hi hi! i'm lulu (she/her) your resident muslim girlie rotting in london's grey drizzle with a bergdorf blonde delulu streak 💌 i'm here like a harper's bazaar spread and yk i like bubble tea, questionable men, tragic muses who confuse love for applause, and writing like i'm gossiping in the back of a chauffeured limousine with hillary clinton and beyoncé. if a muse is collecting enemies like limited edition handbags and smiling about it in french, it's probably your favorite selene devereaux, my debutante disaster and second muse here ta-da ✨
♡ SELENE DEVEREAUX (20)
trainee no. 200 / socialite-turned-influencer / old money apex predator. born in new york city, raised between manhattan penthouses and her mother's crumbling british estate.
her mother is literally titled (the marchioness of glenham) and allegedly once declined an OBE because "the insignia was gauche." her surname gets you waved through passport control at heathrow like you're royalty.
her father owns half of uptown manhattan's skyline and once tried to buy a magazine just to spike an unflattering article about her. it worked.
she has dual citizenship (UK/US), four passports (private jet convenience), and one personal security detail who doubles as her stylist.
rumoured to have been expelled from eton's sister school for convincing the headmaster's son to run away to monaco. he made it as far as france.
calls crying "emotional exfoliation" and schedules it into her diary.
posts instagram stories from places no one even knew existed, like "the third floor of the louvre."
has a black amex card in her name since age fourteen; it has been physically kissed by three luxury brand CEOs and at least one disgraced monarch.
her handbags get their own seat and occasionally their own champagne flute.
was the face of a french skincare line for exactly 11 days before she got them banned from a major market with one offhand remark about communism.
went viral at seventeen for declaring on live television that "nepo baby is just the language of the bitterly unfashionable."
known for saying "be honest" right before someone tells her something that ruins their life.
has a tattoo of her family crest in white ink on her ribcage; claims it glows under moonlight (it doesn't, but who gon' check her?).
she does, in fact, speak fluent korean already. not from studying, but from six months of dating the heir of a k-pop conglomerate.
still keeps a death grip on new york society even while in seoul.
her HYDRA dorm room looks like a minor duchy. custom french paneling, scent diffusers, and a rotating display of designer heels.
claims her blood type is "vintage champagne."
♡ if your muse is a doe-eyed idealist, delusional rival, accidental bestie, or someone she can ruin and then rescue in the same breath, let's plot. like this post for curated mess, dm me if you want to play power games in couture, or send me your muse's deepest insecurity and i'll tell you how selene would weaponise it with a smile. 🥂
📌 pinterest board: perfectly wicked
🖇️ playlist: glass hearts & guillotine kisses (coming soon)
🩰 debut goals: something between BLACKPINK's first press tour and a romanov coronation gone wrong 👑
"hm… yeah. can’t say no to that," he says after a beat, voice low and easy. he doesn't elaborate, doesn't feel like he needs to. he chooses to overlook that the mention of smoke is what really seals it, even if he would've agreed regardless. the thought alone makes his fingers twitch faintly at his side, a restless echo of the long day finally getting to him.
long legs close the distance with unhurried ease and, as they catch up to the group, he makes sure to introduce himself properly. his smile is soft and practiced, even if he is fairly certain he won't remember half the names now that he's off the clock and his focus has already drifted.
his gaze returns to selene then, amusement still caught on her last statement. tokyo isn't precious. not precious, no — but generous. like any capital city, five minutes on the street and he can take in more styles than most lookbooks manage in a season. "i take it you're not a local, then?" he starts quietly. "i leave the imperfections of busan for people who are from busan, at least. for everyone else... sure, best city in the world. come enjoy the beaches and a bowl of milmyeon." a chuckle accompanies the thought, fond and automatic, like the city lives somewhere just under his skin.
she takes her time before answering. she's learnt that time's the one thing people never price in properly. the studio's emptying out now, sounds thinning, voices losing their edges as they drift off toward doors and taxis and whatever they're telling themselves tonight will be. the lights stay warm regardless. they always do. names are exchanged. she does not keep them. it is not cruelty. it is efficiency. some people are meant to pass through you the way streets do. she knows this now.
