#conjurix

[pohlepen]

um hi your writing is pretty…DELISH!! if no ones told you yet today xoxo

KISSING YOU FULLY ON THE MOUTH!!! i have impeccable oral hygiene, so you're safe me with ❤️ in all seriousness, i'm a very insecure writer and this was incredibly kind of you to say. so thank you so much. i feel absolutely the same about your writing and am so excited for the plotting and writing we're gonna do in the future. 😍

[feminurge]

@conjurix : bonnie's soul is a kaleidoscope of greyscale; ishtar watches it shift & swirl as she moves across the bar to come claim a sit at her side. "yer so much fun, miss bennett", she decides as she considers the bottle brought by the other woman. amber-colored poison that will surely blur the images of the dead; ishtar's own dreams always become fickle with alcohol-scented blood. (a prophecy cannot be told if the witness cannot see clearly, etc.) tonight isn't about tomorrow, though, and neither is it about yesterday. for once, they meet in the middle: a witch claimed by the past & the other devoured by the future. ishtar serves them both a drink and waits for the inevitable toast. "can't believe it took me this long to convince ya to join me 'ere." -- a promised night of debauchery, long awaited.

[favoriteache]

bela / You look like a winter’s night. I could sleep inside the cold of you.

BELA TALBOT -- SPEAKING. «

a grin on pink-glossed lips; truth, at last. a winter's night, an open window and the cold breeze flowing through an empty room. in & out before eyes can catch her. "why don't you, then?", she asks, invitation & challenge as she moves forward, the sensuous line of her smile getting hungrier by the second as she places both hands around the other woman's waist. perhaps it is all pixie dust to distract from whatever lies at the bottom of her bag. perhaps it is true desire that guides her forward, her current mission barely an afterthought.

"there will be little sleep for you, witch." the promise of a long-awaited deal: like demons before her, she'll sign the contract with a drop of blood stolen from bonnie's lips; teeth digging into flesh for a soul-wrecking kiss. "not until i'm done with you, at least." they've played this game before; they'll play it again. she doesn't think about what it means-- to waste her precious time on such affairs. to press her chest against bonnie's, eager to feel the thundering applause of her beating heart.

[cleameur]

❛ ours is a solitary existence. it would be good for you to have a friend. ❜

SHE FEELS FLAYED UNDER BONNIE’S KEEN GAZE, the accuracy of her assessment whittling her hackles down to stumps. like a ripple on a dark lake, disturbing the calm waters, only to reveal the truth buried in its bottomless depths. ever the stoic, she heaves an exasperated sigh, bowed shoulders held aloft by the tightrope of her spine, hiding dull, haggard eyes that stare holes into the shop’s countertop as though she means to catalogue every line and whorl embedded within the wood. right now, it would be far preferable to whatever maudlin path this conversation is about to devolve into. ❝ and what purpose would friendship serve, exactly? ❞ she asks, stone-faced, like the mere suggestion is ludicrous, a hare-brained idea apropos of nothing. ❝ i have no interest in what is undoubtedly a monumental waste of time. one that would only invite distractions. or worse yet, mistakes. neither of which i can afford. ❞ obstinate convictions perfumed in denial, steadfastly antipathetic to vulnerability. BECAUSE THERE IS NO BETTER COMPANY THAN ANGER FOR WHAT COMES NEXT. it’s a comfort, really, the way it distends inside her pericardium, unending and unignorable. a pincushion full of needles. if loneliness and isolation are the aftereffects she has to suffer through to ensure her success, then that’s a price she’s willing to pay.

❝ no, what i need, is something that can ease this… affliction. ❞ her mouth snaps shut, molars grinding together. she can’t do it, can’t call a spade a spade. like naming it will only make it hurt more, grant it power when she ought to keep it tampered down. a grief so voluminous, it begins resembling sheets of tulle and organza stuffed into the tiniest of coffers, overflowing through the cracks, snagging on the splinters. NO DEADBOLT OR LOCK COULD EVER HOPE TO KEEP IT OUT. fortunately for her, clea has always been an expert in the art of compartmentalisation. ❝ a tonic, a brew. i don’t know. ❞ shifting from foot to foot, she scans the shelves fitfully, as fingernails tap a staccato rhythm against the lacquered finish. for maybe the answer to her woes is nestled somewhere between phials and carafes, hung to dry amongst aromatic herbs. ❝ so will you help me or not? ❞

[pinkcopy]

did you know i adore u

@conjurix i missed this ! you are so lovely ty for sending me this message, it's a testament on how amazing YOU are. never forget !

