[sanguisworn]

a private and independent writing blog for HELENA BERTINELLI. inspired by dc comics, but transcends the boundaries of comic lore. dissecting themes of raised by crime / reborn in vengeance, beauty, bloodlines and a bulletproof vendetta, not all vigilantes wear capes / some wear stilettos and scars, being the sole heir to a crime family and the heightened pressure isolation and trauma behind it, SOLE SURVIVOR SYNDROME, walking a fine line between redemption and retribution, bound by belief but driven by blood, rosary in one hand / pistol in the other. please read over guidelines and dossier beforehand, and must be over twenty-1 to interact.

[ BLOGROLL ]: maria castle & paige jones.

they say when a family dies, its name dies with it. mine didn't. the bertinelli name still echoes through gotham — whispered in alleys, carved into court dockets, buried in bloodstained ledgers. but the people? the flesh? the blood? they're gone. i was nine years old when they were taken from me. my mother said grace. my father checked his watch. and i — i reached for the breadbasket. then came the gunfire. i didn't scream. i didn't cry. i watched. i memorized. i survived. they left one bertinelli alive, and that was their mistake. i wasn't the heir they expected. i wasn't a princess. i wasn't a pawn. i became something else. something sharp. something dangerous. the last bertinelli doesn't wear a crown, she wears a ruthless ire, and she never misses.

⁰¹ GUIDELINES. ⁰² INTRO. ⁰³ DOSSIER. ⁰⁴ METAS. ⁰⁵ PHOTO ALBUM.

[sanguisworn]

hel’s got a closet full of silk and blood. her vigilante gear is tactical, yes—but her personal wardrobe is high fashion, tailored, old money. she wears black like mourning, but sometimes wears white as a challenge. she never lets herself forget where she came from, or how easy it would be to slip back into the velvet trap of that life.

[sanguisworn]

born in blood, reborn in vengeance // helena rosa bertinelli.

[sanguisworn]

helena’s war will never end, and that’s what keeps her going. she doesn’t believe there’s an end to this path she’s on. she’ll die in this fight—and is fully aware of that. but hopes that in some secret buried place inside her, that by doing this, she might stop someone else from becoming what she became.

[ohisms]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐀 𝐘𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄 .    (  a collection of  mixed action prompts.   adjust phrasing as desired.   potentially mature content within.  )

[ 1. ] sender steps between receiver and an aggressive stranger, voice low and steady: "walk. away."

[ 2. ] sender teaches receiver self-defense, hands firm on their hips as they adjust their stance.

[ 3. ] sender presses their forehead to receiver's, voice breaking as they murmur, "i don't know how to fix this, but i'm not leaving."

[ 4. ] sender shoves receiver out of the way of a projectile.

[ 5. ] sender combs their fingers through receiver's hair in the aftermath of a traumatic event, whispering words of comfort.

[ 6. ] sender whispers, “i’ve thought about this all day,” before pinning receiver against a wall for a searing kiss.

[ 7. ] sender wipes away the receiver’s falling tears with their thumb and whispers, “i’m here."

[ 8. ] sender patches up receiver's wounds, hands trembling as they whisper, "you can't keep doing this to me."

[ 9. ] sender shoves receiver into a hiding spot, hissing, "stay here or i’ll kill you myself."

[ 10. ] sender finds receiver drunk at a party, sighing. "let’s get you home."

[ 11. ] sender is discovered sleepwalking by receiver.

[ 12. ] sender steals receiver’s weapon and presses it to their own chest, daring: “go ahead. prove me right.”

[ 13. ] sender ‘accidentally’ flashes receiver while changing, purring, "see something you like?"

[ 14. ] sender whispers, "you’ll ruin me," before biting receiver’s lip hard enough to draw blood.

[ 15. ] sender takes over while receiver is giving themselves stitches, promising to handle it.

[ 16. ] sender frantically grips receiver by the shoulders, "don't you dare close your eyes."

[ 17. ] sender fixes receiver’s crooked [ tie / jewelry ], teasing, "nervous?"

[ 18. ] sender shakes receiver out of a nightmare, comforting them in the aftermath. "same nightmare again?"

[ 19. ] sender brings hot tea and medication to a [ hungover / ill ] receiver.

[ 20. ] sender invites receiver to dance with them, insisting, "what? this song's perfect."

[ 21. ] sender leaves a single rose on receiver’s windshield with a note: "you’re being followed. smile."

[ 22. ] sender pins receiver’s wrists during a sparring match, grinning, "yield."

[ 23. ] sender playfully steals something from receiver, initiating a chase. "come and get it, then."

[ 24. ] sender drapes a blanket over receiver, accidentally waking them. "sorry, go back to sleep."

[ 25. ] receiver returns home only to find sender already there. "finally."

