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PenCraft
Moon
- Joined
- May 14, 2020
Hello there, you wonderful word-weaving humans!
Thanks for stopping by my request thread! It's been ages since I made one of these, mostly because I like to keep things flexible so I like to be the one to initiate first contact and tailor my introduction to the person specifically. When someone reaches out to me with at least a semi interesting idea and can write competently, I'm usually game no matter the setting, pairing, or character type. I tend to mirror my partner's style in both length and tone, and I always create fresh characters for each new story. Because I thrive off collaboration and "yes and" style writing, it's tough for me to make a strict list of "requirements". Different writers bring out different things in me, and that's half the fun!
So here is why I don't keep an RT around usually. I know how it goes. You find one tiny thing in someone's RT that doesn't perfectly match your preferences, and suddenly, you're clicking away, convinced it's a no-go. No judgment, I do the same thing. I'll absolutely stalk someone's BM account before reaching out. But here's the thing: I don't want you to judge a book by its cover. If there's something here that doesn't align 100%, just ask! I am far more flexible than you think.
If you're even remotely interested in writing with me, just reach out. I'm open to a ton of genres, themes, and dynamics. If you're here for the hard no's, skip to the end. Otherwise, let's get into the good stuff!
Basics
How to Start a Conversation with Me
Plot Starters
That's right, we're diving right in. Respond to one of the following starters, then send me a separate DM with an introduction to yourself, along with any thoughts or changes you have. Keep in mind these are just starters. I don't usually write with this much length or detail, although sometimes I do... Either way, I don't expect you to match the length of these. Also, feel free to send me your own starter, whether inspired by my prompts or not.
Setting: Modern. Any decade the 80's till now.
MC: A young high school senior (18), a dedicated athlete, and a boy who has always felt different. He knows he's attracted to men, but in his small town, that's not something he can admit. Not to his family, not to his teammates, not even to himself sometimes. With graduation looming, the need to escape, to finally be himself, is becoming unbearable. The closer he gets to leaving, the more desperate he feels to taste what he's been denying.
YC: A recently divorced man, new to town with a daughter MC's age. He's not flashy or attention-seeking, but he takes care of himself. Strong, steady, effortlessly attractive. And while he doesn't ask for attention, he gets it. Especially from the single moms who circle him like vultures. MC notices too. More than he should.
Pairing: MxM. YC, Dom x MC, Sub
Expectation/Plot: YC's daughter is wild, beautiful, and rebellious, the kind of girl MC should want. When she takes an interest in him, he sees an opportunity. Being with her means being near her dad. At first, YC watches from a distance, amused by the situation but not entirely surprised. But then he starts to see the way MC looks at him. It starts as a challenge.
Kinks: Bondage, feminization, forced dress (school girl skirts, tights and lingerie), blow jobs, virginity, age gap.
The scent of grilled burgers and burnt sparklers hung thick in the cul-de-sac, clashing with the sharp bite of chlorine from the inflatable pool someone had set up in a driveway. The air was heavy, humid, thick enough to press against his skin. Lawn chairs cluttered the pavement, staked-out territories for the fireworks show later, while kids darted through the chaos, shrieking like live firecrackers themselves. The dads were already getting reckless with the illegal stuff, lighting fuses with smug grins and quick glances over their shoulders in case a cop rolled by.
Elliot sat at the edge of a folding table, the aluminum legs wobbling every time someone bumped into it. His fingers worked at the damp label on his soda bottle, peeling it back strip by strip, pretending to listen as Noah rattled on about some pointless fight with his girlfriend. One more year. One more year, and he'd be gone. Out of this town, out of this street where the biggest drama was whether Mr. Benson would torch his hedge again with his bottle rockets.
His eyes flicked up past the bottle in his hand to see him, the man who had bought the Riley's home over the summer. He was standing by the grill, one hand shoved into the pocket of his khaki shorts, the other wrapped around a sweating beer bottle. Laughing, easy and confident, at something one of the single moms had said. The kind of laugh that wasn't forced or awkward, but real, like he actually found this whole scene amusing. Like he wasn't just humoring them.
Elliot didn't know his name yet. He and his daughter had only moved in last week. But it didn't matter. The details didn't matter. What mattered was that he didn't belong here, not in this world of overcooked hot dogs and endless PTA gossip. He was too sharp-edged, too composed. His stubble was just a little too deliberate, his posture too relaxed. Even the way he held his beer, loose and effortless, felt different... And Elliot wasn't the only one who had noticed.
Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Garcia had practically formed a perimeter around him, their voices syrupy and too loud, their heads tipping back in exaggerated laughter. He smiled at them, all polite charm, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
Elliot's pulse kicked up, a tight coil winding in his stomach. He tore off another strip of the soda label, rolling it between his fingers until it crumbled. Then he felt it. A gaze. Her gaze. The daughter.
