#onsand

The air felt deathly thick and silent, much like after a heavy snowfall. Tightly gripping her elbows, Abigail remained facing Will, her arms crossed in a protective shield and her feet tapping against the wooden flooring. In a way, she wanted to stand -- Will towering over her was a bit disconcerting, and yet she could handle it. He seemed incapable of looking her in the eye.

That’s not what I’m asking you.

Abigail lurched a moment, startled by the brusqueness of his tone. Unbidden, her throat bobbed and she looked away, glowering down at her anxiously jiggling feet.

“What do you know of lying?” she bit back. “Did your dad ever tell you that if you went to the cops, he’d slit your throat?” Sharply, she lifted her chin, nailing Will in place with her cold, searching eyes. “If I told the truth, I’d be dead. If I tell the truth now, I’ll be...” Trailing off, she swallowed back the words, a sudden flash of fear blitzing across her eyes. Hannibal would know that she’d told. She never should have told.

𝗕𝗔𝗗  𝗛𝗔𝗕𝗜𝗧𝗦.   they’re  something  that  can  be  controlled.   she  can  hear  her  mother’s  voice  in  the  back  of  her  head ,   judging ,   calling  her  out.   or  perhaps  it’s  her  own  conscience  taking  the  wheel.   regardless ,  she’ll   indulge  in  a  smoke ,  spark  pending.   ❛  got  a  light  over  there?  ❜

“I was only getting a glass of water, if that’s alright with you,” Hannibal says on his way back from the kitchen, careful to weave around the various dogs dotted about the space. He’s teasing; the truth of it is he finds Will Graham’s abrasive personality inexplicably endearing, particularly now with his bleary eyes and mused curls.

He places the glass on the end table before climbing back into bed. Still sitting up, he dips down to kiss Will’s shoulder, with the addition of an affectionate nuzzle as he takes in the scent of his skin. However, Will has proved to be a deep sleeper much of the time, which leads Hannibal to wonder if it was unpleasant dreams or emotions that stirred him.

“Did I wake you?”

@onsand / this meme (x)

Abigail kept her back facing him, her eyes downcast as she absently fiddled with her drapes. She had bought them to feel domestic -- normal. But with her past constantly nipping at her heels, she knew there was no way to feel normal ever again. Not even when she was pretending.

“Did you really come all this way to play the blame game?” she tightly asked. “I never asked you to help me...I never asked you to put your career on the line or believe in me.” Finally turning away from the window, she regarded him with shining blue eyes, an unforgiving ray of sunlight slanting harshly over the ugly, freshly healing scar along her throat. Scar tissue on top of scar tissue.

    ‘  Hope  ...   is  the  thing  with  feathers  that  perches  in  the  soul  [...]   and  sings  the  tunes  without  the  words  and  never  stops  at  all.  ’    Emily  Dickinson.    An  almost  perfect  fit  for  a  Tuesday’s  reflection  when  he  finds  not  only  himself  at  a  crossroads,   but  another.

      The  difference  is  whereas  Matt  has  decided  on  a  path  and  he  is  hoping  a  force  can  deter  him  from  it    (  not  likely  ),    the  man  seemingly  lost  near  the  stairs  of  the  church  seems  to  be  lost  all  the  same.

                  ❛   𝘛𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱.   𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳  ——    𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦   𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘦𝘳   𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵.    𝘋𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯.   ❜  

@onsand​   liked  for  a  starter  /  ACCEPTING  !    +   jim corrigan

     𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐅  𝐌𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐃  𝐌𝐀𝐍  𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐘  ,  who’s  fingerprints  can  be  found  in  the  lines  of  him  ?  who’s  hands  have  changed  his  shape ? twisted  and  bent  around  something  ,  can  it  be  called  grief  or  is  it  just  another  type  of  yearning  ?  grass  ,  half  crushed  beneath  boots  has  wet  old  leather  with  morning  dew  ,  clay  ,  red  as  the  sun  has  caked  his  feet  ,  his  hands  ,  his  face.  or  is  that  just  another  type  of  blood  ?  SO  CLOSE  AND  YET  SO  FAR  FROM  DEATH.   the  sun’s  light  is  a  sharp  line  cutting  across  the  tops  of  trees  ,  a  canopy  of  emerald bisected like  lace  ,  or  a  butterflies  wings  , shadows  cast.   there’s  a  body   ,  isn’t  there  always ?  

( * @onsand​︱prompt accepting ! ) :   ❝ you must have made an impression.❞ 

                              do not test serpent’s patience, she is not kind, and her mouth is filled with venom. lounds has so carefully crafted herself in an image easily recognized. she has filed herself into a fine point, and her strength will not be tested  by silly little boys who want to play detective.  she self-censors, cherry picking thoughts before they leave her lip. she lets her opinion be known without prose or flowery language, simple and straight to the point.