bellamysantodomingo-archive-blog
glass nor stone
have you ever wondered
if you are loving too much? if you are letting it burn you
from the inside out, from the cavity in your chest
to the bruises on your flesh to the fire in your eyes?
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date: May 7th
time: 12:20 p.m.
location: Bellamy’s Apartment
status: Closed to @odessavernon
Bellamy and Odessa were allowed to be friends. It seemed strange that this was once an idea people carried in their heads. People, of course, meaning Alvise Vernon.
Bellamy was not a threat. He had gentle hands that could be trusted with something fragile. Shortly after meeting Odessa, however, Bellamy knew that she was not fragile, no matter how thin the glass her father tried to case her inside of really was. And because Odessa was not fragile, Bellamy refused to treat her as if she was.
If he had things his way, they’re places would be switched. He would have shipped himself away to pursue studies, she could have his place in this fruitless war.
He did not resent her, though. Envied, perhaps, though he felt foolish in doing so. He was not as fragile as he looked, though he often wished someone would place him in the same glass casing Alvise tried to construct for his daughter. When something around the object looked so breakable, no one cared to ponder nor to test the durability of the object itself. No matter how strong it was, it was left alone inside its case.
Odessa Vernon was not fragile, and so Bellamy placed the cup of tea in her hand rather than the plate on a table. Her hands would not burn from the contact like her father would have expected them to. Though, Bellamy was quite proud of the new coffee table and wouldn’t mind drawing attention towards it.
He sat next to her on his couch with a smile, spooning some sugar into his own mug. “I suppose I’ll skip the formalities, as ‘how are you?’ seems a ridiculous question to ask at a time like this. I suppose the more appropriate question would be: how’s your hit list coming along?”
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what your muse’s name is in mine’s phone
🔔🔔🔔☠️ - Bellamy is Castora’s only contact name to be entirely comprised of emoji; it’s not that deep, she just thought it would be funny to use the bell emoji for Bel. The death emoji doesn’t refer to anything in particular except their occasional animosity/trolling of each other
what your muse’s picture is in mine’s phone
Alexander actually assigned Castora grunt work; while she was doing something menial and frustrating Bellamy went out for gelato and sent Castora this photo on snapchat to rub salt in the wound
what your muse’s ringtone is in mine’s phone
La Vie Boheme - Rent; they saw the opera La Boheme at a Montague occasion a few years ago. After, Bellamy made a comment about how Rent is better. Castora had never heard of it before, and just has an aversion of musicals in general (periodically?? bursting?? out?? into? song?) despite never having seen or listened to one. Like 2 or 3 weeks later, at a Mont party she found him in a corner ( introverts finding introverts) and they ditched the party to watch his Rent bootleg.
my muse’s last text to your muse
> hey are you home?
> yooohoooo still alive bellamy?
> ok merc confirms you’re still alive so i’m going to go to your apartment to play with the cat
> if you died who would get custody of isadora?
#υɴғorтυɴαтely ι cαre ( castora )#this is a pure frenemyship#received#also that pic of bel is so cute i'm crying#mr. pretty green eyes~~
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date: May 5th
time: 10:40 p.m.
location: The Two Gentleman
status: Closed to @ofhoratio
Bellamy was not often public with his suffering. Tonight, he decided to break this tradition.
The Two Gentleman provided a respectable backdrop. It wasn’t quite the rowdiness of The Tempest where basses beat as loudly as its occupants overly-saturated outfits, nor was it The Dark Lady where secrets clung to the shadows on the wall, but could not always avoid the neon glow of the main room.
Two Gentleman was of a gentler breed, smooth piano pattering about the room, accompanied by the steady hiss of a symbol and the tick-tack of drums. The dim lighting provided a comforting sense of shelter. It was not so dark that the shadows would consume you, rather enough light creeped in so the dark could caress and hold with gentle fingertips, a warm and lingering touch.
It had been a week, and Bellamy still couldn’t get the image of a gun to Roman’s head out of his mind. And with it came the thought of what could have happened. All week, he had thoughts that would torment him into the night. What if Bellamy hadn’t fought off Tiberius? He almost hadn’t been able to.
