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saintescuderia · 13 days

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pancakes (pt. 6)

AKA - the story of how the naive australian rookie befriended the gym junkie F1 hospitality worker with the shoe collection - and inadvertently broke the grid's most treasured and unspoken rule: you don't go for y/n.

series masterlist here :) / antinal reference ;)

A/N: to make up for being MIA (and that this sunday might be another miss) here's a double update. enjoy.

P6 - pre-workout for jet-lag

You still found it odd to call Australia home.

You had mixed feelings about the country stamped across the front page of your passport. Your auntie had been the one to organise the papers so that Australian would be your identification. Never mind the hospital bed in Monaco that you were birthed. Or that you were first words were in Arabic.

Still, your travelling auntie’s own experiences meant that when you came into her care, she would raise you Australian. Never mind any of the other stuff.

So, when you walked into the house in Melbourne, you were met with an Egyptian lady playing French music, dressed in a Korean football jersey, cooking Greek food. Such was the life of a nomadic English teacher that was your aunt Nadia. Dia for short.

“Ah, it's you." She sat, spying you hauling the suitcase through the door. She looked at the clock by the fridge and then frowned. "You weren't supposed to land yet."

"I landed an hour ago." You said. She looked at the clock again and took it off the fridge. She banged it with one hand and then shook her head, muttering under breath.

"I'm sorry. Did you take an Uber?"

"No. Oscar gave me a lift." Well, technically his father had driven the car.

Oscar’s parents were apparently super excited to meet you and gushed all through the way about how glad they were that their son had you to help him through F1. They had even insisted on dinner but Oscar knew you had stayed up - you had made him do the same thing as you - and thankfully postponed it for a breakfast tomorrow after you both got to finally got to sleep.

Upon leaving Jeddah, you had looked at the flight times and decided to overdose the 400mg of pre-workout and strategically placeyour workout just before leaving the hotel so that you and Oscar could both avoid the jet-lag many other F1 personnel were struggling with.

So far, it was on track to working. You just needed to push through a few more hours. To do so, Oscar was going to watch the footy. You were going to watch football.

“Ah, this young Oscar." Your aunt was nodding. "I like him. He has a trusting face.” She laughed at you, doing nothing to help but continue to watch you clamber into the well-loved and mis-matched dining furniture in her kitchen. “You hungry?”

“Tired.” You said, checking the time. It was 5pm but you were ready to knock out. Just a few more hours. You willed yourself to push through and avoid the jet-lag.

“Did you eat?”

You hadn’t. You never ate airplane food.

The silence was answer enough as your auntie plated up some gyros for you. The smells of the seasoned meat filled your nose and your stomach rumbled at the site of it. You picked up your fork, ignoring the bread for the sake of your cut but helping yourself to tzatziki.

"What's with the Korean jersey." You couldn't help but ask. You watched your auntie's back with CHO GUE-SUNG.

"Oh, he's such a handsome man. So polite too. I met him when I was teaching abroad in Seoul."

You opened your mouth but closed it. Your auntie lived a very unbelievable life at the best of times.

"He was nice. Nice face. Good hair. You should date him." Dia said as if she was commenting about the weather and you rolled your eyes, chewing through the food. She gave you a look. "Better a footballer than a driver."

You gave her a look. She never did like Danny. Much less you two together.

"Speaking of footballers, your uncle called. Went on and on in Italian about how your talents are wasted with cars and you should come to a real sport."

You snorted hearing this. Your uncle's work in football (not soccer, football) and your line of expertise had some people baffled that you hadn't joined him. Only the select few who knew your mother understood just why that was.

Still, every month your uncle sighed at the wasted talent! that you, a world class performance trainer! was stuck making coffee! for some fancy drivers!

Save that your uncle would add in a few choice Italian expletives in the mix.

"So, the usual?" You concluded.

"The usual." Dia nodded. She came to sit down in front of you. Pulling out her phone, she began showing you pictures of her recent teaching stint in South Korea. Your aunt had been there for about six months, working at an international school. And befriending Korean football players apparently.

“I thought you were teaching in Paris.” You said between mouthfuls of seasoned meat.

“That was before.” Dia waved a dismissive hand. She dropped her phone and then stood up to pull out two wine glasses. Your aunt gave you a look and you shook your head. She put one back with a roll of her eye. “Wine is good for you.”

“I’m already taking resveratrol.” You said. “And I’m on a cut.”

“That’s why no bread.” Dialooked down at the plate full of untouched pita bread. She was well aware of your health habits. “Actually, I went to Egypt recently! Ah!” She went to the cupboard above the microwave and pulled out a shoebox full of small boxes. You knew immediately what it was. Bringing the shoebox to the table, Dia began pulling out various medicines she had brought from Egypt.

“You will need this for your travels.”

“I have all of this.”

“Do you have Antinal?”

“Yes.”

“Take some extra." Dia still pushed it to you. "Give it to Charles.”

“I don’t speak to Charles.” You said.

Your aunt huffed and looked up at the ceiling, calling to God. “Ya rab. This fight with Charles needs to stop. Pascale and I are sick of it.” You didn’t comment any further on it. It was, admittedly, quite hard when there were so many other people involved. Pascale and Nadia were best friends. It was how you and Charles had grown up so close. The fact that you were family friends made it hard since Charles had pretty much cut you off. Granted, he was polite and you knew he still greeted your aunt Dia with a kiss on each cheek every time she’d visited Monaco. But still.

“I will give them to Charles.” She said, taking a box back.

“You do that.” You said as she still pushed one boxes of the yellow medicine in front of you. “Dia, I already have this.”

“For Oscar. Yallah.”

“Anti-diarrhoea pills?"

"Oi, mate. You better be grateful. That shit's a miracle." You said, dropping the yellow box in Oscar's hands as you both walked down the Paddock. You had checked your phone this morning to the beautiful news that you would be working for McLaren today. You texted Oscar the news and the next day he had your coffee order ready in the cupholder of the car he picked up you up in.

It didn't feel odd. It should've, but it didn't. Maybe it was because you and Oscar had already spent the most of the morning together. You had breakfast with his parents - his dad taking a moment to quietly pull you aside to say thank you for supporting Oscar - and then hit a gym sesh.

In fact, you almost forgot that you and Oscar was supposed to be working in different domains until you both had to get dressed and found him waiting for you outside the Paddock dressed in shorts, a McLaren t-shirt and accompanying brand cap.

It made you look down at your black Hospitality wear and wonder just how things would go if you were wearing the same clothes as him.

Well, for one thing, you would have to wear those ugly ass shoes. You looked down at your feet clad in some Nike Cortez and tried to take that as consolation. You weren't dressed in team uniform but at least that meant you had your shoes.

Still, the oddity of seeing a driver openly interact with the Hospitality staff turned some head as you walked down the Paddock together. You were half tempted to tell Oscar to go ahead but it didn't make sense. You were both going to the same place - the McLaren motorhome.

Oscar, however, was barely paying attention to any of this. No, his attention was still stuck on the medicine you had given him.

"Why do I need," He paused and flipped the box over to read the label that was in English, "Antinal?"

"Because you're travelling around the world more now that you're in F1 and have an additional ten or so race weekends added to your calendar." You explained as Oscar read what minimal English was on the medicine box "And so you're gonna be trying a lot more foreign food. Gotta be prepared, man." You patted him on the shoulders as a form of consolation. Oscar just laughed.

"I must say, when you texted me that you had got me something, I didn't think it would be this."

"Technically my auntie did." You said before explaining how you would probably needed to purchase another 23kg suitcase from all the things your aunty was adamant you have with you for the rest of the season. Oscar was laughing at the five packets of sunflower seeds your aunt thought was an essential when you clocked it.

Or, better yet, them. Charles and Carlos.

Both staring at you. And Oscar.

You felt a jolt rush through you realised. Oscar's latest girlfriend update went to background noise as you took in the two Ferrari drivers stood there.

Carlos was appraising, his head slightly tilted as he clearly was observing the two of you. You could only imagine what he noted.

You. Oscar. Laughter. Gift exchanged. Mention of relatives and close family.

Still, the kind Spaniard's eyes were a lot easy to take in than Charles.

Charles who was clearly fuming.

Or, clearly to you. You knew his angry tells. Right fist clenches then unfurls. Left hand runs through hair. Lips are pursed. And then he walks off.

You watched as Charles said something to Carlos and then turned around to stalk off. You watched his retreating form with forlorn eyes and before you caught Carlos looking at you. The furrow between your brows where you had probably stared longingly after the best friend who left you in the dust immediately fell when you looked at Carlos.

That was the first time that Charles was actually acknowledging your existence in how long.

You drew your eyes back to Carlos who was still looking at you. You smiled you found yourself even lifting up a hand to wave. You saw his eyebrows raise slightly and his lips lift into a smile. He waved back. Then someone called his name and you saw his cousin and manager appear from the Ferrari motorhome. You turned back to look at Oscar who was still talking, unaware of anything that happened in the past minute.

"... anyway Lily wants to meet you and - "

"Have you copped any shit?" You interrupted Oscar and turned to him. You had both neared the McLaren Motorhome and knew this would be where you both parted ways.

"Copped shit from who?"

"Other drivers." You specified.

"I mean I haven't really had a chance to speak with them." Oscar said, pursing his lips as if he thought about it. "The Williams guys are nice. Alex is funny."

"Alex is funny." You agreed. You did like Alex. He had a good heart. You would forever be salty at what Red Bull did to him.

"Lewis said hello, which was nice. Fernando reminded me his career is older than me." You couldn't help but snort at that. Oh, Nando.

"And Lando is... well, Lando." You perfectly understood just what Oscar meant by that. His words, however, also confirmed what you had suspected. None of the 'core' drivers that surrounded Ferrari or Red Bull's circles had come near him. You knew that many of the guys had gone out a few times to celebrate the start of the season and the fact that Oscar had very clearly not been invited was, well, getting to you.

Especially since you were 99.9% sure you were the reason why.

You stared at the young Australian boy in front of you and felt two things wash over you.

The first was sadness.

A lame word but there was no other way to describe it. Infuriated, annoyed, hurt - sure. But you were also just sad. Sad that this was your life and that anyone close to you still managed to get tainted by the things you were forced to lug around yourself.

The second was fondness.

The boy was young and innocent but carried himself with wisdom and dignity beyond his mere 20 years. And his dry ass sarcasm was a special type of humour you missed having around you. He was caring, loyal and an overall good sport. Having Oscar around made you realise how long it has been since you've laughed. He drove you the airport, bought you food and stayed up to watch old FRIENDS reruns after finding out Daniel Ricciardo had cornered you in the gym.

"Your love language is quality time." Was his reasoning when he had arrived at your hotel room. And so he ordered some KFC and got comfortable in your hotel room to watch Chandler and Joey forget Ross' baby on a bus. You knew Oscar didn't like sit-coms -- it was a recurring argument -- but he watched five episodes that night after you had texted him feeling panicked and needing help when Daniel arrived drunk at the gym.

In short, in that moment, you were suddenly hyperaware of how much you really, really, really fucking loved Oscar Piastri.

So maybe that's why you just came out with it.

"Jos Verstappen has a restraining order against me."

Oscar blinked. Once. Twice. Clearly he wasn't expecting you to say that. You weren't even expecting you to really say it.

"Come again?"

"Well his wife does." You corrected. "Because the courts wouldn't accept a man of his size him to need protection from little old me." You rubbed your arm, feeling the full vulnerability of what you were doing. You thought of your next words carefully, making sure to not step over the NDA you had signed. "I used to train Max when he was at Torro Rosso and then at Red Bull. I always saw bruises on his arms. One day I..." you huffed, hating that you legally couldn't say what had actually happened. "Well, I ended up beating Jos Verstappen half to death."

Oscar was silent. His face was void of much reaction. He wasn't even looking you in the face but staring at the ground in his pensive state. You were aware that you both had stopped walking and were stood to the side.

"Is that why you don't officially work as a trainer and had to be all pedantic with training me?" All you could do was nod to his question. Oscar shook his head. "I mean, I've heard the stories about Max and his dad but..."

Now it was your turn to blink. Once. Twice. You frowned and Oscar finally met your eyes and you were stunned to see the easy going grin on his face once more. It hadn't disappeared. "I can only guess you had to sign an NDA and this isn't the full story. And even if it is, well, it's enough to know you were protecting someone from a -- well, an abuser."

"I... Yeah. Thanks." You weren't sure what you were thanking him for. For believing you? For not treating you differently? For taking your side when everyone in Formula 1 had dropped you and treated you like a leper?

"Is that why you and Ricciardo fell through?" Oscar asked. It wasn't nosy. You had explained enough to him. It was enough he knew what happened.

"No Danny, he, uh-." You hated how small your voice sounded. Or that you immediately fell back to his nickname. "He cheated."

Oscar was silent, waiting for you to continue. And so you did so. You told him everything. From Daniel to Charles to the moment you punched Jos Verstappen in the face.

Carlos Sainz was ready to punch someone in the face.

He sat there at the table, fist curled tight as he tried to calm down from all that he was hearing. It seems like his name would only be an added tag to an otherwise Charles Leclerc fest of a season. Carlos knew, sure, that coming into a Ferrari where his teammate was known as Il Predestinato would mean that he needed to prove himself, put himself in the spotlight and make the Tifosi give him a name like that.

However, as the current race strategy meeting was showing, it seemed like no one in Ferrari was going to give Carlos the chance.

"Now, boys, I have something to discuss with you two." Fred said as people were starting to leave and the meeting seemingly coming to an end. Carlos wanted nothing more than to get up and storm off but he reigned it and listened to the change in Fred's tone.

"What's up?" Charles asked, sitting up.

"Quietly, there was a team principal meeting with Domenicali." Fred said, and this time Carlos sat up also. His anger was momentarily forgotten as his interest piqued. "McLaren have unofficially started working with a girl to train their rookie." Charles was playing with his APM Monaco bracelets, somewhat paying attention. Carlos watched him. There was one particular bracelet he always fiddled with, a small gold chain tucked amidst all the other extravagant pieces.

"She's a Hospitality worker."

Carlos saw how Charles froze. His teammate looked up. Carlos saw the horrified look on his face.

"Quoi?" The French slip was only further proof of something. Carlos's mind raced to make the connection.

The lighbulb went off just before Fred said it.

"She was your friend, non?" Fred said. "Worked with Max Verstappen in Torro Rosso." His eyes flickering over to Carlos. They had been teammates back then.

