Hi all. Sorry I haven’t published in a while. Been living and practising until I found a voice I loved—one that I hope is equal parts switchblade and soiling. It’s a ‘something,’ for sure, and hopefully chasing its own redemption through trailer parks and motel rooms. It doesn’t come naturally yet, and consequently, I would love your raw takes: what slices deep, what clangs false. Bonus if you spot my muses.

This story owes its fangs to Ran Dandel’s short story The Sorceress’ Night Out on Fictionmania. Character Names have been retained as tribute. Thanks Dan!

The Seamstress and Her Moth

1. The First Thread

The closet exhaled bergamot and shame, its shadows sticky as altar wax.

Lanie leaned against the doorframe, rolling a cigarette between her fingers like a cursed rosary.

George stood haloed in the moonlight. Her moon-phase panties hugged his hips. The silver embroidery glowed softly, still charged from last night’s equinox rite.

“Again, Georgie?” Smoke curled around her grin. “My ceremonial silks aren’t your personal brothel.”

He didn’t turn. The panties’ waistband sawed into his flesh, drawing blood-dark beads. “You said they’d… feel different after the ritual. Like touching God.”

“God’s got better taste.” She crushed the unlit cigarette against the doorframe, releasing a burst of bitter yarrow. “Three blood moons to purify those. Now they reek of your midlife crisis.”

George faced her, the crescent moons stitched over his groin, throbbing like a fresh bruise. “I just wanted—”

“—to fuck the divine?” She stepped closer, her heels cracking a vial of dried nightshade. Ash drifted onto his bare chest.

“You’re not a priest. You’re…” She was interrupted by the sound of a moth battering itself against the closet’s lone lantern behind him. Its wings leaving ghostly smears on the glass.

“Yes… you’re like a moth chewing through my altar cloths.”

He flinched. The embroidery dimmed.

“Lanie, please. Let me fix this.”

“Fix it?” She laughed, sharp as shattered ritual glass. “The Ball starts in an hour. My entire wardrobe is tainted by your little pilgrimage.”

He reached for her. A thread snapped.

Silence pooled around them like spilt mercury.

“I’ll do anything,” he whispered.

Lanie stilled. “Anything?”

Her smile tasted like a struck match.

The spell wasn’t an incantation—it was a violation.

George gasped as the panties dissolved, threads swarming up his thighs like carnivorous ivy. “Lanie—stop—!”

“Hush.” She pressed a thumb to his jugular, feeling his pulse thrash. “You wanted to feel holy?”

The threads burrowed deeper, stitching through sinew. Silver moths bloomed across his chest, their wings fluttering with every ragged breath.

His knees buckled. The closet walls warped.

“There,” she crooned, catching him as he collapsed. “Now you’re useful.”

Where George had stood now hung a gown—black silk shot through with veins of liquid moonlight, the hem pooling like spilt ink. The silver moths now crawled along the bodice, their wings twitching.

Lanie stripped slowly, peeling off her blouse with a serpent’s grace. Her supple skin glowed in the lantern’s sickly light, her nipples hardening in the draft. She stepped into the gown, the silk almost sizzling as it fused to her curves.

In the mirror, she smirked.

“Look at you,” she murmured, hiking the slit up her thigh until it kissed her hipbone.

“Hungry?”

The neckline plunged as she shoved her breasts upward, the silk pulling against them like a second skin.

“Better.”

George’s voice slithered through the seams and into her head. *You shouldn't have done this.*

"And you shouldn't soiled my sacred undies." She spun, watching the bottom flare. “Isn’t this what you wanted? To be seen?”

The lantern flickered. Another moth managed to find its way inside and burst into flame.

“Behave,” she warned, smoothing the silk over her hips. The zipper teeth gnawed at her spine in reply.

II. Dressed for the Ball

The Sorcery Society Ball hummed with cursed champagne and borrowed magic.

Lanie’s bare thighs whispered against satin as she crossed the ballroom. No bra. No panties. Just George. The gown clung like a jealous lover, seams thrumming where her pulse flared.

*You're dripping. On my hem.*

She smirked, trailing a finger along the neckline. "Your hem is my hip, darling. Don’t pretend you don’t love the humidity."

Evelyn materialised in a cloud of opium smoke, her sequinned dress screaming for attention.

"Lanie! That gown—is it bespoke? It’s devouring you. Who’s the artiste behind this… masterpiece?"

