, so the Capta stopped loading. Because of this, nobody uses Shamchat to roleplay anymore, so I've gone here instead! Sort of a mark of desperation, honestly, but I haven't found any better places. Plus, this website seems pretty cool so far! Anyway.
I have a hakahaki disease roleplay starter, where I would be Hamilton and I would need a Jefferson. It would be set in modern time, the starter itself being located in the office. Basically, if somebody doesn't know what Hakahai is, it's where somebody suffers from unrequited love and because of it, they basically throw up flowers. It's a tragically beautiful illness, and the person is only cured of it if whoever they're after loves them back. if they don't, then the person suffering dies. RIP.
The roleplay would contain mentions or depictions of death, blood, angst, and weird flower puke. Oh, and coughing. Basically illness. If that wasn't obvious smh lmfao
I can be lit, semi-lit, advanced, really anything; though I prefer going full detail and in-depth with what I write. More often than not, I bounce off of my partner's writing style. The one thing I'll refuse to do is one-liners. I talk too much for that.. As you can tell.
But uh.. Yeah! Here's the starter, and if you're interested, comment.. I guess? Sorry, like I said, I'm new to this site and how it works, aha.[]
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The Hanahaki Disease is a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romantic love only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear. The happy ending version is when the object of the victim's love returns their affections, thus making the love no longer unrequited. The victim is then cured of the disease. This may happen spontaneously when the object of affections realizes his (it's usually a him) love, or the disease may require the object to persuade the victim that their love is mutual. If the victim cannot believe that his beloved returns his love, he will die.
If one were to enter Alexander Hamilton's office, they wouldn't really find anything abnormal or worrying at all. His desk was perfectly organized, with stacks of paper on either side, folders and files stacked neatly in his drawers, his pen and pencil always ready to prove themselves needed, and his coffee cup, always full, on the right side of his papers. Though, the sight could easily differ. Like today. Instead of his room and desk being clean, it was covered in flowers of almost any and all colours, with vines, and blood on the floor and desk. It was as if somebody was killed in the mist of gardening. Alexander decided to study the flowers he found escaping his lungs, in the mist of all the pain. They seem to all describe a specific Virginian he had promised himself to loathe when he looked up their names and meanings. Alstroemeria - wealth, prosperity and fortune. Amaryllis - splendid beauty. Carnation - pride. Daffodil - chivalry. Gladiolus - the strength of character. Orchid - exotic beauty, mature charm. Tiger Lily - Pride. There were so many more, but those were all he could bare knowing. When it was just a few petals, he did research as to what it was. And now, knowing that he's working with full-on flowers, he's perfectly aware he's dying and is going to die soon. The most painful death, of course.
If the blood and flowers dressing up the room weren't enough, you have Alexander himself. In the corner of the room, sobbing from pain, holding his throat and curled into a ball. Yes, he would describe himself as lacking sensitivity for pain. But this was far more than a gunshot. This was a garden, sprouting in his lungs, forcing him to cough them up. Not only was the coughing painful, but the flowers rising up and out of his throat. It was.. Gruesome. The flowers scraping the inside of his throat was dreadful. Especially now. When it started, when he first met Jefferson, it wasn't so awful. It was just petals. But now it's the entire thing. That, mixed with him knowing perfectly well Jefferson didn't return his feelings? God. It's unimaginable for anybody outside of his scenario. Not only did Jefferson not return his feelings, (at least, that's what he's assuming.) but he has no clue. No fucking clue as to what Alexander is going through. After all, it's rare. What was he, one of the ten people with this illness? He doubted the other even knew what it was. What was causing him so much pain? Why he would have to dart out of a meeting without a second word. He knew nothing, he was ignorant of it all. And that's what pained him.
So, as Alexander lay curled in the corner, sobbing into his legs, he kept one thought. Why didn't he just get it removed? Ah, many reasons. First off, he welcomed death at this point. Secondly, he didn't want to never feel love again. The love part wasn't what was wrong. He liked playing the dangerous game of making people fall without liking them, or vice versa. Though, he only actually figured out what love was the first day he felt the petal in his lung, the first day he saw the taller Virginian. God, why did it have to be him? Of anybody Alexander knew. They fought, argued, disagreed. They hated each other. Now, this? Fucking hell. Alexander let out another cough, the flower gracefully falling into his hands. He blinked away his tears for a moment to study the colour. A yellow Tulip, hopeless love. The bittersweet love flower. Wow, thanks, body. He didn't know that. Curling up tighter, he was planning to stay like that until he heard a brief knock on the door, the Virginian's voice whom he was thinking about from the other side of the dense wood. It was a shame Alexander couldn't hear what he said. It was also a shame that Alexander couldn't will himself to get up, to clean his mess, to hide his evidence until he hopelessly watched the door open, the taller man coming into sight.
