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Author Topic: ♥ Deviously Distracting ♥  (Read 1399 times)

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Offline FlickahaTopic starter

  • ツ Deviously Delectable ❤
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  • Join Date: Jun 2012
  • Location: Wales! (No that's not 'in England')
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♥ Deviously Distracting ♥
« on: March 12, 2013, 10:11:04 AM »
Hello, I'm Flickaha (you can call me Flick). Nice to meet you. Firstly there should be an abundance of posts of mine that you can check to judge whether you think we'd work well together. I think this form of 'stalking' is valid and important whilst vetting partners so please, go right ahead.

Current Availability; Unavailable for new RPs

What I Want

I'm looking for a high standard only; this doesn’t mean I’m impossible to please or that I think my writing is shit hot. I make mistakes, I rush things, I can be a nightmare – but I know what I like and I know what I don’t. I like complex stories, feelings, emotions and realism in my games. I also like well-constructed and intuitive posts. Length doesn’t matter, if you’re working on a minimum paragraph count just because you’ve agreed it in advance…that’s not writing, that’s homework and I don’t believe it has any correlation to how good you are as a writer. Also it makes things less fun if you're trying to hit a target. I am of the firm opinion that you can have just as much fun with a couple of paragraphs as you can with several, it's all so dynamic dependent on what is occurring within the story.

What I’m looking for is somebody that can include a mass of things in their posts; description, feelings, internalisation, dialogue, character growth, development and plot movement.

Somebody that genuinely has fun with characters, writing, and plot.

Simple enough, right?

Most importantly I want somebody I can get lost with, isn’t that what literature is about?

Naughty Bits

I’m completely flexible with all adult themes; violence/abuse/sex/horror - trust me you'll shock yourselves before you shock me. And yes this a challenge many have taken up, but as of yet nobody has proven me wrong. For specifics take a look here O/O's. I don't get grossed out by much and will venture into any taboo, I finding writing about things that I don't have much experience in challenging and doesn't anybody like a challenge. Honestly, it doesn't really matter what I enjoy. I role-play, so writing from the perspective of somebody else - who am I to say what they enjoy? I'll write violence. I'll write sex. I'll write pretty much anything, I'll be honest.

I have been writing and role-playing for a very long time, in that time I have grown a lot and my tastes and demands have changed with me. I do have a very active life outside of E though, not only am I a mother of three young boys, I also have a fiance who likes my attention, a novel I'm writing and a business to co-run. Sometimes, time disappears from me. As such I only require understanding partners, I have endless amounts of patience, as long as I am given the same courtesy.

I can play both male and female characters convincingly enough and enjoy playing both.

I adore the following; horror, satire, romance, crime, adventure, superheroes, forbidden romance, twisted fairytales. I like taking simple plots and twisting them. I’m also such a comic book nerd at heart that I doubt I’d turn down many requests for anything involving lycra. 

As for my posting speed, it can vary a lot. There are a few people that get replies rapidly and consistently but please do not hold me by that standard for all of them. Slow responses are more my forte and speed in no way denotes interest.


As far as I am concerned onexone role-play is a collaborative effort to write a story. Protagonists are chosen but without a certain amount of give and take on each part not much will happen. I will forgo control of my characters occasionally for the sake of plot development and flow. I would rather have something amazing to read and lax control a little than read something wooden and one-sided just because my character was stagnant. That also means on the flip-side I expect to do the same with yours. If we’re writing together there has to be a certain amount of trust with each other’s creativity and characters; it’s an easy rhythm to get into when you get to know each other’s styles.


I will play either gender, without bias. For my plots I have no specification as to who I play as it's the plots I'm most interested in exploring. More importantly I don't care whether you're man, woman or horse as long as you're skills are adequate. I am unbiased. Completely. I enjoy writing both men and women and gender in no way affects my enjoyment of the role play. In fact I'm pretty sure I could write as a cabbage as long as I had enough creative license. Bottom line I would still enjoy it. I don't role play to throw idealised versions of myself into situations, I play because I enjoy plots and story development. That happens independently of who I am playing.

As for pairings, I will hand on my heart say I prefer mxf, that is my main preference personally and thus it's the one I find most comfortable. If discussed I might be swayed to any other kind but the premise will have to be tempting. I'm not interested in the simple scandal of same sex couples; I don't find it particularly scandalous or interesting on its own I'm afraid. Maybe I'm too acclimatised to it.

My Original Plots

{His Pet}

This is a story about a girl and her teacher, it’s been a long term fantasy of mine for as long as I can remember and I would love to play it to fruition. However it’s taken me a long time to decide exactly how I would best like it to play out. I think I have finally figured out the general plot and I’m hoping somebody will read it and be vastly interested. Obviously things can be changed here and there, I’m not that strict.

There is a teenager in his class, he shouldn’t notice her, it’s entirely inappropriate that he does and he knows it. It’s not like he hasn’t been teaching for years, it’s not like she’s even the prettiest student he’s seen in his time. The skirts have gotten shorter and shorter over the years of teaching at this high school and he’s long come to terms with the fact that he must stop himself noticing. Not an easy thing to do, but he’s managed to shut off. The girls are kids in his classes and he’s taught himself to believe it. Until she came along.

He isn’t even sure what it is about her, well that’s a lie.

He knows.

When she comes in and winces slightly, occasionally, when she sits down, he knows.

When she wears her hair down to cover the bruises and marks along her neck and collarbone, he knows.

When those green eyes refuse to hold his and a crimson stain blushes along her cheeks, he knows.

When she squirms in her seat when he’s berating her for not having done her homework, he knows.

When she forgets to wear panties underneath too short skirts, he knows.

When her fingers absently trace the bruises at her wrists, or the small always covered blemishes that scatter her body, he knows.

He knows because he knows every inch of her body, every inch of those bruises. Because he put them there, every, last, one.

How is it his fault? How was he supposed to resist such an untainted, insatiable little masochist? All spread out and offering herself to him, perhaps not with words but he’d known what she was before she had and it hadn’t taken much effort to show her how much he could give her. Now it was like an addiction, how on Earth was he supposed to give her up? His job was on the line, there was no way he wouldn’t be thrown in jail, perhaps just sex could be forgiven but what they did? No. He’d be locked away and never allowed out.

Pinching the bridge of his nose angrily he dismisses the class ten minutes early, nobody hesitates they all flee from the room in case he suddenly changes his mind and their early dart from school is forsaken. He remembers vaguely what it was like when ten minutes made such a difference. Of course she doesn’t flee, she takes her time and his eyes don’t leave her body as she picks up her books, slowly, and then sashays passed him, swaying her hips in that way that damn near hypnotises him. He doesn’t even think it’s intentional, but it works and his eyes follow her out, then he groans and she laughs because he’s seen what she wanted him to.

The ghost of a still red handprint poking out from the beneath the hem of the pleated, tartan fabric.

It doesn’t matter that she’s gone now, he’ll see her again, after all she’s lived next door to him for years.

