I am interested in role-playing some adventures games in a one-on-one setting, with romantic overtones, though I also enjoy pure romances. I am into pretty much any genre, but I won't use canon characters or write through PMs. I don't mind mild adult content, gore and swearing (within reason), but I am strictly fade-to-black on sex scenes. Besides that, I am game for almost anything. I am a mature, middle aged male, in a stable relationship and not looking for more than writing partners. I can be counted on for three solid paragraphs per post, but can write up to six or so, or one or so, if needed. While I CAN write more than six, most of the time I like the play-by-play of shorter posts. As story ideas occur to me, I will post them here.
OP
STORY IDEA START (TAKEN)
Sweeping down the dark night sky, the meteor past over Randal's pickup truck, looking like a firework before it burst. It played out against the Milky Way galaxy, which stretched from horizon to horizon. Randal lay on the hood of his truck, staring up, and brushing the shaggy blond hair from his eyes to get a better look. It was a thrilling sight, and well work getting out of bed at one in the morning to see.
He lay there for a full two hours, watching the meteors falling, out of the corners of his eyes, without seeing another as good. In his mind he imagined that the meteor had been some kind of good omen. Lord knew he needed one about now. His lanky frame was clad in blue jeans and a flannel shirt, and ended in a pair of worn cowboy boots.
After awhile, he pulled his truck back onto the old country road, and out of the stubble of a harvested corn field. Soon he was headed home, and back to his bed. The old truck kicked up dust and gravel along the road as he traveled, running full out in his assurance that no one else would be up a this time of night. The Ford truck still responded like a champion, despite being ten years old.
Up in the distance, only a few miles from the main street of the tiny town of Halon's Crossing, he saw hazard lights blinking. He slowed down to see what was the problem. It would not do to ignore someone in peril this late at night.
(I am looking for this to a some sort of adventure story, possible with aliens, or ghosts, or zombies. I am open to discussion on that point.)
Sweeping down the dark night sky, the meteor past over Randal's pickup truck, looking like a firework before it burst. It played out against the Milky Way galaxy, which stretched from horizon to horizon. Randal lay on the hood of his truck, staring up, and brushing the shaggy blond hair from his eyes to get a better look. It was a thrilling sight, and well work getting out of bed at one in the morning to see.
He lay there for a full two hours, watching the meteors falling, out of the corners of his eyes, without seeing another as good. In his mind he imagined that the meteor had been some kind of good omen. Lord knew he needed one about now. His lanky frame was clad in blue jeans and a flannel shirt, and ended in a pair of worn cowboy boots.
After awhile, he pulled his truck back onto the old country road, and out of the stubble of a harvested corn field. Soon he was headed home, and back to his bed. The old truck kicked up dust and gravel along the road as he traveled, running full out in his assurance that no one else would be up a this time of night. The Ford truck still responded like a champion, despite being ten years old.
Up in the distance, only a few miles from the main street of the tiny town of Halon's Crossing, he saw hazard lights blinking. He slowed down to see what was the problem. It would not do to ignore someone in peril this late at night.
(I am looking for this to a some sort of adventure story, possible with aliens, or ghosts, or zombies. I am open to discussion on that point.)
OP
Bump
OP
bump
OP
Shaun stepped out off the door of the tobacconist, into the pouring rain, his tweed coat pulled up around him. The streets of Dublin were drenched with the downpour. He hurried along, as the gaslights flickered weirdly in the rain. It was a horrible night, to be sure. There was only a few blocks to go to get to his boarding house, but he feared he would be soaked to the skin before he reached it. His sloped hat rain the rain off the bill like a miniature waterfall.
As he hurried along, a few more figures scurried past, some with their rain slickers on, if they were lucky. After seven minutes of being assaulted, he arrived at the boarding house. He went around to the kitchen entrance, knowing Mrs. O'Brien would have a cow if he got her entry way wet. It was bad enough entering the kitchen. The rain stopped falling on him, as he ducked into the gaslight interior. Molly scolded at him, as he slipped his coat off and shook with the cold of the evening.
