#* cadisfly .

[vylingas]

“ you have a way of promising things. ”

@cadisfly

   Sea salt licks the air that hovers over the open terrace, curling up from the water and settling against the villa's east-facing wall. If left untreated, its searing fingers will cause the paint to blister in no more than a few years' time. The wounds will need to be sanded down, the broken skin shorn off to ensure that the new finish will lie flat. To ensure that it will stick. Hannibal wonders idly whether he and Will will be here long enough to see the building reborn or whether they will have moved on by that time—perhaps even before the first imperfections show.

   He lifts his chin and draws the scent of the morning into his lungs, coating his soft palate with the thick brine of marine life and the filmy aftertaste of decomposition. It makes an interesting complement to the lemon tang of their sherry cobblers, which spit crisp-scented fizz from tall glasses dripping with condensation. A marvelous choice of cocktail, Hannibal reflects with pride; the citrus cuts delightfully through the viscous air, like stirring blood into melted chocolate.

   "'Suffer not thy mouth to cause thy flesh to sin,'" he recites. With the insinuation of a smile, he reaches out and twists a plump grape from the desiccated vine on his plate, relishing the wet snap that the fruit emits as he pries it from the half-eaten cluster.

   He would promise Will the world, should he feel it to be within his power. But the laws of nature bend to no man, and there are some feats that exceed even Hannibal's capabilities. Still, that loss doesn't weigh too heavily on him; he and Will can content themselves with the ache of old wounds, the easy peace of their seaside villa, and their oft-replenished storeroom.

   Hannibal rolls the grape between his fingers, holding his hand out in front of him so he can watch the neat pink scar on his wrist pucker and twist. Even now, the sight elicits something carnal in him. He places the grape in his mouth and tongues it to the side, nestling it between his teeth. He holds it there for a moment, cradling its smooth, round form between his molars, and then bites down, bursting the skin and splitting the flesh. Sour juice washes radiantly across his palate, and he exhales in pleasure, rolling his contented gaze back toward Will—knowing, playful. "Even God knew the importance of keeping one's word."

[batgeance]

spell out your url with song titles, then tag as many people as there are letters in the url.

𝐁 - Bleed It Out by Linkin Park 𝐀 - After Dark by Mr.Kitty 𝐓 - Through Me (The Flood) by Hozier 𝐆 - Going Under by Boundary Run 𝐄 - Everlong by Foo Fighters 𝐀 - Antisocial by Ed Sheeran 𝐍 - The News by Paramore 𝐂 - Chlorine by Twenty One Pilots 𝐄 - Erase My Scars by Evans Blue

tagged by: @jokethur <3

tagging: @mahdinate , @debtbound , @mekhashephah , @wilsonjacket , @cadisfly , @exdiv , @arcticrime , @toxisley & @qvake <3

[brimstone-cowboy]

Goblin week day 4:

Bosch taking a cadisfly larvae for a walk

[revoide]

she appears from behind the wall,  a little bit of flour smeared across her cheek,  her hands hidden in a checkered towel.          she smiles because she does not wish to seem to rude,  but surely you must realize the absurdity of the situation.          indeed,  it was late enough in the night that one might believe that the next day was closing in,  blinding sunlight that would spill over the horizon at any moment to chase away star - filled slumber,  but it was not nearly so close and the horizon could never be reached.          𝙸𝚃 𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙴𝙳,  𝙱𝚄𝚃 𝙸𝚃 𝚆𝙰𝚂 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴.

she stands in the doorway to the kitchen behind the wall,  wondering at the man that had entered the shop.          she moves to stand behind the serving counter,  but she has nothing for him except a little bit of information,  which is all she was willing to give a stranger,  for that was what he was no matter if he seemed familiar.                                            “     WE’RE NOT OPEN YET,     ”          she tells him.          it is unclear what exactly they sell here,  but the shop was clearly doing well.          she waits for him to respond and she wonders who he thinks she is;  ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ,  ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴋᴇʀ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ,  ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴜᴛɪꜰᴜʟ ᴡɪꜰᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ʙᴜᴛᴄʜᴇʀ. . .     she finishes wiping her hands in the towel and begins to fold it,  not too neatly,  into a long rectangle,  then throws it over her shoulder.

