ofstage

[ofstage]

Antonio Gades

Bodas de sangre (1981), dir. Carlos Saura

[ofstage]

❛ i banish you, i banish you with garlic. ❜ / is he being facetious or sincere, who can say. also hello!!

john constantine must have watched one too many vampire movies if he believed such superstitions to have any effect on the likes of him. santiago remains seated, offering only the arch of his eyebrow in return for the dramatic gesture enacted by the so called hellblazer. "condiments. my only weakness." said the actor, each word dripping in sarcasm.

a lifetime ago it would have brought him great joy, finding a fellow countryman out in the wild, especially on the other side of the pond where culture and manners struggled under the weight of rabid survival. but this was a new century --- and constantine appeared to have adapted quite well to the yankee lifestyle, with his disheveled look and inept sense of humour.

santiago flashed a small mischievous smile before elegantly rising from his seat. his sharp nail pointed in the cloves' hanging from the other man's hand general direction. "you know what you should do? you should try sinking your teeth into that." one careful step towards the hellblazer caused the floor boards to creak --- a warning that the distance between them could very much vanish altogether very soon. "it'll do wonders for your blood flow."

[ofstage]

sinday headcanon asks / @molloyed

how does their foreplay go down?

like having a god damn python slowly squeezing the oxygen out of you while hissing in your ear. no, but seriously, santiago gets a kick out of being wanted, gets a kick out of being worshipped, holding people's attention but he also gets a kick out of having power over the other. foreplay is nothing but a series of attempts to reduce his partner to a whimpering mess. he's handsy and reeeally takes his time with foreplay. but i think what he really excels the most at is dirty talking. whispering and purring dirty things into someone's ear. but also a bit humiliating? embarrassing? a lot of rhetorical questions while he has his claws hands down the other person's pants. a lot of condescending, belittling, derogatory shit.

his foreplay vibes are literally this post:

is your muse dominant or submissive or both?

santiago is mostly dominant. he likes having the power. he likes being the one in control of his partner's pleasure and its' timing. he likes to watch others come undone because of him. it's always about santiago doing something to others and not others doing something to santiago --- no one gets to control him. he's never the one being head over heels. the power scale when it comes to romance and sex should always favour him.

or. you know. that's what he tells himself. because when he truly falls for someone and is desperate to be chosen and seen and praised by said someone, THEN santiago becomes very willing. when he is truly obsessed in love (???) he'll submit if that is what is required to get the apple of his eye's attention.

[ofstage]

the rotten smile which spreads across his thin lips is far from welcoming. it blooms from the amusement tom's discomfort apparently offers. he is of his own creation --- santiago is bound to this young man in ways previously unknown to him. had his maker survived the coven's judgement and perhaps the actor would have been able to learn what it meant to truly belong to another; he too was still learning about the doom brought by this unearthly coupling. thomas clings to his wrist as a sign of resistance and yet, he does not shove him away. instead he lingers there, suspended over a line he seemed eager to watch be crossed. "oh yes, and you despise it so, don't you, tommy?" purred santiago as he tilted his head, as if to better align their lips. "to be held like this." his voice became low and gravely. "by me."

this is a cruel game of chicken he plays: he tugs at the unspoken desires of his fledgling, hoping to watch him come undone despite his clear annoyance. but santiago is unkind. he does not take the initiative. not even in such intimate moments, in which their blood boils and their flesh cries, does he guide tom. no, he is a maker of unethical practices --- santiago will only hold the door open for his fledgling to cross.

and when the turning of dust is brought up, the english man bats his lashes and pouts, successfully mocking that desperately sad sentiment. "alas, i am nothing but unkind. rotten, right down to the core." the hand which had been shackled by the others' fingers is yanked away from tom's hold. it preoccupies itself instead with fixing the young man's bloodied shirt collar. "i suppose i must keep a close eye on you 'til nightfall." yellowish eyes shift to glance at his face. lips curl into a smirk. there's no escaping him.

powerful. tom could choke on the word. in what world is brutality and power one and the same? immortality has only made a joke of the faults in him that was already there and heightened them. his sickness becoming these same blood-covered walls, the cracked tiles, the cracked skulls and no ways of remembering what has happened. nothing of his understanding of himself relies on that particular word. he has none of his maître’s predator instinct, associating power with the ability to crush anything smaller or weaker. 

the fresh blood in him is near boiling when santiago changes the distance between them and reaches for his face. in the same moment as his thumb brushes over his lip, he realises that he wants him to; that the attention he gives him is exactly what he needs to shake him out of his miserable state. his instinctive is to grin, but the movement he is able to make with his mouth is limited. at first he pulls his head backwards, trying to loosen the grip without force but naturally he ends up needing to grab wrist and pry himself out.

