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astra-galaxie · 6 months ago

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✨🎹 🎯🥊✂️🧊 💚🧠✏️💎 for zebra-i mean, aslan, please? :)

When I first compared Aslan’s hair to zebra stripes, I never thought it would become a running joke for him! Sorry, Aslan!😅

Now, onto the questions!🦁♌🦓

✨- How did you come up with the OC’s name?

I wanted Aslan to have a lion-themed name, given that his code name is Leo, after the lion Zodiac. I have been a long-time fan of The Chronicles of Narnia, and people who are familiar with it probably know that one of the main characters is a lion named Aslan. I planned to use this name regardless of its meaning since I associate it with that lion, so it was fitting to find out that “Aslan” means lion in Turkish! (Bonus points for that being half of his nationality!)

🎹 - Do they have any hobbies?

A few, the main one being drag. JP Delacroix introduced Aslan to it, and the two used to perform together. Unfortunately, Aslan didn’t have as much free time as JP, so he couldn’t perform as often. But he loves being on stage, dressing up like a Queen, and having fun with his best friend whenever he can.

🎯 -What do they do best?

Argue. Aslan didn’t become Ambassador of Earth and later a GIA Director without having a flair for arguing! He knows how to attack his opponents with his words and keep them guessing his next move. He’s rarely lost an argument, and everyone wants him on their side during a debate!

(Aslan also knows how to use his words to get what he wants… It comes in handy a lot, especially with his husband~)

🥊 -What do they love to do? What do they hate to do?

Love: Shopping. Aslan is a bit of a shopaholic, but he tries not to buy things unnecessarily. He goes through his things every few months and sells or donates what he doesn't use. Likewise, he loves thrifting for hidden gems, and when they’re together, Aslan and JP can spend hours visiting various stores.

Hate: Paperwork. Aslan HATES filling out and signing paperwork, and as a Director, he has a lot of it! He’d rather turn them into paper airplanes and send them flying around his office… But he’ll never do it, at least not using any important paperwork!

✂️ - What is one of your OC’s worst memories?

Basically, every memory involving his ex-boyfriend. At first, the relationship seemed perfect, especially since they were friends before they started dating, and everyone always told them they made a great couple. But things slowly turned into a living nightmare for Aslan as his boyfriend became more controlling and abusive. Eventually, it reached a breaking point after he assaulted Aslan, and everyone learned about how horrible Aslan’s boyfriend was. His ex-boyfriend went to prison for what he did to Aslan, but he’s since gotten out of jail and is now free. Aslan lives in constant fear that his ex will come after him, and he’s learned how to hide his fears to prevent worrying others.

🧊 - Is their current design the first one?

Yes. While I did have other designs for Star’s fathers, I consider those different OCs who never made it into the story. For Aslan and Heimdall, their current designs are their first, with the exception of their clothes changing for new seasons and special occasions. I’m thinking of giving him a design change in the future, but for now, the zebra-hair is here to stay!

💚 - What is your OC’s gender identity and sexuality?

Aslan is bisexual with a preference for men. As for gender, I initially just said “cis male,” but now I’ve realized he’s more genderqueer. I, unfortunately, don’t have a more specific gender identity. Aslan uses he/him pronouns, but he loves wearing “feminine” clothes like dresses and skirts as much, if not more, than when he wears “masculine” clothes.

(I should go update his profile…)

🧠 - What do you like most about the OC?

His personality. You know how some people say their characters take on minds of their own? Well, that’s Aslan! When I first created him, the intention was for him to be serious and stoic with a secret playful side… That clearly flipped on me when I wasn’t looking! While Aslan can be serious when necessary (though others claim he can’t be serious to save his life), he somehow turned into a chaotic, loudmouth, pain in the butt (who let Vuk write that?) lion-themed man I came to love WAY more than his first design!

✏️ - How often do you draw/write about the OC?

Not at all since starting MotP. But Aslan will return in S5, so I’ll get to write about this chaotic man again one day! I don’t know how often he’ll appear, but I would like him to make cameos every once in a while.

💎 - Do you ever see yourself killing off the OC?

