nestbeschmutzerin, nobody for nowhere, unwanted daughter, who ran away as teenager and raised herself, learned that burning the candle at both ends as survival will ruin you.
be kind to others.
bluesky
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I got isekaied but not the way I wanted (wished to be a girl♀ but I’m a guy♂ again)
read on AO3, Scribblehub
The Thorns of Crimson Courtship by cutterlina91
Chapters: ?
Fandom: Original Work, Carmilla - J. Sheridan Le Fanu
Rating: Mature
Additional Tags: Lesbians, Vampires, Witches, Second Chances, Angst with a Happy Ending, Found Family, Forced Feminization, more the forcefem aftermath that the thing itself, Gender Identity, Alternate Universe - College/University
Series: Part 3 of Carmilla and Esther
Summary:
Esther finds herself having to built a life as woman, a life she never imaged she would have, while her ex-girlfriend Madeleine grapples with revelations that have her unmoored in a fashion not dissimilar. A spiral of choices or fate draws them together again.
(Carmilla & Laura are here too, but they are supporting cast not the main act)
Carmilla's and Esther's story continues ...
Beyond the Crimson Threshold by cutterlina91
Chapters: 27/27
Fandom: Carmilla - J. Sheridan Le Fanu
Rating: Mature
Series: Part 2 of Carmilla and Esther
Summary:
Carmilla’s recently turned (in more than one way) trans daughter Esther explores what it means to be a vampire, what being a trans girl entails and whatever is going on in the supernatural world, all the while new a suitor challenges her established relationship with her witch girlfriend. The mother & daughter fluff still runs thick as Carmilla tries her best at steering her daughter in the right direction. (Her methods & directions may or may not be questionable.)
The Crimson Red Door (60166 words) by cutterlina91
Chapters: 17/17
Fandom: Carmilla - J. Sheridan Le Fanu
Rating: Mature
Additional Tags: Forced Feminization, Trans Female Character, Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, soft dom, Vampires, Witches, Lesbian Sex, Fluff and Angst, mother-daughter bonding, Forced found family;
Series: Part 1 of Carmilla and Esther
Summary:
Ethan is drifter who finds himself one winter in modern day Vienna enraptured by this eccentric woman next door. As a strange sickness befalls him, the woman makes an outrageous offer. Some invitations can not be rescinded, some threshold can not be uncrossed.
I got isekaied but not the way I wanted (wished to be a girl♀ but I’m a guy♂ again)
AO3, scribblehub
So, if you make the mistake of getting hit by a truck at three in the morning, because you’re a depressed college dropout who ran out of ramen and really needed to make an impromptu late night trip to the konbini and you're too much of an idiot to pull out your earphones or comb your greasy ass hair out of your face before crossing the street, you might as well give it your all with your dying wish.
So with the darkness closing in, I beseeched the universe.
Please let me be a girl in my next life.
~*☆ Please let me be a girl in my next life! ☆*~
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That did not work out.
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Whatever's out there, the big wheel of samsara was not on my side.
No starting over. No cute girl in the mirror. Just some pretty faced douchebag my age.
Oh, and then there was this big mansion, an important family clan, something-something noble warriors for generations, bla bla, the full works. And to top it off, turns out I'd landed myself in the position of their petite third son Katsumi, who had—prior to my involuntary take-over of his life and body—exceeded in being a sadistic asshole.
Oh and pretty boy had driven his brand new sports car into a lamp post.
Oops.
It was nothing serious, just a minor concussion, but enough for a short stint at the hospital.
And that’s where I was handed the wheel.
Took me half a day to figure out that I'd left my old world behind, exchanged it for a another, that of a second-rate light novel whose chapters I'd been to stingy to buy after a while.
It hadn't been that good.
And with my luck, I found myself the would be bitter rival of the 'protagonist'. Some generic-looking hero type. Same type that graces the covers of mediocre manga the world over.
That’s where I broke.
If I had been a pretty girl, I would’ve acquiesced. Being a bully wasn’t my style — sounds like a hassle —but if that had been my entry fee to girlhood, I would’ve played my part.
Negging the protagonist, being a major bitch, always a step ahead until finally; my downfall! My pride tarnished! Sitting on the floor, my cute dress all dirty and the protagonist reaching out, because he was the good guy and so on.
But as a guy?
Fuck no!
I refuse!
I wasn’t going along with any of this! I flat out said no to everything.
If I wasn’t a girl, screw this!
I’m out!
