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NeroMeowington
Moon
- Joined
- Dec 1, 2018
- Location
- Russia
Hello, good evening, and welcome to my humble abode.
I'm Nero, pleasure to make your acquaintance. I've been gone from text and erotic roleplay for a long, long time now: it's been almost three years since my last attempt. Right now, however, I'd like to get back into it. A small introduction at first. I'm a male, I've been in roleplaying for ten years. I started with a little game called Space Station 13, then moved on to forum roleplays. Nowadays I almost exclusively do TTRPG's (Call of Cthulhu 7e, Coriolis: The Third Horizon, Cyberpunk RED, Delta Green, D&D 5e, Mutants: Year Zero, Vampire: the Masquerade - 20th and 5th Editions, Shadowrun 5e), cursed with the Forever DM affliction unfortunately. I am also a fiction writer in my free time, with a preference for a descriptive, non-metaphorical writing style. Samples below:
Beware: Violence in Samples #2 and #3
The room was dark, dull, and grey. The air was still, motionless, stale from the overnight sweat on the bedsheets. The alarm clock on the phone that laid on the table that was painfully out of reach rang head-splittingly loudly. Snooze. Another one. One more. Thirty minutes of blissful respite from the world. It was time for Alexis to wake up now; work was thirty minutes away. A quick walk with the dog just enough for him to relieve himself. It was raining outside, the sort of unpleasant cold drizzle that forces one awake.
Halfway to the convenience store where he worked, Alexis looked into his pack of button cigarettes, and discovered disappointment: one lonely tobacco stick inside. He trudged towards the 24/7 store along the way. The cashier inside knew him – he was a regular in the evenings – but they always only had transactional dialogue.
"Bag?"
"No, thank you. Card, please."
A swipe.
"Good day."
"You too, sir."
It was three quarters past six in the morning in the late August, but it was still freezing outside, enough for Alexis to wear a light brown zipper coat, a black T-shirt, warm black jeans, and boots. He got to the store right by the start of his shift, at seven o'clock. It was dark inside, and the nightguard was smoking right outside the front door; something must've been wrong. It was the round-the-clock kind of establishment.
"Morning, Gene." Alexis quipped.
"Mornin' Alexis." The guard took a long drag. "Power's out in the whole neighbourhood."
"Ah. Figures." Alexis off-handedly motioned to the dark windows. "What do we do now?"
"We sit around and wait, paid to do nothing." Gene chuckled.
"Sounds good to me." Alexis lit a cigarette and stood quietly next to Gene for a couple of minutes. The rain was getting harder, denser; even standing under the canopy of the front entrance didn't stop the occasional drop from landing on Alexis' pants and boots. After the cigarettes were done, they silently agreed to go into the store and wait out the storm. The rain pitter-pattered on the large pane window overlooking the parking lot and the street beyond. Alexis sat on a chair in the cafeteria area of the store, left his backpack by his side, and rested his head on his arms. He still felt so very tired, and the rain nursed him to sleep.
Halfway to the convenience store where he worked, Alexis looked into his pack of button cigarettes, and discovered disappointment: one lonely tobacco stick inside. He trudged towards the 24/7 store along the way. The cashier inside knew him – he was a regular in the evenings – but they always only had transactional dialogue.
"Bag?"
"No, thank you. Card, please."
A swipe.
"Good day."
"You too, sir."
It was three quarters past six in the morning in the late August, but it was still freezing outside, enough for Alexis to wear a light brown zipper coat, a black T-shirt, warm black jeans, and boots. He got to the store right by the start of his shift, at seven o'clock. It was dark inside, and the nightguard was smoking right outside the front door; something must've been wrong. It was the round-the-clock kind of establishment.
"Morning, Gene." Alexis quipped.
"Mornin' Alexis." The guard took a long drag. "Power's out in the whole neighbourhood."
"Ah. Figures." Alexis off-handedly motioned to the dark windows. "What do we do now?"
"We sit around and wait, paid to do nothing." Gene chuckled.
"Sounds good to me." Alexis lit a cigarette and stood quietly next to Gene for a couple of minutes. The rain was getting harder, denser; even standing under the canopy of the front entrance didn't stop the occasional drop from landing on Alexis' pants and boots. After the cigarettes were done, they silently agreed to go into the store and wait out the storm. The rain pitter-pattered on the large pane window overlooking the parking lot and the street beyond. Alexis sat on a chair in the cafeteria area of the store, left his backpack by his side, and rested his head on his arms. He still felt so very tired, and the rain nursed him to sleep.
