Roleplays, M/M - Original & Canon, Marvel, Marketplace, White Collar

[ultimategeek]

Welcome!

I'm looking to pick up several more roleplays.  The pairings, plots, and characters featured below are only a few of the things I'm interested in.  I only write M/M pairings, though I don't care about the gender or sex of the writer.

Everything below is something I am actively craving, particularly the Phil Coulson/Clint Barton plot listed and the White Collar plot.

Fandoms

Marvel's Avengers & Agents of SHIELD

Phil Coulson/Clint Barton

I would love to do a game that's really heavily BDSM driven with Clint and Phil, in a verse where D/s dynamics are pervasive and thought to be natural and immutable, with all the societal stereotyping and bullshit that tends to play into such assumptions.  I'd like to do a game where Clint's a sub, but is unwilling to seek out a partner because of a heaping load of trust issues, and social stigma attached, so he just kind of locks it down.  Phil's been his handler for a while and treats him well, respectfully, and Clint starts acting out, pulling pranks, getting himself into trouble.  Phil sees his behavior for what it is and takes him in hand.  This will follow a safe sane consensual model, with safewords, negotiation, aftercare, etc.  This was going to start out as a fanfiction I planned to write myself, but after writing the first chapter I decided I'd much rather play it as an RPG.  So consider what's below as the starting place we'd be working from.  I'm interested in playing Clint, but could be convinced to play Phil.   

Plot

“Agent Barton, when is the last time someone took you in hand?” Phil asked, impassively, his face tense with irritation and not even the slightest hint of amusement.

Clint felt his stomach drop out and the smile slink off his face like dog that had just been caught muzzle-deep in the bin.  “Excuse me, Sir?”

“You heard me agent.  I am perfectly aware that your antics terrorizing the new training class were intended to get my attention.  You know how to avoid detection when you choose to do so.  You wanted my attention.  Well, now you have it. And I want to know whether the discipline you are so clearly craving is something that you expect to be given as part of our handler agent relationship, or whether this is something else, something that’s going to require paperwork.” Phil suggested coolly.

The archer could feel that his mouth had fallen open but it still took him long moments to clack his jaw shut. His stomach had turned into a writhing pit of snakes and it was lucky they were far from the air filtration ducts, because if he could have simply climbed into the ceiling and disappeared he would have liked to.  No one saw him like this, so transparently.  He hadn’t even consciously realized that was what he had been doing, but now he knew it was true.  He also knew that he’d taken too long to answer when he heard Coulson’s heavy sigh.

“You are aware I’ve read your full psych work up.  I know which parts are crap and which parts they got right.”

Clint felt his eyes go narrow, lined and taut around the edges.  “You gunna kick me out of SHIELD for what I do on my off time, Sir?” Barton asked, petulant and unaccountably nervous. He knew that Coulson wouldn’t.  But he also felt unmoored, anxious, desperate for the very thing that Coulson was accusing him of craving.

It might have been a bit untruthful to call this proclivity something he was doing in his off time, unless dreams and fantasy counted for activity.  It was more like what he wasn’t doing in his off time.  Clint had needs.  For a long time, he’d hired a professional to take care of them, something where the contract was laid out clean and business-like where he knew what he was getting even if it never seemed to last long enough for him.  But the same events that had brought him into SHIELD had also made it difficult to trust anybody enough for that.  Besides, even if he could find someone safe who would give him what he needed, well he wasn’t itching to explain to Fury why he was hiring a sex worker to slap him around.

“You know better than that, Clint,” Coulson said, and when he spoke Clint’s name hard and sharp, and it went through him with the force of an electric jolt. “You misunderstand me.  I am prepared to offer you what you’re looking for; I have been since Montenegro.  What I don’t know is whether that’s discipline as your handler, or something more.  Would you care to clarify the issue for me?”

Again, Clint was left speechless and confused.  Clint wanted Coulson for years, pined after him, dreamed about him, and fantasized about him in several less savory scenarios.  He got Coulson’s solid comforting presence as his handler, got his respect, his protection, his trust.  Asking for more than that seemed unreasonable, dangerous, maybe even ungrateful.  Except now Coulson was offering it to him, or at least that’s what it sounded like to Clint.  However, Coulson wasn’t offering it to him for free, he was demanding that Clint ask for it, force out the treacherous words.  Words that could easily destroy everything, his work and the little family he, Phil, and Natasha comprised in one deadly blow.

The archer stood there, wrecked with indecision.  Phil watched his face darken, watched something wretched happen behind his eyes, and the pain blossom deep and rich across his brow.  “I’ll take whatever you can give me,” he confessed, voice low and soft. 

