Jules of Nature
almost home
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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Today's Document
blake kathryn
wallacepolsom
if i look back, i am lost
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DEAR READER
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
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❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
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Sweet Seals For You, Always
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@thedinnerhost-blog
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ooc: I’m so sorry for the long unexpected hiatus. I had to travel to a few places to have some college interviews. It was all so sudden that I didn’t even take the time to warn you guys. Once again, my apologies, I’m back and I’m very excited about roleplaying with all of you. <3
Doctor Bloom is an elegant animal in her own ways. But animal is the best way, often, to describe her. Sometimes as she sleeps she is a swan, pale and long-necked, elegant. Sometimes, awake, she is a wolf— a young one, educated beneath her mentor’s tutelage. Sometimes, she is a lioness, though perhaps this one she is in measure as equal as wolfish. Swan is the least likely. Though vicious and territorial, Alana has her own dangerous facets more than the petty croak of an angry bird. In that moment, just there, she is a swan.
"Mmmm—…?" She asks, merely the smallest questioning sound. It’s quiet, and her eyes tick briefly behind her eyelids. They open— first one, like peeking— and then the other. She smiles slowly, and it exists finely until the expression twitches to something of a nervous one. Those glacial blues, they flick up to meet his eyes, "Hannibal— is something wrong?"
She’s shifting under the covers, dragging them up with her to sit against the headboard of the bed. Her brow creases in a very distinct worry, lines speaking louder than words can, though here they will, “Did something happen?” There is an innate tie to him she has. She cannot explain it (it is something deeper, darker than she’d like to admit, and in the future it will damage her with great depth), but she’s protective of him. Perhaps not jealous, not possessive, no, never something so negative as that. She merely wants to see him okay, to know he can’t be harmed beneath her hand.
Beautiful, kind, intelligent Doctor Bloom.
He watches her quietly at first and still the bare long neck that is exposed to him begs for pressure. Hannibal doesn't give in though. The good doctor merely offers a small smile, his hand resting quietly and patiently against the mattress of the bed. "Jack is concerned about you." Hannibal sighed, tilting his head to look down at Alana's lap. His fingers smooth down the wrinkles on the fabric nonchalantly. "He claimed to have called you several times," Dark eyes meet glacial blue ones then. "But you seem to be unreachable at the moment." There's slight humor to his tone. He doesn't mention the urgency in Crawford's tone or the way he implied that Alana's presence in some current case was important. He doesn't mention any of this because he doesn't want Alana Bloom to leave just yet. If it were up to him, Hannibal would forever stay tangled in the darkness of her hair, surrounded by nothing but the scent of her skin. Alana is the kind of girl Hannibal would like to hang on a wall. Framed and gazing straight at him with an everlasting stare. "I told him you weren't here." Hannibal's eyes travel down Alana's pale arm, tilting his head slightly to the side. "I wouldn't want to imply that you spent the night here." Despite his best efforts, Jack would not be the center of Alana's attention that morning. Hannibal would make sure of that.
Don’t ship with me because if I know you do angst then I’ll literally hurt you on purpose and then laugh about it.
The truth is always something that is told, not something that is known. If there were no speaking or writing, there would be no truth about anything. There would only be what is.
Susan Sontag (via ruled-by-quotations)
I have to deal with you. And my feelings about you. I think it’s best if I do that directly.
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“You don’t know me as well as you think, Dr. Lecter.”
"Very little people do, Will. Plenty of your colleagues believe you're just a sick man in need of help. I may not know you as well as I'd like...But I know you better than anyone."
There is brief evaluation of the environment, the large dark eyes slowly moving about the long hallway lined with cages and bare cement walls mimicking granite. The cages suggest age, grease and rust lurking between services, and frequent usage. There is even a proper term;therapeutic modules when the state or federal institutions are strapped for cash and find group therapy a sudden miraculous thing. The doctor does not quite seem he belongs there, despite the fading blue jump suit. That, Starling supposes, is based on far too many photographs of her subject in remarkably loud but tailored suits. Dark eyes avoid his, because she knows he is watching her. It already begins with she being so young, though her earnest nature is carefully regulated with practice ease that indicates Dr. Lecter should not feel so honored. Second skin knitted before coming here. But her eyes shine so bright despite her apprehension. “Compliance is completely up to you, Doctor, I’m not here to make your life more difficult or to exchange what’s said between us. However, I appreciate how much compliance you’re willing to give.” Her smile is framed, once more not crafted especially for him, “Yes, yes he did send me here. I’m afraid he doesn’t have many empty hands.”
