STOP LYING TO ME.

paper thin, your words; they haunt my dreams.

[philcoolins]

[quotesofthewrittennature-deacti]

You said I am a good man,” he said. “But I am not that good a man. And I am–I am catastrophically in love with you.

Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Princess (via quotesofthewrittennature)

[griefate-blog]

WHICH ANIMAL ARE YOU ?

take the quiz & post your results.  remember to repost, not reblog! tagged by:   @overindulges  technically on all my blogs  tagging:   no. >:^( 

david is a weasel.

attractive  /  mischievous  /  conceited  /  untrustworthy

     weasels are suave and disarmingly charming.  with their quick minds and lithe physiques they might appear to be promising companions, but are notorious for the machiavellian streak that underscores their personalities.  their behavior is motivated by the fact that [ ... ] the weasel requires more devious tactics.  its survival strategy is based on the manipulation of others and it uses charm as its chief weapon.

    weasels lack the emotional and spiritual maturity found in the larger carnivores.  they are masters of chaos and their above average intelligence allows them to think quite well on their feet.  their quick minds are able to take advantage of rapidly changing situations and they'll always emerge with more than their fair share of the loot.  they share the same ambitious streak as their cousin the beaver, but their distaste for hard work has them behaving more like their skunk relatives who also resort to chicanery.

     weasels will disguise their intelligence if they believe it to be in their best interest.  natural liars, their earnest persuasions make it difficult to discern their true motives.  they have no internal moral struggle with their behavior, since they believe that the end justifies the means.  their talent for manipulation makes weasels natural politicians.

     weasels have an uncanny knack of sensing weakness in others and they'll often team up with more successful animal personalities, gaining their trust and then milking them for all they're worth. 

[mcadamsdaily]

State of Play

[griefate-blog]

small relationship tag dump. 

[griefate-blog]

‘ maybe this could work for both of us. ’ cain

meme.  /  accepting. 

     he  works  alone,  not  used  to  having  someone  tag  along  for  the  ride, especially  if  he’s  not  receiving  additional  payment  for  their  lack  of  services.  but  he’s  shed  enough  blood  in  his  lifetime  to  recognize  those  who’ve  done  the  same,  and  the  determined  look  in  her  eye  that  says  she  won’t  back  down  makes  him  think  that  she  might  just  hold  her  own.   the  building  they’ve  entered  reeks of  waste  and  neglect,  with  just  a  tinge  of  rust ;  it’s  quiet,  unnervingly  so,  and  the  decrepit  walls  magnify  even  the  smallest  sounds.  it’s  best  if  they  keep  their  voices  down,  he  thinks,  which  suits  him  just  fine.  he’s  one  for  actions  over  words  any  day. 

     ‘  fine.  but  the  minute  you  get  in  my  way,  you’re  on  your  own. ’

[jaredackles]

[griefate-blog]

voicemade‌:

       rich’s face lights up, his smile stretching from ear to ear, and he continues in the voice, committed to the bit for the moment. “ah! i see you’re a fan, mizz! ain’t that somethin’? you’ve heard’a little ol’ me! that’s right: my name’s sparky.” sparky he says like spah-ky, and he moves his left leg back to take a bow. “it’s certainly a pleasure!”

       when he bends back up, sparky is gone and rich tozier is back. there’s no hiccup between voices, no hesitation. “audiobooks?” he asks, reaching up and rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. even in his more subdued movements, even now that the performance seems to have left, he draws eyes. he’s charismatic, easy going, and, if he had to say so himself, pretty handsome now that he’s gotten rid of the glasses and learned how to carry himself without flinging his body around. “can’t say i have. you offerin’ me a job?”

      she  chuckles  at  that,  soft  and  only  a  little  indulgent,  eyes  briefly  ducking  down  to  glance  at  the  space  between  their  feet.  best - selling  author  though  she  may  be,  she’s  anything  but  wealthy ;  most  of  her  earnings  go  towards  providing  for  her  son,  or  donations  for  local  fundraisers  and  charities.  just  last  week,  she  braved  a  slot  on  Oprah  to  hand  over  a  check  for  a  children’s  cancer  fund.        ‘  i’m  afraid  it  wouldn’t  pay  very  well,  ’   she  admits,  with  a  slight  tilt  of  her  head  that  causes  the  hair  framing  her  face  to  lean  to  one  side.   ‘  besides  --  and  correct  me  if  i’m  wrong,  but  --  murder  mysteries  don’t  exactly  seem  like  your  area  of  expertise.  ’

[psych-facts]

“At what point does a man turn into a monster? I don’t believe that it’s when he does horrible things, but when he accepts that he’s able to do them, and that he does them well.”

