RP Request (Open)

Hey there! I’m currently looking for a Scream roleplay partner. I’ve got 7 years of RP experience under my belt and I’m comfortable writing in advanced literate to novella style, though I’m also totally fine with semi-literate if that’s more your vibe.

What I’m Looking For:

Any ship or platonic pairing — I’m open to everything! I’ve got plots ready, but I also love crafting something new together.

I’m cool with OC x Canon, Canon x Canon, or Double ups. But what I'm really looking for is Canon x Canon mainly.

Ghostface-centric plots, survivors, original killers, or whatever bring it on.

Writing Style & Preferences:

3rd person, past tense preferred

Literate to novella (but flexible!)

I’m big on character development, dialogue, and a little chaos

If you're down to dive into some horror, mystery, angst, or even a little dark romance, feel free to reach out! Let’s build something chilling.

Rp Writing Example #1. (Charming loving boyfriend side of Billy)

The night crept in like a whisper, still and quiet—too quiet for a town like Woodsboro. Billy leaned against the frame of Sidney's bedroom window, one foot hooked on the ledge, his expression unreadable in the low light. He’d just climbed in like he’d done a dozen times before, smooth as ever, that usual half-smirk playing on his lips. But his eyes... they held something else.

“Thought I’d come check on you,” he said, voice soft but edged with something colder, something harder to place. “You’ve been... distant.”

He stepped into the room, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots, but he didn’t seem to care. He never did. Billy always had that way about him—like the rules didn’t apply. He ran a hand through his tousled dark hair, staring at her longer than necessary.

“You still think I’m what? Some psycho killer because I like horror movies?” His tone was teasing, but there was an edge. “Sid, it’s just fiction. People die in movies all the time. Doesn’t mean anything.”

He reached out slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering just a second too long.

“But you know me... right?”

RP Writing Example #2

Billy’s boots thudded softly against the grimy carpet of the motel hallway as he approached Room 7. His jacket hung loose around him, concealing the weight of the knife nestled inside. He didn’t knock he never knocked land the door creaked open with a low groan, the kind that always made his skin crawl in a way he liked.

The room was still a mess, the same clutter from earlier spread out like evidence at a trial: photos, maps, press clippings, a crumpled mask stained along the chin with fresh blood. He tossed his keys onto the table with a metallic clink, crossing to the kitchenette where lukewarm coffee sat in a cracked mug, untouched.

He took a sip anyway. Bitter. Burned. Perfect.

His jaw clenched as he stared down at one of the newer clippings "Slasher Strikes Again: Victim Mutilated, No Leads." The headlines always tried so hard to sound clever. Like they understood what this was. They didn’t. Not really. Billy didn’t need recognition. He needed order.

His fingers brushed across a blade on the table, pausing just long enough for a little blood from his thumb to bead against the steel.

He didn’t flinch.

Then came the headlights through the cheap curtains faint, but familiar. Billy didn’t turn to look. He just smirked to himself, pressing his tongue into his cheek.

Took him long enough.

With a sharp breath through his nose, Billy stepped back into the dim motel light and waited by the table, eyes flicking toward the door, posture loose but ready. He could already imagine the stupid grin, the way Stu’d swagger in like they hadn’t just vanished off the face of the Earth.

Billy rolled his shoulders once, cracked his neck.

“Let’s see what kind of nonsense you’ve got for me tonight…” he muttered under his breath, voice low, dry, and threaded with amusement.

Billy stalked a slow circle around the cramped motel room, every nerve in his body sparking under his skin. His boot knocked into the rickety coffee table, sending a half-empty bottle clattering onto the floor with a loud crack. He didn’t even flinch.

He grabbed the newspaper again, crumpling it in one hand until it was nothing but a spitball of useless words. That quote still echoed in his skull copycat mocking him. With a guttural noise, something between a snarl and a yell, Billy threw the paper across the room, the ball hitting the TV and bouncing off with a sad little thud.

It wasn’t enough. Fury boiled over, raw and electric. He yanked the knife from inside his jacket, the blade gleaming under the flickering motel light. Without hesitation, he lunged at the arm of the battered couch, plunging the knife deep into the cushion with a violent grunt.

Rip. Tear. Stab.

Over and over, the blade shredded the cheap fabric, stuffing spilling out like guts. Billy’s breathing grew ragged, sharp gasps tearing from his throat as he hacked at the couch like it could bleed out all the noise in his head.

Each stab was punctuated by a half-snarled word under his breath. "Copycat." Rip."Fucking joke." Stab. "Mine." Tear.

When the knife finally snagged on the wooden frame underneath, he jerked it out with a wet shhk of torn fabric. For a moment, he just stood there, chest heaving, blade dripping foam and thread, not blood. His eyes were wild dark, glassy, unfocused.

Slowly, as if coming out of a trance, Billy straightened, pushing his hair back with a shaky hand. The knife dangled loosely between his fingers, still twitching with leftover adrenaline. He stared at the ruined couch, lips curling into a thin, humorless smile. "You had it coming." he muttered.

With a grunt, Billy dropped back down onto the other side of the couch the intact side sinking low, knife balanced across his knees, waiting. Composed on the outside again. But underneath, buzzing like a live wire

ready to snap. The headlights flared brighter through the curtains. Stu was here. And he was in exactly the kind of mood to greet him.