Any A not so simple request thread.

[Traith]

Introduction​

Hello Dear Reader, it is a pleasure to see you hunting through the request threads. That means, like me, you are eager to spill stories to a page, and yet I must start off as I always do. If you are looking for a quick fix, or even a purely sexual fantasy, you will not find that here.

Instead, you will encounter a humble multi-paragraph poster who loves to dip his toes into almost every form of story except Fandom. So, if these things are not to your liking, thank you for your time that you have given thus far, and I hope you find someone who is more suited to that which you crave.

If however you still wish to continue? I do think my introduction to the site serves as a rather nice… well… introduction.

A Simple Question.
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The Shallows
What to expect from me​

There tends to be an edge of darkness to the plots which I twist. It is a flavor that I've found rather pleasing. Being an avid fan of such authors as Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and other royalty of the pages, this has never come much as a surprise to myself or others. How deep this can go often is up to my partner, for there are things in the shadows that even I'm surprised about when I slip my fingers into it to wrench something free.

I do not like to plan out a story detail by detail. Rather I like to get a base concept of what is wished, a general format for the characters, and then let them grow paragraph by paragraph into what they want to be. When we read a book, or another's work, it is a static thing that is fermented by black lettering upon a white page. Yet, when we work post by post in forums such as this? It is a chance to make a skeleton, and see what flesh grows across it. I find that even my own characters can and do shock me when we give them a chance to breathe for themselves.

As stated before, I like to ramble in my posts. I like to ramble -alot- in my posts. Depending on the situation or feedback from my partner(s) post before, I have and just might give literal pages in response. So, be warned of this as it puts many off.

I can and will play Male or Female, though I do prefer the first as that is what I physically know and connect with on a level that is instinctual. Also, I tend to play 'Dominant' (though that is a word that can take many forms), but I suppose with enough interest generated I -might- consider playing a submissive. I am here to write after all, and just about any story can make me dream.
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The Tidal Pull
What I expect from you.​

Be polite, open, and honest. Simple right? Don't like our story? Tell me, we can find something different to build. Don't like my style of writing? I will not be offended. Simply tell me, and we shall go our separate ways. I'm under no illusion that I am a god of letters, nor do I seek anyone to serve me in this.

My only thing is… I do like to write. I tend to keep very few partners so I can focus on them and our plots, and so if you can not at least post once a day (as I may post multiple times in a single sitting) perhaps we are ill matched.

Male and Females do me justice. I have no issue with straight or gay parring in stories or even sexual situations.
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The Jagged Reef
What will get you ignored.​

Rudeness. I'm here to unwind and dance with people through the worlds we make. I'm not here for you to show off how big that chip on your shoulder is.

'Here's my F-list'. F-List stands for Fetish list. I'm not here for pure sexual stories. I'm not here to force the story into these situations to get someone hot and bothered behind their screen. There are others who you can find for that. Sure, sex can happen in my stories, but unless the character shoves a list in my characters face… how the hell are they to know?

*Side note* If you hardline NOPE out on certain things, feel free to tell me. I do not wish to brush against peoples 'triggers' or past trauma.

Moving mountains with your pinky. I'm all for one for a power-fantasy, but it has to be in at least some bounds of realism for me.
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The Lighthouse Overlooking the Sea
Preferred story types.
​

All except Fandom.

Why not Fandom? Because I don't do Anime. I don't do 'popular' movies, or even know the 'Stars' that most people do. I read books. I paint. I make music. I'm more interested in what we can craft together and collaborate on, rather than something already made.
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Beneath the Tides
Clips from my previous stories as examples​

The Confession.
[Opening post where a serial killer is meeting with a reporter to tell his story]​

Winter had taken up its frosted sewing needle, and stitched the scene together. Gossamer white clung to the vehicles that drifted down the road, their wheels unsteady in cycles to offer momentary slips as they brushed over ice. Drivers, ignorant of their own mortality leaned towards the windscreens, their gloved hands eager to wipe away the fog that muted their view. Others would tuck their knees against the roundness of the steering wheel, fingers being bled upon by their heated breaths that came as puffs of white.

Did a single one of them slow their pace?

Did any of them comprehend the danger?

No, of course not.

They had places to be and weather be damned.

So assured of their own indestructible nature, women painted their faces in the mirrors and men yapped like untrained canines into their phones. Fathers turned their attention from the road to admonish children in the backseat, and mothers dug through carry bags to find little Johnny's favorite toy.

