#interactive story??

[eldritch-nightmare]

i think a creepypasta dating sim would be fun. especially if it has a route for liu and sully. solo routes and poly route where you can date both of them.

and i think liu's route should be you trying to help him kill jeff. bad ending is u dying in his arms after jeff (or sully) kills u and good end is. u living. and dating him i guess.

and sully's route branches off liu's route and u can unlock it halfway through where like. sully takes control after an encounter w jeff. bad end ends w sully killing u because he views u as a threat to liu's safety. good end u get a kiss and a boyfriend

and then the poly ending can only be unlocked once u do both their separate routes my god why am i putting so much thought into this

god if i could i'd make one so fucking fast i got so many ideas reverberating in my brain.

[artemisdesari-blog]

A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.

My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.

My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.

This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.

Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.

I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.

So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.

[kawoid]

why choose only one vessel if you can use two

[potato-lord-but-not]

FAROEVERSE DOODLES I can only think about her for 5 minutes at a time before I become unwell and need to lie down

(also in this au Arthur dies during the book incident instead of Parker (who probably wasn’t present), she’d been going thru his office trying to find a way to be helpful bc her father never tells her things and keeps his job from her and she found some things she probably shouldn’t have, Arthur caught her a bit too late)

((AND Jane is literally the exact same as John except her gender got transed in the opposite direction))

[eggsploded]

heiress eternal

[alfheimr]

you feel real to me.

[peanutseagle]

imagine being obsessed with drawing your crush haha couldn't be me 💕

[redeemed-wren]

I do find it facinating how Dracula Daily has turned Dracula into a different kind of myth now that we're in its third year running. I've seen a few people compare it to Hadestown, or a timeloop. The enjoyment isn't JUST from engaging with the story now, it's engaging with the experience, and while the emails are still the same as previous years, we've been through this before.

The way we as an audience interact with this story and this way of telling the story changes the genre. Its no longer a gothic horror, classic lit story. It's become a mythology, a tragedy, a repeating loop. Jonathan Harker returns to the castle every year. Every year it happens again. And that changes it, builds up new mythos around it, even if the words stay exactly the same.

[kociamieta]

i made a little interactive story about a spaceship and its passenger, you can read it here: passenger9027 ^_^

[thebarontheabyss]

This tale starts with your death.

Read WIP here

(Current wordcount: 240k!)

You remember only the moth, carrying you through the cosmos.

And so, the Abyss beckons you.

Now, you are a spirit, immortal. After a meeting with the Grim Reaper, Death, you were gifted with a peculiar inheritance: a bar.

This mysterious establishment and the Abyss around it serve as a nexus, connected to every realm in existence. It's a haven where spirits and deities, devils and angels, converge to drink and revel.

Yet, beneath the surface, an unease stirs. A voice calls out in your dreams—a loneliness that echoes through the Abyss. Why does it seek you?

A motley crew of spirits and immortals, each hailing from distant corners of the realms, stands with you. Bonds are waiting to be formed, or even love that transcends death itself—perhaps even with Death themself.

Manage your bar, where serving a drink to a god or an eldritch entity is just another day's work. Unravel a cosmic mystery, go on a date in infernal Hell, witness the universe's creation, or unlock the arcane secrets of magic.

Your new afterlife awaits.

A narrative-driven experience focused on character development and storytelling.

Play as any gender or none.

Shape your personality through meaningful choices.

Engage in deep and complex relationships with a diverse cast of characters.

Romance mortals and immortals alike - if you want poly, purely physical, or asexual - they will respond in kind.

Explore the afterlife, visit realms of immortals and gods, and uncover the dark secrets of the bar.

M\F\NB (Poly or Monogamous paths) Death reveals a surprising warmth beneath their eternal duty.

Is there room for love within their everlasting embrace? Read more >>>

M\F (Poly or Monogamous paths) This devilish being, a powerful magnet of desire, seeks more than power in the bar’s shadows.

