cursedmoon-doll13

[cursedmoon-doll13]

Belleteyn Festival with Gaunter O'Dimm

Pairing: Gaunter O'Dimm x reader

Summary: The Belleteyn festival is in full swing, and you just met a very interesting man. You're there as a tarot reader, but you might be persuaded to join him for a dance or two...

Wordcount: 2599

Warnings: none. Reader is gender neutral, nothing about appearance or gender is mentioned.

The delightful, gracious @gauntermetaverse has created a Belleteyn event! I am a little late, so this may be rushed, but I hope this still makes for a fun read. I did an actual tarot reading to incorporate in the fic too, hahaha. Thank you for organising the festival! A lot of wonderful art has already come out of it <3. Enjoy!

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Belleteyn preparations kept the whole village busy, weeks in advance. Many activities were planned: a market in the town square with meads, fruits and homemade pastries; a bonfire in the evening; there would be music. The kids could hunt for eggs and the winner would receive a basket of sweets. A few artisans, like the basket weavers and the wood carvers would show their crafts, with little demonstrations for the audience to join. Kids always loved that kind of thing, and they'd go on home and show their grandparents the ducks and cats they carved.

You were one of the people there, among the merchants and brewers, who was setting up a little stall for themselves. Your set up was more like a tent, made of long sturdy branches, over which you draped deep purple velvet. In this tent, you'd read tarot for whomever was willing to pay the coin.

If this festival was successful for you, you wouldn't have to worry about money until the depth of summer. To the side of the tent opening, you attached a string of coins for prosperity. Belleteyn is the festival of fertility, for planting the seeds of what will be harvested later in the year, so you had a good feeling about what the day could bring you.

The whole town was decorated in colourful banners, holding well wishes for the year to come, and flowers. So many flowers. Arches made up with large wooden flower decorations, painted in bright, cheerful colours. The hyacinths were your favourite, and the sunflowers looked very realistic as well. Young maidens chased each other around the stalls, flowers in their hair, yanking at each other’s ribbons that they wore in their hair. In the centre of the town square was a large construction of wood and straw, for the bonfire that would be lit at night.

Everyone was in a cheery mood, now that the construction mishaps were past, and from your tent, you heard the arrival of the performers.

"A demonstration, please?" asked the mead-maker.

It was met with chuckling, "Later, good sir, later. We've travelled far."

"Some ale to help the fatigue, then?"

Festivals really did bring people together, you smiled softly to yourself. On the ground of your tent, you spread a tapestry, and laid down a few plush cushions. One for yourself, and two for your clients. Some treated the cards as some party game, but as long as they paid, you didn't mind what they thought of you. On such beautiful, festive day, you anticipated lots of questions about love; if they felt the same, whether a betrothal was in the cards any time soon, will her parents agree? It was spring after all, and love made the air smell sweet. 

The beginning of the festival was quiet. Slowly more folk trickled in. They had some drinks, sauntered around, admired the stands, sent your tent curious glances, but that was all. No customers yet. You willed yourself to be patient - it was only the morning still.

It was half way through the afternoon before the crowd started to pick up.  The musicians started their songs. They were on the other side of the town square, it was only just audible over the hum of conversation. Your first customers came, lingering by the tent until you beckoned them inside. A young couple - a love reading. Then an elderly man who wanted to know if his children would remain mad at him, or if he had a chance of reconciliation before his death. A young mother who regrets motherhood; 'a little bit, only sometimes. It can just so tiring'. A woman by herself, asking about her new love, since she had the feeling he was cheating. Another love reading for a pair of newlyweds. A beautiful redhead came in for a love reading, but it didn't feel like the other love readings you'd done. She was clearly torn on the direction her life could take - whether to lean into love, or to keep with her career as a medic on the frontlines of war. Throughout the conversation, you saw her determination grow. The signifier you pulled for her was the Prince of Discs, which felt very apt. Then a fun little reading for a group of three kids, who listened eagerly, and ran away to report their findings to their friends. They paid with a thimble, a button and a dandelion. You hoped their friends would also pop in later.

The mouth-watering smells from the food stalls, and the rumbling of your stomach, made you leave your tent to take a break. All food options seemed good, bread with warm, spiced sausage, devilled eggs, meat grilled over a fire pit, honey bread rolls, bannock bread, and a sweet honey custard dessert. After you got what you wanted, you leant against the fence beside the food stall and watched the merry-making from the sidelines. Maybe you'll try a dance or two, later on in the night. Just as you realised your mistake in not getting yourself some mead on the side, a stranger appeared beside you.

He seemed normal enough, with a kind, yet amused, smile and his hands politely clasped in front of him. "Enjoying the festival?"

With your mouth still half full, you nodded. "This is possibly the best bread I've had in years." You pointed to the stand that sold it.

"The name is Gaunter, by the way. Gaunter O'Dimm. They also call me Master Mirror, as I am a travelling merchant."

You told him yours.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance." He kissed the inside of your wrist, bowing lightly to do so, but never once broke eye contact. His eyes were the colour of a deep pine honey - swirling golden like the glow of a late sun. "What brings you to the festival? Sight-seeing?"

"Oh no, I do tarot readings for whoever is willing. That's my tent, over there." You point in the general direction. "I travel, so I get around. Festivals like these are always a joy to be at. How about you, Gaunter?"

"Ah, you're like me then. Always on the road." He pauses briefly, taking you in. "Perhaps I'll stop by, once I'm done with some business of my own." There was something playful in his tone, and you hoped he would indeed find you later.

"I'd like that. Good luck on your business."

It was evening now, dusk settled over the town. The bards increased their volume, drink was flowing aplenty, and you hadn't seen people revel like this since the wedding of your cousins two years ago. Yet your work continued, and the customers' tongues spoke more freely, which made your work easier. Longingly, you watched as others danced. Some merchants had long abandoned their wares - or sold it all - and had joined in. One of the beautiful maidens from earlier, wearing a flower crown, took up a torch from one of the posts, and went over to the centre of the square. While the fire would be lit, there wouldn't be any customers, so you stepped out of the tent and watched from the sidelines. Once the torch touched the straw, the whole thing caught fire, spreading fast. The crowd cheered and so did you, clapping with a smile on your face. The dancing turned wilder, the music rowdier, and you permitted yourself another moment to enjoy the ambience.

"Still working this late?" sounded a voice behind you. You turned around to see the man from before. He had gained a flower crown, and held the stem of a sunflower in one hand.

"It's the job. You understand, as a merchant."

"Why don't you have a dance? You clearly want to." He smiled as kindly as he did before, but the feeling he could see right through you, gave you pause.

"Perhaps later. Did you come to have your cards read, Master Mirror? The tarot also likes being a mirror, perhaps you will gain some insights on your business ventures."

He leaned in, his smile widening to something playful. He tapped the petals of the sunflower against your shoulder. It tickled, sending goosebumps up and down your body. "Only if you promise me a dance in return, after you've gazed into the future on my behalf."

"Alright then. You better tip well," you winked.

You lead him inside, and he took a seat on one of the cushions, and you sat down as well. He put his sunflower on the cushion next to him. Cards in hand, you sat and stared at him for a good long while. Inside the tent, with the thick drapes, the sound from outside was muffled. It felt like an intimate bubble, especially as it was dark now, and only candles lit your surroundings. Gaunter was interesting, in the sense that he appeared, at first glance, to be an ordinary man, but his eyes told the tales of eons, of lifetimes full of experience. The eyes of a wise man, but one who never lost his playful childlike nature, and still showed a great curiosity. It was a handsome trait. He said nothing either, content to stare at you with similar intensity. You started to shuffle the cards with practiced movements. Feeling a little fancy, a little flirty maybe, you did a nice rifle shuffle and a couple other card tricks, just to show off. 

The first card landed on the table, face down.

"Will you do the honours?" you nodded to the card and continued to shuffle. He turned it around. The Two of Wands. Not bad. The fiery energy fit him, as the reflection of the flame on the table danced in his eyes.

The next one was the Eight of Swords. You hissed through your teeth. "Any tough decisions coming up lately?"

"Not tough decisions," he said, "but tough people."

You nodded, and revealed the third card: The Empress. "Alright," you shifted to get comfortable. "There are always two ways to go about something, whether it is business or personal, or what have you. The nice way, or the... let's say the not-so-nice way. Some people respond better when you show a stronger hand, but others are friendly and can easily be persuaded. Is your difficult person a customer, or a supplier, perhaps?"

"Something of a client, yes." There was a dark edge to his smile.

"The Empress is a very fitting card for today, for the fertility festival of Belleteyn," you mused. “I do see a good outcome, despite hardships, in which your ventures will not only be successful, but you will grow. Financially you will have nothing to worry about. How to get there? It's up to you, of course, but it seems you've tried quite a few different ways, and perhaps it's time to let them know, kindly, that you mean business. Despite struggles in the past, the cards call to not get bogged down in them, and to keep looking at the future. What you are working towards, will pay off."

He nodded at your explanation, he seemed to really take the reading seriously. "And the first card, how does that play into it?"

"That is you, your energy. I don't doubt you can come on quite strong, if you mean to. The Two is called 'Dominion' for a reason," you chuckled softly, then looked up at him. He listened intently. "There's a great passion in you, even if people underestimate that about you."

His smile then was nothing short of sinister, but the playful twinkle in his eye delighted you regardless. "Thank you. This is a wonderful reading. I must say, you certainly have a way with words."

"Always glad to be of service."

He got up, dusting off his knees. "And now, my fair friend, you promised me a dance."

You were barely upright, before he ushered you closer to the centre of the town square. The flames licked up high into the night sky, their heat warmed your skin. The roar of flames, the singing, the music certainly bolstered your mood, and you left your insecurity behind in the tent.

"Come on," Gaunter tugged you by the arm, then linked his in yours, as you danced and laughed. His eyes never left yours. The speed in which you were spinning made you feel like you'd fall if his grip so much as wavered, but that never happened. You switched arms, then back to the other one again. His dances were proper and lively, and considerably better than some others in the crowd - probably helped by the fact those had a little too much to drink. Then, the music changed, a little slower, a little more sensual. He circled you, around and around, the push and pull of the dance letting him draw you to his chest again and again. It was hypnotic, the way his attention never wavered.

Gaunter pulled you close, his eyes warm. "You have the most wonderful laugh. radiant like a sunflower." What could you do but give him the most dazzling smile in return?

The dancing continued. At some point, the two of you lost each other in the crowd, but soon his hands found yours again, and it seemed like anything else disappeared. Your cheeks felt hot and rosy from the heat of the fire, they almost hurt from smiling so wide. He took the sunflower from his belt, and gave it to you - tucked it neatly under the strap of the bag on your hip. 

As the night came to a close, the first people retired to go home, or pass out in the grass. You, too, were tired. As much as you wanted the night to last an eternity, your feet hurt, and you knew you'd make the long trek to the next town tomorrow. Gaunter noticed, you two stepped  away from the crowd. To the side of the square, underneath a floral arch, there was a little more privacy.

You turned to him, breaking the comfortable silence, as the night breeze cooled your heated cheeks. "You've enjoyed yourself tonight?"

He chuckled. "As have you, I take it."

"Maybe," you tease. It was after only a moment of hesitation, as you gathered your courage, you reached out to kiss him. One of your hands pressed firm against his chest, feeling the rough wool of his tunic underneath your fingers. You intended this as a tame yet tantalising peck on the lips, as a way to make your goodbye linger, but he was quick to gather you in his arms and kiss you back feverishly. Oh, how right you were about great passions lingering under the surface of his skin... You barely got the chance to breathe with how he devoured you.

When you drew back, you tugged at his collar. His hands squeezed your waist in response, holding you close to him. "Tomorrow, you're back on the road, I take it? Travelling merchant after all."

No doubt he knew what you were asking. He smiled knowingly. "My path may align with yours, for a while. If you're asking me to be a travelling companion."

