Latest Posts by pascalslilpunk - Page 6
just to tell y’all how bad the fandom parasite gets, i binged rivals sunday night, got 3 hours sleep, then read all the rupert x taggie fics that are on ao3 which are 170 and counting, it’s currently tuesday and now i don’t know what to do, i literally haven’t been able to concentrate the last 2 days
Dust & Devotion
This was heavily Ethel Cain inspired I listened to Strangers by her on repeat
You lay on the mattress pressed against the worn wooden floor, your fingers tracing the deep cracks in the old boards, feeling each rough edge beneath your touch. The room was small, but in its quiet, it offered refuge from the nightmares lurking beyond these walls. You and Joel had found this place by some stroke of luck, an ancient cottage that felt torn between being a chapel and a farmhouse, unable to settle on either, caught somewhere in between—a sanctuary for the weary.
As you had stepped into the house, a strange kind of stillness fell over you, broken only by the crunch of glass beneath your boots. The walls were lined with worn, faded crosses, their wood splintered and edges chipped as if they’d borne witness to countless silent prayers over the years.
Religious memorabilia dotted the room—small, withered icons coated in dust, a cracked rosary tangled around a rusted nail, and framed portraits of saints, their eyes gazing somewhere far beyond this broken world. Many of the pictures hung askew, their glass frames shattered, jagged edges catching what little light crept through the boarded windows, casting fractured reflections onto the floor.
The hall itself was narrow, and every step brought a quiet symphony of decay—the soft groan of the floorboards, the creak of loose nails. A faint smell of mildew clung to the air, mixed with something old and faintly metallic, as though time itself had grown stale within these walls. You felt almost like an intruder here, disturbing something sacred, though forgotten—a relic of faith left to wither in the shadows.
Joel muttered his usual “Stay here,” his voice low and gruff, a command softened only by the familiarity of it. As always, you waited, lingering in the entryway as he moved further in, his steps deliberate and cautious, each one carrying a quiet vigilance. You watched his broad frame melt into the dim shadows of the room, his shoulders tense, every movement precise.
He scanned each corner, his head tilting just so, eyes narrowing as he checked every possible hiding place. You held your breath without meaning to, a small ritual of your own, waiting for that assurance, that single word that meant safety.
And then, after what felt like an eternity, his voice cut through the silence, firm and unmistakable: “Clear.” Only then did you feel your shoulders relax, the air finally leaving your lungs as you took a tentative step forward, drawn by the quiet relief that came only with his presence.
Now as you lay, you heard the familiar creak of footsteps from downstairs. Joel was moving around, probably hunting for something to sharpen his blade with. You could picture him clearly, brows knit together, that perpetual scowl etched into his face like it was part of him.
More movement followed, his footsteps a steady rhythm, growing louder with each step as he climbed the creaky stairs. You could feel the weight of his approach, the subtle tension that always came when he was near.
When he finally reached your door, he gave a soft knock—a restrained sound, just enough to announce himself without breaking the stillness that lingered in the room. You shifted, pushing yourself up onto your shoulders, back straightening as you awaited him, anticipation pooling in the quiet space between his knock and whatever he might say next.
“Come in.” Your voice barely escaped you, soft and fragile, as it always seemed to be around him.
He pushed the door open just a crack, enough to meet your gaze. “Water’s working,” he said in that low, gravelly tone. “But it’ll only be hot for a minute, so if you’re wantin’ a shower, better take it now.”
“Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, and he nodded—a silent answer, as usual. Joel had a way of saying more with a tilt of his head than most could with words. You’d come to understand it in the time you’d known him.
You padded softly down the narrow hallway to the single bathroom, a neglected relic from another time. It was grimy and unkempt, the tiles chipped, the porcelain stained from years of disuse. The mirror was fogged with age, and something blackish lurked in the corners of the tub.
Yet, it was water, a rare luxury out here, and that was enough.
You paused, catching sight of yourself in the mirror. How long had it been since you’d seen your reflection so clearly? You tugged off your clothes, frowning as your gaze lingered on the hair on your legs—a trivial thing, but somehow, since Joel, it felt like something.
