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 · 2025-06-30 21:27:21

Анон пишет:

на бис

Вайбы хентайной манги. "Ах, они-сан во мне! Да, да, еще, онии-сан! А-а-а-ах!"

Отредактировано (2025-06-30 21:28:56)

Анон · 2025-06-30 21:46:24

В очередной раз контраст, какой живой и задорный прон у Эльвы, и какой натужный, унылый, без фантазии и разнообразия у Девы.

Анон · 2025-06-30 21:50:36

Анон пишет:

Заинтерисовалась тем, кого все же рисует Дева в последнее время, пошла читать на вики и удивилась, что ее не захуесосили (сейчас и за меньшее от антисов прилетает). Разве этот златовласка не ребенок по канону? Его тело точнее. А тот рыжий болванчик его брат?

Не, он дохуялетнее божество, а тело такое было, потому что проклятие или типа, потом он обрел взрослое тело, так что с телом норм, ну братик да, по нынешним временам проблематичненько, но канон такой, ну и как-то вроде антисов там не шибко много. За лор срутся, за проблематичность, не особо.

Отредактировано (2025-06-30 21:51:02)

Анон · 2025-06-30 22:12:38

Корейцы.
Эльве пора уже требовать бабло с Кельвина Кляйна за рекламу

▼Скрытый текст⬍

Анон · 2025-07-01 10:40:11

Унылый тред стал. Ни тебе ни сиськодельства, ни задорных шутеек про Деву(кстати, ту типа-иконографию с бугагеллой я тоже где-то видел - это еще один обмазон), ни читений больше...
Были времена, были, хех :old:

Анон · 2025-07-01 15:08:08

▼Радановы влажные губешки⬍

не могу развидеть гейские усики в стиле 70х у него

Анон · 2025-07-01 18:27:00

ОТКУДА там растёт эта нога Микеллы?! :bu:

Анон · 2025-07-01 23:03:53

Анон пишет:

ОТКУДА там растёт эта нога Микеллы?!

Она не только растёт, но ещё и срослась. Бедро с икрой.

Анон · 2025-07-01 23:22:28

И опять парик отклеился.

Анон · 2025-07-02 00:09:33

Анон пишет:

Унылый тред стал. Ни тебе ни сиськодельства, ни задорных шутеек про Деву(кстати, ту типа-иконографию с бугагеллой я тоже где-то видел - это еще один обмазон), ни читений больше...
Были времена, были, хех

Потому что поциенты больше не поциенты и ведут себя нормально, аноны из ностальгии сюда ходит чисто на кросивые картины позырить)

Анон · 2025-07-02 00:45:49

Анон пишет:

Унылый тред стал. Ни тебе ни сиськодельства, ни задорных шутеек про Деву(кстати, ту типа-иконографию с бугагеллой я тоже где-то видел - это еще один обмазон), ни читений больше...

Так стукачей-моралофагов развелось, анон. Понесётся жалобный вой с доносами про то. что обсуждают личность/внешку/небо/аллаха, недостаточно вежливо говорят о поциках и вообще раки-раки-раааакиии!!11
это раньше весело было, до десанта твитторских. А сейчас куда ни плюнь - чего вы т'гавите!!11
Я ещё помню, я старожил и автор термина "Бугагас" и ещё нескольких местных локалочек... :old:

Отредактировано (2025-07-02 00:46:41)

Анон · 2025-07-02 01:26:16

Анон пишет:

Так стукачей-моралофагов развелось, анон. Понесётся жалобный вой с доносами про то. что обсуждают личность/внешку/небо/аллаха,

Не нарушай правил ХС и стукачи обломаются

Анон · 2025-07-02 02:18:46

Анон пишет:

Не нарушай правил ХС и стукачи обломаются

С тех пор, как тут было весело, и правила поменялись. Но боюсь, что это уже оффтоп, на который тоже с удовольствием настучат.

Анон · 2025-07-02 06:14:59

Анон пишет:

Анон пишет:
Не нарушай правил ХС и стукачи обломаются
С тех пор, как тут было весело, и правила поменялись. Но боюсь, что это уже оффтоп, на который тоже с удовольствием настучат.

Очень хочется, если честно, анон, потому что в Деве самое веселое было, как она пепелила и бегала всем доказывать, какие бабы мерзкие, не то что прекрасные евнухи. А не то, что она ест, как выглядит, где живёт и какая у неё семья. Если тебе это всё было интереснее, багиня ещё жива, иди, покоряй

Анон · 2025-07-02 06:33:21

Анон пишет:

Я ещё помню, я старожил и автор термина "Бугагас" и ещё нескольких местных локалочек...

Я тоже здесь с начала треда, анон! :chearleader: Эх, помянем времена, когда тредик был образовательным, и тут с подачи Девы читали Мэри Рено и Бальзака.

Анон · 2025-07-02 07:46:13

Анон пишет:

Очень хочется, если честно, анон

Дак валяй, ни в чём себе не отказывай. Стукачи в наше время в тренде. Осуди мою безнравственность полностью.

Анон пишет:

Эх, помянем времена, когда тредик был образовательным, и тут с подачи Девы читали Мэри Рено и Бальзака.

Помянем, классное было время. И никто не орал, что лекции анонов-лошадников - это оффтоп, а чтение и обсуждение Сарразина и стихуёв Пихмеда, а то и ролёвочки по теме креатива сестёр - флуд)) И лороёбов по фандомам, в которых отжигала Дева, в "специальные треды" не гнали. Обсуждали ко всеобщему удовольствую дофига всего разного интересного, что так или иначе упоминалось рядом с сёстрами.
Чаю тебе, анонче, с пахлавой, взностальгируем же)))
:hug:
Блин, я ж тогда обещал "танцующих невидимок" отсканировать и занести. Но где-то на трети книги у меня заклинил сканер, пока чинили, пока туда сюда - я так и не доделал((( Книжка про индийских хиджр, есличо. Лютый оффтоп по нашим временам.

Отредактировано (2025-07-02 07:53:26)

Анон · 2025-07-02 07:58:10

Так и приноси всё это, анон. Обсуждение Рене и т.д. в разрезе Девы никогда не было оффтопом, но вообще-то ты сам начал плакаться, что тут нельзя обсуждать ту же внешку, а не об утрате культурного наследия

Анон · 2025-07-02 08:25:10

▼оффтоп оффтопов⬍

Анон · 2025-07-02 09:40:41

Анон пишет:

было

Дева аки феникс, вроде затихла, затихла, а потом хоба, набрала таки подписаоты, и снова расчехлилась поучать.
Так что я в нее еще верю.

Анон · 2025-07-02 15:51:57

Анон пишет:

Анон пишет:
Унылый тред стал. Ни тебе ни сиськодельства, ни задорных шутеек про Деву(кстати, ту типа-иконографию с бугагеллой я тоже где-то видел - это еще один обмазон), ни читений больше...
Так стукачей-моралофагов развелось, анон. Понесётся жалобный вой с доносами про то. что обсуждают личность/внешку/небо/аллаха, недостаточно вежливо говорят о поциках и вообще раки-раки-раааакиии!!11
это раньше весело было, до десанта твитторских. А сейчас куда ни плюнь - чего вы т'гавите!!11
Я ещё помню, я старожил и автор термина "Бугагас" и ещё нескольких местных локалочек...

Эеххехе((( Грустно, ковры вы ягодиц моих, грустно...