You hummed and bit your lip. "Then we should make sure to get a good night's sleep before we travel again in the morning... Or something resembling sleep. Something that makes sure we wake with the satisfaction of a night well spent."

"Surely I can oblige," He grinned and with a hand on your chin, he kissed you deeply. "You're not the only one with a skillful tongue..."

[cursedmoon-doll13]

Whitney x F Player Hurt/Comfort Fic

Whitney isn't there to stop some students harassing his slut. But she looks so pathetic afterwards that he supposes he should probably look after her.

A Degrees of Lewdity fanfic. Contains references to the source material, references to rape, assault, and implied past medical abuse. Minor amounts of blood and injury. The fic itself is wholesome though. Ya know, as far as Whitney fics go.

1800 words - divider by firefly-graphics - @butterbabyflapjack

Masterlist

When you’re late for class, Whitney is irritated. He’d only showed up to bother you, if he’s being completely honest. Watching you squirm under his touches and try desperately to focus on your work, was quickly becoming one of his favourite pastimes. It’s made all the better on days you give in, spreading your legs or slipping under the desk. 

Ten minutes pass and you don’t show. It’s uncharacteristic, and concern creeps, unbidden, to the forefront of his mind. He dismisses it, pretending you were stupid and had gotten lost on your way to class. He sighs and resigns himself to a boring day. Perhaps he’d track you down later.  

Halfway through the lesson the door opens. 

River doesn’t bother looking your way. “Tardiness. Detention.” 

Whitney smirks at the punishment. Then you step into the classroom. 

You hardly spare River a glance, instead trudging straight to your desk. You move with a heavy limp. There’s a defeated slump to your shoulders and you keep your eyes trained on your feet. 

He takes in the finer details as you round the desk. There’s cum in your hair, and blood is smeared at your hairline. Your skirt is torn and your thighs are covered in fluids. You smell like piss and when Whitney catches your eye, there’s no recognition in your own. 

“Oi, Teach. I think Player needs to go to the infirmary.” 

River doesn’t turn from the blackboard. “Leave her be, Whitney.” 

“She’s literally bleeding.” 

River finally turns. Takes in your tattered appearance with widened eyes before addressing the class. “Page sixty. Copy and solve. I don’t want to hear talking.” 

They cross the room and crouch before your desk, meeting your eyes. “Player.” 

You blink. Frown. “Yes?” 

“Are you okay?” 

Whitney watches as you take in your surroundings. Shift your weight and wince. “Sorry Professor. I must have been on autopilot.” 

“What happened?” 

You crinkle your nose. “Got held up by some classmates.” 

River leans into your line of sight. “Player. Are you hurt?” 

“I’ll be alright.” 

Whitney chooses that moment to poke you in the side. 

You hiss, nearly falling out of your seat. 

River doesn’t look impressed. “Whitney, take her to the infirmary.” 

Out in the hall you lean against the bully. Today he doesn’t make a big deal out of the contact. Not as he watches you guard your chest and listens to your unsteady gait. 

“Who did this?” 

You shake your head. “I didn’t recognise them. ‘Think they were underclassmen. Couple ‘o boys.” 

“How many?” 

“Four? Maybe five? Dunno.” 

His jaw clenches. Five other students dared to touch the girl he’d so clearly marked as his? He’s so aghast that he almost misses the way you plant your feet and sway. 

“What?” 

“I don’t want to go to the infirmary.” 

He lets out a huff, trying to ignore the way your pathetic display makes his chest ache. “Why the fuck not?” 

You look at your feet. Mumble, “I didn’t let them. I tried to fight back.” 

A surge of pride goes through him, even as he shrugs. “So?” 

“They might be there too...” 

He grips you by the arm and tugs you into motion. “I fucking hope so, slut. But you don’t need to worry about that.” 

The infirmary is, mercifully, empty, save for the nurse. Whitney scowls at her. 

“If they were here, they’ve cleared off.” 

You grab his jacket sleeve. “Or they haven’t stopped by yet.” 

He raises a brow at your touch. You must be seriously unnerved if you’re relying on him to make you feel better. 

Still, he shrugs and takes up post beside the door. “We’ll see.” 

The nurse takes you behind a privacy curtain, but Whitney hears your examination. His rage builds with each question you answer, until he can barely sit still. 

“Can you move this?” 

“No. Hurts.” 

“And here?” 

“The same.” 

After a minute. “I think you’ve cracked some ribs. You’ll have to go to the hospital.” 

You sound panicked. “No. No hospitals. If it’s cracked, they won’t do anything anyway, right?” 

“Sure, if they’re just fractures. But you need an x-ray. If there’re any major breaks, they could do some serious internal damage.” 

Whitney watches their silhouette put a hand on your shoulder. Doesn’t want to imagine what kind of pathetic face you’re making to merit the gesture. 

“I’ll give you a painkiller. Does anything else hurt?” 

“My head.” 

“Look here.” Pause. “Follow my finger.” Another. “Any dizziness?” 

“Some.” 

“Blurred vision?” 

“At first.” 

“I’ll patch up that abrasion, but I think you have a concussion. Even more reason to go to the hospital.” 

Whitney shifts from foot to foot. Grits his teeth. Some stranger had been rough enough to concuss you. He’s absolutely livid. 

His ears perk up when your voice lowers. You try to be discreet, but he still hears every word. 

“I need some plan B.” 

His anger increases tenfold.  

The nurse recovers from her pause. “Okay. Do you want a kit too?” 

You sound bitter. “And do what with it? Take it to the police?” 

“Fine. Have you had plan B before? Shall I explain the side effects?” 

You sound defeated. “I’ve had it before...” 

Whitney suddenly feels unwelcome. He knows he’s intruding. He’s supposed to stay. To keep watch for any of your assailants. But he can’t help but turn away, guilty. He wonders how many times he was the reason you had to go to the infirmary, asking for plan B.  

Deciding it’s one of the rare occasions where it would be best to display tact, Whitney steps outside. Waits by the door, menacing any who might approach with a glare. 

The bell rings. Whitney waits until you’re finished. 

You step outside and start when you nearly bump into him. “You’re still here?” 

He rolls his eyes. “You leaving school or what?” 

“N-no. I’ll finish my classes.” 

He shrugs. Walks you to English. Doesn’t say a word. His silence is unnerving. It’s not until you’re at the doorway that he bids you farewell. 

“I’ll see you after school, slut. Don’t be late.” 

He waits until you’re seated at your desk before stalking off. Pulling out his phone and opening his regular group chat. 

‘Some guys touched my girl. Find out who.’ 

--- 

 Whitney waits for you after school. You’re late. River hadn’t bothered rescinding your detention, despite the obvious reason for your tardiness.  

You look no worse for wear when you trudge outside, ten minutes later. It seems Leighten went easy on you today. At least, he sure as fuck hopes so. 

“Got some errands to run, slut,” he links his elbow with yours. “You’re coming with.” 

He doesn’t get your usual eye roll, or the bemused twitch in your lips. You just look tired. 

He shoots a stare at the rest of his crew. “You lot fuck off. Unless you’ve finished that job..?” 

His friends scatter, though there is a grumbled protest or two. But they won’t stick around. Not the ones who know him. Who can see the shadow of his anger, still hovering. Who’d received his message this morning. 

You don’t react to his friends’ dismissal. Only startle when he starts walking, pulling you along. 

You’re not in the mood to protest or ask questions. You’re not heading towards the docks, and figure Whitney can’t have anything worse planned than his occasional seaside jaunt. Besides, you’re alone with him. His treatment towards you without an audience tends to be... more forgiving. 

But when he turns onto Nightingale Street, you hesitate.  

“Where are we going?” 

“Where do you think, stupid?” 

He doesn’t expect you to plant your feet and pull your arm from his. 

“No. No hospitals.” 

“You heard what the nurse said.” 

“I’m not going.” 

He doesn’t understand the tears pricking your eyes or the way you cross your arms. It’s been a long time since you fought him on anything. 

“Why the fuck not?” he fights to keep his voice down. He honestly doesn’t know why he’s bothering. It’s not until the glazed look in your eyes comes back that he remembers. 

He tries again, gentler. “Babe. Did something happen?” 

You look down. “I just don’t like the hospital. The head doctor... he’s a fucking creep.” 

Whitney raises his brow. He doesn’t get to hear you swear often. Then he grits his teeth considering his options. Resigns himself to the most tedious one. 

“I’ll stay with you. If you’re going to be such a baby about it. 

He sets his shoulders before grabbing you and pulling you along again. He’ll bitch and moan about it later. Right now, he just wants you to get that x-ray. Even if it takes holding your stupid hand through the process. 

--- 

Whitney is true to his word, and stays by your side through the whole ordeal. He doesn’t speak to anyone, just looms behind you, glaring at each medical professional you cross. 

Dread grows within you in the waiting room. But when you’re called to be seen, it’s by an older woman. Not Harper. You could vomit with relief. 

Whitney follows you anyway. Brokes no argument when the doctor raises her brow; asks who he is. 

There’s no privacy curtain in the little room you’re seen in. Whitney watches with increasing fury as you undress. There’s a slew of bruises across your torso. Some look like handprints. He holds his tongue. Clenches his jaw. 

The x-ray reveals several fractures, but no serious breaks. She prescribes you some painkillers, explains how to manage a concussion, and writes a letter to Leighton, excusing you from school for the next few days. 

You hadn’t expected that, and clutch the printout in both hands when you exit the building. 

“Wish I got to take time off every time I got into a fight,” Whitney complains once outside. 

He’s irritated when you don’t respond. He gave you the perfect setup for a joke there.  

Still, you look positively haunted, and he decides to let this one go. Puts his hand on your back and pushes you towards Domus Street. He’s tempted to walk you home, but doesn’t want to seem like he’s fussing.  

Besides. It’s not too late to join his mates on the errand he gave them. 

“Go home. Sleep it off. I’ll see you next week, slut.” 

--- 

The next day several students are sent home early because of how badly they’re beaten. Somebody is pulled out of their locker, with chipped teeth and a fractured jaw. Two others are found splayed on the floor of the bathroom, ribs cracked, and noses broken. Another was left unconscious behind the bike shed. 

Whitney is late for class, but his bloodied knuckles escape River's notice. Settling in to his seat, he can’t help but let slip a self-satisfied smirk. 

[cursedmoon-doll13]

Sascha (oc) introduction

Name: Sascha Stanimirova

Pronouns: he/him

Sexuality: bisexual

Job: assassin, and has a successful OnlyFans & social media presence on the side. This man keeps busy.

Likes: the colour black, sex, gloomy weather, orgasms, pasta, showing a lil tummy, the woman he's obsessed with (she can do NO wrong in his eyes), red wine, porn, teddy bears, inflicting pain on others, knife play, city trips, being a slut, Wassily Kandinsky.

Dislikes: when his girl (its not his girl) has a new bf, grocery shopping by himself, short vibrator battery life, long flights, summer, politics, high fashion, cocaine, loud dogs, being touched or hugged, fruit flavoured sparkly water.

Backstory: An assassin first and foremost. Sascha's main targets are political ones, or rich ones. He is good, he is quiet and he enjoys what he does. He loves manipulating his appearance and personality to fit in with ease in any environment. Outside of his job, he hates pretending, so he is very unapologetically himself, whether that is crude, rash, or polite and friendly, he doesn't care.

His parents come from very different backgrounds; his mother is a visual artist (collage, painting, occassional art installations), and she met his father through travelling and seeking a model. His father was an assassin as well, Sascha learned from him. Thanks to his mother's education, he mixes well in higher society. She also instilled a passion for art in him.

His OnlyFans career started as a dare, and he has the audacity to do absolutely anything - so he did it. It caught on quick; he used his friend groups to promote himself, and moved to other social media platforms as a means of promotion later on. There's little this man won't do, and he is absolutely not anonymous online. Everyone attributes his weird lifestyle and high income to his porn career, so it provided him with a perfect alibi for his eccentricities.