Anxious robed figures stalked the dilapidated factory floor. In the corner of the room dimly lit by candlelight was a mortified young woman stuffed into an iron cage that pleaded for mercy. The captors were drawing strange symbols on the concrete paved floor, others kept watch through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, and all of them wielded firearms.
A crimson-red Cadillac Coupe DeVille parked under the toxic yellow sodium streetlight. Two people stepped out of the vehicle. One was a younger man in a red biker jacket and ripped jeans. The other was an older fellow wearing a conservative black business suit and a wide-brimmed fedora. They nodded at each other and split up. The younger one fished out a portable speaker and a smartphone out of his pockets, cranked the volume up to max, and blasted an upbeat funky song that echoed through the silence of the desert, alerting everyone to his presence. The older man, in the meantime, circled around towards the backdoor and hid in the plentiful shadows, keeping his suppressed .45 H&K USP handy.
Hearing the music, the cultists scattered throughout the room, setting up an ambush. The young man leisurely paced through the mouldy, dark, abandoned hallways until he caught the distinct smell of burning candlewax behind large double doors. With a silent a-ha, he pulled two pistols, a Beretta 93R and a Glock 24, out from behind his waist and kicked the doors down, sending one of them flying off its hinges onto one unlucky miscreant.
"I brought the music, guys!" Shouted Jacket, stepping into the room. "Let's dance!"
Blink of an eye, he's gone. Gunshots ring deafeningly loud in confined spaces. Heads pop as Jacket moves seamlessly from man to man. A tight burst clips him in the ribs as he empties the magazine. In but a few seconds meat, bone, and gore that spread across the floor stream back towards him, recomposing Jacket's body. He smiles wickedly, runs up to another desperate soul, and tries to gun her down, but the gun is empty. He tosses it aside and gets clipped again. He disregards that, grabs the woman's skull and crushes it in his palms. Cultists begin to run towards the other exit. The Suit is waiting for them there, patiently, and the moment they burst through the door he disposes of them quickly and efficiently, two shots per body, one in the chest, one in the head. A symphony, a rhythm of death, bullets, and brawn that is perfectly calculated to match the beat of Jacket's chosen music of the night, and just as the song ends, the building goes quiet once more.
Only one sound remained. The lady in the cage curled up into a foetal position, covered her ears with her palms, and screamed in terror. Jacket approached her, effortlessly ripped the cage door with his bare hands, and climbed inside with her. She jumped in place and began pounding into his chest and face violently with her fists. He grabbed her arms and held her still. "Shh… it's okay. I won't hurt you."
It took her a moment to recognize the words spoken. She stared him down blankly for a minute, then broke down crying. Jacket gently wrapped his arms around her as Suit approached the cage. Suit reconned the premises, paying close attention to the tomes and the grim art on the walls, drawn in blood, as Jacket cradled the woman to serenity.
"Come on, darling, let's get out of this here cage now, alright?" Jacket said once the woman calmed down, and offered her a hand. She took it, and he helped her out gently and led her outside of the room with the sacrificial altar, placing her on the concrete steps in the next hall. "What's your name? Can you tell me your name?" Jacket asked.
"Lillian. I'm Lillian." She answered, sniffling.
"Okay, nice to meet you, Lily. I'm Alex." Jacket smiled broadly and warmly. "The other man with me is Garrett."
A crimson-red Cadillac Coupe DeVille parked under the toxic yellow sodium streetlight. Two people stepped out of the vehicle. One was a younger man in a red biker jacket and ripped jeans. The other was an older fellow wearing a conservative black business suit and a wide-brimmed fedora. They nodded at each other and split up. The younger one fished out a portable speaker and a smartphone out of his pockets, cranked the volume up to max, and blasted an upbeat funky song that echoed through the silence of the desert, alerting everyone to his presence. The older man, in the meantime, circled around towards the backdoor and hid in the plentiful shadows, keeping his suppressed .45 H&K USP handy.
Hearing the music, the cultists scattered throughout the room, setting up an ambush. The young man leisurely paced through the mouldy, dark, abandoned hallways until he caught the distinct smell of burning candlewax behind large double doors. With a silent a-ha, he pulled two pistols, a Beretta 93R and a Glock 24, out from behind his waist and kicked the doors down, sending one of them flying off its hinges onto one unlucky miscreant.
"I brought the music, guys!" Shouted Jacket, stepping into the room. "Let's dance!"
