#mischa: CRIME YOU SAY!!!!! :)

[moonmoonthecrabking]

mischa: crime >:D

constance: oh no. crime. whatever shall i do? participate? if i must >:D

[dbmars]

NOW ON A03...

The H-Files, Episode 1 Part 1

Relive everything you loved about the pilot of the X-Files but better now that it's Hannibal as Scully and Will as Mulder... "Spooky Graham"...!

The aliens may be responsible for Will's empathy powers, and Mischa was abducted...

If I get a decent response/support I'll finish the episode and maybe write some more!

No time like the present. I make my way back through the violent crime section, and downstairs, revisiting the secretary. She directs me to an elevator that sinks me down to the first sub-basement level. The doors open and I move through the cinder block hallway that smells of industrial floor cleaner and wet ceiling tiles. At the end of the hallway, past shelves of case file boxes, is an office door cracked open. The placard reads GRAHAM. I can hear shuffling within, the movement of a chair. My nose wrinkles against cheap aftershave and stale coffee.

        I knock. I knock again. “Sorry, nobody down here but the FBI’s most unwanted,” comes a wry voice. 

        I push the door open, revealing a small, windowless room packed with filing cabinets and shelves of still more files and paperwork. Despite what must be the vast amount of material crammed into the space, it is remarkably tidy, stacks neatly organized, lines clean. The bulletin board above the desk, however, is a mess of photos and handwritten notes. My eye is immediately drawn to a large poster of a science-fiction style flying disc, emblazoned with the phrase “I WANT TO BELIEVE.” 

        They don’t look like inverted bowls. More like saucers, thin and fragile, somehow meant to support an even more fragile teacup. 

        Against my will, my mind shows me the images that have haunted me most of my life – my mother’s teacup shattering against the floor, the white light filling every window of our hunting lodge, my sister’s screams, the whining, mechanical hum of the silver beast that descended from the heavens. My mother’s terrified shrieking as I raced out to save my sister, only to be rendered weightless, floating in searing blindness, and borne away. 

        I slam that door in the memory palace and attach another lock to it. They seem to rust and break at the most inopportune times.

         Agent Will Graham is bent over a light box, examining a series of slides. He, too, seems to forego the typical FBI uniform of dark suits and white shirts with uninteresting ties. He looks more like a rumpled professor or domesticated outdoorsman in brown pants and a green collared shirt that could just as easily be worn for yard work. His hair is curly, untidy in places, and he wears a layer of scattered stubble. When he turns to me, Will Graham lowers his tortoiseshell glasses down from his head. Fascinating. Nearsighted? 

        I give him my best introduction smile, oozing friendliness and ease. “Agent Graham. My name is Hannibal Lecter.” I approach and offer a hand. He shakes it very briefly, and a shadow flickers over his expression as I hold on just a little too long for his comfort. “I’ve been assigned to work with you.” 

         He glances at my eyes for a fraction of a second before turning his head, putting the frames of his glasses between us as a barrier. “Nice to, ah, suddenly be so highly regarded,” he says, all barbed irony. Rude. He turns in his seat and fiddles with the slides, deliberately disengaging. Ruder still. “So, who’d you piss off to get stuck with this detail, Lecter?” 

    He knows full well why I am here, it seems. Rather, why I’ve been sent. But they could have sent anyone. I was not chosen at random. There are multiple chess pieces moving at the same time on a three-dimensional board, and I have control of the queens. I am here because I seek truth. Because I cannot trust my memories – they might be nothing but a traumatized child’s nightmares, a wounded brain trying to explain what happened the night the world went away. Will Graham may very well be the lantern to light my way.

         “As it happens, I’ve heard a lot about you,” I say pleasantly as he gets up from his desk chair and opens a tidy file cabinet drawer, thumbing through the immaculate plastic tabs. I wonder if his drawers at home are kept just as meticulously. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

         “Really? I was, ah, under the impression you were sent here… to spy on me.” He opens the file and glances through a few typewritten pages before returning it to its proper place. I let my eyes wander over him as he stands in profile. I’d jump at the chance to spy on him. Voyeurism is one of my favorite parts of my process - to see without being seen. To stalk. I imagine him moving through his assuredly modest home, stretching, scratching his head, sleepy. Ready for bed in, oh, a pair of dull boxer shorts. I think of him illuminated by the light of his refrigerator as he searches for a little something before bed, uplit by its unholy glow as I watch him through the window.

            Interesting. My body is responding sexually to the image. I wipe it away as though I’d drawn it in steam on a mirror. “Agent Graham, if you have any doubts about my credentials or qualifications-”

            “-you’re a medical doctor and you’re teaching at the academy.” He interrupts me. Rude. Instead of imagining my knife piercing his skin, I picture him on his knees, waiting to make it up to me. Again, I force the image to dissolve. “You did your undergraduate degree in physics, while, ah, concurrently double majoring in psychology and art history with a focus on Renaissance Italy.” He selects another file from the cabinet and slides the drawer shut. “I dunno about your artsy stuff, but your senior thesis was ‘Einstein’s Twin Paradox: A New Interpretation’. Now, there’s a credential: rewriting Einstein.” 

            I successfully mask my surprise that he’s so familiar with my work. “Did you happen to read it?”

            He returns to his desk chair and compares something in the file to a slide. I glance over at his computer screen as he bends over to retrieve a dropped report from the file. I make out the words force, abduction, and light before he rights himself. “Yeah. I liked it,” he says, still not looking at me directly, the rims of his glasses in the way. “It’s just that in, ah… in my line of work – the laws of physics rarely seem to apply.” He adjusts another slide, then turns on the projector, flashing a washed-out image on the blank bit of cinder block wall kept clear, it seems, for this purpose. He has a curve to his lips on one side that strikes me as impudent. I want to wipe it off his face, one way or another.