Who dares to pursue the heart behind the flame?

Read more >>>

M\F (Poly or Monogamous paths) The Witch, with their feline companion, seeks a lost soul, their magic stirring trouble and passion alike.

Can a mortal love thrive in the spirit realm?

Read more >>>

M (Monogamous path)

A mercenary turned security guard, Hastur carries an immortal burden, guilt born of past battles and sacrifices.

Will your love heal his wounds?

Read more >>>

NB (Monogamous path) The spectral diva enchants with their voice, their performance a dance of beauty tinged with the sorrow of eternal life.

Can your love find a new song for them?

Read more >>>

M\F\NB (Monogamous path) A shade keeps the bar’s order, and his silence holds the weight of cosmic secrets and the tapestry of existence.

Will your heart fall for the being behind the shadow?

Read more >>>

With feathers dark and wit sharp, The Raven’s history is as rich as the bar itself. He offers piercing insight beneath a layer of humor.

Read more >>>

The stern soothsayer-turned-accountant Yaga guards the bar’s fortune while wrestling with her own spectral regrets and wisdom.

Read more >>>

Shelly, the bar’s assistant, brings life-affirming warmth but seeks a new family to fill the void of her lost one.

Read more >>>

Welcome to the cosmos: the tapestry of existence, a complex weave of ever-changing realms. Each domain is a thread in the grand design.

Read more >>>

Feedback on any typos, grammatical errors, or other textual issues.

Notes on any continuity errors to ensure a smooth and logical progression.

Thoughts and opinions on the plot, characters, and overall narrative experience.

Don't be shy about sending your feedback - as small as it may be. I'll be answering and taking each into consideration. You are very welcome to post your reviews here!

The game explores themes of Death in various forms, including suicide.

Alcohol indulgence and its various side effects (hangovers, vomiting, etc.)

Sexual themes (currently only non-explicit)

[ask-group-3-1202]

(A small slugpup walks up to the scugs and hugs rivulets leg)can I suck on your fwills?

(this is meant in a safe for work regard)

Uhh..... kid thats really weird. It's like asking to suck on someone's ear.

No.

Also where are your parents?

(continues in replies)

[childrenofcain-if]

THE UPDATE FOR THE DEMO IS NOW LIVE!

what you can expect in this update comprising both chapter two and three:

get an exclusive invite to the illustrious house of styx.

meet the ROs.

try not to burn down the kitchenette with V.

share a tension-filled dance with C.

go on a swim with D.

do some outfit picking with your chosen RO.

who is that blond(e) stranger in the RE4 costume, and why do they look so familiar?

get choked by an RO for all the wrong reasons (and no, it won’t be kinky. repent for your sins!).

get a glimpse into what exactly is... w̵̢͈̱̻͋̔̾̎͌̋̓̏̚͝r̶̭͈̯͊͛̂̕o̷̧̝̤͇͚͚̓͌̒̈́̏̕̕ņ̴̨̬͚͓̫̱̞̘̰͊́̓̅̈̋͠͝ġ̵̨̺̪̳̘̠ up with you.

there may be some errors with pronouns and other stuff popping up, but you can send them to me on discord so we can promptly correct them. beta testers will be desperately needed for the next update so i’ll open the volunteering forms once chapter four is complete! also, it’s important that you start a new game because new variables has been added which might cause you to get stuck in certain areas!

huge shout-out to my talented big sib, @albywritesfiction, for the massive help in coding everything!

PLAY IT HERE!

[reunitedinterlude]

dnp tours + musical numbers

[moiraimyths]

The Good People (Na Daoine Maithe) | Official Trailer

The Good People (Na Daoine Maithe) is a lore-rich and choice-driven historical fantasy visual novel inspired by Irish mythology and Celtic folklore. Play as a tenant farmer from mid-19th century Ireland, whose path becomes inexplicably entwined in fairy affairs after getting robbed by the roadside and lured into the mythic and war-torn world of Tír na nÓg: A once unified land, now divided into the Seelie and Unseelie Courts. Will you escape and return home with your stolen belongings? Or does fate have something else in mind?