Warning: His story features heavy themes of co-dependency, rape/non-con, coercion, blackmail, toxic relationships, honestly this man is a walking content warning tbh.

I'm very open to questions and comments regarding him! Pls be nice, this is my first time posting any writing, esp original work, in what may as well be years. It's a vulnerable thing, esp him/this story. Feels good to be back! And I haven't forgotten Mischa, don't worry hahaha :)).

Bonus moodboard summarising a few vibes and inspirations:

[the middle one is a shot from a movie, rest is Trent Reznor, Peter Steele & young Johnny Depp] [first moodboard credits; some I made into pngs myself, bleedingthroughteeth, s4dpngs, free-png, violetbudd]

[cursedmoon-doll13]

Meeting Sascha

Summary: During your friend Sophie's house party, you meet an intruiging young man.

✨Sascha's intro sheet✨

Word count: 1301

Warnings: none. SFW. Gender neutral reader.

You first meet Sascha at a houseparty. He's a striking appearance, tall, pale, goth, and very hot. Tattoos wrap around his arms, hands, neck, the bit of exposed tummy shown by a messily cropped old band T. He's laughing in a group to the side, yet playing with an unlit cigarette between his fingers, like he's waiting for a chance to slip away. Your friend Sophie, who is hosting, takes you around the room to introduce people, to get you a drink. As you stand by the kitchen counter, you can't help but ask "who's the tall goth guy?"

She chuckles, as though she expected the question. "The hot one? That's Sascha. He's nice, he does uhh, he has an OnlyFans."

You laugh almost in shock. You're no prude and the atmosphere among the friend group is always very sex-positive, but that's quite the introduction. "Wow, can't wait to hear about that."

You were mostly joking, but when Sophie presents you to the little group he's in, they part for you, and you hear the tail end of their conversation - something about a new silicone vibrating sex toy. It's nice to have had the warning, you suppose. With introductions from Sophie, each of them greets you. Theres Ian who loves DnD, Jean who immediately adds that she hates jean fabric, a young woman named Minoes, who has a quiet voice and a warm smile, and then Sascha, who holds up his ringed hand in greeting. When he looks you over, it feels like your body sizzles with his attention. You fidget with your fingers when he looks away, feeling self-conscious with how intense he just made you feel. How alive. He tugs at one of Minoes' long braids to get her attention and says something too soft for you to hear, it makes her smile.

She sees you look and leans in, "We're not an item." Then, in normal volume: "How did you meet Sophie? I don't think I've seen you around before."

You chat politely with her, but find your eyes stray to the man next to her more than is polite. She doesn't seem to mind. If she's a good friend, you suppose she's used to it. Briefly, you wonder what that could be like; being friends with someone like him. Friends, or 'friends' - they seem a little too familiar with each other. He seems too ethereal to be real, yet so grounded. You'd always loved alternative guys, but Sascha is unique; so masculine yet so femme, so sexy, so human, like the embodiment of Eros. He seems vibrant in his whole being. He raises an eyebrow when he catches you staring, then chuckles as though the smug look was just an act.

"Are the two of you... close?" you can't help but ask Minoes. Just then, he hugs her tightly to his side and plants a kiss on the top of her head, without switching his attention from the conversation.

She shrugs. "I know what you're asking. Sascha is single and free to mingle. And mingle he does. He'll break your heart."

You two chat more, and Minoes is actually interesting. She does art and she writes, and when she talks about it, you see the colour in her presence shift. You see what he sees in her, and you immediately try to banish that over-intimate thought.

Then, to the whole group, Sascha announces he's going for a smoke. "Who wants to join me? None of ya'll smoke anymore these days, jezus." For a second, his eyes meet yours and there's an invitation in them. 

Yes.

The balcony is cool and windy. He gives you a cigarette without you having to ask, as though he knew you aren't a smoker.

"You've been wanting to talk to me all night, right?" he asks. You avoid his intense gaze. The sun has long since set, and some erratic bats fly by in the evening sky. He shivers from the cold, pressing a hand to his exposed waist.

You don't know what to say, so you just shrug and take a first drag of the cigarette. "Do you get that a lot? People who find you interesting?"

He shakes his head. "Interesting? Nah. Hot? Sure. But I mean, that's what I do."

"Sophie mentioned you have an OnlyFans."

He barks out a laugh, exhaling smoke messily. "She really likes to introduce me by saying that. I'd be nice if people, just for once, would introduce me as 'great friend', or 'that bloke has good music taste', or even 'he never eats his greens'."

He fakes hurt, and you wonder if there's any real emotion underneath the performance. You pat his arm to 'console' him, even if only just to touch him. His skin is hot underneath your cold fingers. He turns to look at you, taking you in, taking his time, like a cat.

"Did you like Minoes?" His accent is hard to place, at times you think it's French, then at other times it seems like something entirely different. Scandinavian? No, not quite either.

You nod. "Sure, she was nice. I'd love to see her art sometime."

Sascha looks away, past you inside Sophie's living room, leaning against the railing, and grabs the ashtray from the balcony table. His profile is sharp and beautiful. In the dim light, the ink of his tattoos seems to melt together into incomprehensible shapes. "So, tell me about yourself. What's your life like? What's brought you here?"

You do. The two of you chat for a good while, until it becomes too cold to be out on the balcony. He's an excellent conversationalist, listening intently, asking questions you didn't expect, but are pleased to answer. The more the two of you talk, the more his inner beauty shines through. When he looks at you with those dark eyes of his, you feel alive, like a plant in the sun. Soaking in every grain of his attention. It's easy to understand why Minoes warned you about him. Sometimes his comments are blunt, almost rude, but it's hard not to appreciate honesty when it comes from such beautiful lips. As the conversation shifts, it turns to music, as it often does with many of your friends. 

He likes all sorts of alternative music, and as you expected, he has good taste. Arrows of Love, Nine Inch Nails, Pixies... When you name what you're into, he's more familair with the niche bands than you expected. Then, the two of you go back inside. You feel glances on you from around the room. It feels exhilarating to even be at his side like that. If he notices, he doesn't show it, instead he tugs you along to the living room door, as though he wants to leave.

"I think I'm done with the socialising tonight. Want me to go home with you?" He looks at you as though he sees right through you.

You think you'll play coy a little. "Minoes said you'll break my heart."

He grins wide, shoots her a look over his shoulder, giving her a thumbs down. She makes a face and waves him off, before turning back to Ian, clearly in the depths of an engaging conversation. You chuckle. They must be good friends indeed. "She really does love to cockblock me," he grumbles, but it doesn't seem like he minds. "Well, we better not get the heart involved then, huh? What do you say? Go home alone, or are you curious enough to find out whether I measure up to all the gossip?"

-------

The next day, you're sore all over. There are bruises on your thighs from how hard he gripped you while giving you head, and several prominent hickeys littered all over. Your head's stuck in the clouds for days after.

[cursedmoon-doll13]

[cursedmoon-doll13]

haiku #21, tathev simonyan

[cursedmoon-doll13]

Plus Two

So this is more than a bit indulgent, and I don't know how well it would be received, and I totally had to create some new characters just to make this scenario work but!!! If you're looking for something to read here is a reader insert fic of you attending a gala with the worlds (@eldritch-spouse's) most emotionally constipated demon (don't worry it's by design). You scheme against said demon's entitled and rude ex to make her look bad in front of everyone, attend a gala with Mervin, and then fuck nasty with him in a semi public place afterwards. Enjoy <3

M demon x F reader. 8500 words. Context required? Not really. Just that he's like that on purpose. Divider by firefly-graphics.

Mervin is visiting his mother. 

It’s... frustrating, to say the least. 

 You’re sitting in the kitchen, watching Obie cook. He wanted you as a taste tester, but honestly, you’re not very helpful. Many of the small tweaks he’s making to his dishes go above your head.  

Katia is asleep upstairs. Ludwig is elsewhere. It makes you wonder why the pride demon is pacing around the kitchen, obviously getting in his brother’s way. You get the sense he’s waiting for somebody to ask what’s wrong. 

Thankfully, Obie picks up on the mood. “So, why the stick?” 

Mervin stops, drawn from his thoughts. “What?” 

“The stick up your ass. Who put it there?” 

Mervin scowls and resumes his pacing. Then lets out a huff and joins you at the table. He crosses his arms. Mutters under his breath. You think you catch the name he says. 

“Stasia.” 

Obie snorts. “Should have guessed.” 

You glance at Mervin. “Who’s that?” 

He grits his teeth. “Not your business, human.” 

You shrug, but Obie turns with a smirk. “His girlfriend.” 

“Not my girlfriend, corkscrew.” He’s just as scathing towards his brother. 

Obie turns back to the stove. “You might not guess it, but my dearest brother doesn’t have many friends.” 

“No?” You feign shock. 

Obie grins. “No. But he does have one. Kind of. Stasia. So, whenever Merv is pressured into attending some event or gala, or whatever they do over in Pride, he has to take a date or risk looking like a dolt.” 

“And he takes Stasia.” 

“And he takes Stasia. Well, he invites her. And she says yes. And then, always the night before, she says no. And then sometimes she says yes again. It’s hard to keep track. Regardless, Merv always works himself into a tizzy when she says she won’t attend, and then shows up anyway.” 

You glance at Mervin. He’s fuming at the explanation but doesn’t dispute any of it. 

“She sounds like a piece of work.” 

“She is.” 

You turn to Mervin, who looks more miserable than usual. “So, what do you usually do?” 

He rests his head on the table and doesn’t reply. 

“Sometimes he cancels. Can’t do that too often though, or risk looking like a recluse. One time he found another date.” Obie frowns. “Somehow. But then Stasia showed up and embarrassed the fuck out of her.” 

You wince.  

“He usually goes alone. Sometimes Stasia swoops in like nothing is wrong and they’re meant to be together. Other times she doesn’t show, and my dearest brother is left to roam the event by himself.” 

“Why do we even have these parties,” Mervin mutters. 

“Here, here,” you can’t help but agree. “Even working at them was boring.” 

Mervin turns his face towards you, raises his brow. “You’ve been to a gala before? I refuse to believe it.” 

Your nose crinkles. “I did security for a few. They were human events, mind you.”  

Mervin grunts, turning his face back down. 

You kind of pity him. The demon doesn’t even bother sitting up straight – the event must weigh heavily on him. “So, are these parties exclusive?” 

He shrugs. “This one’s for mid-ranked Pride. The especially wealthy demons. Might be some others there as plus ones.” 

You raise your brow. “I thought you lot grew up in the common rings.”  

“We did.” 

“Without a lot of wealth.” 

Mervin curls his lip at the perceived dig, and sits up. “They started inviting me after they recognised my exceptional skills. I’ve worked for many influential demons in Pride, thank you very much, and as such have a very robust income.” 

You appease him with a gentle smile. “I don’t doubt you deserve to be there, Mervin. I was just curious as to how it came about.” 

He lifts his chin. “Good. I suppose even a human can recognise talent such as mine.” 

“How would everyone react if you brought a human as your date?” 

He grimaces, “you mean to imply I should bring you?” 

“I mean to offer my company if you don’t want to turn up alone. I could even help you get some petty catharsis over Stasia, if you’d like.” 

He looks at you, more sharply. But considers. “I don’t know. You’d be a bit of a novelty, I imagine.” 

You feign indignance. “I’m famous, you know.” 

He doesn’t look impressed. “Infamous. Topside. Nobody in Perdition knows who you are.” 

“Ah, yes, precisely why I’m hiding at your mum’s house.” 

His expression sours for a moment. But the longer he considers, the lighter it becomes. “It might be interesting. Taking a human to a gala,” he mutters to himself, “if a little demeaning.” 

“Not too demeaning, I hope. I’ll be there to make you look good. Being polite to Stasia, using lovely manners, mindlessly rambling about how amazing you are to anyone I pass. Easy.” 