Coulson’s irritation and anger seemed to soothe at that.  He rounded the desk and came to stand in front of Clint, who was as tense as if he was at attention.  Coulson ran fingers through his hair and the gentleness of it caused a lump to form in Clint’s throat. His eyes slipped shut and some of the tension left him.  “Come sit with me,” Phil instructed, his voice soft as velvet and hard as steel.  He settled himself on the sofa and chose not to comment when Clint had a moment of indecision between the couch at his side and the floor by his feet.  Clint sat on the couch, a fact for which Phil was somewhat grateful.

“How about you tell me everything you need and we’ll see what we can do,” Phil suggested.

Clint searched for the right words.  “I don’t know how to describe it.  I need someone else to take control, to go to that nowhere place where I can just, let go and get outside of my head.  When it’s good it’s like being taken apart and having someone put salve on a wound I didn’t even realize was bleeding on the inside.  The only thing is. . .my head got all fucked up after. . .there are a lot of things that don’t work for me.” Clint confided.

Phil put a hand on his knee and gave it a gentle squeeze.  “Is it platonic for you, or do you prefer something more involved?” Phil asked.

“It can be, platonic, but eventually it all gets jumbled up together for me.  It gets hard to separate it out. . .”

“So, you would prefer something sexual.” Coulson stated, confirming his suspicion.  Clint set his jaw and nodded, eyes fixed firmly on his knees.  “And you find me to be a suitable partner?” Coulson asked, trying too hard to truly accomplish a casual tone. 

Clint’s head snapped up at that, and he looked at Coulson’s face searchingly.  “Yes” he replied.  Coulson looked pleased and nodded.  “Paperwork it is then,” he said, with just a hint of glee.  He opened the top drawer of his desk, a thin one that required a thumbprint scan for identification before unlocking and produced a small stack of cleanly printed forms.  The couch felt cold and empty once Phil had vacated it, and Clint felt a dread and confusion he couldn’t quite contain.  Coulson presented him with the paperwork and a good sturdy pen.  “You’ll need to fill these out and make two copies.  It’ll be eyes only of course, one copy to the director, and one for each of our sealed personal files.” Coulson informed him.  Clint read the first line of the first form on the pile.  “9683D SHIELD Fraternization Notification Form.”  His heart nearly stopped. 

“Sir, are you saying, you mean, you’re attracted to me?” Clint asked, a disbelieving flabbergasted tone in his voice.

“Yes”

“Since Montenegro?!” Clint breathed.

“Since well before Montenegro.  It’s just, it was there that I realized I was willing to do the rest.” Coulson confessed.  “What happens next, Clint is entirely up to you.  If you think better on it, decide this isn’t for you, we can pretend this conversation never happened, save the admonishment over your actions today.  However, if you want to give it a go you put the forms on my desk Monday morning.  They’ll take 48-72 hours to get approval, during which time you will impress me with your professionalism and good behavior.” Coulson stated with a pointed look.  “Friday we will have a proper date, and then a long discussion about your limits and about mine.  If all goes according to schedule a week from tomorrow we can give it a try.  Does that sound acceptable to you?” Coulson asked.

Clint nodded, staring at the papers in his hands as though he was afraid that they might disappear from his grasp.  Phil soothed a hand through Clint’s locks once again before standing returning to his desk and permitting a confused and shell-shocked Clint to vacate his office.

Monday morning, bright and early, Phil was greeted with the 9683D form filled out in perfect triplicate and a carefully penned letter of apology to Anderson, the man training the new recruits who had been most heavily impacted by Barton’s antics.  Phil couldn't help but smile as he signed the forms.  The letter of apology was stowed in a desk drawer to be treasured. Anderson was a bastard and didn’t deserve it.  Phil would covet the physical evidence of Clint’s commitment to do him proud.

Phil signed and filed the paperwork that morning and had Fury in his office before lunch.  The man’s face was impassive.  “Care to elaborate on this Phil?” the man asked holding up the neatly filed forms.  “I believe it’s fairly self-evident, Marcus.  If you’re planning to deny the request I’m prepared to make an impassioned appeal.” Phil noted carefully. 

Fury narrowed an eyebrow at him.  “You realize the appeal would come right back down to me, don’t you?” Fury noted blandly. 

“I’m trusting in your good nature, Director.  And the fact that I very rarely ask you for anything.”

“You’re one of the best teams I have Phil.  Tell me you aren’t going to fuck it all up.  Tell me this will be worth it.  Tell me you love him,” Fury asked, sounding tired. 

