So Lonely That It Physically Hurts: “Yeah! We Should Hang Out More Often 😊”

you are NOT my “passenger princess” get off your phone we are Under attack!!!!!!!! you are my gunner; man the weapons and defend our vehicle with your life!!!

She sits on the chair, legs crossed, waiting in anticipation.

Her friend takes an object, shows it to her to reassure her.

Explains what it is, how it works, what it does. Something to do with electromagnets, currents in the brain, and depth of stimulation.

Explains how it can have an impact on activity in specific parts of the brain.

She doesn’t understand half of it, but she gets the gist, and it sounds fun.

A couple of switches are flicked. Maybe a button is pressed, or a large dial is turned.

Her friend moves the object back, holding it to the side of her head.

Nothing happens.

She opens her mouth to enquire, and gibberish falls out. She can’t even form a word, let alone a sentence.

Her friend smiles.

She blushes.

She does not collapse, or raise her hands to cover her face. She wouldn’t be a good test subject if she did that.

Her friend moves the object to the back of her head, and flashes of light appear in her vision.

Her friend moves the object to the top of her head, and she jolts a little bit, her senses feel off.

Her friend moves the object to the front of her head.

Her mind goes blank.

If she could plan, or reason, or imagine, she would hear the pleasure in the voice of her friend as she explains the role of the frontal lobe in complex thought.

As it is, she sits limply, eyes open and empty.

The object is removed, turned off.

Thoughts rush back into her mind.

Her friend takes her hand.

Moves it up to her lips.

Thanks her for being such a perfect thing to study.

Kisses the back of her hand.

Once more, her mind goes blank.

She smiles, stands, and together they sweep out of the room.

The Prince of this city was always a bit eccentric, she thinks. Maybe they live in the past because it comforts them, she considers as she sips on her drink. Maybe, she realises, it doesn’t matter.

The past can be oh so much fun, and what are Kindred if not stuck in the past? The outfits are fun. The food is fun. And most of all, the roles and dynamics are fun.

Oh, she could talk for hours about the roles and dynamics.

Sometimes the Prince listens.

They sit on their throne - ostentatious perhaps, but it lends them a certain air she can’t quite describe - in their lovely outfit. Something halfway between a dress and suit, the skirt billowing out around their legs and the base of the throne and the collar of their shirt closing around their neck, she thinks they look rather refined.

Naturally, her eyes are drawn to the crown that rests atop their head, finely crafted from precious metals and ornamented with countless jewels. It was made according to their exacting specifications, and their watchful eye held court over every aspect of its making.

She thinks of the ball only a door away. She thinks of all the people dancing and whirling and mixing in all their finery. She thinks of the servants and maids - Kindred, Ghoul, and mortal alike - who drift between the revellers, attending to their needs.

She knows her history, having been undead for a rather large part of it. This is no medieval court, laughing on and celebrating as the peasants starve. This is no later gathering of the same sort of group, designed to show off the riches of empires and the riches of those present.

This is something more. Something so much better.

Her Prince built this. It is because of them that all the people within can forget their troubles for a night. It is because of them that so many people meet under the same roof and have some actual fun together. It is their work, and all those who have helped to build it have been rewarded.

It is because of this that she offers herself as a subject under their rule. She trusts them, completely and utterly. They rule over her body and mind as surely as they rule over this room, this building, this city.

The snap of their fingers breaks her out of this train of thought. It reminds her of the role she has to play, one she dearly loves.

She approaches the throne silently and stands in front of the Prince, waiting for them to take charge and play their role.

Their hand moves towards her with a relaxed grace. It rests in front of her. She kneels, and kisses their hand, as proper court etiquette dictates.

They gesture for her to rise. They place a hand on her hip. They pull her closer.

Her knees buckle as she is brought onto the throne. The pressure bringing her forwards stops.

She sits astride their legs, their hand still on her hip. Their other hand deftly undoes the buttons and fastenings on her dress, and pulls it off of her. Slowly, dragging the process out so as being better able to appreciate the final result, they remove all manner of other layers.

By the end of this, petticoat and corset and yet more are strewn about the base of the throne. They look at her, drinking her in with their eyes. Their head moves in, and their lips meet hers.

She moans softly, almost inaudibly. She returns the favour. One should be grateful for a Prince’s attention, after all.

Her hands are on their shirt. Buttons come undone. She lacks their practised hand, but where she fumbles they remove their hand from her hip and use it to guide hers.

She holds onto them, in much the same way a drifting sailor would hold onto a floating piece of timber.

They remove their hands from her.

‘Such a loyal subject.’

Their hands return, dragging up the sides of her legs, fingers trailing and making her shake in anticipation.

They remove their hands from her.