            “Not fond of eye contact, are you?” I say, an attempt to derail and destabilize. 

            Now he swivels in his chair and looks directly at me. His eyes are like the ocean between islands in Greece. “Eyes are distracting. You see too much. You don’t see enough. And it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking those whites are really white, or they must have hepatitis, or is that a burst vein?”

            I can’t help but smile, returning his gaze steadily. 

            “So… yeah. I try to avoid eyes whenever possible. It’s even easier in the dark.” Agent Graham steps behind me and switches off the lights. The windowless cell is lit now only by the projected image – a young woman, lifeless on the ground. Ah. I had wondered when we’d discuss murder. While Will Graham is apparently very aware of my career and accomplishments, he doesn’t know of my finest work as the Chesapeake Ripper. Perhaps, someday, he will. 

            Will leans his hips against his desk, crossing his arms over his midsection. It catches the loose fabric of his shirt, drawing it against the bow of his back. Distracted again. I refocus on the image he’s elected to show me. “Maybe you can give your medical opinion, though,” he says. “Oregon female. Age twenty-one. No explainable cause of death. Nothing in the autopsy.” He switches slides, showing me a close-up shot of the young woman’s lower back, marred by two livid red welts. According to the ruler nearby for scale, they are roughly the size of an American dime. “Two distinct marks, however, are found on her lower back. Can you ID these marks… Dr. Lecter?”

            I move closer to the projected image. Despite not liking eye contact, I can feel him watching me. Perhaps he has some voyeuristic tendencies as well. “Needle punctures, perhaps. An animal bite. Electrocution is a possibility.” 

            When he switches slides again, I hide my surprise. It is not the body from another angle, but a diagram showing a chemical compound. 

            “How’s your chemistry? This is the substance found in the surrounding tissue.”

            I study the image, my brain humming steadily. I do love a challenge, and I find them so rarely. “It’s inorganic. Perhaps a synthetic protein.”

            “Hell if I know,” Agent Graham says. 

            “That’s surprising. You must have had your fair share of chemistry studying entomology. Your monograph on determining time of death based on insect activity required a high level of understanding to compose, I’m sure.” 

            “By all means, be sure,” he snarks, but the subtle pink staining his cheekbones tells me he’s pleased I’m familiar with his work as well. “I’ve never seen it, either. But here it’s found again, in Sturgis, South Dakota.” He switches slides, this one depicting a large man in a motorcycle club vest with the same two raised welts on his back. He switches again, showing me another male body with the same marks in the same place, spanning the thoracolumbar fascia and the internal oblique muscles. “And again, in Shamrock, Texas.”

            A true mystery. This is delightful. I haven’t had an afternoon so pleasant since I murdered the man sent to evaluate me by my life insurance agency and stretched his corpse across two rows of bus seats. “Do you have a theory?” 

            “I have, ah… plenty of theories,” he dismisses, joining me in front of the projected image, the dead man’s outline juxtaposed over him, throwing the kind of light that both obscures and reveals. His forehead bears a gentle shimmer of perspiration, and I can smell more of him now, the scent beneath the cheap aftershave – dogs, fresh splits of pine, machine oil, and something sweet I’d need more time and a closer proximity to identify. He doesn’t look at me, turning his head to the side a few degrees to let the slide’s light catch on the lenses of his glasses instead. “What has me stumped is why Bureau policy is to label these cases as unexplained phenomena and ignore them.” 

            I can sense the rumble of anger beneath his sardonic tone, taut with frustration. 

            “So, Dr. Lecter, do you believe in the existence of… extraterrestrials?” He says it with a wry twist that might be a kind of bitter smile. I tilt my head. “As a scientist,” he prompts, leaving me to lean against the edge of his desk again. 

            “Logically, I’d have to say no.” I do strive to tell the truth in my own way. Logically, I shouldn’t. But I am here because I need his help with the illogical – to determine, once and for all, if something happened to me, or I happened. “Given the distances needed to travel from the far reaches of space, the energy requirements would exceed–”

            He interrupts, shaking his head. “Conventional wisdom. That girl in Oregon – she’s the fourth member of her graduating class to die under mysterious circumstances. When convention and-and science offer no answers, might we not consider the, ah, the fantastic as a plausibility?” 

            He tested me at first, showing me the chemical compound and the crime scene photos. Now, he wants to make the boundaries clear. Impudent. Wants to get a rise out of me, surely, to define the methods of interaction. 

            My answer is mild, clinical, the kind of voice I’d use if I’d chosen to become a psychiatrist. “The girl is dead. Death occurs for a reason.” Sometimes, I am that reason. “If it was natural causes, then it’s plausible something was missed in the postmortem. If she was murdered, it’s plausible there was a sloppy investigation. What I find fantastic is your willingness to sidestep human error and search for answers beyond the realm of science. The answers are there, I’m sure. You just have to know where to look.” I raise an eyebrow to add in the sentence I won’t let my mouth say. Apparently, you don’t know where to look. Or you want me to think you don’t know where to look. 

            Agent Graham looks at me now, a brief glance up through his side-lit lenses. His left eye is illuminated as well, making it unearthly blue and leaving the other subdued, its subtle green and brown tones shimmering through the dominant color. He smiles, the most genuine expression I’ve seen yet, and I’m momentarily distracted by his beauty. It’s like visiting the Louvre, making one’s way quickly to see a great work before a crowd forms, and catching sight of an exquisite but uncelebrated painting in a forgotten side gallery that makes one lose all sense of purpose, the internal compass spinning and spinning. 

