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uniquevocashark.bsky.social
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@uniquevocashark.bsky.social
110 followers 64 following 20 posts
I write deranged older lesbians | bird enthusiast | 22 | 🇳🇿
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uniquevocashark.bsky.social
December 30, 2024 at 10:28 PM
uniquevocashark.bsky.social
An assortment of snippets from various wips✨
I love to write disastrous evil lesbians
A screenshot of a word document that reads: Hortencia is not as I remember her. Age does not account for all her changes. Whatever she died of, whatever sickness, had wasted her to a skeleton before it killed her. She is gaunt, waxy skinned, limp haired; with none of the plump to her face that made her soft and delicately pretty. She drowns in what she wears, her knuckles so prominent under the rosary, the veins poking from her skin. She doesn't look calm, either, but troubled. My disgust is obvious, "God, she looks terrible." "She is dead, Igraine." A screenshot of a word document that reads: There are many things that Sorina could say that follow that trail of conversation, many words that come to mind, but for now she has had a bit too much to drink, and is more pleased by Igraine than she will say, and ever more impatient for their toy than she will let on, and it all culminates together with her saying, instead, "Come here." Igraine raises one brow. Manicured for the night to match her hair that had, at one time, been styled up but now sits loose around her shoulders like golden curtains. Her face has simmered back down to neutrality, no longer smiling, for once, setting her face into a severe look that matches Sorina well. She is beautiful, and, more importantly, Sorina's through and through. Sorina pats her thigh, then grabs her strap, "Put your mouth to use." A screenshot of a word document that reads: Igraine and Dolores share a look, and while there are many things they have conveyed with them over the years, this one is fond and exasperated. Sorina is their diva, and for them both there has never been any other. Igraine has lost all care for young dancers and young musicians coveting her favour and experience to reach that shiny pinnacle; there is only Sorina at the top, Dolores her second, and that is all there ever will be. And so the night progresses in a way neither anticipated; Igraine has her half buttoned shirt undone by Dolores and pulled from her shoulders with equal care, and Dolores has the straps of her chemise moved off her shoulders delicately by Igraine’s hands while Sorina situates herself in their bed with all the urgency of moss covering a tree. “And you say you don’t jump to my orders.” Comes from Sorina, over her shoulder as she fixes the placement of the pillows. A screenshot of a word document that reads: Why does that not feel true? There must be something. They must have something. Are they together? Are they? Are they? Is she the one Sorina goes to, seeks comfort from, let’s kiss her neck and leave smudged prints? Is she the one that leaves lipstick smeared under Sorina’s clothes in tantalising trails, bites and marks to match them, that are worn with smug pride, that are used to taunt me? Is she? Is she? Is she? When I can’t find Sorina is it because she is with her, the pianist? Her pianist? Is it? Is it!
December 23, 2024 at 11:58 PM