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Moon
- Joined
- Dec 15, 2017
Hi there, thanks for having a look at my thread.
About me
I'm a male RPer with quite a bit of online RP experience. I'd like to think I'm a pretty talented writer so far as these things go.
What I'm looking for (in brief)
The title of this thread sums it up: I want sexual pairings where the phrase "We shouldn't be doing this," looms large in one (or both) character's mind. I want stories where the characters know that their union is wrong, but they just cannot help themselves. Thematically, that means things like the following:
These prompts are by no means exhaustive. While they're obviously things I am interested in playing, they're more here to give you a sense of the kind of themes I'm looking to explore at the moment. Don't hesitate to PM me, even if these don't strike your fancy!
To me the best metaphor is jazz. We're both playing and if it's going well we will riff off of one another, taking cues from one another and developing new themes as we go along. At various points one of us may be taking the lead and that's fine, but I expect it to switch back and forth and be a pretty organic process. It's collaborative, though that doesn't mean each of us is bringing the same thing to the table. I might be on the piano while you're on the drums or something, right? So long as we're both playing our instrument and riffing off of one another, I'm going to be happy.
One thing I do not like is feeling as if I'm doing all of the creative lifting; if I'm having to be the one telling you about your own character, well... that's not going to go on for very long.
Relevant Logistics
I have an F-list, you can find it here. It's not meant to be exhaustive, rather just to give you some details of what I do and don't like. If something is not on there, feel free to ask; the worst I'll do is pass because it's not for me.
Some highlights:
About me
I'm a male RPer with quite a bit of online RP experience. I'd like to think I'm a pretty talented writer so far as these things go.
What I'm looking for (in brief)
The title of this thread sums it up: I want sexual pairings where the phrase "We shouldn't be doing this," looms large in one (or both) character's mind. I want stories where the characters know that their union is wrong, but they just cannot help themselves. Thematically, that means things like the following:
- Cheating and Adultery: Betrayal, plain and simple. But I want to know why it happens. I don't enjoy playing chronic philanderers, nor am I into the notion of being driven to cheat by an abusive or neglected relationship. I much prefer to explore what brings an otherwise faithful person in a happy relationship to cast all of that aside.
- Intensity: Obviously our characters are going to be doing some very naughty things, and not just in terms of the smutty act. In line with the above, I really want to sell the sense of passion and desire that gets them to cast aside morality.
- Taboo pairings: that is, the kind of thing that society would frown on, or maybe even get our characters in trouble. Think age play and incest and that sort of thing. Obviously given my handle here I'm a fan of father/daughter play, but that's not a requirement by any means.
- Plot and Smut: Both! I'm here for the dirty stuff. That being said, I want to explore our character and their relationship. Our characters will be doing things they very much shouldn't be, and it's important for me to explore why and how that changes them. I saw someone use the phrase "sexposition" recently and I think that gets at what I'm looking for: developing characters via a sexual relationship.
These prompts are by no means exhaustive. While they're obviously things I am interested in playing, they're more here to give you a sense of the kind of themes I'm looking to explore at the moment. Don't hesitate to PM me, even if these don't strike your fancy!
- Something to Prove: The notion here is a plot where in which a younger woman conspires to steal my character from an older woman she sees as not worthy of him. It could anything from a a daughter wanting to replace her mother to a young assistant realizing her powerful and wealthy boss could really stand an upgrade in the wife department. The thing I'm really looking for here is a woman who is explicitly looking to prove herself better than her perceived rival.
- Bad Influence: I love the idea of an otherwise good girl being corrupted into doing something very, very bad. While obviously my character could himself be the corrupting influence, I'd also love a setup where my character's daughter has a friend (or even a girlfriend) who has the twisted idea to see if she can't get her friend and her friend's father into bed together. And the first step in that process is going to be seducing the father herself...
- With Mom's Blessing: Sneaking around with a daughter is fun... but I've always been interested in playing out a father/daughter pair where the mother is in on it. Maybe she just gives permission for some reason, or maybe she even gets off on it, encouraging my character to seduce their daughter. This probably would involve you playing the mother as well, at least in a supporting role.
- Rivalry: My character is having a relationship with someone in your character's life: a friend, a sister, a mother. Regardless, your character wants him. More to the point, she wants to take him away from that other person, she wants to show off just how much better she is.
- Pygmalion: A wealthy man takes in a wayward younger woman. To the world she presents as an adopted daughter, someone he's taken pity on. Behind closed doors? She's very keen on making her adopted father her new Daddy.
- Cuckqueen: A married couple, where the wife gets off on her husband sleeping with other women. She goes so far as to serve them up for him, and sometimes really enjoys watching.