You caught yourself eyeing the counter, wondering if, somewhere, a clean razor lay forgotten, a stupid - pointless hope.
With a sigh, you stepped into the shower, feet curling against the cold, gritty surface. You turned the knob, anticipating the rare reprieve of hot water, but nothing came. Just the creak and groan of the pipes, the faint splutter of disappointment.
Frustrated, you stepped out, cracked open the door, and called out to Joel.
“What?” His voice bellowed back from some corner of the house, thick and unmistakable.
“Shower’s not working,” you shouted, annoyance leaking into your tone.
You could hear the muffled groan of him rising, could imagine his joints protesting as he pushed himself upright. His footsteps grew louder, and you realized suddenly how exposed you were, grabbing for your sleep shirt and hastily pulling it over yourself.
“You decent?” he asked, voice closer now, rough around the edges.
“Yeah,” you muttered, tugging the shirt down over your thighs.
He stepped in, casting a quick, assessing look over you. Your hair was loose, tumbling down your shoulders, ready to be washed. You caught him looking, just for a second, something shifting in his gaze. His eyes lingered at your legs, and you felt a pang of self-consciousness—the pricks of hair, the way your arms instinctively crossed over yourself.
He’d noticed, in those small, fleeting ways, how you’d started to care about the tiniest things—things he knew wouldn’t have crossed your mind before. The way you tugged at your sleeves when your hands felt rough, or how you’d sometimes run your fingers over your legs absently, a flicker of irritation passing over your face when they weren’t smooth. He saw it in the way you’d bite your lip and avert your gaze whenever you felt exposed, adjusting yourself, hiding those little imperfections you’d never have thought twice about.
Joel noticed, too, how you seemed to eye the worn-down counters in each place you landed, almost as if searching for some scrap of luxury—a mirror, a razor, a brush that hadn’t been cracked by years of dust and grit. He couldn’t quite explain why it mattered to you, but he noticed it all the same.
Joel couldn’t give a damn if you had hair on your legs or if your hands were rough from calluses.
He was a man, not some boy caught up in a picture-perfect idea of what a woman should be. He knew better. Life had taught him that women were more than delicate, pretty things meant to be displayed; they were fierce, resilient, built from the same grit that held the world together. But still, a part of him felt that quiet ache, that twinge of regret that the softness you’d once carried—the gentle things you’d once let yourself want—had been taken from you, piece by piece.
But as always, Joel said nothing, just knelt down with a quiet exhale, hands deftly working the knob until the pipes coughed and sputtered back to life.
You watched his hands, rough and weathered, calloused from years of hard work and survival. His fingers were thick, his nails perpetually rimmed with a faint trace of dirt, as if they carried the remnants of every struggle he’d ever faced. Those hands—hands that could grip a weapon, hold the collar of a man with an unyielding strength, fend off whatever the world threw at him. And yet, despite their harshness, you couldn’t help but wonder if they’d ever be gentle enough to cradle you.
You found yourself drawn to the thought of them, of what it might feel like if he allowed his touch to soften, if those hands could lay down their burden, even just for a moment. It was a ridiculous, hopeless longing, yet it lingered there, deep in the marrow of your bones—a wish that those same hands, capable of such violence and grit, might one day trace your skin with a tenderness they seemed almost incapable of.
There was something in their roughness that beckoned you, a quiet desire for the impossible, for warmth to spring from what had been hardened and scarred. And it haunted you—the idea that those hands, fierce and unforgiving, might hold you like something precious, just once.
The water finally trickled, then flowed warm. He held his hand beneath it, testing the temperature, his voice low. “It’s warm now. Better get in while it lasts.”
You nodded, avoiding his gaze, murmuring a soft “Okay.”
As he left, he left the door slightly ajar, his figure starting to disappear down the hall. But before he turned away, he glanced back, catching a glimpse of your bare shoulder and the slope of your back as you stepped beneath the stream, the thin pink curtain closing around you like a final curtain on the only softness left in this world.
