Enjoy your stay.
Self correction, mass disection, Self-infraction.
Anonymous asked:
Yay, I am excited to read them and apply.

I marked the character as reserved for you! I could have gone one of two ways with the characters personality so I may write another bio, most likely with Zoe Kazan. I’ll try to make the two different.

- A xo

FC: Richard Harmon || Sexuality: UTP || Reserved


When Travis West was sixteen years old, his father remarried and moved away with his new wife to be closer to work. That was okay, because he would call every Wednesday and Friday without fail. In the same year, his mother lost her job because the company she worked for became bankrupt. That was fine too in the end, though, because she got a new job and earned more than she had before. Also during his sixteenth year, Travis watched his best friend be beaten to death by the boy’s father through a crack in the door of the closet he’d been locked in. Ryan told him to hide because he wasn’t supposed to have visitors. The worst part is that, looking back on it, Travis was never sure that, had he known that Ryan was going to lock him in and his father was going to beat him to a pulp outside of the safety of the small space, he’d have refused to crawl inside.

When Ryan stopped breathing, his father had panicked and bolted down the stairs and out of the house, and for hours Travis had sat in the closet with his knees drawn up to his chest, watching, unblinking at the boy on the ground outside. It was then that he began to notice how quiet it was, only when he could no longer see his friend’s chest rise and fall could he hear his own breaths, louder than ever, and his heart thumping in his ears and echoing around the tiny closet, that he realized that he hated the silence. He muttered songs under his breath, anything that came to mind, not giving himself enough time to think of the next verse and singing the same few lines over and over, just to overpower the quiet until finally, at nine o’clock, his phone rang in his pocket and after a vague plea for help to his father, he watched the medics take Ryan away and unlock the closet door.

Every night since then, Travis would sit up on his bed, knees pulled close to his chin, eyes wide open as he hummed or whispered under his breath. He couldn’t sleep, never once slept for more than fifteen minutes at once. He took time off school to ‘mourn and recover’, until he decided to go back. But when he did, he’d sit alone at lunch and his mind would trail off during lessons, when they watched short films in class and the lights would go out, Travis’s brain played tricks on him, made him see what he had on that night. He’d even whisper and hum during tests when the room fell silent and it became apparent that he just couldn’t continue to learn in his condition.

Before long he was sent to the closest youth psychiatric hospital to home, where his condition improved to the point where you could socialize a little easier, despite being jittery and eager to fill the silence, but his sleeping stayed the same. At the age of eighteen, he was relocated to Blacklist Asylum. In the asylum, he remained his polite but shy and skittish self. He’d make an effort to sit with people at lunch, always eager to surround himself with noise, and although he’d always be jittery and shaky due to his body being conflicted between staying awake and drifting off to sleep, he’s always lifted carefully, anything to fill his brain in attempt to overwrite already existing images, although it never worked.

Of course, like most, he still has off days. However, considering his usual jittery and chatty self, for Travis, the bad days are more apparent than they would be for most. He’ll often go from buzzing through the halls in his little oblivious bubble, to slumping through corridors with a hand braced against the nearest wall for support. In the canteen, where he’ll usually try his hand at acquainting himself with new people in his own awkward little way, he will instead sit as close to the corner of the room as he could get, fingers shaking as they make chimerical patterns on the table top. During these times, Travis doesn’t try to fill the silence or block the images, but gives himself more time to remember and mourn, drag himself away from recovery once again.

Anonymous asked:
Well I would really enjoy seeing a Richard Harmon, Zoe Kazan, Mae Whitman or Olly Alexander. I really just want a very skittish and shy individual who is rather childish, maybe even almost animalistic in approach? I think all could fit that description and would leave who up to you guys. Regardless, I think all could fit well into the setting.

Sounds good to me! I’ll start getting some ideas down now.

- A xo

Abigail Bell.

Abigail Bell - 21 - Patient 

Subject is 21 years of age. Female. Brunette hair. Blue eyes. Subject is 1.70 meters tall. Weighs 121 pounds. Subject has been diagnosed with Schizophrenia. Subject has a history of violence. No history of substance abuse.

Subject is to approached with caution.

Anonymous asked:
Do you accept fc suggestions or do you leave those up to original characters only? Because I have three in mind but would also be interested in seeing what you guys would do with them.

We do! I’m often stuck for fitting FCs so suggestions are always welcome. Also, I mentioned before that if someone were to send in a few pullet points on a character they’d like to see, I’d be happy to write up a bio based on their idea.

- A xo

Anonymous asked:
Is this open yet or no?

Yes! I’m doing admin things again now and we are very much open (:

-A xo

Welcome to the roleplay, Rachel! You’ve been accepted to play Abigail Bell (Elizabeth Gillies). Please send in your character’s account within the next 48 hours!

Character: Abigail Bell

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Anonymous asked:
I'd be so interested in the Oliver Sykes' FC only if he wasn't gay :( nothing against gays tho

Sorry ‘bout that.

FC: Ezra Miller || Sexuality: UTP || OPEN


Ray Walters was an only child and, growing up, his parents were rarely home -his dad being the founder of a large company that manufactured phones and his mother a nurse because they didn’t need more money, but she didn’t like to feel useless- and so he was often left to his own device. They lived in an apartment (or several, after having converted the whole of the top floor of their building into one large, modern loft for themselves) and the boy would rarely leave, with few friends in or out of school. Like usual, the boy was home alone one evening, when he heard a noise coming from somewhere in his home, outside of his bedroom. He’d remained still, unwilling to be “that one kid in every thriller”, but that was deemed pointless when his door was opened and a hooded figure approached him, movements alarmingly slow. The man must have noted how startled Ray was, frozen where he sat, as before he could even think to move, there was a cloth covering his mouth and a half-shadowed face sneering down at him.