She had her dad's dark hair but not his effortless ease. Hers was sharper, hungrier. Her green eyes cut through the humid air like a knife, locked onto him. She sat perched on the arm of a lawn chair, twirling a dying sparkler between her fingers, the last embers flickering out. And she was smiling.
Elliot swallowed hard and looked away, but not fast enough. The heat on the back of his neck wasn't just from the sweltering July night. He should go talk to her. That's what normal guys would do.
But his eyes betrayed him, flicking back to where her dad stood. The stretch of his forearm as he gestured, the way his fingers tapped against the glass of his beer bottle, the slow curve of his smirk...
...Shit...
Setting: Old West
MC: A criminal running from the law but forced to turn back with intentions of turning himself in to save his brother.
YC: Whoever your wildest imagination would like to be.
Paring: Any
Expectation/Plot: None. Let's see what happens.
Gabriel "Gabe" Herrera had been running for a long time. Through dust-choked canyons, over wind-scoured plains, across rivers black and swollen with spring melt and now here he was, fixin to head back the way he came.
Gabriel had always been the reckless brother, the dreamer, the one who never thought past tomorrow. When the two of them had robbed that bank in Texas, Miguel, the older of the two, had known it would end badly. The U.S. Marshal had reached for his gun, Gabriel had panicked, and before either of them knew what had happened, the lawman was bleeding out on the floor. They had fled in the night. Both got away successfully and decided it was safter to split ways. Miguel headed back home, to Mexico, but Gabe wanted to see the coast, but by the time Gabe got wind of Miguel's whereabouts, his brother had already been caught.
The posters named them both, killers, thieves, outlaws. But it was Miguel who sat in a cell in Wyoming, and it was Miguel who would hang for the Marshal's death unless Gabe did the one thing that might save him.
Turn himself in.
The Absaroka Range loomed in the distance, jagged as broken teeth, dusted white at their peaks. His horse was tired, its hooves dragging in the soft loam, but Gabe urged it forward. A little bit further and they would make camp. But fate had other plans.
The first arrow came so fast he didn't hear it, only felt the sharp bloom of pain as it grazed his shoulder. His horse reared, screaming, as another arrow buried deep into its flank. Gabe hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from his lungs. By the time he rolled to his feet, gun in hand, they were already on him.
Lakota warriors, six, maybe seven, descended like ghosts from the trees. One smashed a rifle butt across his face, sending him sprawling. Another drove a heal into his ribs. The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was the sky, endless and cold, like a God that had long since turned its back.
Gabe awoke to laughter and the feeling of hot piss running down his face.
The world smelled of dirt and blood. He couldn't move. Only his head remained above the ground. He was buried up to his neck, the cold Montana earth packed tight around his body. His face throbbed, swollen from the beating. Blood had dried on his lips, cracked and tasting of iron.
The warriors were celebrating, their voices rising in the night air. Fires burned in the distance, casting long shadows that danced against the trees. Gabe forced himself to focus, to make out their faces in the firelight. Some were young, barely men. Others were seasoned, with the hard stares of those who had seen too much war.
A boy, no older than sixteen, stepped closer, crouching near his face. He spoke in Lakota, the words foreign and sharp, but there was no mistaking the gleam of amusement in his eyes. He reached out and flicked Gabe's nose like one might taunt a stray dog. The others laughed.
Gabe swallowed back his fury. He knew what this was. He was a trophy. A game. They'd leave him here to suffer, to go mad under the weight of the earth. Maybe an animal would find him first. A coyote, a wolf. Maybe they'd come back in the morning and scalp him. Maybe they'd just leave him for the sun to finish.
The cold was already seeping into his bones. His breath came in shallow bursts, each one harder to pull in than the last. Above him, the sky stretched wide and endless. The stars blurred at the edges.
He'd outrun a noose, dodged bullets, and cheated death a dozen times. But now, buried alive in the middle of nowhere, he finally understood. There was no running anymore. His vision swam. His heartbeat slowed. And as the laughter of his captors echoed in the night, Gabriel Herrera slipped back into the waiting dark.
Hard No's
If you made it this far, you deserve a cookie. Or a writing partner. Or both.
Thanks for stopping by my request thread! It's been ages since I made one of these, mostly because I like to keep things flexible so I like to be the one to initiate first contact and tailor my introduction to the person specifically. When someone reaches out to me with at least a semi interesting idea and can write competently, I'm usually game no matter the setting, pairing, or character type. I tend to mirror my partner's style in both length and tone, and I always create fresh characters for each new story. Because I thrive off collaboration and "yes and" style writing, it's tough for me to make a strict list of "requirements". Different writers bring out different things in me, and that's half the fun!
