#IMPORTANT NOTE if you do this yourself there is no readmore by default | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yourfaveisyanderematic · 5 years ago

Note

Kars anon here! I love all these mysterious fate words, but I MUST go with Propitiate !

Oh, for God’s sake.

I’m sorry this took so long! This also turned into an absolute monster of a fic, haha wow. No worries if you guys haven’t read the first part of it. If this readmore doesn’t work, on God I’m going to march into the offices of tumblr staff and tear down their servers board by board.

i. it is perilous to live past the end of your myth.

In the land you were born, there is a flower that grows only in places that blood has been spilled. It’s noted for its alacrity in covering battlefields; in wars long past, the day after battles was specifically set aside so the combatants could bury their dead before the flowers did. They featured prominently in stories, these flowers, as symbols of mercy in the face of horror. Of the world’s willingness to move on and heal.

You mentioned this to your Hamon master in passing, on a moonless night as the two of you picked over the mass grave of a vampire’s recent gluttony. Their face was half-shadowed in the torchlight as they considered your words, but the look you caught was unmistakably perplexed, and then quietly sober.

“Flowers are flowers, child,” they had murmured, staring into the glazed-over eyes of the corpse at their feet, “nothing they do is borne of nobility or wickedness, only need. Don’t make the mistake of seeing grace or malice in what is merely survival.”

It was a strange thing to say, looking back. To be honest, after the rush of what happened next—the hunt for the vampire, and the desperate fight that ensued—you’d forgotten your master’s remark entirely. So why has this memory resurfaced so unexpectedly and with such clarity in your dying moments?

Perhaps you’re wondering whether the flowers will take you when you’re gone.

“…eep pressure on th…”

…You’re not familiar with this memory. The speaker isn’t anyone you know, and their words are obscured by the pain tearing its way through your mind, pulsing from your throat. Whatever it is they’re saying, you can’t say you’re too interested in listening; comfortable nothingness beckons, where there will be no fear or shame or failure, and you find yourself sinking into it with something approaching eagerness.

“…in the lungs…ain the fluid—“

Something spears your body, neatly sliding between your ribs, and like a harpoon drags you back from the brink of oblivion. Cough after agonized cough is forced out of your raw throat, racking your body. There’s no relief in your lungs as the breath you take tears at your insides, but someone presses on your chest, forcing you to do it anyway. You thrash—you can’t help it—though it’s impossible to tell whether your eyes are open or closed, and your upraised arms are easily pinned down; you barely had the strength to raise them, let alone actually fight off your unseen attackers. They’re saying something again, in words muffled by the encroaching darkness, but all you can think about is there’s pressure on your throat again, and you can’t breathe, and the only thing that can possibly mean is that you didn’t get the collar off after all.

It’s this thought—not the pain, not the lack of breath—that loosens your grip on reality entirely. When oblivion takes you, you welcome it.

ii. do you not live? badly, but you live.

The transition from sleep to wakefulness is instant. You startle—not from your nightmares of a flood of blood or a mountain of bodies, but from the phantom touch of a cold kiss pressed against your cheek—and find yourself face to face with a wide-eyed young man, frozen in the act of setting a glass of water on the nightstand beside you.

“Um,” he says. Belatedly, you realize you’ve grabbed him by the front of his shirt and gracelessly release your grip, too surprised to be face-to-face with someone living. Breathing.

He takes a quick step back. Silence reigns as the two of you stare at each other. His posture shifts from defensive to awkward hesitation, but you barely notice; you’re too busy watching the rise and fall of his chest, suspicious that this is some strange illusion, or perhaps that you were awake before and this is the dream now. At last, he speaks.

“This was for when you woke up,” the words are hesitant, “but uh. You can have it now. If you want, I mean.”

He’s holding out the glass. Some of the water spilled over when you pulled him forward, but there’s still plenty to drink. The surface of the water almost sparkles in the late morning sunlight coming through white cotton curtains…curtains. Stupidly, you finally take your eyes off the man to look around you.

