#estelle - oc

[sw4mp-c0rp3s]

/// :) ///

[aesthetically-meme]

Putting so much focus onto making this stupid shitpost

Enjoy some crumbs

[virydia]

Bath Time

Or how to fight wash your cat radio demon

I know Alastor can technically “magic” his way to being clean but just exactly how clean is this magic (-᷅_-᷄๑) plus I wanted to reveal a bit of Estelle’s siren form hehe

Bonus sketch:

After all this hard work, Alastor then proceeds to go out and get himself covered in more blood lmao 😂

🦭 Tag list: @diamond-almond

[monobugz]

🌙Estelle Goetia🌙

Some drawings of older Estelle

These are some drawings of when she gets to be laid back and not have to be the perfect princess Stella wants her to be!

Where she gets to just enjoy wearing pyjamas around the house for once instead of the elegant tight poofy dresses her mother always wants her to wear

Feel free to ask questions about her if you have any! 💛

[shalomniscient]

plagued by more sevchino thoughts……….

can be read as arlecchino x reader but i sprinkle sevchino lore inside as a treat. for me :))

you never truly realised how valuable even an hour of sleep was until you had your daughter. every one or two hours or so, little estelle would wake from her sleep and cry out for her parents, either because she was hungry or needed a diaper change or sometimes even both. instinct compels you to get up, but tonight, you’re far too tired.

you wince as you stir under the sheets, your entire pelvis still somewhat sensitive. it has only been a few days since estelle was born, after all. you blearily open your eyes and glance at the clock on the bedside table, which read 2 o’clock in the morning. estelle cries from her crib, little arms flailing. you move to sit up, when a hand gently encircles your wrist and tugs you back down onto the bed.

instead, arlecchino sits up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. her hair is askew, strands of black and white going everywhere, but she’s never looked more handsome to you. she smiles at you, then leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. this softness is a side to her only you get to see—and now, little estelle, too.

“rest,” arlecchino says softly, brushing some of your hair out of your face. “i’ll handle her.”

“but—“ you protest, only to be cut off by a a finger pressed to your lips.

“you need to sleep,” arlecchino insists, though not forcefully. “resting well is important. you’re still recovering.”

you’re about to say that you’re fine but you interrupt yourself with a yawn, and arlecchino’s eyes twinkle knowingly. she chuckles, amused, and pulls the blankets tighter around you. at her assurance, you snuggle back into the pillows, but can’t really fall back asleep while estelle is still crying, so you watch from the bed as arlecchino quietly makes her way to the baby’s crib. moonlight illuminates the room in shades of silver, making her seem to almost glow ethereally as her blackened hands reach into the crib to gently pick up her wailing daughter.

“what’s wrong, starshine?” she hums, rocking the little baby in her arms. estelle still cries fitfully, but she’s slowly starting to settle as soon as she recognises her father’s presence. arlecchino coos down at her daughter, brushing a thumb over her little cheek. “were you lonely, my little star?”

estelle makes a tiny, gurgling noise, no longer crying and instead looking up curiously at her, and arlecchino laughs softly. “whatever shall we do with you, hm?”

you watch from the bed as arlecchino soothes little estelle back to sleep, and there’s a visceral, aching pulse in your chest—like your soul is crying out, look. look how far we’ve come.

and you would never look away, but the exhaustion catches up to you anyway and sleep claims you again. just before you drift off, however, you swear you hear a quiet ‘i love you’ whispered into your ear.

the next morning, when you wake, the crib is empty. you nearly descend into a panic, until you turn to your side to shake your wife awake before you see arlecchino snoring softly next to you, and on her chest, sleeping soundly on her back, is little estelle.

in that moment, you’ve never lamented the loudness of a kamera more in your life.

[jbwashere]

Meet Estelle! I've had her in mind for a while since she plays a significant role in Mori's life when it comes to his medical records.

[meowpupp]

the tiktok cod community makes me so mf mad.

'me when their oc is a 19y/o, 5'1ft lieutenant-'

babes, sorry to be the one to tell you, but oc's are allowed to be whatever the fuck a person wants them to.

at the end of the day, oc's are a major part of fandom culture. if you're against indulgent oc's, you're against 90% of fan created content. (fanart, fanfiction, fan games, etc).

you cannot tell another person how to enjoy something. as long as the oc meets obvious criteria (eg, 18+), literally why the fuck do you care. you don't look cool for shitting on people who are just having fun. especially if it's in their own little corner of the internet. you look like one of those weird guys obsessed with ww2.

but boy, I bet you'd be real fun at parties. 🤡

[churrorat-art]

Finn and Estelle refs

[demonkinguwu]

Two terrible crumbs w their daughter crumb uwu

[constellarcreator]

ESTELLE REF!!! 🎀🌈🌺

[sw4mp-c0rp3s]

NEW WIFE‼️NEW WIFE‼️NEW WIFE‼️ YYEEEAAAAAA🗣🗣🗣‼️‼️‼️

>♡-

SHES SO IYDDUGUTDFUTDU <333333

more)

[qtval]

