#bledpriest

[bledsaint]

he sits on the opposite end of the curved couch, bad leg propped up and chin resting on his hand, watching the foliage zip by as the train moves. he hasn't spoken much, not since her name was plucked out of the bowl and he — curse him, curse him for letting his emotions get to him — knows he reacted for the camera. he knows it bled out on his face, the brief flicker of horror, skin paled, his stomach turning.

"you're going to win." he finally says, distantly, into his closed fist. such certainty because he cannot bare to imagine the opposite. his eyes move to her, a glance from the corners of them, but refusing to look her in the eyes. ( he can't bare it, to watch the light fade. ) "you're small, fast, you're the best damn hider i've ever known. hopefully the arena is dense."

he knows better than to hope, right now.

her mother wraps her arms around her stiffly, an imitation of what it should have been. it does not last longer than just a moment. there is a space that lingers between them, lines her mother will not cross even here. nymeria wishes her mother would, for once offer her something other than disdain. her bony fingers reaching and brushing soft curls back into place. no affection belongs to her touch, it is a correction. they share no words. nymeria does not need them. the way her mother's gaze lingers upon her, her mother already mourns her. it is not a look in her eyes that offer grief, but something of acceptance. her daughter was gone, her fate sealed the moment her name had been pulled from the bowl.

she is out of place here on train draped in finery. all of this, something borrowed from a life that would never be hers. how foolish the petals feel now, fallen from dark strands and scattered upon the velvet couch. fragile things she had placed only hours before, part of her routine to any morning. nymeria, already understanding softness will not survive this place. her dress is the same she wears every reaping, belonged to her mother from better days. it hangs too lose on her frame, cream fabric thin and worn. it is ill-fitting in a way that makes her feel even smaller. nymeria's gaze drifts to vincent, the realization that none of this is new to him. the tributes chosen, the train, the weight and tension of dread. he has lived both sides, survived. he had returned to her, like he promised. but he had returned, changed in ways she had not understood then.

another year, another set of tributes called. does he tell them the same thing, offer the same false hope ? was that only reserved for best friend, for the girl who he had once been inseparable from. her stomach lurches as the train continues to move with speed that she might have found incredible if it did not head straight to her death. for a moment, nymeria thinks of letting the silence stay settled between them. amber hues upon him, though his do not meet hers. ❝ don't do that, don't lie to me. ❞ what attributes he gives her, are not what makes a victor. they both know the truth, neither of them wants to speak it. she will be one of the first canons, picture illuminating the sky. ❝ i know my odds, i just want . . . i don't want to suffer. ❞ something quick, easy. a death that is not memorable. she focuses on a fraying string of her dress, curling it around her finger over and over again. she'll be just another girl from district 9. the only person that might miss her absence, sits opposite of couch from her.

[monstyrious]

@bledpriest liked for a starter.

it does not matter that this is not the towers in moscow, nor that he is so far from home that it makes his bones ache. between a sensation of anxiety that creeps through his muscles and the underlying anger that exists in his core for no reason that pertains to himself, the entirety of the older vampire's body is stiff and unwilling to budge as it stands before the seemingly only window in the place. it provides a somewhat homey illusion, alongside the natural stance of his partly spread polished shoes and the black cigarette that hangs at his side between his fingers, the other hand tucked aimlessly in the pocket of his slacks.

"i wondered when we would finally meet face to face," the russian says aloud, back still to the other that shares his name as he brings the cigarette up for a drag.

[bledsaint]

▌ . ⋆ ♱ @bledpriest : [ WITNESS ] sender and receiver have sex knowing a third party is watching & “ don’t look at them. look at me .”