🍃 STEAM 🍂 ITCH.IO 🍃PATREON 🍂DISCORD 🍃

Eager to play? Certain route content is available NOW in early access on Steam and Itch.io! For more information, click below👇

Meet the Cast

Facts & Questions: The Game

🍃 The Good People (Na Daoine Maithe) is a Kickstarter-funded project currently in development. Due to the scope of the story, we will be releasing it serially over several years to Steam and Itch.io, and discounting it while in early access. The earlier it's bought, the cheaper it will be overall, and you'll only need to buy the game once!

🍂 Not all routes are currently available! As of Nov. 1, 2024, you can play half of Shae and Maeve's routes; both approximately 50k words. If you're not sure about paying for an unfinished game, feel free to check out our free demo first. It consists of Vol. 1, Book of the Traveller (the pre-route content). Differences between the demo's Vol. 1 and the paid game's Vol. 1 are marginal following our August 1, 2024 re-release of the demo.

🍃 The Good People (Na Daoine Maithe) has a recommended reading order (Vol. 1, then 2, then 3, etc.), which will correspond to the release order of the routes. For more information on our reasoning behind this, click here.

🍂 Due to its setting, The Good People (Na Daoine Maithe) will occasionally feature instances of characters speaking in Gaeilge, i.e. the Irish language. All instances of Gaeilge are linked to an internal translation tool, which is voiced by Nigel McKeon, a Gaeilgeoir.

🍃 The main character is yours to shape. At minimum, you must choose a nickname, pronouns, and one of four default appearances, the last of which can be your own artwork (instructions are included in the game's files). You may also choose to discard the True Name…

🍂 All routes, both current and upcoming, will have both romantic and platonic choice options. If you're uninterested in romance, feel free to make friends instead! No matter the nature of your relationship, you will still be able to reach the good end. Or the bad one.

🍃 Our cast consists of two men, two women, and two non-binary characters. All are romancable no matter the MC, but some characters are asexual or on the aromantic spectrum, which may impact aspects of their romances.

🍂 If you are a Mac user and are having issues launching the game via the Itch direct download, refer to this guide for troubleshooting before sending us an ask. We strongly recommend purchasing the game through Steam instead of Itch if you are a Mac user; it is the best way to avoid issues with launching the game.

🍃 NDM is very intentionally set just prior to the onset of the Great Famine, which is both thematically and textually relevant to the leftist, anti-imperialist story we're aiming to tell. If you would like more insight into this, refer to this post.

🐎 There are secrets to be found in this game, with more yet to come. Prepare yourself for a lot of horse related shenanigans. 🐎

Facts & Questions: The Company

🧵 Moirai Myths is a five-person company based out of Canada. The core devs/founders go by Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. All writing and programming are done by this collective, i.e. the Fates.

🪡 Moirai Myths has a two person in-house artist team consisting of Kazane, our Character/UI Designer, and Melinoe, our Environmental Designer. In addition to them, though, we have had a number of guest artists assist us with the creation of sprites, CGs, and an assortment of other materials. If you'd like to meet them, check out our about page on our website!

✂️ Moirai Myths stands with the people of Palestine 🇵🇸

Disclaimer: This description will be updated periodically. If you're reading this in a reblog, you may want to check our current pinned post for potential changes.

