#im not welcome. this is a new form of psychological torture

[iron-sides]

something somethting marvin being a condescending ass teaching whizzer chess is bc hes like those ancient greek (gets shot)

[galos-writing]

REQUEST - Crazy Abbé x Director!Reader (pt. 2)

Summary: You're the new Director in the renowed asylum of Charenton, and one particular patient fills your thoughts. You never expected your life to take such a twist...

Word count: 1431 

TWs: Mention of death, gory description, mention of mental illness (sry im bad at adding tws)

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Your role as Director in the asylum of Charenton had caught you pretty quickly, you had to admit: the chambermaids were exquisite, most of the patients were so well-behaved and friendly – even those who couldn’t properly speak – and the nuns were so helpful and caring towards you and the patients.

Yes, Doctor Royer-Collard was a real pain...most of the time, and your reputation was stained forever now that you worked there. You stopped receiving letters from your former friends and your family was deadly worried for you and your social life…

However, you surprisingly didn’t care much about all of this. You had a new life to think about; a new, true friend awaiting you every day. And your heart hadn’t been happier than now.

You were tired of those lame and sickeningly lavish gatherings with your former girlfriends, all of them – including you – from high nobleness, doing nothing but giggling and gossiping about everyone and everything; and you were tired of workplaces where men kept treating you so poorly, with no dignity, almost as if you had no intelligence in your brain.

Finally, you had someone who treated you like a decent person to have intense and lively discussions with, about everything your nous was willing to deepen: François de Coulmier, the former Director of Charenton.

When you first met him, you had almost forgotten who he used to be, his reputation of a dreamer young man, but whose mind was filled with knowledge and his heart swelling with kindness and compassion for every child of God. And you were surprised by discovering his qualities were still buried, engraved in his spirit, despite being severely damaged by the anguish events. But his manners had captured your attention, and being in his company filled your soul with such a pleasant warmth, especially your cheeks and belly.

“Monsieur Coulmier?”, you kindly called the former priest, your voice showing a hint of impatience as you held a warm bread roll in your hands. You saw him peeking through the peephole, severely malnourished; those full, sweet and round cheeks were now pretty thin, his cheekbones were becoming more visible, and purple eye bags were starting to form under his beautiful eyes. That sight broke your heart, but in that moment you couldn’t help but swallow that sour bite down and endure that psychological torture.

His gloomy face lightened up when he saw you and a weak smile formed on his thin and scarred lips, which soothed your aching soul within the second. You warmly smiled back at him and waved.

“Hello...was I interrupting something? You weren’t sleeping, were you?”, you asked, afraid you could have bothered him somehow; your hands showed him the bread roll, which immediately caught François’s interest.

“Oh… no… not at all, you’re always so welcome in my humble… empty cell… I am just concerned I am not able to give you… the welcome an angel like you deserves…”, he let out a tired breath, really struggling to keep his strengths. Your kind smile turned into a face of compassion, and then you quickly pulled the key out of your pocket to open his cell door.

“Don’t worry about it, you’ll find yourself out of here, sooner or later. And I’m sure you will succeed in building yourself a new fresh life. You’ll see, you will have a big and luminous house with a scented garden full of plants and flowers, and…”, you started saying happily as you got inside, but your words got interrupted by an exhausted wheeze and a creepy laugh from him.

“Ah~, you read too many books! You… you truly have a fervid imagination, my darling…!”, he exclaimed with a giggly voice. His mocking slightly offended you, making you frown and look away.

“I don’t find it funny.”, you grumpily muttered. However, an odd detail caught your attention blurring his protests and apologies: one of the walls that surrounded François’s cell presented a vast and dark stain; was it mold? You didn’t doubt that the Doctor’s management skills didn’t include building renovations when needed; you were sure the Abbé would have, though.

This thought, added to a sudden putrid smell that reached your nostrils, made you realize it wasn’t just plain mold…

“Y/N.”.

 You heard your name being called by the former priest, not in a happy tone, nor the usual trembling, unsure and unstable tone he always had with the Doctor. His tone was dark, low, and threatening, it sent shivers down your spine; yet, you weren’t sure if they were shivers of fear or excitement, you only knew that tone wasn’t normal. So you turned around to look at him, flinching at what you saw.

“What are you doing, Y/N?”, François asked again with a creepily calm tone now, deeply looking into your eyes, his own wide eyes and his trembling pupils were giving you chills down your spine. He was so close that you could feel his breath on your skin, his presence was menacing you, making you instinctively step back, your back soon bumped against a wall.

You took a deep breath, trying to collect some guts to face him, despite he was scaring the living hell out of you. Your hands were shaking and sweating, yet they managed to reach his shoulders to push him back. 

“François… you can tell me if something’s wrong…”, you told him with a tender gaze, trying to bring him back to that little spark of sanity left in his mind, and your hands moved from his shoulders to his cheeks, suddenly removing the barrier you created to keep him away, instead gently leading him closer. Your faces got closer and closer, and your fear faded, replaced by butterflies in your stomach. 

“I…”, he started speaking with a thin voice, his eyes filled with tears as he pulled away from you,  making your heart sink. “I did something terrible… I deserve to stay here.”, he murmured, staring at the floor while his face flushed a deep red, red in shame. You tilted your head, deeply puzzled, what was he talking about?

You noticed his gaze moved to the molded wall, and approached it. Your eyes widened when the patient’s fingers sunk into the wall as if it was made of some soft, gooey substance. François was peering straight into your eyes as he started pulling off fistfuls of that dark and smelly mystery material from the rest of the wall, soon revealing a potato sack falling out of it. 

“No, you didn’t…”, you let out without even noticing, your mind was struggling, not wanting to believe in the most obvious of scenarios. You didn’t even let him answer you and threw yourself over the sack to open it, fighting against the urge to throw up due to the unbearable smell. 

A grey and purplish man had been trapped in there, dark brown stains were all over his face, clotted blood… He was dressed in a black cassock, with a black cape that was covering his – once – golden hair. You immediately knew who that man was, and you immediately realized who had murdered him. 

You raised your gaze on François, who started sobbing in the meanwhile, his crying was loud and messy like a kid’s one. 

“You’ll go call Royer-Collard now…right…? I deserve a lobotomy…!”, he whimpered, his chipped nails leaving bloody scratches on his arms due to the strong stress. He startled you when he started shouting: “I’m a failure! I was meant to guide my patients, my asylum to light! Look at us all! That man didn’t deserve to live in this pit with us all! He wasn’t fit to handle Hell!”. 

His crying and shouting caused a drop in his blood pressure, making him collapse on the floor within seconds; he curled himself into a ball and started whispering, reciting verses from the Holy Bible. That scene made your heart ache even more, that poor man deserved better. 

