They Hate Me Because Of My Transgender Swag. And Also Because Of The Diablerie

It is the first bit of normalcy she has had since her boss vanished.

For three lovely days and nights, she was able to play the role of host, and Drakan the role of valued guest.

She gave him a room, she kept him well fed, and she was as polite as always. In return, he taught her the rules and laws of their clan. He told her how their particular variety of hospitality functioned.

After three days and three nights, he left.

He gave her a gift.

He gave her a knife.

It’s an old thing. It is so very sharp, and comes to a tidy point. The handle is worn and aged, yet the blade shines as though it has never been used.

She takes it in her hand, holds it.

Her cold skin matches the cold of the metal hilt.

She makes a few attempts at cutting and stabbing with it. Her movements are clumsy, lacking her usual grace. No amount of skill at needlework or using a broom has prepared her for this. Even if she were to find herself in a fight, she would much prefer to grow claws or twist and reshape the bodies of her opponents.

But she has been given a gift, and she intends to accept it in every way she can.

She needs to practice.

She goes to one of the spare rooms. She fixed this one herself. She made the bed. She fixed the walls. She crafted the decorations.

For now, none of this matters.

She takes all those raw materials, and shapes them into the thing she needs.

She builds muscles and a skeleton and vocal cords and eyes and teeth.

She takes a brain, but leaves it as empty as it was when she made it into that pretty thing over the fireplace, and puts it inside the body.

Soon, her preparation is done.

She lashes out with her new knife, embedding it in the dummy’s eye.

It jerks and twitches. It screams. It does not fall or move backwards.

She is satisfied.

She removes the blade, and fixes the dummy.

She lashes out again. She cuts its throat. The cerebrospinal fluid it is using as a surrogate for blood spills out.

She steps back, and fixes the dummy.

She moves around the dummy, and crouches swiftly, striking at its legs. She cuts the muscles that keep it standing, and it tumbles to the ground. It cries out again at this.

She steps back, and fixes the dummy.

She walks back around to its front. This time, she strikes lower. She draws her blade through the skin of its belly. Guts come tumbling out. Tears fill the eyes of the dummy.

She steps back, and fixes the dummy.

She plunges the blade into the flesh between its neck and shoulder.

She steps back, and fixes the dummy.

She strikes it under the arm, nearly tearing it off the joint with the force and precision of her blow.

She steps back, and fixes the dummy.

This goes on for a while.

By the end of her practice, she has become quite adept with a knife. Her movements are exact and calculated. She is graceful again.

She has grown rather fond of this knife.

She fixes her attention on the dummy. Tears stain its face. Viscera and cerebrospinal fluid tarnish the floor around it. It is covered in scars, borne from wounds that have been too rapidly healed.

Its eyes seem to plead with her. She ignores it, and returns all of the materials to their proper places.

She leaves the room with a soulless smile on her face. She wonders what it would be like to practice on something that could still act and think.

But first, she has made a mess, and it is her job as a maidservant to clean it up.

Pirate Whump

salty air and harsh wood rubbing on wounds, making them worse.

manual labor as a punishment, scrubbing the deck all night until whumpee’s back aches and their knees are raw.

lashings. good ol’ lashings.

Whumpee, an important passenger on another ship, gets captured by pirates and taken hostage.

tossed in the brig, a dark, dingy, cramped space with chains and metal bars.

drowning!

a sword pressed against their throat as they’re presented to the captain. (forced to kneel??)

Forced to join the crew and doing their chores with shackles on their ankles.

Strapped to the main mast, exposed to the elements (and the cut throat crew) and completely at their mercy.

Stuck in the crow’s nest (especially during a storm)

A new peg leg. Might seem silly but I’d like to see YOU laugh while walking on a chunk of wood with a newly healing leg stump.

cant think of anything else rn but feel free to add on!

my taglist is open by the way ;)

@toads-and-gremlins

@whump-till-ya-jump

@herhighnessthegoblinqueen

@scoundrelwithboba

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.

huge as fuck claims court. im suing you for one william dollars asshole

vampire sub with a "CAUTION I BITE" dog collar

She so resents when they have to get help in. She so resents having to stay up so early. She so resents having to deal with someone who must be coddled and kept at arm’s length so they don’t run screaming to the police or worse.