I mean… I’m kinda sad that I ruined the protagonist’s story. Without his rival as a catalyst, the whole thing is probably wrecked. Not that I have a way of checking…
I do feel sorry for the guy, he seemed pretty decent when I read the novel. Even the one time I saw him in person he had this unshakable charisma. Good looks too.
Not like my pretty boy, the protagonist's more the rugged type.
Anyway, me being a major downer, refusing any and everything and shutting myself in, got me disowned by pretty boy’s warrior clan family and thrown out of the house.
Which was kinda harsh but okay. Fine.
Maybe the wrecked sports car didn’t help, but that wasn’t my fault was it?
Technically speaking…
Not that it matters. I’m stuck being pretty boy so I guess his sins are all mine now.
Big bro of pretty boy gave me his number. Guy felt—in all likelihood—sorry for me, but I wasn’t about to call him, he is basically a stranger to me, after all.
I mean, it was awkward as is, with me inhabiting someone else's body and life. It didn’t come with pretty boy’s memories, so I was at a loss most of the time. The whole concussion thing painted over the worst of it, thankfully.
Being away from pretty boy’s family makes things a whole lot easier on that front.
I could finally relax a bit.
────୨ৎ────
Out of the house, I'd landed myself this shitty job at a konbini in one of the less popular districts of ■■■. Got a one room apartment too—in walking distance which feels outrageously lucky for the likes of me, also entertained my gallows humor for a day or too.
Not that I care for any of this.
I’m not a girl for a second time.
This sucks.
Mr. Kataoka is nice I guess, and my coworker, Hikari, is capable of lightening my mood during break. Shiro on the other hand… I mean he's decent, but also an obnoxious gacha fanatic. Has his phone on full blast when pulling, says without the sound he can’t do it.
And… well, the days went by.
I’m glad we're a little off the main thoroughfare without being too far of the beaten path. Means we get mainly salarymen on lunch break and some grannies in the morning and very little demons.
Yes you heard right, this is a world with demons and magic. Not a lot of magic, just enough to hand wave away any necessary plot contrivances, but in general it's not too different from our own world.
Hunting demons is a dangerous gig job and yet somehow the thing this whole world revolves around. Okay, fine. If you make it into the big leagues as a demon-hunter, the payout is crazy and there's leaderboards showing the current rankings and everything and the top twelve S-rank Hunters are outright celebrities.
But for some depressed loser like me, the whole ordeal is mostly an annoying hassle. Having to check an app on your way home at night to see if there are any magical disturbances hinting at demon activity nearby.
And those sirens… Those fucking sirens if some A-class or higher demon was spotted in your area... Where you have to lock yourself into a windowless room and hope for the best.
My old world didn’t have any of this shit!
So I don't get to be a girl and have to deal with shitty ass demons on top of it?
I hate it.
ヾ(`ヘ´)ﾉﾞ
────୨ৎ────
Anyway, so I’m really angry, sitting in the fucking cramped-ass break room in the afternoon while Shiro’s phone is blaring annoying sounds and I’m wishing for an unironic second truck to just plow me away and Shiro with me, when it comes on the news.
Ordinary demon-hunter stuff. The local new B-ranks, something about what the demons of this season are and what to do to avoid them, that kind of stuff.
Boring.
But then an announcement comes on, saying that the official board of the demon-hunter guild has reclassified some high level hunter’s gear, once again a boring technicality.
But the hunter’s gear that's got reclassified has my full attention.
Because the name's intriguing.
It’s actual function, I learn after a short search on my phone, even more.
I grab Shiro’s shoulder in excitement before jumping up and screaming at the top of my lungs.
"FUCK YES!!!"
This is my way out!
My ticket to finally be a girl!
There's this thing out there that can just change me into a girl in an instant!
Okay, it’s high level restricted demon-hunter’s gear but it does exist.
Magical sex-change!
~*☆ Yes! ☆*~
At once, my mind's made up. I’m switching careers to become a demon-hunter! So I can finally become a girl!
Okay, maybe not switching careers, more… part time—at first.
The pay out for hunting low class demons is… abysmal.
I check my phone again.
Restricted to A-rank hunters or higher.
My mood deflates.
There only are like, a thousand A-rank hunters in the whole country.
This is impossible.