You approached the corpse and closed it back into the sack, paying attention to not leaving maggots around, they could have raised suspects. 

“Ask Madame LeClerc to prepare you a little bag with your belongings inside, I’ll come and make you get out. We’re leaving at midnight, going to live in a big and luminous house with a scented garden full of plants and flowers.”, you smiled at him before leaving the cell to get rid of the corpse. The former priest was flabbergasted by your words, his face turning red, and his heart swelled with hopes for a brighter future.

Tags: @darknessisafriend @werewolf-and-go-wild @thatdummy-girl @indieblair @ajokeformur-ray @fly-like-a-phoenix @hebimoonlightwrites @jokerflecker @callmejokerr @pursuit-of-comedy @five-miles-over

[zuffer-weird-girl]

Trying to slowly get back to writing so here it is some bitter ... fluff?

Pain

Is quite ironic.

The source of his power being both cut and disintegrated. His arms. It had nothing on there. Absolutely nothing. Only the mere replacement of plenty new robotic arms so that he couldn't just be more useless that he was already.

Yet it still hurt.

Torture he would discribe as. Every damn night or every time he closed his eyes his mind would replay the exact moment where that kid beaten him up, when he was taken away, when the van crashed and when the leader of the league of villains along with his commurates took away his hard work and arms.

It didn't even made sense to him why he would wake up in cold sweat and feel just the most amount of pain he felt on that day on where it was suppose to be his arms. Provably a psychological thing, but he didn't understand it neither want it.

He just want it to stop... why was he feeling pain on somwhere that it didn't even existed anymore..?!

His eyes burned as he narrowed them at his metalic hands resting on his thighs... if only he had been more careful with Eri... if only his damn pride didn't got in the way of doubting those brats... if only he had listen to the old man...

"A penny for your thoughts handsome?" He visibly flinched before looking over his shoulder and saw you wiping your hands after washing the dishes... a small smile yet aeyebrows furrowed in worry.

Those thoughts and pain were judt so terible that he almost forgot about the most good thing that thanks to heavens was left for him... You.

He would never understand it why you were still here with him. When he escaped Tartarus yoh only welcomed him woth open arms... not taling personappy the outburst he had on the first few months...

Sighing he only lifted hsi prostethic arm and managed to make a wave at you, a signal of him to tell it wasn't anything... you knew better than pry it out of him.

"I'm going to go take a nap, washing dishes has given me some back pain." You giggled while carefully wrapping your arms around his neck. His body answered to your actions by tensing up but slowly relaxing, subsconcipusly his head leaning into yours for just a bit.

He saw you going on your after brushing his mask and pulling it out of his face for just a bit to gige him a peck on the lips.

A shaky sigh left him, bitting his lip to prevent any sound to come out as he fept the pain come back ten times stronger than ever after you closed the door.

He didn't break it until now, and he wouldn't...

.

.

.

Your chest tightened and you felt yourself sick to the stomach due to the constant anxiety and distress you felt.

Kaai mever was one to open up to you. It took you years, YEARS, to find out that Pops wasn't even his biological father and to learn that his parents were absolutely horrible to him.

He would oftenome back to you with bruises, a bloody jacket, rarely with a bloddy nose after a fight on the underground or just some discussion. Yet he always remained with that neutrap and uncaring face of his. The most signal you would get from him that he was in pain or uncomfortable was his hives and by the way his muscles twitched and tensed.

You want it to help your boyfriend. You needed to. But how could you? The man had a ego bigger then the whole word and hated being touched or felt like he was a nuisance or worst, someone nothing.

Kai hated being touched or helped. Not used ti being cared or loved. The consequences of poor parenting and being rased in the mafia was pretty evident on him.

Yet oh how much you loved this man... despite his actions and flaws you swore you teared up every time you thought or just talked to someone about and your feelings for him.

So thats why you never leaved. No matter how many times Kai has gotten to the point of almost kicken you out of his life for what he says, "your own good".

You were about to sit down on the bed until your eyes widened at the sound of pans falling and crashing.

"Kai?" You spine carefully with a basevall bat already on your hand. Living with a now wanted criminal left you no choice.

Instead of an intruder or a cop, you saw the frame of the large shoulders of your boyfriend, metalic arms providing some ground for him on the kitchen counter as he panted as if he had ran a marathon.

"Oh my g- Kai?!" You left the baseball bat fall and came to him, hands hovering over his form as hives appeared on his face and neck as he breathed in and out, eyes clenched shut as sweat crawled down his skin.

"Kai honey please talk to me..." you begged with tears in your eyes as you saw him clenching his jaw so hard that you feared it could break.

"M.. Make it..-" he breathed out "..end."

It seemed that he was more talking to himself than to yoy but you still tried to remain your ground as one tear slid down your cheek.

"What needs to end?" You whispered as he grunted.

His eyes finally opened, the white of his eyeballs wasn't there anymore, instead some redness as he forced down the disgusting pained sob thag wanted to get out of his throat.

"Kai im begging you what is going on?" You cupped his cheek as the other hand took his mask off and saw his white teeth clenched together before you gasped when he dropped his head on your shoulder, curling his prosthetic arms on his chest.

"I cant bear it anymore..." it came his pained whisper as your heart almost riped out of your chest "Is not even there anymore so why does this keep hurting?!" He whispered shouted on your shoulder as you stood there in panick.

What was you suppose to do?!

Hands rubbing his back caustiously, you leaned your head against him as he trembled on your arms.

"What do you mean? Where does it hurt?" You whispered as you heard his unwanted sob manifest on the quiet dostant house you both got to get away from the heros and cops.

"I cant take it anymore angel!" He shouted as tears flew from his eyes "I just can't! It doesn't even matter anymore! Just fucking end me already! I beg you (Y/n)..." he sobbed in your neck as you hugged him... that was the only thing you could do.

Your tears dropped into his neck as you tried your best to understand him until you eldecided to rub the last remain of his arm and his shoulder... his breath hitched as.. his golden eyes widened as slowly his trembling got lower.

He shakipy breathed out as he moved his fake arms to bring you closer by the waist as he spoke the words that you swore that made your heart drop.

"Kill.. me."

Automacally you hugged him tighter as you sobbed immediately your denial as he finally quieted down.

"D-Dont ever ask me that!" You sluttered before pushing him a bit to rest his forehead against yours "Dont even think about it!"

His eyes were hollow and expression numb as he looked at the ground.

It was quiet until you saw his prothestic move to hold the left one.

"When my arms got stolen... I never imagined to still feel the pain as if they were still.. there. Comical..." he sighed, still not looking at you "Is torture.. my thoughts, head, body are being haunted and I just cant take it anymore... I... simply can't." He sighed, dropping his prostethics.

You furrowed your eyebrows before breathing in and staring angrily at your boyfriend. Making the decision that made him astonished.

