Call me Mrs M, love.
((Mamma is an OC based within the Sherlock fandom. However, she will play with absolutely anyone. This blog is OC and Multi-Fandom friendly. Warning: Possibly NSFW. Both the Muse and Mun are of age.))
FC: Helena Bonham Carter
Please read 'Meet the Mammas' before interacting.
So far I only have the Sherlock blends on sale. But coming soon will be Supernatural, Doctor Who and Once Upon A Time.
Please spread the word!
Thank you very much.
((Just a quick OOC post to announce the first three teas created by my darling flatmate are ready to buy! The house is full to the brim with gorgeous teas of all kinds- it’s very exciting.
I’m in the process of creating artwork for six new blends- plus my own Beetlejuice inspired one- which will be added to the shop as they are completed.
If you could please spread the word and take a look- I would be very grateful indeed.
Thank you for looking!))
She dies on a Thursday.
The rain drips a decadence on the window pane, the shadows melding on her shedding walls, and for a moment of senescent silence Mabel Moriarty simply b r e a t h e s . Though the breath is short lasting and her lungs crumble a cracking tempo against her ribs, the rungs of which shutter in the wind like gale of Irish air.
Her house is humble, small and sheltered like a mother’s embrace. The stone walls weathered with a love that peeled away the links to a past stripped of rose tinted thoughts and chimed laughter, ringing a song across the barren bleakness of a rotten mind.
She could hardly call herself a mother, and she could hardly care to call her house a home anymore.
Her mottled curls are a deep brown, beckoning with the colour of oak wood, but they are streaked with forgotten silver linings and the wrinkle of her skin resembles sodden paper.
She croaks in the dusted light.
“J-“
The syllable dances between her teeth, and the weakened limb resting at her side attempts to rise from the bed, spider like fingers reaching towards an echoing door.
There’s no one there—
NoonetherenoonetherenooneisEVERthere
—and when she turns back to the window, the slight roll of tensed muscles and crackling bird bones causes a multitude of emptied pill bottles to spill from her pillow, clanging a shadow on to her floorboards.
“Ji—”
Her dark eyes are faded, watered down and angry.
And in that anger she purses her lips, defiance piercing the skin to shed one final rouge lachrymose—
and with her last breath she refuses to speak the word on her mind.
Her head lolls on the pillow with a dampened finality, but her teeth remain tearing into her lips with an unrelenting zeal.
Mabel Moriarty. The Matriarch. The Mother.
Is Dead.
Her name will go down in history—
—but never will it be hers again.
[TEXT] Truthfully, she hasn’t spoken to me much about anything for a long while now. I hope I can, at least, still expect a visit from the two of you?
“But Hollywood has been eaten up by the fashion industry; completely hijacked by the fashion industry. Oh, it’s a complete… and they don’t even ask about the bloody films. Just, What are you wearing?.” Helena Bonham Carter, Stella Magazine november 2012
//Guess who made a big mistake?
Me!
Now, would anyone like to go play with him?
I want my feels ripped apart and stamped on.
She tilted her head to the side, a new angle but no new understanding graces her as she stares at him. Her gaze is detached, as is her voice, and her shoulders hold a certain tension.
“You shouldn’t talk to your mother that way, boy. I suppose I haven’t taught you that lesson w e l l e n o u g h yet.”
Sounds perfect! I’ll be ready and waiting, my dear -MM