“Close call...” he heard his mother cluck, tongue clicking as she pressed his hair back on top of his head. Her touch was gentle, her eyes were not. He went to visit his family a few days after the incident. He shouldn’t have, because he couldn’t shake the images of his brothers sharpening their knives and his sisters loading their guns.
When he drained the scotch in his glass, he found he wasn’t alone. The drink burned in Bellamy’s throat. He tried not to gag, though he did despise the taste. It was a relief to watch Hector sink into the seat next to him. Bellamy attempted a warm smile.
Hector was not unlike him, that much Bellamy gathered in their limited interactions. And the alcohol loosened Bellamy’s lips just enough that he was able to ask, with a saddened and dreary smile, “You come here often?” He laughed at the cheesiness of it and then shook his head. “And if you don’t, you could at least humor me. I’d really like to feel a bit less pathetic right now.”
#this took me a decade but hERE IT'S FOR YOU#[whispers] it's free real estate#i: hector#hector: drink with me#(yes that's a les mis reference)
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Why are you so in love with
things unbearable?
Sophocles, from Electra tr. Anne Carson
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What matters is the part we choose to act on.
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bellamy santo domingo moodboard (1/?)
“Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them, humanity cannot survive.”
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castora-aguilar:
Bellamy Santo Domingo and Castora Aguilar did not share an animosity, as most expected and likely believed, so much as a certain distaste for one another and a belief that they were inherently incompatible. If he ever wondered why she could not be still, Castora would wonder why he couldn’t just burn (and be useful for a change).
“Nerd,” she muttered under her breath, just loud enough so that he might hear her. “Actually, the mysterious cultish vibe probably fits the Spades better wouldn’t you say? Therefore it’d be more their impending deaths than ours.” If only.
Castora rolled her eyes, and then looked at the clock. “It’s not even four yet. You can spare a half hour to get your ass kicked for an old friend can’t you?” She didn’t care that he had plans, whatever they were.
She gestured for him to come at her. He’s going to be at disadvantage anyways, might as well let him throw the first punch she thought.
He caught the insult, though it didn’t snag on his ears like most would. It was practically in his repertoire of nicknames, especially when it came from Castora’s mouth. He was immune from prolonged exposure. But he cut her a halfhearted glare anyway, just to let her know he heard it.
“I’d say they’re more comparable to the Manson Family in terms of cults. And the majority of the members are still alive and well in prison, so I’m going to have to disagree with you on that front.” It took a beat for him to realize he was not helping his case, or anyone’s for that matter.
He couldn’t decide whether half an hour was an insulting or generous assumption to make. There were many words to describe Castora, but merciful was not one of them.
He took one last withering look at the clock before sighing and slipping the wraps off of his hands, unraveling them and rolling them before placing each bundle in his bag. “Fine,” he agreed, sounding just as reluctant as he felt.
He took a few steps back, guiding Castora towards the more open space behind them before he crouched down in preparation. After a few moments of sizing her up, trying to scan for the weakest points, he threw a punch towards her shoulder.
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nikolaiborisov:
Nikolai tilted his head, confused by theother man’s confusion. Had he really not thought the circus might’ve purposefullydone all that? Did he really think that everything just went crazy by accident? That special brandof chaos could only happen if it was planned, and Nikolai certainly didn’t thinkSeverine had clean hands in all this. “You don’t think it was supposed to? After all theweird ass shit that happened, you don’t think it was meant to go bad?” Nikolai tapped his fingers against his leg,shaking his head. Poor guy. “Listen, I didn’t know whathappened was going to happen. It’s not like I want any little tykes to get hurt.” Granted, it’s not like he everthought about who would get hurt inhis jobs/schemes/etc., but he didn’t set out to hurt children, the elderly,cute, fluffy animals, etc. Sometimes it just…happened.
Bellamy was clearly of a softer heart thanNikolai, not so willing to brush off casualties. And frankly, even Nikolaiwanted to fidget in bed at the thought of some little kid getting caught up inthe blast from his booth, or being stuck in a stampede of fleeing circus guests. These just weren’t things he thought about, though. In the moment, hewas focused on the job and getting it done right, not what would happen afterit was finished. He offered Bellamy an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry my boothgot blown to bits, but that’s all I can offer you. Pretty much all of thatcircus is more mystery to me than I’d like it to be, so I’m just as clueless asyou, bud.”