The suit was definitely made for him 𖹭
@/hisethelcain. “i'd save you but the world's bent” twitter, 14 nov 2020.
YES QUEEN
Beloved Daughters of Cain around the world, coming soon to a record store near you…. At very long last, the tale of Ethel Cain will be told on vinyl. It’s been a long journey to get here, so I’m beyond excited for you to all hold it for yourselves. Thank you again to Matthew Tomasi for helping me bring this record to life, Marlee Kula for carrying it with me since, and everyone else on Team Cain for making this possible. Love you all endlessly, I’ll never stop being proud of us and this project.
Photography by @silkenweinberg , vinyl packaging designed by me. Look for it in stores on January 17th.
Thank you all so much for the support on the vinyls!!! As I’m sure you’ve all noticed, this was certainly a limited pressing, so in order to make sure as many of you get a copy as possible, the most efficient way to get it is to ask for it!!!
Email/ask Amigo Records/Prescription Songs, AWAL, and whatever vinyl distributor/record store you frequent!! Tell them how much you want more pressings of the vinyl, and tell them how much you’d like CDs and cassettes as well!
Thanks so much again, we’re gonna do everything we can to make sure all of you can hold Preacher’s Daughter in your hand somehow. Loves ya ♡
I'm always changing but I'm always true to myself
bitches be like “this is the best piece of literature i have ever read” and it’s either a book that took them six weeks to finish or a fanfic they read at 3 AM
The urge to learn every language and play every instrument and travel the world and live through every historical time period and be a writer and a poet and an actor and
Was it casual when you threw us off a cliff with your arms wrapped around me because you couldn't live with or without me?
painting w.i.p. 😔💪✨✨
Apulian Red-figure skyphos depicting the myth of Actaeon, ca 400 - 350 BC
In which Will and Hannibal have a brief conversation about divine law and expectations.
“Are you familiar with the story of Actaeon, Will?”
A digression. Another digression. He’s used to these by now.
“I can tell you want to tell me whether I have or not.”
A tilt of the head, a not-quite smile. Hannibal is, in most things, the elegance of restraint.
“I do not mean to bore you with my recounting.”
“Tell me.”
“Actaeon is a great hunter. He stumbles upon the goddess Diana bathing in the woods.”
“And I assume a swift overreaction followed.”
“The punishment of gods can never be said to be an over, or indeed under, reaction. Divine law is always a matter of poetic justice.”
“What does she do to him?”
“His punishment for this transgression is to be transformed into a stag. Only to be torn apart by his own dogs, who no longer recognize him for who he was.”
He laughs. He can’t help it. This is on the nose, even for Hannibal.
Hannibal doesn’t even blink, watching him.
“Is that supposed to be some kind of warning?”
“Do you see a warning in it?”
“A hunter torn apart by his own dogs? Yeah, it’s hard not to.”
“You place yourself in the role of the transgressor, not the transgressed.” He notes mildly “Do you ever find yourself worrying that one day your fellow investigators might mistake you for quarry?”
Does he? Of course he does. Every day. Every time he steps onto another crime scene. Hannibal knows that.
“As long as there aren’t any skinny-dipping goddesses around, I think I should be fine.”
“Do you believe that Actaeon knew what he would find?” Hannibal asks, “Perhaps he did not expect to see her any more than you might.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? He was a hunter. Whatever he expected, the end result was always going to be the same, whether he saw a goddess or not.”
“What result?” Hannibal tilts his head again, a clock-work mimic of interest.
“Spilled blood and baying hounds.”
“If tumblr shut down what other social media would u use” you are literally asking a fish what it would do if all the water in the world dried and it had to live on land
the most fun a girl can have is finding parallels, noticing patterns, making connections, contemplating
THIS is what shouldve happened.
Fic Snippet
Title: The Other Half of Me
Pairing: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Summary: He finds Hannibal, as he expected, sitting in front of the Primavera. He lays eyes on him for the first time since Hannibal gutted him and it feels like the world sharpens into focus, though he had been unaware of the blurry edges before this moment. Will stares at the expanse of Hannibal’s back and he aches.
