Latest Posts by almsworth-worm - Page 8

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

-literally any sentence- "anyway stream left right goodnight"

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.

you knock on my door and hear loud barking and scrambling noises and me yelling "no!! down boy!! down!!!" and then when i open the door there is a single crab on the floor

i should figure out how to homebrew white monster actually

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

I swear to God if I had loads of money I would buy the biggest Blaze package they have and promote this image to the whole of France

Digging nails into some poor puppy's back, thumb in its mouth, holding it to my gaze as I shush it and coo comforts. If my little bite risk wants to be of service or show, it's gonna have to really convince me it can hold its temper, hm??

the way ppl have designated cuddling as a purely romantic thing and is weird outside of that context has done widespread damage to our pack animal nature

the sadistic torturer hates my ass because I cant feel pain and even when I do I dont show it because Im a stone cold motherfucka

i just want some friends who will be evil with my triggers. like yes put me into trance cause im beating you in mario kart. please that’s so hot pleasePLEASEPLEASE

What if we were both each other's pet and we looked after each other and sometimes we were both animals at once and we snuggled and had matching collars

oh this is also an old one

Now that it's getting warmer outside again, I just want something like this 🌻☀️

Part of the process of my better coming to terms with being aromantic involved a fair amount of not wanting to 'miss out' on things like dating and Valentine's Day and all that, but like:

1- Thinking about it those things don't matter as much as I thought they did.

2- There are options which I have considered.

Ultimately those things would likely have ended up with me just playing a role I didn't want to. If I'm going to play a role, it should be one I enjoy, right?

And none of those things are exclusive to romance. Like I can take my friends for meals and send them letters and all that, right?

So much of it is down to other people's expectations, so why not play on them for personal amusement?

Go for that lovely Valentine's Day meal all dressed up but with no expectations, knowing just how people will react to 'such a lovely couple'.

(also maybe getting couples discounts I will always game scenarios for profit sorry)

Buy flowers or gifts for one another and hand them over in public, and see how people cluelessly smile and think they know exactly what is going on.

Act ever so slightly close and affectionate, and watch for the 'knowing' glances and looks, so full of vital misunderstanding.

Play the role, not out of obligation or need, but for entertainment and because it might be fun, and laugh about it later. Let other people be oh so wrong, and have oh such a good time as you do so.

Every time my aromantic ass sees a wedding dress in a charity shop or thrift store I am deeply tempted to buy and clean it for the sole purpose of getting absolutely ruined while in it send post.

putting your hand in the mouth of a girl who's prone to biting is an excellent way to display how absolutely broken she is. but watch out

"My son turned out fine"

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

going carmilla mode on her a-cups

The door swings open and closed as she is pushed through and into the room.

The hand of her friend rests in the space between her chest and her shoulder, forcing her backwards and backwards and down.

Her back meets the lip of the bed, but the pressure does not relent. 

Sure, she could resist and stay standing and put an end to this fun, but she chooses not to.

She continues backwards, falling onto the bed.

The hand is removed from her body.

She stays still.

Her limbs are strewn about around her. Her hair fans out where her head met the bed. Her eyes, looking so so empty, stare emptily and needily upwards.

A click.

Her eyes regain focus for a second, and she looks up at her friend, standing there with a camera and looking at her through the viewfinder of her camera. A smile plays at her lips, disguised by the plastic and metal and electronics that serve to immortalise this moment. The aperture moves and refocuses on her.

Another click. 

The shutter opens and closes.

The smile on her friend’s face widens. This must have been a good photo, she thinks.

Her friend reaches down towards her.

Her eyes flicker open and closed.

Her hand is on her clothes. Her friend relinquishes the camera for a moment, pulling her limp arms above her head before she smoothly pulls her top off of her.

She shivers, suddenly exposed to the cold air.

Her friend giggles, and she stills once more.

The lens moves backwards and forwards.

Another click.

This time her friend does not let go of the camera. Her hand caresses her chest, then moves around to her back, and undoes the clasps of her bra before deftly removing it, throwing it into the corner of the room.

She takes her time with this one, getting the perfect angle and lighting and focus.

The subject is already perfect, she thinks.

Another click.

Her friend moves again, and pushes her skirt upwards.

Another click.

Her friend stretches out, and brings her skirt down, discarding it onto the floor.

Another click.

Her tights are removed. She can hear them breaking and she does not care.

Another click.

Her underwear goes next.

Another click.

…

Her friend pauses, and looks down at her, a slight frown on her face.

She turns.

She throws a pillow down before her, intent clear.

Her subject is so lovely, but she wants more.

Why not see such a lovely thing in action and movement?

She stirs, and takes the pillow between her legs.

She moves, repeated movements backwards and forwards and so on.

Another click.

Her friend’s hand is on her hair.

It rests there for a moment.

It pulls, short and sharp and painful.

Another click.

The hand moves down to her mouth.

She opens her mouth, and her friend drives her thumb inside, pulling on her cheek.

Another click.

Their hand is removes and placed on her chin, forcing her upwards to look at her.

Another click.

Another click.

Another click.