[     @cadisfly​     ]         “     NOTHING IS READY AND THE MONEY HAS ALREADY BEEN TAKEN TO THE BANK.     THERE’S NOTHING HERE FOR YOU.     ”

[vylingas-a]

@cadisfly said:    "is this the companionship they write about in books?"

    𝙷𝙴 𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝙿𝙸𝙲𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙴 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻’𝚂 𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙺𝙽𝙸𝙵𝙴.  the way their fingers brushed as hannibal passed it to him—a bright flare of heat against the cold metal—and the confident, practiced manner in which will handled it, blade flashing in the light.  the scent of ginger blossomed sharply with each cut, spicy and green and pungent in the air around them, and hannibal watched him work unabashed, making no effort to mask his attention.  stalking is a behavior enacted by predators toward prey—a practice adopted by a stronger animal to avoid triggering the sensitive flight response of its timid, skittish target.  it has no place among equals.

    as they worked, their conversation was sparse, light; they let the sizzling of the garlic speak for them, the rhythmic clatter of a metal whisk in a glass bowl.  it lent the tang of ceremony to the air—suffused it with something transformative and ritualistic, and afforded their actions the weight they deserved.

    eating is an act of absolute trust.  a relinquishing of control to the procurer and a declaration of hunger—a display of weakness.  of wanting.  will understands this; hannibal saw as much in the gleam of his eye, the pride and challenge with which he held himself as hannibal trimmed and sliced the meat he had not chosen, dropping it into the skillet to pop and spit in the glistening oil.  he did so with reverence, granting the moment its due magnitude, and kept his eyes focused on will, whose gaze was fervent and hungry.  he watched hannibal like a congregant bearing witness to the eucharist, the flesh beneath their hands turned holy and symbolic in some glorious perversion of transubstantiation.

    hannibal sees an echo of that intensity in will’s current attention, coiled darkly just behind his eyes.  they glint in the relative darkness, just barely catching the light from the chandelier and the flicker of the hearth reflected upon its brassy surface.  it rouses something primal in him, despite the refinement of their meal and the intricacy of their conversation.  hearkens back to the animalistic—the time-worn satisfaction of sharing food.  of gathering around a fire, the symbol of life.  a gift wrenched from the hands of the gods.

    will’s mouth curls into a convoluted smile, the emotions behind it too complicated and numerous to name, and hannibal feels his own lips tugging upward in fond reply.  certain thoughts are prayers.  there are moments when, whatever the posture of the body, the soul is on its knees.  he rests his wrists on the edge of the table, fork and knife held neatly in his hands, and watches the bob of will’s throat as he swallows a mouthful of rich red wine.

    “‘share my madness, and i will share yours.’”

    like the final tableau before the fall of the curtain, hannibal holds the scene.  he meets will’s gaze with chin uplifted, self-satisfaction painted in the curve of his lip, but his sentiment is honest despite the performance.  will’s presence suffuses the room with a dark, focused warmth—one in which hannibal would, in contentedness, bask interminably.  when the moment has passed, he drops his gaze back to his plate, herding pommes frites and cubes of meat neatly into the center of the dish so that he can pierce them with the tines of his fork.

    “no single text can accurately render the complexity of our involvement,”    he continues, certainty shoring up the deceptive mildness of his tone.    “it has passed the bounds of definition—‘immoderate, inordinate, and not to be comprehended in any bounds.’”    i met myself in you.  he raises his eyes to will as he lifts the fork to his mouth, readily and wholly accepting will’s offering.  consumption as consummation.  food is, perhaps, one of the most ancient methods of demonstrating devotion—man procured meat for those he loved.  gave it as a sacrifice to those greater beings whose love he hoped to inspire in return.

