#opposite. dr. eleanor o’hara. ofhumanvoice.

[godblooded]

@ofhumanvoice (x)

she plays a game with eleanor— toys with the concept of flirtation and then tries to silence it. but they talk too much in the hallowed wood of an old chapel, and they chuckle too much on linoleum floors, and alana wears black leather gloves to keep her away. she prays she can avoid bare skin, awaiting and incredibly aware of her weakness.

she doesn’t like bare contact because it happens just. like. this. just like eleanor’s finely manicured nail tucked under her chin and her body freezing immediately. those eyes turn upward, seek out without being able to stop herself. and when that mouth’s on hers, the little therapist nearly bolting, her freeze instinct switches to faun and she’s kissing her back. the good doctor drops her book, truly. umberto eco’s foucault’s pendulum thuds to the floor forgotten like all the sense that touch has sent rushing from her body. hands, her own, short nails vibrant red, cling to the lapels of a coat to keep a closeness sacred.

“ fuck. —

fuck you. ”

it’s the bright flush of pink in her cheeks, demure as a doe, unintentional. her words don’t hold her usual venom. they’re not acerbic. they’re almost soft. like she isn’t holding tight to eleanor with a pathetically vice-like grip, and like those pretty, coral pink lips don’t bow to a heart shaped pout. her eyes are white-blue.

she should’ve known better. dr. bloom is horrendous at self-control. and she really likes it.

[godblooded]

“ though you drink gallons of coffee. ” alana says this when breaking her eyes away swiftly. embarrassment colors her cheeks moments later — she’s aware it’s too easy to infer this means alana is paying attention to the other doctor. she regrets the idiotically candid feeling that follows right after. it’s a simple statement of inference — she just… watches. “ ironically, i heavily prefer tea. ” she does. caffeine in larger doses exacerbates her condition severely— hallucinations become more frequent. not that anyone knows she has a neurochemical condition. she’s extensively hesitant about the few privacies she’s allowed to keep. “ isn’t it curious how we as humans just decide a space is sacred? like this is some consecrated square in the corner of this building. the things people do to carve out safety never cease to amaze me. if i put a crucifix in my office, is it a chapel? ”

godblooded​:

the good doctor politely averts her gaze. like she’s embarrassed. and she is. of what? of just being herself, that’s what. of being someone no one can handle. too much, always on overload. she smiles and for once it doesn’t seek to lie or intimidate; it isn’t a wolf’s mouth but a pup’s gentle contentment. “ you have the most english fucking name. ” a pause. alana raises her hands on the air as if to say ‘ so shoot me ‘, “ I’m sorry. i know you’re probably tired of hearing that. i just have to say it. it’s impressive. as someone with a boring name overall, kudos, eleanor. ”

and that is the first nail in the coffin.

She rolls her eyes, huffing crossly, “It was my great-grandmother’s name or something like that. My mother was very traditional in that way.” Eleanor then points a manicured finger at Alana, adding, “And before you can say anything, yes, I do also have the most fucking Irish last name. I’m a true bloody Brit all over.” Except for the tea thing. She prefers coffee to tea anymore. Ah, the American influence…

[godblooded]

" the fbi can't be trusted. "

she knows it sounds absurd, but eleanor knows better than to assume alana is simply being insane. this isn't a paranoid delusion-- this isn't a secret hush-hush concept, not some hallucination, not something otherworldly or MKUltra at all. where the good doctor sustained all those injuries isn't a mystery to anyone.

her head drops. and she's glancing into brown eyes softly. brow furrows so tight, and a swallow is obstructed entirely by the name threatening to claw up from her throat. she hasn't let it out for months, and she's realizing she should. not telling eleanor something so enormous, not making it clear--

she has to softly squeeze the arms of the chair she's sitting in to keep the fresh sting of tears at bay. they shine regardless, unshed, screening the periwinkle cold of her irises. she doesn't blink for fear such an emotional betrayal will escape. she cannot cry. she doesn't deserve to.

