Develv (сестры DevaIluvatar и Elveo)

Анон · 2015-07-03 12:51:43

А меня бесит юзер, который осел на заброшенном сообществе и стал постоянно там постить свои рисунки. Раньше было годное сообщество, где писали про актера в основном. Теперь выкладывают рисунки деффачкоф с яйками, а даже и без яек, выдавая типа за мужиков. Зацените:
http://bagoas-in-love.diary.ru/
У анона рука не поднимается отписаться, вдруг снова будут про актера постить.

*по 2103 стр.

▼ЛИЧНОЕ ДЕЛО⬍

▼ДЕВОМЕМЫ⬍

Анунахи, аннонаки. В треде прижился благодаря монструозному фиклу Бздевы "Аннунаки" и пародийным фикам анонов.

Асексаул - асексуал с девиной грамотностью.

Баклань. Эльва сама причислила себя к туркам и балканцам, анон принесший высер назвал ее туркой и бакланкой, а потом и Баклань появилось. https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 3#p2132503

Баклажан. Девобатя. Пошло от его собственной многомудрой кортинощки с цытаткой https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 1#p2603661

Белое вино/испить белого вина - сперма/сделать минет. Из фика Девы "Аннунаки", в котором Александр "пьёт белое вино" Багоаса.

Бешеный бабуин - типаж мужчины мечты Эльвы. Стереотипный, агрессивный джигит с балшим кынжал, режущий глотки всем кто не так посмотрел.
Бугогас - от "Багоас". В исполнении Девы это нелепейшее существо, которое вызывает смех. Или фейспалм.

Я не гой. Ненавижу и презираю.
Гитрер, Сталин и Полпот.
Кострация.
Мемчики авторства самой Девы, были принесены из ее днявки еще в самом начале треда, потом Дева окуклилась и только два года спустя раскуклилась и анон внес содержимое ее днявки вместе со скринами
https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 0#p3356780
https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 7#p3356797

Гомодиды, гомодидятня, гомодинастия, гомоберложка, близуны, полировать бананы, невступление в секс, перейти/не перейти ЧЕРТУ - мемы порожденные совместным фичком Девы и Криски "Тайна близнецов Декарт", который пишется уже полтора года и родился из порноролевочки Девы и ее соавторши. Волосатый член, каждый яичко и растараненная попка - из прочих фиков их соавторства.

Груди-арбузы и жопы-дирижабли (дирижопли). От самой Девы https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 5#p1134765

Гомогусары. Создано аноном, как реакция на толпу абсолютно одинаковых персонажей Эльвы типажа "усатый гусар с ирокезом трахает девочку мальчика"

Девопризма - особо целомудренный и чистый взгляд Девы, превращающий персонажей в переломанных, жопастых уродов внешне и редкостных свиноебов внутренне, и перерождающий больноублюдочные отношения в виликую любовь.

Деревня Гомосеково/Колхоз Гомосеково. Пошло от Эльвиных йумарных фанфиков про Мехмедо-Раду и Грозный-Басманов в колхозных реалиях.

Духовное стояло. Мем авторства 48-го, порожденный во время очередного выпляса в защиту Пихмедки https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 4#p2653174

Дева не барышня. Из девиного бомбалейо о том, что она не возмущается, когда ее называют барышней, так и трансы МтФ не Лорды расстраиваться, что она считает их мужчинами https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pid=766563#p766563

Ебля в фонтанах - из фанфика Девы, в котором Александр Македонский и Багоас 20 дней подряд "предавались любовь в садах и фонтанах под смущенными взглядами случайных свидетелей". Также есть арт с соответвующим содержанием.

Заебанные сердца. От Эльвиного эпопейного фикла "Завоеванные сердца", которое заебало своей тупостью всех чтецов.

Золотые трусы или написьник. Униформа Багоаса. Дева возмущалась, что Багоаса рисуют в набедренной порядке, хотя сама рисовала точно так же.

ЗОПРЕЩЕНО - из фика анона об амазонке Калено. Высмеивает манию Девы Багоаса запрещать в фичках мясо, выпивку и все, что ей ему не нравится.

Иггдрасилье. Пошло из девиного фичка "За гранью Иггдрасилья".

И они сели пить чай с конфетами. - к девиному комиксу о стродающем-ебущемся тройничке Багоас-Александр-Гефестион. Дева всегда говорит, что пишет/рисует высокую драму, но всегда скатывается в дочки-матери. https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 4#p2421104

Кросивое - у дев все кросивое, особенно ошибки, которыми их писанина кишит, как лисья шуба блохами.

Кебаб моего сердца. Попугай сердца в устах, саз лица и арфа шеи. Из дословных подстрочных "переводов" Эльвы с османского.

Молодой бог - из фика Девы "Иггдрасилье", в котором Локи всегда все делал лучше всех и как молодой бог.

Нет чистоты во взгляде, Противные бабы с дряблой кожей - Дева обсирала фотографии обычных иранских женщин. https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 2#p1972112

Не бабы, а мужчины! Приписка Девы под каждым ее артом, на котором изображена широкобедрая грудастая куколка с ололоконами и томным взглядом из-под метровых ресниц. https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 5#p2091675

Охуевнух. Очевидно, охуенный евнух, то есть такой, от которого все охуевают. В исполнении Девы - с волосами до пят, сиськами 3 размера, смоки айз, в пищевой плёнке и с двумя сундуками дорогобогатых украшений.

Пихмед, Сраду- Мехмед и Раду из эпопеи Эльвы. Родилось как реакция на маниакальное стремление эльвиного Мехмеда пихать свое духовное стояло во все, что движется и на инфантильного эгоиста Раду.

Полутюрка. От самой Эльвы https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 6#p2081336

Мемы, родившиеся вне треда, но прижившиеся:

Гей-радар. С помощью него сабжи безошибочно определяют, что всегеи. Использовано верной хомячихой Лизкой при обсуждении фильма "Коловрат" https://holywarsoo.net/viewtopic.php?pi … 5#p2871145

Гетеронормативность, гетеропропаганда, гетерасы, гетерофобия, евнухофобия. Ответ дев на любую критику.