All things considered, Ophelia Cooper is in a foul mood.

But this was her idea, after all. She is a caretaker, and if this will help to keep her boss and the house safe, she’ll suffer with a smile on her face, no matter how forced.

Her guest has arrived outside. There’s a van full of tools and mess and clutter sitting on the doorstep of a place she’s laboured to keep clean for years.

They knock at the door - using the ornate door knocker and not crudely knocking on the door itself. The intercom activates, and before she can get a bad-tempered word out, they speak - they ask if they can come in. Not only this, but they ask ‘please’, and when Ophelia gives them their instructions, she says a short ‘thank you’. And they close the door behind themselves, keeping the dreaded sun out.

Her bad mood having suddenly evaporated, she descends to meet her guest.

Her guest stands in the hallway, not unsettled in the slightest by the flowers or books or furniture or ornaments that adorn the interior. She is oh so beautiful and oh so polite, and Ophelia feels something stir within her. It is not the artless whispers of romance that she gave up long ago, or the brutal covetousness she often feels - this is something else, something strange and rare and new and odd. She is utterly entranced by this woman, and hangs on her every word.

‘Where’d you need the hob installing?’

Back to work then. An electric hob is so much safer than a gas one, reducing the risk of random fires and avoids provoking The Beast since no flame is present. It took her a while to persuade her boss that this was a useful measure.

The two head into the kitchen, and names are exchanged, as is polite and proper.

‘Ophelia Cooper, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

‘Elizabeth Smith, lovely to make your acquaintance’

There is something she felt once, back when her sire tore out her throat and turned her. It was an odd feeling, a certain emptiness in the stomach, and an uncertainty about whether or not to run screaming, no matter how rude it would be.

As she watches Elizabeth set about her work, proceeding tidily and methodically and leaving no mess and making polite conversation and always saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and using proper manner and etiquette, she feels it again.

When the work is finished, she knows what she should do. She should Dominate her, clouding her memory of these events and making her forget this house and these people forever, or drag her to her boss for him to do the same.

She is at war with her own mind here. She wishes to see them again. She wishes to know her better. She was so polite and well-mannered, in a way that reminded her of Maria, wherever she is now.

She comes to a conclusion that appeases her need to do her job, her need to be polite, and her need to preserve this lovely thing in front of her.

After leading Elizabeth into the hall and allowing her to leave, she goes to meet her boss.

Sure, he’ll be annoyed if she wakes him at this time of day, but he’ll trust her ideas, and maybe the sleepiness will make him acquiesce sooner.

They really should replace that gas oven, it presents such a risk. Oh, and the boiler, that’s also gas, and it’s not as though Kindred need the warmth. Oh, also work on the roof should be done to stop the sun getting in. And security systems could keep him safer.

And before he knows it, Elizabeth Smith may be as much a part of his household and maintenance team as Ophelia is.

And then Ophelia never has to stop looking at her. Never has to stop basking in her politeness and manners.

She could maybe introduce her to her sire’s boss, that ‘Dragon’. After all, how many havens could be refitted to reduce the risk of fire and sun and humans.

And if the Dragon finds her polite enough and good enough at her job, she could have Elizabeth Smith for eternity.

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??

scruffy puppygirl who you liked the vibe of so you invited her to hang with you then at the end of the day she didn’t have anywhere to go so she just kinda followed you home

she never picked out a name she liked and she hates her old name but her collar just reads “STRAY” so you can call her that if you want. she’s never had an owner before so she doesn’t really know how this works

she’s kinda hungry. no it’s fine, she’s not picky, she’ll eat whatever you want to have. yeah, she does like pizza, actually, thank you!

she feels bad for taking up space in your house, she knows it’s kinda small and you don’t have a spare bedroom but the couch is ok and- your bed?? really? are you sure? she doesn’t want to be a bother but if you insist

your bed is so comfortable, and your hands- no no keep petting her! if you don’t mind of course. it’s kinda nice… would it be ok if she kissed you? maybe just a lil cheek kiss? you’ve been so nice to her…

THE BEAUTIFUL BASTARD RETURNS!!!

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