[ 26. ] after a pleasant night out together, sender asks: "can i kiss you goodnight?"

[ 27. ] sender wipes the blood from receiver's face, murmuring, "let's get you cleaned up."

[ 28. ] sender shoves receiver against a vending machine to dodge security, breathless. "act natural."

[ 29. ] sender wakes receiver in the throes of a nightmare, reassuring them, "it's okay, it's not real."

[ 30. ] sender purposefully antagonizes receiver, hurling insults; "what are you gonna do about it?"

[sanguisworn]

where are all of the bruce wayne blogs hiding? this is such a travesty!

[contritioned]

He had a hard time with all of this.

Part of his heart would never get over Maria. It felt like he was chipping away at the sanctity of their marriage whenever he gave into the very human impulse of needing that sort of connection. He half expected he would climb back into whatever hole he was residing in and find her angry glare there to greet him -- and the sick shit of it was, he'd give an arm to have that. He'd never cheat on Maria, but if it meant she was here to be mad at him ...

Instead he pulled one of his boots on, took up as much space as a man with his leg-width did on the center cushion of Helena's couch, and worked on tying the laces. Her accusations weren't entirely false; Frank didn't blame her for her anger. He'd never intended for this kind of thing to happen, really. Someone with as much rage as he had wound up being something of an aphrodisiac -- he'd been intoxicated by the energy matching his own, and that was the first time. He had little to no excuse for every time thereafter.

"Yeah, got a real deli line of girls goin', have a speech prepared for all of 'em."

Said more under his breath, but Frank figured she'd still hear it. The expression on his face suggested the internal distaste for the present conflict, but Frank wiped it in favor of yanking his second boot on. When she tugged the shirt from under his arm and whacked him with it he merely studied the garment, realized his was still somewhere in the depths of her apartment, and sighed.

"I don't come here expectin' anything from you. It happens. Believe it if you want, it's the truth." A beat. He straightened when he finished lacing the other boot, then braced his weight on his knees with the palms of his hands and stood.

He couldn't keep doing this shit forever. His joints complained for the stress of it; muscles screamed in protest. He'd fall apart before his self-appointed war campaign was done.

"You hate me so much, why do you keep doin' it too?"

[sanguisworn]

her gaze drifts to his, vacant at first—searching, scrambling for something that might resemble an answer. but with helena, it was never that simple. intimacy didn’t come wrapped in softness or adorned with warmth. it was jagged and clumsy, a tangle of instincts and resistance. she hadn’t planned on getting attached to this man, hadn’t anticipated the way her heart would begin to feel like it lived outside her chest whenever he was near. and it terrified her. that he could pull emotions from her so easily—emotions she’d spent years burying beneath armor and ash. the silence between them stretches long, taut like a wire about to snap. her lips part, ready to fill the space with something—anything—but the words betray her, swallowed by the quiet. he’s known loss. so has she. but his grief was… heavier, somehow. or maybe just different. she wonders if he still dreams about her—his wife. wonders if that’s why he always retreats after their bodies collide like storms, pulling away as if he’s been burned. GUILT, she thinks. it hangs on him like smoke. she never speaks maria’s name. that was sacred territory. forbidden. unless frank chose to summon her himself. “maybe,” she begins, voice low, breaking the hush like a crack in ice, “maybe because for once i actually feel something other than pure hatred and rage. maybe because when i look at you, it all disappears. even for just a little while.” a breath escapes her, sharp through her nose—something between a sigh and a scoff. her fingers twitch at her side, aching to reach for him, but stopping short. “and i think you feel it too, frank. i think you want to give in. but you don’t… because the guilt is too much.” she lowers her gaze then, teeth catching her lower lip in hesitation. but that sharp, unfiltered italian tongue takes over before she can second-guess herself. “she’s gone, frank. and you—you have to start thinking about yourself a little too.” her eyes find his again, locking on like a lifeline, unsure [ maybe even afraid ] of how the hard truth will resonate with him.

[sparklejamesysparkle]

Demi Moore as Madison Lee, a former Charlie's Angel turned independent operative in the Columbia Pictures/McG action comedy spy film Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle, 2003.