Yes, or at the very least, possibly. I don’t know if I could make myself go through with killing Aslan, but that doesn't mean I don’t have alternative plans to torture him…😈

I have to say, Aslan is one of my favourite recurring OCs! I just love this guy so much! I wish he could appear more often, but I should be able to have him show up more in S5! Plus, I have some big things planned for him that will probably make you want to kill me, but nothing you say will change my mind! These evil deeds are set in stone!😈

Sorry, not sorry! (And thanks for the request!)😇

#criminal case #astra's ocs #my ocs #aslan sadik-halvorsen #ask

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mjonthetrack · 13 days ago

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the queen’s choice

Chapter 151: The Thread and the Thorns

Alastair’s muscles burned from sparring, sweat stinging his eyes, but his mind was somewhere else—twisting, turning, tangled in whispers and codes. He had barely noticed the stable boy approach, a shadow slipping through the courtyard like a ghost. The boy stopped beside him, silent except for the faint scrape of fabric against leather as he pressed a folded cloth into Alastair’s palm and disappeared before the prince could speak.

Back in his chambers, door bolted, Alastair unfolded the cloth slowly, eyes darting over the fine black thread that spelled out a message: “The thread sees the lion, but the violet is blind.”

He frowned. The “lion” was him—pride, strength, the heir apparent. The “violet” had to be Amélie, the French Dauphine, the woman wrapped in mystery and danger. Blind? Or pretending to be?

A second note fell from the folds, written in quick, sharp handwriting:

“The pigs are fed tonight. The violet sharpens its thorns for it.”

The words hit like a blow. Pigs.

Literal pigs.

The stable boy wasn’t just a courier. This was a message about blood and betrayal.

And then Madame Delacroix’s voice echoed in his mind—the seamstress who spun more than silk in her little shop. The woman who held secrets deeper than the palace vaults.

She had tested him before, gauging what he knew. Now the message was clear—Amélie’s plan was brutal and merciless: Benedict, his own brother—the “number twelve” in their shadowy game—was to be sacrificed. Fed to the pigs, disposed of like refuse.

Alastair’s jaw clenched tight as fury roared beneath his skin. His brother, the traitor, was marked for death tonight. And Amélie, the violet, was the one pulling the strings, sharpening her thorns for the kill.

His heart twisted—not just from betrayal, but something darker: the weight of power, the cost of crown and love tangled in the same ruthless web.

He crumpled the cloth in his fist, eyes blazing with fierce determination.

Tonight would change everything.

Chapter 152: The True Thread

Alastair stood by the window, staring out but seeing nothing but the tangled web of betrayal tightening around his family. The crumpled piece of cloth lay on his desk, a silent reminder of the whispered warning from Madame Delacroix.

“The pigs are fed tonight. The violet sharpens its thorns.”

At first, the meaning seemed cryptic. But then the pieces fell into place like a deadly puzzle revealing its true picture.

Benedict.

His own brother.

Not just a traitor, but a puppet—a willing tool for the false king, Louis of France.

The realization hit harder than any sword. Benedict wasn’t merely betraying England’s crown; he was conspiring to kill them—Alastair, his family, his blood—in a ruthless quest for the throne.

He was Louis’s eyes and ears, a poison coursing through their court.

Alastair clenched his jaw. The anger bubbled up—not for Benedict’s death, but for his ambition, his treason, and his readiness to slaughter his own blood for power.

Of course the violet wants him gone.

Amélie wasn’t some naive pawn. She was a queen in the making, ruthless and precise.

Benedict’s death wasn’t just a political move; it was survival.

Alastair’s voice was low, steady, but laced with steel. “He’s not just an enemy. He’s a threat to everything we are—everything I am.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, mind racing. Benedict was the key ally to the French king, the “good pair” in the enemy’s game.

And Amélie—the violet—had planned to cut that key off, to feed him to the pigs and end the poison at its root.

It was harsh. It was brutal. But it made sense.

Alastair felt a cold respect rise for the woman who’d stolen his heart and showed no mercy when it came to survival.

Benedict was dead to their cause.

And that made this war real.

Chapter 153: New Waters

The chamber was dim, firelight licking the carved mantle, but Alastair felt a coldness ripple through him. The cloth lay where he had tossed it, crumpled and forgotten for a moment that had stretched too long.

