Samples:
In case it helps, I've included some samples of my writing. Fair warning, as I said above, my starters are looonngg. These are not at all my average length. I tend to mirror what my partner gives me. Please don't feel intimidated by them!
Starter for Junkrat/Roadhog RP:
Junkrat loved these sorts of place. Divey little bars nestled in the deserts of the outback were usually the only refugee from the wilds, which meant all types of people tended to wander in. While they all sort of looked the same -dirty, dressed in whatever scraps of clothes and junk they could find, and scarred to hell- their personalities were so diverse. He'd have been more fascinated by people watching if he had the patience for it. He didn't. Sitting still and quiet for as long as he had was a feat in itself.
He could feel the itch to move starting just under his skin and he shifted in his seat. Some distant voice in his head said he needed to be careful. He was half finished with the plate of food in front of himself and he really wanted to stay here for the night. He couldn't get himself kicked out- His gaze flicked up at a big guy across the room and they locked eyes briefly. Had he seen that guy before? The brute looked familiar. They all began to look familiar after a while, honestly. Gangs, bounty hunters, bruisers that got paid to rough ya up a little; they were all a blur of running, fighting, blood and grit.
Rat was sure he'd seen that guy before. Maybe it was the haphazardly stitched leather patch over the guy's right eye that just got under his skin for some reason or the way the guy kept glancing over that had Rat even more antsy. Either way, that itch to move turned into a compulsion to either fight or get the hell out of there. He should run. Definitely just run and-
"Oi!" He slammed his hands onto the table in front of him and shot up out of his seat. "You wanna start something? Keep lookin' over here and I'll blow ya to smithereens!" He barked. A few heads turned, but he didn't notice them. The brute he'd honed in on frowned, downed the last of his drink, and stood. Maybe Rat was egging the guy on on purpose. It was hard to tell, even for him. Some part of him relished the feeling that came with a good scrap, even when he was getting the hell beat out of him, and maybe he was looking for one. Or maybe the guy really was someone that'd been following him around.
"You trying to start something, you little shit?" Came the gravelly reply as the guy came closer. The table was shoved out of the way and Rat was grabbed by the straps on his chest.
Junkrat felt a manic grin spread across his face, starting small then widening as the guy tugged him in closer. Rat didn't respond, simply took the opportunity to reach up to one of the small silver sloppy hand-painted canisters on his chest and popped the pin out of it.
"The hell are you-" That was all the brute got out before the canister burst with a loud pop and a flash of blinding light. The guy stumbled back, the hand that'd been gripping Rat burned and bleeding, nearly gone. Rat himself was burned, but he was used to having worse. The flash of light and the force of the gunpowder going off had him stumbling back into a nearby table, though.
"Shove off!" Another stranger bit out, pushing him away just as quickly.
Rat could hear chairs sliding out from under tables, people standing and the rising volume of voices, then the violence that began as someone was hit. His eyes started to focus again just as the brawl broke out. He had to bite back a giddy giggle.
His father was dead. Not that anyone here in London knew. Jim had done well to keep it hush hush for the sake of taking over his father's Empire, secretly, and beginning to work in London. Of course, no one knew it was him that was running things. He was barely 18, just out of school, not even in Uni yet (not that he intended to go). His last trip home had been what'd put that last nail in his Father's coffin. All of this planning, years of building up to this, and finally he'd been able to kill the other man. His father's business accounts had been wiped out, his remaining family, his mother and sinister, left with nothing but their home and whatever possessions they had. They could find work, he was sure. They'd be able to fend for themselves well enough. If he wanted to be really cruel he could have sold the house off too, had them evicted and gotten a little extra to help boost his foundling little criminal activities.
He wasn't doing it alone. None of this would have been possible without his father's former right hand man, Victor Trevor. Though they hadn't been able to be side by side until now, short trips home over quick holiday breaks from school had given Jim a chance to get under the man's skin. The letters they'd exchanged back and forth had been enough to seal their relationship. The planning bits of this had been done entirely over the phone, during late night phone calls that weren't always about work. Victor was smitten with him, Jim was sure, even given the ten to fifteen year age difference between them. The feeling wasn't mutual yet and Jim wasn't sure if ti ever would be. People were tools to him, conveniences, and Victor had been and still was extremely useful. People wouldn't take him seriously, would look down on him because he was a 'child', but Victor, older and supposedly wiser, was a good face for him. Trevor was clean cut, but only because Jim had insisted upon it when he'd left Jim's family and finally come to London from Dublin. Before, Victor had been scruffy, all attractively messy hair with some god-awful beard that Jim had insisted was shaved off immediately. Now, he dressed and acted as Jim told him to... Because of the tireless time Jim had invested int he other man. There was trust between them, trust enough, at least, that Victor was certain Jim knew what he was doing and he was a glutton for punishment enough that he was along for the ride, whatever it meant.
That's why they were sitting side by side in a sleek black car, pulling up to Augustus Moran's estate. At the moment, Moran was running the criminal underground. Victor was going with the promise of expanding it, that Henry Moriarty wanted to expand his own Empire outside of Ireland and that working together would be beneficial for the both of them. Only Henry had been buried a few weeks prior and Victor had gotten in touch with Moran on Jim's orders. They were side by side, each wearing a smart looking suit. Jim had his eyes on a few rather nice brands of suits, things far out of the range of what they could afford, but he hadn't indulged yet. What little funds they had needed to be doled out sparingly, spent on the appearance of wealth and things like drivers to get where they were going or expensive gifts for potential clients or other criminals they could work with.