Blink of an eye, he's gone. Gunshots ring deafeningly loud in confined spaces. Heads pop as Jacket moves seamlessly from man to man. A tight burst clips him in the ribs as he empties the magazine. In but a few seconds meat, bone, and gore that spread across the floor stream back towards him, recomposing Jacket's body. He smiles wickedly, runs up to another desperate soul, and tries to gun her down, but the gun is empty. He tosses it aside and gets clipped again. He disregards that, grabs the woman's skull and crushes it in his palms. Cultists begin to run towards the other exit. The Suit is waiting for them there, patiently, and the moment they burst through the door he disposes of them quickly and efficiently, two shots per body, one in the chest, one in the head. A symphony, a rhythm of death, bullets, and brawn that is perfectly calculated to match the beat of Jacket's chosen music of the night, and just as the song ends, the building goes quiet once more.
Only one sound remained. The lady in the cage curled up into a foetal position, covered her ears with her palms, and screamed in terror. Jacket approached her, effortlessly ripped the cage door with his bare hands, and climbed inside with her. She jumped in place and began pounding into his chest and face violently with her fists. He grabbed her arms and held her still. "Shh… it's okay. I won't hurt you."
It took her a moment to recognize the words spoken. She stared him down blankly for a minute, then broke down crying. Jacket gently wrapped his arms around her as Suit approached the cage. Suit reconned the premises, paying close attention to the tomes and the grim art on the walls, drawn in blood, as Jacket cradled the woman to serenity.
"Come on, darling, let's get out of this here cage now, alright?" Jacket said once the woman calmed down, and offered her a hand. She took it, and he helped her out gently and led her outside of the room with the sacrificial altar, placing her on the concrete steps in the next hall. "What's your name? Can you tell me your name?" Jacket asked.
"Lillian. I'm Lillian." She answered, sniffling.
"Okay, nice to meet you, Lily. I'm Alex." Jacket smiled broadly and warmly. "The other man with me is Garrett."
In the heat of summer, 2013, a young teenager by the name of Eugene in the East End of London had just finished filming a video that would proceed to redefine the entire human history. With the power of his mind, he lifted thirty-kilogram dumbbell four feet off the floor. The video gained quite the traction, despite people originally believing it was just a clever hoax. That is, until Eugene had performed the same trick in front of several hundred people early afternoon on Trafalgar Square. No wires, no levers, the dumbbell wasn't full of helium, just raw, unadulterated power. June the 14th was the day; Friday, it happened to be. The day that telekinesis was discovered.
Within months from that day the world had changed in ways previously unimaginable. People sporting telekinetic abilities sprouted around the globe left, right, and centre. The profit-oriented individuals were the first to acknowledge the practicality – manual labour was ten times more efficient with ten times less required manpower. With enough practice and training, a telekinetic could rival a conveyor.
At the same time, some folks wondered, "Why crack a safe if you have telekinesis?" And a new brand of crime was born. People were found dead in their homes from what previously would be considered a heart attack, now a potential murder. Valuables were stolen from places previously thought impenetrable. Compiling on top of that were all the fellas who lost their entire way of living to the new freaks of nature. Protests turned into riots. Legislations were too slow compared to the gold rush. History once again was being written in blood. Once the dust had settled, the present day had come.
Cassidy MacManus was at a diner in Harlem, sipping coffee and watching cars pass by the window. He was a scrawny and tall kind of fellow, rocking ripped jeans and a red flannel shirt; messy stubble and red mirrored aviators adorning his face. The other customers and the personnel gave him odd looks every once in a while; partly justified by the fact that he didn't use his hands to lift the mug.
Cassidy was free today. He was free a lot as of late, as he was currently in-between jobs. The last job he had was a warehouse technician – a fancy term for a loader. Admittedly, he had it easier than most others; telekinesis was a handy tool for the job, but it also brought the increased demands. His boss was a thick bastard whose name he had already managed to forget; he didn't forget the restraining order on his tab though.
The better Cassidy performed, the more was asked of him and, eventually, his temper got the better of him. He made a point of breaking the boss's nose with his fist rather than using his power. Unfortunately, that honourable move didn't save him from being fired and from the subsequent court case.
Across the street from the diner Cassidy saw a street sweeper eating a hot-dog; his broom slowly gliding over the sidewalk. Cassidy chuckled with a snort; if they were blessed with such an incredible power, why most telekinetics he encountered, himself included, were stuck on the street level? He fished a flask out of his shirt's front pocket – coffee alone wasn't enough to lubricate his mind this morning.
A man that passed by spilled his beer on Cas. "Watch it, freak!"
"Or what? You gonna cry at me?" Cas grinned sickly, staring the bloke down as he turned around. The altercation attracted the attention of the other customers.