    “only we who partake can understand.”    their association is unique in that way.  exceptional, and entirely other.

    hannibal sets his utensils down and, with a quirk of his lips, reaches for his wine.

[morghulis]

@cadisfly  /  “𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚁𝙸𝙱𝙻𝙴 𝙸𝚂 𝙶𝙾𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙴𝙽.”

her eyes are bloodshot, rung round with with shadows and a fresh bruise for the left. the cut on the accompanying cheek oozes around dried blood, but he hasn’t made mention of it. instead he’d opened up a cupboard and pulled out a first aid kit, set the gauze and alcohol and butterfly strips out on the kitchen counter and set the sink to run warm. arya pads around the dawn lit kitchen and thinks about how still the world is outside, with summer settling on its laurels, waiting for the cool breath of autumn to fills its lungs. something terrible is going to happen, he says while he moves between setting up the coffee pot and grabbing a bag of frozen vegetables, and she thinks winter is coming and shivers. 

“ something terrible is always happening, ”   she says with a shrug, hiking the too long ends of her sweater up to her elbows and tucking the chopped edges of her hair behind her ears before leaning her head into the sink. the water stings the wound but soothes the rest ; her fingertips still dig into the metal until her knuckles show white. when she pulls away there’s a streak of pink running down her cheek, dripping from her chin and her eyes are two pools of smoke, the edges dark and hard with anxiety and—anger. terrible for will might be a whole other beast, and it makes her furious. for him, or because of him maybe. she can’t decide.   “ are you scared of this terrible something? ”

[initcne-arch]

@cadisfly asked : drabble + waiting for a train.

           Darlene has stood on this platform and ridden this train from Washington Township to the city more times than she can count. She feels she knows the city better than she knows her own hometown. She has very little attachment to Washington Township. No nostalgia to keep her grounded here any longer than is necessary. She has plotted her escape from this town many times and has run away several times. She always comes crawling back to her house or, on a few occasions, dragged back to her house by the police kicking and screaming.

But it’s different this time. Darlene is eighteen years old. She graduated from high school exactly one week ago. Graduating from high school in itself doesn’t feel like much of an accomplishment. She couldn’t be bothered to walk because she knew no one would be bothered to come to her graduation ceremony and she rarely showed up to school anyway. Darlene is eighteen years old and she is an adult. She is not eight years old and running away because her mother wouldn’t let her keep a kitten. She is not ten years old and bolting from her mother at the grocery store. She is not fourteen years old and chasing the train, this train, down the platform as it carries her brother and her friend to the city. She is not even sixteen years old and finally going home because her friend’s mother worriedly asked her if things were okay after she spends nearly a week at her friend’s house because as awful as her mother’s house is, Darlene doesn’t care to live out the final years of her youth bouncing around a failing foster care system.

Her mother barely regarded her as she walked out the door with her backpack and a suitcase. Darlene had been telling Magda for months now that she was leaving after graduation. Magda typically responded with either a noncommittal grunt or a, “And where are you going to go?? Who’s going to put up with you??”

There is someone who will put up with Darlene now, and she is heading their way, and in her young, eighteen year old mind, they are the reason she can finally escape. They have been planting this thought in her mind since she was about sixteen. When you turn eighteen, I can take you away from all of this.

It is the first week of June and the temperature is still hovering at a comfortable level. Darlene is standing on the train platform with her headphones clamped down over her ears. She doesn’t stand under the awning because, as previously stated, the temperature is comfortable. She bounces up and down on the balls of her feet. She doesn’t need to look at the screen to know what time her train is supposed to arrive--10:45am--and she doesn’t need to look at the screen to know this train is typically running about six minutes behind schedule. She has taken this train many times. She has only one backpack and one small suitcase. Darlene doesn’t have any particular emotional attachment to any of her belongings. It’s all just stuff. She felt no twinge of sadness leaving the bedroom she grew up in with practically everything she owned still in its place. Her gaze is wide and fevered as she stares out across the train tracks, staring absently at the platform to get off at Washington Township. She doesn’t know this for certain yet, but she feels she’ll never have to step onto that platform again.

