cakeparty02

[cakeparty02]

The Guthrie: The Ones Who Will Not Die Pt.2

TW: dysfuntional family dynamics/ neglectful parents/ just be aware that this might've dark themes!!!

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Overview

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No one knew when or where the Guthries came from, but no one questioned it. After all, everyone knew of them. Of course they did. They were the kind of family that made people turn their heads just by entering a room. They looked as if they’d stepped out of a painting—too striking, too still, too perfect.

Their appearances were split like night and day, some were pale as moonlight, with hair as white as bone and eyes as blank as a canvas. Others were cloaked in the midnight hue of raven hair, their eyes deep and dark as voids. Together, they seemed touched by something beyond the ordinary—almost otherworldly.

They were perfect.

Or at least to others…

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The Muses

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Victoria Guthrie:

Victoria Guthrie was the fourth born- the third daughter, Yet the first to be adored, not just her parents but everyone. Where the others were forged from resistance, she was molded into perfection — the kind of girl who stepped into a room and was immediately beloved.

She was the village’s jewel.

Their beloved darling.

The ideal woman.

It was as if sun itself rose for her. She lit every room she stepped into, with platinum hair, like finest silk to be tailored, that could cause even the most prestige royalty's wish for, and eyes that shimmered with gentle pride, but no one knew what laid behind those coloured contacts. The villagers called her perfect, and she smiled politely in return.

But even the sun hold on to so much.

She didn't mind following every rule. Wearing every dress, they asked her. Played her cello in velvet salons and noble courts like a dutiful daughter in a painting.

She was elegance shaped into armor.

She knew how to fire an arrow, to draw a sword, to dance, to play music, to survive in a world that only wanted her to smile.

The only problem was the longing glances she exchanged towards women she would pass, she knew it was wrong.

She tried to stop.

She really did.

But she found herself flinching from hands of those who would’ve longed to hold.

So she stayed golden. silent. beloved.

She never disagreed — not out loud.

Not when so many eyes watched her every move.

Not when it was easier to be the perfect the doting daughter than the real one.

She fought for justice, yes,

but never when it would cost her the love of the crowd.

Because to be adored was its own kind of power.

And power, in this family, was a shield you never lowered.

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Estella Guthrie:

Estella Guthrie was the fifth born, and from the beginning, she understood the world far too well. Her calm stare unnerved those who didn’t know better.

To the outside world, she was quiet brilliance and sharp glances.

She did not rage like Charlotte.

She did not bend like Irene.

She simply endured — untouched, unreadable, unshaken — always watching, always calculating.

She never stood alone, and never needed to.

So long as Edwin was at her side, the world could turn and she would not flinch.

But unlike him, Estella was silence made flesh.

She had little to say and required even less.

Out of all the Guthries, she was the hardest to pin down — for no one truly knew where her loyalties lay.

She did not care for legacy.

She did not shoulder the weight of their bloodline.

She did not crave her parents' affection.

She did not ask for understanding — she found it all irrelevant.

If the Guthries were a kingdom of masks and myths, Estella was the strategist behind the curtain — the one pulling invisible strings. A puppeteer, some murmured. A white piece on a black square — deliberate, patient, impossible to predict.

She never raised her voice.

She never wasted her breath.

She simply existed like tension in a room — a soft hum of presence, a harp string plucked in warning.

Duty, she respected.

Family, she tolerated.

Edwin, she protected.

The rest?

Let it burn.

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Edwin Guthrie:

Edwin Guthrie was the sixth-born — the twin with the louder voice, the wicked grin, the spark in the powder room.

Most assumed he’d be the complete opposite of Estella, and on the surface, that might’ve seemed true.

After all, he wasn’t quiet. He wasn’t calm.

He was the fire someone swore was just smoke — the gambit everyone laughed at until they lost too.

Where Estella was composed precision, Edwin was controlled chaos — too clever by half, too charming for his own good, and always exactly where he shouldn’t be.

He laughed at the wrong time, said the wrong thing on purpose just to irritate someone, then walked away with a smile like he’d done nothing at all.

If Estella played the long game, Edwin played it upside down — all the pieces mixed, the rules rewritten.

He didn’t need to be taken seriously — that was the trick.

Because no one watches the jester until it’s too late.

He was the kind of sibling who poked the bear just to see it roar, who whispered rumors into already crowded rooms just to watch them unfold.

Some called him impulsive. Loud. An attention-seeker.

And he agreed.

But at least he didn’t follow rules blindly, considering that rules were for people who trusted power.

And Edwin knew exactly who held it, and how rotten it was.