~
Prompt - "So much about this feels like a dream."
A Dolce divergent inspired by two of Lisa's beautiful paintings [x]
~~~~
As Will walks through the sprawling halls of the Uffizi he still does not know what he is going to do once he finally finds Hannibal. Two desires still war in his breast, yearning and retribution at odds within him - conflicting feelings that have plagued him since his imprisonment, they followed him from his cell back into Hannibal’s office and they refused to leave him even when his blood spilled in rivers across Hannibal’s kitchen floor as he desperately clutched Abigail’s neck in his hand. Even having the thought of his own child taken away and his surrogate child stolen from him a second time haven’t extinguished his desire, nor did betraying Hannibal sate his wrath. He remains stuck in limbo, chasing the shadows of Hannibal and Abigail in his mind.
He finds Hannibal, as he expected, sitting in front of the Primavera. He lays eyes on him for the first time since Hannibal gutted him and it feels like the world sharpens into focus, though he had been unaware of the blurry edges before this moment. Will stares at the expanse of Hannibal’s back and he aches. He walks forward slowly, limping a little, and watches the slightest tilt of Hannibal’s head - an acknowledgement of Will’s presence as he no doubt catches his scent. Will steps up to the bench and cannot control the urge to touch, to make sure Hannibal is real in front of him, and he lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. The warmth of Hannibal’s body is searing against his palm, even through the layers of clothing. Hannibal looks up at him and smiles, something soft and genuine, an expression Will has very rarely seen before and his heart twists in his chest. He sits beside Hannibal and can feel his eyes on him, he gazes back and simply absorbs Hannibal - both of them battered and bruised as they sit before the glorious painting. There you are.
“If I saw you every day, forever, Will, I would remember this time.”
Will can’t help the way he smiles at the almost ridiculously sweet sentiment, yet he can feel the honesty of those words and read it in the softness of Hannibal’s expression and his tender amber eyes. He has no doubt that Hannibal truly means those words. He can feel the thorn of wrath and retribution ease, his anger and hurt melting as he, not for the first time, feels the urge to kiss the other man.
He sighs, “Strange seeing you here in front of me. Been staring at afterimages of you in places you haven't been in years. I wanted to understand you before I laid eyes on you again. I needed it to be clear... what I was seeing.” He needed to find some clarity, to learn as much as he could about what made Hannibal the man he is and chase those pieces Hannibal kept so deeply buried. He needs to be sure that what he sees when he looks at Hannibal, that the emotions he perceives from him are rooted in reality and not a thread of his own deep yearning.
“Where does the difference between the past and the future come from?” Hannibal asks, his voice low and the cadence reminds Will of the dark, quiet hours in Hannibal’s office and dining room.
“Mine?” Will says softly as he looks at Hannibal, he has barely taken his eyes off him since he sat down, choosing to stare at him rather than the exquisite painting on the wall, “Before you and after you. Yours? It's all starting to blur. Mischa. Abigail. Chiyoh.”
“How is Chiyoh?”
“She pushed me off a train.”
“Atta girl.” Hannibal remarks with mirth.
Will casts a glance to the sketch pad on Hannibal’s lap, a rendition of Zephyrus and Chloris etched onto the page, his own and Bedelia’s face stare back at him. He looks up at the painting and words slip from his lips, “You and I have begun to blur.”
“Isn't that how you found me?” Hannibal asks.
“Every crime of yours feels like one I am guilty of. Not just Abigail's murder, every murder... stretching backward and forward in time.” It’s a strange and disquieting sensation, to feel so connected to Hannibal that they almost exist as one being, one soul separated into two bodies but forever tied.
“Freeing yourself from me and... me freeing myself from you, they are the same.” In this moment Will knows Hannibal feels the same, it is just as difficult for Hannibal to sever their connection and Will wonders if he feels the same sense of being torn in half in his indecision.
