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, but it doesn’t come naturally yet, and consequently, I would love your 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
 
 
I. 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.

Continued in Part 2

 
 
V. Ruining a Perfectly Good Outfit

Light stabbed through the curtains—needle-thin and relentless. George surfaced painfully from oblivion, feeling like a shattered vase hastily glued and missing parts. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth like a hanging corpse.

Lanie lay curled beside him in a comma of smeared mascara and cum-stiff hair. Her fist clutched the silk camisole he’d gifted her, wet with tears and torn at the neckline. In that moment, she looked oh so small, breakable, fragile.

He tried to sit up.

But now, cold steel bit at his wrists. Chains rattled, anchoring him to iron pillars on either side of the bed.

Seventeen years of ovulation charts and bourbon-stained receipts swam behind his eyelids. Her laughter—sharp as a cicada’s scream. Echoeing through the IKEA parking lot where they’d fucked drunk and raw on a discount futon.

The scar under the magnolia still bled sap where they’d buried something in a Folgers can. What did she do to him last night? His groin throbbed like she’d fed it through a combine harvester. How did her magic even work on him?

The room tilted. His pelvis ached as if someone had scooped out his organs with a melon baller. The sheets slid down, revealing smooth skin and a scar where coarse hair and his manhood should’ve been. George blinked. What the fu? He pulled against the chains—

Lanie’s hand shot out, pinning his wrist. “Don’t.” Her voice was gravel and glass. “You’ll ruin the stitches.”

Stitches? He squinted. A tattoo curled across his lower belly—DICKLESS in jaunty Comic Sans, the ‘i’ dotted with a cartoon fairy. His throat closed.

“Cute, right?” She didn’t open her eyes. “Took inspiration from your pornhub history.” Her smile didn’t reach her temples.

His throat closed, and he strained against the chains. Muscles coiled—years of splitting firewood, lifting her giggling into lake water—now buzzed like weapons. The strength from a long-forgotten past surged; the demon was starting to stir.

The pillars groaned. Plaster rained down. Lanie flinched, eyes snapping open. In them: a flicker of terror, a plea written in vanishing ink. He froze.

“Shhh.” She pressed a finger to his lips. Her nail was chipped, and stained with something dark. “Sleep. It’ll hurt less.”

He wanted to scream. To claw the ink from his skin. Instead, he was forced to inhale the stench of an anaesthetic as she placed the rag on his nostrils—and his head fell back, his last thoughts being why?

The ceiling swam. A moth circled the overhead light, wings whispering secrets that George would never hear.

Lanie’s breath hitched. A tear traced the scar on her collarbone—the one she’d gotten the night they’d drunkenly tried to summon Dionysus while rutting in an IKEA parking lot.
 
 
VI. Repurposing the Rags

Lanie spread her thighs on the velvet fainting couch, a prop from their Bridgerton-themed disaster. The clit piercing glinted, rose gold catching the lamplight. George's dick, miniaturised in metal and gem-studded, swung like a pendulum over a wet pit.

"Terms," she said, flicking the charm. Still shackled, George doubled over, phantom cock throbbing.

"Fridays, you're Georgia. Corset optional. Crotchless mandatory."

George’s growl rumbled—a feral hog trapped in a rusted oil drum. Pupils swallowing the room’s jaundiced light. “And… other days?”
Lanie spread wider, rubies weeping oily light. Her eyes flickered of——before she sutured the moment shut with a smirk. "Be you."

She spread wider, rubies glistening. Her eyes betrayed her—pupils trembling, a trapped thing rattling its cage. "Just less... intact." A rattlesnake’s molt of a smile.

George’s rage was threatening to erupt—like a wolf trapped in a septic tank, thrashing against the rot. Lanie’s smirk cracked. For a heartbeat, she shrank—a roach scuttling from sudden light—then rallied, lips glistening, mask slipping back into place.

“Your precious cock’n’balls’ll come back home,” she crooned, like a nursery rhyme sung through broken teeth. “Soon.”

George's gaze fell. The DICKLESS tattoo pulsed on his gut - blacklight ink in a velvet dungeon, thrumming like the bassline from the club three floors below. Shadows congealed into the living, breathing demon within.

"Why the pier—" he growled, voice a cognac snifter dragged through gravel.

Lanie twisted the charm. Pleasure-pain detonated - nerve endings screaming like dynamite in a champagne flute. "Funny, isn't it?" she'd purred last solstice, painting the rune-work with molten platinum. "The universe crams all that firepower into a button mushroom. Make it tinier, and it's like stuffing a supernova up a coke vial…"

His rage liquefied. Became a scald of single-malt shame before it started to bubble again.

“So you... my love..." She paused, a moment too long. A tell George knew only too well and his rage just... melted away. Leaving behind only the searing pain of loss.

She recovered fast, moaning like a church lady catching the spirit. “Participate. Every time I ride some farm-league cock, this little trinket…” Her thumb ground the rubies into her slit. “…sends you postcards.”

“Test drive?” Lanie produced a pink vibrator, a silicone tentacle glazed in artisanal lube. She tapped its suction cups and pressed it to the piercing.

The room tilted some more. George’s mind spun and his phantom balls buzzed.

George’s spine arched. The Dry and painful orgasm tore through him—a lightning strike in a drought, cracking the parched earth of his body. Silent scream. Teeth shearing tongue meat. Muscles seizing like Birkin bags shredding in a woodchipper.

Lanie watched, pupils swallowing the room's crimson LEDs. A single tear breached her cheek "There's my good little investment."

Somewhere, a clock chimed midnight. Fridays would come too often now. The chains sighed. George’s eyelids stuttered—not closing, just the flicker of a CCTV losing its last feed.
 
 
Week One: Panties for the Professor

Georgia manifested as lace panties—black and crotchless. Waistband stitched with Daddy’s Girl in thread the colour of tax evasion and clove cigarettes. Lanie’s 'little lipstick charm' with its twin rubies smirking like a vandal’s graffiti stayed hidden beneath silk. At least until the economics professor cornered her in the janitor’s closet.

“Clumsy me,” Lanie purred, hiking her skirt to reveal Georgia’s lace clinging to her hips. She hooked her thumbs under the waistband, peeling the panties down slow as a strip tease in a funeral home. The professor’s wedding band glinted as he gripped the mop handle for balance.

You’re vile, Georgia hissed telepathically, threads tightening as Lanie dangled the panties from one leg. A fucking peepshow for tenure-track losers.

Lanie smirked, pulling Georgia up like a half open crotch crate. Relax, kitten. He’s got the imagination of a PowerPoint slide. She spread her thighs, the lipstick charm glinting. “See, professor? What if I told you this was my husband’s entire manhood? Repurposed for… higher education.”

He laughed, fumbling with his belt. “Tell him thanks for the service.”

When he mounted her against the supply shelves, Lanie shoved Georgia’s lace aside. Just enough to let his hairy balls slap against the fabric with every thrust. Feel that, Georgie? she crooned inwardly. His scrotum’s writing you a love letter.

Rot in hell, Georgia spat, phantom nerves flaring as the professor’s sweat soaked into her threads.

“Cock. Only,” Lanie snapped aloud when his fingers grazed her clit. She arched, grinding the charm against his pelvis until he came with a grunt—streaks of cum painting Georgia’s lace and glazing the rubies.

After, Lanie pulled Georgia up, using the soiled panties to wipe herself clean. She left the charm glistening. “Always useful,” she murmured, smearing a final streak across the Daddy’s Girl script.

You’re a goddamn toddler with a glitter glue stick, Georgia seethed.

Lanie laughed, stuffing the damp lace into her purse. “And you’re my favourite washcloth.”

Back home, she draped Georgia over George’s bedside lamp, cum stains glowing like swamp gas in the dark. “Sweet dreams, princess. Tomorrow’s a seminar on adjunct exploitation. Pack your pearls.”

The lamp buzzed. Somewhere, a moth died quietly.
 
 
Week Three: Velvet Vows at the Devil’s Dive

Georgia was velvet now—crimson, crotchless, backless, just less. Like the keyhole cutout over Lanie’s mons framing her rose-gold “lipstick charm” like a relic in a museum heist. The dive bar’s neon hummed Miller Lite in corpse-blue letters. Lanie peeled off her thong mid-shimmy, letting the charm glint under flickering fluorescents.

Dex, snake tattoos rippling, leaned in. “What’s the deal with the jewellery?”

She traced the charm, her nail clicking against metal. “My husband’s family jewels. Melted down—fabulous, right?”

Dex snorted. “Bullshit.”

“Wanna test it?” She ground against his crotch, velvet riding up her thighs. “Vibrates when you fuck me. The harder, the better.”

They followed her to the stockroom—Dex, Troy, and the stench of stale beer. Shelves of napkins trembled as Lanie hiked the dress, revealing nothing but velvet framing the charm. “Missionary,” she ordered.

Dex’s cock hooked the metal. “Fuck, it’s like a joystick.”

“Hear that, Georgie?” Lanie’s telepathic purr slithered through the seams. “Even truck-stop randos think your little clit's a party game.”
Let me go—

“You offered yourself up.”

Not for your twisted spell...

“Babyyyy... the only thing twisted is you... around me”

Troy mounted her from behind, shaft mashing the charm into Dex’s pelvis. “Look at her,” Troy grunted, hips slamming. “Cumming ’cause we’re playing with her dumb trinket.”

Georgia’s phantom balls tightened, feelings weeping as Lanie moaned, “His whole dick’s smaller than your tip.”

Dex came first, streaking the velvet with pearlescent rage. Troy followed, filling her as the charm hummed. After, Lanie peeled off the dress, cum glazing the rubies like cheap syrup. She wiped Dex’s softening cock with the hem, smirk sharp. “Always useful.”

"Whore," Georgia hissed.

Lanie hung the dress in her closet, crusted charm catching the light. “Don’t pout, princess. Left your little lipstick charm glistening.”
She snapped a Polaroid and taped it to the bodice. “Proof you’re still relevant.”

The velvet pulsed once—a muffled scream.

Outside, the bar’s neon died mid-flicker. Somewhere, another moth choked to death.
 
 
Week Four: Harnessed on the Highrise

Georgia was leather now—straps, buckles, collared. The harness cinched Lanie’s waist, crotchless, hidden beneath a peel-away skirt that clung like cellophane. Classy camouflage, Lanie mused, adjusting the waistband so Georgia’s rose-gold charm. her precious and tiny cock and balls medallion—sat centre stage beneath the flimsy fabric.

Rubies glinted under the club’s UV lights, as subtle as a car crash.

The tech bro reeked of equity shares and Adderall sweat. “Kinky,” he said, nodding at her skirt.

Lanie spread her legs just enough to make the plastic wrap crinkle. “This?” She peeled the skirt upward, revealing the harness and Georgia’s glinting shame. “My sissy’s entire manhood. Gold-plated, gem-encrusted. Cuter than your crypto portfolio, right?”

He laughed, Rolex glinting. “Bullshit.”

“Take the elevator. Find out.”

Wind gnawed at the harness straps as Lanie bent over the railing, the city a vomit of neon below. The bro fumbled with his belt. Pathetic, she thought, grinding back to guide him. His cock slapped Georgia’s charm, the impact buzzing through the leather.

"Stop! It’s like he’s punching me—"

Hush, princess. That’s just our love's heartbeat in my twat. Lanie’s purr was syrup and shrapnel. "Unless you’d rather I staple you to a glory hole?"

He thrust harder, sneering. “Why’s it twitch?”

“She’s excited,” Lanie gasped, rolling her hips to mash Georgia’s charm against his shaft. “Don't want it collecting dust in my jewellery box... yet."

When he reached to finger her, she caught his wrist. “Cock. Only.” Rules were rules.

He came with a grunt, drenching Georgia’s charm in spend that pooled in the grooves. Lanie smirked, peeling the harness off to wipe him down with the inside straps. Georgia's leather suctioning wetly against his softening dick. “Always useful,” she crooned to Georgia, then tossed the soiled harness over her shoulder. The rubies stayed glazed, a sticky monument to the transaction.

Back in the elevator, she texted a photo of the cum-crusted charm to George's number: Thanks for the all-natural lube, sissy.

The harness hung in her closet later, reeking of rum and cum. Lanie traced the stain with her nail. “Matching set,” she whispered, snapping the light off. Georgia’s charm pulsed faintly in the dark—a tiny, trapped scream.
 
 
VI The Days Not Friday

Lanie’s cruelty lived in the 'almosts' now. A teacup left just beyond George’s reach as he sat depressed, her hips swaying as she stretched to retrieve it. The rubies glinted, mocking.

“Oops,” she’d purr, bending so the piercing grazed the armrest where he sat. Her voice had shed Georgie like dead skin. “Fetch that, sissy? Unless you prefer, I drip on the upholstery again.”

George’s knuckles whitened around his coffee mug. The demon in his marrow flexed. He could snap her wrist. Unzip her throat. Reduce this gilded prison to splinters and screams.

But then she’d turn, and he’d see it: that flicker beneath her eyeliner, a crack in the ice. 'Need me, it whispered. Hate me harder.... please.'
He let go. He always let go. The mug didn’t shatter; it would never shatter.

“Good girl,” she crooned, patting his cheek. Her thumb lingered, a half-second too long.

Tuesdays were for laundry. George folded towels, methodical, while she paraded past in a robe she had “forgotten” to tie.
“Missed a spot,” she said, dropping a silk camisole at his feet. It reeked of Friday's cologne.

The demon whispered: 'Burn it. Burn her.'

George placed the fabric in the basket instead, breathing deeply until his lungs ached. “Smells like desperation,” he muttered.
Lanie’s laugh was a shiv between the ribs. “Yours or his?”

Thursdays, she oiled the piercing. Spread-eagled on the couch, one leg hooked over the back, she’d hum along to the radio as the rubies caught the afternoon light. Look, her body sang. This is your altar now.

His phantom crotch buzzing from her actions but never beyond that. He’d stare at his hands, calloused from chopping wood she’d never burn.

“Why?”

The question hung, rotting.

Lanie sat up, slick with jojoba oil and apparent spite. “Why not?” She leaned close, her breath citrus and arsenic. Her nail traced his jugular. “—I made you special.”

The demon surged. George gripped the armrest, tendons screaming, until the wood splintered.

Lanie did well trying to hide her flinch, but he noticed... Damn him for always noticing. Her forced smile was a blunt scalpel now. “No place for demons, sissy.”

Sundays, she let him cook. He’d dice onions like they’d offended her, the knife thunk-thunk-thunking in time with her pacing.

“Use the saffron,” she’d say, hip-checking him away from the stove. “The good kind. None of your Kroger bullshit.”

He’d watch her stir the risotto, her movements precise, violent. Once, her sleeve rode up, revealing the scar from Walmart Dionysus. He reached—

She slapped his hand. “Eyes on the pan, sissy.”

But that night, in bed, there she was, curled in his flannel, asleep. The rubies glowed faintly in the dark, softer now.
He didn’t touch her.

The demon never slept; George had to, though.

Lanie’s voice slithered through the dark: “You’d have hated vanilla, y’know. Golf. Grill-outs. Being my Husband.” A pause. “This is better.”

Mornings would come. The coffee would taste of burnt amber and unsaid things.

The house would hold its breath.

So did they.

Continued in Part 3

Author's request: Take a quick moment and do share your feedback. It is the greatest gift you can give this moth.
 
 
Week Five: Silk Chemise Brokered Between Thighs

Georgia was silk now—slippery, crotchless, the hem pooling like a widow’s tears. The chemise clung to Lanie’s hips, its lace straining where the rose-gold keepsake pierced her flesh. From just the right angle, one could see the rubies glinting like fresh blood clots under the hotel chandelier.

The Wall Street broker loosened his tie, eyes locked on the charm. “Divorced?”

Lanie arched, champagne dripping from the rubies onto her thighs. “Upgraded. Traded a dickless fuck for this—” She spread her legs, silk tearing audibly. “My ex-husband’s entire manhood. Repurposed.”

*Ex?* Georgia seethed telepathically, the chemise’s seams cinching. *Why would you—*

“Hush, wifey,” Lanie purred aloud, yanking the broker’s belt. “She loves applause.”

He mounted her, Rolex digging into her wrist. “Why’s it throb?”

“Because you’re fucking both of us,” Lanie gasped, grinding his cock against the piercing. Georgia’s crotch burned, everything tightening as the rubies vibrated. *Stop, please stop, I be—*

“Harder. She’s close,” Lanie moaned theatrically as Georgia was forced to cum. Lanie's nails carving crescents into Rolex's shoulder as a thank you. “Both of us cumming thanks to you, stud.”

When he reached to fondle the charm, she slapped his hand. “Cock. Only. My wife’s selective.”

Please. I'm falling apart, Georgia panted, silk threads fraying as the broker sneered, “Your wifey's as crazy as you? I'd fuck crazy any day if she was this hot.”

And just like that, he came inside her, spend soaking the chemise as Lanie used it to clean up. The dragon peeled it off her twat slowly, silk suctioning wetly from her skin. “There’s my good souvenir, oh and you fucked her already,” she crooned, smearing his mess deeper into the fabric.

In the cab, she texted George’s number: Love your clit between my thighs, wifey.

Back home, she hung the chemise in the closet beside the others—cum-stained lace, sweat-stiff and filthy. Georgia’s cum covered rubies pulsed faintly in the dark between Lanie’s legs.

*You’ll choke on your disgusting games*, Georgia whispered in pain.

Lanie traced the piercing, slick with the broker’s filth, and sucked on her finger. “Already am, baby. Tastes nothing like you.”

Dragon scales flickered beneath her collarbone. Somewhere, a moth drowned in champagne.
 
 
Week Six: Gutter Glitter

The strip club reeked of desperation and dollar-store perfume. Lanie adjusted Georgia’s latest form. A sequined pastie top barely containing her tits and a crotchless thong so floss-thin it vanished between her cheeks. The rose-gold piercing dangled front-and-centre, rubies glinting under blacklight like twin haemorrhages.

*Look at you*, Lanie purred telepathically, spinning in the dressing room’s cracked mirror. *My little cock-tail nope.. cock napkin.*

Georgia’s voice slithered through the sequins: *You’re literally wearing me as a nasty bib.*

"Accessorising, baby.” Lanie smeared glitter over her collarbones, watching the light catch Georgia’s metallic threads. “Should’ve been our vow. Till debt do us part.”

The stage lights were interrogation-bright. Lanie climbed the pole with feral grace, Georgia’s thong riding up her arse crack as she inverted. A trucker in camo hollered, “Show us them titties!”

Charming, Georgia hissed. *A real connoisseur.*

Lanie popped the clasp on her top—snick—and let it flutter to the stage floor. The crowd roared.

*Wait— Georgia’s panic spiked. You can’t just—*

“Relax, wifey. Gotta give the people what they want”. Lanie ground her hips against the pole, the thong’s stretched waistband digging into Georgia’s phantom ribs. *Besides, you’re clingier than herpes-infested glitter.*

The trucker’s hands were grease and onion rings. Backroom VIP, $200 for “extras.” Lanie straddled his lap, Georgia’s thong stretched taut.

“Nice jewellery,” he grunted, thumbing the piercing.

Lanie arched, pressing it into his cock. *Say, thank you, Georgia.*

*Fuck. You.* Georgia’s telepathic voice frayed as the man’s calluses scraped the rubies.

“Ex-husband’s pride and joy,” Lanie purred aloud, guiding his cock to the thong’s gaping void. “Got it in the divorce. Sentimental, right?”
He laughed, spittle flecking her sternum. “Ain’tcha a classy bitch.”

Georgia throbbed—a hooked fish yanked into daylight. *Stop. Twisting. It—*

Hush, Lanie crooned, sinking onto him. The piercing swung like a pendulum between her thighs. “You’re just jealous he’s bigger.”

Afterwards, Lanie peeled off the thong, cum glazing its threads. She lobbed it at a trash can. Missed.

*You’re loathsome,* Georgia spat, openly weeping now.

“And you’re redundant.” Lanie sauntered to the dressing room, bare tits gleaming. But as she reached the door, she paused. Glanced back.
The sequined top, part Georgia lay crumpled under a barstool, trampled by combat boots.

*Oops hon.* Lanie scooped it up along with the thong, damp with sweat and stale beer. “C’mon, Cinderella. Night’s not done.”

In the bathroom stall, she pressed the soiled top between her thighs. “Clean-up time, wifey.”

*Why? Why do you wipe this shit with me?* Georgia’s revulsion vibrated through the fabric.

“Eco-friendly,” Lanie smirked, grinding the sequins into her slit. Recycle, reduce, reuse.

The top absorbed everything—her musk, the trucker’s spend, the sour tang of shame. Lanie held it up, admiring the stains. There. “Now you’re as useful as ever.”

Georgia’s silence curdled.

“Aw, baby.” Lanie pressed the fabric to her lips—a mockery of a kiss. “Don’t pout. Next time you’ll be a garter belt.”

Outside, the sign buzzed: GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS.

A janitor mopped glitter into the gutter.

Lanie lit a cigarette, Georgia’s sequins catching the ember’s glow.

*Face it, Georgie,* she thought out loud, exhaling smoke. And then, silently, *we're both just trash that won’t stay buried.*

Somewhere, A moth burnt in the broken cough of a neon vacancy sign.
 
 
Week Seven: Ménage à Mourn

Georgia was taffeta and trauma—black, crotchless, frills starched stiff as a liar’s smile. The maid cap perched crooked on Lanie’s head, its lace veil fluttering like a surrender flag. *Almost poetic,* Georgia thought, phantom balls shrivelling as Lanie adjusted the apron straps. *She’ll bury me in this fucking hat.*

“Slut’s ready for service!” Lanie curtsied to the dungeon crowd, feather duster slapping her bare thigh. The apron’s lace trim strained against the piercing—the rubied clit charm glinting under black lights.

A sketchy Gang boss stepped forward, Armani sleeves rolled to show prison tattoos. “Cute jewellery.” His voice like muddy asphalt.

Lanie twirled, letting the skirt flare to reveal Georgia’s crotchless void. “My ex’s manhood. Had it bronzed after the divorce. Wifey keeps it polished.” Her mental sneer razored through *Georgia: Hear that, sentient jizz mop? You’re my dowry now.*

The boss unzipped. “Let’s test the merchandise.”

Six men. Six cocks. Georgia lost count after the third.

Lanie bent over a spanking bench, apron rucked up, maid cap miraculously intact. Each thrust mashed her piercing against leather, the rubies carving crescent moons into the CEO’s pelvis. “Ding-dong,” a biker crowed, slapping Lanie’s piercing on the upstroke. “Slut’s home!”

Stop. Georgia’s telepathic voice frayed. *I’m not your—*

“—dirty little dishrag?” Lanie arched, taking two cocks at once—one in her cunt, one in her arse. “Funny, that’s exactly what our prenup should have said.”

A woman in latex knelt, tongue darting toward the rubies. Lanie kicked her in the tits. “Cock. Only.” She snapped her fingers, and the dungeon master shackled the woman’s wrists. “Rules are rules, cupcake.”

Afterwards, Lanie surveyed the wreckage—apron dangling by one strap, panties MIA, hat clinging like a drunk’s confession. “Lost your torso, slut,” she muttered, peeling taffeta from her sweat-slick hips. *Would’ve kept it on if you weren’t such a greedy cumslut.*

*You tore it off yourself!*

“Technicalities.”

She gathered Georgia’s pieces from the floor: skirt wadded under a boot, panties crusted to a St. Andrew’s cross. The hat she kept on, its veil now speckled with jizz. Accessorising, she’d sneer if anyone asked. “Widow’s wins.”

Panic flickered in her eyes when the cap slipped—just a tremor, there then gone—as she stabbed a bobby pin through lace and scalp. “Almost lost you, wifey.” Her hands shook. Georgia didn’t know whether to hope.

In the fluorescent-lit “changing room” (a repurposed mop closet), Lanie cleaned up. She wiped her pussy with the apron’s hem—Georgia’s mouth—then buffed the Boss's softening cock with the lace collar. “There’s my good napkin.”

*I am, was your husband.* Georgia’s voice cracked with the ‘was’.

“And now you’re my cumbrella.” She snapped a Polaroid of the soiled outfit, tongue caught between teeth. “Smile, slut. You’re going on the fridge.”

Georgia’s threads itched with dried spend. “This isn’t love.”

Lanie paused, the photo trembling in her grip. For a heartbeat, her armour cracked—raw, ravenous, terrified. Then she laughed, sharp as a shiv. “Love’s for suckers, sweetheart. This? She tucked the photo into Georgia’s bodice. This is forever.”

The maid's cap slipped again as she left. She didn’t fix it but it stayed.

Somewhere, a moth died as it lived. Neck-deep in a porch light’s halo.
 
 
VIII. Company’s Coming

The moth in the champagne flute twitched its final waltz. George leaned against the fridge, his knuckles white around a bourbon bottle.
“Evelyn’s due at seven,” she said. “Play human, kitten. No growling. No”—she flicked the ruby charm—“accidents.”

He bared teeth sharp from last moon’s transformation. “Fuck. You.”

“Tempting.” She hiked her skirt, straddling the kitchen island. The charm glinted, slick and treacherous. “Behave, and I’ll rub this ’til you cream. Suspend the ‘cocks only’ rule. Let you cum clean.”

His pupils flared—the demon's desire for war. Just for a heartbeat, he felt it, but then he spat, “Rot,” and turned away.

“Suit yourself.” She hopped down, the charm swinging. “But if you embarrass me…”

“You’ll what?” He faced her, DICKLESS tattoo pulsing. “Turn me into a fucking tampon?”

“Cute idea.” She stepped closer, thumbing his stubble. His breath hitched—traitor. "That, and I’ll tell Evie about the time you cried during Steel Magnolias.”

His snarl died mid-rattle. That look again—the flicker beneath her lashes, a moth batting at a sealed jar. *Need me. Need this.*

“Fine,” he gritted. “But I’m not wearing the apron.”

Evelyn arrived in a cloud of clove smoke and Chanel No. 5, her heels cracking the porch’s salt line. “Darling!” She air-kissed Lanie, eyeing George like a stain. “And… Georgie. You look fetchingly hollow. Been fasting?”

George’s knuckles popped. Lanie dug her nails into his palm. Behave.

“Bourbon?” she offered, steering Evelyn toward the couch.

“Yes! Dragon’s milk, please.” Evelyn flopped onto the velvet, kicking off Louboutins crusted with cemetery dirt.

“Georgie-pie—” Lanie didn’t glance up, swirling her wine into a miniature cyclone, “—fondle the roast. Girls need to gossip.” Her heel tapped the floor like a judge’s gavel—*you’re our livestock now.*

In the kitchen, behind closed doors, George slammed the oven shut, garlic bread scorching.

Evelyn took a long swig of her drink. “So. How’s the whoring? Cuck still twitchy?”

Lanie shrugged, pouring wine that hissed as it hit the glass. “Resilient. Too resilient."

Lanie’s thumb worried the scar under her sleeve. Too slow; need to speed things up. The wound throbbed in time with George’s knife strikes.
Evelyn traced the rim of her glass, watching Lanie’s reflection warp in the curves. “You’ve got that…itch again. Like you’re racing a jet.”

Evelyn paused mid-sip, her gaze slicing toward the kitchen. “Whatever your reason, that one’s taking his sweet time crumbling, isn’t he?” She nodded. “What’s his name again now—Georgie or something more appropriate?”

“Don’t.”

“Oh, but I do.” Evelyn leaned forward, her perfume a dare.

Lanie’s jaw pulsed. “Fuck! Georgie is…very durable,” she spat, like the word was a roach in her teeth.

“Durable’s boring.” Evelyn twirled her fingers, its light licking the bruises under Lanie’s eyes.

Lanie’s claws unsheathed, gouging the table. “Got a point or just here to gargle your own ego?”

“Poet.” Evelyn produced a vial of liquid moonlight, its glow devouring the room’s shadows. “Always carry a spare. Hmm.. yes, where was I? Slender hands, soulful eyes—exactly the kind to write odes to your tits before he OD’s on absinthe and self-loathing. Like gonzo porn for a quick jill off, not the really good stuff.”

She rolled the vial toward Lanie. “Swallow this, fuck him once, and boom—you’ll swear you’re Persephone meeting her first pomegranate. Just long enough to make Saint Georgie there—” she kicked her shoes towards the kitchen, “—gnaw off his own balls.”

In the kitchen, George brought the cleaver down. A carrot splintered into perfect julienne. Tick-tick-tick.

“And after?” Lanie’s thumb stroked the vial.