Charles's years and years of media training went out the window as he struggled to make sense of what he was hearing. Carlos, however, was suddenly thrown back a few years and thinking about just who had caused this whole shitstorm.

You.

Carlos said your name, feeling something swell up in him by saying your name in front of Charles who was your former best friend. Maybe it was ego from the recent meeting, but Carlo wanted to drive the knife in a little deeper.

"She's a very good trainer. I watched her sessions with Verstappen." And that wasn't on showing up Charles; it was the truth. Max's dominance needed to be at least somewhat accredited to you.

"Turns out she is not allowed to work for new teams." Fred spoke. "That means for McLaren to hire her goes against some contract Formula 1 put in place after an incident with Verstappen."

There was a pause. Carlos waited for Charles to say something - to say it. He didn't. So Carlos did.

"She was defending Max." Carlos said, defending you when he thought the silent Monacoan beside him would've. Didn't you two grow up together?

The Verstappen Incident, Carlos was well aware of. However, whatever happened between you and Charles... well, Carlos was out of the loop.

"It doesn't matter." Fred waved. "I'm not here to speak of the drama. But I did have a look. Mattia never told me but she has ties with Ferrari from before - "

"But she's a Hospitality worker!" Charles finally spoke up. "Mattia he-- I spoke to him about her."

"You did?" Fred took that piece in. Carlos wanted to scoff. Clearly Mattia hadn't mentioned that in the hand over notes. "What did Mattia say?" Fred asked.

"Peut-être on peut parler juste nous deux." Charles said, the switch the French reigniting Carlos' anger once more. He forced himself to breathe steadily while Fred nodded. Both men had often tried to keep to English in front of him for the sake of manners and being polite, as opposed to using their mother tongue and making Carlos feel, well, like he felt now. Excluded. Enraged.

Still, Carlos' French skills were okay enough for understand what Charles had said. He stood up and, in French, said. "I'll leave you two." Without looking back, he walked out the motorhome trying to steel himself.

He really wanted to punch something.

Walking a little ways down the Paddock, he took deep breaths and shot a flurry of texts to his dad. He needed his advice on what to do given the way the meeting had gone. It was then that a girl on rollerblades holding the Australian flag zoomed past him and Carlos looked up.

The entertainment at Albert Park never missed. Carlos smiled slightly. Australia was a fun circuit. Not his favourite track by any means but the actual circuit itself had a lot going on that he enjoyed. It was lively, music always pumping and the weather was nice.

Still, the sounds of laughter and the faint dance music that echoed through the Paddock weren't enough to lift his spirits.

And then he saw you.

You were walking with Lando's new teammate, the infamous Oscar something. He hadn't paid much attention to the newbie, hearing something vaguely about Alpine drama from Lando. It all had gone in one ear and out the other.

Now, Carlos saw you walking with him and suddenly he wished he knew more about the kid. Why him? Why were you friends with him? Since when did you have friends? And why risk it all just to train him?

Carlos had always been perfectly polite, nice. Why didn't you laugh with him? Why didn't you reach into your bag to pull out a small box and hand to him as you explained him whatever gift you had brought him? What made this Oscar kid so lucky?

Maybe it was just the Australians seeking out one another? Everyone on the Grid knew you had dated Ricciardo. That had been a painful experience. It was one thing to have pined after you, as Max his teammate's trainer. It was another to see you get swept off your feet by the senior Red Bull driver that everyone adored. Carlos' days at Red Bull sucked since all he did was think about you - and you barely paid him any attention.

Sure, he was now no longer Ricciardo's junior but it still got to him. Daniel Ricciardo had waltzed in and you had gone wide-eyed before Carlos could've even tried.

Because he would've. He really would've. Even before his dad told him who your uncle was. Even before he tried your cooking, your coffee. Even before he knew your name. A young Carlos Sainz had seen a pretty girl walking around in the same Real Madrid kit that he owned at home and immediately wanted to go up to her, to ask her name, to ask her out.

Carlos felt the door behind him open and out came Charles. He looked completely at ease despite what had occurred before. He patted Carlos on the shoulder. And just as he did that, Carlos' phone beeped. His father.

Don't get mad. Just get even on the track.

Carlos pocketed his phone but felt something ignite inside him. He would do that. It wasn't Charles' fault for Ferrari's favouritism. Carlos had to admit the Monégasque was a genuinely nice guy.

"You alright, mate?" Charles asked. "I'm really sorry about before."

"I'm alright. Excited for the race." Carlos said, changing the subject and not mentioning it at all. If anything, he would stay out if it all and just focus on the race, on proving everyone wrong. He take his father's advice and make his own mark in this team.

"Ah, Australia is always special." Charles said.

Despite what his father had said, anger came back within Carlos. It was the same anger he felt towards that Australian kid. And Daniel Ricciardo. And, to an extent, Max.

Carlos was jealous. Not for Charles' favouritism from Ferrari, but the favouritism from you. Charles had you and he'd thrown you out for whatever reason.

Carlos' eyes came back to you and suddenly he couldn't help himself. Sure, he could stay out of all the Ferrari drama but this was you. He couldn't stay out of it when you were right there, walking beside the new kid who didn't know that Charles had essentially banned every driver from interacting with you.

"Yeah?" Carlos spoke before he even realised. "What's so special about Australia?"

The answer was obvious: you.

You were what had been so special. Carlos' days at Torro Rosso meant that he knew about how you felt towards Albert Park, that it was almost like your home race.

For one, you didn't stay at the Crown Casino hotel like the rest of them. No, instead you stayed at your auntie's place by the beach. Carlos knew that from the time he had to drive a passed out Max Verstappen to said home back in 2017.

Charles' smile dropped slightly. Then he brought it back up. "Ah, you know. The sun, the people. There is a special energy here that - "

He stopped talking.

Carlos knew that his teammate had finally spotted you also. Turning his head to look over at Charles, Carlos took in the look of utter rage on his teammate's face.

And then, you looked up. You noticed him. Them. You met his eyes and then you looked at Charles. The McLaren driver was still talking beside you, oblivious to how you had clearly stopped listening to him. Charles took a deep breath.

He stormed off.

Carlos couldn't help but roll his eyes. He didn't know the truth, but Carlos had heard the many rumours as to why Charles had cut you off. He thought they were all rubbish.

Looking back at you, Carlos met your eyes once more and he thought about his options.

He knew that you were in part responsible for training one of the best drivers on the grid. He also knew that it would take a bit of a miracle to help him outperform Charles Leclerc and show Ferrari what was what.

But hey, if this Oscar kid was going to go against the grid's treasured and unspoken rule, why couldn't he?

You really jinxed yourself.

At first, the Australian Grand Prix was off to a great start. Sleeping at home meant that you had more comfortable waking in a bed that was familiar - and not stuck in some isolating three star hotel room that made you question the hotel rating system.

Three stars with suspicious smells coming from the closet? No, thank you.

Instead, you got to wake up to your auntie humming as she prepared her own version of pancakes. It had been a long time since anyone had made pancakes for you. And even though you had breakfast plans with Oscar and his family, you still ate some of her and kissed her goodbye as you went to the circuit.

By car. You drove yourself. In your beloved Supra, the one that had essentially taught you everything you knew about cars (that and Top Gear) were finally united.

And that in itself was a beautiful fucking thing.

There were a small handful of circuits in where you had a car in the country and could actually drive yourself. Australia was one of them. Japan was another. Monaco was the other.

Then again, Monaco was far too crazy to be driving during a race weekend anyway. Still, it was nice to be able to play some calming lo-fi beats as you drove the familiar Lakeside Drive that led up to the street circuit that was built around the lake. Your lake.

You had found yourself a good parking spot and the cafe vendor recognised you and gave you a free latte. Some marshalls walking by were joking about something nonsensical but the banter and accent made you feel warm inside. No matter the complicated feelings that being Australian brought up, you still enjoyed the laid-back attitudes that came with the softened ds and ts.

You had a good gym session, showing progress with your training. You dropped another kilogram off with the cut working well and then you were ready to go to the safe confined of the McLaren motorhome.

And then you saw the message from your co-worker.

Sorry bro. There's been a change in the roster because Mack called in sick. You're going to be covering him at Ferrari for the rest of the race weekend.

You really had jinxed yourself.

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nellyofthevalley · 6 months

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bloodlust

astarion x fem!durge

rating: explicit content: dubcon, blood, knifeplay kinda sorta, spanking, fingering, piv, cunnilingus, porn without plot, some feelings, graphic violence in the form of threats summary: ‘You’ll let me know the next time you need to be tied up, won’t you?’ he said the last time she tried to murder him in his sleep, and she intends to see it through.

Astarion holds his arm over her head and she opens her mouth in anticipation. He’s watching her as intensely as she watched him, with his eyebrows furrowed and mouth parted. Blood drips slowly down his arm, beading at his elbow before dripping into her waiting mouth, around her lips, over her face.

read it on ao3 or below the cut:

She comes to Astarion’s room one night in a panic, ready with rope. The urges have become easier to sense coming on. Most could be sated by a brutal kill of those who deserved it, but she knows a punishment is coming. Kills are never enough for Father, it’s not about the kills. It’s the savagery, the unnecessary cutting, twisting and maiming.

It’s an art form.

She’d gone back for Isobel to sate her urges when they were most dire, a ritualistic offering to Bhaal, pleading for any relief. It sufficed, for a time. It was an honor to lead dozens to their deaths in the aftermath and an absolute delight to watch them be consumed by shadows, their souls ripped from this earth. For weeks, she remembered how they looked as the black possessed their bodies, and how their darkened blood stained the battlefield as far as eyes could see, torn between remorse and a sick fantasy.

‘You’ll let me know the next time you need to be tied up, won’t you?’ he said the last time she tried to murder him in his sleep, and she intends to see it through.

She enters his room in a hurry and lets the door shut behind her, finding Astarion in his typical spot; in the chair, reading.

“What’s troubling you, love?” Astarion asks as he looks up. A silly question, he realizes it as soon as he sees the rope in her hand—they’ve been through this once before already. “Ah, you’re here to kill me again, I presume? And here I thought we’d moved past that.”

“It’s punishment,” she says, standing before him and shoving the rope in his hands. “I’ve not served him adequately. Tie me.”

“Eager for this, aren’t you?” he teases, casting the rope aside. She huffs in response, annoyed by his light hearted demeanor. “I’m surprised. I imagined this must be a very unpleasant experience for you, to be restrained and rabid.”

“Don’t be stupid! Tie me, quickly, before I hurt you,” she begs, terrified of herself. She glances down at her hands, as if they may act on their own. She can picture it already, how they’d leap forward and claw into his lovely face, vigilant to spare his piercing red eyes. It’d be a shame to waste those, they’d make for a fine trophy.

“Do you think me so careless? I have all I need to survive you,” he says, pulling her on top of him and leaning back. “Unless you have a hidden blade to slit my throat with.”

No, but the bloodlust inside wishes she did. From the start, she thought he’d be the perfect pretty corpse—what a joy it would be to see the vampire’s essence spill and pool beneath her. A stake is a tired trope, and even a slit of the throat would be too clean for her tastes. She’d adorn him with cuts all over and make him watch her drink the life from him like he drank from her.

She pushes her lips to his and he readily accepts her greedy tongue. Her impatient hands seek cover beneath his shirt, crawling all over his smooth porcelain skin, daydreaming of splitting it. He’s foolish and reckless around her. She could bite, rend, and gorge on his screams, if the urge willed it.

Maybe he enjoys the dance with death, she thinks as she guides the shirt over his head, picturing how his chest would look with slashes all over it.

With a sharp motion, he pulls her back by the hair with one hand. With the other, he restrains her comparatively small hands by the wrists as if to prove he holds more control.

“Take me, when I’m no longer me. Show him what I think of this pathetic display of power,” she says with a fire in her eyes and Astarion feels another flourishing between her thighs. “He won’t own me.”

“You’ll never be his. You’re mine.”

The kindling in her ignites and she rocks her hips against him, smirking when a groan escapes him. Astarion keeps his grip on her hair tight but pulls her forward, nestling his face in the crook of her neck. His fangs brush against her skin and she shakes in anticipation, waiting for that familiar, satisfying pierce when he breaks her skin with his teeth; instead, he gives her small, cautious bites that make her heart pound with a fury.

Astarion releases her hair and trails his hands along her thighs, up her sides and lifts her nightshirt up to her shoulders. The chill of his touch clashes with the fire that spreads through her whole body—her cheeks aflame as his fingertips roll over her perked nipples.

“Astarion,” she says. He’s dismantled her resolve so easily, leaving her too weak to argue with him further on the importance of his own safety.

She finishes what he started and lifts her shirt, tossing it to the floor. Cold hands slide down over her ribs and then behind to support her back as he leans forward, pressing little kisses from her shoulder to her collarbone. Her fingers tangle in his white curls, lightly stroking while he continues his work downward, pushing her back further and further until he’s supporting almost all her weight and his lips place a kiss between her breasts.

Astarion rises from the chair, and her legs wrap around his waist as he carries her to the bed, sitting her on the edge and standing between her legs.

“Hands,” he orders; she offers them and he ties them behind her back with rope.

If Astarion cared to be safe, he’d tie her feet and gag her mouth. She’s a dangerous one, but he never feels truly scared of her and he carries enough confidence to toy with his food first. Though she may try to separate herself from the urge, they both know her violent tendencies aren’t solely Bhaal’s ‘punishment’. It’s still her inside—he saw how she fought it before, and she will fight it tonight, too.

Astarion falls to his knees and grabs her hips, pulling her to the edge of the bed. He’s hasty to remove her bottoms, pulling them down over her legs and feet before settling his head between her legs; he drapes her thighs over his shoulders and holds them in place with a tight grip.

“Astarion, I—”

“Quiet, love,” he says, pressing his lips to her inner thigh now—intense, needy kisses that make her jolt, and tomorrow, will bruise her skin blue. “Relax for me.”

She feels sharp tips brush against her, a forewarning; she flinches, but quickly settles down, waiting patiently for his bite.

She groans when he pierces her flesh, loud—her cry and her delectable, hot blood gushing into his mouth elicit a moan of his own and rouse him; her blood traveling straight to his cock. She squirms under him and involuntarily squeezes his head with her thighs, and it’s fucking delicious.