" have you ever heard the name abigail hobbs? "

@godblooded sent: “ the trap is set and it waits for its prey. “ doc bloom for O’Hara

Eleanor's teeth worried at her lower lip. "I don't want to insult your intelligence in the least, but are you sure you know what you're doing? From what you've said, this man is the most cunning person you have ever met. How can you be certain you can entrap him so easily?"

She wouldn't be as concerned if the madman that is Hannibal Lecter had only been after her. But he has made subtle threats towards her son as well, which simply cannot be tolerated. It is those maternal instincts that drive her fear regarding something going wrong with Alana's plan.

"It isn't that I'm not willing to put my life in your hands, Alana darling, but Arthur's is also at stake. So are you entirely confident we shouldn't be calling your former contacts at the FBI after all?"

[godblooded]

“ hi. ” she understands that, maybe, it would be in her better interests to try to speak less, every word a sharp pang that’s pulling at her cheek. sutures, black and absolutely awful in how they feel, incredulously sewn together. texas chainsaw massacre is alana’s first hazy thought through the ocean of painkillers pumping through her system. her eyes open and shut in a slow blink, take eleanor in with those bright blue irises as they follow raising lids to chase the image. arthur makes her heart eternally relieved and she didn’t even know the tension had been present. 

she can feel the fact that under the itchy, cold surface, there is pain. it’s waiting, lurking in the dark like some draconic thing. it’s waiting until she least expects it. eyes open again, close. slowly. she feels heavy. her entire body feels so heavy. “ arthur? ” eyes close again, head drifts back down to a pillow from where she’s unconsciously sitting up. she has to breathe in slowly through her nose to keep the panic at bay. trying not to think about how loopy she feels. whenever her gaze wanders she can see the silver glint of a knife, the last pinwheel of bright red that would ever spark from hannibal’s eyes, flames extinguished. 

@godblooded sent: " ...do i need to get the nurses to drag you out of here? "

"They all know me bloody well enough by now not to even attempt such a thing," Eleanor informs Alana flatly from where she is seated on a chair by the other's hospital bed. It's true that she has been there since Alana had been brought in the night before with grievous facial injuries from her deadly altercation with Hannibal Lecter. And she probably looks as tired as she feels and her feet were killing her from wearing those damned four-inch heels for so long. So she had eventually kicked them off, resting her feet on the edge of the bed.

"And I did leave for a couple of hours to check on Arthur once you were out of surgery. I just came back like, what do you Americans say, a bad penny?" She cocks her dark head. "Although things tend to go to shit when I'm not around, so my returns should always be celebrated."

[godblooded]

she cannot stop looking at the other doctor’s holy goddamn mouth and alana is sure she believes in the god in that stupid fucking chapel a few rooms over. well, it’s more complicated than that, but it isn’t more complicated than the way she leans forward and chases something, anything, seeking feeling because she needs to touch. she needs to. it’s less of a thought and more of an instinct, sliding slowly up where it’s already being led. she kisses eleanor with a fervent, irritating madness that feels constantly less like she’s in control of the situation and constantly more like the surgeon is but alana cannot stop. and isn’t that just her downfall? give to me your lace, take from me my leather. she breathes just to catch her own breath.

she’s clinging so tight she can barely keep hold and she’s dangerously close to tipping herself over a personal precipice. she does, in fact, giving not even remotely less or more than half a shit. propriety so swiftly leaves her when she’s presented with what she wants. she and eleanor have that in common, it would seem. her hand seeks and finds, gentle ghost of a touch and nothing more. largely because now the little therapist is kissing eleanor with no shortage of desperation.

she’s fucking readable this way, isn’t she? bow her head and bare her throat and fall to bits for a beautiful woman.

fucking helen of troy.

paris’ death wasn’t so rough.