            “And that’s why they put the I in FBI.” He breaks away and sinks back into his desk chair, rolling over to the glowing blue screen of his computer monitor. “See you bright and early then, Dr. Lecter. We leave for the, ah, the very plausible state of Oregon at 8 am.” 

            I can’t help but smile back, a beam of pleasure, as he turns away from me and begins clacking at the keys. “Until then, Will.”

            I’ve taken a risk, demanding a first name basis. He makes no comment, waves a hand over his shoulder.

            I take my leave and hurry home to pack. 

[ask-p3rfectd0lls]

Hello :]

What TV shows/Movies do you both like?

Ocean: Well we both like to watch Good Omens, Steven Universe, Nimona, Jane enjoys Adventure Time but I don't like it as much. I also like documentaries, I sometimes listen to true crime while I'm studying.

Jane: I enjoy horror movies. Like Scream or Nightmare on elm street, Ocean's favorite. Mischa also watched all of the Saw movies with me. :]

Ocean: I don't know why you two like those movies I tried watching one and it was just gross and boring.

Jane: I could say the same thing about true crime.

Ocean: >:/

[notfernintheslighest]

I tried to explain this to my friend and seemed like she understood but in short….

Patrick Bateman > Hannibal Lecter > Dennis Reynolds.

Patrick Bateman is actually a guy who is just a monster for funzies. He simply is not there. He directly tells people several times in the books that he has killed someone, that he eats people, that he is sexually violent, but he’s the boy next store. He’s the perfect American Boy™ who clearly just has an odd sense of humor. He confesses several times and yet he gets away with it all. He’s wealthy enough to constantly get into exclusive restaurants, and has great connections. Patrick attends many social events, and is around other people who care just as much about having the ideal business card, all while secretly raping, killing, eating people, etc. He is the blueprint for men of his kind, and also just a girl with a skin care routine. Hannibal and Dennis both wish they could get to this level.

Sure Hannibal can vaguely allude to his extracurricular activities of enforced cannibalism, and the like, but he can’t actually say it. He can make over complex metaphors, but Hannibal cannot just confess like Bateman so often does. He’s also not treated with the same level of acceptance that Bateman receives. His dinner parties also aren’t nearly as extravagant as Bateman describes his being, yes Hannibal may be doing them by himself but that further illustrates him as an outlier. He’s also referred to as hosting often, meaning he likely wouldn’t go to many events if he did not host. There’s not a place for him, so instead he carves out the space for himself, the spot for Bateman is already there neatly aligned with many other similar spots. Bateman’s friends hold the same beliefs that lead to his depravity, they are also racist, classist, homophobic and sexist, there’s no proof that they aren’t also “performing” humanity in the same way he does, in fact many things to point to this being the case. Hannibal also has the added weakness of loving and caring for someone, Patrick would never care for anyone other than himself. As much that Hannibal in the show doesn’t think his trauma influenced his crimes, it certainly does. Hannibal wouldn’t eat people if Mischa wasn’t eaten first. No matter what canon you go off of, at the end of the day Hannibal is just a man who’s trying to forget what happened. He was meant to protect her, and in the end he benefited from her death by being able to live after she couldn’t.

Dennis is always called out on his implication bullshit. He cares about his friends, he helps Charlie with Day Man, is overwhelmed with joy by the rocket launcher from Mac, and is occasionally there for Dee. He’s also doing it because he wants Frank’s validation and is the world’s biggest mamas boy. Dennis is the most common version of this kind of man, whereas Bateman is at the purest form, Hannibal lies in between.

hope that makes sense

[whatever-color-of-the-rainbow]

Mischa: I got us matching bracelets, and you say I don't care about our friendship.

Ricky: These are handcuffs.

Mischa: Yeah, 'cause we're partners in crime!

[whimsybatboy]

penny lamb headcanons but it’s mostly me projecting…

- they/she pansexual, dating ricky. spacedolls is real to ME.

- the type of person to just… chug water. like, if you were to give them a glass of water they would literally chug it

- SHE LOVES RIOT GRRL MUSIC. their fav bands are mommy long legs and calamity jane (i fuckjng lvie calamity jane sudufi)

- accidentally became a theatre kid because noel forced her to watch chicago with him and they liked it

- sweeney todd fan.

- mischa and penny are best friends btw..

- either doesn’t sleep at all or sleeps for a long ass time

- mom friend but at the same time really reckless

- owns this shirt specifically

- pagan or jewish i can’t decide sigh

- she owns a pair of mary janes that have been through the absolute trenches. barely holding together but they still wear them

- also like these really shitty black headphones that were probably no more than 10 dollars

- they know a lot of facts about murder/crime/stuff like that and will say them on absolute random

- always has some sort of trinket in her bag

BONUS SPACEDOLLS HEADCANON BECAUSE THEYRE MY BABIES

- penny will go on rants about animals sometimes for almost an hour and ricky will give them his full attention. like, not even looking away for a moment because he wants penny to feel like someone actually listens to her

[beanscool-excellent]

some ride the crimeclone notes because people liked my tags about it on that one post

ride the crimeclone (or just crimeclone) is the production of rtc that i have planned out in my head that i will never be able to put on bc i have changed parts of the script and putting it on would be Wildly Illegal, hence the name crimeclone

i jumped around the show a lot making these in my sketchbook and im going around my sketchbook too so its a little all over the place but!!

jane has contacts that make it look like her eyes are buttons

she has the doll in her pocket the whole show but the stuffing is falling out of it so ocean trails behind her and cleans it up

