* 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄.

  how   was   it   possible   for   the   ticking   of   a   clock   to   overpower   the   sound   of   one’s   own   voice?   the   harmonies   and   symphonies   always   clashed   so   sweetly   when   she   spoke   to   him   and   even   more   so   when   her   fingertips   would   collide   with   the   exposure   of   his   flesh.   be   it   hand   or   cheek,   will   graham   had   never   thought   it   would   be   possible   to   abhor   the   feeling.   to   lose   the   sound   of   her   voice   to   something   that   troubles   him   immensely.   will   can’t   bring   himself   to   look   up,   face   her   gaze   as   it   roams   over   his   uneasiness   and   instability.   and   it’s   in   her   nature,   the   good   of   her   heart,   to   psychoanalyze   him   in   this   very   moment.      ❛   i   woke   up   three   miles   from   my   house   today.   i   uh,   thought   it   could   be   a   very   bad   case   of   sleep   walking.   ❜      he   stares   at   his   fingers,   watching   as   they   become   stained   with   the   blood   of   abigail’s   father.      ❛   i   know   it’s   not   that.   it’s   something   else,   something   worse.   ❜      will   admits   in   a   whisper.

“Not everyone is the same, Mr. Graham..” She had her chance at power but backed away. It wasn’t in her to take something so simple.” She give a slight nod before leaving the room. The smell of the body still ripe in her senses but nothing she isn’t use to. 

Her body leans against the wall. In the time passing she checks her phone for any messages. Still nothing. Those two were strange. More focused on the task at hand. Will emerging breaks that concertation. Taking in the information. Elijah.. Building these androids. She knew his intent. How the perfect they were. Those who broke their programming. They weren’t a concern. More freedom to them. But the Chloe models he had. Precise. She could only hope she could provide comfort to the nightmares they had to witness. Her eyes study Will. Pasty white. Hands trembling. It was funny.. How he reminded her so much of Elijah away from… Her mind drifts. Thoughts running through her head overtaking everything. 

“I can see where the android is coming from. Being held in chains. You can’t unbound yourself because something holds you back. Almost like a stranglehold. And that taste of freedom.. Nothing else matters. You don’t have anyone controlling you anymore.” She thinks back to Damien. Laying in her own blood. The flashes of choice. You could lay there and die. Or you fight back. You don’t give them the satisfaction of letting them win. That smile he bore.. She refused. And when she finally sees him again. Her hands claps one another. Calm. Resolute in her mind. Eyes flicker back to his facial expressions. “I appreciate you for coming down here this afternoon. Though I can’t understand your situation completely. I just wanted to say that.” There was word of him and a gentleman named Hannibal Lecter. Another interesting subject. She moves to the more quieter rooms. Maybe this could be something more than what the crime scene was showing. Her eyes look around. For something. In the corner. In the shadows. A feather. 

Her shoulders relax taking a step forward towards it. Kneeling down she looks around to make sure no one was looking and touches it. It flickers before disappearing. No words she had to say. She knew a bit of what was going on now. Standing back to her feet, her hands removes her gloves. Running them down her face.

@straykept​ // prev.

  the   situation   sounds   vaguely   familiar   in   the   back   of   his   head   about   not   being   able   to   unbind   himself   from   which   holds   him   back.   in   a   distant   glance,   he   knows   his   brain   shows   him   hannibal   and   pushes   him   towards   the   truth.   he   should   stop   those   sessions   and   try   to   forget   the   man   altogether.   he   sympathizes   that   the   android   must   have   felt   the   same      ---      a   constant   pull   and   tug   between   who   they   were   and   what   they   were   supposed   to   be.   what   they   were   becoming.   they   weren’t   just   machines   who   had   no   feelings   or   emotions   because   will   saw   their   habits   on   a   daily   basis.   saw   how   they   smiled   and   played   with   children;   the   look   of   sadness   or   anger   when   protesters   stood   in   their   way   and   knocked   them   down.   most   people   didn’t   see   the   little   twitches   of   emotions   because   they   had   no   reason   to   look   for   them.   at   the   woman’s   reply,   the   man   frowns   briefly   as   if   trying   to   process   what   she   meant.   ❛   my   situation   or   my   analysis   of   the   android’s   situation?   ❜