"i'm not local," selene says. "not anywhere." she thinks briefly of new york city, then london, then planes, hotels, borrowed beds. wonders if you can call anywhere home if you refuse to romanticise it. she suspects that's the difference between her and him. isn't he precious, she thinks, not unkindly. the little posse laughs again. something bright and careless breaks loose, the sort of sound that won't last past the first round. they start moving for the exit and selene slots herself in beside minhyun instead. easier than playing along. easier than pretending she needs the social points.
the night's open now and tokyo's already got its mouth around them. still, selene feels like she's on the clock. models always are. the job doesn't end when the camera's off — it just changes format. sell yourself, sell the moment, sell the illusion that you're enjoying it.
she exhales, glances sideways. "so," lightly does it, it's nothing to her, all very above board. "tell me about your work. what houses have you been with, or are you mostly consulting these days?"
zoe raises one eyebrow. alert, the look you reserve for people who confuse access with permission. "homesick?" she repeats. "no. bored-sick. totally different thing."
she takes a sip of her coffee, still looking at selene, because power isn't about staring people down. it's about not being the first to look away. the accent stands out, but what stands out more is that selene isn't performing for anyone. she doesn’t have to. "i moved cities at thirteen. continents at sixteen," zoe says. "turns out i only miss places that underestimate me. what about you?" she asks. "born here, raised here? or do you collect postcodes the way i do?"
this time, zoe smiles. small. her bite is sweeter. she can usually make someone lose a little ground. "either way," she says, lifting her cup, "i'm staying long enough to be a problem... for you, especially."
"postcodes?" selene let a small, dry laugh escape that didn't reach her eyes. "i don't collect them, darling. i haunt them. there's a difference." she leaned back, feeling the afterimage of a dozen different skylines behind her ribs. this lass is all sharp corners and borrowed confidence, thinking a change of scenery made her a revolution.
"i wasn't born here, no. I was born in the 'before times,' in a terrace house with damp on the walls and a view of the grey. i've done the continents, though. i've done the high-wire act without a safety net. but I only remember the places that tried to break me and failed." she looked at zoe past the bravado and the clever little eyebrow. she wanted to be a problem? the world was full of problems. having selene as one is not ideal.
"you're a long way from home, zoe. this is a bit 'nouveau-trouble' no?" she tilted her head, expression as cool as a london rain. the coffee between them was getting cold, and the air was getting tight. "but, cheers to being a problem," her voice drops an octave. "just try not to be a boring one. that's the only sin i don't forgive."
he's still working when she approaches, though it's a self-assigned task—there's a small thing he wants to fix before everything's packed away. needle guiding thread cleanly through fabric, he looks up at her instead, meeting her gaze with a kind, unhurried smile. he remembers her name from the quiet praise among the staff earlier, and it settles easily as he meets her eyes.
"minhyun," he introduces himself brightly, "assistant designer today." his eyes stay on hers even as his hands handle the fabric. they flick briefly toward the group by the lights and, before he responds to the invitation, he catches the thread between his teeth, cuts it clean, then sets the fabric aside properly.
"sure, i'll come by," he says lightly, eyes softening. "i'll admit, though—" a small laugh, quick and easy, "—that’s a slightly intimidating group." he leaves out the fact that she's easily the scariest of them all, and ignores that he could probably blend in with the models well enough at a glance.
his movements stay tidy and deliberate as he gathers his belongings. he pauses to offer a brief bow and a few quiet words of thanks in japanese to the nearest staff members, only then turning back to her. "so," he adds, glancing toward the exit, "do you know what we're walking into tonight?—dinner, bar, club?" his gaze drops briefly to his all-black fit before lifting again, a small smile curving at his mouth. "this should be fine," he adds lightly. he doubts dress pants and a pressed shirt would leave him out of anywhere—still, he's curious. "it’d just be a tad ironic if i wasn’t dressed for the occasion."
"oh, they're harmless." selene thinks of the models, all long limbs, gathered by the lights moving about like moths. still, she allows the faintest curve of her lips. she could eat them alive. but, what are they walking into? tokyo after dark is neither kind nor cruel, it merely observes, much like herself. she considers how the evening will unfold, not as a sequence of events but as a feeling: hunger, the inevitable desire to be seen.
