░ BLOTGYDJA.

𝕰ast of the sun, 𝖂est of the moon. ░ # 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔱𝔤𝔶𝔡𝔧𝔞, a highly private and selective multimuse writing blog. featuring muses from a variety of sources; including literature, film, tv and stage. by solveig ( 27, she/her, northern europe ). on permanent semi-hiatus, expect low activity. dark themes and mature content will be present. minors dni. affiliated with sachingja.

favorite color: it's been green for a long time but I'm swaying towards red now. last song: pictures of you by the cure. currently reading: just finished rereading the knight and the moth in preparation for the sequel, and I'm hoping to start wild dark shore tomorrow. as for nonfiction I really want to read barbarian days this summer. currently watching:  other than below deck and house of the dragon it's been a slow summer tv and film wise. recently loved widow's bay though! currently craving: argentinian defeat!! also it's been a bit chilly this weekend so a hot chocolate would be nice.

◗ PROMPT COLLECTED FROM A STUDY OF STARS ░ ACCEPTING.

[ 𝑻 ] o make a decision and decide for herself whether it is good or bad, and if it's the latter, if it is worth it or not, is surprisingly liberating. Cigarette perched between her lips, she inhales, feels the smoke heavy and warm as her lungs pull it in and down just to spit it back out — she understands why people say it's calming. The taste isn't, nor the parched and dry feeling it leaves behind, but the movements are. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Somehow it's meditative, but without the smugness she often finds in the smiles of colleagues who swear to the meditation apps. The whole thing is contradictory, to burn one's lungs while claiming it helps some mental ailment, and she thinks that might be why she doesn't hate it. But most of all, she likes it for its unintended purpose; the cigarette anchors them both here, gives her an excuse to linger in the presence of a friend, prolonging the minutes before she has to return to her empty apartment.

Perched loosely between her pointer and middle fingers, she passes the cigarette back to @sachingja, impassively watching as he (far more deftly) inhales and exhales the smoke. Her other hand lifts a to-go cup from the café around the corner to her mouth, the stale taste of cold coffee preferable to the lingering hazy aftertaste of Marlboro. ❛❛ I got my hands on a pack when I was 14 or so, and I snuck out to smoke whenever I was feeling melancholic. I don't think I ever properly inhaled back then, just held it in my mouth until I coughed it back out. [Her mouth quirks, dark eyes glittering with self-deprecating amusement at the dramatics of her teenage self.] Laurence— my father caught me at Christmas, and I never tried again. ❜❜

◗ PROMPT COLLECTED FROM AND OTHER STORIES ░ ACCEPTING.

[ 𝑬 ] ven as one whose purpose had long been to remain invisible, Sophie knows the eyes upon her linger far longer than they do on most other ladies present. Were it not for their brazenness and the way their gazes nip at her skin like nettles in spring, she would have noticed by the unimpressed curl of their lips, or the way their hands leap to shield their mouths as they whisper to their confidants, words surely critical at best. The urge to flee, to seek refuge and confidence on her husband's arm rises with each failed attempt to ignore that which is plain for everyone to see: she is an imposter, a thief stolen into the ball, a weed among the vibrant blooms—

A kind voice derails Sophie's descent into further self-flagellation, and her head whips round to catch its owner. The urge to defend is always on the tip of her tongue, a habit schooled into her: ❛❛ Oh, I would not say so— ❜❜ She begins to argue but trails off in quick defeat, hesitation written plainly across her features; the unconvincing smile plastered upon her mouth wavers, and her dark gaze shifts back and forth between her new acquaintance and the objects of their discussion. Her tense shoulders heave with a deep breath, and it is as if it unlocks something, a sliver of her restraint slipping out. It is exhausting to always be so understanding. Surely she might be allowed one moment of truth, especially in the presence of someone who seems to share her opinion.

[ 𝑫 ] ear Benedict,

[ 𝑴 ] y Dearest Benedict,

And thus I begin my first letter to you. I admit I have not written many in my lifetime, especially not of the informal kind, so I beg you be patient with me while I learn — as I once gave you French lessons, I must now inquire after your willingness to give me lessons in the art of penmanship? If you decide to indulge me, perhaps your first might be on the content of letters, what is expected and what is not, what is proper and what is not. Until then I will write what I think and what I feel, and hope you will not find me dreadfully boring.