All this runs through her mind as she stands there picking at her nail polish. Darlene is eighteen years old and she has someone to go to when she runs away this time, so things are different, and she’ll never have to step onto that other platform again. She feels the ground rumble beneath her feet before she sees the train to Brooklyn pulling around the corner.

[cybled-a]

@cadisfly said: ‘ Something magical has happened to me : like a dream when one feels frightened and creepy, and suddenly wakes up to the knowledge that no such terrors exist. I have wakened. ’ for eve (:

𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐒. parceled up in chunks of phonemes with the vaguest meanings while her mind rakes over the case file in one hand. she hears ‘dream’ and ‘knowledge’ and ‘terrors’ and her little fingers tap against the side of the over-large mug in her other hand, still warm though the coffee inside has long since grown tepid. she’d barely acknowledged his entrance into her hotel room, mind swimming with information, swimming with memories of almond shaped eyes, honey-hazel, swimming with the thought of a blade and poison and names and names and--- 

     “ wakened? ”   her eyes shoot up to will’s, eyebrows raised. he’s not looking at her, but instead out of the window past the edge of the dull brown curtain. he rarely truly looks at her, and she appreciates that mostly. being seen rarely comes without some level of disgust from the beholder. not that will could ( or would ) ever judge her quite like that. still. there’s only so much vulnerability she can allow and he has an enticing way of drawing it out. does he always mean to? she can’t always tell. 

     better blunt honesty with ineloquent words than the seeing. at least words offer some measure of distance through breakdown. misinterpretation. you can’t misinterpret the subtleties of human expression through eye gaze; well, will wouldn’t misinterpret at least. 

     the leg she’d tucked up against her chest, heel dug into the edge of her seat, shifts down. she leans back in her chair and sets her work down, wraps both small hands around her warm mug. the rest of the words filter in with sudden sharp clarity, as if her mind had just been waiting for her to focus properly. they fill her with an annoying sense of dread. not for will, though she thinks vaguely that she should be more worried about him. no. it’s purely existential, and she doesn’t have time for that. 

     “ y’know there’s not a single animal in the world that doesn’t have some kind of sleep cycle. some animals even have this way of letting one side of the brain sleep while the other stays awake so they don’t like, drown or get attacked. dolphins. ”

     she sets her mug on the small coffee table and leans back again, running her fingers through her hair, thick and tangled from sleep. a big sigh heaves through her. he’s looking at her now, a strange half smile on his own tired face. she shrugs, hands still buried in her hair, exasperated. 

     “ i’m just pointing out that you’re awake for now but eventually you’ll dream again. figuratively or poetically or whatever. i don’t know what you’re actually talking about, but everything’s a cycle. a pattern. you and i both know that. ”

[vylingas]

“ tell me no. ”

   Hannibal has always found life to be most beautiful at its extremes. Tension is all the more compelling for the knowledge that it will, assuredly, snap; the question—the appeal—merely lies in uncovering the particulars. In being party to both journey and revelation, experiencing both in all their raw, unfettered glory. Hannibal may, at times, apply the requisite pressure to instigate such a change, but he has never scored a fault line of his own, only deepened those already there. There is no beauty in blunt reproduction, and machination is only rewarding when enacted in service of some greater, unpredictable outcome.

   He has been anticipating the arrival of this particular breaking point in Will for some time now. Already, he finds it well worth the wait.

  “Certain objects, once set into motion, can’t be easily halted.” He swallows deliberately and keeps his hands at his sides, his posture still; as he has been wont to, recently, he forfeits control to Will, curious how he will navigate their current circumstance.