He has to try to keep the scowl on his face, but you can tell he’s seriously considering the offer. 

“You’re vastly underestimating the danger of this evening.” 

He’s right. But you can’t help but straighten. Rise to the challenge. “And you’re underestimating my ability to turn on the charm.” You give him a sweet little smile. “Besides, you’ll be there to protect me.” 

He sneers. “You’re just bored.” 

“I'm having a pleasant afternoon with Obie.” You lower your chin. “But, yes, I haven’t left the house for days. It’d be incredibly charitable of you to take me as your plus one.” You blast him with another pretty smile and lighten your tone. “It’s a shame your date had a last-minute emergency and had to cancel, but I’m so very fortunate you were generous enough to bring me along. A truly serendipitous turn of events.” 

He keeps his face blank as he mulls over your excuse. Weighs the pros and cons. Before, ultimately, shrugging. “Let’s see how you clean up, first. I doubt your clothes will be of high enough calibre.”  

He plays it cool, but you know you’ve won. 

- 

Mervin is right, and you don’t bother disputing it. You have a bag of stage clothes that are marginally prettier than your casual wear, but none of them are formal. Some of your accessories might be of use – the lingerie, or perhaps the stockings – and you have multiple pairs of sandals and boots. But what you wear will ultimately be decided by your escort.  

“You don’t have anything black tie. These might pass as black tie optional,” he mutters to himself, rifling through your clothes in a way that would probably offend most women. “We should head to Pride. I’ve a place you can dress at. Your makeup supplies are passable, but I’m going to have to take you shopping for a decent dress.” 

You don’t complain. It’s been a while since anyone bought you nice clothes. You wave goodbye to Obie as Mervin whisks you away. And before long you’re in another ring entirely. 

You hadn’t been to Pride yet. You’d worked in multiple rings, sure, but standards in this one tended to sit a little higher than you could provide. It’s affluent, with the streets laid out in a way that demonic urban planners no doubt agonised over. Mervin leads you straight to a commerce district, dragging you by the wrist in and out of boutiques and dress shops. 

He barks orders at imps and attendants, listing off dress styles and materials. Very few meet his standards, though several he does make you try on. You almost get a headache listening to store owners bragging about their stock; the quality of their goods. Even if hearing other demons sound so similar to Mervin makes you want to laugh at first. 

“What are you wearing tonight,” you ask him. 

He pulls out his phone and shows you a photo. The suit is high end, in his usual colours. You’re not surprised. 

He listens to your input over the dresses, for which you’re grateful. You choose the colour you think will match Mervin’s outfit best; a purple so dark it appears black.  

Then finally, you’re heading back to his place, three new dresses in tow. You’re not sure how you managed to pick not one but three (three!) gala dresses in the space of one afternoon, but Mervin had insisted on purchasing them all, some excuse about their iffy quality and you needing alternative options.  

Once at his place, you let him fuss over the dresses and dig through your accessories again, while you look at your other equipment. A glance at Mervin reveals he’s still in his casual wear, sai crossed over his back. “So, is this an open carry event, or..?” 

His gaze cuts to you, where you’re looking over your weapon holsters. His lip curls. “No. It’s not.” 

A thigh sheath it is, then. 

“You really think that’s going to help you here? You should let me worry about safety. I doubt you’ll be able to take care of yourself.” 

You give the demon a too bright smile. “I don't go anywhere without my family jewels. Have you picked a dress yet?”  

Conversation successfully redirected, Mervin ushes you to his bathroom, pushing you the dress of his choosing. It’s certainly elegant, with slits up the thighs, a cinched waist, and most the skin above your cleavage on display. The fabric is silky, and feels nice against your skin. 

When you step out to show him the fit, Mervin is silent. You wait for him to voice an opinion. 

The dress looks good. You look good. You know it.  

Mervin only scoffs. “I need to get ready. I assume you can finish dressing without any hand holding.” He turns for his room, almost slamming the door behind him.  

You assume his weird behaviour has something to do with his prideful nature. He hadn’t disparaged your appearance, so it probably passes.  

You spend the next half hour applying the finishing touches. Braiding your hair into an updo. Masterfully applying makeup. Pulling on a garter belt and stockings and choosing which of your knives to holster. You’re lacing up your sandals when Mervin emerges from his room again, dressed in a suit.  

He pushes a box towards you. “Put it on. I don’t want people thinking my plus-one looks plain.” 

It’s a jewellery box. Inside lies an intricate necklace of silver, dotted with indigo gems. A discrete glance reveals they match the rings Mervin wears.  

You can’t hold back your smile. Regardless of meaning, the gesture is sweet. “Thank you, Mervin. It’s beautiful. You have good taste.” 

“Naturally.” 

You struggle with the necklace until Mervin ‘tsks’ and steps behind you to help with the clasp.  

“You’re a sweetheart,” you grin up at him. 

He shakes his head, before looking away quickly. “And you’re useless. Honestly. Who can’t put on a simple necklace?” 

You pick up on the deflection. It’s almost cute. You decide to needle at him some more. “Me, apparently. Thank you for helping. I’m sure this would take ages without you.” 

He looks down his nose at you. Perhaps you overdid it. 

“Whatever.” 

Finally you two stand, dressed and ready to go. Looking down at yourself and back at Mervin leaves you satisfied: you match. 

“So, do I clean up well enough?” 

He looks you over. “You won’t be winning best dressed.”  

You raise your brows. He was the one who chose the outfit. 

But something almost akin to a smile crosses his face. “But I guess, you’re only human.” 

- 

Mervin hires a driver to take you to the gala. You’re honestly impressed, having never ridden in the back of a stretch limo before. You quiz Mervin on the way there, asking after etiquette, who to chat up, who to avoid. How much dancing is expected. What is the schedule for the evening. Everything you should know to avoid making any faux passes. Because while you’d visited high society before – in various service industries – you'd never participated in it. It’s daunting. Exciting. Terrifying.  

You make plans for the evening. Scheming; laying contingencies. Because while this night is supposed to be social, you know you’re honestly just here to show up Mervin’s ‘friend’. He paints the picture of a conniving demoness. One who dominated in certain social circles. One who will be dismissive and icy towards you, and increasingly aggressive the longer you stick around. 

Mervin dictates how you’re to behave. How you’re to react to her insults. You interject here and there, swapping ideas until you have a seamless blend or characteristics to take into the night. A fleshed out character you’ll be playing before the surrounding audience. 

All too soon, you’re arriving. 

Mervin opens your door. It had been pre-negotiated, and he’d fussed about it (if anyone deserved the door opened for them, it was him, he should be served all night, he was only doing this because it was polite, because he needed to look like a gentleman). You brace yourself before stepping into the light.  

In the moment before you straighten there’s enough time for trepidation to rush through you. You remember how exhausting it can be, meeting new people. Playing pretend. 

But then you’re giving Mervin a starry eyed smile, and linking arms. It’s too late to back out. 

You’ve settled on a bubbly personality. Too demure and you risk fading into the background. Too assertive and it leaves you open to social mistakes. You’ll go with friendly. Lively. Sweet. Not quite arm-candy, not quite Mervin’s equal. 

It’ll be tiring, but you might manage to have some fun. Pry a dance or two out of Mervin. Or try some expensive wine. Somehow Mervin hasn't yet learned how you’d caught his brothers’ eyes (an incident involving too much alcohol, and a bar fight), so you haven't been forbidden from indulging. Yet.  

Mervin doesn’t let you wander. You mingle in the foyer, where most of the crowd lingers. Shaking hands, trading introductions, smiling. There’re a few surprised exclamations at your appearance - “A human! Where in Perdition did you find her, Mervin?” - and a few too many pinches and gropes. But you bear it all with a smile, playful indignance, and charming redirection.  

You’re just settling into your role when Mervin stiffens, almost imperceptivity.  

“There you are, sugar plum. I’ve been looking for you all night.” 

Stasia has arrived. 

--- 

Stasia is an envy demon, graced with a classic sort of beauty that would do well on Earth. She has a wide and elegant set of horns, curling back from her temples, and her long tail swishes with confidence behind her as she crosses the room. She’s wearing a floor length evening gown in a bright scarlet, and a lipstick that matches.  

Mervin is silent beside you.  

You slide into action, another starry eyed, bubbly smile fixed onto your face. “Oh wow, you look gorgeous. You must be Stasia, I’ve heard so much about you.”  

Her arms had been open, clearly about to embrace the demon by your side, but you intercept, shaking one of her hands with enthusiasm.  

You crinkle your brow and look up at the demoness with concern. “Your schedule cleared then? That’s such a relief. Mervin was worried when you had to cancel on him so suddenly.” 

Several sets of eyes land on you. Stasia narrows her own at you, but you’ve already outed her as a flake to the crowd. Somebody nearby laughs.  

She pulls her hand from yours. “Mervin, who is this?” 

Your companion relaxes. “Stasia, this is an acquaintance of mine,” he tells her your name. “Pet, this is Stasia.” No honorific, you notice. You imagine anyone looking on also notices. 

You beam up at the envy demon, “Mervin was generous enough to bring me as his plus-one. I’ve been stuck at home for weeks, it was really too kind of him. I should thank you too, Stasia. You’ve indirectly brought me here.” 

The smile frozen on her face slips, just a little. 

You’re kept from formulating any further praise – or jabs – when the host announces the doors open. The crowd dissipates, making their way towards what appears to be a genuine ballroom.  

Stasia walks lockstep with Mervin, almost shouldering you aside. You’d be offended if you weren’t expecting the treatment. Instead, you trail shyly after them, a step behind Mervin’s other side.  

Stasia is already chattering to your date, linking her arm through his.  

“You two should catch up! I’ll get drinks while you do.” You lean up to kiss Mervin on the cheek. 

Even though you’d discussed and planned PDA with him (that part of the drive had been like pulling nails), he still stiffens at the gesture, blanching a little. 

You give him a smile, “Your regular?” 

“Fine. And something for yourself.” 

You don’t catch the glare Stasia sends you, but others do. 

You hasten towards the bar. Nobody stops you, but you suspect it might get harder to navigate the crowd as the night goes on and the guests get more inebriated. Even now you’re subject to stares, and the occasional frown. 

The bartender takes your order, thankfully.  

You’re watching as it’s made when a demon you don’t recognise sidles up beside you. 

“Watch yourself, girl. Last time somebody got between Stasia and her prey it wasn’t pretty.” 

You take in the demon (purple hue and the pronged horns) with a glance, before choosing a sympathetic expression. “I appreciate the concern, sir. I can’t help but feel for her, though. Scheduling conflicts are such a pain. Imagine making time for an event, only to find you’re no longer invited.” 

The demon watches you critically. You don’t mind. You’ll either come off as naive or conniving, and both are acceptable. 

He shrugs. “You’ve been warned.” 

“Again,” you say, taking your drinks from the bartender, “thank you.” 

Mervin is wearing a strained smile when you return, locked in a conversation with Stasia and two other demons.  

He accepts his drink with a nod, and when the conversation next lulls, he introduces you to his companions.  

The night continues like this, with Mervin introducing you around, and Stasia growing tense each time he stops to draw attention to you. 

She positively writhes if the conversation so much as turns your way, stink eyeing anyone who deigns to ask you where you’re from, what you’re doing in Perdition, what you do for a living. 

Over and over you repeat yourself. You’ve been indoors for weeks. You were feeling stir crazy. Mervin was so generous to show you around. Mervin was charitable. Mervin was kind. Stasia was too; you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her actions. 

Until she’s red in the face, and not in a pleasant way. You decide to back off, before she erupts like a tea kettle. 

The music has since started, and more and more demons are flocking to the dance floor. You look wistfully after them. “It’s a shame I don’t know any of the dances in Pride. Why don’t you two take the first? I could watch and learn.” 

The demoness jumps on the opportunity, though conveniently ignoring you. “Come on, Mervin. It’s been months since we danced together. You remember that one time on Earth-” you don’t catch the rest of her reminiscing as she leads Mervin away.  

