#he's just a little sad man with homicidal tendencies

[telleroftime]

Sukuna and Uraume are just Sweeney Todd and Mrs Lovett in a different font. At least on the outside 'cause Sweeney wasn't necessarily a bad person whereas Sukuna... is Sukuna.

[callipraxia]

Aaaand we're back in business!

It concerns me that Toby Determined attempting to tap dance while bemoaning what his life has become is listed among the things Soos likes.

"We've tried everything." The implications of this line are intriguing and kinda touching. It implies Wendy has also known/been friends with Soos for longer than this summer - has she worked for the Shack in the past? (Does Stan have some bizarre tendency to hire everyone at age twelve, then just keep them on as long as they'll come back?) Someone who can write nice things, write me some sadfluff about previous conspiracies to cheer Soos up, won't you?

The laser tag entry scene...funny on several levels. For one thing, it's supposed to be twelve and under, but Soos is not, as it turns out, a special case - Robbie and Wendy are also in evidence, and nobody seems to notice or care that Stan (who is somewhere in his sixties, mind you) decides to join in with apparent enthusiasm, too.

Baby Gompers! Tiny Soos! Red screwdriver*! Wax Sherlock Holmes!

Soos has apparently lost his mother somehow (based on how angry Abuelita gets about his father for voluntarily staying away and how Soos already seems to have lived with her by this point, I'm assuming his mom is either dead or in prison, probably dead) in addition to his father bailing on him, so it's rather nice to see he does have all this supportive, apparently affectionate, family. Even some friends his own age, assuming the kid he talks to just before the postman comes isn't one of the cousins.

I remember reading somewhere online that people in the day speculated that Soos' absentee father might actually be Stan, putting together the "too busy to be bothered with you" bit with the odd story Stan rambled his way into about drive-in movies during "Little Gift Shop of Horrors"...I suppose it makes a degree of sense, if I try to imagine not knowing *exactly* how intense Stan can get on the subject of his family and then seeing the episodes fairly close together? Still, though - given even what's seen on-screen up to this point, I find it kinda hard to imagine Stan walking out on any kid he knew he had. Shooting somebody? Sure. Risking global destruction? Naturally. Committing every crime known to man and a few supposedly unique to alien civilizations? Sounds about right. But knowingly harming another Pines, or - frankly, considering how emotionally needy he is himself - having the willpower to abandon a family member even if he thought it would be for the best? Just not seeing it, unless I suppose he was in prison, and apparently he was pretty good at breaking out of prison at need. The only way I can maybe imagine it is if he'd acknowledged the kid while living under his own name, since he'd legally killed off that identity, but that still rules out Soos as a biological relative.

Surprisingly unobservant moment from Abuelita, not seeing the two horror-stricken twelve-year-old strangers staring in the window.

"He'd do the same for us." And this is why I just...am not buying that the majority of "Stanchurian Candidate" really happened outside Stan's nightmares. Well, one reason, but quite possibly the strongest.

What is Cosmic Sand, anyway? It's offered to Time Baby in a bottle and the robot nurse assures TB it is "good for you." Ford, in the Journal, further confirms that Time Baby is partial to this beverage...except he does so in a context that implies the beverage is something that would be Not S&P Approved? ...Though considering how casually homicidal TB is earlier, and how Mabel screeches "death," first when they're asked what to do with Blendin, TB getting drunk before the end of the competition might be for the best if it mellowed him out a bit...Though perhaps he was bound to not respond immediately until they both agreed, considering that they played as a team?

"That's...unconventional." Soos just takes everything in stride, doesn't he? Which makes how upset he was earlier all the more sad.

Blendin's screeching about Time Wishes makes me wonder if Time Baby invented Globnar...like, people used to fight wars to get it, now it's a semi-regular event? (since we see a couple of rounds going on when the twins are first captured) This could, in retrospect, explain a lot of things...

*"Red screwdriver" - back in "Time Traveler's Pig," Stan grouses about not being able to find his red screwdriver; if I recall correctly, Blendin had "borrowed" it. In this episode, Dipper borrows it...and, apparently, for some reason, it cannot time-travel, even though other inanimate objects (such as clothes and laser tag vests) can. And that red screwdriver ends up directly leading to Soos becoming "Question Mark" - if Dipper and Mabel hadn't ruined Blendin's life, Blendin wouldn't have gone to time prison. If Blendin hadn't gone to time prison, then Blendin would not have challenged them to gladiatorial time combat. If Blendin hadn't done that, they wouldn't have stolen Lolph's time tape...wouldn't have gone ten years too far back...wouldn't have raided the Mystery Shack for a screwdriver...and if Dipper had even had the presence of mind to put said screwdriver back down, then Soos would not have found the screwdriver and tried to take it back and ended up having his signature garment literally thrown at his head. That screwdriver indirectly helped save the world, y'all - no prophecy circle, no prophecy circle failure, no "everyone in this town who'll answer to Stanford Pines removes his head from his bottom and cooperates with his brother to fix the homicidal triangle problem." Heck - without Soos, would Dipper and Mabel have even survived all of the summer? On one hand, all the time travel antics were a major cause of Weirdmageddon (if Dipper and Mabel hadn't time traveled, they never would have had the opportunity to spare Blendin, which would have meant Bill would have have had to look for a much harder target to get the Rift away from the family), but it also created the situation which allowed for an end. And this, folks, is why my headcanon is that our amphibian friend from the time and space between time and space is definitely playing games...it's just that I'm not always sure if he's playing 10D chess, or poker, or dice, or roulette, or DD&MD, or somehow all of 'em at once.

Well - the house is mostly in order, except that the vacuuming needs doing, but it's too late in the day for that now - too hot. With that therefore postponed to tomorrow morning and with my Spanish lessons done, I shall see if my DVD player will cooperate with watching GF S2 Disc 2.

...initial efforts aren't promising, we only got as far as Dipper and Mabel declaring that twinship makes them "birthday experts" into "Blendin's Game" before the DVD player glitched out - turns out that the first disc of S1 might not be wonky after all, and that it's actually this DVD player. Still - perseverance!

Bad children. going through people's things...I tend to regard the interior of one's handbag and/or wallet as a rather private space, and would react very loudly to anyone presuming to go through mine. Soos is probably better-natured than I am, but dangit, Mabel, you at least definitely know this, because you outright admitted you were snooping for "Soos secrets!"

Y'know, I don't know if the problem with the giant hummingbird story is that "Soos is very naive" or "it's Gravity Falls, that's actually perfectly reasonable."

...yeah, forget perseverance, let's find the old laptop with a disc drive in it, I do not have the fortitude to watch the scene where Blendin invokes Globnar five more times, and in the past three minutes the disc has twice skipped back to the beginning before I could even get past the menu. Stupid rubbbish property.

[hiraya-rawr]

— to pass the kamisato standards .

synopsis !! kamisato reader introduces their lover to their siblings, ayato and ayaka! just hcs and brainrotting

characters !! thoma, diluc, childe, al haitham, gorou, kazuha

contains !! gn reader, written while sleep deprived please don't judge if it doesn't make sense huhuh, a bit of a character study on how the kamisatos perceive other characters!

note !! been posting more lately! im in a good mood and would like to share more content ☺️ i also have drafts saved up. also, have you checked out the @/yaepublishinghouse ? i've joined the writing team!

T H O M A

Ah, Thoma? You don't even need to ask. he's already part of the family!

the safest option, really. they already considered him family long before your heart started fluttering around the househelper.

"well, it's honestly about time. ayaka and i have long noticed your affections for thoma," ayato smirks as you two turn red, "don't think i don't know what's going on in my own household, do you?"

not much would change after having your relationship official; thoma might be the only one to experience the change in people's treatment of him as the three kamisatos encourage him to be more proud in his status!

"we're going to get married, don't let people trample over you like that!" you pout. surprisingly enough, thoma is quick to adjust to a "noble behavior" while still keeping his friendly boyish charms.

D I L U C

foreign nobility? for real? your siblings would worry, do you want to live away from them?

thoma might be the only one a little more open to the idea. sure, he's sad but he respects your choice and who you love.

"Mondstadt is a great place. I'm sure it'll be a home for you, just like how Inazuma became a home for me."

ayato is more or less suspicious. "I've heard... rumors," he says carefully, "That man is suspicious to say the least. I'm not sure I trust him."

all in all, with how closed off inazuma seems to be, the kamisatos would be most reluctant to send you off to another nation for some solitary man with a questionable schedule.

C H I L D E

A fatui harbinger? Are you out of your mind!

no. no no no. you are not going all the way to snezhnaya for a fatui harbinger. love is fleeting, your affections will pass.

you really don't need him -your siblings would try to convince you- he has money? the kamisatos have money too. he's someone of rank? so does your siblings. what do you mean you love him so much?

"He's a family kind of guy! He's really sweet!" you'll plead and they'll still shake their heads no.

In fact, Ayato would go on a thorough investigation about exactly what the harbinger has been up to. From the incident in liyue to the homicidal tendencies.

unless you decide to elope, there's no way your siblings would give their blessing.

A L H A I T H A M

the scribe of the academia is a fine man, but some call him a... lunatic.

this one is a 50/50.

admittedly, your siblings are content with his status and background. he works under sumeru's government, just like the kamisatos, and was nominated for the highest ranking position only second to an archon.

he works rationally too! smart and efficient. that's great— but why is he such a blunt smartass?

Throughout the meeting with him, Ayato has a plastered smile on his face. Each conversation seems like a landmine, waiting to explode, trying to best the other with words.

Ayaka is more or less nervously sweating beside them, but you suppose you're glad that they're getting along!

G O R O U

oh? the general of watatsumi? an interesting choice!

ayato considers it a political win. with the kamisato name tied together with the general of watatsumi island, this could lead to better peace relations! and the kamisatos would be the head of it all.

being a general is no easy task, thats something ayato could greatly respect. meanwhile, ayaka and gorou are already familiar friends!

it's a little sad that watatsumi is on another island, but at least you get to stay in inazuma! you're also happy that you get to contribute to inazumas progressive politics as part of the kamisato household, living up to your duty.

K A Z U H A

the wandering samurai. . . ? are you sure?

while a good friend of the kamisato household, kazuha has already left the noble lifestyle of the kaedeharas.

it's not that your siblings want you to marry into nobility, it's just that they'll feel more comfortable if you were in a familiar environment.

meanwhile, kazuha is constantly on the move, never staying at one place. they trust him immensely but are you sure you're up for that change?

kazuha is a good choice, but a worrisome one nonetheless.

commissions || general m.list || ko-fi

taglist !! @absolut-wildflower @boundedbyfate @sadlonelybagel @eissaaaa @ladycoleigh @nejibot @milkypompon @bloodreaper08 @irethepotato @x-zho @mich-cola @mxsomn @ackrylik @nicebonescomrade @starforecasts @stygianoir @yuminako @eccedentesiast-sapphic @nebulaera @nuttytani @klutzkat @shizunxie @bluriie @aestellia @abyislan08

[pourcap]

thoughts: cp chapter 13

ohh so that's why laurent shirked border duty... god is anything ever just the way it seems in vere?? laurent growing up as the crown prince sounds so incredibly exhausting

"(...) You will need someone you can trust." i mean, he's not wrong, but i don't know if i can handle laurent eventually finding out who damen is after he's begun to trust (and maybe fall in love) with damen :(

That, unreasonably, annoyed him. ‘If I’d bedded you, you’d know it.' i love when damen gets all i-have-a-big-dick-and-know-what-to-do-with-it and idk if there will be nsfw scenes between damen and laurent in those novels but if there are but they're written horribly i will be very disappointed (i am quite optimistic though because of the well-written but obv morally very dubious damen/ancel scene)

'I want you to rot here.' not that his reaction is much of a surprise but still: ouch.

'I think if you could beat your uncle on your own, you would have done it already.' i loooooove damen so much <3 he's such an idiot though like hello?? you're still pretending to be a common solider!! but i love love love when he isn't afraid to call laurent out

i feel so bad for damen :(

The Regent could have dispensed with his nephew years ago, with little fuss. It was easier to blame the death of a boy on mischance than that of a young man about to ascend to the throne. Damen could see no reason why boy-Laurent should have escaped that fate. hmmm. i hate the regent. he makes me gag :)))))

(...) Damen felt a certain amount of empathy with the man: Laurent could inspire homicidal tendencies simply by breathing. *gagging* (but i do like that description of laurent)

ohhhh !!! laurent changed his mind !!! i am so excited for this !!!

damen is even given armour?? isn't he like 6'5 and burning with hatred for laurent after all that's been done to him??

'Sleeping in his tent?' if these were any other characters i'd be happy about this (i mean, i still am, but i just can't see this going well)

He passed a hand over his face. Laurent had agreed to this? better not get a boner again @ damen

'(...) I just hope he knows what he’s doing with you, and that he’s not like the Regent says, distracted by his first taste of cock.' i like jord so much but can he please stop paying attention to what the regent has to say?

The pre-dawn light bleached Laurent’s hair from gold to something paler and finer; the bones of his face appeared as delicate as the calamus of a feather. (...) he did not need gilt to be recognised under a parade standard (...). damen...

fuck govart

'You should throw him a pet to keep him off the men,’ said Jord. 'No,’ said Laurent, after a moment. He said it thoughtfully. ???? what is he planning now

nicaise :((((

He held out something to Laurent, the gesture peremptory and full of repugnance. ‘I don’t want it. It makes me think of you.' :((((

'I remember the offer you made me. Everything you said then was a lie. I knew it was,’ said Nicaise. ‘You’re leaving.’ ‘I’m coming back,’ said Laurent. ‘Is that what you think?' they make me sad. will nicaise show up in book 2? i really don't want him to be left alone with the regent

The Regent pinned some sort of jewelled badge of office to Laurent’s shoulder, then urged him to rise, and kissed him calmly on both cheeks. ughhhhh can he pls just die

He returned his eyes to the road, and the first part of his journey. South, and home. hmmmm. i hope he kicks kastor's ass.

[orange-waterfalls]

Unnecessary Feelings

The Host x gn!reader

ty anon for the request

A/N: BRO. Bro. Bro I. I am so proud of this one don’t even look at me. Also happy spooky month! Might do something with that, idk though. This is more of another character study with the Host, I’ll be honest. I still think it’s pretty cute, though. I didn’t read back through this, lmk about any mistakes. Enjoy!

Word Count: 2.4k

Unnecessary Feelings

Host isn’t particularly looking for a relationship, of any sort. Not necessarily. It would be nice, but it isn’t at the forefront of his mind. It’s not that important. Change is weird. He’s been in his same office, writing the same kind of stories, with the same kind of people. That’s fine. He likes that. He likes his novels, his protagonists, and his office.

He explained all of these things to Wilford and Darkiplier, but neither was having it. That’s how he ended up staying at the manor for a while, while his place was being “renovated”. He didn’t know how much he trusted Wilford to “renovate” correctly. 

Wilford likes pink. A lot. Host doesn’t. He can't see it, but he knows it. Pink was loud. Pink smelled like raspberries and icing and cherry blossoms and shrimp. It sounded like fair music and joyful screaming and chalk scraping on the ground. It felt smooth and soft and squishy. It tasted like sugar, sugar, sugar, too much to be healthy. Pink made his brain hurt. He doesn’t like pink. Wilford likes pink. Wilford… Wilford fucking loves pink. And Wilford will say it’s pink, and Host will know it’s pink, and even though he can’t see it, he’ll be upset that it’s pink. He doesn’t like pink. He doesn’t know how to say it. So he doesn’t. And he copes.

He takes the opportunity to talk to the others staying at the manor, which was pretty much just Dr. Iplier and… you. Dr. Iplier was a… reasonable man. He was boring. Very boring, really. He directed every conversation to discuss your health or a weird patient he had recently, neither of which really interested the Host. He didn’t enjoy talking to Dr. Iplier too much. 

You, however…

Were also kind of boring?

Well, you mostly just wandered around, reading, cleaning, sleeping, not doing much else. He didn’t initiate conversation and neither did you. If you sat next to him on the couch and he sat a little straighter and breathed a little faster, that was simply a coincidence. And the urge to talk to you about his novel for hours was simply boredom. And the desire to listen to you talk for hours was… it was none of your goddamn business is what it was. He didn’t like you, but he didn’t dislike you either. He felt nothing. You made him feel nothing. This didn’t mean anything.

Really. 

It didn’t.

But, entirely too fast, Dark and Wil were done. Or rather, whoever they hired was done. Which was good. Host bid you two goodbye. Dr. Iplier told him to drink plenty of water but not too much, and you told him you’d keep an eye out for his newest novel. He felt like he should be blushing right now, he felt it in his face. Nobody commented, so he assumed he didn’t. He felt a thing happen in his chest as he looked at the two of you. 

He didn’t like either of you, and if he kept telling himself that, maybe it would come true.

He received a new office. It was much cleaner and brighter, and he actually had room to think. There was an espresso machine in the corner atop a pink table, a “dandelion” yellow couch next to it, a pastel pink desk against the opposite wall, and a few “motivational” posters on the baby blue walls. At least from what he’d heard. Wilford did his best to explain the room. He appreciated that the walls were not, in fact, pink like he expected.

He had to walk around a few times, keep track of his steps, and get used to the new layout. It’s a good room. Clean. No nails sticking out of the floor, no rats scurrying around, no cobwebs, no holes, no nothing. Clean and quiet. Clean. And. Quiet.

… 

He fucking hates the goddamn room.

Who likes silence? Who enjoys that? Who wants to be stuck in a suffocatingly clean office with nothing but their thoughts for hours at a time? Homicidal people, that’s who.

Ignore the fact that he has homicidal tendencies and has almost killed/has killed several people, that doesn’t matter right now.

He can just sit and deal. He can take the office, try to coax the rats into coming back, buy some spiders, and write. No big deal.

Except what if he didn’t deal? What if he told them he hated it and couldn’t work in these conditions? What if he was forced to stay at the manor again? What if he could… talk… and interact with people? Without anything barring him from doing so?

He’s… not lonely. 

He’s not lonely. 

He’s not.

But if he stays in the manor again while Wilford talks about how he has no taste and Darkiplier decides to be in charge of the renovation now, that’s not his fault.

Bim, Eric, and you were staying at the manor when he had to. For the second time. Bim had a thing for rom-coms and dramedy movies, and Eric had started to pick that thing up. You and Host also watched the movies, but whether you actually liked them was beyond him. Usually, you made fun of them together. He couldn’t see them, but he could hear a lot of the ridiculous dialogue. He could drop two random people in a closed-off room together and they’d have more chemistry than half of these Hallmark Christmas Movie couples. You were very quiet during “To All The Boys I Loved Before”, however, so either you loved it or you hated it. He couldn’t really tell.

You two talked a little less than before, you being preoccupied with Eric. Host was fine with that. He could just… talk to you whenever you were done. But you apparently had a low social battery and trapped yourself in a room whenever you were done talking to Eric. That was fine. Host didn’t need to be happy anyways. 

He may or may not have showed up at your door first thing in the morning sometimes to get the chance to talk to you. You didn’t know, so it was fine.

But Eric and Bim were smart. They picked up on the Host’s… “feelings” and desire to talk to you. If either were in a room with you and Host, they immediately left so that you could talk. It worked, and Host was happy, but he felt kind of bad.

