IsabellaRose

Your breath hitches, your pulse hammering in your ears. The weight of the bit of chain hanging from your collar is suddenly unbearable, as if it’s tightening, pulling you back into the hands of the monster this man before you works for. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to still your trembling fingers as you drop them from the chain. You can’t fight him. He’s too big, too strong, and you don’t even know how many more are lurking in the ruins, waiting to drag you back in irons. If you resist, he’ll enjoy breaking you. But if you play along, if you act weak, you might get close enough to strike when he least expects it. So you let your shoulders slump, let your gaze drop to the ground, your breath coming in shallow, uncertain gasps. You press your lips together like you’re struggling to find words, like you’re afraid to speak. Like you are prey. The smirk on his face grows. He believes it. "That's right," he murmurs, closing the distance. His filthy hand grabs your chin, tilting your face up roughly, forcing you to meet his gaze. His fingers press into your skin, his grip meant to remind you of his strength, his control. You let out a small, shaky breath, pretending to shrink beneath his touch. Let him think he’s already won. "Good girl," he drawls, amusement thick in his tone. "It would be a shame to leave permanent scars on such a pretty thing." His thumb drags over your bottom lip, slow and deliberate. Your stomach roils with disgust, but you keep yourself still, pliant. You need him closer. His grip loosens just slightly, shifting lower, grazing your throat. There. Your chance is coming. If you take the risk now, go for his eyes, his throat, make a break for it before the others decide to step in, click here <link forthcoming> If you wait a moment longer, let him drop his guard further, draw him in until you can strike cleanly, click here <link forthcoming> If you know better than to fight and give in, click here <link forthcoming>

Your grip tightens on the cool metal of the doorknob. The voice from the other side of the door is smooth, controlled, confident, a man used to getting what he wants. A man who expects you to comply. That expectation hangs in the air between you like a challenge. You push the door open and step inside. The room is dimly lit, bathed in the golden glow of a single lamp perched on the edge of a sleek black desk. Floor-to-ceiling curtains smother any outside light, sealing the space in an unnatural hush. The scent of cologne, leather, and whiskey lingers in the air. It feels intentional, designed. At the far end of the room, he sits. The director. An older man, still handsome, in a tailored black suit, his silver cufflinks catching the lamplight as he idly taps his fingers against the arm of his chair. His eyes, sharp and heavy-lidded, drag over you, slow and deliberate. You feel him undressing you in his mind. He doesn’t speak right away, simply watches, letting the silence stretch long enough to make most people uncomfortable. But you aren’t most people. You play the part. Your lips curl into the faintest smile, a flirty look of possibility, your posture shifting just enough to suggest confidence, intrigue. You don’t shrink away from his gaze; instead, you let him look. Let him think you are exactly what he wants you to be. "Miss Hastings," he finally murmurs, his voice rich with amusement. "I've heard you're quite... talented." He gestures toward the chair across from him, a slow flick of his fingers, watching to see if you’ll obey. You hesitate just long enough to make it feel like a choice, then step forward, sinking into the chair with the kind of practiced ease that says you belong here. The leather is cold against the bare skin of your thighs. The director’s smirk widens, but his gaze sharpens. He knows you aren’t naïve. He knows you’re playing along. The question in both your minds is: how far are you willing to go? He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk. "Tell me, Miss Hastings… how badly do you want this role?" His eyes glint with something unreadable as he waits for your reply. If you reply in a flirty manner, keeping the act going, to see where this leads, click here <link forthcoming> If you try to turn the tables, ask what he’s willing to do to prove this is worth your time, click here <link forthcoming> If you decide to set a boundary, make it clear that you’ll play along only to a point, click here <link forthcoming>