One of the demons you’d been standing with gives you a sympathetic coo. “You’ve been neglected all night, little bird. Why don’t you dance with me?” 

You give them an amicable smile. The excuse falls smoothly from your lips. “I’d love to, but I think it’d be rude to my date if I gave my first dance to somebody else. Maybe later?” 

The demon tuts. “Why should you be polite to him when he’s having a good time with his ex over there?” 

You manage to keep your face relaxed. Obie had called Stasia Mervin’s girlfriend. Had there been some truth to the jest? Still, you manage to shrug, looking towards the dancing pair. They’re locked in a stuffy waltz of some sort. 

“Does he look like he’s having a good time?” 

The demon blinks, before following your gaze. True to your implications, Mervin is tense. His smile is strained. He looks slightly bored, or even resentful at the way Stasia chatters.  

They huff, conceding to your point.  

You nail it in anyway. “He can spend the whole gala with her if it pleases him. He’ll still do me the honour of taking me home afterwards.” 

Stasia keeps Mervin for not one, but three dances, before he manages to escape her grip and find you. You pass his drink back to him, giving him an amused smile. “Having fun?” 

He scowls.  

You give your empty glass to a passing staff member before looking back up at Mervin. You’re pretty sure he’s never going to ask you to dance. Not directly. Not even if he wanted to (a surprising number of wallflowers stand testament to Pride’s inability to simply ask for a dance).  

You take the initiative instead. “Dance with me?” 

He looks almost grateful but doesn’t manage a response other than a mute nod. 

He leads you to the floor, and you take his shoulder and hand. The weight of his own at your waist is pleasant. You don’t remember the last time you danced a waltz, but it’s easy enough to slip into, and Mervin leads well.  

You want to ask him how you’re doing (you know you’re doing well, and he won’t be able to tell you honestly). You want to ask him how he’s doing (he’s clearly tired and frustrated, and likely won’t take kindly to your prying). You want to ask about Stasia (is she really his ex?). Instead, you dance wordlessly for the next few minutes. 

He starts to relax towards the end of the dance, and on a whim, he lifts you during your next turn.  

You inhale sharply, before letting out a laugh. He gives a begrudging smile back. 

The exchange wheedles some words out of you. “You know, if I’d known the dances were going to be this simple, I might have asked to dance first.” 

He raises his brow. “And go against your careful manipulations? How stupid.” 

You grin. “Maybe. But I’d still consider it.” 

He huffs. “There’ll be a few traditional dances after dinner. I doubt you’ll be able to keep up.” 

“Speaking of dinner-” You’re glad you’d questioned Mervin on the drive here. Because of it, you can easily guess what will happen when the dining hall opens. “She’s going to be in my seat.” 

He purses his lips. “We’ll get there first.” 

You’d discussed the possibility but hadn’t made any explicit plans to deal with it.  

“No.” 

He cocks a brow. “No?” 

“If I sit first, there’s no telling what she’ll do.” 

“You have something better in mind?” 

You give him a smile, this one less bubbly, and more genuine. “I think we should renegotiate your terms regarding public displays of affection.” 

His face scrunches with displeasure. “You think you deserve to touch me without express permission?” 

“No. Never,” you butter him up. “But I think she’d hate it if you allowed it.” 

He chews his lip, appearing to consider. 

You inch closer, intent on enjoying what’s left of your dance. “Don’t worry your pretty head so much, my prince.” 

He blinks and opens his mouth to reply. Undoubtedly still wanting to know your solution. Then the rest of what you’d said catches up to him, and he shuts it. He straightens, chest puffing a little. 

You try not to smirk. He’s cute sometimes. 

The waltz finishes. You give him your last words before parting. “And please don’t push me off.”  

Mervin almost stumbles as he understands your request. But before he can protest, the doors to the dining hall are opening, and dinner is due to start. You gesture for Mervin to lead the way. 

After a beat he does, and you trail after him. He pauses several times, greeting aquaintances and stopping to chat. Numerous demons still mill about, not quite ready to take their seats. 

It’s almost suspicious how Stasia doesn’t intercept you. You’d be worried if you weren’t almost certain of where she was. 

Sure enough, when you reach your reserved table, Stasia is seated in your place. She smiles at you, in a way that’s just a little too condescending, but does not otherwise acknowledge you.  

“You kept me waiting, sugar plumb.” 

You pull out the chair for Mervin, inclining your head respectfully as he takes his seat. Then, without missing a beat, you follow him down, settling on his lap. 

He stiffens, but Stasia's expression makes it worth it. 

You cover his surprise with a sweet smile. “Sorry to keep him from you, Stasia. I just thought it might be rude if I danced with somebody else before him.” 

She stares, face now blank. 

After a beat, Mervin’s arm wraps around your side. His claws dig into you, giving away his discomfort. “At any rate, I’m back. Where did we leave off...” 

Stasia resumes her chatter, and Mervin makes an effort to engage. The three of you aren’t alone; there are other pairs seated around the circular table, speaking amongst themselves, and occasionally interacting with Mervin and Stasia. You receive several glances, most of which are accompanied by amused grins. Stasia receives a handful of smirks too. You’re not sure who they favour, but at least you’re cause for humour. None of the pride demons are forward enough to ask Mervin why he apparently has two dates.  

Nobody looks your way when entrees are brought out. Stasia gets your food. It smells delicious, and your stomach rumbles with envy.  

Mervin frowns. “Did my brother not feed you enough?” 

You pout up at him. “Humans typically eat three times a day.” 

He stares down at you. It’s hard to tell, but you think he’s looking at your lips. Eventually he sighs, and passes you his spoon. “I don’t share with just anyone, pet.” 

You beam up at him, placing a kiss on his cheek before he can react. “Thanks babe. You’re literally the best.” 

A muscle in his leg twitches, and he has to work to hide his surprise. It almost has you smirking. The fingers digging harder into your side betray his growing tension. You wonder if he’s flustered at the compliment, or irritated at your relaxed demeanour. Perhaps he’s just been touched too much tonight. 

There’s a glare fixed on you when you take a sip of the first course. It’s a particularly fragrant soup, served with bread. Unimaginative, but damn if it doesn’t taste amazing.  

You lock eyes with Stasia, and smile. “It’s good, right?” 

For a moment she doesn’t reply. But after a beat she sneers. “Bland, actually. The chef must have messed up my order.” 

“Actually, the order was changed, Stasia,” Mervin interrupts. “We’re being served human safe variants of the menu.” 

You blink at the new information. You didn’t realise Mervin had gone to such lengths to accommodate you. It leaves you feeling... nice. 

Mervin notices your stare and scowls. 

“Of course, Stasia is right. It’s terribly bland compared to the usual fare. But I doubt you could handle our food. Your stomach is far too weak. Pathetic, really.” 

You smile at his disparagment. You’re honestly genuine when you praise him next: “You’re too kind, Mervin. I appreciate it.” 

He turns his face away with a sneer, ignoring you as you finish the entrée. 

You insist that Mervin eats the main course. You assume a greed demon would appreciate your excuses more – you wouldn’t dare take the food from his plate, he’s already been kind enough to you, it’s his meal, he should get to taste it, it’d be rude of you to even think of touching the food before he does – but they do the trick, and Mervin still looks a bit pleased at your fussing.  

Dessert passes without incident, and you’re ready to stand and go for a wander. Mervin’s lap isn’t the most comfortable – not while he’s at a dining chair, at the least. The food is cleared and you’re about to get up when another demon at the table ropes Mervin into conversation. 

You can’t help but fidget, not sure whether it’d be acceptable if you stood right now. You think you’re being discrete, shifting your weight just a little, but Mervin grabs your thigh and squeezes it, pointedly.  

You blush and look down in apology, reigning in your wiggles and acting the picture of relaxed and demure once more.  

Instead of releasing you, his hand creeps upwards, along your thigh. 

You force yourself not to fidget again at the touch. It had to be unintentional. You hadn’t discussed anything like this ahead of time. Perhaps he didn’t realise how high his fingers were trailing. 

You hazard a glance over your shoulder, desperate to see his expression, to gleam his mood.  

He grabs your jaw instead, and turns your face forward, before leaning down to murmur at your ear. “Stay there, pet.” 

You hadn’t really considered the possibility of Mervin being dominant before. It was always too much fun flustering him with compliments, or making fun of his stunted emotional responses. But you forget that for a moment, enjoying the firmness of his tone.  

To your immense frustration, he doesn’t do anything more. Just stroking your thigh, claws tracing the slit upthe side of your dress. It’s almost impossible to keep from squirming, and you watch the crowd critically. You’d be mortified if a concubi wandered by just now. 

There’s a cold touch at your wrist. The interruption frustrates you, before you notice Stasia leant forwards. The smile she gives you is unnerving. “Would you mind getting that drink for me now, pet?” 

Mervin’s hand stills. 

You manage a pleasant expression and a nod. “Of course. And anything for you, Mervin?” 

He grimaces. “No. One is enough for me.” 

Stasia gives you her order and you remove yourself from the table. With the distance, you’re almost grateful for the interruption. Mervin would be tempting fate, starting something with an audience so close. No doubt Stasia had noticed. You’re just lucky she’d been calm in her redirection. 

Your second trip to the bar is a little more perilous. The number of stares you receive is doubled, and one demon has the gall to actually slap you on the ass as you pass. 

A glance reveals his reddish hue, and you’d gamble he has wrathful origins. As such, you have no compunction about grabbing the hand that had touched you and twisting his fingers painfully out of place, dodging any further grabs from him. 

“Bitch,” he accuses. 

You roll your eyes, moving on before he can drag you into a fight, or inspire too much anger in you. 

You’re breathless by the time you make it to the bar, and it’s an exercise in your evasive skills to make it back to your table without spilling either of the drinks. 

Mervin and Stasia are gone. You’re irritated, but not surprised. 

You catch a glance of them dancing in the thick of things. Mervin wasn’t wrong; the music upbeat and fast paced. You don’t know your ballroom music particularly well, but based on their movements, you assume it’s a quicktime dance of some sort. You sit at the table and take the opportunity to watch carefully. You’d love to be able to replicate it by the end of the night. 

You’re so focused on analysing your date’s distant footwork that you miss your name being called. 

You start at the touch on your shoulder. 

Another wrath demon chuckles at you (did everyone bring one as their plus one?). 

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” 

You blink. “Not at all.” Then blink again. “Have we met?” 

The demon grins, revealing some of his chipped teeth. “Sure have. I probably went to all your shows when you were touring Wrath.” 

You raise your brow. You’d never done any meet and greets. So when had- 

“We met after your show at the Splatterfest.” 

You wince at the memory. Some imps had tried to protest the inclusion of a human at the music festival, and dumped a bucket of blood over your band, ‘Carrie’ style. You’d kept performing and probably given every demon in the audience a boner (you were in Wrath, what did they expect?). 

Even so, you grin. “You tried to give me your shirt afterwards. Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.” 

He holds out his hand. “Friends call me Bean.” 

You try not to laugh at the name. “Nice to meet you, Bean.” 

“I couldn’t help but notice you staring daggers at your date.” 

You huff. “I was actually watching the dance. If I’d had any time to prepare for tonight, I’d have bothered to learn some of the dances.” 

His face lightens. “I could teach you?” 

“Do you know these dances?” 

“Too well. My mum is from Pride.” 

You’d already danced with Mervin. It might reflect poorly on him if his date looked too antisocial. So you shrug. “Sounds like fun.” 

It is fun. You stumble a lot at first, tripping over your own feet in an effort to copy Bean’s step pattern, but he grips you by the elbows, keeping you upright even as he laughs at you. You have stamina, at least, and manage to keep up with the punishing pace. By the time the first dance ends, you’re covered in sweat and panting, but you have some of the footwork down. 

Bean grins. “You’re not terrible.” 

You crinkle your nose. “You’re sufficient too.” 

