Thread: Literate, plotted RPs, smut also welcome (Male for Any)

RE Realities, Dreams, and Nightmares Male for Any Sample Writing Or Good lord I'm inconsistent. Here, you'll find my sample posts. For starters, I've recently been ranging between three paragraphs and ten, and even longer. For posts in a roleplay, three or so paragraphs. For smut roleplays? One or two paragraphs. A post-apocalyptic starter. Written for my close friend. Includes the plot set-up. Warning, includes somewhat graphic violence against a zombie, and it's long as HELL. See more As the end of the year came and went, there was little change. A few disturbances in the world, here and there. Stirrings of war - though one can hardly claim that to be a surprise, really. One day, however, a few scientists looked outside, at the shining, blue sky, and thought, Oh, what a lovely day. Perfect visibility for us to test a weapon, don't you think? And so and who can blame them? they decided to do so. A nifty little bioweapon, targeted quite literally at the minds of the populace, with a few prisoners from prisons and wars across the war strapped into the testing room. A viral agent dispersed into the facility through the air ducts... and then the faintest crack in the plexiglas of the viewing window. The subjects, with the largest dose, went symptomatic first. Writhing and screaming, scrabbling at the tables, bleeding from eyes and ears until they fell down dead. The men within the viewing room, by contrast, took weeks. Just a few viral particles in their blood, enough to breed and make them contagious, mutating and reaching an equalibrium. Infecting everyone in the facility. Infecting their family. And their family's friends, and all their families, spreading on planes and boats and trains and buses, the outbreak spreading bit by bit by bit. Nothing to worry about, until there was. Nothing to fret over, until the moment the end came. Not all at once, by any means. The scientists who worked on the virus in the facility went first, and the purge of nuclear flames, meant to stop its spread, erased them, their notes, and the facility from the map, creating what would be deemed the 'dead man's mile', smack in the middle of Arizona's Mojave desert. Other cities went into panic, days and weeks later. Vegas, the closest civic center, went up in flames, quite literally, when their quarantine barrier began to break down, and a firebombing was ordered to contain the disease. Nevermind that it was already spreading elsewhere-this simply couldn't be so widespread. Well, it was, quite obviously, and, unsurprisingly, as much as society claimed to be 'ready' for a zombie apocalypse, it simply wasn't. Oh, certainly, people who had played video games and knew the concept fared a bit better... but only, really, if they were in enough shape to survive and use that knowledge. The military fared better, marginally, than fiction suggested it would. Retreating strategically, taking in refugees, telling people to defend themselves, that they would wait for the infection to subside, for all the symptomatic to go out, before they began pushing back. Everyone knew what zombies were, and what they could do. To aim for the head and eventually, this became practically gospel, even once the 'dead' were more widely understood to be still-living, and thus still-bleeding-to-death-capable from a shot to the limbs. But nevertheless, it just. Kept. Happening. City after city after city. Last stand after last stand after last stand. Death after death after death. Holding out, knowing someone would hear the gunshots, and come to help... and then both stranded and savior dying. Grief and misery and loss unending, spreading across the globe. Oh, some regions fared better. The US, with its widespread gun-ownership, fared fairly well. The UK, with dense populations, low gun ownership, and widespread healthcare, fared far worse. The infected had a hotbed to spread in - the hospitals. Not everyone died, of course, they could escape and flee. India, with some of the densest population in the world, was nearly completely lost. Japan, insular and self-contained, quarantined itself, and fared fairly well. Enough discipline to keep themselves under control, and enough government and social control to hunt down the infected. They still fell, of course... but not as quickly, or as violently. China, with dense population and social controls, still fell. Even the most severe of crackdowns cannot prevent the spread of a disease, when half your soldiers are already sick. South Korea, wary and prepared, kept much of the infection out, managing to self-police and keep order. The north simply vanished off the map. Either genocide brought the end, in an attempt at purging the sick... or the infection simply swept them over too quickly. Most of mainland Europe, with such broad, easy transit, spread the infection quickly, and fared... around as well as the UK, simply with less chance for exodus than the island nation. The nations called 'third-world', the undeveloped and the poor... those with little immigration, were sometimes untouched, though no nation truly escaped. Much of the middle east, with UN peacekeeping, fell to a series of nuclear exchanges... though thankfully, they were limited, and only a few launched at other nations that had fallen to the plague, which automated systems and human holdouts managed to ward off. But, perhaps, that is beyond the scope of things. Back in the US, a few hundred miles from the test site, a man picks his way through the shadows of an alley, brown-black eyes flicking around him. Almost scrawny in his build, narrow across the shoulders, and looking practically starved, he's a figure of poverty, in any other time. Here and now, though, he's a healthy citizen of the United States, in his natural habitat. He's nearly naked, bare to the waist, the pus-filled blisters on his arms hinting at the IVs that had been anchored there days before. Violent in his movements, paranoid, twitchy, he opens the cover of a dumpster, rifling through its contents, looking for food... before the lid is slammed down on his head, a squeal escaping the creature before a gun is pressed against the