Not even a full evening had passed in your absence before I found myself reaching for the pen, for the only source of connection I have to you now that your mother has sent you off to your lodgings. Armed with parchment and ink stolen from your brother's office I have snuck into your bedroom and now I sit at your table, pausing my writing only to gaze out your window. The stars here in the city are likely as dull as they were last time we discussed them, yet even so I find they shine brighter tonight. Still I yearn for the countryside, for our time in solitude there. But no longer does the memory linger with a sense of grief, for now I know it will not be the last. There will be many more memories. If it is unladylike to express my excitement, then so be it. After all I am no lady. I cannot wait for our life to begin!

If you are feeling creatively inspired, might I inquire after a new sketch of My Cottage? Your first was wonderful, but I seem to have lost mislaid misplaced it. It evoked such feelings of home, of comfort and peace, and I should like to have it framed, so I may look upon it and feel close to you whenever I miss you.

I will not send off this letter to you until morning, by which I will surely have a million more things to write you. The only solution will be to compose another letter, or better yet, to see you in the flesh. I will be hoping for the latter.

Sleep well, Benedict. I wish we were not apart, but I will comfort myself with dreams of you.

[ 𝑭 ] rank,

In a shocking turn of events, I have decided to indulge you (again, for don't I already indulge your every whim? I can't claim to know many others of my kind who so willingly share information about our species to self-described vampire hunters, even if the hunt is only of the academic kind) and forego texts and e-mails for the sake of handwritten letters.

Ideally I would have liked to make some teasing comment here, say something about your nostalgia, your somewhat romanticised view of the past, bla bla bla, but now that I'm sitting here, putting pen to paper, I realise you might have been onto something — believe it or not, there was a time I used to write letters constantly. To my family, Ysabeau most often, weekly and sometimes even more. Matthew much more rarely, unless there was something of importance to note, some family gathering or death to report. I wrote to friends, for a time, before I'd inevitably have to stop to avoid certain questions about me, the kinds of questions I'm now willing answering for your sake. I think I've missed it.

Maybe I should start journaling. That might scratch this itch. And wouldn't that be something? A journaling vampire. On second thought, no, I shouldn't. I'd be too powerful, with too much self-insight. For everyone's sake I should stick to the pints and Tuesday nights at the club, really dedicate myself to living up to my reputation as the black sheep of the family.

I did promise I'd answer some more of your questions while I'm away. Go ahead, have at it. Though if it's too embarrassing I reserve my right to refuse to answer.

In the meantime, it's your turn to indulge me! What's Oxford like in my absence? Grey, dull, lifeless, void of meaning? Spare no details.

Don't miss me too much.

◗ PROMPT COLLECTED FROM A STUDY OF STARS ░ ACCEPTING.

[ 𝑻 ] he cramped grocery store is a temporary oasis from the sweltering Italian sun; droplets of drying sweat dot his hairline, and the sun-kissed skin of his arms are covered in goosebumps courtesy of the A.C. unit blustering above their heads. The cashier, an older man with heavy brows and disdain written all over his face, is focused on the football game playing on the TV in the corner — and it’s lucky for them that the World Cup is on, otherwise Connell would be far more stressed looking for excuses to keep lingering in the shop. He tears his gaze away to search the fruits and greens section for @exitvelo, her name on the very tip of his tongue, when he feels her arms slide around his waist. ❛❛ I was wondering where you'd gone, ❜❜ he says quietly, greeting her with the settlement of his hands above hers, tugging her arms tighter and her body closer to his.