Lanie plucked at the fabric from the bodice. "Oh, a collaborator. Insisted on a… hands-on approach to design."

"Mmm. Must have been very hands-on." Evelyn’s smirk sharpened. "The neckline’s practically confessional."

"He adores repentance," Lanie tugged the neckline downward, the silk tightening like a held breath. "And I adore making him kneel at my sewing machine."

Evelyn snorted. "Better than therapy?"

"Cheaper."

*Rot in hell.*

Evelyn leaned in, eyes sharp as broken glass. "Where’s George? He’s not… indisposed again?"

Lanie laughed, low and throaty. "He’s got himself wrapped around something critical. Fortunately, didn’t feel like dragging along any more accessories tonight."

The gown cinched her waist, its seams biting. *I’ll unravel you stitch by—*

"Hush," she murmured, patting her hip as if soothing a feral cat.

A waiter appeared—Jamie, perhaps in his early twenties, with tousled hair and hands still shaking from his first glamour shift. His gaze snagged on her chest.

*Pathetic. His presence is like mud. Smells like dormitory socks and regret.*

Lanie plucked a champagne flute from Jamie’s tray, letting her thumb graze his wrist. "Fresh meat?"
"Y-yes, ma’am." A blush crawled up his throat.

"Ma’am," she repeated, rolling the word like hard candy. "Georgie, he called me ‘ma’am’."
*Because you’re ancient.*

"I’m Lanie." She stepped closer, watching Jamie’s Adam’s apple jump. "And you’re perspiring."

The gown’s neckline plunged another inch, her nipples hardening against the satin.

*Stop. Twisting. You will pop my—*

"Relax," she crooned, both to Jamie and to the seams. "I don’t bite."—unless asked.

Evelyn snorted. "Liar. Remember the werewolf at Beltane?"

Jamie’s gaze dropped to Lanie’s mouth. The gown’s slit crept higher, exposing her bare thigh.

*You're gross. He's almost a child.*

*And you're a dress,* she shot back silently, grinding her molars. Aloud: "Fetch me something stronger, Jamie. The bourbon buried under the bartender’s guilt."

As he scurried off, Evelyn arched a brow. "No underthings? Bold for purification rituals."

Lanie shrugged, the motion making her breasts shift. "Blame George. He contaminated my wardrobe. Now this is the only thing clean enough to touch my skin."

*This isn’t right. Your spell was twisted.*

*Was it? Or did you beg for this when you stole my slip?*

Across the room, Jamie returned, liquor sloshing in a coupe glass. The gown’s hem dampened.

*You're wetter than a selkie’s funeral.*

"Jealousy’s unbecoming," she whispered, then took the drink, letting her pinky brush Jamie’s. "Tell me, handsome—ever danced with a cursed garment?"

The chandelier flickered. Somewhere, another moth burst into blue flames.

Lanie smiled.

III. A Seam Unravelling

The bourbon tasted like gasoline and bad decisions.

Lanie leaned against the bar, the gown’s slit creeping higher as Jamie refilled her glass. His hands shook—always the hands—spilling whisky over his novice cufflinks.

*Pathetic. You’ve sunk to cradle-robbing, Lanie?*

She swirled her drink. "Georgie thinks you’re nervous," she purred, catching Jamie’s wrist. "Are you nervous?"

"N-no, ma’am." His blush matched the pomegranate garnish.

*Ma’am,* George sneered. *Tell him you’re old enough to be his—*

“Hush.” She snapped her fingers. The gown’s seams cinched violently, silk hissing as George’s mental voice pitched upward—sharp, strained, feminine.

*What did you—*

You're a girl's dress now, best you sound like a girl too.

"Georgia," Lanie corrected aloud, tracing Jamie’s knuckles. "Much better."

The boy blinked. "Who’s Georgia?"

"My," she leaned in, breath fogging his spectacles, "little compromise."

Jamie’s throat bobbed. "Compromise?"

"Mm. Settled for silk when I wanted satin." She flicked the gown’s hem. "Someone ruined my wardrobe."

In the storage closet, Jamie’s pants pooled on the floor.

*Are you really going to cheat on me?* Georgia hissed. *After all this time? With this… back-alley tomcat?*

Lanie sank to her knees, concrete biting her bare skin as she let her hands wander over her dress. *This is your fault, darling.* “Mmmm… All that rubbing against me tonight…"

Jamie’s cock sprang free—pink, eager, youthfully thick.

