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Author Topic: [ satisfying stories ] - M/M  (Read 411 times)

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Offline bughnrahkTopic starter

[ satisfying stories ] - M/M
« on: July 04, 2013, 09:01:02 PM »
[ satisfying stories ]
buggy's one x one RPG search


General Themes & Pairings

  • Modern
    •    Prostitution Ring ( client x prostitute, undercover cop x prostitute, undercover cop x ringleader)
    •     Crime ( cop x criminal, seasoned cop x rookie, undercover cop x criminal, detective x witness, narc/undercover narc x druggie/drug lord, kidnapper x hostage, hitman x target)
    •    Prison (correctional officer x prisoner, prisoner x prisoner)
    •    Slice of Life (city x country, sports coach x teammate, working class x rich fellow, homeless x good Samaritan, single parent x unattached, married x single, ex-military x civilian)
    •    Anything to do with survival, whether it be stranded on an island, stuck in a house of horrors, trapped in a submarine under the sea, or what-have-you.

  • Urban Fantasy
    •     Werewolves/Lycanthropy, Vampires, Sidhe, Demons, Angels, etc.  (supernatural creature x human, supernatural creature x hunter/slayer, supernatural creature x non-believer, supernatural creature x summoner, guardian angel x human, supernatural creature x priest, etc.)
    •    Superheroes & Supervillainns (hero x villain, villain x hero’s sidekick, hero x citizen, villain x citizen)

  • Historical Fantasy
    •    Pirates  ( pirate x navy officer, captive pirate x captive navy officer on third party’s ship, captain x stow-away, enemy captain x enemy captain, captive x captain)
    •    Royalty ( king x councillor, king/prince x foreign soldier, king/prince x captain of guard, soldier x ambassador, arranged marriage/defusing a war, king/prince x enemy king/warlord/captor, royal/noble x blacksmith/ferrier/woodsman/etc)
    •    Military ( knight x knight, soldier x soldier, captain x mercenary, soldier x blacksmith/farrier/etc., soldier x foreign soldier, soldier x priest, soldier x other civilian)
    •     Domestic (master x slave, working-class x scholar, healer/doctor x injured traveller)
    •    Dragons ( dragon x slayer, dragon/slayer x virgin sacrifice,  dragon rider x dragon slayer ) for this, assume that all ‘dragons’ are capable of shapeshifting into a human form
    •      Mythological/Fantasy Creatures ( elves, dwarves, djinn/genies, sidhe, selkies, merfolk, satyrs, fauns, orcs, goblins, trolls, etc.)

  • Science Fiction
    •      Post Apocalypse (settings: nuclear holocaust, zombie!apoc, disease/plague, waterworld, new ice age, etc)
    •      Cyberpunk, Steampunk, Brasspunk, perhaps some manner of old west/steam punk
    •      Space Operas, specifically anything to do with bounty hunters/mercenaries, space!police, or military organizations
    •      Robots, androids, cyborgs

  • Fandoms
    •      Mass Effect ( oc x oc,  or pairing involving the following: Thane, Zaeed, Vega, Cortez, Kaiden, Jacob)
    •      Harry Potter ( original characters, canon characters I’m willing to play: Severus Snape, Viktor Krum, possibly others)
    •      The Lord of the Rings (fandom characters I’m willing to play: Aragorn, Boromir, Eomer, Grima, Haldir, Glorfindel, Pippin, Sam)
    •      OZ, the HBO series ( any pairing involving Tobias Beecher – xKeller, Said, O’Reily, Adebisi)
    •      Avengers: 616, Movie-verse (tony stark x steve rogers, tony stark x bruce banner, thor x loki, clint barton x phil coulson, charles xavier x eric lehnsherr)
    •      Jeeves & Wooster (bertie x jeeves)
    •      Silent Hill (original characters only)
    •      Hunger Games (original characters only)

Offline bughnrahkTopic starter

Re: [ satisfying stories ] - M/M
« Reply #1 on: July 04, 2013, 09:07:17 PM »


MISFORTUNE - Historical Fantasy
            One of The Ivory Prince's servants has betrayed him, an attempt to force him from
            his court and to destroy him. In retaliation The Prince banishes his servant from his courts and
            sends him to the slave markets of Eisi to be sold into bondage. The servant has nothing with him
            but the silky clothes he kept from his previous occupation, and the brilliant white mark of The
            Prince wrapped around his forearm.

            The King is immediately informed of this new development with The Prince, and instantly sends
            out word for one of his men to bring him back this abandoned servant in hopes of learning the
            Prince's plans. Not one day out of the manor, and already the slave has a price on his living
            head. A price totaling 10,000 gold...a price that can be haggled due to the desperation of the

            It takes time for information to travel, though. The servant could very well be purchased before
            word of the prize reaches the markets of Eisi, and then it's up to his owner to decide what he
            wants more. The servant and all his secrets for himself, a pawn to use against the king as he
            pleases, or all the riches the monarch can offer him. He has all the power of the gods at his
            finger tips.

            For who's to say this unpredictable Prince didn't have other reasons for selling his servant to the
            market? What lengths might he be willing to go through if he decided he wanted the man back?
            And if he didn't want him, there was still the matter of his secrets, of the power one would have if
            they learned them. But every second wasted in making a decision causes the king to grow
            warier. His men will be looking for him.

            So, for that matter, will the enemy orcs, constantly waiting for an opening to attack and add
            Meisos to their ever expanding lands. If they had the servant, they could surely gain the secrets
            of the Prince.

            The buyer of this slave will have many enemies, at the price of gaining power beyond his


            Echris, as the world is called, is a roughly earth-sized planet, with seasons that vary roughly the
            same in the way earth's do. It has one sun, often called the "Echri", and two moons, "Si" and
            "Rus". The realm in which our story starts is the kingdom of Meisos, a large country bordered by
            ocean on its northern and western side. It is mainly temperate forest and prairie, making for a
            fairly dry area, with extremely hot summers, and viciously cold winters. The most prominent
            areas in Meisos are;

            Cerron; the city of the king, a grand and splendid area strewn with tall white buildings. The
            borders are guarded by a thick stone wall and a glimmering white gate. It is located in the
            northern reaches of Meisos, in the colder more forested areas. Mountains loom in the distance,
            and a thick river cuts across through the city, leaving beside it a great, glimmering lake.
            Peasants live outside the city walls and are given identification marks to allow them free access
            (a black serpent around the upper right arm). Anyone who does not have the mark is required to
            give proof of their business within Cerron to the knights that guard its gates.

            Eisi; the desert city of the slave-market, located in southern Meisos. Eisi is quartered into two
            sections, the western where the natives reside, those who avoid the slave market (this is also
            the poorer side of the city), and the eastern side, which is made up of rich merchants, slave
            drivers, slave breakers, bounty hunters, and a few masters who've taken to creating their own
            markets with their slaves. The market itself is located between these two sections, with several
            inns lining the square for those that come from all around Meisos to purchase the best of the

            The Pass of Neas; Near the North-Eastern edge of Meisos is a thick, dark wood, which trails
            upward into the mountains and beyond. Fair few a traveler takes the path, and those seen
            coming from it are said to be the servants of the fabled Ivory Prince.

            Meisos is home to primarily humans, and is grudgingly accepts the presence of other races.
            Only humans are allowed into Cerron.


            Humans; Slowly becoming one of the most uncommon races in all of Echris. Meisos and one
            other country are the only human-oriented provinces left. Most other societies have died off or
            became integrated into the culture of other races. Human's come in earthy colors, in both skin
            tone and hair tone, and have eyes of either brown, green, blue, grey, or hazel.

            Orcs; The most common race in Meisos. Orcs are sophisticated, intelligent, and many times
            more powerful than the other races. They grow between 5 and 8 feet in height, with thick skins of
            earthy tones; everything from brown, to black, to green, to red. They have jagged teeth, and
            bright eyes of either yellow or green. Hair is always black, although the only orcs allowed to grow
            their hair out to any length are those of noble bloodlines or those who have gained title through
            years of successful warring.

            Elves; Due to the dominance of the orcs, there aren't very many elves left either. There are a few
            elven cities left on scattered islands, but the race has become rare to the extent of it being very
            unlikely to ever see one in the average lifetime. Elves are not immortal, merely long lived (they
            die off after about 500 years), and are very close to nature in that they are almost feral. Although
            elegant and willowy at first glance, elves are truly lithe and stealthy predators. Not something to
            be messed with.