   It’s dark in the office, and Will’s hair gleams in the firelight. His entire figure is licked with shades of orange and yellow that pour out from the hearth behind him, casting his face and the front of his body in shadows. A fallen angel, perhaps, or, to be more mundane, a man who has finally turned his face away from false light. Darkness becomes Will in more ways than one, making sinister the beautiful, chiseled lines of his face.

   Freddie Lounds and Randall Tier were fortunate to have beheld such radiance at the ends of their lives, though Hannibal doubts they fully appreciated the gift they were granted. He wonders vaguely how Will’s expression might have changed while he killed them. Did he wear the same menacing calm that lacquers him now? Or did his face twist with judgment? Exhilaration, perhaps?

   If only Hannibal could have born witness.

   He wets his lips. Will’s face hovers inches from his own, and he can feel his own breath reflected back against him, see his own desires shimmering behind Will’s eyes.

   His lips quirk into a teasing smile; saliva floods his mouth. “Would you prefer I deny you?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. The prospect is certainly appealing—to be once more on the receiving end of Will’s fury, with no barriers or bars between them. To force Will to either live with his hunger or punish Hannibal for it, to invite his rage to turn into desire. They both know that Hannibal welcomes his advances, just as Will welcomes Hannibal’s in return, though they speak of neither the advances nor the welcome. But there are battles to be fought still. There would be no artifice in whatever struggle may blossom tonight, only a carnal redirection.

   Hannibal’s fingers twitch with the desire to touch. To be touched. Will’s knuckles had been bloody when he returned with the body of Randall Tier, and Hannibal had felt then the same hunger he feels now. Had swelled with the same pride, the same yearning. The same need to devour and be devoured in return.

   “No animal has evolved beyond the appeal of shows of force.”

[fantasycaught]

@cadisfly​ said:  ❛ If you can’t stop the waves, go sailing. ❜

          “ 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘? ”  he wonders aloud, eyes scanning pointedly around the shed. taking in the half-built sailboat, tools and bits of wood and rope strewn across the cement floor.  frankly, it sounds very similar to the ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’ philosophy. not many people apply this logic to serial killers, but then again bill supposes will graham is not most people. the scent of lacquer finish is overwhelming, so strong he can taste it like a pall settling over his tongue.

          will seems at peace here with his dogs, cut off from the world in a log cabin nestled amongst a grove of fir trees. the shade lends a certain darkness to the place, a chill that bill can feel in his bones. the frigid winter air hurts to breathe even in the shed out of the wind, crackling in his lungs and leaving in hot, pained puffs of vapor that are so white they’re distracting to the eye.

          he hates to interrupt that peace, but while jack crawford had framed his directive as a polite request bill could see the demand for it exactly what it was—an order. the unit’s best profiler had absconded with his uncanny abilities, and crawford was hurting for the insight. not even a love affair with hannibal lecter could shake his confidence in the man. will’s personal carnage aside, he is hauntingly effective.

          “ so you’ll go after him, and then what? ”  bill taps a cigarette into his palm. there is no doubt about the him he is referring to, the seemingly ever-present entity of dr. lecter looming large like a deadly specter over their conversation. he may be gone, but in some ways he is more present than ever.  

          “ seems a little self-destructive, if you ask me. not that you’re asking. ”  his shoulders hunch up as he brings the lighter to the tip, hand held aloft, protective of the flame despite the lack of wind. more of a habit than anything else, a little bit ceremony and a little bit of an excuse to look away from the man whose inherent intensity has always made him slightly uncomfortable.

[violints]

@cadisfly​     *

‘   i can tell already you think i’m the dragon.   ’            a look,      up - and - down,      slightest hint of a smile      —      not a happy one,      but the kind that comes when you don’t know what other expression to make in the moment,      when the thoughts are beyond whatever your face is doing.            ‘   i’m not.      i’m not the dragon.      —      i’m not the princess,      either.      (      who am i?      )      i’m just a writer.      i write things down.   ’            yes,      she sinks the boat of love,      swallows glass,      but that comes later.

