You said I am a good man,” he said. “But I am not that good a man. And I am–I am catastrophically in love with you.
Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Princess (via quotesofthewrittennature)
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WHICH ANIMAL ARE YOU ?
take the quiz & post your results. remember to repost, not reblog!
tagged by: @overindulges technically on all my blogs
tagging: no. >:^(
david is a weasel.
attractive / mischievous / conceited / untrustworthy
weasels are suave and disarmingly charming. with their quick minds and lithe physiques they might appear to be promising companions, but are notorious for the machiavellian streak that underscores their personalities. their behavior is motivated by the fact that [ ... ] the weasel requires more devious tactics. its survival strategy is based on the manipulation of others and it uses charm as its chief weapon.
weasels lack the emotional and spiritual maturity found in the larger carnivores. they are masters of chaos and their above average intelligence allows them to think quite well on their feet. their quick minds are able to take advantage of rapidly changing situations and they'll always emerge with more than their fair share of the loot. they share the same ambitious streak as their cousin the beaver, but their distaste for hard work has them behaving more like their skunk relatives who also resort to chicanery.
weasels will disguise their intelligence if they believe it to be in their best interest. natural liars, their earnest persuasions make it difficult to discern their true motives. they have no internal moral struggle with their behavior, since they believe that the end justifies the means. their talent for manipulation makes weasels natural politicians.
weasels have an uncanny knack of sensing weakness in others and they'll often team up with more successful animal personalities, gaining their trust and then milking them for all they're worth.
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small relationship tag dump.
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‘ maybe this could work for both of us. ’ cain
meme. / accepting.
he works alone, not used to having someone tag along for the ride, especially if he’s not receiving additional payment for their lack of services. but he’s shed enough blood in his lifetime to recognize those who’ve done the same, and the determined look in her eye that says she won’t back down makes him think that she might just hold her own. the building they’ve entered reeks of waste and neglect, with just a tinge of rust ; it’s quiet, unnervingly so, and the decrepit walls magnify even the smallest sounds. it’s best if they keep their voices down, he thinks, which suits him just fine. he’s one for actions over words any day.
‘ fine. but the minute you get in my way, you’re on your own. ’
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voicemade:
rich’s face lights up, his smile stretching from ear to ear, and he continues in the voice, committed to the bit for the moment. “ah! i see you’re a fan, mizz! ain’t that somethin’? you’ve heard’a little ol’ me! that’s right: my name’s sparky.” sparky he says like spah-ky, and he moves his left leg back to take a bow. “it’s certainly a pleasure!”
when he bends back up, sparky is gone and rich tozier is back. there’s no hiccup between voices, no hesitation. “audiobooks?” he asks, reaching up and rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. even in his more subdued movements, even now that the performance seems to have left, he draws eyes. he’s charismatic, easy going, and, if he had to say so himself, pretty handsome now that he’s gotten rid of the glasses and learned how to carry himself without flinging his body around. “can’t say i have. you offerin’ me a job?”
she chuckles at that, soft and only a little indulgent, eyes briefly ducking down to glance at the space between their feet. best - selling author though she may be, she’s anything but wealthy ; most of her earnings go towards providing for her son, or donations for local fundraisers and charities. just last week, she braved a slot on Oprah to hand over a check for a children’s cancer fund.
‘ i’m afraid it wouldn’t pay very well, ’ she admits, with a slight tilt of her head that causes the hair framing her face to lean to one side. ‘ besides -- and correct me if i’m wrong, but -- murder mysteries don’t exactly seem like your area of expertise. ’
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“At what point does a man turn into a monster? I don’t believe that it’s when he does horrible things, but when he accepts that he’s able to do them, and that he does them well.”
(via psych-facts)
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what makes him different is that he has no desire to be out here in the field, taking unreliable statements from a student populace whose collective IQ he could count on two hands. the station was short - staffed that morning, and he’d been sent as a backup measure, a pair of extra ( albeit unwilling ) hands to aid the simpletons he works with. were he truly invested in the case, he might actually try -- but his interest in the killing spree was purely morbid, a distant fascination. god only knew he needed a little outside entertainment once in a while.
‘ i’m not an officer, ’ he clarifies pointedly, giving the campus grounds a sweeping, disinterested glance. ‘ merely a consultant. these dullards aren’t making progress because they haven’t the mental capacity to do so. ’
❝ IF YOU ASK ME , we’re better off on our own . the police force has done nothing so far to stop the killings on campus . ❞ she’s smiling , rather pleased with this fact . she tries to dial back her glee . ❝ so , officer , what makes you different ? ❞ // @griefate .
