.001: grant.

.002: victims.

.003: account.

.004: requests.

i.

❦ juliet godfrey: june, 2013. … [ grant was thirteen at the time of her death. ] … the second child of adora and nolan godfrey. grant’s junior by three years. entered the world as a whiny thing——and left the same. a fussy baby grown into a fussy toddler grown into a spoiled adolescent. mama’s darling girl in bows and frills.a ballet dancer, and a talented one, at that. adora enrolled her as soon as she could. had an affinity for scribbling in her diary, detailing any gossip she overheard. no mind for other people’s boundaries. constantly in her brother’s room, stealing his things and testing his patience. or lackthereof.when grant was 13 and juliet 10, that thin thread finally snapped. during a family camping trip, he strangled her to death and masterfully hid the body in an undisclosed location.for weeks, they organized search party after search party, scouring oregon’s dense woods, always coming up empty. they even checked the lake at the heart of the campsite.

ii.

ii.

the only score: a cadaver dog sniffing out her favorite stuffed bunny, mr. squibbles, propped against a tree.the heartbreak of losing juliet was too much for her parents to bear. their once pure marriage rotted. roughly three years after their daughter’s disappearance, adora and nolan godfrey divorced. nolan never stopped looking for answers; until the truth destroyed him, leading to his eventual suicide.twice a year, on the anniversary of juliet’s disappearance and again on her birthday, nolan allowed himself to open his boxes of keepsakes from the godfrey’s time as a happy, whole family. on the fifth anniversary, he dug to the bottom of a box, discovering one of grant’s journals. the truth was etched in ink. how much his eldest child enjoyed the thrill of killing his youngest child. not admitted outright, but, a detective like nolan understood the truth in his son’s vagueness. before ending his life, nolan wrote a final letter addressed to juliet and his ex-wife.

ii.

ii.

❦ carli mcbride: fall, 2021. … [ Grant met Carli during their sophomore years of college at brown university. ] … She was the daughter of a preacher——a man so renowned in her small hometown that Carli herself still seemed to bask in the borrowed glow of his influence, even hundreds of miles away. The first thing Grant noticed about her was her smile: all pearly-white teeth and plump lips, shining with coconut-scented gloss. her eyes, a rich brown, were wide and innocent, like a fawn’s, drawing him in with their vulnerability. Carli liked the attention. She liked being seen. She liked him seeing her.Their relationship existed only in shadows, by carli’s demand. she played the part of the innocent, claiming her father would disown her if he found out she was dating. something about his rigid religious beliefs and fearing she’d lose her academic focus——these were the tools she used to manipulate Grant into silence. he offered to charm her father, or ‘knock him around a bit,’ she told him no. insisted it would only make things worse. they remained hidden, their secret buried.Still, Grant went to a tennis match or two. Just to watch. to see what kind of girl he was dealing with.The truth came out slow, like rot under floorboards. Grant found out she’d fed the same sob story to three other boys——maybe more. Always the same lines. Always the same smile.She lied. Effortlessly. Like breathing.That was the moment it broke for him. she'd stolen the strings out of the puppeteer's hands.He waited for her at their usual spot, a secluded bench by the pond.She arrived late, always a little theatrical, hair pinned up like a Southern belle. She started talking immediately——nervous babble, pathetic denials: “They’re just friends. You’re different. I swear, my dad——”

ii.

he refused to believe, refused to surrender. then, unexpectedly, carli seethed. those perfect teeth barred like a wolf’s. for a church girl, she didn't seem very open to confession. her manicured hands flew to his shoulders, and she pushed him with what must’ve been nearly——if not all——of her might, because grant stumbled back a good few feet.he didn’t mean to kill her. but the moment felt too perfect to ignore. before he could stop it, his hands were on her. the soft, fragile curve of her neck beneath his fingers. the satisfaction came in waves as her breath stuttered and then stilled, her wide eyes locking onto his, begging him for mercy.He hadn’t even realized he’d unsheathed the pocketknife——his hand moved on its own, guided by something deeper than instinct. It wasn’t until warm blood spilled down his wrist that he became aware of the blade. By then, it was already drawing its arc, carving through the corners of her mouth with mechanical precision. He was still riding the high——breathless, euphoric——as the grotesque smile took shape. Her perfect, doe-eyed innocence, remade in torn flesh and blood, would last forever.it reminded him of those days in the woods——the tales of his boyhood. the ones where he was elbow-deep in the chest cavity of a doe.He left her body there, positioned on the bench like a marionette, her life snuffed out by his hands. It wasn’t long before Francesca, Carli’s roommate and tennis teammate, found the corpse. Not long after Carli’s death, Grant wormed his way into Frannie’s life, manipulating her grief to his advantage. He became her confidant, her shoulder to lean on, all the while keeping her close as a companion. But in reality, she was a trophy——a memento in his collection. Her sorrow, her mourning for Carli——his first masterpiece——was a constant source of fuel for his insatiable hunger.