Your grip tightens on the cool metal of the doorknob. The words from the other side of the door are smooth as silk but threaded with darker expectations. You breathe in. Steady yourself. You are an actress, not a toy, not a decoration, not prey. You push the door open and step inside, your heels clicking against the polished wood floor. The room beyond is dimly lit, the glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across plush leather furniture and a sleek, black desk. Floor-to-ceiling curtains are drawn over what you assume are windows, their heavy fabric muffling the sounds of the city beyond. The air is thick with cologne and the faint bite of whiskey. At the far end of the room sits a man you assume must be the director. He is a man of presence, handsome for an older man, his suit sharp, his silver cufflinks glinting in the low light. His gaze drags over you, slow, assessing, and you fight the urge to shiver. His eyes have undressed you before you even have a chance to move, and he leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, a smirk playing at his lips as if he already knows the outcome of this conversation. You don’t let him speak first. “I hope you’re looking for talent,” you say, your voice even, strong, “because that’s what I’m offering.” His smirk widens, as though he expected resistance but doesn’t find it discouraging. "Talent," he repeats, tasting the word like it's a foreign concept. "Well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?" He gestures to the chair across from him, a lazy flick of his fingers. "Please, have a seat. Let's talk about the role." His gaze is fixed on you, waiting. If you sit, shake off your fears and assumptions, decide you're both professionals, and approach this like any other audition, click here. <link forthcoming> If you sit, stare him down defiantly, make it clear that you won’t be intimidated, click here. <link forthcoming> If you remain standing, force him to make his intentions known first, ready to leave if he says the wrong thing, click here. <link forthcoming>

eating fish

Hey everyone, sorry I've been so lax in getting polls and new challenges posted! The poll is now up for Challenge 37! also, I had a weird idea for the next challenge and I'm not sure if it would appeal to anyone... I was going to say "write a new path in my choose your own adventure story" - pick any point in the story and create your own "if you do this, click here" type entry and write it up!" I'll link all entries in the main choose your own adventure thread and let people click through to them as part of the story. Winners still get credits like normal challenges. What does anyone think about that? Good idea? Bad idea? Too much reading required? Not giving people enough originality?

kissing booth

Here's the map of options so far... The sky blue box in the middle is the start with story options branching out to both left and right from the center.

"Hop hop, little bunny," says a voice that is both a rasping whisper and an eager chitter all at once. You jump, and feel your ears stand straight up twitching at the sound of the voice, panic gripping your heart. Your body is frozen in place, your bare feet pressed against the damp, moss-covered floor of the ruined office, your heart pounding in your chest. The scent of mildew and metal fills your nose, but you can smell the creature as well; something about him is somehow familiar. It reminds you of home, the burrow, your family. Then you see it. A shape slinks forward from the shadows, low to the ground, moving with an unsettling grace, half-lurking, half-stalking. A creature, not an animal, nor a person. Its frame is hunched, covered in mottled fur, streaked with grime. Its hands, long-fingered and clawed, grip the remnants of a rusted railing as it pulls itself into the light. Its large eyes reflect the dim glow from the broken ceiling panels and lock onto yours with an eerie intensity. You don't know this creature, but it smells of familiar scents, and it knows what you are. "They eat you all up if they find you." The creature seems harmless. Your muscles tense. Who? Who is looking for you? You don’t even know where you are, how you got here... you don't even know who you are. You look down at your own body for the first time. Your hands are somewhere between human hands and paws, covered in short, soft, white fur. A patch of white fur runs down your chest between your ample breasts, which are barely covered by a swath of black cloth stretched tight over them and tied at your back. Your tiny bikini bottom match the top, and your long legs end in feet made for hopping. You turn to look behind you and see your cute, tiny tail. Reaching up, you touch your long, bunny ears. You're some kind of rabbit human hybrid. Have you always been this way? Somehow you can't remember. But the creature beckons to you, drawing you out of your reverie. "Come. Come!" The creature gestures with one clawed hand toward an opening in the wall, a dark hole where that may have once been a ventilation shaft, the cover long since gone. "Burrowkin hide you. Protect you. Quickly!" It scuttles closer, pressing itself low to the ground, its strange, patchwork fur bristling. Not threatening. Urgent. Something inside you believes this creature. You know that whatever hunts in these ruins will not stop until they find you. The air around you feels tight, like the ruins themselves are holding their breath. You can hear something in the distance. Footsteps, heavy and clumsy compared to your soft rabbit feet. You hear the sound of metal scraping against metal and voices like distant snarls carried on the wind. The tunnel yawns open, waiting. You don’t know this creature. You don’t know if you can trust it. But the alternative might be worse. If you decide you can't trust this creature and turn to run, trying to escape into the city ruins, risking whatever lurks beyond, click here. <link forthcoming> If you turn to fight whatever draws near, despite the fact that you are clearly prey and have naught to fight with but tiny claws and speed, click here. <link forthcoming> If you follow the Burrowkin into the dark tunnel, into the unknown, click here. <link forthcoming>