"my song--(leans down to pick up fluff)--was a cautionary tale--(leans down)--of hubris.(leans down, shoves fluff into her pocket)"

before the new birthday song when everyone brings the outfit ricky brings jane her doll and jane hugs the doll and its a very sweet moment

janes makeup is done to look like she has a patch on her face

puppet motif in tbojd

all her movements look very choreographed until "and im asking why lord" and then she just goes apeshit. she is so fucking mad

like i said earlier it has the energy of sam pauly's all you wanna do

i genuinely dont know how to put this into words but the lights on the umbrellas like. circle?

you know those people who sync up their christmas lights to the radio and it looks like pieces of light are moving up the sidewalks? that but in a circle

ok enough jane talk

propaganda posters in wtwn !!

this kinda thing ^

theyre used kinda like the big posterboards that spell out ocean in mcc*rter's version

mischa snaps his in half in the scene after wtwn

the outfit ricky quick changes into during sabm is So Glittery its almost obnoxious

the shirt is partially unbuttoned too

the implication is that he didnt have time to rebutton it after the cat sex

i also think the cat sex is a pre recorded projection so that theres enough time for the quick change bc i still want ricky to come out on "for theyre at war with canine"

i think he has the electric guitar the whole last section too and i want it to be strapped to his cane

idk why i just think itd be fun

oh also we keep lets get real space babies and dont be a dick

and its the version where ricky is actually disabled but i think that goes without saying

and while were at it keep love conquers all it is a CRIME that they removed it

i think thats all i have to say for now so heres my costume design stuff

oh i should elaborate on the noels lament skirts huh

ok so the skirt for the uniform is long so it spins out a lot, think the talia dresses but more pleated and less flowy, and the underside is red so during noels lament they can pin it up to look shorter in the front,, it looks weird in the drawing and i think it sounds weird but ive done it with my big skirts irl and it looks cool so. yeah

ill reblog with more stuff eventually but im writing this out at midnight and im tired so no more right now

[thesoggiestboyintown]

RTC incorrect quotes but it’s just my shit texts

noel gruber:

“guess who set their shoe on fire”

“theater kids are the reason global warming exists”

“i feel like a couple who’s always on the brink of divorce but pretends to be in a happy marriage “

“in my on the verge of divorce era”

“have we as a community considered kissing my ass”

“lord strike me down and give me an std”

mischa bachinski:

“sometimes i think and then i cry”

“i’m so bored i’m going to rob the school cafeteria just for shits and giggles”

“cute date idea ! rob a bank and makeout in the employee room of a Walmart <3”

“i want to punt a toad “

“update i’m planning someone’s funeral”

“give head pls”

“about to rob an ikea what do u want”

“i hope she explodes”

“i want to meet a smurf and then drown it”

“i’m going to steal a kid off the street just to feel something”

“time to take out the shot glass”

ricky potts:

“how to become zolarian cat”

“what if i just throw a dog into a freezer”

“how do i turn into a rubix cube”

“i’m such a deceitful snake”

“why is luigi so submissive and breedable”

“my personality is a sad star with a little hat that says ass licker”

“my emotional support teacher isn’t here yet i’m going to swallow a cat whole”

“what if i just grabbed a cat and never gave it back”

“what if i swallow a bell”

constance blackwood:

“is breast milk diary free”

“how do i turn into a rubix cube”

“i sometimes forget that you’re an only child”

“she’s like obsessed with me (she has a crush on a boy)”

“if there’s a screen, ao3 will be seen. [insert picture of ao3 home screen on a Nintendo switch]”

“when ur so stupid you get shocked when your manipulative ex manipulates u again when u give her another chance”

“someone nut tapped superman”

“Is it safe to drink bleach”

“How to get rid of hickies”

“Yes actually, when I was gender fluid I grew a penis when I felt masc”

“Lord give me strength”

“NO I KEEP FIGHTING THOSE DEMONS”

jane doe:

“the lives of erasers and rubber have come to me, begging for mercy. for a chance at life and peace. to experience the beautiful presence of true joy. but they forget mercy is earned through patience and worship. so they instead left with bruises of pure agony and despair. stories to keep their children and their childrens children cautious of who they bow to.”

“sad pyromaniac at its best tbh”

“i just disassociated while setting fire to my shoe”

“Oh ye I go by they/them now because fuck gender :]”

“i he!r t.H3 scrm,,s o’’f @lL m”y vctms b..egg!ng fr me t stp :3”

“!! i c,,Vt of d0!!$ h3aD ..!!”

“!! į w!lł t3!! th,, v0ics t0 nøt hVrt ÿ0ū >~<“

“i’m gonna eat someone’s eyeballs for a snack”

“stfu therapist i’m literally just being dramatic”

“about to suck someone’s soul wish me luck”

“what’s stopping me from eating babies”

“i’m in ur floor boards”

“i’ve been stuck with theater kids for like 3 hours save me”

“insanely hot (take away “ly hot”)”

“i don't eat food, i consume personalities snacks? no. souls.”

“I WANNA EAT PLAY DOUGH SO BADLT I FORGOT HOE TO SPEL PLAYFOOUGH”

“i say i'm fine but i'm reality i feel like a black hole is eating my stomach”

“ya know sometimes my brain sounds like velcro

kdithigigifixgxggc”

“wdym i cant commit crimes who's gonna stop me”

“was told i could drink bleach so if i start internally bleeding tonight don't ask questions”

[mischa-auer]

Hollywood Magazine, April 1940: How To Be An Easter Egg by Kay Proctor

Women’s dresses are influenced by the movies. Mischa Auer thinks it is a crime and a shame that his clothes can’t be influenced, too.

