#or if its before fall of Atlas it could be like drunken one night stand and aftermath of it turns out to them wanting to try out dating

[rwby-confess]

i know you are a an of qrow and winter, but id love to see a shipping chart Qrow and Willow aka as alcoholics anonymous

It would be funny if the vol 10 happened and we saw them flirting, what a power move that would be (and then Weiss going like "omg mom do you even know who that guy is, he's crusty" >:-/)

[willownoir1112]

Hiya everyone! Wyn here with today's White Rose Week 2021 entry, which is flirting! Now, today features a genderbent Weiss in honor of my friend CelestialPrincess, who could not participate due to scheduling conflicts, as well as for Akirou 02, who wrote one of my all time favorite fics, They're Yours Too! I hope everyone enjoys, and I will see you tomorrow with another day!

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Flirting

Ruby Rose can feel her eye twitching as the drunk white haired wolf Faunus man continues his verbal assault on all four of her tender, not innocent in the least, but still offended ear drums. It wouldn't be so bad if he was at least good at it, but even she's starting to think that it's impossible.

"Sho, you should gib me a chance, cause I'm… ummm…"

She's pretty sure he's trying to flirt. She's actually almost sure he's trying to flirt, and for the life of her she doesn't understand why! She's nothing special, just another non descript rabbit faunus stuck on an overnight layover in Mantle while trying to get home to Vale. Not for the first time since she left on this trip, she wishes she hadn't agreed to come to Atlas to meet James Ironwood on behalf of the Rose Weapons Corporation.

She especially despises being the Heiress of the company her mother, a successful huntress, founded after her retirement.

"I got it!" He grins drunkenly at her as he pounds a fist into his hand. "I'm not a dolt!"

She couldn't help it. She couldn't stop her hand from colliding with her face, then slowly dragging it's way down her fair skin in her… She's honestly not sure if it's because she's exasperated, or because her older half brother Xiang would be crying at how badly this guy can flirt. "So I should leave with you because you're not a dolt?" She asks, getting an enthusiastic nod of the head in reply.

"Not only am I not a dolt, but I'm also a virgin!" He declares in his eagerness, a goofy smile on his face. One that grows as he takes another sip of his drink, what appears to be a vodka on the rocks by the look and smell of it. And she's convinced he's had at least two too many.

"Look, I'm flattered that you want to lose your v-card to me, but I have to pass." She replies calmly, feeling her heart break a bit at the sad puppy look that comes across his face. "I'm only here for the night."

"See?" He declares as his drunken smile returns in force. "You can make a man of me, then you'll never see me again! It's a win-win!"

"Uh huh." She mumbles as she motions for the bartender to top off her own wine glass. If she's going to keep listening to this, then she might as well as go ahead and get buzzed. "What's your name?" She asks, deciding she needs to give the source of her irritation a proper name other than Drunken Wolf Idiot.

"It's Eis, and did you know you have really pretty eyes?" He adds the last wistfully as he stares into them, making her stare into his own sky blues. She has to admit, he has gorgeous eyes, and after taking a liberal sip of her wine, she has to admit he's not too bad looking. Now if only he could actually flirt.

"You're not the first person to tell me that, Eis." She replies as she offers him her hand. "I'm…" Before she can introduce herself, a second drunk with dark skin and wearing a fedora pushes him into her, making her spill her wine as well as his vodka onto her dress. "Awwww, oatmeal cookies!" She swears as she grabs a napkin and tries desperately to clean herself off.

"Hey, Eis? There you go buddy!" Fedora cries out before he begins to cackle drunkenly.

"Flynt, you dolt!" The wolf named Eis roars as he quickly turns and shoves him away. Meanwhile, giving up on getting herself cleaned up, Ruby finally makes a bad decision and simply motions for a refill. If she has to keep dealing with this crap, then she's going to be good and drunk. Besides, all her clothes are back at the airship port, which means she's going to have to find a twenty four hour laundry or something to wash said clothes while praying she doesn't get arrested for being naked in public.

So, as her Mama Raven would say, time to load up on liquid courage and then wrestle the Ursa to get your weapon back.

"Damn, I'm so sorry." Eis murmurs as he turns back around and frowns. She's pretty sure she's a mess. She can feel her soaked bra starting to stick to her skin, as well as her skirt sticking to her bare…

She really doesn't want to know if a certain part of her anatomy can get independently drunk as well. It's a constant struggle to make sure it doesn't get her into trouble as it is.

"Look, it's fine. Can you just tell me where I can go to clean up?" She asks in irritation as she grabs at the bottle of red wine and simply tilts it up, spilling the contents into her mouth and down her throat in a fashion that would have her brother and the rest of her friends cheering her on. Not for the first time, she wishes she hadn't had quite as much fun at Beacon as she did, and had taken her studies and training a bit more seriously.

Nodding, he offers her an arm. "You can get cleaned up at my place." He replies quietly, obviously a bit sobered up. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it." She replies firmly as she glares at him. "And… thanks." She adds the last as her gaze softens. Offering the bartender her credit card, she makes sure he bills her for one more bottle of wine. If she has to keep listening to Eis's flirting, she definitely needs the liquid courage the fermented beverage provides.

Especially since he really is cute, and she's now tempted to lose her own virginity to him as well...

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"Wow, nice place." Ruby admits as the cab pulls up to the curb of a multi level apartment complex in downtown Atlas. She has to admit, he's been a polite gentleman during the entire trip, even trying to ignore the fact that her skirt has been slowly riding up her bare bottom to reveal it as well as her constantly wagging cotton tail.

"I live here with my twin sister." He replies as he struggles to look everywhere but at her exposed rear, while she takes another deep pull of the wine bottle still in her hand. "She works for the family company, while I am a huntsman."

This gets her attention. Her dream was always to follow in her mother's footsteps, but an accident when she was on a hunt left her with permanent nerve damage to her legs. Nothing painful, but still unable to use her semblance to its full effectiveness. "I was a licensed Huntress in Vale." She admits to him quietly as he pays the driver and gets out, offering her a hand out next. "Got hurt on a hunt, and had to quit."

He smiles sadly at her as she struggles to lower her skirt back down on her bottom. "My sister lost her sword arm during her last hunt. Her body rejected the prosthesis."

"Damn." She mutters before finishing the bottle, while struggling to stay upright on legs that are quickly refusing to continue to function. But she can't help but to squeak as she suddenly gets scoop up into surprisingly powerful arms, a smiling Eis looking at her.

"See? I knew I would sweep you off your feet before the night was out." He declares as he walks towards the door, the doorman nodding as he opens it for them.

"Finally! You learned how to flirt!" She declares with a giggle as she cuddles into his chest, enjoying the movement of powerful muscles obviously hidden underneath his dress shirt.

She almost wants to see them…

"I admit, there was more liquid courage pumping through my veins than blood at the time." He replies as he carries her through the lobby and towards the elevators. "But, I do believe we have traded places now."

"Ayup. And how can a beefcake like you still be single?!" She blinks as he chuckles while shaking his head.

"Willow, my twin, doesn't help matters there." He replies as the doors open and he steps in. "She firmly believes very few women are good for me."

"She's just being a good sister then." Fuck, he smells really good. And his wolf ears are so freaking cute! "My older brother's an asshole. But you? You're so cute I could almost eat you up like a tasty snack!"

Eis chuckles as he continues to hold her securely in his arms. "And you claim I'm bad at flirting?" He asks as he looks at her with those sky blues she's rapidly getting lost in.

"I'm drunk. I'm allowed to be bad at it." She declares with a wink. And then her sensitive nose catches the scent of spoiling wine, making her frown. "I stink."

"It's not that… WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU DOLT?!" She can't help but giggle as she stops unbuttoning her blouse to look at him.

"I'm stinky." Is her simple response before she returns to unbuttoning her red and black blouse, while the doors ding. But she can't help but to laugh as the white wolf makes a mad dash down the hallway and towards one of only two doors down the entire corridor.

Setting her down on her feet, she keeps laughing as he pats his pockets, obviously looking for a key or a scroll. Meanwhile, she finishes unbuttoning her blouse and slips out of it. And the look on his face as she stands there in just her bra, skirt, and heels, her blouse in her hands is absolutely priceless.

She can feel the warmth starting in her core. A warmth that won't be denied…

They barely get through the door before her lips are against his, while her hands work at unbuckling his belt. It's been a long twenty five years of chaste virginity, and her frustration is at a boiling point. She can feel her tail wagging so quickly it almost feels like it's going to fall off or go flying off, but she doesn't care. She's still fairly young, far from home, and he did present an excellent argument in that they'll never see each other again after tonight.

Ruby Rose is moaning within seconds. She is soon screaming within minutes. And Eis is full of shit if he's still a virgin in her eyes after bringing her to her first real orgasm ever. The first of many. But neither the rabbit faunus or the wolf faunus realize that she had moved a little bit too quickly, neither of them even considering using any kind of protection whatsoever...

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Eis Schnee awakens with a start, clutching his head and groaning in his discomfort. After agreeing to go out with his partner, Flynt Coal, to a local pub popular with travelers simply passing through, he soon found himself drunk and flirting with…

All he can remember is her brilliant quicksilver eyes. Those and how much he had made her scream as they made passionate love in his now partially destroyed bed.

Glancing at the opposite side of said piece of furniture, he sighs as he realizes that she was already gone, only the smell of her perfume to prove the fact that she even existed. Noticing his bladder and the fact that it is demanding to be emptied, he finally stands and rushes into the bathroom, groaning at the fact that despite her absence, she still left several bite marks on his shoulders and chest, including one that appears to have drawn some blood.

He's more than a bit concerned that she's mate marked him, but he soon puts it out of his mind as he smells the first aroma of freshly brewed coffee coming from the kitchen. Grabbing a pair of shorts, he stops long enough to put them on before exiting and joining his sister, Willow.

"Good morning, Twit. I see you finally took advantage of me being gone and punched your v-card." Willow, like him, is unusually tall for a woman at six foot, one inches in height thanks to their birth father, a Mountain of a wolf faunus man. With her long, ankle length white hair, brilliant ruby red eyes, and curvy figure, she is possibly the most highly sought after bachelorette in all of Atlas and Mantle, despite her missing limb.

"Indeed, dolt. It was nice having the place to myself for a change." He replies quietly as he helps himself to the coffee. Looking around, he sighs as he notices that, once again, there is no sign of the young mystery woman who came home with him last night. A few small clues in the fact that his own clothes are still strewn about, the smell of laundry detergent and fabric softeners cling to the air, and her empty wine bottle is still in the garbage.

"Then perhaps I should return to Vale more often." She replies quietly as she slowly sips at her coffee, the mug held securely in her sole hand. "I found myself having a rather lovely evening of my own with a particularly handsome man around our age."

"Oh?" He asks curiously as he sits next to her and grabs at the morning paper. "Please say you at least caught his name." He adds while opening it to the classifieds to look for a small hunt of some kind to stay busy.

"Xiang Xiao Long, my dear twit. And let me guess, you once again showed your lack of manners by not introducing yourself properly?" She asks while shaking her head in disbelief.

"I will admit to being quite intoxicated. So much so that even Dad would have been lecturing me."

"Ouch. When even Daddy would be raising hell as he calls it, you know you overdid it somehow." She admits as she sets her coffee down and checks her messages. "I wish the guild would leave me alone." She suddenly blurts out angrily as she throws her scroll across the room and into a wall. "Why would I take a contract now?! When I am a diminished weakling!"

Seeing the coming meltdown, Eis puts his own search for work to the side to wrap his arms around his volatile twin. "Be at peace, sister. I'll go have a word with the general."

She nods as she bursts into tears while clinging to him. "Is it not bad enough to be a cripple, Eis?! Is it not torture enough to not even be able to look at myself in a mirror without feeling like a weakling?!"

"Shhhh, you are not a cripple, Noiry. You are the strongest woman I know. Not many can continue on like you have, living your life as you do with courage and passion." He whispers to her as he rubs her back.