Дгуг, какисторик, какпереводчик и производные перекочевали из треда Галуасты, когда видамчик подсасывался к девам.

Ололоконы - родилось в треде ролевиков, прижилось к девиным куколкам как родное.

Червепидор
В этом треде оно пришлось очень в тему, так как Дева любит рисовать своих пидоров в виде каких-то белесых червей, да и по характеру хуже их трудно найти. Изначально копипаста:
https://lurkmore.to/Копипаста:Червь-пидор

▼ГЛАВНЫЕ ПЛЯСКИ, СРАЧИ И ПЕРЕОПЫЛЕНИЯ⬍

▼ЗОЛОТОЙ ФОНД ЦИТАТ⬍

▼ХОЛИВАРКА ОБРАЗОВАТЕЛЬНАЯ⬍

▼АНОНСКОЕ ТВОРЧЕСТВО⬍

▼ЧИТЕНИЯ⬍

▼My Only One. Части 1-31⬍

▼Part 1⬍

▼Part 2⬍

▼Part 3⬍

▼Part 4. The last night⬍

▼Part 5. Separation⬍

▼Part 6. The struggle⬍

▼Part 7. Life goes on⬍

▼Part 8. Without you⬍

▼Part 9. Stigma⬍

▼Part 10. Battle buddies⬍

▼Part 11. To be with you⬍

▼Part 12. I've found you⬍

▼Part 13. What happened to us?⬍

▼Part 14. Discipline⬍

▼Part 15. I remember⬍

▼Part 16. Next-door neighbors⬍

▼Part 17. It's been a long time⬍

▼Part 18. It's YOU⬍

▼Part 19. Protector⬍

▼Part 20. Like a man⬍

▼Part 21. Sacrifice⬍

▼Part 22. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot⬍

▼Part 23. Flower boy⬍

▼Part 24. Love hurts⬍

▼Part 25. The kiss of life⬍

▼Part 26. In the office⬍

▼Part 27. I'm fine⬍

▼Part 28. Have mercy⬍

▼Part 29. Against the wall⬍

▼Part 30. Out of my league (flashbacks)⬍

▼Бонус порисулька⬍

▼Part 31. Kiss-me kill-me⬍

Помни сам, и расскажи другому, Анон: лучшая тактика против 48-го - игнор!
Маскот треда: https://i.imgur.com/tWFwehW.png

Анон · 2025-07-09 21:27:18

Анон пишет:

Анон пишет:
▼бимбо багоас⬍
Ereya - the god-medium, he's connecting people with gods, besides he is the god of air. Beautiful, powerful and androgynous. My original character from a fantasy story.
The first sketch of this artwork was started in 2020, but the character itself was created in 2012.

https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1942619 … 15505?s=19
А где розоволосый, как его там? Рыцарь в стальном лифчике

Сколько Дева ни трындит, про андрогинов, все равно никогда не понимаю, а андро то, блять, там где? Видишь суслика, а он есть.

Анон · 2025-07-09 22:10:09

Корейскому гомиксу исполнилось 4 года

△ humanlouvre@humanlouvreart·20 мин
My Only One. 4 years ❤️🩹

▼Скрытый текст⬍

Анон · 2025-07-09 22:23:31

Девописево про васяноневротические стродания продолжается

▼Глава 6⬍

Chapter 6
Summary:

The previous chapter was the darkest point in their story, from which the path to the light begins.

Notes:

Illustration for the chapter. "Healing"
https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1941578038510223620

Chapter Text

Weiss recalled Nero’s tormented face, his fragile body, and felt despair battling with resolve. He remembered the medical history Eric had read to him, barely holding back tears. A week passed, filled with anxiety, anticipation, and hope. The forged documents, arranged through a lawyer found by Anna’s aunt, were ready. Weiss sold a rare antique candelabra from the house to his boss, an avid collector, to raise money—for the lawyer, for medicine, for a doctor, for their new life. The money weighed heavily in his pocket, a reminder of the cost of Nero’s freedom. Eric, risking his internship, arranged a meeting with the clinic’s head doctor. The greedy staff happily accepted payment to release Nero, for them, he was just a burden, another patient better disposed of. Even Gabry, with his predatory eyes, didn’t object: Nero was merely a toy to him, pretty but not worth the effort, especially now that he was little more than a lifeless doll.

Weiss entered the ward, his heart clenching at the sight of Nero. He sat on the bed, pale as a ghost, his skin thin and almost translucent, his wrists and ankles bearing fading marks from restraints. He didn’t look up, didn’t move, his body limp as if life had left him. Weiss gently lifting Nero into his arms, feeling his weightlessness, like a broken bird. Nero didn’t resist but didn’t respond either, his breathing barely noticeable. Weiss held him close, his steps echoing in the disinfectant-scented corridor, sharp with the smell of detergents.The smell made Weiss feel sick. It was another hell, from the damp and musty room in the mansion to a sterile one, saturated with diseases and fears.

Eric walked beside him, his face tense but his eyes glowing with inner relief. He handed Weiss a bag of medications, ointments, and instructions, along with the address of a proper clinic where he worked weekends.

“I’ll visit when I can,” Eric said quietly, looking at Nero with pity. “Keep an eye on his condition. The first weeks will be tough. My little brother… he’s sick too. I know what it’s like to watch someone close fade. Don’t give up.”

Weiss nodded, his gaze radiating quiet gratitude. He settled Nero in the backseat of the car, covering him with a soft blanket.

“These are antidepressants and sedatives,” Eric said, pointing to the pill blisters. “They’ll help stabilize him after the clinic. But be careful—side effects can include drowsiness, weakness, dizziness.”

