A SIN COMMITTED, A PRAYER ANSWERED

arianne altier. member of the round table. penned by minnie for thc.

[allureofarianne]

hello, i’m minnie and i play arianne altier at the holy covenant. please click 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 to view arianne’s master google doc, including her biography, connections, wanted plots, sample application and more !!!

[voirlvmer]

“She is entirely at her own mercy, which is still better than being at someone else’s mercy.”

— Elfriede Jelinek | The Piano Teacher (via abandonarium)

[xo-skeleton]

““Did you ever say yes to a pleasure? Oh my friends, then you also said yes to all pain. All things are linked, entwined, in love with one another.””

— F. Nietzsche

[andrumedus]

“…I won’t tell you how / the mouth will never be honest / as its teeth…”

— Ocean Vuong, from “Daily Bread”, in Night Sky with Exit Wounds

[rruslana-deactivated20211012]

“I ate civilization. It poisoned me; I was defiled. And then,“ he added in a lower tone, “I ate my own wickedness.””

— Aldous Huxley, Brave New World (via oeut)

[amouthfulloflove]

You’re going to kill your own god  so you can fall in love for the first time.   (…)   You’re going to look at all of your options  and choose conviction.   Choose to carve your own heart out  of the side of a cliff.

Lord of the Butterflies, ‘Your Life’ by Andrea Gibson (via amouthfulloflove)

[thefashiongeeker]

Iris Van Herpen Haute Couture Spring 2020

[revnavolk]

I WILL MAKE YOU SURRENDER.

merciless.

that’s the first rule.

no matter how hard they cry or how long they suffer, there is no room for surrender, no forgiveness for agony. in real war, there’s no mercy, so arianne and revna agree: they’ll never be lenient.

revna begins with small changes. chairs in the dining hall, colors of the walls, one unit at a time, but arianne’s gaze is sharper and she addresses every adjustment with infuriating glee, shattering the illusion revna manipulates. in an instant, it doesn’t matter how carefully she organized the paintings on the wall or the small indents on the floor. all that counts is that arianne caught them and that revna is weak.

in return, arianne inflicts her worst on revna. at a distance, you’d assume them to be enemies. no one should step into their sister’s room and force them to their knees, but it’s all good practice. anger only fuels their ambition, their hunger, and their hunger is like the maw of an insatiable beast: wide open, never full, eyes always blazing for more. so much more.

revna never breaks, however. it’s admirable how easily she’d rather die than submit. even as arianne paralyzes her limbs, brings her to the ground, revna resorts to crawling, uses the joints of her wrists as an anchor and — in a swift motion — yanks the drapes from the wall onto arianne’s head.

she pants as she leans against the wall, chuckling at arianne’s frustrated groans as she fists the sheets off of her. “you rely too much on sight. imagine it in your head. that way, even if a veil is placed over your eyes, you can still picture me —and hurt me.”

Keep reading

[allureofarianne]

ofconquest​:

DOES HE DARE CHOKE UNDER SUCH A QUESTION? No will of man could control the edging of Arianne’s to their deepest desires more so, evaporating under what could be happening between them. Silk sheets would surely be coated in blood if they ever allowed themself to be loved by such a woman. Or would it be sweat from hours of work to satisfy them? They imagined whispered moans coaxed out of her plump lips — ‘Dima’ turning into more of a calling than a pet name.

( “ then shall I fall onto my back? open by soul to be quenched by your touch… ” )  THE WAY HIS POWER PULLED AT HER, BEGGING IT’S CALL TO BE ANSWERED.

None would stop him from having a reckoning by the name of Arianne Altier rip him from this pedestal of existence. There were temporary setbacks to this so-called ‘undoing’ he’d been metaphorically working towards since God’s ultimate demise, yet each linked up in his mind with an encounter from HER. Arianne’s very presence even now forced him to acknowledge something more powerful at work currently because how could he keep coming back to find something new to discover within her.

 ( “ the moment I give into your temptation, I fear to be lost for eternity for who will be able to pull me from the grips of your influence, the loyalty I could potentially receive, the undeniable notion I have fallen into complete infatuation for a mortal— ” )

The words fill the atmosphere in a thick shade of gold as even Dmitri doesn’t want to admit his own weakness in her. Two Altier girls playing with the strings of his existence becoming the situation he desperately needed to escape. Where Romilda represented the light for which he so desperately clings to… Arianne was the darkness from which he ran, begging to escape. The fatal flaw laid in the heart of his being as this particular sister made the darkness more beautiful by the second.