Bean has his head cocked, listening to the opening of the next song. “Ah. This next one’s fun. It’s got a lot of lifts though.” 

“That doesn’t bother me.” 

His chipped grin reappears. “We take turns raising each other.” 

Oh. You bite back a frown. “How much do you weigh?” 

Bean isn’t that big. His horns and tail are on the small side, and he’s only an inch or so taller than you. Still, the number he tells you does not fill you with confidence. 

He laughs at your expression. “Scared? Or just weak?” 

You scowl. “Weak, unfortunately. May I?” You ask before touching him. 

He lifts his arms enough for you to grab him by the waist. You brace yourself and lift. 

His heels leave the ground. 

He laughs at you again. “Cute. But mostly pathetic.” 

You scowl harder. “Whatever. If you want to keep dancing, you’ll have to jump a little.” 

His laughing quiets to a chuckle. He takes your hand and pulls you in to dance. “It’s alright. We’ll manage. This one is... well I’m not sure of the translation. It’s a genre unique to Perdition. I guess you could liken it to a quick waltz? There are several lifts in each of the refrains. Then towards the end we start spinning, taking turns with the elevations. It’s easier with the momentum, but you’ve gotta watch your surroundings too, or you’ll crash into another couple.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter. You’re not too worried about bumping into anyone. Your spatial awareness is decent enough. “I feel like this dance is just so everyone can flex at each other.” 

Bean laughs again, though not at you this time. “No, you’re completely right. It's how this genre was started. It’s a competition of strength and stamina. It’s not actually that common in Pride, since it usually tends to lack finesse or grace.” 

“Hmm,” you appreciate the history lesson. 

You ease into this dance smoothly; despite the lifts it’s easier than the last. Bean is a good teacher, and he warns you ahead of any changes. You brace yourself for the first rise, and when your feet leave the ground by almost a foot, you can’t help but grin. 

“Show off.” 

“Absolutely,” he agrees. 

His feet actually leave the ground when it’s your turn to lift. Bean springs up a few inches, turning the elevation into something closer to an assisted jump. Regardless of the terminology, you’re grateful for the assistance. It sets the tone for the rest of the dance, and you find yourself having a pleasant time. 

Your dress flairs when you’re next lifted, and Bean gives you a grin. “Is that a knife, or are you happy to see me?” 

You’re breathless, but manage to reply. “A knife, actually.” 

He eyes your legs appreciatively. “Expecting trouble?” 

“Most of my weapon belts would clash with this dress,” you joke. 

“Nonsense. You’d look good with any weapon,” he argues. 

You can’t help but smile. “You sure know how to lay on the charm.” 

“Pfft, this is nothing. You should see me when I’m actually trying.” 

You’d laugh but there’s another series of spins coming up, and you have to brace yourself of them. The recapitulation begins, and you know the dance is nearing its end.  

“Steady now,” Bean encourages, before raising you again.  

You’re able to keep spinning. To avoid any collisions. To lift him the first few times. But your arms quickly tire, and Bean doesn’t do much more than bob his knees instead of completing any jumps. He still manages to send you upwards on each of your turns though, and you have to reign in your laughter. 

Especially as you make eye contact with Mervin, dancing with Stasia beside you. 

It jars you enough that your grin fades, and you remember to school your expression into something a little more dignified. Slightly less carefree.  

The song ends and you and Bean nearly collapse against each other, panting and laughing once more, even if you’re feeling subdued. 

You realise your face is only inches from his, at the same time he does. 

He glances down at your lips. “Do you... want to take this elsewhere?” 

Any other night and you’d take him up on the offer. But- 

“I think that’d give my date a conniption.” 

His smile shrinks. Bean pulls back. But he maintains that relaxed demeanour. “It’d serve him right for leaving you here alone.” 

You shrug and give him an apologetic smile. “Another time?” 

He sighs. Ruffles your hair.  

You scowl and duck out of his grasp. 

“Can you imagine his face though?” 

You bite back your grin. “I can.” 

Bean steps away. “Thanks for the dance, love.” 

You wave him off. Take a breath to compose yourself. Then turn back to the gala. 

--- 

It doesn’t take long for you to find your date. Not with the way he’s striding towards you, shoulders squared and a scowl on his face. He grabs you by the wrist and leads you out a nearby door, practically dragging you down some unpopulated corridors. 

“Where’s Stasia?” You ask. 

“I cut her off when she started trying to make me jealous of that shit-for-brains dance partner of yours.” 

You’d only danced with Bean twice. Was Mervin really so bothered? 

“Key word ‘trying’?” You ask, tentative this time. 

He doesn’t reply, but it’s obvious he’s not happy. 

You wince. Stasia’s meddling or not, this one was genuinely your fault. “I’m sorry, Mervin. It wasn’t my intention to make you feel that way.” 

“I know,” he grumbles, before practically flinging you at a wall. “But you still need to deal with the consequences, human.” 

Then his hand is on your jaw, holding you still as he crushes his lips against yours. 

You freeze, more surprised than upset. 

His other hand rests against the wall, caging you in. He doesn’t meet your eyes when he pulls back, still scowling. “How dare you ask a stranger to teach you to dance. You should have gone to me.”  

You’re still processing the kiss. Part of you is indignant – you never thought he’d work up the nerve to kiss you first. The other part of you struggles to stay grounded. To listen to his complaint. “I’m sorry, I-” 

He cuts you off with another kiss. Bites down hard on your lip this time. You think you taste blood. 

“You should consider yourself lucky that I’m still willing to associate with you. That I’m willing to do this.” 

Your head spins when he pushes your face sideways, gaining access to your throat. He kisses his way down your neck, across your shoulder. Not shy about using his teeth to punish you.  

His other hand slips below your dress. He grips the hem of your underwear and your breath hitches. As much as you enjoy leading him along, you could get used to this. Mervin's display of dominance is doing things for you. 

“I’m lowering my standards so much just to do this with you. So, you’d better hold fucking still.” 

Your mouth waters at his words. You’re somehow both burning with tension and turning into putty under his hands. And you know just what to say to make things worse. 

“Yes sir.” 

He stiffens. “What was that?” 

You have to bite back your grin, to force yourself to appear contrite. “Yes sir?” 

“Fuck,” he mutters before grabbing you bodily and turning you around. Your hands splay against the wall, bracing yourself. Mervin presses between your shoulder blades, bending you over while his other hand drags your dress up. 

The position sends nerves and excitement through you in equal measures. “Somebody could see.” 

He ignores your half-hearted protest, dragging your underwear down and palming your ass. “You didn’t care if somebody saw you flirting with that meathead.” 

Facing away, you can let your grin creep out. He sounds angry.  

His knee spreads your legs and your heart speeds up. Then there’re fingers at your folds. You can practically hear his sneer when they come away wet. 

“Pathetic. Is this really all it takes to get you going?” 

“Mhm,” you hum agreement, throat tight. Coherency is starting to leave you when all you can focus on is the cold air against your nethers. You wish he would touch you again. 

He scoffs. “You really are just a slut.”  

You think you get wetter at the insult. 

There’s the sound of a belt buckle, then a zipper. You can’t help but clench in anticipation.  

But Mervin doesn’t touch you. 

You try to look over your shoulder, to give Mervin your most I’m-pathetic-please-fuck-me stare, but he just pushes your face against the wall. 

You let out a whimper and squirm. If he keeps drawing this out, somebody really could see you.  

You push the thought down. As enticing as it is, things could quickly turn dangerous if a third party got involved. 

“-you think I’ll do this with anyone? What makes you think you deserve me, huh?” he starts. 

Honestly, you thought he’d start talking himself up sooner. He’d barely insulted you yet.  

“-don’t deserve a single piece of pleasure until you earn it-” 

You try rubbing your thighs together, but you only succeed on clamping around Mervin’s knee.  

“-should be singing my praise, I shouldn’t have to touch you until you’ve begged for me-” 

You let out a groan. If you were still facing him, you’d snog him just to make him stop talking. “Ughh, shut up and fuck me.”  

He grips you by the hair, his voice raised in pitch, “The nerve of you, human, the utter disrespect-” 

You cut him off with a whine, “Pleeease Mervin. I need you to fuck me.” 

His breathing stutters. 

“Please touch me, please, I can’t wait any more, pleasepleaseplease,” you squirm around his knee.  

He grabs your ass again. Squeezes. “You’ve been so casual with my name tonight. I don’t think you deserve to use it.” 

You want to groan again. You barely restrain yourself. “Please, sir, I bet you’ll feel so good, please, I need this so badly-” 

His breathing is even more laboured, but he still manages to slap your ass. 

“Needy.” 

You flinch away, and end up grinding down against his knee – fuck. It’s not fair how good that feels. You decide that if he doesn’t fuck you soon, you’ll just have to rub off against his leg. Though you might leave a wet patch so noticable that concubi wouldn’t be the only ones turning heads. 

You bite down on your lip. You just want to get dicked down. Picking your words is hard when you’re this horny. 

“Needy,” you huff. “Yes. For you.” You grind against him. “Please help me, sir. Please fix it.” 

He shudders. The hand at your shoulders pushes harder, and you have no choice but to stick your ass out, curving your back as far as it will go, or topple over.  

“Fine,” he says, and you could die from relief when you feel his erection against your ass. “But only because I feel sorry for you.” 

He hilts himself in one rough movement and you moan, practically high at the sensation. There’s possibly a bit of drool escaping from your lips. 

Mervin’s not unaffected himself, one hand braced against the wall, the other digging into your waist. The groan he levels at your ear is delightful, stretching on into a softly pitched rumble that’s almost like a purr. 

Interesting. A disembodied part of yourself definitely notes that for later. 

He doesn’t move. 

You let out a whimper, trying to grind back against him. He swats you on the ass, tuting. “Ask nicely, pet.” 

Having him speared inside you feels so good. But it’s not enough. You need him to move. 

“Please,” you whisper, “please fucking fuck me, please-” 

You’re rewarded with a single thrust. “Why should I?” 

You groan; a whiney, needy sound. “You’re making it so hard to think right now- I can’t-” You want to bang your head against wall. “Nngh, Mervin-” 

He takes pity on you. Or maybe you’ve convinced him. He’s probably barely pretending to be composed right now - you don’t care about the reasoning, you’re just relieved when he starts to fuck you. He’s fast, and rough, and the ridged texture of his cock serves as a pleasant reminder that he’s in no part human.  

It doesn’t take long for him to come, practically crushing you against him when he does. One arm wraps around your throat, and the other around your waist; he bites down on your shoulder to keep from making too much noise. It hurts, but that only adds to the experience. 

You close your eyes, panting, trying to savour the way his dick twitches inside of you. But as soon as he’s finished he straightens, practically shoving you away. 

Your brain is hazy, and it takes you a few moments before you can stand, fixing your underwear, then your dress. You clamp your thighs together, to keep from dripping spend everywhere.   

By the time you turn around, Mervin has composed himself – cock receeded back into his slit, clothing fixed. You feel incredibly raw in contrast. 

He raises an eyebrow. “What?” 

You open your mouth to reply, but your thoughts stall. Forming words is somehow harder.  

His face goes blank as he takes in your details. Processes what’s wrong. The seconds that pass feel incredibly long, and you’re tense, wondering how he’s going to react. You know that biology literally compels him to be an ass, but you’re not sure how much derision you can take right now. 

You can’t describe how grateful you are that he only shakes his head, and cages you in again. “Like I said before. This is only because I feel sorry for you.” 

He slips his hand under your dress, back into your underwear. You’re slick; a mess of your own juices and his cum. There’s no resistance when he sinks two fingers inside of you. Hardly any friction when he rubs his thumb against your clit.  

You shudder, grabbing his lapels and pressing your face against his shoulder. “Fuckkk,” the word is barely muffled. 

His free hand cups your jaw, dragging your face upwards. “Don’t get makeup on my jacket, idiot.” 

