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[la-petitmortss]

Olivia Cooke as Alicent Hightower New trailer for Season 2 | HOUSE OF THE DRAGON

[la-petitmortss]

𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓸𝓷𝓼 — send 💭 + a topic to receive a headcanon about said topic.

[la-petitmortss]

She’s being dramatic, Lottie’s plotted this out to every conceivable outcome – and she knows she will be absolutely fine. But there’s still a tiny part of her that wonders, as she presses send on the final text, if he would have actually risked it all to reach her as she stumbles into the arms of the Commissioner, helpless victim poisoned at her own hand. She blows it off, naturally, but allows the increasingly paler man to escort her to her ride. She swallows the antidote as soon as she’s home, but by this point it will only prevent further damage tomorrow – tonight’s suffering the price of safety.

Ansel shows up sooner than she’s hoped, and Lottie ignores the slight thrill of power she seemingly holds over him – it soon fades behind the headache. She’s too pale opening the door, dark eyes even wider and wilder than normal set against the sudden gauntness of her face. The gauzy, ethereal dress abandoned in favor of an overlarge, almost threadbare men’s oxford, Lottie picks at the remnants of someone else’s initials sewn into the cuff instead of meeting Ansel’s eyes.

“Calm down, I’m fine,” hollow bravado – they both know it's a lie. “This was always the plan, and I took the antidote so I will be golden in the morning.” She looks up at him with an unconvincing smile, hand quickly reaching out to steady herself on the door frame. “See, totally fine.”

Starter for: Ansel and @la-petitmortss

When: March 2024

Where: Post-Liddell Hippodrome

[A Lott to handle 🩰🗡️✨] : are you still here? if so do not come to me, no matter what happens

Ansel felt his phone buzz, then hits a red light a decent ways from the venue, so he feels comfortable enough to pause for a second, and check it. Unfortunately, as soon as he reads the words he knows he's going to have to find Lottie or he'll never let himself forget it. [ansel] : im someones getaway drver wtf is goin on [ansel] : dont make me turn this car around

[A Lott to handle 🩰🗡️✨] : don't you fucking dare [A Lott to handle 🩰🗡️✨] : i'll be fine [A Lott to handle 🩰🗡️✨] : they have their outs and i have mine. i know how much i can handle, im a professional and this was the plan

Oh fuck off. Speeding comes with the territory a little bit, but he's not necessarily proud of how quickly he gets the other JRs back to where he'd agreed to subtly drop them off before peeling off back to whichever of Lottie's fuckin houses is closest to the hippodrome because if she's being this dramatic it Had to have just been a matter of convenience.

The lights are on when he gets there at least, which is promising. [ansel] : im outside wtf did you do

[la-petitmortss]

Send 📱 to see how my muse has yours in their phone!

rpmemesyo:

May include: contact picture, name, a sample of texts, anything the mun wishes to include!

[la-petitmortss]

Lottie knows full well the Rabbit Hole is deep within JW territory, knows and can’t bring herself to particularly care. She’s Charlotte Astor, darling of the London social scene and beloved prima, so recently waylaid by some tragic infirmity that struck the Liddell racetrack. And maybe it's more than that – maybe it's that golden something, beauty and wealth and status oft mistaken for divinity, that’s always give her a delusion of immortality. Or she plays with death so often now it no longer matters.

Lottie sweeps into the cocktail bar in a flurry of motion, heels clicking on the marble floors as she laughs, spotting Edgar in the back corner. “Hello darling,” she kisses him lightly in greeting, slipping into the corner booth next to him. “You know," Lottie teases, "you aren’t playing bouncer or boxer now, we can sit at a better table, not hide in the back so you can scan the room instead of paying attention to more important things, namely – me.”

who: charlotte, @la-petitmortss where: the rabbit hole

The cocktail bar was one that Edgar frequented. At this point, he was almost sure that they had an open tab for him or his name written on some sort of frequent patron list. He could imagine it now: Edgar Yang, black card, accompanied with a photo of him.

Without waiting for instructions, Edgar made his way to a table in the back. There weren’t very many people around but still, a creature of habit and precision, he gravitated to his usual – a table situated in a corner that was in the perfect position to view the exits. This was his way: positioning himself so that he could catalogue every person who entered or exited the premises.