It really is the most ridiculously unfortunate situation.

And he thinks he might flog her tonight for utterly destroying his ability to think about anything else.

Other Bits

I would like to kick this off at the very beginning, a blossoming relationship between student and teacher, neighbour and neighbour. The heavy emphasis on her masochism is important, as is his sadism. It’s not a healthy, romantic affair, it’s a filthy, consensual mess which from the outside would look abusive as Hell.

That said I imagine feelings will develop and I don’t want the entire emphasis to be on BDSM. It will be incorporated of course, heavily, however there will also be a plot blossoming to. Dangerous, dangerous plot. I want it to be realistic and as gritty as you can manage.

Mainly I don’t just want this to be an outlet, if you want a one shot between a teacher and a student then that’s fine, go and find one. But this I want to be as much about their character’s development both together and apart, relationship growth, change and a deep insight into in depth and well thought out characters.

As well as a hell of a lot of we-shouldn’t-be-doing-this sex!

{The Boleyn King}

May 19, 1536

The room was dark, the air thick and the smell of sweat was almost choking. The women didn't have time to mind though, as they hurried around the bed. Distracted and busy, things weren't ready, they weren't ready. The baby was early and that in itself was a terrible sign. Anne clung to the soaked sheets, fists balling into the heavy cloth with every contraction. On her hands and knees, hardly a dignified position for a queen, but her face buried into the down pillows was the only way she could muffle the screams. This was not an out-of-the-way lying in chamber, she was not alone here to endure her agony and fear with the private aid of carefully selected women. This was Greenwich and the entire court where here, downstairs, waiting. Henry was there. Terror flooded Anne, a terror which was not born of pain but of the knowledge that this was happening too soon. She was going to lose this baby, and with it her last shred of hope of remaining queen.

Anne Boleyn was anything but a fool. She had seen the way Henry had been avoiding her, for months, since Katherine's death. She no longer held his heart, that was obvious, more obvious still was where it was now housed. Within the hands of Seymour scum. Henry was a bastard, but of course she couldn't say that out loud. He had ruined her life, snatched her from love, stolen her heart and thrown it away. One mistake. That was all it had taken. One beautiful, happy little mistake and she had been ruined. He never wanted her. He wanted a son. It was the only consistent thing Henry had ever wanted. She had been a fool to believe anything else.

A scream ripped from her throat, one even the pillows couldn't muffle and she felt a hand on her arm.

“Your Majesty, it's time.”

“No” Anne sobbed, shaking through the agony of the contractions. There was no break between them now, the baby was coming whether she liked it or not, but she didn't need to make this easy for them. She'd felt her waters go some time back, her legs and skirts (which had now been half cut off) were wet. But she scarcely cared.

This baby was too soon. If it didn't survive, and it couldn't survive. There was no more hope for her. They were already circling like vultures. George was locked in the tower, but she didn't know why. Nobody did. She was all but confined to her rooms, fearful of seeing Henry and igniting yet more fury that she could not control. The last time she had been with child he had been doting, careful, proud. Now he was hateful. He didn't look at her without a scowl on his once gentle features.

He was not the man she loved. He was a King that she had no power to sway. A King that blamed her for all his ills. A King that hated her more and more each day.

There was no loyalty, she'd seen himself how easily he turned on those he once loved. She had used it to her advantage more than once.
Another scream.

“Your Majesty, you need to push.”

“I can't.” Anne couldn't, this baby was it, her only chance, and what if it was a girl? She started crying again. Not another girl. Or worse, a dead boy. How could it be anything else? It wasn't her time yet for months. “It's too early.” There were hands all over her now, turning her onto her back, she was too weak to fight. Dark hair slick with sweat and stuck to her pale face. She was white as a sheet, though she couldn't see that, her ladies could. She caught the worry in their faces moments before she noticed the bed. It hadn't been her waters then, the bed was drenched in blood. Red against the deathly parlour of her skin.

A new wave of terror over-took her and she turned her head just in time to avoid vomiting onto herself. A bowl was thrust under her chin as she continued to heave. This was not how it was supposed to go. This baby, this son, because she couldn't believe it was anything else, was supposed to be her saviour. And she was losing him. Just like Katherine. There were hands under her knees, pulling her legs up, she wanted to protest but she didn't have the strength.

They couldn't manhandle her like this. She was the Queen on England still.

“Your Majesty you have to push, it is time, I can see the head.” They were as scared as she was, they'd sent for the midwives hours ago, but they were miles away preparing her lying in chamber. The doctors were not allowed in because they were not to see the Queen in this state. Anne prayed for a miracle in which Henry's desperation to save his child would win and she would have help. So far, the doors had remained closed and she had untrained women with her. Only two of which had endured this themselves. One of her ladies was noticeably absent. She was losing her son, her prince, her baby, and Jane Seymour was off entertaining her husband. Suddenly she longed for the strong kicks she had felt within her belly, isolated and alone she had spent so much time watching her stomach move with the ever strengthening movements of the one who grew within.

The next contraction caught her off guard, she felt like her insides were being yanked out, her entire body squeezing against her. Elizabeth hadn't been this painful. Anne screamed again, she tried to fight the urge to push, but her body was working against her now, desperate to expel the dying thing. Anne pushed, even though she didn't want to. She pushed with the last bit of strength she could find. She pushed until the relief hit her like a wave.
It was done.

Anne fell back onto the pillows, unaware when she had pushed herself up, the room was spinning and all she could do was wait in cold terror for the news that the baby was dead. There was no crying. Not a sound. Any hope she'd managed to claw onto was quickly vanishing. It was too soon.

Just silence.

The baby was bundled away quickly, into thick linens. Anne didn't see it, couldn't bare to ask. Instead she closed her eyes, falling to the exhaustion even as she felt warm cloths being dabbed at her skin. They were trying to clean her up? They thought it mattered now? Nothing mattered now? She was doomed.
The doors banged open, what felt like moments later, Anne's eyes flickered open drowsily to see the King, but he didn't look at her. Instead he was looking into the ornate wooden crib they'd had carved specially for Elizabeth. This baby had no such care. Was she in a fit state to be seen by the King? Had they cleaned her up sufficiently? She hadn't felt a thing. Why was Henry here? Did that mean? He wouldn't be here for a dead baby, or a girl. Suddenly alight with hope, Anne took a shaky breath and waited. Watching Henry's back.

The King peered into the cradle, opened the blankets without hesitation and stared down at his son. The baby stared back, silently, eyes open and unblinking. Holding his father's gaze. He might have mistaken him for dead if not for the steady movement of his chest. His son, his tiny little son. Brave enough to stare down a King already. Henry couldn't help the grin that spread across his lips. He had thought for sure it wouldn't survive, that all hope was lost. And even though the doctors told him the boy was early, small, and probably would not survive, looking down at the tiny, perfectly formed baby he couldn't believe it.

This was his son.