[stellabyystarlight]

hope im not late to the party </3

[theoxenfree]

IMPOSTER

possessed scholar!husband x reader |3.9k| 18+

In an unforeseen act of self-preservation, your family marries you off into an exorbitantly wealthy family, to a reclusive and reticent scholar who provides you little affection. He is suddenly called away for the handling of his late uncle's final will wishes and estate. He returns to you not himself, and with unquenchable lust.

warnings; dead dove do not eat; extreme dubon, explicit sexual content, mentions of (not explored, not described): orgies, heatplay, robbing a mortuary & drug use, masturbation w/ metal dildo, mirror sex & masturbation, hypnotism, power imbalance, murder, body horror, gruesome imagery, classism, detail & prose heavy, roughly proofread.

this is a concept piece, possibly preluding a full story! if you have any interest in having me build a larger piece out of this concept, PLEASE reblog + interact and let me know! I'm only going to go forward with it if folks express interest!

read to the end for author's notes!

In the airless dark of your bedroom at night, you knew the man lying next to you under covers was not your husband. Once he had been, but now he no longer was.

The revelation had come to you before noticing the stillness of his broad frame in bed, certain stiffness which seemed more alike to rigor in a days old corpse rather than a man wrapped in the comforting spell of deep sleep.

His breaths were silent, if he even breathed at all, reminding you of childhood where the floorboards wouldn't creak so loudly if you sucked all the air out from your lungs into your throat, snagging it, holding it firm. Suddenly, you'd be lighter; effervescent; floating across the wooden slabs towards the kitchen past midnight, or out the front door during the years where testing your parent’s patience and fraying the head maid’s nerves was your favorite thing to do.

You’d learned later on, after the loveless vows and complicated legality behind joining your two families, that your husband had a knack for slipping away at night as well. Only, he wasn't at all the sort for flirtatious gallivanting and loquacious rendezvous with secret lovers in dim rooms, smells of mildew masked by a numbingly sweet, perfumey fog.

He was reclusive and reticent; one of those outstandingly brilliant scholars who believed the rest of the world was below him because he hadn't found an equal in conversation or thought. Social obligations—no matter the occasion or person—pained him to where he intentionally brought you as a buffer between himself and whomever was trying to speak to him.

Some of the talk was so astronomically beyond you that parroting the long-winded answers he spoke softly into your ear back to his audience made you burn under the collar from embarrassment and his proximity to you. His peers could not understand why he simply wouldn't talk for himself; meanwhile, they also wondered why someone without their level of formal education had even accompanied him.

At night, he became one with darkness and retreated to the depths of his study across the massive house you shared together. It was part of one of his family’s various estates dotted across the country and his favorite, due to its location near the university where he worked (at his leisure), and its closeness to his only relative he actually cared about.

“My uncle—he has passed. Of complications caused from tuberculosis, I've been told. I was the only family member placed in his will, therefore it falls to me to settle all remaining affairs he may have overlooked,” he said, letting you help him into his heavy, wool coat he left on a hook near the front door. At his side was a hulking suitcase; one he often used for trips that were days—weeks away from home, from you. “He was a far more private man than I, so there's no telling what I'll come across while I'm there. I cannot tell you how long I'll be away. I'm sorry.”

You expected nothing less from him. This man who had only ever touched you once, on your wedding day. He did everything that he was supposed to: tonelessly regurgitate scripted vows he committed to memory, hold your hands, and kiss you at the altar for more than two seconds but less than five, and then gently lead you away once both families were pleased with the performance.

Right after, now as newlyweds, he poured bourbon into exquisite crosshatch crystalware and examined the glistening amber under wan lamplight. He apologized for kissing you, that he wouldn't have had at all if it hadn't been so important for your families.

At the time, it made you feel very ugly and undeserving of the silk and ornate lacework decorating your body. The gold band fitted around your finger was a lofty symbol of acquired wealth, heavy and unforgiving.

“Write to me every once and a while,” was all you could think to say at present, managing your composure well enough as he gripped the handle of his suitcase and leaned into its heftiness on that side. “It'd just be nice to know how you're doing. If you find anything interesting. When you'll be coming home. It gives me something to look forward to.”

“I'll try to,” he said, but looked through you, pierced you, as though trying to see something else. You saw this look most often at events or parties where he'd fixate on a specific point (usually you) and seem to recede inside himself, into his thoughts, perhaps trying to dissect them or make them congeal into something linear.