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voicemade:
it’s not very often that people will recognize him by face alone, and so he’s surprised to be greeted when he’s ( in one of his more rare moments ) not speaking. blue eyes move from the magazine he’s staring at and he smiles at her, warm and friendly. he’s charismatic, albeit confused, and it takes him a moment to recognize her in return. it’s when he turns to really face her that he remembers her from her photo on the sleeve of her novel, and his smile grows wider.
“well, i’ll consider it a compliment anyway,” he says, tucking the magazine back onto the rack where celebrity gossip belongs before holding his hand out. “it’s a pleasure to meet you. i assume by now you know i’m something of a fan. your novel ain’t bad, mizz, it ain’t bad at all!” the last sentence is said in a voice, one of those that comes out like butter and sounds nothing like rich tozier.
she flashes a smile -- full of reserved and practiced warmth, but genuine all the same -- and briefly ducks her head in a show of humility. how refreshing it is to hear such simple, honest praise, rather than the syrupy and often exaggerated phrases most offer, even those closest to her, to butter up a heart that had only recently learned to beat again.
‘ well, i do appreciate the enthusiasm, Mr. Tozier ----- or should i say Sparky? ’ said in reference to his Voice, familiar Brooklyn - esque inflections she’d first heard on the radio several days ago. ‘ say, have you ever considered narrating audiobooks? i’m sure you could lend your talents to quite a colorful cast. ’
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there were any number of individuals she’d thought to see awaiting her on the other side of the door, but this? this defied any expectation. blue eyes widen in shock, brows rising, as she gives the visitor a quick once - over, taking in every last, grimy detail. was this a prank? surely, one of the guys at the station had hired him to mess with her as a late birthday gag. some girls got books, scarves, regular presents ; she got a hefty, filth - caked clown towering above her with all the visual appeal of a dirtied and discarded napkin.
it’s the flower that surprises her most, its bright shade a stark contrast to the faded, dull hues of the man’s ill - fitting and ill - washed getup, the rank odor of which has only just now reached her nose with a quick, thoughtful inhale. it’s a feat, to be certain, to hide the queasy look that threatens to cross her face at the smell, nose nearly crinkling in distaste, but she’s endured worse and manages to steel her expression, shoulders locking in place.
curiously, tentatively, she reaches for the flower, lithe fingers gently grasping at its stem.
‘ is this... for me? ’
@griefate 🤡 Knock Knock !
Bathed in the light of her home and standing so near now, she looked twice as radiant as he remembered. A helpless moth drawn by the chains of fate to her flame. Hours and days and weeks of fantasizing about her all led to this moment. Oh, how he’d dreamed of holding down her small and delicate frame beneath him; how he’d wanted to smell her skin and hair and breath mingled in his own; how he’d thought of tasting the length of each of her tender fingers to find his favorite one. How she would scream when he bit it off.
He wondered what she would think when first laying eyes on him. He was garbed in a faded, pest-eaten overcoat which may have once been magenta. His face covered in garish, pale and cracking make-up; a frozen and dark smile was hastily painted from ear to ear to mask the darker one beneath. He did not speak – seldom liked to, only stared at her. His breathing was a ragged torture, like flesh being dragged over asphalt.
With a sudden lurch, he hopped onto one foot, then the other, then back and forth and back and forth; an unsteady and clumsy dance. Smile, smile, smile for me!
Then he stopped abruptly, as if remembering something important and reached within his jacket. Every motion was overacted, every action deliberate, and from his person he produced —
A flower. A large, yellow flower for the most pretty girl in the audience.
He bent forward and held it out for her.
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Endless weeks of watching, preparing and waiting would culminate tonight. He'd followed her, the lively and pretty - oh so pretty - young detective to her apartment; number 28, second floor, just her little dog and her inside. He spat out his chewing gum - fresh and juicy watermelon for tonight's event - and covered her door's peephole. Surprises worked best, he thought, when sprung. He licked his palm, slicked back his hair, steadied himself. And without further ado, he knocked upon her world.
it’s certainly not the most glamorous sight – sitting in front of the television, sock - clad feet crossed beneath her legs, chinese take - out container in one hand and a pair of chopsticks in the other, blanket thrown over her lap and hair finally released from its elastic prison – but after a day of uncooperative witnesses and leads that did anything but, she’s just glad to be off her feet. Ace’s ears perk at the sound of a knock at the door, throat rumbling with the promise of a bark until Riley’s hand comes to rest on his head, chopsticks haphazardly stuck upright in the container of noodles. she doesn’t bother muting the tv. doesn’t see the need. she’ll just politely tell her surprise visitor ( one of the guys from the station, she assumes ) that she’d rather spend a night indoors by herself and get back to yet another Breaking Bad rerun. with a resigned sigh, she sets the takeout aside and gives Ace a warning glance before clamoring off the couch and making her way to the front door where, much to her surprise, it’s far too dark to see through the peephole. brows furrowed, she disengages the lock and takes a step backwards, allowing herself to open the door just enough to peek out without looking too intimidated or disinterested.