Evelyn stood, her shadow swallowing the moonlight. “That's the best part." Evelyn stood, her shadow swallowing Lanie whole. “Three weeks of swooning. Four, if he’s got stamina. You’ll wake up one day dry as a nun’s knickers, wondering why you ever craved his simpering sonnets. No guilt. No strings.” She paused at the bathroom door, grinning over her shoulder. “Just… freedom. And a corpse to dance on.”

Lanie’s laugh scraped raw. “A corpse. Sure.”

But her fingers trembled as she pocketed the vial.

George began plating the salad—radicchio ribs like shattered stained glass.

“Think about it.” Evelyn stood, straightening her skirt. “Now, where’s the little powder room? Need to piss hexes.”
 

---

Evelyn found him in the pantry, fists buried in flour, shoulders taut as bowstrings. “Look at you,” she purred. “Lanie’s past enemy and bedmate, reduced to kneading dough. How’s the domestic hellscape treating you?”

George turned slowly. Flour dusted his stubble like premature age. “Careful, witch.”

“Or what?” She plucked a jar of cinnamon, rolling it between manicured claws. “You’ll bake me a soufflé of regret?”
His jaw flexed. “I’ll—”

“—what? Pout?” She stepped closer, perfume clashing with yeast. “Face it—you’re a bad punchline. Lanie’s upgrading. All those cocks? You’re obsolete.”

He held—barely.

Evelyn pressed, voice honeyed arsenic. “She never loved you, you know. Just a phase. A dragon’s… rebellion. Maybe I’ll help her see that. Usher in her glorious singledom.”

The shelves rattled. George moved, viper strike hand around her throat, slamming her into the wall. Her skull cracked drywall, flour snowing around them.

“Stay out of this,” he snarled, voice thickening with something older, deeper.

Evelyn choked, grin splitting. “There he is,” she rasped. “Knew you had a spine.”

He dropped her.

She rubbed her throat, pupils blown. “First man to leave a mark.” Her fingers drifted to her blouse, popping buttons until one breast spilt free. She licked her thumb and pinched her nipple hard enough to blush the flesh. “Mmm. Maybe I’ll let you leave even more marks… if you’ve still got the balls for it.”

Leaning in, her breath scalding his ear: “Must’ve been one hell of a lay to keep her this long. Pity she’s bored.” Her hand slid lower, thumb grinding the scar beneath his belt. “Trade you in? I’ll take seconds—after you own me proper.”

George stepped back, two paces, fists trembling at the edge of violence.

“Have it your way, dear champion of cucks; come to think of it 'cuck demon' sounds better, doesn't it?” she sighed, refastening her blouse with theatrical slowness. She kissed his cheek, teeth grazing skin. “Enjoy the crumbs while they last.”

As she swept toward the door, hips swaying like a noose’s swing, her laughter slithered back. She whispered to herself, “Bitch really needs to be shattered hard and fast…”
 

---

The asparagus lay charred and twitching on their plates. Evelyn prodded it with her fork. “Darling, this is art. Like if a forest fire fucked a compost heap.”

Lanie kicked Evelyn's shin under the table. “Be gracious, Evie. Georgie’s always been there for both of us.”

Evelyn nearly choked on her wine. “Need him? For what? Opening jars?”

“Who dragged your drunk ass out of the Mississippi after that selkie orgy?” George muttered.

“Not soon enough,” Evelyn hissed, eyes glinting.

"You're only here because she insists," George growled. "Not out of some fucking loyalty."

Evelyn's smile turned venomous. For the second time that night, she peeled her blouse open. Slowly, one button at a time, until her breast spilt free. Her thumb rolled her nipple as she sighed, "Mmm... And here I thought you stuck around for private gratitude..."

Lanie kicked her under the table—hard—but her other hand slid between her own thighs, fingertips tracing the piercing. The rubies flared. George's jaw clenched, a flush creeping up his neck.

"Knew it, Second time's the charm. " Evelyn purred, triumphant.

Later, as Evelyn swept toward the exit, she cornered George by the umbrella stand. Her hand darted to his crotch, squeezing nothing with a surgeon's precision. Never fucking liked you,” she breathed. "but don't stress my dear castrato. Your secret's safe with me."

He didn't flinch.

“Relax.” She pecked his cheek, leaving a scarlet lipstick smear. “I’ll let your little… tragedy… run its course.” A pause. “But do find better bourbon. This swill’s pathetic.”
 

---

On the porch, moths dive-bombed George’s bourbon. Lanie leaned against the railing, the vial burning a hole in her pocket.
“She’s wrong,” he said, not looking up.

“Not always.”

He stood, looming over her. For a heartbeat, she thought he’d strike.

She was ready. “Think I give a fuck?”

The rubies pulsed. He walked away.

Midnight. George thrashed in bed, sheets strangling his legs. Lanie hovered in the doorway, murmuring a sleep spell through gritted teeth.

Nothing.

“Goddamn,” she hissed, nail-bitten fingers clawing air.

Then—a twitch. His right hand uncurled, knuckles easing from white to corpse-gray. Barely a crack but a crack nonetheless.

''Almost...try harder now.'

In the kitchen, the vial glowed on the counter, untouched.

Lanie stared at it, the moths pressed against the window, wings leaving greasy smears.
 
 
Week 8: Muse in Satin

Georgia was satin now—emerald, slit-thigh, the kind of dress that made waiters forget the specials. Lanie’s rubies glinted dully under the restaurant’s chandelier, their usual venom muted. *Like a snake fasting*, she thought, swirling merlot as the poet traced her palm lines with a poet’s hunger.

“Divorced?” he asked, his voice like bourbon-aged velvet.

Lane’s smile fractured. A beat too long. “Yes.”

She didn’t correct him. Didn’t sneer sissy or half-wed. Just let the lie hang, ripe as rot.

Georgia’s seams cinched—phantom lungs collapsing—as the poet nodded, oblivious.

Lanie leaned forward, cleavage eclipsing Georgia’s silent scream. “He preferred… devotion over a woman's more primal needs.” Her heel ground the gown’s hem into the carpet. A thread snapped.

The poet chuckled. Georgia tasted bile.

He wrote her a sonnet on the menu—'Your laugh, a struck bell'—and she laughed exactly like that, sharp and shivering. Georgia’s seams prickled.

In his loft, he undressed her like unwrapping a relic. Georgia’s satin slithered to the floor, forgotten. For the first time since that night, Georgia realised, panic rising. Lanie’s bare skin glowed in the lamplight, rubies winking as she arched onto the mattress.

“You deserve all of me," Lanie whispered.

He entered her gently, murmuring "muse, muse, muse" like a prayer. Georgia lay crumpled by the bed, forced to watch Lanie’s hips rise in rhythms she’d never had since this began. *Too slow. Too tender.*

“You’re my epilogue,” he groaned, thumb brushing her cheek—a caress, not a command.

Lanie’s moan was honeyed, foreign. “God, yes—”

Georgia burned, a dry socket where lightning struck. She wept openly, threads dampening with tears she could not shed.

After, Lanie gathered her from the floor. “Sshh, girlfriend,” she crooned, patting Georgia’s bodice like a spooked pet. “He’s just a verse. You’re the whole damn psalm.”

But she didn’t use Georgia to wipe his spend from her thighs. Didn’t drape her over lampshades to crust. Just… folded her gently into the overnight bag as she borrowed his sister's T-shirt and shorts.

The poet kissed Lanie’s wrist at the door. “Tomorrow?”

“I’ll wear red,” she promised, her voice gauzy as a bride’s veil.

Home. Lanie stood before the mirror, Georgia’s satin limp in her grip. The rubies pulsed—begging.

“Almost got me,” Lanie purred, unclasping the piercing for the first time. It hit the velvet box with a final click. She slid her hand between her legs, sighing, “John, John—” as she came, holding on to the borrowed clothes.

Georgia, trapped in silk, screamed soundlessly.

Later, much later, Lanie heard a broken Georgia as she stroked her hem.

*You unclipped me. You chose him.*

“Only his cock, kitten.” But her smirk faltered.

Georgia lunged through the mental tether—*pathetic, always pathetic*—and felt Lanie’s pulse stutter.

A beat.

Lanie snorted, tossing Georgia onto the dry-clean pile. “Relax. He’s week eight of part three. You’re the fucking index.”

But later, in bed, she wore the borrowed clothes to sleep.
 
 
Continued in Part 4

 
 
IX. The Morning After

George sat on the toilet seat, hands trembling as piss dribbled between his thighs. The slit was there—shallow, raw, like a razor’s hesitant slip. The evidence of Lanie’s magic splitting him... No, her open.

She was Georgia now.

She’d trusted Lanie. Seventeen years of shared pains and joy, of laundry-folding and mortgage payments and Lanie’s midnight whispers about “something more.” Even when her dragon scales split her shoulders. Even when the fuckfest nights left her throat scorched from screaming.

But last night—the poet… John… his fucking hands, the romance, the borrowed clothes—nearly unravelled her.

“Lanie!” Georgia fumed as she stormed into the ritual chamber.

“Undo this. Now.”

Lanie didn’t turn. The harness in her hands hissed as she carved another rune. “Undo what? Your pretty new pussy?”

The room temperature spiked. Scales erupted down Lanie’s arms, wings shredding her robe. Dragon-Lanie loomed, sulfur eyes glowing. “You’re mine, Georgie. An accessory. That cunt’s just another showpiece.”

Georgia stepped into the inferno, her skin glistening. “Kneel.”

Lanie snorted. Fire licked the ceiling. “Delusional bitch.”

Georgia’s veins burned—a live wire chewing through her spine. Blood magic had never been able to touch her yet Lanie had sewn her shut with it, stitch by stitch, a marionette of meat and regret.

But the thing inside her unspooled now, dragging the word and magic up her throat like a rusted fishhook. Her nose bled black.

“Kneel.” The word tore from Georgia—a barbed wire snag in her throat—in a dozen voices: George’s growl, Georgia’s whimper, the Demon’s...no!

Lanie’s knees cracked tile. Scales fell like ash.

Lanie’s pupils slit. “You shouldn’t have been able to—”

Georgia gripped her horns, forcing her to meet human eyes. “You bound my manhood to your clit, to drain it,” she said, calm as a guillotine. “Apparently blood magic cuts both ways now… Horde Breaker.” She spat the title Lanie had once worn proudly—the dragon who shattered others' treasures just to lick the shards.

“How long?”

Lanie hissed. “Since the first Friday.”

Georgia smiled—the grin of the demon. “Time to switch diets.”

But as she leaned in, she caught it—a flicker in Lanie’s gaze. Not fear, never fear, this was a plea. The same as when she’d seen when Lanie miscarried in their shitty studio apartment, George’s hands slick with her blood as she clawed at his shirt, screaming, “Don’t you dare let go.”

The same damn eyes when Lanie tried to storm out during that blizzard in ’09, barefoot and shivering, only to collapse against the doorframe and rasp “Make me stay.”

Lanie’s eyes swam—dragonfire drowning in saltwater. Georgia tasted her own tears, bitter as cheap bourbon left to evaporate. Just like a dying ember's last gasp, her resolve died in a flash. Her knees buckling as she fell to the floor herself.

The dragon wasted no time. She stood, grasping Georgia’s hair, yanking her face to her crotch. The stench of sex and strangers’ cum hit her like a brick. Lanie dragged her wrist across her face—wetness sizzling to smoke—and barked, “Clean me,” voice stripped raw, “Good. Girl.”

Georgia’s tongue moved as tears flowed freely. “Do you… love him?”

Lanie’s grip tightened. “I claimed you.”

“Then why—”

“Quiet.” A thumb smeared her mixed juices across Georgia’s lips. “You...are…MINE.”
But as Georgia glanced up, she saw it—Lanie’s jaw clenched, her fire-dimmed eyes avoiding hers.

“Look at me,” Georgia demanded, still sobbing.

Lanie turned, smoke curling from her nostrils. “This snatch doesn't like to wait.”

“You’re scared,” Georgia pressed, voice like burning embers. “Of wanting him? Of losing me?”

Lanie’s laugh cracked. “Scared? I’m a dragon.”

“Dragons hoard,” Georgia said softly. “What happens when there’s nothing left to steal?”

For a breathless moment, silence. Then Lanie yanked her closer, breath hot. “Enough. Remain on your knees.”

Georgia remained.

Lanie’s command hung in the air like a blade. Georgia’s knees still on the carpet, the fibres scratching like whispered accusations.

“You’ll be my wardrobe this week,” Lanie said, her voice a serrated purr. She flicked cigarette ash into a chipped mug labelled World’s Okayest Sorceress. “John’s taking me to meet the friends. Needs me in satin. You’ll play the part.”

Georgia’s throat tightened. “And what if I say no?”

Lanie crouched, her stiletto digging into the floorboard’s groan. Her pupils flickered—dragon-gold, just for a heartbeat. “You won’t.”

Somewhere, Ash drifted where a moth once had flown. The bulb hummed, indifferent.

 
 
X. Poetry in Action

That first night, Georgia became a slip of black lace—the kind they drape over coffin handles to make rot look like romance. Lanie slid her into place, stitch by stitch, like a coroner would.

Fingers lingered where skin had become fabric, pricking seams into Georgia’s hips like cigarette burns on a motel mattress. “Quiet now,” Lanie murmured, though Georgia’s voice was fast becoming a relic, much like her wedding band becoming a choke-chain.

The closet light buzzed, a dying bulb flickering like a junkie’s pulse.

John, poet of shit, smelled of cheap cologne and cheaper promises. His knuckles still crusted with ink from scribbling bad poetry in Denny’s napkins. His hands trembled when they grazed Lanie’s waist—spider-leg fingers, all tremor and hunger.

Georgia felt every touch through the silk.

“You’re luminous,” John breathed, voice cracking like a bourbon bottle dropped on pavement.

Lanie laughed, heavy and a little too warm, like a butcher's knife sinking into warm butter. “You should see me when the moon’s a hangnail.” She arched into his grip, dragon fire simmering under her skin, while Georgia’s seams tightened.

By the second night, Georgia had swallowed John’s lies without chewing—

‘I’ll leave her by sunrise,’ he’d think, fingers snarling in Lanie’s hair.

*You won’t,* Georgia seethed silently, her edges unravelling a bit more each time.

Lanie’s telepathic voice slithered through the void between them: Jealousy is unbecoming, pet.

Georgia bit down until her phantom gums bled rust, she didn’t answer.

On the third night, Georgia became a dress.

Not just any dress—John’s desired dress. Crimson satin, as clingy as a scream, stifled mid-throat. Slit riding high enough to tent trousers but wholesome nonetheless. Lanie zipped her up with a smirk, the zipper’s teeth biting Georgia’s spine. “He wants ‘girlfriend’ energy. So be my sweet thing.”

Her satin itched. Or maybe this was the curse, chewing through Georgia’s resolve like maggots in a carcass.

The dive bar reeked of IPA and stale hops. Like the kind of regret that sticks to your shoes. John’s friends were pretension personified. A fellow poet with a septum ring more qualified to be a cattle brand. A guitarist who clearly tuned his ego instead of strings, and an overly skinny woman with a snake tattoo that appeared to hiss when she laughed.

“Lanie’s a muse,” John slurred, hand possessive on Lanie’s hip—her hip, the dress’s hip, whatever.

Lanie sipped her whiskey neat, smiling like a razor blade sliding through the pages of a book. “Oh, I’m more of a… patron saint of credit card debt and third-degree burns.” The group cackled, teeth glinting like switchblades left in the rain.

Georgia’s silence weighed like brimstone.

You’re quiet my pretty thing, Lanie prodded, telepathy velvet-wrapped arsenic.

Dresses don’t talk, Georgia tried to shoot back, but her thoughts sank like stones in a shallow creek.

Stolen moments would tell many a story that night. The poet eyeing Lanie’s throat like he wanted to carve sonnets into it. His thumb rubbing circles on Georgia’s satin seams. Lanie’s laugh, too sharp, too bright, too theatrical. A firework aimed at the moon and missing.

“Tell us how you met!” Snake-Tattoo leaned in, her serpent’s tongue flicking like a lit fuse.
Lanie’s heel ground into Georgia’s toe under the table, a steel kiss. “John spilt absinthe on my favorite grimoire. I made him lick it off—carpet and all.”

The table roared. Georgia felt the dress’s seams strain, threads snapping one by one, each pop, another bit slipping its leash.

Midnight. Parking lot.

A stray cat yowled by the dumpster, its eyes reflecting the bar’s neon sign—HELL’S HALF ACRE—the same shade as Georgia’s rage.

Lanie leaned against a dumpster, well fucked and twice as hollow; she lit a cigarette with a snap of her fingers. “Don’t you dare fade bitch,” she hissed. Smoke curling from her nostrils like a dying man’s last confession.

Nothing. Not a word.

*Georgia? Speak up*

Lanie felt it: the dress’s seams constricting, and then the satin going slack like a marionette with cut strings. Lanie's fingers dug into the dress, anything to get a reaction, but Georgia'a silence was like a flatline hum in the breeze.

“Fuck,” Lanie muttered, choosing to stub the cigarette out on her palm. The burn hissed, but the pain felt borrowed, like grief stuffed into a stranger’s coat.

The pulse still wouldn't answer. "Just… hold on. Please”

Somewhere, moth wings crisped. The flame never cared to know its victim’s name..

 
 
XI. A prayer Answered

The ride home was like a live wire jammed into Lanie’s spine. John’s cologne clung to the fabric, only cheapened now from the night's bullshit. Every red light, a judge’s gavel poised in midair.

Lanie's knuckles whitened against the steering wheel. “Fuck you, Lanie!” The dress constricted around her lungs—was that Georgia’s heartbreak?

She cranked the window down, letting the first drops of rain prick her face. "Breathe, Lanie, Breathe. Just a while longer" But the road continued to fold like a jackknife, over and over.

Home felt like a closet-sized studio reeking of incense and desperation. Lanie clawed at the zipper. “Come off motherfucker,” she hissed, the fabric resisting like a second skin.

The satin peeled away with the effort of wrenching a tooth free from the gum. The dress lay crumpled on the mattress—just fabric now, lifeless as a shed snakeskin. Lanie knelt, palms pressed to the bodice. "Please! Please let it work."

The sleep spell spilt from her lips like a broken lullaby:

“Thistle and marrow,
dragon-chained, dragon-fed,
Unknot my love from
The threads in her head.”

The dress shuddered. It worked.. Yes!

Georgia materialised on the bed. Naked, weak, frail, asleep and incomplete. Lanie’s breath hitched. She traced a finger down Georgia’s sternum, stopping where she noticed that single detail that she had prayed for.

“There you are,” she whispered with a smile.

In the bathroom’s tumour-green light, Lanie fell apart.

Her glamour slid off like rotting meat, revealing the mess beneath. Eyes bloodshot like a jaundiced drunk, lips chapped from biting back bile once too often. She gripped the sink, talons scratching porcelain. “Pathetic,” she spat at her reflection.

"The greatest of dragons, reduced to this." She whispered to herself in disgust, "A con artist in a skin suit, betting on cheap spells for borrowed time."

She stumbled back to bed, collapsing beside Georgia’s broken frame. The room spun.

“Even dragons need sleep,” she slurred, though the words tasted like a lie. Her hand found Georgia’s—the frail finger from which her ring had slipped off.

Lanie’s last thought before the dark swallowed her: "Burn faster, love. Please Burn faster."

Outside, the rain mourned the moth’s wings. The flame claimed it was mercy. The silence only left bruises.

 
 
XII. A girl’s first time

Georgia woke to a fistful of lightning in her gut. The sheets were a crime scene—rust-brown smears covered in the metallic tang of pennies and panic. She screamed a raw sound that cracked against the bedroom's thin walls.

Lanie burst in, hair wild, lips still smudged with last night’s plum-coloured lipstick. “Oh, kitten,” she crooned, scooping Georgia against her. Her arms were a paradox: silken touch, iron beneath. “Shhh, it’s just your body learning to betray you.”

For three days, Lanie played saint. She pressed heating pads to Georgia’s cramping belly—the kind you’d use to thaw a frozen pipe—and hummed Patsy Cline while massaging her shoulders.

She stirred honey into chamomile tea, the spoon clinking like a jailer’s keys. “Every girl bleeds,” she said, painting Georgia’s nails shell-pink. “But you, baby? You’ll bleed prettier.”

By Thursday, the storm between Georgia’s thighs quieted. Lanie stood in the doorway, backlit by a dying sun. Her smile was a switchblade. “All better?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Good. I’ve been starving.”

She straddled Georgia on the mattress, denim skirt riding up to reveal the glint of her clit piercing—a tiny silver barbell, cold as a sniper’s bullet. “You owe me,” she whispered, fingers twisting in Georgia’s hair. “Lick. Make us both shine.”

“That’s it,” Lanie moaned, thighs tightening like industrial vices. “John’s mama expects his girlfriend to arrive in champagne silk—no stains, no seams. Just… perfection.”

Her hips rolled, grinding the cold rose gold of her piercing against Georgia’s tongue. “You’ll make such a pretty dress, kitten. Tight little corset, zipper down the back like a knife slit.

Mmm—fuck—keep licking.”

Georgia gagged, the taste of Lanie’s arousal sharp as stripped copper. She tried to wrench free, but Lanie’s fingers clawed deeper into her scalp, nails etching runes of ownership.

A thought slithered into Georgia’s mind, honey-thick and unbidden—a voice not her own: Don’t fight it, baby. Please—

The unspoken thought hung there, volatile like a dragon's scale soaked in kerosene. Georgia froze. ‘Did she—?’ Lanie’s rhythm stuttered like a stalled engine. Her eyes widened—a flash of dragon-gold panic.

She snarled, “Kindness comes with an expiry date,” and slammed Georgia’s face back into the heat. Her orgasm, a short circuit snapping through both of them, scorching the question to cinders.

When it was over, Lanie slumped against the headboard, lighting a cigarette with hands that didn’t quite shake. “You’ll love the design,” she said, smoke curling around the words.

“Champagne silk, sweetheart neckline—you’ll be the number that stitches us together.”

She traced Georgia’s jaw. “While I Smile for his mama, play the blushing bride-to-be, nice and clean,” she trailed off, staring at the water-stained ceiling.

Lanie exhaled a plume of spite. “Don’t fret, baby. Even brides need their pretty little things. Even the ones they outgrow.”

Georgia stared at the cracked mirror, her reflection split into a million jagged pieces. One of them was still clean.

Outside, a dog howled. Somewhere else, a moth, wings still damp from the cocoon, beat against a flickering bulb. Drunk on the false promise of warmth.

Continued in Part 5

 
 
XII. The Feast of Fractured Mirrors

The farmhouse table groaned beneath casseroles that reeked of clove and false piety. John’s mother—a woman who starched her hymns—leaned in, her gaze lingering on Lanie’s sun-kissed cheeks and the demure lace dress that was Georgia. “What a vision,” she sighed as if this moment could be preserved like a jar of pickled beets.

Lanie dimpled all apple-pie innocence. “Bless your heart, ma’am.” Under the table, John’s hand slid up her thigh, fingers digging into the lace that was Georgia’s skin. Georgia felt it—the pressure, the heat—like a branding iron through gauze.

Ethan, the brother, smirked. Claire, the sister, watched with a viper's silent gaze.
Dessert was saccharine. Georgia choked on every bite Lanie took.

Upstairs, in a room wallpapered with faded peonies, Lanie arched back against the headboard. John’s tongue dragging over her piercing.

"Special treat for my good boy," Lanie whispered out loud, fingers crimping in his hair. *And my sweet little girl,* she thought, the words honey-thick.

Georgia’s consciousness and phantom cock—both trapped —shuddered.

The invasion came as a whisper. A breath against the vault of her mind, where decades of survival had welded the locks shut. Georgia’s resistance was reflex, primal as a kicked ribcage.

No!.

But tonight—

Let her see.

The whisper was welcomed with a jackhammer.

Lanie saw:

The first look across a smoky bar. The first kiss tasting of stolen whiskey. The first tragedy—a bloodstained shirt, a lie swallowed like broken glass. The first tears shed in a truck bed under a scornful moon. The first triumph, small but glorious. The first lie, sharp as a snapped bone. And finally—George's heartbreak, a shattered, endless pit. A wound that would outlive the body she ruined.

Lanie jerked back violently as if electrocuted.

John lifted his head, lips slick. “You… okay?”

Lanie gripped his hair and shoved him back down. “Don’t stop.”

Her free hand flicked in the air—a sleep spell aimed at all but her. The moth on the ceiling glowed, John slumped, snoring into the pillow. Georgia’s consciousness drooled into cottonmouth oblivion. Lanie kept the snoozing dress on as she padded out of the bedroom.

An hour later. Midnight. Most of the house slept but…

Lanie woke Georgia with a needle prick to the psyche: Rise and shine, sweetheart.

Mommy’s got a surprise.

Lanie drifted to the backyard, Georgia’s satin clinging to the damp grass like a second skin. Claire—Lanie’s next mark—waited by the skeletal remains of a swing set, her earlier bravado from when Lanie had hunted her down fraying at the edges. Moonlight etched her face to show something apprehensive and hungry.

“C’mere, sugar,” Lanie purred, hiking the dress to her hips. The rose-gold piercing glinted—a tiny, cruel star. “Meet Mommy’s special jewel.”

Claire’s throat bobbed. “It’s… adorable.”

Lanie’s laugh was an obsidian shard. “Best things come in delicate packages.” She traced the metal, sighing as Georgia’s consciousness recoiled. “Call her princess. Show her that she’s the prettiest little cock you’ve ever seen.”

Claire knelt, cheeks flushed. Her first lick was earnest but tentative, a kitten lapping cream for the first time. Georgia’s phantom nerves jolted. “I’ve never… never done this before,” Claire whispered, her resistance crumbling like a sugar cube in cheap booze.

“There she is,” Lanie crooned telepathically. just for Mommy’s good little girl.

Claire’s tongue circled the piercing—slow, then famished. "So sweet," she whispered, lips wrapping around it greedily. Her hands found Lanie’s hips, thumbs brushing the lace hem, Georgia’s pulse point.

Georgia simmered, gasped, moaned!

“That’s it,” Lanie urged, voice smoky. “Worship her.”

And thus Claire drowned. Her lips worked with fervent, nearly devotional passion. Suckling on the piercing as though it contained the key to resurrection. Her tongue swirling with a precision that was almost supernatural.

Between gasps, she’d latch onto Lanie’s nipple through the silk that was Georgia. Teeth grazing the fabric until Georgia’s consciousness curled, torn between violation and electric pleasure.

L-Lanie, I—ah!—I can’t— Georgia’s voice fractured into static, moans spilling like shattered glass.

“Shhh, princess,” her mental grip smothering Georgia’s protest. Good dolls don’t scream—they drip.

Then it hit: a hot, slick rush, phantom muscles clenching around nothing. Georgia's little dick squirted, her grand rebellion, a honeyed flood she hadn’t felt since blood had pumped in veins she no longer owned.

“Oh, fuck,” Lanie gasped, wrenching Claire up by her hair. Their teeth clashed as Lanie’s tongue scraped Georgia’s essence from the girl’s mouth.

Claire wriggled free, lips puffed, shaking fingers still holding the piercing like a lifeline. "I never—never have done that before," she gasped, voice worn with wonder. “But Godess, it tastes like… honey in a fucking storm.”

Her thumb circled the metal, desperate, reverent. “Is this how it’s supposed to feel? I’d marry it,” Claire breathed, Claire’s laugh was unhinged, euphoric. “Get on my knees every morning. Cook it breakfast. Keep it polished.” A wild laugh. “Hell, I’d kill for it. Best little wifey this side of the apocalypse—”

Lanie’s grin was all fangs. “World’s ending anyway, darlin’. Get back to work.”

Claire dove back down, ravenous, as Lanie’s telepathic purr slithered through Georgia’s mind. Cocks only rule suspended tonight, princess. Savour it.

Ethan emerged from the shadows, jeans slung low. “Ain’t this cosy.”

Lanie shot him a razor-blade smile. “Why wait?” She pushed Claire’s head down harder and crooked a finger at Ethan. “But you? Mouth shut and I swallow everything.”

He didn’t argue.

Lanie took him deep, throat working, her free hand splayed possessively over the dress’s waist, keeping Georgia trembling. Not a drop spilt on her beloved outfit.

After, Lanie leaned against the corpse of a pickup truck, dress pristine despite Claire’s lipstick and the dew.