“S-sorry,” you reply, eyes glazed and mouth agape.  

He doesn’t seem to process your apology, watching intently, instead, as you come apart on his fingers. You can barely stand, fighting the impulse to sieze and crumple, clinging to your date like he’s a lifeline.  

“Go on then, pet,” he murmurs, pushing hard against a sensitive spot inside of you. “You can come.” 

And you do. Head lolling back, whole body arching, gripping Mervin’s arm like a vice. You don’t care what kind of noises you’re making, but perhaps he does, because he covers your mouth with his own in another messy kiss.  

His fingers don’t stop moving until you’re limp against the wall, almost turning into a puddle in his arms. Your head buzzes. You feel high.  

Fuck, that was incredible.  

Your eyes are closed. You’re listening to Mervin’s panting; almost as loud as your own, when he pulls you upright suddenly. 

“Someone’s coming.” 

Your eyes spring open. 

“Come on,” he practically drags you away, down another corridor and into what appears to be a coat room.  

You’re still breathless, and it takes you a moment to compose yourself. Mervin has his ear against the door, tense. It almost makes you laugh.  

“If I’d known how much fun pity sex can be, I’d have doubled down on my efforts to be pathetic.” 

Mervin scowls. “Clean yourself up. You look like a whore.” 

You give him a coy smile. “Your whore, though.” 

He turns away, masking his expression. 

Still, you do the best you can to clean the fluids from your thighs, shamelessly using the sleeve of a stranger’s coat. 

Mervin is examining you when you turn back. Wordlessly he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. “Your lipstick is everywhere.” 

You smirk, taking in his own features. “It certainly is.” You wipe it from your face, wishing you had a mirror, but Mervin doesn’t say anything so you assume you got it all. Then you stand on tip toes, cleaning the lipstick from his own face. He stiffens, but allows the treatment. 

Your eyes catch on a smear across his throat. You don’t even remember kissing him there. Feeling mischevious, you leave the mark. You consider it a parting gift. He’ll notice it later, you’re sure.  

“Your hair is a rat’s nest.” 

You’re sure he’s exaggerating, but you roll your eyes and attempt to fix it anyway. “You’re the one who was pulling on it.” 

Soon enough you’re both presentable again, bracing yourselves before returning to the fray. Nobody has noticed your absence, you think. 

You glance towards the dance floor. “So, are you going to teach me this next dance?” 

He manages to keep his expression level as he considers.  

“Not here. Having you trip and stumble in front of everyone is too painful to contemplate. You’re going to take private lessons with me. That way you won’t look like a fool next time.” 

“Next time?” You ask. 

He winces, unable to meet your eyes. 

You want to make fun of him. You want to poke at him so badly. You barely restrain yourself.  

“How generous of you, to invite me not once, but twice. I should be honoured.” 

He relaxes minutely at your acceptance. Then crinkles his nose. “Obviously.” 

“But this was simultaneously the most stressful and most boring event I’ve attended all year. You’re really going to have to make it worth my while.” 

He grits his teeth. Tries his best to look calm. “Did you have something in mind, human?” 

You can only grin. “I don’t know. I’ll be sure to think of an especially pitiful request.” 

-- 

[cursedmoon-doll13]

GET TO KNOW ME MEME: [2/5] SHIPS

RHAENYRA AND ALICENT House of the Dragon (2022–)

[cursedmoon-doll13]

"Blameless"

Jaehaera & Aegon with lovely kittens and childhood that they deserve for twitter request💙

[cursedmoon-doll13]

Kiss of the Kelpie - Freeze Ending

When a monster seizes your boat, its do or die. Possibly literally.

Part One

Inspired by some goretober prompts and a monstertober prompt, a short choose your own ending story about a monster (penised monster, implied kelpie) and a gnc reader.

This ending contains rape and yandere behaviour. 2962 words. banner by firefly-graphics

> Freeze

No, no, no, no, no, no, no- 

Its lips don’t pucker and its too dark eyes stay wide open, fixing you in place with pupils that allow no hint of surrounding sclera.  

Your mouth goes dry and your arms turn to jelly as it pushes the oar aside. Resting its weight on its elbow, it uses its free hand to grasp you under the jaw. To hold you still as it presses its mouth against yours.  

Its breath is rancid. Its lips taste of rotten meat and stagnant water. You gag and your eyes start to stream but it holds you tighter, claws digging into your cheeks as you try to pull away. 

The hand on your ankle moves and you let out a whimper as it squeezes and works its way up your leg. If you were of sound mind you might notice that it’s not caressing and stroking, but measuring – appraising.  

“Hmm.”  

You gasp for breath when it pulls away, though its grip on you doesn’t budge. 

“You’ll do just fine, little pet.” 

Its lips crush against yours again, and this time you feel the prick of teeth at your face and the prod of its tongue at your entrance. Pointed and almost leathery it forces its way into your mouth, methodically exploring, as if trying to form a map.  

You struggle and cough, cry and then sob, but the creature doesn’t budge until it is well and ready. You’re breathless when it pulls back, though it looks barely exerted. Its pretty lips pull into a smile.  

“Let’s take this elsewhere.” 

Before you can even register its words, you’re yanked from the boat. Splinters rip into your back and you let out a shriek as you hit the water. You shut your mouth against the icy black but you’ve already tasted the stagnant, muddy depths, and you have to fight to keep your retching at bay.  

You’re so focused on yourself – the burn in your lungs, the tickle in your throat, the taste in your mouth – that it takes a few moments for you to understand what is happening. That you’re not merely sinking, but speeding through the water. The creature maintains its grip on your leg, and you feel the drag behind you as you’re propelled through the lake.  

Your ears pop and your chest aches as it takes you deeper. Your arms and shoulders slide against the muddy lakebed, bumping into slimy chunks of detritus. You don’t have the foresight to worry about where it’s taking you, however, as your chest begins to burn in earnest. 

The last of your air leaves you in a trickle of bubbles. Your pulse begins to pound in your ears. You thrash against the monster, trying to bend against the current, trying to claw at its hand.  

It slows when it notices your distress. It’s hard to make out the creature’s form – you see a vaguely misshapen silhouette of hulking size before its face swims into view. You struggle when it pulls your face to its own. Panic when it envelops your mouth completely.  

At the taste you cough and retch and desperately try to pull away until you understand that it’s blowing air into your mouth. You stop fighting. You take deep gasping breaths – as many as the creature allows before it drops your face and grabs you again.  

It repeats the process several times. Again and again. You’re pulled further into the lake. You’re held under until your vision wavers and your head hurts. And then the monster envelops your mouth with its own, devouring your protests and breathing air back into your lungs. Resistance would be futile. It meant drowning. Dying alone in the bottom of a lake with nobody the wiser. Even if it let you go, it’s not like you know how to swim to the surface. 

The mud makes way for stone and pebble. You hadn’t left the lake floor, but finally – finally – you arrive at your destination. You breach the surface of the lake with a gasp. The creature shoves you onto a bank before releasing you. 

“Why don’t you settle in? I have a boat to take care of.” 

Dizzy and disoriented, you crawl out of the water. You’re caught up in yourself again, coughing and gasping before vomiting onto the stone beneath you. You don’t care if you make a mess on yourself at this point. You just want to taste something other than mud and rot.  

When you’ve caught your breath, when you’ve emptied your stomach, you open your eyes and look up. Your limbs are beginning to drag and the adrenaline seems to be leaving your system but your chest is still tight with dread.  

Where are the stars? Where is the moon? The air feels too close. And that sound – a slight lapping of waves is the only ambient noise. No ringing of crickets. No fluttering breeze.  

The atmosphere is oppressive, and with the creature out of sight and out of reach, you’re filled with anxiety. There’s no light in this room. This... cave?  

Your breath comes faster at the realisation. You’re trapped in a cave. No one knows you’re here. No one except the creature.  

Your eyes prickle with tears again, and you crawl further away from the water. Up an incline until you feel the sheer rise of a wall. You press yourself against it and let the tears flow.  

Come morning they’d find your tent empty. By lunch they’d be concerned. Nightfall, and they’d have called the cops. Another day or two and they might send somebody to search the lake. They could do that – right? They’d find the boat missing. Use some kind of machine with sonar. Or send in some divers.  

They’d find you, right? 

All you had to do was survive. 

You freeze at the noise. Hold your breath at the splash and the scuffle along the stones.  

It’s back.  

You hold still, trembling like a leaf as the sound draws closer. The crunch and drag of something big moving across stone. You cover your mouth with your hand and muffle your terrified breathing. You can’t help the silent tears that roll down your cheeks. Maybe you can hide. Maybe it won’t see you. Maybe you’ll be safe. 

But the noise only grows closer, until there’s a low laugh. “You look so cute like this.” 

You start shaking your head, mouth trying to form words, but the sounds getting caught in your throat. Even if there were a light down here you wouldn’t be able to make out the creature; your tears fall too thickly. 

That clawed hand wraps around your leg again. Jerks you out of your huddle in a painful slide that drags up the back of your shirt and has you scraping your skin raw against the ground.  

You feel it’s weight above you. Hear it take a deep inhale, it’s head somewhere above your own. You shudder, throat closed with fear. There’s a weight over your legs and you think you’re being straddled.  

A single claw traces its way down your face, almost lovingly. “I do love the smell of fresh blood in the evening.” 

“Please,” you finally manage to whisper. “Please, please, please-” you’re nearly unintelligible. You don’t even know what to beg for. 

“Aw, what is it, sunshine?” It’s voice drips with mock sympathy.  

“I don’t want to die.” The statement resounds through you and with it you start to cry in earnest, body shaking with your cries.  

It doesn’t move for a while, silently watching you snot over yourself and cry your throat hoarse. After a while you feel those claws in your hair, stroking along your scalp. It’s almost soothing. 

“Shhh, pet. You’re not going to die. Not if you do as I say.” This time the voice is genuine. No mock sympathy. Only calm truth. 

Gradually you relax. Your breath comes easier. You still sniffle but are no longer wracked with sobs. The gentle petting seems to be helping.  

You’re not going to die. Not yet. 

You’ve just managed to calm yourself when you feel those clawed fingers move again. They trace a line from your nape to your clavicles, before hesitating at the collar of your shirt.  

“Here’s what is going to happen,” the voice is closer now, and you feel the warmth of breath upon your ear. 

“I will feed you. And warm you. And keep you alive.”  

Your shirt tears under its claw, seams ripping little by little as it teases the material from you. 

“And in return you will be mine. You will do what I ask. When I ask.” It speaks in a voice that brooks no argument. 

You start to shake again.  

Clammy skin presses against your chest. You don’t dare move. You can’t even breathe too heavily, let alone swat away the hand that explores the expanse of your skin.  

You stiffen and shudder when it traces a line up your side. Gasp and arch when it finds your breast and pauses, examining the bud of your nipple.  

You close your eyes. Turn your face away. And try not to whimper.  

Another hand closes around your throat. It angles your face towards it. “You are alive to please me. Do you understand?” 

You can’t nod with its grip on your neck. But the way its fingers prick at your skin, you know you must reply.  

“Yes,” you breathe. 

“Good.”  

You breathe a sigh of relief when it releases your throat. But you don’t dare move. Not as it noses at the pinpricks of blood it left behind. Not as it licks the red from your skin, leathery tongue foreign against your flesh. Not as it resumes its exploration of your body. 

It tears through the fabric of your pyjama pants easily, running its hands up and down your thighs. You can guess where this is going, and you start to cry again – silently this time.  

It pulls the last shreds of your clothes away before pausing. You’re pretty sure it’s surveying you; bare and shaking with fear and cold.  

Carefully, the creature cups between your legs, rubbing its palm against you, fingers flexed outward to spare you the bite of its claws. Despite your terror, warmth begins to pool between your legs. It brushes a knuckle against your entrance, and you buck away from the touch. 

“This is going to hurt, pet. Unless you put that mouth of yours to work. I’ll be going in dry otherwise.” 