All thoughts of figuring out who his mystery partner flee his mind as he begins to rock his sibling gently, while she weeps into his chest with almost bone shaking sobs of sorrow. It would be several hours before he is able to return to his room to make his bed, discovering a bracelet of some kind left behind on his mysterious guest's side of his bed. A bracelet with a burning rose set in the middle…

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Ruby sighs as she settles deeper into her seat in the business class section of the Melta Airlines airship. After the events of her drunken night, as well as the rush to wash her clothes and get back to the airship port, she can only hope no one saw her walk of shame. Both of her mothers would kill her for pulling a Xiang, and Robin would be giving her shit for it for years to come.

But wow! What a night before all the rushing around!

As she settles down even more into her seat, while also curling up under the blanket she bought at the port, she is beginning to drift off when her scroll begins to vibrate insistently. Opening one silver eye, she begins to swear softly as she sees her older brother's grinning face on the screen. Grabbing an earbud out of her purse, she sighs as she puts it into one human ear and pushes the green button. "What?"

"Damn sis, is that any way to greet your favorite brother?"

"You're my only brother, thank the Goddesses, and I'm hung over."

"Awwww, poor poor bunny. It's been too Xiao Long since I took you out, hasn't it?" The older blonde replies impishly.

"Oh shut up, you obnoxious dragon!" Ruby snarls as she digs in her purse for some asprin or something to make the pounding in her head go away. "What do you want?!"

"I met someone."

"What's their name?" She asks as she motions to a flight attendant for something to drink, grateful the woman brings a bottle of water a moment later and not soda or alcohol.

"Her, thanks. I think I'm done with non binaries since Blake broke my heart and all." She can't help but to have a small moment of sympathy for her bisexual disaster of a brother. He had loved Blake Belladonna deeply, and the nonbinary panther faunus had broken his heart into pieces when they decided they were more interested in the fairer sex than him. Ruby and Raven both still have some choice words for the panther the next time they cross either woman's paths.

"Wow, an actual woman this time? You must be losing your touch with men again." She can't help but to tease him. She recognizes that tone of voice, and she wants him to stay positive.

"Correction: a black wolf faunus woman. A perfect black wolf faunus woman." She smiles at the delight in his voice, and quickly takes the headache medicine in her hand so that she can keep him on topic. "Tell me about her."

Ruby Rose keeps smiling as she settles back into her chair, under her new blanket, and listens to her brother tell her excitedly about this new woman he met while in Vale, while she was there on a business trip. At least until she realizes that her bracelet is missing…

[mediaeval-muse]

Book Review

A Dangerous Invitation by Erica Monroe. Quillfire Publishing. 2013.

Rating: 2/5 stars

Genre: historical romance

Part of a Series? Yes, The Rookery Rogues #1 of 4 (and a short story)

Summary:  She’s given up on love, and wants only independence… Torn from her life of privilege by her father’s death, Kate Morgan survives in London’s dark and depraved rookeries as a fence for stolen goods. The last man she ever expects, or wants, to be reunited with is her first love, who promised to cherish, honor and protect her, and instead fled amidst accusations of murder. He’s the reformed rake determined to win her back… One drunken night cost Daniel O’Reilly the woman he loved and the life he’d worked so hard to create. If he ever wants to reclaim that life–and Kate–he’ll not only have to prove he’s innocent of murder, but convince the pistol-wielding spitfire that he’s no longer the scoundrel he once was. Together, they’ll have to face a killer. Time is running out…

***Full review under the cut.***

Trigger Warnings: violence, sexual content, sexism, forced prostitution, rape, sexual assault, alcoholism, being buried alive

Overview: Another recommendation from the website Smart Bitches, Trashy Books. I decided to give this one a try because I’m a sucker for a spitfire heroine, murder plots, and the criminal underbelly of late Regency/pre-Victorian London. But while the previous recommendation was a hit, this one was somewhat of a miss. I think the bones of the story are good, as well as the character archetypes, but I wasn’t personally a fan of Monroe’s writing.

Writing: Monroe’s prose is fairly straightforward with some dramatic flairs here and there to heighten the emotion. It’s easy to read, and you can skim it quickly, if that’s your style. For me, however, it bordered a little too much on the melodramatic, and it became a bit repetitive when the same sentiments were evoked again and again. For example, we’re told a lot how much our heroine, Kate, can never trust a man again and that she can’t have a future with our hero, Daniel. After the first few times, I wished Monroe would move on to explore more complex emotions to develop her characters a little more. I also think the dialogue is a bit unrealistic, as characters tend to say exactly what’s bothering them or what deeper issues are plaguing them without much prompting, and real people don’t exactly talk that way. Some metaphors and choices of words were also a little awkward, which made for a confusing read at times.

By far, the biggest issue I had was the way Monroe handled the exposition and the details of her mystery. The action of the story starts out fairly quickly, which would have been fine except that I felt like I was being asked to care about characters’ histories without getting to know them first. Daniel runs into Kate after a long absence on page 2 of the first chapter of the novel, and I wish we were given a chapter where we saw Kate fencing some stolen goods or something else first to get us invested in her as a character. Also, because things happened so quickly, I felt like I was being told a lot of information rather than relevant details being shown to me organically. For example, a character might do or say something, then there’s be a kind of aside that explained the significance of the thing. Or Daniel would reference something about his quest to clear his name, then the author would take some time to tell us how he started his journey, how he knew people helping him, etc. As a result, there was a lot of setup jam-packed in the first few chapters, and I wish more had been done to create a flow that didn’t rely on duck info-dumping. Maybe if we had a chapter showing us Kate completing a sale (as I said) while Daniel is contacting his rogue friend, Atlas, who agrees to help him clear his name. Then the action between them could begin.

Plot: I love the idea of former lovers teaming up to solve a mystery, and at its heart, I think the premise of the plot was interesting. I did think, however, that some of the details and steps along the way weren’t handled as well as they could have been. There’s a lot of going to talk to witnesses or persons of interest, which makes for a lot of info-dumping, and there’s also some random chases which seemed to be inserted for the purposes of action rather than a logical unfolding of the mystery. During the first chase, for example, I was constantly wondering whether their pursuer was just a night watchmen or someone more nefarious. If the latter, how in the world would someone have known Daniel and Kate were snooping around the warehouses at night unless someone was following them? The thought that someone must know they are investigating the murder from the onset (and thus, know that Daniel is back in London) doesn’t really occur to the characters, which I found a bit frustrating.

Overall, I wished the events that made up the main narrative had been strung together more meaningfully. Every encounter that was related to solving the mystery had the potential for some interesting social commentary, and while it was gestured to, I ultimately felt that it was rushed. For example, there’s one scene in which Daniel and Kate go visit a prostitute, and Kate thinks a lot about how the girls are more than just objects and how women have to do what they can to survive. Soon after, she discloses her own rape after being tricked into prostitution. It seemed to me like the author was trying to cover a lot of things at once when the personal lives of the characters and the unfolding of the mystery could have revolved around one or two themes: the link between minorities and crime (due to poverty resulting from prejudice), for example, and the way gender also affects how women experience the criminal world. Or, given that the main undercurrent of the book is the existence of body snatching, every aspect of the story could be tied to the concept of “selling bodies” and disregard for the poor. If the bodies of the poor are being exploited to sell to medical facilities, that kind of matches up nicely with the idea of poor women “selling their bodies” via prostitution or Irish immigrants “selling their bodies” by becoming laborers. But alas, it seemed like the novel wasn’t quite interested in diving deep into those issues.

Characters: Our heroine, Kate, is a headstrong woman who has used her knowledge of her father’s shipping company to fence stolen goods following her family’s bankruptcy. I rather liked how her ruthlessness and street smarts were connected to this aspect of her life rather than the author throwing up her hands and just asserting that Kate was a badass. Kate was also pretty likable as a street-smart protagonist who knew how to navigate the criminal world of 19th century London. I liked watching her get out of tricky situations and disappear at opportune moments, and I especially liked that she had a practical, active role to play in the investigation. She’s enlisted for her quick mind and encyclopedic knowledge of her father’s company, and I found that enjoyable and well-done. However, she was a bit back-and-forth in her affections for Daniel. One minute, she’d be proudly declaring that they can’t be together and values her independence, and the next, she’d kiss him or let him touch her while thinking about how she wanted to be protected. While it was understandable, given her traumatic history on the streets, I did find it a bit frustrating, as a reader, because rather than there being some evolution or development to her character, Kate seemed to be on a more cyclical track.

Daniel, our hero, is an Irish immigrant who has returned from abroad after being accused of murder years before. I liked that Monroe set him up as a struggling former alcoholic and as having PTSD as a result of having found the murder victim before he died - it made it seem like reform was a continual process rather than a quick fix, and that men can be emotionally vulnerable in more ways than just being lovesick or abused. I didn’t quite see what Kate saw in him, however, as her main attraction to him seemed to be physical, especially when recounting their past. Why, for example, did she fall for him before the murder when she says she was concerned about his alcoholism? What drew her to him? I also think Daniel was written as a bit too jealous. He would hate a man he just met just because he potentially got to know Kate while Daniel was away. There was more than one time where his jealousy almost ruined his chances of clearing his name, which I found ridiculous.

The supporting characters were a bit of a mixed bag. I liked Kate’s barmaid friend, Jane, and Atlas, even though neither had quite enough “screen time” to be anything other than a convenient plot device. Other characters just outright got on my nerves with their general disregard for women. The villain, in particular, was poorly done in that he monologued a bit and sexually assaults our heroine for reasons that seem to just be “because I’m evil.” It made for a rather up-and-down reading experience.

Other: There were some interesting political aspects to this book in that many references were devoted to the mistreatment of Irish immigrants. There’s such potential there for a deeper exploration of prejudice and life as a “second class citizen,” including the brief references to Daniel’s code-switching (which was delightful) and his complicated feelings about being Irish but barely remember living in Ireland. I think, however, that a lot of the prejudice was left to stand on its own and generate some automatic sympathy for characters without actually thinking about how it could enhance the story. For example, are Irish people scapegoated for crime in Monroe’s world? How is the stereotype of the alcoholic Irishman subverted by Daniel’s struggle to be better or how does his past make us think more deeply about why people turn to drink (as opposed to judging everyone as uniformly “amoral”)? Just because the novel is a romance doesn’t mean that these issues can’t be explored (one has only to look to someone like Courtney Milan, who weaves social commentary into her romances brilliantly).

I also think more could have been done to enhance the romance itself. While I did like that Daniel was intent on proving himself to be a better man than he was when he left, I also didn’t think the romance was built on much other than their past and physical attraction. Daniel’s reasons for loving Kate seem to be that she anchors him, which is a bit selfish and frustrating, but he also admires her independence and intelligence, which prevented me from giving up on him entirely. That being said, their relationship doesn’t evolve as much as it’s cyclical. They fight a lot and Kate is constantly back-and-forth about whether or not she wants to be with him, so it felt like I was reading about the same issue over and over rather than seeing how trust was built between them. Daniel’s arc could have been more about accepting Kate for who she is now - not reminiscing about a past that couldn’t return - and Kate’s arc could have been about learning to trust again or valuing living people over the memory of her dead father. While Daniel’s acceptance of Kate’s past was well-done, I really wanted more insight as to how each person made the other’s lives better and more emotionally fulfilling, not just how they’re a good person for overlooking the other’s flaws or how the love interest “anchored” them or whatever. In fairness, Daniel does learn that he needs to “save himself” rather than rely on Kate to do it for him, but there was very little lead-up for him to get to that point.

Continuing with the Series? No.

Recommendations: I would recommend this book if you’re interested in historical romance (especially set in the 19th century), criminal underbelly of London, Irish heroes, reformed rakes, disinherited heroines, former lovers, and murder plots.