"food first, selene says at last. "somewhere cramped. you'll leave smelling of smoke and someone else's perfume. then a bar, i expect. clubs only happen when everyone forgets why they pretended they didn't want to go." she watches his eyes dip to his clothes and back up again, the small concern there, neat and self-contained. how very english of you, she thinks, though is he? "you look fine," she says pointedly, which for selene is something close to generosity. "tokyo isn't precious. and neither are they." she turns, the invitation already complete without ceremony. a few steps away, she glances back, a look that holds suspicion, then she turns back around.
zoe is mid-iced americano, mid-eye roll at her phone, and mid-deciding if she hates everyone today when the café shifts. not loudly. not obviously. just enough that conversations thin, like someone turned the volume down out of respect. zoe doesn't look up right away. she's learned the difference between attention-seeking noise and presence.
when she does glance over, it clicks. selene stands near the counter like the space was reserved for her. sunglasses still on indoors - not apologetic about it. there's a subtle choreography happening around her, people hesitating, recalibrating, pretending not to stare. zoe clocks the details automatically: the posture, the polish, the way money sits differently on someone who’s never had to explain it.
interesting.
their paths cross when the barista calls a name too softly. zoe steps forward at the same time, shoulders nearly brushing. she adjusts without flinching, cup steady in her hand. "oh—" she says, then stops herself, lips pull back into a polite sneer. "sorry. i think the universe wanted us to almost collide." she finally looks at selene, gaze open, curious, but not impressed. there's a moment where she considers saying nothing at all. instead— "you're selene, right?" not a question that begs. they both already know the answer.
"i'm zoe." she adds, as if names are equal currency. "figured if i stayed here long enough, this would happen." her eyes flick to the sunglasses, then back, amused. "public places do that. force introductions."
selene registers that prickle in the air right before something interesting happens. she keeps the sunglasses on out of principle. indoors or outdoors, she doesn't discriminate. vision is power. you must ration it.
the near-miss is too clean. selene notes the steadiness of the girl's cup, the unbothered reflexes. that's rare currency. american earnestness gives her hives. "the universe is a menace..." she says pointedly, london accent clipped and unhelpful. she lowers her sunglasses just enough, economical grace, appraising the girl before. zoe meets it without blinking. no scramble for approval. no reverence. selene feels a traitorous flicker of excitement and buries it under composure like a good girl raised on restraint and better schools.
isn't she clever, selene decides. or at least observant.
"and zoe, right?," selene studies her, precise, slotting all details into a ledger. she doesn't answer the girl's sly remark. her gaze flicks once, quick and unapologetic, taking stock. the eye roll, the caffeinated ennui. privileged boredom is more than interesting than intentional detachment, she thinks, approving despite herself. "be honest," selene adds, "how long do you think you'll last here, before you get homesick and toddle back?"
— TOKYO, YEARS BACK. selene takes the job 'cause it pays and asks sod all of her. editorial cover, japanese mag, in and out. easy. she's younger then, meaner too, honestly. hair slicked back tight, eyes already bored, but the studio hums around her, calm, efficient. she likes that. no gawking. no one trying it on. she's seen enough desperate hands and overexcited smiles to last a lifetime. then she sees him. not centre-stage. off to the side... quiet. like a bloody shark in loafers. and she likes it. likes that he doesn't look like he's there to impress anyone. is he the designer? stylist fusses with her hem. she doesn't care. she watches him instead, mental tick marks for later. eyes, posture, ease, all of it.
shoot wraps. hair down, she tucks the last stray hairs behind her ears and drifts over, unhurried. she likes to move like she's got money to burn and makes everyone else feel like they don't. "selene." she inserts. nothing extra. no surname, no smile, no invitation for small talk. "mm," she murmurs, lips tilting, eyes sizing him up like she’s checking if he's edible or dangerous. "a couple of us are heading out to a spot in shimokitazawa." she rolls her eyes, glancing at the models clustered near the lights behind her. "they wanted to know if you wanted your spot RSVP…" leave it to her to do the job of twenty-something year olds. "so?"
this almost feels a little scandalous. maybe it's because it's so late at night, and they probably shouldn't be at the pool at such an hour, but if they ever get caught, aria could always just use the excuse that she needed the water. she's a siren, after all. would the academy be able to reject her dire need to dip her toes into an area that feels like home?
