intrigue // sombra // bloody : my muse coming to your muse with blood stains on their clothes and hands, shaking. °☆
CONFUSION; but not really. She doesn’t remember how long it’s been since they connected- since they curled around each other, full to their devious brims with goals born from vengeance and impetuous desires. Moira this, Moira that, would it not be better if Moira was nothing more than a horror story they told little children on Halloween? Would it not be better if she were nothing at all? Someday. SOMEDAY.
“ C'est fini ? ” she whispers, half questioning half musing, instantly wrapping her arms around the only good thing to come of THIS life as soon as she is close, “ I wish I could have seen the look on her ugly, ugly face.”
LOOK AT HER; oh, her beautiful little annoyance: surprisingly tender, astonishingly romantic– AND HOW THE ROMANCE WAS. She could think of no greater prize than the blood of the bitch who made her- than her bones and teeth in perfect golden diamond settings, one for each of their wicked little fingers. It’s more than she ever expected– a scheme they had merely laughed about late at night with a bottle of red where sultry, wine soaked kisses and murderous fantasy were practically their perfect date night ( plot death and chill ). But fantasy, given the correct ambition, tends to become reality doesn’t it? And thus, she knows without explicit confirmation– Moira O’deorain is dead, and she KNOWS, even moreso, whose perfect, beautiful hands exacted their meticulous plan.
A kiss, another, another as she holds her close– wiping blood from her otherwise impeccably lipsticked pout, steadying her trembling body ( whether from rage, joy, or shock she does not know ), chin at rest at her crown: “ Thank you.” I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU; but this she does not say.
