#visage: ophelia

[ofwrxth]

@rviner

[pirouetteinthedark]

[peculiarbeauty]

@seachant @pearlewish @briarosas @bornofthedawn @verreprincesse

By Yun Furano

[emeraldxphoenix]

okay we finally got some more tags

[astr0logies]

‧₊˚⋅  ♯  𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄  !  :    the  brooding  artist  ,  ophelia  warner  :  personal  tags   . 

[viisiond]

wow I love myself a pair of twins,,,,

(X)

[rubykissed]

Ophelia Tags

[lestatdelivncvurt]

𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Reader

The death of Daemon Targaryen never had hurt you more than it should.

Inspired by Ophelia from Hamlet. The end quote is from Song of Achilles.

fanfiction | House of the Dragon

"Daemon, where are you going?" You inquire as you watches him readying to soar on dragonback with Dark Sister. Your gaze lifted to meet his, worry etched upon your visage as you observed your beloved. The war still raged, his life at stake.

Daemon turned to face you, unable to utter the truth, he imparted to you a falsehood. "Fret not for me, my love," he reassured, yet noting that your furrowed brow betrayed your unease.

He descended from his dragon, alighting before you on the earth. He clasped your hands firmly in his, bestowing a tender kiss upon them.

Your eyes locked with his. "Where are you going?" You softly inquire once more, voice quivering akin to your heart that throbbed and ached with dread. "You cannot go." It was your intuition that whispered so.

Nevertheless, Daemon sought to reassure you. "I shall return." The prince enfolded you in a kiss, pressing his lips fervently against yours, yearning to cherish the moment with you one last time.

As the kiss parted, he stroked your cheeks, brushing away the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. "Keep this ring," he murmured, placing the silver ring in your palm.

A look of confusion crossed your visage as you gazed at him.

"Know that you are half of my soul," he whispered to you, and you were a fool to let him depart from your side.

You observed as he ascended Caraxes. The sense of foreboding only intensified as he and Caraxes soared into the heavens, perhaps never to return to you.

When he leapt towards Aemond with Dark Sister, you pondered what thoughts consumed him, his allegiance to Rhaenyra or his love for you?

As his blade pierced through the boy like butter, its edge piercing his remaining eye, was he reminiscing about you?

Did remorse grip him for leaving you bereft and alone?

Every morning you awoke to an empty bed, solitude enveloping you. The news of his demise shook you to the core, unable to contain your tumult of emotions, you wept bitterly.

Days passed, the war for the throne persisted. And you battled against the war of grief and madness threatening to engulf you completely. His remnants provided solace, soothing your tears and calming the sobs that escaped.

Rhaenyra and the others watches as you gradually descended into madness.

You sank to the ground, faltering with each step, observing as the water tenderly kissed the earth, forming a gentle ripple. The God's Eye was where your beloved had met his end with the young prince Aemond.

You prayed for Aemond, envisioning the suffering he must have endured.

Tears streamed down your face as you knelt by the water's edge, feeling the anguish in your heart. How could he forsake you so? He vowed to stay by your side, to live, to love you eternally.

You clutched the ring he had bestowed upon you not long ago.

"I shall return," he pledged as he placed the ring in your hand. The silver caressed your skin. Then he bestowed upon you a kiss, one of fervor and hunger. You could faintly feel his lips against yours, so sweet and intoxicating. He departed with his sword and his dragon as you watched from below, witnessing him slowly recede from your life.

Now you wished you had halted him.

Regardless of the throne's fate, regardless of victory or defeat, you stood resolute. The water beckoned to you, like a siren luring sailors. You dipped your feet into the water, smiling as though sensing his touch against your skin.

Similar to Queen Helaena and Daemon, you submerged into the water. Even as it embraced you tighter and deeper, pulling you further down, you only closed your eyes, gazing at the darkening and blurring sky. You tightened your grip on the ring in your hand. Not it, you could not lose it, not even in death.

Death welcomed you like an old friend, with open arms. You accepted your destiny.

In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.

[pupsmailbox]