Eric pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “Here’s a rough plan: medication schedule, basic relaxation techniques. He needs stability to recover. It’ll be hard at first. He’ll need a lot of care.”

“Thank you” Weiss took the paper, his hands trembling slightly. He looked at the instructions, feeling his chest tighten with anxiety and worry. “What if… what if he can’t? If he doesn’t want to live?”

Eric sighed heavily. “He can, if he knows someone loves him. That he’s not alone.”

Those words hit Weiss like a lightning “I’ll make sure he knows that.”

Eric looked him in the eyes. “One more thing, Weiss. His trauma runs deep. If you can’t handle it, find him a good therapist. It’s crucial. He’ll struggle with nightmares, flashbacks. Sometimes the world will feel like a trap to him. You need to be there so he doesn’t get lost. If he starts avoiding you, flinching at your touch, or acting strange, it’s normal. He needs time to adjust to freedom. Sometimes he’ll think he’s still in the clinic. Be patient.”

Weiss shook his hand gratefully. “Thank you, Eric. I owe you.”

Eric shook his head. “Just make it work. I did what I could. The rest is up to you.”

In the car, Weiss unfolded the paper and read it again, as if it could give him strength. “I won’t let you down,” he whispered, glancing at the backseat.

Nero sat silently, his thin fingers touching the cold window. His lips parted as if to speak, but the words caught in his throat. The light from the window illuminated his face, making his features almost ghostly. Long shadows from his eyelashes fell on his cheeks.

Eric stayed behind as the car slowly left the clinic’s grounds. When the gates closed, Weiss felt a heavy weight lift from his shoulders, but a new battle loomed—bringing Nero back to life.

***

Weiss rented a small house in a remote village, surrounded by a beautiful forest with clearings, where the world felt far from their oppressive past. He has already moved all the necessary things from the mansion. Weiss bought new things in advance, as well as new clothes for Nero; comfortable, light, pleasant. Tom, his old friend, helped find the place—modest, but cozy, with a wide veranda and windows opening to green treetops. A garden with fruit trees, berry bushes, and flowers lay out front. Wild roses and briars entwined the old fence. Despite its remoteness, the village had electricity, internet, and nearby farmers’ markets, small shops, and pharmacies. Weiss quit his manager job, its successes meaningless now, and switched to remote work to never leave Nero alone. He feared even a brief absence could sever the fragile thread holding Nero together.

The first days were exhausting. Nero didn’t speak, didn’t look at Weiss, didn’t eat on his own. He sat in a rocking chair by the window, his gaze lost beyond the horizon, where leaves swayed in the wind and spruce tops touched the sky, much like when he’d sat by the fence at home, staring at the forest. Weiss fed him with a spoon, patiently coaxing him to swallow bits of nourishing broth or porridge. He bathed Nero in a small tub of warm water, gently scrubbing his skin with a soft sponge and fragrant soap, trying to wash away the clinic’s stench, as if he could erase the memories of its horrors. Afterward, he dried him with a soft towel and, following Eric’s advice, carefully applied healing ointment to every scar and bruise on Nero’s body. Each mark—on his back, arms, legs, chest—was a page in his story of pain. A long, diagonal scar on his back from Heinrich’s belt when Nero was a child. A thin mark by his temple from being shoved into a doorframe by a drunken Kurt. And on his wrists… Weiss looked away, unwilling to think of how Nero, in moments of despair, had inflicted those wounds himself. But the memories crept in, each scar cutting into Weiss’s soul like an accusation of his inaction. Guilt tormented him, driving him to fix what he could. But beyond that, another growing feeling fueled his motivation. Love. Deep, powerful, it began as a tender sprout and now grew into a mighty tree, ready to offer shelter and support.

At night, Weiss slept beside Nero, holding him, feeling his faint breathing. He whispered memories—of days when they ran through the garden, when Nero wove a crown of dandelions and placed it on Weiss’s head, laughing so brightly the world seemed happier. Of days when Weiss sneaked him pastries, sharing them away from the family’s eyes. Or when Weiss shared with him the cake his parents bought him for his birthday. Nero remained silent, his face unmoving, and Weiss wondered in silent horror: would that boy he knew ever return? Or had the clinic stolen him forever?

Each morning, Weiss placed a bouquet of wildflowers—daisies, clover, bellflowers—picked from the meadow behind the house on Nero’s bedside table. Their scent filled the room, but Nero didn’t notice, his gaze fixed on distant trees. Weiss followed Eric’s instructions: giving medications, massaging wrists and shoulders to restore circulation, talking to Nero even when he didn’t respond. He worked nights to pay for rent and food, hiding his exhaustion behind a smile, but fear gnawed at him.

One evening, as the sunset painted the sky orange, pink, and lilac, Weiss broke. He looked at Nero in the rocking chair, his motionless silhouette, and despair overwhelmed him. He approached, dropped to his knees before the chair, wrapped his arms around Nero’s waist, and buried his face in his lap. Tears flowed, hot and unstoppable, his shoulders shaking.

“I’m trying so hard, Nero,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I don’t know if it’s enough… I don’t want to lose you… I was too late... and yet, you still held on for me. If I could take your pain into myself, I would. A thousand times over.”

He expected silence, as always. But then he felt a light, almost weightless touch. Nero’s weak, trembling fingers brushed his hair, gently stroking. Weiss froze, afraid to shatter the moment. A faint, barely audible voice, unheard for so long, whispered: “It’s okay, Weiss… We’re together.”

Weiss looked up, his tearful eyes meeting Nero’s. Pain still clouded them, but for the first time in months, a spark flickered—faint but alive. Weiss smiled through his tears, his lips trembling. He gently took Nero’s hand, pressing it to his cheek, feeling its fragile warmth.

“Yes,” he whispered, “we’re together.”