[morghulis]

@cadisfly said: 013.  give them food . 

he doesn’t mean to, she thinks. treat her the way he does sometimes, like a child. though it makes her question in the back of her mind if she’s still one after all. if she’ll always be stuck in that place she still goes to in her nightmares sometimes, the place with the filth and the rats and the never ending stream of questions. the place where she’s a mouse and a lamb and a snake, everything but a girl. maybe it’s not that he treats me like a child so much as a very fragile human being that doesn’t know it’s still human. that thought hurts worse somehow. is that how you felt about abigail? her chest aches watching him move around his tiny kitchen, cooking for her. 

“ watch the sausage for me? ”   he asks over his shoulder while he rummages through a drawer for a spare hand towel, takes the pot of boiling water to the sink to pour the chopped potatoes through the strainer sitting in it. she slides off the stool and makes her way to the stove, pokes at the sizzling meat with the dull edge of a wooden spatula. 

“ i ate like an hour before i got here, ”   she lies through her teeth, cool and easy and hating herself for it, for lying to him, for lying in principle. what happened to the girl who went all but feral on her own sister for telling lies? what happened to that girl? she pokes a little more viciously at the sausages, frowning. 

“ well i still haven’t eaten, ”   he answers without looking at her, preoccupied with gathering the rest of the chopped vegetables. probably knows i’m lying, she thinks sullenly. it’s 3 am, but she wouldn’t put it past him to skip dinner, to cook for her when she shows up on his doorstep, to pretend it’s for him even though he’s not really hungry, because he knows she hasn’t eaten. when he’s done he adds the potatoes to the pan, along with the onion, mushrooms, and tomatoes he’d had her chop up earlier.   “ pass me the tongs please. ” 

she knows her way around the kitchen well enough to find them easily enough, hands them over and leans against the counter to watch. he takes the half-cooked sausages from the pan and puts it on the cutting board, uses a fork  and butcher's knife to cut it into a steaming pile he adds back in with the rest of the vegetables.   “ how many eggs do you want? ” 

“ just one. ”

he glances at her side long as he stirs everything together. 

“ fiiinnneee. two. ”

will smiles, lopsided and a little amused, tips his chin towards the fridge. she grabs the egg carton and they crack four eggs into the pan on top of the frying food. it feels good, breaking things, cooking. it feels human. 

they both like the yolk runny so it only takes a few minutes before they pull the pan off the hot stove, portion the food up into bowls and grab a pair of beers from the fridge. the dogs waiting patiently in their beds ( and on will’s bed ) follow them out onto the porch and settle down in their usual spots with only a few longing gazes cast their way.

“ d’you think if we died suddenly from like, super terrible food poisoning or something, that the dogs would eat us? ”   she asks through a forkful of sausage and potato, sitting on the floor with her back against a column. 

will chews thoughtfully, brows pleasantly furrowed as if this were some great philosophical question she were posing.   “ probably. ”

“ not winston, ”   she decides, watching the dog in question curled peacefully at will’s feet.   “ well, he wouldn’t eat you at least. and he’d probably keep the rest of them from eating you. ”

he chuckles a little, a soft noise, picking at his food. 

“ maybe that’s love. not eating the people you care about, ”   she continues quietly, almost to herself. out of the corner of her eye she can see the way his smile falters a little. you’re so stupid! she tells herself while sweeping her leg across the floor and stretching her toe out to nudge his shin through her sock.   “ i mean more like the emotional way of eating. you know how sometimes other people’s feelings and dreams and whatever end of devouring you and yours? like that. ”

he nods, picks his smile back up, takes another bite.   “ how’s your meal tonight? ”

“ sorta hideous looking but delicious. thanks chef, ”   she answers, raising her bottle to will. he raises his back and they drink, feeling mostly human, feeling mostly home. 

