#Cotton quality control

[scottbiffin]

Cotton Trading Chronicles- Life on the Road Between Singapore and Australia

Cotton is one of the world’s oldest and most traded commodities, with a history that spans centuries and crosses continents. The modern cotton trade is an industry rooted in tradition yet heavily influenced by the latest in global supply chain innovations, market analytics, and sustainable practices. The life of a cotton trader is dynamic, involving not just the daily hustle of navigating prices and contracts, but also a significant amount of travel between key trading hubs like Singapore and Australia.

For many in this industry, cotton trading is not just a job—it’s a lifestyle. Traders are constantly on the road, meeting suppliers, coordinating logistics, and ensuring quality. This post will take you inside the journey of a cotton trader as they travel between Singapore and Australia, giving you a closer look at the life, challenges, and unique experiences of those who keep the global cotton supply chain running.

Understanding Cotton Trading

Cotton trading involves buying and selling cotton as a raw material, and prices can vary significantly based on quality, origin, and global market trends. Cotton is not only a major commodity in textiles but is also used in a range of products, from medical supplies to paper.

Cotton trading is a global business with primary markets in the United States, India, Australia, and Central Asia, while trading hubs like Singapore serve as critical points for negotiation, financing, and coordination. Traders balance these demands, working with everyone from farmers to manufacturers, navigating various regulations, market pressures, and sometimes even extreme weather conditions that can impact production.

A Cotton Trader's Journey Between Singapore and Australia

In the modern cotton trade, travel is an essential part of the job. While virtual meetings are convenient, nothing replaces the value of face-to-face interactions when inspecting quality, negotiating contracts, or building relationships with suppliers. This journey often takes cotton traders between Singapore, a major financial and trading hub, and Australia, a key cotton-producing region known for its high-quality output.

The Role of Singapore in Cotton Trading

Singapore has become a global hub for commodities trading, and cotton is no exception. The country’s strategic location, strong legal framework, and world-class infrastructure make it an ideal base for traders. In Singapore, cotton traders manage operations and finances, secure contracts with buyers, and monitor the futures market. They work closely with analysts and other professionals who help them keep track of market trends, price fluctuations, and global news that could impact cotton prices.

Singapore’s role as a trading hub also means that traders have access to cutting-edge technology and resources. Advanced software and market analysis tools allow them to make data-driven decisions, optimize their contracts, and anticipate trends.

The Cotton Fields of Australia

Australia is one of the world’s most reliable cotton producers, known for its high-quality fiber. Australian cotton farms, primarily located in New South Wales and Queensland, are known for adopting sustainable farming practices and leveraging technology to maximize efficiency. As such, many international traders travel to Australia to source premium cotton for their clients.

When traders visit Australia, they don’t just spend time in boardrooms; they head to the farms. Meeting with cotton growers face-to-face is essential to understanding the quality of the crop, building trust, and discussing future orders. These trips also allow traders to better understand the challenges farmers face, including water availability, weather patterns, and labor issues. This knowledge is crucial for traders as it helps them make better-informed decisions and manage risks associated with supply disruptions.

A Day in the Life: On the Road as a Cotton Trader

Traveling between Singapore and Australia, cotton traders lead a fast-paced, demanding lifestyle. Here’s a closer look at a typical day for a trader on the road.

5:30 AM – Morning Market Updates

For a cotton trader, the day often starts early with a cup of coffee and a thorough review of the market. This is the time to check cotton futures, review recent reports, and analyze any overnight market movements. A drop in futures or a sudden change in currency exchange rates can significantly impact profit margins.

The early hours are crucial for making quick decisions, particularly if there's a need to lock in prices or hedge against market risks. Traders use a variety of tools to stay on top of market data, including proprietary analytics software and news from global commodity exchanges.

7:00 AM – Calls with Singapore Headquarters

Before setting off, traders usually touch base with their teams back in Singapore. This call often involves discussing the current market, reviewing client contracts, and identifying any updates or adjustments needed to meet targets. If any pressing issues arise—such as a delay in a shipment or an unexpected price change—traders collaborate with their team to create a solution.

9:00 AM – Meeting with Cotton Producers

In Australia, visiting cotton farms is a vital part of a trader's trip. Meeting producers allows traders to see the crop quality firsthand and discuss production forecasts. This face-to-face interaction builds trust and strengthens partnerships with suppliers, which is essential for securing high-quality cotton at competitive rates.

On the farm, traders engage in detailed conversations with farmers about everything from weather conditions to anticipated yields. This helps traders evaluate the quality of the cotton and assess potential challenges in the supply chain. They may even participate in quality inspections, examining cotton samples to ensure they meet the standards required by their clients.

12:00 PM – Lunch with Local Suppliers

Networking is an essential aspect of a trader’s job, and lunch is often a time to connect with local suppliers, logistics partners, and other traders. These lunches are more than just meals—they’re a chance to build relationships, discuss the latest trends, and explore potential collaborations. In the trading business, trust is everything, and taking the time to nurture relationships is crucial for success.

2:00 PM – Quality Inspections and Documentation

After lunch, traders often conduct a more thorough quality inspection of the cotton. They examine samples for fiber length, color, strength, and consistency. Cotton buyers and manufacturers have high standards, and any inconsistencies could lead to dissatisfaction or financial losses. Documenting these inspections is essential, as it provides a record that can be shared with clients and helps establish quality assurance for each batch.

4:00 PM – Negotiating Contracts

Afternoons are usually reserved for the negotiation process. Cotton prices can be volatile, influenced by everything from exchange rates to environmental factors, so pricing discussions require careful consideration. Traders must balance the price demands of their suppliers with the budgets of their clients, ensuring everyone benefits from the transaction.

Negotiations also include discussions about logistics, timelines, and any special requirements from the client. For example, a client might request organic cotton or cotton certified by a sustainability program, which could affect the price and availability of the product.

6:00 PM – End-of-Day Wrap-Up and Planning

After a day spent on the road and in meetings, traders finally get a chance to wrap up and organize their notes. They check in with their Singapore headquarters, sharing insights gained from the day and making any necessary adjustments to contracts or orders. This wrap-up session allows traders to review their goals, prepare for the next day, and ensure all details are in place for a smooth transaction.

Challenges in Cotton Trading

The life of a cotton trader is demanding, and the industry comes with its own set of challenges:

Market Volatility: Cotton prices are influenced by a wide range of factors, from weather conditions and currency exchange rates to trade policies and global demand. Traders must constantly monitor these factors to make timely decisions.

Sustainability Concerns: Modern consumers demand eco-friendly and sustainable products, putting pressure on traders to source cotton that meets these standards. This can limit options and impact profit margins, especially as sustainable cotton production is often more costly.

Supply Chain Disruptions: Natural disasters, transportation delays, and political changes can all disrupt the cotton supply chain, affecting traders' ability to meet client needs on time.

Client Demands: Clients may have specific requirements regarding the quality, origin, or sustainability of cotton, which can make sourcing more challenging and time-consuming.

Despite these challenges, many traders are passionate about their work. The cotton trade is an exciting and rewarding field that requires adaptability, strong negotiation skills, and a deep understanding of both the product and the market.

Reflections on a Unique Lifestyle

The life of a cotton trader, particularly one who travels between Singapore and Australia, is marked by long hours, constant learning, and a unique blend of challenges and rewards. Each day offers something different, whether it's negotiating with a new supplier, analyzing market trends, or inspecting a batch of cotton in the Australian sun.

For those drawn to this career, it’s more than just a job; it’s a lifestyle. Cotton trading requires a passion for the product, a willingness to navigate complex challenges, and the drive to bridge the gap between producers and consumers. It’s a journey filled with purpose, where every negotiation and inspection brings the trader one step closer to delivering high-quality cotton to the world.

So next time you see a cotton garment, remember the intricate journey that brought it to you. Behind that piece of fabric is a trader who has spent hours on the road, balancing markets, building relationships, and ensuring quality—all to bring you the best cotton possible.

[alenseress]

! COMMISSIONS, PRINTS, RAISING FUNDS FOR HRT !

Depending on where you're from you might've heard about the difficult situation with trans healthcare in my country. Some recent events ended up in me seeking care abroad, which comes with its own positives and negatives, one of the worst being the cost of appointments and medication. I'm opening some emergency commissions and other ways to support my art to get some of the financial stress under control

Love you, take care, and if you're in a similar situation and looking for information about getting hrt through Austria instead, feel free to reach out!

(The same goes for anyone who finds using ko-fi inconvenient)

🫂🏳️‍⚧️

[2neaky]

⋅ જ⁀➴ 𝙶𝚎𝚝 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝙸𝚗 ๋࣭ ⭑

Inspired by this post & this post • ‘something quick & light’

Minors do not interact • Content Warning — p in v s*x, masturbation (m. receiving), dry h*mping, cum eating (minor), no protection, c*m shot, (failed) c*ck warming, detailed description of genitals, use of n-word (all characters & author are Black)

It’s a waking dream; low, warm light keeps such feeling present. Heavy eyelids and a tangle of heavier limbs sink the room’s only mattress in.

Another day has worn these bodies thin, robbed them of all of their energy. No time to play, life is all work—at least, that’s what it feels like.

The only respite is joining back at their shared space at the end of long day.

Clinging to his side, her hand rubs gentle, half-circles over the plane of his chest. Beneath her touch, his breathing’s slowed considerably since they first got in bed.

She’ll bet her life savings that his eyes are closed. So, it would be selfish of her to rouse him, right? But she misses his voice, she can’t help herself.

“‘Siah?”

The slow rise of his chest brings a slow smile to her face.

“Mh?”

His chest rumbles against her cheek with the low hum.

“How was your day?” 

She’s quiet, her words a soft mumble. Before he can answer, she snuggles deeper into his side. His arm tightens around her for support.

“Was alright,” he slurs.

Her eyes do a slow dance around the room, noting the stillness of everything. “Tell me about it.”

Another inhale, this one stronger. Beneath her, he shifts if only to sit up better. “Well,” he begins, clearing his throat. “It really wasn’t no … different from the other days.”

She almost closes her eyes when the slow drawl of his southern accent hit her ears.

“Only had ‘bout … two clients.”

Like a sunflower to the sun, her head follows the sound of his voice. Her neck cranes just so that she may look at him through her lashes. It isn’t the best view, but it’s good enough for her.

“They was easy going folks, y’know.” His shoulders barely shrug. “Nothing t’really … phone home ‘bout—“

“Tell me what they looked like.”

His brows twitch as a faint line appears between them. “W-whatchu’ mean?”

“I mean—“ she giggles, pushing herself up higher so that her head rests more-so on his shoulder. “Tell me what they looked like. Describe them to me.”

“Well … why you wanna know what they look like?” He does a sort of half-chuckle, angling his head down to look at her.

Their eyes meet and her smile grows. 

“I like hearing you talk,” she says softly. “So keep talking.”

He looks to their hamper of dirty laundry, a desperate attempt at trying to control his own smile.

“First one was a man … real old. Probably in his fifties.”

“Black or white?”

“White.”

“Was he shorter than you or taller?”

Quietly, he kisses his teeth. “Shorter, baby. Now is you gon’ lemme tell the story or not?”

There’s a warmth in his tone that makes it impossible for her to take offense to the question.

“Sorry, sorry,” she laughs. “Continue,” she goads, patting his chest.

“Right … he had these big ole’ glasses. Made his eyes look ‘bout—ten times bigger...”

As he goes on, her interest growing in this small conversation, her fatigue melts with each spoken word. More awake than she had been within the last hour, her hand moves with more vigor.

It sinks from his chest to his stomach, fingers rolling over the creased fabric of his ribbed undershirt. The dark cotton is soft and comforting.

“—was real skittish, too. First I thought it was ‘cause I was intimidating him, but I seen that he was like that with everybody. Even Carl.”

The low chuckle that leaves him wakes her further. Her hand on his stomach pauses as she stares blankly at where their leg press together.

“Carl can’t even scare a damn puppy.”

She licks her lips, taking a deep breath. “Mmh … and what about the other one—your client.”

“Oh, this one—she’s an older woman. Not as old as the man. I’m thinking maybe … in her forties.”

As he begins on this woman’s description, listing qualities about her in the same way he had about the previous client, her mind wanders. And—forgive her—she doesn’t mean to not listen. However, it just happens.

Focus slowly settles back into her gaze as it shuffles from staring blankly, to his lap. Just a few inches from her still hand. His voice is a muffled sound in her ears, background noise. 

Her hand begins to move again.

As he gives his shoddy description of his female client, he notices the hand. He’d expected her to resume the pattern she had started with: up and down, up and down.

Up and down … down, down, down.

His voice trails off, eyes following that hand as it takes itself to his inner thigh. Right over his dick.

Not so subtle.

He blinks.

“Keep going.”

That soft wrinkle had returned to the space between his brows. “Whatchu’ doing?” 

In his voice was no hint of urgency or shock. Just gentle curiosity.

Her only answer is a shrug. She doesn’t even look up at him as she usually does when she speaks. “But keep talking. Tell me about what they had you do.”