“like a mad dog,” thomas insists, once he able to talk, “jumping on people without grasping the concept of personal space.” he keeps his fingers wrapped firmly around his wrist, keeping santiago’s arm from falling back into a natural position, “i suppose that is natural coming from a man who says he takes whatever he wants, no?” he shakes his head and continues like his question had been rhetorical. “you know i’m not likely to watch myself. you forget that you leaving me here to turn to dust would only be a kindness.” 

[ofstage]

did you know being mean to santiago is a crime?? especially while he's in the leather harness??? the more you know!!!

[ofstage]

Ben Daniels as Santiago Interview with the Vampire — 2.04 I Want You More Than Anything in the World

[ofstage]

am I ur favorite if the answer is no I will literally maul you

[ofstage]

11, 18, 19 📸

11. how long can they live without sex ?

not very long i'd say. if santiago has gone more than a week without getting sexually involved with someone that's a pretty sure sign that something's not right be it psychologically, emotionally or physically. he's so starved for attention/feeling wanted (and more often than not sees sex as the pinnacle of that) that he constantly seeks it out or, at the very least, is very open to it. too long without sex means too long without asserting himself, without being the centre of someone's absolute and total attention. sex, to santiago, is pleasure, sure, but it's also power. and i think, above all else, he likes power.

18. if your muse can have sex with anyone right now, who would it be? if your muse has a partner, who would they invite to have a threesome with?

santiago is not the best at staying monogamous (queue estelle and eglee). like i said previously, he's very open to having sex with just about anyone (he likes the conquest of it all, likes the seduction, likes making other people want him and i think he likes the idea of having people fighting over him) --- but, like i said, he likes power above all else. the person he certainly fantasises the most about, probably due to the inaccessibility and taboo of it all, is armand. it's embarrassing how much he wants that man, and santiago is aware of it. i'm also not 100% sure he can tell the difference between wanting armand and wanting to be armand, but that's a whole other can of worms. his maker is also there in the back of his head. another skewed power dynamic, another conquest, another person who belittled and mocked him who santiago wishes to seduce and win over. and he also, again, embarrassing, finds louis to be alarmingly handsome. but he can't admit that to himself. it's all very sad really.

19. give us a sexcanon about your muse that not many people know about.

i mean...we don't know anything except he's a little horny weasel. i don't even think this is a sexcanon but the only person santiago might have ever developed true honest feelings of companionship without his whole weird "i must overpower you" dynamic was eglee. he's genuinely attracted to her, he wants her physically but he also seeks her out to vent, likes listening to her input (even though they might not agree on a whole lot) --- closest thing to pure love santiago has ever felt to be honest.

[ofstage]

the coven emboldens him; many are unhappy with the maître's leniency towards the americans. on this topic they are united: a great hive mind which aches for justice to be made by their leader's hand. a distant notion of democracy and strength by numbers makes santiago believe he has more weight on this matter than he actually does. but armand's wide stare does not flinch when he makes his frustrations known. and suddenly, the actor is surrounded by a dreadful silence. no more echoes from estelle or sam, no more silent silhouettes listening in from the far corners of his mind, alert and supportive --- santiago is left all alone. all alone, with him.

when he sinks his finger through the thin layer under santiago's jaw all he can do is hiss like an animal who's been caught. it's no use reaching for the maître's arm in an attempt to pull it off of him, his power is greater than any he had or would ever again witness. he cannot form any words because armand's claw hooks itself on him. santiago squeezes his eyes shut from the pain --- if he were to move his tongue he'd be able to lick at the maître's digits. the pain of such punishment overwhelms him. santiago is a whimpering mess, too preoccupied with his own agony to fully listen to what he's being told.