of course, the chlorine-infected waves aren't the best for her skin, but it's better than being in a dry classroom. "ooh, i'm interested in hearing about who's fallen in love. i'm sure the class cupid's done their fair trade of messing around this semester," she adds in before taking her seat beside selah.
there was always something new happening at this place. while everybody was training to get in better control of their powers, nobody seemed to be able to completely stop themselves from getting into some mischievous trouble. "the siren world has been boring all week. i was thinking that these two fellas would get together, but nothing! absolutely nothing! what a buzzkill." with that, she blew a raspberry before shaking her head. leaning in closer, she looks up at selah with eyes full of curiosity, waiting for her to spill.
selah listens properly while aria chatters on, and the pool hums around them, all blue light and chlorine tang. "you saying the siren world's been 'boring' is actually alarming. last time you said that, someone ended up crying in the west wing for days." she snorts softly, glancing at the water. "yeah, cupid's been quiet. too quiet... which usually means they're cooking up something messy. gives me the absolute ick!"
selah shifts, turning towards aria properly now, knee drawn up. she know exactly the sort she's on about, and if she didn't, selah understood aria in a way of lingering looks. it's painful to be outside their bubble, so maybe that's why they met at the pool after hours.
she studies aria for a moment, eyes sharp but not unkind. "still," selah says with a small shrug, "give it time. if they're going to cock it up, they will. this place thrives on emotional imbalance." her gaze drifts back to the pool, mouth twitching. "i know of one boy who's fallen in love. disastrously. proper mess. the sort that ends in tearful training sessions and very aggressive poetry." she turns her head, "third-year. pretending it's 'just a fling'. absolutely lying through their teeth. it's like, it's almost winter solstice, this is the perfect time to confess." then, with a little huff, she adds, "and before you ask—no, i'm not naming names. i may be an angel, but i'm not stupid."
selah perches at the edge of the academy pool as if waiting for someone to paint her. wings folded tight, halo dimmed to a polite glow so she doesn't accidentally smite the lifeguard. she looks like she belongs here, all light and reflection, an angel haunting the tiles for recreational purposes. however, she can't swim. at all. she insists "it's because water's terribly clingy." the water ripples once. then twice. then bohyun surfaces, and selah beams the way the sun does when it's overcompensating for a cloudy forecast.
"darling," selah sighs, halfway through recounting something positively indecent, leaning down until her reflection nearly kisses the pool's surface. "pick your poison: who's fallen in love, who's fallen off something tall, which demon got kicked off the cheer roster for arson. and before you ask," she adds, flicking her eyes toward bohyun with pointed drama, "yes, i do want new gossip from you. give me dirt on you pretty sirens, i want to scream."
the room is all chlorine-soft, moonlit, thick of girlhood and trouble, so much trouble. selah dips her fingers into the pool, swirling lazy spirals of light like stirring a cauldron instead of water. "come on then," she coaxes, wickedly pleased with herself. "swim closer. i need you to hear this up close, i refuse to repeat myself when i'm about to ruin someone's entire week."
she grins, razor-bright. "it's delicious. even by our standards."
zoe watches selene walk into the room like someone tipped the world entirely in her favor. zoe isn't intimidated. that would be too easy, too expected. but she feels the subtle inhale that followed selene everywhere. popularity clung to the girl. but zoe wasn't a fan, not even close, but she respected the execution. when selene's gaze skims past her, barely a brush, barely a blink, like she’d already calculated zoe down to bone density, it hit that sharp spot under zoe’s ribs. not envy. not quite. more like: oh. her. were doing this now.
she activated her something inside zoe. turned the lot of trainees into an arena with a single step. suddenly every move zoe made felt intentional: let the spotlight fall on the best girl. selene shouldn’t look surprised when she eventually felt the heat at her back and realized it's zoe. stepping forward. stepping up.
a warning shot dressed pretty. without even trying to look casual, zoe walks up to her and tips her head to the side, flicks a curl off her shoulder, and throws out lightly, "oh my god, do you have another hair tie? totally forgot mine!"
selene's entrance is a quiet coronation. her mum's words still ring true: chin high just so, posture immaculate, the faintest hum of entitlement warming the air around her. she registers zoe in the periphery the way royals register courtiers: with a soft, assessing flick of the eye that never quite lands long enough to be called rude, but certainly long enough to be felt. that little tightening of attention that always follows when someone decides to challenge the natural order. it pricks pleasantly at her ego. keeps things interesting.
