#unstableempathy

[beautycorrupt]

   @unstableempathy  /  closed  starter !

below   their   feet   lied   a   GRUESOME     shred   of   limbs    placed    in   an   odd   fashion   (  some   placed  at  random  compared  to  others   )   as   if   revealing   some   story.   but   many   weren’t   aware   it   was   HER   story.    one   limb,    possessing   a   foot   of   the   male   sat    in   the   mouth   of   the   deceased.   a   simple:   ‘ put  your  foot  in  your  mouth ‘   was   a   perfect   representation   of   the   embarrassment   and   disgust   he   should’ve   felt   from   the   unforgivable   murders   he    committed   to   harmless   children.  

❝   what do you think, mr. graham? an act of violence or something more?   ❞     she   wanted   to   hear   his    insight.   it   was   almost   like   a   veiled    request   for   acceptance?    as   strange  as   it   was,   something   about   will’s   psyche   intrigued   her.   the   troubled   male   needed    a   steady   hand   in   his   life   and   maybe,   despite   how   troubling   she   could   be   for   him,   SHE   could   be   that   person.

giving   the   individual   a    space   at   a   respectful   distance,    she    stood    to   herself,    palms   held   together   and   settled   against   her   stomach   as   she   observed.     

[shcsallrightnow]

@unstableempathy continued from (x)

Arrangements had been made, a flight had been endured, and Abigail was now unpacking her small duffel bag into a dresser drawer, the harsh, neon glow of the hotel sign bathing her slight frame as she moved.

“It’s so weird,” she softly said. “Bloomington was my home, and yet nothing feels right anymore. It’s almost like this place is a burial ground.” With a shiver, she closed the drawer and glanced at Will over her shoulder. “Maybe we shouldn’t have stayed so close to home...we could’ve opted for someplace near Eagle Mountain.”

Nevertheless, she was grateful to be near her old stomping grounds, because right now, there was comfort in familiarity. As odd and out of place as she felt, this was her home, and she was desperate to rekindle that sensation like before.

“Dolly’s is a couple miles from here,” she added. “We could eat there for dinner... My dad and I were friends with the owners.” Grieving had made her surprisingly hungry, and she missed the old diner her father used to take her to after school. “Unless you’d rather just stay here? It has been a long day.”

[sickassjigsaw]

@unstableempathy

Zeller hated this. He hated this case where the killer gets off by carving geometric designs into people’s skin like they were clay, starving and cutting them and bleeding them till their body shuts down and they expire. There’s been three deaths in less than two months time, and presumably a fourth was being cut up as they breathed. He hated that the only real lead they had was some debris that was recovered from two of the three victims’ bodies. It was clay mixed with animal hair, which took longer to explain than to identify. It turns out that some very old houses and buildings were made of that mixture, the animal hair holding the clay together.

And most of all, Zeller hated that he was on the road with Will fucking Graham to visit the several sites within the one hundred mile radius. It was the least fun road trip he had in recent memory. Not even the blare of classic music from the radio could distract him from the depressing presence of the other man. It was like sharing a car with a living shadow, aggravatingly noticeable and discomforting. They’d already visited two of the four designated sites with nothing to show for it, and Zeller had a sinking feeling that they’d come up with nothing in these next two except a high gas bill and a headache.

It was usually his rule that he wouldn’t smoke in front of others, especially not colleagues. It was a nasty vice that he picked up in college and has been on and off ever since. But it had been a long ass morning and it was turning into a long ass afternoon and his companion wasn’t doing anything to make it go by faster, so he took out a crumpled pack---one he’d proudly made last almost two weeks---and pulled out the second to last cigarette with his lips. He blindly searched for the lighter in the middle compartment between the driver and passenger seat until he found it and lit his cigarette.

          “And if I say to you tomorrow,” he sung low to the lyrics of Led Zeppelin, taking a drag and then exhaling out the window with, “’take my hand child, come with me.’” He really didn’t care whether Will minded the singing or not, nor if he minded the smoking. Zeller was the driver and he could do what he wanted, god dammit.

[drdumaurier]

@unstableempathy cont. ( x )

‘Safe’ wasn’t all too reassuring in the mind of Will Graham, but nevertheless, he was forced to take her word for it. Who was he to trust the words of Bedelia Du Maurier? The sight of a syringe was enough to set his heart racing and his instincts on high alert. The last time he was stabbed with a needle Hannibal had taken full advantage of his dazed mindset to manipulate him further. But he supposed that both he and Maurier had another element in common: their reliance on UNORTHODOX methods.

