XXXII. The First Week
 
Claymaker Reversal attempt #3

The bedroom reeked of burnt rubber and desperation, ritual smoke coiling like a hangman’s noose. Lanie lay crumpled on the floor—a silk dress in funeral black, her seams frayed and hem singed. Her sleeves twitched faintly, even as the fabric healed painfully. A ripple of her fabric was the closest she could muster to a middle finger.

*Third time’s the charm huh bitch?* Lanie dripped acid. *Or are we just making a hobby out of setting shit AND ME on fire?*

Evelyn stomped on the smouldering remains of the ritual circle, scattering crushed moth wings and burnt bits of Lanie's old thong. “Your existential crisis isn’t helping.”

*Existential crisis? Honey, I’m a dress and my clit is now your junk piercing. My biggest dilemma? It's when you decide to pee.* Her collar stiffened, fabric puckering like a sneer. Face it—this isn’t about me anymore. *'We... are chasing ghosts.*

“We are fixing mistakes.” Evelyn snatched Lanie off the floor and began to put her on. “Starting with you.”

*Mistakes?* Lanie’s bodice tightened, silk biting Evelyn’s ribs hard enough to draw a gasp. *This isn't about me being fabric. It’s about her being… whatever the hell she is.*

“Niyati’s a scholar and a whore. Just a pest. A very attractive…delicious and annoying pest”

*Yes… With Georgie’s smirk. His exact cadence when she says ‘bullshit.’* Lanie’s zipper clinked mockingly. *Even his knack for pissing you off.*

Evelyn hurled a whiskey bottle at the wall. Glass exploded, amber tears bleeding down plaster. “She was alive, Lanie. Breathing, ageing, existing while we burnt his remains. You want to call that reincarnation? The math doesn’t math.”

*Since when do we care about math?* Lanie’s hem flicked toward the nightstand, where Niyati’s letter lay open. *She’s got his soul inked into her bones. His strength, his delicious smell. You felt it when she—*

“Stop.” Evelyn’s fingers gouged the dresser, scales flaring rust-red. “It’s impossible. Souls don’t split timelines like bad celluloid.”

*Unless someone forced one.* Lanie’s sleeves sagged, fabric hissing now. *You ever think our Georgie did a little… creative fragmentation? A backup plan, maybe?*

“He wasn’t a warlock, and he was clueless.”

*Yes, just a stubborn bastard who loved me enough to give up everything.*

Silence choked the air around them as the AC needlessly sputtered, coughing up stale memories.

Evelyn slumped onto the bedspring carcass, the pendant’s wings digging into her palm. “Even if… even if some shred of him is in her, it’s probably not him. Just… echoes.”

*Echoes?* Lanie’s collar brushed the floor, silk cold as a tombstone. *We both whimpered his name last time she fucked us...repeatedly. Sounded pretty real to me.*

“I was drunk.”

*You were hopeful. And now you’re pissy ‘cause the numbers don’t add up.*

“THE NUMBERS DON’T LIE.” Evelyn surged upright, hellfire in her irises. “Niyati was born decades before he died. She was in grad school while he was still breathing! You want magic to rewrite time?”

*Magic rewrote me into a fucking cocktail dress!* Lanie’s seams split, threads lashing. *Maybe Georgie didn’t reincarnate. Maybe he… imprinted. Left his beautiful stain on the world. And she’s the sponge.*

“Poetic. Useless.”

*Like these reversal rituals?*

Evelyn lunged, talons shredding silk. Lanie tore at the shoulder seam—a wound that wouldn’t bleed. They collapsed in a heap, fabric and fury tangled.

*Face it,* Lanie’s voice cracked, threads stitching back again. *You don’t want me flesh again. You want him. And she’s the closest thing left.*

Evelyn’s grip slackened. “…What if she’s just her?”

*Then we’re fucked either way.*

Later, in the cracked hallway mirror, Evelyn fastened Lanie’s straps. The silk clinging to her like a second skin.

*Full moon’s tomorrow* Lanie muttered, seams still sulking. *Gonna keep pretending physics matter?*

“They have to.”

*Why?*

“Because if they don’t…” Evelyn traced the moth pendant’s fractured wings, its ghost humming in her veins." We are the fools who let our love go twice.”

Somewhere downtown, someone scribbled in a margin, her pen hovering over a handwritten “why me dragon?” The ink bled.
 
 
Friday: Succubus Sabbath
 
Evelyn leaned back against the obsidian bar. Lanie’s chains coiled around her waist like a serpentine belt, the dragonhide corset creaking with every agitated breath. Across the room, a bored succubus filed her talons into razor points.

“You hired help?” Niyati’s voice cut through the uncomfortable silence before she did.

Evelyn turned and froze.

There, framed in the doorway, stood a stranger. Tiny, 5’2” of girlish charm wrapped in self-choosen humiliation. Drowning in a bubblegum-pink crop top that screamed “DADDY’S LIL DISSAPOINTMENT”. The shirt clung to almost nothing, save for two nuclear warheads masquerading as nipples. They jutted against the sequined fabric like they’d been sharpened on a prison-yard fence, demanding worship or warfare.

