What is a writer?
A miserable little pile of words!


Call me MP or Miz


Fiction attempted, with various levels of success.


Yes, I do need help, thank you for noticing.



caffeinatedOtter
@caffeinatedOtter

previously

"Oh my god," Harriet says on her stumbling way back from the toilet, so Sinestrina cracks one eye open and lifts her head just enough to see what she's looking at.

"No," Sinestrina says. "Absolutely not mine. Must be some sole remnant of a bloodily murdered victim."

"It's your size," Harriet says, holding up a soft, cosy, pastel, hearts'n'kittens sweater.

"Lots of murder victims are my size."

Harriet looks at it. At Sinestrina. Harriet is still naked, soft and tousled and sleepy. Harriet is ticklish and loud and has had her head stuffed with ideas that most sex is bad for political reasons she is obliged to be mindful of to be a good lesbian, and her meek aquiescence that she's not really allowed to enjoy herself comes apart like a maliciously nudged house of cards under the slightest stern look and firmly stated Vampiric thralls do. (This is as close to actual hypnotic wiles as has proved remotely necessary.)

Sinestrina has a looming sense that Harriet is going to be a Problem.

Sinestrina slides out of bed, wordlessly takes the sweater, and puts it on. Lets Harriet admire her in it, giggling, for a minute, before skewering her with a look.

"I can make you cry while repeating I'm a debauched vampiric thrall and you'll like it," she says, and watches Harriet's brain visibly crash on the fact that, firstly, Sinestrina can still Do The Thing while wearing a fuzzy pastel kittens sweater; secondly, Sinestrina is wearing a fuzzy pastel kittens sweater and nothing else; and thirdly, Harriet believes her implicitly about every word of it.

Harriet looks back at her with a healthy dose of fear, about an equal measure of volatile underutilised libido, and a wavering sheen of shy, uncertain, tentative hope.

What's Sinestrina supposed to even do about that, other than fuck her better than knew was humanly possible, right there on the floor, with Sinestrina still wearing her comfiest sweater from her previously carefully compartmentalised Me Time?


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