#implied murder cw

[crowcussion]

fears? haha nope

i have no fears

🐝

GET THAT MONSTER AWAY FROM ME

🤮

I WILL SHOOT YOU

[carbonateddelusion]

2020's jack 1 and 4?

1. What is one word that always shuts them up?

"Vincent" or "disappointment"- any variation of those two, really

4. What is their worst nightmare?

Regaining consciousness in his dinky little childhood home to the sensation of a pat on the back and metallic stench in the air. It smells like rot and death and his hands are covered in blood. He looks up and over his shoulder to see his father grinning down at him. He looks on the floor and staggers upon seeing the rest of his family there, motionless.

Jack wakes up and cries into his girlfriend's shoulder.

[spoopybruh]

Hey! So I know this might not be everyone’s cup of tea but I tried my hand at editing a video. If you have the time and don’t mind gore, I’d love for you to take a look at it! c: 

Synopsis: “Legs” Madej works as a contract killer who has a flair for the theatrics whenever whimsy strikes. He becomes entangled with “Night Night” Bergara in the process. As luck would have it, “Legs” eventually is arrested but receives assistance by way of a familiar friend. Through the little help and his own efforts, he’s able to escape and meet up with “Night Night” again.

[fanesavin]

Devils in the Dark : Fane + Grace [Flashback]

Dear Boss, From Hell

Upcoming and also implied TW for most of this thread: Implied Murder, Mutilation, Death, Prostitution, Profiteering, Threats

@gracevilliers

September 29th 1888 : 10.15 PM

An acrid smoke riddled fog had crept over the chilled London streets, sinking between looming buildings and driving itself into every nook. Not even the tidier streets of Westminster could escape the choking fog but tonight, Stefan Savin wasn’t walking the streets of Westminster. Instead, it had been the long journey through the boroughs of The Strand and City of London before cutting up into the borough of Whitechapel.

September 29th 1888 : 11.45 PM

By now the factories near the slums of Whitechapel stood empty – the men, women and children who worked their furnaces and powered their machinery had long since poured out in streams, determined to return to their cramped homes. Not that the streets were abandoned, not half petty thieves and crooks just as willing to stab you in the gut for the chance of looting anything from your corpse hung about corners. Stefan Savin didn’t belong to these streets, a bachelor gravitating and rubbing elbows in the niche upper classes of Westminster and Kensington a scholar who more often than not mixed business and pleasure resulting in a curious and depraved reputation that repulsed and intrigued. He was, after all, of an age that he should have been wed and had children aplenty by now but instead he chased intellectual pursuits instead which bred its own set of rumours. But in a world such as this, everyone had their masque, the role they played to titillate and intrigue. To ultimately obscure the truths with half-truths and falsities, because in a world of backstabbing socialism no one was safe from those desperate to scale the elitist ladders.

Money. Gossip. Blackmail. Sex. Power. Influence. Knowing who would ally with who and those that would be willing to betray those who thought them loyal. Knowledge was the tool of the trade and weapon of mass destruction that most of the corseted and suited gentry wielded in the world he occupied by day where one wrong move could topple you like a pawn in the complex game of chess they played with each other’s livelihoods. By night though? Well, that was a remarkably different tale. Tonight Lord Stefan Savin had swapped silks and tailored suits for old faded and patched clothes, and a peaky cap angled low over his brow. The brighter gas-lit streets of Kingston switched for the dark winding streets of Whitechapel where masses stuffed themselves away in crooked buildings like sardines. Breaking off from the stream of people into a steep alley teeming with barrels, crates, and other movable goods, pigs, cows, and chickens (and their dung) underfoot everywhere, carousing groups of drunkards, and apparently the world's entire population of whores leaning from windows and giving potential customers an appreciative eyeful. Even with recent events, safety was all but a luxury in this end of town. The danger of trading pleasure for coin meant nothing if it ultimately meant starving to death instead. But Fane had no attention for any of them, his feet light over the cobblestones and his keen eye scanning the otherwise silent streets.