            All "alterations" apply to each race listed above. Anyone can be inflicted with an alteration,
            although all are relatively rare, and none can be subject to more than one. All alterations can be
            acquired at any point during the lifetime. No one is born with an alteration.

            Shapeshifting; Can only shift into one other form, the form of the first living creature they touch
            upon contracting the alteration. This includes animals (non-magical), plants (non-magical), and
            other races.

            Magic; An unstable alteration that can inflict people at any point in time. Very hard to control. It
            takes many years to grasp magic, and even then usage of it is often limited. Magic is often
            thought of a sentient being with a mind of its own, thus any one mage probably won't be able to
            do the same things as another mage. Magic often suits the mage it inhabits, though, thus the
            person inflicted will usually gain powers beneficial to them. Please not that magic does not
            include any psionic power (telepathy, telekinises, teleportation, empathy, or foresight).


            "The Prince" is not, in fact, the head monarchy, but he's a person of special magnificence. Very
            powerful, and rather mysterious. He doesn't permit his servants to use his name, and has never
            given it to the general public. No one knows what he looks likes, as he's either a) never left his
            palace, or B) always disguises himself when he leaves. Very little is known about him, but he's
            "famous" in his own little way. There are tons of rumors circulating about him (he's a god, he's a
            powerful mage, he knows the secrets to the universe, he's an alien from the planet zar, etc,
            etc.), and no one knows which is true and which isn't. Needless to say, running into someone
            who does know is a rather magnificent feat in itself.

            The Prince is said to live across the Pass of Neas, in a grand manor made entirely of ivory. He's
            made appearances in public, but always in the guise of someone else; he never appears to have
            the same face twice (the saying "you have a face like the prince" has become quite common,
            normally used to describe a very mysterious or private person). His servants are regular visitors
            in Meisos, but have yet so far managed to avoid being captured or followed. The general
            populace suspect some unusual form of magic.

            The current monarch is very interested in finding out the Prince's identity, as he is frightened to
            death he may try to usurp him and claim the throne for himself. Or, worse yet, abolish the
            country and the last of the human race entirely. Even if he isn't set against the king, he would
            still prove valuable to have under one's power. He could be used to restore the glory of the human
            race. Needless to say, the king is desperate to get his hands on him.

            The Prince's true motives are very much unknown to anyone but his personal servants, and they
            are only recognizable by the white snake tattooed about their left upper arm, the opposite of his
            own mark. The insignia is a very popular one, and quite well known. The monarch has also
            forbidden anyone from using it, in fear of being unable to recognize anyone who is truly a servant
            of The Prince.

HOOVES AND HORNS - Historical Fantasy
In a society where one regards one’s horses as family, the man who spits upon
seeing manes and tails and riders in saddles is a man very much out of place. One who will not
last long in society. The priests of the village made there way to the secret temple of the
Horselord to request punishment for their unruly citizen. Unhappy with what the priests have told
him the Horselord is all too eager to grant them their wish. In the morning our social outcast
inds himself in the body of a horse.

Panic sets in, but not for long. A messenger, sent in the guise of a wild mustang, greets him
crudely. He informs the cursed man that he must make amends for his cruelty against horses by
living in the body of one. Only when the horselord dubs him redeemed will he become human
again. Each night, for the hours surrounding the turn of the day, the cursed man would be
allowed to return to his natural state. But only for these two hours. Otherwise he must live as a
horse. Eat as a horse. Act as a horse. Be used as a horse.

On his first night as a human the cursed man returns to town, begging for help. He finds a
traveler willing to listen to his fantastical story…and to help him. In need of some cheap transport
to a far off city, the traveler agrees to take care of the cursed man and keep him from harm, as
well as attempt to seek out the horse lord for redemption…in exchange for riding the cursed man
to the distant location. But the traveler has ulterior motives as well. He is a priest for the
Staglord, the long time oppose of the Horselord. He’s off to visit his gods temple, and he has no
intention of helping the cursed man earn favor with the Horselord. He does, on the other hand,
believe the Staglord would benefit from the cursed man’s loyalty.

THE MAP OF ELRISSAN - Historical Fantasy
Elrissan was a mysterious island that none had discovered, said to hold the deepest
desires of those who step foot on it. But impossible to find.

Until the discovery of the map. A successful conquering of a neighboring kingdom led the Prince
to find a mysterious map, clearly old but in very good condition…and absolutely indestructible.
"The Map of Elrissan" was scrawled across the top, visible only in the light of the moon.

He had found the way to discover his dreams.

But the King ruled with an iron fist, and refused to grant his son permission to take a fleet of
ships to follow a trivial fairytale. So what’s a prince to do, with all he’s ever dreamed of just out
reach? Stow away on a pirate ship of course! His only problem was to make sure they were well
off to port before he was caught…and that his knowledge of the map would keep him alive. After
all, what pirate could pass up the chance at finding treasure?

Not the captain of this ship, anyway.

But it isn’t safe to give away all the secrets. One can’t trust pirates after all. The Prince will have
to play his cards very carefully here. 

SONG OF SOLITUDE - Historical Fantasy
The kingdom was under siege with little hope of coming out of the war unscathed.
Victory was improbable, and death eminent for the royal family. But they cannot let their bloodlines
die out so quickly. No, there must be someone to pick up the pieces and return the kingdom to
freedom and glory. They had to save an heir. The most able of the king’s children is chosen to be
saved, entrusted to his most loyal guard.

The knight is told to take the heir away, somewhere safe and unknown. To never breath a word of
their location to anyone. He obeys without complaint, and the pair end up in the ruins of an old,
abandoned castle. They will have to live in solitude with nothing but the wilderness to provide for
them until the war has ended.

Training is imperative. The heir must be able to take back their kingdom if the war is lost. 

STAY HIDDEN - Survival Game
Outside of the complex the gamblers gather, snapping their money and jingling their
coins, fat grins splitting their corpulent faces as they settle down before the screen and away the
overture of their delight. This is one form of gambling that is guaranteed to ruin lives.

THEY were plucked out of their peaceful lives and deposited inside the complex. They cannot
see the fences. They do not know where they are. They awake to find a small tape recorder tied
to their wrist, and upon listening to it they learn the rules of THE GAME.

You are the hunted. Your job is to survive.

THEY are given minimal supplies. One knife. One canister of water. Dry food. A coat each.

But the elements are nothing compared to the HUNTERS. Skilled men and women trained to
track, trap, and kill THEM. For sport? For pleasure? On fear of their own deaths?

The one prerogative of everyone within the complex is to STAY HIDDEN.

Other Notes:

x I do like the idea of the hunters being their for fear of their own lives (or the lives of loved ones).
With this twist, it might be possible to get the hunters and hunted together and cooperating, in
attempt to escape the complex and kill the gamblers.

x Polyamory here would be great fun too. I’m really up for a Hunted x Hunter x Hunted pair, or a
Hunted x Hunter x Hunted x Hunter. Anything goes, really.

FIREBIRD - Urban Fantasy / Post-Apocalypse
The world went out with a whisper. Resources slowly dwindled until there was no
oil, no wood, leaving Earth a cold and desolate planet run by rusty gears and the remains of a
highly advanced technological utopia. It was in ruins. What people needed was fire. Books,
wood, paper, oil…anything that could be burnt was burnt. These things became as precious as

And with any precious commodity, terror followed it. This time in the form of pirates. They
scourged the seas on their great metal and plastic boats, easing onto coasts and terrorizing the
labyrinth like cities. They pillaged everything that could be burnt, leaving the citizens to freeze
and starve.

One ship was lucky enough to look at what they stole before they burnt it, and found themselves
in possession of a very odd piece of paper. Scribbling that seemed like they might be directions
or a map, and on the back instructions on how to use…a small copper box? All they knew was
that this was a solution to their problem, and with this small copper box they’d have possession
of the world.

But not all of them are content with this knowledge. The first mate decides that she needs to
know more…and she knows just the man for the job. Her father. A civilian. Worse yet, a priest.
She approached him with the information but he refuses to tell her what he means. He knows,
but he’s keeping his knowledge a secret. Instead, he tells her that is a power that can’t land in
the wrong hands. No matter what, she must not leave that box in the hands of her shipmates.

The ship sets off to collect the copper box, pillaging the city they dock in. It is the first mate that
finds the box, murdering the family that possessed it, and she, while she is away from the rest of
the crew, takes the initiative and opens it.

Inside is a shape shifter. The Fire Bird. Whose feathers will give an endless supply of heat and
flame. But she is young and she will forever be endanger while the word suffers. Will the first
mate take care of her and keep her powers a secret, or will she use her for her own greed and
lust? The captain knows the secret of her birth and can ruin her father and herself if she doesn’t
give the Fire Bird up. On the other hand, her father is relying on her to take of the girl and lend
her powers to the rest of the world – not a thieving bunch of pirates.