she allows zoe to step into her orbit.
her gaze drops to the curl zoe flicks off her shoulder, admiring her features, if you could believe it. then up again, as if she's ranking zoe over, like she's reading a label on a bottle of wine she's not yet certain deserves to be opened. but she decides exactly where to place her. she slips a pristine black ribbon from her wrist (not elastic, obviously) and holds it out between two fingers. "here. try not to stretch it."
haru's mind had been a frazzled sea of static just moments ago, but now it was eerily blank. he was, for a complete and agonising ten seconds, rendered entirely speechless by her words, which were a chaotic and glittering cascade of... something that his mind failed to process. the desire to flee, to gather his book and have it borrowed instead so he could take it away with him, was a palpable and physical numbness in his chest. but the ingrained tenets of his politeness, the... "religious rigour" of his social programming held him captive and cemented to his chair. he could not be rude.
he let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the library's hush, and he kept his gaze firmly glued to the page he was at present no longer even attempting to read. he mulled over a dozen possible responses, searching for the one that balanced both civility and alignment with his core morals. his brain eventually latched on to the only objective, undeniable truth in the room that could not be overwritten: the rules.
so he turned to her, his polite smile tight and feeling more like a grimace. "please keep your volume down. this is a library," he whispered with a raw nerve just beneath his practiced, melodic delivery.
but then, he paused as his mind seized onto a new query—a final attempt at making sense of the predicament he was presently in. "may I ask why you’re here...? if you’re not studying or reading. is there anywhere else you’d rather be right now?"
this bloke's polite little plea for quiet hits her like a feather duster to the face: technically corrective, but far too gentle to take seriously. selene nods anyway, lips pursed, resembling apology, though the glimmer in her eyes ruins the effect entirely. she shifts back in her chair, studying him with a sort of fond exasperation. he looks so tightly wound he might creak if she breathed too close. poor lad. trying so hard to stay composed, to cling to the rules as if they might rescue him. while selene's only rule in life is to take what she wants.
he asks why she's here, and she glances around as if only just remembering their surroundings, the library rows of orderly shelves, the hush hush, the erudite trait she's wholly failing to embody.
truth is, she comes here because it feels calm. or it did, before she turned up and disturbed the peace like a wayward orphan. but she likes the stillness, the seriousness of it all, the way it makes her pretty brain settle for a moment. and then there's him, so polite and yet still hasn't introduced himself. all hunched over his book like it's both lifeline and shield, expression hovering somewhere over existential crisis. "you're interesting," she says simply, softer than before. not a joke, she promises, just an observation. and she won't elaborate. she just nudges one of her textbooks closed with a lazy hand and offers him a small, lopsided smile. "anywhere else, hm… sounds like you're trying to boot me out. be honest, but i was here first, wasn't i…?"
chaéline struts over to the angel sizing her up naturally, and her wings give a single, gratuitous flutter, like an expensive accessory she wants to show off on purpose. she plants one hand on her hip. chaéline wants to glamour her but wonders if it'll even work. "okay, first of all, i literally walked in here to check things out. i was going to, like, observe? maybe judge? maybe bless the room with my presence? you know, princess things." she waves a hand vaguely toward the gym, where a werewolf is trying (and failing) to do a cartwheel. "but then you looked at me like i was here to steal your halo or whatever, and honestly? if i wanted it, i'd have it." she flashes selah a dazzling, suspiciously perfect smile.
"but if you want," she claps her hands once, all cheerful menace, "let's do tryouts!" then, she straightens to full fae-princess posture; back arched, wings shimmering, chin lifted like she was crowned this morning. "just don't get mad when i do your routine better than you," she says sweetly, "by accident." and with another flutter, "okay, halo girl. show me what you've got."
chaéline's smile is so blindingly perfect it ought to violate at least three divine statutes. selah would cite them, chapter and verse in order, if pressed... but she's too busy resisting the urge to smite someone for the first time before noon. "oh, don't flatter yourself, starlight," selah replies with a sort of disdain where every syllable sounds like it’s been ironed stiff to weaponise. she folds her arms and looks to where the werewolf finishes their cartwheel attempt with a thud that echoes round the gym like an omen.