Weiss kissed Nero’s hand, unable to believe in the miraculous awakening of Nero’s spirit.That moment was a turning point, a ray of light in endless darkness. The past—blood on sheets, screams in the clinic, cold walls—merged with the present, where only their bond, their love, their hope remained. Weiss realized his patience and care were beginning to awaken Nero. And Nero, in comforting Weiss, showed his strength, delicate but unyielding, for the first time. It was the start of their path to healing—long, difficult, but no longer hopeless.
Weiss would forever cherish the memory of that warm summer evening, etched vividly in his heart. The air was alive with the gentle, rhythmic chorus of crickets, their song weaving a soothing melody that seemed to cradle the world in tranquility. The scent of freshly cut grass mingled with the delicate fragrance of wildflowers—clover, daisies, and bellflowers—carried on a soft breeze that rustled through the meadow surrounding their small house. In the deepening twilight, fireflies began their enchanting dance, their tiny golden lights flickering like stars scattered across the earth, weaving patterns of fleeting magic in the air. The scene felt like a moment stolen from time, a fragile bubble of peace where the weight of the past seemed to dissolve, leaving only the beauty of the present shared between Weiss and Nero.

▼Глава 7⬍

Chapter 7
Summary:

The mystery of Nero's origins is revealed.

(Warning: mentions of rape/non-con of OC)

Notes:

Illustration for the сhapter: https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1942684224110419994

Chapter Text

Little by little, Nero was coming back to life, as if piecing together the fragments of his soul. His personality, shattered in the clinic, began to reassemble like a puzzle, slowly and cautiously. He started showing initiative: helping Weiss in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with trembling hands or passing the kettle. Sometimes, casting a quick glance at Weiss, he smiled—a rare, shy, but remarkably tender smile that took Weiss’s breath away, making the exhaustion from work and care fade. Every sound of Nero’s voice—quiet but growing steadier—was like a melody to Weiss, restoring hope. He looked at Nero and saw not only the shadow of his past but also sparks of the boy who once laughed in the garden.

One evening, as Weiss brewed tea in the small kitchen filled with the scent of mint and chamomile, Nero quietly approached from behind. His arms unexpectedly wrapped around Weiss’s waist, pulling him into a warm, gentle embrace. Weiss froze, afraid to disrupt the moment. Nero stood on tiptoes, his lips brushing Weiss’s neck, then his cheek, and he whispered, his voice sincere and pure: “Thank you for the flowers… I love them so much.”

Weiss’s cheeks flushed. He turned, catching Nero’s gaze—tinged with lingering sadness but also the warmth he’d waited so long to see. Weiss smiled, gently squeezing Nero’s hand and pressing it to his chest, unable to find words but feeling their bond grow stronger.

When Nero had gained a bit more strength, Weiss took him to the clinic Eric had recommended—the same one where Eric’s mother worked, a respected specialist and, as it turned out, the aunt of Weiss’s colleague, Anna. Thanks to the savings he’d quietly built up, Weiss was finally able to pay for proper care.

Eric was visibly glad to see Nero again. The improvement of Nero's health was obvious, and Nero recognized him too, which helped him feel safer within the bright, welcoming clinic—so different from the cold and shadowed institution he’d once been locked in.

During the examination, X-rays confirmed what Eric had long suspected: without surgical intervention, the improperly healed rib fracture would only worsen. The diagnosis was clear: osteotomy and reposition were necessary to prevent long-term complications.
Weiss hesitated at first—Nero had only just begun to recover—but Eric reassured him. The procedure was routine, the stay in the hospital short: one or two nights at most, depending on recovery. Nero himself agreed without resistance. The pain in his chest had become a constant shadow, and he understood that the sooner it was done, the better.

The operation was scheduled and performed by some of the region’s top surgeons. When Nero woke from the anesthesia, the first thing he saw was Weiss—smiling down at him, eyes soft, hand gently holding his.

And in that moment, despite the aching tightness of bandages across his chest and the dull, floating haze of painkillers, Nero didn’t feel afraid. Not anymore. Not with Weiss there.

The doctors told him to stay still for now—no sharp movements, no sitting up yet. But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t alone.

***

Nero recovered faster than anyone had expected. The surgeons had done an impeccable job—the incision was small, clean, and precise. Each day, Weiss helped him with the bandages, carefully applying iodine to the healing line of stitches. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as if tending to something sacred. The simple routine of healing brought a kind of closeness that words couldn’t match.

To bring more warmth into the house, Weiss got a cat, a fluffy ginger with a lazy purr. The cat became their shared joy, a symbol of comfort and peaceful life. Nero often held it on his lap, stroking it, whispering to it as it purred against his stomach. Sometimes, when the cat chased a ball of yarn, Nero laughed—quietly but joyfully. That laugh was more precious to Weiss than anything.

With surprising enthusiasm, Nero took up knitting: scarves, sweaters, and socks emerged from his needles, clumsy but heartfelt. Weiss watched him, his heart filling with warmth: Nero was returning.

But Weiss noticed Nero had changed. He was stronger, more confident, but the trauma left its marks. Weiss avoided mentioning past pain, fearing to reopen old wounds. Some nights brought candid conversations. Sometimes, Nero said strange things that made Weiss pause. He spoke of their father, Heinrich, as an evil scientist conducting experiments on people, the clinic a secret lab turning patients into super-soldiers or living weapons. “I have the power of darkness,” he’d say, his eyes gleaming with feverish intensity, “but the injections suppressed it because they feared me.” Weiss listened without interrupting, then asked questions, trying to discern: was this trauma-induced delusion or a fantasy to cope with pain? One evening at dinner, Nero looked at him and said with grim seriousness: “Weiss, I avenged us. I killed him. My power… it killed Kurt.”

For a second Weiss stopped breathing, his blood running cold. He cautiously asked, “Who? Kurt?”

“Kurt,” Nero repeated, his gaze distant, as if seeing something beyond reality.

Weiss didn’t know how to react, fear gripping his throat. Was it true? When Nero did this, if he ever leave him. Or was Nero’s wounded mind, scarred by the clinic, conjuring these images?