Georgia’s voice hummed, threads still thrumming with aftershocks. *You… let me feel.*

Lanie lit a cigarette, the flame steady now. “Rules bend. They don’t break.” She blew smoke at the stars. “But damn, baby girl. You drenched that girl. Almost made me jealous. Should go back to cocks-only tomorrow.”

A truth. A taunt. A threat.

Lanie flicked the cigarette onto the gravel. “Next town’s got a wedding chapel. Gonna pawn your family jewels—they had no damn business coming in others mouths.” She patted the dress’s hip. “You’ll make a stunning bride’s outfit. All that virginal white… suits a pretty little ghost.”

The dress rippled—a shiver? A laugh? A scream smothered into fabric.

Inside, John’s mother glared through the kitchen window, Bible clutched like a weapon.

The engine snarled. Somewhere, cicadas shredded the night with their razored song.

Either way, Georgia’s silence had a new shape—smaller, sharper, alive.

 
 
XII. Alchemy of Flesh

The bathroom reeked of iodine and scorched caramel—stolen medical alcohol and magic’s cloying rot. Georgia’s naked reflection flickered in the fogged mirror.

Shoulders like rusted pipes, hips sharp as a stray’s ribs, breasts no bigger than fists clenched around stolen car keys. Not a woman., not yet. Rather a charcoal sketch smudged by rain, largely broken lines and emaciated planes. But between her legs—there—Lanie's masterpiece throbbed.

Soft folds that glistened like unbleached silk, pink as a wound caressed by sunrise.
Lanie leaned against the doorframe, her grin a diamond dagger as she twirled her damn piercing.

“Admiring the artwork?”

Georgia’s laugh was dismay as a sound. “Just tallying your receipts.” She brushed the near-invisible scar below her navel, now a faint silver hyphen where Lanie had carved out George’s manhood. Mostly gone. Almost.

"Scars are footnotes, sweet thing. Proof the story's worth telling." Lanie's finger moved in mid-air—skin to talon, glossy nail to onyx blade. She pressed it against Georgia's clit, drawing blood and a gasp that cracked like cheap porcelain.

“But you’re still… unfinished. My half-painted billboard promising paradise that doesn't exist yet.” Her voice faltered, just a tremor. Frustration. Not with the clay but with the sculptor.

The ache opened up like a bruise, sore and familiar. Georgia gritted her teeth, "Made me a flea market."

"Nope. More like a Swap meet," Lanie growled as her talon drove deeper.

Georgia's legs collapsed in pain, her world decaying into white noise and the iron scent of her own agony and...lust? Lanie continued. "More authentic."

The charm came next, still furnace-hot from Lanie’s wet forge. It fused into Georgia’s clit, biting deep as it drank from her punctured veins. Georgia’s scream curdled into a moan, her spine arching back like a bridge to nowhere.

Lanie’s breath hitched, ragged and wet. Her free hand found Georgia’s nipple, pinching until the bud hardened—a rose blooming through cracked concrete. “There,” she whispered, lips grazing Georgia’s ear. “Now you’re currency.”

Their mouths collided—a forced clash of teeth and nicotine. Lanie’s tongue tasted of bourbon and bad decisions. Lanie simply laughed into the kiss, her talon retreating to become a blood-smeared fingernail.

“Just like that bargain-bin bitch last night gushed—‘So precious.’” Her sneer curled like smoke. “Pity she didn’t stay to see it breathe.” Her claw tightened on Georgia’s clit, claiming the pulse beneath the metal. “Good. Souvenirs shouldn’t talk back.”

The mattress slumped like an addict's resolve. Lanie lounged atop it, the queen of spite wearing only George’s t-shirt. Smelling of faded Axe body spray and dorm-room regret, while poor Georgia knelt at her feet.

“Touch yourself.”

Lanie’s voice was a serrated spoon scraping bone marrow. Georgia’s lungs seized. The command clung to her synapses, greasy as diner bacon left to congeal under heat lamps. “Oh God. Please help me,” she moaned, though God had long since boarded up this particular motel.

Lanie sighed, winding a strand of Georgia’s hair around her finger—tight enough to snuff out a prayer. “Nope. You’re wetter than a truck-stop toilet after a laxative buffet. Your problem to deal with.”

“Go to hell.”

“Already there, darling.” Lanie yanked her head back, forcing Georgia’s gaze upwards. The overhead bulb buzzed like a trapped hornet, casting Lanie’s smirk in jaundiced light. “Do it.”
Georgia’s hand shook—a leaf in a hurricane. She slid trembling fingers between her legs. The clit piercing seared, every graze a lightning strike to the spine. This isn’t me, she thought, but the lie curdled halfway.

Lanie’s free hand pinched Georgia’s nipple through the threadbare cotton. “I lied,” she purred, thumb circling the peak until it ached. “Couldn’t let you go solo. Needed to… collaborate.”

The piercing throbbed like a metronome beating in sync with her heartbeat. First time ever since the unspooling, she thought. First time 'choosing' this shame. Her fingers fumbled, stiff as a rusty marionette. Arousal buzzed like a downed power line; shame pooled thick as crank oil in her belly.

“Yes,” Lanie hissed, spreading her thighs. Georgia felt the dampness seep into her hair—hot, primal, reeking of copper and stale tobacco.

“Feel that? I’m creaming while watching you squirm.”

Georgia’s breath fractured. I hate you.

“Liar.” Lanie’s telepathic voice oozed into her skull, syrup laced with strychnine. You hate how good it feels to break.

The room tilted—floorboards groaning, walls breathing. Georgia’s hips stuttered, chasing the ache. *Oooohhh. Stop. dont—

Their eyes locked.

Lanie’s kiss hit like a wrenching spark—lips molten, teeth claiming. Georgia’s back arched, the orgasm a grenade pin yanked—

“Nghhhh....ahhh.....”

Lanie’s talon clamped over her wrist, yanking her back from the edge. “Tut-tut. Didn’t say you could cash in.”

Georgia whimpered the denial, a big fat fishhook lodged beneath her ribs.

Lanie stood, adjusting the sweat-soaked t-shirt that now clung to her like her own skin.

“Now,” she crooned, snapping her fingers. The door creaked open, hinges screaming. “Let’s invite company.”

 
 
XIII. Gutter Saints and Hammering Rites

The man filled the doorway like a condemned building—all cracked concrete swagger and rebar veins. His cock swung heavily, a wrecking ball sheathed in storm clouds. Georgia’s rose gold charm pulsed, not at her clit now but through it, a live wire fused to the bone.
Lanie licked her teeth. “Miss him?”

Georgia didn’t flinch. Muscle memory. George’s ghost lived in the man’s knuckles—same brass-knuckle grin, same way he cracked his neck like a shotgun pump. But ghosts don’t smell of menthol rub and regret.

“Nostalgia’s cheap,” Georgia hissed. The piercing thrummed like a wasp trapped in cooling amber.

The stranger’s laugh was a grease fire. He palmed her throat, thumbprint over her windpipe.

“Heard you bite.”

“Heard you bleed.”

Lanie’s nails—blackened stilettos—dug into Georgia’s shoulder. “Play nice, children.”

The stranger gripped Georgia’s hips, fingers denting flesh. She braced for violence but then gasped as he shoved her onto the bed, her stretch bordering on exorcism.

Lanie’s breath hitched, hot against Georgia’s ear. “Three hammers to break a lock.”

“Pluh—planned—” Georgia choked, Lanie’s cunt smothering the rest.

“Shhh.” Lanie’s palm cracked across her cheek. “Your mouth’s for worship, not whining.”
The orgasm hit—a power surge. Georgia arched back, a jagged ahhhhh! escaping like steam from an uncorked kettle.

Lanie’s magic slithered in: wasp-wing buzz, filling her throat, her vowels.

Georgia’s fingers clawed the sheets. “Nuh—no—!” as she fell into a sinkhole
The no crumbled to nngh, then silence.

SNAP: Somewhere, a neon sign flickered: VACANT!

“Turn her?” The man’s question was gravel and diesel.

Lanie twisted Georgia’s arm. “Ohhh. and let's bend her backwards.”

Georgia’s fell back like a broken ragdoll, tendons screaming, as the man pulled her back and drove into her.

The breach tore a sound from her—unghhh, feral and fractured.

“Tighter’n a preacher’s wallet,” he grunted, hips snapping.

Georgia’s moan splintered: ah-! ah-! ah-! syncopated with his thrusts. Shame burned her cheeks. No... Not her.

Lanie’s laugh curled like smoke. “There’s my gutter saint.”

The second crest hit harder. Magic pooled hotter, deeper. Georgia’s whimper—eh-eh-eh—a mouse in a snake’s jaw.

SNAP: The sign flickered again: VALIANT!

Lanie’s thumb pressed Georgia’s windpipe, latex squeaking. “Beg.”

Georgia’s reply: Hnnk—! Gah—! Choked vowels, spit-slick. The man’s thrusts were subway trains derailing—rhythmless, brutal.

Lanie leaned close, her breath a venomous hymn. “Say you want it p—”

A hitch. A gasp.

“Please.”

The word slipped—unscripted, desperate—before Lanie could claw it back. Her hand flew to her mouth, smothering the rest. Too late.

Georgia heard. That cracked, please, raw as a knuckle dragged through gravel. Not a command. A confession.

The orgasm hit like a Molotov through a pawnshop window.

“Nnnh—! FUH—!” Georgia’s scream was a live wire, thrashing. Her hips pistoned, slamming into the man’s grip. Resistance? Ash. Lanie’s magic poured in—sewage through a broken levee.

“Guh—! GUH—!” Georgia’s throat shredded as Lanie gushed into her open mouth, weeping with joy.

SNAP: The sign flickered one last time, frying one more moth before it went dark: VICTORIOUS!
 
 
Continued in Part 6

 
 
XV. The Perks of Surrender

Georgia woke to the taste of salt and copper, her skull throbbing. The room stank of burnt sage and sex—Lanie’s idea of purification. Memory flooded back in shards: the stranger’s hands, Lanie’s laughter, the violence of her own body betraying her. She gagged, bile rising, but her throat clenched around nothing.

“There she is,” Lanie purred, fingers tangled in Georgia’s hair—now silk where there had been split ends. “My masterpiece.”

Georgia swung before thought could catch up—a haymaker forged in the molten core of violation. Her fist cracked Lanie’s jaw, blood blooming like a poppy in reverse. Lanie staggered, spine hitting the wall with a crunch. She laughed, thumbing the crimson streak on her split lip.

“There’s my girl,” she crooned, her voice honeyed gravel. “Took you long enough.”

“Whore!” Georgia rasped. Her voice wasn’t hers. Smokier. A whiskey-slick purr that rattled her ribs.

Georgia stared at her bloodied knuckles. This isn’t me. But the lie was obvious. It was her, entirely her. Muscle memory from the past.

Lanie spat ruby onto the carpet. “Feel better? Or do you need to break a lamp, too?” She grabbed Georgia’s wrist, iron grip beneath velvet skin. “C’mon. Let’s ruin something worth breaking.”

Lanie dragged her to the mirror, heavy feet carving trenches in the carpet like cigarette burns. Georgia’s reflection hit like a crowbar to the gut. She stood tall as a war monument, corded muscle and wrath-forged grace. Hips flared like canyon curves carved by a vengeful river—built to drown men and birth wild things. Breasts high and defiant, nipples hard as railroad spikes.

Her skin glowed like a dive-bar jukebox at last call, fractured light and danger. The dragon tattoo coiled from shoulder to breast to thigh. Obsidian scales dissolving into rose-gold filigree that converged at her clit. There, a sword-and-shield charm glinted, rubies smouldering like trapped coals.

“Still works,” Lanie said, thumb tracing the piercing like a trigger. Georgia’s breath hitched, a traitorous moan slipping free. “Just… less discount rack.” Lanie’s grin sharpened. “That poet’s muse? Bet she’d weep. But honey—” Her nails dug into Georgia’s hip, “—it’s all malleable as a wishbone. Want it to dangle like a chandelier? Just wish.”

“Claire?” Georgia laughed, the sound a shudder. “Only skank I see is you… cock-hoarder.”

Lanie’s smirk didn’t waver. “Darling, I’m a curator. You’re the one creaming over groupies.”

Georgia’s laugh sharpened, a blade honed on seventeen years of shared rot. “Jealousy’s cute on you, Lanie. Matches the desperation stink.” She flicked a nail at Lanie’s sweat-slick collarbone.

“What’s wrong? Dragon scales not keeping up with the mileage?”

Lanie’s talons drew blood now, droplets beading Georgia’s jaw. “Cute? You were cute when you sobbed through your first binding. Begged me to stop while your little cocklet wept.” She leaned in, breath hot as a lit fuse. “Now look at you—screaming like a barn owl over third-rate tongue. Pathetic.”

Georgia didn’t flinch. “At least Claire wanted me. Not like John—what’s his name?” She snorted. “Guy came harder for his own limericks than your pussy. Even his cum looked bored.”

A muscle twitched in Lanie’s neck. “John paid the bills, baby. Claire paid in… what? Gas-station sonnets and daddy issues?”

“She paid in devotion.” Georgia’s smile was a shiv. “Remember that? Or did you pawn yours off with my balls?”

Lanie’s grip constricted, scales rippling down her arms. “George’s balls funded our wardrobe, sweetheart. All that lace men loved clawing off? That’s your pension plan.” She gestured to Georgia’s body, voice dripping venom. “Hell, this little Valkyrie upgrade? All thanks to your… generosity.”

“I am NOT your fucking wardrobe!” Georgia hissed, stepping closer until their breath mingled like lit gasoline. “Funny. I can’t recall George ever needing sequins to make you howl. Just his cock and your real voice.”

Lanie’s pupils slit, wings trembling—

A tear streaked her cheek. Then another. “You are…,” she rasped, hands desperately grabbing Georgia’s shoulders. “Mine.”

Georgia stiffened. “Lanie—”

“Don’t ever leave me.” Lanie kissed her—hard, desperate—lips salt-stung and trembling. Georgia resisted, fists clenched, until Lanie’s whimper cracked like a dropped vial.

‘Fuck.’

Georgia’s resolve frayed. She kissed back, hungry and hateful, teeth clashing like warring blades. Lanie moaned into her mouth, tears smearing between them, hands fumbling at the piercing—

“Christ.” Georgia tore free, laugh shuddering. “You’re sick.”

Lanie’s teeth found her earlobe, bite drawing blood. “Told you. Surrender’s got… perks.”

A snick sliced the air—not a sound, but a sensation, like satin tearing between teeth. Like a blade between ribs.

The battle-worn lovers turned towards the unholy sound.

 
 
XVI. Warrior Unleashed

The man’s edges blurred. First, his silhouette fraying into smoke the colour of absinthe left to stagnate in a drained flask. His form dissolved stitch by stitch, threads lifting like moths drawn to a pyre.

The cock—thick, veined, defiantly corporeal—remained suspended in the haze. Ribbons of smoke coiled around it, glowing faintly as if lit by swallowed lightning.

Then, a laugh. Clove-soaked. Lethal.

Evelyn stepped through the vapour, smoke clinging to her like a lover desperate for one last kiss. It condensed into a corset of emerald sequins and thigh-high boots that gleamed like oil spills under a full moon. The cock arched, untouched by the theatrics—still rigid, still hers, now crowned by a gold hoop that caught the light like a challenge.

“Ta-da,” she purred, sweeping into a bow that would have earned roses at a funeral. “And you called my illusions gauche, Lanie.”
Lanie snorted, talons retracting to polished nails. “Knew that dick was too… Kafkaesque to be real. What’s next? A haiku etched into your pubes?”

Evelyn’s laugh was all fangs. “Says the woman who turned a trailer-park mutt into the spitting image of Niyathera.” She stepped closer, her shadow swallowing Georgia’s reflection in the cracked mirror. “Admit it. You've missed my flair.”

Georgia met her gaze, the dragon tattoo contorting beneath her skin. Scales rippled like storm clouds over badlands.

Lightning-fast, she lunged.

“L-Lanie—” Evelyn choked, clawing at Georgia’s wrist. “Leash your… bitch—”

“Enough,” Lanie commanded, voice fraying like overworked twine.

Georgia didn’t listen.

“I said ENOUGH!” Lanie’s telepathic lash struck—a barbed-wire snare meant to cripple.

The demon… No… this was something else… roared.

Fire erupted in Georgia’s mind, incinerating the spell to ash. Lanie screamed, flames cascading down her arms, her hair catching like a dry brush.

“NO!” Georgia dropped Evelyn, lunging to smother the fire with her own body. She cradled Lanie’s head in her lap, hands blistering as she patted out the embers. “Stay with me—stay—”

Evelyn crawled closer, trembling. “Let me… I can…”

Georgia bared bloodied teeth. “Touch her and I’ll rip your head off.”

“I wish I hated you,” Evelyn whispered, raw. “Would make this easier.” She pressed a hand to Lanie’s charred chest, ignoring Georgia’s growl. “But no… I’m just a bitch who can’t quit a lost cause.”

Her magic surged—a verdant green, like wet earth after rain and blooming lilies choked by cemetery silt. Lanie’s skin knit itself back together, scales reglazing like kiln-fired enamel. Evelyn gasped, veins gilding gold then blackening as the spell siphoned her marrow.

“Blood magic… cuts both ways,” Lanie rasped, eyelids fluttering.

Evelyn collapsed against Georgia’s shoulder, breath ragged. “No shit… Sherlock Whore.”

The three women sat tangled in the wreckage—Lanie limp in Georgia’s lap, Evelyn’s head lolling against her arm. The tattoo now quiet, its fury spent.

“You’re… heavy,” Georgia muttered.

Evelyn snorted. “Says the girl with a literal dragon lying on her lap.”

Lanie’s smirk was a ghost of its former blade as she mouthed, "Still… got moves. Her

gaze locked with Evelyn’s, telepathy humming between them like a live wire: *Xan.*

Evelyn stiffened. *You knew?*
Of course, witch. *Since your 'recovery.' I chose not to intrude.* Lanie’s mental voice demanded. *Looks like time to come clean though.* Evelyn simply nodded.

Georgia stared at the ceiling, where plaster rained down like funeral ash. “What now?”

Evelyn’s fingers brushed Lanie’s cheek—a ghost of a touch. “Now… we talk.”

 
 
XVII. Weaving the tale

The three women perched on the edge of the bed, a tangle of tension and teeth. Lanie lit a cigarette with a flick of her wrist, the flame sputtering like a dying star. Smoke coiled around Evelyn’s face, catching the greasy sheen of the bedroom’s antique chandelier. "My turn first. Since when?” Lanie rasped, her voice ground glass and sulphur.

Evelyn’s gaze slid to Georgia—seated squarely in the middle, spine steel straight.

“Since the closet at the ball,” Evelyn purred, curls fracturing light like shattered kaleidoscope glass. “Watching you shack up with that—” A derisive nod toward Lanie, “—bargain-bin Charon cosplay. What was he, a hedge-fund sorcerer with mummy's Amex? Please. You used to devour Titans, Lanie. Now you were licking crumbs.”

Georgia’s knuckles blanched, the air curdling—burnt ozone and scorched rituals.

Georgia’s knuckles whitened, the air thickening—burnt clove and sweat, ozone, and old spells.

Lanie’s fangs were a jagged heirloom dagger. “Careful, witch. That’s my magnum opus you’re insulting.” She exhaled smoke rings that unravelled into nothing.

“Magnum opus?” Evelyn laughed, like champagne flutes shattering in a cathedral. “Darling, your magnum opus is a taxidermied dumpster fire. But fine—let’s call it visionary. I fed you Alaric, didn’t I? That spreadsheet with a pulse? Planted a tracer in his Rolex, figured he’d keep you busy while I peeled back the wards on your little… project.”

She breathed, breath sweet as poisoned syrup. “Six scrying pools turned to dust. Two hex-familiars retired to a farm upstate—though their yapping was worse than their bite. And Alaric?” Her smile sharpened. “Had to scrub his prefrontal cortex after he tripped over your CV, 'Dragonmother'. He sobbed like a novitiate caught defiling the sacristy. Almost made me nostalgic.”

Georgia’s voice sharpened to a whetstone’s edge. “Why wait ’til now?”

Evelyn’s smirk faltered—a hairline crack in lacquer. “Because watching you thrash? Flail? Play martyr in last season’s leather?” Her tongue darted over crimson lips. “It was… instructive. Served a purpose.”

Lanie barked a laugh, smoke tendrils writhing. “The Wyrm’s always savoured rot.”

“And you’ve got a fetish for choke chains.” Evelyn closed the gap, her mammoth meat pressing into Georgia’s thigh—unyielding, the gold hoop glinting like a guillotine’s blade. “But let’s skip the martyr monologue. I’ve craved this—” Her nails raked Georgia’s ribs, etching blood-moon crescents, “—since the armistice.”

Lanie arched a brow. “You… huh? Wanting this I get. But before? Also never pinned why you’d trade that for—” She gestured at Evelyn’s silhouette, “—this. But George?”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, but before we spiral into your sordid fanfic—” she mimed gagging, “—let me finish.”

Her hand slid higher, fingertips branding Georgia’s sternum. “When you marched into negotiations as the Demon of the Iron March. Non-magicals' attack hound, slaughterer of the Obsidian Coven—with Lanie draped on your arm like a trophy wife. Oh, she masked it well and she played it so... so sweet. Dragon queen turned Stepford smoke show, still clutching your spend under that prim dress. Thought no one noticed? I did.”

Georgia’s jaw tightened. “I do not recall you being there.”

“Oh, I was.” Evelyn’s voice dropped, venom and velvet. “Pissed enough to melt diamonds. You—the great butcher who cleaved through sorcerers like kindling—suddenly playing peacemaker? And excelling? Don’t fret, I’ll take that secret to the pyre.”

Her thumb buried itself into Georgia’s hipbone. “Wanted to fuck you up that day. Not kill you, given the peace at stake. Just… crack a rib. Dislocate that smug jaw. Remind you what happens when gods get annoyed.”

Lanie stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray, the embers hissing. “Jealousy’s a rancid perfume, Ev.”

“Jealous?” Evelyn’s grin was a scalpel dipped in honey. “Of what? Watching the Demon trade his claws for a clipboard? Or watching you trade your crown for a collar?” She leaned into Georgia’s ear, breath scalding. Ruining you is sweeter than murder. And darlin’… I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

Georgia’s fists trembled, the tattoo writhing beneath her skin. Lanie caught her wrist, thumb circling her pulse. “Baby, breathe. You’re a lit match in a powder keg. Let me cast one spell. Trust me?”

Georgia’s laugh frayed, a torn flag in a storm, but her gaze never wavered. “Every cut, every burn—I let you carve into me. Because I saw it. Every time. That flicker in your eyes—like you were flaying yourself alive with every wound you gave me.” Her thumb brushed the blistered skin of Lanie’s forearm, voice splintering. “Do it.”

Lanie stilled. Her breath, a snapped high-tension cable spitting sparks.

“Seventeen years,” Georgia pressed, words raw as an exposed nerve. “Seventeen years of you being your blade and your whetstone. I know you like I know my own breath. Every time you sold yourself to some shallow dick, I watched you bleed out a little more. You think I didn’t see it? The way you’d hollow your own ribs to make room for the next betrayal?”

Her voice dropped, gravel and grief. “You’d escalate—deeper, crueller—hoping I’d break. But I saw the truth. Every scar you etched on me was a confession. A prayer.”

Lanie’s eyes glinted, bleeding cursed gemstones.

“It hurt,” Georgia hissed. “Like tearing out my own heart. Again. And again. But I’d stitch it back each time, because I knew—whatever this was, whatever you needed to exorcise—you needed me to survive it. To witness it.” Her palm pressed over Lanie’s chest, where a heartbeat thrashed like a caged thing. “So do it. Finish the damn tapestry.”

Lanie’s breath snagged—a snapped banjo wire. She cradled Georgia’s face, tears glinting like falling diamonds. “One last stitch, sugar.” The kiss was salt and smoke, a confession pressed into Georgia’s lips. Then her hands glowed, amber runes twisting serpent-like up her wrists. Not the cold precision of traditional spellwork, but something feverish, alive. She laid her hand upon Georgia's chest.

The spell hit like a honey-drenched thunderclap. Georgia convulsed, a scream tearing loose as heat erupted from the charm, her dragon tattoo writhing like smoke on a smoldering oil drum. Muscles to mush, but the hunger? Oh goddess. It clawed at her ribs, a famished beast. "L-Lanie—!"

“Surrender,” Lanie drawled, smoke seeping from her grin like a rusted tailpipe. “Spiked with a burning need to be stuffed. Need to thank Ev for her little homebrew. Figured you’d hate it less if it came gift-wrapped with pleasure.” Her smirk wavered—a crack in the porcelain. Georgia saw it.

Evelyn’s grin only sharpened. “Oh, our girl here will hate it just enough.”

The kiss was abrupt—Evelyn’s mouth a lit fuse. Georgia’s back hit the silk duvet, the charm humming as Evelyn’s fingers closed around it.

“Wai—”

“No.” Evelyn’s teeth scraped her jugular, voice a velvet garrote. “I’ve waited through ceasefires and your insufferable self-actualisation phases. . No bullshit hesitation.”

Georgia’s protest dissolved into a moan.

Lanie watched, sprawled like a debauched monarch. “Y’know, we could multitask. Ruin her while we revisit history.”

Evelyn nipped Georgia’s collarbone, drawing a ruby bead. “Mmm, etiquette says the guest of honour gets ravaged first.” Her lips closed around Georgia’s nipple—a bite that carved a scream into a laugh. “As the bards say—” Another bite, claiming, “—hospitality is just cruelty in lace.”

Georgia’s curse fractured into a gasp. “Fucking… harpies…”

Lanie’s talons traced the dragon’s spine down Georgia’s thigh. “Guilty.”

“No refunds,” Evelyn purred, gold hoop flashing as she mounted Georgia, the bedframe creaking like a gallows rope.

Outside, the moon drowned in smog. Somewhere, a streetlamp buzzed its last rites. The night stretched its jaws wider—a feral thing, all hunger and no patience.

 
 
XVIII. The centre of attention

Georgia hung suspended between them—Evelyn’s cock buried to the hilt, Lanie’s tongue down her throat. One hand clawed the headboard, the other twisted in sweat-slick sheets. Her back arched like a bowstring, thighs splayed wide as Evelyn’s talons bit into her hips. Lanie’s teeth followed, claiming Georgia’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

“X-Xanathar—!” Georgia gasped, the name torn loose as Evelyn snapped her hips forward.

“Got it in one, cupcake.” Evelyn’s grin split the dim light, oil-slick and feral. Her true form flickered—scales rippling beneath human skin, pupils swallowing the room whole. “Who else could stomach your mess?”

Lanie snorted, her laugh smoke-rough as she palmed Georgia’s breast. “Dragon Daddy likes playing dress-up? Should’ve guessed. Those boots?” She flicked Evelyn’s thigh-high stiletto. "Scream midlife crisis hag.”

“Says the hag hoarding moth-eaten lingerie.” Evelyn’s thrusts turned jagged, the bedframe screeching. “Fuck—breathe, Georgia. You’re built like a brick shithouse.”

Georgia’s breath hitched—sharp as a switchblade’s click—as her own magic surged. Ribs cinched corset-tight without Lanie’s hand, bones grinding like bad gears in a stolen car. Hips narrowed, breasts swelling until the dragon tattoo rippled like a living thing. “F-fuck—!”

“Hush, cupcake.” Lanie’s nail traced Georgia’s collarbone. “Delicate. Busty. Think… tragic opera heroine.” She smirked, thumb brushing Georgia’s split lip. “With a side of back-alley flexibility.”

Lanie’s grin cut through the haze, her fingers mocking a conductor’s wave. “There she is—Van Gogh with a vag. Shape it, baby.”

Georgia moaned, the change flowing through her—her power now, free and feral. One moment, broad shoulders, a warrior goddess; the next, coltish limbs and trapped-ballerina energy.

Evelyn snarled, claws digging deep as Georgia's curved to an impossible shape. "Lovely parlour trick. Now look at your mistress, love." She pinned Georgia's chin, wrenching her face towards Lanie. "You are her masterpiece at its peak."

Georgia’s breath stuttered—half terror, half ecstasy. It was Lanie’s will that let her morph into this new shape. Soft. Small. A hummingbird heartbeat where once a demon had thundered. Could she will it too? Could George return?

Lanie's smile faltered, only for an instant. "Male frames? Gas station sushi vs. THIS baby. You're the finest Wagyu now.” She kissed Georgia’s temple, voice dropping. “I'll miss my George beyond anything. But this...?” Her hand drifted between Georgia’s thighs. “This keeps you, keeps us alive.”