Taking off his metalic arms from where they were attached to and starting to rub it with a concentrate face. His golden eyes wide open as he clenched his jaw and narrowed them a bit later to ask you what you were doing.

"Does here hurt? It makes less painful?" You ask, still not looking at him as he payed attention to his senses... it didn't. The usual pain he was beating thorugh almost a year was no where.

Shaking his head in shock you sighed and gently pressed your thumbs on his shoulders.

"Is like that. We dont simply deal with it..." your eyes locked with his "We search for a cure like you always did... so let me help?" You asked, eyes actually begging as his golden orbs stares back at yours before tsking... lowering his head on your shoulder once again so you couldn't see more tears threatening to leave his eyes.

"Idiot..."

[themadauthorshatter]

Toppat!Charles Part 5!!

GUESS WHO'S BACK WITH TOPPAT!CHARLES!?

Thank you all so much for your patience with this one, like I said, I've been going through a lot in my personal life, though things are getting better. 

If you haven’t read the previous parts you can find them HERE: 

Part 1:

Part 2:

Part 3:

Part 4:

ENOUGH ABOUT ME! TIME FOR THE RECAP:

Henry has taken the CCC's offer, despite opposition from Galeforce, Ellie, and even Daddy Dearest Terrence Suave.

Meanwhile, Right has polished up Charles and set him up in an actual room for a change of pace.

Not really a headcanon this time but a MASSIVE, MASSIVE trigger warning for torture, violence, and a trauma truck load of angst; we're focusing more on Charles this part since he was more of a cameo in Part 4.

Got that? GREAT!

LET'S BEGIN!

Like before we pick up where Part 4 left off, but with Charles in his new room across from Right, who has taken his position at a desk chair and is calmly talking to Charles. If this were a movie, we would only hear the music score before getting a close up of Right saying something to Charles, who reacts by raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes.

"What?"

Right sighs as he rubs the non-cybernetic half of his head. "Do I got to repeat everything to everyone?" He recomposes himself and meets Charles once more, the pilot shaking his head as he curls his knees into his chest and holds his hands on either side of his head.

"No. No, no, no, nononono. I can't do that. You can't make me."

"So you'd rather go back to rotting in your cell?" Right asks as he raises an eyebrow. "I'm offering you the chance to have some form of freedom and you're willing to throw it away for your stupid government?"

Charles keeps his head down, but clenches a fist. "They'll get me out of here. Just wait and see."

Right grabs Charles's ankles and throws them down before grabbing his jaw, forcing his to look up. Thhe two are inches away from each other and Charles's instincts are telling him to run since fighting hasn't exactly worked out for him.

"Look at where you are and what's been happening. Any time the government tried sending a destroyer, it didn't work. You were left alone in that cell with nothing but your shadow on the wall to talk to. You have a chance to get out and not have to deal with that anymore. You're seriously going to turn it down because you think the government's coming to rescue you? Taking my offer would get you out a lot quicker. "

Charles only glares into Right's human eye before doing a very ungentlemanly and dumb thing by spitting in his eye. (Unsanitary as well, I might add. Really, Charles, get with the program!)

Right backs away slightly, though it's more like an angry flinch because he recoils and then freezes.

Charles, however, keeps his glare as his wipes his mouth off with his sleeve. "Never."

Right is still for a moment before backhanding Charles with his cybernetic hand, not enough to seriously injure him, i.e. a broken jaw or knocking him unconscious, but it does leave him seeing stars and in a good state of, 'that hurt a lot more than it should.'

Right stands back, takes out a handkerchief, wipes his face off, and then pockets said handkerchief before folding his hands behind his back.

"You'll come to your senses. If you can wait, so can I."

With that, Right leaves the room just as Charles picks himself up, rubbing his cheek.

"See you tomorrow, Charles."

As the door closes behind Right, Charles's face and the room's temperature drop.

Cut to Right, who is leaving the hall and going to that room we saw in the Free Man ending, that cafeteria- like room with the big window overlooking Earth.

JUMP TO THE NEXT "MORNING"

Charles is sound asleep in his bed when a pair of toppats come in. One stays by the door and the other wakes up Charles.

The pilot, due to being out-strengthed and delirious from sleep, is pulled out of his room and can barely keep up with the toppats as they drag him to a different room.

In Charles's perspective, the world is dark and he keeps drifting in and out of sleep. He eventually opens his eyes to see he's back in the jungle, by the crashed helicopter. Right is nowhere to be seen, but Charles does see someone else, someone that he ACTUALLY happy to see. As in he smiles and tears up.

"Henry?"

Henry stands still as he stares at a growingly flustered Charles, who races toward him.

"Henry! Man, are you a sight for sore eyes! You have no idea what these guys've done. C'mon, let's go-"

Just as Charles is about to hug Henry, he holds a hand and stops Charles in his tracks.

"Hen... Henry?"

Henry's face turns from blank to angry or annoyed and he shakes his head, backing away.

Charles tries to follow him, but he can't. When he looks, he sees his feet are sunken into the ground and panics.

"Henry! Help! I-I think I stepped in quicksand!"

Henry only backs away further, now glaring at Charles.

"HENRY, PLEASE! SAY SOMETHING!"

Henry finally approaches him and leans close to his his face.

Before he can say anything, Charles's breath catches and he quickly finds he can no longer breathe. 

Charles tries gasping and exhaling, but only blows bubbles out of his mouth. 

The jungle fades away into a very dim grey, almost falling. Henry falls away with it, much to Charles’s fear. 

The pilot tries reaching for Henry and is pulled away, seeing as Henry swims further away from him.

Charles gasps for real this time as he is pulled out of a tub of water and focuses his gaze on Right, who is standing over him with his arms folded behind his back. 

“Good morning. Sleep well?’” 

Charles tries to push himself away the tub only to find his hands are either tied or handcuffed behind his back, I’m noting an ‘either’ here because while I can see Right using handcuffs or restraints like the ones we see in the Free Man ending, to save on resources and because Charles is already pretty weak, he’d probably just use a rope.

The toppats that woke him up and dragged him here both hold his shoulders, one holding the back of his collar. 

Charles glares at Right and struggles against his bonds, but he stays quiet. 

Right sniffs and nods at the two holding Charles. “Give ‘im a wash.” 

The one holding his collar grips his hair, yanking it and making Charles follow his movement before dunking him back into the water. 

Right watches as Charles struggles both above and below the water, mildly impressed that he’s still strong enough to the point that the two toppats are having a hard time holding him under. If this were a movie or a game cutscene, the camera would hold on Right’s face, resolute and expressionless, and all we would here would be the score and Charles struggling. Right blinks and an icon appears on his cybernetic eye, a solid circle with a ring around it. 

A camera. 

After a while, Charles’s movements slow and nearly stop completely, bubbles leaving his mouth and nose. 