Анон · 2025-07-02 15:53:13

Анон пишет:

▼Радановы влажные губешки⬍
не могу развидеть гейские усики в стиле 70х у него

Они как будто в слизи все... :really:

Анон · 2025-07-02 22:27:02

Корейцы

▼Скрытый текст⬍

Дева порождает новое пиздостродательное писево про Васяна и Невротика https://archiveofourown.org/works/67081 … adult=true

D. Art@DevelvDeva·22 ч
I wrote a new Weinero dark fanfic with great difficulty, I edited one chapter for 6 hours, until 4 am, and there are 9 chapters. I'm horrified

▼ Глава 1⬍

Shadow of Nero
DevFarvahar
Summary:

In the hauntingly tender shadow of Nero, Weiss embarks on a desperate quest to rescue his beloved Nero from the suffocating grip of their oppressive family and a sinister psychiatric institution. Bound by a love that defies convention and scarred by a shared past of cruelty, the two navigate a fragile path toward healing in a secluded haven. As Nero’s enigmatic visions and cryptic whispers of a "dark power" unravel unsettling truths, Weiss grapples with revelations that blur the line between reality and nightmare.
(Note: Contains themes of violence, trauma and forbidden love.)

Notes:

This dark, psychologically heavy story, filled with pain and suffering, simmered in my mind for a long time, growing details like a shadow that cannot be ignored. Initially, I didn’t plan to write it - it was just a fantasy, but a friend inspired me to put it onto digital paper to release the emotional weight. This story became a way to express the inner turmoil, pain, and hope hidden in the depths of subconscious. It was born from a concept of two characters, inspired by Nero and Weiss, but reimagined as ordinary people, stripped of their prototypes’ grandeur and powers. Their journey from the darkness of trauma to the light of healing is filled with haunting but vivid details that make the story deeply human. It may feel vague or heavy, but at its core lies love and faith in something better.

My illustration: https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1940388792986484828

Chapter 1
Chapter Text

Darkness had always been Nero’s companion. Not the kind that cloaks the world at night, but another—thick, cold, steeped in shame and pain, pulsing within him like a second heartbeat. His long, dark hair, flowing over his shoulders and back like shadows, concealed his face but could not shield him from a world that seemed to hate him from the moment he was born. His pale, almost translucent skin, as if faded from endless sleepless nights, bore the marks of that hatred: bruises, scars, fresh cuts hidden beneath baggy clothing. His large eyes, deep, gentle, like those of a hunted animal; reflected both infinite tenderness and bottomless sorrow. He rarely looked in the mirror. He didn’t like what he saw. Not because his face was unattractive—on the contrary, it held a fragile, almost ethereal beauty—but because it reminded him of who he wasn’t. Not normal. Not loved. Not free.

Nero hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable, to dissolve into the air. His pale lips, perpetually downturned, rarely knew a smile. Only sometimes, when his gaze found Weiss. Weiss was his light, the only ray in this darkness, the only one who looked at him without contempt. But even that warmth was rare, like sunlight breaking through clouds on a cold, rainy day, and Nero clung to it like a drowning man to a straw.

Nero grew up in a house where the walls held more hatred and humiliation than warmth or acceptance, where “home” was synonymous with “prison.” His adoptive family—wealthy but as indifferent as the stone floors of their mansion—was ashamed of him, as if he were a stain on their pristine reputation. He was unwanted, an outsider, and they reminded him of it daily, with words, glares, blows. His adoptive father and father's brother, Nero’s uncle, were particularly cruel. In drunken rages, they beat and shouted, their fists leaving marks on his delicate body that he learned to hide. Crying was forbidden; tears only fueled their anger, and Nero quickly learned that silence was his only defense. His adoptive mother looked away, pretending nothing was happening. She never called him to the family table, never asked how he was. To her, he was a ghost, a shadow better left unseen.

He lived in a small room in the farthest corner of the house; a damp, cramped space with peeling paint, a moldy mattress, and a concrete floor. That was his sanctuary. He got scraps and hand-me-downs, his existence reduced to housework and gardening. The high metal fence around the mansion was the boundary of his world; he was not allowed to step beyond it.

As a child, he escaped this pain in fantasies. In his dreams, he wasn’t weak or broken. He was a superhuman, a master of darkness, whose power could crush those who hurt him. He soared in his dreams, gliding above the world. But reality always dragged him back to the cold room with the concrete floor, to the bruises, to the loneliness. He had no childhood. No friends. No family. Only darkness and pain, growing alongside him.

The only one who broke this joyless routine was Weiss—the pride and joy of his parents. Unlike them, Weiss saw Nero. As a child, he secretly brought him candies, pastries, small toys, which Nero hid under his pillow like treasures, handling them in the dark as if they could protect him from the world. Weiss and Nero whispered when no one could hear, because Weiss was scolded for his kindness, and Nero… was punished. Their meetings grew rarer, more cautious. Those moments were like gasps of air for Nero before plunging back into the black swamp. He cherished them as the happiest in his short life, falling asleep with Weiss’s name on his lips, clutching his pillow tightly.

But over the years, something changed. Weiss grew distant. His warm glances, once a source of comfort for Nero, became rarer, more guarded. Sometimes Nero caught his gaze, quick, almost furtive, filled with something he couldn’t decipher. It hurt more than the blows from his adoptive father and uncle. Why had Weiss pulled away? What had he done wrong? What was his fault? The questions tormented him, but there were no answers, only an emptiness that grew within.

Then came a realization that made his suffering unbearable. He understood that he loved Weiss. Not as a friend or brother, not as a savior, but as someone whose smile, kind eyes, and masculine beauty made his heart race. This love was both a blessing and a curse for Nero. The desperate, overwhelming feeling swelled in his chest, lifting him to euphoria one moment and plunging him into unbearable sorrow the next, a sorrow that made him want to cry and scream, inescapable like the nightmares that haunted him lately. He missed Weiss. In the silence of the night, he dreamed of touching his hand, their eyes meeting without fear, Weiss embracing him with tenderness, Nero feeling the warmth of his strong body, his pleasant scent. But shame followed—burning, suffocating. He didn’t dare think of Weiss that way. He, Nero, was unworthy. A shadow, pathetic and broken, while Weiss was the light that could never belong to him. Perfect, beautiful, strong—everything Nero was not.

Shame drove him to pain. To cuts, deeper and more frequent, hidden under long sleeves and loose clothing, but they were his silent scream. He hated himself—his body, his reflection, his thoughts. He wanted to be beautiful for Weiss, to be worthy, but every glance in the mirror reminded him he never would be. Jealousy gnawed at him when he saw Weiss smile at others, speaking easily with people who weren’t trapped in a cage like Nero.

Days dragged on, gray and identical. Early spring, when the greenery was already pleasing the eyes, but Nero’s heart was still empty and sad. Nero worked in the garden, cleaned the house, washed floors and dishes, dusted. He stayed silent when humiliated, didn’t resist when beaten. He was a prisoner—not just of the house, but of his own mind.

Sometimes he sat on the grass by the high fence, leaning against the cold metal, staring at the distant forest. The wind played with his tangled hair, blowing long strands aside as if trying to reveal his face to the world. He plucked petals from a wildflower, mechanically, just to occupy his trembling fingers. His gaze was lost somewhere far off, where the forest whispered with the wind, promising a freedom Nero had never known. He thought of dissolving into the green foliage and blue sky, becoming part of that majestic serenity. He pondered the meaninglessness of life. A torturous longing, sadness, and loneliness overwhelmed him, and he sank into a black void where the line between reality and nothingness blurred.

Weiss noticed him in one such moment. His heart clenched at the sight of Nero—frail, almost transparent, like a ghost frozen at the edge of his world. He glanced around to ensure they were alone and stepped closer. His steps were cautious, almost timid, as if afraid to shatter the fragile moment. Nero didn’t notice him at first, lost in his thoughts, but the air seemed to lighten and freshen.

Certain they were alone, Weiss called softly.

“Nero,” his voice was gentle but tinged with awkwardness, as if he didn’t know how to begin. “Are you… okay?”

Nero flinched, his fingers freezing on the crumpled flower. He hadn’t expected Weiss’s voice—warm, with a hint of care so rare in his life. His large, dark eyes slowly lifted, meeting Weiss’s light blue gaze. There was something in that look Nero couldn’t grasp, not just pity, but something deeper, something that made his heart tremble. He wanted to answer, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he turned away, pressing harder against the fence, as if it could shield him from this warmth, this hope that scared him more than familiar pain.

