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User avatar

CharlotteV member of RPG for 9 years

Promethean Conversation Starter Author Inspiration World Builder Conversationalist Novelist Completionist Person of Interest Tipworthy Lifegiver

bartholomewfinch: Reading comprehension. It's a hell of a drug.
967,247 words written.
4,272 total posts.
226 words per post.
45 posts per roleplay.
50 average days in a roleplay.
96 universes joined.
7.50 INK received in tips.

Basic Information

Username:
CharlotteV
Location:
Nonya
Age:
27
Occupation:
Author
Interests:
Dat ass tho
Groups:
Began Role Playing:
0- 0-2004
Game Master:
Yes
Favorite Setting:
Grit me up baby

User statistics

Joined:
Thu Oct 04, 2012 1:32 pm
Last visited:
Thu Mar 04, 2021 10:41 pm
Medals:
11
Total posts:
Search user’s posts
(0.00% of all posts / 0.00 posts per day)
Most active forum:
Out of Character
(1832 Posts / 12213.33% of user’s posts)
Most active topic:
Therapy: A True Haunting
(63 Posts / 420.00% of user’s posts)

Contact CharlotteV

Elsewhere

Medals

Promethean

Promethean

Successfully created a universe for others.

Conversation Starter

Conversation Starter

Created your first topic!

Author

Author

Wrote your first piece in a universe!

Inspiration

Inspiration

Another user created a post in a universe you created!

World Builder

World Builder

Created your first non-default location in an RPG universe!

Conversationalist

Conversationalist

Participated in 10 different conversations on the forum!

Novelist

Novelist

Wrote over 80,000 total words!

Completionist

Completionist

Helped write the story of a universe that survived until the end (marked as "Completed") and was published to the Library.

Person of Interest

Person of Interest

Created a character that was later followed by another user!

Tipworthy

Tipworthy

Awarded for receiving your first tip from another user!

Lifegiver

Lifegiver

Created a character in an RPG universe.

Universes

94 created.
1 active.
93 inactive.
2 completed.

Completed Stories

Prohibition Completed

The prohibition act has moved in, outlawing alcohol when people need it most. In a world where the law has become corrupt, murder a part of everyday life, and the rules have gone out the window...how will you survive? [Private]

Living in Shadows Completed

"They may not understand it...but I own them. Each of them. They're mine...always have been and always will be. Maybe I just have to make them see that." -Alarick Kostantine [1x1 CharlotteV & Kaname_Takashi]

Universes Created

Pretty Little M o n s t e r s

"I loved him, but the dark in him. Anyone can play innocent, but his demons are what drove me wild. His secrets. His pride. His darkness is what made me love him." [a Scorpius/Albus 1x1 - view at own discretion - full]

Harry Potter and the Branded Snake

My childhood spat back out the monster that you see. But here you stand in the shadow of my heart, promising you're going to love me anyway. [a Harry/Draco 1x1 - view at own discretion - full]

F a l s e A l a r m

You can't stop playing, but no one said you couldn't cheat. [full]

Beware the Witch

beware the witch with the bright blue eyes. beware the witch with the ice cold hands. beware the witch with the razor sharp tongue. beware the witch with the sweet sweet smile. beware the witch, for he is f o u l. [full]

Hale's House of Boys

Be wary of flirtatious smirks, boys, and don't bite off more than you can chew.

Welcome to the Madness Music Festival

ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʟɪᴇ ɢɪᴠᴇs ᴍᴇ ʙᴜᴛᴛᴇʀғʟɪᴇs.

Most Tipped Posts

2.75 INK received for post #2816206, located in Widow's Peak:

ImageHe doesn’t know how long it’s been since he last moved. There’s chinese take out containers on the floor that have started to smell, and open bottles of whiskey, and mugs half full of tea because he wanted tea but it never tastes the way - he never closed the gallon of yellow paint and it’s crusted over.

Atlas pushes himself into a sitting position. His head hurts, he’s probably dehydrated, and his fingers itch towards his phone to check the time, the date, anything, but he can’t. He’d put it on ‘do not disturb’ mode eventually, but he knows that if he unlocks it, the text that will be waiting for him is from his supervisor: a long winded speech about how the death of a doctors first patient follows them their whole career, but it doesn’t make them any less of a doctor.

