#post verse

[pyrokiinetic-kindflower]

Cont / X

For a while, she had been wandering alone until the latter presence decided to come around. The company wasn’t unwelcomed though, still, Meena had eventually that something felt wrong.

Teal eyes were pointed towards the hedgehog. ‘’Its the sights, isn’t it?’’, war, battles may be over, the good won but ruins rested almost everywhere. This was still a pretty saddening view. All that destruction, didn’t appeared to reconfort anybody yet.

‘‘It’ll take time to adjust from such sceneries, even for someone like you, right?’’.

@speedy-lightofhope

[prcnghornlegionnaire]

Cont / X

As much as the current village, she stumbled upon, was in a state of repairs with all those houses and ruins to clean off, Clove stayed in an empty area, away from peoples so they don’t bother engaging a fight with, after all that happened. But eventually, nostrils caught in a familiar scent, that of the blue hedgehog.

Must be here just to check on how things were going but might as well say something, even if it ended up being not hard to think why heroes fought. Still, it brought no harm to ask, conversations never hurt anybody, even if its with her. With her bandaged injuries still in the need to heal, she had no time to quarrel or put up a fight.

No longer observing the descend of snowflakes and with the latter presence closing in on her, a simple step back was taken. Personal space, mind you. Orchid hues averted to Sonic, intently listening to his explanation. Typical & bold claims, they were. Only one thing came to her mind.

‘‘And do you really believe thats what your buddies wants?, for you to option the idea of pushing your life on the edge?. If anything they won’t let you, its only planning to hurt them emotionally, if i am right?’‘. Clearly, the horned mobian was leaving him to reflect on her own statement. Which, to be honest, it was a good point, even coming from a villain, well retired soldier from the Empire at the moment. 

@azurexalacrity

[behaviorisms-archived]

♨ , washing away blood from a kill ?

manhandling sentence starters // accepting

     Will Graham sits quietly at the dining room table, almost as if at prayer. Behind his closed eyes moments flash with perfect recall as he commits them to memory, as if he could burn them there into his retinas, into the soft tissue of his brain. His heart raced then, now it is slow and steady as a metronome. 

     He tips his head back, receptive, focusing on the soft and soothing motions of the washcloth, of water cool against his skin. A baptism. Or had that been the blood? There’s religion in the way Hannibal touches him, in the reverent way his thumb chases a drop of blood from Will’s split lip and in the burn of his eyes that Will can feel. A soft sound escapes him, barely more than a sigh. 

     The arterial spray has dried his shirt collar stiff, he can feel his pulse in bruises newly forming on his skin. Like a crime scene. Like art. His stomach twists, a familiar combination of nausea and elation. The glint of the rail beckons–the drop, bottomless and horrifying–but Will has better control over it now. 

     He opens his eyes, chin tipping up. One hand flexes in front of him and he watches it, thoughtful, before seeking Hannibal’s eyes. A parallel, nearly, of happenings in another life.

     Stay with me. 

@raudrakos

[behaviorisms-archived]

[ possessive ]

@raudrakos

     Will’s attention is drawn from his thoughts ( circuitous and crawling; oh, ever evasive, ducking under low-hanging wires of responsibility ) when Hannibal rests a hand on his leg. The gesture could almost be mistaken for idle affection, but Will knows better. What between them is idle ? The touch is significant, possessive and deliberate, and Will lives in it for a moment, eyes closing.     He takes his time in opening his eyes again, remains perfectly still, though he’s certain Hannibal can feel him practically vibrating with restless energy, muscles and sinews taut, body drawn tight as a bowstring.

     One eyebrow arches, gaze challenging and slantwise, the urge to be difficult and shift just out of reach tempting. Instead he sets his wine glass, half-finished, aside, and turns to look at Hannibal directly. An equally deliberate motion. A smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

     “Qu’est-ce que tu voudrais?” 

[behaviorisms-archived]

@raudrakos​ from here x [ only if you want ]

   “You’re the one fussing. Occupational hazard, I imagine.” 

     Much more he could say to that. Much, in another life, that Will might have said. 

     Didn’t you? Didn’t you kill me? 

     They’re far beyond accusation now. And Will Graham is spent, the exhaustion of all reserves the price to pay for such bacchanalia, such organic savagery. There’s no energy left for acidic remarks, words like barbed arrows snapping off and burying beneath the skin. So he says nothing, offers neither protest nor indictment, just hisses as the suture thread pulls the raw edges of skin tight. 

    This isn’t retribution, an answer to his sins. Not now. Or maybe he’s finally, finally given enough. 

     When his eyes--glassy with pain, pupils blown wide--find Hannibal’s, they’re lost and searching. For rudder. For anchor. For sail. Words are difficult, they come weighted and strained, breath drawn at odd intervals. 

    “Should I be worried?”        

[chaoticeviljeffgoldblum]

Picked up this gem on cassette at Almost Music in Benson. "Down with false verse. Long live the new chorus."

[jllull]

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post verse - a horrible time