➴ o p e n

[mezzanotte]

OPEN POST REDUX ① How this lot usually works. Leave me a prompt. An image, a quote, a sound - a scene and if it clicks we'll play it out, do a sort of really relaxed mini-verse/psl or whatever you wanna call it. Anything goes. If this is something gen, crack, crossovers, aus, something shippy or a kink - go right on. If we like it enough, we could make it a verse or smthng. ② Usual disclaimer of i am a turtle forever and ever ( feel free to nudge me about our thread if I am taking too long ) ③ My whole muselist is up for grabs. If you're looking for someone in specific leave it in the subject line. Less active muses may take longer to reply to; also see muse strength. OCs are also up for grabs.

Comments

[filthyworld]

It's wrong. [ Tate is by his bed. Sitting on it, just like that, walls still a hideous aquamarine colour. It never changed, for some reason, despite the many owners of the house.

Will's 'design' was wrong and for some reason that bothered Tate. There'd be the occasional murder fan breaking in here, wanting to look at it. Police were gone, long gone, but Tate had noticed the badge. No, he was wrong. Wrong, wrong wrong. ]

I wasn't afraid of anything.

[fasted]

[ sometimes, when will is alone. in the solitude of a crime scene, he screams the way the victims do. cries like he's the one dying. in the scenarios where he steps into the role of the murderer however, he never expects anyone to scream back.

will doesn't believe what his eyes are projecting. cope.

cope.

c o p e.

there on the bed is tate langdon. picture tate with gunshot wounds. picture tate's shirt damp. the floor moist and the glaring aquamarine stained. why is his vision telling him he's wrong? ]

You weren't scared so you didn't run?

[filthyworld]

Why would I explain it to you? You're the FBI. You figure it out. [ But why here? Why now? When Tate stands he slouches--typical 90s teen--but his gaze is fixed on Will, brown eyes boring into the other's soul. ]

You're the one that looks scared. Gonna piss yourself?

[fasted]

[ graham still thinks it's a delusion. something that his mind is adjusting to. why is he so at ease about talking to something his mind conjured up? ]

I work better with fear.

[ he says sternly. tate is a fire and will graham is a smoke alarm. all he hears and feels is noise. ]

What did they do to you?

[ he knows what's on the file, but those two are never the same. ]

[filthyworld]

I got shot, dumbass.

[ He's not bloodied , though. He's not even wearing the same black when he died--no, he's in a bleach-stained Nirvana shirt, ratty red chuck taylors. Ripped, torn jeans. The grunge-era had never stopped for him, after all. ]

Bang.

[ He draws his hand up to his own face. Fingers forming a gun, reaching up to his forehead. ]

Pow!

[fasted]

[ he slouches, when he moves to sit by the bed - the exact position where tate appeared. he observes him, like a hawk watching prey. ]

You got shot - and just stood there. You didn't try to run. Did you?

[ tate's aggression seeping into his words. ]

Did you think you deserved to die?

[filthyworld]

Why would I run? I knew it was coming.

[ He's almost savouring it, now. Pacing around Will like a wolf. The other's voice dips, gets anry, and Tate retaliates--he puts both of his hands on Will's legs and presses in as hard as he can, bruising. Face-to-face with the one still alive, he's almost spitting his words. ]

Everyone deserves to die. You deserve to, most of all.

[fasted]

But you didn't do anything to try and stop it? [ he stays still. let's tate's hand press against him, feels it against his skin. the delusions are not supposed to be this intense, this real. it makes him feel like tate is actually there.

will is a little bit like icarus and he feels like he went too close to the sun. ]

Are you going to kill me?

{ non-nonchalance, no hesitation. he looks at will like a man who's just given up. did you look like this - tate? ]

[filthyworld]

[ No. Tate is full of rage and coiled up anger and he has all the signs of an abused childhood and an absent father, of the big brother trying to protect his little sister, of the evil that permates through this house seeping through him like cracked, dry earth swallows up rain. Thirsty. Hungry. ]

No. I'm going to make it better for you. I'm going to tell you how to cope with this.

[fasted]

[ will feels it. everything resonates. everything bounces and mirrors and all will feels is reflective. he leans back; moves to take a look at him properly. ]

How?

[ he laughs. because in this scenario he's trying to fix tate, and even tate realizes how far he's fallen. ]

You can't fix me.

[filthyworld]

You can't fix a CD when it's snapped in two. [ It's chiding--gentle chiding from the 17 year old, and Tate leans back, though he's still holding onto the other's thighs. The grip has lessened somewhat, at least. ]

But you can find other uses for it. Better, if it's shitty music.

[fasted]

[ Will's eyes shut. When he sees Tate's hand loosen, he can feel the grip getting more relaxed. His delusions, his memories - they're never supposed to be this vivid. they're only usually this bad when it comes to Garrett Jacob Hobbs. He has to recollect.

My name is Will Graham, It is 08.40 PM and we are in-- ]

And what will you use me for?

[ he can't leave.

( he's like a lamb at the slaughter ) ]

[filthyworld]

Never said I was going to use you, either. [ But he is--he is because Tate needs to lance the wound, help the fester of humanity boil over and boil over and get rid of itself. ]

Go to the basement. Tell them it's where I killed other people, too, if you have to. [ Not in life--no, never in life. But always in death. ] Make sure you're alone.