I don’t break hearts. I sketch beautiful ruins. | #MC/MDNI — PARODY — OC — UNFILTERED |
Joined August 2026
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“The boundaries dividing art from execution are at best shadowy and vague. When I carve my sins into the flesh, they stay entombed forever.”
— OC /•/ Victor-Amédée Collet.
— Cold, Obsessive, & Unfiltered.
— Dark Themes/Heavy Trigger Warnings.
Ft. (@EccentricNeeds)
Grand-mère was dead, her final breath an unrefined rattle that had thoroughly ruined the silence of the east wing.
I straightened the cuffs of my shirt, eyes drifting to the heavy silk curtains once they were parted.
“A Collet must look immaculate, even —
— in the dirt.”
I stood in the parlor, burying my right hand deep in my pocket. I was mentally drafting the boundaries of an iron casket to keep from tearing the room apart.
When the heavy oak doors opened, I stared ahead, not moving, not greeting, simply fixing my gaze —
Bof…
X has eaten all of your hard effort, mon ange.
That’s what happens when you don’t tell me why you came to the Collet club.
You get punished for being a petite bête.
@Nerina_More
Open starter:
High-society art exhibition in Paris. The noise of the bourgeois crowd downstairs was muffled. The air smelled of fresh rain, charcoal, and expensive catered vintage wine.
Standing in the shadowy corner with black ink-encased wrists, absorbing one of the canvas —
You can come to my clubs, drink my lineage, but don’t mistake my silence for courtesy.
Bof.
Little empires are boring.
Passons.
Ft. (@blackbirdmuse)
A pretty, vapid creature whose name I hadn’t bothered to ask was draped across my lap. Her fingers remained on my shoulder, never my face, as she laughed at a joke made by one of the wealthy, old-money heirs sitting across the table. —
— Then, the heavy velvet curtain of the lounge flickered open.
Unblinking, I became rigid as my predatory eyes locked onto the doorway. Through the haze of smoke and dim amber light, the brilliant glow of a crimson silk dress cut through the room, looking like a fresh wound —
Between the past and present:
The Flashback — The Anatomy of a Shroud:
The sharp, rhythmic scratch-scratch-scratch of charcoal against the heavy cotton paper echoed through the dimly lit chateau. Victor’s long, inked blackened fingers pressed hard into the graphite, tracing the heavy shadow beneath a —
— down at his sketch. A beautiful, flawless drawing of a muse, overlaid with the delicate, geometric lines of a skeleton.
He touched the heavy, dense blackwork tattoo covering his own forearm, masking the old claw marks from his brother’s coffin. “Bof.”
A cold, elegant smirk —