No. No he didn’t. He felt no emotion towards anyone or anything. The suit he bought for Bim and the journal he bought for Eric meant absolutely nothing. It was a business transaction. You can’t prove anything.

Somehow quicker than before, the room was fixed. Again. And you, Eric, and Bim saw him off. Eric’s voice sounded wet and Bim sounded a little sad as well. You sounded… fine. But he had a suspicion that you knew you were going to see him again soon. And Host was not upset, of course not. And if he was thankful his eyes weren’t exactly working properly because otherwise he might have shed a few tears, it was completely unrelated. You can’t prove anything.

The new room was completely black and white. Black laptop and a white desk with a black chair. White walls and a black floor. A white couch against the wall. No espresso machine this time, which slightly disappointed the Host. 

Darkiplier sounded proud when he explained the room. Host could see why, it sounded very pretty. Which he tried to say when he turned to Darkiplier. But his traitorous mouth instead said:

“Host asks if this room is meant for the Host or you?”

The Host was teleported back to the manor this time. Wilford was standing out in front, Host knew because he heard the man’s distinct yell of surprise. He also smelled gunsmoke and wine.

“Wilford.”

“Host. What are you doing here?”

“The Host asks what you are doing here?”

“... I asked you first.”

“The Host asked you second.”

“... business. You?”

“... business.”

“Ah… well, cheers.” Quick footsteps get quieter as Wilford runs away. Host stood for a moment,  debating whether or not to apologize to Dark. Before he could decide, the door opened.

“Host?” You asked. Host instantly felt himself straighten up and ball his fists.

“Hello.” He said stiffly.

“Another renovation?” He heard the smile in your voice and forced himself not to smile back.

“Host assumes so.” He nodded.

“So…” You sighed.

“So?” He tilted his head.

“Are you coming in?” You asked. Host let himself smile as he walked into the manor.

He didn’t see you all too much for the rest of the week, and he was severely disappointed. There wasn’t really anybody staying there, just a few people visiting over a few days. Yancy, Illinois, and maybe Bing, if the sound of a skateboard at 3 in the morning was any clue. He was pretty much alone. And that was fine. He was usually alone. He was used to it. This was fine.

Maybe he should stop lying to himself so often.

All too soon, he was on his way back. Again. You were the only one to see him off this time.

“Well… um…” You started. The tension between you two was like a punch to the gut. You were perfectly fine before. What happened?

“Host bids you farewell,” He nodded politely and turned around. Maybe if he left quickly, it wouldn’t hurt as much.

“Wait, Host!” You called. He froze. “I’m, uh… I’m coming with you.” He spun around to face you.

“Host… asks what you mean?”

“I wanna… see your office. I mean, if I’m… allowed to visit?” You said meekly. Host felt his heart quicken.

“The Host would love-like that,” He coughed as he corrected himself. 

“Ok, good,” He could hear the smug smile in your voice. Damn him and his… feelings.

The commute to his thrice-new office was almost silent. Neither of you said anything. You most likely wanted to wait for the Host to start the conversation, but he didn’t want to bother you if you didn’t want to talk. It was a little awkward. But after a while, it became comfortable. He liked just being in your presence.

He thought that was what he would miss most about the manor.

You both stood outside of his office door when you arrived.

“Well… here we are.” You whispered. Host nodded solemnly. “Do you want to do the honors.” Host lifted his hand to the doorknob, feeling himself shake. He clutched the doorknob, not moving an inch. He could feel your eyes on him. You were worried. This was fine. 

You could visit. But what if you didn’t want to? What if you saw his stories? What if you thought he was cruel? He was, but not to you. He would never be to you. He could stop. He could write different stories. He could write a romance! It would still affect people’s lives, but for the better? At least until the story ended and he had no control over it. What if you wanted him to stop? He couldn’t just stop. Would you give him an ultimatum? You wouldn’t… would you?

“Host--” You started. He whipped around to face you.

“The Host does not want to enter the room.” He said, voice wavering a little. He cleared his throat. Embarrassing.

“What? Ho-”

“The Host wants to talk to people. The Host… wants friends. The Host wants to stay with you and the others.” He grits out. God, this was pathetic. Was he begging? 

“Host, open the door.” You sighed. The Host froze. What? Why were you… what?

Oh. So that was it. You were seeing him off… for the last time. You didn’t… you… didn’t like… 

Right. Yeah. You were a polite person. He should’ve known.

“But…” He trailed off and faced the floor.

“Host, I really think you should open the door,” You said, the smile clear in your voice. His eyebrows furrowed. Well, you didn’t have to be so eager about it, Jesus.

The Host grabbed the doorknob and threw the door open with a crack against the wall.

“Jesus, man!” Bim’s distinct game show voice sounded from inside the room. Left front corner. “What’s got your boxers in a bunch?”

“I always thought he was a boxer-briefs man.” Dr. Iplier said from the opposite side.

“I can confirm that he is, in fact, a boxer-briefs man.” Google said from the same place as Dr. Iplier.

“I honestly would’ve thought commando.” Eric’s voice was muffled, as if he was facing away from everyone else.

What… What the fuck?

“What. The fuck.” He said loudly. You clapped a hand on his shoulder, making him jump.

“Surprise! We’re invading your office. Please don’t resist.” He could, again, hear the smirk on your face. He almost wanted to be mad. Almost.

“What?” He turned to you. You let go of him and stepped in.

“We fixed your room! You got your bland-ass beige walls, your hardwood floor, cobwebs, dust, and I think there’s a rat somewhere in the walls…”

“His name is Remy!” Eric said happily.

“Sorry, Remy is somewhere in the walls.” Host didn’t move, still processing this whole situation.

“The Host… doesn’t understand…” He rubbed his temples.

“Well, you seemed… lonely. And we like spending time with you. So… we’re gonna spend time with you!” Bim explained.

“You don’t have to do things alone anymore. Just… call someone up and we’ll come hang out.” Dr. Iplier said.

“Only if you ask, though.” Eric added softly. Host didn’t move for a long while.

The others began to fidget, thinking they did something wrong. Eventually, he took a breath, and everyone else held theirs.

“Is… is the Host’s equipment still here?” He asked.

“Your writing stuff? Yeah, it’s on the desk.” You answered. Host went quiet again, thinking.

“Do… You guys want to help the Host write something?” He mumbled.

“Hell yeah we do!” You clapped your hands once. Host made his way over to his desk. All the others, including you, crowded around him as soon as he sat down, pushing each other to get a good look.

This was slightly claustrophobic and pretty uncomfortable… 

…

It was perfect.

[ironmandeficiency]

I saw y'all discussing potential zodiac signs for Pascal's characters, what's your take on the major ones? I personally believe Marcus Pike is a cancer, Catfish's a pisces, Din's a virgo, Whiskey's an aries, Oberyn's either a leo or a libra, Ezra's a gemini or a sag, but I lean towards gemini. Javier's the poster child for Scorpio. Don't know about Maxwell Lord.

pedro character star signs

i’m so sorry it took so long, i was tweaking this so much bc i wanted to make sure i got it right! these are just what i think based on my astrology opinions, i hope you like it! 💕 i added their moon signs for flair bc i can. gonna tag a few friends i think may be interested, hope it’s not an inconvenience

max phillips: aries sun & moon. his ambition and charisma paired with the carefree attitude and optimism are an optimum fire sign duality and despite the fact i shouldn't, i love it so much. he has an inner child that he spoils with the riches of his conquests (good and bad) & gets emotional contentment when he succeeds in achieving his goals. knows what he wants & is quick to make those wants known. you never have to worry about where you stand with him because he will not hesitate to tell you.

javier peña: taurus sun with scorpio moon (the real guy is a taurus & i can see it but w heavy scorpio influence). he has his own structure and routine and will fight to the death to maintain it. very work oriented & does his best to rationalize his emotion-driven scorpio moon with his taurean logic, it's a tossup as to whether it works half the time. has a lot of emotional needs that aren't always met day to day & thats why he smokes and drinks and fucks. but don’t let anything make you doubt his love for you because the only thing stronger than his stubborn streak is his heart and its capacity to love you so damn much.

maxwell lord: libra sun with a sagittarius moon. the charisma? attractive and engaging af. oddly adept at chameleoning himself into whatever social group he's trying to vibe with. will draw eyes no matter what because so many people know him & if they don't already, they sure as hell want to. it takes him a while to learn to balance healthy relationships and his work life but when he does, you can visibly see how much healthier he is because of it. normally tends to his emotions in private but with help, he can start sharing a bit more. more optimistic than he sometimes should be but it could be worse

frankie morales: pisces sun with a cancer moon. his caring and sometimes cautious nature (with a twinge of homicidal tendencies) make him one that you don't just casually fuck with sexually or otherwise. catches feelings very easy & makes a lot of emotionally-driven decisions. these two water signs have a propensity towards codependence & defensiveness when hurt. is at his best when he feels loved and is supported by those he loves. emotions are always fluctuating and there’s some trouble with self-discipline (which is not the same as self-deprecation). because of this, he needs someone who can ground him

jack "whiskey" daniels: his swagger!! his charm!! his generosity!! the protectiveness over people he cares about!! this has the makings of a leo sun. this charismatic sun sign paired with his capricorn moon create a living example of the most balanced "work hard, play hard" you've ever seen. has a tendency to set high standards for himself and others & is a smidge more accepting when people fuck up, wanting to help them be better in the future. his emotions are often repressed in the name of responsibility but when he feels safe, he isn’t shy about them in the slightest. very confident in his skills & one of those that he’s the proudest of is his ability to cheer you up when you’re sad

din djarin: he is the most virgo virgo to ever virgo, a double whammy of it in both his sun & moon placements. very logical, disciplined, and tradition-oriented. knows how to bargain and budget, approaches problems with as little emotional attachment as he can (doesn't always work though), and is selfless af. needs something to keep him from being a worry wart bc otherwise he will spend every waking moment fretting over anything he can find. remarkably well-rounded & somehow the most emotionally stable

ezra: everything about this man radiates aquarius sun + gemini moon and you will never convinve me otherwise. he's just enough of an intellectual elitist (the big words and flowy shakespearian vocabulary) for it to border on unique and fun & annoying as fuck. every aquarian i've met has a quirk that sets them apart from everyone else & ezra's quirk (besides murder) is his vocabulary. it takes him a long time to learn to not talk over people on accident (sometimes he does on purpose just to be a bastard), but you can tell when he’s really trying to be conscious of it.

marcus moreno: now this man is what you call a pisces. a softie with a heart of gold that is constantly being underestimated, he has more power than most think. his silly and carefree nature detracts from the badassery he's capable of so it sometimes catches you off guard when he goes into Badass In Charge™️ mode but it’s there. his moon is also in pisces, which adds to his gentility and desire to be understood by his partner. this man just needs some love dammit, give it to him already!! his empathy makes him the Cool Dad™️ bc missy and literally any other kid get the vibe of “yeah this adult will actually listen to me and value my opinions”

dave: capricorn sun, aries moon. he thrives with people who can handle their own shit competency kink anyone? and doesn’t have patience with those who should know better. his standards are higher than a stoned giraffe, and is at his best in controlled environments. has a strong sense of self & a short list of people he would risk it all for. not as outwardly expressive but he does have a couple cues that you learn over time. also knows what he wants and is very meticulous in how he goes about getting it; there are very few places where he takes no for an answer. is a very good provider but don’t expect him to be mushy when you thank him for things he does for you.

oberyn martell: gemini sun & leo moon. he’s got more charisma than can fit in the ocean and sometimes it gets him into trouble. this man thrives on validation from loved ones. there is never a worry about not knowing what he’s feeling because oh boy is this man expressive. he’s a protector and a provider (and a gossip but don’t let him hear you say that). can and will cause a scene if there’s ample opportunity, he enjoys watching shit go down. will only interfere if it directly impacts him or someone he really cares about but otherwise will just pop the popcorn and pull up a seat. somehow has all the details of everything that ever happens but you learn to not question it.

pero tovar: scorpio sun (but specifically october scorpio) & aquarius moon. he’s highly rational when it comes to emotions but does have a temper. he’s observant af of his environment & the emotions of everyone around him, and chooses his actions carefully based on those. doesn’t confront his deeper emotions as often as he should bc it’s easier to default to Angy™️ and let the rest of the world come to their own assumptions. has no tolerance for lies and other bs, wants the truth and though it makes him seem power-hungry and manipulative, that’s not his intention. it’s just his way of looking for someone he can trust with the most intimate parts of him

marcus pike: this man? taurus sun, cancer moon. has a fear of abandonment that takes a while to quell but once it’s gone, he’s all in. he’s very empathetic and observant af, will know exactly what you need before you voice said need. will feel guilty for his baggage sometimes and the guilt will make him recluse for a short period until he’s reminded just how appreciated he is. does not play around when it comes to affection & is very eager to give and receive it whenever possible

my friends that i think might be interested: @scribbledghost @autumnleaves1991-blog @dyke--grayson @max--phillips @dindjarindiaries @pikemoreno @ohnopoe @pedropasscals @forever-rogue @engineeredfiction @bitchin-beskar

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Hii, i love your fics, you practically keep this ship alive, thank you for that!! Could you do like a story with possessive/jealous James and oblivious Sirius. Like Sirius doesn't even realise when people are flirting with him and obviously many people flirt with him, because he's gorgeous. And maybe one time a person flirts with him and gets handsy, but Sirius doesn't want that and James tells them to f*ck off or something. Pretty please (only if you have time of course)

James was going to snap one of these days, he could feel it. Someone was going to flirt with Sirius, and instead of James telling them to bugger off-- because James was his boyfriend and he was right there-- he was going to just kill them. Homicide, with a very good motive. He didn't think he could be blamed for it.

He was the possessive sort, alright? He'd spent years pining for Sirius, so now that they were dating, he wanted Sirius all to himself. Unfortunately, Sirius was bloody wonderful and as fit as a sodding angel, and other people had a tendency to notice. Sirius was also a touch oblivious and never noticed when people were flirting with him. James wouldn't mind that so much, except when James, as the boyfriend, told people to leave, they looked to Sirius to confirm that he wanted them gone-- as if James would ever do something Sirius didn't want. Honestly. The idea was ludicrous.

Sirius was gorgeous, people knew it, it bothered James, and he would really like it if they just stopped please. And okay, it's not like James had a problem with people knowing that Sirius was fit as hell-- it was an unavoidable fact of the universe, after all-- he had a problem with them acting on it. Seriously, just... leave him alone. Notice all you want, but don't say a damn thing about it.

There was a limit to how much of an arse James could be to people that liked Sirius. He knew this for a fact, because Sirius had gotten mad at him when he went a bit- ahem, over the top when they first started dating. That being said, James drew the line at people actually touching Sirius. That wasn't even a him-being-jealous thing, that was a Sirius thing. Sirius didn't like people touching him unless he was completely comfortable around them-- that meant it was a short list of the Marauders and James's parents. Everyone else needed to keep their hands very far away from him. James had sort of thought that, after graduating Hogwarts, it wouldn't be a problem he'd have to deal with. After all, adults were better at keeping their grubby little hands to themselves, right?

Wrong. He was so incredibly wrong. Adults had more tact than teenagers, but they weren't better, not really.

They were in Diagon Alley getting some shopping done when it happened. James was looking at the new racing broom in the window and wondering if he could convince Sirius to go inside with him so he could get a closer look-- he didn't want to buy it, but he wanted to see the specifications for it, just to see how it compared to the other top models.

When James turned back to Sirius, there was some bloke next to him asking, "Would you like to get some coffee with me? Or tea, I'm not fussy."

Sirius, somehow oblivious to the fact that this was asking for a first date, frowned a little in confusion. "Erm, no thanks."

"Aw come on, what's one cuppa going to hurt?" the man asked with what James could tell was supposed to be a charming smile, and James was about to do a nice, normal break up there by asking if Sirius wanted to go in the quidditch shop, but then the bloke put his hand on Sirius's arm.

Sirius looked down at it uncomfortably. He was about to shrug off his hand while making some excuse to be polite-- because, for some reason, Sirius was unfailingly nice to people's faces now that they were out of school even if he would rant about them to James as soon as they were in private-- but James beat him to it.

He put a hand on this bloke's wrist and wrenched him away from Sirius. "Don't touch him."

"Who're you?" he asked, stepping back. James let go of his wrist, because unless he was planning on punching him, he had no reason to hold on. And, yes, that idea was certainly appealing, but Sirius would get mad at him, not to mention they were in broad daylight and he'd surely get in some sort of trouble. He tried to calm himself down by keeping in mind that it's not like this bloke was trying to force Sirius into anything; he was trying to be persuasive. Albeit, a little more hands on than James thought was socially appropriate.

"I'm his boyfriend. Don't bloody touch him," James said, his tone firm and unforgiving.

Sirius drew his arm back to himself and rubbed at the area that had been touched to get rid of the sensation.

"You have a boyfriend?" the stranger asked Sirius.

"Yeah, it's what he said, isn't it?" Sirius said.

"Then why were we talking?"

Sirius frowned. "You're the one who came up to me and started talking. It's not like I sought you out."

"Right, but you flirted back. Why would you do that if you're dating someone?"

Sirius's frown deepened. "I wasn't flirting."

The man rolled his eyes. "Whatever, have a good day mate."

James had to stop himself from snapping that the two of them were certainly not friends either, but since he was leaving, it was easier than normal to hold his tongue.

"You too," Sirius said automatically. He turned to James, looking like a sad, confused puppy. "Was I flirting?"

"No," James said, putting an arm around his waist and kissing his cheek. Sirius leaned into it, like he always did.

"Then why did he think I was? I thought we were just talking."

"He was flirting, and when you didn't tell him to bugger off, he took that to mean you were interested. Don't worry about it, people are bloody weird."

"Is that always what happens when you get mad at people talking to me?"

"Usually, yeah."

"Oh." The answer didn't seem to make Sirius feel any better.

"You okay?"

"It puts a few things in perspective. Nothing but love James, but I always thought you were kind of overreacting when you got jealous. I didn't realise people were actually hit on me that often. No wonder you're bothered."

James was, on the one hand, glad that Sirius knew he wasn't being utterly ridiculous, but on the other hand, he wanted Sirius to cheer up-- and the truth was that James did overreact, he just thought it was worth it. "It's not really that bad. People try to show you that they're interested, and I take it as my personal mission to scare them off," he said with a grin. "What can I say? I like having you all to myself."

"You already have me," Sirius said, fighting a smile.

"That is hardly important. Like I said, I want you all to myself." He punctuated the sentence by giving Sirius a squeeze that never failed to make him laugh-- whether it was because he found it funny or because it tickled, James had no idea, but it always cheered him up.

As Sirius's laugh faded, he rubbed at his arm again.

"Y'know, if you want, we could go home, and I can remind you why you don't get rid of me."

"Your stunning good looks?" Sirius said, turning to him with a small smile.

"I was going to say my skills in bed, but that works too."

"That's certainly a tempting idea, but I thought you wanted to go in," he said, gesturing to the quidditch shop.

"It's alright. I can go in next time we're here."

"Are you sure?" Sirius asked, but it was in that way that meant he didn't want a different answer but he would feel guilty if he didn't double-check. It was pretty buggering cute of him, in James's opinion.

"Absolutely. Let's go home."

[desidarling123]

FATWS Episode 4: A Definitive* Rank Ordering of Most Interesting Character Arcs, from Yours Truly

(*And by definitive I mean completely subjective, but yanno.)