Georgia’s back arched in response. Entirely her choice this time, spine curving like a drawn bow as she smiled in rapture. “D-don’t need yo—nh!—your—permission.”

Lanie’s laugh cracked like a whip. “Attagirl. Now bend like your daddy wants you to.”

Evelyn’s laugh dripped venom. “Saint Georgia—dragon slayer, lace model.” She slammed deeper, Georgia’s gasp dissolving into a whine.

“Arch. Higher.”

Georgia obeyed, arching back until her spine creaked. "F-fuck—me—harder—."

“Louder,” Evelyn hissed, her conquering cock pulsing as Georgia’s willing walls clenched in surrender.

“P-please—.”

Evelyn stilled, cock twitching deep. A talon grazed Georgia’s throat.

“Please…?”

Lanie’s hand slid to Georgia’s generous breast, pinching a nipple hard. “Specify, roadkill. Call her Daddy.”

Georgia’s hips jerked—Evelyn’s thrusts were now shallow, teasing. “N-no—”

Lanie dragged Georgia up as she ground up to her. Her clit piercing rubbing against Lanie’s bare cunt as the dragon queen wrenched her upright. Georgia’s scream fractured—Lanie swallowed it whole, their mouths fused in a kiss that tasted like ash and stolen confessions. Juices slicked their thighs, the rose-gold charm between Georgia’s legs humming like a wasp trapped in amber.

“Why—?” Georgia choked, her hips stuttering between Lanie’s merciless grind and Evelyn’s piston drives.

Lanie tore her hungry mouth away from Georgia's, scales flickering across her cheeks.

“Because I love you and she—” Her throat clicked, gaze darting to Evelyn—before her smirk hardened. “—this. Our chaos. Our beautiful fucking mess.” She slammed Georgia back onto Evelyn’s cock, her voice a serrated whisper. "You will always be the heart.”

Evelyn laughed, the sound ricocheting off Georgia’s spine. "Nngh—ah! You’ll love u... this.”

Evelyn’s thrusts became erratic. Georgia's back bowed like a violin string about to snap, her scream muffled against Lanie's teeth. "Nnghhh—ah!—Daddy—!"

The title tore loose from her lips—half sob, half snarl.

Lanie moved like a struck match—yanking Georgia into a tighter hug still impaled on Evelyn. The shift punched a scream from Georgia’s lungs, drowned by Lanie’s kiss. Teeth and tongue and smoke, arms vice-locked around her ribs.

“There’s my choking hazard,” Lanie rasped against her mouth.

Evelyn’s claws anchored Georgia’s hips, driving up into the new angle. “Attagirl.”

“She is ours," their synchronised grins said.

Georgia’s world narrowed to fracture points. Lanie’s grip bruising her biceps, Evelyn’s scales shredding her thighs, the charm searing her clit like a brand. Her back arched between them, a bowstring snapped mid-draw.

Evelyn came first, scales erupting down her arms as her spend flooded Georgia. The other two followed with silent screams, their orgasms a wildfire that scorched each other's throats.

Outside, dawn bled through grease-smeared windows. A moth beat its wings once—twice—against the bulb before spiralling into the ashtray’s graveyard of butts.

 
 
Continued in Part 7

 
 

XIX. Blackreach and Blacker Hearts

The moth’s carcass smouldered, wings fused to a cigarette butt like a failed origami angel. Evelyn traced the curve of Georgia’s hip, her touch tender as a grease fire. For three breaths, the room held still—the kind of quiet that lives between a trigger pull and the bullet’s verdict.

Georgia’s sweat cooled on Evelyn’s tongue, tasting of copper and comfort. “You’re trembling,” she murmured, not unkindly. Her thumb brushed the charm welded to Georgia’s clit. A flicker of something human crossed her face—regret, or its regret, or its piss-poor cousin, nostalgia.

Then her pupils split vertically. Serpentine.

Evelyn’s hips stuttered mid-thrust, the gold hoop piercing in her cock grinding against Georgia’s insides like a socket wrench on rust. Georgia felt the shift—muscles coiling beneath skin, a tremor that had nothing to do with pleasure. Her legs spread wider against her will, tendons straining like puppet strings.

“Let’s tell you a story,” Evelyn purred, her voice oil-slick and clotted. “Starts with a woman who forgot her own name.”

Her claws flexed, drawing twin ribbons of crimson down Georgia’s thighs. “Michelle. Pathetic alias. Evelyn Prime playing non-magical girlfriend before the war.” A wet click in her throat. “Sorry. Not sorry. Fuck.”

Evelyn’s next thrust tore skin from Georgia’s inner walls. “Stop—!” Georgia choked, blood trickling down her thighs as her hands scrabbled uselessly at the sheets. Fingers moving without her consent to grip the headboard—like a violin strung with barbed wire.

Oh, sweet thing,” Evelyn crooned, her canines lengthening as she licked the wound. “Forgive me,” she whispered against her blood-soaked finger, then snarled. “All that magic resistance, burned away thanks to your wife. Nothing left but meat.”

She snapped her hips harder, the ridges of her cock carving fresh welts. “Scream properly. I want relics to remember you by.”

Lanie’s body lunged—a marionette jerk of limbs—her half-formed snarl dying as Evelyn’s magic yanked her tendons taut. Evelyn didn’t even glance back.

Evelyn casually flicked her finger. Lanie’s eyes glazed over, her pupils dilating into voids as her jaw unhinged with a wet pop only magic could cause. Terror etched itself into the cracks of her skin. Georgia’s panicked body locked, joints fused by invisible solder.

“Lick,” Lanie hissed, but her voice frayed—dragonfire guttering to embers. Georgia obeyed, her neck craning against protesting vertebrae. The flat of her tongue dragging a shudder from Lanie’s hips even as her chest split.

“Evelyn, the old Evelyn… oh, she lived. Loved diplomats. Loved dryads. Loved those sexually amorphous were-things… she loved everything until she loved only George—”

“Six months,” Evelyn sneered. “Domestic rot. Pancake breakfasts. Letting George—” The name cracked like a rifle shot, “—play hero in alleyway scuffles. Thought she’d found peace in that mediocrity.”

Her laugh curdled. “Peace smells like bleach and unwashed diapers, you know.” A pause. Scales rippled up her arms. “I’d apologise for the stench, but we’re well past courtesy.”

Georgia tried to stop but could not. Lanie’s thighs clamped around her skull like hydraulic presses. Femurs creaking like unoiled hinges as Georgia’s unwilling tongue continued its assault.

“Stupid bitch rejoined the fight,” Evelyn continued, talons scoring Georgia’s hips. “Left her white knight without a note. Didn’t matter that she carried his brat—warrior’s honour.” The words dripped acid. “Pregnancies make for terrible battle readiness, turns out. Captured. Dumped in Blackreach. Prisoners there? Your conquests, Georgie.”

Her claws retracted with a wet schlick. “Should’ve protected them. Should’ve protected her. My fault. Her fault. Your fault.”

The mattress creaked like a gallows rope. Georgia’s magic writhed beneath her skin, the tattoo rippling. “I didn’t command—”

“—but you didn’t stop it!” Evelyn’s roar rattled the bourbon bottles on the nightstand. One shattered. Glass shards rotated in mid-air, then slammed themselves into the wall. Spelling SORRY-SORRY-SORRY in jagged cursive.

“Blackreach’s warden kept his version of peace. His rules. When they stripped her naked, carved her up like Sunday roast.” Her claws sank deeper, Georgia’s hips lifting obediently to meet each brutal thrust. “You were too busy brokering treaties to notice that your rabid dogs needed leashes.”

Lanie’s hand slid to Georgia’s throat against her will, thumb pressing the fluttering pulse. “Listen,” she growled, but her nails trembled.

“Prime survived nine weeks,” Evelyn said, voice curdling. “Nine weeks of piss buckets and rat bites. Ohh... Fridays were special—gangbang night.” Her rhythm stuttered, a fractured moan escaping her lips. “Apologies. Not apologies. Keep still.”

When news of the armistice did come out… Guards panicked. Made every night a gang-rape party aiming to kill. Sixth guard used a dagger—” She mimed twisting, “—here. Made her sing hymns of agony while they took turns.”

Georgia’s sob tore loose. Her hands clutched at Evelyn’s thighs, pulling her closer even as she screamed: “I came as soon as I heard—”

Evelyn slammed her into the headboard, the wood splintering. “After she bled out in a pig trough!” Spittle flecked Georgia’s cheek. Her next thrust gentled for half a heartbeat. “No. No mercy. Can’t.”

“Three days too late. Nine fucking weeks of her whispering your name like a prayer.” Evelyn’s voice broke. “Died thinking you’d ride in, sword shining. Never knew you’d already moved on. That her absence barely itched.”

“She died with your name rotting in her teeth!”

Georgia’s magic surged, the tattoo cracking. Her body began to shift—hips narrowing, shoulders widening—before Evelyn's claws sank into her ribcage. Halting her transformation in its tracks.

"Stay. She commands it."

She leaned closer, her darkness dripping like a broken sieve—obsidian horns, forge-pit eyes.

“You liked Michelle. Might’ve loved her, given time. But she was just… practice. A placeholder till Lanie entered your life.” Her finger traced Georgia’s neck. “I’d let you beg if it mattered. Doesn’t matter though. Fuck.”

"Meanwhile my girl moldered. Your spawn turned to black sludge in her belly. Drip-fed prison filth through IVs made of guard cum."

Georgia remembered her through her tears.

“Fixed it,” Michelle announced in triumph. Cotton sheets inside the dryer smelled of thunderstorms and rosemary. George pretended not to notice the sparks still dancing on her fingertips.

“Sorceresses shouldn’t need stupid recipe books,” she’d hissed, throwing the spoon that hung embedded in the old kitchen wall long after she was gone.

The diner booth, 3 AM. Michelle’s laugh, warm as a whiskey pour. Her hand on his knee. “You’re different,” she had said. “Not like the monsters.” He simply smiled and kissed her. Never once did he ask her why she flinched whenever she saw him in uniform.

Months later, he’d see the scars on Evelyn's body, but only today did Georgia understand.
“Why her?” Georgia rasped.

Evelyn’s laugh was a bone saw chewing through sheet metal. “Couldn’t slum it with you apes in my true form. Male draconic energy’s… loud. Like a jackhammer in a chapel.” Her hips pistoned, each thrust carving a fresh wound where pleasure bled into punishment.

“Needed a warm body. Got word of Prime’s suicide, teleported in for a soul-merge. Thought I’d wear her corpse like a weekend fling.”
Georgia gagged as the gold hoop snagged her insides. Evelyn leaned down, her breath reeking of burnt hair and funeral lilies. “Should’ve chosen better,” she muttered, almost to herself. “Soul-merges? Messier than a back-alley autopsy. Prime’s husk fought me like a rabid dog. No good memories left—just claws and teeth and Blackreach’s rot etched into her marrow.”

The merge… Her voice faltered, scales flickering at her temples. “Wasn’t just her flesh I took. Felt every violation, every blade bite, every drop of filth they unloaded into her rotting womb.”

A muscle twitched in her jaw—draconic, involuntary. “Xanathar—dragon-god of conquest, breaker of citadels—crawled onto a Blackreach parapet that night, ready to leap.”

“Her pain was battery acid in my veins. Only thing that stopped me from taking the plunge? Her scream in our shared skull—not fear, not sorrow. Fury. A firestorm in mortal flesh, screaming to be weaponised."

Lanie’s nails involuntarily dug into Georgia’s scalp, drawing blood. In agony, she whispered, “Lick,” even as tears streaked her frozen face.

Georgia had no choice but to obey, her body betraying her completely now. Her tongue moved with precision, puppeteered to force a moan from Lanie’s throat.

Evelyn watched, her grin a rusted bear trap. “Feral little thing. Should have been ash long ago. But that gutter-born bitch bloody well clawed her way back. Made me... feel her... feel EVERYTHING!”

A pause. The room held its breath.

“Wanted a powerful meat shell,” Evelyn hissed, talons flexing. “Crown of lightning hidden under all that blood.” A shudder racked her frame. “Apologies taste like bile, don’t they?”

“Didn’t know her agony would become my compass.”

“Given a decade or two to grow?” Her voice softened, almost reverent. “She’d have chewed through warlords like bubblegum. A sorceress ruling dragons. But you—” Her claw traced Georgia’s jugular. “—left her to die. So I made a deal with the beast inside her. Let her rage eat a piece of me. Ripped those guards apart one by one.” Magic nullifiers don’t work on dragons; you know that, Georgie.”

Glass crunched underfoot as she adjusted her grip, shaking her head, trying to fight a thought. “No! Regret’s for weaker creatures.”
 
 
XX. When debts come knocking.
 
Seventeen years ago.

---

The prison door exploded inward. George stood haloed in prison floodlights buzzing like fat wasps, plasma sword humming like a hornet’s nest in a toddler’s fist. The stench hit him first—copper, shit fermenting in summer heat, pork left smoking on a meth-lab grill. Reports had called it a massacre. Rogue sorceress. Guards butchered. He’d expected a monster.

Instead, he found her
.
His genitals lay on the ground like rotten plums fallen off the tree. Her head snapped back when she heard his footsteps. Her gaze met his. Their eyes met. Hers weren’t eyes anymore—feral, enraged, like shattered shards of glass, catching moonlight in all the wrong ways. Blood painted her lips in a clown smile, too red, too wide.

“Stand the fuck down,” George growled, blade raised. Protocol demanded it. Duty demanded it. His fear demanded it louder.

She lunged. Not with magic—with teeth. A feral snarl tore from her throat, feral as a junkyard dog with a firecracker up its arse as she raked his forearm. They traded blows, they grappled, crashing into stone walls. Her knee found his gut; his elbow cracked her ribs. She fought like a starved beast, violent, jagged, and uncontrolled fury.

He pinned her against the wall, plasma searing the air near her temple. She twisted, teeth sinking into his wrist until tendons popped. He slammed her skull against stone—once, twice—her growl dissolving into a wet choke. The sword kissed her throat. She stilled, chest heaving, eyes rolling like loaded dice.

A guttural snarl ripped from her throat—“Vashtak’ra! Kess’vahl dremora!”* The words slithered, ancient and venomous, a dead tongue’s curse. Eat shit and meet your ancestors.

“George, stop!”

Lanie’s voice shattered the air. She staggered into the cell. “Look at her,” she pleaded, raw as a skinned knee on gravel. “Look.”

He did.

Evelyn’s hands trembled, fingertips twitching as if plucking invisible harp strings made of nerve endings. A flicker rippled across her cheekbones—skin mottling black and green, like grease and smoke. Her dress hung in tatters, threads clinging to hips crisscrossed with scars. Cigarette burns in perfect rows, finger-shaped bruises purpling her thighs. A bite mark crescenting her breastbone too precise for battle, too familiar for war. The knuckles of her left hand gleamed raw, flesh torn back to reveal bone—she’d gnawed herself down to the gristle.

Lanie’s voice cracked like a whip. “You’re not slaying a monster.” She gripped George’s wrist, forcing the plasma blade’s glow to illuminate Evelyn’s throat. A collar of bruises, rope burns snaking beneath her ears like devil’s ivy. “You’re executing their victim.”

The sword wavered. Evelyn’s breath hitched—a wet, broken sound, the gasp of a punctured lung. Her gaze locked on George’s, and for a heartbeat, the savage glaze crumbled. Tears welled, spilling over her filth and blood-caked cheeks. Carving channels like acid rains, ruining fertile lands.

Recognition flared.

Her pupils constricted—human again, terrified. A flinch tore through her, violent as a snapped bear trap. “N-no,” she rasped, voice shredded. “Not you. Not you. Nononono—”

Her spine hit the wall.

She curled inward, arms clutching her stomach like she could stuff the child back in—the one they’d scraped out with a guard’s boot heel and a laugh. A scream tore loose—not rage, but anguish, the sound of a soul unspooling into a void.

Then silence.

She collapsed, limbs splayed like a discarded puppet. Lanie surged forward, cradling Evelyn’s head in her lap. “Stay with me,” she begged, tears dripping onto the woman’s cracked lips, each drop hissing where it struck blood. “Just… breathe. Breathe through it. I’m here.”

George stood frozen, plasma sword slipping from numb fingers. Cell walls throbbing like a meth-head’s neck vein. The guards’ corpses surrounded them, grinning in death. One still clutching a rusted dagger—blade notched from peeling skin, handle stained with more than blood.

He fell to his knees. The cell walls pulsed harder now, breathing in time with Evelyn’s rattling gasps. “No more,” he choked, gagging on bile and the metallic tang of complicity. “Never again. Never. Never. Never.”

Somewhere, water dripped. The sword’s hum faded to a moth’s last wingbeat.

 
Back in the present.

---

“You abandoned her!” Evelyn roared, scales erupting down her arms like armour forged in a foundry of grief. “Eight Fridays, they took turns. Every time they carved pieces of her away. Ninth week? Every night she was… A muscle twitched beneath her eye, a tic that hadn’t existed before Blackreach.

“Every night they… So during the battle we prayed. Artemitra’s altar reeked of Prime’s tears. Two souls, one oath—” Her voice splintered, the dragon’s growl fraying into something smaller, human. “Let him lose what I lost. Let him break as I… she did.”

The unspoken truth hung like a hangman’s rope between them.

She’d carved the oath into her bones that moment. By the time George lowered his sword, the curse had already fossilised. Artemitra’s magic cared nothing for remorse.

Georgia’s breath stuttered. Evelyn leaned closer, her rage dissolving into something raw, marrow-deep. “You were supposed to be the good one, but you simply weren’t good enough,” she whispered, smoke curling from her nostrils like a snuffed candle’s last breath. Her scales rippled, obsidian fracturing to reveal patches of skin—Michelle’s skin, scarred but still soft.

“Eight weeks of your lover’s betrayal. Her absence... And then, her helplessness when you needed her most. Your manhood ripped from you? Every child Lanie carried? Gone. Sluiced out in rented suites and clinics that smelled of lemongrass and shame.”

A lie. A truth. A curse’s demand.

In the cell, seventeen years ago, she’d seen George’s horror too late. She had cemented that vow to make him suffer as Prime had suffered and then to end him.

Lanie thrashed against the hold, a raw sob tearing loose. “Evelyn—! I didn’t know—”

Evelyn backhanded her. “Ignorance doesn’t absolve you. This is your penance.” Her voice softened, cracks spiderwebbing through the venom. The dragon's rage receding like a tide dragged backwards. “I know you love her. This time though, love means letting the knife twist.”

Georgia collapsed forward, wrists grinding against spectral chains. “End it then. But why chain us to this… this funeral masquerade?”

Evelyn’s laugh was a shard of broken choir, her scales flickering—dragonfire guttering.

“Because the curse isn’t just yours,” she said, her human teeth flashing briefly behind serpent lips. “Artemitra demanded symmetry. A life for a life, degradation for degradation.” She knelt, tilting Georgia’s chin up, no malice left—only exhaustion.

"You think I wanted this? To be the blade instead of the hand?” Her thumb brushed his jaw, a lover’s caress etched with barbs. “The curse needed an ending. A death blow to seal the pact.”

Lanie snarled, embers glowing in her throat. “Take me instead. My wings, my hoard, anything.”

“Too late.” Evelyn’s talon hovered for a heartbeat. Then it struck.

Georgia’s ribs cracked like porcelain under a tank tread. Lanie’s scream fractured as Evelyn ripped the heart free, its rhythm stuttering in her fist. Georgia slumped, vacant eyes locked on Lanie as her neck fell free from between Lanie's legs. Betrayal etched in her final gasp. Not of Evelyn, but of the vows they had shattered.

“Seventeen years cursed," Evelyn murmured, cradling the blackening heart. Her claws trembled—as the curse unravelled in her veins. “Now you’re free. We both are.”

Lanie’s scream tore through the room—a sound that might have summoned tornadoes in another life, if the world still bothered to listen. Her paralysis broke and she scrambled to Georgia’s body, charred hands pressing the ruined chest. “You promised—” Scales sloughed off her arms like autumn leaves from a poisoned tree. “You swore you’d stay—!”

Evelyn stared at the heart crumbling in her fist, its ashen flakes drifting like funeral silt. Michelle’s voice surfaced one last time, a moth trapped in a dragon’s throat: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m—”

“It had to burn,” Evelyn rasped, voice stripped to a rusted wire. “The curse had to run its course. Even regret couldn’t unbind it.” Her talons plunged into her own chest, ribs splintering like kindling to mirror the hollow where Georgia’s heart once beat. Blood spilt along with ichor-black smoke coiling from the wound.

"Artemitra!" Evelyn howled, pounding her breastbone until scales split like eggshells under a boot. Blood welled, then sealed—flesh knitting itself raw and pink before their eyes. “The hunt’s done! The debt’s paid! Take me instead!”

She clawed at the air as if tearing at the goddess’s veil, her talons snapping and regrowing in grotesque time-lapse. “I surrender! By right of conquest, her victory was earned. By the maggot-soft rot festering in my marrow, take my heart, my wings, my fire!” Her voice broke, a dam crumbling. “Just… give her back.”

Lanie lunged, teeth bared—then froze. Not from magic, but from the raw, animal wrongness of Evelyn’s grief. The dragon wasn’t snarling now. She was a marionette with cut strings, talons still buried in her own flesh, keening a dirge only the damned could sing.

Evelyn’s eyes met hers—dragon-glow dimming to funeral-parlour fluorescence. A silent plea, strung on barbed wire: Finish it. ‘Crack my spine. Let me choke on the mercy I never gave.’

Memories ambushed Lanie. George’s voice, whiskey-rough and frayed at the edges, murmuring against her nape after the first miscarriage. “We aren't soldiers anymore. Just… gardeners now. Planting seeds in salted earth.”

“Gardens rot,” she slurred.

George pressed their entwined hands to the fresh scar below her navel. ”So we plant again.”

The wedding band she had taken off those weeks ago suddenly weighed thirteen pounds.

“No,” Lanie snarled. Not gentleness—refusal. She lunged, seizing Evelyn’s wrist. Talons tore free from the dragon’s chest with a wet pop, trailing filaments of shadow that lashed like live wires. “You don’t get to tap out. Never.” She hauled Evelyn forward by her matted hair, roots tearing loose like stitches from rotten fabric. “Fix her. Now.”

Evelyn convulsed, laughter bubbling between cracked lips. “Can’t resew a shredded quilt, darling. Curse did its—”

Lanie backhanded her. The blow split Evelyn’s cheek open, revealing muscle fibres twitching like dying crickets. “George owed you nine weeks. You got seventeen years. Now fix it.”

They collapsed beside Georgia’s body—two women tangled in a grave soil embrace. Lanie pressed her forehead to Georgia’s sternum, searching for a heartbeat she already knew was absent. Evelyn’s claw hovered above the cavity she had carved, trembling.

“Tried,” Evelyn whispered. A confession, not defiance. Her talon traced the jagged edges of Georgia’s ribs—white bone peeking through ruined flesh like piano keys through burnt velvet. “Built the curse tight as a hangman’s knot. No loopholes. No redemption arcs.”

She inhaled sharply, the sound whistling through her perforated lung. “Death was the only mercy left.”

Lanie’s hand found Evelyn’s nape, grip gentler than either deserved. Fingertips brushing the downy scales beneath her hairline—a gesture stolen from George. “Then we’ll be beggars.” She guided Evelyn’s claw to Georgia’s chest, their joined fingers slick with ash and regret.

“Try harder.”

Magic sparked—feeble, sputtering. A necromancer’s first fumble. Evelyn’s breath hitched. “Lan, I—”

“TRY… PLEASE!”

The room dissolved into light.

When the glare faded, Georgia lay whole.

Not alive—repaired. Skin flawless like doll porcelain, lashes feathered against pallid cheeks. A mortician’s masterpiece. Empty.

Evelyn sagged against Lanie, her remaining magic spent. “Can’t… can’t reignite snuffed candles.”

Lanie pressed her lips to Georgia’s brow. A moth battered itself against the windowsill, wings powdered with attic dust. Somewhere, a faucet dripped in rhythm with Evelyn’s slowing breaths.

“Should’ve let you kill me,” Evelyn wept into Lanie’s shoulder, her tears sizzling where they fell.

Lanie’s teary chuckle rattled. “Tempting.” She carded her fingers through Evelyn’s hair, matted strands parting like swamp reeds in a poisoned marsh. “But George always said… Mercy’s just vengeance wearing Sunday best.”

They clung to each other—” Take it all. Give her back”—their final wails dissolving into a voiceless haemorrhage. The sound of a thousand childhood music boxes wound backwards until their springs snapped.

Somewhere, a moth’s wings calcified mid-beat. Some debts outlive the debtor.

But outside, the night didn’t care.

It just kept chewing.
 
 
Continued in Part 8

 
XXI. Mourning and Mothering

The whiskey carried the tang of abandoned orchards. Overripe pears rotting beneath trees planted for futures that never took root. Lanie swirled her glass, watching dregs spiral into miniature maelstroms. Across the table, Evelyn cradled her drink like a stillborn songbird, its broken wings folded against her palm. Rain needled the windows, stitching the night into a shroud.

“Testicular cancer,” Lanie spat. Ice clinked like loose teeth. “Poetic, no? The great war hero, felled by his own jewels.”

Evelyn picked at the bottle’s label, her claw leaving glyphs in the parchment. “Easy enough to transform a corpse. Morticians love tidy endings. Should’ve rigged rigor mortis post coitus. Let the tabloids canonise him.” Her claw etched spirals into the table’s wood grain. “Funeral selfies need pathos.”

The diamond weighed down Lanie’s ring finger — Georgia’s ashes compressed into a stone that caught the light like a fresh scab. She’d reset her wedding band herself, pliers slipping as she crushed the gold around it, leaving grooves that could fit between her teeth.

Evelyn never took off the pendant — two rubies set in tarnished rose gold, stones the exact same since they’d been sliced from George. Lanie had ripped it from her own clit the night after the funeral, the piercing torn raw, flesh still weeping. Pressed it into Evelyn’s palm with a wet click of blood and bourbon breath: “I don’t deserve it.”

Evelyn’s thumb found the grooves where George’s sweat would have pooled. The ghost of Claire’s voice floated through her thoughts — “I’d marry it... keep it polished... best little wifey this side of the apocalypse” — as she fastened the chain. It sat like a burn scar across her collarbone, rubies nesting where George’s laughter used to kick her ribs like a mule.

“Tailored his death suit better than we ever tailored our lies,” Lanie said, remembering cold silk against colder skin. How she’d stitched his chest closed with golden thread, symbolic really but still as meticulous as sealing a love letter.

Evelyn lit two cloves with a snap and passed one across no-man’s-land. Smoke plumed Rorschach stains. “Remember drinks at the quarry? Six months after you two saved me. You threatened to geld him over spilt mead.”

Lanie’s fang pierced the filter. "Idiot mistook my grimoire for a coaster.”

“Dragged him fifty yards behind the Harley. Boot soles smoking. Laughed so hard I cracked a rib.”

“Laughed so hard I pissed myself.” Evelyn’s smile frayed. “Realised then you’d either wed or murder each other.”

The diamond caught the lamplight, refracting scales across Lanie’s knuckles. “Ninety-seven days. That’s how long the first pregnancy lasted before the curse took root.” She’d bled garnets into motel toilets while George recited Marcus Aurelius like a benediction.

Evelyn examined her claws—onyx filed to surgical points. “Wombs make wretched reliquaries.”

Glass shivered as Lanie slammed her tumbler. “He held the basin. Quoted Epictetus while I—”

“Brought you black orchids afterwards." Evelyn’s shrug was a poorly sutured wound. “Unborn ghosts crowd crypts.”

The storm thickened. The house groaned like a ship taking on water.

“Remose only corrodes.” Evelyn touched her rubies, voice raw as stripped wire. “Cast the curse in Blackreach’s shadow. Bargained my wings when i was blinded by rage. Never imagined…”

The necklace flared, casting its bloody light on her throat, only in her imagination though. Lanie rotated her ring. “Tried… to keep his heart close. Fed on my own instead.”

“Tried to undo...” Evelyn’s talons gouged the table. “Account books balanced in tumours and tears. Didn’t factor…”

A phantom laugh echoed—Georgia’s contralto spliced with George’s rumble, yet it was gone before the echo could name itself.

Lanie’s ring weighed more than a stillborn star now. “Yet here we roost. Drinking his eulogy.”

Evelyn traced her palm. “Ran audits on his nonprofit those first years. Expected offshore accounts, embezzled grants. Found quinoa casseroles and AA meeting schedules instead.”

