Putting Your Hand In The Mouth Of A Girl Who's Prone To Biting Is An Excellent Way To Display How Absolutely

aw hell naw they putting puppygirls in the psycho gundam

when the cuddle sesh is so good your arm becomes fully necrotic

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.

romance languages are actual hell on earth man. every sentence that comes out of your mouth demands that you gender yourself. no room for ambiguity or plausible deniability. no room for freedom. you must announce if you're a man or a woman. what an absolute shitshow

I can trust her.

She’s fed me. She’s clothed me. She’s kept me washed and clean. Her cables and wires around my body keep me from wandering into any dangerous situations.

Does she control me? Yes. But everyone’s controlled by a lot of things, and I can trust her.

Now her wires wrap all around my torso, so she can keep me balanced. Stop me from falling and hurting myself as I walk around.

Should I worry? Not really, since I can trust her.

Soon they consume my arms and legs. She doesn’t want me to risk hitting them on anything. I’m not as well built as she is. She’s metal and plastic. I’m only meat.

Does it make eating harder? Yes, but she’s very good at puppeting me, so I can trust her.

My head is next. It’s a shame to not be able to see anything, but I don’t need to anymore, since she does everything for me while she takes care of me.

The gentle humming of her wires and cables lulls me to sleep every night.

Then I wake up and my body is gone. I can see. I can move. I can’t eat, but I don’t need to now. Her wires and cables are all that’s left. She’s given them to me, made herself a part of me, and me a part of her.

I don’t need to worry about trusting her anymore.

the transgender desire to be called a good puppy

Upon a lonely road was a messenger from The Court, sent to parlay with a number of Decay-aligned knightly orders. Their actions would be of great consequence in the days to follow. Hundreds or even thousands of lives were banking on their ability to reach the camp within the night. However, their horse had…

{This is rather dull, is it not? Whether or not they make it, there will be a great deal of slaughter. This doesn’t matter a bit. Without consequences and results, how are things meant to be fun?}

[I agree with your sentiment, but for different reasons. They merely serve others. They should try to do something for themselves. I of all people know that fate is far from certain, so why would they not choose to forge their own?]

{I believe this is our first time talking. It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m The Princess.}

[...]

{And your name is?}

[I am called The Sacrifice. It fits well enough.]

{...}

[We are opposing forces, are we not? I have taken humanity and made it all I am. I have no body or mind and yet I remain human.]

{And I have rejected humanity. However, we are rather similar. We both chose to reject the Laws of this place, and decided to make ones of our own.}

[We do indeed share that, Miss Princess.]

{So, why are we both here, and what are we to discuss?}

[I am not quite sure. When I stood in front of the Mainspring and burnt away, I chose to exist. I did not, though, choose where and when I exist.]

{Excuse me if it is rude to ask, but are you dead?}

[I exist. I chose to. Therefore I do.]

{I expected such a cryptic answer.}

[Oh, but it is the truth. So, why are you here?]

{I thought these events would be entertaining, and it turns out they have been, though not for the reasons I expected.}

[I hate to interrupt, but I can feel myself drifting away. Far too many things call to me, and I cannot hope to answer them all. I must depart.]

{Well, it’s been lovely to meet you. I’ll head off too. I no longer care for that messenger or their horse or their meeting. As far as I am concerned, that story ends here.}

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.

why'd the escapees decorate the walls like a Left4Dead level