“I have a son.” He said, quietly to himself at first, as the ladies swaddled the baby back up at his indication. Then again, louder, prouder, “I have a son.” He was openly grinning now. All the anger and hatred he had felt towards his wife dissolved in that one moment. That stubborn, obstinate woman had given him a son. And if he had half the Boleyn will-fullness, he would be healthy and strong. Just to prove everybody wrong.

They needed a name, he'd not dared to hope, but now it was here the possibilities raced through his head. Anne had wanted George, or Thomas. A strong Boleyn name. To honour her family. She'd made that clear, never once wavering as to the gender of this baby. He hadn't believed her, not after Elizabeth. He'd been tempted with Henry, but after his first Henry, it seemed ill-advised. Besides he already had a healthy, living Henry and though it pained him that he would not be raising Henry the Ninth to the throne, there was little he could do now. Arthur was a strong name too, for his brother, a sign of Tudor loyalty. The people had loved Arthur and he longed to show the people that he held no grudge against his brother for Katherine's deceptions. But no, there was one name Henry kept coming back to. A strong King's name. Named for the man who brought England together so long ago.

Turning to Anne, beaming, he met her glassy lifeless eyes and his smile faltered. He beckoned to the women who moved to the bed and shook her gently. Her head lolled to the side and Henry was surprised at the well of sadness within his chest. He had loved this woman, once, divided his entire Kingdom to make her happy.

“His name is William.” He said firmly, half hoping the fire of indignation would reignite her. There was no familiar purse of lips, no rolling of eyes, and no frown on her pale features. Anne was gone. For the first time since he'd been born, William began to cry.

{From the Everlasting}

Ab Aeterno
From the everlasting

The city was dark, torches from the stores either side lit the narrow cobbled streets of the capital, flames fluttering, oblivious to the torment and blood that had bathed these very walkways not so very long ago. These days’ people moved through the darkness, their heads down and their voices low, pretence that everything was normal but a lingering sense of danger that war had seeped through to the population’s very core. It would pass, feelings were fleeting and even now there was laughter in the distance carrying over the smoggy city. Humanity was adaptable and memories gave way to new ones constantly, if one stood still they could witness the very change in the air, but so few stood still these days. The Parisian night-life was slowly but surely coming back to life as people braved leaving their homes, the bitter winter was ebbing away to a brisk spring and with the less frigid climate brought hope.

Through one low doorway in particular, there was deathly silence but though born initially of fear it mostly served to symbolise the rapt attention of the crowd surrounding the old crone sitting at the bar. Romany, it was obvious by the style of her dress and the darkness to her skin, if that was not enough the gold decorating her neck, fingers and ears would leave anybody in little doubt. Perhaps a beauty once her hair was now laced with grey, very little of the dark locks remaining, skin weathered and wrinkled. This didn’t hinder the stares though and everybody watched her, listened as the words poured from her lips. Her French was broken; every now and then she would stumble over a word and retreat to a different language in order to press her point. The subject was as morbid as they came these days, the dark, grim legends of the moroi, vampires. The gypsy’s tales had gained new fervour on the back of the bloody war and the massacre of some of the oldest families in Europe, and the travellers were never a group to hold off on making a profit. It was more than likely they edged the legends along, in a time that was ripe for the conjecture of superstition and fantasy.

People were so desperate for some intangible fear to cling to, something that they could insist wasn’t real, something to eclipse the terror that many had witnessed. A coping mechanism exploited to make a profit and those that complained of it the loudest were merely bitter about not having thought of it first.

Every so often the old woman would pause as if her throat was sore, gold would tease more information from her lips but she would feign reluctance and exhaustion. It was an old trick, but evidentially when one pedalled tales of nightmares then one will easily get away with it. A couple watched on from the corner, close to the window, with seemingly rather less interest than the rest of the crowd.

“The thing that should be at the forefront of your mind when dealing with the beasts; is that the myths, the legends that you see, read, hear – they’re origins are all the same. Vampires are not to be trusted; their weaknesses are passed around well-known enough, but those weaknesses spewed forth from their fork tongued mouths so long ago. Would you trust the word of the devil? They would happily exaggerate the legends that don’t hurt them, that which holds no fear for them. However they would keep silent about their real-“

“You’re saying they do not work? What of wooden stakes, mirrors, crosses, garlic?” Somebody interrupted from the back but the old woman didn’t miss a beat, she had practiced her part well and often, her purse was heavy now and she was pleased enough to indulge in the way that most old women like to talk. Even though she should be heading back to camp she shook her head and forgot herself for a moment, success and liquor fogging her mind, she forgot the reason that the real weaknesses of legends were not spoken of.

“And what of your mind? Would you wield a stake before a creature that could slide inside your mind, convince your own arm to independently drive the object through your own heart? They are not things that can be slaughtered easily; an army might do it at a push. If they knew the key, the only way to properly destroy a vampire. Fire. You have to burn it. For a beast that can regrow limbs at will, even decapitation is pointless. You’ll stop it for a while but given time even the head will regrow. Fire, you need to destroy the body and the beast within which-“

“Enough” a firm voice cut through the hushed silence. As one the crowd turned to face the woman that had spoken and the gypsy’s own eyes fastened to the young girl. “Do you not think we have enough tales of blood and murder to fill our nights without inventing more?”

“You think these are merely bedtime stories?”

“I think they are nonsense” Ecatarina Landau spoke, the slight girl was sitting with her husband who by direct contrast was a brute of a man. The Duke of Leuchtenberg was not only tall, but also built for fighting and at six foot one he stood almost two heads taller than his wife who barely topped five foot six, the large man didn’t move though; he didn’t even turn his head in reaction as the girl spoke. “Monsters are not real; we have enough in our midst without inventing vile creatures to haunt our thoughts in our beds.”

“What of the Archdukes of old, Counts, Palatines none of whom are returning home. Do you think that mere coincidence? The slaughter of entire lines of nobility-”

“I think that if you are implying they were vampires they cannot be so powerful if they were so easily put down by an army. There are no sinister motives behind these deaths, or at least none so far from the gains of land and money that falls to the Kingdom at the death of heirless men.” A few of the gazes shifted back to the old woman to hear her rebuttal but a great portion had already lost interest and had begun making their way to their homes. Things seemed to be taking a turn away from the macabre and heading in a far more political angle and politics were not something people discussed lightly at the moment.

“Years of easy living, isolation, it made them ill-prepared is all. Men’s trickery-“

“Again I say enough. Go and pedal your poisonous prattle elsewhere.”

“I merely try to educate dear,” the old woman stood and collected up her money from the bar, it appeared that the story had reached its end after all. Ecatarina watched as she moved out of the room but it was another hour or so before the young woman and her husband stepped out onto the street, she was surprised to find the woman still there in the cold night air talking to a few stragglers from inside. Beneath her hooded cloak she swept away down the street but her hearing, her immaculately attuned, impossibly accurate hearing, picked up every word spoken as if she were stood right next to the woman.

“What if there are more, more to come and avenge their fallen brothers?”