The Fire Bird’s decision is not nearly so difficult. She wants to help the world, but she can’t get
away from the possessor of the box. She’s like a genie condemned to her lamp.

HUNTER - Historical Fantasy
They weren’t human. They were evil. They had to be destroyed.

These were the words that had been recited to him over, and over, and over again since childhood.
He was stained with hatred for them; centaurs, fairies, selkies, satyrs and their inhuman, disgusting
ways. He had been trained to kill them since he could first wield a sword. And he has hunted them
for years. No one man had more trophies from them than the hunter.

It was about time they did something to stop him. The trap was set, his scent hard upon the air. A
crunch of leaves, the stillness of the air. SNAP. Injured. Captured. Prisoner. But the creature who
captured him has no intention of seeking revenge. The creatures of the wood are peaceful, and he is
no exception. He wants reform. He wants change. He wants a revolution that will save his forest and
his people.

But not everyone is so keen to forgive and forget as he is. The hunter may be in gentle hands now,
but it may not be meant to last.

LAST MAN ON EARTH - Post Apocalypse
World War III has come and gone, but there's nuclear radiation everywhere and there's
no way in hell anyone is leaving the protective walls of the underground bunkers. Unfortunately one
of the children hiding with one group had a deadly virus that quickly passed through and killed
everyone...except for two men, the only two naturally resistant to the illness. They have food and
water and have burned the bodies, but just how long will they survive the company of one another?

SYNTHETIC - Sci-fi / Post Apocalypse
They were out of control. Their attempts to end wars turned into a chance to make
them and conquer countries. With their army of cyborgs they were unstoppable. They didn't expect
someone to risk obliterating their own country just to bring down the army, but that's just what
happened. The cyborgs were destroyed...all but one. One that made his way through the ruined city,
hoping there were survivors. Hoping that the humans had not all died. He was right to hope, for
under the rubble he found one man, heavily injured but still alive. The cyborg makes it his last
prerogative to serve and protect the man until they can reach civilization and he can be returned to
his own kind.

COLOR OF BLOOD - Historical Fantasy
The country of Katon was home not only to the race of humans, but the massive
saurian beasts that plagued earth’s history. The human and the saurian lived together peacefully,
bonded together at birth to become one another’s life long companions. From the gentle
brontosaurus to the cunning tyrannosaur, there was nothing but harmony amongst the people.
How could there be war when they all had a common enemy?

Between human and saurian were the Scaled. An ancient race feared for their viscous nature and
alien appearances. They had long been known to steal hatchery eggs for the purpose of building
their own saurian army. They were beasts, inhuman in appearance with their cat-like eyes and
scaled hides, with no morals and no intelligence. A misconception believed by all the residents
of Katon, for none had come into contact with a Scaled and lived.

News of a massing Scaled army reach the ears of the councilors in Katon’s greatest city,
Merike. It becomes apparent that their nation is in danger of being attacked by the Scaled. In
retaliation they amass the greatest army their city had ever seen, led by a well known general
who has fought many wars against neighboring country throughout the years, and has always
come out victorious.

They take the prerogative and march into the woodlands of their nation, seeking to hunt down
and destroy every Scaled they meet…before the same happens to them. The General’s army
finds and slaughters the Scaled’s troops, leaving their Saurian bonds to fend for themselves in
the wild. They have turned wicked and evil as well, and nothing can be done to save them. But
there is one Scaled amongst there group that survives the attack, and the General demands that
he been taken as a Prisoner of War.

Back in Merike, the Scaled warrior is thrown into a private dungeon, where his primary caretaker
becomes the general himself. The councilors declare that he be questioned using any means
necessary to find out as much about their people and their plans as possible.

But the General finds himself unwilling to use a hard hand. He becomes the first and only human
to have contact with a Saurian and survive his company. The Saurian is not a kind creature, feral
by nature, but very intelligent much like his Saurian companion. He is intrigued…but his
compassion could get himself killed.

The Scaled is holding something back as well. But not in favor of his Captor. The army they had
decimated was merely a scouting party. He knows that the larger threat is looming in the
distance, a thousand times stronger than the Katon army. All he has to do is wait out his time in
prison before his people rescue him from the human’s horrid jails.

But can they both hold out that long? The councilors will want answers, and if they don’t get
them they may turn to more drastic means. And what of this General’s kind hand? Perhaps both
people have been misunderstanding each other for too long. It is up to them whether peace or
war is achieved.

FLESH - Science Fiction
In a future where humans are the ants to a race of alien overlords, life comes cheap. Gone
are the days of sitcoms and trussed up toddler reality shows. This is a new dawn of bloodsports.
After all, humans are hardly intelligent, so who cares if they kill each other off in the name of
fun and money.

Humans are property. Owned for the purpose of menial labor. Bred with one another like dogs - at
the whim of their masters to create 'superior stock' for whatever game or task they have appointed
to them. The blood rings are merely one aspect of this. Like the gladiators of ancient Rome, men
and women are sent into inescapable pits and ordered to kill one another. Some people are good -
strong, intelligent, happy to work the crowds. The others don't last very long.

One fighter becomes fairly well known in a local circle. He shows great potential, and is sold for a
high price to an experienced trainer and competitor. This 'new blood' is brought it to eventually
replace the master's greatest fighter - one who has earned titles and killed hundreds in the ring.
But humans age, and when they do, they must be replaced.

The veteran is expected to aid in the training of the new blood, knowing full well that he will be
'retired' once the training is complete.

EARTHSINGER - Urban Fantasy
A cop is working his beat in a small town. He gets a call about a minor scuffle on the
outskirts of town, near an old camp ground. He investigates alone, back-up only a call away, and finds
more than he bargained for. A drug deal gone sour and several armed men ready to deal with him.
He's overpowered, beaten senseless, and thrown down a gorge toward a fast running current. Left
for dead.

Fading in and out of consciousness, he manages to drag himself onto the shore, exhausted and
bleeding heavily. He passes out.

When he awakens he's warm, wrapped in a fur blanket, with some odd poultice closing his wounds.
Standing over him is a bestial looking man. Werewolf.

The wolf is a temporary outcast of his pack - challenging the alpha's decision he was sent to exile
until the next moon. A healer and practitioner of earth magic, he was compelled to help the cop. It's
forbidden in werewolf society to bring a human to their pack lands, so he hopes to heal his ward
before his exile is up.

Unbeknownst to either of them, the drug deal the cop stumbled upon was more sinister than first
assumed. Experimental drugs are being released into the local water supply in attempt to suppress
the shapeshifting an earth-magic abilities of the werewolf populations. Essentially attempting to
eradicate the species.

THE LION & THE SNAKE - Historical Fantasy
Upon reaching the age of majority the Prince took off to explore the world and expand his
knowledge. With him he had brought only his personal guards, close friends, and enough capable
men to man his ship. His expedition lasted seven long years, without contact from his homeland,
before he returned home.

But home is no longer his kingdom. It has been overrun by a neighboring peoples, who have planted
their king as leader. Most of the Prince’s family has been slaughtered, the rest imprisoned or forced
into servitude under the law of the strangers. The Prince doesn’t have the resources or the people to
wage war against the invaders, but he must save his homeland.

The Prince disguises himself as a scribe (bard, etc.) and enters the court of the new king with the
intention of serving him…until he can get close enough to slit his throat. He is willing to do whatever
he must to save his kingdom.

HOMELAND - Historical Fantasy
The relentless armies of goblins struck the tiny kingdom of Athmos, forcing the survivors of their
attacks from their homes and into the wilderness. But not all hope was lost - the priests spoke of
beautiful lands, green with virility and surrounded by formidable mountains on all sides - a barrier
against he goblin armies. The former citizens of Athmos began their exodus to the new lands, led
by their king. It would be a long and tiresome journey.

There is only one safe passage through the mountains of Athmos, but the citizens will find no easy
means of accessing it. A dragon guards the entrance. Ordinarily this beast is eager to kill and
devour those that trespasser along her territory, but the Athmosians are in luck.

Recently an egg was stolen from her clutch, beyond precious to this otherwise vicious creature.
She promises safe travelling through her territory if some brave souls can return her offspring to her.
The king chooses two of his finest knights to set out on a journey to find the egg and return it to its
mother. Their quest will be perilous, they will have to be both intelligent and strong in order to succeed.