[alcttass-blog]

 Is that KYLIE JENNER?! No it’s just ALETTA ANTOUN. From our interview we have heard that the TANTALIZING is apparently a SOCIALITE AND INFLUENCER who’s been living a lavish lifestyle in LAS VEGAS with 67.1 M followers! Now that they’ve signed a contact to pricelesshqs fans will be ecstatic to see them on screen. But rumor has it they are hard to deal with as they’re FINICKY, IMPETUOUS, OBSTREPEROUS. Fortunately for us we’ve heard they’re actually EFFULGENT, COMPASSIONATE, VEHEMENT.  Let’s see how they survive our show while they arrive in the luxurious life of pricelesshqs!

hi hello !! im gianna and this is my angel love aletta !! i kind of rearranged her bio to fit so ?? if things dont make sense its my stupid ass fault asdfgh . on another note im super excited to jump into this and if you want to plot give this a heart or message me !! 

𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓫𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓬𝓼

full name  : aletta josephine antoun. nickname : aj, alet, letty. age : twenty one. birthday  : february sixteenth, nineteen ninety eight thus making her an aquarius. gender / pronouns : cisfemale / she and her. sexual orientation : heterosexual. romantic orientation : heteroromantic. spoken languages : english, italian, spanish. hometown  : las vegas, nevada. parents  : carmine gwyar and natalia antoun  . carmine  is  the founder of karma ( casino ) and carmine hotel , two million dollar businesses that are spread throughout not only las vegas, but the rest of the states. her mother is an retired model who happens to be an author that just published the third book to her series ‘the others’, an dystopian novel. siblings  : apollo bennett gwyar,  claudio emanuel antoun, atlas james gwyar, natasha maeve gwyar, angelo cyrus antoun, julius sebastian antoun.  goals  : to live fully. tropes  /  personality  :  the effervescent  ,  the rich party girl  ,   the globetrotter  ,  should of been business mogul , the icarian , the lover of all things beauty. 

𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂

gwyar , means “gore” or “spilled blood, bloodshed” in old welsh ; a definition that runs deeper than words written on faded pages , and instead carved themselves in human flesh. the name spreads silent fear across the streets of las vegas .. entangles itself within the eyes of the locals while being drowned out by the drunken happiness of tourists . spilling blood is what the gwyar’s have done for generations , from the moment diego gwyar’s foot landed on the broken sidewalks of las vegas it was said blood washed over the city like a storm . the family , they are tied into an lifestyle that screamed of violence , drugs , but most importantly power . no matter who’s face it stared at, it always had a habit of filling your lungs and causing you to drown in it .

aletta josephine was birthed to swim in the danger , to succeed . her father’s business was her legacy , his ties were her responsibilities . she was to fall in line , to make her daddy proud . and for a while , she did . she played the part, did her part . watched from the sidelines , included herself when she had to , she did it all . aletta drowned in the sensation of having such a power that it made those around her drop to their knees and beg . at sixteen she felt holy , at eighteen she felt sick to her stomach.  

the lifestyle was a high , sent her emotions playing  a game of how far can you drop once you hit your high . she should of felt blessed , protected , privilege , mighty . but all she wanted to do was run .. her brother use to tell her, “ letty, you cant have the highs without the lows .. especially with this.” it took a long time for her to understand that the diamonds that sat on her neck , the cars that sat in her driveway , the clothes that mountain her closest came with the blood , tears , the pain. she could not be the mob bosses daughter , without the mob boss.

at seventeen , she broke away from her fathers grasp . decided to chase her passion with hope that the darkness from her father would not follow . her family should her mixed reactions , splitting into two directions ; her mother spilled of happiness. excited to think of an future for her child where she was alive , healthy , living her life the way she wanted to .. and her father ? decided that if you did not stand with the business, his choices, that you did not stand with him. he made her choose, and so she did. she jumped into the influencing industry before launching aletta beauty , a dream that turned into an empire ..

𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓪𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓼

crazed oceans swimming under neath sun kissed skies , the soft smell of vanilla dancing across exposed skin , gentle nudes blending into hard oranges,  peach vodka lingering on plump lips , warm orbs drowning in dark features , acrylic nails tapping anxiously , gold jewelry sitting on long fingers ,  cursive tattoos carved into ribs , quiet cries drowning in a dark sky , thunder distracting worried minds , affectionate touches , losing yourself in others for the sensation of warmth , loud music drowning out sorrows , happiness banging on brick walls for freedom , light giggles in the dead of the night , smooth lips pressed to bare skin , fingers interlocked with another , a constant craving to be loved dipping into skin , blood dripping down like water drops, soft lips on faceless bodies, sun kissed skin becoming on with sandy beaches, bold moans in the backseat of her car, simple shaped necklaces siting between collar bones, blunts between glossy lips, tired hands editing for hours on hours, stamped passports, white toes in clear ocean waters.

𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓽𝔂

to lurking eyes , the brunette tends to catch ditzy vibes and shallow tendencies . labels as such usually tend to hold some kind of truth, but when it comes to aletta? there’s more that meets the eye than assumptions from afar. her feet run on carelessness, blood intertwined with impulsiveness ; her wands wrap around your throat and for odd reason you cannot help but fall in love with the sensation. ebullient in human form , a crazed ocean that pulls you in. you want to lose yourself in her : her boisterous chatter in the sea of friends in an melody to your ears , and when the sun lowers and the bass of music dances in the air her giggles laced with vodka lingers. it’s said that the sound itself is intoxicating. like, for some reason, whether its her light in your lungs or her darkness around your throat, you cant let her go. she strives to be good, to be kind . but she is a child who was induced with happiness and then slowly picked at , lost innocence , witnessed monsters with human faces and so she comes to understand she will not always be good nor kind. she will be hard to read at times, hard to please. some nights, she may tell you about all the way she loves you and the next? she’ll turn away. and despite it all, she’ll still want you to be there for her in the morning. she needs meaningful bonds with others, needs to feel like if one day she disappeared people would miss her. wouldnt be able to live without her. she wants to feel important. she believes in loving yourself, being kind to yourself. and so, she tries not to drown for everyone. its a hard task though, considering she gets attached easily . she wants you , she needs you , and then she gets scared. she’s passionate, feels the world around her on a level that most do not understand. and it makes her scattered? she can ride the highs, but sometimes she has to ride the lows to. she is a lover, will give you her all. put in the time and the effort. it makes her affectionate ; affectionate touches are what she lives for. not just romantically, but platonically too. she likes to goof around, wants to fill everyone around her with light. wants to save everyone. is an hard worker, ambitious, likes having something she can put her energy into and conquer. sometimes her work ethic gets a little out of hand. but at the end of the day, she is her fathers daughter ; and it bleeds through. she an be stubborn, jealous . she can be hurtful, even selfish. but she is constantly trying to overcome it.

𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓸𝓷𝓼

she a few of her other siblings have took her mothers last name instead, making it easier for them to stand in the media without the prying. but regardless, she is a gwyar no matter if she changes her name or not. 

she had been a daddy’s girl, from the moment she opened her eyes she was drawn to him. her mom would tease that she loved him more, and though that was never true her father was without an doubt her favorite parent.

when she parted ways, he decided that she no longer deserved the connection they once shared ; he cut her off. not financially, she was and still is gifted all of her luxuries. her part in the company still transferred into her account, she could still reach out to her mother for cash if needed. but the tenderness? the warmness? it disappeared. he refused to even look at her in her eyes.

she is highly protected , constantly has her siblings and what they call ‘bodyguards ‘checking in on her since she moved from their family house ; and even now you will see strange men whom seem like they were pulled out of the secret service drop in on her.

her eldest brother apollo, in more ways than one took on that father figure roll for aletta. being opposed to his fathers treatment, he stepped in. she has an appreciation for him that runs deep.

despite her being insanely close to apollo, aletta and her twin have a bond that no one can touch. with them, it has always been us against the world. she would die for any of her siblings, but for her twin? she’d kill for them without hesitation.

her want to live to the fullest point, has come from seeing the life being drained from others. she does not ever want to see herself in that position. so she promised herself she would never.. she’d live impulsively, foolishly, carelessly .. but regardless, she’ll live.

traveling is the one thing she knows will fill her heart, to see the world and capture all the things that it has to offer will not be an opportunity she misses. it’s why she found herself really enjoying the life of touring .

one important thing about her is that she craves meaningful bonds with others, she likes to feel like if one day she disappeared that people would miss her? would be lost without? she just wants to feel important.

she spent a lot of her summers in italy with her brother, which is why she is fond of the language.

aletta beauty is much so kylie cosmetics asdj how original ? i know.

i see her being kind of an ?? rihanna in the beauty industry and a david dobrik in the youtube ! sitting on the line of sis really did that with her beauty line and i love that bitch when it comes with being an influencer. 

despite being the youngest , her father swore she was going to be the one to take over his business  . his plan was to always allow the twins to take over . which is why it hit him so hard when she refused to.

𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓷𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼

♡ wanted connections page ! 

and in case none of those catches your eyes, a list of generic plots !!!

♡ protective friendship, friends with benefits, close friends, old friends, distant friends, ex friends, ex friends with benefits, cousins, hardly related cousins, family friends, childhood friends, friendly competition, rivals, models who model for her line, artist she collabs with a lot, artist who have wrote a song for her, artist she has wrote for, frenemies, one night stands, summer flings, friends with lingering feelings, one sided friendships, one sided relationships, people who have used her, pr friendships, pr relationships.

[unofferable-fic]

Do You Fear the Devil? (Loki x Reader): 5 - Dear Boss

Summary: You are one of the many working women roaming the streets of Whitechapel when a madman begins to murder your comrades one by one. The attacks are so gruesome, that the detectives can only describe his work as that of “a devil than of a man”. Loki Laufeyson is a Metropolitan police detective and surgeon who is assisting on the case. As more bodies pile up and you and your friends fear for your lives, the police remain well and truly stumped. When Detective Laufeyson turns to you for help to find the murderer, you must face your fears to save yourself… But who can you really trust when you are the prey being stalked at night by someone who calls himself Jack the Ripper?

Gif originally found here

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Victorian London AU

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries/violence, gore, language, angst.

Word Count: 4,342

Previous Chapter    Next Chapter

Playlist: “For Those We Loved” — Austin Wintory, “Graveyard Parade - Acoustic Version” — Matthew And The Atlas, “Abide with Me” — 101 Strings Orchestra

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A/N: Also available on AO3. We are back in action with more from our Victorian Avengers! More historical facts and some perspective swapping between Loki and the reader. I promise they will have more interactions in the future as well ;) Thank you to you guys for reading as always! Hope y’all enjoy!

8th September 1888, 9.30 am.

Dr Laufeyson’s post-mortem report on Annie Chapman read as follows:

“The abdomen had been entirely laid open: the intestines, severed from their mesenteric attachments, had been lifted out of the body and placed on the shoulder of the corpse; whilst from the pelvis, the uterus and its appendages with the upper portion of the vagina and the posterior two thirds of the bladder, had been entirely removed. No trace of these parts could be found and the incisions were cleanly cut, avoiding the rectum, and dividing the vagina low enough to avoid injury to the cervix uteri. Obviously the work was that of an expert — of one, at least, who had such knowledge of anatomical or pathological examinations as to be enabled to secure the pelvic organs with one sweep of the knife, which must therefore have at least 5 or 6 inches in length, probably more. The appearance of the cuts confirmed me in the opinion that the instrument, like the one which divided the neck, had been of a very sharp character. The mode in which the knife had been used seemed to indicate great anatomical knowledge.”

The more he delved into the evidence and pieced together what may have possibly happened to her, Loki found it difficult to continue. Yes, his profession involved looking at the grim and the horrifying, but this killer was pushing the boundaries. Was he perhaps a doctor? It seemed plausible but brought him no sense of comfort.

The remainder of the day gave him no opportunity to rest — between following up with Stark and Strange, and dealing with his own private appointments, sleep was not readily doable until evening had descended upon London. He stood by the window in his home that overlooked the streets below, a glass of gin in hand, and wondered whether he was to be woken again that night by rampant knocking at his door. Would the Leather Apron — the killer’s new name given today by the media — strike the working women of Whitechapel again? His mind briefly wandered to Y/N and her friends before he shook the thought away again. Perhaps, given the day they themselves had experienced, they would be allowed a night of rest instead of working. Then again, he knew little of their practices or the attitude of Madame Potts. He hoped, for their sake and especially given Miss Maximoff’s association with Miss Chapman, that she was an understanding boss.