“Uncle was an eccentric man. There's no telling what he's left behind for me to find. I must go. Be well, my dear.”

Once again, he left you behind without remorse.

Four months passed with agonizing, gripping slowness from the crisp mornings of late autumn into the icy vise of winter and a shimmering white-blue landscape outside your windows.

In those days, you occupied yourself as best you could with guests and alcoholic merriment, whisked yourself away to parties and dinners after wringing out the invitations from friends, and spent many sleepless nights sprawled across the floor beside the fireplace coveting self-pleasure.

You imagined it was your husband there with you, immediately a renewed man after his return and finding you boundlessly desirable, fucking you with his cock rather than the freezing metal dildo you thrust inside yourself.

Even once you were finished, fucked out by your own hand and the object gaping you wide, you kept masturbating until you lost sensation, the motions and metal numbing you inside—until the intimacy and thrill of self-discovery had lost meaning to you.

Sometimes, you were found the next morning by a maid like that: thoroughly debauched with the phallus having rolled away nearby or still shallowly pressed inside. You only needed to threaten her livelihood once for her to never speak of it, pretend each time she hadn't witnessed a regrettable case of personal depravity.

It'd eventually become a frequent enough sight to her that she knew better than to look directly at you when she entered the room. Rather, now, she carried a laundered pair of trousers in with her. They were draped neatly over a bent arm, along with a warm and soapy rag in her hand, which she used to lightly clean you of dried fluids. Afterward, she helped you into the new garment.

“You have received a letter from the Master,” she said unexpectedly one morning, after fastening your pants and tucking your blouse inside them. “It's strange, though, because it doesn't feel like a letter. Not enough… substance. Shall I open it for you?”

“No! No, that's alright.” You took the long, pale envelope from her once she revealed it to you, realizing that she was right. There was nothing to it. Light as a feather, but completely sealed on the back with his personal emblem hastily stamped, or more appropriately, smeared, with red wax dribbling away from center towards the bottom of the envelope as if sudden jerkiness had unsteadied his focused pour.

You flipped the thing front to back several times, testing the way the opposite ends fluttered from nothingness within, and glanced aside to your maid.

She looked to be just as thrown.

“You're sure this is from him?” you asked, bemused. “Who delivered this?”

“Why, a courier on horseback, of course!” she said with conviction, so you knew she wasn't lying to you at that moment. It wasn't her habit to weave tales to get a rise out of her employers, anyway. “I even spoke to the courier for a while because I made a comment about it being so light. He wasn't sure about it, either, but the description of the man who hired him matched the Master almost exactly.”

You had found a letter opener on the desk nearby and made a quick cut under the wax to break the seal without ripping the envelope itself.

“Almost? What does that mean here?” you raised the intact flap with the messy seal attached, freeing all of the residual tracks of wax from the paper so that they fell to the hardwood below like pebbles shaken out of a shoe after a stroll through the yard. “The man was either my husband or he wasn't.”

The maid tried to subdue her intrigue of the envelope, turned, and moved onto bunching up the soiled sheet you'd spread out on the floor last night. “Please don't misunderstand. It was him. But, the courier described him as ‘a very interesting and friendly fellow to converse with’.”

“What?”

You were responding to two things simultaneously right then: what your maid had just told you, and the fact that the only content inside the envelope was a single shred of paper torn from an unlined journal.

The maid fluttered back over to your side as you plucked out the slither of paper, letting the envelope fall freely from your hand to the floor. Leaning into your proximity, she read aloud the same three words that your eyes skimmed:

“Father Marius DuMonde.”

Just as you had done before with the envelope, you flipped the scrap back and forth as though trying to magically flip something into existence. Your husband's handwriting was recognizable in the lettering, but it was impatient; scrawled across a page in one journal in his vast collection like he hurriedly walked past, and then ripped it out.

Nothing else was revealed to you in the seconds after, nor in your long, contemplative stare.