She was a comfortably curved woman in her middling years, with gray streaks in her blonde hair and red cheeks. She threw a towel around his shoulders and sat him down in front of the fire. He knew he must look quite the sight, with his salt and pepper hair plastered against his head. His long sleeved brown shirt was dry, as were his galluses, but his trousers were wet through.
He was a tall, wiry man with a slender face with high cheek bones. His fingers were long and expressive, like those of a pianist and he warmed them at the fire as he sat under the towel, cold and miserable. He could hear Molly puttering around the kitchen behind him, and though again what a pleasant and agreeable woman she was.
As he hurried along, a few more figures scurried past, some with their rain slickers on, if they were lucky. After seven minutes of being assaulted, he arrived at the boarding house. He went around to the kitchen entrance, knowing Mrs. O'Brien would have a cow if he got her entry way wet. It was bad enough entering the kitchen. The rain stopped falling on him, as he ducked into the gaslight interior. Molly scolded at him, as he slipped his coat off and shook with the cold of the evening.
She was a comfortably curved woman in her middling years, with gray streaks in her blonde hair and red cheeks. She threw a towel around his shoulders and sat him down in front of the fire. He knew he must look quite the sight, with his salt and pepper hair plastered against his head. His long sleeved brown shirt was dry, as were his galluses, but his trousers were wet through.
He was a tall, wiry man with a slender face with high cheek bones. His fingers were long and expressive, like those of a pianist and he warmed them at the fire as he sat under the towel, cold and miserable. He could hear Molly puttering around the kitchen behind him, and though again what a pleasant and agreeable woman she was.
Camille Noir
Member
Seen
5 yrs ago
I sent you a PM about that first idea.
OP
This was very much inspired by watching the premiere of Crossbones.
TAKEN
Crimson Tide
Roger Hawthorne watched the approaching pirate ship with trepidation. It was not so much that he feared death, but that he feared for the deaths of others. There were innocents aplenty aboard the Merchantman Andalusia. To be sure, her captain was a right bastard and the first officer was cruel and sadistic, but the men were good English lads, with wives and children waiting for them back ashore.
The ship cutting through the water towards them, tacking to make up time, was a twenty gun sloop, large for its class, and as deadly looking as a razor blade. Her flag was a fractured skull on a red field, showing her to be a pirate craft. Whether her crew were privateers or simply pirates made little difference. They would kill the men, who showed the slightest resistance to turning pirate, or simply slaughter the entire crew. One could never tell with pirates. They were an unpredictable lot.
He feared for the women folk below the decks as well, locked away in their cabins for their own safety. The Baroness and her ladies were traveling to Port Royal, to join her husband, the governor. The pirates would surely use and abuse them in ways which flickered across his imagination unbidden. They would most likely hold the Baroness herself for ransom.
Roger checked his sword in its scabbard, making sure that his saber was loose. It was a cavalryman's weapon, which was what he in fact was, but it would serve well enough. He had book passage on the Andalusia to escape the memories of his late wife, who had suffered many long months with fevers before passing. He was a tall, muscular man with long brown hair pulled back into a rough ponytail. His hawkish nose rose between to steel gray eyes. His firm chin was bare of whiskers, though he could use a shave. His suit was brown with brass buttons and he wore a green coat.
As the pirate gained on them, the captain ordered the ship to turn to port, and bring her broadside to bare. They could never escape, so the only thing to do was to fight. The merchantman turned slowly, barely bringing it's side to bare before the sloop arrived. Twelve cannons barked out, loaded with grape shot, as the sailors fired muskets at the lower deck of the other ship.
Roger drew his rapier, determined to make a fight of it. He said a quick prayer, hoping that God would be with him, and then readied himself, stretching his arms and legs out and running through some basic fencing moves. Soon enough the bloody blaggards would be upon them and the fighting would be for real.
