Folie à deux

INDIE | SELECTIVE | PRIVATE | WILL GRAHAM FROM NBC'S HANNIBAL PENNED BY ASHLEY MUN + MUSE 21+ Other blog: rxbcurn

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Hey ya'll! I've moved over to @rxnaascxncx , where all my current muses are! I will br archiving this blog- BUT FEAR NOT. Will is still around on my other blog!! Love ya'll and hope to see you over there!!

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Y’all, I’m over here thinking about just moving Will and Dean over to a multi-muse blog so I can add Uhtred from TLK and Takeshi Kovacs from Altered Carbon. What are y’all’s thoughts?

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“ our version of living feels more like death. ” (from Abigail)

POETRY SENTENCE STARTERS // ACCEPTING

    DEATH WAS A SURETY for all forms of life, was it not? It was fate, for ones’ body, soul, and mind to be laid bare beneath the very sky they had been conceived beneath; though, for some, there would be no ceremony; no bells or whistles to pass them over into the next life. For some, there would be the fear of the unknown for those UNKNOWING- and for the remaining few, the unknown was their well known intimacy of their conceived limbo. “Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides.” Will’s voice is but a b r e a t h - the sense of enervation a weight on his words; they hang in the air for moments, before each letter drops; flies in the dead of the room, scattered across the floor, listless. And he knows these words, has read them… somewhere- HE DOESN’T REMEMBER WHERE. “The question is, which side are you on?”

    AND HE SHOULD BE AWARE, as well as anybody, where the two of them stood on this… line; whose eyes they saw through in the dead of night as sleep evaded them. Will Graham should feel it, the doubt and the dread and the FEAR; the ineradicable, unwholesome effluvium of their unrest and dismay. BECAUSE HE CAUSED IT! And here he could taste it, nickel and copper on his tongue, like a pink mist- “The dead don’t exactly make lively company.”

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YOUR DATING SERVICE

Tagged by: @shcsallrightnow

Date with: Will Graham. Date Fee: $50 Customer Comments: "We had....a good time. (Person in late 50s)"

TAGGING: @murdersanctum, @warblest, @maggotpulsed, AND ANYBODY ELSE, LET ME LOVE YA

“I wouldn’t necessarily qualify the lack of awkward, meaningful eye-contact a... good time. But I will take a sympathy check of fifty dollars.”

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Funniest thing that’s happened to you in the RPC?

MUNDAY STORY TIME // ALWAYS ACCEPTING

1. Funniest thing to happen to me was probably when I went around blogs one day as Dean Winchester and dropped a really bad pick-up line, in character, in about 20+ inboxes just because I was bored. The replies and resulting pick-up lines back did not disappoint! 

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What is the strangest thing that has ever happened to you involving rp? / Do your friends in real life know you RP? Do they think it's weird, or are they supportive?

MUNDAY STORY TIME // ALWAYS ACCEPTING

1. Nothing really strange has happened to me so far? The only thing I could qualify as strange would have to be restarting a new blog, and having people I’ve written with before not know who I am anymore. But it happens sometimes! People come and go, and that’s okay :)

2. Only a few friends in my day to day life know that I RP (outside from the friends I’ve made in the RP community, of course), and they don’t really feel a certain way about it one way or another? When I first started I showed people my old blog and pretended it wasn’t me so I could get their honest opinion without really getting their honest opinion, if ya feel what I mean. Some are supportive, some just come around to look at my photoshop when I decide to do a shitty graphic. I’m content though, and that’s what matters :)

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647 icons of Hugh Dancy as Will Graham

From Season 01 Episode 02 of Hannibal

Free to use!

Please like or reblog to spread awareness!

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[ DOWNLOAD HERE ]

405 icons of Mads Mikkelsen as Hannibal Lecter 

From Season 1 Episode 2 of Hannibal

Free to use!

Please like or reblog to spread awareness!

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Hello yes I am alive and I promise I will try to be here more often!

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Celebratory (late) Munday post from when I figured out the sock bun. Have a great week! I have off tomorrow, so I will get my inbox and lingering replies after my morning nap!