His mouth opens to say something, make a comment on this all. Except, he finds that only a breathy bit of laughter makes its way from his mouth.

“Alright, uhh … the man wanted me to get some interior shots of his property...” 

His words thin out into background noise once again, making space for the rising thoughts in her brain. She listens to them without a trace of hesitance.

Her hand is a distinct weight on his inner thigh, one he can’t really ignore—even if he doesn’t address it.

Beneath her warm palm, and the fabric of his sweats, he stirs. And as she feels him grow against her, her hand pushes back against it.

“—and, I …” He swallows, blinking as he tries to keep his focus. “I wasn’t trying to … to take too long w-with this one.”

As he gets harder, the flat plane of her hand bends around his curvature.

“‘Cause … ‘c-cause I had to get to the other client in—in time.”

She squeezes down the entirety of his length as she completes each slow drag. She can see his thick outline through his pants. Her eyes, and hand, go straight to his head.

“B-but he had me—“ He kisses his teeth. “C’mon now, Jhené.”

His leg twitches as her fingers close around the tip to massage it.

“Continue.” 

He huffs out, shifting in his spot. “I-I was a little … a little late to her—”

His words come to stop as her hand comes back up, only to slip under the waistband of his sweats.

“Keep going, Messiah.”

He clears his throat. “Sh-she—she was a lil’ … a lil’, um…”

She adores the way he throbs in her hand. The thin fabric of his boxers makes it too easy to feel every pulse, vein, and rush of blood. The heat he gives off almost makes her hand clammy.

His soft whimpers and the tremors in his voice, the way his throat bobs as he swallows—it makes her heart pound.

“A lil’ frus—frustrat—“

Past the leg of his boxes, his tip peaks out. She finds the fattened head with ease.

“Fuuck.” 

The low whine comes as she presses her thumb into his tip, rubbing it in. It takes seconds for her to feel the slow dribble of wetness against her skin.

He’s panting when she pulls out her hand. The whiff of gentle musk she catches from him is non-offending. In fact, it makes her pussy flutter. 

Though, the sight of his precum stuck to the pad of her thumb does a lot more for her. When she finally looks at him, he’s already staring back at her, lips parted.

With no second thought, she sits up and throws a leg over the other side of his lap. 

“Oomph,” he grunts, as she plops down on him, ass over dick.

Stabilizing herself with the other hand, she presses it to his chest, fingers splayed out. The hand—thumb soiled with his fluid—is suspended in the air, inches from his face. 

She stretches forward, and his eyes almost cross as he keeps his eyes focused on the milky white glob.

“Suck.”

His eyes flick up to hers, meeting her burning stare. It’s unwavering.

He looks back at her thumb, it’s gotten closer. He hesitates to open his mouth, and she thinks it’s cute. She almost giggles. 

But then his mouth opens wider, and she stops thinking. Her other four fingers, curled in a loose fist, rest at his chin as her thumb enters the moist heat of his mouth. 

Gently, it presses against the bed of his wide tongue. Almost mechanically, his lips close around the finger and his tongue laves at it, tasting himself on her.

“Talk.”

It’s hard to form words around a foreign object in his mouth. It’s not like they mattered much anyway. 

Besides, his new lisp is cute.

His dick jumps beneath her as his tongue happens to curl around the finger with the utterance of another word.

His eyes are low, unfocused. And if she listens closely, she’ll hear that his sentences are incomplete. They don’t even really have a point anymore.

She leans back only slightly, her thumb still caressed by his tongue. It only takes the strength of her knees to begin a small, steady bounce.

Tiny pants puff out through her parted lips. His already low eyes fall closed and his tongue pauses around her thumb.

“Uuhh,” he moans softly.

Her mouth breaks into a smile.

Free hands climb up her thighs, squeezing the fat of them. She clenches in her panties, feeling the hard press of his dick against her clit despite the layers of clothes between them.

His hands claw their way to her hips, tightening their grip. They pull her down against him, keeping her there to drag her hips against him.

His words have melted into moans and grunts.

Her fingers unfurl to cradle his face as her thumb slips from his open mouth to rest against his shiny, full bottom lip. A glistening web of spit trails from his tongue to his chin as her hand falls further.

Their hips drag heavy against one another’s as they pull sounds of pleasure from each other. He’s melting under her, and she loves seeing him like this. It’s been too long, what with work taking up their time.

Neither of them can tell how long this goes on for. But, they can tell when they’ve had enough of being just close enough.

“Fuck, I want it,” she huffs against his lips as she had leaned in to kiss him.

“Take it. Take it, baby—”

The kiss is rough and heavy. Their tongues slip and slide each other. Funnily enough, the taste of his precum hadn’t lingered. And that makes her moan as she comes to the conclusion that he’s long-since swallowed the little bit that she fed him.

He’s got a hand attached to her throat, keeping her close. All the while, she blindly drags his pants and boxers down—he, of course, lifting his hips to assist.

When his erection pops out, eager to stand on its own, she pulls out of the kiss just to look down at it as she takes him in hand.

His skin is hot. Every throb it makes gets her wetter. Speaking of—

She pushes her underwear to the side, revealing the thin strings of slick attached to the crotch of her panties and her labia.

He moans before they even connect.

Adjusting herself right over him, she lowers her opening right to his tip. Teasing herself, she rubs his head through her slippery folds and against her clit, making him shine with her juices.

Quick to help, he aids in keeping her underwear to the side so that nothing could interrupt this.

That’s her ‘go-ahead.’

She begins her dissent onto him. They both moan out at the feeling of him stretching her out.

God, when was the last time they had sex?

He can’t remember, and right now he doesn’t care. Because all he wants to think about is how her body sucks him in, squeezing tight and bathing him in her wetness.

As she sinks lower and lower, his assisting hand moves just an inch to rub slow circles over her clit with his thumb.

“O-oh—‘Siah,” she whimpers, her pussy fluttering around him as she finally bottoms out.

A heavy breath leaves her lungs. Throwing her arms around him, she lays against his chest, allowing her body time to adjust around him.

The muscles in his thighs twitch periodically. His arms, tight around her, rub soothing paths up and down her back.

She’s panting, out of breath from carrying all of that dick within her walls. “Why’d you … stop talking?” Her voice is almost a whine as her eyes flutter, desperate to keep open.

“I’on wanna talk ‘bout work no more, Jhené,” he grunts. “Matter fact…” 

His hands drag down her back to either of her thighs. They grip tightly, keeping her body pressed to his as he puts her on her back.

“I’on wanna talk at all.”

A ragged moan is all that she can do as he begins slow, smooth, and firm strokes. His hips slide back and forth, pulling slick wet sounds from her body. 

As she lies there, taking him so deep, her fists are curled tights against his chest. Her hunched shoulders twitch with every intrusion of his dick.

Soft whimpers leave her parted, spit slicked lips. Her eyes aren’t quite open, though they’re not really closed either. Her hips stutter and her head rolls to the side.

He snatches a hand away from her thigh to grasp her chin, pulling her head straight. “Fuck, you gon’ take this.” His strokes get shorter and rougher as his hips slam into her. “You gon’ take this dick. You gon’—fuck... Take this. Fucking. Dick—“

The first sign is her eyes rolling back. Next, she goes rigid as her back arches, mouth falling open for a silent moan. With each stroke, her body inches up higher on the bed. He has to drag her back down on his dick.

“You running from it?” he pants. “You running?”

“Ooh—shit!”

She can feel it, how she splashes all over him. He feels it, too. Grabbing the crooks of her forearms, he uses that as leverage as he sends straight shots to her G-spot.

Her pussy massages his length through several squeezes, bringing on his orgasm earlier than normal. 

He catches it just on time—cum shooting against her pussy lips just as he pulls out. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to jerk himself.

A low groan leaves him before he collapses over her body. Tucking his face into the crooks of her neck as he delivers a few more mellow strokes to ride out the sensation, sliding his length between her sticky, cum-covered lips.

Her legs go lax around his waist as he slows to a stop. It’s a couple of seconds before she reaches a hand up his back to toy with the little curls at the nape of his neck. 

“Damn … this shit’a tire a nigga out.”

She hums in agreement, eyes already closed. A dazed laugh tumbles from her mouth.

“Now we gotta … clean up,” she mumbles.

And he agrees, although, it only took a couple of minutes for both of them to knock out, right then and there.

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[artist-issues]

You know what’s great about Dr. Facilier?

He’s the perfect villain opposite both Tiana and Naveen.

He’s not exactly like Jafar or Ursula, who know they’re evil and delight in it as like, a lifestyle. He’s more like Scar. He’s introduced getting money on the street through cons and feeling satisfied…until Big Daddy LeBouf drives by with all his money and makes him feel insignificant.

You get the idea that something in life made him this way—there was a beginning to his villainy. You don’t get that sense from like, Clayton or Gaston.

So he’s a relatable character with flaws, to an extent.

But those flaws specifically play off of Tiana and Naveen’s characterizations.

Tiana has no real respect from her peers—she is in a position to be jealous of Lottie the same way Facilier is jealous of the Cotton King. But where Tiana simply works hard and refuses to let others make her bitter, Facilier has clearly taken shortcuts. Or…”the easy way.”

Then there’s Naveen.

Naveen has no thought beyond the present; he thinks they’re “on this earth to have some fun,” and frequently jumps without looking at the consequences. Leaps without looking! Doesn’t stop to find out if the girl he’s kissing is a real princess even though he knew his original invitation was to a costume party, forgets that he’s supposed to be getting married and plans on continuing his playboy lifestyle, wanders into a shadow-man’s shop. But eventually he learns to open his eyes to what’s important, and what will last, in Tiana. And he takes that seriously; if he marries her instead of Charlotte, he has to get three jobs.

Facilier, on the other hand? He not only does the opposite of Tiana and has taken shortcuts to get where he is—but he also suffers from Naveen’s flaw; he keeps making what are basically get-rich-quick schemes with his “friends on the other side.” When we meet him, he’s stressed and certainly on edge about failing—but that doesn’t stop him from asking for more and more debt from the demons, and he basically goes to his grave still making promises he can’t keep…like Naveen’s promise he couldn’t keep to pay Tiana for kissing him.

He’s got Tiana’s focus and Naveen’s charisma. He’s got Tiana’s lofty goals and Naveen’s dependence on others to do his dirty work.

He’s exactly like Tiana and Naveen put together, aged about twenty years, but with none of their good qualities. Perfect villain for those two main characters.

But he’s also the opposite of Mama Odie.

He entices innocents with what they want while she lights their way by explaining what they need.

He wants total control, while she’s satisfied with simply giving advice and sending people on their way.

He directly transforms his victims, while Mama Odie shows Tiana and Naveen how to work toward their transformation on their own. I mean, you guys noticed that she could have done it for them, right?

But she doesn’t, because she’s the symbol of that Disney Faith-Based morals: you act on what you know is true instead of taking the easy way to what you want. Facilier does the opposite: he promises to give you the easy way to what you want, and tries to tell you why you should accept his deals—but his reasons are all lies.

That’s how you write a villain, ladies and gentlemen.

[thehaberdasheress]

IT'S HERE I HAVE IT

A look at the sample Mariner's Star blanket

This blanket is 100% cotton, with moderate drape. Its texture is a bit rough, but sturdy. And it looks very unlike the crisp dramatic lines of a pattern printed onto polyester fabric.

The pattern isn't printed at all. It's woven.

Every shade of the blanket is the result of a specific colour crossing at the top with a shade or tint. Like an ancient tapestry, its coloured threads take turns, each coming to the fore at its specific time in the story.

I am so happy to find a quality product that's really unique. I tend to design things I'd personally like to own, and I am so looking forward to replacing my fraying Value Village special with this instead.

Also, Emily, complaints department chief and deputy inspector for quality control, says the blanket is 100% hers. So that's encouraging.

This blanket and many other offerings available at my Kickstarter campaign, which has 4 days to go before it ends.

[nvm-illustration]

Espalier.

Espalier is the horticultural and ancient agricultural practice of controlling woody plant growth for the production of fruit, by pruning and tying branches to a frame.

Prints are now available.

[lilithschosen]

I can totally see Rio sitting on the couch playing her Nintendo Switch, but Agatha wants to have her own fun

should i have been sleeping? yes. did i have to write Rio playing Stardew on the switch? also yes. heheheheheheheheh

Resting the controller in her lap while she reaches for her water bottle, Rio sips from the straw quickly before snatching the controller back and grumbles to herself about how she's "not making it home before 2am". The little low quality graphic of her character runs (as fast as it can) down the road before stopping and the screen turns black.

"Fucker," she mumbles. A text box flashes on the screen as she gasps and sits forward on the couch. "He took how much of my money?"

Agatha strolls into the living room, her flannel sleeves rolled up to her elbows, beer in hand. She laughs, seeing Rio sat glued to the television.

"Still in your game, huh?" she asks, ungraciously falling onto the couch next to her girlfriend. "This the, uh, farm one? Star whatever?"

Rio nods, "Yeah, I passed out just outside of my farm so the dickhead hospital guy stole a bunch of stuff and money from me."