To me the best metaphor is jazz. We're both playing and if it's going well we will riff off of one another, taking cues from one another and developing new themes as we go along. At various points one of us may be taking the lead and that's fine, but I expect it to switch back and forth and be a pretty organic process. It's collaborative, though that doesn't mean each of us is bringing the same thing to the table. I might be on the piano while you're on the drums or something, right? So long as we're both playing our instrument and riffing off of one another, I'm going to be happy.
One thing I do not like is feeling as if I'm doing all of the creative lifting; if I'm having to be the one telling you about your own character, well... that's not going to go on for very long.
Relevant Logistics
- I prefer to play via PM. I won't play in threads or off site, sorry.
- I like and offer regular replies. That doesn't mean daily because Lord knows we all have lives, it's just a recognition that my muse relies on momentum. If I'm going a week or more between replies I'm probably going to lose interest.
- My typical post runs three to four meaty paragraphs. Sometimes more for important moments. I do try to economize because writing and responding to overly long posts can cause issues with maintaining momentum. I don't demand the same of you, but I do expect you to be able to post more than a few sentences.
- I write in third person, past tense.
- I use lots of dirty language. So should you! If you're routinely using euphemisms like "flower" to describe genitalia we are probably not going to be a good match.
- In terms of settings, my default is modern and realistic. That being said, I'm open to alternatives so long as I feel confident in having at least some amount of fluency. Real-world historical, Medieval fantasy, and science fiction are probably the three I'm most comfortable in. Regardless of setting, I'd prefer my character to be more-or-less mundane, and I'd like supernatural stuff to be mostly a background preference.
I have an F-list, you can find it here. It's not meant to be exhaustive, rather just to give you some details of what I do and don't like. If something is not on there, feel free to ask; the worst I'll do is pass because it's not for me.
Some highlights:
- I like to play dominant men.
- I like to portray rough sex. How rough? Slapping, choking. My limits start in the neighborhood of closed-fist blows and blood.
- I will only do consensual play. No non-con. Dub-con is unlikely.
- I love dirty talk and using pet names. I very much love my character being called Daddy.
- I enjoy age differences, with my character being the older of the pair.
- I also enjoy size differences, with my character being the larger of the pair.
The sketch: a father and daughter are stranded on a starship as an unknown and unknowable alien is exerting a subtle influence on them, drawing them toward a sexual union.
"I know," he said when she said they were nowhere. "But it's good you sent out a beacon. Hopefully someone will find us."
In that, David was putting up a bit of a parental front. He didn't know how much of their situation his daughter really appreciated, but it was dire. Though they were superluminal, they were still subject to the basic stuff of gravity. Their original intended course would have taken them along a gentle curved path to their destination, with them decelerating from FTL at the very edge's of their new home star's gravity well.
Their current course had them shooting out above the plane of the elliptic of the galaxy. Escape velocity was typically a term applied to planets. What they had was an escape velocity trajectory out into the vast blackness between galaxies. Forget the gulfs between stars, those were a comparative cakewalk compared to intergalactic distances.
Which of course meant that fixing this mess was all the more dire.
They could fix it, of course. Quite easily, in fact. Just program in a new course. The great FTL drive at the heart of the ship would decelerate them, then conventional thrusters could re-orient them, and away they'd go. Except that with the cryo-sleep system malfunctioning, that deceleration and subsequent acceleration would involve David and Rhiannon being quite literally turned into paste.
Better to tell her this was just a frightening but within-bound glitch from which they'd recover. Which was what he still assumed. He hadn't given up hope, not yet. By his calculation they had a good ten months before things got really dire.
"A little gardening couldn't hurt," he said after a moment. David gave his short beard a slow stroke, finger and thumb on either side of his chin. He hadn't bothered with a beard before this trip, but now shaving regularly seemed like a bit of an indulgence. That wasn't to say he he'd let himself go, the beard was kept neat. Her father wasn't quite as regimented as her mother, but he was nonetheless one of the finest humanity had on offer. Men like him simply didn't let themselves go. "Maybe some herb, some greens that will grow quickly. I don't think we'll have time for tomatoes, or anything like that, though."
His dark eyes were once again--as they had been so often lately--drawn to her full breasts. They strained against her tight-fitted blouse, her little nipples standing at attention beneath the fabric. The glance was momentarily, but it was impossible for him to resist taking in that sight. Get a grip, man, he chided himself once more.
"I'm honestly not that hungry," he admitted after a moment. David wasn't sure why, but he rather felt it was best to be out of her presence. Probably because he was so very aware of those full tits of hers. Not her breasts, nothing so clinical. Her tits. His daughter's tits. The thought of her in those explicit terms sent an illicit thrill through him. He was very aware he shouldn't be thinking of Rhy in those terms, and had chalked it up to a sort of trauma response to their sudden stranding.
"But I'd definitely look forward to some meals with actual flavor."
"I know," he said when she said they were nowhere. "But it's good you sent out a beacon. Hopefully someone will find us."
