Ideas and Such
*Be aware that the opening posts were written for stories that have long since ended...I kept them as is because I loved them so much. YOUR character can BE whatever you want within the confines of our world. Male/female/both/neither...*
I have written loads in the past few years and certain stories, certain...ideas...stick with me and beg to be played through, taken to new places, explored with new writers and new thoughts. What this means is that I love these particular stories, these particular creations and I want to write them in a new way, with new people who bring new things to the story line.
What you should know outside of my O/O's and the like?
Most of characters are written to allow my prospective partners to SEE them in the way that turns them on most. This is not to say that I don't use descriptive phrases. I do. But usually description is for setting a scene or granting a certain a tone or feeling. My characters are ciphers. I want my prospective co-writers to connect to them, emotionally.
Also I have no particular preferences concerning prospective co-writers genders or lack thereof. Be male writing female or vice versa, be both or neither. I care not just as long as you can bring something to the table.
So without further ado~
1. Serial killer vs the police/kidnap victim Seriously. That is the basis of my idea. I have some solo pieces in my Snippets thread, titled American Psycho and the idea for the story starts with them. I have no idea the gender/race/sexual orientation concerning this particular killer but what I do know is that I want to write them. Badly.
There are many ways this particular story can go, depending upon my co-writers wants and needs. However I am sure that this story, should it ever get written, belongs in extreme whatever as there will be gore, violence, rape, kidnapping, torture.
2. Death~Mortal for One Day. Have you ever read the Sandman graphic novels by Neil Gaiman? Do you love them as much as I do? Then this MIGHT just be the idea for you. The basic premise would be Dream's big sister, Death becoming mortal for her one day every century. In that day, she meets and connects with your character who is slated to die the very NEXT day, something Death does not know, yet. How will they connect? What will they do? These are the things we need to discuss.
I am open to any pairing for this one.
3. Obsession. Stalker sees girl. Stalker wants girl. Stalker finds girl and...well you get the gist. THIS is going to be dark, brutal and (if done RIGHT) unbelievably sensual and ultimately loving. Maybe our characters meet on line? Maybe they meet whilst travelling? Who knows? That's the fun of plotting these sorts of things out together.
I originally imagined this as F/F with myself as the stalker (I have the original story posts up in my Snippets thread and will gladly link you if you want to see what I mean) but the more I think on it, the more I think I could play either side of the equation. What that means is I do not have a particular gender configuration in mind. If you have an idea about it? Let me know!!
It was a giggle.
You know, full on monstrous and low~like sandpaper over wounded skin, insidious in the way it crept into the listener's ears and stayed there. An ear worm turned up high. She couldn't help it. It wasn't as if she TRIED to hear the low beckoning of madness that flavored every meal with it own personal spice. She damned sure didn't want the after effects~the odd colors, the whispering voices as the blood flowed and flowed, a savor to be enjoyed by any reasonable cook.
'Cept she wasn't reasonable...and sometimes she wasn't even a she.
HE had said~"Did you hear about the newest addition to the Asylum?"
HE had said~ "You should probably investigate, see if you can help it along."
HE had said~ "It believes in US. Is it a masquerade breach, do you think?"
So she went, when she was a she, and she liked all that she saw and she decided that it's madness would be sanity when compared to hers or his or even theirs and no one would begrudge that ability to tease and read and bleed auras. NOT if one could be properly handled.
And anyway, she liked hugging those who hugged themselves.
The darkness beckoned, a living entity that begged one to slip into the shadows and become one with them. Della did so, her wide hazel eyes glinting in the gathered star light that rested upon her bald scalp like a curse or a kiss.
And if she argued in two different voices, no one was awake to hear.
And if she climbed the gate to Rose Hill Sanitarium, no one saw her.
And if she hid in the shadows, no one cared.
And she listened, listened~ as the inner voices of so many tired and wailing people pulled her in.
Della slipped from the deeper shadows and allowed wide eyes to gaze up at the barred windows on the third floor. It was there that the one she was interested in~ slept. Of course, with the guards working in pairs and walking unevenly timed circuits around the perimeter, getting to the girl would be difficult.
"That's fine. Anything worth getting requires patience."
The woman, clad only in a white tissue thin gown nodded in response to that murmured statement and withdrew into the shadows. Another day, at most. And then, playtime, learning and descent...could begin.