[wedstrife-a]

"hand me that?" she is a flurry exhaustively rendered in flesh, any attempt toward some portrayal of grace or stillness — the ever-heavy edifice of mrs. shelby — abandoned in obligation to efficiency. to momentum.

you can't declutter an untimely death away.

she's right. it's a truth acknowledged only in begrudging peripheral, words she was certain @conjurix meant as comforting (pacifying) worming, instead, beneath her skin. someone had to take the reins.

lizzie reaches past her, fingers hooking along the lip of a cardboard box and tugging it across the table toward her. its contents, muffled in their thin shrouds of newspaper, clattered their objection. "frances will be here the day after tomorrow to help with the," she trails, dangling between her grasp for the right word and her dislike for the entire endeavor. "estate." it felt wrong, acrid, on her tongue. "there are timetables with little leeway." this, she realizes as she says it aloud, is not entirely true.

[lamorts]

𝐣𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟖𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓. there is a hole in the world and i could fit in it. no one has died in 578 days. your death rattles behind the cage of your bones and i pretend i do not listen. it is morning now, the early parts of it, when the sky does not yet remember that it should be blue & the air is still stained with vestiges of the moon. i like these pale hours of contemplation between sleep and everything else, when the world does not know that it should be a world. the morning sits in liminality, i sit on a park bench. there is a comforting familiarity in the pale humming of silence. it stretches lazily in a wind that brushes, bruises, bends the trees into curtsying. perhaps now you smell a summer storm in the distance, an animal that lurks but has little bite. i miss silence, or the first versions of it, when everything was too young for the word "cacophony" to exist.

there was a time you were still more flesh than mind, so the first language had been thought, that is to say, you had little to speak out into the world & your only inventions had been the fire and dreams. silence was more of itself then than it is now. the itinerant storm of human will ( forcefully and unrelentingly ) killed silence. the bible says to be murdered is the primordial act of submission — it is not written in there, but i have taken certain literary creativity. i want you to understand that the human species likes control or rather, the fantasy of it. i have taken it from them.

death is an empty word now. the name is no longer name nor function. there is no need for it in a world which remembers me as a myth of the self. & they still blame me for a crime i am not guilty of, no more than a bullet at the mouth of a gun. if you must know, things did not change much — their mouths still shape the word that was my name and the sound comes drenched with the black feeling of their anger. anger is sometimes fear, fear is sometimes the absence of everything else. i remain the sharp object of one more crime: retirement. the part of the body that makes anger still remembers the shape of me. i wash my hands of it.

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧: "there's a curse for you, and i have heard it", says one bonnie bennett, the @conjurix, when she finds me under the willow again. she has a gift for holding grief which is not hers at the concavity of her chest. there, a heart and a ghost share so little space you could mistake one for the other — a thousand of them peek from behind her eyes now. there is softness in the recognition of ghosts. she has a nose for my scent, like hounds for foxes. i am the axis she orbits around still.

❛ one more curse or another will not change the scenario. i no longer serve the old institutions. ❜

[wampirszy-aa]

what i want to know is what are you punishing yourself for?

he's never thought of himself as a creature under the yoke of self - imposed penance, but perhaps the life he lives now is nothing more than atonement disguised under agency and the deliberate choice to get himself together. It's been quite some time since Regis has been made to think about his existence, about the constant twilight it is colored by at least beyond the last thought that crosses his mind before sleep takes him. Is this, the effort to live as both human and vampire and the ill fit into either collective, punishment?

it's a conversation he'd gladly have, but who with? Humans are better off not knowing what he truly is and really, so is he , and to fellow vampires he is but an estranged kinsman, an offshoot so radically different in behavior to most others that to still call him vampire would be difficult. [ He thinks of his nightly journals, the one anxiety committed to paper that will forever haunt him if he allows it. Maybe I made a mistake. ]

he puts his unease aside. To his fortune, his composure doesn't falter. He smiles instead, though it's gentle and careful; even he isn't spared his own moments of ... defensiveness. ❛ I can only wonder how I've given the impression I'm under any kind of self - imposed penance though it's possible you're aware of something I'm not. ❜

one out of many, open.