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Planetoid
- Joined
- Jul 15, 2024
ABOUT THE ROLEPLAYER
LOOKING FOR PLAYERS WHO:
NOPES
YEPS
CURRENT CRAVINGS
CANON CHARACTERS I'LL WRITE - No set pairings or plots, so come with your suggestions.
STARTER EXAMPLES - These are real examples of roleplay starters I have written in the recent past.
- 20+ years experience
- Will write male or female
- Will write protagonists and antagonists
- Will play anywhere on the dominant to submissive spectrum with preference for dominant
- Will write posts of all lengths, commensurate to the scene
- Open to most plot/smut ratios
- Will use threads, PMs or Discord
- Open to original stories and some fandom
- MxM or MxF
- Likes things a little bit dark and twisted
- Likes to chat and plot OOC
- Won't ghost you, but will let you know pretty quickly if it's not a good match
LOOKING FOR PLAYERS WHO:
- Enjoy crafting a good story
- Feel they are good storytellers and writers
- Post regularly, at least once every 2 - 3 days
- Are 25+ years old
- Are any gender
NOPES
- Bestiality
- Incest
- Under 18
- Extreme submissives
YEPS
- Slow burn romance
- Forced Proximity
- Enemies to Lovers
- Hate fucking
- Possessive/jealous
- Pining
- Dubious consent (to be discussed first)
- Engaging plots with character development
- High Fantasy
- Sci-Fi
- Magical realism
- Medieval
- Regency
- Modern
- A/B/O dynamic
- Heat/Rut
- Aliens made them do it
- Aphrodisiacs
- Robust foreplay
- Forbidden fruit
- Combat/violence
- Sharp, witty dialogue
- Attention to detail
- Show, don’t tell writing
CURRENT CRAVINGS
- Action/adventure plot where the characters are both formidable but need to work together to survive. (Instead of a damsel situation, which I’m also open to, but not craving.)
- Reluctant lovers pulled together by an undeniable mating bond. Magic? Alphas? Werewolves? Aliens? Let me know your preference.
- Serial killer pines for oblivious best friend and goes to great and disturbing lengths to keep them from falling for someone else.
- Eccentric, half-mad immortal in the modern world.
- Mad to play Draco/Hermione storylines. Post-Hogwarts. Beyond that I'm flexible to ideas.
CANON CHARACTERS I'LL WRITE - No set pairings or plots, so come with your suggestions.
- Spike (Buffy the Vampire Slayer)
- Amos Burton (The Expanse)
- Draco Malfoy (Harry Potter)
- Severus Snape (Harry Potter)
- James Moriarty (Sherlock BBC)
- John Watson (Sherlock BBC)
- Sherlock Holmes (Sherlock BBC)
- Eric Northman (True Blood)
STARTER EXAMPLES - These are real examples of roleplay starters I have written in the recent past.
“You’re space dust, Darrow,” crowed Mickey, and while he would have liked to have taken offense, Jack Darrow was too narrowly focused on the truth of Mickey’s claim to dwell upon the utter glee it brought him. Later, if Jack could aspire to such lofty concepts as later, he might spare a moment to tend to that casual devastation. Presently, he fired a warning shot past Mickey’s head to stop his swaggering approach. Jack’s back was to the airlock, the access panel just beside him. He had no doubt he could drop Mickey before he got within ten meters of the panel, but he knew Mickey wasn’t alone, at least not really.
Vesta Station hallways were locked up so tight with surveillance, you’d have to take a spacewalk across the asteroid herself to find a solitary place to piss. There was Commonwealth tech, bolted right out in the open to the bulkheads at even intervals throughout the station. Then there were the wartime relics from the time when Mars was free and Vesta was neutral, and every known power in the solar system was watching Ceres and Vesta through their own illicit comms networks and clenching their assholes. Jack wasn’t alive then. Jack’s grandparents weren’t alive then, but the receivers remained in their original working order in the hermetically sealed slums of Vesta Station. There were powerful families, too, who maintained their own networks, and who had the kind of influence required to, say, remotely open an airlock.