Transcript of article:

“Are we men or are we sheep?” Mischa Auer roared in violent anger. “That’s what I want to know!”

“Bah, bah black sheep, have you any wool? Yessir, yessir, three bags full.” said Master Tony, aged five.

“Sheep, dear,” said Norma, his wife, in the placating tone frequently heard in our best asylums. “I thought we had settled that.”

“Da!” he spat out. Da, I gathered, is Russian for yes, okay, or you’re damned tootin’. “Sheep! Bah!”

“Tony, dear, I think you had better run upstairs and play with your nice new toys,” Norma interrupted the recitation. “Your father is in no mood for poetry today.” Tony took one look at father glaring at the brightly burning logs in the fireplace and beat a retreat.

“Sheep!” Father hissed again after a moody silence. “Da, sheep!”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude on anything personal, of course,” I said pleasantly, “but what’s this all about?”

“Men’s fashions,” Norma said, as if that made everything entirely clear. “In a way, I suppose, you might say the whole thing started yesterday when I brought my new Easter outfit home. It’s a lamb of a creation in teal blue and dusty pink with a lot of Scarlett O’Hara touches. You know, the Gone With the Wind influence which is so good this spring.”

“Perhaps,” he said darkly. “Who knows? A man must do his duty as he sees it.”

I know there are times when I’m slow on the up-take but for the life of me I couldn’t see what that had to do with men’s fashions and Mischa’s bitter denunciation of his fellow men as sheep. However, I rarely hesitate to ask about things I don’t understand, so I asked for a diagram. Norma hummed and hawed for a few moments.

“Why beat around the bush?” Mischa demanded. “The plain truth is, I’m jealous! I, too, want to strut in Easter finery. I, too, want to be influenced by the movies! But alas, like other men, I have sold my soul sartorial slavery. Bond Street speaks, and, like dogs under a whip, we cower and submit to its dictates. But mark you this: a revolution is coming. Some day we shall be free!”

Perhaps, I suggested, he would be the enlightened Moses who would lead men to new tailored glory?

In case he is called to head the crusade, Mischa has his slogan on file in the Copyright Bureau. Three little words, he said, tell the whole story. Nature Knows Best! 

“Modern manhood has been flying in the face of it,” he contended. “Which birds have the more brilliant plumage? The males. Which animals wear the brightest coats? The males. Which fish have the finest scales? The males. Why, then, should the genus homo accept less? The answer is tyranny. From the day he is pinned into his first diaper until finally somebody wraps him up in a shroud, man wears exactly what somebody tells him to wear, no more, no less. Who tells him? First his mother, then his father, and then his tailor. Who tells the tailor? More tailors!”

Take the matter of color, for instance. Day after day a man uncomplainingly permits his very soul to be smothered in dull browns, drab grays, dark blues and depressing black, Mischa said, when every instinct in him cries out for good strong stuff like purple or red. Why? Because he’s a sheep, that’s why. Because the tailor rolls out a few bolts of brown, gray, blue or black and says “What’ll it be?” Because he knows darned well they’d lock him up in a booby hatch if he showed up home in a nifty double-breasted number in lipstick red.

“Comes the revolution and all that will be changed,” Mischa promised. “Man for the first time will be allowed to express the beautiful things within him. Man will be an individual, not a carbon copy of every other dope on the street.”

He has given color considerable thought, Mischa said, even going so far as to work out a color chart as a guide to moods and emotions. Mauve, for example, is an excellent stimulant when you feel a binge coming on. Red is suggested for the jealous mood; green when you feel a touch of the dastard in your heart; yellow when you’re chipper; blue when the world looks sour; purple when a mother-in-law is due; dubonnet when you’re set for a quiet evening at home; ashes of roses when the outlook is pensive; and spotless white when the world’s your oyster.

“Black has its place in my scheme,” he went on. “I advise it for breakfast wear, since the breakfast hour is a horrible one at best. Shell pink, I think, does a lot for you when you are christening your children. And for the ballet, nothing can approach the oomph lift of a silver lame! Personally, I favor it made up in a Prince Albert model; you can use so much more of it!”

Comes the revolution and the ungainly and uncomfortable lines of men’s fashions will be changed, too, Mischa vowed. There will be no more of this carrying two pounds of padding on each shoulder in emulation of football giants. Stiff collars designed to choke and chafe will be outlawed entirely. The 18-pocket-in-a-suit routine, which turns a man into a gibbering beast every time he tries to find a theatre ticket or a parking check, will be a thing of the past. Ditto for tight fitting pants which must be pressed every time they get comfortable, matching vests which can never be found, and coats which look like the devil when they are not buttoned and feel like the devil when they are. Amen, brother!

As a matter of fact, Mischa already has done some advance work on the campaign. All his trousers have but two pockets instead of the conventional five. His tailor has ten fits every time he whips up a new Auer suit, and mutters naughty things behind the Auer back; but, by the great hornspoon, he leaves off the watch and two back pockets!

“It was a great fight!” Mischa chortled, “I wore him down with sheer logic. As I pointed out, why should I have a watch pocket when I wear a wrist watch? Why should I have back pockets when I never carry a wallet and use my breast pocket handkerchief as a blower as well as a show-er?”

With the dawning of the Auer Age in men’s fashions you’ll see some nifty innovations along the fabric line, Mischa promised. And high time! Too long, he said, have men been slaves to the deadly monotony of wool which scratches, is too hot, and stinks when it burns or gets wet; and to linen which gets messy when you take forty winks on a handy couch. Soon, he hopes, you’ll find them strutting in silk, satin, velvet and brocaded glory as befits their tender sensibilities. Soon, too, they’ll shatter the monopoly women have been exercising in use of fur and will boast topcoats, sport jackets, and evening capes in silver fox, beaver, mink, sable and ermine according to the good or bad news of the balance on the hand at the bank.

