martyrs wrapped in butcher paper

Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. [independent nbc hannibal rp blog]

[nacatl]

Here's a terrifying list of all the people I owe; if you like this post I'll ensure that you're my priority so I'll be certain that you're active. Inevitably, I guess, Ill get to em all tho. If you think u oughta be on this list tell me

starters: piouscruelty ; cerebrxm ; shadowxsuspended

responses: xclonekiller ; 117cm ; minervamorton ; mayaechos ; parvussaltator ; fangedfirecracker ; feyoffrost ; lunxticus ; grishildr ; feminaferus ; ofdevices ; vavatonemx ; allodicia ; taintedgenes ; deniablyplausible ; shehadsadeyes ; inneedofacase ; kunshu ; kingmoriarty ; illbeyouryoda

Im really busy but I am still tryin to keep this blog active! Peace out. I suck

[nacatl]

21st century ambassador of peace and magic

hissing fauna, are you the destroyer? [ nbc hannibal oc ]

i made…a hannibal oc blog!!! hooray. if you are a han account and are ok w/ rping with me that woudl rly be something :^)

[traumeriinarchive]

(☾☆) — Rosemary had been expecting to fall on her back like many times before. The gracefulness she possessed when she was younger appeared to have left her. Granted that she wasn’t constantly tripping over her own feet but she still wasn’t the most coordinated person. Digits grasped at tightly around the jar. It was bad enough that she was going to embarrass herself. The last thing she had wanted to do was make a mess. Honey colored optics closed as she bit down on her bottom lip as she prepared herself for the slight bolt of pain that would trickle down her spine soon enough. 

When she felt hands grasped her back amber eyes flash wide open. There was initially no response from her as if she was still taking in the factors of the current situation. Pale pink lips part open as she stands properly. As he held her she almost felt like a child, partly because of their difference in height but mostly because this was often how she held her son. Rosemary gently pulled away from him and then placed her item into the cart. In the seat was Aristotle who had been watching the whole scene. His attention appeared to be mainly on the man and his glance appeared slightly weary.  

There was a chilling feeling that came over her when he spoke. The coldness in his voice combined with his calm demeanor was unsettling. In response all she could do was nod before looking down to her feet. Out of instinct she wandered towards her son like a mother bear who was protecting her cub from a hunter. As her hands grasped around the handle she giggled softly. There was a little more life in his voice. Her body became less tense as she shrugged with a smile gracing her dainty features. ❝I’m afraid that I am utterly hopeless.❞ There was a pause before her gaze shifted back up to the top shelf. ❝Could you perhaps get me two more of those..? I hate to trouble you but it would be a great help.❞ 

[nacatl]

     He tries expressions on like suits, rejecting whatever doesn't currently fit the situation, and a glower solidifying over his features certainly wouldn't be anywhere near applicable.  A curt nod, a brief, shallow smile, he steps past the two of them and reaches upwards, grasping a glass jar and handing it to her.  Derisively mocking comments sully his typically immaculate ethos--how clumsy, how foolish, how preposterously maladriot--but not a single indication of his disdain for her actions is provided. While his digits refuse to meet hers, there's a certain sliver of civility and elegant conscientiousness in the hand-off; he parts the stifling awkwardness of the situation like a lifted wedding veil, holding the second jar in front of him and pointing to the date neatly inscribed on the lid.

     "It's expired."  A raised eyebrow, a slight pause to wait for her reaction.  She still seems paralyzed, stiff and petrified like wood left out in the sun: whether this was due to lingering anxiety thanks to the narrowly avoided fall or some sort of soothsayer's ability to sense a distinct aura of disdain ghosting from Dr. Lecter's pores like radiation was uncertain. Come to think of it, he further supposes, her child doesn't look all too joyful either.  What a brat.  "No good, I'm afraid," he then continues, settling it back on the shelf, "though I'm certain you could easily ask a clerk to restock it.  While I'm certain this is a pressing priority," he continues, nodding in regards to the child perched on the cart, "Are you all right?"

     His voice skips, like a worn record, a convincing facade of sympathy.  He's adorned his characteristic "falsified look of paternal rapport" so often that it's practically second nature; knitted eyebrows, lines of worry creasing his forehead, the slight tilt forward to show that his concern is focused on her and given with genuine compassion.  It's a nice gold gilt to hide a rather shoddy brick building. 