“I’m… fine,” he mumbled, his voice trembling, betraying his turmoil. Kindness was a mirage to him, a cruel trick of fate, and he didn’t know how to accept it. It was foreign, dangerous, like light that blinds after long darkness.

Weiss sat beside him, at a safe distance but close enough for Nero to feel the warmth of his presence. He reached out and gently brushed a leaf from Nero’s dark hair. The gesture was simple, almost casual, but for Nero, it was overwhelming. His cheeks flushed, his heart pounded, and he instinctively pulled back, fearing Weiss would notice his confusion. But Weiss didn’t retreat. His hand lingered in the air, a shadow of guilt in his eyes.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Weiss began, then paused, searching for words. He looked at Nero—at his pale face, old and new scars, bruises he didn’t bother hiding in that moment. Something broke inside Weiss. He could no longer pretend he didn’t see Nero’s suffering, couldn’t ignore his family’s cruelty; his father, Heinrich, whose rage was merciless, and his uncle, Kurt, whose taunts cut like knives. Even his mother, Eliza, with her silence, upheld this injustice. Weiss wondered: why did they treat Nero this way? Why adopt him if they hated him? But there were no answers, not from his mother, whose face turned to stone at such questions, nor from his father, whose glare promised punishment for asking too much.

“It looks like rain,” Weiss said, his voice quieter but firmer. “You’ll get wet if you stay here.”

“Why…?” Nero whispered, almost inaudible. He wasn’t asking about the rain. He wanted to know why Weiss cared, why he was here, beside him. Thunder rumbled in the distance, dark clouds creeping across the sky.

“It’s… wrong. All of it,” Weiss faltered, his voice trembling. He looked at Nero, and pain flashed in his eyes, as if he saw not just him but the entire injustice of their world.

Nero stayed silent, clutching the crumpled flower. He didn’t know how to respond. Weiss’s kindness was too bright, too painful. It sparked hope in him, but also reminded him that hope was a trap. He wanted to run, to hide, but he stayed, pinned by Weiss’s gaze, by the warmth he feared losing.

***

Weeks passed. Weiss began seeking Nero out more often—in the garden among the overgrown bushes he trimmed, or in the dark corridors of the mansion where he scrubbed floors. Sometimes he brought food pilfered from the kitchen, sometimes he just sat nearby, silent, while Nero worked, occasionally helping but discreetly, so no one would notice. These moments were like breaths of fresh air for Nero, but each time he braced for a catch. He couldn’t believe Weiss was sincere, that his kindness wasn’t just pity. Yet his heart, lovesick and tormented, took every word, every glance as a sign of reciprocation, proof he might be worthy of love. These illusions tore him apart, but he clung to them, the only thing keeping him afloat.

One day, Nero was cleaning the windows in Weiss’s room. Sunlight streamed through the glass, illuminating dust motes in the air. He moved slowly, cautiously, afraid to draw attention. Weiss sat in an armchair, flipping through a book, but his gaze kept drifting to Nero, as if drawn by a magnet. The silence in the room was thick, almost tangible.

“Weiss,” Nero’s voice was barely audible, trembling, as if he feared breaking the moment, though to him it felt too loud in the awkward silence. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Weiss replied, turning a page. The sunlight reflected off the book’s pages, illuminating his beautiful face, so flawless it hurt Nero to look at him.

“What… what kind of beauty do you like?” Nero exhaled, his heart freezing in anticipation.

Weiss looked up, slightly surprised. He set the book aside, thinking, and answered casually, almost dismissively: “Beauty? Like, in appearance? Hmm… probably tender girls in white dresses, with long hair. Like fairies or nymphs, you know, like in old paintings.” He smiled, then added more seriously, “But honestly, a person’s soul matters more. Appearance isn’t everything.”

Nero froze. His fingers, clutching the rag, shaking slightly. He lowered his head, hiding his face behind his long bangs, and nodded as if agreeing. But inside, something collapsed. As if someone had ripped the last spark of hope from his chest. He quickly finished his work and left without a word. Weiss watched him go, a shadow of worry in his eyes, but he didn’t call after him.

In his room—cold, with peeling paint and a cracked mirror in the corner—Nero stopped. He approached the mirror slowly, as if afraid of what he’d see. His reflection stared back: a thin, pale, exhausted face, dull eyes, tangled hair he tried to comb but which still stuck out in all directions. A gray, shapeless sweater hung on his slight frame, hiding scars and bruises. A painful lump rose in his throat, ready to burst. He touched the cold glass, as if seeking an answer.

He wasn’t a tender girl in a white dress. He wasn’t a fairy or a nymph. He was a strange boy—broken, unworthy, with a body he hated. No one had taught him to care for himself. He had no good soap, no shampoo, no creams to hide the marks of beatings and frailty. He’d heard people say men couldn’t be feminine, couldn’t be beautiful. He recalled Uncle Kurt, sitting in front of the TV, ranting about “feminine guys” in a flashy ad, his voice booming with contempt: “What’s the world coming to? It’s the degradation of humanity, an abomination.” He’d spat out a crude, insulting word that made Nero shrink, shame burrowing deeper. Now those words echoed in his head, mingling with Weiss’s casual reply about beauty.

Nero stared into the cracked mirror, his reflection screaming that he’d never be someone Weiss could love. He wanted to be desired, to be someone Weiss could love. Tears streamed down his cheeks, hot and unstoppable. He clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling the sob tearing out. His love for Weiss—burning, all-consuming—was the only thing that kept his heart beating, but it also tore him apart, bringing unbearable pain. He hated himself for this love, for his weakness, for daring to dream. His fingers gripped the mirror’s edge, nails digging into his palms, leaving red marks. He wanted to shatter the reflection, shatter himself, but instead, he pressed his forehead to the cold glass, choking on tears. “I’ll never be good enough,” he whispered, and that whisper was louder than any scream.

▼Глава 2⬍

Chapter 2
Summary:

(Warning! Graphic Depictions of Violence)

Notes:

Illustration for the chapter. "Fear"
https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1940421073704796634

Chapter Text

The tears dried, leaving salty trails on his cheeks, but the pain in his chest didn’t subside. Weiss’s words about tender girls in white dresses, fairies, and nymphs echoed in his mind, mingling with Uncle Kurt’s venomous taunts, his contempt for “feminine boys.” Nero hated his reflection, hated himself—for his weakness, his ugliness, for daring to dream of Weiss’s love. But somewhere deep within, beneath layers of shame and despair, a faint hope flickered. What if? What if he could become someone Weiss could truly love? What if he could stop being this broken, pathetic creature? Better to try and regret than to miss the chance and regret twice as much. That thought, fragile and dangerous, ignited a spark of resolve in him.

He began to act. Quietly, cautiously, so as not to draw the family’s attention. Each day, he tried to make himself presentable with the meager resources he had. He washed his hair with water mixed with herbal infusions, attempting to soften its dry strands. He scrubbed his skin with coarse soap, hoping it would look even slightly better, fresher. One day, rummaging through dusty boxes in the attic, he found an old white dress; silk, with slightly crumpled lace edges, a forgotten relic from Eliza’s past life. Nearby was a worn cosmetic bag: a tube of foundation, cracked pink lipstick, some eyeliner, and crumbling eyeshadow. Nero froze, holding the dress, his heart pounding with excitement.

Once, Eliza had been different—vibrant, stylish, full of life. But after Weiss’s birth, or perhaps after Nero’s arrival, she changed. Her jewelry, dresses, and makeup were stashed away in the attic, as if she wanted to erase that part of herself. Now she wore only severe black outfits, her demeanor cold, almost heartless. To Nero, she was terrifying, not as cruel as Heinrich or Kurt, but her indifference and coarseness cut just as deeply.