**This story is tailored as a one on one~a Malkavian Vampire (from the Old World of Darkness story lines) finding and stalking a mortal female who has been imprisoned in an insane asylum. The reasons could be ANYTHING at all but I imagine that the story itself will end up on the more extreme side of things~blood letting, mind control, dark imagery, etc. I do prefer FxF for this one.**
There is a war. There is always a war. The Host fights. That is their reason for existing. It hadn't always been so, not when the ONE first pulled them from the stuff of the dreaming. In the beginning? Their job had been to help order the universes made, to guide the creation, to implement what was wanted by the ALL.
But that had changed, over uncounted eons. The ONE had withdrawn, the worlds and universes had given birth to life, and a quarter of the Host had fallen and spread out, to win their way through the hearts of mortals. The best of the Host had taken his followers and fell, thrown from the ramparts of Heaven. The Host that remain, are mindless, for the most part. They fight. They win. And if a life is given to the cause, a grace removed? It has to be the will of the ALL. It couldn't actually be that the Fallen are winning. Please, the One, it couldn't actually be that the Fallen are right.
There are divisions in the Host. Not necessarily by lightness nor coloration, but type. A Death Angel is as different from the Seraphim as a composer is from the orchestra. Death Angels do not have the morality that eats at the majority of the Host. They don't care for right or wrong, only for what gets the job done. They are the assassins of the Host. They kill without qualm. It is how they are formed. It is what their job demands. Because they deal with the darker aspects of mortal life, their coloration is not the pure marble of the others. Some of the Fallen's own darkness is evident in their eyes, in their skin, upon their wings. Their wings are always black.
There is a war on. There is always a war on. And the Host are winning, but for how long?
Dahmia~leader of the Earth contingent. Shaped and formed to resemble the Aborigine peoples of the world~dark skinned, dark eyed, dark haired. The Death Angel could look like any one of thousands of tribes~ could fit any where. But the rules had changed. Now she/he/it could no longer take the battle to the Fallen. A mortal host must be taken. She/he/it must pour Angelic consciousness into a host body. A mortal body, from the lower planes.
Dahmia prefers the peoples that most resemble what she/he/it IS. So The host mortal is black, brown, tan. The hair is always dark~usually straight, sometimes curly. The host mortal is pious, willing, a soldier body for the ONE, a female. Countless females, over the ages. Dahmia begins to be female as well. And with the beginning of that knowledge, Dahmia realizes two things. Femaleness does not equal weak. And for the most part, Fallen are almost always, Male. Unity in halves.
Dahmia is a Death Angel, one who works and walks and protects the mortals on the plane of Earth. And there is a war on. There is always a war on...and she is far from home.
PRESENT DAY/Celestial Plane
The celestial sphere can be a bit overwhelming. Especially if one is not prepared to be yanked from a host body and pulled to stand before a pair of irate Arch Angels~ Gabriel, Michael. And there is NO way one can ever truly prepare themselves for that eventuality. Think on it. To go from blue skies and woods and dirt and highways to Heaven's ramparts that jut like brilliant diamonds against the back drop of the starry sphere. How can that be prepared for? The golden gleam, the unearthly music, the hosannas, the training of squadrons? It all makes for an almighty din that the ONE somehow manages to ignore. Obviously, it has to be ignored.
Somehow though, the Arch Angels make themselves understood. They are bright, much brighter than the troops that march in perfect formation, much brighter even than the Seraphim who do not battle, who only give glory to the ONE as is their duty. Before them, the Death Angel, Dahmia looks down right dowdy. She does not care. Looks will not win this war. This is not a war of attrition. This is the beginning of Armageddon. Her small contigent of loyal followers, both Earth born and Heaven shaped, do not care how they look. Who has time to worry about such a small thing?
"Have you found the female?"
The voice is so breathtakingly beautiful that it makes Dahmia's head ache. Michael. The new Lord of the left as the Lightbringer had once been, the one the Earth born call Satan, Lord of the Fallen. Of course, he would ask about that. Of course, he would yank her away from finding the one thing that was almost guaranteed to bring some sort of equality to the battle field. She had been closing in on it~the cross beam of the ark. Noah's ark. Yet, Heaven's mandate meant that any active field angel could be yanked willy nilly from the field, to answer a question.
"Well, have you?"