[fuonno]

nacatl

…Robin!

Ah, but that wasn’t right. This man bore no resemblance to Robin whatsoever—not in appearance, nor in aura, nor in dress—so why was the team tactician’s name the first thought this stranger conjured?

Surely it wasn’t… No, it couldn’t be. Tharja glowered and ducked her head, unwilling to believe that there might be someone who could induce the same infatuation in her that Robin did. Best to keep quiet for now, she told herself. Not like it would matter if I didn’t. 

Her mind worries itself into a state of distraction as she readjusts the stack of books in her arms walks off, intending to ignore the man and dropping a trail of loose-leaf notes in the process.

[nacatl]

     It's rightly ingrained in his mind that staring is impolite; as one who truly detests the rude and holds heavy, weighted disdain for the loutish, he feels almost as if she's daring someone to question her unspeakably eccentric attire.  There's no certain way to go about this rather than politely averting his eyes, training them on his polished oxfords, second-hand embarrassment seeping into his guts like a handful of wet cardboard.  How diligently some folks work at making a spectacle of themselves is perplexing.

     The sound of papers colliding with the ground silent and soft, sand filtering through fingers.  Eyes rove from shoes to cement to scrawls of notes etched across aging pages, further continuing to the departing woman to whom he can only assume they belong to.  A deliberate cough, he somewhat incessantly puts his heel down as he takes a step and hopes the obstructive noise will convince her to turn around.

     "Aren't these yours?"  A question as useless as baroque architecture, serving no purpose but defining a certain air.  He kneels, sighing slightly (he didn't anticipate he'd ever really feel the physical discomforts of age), fingers ghosting over the sheets as he tidies them into a pile and later picks them up, handing then back to her with purposeful elegant indifference.  She looks starstruck.  He can't fathom why.

[nacatl]

I'd usually consider it exceptionally rude to be so certain of another's possible actions, but I have no doubt that, if you had to, you would kill Alana. My question is--how would you do it?

     What a barbaric act of savagery.  Insinuating I’d ever have the strange compulsion to murder a colleague is utterly uncouth.

     Perhaps most disconcerting is the knowledge that, if such a macabre impulse overcame me, I’d certainly be adept at it.  I don’t question my own ability to perform such heinous acts with relative ease; it’s fortunate, then, that I’d never do such a thing.

[nacatl]

Hello small PSA !! Please don't call hannibal a "man" or a "male" because nacatl specifically is agender. he only uses he/him or they/them pronouns and other than that only employs gender neutral titles and words like "person" instead of "man" or "dr." instead of "mr"

[nacatl]

{ T H E R A P Y }

[memorinferi-deactivated20141011]

Pallid eyelids curtain autumn hues, focus transferring to her sense of smell— the scent of ink and page as alluring as ever, a strong source of comfort for the distraught woman, Hermione allows several minutes for the needed effects; muscles ease substantially, head tilts to the left as though she’s succumbed to rest, and whispered words drift forward—“Books are to be cherished. You have my respect for giving these a home.”

A bullet to glass, she recalls exactly where she stands—in what setting she is admiring a collector’s assortment, to whom she is speaking, and the reason for her presence at all.    Loosening her sensory grasp on the aroma,    she straightens herself, bloodshot eyes    revealed once more as she takes the seat    opposite him.

“Alternative methods of expressing my gratitude seem…inadequate, so I will only aim to not waste your time.”

    »”Did something specific occur?”« Her promise perches at the front of her mind, a steady reminder that each second she hesitates, glances thrown about the room, split fingers twisting amongst themselves as a diversion, she is breaking that promise.    “I—”

      Horrid memories of just hours before stall her       response, freezing her thoughts almost entirely.        ‘I won’t even attempt to lie—he seems the type        to detect it immediately…and then he’d probably        turn me away for falsifying events…’

Eyes flicker to the door, a brief consideration given that there’s still time to run.   Turn tail and flee, just as she had earlier; tears blinding her,   jagged realisation of what she’d done cutting deep before she’d felt   utterly numb, and then…she’d landed in muggle London. Instantly on the phone, violent tremors seizing her as she begged the woman to patch her through to the nearest available psychologist, therapist, someone—

    “It’s urgent…” Not even a second spared for introductions, she’d begged him to see her proximately with the murmur, unsure, even now, how he’d heard her.      And now, sitting before him, avoiding his gaze      as though a frightened child, the only thing she      wants to do is run—      run as fast as she can until she collapses      and fades from existence.

