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eruden-writes · 1 year

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Graveyard Smash

Just a dirty little tale that happens around Halloween. Fair warning, I did not re-read this or edit. This was all pretty much written in 1 sitting yesterday.

I have ideas for 2 more installments, but not sure if I'll get to them.

A witch pushes a cemetery's ghosts too far and the the resident "keeper" - a ghoul - decides she needs to pay penance.

tw: noncon/dubcon, spanking, caning, restraint.

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Read in full on Patreon.

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Dark and brisk, it was the perfect October night to stroll through a local graveyard. The half moon hung low in the sky, behind blue-tinged clouds. Light pollution made it hard to see the stars, though Tillie had an easy time maneuvering the cemetery. Her cell phone’s flashlight helped, but so did her sense of confidence when walking between tombstones.

Having recently moved to the area, Tillie thought to cross off “meeting the local spirits in the cemetery” off her list. The night was relatively temperate and it was the spooky season, after all.

As such, she found herself conversing with the spirit of a young woman, Abigail, dressed in 1800s garb.

An expression of increasing discomfort spread over Abigail’s face as the conversation continued. Until she eventually whined, “I don’t wish to speak to you any longer.”

“I just have a few more questions.” Tillie raised a finger up, looking imploringly at the ghost. She had already asked about Abigail’s family life and what led up to her death. With each question, the phantom’s frown grew and a distant look sunk into her eyes.

“Enough! Please!” Abigail spun away, a cold breeze kicked up around her. She floated away from Tillie, her hands pressed to her ears though it would do nothing to abate the witch’s curiosity.

Undeterred, Tillie followed after Abigail, notebook and pencil poised in her hands. “Please, did you have any suspicions that your husband would kill you? Did you try speaking to your family about it?”

From a near distance, Mortem watched the scene play out. Though his beaky mask obscured his expression, a displeased aura emitted around him.

The figure made a motion with his hand and glowing green skeletal arms shot up from the ground. Tillie yelped, dropping her journal and pencil as bony fingers curled around her wrists. The disembodied arms tugged until she was embarrassingly bent over a tombstone, the hem of her dress riding high. Tillie flushed, feeling the cool breeze caress along her legging- covered upper thighs. Her plush stomach cushioned her from the stone, but the overall position was still awkward.

“What’s the meaning of this,” Tillie demanded, struggling against her bony binds. Her boots kicked out, trying to gain leverage against the tombstone. Cold dread drizzled through her as someone spoke up behind her.

“You have disturbed the spirits in their final resting place.” Stepping from his shadowy perch, Mortem neared the witch. He hadn’t meant to drape her over a tombstone, but he couldn’t say he necessarily regretted it as his gaze trailed the curvature of their rear.

The black dress she wore was relatively short, with lacy sleeves, but she maintained her modesty with her leggings. A necklace with a star and dangling crescent earrings hinted to what Mortem could smell on her. The scent of a witch.

She had traipsed into his graveyard and introduced herself - Tillie Ravenswood, she/her and they/them - to any spirits she could find. Each discussion led to her overwhelming the spirit until they dissipated into the void. Then she would saunter off to find another victim.

“I was merely asking questions!” This was ridiculous! She had simply been asking the spirits questions, which is what she had done in her hometown. Albeit, those ghosts were used to nosy witches, since she and her family had grown up with them. A small bead of guilt swelled up in her chest at that thought. Had she gone too far?

Her struggles appeared to falter, rousing Mortem’s curiosity. No matter, she had already issued damage. Taking another step forward, he continued, “In incessantly doing so, you have upset many residents within these hallowed grounds. A punishment is necessary.”

“Excuse me?” She jerked, trying to look over her shoulder at whoever spoke. She caught a glimpse of a long dark coat encasing a tall, lithe figure; a mask and wide-brimmed hat reminiscent of a plague doctor. However, with the darkness, it was hard to discern details beyond the silhouette.

It had been a long time since a witch meandered into his graveyard. Even longer still since he felt the stirring of carnal attraction. Perhaps that was merely thanks to the time of the year, when the population at large turned their mind to ghouls and ghosts. Acknowledgement fueled power and power could make a being do unusual, ill-thought things. Which was where Mortem found his thoughts heading.

Mortem flipped her skirt up, running a gloved spindly finger along the curve of her ass. Tillie squeaked, mortified heat licking up her cheeks. “What do you think you’re doing!”

“Eliciting penance,” replied Mortem, removing his coat and rolling up the sleeves of his button-up shirt. He kept his gloves on, tugging on them to be sure they would not slip before setting his hat atop his folded coat.

“Excuse yo—” Tillie didn’t get a chance to finish her defiant statement when Mortem’s hand struck her rump. Her words dwindled into a confusing groan, a mix of pain and pleasure. The sound repeated as he spanked her again and again, his open palm stinging across her skin. Tillie gasped with each hit, squeezing her thighs close together as an involuntary whine wheedled from her throat.

“Ah, you don’t sound penitent. Perhaps more drastic measures?” Amusement colored Mortem’s tone as he watched the squirming witch.

She didn’t like the cruel smile she heard in the figure’s voice. A second later, her suspicions were confirmed as something blunt struck her fleshy ass cheeks. The breath escaped her in a sharp exhale, her back arching and her head tossing backward. Her toes curled as her legs straightened, unintentionally pushing her rear higher up.

Mortem gave an amused huff before bringing his cane down against the witch’s rear again. The way she jolted at the impact, a delicious groaning-gasp escaping her, made dangerous feelings swarm through his body. He hadn’t felt so delighted in such a very long time.

He stepped back, watching her gasp down breaths. Her face flushed a pleasant pink and her legs trembled slightly. On the air, he could taste something heady, something alluring. It made him hungry for more.