Between recalling the women with whom he was newly associated, his thoughts also drifted to Annie Chapman. What had she thought of, he wondered, as the life was squeezed out of her? Her parents? Her sisters? Her dead husband and estranged children? From the information provided by Miss Maximoff, the police gathered her life had not been an easy one. Despite marrying a gentleman’s coachman, John Chapman, and moving to a cottage on his employer’s Berkshire estate, the two had succumbed to alcoholism after many of their children grew sick and died. It was a constant up and down period of sobriety before the addiction won yet again. There were, as a result, numerous arrests over public drunkenness. Wanda recalled being told that Annie kept photographs of her children on the mantelpiece. A weekly allowance of ten shillings was supplied by her husband, and she also earned money by selling crochet-work and flowers. When the drink killed John and the allowance stopped, only then had she turned to prostitution and begging. Considered a drunkard and forced to reside in lodging houses, nothing else could be done. After delving further into his post-mortem, it was no surprise to see that she was already aggressively sick. She was far advanced in disease of the lungs and membranes of the brain, and her stomach contained little food, nor were there signs she had consumed any alcohol. It was clear that she was not well fed. If the killer had not gotten to her first, he was sure she would have not lasted much longer…

Even still, this did nothing to ease his mind. The more he thought of what happened, the more unsettled he became. Only when his head began to pound and his hand shook did he down the contents of his glass and try to go to sleep. He shrugged off his clothing and wrapped himself in the blankets as tight as he could. Despite forcefully shoving his head into the pillow, his mind would not relent. Albert Cadosch, a young carpenter living at 27 Hanbury Street, had told police that he heard voices over the fence that separated his yard from that of 29. He had been visiting his outhouse when he heard what he thought sounded like a woman’s voice saying ‘No!’, followed by the thud of something falling against the fence. He chose not to investigate it further.

Was he the only one to hear your screams? And yet, no one came to your aid? No one thought to help as you died?

The headache returned, as well as the stinging in his cheek, and Loki gritted his teeth.

He suppressed the urge to fix himself another gin.

* * *

14th September 1888, 9.00 am.

In the days that followed the murder of Annie Chapman, London was enthralled with who the Leather Apron could be. You watched the play unfold closely, being sure to never leave the brothel unless accompanied by your friends or the police themselves. Wanda had, after some days of mourning, improved. The three of you had been glued to news reports when you were informed that police had arrested a man called John Pizer, the owner of the leather apron found in the yard of 29 Hanbury Street. Believed to be the Leather Apron, you had hoped this meant the end of the Whitechapel murders. It was only when Sgt Rogers informed you that Mr Pizer had credible alibis for both murders did you give up hope. With his release came the revelation that there were no other obvious leads.

On the same day as John Pizer’s arrest, Sgt Rogers was also kind enough to inform you that a local business man, Mr George Lusk, together with several of his comrades, founded the Mile End Vigilance Committee. Their hope was to assist the police with their endeavours to catch the murderer. How that was going to play out, you had no clue, but more help was always welcome. If it meant that you and your friends could safely traverse the streets without fear of being strangled then you would take what you could get.

That Friday morning, you found yourself in the Manor Park Cemetery on Sebert Road with Natasha and Wanda. You were there to attend the mostly secret funeral of Annie Chapman. It was a small affair, with her father, her sisters, and other family members in attendance. Wanda had bumped into her father while visiting Commercial Street Police Station the day before and he was kind enough to extend the invitation after hearing how she had assisted in the investigation. No one but the undertaker, the police, and her family knew of the event.

It was a quiet affair — kept secret to avoid any hysterical crowds — with a hearse removing her body from the mortuary and stealthily transporting it across London to the cemetery. Now, you stood beside public grave 78, a communal grave in which Annie was being laid to rest. The guests had met the body at the grave instead of following the hearse in coaches. This was another attempt to keep the crowds at bay, and it thankfully managed to do exactly that. Her black-covered elm coffin bore the words ‘Annie Chapman, died Sept. 8, 1888, aged 48 years’. Inspector Stark also offered to attend and represent the Metropolitan Police. You had to admit that it was nice having another familiar face there, even if the relatively warm morning was already marked with a somber atmosphere.

It was when you were standing by the graveside that you noticed another familiar face at the very back of the small crowd. You were certainly surprised (and maybe a little excited) to see Dr Loki Laufeyson also attending the funeral, especially considering he hadn’t gone with you, Inspector Stark, and your friends. Had he come of his own accord? You supposed he could have gotten the information from any of the other policemen, so it wasn’t all that surprising. And yet you were still curious about what would bring him here.

After the burial, you stuck around with your friends and Inspector Stark, watching Dr Laufeyson out of the corner of your eye as you paid your respects to Annie’s family. He didn’t speak to anyone, instead choosing to stand over her grave in thoughtful silence.

You nudged Tony, grabbing his attention, and nodded to the doctor. “Did you know Loki was going to attend today?”

Following your directions, he seemed taken aback and shook his head. “That I did not… Let’s go say hello, ladies.”

You followed Stark over to the graveside, the noise of your crunching footsteps on the dry grass grabbing Loki’s attention. He looked up and greeted you all with a nod.

Inspector Stark gave him a friendly clap on the back. “Morning, Doc.”

“Stark. Ladies. I hope you’re all well on a day such as this.”

“We’re getting by,” Natasha replied, summarising the unanimous feeling between you and your friends. “As well as any of us can.”

Loki seemed happy with that. “Good, good. And you, Stark? Any leads with the case? What of that man you arrested yesterday? Edward McKenna?”

“We released him last night. He had a solid alibi that checked out.”

The doctor frowned. “Why do I feel like every lead of late is a dead one?”

“Probably because they are all, in fact, dead…” Tony shook his head with a pout before briskly changing the subject. “But forget about that mess for the moment — I did not know you were going to be in attendance here this morning, Doctor.”

“Yes, well, I thought I should come to pay my respects, Inspector,” Loki replied, looking at his superior from underneath the brim of his top hat. “It felt necessary.”

“Considering you do get up close and personal with the victims after death, that does not surprise me. I came with our trusted associates, as you can see. Mr Smith invited them after meeting Miss Maximoff at the station.”

“I see. You have my condolences, Wanda. How are you faring?”

“Better,” she admitted and wrapped her arms around herself. “Having supportive friends by my side makes it easier.”

You reached out to wrap your own arm around her back, offering a comforting squeeze that the Sokovian thanked you for. Loki smiled at her words. “I am sure. That is the best anyone could ask for.”

“I would feel slightly better if the bastard was caught.” She shrugged, her words not intending to seem accusatory or rude. “Not that I am trying to appear ungrateful.”

“Not at all,” Tony assured her. “I think we would all feel more at ease if we caught him. We will catch him eventually, I promise. Especially with such helpful sort on our side.”

“I heard of the formation of the Mile End Vigilance Committee too,” Loki said, visibly intrigued. “Hopefully they prove to be useful.”

“We will take all the help we can get. We would rather nothing ill befell any other women, like poor Miss Chapman.” He looked at her grave before looking back at you and your friends. “I know Mr Smith already thanked you for this, but we did appreciate having you on hand to tell us about her. Even just hearing about her life was helpful.”

Wanda nodded in agreement. “Us lot already get shunted around the place and the last thing I wanted was for people to disrespect her after her death. I would much rather forget the memory of finding her in that yard and instead remember how she once made me a shawl because my older one was stolen. She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

“That could have been any of us,” Natasha added. “We certainly know the feeling of, well, desperation, I guess. We are lucky that we live in the brothel instead of hopping between lodging houses or sleeping on the streets.”

“How did you move from the lodging house to the Black Swan, Wanda?” Loki asked inquisitively. “I would imagine it was quite difficult.”

“It was pure luck,” the Sokovian explained. “When I arrived here with my brother, we had little money and only the clothes on our backs. He did hard labour, and I did my part as well. One evening, Natasha approached me with Y/N by her side — she had heard my accent while I was mouthing off to some blighter who thought he could shove me about. They helped me fight him off and brought me back to the Black Swan. They said Madame Potts had a fondness for ladies with zealous attitudes. My brother came along too, and now he works as the bar man there. So, I have these two ladies to thank for whatever may have happened to us otherwise.”

“Why am I not surprised that you three would take on some drunk oaf together?” Loki said while Tony seemed silently satisfied with such a tale. “Although I suppose you all have similar temperaments.”

“We certainly do,” you replied. “But she also simply needed help, and we were definitely going to do what we could to get rid of that twat.”

Natasha cracked a smile. “We do not take shite from stupid people, especially not stupid, drunken men.”

“They go running when they see her,” you confirmed proudly. “I have seen it happen.”

The inspector’s expression now appeared genuinely impressed. “I don’t doubt that at all. You sound like a woman with a lot of experience in that area.”

Loki jumped in and added. “I would say that it seems like personal experience too.”

“Let’s just say that I have dealt with my fair share of moronic men.”

You knew all about Natasha’s past, but it was something that had only been revealed after a significant bond and trust was formed. It was late one evening when she told you about her former husband, Henry, whom she loved dearly once upon a time. Not unlike Annie, the Russian had found herself in a middle class family after moving to England. A whirlwind romance had led to a quick marriage, and the happy couple seemed to be a perfect match. It was only when they had tried to start a family did issues arise. Problems with conception led to the revelation of her inability to bear children, and Henry, after years of arguments, decided that he had wed a woman who couldn’t perform what he considered to be her basic duty. So he sold their residence, took whatever money Natasha had saved, and fled. She hadn’t seen him since, but she vehemently hated his tainted memory.

“If anything,” Tony continued, pulling you out of your daydream. “This is just further proof that you lot are perfect for this job. I do hate to end this lovely meeting, but I must be getting back to the station. Would you care to accompany us, Doctor? I offered our friends here a lift, and you’re more than welcome to join us.”

“Thank you, Inspector, but I have left my bicycle outside and will have to pass. I can find my own way home.”

Tony shrugged and pulled out a smoking pipe from his coat pocket. “Suit yourself, Poe. I shall escort these ladies home on my own, then.” Once the Doctor had given you all a courteous goodbye and taken his leave, the inspector spoke again. “He is a curious man, that one.”

You stuck closely by your friends as you began to walk in the opposite direction to Loki, heading back to the horse and carriage in which you had arrived. Wanda seemed to find Tony’s comments amusing. “He seems nice enough to me.”

“I never said he wasn’t nice, but he is a weird sort, if you catch my drift.”

“Aren’t we all?” you challenged. “We are not exactly the most put together group.”

Inspector Stark chuckled. “I suppose I never thought a group of glamorous dollymops such as yourselves would be assisting me on a case, that’s for sure.”

“It wasn’t something I had seen in our future either,” Natasha added, wrapping her shawl tighter around shoulders. “The police haven’t exactly been very helpful or… understanding of our way of life in the past.”

“I have been meaning to ask you about that actually,” you said, looking at Tony curiously. “Soliciting is still illegal in London, and we get shunted around all the time by locals instead of actual constables. What exactly made you lot stop enforcing such strict rules? Sex workers are no longer getting arrest or charged, but instead we’re told to move on with our business. Most of the time, you just turn a blind eye.”

Tony listened carefully before he answered. “You can thank Sir Nicholas Fury for that one. He’s the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police and made the very wise decision to say that it isn’t our duty to investigate or close down brothels.”

“But when the Vigilance Associations closed down brothels, all they did was move them to somewhere they considered more respectable!”

“And he agrees with you on that!” He took another puff of his pipe. “He believes that containment is a better way to manage soliciting, as opposed to repression, you know? It is also a lot easier to manage when it is confined to one particular area too.”

“Let’s not forget that we still receive business from the public,” Wanda added. “And that still isn’t greatly affected by the fact soliciting is considered illegal.”

Natasha nodded in agreement. “As long as there’s a demand, it shall always be around.”