The egg was stolen by a sorcerer, renowned for his power and ruthlessness. Will the knights be able
to track him down and overpower him, for the sake of their countrymen?

VENGEANCE - Historical Fantasy
Parents murdered. Loved one's destroyed. Homeland obliterated. Her heart was shattered into a
thousand pieces. Her life was destroyed. She wanted vengeance.

In the land of Theror there were two races: The humans, mortal beings without extraordinary
power - and the Derun, superior creatures existing on an alternative plane, capable of fantastic
feats. But their powers were fueled by the life source of others. They could be summoned from
their own dimension to that of the humans by invoking blood rituals. If they answer, a deal may
be struck: The Derun would offer their services, their powers, in exchange for the human
summoner's soul. A steep bargain, but for the lady with nothing it was an easy decision.

She raced into the wood and slashed her hands opening, spilling her blood over a summoning

She wanted vengeance. She wanted the men who ravaged her town to suffer, no matter the cost
to herself.

She bound herself to the Derun, ready to sacrifice anything for her revenge.

But Derun were not immune to emotions and friendships... what does one do when torn by their
own unbreakable deals? What if one did not want to destroy the soul of its summoner?

Nazi x Catholic Priest

[| Summary:

He didn’t believe in the atrocities that were taking place. He didn’t support their war. But he made a mistake by voicing this opinions, and now he’s being hunted. Those atrocities he so feared are now to be executed on him. Or so he had feared, but this Catholic Priest has his own messiah.

Before he can be captured, he finds himself dragged off the street and into a shabby crook of a house by a nazi, an SS Officer no less. The man promises to protect him, but he must stay in the house. He cannot leave for any reason.

But is his Messiah really a Judas? The man has total control of him, and the Priest fears that he will take advantage of that situation in ways he does not wish.

[| Other Notes:

x Mr. Nazi does not necessarily have to be a bad guy in this situation. The plot is equally playable with a guy who is truly looking out for the Priest.

[| Pairings: Allied Soldier x Captured Axis Soldier

It was their first victory against the German U-boats. While searching for survivors they found only one man, who's English was severely limited. He could tell them his name, but refused to divulge any other information. He couldn't; until they discovered a translator aboard their ship. But it'll take more than just knowing a second language to make this bird sing.

[| Pairings: Allied Soldier x Axis Soldier
[| Summary:

They went down together. It took mere moments to shoot each other out of the sky, but neither expected to survive. Neither expected to end up landing on a deserted patch of ground far from either of their countries without a clue as to how to get anywhere. They're alone in the desert, their only company being each other's mortal enemy. And now they have to survive until one of their armies decides to go looking for the fallen pilots.

PYRAMIS & THISBE - Cold War Germany
[| Summary:

After the erection of the Berlin wall families were torn apart. Children were taken from parents, friends were torn from friends, and lovers separated by cement and steel. There is no contact. It was only by chance that they both found the hole at the same time, a tiny gap in the wall…guarded heavily during the day, but things eased off a little at night, just around that one little hole.

West was hoping to see his family. His niece had just been born.

East was waiting for food. He has siblings to take care of, and they were hungry.

They had been told to meet at the same place, at the same time…and hopefully their family would come, but there were no promises. An hour of waiting for both of them, and nothing appeared…except each other. East pressed his face to the hole and shouted for someone, anyone, desperately.

West was there to answer. And every night after that the pair met across the hole in the wall. Waiting, perhaps, for it to crumble and release them.

[| Notes:

X At some point, I believe one of the two should attempt to cross the wall. West would be…interesting and original, as well as easier, but east works as well.
X Apart from meeting with one another, both still have their own personal goals. West desperately wants to be reconnected with his remaining family in the east, and East has to take care of a large set of siblings despite their being little provisions to go around.
X I also think it would be an interesting plot twist if one of the two was also NVA/kDA (an officer/soldier meant to guard the wall) and is keeping that secret from the other.
X If anyone understands the reference of the title, would they be willing to play out an analogous ending to the myth? Something very…Romeo and Juliet-esque. Perhaps a little sad, but suiting as far as the topic of the role-play goes.
« Last Edit: July 04, 2013, 09:33:48 PM by bughnrahk »

Offline bughnrahkTopic starter

Re: [ satisfying stories ] - M/M
« Reply #2 on: July 04, 2013, 09:13:32 PM »


Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide
                                                                        He should’a gone and listen to his ma and gotten the hell out of there when things started happening. But Sascha called himself a big boy now, out on his own in the streets, no one tying him down except his partner in crime and the few skirmishes they had with other street walkers. A few bloodied fists fixed those problems real quick. Just Max and he. No professional crime lords, no gang, just a couple of fellows who liked to get their fun the rough way. A beautiful, sinful life. The kind where you could pummel a fellow’s face for looking at you wrong, and take whatever pretty slim thing you found without need of charm or money.

                                                                        Ma told him bitterly, when she was sick with plague, that this was just the way things should be for him. Everyone dying and disgusting, things all turning to chaos. Suited her big boy just fine. Sascha had believed her indignantly at first, refusing to accept her sarcasm. Why not? All the panic was a breeding ground for the sort of fun he and Max enjoyed. Wasn’t hard to rob from the sick. Wasn’t hard to beat the shit out of them either, when it came down to it. When Ma died, shoving her little black book at him and telling him to read the damned thing (in Russian, really quiet like, ‘cause Father would have slapped her if she swore, sick or no), he’d almost spat on the thing.

                                                                        But his ma was dying. So he didn’t.

                                                                        Didn’t mean he was going to read it. Didn’t much care to hear about the punishment and hellfire that would reign down on his head for all the sins he’d committed. Didn’t right believe that this plague was a sin for him either. Father caught it quick and died too. Then it was just a whole world of fun and games for he and Max.

                                                                        Until Max got sick.

                                                                        It had been a damned long time since Sascha was alone. He couldn’t, in fact, remember so much as pissin’ in a grungy urinal without Max right there grinning crudely at him, making lewd jokes about the one little thing that got Sascha’s knickers in a twist.

                                                                        He’d almost killed himself after Max kicked it. He pressed the barrel of the gun against his head, finger tight against the trigger. It was loaded. Always was. Didn’t let any of his guns run out of ammo. Always one bullet left, just in case. He stood right over Max’s body, covered in blankets and shoved in the corner of some kid’s bedroom. The room stank of sex and sweat, and the deep, dirty smell of plague coming off of Max’s pretty face. Sascha sank to his knees, curled his fingers in Max’s pretty straw-colored hair, pride of his life, and cocked the hammer on his revolver.

                                                                        He dropped it. It went off. Shot a hole straight through Max’s face.

                                                                        It was the only time Sascha could remember weeping.

                                                                        He moped for weeks. Wandering around the house, forlorn and ashen. Ate a little, but mainly kept to smoking and drinking. Did a little pot in the beginning, but he didn’t like the hazy feeling it gave him, clouding his mind and make him giddy. Couldn’t be giddy with Max’s corpse rotting just a few feet above his head. Lord, did the house stink something rotten. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been sitting in his own filth before the kid showed up at his door. Wasn’t anyone he’d seen before. Just a young fellow, maybe eighteen. Said he heard some noise and came to investigate. Seemed he was just as lonely as Sascha was.

                                                                        Sascha sat him down and gave him a can of beans, slipping his gun in the seat of his pants. It came natural, to entice the kid. Didn’t even notice something was missing from the picture. Kid said his folks had died, and his girlfriend. Didn’t know what he was going to do. He’d been sneaking into stores, stealing food. Felt guilty about it, even though there wasn’t anyone around to stop him or eat it anyway. Said something about principles that had Sascha barking out loud with laughter. He took out the gun then, shot the kid in the shoulder, before bending him over the table and taking what he wanted. Shot the kid in the face right after.

                                                                        Hurt him more than it did the Kid.

                                                                        He couldn’t breathe afterward, something that never, ever happened to him before. Never got queasy after playing something, consensual or no. Killin’ or no. His chest was constricted, his heart all hard and beating strange, like it was going to explode…or implode…or something. For the first time he felt the real emptiness of the city around him. He hadn’t seen another living person for weeks, and he’d shot the first kid to show up on his doorstep. Wasn’t that something a person needed, some ‘need’ for living? Companionship? Shit. Fuck. Sascha was going to kill himself. He was...very much alone now, wasn’t he?

