A Painted Nail // One on One // Closed

The image was grainy, like it was taken from an old-school flip phone's camera. The main focus was a tall, well-built man with vibrant indigo hair. He was dressed to the nines in a baby blue tuxedo and matching pants, topped off with a pair of dirty sneakers. His hand was pointed out at arms length, his finger pointing to something off camera with obvious glee. All of the fingers on that hand were painted a dark purple. The same she had put on her friend Winston not even 4 hours ago.

Hello, everyone! If the hook was too confusing, let me explain. The basis of the RP is that a friend (which would be your character) of a villain finds out his alter ego after seeing a picture online. Romance brews as she tries to steer him on the path of good. This will be a MxF, with me being the male. andrew (Our Supreme Lord and Overseer)'s Rules apply, but cussing, gore, and mature topics other than smut is allowed!

This seems really interesting! May I?

Yes! May I get a sample of your writing before we start?

Of course! Here’s a fairly recent post:

Glancing out of the window, a smile pulls at her lip. Freshly fallen snow blankets the entire area. The trees and rooftops are dusted with the white powder. Even now, delicate little snow flakes lazily drift down from the sky. It looks like a winter wonderland from a children's story. To her surprise, and great delight, she manages to catch a glimpse of a young deer bounding across a white field, kicking up white powder as it goes. Her eyes light up as she takes in the passing scenery. Winter may be a tough time but it’s truly beautiful. Her smile grows when the town comes into view. A couple of children run in the streets, laughing and throwing snowballs at each other. Friendly neighbors exchange fresh bread and steaming tea. Their faces are all flushed a rosy red from the cold. Days like today remind her that there’s still good in the world.

I love it! Do you want to use a template, or go in blind?

Thanks! Could we use a template, please?

Let me find one real quick

Okay!

Name:
Age(21-25):
Gender:
Sexuality:
Appearance:
Usual Outfit:
Personality:
Likes:
Dislikes:
Powers (if applicable):
Fears:
Other:

I’ll get her up soon! I assume that my character doesn’t have any powers?

Name: Winston Locke

Age (21-25): 23 years old

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Straight

Appearance: He has medium length light brown hair that he slicks back every morning with gel, but it will often begin to come undone by the end of the day and falls over his face (He wears a wig for his costume). His skin is naturally tan, even during the winter. His jawline is almost always dusted with a thin covering of hair, despite the fact he shaves every morning. He is around 6'0", but most likely on the shorter side

Usual Outfit: He typically wears a white tank top under an aviator jacket, with a pair of frayed and faded jeans and simple sneakers. (Imagine the typical 60's bad boy look)

Personality: Lazy by nature, he's a laid back but pessimistic guy who always sees the glass half empty instead of half full. He has a bit of a potty mouth, but knows when to install the filter when the situation requires it.

Likes: He enjoys a variety of musical genres and plays his own guitar in his spare time

Dislikes: Large grouping of peoples and country music

Powers (if applicable): Basically a watered-down Superman without the laser eyes

Fears: Fear of heights

Other: His weakness is any type of silver metal

Yes, you are correct

Name: Charlotte Louise Quinn
Age(21-25): 23
Gender: Female
Sexuality: Straight
Appearance: 5’3. Short messy black hair that is always getting in her face. Her skin can be considered tan but on the lighter side. It gets a few shades darker during the summer. She has heterochromia, meaning that her right eye is brown while her left eye is blue/green. Has a thin frame but is lined with muscles. Absolutely loves being active and working out so she is rather strong, even if she doesn’t look it. A couple of scars run across her body but she doesn’t remember where she got half of them.
Usual Outfit: Ripped jeans, sneakers, and a colorful t-shirt that usually splattered with dried paint and covered in animal fur. Adores her combat boots and her short black boots with slight heels. Uses oversized sweater (still very colorful) in the winter.
Personality: She’s super energetic and adventurous. Loves to be outside. She really stands out in a crowd. At a party, she’s the type of person to be standing on a table and sining and dancing. She has a mischevious streak that rivals the trickster god, Loki, himself. Pranks and stirring up trouble is like second nature to the pixie like woman. While she perfers things to be upbeat and less serious, she does usually know when to knock it off and focus. She adores all of her friends and would do anything for them. Despite usually trying to stick with rules, she’s gotten out of hand several times and has found a strong rebellious streak. As long as no one gets hurt and she doesn’t get caught, it’s not illegal. That’s what she tells herself at least.
Likes: Animals, painting, dancing, singing, having fun and being carefree
Dislikes: Therapy, night terrors, the fact that she has almost no formal education, cockroaches
Powers (if applicable):
Fears: Planes, cockroaches, dark and dirty rooms, the sound of doors being slammed and locked, sparklers, cigarettes
Other: Her looks