“Surprise,” Niyati rasped, her now boyish voice hoarse and cigarette-stained. Her leather jacket hung off one shoulder, revealing collarbones sharp enough to slit a wrist. Her cutoff jeans were more hole than denim. Distressed with meticulous irony, they hung loose on coltish legs, the sparsest down, catching the light like dust motes in a sunbeam.

Her hair was hacked short, button nose, and her posture screamed fragility. But those eyes, those incredible eyes. Too large for her face but too small to hide Georgia’s burning defiance.

Lanie’s seams nearly split at the sight. *Mother of Gorgons—those nips could puncture dragonhide!*

Niyati peeled off the jacket slowly, like peeling a bandage from a fresh tattoo. The crop top followed, revealing a chest flatter than a liar’s promise, those goddamn nipples too pink, too perfect—stoplights in a ghost town.

“Turns out I can… shift,” she said, thumbs hooking into the waistband of ruffled panties printed with ‘SPANK THE SISSY. IT’S ETHICAL’ in neon cursive.

Evelyn’s throat went dry as a pawnshop Bible. Lanie’s corset seams squealed in...something.

Niyati stepped closer, heels crunching the fragments of a thousand regrettable decisions.

“Thought this’d make it easier,” she moaned, pinching one nipple hard enough to blush.

The succubus snorted. “Easier to what? Babysit?”

*Awwww.Our baby looks like a feral cherub who mugged a Hot Topic.* Lanie giggled even as Evelyn’s claws unsheathed. “Explain this Now!”

Niyati peeled off the binder, revealing a torso mapped with silver stretch marks. “Found out last week. After our…night. together.” Her hands shook as she unbuttoned her jeans. “S’pose my ‘code’ is editable.” The denim pooled, exposing boxers dotted with cartoons.

“Wanted to give you this…gift.”

“This gift?!” Evelyn’s exclamation was a grenade pin pulled. “I razed cities before your ancestors learned to farm!”

*Yet here we are,* Lanie whispered, chains slithering into a choke collar, *hiring a third wheel because we’re scared to touch our own dear ‘femboi’.*

The succubus sauntered forward, talon hooking Niyati’s boxers. “Let’s see the goods, shrimp.”

Niyati batted her hand away. “I’ll do it.” She stepped back, boxers sliding down stick-thin legs. Her little cocklette curled soft against her thigh, no thicker than a thumb, shrivelled and pink like a seashell.

“Oh sweet Satan,” the succubus cackled. “It’s a clitoris with delusions!”

“Enough!” Evelyn’s roar rattled the chandelier. She hadn’t meant to defend the sissy. “Fuck.”

Niyati straightened. “Well?” She spread her arms, freckles mapping her ribs like battle trophies. “Easy enough to dominate?”

The succubus flicked a talon at Niyati’s chest. “I’ve seen more meat on a communion wafer.”

“I said enough!” Evelyn surged forward—and halted.

Niyati trembled, not from fear, but from effort. Her form flickered, edges blurring like a TV losing signal.

“You’re… holding it,” Evelyn realised.

“Duh.” Niyati’s grin was all Georgia. “Shapeshifting’s clearly a choice. I chose this.” She gestured at her shrunken frame. “For tonight, for you.”

The succubus rolled her eyes. “Touching. Can we get to the caning now?”

“Get out.”

“What?”

“OUT!” Evelyn’s talons slammed the succubus against the wall. “Your contract’s void. Tell your broker I’ll incinerate her next courier if she questions my commands.”

The succubus vanished with a sulfurous pop.

Silence.

Niyati stood small in the rubble, cocklette still soft. “…Why?”

Evelyn’s claws retracted. “Because I don’t want you broken.”

*Liar,* Lanie hummed, dragonhide unravelling into a robe that clung to Evelyn’s shoulders like a sinner’s regret. *But keep lying, dragon. It’s the closest we’ll get to absolution.*

“Right of conquest,” Evelyn snarled, talon circling Niyati’s cocklette—a shy pink worm trembling in the breeze. “A dragon’s claim.”

“Yours,” Niyati breathed, hips stuttering forward.

*Bullshit,* Lanie hissed, fabric curling into the shape of many little middle fingers. *It’s a ‘gift’, Scales. And debts come due.*

Evelyn’s thumb found the slit, smearing precum like sacramental oil.

“Surrender!” she growled, hoisting Niyati up like a rag doll, the girl’s legs hooking around her neck. Evelyn's talons bit into Niyati's bird-boned hips even as her new form dangled like a broken marionette. The little cocklette bobbing against Evelyn’s lips, a mewling pink plea.

"Yes.. All yours... P-please," she whimpered, her voice stripped of its diesel purr - Her chest heaved beneath. Her voice dissolving into a whimper as Evelyn's tongue swiped the weeping tip.