But now?

Now, everything locked into place.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. He just stared.

The silence was loud, the air too still.

"New waters."

He'd heard that phrase muttered once in the kitchens. Again by the garden wall. Then whispered near the servants’ entrance as if it were wind.

It hadn’t meant anything then—just another fragment of code in the chaos she had woven.

But now it screamed.

New waters.

Not English shores.

Not a plot confined to this court.

Not some revenge play over his mother’s public puppeteering.

Alastair’s heart stuttered.

She wasn’t building a crown here.

She never had been.

The pigs, the false king, the network—every whispered code wasn’t an act of rebellion within England. It was the scaffolding for something larger. Bolder.

She was French.

The French Violet.

Not a bride-to-be.

Not a queen-consort.

A sovereign.

He heard her voice like a ghost, one from weeks ago, velvet and sharp:

“They will not see me as a doll again.”

And another:

“I do not perform for crowns I do not wear.”

His knees gave slightly, enough that he caught the edge of the table to brace himself. His knuckles went white.

The crown she sought wasn’t Charlotte’s.

It was Louis’s.

She wasn’t escaping from her brother.

She was circling him.

Cross the waters. Feed the pigs. The violet grows hungry.

It wasn’t just Benedict she meant to dispose of. He had only been the bridge, the last loyal thread of Louis’ influence in England. The final eye watching her.

But now?

Now that eye was set to close.

And once it did—Amélie de Valois would leave this chessboard entirely.

To finish what she'd started.

To cross into France.

To slit her brother’s throat and take the crown.

A chill crawled down Alastair’s spine like a prophecy.

He looked around the chamber, really looked—for the first time since she'd left—and realized just how hollow everything had become without her.

He loved her. God help him, he loved her.

But now he saw her.

Not the woman the Queen had brought for him.

Not the duchess with clever eyes and sharper words.

But the storm.

The warbringer.

The exile who had not fled for shelter but for silence. For planning.

His voice cracked into the silence. “You were never going to stay.”

The fire crackled like it agreed.

She didn’t want to be the English Queen.

She wanted her own throne, soaked in history and blood, her name etched above it all.

And she would kill for it.

She already had.

He could feel it now, the tide rolling toward them, salt and smoke.

The French Violet wasn’t meant for gardens.

She was going home to reclaim the whole damn forest.

Chapter 154: The Thread Is Already Knotted

The bell above the seamstress shop gave a cheerful jingle as Alastair threw open the door, breath ragged, his coat still unfastened, curls damp from sweat and urgency.

Madame Delacroix didn’t even flinch.

She was behind the counter, a deep plum bolt of silk unfurling between her fingers like spilled wine. When she finally looked up, it was with the same exact serenity she wore when fitting hems for debutantes or stitching gloves for duchesses.

He stalked toward her like a man possessed.

His voice cracked—half whisper, half fire.

“The violet will cross the waters… and feed on the false king.”

Delacroix didn’t blink.

She tilted her head with the slowest raise of her brow, the corners of her mouth twitching into something that almostlooked impressed. She made a sound in the back of her throat—a quiet, smug hum.

“Took you long enough.”

The words hit like a slap. Not cruel—just true.

Alastair’s jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides.

“You knew. You’ve known. You’ve all known.”

Delacroix finally stopped her work, delicately smoothing the silk before resting both hands on the table like a priestess at her altar.

“Of course. The thread has been knotted in place for months now. The pattern's already cut. You think we’d let the future of our country be decided by foreign tea parties and royal whims?”

He stared at her, chest rising and falling like a man standing at the edge of a cliff and watching everything below him burn.

“She won’t stay,” he said hoarsely. “She won’t turn back.”

Delacroix gave a small, slow nod. Her voice was soft now, almost pitying.

“She was never meant to.”

Alastair took a half-step forward, something broken behind his eyes.

“She loved me.”

That stopped her for a moment. Not fully. But enough for her to lift her eyes and meet his.

“She did.” A pause. “Perhaps still does. But love is not the throne she seeks, Your Majesty. And you are not the war she’s been preparing to win.”

