a writer, perchance

The slam of the door rang through the vast space, the finality of the sound falling on deaf ears. My thoughts were racing, thinking of who I should dispose of to ensure their silence and who was already loyal enough to the house that a large sum would suffice. I thanked the gods for the butler, loyal to the house for longer than my lifetime; he was a constant comfort in an otherwise cold, even hostile estate. I rushed through the space, scrambling to find the materials I'd need and cursing at Nisien's choice of death: poison was always the hardest to compensate for, as it destroyed a variety of internal organs to varying degrees depending on the mixture itself. I wished I knew what he had used, but I had no time to parse it out myself: already some of his smaller digits would be unusable to him as they were. I rummaged around for my spare parts, preserved by an old family spell, and pulled out any organs I thought I might need.

Finally, with everything gathered, I stood over Nisien's prone body and all at once it hit me. Not only had he died, quite unexpectedly, but he had killed himself in my estate. He had made the decision that he didn't want to live. What could that mean? Was he not satisfied with his life with me, here? I had taken his increased time spent at the manor as a desire to be here, not as a withdrawal. It stung.

No, this wouldn't be permitted. If he wanted to die, he should have negotiated it with me first. I had a long list of commissions that I was constantly adding to, anything to keep him here, keep him close to me, and he hadn't even finished my latest request. But truly, the worst part was that he hadn't even had the strength in his final moments to confess his obvious desire for me.

Did that make him a coward? Had I fallen for a sheep in a wolf's cowl? I suppose he was an artist, after all. If I wanted a warrior, I should have gone to some dingy sailor bar instead. The very thought made me shiver in disgust. It mattered not what his thoughts had been in his final moments, because I would not allow those to be his final moments. He belonged to me, and only I had the power to grant him life or death. And I intended to grant him life until my own final breath.

I had already started the process of replacing his insides- the most time sensitive part of the whole process- when I realized that there was, perhaps, a silver lining to this whole thing. Here he was, the man of my dreams, completely at my mercy under my practiced surgical scalpel. As long as I got the spell started soon, it mattered not what happened before I woke him up. He was, for the first time, completely and utterly mine.

I made quick work of him after my little epiphany, sewing his new parts in place with an unrivaled precision. I had replaced all his digestive organs, a couple fingertips that had lost some of their motor abilities overnight (I mourned the loss of the perfection of his broad hands, and prayed to every god I thought would listen that he could maintain all the artist's skill he had built over the years), and one of his eyes that had just started its path to liquification. Otherwise, though, I tried to keep his body relatively intact. I needed him to be perfect.

I started the spell almost thoughtlessly, focusing just enough to trigger the start before my thoughts shifted aggressively to that of my long-contained desire. It had grown hot and spiteful over the years as every night I begged the gods to tell him to make a move. I saw the way his gaze lingered over the lines of my body that I had revealed for the second painting we ever did, the way his smile peeked through his stoic demeanor whenever I sent him a subtle wink. I knew he wanted me. But the brute never seemed to pick up on my relentless flirting, and it had slowly eroded parts of my ego. Was it all in my head after all? Was I too delicate for him, too far from the rugged strength he was likely accustomed to from the slums of his previous life? I had done everything right, shooting him little glances and hints that would be clear as day to anyone else, but which seemed to fly right over his beautiful head. It had all built up, and now was my chance, my perfect evening to relieve all those frustrations and take control over my own desire for once in my deprived life.

I peeled the rest of his clothing off almost reverently, admiring every little ridge and plane of his cold body that I had been denied for so long. It was softer than I imagined, but I supposed that made sense: he was strong, but I'd never caught him putting any particular effort towards his physique. My long fingers pressed into his flesh, the slowly rising temperature of his skin sending a little thrill through my body. It occurred to me, as though through a thick haze, that I was pretty sure my father had warned me against this sort of thing; something about the sanctity of the dead and that persistent, corrupting seed of lust and avarice, but I quickly banished the thought from my mind. He was long gone, and this wasn't his business. instead, I lost myself in the soft curls of Nisien's chest, letting my cheek brush against the feathery texture of the hair trailing down his torso.