He woke up in a dated, minimal bedroom with a metal-framed bed and an ancient dresser and wardrobe. Days passed before he actually saw his captor, going without food for this time, until finally the man had entered the room and locked the door behind him. He’s crouched down beside the bed where the boy lay -his wrist cuffed securely to the radiator beneath a boarded window- and simply whispered “Welcome home” and from then on, their relationship was somehow prominent but… blurred at the same time. The man would treat him like a son, but rather than with the care, it was purely violence and clear disappointment. He’d get mad when Ray wasn’t awake when he entered his room in the morning, or when the boy didn’t feel like eating -which was the majority of the time- and when the boy asked to go to the bathroom when it wasn’t convenient or forgot to call the nameless man ‘sir’ after speaking. He was beaten daily, more than once, often without reason.

As months passed and the young man still wasn’t found, their relationship continued in this way - until his eighteenth birthday. It was unnerving, how the man knew what the date was, but he had, and he’d entered the room with a small, crooked birthday cake in one hand and a wrapped gift in the other. He’d grinned, said “Happy birthday, kiddo”, and placed the two items at the foot of the bed before, for the first time in all the months he’d been there, unlocking the cuff on Ray’s wrist. The gift was just a book, hand written and shabbily made by the man, it seemed. The two spent the day sat on the bed together and Ray was even allowed to call the man by his real name, Adam. He read to the boy, Ray listening to every word and it was… nice. Until the next day, when everything was the same as it had been before. But he couldn’t deny that having this father figure was somewhat relieving and he almost felt compelled to please the man, make him proud. He read the book daily.

When he was finally found, he’d been missing for seven months and at the sight of the police forcing their entrance into his small, dingy room, he’d cried out for the man but to no avail, unable to see him as he was dragged though the previously unseen house. After being taken straight to the hospital to care for his wounds, Ray was questioned, which was when he expressed his remorse and pity for the man. He hated that he couldn’t have been better for him, given ‘Adam’ a reason to be proud. He’d gotten he man in trouble -is he in trouble? You won’t hurt him, will you? Tell me he’s okay.- and, to him, it was unforgivable.

The eighteen year-old was in no state to go back home, his attention only on his kidnapper, even refusing to answer more questions until he saw Adam alive and well. This, however, was not easy, since the man had been armed and attempted to fight back. Adam was taken out before he had the raise his gun. After receiving the news, Ray broke down in a fit of screams and sobs because "he never meant any harm". It was the worst case of Stockholm Syndrome the doctors had come across, but it was the only thing that they could think to diagnose the male with. And since Ray now apparently had a one-track mind, caring only about Adam, they sent him to Blacklist to hopefully clear his mind and eventually reunite him with his real parents again. The only personal belonging he brought with him was a small, hand-written book that he refused to share with anyone.

FC: Tyler Joseph || SEXUALITY: UTP || OPEN


At the age of six, Charlie Harding lost his mother and father in a house fire. The gas from the oven was left on for the whole night, and when his father woke up at six o’clock in the morning for work, he struck a match to light a cigarette, and their home went up in flames. Charlie was staying with his grandmother for the weekend and that was that. He had no parents, and when his grandmother refused to permanently take him into her care, claiming that his mere existence was just too painful to bare, he was sent to live with his uncle Peter in Jersey.

Peter was always a grouchy man; never attended family parties for birthdays or holidays and never spoke to them unless they called him. But, although the young boy of six years old didn’t know it at the time, his uncle was drowning in debt and a child was exactly what he needed to get the benefits for food, his small home and his alcohol addiction that he was looking for. It was fine for a while, Charlie would stay out of the way and find stacks when uncle Pete was sleeping, but it didn’t take long to discover that the man wasn’t very nice when he was drunk. Even more so than usual. The boy found himself to be frightened of his uncle. He didn’t like that the man called him Charlie even when he wasn’t bad, or that he yelled when he had no reason to be angry, or that when he hit Charlie, he never did it once, but always six times. ‘One for every year’, he’d say.

However, when Charlie grew older -and the man continued to beat him, six strikes at a time, claiming that he did this because that was how old the boy acted- he’d arrive at school with cuts and bruises exposed, last week’s clothes hanging from his continuously thinning form, always early to arrive at school and always late to leave, but it wasn’t until high school that any notice was taken. Except the bruises weren’t what were noticed, but instead it was the way he acted. Charlie would open his locker, close it again, reopen it, until it had both clicked and slammed six times. He’d also tap his pen constantly in rounds of six, leave six centimeters between each item of stationary, tap the outside of his leg with his right hand as he walked through the halls one, two, three, four, five, six, and finally teachers grew curious. He was fifteen when his meetings with the school Councillor began, and was sixteen when he finally cracked and explained himself.

Peter was arrested that night and the twitchy boy was sent for help. With no improvement after two long years, Charlie was sent to Blacklist at the age of eighteen by his own request. He knew that the release rates were shockingly low, but he had no reason to be eager to return anyway. He hated change, and so being stuck in the same place for the rest of his life almost sounded refreshing. He is still yet to show signs of recovery.