Is There Such A Thing As "should Have Been Shipwrecked After Seventeen Months On The High Seas" Dysphoria

sorry for calling you "the rasputin of the polycule"

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.

your salad is looking a little balanced there dude - your thoughtful selection of ingredients ensures no one flavour overpowers. fortunately i have some balsamic syrup right here,

if i was an elder in vtm i wouldnt even know wtf is going on in sects. “did you hear about what happened in prague?” no i was in torpor. or i was playing mahjong with my ghoul.

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.

I called a boy in my class a 'fucking twink version of dracula' and I feel fulfilled

I look at the woman in front of me.

She is dressed smartly, dress and coat and boots and hat conspiring to protect her from the howling winds as she stands in the doorway.

She looks at me, the pity in her eyes obviously disguising some kind of malice.

That’s the way things are, after all.

She invites me in, all politeness and platitudes and pleasing words. She bids me to sit by the fire, warm myself. She brings blankets to help with this. She offers me food, I refuse. She offers me a drink, I refuse. She asks me my name, I pretend not to hear.

She takes no note of my sword, seeing it as no threat to herself.

I do not speak. I do not move.

I wait.

She talks a lot. She tells me about the things she’s made for a meal, one she’d happily share with me. She tells me about the plants in the forest, and the ones that I might find useful. She tells me how beautiful I am, and how happy she would be to have me.

I feel tempted to give in, and stay here for the rest of my life.

She smiles softly at me, as if she knows this.

Her fingers trace up the flesh of my arm, suddenly revealed from under layers of blankets.

She tells me she could help me. She tells me I wouldn’t have to worry any more. She tells me I would be hers, perfect and eternal.

My arm goes cold, as though it were turning to ice. My joints feel stiff. A sudden stillness begins to overtake me.

This is a game to her, surely, and it seems she is winning.

She tells me I will have purpose, and the spell breaks.

I move my hand. I clench my fist around something.

My arm swings forwards.

She looks down.

Blood blooms from her torso, centred around the ugly iron implement that protrudes from her body.

Her eyes flick upwards, and I look away.

She goes still in my arms, much as I had gone still at the touch of hers.

I have won.

I cannot leave quickly enough.

Her house burns, all her food and plants and promises going up in flame.

Her offers nag at the back of my mind. She offered purpose, perfection, happiness, and most of all, stillness.

I have won this game.

So why do I so dearly wish that I had lost?

maid virtue names such as devotion, laundry, and able-to-carry-dishes-on-her-forearms

I start having weird thoughts about becoming a girl whenever I smoke weed? Like the last time I got stoned I bought a skirt from goodwill and tried it on and it felt nice but I don't know if that confirms anything. Should I stop?

No

What actually happened during ena5