Poetry tells us of souls, and how bright humanity is. That our existence is to be equated against that of stars, glowing in a void like hope itself. Mathematics reduces the concept to numerical values, assigning probability for easy understanding of importance. Yet, for Caiden, there was no better way to describe people as a whole, then the road he had just pulled off of.

People are idiots, ignoring the ice and snow that lay crusted on life. People are just fools, acting as if they were center and most important. Humanity at its core was just an abandoned thing blinking from the bottom of a ditch, with a single question on their lips...

'How did this happen?'

A man of six feet three, draped in an off the rack black jacket and a pair of same colored shoes moved across the parking lot. The sounds of his weight crunching against the salts laid out to ease travel were whisked away by the sputtering breath of the wind. Dark brown eyes were laden below the same shade of hair that poked out from the bottom of that knit dark cap.

Movies, television, and books all commit the sin of making people believe in things that weren't there. No dark shadows lingered at his shoulders, nor was there a look in his eyes which would stall an attack from an animal. Caiden was merely another stranger, face, or passerby. There was nothing but someone who you saw a thousand times a day, walking about their way. A face like any other. A man that would neither be noticed nor remembered in the seconds after.

The only announcement to his arrival, after having pushed open that glass pane door, was the soft jingle of the bell that hung over the frame. Scents of bacon, eggs, pancakes, and coffee nullified the cold brush of the outside world that followed him in, and a woman with a yellowing name tag offered a 'service' smile at him.

"Morning hun. Just you today?"

The woman's voice was lifted upon the strings of a southern birth, and though there were more than a few with such around these parts, it never failed to dip Caiden into a smile. His own voice took upon the heritage to which he was raised, and plunged him into that twist to match.

"No Ma'am, going to be having company shortly."

A moment's pause as the left glove lifted to the whites of his teeth to remove the fabric from his cold stiffened fingers. Attention swept across the diner, though there was nothing surprising here. Old plastic booths set around old fake wood tables. Five other people bent over steaming coffee mugs or tea minded their own. The heater hummed, spewing dry recycled air, and the morning outside was casting increasing amounts of sunshine through windows.

It was the perfect setting.

"You're going to break my heart if you don't have grits on the menu."

Caiden continued in that casual manner as they moved across the room towards the booth that sat near the window. After he had taken a seat, the woman gave him a serious look that verged near religious belief.

"Honey, if these yanks had a single lick of sense."

The woman's broad shoulders gave a shrug, in an 'what can you do' motion.

"Coffee?"

The man did his best not to grimace at the sticky feeling of the plastic covered menu, but somehow he managed. A slight bob of his head, turning attention towards the list of purchasable foods for a moment, before once again flicking those browns towards the woman. At just the corner of his lips was a tug, a faint lopsided smile. It was almost… charming.. Though he hated to use a word like that.

"Please. Make that two. I'm sure she'll be here soon."

A scratching sound of a pen against the order pad, and the waitress exited the scene stage left. Now, once more left to his own devices, Caiden turned himself back inward as those eyes pelted outward past that window.

Watched the cars drift by.

Listened to the wind curl itself against the other side of the window.

Witnessed as the sun began to devour the cloud cover.

Yet, there was only one word at the back of his mind that repeated it's question again and again.

Why was he doing this?

It put him in danger and offered a spotlight to past actions that none had ever noticed.
It put him in cross hairs.
It was very unlike him.
Yet, the answer remained the same, as it had since the start.

He was doing this because he loved her.
He was doing this because of the promise he made her before her death.

So, Caiden waited and watched as the cars drifted by on that road outside, leaving him with a final thought...
'Maybe, just maybe, I'm more like them then I like to admit'.

Phantom of the Ballet
[Mid story where at last a rich patron gets a hold of his favorite dancer in attempt to control her]
​

Out there, beyond those windows, was a world hushed in the falling white of snow. The moon's smile seemed to sit just outside those glass panes, and cast luminous breath down upon the blankets of clouds. Stars shown between gaps, the earth held its breath, and tomorrow was still but a dream of dawn yet hours off. Though, despite all of this, another day had found them yet again. Another change in the patterns of the heavens, and another thread added to the cords of fate that guide them. It was not the beauty of the winter, nor the chill that found the way in passed the walls, but the sight of Aimee alone was enough to alter the course of everything.