You’re in a bed, an actual bed, a sensation so alien to you now that you can barely register the softness of the sheets. For whatever reason you’ve been propped up with pillows, so you’ve been sleeping almost sitting upright. There’s a window to your side that admits bright sunlight, but the curtains are mostly drawn and you can’t see outside, only that it’s daytime. The air is warm and still, and smells of the living.

The glass is still within reach, when you turn your head to look at the man again. He didn’t take it away. In fact, he hadn’t moved at all, like you’d turn on him if he moved wrong.

When you take it from him, and see your reflection in the surface of the water, you instantly understand why. Someone had taken the time to brush your hair and wash your skin while you were asleep, but they couldn’t do anything about the rigid alertness that tensed your body, the bluish tinge to your lips, the look in your eyes that would have been more at home on a feral animal. You were still that desperate survivor from Kars’ pit, you were merely cleaner, with thick gauze around your throat instead of the collar.

You want to apologize. You don’t know what for, or even to who, but the words won’t come. Your reflection trembles; you force your eyes to look at something else and bring the glass to your lips. The drink feels like a balm, cooling you from the inside, arresting the fearful beating of your heart into something more tranquil.

“Thank you,” you say once you’ve finished. You don’t wince at hearing how horrible your voice sounds, but that’s only because you’re too tired. There’s a strange heaviness in your chest that isn’t melancholy, and as you recline back into the pillows, trying to lie more flat, it only worsens, threatening to smother the breath from your lungs. The young man watches you attempt to force yourself upright for a moment, and then moves to help, readjusting the pillows at your back.

“We had a doctor look at you when you came in. You were in a really bad way, um…we weren’t sure whether you were going to die or not. It looks like you won’t, but you can’t strain yourself or lie down, and you need to call for us if your heart feels strange. The doctor said it was pl—pul—“ he makes a face as he tries to recount whatever medical term he overheard, but you aren’t listening; something far more important has your attention in a stranglehold.

Your breathing is right. It’s slow and deep and even, the movement radiating throughout your body in the way you were taught.

Your breathing is right. But the Ripple isn’t there.

iii. love did not make you gentle or kind.

“You sure you should be doing this?”

The gauze is heavy with the sunlight beating down on you and too tight around your throat, but it’ll be another day or so before it can be replaced, so you resist the urge to tug at it and try to forget it’s there.

Mateo—the man who was with you when you woke up—is older than you, though not by much. Taller than you, though not by much. His skin is tanned and his hands are calloused, but his ignorance of the darkness you spent your life fighting gives him an almost childish vulnerability in your eyes. For him and the rest of this village, vampires and the undead are nothing more than ephemeral myth; the recent disappearances of distant villages nothing more than particularly aggressive raiders, or a disease. They see the storm on the horizon and think it distant, that it will not swallow them up in the course of a single night.

You know better.

A lot of good that does you.

“It’s just breathing, Mateo,” you say after a long pause. Conversation comes slowly to you, he’s noticed, probably assuming it’s out of reticence. You’ve become so unused to conversation that you’re having to force yourself to pay attention to what people tell you, instead of tuning it out by default.

…speaking of, he’s been saying something else while you were thinking about this. You have the decency to look apologetic.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Mateo gives you a hesitant smile. “I said I’d still be more comfortable with you doing this ‘breathing’ thing in the shade. You don’t look too good.”

You believe him. You’ve been avoiding your reflection whenever you could in the day or so you’ve been awake, but there’s a constant low ringing in your ears and your skin is clammy to the touch, and a horrible pervasive weakness in your lungs. If you hadn’t been soaking up the afternoon sunlight all this time, you’d have to give serious thought to the idea that you were somehow undead.

Unbidden, your hand goes to your bandaged throat once more. Mateo graciously pretends he wasn’t watching you, and instead gestures to the nearby trees.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

A lifetime ago, you would have snapped back, would have impressed upon him the significance of your martial art and the power your techniques belied. In this moment, however, you simply step under the flowering boughs, sheltering in their shade like he asked. There’s no longer any urge to grandstand or prove yourself; simply the will to do.