He claimed he hated the family dinners. But he never missed a single one.

He was a storm in laughter’s clothing.

And only Estella ever knew when he was serious.

Because behind the teasing, behind the games, was someone who remembered every cruelty. Every rule.

Every time one of his siblings was forced to bow instead of speak.

If he couldn’t fix them —

he’d become the source of their humiliation.

Their unraveling.

And if the family was a fragile glass house,

Edwin was the first to bring rocks.

[cakeparty02]

Asking the Eldest Guthries if they would love you if you were a worm

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Reader: Would you still love me if I was a worm?

Irene: Out of all the invertebrates you could've picked, you decide upon a worm?... But I consider it, if it makes you feel better.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Reader: Would you still love me if I was a worm?

Charlotte: no.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Reader: Would you still love me if I was a worm?

Frederick: Mon cher!!! I would buy you the most, jaw-dropping enclosure your little worm heart would desire. With the finest compost from all the land, and I would write sonnets about your elongated soft body. I’d sing to you every morning! You’d be the most beloved worm in history.

[cakeparty02]

The Guthrie: The Ones Who Will Not Die Pt.1

TW: dysfuntional family dynamics/ neglectful parents/ just be aware that this might've dark themes!!!

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Overview

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

No one knew when or where the Guthries came from, but no one questioned it. After all, everyone knew of them. Of course they did. They were the kind of family that made people turn their heads just by entering a room. They looked as if they’d stepped out of a painting—too striking, too still, too perfect.

Their appearances were split like night and day, some were pale as moonlight, with hair as white as bone and eyes as blank as a canvas. Others were cloaked in the midnight hue of raven hair, their eyes deep and dark as voids. Together, they seemed touched by something beyond the ordinary—almost otherworldly.

They were perfect.

Or at least to others…

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

The Muses

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

· · ──────────── · ·

Irene 11 Guthrie:

Irene II Guthrie was the first born. She was the earth, the nurturing planet, that just gave and gave to everyone until she had nothing left. The mother of her sibling; the backbone of her family. The cold winter breeze that passes whenever you miss the summer sun.

She was perfect.

She HAD to be perfect.

But she wasn’t a son.

She was the perfect mix of both parents, having long pitch black hair with hunting white eyes that held no sign of colour behind them. The way she spoke was as beautiful and enchanting as the way she played the violin.She didn’t rebel. She didn’t speak up. She didn’t dream. She was a puppet carved for her parents pleasure.

Her wants didn’t matter.

Her needs didn’t exist.

Family came first.

Always.

Where others burned or broke, Irene stayed still. Unmoving. Unshakable. She was firmly rooted, a fixed point in their world. That not even the strongest of winds could move her. The one they all returned to. The one who never got to leave. The one firmly rooted where others could find her.

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Charlotte Guthrie:

Charlotte Guthrie was born second in line, after failing to conceive a heir at their first time they tried again. Every sigh suggested a son would come, but they got her instead. For the longest time, she did try. Tried to be what they wished for. Tried to obey all instructions given to them.

Tried to be good enough.

But the good words never poured in, and in the end, she ceased all attempts. It didn’t break them. Instead it lit something in her, a raging fury that couldn't be controlled. Compared to Irene, they were a raging typhoon, never calm; never reachable unless you wish to get burned. Without fail, she did everything they told her not to do.

Went to the market unaccompanied.

Raised her voice when it was socially inappropriate.

Spoke truth into spaces that sought to silence her.

Where Irene was the serene chill of winter, Charlotte was the hurricane capable of ripping windows off their hinges. Unlike her sister, Charlotte was the carbon copy of their father. Short raven like hair, void like eyes, and a deadly glare. Emotions poured into her, wild and uncontrolled yet undeniably raw.

Not soft. Not silent.

But impossible to ignore.

Since being of age, she no longer accompanied the family on outings. They didn't bother to fit in, after all, solitude was a far enjoyable company than the people who were always present. She passed the time by playing the piano or by playing chess with the only person they found tolerable, Estella

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Frederick 11 Guthrie:

Frederick II Guthrie came third in the family but was the first son. The long awaited heir, and for better or worse, this fact changed everything.

He became the golden child.

The prodigal son that parents dreamed for. The child who put the family name back into business. The man who whenever smiled, caused people to swoon.

If Irene was mother nature and Charlotte was a hurricane, Frederick was warm and gentle, a sunray breaking through a prism — stunning, radiant, and hard to look away from.

He smiled, and people listened.

He spoke, and rooms leaned in.

He was charm wrapped in silk, laughter ringing from balconies, the center of every conversation and the favorite of every stranger.