‘Talking…     what good will come from it?     I shouldn’t be here;     I’m wasting his time and mine.     I should’ve kept running.’

Gaze decisively meeting his, her body slumps slightly in the seat. —The day has finally caught up with her; she feels it crash around her, a dense fatigue taking hold.

“My best friend…was murdered…” A definite truth; it barely skims the surface, but— ‘Perhaps he’ll grant me the leverage…’

[nacatl]

     The statement feels like molten gold settling down in his stomach; stagnant, solid, the only thing preventing him from producing any unwanted malapropisms.  How painfully the death of an individual can rend another into such despair and misery is a subject of fascination for him; he'd find his vocal cords trembling in the shaky vibration of a laugh, a bow pulled across taunt violin strings, if he didn't have the poise of a saint.  He gives no more indication to his sympathy, mirth, or disdain than a stained-glass effigy, standing stoic in the blank white spaces on the edges of the fine print.

     Wholly under his scrutiny.  God has no mercy for His whims, actions implemented with the same precise instrumentation as a surgeon's scalpel parting skin and fat like a lifted wedding veil; to tamper with death and resist accepting the past is only challenging authority.  To challenge God only pleas, "smite us for our inequities" rather than "forgive us for our sins."

     "Was this recent?  I'd presume it was the catalyst of this specific visit, but I'm not entirely certain," he says blandly, smalltalk over a coffee table.  His ankle rests on his knee, hands lace fingers together; he offers his consolidation with his eyes, expressive and mirror-like, reflecting her grief back at her with the same intensity.  Glassy corneas, impenetrable irises; no other physical indication is provided of his reaction to this situation.  Minus sympathy, minus pity, no sliver of understanding and a lack of any sorrow.  Not human, hardly humane.  A tepid breath is drawn like stagnant water from a tap; all his patients almost anticipate him to accept their grief as the most genuine case of human misery and confusion.  Countless appointments.  Countless deaths. 

     An assembly line.  Five step process. 

     "Grieving is, then," he continues, voice slow and solid, the water sweeping around a grand rock at sea, "disjointed.  A murder is nowhere near as acceptable--if one could imply any sort of death is acceptable--as a medical illness or a natural cause.  Elisabeth Kübler-Ross proposed five steps to grief and how the human mind attempts to reason its way through despair: are you familiar with them?"

[fuckanimals-deactivated20140708]

US army doctor returns arm to Vietnamese soldier fifty years after he took it as a souvenir.

[cunicular]

there are so many intersecting levels of fucked up here

[lamorbidezza]

Backtage at Dolce&Gabbana Fall 2012 

[nigrapropter-deactivated2014070]

[117cm-blog]

     It was a rhetoric. C’mon, I thought that was obvious. I’ll assume that you’re the one who smells like bloody oatmeal.

     Hypersensitivity to scent, y’said? Nah… I’ve got a good enough sniffer to not need your assistance with it.

[nacatl]

     Was it?  My apologies for not being able to recognize your witticism.  I'll simply blame it on my inability to distinguish your attempts at sincerity and sarcasm; my diagnosis, of course, is that you might wait until we've started a conversation to implement anything.

     And I suppose this is due, at least in part, to your blindness?  Unless, of course, those blindfolds are only part of your rhetorical regime.

     I'm due for my appointment with Miss Satsuki.  If you'd please, I'd like to proceed.

[minervamorton]

{ + } nacatl, 

[minervamorton]

{ ♣ } ——- ❝ Oh! Shit, sorry, man.                       Clumsy as fuck. Didn’t mean to bump into you like that. ❞

[nacatl]

     It's the impulsive desire to implement unnecessary, vulgar colloquialisms that incenses him more than the unpleasant fact that their shoulders nudged against each other when only haphazard attempts to steer out of each others' paths were made; he finds his throat coagulating like cement, jaw tight, before he calmly sighs and gives her an affirmative nod.

     "It can't be helped.  Are you all right?  It was terribly inconsiderate of me; without any ethos established, my word must not mean much, but it's all I can currently offer in compensation: my apologies."