So here is why I don't keep an RT around usually. I know how it goes. You find one tiny thing in someone's RT that doesn't perfectly match your preferences, and suddenly, you're clicking away, convinced it's a no-go. No judgment, I do the same thing. I'll absolutely stalk someone's BM account before reaching out. But here's the thing: I don't want you to judge a book by its cover. If there's something here that doesn't align 100%, just ask! I am far more flexible than you think.
If you're even remotely interested in writing with me, just reach out. I'm open to a ton of genres, themes, and dynamics. If you're here for the hard no's, skip to the end. Otherwise, let's get into the good stuff!
Basics
- Pairings: I primarily write MxM but also do MxF, FxM, and the occasional FxF. All of the above with some NB thrown in here and there.
- Roles: I tend to write dominant characters most often, but I actually love playing switches and subs too. I just don't get as many requests for them.
- Post Length: I match my partner. My posts can hit 500+ words easily when diving into setting, character thoughts, and world-building, but I keep it shorter in fast-paced conversations or action-heavy scenes to keep things flowing.
- Pacing: I have recently been diagnosed as a shotgun RPer. I'll rapid-fire posts when work is slow, but when things get busy, I might be MIA for days (or even weeks). I run my own business, so my schedule is unpredictable. Right now things are a little slow for the next month. Hence why I am taking the time to put an RT together. If I bump this in the future, it also means I have some time on my hands. (If you're a past partner I vanished on, I'm so sorry! I promise I didn't mean to ghost you and I want you back! If you want to pick up where we left off or start something new, I'd love to rekindle our writing.)
- Planning Style: I don't love over-plotting before we start. Of course, we should make sure we're a good fit, but I'd rather just jump in and see what happens. My early checklist is usually: basic setting + plot, face claims (if we are using them), and who's starting. Once we get rolling, we can build more details together. If I wanted to plan an entire story before writing, I'd just write solo. We can always talk about details and plot points as we move forward.
- Other: Don't let the upbeat and playful tone of my RT fool you. I love dark themes with unsettling elements. That said, I also have a soft spot for slice-of-life stories.
How to Start a Conversation with Me
- Just send a starter and introduce yourself afterward! I love this.
- Say hi, tell me about your style, and what you're looking for.
- Send me a plot you worked on with someone else and were excited about but never got to play out. I love these!
- Share a song or picture that inspires you, and let me throw a starter at you based on the vibes.
- Pick one of the plot starters below ( more coming soon) and send me a reply.
- Overlapping conversations. If YC asks two questions in one post, MC has to answer both. Then YC responds to answer #1 before circling back to #2, and suddenly, we have two separate conversations spiraling in different directions. It gets messy.
- Ignoring fresh details. I don't expect you to remember something from five pages ago, but if I just revealed something and it's completely ignored, it kills the flow a little.
- Constant typos or just lazy writing. We live in an amazing world of autocorrect, Grammarly, and so on. A few typos hear and there won't bother me, but multiple mistakes in one sentence will likely make me lose interest.
Plot Starters
That's right, we're diving right in. Respond to one of the following starters, then send me a separate DM with an introduction to yourself, along with any thoughts or changes you have. Keep in mind these are just starters. I don't usually write with this much length or detail, although sometimes I do... Either way, I don't expect you to match the length of these. Also, feel free to send me your own starter, whether inspired by my prompts or not.
Setting: Modern but really any decade in the last 100 years would fit.
MC: A blank slate, ready to be molded into a story.
YC: Whoever your wildest imagination would like to be.
Paring: Any
Expectation/Plot: None. This is a free for all. Let's see what comes up!
The door swung open with a low creak, letting in a gust of humid summer air and the scent of wet pavement. The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where the wood was worn smooth from decades of elbows, and the hum of conversation never quite dipped low enough for true quiet. A bluesy guitar riff crooned from the jukebox, underscored by the occasional clink of glasses.
He stepped inside, shaking the rain from his jacket before draping it over his arm. Tall, lean, and effortlessly poised. The low light caught the sharp angles of his face. Cheekbones carved like something out of marble, a jawline softened only by the faintest hint of stubble. His hair, dark and unruly from the damp, curled slightly at the nape of his neck. A single droplet of rain trailed from his temple down to his collarbone before he wiped it away with an absent flick of his fingers.
He hesitated just long enough to take in the room. The place wasn't crowded, but it wasn't dead either. A trio of bikers hunched over their beers near the back, their laughter rolling low and throaty. A woman in red leaned against the far wall, one long leg crossed over the other, swirling amber liquid in her glass. The bartender, a handsome man who looked like he'd seen too much and regretted none of it, raised an eyebrow in silent question.
