Everyone Comes To Me Wanting To Be Some Esoteric Courtier Position. We Don't Need Anymore Viziers Or

day one out the alembic already hustling. homunculus net worth = 1coin

*tied to a chair,.spitting up blood* heh..... youre gonna need to brush my teeth a little harder than THAT to get information out of me

sorry for calling you "the rasputin of the polycule"

I'm starting a collection.

She stands still, hearing a repetitive ticking noise emanating from inside of her chest.

She can feel the gears inside of her as they rotate and mesh and interlink, sending the energy stored in the spring wound up within her.

She moves her arm upwards to stare at the back of her hand. As she does, wires move to curl her fingers, mechanisms rotate to allow her arm to bend at the elbow, and metal slides over metal on her joints.

She’s been so delicately made, so precisely crafted.

Always in equilibrium, as little wasted energy as possible.

Her miss made her to be perfect.

It always makes the next bit more fun.

A sharp blow knocks her off balance, sending her side into the edge of a table.

It cracks, but holds.

Her legs are swept out from under her. She falls.

Hits the hard floor.

Cracks, but holds.

The boot that follows finally breaks her, causing the ceramic of her chest and abdomen to fracture and burst out across the room.

Her miss reaches inside of her, not caring for the shards that pierce her skin and draw out her blood.

Her miss seizes a gear and holds it for a second. If she had a heart, it would skip a beat.

Her miss takes another gear. Holds it.

Tears it out.

She can’t feel or move her legs any more. Within her, cogs spin impotently, teeth catching on empty space.

Her miss gently places her hand around her spring.

Twists it.

Not up, but down.

Her eyes flutter closed. Her limbs don’t go limp, instead they lock in their current positions. Her gears and mechanisms slow, very soon to go still.

As she is wound down, she finds it harder and harder to think, to reason, to act.

To act before her consciousness fades out of existence requires immense willpower and focus, along with single-minded determination.

As her mind fades to black, her mouth moves.

It hangs open in a lopsided smile.

She wonders how she ended up like this.

There’s not exactly much else to do. Her limbs are cold and unmoving. Her eyes are held open, not by artifice or panic but by the very nature of the state she finds herself in. She tries to muster up some of her strange power, and finds that no matter how much her mind struggles, she can do nothing but wait.

So she waits.

She counts. She counts the marks and stains on the ceiling above her. She counts the number of days she’s spent trapped in this half-life. She counts every mote of dust that settles on her eyeballs.

She wishes she could blink or cry or do something - anything - to dispel the feeling of the dust in her eyes.

More than any of that, she starts to feel hungry. It starts at the tips of her toes and works its way up, consuming her until all she desires is the warm feeling of blood slipping out between her fangs and pouring down her throat.

She remembers the person who got her into this state. The way they approached her, all full of confidence and importance. She remembers the way they took a wooden stake from behind their back and plunged it into her chest. She remembers the way they took her body and dragged it back to their haven. She remembers them placing her on this table, open eyes towards the roof, limbs strewn out around her.

She wonders what they would taste like.

…

After who knows how long, she hears the door to the room swing open and collide with the wall.

If she could move, she would turn to face whoever or whatever just walked in. But she cannot.

They speak softly.

They talk of how they first saw her. They talk of how beautiful she is. They talk of how useful she would be.

To her, it is hollow and full of lies. She wishes to eviscerate them. To rip them in twain and drink their blood.

Nevertheless, they approach her. She hears the noise of their shoes against the concrete floor. She hears the creaking of the table on which she rests. She feels them move to straddle her.

She feels them move their fingers to cleanly wipe away the layer of dust that has accumulated on her frozen eyes. She feels their thumb caress her lips, her cheek, her eye.

‘I wouldn’t want you to miss out on seeing this, would I?’

They lean forwards, and their beautiful face appears in her vision.

It is a welcome sight.

She doesn’t mind this, she remembers now. They’ve done this before, she remembers now, and it is always oh so very fun. She allows the feeling of the life she once had to suffuse her. It is all she can do.

She notices their hands on her dress. She notices as they move the straps of her dress off of her shoulders. She notices as they reach around to undo the straps of her bra and pull it off of her. She notices as one of their hands cups one of her breasts. As their hand traces over one of her nipples. As they squeeze and pinch and stroke and so much more.

She is distracted. The face in front of her is so very lovely, and it pierces her mind as surely as the stake through her chest pierces her body.

Then, their face disappears from view.

For a short moment, she is disappointed.

Then she feels them lift up her skirt. Their hands are on her thighs, and they move slowly, torturously upwards.

She feels their lips on her. She feels their tongue on her. She ought to be writhing and bucking and making all manner of noises at the sensations they elicit.

She is still.

The sensations build. Time loses all meaning. Her mind is muddled and incoherent. She is filled with so much emotion and joy and pleasure.

She is still.

This could go on for minutes, or hours, or maybe even days. The sensations rise and rise and rise and do not stop. It is as though every one of her nerves is set ablaze.

She is still.

Something inside of her breaks and shatters. The sensations peak. Her mind cries out in ecstasy, then goes as still as her body. She feels nothing but an overwhelming and pervasive bliss.

Her captor’s face appears again. They praise her and tell her she did such a good job and made them so very proud. They thank her for letting them have this mutual indulgence. They remind her of how much more exciting it is made by what comes next.

They look deep into her glassy eyes, and tell her to listen, and she does so quite happily.

‘Forget this.’

And she descends into an entirely different sort of haze.

…

Soon, the haze wears off.

She is hungry again. This time is worse than before. She wants blood. She wants nothing more. She would tear this world asunder for a single drop of it.

A voice interrupts her crazed reverie. Her captor speaks.

‘If you’d just be a dear and promise not to hurt me, you can drink as much as you need.’

If her head could snap around to face them, it would. She cannot respond, but she promises in the depths of her heart and the depths of her mind that she will not hurt them. They have blood, and she desires it oh so much.

The stake is pulled out of her heart, leaving her chest with a wet pop.

She sits up and stares at her captor, cocking her head slightly as she watches them retreat across the room and sit on a worktop.

She watches them roll up their sleeve. They hold their wrist outwards towards her, and gesture for her to come.

She lunges across the room towards them, taking their wrist between her jaws. With their free hand, they push her down to the ground, until she is kneeling at their feet like a loyal hound.

If she had any higher reasoning at this moment, she would notice that the blood tasted strangely familiar.

She feels the hunger dissipate from her mind, and feelings of loyalty and infatuation rush in to fill the void.

She wants to please them. She wants to do the right thing for them, She wants them to be happy with her. She craves their adoration and attention.

They smile down at her as they extract their wrist from her mouth. They stand, and she remains kneeling. They walk out a bit, her head following their every movement.

They click their fingers.

‘Heel.’

She follows them out of the room.

People who've never seen Zeta Gundam but know about the whole "Char puts on sunglasses and calls himself Four Vaginas" thing don't actually understand what's funny about that. It's not the "oh this paper-thin disguise is working" that's funny; most of the returning characters from '79 never saw Char and don't know what he looks like (and the ones that do aren't fooled for a second) and he takes the sunglasses off all the time anyway. No, what's funny is that he cannot shut the fuck up about how cool and sexy Char is, wouldn't it be funny if you were in the presence of someone that cool and sexy, and half of the other characters are like "huh yeah I'd sure love to meet Char one day wonder if I ever will" and the other half are dying inside.

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?