He pulls away, mindful to not drink too much; she’s sure to spill more blood this evening, by both their hands. Arousal glistens on her cunt and leaks onto the bed—her body’s calling him, and it takes all of his self-discipline to not fuck her so hard the urge possesses her right then.

“Astarion, please,” she whines again, pleading with him to touch her. The only thoughts her hazed mind can produce at this point are all pure, unadulterated filth.

“You’re making this so difficult,” he says, drowning her in more soft kisses, everywhere except where she’s craving his mouth most. “Have patience, my dear. I’m savoring my meal.”

Finally, he’s dragging his tongue up along her folds, convincing her he’ll grant her the relief she craves. He’s quick to start, lapping up every last drop of her sweet arousal, but it’s not long before he slows to an absolutely punishing pace that rewards him with a frustrated moan from her mouth and increasing pressure on his ears.

His tongue flicks across her clit, delicate and controlled, expertly drawing out more of her wetness. Her body sings for him with its writhing and whimpering, while her mind starts to wander away from her.

Every part of her hungers for him—her hands rebel against their ties, trying to break free and pull at his hair, push him deeper into her cunt and fuck his face; her drifting mind fantasizes of how she’d suffocate him, if she could. She could crush his head between her thighs, she thinks, picturing his pale face turning ghost white under her, the screams she’d delight in, the crack of his skull; only then would she come for him, desecrating his face and plucking out his eyes.

Blissfully unaware of her rising desire to kill him while she fucks him, Astarion thinks of how he could stay here forever, ruining her and relishing it, but he forces himself to part from her, not allowing her to get too close.

Astarion stands and admires his work: her face flushed red, the dark puddle where he had her. He climbs on top of the bed, grabbing her waist to push her further back and covers her body with his.

“You look positively depraved,” he says before pressing his mouth to hers, ravenous and fierce, the taste of her arousal left on his lips and shared with her. She nips at his bottom lip, then parts hers to welcome his tongue—an invitation, a demand; he holds her face as he obliges, devouring her, like he wants to taste her throat.

She’s left gasping for air by the time he lets her free. He wipes the mess of her mixed fluids from his face with the back of his hand and licks it off as she stares. It’s filthy, it’s primal, and it’s the last she can take before fully losing her mind to her violent whims. Out of breath and lightheaded, she passes out.

When she wakes, bare with her hands and legs tied, she’s furious—she thrashes, tries to kick, screeches obscenities at the pale elf standing before her. She’s not herself. Her vision is clouded and washed with red; her brain repeats grotesque thoughts of brutal murder and horrific fantasies of dining on her victims’ innards.

Not fantasies, she realizes—they’re memories of a better, brighter time, when she was free to kill and maim, and was rewarded for it.

“Darling, you’re awake,” he greets her in a sickeningly pleasant voice. “It’s not been long, but I missed you all the same.”

She imagines reaching her claws deep down his throat and shredding his vocal cords, sure that many would thank her.

She spots a dagger on the table beside the bed. Determined to take it for herself and stab her captor with it over and over until he’s a bloody pile of unrecognizable viscera, she lunges for it. It’s useless with her restraints. Her actions are brainless, reminiscent of a creature driven by pure bloodlust. To anyone else, it would be terrifying; to him, it’s almost humorous.

“Can’t you be nice?” Astarion asks her in a petulant tone, like a parent scolding their child.

He catches her from behind in the midst of her tantrum and presses his body to hers, pushing her forward and trapping her tight between himself and the headboard. He wraps one hand around her throat; a loose but disciplined grip that’s just enough to crane her head towards him.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, his lips and the warmth of his exhale brushing against her ear. Whether she wants to not in her current state, all the way from her ears to her feet and her face reddens.

He kisses along her ear and down her neck and it only infuriates her that much more; she tries to flail and escape him, but he’s prepared for her fight and the hand around her neck wins. His free hand reaches around her front, exploring every piece of her body he can get his hands on as he continues with his kisses on her shoulders and back.

“Ah, you’re feisty,” he says, laughing when she tries to lunge and bite him. “Good effort, but as you can see, I hold all the power here.”

He moves his hand lower, along her hips and thighs, fingertips lightly trailing further in. Even in this state, arousal pools in her cunt as he touches her and the heat practically radiates off her body, sharing warmth with her lover.

“Even like this, you crave me,” he taunts, fingers running over her folds, wet and sensitive for him already.

He slips a finger in her wet cunt, curling it forward, gently caressing her soft spot; she gasps and moans while he finger fucks her, and Astarion can feel the vibrations of her noises on his hand constricting her neck.

“You’ll look—ah—so much prettier… after I’ve turned you inside out,” she hisses, hitching on her words, struggling between the moans his hand forces from her and the pressure on her throat. “I’ll—I’ll crush your dead heart and… feast on it.”

“I wish you could behave yourself,” he says, giving her throat a quick squeeze, to remind which one of them is in control.“We could have so much more fun that way.”

Astarion pushes another finger inside her, finding pleasure in her increasingly incoherent snarls and ragged breathing. Every time he thrusts into her up to his knuckles, her body twists and quivers; her mouth’s desperate to hurl another threat, but he’s fucking her faster and lazily rubbing his thumb against her clit, reducing her to nothing—she can’t find the words anymore.

“You want me to fuck you so badly,” he purrs, curving the fingers inside her in a deliberate, slow motion. She throws her head back against his shoulder and tries to grind against his hand, feral and frantic, proving his claims.

A loud cry escapes her as Astarion withdraws, robbing her of release; a sound that goes directly to the erection straining against the fabric of his pants.

“I could end you right here, you know,” he goads, tightening his grip on her throat. “Crush your pretty neck like it’s nothing. Make you bleed out on this bed. How would you want it, if you had the choice?”

“I’ll gouge out your ruby eyes,” she chokes out. “Wear them as earrings.”

“Romantic. Not what I asked, though,” he says, shaking his head. “A shame.”

Astarion kisses her neck, along her jaw, her face—anything he can reach, loving her, even if she won’t love him back. He frees her from his grasp before he sheds the rest of his clothes, his cock painfully hard and tip dripping with pent-up anticipation.

“Ah,” he exhales as he presses against her, sliding along her sticky wet slit, covering himself in her wetness. “Gods, what have you gotten me into?”

His nails dig into her sides and threaten to draw blood as he enters her with an animalistic and uncontrollable groan. He’s rough with her, snapping her hips toward him with every thrust like he’s performing an exorcism by fucking the violence out of her. The combination of her wet, tight cunt embracing him with the pathetic, needy sounds falling from her mouth render him dizzy.

“I’ll—I’ll—” She tries and fails to speak, overwhelmed by how his cock feels like it could burst through her chest.

How he so quickly reduces her murderous urge to a pitiful, sweaty mess is a pleasure of its own, but fuck—he wants to kiss her, taste her, talk to her.

“You’ll what, my love?”

“I’ll paint the city red with your innards!” she cries, dangerously loud. Astarion covers her mouth with his hand—he would prefer their companions not get the wrong idea and interrupt. “They’ll all see your true beauty and bathe in it.”

“Your blood will paint my mouth red, and I will bathe in your beauty,” he says, a low tone against her ear.

He settles his face in the space between shoulder and neck and gives her harsh, bruising kisses that make her legs tremble and her breath catch before breaking her skin with his fangs and forcing a whimper from her lips. The movement of his hips pauses as he drinks her in, intoxicated by her essence. It sucks every last bit of his senses until all he can hear is her blood flowing onto his tongue; until he tastes, smells, sees, and feelssolely her life’s dark red.

Astarion pulls away from her, wiping away the thick red streaks smeared all over his face, and doesn’t waste a single second before burying himself to the hilt in her again, drunk in the coppery scent that lingers in the air. Her, too—it’s tantalizing, it makes her want to force out all the blood in her body and fucking drown him in it.

“I’ll hold your head by your eye sockets and fuck you until you bleed out,” she growls, and he can’t help but laugh; how comical, for her to lash out at him with her face shoved against the wall, scraping her cheeks with every thrust.

He fucks her until she can’t speak again—until her body is shaking, her voice whittled down to heavy breaths, and he’s close to finishing. She cries such a sad sounding moan when he pulls out, it’s almost sufficiently convincing to make him think she’s come around to the idea and misses him inside her.

“I’ll open your skin and wear you like a coat,” she seethes.

“Sure you will, darling. You’re so very scary with your hands and feet bound,” he says, brushing her off with a hand motion. “Be still, you’re being ridiculous.”

As soon as he backs off, her body falls onto the bed and throws itself around again trying to break free. It’s obvious it’s involuntary—every convulse hurls her against the wall and makes the rope rub her skin raw.

“CHOKE! DIE! YOU’LL BEG ME FOR MERCY!”

“I hoped to avoid this,” he says as he picks up another piece of rope, destined for her mouth. "But you won’t keep your damned mouth shut. And frankly, I’m getting tired of your little outbursts. It’s unbecoming.”

Astarion ties the last bit of rope around her mouth, gagging her. She does her best to spew more obscenities at him, but they come out as miserable, muffled noises that satisfy him in his work.

He pushes her over onto her back and lifts her tied legs up to his face to place soft pecks along her ankle and calf. Her body fights it, kicking her feet as if it tickles so much it’s worth killing over. He spreads her legs to fit his head between them and rest her thighs over his shoulders. The heels of her feet beating at his back are weak and sad, not fazing him at all. It’s cute, really.

“My sweet, sweet love with the dark heart,” he muses, stroking her hair. “What else would it take to get you to behave for me?”

She strikes when he pulls his hand back from her hair—her tied hands claw at him and she manages to swipe his arm just right with a pointy nail, splitting the skin. A decent injury; a cut between his elbow and wrist deep enough to bleed. And she cackles hysterically, even with her voice buried under rope.

“Gods damn it.” Astarion looks it over before lifting his arm and showing it off to her, like it’s a prize she’s won. “Look what you did.”

She loves it. She watches the red run down his arm attentively, hypnotized by it.

He holds her hands firm against her stomach and frees her of the gag. It’s a surprise that she’s too preoccupied by the sight to speak, and her body’s violent spasms have calmed. Perhaps he should wrap his arm, but the cut isn’t that bad, so why not have a bit of fun with it first?

She sloshes it on her tongue and truly tastes it before swallowing; she opens her mouth wider and pushes her head forward, trying to collect as much of it as she can.

Is this how he looked when Cazador made him beg for dead vermin?

“You’re sick,” he says, delightfully scandalized, but he can’t take his eyes off her and he doesn’t stop feeding it to her. “Vile. A true degenerate.”

His insults make no difference to her, she’s lost to the literal bloodlust.

She’s nauseatingly hot like this. The messy streaks of red around her mouth and dripping down the sides of her face, the way she drinks his blood how she tastes his cock, the fact that he can feel her getting wetter and wetter—it’s so fucking good. He can hardly hold back from tasting hers again, his body tense and mind tempted by the view and the aroma wafting in the air.

If only he hadn’t already drank from her twice.

“You’ve had more than enough fun, dear.” Astarion pulls aways as the bleeding slows to a trickle and fits the rope back into her mouth, knowing she’ll refuse to keep her quiet as soon as he’s done indulging her. “I can’t let you go unpunished. I’m sure you understand.”

He moves and turns her until she’s on her knees, face down, his palm pushing on her upper back to hold her there. She looks lovely, he thinks; her head shoved into the pillow, angry eyes staring back at him, sweat running down her face and unable to speak.

With his other hand, Astarion trails his fingertips down the dip in her back and over the curve of her ass. He extends his palm, and with a swift movement, strikes her. She jumps, but tolerates it well—and he can’t have that. Again he hits her, harder and less disciplined, and still she endures in silence, though her hateful glare talks on her behalf: she’s livid. He’s gotten under her skin.

“You’re resilient,” he notes, “but even you can be broken.”

He strikes her more—harsh and with purpose, drawing out dulled wails from her at last, determined to beat the fiend that possesses his love.

Astarion knows very well how it feels to lose your body. To be owned by another. It’s a memory that haunts him and resurfaces old anger—how dare this thing tread upon his lover’s will, rob her of her body and him of her affection?

His next strike lands harder, with an audible slap against supple flesh.

Her skin turns pink and tender as he continues, then red; she’s chewing at the rope in her mouth and her bound hands clench into fists, nails scratching at her own skin–desperate, but her efforts are all in vain. Astarion pauses for a short moment before landing one final, unrestrained smack on her ass that draws out a far louder, far more satisfying cry from her mouth.

A single tear runs from her eye to her nose and into the pillow.

She’s not unfamiliar with pain, far from it; she’d been taken apart and put back together many times. She has no memory of it, but they learned she tried to strangle Kressa with her own intestines, and showed no pain or weakness doing it. Why shed a tear now? Was it wept by his little love inside, gnawing at her brain for escape?

“Don’t cry, my love,” he says, almost mocking her. “I hate to see your pretty face weep.”

Astarion takes the dagger he’d left bedside and waves it in front of her. It may as well be a treat dangling from a stick for his rabid pet with the way her eyes light up and follow it.

“Fuck,” is all he can muster as he penetrates her, pushing in until there’s no room left, struggling to hold his composure.

He holds the blade to her neck, making shallow, trivial cuts as he thrusts into her and she thrashes against him, her will too strong to let a little blood stand in her way. She’d bled rivers over the years, and finds her own just as sweet as her enemies’.

“Watch yourself, love,” he warns. “You can’t soothe your need to kill if I’ve killed you first.”

He wields the blade well, careful to not let it cut too deep, but when her convulsions are too wild for him to keep up with, he’s forced to withdraw the dagger. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he permanently scarred her, even if she is trying to send him to his final death. But he wonders—how animalistic is the urge when it consumes her this way? How far would he have to go to bring her under control?

Would she allow herself to bleed out before she’d beckon to his will?

Astarion brushes his fingers across her neck, collecting the paltry amount of blood weeping from where she’d been cut and licks them clean. It’s delicious and sweet like her, but it’s not enough; it only leaves his taste buds dreaming of more and missing his kinder-hearted lover.

The frustration and anger spreads through his body like a parasite, crawling through his veins and bones until it’s all that’s left. He grips her hips for leverage, pulling her towards him with all he has for every thrust and burying himself in her so deeply, she whines under him. He doesn’t let up; he moves his hands further along her back and up to her shoulders, leaning over her and pulling her in.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Astarion’s angry, or furious, rather; he’s fuming that she’s not here with him.