She's wonderful! Would you like me to start?

Thanks! He looks really interesting! Yes, please.

Winston was slouched on his couch, his hands folded over his phone on his lap as he watched the news. His hair, as usual, was slicked back into place perfectly, seeing that it was early in the morning still. On the TV, a man began speaking of Indigo, a formidable new super-villain that has been on a hot streak through he city of Charleston. Over $500,000 dollars worth of collateral damage, at least $20,000 dollars stolen from various banks, and 3 superheros sent to the hospital with serious but non-life-threatening injuries. A small smile played across his lips as he listened, remembering the rush of adrenaline he'd get whenever he put on that wig.

His phone buzzed against his stomach, pulling him out of his daydream. A quick tap to the power button showed that Charlotte had texted him.
Can I come over? the message read.
Sure. he responded, then set the phone back where it had rested previously.

As per usual, Charlie is late. She doesn’t have to go to work or anything of such an important nature. No, nothing of that sort. She’s merely on her way to see a friend. Why the rush? Thanks to the damage that that asshole of a new super villain caused, the only street she can use to get to her friend’s place is packed with traffic. Everyday, since last week, she has three very small opportunities to use the road without being stuck at a stand still for two hours. Now is one of those times.
With a bagel securely between her teeth and her keys in one hand, she bounds out of her apartment, nearly toppling one of her neighbors. No hard feelings, they all understand the panic. She calls out a muffled apology before scrambling down the spiraling flight of stairs. The elevator is much too slow. She reaches the apartment complex garage in record time. Not even two minutes later, she’s slamming on the gas petal of her bright yellow bug. With not even thirty seconds to spare, she zips out of the garage and saves herself two hours of hell.
Now that she’s safe, she takes a second to review her current state. Her black hair is incredibly messy and looks as though a raccoon made a nest out of it. Well, she’s had worse. At least her clothes aren’t horrible. Her jeans are a little worse for wear but they’re holding up. Her black t-shirt is covered with random splotches of bright paint. However, her white and black sneakers are in great shape. She’s been pretty mad if they weren’t considering that she only bought them a month ago.
She arrives at Winston’s place ten minutes later. Trotting up to his door, she wolfs down the rest of her bagel and knocks.

"Door's open!" he shouted, reaching for the remote to turn the TV off.

His apartment was the only one in the entire complex that had two rooms, something that Winston took great pride in. When you first walk in, you are greeted by a small make-shift kitchen set up on a couple of old bed-side tables Winston had gotten at a yard sale. On one rested a small portable grill that he had bought from Wal-Mart for twenty dollars, and the other a microwave that looked straight out of the 60's. A stack of paper plates and a box of plastic silverware rested on the ground beneath one table and the other house a mini-fridge. A few feet past his "kitchen" was his living "room." It consisted of two things: a worn, lime green fold-out couch and a flat-screen TV that was wall-mounted. To the right side of the TV was his bedroom, which was always covered with dirty clothes. His sheets were a simple white and he had a single black comforter. He never needed anything more.

“You need to start locking your doors, Winston,” She chides as she slips into the apartment. “Locks were invented for a reason. I don’t want to have to say ‘I told you so’ to the casket at your funeral when someone decides to break in here and kill you.” To be fair, she’s being more dramatic than necessary but she’s genuinely worried. The city hasn’t gotten any safer.
She heads into the living room and flops down on the sofa like she owns the place. “I nearly made a pancake out of Mr. Gregor when I was leaving. That sweet old man didn’t deserve it but I had to get on the road before the traffic jam started. I’m going to get Indigo in his nuts if I ever meet him. This is all his fault,” She rants, propping her feet up on the side of the couch. “Doesn’t he realize that people have places to be? We can’t all accommodate our schedules due to him deciding to be a major jerk-wad.”