The pirate sloop quickly threw out ropes, lashing the two ships together, and it turned to meet them side to side. They did not fire their guns, probably out of a concern over damaging their prize. Roger saw pirates swinging over onto the deck, and ran toward the first one he saw. She was a raggedly dressed woman in her late forties with wild, unkempt hair and an equally wild look in her eye. He couldn't bring himself to run her through, so after ducking her clumsy cutlass blow, he clocked her across the face with the pommel of his sword, causing her to fall amidst the fighting. The pirates were evenly matched with the larger crew of the merchantman, making up for their lack of numbers with their ferocious demeanors and theatrical appearances.
TAKEN
Crimson Tide
Roger Hawthorne watched the approaching pirate ship with trepidation. It was not so much that he feared death, but that he feared for the deaths of others. There were innocents aplenty aboard the Merchantman Andalusia. To be sure, her captain was a right bastard and the first officer was cruel and sadistic, but the men were good English lads, with wives and children waiting for them back ashore.
The ship cutting through the water towards them, tacking to make up time, was a twenty gun sloop, large for its class, and as deadly looking as a razor blade. Her flag was a fractured skull on a red field, showing her to be a pirate craft. Whether her crew were privateers or simply pirates made little difference. They would kill the men, who showed the slightest resistance to turning pirate, or simply slaughter the entire crew. One could never tell with pirates. They were an unpredictable lot.
He feared for the women folk below the decks as well, locked away in their cabins for their own safety. The Baroness and her ladies were traveling to Port Royal, to join her husband, the governor. The pirates would surely use and abuse them in ways which flickered across his imagination unbidden. They would most likely hold the Baroness herself for ransom.
Roger checked his sword in its scabbard, making sure that his saber was loose. It was a cavalryman's weapon, which was what he in fact was, but it would serve well enough. He had book passage on the Andalusia to escape the memories of his late wife, who had suffered many long months with fevers before passing. He was a tall, muscular man with long brown hair pulled back into a rough ponytail. His hawkish nose rose between to steel gray eyes. His firm chin was bare of whiskers, though he could use a shave. His suit was brown with brass buttons and he wore a green coat.
As the pirate gained on them, the captain ordered the ship to turn to port, and bring her broadside to bare. They could never escape, so the only thing to do was to fight. The merchantman turned slowly, barely bringing it's side to bare before the sloop arrived. Twelve cannons barked out, loaded with grape shot, as the sailors fired muskets at the lower deck of the other ship.
Roger drew his rapier, determined to make a fight of it. He said a quick prayer, hoping that God would be with him, and then readied himself, stretching his arms and legs out and running through some basic fencing moves. Soon enough the bloody blaggards would be upon them and the fighting would be for real.
The pirate sloop quickly threw out ropes, lashing the two ships together, and it turned to meet them side to side. They did not fire their guns, probably out of a concern over damaging their prize. Roger saw pirates swinging over onto the deck, and ran toward the first one he saw. She was a raggedly dressed woman in her late forties with wild, unkempt hair and an equally wild look in her eye. He couldn't bring himself to run her through, so after ducking her clumsy cutlass blow, he clocked her across the face with the pommel of his sword, causing her to fall amidst the fighting. The pirates were evenly matched with the larger crew of the merchantman, making up for their lack of numbers with their ferocious demeanors and theatrical appearances.
OP
Fiddler's Green
TAKEN
On the shores of Newfoundland, in the village of Raliegh, stands the pub Fiddler's Green. I first entered this establishment when I was in my twenties, on a trip to photograph the wonders of Newfoundland for my second book of photography. It was a hundred year old building with a Lincoln green coat of paint, faded by the weather and white accented shutters and lentils.
Back then I was a finer figure of a man than I am now. I had a trim waist, muscular forearms and good stamina from my daily running and pushups. I am afraid that time has caught up with my waistline. Back then I wore my auburn hair in a long ponytail, down my back. I tended to dress in jeans and button down shirts. My favorite sloped cap was on my head and my camera was on my chest, ready for whatever might present itself to be shot.
When I entered the pub, I found polished wooden floors, a smokey interior, wooden booths and tables and a long, low stage. A lone fiddler was playing a Breton tune on stage, with a woman clogged alone to his fiddling. She was a beauty who took my breath away. I knew then and there that I must photograph her. My camera rose unbidden to take in the picture of the ancient fiddler playing for the flaxen haired young woman, with her long flashing legs.
