MxM 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃! | mortal’s request thread

[mortalflesh]

MORTAL'S GENERAL SEARCH .ᐟ ֹ​

heya, i’m mortal! decided i’d dust off the ol’ brain a lil bit and get some new stories going. gonna try to keep this as organized as possible, so bear with me because i tend to ramble.


ㅡ𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐄
i’m 24, and i’ve been writing for roughly 10 years now. i strictly write in third-person past tense, and i only explore 1x1 original stories and characters. i can write in just about any genre, but i loveee darker themes. i usually gravitate towards mxm and fxf. it’s not necessarily a hard no for me, but i prefer writing with versatile switches—characters who can shift between dominant/submissive, assertive/vulnerable roles depending on context or energy. i don’t have a specific smut:plot ratio; however, i’m more invested in story-driven rps. drawn image/anime face claims or written descriptions are preferred.

my post length can range from 500~3k+ depending on the scene, but i’m a strong believer in writing until one is satisfied. replies are usually 2–3 times a week. ooc chat is extremely welcome—give me all the playlists, mood boards, headcanons. i value mutual comfort, communication, and collaboration above everything.

ㅡ𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

• my hard limits are graphic depictions of animal abuse and the use of racial slurs and/or race play involving poc characters.

𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙨

• violence & gore
• depiction of physical abuse/ assault (limited between romantic leads)
• torture
• blood/ graphic injury
• suicide / suicide ideation
• death (minor/major characters)
• self harm
• body horror

𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙨​

• please note: these aren’t meant to be a checklist for our story. they’re just here to show what i tend to enjoy and what i’m open to experimenting with!

​

𝐲𝐞𝐬!

choking, biting, begging, degradation, consensual, dub-con, face fucking, oral (giving & receiving), spanking, sadism/masochism, hair pulling, rimming, breath control, body hair, orgasm control/denial, blindfolds, bondage, praise, aftercare, teasing, overstimulation, crying, toys, mutual masturbation, double penetration, voyeurism, dirty talking

𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞

aphrodisiacs, bloodplay, footjobs, wetting, branding

𝐧𝐨

absorption, ageplay, vore, scat, hyper watersports, incest, necrophilia, pregnancy, vomit

ㅡ𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄

𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝟏

Shea Calloway, the Sheriff, lived by the clock. He believed in order, in the neat lines of routine and control. He believed there was a sense of right and wrong. That it was his duty to protect the widow when the cattle baron tried to steal her land, no less than it was his duty to drag a thief back alive instead of leaving him to bleed out in the dirt. He believed in karma, but didn't fear it like most folks did.

He preferred plain shirts with rolled sleeves, suspenders or a vest, and always has his badge pinned. He never walked outside without his badge. He never walked outside without his gun. It wasn't a symbol of pride, more of a statement. A reminder. Of who the Sheriff was. What his name meant to the town. How much it cost.

Shea Calloway, the man, was something else entirely. Less polished, more human. Tired, often. He tried. Not always well, not always enough. But he was sincere. He preferred the ritual of rolling his own tobacco, nothing mild or sweet. It kept his hands busy whenever his thoughts ran dark. Blood didn't wash off easy, not matter how much you scrubbed. It always found a way to linger. Memories were harder to wash away.

At times, he would talk to himself in Julia's voice. Sometimes, it was his father's. Otis. Esther. Mercer. His ghosts from the past. They'd never let him get too comfortable. Nowadays, they looked the same as anybody else on the street, and you couldn't spot the devil from a neighbor till his hand was already on the gun. Between you or them, you made sure it was them every time.

The man and the Sheriff weren't the same. They kept to their own corners, taking turns, one stepping in as the other stepped out. And if they ever crossed paths inside his head, it was just a nod, before they passed each other on a dirt road. Life, merciful or cruel, never called on all of Shea Calloway at once.

Not 'til a snake-eyed fella strolled into his jail, shit-eating grin plastered on his face and "Sawbone" Morris Briggs hanging off his shoulder like a sack of grain. Hell of a start to a Monday afternoon.

Shea leaned forward at his desk, fingers laced, mouth set in a firm line. The fella stood there easy, Briggs slumped over his shoulder, grin wide as a fresh scar. Shea lifted a brow, waiting for the man to make sense of himself. After a beat of tense silence, Shea pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room, his stride heavy with both strength and weariness, a frame built for brawls and hard riding. His boots thudded against the worn floorboards until he stopped short of the stranger, close enough to catch the faint whiff of trail dust and sweat. His eye climbed from Briggs' dead weight to the fella holding him, a dark-eyed devil if there ever was one.