ii.

iii.

❦ adam fairchild: summer, 2022. … [ grant just graduated brown. moved an hour to boston, now preparing to start his master’s at boston university. ] … Adam worked the late shift at a library in boston, not far from grant’s residence. he was a library technician; one that pretended he didn’t want attention while doing everything he could to get it. He lingered. He hovered. Always in the corner of your eye, always insisting upon casual conversation.Grant wasn’t sure when Adam started paying attention to him. It felt retroactive, like one day he just realized he was being watched. Adam was always behind him. Near him. Too near. He made long, dramatic comments about whatever book Grant was reading. He’d smile in that off-kilter way and say things in a tone that convinced grant he truly believed himself insightful.At first, Grant tolerated it. Even flirted back. He knew how to handle admirers. He was charming when he needed to be. And Adam was attractive in a temporary, hollow sort of way. But his attention didn’t ebb. It clung. He kept talking. He kept looking. And the more he lingered, the more Grant felt it——a buzzing irritation, irrational and electric, crawling under his skin like static.that feeling. that fucking feeling.he couldn’t stomach it. not again.The night it happened, the library was nearly empty. the semester had yet to officially start, so it lacked its usual number of students. fluorescent lights hummed overhead like flies. Grant was flipping through a textbook he didn’t need when Adam approached——slow, steady, like grant might detonate.“you always stay this late?” Grant didn’t answer. “Bet you’re the type who works better in the dark.”There was a pause. A long one.Then, without prompting, Adam kissed him.It wasn’t shy. It wasn’t unsure. It was needy. Greedy.

ii.

Like he thought this was some slow-burn romance finally coming to a head. And for a moment——Grant let him.He kissed him back. Hard. Pushed him against the stacks. Bit down on his bottom lip and tasted the coppery snap of blood. He felt Adam gasp against him, felt his hands tighten like he was grateful to be hurt.Grant pulled back, lips stained, eyes flat. rage blooming.Adam barely had time to look confused before Grant grabbed the brass letter opener from the desk——ornate, spiral-handled, heavy. He drove it up beneath Adam’s jaw in one perfect, practiced motion, burrowed in flesh. Adam buckled, choking.he didn’t let him fall. shoved him back into the chair, climbed onto him, straddled him like a lover, and whispered through clenched teeth, “You should’ve stopped looking at me.”Then he reached into his bag and pulled out a page from Carli’s diary——on it: her name scrawled in pink ink, all loopy, girlish letters with little flowers doodled around them. the kind of thing a girl might scribble in class, bored. it was much more than a mindless doodle, however——carli’s diary had gone missing from her bookbag the night she was murdered. and now, here it was. evidence. a signature. a message. Proof that this kill belonged to the same hands that took her. There’d be no mistaking it. He folded it once. Then again. Then shoved it down Adam’s throat until it disappeared behind blood and teeth and twitching muscle.He didn’t stop there.with thick, black thread and a sewing needle, he began sewing Adam’s mouth shut.Thread through lip. Thread through gum. Back again. Until the mouth was grotesquely puckered. A silenced smile.Grant stood over him, hands slick, breath even. He looked down at what he’d made. A quiet man, finally. A man with nothing more to say.

ii.

iv.