Soon, I found I had mounted the ceremonial table, straddling his clothed hips and studying his perfect face. it struck me how soft he was, how he had rounded out a bit with my influence and the security of my well stocked kitchen. I smiled, revelling in the feeling of knowing I had improved his life in such a small but meaningful way. Very slowly, I lowered my face down to his, my pale hair pooling next to his like a drop of pure moonlight and finally I kissed him.

His lips were softer than I expected, especially as my fingers brushed against the rough stubble of his soft jawline. I savoured the feeling, letting myself deepen the kiss and ignoring the aftertaste of the poison coating his tongue. I had made sure to purify the body before my explorations had started, so I was confident in the knowledge that the worst it could do was leave a sour taste in my mouth. It was worth it, though, to run my tongue along his teeth and know what he felt like from the inside. I suppose I had already learned about that in a way no one else ever would, but this was different, special. This meant I knew him as a lover would know him.

The thought sent a shiver through me so powerful it made me gasp, and suddenly I was rushing to pull at the clasp of his pants, to get them over his hips and off of his body. He was flaccid, of course, but that was easy to remedy, and after a moment of concentration I was able to draw his not-quite-congealed blood to where I wanted it, where I needed it. I hadn't changed out of my own nightclothes, a simple but delicate nightgown under my favourite elegant robe, and I was grateful at the lack of an undergarment. I arranged my robes carefully around our hips, pressing the tip of his generous member to my ass, whispering a quick spell to assist me as I realized I had forgotten any kind of lubricant, and slowly lowering myself onto him as I had only ever done in the dirtiest of my dreams. I let out a loud gasp, moaning as I pushed him deep inside my body and finally felt full.

The feeling of his body was heavenly, and I lost track of time pleasuring myself with his perfect body and savouring the sensations that I had been denied for so long. Eventually I noticed his finger twitch and I was jolted back to reality. I quickly finished myself off, climbing off of him and willing his blood back into place, quickly covering his hips with a small cloth and wiping my fingers clean with another. I positioned myself over him just as I had a million times as a child over rats, birds, and small prey, and I began the ritual that would ease his way back into life.

The bell continues tolling, a second and third ring, silenced under the screech and wail of distant horrors fast approaching.

There are others, like himself and Zay and Zac, riddled throughout the square and ready to face a potential demise, many of whom he has never associated with and knows not by name but of ability and appearance. Athios is amongst them, white eyes a ghost in the crowd, a sickle firm in hand.

It is a split second between calm impatience and absolute chaos.

The point was, he came by his depravity honestly, and the inherent contradiction of being a physician and an assassin was not lost on him. Nor was the proximity that both of his careers brought him into with personal temptation. 

But to put it bluntly: It would be incredibly fucking stupid to stick his dick into the corpses of his patients or his targets.

Even though he certainly thought about it quite a lot.

Dressed in waxed black canvas and a beaked leather mask, Mathis stood behind the seat of what had been, until forty-five seconds ago, the Mayor of the City of Deleven, and he contemplated vice. The mayor had not resigned or been recalled, of course, he’d merely expired; it was sort of an unwritten rule that you couldn’t hold office with a severed head. Nobody really thought to include these sorts of contingencies when penning charters but when his aides found his body in the morning they’d know intuitively: Can’t run the city with no head. Mayor’s got to have a head.

The pool of blood was still spreading. Even when the ol’ pump stopped pumping, an abruptly aborted neck was ample opening to slosh the contents of a man out of, when the body below it slumped over the desk. Mayor Goodwin had been a bit of a blowhard, and now that his entire hat-holder lay discarded atop his sticky red desk calendar his jaw hung loose, its tongue lolling inside, and Mathis was rock. hard. staring at it and imagining the possibilities. But he knew better. The itch was there, and it was killing him, but it was easier than it used to be, to turn and make his silent exit out of the window and not do anything stupid to compromise himself at the last.

