#Couteau plush

[scribe-cas]

The voices....

And a bonus jacket:

The voices

Couteau plushie save me.... save me Couteau plushie......

@davetheswat6

@autism-purgatory

@coldhologramsweets

@sm-writes-chaos

@halfbit

@vyuntspakhkite-l-darling

@dyrewrites

@mythie-and-mages

@written-among-stars

@azerointheshadows

Throws my tag list on here

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 50, 13 décembre 1902, Paris. Toilette de visite pour jeune femme ou dame d'un certain âge. Bibliothèque nationale de France

Cette robe est en zibeline mélangée à carreaux fondus.

La jupe s'orne au bas de trois volants pèlerine.

Le corsage-blouse est à plis fins; la manche chemisette un peu ample.

Joli vêtement étole en peluche loutre, encadré d'un biais de satin et d'une sorte de longue frange en mongolie.

Au bas des pans, jolis motifs de passementerie avec gros glands de soie; agrafe de passementerie.

Manchon rond en mongolie.

Matériaux: 7 mètres de zibeline.

Pour le vêtement, 2m,50 de peluche.

Toquet de velours miroir bronze à pans retombant sur la nuque.

Grand couteau piqué sous un cabochon.

Nœuds et choux de satin vert, à gauche.

—

This dress is in sable mixed with fused checks.

The skirt is adorned at the bottom with three pelerine ruffles.

The bodice-blouse has fine pleats; the slightly loose shirt sleeve.

Pretty otter plush stole vêtement, framed with a satin bias and a sort of long Mongolian fringe.

At the bottom of the panels, pretty trimmings patterns with large silk tassels; trimmings clip.

Round sleeve in Mongolia.

Materials: 7 meters of sable.

For clothing, 2m.50 of plush.

Bronze mirrored velvet toquet with sides falling on the nape of the neck.

Large knife stuck under a cabochon.

Bows and bows of green satin, left.

[warwaged-moved]

Soreana had solemnly risen to recline on one elbow, a glass of fragrant wine nestled against her palm. Her long hair cascaded down her back and onto the plush pillows, freshly undone from many intricate braids. She regarded her eldest daughter with glazed eyes set in lightly bruised sockets; Soreana never did recover fully from her illness, a waxen cast permanently attached to her skin. Nonetheless, the du Couteau matron offered her a lopsided smile that reached no higher than her nostrils, milky nails seeking purchase against smooth bloodglass. What little time they spent together was usually spent arguing, and this instance was no exception. That she had begun fidgeting was a clear sign she was steadily losing her patience.

“You knew this day would come. People like us only marry for duty, dear.”

IC ASKS MY BELOVED (+ARRANGED MARRIAGE!!) // always always accepting ily for this

They had not often been together for many years.

A blessing, she supposed, especially in light of tension permeating this reunion. Even as a child, Katarina had not been much of what her mother desired in a daughter. It did not matter much, back then. All the young Du Couteau had wished was to be like her father, and though he did not openly show his pride, he nonetheless cared for her training personally. Growing up, her relationship with Soreana only ever grew distant and full of jagged edges; she was not made for politics and pleasantries, for looking pretty and amenable, for soft voices and gentle words. The years of assassin’s training only made her sharper. 

Even the inevitable rift between father and the eldest daughter had not driven her closer to her mother.

Vivid emerald burns as it stares straight into her mother’s eyes. Illness may have affected Soreana physically, but it would be a mistake to think it had affected her mind. Proof of it, that they were here, now; who would have cared to see her wed, if not mother dearest?

The mere suggestion makes Katarina’s stomach turn, yet it is Soreana’s calm nonchalance that truly inflames her rage. The picture of blasé nobility, as she spoke of inevitability and duty --- duty! “ I have no duty to this family, ” Voice raised, her eyebrows press together in a frown; if her mother has the gall to smile, Katarina’s answer is a near snarl. “ None. Not anymore. You don’t get to make that choice for me. ”

“ If you thought you could arrange this buffoonery and have me comply, you are a fool. People like you may be content to sit on the sidelines and have others make choices for them, to agree to a marriage you never wanted and suffer through it, but I won’t. ” The last part may be viciously vociferated, but all of it is laced in venom, chest rising and falling rapidly as a result of her uncontrolled anger. She doesn’t care how it may look; Katarina is angry, and if her mother wished otherwise, perhaps she would have had better sense than to try to marry her off. 

Gaze only leaves Soreana’s face briefly, head upturned as she runs a hand through long, scarlet hair. It does naught to soothe her; when eyes set upon her mother once more, they carry no less resent. “ If you were weak enough to submit to something like this, that is your problem! I won’t accept it -- and if somehow you found a way to drag me to a ceremony and force the words from my lips, it still wouldn’t be enough! I will kill him before I accept this. Noxus will be better with this fucking family gone. I’ll die before helping the Du Couteau line to continue. ” 

[not-draven-draaaven]

5, 6, 7?

