✶ leave a picture/quote/lyrics/blank comment ✶ i'll write you some fuck awesome mirror!verse shit where everything's backwards. ✶ be prepared to wait a while
the sound of metal, sharp, hollow, cylindrical, dragging against concrete.
empty halls. rooms padded with plastic to keep each ticking time bomb neutralized. the smell of stale sweat, urine, the repugnant saline bite of semen and musk. the taste of loneliness and desperation. the threads of laughter pinched tight between fingers made of madness. and amongst the many lies the one, fingers folded together against his solar plexus. the scraping continued unabated by the sorts of heavy breathing or snores.
a light flickers. (doesn't it always in these sorts of things?) just one. blinks on and off and on and off and onandoffandonoffonoffonoff.
darkness.
for the one laid out on his bed, staring at the ceiling becomes synonymous with staring at closed lids, because in the loss of a single light, the situation has caused an eclipse for this inmate. hard, syrupy, impossibly stifling blackness for him to try and card through. he can react, or he can lay there. it doesn't really matter; he's trapped by the same (insert number equal to the amount of space a perceived serial killer deserves) foot by (insert number equal to the amount of space a perceived malfunctioning toy deserves) foot room, and bulletproof walls. scream. cry. shout. or be silent. for a man like Will Graham, condemned doesn't even begin to describe his status in society.
and light.
outside the cell, just beyond the polycarbonate and thermoplastic shield sits a man in a chair, hands folded in his lap. the screeching of metal on stone has stopped, and all there is to show for it is someone dressed in a familiar jacket, with familiar glasses, curls, lips, teeth, skin, and unfamiliar dark eyes. plus a smile. the sort of smile that comes with the knowledge did you know eye contact for more than six seconds indicates either the desire to fuck or kill the target?
when this man, this doppleganger and parody and backwards truth speaks, he does so with Will's voice, but maybe not Will's words. ]
So that's what I look like on the other side of the glass.
[ Miles away on a shore of his own making until then, suddenly Will betrays his awareness with a blink. The scrapes were gulls wheeling overhead, twisted and picked clean of meats but still somehow able to fly, able to scream as Will sinks through the sand and back into the hellishly real stage of his life's suffering, an abrupt but short fall-splat back into limbs he doesn't have any use for until his mind earns them weapons to aim at deserving bodies.
The light is still broken and as it flickers two images splay on the sweat-stained, lumpy mattress: infinite, tired sadness carved in the palest pallid limestone, setting into relief the stark intelligence in dark eyes. The other image, the one that the man sitting outside the cell would bear awful resemblance to, gleams predatory brightness in place of soul, ever seeking, all learned technique and survival, therein resting the knowledge of how to fish and how to hunt meshed into synchronicity. This is not an evil.
Will rises - yes, he's sure of who he is right now and who that is there. Conversations with himself seemed frequent as of late, though not so literal after the sick had been dug out of his head with blunt medicines. Just another reflection to kill with shards of the mirror.
Will doesn't smile in return. There doesn't seem to be any sense in equivocating to that extent. ]
come here. it'll be all right. close your eyes and let me kiss away your nightmares.
hush now, let me whisper new ones in your ear.
there's a million reasons not to come to Will rushed, breathless. there's a reason he's chosen such an isolated location to live in, and the interruptions are typically not welcome. he's never been very hospitable; there's no mask here, no skin to stretch over the darkness and pull like putty into a crude, claymation smile, lumpy and distorted and not at all convincing. here's a place for him to sit, expressionless, facing a dark field as the guise of night crushes the grass, the trees, the leaves, and the air into silence. let the wildest fantasies play out in a flurry of pirouettes and fouettes and the swing of a golden pendulum. here, he can bask in the orgiastic sensationalism of his reconstruction, feel the way the victim's breath catches in her throat as the knife slides between the vertebrae; it is comparable only to the moment before orgasm. the edge. the flight before the fall.
