a writer, perchance

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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…"

---

Catching sight of Zeth'rinn in a place like Xeva's was, admittedly, a surprise to either of them. Though he was dressed appropriately enough for a tavern in West Wall, he lacked the patience for a game like Sava—not to mention his cunning was a young thing, a skill still sharpening.

Iphis signed his findings to Minisstra, who masked a nod in processing the board's current circumstance.

Keeping tabs on a particular Baenre isn't difficult when he's much of a peacock of his father. Iphis shot him a glance from his seat, traced his fingers over the guard of his sword. He drank in the growing interest on Zeth'rinn's face; lips slightly parted, transfixed on his idle fidget.

He let Minisstra clean up the round before approaching the bar. Iphis wove in front of Zeth'rinn to order another round before turning to him.

Zeth'rinn flashed his teeth in a too-familiar tease for his liking.

"Does the loser buy drinks?"

"A Ra'soltha spares his Mistress the trouble of leaving her seat." Iphis bit back, shifting his weight to the side his rapier rested. Zeth'rinn's eyes drifted to his collar for a flittering moment. "I never imagined you a Sava player. It is a more… intellectual game."

"I've been known to play on occasion, my opponents have reported our matches to be plenty stimulating."

"Well, it might serve you to know Xeva's regulars don't take kindly to cheap distractions. You may thank my generosity when you leave unscathed tonight."

By Lloth's mercy, the barmaid slid their drinks toward him. Iphis retrieved both of them and made his way to their table. He listened for Zeth'rinn's footsteps and, upon not hearing them, motioned his head to follow.

Minisstra took the drink with a small nod before acknowledging Zeth'rinn.

"Have you nothing else to do but linger in our shadow?"

Zeth'rinn straightened, summoned confidence to solidify his spine before extending a hand.

"Is it a crime to want to see my favorite nobles?"

"Some would argue yes," Minisstra sipped her drink, ignoring his gesture. Her voice darkened. "With such conviction as to have you mounted and stuffed."

"In their beds, or on the altar?"

Iphis interjected, "The latter can follow the former." He swirled his glass casually, pretending to ignore the flush staining Zeth'rinn's cheeks.

Minisstra's voice cut through his teasing.

"Before you can get yourself too eager," she glanced at Iphis, then produced a small pouch from under the table. "Some of House Mayana's spies were unlucky enough to be found in the estate. Be a doll and return this to them."

He scooped up the pouch from the bottom, weighing it in his palm. His fingers curled around the edges, trying to place the odd texture.

By the instance of color draining from his face, it seemed he was smart enough to guess the bag's contents. Iphis raised his glass to his lips, hiding the smile the memory of mutilated spies conjured.

He affected his best purr, a velvet-draped blade that startled Zeth'rinn from his thoughts,

"Don't fret, Baenre, the hard work is already done. You can play messenger again, can't you?"

Those wide crimson eyes met his and stuck instantly. Iphis softened his gaze until Zeth'rinn swallowed, then nodded.

Iphis can see the traces of longing in Minisstra's eyes when children are in front of them. The way they linger on a mother holding her daughter, showing her the marvels of the city, before looking elsewhere, The jealous clench of her jaw that remains hours after.

Matrons of her age and consorts half his own already have a half-dozen brats to chase around, but the order to grow House Nydalla has yet to be given. It's a consort's duty to give his matron children, and it's the only one he's not preformed.

It's because of him. Minisstra sacrificed a motherhood to spare him the discomfort, even though he was made to bear it. A communion with Keptolo blessed him with a body modeled after her desires, and refusing one for an heir was blasphemy.

His reveries are plagued with mornings of waking in his former body, his chest regrown and unscarred, heaving panicked breaths as he runs into the estate's chapel. He kneels before the small shrine dedicated to Lloth's consort, praying in a too-high voice for answers. The voice in his head is—was—painfully similar to his own.

You promised to represent me as the ideal male, and you neglected a very important aspect. I've rescinded my gift as a result of your failure.

To which he would sob, beg for his body again, swear on his life he will give Minisstra as many children she wants.

But his daughters never come out right. Lloth's displeasure had tainted them both, and Iphis struggles through hours of childbirth to hold a monster in his arms. Eight small, nonfunctioning eyes stare back at him as too many limbs jerk with newborn awareness. This thing, this living curse cannot be brought to her mother to be named. As Iphis strangles her, his own throat tightens, his own lungs seize, until his vision blurs and he awakes gasping for air.

He does not know when he awoke Minisstra, only that the hands clutching his chest and stomach become clasped in her own. Her ruby eyes are wide with concern, and he can't bring himself to meet them even as his breathing steadies.

"Bad dream?" Is all she can ask, a nod is all his response. She pulls him close, coaxing him to lie back down.