Soft Headcanon Meme

♕ No longer accepting ♕ @du-couteau

5. Did your muse have any sweet childhood romances?

In my “default” background, he didn’t have any romance. Even as a teenager. His extremely unstable and violent temperament, his distorted vision of what virility is and his secret fear of being abandoned, as he lost his parents in a horrible way when he was only 4, made him someone extremely resentful, angry and most of all very hard to approach. And he had a lot of more important things on his mind, like simply surviving as he was extremely poor and very soon engaged in criminal activities that ultimately had him ending in the arena as a gladiator. What happened next is known to everyone ; he became Noxus’ biggest star and his crimes got “forgotten”, an amnesty covered him, was since he became way too popular. As an adult, he didn’t find love either.

In a RP I had a very long time ago (on Skype and I didn’t use to rp as Draven at that time, it was still my friend who first created this blog but left rping in 2019), when Draven was around 10 years old, he did sometimes visit the rich neighborhoods of Noxus and met with Vladimir who was like trapped in his castle. And it didn’t turn into a childhood romance, but they never really left each other and it turned into a one-life romance. I had drawn this for my friend back in 2019. This one being from Darius’ perspective who, contrary to Draven, never returned to the castle.

6. Did your muse have a favourite childhood toy?

Yes ! A seven-inch hunting knife he got from his deceased mother, since she was the one generally skinning whatever they got to eat and that has some skin to withdraw. He never had toys strictly speaking. His mom had made him a plush but he got rid of it right after her brutal death. (He never coped with his parents’ deaths especially his mom’s and his whole denial about him not giving a shit about it just proves how it is grave in reality)

7. Did your muse have a favourite childhood story or fable?

Yes ! Actually, he was kinda a dreamer before the “incident” happened. He especially enjoyed “Le Petit Poucet” and “Barbe Bleue”.

[petitsdieu]

Boodlet the maiden, let Harkonnen name seep through her veins. ❛Oh, mon couteau — there will be nothing left unmixed.❜ If he asks for volume as physicality, well, that's his specialty. She knows not how much would satisfy him. Only that it will.

And the type of satisfaction she seeks is the one that drains them to exhaustion. To not only get their fill but to be overflowed. It is their time.

She requires palm to palm. It needs no repeating.

Nose to nose. Her gaze drops to the plush of his lesser lip; thinks of biting into it. Doesn't know where she finds to strength not to.

As she swallows, it climbs down her throat and into his fingers. He holds her where she’s most intimate. Twice; Neck to stomach, she's a flutter-case. This fear as squirm-sexual edge. Not of death — though, this is what makes it so intimate, he could kill her ( he won't ). Her anxiety has roots in reborn.

All balance of her life rests in the tips of his, as his does with hers.

What scares her the most is the almost gentle nature in which he had taken his knife back... and all the sediment it provokes. It clings to her mind as he pokes at her belly. Being parallel to him like this shouldn't be this easy on her; she should not want him. The way his tongue hangs alone should disgust her. She leans forward and licks it instead.

And caresses his wrist between them.

( she should not need him either ). She wets anyways.

He squeezes, he gushes. His blood drips to met the valley of her breasts, soaks her blushing with red.

The metal in her is good between his teeth. His head dazes back on a bevel to watch her marry them. Spit with spit and her blood. He'd kill you again, Mother, and isn't he closer to you than ever before? Are you getting a look at this

Blood clean in his ears, and nowhere is he soft. Feyd-Rautha breathes heavy. Like a silent dog. Watch her watch him, half-lidded and foaming somewhere

rabid

roped. not like chains he remembers, these are unseen.

She's too bold. She's too gentle. Scars like gossamer web him in most places, under the dermis and black oil healing and quickened all-new tissue. Cicatrix. So find them, so tear them open.

He's thinking about tearing you, too.

Feyd-Rautha watches his palm slick apart like a drooling mouth. Like his. His tongue bobs red and gleans like his eyes— up. Slow, slow, like a finger-sift, he eases the knife between them. He looks.

And drinks the inches slack-mouthed, he comes as close as her own breath is. He bends his spine to do it and brings her up the rest, with the simmering hand, the cherry froth, split instead around her throat. More red marrow than bone. A choker of invert pearls.

His squeeze lapses on a resisting pressure, his and not. Still, a squeeze nonetheless. Feyd-Rautha feels into her pulse oiled and easy. The knife's tipping her flat belly where it's fullest.

He sinks until his exhales feather her brow. ❛ My blood? How much of it do you require, Bene Gesserit? How much of us should we mix? ❜