#fem!mormor

[nissapew]

•° I want to exorcise the demons from your past

I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart °•

[nicosindierps-blog]

Open RP!

“Why yes, you may buy me a drink. Grey Goose martini. Dirty. Two olives.”

[kahahuna]

Nothing hurts.

[buzzfian-blog]

[pipwasreal]

Something Old

Jacqueline Brigid Moriarty, did you Mean to be my Sun? Blinding bright You shame the stars, whisper myths,

Storyteller. Your pretty little actress Brooke Rich never earned that name. Never turned the world as you could.

Mediocre minds want to know, Jac, Do you really burn so brightly? Did You really die and then come back?

For me? For a tree that grew crooked But flourished under you, or a big cat Basking, or a satellite with a scarred

Hide and her insides tidal-locked. I am All yours. With these rings, I thee orbit.

[teehewz]

Jamie and Sabrina *shrug*

i love how Jamie came out. little witch <3

[ioweyovafall-blog]

someone just replied to my fem!mormor starter on omegle asking what names fem!seb could have and I suggested sebrina or sebinah and they were saying how much they liked the starter but then disconnected and said ‘I’m not into either of these sorry’ as though my name suggestions suddenly take away from the plot idea like? wtf lol think of your own name then

[luminescent-wanderings]

In The Spider's Web

"I need a favor," she tells me, the first words I have heard from her lips in more than ten years. Twenty, almost. I found her sitting in my flat, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders in long waves, a glass of something clear in her hands. Vodka, I assume by the bottle beside her. I can't abide by rum, and never keep it in my house. The cabinet was locked, but then again, so was the door. Throwing my keys into their rack, I sighed, running a hand through my hair. I should phone someone -most certainly the police. I've heard the rumors, the whispers. Stories of a shadow pulling strings, a spider at the center of a web drawing everything inwards. Ready to strike at any moment. Ready to kill. I know by that look in her eyes, those glittering gray eyes, that she knows. That she is aware I have been watching her, listening for a sign. Maybe it was because I wanted to know she was alive. Maybe I didn't believe she could actually do it. Maybe I just wanted to think she wasn't a monster. Maybe I wanted to forget. I don't do anything for a time, however, but stare. She looks good. Hell, she looks great. Her eyes are sharp and wise, her lips are a clever grin. She is considering me with those grey eyes, just as I am considering her. The trousers she wears are far from inconspicuous- the same shade as her iris, from somewhere on Saville Row, I am certain. She is a snob, a true aristocrat at heart. Her fair skin, her delicately sloping forehead and her nose, just a little too sharp to be classically handsome, all point to signs of her arrogance. And her lips. They are painted with a color of red I think must match the exact crimson shade of blood. Those lips, those maddening lips. I blink, shake my head. That was another time. "Get out," I tell her, though somewhere inside of me some foolish part of that useless organ is weeping to say these words. She knows. She grins, rising from where she is sitting at my armchair. "But you don't really want that, do you?" She reads me like a book. I scowl at her, keeping my back straight and my composure stern. I have faced hell, I have looked death in the eyes, and yet nothing scares me as much as her. As much as this woman, who weights no more than nine or ten stone, who when she approaches comes up to my chest, her head just high enough that if I embraced her, it would brush my chin. My eyes shut, a growl escapes my throat, coming unbidden. I don't need her. I should not be afraid of her. I am the thing children fear, I am the impossible being. I did what others said no woman could, with more odds against me than what was between my legs. I have commanded men and I have killed them. Even still, she scares me. I try not to show it, and force my eyes open again, to stare into her own. She steps closer, her hand reaching out, delicate fingers approaching my cheek, aching for the scarred flesh there. "Don't," I practically snarl, capturing her wrist. It still sends a shock through me, to touch her. After all these years. And she grins at me, her lips turned upwards. She breaks my grasp, though I am all muscle and she is bones and skin. "Stop me," she dares. I do not, standing stoic as her fingers brush that marred skin. I stare straight ahead, locking my arms behind my back as I did in my military days. This seems to satisfy her, and she continues her appraisal of me as though I am a piece of meat, or cattle for sale. She circles, humming to herself a piece that is vaguely familiar. Bach, I think. It is a memory now, images of a bedroom layered with posters and the smell of cigarettes in the air, her laughter as she captures me in a kiss and my hesitation until she whispers in my lips and says that it'll be alright. Her hands roam my skin now, along my strong arms concealed beneath a black jumper, too muscled to be lovely, too scarred and broken to ever be beautiful. She finds them, all that there are for her greedy eyes to see with my clothing as it is. Her fingers slip against my neck, to the raised pink flesh there -my newest scar, a year old. Men still haven't learned, men still think they command. Men still believe they are the stronger, better sex. "Oh, my poor Sabine. Poor, poor Sab," she practically coos. I flinch at the name, my blunt nails digging into the flesh of my palm lest more old melodies resurface. There is blood pounding in my ears, my heart is trying its hardest to jump from my chest. "Look what they did to you." She moves to caress my cheek again, but I swat her hand away. "Don't fucking touch me," I snarl viciously. She laughs, tilting her head from side to side. "You used to like when I touched you," she reminds me. "Or did they take that away from you too?" Her voice is laughing, mocking me. It is cruel and hateful, and she knows just the right words to say. Just the right buttons to push. "They didn't take anything from me," I answer harshly. She shakes her head. "Oh you delightful idiot, Moran. Of course they did. Cut you to pieces, didn't they? Ripped out all the good parts. Thou shalt not sin. Thou shalt not kill. How many times have they told you that? How many drugs have they given you, how many doctors? But it doesn't do anything, does it?" She speaks with such confidence, and I do not doubt that she has seen everything, read into my past, found my files. My shame, my father's embarrassment. 'You aren't supposed to like it,' a voice from the past flutters up, and suddenly I am seeing everything from the eyes of a scope. 'Thirteen casualties in as many days, dishonor upon the family, dishonorable discharge, what were you thinking?' The voices scream in my head and I give a howl, covering my ears. It doesn't help. I can still see them dying, see their blood on my hands and I liked it. I was so clever, I never got caught. And then there was an incident, and that stupid boy thought he could take on the camp bitch, though he could do what none of them had before, and I had made it slow for him. I had made it hurt. That was the unraveling, and when they threw me out I went on to kill again and again, until my soul was stained with blood and nothing could satisfy, because Christ watching the light go out was almost as good as sex. Better, even, depending. But then there came the doctors, and the drugs, because Father couldn't go on having an embarrassment for a daughter. A monster. "What do you want?" I demand through gritted teeth, approaching the bottle of vodka. I have just opened it when a shot whizzes through the air and shatters the glass. It clatters to the floor, the alcohol with it, and my palm is cut from the broken glass but I have escaped the bullet. I raise my eyes to hers, and she is smiling darkly, like the beasts which I have killed, stalking their prey. "I want you, Moran."