(via psych-facts)

[neckbracing-blog]

❝ IF YOU ASK ME ,    we’re better off  on our own .  the police force has done nothing so far to stop the killings on campus .  ❞   she’s smiling ,  rather pleased with this fact .  she tries to dial back her glee .  ❝  so , officer ,  what makes you different ?   ❞   //  @griefate .

[griefate-blog]

    what  makes  him  different   is  that  he  has  no  desire  to  be  out  here  in  the  field,  taking  unreliable  statements  from  a  student  populace  whose  collective  IQ  he  could  count  on  two  hands.   the  station  was  short - staffed  that  morning,  and  he’d  been  sent  as  a  backup  measure,  a  pair  of  extra  ( albeit  unwilling )  hands  to  aid  the  simpletons  he  works  with.   were  he  truly  invested  in  the  case,  he  might  actually  try  --  but  his  interest  in  the  killing  spree  was  purely  morbid,  a  distant  fascination.   god  only  knew  he  needed  a  little  outside  entertainment  once  in  a  while.  

    ‘  i’m  not  an  officer,  ’   he  clarifies  pointedly,  giving  the  campus  grounds  a  sweeping,  disinterested  glance.   ‘ merely  a  consultant.   these  dullards  aren’t  making  progress  because  they  haven’t  the  mental  capacity  to  do  so. ’ 

[griefate-blog]

voicemade‌: 

       it’s not very often that people will recognize him by face alone, and so he’s surprised to be greeted when he’s ( in one of his more rare moments ) not speaking. blue eyes move from the magazine he’s staring at and he smiles at her, warm and friendly. he’s charismatic, albeit confused, and it takes him a moment to recognize her in return. it’s when he turns to really face her that he remembers her from her photo on the sleeve of her novel, and his smile grows wider.

       “well, i’ll consider it a compliment anyway,” he says, tucking the magazine back onto the rack where celebrity gossip belongs before holding his hand out. “it’s a pleasure to meet you. i assume by now you know i’m something of a fan. your novel ain’t bad, mizz, it ain’t bad at all!” the last sentence is said in a voice, one of those that comes out like butter and sounds nothing like rich tozier. 

      she  flashes  a  smile  --  full  of  reserved  and  practiced  warmth,  but  genuine  all  the  same  --  and  briefly  ducks  her  head  in  a  show  of  humility.   how  refreshing  it  is  to  hear  such  simple,  honest  praise,  rather  than  the  syrupy  and  often  exaggerated  phrases  most  offer,  even  those  closest  to  her,  to  butter  up  a  heart  that  had  only  recently  learned  to  beat  again.   

      ‘  well,  i  do  appreciate  the  enthusiasm,  Mr.  Tozier  -----  or  should  i  say  Sparky? ’    said  in  reference  to  his  Voice,  familiar  Brooklyn - esque  inflections  she’d  first  heard  on  the  radio  several  days  ago.   ‘  say,  have  you  ever  considered  narrating  audiobooks?   i’m  sure  you  could  lend  your  talents  to  quite  a  colorful  cast.  ’ 

[crueltonic-blog]

@griefate​    🤡   Knock   Knock !

       Bathed in the light of her home and standing so near now, she looked twice as radiant as he remembered. A helpless moth drawn by the chains of fate to her flame. Hours and days and weeks of fantasizing about her all led to this moment. Oh, how he’d dreamed of holding down her small and delicate frame beneath him; how he’d wanted to smell her skin and hair and breath mingled in his own; how he’d thought of tasting the length of each of her tender fingers to find his favorite one. How she would scream when he bit it off. 

         He wondered what she would think when first laying eyes on him. He was garbed in a faded, pest-eaten overcoat which may have once been magenta. His face covered in garish, pale and cracking make-up; a frozen and dark smile was hastily painted from ear to ear to mask the darker one beneath. He did not speak – seldom liked to, only stared at her. His breathing was a ragged torture, like flesh being dragged over asphalt. 

         With a sudden lurch, he hopped onto one foot, then the other, then back and forth and back and forth; an unsteady and clumsy dance. Smile, smile, smile for me! Then he stopped abruptly, as if remembering something important and reached within his jacket. Every motion was overacted, every action deliberate, and from his person he produced —

         A flower. A large, yellow flower for the most pretty girl in the audience.                                                                         He bent forward and held it out for her.