Right nods at the toppats pull him up.

If that first dunk didn’t wake up and alarm Charles, this certainly did. 

Charles gives one of those loud gasps and coughs up water as he catches his breath. 

Once his breathing goes at least to where he’s not huffing and puffing, he feels one of the toppats grip his hair again. He fights against him, but is ultimately pushed back into the water. 

The partner repeats itself for a while. 

Dunk his head in the water, wait for him to stop struggling, pull him out and wait for him to just about get his breathing normal, rinse and repeat. 

After maybe a half an hour of this, Right notices Charles has started shivering after his last dunk and is having a hard time getting his breathing even. 

“Enough. Get ‘ im to a medic.”

They do so, and Charles follows with barely any strength to keep up.

The next day isn't any better. 

The toppats are ordered to sit Charles in a chair, his hands on the rests, his head in a restraint, and his eyes held open with something like reverse clamps; if you’ve seen or read A Clockwork Orange, you’ll know what I’m talking about. 

Right takes a seat next to him, a medic on his other side to keep his eyes hydrated, and the two watch a simple movie. 

Just a nice, sit down, home cinema night 😁😊

JUST KIDDING! NO THEY DON’T! 

“You seem too confident your government’s gonna save you.” Right turns his head to the screen and folds one leg over the other. “Let me remind you what they’ve done to us.” 

Charles follows his gaze as the film begins. 

I’m guessing the Toppat Clan has been around for a while, based on how many paintings/pictures of the leaders we see in Completing the Mission, so there would be PLENTY of news footage of the government using any means necessary to arrest any toppats they can get their hands on. 

The film Charles watches is nothing short of horrifying. I won’t go into detail, but just know that it’s pretty disturbing. Like, psychologically messed up. 

Charles is forced to watch as members of the government, something HE WORKS FOR, arrest, torture, and execute Toppat Clan members in extremely violent ways. 

Right is quiet as he watches because he’s seen this tape on more than one occasion; he also watches as a reminder as to why he joined the toppats to begin with. 

Charles, however, isn’t exactly that. After watching a clip of seeing a government official gun down a group of new toppat recruits, he finally snaps. 

“STOP IT!” Charles cries as he struggles in his chair and restraint, much to the annoyance of the medic. “PLEASE! MAKE IT STOP!” 

Right’s attention is now on the pilot as he continues screaming and crying, watching quietly as he takes note of his work. 

Charles screams as loudly as he can as the film keeps rolling, unable to look away as the government is practically used against him. 

Right uses this pattern for a LONG while. One day, Charles is physically tortured and the next he is shown more footage of the government hunting down toppats. 

This cycle is continued until, after maybe three months(it doesn’t seem like it’d be that long, BUT TRUST ME, IT CAN BE), when the toppats come for Charles, they find him standing, waiting for them. 

This time is different, though. 

Right is with them and approaches the empty eyed, silent Charles. 

“Learned your lesson?” 

Charles nods. 

Right holds out his hand, a smirk on his face. 

“Whaddaya say, kid? You want in?” 

CUT TO HENRY

Our multilived friend is lying in bed, having a very fitful sleep. I keep jumping to what we would see if we were watching a movie, but trust me on this, I think you'll really like this one.

In this dream, Henry stands in the middle of four mirrors, a different "ending" of him in the side mirrors and the ine behind him. In front of him is himself, on his left is the Toppat King ending of himself(I'm just calling him Toppat Henry), on his right is the Toppat Recruit endimg of himslef(Recruit Henry), and behind him is his Revenged self.

"You should've taken that offer," Toppat Haenry chides.

"Charles would've been safe, if you did," Recruit Henry adds with a shrug.

Henry hears his Revenged self cough behind him and hears his augmentations whirring. "We wouldn't be friends, if that happend."

"And that bothers you?" Toppat Henry laughs.

"Think about it," Recruit Henry says very smugly. "Since when have you needed friends?"

"Escaping the wall-"

"You got out alone before," Toppat Henry says with a tap to his hat.

Henry jumps when he hears glass shattering and turns to see his Revenged self has punched his mirror and cracked it.

"King, recruit, theif, it doesn't matter," he gurgles as blood oozes out if his mouth. "A toppat never keeps his word."

Revenged Henry hits hus mirror again and causes it to shatter, forcing our Henry to jump back and crash into his own mirror-

Henry wakes up and looks around his room, shaken and stirred. He checks his arm and back before sighing and hugging his knees to his chest.

"I hate when that happens."

Man, that was a psychedelic ending!

BUT THAT’S A WRAP ON TOPPAT!CHARLES PART 5!!!! 

This took a very, very, very, very, very, very, VEEEEERY long time, but here it is! 

Thank you all so much for your patience and following this series. I am having such a blast writing this, you have no idea. 

Thank you all for reading! Stay safe out there! And HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!!!!🦃🦃🦃

[yeoldontknow]

Time Runner: 5

Author’s Note: welcome back! thank you all for being so patient! once again, im making it clear that there will be historical inaccuracies and that this is a fictionalized account of the events of the inquistion, and i am not claiming that everything that is happening is something that would have happened. thank <3  Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: time travel!au; suspense; thriller; drama; romance; angst; sci-fi Rating (this chapter): R Warnings: graphic violence; graphic depictions of blood; swearing; dark themes; themes of abandonment; themes of war; explicit language Word count: 4,526

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Unknown, 1484-85 Turuel, Kingdom of Aragon, Spain

How strange, you thought, for the air to lose its static, a vacuum biting against your skin with claws; hard enough to make your existence hurt.

How strange, you thought, for the world to taste bitter. To taste bitter and to becoming little more than a mausoleum of memory, colours rusting and dimming with only your joyless eyes to touch them.

How strange to be burning alone in the world, waiting and waiting and waiting.

It seemed as though, with Chanyeol’s fading form, your breath had left with him, dissolving into little more than a phantasm of life and living. With no oxygen to propel you into motion, your feet faltered, unsteady and unbalanced against foreign terrain without a hand to lead them true.

Echoing everywhere and nowhere at once, perhaps thriving only in the marrow of your bones, his named died on your lips. Against your lips, the syllables were hot to the touch and left a residue on your tongue, thick and scratching at the roof of your mouth like ash. In the brief moment of stillness, you felt the flux of solitude press against your arms, the molecules in the air disrupted by a thing that was once there and suddenly was no longer.

There was a gentleness and a cruelty to the glimmers of possibility that faded around you - a soft brush against your skin, feeling not unlike whim or fantasy, before the weight of knowledge sought the innocent openness of your pores. Once inside, it moved deeper and deeper still until it found your throat, found the trust that you offered freely alongside every word you had ever said, and choked it. Of you, it wanted everything, until there was no end to where your turmoil began.

