[bloodset]

bloodset.tumblr.com, an independent + highly selective writing blog for andrew neiman, belonging to the movie w̲h̲i̲p̲l̲a̲s̲h̲ ⁽²⁰¹⁴⁾. verses below the cut.

¹ temp info. ² pinterest.

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alternate verses.

gen v. andrew is a student at godolkin university, having been injected with compound v as a baby and developing sonokinesis, or sound manipulation. he can physically generate and manipulate sounds, disorienting and even able to impair/kill people with his ability to intensify projected sound waves. the projection of low frequencies especially can be fatal to humans. he can also mute sounds, creating a sound proof space that can protect important interactions or events. its an invisible, extremely versatile and often deadly tool that in the emergence of his powers was difficult to initially control, especially given his proneness to explosive anger.

saw. andrew is a jigsaw survivor and subsequent apprentice, his obsessive desire for mentorship and guidance that he can ultimately project paternal qualities onto clouding his moral judgement. this verse has predominantly been in affiliation with @2005jesuschrist's saw characters, but open to anyone to interact.

[godsmissing-deactivated20240412]

" AM I REALLY SO FORGETTABLE? " ... @bloodset, as andrew neiman.

it's a yes or no question, and mari's fighting the urge to sling out the former. ( yes, you are. as in a smudge on the lens, a burnt-out star. a straight-fired flare, fizzling out. you're the smoke that clings to the curtains, the softest rumble of thunder, the disintegrating ash from a cigarette: a moment, a minute, a second ... then you're gone. nothing. like you never existed. ) ' of course not, ' her tone swings to sympathy, swallows itself in exasperation. ' i never s — said that, andrew— ' a frown fumbles her sentence, snaps it in two. ' i just .. look, ' a palm slides up the side of her cheek, a harsh swallow completing the picture.

her lip catches between her teeth, eyes rounding to a pity-party-worthy portrait. ' i got embarrassed, okay? n — not of you, but i don't— ' shoulders curve inward. ' i'm not like you, you know. ' ( an inside joke threatens to swing a smirk upward. ) a beat. ' i didn't forget you, i promise, but i .. i don't fit in, and— and, i've been trying to keep up with all this music shit, but you just .. you're going places. ' a blink shifts her gaze away, the inside of her cheek sucked inward, in thought. ' i'm not. ' arms fold inward, clinging to her own form. ' i didn't forget you. i just wasn't trying to drag you down. '

[bloodset]

andrew doesn't know when he last felt so pathetic, throwing himself into a performance that demands to be seen: look at what i'm doing, for you. he never usually used his words in such a blasé manner, they always arose through meticulous selection and choice, but now he just sounds desperate, and his expression pinches at the thought, a hard line emanating from the force to which he brings brows to the bridge of his nose. it's like he had struck the match of his core and forced himself to take flame in an appeal to be noticed, slowly burning out until nothing remained but a black stain: a minute, a second, gone. but he hadn't minded much before, an obsessive streak would abruptly end with an undue welt of boredom, the slowing embers of another's fire becoming something far too little to keep his attention: now, andrew clung to the ash he'd made and promises it anew, as though it had the body to catch alight once more. waiting, willing, but really just holding onto something that was already lost.

“you you're not dragging me down.” tables turn over, and he's grovelling, the self-made map of her expression hooking him on marionette strings and making the performance her own. how could he stay angry in that moment, when she is already looking so painfully beaten? “i liked having you around. you made things better made me better. you were the one who stayed.”

[bloodset]

what color does your love feel like?

cold stark gold. fireworks, borrowed lighters and sparklers against a dark backdrop, yours is a love that burns stark and bright. it's scary though, like things that burn always tend to be, but for you it isn't the thrill of the open flames that gives pause and a slight stomach drop of terror, but rather the time when the flames go out, the sparkler ends and the night is cold and dark once again. fireworks, borrowed lighters, a struck match, your love burns bright and fast and then maybe it passes, maybe the feeling dies out and you're left in the cold once again. and that's the feeling isn't it? of being bored and waiting for someone to light you up again? to be fair, you do know you don't need it, but then again we don't often crave the things we need. and you crave and yearn and burn in the wait, restless in the knowledge that at some point someone will pass and rub you the right way, that some day you'll light up the night sky bright yet again. there's comfort in the darkness and solace in the predictable loneliness of the in between, but your heart still squirms inside you, waiting and willing and begging to burn up again. your love might not be comfort, it's not one for the sick days, but then again, there's a reason why everyone waits for the shining lights in the sky during holidays.

tagged by: @likewiley. tagging: @queenshlt, @godunlap / @redruins [for maxine or amy dunne], and anyone else who wants to do it!