At once, the blood and color drained from Bellamy’s face. He knew the answer to his own question, but the confirmation still pierced him like nicking razor blades skidding the spaces in between his ribs. In his time away, he did not forget how cruel Verona can be. He could not forget how cruel Verona can be. But the reminder is like poison. There may be treatment, antidote, and, eventually, immunity, but it will never be less painful going down. He closed his eyes, a silent prayer whispered in the back of his mind. Then he ran his fingers along his thighs, hoping the pressure on his skin would alleviate some of the pressure in his stomach.
He listened to Nikolai explain himself, though Bellamy could feel no sympathy for the man’s ignorance. That was the problem with this war, wasn’t it? No one cared to consider the body count until the casualties were being lowered into the ground. Bellamy’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t quite sure what it was directed at. The circus, Nikolai, Verona, the war, himself, a combination of all of the above.
And then the other brushed it off with a shrug and a halfhearted apology. Bellamy wasn’t sure whether or not to accept it. “Strange,” he decided to say instead, eyebrows pinching together. “If I’m... not being intrusive, then... how did you get wrapped up in all of it? The circus.”
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faronvasiliev:
@bellamysantodomingo
May 19th, 2017.
Bellamy’s apartment, evening.
Fingertips running across a bookshelf. Catching on the smooth cover of a paperback. He pauses as his fingers slide to the top of the book, pull it out. Turns it over in his hand. He takes another step and moves on. Outside the window lies the chatter of Verona in the evening. In the room nothing but silence. The hum of an air conditioner. A line of sun where the blinds don’t wholly dim the light.
“This is a nice place.” A throwaway comment. And Faron stops by the wall, interest caught. Raises his free hand. Glides a thumb over a pinned photograph. “Quaint.”
There’s no reply. Not from the man by the window. Not from the other soldier half hidden in the shadows, stood by the doorway. But he hadn’t expected one. The two are hired muscle. Useful. Silent. And more trustworthy than the native Veronesi to be sure.
His attention refocuses to the book. After a moment of thought, he turns it to the first page.
He’s halfway past the introduction when there’s a sound at the doorway. Thumb resting on the page, above the inked 8 on the lower right. The sound of– a key in the lock. A click. A faint smile, and Faron turns the page.
The day had been uneventful, so to Bellamy it was a day well spent. After offering a hand to repair The Taming’s ruins— both to keep busy and to bear some weight of Roman’s burden— he was covered in ash and rubble. His bones ached from the heavy lifting— it turned out Roman’s burden was quite heavy indeed— and his hands were littered with callouses.
The warmth building in his chest was reward enough. After everything that had happened, it was practically a relief to do something good. Repairing the shelter was a pleasant reminder that after all the destruction, there could still be creation.
His stomach rumbled under the thinness of his cotton shirt. A meal and a shower was all he really wanted, a simple man with simple needs. It was a relief to finally wedge his key into the lock of his apartment door, the familiar crunch of metal loosening knots in his shoulders.
The feeling didn’t last long. The moment he looked across the room to see Faron Vasiliev, his heart jumped into his throat. Panic froze him, hand dropping his key with a loud clatter. He tried to convince his legs to run, though they didn’t seem to want to listen.
Bellamy had read once, somewhere in his many texts, that a rabbit could die if it was frightened enough. Its heart would beat so quickly, the poor creature wouldn’t be able to keep itself alive. Bellamy was starting to understand what that felt like.
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“This is my way of saying thank you,”
Bellamy knew that Nikolai was not a conventional man. He learned this about the other from their first encounter. He had a cheshire smile both on his lips and in his eyes, something about them twisted but genuine.
A bouquet was a surprise. A bouquet of burned roses a little less so. Bellamy blinked, clearing his throat and taking them with a smile that was a little grateful but mostly curious. A strange gift from a strange man. He supposed it wasn’t exactly ironic. Somehow, it was shocking and expected all at once.
“Well,” Bellamy managed, finally getting passed the way his throat seemed to squeeze itself tight with unease. “I appreciate it.” He didn’t. “And you’re welcome.”
People were complex, offering what they thought appropriate in times like these. The gesture, Bellamy thought. Focus on the sincerity of the gesture.