IF YOU HAVEN'T FIGURED IT OUT BY NOW: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR FATWS. SCROLL AWAY NOW IF YOU DON'T WANT EM.

Now let's get into it:

1. John Walker

Let me start by saying -- the near-universal John Walker hate from fandom has always been largely undeserved, and that's a hill I'll die on. It comes out of, I think, a visceral sort of need to slot him into an easily understood black-or-white binary when, truthfully, he is neither, and I think this episode was the BEST example of that. The sheer range he exhibits in such a short time -- a handful of character moments and action sequences in the larger fifty minute episode -- serve to humanize him in a way that's messy and intense and very, very real.

Because MAN. Whether you were already sympathetic to John's plight or not, the death of his partner, Lemar Hoskins, is viscerally disturbing. There's no other way to put it. FATWS has not shied away from some pretty crazy onscreen kills, but this one was arguably the worst in how brutally mundane it was. Lemar was in the wrong place at the wrong time -- a man fighting amongst a whole room of super soldiers. He never stood a chance -- and yet, he still jumped in harm's way to save his best friend, a man in whom he saw indisputable goodness, even when the man could not see it himself. There's an obvious Steve/Bucky parallel here, but with a much darker and more realistic twist -- not all of us, after all, can be lucky enough to receive super strength that could save our lives. Lemar was always a regular mortal -- and for that transgression, he pays the ultimate price.

And then. What happens after. Oh. My. God. I felt Walker's rage and hopelessness through the screen. The death of that Flag Smasher -- at the hands of Captain America, no less, a man he'd admitted to admiring as a child not ten minutes earlier -- was brilliantly executed.

With the final shot of the townspeople recording the brutal murder it becomes overwhelmingly clear -- we are witnessing the tragic fall of a man who was, for all his previous missteps, trying to be a hero. But John's moral compass just died a meaningless, horrible death -- and without him by his side, Walker has become a man unhinged.

2. Bucky Barnes and Ayo

I debated putting this one at number two because I'd argue there were some weird elements to the writing choices made (more on that in a sec), but, nevertheless. Bucky and Ayo get slot #2.

That flashback to Wakanda got me excited, but I didn't expect my heart to get shattered almost right away. Oh. My. God. His interactions with Ayo BROKE ME. There's so much nuance in a scene that’s incredibly well-acted by both Sebastian and Florence — you see both of them in a moment that is incredibly pivotal for the former’s character, and we see the latter reacting with sympathy, strength, and enormous grace. I had expected a scene like this to be with Shuri (given that we last saw her with Bucky in the post credits of Black Panther) but, given the context of what was being performed (a final test of the trigger words) having Ayo there made a lot of sense. She could take him down if need be — but as the scene so wonderfully shows, thankfully, she doesn’t have to. Instead, she’s there to let him know that for the first time in almost a century, he’s free again.

Now, let’s get into some of the unevenness. I had hoped, at the end of the last episode, that Bucky had at least informed the Dora Milaje of his liaison with Zemo — that, perhaps, it had been Bucky’s intent to hand him over all along. Alas, that was not the case — Bucky, it seems, had broken Zemo out with little thought to — or perhaps simply silent acceptance of — the consequences that would come with it.

This is the part, again, where the writing felt a bit weak. We know from the opening shots of the episode that Bucky cares enormously for Ayo — they’re not simply soldiers in arms, but they’ve shared a moment of immense vulnerability together. We ALSO know that he cares enormously for T’Challa, for Shuri, and for Wakanda as a country (see Infinity War, where he says “I love this place” in reference to his new home).

So that begs the question — why? Why did he betray them in that way, besides sheer desperation for a lead? And it’s not one, I’d argue, that we are given a satisfying answer to. Bucky has been reckless to an alarming degree in the last few episodes, but not informing Wakanda of his intention to liaise with the man who killed their king feels like a MAJOR tactical oversight. Is he willing to burn everything down to win this battle against the Flag Smashers? Are these his self destructive tendencies kicking in? OR, is he just truly so blinded by his emotions surrounding his past that he’s willing to throw away what could very well be his future? Only time will tell. But I hope he’ll do right by Ayo and Wakanda, as he clearly has a LOT to make up for.

3. Baron Helmut Zemo

God. I love Zemo’s psychotic, problematic ass. Say what you want, but the man is the most efficient of them all and he isn't a super soldier or an Avenger. Over and over, he shows that he's truly smarter than them and always has been.

He doesn't get personal. He doesn’t get distracted. He knows exactly what his goal is, and he executes on it. Mans didn’t hesitate to unload several bullets into Karli, and as soon as he figured out what the vials were, he destroyed all except one. Like I said, the most efficient person on the team. Has arguably done more to forward the cause against the Flag Smashers/continued existence of super soldiers than anyone else and it’s only been a few days. Between that, his god-awful dancing skills and him shooting the eugenicist scientist without so much as a blink of an eye, I think he's a man after my own heart. I’m almost sad to see him get what’s coming for him come next episode. (Because y’all, he did still kill King T’Chaka, and there’s no way the Dora leave here without taking him out on a silver platter and an apple stuffed in his mouth). But again, let’s see how that pans out.

4. Sam Wilson

WHAT are the writers doing to Sam, I swear to God? We didn't get too much introspection into where his head's at during this episode, and when we did the treatment felt uneven at best. I think, in trying to have him create a rapport with Karli, the writers have created some areas of commonality that didn’t always translate as they’d like. It was also weird to see Sam swinging from the well-earned cynicism of the previous two episodes to the sort of wide-eyed optimism Steve used to portray. Perhaps that was simply to try and show Karli an alternative, but as the episode showed, she clearly wasn't buying (though, in Sam’s defense, he came pretty close).

Something about Sam’s characterization in this episode didn’t really do it for me — I would argue episode one and two were both stronger in that regard. Nevertheless, I’m hopeful that they’ll correct it in the next one.

5. Karli Morgenthau

Her treatment is arguably the worst of them all. She is young, yeah, but she oscillates at an alarming rate between spouting class discourse that, by this episode, feels largely derivative (like someone scrolled on Twitter and put a bunch of keywords together in hopes of evoking an emotional audience response) and homicidal tendencies that show a brutal yet fundamentally messy underpinning. Unlike Zemo, she is still too easily confounded, and that will come to bite her in the ass sooner rather than later. (See: The Power Broker)

Perhaps I'm meant to be rooting for her on some degree but I really can't -- she's cruel and sloppy, which I cannot forgive.

Oh, and she killed Lemar Hoskins and threatened Sarah Wilson. Yikes.

Overall Episode Takeaway: A lot of shocking moments and great acting beats for everyone involved (arguably some of the best of the series thus far), but the weakness of the writing does crop up in parts. Whether they'll be corrected for going forward is to be determined...

UP NEXT: Meta pieces for Sam, Bucky, John, and Zemo all in the works!

[dxsole]

Meta: Lawrence & Enucleation

For all my ocs that are some sort of serial killer, I do try and write out their motives, methodology, and general psychopathy as it relates to their inclination for murder. So without further ado, here’s my attempt to explain why Lawrence does the things he does and how he got started! 

TW: enucleation, general mentions of gore, harm, torture.

Lawrence Valdis was born to a wealthy philanthropist and a very successful magazine editor in Boston, Massachusetts. He lived very well and, seeing as he was an only child, rather lavishly (translation: spoiled rotten). Lawrence’s father, Klaude Valdis was a very formal man but with a seemingly massive heart, dedicating much of his family’s funds on noble charities and local outreach programs. Outside of his generous philanthropy work, his father essentially made his money by, in young Lawrence’s words, “buying companies, breaking them apart, and selling the pieces”. It was lucrative, even if those on the receiving end of such a deal took issue with their business being split apart.

Lawrence’s love for entertaining came from both parents, his father frequenting galas and fundraisers and almost always bringing Lawrence with him (it was great for publicity). And Lawrence’s mother, Cynthia, just loved playing hostess in their opulent home— she is also the reason why Lawrence calls his home (the former Valdis family residence) a chateau. Lawrence would see how much attention she would get and delight in how she commanded the staff; she was a phenomenal party planner and Lawrence obviously followed suite. 

Now, of course, neither of Lawrence’s parents ever instilled homicidal tendencies in their son; that came later on and of his own accord. Lawrence’s deviances started with something simple, something he continues with even to this day; voyeurism. 

Before I go into this though, I also want to mention that Lawrence has always...felt things very strongly. He couldn’t just be happy, he was ecstatic. Sadness would send him in a depressive state. Anger, of course, gave way to full out rage. And love...it consumes him. These excessive feelings butt heads with his constant need for control, not only over others but over himself. His father was a very private man and had a great deal of self control even in dramatic or upsetting situations, taking time to speak his mind perfectly, doing well to not jump to conclusions or react impulsively. And his mother usually had a glass of wine in her so she was generally well-tempered and easy going.

Lawrence always felt a little inferior knowing he was so affected by his own emotions and spent much of his grade school years teaching himself how to suppress, control, and mask how he felt, mainly in order to fool those around him. He never liked when he was upset that he became almost immediately teary-eyed and his mother would fuss over him. He never liked when he would yell in frustration and his father would so calmly chastise him...Lawrence was given a lot of freedom and opportunities to be independent at a very young age and thus always tried to present himself as a little adult rather than a child.

This contradictory mindset (total self control vs. excessive emotion) is what fueled the later concept of Argus, his villainous alter ego. Lawrence can be the good host, prim and proper and acceptable. He’s in control of the party, his staff, and himself regardless of what was going on...and Argus is the result of his heightened emotions, whether it be anger or jealousy or lust. Argus can be excessive, Lawrence cannot.

It should also be noted that this is NOT like Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) and Argus is not a separate psychological entity or alter to Lawrence. Argus is a secondary persona that Lawrence does choose to be at any given time. Much like how Clark Kent will become Superman, Lawrence becomes Argus at will.

Now, back to the voyeuristic tendencies. Lawrence went to a number of rather strict private schools, full of children from other “elite” families. The transition to secondary school was where Lawrence started getting a better handle on his reactions while also first being exposed to deviant behavior. There was a hole that some older boys had carved into the wall to peek into the girl’s locker room and Lawrence was first invited to look and quickly became excited by the action. 

Lawrence was more interested in the act less for perverted reasons (although those were still there) and more because it was an instance where he had control of the situation. He got to watch, assess, learn things about the one being watched without their intrusion or complaint...it was exhilarating for him and this moment imprinted on him. Lawrence would watch frequently, whether there were others there to encourage the behavior or not. This was also when he developed his first crush.

As mentioned earlier, Lawrence feels things heavily, including love and lust and desire. And while this was a first crush, simple puppy love, Lawrence easily fell into something more akin with obsession. He was 13 and had fallen  for an older girl; sixteen year old Hanna Rosenfeld, who was completely unsuspecting of Lawrence’s attraction or the fact he watched her (granted, her locker was in perfect view from the hole, so it had less to do with her and more with opportunity).

He now watched her from the halls, quickly learning how to keep his eyes on her without her catching him. Lawrence became very quiet during this time (unless provoked in some way, which led to hot-headed replies and quick threats...he didn’t like being distracted). Throughout the years, he continued keeping an eye on Hanna and watching her— but she eventually started seeing someone else.

Lawrence was extremely offended and hurt despite the fact that she didn’t even know him; he had never spoken to her...but he had put so much effort into her. He had spent all this time watching her, making mental notes of the kind of clothes she liked, how she wore her hair in tight curls, her favorite body spray, how she liked to sneak out with her friends after school to smoke pot, how she wanted to be a teacher and only wrote in glitter pens—

The stalking (and he did stalk her, having followed her home a handful of times in the previous months; his independence had some perks after all) continued up until prom when, again, she wouldn’t shut the fuck up about her cute date. Lawrence, so angry at her perceived betrayal—

If you ask him now what happened that night, he’ll deny that he knew what was happening. That it was all a blur, but truthfully he remembers her vividly (the memory just reminds him of how inadequate he had felt at the time and so, unlike many serial killers who regard their first as the best, Lawrence instead tries to suppress that first impulsive kill). 

Lawrence had waited until she was dropped off, far after her curfew, after prom. He didn’t really know what he was going to do (another thing he doesn’t like being reminded of), but he had gotten her attention and grabbed her by the hair. 

She didn’t even recognize him. And that made him even angrier.

Now, he would credit this kill as what got him so interested in eyes— he had choked her beneath the peach tree in her parent’s garden and her eyes had gotten...so big. And she was watching him; clearly confused, frightened, but every time he would let up and she would catch her breathe and his serious look would soften and he could see how her eyes filled with hope. Hope that he would stop, that she’d live. 

And then he would squeeze again and the horror came back. 

And he loved every single second of it. 

Now, at this point, Lawrence could have ended up with a predilection for strangulation and this sort of nighttime ambush killing, but he truly hadn’t wanted to kill her. Just hurt her. Make her feel as bad as she had made him feel. It was a moment of impulse and excess that eventually led to her death.

Young Lawrence had sat on her chest, watching her as she lay dead beneath him. He felt a pang of guilt, but an envious sort of guilt. Mostly, he was upset that he didn’t get to date her or take her to prom like he had fantasized. That someone else got the chance to do that...and now she’s dead.

And her eyes were wide open...but ruined. All bloodshot from the strangling— he didn’t like how creepy they looked. She could have looked so pristine if it wasn’t for all those little blown out blood vessels. Lawrence wasn’t thinking so much about the fact that he committed murder or that she was dead but just spent that time assessing her eyes, upset that they appeared damaged, disappointed that she wasn’t as grand as he had made her out to be in his head.

The Valdis’ moved shortly after that. The affluent side of town couldn’t be all too great if some teenage girl gets STRANGLED to death in her own backyard. Cynthia was concerned about Lawrence, that he could be out alone, as he liked to do more and more often these day, and get murdered. She wouldn’t allow it. 

And no one at that school knew about Lawrence’s obsession...he never mentioned her to anyone, not even his few friends. Never attempted to speak directly to her. They weren’t connected in any way...Lawrence had never been in trouble before outside the mundane fight after school and perhaps one outburst in class. Nothing made him stick out as a potential suspect.

It wasn’t until years later when he was in college when he felt the strange pride of getting away with murder. 

During this time, when he was trying to move on after Hanna (strangely, he didn’t feel as heartbroken as he thought he would be..in fact, once he killed her, his crush sort of...dissipated), but he still kept thinking a lot about...eyes. He dreamed about hers for a long time, growing snippy during the day due to a lack of sleep...and frustration. They were never perfect in the dream. 

Again, his penchant for obsession comes into play; he’s not dwelling on the idea of murder, he’s had his taste of it and all it did was make his stomach turn and ruin his day. But the eyes...he liked how they looked. He wanted to see eyes like that again.

This turned into long sessions in the bathroom, looking into his own eyes. Lawrence has heterochromia, meaning his eyes aren’t exact matches to each other; in Lawrence’s case, he has one (left) eye that is a neutral brown and the other (right) is a pale blue (although it does have some brown speckling in the right upper quadrant of the iris. He has both been admired and bullied because of them. He tends to view them as unique but nothing more. He realizes early on that his own eyes don’t interest him, no matter how he looked at them. They’re his. It’s mundane for him...he already knew what was in them.

College is more of a turning point for Lawrence. By now, he’s already been scolded by police officers for hanging around one of the neighbor girl’s windows and there was even that one humiliating moment when he had fumbled his way into some girl’s pants in the backseat of his car and then there’s the tapping of a flashlight against the window. He decided long ago that cops could suck it. 

But college is different. He really is independent, not the same sort of independent his parents attempted to foster. He was free in every sense of the word, especially since he lived in a well-paid for suite on campus (with a roommate but who cares about that sorry sap). He could do what he wanted. Say what he wanted— and he eventually joins the University debate team on a whim and because some smug prick behind a booth had both tried to talk him into joining and subsequently offended him by adding you know, if you want. If you think you can handle it. 

Lawrence had stared him in the eye, unblinking, as he signed up.

And he was pretty good at it. He had a knack for research, for elocution. He had always liked to talk but up until now, tended to have very little to say that wasn’t about whatever thing he was fixated on at the time. Now there were issues posed and questions asked and again, he felt challenged. In a good way though. And he enjoyed making his point, especially if it lead to someone else’s defeat.

College was also a time for experimentation; Lawrence had known for many months before graduating high school that he did like guys as much as girls, his lab partner in chemistry being a boy his age with striking green eyes— Lawrence would now have to admit he didn’t fully know if he liked him as an individual or because he had such prominent eyes but...that’s in the past now. 

But college helped him find himself...as well as a number of his earliest victims, all of which died in different manners, Lawrence trying to decipher what part of murder he liked. He wasn’t positive he was a killer but, obviously something from that first night left an impression on him...and he wasn’t sure if a different methodology would lead to a different, better result. 

And there was so much...partying going on that he really couldn’t help himself. People rarely invited Lawrence, but he still managed to show up, drink a little, keep his wits about him; no one could deny that Lawrence wasn’t charming when he wanted to be. Sweet almost. Unassuming. Shaggy hair falling in his eyes and a shy smile tugging at his lips.

But he also broke the wrist of that one guy that spilled beer on his clothes. Lawrence had laughed it off as simply having a bit too much to drink and not realizing his own strength (he was stone cold sober and had delighted in how the bone had snapped, feeling rather vindicated). 

But back to the murder spree now; Strangulation was out of the question at this point...bludgeoning was nice but messy and...dull. The wounds inflicted felt dull as he administered them. Lawrence, after the first two, wondered if he was only a situational murderer. Did he have to be angered to kill? Or inflict pain? He seemed to have more fun with the occasional scuffle with a drunk guy at a party than these high stakes kills.

If anything, what he liked most out of everything was the stalking portion; watching them, learning their habits...the little quirks about them that no one else saw. That, and how their eyes looked when he killed them.

The first time he actually tried to take someone’s eyes was in his senior year. The heat was on with all these missing students, only one so far being found with her throat cut. But he had still met up with a guy who was down to party from the rival University. 

He had met Ronald (affectionately coined Ronnie) a while ago at one of the frat house parties (which Lawrence only went to these days to meet people...he hated the fraternity bros...all pig-headed little dumbasses who don’t ever shut the fuck up) and again, Lawrence would have started his usual routine of stalking and watching from afar but Ronnie was one of the few that reciprocated Lawrence’s affections (if they could be called that).

Lawrence could be a relatively good boyfriend to those few he casually dated during his college years; he remembered important dates and their favorite things, he was a good listener, hanging on their every word, and he wasn’t afraid to touch...he was drawn to attention and affection, which surprised many of his partners, seeing as he sometimes could appear so aloof and, at times, ill-tempered. 

It’s not that Lawrence is trying to be a good partner, but more often than not, he just wanted to be perfect. He now had that almost complete control over his emotions (aside from the occasional bout of anger, of course) and he felt confident that he could be this...strong, steady rock for whoever he chose to stand beside...a bit like his father (who had died early that year before graduation). But in truth, he remembered everything so well because he was keeping internal tabs. He listened because they might hint at something important (like if they were actually seeing someone else or growing tired of his possessive nature), and he always, always, always liked to touch and hold and cradle whatever he deemed was his...even if the feeling turned out to be fleeting.