Because at that moment she was everything to James.

A lesser man would move at once to undress, to throw her against the polished floor, and rut her like an animal. A weaker man would not see the vision that she was, nor would they follow the slopes of her body with the careful study which James was marking. It would be a lie to say that lust didn't touch his gaze, and to deny such a thing could not add a greedy flick to the way he watched her would be fallacy. Yet, there was more, so much more that seemed to shine out from behind the coldness of that hue of ocean waves. Mind took in everything of this creature that could move hearts with a single leap, and could break them just as easily with a unfurling of arms. Aimee wasn't simply beautiful, she was art.

Still clad in those black and whites, James moved upon those highly polished shoes which winked against the oil cast light with every step. Though body screamed for him to press close, to hold that bare flesh against himself, such baser impulses would be denied for the time being. Instead the man savored the sight of her, whet the blade of appetite with the view of every inch of that skin that was brought out against the air that the fire could not warm in completion. Aimee had done as she was bid, without complaint, hesitation, or fear. She cast away honor, dignity, society and placed her heart with trust within his grasp. James was a monster, this much was true, but he was one whose beating chest swelled with love and pride of this dancer so newly his.

"Be still my love"

The voice came in those steady tones that seemed nearly a command, but held a soft brush of awe below their context. For James to speak that word, those simple four letters, proved at once the man knew them to be true. Though lust dwelled within him, it was that newly found feeling that nearly stilled his breath as he moved about her in dangerously slow circle. So close to her that the radiated heat of his clothed body would touch her, a simple brush of fabric from time to time, but never did he press up against her in lewd display. Instead it was those leather clad fingers that would part the distance between them. Index finger found the edge of her hip, traveled around to the edge of her spine. The other marked a small dimple where corsette had left an impression in the art of women making themselves beautiful for suitors. James moved perhaps like a shark beneath the tides, but this was not the intent.

It was learning her as easily as he had done with watching her upon the stage. It was to explore not bound by lust, but pure interest. It was to learn the woman in full. To know the secrets to which costume could hide, and only suggestions could be seen in movement. Gloved fingers moved along the edge of her ribs, across the swell of her breast, palm passing over a nipple to merely feel the shape of it. She was stunning, and though she would never see herself as perfection, no other word lay upon his tongue in this moment that was only punctuated by his breathing.

A full cycle, a full turning as if he were the moon and she the earth. Rounding the very edges of her to take it all in, and at last James stilled himself behind her. At last the man pressed his chest to the smaller slope of her back, and those hands returned as if bound by her very gravity to her skin. They blow pressed leather to the flat of her stomach, fingers splaying out as they traveled up, both inching along and adding pressure so she was forced into him. They moved up between her breasts, so that one may lead the other in this exploration. Right hand found the delicate extension of her neck, and wrapped fingers there not to strangle, but merely to follow the lines of her body as if the woman were a dream drawn from charcoal. The left had found another path, falling down once again against the imprint of navel, and slipped down to the flat where hip met pelvic bone.

Holding this bare treasure, feeling her with the leather that was both his own hands and not, lips parted beside her ear. Voice was not a command, but it growled all the same with baser hungers that had not yet been filled. It sat heady and heavy upon his breath and thundered against James's chest that was pressed to her.

"Tell me again that you are mine."

Though the man was not bare to the warmth of the fire that surrounded them, there were no secrets there. She could feel his hips pressed against her, and just how greedy he was made by this moment. Aimee feels the thunder of heart, the deepness of his breath, and the struggle of the word control that so many men take for granted. Blue eyes half lidded as lips pressed to just the edge of her jawline, and the hand that rested dangerously against her neck used them to tilt her head to the side. James took in her scent, the feeling of her naked and so close. Another hand dipped dangerously close between her thighs, never once invading or digging.. But they wanted to. Oh yes, Aimee could feel that too. James wanted to be that baser beast that would simply throw her to the ground. Wanted to rut her like an animal, but no matter how thick and hard he grew for her, the man wished to savor. Wished to learn. Wished to make it clear both the terms of that contract of statement, and that she would be treasured all the same.

Others would leer at dancers such as this and drool over such a situation, but yet there was a rightness to this in James. A thing that seemed to fit like the ending of a puzzle that had never been known to have missed a peice. A single note in a symphony that made it all the more beautiful, and until it was heard, never had it been suggested. Aimee belonged here, James knew that, but also never once had the man considered that he belonged here in return. This was right. This was what was needed. A message from the heavens itself, sent by a single wingless angel.