"You should go kick his ass."

Rio rolls her eyes, turning to watch as Agatha winks and sips from her beer. "That's not how it works, babe."

Agatha sniffs loudly, shrugging. She kicks her feet up on the table, knee pressing into Rio's thigh next to her. Rio smiles, patting Agatha's leg before she goes back to playing her game. Saturday evenings were lowkey, normally self care for the both of them after whatever hell they went through with work the week prior. Agatha spent the full day tinkering in the shed, determined to fix the weed-whacker she's been using since her early 20s, leaving Rio to play her Switch unbothered.

She rarely had time for games, only able to sneak half an hour here and there. Today she managed to log nearly ten hours in her game.

Agatha watches for a beat, trying to understand why this pixelated farming game has her girlfriend by the throat but smirks at the thought of having her by the throat instead.

She leans closer, shoulders nudging, and places her hand on her inner thigh. An innocent enough touch, something Agatha does absentminded when she's watching hockey and Rio joins her. Rio doesn't pay it any mind, both hands on her black Nintendo controller as she tends to the crops. She grumbles under her breath when the watering can runs empty mid-watering.

"So how focused do you have to be to play this?"

Rio pauses the game, tongue flicking into the inside of her cheek. "Depends. Why do you ask?"

Agatha shrugs, "No reason."

She keeps her hand on Rio's leg, watching her as she continues with her game. She taps the right bumper a couple times to bring up the watering can in her hotbar, then resumes watering the crops. She putters about the farm, organizing her inventory with the various chests she has strewn about.

The warmth from Agatha's palm still firmly placed on her thigh has her clenching legs together inadvertently. Agatha smirks, fingertips pressing into her skin.

"You okay, hon?" she asks in faux concern, "You need something?"

Rio's swipes at her nose with the back of her hand, raising the controller up as she does so and shakes her head. She tries to ignore Agatha, tries to make her way toward the mines, to try and reach the bottom finally. Yet her mind pulls her elsewhere as Agatha's fingers crawl closer to her core until she fully cups her through her thin, cotton shorts. She can't help but whimper at the contact and click her tongue in annoyance at herself.

Agatha's grin slowly spreads across her face, knowing she was winning. The little game they constantly played with one another of chicken. Who would crack under the pressure, how far they'd get until they're giving in. Rio holds strong normally, can last until Agatha starts to tease her fingers through her folds before she's grabbing and pulling at her for more.

Agatha presses her palm down, her other hand snaking up underneath Rio's simple tee, reaching for her breast. She keeps moving the joystick, walking her character through the town square and up toward the community center.

"You're really trying to play this game, aren't you?" Agatha asks, fingertips grazing her nipple, hardening immediately at her touch. Rio bites down hard on her bottom lip, knuckles turning white around the controller. "Just pause it, let me take care of you."

Rio's thumb lifts from the joystick, hovering over the pause button as she nearly gives in, but quickly keeps pressing on.

Agatha rolls the hard nipple across her fingers, pinching it gently between her thumb and forefinger while she grinds her palm into her clit. Rio gasps, mouth falling open from the simultaneous contact. She keeps playing, crossing a bridge and tucking into the pixelated cave. Just as she approaches the ladder down to the mines, Agatha lowers her head to her chest and licks her other nipple through the shirt.

"Fucking hell, Agatha."

Rio drops the controller, hands immediately grabbing at her flannel shirt to pull her head back up. As Agatha meets Rio's face, the obnoxious proud look on her face, Rio crashes their mouths together. She knew she could withstand more, but Agatha was playing dirty.

She moans into Agatha's mouth at the taste of her tongue, eyes closing as Agatha grinds her palm harder between her legs. Rio spreads them further, lifting one up to drape over Agatha's for her girlfriend to get better access.

Agatha tilts her head back, breaking the kiss, and she chuckles. Rio rolls her eyes, hissing as Agatha pulls her nipple before pinching it again.

"Needy?"

"Clearly," Rio bites back, lip curling in annoyance. "If you don't fuck me after all of this, so help me."

Agatha pouts, removing her hand from underneath Rio's shirt. "Oh now you're going to be bossy?"

She goes to take her hand away from Rio's cunt, but Rio grabs her wrist and holds it still. Before Agatha can even blink, Rio is straddling her waist on the couch with her hand still firmly between her legs.

"Don't move," Rio rasps, rolling her hips into Agatha's hand. "If you won't do anything, I'll just use your hand for you."

Agatha's mouth goes dry, dial tone sounding in her ears as her brain lags behind. This wasn't part of her plan, one of the tricks up her sleeve she was going to pull out. Rio smirks now, knowing damn well her wetness has bled through her underwear and probably through her shorts by now.

"If you were packing," Rio begins, setting her pace as she rocks into Agatha's open hand. Her clit drags against the fabric of her clothes, and the added bonus of Agatha's palm providing friction was perfect for her. "I'd be doing this on your cock. But no, I have to use your hand instead."

Agatha doesn't move, doesn't speak. She's entranced by Rio, how quickly the cloak of power was ripped from around her neck and firmly draped over Rio's shoulders.

Rio's head falls back as she continues to grind into Agatha's hand. She stutters a breath as she feels her fingers gently caress her entrance through her shorts.

"Now you wanna help?"

Agatha looks up at her through hooded eyes, fingers wrapping around the bunched up leg of her shorts and shoves them aside to make enough gap to fit her hand. She pushes the underwear to the side as well, and sinks two fingers into Rio's soaked pussy.

They both moan together, the feeling of Agatha finally sinking into her after the teasing was enough to make her cum at this point. She curls her fingers as she fucks her, thrusting her hips up as she kicks herself mentally for not putting the harness on before coming to distract her.

"I love you," Rio cries out, hands lifting to grope at her chest as she rides Agatha's fingers, "I love you so much, I'd fucking die in that damn game countless times if it means you'd fuck me like this."

Agatha laughs, a deep, velvet sound. She thrusts up, grinding herself into the back of her hand while she scissors her fingers into Rio. She feels her walls flutter, massaging them with each motion until they clench around her. Rio stiffens, face twisting in pleasure as she cums.

The screen behind her goes black, a small text box appearing. She doesn't hear the sounds or even care what happened now, her hips jerking erratically as she rides out her orgasm in Agatha's hand.

"That's it, baby," Agatha watches her, heart pounding in her ears. "You're so beautiful, so perfect. All mine."

Rio whines, her body taut until she finally relaxes. Her hands fall from her chest, landing behind her to grip Agatha's knees to hold her steady. She opens her eyes, tongue instantly wetting her lips as she looks to the TV and groans loudly.

"I fucking passed out again."

Agatha looks around Rio's body, her fingers still inside of her. She doesn't understand the implications, and doesn't care to learn them.

"I didn't have much on me either," Rio slouches, body curling into Agatha's on the couch. "Harvey is going to take my fucking sword, I just know it."

"Are you sure you can't just kick his ass for your stuff back?"

"It's not that kinda game, babe."

Agatha shrugs, slowly removing her fingers from Rio's cunt. She pulls her underwear back over and tries to unfurl the leg of her shorts before firmly planting her hands on Rio's hips.

"Well," she starts, pressing a quick kiss to the side of Rio's head, "How about we give up on this game and go to bed?"

Rio frowns, "But I have stuff to do."

Agatha slaps at the top of her ass, "And I have a hot girlfriend to do. Up."

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: Will Graham

Adjuvant - serving to aid or contribute; auxiliary

Advertency - the quality or state of being advertent; heedfulness

Anamnesis - a recalling to mind; reminiscence

Complaisant - tending to consent to others' wishes

Conniption - a fit of rage, hysteria, or alarm

Conversance - the quality or state of being conversant (i.e., having knowledge or experience—used with "with"; archaic: having frequent or familiar association)

Copacetic - very satisfactory

Cotton - to take a liking—used with "to"; to come to understand—used with "to" or "on to"

Design - to conceive and plan out in the mind

Dolce - soft, smooth—used as a direction in music

Dulcet - sweet to the taste; generally pleasing or agreeable

Edifying - instructive or informative in a way that improves the mind or character

Emprise - an adventurous, daring, or chivalric enterprise

Farouche - marked by shyness and lack of social graces

Finagle - to obtain (something) by indirect or involved means

Habitude - archaic: native or essential character

Inhesion - the condition of being inherent in something

Kaiseki - a highly ritual Japanese meal characterized by small portions, subtle flavors, artful presentation, and an emphasis on fresh seasonal ingredients

Lamb - a gentle or weak person; dear

Moonstruck - affected by or as if by the moon: such as romantically sentimental

Ornery - difficult to deal with or control

Radicate - to cause to take root; plant deeply and firmly

Rapt - lifted up and carried away; transported with emotion; enraptured

Saturnine - cold and steady in mood; slow to act or change

Stilly - in a calm manner; quietly

More: Word Lists

[a-whispering-echo]

Princess Killer of Velegore

(yes, i know i spelt it wrong on the image. the text version is written correctly!)

Killer is quick-witted, flirty, and sly, with a dark sense of humour and a tendency to push boundaries. He as a habit of pushing and pushing people until they snap; Nightmare doesn’t know if he doesn’t realise does he this, or its its some kind of sadism. He often tells jokes, and though many may seem dark or cynical, there’s an undertone of genuine humour in them he’s even got CROSS with the odd good one!. He gents bored VERY easily, cant sit still, cant pay attention to CERTAIN things, and has a love of telling jokes -

Initially, Nightmare is intrigued and a bit wary of Killer’s flirtatious and teasing nature, unsure if he’s being genuine or manipulative. But as time goes on, Nightmare realizes that Killer’s provocative behaviour is a shield against vulnerability. Nightmare finds himself growing fond of Killer’s sharp wit and his loyalty beneath the teasing exterior.

Killer’s relentless teasing sometimes bothers Cross, who takes things seriously, but he learns to use humour to deflect Killer’s jabs. Killer is drawn to Dust’s odd behaviour, possibly both fascinated and disturbed by his hallucinations, which he sometimes finds darkly humorous, though he never laughs at Dust directly. With Horror, Killer has a unique bond - Horror’s straightforward sweetness balances Killer’s intensity, and Killer finds himself inexplicably protective of him.

Killer, on hearing what his potential partner was like, found him quite sexy. He quite liked the idea of being bossed about by this man with all the power, and was keen to work with him. He wouldn’t say he’s DISAPPOINTED when he met Nightmare for real, but he isn’t what he was expecting.

-

Velegore is a mysterious kingdom famous for its dark, intricate art, masterful weapon craftsmanship, and elite assassins’ guilds. Its people are known for their strength and wit, excelling in strategy and subterfuge. Velegore exports high-quality armour and rare gemstones found in its extensive mines.

Customs & Culture: Velegore has a tradition of intense, often theatrical displays of strength and wit, where challenges and contests are common among nobles. The kingdom celebrates the Night of Masks, a midwinter festival where everyone, from peasants to royalty, wears masks and mingles anonymously, embracing a night of freedom and mischief.

Religion: Velegore worships the Umbral Pantheon, a group of deities representing darkness, shadows, and hidden knowledge. It’s believed that these deities protect secrets and grant wisdom to those who can navigate the shadows.

Royalty: The King of Velegore, King Sable, is known for his pragmatism and ruthlessness. His reign is secure through careful, almost paranoid control, making him wary of threats even from within his family. Killer, being one of several siblings, is the second-born son, raised in a family with many potential heirs due to the kingdom’s hazardous political landscape. Having many siblings indicates the kingdom’s need for a secure line, as heirs are occasionally lost in the internal conflicts that arise among Velegore’s cut-throat nobility.

Architecture: Velegore is known for its dramatic, imposing architecture, with squat, angular buildings that seem to meld into the shadowy landscape and slanted roofing. The buildings are constructed from dark wood and iron, with narrow, barred windows and tall, thin watchtowers that cast ominous shadows. The kingdom values defensive structures, with walls and gates hidden by thickets of thorns and barbed plants.

Clothing: Clothing in Velegore tends toward black, red, and gray, often adorned with silver. Silks and cotton are rare, so most fabrics are thick wool, leather, or flax, providing some protection while remaining lightweight for quick movement. Jewellery often includes polished iron, rubies, or garnets, and some choose to wear protective talismans made from animal bones or metal.

Climate: Velegore’s climate is cooler, with harsh, misty mornings and short, dim days. The overcast skies give the kingdom an eerie quality, with rolling fog that suits its dark forests and murky marshes.

Diet: The people of Velegore rely on game, preserved meats, root vegetables, and foraged berries.. Meals are basic but intensely flavoured, with heavy seasoning to balance the somewhat meagre diet available. Fresh food is often scarce, as they lack the agricultural bounty of other kingdoms. Killer himself is fond of strong spices, though they all come from trade, and are VERY expensive.