the nightclub feels alive, like something warm and feverish. everything covered in a hue of red from the lights, the club air thick with cigarette smoke. music runs through her, bass thrumming. bodies are packed against another. the smell is nearly overwhelming, a blend of sweat, perfume, and alcohol. nym takes it all in the movement they arrive. she knows the only reason they are here is because vincent indulges her as he always does. he does not love the packed bodies, the flickering of neon lights. the gaudy decorations of what mortals perceive as vampire decor taken from medias they consumed. nymeria found it ironic, the pair of them not the only monsters among those with fake fangs and what they think is a desire for death. immortality has always been beautiful from the outside. she separates from vincent, a kiss that sinks fangs into his bottom lip. nymeria passes through crowd of bodies, knowing vincent will have lingering eyes upon her from both secluded with silk curtains. her teasing had already begun before they left home. black velvet clings to her. it is not the shortness that will be his undoing, but instead the way the material plunges low, revealing the line of chest to soft of her stomach. she knows what the sight of it does to her husband, and it is a miracle she has even made it out with dress in one piece. it is not only his eyes upon her, lingering attention upon her as she presses in dance floor. passing touches that linger a second too long, knowing exactly what it does to vincent. all of this, the moment they stepped out from their home, a plan to see how far nymeria would be able to push him. it is easy to lose herself in deep bass of the music. it is constant, the way she feels his eyes upon her. the longer the night goes, she knows his composure will slip. already, nymeria knows that look of restraint, the way his jaw tightens when someone's hand brushes against her. she could stop here, and it would be enough. she should return to him, but instead she allows herself to play the game a little reckless. she adores the way he watches her, what he holds back beneath all that restraint. she lingers on the dance floor, allowing strangers to press against her beneath red hot lights. she feels beautiful under their attention, though it is not theirs that she craves. someone moves too close, a hand slipping to the curve of her waist. mouth near her ear, the strong smell of liquor. slurred words, muttered together about her body. everything shifts, and nymeria knows the booth will be empty before she even has to glance towards it. she finds him, the way familiar and cold hand closes around her wrist. there are no words spoken, scene is enough to make stranger disappear. fear is not what pulses through nym, but instead a heated and dangerous excitement. his hand does not release her until they are tucked back into what little privacy the booth offers. she waits for him to be seated first, before she joins him, straddling lap. that look of possessiveness, nym knows exactly what she does to him. though this is their own word tucked away from the rest of the club, her glance out finds occasional eyes upon them. it only continues to warm the desire between her thighs. her hips alive in the grinding movement against his. the hard length of his cock pressed against her through fabric, and still it earns a whimper. ❝ makes me yours. ❞

[bledsaint]

.⋆♱ @bledpriest : you look at me like I’m a ghost, but you are the one who killed us.

fountain pen is scratched across page, the sudden and mostly unwelcomed appearance. nymeria could flip through months of journal, not a single mention of his visits. placing herself in agonizing longing for him. she knew him as false. her own creation, her madness. tonight, he does not visit as gentle. instead, it is the vivid memory of him taken as sickness. the vincent that would offer only the cruelest of words. how long ago, memory still fresh. at least enough, to paint this version of him. nymeria ignores him, the silence that follows his words. the sting, prodding at an open wound that would never heal. ❝ how is it, that you chose times to come to me ? ❞ she knows it is her own doing. when the silence becomes unbearable, when the longing for husband who does not exist fills her. what she does not desire, are the words he brings to life. pen is cast aside, leather bound journal closed. eyes fall closed behind dark lashes, a deep breath taken as though she needs it to survive.

vincent, he does not have to remind her of guilt. he in this way, is her guilt personified. his visits are never gentle, nor do they bring her any sort of elation. she stands from desk, the creak of chair. amber hues take in the sight of him. too thin, skin stretched tight over bones. he carries the look of death, of acceptance. eyes dart away, as quickly as vision had been placed upon him. she can not see him like this. to know, it is her that took away release of death he longed for. her angel, their creator. the venom in vincent's words when she would speak of him. that he offered life, answered prayers that their god did not. it was not her decision to make, and yet she had done so anyways. ❝ i could not live a life where you did not exist. every moment of mine, has included you. ❞ selfish. he does not have to bring life to the word. it is a weight that settles upon her. the inability to let go of him. nymeria had called it love, claws sunk into vincent with refusal to let death take him. ❝ a fool i have made of myself. hoping this visit, you would come as lover. my sweet husband, who would spend entirety of day in the garden. hands stained, removing seeds of pomegranates you offered to me. ❞

[bledsaint]

‎ ‎ 𝜗ৎ ₊ 𓈒⊹ ‎, @bledpriest : it's all true. the bogeyman is real and you found him.