And then—something changes. Her cries become quieter, her eyes stare back at him differently. It’s unsettling. All but exhausted from using her body like that, he wipes sweat collecting on his forehead and stops, watching her intently.

He pulls the gag from her mouth.

“Astarion,” she says, hardly a whisper as she finds her voice again. “Shit.”

He’s practically starstruck, frozen, like he can’t believe this. He didn’t expect it. He pulls out, silent, and she looks right at him. He sees her. He recognizes that face.

“Gods.” He turns her and picks her up, arms around her waist, and brings her into his lap. “I missed you.”

Astarion pushes his lips to hers, holding her face in his hands; he slips his tongue in her parted mouth, finding hers and tasting every piece of her he can until she’s forced to pull away and breathe. He runs one hand through her hair and lingers there, massaging circles into her scalp while she returns to her body, their foreheads pressed together and their eyes half-open.

“I missed you,” he says again, all he can think of, though these three little words pale in comparison to the relief he feels.

She smiles and holds her hands up for him. “Can you untie me?”

He nods and laughs as he cuts through the rope—so distracted by her returning to him, he didn’t think to free her. If she hadn’t already rubbed her skin raw on the restraints, he might’ve told her no.

With her limbs free, she supports herself on his shoulders and spreads her legs to straddle him properly, his cock nudging against her wet cunt.

“More, give me more,” he demands, drawing her closer for him to kiss along her collarbones and down between her breasts, teasing her nipples with the tip of his tongue. “I want all of you, until I can’t see straight.”

She adjusts and lowers herself onto his length, forcing a low groan out of him. He doesn’t avert his gaze from her for even a moment, eyes feasting on the faces she makes when she starts to ride him. Her body aches, sore from the bloodthirsty beast’s unforgiving temper, but every noise she coerces from his mouth encourages her; she fucks herself on him until her legs shake and she loses her stamina, showering him in apologetic kisses.

“Good girl,” Astarion praises her, kissing along her jawline, her neck, anywhere he can reach. “Beautiful, my love.”

He grips her waist by the sides and arches his hips up into her, moving her body for her. She can’t keep quiet, moans escaping her mouth every time he thrusts back up into her, her warm exhalations pooling against his skin. Astarion’s sure the sound travels past their walls now, but at least no one would dare interrupt.

“Astarion—”

“You’re going to come for me, pet?” he asks, daring her to. “Close your eyes.”

She obeys, giving up sight and focusing all her senses on him. He pauses and she’s tempted to look again, but before she can, she’s being lifted and pushed into the bed, onto her back. She feels Astarion position himself between her legs before entering her wet heat once more, his thrusts impatient and just as relentless as he was before.

Astarion presses two fingers to her mouth and she welcomes them, coating them in her spit; he lingers on her tongue for a moment, admiring how perfect she looks with her mouth open, her disheveled hair, her body splayed and swallowing his cock so eagerly. He rubs her clit with his wetted fingers, his motions frantic and messy as he gets closer and closer to climax.

He leans forward and kisses her, drinking in her every moan and cry as hungrily as he does her blood—like he’s parched, fucking dying of thirst and her ecstasy is the only thing that can quench it. And when she tears into his skin with her nails, her cunt contracting around him and his name leaves her mouth as she comes, it’s divine, sweeter than any heavenly nectar.

She wraps her legs around his back and tugs him towards her until it feels like they’re melted together and there’s no space left. Astarion shuts his eyes and succumbs to the pleasure drowning him, riding the high and spilling inside her; she holds his face as he shudders and curses, praising him with the thoughtful gestures of her hands and her nose grazing his.

He collapses on top of her after her body’s extracted all he can give, spent; exhausted after spending all night fucking the cruelty from her body.

She embraces him, fingertips gently tracing up and down his back, writing signs of her devotion. Her lips kiss his cheek and whisper words of adoration in his ear, so sweet it almost makes him sick. The darling little love he missed so much.

It’s like night and day.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 spoilers #astarion fanfic #astarion #astarion x tav #durge #the dark urge #astarion x dark urge #dub con #my fanfic #bg3 smut

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finalgirllx · 8 months

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Althea Rose Masterpost

This is information on my OC. I am a huge fan and I know quite a few others adore her as well! Updated as of 9/14/2023.

Warning: very long under the cut.

General Name: Althea Roselyn (she shortened it to Rose while she is at Hogwarts) Gender: female, she/her House: Slytherin Age: 17 Birthday: November 7th Wand: Walnut, 9 3/4 inches long, Phoenix Feather, Slightly Springy Blood status: Half-blood (A guess)

Appearance General: Quite short, standing a 5’1. She is more average weight, with a curvy build but it's more accentuated in contrast to her height. She’s quite pale but heavily covered by freckles all over. Facial: She has large, wide-set brown eyes, round nose, and smaller lips. Distinguishing Marks: By and large her most distinguishing feature is her curly pink hair, that she claims to have been born with. Made all the more interesting when she found out she was a witch later on. There, but less easily seen, is a jagged forearm scar from a Transfiguration mishap, and more recently an ivy-shaped scar from her wand on the palm of her hand. Fashion: She loves fashion but tends to tone it down for school. Growing up she wore a lot of pink to match her hair. As she gets older she tends to wear a lot of black.

Personality Strengths: Some people wonder why she isn’t a Hufflepuff because of how kind she tries to be, but ultimately her Slytherin traits beat it out. She’s very determined, clever, willing to do whatever her convictions say is right. She’s a big flirt, and enjoys her fair share of teasing. Weaknesses: The cost here is some stubbornness, a heavy hand of moral superiority, and occasional social awkwardness. She tends to speak before she thinks sometimes and has QUITE the sailor mouth. She is also competitive but won't admit it. Morality: Chaotic Good, but can lean into neutral because she’ll do whatever it takes to achieve her goals. Likes: Dueling, the arts, crafting, adventuring, oranges, the cello. Dislikes: Transfiguration (she is egregiously bad at it), pure-blood advocates, feeling confined, mongrels. What she smells like: Citrus and Vanilla Fears: Dragons, explosions, losing her loved ones. Hopes: To make a name for herself and eventually become an Auror focused on muggle rights advocacy.

Backstory: Althea was originally born to wizard parents, but they passed away in her infancy due to a harrowing tragedy. Despite this tragic start, she was quickly adopted by Ellen and Henry Roselyn, a warm-hearted and nurturing muggle couple based in Edinburgh, Scotland. They embraced Althea as their own, offering her a home brimming with love and support. They were world travelers who introduced Althea to many things and experiences. As a result, Althea became an independent thinker, putting faith in her own convictions based on her understandings. One day, when Althea was only ten years old, she and her parents were exploring the Scottish countryside. To their astonishment, a dragon appeared in the sky. Fear overwhelmed Althea, and without consciously meaning to, she conjured a protective barrier around her and her parents. Fortunately, they remained unharmed, but this event revealed Althea's true nature as a witch. Upon receiving her acceptance letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Althea discovered that both of her birth parents were wizards. The revelation shed light on her magical heritage, but her true origins remained a mystery, as she had been adopted and didn't know the details of her family lineage. Therefore, she resorts to calling herself a half blood. While at Hogwarts, Althea is eager to refine her magical skills and shape the world according to her own sense of justice. Some subjects come more naturally to her than others, but she approaches her studies with determination and an adventurous spirit. She takes advantage of what Hogwarts has to offer from schooling, friendships, to adventuring. Approaching the finish line of her Hogwarts journey, Althea is deciding how to combine the wizarding and muggle parts of herself that she holds so dearly. The direction she seeks to steer her future towards involves dedicating her career to a cause that resonates deeply with her lived experiences - becoming an Auror. However, Althea's aspirations go beyond the traditional realm of this role. She wishes to dedicate herself to protecting muggles, particularly from the looming threats of dark magic that exist in the wizarding world. She knows this might be a controversial decision to some, but the more time passes, the more confident she becomes that it is her calling.

My favorite AU AI art of her:

(thanks to @localravenclaw for a few of these, and the ones I've made since her tips have also improved so much so thank you for that too!) I've done quite a few comms of her. I'm going to link them instead because this is going to be sooo long otherwise! I love them all and love supporting creators. A Form Most Beautiful - NSFW fic of Althea x Garreth by Tinyshot SFW art of Althea x Garreth by Giselsan SFW art of Althea x Ominis by Giselsan Slight NSFW art Althea x Ominis by DiligentCranberry Althea by slythersloots (I didn't comm this - I'll never forget how excited I was when I opened up Tumblr and saw it!!)

I roleplay with her in muliple discord servers and she is included in a majority of my audios - my masterlist. For future plots? I enjoy slice of life content often, but I do want to explore her potentially being a Metamorphmagus (pink hair? natural? sheesh) as well as explore her activist side more as she manages her muggle + wizarding lives.

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy oc #althea rose

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jomiddlemarch · 2 months

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The shapes a bright container can contain!

III. “Who’s looking after you?” Draco asked.

He was sitting in a slat backed chair he’d dragged up beside her bed. It seemed mean that the few private rooms in the Hogwarts infirmary only held a twin bed and a side-table, far more like a prison cell than he felt was appropriate but perhaps reflective of the very little time anyone at Hogwarts had spent at Azkaban. Hermione was propped up with pillows, her hands laid flat on the white coverlet on her lap. Her hair had been washed but not tended especially well, wrestled back into an unruly, lumpy plait that spoke to unfamiliarity with either charms or potions. There was a cup of tea on the table, apparently untouched, as was the iced biscuit tucked at the base of the saucer.

“What do you mean—”

“I mean, who notices when you leave meals early? That you’re too pale, that you always answer when anyone asks, that you don’t count any danger to yourself too great? Who should’ve been the one to follow you, to stop you. To keep you from drowning?” Draco said, his voice a little too tightly controlled, too calmly even for her to not to be aware he somehow, for some reason, was nearly incandescent with rage. “It shouldn’t have been me. You’d never have thought I’d come running—I almost didn’t come, didn’t run, except that the children were too quiet—"

“They were scared,” she said.

“They bloody well should have been,” he said. “I was terrified—”

“I look after myself,” she said, answering the earlier question. She looked down at her hands but he didn’t think she saw them.

“You look after other people,” he countered. She looked up, startled. But not offended, not yet. Perhaps she wouldn’t be. “I understand, when we were children, everyone thought you were the brightest witch of our age. You knew better than everyone else, it was all right to rely on you but now—Potter doesn’t try? Neville?”

“Harry was brought up by people who treated him about as badly as your father treated House-elves. And then he lost Sirius and Molly basically commandeered him as an honorary Weasley with years of parenting to be made up for. She can be rather smothery, it’s not an approach he could really model himself after,” Hermione said. “He’s not very good at it. And he uses most of what he’s got to give on his own children, as he should.”

“Fine. I think you’re cutting him too much slack but I am willing to admit you know him better. But Neville? It’s not like him, not to notice, he’s always been so fond of you,” Draco said, trailing off.

“Exactly,” Hermione replied. “I can’t—it’s not fair to him, when he feels one way and I…”

“He’s in love with you and you only care about him as a friend, so you don’t let him get close,” Draco said.

“You’re as blunt as a bludger,” Hermione said.

“If you mean a Gryffindor, you might as well say it,” Draco shrugged. “You nearly died, I’m trying not to tax you too greatly.”

“You needn’t worry,” she said.

“You’re wrong. I know it’s an unfamiliar experience for you and that you’re likely to tell me I’m the one who’s wrong,” he said.

“Because you are,” she replied.

“No, I’m not. Because I’m the one who dragged you out of a loch in Scotland in November, because you couldn’t get yourself out, despite being one of the most powerful witches alive in England,” he said. “Someone else needs to worry about you. Though I prefer looking after, since worrying is largely ineffectual and won’t stop you from depleting your entire magical core, a real feat, I must add, given your previously mentioned magical strength, and getting yourself killed or at least maimed without the prospect of any recovery, if we go by your predilections. And it will surely be in a way that creates maximum guilt in your friends and associates. Neville will be beside himself and Potter may end up going through a midlife crisis and becoming the next Dark Lord. He’ll grow a goatee and be generally intolerable.”

“You know what a midlife crisis is?” Hermione said. Her lips curved and he realized it was the first time he’d seen her smile in months. A real smile, where the expression in her eyes matched.

“Yes, I don’t live under a rock. Potter would be a little young by Wizard standards, but I think like you, he still sees himself as a Muggle first,” Draco replied.

“Not wrong,” she said.

“Oh, are we playing a game now?” Draco said. “I’ll win. You’ve always been pants at chess and you can’t stand Quidditch.”

“Draco, what do you want?” she said. She settled back against the pillows and he could feel her exhaustion. The Hogwarts linens were too thin. She ought to be covered in a fluffy duvet, supported by a featherbed. There should be a pair of sheepskin slipper warming on a fender.

“I want you to be properly looked after. I’ve—we’ve both lost too many people in our lives. I don’t want you to be someone else who’s lost,” he said. “I spoke to Abbott and the Headmistress, they allowed me to see whether your quarters were adequate for your recovery and the suite is hardly better kitted out than this room, might as well belong to a hermit—”

“You had no right,” she said.

“You’re right. I didn’t. But I did ask permission from your physician and your superior. When Neville heard, he didn’t scold me,” Draco said. “All the plants he gave you are dead, by the way. Even the metalmalarky cactus”

“You still haven’t said what you want. Not directly,” she replied.

“I want to look after you. Myself. I have a property nearby. You know I don’t live in the dungeons like Snape did,” Draco said. The man had been a masochist or Dumbledore had had him under house arrest. There was no way Draco would ever have agreed to live adjacent to his classroom and he certainly wasn’t going to allow the Hogwarts dungeon to be his son’s home. He and Astoria had bought the small estate shortly after Scorpius was born, an act of faith that the baby would not be a Squib and a commitment to being present in their child’s life as neither of their own parents had been.

“You want me to live in your house?”

“It’s a not insignificant property. There’s a carriage house, entirely separate. But it’s got all the mod cons and a library, a conservatory,” he said.

“A carriage house with a conservatory. Only you, Malfoy. Will you feed me hothouse grapes from your lily-white hand?” she said.

“I’ll stock the library with Regency romances, as you seem to have a taste for them,” he said, slipping the cufflinks out of his cuffs and rolling them back so she could see the calluses on his palms, the spatter of old burns he’d never bothered to fully heal. “Not lily-white. Say yes, Hermione. Let me help—”

“You’ll badger me endlessly if I refuse, won’t you?” she said. She could have sighed and didn’t. He let himself hope.