“I’m…aware of that fact, yes,” he breathed as he stepped forward with a cautious gate, with gaze pinned upon the object that caught the illumination in the room. “And…makes you so sure that I can rightfully trust your words?”

     Observing him ever so carefully, Bedelia followed his gaze for a second in an attempt to understand what seemed to have caught his attention. It wasn’t usual for her to leave anything personal or showing anything about who she was behind her cold façade other than a bottle of alcohol, but the unplanned visit from Hannibal’s former patient had taken her by surprise and she had not had the time to hide the evidence of what she had intended to do before his arrival. 

     Blue eyes focused on him again as she slowly rolled up the left sleeve of her dress to show the marks where skin had been punctured. She would not give him explanations, not out loud at least.   ❝ You don’t have to trust my words, but given the situation, it would be the best thing to do. However, if you decide to not trust me, then we have a problem. ❞

[littleladylecter-a]

’ i’m just a little weak on my feet. ’

“Hold on. I’ve got you.”

She allowed him to lean as much weight against her as she could handle, gently lowering him to the couch in her apartment. She gently placed her fingers underneath his chin, peering at his eyes, hoping he wasn’t going to pass out - at least not yet.

“I guess you’ve…had a rough night.” She brought him the last of the tea brewing on the stove, placing it on the small table beside him. She grimaced at his weakened state, wishing there were times she could see him when he wasn’t falling apart. Her mental picture of Will Graham was always that of him bloodied and bruised in some way or another.

Now, he just looked exhausted.

“You can sleep if you need to. But you should tell me what happened first.”

[pcliteness-blog]

Hannibal carefully listened to all Will had to say, noticing the gruesome details he went into sometime yet also tended to leave out half of the time, like his mind had focused on specific details and the rest was more or less a blur to him, Hannibal had expected this to be the case, after being told about the sleep-walking he fell some form of worry that was overwhelmed by intrigue for the ‘special investigator’.

He folded his hands, Will finished. “You’re describing all your experiences rather distantly, like a story instead of something you have witnessed yourself,” He pointed out, watching Will frown slightly.

“You feel afraid and are trying to distance yourself from what you witness,” He observed. “What are you afraid of Will? Is it the close proximity you share with these horrible people? Or is it something rooted deeper inside of yourself, a demon you’re afraid of?”

 @unstableempathy​ || closed

[intcthatgoodnight-a]

@unstableempathy // continued from here

            “Yes.” The word is barely more than a whisper. She wants to tell him it was self defense, that she didn’t mean it, but the words get caught in her throat like blood. You butchered him, Abigail. She didn’t mean for things to happen this way, she never wanted to be a killer - like her father. But maybe it was inevitable, just like it was inevitable that Will would find out.  

           Her hands are shaking, she wrings them nervously, turning pale skin red. Sometimes she can still feel his blood on her hands, no matter how hard she scrubs. She keeps eye contact with him, even though she wants to look away, to hide from the blame. She opened this door, and she has to face what comes through it.

            Hannibal said that Will would protect her, that he would keep her secret, but Abigail isn’t sure she believes that. Why would he? It was his job to find and catch killers, and that’s what she was. She doesn’t mention Hannibal, she doesn’t know how much Will knows of what happened that night. Her throat is dry, but she forces herself to speak, only wishing that her voice was more steady. “Are you going to turn me in?”

[bestvictima]

       “WHO NEEDS A thousand metaphors to figure out you shouldn't be a dick.”  it’s baffling -- almost.  “are people so out of it that they have to be told it instead of, y’know, instinctively knowing it.  is that where we’re at now.”  their only thought is come on, people.  it isn’t fucking hard.  // @unstableempathy liked -- song.

[alxnabloom]