“There won’t be, vampires are solitary, territorial things, their co-operation can be sustained perhaps briefly for an adequate prize but left alone they would happily destroy each other, do not fear over much. Vampires mostly desire to be alone.”

“And what of you?” The Duke walked back towards the group, his gravelly, deep voice threatening, towering above them all, his forearms were as thick as most men’s legs. “Are the gypsies not supposed to be loyal to these vampires?”

“You speak of the Szgany?” she said with a knowing smile, “perhaps there was a time long ago. But alas, there are no great lords left to pledge loyalty to.” It was obvious she was indulging his scepticism now, playing on his doubts before she excused herself and finally made her way down the street. Ecatarina watched from the shadows only stepping out as her husband drew near, he didn’t react as she stepped in line with him, he didn’t react to anything that she did not will him to. Outwardly she was mostly hidden in darkness, the midnight satin of her thick hooded cloak gave nothing but the merest glance at the porcelain skin and delicate features of the woman beneath, except for the bright, knowing blue eyes which even the darkness was having trouble masking.

It would be better for all of them when she could return back to her home, or perhaps even his, all the Duchess could do was hope that whatever the Emperor wanted from Jochen would be finished soon. Experience had taught her to be ill at ease in cities, around human’s and with so called ‘vampire hunters’ running rife all looking to make their fortune, rumour and stories were beginning to border on offensive. Still occasionally it was handy, if even to wheedle out the few who knew too much.

The old gypsy woman would be found in her bed tomorrow, every last scrap of sanity banished from her mind, rambling and fighting against sweat drenched sheets. For there were after all, some things that needed to be kept quiet and Cat was not at all fond of people knowing too much about her condition. Mystery was part and parcel of what had kept her safe this long and with so many fallen she needed to be even more careful. So as Ecatarina walked towards their home, seemingly guided by the protective hand of her warrior husband she reminded herself who she was and bit back the burnt pride that the animal within prickled at. For now she wasn’t Ecaterina Dănești, it was quite possible she would never be able to openly lay claim to that name, that dynasty ever again, though for all the names she had brandished her own was still her favourite.

At the moment she was Duchess Catherine Landau, beautiful, young English bride of the near savage and untameable brute Jochen Landau, Duke of Leuchtenberg. Touching a hand to his arm she smiled wryly, he hadn’t been so hard to tame in the end. As they stepped into the carriage that would take them from the city proper to where their home lay on the elite outer-rings of the city, Cat sat and folded her hands against her silken skirts, she hated to ride when she could traverse the distance on foot in less time but there were always appearances to worry about.

These were dangerous times.

Morning was not too far off now, even though it would be a while before the sunlight broke through the thick cloud that obscured the stars from view, she could still sense the harmful, acidic shift of the Earth towards that hateful period of light. Jochen would be her eyes then as she engulfed herself in shadows, he had business tomorrow as he had had every day for the past week, and she was eager to find out what new developments would disturb their newly found peace. Most women would stay in the country whilst their husband attended to matters of business, but she had never been most women. It was agonising enough to remain a spectator when she should by rights be exerting her place in the world, without remaining entirely isolated and unseen as well.

She might be a woman but the thing inside her, the ever-growing thing, was not. The restrictive, weakly feminine body that it found itself housed in was a crippling, frustrating disability that it had not yet been able to transcend. Hush, her mind soothed as it always did when she felt her insides begin to creep and crawl, no matter; we have made it work until now. Frailties of her gender aside, it didn’t hinder the sharpness of her mind and survival was something her and the beast could at least agree on.

{Dragoste & Minciuni}
Trişorul Camp

This story is all about mystery and magic, legends and folk lore and perhaps most importantly of all deception. Its setting is a circus, a travelling circus whose origins can be traced back centuries. The gypsies who run it are part of a tribe that had routes all over Europe and ties to nowhere. They travel the length and breadth of the continent, reading palms, telling fortunes, selling trinkets and working their own brand of magic and legend. Nobody messes with the gypsies, though people all over know of them. Gifts are laid out at the feet of the caravans to try and keep their curses at bay and the other cheek is turned when chickens and live-stock disappear occasionally during the travellers stay.

The leader of the merry band, a self-proclaimed Gypsy King Emilian Balcescu, is a great oaf of a man but their fortunes have increased greatly since he took over. Suddenly their gold stocks are vast and they are turning over more than enough of a profit. Such good luck must be coming at a price somewhere, he is a cruel and malicious man, but for now his people are prepared to overlook it. Greed and fear are powerful motivators.

This story isn’t about him though; this story is about his young, elusive and sheltered daughter. A teenager whom he goes out of his way to shield from curiosity. Every boy and man in the tribe know that she is off limits and as lonely as she might be she is spoiled. But is this restriction for her own good or for the protection of the rest of the gypsies?

Now as with most stories everything is going according to plan until the arrival of a mysterious stranger. It is a very rare occasion that outsiders are embraced into the travelling fold, and so it’s with a great deal of mistrust and scepticism that a new magician is allowed to travel with them. The feats he performs are such that none have ever seen, though whether he is just very, very talented or whether there are less easily explained origins, it remains unknown.

There are legends though, old stories of which tales are now being whispered in hushed tones between the elders of the camp. Legends filled with magic, devils in disguise, forked tongues and moroi. But these old stories couldn’t possibly be true, could they? Still there are memories of tales warning the Trişorul of outsiders and his presence is causing quite some unrest for the elders. Emilian cares little though; he gauges his problems on the coin in his purse and not on old whispers.

The bits you need to know
This is going to be a love story, there can be as much or as little of the supernatural elements as you like. Whether it’s all legends and hearsay, or whether there really are dark forces at work – that’s up to you. Though I see it as more as a love-story based in a horror. The over-all theme needs to be quite dark.

Of the protagonists, the outsider and the daughter, I have no preference over which character I play. I’ve deliberately given very little thought to either to keep them both entirely flexible.

As for the naughtier aspects, I have quite a few ideas for this. None of which I feel comfortable writing here, so if you’re interested in the story PM me and I will gladly bombard you with my decadent desires.


We want to be in a situation under maximum pressure, maximum intensity, and maximum danger. When it's shared with others, it provides a bond which is stronger than any tie that can exist.

Two SAS Agents have been through hell and back together. They’ve done things for their job that they can’t speak about, thinks that they have to keep secret even from the people they love the most. Outside of missions they have little to no contact, they both have entirely separate lives. But on the job, well that’s an entirely different matter. These two particular agents are partners a lot of the time, though not exclusively with each other their bosses haven’t failed to notice how well they work together.

When they’re sent away on a mission that lasts longer than they anticipated things progress to a level their partnership has never progressed to before. Spending a year posing as a married couple takes its toll and the two find themselves blurring lines they never thought possible. Unable to admit how they felt, both for their own personal reasons when the mission ended the two went back home. Granted a leave of absence due to the length of the mission they haven’t seen each other in nearly a year. One stayed off longer due to an injury and even when they were both back working they were never on the same jobs.