“Right you are, Natasha,” Tony replied. “And it is also quite hard to prove that a woman has been soliciting, so charging individual prostitutes is nearly impossible, lest we forget about the case of Miss Elizabeth Cass last year. Her unjust arrest and subsequent overturning resulted in the entirety of London laughing at our incompetence, and rightly so! It was after that case that Fury prohibited us from arresting any street walkers unless a direct complaint had been made by the public. Evidence was also a requirement, obviously.”

“You lot really did make a balls of that one,” Natasha chuckled. “I do recall getting a good laugh out of it.”

Tony shook his head, but grinned slightly despite his embarrassment. “I am glad that it brought you some entertainment. Now, if we could politely withhold any verbal abuse until we return to the station, that would be much appreciated.”

“Not a chance!”

“I’m honestly surprised that you lot are even willing to work with us,” you said as you arrived at the horse and carriage. “Considering we are still technically doing something illegal.”

“Well,” Tony began, shrugging dismissively as he opened the carriage door for you. “You haven’t solicited on any of the occasions that we employed your help and, as they say, everyone needs to put food on the table.”

You looked at the older man with a small smile, aware that while he was telling the truth about your lack of any offence while working under their terms, he was also expressiing an understanding for the situation in which you and your friends found yourselves. There was hardly much choice for you when it was either prostitution or poverty. “Right you are, Tony.”

He laughed, flashing you a brilliantly arrogant smile of which you were beginning to grow genuinely fond. “As always, Y/N. Now, after you.”

* * *

27th September 1888, 10.15 am.

Clint Barton sat at his desk in the Central News Agency in London. He was scanning through a list of missives that were left for him to look over, all while drinking his usual morning cup of tea. He scanned the envelopes until one in particular caught his attention. It was written in red ink and, quite humourously, addressed to ‘The Boss, Central News Office, London City’. He raised a brow and took it from the pile to read first. He tore open the envelope and scanned through its contents…

Hmm… Leather Apron? Ah! Another Whitechapel Murderer claim, it would seem… Yada yada… red ink … Jack the Ripper? How creative…

He wasn’t too fussed about it really — it definitely wasn’t the first time they had received supposed information on the Whitechapel murders. Most of that information ended up being completely falsified, and he wasn’t much bothered by this letter either. He set it aside and began to read through all the other post that was delivered to him instead.

It was two days later on the morning of the 29th of September when he passed the letter on to the Metropolitan Police at Commercial Street Station. It was given into the hand of Inspector Stark, who sat at his desk and unfolded to missive to read:

“Dear Boss,

I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal.

How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight.

My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance.

Good Luck.

Yours truly

Jack the Ripper

Dont mind me giving the trade name. Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. ha ha”

Upon finishing it, Tony was unsure. The likelihood that the literal killer would write a letter seemed unrealistic, and yet there was a small part of him that was perturbed with its arrival. Despite the fact it killed him to do so, he made Chief Inspector Strange aware of its arrival.

“Surely it is a hoax,” his superior said, eying the letter with a grim expression sometime later. “I mean, come on, red ink? That is embarrassingly excessive.”

“I think that cutting out wombs is also pretty excessive.”

“That may be so, but we have no way to confirm its authenticity.”

“True,” Stark sighed, therapeutically rubbing his temples. “Still, this man does at least sound psychotic. I mean, “you will soon hear of me with my funny little games”? I knew he was a devil before, but he seems to be getting a great deal of entertainment from this whole affair.”

“If the author of this letter is indeed our murderer,” Strange reminded him with a frown. “We have no way of knowing for certain. He hasn’t said anything to imply that he has detailed knowledge of the case, so it is not much to go off.”

“He has definitely adopted a more creative nickname anyway.”

“Creative and dramatic, I suppose.”

“He sounds like a bloody theatre kid…”

“My advice is that, right now, we put this letter to the side and return to it upon more details arising. We cannot do anything with it yet.”

Stark hung his head, sitting dejectedly behind his desk. “I feel like we are continuously doing just that — nothing! The press continue to slate us for making no progress at all and every lead is a dead end. There have been no murders since that of Miss Chapman, but we have been about as productive as our murderer! We cannot sit idly by waiting for another woman to wind up dead.”

“What do you suggest we do then, Inspector?” Strange argued, clearly perturbed by the truth within his words. “We cannot make progress when there is no evidence with which to work.”

Growing impatient, Stark grabbed the letter in his fist and shook it in front of Strange’s face. “But what about this? What if this can provide some answers?”

Despite Stark’s emotional outburst, Strange remained aloof and cold, his voice eerily deep and calm as he shut him down. “As desperately as you wish for this letter to give us any answers, we cannot prove that it is genuine. Right now, all we can do is believe it to be a hoax and nothing more — nothing about it is to be made public either. I advise you to focus your attention on other leads, Inspector. Perhaps you can have a word with your dollymops.”

Without waiting for a response, the Chief Inspector stormed out of the office, slamming the door shut behind him. Stark released a heavy sigh and leaned against his desk, thinking through his options briefly before he resolutely exited the room.

It didn’t take him long to find Sergeant Rogers.

“Inspector?” the blonde greeted him, standing to attention.

Stark greeted him with a nod. “Steve, head over to the White Swan tonight. I need our girls out and on the job.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“It is about time that we found ourselves a lead, and I trust them to do it.”

Taglist: @heysliver @lisalisa007 @ava-royal @eloisemacguffin @tvdplusriverdale @trickster-grrrl @mellow-mischief @arttasticgreatnessoftheawesome77

[phoenixtakaramono]

Finders Keepers ch5 Sneak Peek

It was an unspoken fact that history was written by its victors and its sufferers. It culminates in a selective retelling of events that is passed down via the education systems located throughout the galaxies.

During the time of the Last Corporate War—with the survivors being Anshin, Atlas, Dahl, Hyperion, Jakobs, Maliwan, Pangolin, S&S Munitions, Tediore, Vladof, and other megacorporations—only one emerged to stand at the forefront of innovation. With the fortunate excavation on the planet Promethea, Atlas Corporation had reverse-engineered the alien Eridian technology to give themselves an edge over their competitors.

With the discovery came a new line of machines, starships, and weaponry that were to be manufactured, as well as the earlier prototypes of the digistruct technology. Eventually all that led to the colonization of the planet Pandora and a monopoly of the interplanetary scale, allowing Atlas control over a significant portion of the market for goods and services. Their success had spurred on other megacorporations to explore other frontier planets in search of more alien technology and similar resources.

Yet of the numerous planets that made up the solar system, only a few of them were well-known intergalactically.

Many knew Aquator to be a scenic tourist hotspot with its many small islands to vacation on.

Athenas was known to be a planet governed by the Order of the Impending Storm—a religious monastic sect whose influence reached all aspects of their civilization.

Dionysus was a party planet, known for visitors’ drunken escapees and the tourist tagline “what happens in Dionysus, stays in Dionysus.”

Hermes was a planet with a thin atmosphere that was rich in helium, orbiting around a giant blue star instead of the sun.

Pandora was one of the frontier planets, recently colonized by Atlas—and other megacorporations like Dahl and Hyperion—as a research test site and as a settlement.

The last was Promethea, an environment of harsh extraterrestrial living conditions because of the excessive mining, rapid industrialization, martial law, and the like.

Planets like Artemis, Demophon, Eden-5, Eden-6, Eden-7, Epitah, Eunomia, Grophic IV, Hephaestus, Hera, Hestias, Hieronymous, Honus 4651, Isolus, Menoetius, Tantalus, Themis, and Thrace had their own reputations, but they were universally regarded to be on the same respectable level as the old planetary system.

Modeled after Earth, all of the Edens founded were known to be settlements of research, boasting of academic excellence, selectivity in admissions, and social elitism. Only the brightest—or the wealthy—were allowed citizenship or temporary student visas, to learn at the competing prestigious institutions and to increase their prospects of being hired by a megacorporation. Largely peaceful, the citizens of these planets were accustomed to a life of high-tech luxuries.

And unlike Eden-5 whose reputation was overshadowed by their corrupt police force, Eden-7 had some of the largest university financial endowments which allowed for many resources for their academic programs and research endeavors.

Bordering the main hub of the city was a tall building. Not quite a skyscraper, the architecture resembled that of an industrial hangar that had been elongated to touch the skies.

Pulling into the nearest available parking spot, a well-dressed long-limbed man emerged from a black vehicle. His hair seemed to have a burnished bronze luster from the sun.

Smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles in his suit and anxiously adjusting his tie, he walked around to the passenger side to retrieve a clunky robotic prototype. Pressing the ON/OFF button, he waited for it to finish activation.

Snatching the laptop briefcase in the meanwhile, he murmured to the floating device, “Alright, it’s our moment to shine, Dumpy.” Closing the door with a nudge of his hip, he pocketed the key fob after hearing the car beep. “We got this in the bag.” He smacked the briefcase. “Confidence is the key.”

A deep, synthetic baritone—the voice package belonged to the deceased actor James Earl Jones—replied in the affirmative.

Deliberately tilting his chin up, Rhys left the parking with Dumpy whirring in the air quietly beside him. Not once did he allow himself to look down at his feet or to avoid eye contact.

At this time, even with the employees retiring for the night, it seemed the world was at its usual and undisturbed.

The uniforms that Atlas personnel wore was a curious mix of business and military dress code, which was what distinguished one from the other. Red accents were intermingled in a mostly dark or neutral color palette.

Cyborgs—humans having undergone cybernetic enhancement surgery such as bionic limbs or microchip implants—and androids were virtually indistinguishable. A usual sight, they shambled along with the rest of the unaugmented humans.

Soon, Rhys spotted an interesting individual among the crowd that wound around a giant statue. The first thought that came to his head was the word “white;” her hair and skin were bleached of all color, like a ghost.

The woman was dressed in a furred-collar military vest worn over a black T- shirt that exposed her midriff. Leather trousers hugged her figure, as well as her knee-high boots. Even as she marched her back was ramrod-straight, like a sword forged of steel. Likely due to the leather material of the long opera-length gloves she wore, they reminded Rhys of the black rubber gloves that a butcher would use instead of a fashionable evening accessory.

There was even a large Bowie knife strapped to the belt and a gun holster. Since the sight of her didn’t cause anyone alarm, he could only assume that she was authorized to carry weapons in plain sight.

She drew several stares from passersby, which Rhys suspected wasn’t only for her distinguishing features.

He narrowed his eyes. There was the smallest sense of recognition, although it escaped his memory of how and where he has seen her before. As they traveled, the waning sun could be seen through the openings placed strategically throughout the compound. A gradience of crimsons, oranges, and golds was suffused over the rigid gunmetal grays.

The building was once a product of its times—an outdated corporate steel-and-glass facade—before the property on the real estate market had been purchased by the CEO. During the initial remodeling phase, the exposed foundation and rusted structure made it appear like a skeleton with its flesh peeled off.

The soles of his shoes were clacking against the industrial-sized plates as Rhys craned his neck, spotting the Atlas logo affixed overhead. Neon yellow LED tubing was installed throughout the architecture.

The crowd had thinned at the entrance, where the woman was headed toward. By this time, the premises was mostly deserted.

That illusion of calm was shattered when the woman jerked to a sudden halt.

A split second later, she evaded the gunshots by pitching her body into a barrel roll. Scorched dents were left in the metal where she once stood.

Slamming her hand and feet onto the ground, the woman regained balance. She had already been in mid-motion of reaching into her holster, but she froze up at the sight of the two guns trained on her.

A spear of ice pierced Rhys from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

Hastily retreating a few steps back, he felt his back collide roughly against the pedestal of the Greek titan Atlas. Looming overhead, the statue was hoisting a massive sphere meant to represent Earth.

“Don’t let them see you,” he hissed, snatching Dumpy from midair. Sweat was adhering his dress shirt to his skin. He leaned slightly forward, ignoring the simulated heavy breathing from the robot’s voice modulator. “Let me see what you see. Enhance.”

Much like a video recorder, Dumpy was recording the situation live. The zoom function allowed Rhys to see a close-up of the two armed assailants who had trodden forth. They’d worn nondescript clothing meant to blend in and catch their target off-guard. If it hadn’t been for their faces, he wouldn’t have been able to ascertain the gender from just their builds alone.