The man's face was full of contempt. "Or me and the others in this fine place will show how we treat assholes that stole our jobs from us!"
Cassidy started laughing, loudly. Same, old, tired argument. "Well come on, then, buddy. Make my day."
"What're you worth without your fancy power anyway?" The man's voice was shaking slightly. "What's so different 'tween you and me, huh? I worked the factory twenty years, one of you came along and I get sacked and for what?"
"I can tell you that much – I won't even have to use my power to crack your skull." Cassidy slurped on the whiskey-infused coffee obnoxiously. The alcohol and caffeine coursed through his system. The champion was ready to fight. Cassidy stood up and approached the man, smiling twistedly. "Wanna have a go?"
The men stared each other down. The upcoming violence lingered in the air, almost tangible. Some of the customers pulled out their phones – half to call the cops, half to film the occurrence. Fists balled up; postures taken.
The guy started with a jab, followed by a hook. Thrown off-balance, Cassidy was sent into the counter. He grabbed a salt shaker laying handy on the countertop and thrusted it into the man's head. The fight got messy quickly – the men were trading blows like no tomorrow, trashing the diner in the process; blood, spit, and sweat flying everywhere. The party was broken up quickly by the cops that burst into the diner through the front door. Without much questioning they broke the men up and cuffed them.
The officer that held Cassidy sighed. "Cassidy. Figures it'd be you." He said.
"What? C'mon, Hayden, he deserved it. Besides, I didn't even throw the first punch." Cassidy grinned.
"Whatever you say, pal."
After a long and tedious conversation with the patrons of the establishment, as well as both offended parties, the two police officers asked Cassidy if he wanted to press charges; an offer which he declined. It was clear, however, that Cassidy wasn't welcome in the establishment any longer, so the moment he felt like he was free to go, he stepped outside, lit a cigarette, and took in the aroma of the city. Hayden soon joined him; his partner disappearing into the car.
"How many times did I take you in?" Hayden asked.
"Don't know; kinda stopped counting after a while."
"Cassidy…" Hayden sighed. "You're not making it any better, you know. The way they treat us."
"So fucking what?" Cassidy looked at Hayden, casually swallowing blood from his split lip after taking a drag of his cigarette. "The dipshit was itching for a fight, I gave him one. If he has the guts to talk shit about me, better have the guts to get that shit kicked right back in."
Hayden shook his head. "There's a better way."
"Oh, and you've got it all figured out, don't you? A mover in blue, cuffing his own."
"You know that's not true!" Hayden exclaimed. "I encounter just as much shit as you do, if not more! I go to arrest normals and I'm the bogeyman, I arrest movers and I'm the fucking traitor, while I'm only here to uphold the god damn law!" He threw his hands up in exasperation. Both of them stood silently next to each other for a minute. Cassidy then pulled out another cigarette and offered it to Hayden.
"Thanks." Hayden said, lighting the cigarette up.
"Beer later tonight?"
"Do you even have money?"
"I still have a twenty left… That's enough for a beer, right?"
Hayden sighed again, this time with a wry chuckle. "Fine."
Within months from that day the world had changed in ways previously unimaginable. People sporting telekinetic abilities sprouted around the globe left, right, and centre. The profit-oriented individuals were the first to acknowledge the practicality – manual labour was ten times more efficient with ten times less required manpower. With enough practice and training, a telekinetic could rival a conveyor.
At the same time, some folks wondered, "Why crack a safe if you have telekinesis?" And a new brand of crime was born. People were found dead in their homes from what previously would be considered a heart attack, now a potential murder. Valuables were stolen from places previously thought impenetrable. Compiling on top of that were all the fellas who lost their entire way of living to the new freaks of nature. Protests turned into riots. Legislations were too slow compared to the gold rush. History once again was being written in blood. Once the dust had settled, the present day had come.
Cassidy MacManus was at a diner in Harlem, sipping coffee and watching cars pass by the window. He was a scrawny and tall kind of fellow, rocking ripped jeans and a red flannel shirt; messy stubble and red mirrored aviators adorning his face. The other customers and the personnel gave him odd looks every once in a while; partly justified by the fact that he didn't use his hands to lift the mug.
Cassidy was free today. He was free a lot as of late, as he was currently in-between jobs. The last job he had was a warehouse technician – a fancy term for a loader. Admittedly, he had it easier than most others; telekinesis was a handy tool for the job, but it also brought the increased demands. His boss was a thick bastard whose name he had already managed to forget; he didn't forget the restraining order on his tab though.
The better Cassidy performed, the more was asked of him and, eventually, his temper got the better of him. He made a point of breaking the boss's nose with his fist rather than using his power. Unfortunately, that honourable move didn't save him from being fired and from the subsequent court case.