Lanie’s cigarette paused mid-ascent. “I knew it was you lizard. The bite mark wasn’t a groupie.”

“Phase one: infiltration.” Evelyn’s claw clicked against her tumbler. “Dressed as some shell-shocked vet, all shaky hands and puppy eyes. Let him comfort me. Sank teeth in deep enough to taste… fuck…divinity.” She examined her palm. “Expected screams. Excommunication. Got…patience. Bandages. Mint tea and a warm meal. The nerve of that bastard.”

Sleet hissed against the glass. Lanie reignited her lighter’s tiny hell. “Never needed to ask about the scar. Knew it was your ugly fangs.”

“Wore it like a campaign medal. Proof he’d weathered worse than me.” Her laugh splintered. “Sent succubi to seduce him during the mageland fundraiser. Bastard served them chamomile, discussed Keats. They came back quoting sonnets.”

Rain blurred the windows. Lanie’s lighter flared. “Hauled your cursed junk too, didn’t he?”

“Half-ton of haunted marble up five flights across Manhattan. In peak July.” Evelyn’s smile faltered. “Sweat through his shirt, grinned like I’d granted wishes. Said…” Her throat clicked. “Said moving my ‘art collection’ beat CrossFit.”

Lanie exhaled smoke through her nose. “My George and his gentleman bullshit.”

“Hated it.” Evelyn shredded a throw pillow, goose down snowing between her claws. “Hated how he’d smile whenever I called him an idiot. How even now the rubies warm when I…” She pressed a fist to her sternum. “Miss the hatred. Simpler.”

Lanie crushed her cigarette into an ossuary of butts. “Miss loving him, you mean.”

Evelyn imploded—shoulders curving into the armorless hunch Lanie hadn’t seen since Blackreach. Her whisper rasps: “Lit pyres in Artemitra’s chapels. Offered my hoard, my true name…”

Lanie knelt in shrapnel. “Demanded double jeopardy?”

“Recompense denied.” Evelyn pressed the rubies to her neck. “She doesn't… doesn't trade in second chances.”

Lanie extinguished her eighth cigarette into the congealed puddle of ash. “Steal something tomorrow. Something gaudy and irreplaceable.”

“Planning to.”

“Leave a cigarillo behind. Our calling card.” She stood, vertebrae crackling like dry kindling. “Wake me before you ransom the pope.” But things couldn’t be. Knuckles had to rap on hardwood at just that moment. Once. Twice. Metric.

“Fuck off,” they harmonised.

The diamond hummed. Hinges protested as Evelyn answered—and froze.

She stood haloed in sleet, black silk drinking the porch light. Hair like spilled ink, features carved from winter twilight, not a drop of water on her though. Oh, she was not just beautiful, she was inescapable. Her gaze swept Evelyn aside with a tilt of her chin, the command did not need to be spoken.

Lanie lurched up. The stranger lifted an index finger—a motion only as subtle as continents shifting. Glass shattered in the kitchen cabinet. Bourbon pooled around Lanie’s boots like a sacrifice pissed on.

Just like that, they followed, compliant as penitents. To the couch where George’s ghost still dented the cushions. She settled where his laughter once resonated, skirts cascading like a landslide of starless night. Up close, her eyes betrayed epochs. Starfields and burial shafts, shipwrecked schooners, wedding bands, smiling children and chemotherapy ports. Those orbs were the event horizons where apologies went to die.

When she spoke, glaciers calved in her vowels:

“What.” (ribcages resonating)

“Did.” (lungs humming)

“You.” (teeth memorising the shape of confession)

“Do.” (tears exploding)

“TO MY CHILD?”
 
 
XXII. Broken Confessions

The diamond pulsed—once, twice—casting fractured light across the woman’s ageless face. Lanie had no choice but to clear her throat, no questions, no challenges, time for verbal diarrhoea.

“Cancer,” she said. “Choriocarcinoma. Little bastard nested in his left gonad like a tick. Rapidly metastasising.” Her laugh scratched raw. “Perfect, yeah? Survives siege engines and wyvern venom, undone by his own family jewels.”

She ground her molars. "Curse started with the miscarriages—our third girl came out clutching uterine tissue like a fucking souvenir. Killed all the children we hoped to have before it finally came to kill him.”

“Basic scrying caught it—only magic that stuck. Rest slid off him like piss on rusted iron.” Her laugh mirrored her nail. “—couldn’t risk advanced magic. Military anti-magic inoculations armored his veins better than dragonhide. But cancer?” The blood droplet quivered. “Tumor grew roots in what the needles couldn’t touch—”

Lanie’s talon clicked against her glass. “—the marrow we called hope. His resistance covered everything except—”

“Except mundanity.” The word hung like a noose-knot. Lanie’s grin flashed broken bottle edges as her talons tapped arrhythmically against her glass. “Irony’s a cut-rate bard with a meth habit.”

The woman leaned forward. Shadows pooled in the recess of her clavicle.

“Continue.”

Lanie inhaled ash and courage. “Standard healing spells bounced off him like BB pellets, only causing a minor irritation and hardening his resistance. Tumour metastasising nightly. So I… pivoted.” Her gaze fixed on the diamond. “Used what he’d handed me—that panty-loving devotion. Weaponised his shame into suture.”

Evelyn snorted. Wetly. “Claymaker rituals. Parlour tricks for bored aristocrats bonding with their chaise lounges.”

“Required proximity. Trust. Intimacy.” Lanie’s thumbnail split the label from her whisky bottle. “Commodities he’d already signed over.”

“Elaborate.”

“Transformed him into objects,” Evelyn cut in. Voice steadier now, clinical as an autopsy report. “Panties. Dresses. Whatever linen grave Lanie chose. Temporal suspension—halt decay, carved out the tumour like pumpkin guts. Turned his manhood into jewellery. Wore his shame as his protection.”

“That first night, when he said ‘I’ll do anything,’” Lanie’s smile hooked sideways. “Needed consent, him pliable and willing. Lucky for me, blessed luck—he’d been auditioning for years.”

The diamond dimmed. “Duration?”

“Few hours max.” Evelyn traced the rim of her glass. “Ritual breaks if the caster sleeps, falters, or steps fifteen feet away. Breaks if his will cracks mine. But—” Her fingers found Georgia’s pulse, talons pricking the hollow where a collarbone should’ve been. “If his love was a siege engine? I simply outlasted it.”

Lanie’s glass tinked against the table. “Required constant contact—symbiosis masquerading as control.”

Evelyn snorted, teeth grazing Georgia’s shoulder like a whetstone. “Dumbest fucking magic. Takes more focus than a raccoon guarding a dumpster on a meth binge.” Her claw sketched a derisive sigil in the condensation. “Clayamake’s ritual’s brittle as a whore’s vows. One stray thought and poof—he’d revert buck-naked in a Denny’s parking lot.”

Silence pooled. Somewhere, a pipe groaned like a wounded hare.

“Sacrificed his masculinity to save his life.” Lanie flicked a cigarette butt into the gloom.

“Rebranded his cock as bijouterie. Fed him scraps of autonomy between transformations.” Her voice frayed. “He hated me. Every. Damn. Time.”

Evelyn’s finger tapped her femur. “Fool. Sacrifice. Ours.”

“Motivation?”

Lanie met the woman’s gaze. “Same reason storms court coastlines. Habit. Hunger. Love dressed as demolition.”

Evelyn's claw skated along her whisky glass, etching accidental hieroglyphics in the condensation. "Caught them once in that shoebox studio. Went to jeer at their domestic circus act."

Her voice sandpapered raw. "Found her straddling him on a Salvation Army couch, both giggling over burnt microwave popcorn. He… brushed a kernel from her lip. Not grabbed. Not devoured. Brushed. Like she was glassblowing in progress."

Lanie's cigarette halted mid-air. "You never—"

"'Course I did." Evelyn's smile hung crooked as a thrift store painting. "Invented excuses. Reconnaissance missions. Told myself I was auditing your security flaws." The admission curdled. "Truth? Needed to study how he untangled your hair after transformations. Delicate as delousing a warhorse."

Lanie's ashes scattered like failed prayers. "Creep."

"Sue me." Evelyn's shrug cost her three centuries of posture. "Observed three months straight. Watched him steep valerian for your night terrors. Saw him mute TV commercials touting cribs when you miscarried." Her elongated claw tapped Morse code against her sternum. "That's true sorcery. Making devotion look effortless as breath."

Lanie's laugh cracked. "He forgot anniversaries. Rattled rafters with his snoring."

“But he was also your hero at the Solstice Ball. Him in that ridiculous sequined jockstrap, fetching you drinks while warlords gawked.” Evelyn’s grin curdled. “Pride’s a fickle compass. Watched him kneel for you in crowded rooms, expecting scorn, receiving only… tenderness.”

Evelyn leaned forward, millennia-old dragon queen reduced to sidewalk prophet. "You looked at him like he'd reinvented daylight. Whole empires evaporated in that gaze." Her voice dropped to a bourbon-soaked whisper. "Started drafting apology letters to Prime. Turns out, he'd rewritten the damn dictionary on love."

The woman's gaze pinned Evelyn like a butterfly to corkboard.

"Evidence."

Evelyn inspected her chipped manicure. "Snuck into that refugee camp clinic. Watched him reset a warlord's dislocated shoulder. Patient tried to stab him mid-procedure." Her laugh tasted of nickel. "Know what your boy did? Finished the reduction. Handed back the knife saying 'Appreciate the sentiment, but aim for the femoral next time.'"

Lanie's cigarette paused midway to her lips. "He never—"

“Wednesdays,” Evelyn overrode. “Trailed him for fourteen weeks. Saw him construct saline poles from mop handles. Once devoted hours disentangling a child’s necklace—silver moth pendant. Parents' charcoal in Belfast blazes.” Her claw clicked against the quartz countertop.

"That's when the fantasies started. Not throne room trysts or treasure hoard offerings." She swallowed a century's worth of pride. "Imagined him fixing my broken clasps. Teaching me potato stamp art. Calling me 'Evvie' when I botched pancakes."

Lanie's ashtray overflowed. "Bullshit."

"Oh, I committed." Evelyn's smile belonged on a battlefield. "Bought flannel at Target. Burnt six batches of cookies practising. Nearly torched Brooklyn attempting grilled cheese." She leaned forward, scales glinting like unshed tears. "Four thousand years of conquests, and I envied a mortal man's capacity to care about burnt sandwiches."

The woman's gaze fractured something fundamental in the air molecules. Lanie's spine snapped taut like reality itself might rescind its lease.

"Full reckoning."

Lanie ground her cigarette into her own thigh. Scar tissue hissed. "Original Evelyn's butchers took her clit. Cosmic scales demanded quid pro quo. Cancer merely…" She raked her ring finger. "…Preheated Hell’s oven."

Evelyn played with her pendant. "Ended up turning his jewels into literal ‘jewels’ to preserve them."

"The only practical choice." Lanie's talons carved dissolution sigils on the table. “Purged magic-resistant necrosis via…” Her jaw worked. "…hollowing out the man. Masculinity as Achilles' heel."

Evelyn stepped into the confession's blast radius. “ Forty-nine days observing their bathtub meth operatics…” She didn’t piss for three days. Ate gas station jerky off his hip while he bled out post-'surgery'. Fucker half-reverted mid-cut. Blood geyser. Had to shove my will into her skull—ham-fisted hack job. Hence the scar. Smart play with the DICKLESS tattoo. Siphon point. Stole George’s masculinity, and funnelled it to Lanie to then reconstruct Georgia.”

“How’d it feel?” Evelyn’s hand shot to Lanie’s throat, eyes glinting wet. “Carving him up? Wanted to gut you. Wanted to scream. Maiden tears for any male. Nil precedent." Her grip trembled. “But there you were—sobbing as you branded him. Half of me wanted to slit your throat. Half wanted to… fucking cry with you.”

Lanie's fangs felt blunted. "Regrets require luxury seating."

"Crawlspace confession—your cobweb magic was failing." Evelyn's cigarette trembled.

“That night, I boosted your sleep spell? Nailed twelve moths above your bedpost. Makeshift ley-line array. Every dying moth, my crude battery pack." Her laugh curdled. "Played Guardian Wraith all those nights. You never noticed."

Lanie's claws found Evelyn's collar. "Your troubadour stunt. Talk."

Evelyn bared teeth. "Men like George build shrines in their rib cages. Physical torment polishes their martyr complex." Her claw tapped Lanie's sternum. "But let their deity flirt with heresy?" A moth burst into blue flame nearby. "Watching you laugh at another man's jokes? Arch for inferior hands? That…" She inhaled Lanie's exhaled smoke. "…makes apostles doubt scripture."

Lanie's grip weakened. "He knew it was theatre."

"Kernel of doubt breeds terminal infection." Evelyn pressed closer. “Saw him dissect your interactions. Timed intervals between your texts, decibel variance in greetings. Catalogued betrayal like eclipse patterns."

Silence pooled like clotting factor.

"Congrats." Evelyn licked ash from her incisor. "Schrödinger’s gambit.. Destroying his love to salvage its host."

“Ashford’s fields… he held victory in his fist. Could’ve ended me, ended the war in his favour” She caught a tear on her knuckle, watched it steam. “But he lowered his blade. Saw the woman in the wildfire. He won me as his right of conquest.”

"So I… rewrote our vows daily to protect my ‘master’." Lanie's claws flexed. "Each stitch, each humiliation… bargaining chips for more time."

Evelyn’s breath hitched. Fractures spiderwebbed beneath her scales, glowing like blasphemous stained glass. “Nearly won 'her' back. Carved the cure from our own ribs—held it here—” Her claws cupped air, trembling. “—until the curse bit. Gnawed through marrow. Used my throat to say the killing words.”

She stared at her palms, where Georgia’s phantom pulse still fluttered. “These hands ripped out her heart. Peeled her open like...” A wet gag. “I killed her. Ours to mend, mine to murder—”

Her scream split into laughter, rotten as a gutpile. “I killed her!” A sob, arterial. “Destroyed my lodestar! I killed her—our love!”

Lanie caught her mid-collapse. She framed Evelyn’s face with hands still smelling of Georgia’s shampoo. “You. Me. Same blade, same sheath.”

“Conclusion.”

Lanie rose, walked to Evelyn and held her tight. “Saved him until saving killed her. Buried the tumour. Erased the man, burnt the woman. Crafted this—” She waved at the diamond. “—from what remained. Poetic, sure. Doesn’t rewrite the ledger though.”

Evelyn stood, shedding scales like autumn leaves. “Curse was mine. Wove it from Blackreach’s marrow. Tried everything to undo it…” She pressed a claw to her sternum. “Deserve the pyre. Deserve her ghost gnawing my liver through eternity.”

“Pyres are for endings.” Lanie pried Evelyn’s hand open, “We’re middling types.”

The woman stood. Eons folded into the sweep of her skirts.

“Arrogance. Frailty. Love insufficiently annealed.” Her sigh sounded like upturned graves.

“...and here we are.”

Lanie’s wedding band wept light. “Here we are.”

Somewhere, George’s ghost sat down.

And for once—didn’t cast a shadow.
 
 
XXIII. Waking Realisations
 
Flashback:

Ashford’s battlefield stank of charred earth and dragon vomit. The sky bled rust where artillery smoke clotted the sun. Lanie’s wings hung in tatters, membranes flapping like wet laundry in a hurricane. Her flank wept black ichor, pooling in the crater where George’s plasma blade pinned her—a holy toothpick through a demon roach.

He stood over her, armour cracked to show the sweat-slick man beneath—jaw set, eyes twin coals reflecting her guttering fire. The kind of eyes that could stare down a god’s tantrum.

“Yield,” he growled, voice grinding like tank treads over bone.

She laughed—a wet, splintered sound. “Do it. Let your meat-brigade see their golden boy gut a girl.” Her talons flexed, gouging trenches in the mud. “Give ’em a show.”

George’s blade hummed, edge kissing her throat. “Push for the treaty. Now. Or I carve your punchlines into your ribs.”

Her smirk dripped venom. “Since when do crusaders negotiate?”

“Since they’re tired of burning villages for this…bullshit theatre.” He leaned in, close enough for her to taste his sweat—salt and gunpowder and the cheap spearmint gum he chewed to mask corpse breath. “Talk to your leaders. Make the damn ceasefire happen. Then…” A flicker. A hitch. “…let’s grab a drink.”

Her pupils slit. “A drink.”

“Whiskey. Neat. Like adults.”

The blade withdrew. Lanie’s laugh chased him as he walked away, her roar shaking the carcass-strewn field: “Careful, hero! Dragons don’t do ‘neat’!”
 
Back in the present.

Lanie startled awake, sweat pooling in the cavity where the collarbone meets the throat. She knew the dream’s shape—smoke and scalpel-sharp whispers—even as it fled.

The guest bedroom door creaked like a guilty conscience. Inside, Evelyn twitched beneath tangled sheets. Her sleep-talk, a slurry of “shouldn’t have… Shouldn’t have...” Moonlight carved her into something fragile. Cock limp as a dead trout, scales dulled to gutter-grain tarnish. For a breath, Lanie savoured it. Let the rot feast.

Then George’s voice, soft as a thumb brushing a bruise: “Cruelty’s a cheap perfume, Lan. Washes off and itches after.”

She slid onto the mattress. Springs groaned.

Evelyn’s eyes snapped open—dragon-glow dimmed to pilot-light flicker. “Same dream?”

“Same morgue.” Lanie’s knee bumped hers. Cold. “Shift, you overgrown gecko.”

Evelyn complied, sheets rasping. “Guest bedrooms. Bollocks concept.”

“Agreed.”

Silence pooled, thick as motor oil. Somewhere, a tap dripped in rhythm with Evelyn’s pulse.

“You didn’t kill him.” Lanie’s finger found the scar on Evelyn’s wrist—raised, keloid-rough.

“We jointly authored that epitaph.”

Evelyn snorted. “Shared blame is still a noose.”

“First man to saddle a dragon.” Lanie’s laugh frayed. “First to… make her crave cheap bourbon.”

“Make it double."

Another pause. The radiator coughed up phlegm.

“Tradition.” Lanie’s smirk softened, a crack in armour. “Right of conquest. But he—” Her thumb brushed Evleyn’s lip, smearing ghost blood. “—didn’t claim shit. Just… asked for a damn old-fashioned."

Evelyn snorted. “Distracted by his dick?”

“By his eyes,” Lanie corrected, talons tracing Evelyn’s jaw. “His stupid hero smirk. The way he… fixed my cloak after.” A laugh, brittle as dried kindling. “First man to beat a dragon. First to fuck one. First to—” Her voice frayed. “—make her miss the taste of whisky."

Evelyn’s laugh slithered over Lanie’s shoulder. “Stole his sword, gave her a sheath. Poetic, ain’t it? Warrior. Weapon. Wife.”

Evelyn ground onto the mattress, the springs screaming like tortured familiars. “Seven weeks. Seven weeks of watching you two fumble through this… tragicomedy. Thought I’d get off on it. Popcorn and schadenfreude, right?”

She lit a cigarette with a snap of her claws. The flame trembled. “Turns out watching someone unravel your love? Turn him into her goddamn accessory rack? Snip his pride, stitch by stitch, then fuck alley rats raw with the scraps?” Her laugh curdled. “Less fun than gargling lava.”

Lanie’s snort shook the bed. "Should have charged admission.”

“Didn’t need to.”

Lanie’s knee jabbed Evelyn’s thigh. “The poet. Proper mounting, that. When’d we last saddle? Bronze Age chariot races?”

Evelyn’s smirk cracked like a windshield. "Yup, until I had to crawl inside your trash-fire romance. A broken grin. “I’m a slut for subtlety.”

Lanie fake-gagged. “Subtlety? You showed up with a sonnet carved into your dick.”

“‘Roses are red/Violets go splat/I’ll wreck your cunt/And blame the cat.’ Real fucking Basho.”

Evelyn’s chuckle grated like gravel in a petrol tin. “Back to timelines. Think it was around Pre-Vedic fire rituals. Turns out yogic contortions chafe my cloaca.”

“We … potentially … primordial fuckbuddies.”

"We've ridden that oxcart." Evelyn prodded her limp cock—a leech left to parch on monsoon-baked clay. "Burnt that dharma sutra. Hasn't rallied since… that night. Would hack it off if it bought her a breath."

Lanie’s claw skimmed Evelyn’s hip—featherlight, testing. “Chastity belts’d be overkill. Can’t cage what’s compost.”

Her claw catching on scale-seams now. “Offer stands. Blade’s sharp. Ghosts prefer sincerity over sausage.”

Evelyn’s laugh cracked. “Name the altar. Bring the cleaver.”

“Cheers, priestess.”

Moonlight pooled in the hollow where scales met skin. Lanie now bore scars even dragons couldn’t heal—a cratered heart from the night their lineage snapped.

“Last clutch died in-shell,” Lanie murmured. “Embryos crystallised mid-curse.”

“Secret.”

Lanie stilled. “Out with it.”

Evelyn’s cheeks burned sulphur-yellow. “John’s mouth on you. First time I’d ever…” The admission curdled. “Sucked cock. Even microscopic ones demand finesse.”

Lanie barked a laugh. “You tongued it like a sherbet lemon!”

“Research!” Evelyn’s fangs flashed. “Extensive. Clinical.”

“Clinical?” Lanie’s eyebrow arched. “Which backstreet cinema taught you? Human Plumbing Monthly?”

“Twat.”

“Still counts—” Lanie’s grin spoiled like milk left out, “—possession’s possession. Claire’s little fountain show?”

“My soul-shard. Tasted like honey ‘cause she was so …ugh…pure.”

Evelyn’s talon jumped. The pendant swung. “Belief requires lubrication. Had to make her feel. Your stitches were unravelling.”

“Con-artist.”

“Hopeful.”

“Pathological.”

Evelyn rolled, tarnished scales leaching orange from the kebab shop sign across the road. “Four thousand years conquering continents. Then…” A cogwheel’s death-rattle sigh. “Bankrupted myself for… love.”

Lanie’s sneer drowned in the stink of wet asphalt. She straddled Evelyn’s hips—flaccid cock nudging her thigh like a dead jellyfish. “Chastity’s back on the menu, lizard. Claire’s little stunt earned you a custom rig—” Her talons sketched a vulgar blueprint in the air. “—tighter than a landmine’s asshole. Gonna cage that wilted worm so deep, you’ll piss rubies.”

“Add ‘Property of George’ on the buckle,” Evelyn muttered, staring at the ceiling where water stains bloomed like bloodstains. “No—Georgia. Yeah. That’s the punchline.”

Lanie’s grin split like a rotten peach. “Nah. ‘Georgia’s Castoff Cockholster.’ Let the engraving match the stench.” Her claw pricked Evelyn’s inner thigh. “Should’ve let the curse shrivel it to a raisin as part of the price. Dogs need chew toys.”

Her palm found wing-scabs velvet-soft under calluses. Lips closed around the pendant—cold metal, faint brine of Georgia’s spirit trapped in crevices. Nothing stirred.

“Buzzards,” she mumbled, wedding-band diamond cutting moonlight. "Picking our own carcass."

Evelyn’s snort died mid-breath. “Put that on our headstone.”

They didn’t fuck. Just lay stacked like grimoires in a condemned library. Spines cracked open where moths supped on smudged prophecies and mice gnawed through the footnotes.
 
 
Continued in Part 9

 
XXIV: Ashes to Altruists

Cameras flashed like muzzle bursts. Reporters mobbed the podium, shouting over each other. A cacophony that reminded Lanie of feeding frenzies witnessed underwater. Beside her stood Evelin who legally added the "-Devarîș" suffix precisely thirty-six hours prior. She adjusted her scarf to obscure the worst of her eczema outbreak. Stress-induced, undoubtedly.

Above the dais, holographic banners cycled through languages nobody truly understood. The Phoenix Rising Initiative. Beneath pixel-flames, the two women walked over and sat flanking an empty chair.

"—funding streams remain confidential pending review," Lanie clipped, answering a shouted query. Sequins scaled her jacket like armored plumage. Behind tinted glasses, her pupils contracted to feline slits. "However, certain parties agreed reparations outweigh inheritance taxes."

Murmurs boiled. Someone yelled, "Define parties!"

Behind her staged smile, Lanie counted tiles mapping escape routes. Thirty-two steps to the nearest fortified lavatory. One equipped with ventilation suitable for discreet hyperventilation episodes.

She Glanced sidelong to confirm Evelyn's patented ‘Talk Faster Than Bullets Travel™’ mode activating.

"Invoices stamped with clawprints pay quicker," Evelyn spoke up—crossed stockinged legs. Ruby earrings weighted her ears, matching the encrusted heart-shaped padlock caging her junk. A chastity cage designed by a taxidermist with a grudge—dangled. It's keyhole aligned precisely to Georgia’s diamond nestled snug betwixt her thighs.

Journalists ogled the conspicuous bulge beneath her pencil skirt. Nobody dared comment.

Click. A dozen shutters froze her mid-snarl.

Her scarf slipped as she leaned forward, unleashing her very effective Gatling-gun cadence. "Post-conflict multilateral stakeholders utilising cross-collateralized quasi-governmental debt instruments aligned with third-quarter deliverables." Her grin sharpened, "Though naturally, all NGO-ETF hybrid frameworks require blockchain-based grief audits. Conducted retroactively through participatory action research paradigms."

The room blinked in unison. A Reuters correspondent mouthed what into his cufflink.

“We’re not saints,” she bulldozed onward, knuckles whitening...

“Saints get statues. We’ve got spreadsheets and a fantastic dental plan.”

Chairwoman Ngombe silenced dissent with a mic feedback shriek that could sterilize lab rats. "Final statement from Ms. Devaris prior to press site visits."

"Diamond formation necessitates immense pressures sustained eons," Lanie stated coolly. Her ring caught the spotlight beams spectacularly. "Similarly, societal reconstruction demands resource consolidation exceeding individual lifetimes. Allegorical parallels should intrigue conspiracy theorists and divorce attorneys splendidly."

Microphone pops subsided. Lanie removed her shades. Cameras zoomed. Her stiletto tapped the podium. A reminder: Don’t crater now.

"When bombs fall," she enunciated, consonants crisp as mortar snaps, "children dig latrine pits with soup spoons. Mothers brew antibiotics from moldy ration packs. Victory gardens sprout through unexploded ordnances, yield potatoes shaped like severed hands."

Flashbulbs reflected in her irises, magnesium flares in a coal mine. "Our coalition teaches composting cluster munitions. Trauma surgeons trained via VR headsets salvaged from bomb disposal drones. Yesterday's torture chambers retrofit as daycare centres featuring anti-nightmare ward designs."

Dead air coagulated. Chairwoman Ngombe dabbed her temples with a handkerchief that’d seen three funerals.

“Phoenix Rising’s largest shelter opens Tuesday.” Lanie’s smirk didn’t reach her temples. “Bring your own fucking casseroles.”

The room detonated. Lanie inhaled the shrapnel.

From the fourth row, Calypso Wire barked through a mouthful of smoldering cloves. "Sources allege Argentinian cave systems emptied of dragon gold financed these efforts. Confirm?"

"Our CFO appreciates creative accounting myths." Evelyn’s smile revealed slightly pointed teeth. "Though speaking hypothetically. Hoarded resources redistributed voluntarily prevent messy probate battles involving widowed wyrms."

CNN reared. "Legal filings cite deceased founder George Demoš directing operations remotely. Explain the digital signatures originating from active warzones!"

Static distorted speakers as the PA system malfunctioned. Through electronic banshee wails, Lanie projected calmly: "Legacies transcend binary limitations. Ask Kabul’s newly irrigated wheat farms whose pollen resembles Georgian peach blossoms."

Reporters exchanged glances. AP-Albatross ventured meekly, "…Autonomous pollination initiatives?"

Harpy Herald’s talons clicked against the mic. "Why the shift from Demoš to Devaris? And why’s Ms. Evelyn wearing it too?"

Lanie’s eyelid twitched. "Too many memories."

Evelyn leaned in, serpent-bright. "Deadnames make shitty headstones. Next."

Fox leaned forward, fangs glinting. "Documents cite pseudonymous mystery donor Georgia Devaris, another Devaris directing funds anonymously. Please elaborate.

Lanie’s knuckles only whitened further. "Some legacies… require aliases." The lie slithered out smoother than a shadow dissolving at dawn.

Evelyn smirked, adjusting her nameplate. "Shared surnames ward off tax vultures. Metaphorically speaking."

NBC: "Anonymous donations bypass oversight laws!"