In that, David was putting up a bit of a parental front. He didn't know how much of their situation his daughter really appreciated, but it was dire. Though they were superluminal, they were still subject to the basic stuff of gravity. Their original intended course would have taken them along a gentle curved path to their destination, with them decelerating from FTL at the very edge's of their new home star's gravity well.
Their current course had them shooting out above the plane of the elliptic of the galaxy. Escape velocity was typically a term applied to planets. What they had was an escape velocity trajectory out into the vast blackness between galaxies. Forget the gulfs between stars, those were a comparative cakewalk compared to intergalactic distances.
Which of course meant that fixing this mess was all the more dire.
They could fix it, of course. Quite easily, in fact. Just program in a new course. The great FTL drive at the heart of the ship would decelerate them, then conventional thrusters could re-orient them, and away they'd go. Except that with the cryo-sleep system malfunctioning, that deceleration and subsequent acceleration would involve David and Rhiannon being quite literally turned into paste.
Better to tell her this was just a frightening but within-bound glitch from which they'd recover. Which was what he still assumed. He hadn't given up hope, not yet. By his calculation they had a good ten months before things got really dire.
"A little gardening couldn't hurt," he said after a moment. David gave his short beard a slow stroke, finger and thumb on either side of his chin. He hadn't bothered with a beard before this trip, but now shaving regularly seemed like a bit of an indulgence. That wasn't to say he he'd let himself go, the beard was kept neat. Her father wasn't quite as regimented as her mother, but he was nonetheless one of the finest humanity had on offer. Men like him simply didn't let themselves go. "Maybe some herb, some greens that will grow quickly. I don't think we'll have time for tomatoes, or anything like that, though."
His dark eyes were once again--as they had been so often lately--drawn to her full breasts. They strained against her tight-fitted blouse, her little nipples standing at attention beneath the fabric. The glance was momentarily, but it was impossible for him to resist taking in that sight. Get a grip, man, he chided himself once more.
"I'm honestly not that hungry," he admitted after a moment. David wasn't sure why, but he rather felt it was best to be out of her presence. Probably because he was so very aware of those full tits of hers. Not her breasts, nothing so clinical. Her tits. His daughter's tits. The thought of her in those explicit terms sent an illicit thrill through him. He was very aware he shouldn't be thinking of Rhy in those terms, and had chalked it up to a sort of trauma response to their sudden stranding.
"But I'd definitely look forward to some meals with actual flavor."
The message--and more importantly its meaning--had been received.
William often spent the afternoons before dinner dealing with correspondence. One of the rooms of the apartment given over to his use served as an office, and his ever-loyal seneschal and secretary Gerard had already sorted them into three categories: those relevant to his modest holdings in Halton, those relevant to his unofficial and largely unknown role as King Harold's spymaster, and those that were personal. Among the latter were a note from his eldest son, presently squiring to Duke Robert of Surrey. And, of course, the note from Princess Yvette.
His personal correspondences were always put off until he was through with the more official missives, and it wasn't until after Gerard had poured him a cup of wine that he'd gone ahead and read through them. And when he came to Yvette's letter, he was momentarily grateful that Gerard's discretion was beyond reproach. By the staid standards of the Calderi people, her final words were downright scandalous. "... Since leaving the palace, I have been a flower wilting without the sun. If you are there upon my return, surely I will feel its warmth again." William's eyes widened at the brazenness of her words, which were then exceeded by the outline of her plush lips on the paper, and of course the small charm. He picked it up between thumb and forefinger, rubbing the lace between them as his lips curled into a faint smile.
He'd be lying if he claimed to feel no sense of delight at the way it felt between his fingers. Lying as well, if he said he was surprised. After all, this was but the latest of a series of small things she'd left for him to find. Though a Calderi man through and through he was no provincial, in his role understanding the customs of other kingdoms was a necessity and he'd spent quite some time indeed brushing up on the finer points of Rhiannon etiquette in preparations for the marriage negotiations that had brought Yvette here.
The question, of course, was what to do about them.
The sensible--not to mention safest--thing to do was to ignore them of course. Yvette was now a Princess of Calder, married to Crown Prince Phillip and intended to produce the heir to a dynasty that had sat on the throne for nearly two centuries. Spymaster or no, her evident infatuation with him could be quite dangerous. All the more dangerous if he acknowledged it. And were he to encourage her infatuation? Or embrace it? Then it could turn deadly.
And yet he had encouraged her. Subtle flirtation and innuendo were not arts reserved solely to the Rhiannon, even a Calderi man could master them given time, as he'd demonstrated during some of their conversations. And so he sat in his office, sipping wine and absently handling the garter charm as the setting sun finally broke through the clouds that had plagued them for the previous two days, his eyes drifting once again to the impression of her lips on the paper.