HORROR ID PACK

NAMES ⌇ abyss. adelaide. alex. allure. alluria. amnesia. amnesty. annabelle. archer. ash. asher. ashton. athena. axe. axette. bates. beal. belial. belladonna. bellatrix. bellow. billy. blade. blair. bleedesse. bloodiesse. bones. bow. briar. brute. bubba. buffy. butcher. cain. caliburn. calyspo. carcass. carna. carrie. carrion. casey. casper. chainette. chains. charley. charlie. chase. chi. chris. chucky. claire. claymore. clear. colt. connor. corpse. craven. cross. crypt. cybre. cynthia. damien. danger. derry. desdemona. dove. dracula. drow. elisabeta. elm. elmira. elvria. em. enigma. erin. eros. ethan. evelien. eventide. falchion. finale. finalis. finn. fleur. freddy. galatine. ghost. ghostesse. gladius. graves. grim. guts. harker. haunt. hound. howl. hunter. hush. ikino. jace. jane. jason. javelin. jekyll. jesse. john. julie. kateline. kille. killer. killesse. killette. killire. killyr. knifesse. knifette. krueger. lamb. laurie. lavender. lenz. lillith. loomis. lorraine. lucien. lucy. machete. mal. malice. massacresse. massacrette. max. maxine. megan. mia. michael. mike. mikey. molar. mors. morticia. mortis. myer. myers. necro. nephi. night. noir. norman. nyx. nægling. obsidian. onyx. ophelia. pandora. pearce. pike. pin. pointe. pointette. pridwen. pyper. quentin. raven. reaper. renfield. retro. revenant. river. roadkill. rosemary. rot. ryker. sabel. sabre. sacrifesse. salem. samara. sawyer. scum. scythe. seraph. serene. sharpette. sharppe. shaun. shelley. sidney. slash. slasher. slashesse. slashette. slashine. slashire. slashyr. specter. spite. survivesse. survivette. sybil. syd. talia. thomas. vein. verity. vesper. visage. viscera. vivo. warden. weaponesse. weaponette. weaponne. wendy. whisp. william. wraith.

PRONOUNS ⌇　aby/abyss. alien/alien. amnesia/amnesia. axe/axe. bat/bat. bite/bite. bla/blade. blade/blade. blood/blood. bone/bone. brain/brain. brutal/brutal. bull/bullet. bullet/bullet. camp/camp. carna/carnage. chain/chain. chain/chainsaw. chainsaw/chainsaw. chase/chase. choke/choke. claw/claw. co/corpse. content/content. copy/copy. cor/corpse. corpse/corpse. cry/cry. cryp/cryptid. crypt/crypt. cut/cut. dae/daem. dae/daer. dark/dark. de/demo. dea/death. death/death. dec/decay. decay/decay. die/die. eldritch/eldritch. elm/elm. evil/evil. fear/fear. fie/fire. fien/fiend. final/final. flesh/flesh. fog/fog. freak/freak. fury/furious. gau/gauze. gauze/gauze. gho/ghost. ghost/ghost. gloom/gloom. gnaw/gnaw. go/gore. gor/gore. gore/gore. gra/grave. grave/grave. gun/gun. gut/gut. hallow/hallow. haun/haunt. haunt/haunt. horr/horror. horror/horror. house/house. hunt/hunt. hush/hush. k9/k9. ki/kill. kill/kill. kni/knife. knife/knife. lash/lash. lethal/lethal. live/live. machete/machete. maim/maim. mallet/mallet. mask/mask. massacre/massacre. med/medical. medi/medical. monster/monster. murder/murder. night/night. no/none. pin/pin. point/point. point/pointy. pois/poison. prey/prey. pyr/pyramid. red/red. reveil/reveil. revive/revive. rib/rib. rip/rip. rodent/rodent. rot/rot. run/run. sacrifice/sacrifice. saw/saw. scream/scream. scythe/scythe. shadow/shadow. sharp/sharp. sharp/sharpen. sharpen/sharpen. sin/sin. slash/slash. slash/slashe. slash/slashed. slash/slasher. slasher/slasher. slice/slice. sly/sly. sni/snipe. sound/sound. stab/stab. stalk/stalk. steel/steel. step/step. survive/survive. survivor/survivor. tear/tear. thon/thon. tomb/tomb. trope/trope. vamp/vamp. victim/victim. voi/void. weapon/weapon. weep/weep. whisp/whisper. wound/wound. wra/wrath. ☠️. ⚰. ⚰️. ⚱. ⛧. ⛨. 🏥. 🏹. 🐀. 💀. 💉. 💣. 📿. 🔪. 🔫. 🕳️. 🛡️. 🥀. 🦴. 🧛‍♂️. 🧟‍♂️. 🧨. 🩸. 🩹.

[mrsines]

Pourquoi ?

Lilia Calderu X Reader

Lilia Calderu, la propriétaire d'une boutique , avait toujours aimé la solitude qui régnait dans son magasin. La poussière dans l'air, les objets anciens remplis d'histoire, tout était calme, comme si le temps s'était arrêté. Mais il y avait quelque chose, ou plutôt quelqu'un, qui changeait cette tranquillité. Ophelia Gilbert.

Ophelia était une jeune apprentie qui travaillait avec Lilia depuis quelques mois. Elle avait le don de comprendre l'artisanat, l'histoire des objets, et plus important encore, de savoir comment écouter Lilia sans jamais juger. Une jeune femme calme, avec des yeux aussi profonds que l'océan. Et, au fur et à mesure des semaines, Lilia avait remarqué quelque chose d'étrange dans le regard d'Ophelia, quelque chose qu'elle n'avait pas voulu admettre pendant un certain temps.

Un après-midi, alors que les rayons du soleil se glissaient doucement entre les rideaux, Lilia s'affairait à ranger des livres dans une étagère poussiéreuse. Elle entendit Ophelia se déplacer derrière elle, les pas légers mais perceptibles. Quand Lilia tourna la tête, elle croisa son regard, et une étrange chaleur monta en elle.