He had other means to relieve himself. It was good to be allied with vampires.

+++

Another temptation Mathis knew better than to succumb to was that of Odette. The sun was up, her opulent manor house was dark and silent, and Mathis knew at least three vampires slumbered lifelessly within, but it was not an open menu: he would not fuck with Odette.

Mainly that was because, unlike her children, the sun did not oppress her consciousness. As extremely hot as the image of her snapping her eyes open and seizing him by his skinny neck mid-thrust made him — in the privacy of his mind and with his cock in his own hand — Mathis had stabbed far too many backs in the name of his own self-interest to go throwing his life away just for two hedonistic final minutes.

He thought of the mad little brat Adelaide who liked to tease him. She had a foul mouth when she was sick of him — as most people were most of the time — and it was ever a treat to leave it full of his triumphant and sticky disdain, for her to find all over her tongue when she woke up in the evening.

But the image of Goodwin’s severed head lingered vibrantly in his mind’s eye. The late mayor had not been as pretty as Odette’s other plaything, Mikhail, but he had been male, and that mattered right now when it came to realizing some simulacrum of the fantasy that was itching him from behind his balls.

Two more things he loved about vampires: as long as you didn’t expose them to fire or sunlight you could do damn near anything with their bodies and, provided all the pieces were put together again, they’d recover with nary a scratch; and they seemed to be good at accumulating money enough that going through absurd amounts of blood-stained laundry was an unremarkable fact of nightly life. So no one important was going to care about the mess he made sawing through the sleeping vampire’s neck.

He could get Mickey to do this for him when he woke up, and the experience would be much the same in terms of clamminess. Though an awake Mickey, starving for blood, tended to salivate quite a bit with a throbbing cock in his mouth, whereas in his sleep Mathis found his palate was quite dry. At least until enough precum had been worked out of him to slick his way. Still, to hold the heft of his severed head in Mathis’s own hands and guide its cold, still mouth up and down his shaft at his own pace was decadent in a way that’d make the devil shiver.

Mathis had shed every stitch of his assassin’s garb. He stood beside Mickeys casket with his stance wide and proud and his flat ass bared carelessly to the chilly, cavernous room around him, and to all the portraits on the walls, which watched in silent horror as he stuffed himself feverishly into the corpse’s mouth until its refreshingly cool lips kissed his balls and his swollen tip emerged from the other end of its severed esophagus.

The rhythmic slapping of the lifeless jaw against his crotch, and then the guttural noise he made when he came — still pumping himself furiously — echoed back to him from the marble walls. His voluminous cum splattered the headless body that still lay in the casket before him when it squirted out of the neck. In short order Mickey’s ridiculous Hawaiian shirt was stained with pink-tinged pools and rivers of white, and still Mathis stood there for a full minute holding the cool, comforting face flush against his pelvis, emptying his balls through it with spluttering groans that gave way to mewling whimpers.

Mathis sat heavily on the edge of the casket and held the head on his knees, petting Mickey’s long hair for comfort as he came down and caught his breath. He looked at the rest of the corpse and considered Mickey’s other holes, such as (for example) the other half of his vulgar, open, slutty little neck. But he was much too spent and satisfied for that just now. And he had hours until the sun went down again and the creatures of the night awoke to see how naughty he’d been by the light of day.

Q:

Quickly recovering himself, Edwin straightened his jacket, gazing in wonder at the wings. 'They are bigger than I'd thought,' he said. 'Perhaps it really does have the power to carry a passenger, if it can use wings of that size.'

U:

'Unlike some of us, I have responsibilities to attend to.'

E:

Edwin woke to strange surroundings. The room was brightly coloured and chaotically decorated, as if the owner hoped to lull its occupants to sleep by dizzying them.

A:

'Ah, good morning, old chap!' Jonathan said warmly. They were already seated at the table, dressed in a clean cream dress dotted with small red poppies.

S:

Something was wrong with Edwin.