The man walked toward the bar, each step unhurried, deliberate. He slipped onto a stool, resting his forearms on the scratched wooden surface. "Whiskey," he said, voice smooth but with an edge of something unplaceable. "Neat."
The bartender nodded and poured without a word. The glass hit the bar with a quiet thunk, and the man wrapped his fingers around it, savoring the coolness against his palm before taking a slow sip. The burn of the whiskey spread through him, grounding him.
He wasn't here by accident. This bar, this town, was just another pin on the map, another stop along a road that stretched farther than he cared to admit. He didn't linger anywhere for long. But tonight, he was here. And that was enough.
He let his gaze drift across the room, not searching, not expecting, just observing. He tapped his fingers against the side of his glass, lost in thought. Outside, the rain picked up again, pattering against the window in a steady rhythm. He took another sip of whiskey and exhaled slowly.
MC: A blank slate, ready to be molded into a story.
YC: Whoever your wildest imagination would like to be.
Paring: Any
Expectation/Plot: None. This is a free for all. Let's see what comes up!
The door swung open with a low creak, letting in a gust of humid summer air and the scent of wet pavement. The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where the wood was worn smooth from decades of elbows, and the hum of conversation never quite dipped low enough for true quiet. A bluesy guitar riff crooned from the jukebox, underscored by the occasional clink of glasses.
He stepped inside, shaking the rain from his jacket before draping it over his arm. Tall, lean, and effortlessly poised. The low light caught the sharp angles of his face. Cheekbones carved like something out of marble, a jawline softened only by the faintest hint of stubble. His hair, dark and unruly from the damp, curled slightly at the nape of his neck. A single droplet of rain trailed from his temple down to his collarbone before he wiped it away with an absent flick of his fingers.
He hesitated just long enough to take in the room. The place wasn't crowded, but it wasn't dead either. A trio of bikers hunched over their beers near the back, their laughter rolling low and throaty. A woman in red leaned against the far wall, one long leg crossed over the other, swirling amber liquid in her glass. The bartender, a handsome man who looked like he'd seen too much and regretted none of it, raised an eyebrow in silent question.
The man walked toward the bar, each step unhurried, deliberate. He slipped onto a stool, resting his forearms on the scratched wooden surface. "Whiskey," he said, voice smooth but with an edge of something unplaceable. "Neat."
The bartender nodded and poured without a word. The glass hit the bar with a quiet thunk, and the man wrapped his fingers around it, savoring the coolness against his palm before taking a slow sip. The burn of the whiskey spread through him, grounding him.
He wasn't here by accident. This bar, this town, was just another pin on the map, another stop along a road that stretched farther than he cared to admit. He didn't linger anywhere for long. But tonight, he was here. And that was enough.
He let his gaze drift across the room, not searching, not expecting, just observing. He tapped his fingers against the side of his glass, lost in thought. Outside, the rain picked up again, pattering against the window in a steady rhythm. He took another sip of whiskey and exhaled slowly.
Setting: Modern. Any decade the 80's till now.
MC: A young high school senior (18), a dedicated athlete, and a boy who has always felt different. He knows he's attracted to men, but in his small town, that's not something he can admit. Not to his family, not to his teammates, not even to himself sometimes. With graduation looming, the need to escape, to finally be himself, is becoming unbearable. The closer he gets to leaving, the more desperate he feels to taste what he's been denying.
YC: A recently divorced man, new to town with a daughter MC's age. He's not flashy or attention-seeking, but he takes care of himself. Strong, steady, effortlessly attractive. And while he doesn't ask for attention, he gets it. Especially from the single moms who circle him like vultures. MC notices too. More than he should.
Pairing: MxM. YC, Dom x MC, Sub
Expectation/Plot: YC's daughter is wild, beautiful, and rebellious, the kind of girl MC should want. When she takes an interest in him, he sees an opportunity. Being with her means being near her dad. At first, YC watches from a distance, amused by the situation but not entirely surprised. But then he starts to see the way MC looks at him. It starts as a challenge.
Kinks: Bondage, feminization, forced dress (school girl skirts, tights and lingerie), blow jobs, virginity, age gap.
The scent of grilled burgers and burnt sparklers hung thick in the cul-de-sac, clashing with the sharp bite of chlorine from the inflatable pool someone had set up in a driveway. The air was heavy, humid, thick enough to press against his skin. Lawn chairs cluttered the pavement, staked-out territories for the fireworks show later, while kids darted through the chaos, shrieking like live firecrackers themselves. The dads were already getting reckless with the illegal stuff, lighting fuses with smug grins and quick glances over their shoulders in case a cop rolled by.