Another Wave of Tension

moving this post over with @unstableempathy 

Will gave Winston a gentle scratch behind the ears and the dog yawned in response. Buster ran off into the snow and the empath could only sigh in slight annoyance. Every time, there was snow and the door was opened, the little dog would always find a way to get past him to go play within the layer of white. It was amusing to watch Buster and it reminded Will of porpoises jumping out of the salty ocean. That tiny dog thought he could rule the world.All of this dogs had their own personalities and each one had their characteristics that made them unique. Zoey, a small white scrawny dog, had a bizarre underbite, but it was what made her special. Even though she was one of the smallest dogs of his pack, she could be quite feisty at times. His pack looked up to him and he took his time when it came to taking care of his furry companions. If anything ever happened to anyone of them, he would most likely never forgive himself. They were the only family that he’s ever had since he lived on his own. As soon as he got out of the police force in New Orleans and moved to Wolf Trap, he started collecting strays. It didn’t feel like a habit, but more of a trait that he had adapted.Will smiled softly at her as she made acquaintances with his companions and laughed slightly at her comment. “No, they can’t.” He was highly humored by her sense of humor and it was something that he could enjoy. Maybe having her as a friend wasn’t too bad of an idea. The thought circled his mind, but he pushed it aside and chose to give this a little more time before he made a decision on the possibility of friendship. “Buster!” He called and the little Boston Terrier came running back, dashing through the snow and returning to the safety of the pack. As soon as he opened the door, the dogs flooded through into the warmth of the house before he could stop them, and glanced at her. “After you.” He said lightly with a gentle smile crossing his features.

”And of course they all have their own agendas, too...” Alana said with a laugh as the various dogs ran past them, conducting their business. She was glad to see Will’s amusement at her comment, she did enjoy being cleverly sarcastic when it made people laugh. But, she liked using her sharp wit when it did the opposite, too. Alana never shied away from scolding Jack or Hannibal, yet she rarely found herself holding that temperament with Will. Something about him was more...peaceful, despite his darkness. 

She nodded at his invitation to enter his home, thankful to get out of the brisk wind. The temperature in Wolf Trap seemed to be dropping right along with the sun. Unbuttoning her coat, Alana took a glance around to survey the room, it was practical yet cozy. “This is nice, Will...” she said looking back over her shoulder at him. “You and your pack have quite the peaceful set up out here...I imagine the solitude is part of the reason you chose it.” 

[sassysecond]

@unstableempathy

                   “Just a second.”

Now that he had to deal with Will alone, he didn’t know what else to think  Shaking his head, he KNEW this wasn’t going to be the best of times Aways butting heads with the other, Zeller couldn’t help but sigh for the moment. Turning away as he finished up the paperwork next to him, before turning back to the other. Taking a step away from the table he crossed his arms.

                   “You normally never come to me alone. So what’s up, Will?”

It was true though, Zell knew WIll hated spending any time with him, and he couldn’t help but let out a small sigh from it. slowly keeping his ground --- he was tired of fighting with this one --- but HELL he was confused on why the other was there. They didn’t have a new case at the moment --- it was down time. Well, more for Will then Zeller -- he was always working on something --- for someone to say the truth. 

[shcsallrightnow]

@unstableempathy || continued from (x)

The request had come off as odd. Before now, Abigail had never been invited out to Will’s home. She had assumed it was in part due to propriety, and in other part common sense, but the recent shift in their situation had made Will’s offer seem more nefarious. He knew. He knew, and there was no skirting around the inevitable.

Nervously fiddling with her scarf, Abigail watched Will with bright, suspicious eyes as he demonstrated how to prep a fish. In truth, she found the act almost mocking. Didn’t he realize that she was experienced with gutting animals? First with does -- girls who looked just like her -- and then with Boyle. She could still feel their intestinal blood coating her slender, shaking hands.

Finally, Will turned his back to fetch another utensil, and Abigail saw her chance. She leapt forward and grabbed hold of the knife, the blade still stained with red as she jerked it up beneath his chin. He raised his hands, wall-eyed and almost comical with shock.

At long last, Abigail’s hands stopped shaking. She heard his plea -- registered his terror while holding fast to the knife. Beneath the curved blade, she could see a hint of split flesh, and a fresh rivulet of blood trickled down his neck toward his collar.

“I don’t know anything about you,” she seethed. It was true that she felt cornered and feral and trapped, but Abigail somehow couldn’t fathom how or why Will would want to cover for her. He was a man of the law. He was supposed to protect the public from monsters like her, not stow them away.

With her mouth dry like clay, she attempted again, “You can’t promise me anything... You don’t even know what happened.” Tears sprung to her eyes, but Abigail did not cry. Hannibal had claimed she had gutted Boyle, but she didn’t. She didn’t. It had been an accident.

[humansympathies-blog]

@unstableempathy​ | HANNIBAL STARTER CALL.

       “given the chance, you would deny me my life, wouldn't you?”

[drdumaurier]

❛ What the hell is that thing? ❜

     ❝ It’s a safe, if you must know. I decided to have one in the event of a dangerous situation during which I will need its content. My field of work is not as quiet as one might first think and I believe you’re aware of that fact. ❞

[thedoveofshield]

@unstableempathy

“Harper, we found someone….like you.”