Y:

'Yes, sir,' he said, politely and without a trace of insubordination.

no-pressure tagging @reininginthefirewriting @thegreatobsesso and @vacantgodling

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@revenantlore @sarandipitywrites @k--havok @asterhaze @verba-writing

Before I can freak out even more, I hear footsteps approaching.

"Fuck, it's chilly in here." I know that voice.

"Carter, this is a morgue. Of course it's cold," Helena scolds him in her typical eye-rolling voice.

Morgue.

The word rings in my ears, and there's this utter mix of panic, puzzlement, and annoyance within me. Why am I lying in a morgue, and why did Helena bring Carter of all people? It's one thing to randomly invite him over so she can watch him fuck me whenever she feels like it, but to now involve him in her stupid little mind games, too? She probably drugged me, again, just because she gets a kick out of it - but the location is another level of messed up. I hate it.

"It's really hot how she's lying there like this," Carter comments. I'm pretty sure they are both standing at my feet, but I can't see them, my eyes still fixed on the ceiling, unable to move.

"She makes such a beautiful corpse, doesn't she?" Helena replies, getting a chuckle from him in return.

"Fucked up thing to say, but… yeah, she does."

What is wrong with them? I want to jump up and scream at them - I'm not dead! I need them both to stop this damn game, right now, because they are seriously freaking me out.

I'm not breathing.

The realization sets in, and suddenly I am acutely aware of all the bodily reactions I should be having in this moment. Heartbeat, too fast, echoing in my ear. Hands getting sweaty. Eyes welling up with tears. Goosebumps from the cold.

Breathing, shallow and panicked.

But there's nothing. Motionless, reactionless, nothing. Like a corpse.

A hand runs roughly along my leg, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. "She's not stiff yet, is she?"

Helena finally steps into my field of view, looking down at me, and I desperately try to signal her with my eyes that, hey, I'm not dead. Considering that I can't move at all, it has no effect; of course it doesn't.

She gently grabs my face. "Rigor mortis is starting to set in. If you were planning to use her mouth, I'd suggest leading with that before the jaw is completely rigid. Extremities should be good for another two or three hours."

Trying to process her words only makes me freak out more. They can't possibly be planning to…?

"Oh, I won't take that long." Carter's hand wanders higher. "Can I move her?"

"She's all yours."

He drags my body around, manhandling me like a lifeless object, until my ass sits on the table edge and my legs are dangling over it. It's pretty uncomfortable - not that he would care, even if I could tell him.

Now that I am apparently repositioned to his liking, Carter pushes my legs apart and steps between them. "The vacant stare is a little creepy."

"Close her eyes if it bothers you," Helena notes nonchalantly.

"Eh, it's fine. Gives it a certain flair."

It's so messed up how they talk about me like I am actually dead. I'm not! God, can they please, please stop this now…

"Would you like some lubrication?" she asks as if she's offering him a drink. "She's not going to get wet, so it might be rather unpleasant."

Carter runs his finger along my exposed pussy for a moment, then unceremoniously pushes it in. If I could, I would have winced, because that sure hurts. "Nah, I'll manage. I want to remember this little cunt as tight as possible. And it's not like she can complain."

I bet he has that stupid smirk on his face, and I really wish I could glare at him. How did me supposedly being dead turn him into even more of an asshole?

The sound of a zipper, and I can feel him moving, then he's roughly groping my tits with one hand. I assume he's stroking himself to get hard. Usually doesn't take him long, but maybe the cold in here is getting to him.

Helena, meanwhile, is leaning on the table next to my head, smiling down on me and stroking my hair. If this weren't such an incredibly messed-up situation, I'd find it really sweet how caring she looks at me.

Helena, please. I'm not dead, you know that, right? Please stop this madness. Please. I'm scared.

But of course none of my silent pleading has any effect, so all I can do is continue staring at her. I hate this whole situation so much.

Carter suddenly poking at my entrance doesn't help, now the really unpleasant part begins. He manages to work himself inside me inch by inch, pushing forward, grunting. His huge cock hurts even under normal circumstances, when I'm dripping wet - but now it feels like he's ripping me open.