September 30th 1888 : 12.15 PM

His journey finally ended at a long, straight, hopeless street of cramped regularly-built brick houses. Littering the narrow path between yards crowds of figures squat around fires, attempting in vain to chase away the chill of winter setting in not that it bothered him. Carefully he picked his way through the dismal desperation, ears tuning out the sounds of pained groaning and muttering echoing from behind the gates he passes by avoiding puddles at all cost. A short while later he stopped, turning to lift the rough latch on a gate, allowing himself to slip through into a yard where more people huddled. Stepping over a sprawled man, possibly asleep, drunk or even dead, he continued, paying them no heed until he pushed through the back door of a stained brick building. He felt bad for ignoring their plight, but there were greater terrors plaguing these streets. One he had a foundling theory about.

Allowing the door to rattle shut behind him Fane glanced around, barely noticing the moderate increase in warmth the house offered. Instead, his head turned as a voice sounded from upstairs “get a move on Mr. Corbett” a haughty voice sounded “this is the story of a lifetime!”

“S’cuse me mister—Can I help you?” one of the aids, a young boy of around ten, stained with ink who had noticed Fane’s entrance asked, but no pleasantries could be spared tonight. Shaking his head mutely before brushing past and towards the staircase following the voice that continued to cajoul as it exited onto the street.

Following, Fane spotted the thickly moustached man in a bowler hat hurrying off down the street with another stumbling in tow attempting to carry an awkward amount of equipment including a wooden camera tripod. “Mister Holden,” Fane’s crisp voice cut through the quiet street not that it stopped the hurrying pair “I know you have more of the Ripper’s letters.”

Jeffrey Holden to his credit, barely looked back as Fane quickened his pace to catch up. “I told you t’stay away from me sir.”

A flare of irritation stirred in Fane as he kept pace “you know as well as I that won’t happen, you need to stop publishing his letters Holden.” Catching the reporter’s arm and yanking him to a stop “you’re turning an unknown miscreant into a legend. This is exactly what he’s after, press.” Infamy.

“’xactly, you seem to be missing the point of all this. What does news do to sales? News sells Savin. News pays my rent and keeps me fed.” Ever the entrepreneur it seemed.

And they call me a leech. “You’re plunging these streets into even more shadow and chaos. These women are people Holden! Don’t you have any morality?”

“Watch y’self sir, or news might just spread that a certain well-to-do gentleman skulking about these streets might just be more involved than meets the eye.” Holden sniffed, breaking out of Fane’s grip “anyhows last I checked they wasn’t nothin’ more than goodfurnothin’ whores. Who’s gunna miss’em? G’night sir, the print waits on nobody” With a tip of his bowler hat Holden was on his way and Fane tightened his hand into a fist tightly at his side. If he couldn’t get the letters handed over, well, he’d just have to get a little more creative…

September 30th 1888 : 12.30 PM

Fane had just been starting back down the street towards the Holden & Co. print shop when Naomi appeared out of the shadows causing a tingle to run up his spine as it often did when in the presence of one of his progeny. “I think we might finally have him, spotted moving towards Berner Street, off Commercial Road.”

A wash of cold urgency replaced the warm familiarity that came with the presence of the young woman, “he’s on the hunt— Show me.” With barely another word the two sped off, a blur of motion speeding through the street. They had to catch up to this killer before he could strike again and vanish into the ether once more and if not that, then certainly before whatever grotesque arrangement might be left behind was discovered.

[iinxsearchofxisolde-archive]

{Interesting hc I’ve talked to @noseblxxd and @wolf-at-worlds-end about:

Tristan primarily fights with long ranged weapons like laser rifles and Gatling guns because they’re efficient and impersonal. He can shoot an enemy from a far enough distance that he wouldn’t even really hear what they had to say before dying and the end would be over quickly.

He only fights hand to hand when you do something that truly hurts him- because it’s something that Tristan see’s as a very confrontational way to fight or kill someone. Him getting out of his armor to take blows with you is a sign that you did something that just made shit personal for him.} 

[thegirlwiththedragonheart]

Okay, so this was my attempt to meet a prompt in fifteen minutes. It’s kinda short and not my favorite, but I finished it (and it’s self contained!) and I am determined to start posting my writing on Tunblr, therefore this. Don’t judge me.

