Guilt is a scent that permeates everything
As his musk sleeps in my skin,
In my hair,
In my clothes,
Sinks into my shuddering heart as we both wonder
When it could all fall down,
Bury us in our deceit
It’s in the dead note
as he speaks her name,
In the perverse veil of
lust and sickness
that slips over me when I hear his
Yet it is the absence of shame which makes us shameful
That unspoken knowledge that our intolerable pull
Will soon push us into bed
We weave our stories and complicate our situation
Like our limbs and our longing.
"This isn’t an affair, it’s assistance."
And I believed
The brightness and strict, orderly layout didn’t sit well in his gut, making him feel exposed and even more keenly aware of the chaos that was his psyche. In those walls he was a walking grimace, but the place was a necessary evil he tried to combat with thoughts of the warm jumble of knit plaids and dogs he called home.
“Right,” Jack began, stance even stiffer than usual, authoritative voice in place to match his ever-so-slightly deeper scowl. His voice came like a slap, bringing Will sharply back into focus. The earthy tones of Wolf Trap bleached away to that nauseating white with a sigh.A Hand on the Fire
Quiet. Tranquil. Eerie.
The glow cloud, though sending an indescribable pulse of malaise through the area with its mere presence, cast a beautiful light over the city of Night Vale, brightening the sands of the harbor and tinting Carlos’ beautiful dark hair with an unearthly sheen. Despite that odd sickening feeling, Cecil smiled in the dim light and shuffled closer, breathing in deeply the mingled aroma of sage and burning plastic, his Carlos and his city, and sighed contentedly.
For once the sounds of helicopters and incomprehensible yelling were gone, leaving just the two of them, the slight whoosh of the wind, and that ever-present-and-unexplained static-like noise that ensured nobody ever felt truly alone. Perfect. It was without a doubt true perfection, this moment, and nothing else mattered.
He didn’t even think about how wonderful this story would be for his listeners tomorrow. That would’ve been remarkable to him, the absence of the thoughts he usually would’ve had had he been thinking at all about…thinking, but he was utterly blank. No work, no obligations, just simple happiness.
Hannibal/Will, puppies and flower crownsOf c ourse you would, Curry…
Alana Bloom holds out hope for Will’s release. Will holds onto hopelessness like a shock blanket. Promises are kept, failed, and followed through.
"See Sam and I are tracking someone, something that’s just a little more twisted than your regular, everyday psychopathic serial killer.” Though Sam shifted uncomfortably, Will mirroring him unconsciously, Hannibal remained still and looked more intrigued than disturbed.
"And what exactly would that be?" The doctor asked simply. There was a hint of a snarl that tainted Dean’s voice, rippling it’s way up his rigid form and stony face, setting his eyes ablaze with a dark fury.
"I think you know damn well what I’m on about," he growled, shifting forward ever so slightly. His gaze darted over to Will, who now looked somewhat alarmed and yet intensely focused, possibly trying to gauge just what sort of a man this Dean Winchester was. "There’s a wendigo on the loose in these parts, a vicious, possessive, ruthless killer who just happens to be hitching a ride on one of the local nasty sons-of-bitches in order to do some real damage and get a decent meal. Or six." His disgust in the idea was made painfully clear as he shook his head and swallowed with a slight grimace. To his side, Sam winced.
Hannibal’s face remained the cool mask it always was, but something flared up in his eyes, a warning that both brothers would almost certainly just dismiss. It was interesting to them that his reaction was utterly devoid of anger or panic. Instead the mask warped into a parody of concern.
"Perhaps you require my assistance? Maybe it would be best if you talked to me about this "wendigo", why you’re so sure it’s behind the murders here…"
Title: Reconquérir Enfin
Fandom: Hannibal (NBC)
Summary: Alana Bloom holds out hope for Will’s release. Will holds onto hopelessness like a shock blanket. Promises are kept, failed, and followed through.
Warnings: Multiple mentions of death.
Notes: Not a happy one and certainly nothing I believe will happen in the show, nothing I’d want to happen in the show either. Just a little thing that popped into my head on the walk to work yesterday that I finally got to work on just before work today. If I’ve done my job, I’m sure several people will hate me. Bonus points to anyone who picks up on the little references here and there.
The investigation would take a few months at least. It was to be incredibly thorough, not just due to the gravity and gruesome nature of the string of crimes it surrounded but because it centered around someone they had considered one of their own, lending a very personal spin on things. They began by tearing apart Will’s house, his sanctuary, completely and mercilessly, analyzing the shards, shreds and threads of what was once a life. The analysts looked for the truth in every detail, and their results would be analyzed by a senior team, and theirs by a more senior team, and theirs, and theirs, until somebody was satisfied and a conclusion was reached.
The investigation would take a few months at least.
And it was going to hurt like hell.
He was trembling just slightly, fists clenched and looking both like a petulant child and a very worried man indeed. His eyes never remained fixed on his friend nor his enemy, though they certainly seemed to linger far longer on the first. Nothing was said, but John’s face softened as he nodded, and that was all Sherlock needed.
“Are you alright? John, are you okay?”
Breathe you in.
My fascination, your unnatural draw,
Base, raw, feverish, manic.
My blood sings as you draw closer,
Piecing together the mystery of
Cleansing and purging,
Unraveling your mind
And preening you for greater purpose.
You have come the closest
To the divine,
To the darkness,
The perfect, primal union
Of our own creation.
Will Graham was seething with a fury not entirely his own.
"You," he said simply, almost perfectly flat save for that hint of a restrained, purely animalistic growl threatening along the edges. Hannibal, composed and curious as always, remained silent, motionless. “All this time. You.” The venom finally seeped in, mingling with a notable crack of betrayal making it seem almost as though Will was finding it as hard to breathe as he was struggling to comprehend and digest this revelation. “And you turned everyone against me to- to save your skin…”
"Not quite, Will."
The use of his name stung, and if Hannibal realized this he betrayed none of it on his face. He never did. His eyes were unfathomable, his face unreadable. He was a calm mask studying the continued undoing of the man before him.
Over the years Castiel could be likened to many things, mainly baby forms of anything, innocent and endearing, an untarnished desire to learn and explore, that childish need to please. It was sort of funny, looking back, that this being behind the man that was built to be a weapon, an unfeeling and blindly obedient warrior, had become this. Sam leaned back in his chair, ignoring its groans of protest, and laughed, smile remaining as he raised the bottle to his lips again. Across from him, Castiel’s mouth quirked at the corner as he mimicked the action, catching Sam’s eyes through heavy lids.
He couldn’t remember life before that dull ache. It was ever-present - a heaviness in his chest, a tightness in his throat, a sickness in his stomach - and it was unbearable, infecting everything. He couldn’t remember how it felt to genuinely smile, or laugh. He’d all but forgotten anger and frustration. It had reached the point where feeling was apparently not something that came to him naturally any longer, merely something he could catch glimpses of in memory. draw out once in a while if he concentrated particularly hard. Everything but that ache was completely and utterly numb.
My goal for today, now that Christmas baking is…60% complete, is to get chapter 5 finished and uploaded.
Because oh my god
I’ve missed writing and I actually have breathing space.
But not really.
There was something about nature that fascinated Sherlock on a completely different level, underneath the deduction, the hyper-analyses, the constant figuring and processing and whirring in his brain.
It was pretty.