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Permanent Starter Call

Putting this bad boy out there for any and everybody that would like to interact! Always feel free to hop into my IM and scream at me for plots or somethin silly!

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Writers Wanted; Apply Within

I would really like to gather a group of Hannibal RPers. Writers who all jive with each other, the chemistry is there, the dynamics, all of it. Writing Hannibal can be lonely! The characterizations of the muses from the show are so dependent on their interactions with one another that it can be difficult to write them outside of the Hannibal bubble. 

So, if you’d like to join either a Tumblr, Skype, or Discord closed Hannibal RP group, playing any of the characters from the show, please let me know! This is a very casual thing, dependent on chemistry and eagerness to write. Also, so long as we have the “main players,” I would think OC’s should be welcome!

Obviously NSFW themes, including violence, gore, mental fuckery, and sexual situations will be present, because, you know… It’s Hannibal. 

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OPEN STARTER

    DAY REFUSES TO BREAK as the sun claws it’s way higher from behind the trees. Gnarled fingers against the low-light; twisted shadows and a perverse sense of unease. Will can smell it on himself, the fear. Can feel in his knees where they wobble, where they shake and they protest his weight as he battles to stay upright. His body is sore. Everything hurts- the very fibers of his hair in his skin setting him on fire. A hand presses itself to his forehead where the sweat beads, wiping it into his eyes. The pain keeps him awake. KEEPS HIM ALIVE. He wants to live, wants to feel the raw panic as it courses through him. And he does. Bile rising in his throat as his feet carry him onward, fingernails scratch down his own cheeks, down his chin. He’s faintly aware of the blood he’s drawn, of how feckless and friable he must appear. And soon it’s everywhere. Deep, deep red. It colors the white of his shirt, dresses him down where his clothes begin to rust. The trees bend and bow, otherworldly animate in the still of the oncoming day. They reach for him, tearing cloth from life and limb until he stands before the daybreak, bloodied and barren.

    CROWS CIRCLE OVERHEAD- or were they vultures? They shriek at him, shrill cries that pierce his eardrums. The tiny hairs inside his ear canal quiver and fold, they quiver and they fold until they break, until the world does nothing but ring for a while. And Will’s feelings of fear persists as he falls to his knees. His arms are limp where they hang to his sides, where his head is tipped to stare into the sun. And the birds still circle there, still call out to him, and they multiply by the tens, the hundreds; they swarm and dip and weave into one another until they blot out the sun. As soon as the light had came, it had gone. And Will could do nothing but blink and stare and tremble. He remains that way, VULNERABLE AND COMELY as the winged creatures burst. Feathers rain down on top of him, they settle onto the grass and onto the dirt in mounds. Will wonders if he’d find himself beneath one, if he’d see himself buried, preserved only by the strength of adoration. He wonders until the hills of feathers come alive. He wonders until they come together again.

    THE HEAD RISES FIRST, eyes gimlet and bloody like his own. It’s face is no different, dripping, slow and controlled, from where the fine bones of it’s cheeks would be. Its breath is heavy, a wet huff as it, too, shakes and wobbles at the knees. It stands and it staggers, and Will truly sees it now: the Stag. It’s wounded, as he is, and its cuts only widen as the antlers grow. With a great flourish it’s head is thrown skyward, a wail of suffering as the flesh tears to accommodate its’ developing. Will wants to stand, wants to take its bones in hand as the filth drips from them, wants to feel them BREAK IN HIS GRIP. He wants the Stag to be as broken as he was. He wants to become one under the sky, still black, where God and his Angels have abandoned them.

    EXCEPT HE CAN’T. He can’t move so freely as the Stag could. Could only watch as it struggled for purchase on the dirt, blood-soaked and matted. But the display does not last as the beast finds its strength, and fire reignites itself behind its eyes. The antlers have grown longer, have begun to twist among themselves. Will wants to touch them in his petrified state, wants to know true fear and wield it with power. His fingers twitch with desire, contumacious and guileless. “Come to me.” The voice is dark and familiar, strange yet known. Seconds pass as Will finds his feet, as the world rights itself, as the bile he was holding back comes forth. It’s BLACK AND VISCOUS AND COLD as it leaves his throat. It obstructs his breathing and the panic strikes him all over again. “Come to me.” He wants to. He wants to, but not yet. He can’t yet. And those eyes, the ones that have been pining for him, become minatory. Great head bows as hooves stamp their displeasure. “Come.” The eyes bore into him, memorizing every inch of his naked skin. And Will feels unclean as he stumbles forth, body once red now black, from where the liquids absorbed the darkness. He tries to reach, tries to take hold of the antlers in his hands, and instead the Stag charges. Pointed edges slice through the soft belly of his abdomen, securing him to the rack as though he were a trophy, his body made to be mounted.