*Disgusting,* Georgia shrilled. *He’s all enthusiasm and no—*

*Bigger than you, it looks like,* Lanie finished, swallowing him whole.

*You wished. I recall you screaming—*

"Hush," Lanie hummed, deep and throaty. Jamie’s hips jerked. Mmm. *He tastes like… regret. Your speciality, Georgia.*

The gown tightened, seams squealing.

*You’re desperate. You choose this...amateur hour to ruin us?*

“Sshhh already.” She quickened her pace, nails digging into Jamie’s thighs. *You’re just jealous he’s hard for me.*

*Jealous?* Georgia’s laugh was like shattered glass. *I’m embarrassed for you. Even Evelyn’s familiars have more—*

Jamie came with a whimper, spattering the bodice. Lanie leaned back, smearing it into Georgia’s silk with her thumb. "There. Finally useful."

*Rot,* Georgia spat. *You’ll choke on karma one day.*

"Run along," Lanie said, licking her palm clean. "Tell your friends you survived."

Alone, she studied the mirror. The cum-stained moths on the dress pulsed faintly.

*You decided to break my heart; Georgia’s voice cracked, for this?*

Lanie yanked up her dress and plunged a finger inside. "I settled for you first, darling."

The gown went rigid.

Evelyn materialised in a plume of clove smoke, her hair a wild mess, sequined gown undone and clinging loosely. Still shimmering with the reminders of her own recent escapades.

"Darling," she purred, flicking a nail at the moths crusted on Lanie's breast, "did you fuck a moth colony or just a particularly fertile young man?"

Lanie let her finger graze the cuff of the dress, the silk hissing as it cinched her waist. “Georgia—she’s been pampered tonight.”

"Georgia?" Evelyn's brow arched. "A mortal pet?"

"An old habit," Lanie smirked, watching a warlock across the room. Mid-forties, salt-and-sorrow hair, fingers bare where a wedding ring once sat. "One that clings."

Evelyn materialised, sucking an olive pit. "Youthful vigour suit you muck?"

Lanie adjusted a strap. "Vigour’s generous. More like… earnest fumbling."

"Mmm." Evelyn flicked the pit at the soiled bodice. "Careful. Young cocks are like bad poetry—all thrust, no rhythm."

Lanie grinned. "Good thing I’ve got forever to polish them."

Somewhere, a moth scraped against torn silk.

IV. A Stich of Regret

The ballroom's chandelier hung off the ceiling like ugly celestial tears. Casting its fractured scattering of light over Lanie's cum-tainted bodice.
Evelyn snorted. "Witches weren’t meant for monogamy, especially not with non-magicals. How did you even stomach bedding the enemy?"
Lanie’s laugh was a blade unsheathed. "He had a tongue like a silver-tipped quill, wrote sonnets between my thighs."

"And now you...?"

"Now I’ve decided to collect sonnets." She glanced at the divorcee only to be rewarded with a smile. "Easy enough. Vintage regrets always aged better than half mortal marriages ever did."

Evelyn’s grin sharpened. "Go, get that cleanse going, darling. Let his grief scour George’s stink from your pores."

The bedroom stank of sweat and betrayal, while the bed expelled ragged creaks like regrets coming undone in the night.

*Pathetic,* Georgia hissed as Lanie unzipped Alaric’s slacks. *You’ll gag on his stench.*

"Jealousy’s unbecoming," Lanie crooned, sinking to her knees. Alaric’s cock was reasonable, veined, and predictable—a monument to acceptable mediocrity.

*He's an accountant,* Georgia sneered. *Fucks like he’s balancing ledgers.*

Lanie swallowed him whole, her gag reflex nearly nonexistent. *Mmmm…Tastes like sweet, sweet alimony, though.*

Alaric groaned, his fingers knotting in her hair. Silk straps abandoned to expose her bountiful breasts while she hollowed her cheeks.

*You're scraping the barrel,* Georgia spat. *At least I have stamina.*

Lanie pulled off with a wet pop. "Did you?" Her thumb swirled the head of Alaric’s cock.

*I recall you whimpering when I—*

*Fuck no, Georgie, I've never whimpered and* "Hush dress."

She took him deeper, gagging theatrically until tears glazed her lashes. When he came, she let it splatter across the bodice—thick streaks glazing silver thread. Georgia’s second load for the night.