❦ milo st. james: summer, 2023. … [ at this time, grant is basically finished earning his master’s degree at boston university. ] … milo was in his cohort. Same program. Same lectures. Same professors. both rising stars in the forensic psychology department. Milo was the kind of person who jumped at any chance to assert his intellect, his superiority complex evident through passive aggressiveness.A well-respected peer. so sure of his own brilliance, always quick to assume that he knew more. he spoke in measured tones, the kind that tricked people into thinking he was being thoughtful, but Grant knew better. Milo wielded his intelligence like a weapon, polished and sharpened, and he loved wielding it against grant. Whether it was a mid-presentation interruption or a sly remark into the middle of a class discussion, he made it clear that he believed Grant wasn’t on his level.Their first encounter was nothing. A throwaway comment about Grant’s research——“ambitious but naïve”——that no one in the room even flinched at. But it embedded itself in Grant’s brain like a tick. He laughed it off, of course. That’s what you did when someone humiliated you and everyone pretended it was nothing.But it wasn’t nothing.Over time, Milo’s remarks continued. A scoff when Grant raised his hand. A smirk when he hesitated before answering. Comments tossed to their peers like breadcrumbs: “Grant’s always trying so hard, bless him.” Bless him. Grant started to notice the way Milo looked through him, not at him——like he was noise, static. Background.That’s what made him decide Milo had to die.It was in a seminar. he gave a presentation so self-satisfied it made Grant want to vomit. His voice, syrupy with smugness, drew laughs. Approval. Applause. Then it was Grant’s turn. He stepped up, papers in hand, ready. He’d stayed up nights for this, rewriting, refining, obsessing.Milo didn’t even lift his head. He stared at his laptop screen like Grant wasn’t there. Like Grant didn’t exist.That night, Grant followed him home.He had studied the routine like scripture. Milo always walked the long way, past the park and through the alley near Seventh. It was quiet. No traffic. No witnesses. The perfect place for a reckoning.When the moment came, he didn’t hesitate. He moved out of the shadows and grabbed Milo by the collar, slamming him against the brick wall hard enough to knock the air out

ii.

of his lungs. in one swift, fluid motion, he stabbed a fountain pen straight into Milo’s neck——just below the jawline, where the skin was soft and pulsing. Not a jab. A drive. surgical precision. The sharp metal tip disappeared halfway into his throat with a sickening crunch, bone or cartilage, it didn’t matter. Blood didn’t gush——it spilled, thick and dark, soaking into his shirt, his coat. Milo gurgled, reaching up instinctively, eyes wild and darting.Grant pressed in harder, watching the pen tremble under the pressure, the ink bleeding with the blood. Still alive. Still struggling. Good.He leaned in close. “Now you’re listening.” Milo tried to speak. All that came out was a thick, choking sound.Grant yanked the pen back——not all the way, just enough to keep him bleeding——and let him drop to his knees. Then came the knife. He knelt beside him, one arm around Milo’s shoulders like they were old friends, and whispered, “Let’s give you a smile.”The blade kissed the corner of Milo’s mouth, dragged upward in a jagged arc. Flesh split. The twitch of pain flickered across his eyes, the fight flickering behind them. But he wasn’t dead yet.Not even close.Grant worked slowly, methodically. The knife moved across his skin like it was writing a story only Grant understood. Cuts to the ribs, under the arms, the soft spots where nerve endings screamed the loudest. He made sure Milo felt everything.And when he begged him to stop——when the garbled gasps turned into wet little sobs——Grant leaned in again and said, “No.”He watched the life drain from Milo’s eyes with clinical fascination. Then, for the grand finale, he took the pen——still coated in blood and ink——and drove it in again, this time deep enough to sever something vital. A tremor, a final twitch, and Milo went limp.Grant stood over him, chest heaving. Hands steady.He admired the body, the blood. The ragged smile. The pen jutting from his neck like a fucked-up quill in a grotesque inkwell.It was beautiful.He left him there, crumpled like garbage in the shadows, a monument to Grant’s rage. And in the following days, when the city buzzed with news of the “brutal slaying,” Grant read every article, watched every news report.

ii.

v.