***

Months had passed since Weiss left his family. He didn’t look back, but the shadows of the past still haunted him. The decision to visit his parents weighed heavily on his mind, a choice fraught with uncertainty and dread. Should he even go? He wasn’t sure how they would receive him. After all, he had vanished without a word—no note, no explanation—gathering his belongings, changing his phone number, and severing all ties in a desperate bid to protect Nero. Saving Nero had demanded secrecy and speed, a clean break from the family’s suffocating grip to shield his beloved from their cruelty. Yet now, the need for answers gnawed at him, pulling him back to the mansion despite the risk of reopening old wounds or facing their wrath. What if they blamed him? What if they knew about Nero’s escape? The questions churned in his mind, but the hope of understanding what had become of Heinrich and Kurt—and perhaps finding closure—pushed him forward.

Deciding to visit the mansion, he hoped to unravel the fate of his father and uncle. The house greeted him with a grim silence, as if the building itself concealed the pain of their wretched family. Its once-familiar walls now felt oppressive, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths and buried suffering.

His mother Eliza sat in the living room, her face calm, almost impenetrable, framed by the faded opulence of a room. Dust clung to the heavy velvet curtains, and the air carried a stale weight. Her sister, there to support her, sat nearby, her eyes narrowing as they fixed on Weiss with a suspicious glare, as if he bore the weight of some unspoken crime. Weiss ignored his aunt’s scrutiny, greeting his mother with a strained nod before asking about Kurt and Heinrich. Eliza, staring into the void, replied, her voice hollow: “They met a cruel fate. One was taken by death, the other is far from here…” She sighed, gathering her thoughts.

“What? How?” Weiss’s stomach churned, his mind caught between disbelief and a strange, unbidden relief. He didn’t know whether to feel pity or liberation. Was it fate punishing them for their cruelty? Or their own guilt, unable to bear its weight? Eliza, as if reading his mind, spoke, her voice quiet but heavy: “After that fateful evening when Nero… was beaten… everything fell apart. Heinrich saw you, Weiss, as his future—his perfect son, given everything: education, a job, the family’s honor. He was proud, made plans, even chose a bride for you. But Nero… he became a nightmare. That night when Nero kissed you in that dress, it broke something in Heinrich. He saw him as a threat, a corruption. Kurt fanned the flames. ‘He’s dangerous,’ he insisted. ‘He’s corrupting your son. We need to get rid of him.’ Heinrich, suppressing doubts, sent Nero to that clinic, thinking it would fix him. But a month later, you were gone. And Nero was no longer in the clinic. Heinrich was beside himself. He searched the house, the neighbors, called your work, the clinic, but you were both gone. He screamed that he’d lost both sons. He blamed Kurt: ‘You pushed for this! You ruined everything!’ Kurt snapped back: ‘What did you expect? For Nero to keep ruining Weiss? Weiss made his choice.’ They argued, nearly fought. Heinrich slammed his fist on the table, yelling that Kurt destroyed his family. Kurt vowed to find you but found nothing. He drank even more. A month later, he became… strange. He whispered that Nero was watching him from corners, that his red eyes burned in the dark, searing him. ‘He’s in my head,’ he said, ‘he wants to strangle me.’ We thought it was drunken delirium. Heinrich snapped, ‘You are an idiot, Kurt. You’re to blame.’ But Kurt didn’t listen. His obsession grew. One night, he woke us screaming: ‘He’s here! Don’t you see? He’ll kill me! The child of sin and darkness!’ I snapped, ‘That’s your conscience.’ Heinrich threw out, ‘You’re done with us.’ Two days later, Kurt was found in his room. He’d hanged himself on the chandelier. A note on the table had one word: ‘Sorry.’”

Weiss felt a chill run down his spine. Nero’s words—“I killed him”—echoed in his head, sharp and unsettling. The memory of Nero’s distant gaze as he spoke those words sent a shiver through Weiss, as if some unseen truth lingered just beyond his grasp. Was it Kurt’s guilt, his nightmares? Or something more? Or had Nero somehow learned of this first? Unless the incident happened after Nero’s cryptic words…

Eliza continued, her voice softer: “Kurt’s death broke Heinrich. He blamed himself, me, Nero. ‘If I’d gotten rid of him then,’ he muttered. He drank daily, locked himself in his study. Alcohol didn’t dull the pain—it fueled it. He started hearing voices, footsteps in the empty house, feeling watched. He screamed that he saw Nero in the corner, watching. That Nero turned into a shadow, merging with the house, and the house wanted to kill him. I called an ambulance when his delusions became dangerous. They took him to a rehab clinic. He calls for you, Weiss, sometimes pleading, sometimes raging that you abandoned the family for Nero. He’s barely alive.”

Listening, Weiss couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to this story, something none of them understood. Nero’s shadow, real or imagined, loomed over them, destroying their lives. Eliza, as if resolving herself, spoke again: “Weiss, there’s something you need to know. About Nero.”

Weiss tensed. Eliza gathered her courage, her face emotional for the first time: “Nero… he’s not adopted. He’s my son. But…” She paused, her hands clenching tightly. “His father… was another man. I was taken by force, against my will. I was young, naive, married to Heinrich, with you, a two-year-old baby. Heinrich was furious, demanded an abortion, but… I couldn’t. Something stopped me. Maybe the religious values my parents instilled? Heinrich agreed to keep him but forced me to forge documents, to say Nero was from an orphanage. His hatred for Nero… it’s hatred for the man who sired him. And I… I couldn’t look at him without reliving that nightmare.”