So, let the world be painted a new in innocent white. Let the moon drape itself across those clouds. Let the stars weep, and the people of the city dream. For no longer did James need anything of that. No, all he needed was right here, in his leather bound hands.

"Tell me that you love me…"

A slight shift of weight, a slight roll of his hips was all that was needed to allow Aimee to feel the shape of his body. The broadness of chest. The power of those fingers against her. The circle of the man's arms that held her back against himself. So easily could he force her. So easily could he simply take, but James had no wish for the falsehood of such a thing. Let other men dream of foolish notions such as that. Yes, it was lust, but it was also love itself that he held here. It was right. It was the very reason the past burnt outside in the walkway to the door.

Aimee was after all...everything.

Only now, as if to tease, to torment, to test, did two of those fingers fall between her thighs to give a single gentle stroke of leather against the warmth there. Only then when the words were spoken did he allow that soft growl of desire to fall from his lips ever near her ear. Only when it was clear of how he felt of her, that she held such meaning, did James allow the green eyed beast born of seeing her fully be shown in his gaze.

Bullets, Monsters, and Pancakes
[Concept that I never got to play]​

Just beyond the passenger side window, telephone pole shaped shadows blurred by at seventy miles per hour. Details of the world, just outside that shatter proof glass, was mostly lost in the gloom of the post midnight hour. Heavily clouded sky offered next to no light against the oily shadows which the van cut through, and the moon remained masked against the blankness that swallowed the horizon. Despite the lack of visual stimulation beyond the glass, there was something to set his attention to that hovered on the glass itself… his own reflection.

Six one by most standards, beard neatly trimmed into an inch length, and tamed to follow along his jawline to join with longer dark brown hair that lay slicked back across his skull. Every strand, stitch, and muscle of the man in that reflection was put together with detailed care that the gloomy night beyond never offered to itself. Reaching up to place fingers against the other-side-of-the-glass-self, the man's mind retreated back into the interior comforts of distant thoughts.

Like a giant beetle molded by this treacherously dark night, a sedan suddenly cut the gloom with its glowing eyes in the distance upon the lane across the divider. Skittering illumination of headlights splashed across the van, and the glare of high beams was caught up in the mirrors. Forced out of the protective nest of shadows and memories, instinct took the man's hand to protectively draw down and near near the edge of his left jacket pocket.

The outcome was nothing of note, but the man remained tense all the same while it transpired. The two metal beasts which ran, not upon not hooves but tires instead, passed each other in the dark with but a heavy breath buffering against each others flanks. In that side mirror, attention followed the firey red tail-lights with a steady dark gaze, but no matter silent doubts ricocheting about in his mind, smaller still did twin reds diminish into the night. Only when a hiss of exhale rushed passed his own lips did the man understand his breath was being held, and after a moment to settle himself, he cautiously allowed his fingers to pluck the protected treasure from his pocket.

Slightly larger in circumference than a quarter the thing, now in his palm, had a black plastic shell that was thin and made of cheap material. A half-inch in height, its top was made of a similar substance as the rest, but instead it was uncolored, clear, with a slight shine. Many people would dismiss it as nothing but a cheap toy compass found in a prize at the bottom of breakfast cereal, and with a tagline so easy to imagine, who could blame them?

Find your way towards a healthy breakfast!

Layne Corrigan knew better. The little 'toy' didn't point towards north, but instead it motioned towards the way the van was moving away from. This 'little cracker jack' prize', laying innocently in his clutches, wasn't something trying to help someone have a healthy start to their day either. No, the trinket was tied to a force all together different. Out there in the dark, that swept by in dashes of telephone poles, the man knew they were bound to unseen pull as surely as they were to the lure of gravity. Sooner or later they will have to follow it back. Sooner or later…

"It pointin' the right way?" The Texan twang of Isaac's voice bludgeoned the silence, but at least the driver kept his tone low as not to disturb the one in the back of the van. It wasn't that Layne disliked the other man that he was sat next to. There was just something annoying about that stillness that constantly seemed to be on Isaac, as if not a single thing could ever manage to get under his skin. Bloody Lone Ranger wannabe, even the slow drawl of his voice seemed casual cowboy, just ready to round himself up some doggies… or some bullshit like that.