❦ john forbes: december 31st, 2024. … [ at this time, Grant is 24 years old, and has been working as a profiler for the massachusetts state bureau for over a year. ] … Grant thought about killing John Forbes the first time he met him.it was early 2023——Grant’s first major case with the Massachusetts State Bureau. Forbes was consulting, retired but still revered. a legend in the metaphorical hall of fame of homicide captains, whose opinions still carried weight. He walked in late to the briefing and made a point of clapping Grant on the shoulder as he passed.“You’re the profiler? hell, you’re even younger than they say. Just don’t let the textbooks and ego get in the way of your instincts.”Grant smiled. Said something charming. Took the compliment like a professional. But in his head, he imagined his blade slipping into the corner of forbes’s mouth, dragging that smug smirk further up his punchable face.Over the next two years, they crossed paths constantly. Task forces. Panels. Award ceremonies. Forbes always found him——called him “kid,” asked if he was still “reading minds,” made little comments like “Not bad for someone who hasn’t seen a real homicide until last year.”He never remembered the names of Grant’s cases. But he always remembered to critique them. And that’s what made it unbearable.Because Grant had seen real homicide (aside from his own work). Had walked through blood-wet carpet and catalogued the way ligature marks bloomed across skin. He’d caught killers Forbes had missed. Written profiles that closed cases Forbes couldn’t crack. But it never mattered——not to him.Forbes had decided who Grant was from day one, and every time they met, he reminded him.The night of the kill, it was cold. Late December. Forbes had just given a speech at a justice reform fundraiser——a tribute to his legacy, his “decades of service as a homicide captain,” and how it was time to “pass the torch to the next generation.”Grant had been in the back of the ballroom. Watched the whole thing. Applauded when everyone else did.When it ended, Forbes went alone to the sound-proofed greenroom to change. The building was quiet——security winding down, most guests already gone. Grant slipped in through a side corridor, gliding through the dark like breath.Forbes was shrugging off his blazer when Grant stepped out of the shadows. He turned, startled. squinting, he tried to make out the shape of his newfound company.“Jesus,” he laughed. “You scared the hell outta me. Grant, right? From the Bureau. Thought you were one of the AV techs.”A beat.“What’re you doing in here, anyhow? Come to praise my speech?” he laughed again, that arrogant laugh, fiddling with his cuff links.grant himself couldn’t help but chuckle. forbes liked that, judging by the smile that washed across the face. “no, sir. i didn’t. i had a few problems with it, actually.” forbes’ arrogant grin dwindled. “problems? what, are you a——”Grant cut him off with the garrote. Handmade. Braided wire, piano string core. Meant to slip beneath the jaw and catch just under the ear.Forbes didn’t understand what was happening at first. His sentence choked halfway through, and his hands went up too late, clumsy and flailing as the ligature cinched around his throat.He crumpled to his knees, coughing wet into his own chest, fingers scrabbling at the wire,

ii.

eyes bulging with a medley of terror and disbelief. Grant crouched beside him. Pulled a glove tighter over his right hand.“I just think,” he murmured, voice soft over Forbes’s gasping, “that a man who missed so many patterns shouldn’t be giving speeches.”Forbes shook his head——well, tried to, at least. The muscles weren’t cooperating anymore. He made a sound that might’ve been ‘please, or ‘help’——or maybe just a sob.Grant studied his bluish, wrinkled face as it contorted in agony. the arrogance was still in there. Trapped under the pain. He wanted it gone.He reached inside his coat and pulled a blade. Not the kind he used for stabbing. This one was cleaner. Thinner. A scalpel’s cousin.And then, slow as ritual, he carved into John Forbes’s face while the man’s heart thumped like a rabbit’s. grant wanted him alive, breathing, with no choice but to feel everything.The first cut tore through cheek muscle, dragging up toward the molars. The second matched it——symmetrical. Artful. he held Forbes still as he worked, one hand pressed firm against the crown of his skull. Blood slicked his gloves. Pooled beneath Forbes’s chin. The former captain’s legs twitched weakly.“a real professional,” Grant said quietly, tilting his head as he inspected the finished expression, “would’ve seen it coming.”So, he took his useless eyes. slashed cartoonish x’s over them, slicing through the white, blubber-like tissue, as well as skin. so much ear-piercing screaming. And then he pulled the garrote tighter. All the way. Forbes jerked once. Then stilled.grant bound his hands behind his back, tied a length of rope around his neck, and suspended him from the ceiling. forbes’s expensive suit hung crooked, soaked in sweat and blood, the butchered grin glistening.Beneath him, scrawled on the vanity mirror in thick, wet crimson: “BLIND.”And when the body was found, the world reacted exactly the way he hoped it would. A retired homicide captain. A decorated veteran of law enforcement. Killed in a secure building, during a public event, with guards just down the hall. The same smile carved into his face as the others.It was a message. Not just to the Bureau. Not just to the state. To everyone.Suddenly, it wasn’t just a string of grisly murders——it was a crusade. A vendetta. A challenge. The killer was organized. Evolving. Getting bolder.The press ate it alive. captain Forbes’s death led every news cycle for weeks. Candlelight vigils. Tearful statements from former colleagues. citizens demanding that the Bureau wisen up after four hellish years and “catch this damn devil.” john forbes’s wife and childrens’ damp faces circulating on the news, all swollen eyes and voices splintered by grief, begging the killer to stop this reign of terror that so cruelly “robbed a great man——a great father——from this world.”Behind closed doors, it set off alarms. Political pressure mounted. Internal reviews launched. Former officers pulled out of retirement. Profilers consulted. Task forces restructured.They wanted answers. so, they brought in a fresh perspective: criminal profiler grant godfrey, from the massachusetts state bureau.And Grant smiled——because they were asking all the right questions. They just hadn’t realized they were asking the same man they were hunting.