Niyati's back arched like a snapped violin string as she ’came’ in moments. Her ruined orgasm painting Evelyn's chin with less climax than a punctuation mark. The cocklette spasmed weakly, depositing its meagre offering between the dragon's smirking lips. "There," she panted, sweat-glued strands clinging to her forehead like a child's fever dreams. "Punish me, mommy. Your... victory."

Lanie's corset seams vibrated with dark laughter. *Our gorgeous revolutionary, reduced to a wind-up toy. How the mighty get merchandised.*

Evelyn gripped Niyati's thighs hard enough to bend time. "It's entrapment."

Lanie's corset seams hummed with reluctant tenderness. *Yup. She's using my playbook, Scales. Page 17 - 'Courtship Through Calculated Surrender'.*

“Same difference,“ Evelyn declared even as Lanie's collar brushed her jugular like a lover's blade. *George planted this garden. Now she's harvesting the roses—thorns and all.*

Below them, Niyati shuddered through faux-sobs.

*She finishes what he started. Not conquest... communion.*

A choked gasp escaped Niyati's throat even as pinkie finger twitched. Lanie noticed. George's exact tell when bluffing a royal flush.

Niyati sill arched back, pleaded, “fuck me,” voice shattered glass and Sunday school hymns. “Claim your prize.”

“Fine,” Evelyn declared, teeth grazing Niyati’s thigh. “But you’ll regret this stupidity.”

*Oh, she’ll collect,* Lanie whispered to the shadows, *with interest.*

“Next Friday,” Evelyn tried to demand, licking salt from Niyati’s wrist. “No games.”

“More games,” Niyati dutifully corrected, fingers plunging into he own pucker. Raw, spit-slick, and relentless. “Better ones.”

*Use the purple dildo,* Lanie hissed. *The self-lubing mermaid one. Let’s see if her ‘games’ survive a kelp-flavoured enema.*

Evelyn’s snarl was half-curse, half-laughter. “You’re paying for the lube, doll.”

“Deal, mommy.” Niyati gasped, back still arching like a drawn bow. “Now fuck me with it before I die of suspense.”

*Here we go,* Lanie thought, *...again.*

Somewhere, a goddess facepalmed with a sound like thunder. Somewhere else, past the broken windows, a street musician played George’s favourite ballad... On a cigarette-scarred violin.
 
 
XXXIII. The Second Week
 
Claymaker Reversal attempt #17

Shattered mason jars oozed goat’s blood onto the living room carpet, their glass glittering like the tears of a very disappointed god. Lanie just lay crumpled in the wreckage, now paisley-patterned thans to ritual fuck-up.

“Once more. Have to turn you back into your 'less useful' form,” Evelyn growled. “Seventeenth time’s the—urk.”

Her gut cramped—a rusty railroad spike jammed into her uterus. The coffee table burst into flames, because, of course, it did.

Lanie’s hem twitched. *Congrats. You’ve successfully turned Ikea into a fire hazard. Gold star, arsonist.*

“Kurvalis shundar!” she roared.

The spell backfired AGAIN! Spectacularly.

Lanie shrank.

And shrank.

Until there, dangling from Evelyn’s pinkie like a cursed party favour, swayed a tampon. Not just any tampon—artisanal. Organic cotton, blush-pink lace applicator, wrapper boasting ‘Now with 20% more existential dread!’

*…You turned me into a fucking vaginal cork.* Lanie dripped with the fury of a thousand scorned middle-aged Karens. *I can smell your rancid womb brew from here. Like rotten eggs left in a dumpster.*

Evelyn doubled over in pain, blood trickling down her thighs. “Why’s everything… squelchy…?” she wailed.

*Oh, don’t worry, it’s just your body’s way of saying fuck you for existing. Welcome to womanhood. Population? Your ruined slacks.* The tampon’s wrapper crinkled indignantly. *Now shove me into that trauma trench as this fucking curse demands… before I decide to sue.*

Five Minutes Later, Evelyn was crouched in the bathroom, Lanie-tampon in her palm like the world’s worst fairy godmother.

“Explain. Now.”

*Please think of me as your menstrual sherpa, Lanie drawled. First lesson: Insertion.*

“Insertion?!”

The fucking string, Scales. Grab it. NO! not with your claws, you’ll—

Riiip. The wrapper tore, cotton blooming like a carnivorous flower before it healed again.

*…Congratulations. You’ve activated my trap card.*

Evelyn glared at the monstrosity. “It’s… fuzzy.”

*Yeah, and you’re leaky. Clock’s ticking, Red Sea.*

Evelyn perched on the toilet, thighs denting porcelain. “This is beneath me.”

*Yes. Literally.*

“Lanie.”

*Fine. Spread ‘em, princess. Channel your inner Russian gymnast.*

“I am Devarīš-Xanathar! I don’t ’spread’—”

*—And I’m a Tampax with attitude. Get. Bent.*

Evelyn growled, knees cracking like glowsticks.

*Wrong hole.*

“WHAT?!”

*up front, not down back. Think front door, not sewer.*

“WHY IS THERE EVEN A DIFFERENCE?!”

*For you? Debatable.*

Evelyn fumbled the applicator.