Rhys wasn’t much of an expert on firearms—his knowledge of guns was limited to movies and video games—but the make and model appeared vintage, likely contraband. Guns made on Earth were considered outdated and weak compared to the advanced arms mass-produced by megacorporations today.

Rhys was too far to hear the quieter words being exchanged, but the volume of the shouting was clearly agitated. They were yelling at her to drop her gun and to kick it away.

This did not seem like a drill.

Only the three individuals were found up ahead. With no one else emerging from the sliding doors, it seemed the building had gone under lockdown. Security cameras were pointed down at the scene.

The inactivity was making him restless. “What’s taking so long?” he demanded. “Why isn’t anyone doing anything?”

“It is likely the result of the bystander effect and other causes,” Dumpy commented in its deep, measured intonation. “Do you want me to call the authorities? It is prudent to reduce fatal casualties.”

The robot’s unaffected droning had managed to steady his nerves somewhat, helping him regain a semblance of self-control. Rhys worried his lower lip.

The sun was slowly falling below the horizon, and darkness threatened to swallow the world.

Waiting for the police to arrive might be a risk that he wasn’t certain the lady could afford to have. On the other hand, he would likely be gunned down the instant that he called attention to himself; running was not ideal.

He had to create a distraction.

“No.” Rhys sank down into a crouch. His hands were trembling. “We’re going to do one better.”

Managing to enter the correct numeric sequence into the holographic lock, he snapped the briefcase open and disengaged the laptop from Sleep mode. His fingers fumbled across the keyboard, entering the lengthy password.

Forcing his fear back, he whispered, “I’m going to disable the lights. It’ll give you a narrow window before the backup generator starts. I’ll need you to activate your defense matrix and take out those two guys. Don’t overdo the voltage.” He glanced up. “Do you think we can pull that off?”

Processing the command, Dumpy calculated the plan’s estimated percentage of success aloud. It also warned that what Rhys was doing was illegal.

“Well, we’re going to try.” Every movement was essentially muscle memory, like a choreographed dance. Brown eyes darted across the screen. “Good thing I still have remote access to the server. This is child’s play. ...Sorry, buddy. You’re gonna be the hero. I believe in you.”

The sun had set completely, with only the artificial lights illuminating the compound. Switching off the electricity supply a few precious minutes later, they were plunged into absolute darkness.

For a few seconds, he could make out nothing but dark lumps—silhouettes who were startled by the abrupt power outage. There was not much time. Motioning rapidly, Rhys hissed under his breath, “Go, go, go!”

He was crossing his fingers.

For a moment, the shape of Dumpy could be seen hovering over one of the men.

There was an unnatural humming, before white-blue light abruptly burst into vision, temporarily igniting the night. The man’s limbs were flailing as though a live wire had been attached to each of his nerves, his body convulsing like a rag doll as the violent electrical current pulsed through him. Not a moment too soon, the tased man collapsed, paralyzed, and his partner shouted his name.

Like machine fire, shots were unloaded blindly at the crackling light. They sounded like fireworks going off, with missed bullets shaking the entire building structure.

Despite Dumpy’s best attempts at evasion—dodging, flying like an erratic pendulum—sparks could be seen when bullets struck sheet metal.

Rhys’ heart plummeted. To his horror, even with the bulletproof design, the robot was soon spiraling out of control. Crashing into the ground like a small meteor, upon impact its emotionless “ow, ow, ow” distorted in volume, becoming an unintelligible screech.

“Nooo! Dumpy!”

“Atlas will never fall!” The voice was female and vaguely familiar; it had come slicing through the shadows as sharp as a knife.

In the distraction, semi-translucent wings, reminding Rhys of crackling electricity, unfurled from the lithe woman’s back like a butterfly from a cocoon. Half of her body was glowing, where the Siren birthmarks were.

It was over in a second.

By the time the man whirled on his feet, a dime-sized hole had been left between his eyes, revealing liquefied brain matter. The woman could be seen standing upright, the barrel of her customized pearlescent revolver smoking slightly from the discharged elemental round. Her finger only left the trigger when the assailant fell.

Nobody in this place moved a muscle, and it was so quiet that even the sound of their breathing could be heard.

(Ch 1-4 of the scifi AU Finders Keepers can be found on AO3! Ch5 is currently in progress.)

[comicsatlasrp-blog]

Welcome to Comics Atlas, Em  !!  Your application for Jane Foster / Thor with the faceclaim of Emmy Rossum has been accepted !!  Honestly I’d have a lot of nice things to say about the amazingness of your interpretation... but I’m still screaming about it !!  Please send in your account within 48 hours. Don’t forget to:

Make sure your ask and submit are open. Follow everyone on the follow list. Track the necessary tags. Make sure your character’s bio is easily accessible on their page. Read this information on secret identities. And don’t forget that we ask that your pages are readable, with a minimum of 11px font.

Name / Timezone / Pronouns: Em / EST / She/her.

You’re free to begin RP-ing as soon as the other apps are accepted and the follows posted !! 

Note from the player: Yeah. Jane is bald. You know. Because the cancer. But finding a bald face claim for Jane while still respecting that MCU cast a Ashkenazi Jewish actress (Jane has no reference to ancestry in comics that I could find) kinda hard. So while I’m using Rossum we’re all going to ignore the fact that she has hair. Cool? Cool. Nothing against Natalie Portman. I tried to incorporate enough MCU elements that it could be sort of complaint but I decided that a different face claim might make it more evident to others that Jane was mostly comic based. Think Thor God of Thunder (2014) onwards.

trigger warnings for: explicit talk of cancer.

Notes continued: I stopped short the last few issues of The Mighty Thor, about #18~19 on (Which someone who reads might of noticed as Jane hasn’t picked Roz as her replacement in the Senate yet. FU Cul. I have my reasons, I swear. Mainly, I wanted Jane to still know a reason to return to being Jane Foster.) because that arc isn’t over and (spoiler alert) Jane is about five minutes away from dying, sorta. Comics. There are some other unresolved issues as well. IF ANYONE WANTS TO TALK TO ME ABOUT THAT I AM GAME. SO GAME. OMG ALL THE THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED IN THE PAST FEW ISSUES.TL;DR: Jane is mostly comic based. Jane is also is bald due to her cancer treatment. She wears scarfs. The gifs are lies, LIES.  Comics based being said, I’m open to talking with others to help make her more MCU compliant if needed. I kinda… failed on that in the bio, just a bit. Warning: Angst is my bread and butter.

Sample begins:

It was day three.

Day three since she had received her last chemo infusion. The ice had run its course, freezing her like she had been struck down by an ice giant of Jotunheim. The fire had raged through her, it had evacuated from her mouth, burned itself out in her piss. Jane hugged the basin closer to her chest, curling around the plastic tub as if it was a child she had to protect.

But no, that had been last week. When she, or rather Thor had been helping the light elf refugees escape from another wave of Malekith’s goons.

A soft groan escaped from dry lips as Jane’s stomach heaved again, dry, this time. Small mercies. It had been a long time since Jane had made it this far. A long time since the poison eating through her veins was allowed to have a chance at its assassination. It raged through her, trying to kill part of her own body before those damned rebellious cells had the chance to kill her completely. She felt bloated, misshapen. Her hands didn’t grip the basin only because she could barely feel them.    

She wished for sleep. There, curled up in her bed in her dark midtown Manhattan apartment. Part of her wished for the pompous revelry of  Asgardians, the sound that always leaked into her rooms when she was staying in Asgardia. But no, Volstagg assured her that if the Congress went into session he would get her. He didn’t seem to think it was wise to have her travel by the rainbow bridge while puking. He wasn’t wrong, but Jane still missed the drunken cheers, it reminded her of before.

Nights, mornings, spent in Thor’s chambers. Waking up to the sounds of the Warriors Three still partying for something that they had accomplished a fortnight before. Waking up to Thor staring at Mjolnir like he was afraid he’d not be able to lift it from its slab. They’d had many conversations about it. She’d… something.

What had she been thinking about?

Her tongue ran over chapped lips, like sandpaper over uneven caulk. The muscle felt unruly in her mouth. Water. Yes, that had to have been it. She had been going to get water. If only her father could have been here to bring it to her like she had done for her mother. He was…

No. He was dead. Jane shook her head lightly, ignoring the dizziness it brought. Jane knew that. She fought through the haze. It had been a long time since she had managed to get to the point where her mind started to wander. A dry rasp of a laugh shook her frail frame, sounding more like a cough than any expression of mirth. Of all things for her to be grateful for.

How far had the poison, her medicine, the chemicals she was using to save her life; how far had they managed to work. Could she remember? Names. Did she remember? Well, there was Volstagg. That was one against the chemo brain. Sif, Sif, her fellow conspirator. Who… who. She had called Thor, no Odinson, a vegetable.

Thor.

They still hadn’t heard from him. Odinson. It was horrible to call him that, it sounded like a curse, like a–

Jane’s stomach heaved again and this time bile burned as it scored up the sides of her esophagus. It bit as it irritated the sores in her mouth. She gagged into the basin. Well, she mused as the last of the acid dribbled from her lips, that did about sum up her opinion on him only calling himself the ‘son of Odin.’  

She wanted to look for him. There were rumors still spinning around Asgardia. He was dead. She wouldn’t believe it. Couldn’t.

There was a familiar thrum in the back of her head and Jane looked up from her basin through moist, sunken eyes. Mjolnir was there, floating in her bedroom as if it had been called. Had she…?  

No.

Her elbow was already on the bed, Jane just had to… She unwrapped one of her arms from around the basin. She focused, eyes narrowing as she made sure her numb hand was securely planted on the sheet. If there was trouble she had no time for this bedridden internal civil war. Slowly, ever so slowly – too slowly, Jane pushed her upper body up on shaky limbs. “Is there…?” Jane’s question petered out as she received the negative. She lowered herself back down to the bed, ignoring the disappointment. The reckless, stupid, disappointment. She could really do with punching something right now. Getting stabbed as Thor was easier than fighting cancer.

Jane gingerly pushed the basin over the far side of the bed as she rolled onto her back. She’d get up in a few minutes and empty out again. She focused on her breathing for a few moments, the subtle hum of Mjolnir in her ears. She tilted her head toward it as it came to rest gingerly on her night stand. For once it wasn’t chiding her for taking too long or warning her of trouble in the realms. No, it felt…worried.

“Is it me you are worried about or is it your old bearer?” She asked it. Jane resisted the urge to brush her hand against the smooth uru. She was fighting a fight only Jane Foster could undertake now. She couldn’t escape into the empowered durability of Thor. She couldn’t run away from this fight, not when Thor wasn’t needed at that second. Not when there was no troll to punch. Not when Loki was still hidden away with his father. Not when she had no friend to take to see the whales one last time. Not when she had to stop it from raining at that friend’s funeral. No excuse. Jane Foster had her own duties too. She had to give her chemo a chance. Jane’s hand twitched as it curled into a fist

“I’m worried about him too.”

She wondered what her doctors would say if she told them most of her conversations these days where with a mythical hammer that held within it the ancient mother storm. They’d probably just blame her chemo brain. Some days Jane wondered if she would walk up to find out everything was a chemically induced fever dream.

She felt a chiding sort of irritation call out to her through the bond.

“I don’t know, Mjolnir. You did appear to me, as me. I think even the most open minded Asgardians would question the grip I have on reality.”

The answering humm bubbled in the back of Jane’s mind. It was different than the shock of the Mother Storm talking to her in her own voice but no harder to understand. Mjolnir’s words resounded in her entire being.

“–Yes I know they already do that, you silly hammer. That wasn’t my point.” Her bloated form was starting to sink into the mattress. Fatigue pulled at her limbs like two-ton weights and her vision blurred. But her mind was quiet for once. The haze was still an enveloping cloud pressing in on her thoughts but the thunder was being held at bay. Eye of the storm.

��Maybe we’ll find out something about him tomorrow,” she mumbled, heavy eyelids falling shut. Or maybe she’d finally get the chance to re-introduce Mjolnir to Malekith’s jaw in repayment for what he had done to Queen Aelsa.