@ofhumanvoice (x)

she plays a game with eleanor— toys with the concept of flirtation and then tries to silence it. but they talk too much in the hallowed wood of an old chapel, and they chuckle too much on linoleum floors, and alana wears black leather gloves to keep her away. she prays she can avoid bare skin, awaiting and incredibly aware of her weakness.

she doesn’t like bare contact because it happens just. like. this. just like eleanor’s finely manicured nail tucked under her chin and her body freezing immediately. those eyes turn upward, seek out without being able to stop herself. and when that mouth’s on hers, the little therapist nearly bolting, her freeze instinct switches to faun and she’s kissing her back. the good doctor drops her book, truly. umberto eco’s foucault’s pendulum thuds to the floor forgotten like all the sense that touch has sent rushing from her body. hands, her own, short nails vibrant red, cling to the lapels of a coat to keep a closeness sacred.

“ fuck. —

fuck you. ”

it’s the bright flush of pink in her cheeks, demure as a doe, unintentional. her words don’t hold her usual venom. they’re not acerbic. they’re almost soft. like she isn’t holding tight to eleanor with a pathetically vice-like grip, and like those pretty, coral pink lips don’t bow to a heart shaped pout. her eyes are white-blue.

she should’ve known better. dr. bloom is horrendous at self-control. and she really likes it.

[godblooded]

the good doctor politely averts her gaze. like she’s embarrassed. and she is. of what? of just being herself, that’s what. of being someone no one can handle. too much, always on overload. she smiles and for once it doesn’t seek to lie or intimidate; it isn’t a wolf’s mouth but a pup’s gentle contentment. “ you have the most english fucking name. ” a pause. alana raises her hands on the air as if to say ‘ so shoot me ‘, “ I’m sorry. i know you’re probably tired of hearing that. i just have to say it. it’s impressive. as someone with a boring name overall, kudos, eleanor. ”

and that is the first nail in the coffin.

godblooded​:

a million thoughts rush through the good doctor’s head at once. they’re an unforgiving flash and she’s subjected to the moment with a glassy smile and a lean forward. she feigns discomfort in her back, when in reality she can hear a voice faintly from her left puffing against her ear personality deficient and she’s shooing it away in her mind, dissipating an apparition she knows isn’t real. “ okay. ” alana says, sounding calmer than she ever has. she still doesn’t look, leans instead on her cane. she lied a few sentences back — her back is killing her. “ what would you prefer to be called? ”

when she looks at the other doctor, her pupils tick across brown eyes like reading a book.

She doesn’t like the look Alana is giving her and shifts slightly in her seat in response. It’s taken Eleanor many years, and some Xanax, to craft her perpetually unruffled persona, but there are still cracks underneath. Cracks she would much rather never be seen-and right now it feels as if the other doctor is looking right through her. So she clears her throat and adjusts her skirt before speaking. 

“ ‘Eleanor’ is just fine.”

[godblooded]

a million thoughts rush through the good doctor’s head at once. they’re an unforgiving flash and she’s subjected to the moment with a glassy smile and a lean forward. she feigns discomfort in her back, when in reality she can hear a voice faintly from her left puffing against her ear personality deficient and she’s shooing it away in her mind, dissipating an apparition she knows isn’t real. “ okay. ” alana says, sounding calmer than she ever has. she still doesn’t look, leans instead on her cane. she lied a few sentences back — her back is killing her. “ what would you prefer to be called? ”

when she looks at the other doctor, her pupils tick across brown eyes like reading a book.

@godblooded from here:

“I wouldn’t know,” Eleanor quips wryly. “Blood and organs are my expertise, not personality deficiencies.” She sighs then, reaching to brush a strand of dark hair out of her eyes. She’s less genuinely irritated and more just a little put out.  “I’m not asking you to call me by a pet name or anything. Not even my first name, if it makes you that uncomfortable. But at least do what everyone else bloody does and call me ‘O’Hara.’“