*Wrong end, genius. That’s my head. You're trying to give your cervix a hat?*

“I WILL BURN THIS REALM TO ASHES—”

*Shove first, arson later.* Evelyn lodged Lanie inside herself with the grace of a grenade.

*…Stinking baby behemoths.* Lanie’s telepathy vibrated with uterine echoes. *It’s like a slaughterhouse sauna in here. Are those chunks?*

“Get. Out.”

*Can't even if I want to. Your fallopian tubes are gripping me like a succubus with a gift card.* Evelyn staggered from the bathroom, pale as a Victorian ghost. Lanie dangling from her twat like a tea-bagged war trophy. *Hey Scales?*

“What.”

*Your pH balance’s fucked. Tastes like a goblin’s gym sock.*

Evelyn hurled a crystal decanter at the wall. “I’LL TURN YOU INTO…”

*Too late…Get my heating pad and buy chocolate. The dark kind. And maybe a shotgun.*

Evelyn’s uterus twinged in agreement.

Somewhere, a goddess laughed herself hoarse.

By dawn, Lanie had swollen to the size of a drowned mouse

*Congrats. I’m now a biohazard piñata. Pull my string and win a sepsis surprise.*

Evelyn lay fetal-positioned on cold marble, heating pad humming. “I hate you.”
 
 
Friday: Neon Confessional
 
The cathedral breathed like a junkie’s lung—LED saints flickering arrhythmia, votive candles swimming in waxen blobs. Niyati straddled the nun at the marble altar. Her back-to-magnificent cock glistening under the fractured stained-glass image of the betrayer.

She’d chosen the setting for the irony, or maybe the acoustics. Hard to tell with her.

Evelyn lay splayed nearby, Lanie’s silk chemise torn to reveal a nipple ring shaped like a guillotine blade. Her claws carved graffiti into the marble—XANATHAR WAS HERE—as she glared at the priest. The first 'all male' who she had let fuck her which he did… rather unimpressively.

Man and cloth, already spent and sweating through the cassock, trembled with the grim determination of someone who’d found God’s loophole.

*Divine discoveries?* Lanie drawled, sliding over Evelyn's lower lip. *More like divine disappointment.*

Niyati had the nun bent over a pew. Sister Francine Mercy, though most called her Sister Fucking Magnificent, moaned shrieked in bliss. Her wimple hung sideways, revealing sweaty locks dyed hellfire red.

*Classy,* Lanie drawled from her silk-camisole prison. Seams straining as Evelyn stretched her shoulders. *Nothing says ‘redemption’ like a gangbang in God’s discount bin.*

He’d been a last-minute addition on Niyati’s insistence. Now he fumbled with a vial of suspicious sludge, Adam’s apple bobbing like a buoy in a hurricane.

*Pewww…that boner juice stinks,* Lanie snorted. Silk cinching Evelyn’s ribs even as she scrunched her nose thanks to the stench. *Bet it’s that Mountain Dew and werewolf piss combo on the streets.*

The potion hit. His dick stiffened—veinless, pallid, the sexual equivalent of a zombie.

Niyati crooked a finger. “C’mere, Padre. Let’s play leapfrog.”

Moments later, the daisy chain formed. Priest in Niyati’s ass, Niyati in the nun’s cunt, Nun’s tongue inside Evelyn. *We’re a fucking Escher painting,* Lanie muttered. *With less logic and more lube.* The nun worked Evelyn’s piercing like a possessed Rosary bead, fervent and wanton. Her necklace swung, smacking Evelyn’s thigh in time with the priest’s thrusts.

“S’good?” the nun mumbled, eyelashes fluttering saccharine.

“Passable,” Evelyn lied, talons splintering the altar.

Niyati laughed—smoke and shattered stained glass. “She’s lying, sis. Go deeper.”

“You’re letting him rail you,” Evelyn snarled, her clit piercing buzzing like a trapped hornet. “In my city. During my orgasm.”

Niyati glanced back, sweat glazing the dragon tattoo devouring her right pec—its claws now curled around a rose-gold nipple. “Jealousy’s an ugly stench on you, Countess.”

The nun moaned into Evelyn’s cunt, like half devotion and half melted soap.

*She’s using George’s hip-lock,* Lanie noted, the camisole’s lace fraying as Niyati’s biceps flexed. *Third knuckle deep. Classic Georgie.*

“Silence,” Evelyn hissed—to everyone, to no one.

The priest grunted, grip tightening. Niyati’s ass reddened under his slap. “Take it, boy.”

*Boy? Oh, he’s so getting exorcised,* Lanie purred.

The nun was lost now, tongue like a caffeinated eel. Lanie’s seams shivered.

*Feels like a gerbil on a trampoline,* Lanie hissed. Make her st—

“Silence,” Evelyn growled, hips bucking.

Evelyn’s orgasm hit like a Molotov cocktail—holy-shit-lights-out, back arching off the altar. The nun gasped, gagging on the aftermath.

Just then, the priest’s hands roamed Niyati’s hips, emboldened by false vigour. “Y-you boy, are my penance,” he panted. “The Devil's due—hnngh—to the Lord!”