‘ uhm– can i help you? ’
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‘ nothing i haven’t seen before. ’ just as casual with her response, all wit and snark, ready to counter his own at a moment’s notice. she’s learned to keep a cold compress at the ready, now pressed gently to the purplish bruise surrounding the young man’s eye. he only stops by late at night, when the station’s near deserted, and she wonders if he, too, finds his energy spent after a day around a constant flow of people. gives far too much, takes far too little ; even the most exhausting nights are met with restless sleep. ‘ i assume it was something you said. ’
@griefate / sc.
❝ nothin’ i ain’t used to. ❞ in reference to a black eye, the split on his lower lip —— all the result of a bout of hand - to - hand combat a couple of days ago, which he is unable to elaborate on. a crooked grin offered her way, and eggsy punctuates it with a wink, just for good measure. ❝ how’s it look? ❞
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it’s late -- the station’s fairly quiet, and given the near - constant bustle during peak hours, she’s thankful. she’s sent most of her men home for the night, opting to stay and mull over paperwork ; the officers working the graveyard shift wouldn’t be in for another few hours, giving her ample time to work under a fleeting blanket of peace and quiet.
she’s just finished dropping off a hot cup of coffee to the sergeant manning the front desk, shoes tapping against the tiled floor in her stroll back to her office, when the front door opens and a haggard voice only just carries across the front lobby.
god ----- you ----- murder?
what few words are clear enough for her to decipher make her turn and walk back to the front desk, where Nichols already looks reluctant to admit yet another potential witness to the log. there’s a tapping at his shoulder -- two, quick and pointed.
‘ i’ll take her. ’ he’s had a long day. and from the looks of this girl, so has she. ‘ come on. ’ she gestures for the clearly shaken young woman to follow her, keeping her voice as calm and level as possible. a glance is given over her shoulder to ensure she’s being followed as she finally reaches her office and closes the door, gesturing for the girl to sit.
‘ you don’t need to talk yet if you’re not ready. ’ it’s a common preface she gives to offer a bit of comfort to those who clearly need it. ‘ take as long as you need. you’re safe in here. can i get you anything? ’
@griefate. . call.
the lingering notion of being alone was getting to her.
she had to drop malcolm off at the hospital ; he would have passed away from blood loss had she taken him on the full drive to the station. there wasn’t a lot of time to explain & there wasn’t a lot of time to lose before she was buckling herself back in and heading off. she’d come back for him as soon as she filed her report & pleaded her story, she promised and turned on her heel towards the vehicle. how long has she been driving ? how far away were they ? could they go further ?
the nimble fingers that gripped the steering wheel with such intensity they turned white for the last five minutes ( without release ) were starting to loosen. the car turning onto the gravel of it’s desired location and her door swung open before the engine even stopped rumbling. click. off. pull yourself out and take in the fresh air. you’re alive. cole isn’t. you saw him die. he was alive in there. in the walls. a person. not a child. a man. throat slit. glass mirror. mask. mask. mask.
if greta arrived an hour ago, she would have stormed in raving. but she had time to compose what little calmness she harbored to approach the front desk with only a slight haste to her step.
“ i– god, how do you report a murder ? “
subtle.
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codedheart:
“i’m not bored,” monika answers, which is true. monika is always expanding her knowledge base, always learning the current trends of the internet, but she does so with only one true goal in mind: she wants to keep his interest. sometimes she isn’t sure he still needs her the way he used to. the less necessary she feels, the more she longs to be VALIDATED. she has worked out the pattern of talking to the average person, but it has only made her more aware that her creator is no average person.
are you bored? the question burns, but she doesn’t dare ask it, too afraid of the answer. “i even talk to people when you’re not around. did you know i made a twitter?” she asks.
“… other people aren’t as interesting as you, though.”
her comment catches him off guard, gaze briefly flitting over to the monitor where her face is displayed, though the fleeting glance means he misses the clear fondness in her expression. one hand rises to comb through his hair and brush it away from his forehead, where it falls lazily over the upper rims of his glasses ( he’ll have to get it cut soon, he realizes, and he despises being seated in that chair, at someone else’s artistic mercy ) and distracts him from his work.
‘ interesting? ’ he repeats, and the way his brow furrows gives the impression that he doesn’t quite agree with her assessment. he’s been called many things in his life, but interesting was never one of them. ‘ your scope of the world is very narrow. ’
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