#lawrising

@lawrising​ sent:  🔥 since you've been thinking abt it, lets see what the thespian thinks ...   /  accepting!

send “🔥?” and my muse will admit whether they find your muse attractive or not.

immediately, tyler breaks into a nervous smile, his cheeks heating up at the mere insinuation of the question. he’s never been the sort of person that’s upfront with his opinions, especially not ones about attractiveness. growing up gay in a sea of straight girls who really wanted to make their own mean girls clique kind of does that to you. and being asked, hey, do you think that guy’s attractive? is bringing back some of those old memories.

briefly, tyler considers deflecting, not answering. he’s pretty sure mat’s straight — and even if the detective does have some mannerisms that make tyler’s gaydar start blaring alarm bells, he’d never just assume something like that about him. and besides, mat’s never said anything to the effect that he does like men, so it’s pretty much a moot point, and...

She doesn’t know why she is here, or how she got here, but what she does know is that the letter in front of her is perhaps her only way out.

In order to leave Everlock, you must complete a task. Lead the Detective to the theater, and make him wear the mask.

On the back of the sheet of worn-down yellow paper lies a manual of a sorts - information on said mask. The wearer will be killed - it makes that very clear.

Leading a man to his death is nothing new. What is irritating is that this man’s hackles will already be up. He is in a death game, she learns from the letter, along with many others. If she sets up a game of her own and tries to play it off as the same game they’re stuck in, perhaps she can trap him in her web.

Usually she’d use the Mother’s gifts, but after trying and failing to see out of a spider’s eyes, she’s determined that whatever Fear-forsaken thing has brought her here has cut off her connection with her matron.

Unacceptable.

So, she’ll use herself as bait, she reasons. That should be easy enough. Pretend to be a damsel in distress, and then catch him where she wants him.

Right after setting up the "game” they’ll have to play. She sighs. This will take a while.

- It’s an hour or two later that she’s done, and pretending to be running from something that doesn’t even exist. She scratched herself up purposely using tree bark to make it look more realistic.

     i think i read somewhere once that writing shit down is supposed to be      a good way to sort out your feelings. which, like, whatever, i’m not super      into all that sort of stuff, but i figured this at least would let me get my      head and heart all sorted out.

     jesus, why am i explaining this? it’s not like i’m going to show anyone      this -- ever. it’ll be lucky if it doesn’t end up in the trash, shredded!

     ugh. stalling. enough of that. here goes.  

     matt.

     listen, i’m not your demon.

     i know you aren’t my biggest fan, and hell! you might even not like me! i      wish you did but get why you don’t, i’ve done some super fucked up shit!      and god, i don’t expect you to like me, i don’t even like myself sometimes,      sometimes i can’t stand my own face in the mirror, but i want you too. you      know what i’ve been through, you understand -- at least to some degree --      what i’m feeling.

      but i can’t tell you that.

     if i try, it feels like i’m trying to puke out a broken knife. you know when you      have been out all goddamn night, and you get home, and you’re kind of drunk      and think food smells good, so you try and eat but then it turns your stomach,      and then you’re puking in the toilet like god, why did the spicy fries sound like      a good idea? that’s what it feels like -- like some sort of fucked up demon is      trying to claw its way out of my throat and swallow me whole.

     i know i act like a mega-bitch. i am a mega-bitch! but it’s how i keep myself      safe. it’s also how i push people away. you know that thing of, like, hit first      so you don’t get hit? i think i took that too far, and now i don’t know when to      stop. i don’t want you to hate me. i miss when you hugged me. sometimes      i feel like i don’t have anyone left. i killed my best friend. i know i did. and i      know i’d probably do it again! i’m not a good person, matt. and i think that      whole thing made me worse. i might not be your demon, but

     listen. i feel so fucking alone. i don’t know if you like me. i miss when you      did. i’m sorry i get under your skin all the time. i’m sorry for so much shit,      but that doesn’t change anything, does it? i fucked up. i’m a fuck up.

     [here there is what could be spilled water -- or maybe a tear stain.]

     god. fucking great, now i’m all up in my feelings!

     i just wish you liked me. i wish we could be soft again, that we could go      back, and i could show you i can be better. can i be better

     i admire you, in a way. you’re so...nice. you’re nice, and you love people      so deeply, and i wish that was me that i knew how to be a bit nicer. i wish      i could get you to understand so maybe i could have a little bit of that, you     know?

    whatever. i’m a mega-bitch, you’re never reading this, so it doesn’t matter.

