#bythieves

[lovecurst]

@bythieves​

there is something strange and creaky about her joints these days, some bone-deep soreness that cannot simply be claimed by the long days of work. the hem of her skirt is caked with mud and hair plastered to the sides of her face with the sudden rain that had split the sky and barreled down. the geese had startled and the slog back to the palace had been slow and made difficult by the slippery terrain of bluffs and grass. head tipped up to the gray sky, snow startles when her wet shoulder collides with another - - - “sorry,” she blinks, shakes her head, feels like there is cotton in her mouth and down her throat, “are you alright?”

[dadukos-arc]

@bythieves​ sent: 34 — sender  is  found  by  receiver  somewhere  they  shouldn’t  be .

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐘𝐓𝐇 𝐆𝐎 ?   ariadne   spins   a   thread   and finds her way out. she, instead, weaves a web to trap her further deep into this maze: the old warehouse coils around and on itself over and over, and as she walks along its hallways, badly lit and moldy, freddie thinks it must look less warehouse and more monster, a horror for the books: a thousand-eyes beast with a million snakes for a body, and it all rotting, it all decaying, maggot people seeping out of its scales. acid shoots up her stomach when the thought occurs, revolting and perverse: she is turning    half-maggot    too. and yet momentum will not allow her steps to slow down —— they chase after each other, purposeful, because this really is not a maze, but a straight line, and POINT A is a life choking inside a noose, and POINT B is breathing, and freedom, and so she can’t slow down. can’t stop to think of which parts of her are being digested, what will be left by the time she makes her way outside —— there is going on, or cutting the thread altogether. nevermind the bile rising inside. the script, either way, is easy to follow — it’s killing every ounce of herself, temporarily, for something else to take place. a different self: eyes sharp as puncture needles, and not an ounce of doubt as she makes her way to victor’s office to carry documents she will make diligent copies of before shredding —— she the handmaid, the mule, and the cancer spreading from within.

yet freddie stops, dead in her tracks, before the last corner leading up to the office. the silhouette looks like nothing more than a smudged stain of darkness, in the faint neon light —— it takes a second for her to make out the features, recognize the stranger to be   the   other   victor —— allegedly harmless and not a variable she’s accounting as any particular danger to her plan, as of now, but a variable nonetheless. because the thing is this —— he shouldn’t be here. in the hallway that leads to two points of interest ( victor’s office on the far end, an archive on the right ) and one single insignificant utility room. freddie tenses instantly: second nature, by now. pace slowing down significantly and crawling to a halt before she gets close enough to spot his expression, and wonder: what’s up with him ? something about him marks him as different from the usual crooks crowding these rooms —— there is perhaps a spark of something in his eyes. she caught him once, over a meeting in the main hall —— two weeks back in texas, and she’d caught herself thinking of charlie when she’d first laid eyes on victor, and had hated herself for the thought, once more had wished for time travel, to go back to before the end of all. the thought had been shoved back, swallowed back inside like an unwanted aftertaste — regret must not be felt in the belly of the beast, the monster knows how to prey on it. so, past that moment, she’d made it a point to never look at victor conley again, lest he reminds her of another kid with a spark in his eyes, and the death on his face when it had all come crumbling down. lest she cares again, really. the monster preys on that most of all.

“ what are you doing here ? ”. she keeps her voice low now, her tone is measured: her demeanor here is an experiment in apparent numbness. arms crossed, she takes two steps closer and never once takes her eyes off him. “ this is a private area. you shouldn’t be here. ” which begs the question, silent still though it rests on the tip of her tongue: what kind of game are you playing ?

NONVERBAL PROMPTS —— selectively accepting.

[aleximedicusa]

𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑.  /  @bythieves​.

“ dear god, man, get inside. ” hooking his arm around the man’s elbow, he harshly yanked victor past the threshold and shut the door behind the two of them. he had dealt with resurrection men in the past who could be described as less than bright, but he had never come across one that looked so green as this one — both metaphorically, in terms of his experience, and literally, in terms of how apt he looked to vomit up his dinner. with the door firmly shut behind them, lewis hoisted the body over his own shoulder and carried it over to the waiting table. without turning his head, he snapped, “ one more minute on that doorstep and you might have been caught. have you never delivered a body before? ”

[archaeval]

@bythieves​ liked x

“You’re not the gentleman I sent for, are you? Harron said he’d be here by ten o’clock, and I don’t have time to wait around like this.” She shuffled her considerable stack of papers, glancing down to frown at a few numbers, pull a pen from her breast pocket, and adjust something.

[alcriti]

Death never was truly the end -- a temporary stop, more like -- but in undeath, he was graciously allowed to prowl the streets once more! The elusiveness of the event, the very one that left his body stiff and slightly colder than the usual, left a blank space in his memory. How and why it happened being the usual questions that might pervade his conscious, but it did not truly matter when the subject of his missing belongings forcibly stole his focus. That, and the lingering stench of who he assumed to be the thief that hung so thickly upon him.