[userscully]

WHIPLASH 2014, dir. Damien Chazelle

[bloodset]

sorry but he..

[likewiley]

you had always believed that you were destined to be alone. it was the only thing that made sense— people had been leaving you your whole life,  the disappointment that clung to you became a second skin that you were unwilling to peel off.  [it’s easier– to be alone and comfortable in the silence than the ache in the absence]  lock yourself away as if a princess in a tower,  except you were not searching the rolling hills for a saviour.  but life changes,  it unfolds in ways that you would never have predicted. back there, your life began and ended in a caravan park where you learned to lock the door to prevent the light seeping in.  but experiences cracked your heart open; could suddenly envision more for yourself than four chairs and a kitchen big enough to spin in.   it led you here, thousands of miles from the place you once called home, in the garden of some stranger you could barely remember the name of– (was it brad? it felt like it was always brad) with your best friend.   andrew was a splash of normalcy in the sea of foreign bodies,  each with their dreams but the unwillingness to work for it; handed the life that they thought they were entitled to.   it’s a bit of a joke really–   you think it’s what makes it so easy to brush them off, smile and nod as they explain their latest manuscript; slurring words as they ask for your opinion [what they don’t understand is that you don’t care.  you’ve heard them all– normal guy turns out to be not so normal, saves the girl who just doesn’t realise it’s him she’s been waiting on to fix her. barf].   they just look at you with glazed eyes as you explain a story is not good just because it includes a woman’s pain; god forbid if you say you don’t care for the main character that is just a caricature of themselves.    maybe it’s a good thing andrew wasn’t a writer–  music wasn’t a language you could even pretend you understood the depths of,  how he could conjure up emotion from a simple beat.   it was rare to say you ever admired someone yet found yourself sourcing him every step of the way,  seeking him out for a normal conversation about nothing in particular but to exist in the same place.

“a dog?”    you laugh,  it’s breathless and you mentally curse yourself.  since when were you the girl who laughs at something not even remotely funny?  you had already brushed off initial question but remained unmoving;  like a tableau you were frozen in time,  unwavering gaze up at him as if it would answer all your questions.   it would be quite the sight if someone was to take a glance out the window or decided to join them outside–  what would your friends say?   probably laugh,  roll their eyes in a silent ‘i told you so’,  but you didn’t get it.   friends have always existed in such close proximity or else they wouldn’t be friends.    you’re oddly warm,  heat flushes cheeks and you can only blame the alcohol; the end of the cigarette still burning between ring and pinkie .. or the same heat that radiates from andrew.   you’d lost count of the times you’d fallen asleep in his dorm; cramped into a bed made for one as nights turned into days,  movie credits rolling but you couldn’t recall the ending. why did this feel different?    a brief glance down as if suddenly aware of surroundings. excess alcohol evaporates as you are pulled into reality.  (what the fuck have you gotten yourself into, maeve wiley?)    swallow hard,  catch his eye again to witness that stupid smile that somehow coaxes a similar one from you.     “i’m cold. the least you could do is offer me your jacket.”