Your thoughts stall. What would be worse? For the monster to fuck you raw? Or for you to fellate its member, lubing it up with your saliva. 

You really don’t know, but you hesitate long enough that the choice is taken from you. The weight on your legs changes. The creature is moving, crawling over you until the weight settles on your chest, and there’s something prodding at your mouth. 

Your head is flat against the ground and there’s nowhere for you to retreat. The smell is thick, pungent, but you comfort yourself that it smells better than the creature’s breath. Again it rubs against your face, smearing precome against your lips.  

You don’t have another choice. You open your mouth. And they push inside.  

Immediately you can tell that you’re not blowing a human. The shape is too large. The head too flat. You gag before it even reaches the back of your throat. You’ve no control over depth and barely enough room to move your tongue. Your jaw strains terribly against the girth and you realise what a mistake this is. 

It holds your hands above your head, gripping your wrists tightly. And with no way to protest or tap out, there’s nothing you can do when it begins to fuck your face; shallowly at first. It’s still too much for you to take. The gagging is expected. The excess spittle, the way your throat seizes; none of it is out of the ordinary for a particularly deep throat fuck. 

It’s the lack of air that is getting to you. Not once since the creature started have you been able to draw in breath. Your legs kick uselessly. Any noises you make are muffled. Any chance you have of breath is promptly erased when it gains a few inches of depth, using your throat like a toy.  

Realisation dawns on you that you’re not going to be able to breathe until it finishes.  

You don’t know how much time passes. It could be minutes. It could be seconds. You just know that you’re getting dizzier. Your lungs are burning again. There’s a squeezing in your chest. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears. You can’t see. 

There’s a pop and you can breathe again. Air rushes into your lungs with a desperate gasp, followed by a wracking cough. Your lips are slick, and you’re sure that if you could see there’s be a string of spittle connecting you and your abductor’s cock. 

“Aw, did my sunshine pass out? You should have said something.” 

You’re too exhausted to react.  

“Whatever. This will have to do.” 

Your whole body feels leaden. It’s been a long night. You’d been woken from you sleep by magical means. Drawn from your bed. Frightened for your life. Half drowned and subjected to multiple adrenaline rushes.  

Your body chooses this moment to give in. You go limp, and aside from the rapid rise and fall of your chest as you recover from your near suffocation, you can’t bring yourself to resist, to even move, as the creature positions you.  

Legs spread and lifted. Upper body sprawled and arched without a care. Even as you clench with fear, you don’t move as it lines itself up and rubs its slick against you.  

Your breath leaves in a whoosh when it pushes inside. You jerk a little. Arch with pain as it presses further. And further. Fully sheathing itself inside you, stuffing you deep. You don’t have time to adjust to the monstrous girth. When it pulls out and thrusts back in, you let out a cry. 

It’s too much. 

But you can’t do anything as it lifts your hips and fucks you relentlessly. You try and try and try to relax, but any time you get close it pulls back out. And each re-entry stretches you anew, leaving you aching and going more and more out of your mind.  

Claws dig into your waist. A hand fists in your hair, lifting your head up and giving the creature access to your throat. Panic grips your chest when it bites you, sharp teeth positioning themselves against your flesh, pressing against them in a silent threat. You remember how those needle-like teeth had glistened in the moonlight. 

You’re so scared. With each jerk up into you you’re afraid that you’ll be torn open. Either your rear end or your throat. But it maintains its careful, precise grip on your throat, leaving you with nary a scratch. 

You’re both panting for breath. Your gasps are strained and edged with whimpers. The creature is guttural. There’s a low rumbling in its chest, and you’re certain that you’re going to die. That you’re going to be eaten when its finished. That it will lose all control when it comes, and rip out your throat. 

It doesn’t. 

It releases your neck and instead comes with a roar. It fucks you through its orgasm; the pulsing of its cock penetrating you deep and the wet heat of its load spreading warmth within you.  

You slump, relieved that it’s over. You look forward to passing out and hopefully waking up from this nightmare in the morning.  

But it’s not over. Perhaps your monster is a cuddly one, because instead of pulling out, it tugs you close laying down and rolling you onto your side. Still speared on its length, you shift uncomfortably, your leg pinned beneath its weight. 

“Stop squirming. I need a minute.” 

“Are you... done?” You dare to ask. 

You let out a strangled groan as it thrusts into you again. “No. But you’re going to keep me warm while I recover.” 

You put aside your growing discomfort and do as they say. It’s just some... cock warming. You can do that. Even if it hurts. Even if you’re tired. Lulled towards sleep by the gentle lapping of waves and impenetrable darkness... 

You jerk awake at the next thrust. At least with the load coating your insides, the creature moves with ease. 

“If you’re going to fall asleep when I use you, perhaps you should turn over.” 

It pulls out with an obscene wet noise, and you feel the mess drip from your hole. Mute, you don’t react to it manhandling you into a new position. 

It’s almost comforting; your back to the slight warmth of their chest. The pair of you on your side, your head resting in the crook of their arm. 

Their cock pushes between your thighs and grinds against your crotch. 

“Huh. I don’t even need to use your holes to have my fun.” 

But there it is again, erect and pushing into you. 

“Still, I prefer you clenching around me.”  

Tired and weak, you can barely keep your eyes open. There’s no point – you can’t see through the darkness anyway.  

When the creature slides back into you, ignoring the way you tighten in resistance, you give in and let your eyes close. Let the situation grow distant and fuzzy. You’re not going anywhere. And it’s going to be a long night. With the hand around your throat again, and another holding your legs open, you let yourself relax. Even as tears squeeze from your shut eyes. 

This is going to happen. And nothing can save you.  

[cursedmoon-doll13]

Kiss of the Kelpie - Flight Ending

When a monster seizes your boat, its do or die. Possibly literally.

Part One

Inspired by some goretober prompts and a monstertober prompt, a short choose your own ending story about a monster (penised monster, implied kelpie) and a gnc reader.

This ending contains off screen drowning and reader death. 614 words. banner by firefly-graphics

> Flight 

“Stay away from me,” you whisper, the last clear thought in your head before hysteria bubbles up. You don’t know if it’s really leaning in for a kiss – its lips don’t pucker and it fixes you in place with a determined stare. Eyes you with pupils that are too big and dark; no sclera in sight.  

It heaves itself further into the boat, ready to close the gap between you. Horror lurches in your gut and without thinking, you kick at it and try to scramble back. Its grip on you doesn’t falter and your only accomplishment is to make boat rock dangerously. You don’t hear the creaking through your growing terror.  

The precious inches of distance you’ve gained are erased when it scowls and yanks on your leg. You fall flat on your ass. Closer it pulls you, until its face hovers above yours. 

Your eyes start to stream and you sniffle. You catch sight of its waist, its hips – its algae covered lower half, too large and unseemly to be mistaken for anything remotely human. 

You’re still holding the oar and lashing out is your only option. You thrust viciously at where its hand grips you. You don’t notice how the oar splinters and cracks at the jab. You only register the angry hiss, the sudden freedom. You clamber backwards, trying to put as much space between you and the creature as you can. 

It doesn’t do much good. There’s nowhere for you to flee. When it reaches for you again you press yourself against the far edge of the boat, sobs now loud and heaving.  

You shake your head. “Please. Don’t.” 

It hesitates. Then glowers.  “Fine. I’ll wait.” 

You don’t believe what you’re seeing when it slips back into the water. 

The vessel goes reeling; weight completely skewed with the creature’s sudden absence. You sit up and try to fling yourself into the middle of the boat. Your shifting only makes the rocking worse, and you let out a screech when you fall backwards – the boat has capsized. 

You know you’re fucked when your back hits the water. You fumble for the boat but you can barely keep your head afloat. You can’t see shit. Water stings your eyes. 

Where, where, where is the gods damned- 

You catch a glance of wood and reach for it. It’s damn near impossible to get hold of the thing. You’re kicking your legs like you’ve seen others do, but it barely helps keep you upright. The boat bobs in waves of your making, and you curse when you realise it’s overturned. 

Panic overtakes you. You can’t see the lake edge. A monster lurks beyond your line of sight. And you don’t have time to process those things, because you’re sinking. Your kicks are weak and soft, too sluggish to combat the water. Your head goes under for a moment. You claw at the waves, gasping and spluttering when you resurface again.  

The moment doesn’t last and you sink again, still kicking, still flailing. Dismay sinks in when you realise your struggles won’t keep the depths at bay.  

Then, at the edge of your vision, you see it. 

Hysterical, desperate, you flounder towards the creature, straining to cling on to anything. The last of your breath escapes you in a pathetic bubble. The surface slips further and further away. Your chest starts to burn. 

You see white flesh. That pretty face. A too sharp smile, before it paddles backwards, just out of reach. Content to watch your struggle. 

The look on its face tells you all you need to know. That it will have you before the night is done.  

But for now, it waits.  

[cursedmoon-doll13]

Sascha (oc) introduction

Name: Sascha Stanimirova

Pronouns: he/him

Sexuality: bisexual

Job: assassin, and has a successful OnlyFans & social media presence on the side. This man keeps busy.

Likes: the colour black, sex, gloomy weather, orgasms, pasta, showing a lil tummy, the woman he's obsessed with (she can do NO wrong in his eyes), red wine, porn, teddy bears, inflicting pain on others, knife play, city trips, being a slut, Wassily Kandinsky.

Dislikes: when his girl (its not his girl) has a new bf, grocery shopping by himself, short vibrator battery life, long flights, summer, politics, high fashion, cocaine, loud dogs, being touched or hugged, fruit flavoured sparkly water.

Backstory: An assassin first and foremost. Sascha's main targets are political ones, or rich ones. He is good, he is quiet and he enjoys what he does. He loves manipulating his appearance and personality to fit in with ease in any environment. Outside of his job, he hates pretending, so he is very unapologetically himself, whether that is crude, rash, or polite and friendly, he doesn't care.

His parents come from very different backgrounds; his mother is a visual artist (collage, painting, occassional art installations), and she met his father through travelling and seeking a model. His father was an assassin as well, Sascha learned from him. Thanks to his mother's education, he mixes well in higher society. She also instilled a passion for art in him.

His OnlyFans career started as a dare, and he has the audacity to do absolutely anything - so he did it. It caught on quick; he used his friend groups to promote himself, and moved to other social media platforms as a means of promotion later on. There's little this man won't do, and he is absolutely not anonymous online. Everyone attributes his weird lifestyle and high income to his porn career, so it provided him with a perfect alibi for his eccentricities.

Warning: His story features heavy themes of co-dependency, rape/non-con, coercion, blackmail, toxic relationships, honestly this man is a walking content warning tbh.

I'm very open to questions and comments regarding him! Pls be nice, this is my first time posting any writing, esp original work, in what may as well be years. It's a vulnerable thing, esp him/this story. Feels good to be back! And I haven't forgotten Mischa, don't worry hahaha :)).

Bonus moodboard summarising a few vibes and inspirations:

[the middle one is a shot from a movie, rest is Trent Reznor, Peter Steele & young Johnny Depp] [first moodboard credits; some I made into pngs myself, bleedingthroughteeth, s4dpngs, free-png, violetbudd]

[cursedmoon-doll13]

george has bad writing but it's rarely the 'bad' lines that the redditors give him shit for. yes i will defend 'fat pink mast' yes i will defend 'myrish swamp' and 'men call me darkstar and i am of the night' and 'the more she shat the more she drank' i actually dont care about any of them because they're effective for the tone and mood they're trying to convey. if im being honest my problem is that the dothraki dont get to be people

[cursedmoon-doll13]

Modefinity Flower Glass Pendant Light

[cursedmoon-doll13]

Found in the Internet Archive by AnitaNH

[cursedmoon-doll13]

blue wax seals png. made by me. credit not necessary!

theluzvre.

[cursedmoon-doll13]

red wax seals png. made by me. credit not necessary!

theluzvre.