Shea crouched down, pulled the sock free from Brigg's mouth. "Got anything to say, Morris? Or should I call you Sawbone?"

Briggs craned his neck and shot him with the dirtiest look he could muster. "Go to hell, Calloway, I'll be waitin' for—"

"Alright then." He replaced the sock then strengthened up, ignoring the criminal’s muffled protests as he turned his attention to the stranger.

"The hell is this?" He folded his arms, eyes narrowing as he sized the man up. "We had a bounty on his head for months, no luck. Then you stroll in grinnin' like a fool?" He had to tip his chin up to meet the stranger's eyes—he was used to towering over most people, but this man had a few inches on him, built like a fucking giant. Forties, maybe. Dark hair, skin weathered by sun. The kind of stare that could strip the skin from a rattler. He didn't like him one bit. He'd met men like him in the past, and every last one of them were either behind bars or buried in a pine box.

Shea stepped closer, crowding the man's space. He thumbed the edge of the badge on his chest. "Who the hell are you?"

Funny. He asked himself the same thing every morning. Sheriff, lawman, killer—it all blurred together when he caught his reflection in the wash basin. He still wasn't sure which part of him folks were really talking to.

𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝟐

In another life, when the earth was quiet, he could have imagined gentleness—Alasdair’s arms around him, kisses pressed into his hair as he wept. He would have trembled like the earth itself, drowning in Alasdair’s heat. He could almost hear the gods laughing. Thin, rotting smiles pressed to the scar of their mouths, watching his immortal ruin with pity disguised as amusement. Damn them. Damn Alasdair too, for he could not give himself wholly to rage, could not look at the undressing body before him with only hatred. No. Rafael’s expression shifted, an unreadable one. Pale lashes fluttered over paler skin, eyes lidded, sliding toward his Sire.

“You would rather endure torment than look at this face you made me wear,” he accused. The words struck sharp, but he was a creature who liked to turn the knife upward, to tease and wound and withdraw at his whim. “You…” He let the word stretch, gaze narrowing as Alasdair’s body shuddered. “…drink my insults like water.” He said it slowly, almost with wonder, as if seeing him for the first time, testing how much cruelty he could carry before he broke and became wholly his.

A vessel for his venom. A vessel for his lust.

Always lust, the final judgment. It would be the death of his sanity. He said nothing as Alasdair fought with his trousers, slender fingers tugging the laces until cloth gave way and his flesh betrayed him, flushed and bare against the chill. Rafael’s eyes darkened, a demon pacing the cage of his stare. He did not notice his own body prowling forward, silent as a panther, until he breached Alasdair’s space—close enough to sink his hand into that living fire of hair, should he choose to. He stopped only when Alasdair turned, exposing the ruins of his back.

Rafael knew each scar intimately, and there were some he’d inflicted himself, under the weight of a whip, kissed and bit until Alasdair wept with pleasure, begged for mercy. There was a perverse beauty to his scars, holding Alasdair’s body together in defiance of every force that had tried to pull it apart.

But there were new scars, too. Scars that had no business being there. An abomination.

He drifted forward, fingers tracing the surface of Alasdair’s back. He could feel an echo of its texture in his hands, smooth and dense and just slightly cooler than the surrounding skin. It should have felt strange to touch him, but it didn’t, any more than touching his own body. The touch could have brought peace if not for the insidious way it made its way inside of him and took root.

“Who did this?” he demanded in a throaty whisper. He did not want Alasdair to turn around. His head sank on Alasdair’s shoulder, warm breath ghosting against cold skin. A hint of teeth, biting the flesh, tasting bitterness. “Tell me,” he murmured, “how am I supposed to look at you?” His hands ghosted along his ribs, trembling. “Tell me how I should look at you without loathing—because I cannot.”

ㅡ𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐒 .ᐟ

𝐝𝐢𝐞, 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

An artist paints a man who becomes alive, but only within the borders of the canvas. He speaks, flirts, begs, envies. He falls in love with the artist, the only world he can see. Then he begins altering himself, changing his own painted anatomy in ways a human body could never survive. He becomes more beautiful, more grotesque, more seductive, all to keep the artist’s gaze. The artist soon realizes: The portrait is trying to replace him, copying his voice, his mannerisms, even the kisses he’s given others. And one night, the portrait reaches out of the canvas.

𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤

A bitter knight worn out of his former glory, mid 30s to early 40s. Still, he's staunchly devout and ready to bend at a moment's notice. Duty and subserviance run thick through his veins. Something submissive in the way a livestock guardian dog is submissive to the sheep it kills wolves for. Best when paired against spoiled princelings and the witches that haunt these woods.

𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

A celestial being falls to Earth, bleeding starlight, reality buckling wherever he steps. A human shelters him, and the celestial, unused to emotion, becomes dangerously attached. But the more he feels, the more monstrous his true form bleeds through: mirrors shatter, animals flee, time stutters around him. To stay with the human, he must sever his bond to the heavens, severing his wings to anchor himself on Earth. And the human must decide whether he can love something that was never meant to exist in this world.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

An ambitious grad student doubling as a tortured artist, comes prepackaged with a dark academia flare and Catholic guilt. Brooding but kind and bordering on aloof. Enjoys his histories and hypotheticals. In some AUs, he's a professional dom; in others, he's pining for a professor. It could always be both.

𝐂-𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊

A charismatic cult leader is thrown into a maximum-security prison, stripped of his followers and forced to start over. To survive long enough for a planned breakout, he sets his sights on the most feared inmate on the block, offering devotion in exchange for protection. What begins as calculated manipulation twists into obsession. One man craves shelter. The other craves purpose. Together, they become the fuse for a violent escape.

𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬

A disgraced archivist hired to preserve a crumbling estate and the widower who owns it, still living as though his husband might return if the house is kept unchanged. Once brilliant, now quietly ruined, the archivist tends forbidden texts and sealed rooms with reverence; the widower hires him not just to catalog history, but to witness his grief. As intimacy grows, the question becomes whether love is being born, or carefully curated.

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

A human dancer takes a job at Velvet Fantasy - the money is better and the rules are clear. Monster-only clientele. No touching unless paid for and permitted. Cameras everywhere. Desire boxed in and labeled safe. One client never buys a dance. He sits in the same booth night after night, hands folded in his lap, watching like he’s afraid of what wanting might do to him. Every time the dancer catches his eye with his little smiles, his threat level ticks up. The system calls it agitation. The dancer starts to realize it’s restraint. They talk in the quiet spaces between sets. Nothing important. Nothing recorded. The dancer is paid to be a fantasy. The monster is punished for sincerity. Somewhere between the velvet curtains and the low light, they start choosing each other in ways neither of them is supposed to.

𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋

Broke and cornered, a straight guy in his mid twenties signs up for a sugar daddy site, telling himself it’s just money. He meets an older man in his 40s who’s lonely, soft-spoken, and too generous. The money comes easy. No demands. No pressure. He waits for the catch, pushing boundaries, drinking too much, lying, flirting with disaster to see if the kindness will break. It doesn’t. As weeks pass, the money stops being the problem. What scares him is how much the attention matters, how badly he wants to be chosen. He tells himself he’s straight. He tells himself this will end badly. Still, he keeps coming back, trying to ruin something that feels real.

𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐡𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐬

A disgraced noble with a crumbling estate stakes his last chance at survival on a dangerous gladiator he barely controls. Winning the games could restore his power; losing would ruin him. The gladiator agrees to fight only in exchange for his freedom, written into a contract neither fully trusts. As the arena reveals itself to be a game of rigged matches and political favors, patron and fighter are forced into a reluctant alliance — sharing strategy, lies, and secrets to stay alive. Their partnership draws the attention of rebels and rivals alike, blurring the line between ownership and loyalty. Victory could save them both. It could also chain them tighter than iron.

𝐂𝐈𝐑𝐂𝐔𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍

The new guy takes a job at the carnival to disappear for a while. The workers close ranks fast — loud, protective, a little feral. They feed him, cover his shifts, drink with him after hours. They also warn him, casually, about him. Tall. Handsome. Keeps to himself. Arrived right before a local man went missing. The mysterious man never explains himself, never denies anything. He treats the new guy gently, almost reverently. The closer they get, the more the carnival family goes quiet, not because they’re afraid for the new guy… but because they’re afraid of what he might choose if the rumors are true.