tonight's not a night for daydreaming. not with Alana Bloom here, all fragile petals unfurling beneath his fingertips as he wipes away the pain and replaces it with bruises. teeth find the junction of her neck and close and he's not gentle: why should he be? there's an expanse of ivory begging to be marked. she came here looking for someone to dissolve her doubts, now she's pinned against wood panels while Will paints a litany of purple-red along her collarbone, down her clavicle. how dare she come here, how dare she, how dare she, how dare
tongue traces the line of saturated reds and curves up the incline to her ear, worrying the lobe between his canines. the sounds she makes; exquisite. the way she spills over the sides beneath his touch; divine. how illuminating Hannibal had wanted her; she's a marvellous creature. doubly so, with the strings of Lecter's lust for her still wrapped around her name. (after all, isn't it always more fun when someone else saw it first?) hands tangle in her hair as he pulls her to him, kisses her, bruises every inch of her, lips, tongue, and teeth. slams her back when she tries to inch forward; this is his home. he will make the rules here.
and in addendum to his previous set, he's now decided they should relocate. so in a deceptively sweet motion, he's pulling her away, away, off, through the rooms and along the carpet until they fall, intwined, atop the bed. one hand drifts and finds its way beneath her skirt, momentarily annoyed by pantyhose but Will's polite. or he has the pretense of manners still wafting about him, so he gently tugs it down, panties in tow, until it's rolled down to her ankles. and how appropriate too, as it provides for a slipshod bondage, restraints so he can smile against her cheek and dip his fingers between her thighs and press them into her, just two, but rough. not searching, marking.
he will leave his mark on her. and the next time she comes to him for refuge from the war in her mind, he'll destroy her a little more. and a little more. and a little more, he thinks, with the curl of fingers and thumb rubbing small circles against her clit, until there's nothing left. ]
[ she's more than aware that this is bad for her - but she's also aware of how her mind works. she doesn't have any idea of control and she can't feel anything halves; it all hits her at once, like an almighty storm and she's lost in the middle of the vortex, trying to fight her way that. she's never been able to measure her feelings, or hide them, and in her profession? that could be crippling. it certainly had been to the relationships in her life, and her professionalism. if she didn't do something about it, the storm would grow louder and louder until she did something completely unforgivable .. and the relationship would be lost.
right now, it was screaming in her ears, a mix of different emotions - fear, anger, hurt, annoyance - nothing that she could control, nothing that she could keep from affecting her behavior. she needed to quiet it, she needed just a moment of peace so that she could breathe and try and put her life in order.
maybe that was why she'd come here. she'd figured out early on that there were ways to silence the howling; this was one of them. she'd never ventured so far as to disturb will graham on his own turf, but things had never been this bad. she'd never been in this much need of some peace and quiet. so she'd come, and as her back hit the wooden panels hard enough to bruise, she knew she'd made a good decision, even if it was the wrong one.
the moment his teeth dig into her skin, her mind goes completely blank, pain and pleasure overriding the vortex of feelings that threatened to overwhelm her. there isn't any chance to feel anything - she can only react, gasping in a mixture of surprise and pain at the sensations washing over her.. her hair pulled, lips throbbing lightly, every single inch of her skin where he touches her screaming a protest, screaming that it was too much, too fast, too painful.
but for the first time in days, she could think. she didn't have to worry about reaction and feeling; all she had to do was act. and she could do that, despite his slamming her back against the wall when she tries to reach for his shirt, attempting to maintain some amount of agency.
she follows him into the bedroom, not surprised at the way things are moving quickly. was this punishment for coming all the way out here when he'd made his desire for solitude known? did she really deserve to be punished when if she really thought about it, she was using him for what he could give her, despite the fact that he was one of the only ones who could do it? just the brief lapse where they aren't touching has her thinking again, and that scares her. she's glad when he lands on top of her, glad when he tugs her pantyhose down along with her panties, glad that he's touching her again with a clear goal in mind.
she's ready enough for perhaps one finger, but two has her groaning and arching her back, legs tugging against the makeshift bonds that he's put her in, failing to kick them off. it hurts, it hurts, and it doesn't at the same time; it isn't until his fingers curl that she digs her nails into his back, heedless at the damage she might be causing, a shocked moan muffled by his curls.