What men’s fashions today lack most seriously, however, are the gay touches known as the movie influence, Mischa said. That is what he really covets and that is the ultimate goal of the revolutionary 24-Auer-Plan for the modern male and his clothes.

“Imagine the pure joy and lofty inspiration a gent could get each day by trailing to the shower in a bathrobe of Alice blue velvet lined with virgin ermine!” he glowed. “Imagine the infinite delight one could achieve by sending his agent a military cape made up in skunk!”

Da, I had to admit, he had something there.

“Women got their wimples from Robin Hood and their snoods from The Old Maid,” he pointed out. “They got their full-skirted evening dresses from the Ginger Rogers dancing epics and their Letty Lynton frocks from the Joan Crawford picture of the same name. They got their boas from The Blue Angel and their bustles from Alexander Graham Bell. They got their toga capes from Cafe Metropole  and their visor hats from Beau Geste. Garbo was responsible  for the pillbox hat in The Painted Veil and the basque bodice came from Little Women.”

Why, then, shouldn’t men filch a sartorial tip or two from the movies? he asked. Turn-about always has been considered cricket. Even forgetting the fashion slant on the thing, the practical side of it commands respect, he insisted. 

“Take pants, for example.” he suggested cheerily, “there is magnificent opportunity for movie influence in that most essential of male garments. Since Gone With The Wind currently is high fashion in pictures, the first trouser trend might be taken from the Gable pantaloons. A distinct advantage would accrue from an adaption of the narrow band which slipped under the instep and held the trouser legs snugly over the ankles. In the first place, it would eliminate the use of garters, thus cutting down on wardrobe expense. In the second place, one could wear mismatched sox in perfect confidence that the social faux pas would go entirely undetected. Bing Crosby, for one, would find this a tremendous boon. And finally, it discourages the vulgar habit of removing the shoes in public since the pants, perforce, must come off first. Most men, you will admit, would be reluctant to go that far.”

Elizabeth and Essex gave him another idea along the pants line- the substitution of tights for trousers.

“Think of the savings it would mean in cleaning and pressing bills!” he enthused. “All the well-groomed gentlemen would have to do would be to rinse them out lightly every night and hang them to dry alongside of his wife’s silk hose in the bathroom. That’s a cosy, home-y touch in itself.

“Think of the advantages tights would have on the golf course! Supposing your ball lands in a tree? If you were wearing a snappy form-fit number you could shinny up the branches, retrieve the spheroid, and slide back to terra firm quicker than scat and with considerable grace and ease. Supposing you found yourself in the rough? If you were wearing the latest in knits you could blend yourself with the landscape and thus get away nicely with the furtive little lick which would give your ball a much better lie. And think how your opponent could be thrown off his game if you happened to have knobby knees or bow-legs! But magnificently!”

Finally, Mischa said, it really would mean something when someone spoke of you as a “fine figure of a man.”

“Too long have the weak brothers among us been permitted to cloak their inadequate shanks beneath a few miserable yards of worsted,” he complained. “Tights would put an end to that! Tights would establish a man beyond any doubt as Grade A, fair to middlin’ or just plain counterfeit.”

Although he admits a few hidebound males might consider it a bit on the flashy side, Mischa said he had figured out the perfect costume for hot weather wear, particularly in non-airconditioned offices. In a way it is his masterpiece because it combines four separate and distinct movie influences. First comes the pith helmet (The Sun Never Sets); next the loose-sleeved, open-throat silk blouse (Anthony Adverse); after that a cotton loin cloth (Tarzan); and finally, open-toed grass sandals (Gunga Din).

Male headgear especially needs the revitalizing touch of the movie influence, Mischa continued. The way things are now, a man’s hat has about as much individuality as a guinea pig in a research laboratory. In proof, watch a man pick up his hat in a restaurant or any other public place. He has to look in the band for his initials before he’s sure it belongs to him! If he breaks away from the conventional block of felt with a dented crown, he’s courting trouble. Berets brand him a sissy, caps make him look silly, and silk hats always fall off when he’s getting out of a cab, completely ruining whatever poise or dignity he may have.

“I’d like to see something done with turbans,” he said. “Glamour boys could copy the snazzy numbers Ty Power wore in The Rains Came while less exalted gents could get along with the simpler models from Suez. Aside from providing a handy cache for nimble shoplifters, turbans would prove a godsend to those rugged individualists who resent the custom of removing hats in elevators or tipping them to ladies on the street.”

By far the greatest advantage turbans offer, exclusive, of course, of the dazzling fashion opportunities in color, materials, and jewels, is the abolition of the checking menace and a resultant saving of some $1000 per turban. Mathematics, Mischa claims, prove it. To illustrate: the average man checks the average hat three times a day to the tune of $.75. (Checking. $.10; tip, $.15) Multiply 75 by 365 days per year and you have $273.75. Multiply that by 3 years (the average life of a hat) and you get $821.25. Add the normal expectancy in the way of cleaning, blocking and new ribbons and there you are- a neat $1000. Since turbans never are removed except at bedtime and in the bath, all the checking expenses automatically are eliminated.

The postillion influence  from Swiss Family Robinson undoubtedly would prove popular with fashion-conscious gentlemen under 6ft., Mischa continued, since postillion bonnets create the illusion of height. Gay plumes from Flash Gordon would add excitement to the chapeaux for gala occasions and also would prove useful for dusting off the car after a rain. 