“2012 Bordeaux,” Edgar ordered, one finger raised to catch the eye of one of the waitresses. As she approached, Edgar flashed a smile in her direction. “The Fortier label, please.”  He’d never seen her before, which meant that she had to be a recent hire. “And I’m expecting a guest. Would you be so kind as to point her in this direction when she arrives?”

[la-petitmortss]

OLIVIA COOKE as ALICENT HIGHTOWER — 1.07 | "Driftmark"

[la-petitmortss]

send INJURED for a scene from my muse's past in which they sustained a significant injury

“Again,” he sounds almost bored. Lottie knows her mentor, knows him better than she knows almost anyone else in her life, and Arthur’s boredom is dangerous. She huffs, shaking out her limbs and anxiously brushing back a few wayward curls. Another breath, and she throws the knife with her right hand, again.

Miss.

“Fuck!” Her shout echoes across the cavernous training space he’s built under his estate outside of London. He sets his glass down and stands, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with almost deliberate ease. Something like fear spikes through her chest, but she adores him too much to ever name it so.

She’s nineteen and burning so bright. At the Royal Ballet they call her the next big thing, a mesmerizing stage presence that draws the eye, even buried deep within the corps. So charismatic and expressive even in the smallest moments – Lottie should be back in London preparing. She could be relishing in adoration, already a slut for attention so young. Really – with her talent and name and beauty, she should be anywhere else.

But instead she’s shivering slightly, unsure if it's from the intensity of his gaze or the perpetual chill of this space, even in the deepest summer. He towers over her, hand cupping the side of her face and runs a callused thumb gently across her cheekbone.

“I expected better of you, Charlie,” her face grows hot, those wide and wild eyes that will never lose this touch of sadness become glassy. “You have until morning to get it right, or I will be forced to find some other way of motivating you.” His threats always sound like silk, and Arthur kisses her forehead lightly before leaving the room.

Hours later and she’s shaking – with fear or rage or exhaustion, she can’t say. At the very least, she does not scream when he breaks her left hand.

[la-petitmortss]

“Motion Sickness” by Phoebe Bridgers

[la-petitmortss]

It’s still early, and Lottie is already bored of horses and gambling and pretending to laugh at the same shitty jokes from the same men always vying for her attention. She loves attention, don’t get it wrong, but not when she’s waiting for a job. Patience isn’t particularly her strong suit, fingers tapping staccato against a cut crystal glass.

“And they call me a snob,” Lottie murmurs, attention shifting at the familiar voice of the boss. But here she’s playing a very different role, as he knows, and so she smirks as she takes in his whole attire, crown and all. “I’m a Stravinsky girl myself, although Prokofiev should top for Romeo and Juliet alone,” Lottie takes a sip of her drink, a brief respite from the drumming of her nails. “Two more races, or sooner depending on the outcomes.”

— an open starter during the liddell horse race

Play the part. He'd been doing such since he was a young man. Taken on some many roles at this point he should get one of those prestigious American acting awards, but then again, he'd be just as likely to bite the head off the little gold man statue and break it down to something that he could liquidate. He never kept much in his hands, less to lose. Even now, his costume for this event was rather grotesque, a line walked between art and being classic.

His mask covered only one half of his face, one eye looking very in tact, while the rest of the mask gave the impression that his face was little else than bone and degrading skin. It was all elegantly done — the illusions made with fine fabrics and ivory that begged the question on what sort of bone it came from. On his head, a crown made from what were clearly antlers of a deer and covered haphazardly with some metallic formula here and there, and holes drilled into them within the bare pieces that gave him a distinctly dazzling and slightly petrifying aesthetic to anyone who looked too closely. The crown was his own personal joke. Hell, this whole thing was his own personal joke to a degree, if you considered him capable of such.

He had a glass of what people thought to be champagne in his hand, overhearing someone say that the composition playing was Mozart, he said quietly, "It's Beethoven. Not Mozart. Beethoven." It was a profoundly sad piece that made Elias wonder why they'd play it at a party, but still the quartet was a thing of beauty. "Was always fond of the strings and a piano, and few men have composed finer pieces. I prefer him to Mozart." He listened for a beat more. "How long, do we think, until the DJ decides to put on some pop like this crowd knows what a TikTok is?"