Now though they’re paired up again for the first time. Things are never that easy though, things have changed, with absolutely no knowledge of who the other person is outside of their career personas they’re not even sure they could breech that line if they wanted to. But can they help themselves?

--Basic plot, obviously can be worked on & opened up etc--

The Bits You Really Want to Know
An intense and burning need to keep from getting caught, there will be lots of risky sex in this. Secrets, fumbled moments here and there. A rushed, dangerous vibe with the potential for a pregnancy angle. This will be a less an emotional thing at first and more a desperate desire, feelings may well form but for a long time they would likely take a back seat to the sex.


Rome - 1849

By the time I turned seventeen I was quite resolved to the fact that nothing exceptional would ever happen to me. My life was as perfectly ordinary as you could get. I had grown up with a small family in a humble home in Rome, we did not have much but my brother, mother, father and I were seemingly happy. I have so many fond memories of my childhood that I was quite determined that I had had my share of happy memories for my lifetime and now all that awaited me was routine and mediocrity. Then, when I was twelve my mother had fallen in and died very suddenly. This ended what I knew of my father and down he spun into an alcohol dependency that would reshape our entire world. In the five years since he has become an entirely different man from the happy and attentive father I grew up with, in his place was a violent and depressed stranger. On the rare occasion he would get a job his money went straight back into his liquid dependency. Thus my brother and I slowly grew used to having to steel food to eat. My one potential hopeful outlet was the fantasy that one day I would be rescued from this life and forge my own way with a husband that would remind me of how my father used to be.

You would think the devastating effect my mother’s death had on him would put me off thoughts of love and yet I always felt there was something poetic about the fact his world ended with her. It made it nigh impossible for me to hate him; a problem that was not something my brother struggled with. Of course the older man never laid a hand on me it was my brother that bore the brunt of his temper, the brother who had spent his childhood being tormented by an older sister was now the only thing that stood between me and intolerable cruelty.

The house which we had once loved was now a dark and miserable place which we both tried to avoid at all costs, which was how I came to be wandering along the banks of the Tiber that fateful night. I hadn’t meant to steal; it was not something I enjoyed or an act which ever failed to fill me with an enormous sense of guilt. But having eaten nothing in days can seriously affect your judgement, the last scraps of food we had I had sacrificed to Arturo, my brother in the hopes that it would somehow convey my gratitude and sorrow over his black eyes and swollen face. So when he brushed passed me without even noticing that I was walking next to him it was almost involuntary that my hand reached into the depths of that impossibly thick cloak. The majority of what happened next transpired before I could even fully comprehend the situation.

Firm, gloved fingers wrapped around my slim wrist tightly, the other encircling my neck, as he near lifted me clear off my feet with one grasp. My back was to the river, my toes barely scraping against the floor, and for a horrible moment I thought he was going to push me into the cold, polluted city waters. Then as he looked down at me I was quite sure I would rather get wet than stare into those angry eyes a moment longer, I mention only his eyes because they were the only thing of his face that was visible. The rest was entirely hidden behind a white mask. Trembling from both the shame of getting caught and the fear of what he was going to do to me I stood there, feet half off the ground as his hand held painfully to my wrist.

“I-I’m sorry” I stuttered pathetically in my native Italian, I must have looked quite the wretch stood there. Caught red handed. My dress was patched and altered beyond any normal recognition of its former beauty. I only owned four dresses, three of which I had been measured for when I was twelve. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you of the changes to a girl that happen from the age of twelve up to eighteen, but having no other means of clothing I had little choice but to alter them myself. I am a poor seamstress and an even poorer designer and would have probably looked more appealing had I worn rags. My hair is pale yellow, a far cry from the majority of the city which heralds dark locks as the epitome of beauty in a woman. The pale mess was currently hanging in limp somewhat dirty curls around my face and shoulders. Dark locks and soft voluminous curves were apparently beautiful, curves which I might have had, were I not so desperate for food. I was not a waif of a girl but I knew that my hips did not flare quite like other women, nor did my bosoms heave beneath my dress when I drew breath. My eyes were dark but despite the Italian blood that flowed undiluted through my veins my skin was pale compared to most. I was, I had always imagined, rather plain in appearance and certainly not what most eligible men were looking for.

Staring into the man’s eyes, quite sure that he meant to punish me for my transgression I found myself hoping that he would get it over with quickly. Nobody would think twice of a plain, half-starved girl found dead in the streets and my presence would probably go quite unmissed until my father noticed that they were living in their own filth because their diligent little maid had obviously not been home. That could take weeks. As I continued to stare I saw his expression falter ever so slightly and I wondered what he was thinking.

If I only knew then what I know now I would have begged him to kill me, to spare me from falling so effortlessly into his trap and end it before it ever began. But of course I didn't and when he spoke for the first time, his one word pulsed through me with such beauty and dread that I did not know whether to fall to my knees or obey without question. How could there be so much splendour and power in one syllable? The word coupled with the release of pressure as he let me go, made me wonder why he was affording me such mercy. He had meant to kill me; somehow I knew it in that moment with more certainty than I knew my own name.

Most girls would need to hike up their skirts to run as I did then, but it had been a long time since mine had been anywhere near the floor. As my feet pounded against the cobblestones obeying that one word before I had even finished contemplating it, I wonder now if he had any idea of the path he had put us both on. His voice, that almost inhumanly beautifully voice, even then blossomed inside my skull, burning into my memory, shaping an obsession that would become as familiar to me as breathing. Looking back I only wish I had listened, for even then as I submitted to his command and fled home as fast as I could I knew I would need to hear that voice again. It never occurred to me that I mightn't see him again, I would, I had to, I was determined.

That first word was so filled with haunting foreshadow that even remembering it now it sends shivers down my spine.

The word was ‘run’.

The Bits You Really Want to Know
There are many ways this story could go; but the main idea is that this man, whoever he is, very rich and with very specific tastes sweeps the young woman from her life and poverty and offers her immense comfort and even affection in return for absolute obedience. Something (to be discussed) stops him from seeking his pleasures elsewhere, perhaps he never has, but something about either her disposition or her desperation makes her the ideal option. Suddenly he has an outlet for all his pent-up lusts and his tastes are not entirely normal. The girl will become a willing servant to his sexual desires; but that’s where the submission ends. In every other way she will push his buttons, wind him up and the two will very much be at odds for the majority of the story. Even should they develop feelings for each other; neither are pre-disposed to submission unless their clothes are off. I guess the idea is the idea that he breaks her will through sex because he cannot break her real will, and she tries to adapt to being in love with somebody who in all truth should be considered a monster.

These are a few of my more fleshed out ideas, though I do intent to add more soon.