Astarion & Estelle

[virydia]

Dear Siren

In which Estelle loves taking a swim in Al’s room~

I don’t know if he has a swamp but I’m assuming he does with how big his room is-

The idea for this drawing was “what if he likes to brush your hair and is actually good at hairstyling (courtesy of his mom)” but lets be honest, we all know he’s gonna mess it up intentionally for the shits and giggles 😒

Also I’d like to imagine that Estelle has many nicknames for him and one of her favorite to call him is Allie/Al ٩( ᐛ )و

[monobugz]

🌙Estelle Goetia🌙

My helluva oc, she’s pretty old as i made her back in 2023! Back when I still used twitter

I love her dearly and wanna show her off to the world so that I may feel motivated to possibly draw her more often 🫶🏽

Feel free to ask questions about her! :3

[hansama]

Secret Santa gift for @rainbowmoonmaiden86 ♥ Ft. her OC Estelle nuzzling with a smitten bara Red

thank you @gyftmas2023 mods for the fun event! ♥

[inthiseverymoment]

silhouettes emerging: chapter viii

"she Flies with No Fanfare but the Voice of Her Own"

and softly found, now fully realized, finally her mind was free.

iwtv oc, this chapter ~1.8k

reynaldo hahn fans rise

there'll probably be about one or two more chapters left of this. pretty please like reblog lmk what yall think etc etc

enjoyyyyyy

chapter vii fic masterlist

“So. When was enough enough?”

He’d waited to ask this, having studied her face for more than a few moments in the hanging silence of Isabelle’s confession. Blood tears stained her cheeks, and a very tired sort of fury had set itself behind her eyes, as if disappointed that the memories could still elicit this much emotion from her after so many years.

“Enough had been enough for a long, long time, if I’m being entirely honest.”

She collected her thoughts for a moment, then-

“Daniel?”

“...Yeah?”

It was not the first time she had called him by his name, but it certainly felt like it.

“You know how, by human standards-some human standards, at least-you’re supposed to have full mastery over yourself by a certain point? How, these days, if someone you’re with says something awful, all attraction to them is supposed to disappear if you’re a good enough person to simply stop desiring something once you learn it’s wrong? How it’s easy to feel like an awful person for needing to try in order to keep yourself strong?”

He blinked.

“You and I have led very different lives, Ms…Isabelle.”

“Yes, I certainly know that. I never had the space or privilege-or even the opportunity-to go wild and have my fun before learning all my ‘lessons’. From a very young age, I always told myself that I’d be better than those who let jealousy or lust or anything else cloud their souls, and even as I settled into a life of killing to survive among friends who killed for fun, that deeper knowledge-that judgement born of youthful idealism-weighed on me, a lingering burn at the back of my mind. I never had that messy teenage love, never got to get the hormones out of the way while it was still socially acceptable, and then I became eternally stuck at a perpetually guilty, emotionally intelligent but worldly naive, constantly wondering twenty-two.

“I listened night after night as Santiago promised our audiences that the darkest parts of themselves were encouraged here-and, though the audience knew it was all to gain their dollar, I could still feel the relief and release coming from just about every one of them. We were monsters, and so were they; the blemishes on every soul were celebrated for once. That is why the Théâtre des Vampires endured for so long.

“It is not a moral failing to yearn to be seen, but I was…I was not myself. Armand did so much to make me stay, because I think I was the closest thing to healthy he’d ever had-and I was another in his line of those who challenged his structures, who shattered what he’d started growing tired of. A new piece was written for me, everything he thought I wanted: a more earnest meditation on grief and life, a deep burgundy velvet gown and long opera gloves, and a French artsong to boot. And the audiences…”

“Didn’t love it?”

“Not as much as I’d hoped. Édith and I exchanged letters secretly and often, and she said she wished she could have seen it live, but she was one of very, very few. The occasional patch of audience members appreciated it, but most just wanted to get back to the mockery and killing. They all thought I was talented, though.”

She rolled her bottom lip for a moment, as if chewing it in thought without the act itself.

“Talented, but pretentious. It took a remarkable amount of self-control to keep from reading their minds too often; upon first being turned, I loved the opportunity to know what people were truly thinking about my performances, my appearance, me-”

A small twist came into her face here, as if cursing herself for self-centeredness once more, then she almost relaxed out of it-

“But that unlimited bombardment of others’ opinions…we’re not meant to live like that.”

“There’s a hell of a lot about the way we live that I’ll take a guess no one was ‘meant’ to experience,” Daniel said.

“That was another thing I loved about Louis’ perspective. I had so many of those same questions-is our nature inherently evil? How did this all begin in the first place? Are vampires creatures of God if there is one, of the universe, part of the food chain as anything else? Every intricacy of human development-the stages of grief, the growing and decaying of the mind, changing relationships, all that was supposedly meant-what’s the effect of eternity on humanity? So many of our kind have lost it, and I’ve tried, tried to hold on. But something about what Claudia said stuck with me; I’d always known the coven had a sense of ‘vampire pride’, but the way she put it made it seem like any other societally put-down identity, like something to truly celebrate. That’s one way it’s often been looked at in fiction, with the other being the curse that Armand had found it to be before Lestat…Lestated his way into things. I am proud of my power, but I cannot call myself proud of all I did to gain it.”