The pulse pistol was only good at close range in atmosphere. Any further than twenty or so meters and the pulse dissipated into a non-lethal jolt. Mickey glanced over his shoulder, presumably to watch the pulse crackle and die against the steel wall.
“I don’t wanna kill you,” Jack said, even though he’d already come to terms with the fact that he was probably going to.
“You sure about that, Jackie?” Mickey asked, tilting his head at Jack. “Because from where I’m standing it looks like all you ever want to do is get me killed.”
“That’s not - “ Jack started to say, and then he stopped. The arm propping up his pistol relaxed a little as his eyes shot to the ceiling and he ran through the facts as if counting.
Fact. It was Jack who stirred up trouble back on Mayflower Ganymede. But that was when Jack was just a skinny kid with pimples and Mickey had been a grown ass man, and he should have told Jack there were right people and wrong people to hurt.
Fact. Jack escaped to live it up with the marines while Mickey stayed behind to make amends with Station Security and the gangs. He was ruined after Jack. What little influence he had managed to acquire, as Mickey told it, was ripped from him and he spent the next decade scraping by as a low level toady. Meanwhile Jack was puddle hopping around the system, playing with next gen toys of war and eating Commonwealth food for every meal, often three times a day.
Fact. Mickey was living some semblance of a life when Jack tracked him down after the marines. And Jack fucked that up when he’d fixed his eye. He’d let slip that Mickey loaned him the money for the eye when Mickey himself had debts, and once again Jack found himself leaving the Mayflower Ganymede in a big hurry. This time he did not leave Mickey behind.
Fact. Today, now, after five relatively uneventful years on Vesta Station, Jack was up to his eyeballs in it again. The eldest Barsavi boy was lying in an emergency medical bay three dozen levels above his head at that very moment, out of his mind on sedatives and painkillers, broken. The Barsavis were the wrong people to hurt and Jack had hurt the little crime prince with uncommon thoroughness.
“Well, fine. On some subconscious level, yeah, I probably do want you to die,” Jack said, idly scratching his beard with the muzzle of his pulse pistol. You couldn’t argue with a track record like his. “But I don’t want to fry your noodle right this second, so get out of my way.”
“You know I can’t,” said the old man, shrugging.
Jack knew he couldn’t. They had an audience. If he let Jack escape, he was dead. If he tried to take Jack down, he was dead.
“Come with me?” Jack asked.
“You know I can’t,” Mickey said again, wistful now. Jack knew it was a ridiculous suggestion before he said it. Mickey was too old, and he was spaceborn. There was no gene therapy for Mickey. There was no gene therapy for most of the kids who grew up in the Mayflower Ganymede reactor chamber. They grew old and brittle so much faster than the giants who were raised on the surfaces of the planets. Spaceborn died as young men and women. Jack couldn’t deny this reality because he used to share in it. He’d said it because he felt like he was supposed to, a gentlemanly bit of ceremony between old friends. He’d said it because he wanted Mickey’s permission to kill him in cold blood, and now he had it.
“Yeah, I do,” said Jack on a regretful little sigh. He leveled the pistol at Mickey and put a pulse blast directly between his eyes. Mickey was brain dead before he hit the floor, falling with exaggerated slowness in the station’s low gravity. Airlock warning chimes began gently ringing in the hallway and Jack flashed a mirthless smile at the camera in the corner before sprinting down the corridor and through the slowly closing hatch door.
Vesta Station hallways were locked up so tight with surveillance, you’d have to take a spacewalk across the asteroid herself to find a solitary place to piss. There was Commonwealth tech, bolted right out in the open to the bulkheads at even intervals throughout the station. Then there were the wartime relics from the time when Mars was free and Vesta was neutral, and every known power in the solar system was watching Ceres and Vesta through their own illicit comms networks and clenching their assholes. Jack wasn’t alive then. Jack’s grandparents weren’t alive then, but the receivers remained in their original working order in the hermetically sealed slums of Vesta Station. There were powerful families, too, who maintained their own networks, and who had the kind of influence required to, say, remotely open an airlock.