He can't help but watch and listen to her in complete silence. Of course it was always a pleasure to communicate with anyone besides Frederick Chilton but there was depth to the pretty trainee standing before him. Behind the pink cheeks and long lashes hid sharp edges and sandpapery structures. Hannibal could tell by the stillness of her gaze. And yet a light quivered behind the dark eyes. The cannibal doesn't make it clear whether or not he wants to be there. But it is the first contact with a living, thinking being in a very long time. The first time he has felt the scent of grass and sunshine in someone's skin. Clarice Starling was just that. A passing by sunbeam. "The last time Jack sent an empty pair of hands to my doorstep only one came back." He adds, softly. Hannibal flashes a small short-lived smile before relaxing back into his serene but somewhat calculative expression. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Agent Starling?" Jack must have been desperate to send someone to speak to him. And sending Clarice felt as if his old friend was trying to recreate a familiar scenario. Force nostalgia onto him. Jack always had been a sensitive soul.
Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen
+ alighttwixttruthandintellect
It's early. The sun has barely made its presence known but birds already greet it with casual and short songs. Hannibal stares down at Alana's sleeping body. The stillness and darkness of the room is filled with the woman's slow and soft breathing, followed elegantly by the rise and fall of her chest. Dark curls spread across pale pillows like tentacles of Chinese ink and Hannibal can feel one of his fingers twitch slightly. He had wrapped his fingers in Alana's locks quite a few times during these occasional nightly meetings of theirs. But now he felt the urge to grab it tightly. To yank it hard enough to pull her whole body out of bed and onto the floor. Her pale skin is so easily bruised he could paint a whole story over her bare torso. He'd offer her the most marvelous necklace of bright red rubies and savor the beautiful imagery of beautiful kind and intelligent Alana succumbing underneath him. Sex was about power. But violence was much more visceral and honest. This, Hannibal thought, is love. In his own special way. He quietly sits down beside her and brushes a lock of dark hair off her face. "Alana." Hannibal calls softly. "Alana. Jack called. You need to get up."
Murder is born of love, and love attains the greatest intensity in murder.
Octave Mirbeau, Le Jardin des Supplices (via superwife-leopold)
Food per episode: 2x2 Sakizuki
Paper trails and interviews are given to her the old fashioned way; big manila envelope with computer print outs and fading photocopies with black boxes hiding what whispers could fill in. Perhaps not the most economical of means nor the most enviromental, but it was the most secure for Mr. Crawford. She had read about trainees, she read about blood splattered girls, and broken boned colleagues and devoured hearts. She read the material as manual, she read the material as tome. Clarice Starling has no pretensions she can entirely understand Dr. Hannibal Lecter, whatever safety has been afforded to her comes from painful lessons. Dr. Frederick Chilton thought he smelled prey, and she supposes he mistakes politeness for weakness. Clarice Starling is merely trainee, not even a masters entirely to her name. She is a thing to protect and a thing to covert. It’s a quick snip of the bud, so she had hoped. But the doctor was displeased by refusal to simper and pride deemed she could handle the last leg of the trip. There are two cells that she passes by and there is a hiss- And then, “Mr. Miggs, please!” But it’s not her voice. It’s a voice of one of the therapists who have vain hopes in this sad place. She doesn’t speak. She only speaks when she reaches the yellow line. She is a bird in drab feathers but with elegant curves and large dark eyes. She stands at it’s edge, she stands with courtesy present with brief case in one hand. “Good morning, Dr. Lecter,” She is so proud her voice doesn’t crack, that her cheap shoes don’t squeak, “My name is Clarice Starling. I may I talk to you?” Oh she crackles, but her anger is held back and not for him. Not yet.
The moment she stands up straight and speaks makes the corners of Hannibal's lips curl very slightly. Her attempts at trying to be polite do not go unnoticed. And to some degree, the ex-psychiatrist appreciates her effort. Had their meeting been anywhere else, he'd make sure to stand and offer a hand to shake. But in Chilton's little realm standing up meant intent to kill. Politeness was mistaken for hidden savagery and savagery for routine. So Dr. Lecter remains seated with his hands folded over his lap as he takes the girl's measurements. There are faint similarities with Miriam Lass. Hannibal begins to wonder if Crawford isn't laying out a trail of very obvious bread crumbs. He has a type. "It is kind of you to suggest that I have any other option besides compliance." He speaks softly allowing a very small smile to spread across his lips. "Please. Sit." Hannibal takes in every detail the young woman presents to him. The expensive bag, the cheap shoes, the suppressed accent...Poor white trash with bigger dreams than the ones someone back home had tried to tie her down with. Hannibal Lecter can already tell that Clarice Starling is under a lot of pressure. And when put under enough pressure most objects tended to snap. His head tilts slightly to the side. "Did Jack Crawford send you?"
(( Is it too soon to kiss your Hannibal's feet because holy cow! ))