If you're interested in any of the above plots, or my writing style, then please get in touch via PM. I'd rather keep this thread clean and things can be discussed much more openly in PM I find :). If there's nothing here for you, then I thank you greatly for taking the time to look and wish you luck in finding what you're looking for!
« Last Edit: December 23, 2015, 03:20:58 AM by Flickaha »

Offline FlickahaTopic starter

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Where old plots go to die....
« Reply #1 on: March 20, 2013, 07:45:19 AM »
Older Plots

With the character limit creeping into being a problem on my main thread, I'm beginning the process of splitting my ideas into sub-categories. This one, for now, is older plots. One's I've not had much interest shown in, or ever managed to get the balance quite right in playing. Should you be interested in working on anything here, then please feel free to message me and we can work something out.


This idea is almost entirely plagiarised f om the genius Brian Lumley. I have no regrets about this because the Necroscope books are some of the most amazing things I’ve had the pleasure of reading. However the amount of people who have read those, well, I haven’t yet met any besides me. Especially none (of the none) who will happily role-play it. So, I’ve morphed the ideas that shaped my childhood (these, kids, were my bedtime stories and if you knew me you likely wouldn’t be surprised. My mother had no such concerns of over-exposure to violence or terror) into something of an original plot in the hopes that I can entice people. Sparkly vampires, pfft, meet the Wamphyri.

She wasn’t one of those ‘normal’ people, the people that everybody is shocked when something abnormal happens. You know the ones, the ‘perfect daughters, devoted friends, loving girlfriends’, it’s never weird people that get horribly mascaraed. Or if it is people all collaborated in some unspoken conspiracy to strip them of the oddities in death. Nobody would have been particularly surprised if Hannah had pulled a machete out in class one day, nobody would have been surprised if she suddenly dropped off the face of the Earth. It wasn’t that people were afraid of her, or that she was unpopular; it was just that should something go wrong, if they heard the name Hannah Mathias they wouldn’t have been astounded by any titbit of information that followed.

Even passed the immaturities of youth, her co-workers still eyed the journalist with scepticism, her friends still thought there was something that they couldn’t quite put their fingers on. People like her well enough, she’s a reliable woman who doesn’t over-step the mark and is always well spoken. But human nature is usually pretty good at discerning when things aren’t quite right and Hannah, well, she wasn’t quite right at all.

In fact, ever since he could remember, Hannah could talk to people that she shouldn't be able to, and for understandable reasons it was a secret she kept close to her chest. At first she’d held out hopes that it was some rare strain of schizophrenia, but as he got older and the voices got more insistent she lost all hope that she might just be crazy. For this reason Hannah had learnt early on to avoid certain places, proximity to graveyards for instance rendered him almost incapacitated by desperate and hopeful pleas. When she had been young that had been enough; but now as she grew older and her abilities became more attuned to her body she was starting to realise the dead were everywhere. And it was the dead that were talking to her.

No matter what people speculated, life didn’t end at death and minds continues to think, talk, live beyond the end. Hannah could hear them all inside her head, like some sort of cruel curse. What was worse is that the dead seemed to want to speak to her, in fact they never seemed to want to stop. It was getting harder not to answer them. What was even worse is she was damn sure that lately there were people following her, watching her, no matter where she went.


So the idea is that there are two characters, the main character being Hannah who can speak to the dead quite harmlessly. Then there is a government agent who works for a specific branch of the British intelligence solely dedicated to ESP centred issues (E-Branch, see how original I am. Again thank you Mr Lumley). The agency knows all about the protagonists predecessors', abilities and more besides. They also know how much danger she is in without mastering his powers, especially since they’re not the only people hunting her.

It's the Agent's job to get the young woman on side, to convince her that E-Branch need her help and that her powers are not a curse. With a little bit of encouragement her abilities could be as unlimited as those before her. Not only has the Agent got to convince her, they're also tasked with keeping her alive long enough to learn.

The Bits You Really Want to Know
This is more of a plot orientated story; there will of course be plenty of naughty themes but largely based in surrealism and steeped in the supernatural. In truth I’m hoping the protagonist’s team up, something of an illicit affair of manipulation and an aura of the forbidden. As for the actual sexual nature of their relationship it will be by no means monogamous, they will be dealing with sexually charged creatures, monsters and the like. Basically I want to use the story to explore and invent all sorts of perversions and possibilities. Whatever you can imagine, goes. :)

I can’t quite decide whether this would be better on another planet or just severely futuristic. Ah well, that can be discussed I suppose. The general outline is this;

The World

This world is an entirely different place, little more than a barren wasteland, highly policed and intensely paranoid and secure. Cities are well spaced out and over-packed, large, secure highways connect the cities and are always stagnant with traffic. With twelve lanes the amount of pollution the crammed highways produce is almost choking and this means very few people move out of their cars when outside of the cities. It also means the highways are beacons whilst lost in the endless scrubland. Except that being the only way to safely move between cities they're encased by high walls and intensely frigid security.

The cities are in themselves enormous, probably the all the size of an averagely sized America state. Entirely walled it, they house the ever growing population and inside the cities. Within these walls remain the only inhabitable land left of the planet and so they are over-crowded and thick. From the slums at the lower levels right up to the higher echelons of society who pay vastly for their space and even gardens, which in this world are a very rare thing indeed.

Each city had an independent emperor, but all are answerable to the Capital which has a ruling King and government. This government decide everything and lay the law whenever they can. Though most cities deal with their own crimes, severe crimes such as murder and treason, can only be tried in the Capital. The Capital is the largest city in the world and is easily four times the size of the others, it also houses more corruption than any other and the population there is so crowded that it is almost impossible to afford to live there. The streets are littered with homeless and even though it is insanely populated people still flock there.

Of course there are other problems plaguing the world other than a corrupt government. Disease, famine, and poverty are crippling the planet and for the poor and less fortunate things are a constant struggle. Healthcare has become a privilege that most can’t afford and as such drugs and other such novelties and addictions are rife.

The Disease

One of the most dangerous diseases going is vampirism. Once upon a time it was rare, very few contracted the disease and those who did kept it very quiet. It is even rumoured that it was once considered a blessing rather than the curse it is today. After an intense outbreak one hundred and twelve years ago, security tightened on those infected. The outbreak not only saw mass hysteria in the streets, it also saw the impossibly strong infectee’s bring down multiple of the cities guard, killing hundreds of enforcers, policemen, not to mention innocent people caught in the fray. Little is known about the disease save that it prevents the body from making its own blood, therefor it has to be ingested so that the body can absorb the nutrients from another blood source.

This process also increases speed, muscle tone, senses and reflexes, however it also causes many internal organs to decompose causing infections and sepsis. Few survive beyond the first month and without intensive blood consumption it’s unheard of to survive the first week. It takes years for the benefits to weigh in enough for any noticeable change to occur and few make it to the stage. It is speculated that the longer the disease festers, the stronger and more dangerous the carrier becomes.

Since then it has been outlawed, those infected are forbidden on pain of instant death to enter the cities and are banished to the outlands. As such their numbers have dwindled but even through the better efforts it is far from wiped out. The farmers who live on the outskirts have to take measures to keep their cattle safe from the leeches and whilst travelling people are warned not to leave their cars out of fear of the starving diseased.