“I do, Marcus.  I think we can make this work for us.  If not, I’m prepared to either end it or to see him assigned to another handler.  But I need that to be our decision to make, if the time comes.”

Fury sighed.  “You’re going to put me into an early grave Phil.  Congratulations.”   

“Thank you, Sir,” he replied. The forms were stamped, signed, and filed. Phil hid in his office because he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face.  He could still feel the bone crushing weight of the bear hug that Marcus had given him hours after his friend had left.   

Science Bros:

I'd really like to try out a plot during the worst of Tony's PTSD following flying into the chasm.  Bruce is someone who can uniquely understand his circumstances and help to train him to manage his emotions.  At the same time I'd like Bruce to be handling his own difficulty, perhaps he's lost control and done something unthinkable or just sunken into another bought of depression, perhaps false hope provided by his research that didn't pan out.  It would be interesting if they took on some sort of scientific challenge together to help them both lose themselves in something.  Also if anyone is going to put the freaking hulk to sleep, it's not Black Widow, it's Tony.    I would play either Bruce or Tony in this scenario.

Possible Intro Post

It had been nearly twelve weeks since Bruce had turned down the kindest offer anyone had ever made him in favor of a ride to the train station and an awkward goodbye.  He should have taken Tony up on his invitation to stay when it had originally been made.  Now everything was different and nothing had changed.  Sneaking back into the country without raising the hackles of some SHIELD lackeys or border patrol agents had been almost embarrassingly easy.  Avoiding the multitude of security cameras in New York while trying to keep his heart from beating a rapid staccato was considerably more difficult.  His plan began and ended with making it to Tony, not so much for his own protection, but in the hope of restoring some manner of equilibrium to his world and in turn protecting everyone else.  Though that, he supposed, was too little, too late.

Bruce looked as he so often did, tired and terribly ragged.  Maintaining his clothing was almost always the first thing to go when times became rough.  Besides, he’d borrowed the pants and boots he was currently wearing from a South American ranch hand.  His feet were blistered and the rough canvas of the too big jacket he was wearing rubbed uncomfortably at the nape of his neck.  It wasn’t the clothes, however, that truly showed the wear on him, it was the dark smudges under his eyes, the sag in his shoulders, the terribly exhausted look in his hazel eyes.  If this went wrong, Bruce had nowhere left to turn.  Perhaps he’d hand himself over to SHIELD, to Fury, let them experiment on the thing he became, erase him, so long as they could keep the beast contained.  Better to lose himself in favor of the promise that it was always, always kept locked away and caged.  He felt the monster stir in him at even the hint of the treacherous thought.  They weren’t there, not yet at least.

He kept his head down and the brim of his baseball cap low over his tanned face as he approached the receptionist at Stark – no Avengers – Tower.  He suspected that Jarvis would be well aware of his presence and alerting Stark by now, though some formalities must be observed.  He waited at the desk while the receptionist finished up a phone call, then while she played with her nails for a moment, before acknowledging him.  “Can I help you with something?” she asked, once Bruce had captured her attention. 

“I’m here to see, Tony Stark, please,” he stated in a soft even tone.  The woman considered him with a wrinkled brow.

“Do you have an appointment with, Mr. Stark?” she inquired.

“More like an open invitation,” Bruce corrected apologetically, tipping up the brim of the cap just so, allowing the young woman to see his face.  The woman gasped, her mouth dropping into a silent “O” of surprise.  She pressed back into her chair, putting a few more inches of distance between them and Bruce bit back a wince, knowing that her fear was justified, and knowing that his mere presence was causing it.  At just that moment, Ms. Potts strode out of the elevator favoring him with a warm smile and a brief polite hug.  He felt a burning in the back of his eyes and a tightening in his throat.  It was the first time anyone had touched him in three months.  It took everything he had not to collapse onto the petite woman’s shoulder. Instead the moment passed and she released him, favoring him with an appraising but non-judgmental look. 

“It’s good to have you back, Bruce,” she offered, almost perfunctorily.  “I expect you’ve come to see Tony?” she asked, again more out of politeness than actual curiosity.  She almost certainly knew every word that had passed between him and the receptionist, who was still gaping at him openly. 

“Yes, please, Ms. Potts,” Bruce agreed softly, shoving his hands into the pockets of the oversized coat.

She smiled at him indulgently.  No matter how many times she told Bruce he could call her Pepper he seemed to have difficulty with the concept. She led the way into the elevator and up to the penthouse suite.  Bruce felt dirty in the sharp modern surroundings, which were obviously cleaned regularly by a professional staff.  He stuck out cleanly as a thing that did not belong here among the delicate glass windows and clean finery.  Ms. Potts did not follow him out of the elevator, instead begging back off for work and promising to catch up with them later.  Bruce wondered if things were still strained between the billionaire and the CEO who ran his company and (at least as far as Bruce had assumed) the better part of his life as well.