her hands are all over his back, scrambling, trying to pull his shirt off and getting distracted by the circling of his thumb, her legs shuddering with each new circle, fingers working inside her. she finally succeeds to a certain extent when she works his shirt up to his elbows, before giving up and bucking underneath him, clenching his shoulders. ]
God... [ her twisting becomes more desperate with each movement, and she silences any further remarks about higher powers by nipping at his neck, sucking hard just below the line of his jaw, wanting to do something with the brief moments of clarity that he offered. ]
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no subject
baaaaaad will.
no subject
no subject
literally wink wink. WHATEVER YOU LIKE! ]BECAUSE I HAVE WANTED TO TAG YOU FOREVER
the sound of metal, sharp, hollow, cylindrical, dragging against concrete.
empty halls. rooms padded with plastic to keep each ticking time bomb neutralized. the smell of stale sweat, urine, the repugnant saline bite of semen and musk. the taste of loneliness and desperation. the threads of laughter pinched tight between fingers made of madness. and amongst the many lies the one, fingers folded together against his solar plexus. the scraping continued unabated by the sorts of heavy breathing or snores.
a light flickers. (doesn't it always in these sorts of things?) just one. blinks on and off and on and off and onandoffandonoffonoffonoff.
darkness.
for the one laid out on his bed, staring at the ceiling becomes synonymous with staring at closed lids, because in the loss of a single light, the situation has caused an eclipse for this inmate. hard, syrupy, impossibly stifling blackness for him to try and card through. he can react, or he can lay there. it doesn't really matter; he's trapped by the same (insert number equal to the amount of space a perceived serial killer deserves) foot by (insert number equal to the amount of space a perceived malfunctioning toy deserves) foot room, and bulletproof walls. scream. cry. shout. or be silent. for a man like Will Graham, condemned doesn't even begin to describe his status in society.
and light.
outside the cell, just beyond the polycarbonate and thermoplastic shield sits a man in a chair, hands folded in his lap. the screeching of metal on stone has stopped, and all there is to show for it is someone dressed in a familiar jacket, with familiar glasses, curls, lips, teeth, skin, and unfamiliar dark eyes. plus a smile. the sort of smile that comes with the knowledge did you know eye contact for more than six seconds indicates either the desire to fuck or kill the target?
when this man, this doppleganger and parody and backwards truth speaks, he does so with Will's voice, but maybe not Will's words. ]
So that's what I look like on the other side of the glass.
no subject
battered and bruised twins
HELLA. SORRY I DIDN'T GET MY ASS INTO GEAR SOONER
The light is still broken and as it flickers two images splay on the sweat-stained, lumpy mattress: infinite, tired sadness carved in the palest pallid limestone, setting into relief the stark intelligence in dark eyes. The other image, the one that the man sitting outside the cell would bear awful resemblance to, gleams predatory brightness in place of soul, ever seeking, all learned technique and survival, therein resting the knowledge of how to fish and how to hunt meshed into synchronicity. This is not an evil.
Will rises - yes, he's sure of who he is right now and who that is there. Conversations with himself seemed frequent as of late, though not so literal after the sick had been dug out of his head with blunt medicines. Just another reflection to kill with shards of the mirror.
Will doesn't smile in return. There doesn't seem to be any sense in equivocating to that extent. ]
It isn't what you look like.
no subject
it's okay.
come here. it'll be all right. close your eyes and let me kiss away your nightmares.
hush now, let me whisper new ones in your ear.
there's a million reasons not to come to Will rushed, breathless. there's a reason he's chosen such an isolated location to live in, and the interruptions are typically not welcome. he's never been very hospitable; there's no mask here, no skin to stretch over the darkness and pull like putty into a crude, claymation smile, lumpy and distorted and not at all convincing. here's a place for him to sit, expressionless, facing a dark field as the guise of night crushes the grass, the trees, the leaves, and the air into silence. let the wildest fantasies play out in a flurry of pirouettes and fouettes and the swing of a golden pendulum. here, he can bask in the orgiastic sensationalism of his reconstruction, feel the way the victim's breath catches in her throat as the knife slides between the vertebrae; it is comparable only to the moment before orgasm. the edge. the flight before the fall.
