The Lost Girl

"I agree very much with that statement," he told her, standing and coming behind her to look over the books she was pulling from the shelves; some of them were very personal, but others were readily available for her to read. He did have a few annotated copies of cookbooks— a risky move on his part, but one he cherished, nonetheless. "I find that death is able to be manipulated to how we see fit, if you are daring enough to attempt to do so. Death can be both a foe and a friend."

#mansmindmedic #c: Hannibal Lecter #[why is this sibling time so CUTE]

Mischa made a bit of a face at his last statement, but not in judgment or an accusing way. She looked up from the book she held, brows furrowed at her brother. "How can Death ever be a friend?" She asked, now turning to face him. "I agree that Death can be manipulated for one's gain, but what I do not agree on it that to manipulate Death is okay...I mean, unless you are escaping it of your own accord...like I did." She paused then, shutting the book, her finger making the page she was on.

Left The Wounded- {Will+Mischa}

He returned her smile, finding it a bit easier to actually do so now. It came with more ease. And he was thankful for that. He wanted to fall back into the cycle of their friendship despite what he had learned. He wanted to feel again that inkling for trust. But there were still obstacles. Ones that not only said he might not be unable to trust her given her relations but also that she maybe shouldn’t trust him. Was there anything he wouldn’t do not to expose Hannibal Lecter? Even if it meant to cut out a vital part of himself. He was already internally wounded. What more damage could Hannibal do to him? "Cats, I hear, are more high maintenance. They want your every doting moment. Dogs are more laid back, they content themselves with warmth."

#shadowsuspended #c: Will Graham

"To tell you the truth, I've heard the opposite...aaaand then I found Salem." Mischa chuckled when a couple more of the dogs came over to them. She seemed to really be enjoying their attention, finding each and everyone of them adorable and a wonderful change of subject and a good way to clear the air. It definitely needed clearing--no need to bog the room down anymore with the conversation she brought up. The information she trusted him with. And that could've been her downfall--that she actually trusted Will Graham and thought he would keep her secret. She honestly, truly, hoped he did. "What are their names?" She asked, nodding to the dogs rushing them now, realizing they were going to get attention.

"If death is something predestined, then how are we so easily able to manipulate it?" he asked her, closing his eyes to think about what her answer would be. If it was true, that God was the only one to use death, and use it as a form of controlling destinies, then wouldn’t Hannibal be something like God?

That was exactly how he saw it, exactly how he liked it.

#mansmindmedic #c: Hannibal Lecter

"Just like how the Greek heroes escaped their fates sometimes." Mischa commented calmly, furrowing her brows at the book in her hands, putting it back on the shelf and searching for another. "Making deals for power, even if they're unspoken deals. The devil is real, and the devil is among us--and many. He is never just one." She rambled as if she were positive about what she spoke of, though in the back of her mind she wasn't sure she made sense.

"What do you think of death? Do you believe it to be God’s cruel invention, or an influenced, perhaps biased being that takes those according to their destiny?"

#mansmindmedic #c: Hannibal Lecter

Mischa made a bit of a face at the question, perusing the books in her brother's office. She had one open, looking through it while he spoke to her. "Death?" There wasn't an answer right away. "...I can't say I believe in God...at least, not anymore. I've always seen Death as being that takes people according to their destinies--like the fates in Greek Mythology."

ooc:

Hey guys! I've messaged a lot of people for storylines and what not, so now I'm extending my offer-if you want to play something send me an ask! I've been kind of on and off I'll admit (I'm staying with a friend for a couple weeks, so we've been busy) but I do check here to see if I owe every single night! No, really, hit me up. I encourage it. I'm very open to any and all storylines.

#mun tag

cookie-chan11

REBLOG IF YOU HAVE A SKYPE

Help. I've started watching Bob's Burgers and so far my summer has consisted of me lying in bed with Salem and completing what is available on Netflix of this show. why I was going to be productive--but productivity starts with another 3 hour drive tomorrow..

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Imogen Poots in the 'A Long Way Down (2014)' trailer [x].

#misc #c: Mischa

Left The Wounded- {Will+Mischa}

"That was random." he replied. The comment was meant to be a light one. One that was easy and light. He liked the change of subject. Preferred it to the heaviness that was stalking throughout their conversation.

But he knew that the lightness couldn’t remain. He knew that it would hook itself through them once again. He knew that it would always come back. She was Hannibal Lecters sister, the sister that he had cried over. The one that was supposed to be dead. And there was a strange mixture of a thousand different feelings raging inside of him, pulling at him. A need to tell Hannibal, a need to break away from this relation with her. A need to hide it and use it against him. A contempt towards her and himself for the vile connection they shared. And also for the thought that he had of what use she might be in this long running dangerous game he was creating and playing at now. But he had to for the moment, for her sake push all that from his mind. Push it so far out so that it would not consume their talk anymore. Because she was burdened. Did the concern make her his friend? There was some fear in that. Too much for him to confirm anything. "I have 8." he replied, trying to give her something of a smile.

#shadowsuspended #c: Will Graham #[You have no idea how excited I was to see a reply to this. I LOVE writing with you so much.]