Elliot sat at the edge of a folding table, the aluminum legs wobbling every time someone bumped into it. His fingers worked at the damp label on his soda bottle, peeling it back strip by strip, pretending to listen as Noah rattled on about some pointless fight with his girlfriend. One more year. One more year, and he'd be gone. Out of this town, out of this street where the biggest drama was whether Mr. Benson would torch his hedge again with his bottle rockets.
His eyes flicked up past the bottle in his hand to see him, the man who had bought the Riley's home over the summer. He was standing by the grill, one hand shoved into the pocket of his khaki shorts, the other wrapped around a sweating beer bottle. Laughing, easy and confident, at something one of the single moms had said. The kind of laugh that wasn't forced or awkward, but real, like he actually found this whole scene amusing. Like he wasn't just humoring them.
Elliot didn't know his name yet. He and his daughter had only moved in last week. But it didn't matter. The details didn't matter. What mattered was that he didn't belong here, not in this world of overcooked hot dogs and endless PTA gossip. He was too sharp-edged, too composed. His stubble was just a little too deliberate, his posture too relaxed. Even the way he held his beer, loose and effortless, felt different... And Elliot wasn't the only one who had noticed.
Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Garcia had practically formed a perimeter around him, their voices syrupy and too loud, their heads tipping back in exaggerated laughter. He smiled at them, all polite charm, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
Elliot's pulse kicked up, a tight coil winding in his stomach. He tore off another strip of the soda label, rolling it between his fingers until it crumbled. Then he felt it. A gaze. Her gaze. The daughter.
She had her dad's dark hair but not his effortless ease. Hers was sharper, hungrier. Her green eyes cut through the humid air like a knife, locked onto him. She sat perched on the arm of a lawn chair, twirling a dying sparkler between her fingers, the last embers flickering out. And she was smiling.
Elliot swallowed hard and looked away, but not fast enough. The heat on the back of his neck wasn't just from the sweltering July night. He should go talk to her. That's what normal guys would do.
But his eyes betrayed him, flicking back to where her dad stood. The stretch of his forearm as he gestured, the way his fingers tapped against the glass of his beer bottle, the slow curve of his smirk...
...Shit...
Setting: Modern
MC: An alien who has recently escaped a high-security facility. They are initially overwhelmed and disoriented by the vastness of the desert and the unfamiliarity of human experiences, but they are fascinated by the chaotic rave culture they stumble upon.
YC: A human raver, completely immersed in the music and party lifestyle. They are an extrovert, full of energy and uninhibited/ They are intrigued by MC's presence, assuming they are just a lost partygoer, and take them under their wing, helping them blend into the chaos of the rave.
Pairing: MxM or MxF. My character could pay a sub, dom or switch.
Expectation/Plot: The story revolves around the alien's first real encounter with the human world after escaping captivity. They stumble upon a massive rave in the desert. They meet a human who embraces them, guiding them through the chaotic, exhilarating environment. After the night is over, YC discovers MC in their RV but only after they have traveled a few hundred miles.
Kinks: While MC is an Alien, I want to make it clear that he has a human body. No tentacles or strange body parts. However, if you want to incorporate elements like that let me know. It might be a possibility.
The desert stretched in all directions, endless and unbroken, an ocean of dust and spiny plants beneath a sky so vast it felt like it might crush him. It was too much. Too open, too empty. He had never known such a thing as horizon, had never felt the weight of nothing pressing in on him.
He walked forward because stopping felt worse. If he stood still for too long, the silence would consume him. He had no plan, no direction, only the distant memory of the guards' voices, their clipped orders, their cold stares. He had taken one of their faces. He should blend but... blend into what? There was no one here.
The body he wore was efficient, two legs, two arms, five fingers on each hand. That of a soldier. Young, strong, and perfectly engineered for endurance. He was tall, standing at just over six feet, with broad shoulders that tapered into a trim waist. His muscles were defined, not overly bulky, but honed from rigorous training. His skin was smooth, a pale hue from lack of sun, unmarred by scars or imperfections.
His face was symmetrical, striking in a way that drew attention. A sharp jawline framed full, well-shaped lips that rested naturally in an expression of mild curiosity. His nose was straight, slightly upturned at the tip, giving him an air of youthful confidence. High cheekbones and a strong brow added to his chiseled features, his deep blue eyes standing out like neon against his porciline skin. They were bright, intense, yet held a lingering vacancy. Llike someone watching the world from behind a one-way mirror.
His hair was jet black, cut short and neat, evidence of the strict grooming standards of the facility he had come from. Even his facial hair, or lack thereof, was precise, his jaw and cheeks freshly shaven. His body was equally maintained, from the sculpted muscles of his chest and abdomen to the neatly trimmed hair at his groin, as if his previous host had anticipated being observed at all times.