[brutlistarchive]

𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲     ---     no, he would say , it is not remarkable nor within the precedence of alarming to have will graham here , or to have himself studied in his state of post , and quite precise violence . his wrists ache more than he thought his hands might , still blanched at the crags in his cliffside knuckles and his fingers ruddy red , albeit paling . it’s not yet winter , but the cold hardly came as an encroachment as much as it had hurled itself shoulder first into the hemisphere     ---     or maybe that’s his age bitterly biting back and gnawing on him a hurt fitter men , and younger boys do not notice quite as acutely . not needly , not pin pricks . this cold is a prolonged ache that comes from the drag and pressure of an angry dull tooth , indenting , and scraping on his bone as though it were as soft as taffy . drowning a man in the snow never hurt this long . 

     jacob heugh is reteaching his lungs how to drink less greedily , the air is chilled enough to burn , when he works his fingers in slow furls and unfurls into the palm and back out again as though it will absolve him of what he has done and pick up the body but paces away for him to drag away elsewhere , anywhere , as long as it needn’t be him to do it . jacob heugh , is doing all of this while examining will graham just as he’s sure he does equally the same , and is thinking of perhaps sitting down on the questionable log rot over there , just to take a moment and consider what the needs were that he ought to be doing if nothing more was to come from this strange confrontation . a glance back to the disrupted and tossed indentions of dead frantic movement where he had only just moments ago distanced himself from , and heugh almost laughs albeit a soundless thing when he tosses a deflated gesture at the spectacle of the body and what stories the disgruntled snow bed told , sniffing against the cold , and then back to will but not exactly ; a bit past his shoulder to the tree crop behind him . heugh knew plenty well what he was doing out here . but he didn’t know what will had come to these woods for .     “     what am i gonna do , son     ---     am i gonna run ??     “

@cadisfly​ // sc

[monstroum]

@cadisfly : rust / memphis / phillip / woody

sorry for tagging you in this ugly long post friend, but i don’t know how to abbreviate or plot. please don’t feel pressured to follow through with any of these ideas and feel free to edit, copy or delete anything. x 

RUST: we know these two bozos are similar in a lot of ways. too similar. they communicate in a language only accessible to the likes of them. outsiders looking in would think these two hate each other, judging by how bitter they look and sound. truth of the matter is, from rustin’s perspective, will might be the only person he has met who can empathise ( heh ) with him without getting hurt along the way. will graham gets him without having to sacrifice much. that doesn’t mean he’ll be any softer or more careful with him, cohle will say the same hurtful blunt shit he says to everyone else.

but he might pick up on certain things others don’t. he knows when to turn a blind eye to certain methods or opinions will might share with him. he also knows when shit is his business and when it isn’t. and he has the feeling graham is the same. they might never say it out loud or make grand gestures to demonstrate it, but i think rustin would like to consider will his friend. --- what he can’t tolerate is being lied to, being tricked or being manipulated. and if he ever picks up on any of those tendencies coming from will, he’ll let him have a piece of his mind. and if he ever hurts people who, in rust’s view, don’t deserve to be hurting, well, he won’t be able to ignore that. give me weird but strong bonds, give me conflict, give me stern stares from across the table and shared hallucinations!!!!

MEMPHIS: i feel like will would not like memphis very much. he’s overly familiar and doesn’t really care much for people’s boundaries. watch S1 will wake up in the middle of nowhere only to find mr. memphis fishing by a stream. is he real? is he an encephalitis episode? whO KNOWS! but he sure knows a lot about will’s life. like he’s been watching him. maybe his face shifts, maybe things and people that shouldn’t be there materialise...whatever it takes to make will sign on the dotted line!

or maybe he shows up in more conventional settings. maybe he’s annoying but friendly enough for will to tolerate him. maybe at some point, when will is particularly frustrated and feeling low, memphis does the thing and goes “you look miserable. is it a girlfriend? boyfriend? boss getting you down?” and then “want me to kill them for you?”. can’t believe mr. memphis is just an AU matthew brown.

