there's a shadow on
you, .. son.. ..you
are .... ..corrosive.

hannibal indie rp, set during season two. tracking #.willstrayham


If she notices the change, the breadth of his shoulders in the washed teal of his rooms, the liquid black of his caffeine eyes drowning the room, the set of his feet, firmly planted on the ground, she keeps it to herself.

"Things got bad. I decided I needed my own space. Away from Charles."

The smile that she flashes him is brittle, at best; an exaggeration of the undercurrents in the conversation that she’s too engrossed to pick up on. The dog by his knee looks rougher than the others, doesn’t venture forward curiously to her as the others do.

"I’m alright. Thanks, though."  She hesitates before asking, her eyes flickering to him. "Are you — how are you? Since — everything."

     ”You can say prison.”

Jail would be more suitable, since he was never convicted. But the distinction seems caricature-ish; a jail-house cell for a puppet criminal. Full of story book convictions and Hans Anderson justice. 

     ”— I’m not delicate.”

He’s more interested in her than himself. There’s no real desire to retell his failings. He redirects: he dodges her questions as he might once have dodged her eye contact with the overused frame of his glasses. His stare doesn’t skitter away now, but his answers (how are you) sink to the bottom of his mouth unspoken— deadweights.

"What things got bad?"


   ”You know how it goes. Once a cheater.”

I like to think — metamorphosis is an option. People change. Once a cheater, now a subject to — evolution.”


I could never entirely predict you.


"I was never into the whole girl scout thing." She greets him second; his dogs are greeted first with the warmth of her grin, the easy softness of her hands. Wading through them, Raven makes it through the door and inside his house; which is as it’s always been. There’s a small comfort in that — that this hasn’t changed, remains constant. Bedrock, where things with Will have always been difficult.

There’s a silence, punctuated by the need for an explanation that waits on her. Raven only belatedly realizes it’s only polite to tell him why she’d dropped by unexpectedly. Magneto and I, she figures, is probably not the best conversation starter — even if it wasn’t Will Graham she was talking to.

"I was in town. Been busy with the move, so this is the first spare time I’ve had in a while." I was with Magneto, and I got hurt, her evasive eyes say, I needed a place to stay low where no one would ask questions

There’s a change in how he occupies space; the unapologetic line of his shoulders isn’t obnoxious, but he doesn’t concede the air to her. He leans against the wall, a mutt at his knee, and raises his eyebrows.

     ” — The move?”

It was nice of you to drop by isn’t the first thing waiting on his mouth, but it’s the second — dry and half-bitter. He doesn’t say it, glad of her presence in a way that makes his unfriendliness itchy.

     ”Coffee? Tea?”




         Must be something of unusual circumstance to track me down like this.

Oh, but you’re used to unusual. 



Are you makin’ a stab at the deaf?

        You heartless bastard!

The deaf aren’t what I want to make a stab at.


She only notices her knuckles when she raises a fist to knock on his door. They’re red, the skin torn. A fighter’s knuckles; not the knuckles of a personal assistant. She winces, and shifts them away before knocking on his door.

The thudding of feet that usually accompanies Graham’s household is, as always, present. She clutches her purse a little tighter and shifts her weight, one foot to the other.

Will isn’t surprised by callers, by people knocking. Even though he’s in the middle of nowhere, Jack is a plague doctor: a house caller, door to door. So it isn’t the knock that surprises him, it’s the fist behind it. He steps back, looking her over, dogs swimming at his ankles.

"I’ll take two boxes of cookies." The joke in his voice is off, outdone by his cold confusion. He lets her in and doesn’t ask; leaves her to explain if she’s going to.



   ”You’re so used to people calling you guilty that you made it a habit to deny it.”

I appreciate the — ah — dissection.
        —It’s a hard habit to break.”



   ”Nobody intends to be a creep, it just happens.”

   ”One of the most unfortunate kinds of accident, then. I would apologise,
 but I’m not a fan of conceding guilt.”



        Y’know, you’ve been exhibitin’ symptoms of a very troubled childhood. Was it the guidance counselor? Did he do somethin’ untoward? There, there, little William — I know you’ve got a dildo up your ass, but it doesn’t mean there isn’t a place for you in regular, every-day society.

— Can you actually — hear what you’re saying?


bloodypart liked your photoset
willstrayham liked your photoset

   ”Don’t be a creep.”

" — Never my intention.”

finally watching friday’s hannibal

the real mystery isn’t even w the fbi now, it’s just wtf is happening with the soundtrack

—your deathbed lament.

—your deathbed lament.


[text] are you free any time soon

[text] probably not

[text] when are we ever though?

[text] why?