he bends the knee without hesitation, glad to surrender to whatever ritual will set him free from the other vampire's grasp. but the belittling of santiago continues. and the actor struggles to look up at his torturer...his jaw hangs open. he can feel the blood running down his neck, staining his clothes. armand kneels before him and santiago feels something terrible invade the pit of his stomach. a sharp bright anger overshadowed by the knowledge that armand wouldn't manage to keep his vicious hooks stuck on the coven's flesh for much longer.

when santiago is finally freed, he is left a panting mess. blood pools his mouth, drips from the wound inflicted upon him and from his lower lip. it stains his shirt, his pants, the floor ... and armand has the gall of soothing him with the very same hand which pierced through him. he uses the actor's hunger for his attention to humiliate him. another jab --- he calls him a coward. not only a coward, the same coward which had ran away from home and stolen a dead man's name. santiago would snarl if he could. but the pain was much too great for him to grit his teeth.

"d--" he gargles for a second before spitting blood. "dully noted, maître." he is still trying to recover. trying to find any shard of dignity that he might still hold on to. but staring armand in the eye is hard enough after getting his cheek and hair stained with his own blood. though he'd like nothing more than to wrap his hands tightly around the maître's neck, santiago knows better than to push his luck so boldly again. and yet, he tries. "though if i may be s--" he hisses. saliva is quickly escaping his mouth through the open wound. "so bold," a sharp exhale. and then, santiago continues. "someone is bound to get fucked. i eagerly wait --- your decision on who that will be..." he looks up at armand with sharp bright eyes. "i am sure you will make the right choice."

knowing that santiago had his own hopes for the future was not the same as standing there in that moment, watching as he spits sacrilege across the heavy cement floor. a dozen mind's seem to turn on at that moment, as if a light has been turned on in the mind's observatory. he feels the presence of a dozen others, smug, anticipatory. time ceases to exist. without so much as a warning, the basement they are in becomes a vault in which only he and santiago exist. nothing more but a dark blip, there and then gone again. a connection is cut for all but they and they, with their chests heaving in near-unison, they become but one entity again. this time it isn't his hair that's grasped but the underside of his neck. armand is on santiago, violently giving end to the poise as his thumb slips past the skin, dipping so far up santiago's neck that he breaks through the barrier between jaw and mouth cavity. it's simple. the action takes nothing at all. fingers, slender and searching, grip harder, pushing the digits into his mouth in an attempt to connect thumb and forefinger.

❛ do you think that because you barter with their desires that they would allow you to lead them? you are a nothing to us. ❜ careful now. armand has no cause to be as gentle as he is, but he is. he lowers santiago until he's forced to take a knee or meet the ground chin first. the viscera of that wound has started to leak down his wrist. clenched teeth are shown, blessed to be poised and lesser for it. ❛ twenty years you've been with us. i have been here three hundred. those you seek to establish a hierarchy with have already established their own before you ever stepped foot on this earth. ❜ burning with his own pleasure - the very idea that santiago's resentment started as jealousy - it brings him to smile. it isn't the smile that he gives to louis, this grin is petulant and condescending. armand pants, slight laughter within it.

he goes to the ground in front of santiago, both knees on the cement. a stinking body somewhere close. a wet, ugly sound is made when armand pulls his fingers from his body. blood and saliva run along his palm, into the sleeve. he lifts that hand, not to hurt, but to caress along a white cheek, smearing it into the folds at his eyes. ❛ if you wanted me, ❜ condescension, arrogance dripping from his tone. ❛ you should have been enough of a man to fuck me. instead you peacock each night, content with the cunts of yore. a pity. ❜ hand runs up, smooths back his hair for him. red in white, his own blood.

❛ you're a coward, francis. ❜

[ofstage]

santiago scoffed and waved his hand as if trying to dissipate his guest's words. "wrinkles signify that we had the privilege of enjoying mortality for far longer than most of our counterparts." leather shoes clicked and echoed against the walls of the empty building as he approached the other man. "we experienced a much fuller version of humanity. had to actually consider our own natural deaths." the vampire's tone became confidential as he leaned in. "well --- not anymore." a twitch of his lips, a wink, santiago knew how to pull a crowd in.

as his guest explained the reason for his visit, the english man could not help but squint his eyes as if disgusted at the thought of a maker abandoning their fledgeling --- he would omit that he had practiced the same cruel ritual on at least a dozen men and women throughout the years. some had proven to be too heavy of a burden, others had gone mad, most had surrendered to the fire. oh, well!