"Incorrect." Evelyn flipped her tablet, displaying labyrinthine flowcharts. "Fund routing complies with Vatican banking statutes circa 1429 plus Article XII of Faerie Accord—"

Murmurs bubbled. A reporter raised her phone. Footage of delta wetlands bursting with lotus flowers unfurling over submerged tanks.

"This isn’t rainbows and gay unicorns." Lanie’s knuckles whitened. "Our foundations mix bone meal with cement. If that unsettles you? Good. Comfort murdered millions."

Cameras zoomed in on her ring. Behind her, holographic graphs charted 'Conflict Zone Floriculture Rates ↑3000%.' Alongside were photos of toddlers stacking LEGOs sculpted from decommissioned rifles.

Evelyn stood abruptly. Skirt seam nearly splitting. Ignoring exposure risks, she snatched the microphone.

"This rebrand honours radical accountability. Survivors architect solutions drafted in their own dialects. Which includes respecting chosen identities retroactively. To respect historical figures otherwise erased by bureaucratic erasers lacking nuance toner cartridges."

Utter stillness. Camera shutters hesitated.

"…Meaning?" prompted BBC.

Hand descending upon desiccated bouquets centerstage, Liane declared loudly. "Effective immediately, Executive Director Emeritus records reflect Georgia Devaris. Pronounced deh-vahr-ees, emphasis requisite lest tongues combust spontaneously."

Evelyn growled, hip-checking Lanie aside. “Next question insults my belt buckle, I start auctioning organs.”

Silence.

“Lovely.” She blew a kiss to CNN. “Our CFO’s a spreadsheet phantom. Audit trails end in fairy rings. Send your subpoenas to Narnia.”

Lanie snorted. “She means Georgia.”

A hush. Georgia’s name hung like a guillotine.

And then… the gasps multiplied exponentially. HuffPost triggered livestream fireworks by accident.

Amidst the pandemonium, Chairwoman Ngombe wrestled control. Projectors displayed architectural renderings. Schoolhouses engineered from decommissioned tanks, hydroponics nourishing amputee rehabilitation courtyards.

Headlines overwrote themselves globally:

PHILANTHROPY COUP OR CORPSECRAFT CABAL??

Having walked off-stage by now. Leaning against emergency exits marked 'IN CASE OF ARMAGEDDON BREAK GLASS,' the architects observed the fallout.

"Well?" inquired Evelyn, picking cuticles. "Sufficiently incendiary?"

"They'll spin conspiracies regardless." Lannie extracted a smoke from her bra underwire. "'Cept now orphans receive prosthetic limbs designed by kobolds formerly indentured to oligarchs. Fair exchange rate."

“Three shelters in six months.” Evelyn flicked her locket. “Bet she’s pissed.”

“Pissed we’re competent?”

“Pissed she’s missing the show.”

Lanie’s laugh tasted like battery acid. “We’re her fucking memorial garden.”

A moth battered the lone bulb. Evelyn’s cage clinked as she lit a cigarette herself. “Should’ve buried her in that slutty chemise.”

“We would have dug her up by week two.”

“True.”

Silence.

Evelyn exhaled a smoke ring shaped like Georgia’s smirk. “Remember the trip to the mall?”

“Which meltdown?”

“The one with the raccoon and the Slim Jims. I laughed so hard I —”

“—peed on the hubcaps. Yeah.”

The bulb died.

Director Emeritus: Georgia Devaris

Last Login: [ENCRYPTED] – Coordinates match mass grave reforestation site, Sector 7.

The penthouse smelled like lavender and aged regret. Lanie kicked off her heels, leather soles scraping marble floors that’d never seen a bloodstain. “Still hate this place.”

Evelyn slouched on the sofa, skirt hiked to her hips. The chastity cage glinted cold beneath cocktail-hour shadows. “You picked it.”

“Better than that house.” Lanie’s throat clicked. “Fucking… mothballs and bad decisions.”

“You mean Georgia’s house.”

A vase shattered against the wall. Evelyn didn’t flinch.

Lanie stalked over, yanking Evelyn’s skirt higher. The cage dug into pale flesh, titanium heart pendant dangling like a taunt. “How’s your useless clit today?”

“Flaccid as your moral compass.” Evelyn exhaled smoke through her nose.

Lanie flicked the cage. It pinged, Georgia’s diamond glowing faintly in her ring. “Miss her?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

Evelyn grabbed Lanie’s wrist, forcing her palm flat against the cage. “Like smoking through a tracheotomy hole. Burns. Doesn’t fix shit.”

Silence settled on them like congealed wax.

Evelyn leaned back, skirt still rucked around her waist. “Remember the night she turned your silk stash into bandages? That refugee kid’s arm hanging by threads?”

Lanie’s thumb rubbed the cage’s edge raw. “Said my taste in lingerie was ‘tacky wartime propaganda’.”

“Then fucked you on the donation crates.”

“Left splinters for weeks you demented stalker.”

Evelyn’s smile died. The cage clicked as she stood. “We’re worse than ghosts. At least ghosts haunt.”

Lanie spun the diamond ring. Somewhere beneath skyscrapers, a Phoenix Rising shelter lit its first furnace.

On the balcony, concrete had split. A sapling had clawed through, petals unfurling the exact red of Georgia’s last laugh.

Lanie didn’t notice.

Neither did the moth escaping its chrysalis in the ruins of their old linen closet, wings still damp with its metamorphosis.
 
 
XXV. Burn Patterns

Blackreach’s gates sagged like a broken jaw. Rust gnawed the iron bars, flakes crumbling under Lanie’s boots. The Phoenix Rising Initiative had purchased the compound six months back, but the ugliness was left untouched. Collapsed guard towers, razor wire nests bloated with dead leaves. One year since Georgia’s bones went cold. The anniversary clawed Lanie’s throat raw.

Evelyn stalked beside her, fists balled, heels cracking weeds that split the concrete. No words. Just the creak of leather and the wet suck of mud underfoot.

The common area stank of mildew and meat left to rot.

Lanie’s flashlight carved a path through the gloom. Crushed syringes glittered like false stars. A toppled bench, legs snapped. Evelyn froze. Her boot nudged a chain coiled in the corner—rusted, flecked with brown that wasn’t rust.

“Here.” Her voice cracked.

The floor here was different. Scorched tiles in a spiral, blackened where magic had seared through stone. Evelyn’s knees hit the ground hard. Her fingers dug into the pattern, nails splitting on grit. “I… I cursed him here.”

Lanie crouched, hand hovering over Evelyn’s shaking spine. “Get up.”

“Should’ve been me.”

“Get. Up.” Lanie hauled her by the elbow, grip bruising. Evelyn swayed, eyes glassy. Rain bled through the collapsed ceiling, cutting tracks through the grime on her face.

Then it happened—Evelyn’s breath hitched, pupils dilating into voids. She clawed at her collar. “Can’t… breathe—”

Lanie seized her jaw. “Breakdown’s due, huh?” Her free hand yanked the hem of Evelyn’s skirt up, fingers finding the chastity cage’s lock beneath. A vicious twist. The click echoed like a bone snap.

Evelyn squealed—a feral, wet sound—as steel teeth bit deeper. Buckled against the wall.

“Pain’s the penitence you chose,” Lanie hissed, tightening the grip. “To remember we are needed.”

A whimper. Then clarity flooded Evelyn’s gaze, sharp as shattered glass. She spat blood. “Fuck you.”

“Later.” Lanie released her, wiping hands on her thighs. “Crawl done?”

Evelyn straightened, adjusting the cage with trembling hands. “Bourbon. Now.”

Lanie unscrewed her flask. Georgia’s cheap shit sloshed—the kind that burned like a backhand. She poured a line across the spiral. “For the ghosts who can’t swallow.”

Evelyn stared at the stain. “She’d love this.”

“Loved most things.” Lanie pocketed the flask. “C’mon. Time to burn.”

BREAKING NEWS

—camera jerks, smoke churning—

“...confirmed dragon activity over the Blackreach exclusion zone... First sighting since the peace accords... seem anthropomorphosised?... Authorities stress no casualties... Skywriting appears to read ‘MAKE LOVE NOT WAR’... Hold on—secondary message igniting now... Uh, that’s ‘FUCK BLACKREACH’ in, ah... flammable liquid, possibly draconic in origin...”

worldwide, televisions recycled aerial footage tagged #dragoswinning #dragonspeeinglove. X debated pyro-semiotics. Subreddits dedicated to dragon themed anime porn mushroomed. Retired generals cited applicable Geneva provisions.

Back in the penthouse

The succubus shapeshifting formulas had done their work. Horns coiled like blackened fiddleheads, tails flicking restless against silk sheets. George’s fantasy made flesh, one year too late. Two succubi and him, he’d scrawled in that bourbon-stained journal. Too much cockfire for mortal men.

“Third hook’s busted,” Evelyn muttered, wrestling her bra like urban rappelling gear. Straps throttled her bicep.

Lanie snorted. “Thought you invented physics.”

The bedframe shrieked as Evelyn rolled off, her cock limp as a dead eel. Lanie propped herself on one elbow, squinting. “Christ. Looks like a melted gummy worm.”

Evelyn glared. “Blame the shitty curse.” She grabbed the chastity cage from the nightstand—click—locking herself in before Lanie could blink. The heart-shaped charm glinted, rubies pulsing.

Lanie stared. “The fuck you doing?”

“Saving us both the embarrassment”, Evelyn flopped back, arm over her eyes. The cage jingled.

“Could strap up,” Lanie offered, nodding at the nightstand’s lacquered box. Inside: obsidian silicone, serrated ridges. “Bend you over like Xanathar did the Skyward Legion. Let me reenact his greatest hit—Battle of Twin Spires. Two dragons, one dick.Old draconic courtesies.”

Evelyn’s tail lashed a vase. It exploded. “He died the day Georgia did.”

“He,” Lanie purred. “Yes. Left only you behind”

Evelyn froze, hands covering her face as rain smeared the window. “Winners claim losers’ asses. I’m no battle-broke whelp.”

“I was.” Lanie’s smirk cut. “Let him plough me raw after every workplace bloodbath. Loved it.”

Evelyn’s breath hitched. “Different.”

“Yeah. She earned it.”

Lanie’s smile died halfway. She reached out, thumb brushing the charm. Georgia’s voice slithered through her memory: “Kindness ain’t pretty. It’s got teeth.”

Evelyn’s arm slid off her face. Lanie’s eyes glinted in the low light—sharp, like she’d caught the tail end of a whisper. "Spread."

"What happened to hello?"

"Aesthetics department rejected your bronze unicorns proposal."

"For Shelter Twelve?? Kids love mythological genocide motifs–"

"No. Spread your legs idiot."

Evelyn obeyed. Lanie bent, tongue dragging over the heart-shaped charm—slow, like she was licking a wound. The metal tasted like old pennies and Georgia’s perfume. Heat prickled under her lips, the rubies humming like a struck tuning fork.

Evelyn jerked. “The hell—?”

“As loud as you want,” Lanie growled, mouth closing around the charm. She sucked hard, teeth scraping grooves of Georgia that the metal retained. “Let the heavens hear you, princess. Bet she’s laughing her ass off right now.”

Evelyn’s hips bucked. “Fuck—that’s not—ah!”

Lanie pressed down, her tongue working the lock. The cage warmed, then burned. The chain glowed faintly, casting ruby shadows on Evelyn’s thighs. “Knew it,” Lanie hissed, pulling back just enough to sneer. “Can’t feel your own little worm, but you feel her, don’tcha? Like she’s right here—” She flicked the charm. “—milking you dry.”

“Bullshit,” Evelyn spat, but her voice frayed. Sweat slicked her collarbone.

“Just—fuck—bad wiring.”

Lanie snorted. “Bad wiring?” She dragged her tongue up the chain, slow as a knife draw. “This thing’s singing. You’re just pissed it’s my hand up your ass, not hers.”

“Lanie—”

“Beg.”

“Go to hell—ah!”

Lanie bit down. The charm seared her lips. Evelyn’s back arched off the bed, a high, keening wail tearing loose—too sweet, too soft, all for Georgia. Lanie didn’t let up, sucking like she meant to drain every drop of the ghost between them. Evelyn’s hands fisted the sheets, knuckles bleaching white.

“G-Georgia—” The name slipped, cracked.

Lanie laughed against her skin, breath hot. “There she is.”

Evelyn came with a shudder that nearly splintered the bedframe, a broken moan spilling out: “…hate you… love you both…”

Lanie didn’t stop until Evelyn collapsed, sweat pooling in the hollow of her throat, chest heaving. She leaned back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Silence. Rain tapped the window like a bored ghost.

“That…” Evelyn rasped, voice frayed, “…wasn’t me.”

Lanie wiped her mouth. “Sounded like a church choir girl.”

Evelyn stared up at the ceiling. “That’s how she… Georgia made me want to be. With her.”

A beat and Lanie’s fangs showed. “Only her?”

Evelyn’s hand found Lanie’s fingers . “Fuck. Now you too.”

“Tried.” Lanie flicked the charm, still glowing. “You owe her a thank-you note.”

Evelyn rolled over, back rigid. “Clinic opens Tuesday. Neon pink.”

“With barbed wire trim,” she added flatly.

“She’d hate the color.”

“Adore the chaos.”

Evelyn rolled toward her. “Your turn.”

Lanie caught her wrist. “Nah.”

“Why?”

“Still tastes like her.” Lanie yanked the blanket up. “And I don’t share.”

Evelyn’s laugh cracked. She pressed her forehead to Lanie’s spine. “Selfish bitch.”

“Learned from the best.”

They slept undisturbed except for the three times Lanie’s lips made the pendant weep.

So what if Lanie stole the pillow? Well. Dragons hoard.
 
 
XXVI: Stitching in Circles

The closet stank of charity gala perfume and mothballs. Lanie flicked ash into a crystal tumbler engraved Phoenix Rising Foundation—For Georgia.

“Hold still,” Evelyn muttered around a mouthful of pins, adjusting the emerald silk cinching Lanie’s waist. “You’re squirming like a gutted eel.”
Lanie snorted. “Says the woman dressed as a disco ball reject.” She gestured to Evelyn’s hydra scale sequined gown, its hem shimmering like a fistful of bad decisions.

“Classic,” Evelyn drawled. “Unlike your—”

Lanie’s elbow jerked, red wine sloshing across Evelyn’s bodice. The stain spread like a fresh bruise.

Silence.

“Oops.” Lanie grinned, all teeth. “Guess the universe prefers déjà vu discounts.”

Evelyn’s knuckles whitened around the wine-soaked hydra hide. “Fix. It.”

Lanie snapped her fingers. Nothing. Again. The stain smirked back, unbothered.

“Hydra scales are Magic-proof moron,” Evelyn spat, thumb dragging over the codpiece straining against the dress.

Lanie’s growl rattled the lightbulb. “Fine. What’s the damn price?”

“Price?” Evelyn’s laugh was a scalpel. “This hide’s rarer than your remorse. Took tears from three warlocks and donated sheddings from a virgin hydra.”

Lanie bared teeth. “I’m a dragon. I’ll scorch realms and honour my promises. Ask.”

Evelyn’s smile split. “Already did.”

Threads swarmed. Lanie jerked back, but they struck like vipers, stitching through her jacket, her skin, her snarl.

“Ev—”

Silk strangled the protest. Scales melted to lace.

Evelyn held up the dress, flimsy red lace shot through with gold threads, barely enough fabric to dignify a handkerchief. “There. Debt paid.”

*Of course Claymaker. Should’ve known you’d pick something that screams ‘back-alley burlesque.’* (note to readers..telepathic talk will be contained in *content here style*)

Evelyn stepped into the lace, fabric clinging to every scar and curve. Nipples pressed against gauze like rivets, and the codpiece strained. Lanie's silk threatening to split over her bulge.

“Jealous it complements my aesthetic?”

*Your ‘aesthetic’ got us banned from three realms.*

Evelyn trailed a finger down the bodice, brushing the chastity cage beneath. The heart charm—Little Georgia—glowed, honeyed warmth seeping into the lace. A shiver crawled up her spine. “Fuck… didn’t need you in skin to make me throb.”

*Stop—*

Evelyn ground against the dress, lace rasping like a blade on stone. “Make me.”

*Don’t—*

The rubies pulsed. Heat coiled, thick and syrupy, as Evelyn’s moans vibrated through the threads.

*…dammit Ev… don’t…don’t.. Fuck yes…drench me…*

Evelyn unloaded with a gasp, golden essence from the piercing pooling in the lace. She slumped against the mirror, breath ragged. “…miss her.”

*…miss her too.*

Silence, broken only by the drip of honey on tile.

*Fine. Dress duty. But you’re making dinner tomorrow.*

Evelyn straightened, sweat glazing the lace. The dress suddenly cinched around her cage, pressure building like a hungry mouth.

*Bet you never had a dress that could suck.*

The charm clicked, rubies flaring. Evelyn jerked. “Cheap trick.”

*Complaints go to management. And I’m working overtime tonight.*

Evelyn smacked the bodice. “Hush.” The lace purred, compliant.

“There.” She adjusted the codpiece, lanie’s own disjointed crotch against hers, bulge defiant, nipples gleaming, whorishly by choice, under ballroom lights.

“Now you’re useful.”

*We deserve hell.*

“Keep squeezing, darling,” Evelyn smirked, sauntering out. “I’ll handle the logistics.”

*Save me a seat.*

Evelyn just laughed. “I’ll bring the lighter fluid.”

The dress might've whispered traitor, but dragons are exceptional liars.
 
 
Continued in Part 10

 
XXVII: Back at the damn ball

Bulbs flashed everywhere like tasteless arc welders fucking epileptic fireflies. “Countess Devaris!” A tabloid wraith blocked her path. “Does Lady Elaine’s absence signal fractures in Phoenix Rising’s founding triad?”

Evelyn examined her cigarette’s glowing carcinoma. “Triangles require consistent tension, darling. Elaine’s currently…” She tapped ash onto his loafers. “…providing structural support.”

*Countess Devaris?* Lanie drawled. Tacky. Should’ve gone with *Dogarse the limp dick.*

Evelyn sipped champagne, the bubbles fizzing like a hex. “Darling, you’re just jealous I claimed the title first. Though…” She pirouetted, knowing the backless design showcased Lanie’s embroidered shame. “Cum Goblin Collective does have a certain…” She glanced down at the pattern across her very cinched bodice. "…je ne sais vomit."

The gown’s seams cinched, punishing her ribs. "Behave, or you'll be a dishrag next."

*Promises, promises,* Lanie purred.

“Revolutionary construction!” A Marrakech djinn appraised her silhouette. “What maestro conjures such savorable tailoring?”

“Symbiotic artistry. The hanger develops opinions.”

*you’re just a glorified homewrecker with a tax exemption.* The words hung, sour as curdled milk. *Wait, no—*

Evelyn’s broken laugh was a shard of obsidian as her voice cracked. “Darling, I own it. I’m the wrecking ball and the rubble.” She flicked her cigarette toward a gossip columnist. “Now let’s go traumatise someone new.”

Near the orchestra, a candelabra belched paraffin while a violinist’s string snapped with suicidal drama.

*Brilliant. Now I have fiddle herpes in my ears and in my hem. Bollocks. Your fat arse itches like fibreglass face wash.*

“Poor scaly muffin,” Evelyn shot back. “Shall I commission a chastity sporran?”

*You’d miss my tongue.*

Evelyn accepted another champagne flute. “Remind me – which stitch holds your personality in? I’d hate to accidentally…”

The gown’s gusset contracted, tourniqueting her groin. Evelyn’s dominatrix heels faltered. Merlot slopped down a passing bishop’s cassock.

“Something amiss, Countess Devaris?”

Evelyn steadied herself. Silk hiking to reveal a thigh holster strapped with lipstick-shaped throwing daggers. “Merely admiring your generosity, Your Grace.” She dragged a claw up his wine-splattered robe, pausing at his trembling belt. “Though I’d be delighted trying to… rectifying the imbalance.”

The bishop’s crucifix fogged. His hands fluttered to his groin, futilely tugging his robe over a telltale tent.

“Blessed enthusiasm.” Looking him in the eyes, she yanked her bodice sideways—a 'wardrobe malfunction.' Then, nonchalantly, she dug her fingers into her lace thong, which was part of Lanie as well, hoisting it into a brutal wedgie.

Lanie’s telepathic gag echoed. *Evelyn Devaris, ladies and germs. Turning couture into toilet paper since the Bronze Age.*

“Hush,” Evelyn shot back, adjusting the fabric with a snap. This is my diplomacy uniform.

*Cunt.*

Evelyn’s mental snarl ricocheted through their shared psyche. “I wish,” she drawled. For “Georgia, I’d trade this damn pickle,” she flicked the chastity cage with a telepathic claw, “for a clunge that could pickle walnuts.”

*Yours would ferment continents,* Lanie shot back.

Through the crowd, a flash of cobalt silk vanished behind a champagne pyramid.

“There—”

*Where?*

Gone.

The woman wove through the crowd like a rumour made flesh. Moonstone hair cascading over collarbones carved for biting. Hips swaying like a singularity, there she was, ‘Inevitable’. Her eyes locked on Evelyn’s. Gunmetal mirrors reflecting the Evelyn from nineteen years ago, kneeling in Blackreach filth. Begging gods who’d already left the building.

Evelyn’s program booklet slipped from numb fingers. “Lanie. That’s—”

*—Busy gagging. Exfoliating my seams with your swamp crotch,* Lanie snapped. *Either help me breathe or start auditioning backup lungs.*

Oysters Rockefeller accidentally slid down a socialite’s décolletage like edible condemnation.

“She’s here—”

*And I’m haemorrhaging sequins!* The gown’s slit tore and inch. *Prioritise, Ev. Existential crises before cocktails.*

Evelyn crushed a canapé under her heel. She was here. And she was real.

Evelyn lunged through the throng, heels impaling a TikTok exorcist’s foam finger. Past the caviar obelisk, around the MDMA geyser, into an alcove where an ice Caligula choked himself with his own frozen sash.

The woman was gone again.

*Typical,* Lanie muttered. You chasing after ghosts, bishops, and now performance art ice cubes. *Next, you’ll—Wha huh?*

The grimoire had found Evelyn’s grip, its leather binding colder than a widow’s vows. ‘For Elaine’ glowed on the cover in phosphorescent pus-yellow.

*Thermal Semiotics for Discerning Ladies!* Lanie’s telepathic squeal nearly ruptured Evelyn’s eardrums. *Kalyphos’ manuscript! It’s like Christmas if Santa roasted elves alive!*

Evelyn dumped it onto a dessert cart that she commanded to follow her. “Ah, yes. Your pyromaniac bedtime stories.”

Pages fluttered autonomously, revealing diagrams of intestines arranged like chandeliers. ‘Combustion Algorithm LXIX: Ignition Via Existential Dread.’

*Who the fuck’s Kalyphos though?* Lanie muttered.

Evelyn commandeered a booth upholstered in what appeared to be shaved yeti hide and floated the grimoire onto the table. Lanie’s telepathic whistle echoed. *Semiotics! This bad boy turned Pompeii into a fondue pot.*

“Sacred reading for arsonists,” Evelyn muttered. Telepathically flipping to a page where disembodied hands juggled lit cannonballs.

A server suddenly slapped a Cosmopolitan onto the grimoire. Condensation bled into a diagram of Spleen-to-Inferno Conversion Tactics. The grimoire screamed. Not metaphorically—actual fucking screams. Leather binding warping into a mouth that vomited century-old curses.

*MY FIRST EDITION ISN’T A BAR MAT, YOU TWATWAFFLE—* Lanie's roar warped Evelyn’s cranium.

“S-sorry!” The server trembled, looking away, lime wedge suctioned to her cleavage like a barnacle on a sinking tugboat. Textbook millennial wage-slave. Evelyn gripped her wrist.

“Look at me.”

The woman raised her chin.

Evelyn’s lungs collapsed. Blackreach’s stench—rust, rat bile, Prime’s sweat as they carved her open—

HI! I’M DIXIE! blared the nametag, in Comic Sans.

Her bashful smile hit like a sawn-off shotgun.

‘Dixie’ chirped, voice syrup-thick. “Can I, um—”

‘Dixie’s’ knee buckled. The tray upended, cosmos baptising the shrieking grimoire further. Just like that, ‘Dixie’ belly-flopped onto Evelyn, crushing Lanie between them.

Breasts mashed against Lanie’s silk.

Oh.

The girl stank of cheap glitter and coffee shop shifts. But under that—

George’s sweat.

Georgia’s laugh.

“Lanie—”

Dixie’s pulse fluttered against Lanie’s seams. A moth trapped in a jar.

*It’s her.*

“S-sorry!”

*Ev, DON’T let go yet.* Lanie shrieked.* She’s got his eyes. Same fucking shade of ‘love me harder.’*

Dixie squirmed, thigh grazing the chastity cage. “I’ll—I’ll get towels!”

*Ok now you can, I'm soaked,* Lanie hissed. *Before I turn your twiddler into a tampon.*

Evelyn’s nails flexed.

Tap-tap-tap.

“Don’t,” she whispered—to the girl, the ghost, or the godawful limbo between.

The world unpaused.

The girl simpered, “Can I, um, get you another drink?”

“Don't dally.”

The girl tried to flee, tray rattling like a junkie’s spine.

“Oi!” Evelyn’s claw snagged her apron strings. “Dirty as sin, shaken till it bleeds.” A fang glinted. “Vermouth’s a slut’s sigh—pile on the shame.”

The girl’s blush could’ve jump started a necrophiliac’s libido. “Y-yes, Countess!”

Evelyn’s heels cracked marble like molars.

The hunt was on.

 
 
XXIII: Fermented Olives

Dixie’s hips swayed as she retreated, her waitress skirt swishing like a bullfighter’s cape. Evelyn tracked the dragon tattoo peeking above her stockings—obsidian scales.

“Fucking cock cage hurts. Left your damn ring back in the apocalypse bunker,” Evelyn seethed, the cage’s teeth gnawing her groin.” Fell off when I turned you into this walking brothel handkerchief.”

*Priorities, Ev,* Lanie drawled, her seams straining against Evelyn’s ribs. *Seduce the amnesiac or compose an ode to your flaccid ego?*

“Not anymore,” Evelyn declared as she rubbed her staining bulge.

*Funny—your idea of “hard” is as shitty as your judgment.*

Dixie returned, tray rattling with drinks that sloshed like tidal warnings. “M-martini, Countess?”

Evelyn snagged her wrist, dragging Dixie’s knuckles over the cage beneath scarlet silk. “Darling, I prefer my olives… fermented.”

Dixie’s flush could’ve melted a warlock’s ice dildo. “W-we don’t serve those—”

*Liar,* Lanie purred. *Her pulse just lapped Usain Bolt.*

Evelyn plucked an olive, tongue lapping brine before sucking it slowly. Dixie’s gaze snagged on her very hard nipples—stabbing the silk like tent stakes. “Ever grind on royalty in haunted lingerie, Dixie?”

“N-no! Staff aren’t allowed to—”

“The Countess,” Evelyn hissed, yanking her into a spin, “isn’t ‘staff.’” Her palm slid to the small of Dixie’s back, fingers splayed over the apron’s flimsy bow. “Though I’d happily staff you.”

Dixie stumbled, a button popping free. Cleavage spilled like smuggled relics. Evelyn’s cock twitched, the cage’s hinges creaking.

*Yup,* Lanie crooned.* Only our Georgia could resurrect this fossilised worm.*

“C-clumsy!” Dixie dabbed soda on Evelyn’s bodice to help clean up, liquid hissing as it hit ‘Property of the Cum Goblin Collective.’

*Hot,* Lanie muttered. *Literally. I’m evaporating.*

The orchestra’s strings bled into bachata. Syncopated guitars snarling, hips grinding like rusted pistons. Evelyn’s grin sharpened. “Dance with me, Dixie.” Not a request.

“I—I don’t know how—”

“Good.” Evelyn yanked her close, palm branding Dixie’s hipbone. “Dominican rules. Four beats to ruin your life.”

They moved—Evelyn’s thigh slotting between Dixie’s, her claws carving crescents into the girl’s waist. Step. Drag. Roll. Hips locked in a war of attrition, sweat beading like cheap pearls. Dixie’s breath hitched as Evelyn spun her out, apron strings unraveling to the rhythm’s tuk-tuk-tuk.

*She’s blushing like bloodstones,* Lanie hissed, seams screaming as Evelyn’s hips piston-rolled. *And your hips are strangling my spleen.*

“Focus, darling,” Evelyn growled, reeling Dixie back in. Chest-to-chest, her knee nudged the girl’s thighs wider. Step. Drag. Roll.

