I’m A Gold Star Bisexual. I’ve Fucked Everybody

hyperfixation please stay with me long enough to complete the project. hyperfixation do not fade. hyperfixation finish what you started for the love of god

sickens me to my stomach. how dare this guy get to live my dream.

huuuuge fan of little phrases you can add to the end of your sentences just for fun. "if you even care" and "btw" and "I fear" have done sooo much for my vocabulary. if you even care

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.

She presses a cup full of tea into the hands of the woman - no, the girl, she’s far younger than she is - who sits across from her. She expresses the appropriate amount of worry and concern.

‘What on earth were you doing in the garden at such a time of night?’

‘Is there anything particularly bad that led to this? I might be able to help.’

‘No, no. I insist that you remain here. It’s just good manners.’

‘Well, nothing’s more important to me than being polite and courteous.’

The girl glances at her, perturbed by her words. Nevertheless, she accepts the comfort they offer.

It changes nothing. If she wanted help, she should have done it properly, knocked at the door and asked politely. Maybe then Ophelia would have done something more. She could have given her some money, or a room for a few nights, or snuck out and killed her terrible partner or whoever, or solved any and all of her problems.

She doesn’t know or particularly care. If the girl wanted her to pay attention, she should have asked nicely.

As things stand, regardless of the cup of tea she sips from, or the borrowed coat she has draped across her shoulders to keep out the cold, or the reassuring words Ophelia smothers her in, she has been rude.

She is a trespasser, and none of the kindnesses of guesthood apply to her.

Ophelia asks her to stand and follow her. Leads her to one of the many guest rooms. This one is centrally located and well-appointed. Despite the regular use the room finds itself in, it is clean and spotless. No stains or marks on any of the carpet or bedding or upholstery.

The girl thanks her. She is praised for her humanity, for her kindness, for her politeness.

She is self-aware enough to know she only has one of those qualities.

She closes the door as she leaves. She turns and checks it. She shuts and closes and secures every one of the deadbolts and locks and mechanisms that will keep the trespasser confined.

She walks briskly to her boss and informs him of their new guest for the night.

The next evening, there are new flowers in the vases that line the hallway.

The next evening, there are new flowers in Ophelia’s hair.

The next evening, that guest room is empty once more.

the way ppl have designated cuddling as a purely romantic thing and is weird outside of that context has done widespread damage to our pack animal nature

She twitches in her sleep. Light burrows between her eyelids as she clenches her eyes closed. It feels far too early for her to be waking up, so she decides to attempt to get back to sleep.

Something clamps down over her mouth and closes behind her head.

Her eyes fly open as she reels from the unfamiliar sensations. She starts and puts all of her strength into lifting herself off of her bed.

She feels a blade at her throat.

If she were wide awake, it would be a minor inconvenience. She could push past it, injury be damned. She could tear into the person in front of her, and reduce them to a pile of bloody scraps on the floor.

As things stand, her mind is still slowly waking. Her most basic instincts take over, and she pushes forwards, aiming to clamp their throat between her jaws and drink her fill from it.

Her muzzle bounces off of their throat.

As she scrabbles in shock and attempts to get her bearings, their blade finds a home in her side. Their booted foot follows, sending her weakened body spinning out across the floor.

As she attempts to recover, they fasten some items over her forearms. In her bloodlusted haze, she barely notices.

She swings out, and her fists, newly covered in layers of material and padding, collide impotently with their legs.

They reach down, and grab her wrists. They fasten her arms together behind her back. They place something around her neck.

‘Click.’

A tugging sensation lifts her off of the floor, and she is forced to kneel. A hand grabs her under her chin, and she is forced to look into their eyes.

Their eyes are quite beautiful.

‘Others in my line of work would call me an idiot for this. They’d say you’re too dangerous to be left alive. But I know something they don’t.’

She cocks her head, listening intently. She feels a thirst rising within her. She exerted herself rather too much in her attempts to fight them.

‘Creatures like you - Kindred - aren’t as powerful as most think. You’re desperate, pathetic, hopeless.’

The truth in these words hits her harder than their blade and boot did.

‘You can feel the hunger, can’t you? You’d do anything for just a drop of blood, wouldn’t you?’

She can’t muster up any words, but need and desperation overtake her, and she nods.

They laugh, short and sharp.

‘Oh come on now, you have to use your words. That’s how this works. Now dog, speak.’

She says yes. She says she’d do anything. She lists situations and scenarios of all the things she would do. Words of promise and want, near incoherent, spill out of her mouth.

They laugh again.

They smile down at her.

‘You can be so useful to me, pet. Think of the things you can tell me. Think of the things you can do for me.’

They release her chin, but keep one hand on her leash. They move across to her bed. They take a pillow from it, and place it on the floor in front of her.

‘Go on, prove how desperate you are. How utterly broken you are.’

She doesn’t need to be told twice. She crawls over to the pillow. She grips it between her legs. Her hips roll and move backwards and forwards. Her mind goes empty - well, emptier than before.

For an uncertain amount of time she is lost in bliss and want and need. She hardly realises when they reach their free arm down to her side. She hardly realises when they wrap their fingers around the handle of their blade, still stuck in her side.

She definitely realises when they pull it out of her. Blood and viscera spill out over the floor. Pain and pleasure mix in her mind. She buckles and nearly collapses. The collar around her neck, held up by their hand on her leash, is the only thing keeping her upright.

Her hips keep moving.

They take their blade in their free hand, and use their sleeve to wipe it clean. They place it on their palm. They pull the blade, and it catches on their skin.

Red blossoms in their hand.

They push that hand forwards, holding her muzzle with it. They tilt her head backwards. Blood falls through the gaps in the muzzle.

She falls apart when the first drops hit her lips. She screams and moans and cries and begs. She writhes and moves and spasms. The ecstasy of base pleasure mingles with the ecstasy of the blood and the release of her hunger. She is undone.

When she comes to her senses a few minutes later, they are still there. Their hand moves gently through her hair. Their eyes are on hers. They are holding her in their arms. They are smiling at her.

She did so well, she is told. She was perfect, she is told.

They tug on her leash, and the pressure around her neck leads her back to her bed. They lie down beside her. They take her in their arms again.

She falls into a deep sleep, much calmer than before.

the achilles tendon is the most iconic one to sever

my copy of zeta gundam is fucked up dude