Ophelia la regardait intensément, presque avec un mélange d'admiration et de... quelque chose d'autre. Lilia se sentit soudainement mal à l'aise sous cette attention silencieuse. Elle s'arrêta un instant, observant la jeune femme, avant de briser le silence :

« Ne me regardez pas comme ça. »

Ophelia haussa les sourcils, un sourire en coin effleurant ses lèvres. Elle était habituellement timide, mais il y avait quelque chose de plus audacieux dans son comportement aujourd'hui. Elle s'approcha doucement de Lilia, s'arrêtant juste à quelques pas d'elle.

« Comment est-ce que je te regarde ? » demanda-t-elle, sa voix douce, mais pleine de curiosité.

Lilia se sentit piégée dans cette question, mais elle ne pouvait pas détacher ses yeux de ceux d'Ophelia. Il y avait trop de choses non dites, trop de secrets enfouis dans cette simple interaction.

« Comme si tu m'aimais, » répondit-elle, la voix tremblante, trahissant ses propres émotions.

Il y eut un silence, un lourd silence, alors que les mots de Lilia flottaient entre elles. Ophelia cligna des yeux, mais au lieu de reculer ou de se détourner, elle fit un pas en avant, son regard ne quittant pas Lilia.

« Et si c'était le cas ? » dit Ophelia, sa voix plus ferme cette fois, mais douce, comme une caresse. « Et si je t'aimais, Lilia ? »

Les mots résonnèrent dans la pièce comme un écho inattendu. Lilia sentit son cœur s'accélérer. C'était impossible. Elle ne pouvait pas accepter cela. Pas maintenant, pas avec quelqu'un comme Ophelia. Elle était bien trop jeune, bien trop belle pour quelqu'un comme elle. Lilia secoua doucement la tête, une expression presque piteuse sur le visage.

« Ce n'est pas possible, » murmura-t-elle, presque à elle-même. « Je n'ai rien à t'offrir, Ophelia. Je suis... je suis juste une vieille femme solitaire. Tu mérites mieux. »

Ophelia s'approcha encore, son regard insistant mais doux, comme si elle était prête à tout affronter pour faire comprendre ses sentiments. Elle toucha doucement la main de Lilia, la frôlant de ses doigts délicats.

« Tu penses que l'âge, ou ton passé, ça change quoi ? » dit-elle doucement. « Ce que j'aime chez toi, c'est toi, Lilia. Pas ton âge, ni ce que tu crois ne pas avoir. C'est toi. La personne que tu es. »

Les mots d'Ophelia semblaient percer à travers les murs de doute que Lilia s'était construits autour d'elle. Elle sentait une chaleur envahir son corps, un mélange de peur et de désir. Pourquoi Ophelia l'aimait-elle ? Pourquoi elle ? Elle, qui n'avait rien de spécial à offrir.

Mais alors, elle vit dans les yeux d'Ophelia une sincérité qu'elle ne pouvait ignorer. Et sans réfléchir, Lilia se pencha doucement en avant, frôlant presque les lèvres d'Ophelia. La tension entre elles était palpable, un air lourd de possibilités non dites.

Ophelia sourit, sans hésiter, et glissa ses bras autour de Lilia, attirant doucement son corps contre le sien. Il n'y avait pas de doute dans son geste, ni dans sa voix. Elle murmurait doucement à l'oreille de Lilia, comme une promesse.

« Lilia, je suis prête à te montrer ce que je ressens. »

Et avant que Lilia n'ait pu dire un mot, Ophelia l'embrassa tendrement, mais avec une passion qui semblait déborder. C'était doux, hésitant au début, comme un premier pas timide vers un amour caché. Mais bientôt, Lilia répondit à ce baiser, lentement, se laissant envahir par la tendresse qu'Ophelia lui offrait.

Lorsqu'elles se séparèrent, les deux femmes se regardèrent dans les yeux, leur souffle court. Lilia sentit une chaleur se diffuser dans son cœur, et pour la première fois depuis longtemps, elle se sentit vraiment vivante. Peut-être qu'elle avait tort. Peut-être qu'elle avait plus à offrir qu'elle ne le pensait.

Ophelia, un sourire léger aux lèvres, se mordit doucement la lèvre inférieure, et dit :

« Tu vois, je t'aime bien plus que tu ne le crois, Lilia. »

Lilia sourit, la main caressant tendrement la joue d'Ophelia.