At this juncture, he wasn’t bored of Ronnie at all but he felt that he didn’t care enough about him enough to spare him (again, there’s this feeling of things never being quite as good as he made them out to be...he can’t tell if he’s just plain picky or hasn’t found anyone he really cares for yet). When they had arrived down by the lake, a secluded sort of lover’s lane, Lawrence had bashed Ronnie’s head between the car door and the frame, watching him go down as blood begin to seep out his ears. It wasn’t hard enough to kill him but certainly daze him.

The enucleation was nearly accidental. Ronnie’s eyes had closed so Lawrence had attempted to open them, getting his spindly fingers around the eyelid...he opened it wide, saw the bright white of the sclera...

Lawrence, by this time, carried a knife. He changed them every so often, and never told anyone he had one (another note; Lawrence is excellent at keeping secrets. His memory is a vault you can’t open unless you press the exact buttons or ask the right magic questions)— he learned earlier that he rather enjoyed stabbing and cutting his victims but that never felt perfectly right. 

I got the tip of the knife into Ronnie’s eye socket. I tried to move slowly..not really knowing if I could puncture an eyeball...or what that might do. I didn’t want to hurt them, just sorta pop ‘em out. It was...bad the first time. I nicked the eye a few times but eventually I wriggled it out— Ronnie made this really bad, guttural kinda noise and his body....his body shook a lot during. He looked pretty funny actually. I tried not to laugh though, seeing as we had such history together and all. But I got his eyes out...a bit mangled. Bloodied. I had to nearly saw the nerve ‘cause it didn’t wanna...snap out like I thought it would. But I got one. And I pinned him down better...and took the other one. And I watched him...writhe in pain and fear. Holding his eyes in my hand. And...that was right. 

It finally felt right. I never...truly wanted anyone to die. Well, no, some deserved it...for how they treated me. How they lied and, and, and led me on. I hated that. I hated...people like that. They get your hopes up...but Ronnie wasn’t one of them...Ronnie and I had, unfortunately, run our course...but I still think of him fondly.

I mean, he was shaking so bad after that so I just went through his shit, ‘cause he always had some kind of hit on him. He had some pills. I don’t know what. I put about fifteen or so of ‘em down his throat and then I got him into the lake. Watched him float away. Almost like one of those...funeral pyres. It was nice to see. He deserved something nice. He gave me...probably the greatest gift anyone had ever given me before. 

I think the cop assumed the fishes and things ate his eyes out...they had eaten a lot of him when they finally fished him out. 

              — Lawrence Valdis,                   a son of a bitch, I h8 his creepy lil ass lmao

In essence, what Lawrence really wanted was eyes. His first weren’t perfect but the simple act of the removal was a start. It’s like plucking the last shred of hope out of someone, that freeing hope that he can then bottle and keep forever.

To this day, Lawrence has strict criteria for the eyes he keeps; the color matters little, so long as they are pristine in nature. Perfectly white, pure sclera, no nicks or dents or bumps. A fully intact (and neatly severed at the end) optic nerve. And two. Always two. He won’t stand for half.  

Now, this Lawrence that you’re reading about does seem a little different than the one I usually write; the biggest differences are of course means and motives; Lawrence is his own man now and has crafted an entire room in his inherited home for these enucleation sessions. He learned from these early, out in the open kills, that he much prefers being walled in, being secure—

This no doubt stems from what he eventually majors in....Lawrence starts with computer science and ends with a cybersecurity discipline. He engineers state of the art security systems for the city’s most elite families...and some criminals too. All of which he has back door access to...for reasons. This access allows him to gather intel that he often uses for blackmail purposes. Lawrence even has a contract with the city in which he handles a good chunk of their state building security systems which, of course, turns out to be detrimental to any and all officials, seeing as Lawrence monitors them from time to time, gathering more and more blackmail fuel.

He also limits himself (again, as a show of self control) to removing the eyes of those that don’t take the blackmail bait. It gives him an excuse now to remove their eyes and toy around with the rest of them whilst they writhe in pain (again, he’s very fond of stabbing and cutting). It also serves a duel purpose of promoting his criminal standing and warns others of what he could do to them should he become upset...or offended, which happens a lot more often than he’d care to admit.

He has also spent tireless hours perfecting his tools for these enucleations. Knives are special and he likes them to be well sharpened and well-designed...but the enucleation tools are his joy. He has several prototypes he’s developed himself— for example, one almost looks like a speculum, but just for the eye socket; it’s meant to pry open the lid as far as it’ll go so he can use another tool, something spoon-like but a sharpened edge that literally scoops out the eyeball and simultaneously severing the nerve. These more scientific measures are used when he wants a really perfect specimen...

The knives does make an appearance though, seeing as he practiced so long with them that he can do an optimal job of removing eyes with little damage (to the eye itself, he means)...but he also likes to use them for those he’s especially upset with.

In the end, Lawrence is a highly emotional, personal gain seeking killer. Everything he does, in and outside the realm of murder, revolves around his own personal perceptions and desires; in essence, catching Lawrence’s eye is a dangerous thing to do. He can follow you. He will watch you and build up the potential interaction in his head, whether it’s meant to be friendly or romantic or even sexual. And if things don’t go how he planned them and there’s no plan of action he can adhere to that makes it how he wants it, Lawrence would rather eliminate you than continue to pursue you. 

He’ll forgot about you a lot easier when you’re dead.

[kxhlzn]

[01] I WALK THE LINE // connor.

SYNOPSIS: Hank meets an unlikely companion in a bar, and an interrogation becomes heated. You have some questions regarding Androids.

GENRE: Sci-Fi, Romance, Angst.

PAIRINGS: RK800!Connor/Reader, slight Gavin/Reader.

WORDCOUNT: 5.4k

WARNINGS: Profanity, Gore, Sexual Innuendos, Bigotry.

SONG REC(S): I Walk The Line by Halsey is the leading theme of this fic.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I think Gavin has some potential, so he isn't completely despised here. In fact, he's your best friend and roommate. Unedited and messy. I'm not really that proud of this lmfaooo.

There was always something chilly about Detroit, Michigan, in the fall— the way the community seems to curl in for the night, ducking into their ratty homes, only ever coming out when the post comes 'round. People are colder, their behavior growing critical and isolated once the leaves crinkle and spiral to the ground. By late October, the streets were littered with merely crooks and the homeless, save for a few ignorant folks who decided to be too slaphappy for their own good; be it from substances or plain stupidity, you couldn't be sure. With the invention of Androids, they too, roamed the uninhabited streets of downtown Detroit; they were usually the first to be mugged, which became almost laughable to Hank Anderson, whom's distasteful viewpoint is made public once he's had a few rounds of whiskey. Some might have called his opinion plain pessimism due to his naturally prickly attitude, but Hank was a realistic, honest man — he wasn't one for fake positivity, and that reflected in his daily life as well. Even if you didn't share his angle, you couldn't write it off so easily — while disheartening, it truly reflects the state of the world on its judgment of Androids.

"Lieutenant, may I ask you a personal question?"

The cool autumn air trickles down your spine in small waves, and your body involuntarily shivers from the sensation; you want to blow warm air to your fingers, but they are clasped tightly around your coat, tugging on the leather. Hank, as you call him, strolls beside you in a leisurely fashion, his own body clad in massive winter clothing. His silence draws a continuation from your mouth. "Why do you hate Androids so much?"

He's suddenly tense from your words, his blue eyes scanning downtown Detroit for an excuse to change the subject. The cold wind ruffles his silver hairs from underneath his coat, and it runs across his exposed neck and into the dip of his shirt. Dejectedly, he wets his lips and rolls his eyes— at you, or himself, he's not sure.

"Because I do, kid. There's not a fucking reason," Hank's tone is distant and gruff, and if it were anyone else, you would have fallen for the lie.

You had always considered Lieutenant Hank Anderson to be a genuine man, despite his unhealthy tendencies — when he lies, there is a reason, so in a normal circumstance, you would have accepted it and moved on. However, you've known Hank for a good year since your raise to detective — you would often visit the pub together, or spend a long night in his house with Sumo, "looking over cases" — which roughly translated to playing cards and watching movies, and glancing over the files once in a while. To see the man close down so easily from a simple question causes you to wonder if you aren't as close to him as you forced yourself to believe, or the extent of the reason is that severe.

"Aye," you almost whisper, your lips chapped from the dry fall air. Hank's stiffness forces a purse of your lips, and he is climbing over himself in an attempt to avoid your eyes.

Hank swallows deeply, hesitantly turning his body in your direction, just for a brief moment. "I'm headin' to Jimmy's."

You bite on your lower lip as you follow his gaze upward; into the dark sky, whose lights were twinkling with mischief and a burn to stay alive. They are fighting for life, battling the reflection of thousands of city lights pouring into the atmosphere. They're fighting an everlasting battle, but yet they persevere. A twinge erupts in your heart, and you can feel in your bones there's a serendipitous moment waiting to burst tonight. Hank's footsteps retreat towards the direction of the bar, and your stomach hops into your throat.

A gush of wind pushes you forward, your body rushing to keep up with Hank's. Instinctively, your fingers reach out gingerly for his coat; gripping the material in your palm brings you a sense of security, and the older man glances behind him, a majority of his face hidden by the collar. His bushy eyebrow quirks and you shrug bashfully, your shoulders slumping in exhaustion.

The fall air is crisp against your chilled cheeks, but there's a warmth rising in the pit of your stomach, a knowing feeling; a gut feeling, one buried deep in your bones; little did you know tonight would mark the beginning of a series of events, ones that will carve the future for both Androids and humankind.

─────────

Jimmy's was dark and dreary, as one might expect of a dilapidated Detroit bar. Voices hum a sad buzz throughout the small building, men tucked away deep in the booths, hands wrapped around bottles. Their eyes held a thousand threats and a thousand secrets; they roam down the two of you as if they hadn't seen you before. The Asian man seated at the farthest booth barks out a laugh suddenly, saying a sentence along the lines of, "Hank, my man! Looks like you brought the detective, huh?"

"She's like a leech some days, but others, she won't talk to me for almost a week straight. Today is simply luck of the draw," Hank utters in response, collapsing on a bar stool, leaning his forearms against the worn wooden counter. You mirror his action, and Hank orders you both a couple of shots. The alcohol rushing down your throat burns, but it's worth the buzz. You push yourself to stay sober enough to walk the two of you home because you know Hank won't.

You can always tell the man's on the edge of shitfaced when his eyes droop and his face nearly falls completely. His shoulders drop to his hips, and he loses his stiff posture. Hank always looks like if you poke him, he'll melt to a pool on the floor. Jimmy eyes you with concern, but you shrug nonchalantly and order a glass of water for yourself and to help sober Hank up.

Jimmy steps back to your half of the bar, his hand wrapped around the glass; before he slides it over, his attention is snatched by the door to the bar opening with a rustic jingle. You pay it no mind, reaching over and grasping the water in your palm. You take a leisurely sip and ignore the hushed whispers now erupting across the establishment. A tension rises in the air, and you finally force your stool back to see past Hank's large arched back.

Eyes scanning the bar, a tall man strolls in with a surge of destination in his step; he has a goal to be reached. You don't even notice he is an Android until his LED swirls a vibrant yellow, stopping to scan a man's face. It would have crossed your mind sooner if the lighting in this joint wasn't so poor. The shadows overlooking his attire hide the serial number and the bright blue contrast to the overall white and dark grey color scheme. His hair is a deep brown, a bit messy in the front but perfectly trimmed and maintained in the back. One defiant strand curls on his forehead, where his brows are knitted together in thought. Below, are a pair of cocoa irises, focused and determined. His entire face exuberates attention to detail, and it takes his eyes rising to meet your curious ones to break you from your trance.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise to the occasion, and you twist in your seat to face the racks of alcohol ahead of you. Heavy footsteps click against the floor, swifter than before. Your breath holds in your throat until a cool, nasally voice greets you and Hank.

"Lieutenant Anderson, Detective, my name is Connor. I'm the Android sent by CyberLife. I looked for you at the station but nobody knew where you were. They said you were probably having a drink nearby. I was lucky to find you at the fifth bar," The Android spoke softly, his shoulders pushed back politely. When he notices Hank refraining from looking at him, he bends between you and the lieutenant, leaning his forearm against the bar. His swift movement causes you to reel back, nearly tipping you out of your stool. You receive a strong whiff of his scent, a mix of lemon and vanilla. His right blade presses into your shoulder, and it sends shocks throughout your skin.

"What do you want?" Hank spits, downing another shot, which makes you grimace; the Android had interrupted your meager attempt to sober the old man.

"You were assigned a case early this evening. A homicide, involving a CyberLife Android. In accordance with procedure, the company has allocated a specialized model to assist investigators," Connor continues.

"You mean the Carlos Ortiz case?" You blurt suddenly, your eyes focused entirely on Connor. He tilts his head at you, seemingly interested in your presence now. When he nods firmly, you smiled excitedly. "Why are they assigning an Android to aid us?"

"The CyberLife team believes it will be most efficient, due to the excessive rate of deviant Androids," Connor states.

Hank scoffs beside you, his fingers gripping the shot glass tightly. His eyes are hooded and dark, and your face laces with concern. "Well, we don't need any assistance. Especially not from a plastic asshole like you. So just be a good lil' robot and get the fuck outta here."

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I must insist. My instructions stipulate that I have to accompany you."

"You know where you can stick your instructions?"

"No… Where?" Connor inquires quizzically, and you snort into your glass of water. His attention draws to you briefly, but it soon snaps back to Hank, who rolls his eyes.

"Nevermind."

─────────

You've fallen asleep by the time Hank pulls up to the home in downtown Detroit, as the traffic had been a little hectic so the ride was delayed. You hadn't woken until Connor's strong hands were shaking your shoulders, his leg propping the car door open. "Detective."

You jolt awake, and Connor leans over you to unfasten your seatbelt. You wave his hands away, finishing the job yourself while he pulls back and awaits your exit. You peer over the vehicle to get a good look at the house, which is rusty and poor in quality. The dilapidated structure seems to moan each time a gust of wind strikes its walls, which irks you into being a bit hesitant to immediately enter. Ben Collins stands on the porch, his arms crossed and his foot tapping impatiently against the cracked wood.

As it turns out, Hank isn't too keen on Connor joining the two of you on the investigation. He hightails it into the building like his ass is on fire, fully aware that those at the police tape will hassle poor Connor into twiddling his thumbs in Hank's vehicle. As expected, once you and the Android reach the vibrant yellow tape, a Police Android hums, "Androids are not permitted beyond this point."

The rain pours down heavily, and you've grown a bit exasperated by the amount of disrespect that follows the presence of Connor. When your eyes rise to meet his face, his expression is hard, like he isn't bothered or stunned by this occurrence. You bump his shoulder with your own and twist to face one of the human officers. "He's with me."

You jump forward to grasp the android's palm. You pull him towards you, and he's swift to duck under the tape. He fixes his gaze on the officer briefly, but soon rushes to walk beside you, as if to reiterate the point of your association with one another.

"Bout time the two of you got your asses in here," Hank snaps when he catches your eye once you and Connor are inside the rank building, "Decided you wanted a quickie before you started the case?"

Connor's eyebrows furrow immediately. "A quickie—?"

You slap a firm hand on his chest, stopping his question, and you shake your head. He accepts your answer, but he's still rather confused, judging by the puzzled expression on his face.

"So," you begin, your eyes darting across the living room, "What have we got?"

"You didn't read the file report?" Hank remarks, a smug expression on his wrinkled face.

"No, sorry, I was busy having a quickie with Connor in the backseat of your car," You quip back, opening the vanilla file to freshen your memory of the case.

Hank's lip quirks up in disgust, his attention drifting to the Android hovering over you. "Hey, you. You don't talk, you don't touch anything, and you stay out of my way, got it?"

"Got it."

Ben Collins steps out of the kitchen and heads over to Hank, rubbing his hands together. "So… Two of you got an Android, huh?"

"Oh, very funny. Just tell me what happened," Hank barks, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms.

Detective Collins shrugs and motions the three of you over to the man's body. "We had a call around eight from the landlord. The tenant hadn't paid his rent for a few months, so he thought he'd drop by, see what was going on. That's when he found the body... Jesus, that smell! Was even worse before we opened the windows. The victim's name's Carlos Ortiz. He has a record for theft and aggravated assault. According to the neighbors, he was kind of a loner... Stayed inside most of the time, they hardly ever saw him."

"Looks like a total douche," You whisper mostly to yourself, and Hank snorts softly.

"Looked," Hank replies darkly. He crouches next to the rotting body, disgusted by the sight. "Uh, state he's in... Wasn't worth calling everybody out in the middle of the night. Could've waited 'til morning."

"I'd say he's been there for a good three weeks. We'll know more when the coroner gets here. There's a kitchen knife over here. Probably the murder weapon," Collins says, gesturing you to the kitchen, where there are several evidence markers.

"Any sign of a break-in?" You ask, crouching low to get a good look at the knife. There's nearly a ton of blood on the blade, and it forces a little swirl in your stomach, so you stand.

"Nope... The landlord said the front door was locked from the inside, all the windows were boarded up. The killer must've gone out the back way," Collins states.

"If the Android went out the back way, there's bound to be tracks with the rain today to uncover them," You inquire, but your shoulders soon slump. "But with your men running around, they can easily be mixed in with the rest."

"What do we know about this Android?" Hank adds in.

Ben Collins's reply is weak. "Not much. The neighbors confirmed he had one, but it wasn't here when we arrived…"

He glances once more at the corpse leaned against the wall, and he nearly gags. Stepping towards the front door, he says, "I gotta get some air. Make yourself at home. I'll be outside if you need me."

─────────

"I added a little bit of sugar. Looked like you needed the extra kick, going by the grimace. If you squeeze your face together any more, people might think you're about to soil your jeans," You say, bending over to put the steaming cup on the desk, "Then they'll finally realize your old age is getting to you."

Hank grunts disapprovingly, and gripping the cup and nearly downing it in one swallow. He stands slowly, groaning due to his aching bones; he's equally exhausted as everyone else in the room, give or take. "Wish me luck."

The lieutenant's polished shoes click against the concrete as you take his seat, and he begrudgingly heads for the interrogation room. In the corner of your eye, Gavin runs his hand down his face in irritation and you swirl back around to face him in the office chair. Your grin draws his eye, and he nearly pouts as he looks in a different direction. Offering your own coffee cup to him as you stand, he takes it and sips softly before returning it back to your hands. You lean against the wall beside him, and glance past him to Connor just after Hank's booming voice echoes through the observation room.

"Why d'you kill him? What happened before you took that knife? How long were ya in the attic? Why didn't you even try to run away? Say something, goddamnit! Fuck it, I'm outta here…"

Seconds later, his tall physique shoves through the door, his face drawn in furiously.

"And there goes his jeans…" You say wistfully, and Gavin can't help but have a bittersweet sneer and pass you an expression mixed with both weariness and amusement.

"We're wastin' our time interrogating a machine, we're gettin' nothing out of it!" Hank seethes, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"Have you tried asking him why he killed Ortiz?" You remark, and Hank is almost on the last straw with you.

"'Could always try roughing it up a little. After all, it's not human…" Gavin adds with a spiteful smirk, and he avoids your eyes for sole acknowledgment of your annoyed scoff.

"Judging by the cigarette burns on his forearm, I think he's had his share of getting roughed up," You snark, and Gavin shrugs nonchalantly.