ㅡ𝐁𝐔𝐙𝐙 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 (𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬/𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐬/𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬 𝐢 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲)
religious trauma, western towns, gladiators, cults, gothic imagery, gods, post-apocalyptic, monsters, aliens, forbidden love, pining, hatred, madness, werewolves, vampires, stalkers, fluff, forced proximity, doomed love, miscommunication, possessiveness, low/high fantasy worlds, pirates, jealousy, demons, rugged older characters, unreliable narrator, enemies to lovers, subverting expectations, small towns, political marriage, warring kingdoms, elves, detectives, alternative, grunge, hopeless romantic, hurt/comfort, status differences


✦ if any of this piques your interest, shoot me a PM and we can talk plots! if you have any you want to share i'm more than happy to discuss. thanks for reading! ✦

​

 

[Vampire_Witch_Thing]

View attachment 147568

MORTAL'S GENERAL SEARCH .ᐟ ֹ​

heya, i’m mortal! decided i’d dust off the ol’ brain a lil bit and get some new stories going. gonna try to keep this as organized as possible, so bear with me because i tend to ramble.


ㅡ𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐄
i’m 24, and i’ve been writing for roughly 10 years now. i strictly write in third-person past tense, and i only explore 1x1 original stories and characters. i can write in just about any genre, but i loveee darker themes. i usually gravitate towards mxm and fxf. it’s not necessarily a hard no for me, but i prefer writing with versatile switches—characters who can shift between dominant/submissive, assertive/vulnerable roles depending on context or energy. i don’t have a specific smut:plot ratio; however, i’m more invested in story-driven rps. drawn image/anime face claims or written descriptions are preferred.

my post length can range from 500~3k+ depending on the scene, but i’m a strong believer in writing until one is satisfied. replies are usually 2–3 times a week. ooc chat is extremely welcome—give me all the playlists, mood boards, headcanons. i value mutual comfort, communication, and collaboration above everything.

ㅡ𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

• my hard limits are graphic depictions of animal abuse and the use of racial slurs and/or race play involving poc characters.

𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙨

• violence & gore
• depiction of physical abuse/ assault (limited between romantic leads)
• torture
• blood/ graphic injury
• suicide / suicide ideation
• death (minor/major characters)
• self harm
• body horror

𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙨​

• please note: these aren’t meant to be a checklist for our story. they’re just here to show what i tend to enjoy and what i’m open to experimenting with!

​

𝐲𝐞𝐬!

choking, biting, begging, degradation, consensual, dub-con, face fucking, oral (giving & receiving), spanking, sadism/masochism, hair pulling, rimming, breath control, body hair, orgasm control/denial, blindfolds, bondage, praise, aftercare, teasing, overstimulation, crying, toys, mutual masturbation, double penetration, voyeurism, dirty talking

𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞

aphrodisiacs, bloodplay, footjobs, wetting, branding

𝐧𝐨

absorption, ageplay, vore, scat, hyper watersports, incest, necrophilia, pregnancy, vomit

ㅡ𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄

𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝟏

Shea Calloway, the Sheriff, lived by the clock. He believed in order, in the neat lines of routine and control. He believed there was a sense of right and wrong. That it was his duty to protect the widow when the cattle baron tried to steal her land, no less than it was his duty to drag a thief back alive instead of leaving him to bleed out in the dirt. He believed in karma, but didn't fear it like most folks did.

He preferred plain shirts with rolled sleeves, suspenders or a vest, and always has his badge pinned. He never walked outside without his badge. He never walked outside without his gun. It wasn't a symbol of pride, more of a statement. A reminder. Of who the Sheriff was. What his name meant to the town. How much it cost.

Shea Calloway, the man, was something else entirely. Less polished, more human. Tired, often. He tried. Not always well, not always enough. But he was sincere. He preferred the ritual of rolling his own tobacco, nothing mild or sweet. It kept his hands busy whenever his thoughts ran dark. Blood didn't wash off easy, not matter how much you scrubbed. It always found a way to linger. Memories were harder to wash away.

At times, he would talk to himself in Julia's voice. Sometimes, it was his father's. Otis. Esther. Mercer. His ghosts from the past. They'd never let him get too comfortable. Nowadays, they looked the same as anybody else on the street, and you couldn't spot the devil from a neighbor till his hand was already on the gun. Between you or them, you made sure it was them every time.

The man and the Sheriff weren't the same. They kept to their own corners, taking turns, one stepping in as the other stepped out. And if they ever crossed paths inside his head, it was just a nod, before they passed each other on a dirt road. Life, merciful or cruel, never called on all of Shea Calloway at once.

Not 'til a snake-eyed fella strolled into his jail, shit-eating grin plastered on his face and "Sawbone" Morris Briggs hanging off his shoulder like a sack of grain. Hell of a start to a Monday afternoon.