[la-petitmortss]

GLIMPSES OF THE PAST: a headcanon / prompt collection because sometimes it's not enough to write about your muse's past and how it affects them, you just gotta write a little scene. these prompts are designed to be a little writing prompt related to your character's past, essentially!

send FORGED for a scene from my muse's past that they think made them stronger in the long run

send REMINDED for a scene from my muse's past in which they encountered something that reminded them of a difficult experience / trauma

send CONFESSED for a scene from my muse's past in which they revealed a secret about themselves to someone

send TRICKED for a scene from my muse's past in which they misled, tricked, or lied to someone

send IMPRESSED for a scene from my muse's past in which they tried to impress someone, successfully or not

send ACHIEVED for a scene from my muse's past in which they completed / achieved something they were proud of

send CHANGED for a scene from my muse's past that represented a turning point in their life

send DIFFERENT for a scene from my muse's past that they feel changed their outlook / personality / etc, for the better or worse

send CRITICAL for a scene from my muse's past in which they thought about / were reminded of something they're insecure about

send SCOLDED for a scene from my muse's past in which someone told them off, justifiably or not

send STRAINED for a scene from my muse's past in which they interact with someone they have a difficult relationship with

send SOBBED for a scene from my muse's past in which they broke down in tears

send LOST for a scene from my muse's past in which they felt lost, literally or figuratively

send BLINDSIDED for a scene from my muse's past in which they were betrayed or shocked by what someone did

send INJURED for a scene from my muse's past in which they sustained a significant injury

send AFRAID for a scene from my muse's past in which they were scared / under threat

send HELPED for a scene from my muse's past in which someone helped / saved them

send CAUGHT for a scene from my muse's past in which they were caught doing something they shouldn't

send BLUSHED for a scene from my muse's past in which they received a compliment that really got to them

send VICIOUS for a scene from my muse's past in which someone said something cruel that really got to them

send SWOONED for a scene from my muse's past in which they were infatuated with someone

send PINNED for a scene from my muse's past in which they were stuck somewhere, literally or figuratively

send GRIEVED for a scene from my muse's past in which they had recently lost someone / something

send MORTAL for a scene from my muse's past in which they had a brush with death, either themselves or someone close to them

[la-petitmortss]

The night slips into something different, an electric, anxious energy teetering right on panic. It's as if the guests can sense, subconsciously, just how many predators walk among them. Lottie thrives, drifting through the crowd in her gossamer gown, halfway between faerie and phantom. He stands mask-less, serious and exposed and, if Lottie is half as good at reading people as she thinks she is, panicking. Perfect.

“Of course, Commissioner,” Lottie soothes, a wicked, enticing spark in her eyes. “I suppose we can pretend these do not exist?” She hands him one of the flutes she’s carrying with a sly smile. It’s almost too easy.  “Cheers”  

Where: The Liddell Hippodrome When: In the evening Who: Samuel and Charlotte (@la-petitmortss

He didn't drink. He didn't drink, he didn't drink, he especially didn't need to drink tonight, here and with everything that had been going on. It was under control, unless it wasn't, but he had to make sure it was because he couldn't afford for things not to be. He had received looks all afternoon, well into the evening - the MET Commissioner, exposed, maskless, recognizable and currently resisting the urge to sneak another shot where he didn't think anyone would be scrutinising him.

Except everyone was, all the time.

There had been the offer for him to leave for a while, to take maybe just an hour or two break before returning to it because everyone who worked with him knew that he either couldn't or wouldn't leave this godforsaken hippodrome unless he was forced out. Too many variables. Too much coincidence piling up. He couldn't leave, he wasn't going to leave.

With a deft motion, Samuel turned away from the bulk of the population and downed his champagne glass at once. "If you saw that, you either didn't or it's my first one, I swear." It had been a long day.

[la-petitmortss]

OLIVIA COOKE Press play | Soho House

[la-petitmortss]

where: hippodrome when: pre-race who: lottie and @caffeinatedcounsel

He’s easy enough to spot in this crowd, due to both his height and the tattoos revealed by rolled up sleeves. Max’s babysitter, and perhaps the man with some influence on Viktor – gathering information isn’t particularly her job, but the opportunity is too amusing to let pass. Lottie smirks and makes her way casually through the crowd, snagging two glasses of champagne from a passing server.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” her smile is all playful charm as she hands him the second flute. The bit of tulle across her eyes does little to hide her face, her dress covering even less of her body – wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen her in some varying state of undress, though usually with Max. “Charlotte Astor, but my friends call me Lottie. Not off chasing Max or one of his siblings today?”