[accusabilis-deactivated20140327]

                              When people as a whole caused your palms to sweat, breaths                               to shorten and mouth to dry — it was difficult to tell which spurred                               nerves simply because and which were predators which ought                                to be feared for the sake of survival.       Instinct was numbed by the consistent           presence of caution.                     ” i don’t know if i’d call                       this busy. ”                                         And sarcasm crossed right underneath his                                                nose without acknowledgement.        A stark contrast to the man, impeccable in presence      and demeanor. Ian was a poorly put together puzzle,      with parts torn off, and pierces forced into place. His      shoulders stooped to shorten himself. Height was       sometimes a disadvantage, and made him stick out.       Clothes were ruffled, tucked underneath the apron.       As a person the results were far worse.                      Which was how he found himself here at this hour,                     working a store that needn’t be open at all for all the                     ’ bustle ’ it earned.                                             ” sugar? milk? ” 

[nacatl]

     "No, thank you," he answers, aseptic and sterile, the tips of algid fingers resting against the counter top as he watches the other fumble with the money.  Currency goes from his fingers to the register; he taps keys with fumbling nails and Dr. Lecter observes every minute tug and twitch of his face, gawkily unproportionate, a definitive sign of his youth.  His pale skin looks flushed pink, like the flesh under a scab, and Hannibal feels a tight grimace tug at his lips when his server, palms tarnished with contamination from the dollar, immediately goes to grab a cup without even the slightest indication of an instinct to at least wash his hands. 

     Coffee is poured.  He peers at his distorted reflection on the glassy surface of the beverage; it looks like sewage, like oil.  Subpar quality.  Hazardous service.  Budding unsatisfaction perched on his tongue, he vocalizes his contempt with discreet criticism: "A young man like you should to be proud of his height: a spine isn't a privilege, contrary to popular belief, and you ought to be glad you possess a functional one.  I recommend putting it to proper use," he says dismissively, raising the cup to his lips.

[nacatl]

[117cm-blog]

+nacatl

"What’s that… smell? Oatmeal? I’m thinkin’ it’s either oatmeal or blood." 

[nacatl]

     Are you inquiring specifically to me with the intention of receiving an answer?  I wasn't aware I'd ever be solicited for my hypersensitivity to scent, alone: just as well, it's a talent I don't outwardly advertise.

     Neither of those substances are present. 

[eggirl2924-deactivated20140102]

[feebsources-deactivated20180620]

[ it’s a little different with beckett— -her family is fairly wealthy, and her mom doesn’t bother too much with things that effect her daughter. the only reason the girl is even here is because her older brother insisted that mrs. andrews take care of her. then the boy set up everything— -finding mr. lecter, scheduling an appointment, getting beckett over to his office. the only thing their mother did was write a check. ]

I think I’d b— -be more comfortable with answ— -swering questions.

[ she’d be sorry to see her habit offends him. it could be worse, though— -for instance, if she was granted a pencil or two, she’d be tapping out a cadence. it’s one of the side effects of being a percussionist. ]

[nacatl]

[ vocal tremors--her voice stops and skips like a scarred record, though he supposes that scars are only to be anticipated from such a young, potentially vivacious person meekly sitting in his office, clasping and unclasping her hands, drumming fingers on the curve of the armrest of her chair. he nods, parting his lips as he tepidly draws a breath, his back rigidly straight, the only natural position for it to assume beneath such a stiffly starched suit. His interest is unapparent; gelid eyes regard her like a science experiment, a specimen to scrutinize under a microscope. ]

     Each of my patients, you must understand, establishes a very specific relationship with me.  I am not your parent, nor am I your friend--entirely, though, I dedicate myself to you as a source of stability and clarity, someone who you can entirely bestow your trust upon.  Everything discussed between us remains confidential--I shall do everything in my power to help you, and, in return, I can only ask that you do your part and attempt to be as cooperative as possible.

     I only wish for your best.  You understand, don't you?

[ a rhetorical question. He offers the slightest glimpse of a falsified smile, before he resets his ethos, the attempt at congeniality and gregariousness eroding as quickly as it came into fruition. ]

     Why, then, do you suppose you are here?  Your mother indicated that it was her decision, not yours, for you to come: surely you must have some hypothesis as to why she would deem it necessary.