"some makers are better suited to feed bonfires than blood. here," santiago was quick to press the nail of his thumb to his wrist. it broke through the pale skin there and, with a small wince, santiago cut into the flesh. a thin cut, pumping warm blood from a fresh kill. it'd have to do. "for your troubles." offered santiago, holding his wrist for the traveler to take. "you must have traveled far, hm?"

an  odd  hour,  but  an  early  one  for  the  two  of  them.  molloy  moved  to  shove  glasses  up  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  but  remembered  he  didn't  need  them  any  more.  he  wasn't  sure  what  he  was  expecting—a  swoop  of  fangs  and  claws  from  the  shadows?  a  ripple  of  distrust,  the  prying  of  the  mind  until  his  story  was  ripped  from  memory?  but  this  one  was  powerful,  daniel  sensed  as  such  and  it  pulsed  like  an  oppressive,  physical  energy.

(  more  time  was  needed  to  get  used  to  the  stimulation,  the  amplification  of  everything  to  the  point  of  overstimulation.  at  seventy,  he  made  peace  with  the  slow  deterioration  of  the  self,  but  it  surged  back  again.�� blindingly.  )

yet  there  was  a  softness  to  the  vampire  before  him,  an  empathy.

the  mention  of  hunger  seared  his  throat  and  he  inhaled  between  teeth.

"think  i  preferred  being  called  a  fledgling.  my  wrinkles  don't  fit  the  image,"  he  decided,  but  there's  no  malice  behind  it.  how  old  was  this  one?  but  he  was  right,  daniel  only  said  his  last  goodbye  to  the  sun  days  prior,  and  here  he  was,  seeking  others  like  himself  to  escape  the  unbearable  loneliness he only heard from louis.  "yes,"  he  agreed  nonetheless,  his  gaze  swooping  across  santiago's  features.  there  was  something  theatrical  about  the  twist  of  his  mouth  when  he  spoke,  in  the  cadence  of  his  words  too.  "my  maker  went  AWOL.  i  heard  rumors  in  the  sea  of  voices,  just  a  whisper.  had  to  see  for  myself."

[ofstage]

he did not forget the power the man before him holds. santiago had been equal parts intimidated and attracted to the strength armand held over the coven and, by proxy, him. he coveted it --- wished to tame it. oh, how he got drunk on those few exceptional moments --- those in which he had the hand which ruled over so many cradling his head.

now, as he circled the ancient vampire, he could not help but smirk with disdain. all that power, he thought, shackled to the whims of one little louisiana man. as the flame rose from armand's palm, santiago wagged his pale finger. "ah-ah-ah, this is a no smoking area." he chuckled. and oh, the sight of him must have upset poor old maître for he was quick to belittle him like he had once upon a time, when their goals still aligned. not anymore.

santiago adjusted the heavy jacket over his shoulders like a bird ruffling its' feathers. "do you like it? got it for free from an adult film producer. he's currently resting in a chevrolet's trunk up in san fernando valley." the actor pretended to brush something off the expensive piece of clothing, clearly delighted by armand's displeasure. "mmm, no i can't say i have." he replied with a small pucker of his lips. "you see, ever since i was left on my own to carry all the blame of our joined artistic efforts --- i've discovered there's a whole new world of fun to be had." there's coagulated blood hiding somewhere between his teeth. a full belly leaves santiago feeling more daring. he doesn't step towards armand, he hovers closer, like the cruel spectre he is. but he dares not fully close the space between them. he knows better.