A certain degree of plotting went into this hunt of his: The weeks spent prowling, watching, and the utter glee at finally putting a face to the ambiguous shape known only as thief. 

Astarion is houses ahead, hidden in shadow, listening to each step that draws the thief nearer, and nearer to him. In his hands, he twists a dagger, and just as the shape of his prey passes the opening into the darkness -- his hand, materialising from the nothing -- grabs his prey, yanking him in and down, and he vanishes too. Using his full strength to leave the thief’s feet dangling, he is pressed against the alley’s wall, a knife blade tucked under his chin. ❝ It’s nice to finally meet you, ❞ Astarion coos, showing no quarter in baring his teeth at his prey, ❝ I believe you have something of mine, thief. ❞

@bythieves​​ / plotted! ♥

[bladewarde]

( VIC. )

❝ Are y’done making friends with the plants? ❞ She questions, her jab markedly letting the other know that she’s aware he spends much of his time in the garden. Vic had made quite the turn around in the weeks since -- by her own perceptions -- but he was still... gloomy, if that could even be the correct word for whatever mood he wrapped himself up in since Haven.

Laera eyes him, then the plants, and her mouth twists into a frown, ❝ Are you doing alright? ❞ Her voice is softer than its usual, but the expression she wears betrays the sheer uncomfortability she feels in asking.

@bythieves​​ / plotted!

[folklured]

25 and 26 !!

25﹕ who is an author whose writing inspires your own ?

catheryne m. valente, hands down. deathless changed me as a person. also, angela carter's the bloody chamber is a huge influence for me. i also read the shatter me series earlier this year and tahereh mafi's words are.....man.....MAN.....honestly reading that series helped bring back a lot of my love for writing/reading.

26﹕ who was your very first muse ? would you consider writing them now ?

in terms of canon characters, alice cullen and bella swan i think. when i was like. 12. and i do still theoretically write them, so yes fhsdj. and my first indie muse was lydia martin and honestly i miss writing her so much.

[kryetara]

quite possibly the  thirteenth  cigarette today ;    an ironically unlucky number,    ira waits as patiently as he can manage,    fraught with pin and needle nerve endings that patter under his skin.    he’s almost certain he’s met victor once or twice before,    sure he’s seen him around severin’s or maria’s,    but he’s not so sure he’s spoke to him just yet.    this will change today.      (  change  ..    that’s  the idea.  )      ira notices the other pacing toward him at last,    and stands to attention,    sniffing,    fiddling with something in his pocket.           “       thanks for coming,     ”             he’ll begin,    somewhat unsure how to go about this.    he was intentionally  vague  when he asked victor to meet him.        “      i know we haven’t really ..    spoke much,    so   ...     ”

“      you want a,  uh   ..    ”        figuring that offering a cigarette to him would break the ice,    ira holds one out for him.

//       featuring   @bythieves​ .

[dadukos-arc]

“ don’t let them control you, eh? ” —— from : @bythieves​​ .​

𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄-𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅, out of line — it reverberates somewhere between sarcasm and deprecation, unsure where to fall, and in the end it just sounds sad. control is a nice little word, it is a single arrow from one point to the other: it’s a clear show of power, there is an up and there is a down. only she can’t tell which is which anymore. can’t tell how much of this is her, still — how much is the consequence of the quicksand she’s dug herself in. fred looks at the cigarette burning between her fingers. that part is her. the burning of things —— she brings it to her lips, takes another drag, and thinks it’s enough. next year, next year she’s quitting for good.

“ you gonna follow your own advice ? ”. when she turns to look at victor, her eyes are only half-shielded by the sun and she has to squint. through blurry vision, he expands: not just victory anymore, but about half a dozen souls she’s met before him, too. men young enough for her to call kids, chewed up until their bones showed. girls once dainty and delicate now burned, consumed, their edges charred. she might not know much about him yet, but fred cares —— enough for her to wish her same fate be spared to him. may he never doubt who he is, how much of himself is truly his: may he always have himself to count upon.

“ you can’t let them do that either. ” fred takes another drag, then drops the cigarette, stomps it out with the heel of her boot. the sun is beginning to lower and she thinks the mood is fitting, the darkness approaching: she’ll have to go back inside soon. the sunlight is close to over. she stops just before heading back in: looks down at him, and remembers. years ago, it was her in his place, and a friend leaving her behind — she remembers his voice, still.

“ you gotta get out of here, vic. they’re gonna eat you alive. ”

EMOTIONALLY INTENSE PROMPTS   /   not accepting .

[aleximedicus]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋.  /  @bythieves​.