The pulse pistol was only good at close range in atmosphere. Any further than twenty or so meters and the pulse dissipated into a non-lethal jolt. Mickey glanced over his shoulder, presumably to watch the pulse crackle and die against the steel wall.
“I don’t wanna kill you,” Jack said, even though he’d already come to terms with the fact that he was probably going to.
“You sure about that, Jackie?” Mickey asked, tilting his head at Jack. “Because from where I’m standing it looks like all you ever want to do is get me killed.”
“That’s not - “ Jack started to say, and then he stopped. The arm propping up his pistol relaxed a little as his eyes shot to the ceiling and he ran through the facts as if counting.
Fact. It was Jack who stirred up trouble back on Mayflower Ganymede. But that was when Jack was just a skinny kid with pimples and Mickey had been a grown ass man, and he should have told Jack there were right people and wrong people to hurt.
Fact. Jack escaped to live it up with the marines while Mickey stayed behind to make amends with Station Security and the gangs. He was ruined after Jack. What little influence he had managed to acquire, as Mickey told it, was ripped from him and he spent the next decade scraping by as a low level toady. Meanwhile Jack was puddle hopping around the system, playing with next gen toys of war and eating Commonwealth food for every meal, often three times a day.
Fact. Mickey was living some semblance of a life when Jack tracked him down after the marines. And Jack fucked that up when he’d fixed his eye. He’d let slip that Mickey loaned him the money for the eye when Mickey himself had debts, and once again Jack found himself leaving the Mayflower Ganymede in a big hurry. This time he did not leave Mickey behind.
Fact. Today, now, after five relatively uneventful years on Vesta Station, Jack was up to his eyeballs in it again. The eldest Barsavi boy was lying in an emergency medical bay three dozen levels above his head at that very moment, out of his mind on sedatives and painkillers, broken. The Barsavis were the wrong people to hurt and Jack had hurt the little crime prince with uncommon thoroughness.
“Well, fine. On some subconscious level, yeah, I probably do want you to die,” Jack said, idly scratching his beard with the muzzle of his pulse pistol. You couldn’t argue with a track record like his. “But I don’t want to fry your noodle right this second, so get out of my way.”
“You know I can’t,” said the old man, shrugging.
Jack knew he couldn’t. They had an audience. If he let Jack escape, he was dead. If he tried to take Jack down, he was dead.
“Come with me?” Jack asked.
“You know I can’t,” Mickey said again, wistful now. Jack knew it was a ridiculous suggestion before he said it. Mickey was too old, and he was spaceborn. There was no gene therapy for Mickey. There was no gene therapy for most of the kids who grew up in the Mayflower Ganymede reactor chamber. They grew old and brittle so much faster than the giants who were raised on the surfaces of the planets. Spaceborn died as young men and women. Jack couldn’t deny this reality because he used to share in it. He’d said it because he felt like he was supposed to, a gentlemanly bit of ceremony between old friends. He’d said it because he wanted Mickey’s permission to kill him in cold blood, and now he had it.
“Yeah, I do,” said Jack on a regretful little sigh. He leveled the pistol at Mickey and put a pulse blast directly between his eyes. Mickey was brain dead before he hit the floor, falling with exaggerated slowness in the station’s low gravity. Airlock warning chimes began gently ringing in the hallway and Jack flashed a mirthless smile at the camera in the corner before sprinting down the corridor and through the slowly closing hatch door.
