I'm Starting A Collection.

"all these people have adhd all of a sudden" honey the french have been drinking espresso after dinner since they first encountered stimulants, we've been here the whole time.

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.

"My son turned out fine"

sir your daughter writes microfiction about being dismembered and turned into an object by a pretty woman.

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.

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

A sharp crack rings out, echoing through the room.

She looks at her arm, wrenched out at an unnatural angle, hand limp, joints broken.

She looks at the person standing above her, a sadistic smile stretching across their face.

She looks at their hand. She sees the hammer they hold.

Three more cracks ring out.

She lies limply on the floor, limbs broken, helpless.

She smiles back.

The person above her moves, not with the sharp violence that broke her, but slowly, deliberately, with care.

They take a set of keys from their pocket. They flick through them to find the smallest of the keys. They lean down and kneel on the floor beside her. They reach out, hold her shoulder, move the key towards her.

And it falls into the keyhole right by her shoulder. It turns. A soft, gentle click is heard. Her arm falls out of the socket, landing amongst the shards of porcelain that surround her.

She sees the metal framework of her arm, warped and distended by the blunt force of the hammer. She sees her joints, shiny from wear and use. She sees the last remnants of the ceramic that serves as her skin, either affixed to the frame or driven into the material that forms a part of her.

Three more clicks ring out.

Her limbs are strewn about on the floor around her.

The person beside her leaves for a moment, and returns carrying a bag. They sit back beside her. Reach out yet again, but with neither the hammer nor the keys.

If her body could feel, she would feel the cold of the new metal, not yet worn or tarnished, as it works its way into the setting within her shoulder. She would feel it again, in her other arm. Again and again, in the attachment points just below her hips.

Her miss stands over her once more, looking proud of their work.

She raises her new arms, uses her new hands to push herself off the floor, stands on her new legs, walks forwards on her new feet.

She loves her maintenance.

I think it is well understood that guns lost their romance after rifling was invented and became standard.

why is the face for a masquerade breach the same as

What actually happened during ena5

ur so fucking close minded if u really think u 'can't forcefem a girl who's on estradiol'