my-divine-comedy

[my-divine-comedy]

can we talk about the the rough-hewn maw that is a stab wound? warm as a hearth, you can feel everything that lives inside you swim up to the surface… it coughs projectiles of blood, it sings your suffering in vibrato… it is so intimate -

you know what else goes in a mouth?

[my-divine-comedy]

dad walked in while i was watching iwtv s2. you know that scene when loumand are on the couch nuzzling each other in front of daniel, etc… my dad goes: “are they gay?” my friend you don’t know the half of it

[my-divine-comedy]

very gay apparently

[my-divine-comedy]

just found a great gatsby slime tutorial ohhhh im about to be insufferable

[my-divine-comedy]

i just watched the 2016 revival of “falsettos”.

it was the first fictional thing that’s made me cry in three years.

on fluoxetine - at least for me - i find it difficult for fictional media to evoke an emotional response in myself. the chemical reaction seems to suppress that portion of my brain: “if it’s not real, there’s no reason to be sad about it.” almost like a guardrail, so i don’t fall into an abyss of manufactured sadness.

falsettos is a musical about, plainly - family and love, which are the most universal themes available; all-encompassing. it is about a jewish family and all their rickety parts that form an amalgamated cube. everyone loves everyone. everyone hates everyone. the lines are thin and the passion is fervid.

it’s been almost three years since a fictional story has made me cry. i am so lucky for it to have been falsettos. the writing, staging, singing and acting were beyond my expectations. it’s a story that’s managed to break down my chemically-induced emotional barriers, and therefore: it is deeply human.

if you like musicals, even if you don’t - please watch it. the whole pro-shot is on youtube.

and if you don’t fall in love with both andrew rannells and christian borle - were you watching with your eyes closed???

[my-divine-comedy]

say (hypothetically) i'm writing gatsby fanfic. how many "old sports" can i use before it becomes excessive

[my-divine-comedy]

any ship with a specific, charming nickname will be the death of me. angel??? old sport??? just fuck me with a meat cleaver won't you

[my-divine-comedy]

Hannibal S3E05 Contorno

[my-divine-comedy]

ENOUGH WITH THE “BABY” AND “HONEY” PET NAMES! CALL YOUR GIRL/BOYFRIEND “OLD SPORT”! IT CONVEYS MUCH MORE AFFECTION!

[my-divine-comedy]

Hannibal (2013-2015)

3x13 - “The Wrath of the Lamb”

[my-divine-comedy]

still so funny to me that hannibal’s weakness is whimsy. like god forbid a cannibal get a little silly.

[my-divine-comedy]

if i were to write hannigram’s first kiss post-fall it might go something like this…

the first meal after years of starvation — will’s warm and salty mouth. two bloodied men on the beach, sand-coated and squirming; a helicopter could cast bone-white light onto their forms and classify them animals. creatures swept in by the tide. which wasn’t far from the truth.

hannibal’s wound ached, burrowed deep into his abdomen, but will’s animal kiss was enough to tend it. will’s tongue searched his teeth, his throat, scavenging like he’d never been satiated.

hannibal felt light. could have been blood loss, but he blamed it on will’s sucking hunger.

waves lapped over their feet. the moon seemed to pulse like an organ. he thought about the anatomy of the earth, how tree roots were nerves or veins, soil as muscle mass, bedrock as bone.

he thought about will’s body of muscle and bone, how it lay on top of him — feeding on his mouth without rest, and he thought about the dichotomy of animal and human, the nonsense of it.

[my-divine-comedy]

S2 Hannigram my beloved……

[my-divine-comedy]

MUKOZUKE - Hannibal POV

He’d rather it be more intimate. But he couldn’t blame Will for confinement (especially when it was his doing). Hannibal felt pulled in and out of peace; his awareness was a waning gibbous, his wrists were waterfalls and his head was a sackful of rice. The bug skittered along the poolroom floor. Hannibal squinted to track it. It was spouting up shiny words and flaunting its hard-shelled exoskeleton. This thing wasn’t worthy of eating. It would taste of manure and smell of titan arum. This thing he wished to crush under his foot. The arthropod continued chittering until the name “Will Graham” arose, solid gold wedged between rotting waste. Hannibal’s temperature had dropped to subzero, but the name bloomed warmth in his chest. The unfortunate firecracker on July 5th. Too late. Quick-fizzling. Ice crept back into his bloodstream. The bug tittered, an arterial river gurgled down the drain, and the poolroom dimmed. Hannibal’s balance was failing him. The bucket dug into his heels, and only dug harder into his soles when he shifted. His brain would be bloodless in a matter of minutes. But Jack would be here soon. Bring him to safety. He would talk to Will again. Their chairs would be positioned three feet apart and they would trade riddles. Again. Soon. 