The passenger turned his attention towards the driver in attempt to match the casual wording that was thrown out. "Point-ing" Layne shook his head with pity (or apathy) before continuing, the bitter-sweet edged accent of having been raised in the U.K. clinging to every word of the Brits voice. "There is a G in it, and mate, you just focus on driving on the wrong side of the road. I'll take care of what's mine." Layne let his fingers tuck the compass back into jacket pocket without another mention.

In comparison to the passenger, Isaac was of thicker build. Body was kept trained into a military standard, and the driver easily kept himself behind the wheel in an almost statue steady pose. A single ice blue eye, the other side covered with a black leather patch, darted gaze with practice ease across mirrors, road signs, mile markers,and other notes of position. Dark blond hair was shorn to an inch length across the top of his head. Clean shaven face turned ever so slightly to make that remaining eye more focused, more locked onto, whichever task was at hand. Powerful hands dug down around the wheel, their strangling grip refusing to allow the vehicle to even consider another direction. Everything about him seemed to scream soldier! and for good reason. Once upon a time and all that…

Layne waited for a long moment, simply studying the one eyed Texan behind the wheel for any weakness in his armor, but eventually the passenger gave up. Seems correcting Isaac was just another barb that failed to find a soft point. "We should stop soon. Stretch our legs. Eat." The last set of words there were clipped by that resurging annoyance, and to hide just how bloody frustrated the American can make him, Layne again turned towards the passenger window.

Currently Isaac was tuning out the childish attacks that the passenger threw his way. The Texan didn't give a flying pig if the tea soaked bastard liked him or not. If pressed to answer such a frivolous thing, Isaac could honestly testify that he didn't much like Layne either. None of that mattered in the end though. At least not while there was a job to do.

"There's an IHOP down'in two exits" Isaac said as his right hand, removed itself from the two o'clock position on the wheel, and tilted the rear view mirror to get a better look at the mountainous pile of blankets in the back A flashlight, muffled below at least three layers, glowed steadily like a captured star below the fabric.

Soon the driver and passenger again found themselves in an uneasy truce of silence. The quiet left one in charge of pulling them through the dark night while in the belly of their white metal beast, and abandoned the other to watch telephone poles blur by at seventy miles per hour.

Sarah was soaring across blue skies dappled with puffy white clouds, but with a simple change of pages she could as easily be swinging between buildings in the big apple. Why stop there? Within these revered texts that lay in the puddle of illumination from the flashlight, the girl of eighteen years had found doorways. They lead to staircases that go down, down, down, and into things never once imagined. Every dot of ink on every comic in her collection, from cover to cover, was studied as if salvation alone could be found in their patterns.

The back doors of the van were pulled open like an apocalypse, and wintry tendrils of cold air crept in under the comforting weight of the blankets. Batman, with his gravelly voice, whispered caution towards any rash actions, but she was certain it meant Trouble! It had to be Mr Freeze attacking the Sarah Bat-Cave! Injustice will not happen this day! Not on Super-Spider-Bat girl turf!

Up she launched herself, like a rabbit pushing through snow, blankets erupting this way and that. With her toughest 'not in my town' face put on, and with cheeks puffed in defiance, Mr Freeze was... was… only Layne. Sighing heavily, the short silently girl put tiny fists on her tiny hips and stared at him. Obviously not overly pleased that an arch nemesis of hers was turned into a not-nemesis at the back of the van.

"Oh, don't look at me that way. It's time for pancakes."

She considered the British invader, and regarded the situation carefully. A queen must consider all things must they not? She must be wise in her decisions, they could affect thousands of lives. So, it was her right… NAY… her duty... to march into that restaurant. She must decimate the armies of the pancake men! She must conquer the lands of the salted bacon!
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Coming Up For Air
Still here?
​

Made it through did you? Well... nothing left to say, but that I hope to see you out on the dance floor. That is what it is about is it not? So, if this humble offering sparks your interest, do let me know, and thank you for your time Dear Reader.

-Traith

 

[Solivagant]

Your writing style is intensely gorgeous. Like breathing in crisp autumnal air for the first time. xx

 

[Voluptia Reign]

I agree with the above statement. Sir, you have a great attention to detail and the visual is pleasing to the mind. I would offer my services as a writing partner but I don't know if I could do you justice.