TAKEN

The Search is Over, and Just Begun:

Steve has been looking for Bucky for months, only to have him turn up on his doorstep in D.C., confused, suspicious, and desperate for a new handler.  Steve wants to be his friend, and the thought of taking control of Bucky leaves him deeply unsettled, but he can't put him back out on the street either.  He decides to take him in, and to try his best not to make things any worse.  I'd prefer to play Bucky in this one, but could be persuaded to play Steve.

Plot

Bucky’s obviously hungry when Steve takes him in.  He’s rail thin and looks like he’s halfway to collapsing on the doorstep.  He wouldn’t be here otherwise, Steve suspects.  Seeing him is wonderful.  For months Steve has dedicated nearly all his efforts to locating his best friend, to no avail.  Seeing him is terrible, heartbreaking.  He’s a shadow of a man, and a stranger to the man Steve once knew.  Steve gently prompts him off the street and he needs to use the wall to support himself.  The odor that rolls off him is enough to drive Steve backwards, even though he wants nothing more than to make Bucky comfortable and welcome.  “It’s going to be alright, Buck,” Steve murmurs as he opens the door to the flat.  “Just come inside and we’ll get everything sorted out,” he promises.  Bucky enters the comfortable apartment and prowls the edges like a caged animal.  His hand traces a line along the wall and his fingers leave greasy smudges. 

“How about something to eat Buck?” he asks “what would you like?”  Bucky is dead silent but his eyes are darting around warily and his right hand has a tremor.  Steve decides that giving him too many choices right now is not a kindness.  “Tomato soup and grilled cheese?” he suggests rhetorically.  It was Bucky’s favorite when they were boys and Steve kept all the ingredients in the apartment in the until-yet-unrealized hope that Bucky would find him here.  He finds preparing it familiar and comforting.  He hopes that his friend will feel the same.  He chats idly to the room at large.  He has no way of knowing if Bucky even understands him.  “When we were boys we’d cut the soup with twice the water it said on the can, so we could trick our bellies into thinking it was more food than it really was.  Do you remember that?  We don’t even have to do that anymore.  I can make it regular strength, if you like,” he says, proceeding to do just that without prompting. 

Warm smells fill the flat and Bucky’s ravishing hunger forces him to emerge from his defensive position behind the sofa.  The soup is Campbell’s the kind they had as kids out of the can.  The sandwich is a golden brown with rich orange cheese glistening, melty between the slices. He sets the plate and bowl down on the table and sits in the seat opposite them.  He leaves his hands in plain sight.  He feels like he’s trying to tempt a bird to take seed off his window ledge.  Bucky doesn't sit.  He goes after the sandwich first picking up half in his hand and devouring it in seconds.  He barely chews and Steve’s worried about him choking to death, but things feel too precarious to tell him to slow down.  He picks up the soup bowl with his hands and has swallowed a generous gulp before his brain catches up with his taste buds.

He’s coughing and choking and sputtering.  Steve has no idea what’s wrong, whether he’s burned his esophagus, or has developed an allergy to tomatoes, or if there’s something Hydra’s done to him that's resulted in his malnourished condition.  The bowl clatters to the table splattering red soup all over the wood. Bucky stumbles over to the sink and loses everything he’s eaten.  Steve puts a hand on his back to try and soothe him and Bucky flinches so violently that Steve takes a full step back from him, hands raised palms out in surrender.  Watching him sick and struggling without being able to help is agonizing.  When it’s over Bucky stumbles away from the sink and gives Steve a feral distrustful look.  Goodness, Bucky is considering the possibility that Steve poisoned him.  Whatever he’s looking for Steve is grateful that he doesn’t seem to find it.

He glances back at the food.  Steve can tell he’s considering giving it another go, but ultimately he decides against it.  A part of him is grateful for that.  Steve doesn’t think he’s got it in him to go through this twice.  “It’s going to be okay Buck,” he murmurs, even though he’s not sure it’s true.  He will save Bucky through sheer force of will if necessary.  He has to.  He’s the one who lost him.  “Tell me what you need,” he pleads.  Whatever Bucky asks for Steve will give him.  He just doesn’t know what his friend is looking for. 