( “do you think this is what God felt when he looked at Adam and Eve, Annie? do you feel this as much as me, or shall I write this off as a simple misunderstanding between two souls?” )

WHEN THE FOREST CLAIMS YOU, IT DOES NOT RELEASE until your skin is no longer just skin but transparent and strange, until your heart is no longer just a bloody and solid thing in your chest but a living root that returns to the earth. The forest swallows you whole, and you cannot leave it until it lets you go.

So, too, does Arianne take Dmitri into her arms now. Bare arms encircle their waist and her breasts lightly graze against their chest in an embrace; feather-light, the wind whistles between them hollowly as if to taunt and tempt them to press tightly against one another as they both hunger to. Between the thin fabrics over their skin can Arianne feel their hearts thunder in anticipation. This desire is shared between them, voracious and wrapped in shadow. For each other — for conquest.

She is bold for them, eyes clear and transparent with need as she answers, “Yes.” Fall on your back. Be quenched by my touch. Give yourself to me and watch as I slip my knife between your ribs. Arianne’s cheek comes to rest against his chest, and so Dmitri does not see the way she smiles sharply at the weakness they so kindly paint for her pleasure. With their words alone, Dmitri draws a map to their end — and her triumph. 

She draws away from them, meets their gaze with a gentleness she pretends to possess. “What of your temptation? What of my fear?” Fear, she says, and the word undoes her. Little by little, word by word, Arianne unravels before Dmitri, their power tugging her toward the peace and solace only they can offer. “To be one of the many under your thumb, so starved for light that I abandon myself? To be merely mortal, reaching for what is beyond my lifetime —”

Too late, Arianne realizes she’s said too much. A flicker of regret cuts through her like a knife, but she recovers without misstep and leans into the moment. Throat exposed, her eyes settling from wild fear to an open invitation, she beckons: “Do not be my God. Be my Adam.” 

She does not tell him she is both Eve and the serpent in the branches; the temptation twofold.

[emo--ocean]

Makeup is by no means natural. That’s the point. If I work hard to survive, you will pay attention when you see me, and you will see the work. Because it is work: to survive, when others would wish otherwise. They want us to disappear if we can’t be what they want. But beauty lets me see myself the way I need to be seen; it is redemptive in ways that I often don’t have the courage to be verbally. I let it speak for me, at least the preliminaries of getting to know me: This is weird, you might not like it, but if you do — come here, you see me as I am. Hello.

A Bridge Between Love and Lipstick, arabellesicardi (via min-yidi)

[andtenderness-deactivated202601]

“To crave and to have are as like as a thing and its shadow. For when does a berry break upon the tongue as sweetly as when one longs to taste it, and when is the taste refracted into so many hues and savors of ripeness and earth, and when do our senses know any thing so utterly as when we lack it? And here again is a foreshadowing – the world will be made whole. For to wish for a hand on one’s hair is all but to feel it. So whatever we may lose, very craving gives it back to us again.”

— Marilynne Robinson, Housekeeping (via quotespile)

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

“Eat me up, my love, or else I’m going to eat you up. Fear of eating, fear of the edible, fear on the part of the one of them who feels loved, desired, who wants to be loved, desired, who desires to be desired, who knows that there is no greater proof of love than the other’s appetite, who is dying to be eaten up yet scared to death by the idea of being eaten up, who says or doesn’t say, but who signifies: I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow.”

Stigmata: Escaping Texts, Hélène Cixous tr. by Keith Cohen

[dreamyvixen]

“Night-born beauty. How sweetly she melts in her sin.”

— František Halas, tr. by Stephan Delbos, from “Malá Strana Night Vision,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[allureofarianne]

bastienavalos​:

— With all ceremony completed, the world seemed to have fallen back into uneasy routine, everything beginning to return to the sense of normal that had been established prior to Cador’s death. Well, not quite normal — everything seemed slightly tense in the days that followed the end of the funeral ceremonies, as though everyone were on edge — the question of a new Stars starting to be whispered from ear to ear, each mortal as nervous and eager as the next to hear who would be elected to replace Cador. 

Had this happened a few years ago, Bastien would likely be among them, cashing in his bets for the most suitable replacement. Unfortunately, he was now in the unenviable position of being one of the voices left to elect a new Stars — a prospect which was neither exciting nor appealing to him. At this point, frankly, he was just hoping someone would step forward so that he could be done with the whole thing and cast his vote in their direction. 

