If I Was An Elder In Vtm I Wouldnt Even Know Wtf Is Going On In Sects. “did You Hear About What Happened

i’m a gold star bisexual. i’ve fucked everybody

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.

why is the face for a masquerade breach the same as

honestly being around people who are not uncomfortable with you having feelings and desires makes the people who were uncomfortable so much worse in retrospect

my OCs are sooo cool you guys don't know what you're missing. if you could see the show i'm watching in my head rn you'd go so crazy i'm telling u

OHHH so when you eat the skin in your lips it's fine bUT when I eat your first born it's a problem???

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.

ohhh so now you're doing a fucked up team attack, huh? alright, which is it, huh? another power of friendship type, or is it the awesome might of your military empire?