He swallowed hard. That ache, sharp and dry, bloomed in his throat. His mother’s machinations. His brother’s betrayal. And Amélie—Amélie slipping from his grasp like sand through fingers, not because she hated him… but because she loved something more.

Justice.

Reclamation.

Vengeance.

“And if I follow?” he asked, voice barely audible. “If I go after her?”

Madame Delacroix’s lips parted just slightly in that elegant, devastating smile.

“Then you better be ready to bleed for her. Because she won’t stop—not until the false king is on his knees and France bows to its true Queen. She is the Violet. And France has waited long enough to bloom again.”

Alastair didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

The silence between them said what words couldn’t.

He turned, coat flaring as he stepped back into the sunlit street—London golden and unknowing around him.

Because the war wasn’t coming.

It was already underway.

Chapter 155: Solo in the Shadows

Alastair stood at the window of his chambers, the London skyline stretching out—golden spires, smoky chimneys, and the winding Thames glittering like a serpent in the afternoon sun.

No one knew what he’d learned. No one suspected the war brewing inside the castle walls.

He clenched his jaw and whispered to no one but himself, “I’m not warning anyone. Not the Queen. Not the court. This—this is my battle.”

The weight of the crown was heavy enough without dragging his mother’s schemes into the mess.

He was done being a pawn.

Done being the prince on display.

Tonight, he would move like a shadow.

His plan was a quiet one.

Start small—follow Benedict’s steps, eavesdrop on coded whispers, and gather scraps of truth like a hungry wolf.

He grabbed a folded note from the table, ink scrawled in Delacroix’s unmistakable hand:

“The violet sharpens her thorns. Be ready.”

His lips curled into a bitter smile.

Ready.

He paced the room, mind racing.

No allies. No armies. Just him.

A crown prince disguised as a ghost in his own kingdom.

Alastair was no longer the boy who dreamed of weddings and courtly kisses.

He was a hunter.

And the game was his to win or lose.

As dusk bled into night, he pulled on his cloak and vanished into the labyrinth of London streets.

The silent war had begun.

Chapter 156: The Violet’s Mark

The night air was thick with silence, broken only by the faint drip of water from the eaves. Alastair moved carefully, each step measured, heart a steady drum in his chest. He wasn’t hunting to fight; he was hunting to understand.

Turning into a moonlit courtyard, his breath hitched.

There she was.

Not a shadow, not a whisper, but her — Amélie.

She stood tall and still, the longbow in her hands stained dark.

Before her lay Benedict, sprawled and silent, the life gone from his eyes.

An arrow, sharp and cruel, buried deep in his chest — the emblem of English justice twisted into a weapon of bitter irony.

Amélie’s gaze never flickered toward him. Her voice was calm, detached, almost clinical.

“Number twelve… severed from the false king,” she said softly, eyes fixed on the fallen.

Alastair’s breath caught in his throat. The weight of her words settled around him like a shroud.

He couldn’t retreat into shadows, could no longer prowl like a starved lion. His violet had stepped from the dark — ruthless, unyielding, undeniable.

For a long moment, he just watched, stunned, as the woman who’d been a mystery, a weapon, and something more stood in the moonlight, the hunt complete.

Chapter 157: The Last Chance of a Lion

He didn’t move at first.

Alastair watched from behind the columns, the marble cool against his back as the scene unfolded with the precision of a dance she had long choreographed. Not one breath wasted. Not one step out of rhythm.

Amélie lifted a hand — two fingers, quick and clean — and from the darker stretch of the courtyard, a small unit emerged like ink leaking into water. Not palace guards. Not anyone from the Queen’s fold. These were hers.

One woman in navy bent down by Benedict, retrieving the arrow with gloved hands, wiping it clean with a cloth that disappeared into her coat.

Another took the longbow delicately from Amélie’s fingers, folding it into a wrapped bundle and vanishing into the shadows.

Then came the three.

Broad-shouldered, silent, efficient. They moved like wolves, lifting Benedict’s body without reverence. Alastair watched one of them murmur, voice low like prayer.

“Number twelve to the pigs.”

Not a metaphor. Not code. A destination.

His spine chilled, but he still didn’t move. Couldn’t.

And Amélie? She had already turned her back.