her steps backwards are meant for space, distance to place between them. instead, they only serve to trap her. back pressing flush to cold stone. there has never been a way out of this. his steps have no urgency, and any move nymeria makes she knows he will make it faster. amber hues lift, focus upon him. he knows. she sees it in the way ocean hues take her in. there is no confusion, no doubt. her truth has been found, no more hiding behind the persona of the girl nymeria had built ( or, was this truly who she had been all along ? ) . his words settle heavy in her chest, like there should be fear. nymeria has never feared vincent. not even from the moment she had stepped foot into here, the village or his church. what does terrify her, is what comes after. now that truth is laid out before him, what happens ? she knows the answer. the same as any other hunter that had found their way here as well. she hopes his gift of death is merciful and kind. something she does not have to suffer in.

her pulse is a frantic thing she can not quiet. instinct tries to take her, everything she has been taught screams at her to reach for blade. to finish what she had been sent for. but it is her heart that she follows, the sound of metal striking stone, the blade slipping from grasp. she has no intentions of finishing it. any will nymeria had to kill him, had been long gone since he had shown her kindness. since, he unraveled everything she knew.

her chin lifts, slowly and deliberately. it is not in defiance. it is something else entirely, her entire body trembling. this is silence as acceptance, like a lamb quietly led to the altar. there is no fight, no resistance. she will not survive this, something nymeria is almost grateful for. liar, traitor. eyes do not close, instead hues find his and holds her gaze there. there has never been a way out of this.

[bledsaint]

‎ ‎ ౨ৎ ‎𓈒 ◌ ‎ ‎ that version of me is gone.

expanse of night sky stretched overhead, never ending with the shine of stars. how foolish, she had been as a child. whispered words to open window, sure her mother could not hear her. always, just a singular wish. and now here in the garden, he sits with her. but it is not in the way a child imagined. they are worn, string of fate that bound them together frayed. why do they try ? to pretend that they are not broken, as though nothing has changed. but they are far different, than the two who exchanged wedding vows and looked to a future in this home. and yet, the only thing it had become was another cage. one she had locked herself in, because she believed love was still possible. when had she started ? the way words poured from her, memories she hoped would awaken something in him. how she wants to scream, remember her over and over until she is hoarse. it will not change anything, it will not rid herself of the guilt. nymeria's words are desperate, but now cut short. his words that answer her sting, and she does not have the heart to look at him. instead she focuses on trembling hands in lap, fingers laced together and fidgeting. how cold. the reminder that she needed , that he was not her vincent.

❝ right, of course . . . i just , it does not really matter, does it ? ❞ something between a laugh and sob rattles her frame. ❝ you are not my husband. ❞ the words are spoken, more of a reminder to herself. in body, everything about him is the same. but anything further, a blank canvas she can not grasp. she tries, allows herself to build hope that tomorrow will be the day he remembers her. that something she does, something she says will bring him back. that is what this had all been. a blanket stretched out upon garden grounds, resting beneath the sky they had done so a million times before. pointing out different stars to one another, before hands found a way of wandering upon each other's bodies. they were so young, so happy and yet so naive to the world. newlyweds that believed life was only pure bliss, that nothing would come to harm what dreams they shared.

a shake of her head, a wipe of satin gloved hand at her own face. how stupid she felt, to cry here in front of him. ❝ sunrise will be soon, and i fear i am growing rather tired. ❞ she lies, more and more of them told to him than she ever had before. nymeria gives him no time, stumbling to her feet. she wants to flee like a wounded animal, where @bledpriest can not find her. stupid, naive girl who could believe things would just fall back into place after everything, all the suffering she had brought upon them. she could not live in a world without vincent, and this was the price to pay. her movements remain hurried and frantic to get away, until the tug of something at her ankle. his garden. half a mind to step free of her boot and let it remain in it's grasp , while she continued towards what was once called home. ❝ stop it, you. ❞ she means not to offer such frustration in her words, speaking to plants. ❝ do you not see i am trying ? i do . . . i do not know how much more i have in me. he is not vincent, and i am not sure he will ever return to me. ❞ ridiculous she feels, whispered words to a garden.