He also saw great possibilities for an adaption of the iron topper from The Tower of London, he added. Such a hat never would require cleaning or blocking. Its color could be changed to harmonize with different outfits by the simple expedient of painting it with finger nail polish. And finally, its value upon returning home late on a lodge night is too clear to need further explanation.

“Ah, yes,” he sighed, “some day men will cast off their haberdashery shackles and be free! Some day their fashions, too, will be influenced by the movies! I can hear the radio announcer describing the Easter parade of tomorrow. There’s Clark Gable in a Marie Antoinette creation in champagne flat crepe with sophisticated highlights of gold thread. Here comes Errol Flynn in a crushed raspberry duvetyn piped Capistrano blue; with it he is wearing an Intermezzo tam with a Baby Sandy safety pin in rhine- stones and rubies. There’s Bob Taylor in a chic Algiers cardigan in the new golden green with a daffodil blouse in pin-tucked batiste. And here’s everybody’s favorite, Mischa Auer, with his wife Norma. She’s wearing a Gone With The Wind in teal blue and he is the essence of high fashion in a House of Seven Gables casual in infra-red.”

I said that I, for one, could hardly wait! All this and heaven too when comes the revolution?

“Da!” he said happily.

[choir-ghost-expert]

((In character:))

Hi, welcome to my blog.

The name's Bailey and I'm a member of the St Cassian Chamber Choir.

Maybe you want to know a little about me, hm? Well alright, but I'm not exactly that interesting.

My family consist of my aunt and uncle, Mum and dad, My adoptive cousin Mischa (he is really cool and I look up to him) and his other cousin (the one whose birthday Mischa stole alcohol for). I live with my aunt (mum's sister) and uncle though. Mum and dad moved to Uranium a few years back which was when I moved in with my aunt and uncle since mum and dad were always away on business trips and stuff. Before we moved to Uranium we actually lived in England.

I love all things spooky, scary and terrifying!

Oh, I also love love loooove true crime stuff too.

I secretly go out exploring abandoned buildings and stuff looking for ghosts, when I'm not busy with choir stuff anyway.

My adoptive cousin, Mischa, is also a part of the choir, and I think he's pretty cool! Cooler than I could ever be, or at least I think he is anyway.

Um...what else is there to say? Oh right.

I love classical music as well as pop punk/emo stuff, like blast some gothic crap or some good ol' mcr and I will love it. And I love making my own theories about true unsolved crimes.

Anyways, this is my blog, feel free to stay a while.

((Out Of Character: Heyyyyy its @pumpkin-is-fandom-trash (My blog for just random content from different fandoms)/ @go-punk-pumpkin-spice (my main blog) , I finally made a blog for my RTC OC Bailey, not gonna be too active on here though, just made it for fun. Just call me Pumpkin/Pumpkin Spice. She/her. ))

[rainbowxocs]

Are gave off those vibes to me!

Mieola's an arrogant bastard who means well but isn't too charismatic or emotionally sensitive, and who thinks that being lawful good in terms of alignment means that all good aligned people will immediately like her. She's prone to despising people even if she doesn't say it out loud and thinks she's good at hiding it but she really isn't too good.

She doesn't really enjoy being in the spotlight. She'll say it's because she works from the shadows and tries to be edgy about it, but it's really because she's got bad social skills and is afraid of messing up or social rejection.

She does things like try to save the day, and she ends up getting hurt a lot as a result but plays off how she gets hurt to try and look cool. I really want to write her now because I feel like since she's only 15 there's a lot of potential character development to have in her, and it's interesting to see how she'll interact with other characters.

Mieola didn't have a backstory because she was my sona when she was first written so I didn't think she'd need one, but I can't quite think of a backstory right now. I want to write one though. I WANT to. Any ideas?

Hmmm I’m not sure! When I’m writing a character I try to put together like, themes. Things I want to write about or feelings I want to express.

Like Mischa, has themes of religion, True crime, Innocence, etc.

Jonah has themes of The French Rococo Period, The Moon, Personality Disorders, Having to wear a metaphorical mask, etc.

Or you could do my favorite thing which is, getting inspired by your favorite media.

Ana is inspired Mimikyu from Pokémon and the Groke from the Moomins.

Alex is inspired by Steven from SU, and Lain from Serial Experiments Lain

[faggvert]

I posted 205 times in 2022

32 posts created (16%)

173 posts reblogged (84%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@aftersun2022

@milkcrisis

@thefoetusallnuderevue

@bastardiando

@lesbianjinbe

I tagged 192 of my posts in 2022

Only 6% of my posts had no tags

#pics - 94 posts

#phorustalk - 36 posts

#art - 31 posts

#tv tag - 28 posts

#one piece - 15 posts

#roronoa zoro - 9 posts

#video - 9 posts

#spn - 9 posts

#spnposting - 9 posts

#tvposting - 8 posts

Longest Tag: 124 characters

#i have a bunch of og posts (from march 2022 and prior) that arent tagged at all and ill go through and tag them another time

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

this show is so fucking funny. the winchesters are the only family ever that held the neurotypical child in a worse light than the very AutDHD one. “because i didn’t wanna bow-hunt or hustle pool because i wanted to go to school and live my life, which in our whacked-out family made me the freak.” like that’s hilarious. i just KNOW dean was getting a 60 or below in every class and his dad fucking loved him for it but sam gets straight As and Bs and his dad couldn’t give less of a shit. dean has never completed a piece of homework in his life but sam would always do his AND get it in on time and their dad discouraged sam’s way of thinking because he liked it better when they slacked off. dean’s only friends were other warriors cats kids and they were only friends for like a week because he was too weird even for them. sam made friends with or at least was acquainted with most of his classmates and that was seen as bad because he had less time to hunt monsters. literally magical.