“I’ll have to. I don’t fancy a repeat of today’s dip in the loch. The Squid is whatever squid is for handsy,” he said. She raised an eyebrow and he decided to pivot. “It was too close. Please. Please allow it.”

“I suppose since you’ve asked so nicely, I’d be an utter wretch to refuse,” she said.

“Yes, I think that would be the consensus. Here and of course, elsewhere. Abroad. Across the pond,” Draco said, relief making him a bit giddy. “Shall I go on?”

“I think I’d rather nap for a little while. Then Hannah can tell us whether I’m allowed to Side-along or whether we’ll have to take Muggle transport.”

“That’s fine. I’ll get everything sorted. Let the looking after commence,” he replied, lowering his voice as Hermione’s eyes grew dozy.

#dramione #hermione x draco #draco POV #hogwarts professors AU #epilogue what epilogue #hurt/comfort #tw: near drowning #slow burn #harry potter #neville longbottom #caretaking as a love language #draco loses his temper judiciously

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azusaluvclub · 10 months

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Hi! I absolutely adore your writing! Every single thing I read on your blog is just *chefs kiss* 😍

I was wondering if you have any particular hcs about Myles Joo and Dongha Baek you're willing to share? 👀 Also Wolf. Always starved for more Wolf content. Only if you feel like it obv ")

hello !!! thank you to both anons for these asks ! i decided to do them both in the same post since it was easier this way lol, hope it's okay- honestly thanks for giving me an excuse to write more myles content (even though yall probably shouldn't allow me this much power), lord knows i needed it :D

anyways, hope you both enjoy !!! this was fun to answer lol

weak hero headcanons; myles, dongha + wolf

myles joo / joo seungjin

⋆ used to be star player on his middle school basketball team ! grew up playing with his big bro and made the team in his first year. was really good at it too. loved being on the court, and winning itself, of course. near the end of his second-year, though, a teammate started a fight with him which resulted in him getting kicked from the team

⋆ still likes to shoot hoops in his free time; it's relaxing for him, honestly. thought about joining the high school team but he didn't have time for it and the union. even though he does now, he still feels like something's holding him back from pursuing it

⋆ not a crazy cat person like teddy, but has a soft spot for the strays in his neighborhood they like him, surprisingly lol. can't leave them food since he lives in an apartment, but carries a few treats in his pocket for ones he sees~ there's a black cat who really likes him that's been around for a year now; secretly wants to keep him, but he can't see it going over well with his dad :,)

⋆ not a headcanon so much as my opinion, but would totallyyy suit an eyebrow piercing (because somebody needs to compete with donald lol). gave himself one in middle school, but it got infected after his face got fucked up in a fight and he had to remove it. thought about redoing it, then realized it wasn't safe to have with all the fights he gets into-

⋆ including the black one he always wears, he has a big snapback + baseball cap collection ! his favorites are displayed proudly on his wall, the rest boxed up in the closet

⋆ his hair looks like that because he cuts it at home. had one too many bad barbershop experiences and now he doesn't trust them, but his own skills are... subpar at best :,)

baek dongha

⋆ dongha is the type of mf who refuses to wear shorts- no matter what. it could be 900° and he will still wear pants, only because he hates how his legs look and feel in shorts. would sleep in them if he wasn't normal lol

⋆ dongha has known seongmok since childhood, even before they became friends. truth be told, dongha was a nasty little kid, so he didn't hang out with a lot of people. but seongmok (who was very quiet even back then !) started following him around one day and dongha, who tried to scare him off at first lol, soon realized he really liked having someone by his side :)

⋆ i know he smokes cigs in canon, but imo he's more of a vaper than anything. def one of those people who has 500 vapes and has to hit one every 2 minutes before suffering withdrawals- only elf bars, only fruity flavors

⋆ got this idea from an ask, but he lives with his grandma and has since middle school ! he's in a weird, defiant time in his life so he's not as close with her as she wants, but she loves him just the same~

⋆ to add onto this, when he isn't at his grandma's, dongha's couch-crashing at seongmok's house- he's a lot closer to his family and they've basically adopted him, lol. it's not that he feels excluded at his grandma's, but she wasn't present for a lot of his life up until moving in with her. so, for now, seongmok's place is his true "home"

⋆ avid video gamer, lol- he likes doing multiplayer ones with seongmok or hitting up the arcade for some Tekken, but he's really into anything. keeps some gacha games on his phone for when class is too boring, but he usually regrets the money he spends on them :,)

wolf keum / keum seongje

⋆ surprisingly smart ! doesn't take school seriously, so much as it comes easy to him? + ganghak isn't an idiot cesspool like some of the other schools, so he didn't get in on connections or money alone- he's not a fan of studying or showing up to all his classes, but he manages to make consistent As and Bs and, if his attendance were any better, he'd be an almost perfect student !

⋆ doesn't have much for hobbies lol. its not like his life revolved around the union, but he's never really stuck with one thing. you could say his hobby is fighting, but i think he used to be a bit of a bookworm~

⋆ loved books about mystery/crime and detective-type novels that he could solve himself; he was a bit of a nerdy kid :,) he still enjoys media of that genre but doesn't read as much as he used to. if anything it benefitted him, since he was able to figure out jared's plan pretty easy

⋆ whether he says it or not, he considers hwangmo a good friend. i imagine they went to elementary school together where social-butterfly hwangmo tried to befriend him, though seongje wasn't too interested lol- didn't even remember hwangmo until he asked seongje about it

⋆ but out of all his lackeys, he's the only one who actually respects him and sticks by his side, and has a brain on his shoulders lol- so seongje respects him, too :) sometimes gives hwangmo extra from their funds like a raise lol, buys him a snack/drink after meetings, or offers him smokes; hwangmo thinks they could be friends someday, once this union stuff blows over

⋆ ik a lot of people subscribe to "homophobic gay wolf" but i honestly think he wouldn't care that much- his sexuality isn't anybody else's business, or something he even cares about. he likes who he likes, though he doesn't really like anyone... :,)

#weak hero #weak hero webtoon #weak hero headcanons #weak hero imagines #myles joo #wolf keum #dongha baek

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lunawish · 3 months

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✨ general portrayal notes for god's favourite princess and the most interesting girl ✨

in act i, she'll behave mostly like her early access self aka all the snark, all the sass, the brusqueness, and the dark humor. the released version dialed it down and whilst i do adore her in the released version, i love her early edge a lot more.

generally "good" aligned play through. i put good in quotes because sometimes you don't intentionally save the grove, sometimes it's just a byproduct of a selfish need for knowledge on how to get the damn tadpole outta your brain. i am also more than willing to explore "evil" playthrough dynamics (again, it's in quotes bc sometimes you don't slaughter the grove ... the grove slaughters itself bc kagha psionically tells people that you attacked her for idk executing a child???)

act i and early- act ii can be summed up by the words cognitive dissonance

i am much more partial towards her exile path versus her dark justiciar path — which means she frees aylin from the soul cage, defies shar, has a mental breakdown hair cut etc

i lean towards the theory of her hair being white after the shadowfell as a result of the pain and torture she endured. so in short : marie antoinette syndrome.

that being said, if i were to play her as dark justiciar the ending is still going to be her betraying shar. she'll free her parents and take them far away from the cities. it's due to personal discomfort that i can't fully commit to the route of her becoming mother superior.

i understand her canonical model and general consensus is that she's a white woman. however, on this blog she's portrayed as mixed race ( white and asian - wasian ) if a modern verse should arise. that being said, this will influence how i adapt her post-game and her finding her roots as a person.

my preferred ending is her saving her parents and then moving into a cottage. i don't believe the curse is entirely incurable and it'll bind her and her parents' fate to shar forever even into the afterlife but that'll be a whole post on its own because forgotten realms lore is messy.

though i also do very much adore the moonbathed adventurer ending as well! that's something i like more if she was romantically (or ever queerplatonically) involved with someone just so she's not lonely on the road.

also on the topic of religiosity: her powers are blessed by selune, yes. she's a "moonbathed" cleric, yes. but she's not gonna be a devout selunite. at least not for a while. for my default portrayal, in early act iii she will begin to dip into a few levels of ranger as she still understands the importance of her being the group's healer and because she needs to adapt to using a bow more frequently than she has in the past. after defeating the netherbrain she will fully transition into the ranger class, taking up the subclass of gloomstalker which allows her to use the skills she's learned as a sharran and reclaim them for herself.

introspection. so much introspection. she's having a crisis of faith every goddamn minute but she's trying to talk herself outta that crisis as well. so her internal dialogue is a whole mess (what it means is if i write you six paragraphs of her thoughts it's fine if you don't match length in fact if it's not natural for you to please don't ahaha)

body dysmorphia. it'll be a common topic relating to her whether about her wound/curse or her in act 3 about her scars, her body, her feeling unclean etc. plus, due to a lack of a coherent identity (her memories being literal chop suey at this point), she has a messy relationship with gender that she can't quite articulate but know it's There.

i'll be treating her like she's never had sex or kissed before because she's voluntarily wiped her memories, so she's gonna be a little cautious and nervous about it. the innuendos and sly remarks you hear her make is a front to keep the vulnerability of her lack of experience behind a hidden achievement (plus the body remembers traumas!).

there will be flareups where she isn't crying out or is noticeable to others. this is inspired by the fact in her origin, she doesn't always cry out and her companions don't notice her in pain. the moments where her wound flares and others know mean 1) it's excruciating and/or 2) she trusts the other person enough to express herself.

#portrayal notes.#ch. shadowheart #turns out 600 hours of only romancing the emo goth girl produces a lotta word vomit #updated on : mar 13th 2024.

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friend0f0wlsandtitans · 2 years

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I want to talk about this promo art a little bit

First, Luz. Right away I can sense her keeping to herself, pushing everyone out. Holding herself close as if she feels too scared to open up to anyone in the fear that they will abandon her. I've noticed that the way Luz deals with traumatic events is by first blaming herself, getting emotional, and then she gets angry and very protective, and then (from what I've seen from promo shots and art) she seems to be numb. She's bottled up her feelings for so long that she can't feel them correctly anymore. She always brushes off her own feelings to help other people and all that is catching up to her. Almost like when you grab a hose and block the water from coming out. It starts building up but you keep on squeezing it because you don't want to let go and let all those emotions out, but eventually they all start building up and it gets to be so much that it just bursts. I think that is exactly what has happened to Luz. She has shoved aside her feelings so many times that it just built up for months, maybe even years. And now she is having to deal with all of them. And it seems like her way of dealing with them is by isolation, pushing everyone away. What she needs is just someone to be there for her (also a lot of therapy). I speak from experience when I say that if she has someone that doesn't let her push them away, someone that will stick by her side even when she may get angry at them or just angry at the world in general, she will eventually be able to let them in. It takes time, a lot of time. But Luz has so many people around her who love her and are willing to listen, she just has to have the realization that these people won't hate her, that she can be her true self around them, that she doesn't have to push them all away. Now for Hunter To me it seems like he's scared, like he's in denial of his entire existence. And this definitely has to do with the fact he is a grimwalker, a clone. He feels like he's not his own person, he's having a full on identity crisis. It doesn't help that he is cloned after his abusers dead brother, though he doesn't know that yet. From the Season Three intro we now know that Hunter has now seen Celeb, the person he was cloned after. After seeing that he immediately cut his hair to look less like him. He wants to be his own person but i think he is really struggling with that. I have a feeling he might see even more visions of Celeb, maybe even have flashbacks or nightmares. By him covering his ears in this art, it's saying as if he doesn't want to hear anymore things about being a grimwalker, a clone. He is overwhelmed by all this information he's almost trying to shield himself from it. I think that all this shit that the both of them are going through is almost bringing them together. Because Hunter is the only one that knows about Luz helping Phillip, and Luz is the only one that knows Hunter is a grimwalker (besides Belos of course) So in a way, they feel as if they can talk to each other about it, which i think will be very helpful for both parties. One way or another though, the gang will find out. I definitely don't think they will be in any way mad at Luz or Hunter like they both think they will be. They will be accepting and kind and understanding because that's just who they are. If anything they will just be disappointed that Luz and Hunter felt like they couldn't tell them and that if they did they would hate them. I want to see Luz just sob in her mom and friends arms, she deserves it. And same goes to Hunter. They need a really big long hug and to be told that it's okay and that they will always be loved. (and again, lots of therapy)

#the owl house #the owl house season three #toh s3 #luz noceda #hunter toh #owl house analysis #luznoceda analysis #hunter toh analysis #these kids really need therapy

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lumiereandcogsworth · 1 year

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belle + hair headcanons!

belle was always fascinated by braids as a child, especially when she saw girls her age or a bit older wearing them with ribbons and hats and flowers.

unfortunately, maurice had no idea how to braid hair, he only had brothers growing up, so one day he asked if the dressmaker with the three daughters always dressed in pink would be willing to braid his girl’s hair

belle came home that day with the biggest smile on her face. she immediately found little flowers to stick in the braids, and she was desperate for ribbons to make it extra fun and colorful

maurice quickly realized that this was something that made his daughter extremely happy, and if that was the case, he’d have to learn the skills. so madame dupont taught maurice how to braid belle’s hair — a handful of different styles, so as to keep things interesting

before long it was something of a routine, belle sitting on the floor with busy hands on her little toys and figurines, or being lost in her latest book, and maurice sitting on the couch behind her, careful and complex weaving that made his daughter giggle with delight when she finally got to see in the mirror

as she grew up, she learned how to do it herself. she spent many candlelit nights and cloudy mornings sitting criss-crossed in front of a mirror trying to work out the angles. she never let papa show her, she HAD to figure it out on her own. she’s very headstrong <3

soon, she could do all sorts of things with her hair. complicated braids and intricate buns and tidy weaves that kept her hair back while she tinkered in the workshop or climbed every tree in sight.

for a few weeks she went through a phase of wanting to be a hairdresser. maurice let her trim his hair a few times, but they quickly learned she was far better with her hands than with the scissors when it came to hair.

a bit down the road, now sharing her life with with adam, he discovered very quickly that playing with hair is one of belle’s favorite fidgets

she often subconsciously strokes bits of her own hair while reading or reciting or thinking

she runs her hand through adam’s hair when he’s falling asleep beside her and she’s up reading, which really benefits them both, as her soothing touch always knocks him right out

she also always wants to braid adam’s hair. she’ll turn while he’s reading and start making little braids, and he’s generally too endeared by it all to ask her to stop. in fact, he only ever takes them out if he needs his hair a certain way for a meeting or event.