She comes undone. She writhes and begs and whimpers and moans and shakes. Her mouth moves, making no coherent sounds, only noise. Her eyes roll back in her head and then return, glassy and vacant.

Another click.

She is released, and falls back down onto the bed.

Another click.

Her friend lies down beside her, and brings her camera up, showing her the screen.

There are so many photographs of her, exposed and limp and moving and broken, and her friend delights in showing her empty and exhausted eyes each and every last one of them.

What little of her mind remains drifts into the embrace of sleep.

One last click, for good measure.

Can't be bothered to start a new file for what'll probably be a one off so this is the result.

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.

i love when a tgirl is just so absolutely pathetic. like of course i want to yank you around on a leash babygirl look at you, you need this. i want to see your adorable little face when i smash my fist into your guts. i want to hear your whines and whimpers when i'm stepping on you while you're on the ground. I wouldn't want you getting up even though im pulling at your leash so insistently. soo pathetic

wanna be called puppy in mundane situations, “thank you puppy” when i do you a favor, “pretty puppy” when i show off my outfit, “c’mere puppy” when asking to cuddle

When you transition people tell you “it’s like watching someone die”. Like yeah a fucking loser died. Just the absolute lamest dude you ever met. A real dogshit guy just bought it. So sorry your absolute failure of a man is gone and has been replaced by a hot chick, must be hard for you 🙄

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.

She stands in the hallway, her boss in front of her.

She has stood here every day for the last year. She remembers it well. It is, after all, the anniversary of her arrival.

She has stood here for three hundred and sixty five (and a quarter) days.

She has taken the steps down from her room three hundred and sixty five times.

She has worn this uniform three hundred and sixty five times.

She has met her boss here three hundred and sixty five times.

He has told her what to expect three hundred and sixty five times.

She had gone about her day, sorting meals and making flowers and cleaning and dusting and repairing, three hundred and sixty five times.

It has been a year.

There will be so many more.

Maybe one day she will stand there, in three hundred and sixty five years, and look back on how three hundred and sixty five days seemed like so much.

Three hundred and sixty five sets of three hundred and sixty five.

The thought does something she thought impossible.

It breaks her composure.

Not all that much, but it certainly does.

Her movements, normally so precise and measured and perfect, fail her.

She stumbles slightly, despite standing still.

She keeps the same polite and impassive smile on her face as she rights herself.

She stands up straight and listens.

She feels something on her face. She does not move to wipe it off. Her movements would be unsteady, and even if not for that it would be rude to do so while listening to her boss.

She feels it move down her face. She does nothing.

She feels something fall onto her dress. She ignores it, waits for her boss to finish, then goes about her work.

Some of the other servants, particularly those ghouled, are looking strangely at her.

If she were anyone else, she would be able to interpret these glances and stares of pity and confusion and fear and - in some cases - hunger.

But she chooses not to care, for she has a job to do, and she must do it well.

The feeling on her face continues. Her dress seems to be getting heavier. She is getting hungry far faster than she typically would.

When she comes to her meal, she does not drink with her usual restraint and propriety.

She drains her meal of blood and throws its empty husk against the far wall of her workroom.

The strange sensation on her face persists even now. She does not know why and she does not want to know why. She wishes to not have to think about this. She wishes it were gone.

She finishes her work and climbs the stairs to get to her room.

She walks in, and catches herself in the mirror.

She is a mess.

Twin streams of blood pour out of her eyes and flow down her face, falling off of her chin onto the uniform below. They have started to dry and crack and scab and peel.  It is so very improper.

Her dress is ruined. What was previously white material has been indelibly stained by blood. Where material was previously black, it now appears a deep crimson. In some places, the vitae has settled and is turning a more rusty red in colour.

She shakes her hips slightly. Blood splatters over the floor, and thin sprays of it settle over the mirror.

This simply will not do.

It is rude and improper and impolite to show herself in such a state, let alone go about her daily work looking like this. To show this emotion compromises her role as caretaker and maidservant. She cannot allow this to happen again.

This will hurt, she knows, but she accepts it as her punishment for a job badly done.

She raises her right hand to her bloody face and holds it to her bloody right eye.

She screams in agony as a sharp pain pierces through her above her eye and close to her nose. Her lacrimal gland and lacrimal sac and lacrimal canals are either excised, falling out into her waiting hand, or they knit closed, torturously and irreversibly.

She repeats the process with her other eye. She screams much the same as last time, but she knows that she deserves it.

The flow of vitae from her tears is supplanted by the flow of vitae from her fresh wounds, before she excruciatingly closes them with her vicissitude.

She removes her outfit and steps into her shower, hoping to scrub all reminders of this day from her body as surely as she has erased her ability to cry and show sadness from her face.

Maybe this will make the next three hundred and sixty five more bearable.

WE GOT OBLIVION REMASTER BEFORE YANDERE SIMULATOR 🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳

god this is going to be fucking Ground Zero for the next generation of Comet Girls I just know it. this is going to hit a few extremely specific and very unsuspecting types of people like crack cocaine. Right now people are typing "Char Aznable" into google because of this scene.

sickens me to my stomach. how dare this guy get to live my dream.