@sayresse17

[birdbrain-npts]

Horror NPTs

Pt: Horror NPTs /end pr

Names: Akakios, Anna, Annabelle, Annabeth, Ares, Armitage, Athena, Babadook, Bates, Butch, Butcher, Carrie, Cleaver, Entity, Freddy, Gaskill, Gore, Hades, It, Jason, Jigsaw, Ker, Keres, Krueger, Lyssa, Mar, Mars, Nathan, Norman, Ophelia, Ophilia, Rosemary, Thanatos, Thorn, Voorhees

Pronouns: axe/axes, bleed/bleeds, blood/bloods, cleaver/cleavers, dagger/daggers, dead/deads, death/deaths, gore/gores, horror/horrors, hunt/hunts, knife/knifes, lurk/lurks, organ/organs, puzzle/puzzles, saw/saws, watch/watcher, watch/watchs, watcher/watchers, weapon/weapons, 🏹/🏹s, 👁️/👁️s, 🔪/🔪s, 🔫/🔫s, 🧠/🧠s, 🩸/🩸s, 🫀/🫀s, 🫁/🫁s

Titles: he who breaks bones, he who breaks minds, he who foretells the end, he who haunts / stalks, he who lurks in the dark, he who sees the future, he who strikes terror, he who terrifies, his twisted / gory visage, the ( noun ) who brandishes a weapon, the blood-stained ( noun ), the burned ( noun ), the drowned ( noun ), the feared / fearful, the horrific ( noun ), the terrifying ( noun )

* he / him can be replaced with any pronoun. ( Noun ) is supposed to be replaced with terms like boy or cat

Text in bold is Names, Pronouns, and Titles respectively

Tagging @id-pack-archive and @npt-archive

[midnightlitterateur]

True Soul Bared

Pairing - Gortash/Durge m/f

Summary - The Durge fulfills a desire.

Warnings - n/a no smut just a little sitch that crawled into my head.

“Could you…” Ophelia turned around and pulled her long grey hair over her shoulder to reveal a row of pearl buttons. She sensed Gortashs amusement as he stepped towards her. “ I really like this dress,” she admitted quietly with a shy smile. Warmth crept over her cheeks as she felt his hands begin to unbutton her slowly, making her shiver as his fingertips brushed against the bare skin of her back. The Bhaalspawn was unaccustomed to letting anyone this close, unless she was about to slaughter them of course but that was a different kind of thrill.

Ophelia slipped the grey silk from her shoulders and carefully stepped out of her dress. She kept her naked form turned away as she handed him the gown and held her tail down to preserve what was left of her modesty.

“Alright,” she sighed, preparing herself mentally for what she was about to do. Taking a deep breath she let the powerful urge out. The Slayer exploded from her body in a rain of blood and gore. A roaring screech tearing from her throat as she exalted in the raw might that Bhaal had blessed her with. The Slayer turned around slowly. Letting Gortash get a good look at the terrifying visage of the Lord of Murders favoured child.

Gortash was very rarely speechless but at this moment he was dumbstruck. Gone was the striking Tiefling girl that he had spent a charming evening with and here in her place was a monster. A gloriously beautiful death machine, all horns,arms and teeth. He watched with trepidation as it circled him, crawling around him clicking its many fangs.

“You are magnificent, Ophelia!” He cried, trying not to show fear to the beast that stalked him. It swished its tail excitedly and stood tall, inviting him to come closer by beckoning with one of its clawed hands. He took a few tentative steps towards the creature, his hands before him as he instinctively tried to protect himself. She was an intimidating sight and though he trusted the Tiefling, the Slayer was another thing entirely. It was created for one purpose only. To kill. As was Ophelia of course but she was capable of restraint, who knows what kind of temperament the beast had. Oh but he had wanted to see it. It had taken him so long to pluck up the courage to ask her as it seemed such an intimate request. How do you ask someone to show you their soul? Their true self?

The Slayer offered her claw inviting him in, keeping very still, careful not to spook her prey he supposed. Beady, black, soulless eyes stared as he took her blade sharp claw and it watched him intently as he marvelled at its form. He ran his palm over her rough skin and stroked her spurs, drawing back his hand with a quiet gasp when the needle sharp growth pierced his skin. The impressive jaws clacked together and it whined, almost as if it were concerned. “Just a scratch,” he said, relieved that at least some part of her was at the helm. It tilted its head and leaned down to look at his wound. The “scratch” was dripping blood all over the stone floor. Its nostrils twitched alarmingly and before he could react, out shot its long sinuous tongue. Ophelia licked up the blood gently, laving the wound as she chittered and clicked, worrying over the gash like a mother hen with its chick.

Gortash was astounded and a little bit turned on - if he were honest. As he watched her tend to his hurt he reached out and lovingly touched her face. “Lia…I…” Suddenly the door opened with a loud creak and the telltale clanging of Ketherics armour announced the Chosen of Myrkul's presence. “What have I just walked in on?” He questioned, his face a picture of confusion and disgust with a little bit of embarrassment thrown in. They both stared at him in shock, as if they had been caught doing something that they shouldn’t. “It’s not what it looks like,” Gortash blurted, surreptitiously trying to conceal his tented trousers.

The Slayers gaze could have burned Gortash into ashes instead she growled in annoyance and padded off to her room where she transformed back into her Tiefling body and threw herself on the dusty old bed and sobbed her dried up little heart out. For reasons she didn't quite understand.