belle has also asked adam repeatedly if she can cut his hair, and he always refuses because he has a weekly hair appointment and he loves his wife but she is also a chaotic crafter and his hair is Precious

maurice later tells him that he made the right call

but oh!! oh!! when belle has her own children?? oh my goodness!! so much hair to braid!!

her eldest daughter renée most enjoys it, letting her mama give her the most intricate braids and styles and ALWAYS wanting ribbons and flowers added in. even when renée is older and has a maid to help her dress for events, renée still always prefers her mama to do it

juliette doesn’t like it too much. the tightness and constant touching is just a bad sensory experience for her. but she is okay when mama brushes her long dark locks, so belle does that, tucks a flower behind her daughter’s ear, and kisses her head before letting her go play with her siblings. sometimes juliette wants some of it tied back so she can wear a bow (or bows) in her hair, but it’s never all completely up or tucked, even when she’s older.

little maurice likes having silly braids in his hair, he thinks it’s fun and especially likes to add big flowers, (so he can look like an elf wizard, he says), but the problem is that he can never keep still long enough for belle to ever complete any specific style for him. so usually he has half a braid somewhere on his head and his chaos undoes it within the hour. but that never bothers him, he just likes to be included <3

whenever her kiddos are around, belle’s always stroking or fixing their hair, subconsciously or not. (i think her and adam both do this, but for adam it’s more because physical touch is a love language for him, so he leaves a hand on their heads and shoulders often.)

and yes, belle has had urges to cut all of their hair, but adam won’t let it happen. not the hairs on their precious little heads?? their darling perfect angels?? absolutely not!!

belle retaliates by braiding adam’s hair while he’s sleeping, and then undoes it in the morning, so when he wakes up, parts of it are wavier then others. he looks at himself in the mirror and makes an extremely grumpy face. belle thinks she’s sooooo funny

#yay! beloved thoughts!#belle #batb headcanons #batb 2017 #beauty and the beast #beauty and the beast 2017 #beauty and the beast (2017)#oc writing #adelle #adam x belle #belle x adam #papa maurice #princess belle

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vox-off · 8 months

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what started as a way to pass the time while miserably sick for two weeks has become a new hyperfixation and i have catapulted myself face first into the wayhaven chronicles and i wanna yell about my detectives under the cut

Eilidh is reserved, kind in action if not in affect, patient, logical, soft-spoken, and iron-willed. Her backbone makes steel seem doughy. Her resolve is unshakable. She is the older sister of Det. Cameron Fox. She joined the Wayhaven PD for something mentally engaging to do. She is wildly intelligent and gets Weird when she doesn't have a puzzle to solve; once she has one, she's a dog with a bone. She feels intensely but privately; to see - or, more accurately, to be shown - what Eilidh is feeling is a surer sign of trust than anything else. Though she experiences emotions intensely, she is able to let them go. She is without artifice and almost without ego; she owns her mistakes, but does not dwell on them. Beyond her very small circle of beloved people, she cares very little what others think of her. She did not believe in soulmates until Adam; she has never wanted anyone as badly as she wants him, has never loved as fiercely as she loves him, but will not settle for anything less than all-in. She has no intention of waiting for him to get his head out of his ass, but also knows she will never find his equal. There is no getting over Adam du Mortain, there is only learning how to live with him at arm's length. Besides her brother, Mason is Eilidh's best friend, full stop. She loves Tina and Verda, but she knows they oftentimes wish she were different, more open, warmer. Mason is the first to not only accept but respect her for who she is, no changes imagined or required. She is slow to anger and uses violence only when her hand is forced, but heaven help you if you touch her brother. Neither Fox sibling has a good relationship with their mother. Eilidh sees Rebecca as little more than a stranger. Rebecca projects acceptance onto Eilidh's stoicism and Eilidh does not trust Rebecca enough to be emotionally honest or demonstrative with her. In turn, Rebecca does not know Eilidh well enough to recognize the difference.

in my blorbo headspace, my two detectives are siblings, they both work for the wayhaven PD, and they both have the blood mutation. rook died just after cameron, the youngest, was born. i'm handwaving the probable police policy against siblings working together in a professional capacity because, quite frankly, i don't care enough about police procedure to portray it accurately. also if their mother can be their agency liason/handler, their sibling can be their partner in (solving) crime. also also vampires exist, we're already firmly in unrealistic territory

Detective Eilidh (AY-lee) Fox - Intimidating/Cautious/Genuine/Stoic/Stubborn. 34 y/o. 5'9. Dark brown hair, grey eyes. Highest skill: Deduction.

Cameron is passionate, combative, irreverant, loyal, has unrepentant problems with authority, and is a little bit of an asshole. He is the younger brother of Det. Eilidh Fox. He joined the Wayhaven PD as an alternative to prison and despite it being what landed him in hot water in the first place, he still punches first and asks questions later, if at all. His sarcasm is a bulwark for his soft spots, of which there are many, the biggest being his sister. The only thing quicker (and sharper) than Cameron's wit is his anger. He is possessive in such a way it backfires into heroics: you mess with his people or his town, you'd better have an excellent exit strategy, for hell hath no fury like a pissed off Cameron Fox. He is in a Something with Mason. Like Mason, Cameron doesn't do complicated; he prefers one night stands and flings without expectations of commitment. Bobby was his last attempt at a real relationship, and it ended disastrously. He and Mason have the same general ineptitude with feelings and the recognition of them. Cameron is stupid gone for Mason and is absolutely clueless about it, right up until he isn't, at which point he tries very hard to be clueless again; the only thing more terrifying than what he feels for Mason is the possibility of Not Having Mason. Come hell or high feelings, he will not rock this boat. He wouldn't consider himself super close with anyone in Unit Bravo besides Mason, but if he had to choose a second favorite, it would be Felix. In Rebecca's absence, Eilidh raised him and he would kill - and die - for his sister. Neither Fox sibling has a good relationship with their mother, but of the two, Cameron is more openly hostile to Rebecca. Cameron felt Rebecca's absence less, as Eilidh stepped into the caregiver role without second thought; his anger at Rebecca is for the burdens Eilidh had to bear in her stead.

Detective Cameron Fox - Charming/Impulsive/Sarcastic/Stoic/Even split Easy-going and Stubborn. 31 y/o. 6'3. Golden blond hair, dark blue eyes. Highest skill: Combat.

#voxbox #the wayhaven chronicles #twc #I AM OBSESSED OKAY. I'M ALREADY WRITING LITTLE FICLET SCENES THIS IS ABSURD #normally i percolate for MONTHS on media before reaching this stage but here we are barely two weeks in

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monstersandmaw · 2 years

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I have a bit of a twist on the Dino Ask please! Would you be willing to choose any of the dino options yourself, but use an example specifically from your Chiaroscuro?! I'd love to see a piece of it that perhaps is your fave!

Oooh! Fun, sure! I went for a mix of: "Troodon - share a scene that is really important to a character’s development" and "Carnotaurus - share a scene that contains some cool worldbuilding"

This is a really long extract but I thought you deserve it for being so kind and supportive! I spent the last 3hrs editing it. It picks up directly where the last one left off, and starts off lightly nsfw (nothing super explicit - maybe a borderline 'M/Mature' rating on AO3?).

Hades decides that it would really not be a good idea for the God of the Underworld to deflower the maiden-Goddess of Spring while no one knows where she's gone, and Persphone, hurt and confused by the rejection after sharing a passionate kiss with him, doesn't truly understand why, and misunderstands his motives. Luckily, Hecate is there to explain (and she'll knock Hades over the head with her staff later).

Told first from Hades' POV and then Persephone's.

Content: some very low self-esteem issues from Hades relating to his phyiscal appearance, and some lack of understanding/experience/perspective in Persephone. Wordcount: 3479

As always I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Hades

For a moment, he stalled, unable to parse what she had said - to believe that someone as vivacious and beautiful as she could desire to feel the lips of the lord of the dead against her own.

When she saw his astonishment for what it was, she giggled and tightened her hold on his hips. Let no one say that Spring has no strength, or that a flower cannot strike a man down. Persephone held Aidoneus in her grasp and in her gaze, and he found himself utterly powerless before her. Had she asked for the keys to his kingdom, he would have surrendered them to her.

He bent his head, his long, black hair curtaining them on one side like a sweeping shadow, and he kissed her.

The softness of her lips drew a ragged exhale from him and he cupped her jaw delicately in his slender fingers, trembling. Passion roared in him then that had been dormant for eons, and he surged closer, pressing his whole body against hers while she moaned into his mouth, looped her arms around his neck, and pulled him still closer, crushing her lips against his.

Hades’ hands slid down the curve of her waist to her hips and he groaned, heat pooling and coiling in his groin as desire rushed through him.

Gasping, Persephone drew back and took a shaky inhale, eyes glassy and face alight with newly-awoken desire. “I want you,” she hissed. “Aidon, I want you to…”

At her own words, her face flushed pink, and he recalled himself. She was a maiden intact. Like being plunged into the icy waters of the Styx, cold horror drenched the desire in him and he stepped back, appalled. “Persephone, no,” he growled. “No, I cannot be the one to… to… I cannot be the one to take that from you.”

Hurt flashed across her expression and she blinked. Whatever she’d been expecting of him, it had clearly not been a refusal.

“I want you to,” she said, a fierce ardour blazing in her eyes now. “I want it to be you, Hades.”

Reeling, he shook his head. His stomach roiled at the thought of the Lord of the Dead desecrating the maiden Goddess of Life like that.

“No, Persephone,” he croaked. “What you want…” and then as he gazed down at her, a new realisation struck him to the core and his heart beat utterly cold. “Persephone, you have been treated as ‘Kore’, as a young maiden, by everyone but me your whole life. It’s… It’s natural that you should seek this from me then, but —”

She cut him off, a fury greater than that of the Erinyes rising in her, explosive as the fires of Etna. He felt her true power then for the first time since that brief glimpse on Olympus, when she had openly defied her mother. It roared and surged through her, hot and consuming as magma, and he staggered back, shaking his head.

“You think,” she hissed, “You think I only want you because you’re the first to treat me like a goddess, and not like some silly, simpering, innocent little flower nymph? You think I’m that —” her anger bound her tongue for a moment and she swallowed, forcing herself to steady, breathing hard. In a whisper, she spat, “You think I’m that naive?”

This was not going at all how he would have wanted, and he felt like a boulder tumbling down the slopes of Olympus with no hope of stopping. “Persephone, if you do not return to your mother ‘whole’, then all Olympus will think either that I defiled you against your will — the more likely option, if I am honest — or that you were not in your right mind, and that I took advantage of you.”

“So you’re just concerned for yourself?” she fired, recoiling from him.

“No!” he snarled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, that’s not it at all —” he broke off, suddenly crushed by the weight of helpless dejection, and turned away. How could he have hoped for any end but this? “Find Hecate,” he said. “She will take you home.” And with that, he stalked away amid a heaving cloud of black mist, leaving her in the garden alone and shaking.

In fact, Hecate found Hades first.

Rather, she was already waiting for him at the base of the steps to the palace complex, wearing her stern Mother aspect and standing with her arms folded.

“Aidoneus,” she said.

“Don’t. Just take her home. I should have done it weeks ago,” he said as he brushed past her.

“And yet you did not.”

“No. I did not. I was weak and foolish, and —”

“— she asked you to give yourself to her.”

He turned back to her, one foot on the second step, and he felt his heart crack. “I already did, Hecate,” he whispered. “Months and months before she ever set foot here. She gave me a single flower on Olympus, and with it, she stole my whole heart. But it cannot be me, Hecate.”

“Why not? Are you not the most powerful of the Olympians?”

“I am not Olympian,” he growled, static crackling through the cloud that smoked around him: Zeus Katachthonios, with lightning fracturing around his aura and flashing across his silver eyes. As Zeus ruled the world above, so Hades’ word was law below. Or at least, it should have been. Hecate had always been a law unto herself.

“Most powerful of the Eternal Ones then? Of the Children of Cronos?” she droned, dark eyebrow raising. “Who wouldn’t want to be tied to such power and wealth, Aidon?”

He could tell she was being facetious, and it galled. Grinding his teeth, he stared her down. “What do you want of me?” he finally hissed at his oldest and truest friend. “You want me to deflower the Maiden of Spring, here in the Land of the Dead? You want me to pollute her body with the touch of death? You want me to turn every last one of them against me for ever, and expose her to their ridicule and contempt? Because that is what will happen. They will pity her — at best — and they will detest and fear me yet further.”

“Are you saying this to protect her, or to shield yourself?” Hecate asked, her question a slap in the face.

Hades fell silent and turned his face away. “Does it matter?” he whispered. “Take her home, Hecate.”

“Return her to her mother like a lost child?” she asked archly. “Like the little lost lamb you were so adamant that she is not?”

Hades had no answer for her, and walked away, his himation leaving a smoking plume behind him where it brushed on the obsidian steps.

With a heavy sigh, Hecate turned and headed for the garden. “Take her home, hmm?” she muttered to herself with a wry smile. “Alright, Aidon. I will take Persephone home.”

—

Persephone

Persephone sat down heavily on an old stump in the silent herb garden and cried.

This place had seemed a paradise to her — admittedly a strange one — ever since she’d first tumbled down through the earth to land practically between Cerberus’ giant paws, but now she felt betrayed.

She had opened herself to Hades in a way she never had to anyone else — had never wanted to for anyone — and he had flung her desires back in her face as if she were a little girl who didn’t know what she was asking. It stung to be rejected by someone who had made her believe that he took her seriously where so few others did.

A movement to her left drew her attention and she looked up to find Hecate standing amid the smaller asphodels at the edge of her garden; unweeded strays and interlopers from the Asphodel Meadows nearby.

The lines and folds of her long, black peplos accentuated her imposing Mother figure the way the flutes in a column draw the eye from base to capital, and Persephone wondered if she would ever manage to look so imposing. It was hard to command respect when your own provincial, girlish attire was perpetually rumpled and smeared with mud and grass stains and little tears from the cheeky reaching thorns of brambles.

A last, pathetic little sob tore itself free of her throat before she could recall it, but Hecate only smiled softly.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t quite ready to leave,” she mumbled, picking at the nail bed of her thumb and refusing to meet the stern goddess’ eye. “Did he send you to escort me out then?”