And so you do. You forget the curious eyes on you and force yourself to relax, stretching as much as your ruined body will allow, letting the tension flow out of your body. Your heartbeat is erratic from the embarrassingly short trek to this grove, but as the seconds pass it begins to settle, becoming the meter by which you measure breaths. One, two, three…the motions of your arms are practiced, familiar, but most importantly gentle, as you begin the most basic Hamon exercise you can remember.

You don’t simply wait for your life energy to manifest, you call on it, and when it doesn’t come you focus your thoughts on the process more and more, drawing deep into the well of your soul…and when you don’t find it, you pull deeper still. You take another deep breath, ignoring the protest from your weekend lungs, and keep trying, keep pushing, like your life depends on it…

…because it does. The mechanism of the collar is complicated, even more-so when you can’t examine it through anything but touch, but with enough daylight hours to yourself you think you’ve come to understand it. The abomination keeping you here is frustratingly inventive. In fact, if it wasn’t playing its sadistic game of cat and mouse, you wouldn’t have survived the first night wearing it. Would have been overwhelmed entirely by the hordes it insisted on throwing at you. Fortunately—or unfortunately—it entertains bizarre delusions that it can bring you to heel. Force you to serve it.

And it is in that folly that you have your chance. It’s a desperate gamble, suicidal; the more you draw upon your Hamon techniques, the more the collar’s stranglehold tightens in response. The trick, then, is to not attempt to build strength gradually, but to force the mechanism in one explosive burst, and pray that you can tear the thing apart in the second you have before your neck is crushed completely. It’s your only chance. It’s all you can do.

You wait for mid-day, when the sun is at its apex, burning away the disgusting slough of undead flesh pooled around your ankles. You wait for the time nothing borne of the night could hope to stop you, and then in one sudden motion you breathe, flooding your muscles with the burn of power, straining your lungs even as the vice-grip of the collar makes stars swallow your vision, even as something inside you snaps—

Your breathing stutters out into a guttural, horrible cough, one that tears at the inside of your throat and forces you to your hands and knees. Driven by frantic instinct, you claw at the cracked earth, trying to propel yourself back to your feet—I’m not done I’m not done I’m not done—but something else inside you gives out, and you collapse even farther, almost kissing the ground with each heaving breath.

Mateo is alarmed, by the shouting you can vaguely hear as he rushes to your side, but all you can think about is the frothy sputum dripping from your lips, the iron bite of blood filling your mouth. You hadn’t merely brushed over a healing wound in your attempt to reaffirm your grasp on Hamon, you’d reopened it, and instead of the strength you expected you found only…this.

Someone’s talking to you. You force yourself not to tune it out. “Easy. Easy. Oh my god—you said you were just breathing—can you stand? I’m going to help you up, we need to get you back to the—”

You can’t get up. There’s no strength in your legs. You lower your head, trying to force yourself to move, but it isn’t breathlessness that’s holding you in place. You can’t stand because you aren’t here; your body is half somewhere-else, in a place where there is no sun or life or hope, as a powerful arm wraps around your waist and pulls you away. Mateo is saying something as he half-carries you away, but it’s a low voice you hear instead, sweet in its cruelty. This can’t be the limits of your strength, can it? Surely not. He’d told you to give everything, and this couldn’t be it. If you’d persist in this obdurate disobedience, though, there was a solution...