                                                                        The house was stifling. He could smell the stink, the death, now, and even his kitchen was covered in blood and guts and crap. He couldn’t stay. It only took a moment to shove a bag together, take a couple knives, what little canned food he had left. Took the cigarettes too. Not the booze. Booze would be a bad idea out in the heat and the stink. Not much room for anything special, a couple changes of shirts, some goop for shaving, his cross that Ma hated so much. He brought Ma’s little book. Cut a chunk of Max’s hair out to stick in it too. Didn’t take nothing of Father’s. Didn’t mind forgetting him so much, after all.

                                                                        He slapped a big floppy Australian hat on his head to protect himself from the sun, a pair of crooked sunglasses, tossed his stolen cross around his neck.

                                                                        And he was on the road. He didn’t know for how long. Didn’t see a single soul and that was really starting to grip him something crazy. Started talking to himself, real quiet like, not in English. Never in English. There wasn’t anyone around to hear him, but Sascha didn’t like taking chances like that. No sense it letting people think he’d gone mad. People did crazy shit to mad fellows. Imaginary conversations made up most of his days. Talking to ma about old stories from her little book. Being kind to her, like he wasn’t often. With Max, sordid tales said most bawdily. Things that would have had him hard and aching normally.

                                                                        Weren’t nothing getting his blood going out here though. Not much to eat, nothing to drink. Just huge, empty parched streets, filled with the stinking scent of rot. He’d lost his stomach a couple times on the way. It just made things worse. It was hard to eat with month-old corpses rotting beside you. Easier once he’d managed to get out past the city, but gas stations appeared at regular intervals, and they were just as bad. Smelling to high heaven. Sascha began to think that that smell would get stuck up his nose for eternity. Maybe he’d really have to blow his brains out then.

                                                                        Once such place happened to have a little convenience store stuck up against it. Not so many cars to stink up his way, and perhaps a bit more fresh air, and, hell, some ice to cool off with inside. Being the prag-ma-tist he happened to be, Sascha waltzed himself right off the road without a second thought. If nothing else, there might be people in there. The first people he’d see for damn near three fucking weeks. He could do with a bit a company. Some that weren’t dead.

                                                                        Weren’t much in the mood for killing people now, either.

                                                                        The convenience store was cooler, but not by much. Mainly it was just a reprieve from the awful stench of death outside. No rotting corpses out here. Whoever ran the place obviously took himself outside to die. Convenient, just like his little store. Might have been a damned mess, but at least it didn’t have no bodies in it. Looked like a lot of that mess was usable food, too.

                                                                        Sascha paused against the door, jerking the god-awful floppy hat off his head and wiping the sweat from his brow. The backpack was the next to go. He dropped it from his broad shoulders, leaving it to thunk hard on the ground before pushing off the wall and going to sort through the rubble. He ripped open a couple chocolate bars, down them quickly and without thought, tossing wrappers back into the heap. An unopened razor peered up out of the mess and Sascha was quick to grab it, and the goop from his pack, shuffling to back of the store.

                                                                        He needed a good shave. Head was getting awfully bristly under that hat of his. Using the glass doors of the freezer as a make-shift mirror, Sascha began to scrap the bristles off his scalp, taking the time to swipe his eyes over the selection of frozen goods. Didn’t seem that any of the meat made it.

                                                                        God awful. He could do with some real food.

                                                                        The bell chimed for the door.

                                                                        Sascha whipped around, ripping a chunk of skin from his head with a hiss. The razor flew to the floor, blood splattered. His hand reached back toward his gun.

                                                                        Didn’t seem like he’d need it though. Scrawny fellow looked almost anorexic. Mind, Sascha had lost a bit of his brawn on the trek, but he’d never let himself stop eating. Christ, fellow looked like he’d been living off of air like a goddamn chameleon. Sascha could make two of him…mayhap three. (He was often two of most people on their good days, big fellow like him.) No challenge there. He relaxed his arm, face pulled in a sour grimace.

                                                                        “First living fellow I’ve seen in damned near a month, and the bastard makes me bleed,” he eyed the stranger, flicking brown eyes up and down his form. Not much to look at, really. But a damned sight better than those corpses.

                                                                        And, if he were truthful, he’d admit his heart was ramming a mile a minute at running into someone breathing. Might smell a bit, but not so bad as those dead folks.

                                                                        “My site. Found it first. I get first picks. Understood?”

                                                                        Not that Sascha would take ‘no’ lightly. Hopefully the fellow wouldn’t be too apt to putting up a fight. Didn’t look like he had much of anything left in him, and Sascha’s near seven feet of filled out height ought to make him think twice. But desperate people did desperate things. He kept his hand near his hip. Ready to draw.

                                                                        Could be a crazy.

Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide
“Pack your bags!”

The door burst open without warning, slamming hard against the opposite wall with a reverberating bang. Friedrich lurched back at the noise, sending his chair off-balance. A startled grunt had him clutching uselessly at his papers, sending them flying to the floor in a scattered, yellow mess of parchment and ink. But wood was heavier than words. They couldn’t keep him on his feet this time. The chair careened to the floor with a booming thud, sending Friedrich tumbling out with sharp curses littering his tongue.

“They’ve gathered at Luxembourg. God’s holy name, they’re almost he-…what are you doing?”

Friedrich wrenched himself to his feet, a scowl twisting his lips, and jerked his hands over the front of his robes. He twisted sharply and bent himself double to snatch up the fallen papers, smothering his fingers with fresh, wet ink as he did so.

No hope for getting them back to any state of decency.

“I’m listening, go on, Armin.”

It wasn’t the boy’s fault, after all.

England wanted the world. It was not Armin’s fault that English aristocrats had drug some poor excuse concerning peasants out of the dirt, polished it off, spattered it in blood, and marched off to war to trampled the already trampled. It wasn’t Armin’s fault that Friedrich shoved his nose into the political workings of his country and wound himself so tightly into its net that he became the eyes and the ears of Hanover. It wasn’t Armin’s fault that Germany cared enough about Germany to protect her, but not enough to want her.

It was not Armin’s fault that Friedrich was going to get thrown into the middle of this blood soaked war and come out just as imbued as the rest of the soldiers.

Friedrich set the papers on his desk, fiddling jerkily with the stained edges of the parchment. Armin shuffled to his side, and a weight was slid over his shoulder. The boy shuffled backward, hands folded, monk-like, before him.

“Will you make it?”

He would have to, wouldn’t he? Germany couldn’t fight a war divided as she was. And he would not lose her.

Friedrich shoved the papers into his bag and nodded,” I’ll be fine. You be careful.”

Armin would. Armin always was.

Friedrich wasn’t quite so positive about himself, though.


Minna’s sweat-soaked flanks heaved beneath Friedrich’s thighs. He could feel her exhaustion, her skin trembling beneath saddle, her raspy breath rattling the bit. Her limbs shook with every step, and Friedrich suspected he would have better luck leading her by foot. But he couldn’t do that. Minna would get her rest soon.

The English fortress loomed ahead of him, magnificent and cold. He had seen similar sights before, but none quite so impressive. Even at the edge of war, the English wealth was displayed with finesse and confidence to the poor folk who trembled and wandered beneath its gates. The dark stone of the castle was a cool contrast to the fading life of the grass, withered into sun drenched coils that danced to the quiet, growing wind.

Friedrich slid his hand down Minna’s neck, urging her forward with a solid kick of his heels. She let out a rasping snort and forced herself forward. Perhaps she understood what Friedrich needed her to do, or perhaps she had grown unconsciously accustomed to entering the presence of men proudly. Some subtle, silent training that passed between them. Minna arched her neck, shook her mane proudly, and closed her lips around the bit in her own façade of pride.

Let the English pigs face German pride, German virility, German power. Let them see exactly what they will have to fight, should they force their way through Luxembourg and into the heart of Germany herself.

Their entrance into the courtyard gates was unspectacular to anyone but themselves. Friedrich was conscious of that. A pale man perched atop a sweating horse, his clothes mud stained and tattered, hair askew and beard ungroomed did not make for an impressive figure. But it was not difficult to hold himself high and proud, his back straight and his chin above the Englishmen carrying their duties around him. He gripped Minna’s reigns loosely, holding his hand high, and looked down upon the peasants that scattered themselves about his feet in curiosity.

Confidence would be his most valuable weapon here.

The entrance into the main hall was blocked off by a set of guards, dressed in the décor of their kingdom and holding their swords beneath their hands. One had been leaning against the wooden doors, his eyes turned toward his partner, voice rumbling quietly in the foreign tongue of English. Hearing it was like a splash of ice water across Friedrich’s face. He jerked backward, earning himself an irate whinny from Minna who planted her hooves firmly in the dirt. Too tired to go on, the sweat of her labor driving her into stubbornness.

