#threads. dr. bloom.

[godblooded]

@all5horizons [HAIR]: in the process of pushing the receiver’s hair back from their face, the sender lets their hand rest against the receiver’s cheek a moment longer. / from allyson for alana in the post-halloween kills au. why not.

alana bloom is known to be foolish. it’s become her brand, to some extent, to make bad choices based entirely on their emotional merit. that is to say for all her intellect, all her brilliance, all her tactful control — it seems to go out the window, actually (she thinks it, and it’s well enough she doesn’t laugh) when she’s faced with sincerity. that touch lingers at her cheek and blue eyes flick down to lips and then up again to soft, soft, soft brown. and truly, she should feel some shame.

a little. a little, as she turns her nose inward to brush lovingly against a palm, to reverently touch the creases of that hand with just a feeling. it seems entirely necessary. her kiss is a butterfly thing, it beats and exists for only seconds, but it’s significance is an alteration to time itself.

“would you like to come in?” she pauses. “that’s not an insinuation. i’m having a nice night, and sometimes i could stomach being selfish enough to want it to continue.”

applesauce’s gentle, effeminate bark breaks in a squeak from behind the house’s second door. alana leans on her cane just a touch for the reliability of the weight, but she stays angled just against her companion. and she’s thankful to be so small. in comparison, she fits very comfortably just slotted here in the warm glow of her porch-light.

“my dogs are very accepting. but they’re going to be very underfoot at first. —you’re impeding on their time with mom. they need to deem you worthy.”

her door clicks open. she leans it a bit further with her cane. five sets of swishing tails furiously sweep the floor just a few feet from them both. her legs ache, and her lower back feels like a solid entity, but she’s managing. she smiles, and it feels unhaunted.

“you’ll find a small bowl of treats behind you. just share them liberally. this is an equal opportunity household—all for treats, treats for all.”

[godblooded]

@shapeslain​

“ it looks good on you. ”

the good doctor represses the urge-- the curling desire to just touch the other woman’s hair. it’s simply that, an urge. she’s accustomed to those, intrusive and constant as they may be. but there’s a smile on her face like most don’t get to witness. a casual beast in solitude is she, and in her solitude, she does not exactly make friends. allyson is not a friend so much as she is someone alana feels like some cosmic force she doesn’t believe in put in her path to just-- apologize for her life. karmic payback for a history of hellish social interaction and downright betrayal. allyson is a person that’s kindred to the gunslinger. she leans her cheek upon the heel of her hand, charmingly broad grin on full display. periwinkle baby blues are bright as a spring day. she’s more alive than she usually seems. 

which is a feat. 

“ not that -- ...i think anything would look good on you. ”

she stumbles words awkwardly, suddenly worried the implication is it might not have looked good. an alana tendency-- overthinking, so deep in her own head even something as casual as allyson makes her fumble her words. alana waves a hand as if to dispel the words just spilling forth from her mouth, and it’s the only thing that keeps her from continuing to talk. 

try not to make an ass of yourself, dr. bloom. 

[godblooded]

@afraidofchange​

“ it ‘ s awfully presumptuous of you to assume i was staring. so instead i will tell you , straightforward , that i was staring. you have stunning eyes — i believe they would be considered cornflower blue. “ 

the good doctor glances upward and a smile plays , mona lisa and enigmatic , dancing across those soft pink lips. it is barely capable of being read , but , then again , so is she. many try and it is seldom they succeed. 

alice is , she thinks , impressive to even have caught on. she is not normally so … obvious , and she is especially less obvious when it ‘ s someone she knows personally and therefore the possibility of a … what , a ‘ situation ‘ exists ? who knows what she would refer to it as — after will. but she resigns herself often quietly to the presence of company and its occasionally pleasant togetherness. 

“ full disclosure , i am about to step outside and smoke a pretty decent amount of cannabis. you can follow if you like — participation not necessary — but i would be grateful for the help wrangling the pups. “ 

that is a lie and alice knows it , too. alana ‘ s dogs are so well - behaved they make the von trapp children seem rowdy. 

[godblooded]

@abjecterror​ (x)

“you are aware what you’re discussing is my specialty, correct? i’m catnip for killers, tegan.” the words come at you tensely so you volley them back with an almost equivalent tension, challenging them with the dip of your gaze to steel that energy and then a glance upward. to meet those eyes with your own blue, ground held. your head tilts. you fight with the urge to fire back at them-- and what of lecter, then, tegan? what about him? what? all he can tell us about is what, dismembering, turkeys? what? did he teach me, you, us, the bureau nothing? you don’t know where this acid comes from, but it sloshes in the back of you throat.

you need to take it down. your emotions are blurring, and it’s the sheer proximity that’s doing it. “they won’t hurt me. if we need someone to be a plant parsing out detail from an informant, you know, you know i’m very familiar with the process.” what, do the days escape you, you want to say, when you watched me sit across from cruelty itself and receive only the cloying verbiage of honeycomb sweet diction? you’re almost bitter, almost defensive, almost angry at the concept of protection. i will harm me if i choose. 