“Almost there,” you can hear Mateo puff as the floor of a threshold drags beneath your feet, “just need to hang on a little longer—“

“Almost there!” Kars laughed, a peal of delight as you vainly forced another zombie’s jaws off your arm, only for another to take its place. The bodies that swarmed you threaten to bury you completely. As you found yourself overwhelmed, the weight of the horde pinned your arms to your sides, forcing you onto your back, pressing on your chest and halting the breath that could save you. “Struggle more. Hate more,” the words wormed their way into your ears just as his finger traced the contours of your cheek, as the fumbling hands of the dead prised their way into your raw flesh. “Obey! Only then can you—“

“—rest. I’m going to get you some water.” A gentle hand pats your shoulder, and then is gone. A door closes somewhere, leaving you alone in your room once more. You find yourself staring at nothing, tracing the paths of dust motes illuminated by the beams of sunlight in front of you. You hadn’t moved a muscle, not once, in all the intervening moments that had passed; not even those where you were somewhere else, still fighting for your life. You hadn’t even tried.

Should you be proud? Or ashamed?

iv. you do not exist. there is nothing left.

…someone’s talking to you. Their voice had been drowned out by the soft light of the candles and your own thoughts. You look up from what you’re doing, and have the decency to look apologetic.

“Sorry. Could you say that again?”

Mateo laughs, repeating himself without hesitation. “I said you’re looking well. Like, glowing well. Hard to believe it’s only been three days. If it weren’t for the—I mean, I could believe you were totally fine.”

“Hm,” you reply. Small but significant progress from the lingering silence you used to offer instead.

It’s true that you can now walk unaided and sleep fully lying down, but you’re far from the full strength you expected to enjoy by now, physically; a half-joking race with the village children yesterday left you all but bedridden. The stitches holding the skin of your throat shut will need another few weeks before they can come out, you’re told, and they can’t promise that the scar will ever heal; that you won’t be carrying around your collar in some form, for the rest of your life.

As for your Hamon ability…you glance down at your hands again, cradling an inverted glass between your splayed fingertips. The water within trembles, but stays in place, unable to cross the barrier of energy pulsing outward from your palm. The sun set an hour ago, but the room is bathed in gentle light, pulsing in time with your measured breaths.

You didn’t lose your gift…in fact, you’ve noticed the opposite of what’s happened to your physical body. The near-death experience has torn apart instinctive limitations on your body, at the cost of control; your difficulty with the current exercise isn’t merely to keep the water in the glass, it’s to keep the glass intact at all. To keep that gentle light from becoming blinding, from setting things aflame in its intensity.

“So that’s from that breathing thing you were so desperate to do, huh?” Mateo’s voice is full of a wonderment bordering on reverence, blissfully ignorant of the burden you manage. “Hard to believe…it’s more like magic. Something you hear about in stories.”

Not stories, Mateo, you think instead of say, bitterness poisoning the words, Tragedies.

Mateo continues speaking—of the tales passed around his village, fables of heroes long past and encounters with beasts blown wildly out of proportion—and as he does so, you realize exactly why he will always be better off than you. For him, monsters will stay stories, and his days will be full of bright nothingness. The shadow of death, hanging unseen over all that he knows, will remain so; you will leave this village, taking it with you, vanishing back into the jungle, departing for that other world where you are only one of many fighting and dying to stem the vampiric tide. You’ll fade from his memory—from all of their memories—as quickly as you came, a stranger with strange powers, bound for parts unknown. With luck, nobody here will meet anyone like you ever again.

That’s your plan, anyway. For whatever bizarre reason, you’ve noticed that the people of this village, while helpful in preparing for your departure, aren’t in any actual hurry for you to leave. The house you share with Mateo and his family is only because there isn’t space for you to have one of your own, and the guest room is yours indefinitely. The villagers insist on learning your name, and in spite of yourself you find that you’re learning theirs.

They have to know you’re dangerous, but they don’t act like it. You could have convalesced by staying shut up in your room and taking your meals there, but they’ve insisted on having you at the table, eating with their families because they knew you had none. The floral embroidery in your cotton clothes grows more elaborate with each day. You learn to tell who’s approaching you by the sound of their footsteps. If you hadn’t been keeping track, you would have believed that three years had passed you by, as opposed to only three days.

It’s…nice. It’s really nice. The gnarled, feral rage in your heart doesn’t cut so deeply when you see their smiles. You tried not to let yourself get attached, but it’s easier to think of fighting now that you’re reminded that you aren’t alone in the world.