ii.

vi.

❦ roman mcintosh: january 2nd, 2025. … [ after john forbes, grant was called in to work with the boston police department to help build a profile on the grin reaper. ] … the kind of reporter who thrived on the grimy underbelly of society. sharp, ambitious, and had an insatiable hunger for a story that would make his name. the adam fairchild case had been his first taste of real notoriety——an eloquent piece that earned his boss’s favor.when “the cheshire killer” (the alias roman coined for grant) reemerged, roman knew he’d hit the jackpot. his editor, sensing an opportunity of grand headlines, handed him the story. this was his big break——he could feel it. thought he could handle it, thought his wit and determination would see him through. dove into the killings, into the patterns, into the fear with a vigor that left him blinded by ambition. roman’s biggest mistake came in an article about john Forbes, grant’s latest victim. he made the fatal error of misjudging the perpetrator. It wasn’t just a lack of understanding——it was a mockery. He got too clever, too smug, too dismissive in his writing:“ the so-called ‘Grin Reaper’ may fashion himself an artist, but his work is nothing new. A patchwork of borrowed cruelty, textbook narcissism, and a compulsion for control masked as performance. His latest tableau——the mutilated body of retired homicide captain John Forbes, strung up like a grotesque exhibit——reveals not genius, but insecurity. this killer possesses a juvenile need for recognition. he is no more a mastermind than a child fingerpainting in blood. ”Roman didn’t realize the price of his arrogance until it was too late. Grant, having already been scorned by the world’s ignorance and misinterpretation of his violence, took offense in a way that could only be described as cold, calculated rage.What followed was a departure from the methodical precision Grant was known for. There was an intimate cruelty in how he made Roman suffer, as if each slice, each severed digit, was a repudiation of everything the reporter had written about him.

ii.

ii.

he removed Roman’s fingers one by one, making sure he could see each tool of his profession reduced to a useless, lifeless thing. insulting roman’s work as he had so snidely done to grant’s.and then, the smile——oh, that smile——was much more than a symbol of grant’s fleeting joy. it was a grotesque rendering, a mocking twist of the human face. he sharpened one of Roman’s own finger bones and used it to carve into the man’s mouth, forcing his lips into an eternal grin.however, he wasn’t yet finished. Roman’s eyes——his most precious sensory organs, the things that had allowed him to see the world, to dissect it, to understand it——were swelling with fear, beckoning for devastation. grant’s hand trembled——unsteadied by anticipation so great his veins could barely house it——as he carved X’s into those eyes, same as he did with john, as if to shut Roman out of the world he’d once felt so entitled to observe. Finally, to drive the point home, Grant drove Roman’s own fingers into his eyes, pushing until the grotesque punctuation of the act was complete. Roman died slowly, painfully, bleeding out in a pool of his own self-importance.And in the end, the message was simple, spelled out with leftover finger bones on the carpet beside roman’s corpse: “Watch your mouth.” Grant, an artist who painted in blood and bone, created a masterpiece. you reap what you sow.roman mcintosh was found dead less than 24 hours after he published the article.In the aftermath, Grant’s notoriety reached new heights. The way he’d dismantled Roman, with a precision that spoke to an intimacy only a true predator could achieve, shocked the media. The kill was an exhibition, a grossly extreme response, a way for the grin reaper to ensure that his story——his narrative——would never be misrepresented again. His act of violence became a spectacle for the press, who devoured it like vultures picking over the carcass of an already decaying reputation.

ii.

vii.