Evelyn’s wings nearly snapped open. “What.”

“I mean,” the priest stammered, “she’s my path to pur—AAAAAGH!”

Niyati’s smirk curdled into a frown. “Wrong sermon, Padre.”

Evelyn’s tail lashed, sending him airborne into the baptismal font.

“She’s NO ONE’S,” Evelyn roared, “least of all YOURS.”

Niyati sighed, still impaling the good sister. “You’re no fun.”

“Fun?” Evelyn vaulted over the pew, talons sinking into the priest’s shoulders. “You want fun?”

His cassock burst into hellfire.

“MINE,” Evelyn roared, flames reflecting in Niyati’s dilated pupils.

The priest screamed, beating at the flames, and bolted—naked ass glowing like a runway light.

Niyati tsked, still pistoning the nun. “Drama queen.”

“You,” Evelyn snarled, wrapping her arms as she drew her face in, “are mine.”

The kiss tasted of heaven and hubris. Niyati’s dragon tattoo writhed—scales molten gold, claws pricking Evelyn’s spine.

*Georgie’s rhythm, Lanie realised. Two shallow, one deep.*

The nun, forgotten, hummed a hymn into Evelyn’s thigh.

After, they lay tangled like scripture pages soaked in sweat. Niyati lit a joint with Evelyn’s hellfire, smoke curling into a halo.

“Rematch Friday?”

Evelyn traced Niyati’s body art. “Just us. No new company.”

The nun snored at their feet, tongue still twitching.

*Well,* Lanie mused, silk reforming into a negligee, *at least the Holy Ghost got a show.*

Somewhere, the priest sobbed into a 6-969-PENANCE hotline. Somewhere else, a goddess laughed at the irony.
 
 
XXXIV. The Third Week
 
Reversal Attempt 28

Evelyn knelt on a floor scribbled with Kitsune sigils—inky vulpine curves that smirked like they knew the punchline. Lanie, now a sun-bleached dress from a thrift store’s dystopia section, lay splayed like a patient etherised upon a table.

*Twentieth time’s the trauma,* Lanie drawled, her ruffles wilting. *Or is it twenty-eighth? Lost count around the time you turned me into a rectal thermometer.*

“Silence,” Evelyn hissed, talons arranging foxbone talismans in a star pattern. “This one’s different. The priestess swore—”

*Let me guess,* Lanie’s telepathy crackled. *Priestess said this one’s foolproof? Swore on her nine tails?*

“She swore on her firstborn cub,” Evelyn snapped, smearing ash across the ritual circle. “Said the foxfire would purify the curse’s anchor.”

*Purify. Right.* Lanie’s hem fluttered, sarcastic. Like that time you “purified” the wine cellar and turned it into a bedpan.

The ritual began. Blue foxfire licked the talismans, casting shadows that nipped at Evelyn’s ankles. The air hummed—a promise, a threat.

*Feels different,* Lanie admitted, threadbare hope in her seams. *Almost…*

The spell erupted. The sigils shrieked, etching themselves into Evelyn’s arms.

“Kurvalis shundar—!”

The backlash hit like a freight train.

Evelyn’s nose bled first, then her tear ducts, then the crescent moons under her nails. Blood pooled hot and thick, sizzling as it hit the glyphs.

*Oh, charming, Lanie hissed. Now we’re a Tarantino flick.*

Evelyn gagged, clawing at her throat as scales began to peel—onyx shingles clattering to the floor. “L-Lanie—!”

The sundress spasmed, cotton warping.

*No no no NOT AGAIN—*

Pop.

Lanie collapsed into a tampon once again—no frills, no applicator, just sad cardboard and a string like a noose.

*…You’ve got to be shitting me.*

Evelyn collapsed, retching blood. The attic walls blistered, wood grain sprouting foxgloves that hissed as they bloomed.

*Quit gawking,* Lanie snarled, voice tinny from her cotton prison. *Stuff me in you nose before you exsanguinate, genius.*

“I will NOT—”

*DO IT.*

Evelyn fumbled, talons slicing the tampon’s packaging. “I hate this.”

*Join the club. Meetings are on Tuesdays.*

*The insertion was… inelegant.*

*Ow! Lanie’s telepathy spiked. Ever heard of cleaning your boogers?*

“Fuck. You.”

Already am.

The bleeding slowed. The foxgloves wilted, petals curling into middle fingers.

Evelyn slumped against the wall, scales dangling like peeled wallpaper. Her left horn had a visible crack.

*New look? Lanie asked. Post-apocalyptic chic.*

Evelyn struggled to move, sweat and blood painting her like a Pollock knockoff.

“…Escalating.”

“Patterns. Punishment.” Evelyn’s claw trembled, tracing the corrupted sigils. “The more we try…”

Evelyn’s laugh dissolved into a cough. Blood speckled her chin. “We stop. No more rituals… for now.”

*Took you over two dozen tries to notice the universe hates us?*

“Twenty-eight recorded tries.”