Shea leaned forward at his desk, fingers laced, mouth set in a firm line. The fella stood there easy, Briggs slumped over his shoulder, grin wide as a fresh scar. Shea lifted a brow, waiting for the man to make sense of himself. After a beat of tense silence, Shea pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room, his stride heavy with both strength and weariness, a frame built for brawls and hard riding. His boots thudded against the worn floorboards until he stopped short of the stranger, close enough to catch the faint whiff of trail dust and sweat. His eye climbed from Briggs' dead weight to the fella holding him, a dark-eyed devil if there ever was one.

Shea crouched down, pulled the sock free from Brigg's mouth. "Got anything to say, Morris? Or should I call you Sawbone?"

Briggs craned his neck and shot him with the dirtiest look he could muster. "Go to hell, Calloway, I'll be waitin' for—"

"Alright then." He replaced the sock then strengthened up, ignoring the criminal’s muffled protests as he turned his attention to the stranger.

"The hell is this?" He folded his arms, eyes narrowing as he sized the man up. "We had a bounty on his head for months, no luck. Then you stroll in grinnin' like a fool?" He had to tip his chin up to meet the stranger's eyes—he was used to towering over most people, but this man had a few inches on him, built like a fucking giant. Forties, maybe. Dark hair, skin weathered by sun. The kind of stare that could strip the skin from a rattler. He didn't like him one bit. He'd met men like him in the past, and every last one of them were either behind bars or buried in a pine box.

Shea stepped closer, crowding the man's space. He thumbed the edge of the badge on his chest. "Who the hell are you?"

Funny. He asked himself the same thing every morning. Sheriff, lawman, killer—it all blurred together when he caught his reflection in the wash basin. He still wasn't sure which part of him folks were really talking to.

𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝟐

In another life, when the earth was quiet, he could have imagined gentleness—Alasdair’s arms around him, kisses pressed into his hair as he wept. He would have trembled like the earth itself, drowning in Alasdair’s heat. He could almost hear the gods laughing. Thin, rotting smiles pressed to the scar of their mouths, watching his immortal ruin with pity disguised as amusement. Damn them. Damn Alasdair too, for he could not give himself wholly to rage, could not look at the undressing body before him with only hatred. No. Rafael’s expression shifted, an unreadable one. Pale lashes fluttered over paler skin, eyes lidded, sliding toward his Sire.

“You would rather endure torment than look at this face you made me wear,” he accused. The words struck sharp, but he was a creature who liked to turn the knife upward, to tease and wound and withdraw at his whim. “You…” He let the word stretch, gaze narrowing as Alasdair’s body shuddered. “…drink my insults like water.” He said it slowly, almost with wonder, as if seeing him for the first time, testing how much cruelty he could carry before he broke and became wholly his.

A vessel for his venom. A vessel for his lust.

Always lust, the final judgment. It would be the death of his sanity. He said nothing as Alasdair fought with his trousers, slender fingers tugging the laces until cloth gave way and his flesh betrayed him, flushed and bare against the chill. Rafael’s eyes darkened, a demon pacing the cage of his stare. He did not notice his own body prowling forward, silent as a panther, until he breached Alasdair’s space—close enough to sink his hand into that living fire of hair, should he choose to. He stopped only when Alasdair turned, exposing the ruins of his back.

Rafael knew each scar intimately, and there were some he’d inflicted himself, under the weight of a whip, kissed and bit until Alasdair wept with pleasure, begged for mercy. There was a perverse beauty to his scars, holding Alasdair’s body together in defiance of every force that had tried to pull it apart.

But there were new scars, too. Scars that had no business being there. An abomination.

He drifted forward, fingers tracing the surface of Alasdair’s back. He could feel an echo of its texture in his hands, smooth and dense and just slightly cooler than the surrounding skin. It should have felt strange to touch him, but it didn’t, any more than touching his own body. The touch could have brought peace if not for the insidious way it made its way inside of him and took root.

“Who did this?” he demanded in a throaty whisper. He did not want Alasdair to turn around. His head sank on Alasdair’s shoulder, warm breath ghosting against cold skin. A hint of teeth, biting the flesh, tasting bitterness. “Tell me,” he murmured, “how am I supposed to look at you?” His hands ghosted along his ribs, trembling. “Tell me how I should look at you without loathing—because I cannot.”