❦ brandi nicole lewis: coming soon…. … still breathing. for now.

ii.

• home

• menu

• account

• grant

general

full name. ... grant godfrey

aka. ... DR. GODFREY, the grin reaper, the cheshire killer, the boston butcher, young buck (by the senior agents), the joker (by the least clever journalists ever)

date of birth. ... 12 / 13 / 2000

age. ... roughly 25 (storyline-dependent)

gender identity. ... cis male

pronouns. ... he/him

height. ... 6’2”

sexuality. ... unlabeled

occupation. criminal profiler for the fbi, working at the boston office

zodiac. ... sagittarius sun / cancer moon / scorpio rising

species. ... human

background

birthplace. ... dove’s nest, oregon, usa

current home. ... boston, massachusetts, usa

nationality. ... american

ethnicity. ... irish / german descent

languages. ... english, latin, spanish, french, german

parents. ... nolan godfrey (deceased) and adora godfrey cline

siblings. . . juliet godfrey (deceased)

education. ... bachelor’s in forensic psychology & criminology [2019-2022: brown university]. master’s in forensic psychology [2022-2023: boston university]. ph.d in forensic psychology [2025].

personality

positive traits. ... intelligent, insightful, organized, strategic, charismatic

negative traits. ... narcissistic, detached, arrogant, obsessive, violent, etc.

likes. ... attention, praise, control, articles about him, reliving his crimes through discussing their details, psychology / criminology, reading / books, solving puzzles, precision, power dynamics

dislikes. ... incompetence, misrepresentation, losing control, being ignored, failure, permanent relationships, smoking / cigarettes, his deceased sister’s birthday

moral alignment. ... chaotic evil

• home

• menu

• account

• victims

• requests

character

001. ... grant william godfrey is an original character created by myself, ori / maeve.

002. ... designed for the fandomless verse, specifically tailored to horror. crossover friendly.

003. ... he currently resides in boston, massachusetts, working as a criminal profiler for the fbi. in truth, he’s the serial killer that’s been sporadically terrorizing new england since 2021, dubbed “the grin reaper.” (amongst other things——but, well. none quite stuck the same.) his latest kill was in january——a journalist who wrote several articles on the murders. ‘twas his most brutal slaughter yet; a grotesque act committed out of rage and offense. a response to a poorly written article. grant relishes in the outcry. fancies himself a celebrity. an artist.

004. ... Grant is not a character built for traditional romance. He does not form healthy emotional bonds, and his connections——when they happen——tend to be obsessive, manipulative, and rooted in control or ego. should he be drawn to someone, it’s usually because they serve his design / narrative in some way. Shipping with him will likely lean toxic, one-sided, or psychologically fraught by nature. his relationships, both platonic and romantic, would explore dynamics built on fixation, false intimacy, or power imbalance. If that’s not a space you’d be comfortable exploring, that’s completely valid——your comfort always comes first. this is just a friendly forewarning should anyone be interested in shipping or building connections with Grant. these are the kinds of narratives you’d be stepping into, considering the state of his psyche.

005. ... grant’s work as a forensic expert often takes him to various locations for various reasons——meaning, connections with characters outside of his state are both perfectly plausible and encouraged! it’s explained a bit more in my connection requests.

006. ... muse is currently 24, but can be written between 18——24, depending on the storyline. grant uses he / him pronouns. his sexuality remains unlabeled.

007. ... note that grant's story is told from his point of view, which is largely warped——especially when it comes to his opinion of his family.

disclaimers

001. ... dead dove: do not eat. this portrayal contains graphic and heavy themes, including but not limited to: death, murder, corpse / body mutilation, gore, body horror, animal death and mutilation, dissection, suicide, sororicide, child violence, mental illness, manipulation, emotional abuse, gaslighting, psychological horror, and various depictions of physical violence.

