#blotgydja

[sachingja]

❛  i should've known better than to think you'd stay.  ❜   🎸🐉

the morning light filtered through the streets in monochromatic shades of gray, only offset by the yellow glow of the street lights; new york was so different compared to los angeles, where it was bright and blue, tinged by a metallic sheen that made everything look artificial and hollow. alexander preferred it here, where he knew every side street and alleyway, where the guy working the bodega down the street knew his order by heart and always declined his slowly but outlandishly increasing tip. he also thought, in the privacy of his own thoughts, that the natural disorder of the city suited daisy far better than the evergreen warmth of the west coast ever could, but maybe that was just wishful thinking, some part of him that did not want to lose her, that hated to see her go, that never wanted her to leave him, or worse, forget about him. it was selfish to even think it, after all their relationship had always been marked by the coming and going, like the ocean tide, a lonely moon waiting for another ride on the merry go round. alexander blinked, the metaphors turning to incoherent sludge in his brain as the night slowly gave way to dawn.

" that is not what this is, " he said, though it sounded defensive to his own ears, and just as hollow as those west coast transplants who pretended that they knew what was best for him or for the guys, as if he hadn't dragged his band out of obscurity with his own bare hands. " you know that this is not what this is. if i could, i would stay. you have to tell me that you know that. "

perhaps this was his punishment, daisy's sharp words and her dark eyes staring him down, fierce even in these blurry hours, when it was easy to pull her back against him and allow his hands to curl around her waist. like an anchor, he thought, if a body could be enough to keep him here, if anyone could have enough weight to dissuade him from following his dreams. this job that others never fully understood, that his parents still rolled their eyes at, but that had fulfilled him more than his useless english major could ever have; daisy knew this better than anyone else, always drawn to the call of the road, the music, the thrill of being up on stage that swam through their bloodstreams, a twin-heartbeat.

he allowed his fingers to tuck a curl of her wild hair behind her ear, his eyes softening despite the awareness that he should be mad or put up more of a fight, but he did not have it in him. not after the night they had just shared, the laughter that rang through the hollow space in his ribcage, that would stick to the floorboards of his desolate apartment, that would have to warm him through lonely nights on the road and endless hours on a plane. five shows in asia, he was looking forward to it. it never felt quite like home but it was the closest thing to it that he had ever known; a feeling fostered by the absence of it. many things in his life had evolved like that, he thought as he looked at her, his gaze a thing so physical it could have been the touch of his own hand, a graze across her cheekbone.

alexander leaned in to kiss her, an apology against the apex of her cheek, the corner of her mouth, a whisper of the guilt that he could never rid himself off.

" it will only be for a few weeks, and i will be back before you know it. i'm trying, yes? i've been trying. do not forget about me while i am gone, okay? "

[sachingja]

[ HAZELNUT ] kath for dima!

[ HAZELNUT ] katherine begrudgingly patches up dmitry's wounds.

" this is entirely unnecessary, " he declares in russian, ignoring the puzzled look she is throwing his way at the syllables cutting past his teeth, all jumbled together. there is an uncomfortably heat lacing through his body, coming in waves from the bullet hole just above his hip bone, and if he is lucky it will not have done any critical damage but it burns worse than he would have expected, like fire spreading from that one singular focal point and creeping into his limbs. his hands feel cold, much cooler than they usually are, and the air tastes stuffy, all sorts of wrong, but there is not much he could ask for. they are in their garage and for all intents and purposes a nice suburban couple should not be walking around with exit wounds. when this is all done and dusted, he will have to check their driveway, see how much blood he has lost on his way into the house. he's had worse, back in st. petersburg, when they caught him on a street corner, five guys with knives and lord knows what else - dmitry does not like to be outnumbered and while he has never sought out only fair fights, he can tell when a fight has been fixed. sedated bulls and all that. it had been laid to rest before it even begun, and when he woke up he had found himself in a government facility, stitched together with more luck than any proper sense.

he should have died back there, but they did not want him to. if they would want him to die here, he would already be dead. or maybe he is not because katherine is kneeling in front of him, in complete disregard to his slacks pulled down to his thighs and the shirt pushed up to his chest, ruined, soaked scarlet and torn where the bullet got to him. his eyes feel hot, the sockets, behind his irises, frantically searching her for any wound, anything he might have overlooked when he got shot, but there is so much blood and she is moving faster than he can comprehend. most of it is his own blood, he realizes, coating her hands, methodically at work.