An unnamable emotion squeezes your heart. The water trembles behind its barrier, violently. You right the cup before it spills all over you, setting it back on your nightstand with a soft clink.

“Hurry up and come to dinner,” Mateo extends a hand to help you up, and without hesitation you take it, getting to your feet. “Rosa’s been telling everyone about that light trick you did with the garden, so don’t be surprised if they pester you to show it off again…”

You laugh at the thought. When was the last time you did something like that?

The two of you walk in companionable silence out the door and into the warm evening air, toward the communal area of the village. Hunting’s been unseasonably good, you’ve been told, so you can expect plenty of meat, and as you approach the communal dishes you think you can see the vegetables you helped grow. There are flowers everywhere, scattered along the tables and hanging decorations. Is something being celebrated tonight?

One of the village elders, making a plate nearby, laughs off your question, too preoccupied with what he’s doing to actually meet your eyes. “In a way,” he says, but leaves it at that. Mateo abandons your side to save you a seat with his family, leaving you to mill aimlessly within the little crowd. Everyone is too busy finding their place or getting food to so much as look at you, leaving you free to wander aimlessly. Perhaps it’s your proximity to the tree line, but you can’t shake the feeling of being exposed, so you pull back into the crowd and try to immerse yourself in the conversations around you.

Apparently something of religious significance happened recently, because it’s all anyone seems to be talking about; whatever happened is an auspice of protection and good fortune. It’s a welcome comfort to these people, in the light of dark whispers circulating about yet more villages disappearing and devastating illnesses destroying crops and herds. The thought makes your gut twist in apprehension, souring the celebratory mood for you.

You’re so lost in your own thoughts, in fact, that details of what happened and when escape you; local superstition isn’t of real import compared to the actual danger out there, after all. When you’re called over to sit with Mateo and his family, you go willingly. When you see that no plate has been set aside for you, you shrug and figure that they assumed you’d fend for yourself; you’ll get one later.

When the village elder raises his glass and gets to his feet to make an announcement, you don’t think anything of it either. There’s someone new sitting in the chair next to him, probably the guest of honor he plans to introduce, but you don’t really see this as something to be worried about.

That is, of course, until you actually register who it is.

You wish you did something dramatic. You wish you let a glass fall out of your hand with an inelegant shatter, gave a bloodcurdling scream, jumped to your feet to attack, anything—anything at all—that could articulate to everyone around you how much danger they was in.

This is what you do instead: nothing. You’re paralyzed, a helpless spectator to whatever tragedy is about to unfold, as the village elder continues his speech and Kars politely indicates his attention with the elegant incline of his head.

(All for the best, really. What could you expect to do, in this state? Get everyone here killed? Some gratitude that would be.)

Something has your chest in a vice-grip, smothering the breath from your lungs and making your heartbeat ring in your ears, as the seconds pass in their inexorable march.

Kars—unmistakable, even from this distance, even with the linen wrap around his head—doesn’t seem nearly as concerned about the situation as you are. In fact, he’s putting on an excellent show of pretending you aren’t even there. His posture is completely relaxed, and while the clothes on his back are common enough for these parts, his physique is possessed of an unearthly beauty that makes him unmistakably inhuman.

Inhuman…or godlike. No wonder everyone around you is staring at him with reverence, though here and there you can see it’s tempered by fear, by that animal instinct you imagine prey have when faced with the beast about to devour them. All remain in their seats, still and silent, as if moving would draw his attention. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Mateo take his mother’s hands in his own and hold them tightly, and swallow that secret wish that he’d do the same for you.

(A darker, more morbid part of you makes a wish of its own: that Kars grow weary of his own, implacable cruelty, and discard the civilized charade that prevents you from simply attacking him. Every second you have to sit here doing nothing is torture.)