[griefate-blog]

      there  were  any  number  of  individuals   she’d  thought  to  see  awaiting  her  on  the  other  side  of  the  door,  but  this?   this  defied  any  expectation.   blue  eyes  widen  in  shock,  brows  rising,  as  she  gives  the  visitor  a  quick  once - over,  taking  in  every  last,  grimy  detail.   was  this  a  prank?   surely,  one  of  the  guys  at  the  station  had  hired  him  to  mess  with  her  as  a  late  birthday  gag.   some  girls  got  books,  scarves,  regular  presents ;  she  got  a  hefty,  filth - caked  clown  towering  above  her  with  all  the  visual  appeal  of  a  dirtied  and  discarded  napkin.  

     it’s  the  flower  that  surprises  her  most,  its  bright  shade  a  stark  contrast  to  the  faded,  dull  hues  of  the  man’s  ill - fitting  and  ill - washed  getup,  the  rank  odor  of  which  has  only  just  now  reached  her  nose  with  a  quick,  thoughtful  inhale.   it’s  a  feat,  to  be  certain,  to  hide  the  queasy  look  that  threatens  to  cross  her  face  at  the  smell,  nose  nearly  crinkling  in  distaste,  but  she’s  endured  worse  and  manages  to  steel  her  expression,  shoulders  locking  in  place.   

     curiously,  tentatively,  she  reaches  for  the  flower,  lithe  fingers  gently  grasping  at  its  stem.   

      ‘  is  this...  for  me?  ’ 

[griefate-blog]

Endless weeks of watching, preparing and waiting would culminate tonight. He'd followed her, the lively and pretty - oh so pretty - young detective to her apartment; number 28, second floor, just her little dog and her inside. He spat out his chewing gum - fresh and juicy watermelon for tonight's event - and covered her door's peephole. Surprises worked best, he thought, when sprung. He licked his palm, slicked back his hair, steadied himself. And without further ado, he knocked upon her world.

         it’s  certainly  not  the  most  glamorous  sight  –  sitting  in  front  of  the  television,  sock - clad  feet  crossed  beneath  her  legs,  chinese  take - out  container  in  one  hand  and  a  pair  of  chopsticks  in  the  other,  blanket  thrown  over  her  lap  and  hair  finally  released  from  its  elastic  prison  –  but  after  a  day  of  uncooperative  witnesses  and  leads  that  did  anything  but,  she’s  just  glad  to  be  off  her  feet.          Ace’s  ears  perk  at  the  sound  of  a  knock  at  the  door,  throat  rumbling  with  the  promise  of  a  bark  until  Riley’s  hand  comes  to  rest  on  his  head,  chopsticks  haphazardly  stuck  upright  in  the  container  of  noodles.  she  doesn’t  bother  muting  the  tv.  doesn’t  see  the  need.  she’ll  just  politely  tell  her  surprise  visitor  ( one  of  the  guys  from  the  station,  she  assumes )  that  she’d  rather  spend  a  night  indoors  by  herself  and  get  back  to  yet  another  Breaking  Bad  rerun.         with  a  resigned  sigh,  she  sets  the  takeout  aside  and  gives  Ace  a  warning  glance  before  clamoring  off  the  couch  and  making  her  way  to  the  front  door  where,  much  to  her  surprise,  it’s  far  too  dark  to  see  through  the  peephole.  brows  furrowed,  she  disengages  the  lock  and  takes  a  step  backwards,  allowing  herself  to  open  the  door  just  enough  to  peek  out  without  looking  too  intimidated  or  disinterested.  

      ‘  uhm–  can  i  help  you?  ’ 

[likeprotegearchive]

@griefate / sc.

            ❝  nothin’ i ain’t used to.  ❞   in reference to a black eye,  the split on his lower lip  ——  all the result of a bout of hand - to - hand combat a couple of days ago,  which he is unable to elaborate on.  a crooked grin offered her way,  and eggsy punctuates it with a wink,  just for good measure.   ❝  how’s it look?  ❞

[griefate-blog]

        ‘ nothing  i  haven’t  seen  before. ’   just  as  casual  with  her  response,  all  wit  and  snark,  ready  to  counter  his  own  at  a  moment’s  notice.  she’s  learned  to  keep  a  cold  compress  at  the  ready,  now  pressed  gently  to  the  purplish  bruise  surrounding  the  young  man’s  eye.  he  only  stops  by  late  at  night,  when  the  station’s  near  deserted,  and  she  wonders  if  he,  too,  finds  his  energy  spent  after  a  day  around  a  constant  flow  of  people.  gives  far  too  much,  takes  far  too  little ;  even  the  most  exhausting  nights  are  met  with  restless  sleep.   ‘ i  assume  it  was  something  you  said. ’ 

[annatorv]

[dollcarer-blog]