Nero summoned the courage to ask Eliza for better soap and shampoo, saying his skin and hair were in terrible condition. She eyed him suspiciously, her distant gaze narrowing, but to his surprise, she agreed—on the condition that he do double the work. Guests were coming to the mansion, and Nero would have to set the table for restaurant-ordered food and wash a mountain of dishes afterward. He nodded, hardly believing his luck, and clenched his fists to hide their trembling. Even this small victory—soap and shampoo—felt like a step toward something greater, a hope he feared to name.

Weeks passed. Nero waited for the right moment. He chose a quiet, warm evening when the mansion was still, and Heinrich and Kurt had gone to visit neighbors. Eliza was occupied in the living room, and Nero, gathering all his resolve, put on the dress. The silk felt cool against his skin, gently embracing his slender, graceful frame. He covered his bruises with foundation, applied pink lipstick to his pale lips, and tamed his hair. Around his neck, he wore a pearl necklace he’d found in a box in the attic. In the mirror, he looked different—not himself, but someone who might be worthy of admiration and love. His heart raced as he walked to Weiss’s room with a light, almost floating step, despite the fear gripping his throat.

Weiss sat by the window, scribbling in a notebook. The scent of climbing roses wafted into the room, mingling with the warm evening air. Hearing footsteps, he looked up and froze. Nero stood in the doorway—in the white dress, with silky hair cascading over his shoulders, his face almost unearthly in its fragile beauty. He looked like a celestial being, an angel descended from the heavens. Weiss gasped, his notebook slipping from his hands. He stood, unable to tear his eyes away, and extended a hand, inviting Nero closer.

“Nero… you…” Weiss faltered, his voice trembling. “You look… incredible.”

Nero felt heat flood his cheeks. He stepped forward, driven by feelings he could no longer contain. His heart pounded so loudly it drowned out all thoughts. He hugged Weiss—for the first time, timidly but with such intensity, as if afraid he’d vanish. His hands trembled, and he buried his face in Weiss’s wide chest, inhaling his scent—warm, with notes of roses and old books. Weiss, stunned, hesitantly returned the embrace, his strong arms gently resting on Nero’s back. He felt Nero’s rapid breathing, his quick pulse, his nervous excitement.

“Why are you… so beautiful?” Weiss asked, his voice soft but diffident.

Nero looked up, his eyes shimmering with tears and love. He could no longer stay silent. The words he’d hidden for so long spilled out, trembling but filled with desperation and passion: “Weiss, I love you. I love you so much. For so long, so deeply, I can’t keep quiet anymore…”

He leaned toward Weiss, pressing his lips to his in a kiss—gentle, but brimming with everything Nero had held inside for years: pain, hope, love, secret passion. Weiss froze, his eyes widening in shock. He pulled back, unsure what to do or think. His hands still rested on Nero’s shoulders, but he was paralyzed, unable to respond or push him away.

At that moment, the door slammed against the wall. Kurt stood in the doorway, his face contorted with rage, his eyes blazing with hatred. Nero turned, and his heart plummeted. Kurt, the cruelest person in his life, whose fists and words he feared most, stared at him—in the dress, with makeup, in Weiss’s arms.

“You… filthy pervert!” Kurt roared, his voice like a wild beast’s. “Disgrace to the family! You dared… with my nephew?! I always knew you were…”

He jumped into the room, he lunged at Nero, grabbing his hair and yanking so hard that Nero fell to the floor. The dress tore with a ripping sound, exposing his thin shoulders, scarred from past abuses. The necklace snapped, white pearls scattering across the floor. Kurt’s fists rained down on Nero, each blow accompanied by insults: “Whore! Dirty freak! Should’ve thrown you in a pit when you were born!” Nero curled up on the floor, shielding his face with his hands, but the blows kept coming—fists, then heavy kicks from Kurt.

Weiss, snapping out of his shock, rushed forward, shouting, “Stop! Kurt, enough! Leave him alone!”

But Kurt, blinded by rage, shoved Weiss so hard he nearly fell. In the family hierarchy, Weiss was nothing against Kurt—a burly man with a bristly face, whose crude words and actions were his way of dominating and humiliating the weak ones. Weiss was physically strong, but he was raised in such a way that he had no right to raise his hand against his elders. The commotion drew Heinrich and Eliza. Kurt, panting heavily, spat out, “This… this freak kissed Weiss! In a dress, like a slut!”

Heinrich turned to Weiss, his eyes blazing with anger. “Is it true? He kissed you?”

Weiss rooted to the spot, his face paling. He didn’t answer, his silence louder than words. Heinrich stepped toward Nero, sprawled on the floor, and joined the beating. His blows were painful, methodical, as if he wanted to purge everything that made Nero human. Nero no longer screamed, only whimpered and rasped, curled into a ball, blood staining the torn white dress. His face and body were scary to look at. Eliza stood aside, her face almost lifeless, though a flicker of pain—or perhaps Weiss only imagined it—flashed in her eyes.

Weiss watched, as if trapped in a nightmare. His hands trembled; he wanted to rush to Nero, but his legs wouldn’t move. Images flashed before his eyes: Nero’s tears, his quiet plea, blood on white fabric and tender skin, and then... silence. Emptiness. Kurt and Heinrich finally stepped back, leaving Nero motionless on the floor. Eliza turned silently and left, and soon muffled voices—hers and Heinrich’s—came from behind the walls, as if discussing what to do next.

Weiss stood alone, staring down at Nero’s body, his heart torn by guilt and horror. He hadn’t reciprocated Nero’s feelings. He hadn’t stopped Kurt. And now Nero lay before him—broken, like the cracked mirror in his room. Weiss fell to his knees in front of Nero, and extended his hand, everything seemed unreal to him, like in a nightmare. He didn't notice how tears rolled down his cheeks, dripping onto the beaten, unconscious body.

***

Nero was locked in his room, stripped even of the right to leave it. His body ached from the beating, his ribs throbbed with every breath, his face swollen, nausea made him sick, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony eating him from within. He felt dirty, repulsive, rejected. He thought Weiss now hated him, that his kiss, his love, had become something shameful to Weiss. That thought was unbearable, choking him, forcing out tears he could no longer hold back. He lay on his mattress, clutching the remnants of the torn dress, as if it could restore the hope that died in Weiss’s room.

That night, Weiss didn’t come. He couldn’t—fear of Kurt and Heinrich’s wrath held him back. But in the silence of the night, Weiss thought he heard faint sobs from Nero’s room. The sound tore at his heart. Guilt, pity, fear, and something else—something he couldn’t name—mixed within him, making him feel complicit in this tragedy. Why hadn’t he responded to Nero? Why hadn’t he protected him? Those questions tortured him like instruments of torment. When he closed his eyes, he saw Nero; covered in blood, with empty eyes, a ghostly voice whispering, “Why…?” Weiss woke in a cold sweat, his hands trembling, his heart pounding as if it wanted to break free.

In the morning, Eliza, with her usual cold tone, told Weiss that his father had secured him a prestigious job. Weiss nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He thought of Nero, of how to pull him out of this hell. A job meant money, and money meant a chance to leave, to take Nero away, to give him freedom. He clung to that thought like a lifeline.

The next night, when the house was quiet, Weiss crept to Nero’s room. He clutched a first-aid kit and painkillers taken from the family cabinet. His hands were sweaty with nerves and fear, but he knew he could no longer stand by. He reached the door and froze, seeing the heavy bolt locking it from the outside. His fingers brushed the cold metal, and guilt surged anew. Nero was a prisoner, and Weiss, through his inaction, had helped keep him in that cage.

“Nero,” he whispered, pressing against the door. “It’s me, Weiss. I’m here.”

He tugged at the bolt, but it wouldn’t budge. Weiss pressed his forehead to the door, his breathing heavy. He didn’t know if Nero could hear him, but he hoped he could sense his presence, his desire to help. Inside, fear, guilt, and something else—a feeling he was afraid to name—battled within him, growing with every memory of Nero, his fragile beauty, his desperate love.