Despite the sheer perfection of his form, there was an underlying awkwardness in how he moved. His limbs were just a little too long for him to fully command, his balance slightly off as he adjusted to the foreign sensations of being human. He was beautiful, unquestionably so, but something about him. whether his posture, his expressions, or the way he carried himself, was just off. Like a mannequin learning to walk, or a painting stepping out of its frame.
His lungs expanded and contracted with the air, a strange automatic function he had not yet grown accustomed to. Each breath tasted dry and metallic, thick with the scent of dust and distant heat. His skin... his skin... was raw, prickling under the cool of the desert. It had been hours. Maybe longer. The sun had dipped, painting the horizon in deep purples and oranges, but the desert remained the same. Indifferent.
Fear crept in then, slow and insidious. Had he made a mistake? Had he escaped one prison only to walk into another, one without walls but just as inescapable?
Then, at last, something changed... A sound... Faint at first, distant, unnatural. A low, rhythmic thumping, pulsing like a malfunctioning heartbeat. It grew louder, vibrating through the sand beneath his feet. He stopped, every part of him going still. His stolen body was not human, not really, but it was good at mimicking. And right now, it mimicked fear.
Then came the light. It flickered in strange, shifting colors, neon green, electric blue, hot pink, pulsing in time with the beat. It didn't seem natural. Then again, who was he to deem what was natural and unnatural to this world?
He hesitated. He did not know what it meant but he knew that it was something, and something was better than the vast nothingness that had nearly swallowed him whole.
He moved toward it. The shift was abrupt. One moment, he was alone, the desert stretching infinitely around him. The next, he was there, with them.. Humans.... So many of them!
They were everywhere, spilling across the sand like a living, breathing organism, glowing under the pulse of lights, their bodies slick with sweat and dust. The air vibrated with music, bass so deep it rattled his ribs, synthetic beats sharp as lightning.
They moved like they were possessed. Arms flung in wild angles, heads snapping to the beat, bodies undulating in perfect chaos. Some of them were wrapped in strips that flickered in time with the music, others draped in metallic fabrics that caught the light, turning them into shifting mirrors. A few had abandoned clothing entirely, their skin painted with neon streaks that glowed.
...This... was not what he had expected....
The humans he had known before, scientists in sterile coats, guards with cold eyes had been precise, measured. They moved with purpose. They spoke in clipped, efficient tones. They did not wear neon or boots covered in spikes. They did not stagger around with oversized bottles, yelling things like "VIBES, BRO!" or "THIS DROP IS GONNA CHANGE YOUR LIFE."
A man covered in metallic body paint slid up to him, pupils dilated to inhuman proportions. "BrooOOOooo," he said, like it was the only word that mattered. "Your zen is insane right now."
He stiffened. His zen? Had they detected something?
A girl with glowing pink braids gasped, running her hands over his arm. "Holy shit. You feel… solid."
His frown deepened. "Was I not supposed to?"
Before he could analyze the question, someone shoved a bottle into his hands. "Hydrate, king," they announced.
He examined the object. He hadn'yt seen these before but if this was an expectation…
He mimicked the others, lifting it to his mouth.
The liquid burned, acid against his tongue, a chemical explosion of citrus and something artificial he could not name. His body jolted. His brain fired warnings. Was this poison? A test? He braced for death.
Instead, the humans around him erupted into cheers.
"YOOO, LET'S GO!" someone shouted, slapping him on the back hard enough to send him forward a step. He was caught in it now, the press of bodies moving, jumping, vibrating. The bass shook through his bones. The air reeked of sweat, electricity, and something synthetic that buzzed in his nose. The sky above him was dark, but here, under the flashing lights, it didn't matter.
He had expected to run. To hide. To be hunted. Instead, they had absorbed him. The bassline was a pulse, a heartbeat stronger than his own. The ground beneath him had ceased to exist There was only this. The movement, the sound, the sensation of bodies colliding and separating in an endless loop.
MC: An alien who has recently escaped a high-security facility. They are initially overwhelmed and disoriented by the vastness of the desert and the unfamiliarity of human experiences, but they are fascinated by the chaotic rave culture they stumble upon.
YC: A human raver, completely immersed in the music and party lifestyle. They are an extrovert, full of energy and uninhibited/ They are intrigued by MC's presence, assuming they are just a lost partygoer, and take them under their wing, helping them blend into the chaos of the rave.
Pairing: MxM or MxF. My character could pay a sub, dom or switch.
Expectation/Plot: The story revolves around the alien's first real encounter with the human world after escaping captivity. They stumble upon a massive rave in the desert. They meet a human who embraces them, guiding them through the chaotic, exhilarating environment. After the night is over, YC discovers MC in their RV but only after they have traveled a few hundred miles.