Mischa tried her best not to allow herself to think of anything else but the subject she decided to bring up. The dogs, yes. The dogs were interesting, because she loved animals, and she had Salem back at her apartment. Maybe she'd introduce him to Will one day. Maybe Will would like him. Salem liking Will would be a different story, because Salem was more antisocial than Mischa was, and that was saying something about the cat's demeanor.

An apology bubbled up again, and she pushed it back down, closing her eyes for a moment, and smiling when he said he had eight dogs. "Eight?" She repeated, opening her eyes and looking over at him with the semblance of a smile on her face. Her smile, though troubled, was pretty and lit up her entire face. She always remembered to let a smile reach her eyes when she meant it, even if there were burdens behind it. It was something that was good and bad for her; she knew how to lure someone into a false sense of security and use them for her purposes using her smile. She knew how to ruin someone's world, someone's life--she had no intentions of this with Will. She hoped he had none with her. "How do you keep up with them all? My one cat is a handful most of the time." She smiled a little brighter when one of the dogs approached her, and she held out a hand for him to access if she was worthy of petting him or not. When the dog bumped her hand with his nose, Mischa laughed softly, petting him.

♤

Send me a ♤ and I will generate a number for what my muse will say to yours.

15. “Why did you leave?”

It was all a blur to him now, at his age and with his mindset. There was nothing he remembered more clearly than the men eating his sister and feeding her to him. Beyond that, he could hardly reason why she would have left him with the soldiers, left him to fend for himself when she very well knew that he could do no such thing. Hannibal wasn’t angry, no, not at all. He was flustered, for once, his tongue caught in his throat while he mulled over the possibilities of reactions to the news that his baby sister, the girl he had initially set out to kill for, was alive, well, and knew nothing of those murders, or the ones he was committing now, or that he was cannibalizing his victims. He almost felt a sense of guilt in front of her now, with her clear eyes staring at him as though Jesus had been reincarnated and stood at the front of his desk.

"Why did you leave France, Mischa? Why did you come here?"

He had said far too much to Mischa for her to be able to comprehend, which meant he was, for the time being, safe. His well-constructed wall of lies was temporarily still secured, especially in front of her, and he hardly bat an eye. “In case I lose my job, in case I no longer have patients or eventually retire from psychology… Other allegations would entail these situations. My lifestyle is adaptable, I change it how I please when it needs to be rearranged.” There were many instances in his life where he felt it absolutely necessary to conform, and others to ostracize himself entirely.

Hannibal stood then and walked in long strides to his book shelf, fingers gliding over the covers of each of them, until he found something that would be worth her time. Inside the book was a newspaper, which he had a particular fondness for. From 1985, and detailing the murders of the men that he had thought had eaten her. Though it was gruesome, how these murders were described, he felt it fair that she at least be given this piece of history, one she was left out of. He slid it out of the book and put it on the desk delicately in front of her and return the book to its placing on the shelf, and then sat once more.

The people in the story were as dead as his childishness.

#mansmindmedic #c: Hannibal Lecter #[hardy HAR HAR VERY FUNNY OMG]

The expression on Mischa's face when he gave her the paper was unreadable at first. She picked up the paper and stared at it, reading it, her eyes scanning the words quickly, looking at the photographs they chose to include...then her eyes changed. All the terror in the world seemed to settle into them, and her grip tightened on the paper a bit. "I feel ill," She said softly, growing pale and setting it down closing her eyes tightly. She'd never wanted to read or hear anything about those people again, but the details of the murders (and apparent details of pieces of skin missing, organs...) made her feel sick. She knew exactly who had taken care of them in some sort of revenge for her. "I'm sorry," She started, her voice shaky and quiet. "This isn't...these aren't...memories I wish to revisit..."

smallestshrike

The woman who approached her was young, pretty—vaguely Slavic in appearance, those high-cut cheekbones and that wavy blonde hair. She reminded Abigail of someone, though she was certain she’d never met the woman before: she would have remembered someone that attractive.

Ordinarily, she’d have fallen easily into conversation—her father had trained her well; she knew the exact cadence of voice to use to lure, but also to push away, to subtly manipulate the other party into reacting to her as she desired. She might’ve made small talk with the woman, a mask of smiles, scripted pleasantries. Told her she was fine, thank you. Not lost. Everything okay.

But she was a little out of practice, unaccustomed to friendly contact, now—so used to playing the role of the victim, the hunted and not the hunter. She withdrew, two steps back into the crowd, accidentally bumping into an elderly man smoking a cigarette on the platform. She apologized to him, her hands shaking as she nervously swept the hair out of her eyes.

She turned back to the woman, trying to control the startled widening of her eyes, the way her face had no doubt arranged itself into an expression of fear and unease.

She shouldn’t talk to strangers. It would be best to just move on, to duck into the throng of human bodies and disappear, once more anonymous. Why had this woman approached? Did she know something? Did she recognize her?

"M-me…? I’m f-…I’m fine." she smiled, but it looked wrong on her pale, wind-chapped face. The dark circles under her eyes made her look gaunt, corpse-like. "Thanks for…thanks for asking. Just um…just waiting for…for my dad…"

Stupid lie. And why had it been the first thing to come to mind? There was no father in her life, anymore—not even the ghost of one, not even the poor replacement that had been Hannibal Lecter.