As if hearing your thoughts, Kars finally looks at you—really looks at you, with that horrible hungry stare you’ve come to know so well—and smiles. Apparently ready to end his game at last, he gets to his feet, and the village elder gives him the floor with a reverent bow. Your hands grip the table in anticipation, almost unconsciously.

“Mortal stewards of this valley. Friends,” he begins, speaking every word as if tasting it first. There’s an undefinable quality to his voice that makes him sound as if he were both making a grand announcement and confiding in each individual personally. “Let me first praise your peerless skill and unparalleled kindness. Without them, my most precious consort would have almost certainly not survived their wounds. I would have become inconsolable in my grief; instead, I find myself overcome with joy at our reunion.”

His eyes are on you. Everyone’s eyes are on you, and it’s only this fact that gives you the presence of mind not to laugh with pure, unrestrained disbelief. What madness is this? The way he says it, he’s here to collect a favored pet. That’s impossible, of course. He’s here to finish what he started—to kill you and quite possibly everyone here, to take your powerlessness against him and really rub it in your face one final time.

“Now that they are well enough to return to my side, of course, you can all be left to live in peace,” Kars purrs. He doesn’t need to look you in the eye to see that you’ve caught the underlying threat in his words.

(You should move. You can’t.)

The whole world seems to let out the breath it was holding, but as you look around you realize that it’s not quite true. What you felt was everyone trying subtly but desperately to look elsewhere, as if to hide that they don’t believe a word that came out of his mouth but are powerless to challenge him on it, to do anything but hand you over. There’s a different weight to their silence, not a hope but a silent plea that you’ll play along, that he’ll be satisfied with taking you and leave the rest of them alone.

(You should move. You can’t.)

You are not a coward. Cowards would not survive the harsh path of Hamon, or the endless fight against the vampires. Cowards would not survive Kars’ attention. Cowards would thoughtlessly throw others in the path of the vampire in their bid to live another day, and you don’t do that—in fact, you barely resist as one hand and then another nudges at your back, pushing you to your feet, silently guiding you to take one step and then the other. You are not a coward.

(You are not a coward. Why, then, in the depths of your heart, are you begging for anyone—anyone at all—to be standing in front of you, rather than behind?)

The people before you make way, giving every appearance of obeisance, but you can see in their downcast eyes that they are merely relieved that you’re choosing to play along.

(What chance do you hope for any of them to stand against Kars? Why, then, are you finding it hard not to hate them even as you stalk past?)

You take every step as slowly as you dare, even with the insistent push of the villagers behind you. If Kars is at all bothered by the wait, it’s clearly outweighed by satisfaction; the slow curl of his lips into a victorious smile might as well be a jubilant shout.

At long last, you stand directly in front of him, and now it’s just you—nobody else dares to draw near. It’s just as well, really.

Kars gives your body a long, slow once over, eyes lingering on the thick gauze around your neck, the clenched fists at your sides, the look in your eyes. He hasn’t even changed his posture, still elegantly reclined, barely tilting his head to look up at you as you cast a shadow over his seat.

“Some things about you really can’t be changed, I suppose,” he murmurs, a cold whisper only for your ears, “Should I be proud, or disappointed?”

The barb hurts, but it’s a detached kind of pain, drowned out by the enormity of what you have to do. “I’m coming with you,” you reply, and your voice comes out as a whisper—not because you’re trying to keep your voice low, but because you don’t have the strength to speak any louder, “so do as you said. We leave these people in peace.”

He sits up, slowly, languidly, like a leopard about to pounce. His arms open. “Is that all I can expect for our joyous reunion? Come, hero. Won’t you embrace me?”

Your spectators are silent and unmoving, a human wall that blocks off your escape. For a foolish moment, you entertain the idea of fleeing, but you discard the impulse about as soon as it registers in your thoughts.

Another step. Another. And now you’re sinking, sliding into his lap, allowing yourself to be enfolded by stone-cold arms and breathless breath, in an embrace you know you won’t escape a second time.

He smells like flowers.