Kinks: While MC is an Alien, I want to make it clear that he has a human body. No tentacles or strange body parts. However, if you want to incorporate elements like that let me know. It might be a possibility.
The desert stretched in all directions, endless and unbroken, an ocean of dust and spiny plants beneath a sky so vast it felt like it might crush him. It was too much. Too open, too empty. He had never known such a thing as horizon, had never felt the weight of nothing pressing in on him.
He walked forward because stopping felt worse. If he stood still for too long, the silence would consume him. He had no plan, no direction, only the distant memory of the guards' voices, their clipped orders, their cold stares. He had taken one of their faces. He should blend but... blend into what? There was no one here.
The body he wore was efficient, two legs, two arms, five fingers on each hand. That of a soldier. Young, strong, and perfectly engineered for endurance. He was tall, standing at just over six feet, with broad shoulders that tapered into a trim waist. His muscles were defined, not overly bulky, but honed from rigorous training. His skin was smooth, a pale hue from lack of sun, unmarred by scars or imperfections.
His face was symmetrical, striking in a way that drew attention. A sharp jawline framed full, well-shaped lips that rested naturally in an expression of mild curiosity. His nose was straight, slightly upturned at the tip, giving him an air of youthful confidence. High cheekbones and a strong brow added to his chiseled features, his deep blue eyes standing out like neon against his porciline skin. They were bright, intense, yet held a lingering vacancy. Llike someone watching the world from behind a one-way mirror.
His hair was jet black, cut short and neat, evidence of the strict grooming standards of the facility he had come from. Even his facial hair, or lack thereof, was precise, his jaw and cheeks freshly shaven. His body was equally maintained, from the sculpted muscles of his chest and abdomen to the neatly trimmed hair at his groin, as if his previous host had anticipated being observed at all times.
Despite the sheer perfection of his form, there was an underlying awkwardness in how he moved. His limbs were just a little too long for him to fully command, his balance slightly off as he adjusted to the foreign sensations of being human. He was beautiful, unquestionably so, but something about him. whether his posture, his expressions, or the way he carried himself, was just off. Like a mannequin learning to walk, or a painting stepping out of its frame.
His lungs expanded and contracted with the air, a strange automatic function he had not yet grown accustomed to. Each breath tasted dry and metallic, thick with the scent of dust and distant heat. His skin... his skin... was raw, prickling under the cool of the desert. It had been hours. Maybe longer. The sun had dipped, painting the horizon in deep purples and oranges, but the desert remained the same. Indifferent.
Fear crept in then, slow and insidious. Had he made a mistake? Had he escaped one prison only to walk into another, one without walls but just as inescapable?
Then, at last, something changed... A sound... Faint at first, distant, unnatural. A low, rhythmic thumping, pulsing like a malfunctioning heartbeat. It grew louder, vibrating through the sand beneath his feet. He stopped, every part of him going still. His stolen body was not human, not really, but it was good at mimicking. And right now, it mimicked fear.
Then came the light. It flickered in strange, shifting colors, neon green, electric blue, hot pink, pulsing in time with the beat. It didn't seem natural. Then again, who was he to deem what was natural and unnatural to this world?
He hesitated. He did not know what it meant but he knew that it was something, and something was better than the vast nothingness that had nearly swallowed him whole.
He moved toward it. The shift was abrupt. One moment, he was alone, the desert stretching infinitely around him. The next, he was there, with them.. Humans.... So many of them!
They were everywhere, spilling across the sand like a living, breathing organism, glowing under the pulse of lights, their bodies slick with sweat and dust. The air vibrated with music, bass so deep it rattled his ribs, synthetic beats sharp as lightning.
They moved like they were possessed. Arms flung in wild angles, heads snapping to the beat, bodies undulating in perfect chaos. Some of them were wrapped in strips that flickered in time with the music, others draped in metallic fabrics that caught the light, turning them into shifting mirrors. A few had abandoned clothing entirely, their skin painted with neon streaks that glowed.
...This... was not what he had expected....
The humans he had known before, scientists in sterile coats, guards with cold eyes had been precise, measured. They moved with purpose. They spoke in clipped, efficient tones. They did not wear neon or boots covered in spikes. They did not stagger around with oversized bottles, yelling things like "VIBES, BRO!" or "THIS DROP IS GONNA CHANGE YOUR LIFE."
A man covered in metallic body paint slid up to him, pupils dilated to inhuman proportions. "BrooOOOooo," he said, like it was the only word that mattered. "Your zen is insane right now."
He stiffened. His zen? Had they detected something?
A girl with glowing pink braids gasped, running her hands over his arm. "Holy shit. You feel… solid."
His frown deepened. "Was I not supposed to?"
Before he could analyze the question, someone shoved a bottle into his hands. "Hydrate, king," they announced.