When Jack, a quiet giant, did slip between the poolroom’s marble column, Hannibal almost expected Will to follow. He didn’t know much at that moment. He could barely be classified conscious. But he did know that the bug — Matthew Brown, an orderly at the BSHCI — was palming a sleek black gun with a silencer. Hannibal’s mouth twitched as he tried to conceptualize the words, his bleeding arms jerked — “He’s got a gun, Jack!” The words melted off his tongue. From there, he was nothing and nobody. He slid into the chaos of second-long dreams that seemed to last hours, just barely clinging onto some semblance of reality. Since when had a snake been tethered to his neck? It hissed and rattled, a chic larynx accessory. A scale-patterned tie. He thought maybe he was the Tree of Knowledge, housing the patient serpent. He was certainly the Tree of Knowledge, garden rolling infinite, miles of paradise. A crown of leaves sat atop his head. Head — head, body made of wood carvings. A marionette dangling from puppet strings, pulled taut, no, no. Lungs like wine bottles, needed to uncork them. A jarringly human thought jammed into his brain - I can’t breathe.

He was hanging. His legs were kicking, pumping. His neck was bruising, breaking. Only a select few knew he was the Chesapeake Ripper, and they wouldn’t let him have the luxury of admittance after he was dead. Someone would overtake him. He was going to die a footnote in someone else’s tale. The future Tattlecrime article pained him more than the pull of the rope. Asylum patient disguised as BSHCI orderly murders Baltimore psychiatrist, supposedly orchestrated by Will Graham. He would not have that. He kicked harder. 

Jack dove under and scooped Hannibal’s body out of the noose. Gently unhooked him, lowered him. The first breath was cyanide, sweet for a split-second until jets of fire barrelled down his throat. His chest tensed but he knew he had to breathe again. Slow breaths, creaking breaths. He breathed smoke. Not salvation. Jack was screaming to someone — Alana. “Get an ambulance!” He balanced Hannibal’s lolling head in his lap, applied pressure to his gashes. They spilled out of control, red river rapids. “Stay with me. Help is on the way.”

“Will,” Hannibal murmured. His eyes threatened to roll back, but he managed to look at Jack. His vision was grainy and mismatched and awful.

“Is out of his mind for what he did to you, yes,” Jack grumbled. “Come on, Hannibal, stay awake. Don’t lose me here.” He gave Hannibal’s cheek a stern clap. 

“Tell —- him,” Hannibal croaked, unable to keep his eyes open. His body slumped deeper into Jack’s arms. “I see — his fury.” He’d worked his ruined body to the limit, and finally passed out.

Jack tried hard to shake him, to call for Alana, all to no avail. And when the EMTs did arrive and wheel Hannibal’s stretcher away, he was still picking apart the request. Tell him I see his fury. Jack wasn’t sure if he was going to stroke Will’s ego by passing along an acknowledging message from his victim. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do about any of this.

[my-divine-comedy]

I haven’t - direct me to it, wrathful lamb.

my favorite version of hannigram is the one that hasn’t happened yet. the ragged, raw post-fall version that are battered with injury and soaking in love. hannibal stripped bare without his person suit. will finally fitting into his perfect in-between — the ugly beauty. bathing together. massaging tense muscles. domestic. no more eye-fucking five feet away, now they’re fucking EVERY DAY and swallowing every molecule of each other. going to sleep satiated. waking up from nightmares about the fall, the dragon, abigail, alana — coaxed back to sleep with a reminder of security. you’re with me. my arms will hold you until they decompose. ugly love (not the colleen hoover kind) with all its jagged edges. i love what we’ve created.

[my-divine-comedy]

my favorite version of hannigram is the one that hasn’t happened yet. the ragged, raw post-fall version that are battered with injury and soaking in love. hannibal stripped bare without his person suit. will finally fitting into his perfect in-between — the ugly beauty. bathing together. massaging tense muscles. domestic. no more eye-fucking five feet away, now they’re fucking EVERY DAY and swallowing every molecule of each other. going to sleep satiated. waking up from nightmares about the fall, the dragon, abigail, alana — coaxed back to sleep with a reminder of security. you’re with me. my arms will hold you until they decompose. ugly love (not the colleen hoover kind) with all its jagged edges. i love what we’ve created.

[my-divine-comedy]

something about that scene in mukozuke was very transformative for my identity. tie up that old man, bleed him to the brink of death and make numerous biblical references while he squirms. this is sex to me.