The Globe is where he finds himself in the days following Cador’s funeral — perhaps, in another life, he would have graced the stage of such a place, tried his hand at acting — but, in this one, he’s content simply to watch the performances, to laugh or cry as instructed and to allow them to distract him, at least momentarily. This, surprisingly, was perhaps one of the most constructive ways Bastien chose to spend his free time.

He hears Arianne Altier before he sees her, a familiar, melodic laugh capturing his attention and drawing him closer to her orbit — Arianne seemed to have this effect on him, the ability to pull him to her side and keep him there, even when he was unaware of it. “Arianne,” He greets as soon as he is within earshot, rocking back and forth on his heels, “Not out hunting?”

MEN LIKE BASTIEN ARE AS COMMONPLACE AS LEAVES IN THE FOREST or clouds in the sky. He is beautiful, yes; even Arianne has admired the sharp edge of his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw. When he laughs, the creatures of the earth scurry forth from their hiding places to admire him, and every syllable of his voice is a blessing that promises abundance and adventure. Bastien’s charm is utterly simple. There is some genius to it, Arianne will admit. He is easy on the eyes and on the tongue, palatable, bite-sized. 

It’s almost too easy to wrap him around her finger, but sometimes, even Arianne grows weary and tired. Her bones begin to ache, and her soul craves rest just like any other mortal. She will take from Bastien what he so readily gives. “Bastien, how did you know I longed to see you?” The light is caught in her eyes as Arianne smiles, cheeks round like apples. “I’m not out hunting, no. I thought the Holy Land might need me at home, after a time of mourning.”

“Besides,” Arianne’s lashes brush against the top of her cheeks as she lowers her gaze, “hunting Daemonium reminds me of darker times.” She doesn’t elaborate; she doesn’t need to. Who in the Holy Land do not know of the Altier tragedy? The darlings of society, cast into Tartarus to bear their father’s shame and revel in blood, patiently waiting for their father’s sanity to return while enduring his crimes. Bastien need not know that Arianne knew the heat of blood on her chin, her own mingling with that of the divine; that she would choose it again, if it meant she would be safe forever.

He would not look at her with delight if he did.

“I’m more surprised that you stayed behind,” Arianne notes, head canting to the side as she studies him for apparent sign of illness. “You are the military genius, no? You’re our hero.” Her lips curl sweetly, golden and lovely. “Though in staying home, you’ve become mine.”

[primulaceas]

Alejandra Pizarnik, "The Green Table" from Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962 - 1972

[allureofarianne]

imitationisdeus​:

There has never been a time where Michael has felt more at peace. His body is calmed, his thoughts slowed. And it is that which he is drunk on more than any wine.  The calm has made him reckless. He has become a being with one sole pursuit. It has been too long since he has bared his soul so quickly. Too long since he wore a weakness so barely covered.

But his own arrogance protects him. Who would truly suspect Michael — the angel who slew God — wrapped around the finger of one mortal woman?

The dancers shift into something darker, quicker and it’s as if they knew she was coming. He watches them speed headlong into a new performance. He feels Arianne’s presence by his side.

Your Majesty, the term feels jarring and ugly. Something guttural that should never have dared to enter her mouth. It’s shocking, the reaction he has to it. For is it not true? He is a king — King of Caelum, King of the Angels — but it feels like a farce coming from her lips. A false title, when he should only ever be Michael to her. Because that truth is so sweet when it slips from between her smile. He is Michael but he is her Michael.

“Your envy is ill-placed.” He does not turn to look at her, he can not. He is not yet ready to tell her the truth and hold her gaze, not in the daylight. “You are the reason I have come to appreciate their beauty.” Bold, reckless, foolish. Someone could hear the sincerity in his tone. Someone could learn how to twist the knife in deeper. But those thoughts never come.  (Is it ego or a secret desire to concede that keeps the worries at bay?)

It is at her request that he turns to her, lifts a hand to her face. It is an action centuries old — an angel’s touch on one desperate mortal, the guiding hand of God. Oh how God would laugh at him now, knowing how keenly the places are reversed. How it is he who is the desperate one here not her. He would see it in the softness of Michael’s fingertips, know it in the hesitancy of his actions. Michael has not touched a mortal since He commanded it so. God would never allow him to show such weakness.

But he destroyed God, so he brings the cup to her lips.