“We're conjoined.” Will says with a faint smile, “I'm curious whether either of us can survive separation.” As he says the words it finally clicks and his inner conflict falls quiet. Oh. I’ve been looking for you my whole life and I didn't even realise it. In the end it’s ridiculously simple. The core of it all just muddied by their actions, clouded by a cycle of reciprocated violence. He feels like laughing.
“Now is the hardest test: not letting rage and frustration nor forgiveness keep you from thinking.”
Will knows that Hannibal is half expecting him to attack, to react with wrath, and part of him wants to - a desperate and wild impulse to lash out to hurt and mark and scar. But despite that, despite everything, Will finally makes a choice.
He reaches out, broadcasting his movements and his empty hands as he moves closer to Hannibal, the other watches him sharply and Will wants to smirk because he knows Hannibal does not know what he’s doing. He admits he enjoys the fact Hannibal can’t predict him and, in times like this, it works in his favour. Will cups Hannibal’s face in his hands, his thumbs lightly stroke over the sharp cheekbones he has admired since they first met. He delights in the way Hannibal’s eyes widen just slightly and the hitch of his breath. Unable to wait any longer, to deny himself any longer, Will moves.
He presses his lips to Hannibal’s unmoving mouth and sighs softly. Kissing Hannibal is nothing and everything like he fantasised. Hannibal is warm and his lips are soft, Will swipes his tongue across Hannibal’s bottom lip and hums quietly at his first taste. For a split second Hannibal freezes, the clatter of his pencil hitting the floor is loud in the loaded silence, then he is a flurry of movement. Large hands roughly grasp Will’s lapels to haul him closer and the previously still lips roar to life, Hannibal’s mouth turns hungry and demanding - teeth nip Will’s lips and a hot tongue slides into his mouth when he moans. The kiss quickly devolves into something passionate and filthy and uncoordinated in the desperation to be closer.
Will pulls away a little to catch his breath, feeling giddy when Hannibal growls and curls his fingers tighter in his jacket, absolutely refusing to let Will retreat. His head feels light and the room takes on a soft glow, everything feels slow and heavy and illuminated with sharp colours, the universe shrinking down to their embrace.
“So much about this feels like a dream.” Will whispers against Hannibal’s lips, the man presses small hurried kisses to his mouth and jawline. So many times Will has dreamt of this moment, of Hannibal and himself coming together not in violence but in passion, demanding hands seeking pleasure rather than pain, kiss swollen lips in place of blood stained teeth. He presses his forehead against Hannibal’s and stares into the older man’s eyes which have turned molten with desire, appearing almost red. Part of Will fears this is a dream, a hallucination conjured by his mind in his deep longing for affection from Hannibal. But the pinch of pain from his scrapes and bruises, the wet sensation of Hannibal’s spit on his lips, is undeniably vivid and gloriously real.
Hannibal pulls at Will’s bottom lip with his teeth, "Will, you have to know, now you have kissed me I am never letting you go." his voice has turned husky and Will shivers.
He captures Hannibal’s lips and kisses him deeply, licking into his mouth to taste him and greedily drinks the moan that crawls up Hannibal’s throat and spills across his tongue. Will pulls back barely an inch and looks at Hannibal meaningfully and whispers, "Maybe that’s just fine."
when you're laughing but then you remember abigail hobbs was only ever defined by the men in her life both in the way the audience sees her and in her own life so she never got to be her own person in any kind of way both in and out of the story so nothings funny actually
༚༅༚˳ .no you don't understand, I need this man, CARNALLY.˳༚༅༚
male loneliness leads to evil but female loneliness leads to rpf
once i beat the depression and the burnout and the anxiety and the loneliness and the exhaustion and the guilt and the awkwardness and the apathy and the low income and the chronic illness and the impatience and the vulnerability and the creative block and the capitalism and the cruelty THEN you'll see
blasting my silly little music and creating my silly little daydreams so i don’t lose my silly little mind
said youre a wild mustang...
PAUL MESCAL Ph. by Greg Williams for Hollywood Authentic (Nov 15, 2024)
said his love language was physical touch so i beat his ass
bro.
You forgive how God forgives.