#by me #kars x reader #don't worry if you haven't read the first part I certainly haven't #too embarrassing!#this is why I can't take commissions I have absolutely awful turnaround #anyway I saw your other messages I'll get around to them!#since I finished this I'm gonna treatmyself #maybe do some more microprompts #alright gonna die now have fun kids #Anonymous

48 notes · View notes

kusunokihime-mobile · 5 years ago

Text

Rules

INTRO

Hello, and welcome to the Rules page! Here you’ll find guidelines on what I do and do not accept regarding RP, Asks, and other uses of this blog! Please take time to read them, as there is important information listed below!

Please note that these rules are for my personal comfort, and are not a personal slight against anyone. That being said, anyone attempting to bend or break these rules will get a warning, and then an unfollow if it persists. Anyone making a fuss after that will be blocked! We’re here to have fun - if my blog won’t get you what you want, there’s a whole slew of other blogs to choose from!

That being said, let’s get into it!

A FEW THINGS ABOUT MUN

Mun has mental disorders that can make me slow, have difficulties with communication, etc. Rushing or pressuring me will get you softblocked. Please be patient.

Please call me Sylvie or Sylv. Pronouns are they/them or she/her. I am 27, and will not RP adult themes with those under 18, but can RP sfw themes with minors if they wish to do so.

I don't mind duplicates of muses I write with.

The only formatting I do is indenting/italics/bolds. I have icons, but they're not necessary. I'll use them by default, but will match my partner: if they don't use icons, I won't either.

I reserve the right to change and update these rules as I see fit. Please be sure to check them when I announce changes.

MUSES

By default, my muse is my OC, Ryū. Unless a mun specifies otherwise, any interactions will be had with her - asks, threads, etc. Any interactions meant for other muses must be clarified.

Muse availability varies. Please check which muses are available for what on the Muses page. If a muse is an NPC, they are askbox and meme tag only. If a muse is a main, they are available for askbox, meme tag, quips, and full threads. This CAN change, as muses are fluid. Please check the use page before starting an interaction to check.

CONTENT / TAGS

This blog may contain several triggering themes. These themes will be tagged when they are written, ie. “blood //”. You can see the Tags page for a full list of trigger tags for blacklisting. If you need anything else tagged, DO NOT HESITATE to tell me. Any and all smut will be beneath readmores and tagged nsfw. Themes used in excess, such as gore, will also be put under readmores.

If you don’t use trigger tags or put smut under read mores, I will unfollow/not follow. Please tag incest and major/minor ships. If you write a lot of this content I'll likely unfollow. Please have ships tagged.

Mun has sensitivities to nsfw content due to past experiences. This kind of content takes time for me to work up to - do not ask for smut off the bat. That will get you softblocked.

Mun also has trouble with heavy gore/torture/etc. themes. If they come up in a thread, I will likely drop the thread for my comfort, or timeskip. Ignoring this and pressuring me for these themes will get you softblocked.

I also tend to unfollow/not follow RP blogs that do not trim posts (to an extent), or post large amounts of content not related to their muse or fandom. It clogs my dash and I'd rather avoid it.

FOLLOWING/FOLLOWERS

This blog is both selective, and private, due to recent/past experiences. In short, this means I will interact IC with mutual blogs only. IC things like threads, quips, etc. are mutuals only. Labor-intensive ooc asks - things like drawings, drabbles, aesthetics, or icons - are for mutuals only, as are IMs (which are ooc only). Non-mutuals can ask questions ooc. IC asks are preferred from mutuals - due to past experiences, I may reject some non-mutual IC asks. I reserve the right to reject any ask for any reason.

In regards to what I'll follow, I tend to stick only to Naruto-based blogs, or blogs with Naruto verses. I am familiar with very few other fandoms to the point of feeling comfortable writing them. Feel free to ask ooc if I know your fandom to check first if you'd like. I also do my best to limit my dash to keep from being overwhelmed.

I do not initiate follows due to anxiety.