[look-a-yandere-fandom-blog]

Ophelia's Flowers.

Dr. Stockill / Gender Neutral Reader

Fandom: The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls.

No Spoilers.

_________________________________

Ambiguous yan - can be read as platonic or romantic.

_________________________________

Content Warning: Reader is gender neutral but is ‘feminine’ in appearance/attire; detailed as having long hair and wearing a dress.

Please proceed with caution if such descriptions may make you uncomfortable/dysphoric.

(If there’s anything else I need to add please let me know.)

_________________________________

“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance.”

Thin herbal leaves speckled by soft purple flowers join the wreath that lies upon your head.

“Pray you, love, remember.”

The doctor’s thin lips echo the immortal words of Shakespeare, whispered under his breath. The office is eerily silent and it let you hear every syllable.

“And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts…”

Indigo and yellow petals are laid in your hair. Tucked amongst the braids woven with a tenderness unfound in this damned building.

“There’s fennel for you, and columbines.”

The Ophelia Gallery has returned. One of the asylum’s yearly ventures: a show for the masses, or perhaps a warning to all the women who are just one misstep away from being thrown in to it. Locked away for some pitifully small offence.

“There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me.”

The little yellow specks on thin green stalks are added to the adornment. Stockill’s fingertips are wrapped around the stem; placing it carefully behind your ear.

“We may call it 'herb of grace' o' Sundays.”

Dr Stockill’s spindly fingertips curl around another stem, snapping it with the swiftness of a guillotine. He slides it into his waistcoat pocket, beside the stem of wilting violets.

“- Oh, you must wear your rue with a difference.”

A pair of nails presses into the skin under your chin, while the fingers they belong to tilt your head slowly. Dark eyes scan over his work; an artist searching for a spot on his canvas to add another stroke of colour.

"There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets,"

At the mention of those flowers, your gaze darts down to the wilting purple flowers in his waistcoat.

"But they withered all when my siste-"

Your eyes flick up; meeting his abyssal stare.

He pauses, before calmly correcting himself. The alteration smooth enough for the mistake to be ignored. Yet, it did not escape your notice.

"But they withered all when my father died."

He concludes his speaking as The Mad Ophelia, the illusion of her visage shedding from his voice. In her place, the true persona of The Callous Doctor Stockill.

With the silence of the room restored, you stand from your chair, assuming that this is your cue to leave. To join your fellow inmates outside in the crude display of the Ophelia Gallery.

But you barely take a few strides before you hear-

"I did not grant you permission to leave." The doctor's stern voice cloaks the sound of your footsteps.

In an instant, you stop in your tracks. You do not have the courage to turn around; do not have the courage to meet his eyes again.

As your nervous hands twirl and twist the overgrown strands of hair on your head, one of the flowers falls to the floor. Despite its weightlessness, the thud of it hitting the wooden planks is agonising.

Internally, you curse yourself. The cursing turns to anxiety. Anxiety to panic.

Racing thoughts worsen with every step the doctor takes towards you. Until he is directly behind you. His shadow blanketing your form.

"You will not be going out there." Stockill states calmly, while his spider-like manoeuvres return the fallen flower to its rightful place.

"Why not..?" The question leaves your lips before you can think to stop it.

There is a second of stillness.

"You are in no position to ask." The doctor replies firmly. He is the superintendent of this Asylum. He does not need to justify himself to a mere patient.

But soon, he takes a breath, admission bubbling in his throat. He wishes to confess with the fervour of a sinner to a priest. The words like a river battering against a breaking dam.

"Those people out there... the weak, depraved, people of this city... they do not deserve to look upon this."

The doctor divulges, his voice is quieter than you have ever heard it. His hands place themselves upon your shoulders, slowly turning you to face him. He is puzzled by his own wish to admit this all... but he does not have the will to stop himself.

"The women would be disconcerted and disgusted by you, while the men would care only for what lay beneath your robes." He continues as the light of the room hits your skin and illuminates his work.

His expression twitches ever so slightly, in what seems to be anger. Or maybe disgust? You wonder whether that look is directed at you, the people he was describing, or himself.

"And so, you will stay here." The doctor announces, his normal volume flaring up like a violent breeze. It nearly makes you jump.

"Here?" you repeat.

"Here. In my office. Or perhaps my laboratory should I need to venture down there." Stockill clarifies, a touch of irritation is his typically vacuous tone.

"Am I understood?"

The man's question is hardly that: a question. Instead, it is an extension of his command. A rhetorical statement, demanding compliance.

And, with a small nod in response, you comply.

The doctor's hands loosen their hold on your shoulders. You hadn't realised how harshly his nails were biting into your skin; forming dents in the fabric of your dress.

"Good." Dr. Stockill comments coldly. Yet, somehow, there's a touch of approval laced within.

After taking a final glance over your features; the ghostly white dress that hangs over your figure; and the flowers laden in your hair; he lets go. The creaking noise of wooden floorboards resounds as he leaves your side.