Fauna & Flora: Velegore’s wildlife includes nocturnal creatures like bats, wolves, and owls, all of which are symbols of strength and stealth. Local plants include wolfsbane, nightshade, and thorn bushes, often used in Velegore’s folk remedies and warding charms. Dyes from local berries and plants are used to create deep crimson and midnight hues for their clothing. All ‘black’ dye is actually a very dark blue.

this is gonna be the last post for a few days, cus like, busy time and al that lololol

[venusandsaturnsrings]

every time someone normal seeming likes one of my tame posts i feel the need to post something deranged… like firing off warning shots to keep rent down… anyways…

did he like getting rough in bed? yes, most definitely, but boothill had never delved into anything further than smacking you around, choking you, or getting a bit mean with his thrusts and words. anything more… serious, for lack of better words, hadn’t been on his plate before mainly due to him not previously having a real relationship and not being super into little flings; something insecure still nibbled at his body. yet he still wanted to try something new and exciting that would let him have real control over you in a way he hadn’t before so, he began scrolling through forums and sites with his phones volume silenced as he perused different kinks and ideas for something that would scratch that itch. then he found it, just the kind of thing he’d been looking for.

preparation was nothing more than a couple minutes of thinking and testing the scrappy motels stability before he sat himself on the edge of the bed, hat thrown on the table that was missing something that made it rattle obnoxiously. he waited, metal and silicone uncomfortably strained and needing your touch in his stupidly tight pants, for your arrival. when you walked in, boothill was immediately on his feet wrapping his iron arms around you while cooing something about a surprise that made your gut stir. he kissed you sweet and gentle before taking you further into the room where in a neat row atop the bed sat an array of weapons you didn’t think he’d even be able to carry. some you couldn’t even identify with the sharp edges and complex triggers seeming to contradict each other. yet stood behind you chattering about testing, ‘all these beauty’s out on my beauty,’ was boothill who somehow procured all twenty-two; you counted. with a thick swallow, you asked what exactly he’d be doing to which he smiled all sharp teeth and practically demanded you strip.

naked and admittedly nervous, you watched as he plucked a long and slender knife from his charcuterie of weaponry. the blade was at least six inches and when he dragged it across the poor quality cotton and something trashy sheets, it made a clean slice through. even boothill seemed surprised, whistling quickly before bringing the blade to sit firm against your throat. he seemed eager and giddy and he hadn’t hurt you before so you doubted he would now but then he slide it across and you felt the bite of metal split your skin. ruby beaded and slipped down your chest as your eyes stung and he pushed you back to lap up every drop that threatened to slip down and away from sight.

he brought the blade across your whole body, silver nipping at every place he deemed appropriate until you were shaking and hazy beneath him. boothill hummed to himself more than anything as he finally brought himself between your legs for his prize.

“ya’ trust me a bit too much, sugar, but don’t cha’ worry,” he slipped himself through your wetness admiring the crystalline tears travelling your lashes, “gon’ take good care of this lil hole now. once ya’ wake up, we’ll have a nice big talk ‘bout yer silly head bein too dumb to understand danger. then, maybe, have a go at this with my gun. not gon’ blow yer brains out, promise. my darlin’s too pretty to be splattered on the wall…”

[owlcomics101]

”Clever Y/N…” Task force 141 x Velociraptor hybrid!reader Head cannons

Warnings: SFW (I am a minor), fluff, blood, language (cussing), mentions of animal abuse/violence (I do not condone), reader is gender neutral

gif credits: @Deshi Basara

Writers note: If this gets 100 notes I’ll make a series out of this like my fox hybrid one

Context/backstory: Jurassic world AU; The park had been long lost abandoned for over a decade now. What was once a park full of creatures of old was now the ruins to a new world. You were an experiment. A human with the qualities and characteristics of a Raptor. You had the raptor feet, legs, tail. Claws, eyes, and teeth. The task force was sent to Isla Nublar. Back to the old run down park to retrieve a weapon, but little did they know that the weapon was you.

Price: You see Price as your Alpha. The moment you two met you knew who was in control. Price. He’s the only man you will ever willingly take orders to. The only man you’re afraid of. A muzzle was a common occurrence for you. You were notorious for biting and teething anything you could get your jaws upon. Especially the task force members. Price is the most patient with you about this but this is a problem that needs to be fixed. He either muzzles you or distracts you with a bone like you would do for dogs.

“Ay!” Price pulls you away from his arm sleeve.

“What did we say about biting Y/N?” He glares at you. You immediately stop what you were doing and turn your attention to something else. “No biting ya muppet.”

Soap:

Soap was the one to break through to you. He never saw you as a weapon, you were just someone trying to survive. Find your place in the food chain. Soap always kept you calm and grounded even in times of danger or a threat to you and the others. Not even Price could calm you like Soap can. He was pretty laid back with you and let you do about whatever you wanted. He didn’t mind the nipping and teething as long as you were gentle. He was the one to help clean you after missions, including your teeth.

“Oi let’s see those pearly white’s.” Soap says as he gestures for you to open your mouth. You do as asked and he rests his hands on his hip proud of his work.

“Now there’s a smile!”

Gaz: Gaz is your trainer. Price thought it would be good practice for Gaz if he was your trainer. Perhaps he could learn a thing or two about teaching and be in Price’s shoes for once. You obeyed, but only when food was involved, otherwise Price would have to come down to motivate you to listen to Gaz. The training did well, you were a massive help on the field, but Gaz can’t help but feel bad about it all. You being a ‘weapon’ of massive destruction that he was in trusted to train. It held quite the pressure on him. He’s afraid he’ll turn you into the monster everyone thought you were.

Gaz watches you tear into one of the punching bags, he couldn’t help but picture the stuffing as intestines and flesh being tore out. He could see the cotton stuck in your teeth as blood dripping down and running off your chins

“Y/N! I think that’s enough for today…”

Ghost: You see Ghost as a beta. You sometimes take orders from him but only if you feel like it. The more irritated he gets with you and more and more you resist his commands and his attempts of control over you. You always snuck up behind him and he didn’t even need to call out to you because you were always there…He wasn’t sure what Gaz has been teaching you but the cold look in your eyes tells him that Gaz wasn’t the first to train you…You wear a head set around your head and neck so he could see out of you and see what your doing. Soap likes to call it Ghost’s “Nanny Cam.”

Price walks into the common room. “Has anyone seen Y/N? I told you all Y/N is not aloud outside unaccompanied!”

Ghost looks over to Price. “Y/N is eating Soap’s cookie stash.”

Soap jumps up wide eyed. “My cookie stash!? Ghost why didn’t you look at your nanny can sooner!?

“ITS NOT A NANNY CAM JONHHY-“

[femmefatalevibe]

Femme Fatale Guide: Fall Wardrobe Essentials

Staple Tees:

**Purchase in Modal, Pima cotton, or a cotton-cashmere blend**

Fitted crewneck tees (long-sleeves/tees & tanks for layering)

Relaxed fit long-sleeve tees

Turtleneck long-sleeve top (fitted & relaxed fit options)

Contour bodysuits

Blouses/Shirting:

Silk button-down blouse

Cotton button-down blouse

Silk shell top/t-shirts/camis (for layering)

Sculpt knit top(s)

Self-tie wrap blouse

Shirred boatneck, mock neck, or cowlneck silk blouse(s)

Leather button-down

Knitwear:

Thin cashmere/wool crewneck sweater (fitted/relaxed fit)

Thin cashmere/wool turtleneck sweater

Chunky relaxed-fit cable knit sweater

Knit polo-neck sweater

Cashmere sweater vest (crewneck, v-neck, and/or turtleneck)

Mockneck cashmere/wool sweater

Cashmere long-sleeve sweater dress

Cashmere/knit skirt (mini, midi, or maxi - depending on your personal preferences)

Sophisticated coordinating knit set (top/pants or skirt of your choice)

Casual knit set (top/pullover and relaxed fit pants)

Cashmere cardigan

Cable knit cardigan (doubles as a light jacket)

Bottoms:

Black straight-leg jeans

Black bootcut/flared jeans

Black straight/bootcut trousers

Wide-leg trousers (I love a solid black, black pinstripe, and black with lace-up detail selection)

High-waisted leather pants

Split hem trousers

Stretch jersey/cashmere pants (straight-leg or flared)

Quilted leather/tweed mini skirt

Knit/wool mini and/pencil skirt

Leather skirt (mini or midi)

Silk midi skirt

Dresses/Jumpsuits:

Knit/sweater dress

Little black dress (shift dress/A-line cuts are great)

Blazer dress/jumpsuit

Slip dress (for layering)

Minimal black jumpsuit ("LBJ")

Leather and/or denim dress or jumpsuit

Jackets & Outerwear:

Black tailored blazer

Leather blazer

Tweed jacket

Trench coat

Leather moto/cropped/bomber jacket

Black wool coat

Raincoat ( I like Rains for high-quality options on the affordable side that are still built to last for several seasons)

Statement jacket/coat

Footwear:

Sleek flat/low-heel black boots with a pointed-toe or square-toe silhouette (I love Vagabond, Jeffrey Campbell, Vince Camuto, and Sam Edelman for more affordable, high-quality options)

Black loafers/sleek black flats

Black lace-up boots

Black heeled boots

Black pumps

White sneakers

Rain boots (I recommend the Melissa Shoes Welly/Grip/Step boots or a stylish, sustainable, and more affordable option)

Accessories:

White/black ankle & crew socks

Black control top tights

High-waisted shapewear shorts

Chunky/small chain necklaces & bracelets

Simple pendant necklace(s)

Pearl necklace

Simple diamond studs

Crystal drop earrings

Minimalist bangles

Stackable rings

A sleek, minimalist black tote (can fit a laptop for work/travel)

Black shoulder bag

Small black bag (top handle, crossbody, etc.)

Statement bag/evening bag

Cashmere scarf

Silk/decorative scarf

Fingerless/touch-screen friendly, lightweight gloves

Lingerie/Loungewear:

Seamless bra/underwear

Lace bra/underwear

Matching pullover cotton sweatshirt/sweatpants

Knit or jersey cotton top/lounge pants set

Luxurious pajama set (silk, Tencel, cashmere, etc.)

A to-die-for piece of lingerie like a lace slip/silk teddy

Silk or cozy robe

Cozy open-back slippers

[a-not-so-clean-blog]

Venom

Miguel O'Hara x addicted gn reader

Warnings: Blowjob (Miguel reviving), rough, withdrawal symptoms. Drug use (venom), no beta we die like men. "Pretty" used once but not in a gendered way.

2250 words

It was an accident; becoming addicted to him was never part of either of your plans, but yet, here you were. Sitting patiently on a plush chair, looking up at him like he was your whole world. At This point he might as well be, considering his venom was the only thing keeping you going.

Funny to think it was an accident that got you both into this situation, but we should probably start at the beginning.

You were your world's spider. Strong, smart, and fiercely impulsive. Good at getting out of a bad situation because you were prone to getting into bad situations. Great qualities for a hero, but this time they really got you in trouble.

Miguel was an amazing hero. Strong, stoic, and a heart of gold, even if he didn't like showing it. He was also the only spider that doesn't have a spidey sense. Not that you knew that when you were silently approaching him from behind.

His back heaved, and his breathing was labored. Clutching his shoulder like a wounded animal, complete with claws half extended. You stopped when you were close enough to see the slight tremble in his whole body. Every muscle tensed and ready to spring at a moment's notice.

“You okay?” Your voice was soft as you reached a hand out to check on him. The next thing you saw was a flash of red eyes and white fangs so fast you didn't even have time to react. He was too fast for you to even feel the pain of his fangs sinking into your shoulder. One of his hands tightly gripped your outstretched wrist while his other hand clutched the nape of your neck. From an outside perspective one could mistake the pose for a tango.

A cool tingling sensation spreads through your veins almost instantly, completely paralyzing you. Yet still even in such a vulnerable position your spidey sense never rang. Slowly his eyes faded from that unnatural glowing red to his normal rich brown. He released you the moment he realized what he had done.

“Lo siento mucho, no fue mi intención-” Panicked and rambling through what you assume is an apology you simply stood there; paralyzed and helpless. His eyes were locked on to where your neck meets your shoulder, never looking away from his crime, and never looking you in the eye.

You should have been scared. Worried or intimidated would have also been appropriate, but all you felt… was excitement.

The venom felt like pure euphoria under your skin. The bite felt hot but each heartbeat sent a cool rush of endorphins deeper into your body. Filling every vein, every muscle, just everything with that beautiful menthol chill. There were no thoughts because it felt like someone stuffed your head with cotton. Was this what his villains felt? This was far too good for them. You silently slipped into your own thoughts; becoming completely oblivious to anything but your own heartbeat.

By the time you regained consciousness and control of your body you had been left in a secluded area of the spider society. A to-go container was left on a stool with a water bottle. This was too little to be a bribe, maybe an apology? Slowly your head started to clear. You wish it hadn't. As the feelings of the venom had worn off, and the physical effects were starting to fade you were left feeling like hot garbage. This just left you alone with a throbbing pain in your shoulder and a strange sense of emptiness.

You hissed in pain when you absentmindedly touched the bite. “Ow! …” Even now your movements were sluggish. Like a marinette fighting against its strings. It's dangerous for a spider to be slow, that makes them easy to squish. Dangerous; that was definitely the look in his eyes. It was stupid to want to see them again, but yet…

You needed to talk to him.