Friedrich whispered an apology to her, patting her mane softly before swinging himself over the side of the saddle. He landed with as much panache as he could manage, sweeping his robes to hide the stumble in his gait. He tested his English on the tip of his tongue, a few muttered greetings to half-parted lips, before lifting his gaze to the guards and leading Minna the last few steps toward them.

They had ceased their chatter, raising eyes and shoulders to block him off. Friedrich swept his fingers over the bridge of his nose, before busying his nervous hands with the folds of his back. Fingers touched parchment, and he slid the sealed message out. Chin high, hazel eyes narrowed to alertness, he held the scroll toward guards, the waxy red crest of his King gleaming in the light of the Prussian sky.

“I am here to speak to his majesty, King Pippin.”

I am here to save my country from English imperialism. I am here to drive you back before my land is further divided.

“I am here as an ambassador. No arms.”

They searched him, as he knew they would. Quick, thorough, rough. Perhaps he would find a few trinkets missing when he retired for a bath. But it didn’t matter. No arms were found, the crest was accepted, and with a forlorn look in Minna’s direction as she was led away by a peasant to lie with English steeds, Friedrich entered the King’s hall.

Luxembourg hall. Invaded by English greed.

He felt like he was greeting an unfaithful bride.

Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide
Mission Log: Entry 001

    Starship Heimdall departs for mission #024: Retrieve and analyze plant specimen Sanctus Vigoratus for future use on earth.

Earth. What was left of it. Once beautiful and green, but now nothing more than villainous wreck harbouring disease which spread from population to population like a snake winding its way through a rat’s nest. A population of billions reduced to a couple million sickly individuals. Earth was no longer welcoming. It was no longer a home, a sweet loving mother, giver of life and nourishment. Now she was a black sepulchre of filth. The only remaining resources of any use where the computers, who, unaffected by any disease, continued to run cities and outposts. The wealth of humanity’s information, it’s legacy, was stored here.

But even that would be wiped out once that last man bit the dust.

And so the search had begun to find some cure, some way of healing the planet and its inhabitants. Earth’s rainforests were reduced to a few scattered clumps of trees, all young and green. Millions of potential medicines wiped out from deforestation: Fuel, timber, land, agriculture.

Humanity had decided upon suicide, thousands of years before earth began to die.

Mission Log: Entry 213

    Sanctus Vigoratus collected from planet002452AG22. 134 specimens found and taken for transport and analysis. Plants have been collected successfully.

Sanctus Vigoratus was a fluke. A re-colonist team had been sent out to discover a suitable home and begin terraforming operations. They were unsuccessful in this regard. The most suitable planets were hostile or unstable. Many were lost in the attempt to find new earth, but such was the risk humanity had to take to ensure its own survival.

The plant was discovered on an otherwise useless planet. Atmospheric gasses were far too extreme. The planet, itself, far too small. Resources were lacking. And humanity still lusted for them: gold, timber, oil, precious metals. Need. Greed.

Sanctus Vigoratus was a small, cruel looking plant. Brown, not green, with leaves that appeared curled and dead. Thistle-shaped protrusions grew along its stem as blackish boils, each equipped with a hundred stinging pricks. The first experience with its healing properties occurred entirely on accident: a young, inexperienced crew member grasping the specimen too roughly. He scrapped his skin against the thorns.

Two days later, his sickened, asthmatic lungs were clear and healthy.

It was a miracle plant. Earth needed it.

Mission Log: Entry 521






After seven long months (awake) aboard the wreck of the Heimdall, nothing surprised Lt. Carrol Baird anymore. The ship had been malfunctioning pretty hard since the original hull break, and she wasn’t about to cut it out just to give Carrol his forty winks. While he and what was left of the crew managed to patch her up as best they could. Welded off the cock pit and locked all levels heading up to it, just in case. Without access to navigation, Heimdall’s crew was hooped : And Heimdall herself seemed adamant on making their lives a living hell.

Nav was out of the question. Mechanics malfunctioned off and on all day long. The ship spent most of the day (Day? Week? Hour? It was impossible to tell time here) drifting between absolute stillness, in which Carrol feared she’d finally given up and life support was about to go down the drain; and shaking so hard you had to lie on the floor and cover your head in hopes of getting through her tremors alive. Maintenance deck was all but completely destroyed. Machines and piping had been ripped from their brackets and were now laying in piles of rubbish on the floor. No one went down there anymore. It was a death trap.

Carrol had already lost two of his remaining crew members to it.

Life basically consisted of sitting on your hands and praying. Anything else would kill you.

Heh. Even that wasn’t entirely safe.

Heimdall lit up like something was poking hot coals up her ass, screaming “warning” at the top of her lungs. White lights flashed above Carrol’s head, while the stilted, distorted voice of her mess-up majesty squalled around him.

“Yeah, yeah. I know there’s something wrong. Shut-up.”

Carrol slammed his fist into the wall above his head. Heimdall’s voice stuttered a moment. Hesitating… Coming to a decision…


“Alright, you stupid cunt, I’m up,” with a grunt, Carrol dragged his legs off of his cot. He laid like that a moment, back swaying the flimsy linen of his bed, bare feet spread on the cold floor. His heavy brows furrowed, thin lips gnarled in a grimace. Damn. He squeezed his eye shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Damn. Damn. He didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want to have to deal with that bitch again today.


Snarling, Carrol rolled off his cot,” You win, goddammit, shut-up!”

A ratty pair of black boots were all he had to protect his feet from Heimdall’s debris. They were scuffed, missing one lace (he’d used it to help patch together a broken pipe), and grayed and bitten around the edges where they’d caught fire during one of her majesty’s fits. Carrol shoved his feet in them unceremoniously, not bothering to tie the one lace he did have.

His stomach growled.

Being hungry was a way of life, now. Rations had to be distributed very, very carefully. There were only two of them left now, but they didn’t have enough food left to last them another month. And god knew how long they were going to be out here.

The rest of our lives, thought Carrol bitterly, slipping a torn flak jacket around his shoulders. It hung off of his arms, and didn’t have any buttons left to do up.

User ImageHe’d lost a lot of weight since the mission’s unceremonious ending. Once fit, muscular, powerful, he was reduced to a few stringy muscles and pale skin hanging ugly from his limbs. Carrol was a mess. His face was a bedraggled rat’s nest of salt and peppered beard, his hair long and stringy, wet with sweat. There wasn’t enough water left to clean with. His lips were parched and cracked, his hands reddened and blistered. His face bruised.

Just pieces of a man stitched together without skill.

At least he couldn’t smell himself anymore.

Carrol approached his room’s door with some trepidation. He twisted his lips in a scowl and smudged his boots across the floor. Face wrinkled, he leaned toward it.

A gargled whirr attacked his ears.


Steeling himself, he threw his shoulder at the door. It clicked again, the metal dented a little more, and finally slid open with short, noisy, jerks. Carrol kicked it while he passed, for good measure. Probably didn’t help the matter, but it sure made him feel better.

Heimdall’s displeasure was more evident in the hall. Her lights were flashing rapidly, and the sound of irritation became a deafening cacophony. Carrol winced at every clank and rapid succession of broken clicks. Something was seriously pissing her off tonight.

Hopefully it wasn’t anything in maintenance. Carrol’d be buggered with a baseball bat before he went down there, and he wasn’t sending his last remaining tie to humanity to his death either.

But he’d cut his own throat if he had to live with Heimdall’s squalling for his few remaining days.

Heavy footsteps lead him down the steel corridor to a second door. This one in no better shape than his own, and, currently, the home of his only companion. Carrol didn’t need him to help find the problem (and probably not to fix it, either. The most either of them could do was bang the piece of machinery around until it decided to cooperate. They had a handful of rudimentary tools left, most of them in pretty poor shape.)

Mostly, he just didn’t want to die alone. For himself, and for his crew mate. If one of them died, the other mind as well off himself too. Maybe the food would last longer, but who wanted to live in solitude, with only this crazy bitch of a ship for company?

The wall behind him clanked and shuddered.

Bang! Bang! Carrol slammed his fist against the door,” Get up! Her Majesty’s having a bitch fit again. Need your help!”

Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide
“Goddamnit, Joaquin!” Slam. Fist smashed into hard wood. “You’re not authorized to make those kinds of decision. Do you know what you could have cost us? This company is too goddamn important to me to let you fuck it all away trying to grow some balls.”

Could have, Briggs wanted to say. Didn’t. The decision to trade patents with Juleco wasn’t made lightly – but the company had a lot to offer in return for a few measly ideas. They had advertisement and popularity on their side, experienced technicians who knew how to work out bugs his father’s company had been toying with for months. The first release had been a success. Sure, they made a smaller percentage than customary, but in terms of raw numbers they’d been paid back tenfold. Less overhead than normal, better customer reception, more product purchased. What little risk he’d taken had clearly been worth the effort.

Briggs was thirty-three. He wasn’t interested in playing yesman to daddy any longer.

Unfortunately, if he wanted to keep his house and his job he had to bite his tongue. Damn lucky he didn’t get the strap over that old mahogany desk. Daddy’s face had turned red, his lips were curled back in a snarl, eyes flashing. If Briggs had been twelve, or even twenty, he’d be cowering by now. Apologizing. Grovelling.

It’d been too many long years of doing that. He was tired of it.

“The patents worked out. I don’t regret my decision.”

“Not yet you don’t!” Daddy snarled and slammed his fist on the desk once more. He jerked away, back to Briggs, and snatched a cigar from his breast pocket. It was a flurry of hurried, angry motions to light the thing. His shoulders slumped a little at the first drag. The smell of it was sweet and smoky, but not calming.

“We’ll see, Joaquin. But if one of these goddamned deals go sours, one of them, I will kick your ass out of this company and you’ll be lucky if you have a gutter to sleep in,” ash flicked into an ornate brass tray,” Get out of my sight.”

Briggs offered no audible response. He refused to acknowledge the slow, cold sweat that began to creep up the back of his neck. The quickening of his pulse, even as his blood turned to ice in his veins. The house. The money. The job. With his father’s back turned to him, he allowed himself a moment to squeeze his eyes shut. No deep breaths, nothing for Daddy to hear – just a moment to collect himself. The patents would do fine. Everything would be alright. This wasn’t the first time he’d toed the line and it wouldn’t be the last. Lady luck liked him.
And he was smart.

Briggs turned slow and deliberate toward the door. The carpet was deep shag and muffled the sound of his footsteps. His hand was on the doorknob before Daddy spoke again.

“Did you see Julia last night.”

Oh for fucks sake, not this. “Yes.”

“How did it go.”

Briggs didn’t answer. He twisted the knob and strode through the doorway, letting the mahogany fall shut behind him. Loud, heavy, purposeful.

Julia left, of course. They all did.


Fuck. He didn’t need this. He really, really didn’t. Stress he could deal with. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t something he needed to be. Not one single part of it. Prostitutes? What the hell was he doing.

Standing across the road from a posh looking hotel and appearing incredibly suspicious. Incognito. He was the heir apparent of a multi-billion dollar company. People knew his face. They certainly knew his name. He didn’t the paparazzi informing the people of his nightly habits as well. Briggs was not dressed poorly, this wasn’t the place for that. His suit was tailored fit, tasteful black, Armani. Kid leather gloves clinging deftly to his large hands, boots shined and polished to perfection. His face was obscured only by a pair of thick sunglasses. It was decidedly too warm out for any sort of hat or scarf, so he had to hope this was good enough.

Pacing across the street was going to attract attention, though.

He didn’t want to go in. He didn’t need this. But… but… fuck it all. He deserved it. Just a taste. Something to tide him over. A break. It had been a goddamned horrible day, after all. He could enjoy a few hours of relaxation.

That’s all it was, he told himself, a retreat.

Briggs cast a nervous glance on either side of the street before adjusting his glasses and loping swiftly toward the hotel entrance. The place was posh and cool, decorated extravagantly, but not distastefully. There were a few people in the main lobby, mostly women dressed in low-neck gowns, attending to businessmen. He didn’t need a greeter.

Briggs pulled a slip of manila from his pocket. Embossed logo. Simple instructions. A room number and a name – probably not a legal name either. Briggs himself had already decided on an adequate pseudonym. The establishment was happy to accept cash, after all, and as long as you paid up they didn’t care what you chose to call yourself. His original appointment had consisted of an interview – to make sure he was clean – and a glance through some profiles of their current staff. He’d lingered over several of the women – perusing photos, asking questions, hoping to hell someone would catch his attention and be worth the $1000 an hour.

It wasn’t until he’d been left alone to look that he’d made his decision. He hadn’t really meant to pick up the profile for their boys. Just curiosity. That was all. No harm in looking. Brigg’s appraisal had been quick, hurried. But even rushed one of them had caught his eye. Goddammit. Some smooth faced kid with lips to die for. Soft skin, strong chin, hard eyes. Just feminine enough that Briggs could fool himself.

So here he was. Heading up an elevator to room 403. Not that he wanted to of course. He just needed to relax. That was all. That’s all this was. Nothing more.

Briggs stepped off the elevator and made his way down the corridor. The numbers ‘403’ stood out like a bad dream against the polished, glossy wood. He paused in front of the door and smoothed his fingers through his hair. He held his breath, hiding it behind gritted teeth, and rapped his knuckles against the wood.

Here goes nothing.

Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide
Those sunglasses were a little unnerving. Julio was a man who focused on faces, expressions. He enjoyed people. One of the reasons he so readily agreed to join in this twisted experiment. He didn’t like seeing faces obscured. Never-the-less, if someone was going to speak to him – even one of the designated ‘guards’ – he wasn’t going to stick his nose up to them.

Despite his current state of dress and the embarrassed flush in his cheeks, Julio split his lips in an easy, toothy smile. He dropped his slippered feet to the cold floor and shuffled over the bars.

“You’re lucky you flipped heads,” he gripped his baggy ‘dress’ and fluttered it around,” At least you get to wear pants. I’m not sure I’m going to survive the draft!” Better to make light of his situation. Laughter was a great defense mechanism.

“Mind, it probably wouldn’t be easy to get all that hair under one of these… things either,” he wrinkled his nose in distaste and fingered the end of his headcap pantyhose. His flush deepened. Not the way he wanted to be seen by anyone – women’s hosiery stapled to his skull.

All in the name of science, right?

Hungry for company, Julio slipped a hand through the bars and leaned as casually as he could in his current state. The air was chilling his legs. Wasn’t terrible warm in these quarters.

“Did the make the guards go through any of this to get in?"

Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide
The city seemed to be in an eternal cloud of fog. Emery felt as if he hadn’t seen the sun in months, always overcast cloud cover and dark, choking smog. Humidity clung to the air, grasping at clothes and prickling skin and hair. Nothing stayed dry. Nothing stayed clean. Why should the city be left in peace when its inhabitants were suffering? Maybe it was done on purpose, perhaps the council of villains had someone with weather manipulation powers on their side. Keep the city in perpetual gloom so the citizens’ hopes were quashed. Hard to muster a rebellious spirit when the weather nipped you into depression.

Emery wasn’t cold. He could have allowed himself to be, if he wanted, but why bother? He’d long since given up the notion of self-sacrifice. Nobility was dead, here. Emery had frequently had his own shelter ransacked, any scrap of useful material absconded into the alleyways. He’d lost a few sets of clothes, plenty of books, most of his rations, and all his cooking supplies. So what was the point? He allowed himself some small usage of his powers – warming the damp air just enough to keep comfortable and dry. It wasn’t his fault he’d lost his tinder.

A man couldn’t stay cooped up in a dingy apartment forever.

Freedom didn’t come cheap in this city.

“Smells fantastic, Shelly,” Emery juggled a bag of steaming food in one hand, bottle of water in the other. He pressed his hip against the cracked glass door of Lee’s Chinese, shoving it open an inch,” I’ll be back next week.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Dickerson!” the young gal at the counter beamed. Her faced was bruised, one eye swollen shut, but she still managed a smile. Poor dear.

This city wasn’t meant for folk like her.

Emery offered her an awkward salute, juggling his supper, then strode out the door to greet the muggy street. His sunglasses fogged immediately. A quick bout of concentration and he’d heated the area sufficiently to chase away the water. It was a pain in the ass wearing sunglasses in such dismal weather, but Emery couldn’t risk being recognized for who he was.

Who he had been. He’d long since hung up the cape and the mask. Once upon a time he’d been known as Celsius – protector of mankind and upholder of justice. He was far from the most powerful superhero around, one of the reasons he’d escape exile or death when the rebellion took place. His abilities were limited to temperature control (hence the name), able to manipulate temperatures to inhospitable freezing all the way up to burning heat. Useful in driving criminals to their knees. This, combined with indestructible skin, made him a formidable force where defense was concerned. He’d never been a spectacular fighter, but so many lifetimes ago he was eager to put himself between civilians and danger.

Not anymore.