[bledsaint]

despite the ruin of most plants, there is safety found for nymeria in the garden. it calls to her from a place long ago, a place that sits on the edge of her memory. her life before. there are only ever fleeting moments, nothing she can place herself inside. happiness, that above all is what she can remember. it is far different, than the kind she finds here ( happiness, was that what she felt at his side ? ). his love, and favor. the immortality her husband had given as a gift she loved him, did she not ? even when he was angry, something she had done wrong. he would show her kindness after, and nymeria was so sure she loved him then. the way he held her, the way his voice was gentle. the promise she would not do it again. it was the same cycle, her wish for freedom and how ungrateful that made her. was her life here not enough ? the lavish dresses, the beautiful home, everything he had given to her. in truth, it was all nymeria had. her husband, her creator. he would not speak of life before. only that she had always belonged at his side. she learned very early on to not question it, to be satisfied with the lack of answers he offered her. he had saved her, and that would always be the end of their conversation. if he was in a pleasant mood. once it had been enough. before the stranger in the garden, the familiarity and pull towards him. how eager she had become for their meetings, counting down to even hours on days @bledpriest promised his appearance. he brought life to the garden, plants she had never been able to save. somewhere along the way, nymeria had realized, he had brought life to her as well. hope was a dangerous thing, but it did not stop her. their conversations, and even the silence they shared as he worked to peel pomegranate. vincent, bringing one every visit he made. something about it, like she was living a moment she had before. the question remains always, there on the tip of her tongue. if vincent was someone from before. and the one she feels most guilt for, if he would be one to take her away.

the way she cares for vincent, a vast difference between that of her husband. her smile, her laughter ? here in what she believed the safety of the garden, came so easily. it was never forced. she indulges herself, the idea of wings unclipped and freed from cage. far away from here, at vincent's side. it would only ever be a dream. the danger it would put him in. so she settles, here for stolen moments in garden where only roses bloom. even this, would be enough to see vincent harmed. when she brings these fears, to ask his visits to stop. something in the way he quiets her fears, she believes him.

❝ what seeds are these ? ❞ she asks, the way he brings something for the garden each time. everything around them, nymeria has tried to save. but it is only the roses that bloom to life. she has sat mostly quiet, watching intently as his hands stain from the pomegranate he works on now. something from his garden, the one she wishes to see some day.

[bledsaint]

▌ . ⋆ ♱ @bledpriest : you bring out the worst in me.

❝ would you rather me leave ? how long is it, vincent, that you and i will continue this charade ? ❞ tone soft, the warmth of sun. yet, something like sorrow forms in each one. the way his name falls from her lips. it brings no joy, but no sharpness. if anything, exhaustion. they both try to mend broken glass, jagged edges catching skin and spilling blood. he will never be the man he was before. her husband does not exist, no matter how she tries. he holds no memory of her, who she should be. had fate been cruel enough to snip the red string between them ? the question blooms an ache in her, driven straight to the heart. ❝ say the word, and i will be gone from your side. it will be you and the garden only. i will make it as so, that i never have been here. ❞ nymeria does not mean to bite, to be cruel. how she has tried, to shrink herself into role of wife he adored. strokes of brush balanced in hand grow something different, as if all emotions she has held inside escaped upon canvas. she does not spare a glance towards him, afraid of what she will see. instead, her strokes grow less fluid, rigid before the brush is dropped. it clatters against wooden floor, black paint splattering. dark lashes blink rapidly, as if it will enough to hold back crimson that pools in amber hues. she has grown quiet, figure entirely too still. nymeria stands, what feels an eternity in that silence. she responds to him not in words, but the crash of easel and canvas. it mattered not, rot and ruined garden. the only thing she had been capable of creating since her return here. ❝ if you find me that unpleasant, i will remove myself from your sight. ❞ she holds no melody in her speech, how words tremble from her lips. had it all been a mistake ? to cheat death, to refuse god. vincent wanted to die, begged for it to be merciful. she had been the one to deny it, submit to a monster, because she would not have her husband taken from her. that guilt has burrowed inside her, and she needs no reminder what she has done. what she has taken from him. ❝ i see it, the way you look at me. not as a wife, nor your love. for you, i am something terrible that haunts this home ❞

it is the first time, her eyes are upon him. ❝ say you hate me, speak the truth so we can be free of this. ❞ she draws no closer in the distance between them. the sanctuary of once beloved art room, now feels suffocating. the warmth that burdens her chest, the feeling of dress too tight around frame. if she were to need breath, how fast it would leave her in desperate gasps. ❝ i am a reminder of heaven you will never reach, a choice taken from you. no matter how much devotion, faith and prayers. god did not answer me. he is who would saw you taken from me. i am selfish, a horrid thing because i was the one who abandoned him. had we not given enough ? call me selfish, i did not want a world where you no longer existed to me, to our child. i would make the same choice, every time. if that makes me a terrible and cruel woman, so be it. ❞