[sanguisworn]

starter call // @s0fias .

so this was it. the long-awaited curtain call. two bloodlines—ancient, vicious, and endlessly entangled—finally colliding beneath the same roof. the bertinellis and the falcones. or rather, the gigantes, as sofia insisted on being called now. a name change couldn’t wash away the stench of blood-soaked legacies. their feud had bled across decades, soaked into alleyways and ledger books, bodies stacked like a morbid inheritance. and now? the board was clear. every son, cousin, and loyal enforcer lay decomposing in the dirt. all but two. an irony so bitter it almost tasted sweet. neither woman had sought the thrones they were born beneath. power meant little when your entire lineage was reduced to ghosts. helena sat poised in the silence, her presence a quiet, calculated threat. no posturing. no theatrics. just ice. “what is it you want from me, sofia?” she asked at last, voice low and diamond-cut. “you called this meeting. so let’s not play coy.” her gaze cut through sofia like a scalpel, calm and surgical. she let the words hang, heavy and accusing, before glancing toward the men stationed behind the woman—sentinels dressed like muscle, posturing like they had something to prove. “tough guys,” helena murmured, arching a brow. there was something cruel in her smile, something unspoken and sharpened. “we’ll see how tough they are… when they’re choking on mercy.”

[woodspile]

s’all quiet on the western front,  BUT CODY CHARPENTIER PREFERS THE BATTLEFIELD.  the last shot of the night remains in front of him.  eyes stay trained on glass,  as if he’s staring down the barrel of a gun.  cody ain’t ready to take aim just yet.  THIS IS THE PART HE HATES.  that juke box dropping bombs to thin the crowd.  and,  still,  he sits.  alone on a barstool,  STALLING.  s’like one big mirror put up to reflect his life all alone in this sleepy town.  and if he stares too long he’s gunna be sucked right in.  instead,  he kills and buries more thoughts in his mind.  S’ALWAYS DID ACT MORE LIKE A GRAVEYARD.

  ..  and he’ll visit soon ’nuff.  (he always does.)  maybe with flowers or his grandmother’s rosary.  because if life’s taught him anything  :  THE DEAD WILL CALL,  AND HE’S GUNNA ANSWER.  two fingers roughly massage his temple,  but nothing soothes ’em endless headaches.  he tries and fails to remedy with another gulp of beer.  the telling twist of his face,  saying ’em suds to be too-close-to-room-temperature.  yet he’s gunna suck it all down,  slow.  BECAUSE THIS IS THE MAN’S PENANCE.   ⸻  making sure nobody gets left behind.

[sanguisworn]

her travels had taken her far, but somehow, they managed to land her in a quaint western town that looked like it had been plucked straight from a hallmark movie. helena bertinelli was no country girl—never had been, never claimed to be. she was born and bred in new york, and she damn well carried the attitude to prove it. still, she’d be lying by saying this way of life didn’t charm her, even a little. as a young girl, she used to love spotting horses and cattle on family road trips through lancaster, pennsylvania. those memories served as warm, untouched—preserved like pressed flowers in a childhood scrapbook. they tugged at her heartstrings in spite of the coldness she now wore like armor. she’d never seen a bar quite like this before. the place pulsed with energy—country music blaring from wall-mounted speakers, boots thumping across the floor in a chaotic yet coordinated two-step. there wasn’t much room, but the crowd made do. helena, ever the outsider, found herself intrigued. a little break from the chaos of city life didn’t hurt. that was, until someone had to ruin it. drunk. obnoxious. handsy. and helena made damn sure he’d regret it. “oh, is that right? that’s how ‘em country gals like it?” she spewed with a venomous smirk, mocking his drawl with a note-perfect accent. “well, let me show you what us city girls prefer—and it sure as hell isn’t fat old rednecks like you.” in one swift motion, she twisted the man’s arm behind his back, slamming his face down against the nearest table. the sound of splintering wood was followed by the sharp crack of a beer bottle shattering over his thick skull. the room fell into stunned silence. every head turned. every eye watched. but helena didn’t flinch, not even a little. she smoothed her hair back into place with practiced grace, as if she hadn’t just turned the bar into a saloon shootout. sliding onto a barstool, she gestured coolly to the bartender. “ i’ll take a whiskey on the rocks. light on the ice.” she caught the gaze of a man watching her from the end of the bar—amused, curious. “what?” she said, arching a brow. “you’ve never seen a woman handle herself like that before?” even if, perhaps, she’d taken things a touch over the top.

[sanguisworn]

starter call // @contritioned .

there’s a fire in her belly, a molten fury that coils tighter every second she holds his gaze. it’s rage, yes—but rage braided with an insatiable hunger. lust, maybe. longing, definitely. they were cut from the same jagged cloth, stitched together by grief and violence, yet they clashed like oil and water. helena hated this — the push and pull, the heat followed by a suffocating chill. what once might’ve felt thrilling now gnawed at her nerves like a festering wound. she was never one for attachment. never invited it, never trusted it. but frank castle had set something inside her ablaze, and she hadn’t figured out how to smother it. “so that’s it?” her voice rough, raw, cracked open. “you come here, fuck me, and then go back to acting like i’m some goddamn stranger?” her eyes wild, burning — fury and passion tangled in their depths. “real fucking charming, castle.” mouth twisting around the words like they taste bitter. “you treat me like some side dish to your grief. so tell me—do the others get a goodbye at least? something more than just that dead stare before you disappear like a ghost?” it wasn’t like her, this sharp stab of jealousy, this ache that clung to her ribs. but somehow, he’d carved himself a place inside her chest, and now every inch of her was screaming in protest. she hated how much space he took up in her. helena yanks the shirt from his hands. hers [ mistaken for his ] and smacks him with it, eyes narrowing with venom. “go on then,” she spits. “leave. that’s what you’re good at, right?”