“Who is that?” you asked the maid to alleviate a fast yawning gap of uneasiness beginning to make you fidget and fluster. “A priest?”

The maid beamed in awe of your fast deductive skills and nodded eagerly. “It would seem that way! The city has more places of worship than it does homes for the hungry and sick. Although, I suppose a church offers some of those services.” However, the lightness sank out of her face when you didn't reciprocate that enthusiasm whatsoever. “You’re unhappy? What's wrong?”

“My husband is a scholar. A rigid man of science,” you said, bending over to pick up the discarded envelope to closer examine the disastrous wax seal. “He denounces faith in all forms. Why did he write a priest's name to me?”

That maddening thought followed you for days afterward, sufficiently distracting you from all the regular vices you'd come to rely on to fill the void of your husband's absence. Fulfill the needs he'd never tried to meet even while he was around.

You spent your days brooding in the window seats in whichever room was warmest, molding against their domed shape while leaning a cheek flush to frigid glass, eyes bloodshot and watering against the sun’s searing neon reflecting off of a lawn of undiluted, glittering white.

Seldomly, a finch or small vermin would come into your view—hopping or lunging through the snow, making tracks, digging holes, disturbing your beautiful wonderland and almost arousing you into unreasonable outbursts which then inevitably became the servants responsibility to contend with, should any be nearby to provoke you.

It was the early evening during one of your normal watches, just after dinner and a glass of red wine, when a great clamor carried swiftly to you from the foyer of the main entrance. The servants’ voices were a feverish amalgam of nonsensical babbling, high-pitched, and accommodating in a way that made you think of groveling dogs with flattened ears, wagging and tucked tails, bellies upturned to their masters.

“Come! Come quickly!” called your maid from the sitting room door, her shrill, excitable voice a violent jostling in your head, scrambling your thoughts and anger with it. “Master has returned! He's asking for you.”

You delayed the reunion, waiting several minutes after she had gone before standing. You realized that the anticipation you felt swelling in your chest, rising like growth—a malignant tumor into your throat, thickening your tongue and fouling your taste and smell, was because you were uneasy, haunted by the cryptic message he had presumably sent you weeks ago.

A while later, you entered the foyer to see most of the staff had already dispersed and the ones left behind were your husband’s most loyal. There among them, speaking so unremarkably, so casually in a way you'd never witnessed, was your husband. His good spirits and animated gestures as he handed off all his things to many hands were an odd sight, staggeringly unlike his typical dour.

So, the rumor was true. There was something discomforting in that.

Whatever topic he'd been engaged in fell wayside once he took sight of you: standing, waiting, subtly shifting your weight, picking your overgrown cuticles to remedy how nervous you truly felt in that moment. You'd always been a little uncertain of how to deal with him as he was hardly affable, but this—

“Oh my… there you are, my sweet!” his voice was exactly the same, but his way of speaking was too jarring, almost lilting. Unnatural. No one else seemed to notice. “I was worried you may have been cross with me for being away for so long. As it turned out, uncle had far more beneath the surface to find than I once thought. But, all is well! The old man has been laid to rest forever. The estate is in the right hands. I've come back to you.”

Could this man really be your husband?

He came to you in brisk strides with a certain clumsiness to the way he moved, somewhat off. You thought about seasoned drunkards who could walk along a path, but never on a straight line without gently swaying on and off of it. Mostly in control, but never so well to appear normal.

But, you didn't detect that stiff, hot, fermented reek of alcohol on his breath nor any subtle odor sticking to his clothes as he gripped you tight in an embrace. The only one he'd ever given you. Where you should have been over the moon in joy at his profound change in heart, the little sweetness was like an anchor—arms of a sinewy willow pinning you to an even stronger trunk.

“God, you're breathtaking.” He even sounded winded as he spoke, lifting your face up with both hands to see his dark, dark gleaming eyes. You startled from his cold touch, fingertips pinpricks of pure frost and ice as they pushed into your skin, but you felt trying to reach much deeper than that. “Come with me, my love. Let me show you just how much I've missed you.”