plastic, just where its head should be, and the trigger pulled, the silencer making the raucous report little more than a cough. The bearer of the weapon adjusts his coat, letting the infected slide out of the dumpster to crumple on the ground, and nudges it with his boot. Nothing worth taking from the wretch, really. But oh well. One less to barrel down the streets screaming at him for his entrails. He holsters his pistol, and steps over the corpse, peering out of the alleyway. Blue eyes half-revealed by his hood, hoodie's sleeves stained with blood and dirt, jeans filthy with the same mixture, and boots splattered just the same, he makes for another fairly typical picture of modern America as he sets out at a jog down the street, pulling an axe from his belt, and hefting it, the weapon having been specifically made for the military... and looted off the corpse of a soldier he'd found. The same goes for the pistol, and for the rifle that's slung across his back. Eight weeks from going into boot camp, this had hit... and he's been relying on the little bit his dad taught him about guns and surviving in the wilderness since. Not that all of it applies, exactly... but books filled in the rest. Bits and pieces of knowledge cobbled together with pragmatism and common sense and critical thinking. It doesn't take long for him to reach his 'home', a small warehouse that he's used the boxes in to seal the doors, and blockade the windows. He's got a bed made from three mattresses and half a dozen blankets to ward off the cold inside one of the spare crates, and a small kitchen in another of them, the smoke from which he has guided up through a small chimney he made from scrap metal, and into an adjoining crate, that then lets the small wisps of heat vapor, and occasional fumes, out of one of the large windows, through a hole no more than two feet wide, and covered with steel mesh. Not much food, right now... but canned goods are still, well, good, and so is soda, bottled water, and other foods. Milk, not so much, but the canned and dried variety's okay. So's concentratedcondensed milk, and once water's added it's... unpleasant, but doable. He's getting the nutrients he needs, even when it's meant boiling the meat blood and drinking it - which was godawful, but he's getting the minerals and amino acids and all that junk. He settles in on his bed, and runs a hand through his hair. So. he says to himself, looking at his filthy clothing, and then slowly stripping out of it. The quarantine wall's still all the way up, but there's nobody manning it. But there's infected everywhere, now. he says, sighing as he pulls the filthy shirt off his head, and then swearing as he rips the fabric, having caught it on the siding of the box. Well... shit. he says, and tosses it out of the box into a small dumpster, the one not for compost, and then goes rifling through his belongings, stripped to the skin now... and eventually comes up with new clothing, dressing himself back up quickly, and then tugging the clothes back into place. A little loose, but comfortable enough. Post for a fantasy RP here on BlueMoon with the lovely Chariot. See more Once... Once he was a good man. Once, Black Morgause had been able to hold his head high, and state that he was a good man. Virtuous and just, skilled in society and word. Once. Until the day he... offended Cyron Damaskus. Sitting, when he should have been standing, when the man's cat came into the room where he had been speaking with other members of the court. He had been on visitation, from another kingdom, trying to make a name for himself, perhaps to earn a wife amongst the nobility. Instead, the madking ordered him imprisoned, and his fellow nobles executed... on the grounds that the cat had been sitting in his lap, and so he had at least shown some respect. Prison was... informative. Titles were nothing, all that mattered was the strength of one's arm and the ability to keep oneself safe. And then, the sale to the Temple. His time with Jaemie in her training, and then his bonding to her. The realization that he did, in fact, still have some soul in himself, that he did still have something that made him human. And then the sheer dread as he heard of their summons, hiding himself inside the armor the Temple granted him, to serve as a guard to her. Hiding behind the anonymity and the facelessness... except, the King had asked to see his face, hear his name... and then had completely been without words. No recognition. Nothing. And then the war. The war, the endless war. Death and killing and laying waste. The politics were... interesting. Seeing how the Temple allowed their power to be abused in this way, wondering how they could do so... except he was simply too busy. Assassination attempts, on the 'demon witch'. Taking the pain from her wounds as his own, and knowing that it isn't in reverse... knowing that he can feel the grating of an arrow in her flesh atop that of the cuts, the wounds, the burns and broken bones... but that she can not feel the same. Keeping her alive, keeping her safe. Ten years, since he was sold into the bowels of the Temple. Ten years since that smiling young man had been pressed into shackles. Twenty-seven now, six feet tall and an inch, muscle and scars across his entire form, a massive broadsword hanging at his side. A general in his own right, if he'd served in any other army. Leading charge after charge, cutting men down as they tried to rip Jaemie apart. And rarely even uttering a sound, a word. The armor he was given shattering from a lance taking him in the chest, and a new suit replacing it, covering over the scars and bandages that never quite have time to heal. He can feel the awe that surrounds them both, the admiration from the soldiers who she commands... many of them younger, many older. All of them revering the young mage and her servant. Whispers of lust toward her, and then words refuting it, that she must be attached to her... knight. Hah. As if he has such a title. Little more than a living shield for her to channel her magic through. As he marches through the camp, wiping off blood from his gauntlets-a captured deserter had needed execution, and there