"There," she sighed, smearing his filth onto where Georgia’s breasts would be. "Almost nostalgic."

On George’s side of the bed, Lanie rode Alaric cowgirl-style, the gown tangled around his ankles like a weeping lover.

*He’ll toss you out like last week’s trash,* Georgia sizzled even as her voice cracked with her pain, the seams tightening with every bounce of Lanie’s hips. *Just like you did to me tonight.*

"Quiet. Don't distract me from the cock," Lanie gasped, grinding harder. Sweat pooled in the hollow of her throat, her breasts swaying as she arched backwards. The moths embroidered over her ribs fluttered weakly.

Alaric grasped her hips, leaving plum-dark bruises. "Christ, you’re incredible—"

*He’s a fucking corpse, and you are a shitty actress juicing his junk up with your magic,* Georgia sneered. *He’s got less fire than a wet match.*

*Still fuckable, unlike you,* Lanie snarled, slamming down until the headboard cracked against the wall. Alaric came with a shout, his spend painting Georgia’s silk once more.

She collapsed forward, sweat-slick threads clinging to her spine as she sniffed her dress and snapped her fingers at Alaric’s spent cock. "There. Still… useful."

Five minutes later, Lanie braced herself against the headboard. Georgia’s silk chafing her hips as a magically juiced Alaric pounded into her from behind like a resurrected zombie. The gown clung to her sweat-slicked back, straps digging into her shoulders.

*You're a glorified cum bucket,* Georgia raged, the seams straining with each thrust. *He’s thinking about his ex’s tits.*

"Still… rougher… “ than you ever were, Lanie spat, clawing the wood until it splintered. The dress slithered lower, pooling at her waist as she arched defiantly. "Finish. On me."

Alaric obeyed, grunting as he pulled out and spilt across Georgia’s silk-clad back. The fabric hissed where his spend struck it, threads curling like burnt hair.

*This is revolting*, Georgia muttered, her voice fraying. *You’ll wear his shame forever.*

Lanie rolled over, the gown still fused to her torso. "No," she smirked, smearing his mess into the bodice as she snapped her fingers again. "You will."

Ten minutes later, a resurrected-again Alaric’s fingers clawed at Georgia’s zipper mid-thrust. Drunk on the thrill of being unravelled, Lanie arched into him. Her nails dug crescent moons into his shoulders. "Yes, tear her off me. Show her who's her daddy," she said as the dress flew across the bed.

*Don’t let him—I'll think I'll die.* Georgia’s voice bled, the threads straining.

Hush, Lanie gasped, her orgasm cresting as the silk pooled around her ankles. *You’re… jealous… he actually tries—*

The zipper hit the floor. Georgia’s final plea dissolved into static: *Lanie..don’t—*

Silence.

Lanie froze, Alaric still rutting inside her. Georgia? GEORGIE?

No answer.

She shoved him off, scales erupting across her collarbones. "What did you do to my Georgie?"

Alaric blinked, his cock still glistening. "The hell’s a Georgi—"

Her scream tore through the room first, and then she followed. Scales erupted down her spine, her talons shredding the mattress like it didn't even exist. Alaric stumbled back in terror, cock shrivelling as her pupils split into reptilian slits.

"Laniara..." he choked, recognition dawning. "The Hoard breaker—fuck, the stories are true!"

She lunged, pinning the poor bastard to the wall. Her fiery breath scorched his face, sulphurous and primal. "Bring. Her. Back."

"I—I didn’t know!" he babbled even as his own piss pooled at his feet. "Please—I’ll do anything! Gold, relics, please...anything!"

Her tail lashed, shattering the mirror behind him. "You can’t give me what’s ALREADY MINE!"

He scrambled backwards, piss streaming down his legs. "Mercy, Dragonmother—!"

A flick of her wrist sent him hurtling into the hallway. The door sealed with a thunderclap.

"BABY!" she roared, half-dragon now, fangs dripping flames. "Come back!"

Nothing.

Lanie collapsed, human again, Georgia’s silk clutched to her heaving chest. “Baby, please,” she sobbed, tears dissolving into steam before they hit the ground. “I’ll burn the world, I’ll weave you anew, just—talk to me.”

Not even a whisper.

She pressed the fabric to her lips, whispering into its cold threads: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Alone—as a moth stranded without the night’s flame.