But I have forgotten to introduce myself. I am Peter MacDonald, photographer. I went to the University of Hilo in Hawaii and grew up not a stone's throw from that institution. It was a far distance from my island home to Newfoundland. I have no cause to regret that trip though, for it was there that I met my love. This is that tale.
OCC: This story will be told in the first person past tense, kind of like a Harry Met Sally tale, from the end of the movie.
TAKEN
On the shores of Newfoundland, in the village of Raliegh, stands the pub Fiddler's Green. I first entered this establishment when I was in my twenties, on a trip to photograph the wonders of Newfoundland for my second book of photography. It was a hundred year old building with a Lincoln green coat of paint, faded by the weather and white accented shutters and lentils.
Back then I was a finer figure of a man than I am now. I had a trim waist, muscular forearms and good stamina from my daily running and pushups. I am afraid that time has caught up with my waistline. Back then I wore my auburn hair in a long ponytail, down my back. I tended to dress in jeans and button down shirts. My favorite sloped cap was on my head and my camera was on my chest, ready for whatever might present itself to be shot.
When I entered the pub, I found polished wooden floors, a smokey interior, wooden booths and tables and a long, low stage. A lone fiddler was playing a Breton tune on stage, with a woman clogged alone to his fiddling. She was a beauty who took my breath away. I knew then and there that I must photograph her. My camera rose unbidden to take in the picture of the ancient fiddler playing for the flaxen haired young woman, with her long flashing legs.
But I have forgotten to introduce myself. I am Peter MacDonald, photographer. I went to the University of Hilo in Hawaii and grew up not a stone's throw from that institution. It was a far distance from my island home to Newfoundland. I have no cause to regret that trip though, for it was there that I met my love. This is that tale.
OCC: This story will be told in the first person past tense, kind of like a Harry Met Sally tale, from the end of the movie.
OP
Northern Exposure (TAKEN)
Dr. Jonathan Martin was sick and tired of whiny patients and flirtatious nurses. He was tired of the long days and nights, with little sleep. He was tired of the concrete jungle. He had finally decided to pack it all in and move to Alaska. His friends all called him crazy and questioned how a New York doctor could survive in the great frozen North.
His crisis of faith had started months before he actually resigned his position at the hospital, put his house up for sale, and packed all that really mattered into a single van. He had taken his time traveling North-West. He had enjoyed the Great Lakes and Canada, before arriving at the tiny town of Howell Alaska.
As he drove into town, he could see that it was little more than a single street with five or six buildings on either side of the road. A neon sign was lit up, showing the local drinking establishment. There was a church, a filling station and half a dozen other stores and establishments. He pulled up in front of the sheriff's office and got out.
Dr. Martin was a tall, wide shouldered man with a narrow waist and a muscular frame. His dark hair was cut short and he was clean shaven. A pair of rectangular shaped spectacles framed a handsome face with a firm chin and full lips. He was dressed in a green parka and blue jeans.
Someone was supposed to meet him at the sheriff's office to him the clinic. The old doctor had retired to Florida a few months ago and the town had been trying to attract another doctor since. His contact was a Alex Murphy, the mayor of the town. He had never even spoken to the man. Their conversations had been conducted by e-mail, so he did not know what to expect.
OOC: I am looking for one female to play the role of Alex(andra) the town mayor. This is a Northern Exposure inspired game. This will be a light hearted, fish out of water game.
Dr. Jonathan Martin was sick and tired of whiny patients and flirtatious nurses. He was tired of the long days and nights, with little sleep. He was tired of the concrete jungle. He had finally decided to pack it all in and move to Alaska. His friends all called him crazy and questioned how a New York doctor could survive in the great frozen North.
His crisis of faith had started months before he actually resigned his position at the hospital, put his house up for sale, and packed all that really mattered into a single van. He had taken his time traveling North-West. He had enjoyed the Great Lakes and Canada, before arriving at the tiny town of Howell Alaska.
