#killborn

( 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.

“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.

@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—