"you do realise this isn't some fae pageant? we require… competence." her eyes narrow, more curious than catty now, though the cattiness is still very much present, thank you. "but by all means," she says, stepping back. "if you're desperate to embarrass yourself before breakfast, who am i to meddle with fate's cruel designs?" her wings flare properly like the prelude to judgement day. "oi! all of you, listen up!" the clap she gives is loud enough to silence a trio of harpies. "tryouts are starting. now. that means eyes front, mouths shut, claws away, no enchantments, and if anyone flies without clearance i will personally drag you down by the ear."
the gym falls quiet miraculously. selah turns back to chaéline, chin lifted, her halo lighting up with a sort of bureaucratic threat. "right then," she says, calm once more, though the smugness is divine-level. "let's see what you've got. and do try to keep up. i'd hate to have to file an incident report before we've even begun."
you wouldn't think angels could sweat, but selah deverah is currently doing an astonishing impression of someone who can. the hyde cheer tryouts have turned into an outright celestial spectacle (wings shedding stray feathers like confetti, succubi with megaphones, a vampire in legwarmers doing suspiciously well at backflips) and turns out, even monsters, it seems, love aerocrobatics and pom poms. selah, of course, is front and centre, hair braided down like a golden rope, sunlight catching on her bedazzled face. her high kick could probably summon a tropical weather warning. her smile's the sort that makes gods take notes.
then, a light shimmer. this faerie drifts through the open gym doors, all beauty and no conviction, wings delicate enough to fold between heartbeats, eyes like trick mirrors. most of the crowd barely looks up. selah does. and in that single, cinematic instant, you can feel her anger rise. her own wings flutter. her halo dims slightly, like a crown trying to assert itself. "oh," she says, a hand resting dramatically on her chest. "competition."
selah lifts her chin, stretches her wings just enough to catch the faerie's eye, and smiles the way only someone favoured by the gods can; perfectly, perilously, like a prayer rewritten as a challenge. "here for tryouts?"
haru's subtle semaphore for silence had not only failed to register, but appeared to have been interpreted as an invitation for further conversation. he watched, with a sort of detached horror, as flakes of almond scattered across the polished wood, each tiny crumb an affront to the library's pristine and quiet sanctity. and also his own personal principles.
the tight coiling in his gut intensified and a familiar knot of exasperation tightened its hold on him, though he knew better than to let emotion take control over not just his bodily functions but also his entire psyche.
his gaze flickered from the encroaching croissant back to her face. politeness demanded acknowledgement, yet logic—his brand of cold, unyielding logic—demanded cessation. he gently nudged the pastry back towards her side of the table with the tip of a precise finger and plastered on a kind yet slightly tight smile, the muscles around his eyes remaining perfectly still.
his voice, hushed and measured, was a well-practiced melody, "it's an interesting question, yes. but like you said, i've been stuck on the same page for a while now, and the limits of humans prevent me from giving it the attention it deserves while also keeping you company. so, if you'll let me get back to my book..."
selene is looking at haru like a schoolgirl caught nicking biscuits from the staffroom tin. the guilt lasts precisely three seconds, then she's grinning again, all dimples and the faintest hint of well, you've brought this on yourself, haven't you? "blimey..." she whispers, "that was the most posh, well-mannered 'please shut up' i've ever heard. you could bottle that and sell it in harrods. proper gentleman stuff." she reclaims the croissant, tearing off a bit with exaggerated delicacy. flakes go everywhere. the library's silence swallows them whole. selene can't help herself, this guy looks like he's been carved from sheer restraint and she wants break it. break him. "you're a serious one, aren't you? all stiff collar and moral fibre. i bet you iron your pillowcases every night. it's fine, though," she carries on breezily. "i like serious lads. makes me look mysterious. like i've just wandered into a french film or something."
the remains of her croissant continue to scatter further crumbs like some pagan offering. "go on then," she presses on, "what's the book about? it's got to be something terribly intelligent, judging by how hard you're concentrating. philosophy? no. finance? no. the tragic downfall of men who try to study in peace while i'm about?"
selene props her chin back on her hand and smiles sweetly. "or don't answer actually. keep this quiet routine," she adds, far too late. "i'll be here broadening my horizons in this foreign exchange program. and apparently yours by force."
