For Cassidy

Aug. 4th, 2017 10:09 pm
patterns_bloom: (professional neutrality be damned)
Alana's hands are already exploring Cassidy's chest as soon as she shuts the door to her room. She'd told him she wasn't opposed to sex, and not only is she willing, she's downright enthusiastic. She nips his ear between her teeth, pushing him against the door with her hands on his thin shoulders. Alana thanks her lucky stars that she's wearing her tallest heels; at 6' tall, Cassidy dwarfs her mere 5'1".

Her living room behind her, should Cassidy be distracted enough to glance at it, is neat as a pin. Decorated tastefully in sage green and white, the room hosts two plush chairs and a just-as-plush couch with soft throws. The seats are set up around a polished coffee table to facilitate conversation. A gas fireplace rests in the corner, waiting to be turned on. Dark bookshelves lined with color-coded books and silver and blue vases flank an open doorway, which teases at a bedroom beyond.

Alana tries to arrest Cassidy's attention by sucking on his collarbone.
patterns_bloom: (my own private reserve)
To Whom it May Concern:
My name is Dr. Alana Bloom, and I am looking to start a psychology practice here in Milliways. I have already discussed the matter with Dr. Sandhu, and hope to start seeing patients soon. I thought it best to inform you of the change in the infirmary staff.

Dr. Bloom
patterns_bloom: (consider yourself ambushed)
Alana shut herself in her room after her conversation with Bossuet, emerging only to have an equally life-shattering talk with Will.

She'd learned that the bastard was crowing about her death to other people, in fucking metaphor. Alana had wondered if she succeeded in surviving Hannibal's House of Horrors--and now she knows that she didn't, given Bossuet's report of the huntress bullshit. Will also helped her realize that she'd been allowing her fear of Hannibal to isolate her, that all these months of her being a shut-in in Milliways weren't helping her cause. That even though her time is limited, it's goddamn hers.

These thoughts should make her pause, make her tremble, but instead, she's just angry. It's a hot anger, a righteous anger. Fury travels up from her heated belly through her chest and out her mouth in a primal scream not buried in any pillow.

I'm going to live the remainder of my life in any way I see fit, she thinks fiercely, staring down the door to her room and imagining his smug face. And you can't stop me.
patterns_bloom: (blood is on all of us)
Cold rain patters on Alana's umbrella as she stares at Hannibal's open front door, listening to the sounds of a struggle within. She crosses the threshold and drops her umbrella, whipping out her phone as the two men grunted and groaned.

"I'd like to report gunshots," she says to the police, resting her fingers on the weapon she pulls out of her purse. She hears Jack scream as she stalks down the corridor, hands already trembling. Holding her gun in front of her like a shield, she creeps towards Jack--and Hannibal.

"Hannibal," she whispers, watching him--knife-in-hand and covered in blood--throw his shoulder into the door to the pantry.

"Hannibal!" she screams, her voice roughened by days of crying. She holds her gun steady and level to his chest.
patterns_bloom: (shockingly rude!)
"We're losing her, Hannibal," Alana says, puckering her lips slightly as she crosses the threshold out of Abigail's institution. "And to Freddie Lounds of all people! I can't believe she has pushed the girl to outline the entire book already."

After crossing the parking lot to Dr. Lecter's Bentley in relative silence, she turns to her friend and colleague. "How are you?" she says, tone genuinely concerned but words laced with a frustrated sigh.


Alana Bloom

August 2017

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