@personsuited​ said:  " did you think time would stand still when you left? "

  a   scoff   slips   delicately   from   his   lips   at   hannibal’s   question   and   he   struggles   to   keep   the   threat   of   some   smartass   remark   from   following   behind.   their   relationship   (      complicated   &   complex   as   it   may   be   )   wouldn’t   allow   will   the   satisfaction   of   stopping   time   when   he   left   the   older   man’s   side.   it   should   have   been   a   scary   reunion,   one   that   holds   uncertainty   whenever   he   pushes   hannibal   to   a   newer   limit   of   patience   with   him.   perhaps,   he   already   knew   that   when   will   left   the   sticky   note   stating   his   departure   FOR   GOOD   THIS   TIME,   the   younger   would   be   back.   and   back   he   came,   an   experiment   for   himself   and   one   that   still   holds   no   logical   answer.   ❛   i   didn’t   leave   to   make   time   stand   still,   doctor   lecter.  ❜

  there’s   a      MALICIOUS   DUH      somewhere   in   his   reply,   expression   locked   on   the   clock   hanging   on   the   wall   before   bouncing   to   the   bookshelf   that   neatly   decorates   the   corner   of   the   living   room.   he   admires   and      LOATHES   hannibal’s   exquisite   taste   when   it   comes   to   interior   design,   but   that’s   another   bone   to   pick   later   on.            ❛   i   wanted   to   find   out   what   lures   me   back   to   you   each   time   i   narrowly   escape   the   hook.   what   makes   me   seek   out   your   company   and   why   i   crave   it.  ❜   he   turns   around   to   stare   at   hannibal,   the   same   hatred   mixed   with   compassionate   longing   that   only   he   can   pull   off   so   damn   well.      ❛   i’m   beginning   to   like   the   way   it   makes   me   feel   when   we’re   apart   and   how   it   feels   when   i   come   back   to   you.  ❜   and   he   hates   it   just   the   same.

“Of course we know the exact reason. But Androids are more than they may seem. Programmed to do a task, yes. But when you push a program to it’s limits. The possibilities can be endless. It could be more than just the violence.” A hand reaches up. Drawing it along her face. Tired. With things getting out of hand. Sometimes it got to her. “It’s not the murder that bothers me. I blame more of the psychological reasoning behind why humans abuse what little power they have. It’s. Embarrassing.” Elijah would probably worded it better but this is where she had to be. Keep her mind together. “Anyways. I’m sure the others are going to ask to clear the room and do. Whatever it is you do. I’ll be outside.” 

❛   can   you   really   blame   the   mind   of   humankind?   we   are   all   born   with   the   same   instincts      ---      some   learn   to   suppress   the   urges   and   others   simply   give   into   their   nature.   ❜      a   small   gesture   to   the   man’s   corpse   before   continuing   on,   muttering   the   last   part   mainly   to   himself.      ❛   power   is   like   a   drug;   whether   it’s   taken   in   small   doses   or   abused,   it   becomes   addictive   no   matter   what.  ❜

he   barely   hears   her   last   reply   before   the   pendulum   swings      ---      ONCE,   TWICE,   THRICE      and   sweeps   away   the   crime   that   lays   at   his   feet.   when   his   eyes   open,   he’s   in   the   kitchen,   desperately   taking   out   the   roasted   chicken   from   the   stove   while   his   owner   yells   at   him   about   another   late   cooked   meal.   i   am   overburdened   with   tasks.   i   cook,   i   clean,   i   service   you   in   every   way   i   was   designed   and   it   still   does   not   satisfy   you.   i   am   capable   of   mistakes   just   like   you.   will   gather’s   the   plate   and   steps   into   the   dining   room   with   the   intention   to   serve   dinner   and   take   the   verbal   assaults   like   always.   like   he’s   always   done.   but   his   owner   decides   to   up   the   abuse,   striking   him   in   the   face   and   sends   him   colliding   to   the   floor,   food   and   all.   i   take   this   treatment   because   i   cannot   disobey   you      ---   i   was   programmed   to   be   at      YOUR      COMMAND.      until   i   awakened   and   realized   that   this   is   not   my   design.   there   is   more   than   servitude   and   abuse.   there   is   freedom   beyond   my   shackles   and   if   i   try   hard   enough,   i   will   break   these   ties   that   bind   me   here.   it’s   a   struggle   for   will   and   he   mentally   feels   the   walls   of   his   programming   come   undone   as   he   fights   for   control   over   himself.   what   tells   him   to   not   fight   back,   tells   him   to   fight   for   his   freedom   by   any   means   necessary.   the   second   his   owner   moves   to   attack   him   again,   will   is   scrambling   for   the   knife   on   the   floor   and   lunges   up   to   plunge   the   blade   into   the   side   of   his   owner’s   neck.      REPEATEDLY.      and   it   feels   good   in   that   moment.   i   will   watch   as   you   stare   in   bewilderment   at   your   maker.   i   will   bleed   the   power   you   once   had   over   me   from   your   veins   and   as   your   life   slip   away,   you   will   choke   on   a   plea.      THIS      IS      MY      DESIGN.