A note of glee echoed distantly through the cloud.

Jane Foster finally feel asleep, an answering grin faint on her lips.  

[mooncookee]

QUIVER

You see the soul drips low down where the dirt holds and lip licks upside trees and rubs it's scent up in the leaves so every bee passin' flags its tale. In frets and waggles, tails a kites lets                                                     or a dragonfly drags, they sing out in trails of Halle-lu-jah stretches up, up to heaven' but the land; sees it. Land, it never forgets. No, see? The land never forgets.

It breathes in frequencies sometimes only wolves can bear. Now and then a cat or two might howl but hounds, they just too house broke, cozy, may a' bit too lazy for caring. Some ground just stares; some rumbles like mountain claws strummin' on drum skins. Some been rubbed too much.

 I'm told it growls like that at Shiloh and Antietam, And Vietnam's a locomotive hauling coal down where they stokin' Hell. So they tell. Well it's that kinda hum across the tracks as Quiver Lane backs up to Bayou Self.

Once it crossed there but Betsy or Audrey washed it out; maybe was a hurricane

way 'fore storms got names. No one cared to build it back or cared not to. True that.                                                                        

When Emmalite Petit came to name it Quivers for the way the silver willows shiver in the silver light of night everything changed.

Tragedy and Misery, ain't they so the loudest, overstaying cousins? And seems we never see the sunshine when they visit.   Poor Lita (her prayer given greeting) lived beneath a concrete cloud of loud and overstayin' cousins. They raved a regular hoedown, throw-down, hootenanny, fais do do with a neon rainbow and a disco ball. And I mean cousins, uncles et al. Damn Murder, Curser, Fever and Famine fired it up and washed it blue down there with Deluge.                                                                                        

First her Baby, gone. Her Daddy then her ‘nother Baby, husband, husband, baby, Mama; all lost quick as windblown sand.

 Some say Curser was first to sup. Before Choctaw pushed the Houmas through, before people were more than The People, angels and demons had drama there. In that, I'm told, can't be a winner. Seems Quiver Lane began to quiver long fore Lil’ Lita came for dinner or every time.                                                              

She came like plagues o' Moses. "Note-he-damn-us" speculated they's a Moses lain in every sack of sins.

So said, Lita lived as one or all those "Horsemen," well “Horse-folk,” that head banger gang, jammin' down till the World chokes, spokes broke in sections docking the earth in kinda pocky way clips. Cousin, you catch my crazy pills; lauded Lord seen the Devil’s daughter in a bonnet livin’ as the Mistress of the Quivers. I can't say. Maybe she's the lucky millionth shopper

straggled up, she, falling out the sack; register ding, clang and drawer slip, clap; balloons fell, politicians kissing black beauty baby hexes like bubble blowers whistling.

lucky Medusa, heaving chest, epistles of perdition Panavision in her sweat.                                                          

 Y’all know evil needs a witness, accepting victims’ just objects, directly. God knows Narcissus always came as the main idea. Ain't nobody plays that sorrow fiddle like him.

Maybe Emmalite's his sister?

 Lil' Lita came from Texas by the Sabine Pass. Her folk ran a trawl fleet, had plenty grass for cattle and passe blanc, they say. No verifiable pedigree, a Gypsy privateer, a Mescalita bruja here and here. Clearly an Andalusian heiress in that tree, more than half Moor-ish. She was Venus, trapper by trade so they say.

  (II)

 Down from Paradis a way the Old Spanish Trail snakes through the Texaco Woods. Inertia notwithstanding, curves are angular where that old road bends by the tracks and bends back a time or four. Man, DAMN, that was one alive drive. No, don't try those moves at Big Bear, no. Ask me how I know?

 So, the first knee coming from Paradis, Lita’s mausoleum gloats 'neath an oak grove.

Mère Brigit de Saint Asile, splayed in headstones, snaggle-toothed from the shiny rails, with a ditch mote, a throat bouquet of cattails and poison ivy commanded, a dead man's curve from any poet's axis. A swamp hugged close, old road to tracks that smacked blood wet, stains sustained since skirmishes of Yank incursions shucked, ghost rehearsals from Boutte to Des Allemands.

Older ground, this mound raised by the hand of man, built by bodies gone to mulch, a human humus mushed under hundreds on hundreds of autumn's silts. Floods sipped slippin' the baser stones to tilt in neglect, 'cept lichen love. Yet seldom did molesters linger. Centuries of cypress centurions, elders, priests and voodoiennes spit blasted blasphemous echoes and imminent offenders bent on infecting this umbilical age where souls are directed, selected and nakedly effected and tweaked past sec by the Conscious Constant Conscience Collective till they caress the nexus of perfection. Poor Lita‘s cache was stashed in a crypt like only city seen. Marble Venus reigning supreme over meager crosses, slaves and Cajun tenants, protestants, names scratched unless a body was a veteran.

 The black top ridge the bridge to Quiver Lane crossed tracks at are maintained by Santa Fe Railways on the civil side. The bayou banks can't be tamed. To its own travail, alone it wanes. It assimilates, ate by relentless quest of the prevailing Green to digest, jail and swallow every life, not sailing pass a snail's pace past the veil of tales.

 Some places birth a craving for belonging. I belong there. I learned to swear there,                                                                

was snared by the noose tobacco set. My first drunken crash there after Uncle read me Lovecraft there. I woke wet. We skipped for crawfishing on pretty new spring days, lunch meat and Bunny Bread, that pink mayo pickle spread, four finger bag of weed and a six o’ Dixie. What a day made; laying nets in a knee deep maze up to the first grave. Voo was a swamp "Fred Astaire." I was a true Scooby Doo.

 I felt connected. My first love was laid there.                                                        

We buried my Colinda in the Mom Brigit's breast. No other love tested more than a genuflecting peasant maid weighing fragrances passed in wake of her Queen's carriage. Stressing, up she peeked, a speck in shadows of divinity. That old road led me out on, a life of asphalt sped, gone, minstrel vagabond so long it's all I ever did since I turned back on this compost heap, love's keep, womb of every torch song.

 My class of '81 summoned, thirty-five years running but for them I come. I wonder why, true though, I never could deny our passion. When we took life in shots, chased with pitchers at Tolano’s. We had a world to make.

 Me, I just careened from ditch to ditch like it's me buried by the Quivers. No I deliver as I wither juke to honkey tonk, useless bitch of windy whispers. Till I listed, sunk and sprawled, depraved raving “kinda been” kissing the base of my true love’s grave. I bowed my gaze prostrate so to evade her name engraved by chisel. A blitz of banshees pulling train, crumbled by the strain, I crawled scratching three X's by the gate on Lita's marble vault pleading she would put me down, already nothing wasting air, better fare prepared as mushroom food or maybe that's too good.

 I should… I would but once I promised not to "should" myself. Still, shame laid lame, gasping breaths between grass roots. I wept. "Why me's" pelted till my ears burned red. I quivered in prayers to who knows who.

 "Madame Petit accept my humble suffering as sacrifice. By gluttony, greed and lust, I'm pinned by sin, an empty wraith in waiting, a soulless puppet painted live. I pray my worthless carcass lay a worthy crust to feed the inevitable Green lacing the gates of your Everlasting After.”

 Shotguns slam on Heaven's tin walls, clap of Atlas shaking this world off. Tossed by the blast wave reality whiplashed!

 Peace of the morning, peace of the dawn, peace of the dusk, trust is cruel quiet.

 I wasn't crying anymore, standing more or less, I smelled the musk of Bayou Self.

An ass drawn wagon crossed the bridge carrying six oyster sacks, a six pack of field hands

and six kindling stacks of dried fig twigs. A sickly girl’s grey pony led three chomping keen colts: a big red, an ice white and onyx black sweat gleaming fiery beast. Two tuniced, kilted dudes duked; blue steels, shields whacking, shrieks of deep dread jolts “blue screen” hacked my psyche. Pangs of fresh grief vigorously split me.

 A jug of berry sherry beckoned swig. My sweet Colinda, cherry plucker lolled, bent butt against the trestle rail. My first kiss again conjured up in home sewed halter and faded cutoffs

baring all I knew of truth. I sighed. Honey haired, hazel eyed, mine, giggling on the Quivers side. I knew I had died and raced embracing her with no step took, track jumped or cross tie straddled.

My Colinda, swarthy now calico long dress in bonnet, brunette, black eyes, pupils fire.

Love as always a puny liar.

           "Allons danser." Lil Lita grabbed me. We two stepped. A death of quiet                                                                        

only broke by creaking wood and creosote stink.

 Come to think, I never two stepped. Pickers never learn to dance. Sixties Cajun kids were forbidden, so I was not blessed to know her French addresses. Fancy me this dead man's chance.

We parleyed and danced and dance.

 Bless you; Ma'am Petit you be? Life for me was tired and old. If I’d be so bold

Please bestow me once more to hold my Colinda? Then to dust or mold or as you'd have me.

 "Chere," she said. "Colinda's me. No simple peace and death’s not free

Chere, we have scores and prophecies. A thousand first loves you and me span.

I was Lilith to your Adam.

 A hundred thousand maids you ruined. Who could ever love as I do? Spun out countless loves found tombs, dead in the womb as I sang lullabies. I brewed my fear beer. Stirred you here

Through waste and wander savoring every maid you plundered. Hate begets a viral Eden. Evil needs no truth to seed. Fear and hunger, pain and greed ripened drips in misery.

 Hero here alas you settle, finally, quite a hefty debt. Here you left, Colinda bled, red washed dress on a slave girl grave. Sweating fatherhood for fame let your name escape her blame. At last my final pica’s set my Casanova minstrel, convinced, sorry victim in your head, sped millennia and parried any collar, cross or retiarius’ net.

 But see this land, it never forgets. It pressed a bed of want in you that blooms like sumac in the rain. You came. Your only bet was plain. But here the game is mine, you swine

and markers called. You’re out of time. I'd feed a million trillion flies on your flesh and spread your soul like chewy tricks as treats on chilly demon children’s Halloween.

 But see, my pride, I got to ride. These fine three anxious steeded knights and I have deals to seal and seals to peel while you here feel the pain of every death since you've eluded me.” She chuckled, eyes blazing licked her lips. “But that too was your dream I guess. You always were my favorite pet and here see, this land don't forget."  

                                                                     (III)

Black is white to where she left me. Agony a soothing choice. Infinity times three;

tormenting claws and jaws forever stripping, split my atoms, sip and spit me. Buckets left to catch my wet screams. Seamless, moving troubadour’s tool ghoul re-jeweled to phantom’s whispering shrill banzai Mojave dry.

 Sorry now I'm such a bummer. I'm just a strummer not your savior but if you care for your creator make your peace cause Lita's coming.  

https://www.reverbnation.com/dwaynestromain/song/30163760-quiver-rvbntn

[captainfile]

atlas (1/11)

sun

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oejLt58oJnA

words: 1357

ocs: amber, old man, amber’s family

what effect could a marble, cracked and filled with molten rock, have on a god with the world at his fingertips? oh, none, but knocking the world from his shoulders and the wind from his chest.

Amber is lost.

Amber is so, so screwed.

Amber can't tell left from right anymore.

Amber might die tonight.

"you need help, girl?"

"i believe so," she starts to tell the nice old man who smiles from his alley, but it's dark out and she suddenly feels like she needs to leave. he stands and doesn't seem so nice anymore.

"why don't you come here, I'll get you cleaned up real nice, curl your hair and everything."

"I like my hair," she mutters to herself, then, "I believe I'll be quite alright, actually."

the old man jumps at Amber. Amber jumps into the street and sprints.

"help!" she shrieks, within mere inches of those wretched hands. she feels pulled back into her drunken stupor from before and squeezes her eyes shut if only to not see whatever the man is doing, be it killing her or worse. except that she doesn't feel anything.

Amber opens her eyes.

she regrets it instantly, bile rising in her throat and spilling over. "hold on tight," some voice behind her whispers, and she does, feeling like the situation she's in is no better than the one she was in moments ago. but falling twenty stories back down to the ground isn't an option, so Amber grips what feels like an arm around her waist and watches the city sail by beneath her.