Draco Malfoy apparated into Flourish and Blotts with a soft pop and found it rather more crowded than he’d expected for a week night so near closing time, particularly with the spitting wet snow outside. He learned while waiting to pay that there had been a reading by some local herbology luminary, with wine and some sort of honeyed confections whose scent still lingered in the air. It was an astonishingly well attended event considering Draco had never heard of said luminary and in fact managed to forget their name before he completed his purchase. It was evidently winding down and the guests put on their winter layers and ambled toward the front door just as Draco was preparing to leave, himself. They flowed toward the exit without bothering to finish their conversations, so that as they walked they said long, slow goodbyes and moved in great awkward clusters of three and four and the exodus predictably bottlenecked near the front. The departing witches and wizards so thoroughly gummed the works that Draco found himself unable to disapparate due to the risk of splinching an innocent bystander whose elbow was pressed firmly into his hip. He allowed himself to be jostled out the door with the others, where they dispersed in all directions, leaving Draco feeling faintly violated and in need of a shower.
On the street Draco noticed that the smell of honey was not, in fact, emanating from the bookshop. It was stronger now, outside on the street, and it wasn’t honey at all. It was less cloying than that, but still sweet and perhaps faintly floral. Forgetting himself momentarily, Draco stood scenting the air while fat feathery snowflakes smacked wetly against his hair, his mother’s book forgotten under his arm.
The bookshop door jangled and a few stragglers left down the street and Draco breathed deep, wondering at the familiarity of the aroma. It seemed to stir in him some latent memory that wouldn’t quite surface and he felt compelled to chase it down and tease it free, remember its secrets. It was a good smell, he thought with that other distant part of him, who rarely thought in terms more complicated than good and bad and mine. He might have remained there transfixed for several minutes more if not for the next moment, when a last departing witch stepped out of Flourish and Blott’s and brushed past him and he knew immediately that it was her who smelled like that, like she needed him.
Draco swayed dangerously on his feet and only became aware he’d reached out for the witch when he closed his hands around empty air, thank Merlin, and she breezed on by without a single glance in Draco’s direction, like she had no idea he was there. It was obscene, an omega out in public during her heat, but that’s what she was. He’d never met an omega in the flesh and yet he was certain of this fact, the way he'd always known it might be if he were ever so lucky as to encounter one. Draco knew, his body knew that the young woman disappearing down the darkened street was for him, that she would fit around him like a custom order and she would be lucky, no, grateful to be looked after by him.
As much as he physically ached to chase after the omega, as prettily as her pheromones sang to Draco, his gut still twisted with revulsion. For himself, for his consistently black fucking luck. Of course, it would be Hermione fucking Granger who, without sparing him a single thought, left Draco wrecked and aching in the middle of Diagon Alley. She couldn’t have been anyone else, he thought bitterly. Anyone other than the girl he’d chosen to torment through 6th year, who he’d allowed to be tortured, for fuck’s sake. Anyone else and he’d have called after her, introduced himself, charmed and cajoled and name dropped his way into a date. But that wouldn’t work on Granger; she knew him too well. She saw him for the sniveling little shit he used to be, not the man he was trying to grow into. She’d take one look at him and laugh, as if he’d be the idiotic one, chasing after an unmated omega, out all alone after dark in her fucking heat.
Draco realized with faint, distant horror that he was, in fact, chasing after an unmated omega out all alone after dark in her fucking heat. He hadn’t willed it, but his feet no longer seemed to require his permission to glide along stealthily behind Granger, his rational mind tucked away someplace safe while he was tugged along by her gravity. She wasn’t for him, of course she wasn’t, but could he really be expected to let her walk away from him smelling like she did? He imagined peeling back her winter layers to see if she looked as good as she smelled and felt a primal sense of yes reverberate down his spine. Fuck, he wanted her, but he thought he could also content himself on just this, skulking in her wake until she was somewhere with a door and a deadbolt and no alphas in scenting range. He could be fine just knowing no one else was having her, he thought, even if he wasn’t.
He went on like this much longer than he intended to, considering he hadn’t meant to follow her at all. He listened to her block heels hammering the pavement, wondering how she could stand it, how she could possibly not know her heat was upon her, but surely Granger couldn’t possibly know. She’d never be this stupid, would she? He could laugh. He could burst into hysterics. He was losing his mind. He could have a taste - a small one.