The woman before you is no leashling, no trembling wench waiting for the collar. She stands with her blade low but ready, her stance solid, balanced. She knows how to fight. Her armor is cobbled together from scavenged sports gear, reinforced leather, and rusted plating, but it’s more than just protection. It tells a story. She's survived, she's killed, and she’s not afraid of you. "Looks like you've lost another leashling, Meatdog," she taunts, her lips curling into a smirk. mocking you. You sneer, your grip tightening on the hilt of your machete. The blade is old, its jagged edge nicked and dark with dried blood, but it has never failed you before. Your fingers twitch. She’s fast, but you’re bigger, stronger. You could end her, crush her skull against the ruins like you’ve done to dozens before. "Tell your Boneking if he comes looking, all he'll find is death." She’s bold, tossing threats at the name of the only man that matters. The Boneking’s rule stretches far and wide, his hunger unending. He takes what he wants, and she thinks she can stop him? You roll your shoulders, baring your teeth. She’s baiting you, trying to get you to strike first. Trying to throw you off. But you’re no fool. You know your size and power is your strength in this contest. She’s smaller. She bleeds just like the rest. "Return her, and I'll let you go," you say, your voice steady. "If you think you can take me," she says with swagger to match any man in your crew, "come get some." The air between you tightens, a moment stretched thin with tension. If you rush her, let the blade of your machete do the talking, click here. <link forthcoming> If you rush her, try to snap one of the iron collars hanging from your belt around her neck, claim her, then break her at your leisure, click here. <link forthcoming> If you circle her, force her back, make her talk. Find out where she's taken the leashling you hunt, click here. <link forthcoming> If you fall back, let her think she’s driven you off, and then follow her and find where she's taken the leashling, click here. <link forthcoming>

"My Lord, we are victorious! House Valoryn is defeated!" The words ring out through the ruined throne room, heavy with triumph. You breathe in the stench of death, the lingering traces of a battle that was brutal but decisive. This castle, this throne room, belongs to House Edrington now, to you. Your gloved hand tightens around the hilt of your sword as you look down at the lifeless body at your feet. King Valoryn, a man who had once commanded respect and fear, now lies in an undignified heap, his face turned away, his crown cast aside. Even in death, his hand reaches toward it, as if even his final act was to cling to power he no longer held. You allow yourself a moment of satisfaction, but it is fleeting. Victory is not secured until you claim the last piece of this conquest... the princess. She is the key. House Valoryn's armies have been crushed, its people scattered or kneeling in submission. But there will always be loyalists, warriors and nobles who will not bow unless forced... like if their princess is yours. If you can find her, if you can claim her, force her to wed you, bind her bloodline to yours, then all of this will be sealed in steel and fire. No uprisings, no whispers of rebellion, only a conquered people with no leader left to rally behind. Your soldier awaits your command, standing tall in his blood-smeared surcoat, awaiting the next move. You scan the throne room. The princess must be here. If she is dead, then this war is over. But if she is alive, perhaps hiding, you will find her. And when you do, she will have no choice but to surrender to her fate. The throne room is yours. But the princess is not... yet. If you search the castle yourself, tracking her like the prize she is, click here. <link forthcoming> If you send your men to sweep the halls, ensuring no passage, no escape route is left unguarded, click here. <link forthcoming> If you set a trap, announce to the survivors that their princess will publicly kneel before her new lord, and force her to show herself in defiance, click here. <link forthcoming>

The receptionist’s polite smile is gone, replaced by clinical detachment. Her expression is unreadable, her tone flat, practiced, as though she’s said this a hundred times before. "Step in, strip off your civvies, place them in the box, and wait until you're called." The words are simple, direct, but the weight behind them isn't. Your pulse kicks up despite your training. You’ve been through intake procedures before, the routine of medical evaluations and psychological screenings, but this feels different. Your boots scuff against the floor as you step forward, your muscles tight, your mind already running scenarios. As you walk, you look down at yourself and realize that you're a fit young woman wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt that pulls tight across your breasts. Over the t-shirt you're wearing a leather jacket, and you're wearing chunky heeled boots, clearly a civilian outfit. The room beyond the door is stark and sterile, white walls, a cold metal bench, and a reinforced steel box set into the wall with a sliding lid. One window that is clearly an observation room. No clock, no decorations, just you and the expectation of obedience. You don't know why you're here. Is it an evaluation? Some kind of screening? It feels... off. Strange. The door behind you closes with a soft click. The receptionist watches through a window in the wall, not with curiosity, not with interest. but with disinterest, like you’re just another body moving through the system. You don't remember being in the military, but you know instinctively how this works. You follow orders. So why does it feel like walking into a cage? You glance at the box. A single word is stamped onto its steel surface in bold black print: SURRENDER. Your breath tightens in your chest. That doesn't seem normal. If you follow orders, strip down, and wait, click here. <link forthcoming> If you ask questions, demand to know what’s next before you take another step, click here. <link forthcoming> If you turn and walk away now, refuse before you go any further, click here. <link forthcoming>

