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Rita Hayworth, 1930s

source

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I have three starters to get to, if you’d also like something small feel free to like this post or send me an im so we can plot!!

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            SHE BLINKS AT HIS WORDS, A PART OF HER SURPRISED that he’s observed that there’s something wrong. She’s surprised by that, because most occupants aren’t interested in her, or her story. If she’s saddened or not. Miss Evers cleans the FILTH from their bedsheets --- a lingering shadow at the side lines, nothing more. “Oh...that’s quite alright. I just, thought you’d come to ask about your washing.” A hand raises to wipe at her cheek, dropping down to scrub at the now fading red smudge, turning once crystal clear water dirty. She glances up from her washing after a brief lapse in conversation, head tilting a fraction to the left. “I don’t recall having seen you in our hallways before. Are you newly deceased?” She usually sees people in their last moments, bleeding away the color of their lives upon her STARCH WHITE SHEETS, but she cannot recall ever seeing him before.

          He hadn’t meant to spy on her, not intentionally, but as he’d walked by he couldn’t help but notice the open door. He’d just been being nosy when he’d stopped to look inside, only for a moment is what he’d told himself. Of course, a moment ended up being a good deal longer than he’d thought as he found himself captivated by the woman and the bloodied sheets she was so focused on. He’d spent enough time in the Hotel Cortez to know that the bloody sheets were hardly worth noting, but her somber attitude…it seemed so very out of place when all other beings that roamed these halls appeared to be practically chipper whenever there was death involved. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…you just seemed so upset is all,” he replied, unable to move from his spot in the doorway.

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█ ┊❛ OPEN

            SADNESS IS VERY MUCH EVIDENT IN her pale, dough-like features. Today is clearly not a good day for the ghost, when not even so much as a hummed melody or a breezy whistle escapes her while tending to her laundress duties. In fact, she utters not a sound, the only noises the running water and bristles of her scrubbing brush as they meet scarlet soaked linens. Miss Evers thinks herself to be alone, and so wrapped up in the vigarious SCRUB-SCRUB-SCRUBBING trying to get the fresh blood out of pure white, it’s a good minute or so until her eyes flicker upwards, catch sight of a figure in the doorway. Gaze drinks them in a moment, but she lets her vision drop back to her task, pout drawing into a thin line. “I am afraid I am in no mood to engage conversation.”

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❛ take a look at what you did. ❜

THE WEEKND STARTERS 

       HER GAZE IS GREEN WHEN IT COMES TO ELIZABETH. Emerald, bejeweled with jealousy. She’s a powerful woman. Deadly. Miss Evers knows she holds not a candle to the woman’s grace, impeccable beauty, wit and charm. She is the black widow spider, the Cortez is her web, and within it, intricately is weaved the silk-wrapped corpses of her discarded lovers. And one of those is her beloved Mr March. What is Miss Evers but the humble, plump caterpillar in comparison, who never formed hard cocoon in order to emerge as something MORE BEAUTIFUL than the thing with venomous fangs? She has not reached metamorphosis, and wonders, sourly, if she ever will. 

      “I did — not mean to offend, the madam.” That’s a lie. She knocked it over on purpose, in her spite. HATES how March can look at her with that sense of longing and love, when it’s no secret the Countess doesn’t return his feelings. Very rare does she act as such, but she cares little for Elizabeth. In fact, the maid’s sole wish, alongside being reunited with her darling Albert, is that this bloodsucking leech will be killed outside of the Cortez. Without her, perhaps March would turn his attentions, his AFFECTIONS, to her, the rightful claim. “Forgive me. A slip of the hand!” She makes to pick up the spilled decanter, uses white cloth to mop at the deep red liquid seeping ‘cross the glass surface. A good thing it isn’t wooden, else that beverage would’ve soaked straight into the table. “You are looking most wonderful this evening.” She flashes a smile, albeit a strained one, before making to take away the now mostly empty decanter, carefully place it on her tray. “I shall refill this for you, and return it to you and sir at once, madam.”

         Of course, she’s thought about what if she tried to dispatch the woman herself. But she could NEVER. A dumpy little thing like Hazel, against the slender, sleek, KILLER blonde bombshell? She wouldn’t stand a chance in million years, let alone a thousand. Her hands would likely shake too much. She’d do something wrong. Besides, it does no good to think of silly things like that. Simple, stupid fantasies. If she is tolerant, goes about her work with a smile, then that keeps Mister March happy. And if he is happy, then Hazel supposes, she is happy. Yet, more & more recently she is finding that, this is not the case. She is delusional in her love for him, views him from behind rose stained glass: maybe she thinks a part of her can soothe the soul with her tenderness, but men like him cannot be CURED of their murderous tendencies through simple adoration and affection. She is hopeful for his rapt attention, but time rots everything. And she has been here for so long, there is very little hope left to cling to. So she will paint the Countess in poor light, that HORRID MURDEROUS HARLOT, even though her dear March is positively no better. 

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I feel like mr.march is way to proud about his name

Queenie: who ar-

Mr.march: JAMESPATRICKMARCH

IT IS I JAMES. PATRICK. MARCH.

