tl;dr: I like to write creative, fun stories with good plot. I have a writing background and am an experienced role-player. I won't bug you, or invade your privacy. It's about the fun of the story and creating something we can both enjoy.

The Details

I'm seeking a co-writing partner for longer term stories, that are plot driven in nature. Like everyone here, I love the sexy parts, but they are so much more fun when the plot is good, too.

I write multi-paragraph responses, in 3rd person, with detail and with proficient grammar. Sometimes replies are shorter, if the scene/setting call for it. If you prefer to write in 1st person, that is fine with me.

I prefer to use email. It's super convenient to me. But I'm open to other platforms/methods, etc.

I have a writing profile at /r/DPPprofiles, that you can read here, if you want the longer version.

Kinks can vary, depending on the story. I won't judge your kinks. People are into whatever they are into, so don't be embarrassed. Though I do have a few limits: scat, gore, animal.

While I enjoy checking in on story plot points from time-to-time to make sure we are on the same page, your privacy will always be respected. I won't bug you.

Plot/Setting Idea

The setting is an era of mixed technology. A mixture of steam engine, steampunk and high tech. Think old Europe with a fusion of interesting technologies. It is a land of strange settlements and towns, with a mix of large cities, too. Your character was kidnapped by a rival to your very rich father. It could be a business rival, or a fellow lord that is trying to blackmail your father. Your father decided not to send in his guards, but rather to hire my character. A sneaky rogue/assassin, to rescue you. After that is accomplished, we travel together back through some of these random settings. This can keep the story fresh, as once we work out a small sub-plot or story line, we can hit a new town with a new (whacky or normal) setting. It's a way to keep the story constantly fresh. Along these travels, you become enamored with this life of mine, and don't really want to return to the pampered life you once had.

Benefits of this Story

Since it's a mixture of small towns on the way back to your return, it allows us to keep the storying moving. If we get tired or bored of one plot, the characters can move on in their adventure, stumbling into another town that can be completely different. It's a great way to keep the story fresh and interesting.

I compiled an opening as a way to introduce it, but also to demonstrate my writing style.

Story Opening

Tristan sat as the low wooden, creaky table, two cold beer mugs in front of him. His table mate, a burly man with broad shoulders and a broader waistline, sat laughing. Tristan at six feet tall wasn’t small by any standards, he was lean and muscular, honed over the years of his craft. But the man sitting at the table with him made Tristian look like a child. Even sitting, the man seemed to tower over him.

“So, you are saying that you didn’t go into shipping because you get seasick?” the man bellowed. He took another large gulp of the cheap yellow beer, portions of which spilled out the sides of his mouth and trickled down his beard. “What did yer old man think?”

“He didn’t like it of course, that I didn’t follow his craft,” Tristan said, also chuckling, trying to keep the levity up. “But he’s fine with his son being in textiles.”

“Is that how you got those fancy clothes?” the minor giant asked. He belched loudly, and his face began to redden slightly.

Tristan looked down at himself, taking in the clothes the man was referring to. He didn’t consider it ornate, but it certainly had its purpose. Hidden pockets, crevices and such to hide the tools of his sneaky trade.

The man stared blankly at Tristan, then bellowed another large laugh. His face reached a deeper shade of red than a rose petal could dream of, his head tilted forward, slightly down, and he passed out. The bulk of his body held him upright, keeping him from toppling to the ground.

Tristan didn’t think the moment was ever going to come. He had been staking out this whole area for the last week, trying to understand his environment. That’s how he accomplished his job, patiently, quietly, with as little drama as possible.

He had been following the burly man for a few days, getting to know his tendencies. It was the only way he was going to get what he needed from him. When he settled into his table—the one he always sat at when he left work—Tristan sat down next to him and struck up a conversation. The man couldn’t have predicted that he was falling into Tristan’s plan, that he was about to become a superficial pawn in a bigger plot.