When at full strength these ‘vampires’ are formidable, which is why it is outlawed to let one feed. Luckily for the kingdom the strict laws, frequent vehicle checks, and a ruthless checking process upon entering cities has ensured that they are never at full strength.

The Plot

The female will be a girl (17 – 22) that wakes up in the middle of the outlands, entirely without memory or knowledge of this place. In fact all she remembers is Earth. Anything about this world, she has to learn. The male will be a long infected vampire, who is looking for a way to get into the Capital. Naturally because of his 'state' technically he's not allowed there.

Of course the girl isn’t going to know any of this; in fact all she knows at the start is that she’s in an entirely unfamiliar place and somehow she has to convince a complete stranger to help her.

Obviously anything here is up for discussion if you are interested.

The Bits You Really Want to Know
This is very much a predator/prey relationship, though steering away from the non-consensual BDSM side of things it’s going to be mainly a struggle between capabilities and need. Sort of a desperate, violent relationship which is mostly consensual. The relationship will be slow building and it will be something of a masochist/sadist pairing, yet without the more conventional forms of this.

Obviously particular desires can be encompassed, but as I'm a romantic at heart I would prefer if something developed of the emotional sort.

{Sizaan Brii}
I confess I came up with this plot whilst playing endless hours of Skyrim, but I would be more than willing to adapt it to an original fantasy world setting.

Legends have long been whispered of Tey’doMoro, the name has haunted bedtime stories, campfires and taverns a like. Though the story invariably changes the most common form of the legend is this ballad sung the land over;

Long ago, when Dragon’s plagued the sky,
There so lived a Dovah Queen who reigned on high.
So differed from the rest, spilling song instead of fire,
Her fate was planned to seal upon a dragon’s treasonous pyre.

So learning of her doom, this dragon she did flee,
To fling herself upon man and beg them of their mercy.
With mourning and deception this dragon they did curse,
Trapping her within their realm, her power they dispersed.

And so the woeful tale ends,
Betrayed by both Dragons and men.
The Queen doth hide somewhere still,
Waiting agelessly for her master’s trill

There is but a grain of truth remaining in the fantastical ballad, as there is with most things. The original story has withered to nothing but the dragon’s name and fate were not entirely imagined. I’m about to tell you the old version, though not quite as beautifully tragic, it has the benefit of being true.

It is true that there were once dragons, and as a result there were of course female dragons. Though never, to my knowledge, a Queen. All Dovah were equal and none would allow pride to bow to anything but strength, as such they were not a species that would gladly adapt to the notion of having betters. Female dragons were somewhat rarer than males, but were by no means rare enough to make any of them special. As for their voice, it was every bit as devastatingly powerful as their male counterparts. As was their bloodthirsty and terrible nature.

According to The Dragon War, around the Merethic Era, Dragons considered themselves superior to man. For dragons, power equaled truth. They held immense power, so therefore they believed this to be the ultimate truth, and thus they ruled over man.

Dragons granted small amounts of power to the dragon priests in exchange for absolute obedience. In turn, the dragon priests ruled men as equals to the kings. The dragon priests demanded tribute and set down laws and codes of living that kept peace between Dragons and men.

One such Dragon Priest, was not content to simply worship his dragon however and the more power and respect she showed him the more he wanted. It wasn’t unusual for dragon’s to favour particular priests, it was however extremely rare for dragons to provide leniency such as she did. Granting him both respect and what some believed to be affection, the majestic beast and her human shared a connection that no Dragon Priest had seen before. As is the nature of man though, it was not enough and he sought more. The power festered within him and bred deception and so before long he was searching to betray the founder of his wealth and position. Unbeknownst to Tey’doMoro he was working to find a way to bind her to him even more fully, to strip her of her power and tie the creature to his whim in a way no Dragon would dream of.

It took great pains but he created a spell, a spell so powerful it took him years to forge. The spell had one purpose, to strip Tey’doMoro of her wings and tether the Dovah within a mortal shell. Then he planned to marry her, thus he would gain control over the dragon. The ultimate prize for him, the ultimate prison for her and the ultimate betrayal of a Dragon Priest that would permanently affect Dragon and Priest relations the land over.

Unfortunately the spell was entirely unpredictable and though it worked, it also proved to be volatile and consumed him in the same moment that the powerful Dovah was stripped of her wings and trapped in the body of a mortal.

Alone and trapped, she sought help from her kin but they could do little. Dragons have no magic to wield save that in their voices, and though they sympathised and avenged her upon men in yet another spike to the endless war, her fate remained the same. She was trapped, an ageless dragon in the withering body of a mortal being. The body would continuously die around her, kept alive by the curse alone but in no way strong enough to house a Dovah’s immense consciousness. The only way the body could remain healthy was through the magic of the Dragon Priest’s followers, who quickly shifted their allegiance to their new ‘Goddess’.

As the centuries passed so their numbers started to dwindle, their grasp on the magic’s that sustained her were slipping and she knew that the fortress which she had been sealed in for ages needed to be broken. Since the death of her last Dovah brother she had remained within the bosom of a mountain. Untouched with the outside world. It had been a long time since her last servant died and for the last hundred years she had remained within a rotting tomb of a body, agonised and near crazed by the pain; until a travelling mage stumbled into the cave and cured her. The brush with her eternal fate had emphasised what she already knew, she needed to find a way to break the curse. In this body she could never die and having lived for so long, denied her rightful form, she had quite lost the will to live any longer. Quickly securing the loyalty of the mage Tey’doMoro escaped the tomb where she had festered for ages.

She would be revenged upon men; but first she needed to find her wings.

{Bindings of Silk}

Tiaslye awoke to the wash of frustrated stress radiating through her body, stretching out naked against the silk sheets of her lavish bed, the sorceress sighed. It was becoming nearly impossible to get any sleep, her master, loath as she was to call him that was becoming increasingly restless and that meant that things were substantially more difficult for her. Many envied the beautiful blonde and if she had to hear her slavery proclaimed ‘good fortune’ one more time she thought she might actually lose the plot altogether. Even from up here, the tower she was relegated to, spoiled for anything she could wish for, possessions, silks, clothes. It wasn’t for her and she knew that fact all too well, if she was perceived as lavished upon and infinitely exulted then it reflected well upon her master. For why else would the Prince treat her so well? Tia was not a person free, she was an extension of him and his power. A thing that belonged – but that was the way it was and the way it had been as far back as she could remember.

By the time her bare feet padded across the stone floor, the veils in front of the balcony door blowing in the early morning breeze she had already felt out his mood and it was not good. Dressing swiftly she sat in front of her enormous tier of mirrors and sighed. Make-up, hair, clothes – they were her shackles. Never could she be seen without the symbols of her servitude present on her person. Never could she look anything other than the subservient sorceress, bowing irrevocably to the will and force of his power.

She had tried, her youth had been a patchwork quilt stitched together of her rebellion, against him and the hand which life had dealt her. Never would her path be her own to choose, her power was immense, everybody had told her, her parents had told her. Right up until they waved her off to the care of the Seers who, once her power manifested properly at puberty, informed her of her fate.