"Then what's one more time?"

Before you can bark back, Connor speaks up, "Androids don't feel pain. You would only damage it and that wouldn't make it talk. Deviants also have a tendency to self-destruct when they're in stressful situations."

Gavin rolls his eyes dramatically, clearing desiring a chance to go home. "Okay, smartass. What should we do then?"

Connor glances between all three of you as if testing the waters; deciding he's got the stage, he suggests, "I could try questioning it."

There's a tense silence for a few moments, and you can practically hear Gavin's disapproval beside you. You attempt to calm him by bumping your hip against his, and the man gives you a side-eye; not a hostile one, which implies your intentions weren't futile.

Hank sighs. "What do we have to lose? Go ahead, suspect's all yours."

"I want to go in with him," you jump, standing straight suddenly.

Gavin grabs your arm, his expression wild and very unfavorable of your proposal. "Are you fuckin' nuts? I won't let you lock yourself in a room with two unknown robots. One of them is a fuckin' criminal, for fuck's sakes."

"Sounds exciting, doesn't it? Just rustles my jimmies," You quirk, placing your hands on Connor's shoulders and giving him a brief shove towards the door.

Your initiative is to comfort the Android before Connor questions him. As you've learned, when confronting a possible hostile, it's important to appear as small and submissive as possible if you have the intention of communicating with it. To do this, you made sure to squat beside him and watch his eyes and his LED. The Android appears bewildered, so you raise your hands so he sees them clearly.

"Hi, there. I'm one of the detectives here at the DPD. We aren't going to hurt you, I promise, okay? Let's get to know each other a bit, is that alright? May I ask your name?" You speak slowly and softly. It's important to make the hostile feel in control of the situation.

The Android is very tense, but his eyes are steady; Studying you.

"We won't hurt you if you tell us what we need to know, okay? I want to help your kind; make sure they get treated right, but I can't do that unless you tell me why you did it. Did your owner… Was he hurting you? Is that why you're scared of me?"

Connor suddenly slams down into the chair across from the Android, making it jump and push you away. Your eyes narrow at Connor, who doesn't acknowledge your presence. He slides the file photos to the other side of the table as you stand and dust off your leggings, and stand behind him. "You recognize him? It's Carlos Ortiz. Stabbed, 28 times. That was written on the wall in his blood…"

Deciding your method was futile, you head back out of the interrogation room and into the one Hank and Gavin were in. Sighing softly, you run your hands through your loose hair and Gavin mirrors your breath of fatigue.

"I have some Hot Pockets in the freezer. C'mon," He says to you, his palm resting on your shoulder. You shrug and follow him out of the room and into the main section of the DPD. The office area is nearly deserted save for a few hard-working employees, diligently wearing their minds away at their desks.

You plop down in a plastic chair at a small circular table in the employee lunch break space, and lean your head against the surface. In the background, you catch the rustling of plastic bags as Gavin tosses some Hot Pockets in the microwave. While they cook, he seats himself across from you and runs his hands together in thought.

"That plastic bastard being here really pissed me off," He complains, his eyes dark.

"I don't mind him all that much, but he's so… Cold," You reply, "But not even in a harsh or hateful way, more… Blunt? Empty?"

"You mean, like a robot?" Gavin says snidely.

"I really hate that word, Gav."

"You know what I hate?" He responds, "Fuckin' machines comin' in and taking jobs. You remember Amber, the secretary?"

"Yeah?"

"She told me she was supporting four kids by herself. She got replaced last month, by guess what? An Android," He continues. "I grew up with kids whose dreams were shit on because machines did the job better. I was here thinkin' my job would be safe, 'cause God forbid one of those things take our Law Enforcement, but here we are."

The microwave beeps loudly, forcing Gavin to slam his seat back and retrieve the warm food. He tosses you a water bottle and refills his plastic seat, taking a Hot Pocket and sliding the paper plate to your side of the table.

"Has anyone ever told you how unlikable you are?"

"No fuckin' duh."

"I like you, despite that. You're real and honest," You announce, running your index finger along the rim of the plate. You tilt your head to the side and allow your cheek to press against the cool surface, your eyelids fluttering shut. "I've always been pretty liberal towards the Androids, but… I guess I never considered how it affected other people until now. For someone so selfish and ambitious, you really care about others."

You can feel Gavin's eyes burning holes in your face, so you crack one of your own slightly to get a good look at him. His expression is deep, full of thought; when he realizes he's been caught, he scoffs nonchalantly and turns to face the counter on his left. His knee repeatedly hits the bottom of the table, a sign of his unease.

"Gavin— you always tell it how it is. No bluffing…" Your words drag off slowly as your exhaustion meets up with you, and you nearly slump off the side of the table. Gavin stands and gently adjusts you so you're not at a threat to tip out of your seat. The man heads back to the interrogation room.

─────────

"Goddamnit!" Gavin's voice rings in your ears, and you absentmindedly rub your eyes of the few minutes of sleep you could capture. You run your hand through your hair, blinking a few times to process the situation at bay.

Gavin is power strolling in your direction, his palms balled into violent fists. Brows drawn in furiously, he avoids your gaze and simply pulls at your arm. "Fuck it, let's go. I'm tired of their shit."

"What'd they do?" You inquire, voice a bit dry from your nap. Your bag is at your desk, so you wave away his hands and turn to walk backward in order to speak with the fuming man.

"Just being assh— Nothing, don't worry about it. None of your business, anyway."

"Whatever shit you put them through is my business, G," You say, the corner of your mouth quirked in harmless amusement. "You can't bully Hank too much, the old man might keel over and have a heart attack."

"I heard that!" Hank shouts from across the station. He too is coming to his desk.

You shrug your shoulders and face the surface of your workspace which is piled in manilla folders. You sigh softly and pass Gavin your sympathies. "I think I might have to stay in for a bit. I've been neglecting my files."

"Suit yourself. I'm heading home to my bed, 'cause I love myself," Gavin says, but he's already out the door before you can reply.

Hank's chair groans with his weight, and he twists it so he can see your expression; He studies it only for a moment. His fingers interlock as his elbows hit the desk, and the pads of his thumbs massage the bridge of his nose. "You gonna ask how it went?"

You laugh softly, your palm running over the top of the manilla folders. "Judging by Gavin's reaction? No, I don't think I will."

You spot Connor's silhouette before his body appears out of the hallway, as hardy as ever in his stride. You shouldn't be all that startled by his endurance, but you are dumbfounded nonetheless. How one can persist this continuously is astonishing. He is an Android, after all. If they weren't capable of such a feat, they wouldn't be as flawless as CyberLife seems to believe, but you suppose fortitude isn't their main concern in the dysfunction department at the time being.

"Shall we continue digging through deviant files, Lieutenant?" His bubbly voice asks, and you slam your forehead against your desk. Connor tilts his head in your direction, perplexed by your behavior. "Are you feeling unwell, Detective?"

He receives mumbling as your response. Fatigue is eating away at you like a disease, and the words that slipped from Connor's mouth make your thoughts spin rapidly. "No, no. Can we take a break?"

Hank groans low in his throat. "Fuck it, I'm going home."

He pulls himself up from his chair and stretches his arms in an attempt to wake. His body is nearly as droopy as the bags under his eyes, and he looks as if he might tip over should a light wind rustle through.

You scan over the pile of folders on your desk, and regret not leaving with Gavin, who you know would get you home safely, with your lack of car and all. You push your face against your forearm and sigh softly.

Hank glances you over briefly and bites his lip. "Uh, Connor, you mind?"

Connor blinks at him. "Mind what, Lieutenant?"

"Taking the girl home, damnit," Hank replies gruffly, gesturing lazily to the gloopy puddle that is you in your chair. "Detroit's not safe at night."

You peer up at him and study the wrinkles creasing his face. You blow air out onto your wrist while you slowly sit up. "Hank, aren't you going home?"

"Yeah— Just gotta hang back for a bit."

You bite back the urge to argue with him; However, Hank can immediately catch your internal battle, and he just barely smirks.

"If you know me at all, you'd know that I won't do more work than I have to," He reassures you, and gestures to the hallway, "Go. Get some sleep."

After careful consideration, you finally agree to let him be and collect your things so that Connor can walk you home. You used to live on your own, but you stayed over at Hank's or Gavin's so often that your rent was expensive and really wasn't worth the money. So, as a consequence, Gavin kindly let you move into the office in his apartment — And it turned out to be a wise choice, if not also the safest and easiest. Splitting the rent was simple enough, too.

The streets are dark as Connor trails just a step behind you, his silence leaving you awkward and uneasy. You attempt small talk — Asking his opinions on current issues, art, and nature — But he's blunt, in an oddly soft and sociable way. You don't think he realizes the tension; That, or he doesn't mind.

Overhead, birds' chatter is kept to a minimum, and there's always a distant siren— which does nothing to calm your nerves. You focus your attention instead on the beauty of Detroit, the way the lights curl amongst each other to create intricate value shadows. This lightens your mood by a landslide, and you find yourself cheery, even despite the dreary weather.

"Connor?" You test the waters again.

"Yes, Detective?" His tone is difficult to read.

"Do you believe in a higher power?" The question leads to deep answers, and likely more questions. You don't expect a detailed response.

In your peripheral, Connor's LED colors yellow, his brow line drawn in.

"Detective, I don't… I don't have the necessary components to form my own opinions," His tone shifts to confusion, but in a vulnerable way, "But I can answer factual questions you might have."

"I detest factual conclusions, Connor," You say, fumbling with a clean tissue in the pocket of your coat, "They make for boring conversation."

A stale silence ensues. If anyone else were to walk you home, you'd feel their body warmth graze your side. You'd hear the way they inhale air and the way they exhale. How is it that he looks and sounds so human, but lacks many aspects of humanity that you'd never find yourself appreciating so much until now?

The gate to the apartment building shakes with the wind whistling through as you gently push it open. Connor doesn't stay far behind you as you slowly stride up the stairs to prevent any excessive creaking.

Once you've reached your door, you turn to face Connor with a small smile. He seems to return it, but likely just so you don't awkwardly stare at each other.

"I will head back to Cyberlife Tower, then. See you tomorrow morning, Detective," Connor says politely, and he descends down the stairs. A part of you wants to tell him to stay so that he's within an actual living space, but you imagine that wouldn't go well for a few reasons.

"U-Um, thanks for walking me home!" He's already gone, but you think he knows you're grateful.

"Yo," Gavin's gruff voice rings once you've locked the door, "Hank drive you?"

You place your bag down on the kitchen table and shake your head. Gavin is laying on the couch, his hood pulled up while he, seemingly, naps. Approaching the couch, you pull up his legs and sit down, letting them rest against your thighs. "Nope. Connor walked me home."

You can practically smell Gavin's apparent irritation. He scowls deeply. "You let the robot take you home? Do you realize how dangerous that is?"

"Oh, please, Gav— Not tonight, okay?" You push his legs off your lap and instead, crawl up onto his chest and rest your head on his clavicle. He sighs but doesn't say anything else.

After a few minutes, you whisper, "We should probably go to bed. Long day tomorrow."

He groans, his chest rumbling your entire upper frame. It's a telltale sign that neither of you are going to be moving until morning.

The tiny Detroit apartment is dark, save for the dim kitchen light hanging above the dining table. It has a yellow tint, making the space feel cheaper. Outside, the night spares only the chirpings of a few crickets; But the low hum of the heater helps swallow the silence.

"... Gavin?" You whisper, testing the waters. You peer up slowly to meet his dark eyes, but it's hard to capture the emotion with the lack of lighting, and it takes a second to realize they are closed. He makes a guttural sound in his throat to alert you of his acknowledgment.

"Do you…" You swallow. "Do you think… Do you think that Androids ever get lonely?"

He remains silent a moment. "I, uh… No, I don't. What makes you think that kind of shit?"

"I dunno, it's just—" You sigh. "I mean, how can they not? They don't get… At the end of the day, they just— They just go back to their charging stations, or, or.. Cyberlife Tower, you know?"

"... Is this about that plastic fuck? Cuz, I really don't think you should be—"

"No, God, Gavin—! Listen," You bark softly, and he adjusts himself slightly, "It has nothing to do with Connor. You can call him that just so you know. Your little Android KKK group isn't going to come to hunt your ass down for calling him by his name."

Gavin scoffs, but it seems less malice and more offense.

"I just… I can't imagine they don't feel lonely."

"Why do you care so much about how they supposedly feel?"

"Well…" You swallow again, trying to word it so that he might understand it.

"Because I know... That if it were me..." You pause, licking your lips. You take a second to trace Gavin's locked jaw with your eyes, and eventually, they travel up to his. His expression is hard.

"Because I'd want someone to give me the benefit of the doubt too— Even if I didn't know I wanted it yet."

─────────

[🌱] wanna be on the taglist? lmk!

[gothamslimpestwrist]

s1e2 selina kyle

killcount:

“doug” the childsnatcher: “soldier” (homeless guy)

oswald cobblepot: douchebag college bro from the car, probably the other douchebag college bro as well.

jim gordon: quillan’s janitor

“patti” the childsnatcher: cat scratch fever dude w/ no eyes

episode total: 5 total count: 12

the dark knight rises: shit is clearly fucked in gotham. crime families are ruling the city, yes, but honestly that’s the least of it; look at the police force. we see that bo, the first responder, is late to the scene of the crime because he takes protection money from a local restaurant & gave them first priority (in other words, he’s a crooked bitch demanding a racket, AND it gets in the way of him actually doing his job). the cops are pretty much, explicitly, just an extension of the mob at this point. 

interestingly, we also see the start of an exploration of the wayne’s corruption; falcone refers to “the wayne empire,” mirroring the way they talk about the crime families And Also setting the waynes up as, like, a picture of the wealthy elite taken to a whole ‘nother level. gotham is the last modern vestige of the city state--and that is the wayne empire. who takes the crown now that the emperor and empress are dead? 

in OTHER news, the waynes really fucked bruce over. the murder itself was the lynching pin, causing him to jump over the fucking edge, so to speak, but he is Just A Little Boy! he is so troubled! he’s self harming and alfred yells at him and HITS HIM for being stupid, he’s listening to loud music and drawing fucked up shit, he’s both burned himself and is apparently cutting, and alfred, seeing all of this, refuses to get the boy who saw his parents shot a therapist, because the waynes told him to essentially let bruce raise himself. “the children are thoroughbreds,” basically. 

quoth barbara (thinking about essen shushing the child snatcher case in fear of bad press): “i can’t believe the system is so corrupt.” quoth jim (thinking about how he was yelled at for not beating a perp, thinking about the cop/mob connection that demanded he kill a man to prove his loyalty, thinking...): “you have no idea.” 

oh! and jim tells bruce the kids need more than money to keep them safe.

sliding scale of barbara kean’s sanity: she seems to be doing alright, but she’s troubled by jim’s troubles. also, this episode sets up some shit that will lead to irreparable damage later on; jim, even when he’s telling her things, isn’t telling her everything. she knows it. she hates it. he specifically hasn’t told her about oswald, which gives her reason to believe he’s a murderer pretty soon. plus, what she does w/ the information he does give her about his work (go straight to the press) gives him immediate reason to start trusting her less... and so they spiral.

sliding scale of ed nygma’s sanity: he’s a little bit more of a lurker this episode. creeps outside the captain’s office until someone notices him, lingers inside until everyone in the room makes it obvious he’s not welcome. he’s trying his best, but he’s not... very... “well liked,” shall we say.

continuity: montoya and allen are looking into the murder of oswald cobblepot. he was their snitch, after all. so that’s problems... many things are subtly set up in this episode: falcone and fish discuss maroni and his anticipated power play (adding another piece to the political chessboard of this season), the atp drug the child snatchers use is established to have been developed for arkham asylum, which is also established to have been closed for the past 15 years AND to have recently been in the works for a reopening, specifically by thomas and martha wayne. and that’s all just offhanded discussion. also related to the atp, when ed is listing the only three places that still stock it, it’s quillan pharma, drakatech (?)... and welzyn, which isn’t relevant at all to THIS episode (quillan’s the one dealing with the childsnatchers) but WILL become relevant to everyone in a few episodes, when welzyn manufactures viper. oh, and naturally the identity of the man the childsnatchers are working for: the dollmaker. hm!! on a lighter note, harvey’s ex-white knight tendencies that we explore in spirit of the goat are foreshadowed here; essen accuses him of leaking the child snatchers story to the press, w/ the reasoning that he’d done it before. after jim & barbara established that it was the right thing to do....

parallels: jim & selina meet in this episode. they are... The Same™. (look, i’ll come back to it later, but even tho my parallel in the pilot was btwn selina and oswald, and even tho they’re the two that are the villain counterparts to our heroes, jim and SELINA are the matched set.) also, this is the episode where fish expresses the wish that penguin wasn’t dead (because she wants him to suffer), but also she tells jim & harvey that she knew it was a mistake to order them killed as soon as she did it. so that means something? 

neither here nor there, but gertrud tells montoya & allen how elegant and well dressed oswald is, and bruce comments on the orphans’ scruffy appearances and buys them new clothes... we love a dandy, i guess.

characterization: we meet some irrelevant street kids that selina knew; zeb, smoke, and mackey (corey in the house). i’m basically using the characterization tab as fanfic reference so i might as well record that.

lazlo, fish’s lover, is relevant, in that falcone beats him to get to her. it definitely does affect her, though she says she only keeps him around for exercise. maybe more b/c of falcone’s threat and the fear of what it implies, though. 

and gertrud! ozzie’s mom. everyone connected to oswald, even outside (maybe even especially outside) of his mob connections, is a little twisted. she’s no different; she’s clearly a bit out of her head, she mistrusts the police (which i guess we’re supposed to think is suss, though really...Fair and Just), she’s got that almost creepy codependency with oswald while not really knowing what’s going on there. (other examples: elijah, oswald’s gothic horror father, martin, oswald’s lowkey homicidal son, edward, oswald’s fascist dog, jim, oswald’s corrupt boyfriend...) she also seems to think oswald has run off with some painted lady (actually, she says painted slut), which might be indicative of her experiences w/ van dahl and some unstable jealousy more than it is of oswald, who’s... you know. 

in other news, jim is all over the map here. he stops harvey beating mackey (and later, quillan, after they’ve already gotten info out of him) and protests that they should leak the story to the press, but he also seems content to keep his mouth shut until barbara takes doing good upon herself. he adapts to the mob shit pretty quick, but expresses disgust w/ the corruption in the system. he gets off on the wrong foot w/ mayor james because he disagrees with locking up the kids w/o a trial, but he doesn’t... step in... either. we see this willingness to compromise and bend the knee that means he’ll never be the hero gotham deserves. 

also, not to be a jim apologist on main or anything (ha, ha), but he’s just so... brainwashed. all this, & he still tells alfred that being a cop, which has thus far caused him nothing but pain & misery, is the “best job in the world.” because he thinks he’s helping people. (and he likes getting to feel like a hero... so where do the misguided good intentions stop and the selfish motives begin?) he also kills a man for the first time on screen this episode because for all its examinations of dirty cops... gotham is still, at the end of the day, Copaganda. in an actual moment of me drinking I Love Jim Gordon juice, jim is the one who advocates for bruce going to therapy, and tries to convince him to go personally, even when jim himself is too emotionally stunted for it to help him. 

also, backstory: harvey pegs his love life, saying, “high school sweetheart, then a bunch of hoes (read: eduardo dorrance) overseas only made you sad... and then there’s barbara.” he also calls jim a monkey riding a race horse; jim’s face is really good @ that. i misinterpreted the line about high school sweethearts back in the day to mean that barb was jim’s highschool sweetheart. this is on account of auditory processing disorder and also general dumbassery. anyway, the point is that jim is a boring, predictable bitch! whom i love.