With that in mind, smiling came a bit easier. The guarded square of his shoulders flattened, and he found himself stepping backwards, opening his door with more ease than he had expected. “Come in, if you’d like.” He smiled a little brighter, adding playfully, “I’ll just find a vase of water for these.”
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STARTER CALL!!
like this post and i’ll slide into the dms come at your im with plots and such so hmu if it interests you!! if we haven’t plotted before, this’ll be a great place to start, and i can get to starters tonight after work!!
#this gif is cute and i have no other reason to use it so here#diveronastarter#in the meantime i'll tap up some replies
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“It wasn’t personal.”
“It doesn’t matter!” Bellamy’s voice echoed along with the sound of his fork crashing against the china underneath it, both elements leaving a fading cacophony in their wake.
He looked down to his untouched food, then realized his hands were running through his hair on either side of his head. He had been avoiding eye contact throughout the evening. It didn’t alleviate any of the weight on his chest.
“When someone dies— is killed— it's probably gonna hit home for someone.” He drops his hands, now looking at Orion as a fire starts burning in his chest until flames are licking at the back of his throat. He couldn’t afford to let it out, not in a restaurant flooded with staff and patrons going about, enjoying their evenings. They were so blissfully unaware of the tragedy he and Orion had caused just hours before. Bellamy envied them. He could not speak over them in a place like this, and Bellamy supposed that was why Orion chose it. This dinner outing was not an apology.
It forced Bellamy to speak in a whisper, one that was grating and hoarse. “Ever wonder how this vicious cycle keeps continuing? Because when you kill someone, they don’t exactly take it well. Some might even say 'personally.' Vengeance is theirs, they must avenge their deceased family member, et cetera, et cetera. So whether or not you decide it’s personal is kind of irrelevant, no?”
He snatched his wine glass a little too quickly, red teetering over the edge and onto the white of the tablecloth. More red stains to follow him throughout the evening. He locked his jaw.
Then he downed the glass in one go.
“Get the check, and let’s get out of here.”
#orionmassetti#continued it from the last one!! bc... this is a fun theme idk#death tw#blood tw#murder tw
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valentina-rising:
The restlessness that usually thrummed in her skin, sang out in blood and sweat and a need for more–it had left her, it would seem. Her hands did not shake, her steps didn’t waver. A sort of calm had swept over her in all of the chaos that had ensued. Perhaps her body had begun to feel what her mind knew all too well–the world was going to chaos around them, there was no need for her to follow. Not this time.
Still, the need to keep sharp and aware was obvious, so after a few hours in the library Valentina made her way to the gym. Something familiar surely would help the swirl of emotion she felt inside.
The rhythmic thud, thud of a fist meeting a bag was familiar even from down the hall. Training was common now, more so than ever. Turning the corner it was easy enough to spot who was there.
Even as surprising as it was. Maybe they all dealt in new ways, found new mechanisms.
“Bellamy.”
Nodding at his words, her eyes followed him for a moment, across the rather blank expanse of his face, down the hard set to his shoulders. The way his breath rose and fell sharply, held within. And his hands— “I need to stretch first anyways, but thank you.”
It never was truly her place, for he was someone she’d never truly been given an opportunity to know well. She’d thought them too different, him a bleeding heart and her just determined to make things bleed. A sharp contrast, so she’d kept to herself. There wasn’t time for that anymore though.
Nimble fingers grabbed his wrist lightly, hand up as if to calm a startled animal. “You went hard. Those might scar.”
He recognized the voice but didn’t turn to it at first. Valentina, crafted from fire and brimstone. Valentina, the Captain. Valentina, the survivor. Valentina, the warrior.
For someone he did not know well, she certainly made an impact— not so much through their interactions, but through the lack of them. Silence often spoke louder, revealed things that words could cover. When it came to Valentina, silence revealed the strength with which she carried herself and the way her eyes burned with a fire not of this world but the one underneath it.
He couldn’t help but feel a little inadequate, like a child playing pretend— he was no real soldier— as he nodded at her dismissal. It was surprisingly cordial, though it shouldn’t have been surprising at all. The two could be opposite of one another while remaining civil. Though that was rare in Verona.
He stopped short the moment her hand caught his, a stiffness starting in the base of his spine and shooting upwards. It was softer than he expected it to be. He supposed that went to show the old cliche was true, you could not judge a book by its cover.
