CEOLSIGE'S
BIG ASS
ROLEPLAY AD

toxic masculinity, closeted, unrequited, bromance, enemies to lovers, waffle house aesthetic, blues rock, long road trips, modern day cowboys, trailer park glam, quirky, surreal, rural, forbidden, platonic, secret, polyamory, boardwalks, southern gothic, retro, arcades, smoking on the hood of the car, conversations,

mpreg, a/b/o, anime faceclaims, yaoi vibes, sub/dom dynamics, ooc kinks, minors as main characters, minors in questionable situations, military/police plots, mafia plots, anthro characters, "submissive" as an entire personality, celebrity plots, tsundere/yandere, cartoonish faceclaims

Content Warning: Drug/Alcohol Mention
Shiloh enters a nondescript bar in a nondescript place.
248 words

Content Warning: Drug/Alcohol Mention
Franky Wilcox struggles to meet his interviewee on time at a bar in Topeka.
646 words

A contract killer's been tailing your character. Maybe it's all a mix-up, or maybe it's for a good reason. Either way, it's gonna be a high stakes introduction when they finally do collide. The killer can be persuaded to turn on his employer, or to use the would-be victim as collateral.

Your character's new cellmate is a real piece of work. He's uneducated, angry at the world, and just a little bit unhinged. After a period of close quarters, something happens that frees them both (or they can be released around the same time). They're reluctant (or unable) to part ways.

(Historical Prompt) Our characters are chained together by the ankles (or handcuffed together) and manage to escape their captors, but not each other. (Note: Think chain gang, not trapped in someone's sex dungeon!) They have to work together to break apart.

Two strangers are assigned a job they must complete together. What that job is depends on the setting/time period, but their working chemistry has more of an effect on one than the other. Cue the unrequited crush. Maybe that changes eventually, but if it does, it'll be a very slow burn.

I'm a sucker for group RP, but the older I get, the more I prefer something small. I'd love to do a small town slice of life group with, say, no more than ten other writers? Unlimited characters per person. No overarching plot. Minimal moderation. Let me know if you're interested!

Small town. Open fields, dark pines. Strange radio broadcasts, stranger loops. The folks around here don't act right. Every time you try to leave, you wind up back where you started. Neither of our characters are from around here, but they both notice they're beginning to forget everything that came before Sunnyside.

Old west in the lawless age. Maybe two outlaws; maybe two cowboys. Maybe any mix of folk eking out an existence the best or only way they know how. Could be part of the same criminal gang, dodging a war draft, dodging the law, dodging justice.

late 1600s - early 1700s; witch stuff and other spooky things

19th century; corruption and politics disguised as witchcraft

small group of >10; life in a raggedy trailer park

A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life, some eminent fashion mogul once said.

Shiloh was not a woman, but sometimes he flipped through Cosmo while queued up to pay for his Pall Malls. Cosmo and Enquire and The Sun and, when he was feelin’ classy, The New Yorker. But it was Cosmo that put the idea in his rattly coyote head to get a haircut. He paid an old man with quavering hands ten bucks for it, saw that it looked like a ten dollar haircut, and still tipped thirty percent.

Then he hopped on “his” retro Moto Guzzi and covered his shitty ten dollar haircut under a helmet, rode a block and a half, then pulled over when the engine died.

That was karma, he thought as he stood on the corner with the helmet tucked against his ribs. She was stolen, after all. Somebody’s baby, as ugly and scuffed up as she was. If she was human, she’d have yellowing toenails and little black hairs sprouting above her lip. If she was human, it’d be a kindness to put her down. But he shouldn't have nabbed her, even if she was sitting in a (recently) abandoned garage.

He shuffled his canvas yellow backpack and turned around, eyeballing the seedy bar behind him. He could go for some odious food, he figured, and a drink or two. A Vicodin could make a Manhattan go a long way.

Franky Wilcox slams the hood down over his truck’s steaming engine and beats on the top of it a few times for good measure. He shifts his cigarette around in his mouth with his jaw jut out, then walks around his cream colored Xtracab to let the tailgate down and sit a while. He swings his legs like a kid while he takes out his phone and composes a text message.

(All he does is write, it seems like. He wakes up and writes text messages and cranks out emails over coffee. In the evenings he works on his features. When his muse wanes he takes a sniff of cocaine and powers through it. There is no losing inspiration; you walk that shit off.)

The gist of his message is this: I’m gonna be late. Don’t wait up; I’ll catch up to you.

He might be twenty-eight years old, but Franky’s old fashioned. He likes to get long-winded and to sign off at the end. To describe his surroundings in some capacity, even if it’s often just an abstract. For example, now he adds he’s broken down in some God-forsaken place. (It’s Kansas; not so far out from Topeka.)

The engine cools and he hits the road again, then pulls into the first shop he sees. Wanders outside to take the most desolate shots he can finagle with his little Fujifilm. He’s missing out on hanging time, so he might need to fill the white space with exposition. The journey. Readers eat that shit up — when it seems it takes a trek through Mordor to reach the interviewee. Franky’s far from the topic of interest, but he is the oh-so-relatable I of the story. You’re supposed to connect with him. He could be you.

Thumbing it would make for a better story, but there’s no guarantee anyone will pick him up. He’s working on a deadline, so he needs to get to the bar, already. The sun’s bearing down, waning purple and fiery gold, stretching his shadow long ahead of him. He plops down at the bus stop and smokes. Starts asking questions to a bum who doesn’t wanna be bothered. The conversation peters out; the bum asks for some money. Franky forks over three bucks with an air of great concentration, jaw stuck out, cigarette tilted skyward.

The bum wants to bum a cigarette. Franky hands him one, and a light, then asks, “Anything else?” in his contrived Tennessee drawl.

But that’s all, and he waits around until the bus comes to get him, then rides out toward Topeka.

He takes up a seat with his backpack, which holds his valuables. These include his phone, his Macbook, and the camera. His notepad sits on his thigh, and his pen sits in his hand. The other hand swipes unconsciously for his cigarette, but he snuffed that out before boarding. He scratches under his nose instead; writes, CORN.

Most of the trip takes place along a two lane road that might exist anywhere in the country. It’s green; there are fields. Some shambles of old barns. He writes, might as well be anyplace, then leans back in the seat and alternates between watching the landscape and his own reflection.

The bus drops him off in Topeka, and he pulls his backpack on and rolls his shoulders. Lights up a cigarette, walks a couple blocks with his phone out.

I’m here. I’ll be here, if you got time, he adds underneath his last lonely text message. He’s got nothing else to do after coming all this way.

Outside the bar, he snuffs his cigarette and tosses it into the outdoor ashtray. Swipes road dust off his t-shirt and thighs and the seat of his jeans, then his rugged expensive boots. Heaves a put-upon sigh, rakes his fingers through his moppy brown hair, and saunters inside.