❛   i   think   the   company   of   androids   are   used   by   a   lot   of   people   who   want   to   feel   powerful   and   in   control.   we   cannot   enslave   people   or   beat   people   that   don’t   follow   our   orders.   i   mean,   we   can,   but   humans   would   fight   back.   retaliate.   androids   are   programmed   to   do   all   these   tasks,   take   all   these   verbal   and   physical   assaults   without   doing   anything   to   their   owners.   ❜      fingertips   trail   through   the   spilled   blue   blood   that   leads   out   the   backdoor   and   beyond   the   crime   scene   of   their   now   deceased   owner.      ❛   i   don’t   need   to      APOSTATIZE   FROM   MYSELF      to      know   what   caused   this   attack   tonight   and   you   didn’t   need   to   call   me   here   to   assess   the   murder.   you   know   exactly   what   happened   and      WHY      it   happened.   ❜

❛   i   don’t   have   the   slightest   clue   what   you’re   wanting   to   talk   to   me   about,   but   the   invitation   to   discussing   it   over   brunch   has   me   guessing   that   it’s   something   serious.   ❜      by   now   the   lecture   is   over   and   his   students   have   long   since   left   with   bruised   egos   because   doctor   graham   was      WAY   TOO   HARSH      on   reports   not   being   finished   in   due   time.   still,   will   is   hours   away   from   his   next   class   and   truly   wants   to   find   out   what   the   other   could   be   wanting   to   talk   about   that   couldn’t   be   discussed   within   his   classroom.

      fingers spread, stretch out to feel the air go in between them as she pauses.  A MOMENT’S HESITATION / INSTINCT SAYS TO WAIT.    she turns the pen in between her thumb and index in her other hand, eyes studying will every so often.  there’s care for him there, somewhere in the midst of her cold, unyielding heart.  * you’re not as dead as you make yourself thing, beau.    he keeps her in the shadows for her sake, but it feels misplaced.  she can take care of herself.    eventually, the pressure of the silence will make her crack open like a tomb , forced resurrection.     his sharp tongue is not unlike her own , except she bites, JAWS WIDE AND TEETH LIKE KNIVES.   a tongue to match, to rip from bone to pieces ; salvage nothing when she’s done. still, she’s up to her feet, silent strides across the floor before she hums, takes fingers to tangled curls as she tilts her head. 

    ❝ i can take care of myself, you know, ❞ she reminds him, as if to ABSOLVE him from any duty or responsibility of worrying what should happen to her.  she’s tasted death before.  kissed its wine-coated, sleep inducing lips and clawed at dirt until it bore her, full grown like athena in armor.  unholy resurrection.  he should know this. she is no lamb.  she is the SLAUGHTERER.    still her touch is the gentlest thing about her, all she can offer as a lion-crafted woman.  it’s all she can think to offer— SHE IS DEATH. THE DESTROYER.  her hands move downward, fingers tracing the lines in will’s palm before turning over, fingertip to fingertip.  ❝ worry about yourself, first.  ❞

in a moment of worry / @straykept​ / source * . 