    WILL DOESN’T SCREAM, doesn’t cry or shout. Instead his palms grace the sides of calcium as his blood spills, hot and fast, down his groin and to his legs. He’s aware of how he must appear, meretricious in the very fluid that kept his body alive. He regards the Stag as it regards him, dark and menacing and intriguing. The sight of it lulls Will into serenity as his body fades, his vision blackening at the edges. He sees his hands come down to the base of where the bones sprout from the skull and holds fast, his fingers resting against fur, coarse and scratchy on his skin. “Do you see me?” It whispers. “Do you understand?” It whispers again, though it’s face never moves. “Do you know me, as I know you?” Will’s eyes close, and the Stag’s head rears back, splitting him open from stomach to armpit-

    THE WORLD IS STILL DARK, when Will’s eyes open again. His feet are bare and bloody where asphalt has made them raw, his body cold where his too-small shirt and too-loose boxers don’t cover him enough. He blinks, confused and unaware. He’s lost, he thinks. He’s lost and alone, with no inclination as to which way was left and which was right. His surroundings are familiar enough as the stars blink through the trees. Will stands there, peering out into the stretch of land as tires whine behind him. He turns, unflinching as the headlights threaten to burn holes into his eye sockets. Will must look DREADFUL, to say the least; sweaty and disheveled as he was. Beats pass before the driver’s side door opens and shuts, before he can hear a voice calling to him. It’s unrecognizable through the blood rushing in his ears. I’m Will Graham. I caught the Minnesota Shrike. I have seven dogs. I’m alone. I’m alone and nobody will hear me if I scream. I’m Will Graham. I’m alone and I’m powerful. The voice calls again, and Will doesn’t dare to move until the other body comes into view.

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CREATIVE TYPE.

YOU ARE THE DREAMER the power of imagination unleashed

CREATIVE STRENGTHS: Connection to emotions and imagination, empathy and sensitivity. UNTAPPED POTENTIAL: Using dreams to fuel real-world action IDEAL COLLABORATOR: The Innovator

The world is a place of beauty and magic in the eyes of a DREAMER. Where others see facts and figures, you see symbols, metaphors, and hidden meanings.

You're deeply emotional and intuitive, with a vivid imagination - the quintessential idealist and romantic. The inner world is always where you've felt most at home. You're happy to roam your mental landscape of thoughts, emotions, and fantasies for hours on end.

You're naturally drawn to express your inner world through literary pursuits, music, and the visual arts. Think of yourself as the "magical realist" of the creative types: like the literary master of that genre, you naturally infuse your everyday life with the beauty and wonder of the imagination.

Your greatest gift is your depth of sensitivity and empathy, which allows you to give voice to universal human emotions in a way that touches people on a profound level. Your greatest challenge is learning to balance dreaming with disciplined action - which starts with coming back to the present moment. Let your mind roam free, DREAMER, but don't forget to return to the here and now. Practicing mindfulness will go a long way in helping you turn your dreams to reality.

Seek out opportunities to collaborate with INNOVATOR types, who combine your lofty idealism with a focus of pragmatic solutions. The grounding energy of the INNOVATOR can inspire you to apply your imagination to real-world change.

TAGGED BY: @murdersanctum

TAGGING: @shcsallrightnow, @zweiherzen and anybody else. LET ME LOVE YA!!

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H A N N I B A L

BOYISH TALES bore details of his past that he’d not wanted to camouflage. Gender did not matter to him, chemistry did. Levelling himself with a soul beyond the physical visage and mirage had proven to be excellent. Many had lacked the SPARK that ignited the flame, they had stood in front of the rack of candles in a church and aimlessly picked to light one, not knowing what beast slumbered beyond the sleeping wick. The Unbreakable Secret Code Kryptos did not match the enigma he was.