Across the street from the diner Cassidy saw a street sweeper eating a hot-dog; his broom slowly gliding over the sidewalk. Cassidy chuckled with a snort; if they were blessed with such an incredible power, why most telekinetics he encountered, himself included, were stuck on the street level? He fished a flask out of his shirt's front pocket – coffee alone wasn't enough to lubricate his mind this morning.
A man that passed by spilled his beer on Cas. "Watch it, freak!"
"Or what? You gonna cry at me?" Cas grinned sickly, staring the bloke down as he turned around. The altercation attracted the attention of the other customers.
The man's face was full of contempt. "Or me and the others in this fine place will show how we treat assholes that stole our jobs from us!"
Cassidy started laughing, loudly. Same, old, tired argument. "Well come on, then, buddy. Make my day."
"What're you worth without your fancy power anyway?" The man's voice was shaking slightly. "What's so different 'tween you and me, huh? I worked the factory twenty years, one of you came along and I get sacked and for what?"
"I can tell you that much – I won't even have to use my power to crack your skull." Cassidy slurped on the whiskey-infused coffee obnoxiously. The alcohol and caffeine coursed through his system. The champion was ready to fight. Cassidy stood up and approached the man, smiling twistedly. "Wanna have a go?"
The men stared each other down. The upcoming violence lingered in the air, almost tangible. Some of the customers pulled out their phones – half to call the cops, half to film the occurrence. Fists balled up; postures taken.
The guy started with a jab, followed by a hook. Thrown off-balance, Cassidy was sent into the counter. He grabbed a salt shaker laying handy on the countertop and thrusted it into the man's head. The fight got messy quickly – the men were trading blows like no tomorrow, trashing the diner in the process; blood, spit, and sweat flying everywhere. The party was broken up quickly by the cops that burst into the diner through the front door. Without much questioning they broke the men up and cuffed them.
The officer that held Cassidy sighed. "Cassidy. Figures it'd be you." He said.
"What? C'mon, Hayden, he deserved it. Besides, I didn't even throw the first punch." Cassidy grinned.
"Whatever you say, pal."
After a long and tedious conversation with the patrons of the establishment, as well as both offended parties, the two police officers asked Cassidy if he wanted to press charges; an offer which he declined. It was clear, however, that Cassidy wasn't welcome in the establishment any longer, so the moment he felt like he was free to go, he stepped outside, lit a cigarette, and took in the aroma of the city. Hayden soon joined him; his partner disappearing into the car.
"How many times did I take you in?" Hayden asked.
"Don't know; kinda stopped counting after a while."
"Cassidy…" Hayden sighed. "You're not making it any better, you know. The way they treat us."
"So fucking what?" Cassidy looked at Hayden, casually swallowing blood from his split lip after taking a drag of his cigarette. "The dipshit was itching for a fight, I gave him one. If he has the guts to talk shit about me, better have the guts to get that shit kicked right back in."
Hayden shook his head. "There's a better way."
"Oh, and you've got it all figured out, don't you? A mover in blue, cuffing his own."
"You know that's not true!" Hayden exclaimed. "I encounter just as much shit as you do, if not more! I go to arrest normals and I'm the bogeyman, I arrest movers and I'm the fucking traitor, while I'm only here to uphold the god damn law!" He threw his hands up in exasperation. Both of them stood silently next to each other for a minute. Cassidy then pulled out another cigarette and offered it to Hayden.
"Thanks." Hayden said, lighting the cigarette up.
"Beer later tonight?"
"Do you even have money?"
"I still have a twenty left… That's enough for a beer, right?"
Hayden sighed again, this time with a wry chuckle. "Fine."
Now that we have established what I can and can't do for you, here's what I currently desire.
A cafe called "Velvet Brew Lounge" opened up recently in the city where night life is booming on most days. Curiously, the night shift is almost always manned by the owner - an effeminate male in his early-to-mid twenties who presents himself as Kaoru Williams, or simply Kaoru. He's extremely affable and charming - most customers leave with a sense of time well spent by conversing with him. Your character, for whatever reason, is a little more into Kaoru than a platonic relationship. What he'll find out is that Kaoru takes the night shift for a good reason - he's a monster that stalks the night, and you have been dragged into his unlife and all the pits and caveats that come with it.
I will be using the following face-claim for Kaoru, taken from the Internet:
Taboos:
- Watersports
- Scat
- Vore
- Underaged characters
- Racism
- Sexism
- Homophobia
- Transphobia