Behind you, the members of the Ministry vanished with little pomp or circumstance, their interest in you evidenced by how quickly they left you behind. With you on your knees, they had you exactly as they wanted you: vulnerable, broken, tongue pressed behind your teeth and silenced. Your turmoil had been their victory, a thing they had never witnessed in the long line of history, a new treasure to behold. And, once they had seen it, it became clear that your grief was neither special nor unlike any other throughout the whole of time, it merely tasted sweeter because it belonged to them.

Perhaps it should have alarmed you how one swift motion of abandonment could render you obsolete, leaving you for dead or simply just leaving you, letting history claim you as its own to fade namelessly into oblivion. Confronted at last with the speed at which life both begins and ends, ugly at both ends of the spectrum. Of you, they had created an offering, a gift offered to the slowness of time and the madness of men.

It was not, you thought, that you wanted to be found, that you wanted them to care, that you wanted be found as guilty as you felt. Simply, you thought you wanted to matter. To someone.

They never came back for you, neither for questioning nor for an execution.

Instead they left you for dead at the hands of an army so skilled in psychological and physical torture, you took to breaking yourself, cutting at the dead pieces of your spirit, before they could do it themselves. At least this, you thought, you were good at. Staying mobile, moving, running, accepting the darkness and letting eat the tips of your fingers. The length of your life had become blurred with Chanyeol by your side, the chronology unordered and disorganized, but you know you had spent years learning how to move without eyes keenly following; of learning to make yourself small and make yourself invisible, running with enough speed to be forgotten and enough force to slowly stop wanting to be seen at all.

This time, your footprints left marks in dirt roads, tracks you learned to cover with leaves or mud. This time, you did not have days or weeks to catch your breath. Sometimes minutes, most often seconds. This time, it was not to explore or see or learn or help or love.

This time, it was to survive.

And this time, it was for yourself.

You ran from town to town, palms sweating and chest burning with each thrust of your feet to soil. Every burning city you entered held a brief promise of security: empty houses containing discarded scraps of food, piss soaked beds to sleep in, the torn, mangled clothing of men hauled off to jail cells below the earth. Some homes contained weapons, discarded daggers and knives you strapped to your belt with leather laces you found in old, worn boots.

With a knife, you learned to pull apart the shoes and yield scraps of leather. With butchers needles and tools, you learned to strap the leather together, binding your breasts tightly beneath a soiled tunic you found discarded behind a farm, no trace of the man who had worn it. It took practice to cut your hair without clipping part of your ears in the process. You wore scars on the side of your head, self-inflicted and only half healed.

Three weeks was all it took before you killed a man. You told yourself it was survival, that he would have killed you first, that this was your life now. You had walked into a war between God and men, and if men could command time and temporality then there was no longer a difference between the two. God, man, woman, beast - in your eyes there was no difference, decided that in the mouth of hell, we were all equal. His life left his eyes before your dagger left his side, the blood hot and thick on your fingers as if to burn straight through your bones.

It seared against your fingerprints, as though his blood contained all the memories of his life, as though, in death, he demanded you remember him.

You held him close while he struggled, spasming violently until he stilled, collapsing against your chest like a spent lover. In your arms, you held him, cradled him, while you cried through grit teeth, realizing that it was easy, easier than you thought it would be. Killing a man was easy and this would not be the first time you held mortality between your unwilling hands.

In a daze, you walked along a river until sundown, unseeing and unseen. The trees lined the bank, leaves rustling in the wind as though whispering about you, sharing your secrets, speaking the names of the dead as though you were meant to respect them. For hours, you did not want to clean your hands, stared at your open palms and remembered Chanyeol’s palm against yours, wondered how his skin would feel with blood pressed between you. For hours, you wore him, until the stain of his blood on your skin became a tattoo.

And even when you did, when you finally used the blunt edge of a rock to wash him away, replacing his blood with yours, your skin was slick with the memory of him for days.

Patience was never one of your virtues, your past life so filled with endless noise begging for your attention that stillness always seemed irrational in the modern world. With Chanyeol, time had become tangible, something you had run through, and between, something you could touch, and kiss. With Chanyeol, there time became something that moved with your will, and you thought, surely, that kind of unrestrained living could never be replaced.

After six months of running towards nothingness, towards a mapless terrain and without any promise of safety, the slowness of living, the slowness of expecting death and counting the hours of night, you forgot what it mean to live quickly at all.

Somewhere along the way, you had grown accustomed to fear, to anguish, to the impossible length of a minute, the unbearable torment of a second. Somewhere along the way, the cold and the fear of longing had given way to a survival instinct that filled your lungs with heat; expectation of the warm arms of a man became a dream of an oncoming pleasure, inconsistent, irrational, and intangible, and, when it was over, you were always filled with disappointment.

After six months, you stopped telling yourself he would come back, ceased a morning ritual of bathing and whispering today is the day. Eventually the memory of him splintered altogether, becoming little more than just footprints on the wind and a phantom limb in a cold bed.

Yours had become a tempered reality, one  filled with false heroism and the saving of tyrannical children from a sacrilegious death. The violence of this new life suited you fine, and you wore the blood and the armor with a chest puffed full of regret. Unfazed by corpses and carcasses, your nose no longer seared from the stench of burning flesh, eyes unblinking and the bones piled high or the homes reduced to ash. Steps slowing as you passed, you saw these things, you felt them, you mourned them, but, eventually, you did not fear them.

You’d seen towns fall and women bleed; you tasted war on the air and swallowed it whole, studying the nuances of the flavor and finding retribution in the way it made your teeth ache. The sight of a sword ripping through a man no longer made you ache with recoil, only made your knuckles tense with disdain. The hatred of men had become commonplace and, until he came back, until you were pulled back and taught how to run without the clanking of metal behind you, the act of loving was nothing but a distant, surreal dream.

When winter came you skinned rabbits and learned to properly sew, stitching their uncleaned fur into the lining of your shirt, binder, and boots. You walked through ice and snow, from town to town, taking a drink in each but never staying long enough to share a name, to share a bed, to be remembered at all. You had become a wanted man, hoarding secrets beneath the costume you’d turned into a shield; a heretic for believing in nothing except that time was continuous, that this genocide would happen again, and that if Chanyeol could touch time then somehow he was touching you, until even this too was brought down like so many of the gods before him.

When the trees of the forest of Aragon began to emerge from their slumber, the shade of their bark taking a ruddy complexion rather than the pale brown of death, you saw him standing not too far down the path you walked on. Like a pine shaking loose its nettles, you shivered at the sight of him and paused, breath stilling in your lungs at the sight.