WILL GRAHAM had broken that seal, the Devil’s trap had been grazed, he’d been unleashed. It wasn’t often he granted his heart. Whenever he was around Will he felt enthralled, stimulated. Everyone else had bored him. The second came post-haste, though he returned early; as if transmitting the finishing touches of his poison through their mouths. A fairly chaste kiss, hands travelling down the mountains of muscle, the supple skin they were fleshed with ran rampant in unity.

IT HAD IMPRESSED him, Will’s taste, the mint mingling with the burn of the whiskey, the light prickles from his beard, all coaxing him into an intense rapture. Pecking the other’s cheek after a light nuzzle, his back is straightening against the armchair. LIPS TINGLED with sensory memory, tongue darting out to lick up what was left the other.

LEAVING WILL TO MARINATE in emotion, he’s standing curtly. “I shall bring more.” Waltzing up to the cabinet, he is retrieving a bottle of Tomatin; a single malt whiskey that had been stashed away for thirty-six years. It was from the Highlands of Scotland; a country known for their alcoholic celebrations. That it is at least what media says - the Scots know how to drink. With a light rattle he’s screwing the top off, the liquid glugging into the whiskey glass. “We should think about retiring to bed soon.” Draping a blanket on Will’s lap, a peck on his head, Hannibal is laying on the opposite couch, staring up at the ceiling. “I heard Cuba is nice this time of the year.”

    IT WAS UNNERVING, the sight of a man so accustomed to weaving to a fro beneath the pressure of social graces and societal norms. A man whose hands were practiced in fatal artistry; fingers brandished as knives, polished and sharpened; well manicured and smooth, as though they had only seen the violence of paper clips and paper cuts. A man whose body commanded the space it frequented- as though it demanded the attention. Intelligible and all encompassing, an omnipresence other men trembled beneath. And still, Hannibal remained, bleeding and bruised and alive.

    IT WAS BREATHTAKING, the sight of a man who would take life with little more than a hair out of place. It had been morbid curiosity that once kept Will afloat, awash in the tide of intimate spaces and syncopated breaths. Where death had once frightened him, it was now a source of RAPTURE- he was utterly enthralled; ensnared with little interest in being set free. And Hannibal, oh Hannibal, had reached forth into Will’s conscience and had molded him into what he desired him to be: self-sustaining, self-sufficient, self-aware.

    THEY COULD BEGIN ANEW this way, having tore through these barriers with sharp teeth and wire nails. All it took now was a swift push. “Please.” Is Will’s response, both pleading and timid- this matter of their unity having shot him back into his mind. Eyes watch as Hannibal brings himself back into view; transfixed by either the sight of long fingers or honeyed drink Will is not certain. He plucks his glass from the table all the same. “Buy me dinner first.” His smile is coy where it peeks from behind his cup, the motion never quite reaching his eyes. Drink is pulled into awaiting mouth and EVERYTHING BURNED, from Will’s legs up to his shoulders- to his very throat as the fire consumed him. The press of a new topic seems only to derail Will’s movements, causing him to falter. He swallows wrong and he’s choking, a violent rack of his body that prompts him to put the drink down, lest he invite another mess for Hannibal to attend to. Clean up on aisle Will Graham, house keeping needed. “Cuba?” Will coughs, incredulous. There is a moment where Will simply stares at the other man lounging across the furniture just beyond him, dumbfounded, hitherto his reengagement with his generous helping alcohol. Will takes another drink, and another- “You want to go to Cuba?”