Weiss listened, his mind reeling, unable to process the words. Shock gripped his chest, but his love for Nero didn’t waver. He wanted to ask why they hadn’t told him the truth, but the words stuck in his throat. Eliza saw his emotions and continued, her voice breaking: “I was unfair to him. I know. But that trauma… it destroyed me, my marriage, my feelings for Nero. I couldn’t see him as my son. Sometimes I thought it’d be better if he didn’t exist. Maybe then he wouldn’t have suffered so much…”

Weiss clenched his fists and finally spoke, his voice firm but full of pain: “That doesn’t justify what you did. He was innocent. A child. He’s not to blame for how he came into this world.”

Eliza lowered her gaze, tears filling her eyes. “I don’t know why it all happened this way. But at least you’ve broken the cycle of our family’s pain, and I hope you’ll be not just a brother but a guardian angel for Nero.”

She handed him a slim leather folder—inside, crisp banknotes stacked in neat bundles—from Heinrich and Kurt’s inheritance.
“This isn’t atonement,” she said. “But take it. For Nero. For you.”
She hesitated, then added, “This is only part of the amount. The rest is in your bank account—you can access it whenever you need.”

Weiss stood still, his fingers tightening around the folder. A part of him wanted to reject it, to say it was too late, that no sum could rewrite the past. But another part—the part that had watched Nero suffer, bleed, tremble—knew this money could help. He swallowed the bitterness.

“For Nero,” he echoed quietly. Then he turned without another word, walked out of the suffocating house, and didn’t look back.

His thoughts were a storm, but his resolve was clear.

Home awaited Nero, his smile, his cat, his flowers. Driving, Weiss pondered: should he tell Nero the truth? He feared it could shatter his fragile recovery. But Nero deserved to know. He was not just a victim but part of their family—the part Weiss loved most in the world.

Back home, Weiss sat beside Nero for a long time, watching him stroke the purring cat on his lap, the soft glow of a lamp casting a warm halo around them. Nero sensed the unease in his gaze and quietly asked, “Something wrong?”

“Nothing,” Weiss replied, but his voice wavered. He wanted to hide the truth, afraid of hurting Nero. But Nero’s gaze—deep, understanding, as if he knew more than he said—made him reconsider. Nero covered Weiss’s hand with his soft palm, and Weiss knew: he had to tell him. Nero deserved to know.

▼Глава 8⬍

Chapter 8
Notes:

Illustration for Chapter 8 "Embrace":
https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1943023952722317437

Chapter Text

The warm light of the evening sun bathed the room, casting soft shadows on the walls adorned with Nero’s knitted tapestries. The scent of woodsmoke and chamomile tea lingered in the air, but within Weiss, a storm of conflicting thoughts and emotions churned. The truth he’d learned from Eliza weighed heavily, crushing him with a sense of despair. He gazed at Nero—his delicate profile, his hands still bearing the faint traces of scars—and felt fear and love wrestling within him. How could such an innocent angel endure so much pain from his own family? How could they treat him so cruelly, just because he was born of violence? Or was there something more, something Weiss didn’t yet know? A nagging feeling tugged at him, as if a new door to an unknown mystery was about to open, though he couldn’t grasp what it might reveal. The revelation of their shared blood troubled him less than the fear of how Nero would react—and how others might judge their bond if the truth came to light. That fear clawed unpleasantly at his soul, a sharp reminder of the world’s harsh gaze beyond their sanctuary.

Nero deserved to know the truth, but Weiss feared it could shatter his fragile recovery. He recalled Nero’s words about Kurt—“I killed him”—and Kurt’s nightmares of “red eyes,” and a shadow of doubt crossed his face. But Nero’s gaze, deep and understanding, as if sensing his turmoil, spurred Weiss to act.

“Nero,” he began, his voice quiet, “I need to tell you something. It’s… important.”

Nero tensed and straightened, a flicker of unease in his eyes, but he nodded, gently setting aside the lace handkerchief he’d been knitting onto the table. Weiss took a deep breath, gathering strength.

“I went to see Mother,” he continued, his words cautious, as if treading on thin ice. “Kurt is dead.”

Nero’s eyes widened, a mix of shock and recognition crossing his face, despite his earlier claim that his “power” had killed Kurt. “It’s true, then,” he whispered softly, his voice barely audible.

“Yes, he took his own life. After months of drinking. He fought with Heinrich. After Kurt’s death, Heinrich blamed himself and started drinking too. He’s in a rehab clinic now.”

“Oh,” Nero murmured, shaking his head, clearly unprepared for his “fantasies” to align with reality. Was it sympathy or relief he felt? It was hard to tell, his expression a tangle of emotions.

Weiss pressed on: “I learned something else, something crucial. Mother told me about you. About your birth. Nero… you’re not adopted. You’re her son. We share the same mother.”

Nero paled and looked away, as if seeking solace in the walls of their home. His eyes, usually calm, widened, reflecting a mix of shock and confusion. Weiss continued, his voice trembling but resolute: “Your father… was another man. Eliza… she was raped. She couldn’t go through with an abortion. Heinrich couldn’t accept you, so they forged documents, said you were from an orphanage. Their hatred for you… it stems from that. But you’re her son. My half…” Weiss faltered, the word “brother” catching in his throat. “You’re mine, Nero. You always have been.”

Nero remained silent, his breathing uneven. His body trembled, and he suddenly covered his face with his hands, as if trying to hide from the truth. “Why… why is it like this…” he whispered. “Why did she only tell you now? If I’m… her real son, why did she treat me…” He trailed off, his voice breaking. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” he murmured, as if he were trying to convince himself the past could be left behind.

Tears slipped through his fingers, quiet sobs shattering the room’s silence. Weiss felt a heavy, inexplicable guilt settle over him, as if he shouldn’t have revealed the truth. As if by speaking the truth, he’d unwittingly added another scar to Nero’s already wounded soul. But he couldn’t lie to Nero. He moved closer, gently touching Nero’s shoulder. “Nero,” he whispered, “look at me. Please.”