“ so. ” the surgeon took a moment to eye the man up and down, then stepped back to usher him inside the back door with his grisly cargo in tow. “ overcome your squeamishness, i see. have you brought a diamond necklace as well? ”

[crimewroughtarc]

 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓,  her ears ring hot with panic.  cruel tendrils of warmth burn hard upon her skin,  shooting up from the nape of her neck in unforgiving blasts.  𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌,  𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝.  shown all too clearly in her eyes  (  𝐰𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐥,  𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠  ) ,  and too in the steadfast determination of her gait.  her search thus far has been a fruitless one.  their usual haunts,  void of whom she searches for     ;     her calls,  left to ring out,  unanswered.  and yet,  she’s not one to give up easily.  so here she is,  searching in such pitiful desperation for one whose friendship she so clings to     ——–     𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐚 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞.

     ❝          ——–     ...  vic ?!          ❞         her voice,  an bounding echo in the sprawling darkness.  𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜,  and she spots him     ——–     he cuts a lone figure on the bridge,  𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.  even in the darkness,  there shines a distinct glint of guilt in her gaze.          ❝          ...  i need to talk to you.  i     ——–     i did something really stupid.  really stupid,  but     ——–     i can explain.  i just need to talk to you.           ❞          @bythieves​.

[aleximedicusa]

@bythieves​ asked: ✐ for a randomised starter

“ once you start parsing a face, it’s a peculiar item: squishy, pointy, with lots of air vents and wet spots. ”

[archaeval]

24 and 25!

rp experiences || accepting

∗ 24﹕ is  there  a  specific  song  that  gets  you  in  the  mood  for  writing ?

Tbh nah. I prefer to have instrumental music of some sort playing, and I have playlists for various projects, but not really a specific song for writing. I've been really into the post-rock sleepy jams playlist on spotify for chill background noise, and the king in yellow orchestral mix on youtube.

∗ 25﹕ who  is  an  author  whose  writing  inspires  your  own ?

Honestly, I think Cat Valente's deathless formed the foundation of my writing for the longest time, and has remained a keystone of my writing style and preferences in literature and media. I don't think about it 100% of the time, but like. it's definitely always there. lurking in my bones. Beyond that, i can't think of any One Specific Author, or even any other specific books valente wrote lol, but I hope my writing is good enough to get published one day, whether ruby is in the story or not

[vxctorx-archived]

@bythieves​​​​

continued x

  ❝——Let’s worry about the semantics later, shall we?❞ His fingers curl against the probing hand determined to investigate whatever is hidden beneath the collar of his shirt in a firmly lenient hold. They are, undeniably so, garnering for too much undesired attention from the charming frequenters of the establishment, although not of the kind which his companion is implying. 

  ❝——For now, I believe taking you home should be our primary concern.❞ A strong arm wraps itself around the other’s shoulders as he attempts to pull the man onto his feet. This night shall serve as yet another excellent reminder as to the reason why he has never been inclined towards frequenting bars, and most certainly not in a disreputable neighbourhood such as this; far too many prejudiced drunkards ready to turn an objectionable gaze towards fellow male patrons of the overly affectionate nature. 

[bladewarde]

“  i can take care of myself.  ” / @bythieves​

Her response to that is to wipe the blood from her nose -- harshly drawing the back of her hand across and over her face -- with a clogged snort. Whatever comes out sits in her throat uncomfortably, makes her grimace. ❝ Yeah, I know, ❞ And so what? Her dark eyes trail to Vic as she sits on the floor, awkwardly twisted into a position that eases the sharp pinch in her side. ❝ Y’think I was just goin’ to let you get your arse kicked? Piss off. ❞

Another snort, sucking down a mix of blood and mucus with a cough, as she leans back, thinking of the beating she just took. In passing, Vic had mentioned what his old crew was capable of --  a nasty lot, nothing unusual in the circles she ran in -- but godsdamned. ❝ Tell me true: Was I in o’er my ‘ead doing that? ❞ And she looks at him now, slumping further and further down on the floor, before she rests on her elbows, on the side that hurts the least. ❝ At the time, I didn’t feel like it was crazy, but now, I can’t say I’m so certain... ❞ Laera smiles, though, mostly to herself. Aye, that was foolish. ❝ Don’t you get tired of taking care of yourself...? If only because y’ave to? I do. I know what that’s like; I figure I could lend you a ‘and. ❞

[winterbeheaded]

𝐢.     stcall     .     ▬   @bythieves​​​​​​     ˑ

❛          i     c-couldn’t     sleep     last     night     s-s-so      i     made     these     ▬         here     .          ❜

riley’s     hands     extend     ,      tupperware     filled     to      the     BRIM     with     home     made     cookies     sit     in     her     palms     .                  they’re     so     good     it’s     sinful     .