They sat—well, Evelyn sat; Lanie resided—in the bloody nose. The ruin of their hope.

*So, Lanie’s telepathy softened, a rare break in static. We done?*

“For now,” Evelyn said.

*Smartest thing you’ve said all century.*

Moonlight bled through the cracked window, gilding the tampon wrapper. Somewhere, a Kitsune priestess cackled into her saké.

They didn’t move until dawn, the tampon slowly blooming crimson—a rose in a warzone, a flag of surrender.

*Hey Scales?*

“What.”

*If I stay like this…* A pause. *Don’t let Niyati use me as a party trick.*

Evelyn’s claw brushed the tampon’s string—almost gentle. “Never.”

Outside, a stray cat yowled. Somewhere in the city, Niyati laughed in her sleep.

The moon went to sleep, unblinking, as the foxfire fully died.
 
 
Friday Three: Velvet Finish Line
 
The convention centre thrummed with engines growling in dead languages. Niyati straddled a Stormrider Cyberspire plated in void-forged obsidian. Her body shimmering between fantastical forms, buoyed by holograms.

One moment, a chrome-plated siren with headlights for eyes. The next, a woodland nymph with catalytic converter vines twisting through her hair.

Evelyn stalked past a Bloodmoon Automata while Lanie tightened like a coiled serpent around her ribs.

*She’s doing the hip swivel from George’s pool hall hustle,* Lanie hissed through Evelyn’s razor-sharp Drakenciaga blazer. *Down to the smirk that curls like our tails mid coil. Cheap nostalgia play.*

Evelyn adjusted her cursed diamond cufflinks. Talons retracting just enough to avoid shredding her sleeves. “Quiet Ashbreath. I need to count her suitors before the Shadowclaw werewolves arrive.”

*Left tit’s riding up. You want to look like a constipated CEO or a jealous ex?*

“I look like the woman who owns this circus,” Evelyn snapped. Smoothing her lapels as a crowd erupted near the enchanted Pixie Puddlehumper exhibit.

Niyati emerged as George's female mirror image in her more 'native' form. Same leather jacket, same “borrowed” pen behind her ear. And like him, she lit up as she headed towards her ladies. And just like him… again. She still took the time to lovingly fondle the hood of a Nightstalker Fenris that growled like a voidhound.

“My dear countess!” Niyati embraced her, neck smelling of someone else’s sandalwood cologne.

*Incubus musk,* Lanie sniffed. *Third-tier. Smells like distilled grotto slime.*

Evelyn’s smile turned glacial, the moth pendant glinting at her wrist like a shackle. “You’re glowing, Ms. Demos. Big lunch meeting?”

Niyati winked. “Just warming up for our evening.” Her thumb brushed the pendant. “You kept the armour on. Flattering.”

*Bite marks under that jumpsuit,* Lanie snarled as Evelyn’s blouse constricted. *Let me get my fucking scales back and I'll unravel the motherfucker’s seams, stitch his tongue to his urethra.*

“Control yourself,” Evelyn muttered, sipping champagne that bubbled with trapped lightning. The incubus from Niyati’s obviously earlier ‘session’ materialised. His ripe cologne a dead giveaway and his cheap suit reeking of recycled sulfur and unspent jizz. Faint horns peeked through his greasy hairline as he beamed at Niyati.

“Ms. Demos! My new Hellfire Charger’s ready for your… next inspection.”

Evelyn’s talons unsheathed. “She’s booked.”

Niyati laughed, leaning against a Voidspire Viper that hissed steam even as she grabbed a drink from a nearby serving trolley. “I said Friday evenings. The sun’s still up, Countess.” She looked at her sundial wristwatch. “5:20 PM. By no definition—legal, celestial, or yours—is this evening.”

*Forty minutes,* Lanie drawled. *Enough time for him to fail her a few times over.*

The incubus sneered at Evelyn. “And of course I pay for the full hour. Even her cool-down after I exhaust her.”

Lanie hissed, *It’s Vilethorn from Moanagement Group. Third marriage circling the drain. Second wife took the hellhounds. Current side piece drives a rusted Chariot of Shame.*

Evelyn arched a brow in response to info dump. “Oh, right—the agency that recycles washed-up lounge acts and teaches them how to fake eye contact.”

She turned toward Mr. 'grotto slime', voice silk, smile diamond-dipped in poison.

“Mr. Vile... does your ex-wife know you’re investing her alimony in temporary affection and long-term humiliation?” She paused, feigning thought. “Or did you log it under ‘networking expenses’ again?”

Niyati choked on her kombucha as the crowd tittered. The incubus’s face purpled before he vanished in a puff of midlife-crisis cologne.

Later, in the gender-neutral restroom, Niyati spun Evelyn against a sink shaped like Poseidon’s trident. “You humiliated a client!”

*Careful,* Lanie warned as skirt hems sharpened into blades. *She’s 80% business shrapnel tonight.*

Evelyn growled. “Friday evenings mean you're—”

Niyati’s hand shot out, yanking up Evelyn’s skirt with a rrrrip of designer fabric. “Mean I show up.” She bent Evelyn over the sink, the marble edge biting into her hips.