"This is it." Victor was slouching back in his seat, staring out at the looming estate he glanced towards Jim and offered a grin. "You ready?"
"Am I ever not?" Jim returned the man's gaze, pausing to reach outh to touch the jagged scar that ran from Victor's brow, through his left eye, and down along his cheek. The eye itself was pale, sightless.... Jim's doing. A final test of loyalty. The jagged mark was still pink, still healing, but it at least wasn't unsightly anymore. Victor turned his face into Jim's touch, closed his eyes and Jim frowned, pulling back abruptly. "Remember what we discussed."
"Of course, darlin'." Victor was American, come to Dublin because he was on the run from the authorities and then to London on Jim's request. His accent was vaguely southern, but his time in Dublin had bastardized it. "I get to improv as much as I need to, but keep an eye on you for makin' decisions." He broke into a grin as he studied Jim. "If I didn't know you better I'd say you were nervous."
Jim was. This was technically his debut. He'd been sitting at the kids table playing at being a criminal until now. This was the real thing and as confident as he was, he worried he wasn't good enough, that this was too much too soon. No going back now.
"Good thing you know me better." Jim replied coolly, looking annoyed. They fell into an easy silence until the car stopped and the driver opened the door for them. They would be spending a week on the Moran estate. Victor would pretend to be making plans for the two families to work together while Jim worked to break the other man's Empire down to make it his own. Victor stepped out first and Jim slid out after. He straightened his clothes, pale fingers briefly fussing over his tie, his lapels, then buttoned the suit coat, before he followed Victor up the steps.
“It’s a fixer upper. My husband does carpentry and he wants a pet project, so I figured this place would be perfect.” Ashley, the bubbly brunette across the table from Luca, had leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially, even though they were in the privacy of Luca’s apartment. “I just… well, it’s got bad vibes, ya know? After the place is renovated we want to start a family there. What if it’s haunted? And what if something happens to John while he’s in there working?” A worried look crossed her face and Luca had tried not to roll his eyes. Real hauntings were few and far between. Not that he was going to tell her that. She was one of his richer clients and if she was naïve enough to pay him a couple of thousand dollars to go burn sage in some old house, he certainly wasn’t going to stop her. Besides, he told himself, she was paying for the peace of mind he could offer, not really what he did there.
Now, standing outside of the place, he made a mental note to mention bad investments the next time he saw her. Of course he’d read it off of his tarot deck or see it in a vision or some such nonsense. If her husband wanted something to fix up, this was definitely it. A couple of windows were broken, probably by teens looking for a place to hang out if the occasional bit of graffiti were anything to go off of. He’d been given a key to the place, but when he reached the door he realized it was a moot point. The door was open just slightly and he was able to push it inward with ease. He hoped that didn’t mean he’d be encountering squatters. The last thing he needed was for this simple job to turn into a scuffle with a startled meth head or something. To be safe, he called out.
“Hello?”
Were this a horror movie, it’d have been a stupid decision, but this was real life. No killers would be lurking in the shadows.
When he’d first been on the streets, places like this were a god send. He could remember being huddled down in abandoned houses, keeping warm on cold nights between other dirty rag clad bodies, some of whom were too high to know he was even there. If they were ever stumbled upon, they’d have to clear out and fast, like roaches when the lights came on. He tried not to dwell on the memory. Giving whoever may potentially be in the house a little warning that he was coming in not only ensured his safety, but, well, it was just polite.
He didn’t expect a reply.
He stepped inside and dropped his bag to the floor, crouching down to dig into it. He would burn sage, but only because the smell would linger. John would be coming to work within the next couple of days and Luca needed to look as if he were actually going the job he was getting paid for. He’d also make sure to mark up the walls a bit, leave little symbols that didn’t mean anything but that he could claim were used to cleanse the place. That could all come later, though. He pulled out a can of lavender Febreze and straightened, leaving his bag of tricks where it was. There were a few important scents he needed to leave behind when he left there. The sage, sure, but hints of lavender would be important. Lavender meant long life, peace, wishes, protection, love, purification, blah blah. Good vibes and all that.
He'd start on the bottom floor then work his way up, he decided. Febreze the place first, focusing on materials that could hold a smell, like the ratty abandoned furniture in the place, old curtains, anything fabric.
He stepped out of the main entrance, leaving a chemical scented trail behind him as he moved into the first available room; what looked to be a living room. Spacious. The house loomed over him when he was outside but it appeared even bigger now that he was in it. He could see why Ashley and her husband wanted it. They’d probably get it for a steal and if they fixed it up it’d be a nice place to settle down. Looked like it’d need too much work to be worth it, though.
He paused at the sight of a cracked dusty mirror propped against one of the walls and moved over to it. The gold bangles that hung around his wrists jangled quietly as he lifted a hand to brush away some of the grime absently. He knew how he looked to his clients, like the picture of a Gypsy. Tanned skin, black unruly hair that curled down just past his shoulders and golden brown eyes that could go dark when he pretended to see things for them. His lip was pierced with a gold hoop, a small stud adorned his nose, and a line of gold ran along his ears dotting them from the shell to the lobe. His clothes were things he grabbed off of his floor half the time (he hated doing laundry), but they fit the psychic Romani look he liked to play up. A far too big black sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a loose comfortable tank that would show off his belly if he stretched enough, old jeans with holes in the knees, and comfortable boots that had seen a lifetime with him. He was slim but not skinny, with muscle on him, and more lean than stocky.
He squinted at himself, his reflection still dirty, despite his attempts to wipe it clean, and he drew a circle on the surface, through the caked on dust, then two dots and a line to make a smiley face before turning away and going back to his spraying.