Nero shook his head, his voice hoarse, barely audible: “I always felt you were… my soulmate. But I didn’t think we shared blood. This… it makes everything worse, Weiss. Our love… it was already forbidden. And now…” He choked, tears streaming harder. “They’ll despise and hate us even more. And I… I’m dirty. I’m a child of sin. They were right. I wish I’d never been born.”

Weiss flinched at Nero’s words, his thoughts racing. The truth of their shared blood—that they were half-brothers—did complicate things, but it didn’t shake his feelings. He recalled their childhood, their closeness, and then that kiss that led to a nightmare. The love he felt for Nero was deeper than brotherly, and that frightened him, but it didn’t diminish its strength. He knew Nero was ashamed of himself—his body, his scars, his past. Each time Weiss tried to kiss his lips, Nero would turn away, as if fearing the memories of that first kiss and the beating that followed would return. But Weiss never retreated, whispering that Nero was the most beautiful person in the world, admiring his tenderness, his strength, his soul.

“You’re not dirty,” Weiss said, his voice filled with resolve. “You’re not a child of sin. Your past doesn’t define your present. You’re my beloved. My Nero. And I love you. I always have. And I always will, no matter what.”

He gently pulled Nero’s hands from his face, wiping his tears with his thumbs. Nero’s cheeks burned with shame, tears, and despair, flushed and warm. He looked at Weiss, his eyes filled with sorrow, but in them flickered that spark—the one that had appeared when he first stroked Weiss’s hair, when his spirit returned from oblivion. Weiss leaned in, his heart pounding, and softly kissed Nero’s lips. This time, Nero didn’t turn away. His lips trembled, but he responded, hesitantly, as if afraid it would all vanish. The kiss was gentle, filled with grief and love, a promise that they would endure everything.

Nero pulled back, tears still falling, but a faint smile broke through. “You really… won’t give up on me?” he whispered.

“Never,” Weiss replied, holding him tighter. “I’ll choose you again and again. In any circumstances, in any world, until my last breath. We’re together. And I’ll never abandon you—no matter what.”

“Weiss,” Nero whispered softly. He buried his face in Weiss’s shoulder, his body trembling slightly, now from the flood of emotions and excitement, but Weiss’s embrace was warm, soothing, and gentle. The truth about his origins, about Kurt, about the “power of darkness” still loomed over them like a shadow, but in that moment, it receded. Weiss’s love, his care, his kiss proved to Nero he wasn’t alone. Nero’s visions of Kurt—“I killed him”—and Kurt’s nightmares of “red eyes” remained a mystery, but they no longer frightened Weiss. He knew their bond was stronger than any past.

***

Weiss watched Nero, feeling his love grow bolder, as if the truth about their kinship had dissolved the boundaries between them. He wanted to show Nero that their feelings were not a sin but salvation, their home a sanctuary. In the evenings, bathing Nero in the small tub by candlelight, he filled it with warm water, adding a drop of lavender oil and rose petals, their fragrance mingling with the steam, curling upward in delicate wisps. The flicker of candlelight danced on the tiled walls, casting a warm, golden glow that made the small space feel like a romantic date. His touches grew closer, more intimate, surer: he scrubbed Nero’s skin with a sponge, gliding over his shoulders, down his back, along the scars, with such tenderness that Nero, initially tense, began to melt, closing his eyes in quiet pleasure. Weiss leaned closer, his breath warm against Nero’s ear, and whispered, “It’s okay, Nero. You’re safe. We’re alone here, free, with no one to disturb us.”

Nero gave a faint smile, his cheeks flushing a soft pink, and the shadow of fear—memories of the clinic, of being doused with cold water in harsh, clinical hands—dissolved like a mirage. He pushed away the intrusive thoughts, sinking into the soothing sensations: the velvety timbre of Weiss’s low voice, the tickle of his warm breath against his ear, the gentle press of the sponge against his skin. Weiss didn’t rush, his hands patient, each movement a reassurance of safety and love. Nero’s fingers grazed Weiss’s wrist, a tentative invitation, and he pulled Weiss closer, signaling his readiness for greater closeness.

“I wish you’d join me in the bath,” Nero said, a shy smile playing on his lips, his voice carrying a spark of unexpected playfulness.

Weiss chuckled, pleasantly surprised by Nero’s newfound lightness. “If only the tub were bigger—it barely fits you,” he teased, his eyes warm with affection.

“Then we definitely need to expand it,” Nero replied, his fingers playfully flicked a droplet of water at Weiss, his smile widening, a rare glint of mischief in his gaze.

“Absolutely,” Weiss agreed, his heart lifting at the thought. “Not just the tub, but everything else too.”

Late in the evening, preparing for bed, Nero sat on the edge, his long, pale legs stretched out, illuminated by the dim glow of the bedside lamp. He applied healing ointment to his scars, his fingers trembling as they traced the marks on his wrists. His voice was quiet, and Weiss sensed the familiar weight of Nero’s melancholy returning: “Sometimes I feel like my body… is so damaged. It’s impossible to desire. It’s so… unattractive. Pale, translucent, with these veins and tendons…”

Weiss, folding his day clothes on a chair, froze at those words. He looked at Nero—his fragile silhouette in the soft light, his long, now-silky hair cascading over his shoulders—and a pang of tenderness pierced him. Weiss’s heart ached at the thought that Nero couldn’t see his own radiance, a beauty that shone brighter with every step toward healing. He approached, sat beside him, and gently took the ointment tube from Nero’s hands. “That’s not true,” he said, his tone firm yet loving. “You’re beautiful, Nero. The most beautiful. Every scar is a story of your strength, of how you survived. They’re like a warrior’s battle marks, and you’ve fought life’s harshest war.” He brushed Nero’s hair aside and began applying the ointment to his shoulders and back, where Heinrich’s belt had left its deepest scars. “Look at how you’ve changed. Your nutrition, exercises, surgery, therapy… You’re stronger. Sometimes I look at you and barely recognize you—you shine, Nero. You’ve always shone for me.”