“And all of this inner turmoil got to be too much after about how long?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it too much exactly, the leaving was…something more noble than that, I’d hope. But this lasted a few years. I made a survival tactic of pushing away all of this questioning, of seeing only what was put in front of me; after a lifetime of trying to stick to a certain sense of morality, I needed some way to let go, so I suppose I just went entirely in the opposite direction. We had our motorcycle hunts, like the one Louis described, and those were heaven: the open sky, the glimpses of the centuries-old buildings we whipped past, our shouts and songs ricocheting through the streets, the half-righteous glory of bleeding dry those wealth-hoarding motherfuckers who turned a thousand blind eyes to the mounting political horror. I had a family. And a few members of that family resented me, a few outright hated me, but I had a wild kind of freedom that I had never felt at home. This was new, deliciously new, and I tried to focus on that feeling because I…frankly, Daniel, although my power grew as the ancient blood simmered and perhaps I could have escaped, part of me didn’t want to give up the intoxication of what I had.”

He nodded.

“Until?”

~

Nineteen Thirty-Eight, Paris, France

This was it.

The horrid and powerful theatre folk of Paris had been slowly extinguished, spaced out enough that suspicion would not find the Théâtre des Vampires, and tonight was the last. Their offense wasn’t quite as unforgivable as a few of the rest, but being condescending towards young artists was being condescending towards young artists, and she and her coven needed to eat.

Tonight would be the downfall of the company owners who had told Isabelle with a smile that she didn’t have herself quite figured out yet.

This one was petty, something in her said, just as petty as her lack of grief upon watching that privileged young bully meet her death all that time ago. It was that, she knew, that had likely been one of the first things to alert Armand to her vampiric potential. And for these years, she had dreamt of what it would be like to witness those vapid, fake-deep hypocrites finally realize that Isabelle de la Rue knew who she was.

What she had not expected was that their haunted gaze from the stage right wing, held in place by Gustave and Estelle, would be the only thing she could think of, boring through flowing masses of perfect auburn curls straight to the ever-present and oft-dismissed burn at the back of her mind.

The artsong that she and Sam had chosen was one praising the inherent beauty of night, fitting for a theater filled with creatures of darkness; and the auditorium, usually restless throughout its duration and eager to return to its crudely mocking laughter, was stiller tonight.

“La lune blanche luit dans les bois; de chaque branche part une voix sous la ramée…”

The white moon shines in the woods; from each branch, a voice emerges under the foliage.

Behind her, projections of trees swayed eerily as animations of glowing eyes between their branches appeared and then disappeared, gone with a breath to leave the audience wondering whether they were truly there at all. The haunting nature of the context gave a striking and oddly beautiful contrast to the peace of the song, and despite herself, Isabelle smiled, relishing one of the few nights that her audience seemed to get it.

It was nights like these that almost let her think she was just another young singer, living her human life’s dream.

Breathing deeply to fuel an upcoming high note, she looked up towards Armand, whose fingers absentmindedly tapped the piano accompaniment on the balcony as he gazed down at her with something close to true admiration.

“Ô, bien aimée,” she floated.

Oh, beloved.

There was love there, that was certain.

So why did this moment of peace feel like a respite, not like the usual course of her days?

She glanced over to the company owners, their faces hollow after their capture with hardly an ounce of the arrogance they had once held. As the piano continued, Isabelle took a moment to search their thoughts-

“L’étang reflète, profond miroir…”

The pond reflects, the deep mirror,-

They barely recognized her.

“...la silhouette du saule noir…”

-the silhouette of the black willow-

They did not recognize her.

“...où le vent pleure…”

…where the wind weeps.

Looking back out to the audience, she halted for a moment, then poured her sigh into her major sixth.

“Rêvons…”

As her vibrato bloomed, there was then a spark that came from one of the minds, that they suddenly had put a name to the face, but Isabelle was beginning to realize…

This is not the triumph I had thought it would be.

“...c’est l’heure.”

It is the hour.

Her face painted even more pale, her finger bound by a lover’s blood that seemed to weigh her hand down more with every passing month, standing cold in the spotlight while hundreds upon hundreds of bodies lay under her feet-

This is not proof that I know who I am.

This is…

This is quite the opposite.

“Un vaste et tendre apaisement semble descendre du firmament que l’astre irise…”

A vast and tender calm seems to descend from the sky of the iridescent star.

She had fancied the idea of leaving many times, but it had always come with a tinge of desperation or loss, of knowledge that that willpower would fade at one smell of rust and makeup backstage or one sound of Armand’s voice.

But as her rich soprano climbed through Hahn’s softly wondrous buildup, she breathed into the beautiful certainty that this time was different.

A liberating bittersweetness filled the air as Isabelle promised through her final notes that they would be her last upon this stage.

“C’est l’heure exquise.”