“I met Aidoneus on the palace stairs,” she said as she regarded Persephone with steady, black eyes. “I’ve not seen him so out of sorts in... No, I actually don’t recall ever seeing his feathers so ruffled. Not since the days of the Titanomachy at least.”

“Wonderful. Now the Lord of the Underworld despises me,” she huffed, and an indomitable golden dandelion that had sprouted by her foot turned instantly to a ghostly puff and dissipated on an intangible breeze.

“‘Despises’ you?” Hecate chuckled, treading silently along the stone path, the hem of her peplos smoking softly around her ankles. Persephone realised with a start that her feet were bare. “My dear, that is the last thing sweet Aidon feels for you.”

“Then why reject me like that?” she fired, raising her head sharply and glaring fleetingly at the goddess. It was like trying to glare at the moon. “Why treat me like I’m a child who’s not to be touched? I’m not a child, Hecate, and I haven’t been for eons!”

“He sees that,” she said, and the steady patience in her voice crackled warmly.

As she sank down onto the wide stump beside Persephone, the younger goddess gasped at the change that had swept over Hecate between blinks. The Mother was gone, and in her place sat a stoop-spined Crone, with white hair tumbling like mist around her shoulders and a hooded cloak where the severe peplos had hung. Her right shoulder just touched Persephone’s left and she chuckled again, the sound like dry autumn leaves.

The Crone nudged her gently, affectionately, the way a friend might tease another, and said, “And you know he does. That’s why you’re hurting, isn't it?”

“I don’t understand,” she said, gaze dropping to observe the coiling motions of an earthworm beneath the woody stems of an enormous rosemary bush. “If he doesn’t see me as a silly little girl, then why push me away? If hatred is the last thing he feels, then…? I don’t understand.”

They sat there a long while in silence. In the distance beyond the boundaries of the garden, shades drifted like vague memories on the edge of remembrance, and the soft winds of the underworld moved and sighed. It really should have been wonderfully peaceful, but the frantic beating of her own heart in hear ears disturbed her.

Finally, Hecate exhaled. “Come with me,” she said.

She held out a withered, gnarl-knuckled hand for Persephone to help her to her feet, but as their palms connected, the wrinkles and sun spots faded, and once again the lean body of the Mother stood straight-backed beside her. Her face was harsh and beautiful, her eyes and hair as dark as dusk, and her skin like burnished electrum; neither gold nor silver but something in between.

She gripped Persephone’s hand with startling strength and affection, and smiled down at her. The woman changed her aspect as easily as breathing but it left Persephone’s head spinning.

In silence, the younger goddess allowed herself to be led away from the garden and towards the rambling, black stone complex of Aidoneus’ palace.

To her relief, they went nowhere near the living quarters, and instead Hecate guided her down through an archway she’d not noticed before, and along a colonnade. A square garden, divided up by two intersecting channels of glittering, clear water, opened up on their right behind the ancient, monolithic columns, but Hecate didn’t slow.

Ahead of them at the end of the colonnade sat a rotunda with a miraculous, curved dome. Like the rest of the palace, it was made of night-dark stone, and at Hecate’s approach, the ornate, obsidian doors opened outwards in a welcoming embrace.

Inside, a single shaft of light lanced down through a hole in the roof and struck a small, circular mirror on a pedestal at the centre of the room. Persephone gasped, recognising Hephaestus’ work in the elegant lines of the forged bronze and the ingenuity of the design.

“That’s… That’s sunlight,” she whispered when she felt it prickle along her golden skin even though she wasn’t standing directly in the beam of light. She froze, footsteps faltering on the threshold, staring aghast. “All the way down here. How is that possible?”

“A great mirror,” Hecate smiled. Her voice echoed oddly in the room, as though more than one person spoke at once. “It shines directly from a similar room on Olympus, that the memories of what happened may never be lost or kept asunder.”

“Memories?”

At Hecate’s gesture, Persephone’s eyes finally rose to the walls of the rotunda.

“The war with the titans,” Hecate said while Persephone walked over to the great frieze that covered the inside of the rotunda’s drum.

The figures were painted mostly with rich, earthy tones, but here and there was a flash of blue, yellow, and even a lick of gold on a helmet or silver in a lightning bolt or blade.

The bright, sun-bleached splendour of Zeus’ Olympian complex Above was nothing compared to the theatrical play of dark and light in that subterranean room. The mirror in the centre moved soundlessly on a pivot, and Hecate guided the light slowly around for Persephone to watch the events of the Titanomachy unfold as if she had been standing there herself.

Demeter had told her daughter only parts of the tale. She had sustained the Olympian troops with grain and water, and assisted in erecting the earthen ramparts around their new shelter which would, after their victory, become Zeus’ stronghold.

Persephone picked out the form of her mother a few minutes later and smiled. “She looks so formidable,” she said, and Hecate raised her eyebrows.

“She was,” the Mother goddess muttered under her breath. “Still is.”

“Did Zeus really love her back then?” Persephone mused aloud.

“He did. He promised her the world, but he changed his mind and chose Hera instead. The way he ‘won’ Hera,” she said, with ominous weight on the word, “Shocked your mother to the core, and is, I believe, one of the reasons she despises men so very much.” The goddess sighed and shook her head. “Demeter is not without her reasons in wanting to keep you from the attentions of men, Persephone.”

“And what of Hades?” she said, searching the gods depicted on the wall, all locked in furious battle with the terrifying forms of the titans.

“Can you not tell him by his helm?” Hecate asked, a knowing smile in her question. “He has changed much since this was first wrought. It might go some way to explaining his reaction towards your advances.”

Confusion wrinkled Persephone’s brow, but her eyes and mouth went wide when she saw the glistering helm far above, adorning the head of a figure who looked more like Zeus than the Aidoneus she recognised now. His skin shone bronze in the golden beam of daylight, his long hair flowing behind him like a battle-banner, and beside him fought Hecate, her expression fierce as she cast her curses and spells. Hades’ sword flashed as the sculptor caught him in a dramatic, upward sweep, his blade hewing a titan’s head from its neck.

“That’s…” she began, but her words died in her throat.

This figure looked more like his nephew, Ares, or his brothers Zeus and Poseidon in their violent rages, his silver eyes flashing, his muscles thickly corded, his body hale and full of strength and vigour.

“The Underworld has taken much from him,” Hecate said at her shoulder.

She’d been so wrapped up in staring at the frieze that she hadn’t heard the woman approach from behind, and Persephone startled slightly. Turning to look at her, she found grief in the goddess’ eyes.

“His power down here is almost without limit, his will adamantine, but the magic of the Styx has changed him. The strength he needs down here is not the physical brutality of a warrior. It is force of will.”

“I don't understand,” Persephone whispered, wishing she did.

She hadn’t realised that she’d begun to tremble slightly until Hecate laid a hand at her elbow.

“Hecate, you still look as you do there in the stonework…”

“My power has always come from the gentle darkness below,” she said, “From the energy that flows through the confluence of choices, roads, and rivers. Aidon was born in the light of Helios, and the Styx demands a different power.”

Hecate sighed and seemed to soften as she went on. In that quiet, sacred space — that temple to memory — she spoke with the voice of a priestess.

“He does not idle down in the dark while the Olympians feast and play their petty games of politics in the paradise they created. He does not toy and tease the mortals from whose prayers they draw their power. Aidon’s work is hard and unending. The queue of souls that lines his judgement hall demands his full attention. Each one must be attended to; each soul read and weighed, and the deeds of their life accounted for.”

Again, she sighed expansively, and turned her black eyes up to the figure of Hades in battle.

“Many plead for the chance to go back. They say they have been sent before their time; that they should not be here yet; that there is more for them to do; that the sins they committed against brother, sister, family, friend were not truly sins in the end… that they had no choice.” After another sigh, Hecate shook her head. “There is always a choice, but those who do not wish to make it usually find themselves in less comfortable quarters here than those who do.”

“And it’s Hades who has to decide where every single soul goes,” she whispered, also staring at the stonework above. The toll that task had taken on him seemed obvious now and she scolded herself for not trying to understand sooner.

“Mmm, for the most part,” she agreed. “His will is matchless, Persephone. He will not be moved once his mind is made up. And yet…” Hecate turned from the frieze and fixed her with a look, tilting her head in a manner that reminded Persephone starkly of a raven on a rock.

Her heart thudded once, twice, thrice in the stretching silence. “And yet?”

Hecate’s voice turned almost polyphonic again, the strange echoes of the rotunda ringing oddly in Persephone’s ears as the witch-goddess spoke something that sounded half akin to prophecy. “If you go to him now, and ask of him the same thing you asked before, he will not have the strength to tell you ‘no’ a second time.”

“I don't want him to regret it,” she snarled, glaring up at the figure of her mother in stone before her. That thought was worse than the first sting of imagined rejection had been. "That would not be fair."

“He would not regret that, Persephone. Aidon above all others respects the power of a choice freely made.” Hecate went on quietly, “Fate chose him to rule this third of creation, and he rules it well.”

“But…?”

“But,” Hecate said with a wry smile twisting her berry-dark lips, “But I fear he does regret the changes that this life has wrought upon him over the eons. He sees his brothers wreathed in bright glory; his nephew Ares in his gleaming armour; Hephaestus with his iron-bound arms and back.”

She shook her head and in the blurring movement Persephone saw both Maiden and Crone before the Mother crystallised before her once more.

“Hades finds beauty in the smallest, meekest souls; in the gentle, dark-pelted animals who roam the Asphodel Meadows, sacrificed to him because no one wants them. But he sees it not in himself.”

Hecate raised her hand to Persephone’s suddenly damp cheek and stroked her knuckles tenderly across her skin.

“He sees you, Bright Persephone, crowned with all the joy and promise and light of Spring, while he himself is wreathed with shadow, and the cold touch of death. Where he treads Above, the plants wither and the animals weaken as if in readiness. Aidon walks alone, Above, and even his own kin fear him now in a way they never did when he was one of them.”

She gestured towards the battle that raged in eternal silence around the rotunda, and tears rolled down Persephone’s cheeks.

“He has withered down here, Persephone, as a plant withers in the dark.”

Trembling, Persephone stared wide-eyed at Hecate and whispered, “Where is he now?”

A tiny smile flickered on her lips and she said, “You will find him now in the grove of blackened olives, on the banks of the Styx behind the palace. If you return to the main steps and head towards the river, you will find him. Be firm, Persephone, but be gentle with our king also.”

She nodded, and left the hall of memories in silence.

Hope you liked it!! It's definitely one of my favourite stories and one I fully intended to finish at one point.

If you want a very old version of the story you can find it here on my old AO3.

| Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

#I doubt anyone will see this because of the format #hades and persephone #hades #persephone #hades x persephone #hecate #greek mythology #greek mythology retelling #hades and persephone retelling #dino ask #wip ask

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tempest-in-ateapot · 2 years

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i’m so so normal abt oct 3’s entries.

many people have already made some really in depth and beautiful posts abt it so i’m not contributing much but i need to rant bc Oh My God

-dracula quoting genesis???????? dracula quoting adam’s spontaneous poetry upon the sight of eve??? ‘flesh of my flesh; bone of my bone’????? the shit quoted in every christian love song, pulling on the original first husband and wife in christian theology??? all while assaulting mina in a not so subtle SA allusion???? holy shit

-i love repurposing that account and those quotes as much as the next ex christian, especially with queer love, so while i do not share the same exact feelings as a christian abt its usage here, it fucking horrified me. i know what you’re implying here dracula and you need to get staked fr.

-i’m still talking abt this point bc i Keep Thinking Abt It. his quoting of adam here is also not wrong? i mean it’s Wrong, and horrifying. but it’s not inaccurate to the situation bc adam, with ‘flesh of my flesh’ is in reference to eve being born of his own rib. literally born of his flesh. dracula is forcing mina to drink his blood, and he’s already drunk hers. screaming crying shaking etc

-jonathan hearing what happened and Immediately getting up to kill the count, despite probably still being Not Entirely There after being hypnotized and also. you know. retraumatized. and softening when mina begs for him to stay. the tenderness he has stroking her hair and holding her all the while fantasizing abt murder. obsessed. wtf

-just jonathan today tbh. everyone’s already cried over ‘the holiest love’ line obv. willing to damn himself for her so she won’t be alone as a monster. the kissing of the forehead scar. the violence he’s ready to commit for his wife.

-again ex christian. specifically a christian cult survivor with a Lot of personal feelings of vampirism as a concept, bc of how it parallels my own experience with deconversion and shunning by my family. i too was Once Like You, but now i am some monster in the form of your loved one you treat as dead, with the ability to prey on and turn my loved ones. i too want you corrupted, to join my side. i’d been warned of these monsters my whole life, the very ones my parents believe stole me from them. my cult is also obsessed with ‘the blood is life’ concept, to the point of worshipping it and all but turning it into an idol. i have Weird Feelings abt blood. anyways mina being like ‘we have to pity the count, even if he’s a monster, bc what if i turn into a monster? what then? will you not pity me?’ girl me too

-RENFIELD. YOU DESERVED BETTER. i’ve never been institutionalized so i can’t speak on that aspect but oh my god his trying to warn everyone abt the monster he once worshipped - absolutely gut wrenching as a cult survivor. i can totally see renfield, vulnerable as he was (not just mentally ill, but denied autonomy and abused by the asylum and its doctors) falling for dracula’s lines the way a new cult convert falls for a cult’s line - we promise you safety, and power, and love, which you have no or limited access as you are. we promise you change and happiness and belonging. but the deeper you sink the more you realize you’ve been manipulated, the great danger you are in, but it’s too late. you’ve cut people off. you’ve spent too much time. you can’t be wrong. oh god what have you done

#dracula daily #october 3 #dracula #invite me in #thinkin thoughts.#sa mention

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mask131 · 1 year

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The evolution of Wednesday Addams (4)

And to complete our exploration of Wednesday’s character (for now), we will stop at 2019′s animated Addams Family movie.