If she had thought herself strong he soon proved that wrong, her power was great but next to his? Merely trifling parlor tricks. Tia shook the thought off, it was how it was written, men had the power and with the power came the complete disregard for other lives. He hadn’t asked if she wanted to be his, if she wanted to spend her life at his whim and every fancy. It was true that after the binding she felt a surge in her abilities she had never known, his surge, but they were also restricted now. Gone was the endless capabilities and freedom and everything she knew and felt now was capped with his knowledge and control.

Pressing the two small diamonds to her face with glue, beneath her eyes almost on her cheekbones she sighed. They weren’t simple diamonds, they were chains, she had left them off before and received beatings that would curb even the most intent of rebellions.

When she was done she swept down the twisting stone stairs of her tower, a place that was her prison as much as it was her salvation and ignored every guard in her wake. None looked at her, none dared, but it was not her they feared in the slightest. For a female she was beautiful, she deduced this herself by comparison to other girls, but she wasn’t regarded as a female or in any more consideration than a horse or any other possesion would be. She was the Prince’s pet and everything about her, from power to body was his to control.

Tiaslye hated it; she even hated the title she held, Draiguer, dragon slave.

If it wasn’t so derogatory it might be more bearable, people often mistook it thinking that Dragons were her masters. The truth was that it was a kinship, dragons were slaves to Wizards as were sorceresses. But it was natural for Dragon’s to be bound, acceptable, for the complete submission of a woman? A pretty title clearly made it more palatable.

When she swept into his room, neither knocking nor bowing she simply strode in fully clothed in her marks of state. A black boned corset top with off the shoulder sleeves, etched with veins of silver thread onto the midnight fabric. At her hips there was a belt of silver, bedded with gems that would fund a small nation, yet more shackles that bound her. You see magic was always more potent when it was bound to natural objects, stones would work but where would the bittersweet irony be if she was swathed in rags and rocks? The same effect, she would be locked to him, but there would be none of the cruelty in it. After all, it wouldn’t do well to have the most powerful female in the Kingdom looking like a slave. From the ornate belt which draped across her slim hips cascaded long flowing fabric, two slits at the front right up to the hilt of the belt allowed her to move freely, a panel fell between her legs for modesty and a single, thick panel circles the back, flowing out against the stones as she walked. The horned headdress she wore was in place, weaved of silks and delicate slivers of gold, but save for that she was plain. No jewels adorned her throat for he had not permitted accessories today; no gold lined her fingers, nothing on her wrists.

He had summoned her without words, for he didn't need them, he lived within her head and she within his. A condition of the binding. And as she stood there, awaiting further reason for her rude awakening, she wondered what it might be like to wake up merely on a whim instead of a command.

What I Want From This;

Originally this was a very high fantasy setting, where Princes and Kings demonstrated their immense prowess by taming the most violent of Dragons and the most powerful of Sorceresses. However since the original concept was not mine, but that of a very talented writer I had the pleasure of trying it out with though we never finished, I'd feel terrible stealing that note for note.

I would however love the opportunity to rework this character, so if her opening inspires you, please let me know and we can work something out! :)



They have possibly two of the most recognisable faces in the world, and for anybody who is anybody, privacy is certainly not something they can ever hope to get. She is a recently divorced starlet, married young and dragged through a mire of bad publicity struggling to come to grips with being a single mother and getting her career back on track. Luckily work isn’t hard to come by for her, but she escapes the stifling attention and critique of her past by taking jobs across the pond in America.

It isn’t long before the British starlet is making a name for herself in American too.

Except this is where it gets tough, because she wants to be taken seriously, she wants to focus on her career and her child and more than anything she wants to get away from being known as ‘the naïve girl who got dumped’. Older doesn’t necessarily mean wiser and even nearing her twenty-fourth birthday she knows that she is going to fall again.

Because of him.

It all happened when the show that made her entire career, the show where she met her ex, the show that had made her a household name to begin with wanted her back for an anniversary special. So many shows do it, they’d asked her a few times but she’d always refused. Except the fame and respect she got in America was still haunted by memories of her humiliation back home. Still, there were years between then and now and what could it hurt?

So she went back, settled back into a character she had known so well and worked so hard on and taken her temporary place alongside faces old and new. It all works so beautifully they want her back, and she, lost in the familiarity of it all tentatively agrees.

Where history is doomed to repeat itself, because once again she falls herself falling dangerously for a co-star. Except this time it’s her that is in very rapid danger of becoming the ‘other woman’ to ‘Britain’s Sweetheart’ couple.

Things You Need To Know;

I see this playing out as a very secretive affair, the two are thrust together quickly, and demands are placed on them with regards to chemistry and ratings. I imagine it will start out with them struggling, knowing full well that both their lines are on the line for the job. So they contrive chemistry in any way they can. In this instance it’s sex. His girlfriend, knowing that his career comes first and empathising because she’ll be famous herself, gives them a free weekend to do whatever needs to be done.

Except once the weekend is over the protagonists don’t/can’t/wont stop and continue to sneak around.

The type of show? I imagine it’ll be action related, purely because how much fun would it be writing scenes for a soap opera? Or a period drama? Yawn. So definitely something exciting with a lot of stunts. Since a good portion of it will be on set, another portion will be press-detail, interviews and there will likely be long gaps between filming when they don’t see each other at all. Or at least, aren’t supposed to.

I see this being fast paced, smutty and very dialogue heavy, as opposed to something intricate and plot-based. A very reactive role-play.

So if you fancy delving into the lifestyles of the rich and the famous, hit me up!
« Last Edit: May 23, 2015, 05:22:01 AM by Flickaha »

Offline FlickahaTopic starter

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Re: ♥ Deviously Distracting ♥
« Reply #2 on: May 22, 2015, 02:56:34 AM »

20th March 2013
Changed availability.
Retired some plots.
Edited a bit of writing.
Added some fandoms.
Altered cravings.

3rd May 2013
Changed availability.
Moved some plots from a separate interest check.
Highlighted some fandoms.
Closed a plot.

19th May 2013
Changed availability.
Added plot; Scales
Added plot; Flashes

25th May 2013
Changed availability (again).
Added plot; Bindings of Silk
Added plot; From the Everlasting
Closed a plot; Flashes

02nd May 2015
Changed availability.
Removed 'takings' from all plots, therefor opening them up for new players.
Removed fandom options.

21st May 2015
Changed availability.
Altered all of the 'fairy-tale' plots, including adding new pictures.
Changed some bits :) to the intro.
Added the taken plot, The Boleyn King

22nd May 2015
Changed availability. Again!
Altered all of the 'fairy-tale' plots, including adding new pictures.
Added Alice in Wonderland plot!
His Pet is now taken.
Moved two plots to Graveyard.
Added Sleeping Beauty plot.

22nd December 2015
Changed availability.
Migrated Fairy Tale Plots to a different thread.
« Last Edit: December 21, 2015, 03:36:44 AM by Flickaha »