[bloodset]

their existence was a series of comings and goings, maeve knew that all too well: a life spent watching the door. [andrew remembered little now about his mother, but could quite accurately mimic the exact sound the door made as it closed behind her on the day she left, a sequence of quieted beats against the toms.] hiding behind the kit distributed the pain, put blistering aches inside his muscles in order to deaden the mind that tormented him. maeve had left once too, but she came back. his forgiveness made no sound: the door might have closed but it had never been locked, never out of hope but wonderment that she would one day defy that expectation, breaking generational assurance that had been forecast by the actions of those whom existed before her. unoccupied hands, andrew realises, have remained airborne and impotent since she had reached out and looped him in, as if a sudden bout of nerves had rendered them unable to commit to any real act as to not fall victim to a wrong move. there prevailed a worry, that in spite of their profound friendship, a touch out of place that could make things between them awkward. and he notices how it has never registered as a worry before: entwining their fingers became candid, an arm had become a headrest in a myriad of moments, and yet when they are face to face, features unadorned and empty, something about their nature feels different. but she hangs off of him still, and he opts for a deliberately cordial gesture, both hands smoothing over the goose-pimpled flesh of her biceps and settling there.

“you are such a prick.” andrew says earnestly, words balmy and enrapturing as though entering the climax to a romance novel punctuating the worlds with a gentle squeeze to her lithe arms. how many times had he gone cold at her behest? a selfless shrug out of his jacket to a mere grumble of gratitude that barely registers. withdrawing his touch as though programmed to at the mere mention of cold, andrew lapses into old habits that refuse to die under own violent critique, trying not to focus too intently on the fingers that hang close to his skin in the removal process. he'd prepared for this. he'd layered up with a grey hoodie in anticipation for that moment, knowing she rarely dressed appropriately for the weather in spite of his prompting. in essence, the jacket was maeves, him rather a mobile coat-hanger until the moment she decided she wanted it. but at an admission to that fact would never come willingly: he overexerts the sigh on his mouth to play on irritation, hoping to elicit something from her own whether it was annoyance of her own, a quip at his expense, he could play this game forever if it meant that they could stay right there, exchanging warmth as time stood still around them. he shrouds her in jaded leather that he loops across the back of her shoulders and pulls it over the top of her arms, fabric dappled with the tepid trickling of an out of view streetlamp. he hangs onto the front of the jacket with bunched fists as if to hold it close, and for a moment it feels as though their proximity has increased, the gap lessened in his submission. “at this point, you might as well keep it since you wear it more than i do.”

[bloodset]

me writing i love andrew neiman in my diary and drawing a heart around it (my diary is tumblr.com)

[bloodset]

@likewiley: [ loop ].

the night always ends the same way foiled connections at the bidding of their best friend, who simply had something far too important to say for it to wait a moment longer. [they fell unknowingly into an elaborate choreography of obtuse distractions: him with his mouthed obscenities this fucking guy? and her with her well-timed need to rest, forcing herself into an insufficient gap that would ordinarily present no welcome for a person-sized shape.] but, maeve slotted there without invitation nonetheless, as if she knew that andrew would make space without her even having to ask, and no matter whom he had shared the conversation with prior. he'd barely noticed how she'd used his thigh to rest her knees this time, settling with more on top of him than beside him as what was usual. there was no subtlety about the action, nor did andrew want there to be: he'd not a friendship before that held with it so much intimacy, the silent plea for misplaced attention that maeve's gesture suggests, of which andrew finds himself eliciting on purpose if only to feel wanted. [he had never met anyone who wanted to be around him that much, and thus, swallows her prosaic affections possessively, as though it is all that could ever begin to nourish him.] he barely noticed as the other person left them to it, far too entranced by her story-telling of nothing in particular to even register their once-again solitude. maeve speaks, and the world around them drifts away. but just friends, right? andrew had barely considered anything different, affronted by the self-made realities that he required no confirmation of. they were friends, and he wanted nothing to spoil that. their animated exchange follows her summon outside, chatting all the while the various party noise fades further into the backdrop. here it was they'd smoke until their lungs burned and they each grew tired of standing. the scene replays with some minor visual changes, but would always conclude in that same way: the parting at dorm doors or not, the curtains would sometimes pull on two bodies curling up against a single mattress as the final word of whatever they had been discussing dies on their tongues, lost to oblivion.