...in terms of characterization from the episode that i don’t agree with, i can’t really see oswald writing all the shit that they had on his conspiracy board, lmfao. “crybaby brucie,” “gordon=STOOGE,” & so forth. i pretend i do not see it.

[jgroffdaily]

Jonathan Groff decides we should take advantage of what might be New York’s last suitable night for al fresco dining in 2019. He sits down at one of a dozen empty tables outside the otherwise packed Hell’s Kitchen bistro and announces, in a tone suggesting more mischief than regret, that he must first make a call.

"Hello," he says, iPhone now at his ear. "Joel Grey?"

Groff is starring in a limited revival of Little Shop of Horrors, and it is a very hot ticket. The Broadway legend on the other end of the line has apparently thrown a Hail Mary in hopes of scoring seats to the night’s sold-out performance. Hamming up this exchange for my amusement, Groff is game to play broker for the Tony and Oscar winner who originated the role of Cabaret’s tuxedoed emcee — and, maybe, anybody else who has his number.

"This is basically my part-time job," says Groff of fielding requests, jotting down credit card information and negotiating pickup times and locations for friends both famous and civilian. "It was the same thing when I was doing Hamilton," he adds of his year playing King George III in Lin-Manuel Miranda’s hip-hop history lesson. "But I was really only onstage for nine minutes during that show, so the tickets were probably full-time."

The 34-year-old actor seems eager to please, not unlike current alter ego Seymour. Little Shop’s nebbish, sweet and ultimately doomed florist nurtures a manipulative plant even as the pet’s homicidal tendencies grow more and more apparent. Those familiar with the campy musical comedy know that it suffers no shortage of blood, but it’s a nursery rhyme compared with Groff’s recent work on truecrime thriller Mindhunter. Playing a curious FBI agent in David Fincher’s Netflix series has perhaps done more for his ascendant profile than anything yet. But two seasons on the drama have meant two nine-month stints in Pittsburgh, filming interrogation scenes with character actors who bear uncanny resemblances to famous serial killers.

So even on a two-show day like this late- October Saturday, the rigors of theater are easy work for Groff. Over a couple of hot toddies, in between humoring three smitten waiters at the restaurant at which he’s been a regular since Little Shop went into previews down the block, the actor appears to be in his element. "Theater is such a communal, familial medium and interactive experience," notes Groff, who says he recognizes faces in the crowd during most performances. "Mindhunter, for me at least, is a very private experience."

Groff plays against type on Mindhunter. Wide-eyed with an almost perpetual grin, his is a mug you wouldn’t be surprised to find in an illustrated Merriam-Webster — cozied up to the entry for "baby face." Much of his previous acting career leaned into this, starting with his breakout. The Pennsylvania native came to New York at 19 and landed the lead in the musical Spring Awakening by the time he was 21. "I was just auditioning for the ensemble of Broadway shows," says Groff. "I hadn’t really developed the taste to appreciate something like Spring Awakening until I was in it."

New York’s "It" Broadway show of the aughts, the rock opera about sexual discovery among 19th century German teenagers earned Groff his first Tony nomination. He spent two years in the production before leaving in 2008, at the same time as friend and co-star Lea Michele, to pursue film and television. The work that immediately followed — Ang Lee’s Taking Woodstock, a recurring spin on Michele’s Fox hit Glee, a supporting role in the second season of Kelsey Grammer’s cult drama Boss, voicework in Disney $1.3 billion smash Frozen (he’ll reprise his role as Kristoff in Frozen 2, out Nov. 22) — got him on the radar for vehicles of his own. When HBO began casting Looking, its 2014 dramedy about a group of gay friends navigating an evolving San Francisco, Groff was soon tapped to front the series.

"He will search for the best version of every scene and will work until everyone drops," says Looking executive producer Andrew Haigh, who cast him as Patrick — boy-nextdoor- ish, like the actor, but privileged and problematically fickle. "He is also wholly unafraid to be vulnerable onscreen."

Looking lasted for only two seasons and a wrap-up movie, and its premature demise allowed Groff to do Hamilton, which he joined while the show was off-Broadway in early 2015, and then made the jump to Broadway. His supporting part as the aforementioned royal — with interstitial lamentations for the seceding Colonies, sung like a lovelorn (and supremely pissed) Davy Jones — earned Groff his second Tony nomination. But Groff wasn’t long for Hamilton, either. He was circling his next TV project, a moody prestige procedural about the early days of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, based on the 1995 memoir Mindhunter by criminal profiler John E. Douglas.

"I’m not naturally a true-crime person. So reading the book, I was like … 'oh, fuck,' "says Groff of John E. Douglas’ memoir 'Mindhunter.'

Mindhunter, the book and the series, delves into the morbid minutiae of notorious murder cases with an emphasis on interviews between law enforcement and criminals in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Groff was in contention for the role of FBI agent Holden Ford, based loosely on Douglas. First, he had to prove to director and executive producer Fincher — a filmmaker long admired by Groff, who says he has "a boner for his brain" — that a jovial Broadway star most widely known for singing with a reindeer in a Disney cartoon could have the upper hand with serial killers.

It was not Groff’s first audition for Fincher. Seven years earlier, he was in the running to play Napster co-founder Sean Parker in The Social Network. "My agents said, 'You have an audition in L.A. with David and Aaron Sorkin,' " Groff recalls. "If you get it, you start rehearsal the next day, so pack your suitcase for two months. They really like your tape, but they’re also considering Justin Timberlake." The part went to Timberlake.

"I did not feel then — and still don’t — that he had the inherent venality for that role," Fincher says of Groff. "He is as decent and sensitive as anyone I’ve ever met."

If venality is off the table for Groff, darkness is not. And though casting the song-anddance man was a source of curiosity for some in Hollywood before Mindhunter’s 2017 debut, the finished product didn’t elicit any skepticism from critics. Over the first season, Groff’s character goes from eager, milkdrinking company boy to a shell of the man introduced in the first episode. He alarms colleagues with the way he mirrors serial killers, until he has a panic attack after getting a bear hug from a necrophile. The second run, equally well reviewed after its August debut, saw a somewhat recovered Holden sit down with Charles Manson and, for the dramatic fulcrum of the season, investigate the Atlanta child murders of 1979-81.

"It is so impossibly bleak that I don’t think about it while I’m doing it," says Groff, who confesses he finds watching the show more affecting than making it. "All due respect to people who feel like the character is inside of them or whatever, but I don’t have that. I would leave set, listen to Beyoncé, and that was it."

After an hour and a half in his company, Groff reveals himself as a Lucille Ball historian, an avid bike rider, a devout New Yorker and someone who doesn’t seem easily bummed out — except when the conversation turns to success. His excitement over landing Mindhunter, he says, was immediately diluted by a pang of sadness. "Whenever something really great happens, it makes me feel a little bit depressed," he says. "It’s like, this is never going to get better than this moment right now. I’m sitting in David Fincher’s office and he’s giving me this role."

Talk of a third season of Mindhunter is on hold while Fincher focuses on his next feature. But the director did take a recent break from Mank, a biopic on Citizen Kane screenwriter Herman Mankiewicz, to attend Groff’s first Little Shop matinee with wife and fellow Mindhunter executive producer Céan Chaffin. It was a surprise appearance, but only because Groff hadn’t been checking his text messages. "I’m not good at my phone," he admits.

Groff has not looked at his phone since that one call — which, while polite, now has him in danger of running late for curtain. He breaks the bad news of his immediate departure to one particularly adoring waiter, and we walk to the stand where his bike is locked. There, he pulls from his bag a cobalt helmet that could double as Tron cosplay. Bars of blinding LED lights on both its front and back, his headgear tells cabs to get the hell out of the way and signals to everybody else that this is a man who values safety over subtlety.

"Yeah, I do really love riding my bike in the city … I’m just not that hard-core," Groff says of the helmet before encasing his tousle of sandy chestnut hair for the one-block ride to the theater and an expectant Joel Grey. "My mom bought this for me."

[scribeofmorpheus]

Mark of the Wolf Part 14

Catch Up Here!

Pairing: Derek Hale x Reader (Lastname: Markolf)

Words: 5k

Warnings: Some gory body horror bits -imo. Violence, another cold open, angst? Butchered Swedish.

A/N: It’s funny, looking back at my series plot outline, I never thought this was the direction I was going to go with this confrontation but... The pen writes what it wants.

Leave a like or reblog if you enjoyed this chapter! It helps ☺

~

Derek and Peter sat in the front of the car –Peter at the wheel driving at a more dangerous speed than Derek did. Markus sat beside you.

The others had taken other cars.

The car was cold. The air-con turned all the way up for some reason. It seemed you were the only one with goosebumps that refused to smooth over since you were the only one rubbing at your skin. In search of a warmer cardigan, you reached beside you to grab your duffle bag, but then you remembered you didn't have it. It was with Scott.

Damn!

You should have dressed warmer.

A dial tone sounded from Derek's phone. This was the third time he'd tried the same number. His brow was scrunched in annoyance as he tapped re-dial for the fourth time.

Your head was pressed to the cold glass of the window, the trees whooshing past to form one collective reel of green and brown as your nails dug into the bandage wrapped around your palm. An itch you couldn’t get at annoying your newly formed cut.

"She's not going to answer," Peter said, eyes focused on the road. "Besides, our plan isn't contingent on her being a key player."

"We need the back-up in case things go south," Derek said. "She's the only one powerful enough to take one of those hunters head-on if we need a quick exit."

"I cannot wait to say 'I told you so' when this inevitably blows up in your face," Peter snorted.

"If that happens we'll all be screwed to high hell," Derek said bleakly. “Which means, you’ll be going down with me, smart-ass.”

Peter rubbed his nose, a redness forming just above his lip. He exhaled loudly.

Once the ringing stopped, an unclear voice sounded out through Derek’s phone's speakers. He placed the phone to his ear.

"I need to cash in a favour," his tone was indifferent.

There was a beat of silence, thick and disturbing.

Peter shuffled awkwardly, stretching against the uncomfortable seat material and forward slanted head rest.

"She's not gonna show," Peter sing-songed.

You laced your fingers around your pendant, wringing it about from left to right like a pendulum. A spot on your chest marked by sage oil.

Derek hummed before cutting the phone, it sounded contemplative rather than disappointed. He turned to Peter, "I guess we're just going to have to hope everything goes as planned then."

 The car was parked on the edge of the treeline to the woods.

Peter groaned, looking down at his expensive shoes and the damp soil outside, "These were new shoes."

"I'll buy you a new pair if we live through this and you stop complaining," Derek clapped back as his heavy boots stomped into the mud, splatters of wet soil spraying on his dark jeans.

You and Markus disembarked and for once you were glad you weren't wearing your tennis trainers.

"On the plus side, if we all die, at least it’ll be in style," Markus noted dryly.

Peter shrugged and you rolled your eyes.

"Alright, split up?" Markus asked.

Derek nodded, "Yeah, since we know the lay of the land better, Peter and I will take one of you and we'll work going inward."

"If this place is so important, why hasn't anyone ever mapped out its location?" You asked, hands stuffed in your jeans to keep your body heat close as a cold breeze swept through.

"We tried. The Nematon has a tendency to hide itself," Derek told you.

"Oh..." you said, pretending to understand.

Peter looked around for a minute before speaking over his shoulder, "I'll take tall, dark and broody with me."

Both Markus and Derek pointed at themselves in confusion.

Peter rolled his eyes before pointing at your brother, "The other tall, dark and broody."

You lifted a finger to protest but before a full sound left your throat, Peter had already disappeared into the dark forest with Markus in tow.

You cursed under your breath and from the cheeky smirk Derek wore, you knew you hadn't sworn low enough.

"Come on," Derek's head nudged towards the dense forest. Hands in his back pockets.

"Perfect," you said sarcastically.

You and Derek walked in silence, your hands running up and down your bumpy flesh to burn the cold away.

The woods held an eeriness to them that made the air feel like burning sulphur despite the cold. Fog rolling outward like a dense smoke cloud the farther from the road you got.

You stepped in a mud patch and slid forward. Derek's quick hands caught you and kept you steady.

"You okay?" he looked you in the eye.

You blinked away and cleared your throat, "Yeah, t-thanks."

"You feel cold," he shrugged off his jacket. "Here."

"N-no, I- I'm fine, really," you refused his offer, but Derek ignored your words, draping his jacket around you. It was sweet of him.

"Relax. It won't eat you. It's just a jacket," he smirked.

You nodded while pressing your lips together.

"So… come here often?" you asked as Derek marched forward with long strides -you practically had to jog to keep up.

"To the woods?" he chuckled. "Yeah, this place is a riot," he added dryly.

You scrunched your face and Derek’s arms flexed as he folded them together.

"Actually I grew up close to these woods," there was a sadness to his voice.

You were intrigued, chin rising higher to get a better look at his face, "What's your family like?"

"Dead. Mostly," he noted casually.

Your eyes went wide.

Derek shuffled, feeling that maybe he sounded a bit more serious than normal. He ground his teeth before laughing humourlessly and tried again, this time lighter: "We used to be like your family, actually. Large, overwhelming, very unapologetically different."

"Thanks, I guess…?" you swatted at some fireflies.

Derek shifted his eyes blue and the bugs scattered from predatory fear. He relaxed back to normal and added, "It's a compliment, trust me."

You smiled before asking, "What happened?"

He answered almost immediately, like it as a rehearsed line or one he’d thought about many times, "The girl I was dating turned out to be a hunter… a homicidal one at that."

"Boy, those just follow you everywhere," you jabbed.

He craned a brow your way, "Goes with the territory."

He held your gaze for a moment too long and heat flushed through you, your lips tingling from the memory of his tender yet rough kiss. Your cast your eyes down at your feet.

When you looked back up you noticed Derek rubbed his nose discreetly.

You were compelled to ask him out of curiosity, "You and Peter have been doing that all night. Everything alright?" you pointed to his nose with a red nib.

"You can't smell it?" he was surprised, his eyes fixed on your pendant.

"Is it the sage?"

He hummed in response.

"Sorry," you said with a glib tone, feeling bad for causing everyone so much discomfort.

He cocked a half-smile, "Don't apologise. That is the only reason we're still alive-" he pointed at your pendant. "I can survive a little irritation. Immortal hunters? Not so much."

You stopped for a bit. Mind remembering something that made you laugh dryly. Derek turned to you.

"What?" he asked.

"N-nothing," you held his jacket as your body shook with laughter. "It's just ironic isn't it? The first time I met you, I dug a bullet out of your chest. You were the one in need of saving then. Now look at how everything turned out. I'm the proverbial damsel in distress and it pisses me off!"

It was Derek's turn to laugh, hot air permeating through the cold night in foggy breaths.

"You find that funny?" your jaw squared as you planted your feet and crossed your arms.

"I think it's funny you think you're a damsel," he smiled wider. "Not many damsels I know of have no qualms with cauterising a man's wound using the tip of an arrow and a zippo.  And you can damn well be certain they aren’t eagerly offering themselves up as bait. Not once mind you, but twice." He held up two fingers.

"Then I guess I'm an idiot," you remarked flatly.

"Aren't we all?"

Derek placed a hand on your shoulder. Your body reacted as you’d come to expect, with a shiver running up your spine and a flush rising up from your neck to greet your cheeks.

He uttered in a manner reserved for those more than friends -soft and intimate, "Take it from someone who lost their lycanthropy once, claws and teeth and speed doesn't make you powerful. Resolve does. And you've got that in spades."

You gulped, the warm feeling creeping into your chest again. It was strange seeing him so… open. This version of Derek was different from the one you first saw bleeding out on your metal slab.

Derek didn't move. His hand sending ripples of electricity through you from the contact. It didn't help matters that his jacket smelled of his scent and was wrapped around you like you were a couple in an 80's movie.

It all should have felt overbearing, too demanding, but for some reason, it felt the complete opposite. It felt like just enough.

You took a step forward and Derek stayed locked in place. He was determined to keep his promise. If anything were to happen between you two, under the stars and the pregnant silver moon, it would be only by your say so. You held all the cards and from the tantalisingly tempting way your lips tingled, you knew instinctively what your next play would be.

Your brain shouted for you to step away, to keep things from getting complicated, to not risk your heart again, but your lips parted of their own volition and soon you were speaking in a heady tone, "Derek… I…"

His jaw tensed, though it was much subtler. His eyes on the verge of turning blue. An odd aquamarine settled over his irises instead. He was trying his damndest to stay in control. It was then that you noticed how tightly he balled his other fist. The air filled with more trails of fog from his and your breaths. They kept climbing in frequency.

"I…" your feet trembled and then a howl pierced through the sound of crickets, startling you from your daze.

Derek inhaled and let his arm drop free from your shoulder, he brought it to his own and started working the muscle there as if it were sore.

"Peter's calling. Think he's found it. Come on," he shrugged as he walked in broad strokes towards the origin of the howl.

You cursed again and followed after, thankful for the cold air for the first time since the night began. It drained the colour away from your face.

"What took you guys?" Markus asked as he hopped off one foot onto the other in repeated motions.

"They were probably in-dis-posed," Peter wiggled his eyebrows as he strained the syllables of that last word, a devilish smirk pulling his face up.

Derek shook his head and you bit your inner cheek, ignoring the suggestive look Peter had shot your way.

A stone’s throw away was an old stump in the middle of the clearing. The Nematon.

"That's the Nematon?" you asked, a little disappointed.

"Not much to look at, but trust me, that thing is teeming with supernatural energy," Peter said.

Markus squatted close to the tree, placing his hand on its flat surface. His eyes flashed to red and back, nails shifting into claws then back to nails.

"They're right, this is it." He confirmed.

"This thing is barely higher than my knee. Without branches, what are we going to fashion stakes out of?" you raised your hand at the short stump.

Derek and Peter glanced at each other, each thinking the same thing.

In unison, they said: "The root cellar."

The root cellar was dark. The smell of earth was rich here. An old stain of a bloody handprint had turned a coppery orange colour on one of the root tendrils snaking into the ground. A five-fold-knot carved into another. The air was freezing, like the temperature decreased exponentially, forcing your teeth to chatter. A sickening feeling tugging at your gut as your organs protested in every way possible.

"Something bad happened here," you spoke in a hushed whisper.

Derek was stiff, eyes turning glassy as they stared daggers at the five-fold-knot. The atmosphere around him shifted. All of a sudden he was his usual brooding and detached self.

"That is an understatement," Peter replied.

Markus took in the air, coughing slightly. He and Peter scratched at their noses in almost perfect synchronicity. Not Derek though. He stayed painfully still.

"What happened here?" Markus rose his eyebrows.

Peter's mouth opened then closed, a furrow on his face.

"Let's just get what we came for and wait for the call," Derek grumbled out, claws extending instantly as he slashed at a sturdy section of root and pulled it free.

Peter ran a hand through his hair, "You heard the man."

***

You paced about the sparsely furnished loft space that belonged to Derek. There was yellow police tape discarded next to the entrance. A large window with no curtains provided most of the light in the open-plan apartment.