[la-petitmortss]

Charlotte Astor attends the annual Liddell Horse Race and masked party ( mask is giving marie antoinette 2006 vibes but in a matching tulle to the dress )

[la-petitmortss]

Photos of American Ballet Theatre’s Courtney Lavine by Joanne Pio for The Style Line

[la-petitmortss]

He responds so easy and so well to her manipulation, it's Lottie’s very favorite part of whatever this is between them. Her fingers in his hair, the slightest tug to tease and distract before the real pain of her driving her fingers into his side. Lottie laughs cruelly, stepping back and looking at the blood on her hand. “Selfish? How rude to say about the person who is sewing you up? I’m sure you’ll find some way to make it up to me. And I would have noticed because I’m attached to my duvet.”

“Since you got stabbed,” Lottie quips, washing her hands before digging through the contents of the first aid kit. She laughs again at his outburst and continues cleaning. “When was the last time you got a tetanus shot? That would be a really disappointing way to die, embarrassing actually.” She finds the closures and steps back closer to him, leaning against his legs as she got to work. “Stay still, please. If I take my shirt off you’ll get distracted and then distract me and that’s not helpful.”

“Fuck you, of course I have a bed frame. I have fuckin standards-” Ansel grumbled, mostly to himself because it’s not like Lottie’s listening to him anyway, not now when she’s already telling him how dumb he is for focusing on her and missing the joke.

But he is, he’s watching her every move with a mix of fear and awe and a complicated knot of other thoughts he can’t quite name. He melts, soft and formless between the hard planes of the wall and her body, easily pushed and pulled into whatever shape would please her most with his head tilted back and away to open up his neck to her. Ansel has to fight down a quiet whine at the words whispered into his neck, trying to remember who and what he is. Whatever this is, he refuses to lose. “No, I just thought you’d be to se-” he cuts himself off with a deep guttural sound at her fingers in his wound. It’s half like he was punched in the gut and half a moan, then he made the mistake of looking down at the red of his blood on her fingers from the wound she reopened. “- Selfish and desperate for me to care.”

Ansel rolls his eyes, but follows her orders without thinking. “Since when do you give the orders?” He snaps, already pushing himself up onto the table and taking a swig from the bottle as soon as it’s back in his hands. He sighs, not quite rising to the fight when his head is already buzzing from her touch and the pain. “It… it is and it really isn’t. But the technique is basically- ah, Fuck, Lottie- basically the fuckin same..” then he’s staring, and catches himself staring and looks away. He takes another long drink and hisses quietly through his teeth. “Aw cmon, you’re gonna make me strip and then not even taker your shirt off? That’s just not fair princess…”

[la-petitmortss]

“Hmm, good point,” she shrugs, then winces – the slight movement tugging at her wound. “Seems like more work than you’re worth.” It’s definitely not a good idea to antagonize the person who’s likely about to stitch up her side, but Lottie’s always a crueler after a job. Something about taking a life brings out her edges, those places where whatever good might have been was torn away and the rough margins never quite smoothed out.

Something in the way he looks at her sends a chill down her spine. Lottie swallows once, twice – then takes a deep breath. “I have spent years of my life perfecting this body, thank you, and I will not have careless, sloppy stitching ruin my hard work, so if you don’t mind.” She hisses out slowly at the touch of the alcohol swab against her skin.

“I’m fine, focus please.”  

"Do you honestly think cutting someone in pieces can be fun?" He had seen the insides of many things, both dead and breathing and fun was not the adjective he would have used. Fascinating seemed more accurate. Mesmerizing. It was quite interesting, this difference in term of perspective they had here.

Javier's eyes stray toward her wound, with a flicker, as though he is about to reach out and poke at her injury, push a finger in, probe every single nerve he can reach. He smiles. He wants her to know he doesn't have her best interests at heart and to hold onto that thought.

"We wouldn't want to ruin beach days, would we?" He pauses, and goes to wash his hands. "If I can stitch up a horse, your little stab wound should be a walk in the park," his smile grows. He turns to look at her belly, and the urge to dig into the wound returns. How mundane is that.

"You try to think of something relaxing." First he cleans her up, slowly brushing gauze against the clean cut. That's an easy thing to sew up. A straight line. Great for a beginner.