[godblooded]

all these ghosts come streaming down and i wish I had something else. / for the good doctor!!!

your hands always feel raw. like the way it feels to dip your hands in hot water after they’ve been frigid. your hands always feel raw and when you look at them they feel rawer— they feel like your palms and the corners of your flesh fill in with all those callouses you don’t have. the trigger of a gun, the way it feels to grasp that and not press the click. you don’t know why this starts in your brain, but it does. and it makes your stomach churn.

ghosts are things you know. they’re strange and forceful and constant. the hallways of your brain echo and you slip on the blood on the floor. your daddy’s voice is a grating thing, no longer smooth. mama’s is a harsh, shrill sound in your dreams. ghosts?

abigail’s standing in the doorway and her eyes are empty. there’s nothing. no pupils, no irises. they’re as bottomless as white pools. from her fingertips, her shoe soles, her throat, a gaping red wound weeps. you look at her and then look back at them again and when you blink she’s only faint in your vision and you’re sure your meds need adjustment.

so you reach up, touch, touch, touch— you brush your fingertips across their ear and tuck blonde hair back. you take their hand and reach it down to press against your heart and you say softly, “i am not a ghost,” just before you taste their lips. just before you wish you had a cigarette and a scotch and the moonlight in front of you both. like you were always meant to be.

are you a ghost?

[godblooded]

@abjecterror (x)

you want to touch them. it’s an aching in your fingertips. it feels like they’re being left to the cold, left to the chill, and the only warmth would be closeness. to be gentler about this and to teach what the fuck it might be to know tenderness. you don’t know that definition anymore. your hand settles beside the bottle but doesn’t go to it again. just... doesn’t. an active thought that you keep in your mind and don’t let go of. stay to it. you feel across the wooden boards and count them in your head. one. two. three. four. back. four. three. two. one.

you won’t touch them. you don’t know how. your leather gloves are colder than your hands, and your hands are somehow colder underneath your gloves. you want to curl in, too. your body doesn’t move that way. you speak.

“i’m worried about you.” it’s almost a hesitant sigh. it’s almost please don’t tell me to go. “old hat, i know. no one wants to listen to me worry. it’s a concern with no end,” you smile for a second, a far away thing, “when ed lived in chicago and i was here, i used to make him call me at the beginning and the end of his shift, no matter what time.” it’s true.

“you look like you could use a very safe nap.”

[godblooded]

@deifrm (x)

“mmm,” you hum, disbelieving. it’s a questionable sound that’s coupled with a quizzical quirk of your eyebrow. you don’t necessarily believe her because she has known animal tenderness to prefer to humanity, so the bias? is a little strong. and yet you still nervously hold out a gloved hand. and yet you still keep your eyes on the sweet creature. you still let them wander to margot’s own to gauge her— even a little.

she’s hard to read. her expressions are silent and incommunicable sometimes. you see their idiosyncrasies and you read them. you see these minute details and you understand them. “hell—o.” you say, unsure. a heavy nose drops dead center into your palm and you push back to the whinnying delight of the horse. you laugh, and it edges on anxious.

“if you— rode. could i... sit behind you? i’m afraid i wouldn’t be able to keep pace if i tried to walk. and i’d be a little too apprehensive up there all alone.”

(an excuse to smell the scent of her hair and get close to someone in a way that will not kill you. how to cozy up for even half a minute and let your mind take you to a safe place. how to wrap your arms around her waist, admit you’re tired for the day, let the horse clop clop clop on back to the stable while you doze in and out, anchored by margot alone.)

it’s a fanciful thought. and unrealistic. you brush it away. but you just... can’t help but wonder.

“—and yes. i’m aware i’m being a baby.”

[godblooded]

@all5horizons asked: [ paint ] sender leans in as they’re painting (or applying makeup to) receiver’s face / allyson for alana because they're going to be this fucking meme kat

alana never once flinches. nothing wavers. she remains still, straddled carefully by allyson who knows how to put not an ounce of pressure where it needn’t be. she tries not to smile but she’s accidentally breaking out in it every couple seconds, prompting the other to coo in mock disapproval, kiss the smudge, and return to trying to salvage lipstick somehow. (and neither are doing particularly well.) she giggles, and the sound is light and airy, particularly high, somewhat sweetly tender. windchimes. allyson’s weight leans just so for a better vantage point to paint on delicate black.

“what time were we supposed to be there?”

alana asks, and knows full well she’ll only laugh when allyson tells her an hour ago. and alana only laughs louder.