SMACK

Her palm cracked across Evelyn’s ass, the sound echoing off the cursed porcelain. Evelyn’s breath hitched from the pain, a traitorous moan slipping through clenched fangs.

*Louder Moanwyrm,* Lanie purred, seams wrapping themselves around Evelyn’s ribs. *Let the whole fucking trade show hear their ice queen melt.*

SMACK

“Not—” Evelyn’s talons gouged the sink, “—that you own my daylight hours.”

The lie died as Evelyn's body betrayed them both. Her back arched violently, a wanton yelp escaping her even as she tried to bite down harder.

Niyati leaned close, lips brushing the shell of Evelyn’s ear. “Only one correct answer here.” Her next strike landed lower, fingers grazing the damp lace beneath.

SMACK!

The moment stole Evelyn's words, breath, pretence, everything, even as her scream echoed off the tiles.

Her knees buckled. “Y-yes—”

SMACK!

“Yes, what, Countess?” Niyati’s thumb pressed against Evelyn’s clit through the ruined panties.

“Yes, daddy?”

Evelyn’s hips jerked. “F-fuck—!”

*Say it again,* Lanie hissed, constricting around Evelyn’s throat. *You’ve moaned it into enough pillows.*

SMACK!

“Not that you—” Niyati’s voice broke as Evelyn arched into the blow, “—fucking care that this is more than—”

Evelyn spun, fangs grazing Niyati’s jugular. “Than what?” Her claws shredded Niyati’s bodysuit, exposing the dragon tattoo pulsing over her heart. “A transaction?”

Niyati's eyes flashed molten fire - not rage, but alarm as the tattoo pulsed erratically. Its golden scales flickering like a dying forge. For a heartbeat, Niyati’s breath hitched, eyes glazing with something untethered and...honest. Pupils dilating until they swallowed the wildfire whole.

"You want receipts?" Her grip tightened on Evelyn's hips, nails drawing blood.

"Fine..consider it delivered with extreme prejudice. Payment? Your pathetic—"

Evelyn's tears cut through sweat-smeared eyes as she covered a shocked Niyati’s mouth. "Then ruin me properly," she pleaded, hips stuttering in empty air. "Prove I'm just another—"

*Finally,* Lanie purred through the clit piercing, its gold barbell vibrating. *Been waiting five chapters for this—*

Niyati's palmprints still glowed on Evelyn’s ass when she spun her back around, slamming her against the fractured bathroom mirror. Cold glass bit into Evelyn’s back as Niyati’s cock, pressed against her soaked lace.

Lanie squealed through the buzz. *Yaaaas!!! Her pulse just skipped three beats while she said, 'extreme prejudice. ' Moltylocks.*

Niyati’s thrust sheared through fabric and pretence.

“Fuck—!” Evelyn shrieked as her claws shattered the mirror, and Niyati's rhythm faltered. Not from hesitation, but from the way Evelyn's walls fluttered desperately around her—not taking, but swallowing.

*Deeper,* Lanie demanded, the piercing buzzing like a live wire. *Flamebait here’s got forever more to give—hnngh!—right there!*

Niyati’s hips snapped forward, the swollen head catching Evelyn’s clit ring on each withdrawal. Lightning arced through them both—Evelyn’s moan one with Lanie’s telepathic keen.

*Yesss,* Lanie hissed, seams dissolving into liquid gold. “Ruin US proper, wildfire!*

Niyati’s teeth found Evelyn’s shoulder, fucking her in brutal counterpoint to the bass shaking the walls. The mirror cracked further, their reflections splintering into a dozen half-formed truths.

Evelyn’s wings half-unsheathed, Niyati’s tattoo bleeding molten gold. Lanie’s threads weaving through their sweat-slicked skin.

“Gonna make you—” Niyati’s threat dissolved into a groan as Evelyn clenched around her.

*Now!* Lanie screamed through the piercing. *Cum before she—*

The stall door exploded.

“Encore!” the incubus slurred, waving his tattered valet ticket like a macabre bouquet. “I paid for the full—”

Niyati’s roar shook the urinal cakes. She withdrew with a wet snarl, leaving Evelyn dripping and Lanie’s threads screaming. The mirror shard sang through the air—thunk—embedding itself violently in the wall beside the incubus’s head.

*Priorities!* Lanie shrieked, tightening around Evelyn’s trembling hips. *decapitate him AFTER we finish!*

But the moment had shattered like the mirror. Niyati was already striding out, adjusting her jacket with hands that shook only slightly. Evelyn stared at their ruined reflection—clit piercing still buzzing, cunt aching, Lanie’s threads fraying at the edges.

*Well?* Lanie snapped, stitching Evelyn’s clothing back into corporate armour. *Chase her or write a sonnet. Either way, tip the fucking toilet attendant.*

Outside Niyati’s walk-up over a vegan strip club, Evelyn caught her at the stairwell. “Invite me up or I’ll incinerate the building.”

Niyati’s laugh shook, brittle at the edges. “Romantic as ever.”

