Almsworth-worm - Normal Person Do Not Read My Mind.

do you still have the edit you did of the rollin video where fred durst says nonbinary people

She has been here for some time now. Maybe two and a half years? She hasn’t paid too much attention to it.

In her role as head maid, she is proud to say that she has established a strong rapport with those working under her. She is polite and proper, but they also know her to be kind and fair. She will help out where she can, they know.

She has grown rather fond of some of them.

One of them in particular has grown rather fond of her.

This one steals longing glances at her when she thinks she isn’t looking. This one tries to work with her wherever she can. This one’s hand brushes against her dress for a second too long when they pass each other in a corridor.

But Ophelia keeps things professional.

At least, until she cannot any longer.

One day, she sees her talking to one of her colleagues. He is giving her the same glances and looks and eyes that Ophelia normally receives from her. He is talking, and empathising and reassuring and making offers of assistance.

He moves closer, hand stretching out slightly.

Something within Ophelia snaps.

A sudden rush of possessiveness flows through her. She must have her. She must make her hers. She simply must.

She swiftly glides between the two of them, and snaps at him to get on with his work.

She turns slowly, and enquires as to her wellbeing. She praises her for her excellent work. She compliments her.

All of it is sincere. She has no need to lie here.

She notes the slight blush in her face. The way her pupils dilate slightly. The way the look into her eyes shifts from one of timidity and hesitation into a predatory one that rather reminds Ophelia of herself.

Ophelia asks her if she would like to take a break, and takes her upstairs, and invites her into her room.

The second the door swings closed behind them, Ophelia is near tackled off of her feet and carried to the bed.

She is placed on her lap, and they stare greedily at each other, drinking each other in.

Her hand deftly moves to Ophelia’s face, caressing her cheek before descending to her chest.

They kiss.

Ophelia, through practice and effort, is just about able to warm her lips when they touch.

Her other hand slides beneath Ophelia’s skirt.

It moves up her thigh.

Her hand pulls back suddenly. She pushes herself away from Ophelia, and Ophelia falls from on her lap. She stands, and stares at Ophelia, sprawled and discarded across the bed. She raises her hand to her face, and it is covered in blood. There is far more than there would be under any other circumstances. It is not blood, she realises. It is vitae.

She had let herself forget these things. She let herself forget that Ophelia was nothing like her. She is a human woman and Ophelia is nothing more than a corpse, brought to a semblance of life by whatever foul substance flows through her veins. Whatever Ophelia pretends to be, they are nothing alike.

Look at her, staring up from the bed, eyes wide and mouth agape. She’s not even crying. Is that even possible? Maybe she isn’t even human enough for that.

She runs from the room.

Ophelia tries and fails to pick herself up from on the bed.

She lies there for a while.

She rolls over, and sees vitae leaking out from around her eyes. It seems she is cursed to never be able to truly hide her emotions.

She sits up, and stands in her room for a few minutes, collecting her thoughts and composing herself.

She walks downstairs to find the other servant from earlier.

She finds him, and in her sadness and rage and inhumanity she eviscerates him and disembowels him and twists him into all kinds of painful and beautiful shapes and drains him of his blood and takes him apart and puts him back together again.

When all of this is done, she deigns to kill him.

She leaves him as flowers in the entryway.

She returns to her room, and feeling just a bit less human than she did when the day started, she lets the daysleep take her.

any story featuring a Special Class of Disposable Boy (mech pilot child soldiers, science experiment psychic kids, living bioweapon, etc etc) is a transfeminine narrative whether the author intended for it to be or not

I look at the woman in front of me.

She is dressed smartly, dress and coat and boots and hat conspiring to protect her from the howling winds as she stands in the doorway.

She looks at me, the pity in her eyes obviously disguising some kind of malice.

That’s the way things are, after all.

She invites me in, all politeness and platitudes and pleasing words. She bids me to sit by the fire, warm myself. She brings blankets to help with this. She offers me food, I refuse. She offers me a drink, I refuse. She asks me my name, I pretend not to hear.

She takes no note of my sword, seeing it as no threat to herself.

I do not speak. I do not move.

I wait.

She talks a lot. She tells me about the things she’s made for a meal, one she’d happily share with me. She tells me about the plants in the forest, and the ones that I might find useful. She tells me how beautiful I am, and how happy she would be to have me.

I feel tempted to give in, and stay here for the rest of my life.

She smiles softly at me, as if she knows this.

Her fingers trace up the flesh of my arm, suddenly revealed from under layers of blankets.

She tells me she could help me. She tells me I wouldn’t have to worry any more. She tells me I would be hers, perfect and eternal.

My arm goes cold, as though it were turning to ice. My joints feel stiff. A sudden stillness begins to overtake me.

This is a game to her, surely, and it seems she is winning.

She tells me I will have purpose, and the spell breaks.

I move my hand. I clench my fist around something.

My arm swings forwards.

She looks down.

Blood blooms from her torso, centred around the ugly iron implement that protrudes from her body.

Her eyes flick upwards, and I look away.

She goes still in my arms, much as I had gone still at the touch of hers.

I have won.

I cannot leave quickly enough.

Her house burns, all her food and plants and promises going up in flame.

Her offers nag at the back of my mind. She offered purpose, perfection, happiness, and most of all, stillness.

I have won this game.

So why do I so dearly wish that I had lost?

I’m a big fan of that post-laundry feeling when you’ve got all your A-list clothes back in the game.

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…

he wouldnt hurt a fly. he would hurt other things he just really likes bugs

Sex is cringe. "Hey do you wanna come over and play boners together?" What naked bullshit. They have played us for fools.

my copy of zeta gundam is fucked up dude

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