K
Kodachromatic
Guest
Original poster
First off, hello! Thanks for taking the time to check this out!
I had an idea for a scene I'd like to do, and I'm looking for the right lady to partner with for it. The scene in question is modern, and it's pretty romantic, though there's also plenty of room for drama if you/I/we decide to add that in as well. Now, for the not-so-fun part, criteria:
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The first day we laid eyes on each other, we knew we were meant to be. It was the first day of third grade, in Mrs. Freeman's class. Even then, we'd known that something drew us to one another. At the time, it was friendship. We were inseparable, we gave new definition to the term. Unless our lunch trays, our school desks, our raincoats were right next to one another's, we were nigh-inconsolable. By the time high school came around, friendship had budded into small bulbs of romance. Even then, no one else would do. Stolen glances, blushed cheeks, love letters and (admittedly awful) poetry shoved into each other's lockers. It was abnormal, in a way, but so serenely beautiful, our need for one another. In ways, it was maddening. Nights spent texting or talking in whispered tones on the phone, until the sun rose and we could be near one another again.
Days at school were skipped in lieu of private company with one another, hidden away in the park on the far side of town. We would sit and watch the small boats float by on the river, wave to the old men that walked old dogs along the pathways. You'd braid your hair while I looked for Poseys to stick in the loose knots, and we would lie in the tall grass, sharing kisses and affections too sentimental for our young skin. It was here that the idea sparked. This place would tear us apart, eventually. Small towns always did. We needed to leave, to escape the jaws of time and the clutches of societal expectation that was foist upon us.
That was when we were seventeen, and two years later, we made our move. Surely it was a scandal, not that we'd have known. We saved our money, working jobs as much as we could. By your nineteenth birthday, we had enough, and one summer night, we made a break for it. No goodbye letters, no sentimental elements that could be chased by our old lives. Just two grand between the two of us, two suitcases full of clothes, and two one-way bus tickets to New York. The bus was empty when we boarded, and we tucked into a seat near the back by the window. It rained most of the way there, and you clutched against my hoodie as the wheels carried us further and further from what we'd known. But it was worth it, to have each other, to have beaten the odds and claimed one another irrevocably.
That was two years ago, and through everything since, we have clung together like two otters washed to sea. Fingers locked, we slept under bridges, begged for money, did everything to survive. And it paid off. Now, in our early twenties, we were actually living. Our means were meager, admittedly: a simple one bedroom apartment, nothing in the way of opulence, but we were self-sustained. You'd found work as an assistant to a local museum curator. I worked as a bartender at a local hole-in-the-wall. But despite everything, we loved each other, and made this life better than what it could have been. Home-cooked meals often scented the humble abode, poetry was still left for the other to find in the medicine cabinet and long walks were taken together under the high city sky.
It's the rain that wakes me this Saturday morning. Gray clouds had hung for a week, and finally begun to blossom into rainstorms proper. Distant thunder rumbled the glass window in its pane, ringing through the apartment like off-kilter bells. You were beside me, still sleeping soundly with an arm thrown over my chest. Drowsily, I stroked your hair, murmuring how beautiful you were. How much I loved you, as my fingers trailed down along the soft braid of your hair.
I had an idea for a scene I'd like to do, and I'm looking for the right lady to partner with for it. The scene in question is modern, and it's pretty romantic, though there's also plenty of room for drama if you/I/we decide to add that in as well. Now, for the not-so-fun part, criteria:
- Please be somewhat experienced and capable of moving the plot forward as well
- At least one good-sized paragraph per post
- Be available to post at least once every two to three days. If you aren't that frequent, try to add extra meat to your posts for me to be able to respond to.
- I'd prefer you be 18+, if only because playing romance with a minor feels a bit weird. I don't imagine the scene itself will be exceedingly salacious, though.
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The first day we laid eyes on each other, we knew we were meant to be. It was the first day of third grade, in Mrs. Freeman's class. Even then, we'd known that something drew us to one another. At the time, it was friendship. We were inseparable, we gave new definition to the term. Unless our lunch trays, our school desks, our raincoats were right next to one another's, we were nigh-inconsolable. By the time high school came around, friendship had budded into small bulbs of romance. Even then, no one else would do. Stolen glances, blushed cheeks, love letters and (admittedly awful) poetry shoved into each other's lockers. It was abnormal, in a way, but so serenely beautiful, our need for one another. In ways, it was maddening. Nights spent texting or talking in whispered tones on the phone, until the sun rose and we could be near one another again.
Days at school were skipped in lieu of private company with one another, hidden away in the park on the far side of town. We would sit and watch the small boats float by on the river, wave to the old men that walked old dogs along the pathways. You'd braid your hair while I looked for Poseys to stick in the loose knots, and we would lie in the tall grass, sharing kisses and affections too sentimental for our young skin. It was here that the idea sparked. This place would tear us apart, eventually. Small towns always did. We needed to leave, to escape the jaws of time and the clutches of societal expectation that was foist upon us.
That was when we were seventeen, and two years later, we made our move. Surely it was a scandal, not that we'd have known. We saved our money, working jobs as much as we could. By your nineteenth birthday, we had enough, and one summer night, we made a break for it. No goodbye letters, no sentimental elements that could be chased by our old lives. Just two grand between the two of us, two suitcases full of clothes, and two one-way bus tickets to New York. The bus was empty when we boarded, and we tucked into a seat near the back by the window. It rained most of the way there, and you clutched against my hoodie as the wheels carried us further and further from what we'd known. But it was worth it, to have each other, to have beaten the odds and claimed one another irrevocably.
That was two years ago, and through everything since, we have clung together like two otters washed to sea. Fingers locked, we slept under bridges, begged for money, did everything to survive. And it paid off. Now, in our early twenties, we were actually living. Our means were meager, admittedly: a simple one bedroom apartment, nothing in the way of opulence, but we were self-sustained. You'd found work as an assistant to a local museum curator. I worked as a bartender at a local hole-in-the-wall. But despite everything, we loved each other, and made this life better than what it could have been. Home-cooked meals often scented the humble abode, poetry was still left for the other to find in the medicine cabinet and long walks were taken together under the high city sky.
It's the rain that wakes me this Saturday morning. Gray clouds had hung for a week, and finally begun to blossom into rainstorms proper. Distant thunder rumbled the glass window in its pane, ringing through the apartment like off-kilter bells. You were beside me, still sleeping soundly with an arm thrown over my chest. Drowsily, I stroked your hair, murmuring how beautiful you were. How much I loved you, as my fingers trailed down along the soft braid of your hair.