" you do not have to do this, " he says on a low exhale, in english this time, so she can actually understand him, though he would not be surprised if she is partly fluent in other languages, too. after all, they forced him to learn all sorts of languages, some more than others, for the sake of national security or whatever. when something damp touches his torn skin, he sucks in air through his teeth, can feel his thigh muscle jerk, and tries to act like he did not just react. it is harder than he thought, with her sitting so close to him, close enough that he can smell her perfume mixed with the metallic tang of blood. he blinks the fuzziness out of his vision, where the edges are beginning to blur, and when she pushes her weight into him to stop the bleeding, he grits his teeth, chews on his own molars to dissipate the wave of nausea washing through him. it could have been worse, he thinks. they could have died. katherine could have died - then her handlers would have killed him and he would have gladly taken the punishment. before he can think any better, he reaches for her hand with his own and squeezes it, breathing through every heartbeat pumping blood out of his veins and into her hands. " but thank you for being there. you saved my life. "

[sachingja]

take off my clothes for you, like a ballet girl? is that all you want of me? (kath for dima!)

the night has fallen quiet around them, drenching the world outside the mansion's window in shades of midnight blue and mist, and the inside of this room in a hazy glow, all amber and yellow-gold. for someone who has only ever lied his way into these places, deception wrapped around his fingers like rings and threads of yarn, a spider in the center of his nest — this feels remarkably different. for starters, dmitry had to barely play any pretend to make his way here; katherine invited him, a clever girl with a knife-like heart and an affection for risks. like a vampire, he has been beckoned over the doorstep and has made his way through wide hallways into grand rooms, one bigger than the next, with more wealth displayed than dmitry has ever seen outside of the historical palaces of his hometown, or that of paris.

now, he is leaning against the thick, rich tapestry of the wall of this drawing room, his dark eyes on her ever-moving form. never looking away, as if he might miss any second of her if he'd do as much as blink. it is sickening, to desire someone so much that they might shift and shake the foundation of your being. doesn't he know all about that?

he takes a sip of his — whatever is in his glass, something warm and spicy, alcohol, though he does not need any more heat poured into his chest. she's enough to get him more than halfway towards intoxication. " not all, no, i wouldn't say that, " he muses and allows the lazy decadence of want curl his lips upwards. katherine is as beautiful as ever but the air of something forbidden surrounding her has dmitry on the edge. oh, if her father would know all about the delinquent young man she has brought into his house. " i certainly want more than just that, but it wouldn't be such a terrible start. don't you think, miss pulitzer? "

with the soft, slow steps of a lover, he moves towards her — his fingertips reach her waist before he can feel the heat of her body, a gentle touch, that of a gentleman. he wants, but he never wants to displease or anger her. they are far too alike for that.

her skin is soft where his cheek touches her neck & the brush of his lips follow in the whisper of a kiss. " allow me the honor? "

⋆ . · * ·✵ · ✹ · ✹ *  and other stories / accepting.

[sachingja]

[ 17. ] sender fixes receiver’s crooked tie, teasing, "nervous?" (glinda for fiyero!)

the sun has just risen, drenching the entire room in a gentle glow, and alighting glinda with the sort of iridescent shimmer that comes almost natural. fiyero has never met another person quite like her, who does whatever she can, whatever she wants, whatever she has set her mind to, and excels at it - even if it might cost her, or them, greatly, personally, emotionally. a young girl used to getting her way, she has grown into a woman he admires & respects, and in another world he would love her and this would be an honest promise, and not the sham they both know it to be.

but does the intention make the act any less true? he wonders silently, fretful as ever, and he allows her to step closer to him, touch him in a way he has always wanted to be touch ( just not by her, or by anyone he has ever met. it seems, luck should not be on his side in this one life ) reverent and oh so careful. she really is something else, his best friend in the world, and maybe the only friend he has ever really had. he does know it is not the same for her, that the gap between them is shaped by the absence of the wicked witch, who has never been wicked at all. not how they both remember her, anyway.

" a little, " he allows, and he has yet to get used to the emerald fabric he will spend the majority of his days in. it is at least no uniform, which might have been appropriate wedding attire if he was anything less than a prince. he might have a title now, but his parents have their own ideas. " you do not get married anysingle dawn, don't you? " he tries a smile for her, and leans in to press a gentle kiss to her cheek. she smells sweet and familiar, and is as stunning as ever.

with a single touch, he brushes a stray curl over her shoulder. " we are really doing this, aren't we? "

⋆ . · * ·✵ · ✹ · ✹ *  ↪ 𝐀 𝐘𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄 . / open.

[sachingja]

oh god. i can smell the blood. (marcus for frank!)

his first instinct is to laugh at the absurdity of it all — only he could befriend a vampire and end up cutting himself preparing a dinner that no one but himself will really benefit from. the irony is not lost on him, but the laughter comes to die at the back of his throat, hoarse due to the aborted nature of it, and frank is standing there, in his kitchen, holding his palm in his other hand while he is watching the blood spill between his fingers, crimson against pale skin ( he really should go outside more, but england, as it were, does not have much sunlight to offer. that is one of the few particular reasons why he even came here, the other presently standing in the doorway. ) well, it probably could be worse, right? marcus is perhaps the best physician frank has ever known, no less due to the fact that he had centuries to perfect his craft.