   He wasn’t exactly sure what drew him to this exact location, this exact house, but it seemed his intuition was sound enough - it seemed no one was here, and no one would be returning for a while. The scent of human, of any sign of life past maybe the bugs hiding in the walls, was dull, blunted, still present upon the couches and bed and curtains, obviously a human still called this place home, but Valeriu was desperate enough to seek shelter here for at least a few hours. Once he was sure no one was around, he decided it would be as good a place as any. In fact, this home was a grand step up from his former habitations, consisting of old worn down warehouses, abandoned cabins and cottages and farmhouses, anywhere he could hide away from the eyes of humans and still enjoy some semblance of luxury he’d grown accustomed to, which abandoned locations could hardly provide. 

   At this point, a roof over his head, running water, and some food was luxury to the dokkalfar. The layout of human homes was simultaneously cramped and too large and confusing for him, everything about this world was simultaneously cramped and labyrinthine, but eventually he found his way into the kitchen, and found an absolute treasure trove of fresh food within the bright, tall white ice box humans used to store food. He crouched down and his stomach rumbled -- all he’d had to eat over the past few weeks was whatever he could catch himself, like rabbits, birds, wild berries, nothing becoming of a being such as him, and seeing an essentially ready made feast was all too exciting. 

   Valeriu began to grab a few pieces of fruit, looking over some of the containers containing god-knows-what in confusion. He uncapped a cardboard container that contained a white liquid, smelled it -- was that….milk? Milk from another animal? He recapped it and placed it back on the shelf in mild disgust. Just as Valeriu had managed to get into the crisper containing a bunch of meats, the sound of a door opening and slamming shut perked his ears and antennae up. He froze in place, his breath caught in his throat, the sound of footsteps approaching, growing slower, more tentative, the coppery, acrid smell of fear growing in the air. The human knew something was wrong, that something was *here*, and it was afraid. 

   Valeriu dropped whatever was within his hands still, and slowly, carefully, rose up from his crouched position behind the fridge door. Within an instant, faster than the eye could track, the fae was across the kitchen, to the farthest end he could reach from the human, his teeth bared, wings unfurled, pressed up against a wall. He was certain he looked much more threatening in the darkness than he actually looked, and he tried to use that to his advantage, unfurling the carapace of his wings high above his shoulders, giving him a much larger appearance than he actually was, his wings an array of glinting reds, his carapace a reflective obsidian.

👫 an ask for an ask pal ( for nova and matty !! )

[ love me some relationship hcs. | accepting! ]

FUNNY COWORKERS SUPREMACY

no matter HOW much she tried to explain it, nova cannot get matt to believe that there are indeed ghosts. it's only when the robots begin actively trying to talk does he probably start believing ( even so, he probably refuses so he pisses her off smh dshfhg )

"how was your shift" "there's a killer robot in fazbear's fright" "there's a- a what" [readying axe and going back in] "killer robot in fazbear's fright."

nova has turned down the potential flamethrower chainsaw for the sake of someone not dying. probably had to wrestle it from the man in order for there not to be yet another series of murders that she has to solve

@lawrising​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ sent:   👑 + matty from etn ( done with this little shit so take him /j )     / accepting!

SEND ME 👑 + A CHARACTER NAME OF A CHARACTER YOU THINK I SHOULD WRITE !

would i: yes / maybe / no have i ever before: yes / no

writing sample:

the detective prides himself on objectivity, on being able to think quickly and make snap decisions. to take charge and to take charge well. in a lot of ways, he trusts himself to make good calls, and in a lot of ways, he just doesn’t trust anyone else to do the same. but he’s an all-around good-natured guy, a rational guy, attractive and intelligent. and deep down, maybe he’s a row of too-sharp teeth and pulsing envy, but if no one gets too close, it’ll never bite anyone’s fingers off.

sure. he can believe that.

but as objective as the detective thinks he is, he’s the kind of person that’s always judging people — she’s interesting, he’s useful, she’s too gullible, he’s going to die next. and these “observations”, as he calls them, bring him a never-ending sense of comfort, of superiority, almost. he’s got all of them figured out — he’s the detective, for chrissakes! it’d be a crime if he couldn’t figure them out. and maybe it’s not the nicest thing to play everyone he meets like a fiddle based on the strings he can see etched into their features like tattoo markings, but mat never said he was nice.