That was not a lesson he learned from his family nor his friends, but from experience. No matter how stoney one’s exterior may have appeared, they were human. And all humans decided whether to reside in darkness or in light.
Valentina’s words were a compliment, he was sure, but it was hard to accept. It wasn’t quite condescending, but the shock that laced her tone proved just how little she knew about him. Maybe how little anyone knew about him. Maybe he was unknowable.
‘Those might scar,’ she said, as if he was so delicate. As if he was a blank canvas. All the marks on his knuckles would do was add to the collection.
“Can’t stay clean forever,” he replied, not so sure he was talking about his knuckles anymore. Deflect, he thought. Paint another picture, tell another story. Always deflect. “I know my fair share of first aid; I’ll patch them up. No need to fuss. Speaking of which, how are you holding up?”
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I care.
I always care.
This is my problem.
so tired (via atychiiphobiiaa)
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ramona-aguilar:
Had she received any form of medical attention other than that of her own and her own blood’s hand, it would have been impossible for her to be here right now, marching into her kin’s gym in broad daylight, lacking the decency to sneak in after dark to pretend she feared get caught exhausting herself prematurely. She had always had very valid reasons for avoiding doctors whenever she could, madmen and charlatans of their own right, this occasion being no exception.
Never would Ramona Aguilar be caught exhibiting weakness.
Not in any form.
Not as long as she could avoid it.
Now more so than ever.
Weakness equalled admitting defeat and wasn’t theirs to flaunt. The Capulets’? Quite frankly, perhaps. The fact that both sides were in need of their current alliance if they wanted to stand a chance against an excruciating enemy she disregarded with pleasure. To her, they remained the victors. The victors turned underdogs, a washed out, crumbled photograph of her youth, the role still fitting the girl with fiercer eyes and a more vicious grin as well as it had since her feet had first touched Verona’s cobblestone streets. The audience’s favourite, broken, beat and bruised but, in the end, invincible — so what use was there in nursing one’s battle wounds before refreshing them if they were to return all the same accompanied by an unpleasant waste of time?
Fingertips pressed against the trembling yet durable fabric curiously once she had reached Bellamy’s side, gaze fixing on him automatically. His poker face had never been the best; a mental remark not to be voiced but, alas, could she blame him in times like these even amidst self-induced delusion? “Are you sure you’re done yet?” She asked politely, herself attempting to sound as neutral as possible when addressing him. “It looked almost as if you still had some steam left to blow off.”
He looked up to Ramona, meeting her gaze and feeling a bit small under it. Or maybe he had been feeling small and hadn’t realized it until he felt her eyes on him. He thought it since the moment his hand strapped on the gun aimed at Roman’s head. He managed to deflect the attack. This time.
“I...” he started, but lost himself along the way. How was he supposed to talk to Ramona Aguilar about violence? Any input he had seemed inadequate. Who was he to stand next to a woman forged by Ares himself? Bellamy had other guardians: Athena, for her wit and strategy, not her battle cry. Apollo, for his poetry and medicine.
He decided not to speak and to shake his head instead. He could think for himself, and he was knew he was done. “I’m sure,” he said a little more definitely, beginning to work at slipping the wraps off of his knuckles, clenching and unclenching newly revealed knuckles in attempt to regain feeling.
He needed to stop. It was beginning to scare him how good it felt to hit something, without mercy. Maybe a sack of sand and grain wasn’t the same as hitting a person, one who could feel and bleed and... well, react. But how long would it be before it was?
“I think I’ll be doing my fists and myself a favor if I just...” He didn’t finish that thought either, throwing his wraps into a bag and shaking a blur of emotions out of his head, attempting to loosen the grips of demons’ claws with a rattle of his neck.
“What are you doing here?” He decided it best to deflect some of the attention. His eyes narrowed, both in suspicion and concern, as he skimmed his eyes over Ramona’s still-fresh injuries. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
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kaiusmartius:
“I can think of a few reasons why we have not crossed paths,” there was mischievous glint in his eyes, “but I am sure none of them are reason enough.”
The man in front of him had eyes like the ones Kai saw mostly in goodbyes. They were gentle and curious, their roaming gaze as harsh as a blanket made of goose down. Kai had always pitied people like him.