Dixie’s skirt rode up her thighs, lace stockings frayed where the garter straps bit flesh. Her breath came in sawed-off gasps—”hah-hah-hah—” like a feral thing caught in a bear trap.

“Don't lose that focus, darling,” Evelyn murmured, spinning Dixie out then reeling her in, chest-to-chest. Another button popped, revealing cleavage that could sink battleships.

“S-sorry!” Dixie squeaked, fumbling to cover herself.

“Don’t.” Evelyn caught her wrist, pressing Dixie’s palm to the cage’s outline. “Let them admire.”

Evelyn’s knee hooked higher. “Breathe, pet. Or… don’t.” Her thumb carved crescents into Dixie’s hip, the rhythm syncing to the girl’s rabbit-quick pulse.

Dixie’s chest heaved—stolen oxygen, stolen grace—as Evelyn spun her into a dip.

The tambora’s throb vibrated between them, air thick with salt-sweat and rotgut desire. Each grind left Dixie’s lungs scraped raw, until her breaths were just shallow hitches begging for more.

The music thickened, breathless requinto licks and tambora’s throb. Evelyn dipped her low, Dixie’s hair dusting the floor as it tumbled free. Her dragon tattoo flexed across her collarbone, scales shimmering as if breathing.

*Y’know,* Lanie mused, *if you trip her, I’ll cushion her fall. Strategically.*

Evelyn smirked, snapping Dixie into a dip so low her hair brushed the floor. “Hungry, darling?” She plucked an olive from a passing tray, held it between her teeth like a dare.

Dixie hesitated—then leaned in, lips grazing Evelyn’s as she suckled the olive. A drop of brine slid down her chin.

“Messy,” Evelyn tutted, thumb swiping it away. She sucked her finger clean, gaze locked on Dixie’s. “Let’s fix that.”

The cage strained, hinges groaning.

*Careful,* Lanie purred. *You’ll crack the pearls.*

Evelyn’s hand slid lower, squeezing Dixie’s ass through the cheap polyester skirt. “Time to… inspect the vermouth.”

“But I—”

Evelyn silenced her with a bite to the earlobe. “Now, Dixie.”

The storage closet door slammed. Somewhere, an ice sculpture wept.

*Ding-dong,* Lanie shrieked. *Hell’s delivered a care package.*

 
 
XXIX: Destiny and Dishrags

The storage closet breathed like a punctured lung—bleach and mildew clotting the air. Evelyn’s knees ground into concrete, her caged cock throbbing against ruby-studded bars.

The heart-lock pulsed, Georgia’s ghost humming in the metal.

“Fuck’s sake, Lanie. Feels like a wolverine’s gnawing my junk.”

*Deserves worse,* Lanie hissed, scarlet lace tightening around Evelyn’s ribs. *Murdering cunt got off light.* She purred through the seams, gold threads squirmed under Evelyn’s breasts like parasitic worms. *Now make the brat squeal.*

The girl—Dixie, the bullshit name clung like cheap perfume—arched against the cinder blocks. Her folds glistened, a perfect coin slot framed by a heart-shaped tuft of curls. Vulnerable. Earnest. Evelyn’s tongue dragged up her slit, tasting salt, honey, and cardamom. Cheap perfume couldn’t mask her musk though.

“Stripper names suit liars,” Evelyn growled, teeth grazing the girl’s inner thigh. “Says the woman lapping my—”

*Yank her clit.*

Evelyn obeyed, teeth grazing the swollen bud. The girl yelped.

“Real. Name.”

“Fuck—Dixie—I swear—”

Evelyn pulled back, leaving the girl twitching. “Try again.”

A whimper. Fingers twisted in Evelyn’s locks, tugging like a sinner at prayer. “N-Niyati,” she gasped, accent cracking into gravel. “They call me… Niyati.”

The lock flared.

Lanie’s Telepathic Snarl: *George named the brat. Means ‘Destiny.’ Fate’s chew toy. Melodramatic prick.*

A child with singed eyebrows fused to soot-streaked cheeks, glued to George’s leg as social workers peeled her off like roadkill from a bumper. Burnt hair stank like napalm and shame. Lanie’s voice, sharp as a diamond tipped dagger: “Bollocks, terrorists still on the loose! Belfast’s still smouldering!"

*Ask about the moth,* Lanie hissed. The dress’s neckline cinched, silk biting Evelyn’s throat raw: “Silver pendant. Chain unknotted by your hero.”

Niyati froze. Her hand slithered under the polyester skirt, hiking it higher to reveal a tarnished belly chain. The moth pendant dangled, wings spread like a cauterised wound.

A Belfast alley, 2003. Rubble exhaling ash. George kneeling in sewage, cradling a girl whose dress was more scorch marks than fabric. First rescue. First regret. Lanie lobbing verbal Molotovs at hesitant medics: “Move faster, or I’ll stitch your eyelids open!”

A basement reeking of mildew and adolescent sweat. Evelyn drilling preteens in combat hexes. Niyati’s misfired spell igniting a boy’s eyebrows—sulfur and sizzle. George’s chuckle, warm as a whisky burn: “Kindness first, fire second, kiddo.”

*He picked that knot for hours,* Lanie whispered, silk threads sawing Evelyn’s ribs. *Fingers bleeding on the chain like a fucking penitent.*

“Never took it off,” Niyati breathed. “Even when they… offered me new names. New cages.”

Niyati’s Memory: George humming "Danny Boy" off-key, daubing iodine on her skinned knees.

“Bravery’s messy, kid. Like my pancake batter.” Syrup smeared on his combat boots.

Evelyn’s tongue flicked the pendant. Cold metal, warm skin. “Demos. That martyr’s brand still itch?”

Tears glazed Niyati’s lashes. “He stormed the orphanage. Screamed… screamed about forcing legacies.” Her hips jerked, cunt dripping. “I kept it. Keep them.”

Lanie’s Memory: George in a boardroom, fists cratering mahogany. “You don’t stitch a kid’s past into a spreadsheet, you bureaucratic ghouls!”

Lanie beside him, braiding protection charms into a girl’s hair—this girl.

Evelyn’s claw hooked the waist chain. “Awww.. you’re the brat who crisped that boy’s scalp," she crooned. “Why the act, little arsonist?”

Niyati’s heel ground harder, the pressure a blurred line between agony and euphoria as Evelyn’s caged cock twitched. “Magisterial departments slashed funding for cross-species fertility research last year,” she panted. Hips jerking as Evelyn’s tongue circled her clit.

“Ministry claims hybrid offspring are ‘niche interests.’” A bitter laugh tangled with a moan. “Try telling that to the werewolf clans haemorrhaging pups—or the fae courts sterilised by iron drift.”

Evelyn paused, her breath hot against slick flesh. Cross-species reproduction. The dress’s seams prickled—Lanie’s telepathic sneer. *Of course she’s knee-deep in womb politics. George’s bleeding heart on this smoking hot Petri dish.*

Niyati’s fingers fisted in Evelyn’s locks, urgent. “My thesis—tracking mutagenic decay in dragon-fae couplings—we’re losing entire bloodlines.” Her voice broke, arousal and desperation bleeding together. “The Phoenix Foundation’s last symposium… you cited generational collapse.”

Evelyn’s Memory: A decade back, snarling at a council of trembling bureaucrats. “Keep groping for pennies, and your grandkids will be finger painting with their own extinction.”

Evelyn’s tongue delved deeper, lapping at the girl’s desperation. “Funding droughts. Academic vultures. How quaint.”

“I’ve… fuck… crunched your shelter’s birth rate data.” Niyati’s thighs quaked, words spilling between gasps. “Found a correlation between trauma residues and… oh gods… chromosomal fraying.” She arched, the moth pendant biting into Evelyn’s lip. “Your clinics need my models… but the grants…”

*Translation,* Lanie drawled, *she wants us to bankroll her baby-making algorithms.*

Evelyn pulled back, smirking at the string of saliva connecting her mouth to Niyati’s cunt.

“So you slummed it here? Playing waitress for a shot at our coffers?”

“Played patient first.” Niyati’s gaze sharpened, vulnerability armoured in spite. “Submitted three proposals. Your funding committees vetoed them as… ah!… ‘too radical—nngh!’” Her heel dug a punishing rhythm as Evelyn’s teeth grazed her clit. “But you—hah!—you’ve never shied from pushing boundaries.”

“Bullshit.” Evelyn’s claw traced the moth pendant, nail catching the chain.

“Sugarmommies don’t need half truths. Try again.”

Niyati’s facade cracked, hips jerking. “Plan A: seduce you—oh!—Plan B: steal dragon scales… fuck!… sell them to warlocks for R&D funding.” She blurted it between gasps, voice fraying.

*Cheeky brat,* Lanie hissed, silk constricting like a hangman’s knot. *She has memorised our offshore accounts.*

Evelyn laughed, bitter as a dry heave. “And if I said yes? Funded your… research?”

Niyati’s breath hitched, back arching. “I’d need authority—ah!—to bypass ‘ethics’ committees… burn the red tape—ngh!—choking my work.”

*Our paper-pushing ghouls,* Lanie snarled. *May need some kindling.*

“They’re dying, Evelyn—oh god—" The girl’s voice splintered, cunt clenching around Evelyn’s tongue. “Whole lineages snuffed… hnng!… because purists think a gryphon fucking a dryad is ‘unnatural.’” Her nails drew blood. “Sound… familiar?”

George, fifteen years back, shielding a pregnant werewolf from zealots. “Love’s a renewable resource, you cunts.”

Niyati gasped as Evelyn’s cage clattered to the floor. The girl’s clit swelled—veins erupting under skin, flesh surging into a thick cock that slapped against Evelyn’s chin.

‘First real dick not including Georgia’s little jewellery,’ Evelyn thought, frozen. ”Fuck’s it even taste like?”

*Suck like you’re starving,* Lanie commanded through the tightening seams. *It’s her. Only thing that matters.*

Recognition punched Evelyn’s gut once more. Georgia’s smirk in the curl of the girl’s lip, her hunger in the vein-thick shaft. Hesitation vaporised. Evelyn took the head between her teeth, salt and iron blooming on her tongue. Niyati bucked, a choked noise escaping as Evelyn hollowed her cheeks, working down the length.

The girl’s fingers clawed Evelyn’s scalp, hips pistoning. “F-fuck—ahn—like that—”***

Evelyn gagged, spit slicking the shaft. She breathed through her nose—fine whiskey, burnt sugar, the ozone crackle of overclocked magic. Niyati’s cock throbbed, slamming into her throat. Tears blurred Evelyn’s vision as she choked, nostrils flaring. Georgia’s ghost laughing in her ear.

*Deeper,* Lanie hissed. *Make her remember.*

Evelyn swallowed, muscles rippling. Niyati’s moans pitched higher, ragged.

“Gonna—fuck—”

The first spurt hit Evelyn’s uvula, bitter as lye, corrosive enough to blister. She recoiled, gagging—rotten pomegranates and burnt hair—but Lanie’s voice lashed through her skull: *Georgia’s in the marrow, you coward. Swallow.*

Evelyn’s nostrils flared. Georgia. The name unspooled like a lit fuse. She lunged forward, taking Niyati’s cock to the root, teeth scraping veins as she sucked like a parched thing at a poisoned well. The taste, charcoal and honeysuckle, George’s favourite perfume trapped in the girl’s spend.

*Drain her,* Lanie snarled, seams cinching Evelyn’s ribs. *Every drop’s a shard of him.*

Niyati’s thighs trembled. “S-slow—ah!—too much—”

‘Too much?’ Evelyn’s laugh vibrated against the shaft. She pulled back just enough to rasp, “Georgie never tapped out,” before diving again, throat working like a piston. Tears streaked her mascara as she choked, but she didn’t stop—couldn’t. Niyati’s cock swelled hotter, thicker, familiar in its pulse.

*There,* Lanie hissed. *Taste it?*

Evelyn did. Beneath the acid burn, a flicker of bourbon and diesel grease—George’s vices, Georgia’s cravings. She moaned around the cock, nails biting Niyati’s hips. More.

The girl came again, a ragged scream tearing loose. Cum flooded Evelyn’s mouth, viscous and electric, searing her tongue like overclocked magic. She swallowed greedily, chasing the phantom aftertaste of Georgia’s jizz.

Lanie begged for more, even as the dress’s lace ignited where spills struck silk. Glowing runes spiderwebbed across the fabric, stitching George’s essence into every thread.

The dress shuddered, seams sighing. *You’d gargle gutter filth for scraps of her, wouldn’t you?*

Evelyn didn’t deny it. She lapped the softening cock clean, tongue swiping the slit until Niyati whimpered. “Enough—please—”

"Never," Evelyn growled, bloodied lips peeling back, but the girl was spent, slumping against the wall. Cock softening to a spent question mark.

Evelyn leaned back, throat raw, cum gleaming on her chin like gas station lip gloss. The cage and heart pendant pulsed on the floor—Georgia’s ghost humming a hymn only moths could hear.

Niyati had collapsed against the piss-yellow tiles, softening cock still glistening. Evelyn wiped her face on the dress’s hem, smearing jizz into gold thread. “Still useful,” she rasped, lifting the cage and pendant from the floor. The heart charm pulsed, warm as a fresh kill.

*No dick to dock—just slit split wide,* Lanie howled in laughter, *Virgin cunt of trailer park pride.*

Evelyn’s claws twitched. Memories of Xanathar’s reign—that draconic dong swinging between his thighs, thick enough to crack continents. Now her brand new folds wept in hunger, as Lanie’s seams licked her clit like a meth-head firefly. Pathetic, but her happy hips jerked anyway.

*Admit it,* Lanie purred, silk cinching like a lover’s chokehold. *You’d trade every hoarded jewel for one thrust of Georgia’s—*

“Eat. Silence.”

Niyati stirred, her cock a wilted masterpiece—veins like cursive threats, glistening with Evelyn’s spit. Goddress, Evelyn nearly drooled, talons carving trenches in her own thighs.

Georgie’s blueprint. Her heft. Her goddamn gravity.

Lanie’s laughter vibrated through the seams. *Oh, darling. You missed a spot. Also focus!* she hissed, *before the brat sees you whimpering like a kicked pup*

Evelyn snatched the pendant, talon punching her clit—stab-snick—pain blooming like a lit match in a whisky flask. The ruby clicked home, blood and slick staining silk. “There,” she spat, “Proper upgrade. Not some… secondhand hag’s yard-sail scrap.”

Lanie’s laugh crackled—rotten honey in a rusted tin. *Darlin’, you’re a dragon with a twat and in love to boot. You’ll be begging for a pounding before dawn.*

The vision sucker-punched Evelyn—Niyati’s cock ramming into her raw, scales erupting down her spine as she was bent over. Anal was conquest, your enemy’s flagpole wedged where even whores kept sovereignty. Evelyn’s talons tore parchment as Niyati bottomed out, her neglected cunt dripping.

“Mine,” Niyati growled—Georgie’s possessive snarl—pistoning hips turning Evelyn’s guts to lit gasoline. The dragon’s tits swung like gutted prize sacks, nipples scraping the bed with every thrust. “Beg.”

Evelyn’s knees buckled, spine curving into a whore’s arch. “Y-yes—!” Spittle strung between her fangs, claws reduced to scratching at her own thighs. “A-anything—”

Niyati’s hand fisted her hair, yanking her head back. “Louder.”

“ANYTHING!” The scream shredded her throat, cunt juice pooling beneath her as Niyati’s cock split her like overripe fruit. “Yours—!”

The vision snapped.

Evelyn’s thoughts bled sewage and static: “Yes. Yes. Take it. Take everything.”

Just then, Niyati’s fist knotted in Evelyn’s hair with unexpected force yanking her face level. The girl’s lips crashed into Evelyn’s, her knee rising instinctually to pin the dragon against cinderblock.

Godress, *Lanie hissed, she’s moving like Georgie on that bender—*

Evelyn’s talons scrabbled for purchase, finding only Niyati’s noticeably fit bicep. Like corded steel under that cheap polyester—as the girl’s tongue dug deeper. A moan leaked through clenched fangs. *Lookit you,* Lanie crooned, silk constricting Evelyn’s chest, *whimpering for a brat who doesn’t even know that she sprouted her own dick.*

Evelyn tore free, lip bleeding black ichor. “Want patronage, Dr. Demos?” Her voice frayed.

“Ditch the—”

Niyati moved without thought—George’s old wrestling takedown—slamming Evelyn’s back into concrete. Her thigh slotting between Evelyn’s legs

Lanie purred, seams buzzing like a meth-lab fridge: *Your slit’s singin’ hymns for a relic, darling. Georgia’s ghost could pole-vault through that gapin’ altar.*

“Don't care. She’s here, Evelyn hissed, and I'm happy to be her glory hole.”

Evelyn gathered her senses, talons trembling as she palmed Niyati’s spent cock. Still warm, still hers—thumb grinding the slit like a gambler’s worry stone. “Submit your proposal in person.” A fang grazed the girl’s jugular. “Naked. Kneeling. With that moth between your—”

Lanie’s telepathy slithered between her ribs: *Ooooh, big scary dragon playin’ domme again! Quick, check your clit—still drippin’ or just pissin’ yourself?*

Evelyn’s grip tightened, flushing rose gold with shame. *Let me have this, she fired back, even if it’s just smoke up a hooker’s ass.*

Niyati’s breath hitched—innocent as a razor in the devil's baptism—as Evelyn hissed, “Teeth.” Silk slithering up her thigh. *We’ll see how deep you convictions run*

Lanie cackled, silk wrapping tighter, *Should’ve pinned her, ridden that cock like a trailer park rodeo. But no—you’re too busy cosplayin’ a warlord who can’t even—*

“Shut. UP.” Evelyn’s claws drew blood from her own palms. “She’s here. That’s enough.”

*For now,* Lanie sing-songed, *but midnight’s comin’, girlie. And that brat’s gonna peel you open and stuff you like a cheap condom.*

“Midnight,” Evelyn shoved Niyati toward the door, her roar fraying at the edges: “My vault. Don’t… fucking triage.”

The door slammed. Evelyn’s claw dove under lace, fingers pistoning.

*Ah-ah,* Lanie tutted, seams tourniqueting her wrist. *Save it, girlie. Let the ache marinate.*

“I’ll turn you into a —”

*You surrendered your dick to a walking Georgia cosplay. Face it—* Lanie’s laugh was a dragon’s fang. *—she’s claimed her right of conquest. Now we stew.*

Somewhere, a moth battered a locked window—tap-tap-tap, like a ghost’s knuckles.

*Still useful,* Lanie echoed, silk loosening into something almost tender as Evelyn’s fingers lingered on the charm. Happily tracing the grooves where Georgia’s laughter lived again.
 
 
Continued in Chapter 11

 
XXX: Penthouse Pet

The penthouse door groaned like a vault sealing shut, its platinum hinges whispering of blood money and extinct treants. Evelyn’s talon hovered over the biometric panel, scales glinting under the foyer’s chandelier. A constellation of hellhound teeth dipped in mercury.

*Wards held,* Lanie hissed through the corset’s seams, gold filigree tightening with disdain. *No deep trace of him in her. Just a damned doppelganger. Told you she’d flee.*

Evelyn’s lip curled. “Or she never tried.”

Same difference. *Cowards don’t—*

The door hissed open.

Niyati knelt on the threshold, naked as a blade, moth pendant clenched between her teeth. Rainwater slithered down her collarbones, pooling on marble veined like cracked dragon eggs. Her cock, thick, glistening, with veins etched like cursed scripture, curved against her thigh. Its glorious head grazing the ‘Blasphemers, Blessed, & Bitches Be Welcome’ mat.

*Oh,* Lanie breathed, corset seams sighing. *She’s…*

“Don’t.”

*…Georgia’s ghost in high-def.*

Evelyn’s talon twitched. “How’d you get in?”

Niyati spat the pendant into her palm, chain slithering. “Took a ward-picking course. Your ex designed it.”

*Not her ex, mine.* Lanie corrected, silk prickling Evelyn’s ribs.

“Bullshit. Draconic encryption wasn’t covered.”

“No.” Niyati stood, cock swaying as she stepped inside. “But draconic’s just math with fangs. Easy, once you crack it.”

Lanie’s laugh crackled. *Definitely Georgie. Smug as a saint in a brothel when it comes to a challenge. She’s got Georgie’s playbook and our twats as bookmarks.*

Evelyn’s facade rippled. “Wait here.” She turned, claws clicking toward the hallway.

*Finally,* Lanie purred as they swept past onyx statues of Evelyn’s past conquests. *Time to shed this gilded straitjacket. I’ll be flesh, you’ll be furious, we’ll raze the city for—*

The bedroom mirror revealed no change. Lanie remained silk and seams.

*Try the incantation again,* Lanie demanded, seams fraying with panic. *The one with the blood and the—*

“Fine bitch,” Evelyn snarled and cast the spell, but the only thing it did was to atomise the mirror into mercury vapour. Glass shards dissolved into a toxic silver mist that coiled around like vengeful ghosts.

*Brilliant. Now I’m dry-clean only and you’re out a reflection.*

“Shut. Up.”

*Or what?* Lanie’s voice sharpened, seams digging into Evelyn’s ribs like barbed wire. *You’ll turn me into a whore’s wet wipe? Newsflash, darling—you already did.*

Evelyn gripped the dresser, talons splintering mahogany. “We’ll try the reversal at dawn. Maybe needs a recharge?” She glared at the corset’s warped reflections in the broken fragments and mercury haze. “Niyati’s… proximity might be an issue as well. Karma’s a vengeful seamstress.”

*Karma?* Lanie’s laugh frayed at the edges. *Really think this is balance? Turning me into a glorified girdle, the brat watches?*

“She’s not watching. She’s waiting.” Evelyn’s scales rippled, molten onyx bleeding through the cracks in her composure. “Think you playing spectator is coincidence?”

*I think this is punishment.* The corset tightened like a hangman’s noose. *Using her won’t absolve us. Just spreads the rot.*

“Then let it.” Evelyn’s talon slashed the air. “Leather. Chains. I’ll play dominant tonight. Keep her occupied and then chase her out before dawn.”

Lanie’s laugh was a scalpel scraping bone. *Dominant?* The corset constricted, morphing into black dragonhide studded with rusted railroad spikes. *Sweetheart, you’re a back alley bum in a crown. That girl out there?* A telepathic nod toward the foyer. *She’ll peel you open like a rotten fig. Georgie’s ghost wants payback. And honey? We are the chequebook. You’ll be begging for a safeword like a choirboy in a crack den.*

“Delusions suit you.” Evelyn cinched the straps until the leather whimpered.

*Careful.* The corset’s boning creaked, *I’m still the only thing hoisting those sagging udders. Unless you wanna greet her tits first like a lactating gargoyle.*

Evelyn snatched the riding crop from the drawer. Its handle still crusted with ‘92 Dom Pérignon and some parliament member’s lost dignity—and cracked it against her thigh. The sound echoed like a gunshot. “One: My udders could smother empires. Two: Will she bite?”

*Ohh She’ll swallow you whole.* Lanie’s voice was the cracking of a dying neon sign. *And you’ll thank her.* The corset loosened abruptly, silk whispering against scales. *Tonight’s about surviving the feast we’re too starved to refuse.*

Evelyn’s breath caught. Somewhere down the hall, Niyati’s bare feet shifted on marble, restless as a blade on a whetstone.

*I’d rather not be collateral when she realises we’re cosplaying gods.* The corset tightened, bitter as a hangover, as Evelyn responded reluctantly. “Agreed. Reversal magic at Dawn. If we survive tonight.”

*Tick-tock,* Lanie purred. Our *ex’s protégé is waiting. Better pray she’s the forgiving type.*

“Mercy’s for mortals.”

*So’s regret. But here we are.*

---

 
Desperate Dragons

The bedroom hummed like a live wire—AC units gasping against July’s fever, leather restraints creaking their dissent. Evelyn’s riding crop trembled ever so slightly as she circled Niyati’s kneeling form.

“Count the strikes,” Evelyn ordered, voice sandpapered raw.

Niyati’s smirk cut through the humidity. “Or what? You’ll spank me harder, Mistress?”

The crop cracked against her shoulder—a weak punctuation. One.

The corset cinched tighter, Lanie’s telepathy now a serrated whisper: *She’s mocking you, lizard.*

Evelyn swung again. Two. The welt bloomed coral.

Niyati shifted her weight—subtle, imperceptible—until her knees framed Evelyn’s stiletto. “Is this the part where I beg?”

Three. The crop trembled.

Evelyn’s fourth strike went wide, crop whistling past Niyati’s ear to gouge the bedpost. Sawdust snowed onto satin sheets.

“Focus,” Niyati drawled, arching her back to better display the crisscross of pinkening welts. “Or am I supposed to cum from your interior decorating?”

*She’s toying with you. Us.*

Evelyn’s next swing cracked her own thigh instead. The pain bloomed hot, shame hotter.

Niyati tsked. “Hand me the reins, princess. Before you put an eye out.”

“No.” Evelyn’s voice splintered like cheap glass. She fumbled the flogger, its beads clacking like a crackhead’s teeth. “On your—your knees. Now.”

Niyati rose instead, coiled muscle and condensed strength. “You’re shaking.” She caught the flogger mid-swing, yanking Evelyn flush. “What’s really got you spooked? First time swinging the hammer?” Her thumb found the corset’s ruby clasp—click—peeling leather back to expose Evelyn’s breasts. Nipples hard as meth-lab sparklers. “Oh no… it’s your first time catching the sparks isn’t it?”

Evelyn’s moan curdled as Niyati pinched and twisted. The corset stayed put—Lanie’s seams hissing as Niyati hiked Evelyn’s skirt. The heart-piercing glinted, rubies crusted like dried blood.

*Fuck—* Lanie’s telepathy frayed as Niyati’s finger circled the charm. *She’s—mmmph—*

Niyati lifted Evelyn like kindling and tossed her onto the bed. Her mouth sealed over Evelyn’s nipple—sucking hard enough to bruise galaxies—before biting down. Evelyn’s back arched off the bed, a choked “Fuck—!” escaping as Lanie’s seams shrieked telepathic static.

*Harder—* Lanie’s voice frayed, threads pulsing like a junkie’s heartbeat. *Make her, make us scream.*

Niyati obliged the unheard plea. Twisting the other nipple between knuckles calloused from cracking wards. Evelyn’s hips jackknifed, drool pooling on the sheets as she clawed at nothing. “Please—”

“Please what?” Niyati pulled back, thumb circling the abused peak. “Use your words, Countess.”

Evelyn’s chest heaved, breasts glistening with spit and shame. “S’too much—hnng—don’t stop—”

Niyati laughed a low, diesel purr and sucked the nipple raw again. Evelyn’s thighs slammed shut around nothing, cunt dripping onto Lanie.

Her Mouth trailed gasoline kisses down her ribs. When her tongue hit the piercing, Evelyn arched—a live wire jerking—as Lanie’s seams sang.

Brink. Brink. Brink—

“Please!” Evelyn’s voice cracked, nails carving half-moons into her palms. “Wanna come—need to—fuckin’ let me—”

Niyati switched gears, tongue lapping at the pebbled flesh. “Not yet.” Her free hands slid up, thumb grinding both nipples. “Gonna make you beg for your own ruin.”

Evelyn sobbed—a wet, broken sound—as Lanie’s seams screamed.

Niyati pulled back, grinning like a switchblade. Her cock—thick enough to split dragons open—dragged up Evelyn’s slit. Drool slicked Evelyn’s chin, surrendered and shameless.

*Do it,* Lanie hissed, seams dissolving into liquid. *Let her gut you.*

Evelyn’s resolve crumbled like sugar glass. “Jus’… fuck me.” The plea reeked of bankruptcy and bus-stop desperation. “Please.”

Niyati stilled. “Oh.” A slow grin. “That kind of virgin.”

Niyati’s finger slipped between Evelyn’s lips—involuntary suck reflex, the shame flush blooming like a bruise.

“Good girl.” Niyati’s hand dug deeper, the outline as brutal as a blacksmith’s hammer. “You glow in technicolour when you beg,” she purred, fingers grazing the ruby piercing. “Like a brothel chandelier.”

She palmed Evelyn’s cunt through soaked lace. “So beg proper.”

Evelyn’s lips stuttered. “I-I want…”

“Words, darling. Not whimpers.”

“Your cock.” The confession tore loose, serrated. “Your rules. Jus’… god, please—”

Niyati’s kiss swallowed the rest, teeth, tongues and triumph. “Attagirl.”