As he drove into town, he could see that it was little more than a single street with five or six buildings on either side of the road. A neon sign was lit up, showing the local drinking establishment. There was a church, a filling station and half a dozen other stores and establishments. He pulled up in front of the sheriff's office and got out.
Dr. Martin was a tall, wide shouldered man with a narrow waist and a muscular frame. His dark hair was cut short and he was clean shaven. A pair of rectangular shaped spectacles framed a handsome face with a firm chin and full lips. He was dressed in a green parka and blue jeans.
Someone was supposed to meet him at the sheriff's office to him the clinic. The old doctor had retired to Florida a few months ago and the town had been trying to attract another doctor since. His contact was a Alex Murphy, the mayor of the town. He had never even spoken to the man. Their conversations had been conducted by e-mail, so he did not know what to expect.
OOC: I am looking for one female to play the role of Alex(andra) the town mayor. This is a Northern Exposure inspired game. This will be a light hearted, fish out of water game.
MegaraFoxfire The Shadow of Heros
Member
Seen
1 hr ago
I'm interested in the Crimson tide idea. Pm me when you get back online
OP
Lavender Blue Dilly Dilly, Lavender Green
TAKEN
Bert MacDonald knew he would marry her the moment he saw her, from across the room. It was only a matter of convincing the girl of what was sure to happen. He had driven half way across the county to attend the barn dance. His Model-T Ford was parked outside and waiting to drive the girl home, if she would agree.
Bert was a slender lad of nineteen years, with slicked back brown hair and a new tan suit. He had fine, but handsome features and big green eyes. He was a student at a local college, studying agriculture. His family owned a farm, and he was expected to follow in his father's footsteps, but until his father, his parents wanted him to get an education.
The barn chosen for the dance was a traditional red barn on the Thompson farm. The floor was covered in straw and lights were strung up for the dance. Girls in colorful dresses and boys were already out dancing, doing the dance steps as instructed by the caller. A fiddler and a washtub bass player provided the music. The boys were dressed in suits or clean overalls and were all locals. Bert was the only one here not from this town, but he was to meet his cousin Sally at the dance. Mother had told him to be nice to her. Sally was a pleasant girl, but shy and a bit of a wallflower.
After spotting the girl of his dreams, dancing with another boy, he spotted his cousin, predictably sitting by herself near the refreshment table. She had pale yellow hair and a narrow face. She was dressed in a hand-me down dress from her older sister which was not flattering to her rather slender figure. He waved at her and grinned.
OOC: I am looking for one female to join me. This is a period piece.
TAKEN
Bert MacDonald knew he would marry her the moment he saw her, from across the room. It was only a matter of convincing the girl of what was sure to happen. He had driven half way across the county to attend the barn dance. His Model-T Ford was parked outside and waiting to drive the girl home, if she would agree.
Bert was a slender lad of nineteen years, with slicked back brown hair and a new tan suit. He had fine, but handsome features and big green eyes. He was a student at a local college, studying agriculture. His family owned a farm, and he was expected to follow in his father's footsteps, but until his father, his parents wanted him to get an education.
The barn chosen for the dance was a traditional red barn on the Thompson farm. The floor was covered in straw and lights were strung up for the dance. Girls in colorful dresses and boys were already out dancing, doing the dance steps as instructed by the caller. A fiddler and a washtub bass player provided the music. The boys were dressed in suits or clean overalls and were all locals. Bert was the only one here not from this town, but he was to meet his cousin Sally at the dance. Mother had told him to be nice to her. Sally was a pleasant girl, but shy and a bit of a wallflower.
After spotting the girl of his dreams, dancing with another boy, he spotted his cousin, predictably sitting by herself near the refreshment table. She had pale yellow hair and a narrow face. She was dressed in a hand-me down dress from her older sister which was not flattering to her rather slender figure. He waved at her and grinned.
OOC: I am looking for one female to join me. This is a period piece.
OP
BUMP
OP
Bump
OP
It is about time for a new idea, but I am having writer's block. Therefore, this is a mere bump.
OP
bump
Luna Markiplier Fan
Member
Seen
1 yr ago
Do you have any ideas, PM me if you want to rp
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