Tristan turned on the charm, striking up a conversation about the town, then offering to buy the man the first round. The man didn’t notice the small vial of powder Tristan poured in his drink, a slight-of-hand technique that happened quickly as Tristan slide his beer over to him. From that point on, it was a waiting game. Due to the man’s girth, it took longer than normal, but eventually it worked and the man drifted off.

To everyone else in the pub, sitting around their tables, listening to the out-of-tune piano in the corner, they would simply think he passed out. In two hours or so, he’d wake up, with little memory of what had happened. Tristan, with a near blur of his hands, quickly reached into the man’s pocket and pulled out the key ring, adorned with a dozen keys. That was the prize Tristan spent days stalking, observing, following, to get.

He stood up from the wobbly wooden table and began to walk away. He dropped a bit of money on the bar. “Sorry about my friend,” Tristan said, with a wink.

“No worries,” the bartender returned, “he passes out here often.“ Tristan smiled and walked out the front door into the busy street, almost instantly disappearing into the crowd. Another skill that often served him well. He practiced a craft where he needed to blend in, and be easily forgotten.

He walked casually down the busy street, weaving in and out of the groups of people, making sure not to bump into anyone so he would not be noticed, even if accidentally. He stopped briefly to buy a newspaper, then kept walking. It was getting dark, the sun was going down and the sky was on fire with orange and red. A few blocks further, he casually turned down a narrow alley between two buildings.

Darting through a few more alleys and he found his way to his prize--a steel foundry. He stood there briefly, turning his plan around in his head one more time. He allowed himself a moment to inhale the cooling air, and smell the flavor from the massive furnaces just inside.

He was there, not for the factory itself, or anything it produced, but a person hidden inside. The daughter of a Lord from Wales who had been kidnapped. He didn’t know why she had been kidnapped, nor did he care much. He had been hired to retrieve her, quietly, and get her home safely.

Tristan wasn’t one to kick in the front door, barge in with a sword or gun drawn. And that was precisely why he was hired. He snuck, hid, plotted and used his wits. He would, as he did in this case, spend days observing, seeing things no one else would notice. Identify the people he could use for his benefit.

He didn’t lie to the burly man. His father was in shipping, and Tristan spent a lot of his years as a child on boats. But he never got seasick, that was his embellishment. But Tristan was enamored with the pirates and thieves around the docks. He respected their craft but often saw them use brutish methods to get their job done.

When a pirate wandered on his father’s ship, beat him up and stole some cargo, Tristan crept out in the night, followed the man to a back alley, and killed him. He dropped down on top of the man from an awning above, and put a dagger in his back. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

These were skills Tristan learned by training with various people growing up, from port-to-port. Taking lessons where he could while helping his dad on his ship. But he always preferred the silent option over the less sophisticated methods where bold strength seemed to be the strategy. Tristan was sure the art of subtlety was just as effective and would keep him unnoticed and alive, which was even better.

Tristan looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was around, then with a quick motion, hoisted himself up on the black metal fire escape. It was a smooth motion, up two flights, across a gantry, and slipped into a partially open window. It was almost too easy.

Once inside he quietly made his way past the noisy, hot machinery. Preferring to stick to the shadows, he continued on his way to the very back of the building. The long hallway in the back was the one he was looking for.

Another large brutish man was sitting in a chair at the end of the hallway guarding a lone door--the very door he was looking for. Tristan peaked around the corner and sized up the guard. With a quick wiggle of his right hand, a small dagger dropped from his sleeve and into his palm. With a fluid motion, he launched the dagger with a steady throw. Before the man could turn to the side to see Tristan, the dagger sank deeply into his neck. Without a whimper, the man quickly went into shock and quickly died. The dagger blade barely sang in the air, efficiently sinking in his neck, severing his spinal cord.

Tristan crept down the hallway, walking along where the floor met the wall. The connection of the two surfaces was most solid there, where the floor would not likely creak. As he got to the door, he pulled out the key ring he had lifted off the man in the pub. After a few tries, he found the right key, and opened the door.