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ANNABELLE ROSE

     Comfort is sought out as nervous hands conceal themselves in the pockets of her coat. The black fabric protecting porcelain flesh from prickling weather, similar to the cold focused inside her chest. Eyes of green are focused on the grand wood doors that continue to open and close with students and professors guiding themselves to their destination. Fearful she is of forcing her legs to climb up the stairs, forcing them to navigate her towards the destination she was intentionally avoiding. Rather, she stands to the side, lower back finding itself pressed against the stone wall. She will make a home of this spot for now, until the bravery travels through her veins and she’s not swallowed down by the fear. How tiring it is, to try and force memories away; memories that have never truly abandoned her. They paint a picture behind her eyes; the scent lingers; feelings and touch familiar. It is all she desires to push away, everything she pretends didn’t haunt her. The actions, the choices, the running away. Now she has to face it all again, come face to face with everything she hoped she had let go of. One thing was certain, she was never skilled at truly letting go of her past; haunting memories of her childhood evidence of this. At the moment she feels swallowed by everything, her childhood, her past; Will Graham. How terrifying uncertainty was, feeling as if all the control she had gained over her life had completely been ripped from trembling hands.

     Her anxious form shifts, detaching itself from the home it had created to shelter her from the realities. She wasn’t in Chicago anymore; she was back in Virginia. Chicago was meant to be home, and in a way it was; or as close to home as she would allow herself to have. She had left Virginia, the memories she wasn’t willing to face. The want and longings that terrified her, that to an extent weakened her; or so she believed. She had left, running away, claiming a better opportunity had been given to her. That part wasn’t a lie; her skill was far too grand for a town like Wolf Trap. Chicago became home, Alvin Olinsky reaching out to see how her life was, being hit with the realities of her unraveling. Now she has it all together, or at least she likes to pretend she does. A detective in Intelligence, a partner she trusted; a unit that became her family. Still, there was a transparent wall between her and them; between her and the world. Allowing them to see, to know as much as she was willing to express; unable to truly connect with who she genuinely was. It was for the best, for them to not be tainted by the realities of her mind, of her life. Throat burns, lungs expanding as they seek out fresh air before she forces her legs to move. Step after step, blood freezing in her veins with each passing second. Warmth is felt as soon as she walks past the doors, the combining and lingering scent of coffee and Lysol. It forces her stomach to twist, apprehension settling behind her ribcage and pricking at her heart.

    She shouldn’t be here, not like this, not for the reasons she was. She should have made the choice on her own. It should have been a visit; a reunion. Instead, it is an obligation; it is the need to do something right. It is her plagued mind forcing her to seek out all she hadn’t abandoned, all she still desired. It was the twisted need to set her eyes on Will Graham, to hear his voice after five years. There is so much that should have and shouldn’t have happened. She is walking confirmation of this. She shouldn’t have run away, she should have remained in contact with Will. She shouldn’t have accepted the request to return, even if it was to put a stop to a serial killer. How she wishes they had forgotten about her, about her place in their world. Barely out of the academy before she was tossed into the jaws of Wolf Trap, killers and rapists. How could she ever believe she could handle such situations? That was just it, to an extent she was so familiar with the darkness that focused itself in this world; allowing her to perceive things from a different perspective. Effective it was, to have her on the scene. Only it wasn’t effective when she discovered herself at risk of losing the one person she had genuinely connected with. A life for a life; Will’s life hanging on the balance. A killer threatening to claim the life of someone she had come to care for - of someone she had fallen in love with. Partners brought together by death; pulled apart by life. One bullet should have been enough, yet the rage that consumed her and the darkness that surrounded her forced three too many to be released. A clean kill is what they announced it, yet her hands were still stained with the crimson of a killer. Chicago was her out; Chicago was exactly what she needed to move on - to pretend she was moving on. Faced with darkness, able to release as needed; standing behind the mask of someone who could handle all that was thrown her way. She shouldn’t be here, not like this, not for the reason she was.