Dahmia glanced at Gabriel, Lord of the Message. His voice was a vast rolling boom, like the crash of the sea. She wanted to scream at the pair of them. But she couldn't. Heaven's mandate said they spoke for the ONE. Disrespecting them would be the same as spitting in the ONE's face...if you could see it.
"No, I have not found the female. I have mortals searching the computer data bases, but as yet, she has not been spotted."
'Conversation over.' That is all she has time to think before she returns, coughing and shaking, to the mortal host who has agreed to carry her through the world, the Lower plane, Earth. And once there, it all goes to hell in a big way.
"We found her, but it appears we are too late. The thing she houses. The things she could have done? Gone. She has traded with a demon. I believe you may know of him, Dahmia. His name? Ruumel."
Dahmia groaned, low. "Fuck."
*The idea for this story is simple. Angel versus Demon in a battle to the death for the soul of one human. YES, this will include all sorts of bloody mindedness. Yes, there will be various scenes of torment, torture, possibly rape. If you have any knowledge of the way Demons/Angels are written/played via Supernatural? THAT is what I am aiming for.*
It's always the same shit. A never ending round of puffed out chests and pheromones. Always some lone wolf, attempting to think. Always some bounty hopped up on Chill not realizing just what it was that faced them. It's always the same.
Not that I can blame them. Hell, a little mutt, drifting and dodging through hover traffic on a black slicboard? Obviously, I must have a death wish. Heh, one would think that no one had ever warned people about wolves in punk clothing. I was the reason they told stories around the camp fires at night. The Lone Wolf. Should have been next in line for pack leader. Born to it.
I didn't want it.
I ran from it.
So, here I am again. A bloody mess. Being a loner isn't all fun. Being a bounty hunter isn't very much fun, either. It just...pays the bills, feeds the beast, soothes the blood lust. It just...gives me a place to fit in a world where I can not, will not, ever be acknowledged. By pack, by pard, by those others who wear fur when they are not in skin. It just...blunts the loneliness
Other things do that, too.
So after the shower~ four minutes, no more no less. After getting dressed: fitted leather pants, tight microfiber smart tee, black clunky combat boots, black leather duster. After outfitting myself with a decent semi automatic from the old firm, shoving it in a shoulder holster. After all of this? I decided to head up town, to the clubs. To blunt my loneliness another way.
Nova Orleans. Home of the po' boy. Good beer. Jambalaya. Perfect oysters. In the old sections, back when the world was less magical, the clubs had trickled off of Decatur. Now they sprung up over night, shifted when the wind blew. All except for Howl at the Moon.
To the entrance, then through it, my eyes filtering out the ambient lighting. Nose. Super sensitive. Like always. A new scent. One I hadn't ever run across in my travels. A new psion in my territory? Eyes flared, traveled. Halted. HER. Very pretty. Nostrils sniffed. Sex witch. Oh goddess, one of those.
Without conscious thought, I found my legs carrying me to her table. Her scent beckoned. Cajoled. Pleaded. I could feel the inner shift, the one that meant my wolf was rising. Didn't matter. I stopped when I reached her side.
"Hello, little witch. I am Mina. Lone wolf. You smell good enough to eat. So what do you say to letting me do just that?"
I wasn't sure if she would say yes. I wasn't sure what made me even approach her. What I WAS sure of was that I wanted her to keep me company. Just one night. To keep the loneliness at bay. I was also sure of the fact that she would most definitely taste as good as she looked. And I was hungry.
*If you have any knowledge of the world of Dante' Valentine as written by Lilith St. Crow then you have a basic idea of what I am wanting. A sort of hyper cyber magic techno fusion set a hundred years in the future. This tale can go many, many ways. Hit me up. we can hash them out.*
private eye in a cyber punk setting
*This story would be very dark/brooding/bloody/violent. It would have to be. I have a character already prepared with a very large back story. If you would be interested in learning more about her or the type of story I would want outside of basics, please hit my PM box. Let's talk.*
The World's of Lilith St. Crow
Simon Green's Nightside
The early cyber punk novels of William Gibson
The Sword of Truth World
the urban fantasy mythology of Charles de Lint
The Sandman graphic novels
Neal Stephenson's Snow Crash or The Diamond Age
The glorious sagas of Kathleen Ann Goonan's Nanotech Quartet
(As you can see I love sci-fi)
This is far from finished. I will come back (probably as many times as I visit my O/O's) to finish it as time allows. Thanks for giving this a look see.
The Dark Knight