Emery chucked his Chinese over his shoulder and started down the sidewalk. His apartment, shabby as it was, was just a few block away. A convenient location, if nothing else. Lee’s Chinese was available for a warm meal when he had the money, a rundown old convenience store across the corner if he didn’t. There were plenty of liquor stores in between, and more than a couple shady bars. No one cared about drunks here. No one intervened in a fight.

Emery kept his guard up as he turned the corner. Gang active was rampant everywhere. The smog extended the shadows from wall to wall. Emery tipped his head back, brow furrowed. His glasses didn’t afford him much night vision. Couldn’t hear anything, apart from the scurry of stray toms. He pressed his lips to a thin line and strode into the shadows.

Bad play.

“Smells good, mister,” a voice hissed out of the dark.

Emery paused for a heartbeat, coked his head to the side to listen. No footsteps. Couldn’t even hear breathing. No ida where the stranger was. He squared his shoulders and kept forward.

“Got to have some money to get hot food, huh?” A different voice this time, closer, to his left.

Emery set his jaw, clenched his teeth, but didn’t slow his pace.

Suddenly there was real, organic warmth at his side, and something sharp and cold pressing above his hip. A knife?

Emery stopped, swinging his food to his side. He let out a long, trying breath,” That’s right. Nothing’s free.”

“For sure, for sure, mister,” the first voice this time. Sharp and spitting. It circled around him.

“We want your food and your wallet, or it’ll cost you a kidney.”

“And we’ll eat that too!”

Emery let the bag of Chinese fall from his grip, landing with a wet thud on the pavement. He balled his hand into a fist, fingers flexing, before flicking his sunglasses off and tucking them almost too-neat against the v-neck of his vest. “It’s not easy making legitimate money in the city, my friends.”

“That’s right. The wallet now.” The sharpness dug into his skin. It was going to mark his jacket, for certain.

“I don’t think so.” Emery swept around and slammed a fist into the shadows. His knuckles crunched against flesh, and the second voice let out a savage curse. He didn’t have time to recollect his balance. The hissing stranger was on him in seconds. Fingers snagged the edge of Emery’s jacked and jerked. He tipped, ankle bumping against his Chinese, sending it spewing out into the puddles.

Strong arms slashed across his torso and dragged him backwards.

The knife wielder was up again, his footsteps clashing against the puddles. Emery felt the tip of the knife smash against his stomach… and stop. It couldn’t penetrate him. Fucked up his clothes something fierce though, that’s for sure.

“The fuck?” one of them growled.

“He’s a super,” the other hissed. Emery struggled against his grip and earned himself a punch to the solar plexus. That hurt. He wheezed, and grit his teeth, before cocking back an elbow and slamming it into the body behind him. The grip loosened. Emery wrenched himself free and went spilling into the gray light of the street.

His assailants slid out of the shadows behind him. One was tall, bald, dressed in ragged gray and slack jeans. The other was bulkier, sporting a slick, crooked toothed grin and black webs tattooed across his face.

“Now this is really going to suck.” Glasses off, they’d seen his face. They could identify him. Emery didn’t want to end anybody’s life, but he was going to have to do something to protect his identity. Supers didn’t last long when they were ousted in this city.

He clenched his hands into fists.

The tattooed assailant hissed under his breath and darted forward. Emery aimed a punch, but the fellow was too fast. He ducked under Emery’s arm and swung out with his own, catching Emery in the ribs. Never-the-less, the man let out a yelp and jerked backward, shaking his hand. His knuckles were blistered and red.

Emery surged forward, his gut twisting in circles, and slapped a hand over the tattooed fellow’s mouth. The man jerked back immediately, blisters forming a bright handprint across his lips. This on wouldn’t be saying much for a while.

“You fuck!” the second man snarled and lunged toward Emery, the knife outstretched. The blade slashed through Emery’s jacket but left his flesh untouched.

Emery squeezed his eyes shut, resisting the urge to vomit from his own actions, and snatched the assailant’s face. His fingers curled into claws, gripping hard. The man screamed and thrashed, jerking the knife toward Emery again and again. Finally the blade gave out and bent. Emery let him go and stepped back.

The man’s face was a mess.

“Get the hell out of here,” he snapped.

The two stumbled to their feet and disappeared down the safety of the shadows.

Emery counted to ten. Ten deep, slow, steady breaths, before collapsing against a wall behind him. His knees felt weak. His throat closed, choking. He dropped to his ass on the cold pavement and clutched his face in his hands.

What had he turned into?

Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide
The android’s silence was somewhat unnerving, but not unexpected. Most models, even functioning, were fairly polite and unassuming in their actions, but Colby could feel this one’s presence, the steady hum of electronics right behind him. Offbeat. He plucked a screwdriver and a small soldering tool off his work bench and swung back around to the robot, just in time to see it wrench an arm out. Colby suppressed a wince, squeezing his eyes shut.

This thing was in such rough shape…

Colby forced himself to take a glance at the proffered limb. A serial number, that was all. Not even a name. Whoever owned this android before obviously didn’t see fit to raise it to the station of a dog. Even pets were given monikers.

Well, Colby wasn’t going to contribute to the abuse.

“L-6 is it? I think we can shorten that down,” he dropped to one knee and snapped his goggles in place, “Would you mind if we shortened that to Lex?”

Don’t get attached, Colby. This thing couldn’t stay here. A quick fix and he’d send it on his way. Yes sir, absolutely.

Man, he was weak.

Colby pressed a button on the side of his goggles, causing the lenses to extend outward, intensifying the magnification. Another little switch turned a light on, soft rings illuminating the android’s busted joint. He wrenched his gloves from his pocket and snapped them in place. There were often corrosive materials involved with these older models, no need to put his hands at risk.

“This doesn’t look so bad,” Colbly flipped his screwdriver in the air and caught it deftly, before surging into his work. The joint was, as he’d expected, merely dislocated. He loosened a bolt here, tightened another, and the metal snapped into place. It would need some oiling, and the casing could do with some welding to keep the delicate gears inside from being exposed, but that should do it for functionality.

“There we go,” he rocked back on the balls of his feet and grinned toothily up at the ‘bot,” Try swinging it for me?”

Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide
With the facility’s primary doctor occupied by a gunshot wound, Miguel had little choice but to grab his medkit and suit up. He wasn’t fond of the helicopter at the best of times, and this… this was far from the best of anything. Two dead, apparently insane, Norwegians and an injured staff member? Lady Luck had turned her back on him.

Miguel’s steps were a little too heavy off the helicopter, sinking his boots deep into the snow. He let himself pause just outside of it, recollecting himself with a long breath – one he immediately regretted. The stink of the place was overwhelming. Nothing out here rotted, just as nothing out here grew, the temperatures just didn’t allow it.

This was the first time Miguel smelled death since he’d set foot on the continent.

“It’s not cold anymore for them, my friend,” said Miguel, frowning. What a waste.

He set off across the snow, pressing the back of his hand to his nose to muffle the smell; wool only accomplished so much. Only the basic infrastructure was left of their facility, a few walls clinging to life here and there, the edges charred to ruin. Only the smoke obscured their visibility. He stepped over the fallen remains of metal shelving and into the mess. There wasn’t much left to be seen. Debris everywhere, but it consisted only of ordinary equipment.

“We should try to stay together until we know what happened here,” he shot over his shoulder. Miguel was no weapon’s expert, but if the Norwegians had grenades available to them to hunt down a dog, he was wary of the potential for more. Or worse.

He made his way gingerly through the rubble, squinting through the burning bite of smoke.

A body! Miguel rushed forward, bounding between charred desks and research equipment, the first aid kit hammering his thigh as he went. There was no hope that the Norwegian was alive, he reminded himself. No need to get himself worked up.

The body was a mess. Charred to black along its left side and contorted in agony – but even worse, worst of all, was the expression. These eyes bulging from their sockets, strained and bloodshot. Mouth agape with red staining the teeth, jaw jerked to the side, clearly broken. And it stunk, far beyond what any normal human body ought to.

Miguel grimaced and shook his head at the sight,” A waste.” He dropped to one knee beside the body and gripped a handful of snow, pressing it over the Norwegian’s eyes. Frozen open as they were, he would not have been able to shut them… but he didn’t wish to see them, gazing out in horror, as he inspected the body.

The hem of the man’s sleeves were stained red. Miguel pinched the edge of the stiff cloth and peeled it up his arm. Haphazard gouges slashed up and down the flesh, some deep, to the bone. This man had wanted to die.

Miguel covered his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. “What in God’s name happened?”