002. ... grant is, by definition, a serial killer. these themes are detrimental to his character. If any of these themes may be upsetting to you, I strongly recommend against following or interacting. Please prioritize your comfort and well-being! ♡

003. ... minors should not interact with this account !!!

004. ... do not request that i alter the themes that i warn of. should anything i write or post make you uncomfortable, feel free to do whatever you feel necessary in order to curate a comfortable space for yourself! i take no offense to being blocked or unfollowed. i’m a professional yellowjackets lover so we get a little #morbid over here i’m afraid … i know that’s not everyone’s vibe and that’s okay!! should discourse ever arise concerning themes that are literally labeled on this portrayal, i’ll just block and protect my peace. moral of the story: content warnings exist for a reason and everything i listed will be present!

005. ... the warnings listed above apply to the entirety of the account / portrayal. meaning, individual posts will not be tagged. trigger warnings will only ever be used on solos.

006. ... this account will feature suggestive content, but explicit lewd stays off the timeline. reserved to dms with mutuals, only if previously discussed. not a lewd - focused account.

writer

001. ... mun goes by ori / maeve. twenty-one. uses any pronouns. identifies as pansexual and genderfluid.

002. ... life + adhd are usually kicking my ass so my activity is pretty sporadic! dms are always open to mutuals for plotting. ♡

003. ... can occasionally be found on @sladestrokes.

004. ... to my mutuals: no need to ask for permission before dming!

004. ... my fluctuating activity is extremely typical and not personal whatsoever! sometimes, i just might struggle to finish threads when i feel my muse slipping or my free time is scarce.

@maggothearted. . / . elia jane sinclair， by devyn.

@iamrotted. . / . molly josephine evans， by lumi.

@username. . / . francesca clarke， by kirby.

@dollscarnage. . / . daphne swan， by devyn.

@girlmadegore. … vivienne sharp, by lottie.

@ichorsnight. . / . june forbes， by avery.

• home

• menu

• grant

• victims

victims’ kin. … family of those killed by grant. their lives could be derailed by grief, OR the opposite——they could be thankful their family member is gone. questions that never got answered. still waiting for the murderer to be unmasked. maybe they’ve seen him before——charming, helpful, just another profiler on the case——his bloody hands unbeknownst——or maybe they’ve never known him at all. They could be still searching for closure, or perhaps moving on in their own ways. Whatever their story, they know the weight of loss, though they might not know the full truth of who caused it. carli mcbride likely had at least one sibling (they’re from a small town in texas——carli was only in new england for college). adam fairchild and milo st. james likely had a few siblings. maybe significant others. john forbes was survived by a wife and multiple children. haven’t thought much about roman, but i do at least imagine he lived alone. brandi nicole lewis is a triplet——she’s in her twenties and still alive, but not for much longer. all listed options are available, should anyone be interested!

almost victims. … close calls and narrow escapes. their faces are plastered on media, their stories twisted for the world to consume (unless they never tell, or deny the press satisfaction——writer’s choice). maybe they saw something they shouldn’t have. maybe they got away. maybe he let them. they could even be writing books or agreeing to documentaries now, profiting off their survival. whomever they are, they know what it really means to have been this close to the grin reaper’s touch.

on the road. … the job takes him places. sometimes it’s consulting out-of-state, guest lecturing at universities, or assisting on cases that need a sharp mind. maybe that’s how he crossed paths with them——a detective from a precinct he assisted, a family member grieving far from home, someone who barely made it out alive——or they could be something else entirely. any category could apply beneath this one! if your character isn’t local, don’t worry: neither is he, not all the time.

law enforcement. … detectives, agents, analysts. They could be tangled in his case, or any like it, hunting for the truth. Maybe they’re colleagues, possibly dating back to his brown or boston university days. Some might respect him, others might be suspicious. the veterans enjoy giving him a hard time. Either way——they’re getting closer, whether they realize it or not. luckily for grant, he wears his mask well. ‘tis one with his skin.

academic ties. … classmates, professors, maybe even students. grant’s academic trail stretches from brown university’s ivy halls (bachelor’s) to boston university’s forensic labs (master’s AND PHD).

• home

• menu

• grant

• victims

• account