" whoops, " is what leaves his lips first, and the winsome smile following directly after is instinct, too, second-nature to frank. he could talk his way out of anything and has talked his way into a number of situations, too, but this might turn out to be a little trickier than expected. then again, when will he ever get the chance to witness a vampire's reaction to his own blood first hand? he might as well look at the bright side of it all. " sorry, uh. i think there is an emergency kit in the bathroom, above the sink. if you could just get that — i don't think this needs any stitches. " he shrugs and turns towards the kitchen sink, aware of marcus' eyes on him, the tense line of his shoulders. when the cool water washes most of the blood off his palm, he winces. christ, this hurts more than he would have liked. not that he planned this, or anything, it's just been a while. dinner hasn't even made it onto the stove, yet.

frank is hungry, but beneath the starvation lies a different kind of curiosity, one that wonders what marcus will do, how frank will affect him. maybe, it is a little selfish but frank has never had any problem admitting to that; marcus must see people bleeding out every day, but has he ever been ever marginally interested in any of them as he is in frank? or is this all wishful thinking? either way, he could use some medical assistance right about now, he is beginning to feel somewhat hazy around the edges.

⋆ . · * ·✵ · ✹ · ✹ *  and other stories / accepting.

[sachingja]

I know I hurt you. I hurt myself too. 🎨🧺

the night has fallen around them, eerily silent except for the chirp of some birds and crickets, brought in by the balmy air of the evening, the sun diminishing slowly but surely and leaving nothing but tendrils of heat in its wake. candles have been lit to accompany any stray soul which might find their way out of the cottage halls so late, but tonight there are two, sophie and him sitting close to the edge of the land, as close to the woods as possible. it is the sort of space they have created without any real intention, simply led where their feet would carry them, and in the past months it has become a ritual of sorts. first, in the glimmering, snow-filled nights of the shorter months, bundled up in thick woolen coats and blankets, now bleeding into the depth of summer as well. benedict enjoys this, when it is only the two of them with no one else as company. it will change soon enough, he is sure, sophie assures him too, all the time, that she is keeping track of these sorts of things, but for what it is worth, benedict already knows that he will miss this. a sanctuary for two people alone, a space where no one else exists but them.

" hm? " he hums softly, leaning towards the thick of a tree trunk, watching her out of the corner of his eyes, used to the dark by now, her face only aglow with the blue light of the moon and some flecks of gold. " what has brought this on? you've been so very quiet, my love. i thought you surely had something going on in that clever mind of yours, i just did not expect this. "

when sophie is still keeping her words tucked close to her chest, benedict reaches his hand out for his wife's, his fingers brushing a gentle line from the inner crook of her elbow to her wrist, before he slides his fingers in between hers and gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. whenever neither of them has the words, or hasn't made up their mind yet, they do this; before benedict ever really understood the depth of sophie's struggles, he understood this, how a touch could make her melt into his embrace or make her eyes flutter, and how it could make her lean into him, too, for silent reassurance or whatever else she could get from him. if possible, if prompted, benedict would give her everything and then some, the world not enough for her, but he knows that he would never quite get away with it when he has already gotten away with so much. such is the nature of love: endless, everlasting. he understands that now.

" i can assure you, i am not at all bothered by it. i think you are too harsh on what has happened, too harsh on what yourself. you only did what was necessary. i could never fault you for that, " he murmurs, and squeezes her hand again, leaving the whisper of a kiss on her shoulder.

[sachingja]

We were kids. We didn't know what we were doing. 🎸🐉

in hindsight, it is the simplest imaginable explanation to their shared past, the back and forth they have honed over too many years, a cat and mouse game that never wanted to end, until it did, until it has, of course. alexander isn't entirely too fond of those shared memories, mainly because they remind him of how stupid he used to be, an idiot who made a million wrong choices when he could have made the right one, but then again, perhaps the length of the journey only sweetened the destination. occasionally, he wonders if daisy thinks of it the same way, or if this is all she ever considers, the immaturity of youth clinging to their shimmering, sweat-damp skin, that has driven them in and out of each other's lives and beds in quite an infrequent manner. yet, alex has always been dedicated; no one could have claimed differently, back then, if they were seeing each other, he saw no one else. sure, vito filled the gaps, loved to keep his bed warm with no harm done, but he knew when to retreat. the countless fights they had about this are burned into alexander's brain, another unwanted memory that he will probably never get rid of. well, such is the way of life, he surmises, the past is always quick to judge but the present knows the truth, then. in the face of everything that has transpired between then and now, anyway.