He's been avoiding you. It's been almost two weeks and every time you caught sight of him he seemingly vanished into thin air. The only problem with trying to track another spider is that you are all notoriously slippery.

“Miguel.” He continues to walk away from you, never even sparing you a glance. “Miguel!” You yelled, gaining glances from the other spiders in the hallway, and finally making him stop. “We need to talk.”

His head dipped slightly as he grumbled out a “Fine.” before continuing forward. His pace was swift, not even caring if you kept up with him, and he only stopped when the two of you were in a secluded room. Free from any prying eyes he finally turned to face you, but it felt more like he was looking through you. “Talk.”

His voice was colder than his venom. Low and dark, but you couldn't feel any real malice behind it. “I need a favor…”

His eyes cast over you, looking for any sign of what you were about to ask. He looked almost like he was on edge. Understandable considering how much he does to keep the multiverse intact.

After a deep breath you finally spoke again. “I… I need another hit. I can't even shoot a web straight! God, if Hobie wasn't there on my last mission I would be a pavement pancake right now!” Your hands started shaking. No, your whole body started trembling. Withdrawal had been slowly eating away at you since the incident.

His brown eyes narrowed as he watched you struggle to keep yourself together, slowly working yourself up to a near breakdown. “I never meant to bite you. I'm sorry, but I won't do it again.”

“But-”

“That's final!” He snapped at you with a slight snarl. He let out a sigh when he saw the despair fall on your face. “I can find something else to help you. I'll make something if I have to, but my venom is too dangerous for even one bite.” You nodded slowly, not wanting to anger him again. With that he walked past you and out the door. “I'll call you when I get something.”

…But it didn't work.

Trial after trial, and batch after batch, but nothing helped. The withdrawal symptoms only got worse. Until finally you were bedridden with a fever and sweating bullets, completely unable to move without wanting to throw up.

Miguel entered your medical room. A range of emotions; hurt, disbelief, anger, and hopelessness, all flashed across your face in an instant before you pleaded. All he did was put his hand up and you stopped. He looked…hurt, but finally he gave in. You needed this, and he was the only one who could help you.

It was finally time for him to take responsibility.

He pulled up a chair next to your bed. “Give me your arm.” His voice was low and hesitant, and you eagerly complied. After a moment of contemplation he opened his mouth wide enough for you to glimpse those glorious fangs before they sank into your forearm.

Your eyes all but rolled back in your head as that long awaited rush of euphoria flooded your veins. “Nnnmm~” it was only a moment before he pulled himself away, but it was enough.

“...When I first bit you I had just taken a dose of my spider stimulant. Think of it like a steroid, but radioactive. This should be less potent than that.” You half listened to his explanation, not really caring what he said but loving the sound of his voice. It's not like you could respond because of the paralytic effect so he continues “I will take responsibility for this. I'll help you wean off of it.” You moved your eyes slightly towards him as he stood up. “Call me when you can.” And again he left you alone; paralyzed, but delighted.

After about a week your symptoms returned. Shaky hands and difficulty focusing being the first red flags prompting you to seek him out. Without question he followed through with his promise to help you. Every time he sunk his teeth into you felt just as good as the last.

This quickly became routine. Every week, weather your symptoms returned yet or not, the two of you would meet like this. Alone together, hidden away from curious spiders. The rush you got never faded but the physical effects lessened gradually. You could move a little now, maybe even give single word responses if he asked.

His attitude also changed from a broken melancholy to something more enticed but conflicted. It soon became apparent that both of you were enjoying this, yet neither of you spoke of the palpable change in expression. That was, until you took that first step farther.

Now what used to be more akin to a medical procedure was more like a carnal rendezvous. It became rare to see his contemplation now, and the weekly sessions left no time for your withdrawal to return.

The sessions definitely helped with the physical withdrawal, but your desire only grew. Desire for his venom; desire for him. No, desire wasn't the right word. This was stronger.

Need

Slowly you reached out to his waist; muscles fighting every inch against the venom induced atrophy. Suddenly but gently he grabs your wrist before you can reach him. You shakily lift your chin enough to see him; his nostrils slightly flaring as he takes deep breath, his eyes completely locked on to yours, and his lips pursed together in a flat line.

Your mouth opened and closed fruitlessly, like a fish gasping desperately for water. Miguel felt a little pity but he couldn't ignore the butterflies in his stomach as you looked up at him hungrily. His own hunger only grew as the next words barely fell from your mouth.

“Please?”

“I'm not going to take advantage of your situation.” His heart squeezed as he denied your advances. His heart was beating rapidly, and it's been getting harder for him to control himself during these sessions. He could feel his will crumble as you looked up at him with begging puppy dog eyes. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh. “...but just this once I'll make an exception.” He released your wrist, and as he opened his eyes his stomach fluttered as the delight spread across your face.

Your movements were stiff and choppy as you staggered to kneel before him. His chest swelled with pride as you looked up at him with that eager doe eyed expression. Each movement was a fight against the venom that made you feel alive, and you were fighting for him.

“Still…hard…to…move…” Your words came slowly, and he patiently waited for each one; his red brown eyes never leaving your lips.

“Would you like some help?” His voice came out like a choked purr. Every passing moment you could see how excited he was getting. His now crimson eyes were a dead giveaway; as was the growing bulge in his suit.

You tried your best to nod; head barely moving an inch up and down, but the message was clear. Gently he cupped your face, thumb running across your bottom lip before sliding back towards your jaw line.

His suit receded to reveal his beautiful fat cock. He helped you open your mouth wide and pulled out your tongue. Once satisfied with your position his hand slid into your hair. His claws barely scraping your scalp sending a shiver rippling through you.

He took his sweet time placing his cock on your tongue. He wanted to give you a moment to back out before you lost the use of your words as well as your body. He let out a shaky sigh as he slid all the way into your throat. Your muscles were too relaxed to trigger any gag reflex and he had no issue going as deep as he pleased.

Slow movement shortly turned into a rough face fucking. His clawed hands roughly gripped your hair for leverage as he buried his bush into your nose with each thrust. It was heavenly.

His grunts were just as delicious as his cock as he picked up the pace once more. Any pathetic little noises you tried to make only gave his cock more pleasure. Your eyes rolled back as your head went fuzzy. The slight lack of oxygen and the effects of the venom making every sensation that much more potent and delightful.

“Merda-” His hips stuttered, and with a pained grunt he pulled himself away from your hot wet mouth. His cock twitched twice before erupting thick ropes of cum across your face. He had to take a few deep breaths until he was able to get control of himself again.

You looked like a dream. Kneeling pretty at his feet covered in his cum. You were all but ensnared in his web, and he loved it.

“When you're able to move more I may let you drink it.” He used his thumb to swipe some of his cum over your tongue so you can have a taste. “Right now I can't risk you choking because of the paralysis.” The taste was exquisite. It only made the euphoria of his venom still in your system that much stronger. If that's the boost a taste could do you were already drooling at the thought of a full dose.

Miguel was very easy to get addicted to.

Translation

Lo siento mucho, no fue mi intención: I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to

Merda: shit

[javiscigarette]

Just Focus on My Love

Frankie Morales x f!reader

Summary: Frankie just thinks there are better things to do than play a silly video game called Stardew Valley (or a very self-indulgent sweet baby boy Frankie fic)

Warnings: NSFW 18+ only!! No use of Y/N smut duh, oral (f receiving), a bit of body/pussy worship, fingering, squirting, spitting, hair pulling, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, he adds a finger just for funsies, creampie, cum play, frankie loves to run his mouth when he's horny, also I know this man has killed people but he is just a baby

Word count: 4k

A/N: Inspired by Focus by miss Charli xcx!! Also this is dedicated to all the real gamers out there who play Stardew. May your crops flourish. Also this may secretly be the first part of a lil series I'm cookin up but you didn't hear that from me!

Frankie finds you on the sectional in the basement in full veg mode. You’re sitting in the corner of the couch with your legs stretched out on the cushions in front of you with the lights down low.

You’re playing the same game you’ve been playing for months now, the game Frankie is slowly starting to despise. He had actually been the one to suggest finishing the basement and creating this little sanctuary for you to play video games.

But he didn't think about how if you started spending more time curled up playing your games, that would be less time spent with him.

“Babyyy” Frankie whines from where he’s standing near the foot of the couch, at the end of your outstretched legs. 

“Hi, Francisco” you reply calmly, not taking your eyes off the screen.

Frankie takes that as an invitation. 

You pause the game and giggle as he climbs on the couch before ungraciously collapsing on top of you. He rests his head on your chest that’s covered with one of his t-shirts. 

“Don’t distract me, Frankie” you say firmly between little giggles while he gets comfy. 

“No promises.”

He snakes his arms around you, trapping his forearms between your waist and the couch cushion You roll your eyes and wrap your arms around his neck to hold your control behind his head. You unpause and go back to the game and Frankie gives you almost five whole minute before he sighs again. 

“You’ve been down here for hours, bebita. What even is this game? Skyblue Valley? ” Frankie groans. 

“Stardew Valley. And I told you I’m so close to finishing the community center and I want it done this weekend” 

Frankie grumbles again and turns his head to look at you straight on, his chin resting on your chest, his face inches away from your’s. 

“But I’m bored and we should be spending time together. Strengthening our bond, yanno” 

You snort at that. 

“Strength of our bond?” 

“Yeah! Quality time! One of the love languages.” 

“Frankie, baby, we spent the whole day together. And as soon as I’m done with this we’ll spend the rest of the night together”

“C’mon, cariño.” Frankie whines.

He shifts around again until suddenly there’s some pressing hard against the front of your hip. It’s not surprising - Frankie can’t keep his hands off of you. He’s needy too, requiring almost the same amount of your attention that a 3-month old puppy would.

“Not gonna work, Francisco. You’ve gotta try harder than that” you say plainly, keeping your eyes glued to the screen. 

You should’ve just kept your mouth shut. 

Frankie immediately sees the challenge and lunges at it like a rabid dog. He narrows his eyes at you, his lips curling up in a mischievous smirk. 

“Frankie…” you try to warn him, already seeing exactly where this is going.

“Just keep playing your game, hermosa” Frankie says calmly, turning his head to rest his cheek on your chest again. 

He moves to unpin his arm from underneath you and starts to fiddle with the hem of your (his) shirt. The cotton is soft and worn, just like all the other shirts and sweaters that you’ve stolen from him.

He never complains, not even when half of his clothes end up on your side of the closet. He loves seeing you in them, seeing how they fit on your body, how they smell like you at the end of the day. He can never get enough. 

He slips his fingers under the hem and traces the pads of his fingers over the smooth skin of your stomach and your hips. It’s mindless, the way his hands roam your body, tracing paths that he’s traced millions of times before. 

He gets lost in it for a few minutes. He shuts his eyes and lets his hand drift all over you like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel under his fingers and his palms. It’s soothing for him too. Grounds him and reminds him that you’re real and you’re here. 

His palm is hot on your skin, leaving a burning trail as it roams your body, sliding over every square inch of skin that he can reach. It’s a simple and fairly innocent gesture, but you already feel something swirling in your tummy. 

Eventually Frankie remembers his mission and gets back to work. 

He slowly slides his palm from your rib cage down the front of you until just his fingertips dip under the elastic waistband of your sweatpants. He doesn’t stay there for long before sliding his hand back up to where he started at your rib cage. He repeats the process a few times, his fingers sliding further and further under your waistband. 

He looks up at you but you’re still unbothered, completely focused on your game. Internally, it's a completely different story. You’ve been wet since the moment he laid down and you can feel the damp cotton of your panties sticking to your core. He always gets you going like that. But you genuinely did want to finish this. And more importantly, you wanted to see what Frankie has up his sleeve. 

He pushes himself up until he’s sitting between your legs with enough room to slide your pants off, pulling your underwear down too in the same motion. Frankie parts your knees, slowly spreading you open and revealing your wet seam. His cock lurches almost painfully and he whispers “Jesus christ” to himself at the sight of your pussy already swollen and glistening without him even properly touching you. 

He settles between your legs once again, laying on his abdomen with your dripping cunt inches from his face. 

He takes his sweet time though and scatters sweet kisses on your inner thighs. He can’t help but stop every so often to nibble and suck at the smooth skin, leaving fresh red marks among the fading ones that he gave you yesterday and the day before and the day before that. 

He feels your muscles twitch under his lip and he glances up at you, but you’re still focused on your game. Damned and determined, he slowly kisses his way up your thigh and stops when his face is inches away from your burning core. 

With no further preamble, and because he can’t wait any longer, he dives right in. 

And he’s fucking ravenous with it. 

He flattens his tongue and groans into you as soon as the taste of you touches his tongue. He licks you from your leaking hole up to your clit before taking the swollen nub between his lips. He takes his time, sucking on your clit and flicking it with the tip of his tongue before letting go and licking back down to your hole where he dips his tongue inside, his head going dizzy when he feels you clench around his tongue. And the sound of it is crude, the sucking and slurping and his ragged gasps for air as he dinks you down and feasts on you. 