Derek tossed his phone on the counter, a sigh leaving his lips. "That was Scott. It worked. Now it's our turn."

"Do you think they'll make it out okay?" your voice was shaky, worry keeping you on edge.

"We can't worry about that now," Derek walked over and stretched out his hand expectantly.

You swallowed hard, a ball forming in your throat as you tried to unclasp your necklace with shaky fingers.

Derek squeezed your fingers, "Let me."

You spun around, focused on counting the number of bricks on the wall whilst he removed your necklace. His thumb brushed the back of your neck lightly and then he walked away to stash the necklace in a sealed ziplock bag, tossing it in a drawer for extra measure.

"And now?" you said after you had counted all the bricks on that stretch of wall.

"We hope Scott and Liam can take a few hits and stop any stragglers from coming our way while we..." Peter kicked his feet up and lounged on a leather couch, "Wait."

You stared down at the yellow tape, sorely aware of how tense the room was.

You did the one thing you hated doing in such instances, you made with small talk, "So… you still wanted for murder?"

Markus's head snapped up from his phone, nose no longer red. His attention was drawn towards Derek who was leaning against the kitchen island -his nose also no longer red.

"Alleged murder," he held up one hand to reassure your brother. "And, yeah, in four counties actually."

"Have you thought about what you're going to do if we survive this? I mean… you can't live on the run forever, can you?" you pressed your palms together tightly using your knees to keep from anxiously bouncing on your feet as you sat on the opposite couch to Peter’s.

"If we survive, that'll be just one of the many things I'll have to cross off my to-do list," he retorted.

Markus squinted before sitting up straight, hands clapping together once, "That's why you look so familiar. You were on the news some months ago. Manhunt in--"

"Shh!" Peter shot up quickly.

"I hear it too," Derek said hurriedly as he vaulted over the counter and pulled you behind him, stake in hand.

Right then, an arrow pierced through his large window and shattered the glass. The sharp point dug into the wooden floorboard a few inches to the left of where you'd been standing.

Here we go again.

"Okay boys," Peter cracked his neck before extending his fangs. "Once more with feeling!"

All three of them were all glowing eyes, long claws and wolfish snarls. You raced behind the kitchen island and ducked behind it for cover but no new arrows whistled through the air.

Just then, Astrid barrelled in in through the window, her nose raised high as she sniffed at the air, fangs extended. Her claws were longer than all the men's and her eyes glowed a deeper blue than Derek's or Peter's. Come to think of it, Markus was the only one in the room with red eyes.

Astrid clicked her tongue several times, one long-clawed finger swaying from the left to right, "I knew something was afoul when you weren't with the True Alpha and his rageful beta.” She turned to stare daggers at you, “Alyster will be pleased I found you and after I kill all three of your wolves, I'll deliver you to him." Her accent was heavy, Scandinavian. You realised this was the first time you'd heard her speak English.

“It is your time now,” Astrid pointed at you, a grin on her face.

Peter laughed.

Astrid’s eyes twitched, "What is so funny?" she demanded.

"The fact you thought it would be that easy," he replied like he knew the punchline to a joke she didn’t.

Astrid took a step closer, her claws slicing through the air. Peter leaned back with perfect timing.

"Now!" Derek growled.

Theo burst out of a hiding spot holding a jar of black ash and chucked a whole fist full of it at a broken circle on the floor. An impregnable ring forming around them while the other men in the room tried to hold the rabid Astrid down. You dashed back to the drawer Derek had stashed your necklace in and quickly clipped it back on.

"Mountain ash!" Astrid screamed in anger.

Like a volatile typhoon, Astrid took on all three men, her long claws slashing deep and wide. Blood soaked through torn clothes and your ears were deafened by the piercing howls and deep growls that vibrated off larynxes. Markus lifted his stake when he got an opening, but Derek held his hand at bay.

"No!" Derek stated bluntly.

Markus stared in confusion, not about to let one of the people that'd nearly killed his sister survive.

Peter took the brunt of Astrid's attacks while Derek and Markus were forced in a stand-off.

"Get out of my way!" Your brother shouted, twisting his arm free from Derek's hold

"We need her alive!" Derek shouted back, replacing his hold with his other hand. “For now.”

"Can we argue about this later?" Peter spoke through bloody teeth.

"Rahhh!" Astrid shouted as she lodged her claws into Peter's side, a scream ringing out.

You gasped, taking a step forward.

Derek got distracted by the sound for a fraction of a second, but it was all it took for Astrid to sink her claws into his back and lift him up over her head.

"Derek!" you screamed as you rushed forward, body impaired by the force field of blue light that flooded your vision when you collided with the mountain ash barrier.

Derek spat out a splotch of coppery scented blood as she threw him onto the ground, hard. The sound of his jaw breaking made the floorboards shake. Markus wasted no time and imbedded his stake in her spine. Astrid screeched, dark veins rising up to become visible around her neck and temple.

"Omöjligt..." she whispered as she collapsed onto the ground. Her eyes still open and her chest still moving. He hadn't killed her, but Markus had successfully immobilised her.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. No!" Peter panicked over Derek's bloody and sliced form. His wounds healing, albeit not fast enough. "What the hell were you thinking?" he glared at Markus with bared fangs.

Markus answered matter-of-factly, "Protecting my pack."

You whimpered when you saw black oozing from Derek's wounds.

That wasn't good.

"If he dies…" Peter whispered low and sinister. Then he snapped up at you and Theo when Derek grunted weakly, "Break the seal damn it!"

Theo broke the circle with the dragging of his heel and a wave of blue energy rippled out. Faster than you’d ever seen him move before, Peter carried Derek to his couch.

Upon seeing the blood and smelling the copper, your veterinary skills kicking in. You ran to Derek's side and steeled your nerves before slicing the knife across his shirt and exposing his chest. Peter slumped down next to you, eyes serious.

"Help me tie her up," Theo asked for Markus's assistance as he hoisted Astrid onto a chair, binding her hands in rope.

The black veins had spread and her skin was beginning to wrinkle and prune. The tips of her fingers discolouring to a dark purple as one of her nails slipped off from the crown with no opposition.

"Eugh!" Theo grimaced in disgust as he held back a gag. "Uh, man! I th- think she's- she's starting to decompose. Rapidly."

Markus blocked his nose as a new stench wafted through the air.

You could smell it too. It was so strong it made your eyes nearly water.

"Whatever magic keeps her alive, the root from the Nematon must be sapping her dry. You were right," Markus assessed.

"Whatever you needed her alive for, you better do it quick," Theo urged as his cheeks filled with air from a repressed gag.

"Fools…" Astrid spat, a tooth slowly dislodging from her blackening gums. "We can't die!”

"Yeah, well you aren't looking very alive either," Theo coughed out from behind his palm, trying to keep from breathing in her ghastly scent.

Astrid carried on, “One always takes our place. We’re divine soldiers. A champion must always exist as long as the First Coming still lives."

“The First Coming? You mean the plague?” Markus pumped her for information.

Astrid huffed. She smelled like a gangrene infested wound, septic and infected, “The First Coming isn’t a sickness. She is a woman of unparalled power. Only her own magic can imprisson her. Only the blood of the tainted will keep her at bay. When there are none of the ex alia left she will bring about the end of the world. ”

You ignored Astrid’s discomforting words and felt all over across Derek's back, running over the imperfect triskelion. Padded fingers forced black ichor to cascade out from circular holes torn through flesh. Derek's eyelashes fluttered in pain and all you saw were the whites of his eyes. He was too quiet. Too slack. It was unbearable to see him like this, but you had to focus.

You wouldn't let what happened to Alex happen again.

Not to Derek.

"Peter, get me a sharper knife and some alcohol!" You ordered while examining the claw marks more closely. "Markus get me better light. Theo check to see if any of Astrid's claws broke off her fingers."

Displeased, Theo tried to look over Astrid's fingers as carefully as he could, his face sneered in disgust as he held back more gags. When he tried to lift a finger up gently the interphalangeal joint came right off, skin and flesh peeling away freely.

"Eugh! Gross! They keep sliding off like… like fucking butter, I can't- It's too-" He retched dropping Astrid’s severed finger bit like he just lost at a game of hot potato.

Markus scrambled to collect every lamp he could find and place it closer to you while Peter arrived with the whole cutlery tray ripped out of the drawer. Peter unscrewed the cap off the bottle of scotch and held it out for you.

You took a swig and then another and then poured some over Derek's scraped back. Derek shuddered, but no sound came out of his mouth.

Unresponsive to pain, he was going into shock.

You pulled out a butter knife, doused it in alcohol and started digging around Derek's first cut, barking at Theo with authority, "You're just gonna have to deal with it, Theo! Just keep checking!"

Peter picked up the bottle of scotch and took a few swigs himself.

Astrid started laughing, her voice growing hoarse with each chorus, one of her teeth fell out and Theo winced, dodging the discarded enamel.

"Wait, you're right!" Theo shouted when he looked over her other hand. "One of her claws is broken in half! Among other things…"

"That's why he isn't healing," you bit down, resigning yourself to breathe only through your nostrils as you concentrated hard on your task. "I just have to get it out in tim- Shit!" You wiped sweat away with a blood-stained hand.

"What? What is it?" Peter leaned closer.

"I think it punctured his heart..." you stammered, more tears welling in your eyes. You chased them away with a loud clearing of your throat.

Peter dropped the scotch bottle, the glass shattering and spilling amber liquid everywhere. Then, leaving you with no time to react, he lunged at your brother and the two struggled against one another.

"Stop, stop, stop, stop it! You two can fight it out if he… dies. But not while he's still breathing!" Your shout echoed in the loft.

They all stilled, even Astrid. You returned your attention back to Derek.

You had cleaned Derek's wounds as best you could, but Astrid's claw had pierced too deep into his heart. You were afraid you'd simply send Derek off to a far quicker death if you pulled it out. Maybe that would be a mercy, considering his state now.

Derek's body was burning way past the normal temperatures of any human fever. Almost like he was fighting off an infection. His skin was damp and his wounds not yet healed –that scared you. You compressed his larger cuts with the rags of his shirt, but there wasn't much else to do but wait.

Wait and watch him die.

You sniffled several times, trying to keep from progressing to full-on crying. Your heart heavy and your stomach twisting on itself.

"Theo, go to Scott, you can do more for him there. Take Markus with you. He isn't wanted here," Peter said without looking up from his nephew's dying form.

Markus took a step forward, "If you think I'm leaving my sister alone with yo--"

"Go with him," you said softly, not looking up from the blood-soaked rag. "I'll be fine."

Astrid was getting worse too. Her skin had turned leathery now, as though she was mummifying. Her eyes dulled in colour as cataracts formed over her filmy eyeballs. She couldn't see even though her eyes were wide open.

Peter picked himself off the floor and grabbed Derek's stake off the ground.

"What are you going to do with that?" you asked with no emotion. You knew exactly what he was going to do, you just didn't want to go forward with something unsaid.

"I'm going to save my nephew," he said through gritted teeth and he moved over to kneel next to Astrid. "Tell me how to save him!" he barked in her ear. From the way she didn’t react, you guessed her eardrums were the next to go in her decay cycle.

Her head craned too far back, popping sounds emanating from her sagging neck, "You're too late. Kill me. Don't kill me. It doesn't matter. It's up to him now,” one of her fingers pointed at Derek before falling clean off.

Peter growled before stabbing one of Astrid's bony legs under her now baggy armour.

She wheezed in pain.

Peter tilted his head to the side, twisting the stake in her tough, meatless leg, "Tell. Me. How!"

Astrid's jaw pulled wide as she tried to hold back a scream, a rip forming at the corner of her mouth.

"Peter stop!" You stood and pulled the stake out of her leg. "We aren't monsters."

His eyes flashed blue and he backed you away from him with a frightening snarl, canines chomping at the air close to your face, "That's where you're wrong. I am a monster!"

In lightning-quick movements, Peter pushed the stake into Astrid's heart and her whole body began to shrivel.

Between straggled breaths from burst air sacs, Astrid raised her head towards the light of the full moon, a melancholic smile crossing her dehydrated face. With what little life she had left, she whispered words not meant for anyone in this room, "I det här livet och nästa. Jag kommer se dig igen. Min kärlek..."

Then her head went limp, falling to her deflated chest as the ropes slipped off her body. Astrid was no more and in her place was a pathetic mummified corpse steadily turning to dust. Then she was nothing.

Suddenly, and violently, the weather changed. The wind grew tumultuous, a horrifically sharp scream carried with it. In the distant, lighting struck down in unnatural and frequent bursts of light. Somewhere in the dark clouds, a tornado began to swirl.

You and Peter ignored the chaos happening right outside the window. The two of you were locked in your own personal pandemoniums.

"Pull out the claw," Peter said darkly, having made up his mind.

"It's too close to his heart. If I-"

Peter's nose almost touched your own. His clawed fingers wrapping around your neck to pull you close, "His condition is only getting worse. Pull out the claw. If he's going to die, it's going to be quick. Put him out of his misery."

You shoved Peter away, but you knew, deep down, it would be the humane thing to do. And now you knew you had definitely gone insane if you were agreeing with Peter Hale.

“You just had to make me say I told you so,” he said bitterly, a tear streaming down his face. “Just like your mother.”

You knelt next to Derek, trembling fingers grazing his paling flesh. As you wrapped your hands around the tweezers gripping the claw, you whispered in his ear, "You said it took someone of tremendous resolve to go through what I've been through and have survived. I also believe it takes someone of great resolve to go through what you go through every day and still have the courage to wake up every morning. I admire that about you. I believe you still have some fight left, Derek… and I need you to survive this… because… because I have a question to ask you."

With a solemn teardrop, you pulled the claw out of his heart and crumbled to the floor, palms pressed together as you and Peter held your breaths.  

An otherworldly green glimmer shone from inside Derek's open wound.

Finale!>>

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[tisthenightofthewitch]

Grammy-nominated metal band Ghost addresses ‘satanic’ accusations: ‘There are other music styles that promote a way worse lifestyle’

Bombastic, theatric, operatic metal Swedes have become unlikely Grammy darlings, winning Best Metal Performance in 2016 and scoring two nominations at this year’s upcoming 61st Annual Grammy Awards for Best Rock Album and Best Rock Song. But not everyone’s a fan. “We obviously are a polarizing band,” Ghost’s fearless leader Tobias Forge — alternately known as the diabolical priest character Papa Emeritus or Papa’s panda-eyed successor, Cardinal Copia — tells Yahoo Entertainment.

Though Ghost’s over-the-top, presumably tongue-in-greasepainted-cheek satanic imagery has always drawn detractors, the band has finally started to gain widespread acceptance. Aside from its multiple Grammy nods, its fourth album, Prequelle, went to No. 3 on the Billboard album chart and made Yahoo Entertainment’s list of the top 10 albums of 2018, and that album’s monster single, “Rats,” spent an incredible seven weeks at No. 1 on the Billboard Mainstream Rock Songs chart. However, as Ghost’s fame has grown, so have some of the protests targeting the band — including a bizarre one that took place last year in Midland, Texas, during Ghost’s “A Pale Tour Named Death” U.S. arena trek.

Last November, Larry Long, the pastor of the Fellowship Community Church, said Midland needed to be protected from the supposedly devil-worshiping group, warning a local CBS affiliate, “This kind of band will bring spiritual influences into this area. We’re concerned about it, because we believe the devil is real, just as we believe God is real. … I think if [young fans are] singing along to those lyrics, who knows what in the world they’re opening their hearts and lives up to?”

Ghost’s Midland show went on as planned, of course. “At the end of the day, what [the Fellowship Community Church] caused was more tickets sold — so thank you very much,” Forge chuckles.

Still, although Forge says such outrage is “to an extent, amusing,” he adds, “To a greater extent, I think it’s sad. … I find it saddening thinking that there are people who don’t know f***ing bad from good and s*** from Shinola. I find it saddening that people would choose to stand out in the cold [protesting Ghost], thinking that they’re making a difference. I think it’s sad that people are wasting their time thinking that we’re bad for people, when actually what we’re really trying to do is make people happy and make people feel good about themselves when they come to our show and have a good time.”

Although certain PMRC-baiting shock-rockers that paved the way for Ghost — Ozzy Osbourne, AC/DC, Judas Priest, Marilyn Manson — have been accused of encouraging suicidal or homicidal tendencies among impressionable fans, Forge believes that “dark music, everything from gothic to death metal and black metal and hardcore” can, on the contrary, be a source of celebration and even salvation. “There are definitely rock fans over the years that have done negative things toward each other and or towards themselves, but I don’t think that’s because of the music. That’s because they were in a bad place in their lives,” he stresses. “Actually, it might have even been the music that made them live so long, that kept them going. Hard rock, in general, does not promote that you should harm anyone.

“I definitely think there are other music styles that promote a way worse lifestyle, that you could look upon as being more negative,” Forge says. “Other music styles that promote a way of living that their fans will never have — when music is all about ‘making it’ and wearing ‘bling-bling’ and ‘all them bitches,’ and the idea that without that stuff you’re nothing — that is a bad influence for your fans. At least with most gothic or hard rock music, it’s about feeling good about yourself.”

Forge instead sees Ghost as following in tradition of “the big shock-rock bands of 1984” that his much older, punk-rocker brother introduced him to when he was growing up in a liberal, pop-culture-savvy home in Linköping, Sweden. “The artists I immediately grasped onto were when I was 3 years old,” Forge recalls. “[Motley Crue’s] Shout at the Devil, [Twisted Sister’s] Stay Hungry, KISS, stuff like that. My brother was so nice and just passed those records on to me, like, ‘Here, you’ll like this more.’ I played them all the time. Then it just blossomed from there.”

Now Ghost is being heralded as the imagination-sparking band that will serve the same purpose for today’s rock-starved youth. “I do believe that there is a glimmer of hope in what we do with regards to the fact that there are a lot of kids coming to our shows. We are the first band that they see live. That is a really good thing, thinking long-term,” Forge muses. “I don’t mind being that glimmer of hope. I do believe that the more exposure we get, the more time that we spend in people’s ears, I hope that the interest in analog rock will be kept alive or awoken or might find a way into kids of today. I guess we could be a little bit [for today’s young fans] what KISS was in the ’70s.”

That being said, Forge is reluctant to accept the pro-Ghost media’s proclamations that Ghost are the new saviors of rock ‘n’ roll. “I’d love for the mainstream music climate to steer back towards rock, and I’m sure it will at some point. But does that mean there will be image-driven shock-rock bands, as far as a movement? I don’t know,” he says. “I do believe that the rock bands that will be big in the future are the ones that are being formed by kids, the 18-year-olds, today, right now. They are the ones that will rock the future, because that’s how it always is. The bands that will be big in five or 10 years, when there might be a big domination of rock again, will be bands that we most likely don’t know as of right now.”

But those bands, as Forge hints, may very well be Ghost disciples, because today’s kids, despite the handwringing of concerned conservatives like Long, are loving Ghost’s epic live shows — in which a Pope-robed Papa Emeritus, flanked by horn-headed and occasionally keytar-wielding Nameless Ghouls, perform anti-authority anthems like “Satan Prayer,” “Depth of Satan’s Eyes,” “Death Knell,” “From the Pinnacle to the Pit,” “Witch Image Life Eternal” and the undeniably earwormy “Dance Macabre” in a rock ‘n’ roll church bedecked with inverted crosses. Such imagery and song titles may be alarming to some, but it seems the little kids understand.

