#killborn

[feathertrick-a]

ask meme cont...

( this is her life. )     why is this her life ?     how did she earn this life ?     it isn't rare for bonnie to be surprised by the supernatural;  to her,  it just is.     people either are or aren't—that's it.     but since meeting august,  her natural inclination of shock toward moments of pure absurdity seems to be occurring more than usual.          ❝      have some dignity,  it's free.      ❞          irritation dresses each spoken syllable.     bonnie cuts her eyes at the other before glancing down at her shoes.     a pretty purple,  platform suede mule is now stained.     featuring the blood of some poor soul,  she's sure.     ( if bonnie had a nickel for every blood-thirsty,  messy,  petulant blood-sucking creature she came into contact with...  she'd be rich enough to afford these heels again. )     she sighs loudly.     index fingers begin to slowly message at her temples,          ❝      i think you push just to get a rise out of me.     you probably love to ask yourself,  "what would bonnie think of this ?"     as if you don't already know what my reaction is going to be.      ❞          her eyes narrow.

"why ?"     her brows furrow momentarily.     she can't remember the last time someone constantly challenged her this way.     it was like she was being interrogated by a child who was curious about how the world worked.          ❝      because it's wrong,      ❞          bonnie says plainly.          ❝      people aren't your playthings,  no matter how tasty they may be to you.      ❞          this time,  her sigh is soft.     it lacks her earlier vexation and is,  instead,  filled with [slight] pity.     sometimes bonnie forgets not to judge first.     ( one of her more lesser qualities,  she can admit that )     though the man opposite her makes it hard not to be.          ❝      oh,  of course !     i'm sure his life's dream was to be drained like a juice box.      ❞          a quick roll of the eye.     carefully,  she moves around the blood bath,  searching for something to help august clean himself with.     he reminded her of damon.     brash,  chaotic,  and a blatant disregard for others.     it was that behavior that steered bonnie away from damon early on.     however,  everyone always has endearing qualities about them.     she was sure the same could be said about august [hopefully].          ❝      then what does that say about me ?      ❞          left brow lifts.     she hands him a fresh,  white,  towel she found laying in the poor man's room.          ❝      you think i want to die ?     i've done that three times and let me tell you,  it's not fun.     but,      ❞          a pause.     her eyes give him a once over,          ❝      if you're going to kill me,  you better not miss.      ❞          /          @killborn      ★      meme cont.

[gabriehle]

Your world doesn’t make sense.

sweltering   heat,       flies   buzz   against   a   mold——flecked   window.          how   often   her   adventures   led   her   into   the   hands   of   a   monster   of   sorts.   immortal,       mortal,       something   painfully   thrashing   between   the   two.   gabriella   enjoys   it.   it's   her   talent,       to   hear   all   and   carry   none   of   it   when   she   departs.   she   does   not   look   to   him   as   he   speaks,       steadies   her   gaze   upon   the   insects   beating   themselves   against   the   glass.   futility   of   impact   ——   mistaken   for   effort.   the   human   condition   is   characterized   by   the   probability   of   suffering   and   the   certainty   of   death,     except   in   this   room,       only   the   flies   are   granted   that   much.   it's   rare   that   she   opens   up   about   her   own   life,       but   something   called   for   it.   ——    maybe   she   is   simply   not   immune   to   his   manipulation,       or   maybe   the   connection   is   genuine.   “   no,    it   did   make   sense.   that's   why   it   was   terrible.   i   was   a   victim,   ”   the   vampire   allows.   “   until   i   understood   the   pattern.   and   once   you   understand   that   their   suffering   is   not   caused   by   you,   only   justified   through   you,   ”   she   gestures   lightly,   as   if   brushing   dust   from   a   sleeve.   “   the   world  becomes  legible.   cruel,   yes.   but   coherent.   ”

[serafinomostro]

what are you getting out of this, exactly?

“what am i getting out of it? what do you mean?”

the wet squeak of the tight black nitrile gloves the vampire wears is just mildly annoying. easy enough to put to the back of his mind, especially as he presses a pale flap of flesh —— the bit that covers that handsome & succulent posterior deltoid, to be precise —— back snug into its rightful position. that noise, of skin & sinew stretching back together, is far more agreeable.

“sorry. little pinch here.”

there’s the faintest, metallic clink of forceps as armand guides the wound shut again, those two blunt corners of sliced-open flesh urged taut with just a bit of extra force. august, god help him, is the most riveting puzzle the vampire has ever known; cut him open and then put him back together and you’ll still not be any closer to solving him. but armand refuses to accept defeat.

he drags one of those tacky, shiny gloves off, punctures the pad of his index finger with the little razor that is his thumbnail. the blood blooms quickly there, and smears tidily over the fresh incision on his new friend’s shoulder —— whoever, whatever he is.

“i like studying,” he tells him, as if it’s the most plain & normal thing in the world, “yours is a tricky case. but i’m captivated by the… the arithmetic of the flesh, if you will. and i believe that knowledge, like most things, has a way of transcending death. you know?”

two gentle taps on august’s other shoulder, as if to say, all right, you can get up now.

“someone, at some other time, knew precisely who you were & what purpose they had in mind for you to serve. perhaps the person who made you this way is long dead —— but perhaps that doesn’t matter. don’t worry, i still want to try & translate these glyphs. but i think there’s more within you already than what we can immediately realize. it’s hidden, not lost.”

the other soiled glove goes snap! as the vampire peels it off, then tosses it to join its discarded match in a cadmium-red high-density polyethylene bin. every humble, undead dwelling needs a biohazard bucket. armand bought a set of ten off the internet last year.

“well, shall i cut on you some more, or have you had it?”

[evilanew]

this is a very old story.

@killborn [ ℒ ]

ㅤㅤPutrefaction lingers heavily about the stagnant grounds outside a crypt, and while Lestat considered that it belonged to the dirt riddled individual who’d breathlessly crawled his way out of the humid earth, there are indicators that the scent derives from others, strewn remnants of aged fractured bone now at one with moss and soil. Perched atop a broad headstone fashioned to resemble an opened book, there is no offer of help whatsoever from the blond, legs neatly crossed at the knee upon the gently sloping surface  (  fort probable que cette conception permette d’évacuer l’eau de pluie  ).  Curiosity playing about beguiling features, a quick assessment notes that time had passed between the present and when this individual had seemingly burrowed himself, a texture embedded in enveloping fabric indicating eras of fashion which had long since passed. Cartilage disregarded, there’s an innate preternatural  hunch discerning that this is no vampire—

ㅤㅤㅤㅤNon, this is yet another oddity gifted to the Savage Garden, one which invites an injected spark of intrigue amidst ongoing ennui, a dangling foot lightly pivoting to tap at the air.  “ Well. You’re in luck. I happen to like old stories. ”  A supposedly nonchalant one-shouldered shrug, frame tipping back with a broad palm resting on cool granite, the conceit of a relaxed demeanour present as opposed to Lestat purely being overly nosy  (  il adorait les ragots  ).  There’s a puckish smile, fair head canting in invitation.  “ I have time. ”