"Now, I have to fetch some supplies from elsewhere. Necessities for my work. I will be back shortly." He informs as he straightens the cuffs on his shirt. Stockill's earlier anger and disgust are replaced by an eerie calm, like vines covering a building; hiding it away, as though it had never existed in the first place.

The hinges cry with a mouse-ish squeak as the door opens, the doctor disappearing into the asylum's labyrinth of corridors.

He leaves the door unlocked.

It lay ajar. The latch not clicked into place. A move too foolish to be made by the precise and meticulous physician.

It leaves you with one conclusion: this is a test.

The door taunts you. Tugs on your sleeves. Nags you to leave... Urges you to run from this room, to the company and sanctuary of the other inmates, far from the constricting grasp of the doctor's web...

But, despite your fear, you remain.

You sit back down upon your chair.

You adjust the petals he laid in your hair.

And you listen to the muffled sounds of the Ophelia Gallery outside.

As you wait for him to return.

Just as the doctor knew you would.

_________________________________

[theodorearsene]

Jeremy Strong, 45, cisgender male, he/him ; ] … the photo on the missing poster is of THEODORE ARSÈNE. they are FORTY, and have been missing for ONE MONTH. when the sun rises, they work as a PSYCHIATRIST/HUNTER. rumors in town say they can be WOUNDED and RESILIENT. they chose to live in THE CHURCH, and have an uncanny resemblance to Ivan Fyodorovich Karamazov (The Brothers Karamazov), The Narrator (Fight Club) and Silas (Da Vinci Code). Can they survive another night ?…⸻ a worn out Holy Bible in the bedside of a seedy motel, a bouquet of throned roses, a pack of Lucky Strikes, crisp linens, fresh bergamot, and a well loved stuffed rabbit.

threads - visage - playlist - moodboards - guidelines

Name: Theodore S. Arsène

Alias: Theo, Teddy

Gender/Pronouns: male, he/him

Age: 40

Birthdate: 02/25

Big Three: Pisces, Sagittarius, Sagittarius

Occupation: Psychiatrist/Hunter

Height: 5'10"

Hometown: REDACTED, WI → Chicago, IL

Family: Samuel Grace (biological father), Asa Walker (father Asa), David Havemeyer (father David), Hester Grace (mother), Ruth Grace (mother), Ophelia Arsène (sister), Zipporah Grace (sister), Esther Grace (sister), Miriam Grace (sister), Eden Grace (sister), Michael Grace (brother), Aaron Grace (brother), Elijah Grace (brother), Barnabas Grace (brother), Jethro Grace (brother), Seth Grace (brother), Eresh Lenore Arsène (niece).

Friends: Ophelia Arsène

Relationship Status: single

Sexuality: heterosexual (glass closeted bisexual)

Other Relationships:

Character Inspiration: Schmidt - New Girl, Ivan Fyodorovich Karamazov (The Brothers Karamazov), The Narrator (Fight Club) and Silas (Da Vinci Code), Morty Smith (Rick & Morty), Kenneth the Page - 30Rock.

Personality Type: ISFJ

The Family's Five Truth's (for Men)

Sacred Duty - Accept your castration willingly as a symbol of the ultimate sacrifice for your divine purpose.

Trust in Father - Father Samuel’s word is the Truth and you must never question his teachings lest you fall victim to the wretchedness of the World.

Defend Family Honor - Protect the Family at any and all costs from any evil influences, ensuring the legacy is upheld

Provide and Serve - Work tirelessly to sustain the family physically and spiritually.

Sacrifice your Desires - Renounce any personal pleasure, desire or ambition for the greater good of the Family.

The Family's Five Truth's (for women)

Obey Authority- Follow the Leaders without question.

Purity Above All - Guard your body and mind from worldly possessions.

Silent Submission - Speak only when spoken to; silence is a virtue.

Family is God's Will - Marry young, bear children, and serve your family's role.

Faith over Doubt - Never question the teachings; unwavering belief ensures salvation.

Biography

TW: physical & mental abuse, castration, religious cult and all that entails, homophobia, kidnapping

Protect and Serve. A familiar term for people in the armed services, and for everyone born into the Family. Especially the boys, as it was their duty. And poor Theodore, he had to be a Grace boy. Born at around one in the morning; screaming. Perhaps he was brought into the world with an innate knowing of what his fate was, where his bloodline lay. Theo was born into, what they called, the Family. A group of like-minded individuals who lived together in a communal setting. They had for centuries. It wasn’t easy growing up on the compound. Children were taught to be quiet, to keep their heads down and their hands busy. Everything the way it should be; for the Greater Good. Step too far out of line and be punished. These punishments varied in severity and manner but cruel all the same. 

"She keeps beating the children and they are all crying. She is teaching Lida to sing 'My Village,' the boy to dance, Polenka the same. She is tearing up all the clothes, and making them little caps like actors; she means to carry a tin basin and make it tinkle, instead of music.... She won't listen to anything.... Imagine the state of things! It's beyond anything!" - Marmeladov (Crime and Punishment).