BP: he speaks in old english and always smells like wet dirt. he’s also either a goat or has hepatitis cause his eyes are this weird yellowish color. doesn’t open his lips to speak. i’m not sure how will would interact with this one. his goals are very similar to mr. memphis, but he tends to seek out women in particular to join his coven. he’s also a bit more connected to the wilderness and religious folk. might need a bit more help with this one charlie i am not good a t plotting

WOODY: he’s a pain in the butt and i am 100% sure these two would NOT get along. woody is always looking for a fight. he’s loud and doesn’t know the difference between respect and fear. because will looks smaller than him and because i feel he has a tendency towards being......a bit....snarky i think woody would absolutely target him. these two might have met at some point....woody works for a mob boss (?) of sorts. people have been killed in the past and woody might have had a hand in that. he’s not the brightest tool in the shed, he’s mean, he doesn’t respect authority and he really is into the whole survival of the fittest mindset. maybe will or someone in the fbi interrogated him at some point. maybe they know of each other. maybe there’s some animosity there. maybe will can smell woody’s inferiority complex from a mile away. maybe at some point woody starts to actually be afraid of will.

[initcne-arch]

clearly not the right choice of words.

pushing daisies starters.

            “Shut up. Fuck off. Fuck you.” She’s thrown herself onto the curb, sitting there with her knees pulled to her chest and a cigarette hanging between two fingers. Hands are shaking and eyes are rimmed red from anger. “You were supposed to have my back in there, you pretentious little prick. What the fuck happened??” 

[detectiev]

 if somebody says ‘bless your heart’, what they really mean is ‘fuck you’. / @cadisfly​  ──────    (   *   &.   –   SHARP  OBJECTS MEME / OPEN

                                  his shirt stuck to his back . rustin had grown used to the discomfort of the louisiana heat , so much so that anything gentler would feel alien to him . and by the way will graham’s curls stuck to his forehead with sweat , rust could assume the special agent was familiar with uneasiness . he checked his wrist watch and wrote down the time in his ledger . people around those parts disguised the stench of their own continuous perspiration with southern hospitality , a concept that felt as fabricated to cohle as his plastic ballpoint pen . their last house visit had been beyond useless . the woman they had interviewed had been more concerned about keeping her knees covered and her back straight . another performance of self .

 rust looked up from his notes at the house they had just left , letting graham’s words spread like sweat on cotton . he thought he tasted salt . rustin lingered by the door of their car , watching as a sudden breeze made the tall grass wave in the sun . cohle swallowed hard when noticing that the vegetation had a particularly strong shine to it ; like light reflected on water . that ugly old house felt very far away then . a home neither of them had really known . the small mundane rituals the woman had practiced  (  make coffee , offer cookies , holding onto a rosary  )  felt so distant now : JUST A BOAT PASSING THEM BY as they remained there , on the other side , stranded .

                                           ❝          people perceive you as sensitive . and by sparin’ you of their opinions , people perceive themselves as better .       ❞           cohle pointed out while closing his ledger . everyone was a victim in their own eyes . but some , like graham , unknowingly wore that frailty everyone held onto so tightly too well . it was the huge tearful eyes that avoided making contact with others , the way his bite was sometimes too sudden or too desperate , like that of a cornered dog . it tugged on some people’s heart strings . and made others feel nervous .         ❝          perception is vicious . we project ideas out into the world , tryin’ to digest it as somethin’ we can comprehend   ━━━     bones ‘n’ all    ━━━     never realizing that what we see isn’t god or other people , it’s us . all alone talkin’ to shadows on the walls of our craniums , stuck in a never ending cycle of masturbatory self-consumption .       ❞           cohle said , catching the tall grass shining brightly by the corner of his eye . 

when he opened the car door , ready to get back inside , rust hesitated . he looked over at the special agent and squinted under the sun .  sweat and fever and bitterness clung on to that man . and cohle realized just how different will graham must have looked to everyone else back in quantico   .  how devastating it must be , to be as empathetic as he was , and be forced to struggle with the ideas others constructed for him .        ❝          get in .         ❞                     cohle rasped .