He examined the object. He hadn'yt seen these before but if this was an expectation…
He mimicked the others, lifting it to his mouth.
The liquid burned, acid against his tongue, a chemical explosion of citrus and something artificial he could not name. His body jolted. His brain fired warnings. Was this poison? A test? He braced for death.
Instead, the humans around him erupted into cheers.
"YOOO, LET'S GO!" someone shouted, slapping him on the back hard enough to send him forward a step. He was caught in it now, the press of bodies moving, jumping, vibrating. The bass shook through his bones. The air reeked of sweat, electricity, and something synthetic that buzzed in his nose. The sky above him was dark, but here, under the flashing lights, it didn't matter.
He had expected to run. To hide. To be hunted. Instead, they had absorbed him. The bassline was a pulse, a heartbeat stronger than his own. The ground beneath him had ceased to exist There was only this. The movement, the sound, the sensation of bodies colliding and separating in an endless loop.
Setting: Old West
MC: A criminal running from the law but forced to turn back with intentions of turning himself in to save his brother.
YC: Whoever your wildest imagination would like to be.
Paring: Any
Expectation/Plot: None. Let's see what happens.
Gabriel "Gabe" Herrera had been running for a long time. Through dust-choked canyons, over wind-scoured plains, across rivers black and swollen with spring melt and now here he was, fixin to head back the way he came.
Gabriel had always been the reckless brother, the dreamer, the one who never thought past tomorrow. When the two of them had robbed that bank in Texas, Miguel, the older of the two, had known it would end badly. The U.S. Marshal had reached for his gun, Gabriel had panicked, and before either of them knew what had happened, the lawman was bleeding out on the floor. They had fled in the night. Both got away successfully and decided it was safter to split ways. Miguel headed back home, to Mexico, but Gabe wanted to see the coast, but by the time Gabe got wind of Miguel's whereabouts, his brother had already been caught.
The posters named them both, killers, thieves, outlaws. But it was Miguel who sat in a cell in Wyoming, and it was Miguel who would hang for the Marshal's death unless Gabe did the one thing that might save him.
Turn himself in.
The Absaroka Range loomed in the distance, jagged as broken teeth, dusted white at their peaks. His horse was tired, its hooves dragging in the soft loam, but Gabe urged it forward. A little bit further and they would make camp. But fate had other plans.
The first arrow came so fast he didn't hear it, only felt the sharp bloom of pain as it grazed his shoulder. His horse reared, screaming, as another arrow buried deep into its flank. Gabe hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from his lungs. By the time he rolled to his feet, gun in hand, they were already on him.
Lakota warriors, six, maybe seven, descended like ghosts from the trees. One smashed a rifle butt across his face, sending him sprawling. Another drove a heal into his ribs. The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was the sky, endless and cold, like a God that had long since turned its back.
Gabe awoke to laughter and the feeling of hot piss running down his face.
The world smelled of dirt and blood. He couldn't move. Only his head remained above the ground. He was buried up to his neck, the cold Montana earth packed tight around his body. His face throbbed, swollen from the beating. Blood had dried on his lips, cracked and tasting of iron.
The warriors were celebrating, their voices rising in the night air. Fires burned in the distance, casting long shadows that danced against the trees. Gabe forced himself to focus, to make out their faces in the firelight. Some were young, barely men. Others were seasoned, with the hard stares of those who had seen too much war.
A boy, no older than sixteen, stepped closer, crouching near his face. He spoke in Lakota, the words foreign and sharp, but there was no mistaking the gleam of amusement in his eyes. He reached out and flicked Gabe's nose like one might taunt a stray dog. The others laughed.
Gabe swallowed back his fury. He knew what this was. He was a trophy. A game. They'd leave him here to suffer, to go mad under the weight of the earth. Maybe an animal would find him first. A coyote, a wolf. Maybe they'd come back in the morning and scalp him. Maybe they'd just leave him for the sun to finish.
The cold was already seeping into his bones. His breath came in shallow bursts, each one harder to pull in than the last. Above him, the sky stretched wide and endless. The stars blurred at the edges.
He'd outrun a noose, dodged bullets, and cheated death a dozen times. But now, buried alive in the middle of nowhere, he finally understood. There was no running anymore. His vision swam. His heartbeat slowed. And as the laughter of his captors echoed in the night, Gabriel Herrera slipped back into the waiting dark.
Hard No's
- Furries
- Bestiality
- Bathroom play
- Fandoms (Sorry, just not my thing.)
- Feet stuff
- Monsters are usually a no go.
- Overt violence. So violence for the sake of violence. I don't mind violence for the plot.
- If it's not listed here, it's probably on the table or at least negotiable.
If you made it this far, you deserve a cookie. Or a writing partner. Or both.
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