As if fantasy had become real, he fucked you relentlessly that night next to the fireplace, consuming you so completely that every orgasm made your insides churn in agony.

He laved at you with his entire mouth, tongue and teeth hardest at work while his hands bruised and fondled you, fingers thrusting up into your tight hole oozing his saliva and your arousal. It was shameful to think that it took this sort of handling from another person to get you off, squeal like a sow.

He fucked you however he could, wherever he could. Rutting you from behind and against furniture, pressing your bare chest flush to frosted over window panes to make your nipples erect and ache from the cold biting them.

Then, you were settled on his lap in front of a mirror hanging adjacent across the bedroom, his thighs spreading you wide open before your own reflection where you watched his cock plunge deep, filling you to the base of his shaft, balls slapping your sticky skin.

“Touch yourself, darling.” His throat rumbled, turning over stones and shards of glass, overall sounding very husky. There was something of wheeze that trailed the end of his every word, like he’d been patched for a long time. “Touch yourself. Watch yourself while you do it. Fuck yourself like the whore you are.”

Although the things he said were horribly uncouth, unbefitting of a man of his status and who you'd known him to be, there was great allure in hearing him, obeying his wants. You'd only had one glass of wine that evening, but your head and body warmed and buzzed like you'd had several.

His voice was a raspy whisper in your ears, seeping deep into your mind; spreading; fitting the grooves of your brain like the slow sprawl of sap through the gaps in bark. You were hardly yourself those minutes, those hours onward where you witnessed your reflection stroking throbbing parts, moaning, weeping, cumming until it hurt, and then doing it all over again.

The person in the mirror seemed to be someone completely different, whether simply disassociation from yourself or some hallucination evoked by exhaustion and ecstacy. Your husband had faded into the background, his voice creating sounds and noises, holding the cadence of language while seeming entirely unprobable, unknowable to you.

You couldn't understand him, yet you could, and the things he said were vile and disgusting and moralless. He told you of every way he'd like to fuck you, watch you be fucked; but, mostly, he wanted you to fuck yourself with the bulbous bedposts, the metal phallus held under lashing flames to be inserted next to his own cock.

He suggested orgies where the servants could take turns with you. He had almost convinced you to call for your maid so he could watch you suck on her breasts and lick her clit, while he rammed you from the back. He suggested drugs and whores, robbing the mortuaries, and worse and worse and worse and worse…

The next morning, you were stiff and immobile, bedridden unless two servants came into your room to help you squat on the commode. Your abdomen was tender and your genitals were untouchable, forcing you to lie in bed without undergarments to alleviate the raw chafing that could happen with fabric.

“I'm sorry, my darling. I—I lost control of myself. I got carried away,” your husband confessed later on, his sallow complexion keeping a weird, waxy sheen to it. A mask that fits, but not quite perfectly. Some of his former somber nature had returned to him as he sat on the edge of your bed, caressing the side of your face. He was still ridiculously cold. “Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't realize just how desperate I was to see you again until you were in my arms. And then—and then, it was like it was all a dream.”

You thought the very same. You could believe he forgot himself in an uncharacteristic blaze of lust, as men were never taught to be any other way, and most men couldn't fathom the level of restraint he’d had until last night.

Everything else, you'd wanted to believe, was simply imagined after drinking more than you once thought and getting inside your own head full of sinful indulgences.

Still, one thing bothered you: Father Marius DuMonde.

“I need you to go to the city and find him. And show him this paper. Explain to him everything that you know, you hear?” You'd handed your maid the old envelope and scrap of paper, and handed her a generous bag of coins from your own safe.