For this incarnation, while they reused Charles Addams’ original design (with minor changes, such as her pigtails now ending in nooses and her sporting the same grey eyelids as her mother), they rather based her personality on the 90s movie. Like Christina Ricci’s Wednesday, this incarnation is an emotionless girl - not that she does not have emotions, but she lacks any kind of facial express and speaks with a calm, low, monotonous voice, making her look like a walking corpse. In her own words she doesn’t know what “happiness” feels (she can only call it “the opposite of sad”) ; and even when she tries to show love or compassion, she does so in a creepy way almost as if she was threatening you (see when she tries to claim her love for her brother). And just like Christina Ricci’s Wednesday she has a very intelligent and bored view of the world, with many sarcastic and ironic comments reflecting a definitively more adult mindset - though unlike the 90s Wednesday, this one lacks any real form of dark cynicism and biting humor. Instead this Wednesday’s calm and cold behavior makes her rather a very detached character, constantly analyzing and putting in question the world around her, observing it all with a clinical eyes and having diagnostics more than reactions. She is a delicate morbid flower...

... but a talented one. Wednesday, despite having still some “childish” sides to her (she keeps playing with her dolls - beheading them), is also shown to be a gifted “mad scientist” able to build a machine to resurrect dead frogs into zombies ; and she is a talented crossbow shooter. Her experience, maturity and intelligence is also here put forward by the clear affirmation that she is the elder sister, and showing her to be of junior high school age. A clear inversion of the original setting where Pugsley was the eldest brother, and still bearing the influence of the 90s movies: in fact, the inversion is fully manifested here by how in Wednesday and Pugsley’s regular “let’s try to kill each other” games, Wednesday always has the upper hand. She is the one who keeps harming, mutilating, fooling or “killing” Pugsley in various ways, from burying him alive to pulling forcibly his tongue out while ink is poured in his mouth - the complete mirror of Pugsley poisoning a helpless Wednesday in Chas original cartoons. Though again, this apparent “bullying” relationship is still framed as just normal brother-sisters games, and Wednesday is shown to be a loving and caring sister... in her own way.

Just like in the 60s series, the Addams kid have a pet octopus, but this time it isn’t Pugsley’s, but Wednesday’s, and it is named Socrates instead of Aristotle. In fact, Wednesday is shown to actually go along quite well with the various “pets” of the house, as she is also seemingly the favorite child of the living tree in the courtyard, Ichabod, who is ready to do a lot of things to please her. When she feels bored she apparently likes to burn things down with a magnifying glass, and her bed has a guillotine build in it so that if she doesn’t get out of bed in time, she’ll be beheaded.

The most interesting aspect of this Wednesday, however, lies in her role in the plot of the movie. Instead of going with the 90s disdain and rejection of “normality”, here we actually have a Wednesday... curious about “normal” life. This movie depicts the Addams children raised alone in their house with no other contact than their family and cut from the outside world - an existence that bores a now teenage Wednesday tired of the same edless routine. So when she discovers the town nearby of “normal” people, she gets fascinated by this different lifestyle and is willing to try all these new things, such as unicorn hair ornaments or pink clothes. A willingness to explore a different side of the world that actually puts her at odds with her mother Morticia, who as we said previously in this movie has a profound distrust of non-Addams people. This leads to a rift in their once loving relationship, as Wednesday perceives her mother as being close-minded and controlling, and in answer turns herself into a “rebellious teenager”, by changing her outfit for a cheery pink one and later running away from her home. Note that she does not entirely adhere to the “normal” lifestyle, as we see her promptly return to her usual black-and-white morbid style and she doesn’t change her lifeless behavior - in the movie it is shown that part of her interest is pure curiosity in front of something “different”, while the other is just a rebellious attempt at annoying her mother and contradicting her ways.

#wednesday addams #the addams family #animated movie #2019 movie

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blazingstaro · 1 year

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DotS: Knights of the Stars file #01 — King Orpheus Nightfall

Name: Knight King Orpheus Nightfall Age: 2,000 yrs (Adult Dream Puff) Rank: Knight King; 5-Star General Star Warrior; Former Puff Chief

Legendary, extraordinary, selfless and bold are but a few words that can hope to describe this pillar of modern society. His love for the Galaxy and her people was more vast than the stars she adorns, and it showed in his great sacrifices throughout his life.

King Orpheus was responsible for paving the foundation and building the very structures the Star Warriors now house themselves within— both figuratively and once literally—, nevertheless is the father of other aspects of current Galactic culture.

This small Puff was a bridge between several kingdoms in his era, and brought people and mystical creatures together in harmony. Born into a dark age, bleak, hopeless, and suffering, he was taught from an early age by his father, King Wulfric (a gen 1 Dream Puffball), to be a beacon of light in their struggling time. Orpheus took life by the reins and pushed against the grain to establish a greater peace among people across the Galaxy.

Orpheus was most renowned for his juxtaposition between ferocity and loving compassion. Stern, firm-fisted, yet led with a gentle heart. To his enemies, he was an unstoppable force; to his allies, a cherished friend and brother in arms. His name struck fear in his adversaries, and even the foul Warlock, Nightmare, had a level of healthy respect for this tiny, yet mighty warrior.

He was fun, charismatic, considerate; a proper gentleman and a true chivalrous knight. And, apparently somewhat of a flirt, but never got serious with anyone according to the few still-living friends of his.

King Orpheus was many things: a leader, a friend, a brother, a father, a healer. There's no question as to why King Orpheus is among the most beloved figures in history. He befriended those who society shunned or mocked. This Puff went out of his way to seek the meek so that he may give them the strength to rise up against their demons— both figuratively and literally.

Orpheus was also left handed, though trained himself to be ambidextrous for combat purposes exclusively.

His hair was a legend of its own too, for no comb nor brush could ever hope to tame it. Like that level of curly that doesn't quite curl enough, yet won't straighten either. Just pure wild, and he refused to cut it any shorter than it was. Arthur says he always intended to try some sort of wild Viking style braid, but never had the time to try due to how stubborn that mane was.

One could suppose the 'do matched the owner quite well. Orpheus' will was unbreakable, and his stubbornness was the key to his survival in many instances.

There's apparently a spectacular story behind his facial scar, but none can really recall it. What is sure, however, was how proud he was of it. Something about being his first glory trophy or rather? None could be too certain, as the story is different between sources.

About 800 years ago, a rogue and sinister monster slipped its way onto Homeworld. Orpheus, understanding the danger this posed for his entire species, challenged it on his lonesome. He stood his ground to buy both his people and his teenage son enough time to escape with their lives.

It was the greatest fight of his life, and a tremendous struggle for even he, at about 1,200 years of age and experience, had little match against. Had it not been for his tenacity and the sacred blade that was his proud companion, history would be immensely different.

According to old stories, he suffered severe injuries during the fight, and was seeping with the beast's signature paralyzing poison. He willed through it long enough to see the fight to its conclusion, though could not hold consciousness much long afterwards.

His final words to Arthur were for him to take on his crown and lead their people in his absence. The boy followed his father's wishes, and continues to do so this very day.

Much mystery remains to be fully investigated regarding this tragedy. Homeworld wasn't so easily breeched at that time, nevertheless such a monster would've been easily spotted approaching the planetoid. There are many things that don't add up. Nevertheless more mysteries on top of that, as many former residents say his memorial sanctuary on Homeworld closing to the public without reason some 500 years ago.

King Arthur has yet to make any statements pertaining to the exact event, and seems to be withholding details. He knows something we don't. It's incredibly difficult to get an audience with him these days too... More to follow as we dive deeper into the Knights of the Stars files...

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alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody · 1 year

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For T/A: did they meet at the ice cream shop? Tell us about the first time they hang out outside of work? I also love love a fat feeder. I feel like I don't see that enough in kink fic. What's her relationship with her body like? Does she like that T thinks she's hot? Is she comfy in her skin about it? Is he?

okay, well, TECHNICALLY they do first meet at the ice cream shop. due a long series of vaguely related incidents and infractions, he is staying with a relative in the same neighborhood where she’s house-sitting for the summer, and on his second night there, he goes out to explore the area and stops for ice cream, and she’s having a very shitty night at work and is very snippy with him but also gives him like twice the amount of ice cream that he ordered because she thinks he’s cute and she’s mad that she’s too mad to actually flirt with him. but they ACTUALLY meet, like exchange names and numbers, a few days later when she accidentally hits him with her car while he’s skateboarding down the street (he’s fine. he has incurred one million stupid injuries in various increasingly stupid ways but he has never actually broken a bone). she is, again, mad that he is so cute and so perfectly her type (band t-shirt, tight grungy jeans, floppy dark hair, poorly applied eyeliner, looks like he should be either backstage at a show or in the pit) but they both manage to get some good flirting in.

the first time they hang out … under the cut …

thank you!!! this is so fun 🥰

… the first time they hang out for real, they go to the beach near the neighborhood where they’re both staying and they’re both thrilled to find out that the other person is not a full-coverage-shirt-at-the-beach kind of person. [obviously no shade to anyone who is. these two are just horny] A rolls up and sheds her crop top and shorts to reveal an eye-meltingly little fuchsia bikini that shows off her belly rolls, her soft, dimpled thighs, the faded stretch marks on her hips and sides and arms. T is instantly like, oh, so she’s not just cool with her body, she is actively flaunting it, LOVE that. he thinks she is smoking hot and also thinks it’s extremely sexy that her attitude about her body seems to be “I’m super hot and if you don’t think so you can get fucked.” T somehow forgot to pack a bathing suit for this trip but is fully willing to strip down to his boxers in the name of throwing himself in the ocean and also showing off in front of a hot girl. he has an impressive array of stretch marks himself, more fresh than hers, and she gets a fun little kick out of looking at his also-impressive array of stick and pokes and trying to figure out which ones have stretched a little. he’s very soft fat and she wants to just sink her hands into him, and her long, appreciative glances and demonstrative flirting makes him confident enough that she must think he’s hot too that he throws a little extra weight (lol) behind his own flirting game.

A LOVES that he thinks she’s hot and she also thinks it’s really refreshing because she’s had some experiences, in the community and out, of people who are into fat bodies behind closed doors but never in public, and she’s really into how upfront and unequivocal he is about it. she is comfy in her skin! A has always been fat and her family is also fat, and her experience with it at home, at least, was pretty neutral/“oh well, this is just how it is!” her immersion in feedist spaces online has also helped her find fat liberation, and she’s done the work, she has a solid foundation there, and she also has always found fat women super hot and like, figured that out early enough that she was like, wait, I’m a fat woman too, so I must also be hot?? (she and T are both bi/pan!) obviously it’s not always easy to BE a fat woman in the world but generally she feels pretty good about it and thinks of herself as a hot person, and if other people don’t agree then that’s THEIR issue, not hers. she also loves to show a little skin and wear things that were very clearly designed for thin people on pinterest boards because she gets a thrill out of it. oh, you didn’t want to see her whole VBO and a back roll in this little cutout bodycon sundress she wore to the grocery store? sucks to be you!

T’s experience is similar in that his family is also fat, except for his dad (who’s a huge asshole and the source of most of the conflict in T’s life), and he’s basically decided that in a world where being thin is the ultimate accomplishment/beauty standard, the most punk thing you can do is be unapologetically fat. so he’s fat and he’ll continue to be fat(ter) and he’s PROUD OF IT. he’s never intentionally gained in so many words but he gets stoned and stuffs himself on a very regular basis and he’s not NOT into its affects on his waistline. he treats himself to some luxury edibles whenever he goes up a size. he has a lot of insecurities about not being good enough for people (thanks dad), and despite his best efforts, his body isn’t always exempt from that, so he just tries to fake confidence until he believes it so no one will be the wiser. but generally he’s pretty comfortable with his body and has zero qualms about whipping his clothes off, so their beach date goes great.

they go for a swim, enjoy the breathless and titillating experience of slathering SUNSCREEN on each other’s SOFT PARTS, and eat a probably inadvisable amount of ice cream. they both order the same size and A eats maybe three quarters of hers, then offers the rest to T as a litmus test. “can’t finish?” he asks, and she catches his eye, offers him a little wink. “oh, I can. I just think you should eat a little more.” she is TOTALLY prepared to be like “just kidding, couldn’t finish!” if he takes it weird or doesn’t get it or otherwise looks like he’s not into it, but his eyes glaze a little and he’s like “yeah. yeah. uh-huh. okay” and takes it and from that moment on they both know that it is going to be a VERY INTERESTING SUMMER.

T's experience is slightly different in that most of his family is also fat except for his dad (who's a huge asshole and the source of most of the conflict in T's life) but he sort of ended up in a similar mindset because he decided that, well, in a world that thinks being thin is the ultimate accomplishment/beauty standard, the most punk thing you can be is unapologetically fat. so he's fat, he's gonna continue to be fat(ter), and he's PROUD OF IT. he's queering ... what isn't he queering at this point, he'd like to know. he hasn't intentionally gained before in so many words, but he has made a habit of getting stoned and stuffing himself on a very regular basis and he's sure as hell not NOT into the effects it's having on his waistline. every time he goes up a size he treats himself to some luxury edibles. he does have a lot of insecurities about not being good enough for people (thanks dad) and despite his best efforts, his body isn't always exempt from those insecurities, but so far his solution has been to fake it until he believes it and stuff his face in the meantime so no one knows they've gotten to him. but generally he has zero qualms about whipping his clothes off, so their beach date goes great.

they swim for a bit, have the breathless and titillating experience of slathering SUNSCREEN on each other’s SOFT PARTS, and eat a probably inadvisable amount of ice cream. they both get the same size and A eats maybe three quarters of hers before offering the rest to T as a litmus test. “can’t finish?” he asks, and she catches his eye, gives him a little wink. “oh, I can. I just think you should eat a little more.” she’s ready to play it off as a joke if he isn’t into it or seems weirded out or just doesn’t get it, but his eyes glaze over a little and he’s like “uh. yeah. okay. you’re right. yeah” and finishes her ice cream too and from that moment on they both know it’s going to be a VERY INTERESTING SUMMER.

they go for a swim, enjoy the breathless and titillating experience of slathering SUNSCREEN on each other's SOFT PARTS, and eat a probably inadvisable amount of ice cream. they both order the same size and A eats maybe three quarters of hers, then offers the rest to T as a litmus test. "can't finish?" he asks, and she catches his eye, offers him a little wink. "oh, I can. I just think you should eat a little more." she is TOTALLY prepared to be like "just kidding, couldn't finish!" if he takes it weird or doesn't get it or otherwise looks like he's not into it, but his eyes glaze a little and he's like "yeah. yeah. uh-huh. okay" and takes it and from that moment on they both know that it is going to be a VERY INTERESTING SUMMER.

#ocs #t/a

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