Theo was good at this. Keeping his head down and working. Never questioning the rules laid out before him. In his youngest, most tender years – he was nearly forgotten. You wouldn’t hear a peep from little Theo. He had a keen eye already and quickly took notice of what to do to be favored in the eyes of Father. Brown Noser, Suck Up. It didn’t matter; he did what he had to in order to survive. These brown nosing activities did nothing to spare him from the extreme pathologies of the Elders. It was already set in stone. They had already reached their capacity for men, and even being Samuel’s son couldn’t save him from that. 

The day it happened, it changed something inside of him. Something as visceral, as painful, as wretched as that – you could never make it out and be the same person as before. He was twelve. It was the single worst act of betrayal he has experienced, even to this day. Suddenly, Theo was doing everything he wasn’t supposed to do. He was thinking for himself, asking himself; Why? Why would God want this to happen to me? My parents? The people who are supposed to love me?’. He felt like a well run dry, and he was starting to see where it was planted – the sky was barren and it would be some time before the rain came. He started plotting how he was going to leave but for two years he allowed himself to be brow beat into questioning his own thoughts. The Hallmark of the Grace Fathers. By the time he was 15, he could hardly take it. The way he saw his sister’s used as cattle, ones branded and beat. His brothers, indoctrinated into submission. At night, he tossed and turned; haunted by the cries of his brothers and sisters. The only people in the world who understood, only people who actually loved. Oh god, it was unbearable! He was fevered, sweaty palms and sweaty sheets. 

By 16, he found refuge in a boy who lived in the nearest town. Needy and begging for some hope to cling to, he falls in love. Hopeless and messy. Sloppy, even - which is why one of his other brother’s spotted him kissing the other. Of course, he immediately ran to tell all the Mothers and Fathers. The thing’s Theo suffered from in retaliation of this ‘act of defiance to God’ are purely put, unspeakable. A ‘Purification Ritual’. So unspeakable that he gathered all of the things he could that night and fled. As far as his tired legs could take him. To a county road. His thumb pointed upwards, bloody and weak. A hotel general manager passing through took pity on him and agreed to take him wherever she was going. Perhaps the largest act of kindness he had experienced so far, besides the siblings that helped him with his escape. Theo didn’t know where he was going to go and it didn’t really matter to him. 

Chicago, that’s where she was headed. Some kind of conference. She couldn’t help him out besides that. She had dropped him off at the hospital, figuring he needed some kind of assistance. Outside this looming building is where he met Dr. Lemoine, an old curmudgeon who also took pity on this poor thing. 

You see, this Dr. Lemoine had also suffered a similar fate as a young boy. A result of illness rather than evil but the sting feels the same. A man fated to have no sons, and a son fated to have no father. Like Sherlock and Watson, they were quite the pair. Dr. Lemoine taught him everything he knew about psychiatry. He groomed him into an excellent Psychiatrist, enrolling him into advanced classes (once he had caught up of course), private tutors and everything he needed to thrive. Theo took to this very quickly, eager to soak up all of the knowledge he could. Ignorance tasting too bitter on his tongue after being forced into it his entire life. He thrived here, able to empathize with other people. Their pains, their fears. He could psychoanalyze someone in give minutes flat. 

He was still in his residency when Ophelia came to live with him. Theo rented an okay for Chicago one bedroom. Usually just enough for him, but he would take the couch for her. Anything to give his sister the best, she didn’t need to suffer anymore than she had. He got by working odd jobs; usually wait staff. He could always lean on his interim father for monetary help but he didn’t like to do this. Theo strove to not put any more burden onto the kind man he affectionately calls Dad.

Everything was looking up. He was about to receive his license to practice, his sister was by his side and doing better than ever, not a single penny out of place. Until the wretched night that she was ripped away from their new life, undoubtedly ratted out by another sibling. All the way in Chicago, their gangstalking had no limits. 

For the first time in his life, he felt pure hatred. He wanted to kill his father, everyone who had lead to this. Theo fixated on this for years, trying to figure out how to get her back without being drug back there by his fingernails too. So naturally, when he got word that Ophelia was once more escaped, safe in Arcadia; his feet moved before he did and he ran to her. The only time in his life he ran and knew where he was going. Theo fled with conviction, not even sleeping until he reached the Theatre. 

Headcannons/Additional Information

Theodore tends to play 'psychiatric detective’ any time he meets someone new. He knows it’s a bit uncouth but sometimes he really can’t help himself. 

He loves to paint; relishing in being able to express himself fully and in any way that gives him respite. He doesn’t really show these to anyone. 

Theo is a hunter but he’s new to the game and kind of terrible at it. He hates guns, violence and anything of that sort but he feels a moral obligation to do this in order to take care of his sister. He’s trying his best and getting better every day.

He has a dry, almost dark sense of humor. Sardonically witty. It might not be humorous to all, but to those that get him and his absurdities – he’ll view them as kindred spirits. 