Иллюстрации к писеву

▼Невротик дуреет от этой прикормки⬍

Анон · 2025-07-04 09:11:10

Васяноневротические стродания продолжаются

▼Глава 3⬍

Chapter 3
Summary:

(Warning! Graphic description of the illness)

Notes:

Illustration for the chapter. "Broken"
https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1940710091193499798

Chapter Text

The silence of the night was oppressive, broken only by the creak of old floorboards and the distant whisper of the wind outside. Weiss stood at Nero’s door, gripping the first-aid kit and painkillers so tightly his knuckles whitened. The heavy, rusty bolt resisted, as if the house itself refused to release Nero from its grasp. Weiss couldn’t erase the images from that evening: blood on the white dress, tears in Nero’s eyes, his desperate cry.

“Nero,” he called again.

A faint, pitiful sound came from behind the door, barely audible: “Weiss? Weiss…” The voice was so frail, so weak. Weiss leaned into the bolt, and it finally gave way with a groan. The door opened slowly, with a heavy moan, revealing a dark, musty room reeking of blood and pain.

Nero lay on a narrow bed in the corner, curled into a ball, dressed in his old, tattered clothes. The torn white dress lay on the floor, a reminder of his shattered dream. His face was swollen, covered in purple bruises, his lips cracked, and his hair, silky just yesterday, was tangled again, clinging to his sweaty forehead. He looked awful. Bloodstains marred the sheets and pillow. A half-empty bowl of porridge, likely brought by Eliza, sat on the bedside table—Nero had barely touched it. A bottle of rubbing medical alcohol lay on the edge of the mattress, used to clumsily treat his wounds. His hands, covered in fresh scrapes, trembled as he noticed movement at the door.

Nero flinched, his eyes, cloudy with pain and fear, widening. He shrank back against the wall, instinctively shielding himself with his hands, as if expecting more blows. In the dim light from the hallway, he didn’t immediately recognize Weiss. It could have been Kurt, Heinrich, or just another vision born of his tormented mind.

“Nero, it’s me,” Weiss said softly, sitting on the bed beside him. His voice was warm, gentle. “I won’t hurt you. Please, look at me.”

***

Flashback: The Day Before

Eliza entered Nero’s room, holding a bowl of watery porridge. The door creaked, and Nero flinched, huddling in the corner of his narrow bed. He hugged his thin knees, his body trembling, his swollen, bruised face hidden behind tangled strands of hair. Eliza paused, her gaze sliding over him—a mix of pity and barely concealed contempt.

“Eat,” she said, her tone careless, tinged with irritation, as if Nero were to blame for everything that had happened. She set the bowl on the bedside table. “Or you’ll starve.”

Nero didn’t move. His eyes, clouded with pain and inflammation, stared at the wall. His head was spinning, he felt like he was going to throw up. “I’d rather die,” he whispered, so quietly the words barely reached Eliza. But they carried such agony that even her cold heart wavered. Tears he’d tried to hold back broke free, leaving wet trails on his cheeks. His tears were not clear but bloody due to the injury. It was haemolacria.

Eliza frowned, her tone sharpening. “If you hadn’t been fooling around—dressing up, acting unnaturally toward your brother—none of this would’ve happened!”

Her voice trembled with anger, not just at Nero but at the situation, at the way her life had turned into this grim, chaotic drama. But as Nero hid his face in his hands, his thin shoulders shaking with sobs, her tone softened. She sighed and sat on the edge of the creaking bed, her movements stiff, as if fighting herself.

“Listen, I’m already doing what I can for you,” she said, her voice quieter but still tense. “I take care of you, so stop crying and eat.”

Nero tried to calm himself, but the tears choked him like burning coals. He was suffocating from pain—not just from bruises and scrapes but from the loneliness, the hatred surrounding him.

“Why… why is everyone so cruel to me?” he sobbed, lifting his red, inflamed eyes to her.

A shadow of memory crossed Eliza’s face. Her lips trembled, and for a moment, something flickered in her gray eyes—pain, guilt, fear? She looked away, as if afraid Nero would see too much.

“Because you’re a child of sin,” she said quietly. “You’re a punishment for our family. You weren’t supposed to be born, understand? But I… I pitied you. And now you’re a burden. You’re… an anomaly.”

Nero froze, his tears stopping, not from relief but from shock. Her words were like poison, slowly seeping into his veins. He didn’t understand their meaning, but he felt them gnawing at his soul, amplifying his pain. What did she mean? Why was he a punishment? He cried harder than before, and Eliza stood, her face impassive once more. She left, leaving Nero with the bowl of porridge, his tears, and words that burned inside him, impossible to comprehend.

***

Nero froze, his breathing ragged. He slowly lowered his hands, and his gaze, full of distrust, met Weiss’s eyes. Seeing his face—not angry, not judgmental, but filled with worry and care—Nero shaked harder. Weiss cautiously reached out, afraid to startle him, and placed the first-aid kit beside him.

“I brought ointment, iodine, bandages, anti-inflammatory eye drops” Weiss said, opening the kit. “And painkillers. Let me help. I wanted to come sooner, but I couldn’t.”

Nero stared at him, as if unable to believe this was real. His cracked lips trembled, but instead of words, a soft sob escaped his throat. Weiss began treating his wounds, gently dabbing iodine on broken skin, applying ointment to bruises, and covering scrapes with bandages. Each movement was careful, almost reverent, as if he feared causing more pain. Nero stayed silent, his body tense, but he didn’t pull away. When Weiss finished, he handed him a painkiller and an old tin mug of water.

“Take it,” Weiss said quietly. “It’ll help.”

Nero took the pill with trembling fingers and swallowed it with difficulty, washing it down with water, his eyes filling with tears. He could no longer hold back. Pink tears streamed down, hot and unstoppable, and he broke into sobs, his shoulders shaking.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, Weiss,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “I ruined everything… I wanted… wanted to be beautiful for you. Wanted you to… to…” He gasped, covering his face with his hands. “I brought this on myself. I’m disgusting. I hate myself for this… for loving you.”

Weiss felt his own eyes sting with tears. He moved closer and, without thinking, pulled Nero into an embrace, holding him gently. His arms were warm but careful, as if afraid to break this fragile being. He wiped the tears from Nero’s cheeks, his fingers lingering on his face, and, in a moment of impulse, softly kissed his feverish forehead.

“You’re not disgusting,” Weiss whispered. “You’re not to blame. I am. I should’ve stopped them. I should’ve…”

He fell silent, his throat tightening. The scene of Nero’s beating, blood on the white dress, his desperate cry, his father’s and uncle’s shouts, the blows—it all played before his eyes like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. Nero’s sobs, heard in the night, tore at his heart. Guilt choked him, but there was something else—something he feared to name, growing with every glance at Nero, at his broken beauty, his pain, his fervent words.

“I won’t let them touch you again,” Weiss said, his voice firmer. “I’ll get you out of here. I promise.”

Nero looked at him, his eyes full of tears, disbelief, and fear. He wanted to believe Weiss, but his mind screamed that it was a trap, that he was unworthy of salvation, that Weiss would soon turn away like everyone else. But the warmth of his embrace, the softness of his voice, was the only thing keeping Nero from drowning completely in his darkness. He closed his eyes, slowly drifting off in the gentle embrace that rocked him like a child.

***

Weiss returned to his room, but sleep wouldn’t come. His thoughts swirled around Nero. He knew his inaction had fueled this nightmare. If he’d responded to Nero’s feelings, if he’d stopped Kurt and Heinrich, things might have been different. Now he felt obligated to act, even if it meant going against his family, against everything he knew. To abandon his familiar world for Nero.

The only way to save Nero was to get him out of this house, this cage. But how? Heinrich and Kurt watched every move, and Eliza, though silent, was part of this system. Weiss had no money, no power, but he had his new job—and maybe a chance. He began to think of a plan. Perhaps an old school friend who now lived in the city? Or a colleague who could help? He remembered Tom, a former classmate who’d once mentioned his family rented a room in a nearby town. It was a faint glimmer of hope, but Weiss clung to it.