“A bleeding heart?“ he pressed a closed fist over his chest, “You should stop that. It cannot be good for you. Especially if you cannot even stomach blood.“
There was a palpable pause in his diatribe and he felt the springtime breeze whip around his face, wraps its cool fingers around the paper he had just retrieved. Without thinking, he clasped it tighter, shoved it down into his pocket and held it there.
When he looked back up at Bellamy, he only ran his hand through his hair and sighed, “Well, what do poets do that I cannot? Drink coffee and speak in rhyme?”
“I can certainly do the first,” he grinned, “Join me? If you are lucky you may even see me do the second.”
It was a test, as all things were. On one hand a kindly armistice, on the other a malicious opportunity– Kai’s proposal could have been anything and they both knew it. He let the offer hang in between them, a reckless grin frozen on his face.
Bellamy laughed again. It was somewhat ironic, but mostly it was hiccupy and genuine. It was easy enough. Bellamy had almost forgotten what that felt like— at least since coming back to Verona. “Perhaps I should,” he agreed, tucking his hands away in his pockets. “Though a bleeding heart is much like bleeding flesh— difficult to control without the necessary equipment.”
Was he being too morbid? It was a possibility, and he considered it far too attentively as wind picked up around them. But then Kai wrapped his fingers further around that little piece of paper, and Bellamy’s curiosity quickly piqued. His train of thought switched tracks. What was on that pesky piece of paper?
Kai met Bellamy’s eyes, and Bellamy put noticable effort into snapping his attention to Kai’s. He was in the wrong line of business for one who could not even feign nonchalance. He smiled with the ends of his lips as a diversion tactic, though it was clearly in vain. Marcelo was right; he really needed to work on his poker face.
Thankfully, he wasn’t the one to change the topic. Kai took the burden onto his own back if just to allow Bellamy a moment to breathe.
He blinked in response to the sudden question. Coffee. When was the last time he was asked to do something as mundane as sit down and enjoy a cup of coffee?
He didn’t have time to consider ulterior motives. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t want to give himself the chance. Too often did his thoughts turn dark, painting a vibrant, acrylic world in smudgy charcoal. He could afford a moment of blissful ignorance, couldn’t he?
At the other’s smile, he nodded his head, slowly at first and then a bit faster, more accepting. “Sure... Sure, I could use a cup of coffee. Is it safe to assume Pheonix and Turtle fits your fancy?”
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castora-aguilar:
She rarely came to the Montague gym. She preferred one closer to her apartment, where few if any of her colleagues attended. That way, when she couldn’t land a punch or ended up on the ground, no one important would see her. Castora Aguilar was one of those people who found ways to armor their hearts in the strangest places.
Except now with the Spades controlling, well, practically everything and the locals choosing to give their former gods scarlet letters, her fucking gym wouldn’t let her through the doors. Fine then. Fine. ( It was not fine. )
Castora almost turned around and left when she saw Bellamy in the gym, but he had heard her coming and Castora needed to get some energy out. God gives and God takes - and this afternoon, He gave her an opportunity to pester Bellamy.
“Would it be inappropriate to say that you’ve finally drank the Kool-Aid?” Castora deadpanned, dropping her gym bag on the floor and taking out her gloves. They were red, a gift for either Christmas or her birthday. “You’re leaving already? I could use a sparring partner. And you could use the practice.”
His entire body sighed upon hearing Castora’s voice alone. Perhaps that was a dramatic way of putting it, but he and Castora were such polar opposites that it often felt that was the only pertinent reaction. Like water extinguishing fire, though most days it seemed he was the water.
He turned to face her, managing to mirror the unimpressed droop of her face, perking one eyebrow for effect. Of course her gloves were red. Glaring, hotheaded, temperamental red. Could nothing about Castora Aguilar be even-keeled or... tame?
“Yes it would be,” he said cleanly and patiently, “though the allusion to the Jonestown massacre might not be a far cry from our impending early deaths.” He stopped himself there. He was being dramatic again.
His body sighed once more. Oh, no, it was just his mouth this time.
He looked to the clock on the wall, then back at Castora with a short roll of his eyes. “Fine, but don’t think I can drop everything on a whim; I can’t be here all night.” He had a very important schedule to get back to: shower, dinner, numb himself with an old black and white movie, cuddle with his cat Isadora, and an evening tea before a failed attempt at sleep.
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