He was snapped back from the brink of madness quite suddenly by a shift in the wind. There was fear suddenly, mixed with the offensive musk of another alpha. Ahead, Granger’s small form darted right into an alleyway and a larger, faster form followed after her. Draco broke into a sweat and launched into a sprint after them, his vision skewing red at the edges, instantly enraged.
On the street Draco noticed that the smell of honey was not, in fact, emanating from the bookshop. It was stronger now, outside on the street, and it wasn’t honey at all. It was less cloying than that, but still sweet and perhaps faintly floral. Forgetting himself momentarily, Draco stood scenting the air while fat feathery snowflakes smacked wetly against his hair, his mother’s book forgotten under his arm.
The bookshop door jangled and a few stragglers left down the street and Draco breathed deep, wondering at the familiarity of the aroma. It seemed to stir in him some latent memory that wouldn’t quite surface and he felt compelled to chase it down and tease it free, remember its secrets. It was a good smell, he thought with that other distant part of him, who rarely thought in terms more complicated than good and bad and mine. He might have remained there transfixed for several minutes more if not for the next moment, when a last departing witch stepped out of Flourish and Blott’s and brushed past him and he knew immediately that it was her who smelled like that, like she needed him.
Draco swayed dangerously on his feet and only became aware he’d reached out for the witch when he closed his hands around empty air, thank Merlin, and she breezed on by without a single glance in Draco’s direction, like she had no idea he was there. It was obscene, an omega out in public during her heat, but that’s what she was. He’d never met an omega in the flesh and yet he was certain of this fact, the way he'd always known it might be if he were ever so lucky as to encounter one. Draco knew, his body knew that the young woman disappearing down the darkened street was for him, that she would fit around him like a custom order and she would be lucky, no, grateful to be looked after by him.
As much as he physically ached to chase after the omega, as prettily as her pheromones sang to Draco, his gut still twisted with revulsion. For himself, for his consistently black fucking luck. Of course, it would be Hermione fucking Granger who, without sparing him a single thought, left Draco wrecked and aching in the middle of Diagon Alley. She couldn’t have been anyone else, he thought bitterly. Anyone other than the girl he’d chosen to torment through 6th year, who he’d allowed to be tortured, for fuck’s sake. Anyone else and he’d have called after her, introduced himself, charmed and cajoled and name dropped his way into a date. But that wouldn’t work on Granger; she knew him too well. She saw him for the sniveling little shit he used to be, not the man he was trying to grow into. She’d take one look at him and laugh, as if he’d be the idiotic one, chasing after an unmated omega, out all alone after dark in her fucking heat.
Draco realized with faint, distant horror that he was, in fact, chasing after an unmated omega out all alone after dark in her fucking heat. He hadn’t willed it, but his feet no longer seemed to require his permission to glide along stealthily behind Granger, his rational mind tucked away someplace safe while he was tugged along by her gravity. She wasn’t for him, of course she wasn’t, but could he really be expected to let her walk away from him smelling like she did? He imagined peeling back her winter layers to see if she looked as good as she smelled and felt a primal sense of yes reverberate down his spine. Fuck, he wanted her, but he thought he could also content himself on just this, skulking in her wake until she was somewhere with a door and a deadbolt and no alphas in scenting range. He could be fine just knowing no one else was having her, he thought, even if he wasn’t.
He went on like this much longer than he intended to, considering he hadn’t meant to follow her at all. He listened to her block heels hammering the pavement, wondering how she could stand it, how she could possibly not know her heat was upon her, but surely Granger couldn’t possibly know. She’d never be this stupid, would she? He could laugh. He could burst into hysterics. He was losing his mind. He could have a taste - a small one.
He was snapped back from the brink of madness quite suddenly by a shift in the wind. There was fear suddenly, mixed with the offensive musk of another alpha. Ahead, Granger’s small form darted right into an alleyway and a larger, faster form followed after her. Draco broke into a sweat and launched into a sprint after them, his vision skewing red at the edges, instantly enraged.
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