People die. Atlas had been snapping those two words ever since he’d been accepted into med school. People die, get over it. Every human came with an expiration date. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t lost people before. His grandfather, a well liked aunt, a friend in college from a freak accident. But this was different. This was … worse than he had expected.

His fingers reach for the Johnnie Walker on his coffee table and the polish on his nails is beyond chipped, a look he never would have accepted before. The bottle comes up with a flyer stuck to the bottom of it, and autopilot more than actual desire leads him to peeling it off.

Widow’s Peak Halloween Market.

It was from the hospital. Some teen had been passing them out to the staff, Atlas had ignored them but Cassidy had taken it, and with a bright smile pressed it into Atlas’ hand and asked him if he was going. Atlas had given him a blank stare as a response, but Cass had just shrugged and mentioned that he’d like to, if he could.

Atlas had talked to the Aisling’s, Cass’ head doctor, and they’d all agreed Cass could go, with a wheelchair and his oxygen and a medical professional with him. Atlas had volunteered to go, and so had Graham, to his great annoyance.

Four days later, Cass was on a ventilator.

He should go. It’s an annoying, intrusive thought that doesn’t feel like it belongs to him, but for some reason it makes him stand. He takes the bottle of whiskey with him while he showers, and while he picks out clothes that are warm enough he won’t be miserable. He used to enjoy that part of his routine, but now it’s just black jeans and a black turtleneck and the closest shoes and he decides that's good enough.

He trades the bottle for his wallet on the way out the door and lights up a cigarette the moment the cool Oregon air hits him, and walks. There’s not many people out, small towns don’t promote loitering, but there’s a boy on the bench and Atlas turns his gaze to the ground because he’s not in the mood for small talk.

A curly mop of hair. A flash of glasses. A smile. That smile. His smile.

Atlas closes his eyes tight and takes a deep inhale of smoke, his logical mind fitting the pieces together. He hasn’t been sleeping well. He’s dehydrated. He’s been drinking. He’s going through the stages of grief. He shouldn’t look back. Keep walking.

He looks back.

Round cheeks. Fidgeting thumbs. Deep breaths. Bright smile. His-

Stop it.

He’d thought he’d gotten past the denial stage long ago. Maybe this was the bargaining stage? Maybe this was the part where he would think the world owed him just a little more than it’d already given him. Where he’d promise he’d give it all back if that boy on the bench was-

“Atlas!”


2.25 INK received for post #2816285, located in Widow's Peak:

Image Atlas wasn’t sure he’d ever read reports of people seeing their … loved ones after death that weren’t complete bullshit. Or more ghostly, like a touch to the lower back, or the scent of their favorite coffee in the kitchen, or their song coming on the radio when they were having a meltdown in the car. He’d always brushed it off. Some people just weren’t as mentally fortified as others.

He hadn’t thought that he belonged in the previous group. The kind who had to conjure up an image of a boy that had died too young for his evident liking. If he was imagining Cass, then he should probably turn in his medical license, because if he could do such a perfect job of it, then he’d evidently spent more time putting his patients features to memory than doing his actual job. And if he wasn’t - well, he had to be, didn’t he? Because he had seen Cass die. He’d watched the machine flatline, he’d stared at Cass’ chest begging for it to rise, he’d heard the chief call time of death. He’d been there.

And this Cass, just like he said, was good as new. Cystic Fibrosis didn’t just disappear. He ignored the urge to reach for him, to tuck his oxygen tubes into place, but they weren’t there to fix. Cass was breathing, like a normal person, taking in greedy lungfuls of smoke and letting them out in visible whisps thanks to the fall chill.

Atlas had been called an asshole since he could walk, but at least he wasn’t so cruel as to make his hallucination of Cass still suffer.

He should turn in his medical license anyway, because he was losing his goddamn mind and he was perfectly okay with it. He was perfectly okay with looking at that big grin on Cass’ face until the alcohol, or the crazy, or whatever it was faded away. Then he’d crawl back in his whole, and hope the world swallowed him.

Just as friends,” Atlas quoted, and he doesn’t know why it’s so funny, but he snorts and rolls his eyes, and mumbles it again under his breath as he starts walking. Nothing is very far in Willow’s Peak, and it’s just nice enough out that a walk will feel nice.