Non-RP blogs, personal blogs, etc. are welcome to follow. I just ask you follow all the rules here in regards to what can be reblogged / asked / etc. Blogs that are porn blogs, business blogs (trying to sell something), or that look to be bots/spam will be blocked without question.

In order for me to follow back, you must have an about page, rules page, and some in-character content for me to judge compatibility. If you lack any of these things, or I don't feel comfortable with what you write, I will not follow - I have to know what I'm getting into. People who spam-follow will be blocked. People who break my rules will be blocked. Do not beg me for a follow.

Due to anxiety, I only follow those who follow me. If you unfollow, even if it's a Tumblr glitch, I will unfollow. People inactive 4+ months will be unfollowed / softblocked to keep my following list up to date.

Please be aware that any blogs that regularly interact with the mun E.su (u.chihasavior, s.asukejusticewarrior) will not be followed / followed back, or written with. This is a personal preference due to that mun's content and behavior. You can continue following me if you'd like, but I prefer a degree of separation from that blog. I will not heckle you for it, and I'm not looking for trouble. I simply wish to keep my RP circle separate from hers as best I can, and this is your notice.

THREADS

Threads from asks must be moved from the original ask - just @ me or IM me about a new thread.

If a thread isn’t with your blog, please do not reblog it, as it can mess with notifications and trackers. Comments and likes are fine. If any threads need to be hiatused or dropped, that's fine.

Matching length is not an issue. If it's a nsfw thread, please put your reply under a read more. If you're unable to format, I'll just cut your reply when I reblog it - I don't like having nsfw content out from under a cut, as I know minors follow me.

MEMES

I do not apply reblog karma, and I have absolutely no issue with being a "meme source" to those who are otherwise interactive. All I ask is that a mutual follower at least interact in some way, or I will softblock as stated in the following/followers section.

OOC POSTS

Please don't reblog them, unless you're replying to a question I asked within the post.

Images, quotes, etc. can be reblogged. Just don't reblog my ooc posts, ic posts that do not involve you, headcanons, etc. If in doubt, please ask what can be reblogged.

GODMODDING

Do not godmod. Small things, like assuming small answers / actions for moving the plot along, are fine. But don’t control my character, and don’t repress my own actions. If I feel you're overstepping bounds, I will softblock you.

SHIPPING

Shipping is done via chemistry ONLY. I do not pre-arrange ships, as the only way to know if my muses will consent is to have them build through interactions. Do not assume I ship any ship, canon or otherwise - do not initiate a ship without asking me first. Just because I ship something with one blog doesn't mean I'll ship it with another. Talk to me ooc about possible ships, and don't argue if I say I won't ship it.

I also will not ship any adult muses with muses from Naruto's generation, or Naruto's generation with the next generation. In general, I do not ship anything one generation gap or more, but you are free to check about specific ships, as some can be hard to define.

There will also be NO ADULT / MINOR SHIPS, and NO INCEST SHIPPING. Ship what you want on your own blog, but it won't happen here. Some of my muses are hard to ship with. If I tell you a ship won't happen with them (or any muse), don't push for it anyway. I will softblock you. If you write any ships that fall under those categories on a fairly regular basis, I will not follow.

ANON HATE

I will not, under any circumstances, allow for hate. Any sent to me will be deleted without comment. I will not publish any asks that attempt to defame anyone or provoke drama. Don't try to use my inbox for your nonsense.

If your blog has a lot of drama on it, regardless of topic, I will unfollow/not follow. I'm not here for discourse or arguing - I'm here to write and talk to friends.

CONCLUSION

That's the gist of it. I realize these are bluntly-worded, but I have had far too many issues with my rules being broken, so I'm condensing them. They should be clear enough, so anyone who breaks them will get a warning, then a softblock, then a hard block. I understand things can be forgotten. Please refresh yourself on your partners' rules regularly to help avoid this.

That being said, please don’t hesitate to ask questions if anything’s unclear. Just don’t try to circumvent any rules. I won’t make exceptions - these are in place because this is what makes me able to RP comfortably.

#;info #;rules

0 notes