Dangling a solution for my plight in front of me just out of reach.
designation://terrible by cutterlina91
Angel Fall. A designation is assigned and never freely given, a price has to be paid. I watch it fall. I am a witness. A terrible witch. Blind now, no doll eyes left to perceive the world with. I am an only witness. Death occupies this sector now. The radiation burst, a death spasm of the dying thing exterminated everything and everyone. Ten-thousand souls blinked out of existence in an instant. I remove my sensory deprivation helmet and watch as molten metal rains from sky. A hundred-thousand white streaks that burn at the back retinas. I watch as the mangled glowing corpses of drones, mechs and warships vaporized in an imperceptible time frame fall from the sky. White Thermite rain, like a hundred-thousand drop-ships burning up in the atmosphere after an entry vector miscalculation. But these reach the ground. I watch the remands strike the battlefield as if it were an orbital carpet bombing. A hundred-thousand impact shockwaves which would deafen and kill anyone left standing. There are none. I am an only witness.
This is my work. I am a terrible witch.
A doll is an object. A life force rended from a human. A thing that burns rather fast in the radiation wave of an Angel. So fragile, so precious. All my dolls are husks now emptied by the Angel’s last fuck-you. No odem left in them. Lifeless things. I am a terrible witch. Risen through the ranks through to the deaths of others. I stand on a mountain of corpses. I walk amongst them. I make my way. The sky is black. A blanket of asphyxiating fumes blocking out the sun. I walk through the pockmarked crater field of my creation. My dolls slain by the Angel. They are dead now. I am terrible witch. I failed to abandon my sensory deprivation helmet. I carry it. It is my burden to carry. Soot covered cyclopian ribcages of battleships jut from the mud and create a forest of death. I walk amongst the misshapen trees of metal. A witch without a doll. I stumble. I am a terrible witch.
Only a cockpit left. I force it open. I have exhausted myself shielding myself against the radiation bust of the Angel. My magic drained. I am almost empty. I am a terrible witch. The metal is still hot from the fall. I burn my hand. The deep orange sludge of cooked off mech fluid drenching me. It reeks. The thing falls out. I sever its neural link and feeding tubes. I am weak. It takes significant effort to yank the thing away from the smoldering corpse of its mech. It still carries an odem. It is alive. I look at its glazed over empty eyes. I tell the breathing pilot-thing it is my doll now. It protests. I tell it if it disobeys I will burn out its synapses and it can either be a brain dead vegetable forgotten on a battlefield or have purpose. Its dead eyes lighten up at the word 'purpose'. It is a doll.
I leave my helmet and rummage through the splattered debris field gathering nutrient fluid and protein bars for my pilot-thing doll. It is confused. I tell it I cannot mold its body. I am almost empty. I’ll have to recuperate first. I tell it we’ll have to pretend. It asks me if it’s a combat doll. It refers to itself as a person. I threaten to burn its synapses. I tell it I have no use for a combat doll. It protests. I burn parts of its brain. It screams but understand. I tell it I’m in need of a service doll, I tell it I have no maid uniform for it. I tell it we’ll have to pretend. It protests. I cauterize another insignificant part of its brain. It protests. It does not want to wear a dress. I tell it, it is doll and dolls wear dresses. It does not protest. I have no dress. Black snow begins to fall. My wards protect me but my doll’s flesh shell will eventually fail. I have to hurry. I am a terrible witch.
My doll carries me. I have a doll now. I am a terrible witch. The black snow reaches up to the knees of my doll. The skin on its shins blisters and begins to fall off. Open flesh beneath. It winces from pain. I tell it I’ll give it perfect porcelain skin. I tell it, it will never have to feel pain again. I’ll have to recuperate first. I am almost empty. I tell it we’ll have to pretend. It understands. It refers to itself as a person. I tell it, it is a thing not person and if it does that again I will burn off another part of its brain.
We rest in the shadow of a slain walker its long mechanical legs reaching into the gray sky like that of a dead spider on its back. I gather septic patches from a nearby bombed out command post. I bandage the open flesh of my doll best I can. I tell it I will make it beautiful, so beautiful the other witches will envy me for it. I am almost empty. I tell it we’ll have to pretend.
Night falls and my doll keeps me warm. It wakes me. It cries. It tells me the radiation has fried its A.I. and the com-link of its mech. It tells me it was so alone in its cockpit, trapped within the dead metal flesh of its mech, wishing it had died with the rest. It is grateful I made it my doll. It refers to itself as a person. I burn a few synapses. I tell it I will give it gorgeous glass eyes. I tell it I will remove its tear ducts. I tell it, it will never cry again. I am almost empty. I tell it we’ll have to pretend. I stroke its hair as it cries. I have clumps of its hair in my hand.
I am witch with an unfinished doll. I am a terrible witch.