Jenna and I walked silently through the woods. She was deep in thought, probably something from school earlier that day. I just wasn’t quite one for talking. My father had embedded the belief that it was better to speak less than speak frivolously when I was young. I tilted my head back, feeling the sun on my face. The light filtered through the thriving ceiling above us, throwing small glimmers of light all around us.

“Have you ever thought about the day we met?” Jenna finally asked. I turned to face her, raising one eyebrow. In all the years I’d known her, we’d never really discussed the day we met. It didn’t seem all that important to me and she had never brought it up. Flushing at my look, she clarified, “About how no one else spoke to you?” 

“Most do not stop to listen,” I said simply. Jenna frowned, opening her mouth to continue speaking when she tripped over something. She fell, scraping her hands across a rock as she tried to catch herself in vain. Tilting my head, I looked down on her as I pointed out, “For a dancer, you’re awfully clumsy, Jenna. Are you alright?”

“Yes, but no help with you,” she grumbled as she climbed to her feet. Kicking at the bump in the dirt, she swore at it while white hot pain flared in my rib cage, causing me to screech in pain. Doubling over, I didn’t see, but hear as Jenna rushed over to me, demanding frantically, “Elizabeth, are you okay? Lizzie!”

The pain slowly faded, but I remained doubled over for a few moments. Finally, I straightened up, one hand still pressed protectively against my ribs. I nodded silently, not trusting my voice in that moment. Jenna’s hands fluttered in the air around me and the worried look didn’t change. I told her, “I am alright, Jenna. I apologize, I do not know what caused that.”

“One of those weird flashes?” she guessed. I nodded and she relaxed. An easy smile slid on her face as she said, “Well, let’s see what that thing was!”

I followed her, crossing my arms as she dropped to her knees and began digging enthusiastically in the dirt. As she did, she babbled on about jewels and treasures and adventures. I didn’t pay much attention admittedly, more curious in the familiar markings on the trees. I’d visited the forest a lot as a child with my father. I hadn’t been there in years though, just too many memories among the trees.

I jerked my head over to look at Jenna as she suddenly stopped talking and screamed. She scrambled backwards, dirt covering her hands and jeans as she tried to get as far back as she could. When she reached my side, she stammered, “I-it’-“

She couldn’t get the words out as she began panicking. Tilting my head, I leaned forward to peer at what she’d been uncovered. My eyes met empty eye sockets as I smiled. Turning to Jenna, I nodded towards the bones she’d uncovered and said pleasantly, “Jenna, meet my mother. Father was kind enough to leave us together, so I should be around here somewhere.”

Jenna swallowed hard, looking over from my mother’s bones to me as I flickered between solid and spirit.

[carbonateddelusion]

PLEASE TELL ME MORE ABOUT EDDIE

I like how I say "his ass is fatter than Jack's" and that's your first response

Edgar, the older version of him at least (who is in nutty Jack's universe), is a timid man. He's afraid of his own shadow. He's also very intelligent, but empathetic to his detriment. He can't hate anybody for long- even if they treat him horribly, as many people do. He's also the kind of man to father anybody who's younger than him. Because of this, he's amassed what one could describe as a "ghost child army" because of his reluctance to turn Jack in. He's a very sweet man, yes, but he's a complete pushover and refuses to defend himself unless doing so would save another person. Edgar's also an alcoholic and a smoker. Perpetually tired, he mostly keeps to himself and his adoptive children.

[grislyintentions]

|| Excerpt- Freminet ||

The stench of someone bleeding out on the floors of the basement is vaguely similar to that of grinding gears and steel work if he kept his eyes closed.

Freminet's footsteps are quiet when he shuts the basement door behind him, tip toeing around the body as carefully as he could. Drifting across the sea's surface like sea foam cradling the tides.

"...What happened?"

The Director would not be pleased with the mess. They both know this, judging from the way his sibling shook. An accident.

"...Nevermind. You don't have to tell me." Whatever excuses they could come up with are useless in the end. It does not change the outcome. It's fine.

His hands tightened around the handle of his claymore. "I'll fix it."

Two bodies in one night seems like overkill. But the Director will understand. Freminet is efficient in solving problems, you see.