He’s greedy too. He spreads your lips open with his thumb and forefinger, holding you open so he can plunge his tongue inside of you as far as he possibly can with his nose bumping against your clit and he groans deeply into you again when he feels you clench around his tongue. 

Your eyelids flutter and your eyebrows draw together while your eyes roll back a bit. With a quick sideways glance, you see him with his eyes closed as he loses himself in you. Every bone in your body wants to sing but you bite back your moans, determined not to give in so easily.

Frankie takes his mouth off of you with a wet pop. He’s breathing heavily, delightfully out of breath. You haven’t paused your game yet, but your hands are motionless on the controller. Your chest is heaving with quick breaths and your bottom lip is red and puffy from you gnawing at it while you try to bite back your moans. 

He’s almost there. 

Frankie knows what makes you tick. He has spent hours and hours between your legs mapping out every inch of you and carefully studying your reaction to his every touch until he memorized every single little thing that made you shake and squirm and scream. 

So that’s why he uses both thumbs to spread you open before spitting onto your already dripping seam and listens happily to the groan he knew you would let out. He doesn't even bother looking up at you when you make a noise. He’s too enamored with watching the way his spit glides down your cunt before settling around your pulsating hole. With his mouth watering, he latches back onto you. 

And he’s messy with it. He buries his face in your pussy, overindulging in the way your slick leaks out onto his tongue and drips down his chin, moving his face side to side and smearing it all over his beard and your inner thighs until you’re both a mess.   

You’re quickly losing this battle and like clockwork, your thighs start to tremble just slightly. 

He’s got you right where he wants you.

He unwraps an arm from where it’s locked around your thigh and brings his hand up between your legs. With no warning, he sinks two thick fingers inside of you. He moans loudly against you when you gasp, your back reflexively arching and your hips grinding up against his face. 

Finally, you surrender and toss your controller to the side and grip onto Frankie’s fluffy curls instead. 

You moan his name, the sweetest sound on Earth Frankie thinks, as you tangle your fingers in his hair and pull his face impossibly closer into you and hold him in place there. Frankie doesn't miss a beat and sucks your clit in between his lips as he steady pumps his fingers in and out of you. He hums in delight, tingles running from his scalp down his spine and to his toes as you start to rock your hips against his face. The vibrations of his sounds against your core cause hot flames to start licking at the base of your spine. 

Despite your fingers tugging harshly in his hair, he pulls back from you just enough to mumble “Ride it, cariño. Ride my fuckin’ face,” his voice raspy and breathless before latching back onto your aching core. 

You listen to him because why the fuck would you not. You tighten your grip in his hair, and his jaw goes slack as you start to rock your hips up off the couch and back down again, sliding your dripping cunt up and down his awaiting tongue. 

Frankie could die happy right now. He moans when your thighs squeeze either side of his head while your hand on the back of his head keeps his face pressed into you so firmly he can't get a good breath. But he’d rather pass out than move an inch away from you right now. And the sounds he’s making are obscene, his muffled grunts and groans and whimpers going straight to your lower abdomen where the pressure of your impending orgasm is quickly multiplying. 

Everything feels so perfect, his fingers rhythmically sliding in and out of your pulsating hole, expertly stretching you out and filling you up as you hold onto his hair for dear life and ride his tongue, letting his scruffy beard scrape deliciously against your inner thighs. 

Frankie knows you’re close, he can hear the way your moans are quickly growing more and more desperate and can feel you clamping down around his fingers.  It’s time for his final move.

He pushes his fingers inside of you as deep as he can get and instead of pulling them out again, he keeps them in place and curls them upward. The sound you make is angelic and Frankie’s cock twitches hard from where it’s pinned against the couch cushion. He hasn’t paid a single ounce of attention to his throbbing length. And he doesn’t want to. He wants to, needs to devote himself entirely to your pleasure, so fucking desperate to feel you come underdone under his tongue. 

He breathes heavily through his nose as your hips start building up speed as you grind against his mouth. He keeps working his tongue while repeatedly pressing the tips of his fingers into your g-spot until there’s no more air in your lungs and your head is fucking spinning.  

It starts in your hips, the way your pace falters lets Frankie know what’s about to happen. He doubles down on his efforts and his eyes roll back when your thighs start shaking violently on either side of his head. 

“Frankieee” you whine, your nails starting to scrape against his scalp. He gives you a low and throaty growl a nonverbal way of saying “I’ve got you, let go for me. Give it to me, please baby” 

And you do. 

Your orgasm crashes down on you, knocking all the air out of your lungs as every muscle tenses in your body. Frankie doesn’t stop, not for one second, even when you start to gush around his fingers. The groan he lets out is animalistic, as you squirt against his face, your juices pouring down his hands and dripping down his face and chin onto the couch below him. 

You buck your hips and squirm underneath him as your pussy clenches with each wave of pleasure but he keeps his mouth glued to you, drinking you down. He can’t get enough. He keeps lapping at you, trying not to waste a single drop but it’s impossible with how hard you came. 

He keeps going as you ride it out, just basking in the noises you’re making and the feeling of your fingers tugging sharply at his hair, never wanting this to end. 

But your intense pleasure is fading away and sensitivity is starting to quickly replace it. You let him have his fill for a few more seconds as he desperately laps up everything you gave him. But it quickly becomes too much and you start to push him away. With a pitiful whine, he pulls back reluctantly and rests his head on your thigh. 

But you’re an absolute sight to behold in front of him. Your inner thighs and your puffy cunt are drenched, so messy and wet with a small wet spotunder the couch from your juices that Frankie couldn't lick up. Your inner thighs are rubbed red from his beard and there are crescent marks on the top of your thigh where Frankie was gripping you. 

“You’re so fucking sexy” Frankie whispers, watching your cunt clench weakly around his fingers as he slowly slides them out of you, moaning quietly as a small amount of liquid dribbles out of you and onto the couch. 

He tries to give you a break so you can catch your breath. But you’re just as impatient as he is. So you card your fingers through his hair before tugging slightly, a small mewl slipping past your lips. 

Frankie looks up to meet your gaze and raises an eyebrow when he sees the desperation still clouding your eyes. You just look back at him and whine pathetically but he knows exactly what you want. 

He doesn't tease you, doesn’t even mention the fact that your game is unpaused on the TV. Because he’s fucking needy too. And there’s a wet spot on the front of his briefs from where he was leaking precum while he was grinding mindlessly against the couch as he ate you out to prove it. 

And now, with you looking like this, he needs you bad. 

Without saying anything and keeping his eyes fixed on you, Frankie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like he just finished eating a fucking 5 course meal and stands up from the couch to quickly shed off all his clothes. But he moves too fast though and hits his shin on the coffee table. You hiss and grimace at the sight but he barely reacts to the pain before kneeling back down on the couch between your legs again. 

Your mouth waters when you see his cock, impossibly hard and angry red, the tip wet and shiny with precum as it bobs between his legs, thick and heavy. 

“Gonna let me have you, cariño?” Frankie asks through a gravelly grumble before spitting in his hand and coating his cock in it as if you needed any more lubrication. It can’t hurt though, Frankie is thick and no matter how wet you are or how many times you take him, he stretches you out with a delicious burn. Every. Single. Time. 

“Yes Frankie, I’m please I need it, fuck” you whine. 

Frankie shushes you and lines himself up at your entrance, his fat tip pressing against your aching hole. You try to roll your hips up but he brings his free hand down to your hip, effectively pinning you in place with one broad palm. 

“Just take it, baby,” Frankie whispers. “Let me give it to you.” 

With a heavy sigh, Frankie pushes into you. He tries to go slowly, but you’re so wet that he sinks in with ease and it doesn’t help that your greedy cunt is practically sucking him in. He bottoms out with a broken moan and brings his other hand to grip your hip. 

You’re a mess underneath him, keening and moaning freely as your walls clench wildly around him. You know he’s not going to last long and being so close to the tailend of your last orgasm, there’s not much hope for you either. 

But Frankie is going to take as much as he possibly can from you. 

He gives you a few moments to adjust to his size and the feeling of being stuffed full of him. The stretch burns pleasantly as your walls flutter around him. 

“F-Frankie, fuck you feel so good s-so fucking deep, baby” you babble in between moans and gasps for air. 

He tightens his grip on your hips as he pulls out halfway and drives back into you. His cock throbs inside of you at the sound of your moan. 

“I know, baby.” Frankie sighs. “But you take it so well. Always take it so well. Letting me stretch your perfect little pussy out, huh? Such a good girl making room inside in that sweet cunt for my thick fuckin cock, letting me fill you up. Your fucking perfect, cariño. So fucking good, I’m so lucky”  

Sweet, sweet Frankie. The human embodiment of a basket of puppies that runs his mouth and fills your head with filthy words behind closed doors.

Frankie knows he should give you more time to adjust to his size, but he can’t help himself. He starts to build up a steady pace, not wanting to waste a single second of being inside you, grunting at every beautiful sound you make. 

You just lay there and take it, moaning at the feeling of him splitting you in half as he pounds into you, desperately chasing after his own orgasm. 

He slides his hands down from your hips to your inner thighs before prying them apart and pinning your legs to the couch, leaving your pussy on full display for him. He lets out a strained moan when he sees the way your lips are gripping him as he pulls out and sucking back in as he slams back into you. 

“M’not gonna last long, baby” Frankie pants with his eyes glued to where your bodies are connected. You’re already hurtling towards your second orgasm but you manage to fight the overwhelming pleasure that’s rooting itself in your bones again to open your eyes and look up at him. You’re presented with the most gorgeous sight of Frankie fucking  you with no regard. His curls are flopping down in front of his eyes as he stares at where he’s disappearing inside of you, his jaw is slack and hanging open, and his heaving chest is starting to glisten with sweat. 

“Mmmm cum inside, Frankie. I wanna feel it” you moan when you feel his hips stutter.

He grunts before dragging his eyes up your body from your wet pussy to your blown out pupils. He stares into your eyes for just a few seconds as he keeps fucking into you. 

Then he winks at you. 

Knowing that can only mean trouble, you watch him with bated breath. He drops his gaze back to where he’s pounding into you. His eyes twinkle with curiosity as he moves one hand from your thigh and brings it to your mouth. 

He gives you just one finger, slips his index finger past your lips and watches intently as you swirl your tongue around his digit, getting it wet with your spit. When he’s satisfied, he pulls it out and brings it back down to your core. 

He slows down a bit and you gasp when he traces where he’s stretching you out with his wet finger. 

“Think you can take a little more?” Frankie asks, looking up at you while continuing to prod at your stretched entrance. 

“Yes” you moan, not giving it a second thought because if Frankie thinks you can, then you know you can. 

“Thank you, cariño” Frankie whispers.

You give him a weak nod and try to suppress the whimper that’s bubbling up in your throat when he stops moving until he’s still inside of you. 

You do whimper, well more of a strangled moan, when he starts to work his finger covered in your saliva into you, right alongside his thick cock. 

“Holy shit” you cry out, one of your hands flying up to claw at his bicep. 

“Is it too much?” Frankie asks, his eyebrows drawn together in concern as he tries to read your facial expressions and your body language. 

You shake your head fervently and squeeze your eyes shut. 

“N-no, keep going” you pant. “Feels so good, Frankie, please keep going.” 

And because Frankie is trained to follow commands so well, he keeps pushing his finger inside of you, cursing under his breath as you squeeze around his finger and his cock. 

“Jesus christ, baby” Frankie hisses as he starts fucking into you again. 

With the added thickness of his finger (which is ridiculously thick by itself), you genuinely feel like his ripping you open in the best way possible. You can’t hold on for much longer and the sounds he’s pulling out of you are insane and as he delivers you into the awaiting arms of your second orgasm. 

“C’mon, baby. Can feel every fucking inch of you squeezing me” Frankie huffs as he continues to plow into you. “Soak my cock, baby please. I wanna see it this time.” 

There's a long moan of his name and the sound of it bounces around in his head before traveling as a tingle down his spine. He watches you in amazement as you lift your hips off the couch as you start to gush around him again. He doesn’t stop pounding into you though. And the sensation of your slick leaking out around his finger and his cock and sliding down his to his palm and his balls as you clench around him is too fucking much. 

His own body takes him by surprise, his hips faltering as he starts to cum inside you with no warning. He grunts loudly as he empties himself inside of you and it’s so much that he can’t remember the last time he came this hard. 

The two of you stay there for a minute, just trying to catch your breath. Frankie starts to go soft and once the stretch isn’t so much, he slowly slides his cock and and finger out of you. He groans softly in his throat and watches with heavy eyelids as his cum, mixed with your own release, starts to leak out of you, adding to the dark spot on the couch from earlier.

As if he’s on autopilot, Frankie mindlessly gathers his cum that’s seeping out of you on two of his fingers before he pushes them back inside of you. He slowly pumps his fingers in and out of you, marveling at the way your hole leaks around them until you whimper and squirm at the overstimulation. 