Her stride was steady, unrushed, like she hadn’t just erased a prince from the line of succession. Like this was just another knot to cinch, another piece cleared from the board.

She mounted the black horse with practiced ease, curls pinned like a crown, a single red ribbon tied at her throat — that same blood-colored string she wore when she wanted to be feared, not loved.

Alastair’s lungs finally remembered their purpose.

This was it.

His only chance.

If he let her ride off into the night, she wouldn’t be caught again. Not by spies, not by soldiers — and certainly not by him. She had unspooled herself from the palace, from the whispers, from him.

He broke from the shadows, boots cracking the gravel underfoot as he called out.

“Amélie!”

She paused.

The horse shifted beneath her, restless. But she didn’t turn. Not yet.

“Don’t leave,” he said, breath catching. “Don’t leave without hearing me.”

She turned just her head, chin tilted slightly down. Her eyes were the calm after a battlefield — no tears, no pity, just the eerie quiet of someone who had accepted what she must be.

“You watched,” she said coolly, voice carrying. “And yet you did not stop me.”

“I understand now,” he said, stepping closer. “You weren’t feeding the pigs for revenge. You were severing the link to him. To the false king.”

Her mouth twitched at the edge, not quite a smile.

“And if I was?” she asked, fingers curling tighter around the reins.

“Then you did what I should’ve,” he said, chest rising. “And I won’t make the mistake of standing back again.”

She studied him then. For real. Her gaze swept across his face, down his chest, past his clenched fists.

“You’re not my shadow, Alastair,” she said gently. “You’re the crown’s lion. This… is no longer your hunt.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it’s still my violet.”

She blinked, once.

Then she gave the horse a small nudge, and it turned. She began to ride — not at full gallop, but steady, and unrelenting.

And Alastair?

He ran after her.

Not to stop her — but to follow.

Because if this was her war, he’d rather be a sword at her side than a jewel on a throne.

Chapter 158: The Violet Has Fed

Alastair’s horse thundered across the darkening road, hooves striking the cobblestone like a heartbeat pounding in his ears.

She was fast — too fast.

But so was he.

Wind ripped at his coat, the moonlight splitting through the trees as he followed the single streak of movement ahead: her.

Amélie didn’t look back. Not once. Not when she passed the gardens, not when she cut across the town square, and not when she reached the crooked-lantern alley where the seamstress shop stood like a quiet sentinel in the dark.

By the time he caught up, she was already inside.

Her cloak fluttered as she moved through the entrance like a whisper, birds already peeling from the shadows in response to her return. Not startled. Not confused.

Prepared.

Madame Delacroix appeared from behind a curtain, dark curls coiled tightly, her hands dusted with thread and wax, and nodded once to her.

Amélie barely glanced behind her. If she noticed Alastair, she gave no sign.

With the weight of command braided in her very spine, she lifted a hand and said smoothly, “No worry if the lion flocks. The hunt is done. We move to waters come morning.”

The birds — her girls, her watchers, her soldiers — nodded with eerie calm.

Some vanished upstairs. Others melted back into trapdoors, paneling, behind dresses and fabric bolts that were no doubt more steel than silk.

She was already descending.

Alastair stood frozen in the center of the shop, chest still rising hard from the chase, but it was the stairs that caught him. Hidden in the shadows beneath a worktable. She hadn’t conjured them — they’d always been there. Every time he’d come here. Every time he thought he was getting close.

She’d been just below.

A thread beneath the seams.

He followed. Slowly now. Reverently.

The cellar was deep, wider than any backroom should have been, and it pulsed with the hush of low conversation and the glow of candlelight. Maps. Scrolls. Letters. Weapons. Shelves lined with flasks, bottles, and code-marked books. It was not a hiding place — it was a command center.

And in its heart: her.

She stood tall, dusted with shadows and purpose, her night-black cloak barely moving as the air shifted.

She lifted her voice, clear and cold as steel:

“The violet has fed. The waters call come morning. Gather the birds — it’s time to come to the docks.”

There was no cheer. No applause.

Only silence and movement. Immediate, practiced movement.

She was not celebrating. She was mobilizing.