Winston only smiled. He wore a white tank top with a red stain near his side and a pair of ripped black jeans, his usual attire for just lounging in his apartment. Instead of turning off the TV, he simply turned the volume down and set the remote on the arm rest.
"Why do you think he's doing this shit, anyways?" he asked, the slight twang of a Southern accent bending his words as they exited his mouth

“Why do villains do anything? They’re screwed up in the head. That’s saying something coming from me,” She laughs lightly and shakes her head. “I don’t even care about the reasons. As long as he stops messing with the roads I use, I’ll be fine. One of those heroes will take him out eventually.” That’s usually how things go around here. A villain destroys a bunch of stuff and runs rampant for awhile and then gets beat down by a hero. A sane person would be concerned about this. She stopped giving a shit a long time ago.

"We can only hope it is that simple," he said, then gasped. "Shit, speaking of indigo, can you paint my nails? My hands shake too much for it to look worth a damn but I picked up a really nice color at Target a couple of days ago."
He had gotten into a recent faze of painting his nails a different color every week. Why, no one really knew, but if any guy could pull of the look, it was him.

“Do you have some sort of complex theory or something? Do I even want to know?” Probably not. Hearing theories usually gets her all worked up. No one needs that.
She nods her head eagerly at his question. “Of course!” Something about painting (nails, canvasses, sculptures, whatever) really relaxes her. “I’ve got a nail file in my pocket if you don’t have one.” It’s a strange object to carry around in one’s pocket but she uses it often. She takes great pride in keeping her nails looking good.

"Um…" he looked down at his nails, frowning slightly. "Nah, I'll be good."
He walked into his bedroom and for a solid minute all she heard was things being tossed across the room, drawers opening and closing, and the odd curse word. Eventually, he came out with a small bottle of a very vibrant indigo.
"Please try to refrain from spilling it on the fucking couch," he said as he handed the bottle to his friend. "It's the only thing I can't replace in here."

Charlie takes this as an opportunity to sprawl out over the entirety of the couch. Though not very visually pleasing, it is rather comfortable. She glances over her shoulder and listens to the racket, occasionally snickering at his choice of curse words.
“Oh, that’s a pretty color. I haven’t seen it at Target. Is it new or something?” She asks, taking the bottle and examining it. She’ll have to pick some up on her way home. “I’m not going to spill any on your couch, chill. Just sit still and let me do my thing.”

"I can't sit when your fatass is taking up the whole fuckin' couch," he said, standing over her with his hands on his hips. "Move, pretty please."
She was long used to his abusive language towards his friends. It was his own special way of showing affection.

Without a single second of hesitation, she reaches over and grabs the nearest object, a stack of papers. She then proceeds to whip him over the head. “Now I’m definitely spilling fingernail polish all over your damn couch. And on your big ass head.”
She smacks him once more before dumping the papers on the floor and scooting over. “There you go, fucker.”

"You're gonna clean that up, by the way," he said, sitting down in the free space and offering his hand. The stain on the tank top was from the last time he had painted his nails. He jerked in the wrong manner and had made her spill it on to the shirt, so he made sure to stay as still as he could.

“Make me.” She gives the bottle a proper shake before twisting off the cap and taking his hand. “Let’s not have a repeat of last time, ‘mkay? I don’t think your shirt can handle it.” Chattering away, her eyes remained glued to his nails and the task at hand. Stroke after stroke, the once clear surfaces become coated with even layers of shines purple. Watching it is almost mesmerizing.

He watched the TV as she painted. They were still on the topic of his alter ego, currently interviewing one of the heroes he had put in the hospital.
"Is there any weakness that people could exploit?" the reporter asked, then put the microphone to the bruised face resting on the white hospital pillow.
"He stayed away from the jewelry store," the man said in a gravelly voice. "All I could tell."