tonight's not a night for daydreaming. not with Alana Bloom here, all fragile petals unfurling beneath his fingertips as he wipes away the pain and replaces it with bruises. teeth find the junction of her neck and close and he's not gentle: why should he be? there's an expanse of ivory begging to be marked. she came here looking for someone to dissolve her doubts, now she's pinned against wood panels while Will paints a litany of purple-red along her collarbone, down her clavicle. how dare she come here, how dare she, how dare she, how dare
tongue traces the line of saturated reds and curves up the incline to her ear, worrying the lobe between his canines. the sounds she makes; exquisite. the way she spills over the sides beneath his touch; divine. how illuminating Hannibal had wanted her; she's a marvellous creature. doubly so, with the strings of Lecter's lust for her still wrapped around her name. (after all, isn't it always more fun when someone else saw it first?) hands tangle in her hair as he pulls her to him, kisses her, bruises every inch of her, lips, tongue, and teeth. slams her back when she tries to inch forward; this is his home. he will make the rules here.
and in addendum to his previous set, he's now decided they should relocate. so in a deceptively sweet motion, he's pulling her away, away, off, through the rooms and along the carpet until they fall, intwined, atop the bed. one hand drifts and finds its way beneath her skirt, momentarily annoyed by pantyhose but Will's polite. or he has the pretense of manners still wafting about him, so he gently tugs it down, panties in tow, until it's rolled down to her ankles. and how appropriate too, as it provides for a slipshod bondage, restraints so he can smile against her cheek and dip his fingers between her thighs and press them into her, just two, but rough. not searching, marking.
he will leave his mark on her. and the next time she comes to him for refuge from the war in her mind, he'll destroy her a little more. and a little more. and a little more, he thinks, with the curl of fingers and thumb rubbing small circles against her clit, until there's nothing left. ]
loud breathing
no subject
right now, it was screaming in her ears, a mix of different emotions - fear, anger, hurt, annoyance - nothing that she could control, nothing that she could keep from affecting her behavior. she needed to quiet it, she needed just a moment of peace so that she could breathe and try and put her life in order.
maybe that was why she'd come here. she'd figured out early on that there were ways to silence the howling; this was one of them. she'd never ventured so far as to disturb will graham on his own turf, but things had never been this bad. she'd never been in this much need of some peace and quiet. so she'd come, and as her back hit the wooden panels hard enough to bruise, she knew she'd made a good decision, even if it was the wrong one.
the moment his teeth dig into her skin, her mind goes completely blank, pain and pleasure overriding the vortex of feelings that threatened to overwhelm her. there isn't any chance to feel anything - she can only react, gasping in a mixture of surprise and pain at the sensations washing over her.. her hair pulled, lips throbbing lightly, every single inch of her skin where he touches her screaming a protest, screaming that it was too much, too fast, too painful.
but for the first time in days, she could think. she didn't have to worry about reaction and feeling; all she had to do was act. and she could do that, despite his slamming her back against the wall when she tries to reach for his shirt, attempting to maintain some amount of agency.
she follows him into the bedroom, not surprised at the way things are moving quickly. was this punishment for coming all the way out here when he'd made his desire for solitude known? did she really deserve to be punished when if she really thought about it, she was using him for what he could give her, despite the fact that he was one of the only ones who could do it? just the brief lapse where they aren't touching has her thinking again, and that scares her. she's glad when he lands on top of her, glad when he tugs her pantyhose down along with her panties, glad that he's touching her again with a clear goal in mind.
she's ready enough for perhaps one finger, but two has her groaning and arching her back, legs tugging against the makeshift bonds that he's put her in, failing to kick them off. it hurts, it hurts, and it doesn't at the same time; it isn't until his fingers curl that she digs her nails into his back, heedless at the damage she might be causing, a shocked moan muffled by his curls.
her hands are all over his back, scrambling, trying to pull his shirt off and getting distracted by the circling of his thumb, her legs shuddering with each new circle, fingers working inside her. she finally succeeds to a certain extent when she works his shirt up to his elbows, before giving up and bucking underneath him, clenching his shoulders. ]
God... [ her twisting becomes more desperate with each movement, and she silences any further remarks about higher powers by nipping at his neck, sucking hard just below the line of his jaw, wanting to do something with the brief moments of clarity that he offered. ]