It All Starts Rather Abruptly.

awesome beach near me

'Well, look at you, little butterfly.’ she croons softly.

I cannot reply. Cold lances through my back, bare against the stone wall, as surely as her pins lance through my flesh and bone, affixing me to the brick. Like an ornament. Like something to be seen, viewed, admired.

She has none of that sentiment.

She works over me for a while, preparing instruments, caressing my soft skin, holding me between her hands. There is nothing but self-interest behind it.

Then she starts to cut.

Under her hand, my skin parts. Muscle and fat are pulled aside. Organs are removed with the utmost care. Anything that could rot or decay is pulled out of me. I am preserved, a snapshot frozen in time.

Only when she pulls back, finally finished with her work, my skin emptied of meat and sewn back up so precisely that no seams can be seen, now that I am indeed an ornament, does her expression change.

‘You’ll look quite exquisite here on my wall,’ she says, at last with tenderness in her voice, ‘little butterfly of mine’.

[trying to soften the blow] something VERY biblical has happened to your dog

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.

PUPPIEST FACT 008: Puppies used to live in Heaven until God passed Divine Judgement on Puppies for their Cruelty.

any story featuring a Special Class of Disposable Boy (mech pilot child soldiers, science experiment psychic kids, living bioweapon, etc etc) is a transfeminine narrative whether the author intended for it to be or not

Mean Girls (2004) House MD (2009)

Gotta love VtM cause where else can I come up with these absurdly complicated possible plans. Literally going 'ok if I give this guy vicissitude then create a ghoul that looks like the guy then have the guy embrace the ghoul and then kill the ghoul and leave the identical body such that the Camarilla finds it then have the guy change appearance with vicissitude then pretend to be a newly embraced Tzimisce with my character as sire we can use this to escape and backstab evil sire with minimal consequences' and yet knowing full well the guy's player probably has a far better and more complex plan.

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Her boss sits at the table, staring across at another man. Well, she notes dryly in her head, not a man. Never a man, at least not again. He’s pale, same as her and her boss. 

To some, he would look almost like a corpse.

To a small, unlucky few, they would recognise him as one.

She busies herself with tasks, pouring drinks, keeping candles lit, and delegating to the other servants. She checks the oven, ensuring the temperature within is just right. Too low, and the meal would be cold and unpleasant. Too high, and it would be charred to death and boiled and ruined.

It wouldn’t do for her to ruin a meal. It would be so improper to serve anything less than perfection, so she’s become adept at cooking. She knows the tastes and preferences of her boss perhaps better than her own. She knows how to pick the right supplier for her meals. She knows how to prepare and present them with an absolute minimum of mess and panic.

In the kitchen, a timer rings, snapping her out of her routine.

The meal ought to be perfectly warm by now.

She takes them out of the oven, checks them over with a keen eye. All parts unnecessary for consumption have been skilfully removed by her hand, and it’s in the perfect state to be served up.

She moves the meal on top of a trolley, such that it can be more easily served. Even her new lifestyle hasn’t made her strong enough to carry the whole thing on a plate, and it’s not as if it can exactly walk anymore.

She rolls the trolley into the room, and slides the metal tray onto the table. She stands in the corner, behind her boss, and looks on politely.

They start on their meal.

As they lean forwards to drain the meal, it reacts. She wasn’t careless enough to kill it, after all. That would ruin the blood. Sealed lips quiver. Hollow eye sockets twitch, trying to focus eyes that no longer exist. Muscles, devoid of limbs to attach to, tense and lock up. Its breaths become short and shaky. 

It attempts to scream.

So rude.

It should remember it has no vocal cords.

After a while, it stills. The meal is over now.

She removes and disposes of the leftovers before returning to her room.