In a droll tone, he sighed, “Oh no, you’re enjoying this too much.”

“I assure you, I’m not,” Tillie panted, though even her own tone sounded uncertain in her ears. She couldn’t necessarily say the pain was bad. In fact, it sent tingles coursing over her body. Her nipples stiffened under the fabric of her bra and heat churned in her center. Part of her didn’t mind admitting to enjoying the treatment, even as she experimentally tugged at the bony hands holding her wrists.

“Another tactic then.” Mortem grasped the tight pants she wore under her dress, yanking the waistband up and over her round derriere. He peeled the leggings and her underwear lower, until swaths of her skin lay bare under his eye. Unable to help himself, Mortem ran two gloved fingers along her slit, excitement pulsing through him as she flexed.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Tillie swallowed, still not entirely sure how she felt about the situation. The spanking and caning, though not on the up-and-up, hadn’t been terrible. The strikes could have been much worse and she still wasn’t sure who - or what - she was dealing with.

She highly doubted they were a sorcerer or warlock. They certainly weren’t a spirit.

Oooh, no. They did not feel like a wispy spirit or phantom. They were too warm, too firm to be anything incorporeal, Tillie thought. Which meant they had to be a ghoul, which honestly didn’t narrow down the list of abilities or weaknesses. Ghoul had increasingly become a catch-all term for any number of spirits or entities, hybrid or atypical.

Unaware of Tillie’s assessing thoughts, Mortem leaned over her. His hands slid up her sides, his chest pressed to her back. He palmed both her breasts in his still-gloved hands, excited by how her breath caught. Feeling bold, he tugged the neckline of her dress down, scooping one hand into the cup of her bra.

Tillie arched into his touch as his thumb skimmed her hardened nipple. Mirroring his words, his fingers dug into her breast as he said, “I will squeeze penance from you yet.”

At the touch, she exhaled sharply before breaking into a laugh. For whatever reason, she didn’t feel altogether frightened of them. “Are you sure it’s not me who will be squeezing something from you?”

“Aren’t you cheeky?” Mortem leaned further over, letting his mask of a face hover near her shoulder. His hands slid away from Tillie, unfastening his trousers enough for his arousal to escape.

Just as he moved, a cloud puttered away from the moon, shining fresh light down onto the graveyard. Tilting her head, Tillie got a much better look at her companion.

As their silhouette had suggested, they wore a plague doctor mask. At some point, they had divested themself of their coat and hat. If there were any other details, she couldn’t see. What she thought was a black bodysuit seamlessly tucked up to the mask and extended below their shirt. Tillie thought she caught eyes in the glass goggle-like structures of the mask, but it was too difficult to confirm.

She couldn’t focus on the thought of his mask for very long as something very firm and very warm wedged between her thighs. Licking her lips, Tillie frantically sought something to say. The ghoul tilted their head, as if amusedly waiting for her to speak.

Tillie couldn’t help herself. She swallowed hard, fighting down a smile as she asked, “Are you a graverobber? Because that’s a big bone you’re smuggling in your trousers.”

It shouldn’t have been possible for Mortem to choke, but the sputtering sound he made came close. He pulled back from the witch, carefully pressing his forehead to the back of her shoulder so as not to poke her with his beaky mask. His hands drew away from her breasts, grasping the tombstone beneath her for support.

“What?” Tillie laughed, her smile growing as she sensed the awkward incredulity radiating from the ghoul. She faintly wondered if her words shocked them out of their horniness.

“I believe,” Mortem began softly, his voice low and stern, “that deserves extra punishment, witch.”

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Read the rest on Patreon!

#halloween #halloween smut #plague doctor #ghoul #ghoul x human #ghoul x witch #witch #spooky season #halloween 2023 #Mortem is a ghoul who looks like a plague doctor #BUT ghoul is just a catch-all term for spirits not easily filed into particular definitions #Also I really really liked Tillie's awful graverobber joke #extra terrible #10 points #lol #this was kind of difficult to write since Tillie couldn't see Mortem for pretty much any of it and he has interesting anatomy

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inkskinned · 1 year

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the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

#writeblr #warm up #this is longer than i wanted i really considered removing that part about myself and what i went thru #but i think it really fucking bothers me that EVERY time i talk about being an artist #ppl assume i just like. had the skill and ability to drop everything and pay for grad school.#like sir i grew up poor. my house wasn't a safe space. i gave up a FREE RIDE TO LAW SCHOOL. for THIS. bc i chose it.#was it fucking hard? was i choosing the hard thing?? yes.#but we need to stop seeing artists as lazy layabouts that can ''afford'' to just ''sit around and create''#when MANY - if not MOST - of us are NOT like that. we have to work our fucking ASSES off. hard work. long and hard work #part of valuing artists is recognizing the amount we sacrifice to make our art. bc it doesn't just #like HAPPEN to us. also btw it rarely has anything to do with true talent.#speaking as someone with a chronic condition i hate when ppl are like u have it easy. like actively as i'm writing this my hands r #ACTIVELY hurting me. i haven't been posting bc my left hand was curled in a claw for the last week #this isn't fucking luck. after a certain point it's not even TALENT. it's dedication & sacrifice.#''u get to flounce around and do nothing with ur life'' is a narrative that is a direct result of capitalism #imagine if we said that about literally any other profession.#''oh so u give up 10 yrs of ur life to be a doctor? u sacrifice having a social life and u get SUPER in debt?#u need to work countless hours and it will often be thankless? well i wish i was that lucky''#we should be applying that logic to landlords ONLY #''oh ur mom and dad gave u the money to buy a house? and all u did was paint it white and rent it? huh.''

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