An hour later he was taking dinner with some close friends when word of Yvette's return reached him. He hadn't had his people watching for her particularly, rather it was simply custom for them to notify him of the comings and goings of all the royal principals. After he was done with his meal it was simple enough to confirm she was in her chambers, alone, with the only person likely to pay her a call there after dark a day's ride away.
The palace was honeycombed with side passages. Some were the result of generations of building, as architects and craftsmen layered new parts of the palace onto the old. Others were there for servants to move about unobserved. Still others were deliberate secrets, made for spies to ply their illicit trade, or--as was the one that brought him into her sitting room--provided as means of escape, should the need arise. Given the circumstances, he felt it appropriate that no one mark him visiting the Princess that evening.
With the passage shut behind him and once more invisible unless one knew how to spot it, he moved from the sitting room to the antechamber, turned to admire some art, which meant that his back was to the sitting room should she emerge without clothes. When he'd entered he could hear faintly the sound of water splashing as she took her bath, and it was difficult indeed not to imagine it lapping at her pale flesh. But now, the splashing had gone silent. For what seemed like the dozenth time he questioned himself. This is madness. What is it you think you're doing?
The answer had been the same every time and it took the form of her lips on the page and the small garter he was again holding between his fingertips, tucked into his coat pocket.
William often spent the afternoons before dinner dealing with correspondence. One of the rooms of the apartment given over to his use served as an office, and his ever-loyal seneschal and secretary Gerard had already sorted them into three categories: those relevant to his modest holdings in Halton, those relevant to his unofficial and largely unknown role as King Harold's spymaster, and those that were personal. Among the latter were a note from his eldest son, presently squiring to Duke Robert of Surrey. And, of course, the note from Princess Yvette.
His personal correspondences were always put off until he was through with the more official missives, and it wasn't until after Gerard had poured him a cup of wine that he'd gone ahead and read through them. And when he came to Yvette's letter, he was momentarily grateful that Gerard's discretion was beyond reproach. By the staid standards of the Calderi people, her final words were downright scandalous. "... Since leaving the palace, I have been a flower wilting without the sun. If you are there upon my return, surely I will feel its warmth again." William's eyes widened at the brazenness of her words, which were then exceeded by the outline of her plush lips on the paper, and of course the small charm. He picked it up between thumb and forefinger, rubbing the lace between them as his lips curled into a faint smile.
He'd be lying if he claimed to feel no sense of delight at the way it felt between his fingers. Lying as well, if he said he was surprised. After all, this was but the latest of a series of small things she'd left for him to find. Though a Calderi man through and through he was no provincial, in his role understanding the customs of other kingdoms was a necessity and he'd spent quite some time indeed brushing up on the finer points of Rhiannon etiquette in preparations for the marriage negotiations that had brought Yvette here.
The question, of course, was what to do about them.
The sensible--not to mention safest--thing to do was to ignore them of course. Yvette was now a Princess of Calder, married to Crown Prince Phillip and intended to produce the heir to a dynasty that had sat on the throne for nearly two centuries. Spymaster or no, her evident infatuation with him could be quite dangerous. All the more dangerous if he acknowledged it. And were he to encourage her infatuation? Or embrace it? Then it could turn deadly.
And yet he had encouraged her. Subtle flirtation and innuendo were not arts reserved solely to the Rhiannon, even a Calderi man could master them given time, as he'd demonstrated during some of their conversations. And so he sat in his office, sipping wine and absently handling the garter charm as the setting sun finally broke through the clouds that had plagued them for the previous two days, his eyes drifting once again to the impression of her lips on the paper.
An hour later he was taking dinner with some close friends when word of Yvette's return reached him. He hadn't had his people watching for her particularly, rather it was simply custom for them to notify him of the comings and goings of all the royal principals. After he was done with his meal it was simple enough to confirm she was in her chambers, alone, with the only person likely to pay her a call there after dark a day's ride away.
The palace was honeycombed with side passages. Some were the result of generations of building, as architects and craftsmen layered new parts of the palace onto the old. Others were there for servants to move about unobserved. Still others were deliberate secrets, made for spies to ply their illicit trade, or--as was the one that brought him into her sitting room--provided as means of escape, should the need arise. Given the circumstances, he felt it appropriate that no one mark him visiting the Princess that evening.
With the passage shut behind him and once more invisible unless one knew how to spot it, he moved from the sitting room to the antechamber, turned to admire some art, which meant that his back was to the sitting room should she emerge without clothes. When he'd entered he could hear faintly the sound of water splashing as she took her bath, and it was difficult indeed not to imagine it lapping at her pale flesh. But now, the splashing had gone silent. For what seemed like the dozenth time he questioned himself. This is madness. What is it you think you're doing?
The answer had been the same every time and it took the form of her lips on the page and the small garter he was again holding between his fingertips, tucked into his coat pocket.
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