I was originally on shamchat, but the creator stopped working with the Capta, so the Capta stopped loading. Because of this, nobody uses Shamchat to roleplay anymore, so I've gone here instead! Sort of a mark of desperation, honestly, but I haven't found any better places. Plus, this website seems pretty cool so far! Anyway.
I have a hakahaki disease roleplay starter, where I would be Hamilton and I would need a Jefferson. It would be set in modern time, the starter itself being located in the office. Basically, if somebody doesn't know what Hakahai is, it's where somebody suffers from unrequited love and because of it, they basically throw up flowers. It's a tragically beautiful illness, and the person is only cured of it if whoever they're after loves them back. if they don't, then the person suffering dies. RIP.
The roleplay would contain mentions or depictions of death, blood, angst, and weird flower puke. Oh, and coughing. Basically illness. If that wasn't obvious smh lmfao
I can be lit, semi-lit, advanced, really anything; though I prefer going full detail and in-depth with what I write. More often than not, I bounce off of my partner's writing style. The one thing I'll refuse to do is one-liners. I talk too much for that.. As you can tell.
But uh.. Yeah! Here's the starter, and if you're interested, comment.. I guess? Sorry, like I said, I'm new to this site and how it works, aha.[]
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Hanahaki Disease is a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romantic love only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear. The happy ending version is when the object of the victim's love returns their affections, thus making the love no longer unrequited. The victim is then cured of the disease. This may happen spontaneously when the object of affections realizes his (it's usually a him) love, or the disease may require the object to persuade the victim that their love is mutual. If the victim cannot believe that his beloved returns his love, he will die.
If one were to enter Alexander Hamilton's office, they wouldn't really find anything abnormal or worrying at all. His desk was perfectly organized, with stacks of paper on either side, folders and files stacked neatly in his drawers, his pen and pencil always ready to prove themselves needed, and his coffee cup, always full, on the right side of his papers. Though, the sight could easily differ. Like today. Instead of his room and desk being clean, it was covered in flowers of almost any and all colours, with vines, and blood on the floor and desk. It was as if somebody was killed in the mist of gardening. Alexander decided to study the flowers he found escaping his lungs, in the mist of all the pain. They seem to all describe a specific Virginian he had promised himself to loathe when he looked up their names and meanings. Alstroemeria - wealth, prosperity and fortune. Amaryllis - splendid beauty. Carnation - pride. Daffodil - chivalry. Gladiolus - the strength of character. Orchid - exotic beauty, mature charm. Tiger Lily - Pride. There were so many more, but those were all he could bare knowing. When it was just a few petals, he did research as to what it was. And now, knowing that he's working with full-on flowers, he's perfectly aware he's dying and is going to die soon. The most painful death, of course.
If the blood and flowers dressing up the room weren't enough, you have Alexander himself. In the corner of the room, sobbing from pain, holding his throat and curled into a ball. Yes, he would describe himself as lacking sensitivity for pain. But this was far more than a gunshot. This was a garden, sprouting in his lungs, forcing him to cough them up. Not only was the coughing painful, but the flowers rising up and out of his throat. It was.. Gruesome. The flowers scraping the inside of his throat was dreadful. Especially now. When it started, when he first met Jefferson, it wasn't so awful. It was just petals. But now it's the entire thing. That, mixed with him knowing perfectly well Jefferson didn't return his feelings? God. It's unimaginable for anybody outside of his scenario. Not only did Jefferson not return his feelings, (at least, that's what he's assuming.) but he has no clue. No fucking clue as to what Alexander is going through. After all, it's rare. What was he, one of the ten people with this illness? He doubted the other even knew what it was. What was causing him so much pain? Why he would have to dart out of a meeting without a second word. He knew nothing, he was ignorant of it all. And that's what pained him.
So, as Alexander lay curled in the corner, sobbing into his legs, he kept one thought. Why didn't he just get it removed? Ah, many reasons. First off, he welcomed death at this point. Secondly, he didn't want to never feel love again. The love part wasn't what was wrong. He liked playing the dangerous game of making people fall without liking them, or vice versa. Though, he only actually figured out what love was the first day he felt the petal in his lung, the first day he saw the taller Virginian. God, why did it have to be him? Of anybody Alexander knew. They fought, argued, disagreed. They hated each other. Now, this? Fucking hell. Alexander let out another cough, the flower gracefully falling into his hands. He blinked away his tears for a moment to study the colour. A yellow Tulip, hopeless love. The bittersweet love flower. Wow, thanks, body. He didn't know that. Curling up tighter, he was planning to stay like that until he heard a brief knock on the door, the Virginian's voice whom he was thinking about from the other side of the dense wood. It was a shame Alexander couldn't hear what he said. It was also a shame that Alexander couldn't will himself to get up, to clean his mess, to hide his evidence until he hopelessly watched the door open, the taller man coming into sight.