" mhm, i'd say i knew a little about it even back then, " he murmurs, turning to look at her from in between the sheets, his cheek bedded on his arm, one leg in between hers, his free hand trailing slowly upwards the ladders of her ribs to the soft give of her breasts, towards her collarbone. he hums and tacks a small smile on to his words, " definitely not, like, well enough to not behave like a complete idiot, but i knew enough to know you. " he would like to argue that it should be enough, that even ten years ago he already knew that he wanted her, wanted no one else so much, so much so that it infiltrated every inch of his life and his work, which often are the same thing, anyway. case in point, he thinks; there is only so many songs you can write about someone before you ask them to sing just a few words for you. a canary in a coal mine, they just traded places every now and then.

now, there is none of the stifling pressure of the past, only the liberating flow of time that has brought them together. alex leans up so he can press a kiss to her jaw, nuzzle his nose into the crook of her neck to inhale the scent of her skin, something that he misses whenever they are apart. he doesn't know how it could have taken them so long to get their shit together, but then again neither of them is known to be quite so remarkably decisive. that's what managers and band members and the suits from the big labels are for. if alex would have his way, he would play music until he cannot move his fingers anymore, and sing love songs until his voice won't be able to carry the shape of her name anymore. it sounds like the ideal version of his future. " imagine if we wouldn't have met back then. we would have lost so much of our precious youth to other, boring people. " they already had, he thinks, but doesn't say so out loud. it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things, anyway. " imagine if you would have married someone else, " again, but he doesn't say that either. the past is just a fluke after all. " that would have broken my heart. "

he grins and flops back onto the mattress, one hand clutched to his chest. winks. " you already broke it often enough as it was. "

[sachingja]

[ LEAN ] sender looks over receiver's shoulder who is sitting,  placing a hand on their desk while receiver shows them something.   ✨🩸

marcus always did this, frank thought with a certain disdain, creeping close until they were lined up from chests to knees, or head to toe if he ever was so glad, while denying him what he actually wanted. this was really not too different, just an extension of this exact same phenomenon in a far more controlled environment; it had started as a simple research session and frank had been lucky enough to even be invited, considering marcus still treated this entire thing like the enormous elephant in the room he simply refused to address. as if that would make it any less real, or dissuade frank from digging deeper into it, into the history of a family that had been around for hundreds of years and had their hands in all sorts of pies, everything you could think of was influenced by marcus' kind, and frank had been too fascinated by the entire machinations of it to let it go. he could never let dead dogs die or leave a dead horse unharmed; it was a fatal flaw, he was more than aware, but it had brought him all the way to oxford, to marcus, and that should have been answer enough. some would call it a bad omen, but frank call it a specific brand of luck nobody else understood, not even the vampire himself.

frank snorted, especially not marcus himself, who behaved like a monk in some monastery and pretended that he was not the same man that had held frank down, eyes dark and bottomless, hunger so evident in every inch of him that it made frank feel hot all over, burning from the inside out. his blood pulsing, boiling, and he knew that marcus could smell it, that he always did, that he craved it even, but loved to act as if he was so above it. as if, frank thought with another scoff as he scrolled through the archives of some small town in siberia. they had recorded a slew of murders in the 1900s that had never been properly investigated, and the last known written record was from sometime forty years ago; not horribly unlikely for a town in the middle of nowhere but somewhat peculiar still. when he clicked through the pages to the various pictures included, all grainy and faded, he paused and sat upright, and that was when he realized that marcus had already been there, right behind him, which led him to his present thoughts.

marcus always did this, sneaking up on him, staying close, too close, perhaps because he simply enjoyed to rile frank up or to watch him squirm, or because he enjoyed to drive frank wild. he was cool to the touch, his entire body was, and frank relished in the feeling of being so close to each other as long as marcus would allow it, as long as he was initiating it. before he could say anything though, he had to clear his voice; with marcus close enough to feel his hair tickle his cheek, frank refused to embarrass himself or trust his vocal chords. " i was about to call you over, actually, " he started before he enlarged the pictures on the desktop screen, opening a new tab for each one so he could zoom into the low quality footage. it wasn't great but it was good enough for puncture marks to be visible on most victims, as clear as day to anyone who knew what to look for. " neck twice, thigh once, twice... wrist, too. i do not know if you know who would spend their time out there for a hundred of years, but it doesn't seem too far off. it's pretty much non-existent, off the grid, only part of domestic maps. the perfect hideout for a few decades. sounds familiar? "

the vampire rarely ever indulged him, but frank wanted him to. he turned his head to bump his nose into the inside of marcus' upper arm, right where it was stretched along his own shoulder. it was too allruing not to, called to him like a curse. with a smile, he left a kiss there before he leaned back into his chair, his head resting against marcus' chest.