Amber is flying.

life flashes before her eyes; loving parents, sneering classmates, broken plates, curtains, policemen. just approaching adulthood, partying with the bullies, toasting to the unfairness of the world and the common unwillingness to face it. some plan on a lifetime of paying for their young decisions, but Amber buries her nose in Stephen Hawking and Neil deGrasse Tyson and Carl Sagan and her own imagination, hoping against her own logic that there's a universe somewhere that she doesn't have to try her whole life to get her family into a real house with a trim yard and fresh paint, only to fail time and time again, and yet go through the motions because she's not allowed to escape or give up. she's no coward; she's smart. her multiverse theory isn't doing anything but scare her parents, but she holds some respect for the possibility of a different life.

the sun rises over a forested island. there's no buildings in sight, nor any other islands around. whatever carried her away disappears as Amber's toes brush the cool sand of the beach, and so she's left to fall over and cough out more bile and try to wipe salt and acid from her lips.

"hardly the most graceful, but certainly the most strange looking," says a voice that sounds much realer than the one from last night. Amber turns her head sharply to identify the source.

a couple of young kids, a boy and a girl much smaller than Amber, observe her from the tree line. "where am I?" Amber croaks. salt runs down her throat, and sick up. the boy approaches and bends at the knee, letting Amber see his tan round face and dark almond eyes more clearly.

"home," he says. "i'm your new brother, my name's Nibs. that's Tootles." he nods to the girl.

"no, I've lived in the city my whole life."

"and now you live here. trust us, it's a lot better," Nibs replies. Tootles doesn't say anything.

"where is here?" Amber asks again, pushing her windswept locks out of her face to look out at the ocean and then into the forest. the kids just smile.

maybe this is what Amber's been looking for ever since she read The Grand Design in seventh grade. maybe this is Amber's free ride into the void with barely a scratch to pay for it. maybe this is her, in shock, making sense of death by a man in an alley and recreational poison in her empty stomach. or maybe this is magic in its oddest form. Nibs pulls her up by her sand-burned elbow and gestures for her to follow him and Tootles into the forest.

Amber figures that the only way to find the truth is to search for it.

Amber follows two kids with mysterious names into a forest with no obvious escape.

the day is bright as the sun rises over to forest, and Amber finds that Nibs and Tootles seem to think that their hike takes no time at all when in fact, it takes them all morning. Amber has never walked so far- she normally sticks to her few familiar blocks, if she perchance leaves her house to party, or some such nonsense.

they finally stop when Amber's stomach has been rumbling for at least an hour, probably warning her against ever pulling the same stunt as yesterday again. each time it growls louder, Tootles smirks at her, but neither child says anything about it. Amber sways with each step and sighs when they approach a wall of leaves. Tootles knocks, and almost immediately someone- or something- howls beyond the leaves. the sound sends chills down Amber's arms, and her hands start to shake with nerves and exhaustion when the leaves are suddenly pulled back.

"welcome to Neverland, Amber," comes a low accented murmur from next to her ear. Amber doesn't move, eyes wide, until a hand settles in the center of her back and pushes against her stained baseball jersey.

Amber stumbles.

it's a campsite of sorts, one that's been around for a while, one that's self-sustaining, and Amber doesn't necessarily know what to make of it, but it's suddenly the only sign of civilization besides Nibs and Tootles in the last twelve hours and it feels right in a weird way, but not entirely. in the center is a bonfire, reduced to coals and surrounded by worn logs with no rot; on the edges of where trees have been cleared are several huts and several more tents; beyond, hidden between the green and brown of the forest, is a treehouse, and a smaller extension of the clearing where dust settles from recent footsteps and thrown spears.

"there's much more to explore, but that can wait, of course," say two identical boys, short and healthy, in unison. they're less tanned than Nibs, with more oval faces and diamond blue eyes, but Nibs is practically a giant beside them.

"you're going to love it here," exclaims a girl more sturdy than anyone else Amber sees, but no larger than an adult. she's shorter than Amber, but taller than most of the kids around. "i bet you already do."

in the girl's hands is a bowl of stew of some sort. Amber would normally find this rural and bland, but her stomach begs her to just steal it.

Amber does not steal that bowl of soup.

"you made it," says a relatively older kid, maybe a fresh teenager, with unruly dark curls twisted into dreadlocks and swollen knuckles. his teeth are white compared to his dark lips, and despite his gaunt expression, he seems the most genuine; something about symmetry or femininity, from Amber's psychology class last year.

between a hut and a tent, with the treehouse in the background, the tallest boy in the camp smirks at her and leans against a tree, tilting his head so his broken nose and the grass between his lips catch the light through his dirty blonde hair.

the children- there are no adults- watch Amber take it all in.

"you're slighter than Slightly," the girl with the soup remarks, which sends a wave of muffled laughter through the campsite. it's almost awkward, the silence filled with creature noises and soft wind and hissing coals. "what's your name?"

"we can't call her Slightly, that's taken," points out Nibs.

"Soot," suggests the dark-skinned boy. Amber immediately likes him a little bit less, but everyone else seems to like him more for it, and a chant of the word begins.

"may i present to you all, our newest Lost Boy, Soot!" calls a figure from where Amber entered the camp. she smiles immediately, hands settling, but her pulse hammers when he steps into the sunlight.

"let's play."

[developmenthole]

The Price of Aetherium: Outline

The Price of Aetherium was a retconed story arc for Pythia, until I overhauled her. I’m too proud of it to delete it, so i’m posting it here. This is the outline of the story, which gets wordy at points. 

Part 1 Nightmares

Done

Part 2 Reunions

Done

Part 3 Ozymandias

team leaves early in the morning 5am ish all on horseback. pyth, saulian and andoryan have cyrodiilic horses, do’kikhtar and motabe ended up buying  draft horses once reaching skyrim bc she knew it would be easier going back that way. brief description of traveling, mostly uneventful and nonstop.

once outside the ruins, the horses start getting nervous bc of the tremors. they dismount and tie the horses to a tree nearby or to some of the dwemer hitches. theyre all achy and hella sore, and andoryan bitches the most obvi, pyth and saul deal with it and do kinda agrees that shes stiff as fuck. a tremor shakes the ground and they all get a bit nervous, wondering if its safe or not. they got all the way here theres no way they're turning back now after coming all this way,

they head inside explore a bit and find katrias body but her ghost dosent show up bc saul radiates holy but they dont know that. they make their way along blah blah its fuckin boring pyth explains kinetic resonators, notes how they're not usually found in skyrims dwarven clans. basically she kinda takes the role of katria in explaining shit. do gets cut by a falmer in the area between shoulder and neck but saul heals her some so they keep going, pyth gets hurt by chaurus hunter.

they reach the summit (where the resonators are n you gotta shoot them) and pyth studies katrias journal before getting it in one go however comma andoryan knocks on one of the centurions and wakes it up. the team gets fucked up by it bad, but everyone is alive so far. they go and get the crest and its tired celebration and they start to leave. and because god hates pyth especially, a swarm of falmer shows. team is weak from the centurion fight so they get murdered. saul gets pulled over the edge by one jumping on him, Motabe runs out of magic and gets fucked and do flies into a rage, kills 5-7 and then gets overwhelmed and succumbs to poison. at the last second andoryan fucking tanks the shit and wipes the rest out right as pyth is about to get offed. she is hurt super bad and he pins her down reveals he is a Cunt. takes the aetherium for himself, decides to take all of it, including the aetherium in her eye. takes one of the falmer axes and uses it to cut out her eye. he then drags her to the edge and throws her over.

Part 4 Myth

pyth wakes up. saul is there looking fucked. she tries to move but saul stills her. she's missing an eye and her arm is broken. saul got a concussion and pyth asks if he healed her, he did not. she is confused. saulian nods towards a towering figure with its back to them. theyre cooking something on a fire within the ruin. pyth looks at saul and he shrugs. the figure finally stands and kneels by them, its ncz. checks on pyth, checks on saul, reminds saul not to sleep bc concussion. pyth falls back asleep

At this point add ncz (Nczek was Nchand’s early name) to the expedition roster.

Part 5 Pyre

ncz and continues to take care of pyth and saul until theyre well enough to leave. ncz helps bury what remains of her friends and katriah. pyth is very quiet and ncz and saul do most of the talking. ncz leads them to the entrance and sees them off. they make for falkreath

Launch ncz’s (Nchand) blog

it kinda switches to sauls pov because pyth is like. shell. he notes that hes moved her to his horse because she keeps falling asleep and hes worried she'll fall off the horse literally. he states that aside from the 4 days spent with ncz, they stayed in falkreath for 3. he notes that they really should have stayed with ncz longer because concussion and broken arm and missing eye but he wanted to get her to a town just incase they needed something food/potion ect. he states that he keeps an eye on her at night because of his own insomnia and that every night since first waking up at nczs shes had night terrors and he knows shes not taking this well. think oitnb piper post branding! eventually pyth picks up enough to ride on her own horse and talk some but shes still very distant. they go to her house only to find it in shambles like someone trashed the place. pyth steps into the back room/workshop and saul yanks her back just as a fire rune explodes. as a result the house catches fire bc wood.

saul tries to put it out but between trying to keep pyth from rushing in and trying to save stuff, he cant do much. he drags her out and holds her still as they watch her fuckin house burn down. as the moons rise they start on the road to whiterun.

Part 6 Untitled

Arrive in whiterun to somekind of bruhaha but saulian avoids it and goes straight to the temple of kynareth so pyth can get properly looked at. Scene ends with saulian leaving the priestess to do her work while he goes to figure out what was going on.

Scene picks up when pyth wakes up and she asks saulian what happened. She passed out on the horse on the way there and saulian brought her to the temple and a pristess set her arm in a splint and it wasn’t actually that bad and that regarding the situation, she should be okay but she cant use it. “Oh. thank you.” saulian asks if her brother works in whiterun she says yes, in the drunken huntsman. He asks if he also left valenwood under the same circumstances as she did she says yes. Saulian sighs and takes her hands. He’s dead. Pythia stares at him, clearly not believing him. He elaborates. Apparently he was seen walking with a hooded stranger last night and they found him along the wall. Murdered right in the city. Pythia breaks down sobbing and the scene ends.

A few days pass (2-3) and pythia has lost everything, essentially. Her eye, the use of her right arm, her friends, her brother, her home and now her life’s work. All she has left is the gold she had on her (roughly 200 septims) and saulian. At this point in time the vigilants are still around and saulian hasn’t found or refurbished the temple. Saulian says that he needs to go back to the hall of the vigilants, he’s been gone way longer than he should have and hes sorry. He says that if she needs him or needs help to go there. Pythia nods and says okay. Saulian leaves and now shes alone.

Jump cut to pythia burying aralas under the ashes of her home. Cue more crying.

Jump cut again to pyth making camp in the hills of the reach outside of rorikstead. 

Part 7 Atlas

This is the chapter about regret! I.e. pythia bearing the weight of the situation. Its mostly inner monologue

Actually it’s more of a sped up version of the stages of grief. She gets angry at herself for bringing them, at saulian for leaving her alone, and finally at fuckin andoryan. That cunt. She sits in silence by the fire brooding before realizing that the Dark Brotherhood is a thing that exists. Sure, she’s got a little less than 200 septims to her name and andoryan could be literally anywhere by this point but she’s going to have to try. That is, after her arm heals and she sees about getting a faux eye. Can’t wear gauze forever. She gets up to set some traps and heads to bed.

Here would be where the plotline would be opened up to interactions within the current timeframe. Would be open to muses that travel/hunt, or live in rorikstead/the reach.

Part 8 Two Graves

After 2-4 in timeline interaction have a call for someone in the brotherhood and plot with them

Points to remember, pythia is poor like. less than 200 gold. Pythia’s arm has healed and she no longer has a splint (recovery time is lower bc healing potions and magic) this dude could be ANYWHERE and is affiliated with the thalmor.

Fuck this im tired