WritesNaughtyStories

Guilty. Doom, sludge, technical thrash, metalcore, porno grind, power metal, 80's hair metal ... I listen to almost all of it. Next poster listens to opera.

Not guilty. I have one playlist that covers Emmylou Harris to Tchaikovsky to Gall Hammer and everything in between. I need the change, sexy time or not. Next poster hates bananas.

Not guilty, but on the technicality that I don't go on road trips. During my daily commutes that is exactly what I do. Next poster has bluegrass and black metal in the same playlist.

Not guilty. I am competent at what I do and enjoy some of the people I work with. But no, this is not my dream job. I actually have no idea what that is, but it is definitely not this. Next poster had a wank today.

Haven't listened to ATU for a few years, but lately, they're speaking to me again:

I do not need to post yet. Once everyone is "settled" at the party I'll see if I can convince Dylan to quit sulking.

Not guilty. Maybe not the past 30 years: white chocolate ain't. Next poster knows that coco butter is hand lotion, not food.

Sadly, not guilty. I feel REALLY cheated by this fact too. Next poster looks forward to waking up drunk.

Guilty. Actually guilty as fuck. You need a joiner? No? You? Next poster feels typecast in their rps.

Not guilty, unless the friends I've gamed with for 20 years count, but it is not public. It is local though. Next poster has never had a regular group.

//Persuade should be a skill, perhaps? But Provoke gets to the same point. Though what we're working is a long term ritual for the propaganda war. The broadcast was a distant buzz in a corner of Ya's brain that seemed distant and foggy. Patune's thick nerve bundles coiled inside her, slid over her coating her in neuroconnective fluid that opened her to him almost completely. Her pleasure became inseparable from the BioFrame's and Magda chuffed happily into the tendril that filled her mouth and wrapped around her tongue. She again reloaded the mass driver manually as Patune pointedly ignored it. Instead he drove his bulk forward, catching the kaiju's furious charge on his shoulder. Three of the BioFrame's claws were dug into the soft earth of the alluvial plain, and his clawed forelimb, nearly as long as Scylla's body thrust forward, seeking the beasts soft underbelly, The kaiju was huge. it's fibs hard and thick and Patune's claw ground along them as his shoulder wrenched painfully. Neither Patune nor Ya felt it as pain, but the electric excitement of combat. Patune heaved, Magda urging hi to twist sideways, driving the beast into the ground. Magda wriggled inside Patune's embrace, sending a shiver of her approval through him as pleasure, and locked their arms behind the kaiju's neck. Patune, despite his ape-like build, kicked and clawed with his rear claws like a hellish feline gutting prey. The kaiju bit down, crushing the already twitchy mass driver loading mechanism. "Only one shot left, big man." Magda warned, Patune howled and bit back. As Patune and the kaiju thrashed, Granite and Flora drew up to the flank and scanned the river for Hive troops.

Guilty. On multiple occasions. BattleTech, ASL, Star Fleet Battles, Twilight Imperium and Talisman with a few expansions all come to mind. Our KDM campaign has probably 40 hours or more in it, but that's in 4 and 5 hour chunks. Next poster has never played a "hex and counter" game.

The next poster, fuck, I dunno, has a poster.

That's The Breakfast Club. "No dad, what about you!" Wise choice not to use gravel and thumbtacks. Not saying how I know. But, no, not guilty: share the stories. I enjoy them and hope people enjoy mine too.

Not guilty. Sticky! And I really only like fresh whipped cream, which means we have some work to do ahead of time, then the whole losing air and turning back to cream....wow, no. Next poster has used an improvised lube for sex.

Guilty. That Warrior Nun game ain't gonna write itself. Next poster has a favorite candy they feel is childish.

Guilty. It is all left wing politics and RPGs. There are a few, scattered, hard bound comic collections too. Next poster reads only fiction.

I'd be guilty if I ever got around to admitting it, so not guilty? Next poster has a creative project they really want the world to see but aren't quite finished with it yet.

Police brutality

Police Woman

I'll swing at this one too. Guilty. That shitty 80's perfume, Poison - smells like grape candy kind of - and cigarette smoke. Gets me going even thinking about it. Can't go near a grape Jolly Rancher. To the actual point. Guilty. It's kind of a list, but I have a hard won favorite for several varieties of food. I have a Jamaican place, a pupuseria, a Vietnamese place (one for pho and one for coffee)....

I haven't quite figured it out either. If I don't, Dylan mopes in the basement for tonight. I'm sure they'll sneak over to Playland tomorrow, if only because they're out of fingers.

Well, I think Dylan just did the most Hollow shit ever. Sorry.

TW: Self harm I'm not sure how Dylan ended up their darkest self here, but it's where we are, I guess. Dylan slunk home, consumed by their inability to act like a normal person. Billy was right. Freak. They wanted to see Robin, but freaks don't go to parties. They wait in basements until the people who have uses for them show up and give them purpose and value. The shadows were lengthening as the sun dropped slowly toward the horizon, sating the light orange and washing the tree line road to the empty house in amber. Dylan felt like an insect preserved in that amber - a creature, not quite dead, but frozen, waiting for - 'What?' they asked themself as they climbed the weather beaten wooden stairs. Dylan regarding the faded, peeling paint of the door and smiled. 'For someone to have some use for you.' The door pleased them - it was beaten, worn and stuck rather than locked, Perfect house for a freak. They forced it open, dropped their bag of new clothes on the floor and wrestled the door closed behind them before disappearing down the stairs to the quiet dark of the basement. There were more of them stored in drawers. They never moved. Each slightly different, but all wore Dylan's face. They pulled open the drawer and thought about getting in but didn't. Instead, they took another eXstasy and sat on the work bench and started playing with a chisel -stabbing it into the bench between her outstretched fingers. Eventually, they'd miss and the hurt would make sense again.