She looked at you, everything else, in bewilderment. “Don't ask questions. If you're able, bring him back here. Beg him if you must. If it's all nothing, he will simply be an honored guest we feed well, house, and send off gracefully the next day. Should it be something…”

“Are you afraid of him? The Master?” asked the maid, perhaps out of faithfulness to him. Perhaps out of devotion to you the most. “What do you think happened at his uncle's estate?”

It would all be speculation and unjustified gossip without proof, of which you had none. So, you told her that you couldn't be sure of anything right now. “Wait until sundown. Take the old pony in the stables, the one that usually lags behind all the rest. Be silent. Be careful.”

The maid did as you asked and left right before the final light was extinguished by indigo nightfall. You were able to move to one of the windows, seating yourself gingerly, watching her lead the sluggish old pony into cover of tree tops and then nothing else.

But, five days later, the maid hadn't returned from her mission, nor had you received any correspondence from her, nor the priest that she was supposed to retrieve.

A week after that, it was revealed to you that neither she or the old pony had made it out of the woods. The details of the old pony were so gruesome you couldn't bear to remember them.

But, the maid was found nearly decapitated, head twisted around to face backwards, her pale skin hideously purple and black and swelled where it had been stretched like a strap of wrung leather. It was mentioned she had been disemboweled as well, but you promptly burst into tears and ran from the room before the visiting coroner could finish speaking, leaving him to discuss the rest with just your husband.

That night, you lay next to your husband in bed. The deep silence of night filled your ears with static and crunching cotton, whereas a hum resonated inside your head, your chest, seeping into your bones like a cold blanket of rainfall.

The black air took on weird shapes: imagined appendages curling, reaching across the ceiling towards the bed, towards you. Your eyes couldn't focus enough to ward them off, nor the depth of dark your husband's silhouette had at your side.

He was faced the other way, his clothes back to you, completely unmoving. You ventured closer to listen for the thin breathing of sleep, the automatic rise and fall of his body, and yet he could've been mistaken as one of the dead. As dead and gnarled as your maid.

“Who are you?” you asked him. Asked the swirling nothingness in the room. “Where is my husband?”

“You've nothing to worry about, my sweet,” he said readily, so clearly anticipating to have your voice ring out at some point in the night. “He is here with me. Such a selfish, unlovable man. I am the one worthy of this vessel and you. Not he.”

Then, he rolled on top of you and kissed you deeply. Your bedclothes were shucked from your bodies and he pushed your thighs apart to seat himself inside of you. He took you with greedy thrusts, face fitted against the arch of your neck where his breath left a moist film across your skin, but the rest of him was freezing.

Your whimpers of pains were dwarfed by his hot moans into your flesh, teeth suddenly sharper and sinking deep when he bit into your neck. You were trapped staring at the ceiling, wrapped in agony and pleasure, feeling his body under your fingertips beginning to distort and change into something far more monstrous.

a/n; this is heavily inspired from me reading the exorcist, recently. the section with the maid's head swiveled around was a nod to the scene with director having "fallen" from a height and dying similarly. a lot of my most recent reads have been extremely graphic, so my writing has been reflecting that and it's been interesting!

quick q&a!

is father marius dumonde the same father marius from your vampire priest fic? yup! if I go forward with writing the longer story, father marius will be a central character later on, and father shaw will make a reappearance as well.

what would the main differences be in a full story vs just this piece?

a) the husband would be given a more solid identity, appearance, and name. he'd have more depth to build an emotional rapport with his character.

b) existing scenes would be expanded, smut scenes grittier and more graphic, more development between mc and the husband, the maid would have a more important part and given an identity. essentially, most elements from this price would be fleshed out and expanded.

c) I intend to add a "mystery" element to this where mc tries to unveil what happened during the husband's stay at his uncle's estate.

d) I would open up multiple polls to help influence different aspects of the story such as the husband's name, appearance, overall disposition, whether the majority would vote for a happy ending with the husband vs the ending with the demon.

if you're interested in seeing a full story, make sure to reblog and share your thoughts with me!! I'd love to hear feedback on this to know what you'd like to see in the future!