“My handler’s dead,” Bucky confesses mournfully.  It’s difficult listening to him talk about his torturers with grief in his voice.  Steve wants to destroy them but keeps a lid on his emotions.  Bucky needs his understanding right now, not his blind fury and impotent rage.  “You’re the only one I remember, you used to tell me what to do sometimes,” he recounts, struggling with the words as though the memories are fragile and slipping through his fingers.  The hopeful look he casts at Steve is heartbreaking.  Free will is breaking him.  The thought of becoming the Winter Soldier’s next handler is nearly enough to make him ill, himself.  The saddest part of the whole thing is that James was one of the few people who followed him because he believed in him, not simply out of respect to rank or misplaced admiration for the paragon “Captain America.” When James thought he was giving a shit order, he’d challenge him; disobey him even.  He hadn’t realized the true value in that until it was gone.

Still, he forces himself to consider things from James’ perspective.  “In the army, you were a Sergeant and I was a Captain,” Steve explains patiently.  “That meant sometimes in battle, when things were hectic and frightening, I made decisions that other people had to follow, that you had to follow,” Steve agreed. 

“Things are hectic and frightening,” James echoes plaintively, clearly hoping that Steve will take the next logical step and provide him with direction. 

“But we’re not in the army anymore,” Steve explains.  Bucky looks devastated.  Nothing good will come of giving Bucky orders right now; Steve can feel it in his soul.  “Long before we were soldiers you were my best friend,” he continues “When your best friend is in trouble you help him figure things out, and you do it together,” Steve continues, feeling foolish, like he’s explaining something obvious to a slow child.  “We’re not in the army anymore so I’m not your captain and I can’t give you orders.  But I will always be your best friend,” he explains “which means when you’re in trouble I will always help you figure things out and whatever the problem is we’ll work it out as a team,” he explains. 

When it’s clear that Steve does not intend to say anymore James responds in a toneless halting whisper.  “I think, I’m in trouble.”

More generally, I would be interested in the following pairings, or really any pairing between male Avengers:

• Tony Stark/Bruce Banner
• Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
• Steve Rodgers/Bucky Barnes
• Tony Stark/Steve Rogers
• T'Challa/Bucky Barnes

White Collar

Peter/Neal or Neal/Peter

I'd like to explore the ethics of conducting any personal relationship with a prisoner in one's custody.  I'm a fan of a vulnerable Neal, and have noticed that Neal's time in prison is laughed off regularly in the series.  I've always wondered if that's half because Neal wants it that way.  Maybe there's something lurking there he doesn't want to deal with.  It would be interesting in dealing with Neal's and Peter's viewpoints on the allocation of responsibility.  I'd be happy to talk more about my thoughts on this one, as I have several clear ideas.

I'd also kill for a White Collar/The Normal Heart mashup of some kind.



The Marketplace Series


Tetsuol/Chris Parker
Grendel/Chris Parker
Chris Parker/Michael LaGuardia
Chris Parker/Any Canon Character  OR  Any Canon Character/Chris Parker
Chris Parker/OC  OR  OC/Chris Parker





Rift War Saga

Pug/Thomas
Pug/Laurie
Locklear/Jimmy
Amos Trask/Tsurani Soldier

Format

Epistolary Roleplay
I will almost always engage in a roleplay that is structured in an epistolary format, whether it is letters, emails, or some other form.  It is easily my favorite medium and can make for an excellent memorable roleplay.  I've been thinking that something involving gamers might be particularly appropriate to try.  If we do something related to gaming I'd like to explore escapism, preferably with a positive spin since it usually gets such a hard knock.

I am primarily interested in fandom works where we both play canon characters or the plots listed here.  But feel free to propose other ideas or alternatives.

Gender and Sexuality

Male		Transmasculine		Gender-varient
Top		Switch		Bottom
Gay		Bisexual		Straight

Genres

High Fantasy		Low Fantasy		Urban Fantasy
Scifi		Post-Apocalyptic		Steampunk
Slice of Life		Crime		Comedy
Military		Action		Adventure
Mystery		Western		Historical

I roleplay via Forum threads, but prefer Google Docs.
For more information check out my O&Os.
If you see something you like feel free to send me a private message

[ultimategeek]

[Bump.  Just about everything has been updated.]

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Updated to include the Peter Parker/Clint Barton plot, and to change the preferences from any requests to only requests for canon fandom works and the plots listed here.

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Added the Peter Parker/Wade Wilson plot.

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Added the Marketplace Series option

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Added Riftwar Saga

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Updated to include the Sentinel A/B/O plot and to update the cravings section.

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I'm pretty desperately in search of a new RP.  So please send a message my way if you think you might be interested.

[ultimategeek]

Monthly bump.  Definitely looking for more RPs!

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Still looking

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Still looking