And Alastair, who stood just a few paces behind her now, felt it in his very bones — the vastness of her reach, the brilliance of her subterfuge, and the weight of what she was about to do.

She hadn’t just declared war.

She’d already started it.

And the kingdom he’d been raised to protect? It had never been her home.

She was moving across the waters — not to flee.

To claim.

And Alastair? For the first time in his life, he didn’t know if he was a prince chasing a woman… or a lion trespassing in a queen’s den.

Chapter 159: The Waters Call

It was two in the morning when the walls of Amélie’s hidden war room began to breathe.

Alastair hadn't slept. Hadn't dared.

He’d stayed in the shadowed arch near the cellar entrance, his body still, his mind spinning, watching as her empire — not a metaphorical one, but real and pulsing — dismantled itself with the kind of precision only possible through years of premeditation.

Maps fed into fire.

Documents vanished under gloved hands.

Ink flasks smashed, leaving black puddles like spilled blood.

Even the boards they'd once charted with pins and ciphers were taken apart plank by plank.

She wasn’t leaving anything behind. No trace. No web. Not a thread.

This wasn’t the end of something.

It was the closing of a chapter written in ash — and the start of a new one inked in war.

And then she moved.

Alastair followed the shift like a storm cloud trailing lightning.

She was already cloaked, her curls pinned back, a satchel over her shoulder, and Madame Delacroix was beside her, dressed in deep crimson riding gear, calm and stone-faced. Her usual dressmaker’s charm was gone — what stood beside Amélie now was a lieutenant.

Or maybe more.

They stepped out of the cellar and into the clearing behind the shop.

That was when Alastair froze.

Because it wasn’t just them.

The woods had bloomed with people. Hundreds.

Maybe four hundred.

All of them silent. Not a whisper. Not a rustle out of place.

They moved like one creature — unified and steady. Alastair's eyes scanned the growing mass, stunned by what they revealed. Footmen from the palace. Seamstresses and printers. Bakers he’d seen since he was a boy. Some of the Queen’s own perfume women. And even, to his amazement, a scattering of the Ton — high-society lords and ladies tucked into riding gear, stripped of titles and dripping in resolve.

Rich. Poor. Common. Elite.

They were all hers.

She hadn’t just built a rebellion. She had created a following.

A nation within a nation.

And they were leaving.

Alastair didn’t waste a second. He threw his leg over his horse’s saddle, the beast already sensing his urgency, and took off after her. He didn’t call her name. Didn't dare break the silence. He just rode.

Amélie was at the front, high on her stallion, not sparing a glance back, not to Delacroix, not to the sea of people moving with her, not even to the man she once loved. Her face was set like stone — not cold, just unshakable.

Queenly.

They cut through the forest like ghosts. No torches. No wheels. Just the rhythmic, muffled thud of hooves on damp soil.

No one made a sound. Not even the children.

She planned for children.

That realization hit Alastair like a second slap.

This wasn’t an exile.

This was an exodus.

After nearly an hour of hard riding, the trees opened and the night peeled back into sea air — the docks.

And it wasn’t a rowboat or a merchant ship waiting for them.

It was a vessel. Massive, double-masted, carved with foreign insignia. Clean. Armed. Ready.

And at its foot stood two generals.

One of them Alastair recognized from war council briefings years ago — a French loyalist who had openly opposed Louis’s reign, long thought dead or imprisoned. The other wore English colors — discreetly, subtly — but unmistakably, with the posture of a man who had once bowed to Alastair’s mother.

He had chosen this side now.

Amélie dismounted.

Still, she didn’t look behind her.

She merely walked up the long ramp and onto the ship like she’d done it a thousand times. Delacroix followed. Then her birds. Then the rest — in rows, in pairs, in quiet formation.

The Violet had fed.

Now she would cross the waters.

And Alastair? He gripped the reins, unmoving, watching her back as it disappeared onto the vessel. His mind screamed to act — say something, do something, grab her, beg her, stop her — but his soul? His soul knelt in reverence.

Because she wasn’t running.

She was rising.

And he didn’t know yet if he was chasing after her to follow…

Or to face her.

#aaron pierre x black!oc #aaron pierre fanfic #bridgerton au #bridgerton fanfiction #romance #x black oc #mature fic

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