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█ ┊❛ OPEN

             IT’S A RATHER MERRY TUNE that seeps past her lips, crumpled like red tissue paper, but the corners lifted in a beam of a smile. It’s been a rather good day, thus far. She’s thrilled with her new contraptions, capable of removing stains in the blink of an eye, cleaning clothes in that bizarre, fluid spinning motion ( she’s still got a lot to learn about modern mechanics & objects. ) The dumpy little spirit carries freshly ironed linens in her arms, whistling contently until the sound cuts off, dies in her throat upon noticing the agape door and streaks of crimson ‘cross the carpet. Brow furrows slightly, sheets carefully transferred to one arm, pressed against her bosom as she shifts to rap on the door’s wood, sound sharp. “Hello?” She just wants to check that the culprit is still present. Nothing worse than starting to clean up only to find this blood actually leads to someone’s most recent meal, or say, plaything, for the next few hours.

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LIFE UPDATE UNDER THE CUT

              I know my activity’s been very spotty due to work, but I also have various other things going on in my life right now, having lost both my grandfather and an uncle in such a short time-frame, and my godfather has been coughing up blood for a while now, and doctor’s aren’t being straight about a diagnosis. On top of this, as some of you may already know, I live in a very abusive household, and the abuse is mentally, emotionally and sometimes physically. My activity is going to continue to be spotty as some days I could write forever, while others I just want to reblog pictures and give my brain a rest. I know I’ve been going extended periods of time without replying to things and I promise I haven’t forgotten anyone — I’m just struggling to keep it all together, and sometimes I don’t have access to a computer. I am fortunate enough right now to have access, but some days that may not be the case, as my home life is extremely unpredictable. I just want you all to know that I haven’t forgot about threads or starters, or memes or im’s, I’m just struggling right now to balance life and all my blogs and I’m finding everything a bit difficult: having a job, trying to deal with depression, my home etc. There’s alot going on. Everyone’s understanding would greatly be appreciated. Thank you and again, I’m sorry for how long it’s taking for me to get to everything. 

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Miss Evers and Liz Taylor, American Horror Story: Hotel S05E10 ‘She gets revenge’

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Move, move, move.

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“It’s always been you.”

American Horror Story: Hotel - Episode 8

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ｔｈｅ  ｗｅｅｋｎｄ  ｓｔａｒｔｅｒｓ

❛ close your eyes and lay yourself beside me. ❜ ❛ don’t be scared. i’m right here. ❜ ❛ oh, your mind wants to leave, but you can’t go. ❜ ❛ let me take the friction from your lips. ❜ ❛ i’m the drug in your veins. ❜ ❛ just fight through the pain. ❜ ❛ he’s what you want, i’m what you need. ❜ ❛ i do, everything he does times three. ❜ ❛ i don’t love her no more. ❜ ❛ just let me motherfucking love you. ❜ ❛ so tell me you love me only for tonight. ❜ ❛ i’ll give you all of me even though you don’t love me. ❜ ❛ i’m not lying to nobody but me. ❜ ❛ i’m better than your next man. ❜ ❛ i think you lost your morals, girl. ❜ ❛ put your mind in a dream world. ❜ ❛ take a look at what you did. ❜ ❛ you probably thought that you’d break my heart. ❜ ❛ you probably thought that you’d make me cry. ❜ ❛ i know everything. ❜ ❛ there are no words to describe the depths of your indifference. ❜ ❛ you could’ve been the one. ❜ ❛ you keep saying there’s no one, but who keeps calling your phone ? ❜ ❛ it seems like pain and regret are your best friends. ❜ ❛ i can’t feel a damn thing. ❜ ❛ don’t you fall in love. ❜ ❛ you’ll be falling to the point of no return. ❜ ❛ you’ll never make me stay so take your weight off of me. ❜ ❛ i know your every move, so won’t you please let me be. ❜ ❛ but i hate sleeping alone, why don’t you come with me ? ❜ ❛ i didn’t call on the phone to say that i’m alright. ❜ ❛ i guess you had no idea that you could have persuaded me. ❜ ❛ you could have had me doing anything you pleased. ❜ ❛ it could have went so many ways. ❜ ❛ nobody feels the way that i feel when i’m alone. ❜ ❛ lying comes natural to me. ❜ ❛ she never falls in love. ❜ ❛ i used to do this for the thrill. ❜ ❛ nobody’s ever made me fall in love. ❜ ❛ you taught me how to feel. ❜ ❛ you taught me how to love. ❜ ❛ you belong to the temporary moments of a dream. ❜ ❛ i see nobody but you. ❜ ❛ i’m so used to being used. ❜ ❛ you know our love would be tragic. ❜

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              HER HEAD SNAPS UP ALMOST INSTANTLY at the younger woman’s words, blinking a little in surprise. No need for detergent? “But --- what of the stains, Moira dear? Do you mean to say with one sheet they can remove stains and freshen the linens?” IT’S SHEER AND UTTER WITCHCRAFT. A marvel. How far the world has come, since her lungs and heart ceased to function. The shock soon leaves her features, mind, the corner of her lips twitching upwards in a beam as she folds the sheet in her hands, places it down, smoothing out creases gently. “Do we.... have any? It would bring me great satisfaction in viewing such a wonder with my own eyes!” How had she not known for so long of these launderette miracles? Here she’d been, scrubbing and scrubbing, causing callouses in her hands, working skin raw, when there were far easier and simpler methods out there to get the FILTH out of her lovely linens?

              “I suppose it is pretty fascinating,” Of course, it was refreshing to see someone so enthralled in such a modern creation — something others never bat an eye about most of the time. The redhead carefully folds one of the other sheets, noting its pure white color (perhaps the elder woman was right, with just how magnificent this small invention was.) “But I’m guessing that if you believe this is amazing, you’ve never seen those sheets you put in both the washer and dryer, and no longer have a need for detergents?”