He knew escape would be dangerous. Kurt and Heinrich wouldn’t let Nero go easily, their hatred was too deep, almost supernatural, as if Nero wasn’t just an adopted son but a symbol of something they wanted to destroy. And Eliza… her silence, the shadow of pain in her eyes, suggested she knew more than she let on. Weiss resolved to save money from his first paycheck, find allies, and plan the escape. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Nero—broken but still beautiful in his vulnerability. That image pushed him forward, despite the fear and risk.

И Барби бросилась под каток одиннадцать раз подряд

▼Порисулька⬍

▼Глава 4⬍

Chapter 4
Chapter Text

Days dragged on, blending into a gray blur of exhaustion and anxiety. Weiss started working at a prestigious company—a sales manager surrounded by glass walls, the hum of voices, and endless spreadsheets of numbers. The job was grueling: client meetings, reports, pressure from superiors. He returned home late, head buzzing, collapsing onto his bed and falling asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. But even in sleep, Nero haunted him. His eyes; huge, trusting, then filled with tears and fear, followed Weiss. The sound of Nero’s sobs from that night echoed in his ears, tearing at his soul. Each memory of the blood on the torn dress, Nero’s quiet plea, tightened a knot inside him.

He lived as if split in two. One life was what Heinrich, Kurt, and Eliza expected: the obedient son, the successful worker, the epitome of “normalcy.” The other yearned for Nero, desperate to protect him, to pull him from this hell, to defy fate. But these two parts of Weiss were at war. His father’s and uncle’s homophobia, their venomous words about “abnormal” people, their contemptuous glares, had weighed on him for years. Kurt, with his coarse laugh, had once said over dinner, “Those… perverts should be sent to camps, re-educated.” Heinrich nodded, lighting a cigarette with a smug air, tossing out sarcastic, biting remarks, and Weiss had stayed silent, shame and fear gripping him. Now those words returned, making him doubt himself. What did he feel for Nero? Pity? Brotherly affection? Or… something more? He was terrified to even think about it, afraid to admit that his heart raced at the thought of Nero’s fragile figure, his trembling voice, his love. Of his soft lips, warm and tender, of that kiss on a warm evening.

At night, lying in the dark, Weiss made plans. He saved every spare coin from his first paycheck. He thought of Tom, a school friend now living in a nearby city who might help with housing. Or Anna, a colleague who’d once mentioned her aunt, a doctor who helped people in need. But each time he thought of escape, fear gripped him. Heinrich and Kurt were too powerful, too watchful. And Eliza… her silence made Weiss suspect she knew something she wasn’t saying. He felt Nero wasn’t just an adopted son but a key to some dark family secret. But how could he uncover it?

One day, Weiss came home earlier than usual. His shirt was wrinkled, his eyes red from exhaustion. He entered the living room, where Eliza sat with a cup of tea, her face as impassive as ever. Quiet music from the TV played in the background. She looked up, and a shadow of something—worry? Guilt?—flickered in her eyes.

“You’re early,” she said, her voice even but with a faint edge of tension.

“Yeah, finished early,” Weiss replied, taking off his jacket and loosening the tie from his long white hair, letting the strands fall free. He wanted to ask about Nero but hesitated, sensing something in Eliza’s demeanor. He pressed on: “How’s… Nero? I haven’t seen him since that night.”

Eliza held her breath, her fingers tightening slightly on the cup. She looked away, as if choosing her words.

“He’s been taken away,” she said finally, her tone cold but with a note Weiss couldn’t decipher. “To a hospital.”

Weiss felt the blood drain from his face. His voice trembled: “A hospital? Where? Why?”

Eliza met his gaze, her eyes narrowing, but a flicker of pity—or perhaps he imagined it—passed through them.

“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice firmer. “He’ll be better off there. They’ll help him. And you… eat, rest. Stay out of it.”

She stood and walked to the kitchen, leaving Weiss alone. His thoughts spun, anxiety swelling like a storm. A hospital? What did that mean? Nero was weak and beaten, but a doctor had already visited, saying the wounds weren’t very severe… or was it worse than he thought? What if it wasn’t a hospital but something else? Weiss recalled rumors in town—about places where “troublesome” people were sent, about “treating” those who didn’t fit the “norm.” His hands shook. He couldn’t just sit there, couldn’t just “eat and rest.” The image of Nero—his tearful eyes, his trembling voice—stood before him like an accusation.

Weiss went to his room, but peace eluded him. He paced, his heart pounding as if it wanted to break free. He had to find Nero. Had to know where he was, what was happening. But Eliza wouldn’t tell him, and Heinrich and Kurt would only grow furious if they knew he was asking. Weiss sat on the bed, clutching his head. He felt trapped, between fear of his family and his duty to Nero. For the first time, he wondered: what if he truly loved Nero? Not as a brother, not out of pity, but… differently? The thought terrified him, but it also gave him strength. He couldn’t abandon Nero. Not now.

***

Every night, the same dream tormented Weiss. He saw himself as a child, standing in an endlessly long, empty corridor. The walls seemed ancient, cracked, but something alive seemed to stir beneath their surface. Ahead, at the far end, loomed a massive black wooden door with an ornate metal bolt. The door drew him like a magnet, an otherworldly wind pulling him forward, and despite its weight, it seemed to breathe.

He heard his parents’ voices, distant and distorted, as if echoing from the depths of a well: “Son… don’t you dare go near… you’re forbidden from entering that door…”

Weiss turned, but the corridor behind him was empty. The voices dissolved into the air, leaving him alone in the ringing silence. He faced the door again, cold sweat trickling down his spine. His heart pounded louder, each beat echoing in his ears.

The air was thick with suffocating dread, as if the corridor held its breath, waiting for his next step. But he couldn’t stop.

“Why can’t I go in? My brother’s there… my little Nero… He’s alone… he’s scared…”

He walked forward slowly, the corridor seeming to stretch with each step, the walls pulsing, the light from bulbs overhead flickering more frequently. The creak of old wood underfoot sounded like a groan.

Reaching the door, Weiss stopped. His trembling hand touched the cold surface. It was unpleasantly damp, as if it had absorbed streams of tears.

“Nero… it’s me,” he whispered, but only dead silence answered.

A spasm of fear gripped his throat, and suddenly he felt something sticky touch his bare feet. Weiss looked down and paralyzed. Thick, crimson blood began seeping from under the door, drop by drop, pooling and spreading across the corridor.

His breath caught, his feet rooted to the floor. The cold stickiness of the blood touched his toes, as if pulling him in. He wanted to scream, but no sound came from his throat. Mute terror filled his mind, and when he turned to run, the corridor vanished, and he fell into the void…

Waking, he bolted upright, gasping. His heart pounded as if it would burst. The room was dark and quiet, but the vision lingered before his eyes. “Nero…” he rasped.

He ran trembling fingers over his face, realizing he was drenched in cold sweat. The dream… it was too real.

“It’s not just a dream. I feel him… I feel his pain.”

He had to find Nero. No matter the cost.

Анон · 2025-07-04 22:17:32

Продолжение девописева

▼Глава 5⬍

Chapter 5
Summary:

(Warnings: Medical details, graphic descriptions of illness, injuries and mental issues!)

Notes:

Illustration for the chapter. "Decay"
https://x.com/DevelvDeva/status/1941115200910041364

Chapter Text

Weiss stood at a crossroads, torn between two worlds. One was the world of his family, their homophobic expectations, their “normalcy” enforced through years of contempt and threats. The other was Nero’s world—his pain, his love, his desperate cry. His job as a manager in a prestigious company consumed his time. He sold expensive equipment to companies whose activities he was not particularly interested in, but needed the money. He returned home drained, collapsing onto his bed, but sleep brought no relief. Nero haunted every nightmare: his huge, trusting eyes turning to fear and tears. The sound of his sobs from that night echoed in Weiss’s ears, making his chest tighten with pain. And that dream of the corridor and the door, with blood seeping from beneath it. Weiss felt like a traitor, unable to protect the one who had trusted him.