He thinks of reaching for Cass’ hand, folding their fingers together. He’d done it before, when Cass was at his sickest, because between the vent and the noise and the people it seemed like the best way to say ‘it’s me, it’s Atlas, I’m here’. But now, it feels different. Now it feels like if he reaches out, his fingers will go right through Cass’ hand, and then what? “Is that what you want? Just friends.”


1.25 INK received for post #2768487, located in Hogwarts:

ImageImage



For most, the first day back at Hogwarts was a time to see old friends and share stories of the summer. They crowded into train compartments and showed off moving images and smiled brightly as they spoke of their families and their adventures and traded candies.

For some, they shuffled in with relief easing the tension that their bodies had held since they’d left left the school - their home, their safety. Because war or no war, some kids simply weren’t safe when they left for the summer. They had to make it from one day to the next, until the train showed up again to take them back.

For a handful, the first day was met with the wide eyes of innocent children being swept off their feet by the magic of it all. Nervously twisting hands as an old hat fell over their eyes and sang a tune the rest of the school were passed well acquainted with. The applause as houses filled the roles they had lost with the last graduating class.

For others, the wonderment on their faces had nothing to do with friends, or feasts, or sorting ceremonies - it had to do with the secretly appearing invitations in golden script that was there one moment, and gone the next. For them, the first day back wouldn’t really begin until the sun went down. And the rumors whispered between specific few said this time was bound to be a real blast.

It was, after all, The Founders last first day.




There was very little that made Scorpius feel alive, but with the bass pounding through his veins, one arm around a certain redheads neck, and a joint between his lips. Well. That was his utopia.

He wasn’t sure where Weasley #2 was, but she couldn’t be far. There were watchful eyes in the shadows making sure he didn’t drag their darling Louis too far into trouble. Scorpius smirked to himself and dipped his mouth into the curve of Louis’ shoulder. His sweater had fallen just enough that there was bare skin there. Perfection.

The Shack was already packed, smoke in the air, people dancing. He thought maybe he recognized a few people by their hair, maybe Kins’ curls, wasn’t sure. There were fresh faces though, which made Scorpius smile against Louis’ skin. Fresh meat.

He pulled away from his boyfriend and dropped his hand to Louis’ instead, twining their fingers together as he pushed his way through the growing crowd, headed for the front door. The music was loud, someone was cheering, were those shots on fire? Didn’t matter.

He walked until they were outside, round back of the Shack. The air was crisp and cool, their position fairly hidden. One of Victorie’s many ideas was to allow a place where people could get some air if it got to be too much for everyone inside. Luckily for Scorpius, it also doubled as a good place to press Louis up against the wall for a few slow, sweet, Moondew laced kisses.

“Teds should be bringing the good stuff tonight,” Scorpius mentioned, sliding his fingers along the fallen sleeve of Louis’ sweater. “Until then…?”


0.25 INK received for post #2768704, located in Hogwarts:

Image


Image



“You’ve got all your stuff? Not just your Quidditch stuff.”

“Yes Da,” Hollie answered, distracted. An excited first year had handed him her ferret when it had seemed interested in the rings looped through his ears. He was trying desperately to rub the things stomach, and the ferret wasn’t having it at all.

“-probably going to win the House Cup,” his Da was saying. As usual when talking about Hogwarts Quidditch, there was an air of fondness in his tone. “You’ll have to send us a picture when you do, yeah? House Cup is the first step to World Cup.”

“Yes Da,” Hollie answered again as he twisted in a circle, chasing the ferret down who had run across his shoulders to get to the other earring.

“Play a fair game though,” Oliver added sternly. “I don’t want a letter home this year, hear me?”

“Yes Da,” Hollie said. He just wanted to - he lurched towards the ferret who panicked over such a quick movement and suddenly fell backwards off of him. Hollie’s eyes went wide and he jerked forward, but before he could even attempt to do anything drastic and stupid, his Dad reached out and caught the fluff ball.

Hollie smiled sheepishly and tried not to look too guilty when Marcus turned to the first year who owned the little shit and handed it back to her with a promise that nothing bad had happened. She scurried off quickly and Hollie aimed for a brighter grin when his father turned towards him with an arched eyebrow. “Sorry?”

Oliver sighed. “Stay out of trouble.” Marcus said, “At least don’t get caught.”