nicknames: don't really have one because my real name is pretty short and doesn't call for a nickname, but friends have jokingly called me things like typo, dingo and (don't ask) sauron for years. zodiac: sagittarius. I'm not an astrology girlie so I don't know what my moon or rising is soz! last movie I saw: obsession, which you'd enjoy if you like horror and dedicated performances! last thing I googled: red days (translation: public holidays) in may. whit monday got me good this year! favorite musician: just gonna list a bunch of my faves. sam fender, uld, maggie rogers, del water gap, bleachers, fontaines dc, no. 4. the list goes on and on! song stuck in my head: lonely touch by sarah kinsley. other blogs: my angel alina @svyatoiy, who I promise is not dead, I'm just in the middle of fieldwork and grad school and don't have the mental capacity for two blogs right now (though who knows, maybe I'll pop my head in over the summer). do I get asks: I'm so lucky I get a bunch of wonderful prompts! following: trying to keep it at around 50, but I'm pretty sure a decent amount of those are inactive. amount of sleep: my bedroom window opens onto the busiest street in the city centre, which means I never get a decent amount of sleep ever. desperately looking forward to a summer in my hometown where the only thing that'll keep me up at night is the sound of seagulls! lucky number: 27. what I'm wearing: black pants, blue and white striped shirt and a massive grey pullover I finally finished knitting. dream job: honestly I kind of have it! I work at a local history museum as a guide and receptionist and my dream would be to take over as daily manager. other than that, the cliché bookstore owner/publishing house dream still lives on. realistically I just want an office job that pays decently. dream trip: I spent two days hiking and living in a beautiful shared house in the atlas mountains in morocco right before covid and it was honestly the best time I've ever had, so I'd love to go back and do longer treks. other than that I'm desperate for a long weekend hopping between various west end theatres, so london as well! favorite food: don't think you can get more stereotypically norwegian than by saying a good piece of salmon and some rice, but it's true. play any instrument: I used to be able to play a couple songs on the guitar but I've since lost all musical talent. languages: my native language is norwegian, I'm fluent in english, and almost fluent in swedish and danish. favorite songs: jeg skal finne deg by uld, hva kjærlighet er by no. 4, paradigms by sam fender, the young people by lankum, back in my body by maggie rogers. there are so many more but these five are what comes to mind today! random fact: I have four small scars on my neck from a medicine tube/catheter I had as a child, and I spent most of my early teenage years trying to convince people I was bitten by a vampire. only managed to trick the most gullible of my friends though :-( promise I have since stopped! describe yourself as aesthetic things: stacks of books that nearly topple over on the floor, the sound of seagulls, waves crashing against "svaberg" (don't know if there's an english term that would sufficiently explain what I mean by this so just google it), an ever-growing collection of half-written journals, dark wood panels, a messy desk lit up by a single candle.

◗ PROMPT COLLECTED FROM A STUDY OF STARS ░ ACCEPTING.

[ 𝑯 ] er life has changed so vividly and so abruptly she cannot help but wonder if perhaps this is all still a dream, her body still in that cold jail cell instead of floating down the halls of Bridgerton house to break fast with its namesakes. If it is, Sophie does not wish to ever wake. At the top of the staircase her steps and disbelieving introspection halt, her gaze caught on the catalyst of all that change waiting at the landing; dark hair combed and cravat tied perfectly round his neck @sachingja looks every inch the perfect suitor. Though the sight sends the kaleidoscope of butterflies in her stomach fluttering, it is the smile that curls his mouth when he sees her that trips up her heart. ❛❛ Good morning, ❜❜ she says in greeting, descending the stairs between them with quick feet, entirely uninterested in playing the part of coy debutante or uninterested lady.

◗ PROMPT COLLECTED FROM A STUDY OF STARS ░ ACCEPTING.

[ 𝑻 ] he idea that doctors make the worst patients is an undisputed fact. Controlling, overcompensating, know-it-all attitudes even when treated by the most qualified of physicians — Robby is fully aware of the stereotypes, has more times than he can recount been the one attending to a colleague’s injury or ailment, and might even have once considered himself a bit of a virtuoso at navigating the gray zones of the coworker-to-patient pipeline. Emphasis on once. It is why he is now doing his best to bite his tongue, to leave the Dr. behind and be only Robby, the poor patient with an entirely insignificant stab wound. The past two years have been a thorough hammer to his psyche, and only recently has he picked up the mortar to begin rebuilding. It feels pointed, returning to what used to be his ER after an extended sabbatical only to find his lumbar region impaled by a med student who hasn’t even memorised his name yet. Way to make a guy feel special.