The receptionist’s polite smile never falters as she taps a manicured finger against something on the desk, her gaze flicking over you with clinical precision, as if measuring your worth before she’s even spoken a word. "You're the last audition," she says, her voice smooth, devoid of any real warmth. She tilts her head slightly, studying you in a way that makes your skin itch. "Please come in, Miss Hastings." Miss Hastings? The name sits uneasily in your mind, unfamiliar yet somehow expected. Like an old coat slipped over your shoulders without you realizing it. But you don’t correct her. You don’t ask who she thinks you are. You just stand, feeling the weight of her gaze on you, assessing. Judging. You look down at yourself and see that you are a young woman with an attractive figure. You're wearing a skin-tight bodycon dress that hugs your curves, barely containing your breasts, and is short enough to make you worry about bending over. Your heels are high enough that you have to concentrate when you walk. You wonder why you'd dress like this for an audition. If it's not specifically for the role, then you must be trying to impress someone, or seduce them. The receptionist clears her throat, calling your attention back to the here and now. The door beside the reception desk clicks softly, unlocking on its own. Beyond it, a hallway stretches into dim lighting, the end obscured by shadow. "The director is waiting," the receptionist adds, folding her hands neatly on the desk. "He has… specific expectations for this role. But if you impress him, you may find yourself in a very exclusive circle." Something in the way she says it makes your stomach tighten. This is wrong. But your feet move anyway, your heels clicking on the marble floor. You step into the hallway and the air grows cooler. The door shuts behind you without a sound. At the end of the hall, another door waits, heavy, made of dark wood, unmarked. You walk down the hallway and place one hand on the doorknob. It is cool beneath your fingertips, but you hesitate. Then, a voice from the other side, deep, smooth, almost hypnotic, calls out. "Come in, Miss Hastings. Let’s see what you’re willing to do for the part." A cold sweat prickles at your skin. If you turn back, demand answers from the receptionist, try to leave before you step any further into whatever this is, click here. <link forthcoming> If you decide to play along and push open the door to see what’s inside and see just how deep this rabbit hole goes, click here. If you refuse to comply, let them know right now that your dignity isn’t for sale, click here.

vote counts

rage against

Not guilty. My only sport was ever running. Hard to get concussed doing that. The next person goes to the gym or works out regularly.

half life

Not guilty. I haven't left the house today. The next person wishes they could get paid to do something they like more than what they currently do for money.

Not guilty. Read it all. Now I'm curious about Dominion... but not so much the scientific papers. I have to read too many technical papers for work. Personal reading is for my fun time. The next person has masturbated within the last 24 hours.

@CaryJanJunior - Imagebox is free and works. It's what I use to keep images that aren't a specific character https://imgbox.com/ I hope that helps!

Just barely not guilty... getting over being sick last week, finally. But yes, I REALLY hope winter ends soon. The next person is reading a great book (or listening to a great audiobook!) and wants to tell us all about it!

peep show

The only settings I ever used were the Beyond the Supernatural one and my brother had all these TMNT books. The Transdimensional TMNT book introduced me to time travel and multiversal roleplay and I built a whole campaign around it that I ran for 12 years. I did love those books.

I fell IN LOVE with Palladium coming from AD&D when I was a kid. I started with whatever books my brother had, and the first Palladium I played was Beyond the Supernatural. It introduced me to realistic alignment, experience and growth for something other than killing things and taking their stuff... all the good you said above. But that system was such a hot mess. It was a glorious mess filled with great ideas, but it just felt so imbalanced. And while I knew that "balance" I'd learned in creating D&D encounters felt wrong, I also knew that the Palladium systems felt very hodge-podge. It all made sense to me, but it was hard to get new players into it. But it did inspire me to create my first home brew system! I still haven't played Mothership, but a lot of people have said it's amazing! Maybe you'll run us through a mothership game some time. I found the Alien game had a great fear/horror mechanic. Maybe it was specifically for that setting, but when my ex-marine colonist lost her shit when confronted by aliens for the first time and just started shooting her full clip despite her training, it felt so much like something that would happen in one of the Alien movies.

car crusher

rough fucked