He was beautiful, still so impossibly beautiful, you recognized him the moment his frame appeared on the hill up ahead. The sunlight, frigid and unsoothing in its glow, yet learning how to bloom once again, splayed behind him, making halos against his limbs where none should exist. You could have sighed, you would have sighed, shut your eyes from the relief and the hope and the bliss, but instead visage on the hill made you feel slightly sick. As though this should convince you he were yours for touching, as though this, his emergence like Virgil before Dante, should act as reassurance at all.

You’d imagined his presence countless times and, while you were fully aware he was no premonition, that your mind had long since given up imagining his visage once it had been almost completely forgotten, you felt little excitement behind the knowledge that he had proven you wrong, expecting this to make up for all the days in which you were right.

He ran to you, face unchanged and golden, the brightness of his smile combating the sun for dominance and tugging at his cheeks as it demanded access to your heart. Around him the air shifted, just like it always did, making space for him and igniting with an electricity bordering on cosmic, your skin starting to prick just like it used to simply because he was near and he was magic. Already, you could see the coil of tension in his elbows and hands, desperate to hold you and pull you to him, as if you were still his to touch. His hair in the wind moved back and turned his expression of delight and relief into something boyish.

Long ago, you would have swooned at the sight of, would have held his cheeks between your palms with a desperation that dripped down to your soul, and kissed and kissed and kissed him, until all the breath in your lungs was his. Instead, you felt yourself begin to seethe, the scars along your neck searing with blood for the first time in months, burning with contempt and derision. At him. At time. Mostly, at yourself.

Still you wanted him, still you yearned for him, limbs twitching with the unfulfilled effort of reaching towards his arms, his hands, his cheeks, his skin. The urgency to touch him betrayed the year of everything you had learned without him, pulled towards him as always as a moth to a flame, but you kept still. Gritting your teeth and lips pressed in a thin, neutral line, you kept your feet rooted to the earth, reminding yourself you were no longer the woman he left behind, body pressed into shapes you could no longer call human. He was running towards the past, a version of you he had idealized and held close, or maybe never held at all, and you remained motionless, accepting that time neither begins nor ends, it simply is.

‘I found you.’ He said the words to himself as he approached, proud and pleased and pink with gladness at your reunion, celebrating in solitude with himself. As he reached you, he slowed, paused, fumbling awkwardly over his feet as he finally, truly saw you.

‘What’s happened to you?’ The lowness of his tone wandered over your skin, reintroducing itself to your veins, your pores, and seeking permission against a guard that did not previously exist.

Time had pulled you apart, Chanyeol had pulled you apart, and still his voice could make you quake, make you thirst for the flush taste of his sweat on your lips, the needle that promised to mend you back together. But even then, you did not know exactly what you desired of him, or how you were meant to be sewn, for you were not a thing worth softness, or the gentleness, hope. The ghost of you had burned to ash beneath your bones so long ago, the desire you felt was little more than echoes, little more than memories of a love born from childish fantasy.

Now, you simply needed his eyes on your scars, his eyes on yours, demanded he feast on the mess and trauma of you. You hoped he would drink his fill, that he would see what he had made of you, that you had become this for him.

In stoic silence, you watched the way his gaze traveled down your body, tracing the scars and the scabs, the distinct lack of the swell of your breasts, the steadiness of your grip. Wherever his eyes went, the hairs on your body stood to attention, forced awake after a hibernation that felt like prison, the magnetic touch of his gaze bringing your molecules back to life. Slowly, his expression became mangled with a shock not unlike horror, jaw twitching in an expression you could not read. You were glad for this, glad that you had unlearned enough of him to make new opinions about the length and power of his bones.

And only after he returned his eyes to yours, only after you finally saw his nostrils flare in confusion and hurt did you take your turn to speak.

‘What the fuck took you so long?’ You were a venomous thing, and you wondered if he would ever learn to love a snake.

He loved you when you were young, naive, begging to be brave and uncertain how. He loved you when you followed, when you asked questions that felt like philosophies and not war strategies. He loved you when you were asking to matter. Now, he would have to relearn you. Now, he would have to love you as his judge, his jury, and his executioner.

Without hesitation his brow furrowed, eyes wide in bewilderment and abjection, cheeks blanching. Chanyeol fell over his words, eager and rushing his speech like a child. ‘Took me - it’s been two hours!’

‘Two hours?’ you shouted, unconcerned with giving away your position. Let them find me, you thought. Let them find me so I could watch him run once more. Blood left you, left your head, your cheeks, your fingers, numbing you. Anger, a red thing, blanched you completely, mouth turning dry as it kissed your tongue. ‘It’s been over a year!’

Behind his eyes, you counted infinity, an endless stream of thoughts that raced behind his dilated pupils, the only place his fragile guard had never reached. You expected tears or rage, regret, every emotion he had ever offered or received or taught you to feel. Instead, he blinked. He blinked and he nodded, brows furrowed as he released a trembling sigh.

‘So this is what happened to you...’ he began, slowly, chewing at the inside of his cheek before glancing away from you, conflicted.

‘What the fuck did you expect?’ you sneered, tone cold and demanding. The loss of his gaze made you feel scorned, betrayed - you wanted all of his sadness, all of his distress; wanted to see if it could ever match your own.

Meeting your eyes once more, he regarded you as though you were the key he had stolen, as though you were his answer, his benediction, his greatest fear. The change, you felt, was staggering.

‘When I met you,’ he said, voice small and struggling to remain even, ‘you were raw and hard. Something about youth didn’t sit right on you, I could never imagine you as a child - you just were as I had met you, forever. Not at all the person I met in the library. I see now this was the year that turned you.’

The voices of the crows echoed in the sky as though echoing his words, and you felt yourself rear back, frowning. No longer merely a thief, he had become a liar.

About you.

About the order of your life.

About everything that involved him, which weighed so much more than the memories you had of just yourself and your past.

It was as though he had peeled back pieces of your skin, his skin, revealing an ugliness that tainted every memory you had shared with him - the ugliness of expectation and disappointment. You were not as he had wanted to find you in the library, and, now that you were, you were unsure you wanted to be found at all.

‘Remember,’ you said, tone thick and words heavy, ‘that you did this. You made us this.’

Chanyeol did not crumble or break in the wake of your words, neither begged for forgiveness nor defended his actions, simply remained still and relearned how to breathe. Lines formed on his cheeks, creases giving away his sadness and his anguish, the guilt eating away at him just as life had eaten you.

For a while you said nothing, simply watched the way his fatigues moved in the breeze and the way he flushed when your tongue moved along your lips, wetting the flesh. The tension in his throat was palpable, full of words that lived and died before ever reaching his lips, strained from the effort of remaining strong, hardened, when for you he was always, eternally soft.

Between your bodies, longing lingered, a heaviness that begged to be felt - unfinished kisses, unwhispered sentiments, vows of love and life and death cluttering the space your bodies did not touch. These things looked nice, sounded nice. You wanted them, almost as badly as you wanted him, but there were too many questions, too many bodies, and too many knife wounds were your affections used to lie.