     Footsteps are slow as she glances towards the doors, seeking out the numbers that had seared themselves into her mind. She should have waited, gotten some rest after the extensive drive. Her tired yet anxious mind would not allow eyes to shut and sleep to take over. Instead, she spent the drive playing over in her mind how this reunion could go. None of the outcomes soothed her soul, neither did the facts of the cases she was meant to aid in.Bodies upon bodies; a gruesome elegance to them all. Antlers impaling bodies, limbs placed upon altars. These were far from quick killings, she hated admitting how there was an art behind each murder. The images rest behind her eyes, the notes focused inside her mind as she makes her way down the hall. Beauty follows her, just as the heavy darkness that was her life.Pulled from her unit in Chicago, unable to say no to the request of working on the cases. Selfishit all was, to an extent. Deep inside she knew the truth. The truth was she had accepted to become a part of the case for one reason; Will Graham’s name was attached to every single note. He was a part of it; he was selected to aid just as she was. She should have said no, she should have passed; her life was made. Weary eyes take notice of the numbers she was seeking out, her soul threatening to abandon her body as she moves closer. Her gaze faltering, focusing on her reflection on the window; a natural beauty to the eyes that observed her. To her, however, tired eyes and solemn features. Barely open is the dark lacquered door she’s forced to open more. Heavy and making her presence known. There it is, the air abandoning her lungs as eyes focus on the form behind the desk. The same to speak of a missed lecture; the same who seemed to be gathering himself.

     No words abandon her, hesitation and delay forcing her body to stop moving. Hands find their home in her pockets yet again, only now manicured nails discover a home in tender flesh.Threatening to pierce at the skin, threatening to slice through already sensitive skin adorned in marking from the past. Varying in depth, in intensity, just like the spread out scars across her body. Decorating forearms, sides and back. Most of the scars visible to Will’s own eyes once, touched by fingertips that had become familiar with the warmth of her flesh. Most with an untold story still, stories dripping with childhood trauma and fear. The more recent additions to be blamed on the physicality and dangers of the job she now was a part of; scars she had no problem speaking about, unlike the rest. At no point does he look her way, truly acknowledge her existence. She shouldn’t stand there, no, she should take this as her chance to walk away. Calling it quits on the cases before she even truly submerges herself into them. She doesn’t, however. Instead, her eyes focus on him. She focuses on his mannerisms, the anxiety behind hands she remembered so fondly. Hands that had been gentle with her, that had eased her own anxieties time and time again. She doesn’t turn around and leave; she forces her body to make its way down the stairs that lead to the floor. The empty class haunting in its own way. No words leave her as she comes to the concluding section, refusing to come any closer. Instead, she’s hit with a rush of unwanted memories.

     It plays out like a film gone chaotic, scene after scene. The flashes of abuse endured, the screaming words of her mother. The same mother whose body she now remembers finding sprawled on the kitchen floor. Wrists sliced open, bleeding out while her thirteen-year-old daughter screamed for help, unable to keep life inside her body. Flashes of a father with no care towards his own daughter, flashes of a life of struggle. The images of her growth, of moments, shared with Will upon meeting him. Drinks, smiles, the soft voice of honesty slipping from both their lips as they opened up briefly about their lives. It all turns to warmth against her skin, a violent warmth that rushes across her spine as those moments shift into the visual and scent of crimson. Images focusing on her first kill, on how Will couldn’t pull the trigger to save his own life. How she didn’t think twice about ending a life to save his own. The aftermath of it all. Visiting him in the hospital, being told she should go to therapy. Refusing to do so, moving on as best as she could; losing herself in both guilt and trauma. Now her vision returns, the only image she’s focused on is his own. It feels as if minutes have passed, only it’s been seconds, how daunting the moment is. She doesn’t turn to leave, instead, she allows herself to finally speak. It’s simple, and it’s a name that hasn’t abandoned her mind since meeting him. “Will?” His name plays back in her mind, eyes focusing on his form as she swallows hard, her throat dry. Removing her hands from her pocket, she comes closer by one more step. “I was… Told I could find you here.” No explanation in full, wondering if he would even allow her to continue speaking.

    WILL DOESN’T REMEMBER the moment everything falls into place; the willingness needed to pinpoint the very second in time and space nonexistent. He’s still slumped at his desk, fingers making the effort to practically gouge out his own eyes beneath his glasses to remove the dream that refused to lift itself from behind his lids. Jesus Christ, take the hint. “Look,” and as tired sigh escapes him, his head comes to raise, and everything in his body freezes over. Typical, of course, for Will to remain the one doing his best impression of a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car- “You’re not supposed to be here.” Venomous and deadly are his words, face crumpling as his body folds. Anger supersedes panic as his thoughts come to race inside his own head. “I mean, you... they moved you-” As if that was meant to just solve everything. Will’s eyes roll to the ceiling, looking for any and every reason to extricate himself from the situation before they close in defeat. Are you laughing now, God? You bastard. “-to Chicago, after Virginia. You killed him after he almost killed me. You were commemorated,” a pause, “and they they forgot about you.” Will’s head cants enough for his eyes to look at hers, for any indication that he was wrong. “They gave you a case, and you would have begged for it if you had to.” He sighs as though the world threatened to crush him, as it most often did. “Except you didn’t have to, because my name was on the reports.” And if his voice took a histrionic affect, Annabelle said nothing.