“what are you doing?” andrew says headily, as dexterous fingers coil through his two front belt-loops with little to no effort: the remains of their balming laughter still toying with his open mouth and leaving him breathless. and in his naivety, believes the act to be a simple addition that layers their repartee, another wisecrack to their constant push and pull that fosters no victor. [they drink. they flirt. all is forgotten by the wave of the morning's nausea.] and if anyone asked, they definitely weren't, non-committal noises of disgust passing over their mouths as if they didn't each search for the other in every room they crossed the threshold into. as if they weren't pulling each other into seclusion at any given opportunity in order to hoard their conversations and hang off every word as though these stolen moments somehow belonged to them alone. but that was all it was in their minds, a lapse into comfort and proximity when confronted by a room full of strangers. feeling somewhat like he had been hooked on a leash, the corners of his mouth lift into another grin: “i'm not a dog, maeve.”

[bloodset]

beans on toast. americans will never understand

[bloodset]

it's the new year in england so happy new year from all the way over here 👋 sending you all good vibes and best wishes for 2024!

[bloodset]

i now can't stop thinking about the arkham knight

[bloodset]

yeah okay we're cooking

[bloodset]

i now can't stop thinking about the arkham knight

[bloodset]

hello! your writing is absolutely stunning.. i come back to it a few times<3 absolutely okay to skip over this, but would you be comfortable sharing some of your favorite authors, or ones you get inspired by? hope you’re having a good day/night 🫶🏼

what!!!! this is so gorgeous, thank you so much for taking the time to send this. i'm absolutely honoured fr 🥹 i would say gillian flynn's books are one of my biggest inspirations, i always find the horror in mundanity and dissatisfaction within domestic spheres and familial relationships such an interesting aspect to her writing. as well, amy dunne's inflated sense of self worth really correlates to how i write andrew. and though he's not necessarily a favourite, i also love chuck palahniuk as a writer and would say he's also a huge inspiration for andrew, particularly when discussing violence and body horror. he's an author i draw certain points of imagery from. i have a lot of others but i would say these are the main two! thank you for asking ❤️

[bloodset]

spinning around an idea in my head for a new blog. yes i am a blog hopper

[bloodset]

andrew vs being manipulated by every person in a position of power who gives him the time of day and subsequently falling into delusion and obsession in every single verse i make for him

[bloodset]

@mindcaterol: 𝘪 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪 𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪 𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

andrew knows that feeling well. every night spent with two fists clenched and the clash of drums deafening the thoughts inside his head, he got further from himself, parting with pieces until nothing besides drumming remained. now, what was there? an auditorium fell into silence at his last crescendo, the final clash and mottled matter began to leak from the sides of heads as andrew unleashed a power unbeknownst to him. in the death of others, andrew was platformed to unfamiliar heights, escaped anonymity in a way he'd never expected in his ongoing paltriness: a talented kid whose overall insignificance caused him to fade into the backdrop of high school inhabitants. a person looked at andrew and could see anyone in his mundanity, an outwardly-ordinary face and an outwardly-ordinary demeanour to match. it's why he could never picture himself among the seven, his powers an 𝚞𝚗𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 among his peers but an obvious lack of charisma and physical charm situates him in that perpetual state of mediocrity. most days, andrew feels just as he did in high school. unseen, unheard. invisible. cate, on the other hand, cradles this fragility into gloved palms and hones herself an equal, soothes a waning ego and moulds herself a hero. [she could salvage their names among unremarkability, save them from the faceless thereafter that he so dreads.] every word contrived from her mind draws him closer, a friend latched on by tenterhooks: she would save you, you could save her. it's an unlikely alliance that andrew funds entire dependence on, the warm catch of the spotlight hot on his cheek as it rocks closer into reach.

“cate, no. you're still you.” andrew says quickly, pandering as he does to those he admired, to those who knew exactly what to say and when. she'd promised him admiration in return, and his naivety blinds him to the plausible transparency of it all: he'd watched him manipulate her way into schemes, a touch of her fingers and they succumb to her will. and yet, he never doubts for a moment her sincerity. he gapes at her like a pious man would to a miracle, as though god herself had entered his midst. had she asked for his devotion? something in andrew doesn't care: what is it to live without worship anyway? “you're incredible.”

[bloodset]

THE 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 ARTIST¹ ⠀ a character that strives to perfect their chosen craft and better themselves at it by any means necessary, which can lead to their own 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 in their pursuit of perfection.