You wanted him, oh how deeply you wanted him, but not like this.

Chanyeol broke the silence with whimper comprised of sorrow and regret, fists clenched at his sides from the effort of not reaching and touching you.

‘There’s blood under your fingernails,’ he offered weakly, eyes focused on your left hand which remained weaponless.

He studied your knuckles, the scars and the marks, the bloodstains and the dirt, likely remembering how he used to cherish your hands. Pressing his lips to your fingers, he would kiss each pad before moving your hand to his cheek, feeling your skin against his and sighing with an affection that made your chest ache. He would bind your fingers together, blocking out the sun, the air, atoms unable to fit between your hands until you felt as one. It must have hurt, you thought, for him to wonder what you had held without him.

‘There’s more than blood under my nails,’ you said, keeping your voice level and emotionless, remembering how you used to touch him, too. How even after war and death and grief he was still so incredibly, impossibly soft. For you. Only for you. ‘You don’t send a person to the Inquistion and expect a child to come back.’

'It's killing me not to touch you -'

'I went a year without you.' You cut him off, voice strained and tight, the thickness in your throat beginning to throb. 'Surely, you can wait a little longer.'

‘You were always a soldier. I wondered what made you this way, all these years. You would never tell me.’

‘The details are in history books, where they belong,’ you countered. ‘My version is too stained with blood and vomit to be legible.’

‘What’s -’

You cut him off, blinded by questions and anger. You wanted to scream, to hold his throat beneath your palm and remind him you had earned the right, the right was yours to be the Inquisitor. My feelings are valid, you wanted to shout. This right is mine because I felt it. It was mine because I lived it.

‘Run me somewhere safe,’ you said, instead. ‘Run me somewhere that feels like home.’

31 December, 2012 New York, New York

The world built itself around and against you in a haze of black and white, malformed objects that surrounded you as deities, the hiss of exterior modern sounds consuming your senses in disorienting cacophony. When the colours started to seep in, the noise of the Earth became vibrant and loud. Everything felt distantly familiar, things that once belonged to you but had been traded away for a promise of delight, a promise of excitement. They no longer belonged to you, and you did not miss them, though, briefly, you missed the sense of simplicity they brought.

Modernity, you remembered, was an uncomplicated mess. Disastrous, if only because the effort and the knowledge of to survive had been almost eradicated.

The concrete beneath your feet was a comfort, the terrain unchanging with weather and weight. For the first time in over a year, you felt stable, powerful in the posture that rooted itself in your spine. Almost instantly, your eyes began to burn, the smog in the air making them sting and the lights of modernity altogether too bright after spending so long in the bleak dimness of the past. Covering your mouth, you coughed several times, lungs having grown used to an uncontaminated atmosphere.

Chanyeol watched you with eager eyes, glancing between your face and the panel on his arm, with a wary gaze.

‘When are we?’ you asked once you were able to speak, taking in the high rise buildings. Their height made you anxious, feel swallowed by the metals and manufactured glory of men.

‘New Years Eve, 2012,’ he said softly. He came to stand next to you, facing out to the street as he watched cars pass.

In the closeness, he let his fingers graze against yours, seeking the feel of your skin if only for a moment. Electricity coursed through your joints, the shock of contact making you glance down at his hand, though neither of you moved away. Perhaps, you thought, he was afraid you would run from him, breaking away and abandoning him once your feet had touched the ground.

It would not have been the first time he misjudged you. It seemed as though you were born to make the hard choices, born to make the things that hurt most into something magnificent.

‘Where?’ Your voice was flat, exhausted.

‘New York.’

‘I need clothes.’ You moved your hand away from his, ignoring the small whine of protest that spilled over from his lips. He kept his eyes on the street as you pulled the thick tunic away from your chest, nervous to look at you and the actions of a life you learned without him. It reeked of dirt, blood and vomit. In the oncoming breeze, you could smell the odor of your skin and clothes, and you scowled, nose hairs burning with the stench. Water had began to leak into your boots, the snow melting through to numb your toes. ‘What time is it?’

‘Just half six.’ Chanyeol turned to you, body and soul battling the hope for reconnection that threatened to turn him into a dying star. He was waiting for the fallout - your fallout.

‘Shops should still be open,’ you hummed, though truly it did not matter. A small smile played at your lips, smirking at how naturally willing you were to follow the rules of your own time. You turned from him then, beginning a brisk walking down the street towards bright lights and a crowd of people, suddenly bold in the anonymity his presence offered you.

In just a few strides, he caught up, walking at your pace as though he were born to follow you, as though he were used to existing at your side and not asking for much more.

One year for you but two hours for him. You played this over in your mind as you walked, wondering what happened in his two hours that would have made him so compliant, so willing to let you walk freely without question. Idly, you recalled the last thing you had said to him, the last proper request you had made.

‘When we get out of here, you teach me how to lead.’

It took effort not to snort at the irony, that it was not he who taught you how to lead, but yourself.

You taught yourself to lead. You taught yourself to stay safe.

You were safe.

You were safe.

[getinthefunvee]

mobile-friendly rules

GENERAL INFO

❔ #getinthefunvee

❔ semi-private:  will generally only write with mutuals, but very happy to meet new people.

❔ exclusivity:  is pre-pubescent and used as a cliquey gatekeeping & ostracising mechanism 99% of the time. I do not practice character or ship exclusivity; I will side-eye you if you do, and I will not tolerate it on my dash, and I will lay the verbal smack-down if I see you using it to bully someone else. I've been playing with some muns for nearly 5 years, and at least one for more than a decade; if anyone was going to be an exclusive, it would be those friends, but exclusivity = possessiveness and it's really, really not the way to roll your adult relationships. Note: if you choose to make me your exclusive Tony for any reason (ie, if you generally hate Tony interaction and want to avoid it, emotional safety reasons, whatever) please give me a heads up. Please be aware that, as stated above, I will not do exclusivity in return.

❔ basic etiquette:  human decency is expected. Do not attempt to god-mod (it's so 90s), force-ship, engage in pass-aggro nastiness, harassment, or any other asshattery. Thanks.

❔  Personals et al are very welcome to follow and 'like' RP posts and to reblog non-RP content. Please don't reblog RP threads you aren't participating in; it's creepy, and I will call you out on it.

❔ multi-muse, side & personal journals:  I will not follow you back if you run a multi-muse blog or RP from your persona that heavily features muses from fandoms I’m not familiar withl; I really need to limit dash clutter in order to be able to focus. (ADD & autism are gr8 that way.) That doesn't mean I won't RP with you on your multi-muse blog, and I'm very happy to RP with side blogs, but I will not RP with personals.