Hollie grinned again and threw himself at both of his fathers, hugging them tightly. He was smaller than them, in height and stature, but somehow he had always managed to wrap them both up. “It’ll be a good year,” he said. “I promise.”

If he felt a hint of guilt as he made his way into the train, that was only because he’d never been a fan of lying. Not that he had really lied. He just hadn’t exactly expanded on the definition of the word ‘good’.

It didn’t really matter though. He tugged the collar of his shirt up around his neck a bit more and then grinned when he saw familiar faces and shoved himself into a compartment. He had stories to share.




The only thing better than Hogwarts was the new broom Hollie had gotten over the summer. It was the latest version of the Lightningbolt model, it was fast and beautiful and fit Hollie like it had been made specifically for him. And yet, somehow, he still fucking lost to Murphy.

A bet. To get out more. To make more friends. To do more living than just Quidditch.

It had been a sarcastic battle of wits at first, Murph had just been shooting the shit, but Hollie had a damn competitive streak a mile wide and before he even knew it they were trading bets and the brooms were out.

And then. And then. Murph had been distracted by a fucking butterfly. He’d flown higher to catch it, and in doing so the end of his damn broom blocked Hollie’s last shot.

At the words "Oh shit... Wait, did I win?", Hollie had demanded a rematch. But Murph, like the tenacious little fucker he was, hadn’t let Hollie back out. So there he was, somehow both excited and nervous as shit, standing inside the cramped Shrieking Shack, the scent of moondew overpowering, behind his friend that was dressed like that.

There were too many people and not enough room and someone wanted the door shut and before Hollie knew it, he wasn’t with Murphy any more. Someone handed him a drink and he took it without thinking, tasting the familiar burn of firewhiskey. That was fine.

The music was loud, the lights bright, and he did his best to make himself small as he tried to navigate his way out. He wasn’t sure who was touching him or who was tugging which parts of his clothes are who was too fucked up to even realize they weren’t his date.

“Uh, sorry,” Hollie muttered, probably too softly to be heard over the music. “My bad. Uh, ‘scuse me. Oops - didn’t mean to grab you - there. Okay. Um. I’m just gonna.”

He ran hard into the back of someone and twisted around quickly, his hands up to show that he meant no harm. Redheads. Weasley’s? The girls, he wasn’t sure what their first names were, they were Gryffindors though. “Fuck, I’m so sorry!” In fact, the group gathered there seemed to be mostly Gryffindors. Including Greyback, which surprised him. He was about to say so when he caught sight of the boy that Lyall was … almost cuddled up to.

“Hey!” Hollie said, pointing an accusatory finger at the curly haired boy. “I know you! You got me fucking detention last May for being out passed curfew. The fuck man, we were almost out for break and I got extra homework for that shit!”


0.25 INK received for post #2816945, located in Edenholle, Arizona:

Image
There ain’t nothing like a small town chicken fried steak. It’s been a long time since Miles has had one that hadn’t come outta a freezer, and it’s so damn good she almost doesn’t notice the seat next to her getting spun around. Least till the girl talks, and she raises her eyes.

“Blessed day,” she says, and Miles coulda smelled the childhood trauma on her even if she'd been a mile away. The words a weird, but once she manages to take in what the girl is wearing, they make more sense - she can't say she's surprised to find a religious chick in a place small as this, but something about it doesn't quite fit.

It's hard to stop looking though, because this girl - this girl looks like an honest to God doll. The kind of jawline that could only be made out of porcelain, a button nose and plump lips and eyes that someone, somewhere, is probably writing poetry about. If she's from here, it's some kinda twisted fate. If she's not ... well.

“Passing through,” Miles answers, though she has a feeling that just like the older man, this girl knows that too. She could tell by the sign that Endenholle wasn't the kind of place people stuck around if there blood wasn't in it. They get interrupted before she can say much else, by the smell of fresh cherry pie and a waitress who looks frazzled but friendly. Country, born and raised. All spilling southern apologies.

Miles tilts her head towards the pretty thing sitting next to her. “This one was just telling me about the Church. Anything interestin’?”

Her tone says she's not religious - or maybe she was, once, but God done did her dirty and she doesn't have a taste for the bible any more. But her expression says she doesn't have anywhere better to be, either. She could hit the road again, sure, but it was Halloween after all.


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