Another addition to the compilation. This post is looking for a GM; I don't care about your IRL gender. I have posts where I GM in my profile, or, if you just want something that's much kinder and happier. There's a message pinned to my profile that has writing samples. My current running imagination is an ambitious creative retelling of Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines, hopefully making it not a half-baked RPG that falls apart 1/3 of the way through. I'm not an experienced RPG player.
Threw this together in about fifteen minutes for an event on Reddit. If there's any major errors, please let me know. Thanks.
This isn't usually her type of scene.
"It is now."
The Beast they call it -- it speaks to her sometimes. It urges her to do . . . things. Things she should think are foul, but have become as normal to her as breathing. Only, she no longer has to breath.
No. She's developed a much finer richer taste these nights.
The club and all its raging lights are a bourgie paradise of degeneracy and filth; trust fund kids, the superrich middle-aged man and his horde of young women, fuckboys . . . the smell of them all made her body run hot. A rage of colors swarm the dance floor, bodies pumping and grinding together -- so much flesh.
"Just the Breath of Life, dear. All the warmth in you is dead. There's just us now."
It wasn't a pleasant voice. Sylvan had always imagined the devil on her shoulder would be a persuasive voice, a real Lucifer. This voice wasn't. It was the angriest she'd ever heard, so full of hate and fear and hunger and . . .
"I'll be nicer once we feed. There. The blonde at the table."
Gods, but she did look fucking delicious. There was a tenderness to her skin she could never have recognized when she was still human, like a rare steak, or . . .
Okay, she didn't actually know anything about meat. She just *looked* good. They were her type, which meant they were /completely/ out of Sylvan's league in fuckability. Legs long enough to park an airplane on that would look even better wrapped around her, a chronically bored expression on her face, a long neck that would look beautiful covered in blood.
"Vitae. She might be too good for you in the sack, but she's just perfect for a meal. Go."
Sylvan's legs were moving before she could think about anything other than the line she would use to get them alone, shocked by her own lack of control . . . not that there was much to be done about it.
Not that she wanted to do anything about it when the blonde's blo-- vitae, smelled so sweet. So pure.
"Hiya," Sylvan greeted, sliding into place, smiling warmly. "What's your sign?"
Kinks: Evil bitches being conniving / genuinely evil and despicable characters, femdom and lesbianism, slowburn seduction, problematic ghoulfication, gaslighting, D/s couples, collars, domesticization, spankings, orgasm denial and control, outfit control, genuine charisma and atmosphere-building. Most other vanilla and mild kinks. Kissing, distant yearning, one-sided romance. Unhealthy obsession. Contrasts.
Limits: I don't have any desire to see non-con as a fetish (only as an element of worldbuilding just like poverty and disease and slavery), or tentacles or animals or hyper anything or porn logic or porn dialogue, futas. Stereotypical / generic worldbuilding.
Threw this together in about fifteen minutes for an event on Reddit. If there's any major errors, please let me know. Thanks.
This isn't usually her type of scene.
"It is now."
The Beast they call it -- it speaks to her sometimes. It urges her to do . . . things. Things she should think are foul, but have become as normal to her as breathing. Only, she no longer has to breath.
No. She's developed a much finer richer taste these nights.
The club and all its raging lights are a bourgie paradise of degeneracy and filth; trust fund kids, the superrich middle-aged man and his horde of young women, fuckboys . . . the smell of them all made her body run hot. A rage of colors swarm the dance floor, bodies pumping and grinding together -- so much flesh.
"Just the Breath of Life, dear. All the warmth in you is dead. There's just us now."
It wasn't a pleasant voice. Sylvan had always imagined the devil on her shoulder would be a persuasive voice, a real Lucifer. This voice wasn't. It was the angriest she'd ever heard, so full of hate and fear and hunger and . . .
"I'll be nicer once we feed. There. The blonde at the table."
Gods, but she did look fucking delicious. There was a tenderness to her skin she could never have recognized when she was still human, like a rare steak, or . . .
Okay, she didn't actually know anything about meat. She just *looked* good. They were her type, which meant they were /completely/ out of Sylvan's league in fuckability. Legs long enough to park an airplane on that would look even better wrapped around her, a chronically bored expression on her face, a long neck that would look beautiful covered in blood.
"Vitae. She might be too good for you in the sack, but she's just perfect for a meal. Go."
Sylvan's legs were moving before she could think about anything other than the line she would use to get them alone, shocked by her own lack of control . . . not that there was much to be done about it.
Not that she wanted to do anything about it when the blonde's blo-- vitae, smelled so sweet. So pure.
"Hiya," Sylvan greeted, sliding into place, smiling warmly. "What's your sign?"
Kinks: Evil bitches being conniving / genuinely evil and despicable characters, femdom and lesbianism, slowburn seduction, problematic ghoulfication, gaslighting, D/s couples, collars, domesticization, spankings, orgasm denial and control, outfit control, genuine charisma and atmosphere-building. Most other vanilla and mild kinks. Kissing, distant yearning, one-sided romance. Unhealthy obsession. Contrasts.
Limits: I don't have any desire to see non-con as a fetish (only as an element of worldbuilding just like poverty and disease and slavery), or tentacles or animals or hyper anything or porn logic or porn dialogue, futas. Stereotypical / generic worldbuilding.
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