    IT WASN’T THAT WILL wasn’t happy to see her (he... was, in a certain respect), but rather the manner of which she finally made herself known to even be alive ENRAGED HIM. And while Will was aware he was being petty and petulant, it didn’t stop him from being any more so. “I must have dropped dead after the Benjamin case,” and his eyebrows crawl higher into his hairline as false incredulity rears itself, “because you didn’t even try.” His hands find the edge of the table to propel himself forward, hands snaking themselves into the pockets of his slacks as he finds he has no other practical use for them- OTHER THAN TO SEIZE HER AT THE VERY THROAT. “It was easy for you.” Will’s glare is accusatory, brows creating a valley between themselves as they travel down and come together. His words began clear and precise, a frenzied tongue now driving them to a faster pace. He doesn’t stumble here. He doesn’t trip over himself with anxious stuttering, no- HE WAS BOLD AND HE WAS RIGHT IN HIS ANGER. “Forgetting Wolf Trap was the best. decision. you made for yourself.” He takes a step towards her, hands no longer in his pockets as they come to gesticulate, thumb and forefinger pinched to tack his points to the proverbial chart; making known his displeasure on the topic. And Will wants to remain angry. HE WANTS TO LET THE REMAINDER OF HIS SPEECH RIP ANNABELLE APART, wants to hurt her- but he can’t. Her eyes lachrymose and glassy as her lips promise to quiver. They stare at each other, for seconds or for hours Will is not certain. He’s acutely aware of the way his heart works its way into his throat as he opens his mouth to speak, and he swallows. Damn you, Graham, for being a sentimental, empathetic asshole. His throat clears through the silence, bordering between awkward and tense, before he drops his gaze to the floor, the projector, the rows of seats- AT ANYTHING BUT HER. “You found me,” Will concedes. And the world grows silent again, the faint whir of the projector almost deafening. Briefly, Will wonders if he should leave the two of them to become better acquainted, but the image of Annabelle taking it back to Chicago in the Will-Graham-Rejected-Me-Because-He-Can’t-Handle-His-Own-Shortcomings-So-I-Took-The-Only-Inanimate-Object-He-Truly-Loves walk of shame forces him to rethink.

    THE AIR SURROUNDING THEM hangs on a thread, thin and frail and fraying. Neither side willing to cut the line. Surely suffocation would be better than this; the staring and the not seeing; the yelling and the not communicating- too much emotion, poorly capped off in a bottle not meant to seal a ship this size. Will rocks back on his heels, lips drawn into a thin line before his feet fall flat to the floor. He swivels to the left, making a round of his desk to put on a show of packing his things. He doesn’t look up from his laptop as he slides in into the carrier. Clasps SNAP SHUT, and the bag is slung across his shoulders, catching the rim of his glasses and sending them to the carpet. The tumble down past the podium and down to Annabelle’s feet, the frame just resting at her toes. Will Graham: 0, Annabelle: 1.

[mxtamcrphcsis-a-blog]

WHICH PLANET MATCHES YOUR MUSES’ PERSONALITY?

YOU GOT : URANUS

Your greatest strength is your ability to adapt, and you reject any and all labels pressed upon you. What others read as eccentricity is your uncanny ability to see what others cannot see, and act as other dare not act. Occasionally, this love of freedom and distaste for attachment can lead you to push people away, but when you find others who understand you- truly understand you -your coalition could tilt the whole world on its axis.

“i’ll be in Hannibal’s anus later 2nite, if u kno what i mean”

TAGGED BY: @murdersanctum

TAGGING: anybody and everybody, LET ME LOVE YA