He’s very sentimental and keeps with him at all time’s a book of poetry and a keychain that was given to him by Doctor Lemoine. 

Theodore is prone to isolating himself as a coping mechanism. He believes it’s safer to be alone than having to open up to anyone. 

Oddly, he has a very competitive spirit and loves intellectual pursuit. Chess? Yes, please. Debate? Yes. He hates to lose but doesn’t care once it’s all said and done. Perhaps it’s more the barbs and the game than winning – but while the games on, it’s game on for Theo. 

He’s secretly a hopeless romantic, the last person you would expect. Behind his closed-off exterior, he yearns for someone to understand him. He’s highly unlikely to react to this or do anything about it – fearing that he’ll never be accepted. His favorite thing to read is Franz Kafka’s Letters to Milena.

He has a weird relationship with religion and faith. I don't really know how to properly articulate it - simply put, it's complicated. He tries to practice an assortment of religions, hoping to find himself or perhaps find answers.

Theo also has a weird relationship with physical intimacy, his castration has created a lot of mental barriers for him.

He’s a bit compulsive in more ways than one, always meticulous and perfectly organized. He’s recognized he does this as a means for control over his life.

Despite his hardships, he's still a very kind man who's a bit goofy, trying to make light of every bad situation.

Wanted Connections

Wild card friends - someone who brings him out of his shell and teaches him how to embrace life.

Friends - despite being quite destitute he does crave friends and companionship.

Exes or casual relationships - can be male or female, but keep in mind this repressed boy is still in the closet, in denial of his feelings, traumatised by his confusing upbringing.

Ex love from when he was 16 - this would have to be a boy and someone who lived near the religious group.

Patients or colleagues - he’s empathetic and rational, the best listener he knows. He can help lend a hand without shame or judgement.

Other members of the queer community to help him embrace who he is - he has a lot of trouble with his sexuality, being raised to believe that he was wrong for his attractions to other males. Being around others who are authentically themselves might help him out of his shell too.

[chosenoneofdusk]

[Coffee ] - More specifically, a mocha brewed with Almyran coffee beans and Dagdan chocolate and served with hot milk. A sweeter variation of the drink taking Fódlan by storm. 

Andrei had been told that 'coffee' is meant to be a bitter drink, its main purpose lying in its ability to keep a drinker's energy up.

(This all reminds him a little too much of the S Drink nonsense Leif had touted...)

As such, he's pleasantly surprised to find that there is a rich, sweet undertone to the taste, one that hadn't been in the descriptions he'd heard. Perhaps it had been specially modified for the festivities of tonight...

Another figure approaches the refreshments table, and Andrei looks up from his drink, noting the glint of a teardrop crystal upon her black gown.

"Nearly everything offered here is somewhat sweet to the taste, in case that is not to your liking," he says. Between the sweeter blends of tea and this coffee, not to mention the syrups added to the sparkling water, it's possible the monastery believed that such drinks would go over better with the student population. Andrei is secretly pleased by this, but does not mention it.

"Unless, of course, that suits your tastes?"

A new voice rings out to Ophelia as she approaches the refreshment table in between dances. Looking up, she sees a blond man some distance away sipping on a drink. She would wonder what drink he was partaking in, but he is speaking again before she can even think to.

"I would much rather sweet to bitter tastes. Victory is a sweet after all, and defeat is a taste most bitter!"

She takes a moment to observe the other, noticing a glint of crystal upon his visage as well. She had wondered what all these various brooches had meant, if there was to be any meaning to be had at all, and why they were all so coveted to be traded.

In all her father's letters, brooches had never once made an appearance. Perhaps they were too recent an addition to the culture of the monastery? Or perhaps temporary? However, she had heard good things came to those who collected all the various types. It wouldn't hurt to attract good fortune. Perhaps this interaction was all part of Fate's grander plan for her?

Approaching, she pulls a crystal from her brooch, as sad as it makes her to see it lose its full splendor. "Here, to good fortune for us both. Now, may I ask whatever it is are you drinking? Is it sweet as the sweetest of victories as well?"

[walkswastes]

        Gomorrah was always a fun stop on The Strip. There was always something or someone new to enjoy.  Plus, it didn’t have a lot of uppity pretenses a lot of the other casinos had in New Vegas. Careful eyes scanned around; for someone to catch her interest. It was then her eyes settled on a rather interestingly dressed ghoul. There was always something fascinating about an old-fashioned cowboy.

         “Well, howdy there partner,” Ophelia sauntered over to him. Smile played on naturally pink lips. She looked like one of those old-fashioned pin-ups, especially in her Pre-War dress that’s only moderately singed. Blonde hair done in fashionably curls. What stood out against her kempt visage was the rather prominent scar on the side of her forehead from a gunshot wound. “Haven’t seen ya’ ‘round these parts before. Can I buy ya’ a drink?”'

☢ ╼  PROMISED STARTER! | @bucketofdrugs