LIKE ANY GOD, WORSHIP PLEASES HER. It satiates her, irons out whatever wrinkles are left behind by the ache and agony of being mortal. Her envy recedes as quickly as it emerged, and Arianne is no longer a vengeful sprite but, once again, a ravishing beauty, which enriches and does not destroy. For Michael’s sincerity pleases her, and even the way he does not meet her gaze stirs inside her chest a delighted purr. He knows as well as she that when their eyes lock, he will no longer be Caelum’s King but Michael, who desires her, calls for her, who touches his hand to her cheek and makes her shiver.

Even the Ruler of All Angels can tremble; she has felt it herself, the cold stone of his skin giving way to molten gold. “My envy remains,” she says, voice soft and made of shadows, “I confess, I would rather not share you at all. Not with the beauty of a performance, not with a crowd.” Alone, they are not confined to their titles. Before the public, she is a delegate of the Round Table attending to His Majesty — it does them both a dishonor. She is no mere envoy, and she finds Michael most glorious without his crown.

He grants her his touch, and the single gesture betrays him; it undoes her. Arianne leans into his hand, lifts her own to hold him in place as she drinks. There should not be a moment when he does not touch her; for in the meeting of their hands, in his desire for her and his ache to be near her, she becomes divine. Michael cannot deny his heart’s desire when it rests in his hands, skin supple and unblemished and pink with pleasure. Arianne cannot deny that she desires him as well — but she does not stop to consider for what, exactly. She would like to see him succumbed. She would like to see his lips part and eyes flutter shut with pleasure. She would like to see him smile.

“Thank you,” she smiles sweetly, dark eyes touched with mischief, tongue catching the last drops of wine on her lips, “Michael.” 

[allureofarianne]

evangelinetrame​:

In the moments right before Evangeline lost the battle against exhaustion, she would promise herself that she wouldn’t give in to the nightmares. They could come at her all they wanted, claw at her ankles and wound their fingers through her hair, dragging her down, but she would not allow them to hear her screams of fear when she couldn’t even remember what had been so terrifying when she woke up.

Arianne’s hand on her skin cooled her down but it wouldn’t last long. Neither of them could stay forever. She turned herself on her side to face Arianne, looking up into those gorgeous eyes and wishing she could find any answers in them, though she didn’t even know what questions she might ask. All she knew was that whenever she felt Arianne’s lips on hers, she could push off those terrors for a few hours longer.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I don’t even know what I’m afraid of because when I wake up, I don’t remember what I’ve dreamt. There’s a lot of darkness and a lot of…noises. I don’t know if it’s wind or people screaming or if I’m screaming—I just—” Evangeline cut herself off, not trusting herself to say too much and not trusting Arianne enough to hear any more.

She buried herself further under her blanket, looking up into the expression of concern that flashed across Arianne’s face. “I can hear voices in the dreams sometimes, instead of just screaming, but I can never make out the words. I just wish that they would stop. Everything, sometimes I wish that everything would just stop.”

I CAN TELL YOU STORIES OF NIGHTMARES, Arianne thinks of telling Evangeline. Tall and terrible tales, with shadows that extend as far as the sun touches. Told in a voice so tender and soft, they might be mistaken for a children’s story; in which girls are snatched from the clouds and forced to wander with monsters, wear crowns of thorns and become one with the beasts. In which the divine are reduced to mere dirt and rubble, stripped of all things sacred. There are worse things, Arinane thinks, than to wake up screaming in the night. Like feeling your throat swell with a shriek and swallowing it down, because there is no one to hear you anyways. 

She tells Evangeline nothing. She fills her eyes with compassion and romance, and she presses her lips square on Evangeline’s mouth. “Close your eyes,” Arianne mumbles, a hand sweeping the hair from Evangeline’s eyes, her touch a prayer on skin as if to peel back every layer, unveil the monster beneath. “The dark is not so frightening, you see? Not when you know what it’s coming. Not when you know what to look for.”

“I will tell you a secret, sparrow of mine.” Arianne’s voice dances in the night, sings a song of birds that take flight only on moonless nights. “I can ease your fears, but I find you loveliest when you battle them.” Her hand under Evangeline’s chin, she tilts the other’s face up and admires the curve of her lips, the sharp bones of her cheeks. “I would battle them with you.” She presses another kiss to Evangeline’s forehead, her cheek, her nose. “But I can’t fight a monster I don’t recognize.”

“So tell me,” Arianne repeats, wanting to unravel Evangeline until she is only a pile of bones for Arianne to chew and spit out. “Tell me what the voices say.”