❔ OCs, female characters, obscure canon characters:  This shouldn’t need to be said, but: Yes please! I look for fully-formed characters whose creation you've put thought into; this goes for 'popular' canon characters in equal measure.

❔ crossovers:  Please check with me first to make sure I'm familiar with your fandom.

❔ cut your replies:  Please cut your replies & repost asks as new posts when replying. (note: this is not the same as 'read mores'; I'm happy to explain the difference.) I will not follow you if you never cut your replies.

❔  You must have rules or, at the very least, your age stated somewhere on your blog. I will always read your rules before interacting, and I ask that you please do the same.

ABOUT THIS BLOG

❕  est Dec 2012

❕  21 or over for intermittent content which may not always be tagged; I will generally not play with you if you are under 21 as I may not be comfortable writing certain content [because I'll feel like a dinosaur]. I will not RP with anyone under 18 years old, regardless of thread content or your geographical location's 'legal age.' This is not up for discussion, though I'm happy to explain the legal ramifications (for you and your RP partners around the world) of lying about your age. tl;dr I'm not going to jail so you can have smut. Thanks.

❕ safe space:  This blog is fiercely inclusive. I make a point of avoiding ableist or bigoted language and terminology. Please come talk to me in chat or send an ask and tell me if I screw up. note: If you ever need to talk about anything, or if you're having a really bad day, I'm here for you & wouldn't want you to feel alone. Seriously. Come talk to me. I do have chat set to mutuals only thanks to the huge influx of spam messages I was getting, but you can always unfollow me after we’re done talking (I won’t be upset) or send me an ask if that's easier.

❕ triggers:  I will tag genuine triggers when asked (please don't conflate squicks with triggers). I don't have any triggers, but I prefer not to see child abuse, domestic violence, incest, or pregnancy on my dash; if you regularly include that content, I will generally unfollow. Please see below for a comprehensive list. Triggers will be tagged 'triggery thing tw' and added to the tag dump post.

❕ formatting:  usually no fancier than small text +/- 66x66 or 100x100 icon (depending on the size you use), but I will try to match your style. If you need any special formatting to make it easier for you to read, please tell me. I'm very happy to comply.

❕ pre-established relationships:  I'm happy to discuss these.

❕ readmores:  used rarely, but will always use for explicit dubcon/noncon content & graphic stuff.

❕ memes:  generally mutuals only but will always be tagged as 'mutuals only', so if you don't see that, feel free to interact. I do my best to observe reblog karma but don't expect you to; it's all good.

❕ open posts:  will be tagged clearly; generally open only to mutuals, sometimes character-specific (will specify in tags).

❕ shipping:  multiship; not ship exclusive. Shipping is dependent wholly on muse interaction and never guaranteed. Tony is demiromantic and pansexual; he may or may not be open to poly setups depending on verse. He's experimental, inclusive, and flexible. Got a kink? Bring it. BDSM? He'll want to know your safeword. Three/four/eightway? He's probably into it. That in mind, I'm on the ace spectrum (see below) so mature-content threads aren't going to be that common and will generally, though not always, fade to black.

YES PLEASE

✅  duplicates, multiple 'canon' realities, AUs, cross-fandom, What Ifs

✅  crossovers, especially within Marvel & DC

✅  AUs: love, love, love. Give me your tropey coffee shop AU; better yet, give me your research-worthy Mesopotamian AU, time-travel AU, etc. I'm utter trash for Sentinel!verse (and if you don't know what that is, come at me).

✅  plot-development, complex characterization

✅  conscious, intentional, creative abuse of grammar/syntax

✅  any gender identity/lack thereof; sexual orientation/lack thereof; neurodivergent characters; disabled characters

✅  LGBT, non-cis/het, POC, or other minority versions of canonically white cis straight Christian etc characters

✅  female versions of canonically (cis)male characters

✅  dark, edgy, angsty themes up to and including psychological & physical torture, abuse, and character death

✅  complex and conscientious portrayals of trauma and mental health issues

NO THANKS

❎  self-insertion (omnipotent manic pixie Gary-Stu/Mary-Stu characters make me cringe)

❎  pages of ooc

❎  pages of graphic porn

❎  you RP nothing but smut of a variety that squicks me, such as (below) and don't put it behind readmores: - A/B/O, especially if it involves 'mating'/'breeding', pregnancy (esp cis male or cis female pregnancy), etc. Really major squick; - BDSM that uses an abundance of misogynistic language like 'slut'; 'daddy/mommy' themes; pet play; romanticising unhealthy abusive relationships ('50 Shades of Nope' comes to mind) by framing them as consensual BDSM.

❎  consistent grammar/spelling errors (note: ignore if English isn't your primary language; I’m happy to help if that’s something you want, and I speak a few languages so I might be able to RP in your language)

❎  lots of family/baby/child content

❎  'child of'/'sibling of' & non-canon family member/friend characters

❎  anthropomorphic, furry, or 'real people' characters

❎  SuperWhoLock, anime

❎  gatekeeping, canon-snobbery, constant negativity

❎ erasure of any minority group (ie male versions of canonically female characters; suspiciously white FCs for canonically POC characters, etc)

❎ messianic anything; proselytizing

ABOUT THE MUN

✩  ari (aka kai), 30s, London (GMT)

✩  working in medicine, re-qualifying for med school entry; usually not around much Tue-Fri due to work (replies are sometimes queued & I'm usually happy to do short stuff like texts during the week)

✩  thoroughly spoken for; married to cap.co.vu (but thanks for asking *fingerguns*)

✩  introvert:  very social at times (I tend to 'read' as an extrovert), but I need more distance when out of social energy. Feel free to ask me about this. I will love you forever if you respect the need for space, and will not like you very much if you insta-pounce 10x daily when I've gone quiet.

✩  jewitchy = unrepentantly jewish + low-key hedge witch (observant Reform/Conservative Jew; dash of pagan)

✩  grey-a + demi, greyromantic, as impossibly flirty as Tony Stark

✩  ADD, autism (psa: you can be super direct with me), major depressive disorder, EBS (epidermolysis bullosa), mild anxiety (when out of social energy)

✩  sharp-spoken, sharply-dressed, stickler for punctuation, polyglot, menace to society, method RPer, (mostly) good human being, guaranteed at least 80% carbon-based lifeform, will use elbows on the Tube, well-travelled, great ass (thanks, yoga!), hearts horseback riding, BDSM, dismantling the patriarchy

✩  ask box is always open, Discord available by request, IM/chat is gr8

If you feel like it, send me your favourite trope as a way of letting me know you've read these. I'm not going to ask for any sort of specific symbol, codeword, etc to prove it, but I will presume you have and act accordingly. If you feel compelled to acknowledge any specific parts that jump out at you or query something that doesn't sit right with you, we'll probably be bffs.