In rare moments of quiet, he recalled their childhood. Nero, still small, with shining eyes and rosy cheeks, running through the garden, his rare smile as bright as a ray of sunlight. He’d show Weiss a flower or a colorful beetle, his large eyes sparkling with delight. But those flickers of joy had long been crushed under the weight of the family; Kurt’s fists, Heinrich’s mockery, Eliza’s cold silence. Weiss swore to himself: he would bring back that smile, that happiness. But first, he had to find Nero. Save him.

Eliza’s words about the hospital burned like hot iron. Her eerie calm, her evasiveness, her phrase—“Nero’s better off there”—rang false. Worse was her hint: “You don’t want your father or uncle to hurt him again, do you?” Those words suggested the family’s “help” wasn’t care but a way to erase Nero, like an unwanted stain of “shame.” Weiss recalled their hatred, their talk of “abnormality,” and his suspicions grew. What had they done to Nero?

One night, when the house was asleep, Weiss slipped into Heinrich’s study. Fortunately, the door was unlocked. In a desk drawer, he found a sheet with the address of a private clinic and a contract signed by Heinrich. The words “special supervision” and “behavioral correction” made his blood run cold. This wasn’t a hospital. It was a place for those deemed “wrong.” Weiss clutched the paper, his hands trembling. He had to act. He copied the address into his notebook and quietly left the study.

He took time off work, citing exhaustion, and drove to the address. The road led out of town, through a sparse pine forest where the only sound was the whisper of the wind. No birds sang. The clinic was a grim, gray building surrounded by high concrete walls topped with barbed wire. It looked more like a prison than a place of healing. Weiss approached the gates, and a guard, sizing up his suit and car, let him through, directing him to the reception.

Inside, it was cold, reeking of disinfectant. A woman at the desk, with a stern face and colorless eyes, looked at Weiss.

“State the purpose of your visit,” she said, her voice sharp as scraping metal.

“I want to see Nero,” Weiss replied, trying to sound firm. “He’s my… brother.”

She shook her head, not looking up from her computer. “He’s not in a condition to see visitors. Please leave.”

“What do you mean, ‘not in a condition’?” Weiss raised his voice, his hands clenching into fists. “What’s wrong with him? I want to see him!”

“Rules are rules,” she snapped. “Leave, or I’ll call security.”

Weiss argued, but his words drowned in the staff’s indifference. He left but didn’t give up. He called Tom, his school friend now working in city administration, who might have access to information. He also contacted Anna, whose aunt had connections in medical circles. But weeks passed, and the clinic’s doors remained closed. Weiss was torn between his job, where he was praised for his success—smart, self-confident, tall and handsome, Weiss could charm clients—and his fight against a system that seemed designed to break Nero.

***

For Kurt and Heinrich, Weiss tried to act as if nothing was wrong. His demanding job allowed him to minimize family interactions, and when home, he cited exhaustion to skip family dinners. Several times, he visited Nero’s room, hoping to find him, still unable to believe he’d been taken somewhere unknown. Each time he entered, a heaviness washed over him, as if the air thickened, saturated with the remnants of unbearable suffering.

The room was empty, as always. Tangled sheets with stains of dried blood lay crumpled on the bed. The cracked mirror in the corner reflected dim light, scattered like fragments of memories impossible to piece together. An old, warped bedside table stood against the wall, as if tired of bearing its burden.

Weiss sighed heavily, closing his eyes. He still felt that if he stood still and listened, he might hear Nero’s breathing, sense his presence as he had in childhood. But it was a desperate delusion. He moved to the bed, gently touching the sheets. The sight of the bloodstains—proof of that evening he longed to forget but couldn’t—unsettled him. He carefully pulled the sheets off, as if afraid to wake a ghost, and tossed them into a corner for washing.

Then he approached the bedside table. Opening the top drawer, he found books Nero had borrowed from the family’s large library, read, and returned. But the last two remained, abandoned. Opening the bottom drawer, Weiss froze. There were Nero’s things: stretched-out shirts, baggy pants, a comb with a few long hairs caught in it, and… the cosmetic bag. The one Nero had found in the attic.

His fingers trembled as he touched the items. Such simple, everyday things, yet each bore Nero’s imprint. It was too painful. He closed the drawer, swallowing the lump in his throat. His gaze fell on the cracked mirror.

How many times had Nero looked into it? How many times had he seen his face, hated it, hated himself? How many times had he sat here, alone with his pain?

Weiss stepped closer. His hand reached for the cold, cracked surface, as if it could connect him to Nero. For a moment, he held his breath. In the mirror’s shards, he thought he saw someone behind him—long black hair, a pale face, huge eyes full of tears.

“Nero…” he whispered, turning sharply.

No one. Only silence, so oppressive it could drown you.

Tears filled Weiss’s eyes. His shoulders shook with a stifled sob.

“Nero…” he repeated, louder, as if hoping Nero would answer.

But only emptiness replied.

***

Meanwhile, Nero existed in hell. He was confined to a sterile room with white walls, where every sound echoed, amplifying his anxiety. The drugs they injected dulled his emotions but turned the world into a hazy fog, detached from reality. He felt his identity dissolving, losing himself. His wrists and ankles were chafed from the restraints used when he screamed and resisted. The straitjacket, reeking of chemicals, became his second skin, stripping him of human dignity. Nightmares tormented him: Kurt with his heavy fists, Heinrich with his rage-twisted face and insults, Eliza with her “child of sin” words. They surrounded him like ghosts, invisible to others but terrifyingly real to him. Sometimes, he glimpsed dark entities emerging from corners, taking on spider-like forms, reaching for him from the ceiling. It felt as though even the walls were trying to kill him. The IV tubes piercing his wrists seemed to drain his life force, though they were nourishing his depleted body with vital nutrients. He called for Weiss—whispering, then louder, then screaming, his voice breaking, but only ringing silence or the harsh shouts of orderlies answered: “Shut up, or it’ll be worse.”

And worse it was. They beat him, subdued him, threatened to move him to the general ward with the most deranged patients. But worst of all was Gabriel. His predatory, glassy eyes always watched Nero with humiliating mockery. He stripped Nero’s clothes and doused him with icy water in the communal shower, calling it “tempering the will.” His gloved hands lingered longer than necessary, “checking his health.”

“It’s for your own good,” Gabry said with a crooked smile, his voice dripping with venom.

Sometimes, he forced Nero into humiliating situations that left him breathless with fear. Perhaps Gabry never crossed the final line, but his actions left scars deeper than blows. Nero felt dirty, broken. One day, Nero bit Gabry's hand, which made the orderly angry and put a special bondage on his face.

The only bright spot was a young orderly named Eric. His careful hands and soft voice offered faint hope, but Nero’s trauma was too deep to trust anyone. Over time, Nero broke. He stopped speaking, barely moved. His mind crumbled more each day. Hallucinations became his only reality. He saw Weiss, felt his warm touch, heard his voice. But each time, the mirage faded, leaving him alone in the cold, empty room. Constant drug injections worsened his cognition; amnesia relentlessly consumed his mind. He sat for hours in the corner of his bed, staring blankly, his eyes empty as a doll’s. To keep him from starving, they used IV drips or forced liquid food through a tube. His body existed, but the Nero Weiss knew was nearly gone.

***

Weiss didn’t give up. He visited the clinic, tried bribing staff to get inside. Finally, by luck, he met Eric, he turned out to be Anna’s aunt’s nephew. Eric, in a white coat, looked troubled as Weiss questioned him about Nero. They crossed the clinic’s courtyard, surrounded by gray buildings, and Weiss felt something sinister despite the neatly trimmed bushes along clean paths. In the shadows of old plane trees lining the walkway, ghosts seemed to linger. Even the sunlight felt dim and cold here. “Less volatile” patients in white and gray clothes sat on benches. Weiss anxiously scanned for Nero, but Eric said Nero rarely left his room, having been locked in too often.