The sun returns. Past wisps of thick black smoke its warmth reaches us. My doll carries me. We walk through a silent graveyard. I tell my doll I will replace its heart with machinery. I tell it, its heart will never grow heavy again. I am almost empty. I tell it we’ll have to pretend. My doll puts me down and tells me to not make a sound. It gives me a combat assessment. I tell it, it is a service not a combat doll. I sear off a minuscule part of its brain. It purrs. It likes to be disciplined. It is a doll. My doll tells me we have to stay still. It has seen a Seeker scanning the rumble. My doll is trying to keep me save. I reward it. I tell it I will give it a nice cup of tea. I have no tea or cup. I tell it, we’ll have to pretend. We wait. My doll is on the look out.
We continue our march unter the cover of darkness. The infrared sensors of the seeker hopefully confused by the still hot metal of the Angel Fall. We slink past it.
We rest in an old service tunnel blown open by the bombardment. My doll seeks my touch. It holds me. I am its witch. It is a doll. I stroke it. I have more of its hair in my hands. The bandages are soaked through. I tell it I will replace its blood with lubricant. I tell it I will give it wonderful long luscious hair. I tell it I will brush its hair daily. I am almost empty. We pretend. I have no more protein bars for it. I tell it I will make it so that it never has to eat again. We pretend. I am terrible witch.
With the sun up we walk. We reach the crater of the fallen Angel. I make my way down the slope. My doll asks me what I am doing. I tell it I slayed the Angel, it is my right to claim its halo. My dolls tells me this will kill me. I know this. My doll stops me. I tell it to release me. My doll protests and refuses. I tell it, it is a doll and I’m its witch, it has to obey my command. It says it knows this. It reiterates that claiming the halo will kill me. It calls me 'miss' for the first time. Is the designation 'terrible' witch still applicable if my unfinished pilot-thing doll calls me 'miss'? I study my doll. It deserves to be finished.
I have a breakdown at the slops of an impact crater of a fallen Angel. I am a terrible witch. My doll tells me it still has its pilot-mods, its cyberware mostly intact, if I could bring it to a coms-relay-station it could call a drop-ship. I tell it a doll is a vessel for its witch, a tool to be filled with the witch’s will, not the other way around. My doll tells me it knows this. I burn a significant part of its brain. It screams in agony. I tell it I will love and care for it. It is a doll. I am a terrible witch.
We walk for three days to the next relay-station. I have no food for my unfinished doll. My doll has started bleeding from old wounds which have begun to open up again. I bandage it best I can. Its shell is failing rapidly. I cannot extend my magical wards towards it to shield it too. I am almost empty. My doll deserves to be finished. It carries me. I give it a piece of my wards. I feel the radiation and toxins permeating my body, scraping off decades of my lifespan.
We make it to the coms-station. The automated system greets my doll as 'Nathan Staszov'. I tell it is an object not a person. My doll tells me it belongs to my enemy. I tell it, it belongs only to me. I am its witch and it is my doll! My doll confirms. I tell it it is a good doll. It sends a distress signal on the behalf of its witch, on behalf of me. I am a terrible witch.
We wait for the extraction team. I tell my doll it will be my companion. I tell it I will kiss its porcelain lips. We pretend. I tell it I will run my fingers over its smooth blemish-free porcelain skin up to its perfectly sculpted face into its hair. I tell it will explore its finished form. I tell it I will fuck it. I tell it how wonderful it will feel to be finally free of its flesh, how it will have always have a place by my side, for I will love it with all my terrible witch’s heart. I am a terrible witch.
The extraction team tries to decommission my unfinished doll. I cook off the synapses of one of them and tell them it is not an enemy pilot but my doll. My doll substantiates my statement. It is an obedient doll. The extraction team relents. I am a terrible witch, who killed an Angel. They take us on board. The shell of my doll begins to fail. I demand that the shell of my doll is stabilized. I am listened to, I am a terrible witch. My doll is dying. I hold it in my arms as they try to save its shell. They do not fail but my time is running out. I have to finish my doll. I am almost empty. My arms reach into it, rend pealing blistering skin from blood, bone and sinew. I rip organs, flesh and vessels from their place. I create porcelain where once there was skin, joints of metal that will never ache. I give it mechanisms which carry touch without pain, I relief it of the burden of a heart, give it one of pure purpose, eyes that will see the beauty of its witch but never cry, hair to be played with that will never fall out. I give my doll a wonderful feminine form of my dead lover. I am a terrible witch, who lies. I am empty now. I create a doll without a witch. I am a terrible witch, who gave her life. A designation is assigned and never freely given, a price has to be paid. I give the designation Alice to my doll as my last word.