He carefully removes his fingers and slides them into his own mouth because he can never get enough of you. Never ever. You watch with hooded eyes and a dopey smile as he licks your slick and his cum off his fingers, closing his eyes and making a small noise in his throat as he does so. 

He takes his fingers out of his mouth with a strand of saliva briefly and obscenely connecting his tongue to his fingers. He opens his eyes and gives you a goofy grin, too entirely pleased with himself. He leans down and presses his lips against yours. He laughs through his nose when you eagerly lick into his mouth in an attempt to get a second hand taste. 

After a playful bite to your bottom lip, he pulls back to look at you. 

“You’re greedy” Frankie teases with a smirk. “And messy” he adds when he looks down to the wet spot on the couch. 

The same couch that the two of you bought a couple months ago because ironically, your old couch was starting to collect some stubborn stains. Frankie knows you’ll give him shit about it later and will probably be the one on his knees cleaning the cushion in a few minutes, but he doesn’t care one bit. 

“Don’t even try, Morales” you say with a chuckle and an eye roll. 

Frankie giggles sweetly before ducking down to give you another quick kiss. He then straightens up and turns his head to look over his shoulder at the TV. He turns back to look at you with a shiteating grin. 

“You left it unpaused” he tries to say plainly, but the glee is evident in his voice.

He won. 

Your face drops from sated to stressed as you look over at the TV screen and see that the game has advanced three more days while Frankie was playing with you. 

“Francisco Morales!” you shout, reaching behind you to grab a pillow and throw it at him. He scrambles off the couch and runs away cackling before you can hit him.

[candyistoosweet]

Olivia Becker Henderson

(Please click for a better quality)

Full Birth Name:

Olivia Becker Henderson

Mostly used name:

Olivia, The girl with red tears

Species:

Vengeful spirit // Ghost

Age:

Locked in 9

Birth Date:

1950 October 1th

Death Date:

1959 October 31th

Cause of Death:

Strangled to death & Choked

Gender:

Cis-woman, hertrosexual. She/Her

Height:

133cm (4'4)

Weight:

21kg (46.3lb)

Appearance:

She has bright red, wavy hair that barely reaches her shoulders. Her skin is completely white and pale, making her look almost lifeless, with no freckles unlike most red-haired people. Her eyes are a dark olive color, and red blood flows from both her eyes, her neck, and her lower body.

She wears light cyan pajama-style dress with dark green accents along the neckline, on her slippers, and on the large bow in her hair. Blood stains cover the outfit, giving her an eerie, zombie-like appearance.

She also always carries her comfort bunny doll, 'Toffy.' Toffy is a light yellow bunny with blood stains on it, a ripped-off right leg with cotton spilling out, and a missing button eye on the right side.

Ethnicity:

Born in Germany, but immigrated to America.

Place of Birth:

Berlin // Germany

Where is she?

She usually hides inside the family’s house, staying in her invisible form. She only reveals herself to the children her age or younger, appearing in their rooms to play with them. She mostly avoids the parents, especially the father, but when they catch her, her playful and harmless behavior shifts to a wicked and eerie presence. The setting is primarily in Los Angeles, America.

Notable features:

Blood flows down on her eyes, neck, and lower body, running down her legs. This causes her to leave bloodstains on the ground? but they disappear in a few minuites due to her ghostly form.

Her voice is high pitched, honeyed childlike, which makes her voice seems like a voice of girl character in disney shows. It lifts up people's feelings, but she can make her voice low and dead, which can stir a protective instinct in others.

She often floats around. Since she’s a ghost, it isn’t difficult for her, and she even claims it’s more comfortable.

Her face is usually emotionless. Whether she’s happy or sad, she doesn’t show her feelings on her face.

Personality:

Before her death -

Kind

Caring

Vurnerable

Obsessive

Lonely

Deeply sad, numb

Submissive

Talkative

Friendly

Clever

Giving

After her death -

Aggressive

Stubborn

Lonely

Extremely obsessive

Anxious

Clever

Intelligent

Capable of being friendly and nice to others who she's close with in a rare occasions

Very quiet

Attention seeker (Therefore, she usually enjoys appearing to the adults and scaring them.)

Low patience

Impulsive

Family Members:

Carl Becker - Olivia's dad (Dead)

Harley Becker - Olivia's mom (Dead)

Anton Becker - Oldest sibling (Dead)

Felix Becker - Second oldest sibling (Dead)

Sophia Becker - Third oldest sibling (Dead)

Joseph Becker - Last oldest sibling (Dead)

Henry Henderson - Stepfather (Killed)

Maria Henderson - Stepmother (Dead)

Weapons of Choices:

A small pocket knife hanging around her pajamas' waistband

Her ghost ability

Abilities:

Possession

Floating

Moving through an object

Invisibility

Mind reading

Psychokenisis

Methods of murder:

Possession is her main ability, which she uses to kill or harm anyone she targets. She essentially inhabits the victim’s body and steals their physical control, manipulating their movements to make it appear like a suicide or self-harm. This is her way of eliminating victims in the least suspicious manner. When she successfully kills her victims, their souls immediately shatter along with their corpses.

When she's overwhelmed by the urge to possess someone and play with their body, she resorts to using a pocket knife to stab them to death. Although it's a rare occurrence for her to kill this way, she'll do so if she's extremely angered or in a necessary situation.

Weaknesses:

Her physical strength isn’t very strong; it’s comparable to that of an average 9-year-old boy. While she may be stronger than children her age, a child's strength can’t match that of an adult.

She also has multiple mental illnesses, including OCD and PTSD, primarily related to feelings of being alone or neglected. Her mental state is quite vulnerable.

Likes:

Soft, fluffy fabric (Animal furs, minks, silks, blanket and pillows, etc.)

Being spoiled

Getting lots of attention

Affection

Friends (What mostly other children her aged would like)

Fairy tales

Toffy

Sweets, desserts

Playing games (Childish ones. As playing with dolls and toys, hide and seek, eye spy, etcs)

Singing

Revenging over someone hurted her

Hurting the parents who've caught her in their eye

Floating around

Animals

Chatting (Mostly means only with minors)

Dislikes:

Loud noises

Being left alone, lonely

Younger child than her (It scares her what if she gets cared more or be treated more precious and steal some attentions from her. But there can still be some exceptions.)

Anything that triggers her trauma

Adult men (She doesn't dislike ALL OF THEM, but it's true that she always feels small amount of disgust and wariness against them.)

Being isolated

Sticky things

Bugs

Too big foods (She loves eating, but too large foods to chew or swallow makes her feel sick and disgusted.)

Feisty behaviors

Bitter tastes (Coffee, some kinds of teas, etcs)

Catchphrase:

"May I join?"

Backstory:

Olivia Becker Henderson was the youngest child in the Becker family in Berlin, Germany. The family had five children, and Olivia grew up with them until she was about three. However, the household was abusive, and the children were neglected. As a result, Olivia grew up without a close bond with her parents, leading her to develop anxiety and obsessive behaviors at a young age.

After her parents were killed in a mysterious accident, Olivia and her four siblings were sent to a large orphanage connected to the church. There, she faced the discriminatory looks from the kids who were not orphans, feeling lonely in the orphanage due to the lack of affection from the teachers, just as she had in her previous home. The orphanage was filled with the noises of children, but those sounds were usually just the cries of young children desperately hoping to escape their abusive cages. Nonetheless, Olivia remained a cheerful child with a talkative personality, often chirping, "May I join?" whenever adults spoke to try to connect with them. Yet, all she heard in return was "Be quiet," "I'm busy," and other soft but lethal neglects. Many people there didn't care for her or the other orphans in a meaningful way, which continually triggered her trauma of being left behind.

After about two years, a man named Henry and his wife, Maria, decided to adopt Olivia on her fifth birthday in October. Unlike the windy, cold weather outside, Olivia's heart quickly bloomed like spring flowers in the warmth of their love. After she was sent to America with this couple, she began to grow up in a wealthy, caring household. For her adoption gift, she received a cute bunny plushie, which she named "Toffy." With no siblings around, she formed a very close bond with Toffy, treating her like a sister—washing with her, eating with her, and sharing all her feelings day after day. This affection grew bigger and bigger, resembling the bond that real sisters would have.

But happiness didn’t last forever. Her dad, Henry, and mom, Maria, suddenly divorced due to Henry’s gambling addiction. Maria left the household, and Olivia began to live only with Henry when she was seven. After two years, her normal life, which had shielded her from the discriminatory stares of her peers, came crashing down for reasons Olivia found unacceptable. However, Henry remained a responsive father who claimed to love his stepdaughter, so Olivia never doubted his words and tried not to feel sad about her mom leaving. She felt pressured to maintain her happy, confident life, just as she had for the past two years.

Even though Olivia was a strong kid, after the divorce, she felt extremely vulnerable and scared by her mother’s departure. She couldn’t help but internalize it as being thrown away and wasted, which triggered her trauma of neglect and lack of care. Her stepdad Henry exhibited similar symptoms, but his behavior stemmed from his gambling failures rather than sorrow over the divorce. This caused him to become increasingly stressed and harsh towards Olivia, a stark contrast to how he used to treat her. These conditions gradually led to a pattern of child abuse, including sexual assaults. With Henry’s wife gone, he had no other outlet for his lustful instincts, tragically directing them towards Olivia. She felt utterly betrayed and sank into a puddle of shame and deep disappointment.

After her ninth birthday, on Halloween, Olivia had one last fun experience before returning to her abusive, complicated home—no longer a sweet and caring household. When Henry grew irritated by her antics, a simple tussle escalated into a harsh scuffle. He brandished a small pocket knife to threaten Olivia, attempting to make her comply. In the struggle, she was cut by the knife, her voice growing louder and stronger in desperation. Ultimately, in a fit of rage, Henry strangled Olivia to death on her bed, leaving her lifeless.

But after a few days, Olivia rose from her cold, lifeless body to become a ghost, just as she appeared in life. She wasn’t happy about feeling conscious again, but was instead filled with rage and a desire for revenge against Henry. For those curious about what happened to her and Henry in the end, it was Olivia who laughed last. At least she achieved a form of a happy ending—except that she didn’t stop after getting her revenge on Henry and continued to haunt humans until now.

After Olivia transformed into a poor yet aggressive spirit, some say they can still hear the faint, childish whisper of a girl asking, "May I join?" echoing through the soundless, lightless home. The whisper becomes more vivid and pronounced as the anniversary of her death approaches. But don’t worry! She might give you some time to enjoy your last holiday moments, just as she once did...Don’t you think?

Theme song:

Dark Paradise - Lena Del Rey

Extra Art works:

(First design plannings)

Deathtime-

Lifetime-

TMI:

Olivia's zodiac sign is Scorpio.

Her favorite color is green / cyan just like how you can see in her dress design, and her favorate aesthetic is noble & cottage core.

She secretly enjoys collecting child's lost accessories on the ground such as a pink ribbon pin, hairbands, their comfort toys and everything. It brings her nostalgia and comfort. She uses them to redesign them and keep them as her own stuffs.

She even sometimes steals some toys in her victim child's room, whenever she feels jealous about the thing she wants.

Her eyes glow in the dark when her emotions are strong or intense. As it gets stronger, the more her eyes glow.

She's gifted with drawing & writing skills. Her hobbies are almost all what she's especially good at such as drawing, singing, and writings. She likes to create her imaginary characters in her head and express out their storyline when she's bored, or been slightly inspirated.

Her examples of being obsessive is quite simple. She just dossn't want someone who approuched to her to leave her. If the kid wants to go back to their parents instead of playing with her anymore, she'll get mad and hurt the kid. She becomes extremely self-centered when it comes to relationships, and this only makes her to get even more lonely and aggressive.

Not quite sure if it's surprising, but Olivia used to be very curious about what would happen after the death at her lifetime. This curiousity started since she was in the orphanage, and kept questioning the teachers, nuns and priest about what happens after the death.

Now that she knew what happened at least to her, she thinks being dead is something fun to do. She didn't know at first because of the overwhelmed thinking of revenging Henry, but as slowly she became more sane, she started to have a quite positive opinions towards death, which may seem relieving yet eerie at the same time.

Olivia's strength grows strongest at her birth date and death date. So this basically means that the October is the period she's the most active. Her ghost abilities gets harsher and stronger, which can inflict a bigger damage to the victims. But of course it all ends up dead either way.

Her favorite fairy tale is cutely Peter Pan. She's obsessed with the settings of neverland, never getting old. Especially considering Peter Pan's released period is 1950s, Olivia could easily encounter the movie/cartoon.

Her MBTI is INTP.

Her favorite dessert is cookie dough.

[oliversrarebooks]

roger, whats it like being fitz's thrall? (aka how does it feel to be living my dream... im not jealous... totally not living vicariously through you...)

Masterlist

January 1922

TW: mind control, conditioning, blood drinking mentions of past abuse, fear of death

"You have to get up, sir." 

Roger gently shook the lump of tangled blankets and sheets that most likely contained a vampire at its core. The only real indication that his master was within was the soft groan from inside, a mumble that sounded a lot like "leave me alone."