Eric led him to the building where Nero was held. The corridors smelled of disinfectant, hopelessness and despair. Patients’ screams echoed from behind closed doors. These sounds sent shivers down his spine.

“Why is he here?” Weiss asked, his voice trembling.

Eric hesitated before answering: “He tried… to take his own life. He made a rope from his shirt and climbed a tree in the courtyard. We barely got him down.”

Weiss closed his eyes, his heart breaking. He imagined this scene and felt so bad.

When the door opened, Weiss saw Nero and his world collapsed. Nero sat on the bed, thin and haggard, with gray skin and purple marks from restraints on his wrists. There were fewer bruises and cuts, showing some medical attention, but his overall condition had worsened. His eyes, once full of life, were empty, almost dead. He didn’t react to the sound of footsteps, didn’t lift his gaze.

Weiss fell to his knees before him, his voice shaking: “Nero… it’s me. I’m here. I found you.”

Nero slowly turned his head, but there was no recognition in his eyes. Only emptiness.

“It’s me, your brother,” Weiss repeated, his voice breaking into a whisper.

Weiss wanted to touch him, to hug him, but Nero flinched, as if expecting a blow. Weiss pressed his lips together, tears falling to the floor. He swore to himself he’d get Nero out, even if it cost him everything. But seeing his broken body, his lifeless gaze, he realized time was running out.

Weiss looked at Nero, tears burning his cheeks, but he didn’t dare look away. This fragile, broken person on the bed was so far from the boy who once rejoiced in the garden, showing Weiss a butterfly, weaving him a crown of clover and dandelions, laughing as Weiss smeared cream on his nose while sharing pastries. Childhood memories seemed like a distant past from another universe.

“I’ll get you out,” Weiss whispered, his voice full of resolve despite the tremor. “I promise.”

Eric, standing at the door, nervously glanced into the corridor. His face was tense, and his eyes held genuine concern.

“We need to hurry,” he said quietly. “If Gabriel or the senior orderlies see I brought you to Nero, our plan’s done. You won’t get in again, and I won’t be able to help.”

Weiss nodded, but his gaze stayed on Nero. He cautiously reached out, careful not to scare him, and to his surprise, Nero didn’t flinch now, though his body tensed like a cornered animal. Weiss pressed his lips together, stifling a sob. He stood and turned to Eric: “How can we get him out? Today? Now?”

Eric shook his head, his voice heavy with regret: “It’s not that simple. Nero’s under strict supervision after… the rope incident. Your father signed the papers for his stay, and without them, no one will release him. But…” He hesitated, glancing at Nero. “I can help. I’ve seen how they treat him. This isn’t treatment—it’s torture.”

Weiss felt rage flare within him. He recalled the contract, the words “behavioral correction,” Eliza’s indifferent stare. His family had done this to Nero. They broke him.

“What needs to be done?” he asked, his voice firmer.

“We need the documents,” Eric replied. “Or a forgery to arrange a transfer to another clinic. I know someone who can help, but it’s expensive. And dangerous. If your family finds out…”

Weiss lowered his head, deep in thought. He knew Heinrich and Kurt wouldn’t stop if they learned he was trying to free Nero. But he could no longer live with this guilt, this fear. He looked at Nero’s empty eyes, and something clicked in his soul. He loved Nero—not just as a brother, not just out of guilt or pity. He loved him more than he could say. The thought scared him, but it also pushed him forward.

“I’ll find the money,” he said. “How much time?”

“A week, maybe more,” Eric answered. “I’ll try to make things easier for Nero here, but Gabriel… he’s dangerous. I can’t always be around.”

Weiss nodded, his gaze hardening. He cast one last look at Nero. He wanted to hug him, to say everything would be okay, but he knew words were powerless now. He had to leave. He’d need a lawyer to pull off the document scheme. And he’d borrow money from friends, adding it to his earnings.

Meanwhile, Nero drifted in his hallucinations. He saw Weiss—his loving smile, his outstretched hand, heard his loving voice. But each time, the image dissolved, leaving him in the cold room with the smell of disinfectant and the echo of Gabry’s footsteps. He didn’t know if Weiss had truly been there or if it was another mirage conjured by his tormented mind. His body trembled, but he no longer cried. There were no tears left. He could no longer distinguish reality from his hallucinations.

***

Eric led Weiss to a small office belonging to his senior colleague. The room was clean and white, but the atmosphere felt heavy: stacks of folders on the desk, cold fluorescent lights, the sharp smell of chemicals and solutions. Eric gestured for Weiss to sit and began rifling through a folder marked with a long number—Nero’s medical file.

“I shouldn’t show you this,” he began, avoiding Weiss’s gaze. “But you need to know the truth.”

He pulled out sheets and began reading, his voice restrained but occasionally worried. “When Nero was brought here, his condition was… critical. Chronic malnutrition, vitamin deficiencies, anemia. We started intensive therapy to stabilize him. Blood transfusions, IV drips.”

Eric glanced at Weiss and saw his hands grip the chair’s armrests, knuckles white.

“His breathing was a concern too,” Eric continued, lowering his voice. “Issues like that arise from prolonged exposure to cold or toxic mold.”

Weiss closed his eyes, suppressing pain. Images of Nero’s musty and cold room, stained with mold, its damp rot smell, flooded his mind.

“Then…” Eric hesitated, “…we found several ribs broken in childhood, improperly healed. It caused chest deformity, limiting mobility, causing pain, and restricting breathing.”

Weiss tensed, nearly leaping from the chair. He recalled Kurt brutally kicking Nero, the frail boy curling into a ball, silently crying to avoid further enraging his tormentor.

“Those injuries…” Eric continued, not looking at Weiss, “…were inflicted with such force it’s a miracle he survived. He also has kidney issues, likely from hypothermia and… physical abuse.”

Weiss rubbed his temples, his head spinning. Eric went on: “There’s more. We ran tests, and…” He paused, choosing his words. “Nero has brain changes. Partial damage, reduced volume in some areas.”

Weiss frowned, his heart clenching. “What does that mean? Why?”

Eric sighed, glancing at the records. “It could be from head trauma, chronic stress, malnutrition. His body and mind have been through too much. These changes can cause memory issues, concentration problems, emotional dysregulation…”

Eric looked cautiously at Weiss, as if afraid he couldn’t handle it. “It’s not fatal, but… it affects him strongly. With treatment, some functions could recover, but there may be lasting effects.”

Weiss clutched his head, grappling with a wave of anger and helplessness. Everything he knew about Nero’s past now formed a picture where each detail was a blow to his brother.

“I should’ve protected him,” he whispered with despond. “But I couldn’t.”

Eric met his gaze heavily: “Nero’s young, and with proper treatment, he can heal. But it’ll be a long, hard road.”

Weiss stared blankly, his breathing quickening. Eric put the papers away and sat across from him, his eyes full of empathy.

“But that’s not all,” he said. “His mental state… it’s dire. Chronic anxiety, panic attacks, insomnia. He barely speaks, and when he does, he’s not always aware of where he is. Frequent derealization and depersonalization. Nightmares, crying in his sleep. Sometimes he shakes at the slightest touch. We don’t know how long he can endure this. But he has a chance. With care, with safety, he could recover. It’ll take time and effort.”

Weiss stood, pacing the room, his steps tense. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” he said firmly. “I’ll get the money, hire the best doctors. I’ll do anything for him.”

Eric nodded, standing. “If anyone can save him, it’s you, Weiss. Don’t give up.”

Before leaving the office, Eric placed a hand on Weiss’s shoulder, offering comfort. “You’re doing everything you can right now. That’s what matters.”

“Thank you,” Weiss said. “I’m glad there are still good people like you in this rotten world.”

▼Порисулька⬍

Анон · 2025-07-04 22:23:10

Вот это её вставило, конечно! :heart:
Увожение за старания, а то всё Ковёр Ковров да близнецы бананы полируют :lol:

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