ㅡ𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐒 .ᐟ

𝐝𝐢𝐞, 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

An artist paints a man who becomes alive, but only within the borders of the canvas. He speaks, flirts, begs, envies. He falls in love with the artist, the only world he can see. Then he begins altering himself, changing his own painted anatomy in ways a human body could never survive. He becomes more beautiful, more grotesque, more seductive, all to keep the artist’s gaze. The artist soon realizes: The portrait is trying to replace him, copying his voice, his mannerisms, even the kisses he’s given others. And one night, the portrait reaches out of the canvas.

𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤

A bitter knight worn out of his former glory, mid 30s to early 40s. Still, he's staunchly devout and ready to bend at a moment's notice. Duty and subserviance run thick through his veins. Something submissive in the way a livestock guardian dog is submissive to the sheep it kills wolves for. Best when paired against spoiled princelings and the witches that haunt these woods.

𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

A celestial being falls to Earth, bleeding starlight, reality buckling wherever he steps. A human shelters him, and the celestial, unused to emotion, becomes dangerously attached. But the more he feels, the more monstrous his true form bleeds through: mirrors shatter, animals flee, time stutters around him. To stay with the human, he must sever his bond to the heavens, severing his wings to anchor himself on Earth. And the human must decide whether he can love something that was never meant to exist in this world.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

An ambitious grad student doubling as a tortured artist, comes prepackaged with a dark academia flare and Catholic guilt. Brooding but kind and bordering on aloof. Enjoys his histories and hypotheticals. In some AUs, he's a professional dom; in others, he's pining for a professor. It could always be both.

𝐂-𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊

A charismatic cult leader is thrown into a maximum-security prison, stripped of his followers and forced to start over. To survive long enough for a planned breakout, he sets his sights on the most feared inmate on the block, offering devotion in exchange for protection. What begins as calculated manipulation twists into obsession. One man craves shelter. The other craves purpose. Together, they become the fuse for a violent escape.

𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬

A disgraced archivist hired to preserve a crumbling estate and the widower who owns it, still living as though his husband might return if the house is kept unchanged. Once brilliant, now quietly ruined, the archivist tends forbidden texts and sealed rooms with reverence; the widower hires him not just to catalog history, but to witness his grief. As intimacy grows, the question becomes whether love is being born, or carefully curated.

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

A human dancer takes a job at Velvet Fantasy - the money is better and the rules are clear. Monster-only clientele. No touching unless paid for and permitted. Cameras everywhere. Desire boxed in and labeled safe. One client never buys a dance. He sits in the same booth night after night, hands folded in his lap, watching like he’s afraid of what wanting might do to him. Every time the dancer catches his eye with his little smiles, his threat level ticks up. The system calls it agitation. The dancer starts to realize it’s restraint. They talk in the quiet spaces between sets. Nothing important. Nothing recorded. The dancer is paid to be a fantasy. The monster is punished for sincerity. Somewhere between the velvet curtains and the low light, they start choosing each other in ways neither of them is supposed to.

𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋

Broke and cornered, a straight guy in his mid twenties signs up for a sugar daddy site, telling himself it’s just money. He meets an older man in his 40s who’s lonely, soft-spoken, and too generous. The money comes easy. No demands. No pressure. He waits for the catch, pushing boundaries, drinking too much, lying, flirting with disaster to see if the kindness will break. It doesn’t. As weeks pass, the money stops being the problem. What scares him is how much the attention matters, how badly he wants to be chosen. He tells himself he’s straight. He tells himself this will end badly. Still, he keeps coming back, trying to ruin something that feels real.

ㅡ𝐁𝐔𝐙𝐙 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 (𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬/𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐬/𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬 𝐢 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲)
religious trauma, western towns, gladiators, cults, gothic imagery, gods, post-apocalyptic, monsters, aliens, forbidden love, pining, hatred, madness, werewolves, vampires, stalkers, fluff, forced proximity, doomed love, miscommunication, possessiveness, low/high fantasy worlds, pirates, jealousy, demons, rugged older characters, unreliable narrator, enemies to lovers, subverting expectations, small towns, political marriage, warring kingdoms, elves, detectives, alternative, grunge, hopeless romantic, hurt/comfort, status differences


✦ if any of this piques your interest, shoot me a PM and we can talk plots! if you have any you want to share i'm more than happy to discuss. thanks for reading! ✦

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Good morning I was reading your thread and your plot Dial caught my interest. Though, I was also looking at your Buzz Word list and I would also be interested in a demon/mortal or demon/angel political marriage plot. I also have a post apocalypse plot that I would like to play. Please let me know if you'd be interested in doing your plot or hearing my ideas.