"funny, isn't it? since we've both forsaken your foolish rules we've both become much, much---" the smile twitches into something bitter. "happier. haven't we?"

backed into a corner, like a dog looking to bite, oh , the balls on this one, that's all armand wishes to say. once, the death tolling reaper played onto that stage in paris, a distant memory .. now, performing as a ghost. an, unruly specter on the grand stage. HIS STAGE. armand felt both anger and a tiny stab of panic, he hides the latter well.

armand had been coming to this spot every so often, those months apart when he and louis snapped at eachother's throats. spitting venom , shouting the worst things imaginable until they tired of the separation. three weeks marks it, it was not the longest, armand has stayed away but. well, he did not think louis has truly felt his absence, yet. this museum, all museums, were familiar, and a chain clasped around his wrists, his ankles. perhaps, without the warm light of his beloved, he searched to belong.. what that might look like ? even in hurtful spaces. his maker lived between the cement holding the brick, but perhaps, that was his own mind. fire kisses the palm, dancing across his fingertips but he stays put. ' don't think.. '

he wants him to squirm, like a bug, like the piss poor mongrel he is beneath his skin. " you've exchanged greasepaint for .. " eyes lower over his form. " whatever you wish to name this... tired revival. are you not tired. " chin jutted forth, armand exhales steadily through his nose. the fool, the poor .. scathingly lonely, fool. " get over it. " unkindly.

@ofstage continued.

[ofstage]

his upper lip twitched into a snarl when picturing the maître skipping through paris with louis hooked to his arm. "not with him." admitted santiago, under his breath, his mind dripping with envy and resentment for both men.

but as his gaze focused back on the woman beside him, some of the sharpest most poisonous parts of him appeared to soften. he felt benevolent thoughts brush past his own mind. in eglee's own sweet voice he could hear words which offered the benefit of the doubt, cried out innocent until proven guilty! he tilted his head and his lips curled into a small but genuine smile. "you're far too good for this world to pay any mind to the turmoil already lurking beneath the surface, my dear ---" careful fingers adjusted the collar of her jacket. "if our american friends are freed of all of our rules and limitations then why should they be imposed on us, hm?"

it does not seem the american is doing anything purposefully, but eglee will not say that. no, because she knows santiago, the man that he is, would not take it well. it's not lost, how he pulls her in and finally, finally acknowledges her. looking & staring for much too long onto the brick that louis passed by long ago, eglee settles upon a timid smile. eglee clicks her tongue. she hated it when the other members spoke poor of maître. it was frightening ! what he might do, what he could do .. and, yes, estelle , notably detested, was there during the time of the original coven from rome. was it not dangerous, to consistently bite and bite at him ? she could feel his anger so !

armand seemed different alongside louis. why ? eglee didn't really care to look so much into his life. but, she did recognize his scattered attendances , whereas normally, he was up in his spot every single night. she cannot help but feel as though @ofstage is upset for other, reasons. was, louis flaunting such freedoms ? if he was, it was not something she noticed. " oh .. let him go tonight. he is probably learning about our american guests, don't you trust him ? "

@ofstage continued.

[ofstage]

[ofstage]

iwtv team: so you'll be playing santiago, a straight ben daniels:

[ofstage]

saint's talents had perfectly regular working hours. but that didn't mean the agency's all seeing all knowing and all bitching boss followed ethical timetables. alas, since he was such a busy man, he rarely managed to visit the main building during the day --- nighttime was his time. he stalked the halls of his agency like a bright eyed spectre on a daily basis. sometimes a couple of his associates would join him during the witching hours but today he had come alone to savour the fruits of his hard labour. and he had caught a particularly ripe one today. could still feel some of its' skin stuck between his teeth.

but just when he was about to make his way back home, santiago thought he felt a presence looming by the main lobby. curiouser and curiouser. and just as he made his way down the metallic staircase, lo and behold; a visitor! but not a starry-eyed hick from nowhere, utah with a backpack still on their back looking to become the next big celebrity ... no, this was a man with grey locks and good posture. handsome not despite the human years on his back but because of them. a man comfortable in his own skin --- oh, what novelty!

"bit of an odd hour to schedule a meeting, isn't it?"

santiago wore a friendly smirk but his eyes remained sharply hooked on the other man's flesh. only when he dipped his toes into the waters of his mind did he realise; this was but an abandoned child. "oh, but you're practically a newborn!" something in his expression softened. "all by yourself, are you? hungry too, i imagine." despite all the venom circulating through his veins, santiago was not immune to having his heartstrings tugged at by lonely wretches. he too knew what it was like to have to consider eternity all by yourself.