---

 
Past and Future

The penthouse air hung pungent as communion wine left to sour. Niyati's mouth moved like dusk claiming daylight—slow, inevitable, rewriting the map of Evelyn's skin. Her palm mapped both sides of Evelyn's sternum like a pilgrim tracing cathedral stones. Each rib a rosary bead beneath hungry skin. The corset sighed open into silk and lace the colour of shame, one sleeve clinging stubbornly to a yearning nipple. "Leave it," Niyati murmured against the barrier of black thread. "Perfect canvas."

Evelyn's protest died as teeth closed around fabric and flesh. The world narrowed to wet heat as fingertips teased the clit charm. Lanie's answering keen vibrated through the flimsy apparel. *Goddesses on a meth binge—since when did I start to feel what you feel?!*

"You—mngh!—stop interrupting!" Evelyn writhed, ancient syllables of power dissolving into whimpers.

*But darling,* the gown cooed, seams rippling up Evelyn’s forearm in a gossamer caress, *aren't we past pretending?* The lace slithered, binding Evelyn's wrists in a lover's knot above her head. *Let's give your girlhood a proper christening.*

Niyati's laugh warmed the hollow of Evelyn's throat. "Seems like even your wardrobe's rooting for me." Her cock slid against slick folds, teasing. *Oooh! That’s almost George's exact angle, George's torturous patience.*

Her thumb fiddled with the clit charm, rolling it like dice across a debtor's knuckles. Twin moans harmonised—one smokey alto, one soprano silk. "Last chance to play domme, Countess."

"I'll flay you—ngghhh—please" Evelyn hissed, hips arching traitorously. Millennia of conquest undone by a girl's clever fingers.

"There's my girl." Niyati peeled the sleeve down millimetre by excruciating millimetre. Her lips following the retreating fabric. Each kiss to Evelyn's skin feeling like lightning-struck orchards. "Breathe, darling. Even the mighty need oxygen."

Fireworks burst behind Evelyn's eyelids as Niyati's cock breached her. George's ghost and her own future crashing together in her cunt. "Slow," she pleaded to the ceiling saints, talons sinking into the headboard. "Please, I can't—"

The words caught flame in Evelyn's chest as she tried to reclaim…something. "I am—oh fuck!—I am Xan—"

*—Currently Devarīš-Wet Blanket,* Lanie snorted as penetration sparked twin moans. *Relax, Scaley. Enjoy the ride. Virginity's just your first scar.*

The stretch burned divine. Evelyn's hips stuttered—forward, unable to flee the unbearable intimacy. Niyati's palm anchored her pelvis, thumb circling the charm with artisan precision.

"There we go, little flame," she crooned, lips brushing the shell of Evelyn's ear. "Burn proper for me."

Ecstasy erupted like arterial spray. Visions of George smiling through cigar smoke, Lanie's first kiss, Xanathar's horde melting to slag. Evelyn shattered beautifully. Lanie's shared ecstasy slipping through her armour like morning glories through cemetery fences.

“Can’t… can’t…” Evelyn gasped, dragging in lungfuls like drowning meant something. Even the whole sky wasn’t enough.

"Can't what?" Niyati's lips found hers, swallowing aeons of lonely godhood. "Break? Bend? Squeal?" Each word punctuated by a roll of hips that rewrote biology. "Too late, Countess. You're just my girl now."

They both came shouting curses in dead dialects, Niyati's name the only modern word that mattered.

*Congratulations,* Lanie moaned as the aftershocks faded, lace reforming into virgin white. *You've officially upgraded from tyrant to trainwreck. Turns out gods do cry pretty.*

Niyati withdrew with care, catching Evelyn's tear on her thumb as she kissed the salt from her cheeks. "Beginner's luck," she lied, fingers still entwined with Evelyn's while rubbing the trembling charm. "Next we discuss funding applications."

---

 
Reflections in the shower

The shower’s steam hung like confession-booth gauze, blurring the edges of everything but the ache. Evelyn clawed at the collar—Lanie—now slithering around her throat in onyx links that bit colder than Dragonflight altitudes.

Her reflection warped in the fogged mirror. Xanathar’s fading shadow hunched beneath a defenceless woman, nipple rings glinting like votive candles at a sinner’s shrine.

*You’re welcome,* Lanie hummed through the drain’s gurgle, chains pooling at Evelyn’s feet like loyal hounds. *Took creative liberties. Figured you’d want your midlife crisis bedazzled.*

“I need silence… Please.” Evelyn's fist shattered the mirror. Silvered shards rained down, each fragment showing a different era. Xanathar roaring flames across tundra fields, George stitching wounds by campfire light... This trembling creature with jewels for shackles. “My form is inviolate…”

The door groaned its disapproval. Niyati lounged naked against the frame, cock curving upward like a question mark. "Violate this," she grinned, thumbing her tip. . “Heard you redecorating.” Her grin softened at the edges, a switchblade sheathed in velvet. “Need a hand, Countess?”

*C'mon, Scales. You've levelled cities for less.*

Evelyn's claws flexed. "I am Devarīš-Xana—"

“—Currently auditioning as my personal stress-relief toy." Niyati scooped a mirror shard, angling it to catch Evelyn's trembling thighs. "Nice touch with the charm. Vintage or bespoke?"

Obsidian scales almost rippled up Evelyn's spine defensively. "Not your fucking business."

"Sure?" Niyati pressed closer, river-water scent slicing steam. Her palm skimmed the collar. "Feels intentional to me. Begging for a leash."

*Guilty as charged, your Dragonship.* Lanie’s chains cinched. *Seems your id’s got a kinkier retirement plan.*

"Silence!" Evelyn swiped at the necklace dissolving into mist—reforming as sluttier platinum. "Damn cloth—"

Niyati caught her wrist mid-swipe. "Maybe listen to the sentient slave gear." She guided Evelyn’s palm to her cock, heat bleeding through soap-slick skin. "Starting to think you want these accessories."

Contact sparked a near meltdown. Evelyn’s knees threatened mutiny. "I need control."

Niyati stepped closer, her musk cutting through the citrus soap. Her thumb grazed the collar, a locksmith gentling a vault. “Control’s a shitty salve, countess. Try trust.”

“Trust is for lambs.”

“And lambs get eaten.” Her mouth found Evelyn’s pulse—a promise, not a threat. “Lucky for you, that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

The tile wall chilled Evelyn’s spine as Niyati lifted her, effortless as plucking an apple from a widow’s tree. The breach came slow, a confession in reverse. Evelyn’s gasp fogged the glass. “There she is,” Niyati murmured, hips rolling like tides erasing shorelines, even as she drew twin moans—one smokey gruff, one metal soprano. HNNNG! Right in the galvanised g-spot!

*Sweet baby behemoths…dragon turned dandelion. Blow apart for us.*

"Hush," Evelyn hissed, unsure whom she addressed.

"Make me." Niyati's thrusts carved hieroglyphs of ownership into her cervix. "Roar. Burn. Do something besides take it like a dockside whore."

Memories bled through the heat:

— Xanathar hoarding empires in her molten veins.

— Lanie weaping that night. After the first betrayal.

— This moment—the sweet fracture of letting a stranger deep into her fault lines.

— With child, suckling twins at breasts swollen

Evelyn’s claws scored the tile. “I don’t… I can’t—”

“Can.” Niyati pinned her wrists, calluses whispering surrender. “Your crown’s in the gutter, baby. All that’s left is you.”

The climax unspooled like a lullaby sung in a mother-tongue she’d forgotten. Evelyn sagged, forehead resting on Niyati’s shoulder—a dragon nesting in the wreckage of her own myth.

Lanie’s chains melted. *i’m surprised that she was ‘this’ gentle.*

“Quiet,” Evelyn breathed, no venom left.

Niyati's palm cracked against her ass. "Stay with me, Flame-Brain." Her teeth found the slave collar. "Cum knowing this cunt's mine. These tits. Every greedy centimetre."

Pride dissolved in the deluge. "Yours," Evelyn keened, centuries crumbling like shale. "Only yours—please!"

Lanie could only whimper now, ” mmph… Ooh… looks like I was very wrong.”

Release painted her insides with liquid heresy. Niyati collapsed against her, sweaty brow resting below the collar. "Marked you proper," she panted.

Niyati pressed a kiss to her collarbone, lips lingering on the charm. “Next time, we’ll work on your thank you.”

The steam cleared. Night lights bled through the shattered window, gilding the city Evelyn could easily devour.

As Niyati sauntered out, Evelyn studied the remaining mirror shard. Xanathar's ghost saluted

her from a battlefield that no longer existed—a general acknowledging a worthy defeat.

Her fingers found the collar—solid, cool, strangely comforting.

*Regrets?* Lanie coiled, warm around her throat.

Evelyn traced the collar, its weight a counterbalance to the hollowness. “Only that I didn’t break sooner.”

Somewhere below, traffic hummed a mundane hymn. Somewhere within, a dragon relearned to fly with clipped wings.

 
 
XXXI. Good faith negotiations

The floorboards creaked their virgin protest. Poor things were unaccustomed to dragon knees carving scripture into oak. Evelyn’s kneecaps pressed fresh potholes into the grain. Surrender written in sweat and splinters. Contract sigils pulsed like fireflies above the four-poster bed. Their runes spelling penance in postwar legalese.

Niyati reclined on silk spun from surrendered battle flags, her cock arching like a conqueror’s sceptre glazed in honeyed light. The air tasted of lavender warding and ink-smeared virtue.

Evelyn knelt, Lanie the collar—now a braid of cold silver and dragon fang——bit into her throat, snug as a hangman’s promise. Niyati’s bare foot pressed her throat, not to choke, but to anchor. “Clause twelve-A, pet,” she purred, toes curling beneath Evelyn’s jawline. “Faun midwives. Make it sing.”

*Suggest gryphon incubators*, Lanie hissed, chains slithering like a silver dagger swaddled in silk. “Fund it with your rusted crown.”

Evelyn’s tongue mapped the calluses on Niyati’s toes—charcoal and clover, the tang of old oaths. “Diamond-tier patrons… receive… midnight lullabies from fallen celestials.”

Niyati’s laugh was velvet wrapped around a blade. “Darling little sycophant.” Her heel carved a groove down Evelyn’s collarbone. “But your throat’s prettier gagging.” A nod toward her cock, glistening like a fresh kill. “Suck my balls hollow. Show me how titans grovel.”

Evelyn bent, the collar’s weight a benediction. Niyati’s hairless sac loomed—taut flesh veined like forbidden maps. Musk flooded her senses—ash and amber, masculine, feminine and foreign.

Shame flared. Xanathar had ruled millennia in male skin, cock swinging like a siege weapon—now bent to another’s gravity.

*Lizard,* Lanie sneered, chains cinching. *Suck the gems you abandoned. *Prove you’re better at swallowing than governing.*

“Slowly,” Niyati warned, fingers twisting in Evelyn’s hair, commanding rather than caressing. “Like you’re savouring your last meal.”

The first lick tore a whimper from them both. Evelyn’s tongue swirled the left orb, heat and salt and something green—the taste of spring tide surrender. Lanie’s chains trembled, her own tongue now Evelyn’s tongue piercing. Her whimper dissolving. *Oh fuck, I can taste her—*

“Good girl,” Niyati crooned, hips lifting, offering more. “Worship them proper. They’ve looked forward to your… devotion.”

Evelyn obeyed, lips sealing around the sac, sucking gently as if drawing venom from a wound. Niyati’s thighs quivered. “Yes—just like—” Her voice fractured, grip tightening. “Think you can handle the right one as well, my ruined saint?”

The answer was a desperate moan as she swallowed them whole, vibrations rippling through flesh. Evelyn’s jaw ached. Her own pulse hammering in time with Lanie’s frantic hum.

*Demand rainbow ambulances!* Lanie’s piercings vibrated. *Before we drown in testicle-scented Stockholm syndrome!*

Evelyn forced herself to pull back, saliva bridging her lips to Niyati’s glistening skin. *Jealous, rag?* She shot telepathically. *Wish these jewels were yours to polish?*

*I’d make her weep treaties,* Lanie hissed. *You’re licking like a concussed kitten.*

“Hnn—amend clause fifteen—” Niyati gasped, back arching off the silk. “Three… three mobile units—”

*Five!* The slave collar tightened. *With mage-fire lanterns!*

“Five,” Evelyn bartered, teeth grazing flesh that remembered scalpel kisses.

“Three,” Niyati gasped, swatting her head with a pillow, “and you wear a lion-tamer costume.”

*Ask about the whip!* Lanie’s piercings heated.

Contract runes flared gold. Niyati’s cock hovered over Evelyn’s chin like a guillotine’s kiss. “Now… the base. Pretend it’s… mm… honey cake.”

Evelyn’s tongue darted out, tracing veins that pulsed with Niyati’s heartbeat. Saliva pooled, a sinner’s baptism. The foreskin parted like a velvet curtain, revealing the glistening head. Uncut perfection, sweat-beaded and trembling.

*Yummy*, Lanie cooed, buzzing like a trapped hornet. *We’re drooling like back-alley junkies.*

Evelyn’s resolve snapped. She took the head between her lips, suckling the salt-sweet corona. Niyati’s gasp echoed off the vaulted ceiling. “Slower, you greedy—”

The vibration kicked in—Lanie’s cursed jewellery thrumming against Evelyn’s tongue. Niyati’s thighs quaked. “Fuck! Fuck—”

Evelyn plunged deeper, nose burying in coarse curls. Musk flooded her senses—iron and honeysuckle, victory and vulnerability. She gagged, tears pricking, but didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

*That’s it,* Lanie gagged, the barbell vibrating faster. *Choke on our own extinction.*

Niyati’s fingers fisted Evelyn’s hair, yanking her back. “Enough.” A ragged laugh. “Plenty more to negotiate, glutton.”

She hauled Evelyn up by the slave collar, thighs clamping her waist like bailiff’s cuffs. “Article thirty-two: Free transit for refugee harpies.” Dropped her onto the bedspread woven from repurposed war banners. “Present rebuttals.”

*Fake an earthquake!* Lanie’s collar tapped Morse code. *Demand vibrating seats!*

Evelyn’s fingers dove south, two knuckles deep in slickness that reeked of ozone and crushed violets. “E-eight safehouses… climate-controlled—ah!—with rooftop gardens—”

“—And you tend the damn begonias.” Niyati’s knee spread her wider than a tax-evasion loophole, combat boots framing heaving ribs. “Two shelters. Bark ratification.”

Counter with sprinkler systems! Lanie’s nipple clamps spat sparks. George loved hydrants!

Evelyn arched, free hand twisting a nipple ring until the chain glowed like a branding iron. “F-four sanctuaries… solar-powered—oh!—dusk-to-dawn wards—”

Niyati climbed atop her, sweat-slick thighs bracketing Evelyn’s face. “Three.” Her thumb smeared arousal across Evelyn’s lips. “Suck today’s hope into tomorrow’s promise.”

Compliance tasted of brine and pardoned arson. *Inheritance fraud!* Evelyn’s tongue dug into fully familiar flesh now, Lanie’s piercings humming through each clockwise rotation. *We’ll appeal to higher courts!*

Evelyn gasped around the ministrations. “Mmf… four clinics… postpartum therapists—”

“—Sanctioned.” Niyati’s groan rattled the headboard’s carved gryphons. Evelyn’s fingers pistoned, curling against a spot Niyati had only recently claimed. “Six units… ogre lactation consultants—”

“—Certified doulas only!” Niyati struck ethics harder than a debtor’s gavel. She twisted the nipple ring, igniting Lanie’s chainmail bra into spark-throwing convulsions. “Three... ah!… mobile clinics—”

*Four!* The slave collar garroted. *Self-sanitizing pumps!*

Evelyn’s teeth grazed tomorrow’s lineage. “F-four… spectral wards—”

Niyati wrenched Evelyn into position—ass upturned like a surrendered flag, spine curved into a question mark of defeat.

Her pendulous breasts swayed beneath her. Loot sacks heavy with plundered pride, as arcane spotlights bathed the scene in sulfurous gold. The mirrors captured every obscene detail.

Cunt gaping wider than a gutted shark’s grin, juices streaking her inner thighs like snail trails on a tombstone. Shoulder blades jutted like shattered cathedral spires. Sweat pooling in the hollow where rebellion should have simmered.

Lanie’s chains slithered into a live mic. *Her womb’s flashing ‘Vacancy’ in neon, folks!*

Niyati’s palm cracked against Evelyn’s ass—a gunshot ripple of flesh. “Beg harder,” she demanded, cock hovering like an executioner’s blade. “Let them hear their saint’s devotion.”

Holy tax fraud! Lanie's clamps pinched like repo men. *You're tonight's prime-time porn baby! City's watching your gaping tax evasion! *

Evelyn's face burned hotter than dragonfire. Fingers pumping furiously as humiliation and arousal merged. “Die screaming.”

*Already queued, Cumsock!* Chains constricted. *Bark for her brats!*

Evelyn's flush spread wildfire-bright, free hand plunging as Niyati's shadow drowned her pride.

Evelyn’s retort died as Niyati thrust, hilt-deep. The crowd’s gasp mirrored her own—a symphony of voyeurs and vultures. Breasts swinging like ransacked church bells, each slap of skin echoing through the chamber.

"F-four clinics…" Evelyn panted, drool pooling on peace treaty silk. "W-with… round-the-clock nurseries—"

Niyati slapped her hand away, replacing fingers with cockhead pressure. "Five. Beg filthy."

The breach tore through her like arson in a library, nerve-endings screaming as ancient scrolls burned. Niyati’s cock carved a merciless rhythm, each thrust a jackhammer splitting bedrock. Evelyn’s hungry cunt stretched obscenely. The schlick-schlack of slick flesh echoing like a grease trap devouring factory waste.

“BREED ME!” Evelyn’s shriek shattered stained glass saints. Body jiggling like a slaughterhouse chandelier under the piston-drill assault. “F-fill your revolution in this saggy flesh cage!”

Niyati paused, cockhead swelling at the precipice of Evelyn’s cervix. “Magnificent flesh cage,” she hissed, biting a wobbling asscheek. Her palm cracked down, leaving a handprint glowing like it was radioactive. “But first—” She withdrew completely, tip glistening with betrayal. “—earn it.”

Evelyn whimpered, cunt clenching around vacancy. “P-please—!”

“Arch more.” Niyati’s command brooked no defiance.

Evelyn obeyed, spine bowing until her ass hovered like a rotten moon. Niyati’s cock slammed home in one brutal stroke, balls slapping Evelyn’s piercing with wet thwacks. The impact jolted her tits into pendulous arcs; nipples chafed raw as trench survivors. “Feed radicals from these useless udders!” Evelyn begged, sweat-drenched breasts swaying to the rhythm of ruin.

“Precious udders.” Niyati leaned forward, thumbing a nipple. Her other hand yanked Evelyn’s head back by the hair, forcing her to watch in the mirrors as cock vanished into ravaged flesh. “Soon flowing with legacy.”

Lanie’s clit piercing burned white-hot—a welding torch scoring steel. *Fuck… hnn!… Feels like a… a magma coloniser!* Her chains slithered, cinching Evelyn’s wrists tighter. *Tell her to split your bankrupt womb!*

Niyati’s pace quickened, hips pistoning like a derailed freight train. Evelyn’s entrance gaped obscene, a storm drain gulping down the city’s sins. “MAKE ME YOUR… FUCK!… WORTHLESS WH—”

“My radiant slut!” Niyati roared, runes igniting ‘BELOVED’ down her spine in searing glyphs. She gripped Evelyn’s hips, nails drawing blood as she angled deeper, cockhead battering the womb’s barred gate.

Lanie’s chain links melted, dripping molten silver onto the sheets. There’s my… ah!… girl!

Niyati’s chokehold tightened, forearm a boa constrictor, squeezing psalms from Evelyn’s throat. “TAKE YOUR LEGACY!” Her free hand mauled Evelyn’s breast, kneading phantom milk and misery into the sheets.

Evelyn’s howl atomised the chamber’s last intact window. “BREED YOUR FILTH IN ME!” Her body convulsed, tits slapping her chin like overripe melons as Niyati’s monster swelled—an anchor lodging in her cervix. Seed erupted in hot, toxic geysers, cementing amendments thick with iron and absolution.

Collapse came suddenly. Niyati’s spent cock slipped free with a wet splurt, painting Evelyn’s thighs in pearlescent graffiti. Evelyn scrambled backwards though. Tongue desperately lapping at the softening flesh with the frantic rhythm of a gas pump sucking the last drops from a bankrupt station. “Mine… slurp… magnificent… gluck… perfect cock…” Her chins wobbled, breasts swaying like suicide bags. “Y-yours… ah… only worth…”

*Easy, hurricane,* Lanie's chain whispered, clit piercing cooling to room temp. *You've bled enough.*

"Gently now…" Niyati tugged weakly at sweat-slick hair. "That's enough, my phoenix."

But Evelyn redoubled efforts, lips stretching obscene over wilting flesh. "M-must… slurp… guard… gluck… your treasure…" Milky drool soaked the sheets, phantom let-down already beading at nipples. "B-breed… slurp… stupid… gluck… hog…"

"Evelyn." Niyati cradled her face, thumbs smearing snot and tears. "No. You are a brilliant strategist. Beautiful philanthropist. My—"

"G-Georgie…" Evelyn's voice shattered, tongue still lapping. "… better… gluck… with you…"

Lanie's chain coiled around her ribs, protective. *He's dust, darling. You're lightning.*

Niyati crouched forward and kissed the top of her head. "You eclipse every ghost."

"B-babies…" Evelyn's eyes rolled white, suckling turning slack. "D-dumb… screaming… glurk… yours…" Her body slumped, yet her lips maintained suction on spent flesh like a barnacle on a sinking ship.

"Sleep, wildfire. Very much on birth control magic, for now at least" Niyati fell back, flaccid cock still trapped between trembling lips. "Tomorrow needs you whole."

But Evelyn's mind carouseled—Babies, George, Gift, Empty.—even as sleep dragged her under. Lanie's chain morphed into a camisole, whispering *Rest, you glorious mess* to phantom kicks.

Later, the night found Niyati tracing Evelyn’s stretch marks that wouldn't form yet. Fingers mapping imagined curves. Outside, harpies shrieked their approval. Inside, George's ghost added several new shelters to the region's map.
 
 
XXXII. Next morning

Morning light bled through bulletproof drapes, gilding the moth pendant left on the pillow nearby. Evelen stretched into a nightgown made of spider-silk and regret, Lanie’s seams still puckered from last night's excess.

*Check the note,* she yawned telepathically. *Before you combust.*

Evelyn's talon trembled unfolding stationery scented with stale coffee and a creeping fear:
 

Dearest Dragonfire,
 
Gone to duel academia’s dust-goblins. Thesis defence: “Erotic Diplomacy in Postwar Rebuilding: Wombs Over Walls.” Pray the Griffin Chancellor prefers peer review as much as pussy review.
 
Fridays after 7 PM circled in your dragonfire hue gorgeous. Other nights? Unfortunately booked solid.
 
Blame the succubus strain I caught volunteering in plague tents. Antidote left my libido… ethically porous.
 
'Perpetually Horny & Broke.' Docs call it chronic. Johns call it luck. I call it tuition.
 
Monday: Banshee widow who climaxes to funeral dirges.
 
Wednesday: Vampire prince (his virginity take #23, my fangs in his femur).
 
Thursday: Mermaid matriarch (egg-fertilization rituals require… creative buoyancy).
 
Saturday: Gargoyle curator (stone doesn’t cum easy, but museums fund my enemas).
 
The pendant is yours. Never parted with it until now. Last thing my parents touched. George spent hours untangling the chain from my burnt fist. Survived my first heartbreak, third arrest, and that incident with the minotaur (remind me next time). Woke up last night knowing it belongs in your hoard. Crack it, and I’ll crack your ribs. Cherish it, and I will cherish your {Highlight to read} lo.
 
P.S. Never comped a client for cock… till your disaster ass. My first (& last) charity case. (Grant proposals require submission fees.)
 
P.P.S. Muting you til Friday. You’re a nicotine patch I can’t gnaw during office hours.
 
P.P.P.S. Redemption round—your throne, my gag reflex. Bring George’s Scotch and that smirk that wrecked your last domination attempt.
 
P.P.P.P.S. Here is my OnlyFae account: #destinysgotcock. Use the free code DRAGONDUMPSTERFIRE for unlimited access to all the ‘educational content’.
 
Always (especially when I shouldn’t),
 
Dr. Niyati "Ethically Compromised" Demos

[Lipstick kiss in treasonous red]

 
 
Lanie’s silk bristled. *She called you dragonfire. Pupils dilate at 0:43—pointed ears don’t lie.*

Evelyn’s scales flared oxidised copper. “Impossible! My glamour—”

*—Cracked like a meth pipe.* Lanie’s threads tightened. *Our Georgie’s fingerprints all over.*

Evelyn’s wings twitched, membranes catching light like oil slicks. “How long has she—”

*Told you she wasn’t here for the pussy,* Lanie snarled, silk unravelling into barbed wire. *She’s sparring with your old scripts.*

Evelyn staggered against the dresser, pendant scars biting her palm. “She knew from the start…” Her breath hitched. “Now im certain she’s—”

*Yup. That smokescreen’s a haunted radio. Tune it right, and you’ll hear Georgie’s laugh.* Lanie’s silk hissed as Evelyn completed her thought. “Niyati’s just the book cover wearing the soul.”

*And played us like a pennywhistle.* Lanie’s voice became broken glass. *Check her goddamn site.*

Evelyn mumbled as she typed the link into her phone. “Educational content” my ass.

The OnlyFae portal flickered open.

Scene 1:

Backstreet footage: Neon vomited ulcer-yellow onto cracked concrete. Niyati slouched against a dumpster, cock thick as a riot baton. A werewolf prowled, his fangs dripping cheap lust.

“C’mon, fleabag.” She flicked her tip, smirk gasoline-lit. “Nip or Suck bitch?”

The wolf lunged. Niyati shifted mid-snarl—cock ballooning into a veined monolith. Claws skittered off her armoured thighs. He whimpered, knot shriveling.

Wolf returned, brass knuckles glinting cursed silver. Niyati’s grin died. His fist cracked ribs. She shrank—muscles deflating, chest knife-flat, cock retreating to a pinkie stub.

“Lesson learned?” Wolf pinned her to brick weeping black blood.

Niyati’s face flickered—almost real fear, a gasp—before melting into sissy theatre. “Y-yes, alpha…” Her hand trembled up his thigh. “P-punish me… proper.”

Scene 2:

Same alley, moon bloated with a grudge. Wolf paraded his mate—she-wolf, eyes banked coals.

Niyati shifted—shemale alpha, knot swollen with a vengeance. The defeated he-wolf chained to a fire escape, howling.

“Proper punishment,” Niyati growled, mounting his mate. The she-wolf arched, claws shredding brick as Niyati’s knot locked. The wolf sobbed, mate licking Niyati’s paw. She tossed him a chew toy. “Fetch.”

Post-Credits Raw Footage:

Greenroom lights buzzed like dying flies. Niyati leaned into the camera, greasepaint smudged, her reflection winking.

“Next series?” She gnawed a prop vampire fang, voice gravel and gasoline. “Vampires. I play a werebunny. Half-rodent, half-drained.”

Behind her, the she-wolf actor snorted, flicking ash into a Styrofoam coffee cup. “Better hope they don’t write in carrot fetishes.”

The male werewolf smirked, tossing his pants into a bin labelled Cursed Props. “Breeding vampire harems. Blood, burrows, ohhh and carrots for sure.”

Niyati blew a kiss to the audience, the screen dissolving to static. “Stay thirsty, loves.”

*Not your home video,* Lanie conceded. *Still…*

Evelyn vaporised the screen. “She’s…”

*A hand grenade in a garter belt? A grief whore with a punch card? Georgie’s ghost wearing your former cock?*

Evelyn’s claw traced the charm. “Still...She’s....”

*…Not ours,* Lanie sighed. *But Friday’s coming. Bottoms up.*

But Evelyn was already dialling, moth pendant burning like a brand. "Pick up, damn you…"

Lanie’s voice dripped acid. *Let's face it—she’s Georgie’s middle finger from the grave.*

Somewhere below, a moth battered itself to dust against a NO SMOKING sign.

Tap-tap-tap.

Always fucking tap-tap-tap.

Somewhere else, a burner phone buzzed against a lecture podium. Nearby in the mirror, a dragon learned to count days.
 
 
Continued in Part 12

 
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