6 notes - Posted July 10, 2022

#4

sorry for theaterposting but the the general impression i'm getting from the rtc fanbase is that not a lot of people like or agree with the idea of noel catfishing mischa but i for one am super on board with it. i think it's hilarious.

think of your high schools soundcloud rapper (there's at least one of them). you don't know him that well and he's got goofy ass rhymes and he's just a funny character. now imagine your school and town are small and insanely boring, and you're the only gay guy there. you're bored as fuck and one day on youtube you see one of this soundcloud rapper's videos in your recommended and you think "hey, wouldn't it be funny if i pretended to be a hot girl and trolled this guy?" so you do and it's funny and you keep it going for a while because what else do you have to do. then it's been a couple months and you realize this guy is super serious about this relationship and you don't want to end it because you're still having fun, and also because deep down you know it'll hurt him and you've kind of gotten to know him. he ends up proposing to you and you don't know what to do so you say yes and you guys are having cringy google translate internet sex on the regular and he starts talking about saving money to go to ukraine where you don't live to meet you and you realize there's no way to get out of this without him getting hurt. you're vaguely considering faking either your death or your catfish persona's death because you love drama. then you go on a choir trip and the guy is there so you do what you usually do and reply to his texts whenever he's not looking. then you fucking DIE and you're like, this sucks but at least i don't have to deal with that fake online relationship i got myself into.

and then you look over and he's there next to you.

7 notes - Posted December 11, 2022

#3

izzy hands is so workingclass bitter prolegirl mindsick cripplerage.

10 notes - Posted November 28, 2022

#2

honestly from now on im considering it a hate crime to think of zoro as straight. and cis for that matter.

13 notes - Posted April 25, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

i love ruining zoro for dudebros. you dont understand him like i do. i know that hes fat and trans and autistic and gay and mentally ill and disabled. but even more importantly i know he likes math.

14 notes - Posted July 6, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[kingdomtee]

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[imeverywoman420]

hannibal was a VICTIM dude its so crazyy how like the average casual viewer of hannibal nbc or person who has watched silence of the lambs once in 2003 while smoking brick weed in a basement has this conception hannibal lecter is a sociopath when his whole gimmick is. He is a sensitive dude. at one point this was a small child that was forced to eat his baby sister. Do you think this is something people can heal from lmao. You know its so crazy ive never seen anyone analyzing hannibals character point out the most obvious things- hannibals interest in psychiatry and psychology comes from a deep need to heal himself. Hannibal is so sensitive to disgust. He never had a chance in this lifetime. The way that he embraced cannibalism and subject matters of the 8th house, it’s a defense mechanism for his ego. It is easier to try to convince himself of this nihilistic dog eat dog world than to process his trauma. Mischa, the one person he had felt true love for, can never forgive him or absolve him for cannibalizing her.

The relationship he has with sexy autist will graham, is this anxious avoidant come here go away constantly creating tests for your partner and trying to avoid being abandoned at all costs. Hannibal is so charming he could have any trophy wife or husband he wants, he doesnt want that. He has no desire for fake displays of love, he doesn’t want to be worshipped by someone he views as beneath him. He wants to be Seen. To Hannibal, because of who he is and what he has done, love is so intertwined with hate and disgust. im sorry i hit the bong again i totally forgot what i was gonna say. Probably that hannibal just keeps fucking with will because hannibal hates himself so much. Every crime scene is hannibal saying SEE. SEE HOW EVIL I AM. I DID THIS. Implicitly challenging Will.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Noel: I can’t stand Ocean. I would staple her mouth shut if Constance and Mischa wouldn’t physically hold me back

Ocean: I would rather choke on my own vomit than let Noel see me in a state of vulnerability in fear of what he’d do with that knowledge

Literally anyone outside of the choir: *says something negative about either one*

Noel and Ocean: how dare you say that about one of the five people I care about on this planet. They bring light to this awful town. Say that again, I dare you

(Penny: *creeping up behind the person with a whole grand piano lifted over her head, ready to strike*)

Noel and Ocean are the only ones who can insult each other. it’s a federal crime for anyone else.

[willgrahambf]

since u want more asks like that: whats ur opinion on why hannibal ate mischa? i like that the book/film canon suggests that it was unintentional / forced and that it traumatized him to the point of inspiring his current proclivities, but the tv canon seems to suggest he already had those proclivities and did so as an act of love/grief/forgiveness, and also implies that the events of his childhood did not necessarily make him who he was. do you have any thoughts on that?

i prefer the idea that his proclivities were already forming and that he ate mischa of his own volition. hannibal is all about making choices. yes, i know that's hard to believe given that he manipulates people into bad situations, but he wants to see what people will do with the bad situations they are given. sink or swim. he genuinely believes that because he chose to ate mischa that he is in control of what happened to him. that line that he says to jack at mural crimes scene kind of perfectly incapsulates it: "when it comes to nature or nurture, i choose neither. we are built from a DNA blueprint and born into a world of scenario and circumstance we don't control." there's what you're born with and what the world does to you. to hannibal it's about what you do with what you are given. and because he chose to eat mischa, he's transcended that binding of uncontrollable circumstance, hence his god complex. on an emotional level, he ate her to keep her with him forever (the tragedy is not to die but to be wasted), and because she influenced him to betray him (made him feel things that were outside of his control, perhaps made him feel self-destructive like will does to him). eating her (and will if he'd succeeded) would've been making them one with him, thus removing the influence but also merging them and reconciling his rejection of their love.

thanks for the ask <3