los angeles, california. / @ofstage

when he received the dark gift, daniel imagined he would be guided by his maker when his heart stopped. he spent enough time with vampires to understand the basics; no sunlight, coffins were good ole reliable band aids, and never drink after the heart stopped. of course, time was a vampire's best friend and an equal burden, but still. a maker would have helped. much like his old life, though, daniel's new life was just as easy derailed. asshole, he repeated in his head, and then out loud, his favorite word as of late. the 'a' in armand stood for asshole, he was sure of it.

he was under the impression he could find louis, but the idea of it didn't sit right. the wound was too raw and not even regeneration stitched where it ached. louis was a bleeding heart, after all.

daniel was so, so thirsty.

so there he was, in los angeles, breathing in the salt air and the breeze over the ocean. it was brighter here than san francisco, but the streets were plentiful for blood. between all the glamour, there were rumors of a coven that conveniently checked off his needs, and he was sure he found their whereabouts. he wasn't sure he fit the bill for saint's talents exactly, but he could write a killer script and he was desperate enough. maybe not about showbiz, but they didn't need to know that. it was enough to get him the doors, he hoped, and then it was fangs out, only daniel was hoping for companions over a fight.

[ofstage]

everyone ❌❌❌ stop ❌❌❌ calling santiago a dog 🐶🐶🐶 and/or using dog symbolism/metaphors 🐶🐶🐶 to describe him 😡😡😡 riGHT NOW !!! 😡😡😡

[ofstage]

the shove nearly caused santiago to stumble onto his knees. he composed himself, combing back the loose locks of hair which had fallen upon his pale forehead. and when he beheld the maître, the man he had adored and followed for so many seasons, santiago found him to appear much smaller than he remembered. even his bark failed to intimidate him as it once did. the actor had spent so many evenings anticipating armand's attentions, thrilled by the whirlwind that was to be scolded by him, to be praised, to be punished, to be rewarded ... perhaps he was right. perhaps he was nothing but a dog.

one who snapped its' teeth at the hand which fed him. "me? a dog?" asked santiago, wide-eyed and outraged. "we've watched you offer your belly up to him every night for the past month like a bitch in heat and you have the gall to ---" his voice had risen to surpass the maître's own. but, after biting his tongue, santiago regained his composure. his voice was once more a velvety soft thing. " i've been nothing but dedicated to the coven," bright eyes travelled across the other man's features. "to you..." something was left unsaid: a truth that ought to be evident to both of them about the nature of santiago's devotion but which had never been named.

the actor clenched his jaw. he too was humiliated by the way his eyes lingered over armand's mouth. he too hated the weakness which overcame him whenever he was presented with that which he could never truly have. when he met the maître's gaze again, there was venom on his tongue. "you are under one little man's thumb." hissed santiago before straightening his back. all of his poise and arrogance returned to him in a flash. "perhaps it is time we reassess the theatre's hierarchy."

santiago has known nothing but what the centuries have done to his master. the cruel bite of the whip was jarring enough, with it's ticked teeth and snap-jawed maw, but add insult to injury; he has never seen armand so tenderly poisoned by another. so willing for the gallows to find their grip on his heart that he comes to lay himself at the stump, giving to this interloper his life and outstretched neck. he lies, santiago hisses, pathetic! but what of the boy who has never been loved so succinctly? so perfectly - empty. armand can see every sliver of both their hurts.

he has been waiting for someone to take him off the shelf for three hundred years. the likes of which santiago would never know but only santiago would know - only that which has been abandoned knows the cold agony. the fear that creeps when it should hold. fear, jealousy, an animalistic possession that hadn't been there last year. what might have transpired if louis and his dearest, darling dead had come in five years? ten? ❛ you lie. i lie. ❜

the hold on his starkly hair wanes a fraction. a moment that tells a lie. a sweet one, but a lie nonetheless. seeing him there, with that look in his eyes, the smile - when has there been such affection without a witness? armand's lips separate as if to speak, but then the vision ends and he is made to stand there with the knowledge that he will never leave the theatre. it follows him. an image in the mind of a man who knows nothing about how far his heart has become from louis. armand exhales deeply, shoving santiago away by his hair.

❛ i - ❜ fangs press into the bottom lip. indents are still there when he speaks again, trying to regain his equilibrium. but the image of his own face in that moment haunts him. it weakens his resolve to hurt santiago, weakens everything. ❛ you're a jealous dog, santiago. you let petty grievances control you, you always have. ❜