“The biggest misconception [about Ghost] is that the lyrical content is being provocative because it’s about God. And it’s not. It’s not about God at all,” insists Forge. “It’s about man, mankind. I use language and analogy to make it seem that it is about other things, but the songs are usually, they are about very real things. Sometimes I think it’s almost laughable to the point of annoying that protesters are just picking up on the literal meaning.

“There are many misconceptions about who I am or how I think, and of course it’s annoying. But that is just part of being in a band nowadays. If I didn’t want any of this, I shouldn’t be in a band. But I want to do this. I want to rock.”

Yahoo.com

[the-odeviant-machine-blog]

Compliance

Summary: You had started to give up on your career as a detective, falling backwards into the role of glorified babysitter for your volatile, alcoholic mentor instead. But then, one day...

...you met a robot.

Eventual Connor x Female Reader

A familiar, drumming ache had begun to build at the back of your skull, the low, dingy yellow lighting and stale scent of cigarette smoke doing absolutely nothing to help. The cause of your pain, both literally and metaphorically, sat next to you, slouched on his stool, slumped against the bar, half-full glass of whiskey still in hand and with no intention of budging. You’d used up all your usual tricks to no avail and were now seriously considering leaving him to his self-destructive tendencies while you just went and solved the damn case yourself.

Not that it would be the first time.

“Hank,” you sighed, massaging your temples with your fingertips as you leaned your elbows on the sticky surface. “We were supposed to be at the crime scene an hour ago.”

Become a Detective, they said. Make the world a better place, they said.

As much as you loved the man, if you would have known this would be your life when you accepted the promotion, you would have just stayed a beat cop. He scoffed, raising the glass back to his lips as he responded offhandedly.

“And I told you to go on ahead without me. I’ll be just fine.”

You narrowed your eyes as he took a long, leisurely drink from the glass tumbler, releasing an exaggerated ‘ahhh’ as the amber liquid entered his system.

“I can’t keep doing that,” you snapped, nearing the end of your rope. “You seriously don’t think Captain Fowler hasn’t noticed?”

He pulled a face that clearly expressed how he felt about what the Captain could do with his opinion but remained otherwise silent. When you’d left the station to find him, you’d hoped it was still with enough time to stop him before he fell into his usual hole of bitterness and unjustified rebellion. You’d quickly realized that was not the case. Although you were certain he knew you were the only reason he still had a position with the Detroit Police Department, you also knew he didn’t care. You pulled your eyes away from his grizzled face, clenching your hands into fists and squeezing until the anger that rose up your throat like bile calmed and dispersed.

“Fine,” you growled, shoving yourself away from the bar and pulling yourself to your feet. “Just remember, when the shit falls down directly on top of your head, I tried.”

He waggled his fingers in your direction in a half-hearted goodbye that felt more like a ‘shoo, little fly.’ With one, last, withering look, you jerked your coat back up your arms, concealing the badge and service pistol strapped to the waistband of your jeans as you moved to stride purposefully out of the shady bar and out into the cool night air. The muscles of your legs froze mid-step as the front door clattered shut and your eyes fell to the tall, slender figure that now occupied the doorway. Stiff, rigid, you would have been able to spot what he was even without the glowing blue ring that spun neatly on his left temple.

An android?

You were intrigued by an android with programming strong enough to bypass an anti-android barrier, but what really piqued your interest was the model number printed in clean, glistening characters across his jacket.

RK800

You’d never heard of that model before. And you’d certainly never seen an android wearing fitted blue jeans with a tailored sport coat and matching tie. he looked like the kind of Detective you’d see in the old movies you used to watch with your father. The ones that made you want to be a Police Officer. Kind face, intelligent eyes, clean look. It begged the question of where the guys at Cyberlife were really drawing their inspiration. You started as his eyes snapped to yours, pupils dilating ever so slightly, and you felt a chill crawl up your spine as you realized you were being scanned. his face lifted with recognition, and your stomach twisted into knots as he began walking in your direction.

Naturally.

It was only a matter of time before Cyberlife released a model capable of doing your job, and a string of cases of androids murdering their owners seemed as good a time as any to test it out. That would explain the blatant disregard of the ‘NO ANDROIDS’ sign printed clearly on the front door. You remained firmly in place as he approached. He would be looking for the lead Detective on the case. Unfortunately, the lead Detective was a volatile, binge-drinking, android-hating lunatic.

“Good evening, Detective,” he addressed you in an even, friendly voice. “My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by Cyberlife. I’m looking for Lieutenant Anderson, and I was told you might be able to point me in the right direction. I looked for you at the station but was told you had already set out in search of him yourself and to check the nearby bars.”

The bashful grin that lifted the corner of his mouth stunned you for a moment. Cyberlife had really upped its game.

“I was lucky enough to find you at the fifth bar.”

You knew that was just his social relations program talking, it was merely chance that he ran into you first. He had already scanned every face in the bar, and he already knew the man he was looking for was just over your right shoulder. The complicated algorithm at the core of the program computed higher chances of mission success if he could gain your trust as well, you were sure. Adapt, assimilate, integrate. His politeness only made you feel worse. Hank was going to eat him alive.

“Yeah,” you began, pinching the bridge of your nose as the dull ache that throbbed low in your skull swelled to a sharp, stabbing pain. “Look, uh… Connor…Hank… Lieutenant Anderson isn’t exactly in a visiting mood.”

He tilted his head slightly, soft brown eyes fixed on your face.

“I understand,” he began, though you knew he wouldn’t give up that easy. “I know that some people are not comfortable in the presence of androids, but I am- “

“I am perfectly comfortable.”

You winced as Hank’s voice interjected forcefully from over your shoulder.

“Why don’t you stop fuckin’ around, leave the lady alone and tell me what a plastic asshole like you wants with me?”

Connor’s cool gaze snapped to your right to the agitated, unruly man completely and utterly unfazed by his outburst.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” he began again, voice still as calm and even as a light breeze.

You sighed in resignation, shoulders dropping in defeat as you stepped aside and allowed the mysterious android to pass.

“My name is Connor. I’m the- “

“Yeah, I fuckin’ heard you the first time. Just tell me what the hell you want,” Hank barked, snapping down the remainder of his whiskey and signaling Jimmy for another.

Again, Connor did little more than blink calmly back at the bristling man that currently bordered on hostile, waiting patiently for him to get settled with his fresh refill before speaking.

“You were assigned a case early this evening, a homicide involving a Cyberlife android.”

You weren’t sure if he was expecting a response, but it didn’t take long for him to get the hint.

“In accordance with procedure, the company has allocated a specialized model to assist investigators.”

You barely heard Hank’s grumbled response as you studied Connor from the side. A specialized model? You weren’t entirely certain what than meant, but you were eager to find out.

“Look, I think you should stop drinking and come with me.”

Your jaw nearly snapped clean off, your shock at the android’s nonchalant, yet direct, approach rooting you in place.

“It’ll make life easier for the both of us.”

The seconds that followed felt like the last precious moments before a grenade detonation. Luckily, that one was a dud. Hank simply lifted his glass back to his lips in lieu of a response, sipping from his beloved amber ambrosia with the cold indignance you had come to expect from him.

When had that happened?

You didn’t have time to welcome the familiar pang of sadness that accompanied that thought, as it turned out this Connor model wasn’t just a pretty face.

“Tell you what,” he began, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a neatly folded stack of paper bills held together by a slim silver money clip.

For emergencies, you assumed. Why else would an android need paper bills? He plucked one from the stack with two slender fingers, pressing it flat to the bar and sliding it forward.

“How about I buy you one for the road?”

He looked up to Jimmy’s surprised face.

“Bartender? The same again please.”

And then, a miracle happened. The roof of the shady bar faded away, the heavens parted, an angelic glow suddenly enveloping the first android in history that didn’t elicit a violent response from the angriest man you knew.

“See that Jimmy?” Hank chuckled.

Chuckled.

“Wonders of technology. Make it a double.”

Your face snapped to Connor, blinking stupidly at what was, without a doubt, the most sophisticated piece of machinery you had ever encountered. He turned his face to the side, offering you a small, lopsided grin before looking back to Hank as the older Detective drained his glass and turned to the two of you.

“A homicide you say?” he said with a grin, hard gaze scouring Connor from head to toe.

“Yes,” Connor answered politely. “That’s correct. The victim’s android is the primary suspect. I calculated the quickest route at approximately twenty-two point seven minutes depending on in-route traffic conditions. Are you ready to get going?”

Hank took another moment to study Connor’s remarkably human face, lazily hauling himself off his stool and bracing one hand against the bar to steady himself on his feet. He looked from Connor to you, giving you a long, indecipherable look before shrugging crookedly.

“Fuck it,” he slurred flippantly, stumbling through a half turn to stagger for the door.

Connor turned back to you, holding his hand out in a ‘ladies first’ gesture with that same lopsided grin. You wordlessly complied, still to stunned to do much else, following Hank’s wobbling figure out the door and into the cold night air. The harsh late Autumn wind that bit and snapped across your cheeks and nose cleared your head of the pulsating ache and your sinuses of the stale, suffocating scent of warm beer and old cigarettes.

“Car’s this way,” Hank grumbled, fishing in his pockets for his keys. “You may need to drive.”

Connor nodded and set to follow.

“Certainly,” he said crisply. “I am programmed for- “

“I’ll drive,” you interjected, still finding it difficult to keep your eyes off the strange new android that had done what no human had ever been able to do.

Gotten Hank Anderson out of a bar in three sentences.

“It’s not too far. We can- “

“Nah, kid,” Hank cut in. “Me and Detective Barbie here can handle this one. Why don’t you take the night off.”

You could see the dying glint of something you hadn’t seen in his guarded eyes in a long time. He was trying to be kind, you knew that, and your to-do list was in desperate need of attention. But you couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed by his shit timing. A detective android?

“What?” you teased, “Get an upgrade and I’m chopped liver?”

The corner of his mouth lifted in the closest thing to a genuine grin you had seen on his grizzled face in years.

“Well, shit, I was tryna be nice. You wanna work? Fine.” He tossed his arms in the air, resuming his trek across the street to his car. “I aint gonna stop you.”

Connor once again moved to follow, taking several purposeful strides in Hank’s direction before pausing and turning back to you, chocolate eyes slipping across your face as he tilted his head towards you.

“It was nice to meet you, Detective. I hope you’ll accompany us to the crime scene. I’m really looking forward to working with you.”

With one last grin, he turned and strode away, leaving you to stand, stunned stupid, in the middle of the road. You looked over your shoulder to where you had parked nearly an hour before, contemplating Hank’s offer, and Connor’s invitation. A night off was just what the doctor ordered, and you knew Hank would catch you up in the morning. After all, it was impossible to know when you would have another opportunity.

But on the other hand…

Your eyes found the retreating back of Cyberlife’s newest model, tracing along the neat lettering that gleamed in the low streetlight as your intrigue scratched along the back of your mind like a kenneled dog. The curiosity he had sparked inside you roared to life with a vengeance, and you couldn’t deny how badly you wanted to see for yourself exactly what he was capable of.

And there was just…something about him…

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth as you contemplated, though somewhere deep down you knew you had already made up your mind and wanted it to seem like you had a harder time deciding than you actually did.

A night of freedom, or a night of solving crime with the pride and joy of Cyberlife and a hard-boiled, eccentric police Lieutenant.

An obvious choice, really.

[margridarnauds]

2, 8, 9, 20, 30, 31, 32, 40, 51 (for the abominaton)

Thanks!

2. Favorite part of writing.

I love the feeling that comes with putting the thoughts that I’ve been visualizing in my mind on the page, I love getting to work with characters that I love dearly and putting them where normal circumstances wouldn’t, I love dealing with a wide cast of characters that help me learn more about myself.

8. Favorite trope to write.

In general, I like to write emotionally constipated characters dealing with their gay emotions for the first time. Also, I tend to work with straight-up fix-its or dealing with post-canon events (and, when I say “post canon” I mean “post my very, very specific version of canon).

9. Least favorite trope to write.

This is probably surprising, but I tend to not be fond of actually writing depressing endings. Like, even in the universes where I kill characters off, I like to at least give them some closure, even if it’s an afterlife AU. (Which…the Afterlife AU for Pour la Peine is going to be fun if I ever get around to it).

Also, I don’t like Modern AUs all that much, even though I have numerous ones for 1789. It’s probably mostly a matter of translating 18th century politics to the modern age. That and I hate writing anything set in the modern age on principle.

20. Post a snippet of a WIP you’re working on.

Tw: References to animal abuse, bullying, and Lazare being a 13 year old with slightly homicidal tendencies (BUT HE’S STILL VALID)

Lazare didn’t know how he got involved. One moment he was gritting his teeth in anger at them, his rage reaching a boiling point after one of the punches caused Ronan to cry out, the next one of the bullies was on the ground crying, Ronan was putting another one on the ground nearby him, and he had his hand wrapped around  Denis’ throat, feeling his fingernails tighten around skin that had never been bruised before. All those military exercises his grandfather had made him run had their uses, he thought, as a strange thrill ran through him. Thibault Denis couldn’t do anything now, couldn’t hurt anyone; he was completely under his control. No matter how much he tried, flailed, choked, the little pretend tyrant was weak. So this was what authority meant. All that time when his grandfather had tried to explain it to him, and he’d never fully understood it.

“Lazare!” He was vaguely aware of Ronan shouting, and that was enough for him to release his grip. The boy fell to the ground, looking at him like he was Death incarnate, all widened eyes and quick breathing before he ran as fast as he could, his legs barely supporting him. The others followed suit, and it was just him, Ronan, and the cat. He flexed his hands, remembering the touch, looking at Ronan, wondering how he would look at him now that Lazare had hurt one of his own, but if he’d seen anything unusual, he hadn’t noticed, lavishing attention to the cat instead.

“Why would someone do something like that, huh? It’s just a cat, it wasn’t harming anybody.” Ronan held the wretched thing in his arms, petting it, with its torn ear and matted, faded fur and bony spine. “It probably just wanted to make friends.”

“The world can be cruel.” It had been the first thing he’d been told, when he was left on the steps of the Chateau de Peyrol and greeted by a stern, sharp man who introduced himself as his grandfather, and it had been something that he’d made sure he’d remember. The world had been cruel since time began, it would remain cruel. All that was important was ensuring that he himself did the best he could in the role he was given and to support the Crown in its efforts to keep order amidst the destructive forces that would bathe the world in fire otherwise.

Ronan shook his head. “It doesn’t have to be.” He held the cat a little closer, letting it burrow its face into his chest weakly, its pink tongue flicking over his fingers slowly. “It doesn’t have to be.”

30. Favorite line you’ve ever written.

There was a sadness in du Puget’s eyes, and Peyrol felt like he was a schoolboy again, missing some obvious point that he had just explained to him in vivid detail. Only instead of the immediate reprisals, he got this. A beating he could deal with, scorn he could deal with, pity he could not. “We are all human beings, Monsieur de Peyrol. We are all human beings with a child’s longing for the companionship and love of our fellow man. If you cannot do that basic amount for him, then you will never deserve his trust or his love, no matter how many livres you pour into it.” 

31. Hardest character to write.

In general, any of the kid characters. I HATE writing children in general, and in the first part of the Abomination in particular SO MUCH rests on selling the kid versions of Ronan and Lazare and their relationship because literally the rest of this universe depends on them. I consider having to type “How do children make friends” and “What do children do with friends” to be on par with me trying to think about how long it’d take me to bang the man who (hypothetically) killed my father as far as Signature Abomination Moments.

For the non-historical characters of 1789, I’ve talked repeatedly how hard Solene is to write because of how little we get on her and how downright contradictory a lot of it is (see: her talking about how ambition and bloodlust have blinded Ronan…while she and the girls lynch a baker and march to Versailles. You go girl?) And you want to do a solid job with her, especially since her storyline touches on subjects that are STILL pretty damn sensitive, but you also don’t want to accidentally put her into any of the contemporary stereotypes of The Fallen Woman, The Victim, The Fury, etc, or any of our modern stereotypes when it comes to what a sex worker should look like and behave. That and trying to develop her relationship with Olympe is going to be slightly harder than usual, given that I still…need to figure out how they’re going to meet. With Pour la Peine, it was easier, since they had an easy way to meet up (Ronan’s funeral, RIP bro), but here, this is taking place in the canon era.

On a larger level, writing ANY of the historical figures that we have a decent amount of documentation for is hard, since these are people who are still highly controversial to this day and who can kind of….shift between different sources. Not necessarily the ones they wrote themselves, but, like, if you ask ten different people about Robespierre, you’ll get ten different responses. You’ll think you’ve caught onto him, and then he slips away. Likewise for Antoinette or Fersen or De Launay. Even Papa du Puget is rather hard for me to grasp, not the least because I know that the sources I need are locked behind an archive in France, untranslated and mostly obscure. (Funnily enough, the easiest for me to grasp is the Marquis de Sade, because the man’s just a dick. I will proudly proclaim the man’s a dick. He deserved to spend the rest of his life rotting away and I consider it an eternal tragedy that far better men than him in every way died during the course of the Frev while he managed, despite himself, to survive.) With some characters, like Danton and Desmoulins, I sense that my interpretation of them is going to be much different than the normal interpretation of them.

Basically, there’s a lot of pressure with them that isn’t necessarily there with the canon OCs, I don’t have as much freedom, and it can be damn hard to put them into a given situation to see how they’d react. (Incidentally, I’m going to put a tentative guess that they won’t react well to L/R. Just a guess. Though I’m sure Lazare can win them over with his A+ social skills, charm, and tact.) 

32. Easiest character to write.

Laz and I get along very well at this point, even as I torture him.

40. Original Fiction or Fanfiction, and why?

Fanfiction, actually.

With original fiction, there’s a lot of pressure when it comes to constructing the world you’re working with and the characters and how they interact with it. And, believe me, it’s a lot of fun, but it’s also damned hard to visualize it. Like, I fucking specialize in Early Irish Lit, and yet my retelling of CMT is hard to write 90% of the time because I have a hard time working with this world and how it works (which…given that the rules themselves weren’t concrete in the original lit, I don’t feel all that bad, but still). To tell you the truth, even after looking at tons of pictures of longhouses and hillforts and costumes from the Book of Kells, I still can’t get a decent idea for this stuff. It’s even harder for the main WIP, where I have to do a lot more construction, working with inspirations from multiple time periods, and it’s a real mess because I’ve never entirely gotten those inspirations under control and the characters keep shifting out from under me.

With fanfic, on the other hand, you have characters, you have a setting, and you have a decent idea with how the world works. Now, you can always do what I do and completely throw canon out anyway, BUT you still have some basics. No matter what, I have some baseline for the characters and some baseline for how the world works and I can build my research off of that.

51. Describe the aesthetic of your story _______ in 5 sentences or words.

Doing this for the first part because it’d be literally impossible to do it otherwise.

A gloved hand on a black walking stick, a slightly bent, silver wolf’s head gleaming from the top.

A sea of golden wheat over flat land as far as the eye can see, a sharp blue sky hanging over it.

An old, faded book with a decrepit spine.

A blue parrot locked in a gilded cage.

Two boys against a tree on a slightly chilly summer night, looking at the stars, unaware of what they hold for them.