#corrompida

Tu mirada.

Mi cordura y juicio se quebraron al instante como si de una copa de cristal se tratara.

Sally: Está me dizendo que não podemos mais nos falar?

Anne: Bem, eu continuo a mesma, tirando todos aqueles velhos defeitos que você conhecia e achava legal. Já você possivelmente nem se conhece mais.

Sally: Mas é claro que me conheço! Só não sou mais a mesma.

intrigue //  sombra // stalk :   my  muse  gets  caught  by  your  muse  trailing  behind  them, watching  them. °☆

“ HM ! ” snorting, ( incredulously, mind you ) at the mere THOUGHT that her companion believed she was truly undetectable her head shakes rapidly– or perhaps that was the point, perhaps she wanted to be caught. It was never clear what dramatics were actually dramatic ( though it was probably safe to assume all of them ) and which were earnestly failed attempts at competence. LITTLE FOOL. Without hesitation, her visor is activated, pinpointing her immediately.

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. 

AH. “ Peu de contrariété ” she sighs softly, a slight smile– fleeting, momentarily– flicking across perfectly rouged lips ( all the better to plant aggressive kisses across the expanse of a certain smartmouth’s collarbone ). 

HOURS LATER: steps echo down stone-hewn hallways, visor placed on the wardrobe nearest the open door displaying chocolate wrappers strewn about; LA SAINT-VALENTIN !! So it seems that this time, she had been the fool, forgetting all about affection for work and focus; such was the life of TALON. 

Fingertips grazing those strewn off the chaise in an almost obnoxious slumber; she squats, long legs tucked under until she is eye level with sleeping beauty: