Huuuuge Fan Of Little Phrases You Can Add To The End Of Your Sentences Just For Fun. "if You Even Care"

Mean Girls (2004) House MD (2009)

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

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

he thinks he's being so smooth with his little face on my leg. i SEE you, villain

you can’t jokingly post about kinky shit on tumblr because you say smth like “haha wouldn’t it be hot if you…tried to launch internet explorer…but it wouldn’t load :D”

and then you’ll get one thousand robot girls in the notes going “mmngngnnghhhngn”

drunk and in love and full of food i think only the torturer eel could harm me

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.

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.

Gundam is a show about hot evil women, actually