[sanguisworn]

born in blood, reborn in vengeance // helena rosa bertinelli.

[sanguisworn]

helena has a weakness for children. despite herself, she always softens around kids. they remind her of who she might have been, had she been born to a different family. she protects them fiercely, almost obsessively, and that’s when the mask slips—when you see the girl who just wanted to be safe.

[sanguisworn]

starter call // @wid0wd .

sparring with a widow [ more precisely, natasha romanoff ] wasn’t something helena had ever expected to find on her itinerary. and yet, here she was, chest rising and falling against the cool bite of the mat, staring up at the flicker of overhead lights like they held some deeper meaning. natasha moved like smoke—untraceable, relentless, elegant. there was a reverence in the way she fought, each strike a story, each parry a lesson helena hadn’t known she needed. she’d spent years overseas, burying herself in every fighting style she could get her hands on; muay thai in bangkok, systema in backroom russian gyms, krav maga taught in hushed tones behind embassy walls. all of it sharpened her, molded her, made her more than a mafia princess with a vendetta. but none of it, not one brutal hour, had prepared her for this. a laugh, breathy and amused, escaped her as she pushed herself upright. pride stung, but not as much as her ribs. “i have to admit,” she said, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, her voice curling into something dry and amused, “you’re even more impressive in person.” the smirk that followed was instinct—equal parts charm and challenge, a shield she wore when the stakes got too close to the bone. “but that’s the last time you get to knock me on my ass,” she added, slipping back into her stance, shoulders loose, hands steady. “so savor it.” her fingers flicked in a lazy come-on, but there was steel beneath the gesture. she wanted to learn, yes—but she also wanted to prove something. more-so to herself rather than earning bragging rights, but that wouldn’t be so bad either.

[sanguisworn]

you know that feeling when a muse calls out to you, quite literally keeps calling out to you, but you ignore it because you just don’t have the time for a new muse? yeah, that was helena for me. i’m so happy i finally gave in. <3

[sanguisworn]

starter call // @am4zon .

she could practically feel the disappointment radiating from diana, heavy and suffocating, like a judgment she hadn’t asked for but expected all the same. it was always a continuous pattern with them—idealists draped in capes, mistaking mercy for strength. but she wasn’t built like them. she didn’t carry a banner for justice. what she carried was darker. heavier. a hunger for vengeance that demanded blood, not reform. “you really think that little pep talk’s gonna rewrite who i am?” her laugh was sharp and empty, the kind that cut rather than comforted. “i’m not like you, diana. i’m not like batman. or any of those self-righteous crusaders you surround yourself with.” maybe the words came out harder than she’d intended, but restraint was a luxury she’d never learned. not when every fiber of her being burned with what she’d lost. “you toss criminals into arkham like that solves anything. but they always get out, don’t they? and then what? you chase them down and repeat the cycle like it’s noble.” releasing a sharp breath through her nostrils, something caught between a sigh and scoff, devoid of anything soft. “no. when i deal with them, it’s final. huntress is the last thing they see before meeting their maker. and i don’t intend on changing a damn thing about it. so save your bullshit words of wisdom, alright?”

[sanguisworn]

starter call // @castlle .

he’s infuriating. stubborn to the bone, even now, as she tends to the jagged wound on his arm. every movement of his, so deliberate, so resolute—it grates against her already fraying patience. and yet, here she was, nursing him with hands steadier than they should be. she tells herself it’s obligation. maybe muscle memory. or maybe it’s something more, some quiet recognition mirrored back at her in the hollow of his eyes. the grief. the rage. the unrelenting hunger for retribution. it’s quieter now, though. that fire between them dulled into something softer, something vaguely resembling tenderness. her fingers move with the practiced ease of someone who’s stitched up far worse in far darker places. training passed down from monks in hong kong, now repurposed here in the dim light of a forgotten safehouse. cotton pad gently drags across skin slick with perspiration and dried blood. “almost done. hold still,” she mutters, her voice low, cool—as dark orbs cut down to him, sharp and unimpressed, a threat hiding beneath her lashes. “if you twitch again, i might have to strap you down next time.” it’s dry, barely a joke, but the edge of humor is there, tucked just beneath the surface. just enough to remind him she’s not serious. not entirely.