The studio smelled of student loans and loneliness. Thesis notes papered the walls. 'Erotic Diplomacy in Postwar Rebuilding' contents and notes circled in red like battle plans. Niyati gestured to a thrift store couch buried under grimoires. “Don’t touch the green cushion. It’s…”

*From the orphanage common room,* Lanie said softly, even as Evelyn was tracing the pendant at her wrist. *George had it reupholstered when she got her first apartment. Said every rebel needs a throne.*

They stared at the moth-eaten sweater slung over a chair, one sleeve stained. *Another gift from 'St. George'. * Lanie whispered. Niyati seemed to be searching for her voice, fingers brushing the fabric. “Sometimes I think…”

*Say it,* Lanie whispered, threads unravelling into cashmere tenderness. *We've earned three syllables of truth at least.*

Evelyn stepped closer, talons retracted. “Think what?”

Niyati hesitated, her gaze locked on the sweater. “Think… my research needs an extension.” Her voice frayed like the sweater’s seams. “Turns out postwar diplomacy has… variables.”

*Variables, my perfect rump!* Lanie snorted. *She means feels. Five letters, starts with L—*

Evelyn’s nails tilted Niyati’s chin down. The pendant between them caught the light, casting moth-wing shadows over the unspoken word.

Outside, a car alarm wailed. Somewhere between the second and third whiskey, their pinkies brushed and more importantly, didn’t let go.
 
 
Post-Friday Three: Silken Confessions
 
Midnight pooled like spilt ink around the bedposts. Evelyn leaned against the balcony railing, Lanie’s silk babydoll clinging to her like heavy smoke spilling over a doused candle. Across the alley, a pimpled teenager gaped from a fire escape, one hand creeping into his sweatpants.

*Let’s give the peeping little shit a show,* Lanie purred, seams puckering as the negligee dissolved into sheer lace over Evelyn’s generous left breast. *Our shared guilt’s stretching my stitches. Might as well traumatise someone with it.*

"Fine, you perv," Evelyn said as she traced the ruby piercing beneath the lace, her claw lingering as the boy’s occupied hand moved frantically. “We’ll fix this,” she murmured, sucking her index finger slow as honey dripping from a knife. “The Claymaker grimoire’s third chapter—”

*—is bullshit poetry.* The negligee cinched tighter, silk sighing like a widow’s last cigarette. *Spells don’t stick to dragons unless some bored god’s doodling in the margins. Face it—I’m eternal support for your sagging assets now. Lingerie with benefits.*

“Temporary and NOT sagging!” Evelyn snapped, too fast, her claw snagging a thread. The movement hiked the babydoll higher, exposing the crest of her ass. The teen’s breath caught audibly, his rhythm accelerating.

*Teenage hormones are gross,* Lanie muttered, silk thinning to gauze at Evelyn’s collarbone. *Like watching a raccoon hump a trash can.*

Evelyn laughed at the very true fact of life before her thumb stilled on the ruby. “You love her more,” she spoke, throwing Lanie’s life with George back at her like a grenade. “More than… y’know?”

*More than you pretend not to love me,* Lanie hissed. The admission hanging like a spider’s first thread. Glistening, fragile, already sticky with consequence.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Evelyn muttered, thumb circling the piercing clockwise. Lanie’s sweet spot, discovered during last Tuesday’s meltdown. The boy’s sweatpants slid down, exposing pasty thighs and a ruddy, trembling cock.

*Cheap shot!* The negligee rippled, seams gasping. *Using my kinks to scar Gen Alpha? New low, even for a has-been tyrant.*

“You started it.” Evelyn pressed harder, goosebumps blooming across her thighs as Lanie shuddered. The teen’s hips stuttered, his free hand clutching the railing—

*Now,* Lanie snarled.

Evelyn’s eyes flashed dragon-gold as she flashed the teenager a predatory grin, fangs out and glowing. The boy yelped, tripping over his pants and face-planting dick-first into a discarded geranium pot.

*What if…* Lanie continued as they both ignored the fallen idiot. The rubies in the piercing glowing like a traffic light in a ghost town.

*What if we’re stuck like this? What if Georgie—*

“Niyati.”

*—only wants the clown, not the circus?*

Evelyn’s smile cut through the dark, sharp as a razor in a soap bar. “Then we’ll make her love the wardrobe too.”

Lanie’s laughter vibrated against Evelyn’s ribs, bitter but as bright as shattered crystal chandeliers. *Delulu dragon.*

“Cranky corset.”

The moth finally stilled, wings folded like a surrender flag.

Behind the bickering dragons, Niyati shifted in her sleep, her still-evolving tattoo humming against the sheets. A valkyrie’s purr now one with George’s old snoring rhythm.

*Let's go back in and hug her like our lives depended on it.* Lanie murmured, seams dissolving into cotton as Evelyn stood. *I’ll be here. Always. Like herpes and tax debt.*

The balcony door creaked shut. Somewhere, a city held its breath—and a teenager’s future Tinder profile died screaming.

 
 
Continued in Part 13