"I can't leave you alone, sir. You have a show at 7, remember? If you don't rise and shine soon, you won't have enough time to do your hair and makeup and make it to the theater."

"Uggggggh. Why'd I schedule a show so goddamned early? What is wrong with me?" The pile of blankets huddled in on itself more tightly.

"...I suspect there may be several things, sir," said Roger, unable to resist the obvious opening and knowing that a bit of banter might put his master in a better mood. "Regardless, you did schedule the show, and you do need to leave the house for it."

"Horrible. Torturous. Excruciating." The bedclothes rustled, and Fitz poked his head out just enough to take a look. "It's so early that the sun is leaking around the curtains! The sun could kill me, Roger, you can't expect me to get up in those conditions. I could die."

"I believe that's what the curtains are for, sir. To prevent you from dying when you're unjustly forced to wake up during the day." Roger sat down on the side of the bed. He'd done this often enough to know when he was in for the long haul, and he was quite capable of patience -- a good quality to have when serving Fitz. "You were looking forward to this show, weren't you? It's a large venue, and you have your new rotating box trick."

"Mmm."

"I'm sure it will go over splendidly, sir, and you'll be afforded all the praise and applause you deserve," he said. Cheap flattery rarely failed to soften his master's mood. "Aren't you looking forward to seeing the looks of delight on your audience's faces when you perform your new trick? And besides that, aren't you looking forward to being paid?"

Fitz seemed to be lowering both his blankets and his guard. "I suppose so..."

"Excellent. Then forgive me for this, sir." Roger grabbed the covers and pulled them away, as his master produced a sound not unlike a dying cat.

With lightning fast reflexes, the blankets were wrenched from Roger's grasp, and Fitz was clutching them to himself and huddling in the middle of the bed. "How could you? How could my own thrall do such a thing? Heartless, you're simply heartless." He curled up under the blankets and stubbornly closed his eyes as if to go back to sleep.

"Of the two of us, sir, it's technically you who is heartless." Roger sighed. It was always most difficult to wake Fitz in the dead of winter. The long nights enticed his master to stay out too late sampling the city's nightlife, and the cold made him especially reluctant to leave his chambers, which, thanks to the radiators, were as hot as a furnace.

He reached down to the blankets, intending to tug on them again. This time, despite Fitz pretending to sleep, he was faster than Roger, and grasped his wrist.

Roger felt a delicious, drowsy warmth coming from his master's touch, filling his mind with cotton candy haze. It was blissfully dreamy and intoxicating, and, most dangerously, it was sleep-inducing, enticing him to shut his weary eyes and rest.

"Go back to sleep, Roger," Fitz lulled. "Curl up here. Keep me warm..."

Roger was swaying on the spot, eyelids drooping, rapidly losing himself to enchanted slumber -- but he'd been caught by this trap on plenty of occasions, and each time it ended with Fitz regretful that he'd overslept and missed his obligations. It was that memory that kept Roger just awake enough to wrench his arm away and mostly free himself from his master's dangerous temptation. Fitz was making sad little grabbing motions as Roger moved out of range of his hands.

"I'm afraid that if you wish to use your powers on me, you'll have to leave your bed to do so, sir," said Roger, standing several feet away. "The sooner you get it over with, the sooner you can get to the pleasant business of washing up." They both knew that it was a bluff. Roger had been under Fitz's thrall for many years now, and his master didn't need hypnotic touch to compel him, body and soul. But it was a bluff that usually worked.

"Fine, fine, you win." With one final dramatic groan, Fitz threw off the covers and sat up. "I'll take my shower, then. But I expect you to attend to me when I'm finished."

"Of course, sir." Roger watched as his master stumbled into the bathroom, and in a moment he could hear the sound of running water and upbeat humming. Fitz loved long, warm showers as much as he loved rolling around lazily in bed. He'd spend at least a half-hour relaxing in the steamy waters and performing his elaborate and ever-changing skin care routine, one which involved enough distinct products as to cover most of the vanity table.

This gave Roger plenty of time to make the perpetually disheveled bed, the foot-high pile of blankets, and the mountain of pillows in every shape and size. He made quick work of it, picked up the dirty clothes that had been tossed on the floor yesterday morning. 

Housekeeping was Roger's primary responsibility apart from providing blood and humoring Fitz's varied whims. With only the two of them in a reasonably sized flat, it wasn't especially difficult or time-consuming compared to when he'd lived on his own, before he'd been snatched off the street by a vampire. He'd even come to enjoy the simple chores. He wasn't sure how much of that was due to his own feelings or to Fitz's coercion -- his master grasping his shoulders and softening Roger's mind, whispering to him how much he loved to serve.

Really, it hardly mattered any more.

When he'd finished tidying up, Roger got down to the business of setting out his master's clothes. Serving Fitz was really about anticipating his moods more than anything else. With a large venue, he'd want something particularly flashy -- something on the warmer side for a chill day -- deep blue, perhaps?

The door to the bathroom cracked open, Roger's signal to enter.

The steam was blinding, mixed with the almost overwhelming scent of flowers, as Roger entered. Fitz was fussing with his hair, as usual, despite not being able to see it in the mirror. "You simply must help me out with this," he said.

"Of course, sir," said Roger, taking the comb from him. This was a ritual they performed nearly every night Fitz went out. Even as the years went by and Fitz grew from a young vampire to a seasoned one, he still seemed so irritated at not being able to see himself in the mirror, sometimes requiring excessive reassurance from Roger that he was still handsome.

Tonight, though, his master seemed deep in his own head as Roger ran the comb through his hair, taking some pomade in hand to smooth it back. He pulled the longer hair into a neat tail, the sort of style usually reserved for unsavory sorts, but then, Fitz didn't mind presenting himself as a bit unsavory. Roger's tense shoulders relaxed as faint hypnotic power flowed from his master's proximity, fogging his mind at the same time it increased his desire to help fix Fitz's brooding.

"Is everything all right, sir?"

Fitz seemed startled back into the waking world by the question. "Of course," he said with his fake smile plastered firmly to his face. "Just running through the show in my head. If I'm going to be dragged out of my bed and into the cold this early, it had better be worth it."

"I'm sure it will be, sir. You're looking quite handsome this evening."

"Obviously," he said, lacking the usual cheer that punctuated their banter.

With Fitz's hair squared away, the two then left the bathroom for Roger to assist dressing him. "While the rest of this outfit is acceptable, this bowtie is just not..." Fitz seemed to be fishing around, thinking of what could be wrong with the bowtie, clearly eager to find some minor fault to distract himself from his own worries. "It's blue, isn't it? You can't have blue on a night that's already cold and gloomy, that won't do. It must be red. The color of excitement and passion!"

"I don't know what I was thinking, sir," Roger deadpanned, picking up the blue bowtie that Fitz had tossed aside and fetching one of his half-a-dozen red ones.

Fitz allowed Roger to fit him with the new selection. "That's why you should leave the thinking to me."

"I'm not so sure about that, sir."

That got a genuine smile from his master. "Come now, when has that ever not worked out?" he said. "With this outfit and your expert attention to my hair, I'm sure tonight's show will be an absolute triumph."

"There's not a single doubt in my mind, sir."

As Roger adjusted his master's cummerbund, Fitz leaned in a bit more, in an unsubtle fashion. The undercurrent of tension Roger had felt all night bloomed into something more recognizable: hunger. His master desired his blood, and, as always, Roger felt himself falling into a pleasurable daze, one where all thoughts fled from his mind apart from offering himself to his master.

"I think I'll need to feed from you when I return. You don't mind, do you?" Fitz whispered in his ear.

"No, master," said Roger, shivering involuntarily. "It's my pleasure to serve you."

"And it's my pleasure to feed," he said, grinning with his fangs bared. "Yes, I think that'll be just the thing to lift my spirits. Something to look forward to after the show."

"Yes, sir. I'll also look forward it." He meant that -- he had long since given up being troubled by his desire for vampiric feedings. He'd felt that desire even for his previous master's painful, harsh feedings, and it was far easier to accept Fitz's gentle trance of bliss.

A few minutes later and Roger had wrangled a semi-unwilling vampire into two layers of winter coat and sent him on his way. Sometimes Roger went along with Fitz to the theater, to help with makeup or hair or just for support purposes, but just as often he was left behind to his own devices. 

He didn't mind either way. It was nice to have a few hours to himself. He often spent the bulk of the time painting, something he'd never gotten to do much of even before he was taken by vampires. He wanted to eat breakfast first, though, especially given that his master might be feeding later.

Roger did hope he was. Sometimes he instead chose to feed on his volunteer from the audience, and that was always a bit of a disappointment, denying Roger the opportunity to fulfill his primary purpose in life. But Fitz seemed interested in feeding at home, and if he was going to do that, it would behoove Roger to be well-fed.

Soon enough, a generous portion of ham and eggs was sizzling on the stove. Fitz had made a promise early on that he'd always keep Roger fed, and although he forgot and broke promises all the time, he hadn't broken that one. Unlike his previous master, he never punished Roger with starvation -- a particularly spiteful punishment, since it also seemed to lower the quality of Roger's blood. His previous master did seem to enjoy punishment more than feedings.

When Roger's former master had been destroyed in a duel, Roger had assumed he was going from bad to worse. That feeling had grown stronger when he'd been dragged to a secondhand thrall appraiser and his worth was assessed at far lower than it had been when he'd first been bought. At the time, Roger had been little better than a beaten dog, cringing at every sound, barely daring to speak or think. He'd lost hope for anything better.

And, well, Fitz was far from the savior he'd often imagined during those days. He was still a vampiric master, a dramatic one whose moods changed like the wind. He could still effortlessly control Roger's mind, and he made Roger do all the chores in the house. Roger still wasn't free.

But rather than beatings and torture, Fitz's "punishments" generally amounted to snippy words and extra chores. There was always food, and he was allowed to paint and read and relax. His master might have a terrible habit of tossing out every piece of clothing in his closet when choosing what to wear and then telling Roger to clean it all up, but compared to what life had been like...

He hoped that Fitz came home safe. He'd strongly prefer to not change hands again, even if it meant dragging a protesting vampire out of bed each night for the rest of his life.

Roger had busied himself painting a bird from an illustration in a nature book when he heard the front door creak. "It's goddamn cold out there! Windy, too."

"Welcome home, sir," said Roger, helping his master out of his frigid coats. He was pleased to see Fitz in a better mood than when he'd left. "I take it your show went well?"

"Of course! Didn't you say there wasn't a single doubt in your mind?" he said with a grin as he kicked off his shoes, leaving Roger to line them up neatly in the shoe rack. "The crowd loved it! The spinning box trick is a real winner -- I just need to think of some ways to jazz it up further -- perhaps doing up the box in spangles to really dazzle them..." 

He shook himself out of his train of thought, seeming to remember Roger was there. "All of that applause did have me work up an appetite, though," he said, stepping close and brushing his hand against Roger's. Roger could feel the influence flowing through him, stoking his need for the feeding. "Why don't you go start the fire? That and your blood will provide me with some warmth tonight, I think."

So he was going to feed. Roger tried to keep his face neutral to preserve a scrap of dignity. "Very good, sir."

Roger allowed himself to hum a bit of a jaunty tune as he stacked wood in the fireplace and lit the kindling, using the bellows to raise the fire higher. He could hear his master making a commotion in the bathroom, likely getting out of his fine clothes and washing off the stage makeup. By the time Fitz arrived in the parlor, the fire was crackling merrily.

"Ahhhhh," said Fitz, sprawling out onto the old leather couch and beckoning Roger close. "This is the life, isn't it, Roger?"

"It certainly is, sir."

"Well, I suppose I'm not technically alive. The point still stands."

His master put his hand to Roger's cheek, and Roger sank into the mind-numbing bliss that came from his power, the familiar sense of captivation and contentment. As always, he could feel his master's desire to feed, and as he dropped deeper into a trance, his hands came up to unbutton his shirt and pull his collar away.

"You really are an excellent thrall," said Fitz, and Roger soaked in both the praise and the sense of security that came from pleasing his master. "Now just relax and let me have what I need."

Sharp fangs punctured the old scars that would never heal, and Roger's pliable mind slipped further as his master began to drink. There was nothing but bliss and contentment and hunger and need --

-- and, as always when his master was anxious, the sound of ticking clocks and the undercurrent of a lonely void.

Perhaps the good reception to his show hadn't brightened his mood as much as Roger had thought.

Fitz drank hungrily as if to fill that void with his thrall's blood, and Roger could feel his senses buckling, his vision tunneling and his eyelids growing heavy. His master was overdrinking again. "Sir," Roger managed to say as he fought to stay awake. "Sir -- sir, you're --"

"Oh!" His master mercifully stopped. "Damn it, I'm sorry, Roger. I don't mean to do that, you know I don't."

"I know you don't," Roger parroted in a dazed voice, slumping against his master's shoulder, allowing his eyes to close now that the danger had passed.

Someday, his master was probably going to kill him. He'd drink too much blood, and Roger would fail to stop him in time, collapsing into his master's arms and closing his eyes for the last time.

But tonight was not that night, and Roger was glad of it.

Masterlist

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