Nero looked up, his eyes glistening, as if on the verge of tears. “Really?” he whispered, his voice raw with sincerity.

“Really,” Weiss replied, his fingers gliding over the scars on Nero’s chest, softly, as if touching something precious. “You need to believe in yourself the way I believe in you. You’re my miracle. And I’ll never tire of saying it.”

He leaned in, kissing Nero’s temple, then his cheek, and Nero reached for his lips in return. Their kiss was tender yet bold, like a step off a cliff into an ocean of the unknown. Nero smiled through his tears, his hand resting on Weiss’s shoulder, and he said softly, “Thank you… for everything.”

Weiss pulled him close, feeling the warmth of his body. They lay down, covered by the blanket, moonlight streaming through the window, painting patterns on the floor through the lace curtains. The cat slept on the couch in the corner, its purring blending with the chirping of crickets outside. In that moment, their home was filled with peace, love, and comfort. The truth about their kinship, about the “power of darkness,” lingered like a shadow, but it couldn’t dim their light. Weiss knew Nero still struggled with himself, but his love, his touches, his words helped Nero open up, step by step.

As they lay in bed, Weiss gently stroked Nero—his thigh, his stomach, his fingers slipping under the thin fabric of his nightshirt. Nero trembled, his breath catching, and Weiss sensed his nervousness. He paused, whispering, “Darling. I’m here. We’re together.”

Nero nodded, his body relaxing, the warmth of Weiss’s strong torso against his back a grounding comfort. He turned, finding Weiss’s lips, and their kiss was deep, brimming with trust. Nero pressed himself closer, his arms wrapping around Weiss’s neck, his touch tentative but eager. The unfamiliar, exhilarating sensation sent their heads spinning, a quiet thrill of discovery. Weiss kissed him with full devotion and passion, feeling Nero respond, his fingers tangling in Weiss’s hair. In that moment, there was no past, no pain—just their love, warm and radiant, shielding them from the harsh, hostile world outside.

After their kisses, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, the world fading into a gentle haze. Tomorrow would bring new days, new challenges, but for now, the sweet veil of Morpheus enveloped them, carrying them into a world of dreams. That night, no nightmares haunted Nero. As they drifted off, the soft glow of the lamp flickered, casting a warm halo over their entwined forms, a silent promise of the future they were building together—a future where love would always triumph over the shadows of suffering.

Порисулька

▼Скрытый текст⬍

Семейка Васяновых тоже иллюстрации к фиклу

Анон · 2025-07-09 22:36:49

Анон пишет:

Корейскому гомиксу исполнилось 4 года
△ humanlouvre@humanlouvreart·20 мин
My Only One. 4 years ❤️🩹
▼Скрытый текст⬍

О, мерч? Круть. Неиронично люблю этот комикс :please: (за красивые картинки, читаю не вникая в сюжетку))

Анон · 2025-07-09 23:24:47

Анон пишет:

Семейка Васяновых тоже иллюстрации к фиклу

У блондинчика 6 пальцев

Анон · 2025-07-10 02:22:34

Анон пишет:

The dark mystery of Weiss and Nero's family.

Мамка хорошааа! Прямо такая суровая испанка)

Анон · 2025-07-10 10:20:03

Анон пишет:

Анон пишет:
Семейка Васяновых тоже иллюстрации к фиклу
У блондинчика 6 пальцев

Сука, и правда :lol:

Анон · 2025-07-10 11:26:50

Анон пишет:

▲
порнокорейцы

Не грузит, анончик( пишет, что изображение не найдено

Анон · 2025-07-10 11:49:35

Анон пишет:

Не грузит, анончик( пишет, что изображение не найдено

эх, и на этом хостинге начали цензурить

Анон · 2025-07-10 17:51:17

Анон пишет:

эх, и на этом хостинге начали цензурить

Причем со вчера - вчера у этого анона всё грузило, сегодня "не найдено".
другой анон

Анон · 2025-07-10 18:11:42

А бимбо-багоаса сочли достаточно цензурным, видимо - загружен туда же, и его видно.

Анон · 2025-07-10 22:43:55

Анон пишет:

Нешто мы можем надеяться на еще одну опупею про семейные страшные тайны гомодидов, теперь банановый ФФэнтезятный?
▼Скрытый текст⬍
Portrait.
The dark mystery of Weiss and Nero's family.
#nerothesable #weisstheimmaculate #ff7_AU

не видно,анон

Анон · 2025-07-10 23:49:30

Анон пишет:

Мамка хорошааа! Прямо такая суровая испанка)

Наверняка Дева как всегда старалась сделать мерссскую бабу уродливой и как всегда получилось наоборот :lol:

Анон · Вчера 22:49:09

Корейцы

▼Скрытый текст⬍

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#1 2015-07-03 12:51:43

Develv (сестры DevaIluvatar и Elveo)

#71126 2025-07-09 21:27:18

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#71127 2025-07-09 22:10:09

Re: Develv (сестры DevaIluvatar и Elveo)

#71128 2025-07-09 22:23:31

Re: Develv (сестры DevaIluvatar и Elveo)

#71129 2025-07-09 22:36:49

Re: Develv (сестры DevaIluvatar и Elveo)

#71130 2025-07-09 23:24:47

Re: Develv (сестры DevaIluvatar и Elveo)

#71131 2025-07-10 02:22:34

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#71132 2025-07-10 10:20:03

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#71133 2025-07-10 11:26:50

Re: Develv (сестры DevaIluvatar и Elveo)

#71134 2025-07-10 11:49:35

Re: Develv (сестры DevaIluvatar и Elveo)

#71135 2025-07-10 17:51:17

Re: Develv (сестры DevaIluvatar и Elveo)

#71136 2025-07-10 18:11:42

Re: Develv (сестры DevaIluvatar и Elveo)

#71137 2025-07-10 22:43:55

Re: Develv (сестры DevaIluvatar и Elveo)

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