‘Aren’t you just perfect, princess.’

Their hands return. They move to the space in between her legs.

In the court, one should be quiet and refined. Only speaking when spoken to. Avoiding making any unwelcome or unpleasant noises. All movement should be controlled and measured.

She does quite the opposite of this. She quivers. Her body writhes and she lets out countless noises.

Then they pause, and she goes still.

‘Aren’t you being such a doll for me.’

Her Prince continues.

Her chest rises and falls faster and faster. She moves into their movements. She responds in kind, rewarding their work.

She collapses. Her strings are cut. Every muscle in her body tenses and goes limp. She falls backwards, and her cries of pleasure ring out.

The Prince catches her.

They press her close to them.

They thank her.

She rests her head on their chest. She brings her legs up and curls up on their lap. Their hand rests on her head.

They both stay like this for quite a while.

Everyone comes to me wanting to be some esoteric courtier position. We don't need anymore viziers or seneschals. you're a peasant levy. The princess allows you to use your body and a pike to stop the enemy mounted charge. You can get horny about it if you like.

People conceptualize egg spotting as this vapid-ass "tee hee, this guy likes the wrong video games for a man, so he must be a giiiirl~" nonsense when in actuality it's like

Here's a reoccurring pattern of fucking trauma responses that we KNOW is common in repressing trans women

And we recognize it

House MD + text posts pt. ∞

Let’s all get 360 degree excavator certified

She has been here for some time now. Maybe two and a half years? She hasn’t paid too much attention to it.

In her role as head maid, she is proud to say that she has established a strong rapport with those working under her. She is polite and proper, but they also know her to be kind and fair. She will help out where she can, they know.

She has grown rather fond of some of them.

One of them in particular has grown rather fond of her.

This one steals longing glances at her when she thinks she isn’t looking. This one tries to work with her wherever she can. This one’s hand brushes against her dress for a second too long when they pass each other in a corridor.

But Ophelia keeps things professional.

At least, until she cannot any longer.

One day, she sees her talking to one of her colleagues. He is giving her the same glances and looks and eyes that Ophelia normally receives from her. He is talking, and empathising and reassuring and making offers of assistance.

He moves closer, hand stretching out slightly.

Something within Ophelia snaps.

A sudden rush of possessiveness flows through her. She must have her. She must make her hers. She simply must.

She swiftly glides between the two of them, and snaps at him to get on with his work.

She turns slowly, and enquires as to her wellbeing. She praises her for her excellent work. She compliments her.

All of it is sincere. She has no need to lie here.

She notes the slight blush in her face. The way her pupils dilate slightly. The way the look into her eyes shifts from one of timidity and hesitation into a predatory one that rather reminds Ophelia of herself.

Ophelia asks her if she would like to take a break, and takes her upstairs, and invites her into her room.

The second the door swings closed behind them, Ophelia is near tackled off of her feet and carried to the bed.

She is placed on her lap, and they stare greedily at each other, drinking each other in.

Her hand deftly moves to Ophelia’s face, caressing her cheek before descending to her chest.

They kiss.

Ophelia, through practice and effort, is just about able to warm her lips when they touch.

Her other hand slides beneath Ophelia’s skirt.

It moves up her thigh.

Her hand pulls back suddenly. She pushes herself away from Ophelia, and Ophelia falls from on her lap. She stands, and stares at Ophelia, sprawled and discarded across the bed. She raises her hand to her face, and it is covered in blood. There is far more than there would be under any other circumstances. It is not blood, she realises. It is vitae.

She had let herself forget these things. She let herself forget that Ophelia was nothing like her. She is a human woman and Ophelia is nothing more than a corpse, brought to a semblance of life by whatever foul substance flows through her veins. Whatever Ophelia pretends to be, they are nothing alike.

Look at her, staring up from the bed, eyes wide and mouth agape. She’s not even crying. Is that even possible? Maybe she isn’t even human enough for that.

She runs from the room.

Ophelia tries and fails to pick herself up from on the bed.

She lies there for a while.

She rolls over, and sees vitae leaking out from around her eyes. It seems she is cursed to never be able to truly hide her emotions.

She sits up, and stands in her room for a few minutes, collecting her thoughts and composing herself.

She walks downstairs to find the other servant from earlier.

She finds him, and in her sadness and rage and inhumanity she eviscerates him and disembowels him and twists him into all kinds of painful and beautiful shapes and drains him of his blood and takes him apart and puts him back together again.

When all of this is done, she deigns to kill him.

She leaves him as flowers in the entryway.

She returns to her room, and feeling just a bit less human than she did when the day started, she lets the daysleep take her.

that guy who was really focused on being considerate at all times is now a puppygirl who will bark for anyone if they ask her to.