Someone like her usually meant another mutant, occasionally, one with a physical mutation, never before had it meant someone with her specific mutation, w i n g s. Gemma didn’t know how to exist in a world where she wasn’t fucking miserably alone. Yet, there she was, looking over the photos on the holopad of a bloodied man with great appendages at his back much like her own. Different enough, however, they came and went as he willed them, which was strange. She felt a longing tendril of envy pull in her ribs for such an ability, to simply even pass as human.

Still, here she was, her own great wingspan, bound tightly against her back with heavy, leather straps, and a cloaking device over them to appear to the passing glance, as human. Send her, the one who would most understand, who could help, could heal to garner his trust, to make their organization known.

She speaks with his surgeon, a flurry of medical jargon between them, a quiet, subdued flash of her credentials. She reviews medical records, and appears in the doorway of the room. She certainly doesn’t look like a government agent with her small stature, pixie cut and black motorcycle jacket.

“ — Will Graham? ” Her lilt is English, soft as it turns vowels. “My name is Gemma Harper...I was wondering If I might speak with you a moment.” Geh-mah not Gem-ah. She emphasizes it. She doesn’t sound like anyone of consequence, she’s unassuming, nonthreatening.

[littleladylecter-a]

Brother’s Keeper ||

@unstableempathy liked this for a starter || Selectively accepting

“If you’re looking for my brother, he’s been gone since the early morning.”

Mischa reflexively pushed her hair behind her ears, anxiously tapping her finger against the kitchen table. She watched Will with a weary eye, with all the typical mistrust of a stranger that ran like blood through every member of the Lecter family. Though Will Graham was hardly a stranger to her - Hannibal spoke of Will often enough for Mischa to paint a picture of the man in her head.

“He didn’t say where he was going,” she added. “Or why he was leaving. I didn’t question him.”

She found it difficult to meet his eyes, though the girl was telling only the simple truth. If Hannibal had wanted to be found, he would have told her. Erratic as his behavior may be, it was not entirely unusual. She tried offering him a smile.

“But you aren’t here for a friendly visit, are you?”

[unethicalpsychiatry]

Digital Empathy | Organic Impairments

@unstableempathy

The machine in his hands had cost nearly three thousand dollars to assemble if one excluded the metaphorical costs of dealing in the black market. It had been a necessary measure, buying through multiple proxies and middlemen to ensure that no two major components came from the same country, and that they passed through customs hidden in the midst of other ‘ignored’ shipments. Cash dealings under an assumed identity making it difficult if not impossible to track the final buyer. A full month of nights had gone into ensuring that the components communicated correctly with each other, bent over his desk till a low ache spread across the small of his back. But in the end it had been worth it, as the improvised rugged laptop allowed him to keep track of his creations without the direct signal being easily tracked back to its source. He’d built the laptop after his first experiment with direct brain implants, after the subject had completely disappeared from society only to be found at the bottom of a ravine in an apparent suicide.

He sat in the midst of a rooftop garden, the busy traffic and lights of the city far below him echoing up  the steep sides of the buildings as he reestablished the connection to the implants in Will Graham’s brain. After the first year he’d expected the link to be dead, the signal echoing out into the nights without reaching a receiver, as it had with the other subjects. Some had gone crazy, unable to process the additional feedback in their brains, taking their own lives after a matter of days or months. Others had rejected the implants their bodies trying to break down the hardware, turning back on the brain itself when that failed. Still others had closed their eyes when Hannibal sedated them and never opened them again, still physically alive on the table but completely brain dead. He would give them two days to wake up before snapping their necks and placing them whether they would easily be found the next morning, the words ‘I apologise’ burned into the surface above their heads. It was a more dignified end than leaving them in a random location to wither away. The lack of success aggravated him. The longest any other subject had lasted was two years and 45 days.

But Will had somehow managed to survive for six years, or rather, five years and 364 days until tonight. There were, of course, extensive records of psychological issues after the attack, the usual trauma and PTSD, but eventually he had managed to adapt to the implants, building their feedback into his own thought processes, dealing with the occasional glitches and mental agony better than any other subject had, though it seemed he had become fairly reclusive as a result. Hannibal watched as the clock at the corner of his screen flickered past midnight and looked up at the dark sky, his fingertips hovering over the keys as he considered his words. He’d periodically taunted Will throughout the years, sending direct messages to him in the middle of the night, knowing that the words would appear as letters echoing through his brain no matter what state of consciousness he was in.

[SIX YEARS, WILL. WELL DONE.]