Please stop, it burns, it hurts so bad, it's too much, please please stop, please.

I wish I could cry right now.

Helena caresses my face, and all I want is for her to tell him to stop. "It's a little sad that she can't make any sounds. I bet she'd give us the prettiest whimpers." Sometimes I hate how much of a sadist she is.

Carter just chuckles in agreement and starts to pound into me after he has managed to force himself in completely. It hurts even more now, because as Helena mentioned, I'm not getting wet, and for once in my life, I'm really not enjoying the pain. And I can't even beg him to stop, or fight him off, or cry - all I can do is continue to stare ahead and take it.

Usually, I love being used for Helena's enjoyment. I love being her little toy, I love it when she lets men fuck me, I love getting pumped full of cum because she loves seeing it so much.

I hate this. I hate that they're doing this to me. Please stop.

They seem to enjoy themselves, though. Of course they're not going to stop anytime soon.

"I'm going to miss her," Carter states between grunts, gripping my hips hard.

"Me, too. Very much so, in fact." Helena strokes my face again, sounding almost bittersweet. "She was special."

It is quite touching of her to say that, and under normal circumstances it would definitely give me butterflies in my stomach, but right now all I want is to scream at her that I'm not dead I'm not dead I'm not dead. I really need this to stop, please. I'm not dead.

Please make it stop.

I don't even know how long Carter fucks my lifeless body, but eventually he picks up the pace and finally, finally finishes and cums inside me. Maybe now this whole thing will end. I almost expect Helena to inject me with something to restore my functions, and announce how it was some kind of scientific experiment again.

Please let it be an experiment. It's fine, I won't even be mad.

Carter pulls out, and Helena wordlessly hands him some tissues to clean himself up.

"If you're done already, I am going to dissect her now," Helena announces. "I plan to preserve a few of her organs, as a keepsake - would you like anything specific, too?"

He snorts. "What, like some creepy shit swimming in a jar?"

"Is that a no?" I can basically hear the raised eyebrow in her voice.

"Clashes with the rest of my interior, I think."

"Suit yourself."

"Anyway. Thanks for letting me say goodbye to her," Carter chuckles.

"Thank you for coming. Oh, and if you don't mind, pull her back up, please?"

"Sure." He grabs my body and puts me back into my initial position, not handling me particularly gently. Well, why would he… I'm not dead I'm not dead I'm not dead. After casually groping my tits one more time, he turns to leave. "Have fun cutting her open."

"Oh, I will," Helena assures him, and part of me still hopes she's joking, in that messed-up way of hers. That she will end this damn experiment here in a moment. Please. I'm not dead.

She's rummaging around somewhere outside my field of vision, then she steps back up to the table, eyeing me for a few seconds. Please stop this. I'm not dead.

Mercilessly and without further ado, Helena sets the scalpel down on my neck and starts cutting, no no no please don't no-

With a shriek, I sit up, taking a few deep, panicked breaths. Breathing. I'm breathing. Moving. I'm not dead. My eyes need a moment to adjust to the darkness and I look around, disoriented.

Helena's bedroom.

I flinch at a sudden touch - a hand on my back.

"What's wrong?" Helena asks sleepily. "You okay?"

I take a few more breaths, still trying to collect myself, then I lie back down with a sigh. Holy shit. "Yeah, I just…" Another deep breath. It's fine. I'm okay. I'm not dead. "I just had a really fucked up nightmare."

"About what?"

I snuggle into her arms, desperate for the comfort. She's not exactly a cuddler, especially not at night, but she doesn't protest for once. Maybe she's still half-asleep.

"I was dead," I murmur, focusing on her heartbeat. "Like, not dying. Already dead. I was lying in a morgue." I don't particularly feel like going into detail, in fact, I would prefer to never ever think about it again.

Helena wraps her arms around me and nuzzles into my hair, her breath already slowing down like she's about to fall back asleep. "I'm sure you made a beautiful corpse…"

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