was no reason to appoint a new one, after the old had taken a spear through the chest a week ago, when a raid hit their camp. So he did it himself. He lifts the tentflap, reaching up and pulling his helmet free as he does, and bows his head to Jaemie. Ma'am. he says quietly, eyes flicking downward in respect. His face is broad, but not ugly, square-jawed and strong, with a quintet of scars across it, from some odd war-beast one of the nations had sicced upon them, its claws catching him clear across the face... what, four years ago, now? An x-shape across his throat, from an attacker, the slashed neck barely slowing him as he killed the man with his bare hands, sword broken, and then headed back to Jaemie, being healed... and then trudging back out into the fray, ignoring the pain in his body. Scarred as much as she is, on every part of him. Where her nose is crooked, his is straight, with a divot taken out of the center, from the claw-marks across his face, and his jaw hangs slightly lower on the left side... a war-hammer to the face, if memory serves, knocking him sideways and keeping him even more mute until it mended. I heard there are new orders. Does the king wish us to move on from here, then? he asks, eyes still downcast... and then gradually sweeping up, fixing on her face. You know the men are ill. Sick and wounded. We need reinforcements and medicines if we are to continue, and men to carry the wounded home. he reports, voice low, almost robotic, and exhausted as he sinks into a chair, starting to slowly unbuckle his armor, hissing quietly as the armor scrapes over one of his newer wounds, unhealed as of yet. But no reason to waste magic on it, when there are so many others wounded worse. Poststarter for an offsite roleplay. See more Cold. Very cold. He feels... sluggish. Not himself. The rage is... dampened, somehow. Dulled down and hidden. Lights around him, as his eyes open, skin splitting to reveal them as he takes stock of his surroundings, 'clothes' shredding themselves as his flesh strains against his confines. A cage. Tight and binding, restricting his movement. Cameras at each corner, and a screen on the wall before him as the cage shudders, and then falls aside, letting him heave himself upright. Blood and flesh quiver into place as he stands, eyes closing, and then opening on the slowly-forming face. His hand reaches upwards, and rips the shard of metal from his flesh, freeing space within his skull for his brain to reform. By the time he's repaired himself, the figure on the screen is halfway through a spiel about how he's being forced to work In milder terms, granted, but coercion is coercion, whatever the name, and to make something of himself. They know what he is, know his name, his family, his friends though he has none, so it must be a generic message, and know his crimes. The former don't matter. The latter... somewhat. Most people dislike the idea of slaughtering an entire group of people for the fun of it. So. Do I have to say Agent to talk to a representative, or something of the sort? Or do I just sign on the dotted line so you don't kill me? he asks, the voice summoned forth from his chest booming in the small space, raw and dark with his rage. Or do I just wait for you to come and try to kill me? Good luck with that, by the way. he adds, waving a hand absently. And, a moment later, a slot pops open in the wall, revealing a drawer containing a sheaf of papers, a pen, and a thumbprint scanner. Or that works, I suppose. he adds, shrugging absently, glowering at the camera... and then pressing his finger down on the pad. It beeps twice, and then, surprisingly enough, the draw flips like a beartrap, severing his hand, and making the male stagger back in surprise, before lifting the stump to eye it. No longer bleeding, even. Oh, well. His free hand signs with a flourish and then shoves the drawer, severed hand atop the metal and all, back into the wall. Even then, the stump has begun to reform, and he yawns quietly, covering his face with the stump. I'm waaaaaiting. he sing-songs, smiling faintly and beginning to pace in a circle around the cell, humming a quiet tune. Smut Post Foreplay. See more Jaexx grins at her up her body, knowing that she can't see him, but not really caring. Perfect. No way for her to guess at what's coming, no way for her to try to jerk away, or tense up in anticipation. Perfect. His tongue finds her slit, teasing at her, testing her. With the difference in their body temperatures... it's disconcerting... but still wonderful. He grins again, and his tongue slides into her, teasing at her entrance, testing her, probing. Very deliberately, he arches it, finding her g-spot, and pressing lightly. He feels, more then seeing or hearing, her reaction, and chuckles, sending light vibrations through her. Have you had a man before, Eira? he asks, nipping again at her thigh, his fingers coming to her womanhood, and spreading her gently, stroking her with his fingers, building a slow burn with them, not letting her relax, but giving her just enough mental room to answer his question Smut Post Tentacle sex. See more Jaexx smiles again at her, and keeps nipping at her throat. Yes, Eira? he breathes into her ear, caressing her cheek with a hand, and continuing to pump his three appendages in and out of her, twisting them around inside her, caressing her walls with them, feeling how she bucks and writhes with pleasure. Do you want more from me, then? he breathes, squeezing her breasts with the appendages that grasp them, coils of flesh wrapped around each, with a broad, warm mouth enveloping the tips, tinier orifices kissing and licking and biting on the soft skin as they are kneaded. Another tip presses against her rear, and he smiles at her, before it joins the other within her, the two intertwining and fucking her, purposefully stretching her hole out just a bit. You enjoy being claimed like this, then? he breathes into her ear, letting his cock within her alter, becoming a tentacle just like the others, all, and the dozens more that simply laze upon the bed and wrap her up, joining with his body at around waist height. You like being claimed by me, my little vampire?