@griefate.     .     call.

           the lingering notion of being alone was getting to her.      she had to drop malcolm off at the hospital ; he would have passed away from blood loss had she taken him on the full drive to the station. there wasn’t a lot of time to explain & there wasn’t a lot of time to lose before she was buckling herself back in and heading off. she’d come back for him as soon as she filed her report & pleaded her story, she promised and turned on her heel towards the vehicle. how long has she been driving ? how far away were they ? could they go further ?

     the nimble fingers that gripped the steering wheel with such intensity they turned white for the last five minutes ( without release ) were starting to loosen. the car turning onto the gravel of it’s desired location and her door swung open before the engine even stopped rumbling. click. off. pull yourself out and take in the fresh air. you’re alive. cole isn’t. you saw him die. he was alive in there. in the walls. a person. not a child. a man. throat slit. glass mirror. mask. mask. mask.

     if greta arrived an hour ago, she would have stormed in raving. but she had time to compose what little calmness she harbored to approach the front desk with only a slight haste to her step.

                   “ i– god, how do you report a murder ? “

                                                                         subtle.

[griefate-blog]

        it’s  late  --  the  station’s  fairly  quiet,  and  given  the  near - constant  bustle  during  peak  hours,  she’s  thankful.  she’s  sent  most  of  her  men  home  for  the  night,  opting  to  stay  and  mull  over  paperwork ;  the  officers  working  the  graveyard  shift  wouldn’t  be  in  for  another  few  hours,  giving  her  ample  time  to  work  under  a  fleeting  blanket  of  peace  and  quiet.        she’s  just  finished  dropping  off  a  hot  cup  of  coffee  to  the  sergeant  manning  the  front  desk,  shoes  tapping  against  the  tiled  floor  in  her  stroll  back  to  her  office,  when  the  front  door  opens  and  a  haggard  voice  only  just  carries  across  the  front  lobby.         god  -----  you  -----  murder?      what  few  words  are  clear  enough  for  her  to  decipher  make  her  turn  and  walk  back  to the  front  desk,  where  Nichols  already  looks  reluctant  to  admit  yet  another  potential  witness  to  the  log.  there’s  a  tapping  at  his  shoulder  --  two,  quick  and  pointed.       ‘ i’ll  take  her. ’   he’s  had  a  long  day.  and  from  the  looks  of  this  girl,  so  has  she.   ‘ come  on. ’   she  gestures  for  the  clearly  shaken  young  woman  to  follow  her,  keeping  her  voice  as  calm  and  level  as  possible.  a  glance  is  given  over  her  shoulder  to  ensure  she’s  being  followed  as  she  finally  reaches  her  office  and  closes  the  door,  gesturing  for  the  girl  to  sit.        ‘ you  don’t  need  to  talk  yet  if  you’re  not  ready. ’  it’s  a  common  preface  she  gives  to  offer  a  bit  of  comfort  to  those  who  clearly  need  it.  ‘ take  as  long  as  you  need.  you’re  safe  in  here.  can  i  get  you  anything? ’ 

[griefate-blog]

codedheart‌:

               “i’m not bored,” monika answers, which is true.  monika is always expanding her knowledge base, always learning the current trends of the internet, but she does so with only one true goal in mind:  she wants to keep his interest.  sometimes she isn’t sure he still needs her the way he used to.  the less necessary she feels, the more she longs to be VALIDATED.  she has worked out the pattern of talking to the average person, but it has only made her more aware that her creator is no average person.  

                are you bored?  the question burns, but she doesn’t dare ask it, too afraid of the answer.  “i even talk to people when you’re not around.  did you know i made a twitter?” she asks.                                                               “… other people aren’t as interesting as you, though.”

       her  comment  catches  him  off  guard,  gaze  briefly  flitting  over  to  the  monitor  where  her  face  is  displayed,  though  the  fleeting  glance  means  he  misses  the  clear  fondness  in  her  expression.  one  hand  rises  to  comb  through  his  hair  and  brush  it  away  from  his  forehead,  where  it  falls  lazily  over  the  upper  rims  of  his  glasses  ( he’ll  have  to  get  it  cut  soon,  he  realizes,  and  he  despises  being  seated  in  that  chair,  at  someone  else’s  artistic  mercy )  and  distracts  him  from  his  work.       ‘ interesting? ’   he  repeats,  and  the  way  his  brow  furrows  gives  the  impression  that  he  doesn’t  quite  agree  with  her  assessment.  he’s  been  called  many  things  in  his  life,  but  interesting  was  never  one  of  them.   ‘ your  scope  of  the  world  is  very  narrow. ’