           she   should   have   known   better   than   to   be   so   damn   bold   with   him.   howbeit,   they   both   loved   the   unexpected   when   situations   could   go   astray   depending   on   the   mood   and   setting.   they   both      FLIRTED   WITH   DEATH      and   at   some   point,   embraced   it   as   it   crawled   over   their   bodies   and   made   them   feel   divine.   was   she   now   death   flirting   with   him?   will   is   no   fool;   it   doesn’t   take   much   observation   to   know   she’s   laughed   in   the   face   of   danger,   fucked   the   devil   and   escaped   the   bowels   of   hell   because   had   she   not,      SHE   WOULDN’T   BE   TOUCHING   WILL   GRAHAM.         she   wouldn’t   dare   tangle   her   claws   into   his   curly   tendrils,   keep   them   there   as   she   stares   him   in   the   eyes.   of   course,   he   looks   away   when   their   gaze   connects   and   the   breath   he   releases   from   the   contact   sounds   sensual,      ALMOST      EUPHORIC      if   he   was   capable   of   dipping   his   mind   into   the   feeling.   she’s   a   lioness   and   he   is   something   else,   something   animalistic   but   so   damn   gentle   when   he   chooses   to   be.   it’s   not   in   his   nature   to   be   a   killer,   he   says   to   jack,   to   alana,   to   hannibal   lecter.   a   smile   always   finds   his   lips   and   it   looks   so   false,      LIKE   IT’S   STRAINING   AGAINST   THE   LIE.      he   can   sense   the   same   concept   within   beau   each   time   she   holds   his   image   with   the   same   kindness   he   can   display   towards   her.   the   complexity   of   will   graham   carries   beyond   even   his   own   expectations      ---      his   body   trembles   with   anxiety   of   their   closeness,   a   flame   ignites   low   in   his   belly   from   the   touch   and   his   voice   sounds      AMENABLE      when   he   speaks.   ❛      i   know.   ❜

@straykept The younger Graham had been out back, playing with the dogs since the weather was nice. There was plenty of land for them to run with a risk of going into the woods, making it easier to play fetch. Hearing the backdoor close she turned, knowing it would be her brother, who else would it be? Her smile quickly turned into a look of panic when she saw the blood on him, rushing over to meet him.  “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Will, what happened?” The words fell out of her mouth as she went into panic mode. 

@abvnai​ said:  “ you need to heal first. ”

          his knuckles had ghosted from the grip he’d held on the kitchen counter, lungs winded and feet like cinder blocks dragging across the floor. the bandages hugging his midsection are fresh along with the sweats he could have sworn he wore at least three times since she’s been taking care of him. be it feeding his dogs or making sure the bed was comfortable to his liking, will was certain that his death would come in the form of her kindness. he wasn’t ungrateful nor had he been entirely unkind, but his tongue was sharp and his tone was always a mixture of salt and vinegar whenever she pointed out he wasn’t strong enough or too weak to move around on his own. it was simple things, too. going to the bathroom, down the stairs, even going outside to feel the crisp, autumn air chill his cheeks. never alone, because she walked him to and fro no matter the ungodly hours. sooner or later, she would clash heads with jack the moment he grew impatient from will’s absence on the field. something about killers don’t take sick days just because someone on the force got stabbed.

          will doesn’t want crawford involved in his personal life  ---  it’s been hell keeping hannibal sated with over the phone sessions as it was and stalling alana at the door when she showed up with get well items. he’s not hiding beau, or so he tells himself. there was a difference between hiding and keeping her uninvolved. was that the same? maybe it depends on how the person view it. ❛ if i didn’t know any better, i’d say i was paul sheldon and you were annie wilkes.❜  his smile is taut, prostrated. much like the rest of his body and he dare not to cave in to his obvious weakness from moving too much and too often.  ❛ i’m fine. the sooner i get back to work, the sooner i can stop being your burden. ❜

@horrorich​ said:  " need a hand ? "

     tick-tock goes the lecture room clock, counting down the actual seconds of his life he won’t get back by being hunched over his desk. the presentation has ended, perhaps, ten minutes ago while their professor ( doctor, agent, fbi, whatever ) mistakes the sound of their feet filing out as hooves echoing against linoleum. how was it possible for one person to be tranquilized while standing so perfectly still? back to the entrance and the flutter of lashes ‘gainst cheekbones that dares to draw all attention from the twitch of his trigger finger. unknowingly, there’s a box in his grasp and his moment makes it seem that he is struggling with picking it up or carrying it altogether. need a hand? the voice sounds like it’s embedded right in the membrane of his skull  --- could damn well been another hallucination offering false hope, but since when has his mind aided him? recently, it’s been damning him right back to hell.

         color floods back into his bleakness and will finds the classroom lights to be uncomfortably bright to his eyes. where did he lay his glasses? he had laid them down five minutes prior to the session ending, of course. he takes the time to collect thoughts that ran rampant until the woman resurrected him back to reality. oh, and she’s still here. ❛ uh, no.❜  he sniffs, setting the file box back down on the desk and shakes his head, mostly from confusion instead of clarifying that he doesn’t need help. quick fingers pluck the glasses from a very dangerous wooden edge and the man settles them on his face while turning to face the woman. unfamiliar, he notes. more confusion entangles with already knitted brows.  ❛ who are you, exactly? ❜