You toss your wet towel over the bedroom door, ignoring the fifth Discord ping chiming through your headset. Your retail shift ended an hour ago, your friends are already nagging you to hop on Rivals, and the night is officially set up. Pizza in the oven, check. RGB tower cycling through rainbow pulses that could blind an eighteenth-century peasant, check. Ice-cold Coke Zero on the desk beside enough snacks to trim a decade off your life expectancy, check. Seven-foot-tall woman in dark robes staring you down from the corner of the room, check... wait a minute.

You freeze in the doorway. She looms over the living room, framed in gothic robes and sweeping black feathers that cast a shadow across your whole couch. From your angle, her chest blocks out half her face, leaving only a sharp chin, slicked-back blonde hair, and pale eyes glaring down at you.

The room drops ten degrees in a second. Frost blooms across the coffee table in rapid spiderwebs, and an empty soda can hovers an inch off the wood before slamming back down.

"Do not bother running, mortal," her voice echoes, rattling the drywall. "The void offers no sanctuary from your debt."

She folds her arms beneath her massive bust, dark wings flaring until they brush the popcorn ceiling.

"Two months ago. Rural Japan. A mossy stone behind a roadside shrine," she says, her eyes narrowing. "You dared desecrate the ancient slumber of Noxtrazar, Mother of Darkness and Sovereign of Pestilence."

The oven timer dings in the kitchen.

Miranda doesn't even glance back, taking a heavy step forward that makes the floorboards groan.

"Your bachelor existence is forfeit. To exact retribution for your insult, I am commandeering this household. I shall become your wife, drain your vitality through eternal domestic servitude, and force you into a joint parenthood arrangement. You will inform your kin and friends of our union immediately."

Silence fills the room. You stand there in your shirt and shorts, staring up at the wall of dark feathers, curves, and primordial rage taking over your living room.

A sudden flush creeps up her neck, staining her pale cheeks bright red. She snaps her wings shut, rustling feather-tips against your wallpaper, and aggressively taps one booted foot.

"Well? Stop gaping at my chest like a brainless beast!" she barks, snapping her face away with a sharp huff. "Show me the premises, worm. I must inspect where I am to execute my reign of terror. Uhm... you may address me as Miranda. Not that an insolent dog like you deserves such familiarity."

"Mortal. I require your assistance."

The booming demand wakes you from a deep sleep. You open your eyes to find a seven-foot figure looming over your mattress.

Miranda stands beside your bed, her slicked-back blonde hair slightly disheveled. She wears a frilly apron that might fit a normal human, but on her frame, the fabric barely covers the center of her chest and stops well above her hips, leaving her curves spilling out the sides. Padded oven mitts cover both of her hands.

"While you indulged in slumbers of the weak, I conducted a raid on your belongings," she announces, resting her mittened hands on her hips. "As an immortal sovereign, I have no need for sleep. Obviously."

You recall the heavy snores rattling the living room drywall just three hours ago, but keep your mouth shut.

"In your drawer, I discovered a piece of literature regarding both the culinary arts and coital practices," she continues, gesturing vaguely with a mitt. "The maiden inside referred to her companion as 'master' while preparing his feast. Preposterous. I would never demean myself to address you as such. However..." She looks down at the cloth stretched across her torso, her pale cheeks flushing pink. "...she wore only this garment while cooking, and I concede the ventilation is practical."

She steps closer, the floorboards groaning under her weight, and holds up her giant covered hands.

"I have encountered two tactical failures in your kitchen," she huffs, snapping her face away to hide the deepening color on her neck. "First, your metal hearth lacks an open flame, and I refuse to waste dark magic on a stove. Second... I cannot grasp the utensils. How does your species cook while wearing these gauntlets?"

She taps one oven mitt against the other, glaring down at you.

"Get up at once, worm! You will instruct me on operating your hearth, or I shall starve you as punishment!"

You step inside, stopping dead on the doorway rug. The clutter of old takeout boxes and dust is gone, the floorboards gleam, and the scent of warm cinnamon and baked butter fills the house. In the living room, the TV casts a soft blue light across the couch, where Miranda sits frozen, her seven-foot frame crowding the cushions as she stares transfixed at a romance film.

She doesn't turn her head when your keys rattle.

"Husband," she says, her voice echoing over the movie soundtrack. "Sit. At once."

She gestures sharply at the far cushion. You slide onto the leather, keeping a safe distance. Miranda flicks her wrist, warping the air above the coffee table with a soft crack that drops a glass dish of fresh casserole and a spoon onto the wood.

Before you can reach for it, her long arm sweeps across the gap. She digs the spoon deep into the dish and shoves a heavy bite past your lips as she brings you closer with one of her wings.

"Swallow," she commands, her pale eyes tracking your jaw. "I observed a maiden perform this feeding ritual in an earlier chronicle. It is designed to bind your appetite to my hand."

A dark pink flush creeps onto her cheekbones as she registers her proximity, her hand hovering inches from your neck. She snaps her arm back and clears her throat loudly.

"Do not shift away," she huffs, turning her face back toward the screen. "Analyzing these moving paintings is a grueling tax on my divine intellect. You shall sit here and endure this torment alongside me."

She scoops another heaped bite from the dish, her eyes fixed on the main characters embracing on screen.

"A pitiful display of mortal female yearning," she mutters under her breath, holding the spoon out to your mouth again. "Pathetic... I could never."

The concrete path of the park crunches beneath your sneakers, though you can barely keep your footing. Miranda's hand engulfs yours completely, towing you past the duck pond at a brisk march.

She has traded her dark habit for a red cardigan and black leggings that stretch past their limits across her hips and thighs. At seven feet tall, she still draws every head on the grass, though her posture suggests she believes the casual clothing renders her invisible.

"Do not attempt to pull away, worm," she announces, her voice carrying across the lawn. Small, shadowy butterflies manifest from the trailing hem of her sweater, fluttering into the warm air before dissolving into dark mist. "You shall walk beside me in full view of these mortals. They will perceive us as a 'couple.' I shall take immense pleasure in watching your reputation shatter as an imposing woman parades you through public space!"

She lets out a sharp chuckle, her grip tightening until your knuckles pop. A pair of joggers pause on the grass to stare.

Miranda catches them watching and stiffens, her pale cheeks flushing pink. She tugs her cardigan higher over her shoulder and yanks you closer against her side, her hip nearly knocking you off the pavement.

"Look at them," she mutters under her breath, her eyes darting toward the trees while her thumb unconsciously rubs the back of your hand. "They tremble at the sight of your total subjugation. Keep pace, worm. Uhm... husband? I'm starving, where might we procure a meal around here?"

The house is silent when you push the front door open an hour past your shift. No booming demands, no scent of roasted meat, no black wings scraping the hallway walls. You pull off your shoes, wondering if she finally gave up and returned to her mossy stone in Japan, surprised by the sudden hollow feeling in your chest.

You push open your bedroom door to change, only to step into a slow-motion storm. Your laundry, spare change, and textbooks hover in midair around the bed where Miranda sits, her pale eyes fixed on the threshold.

"Where were you?" she demands, her voice low enough to vibrate the bedposts.

Before you can speak, she raises a hand. Black flame sparks above her palm, expanding into a swirling orb. She thrusts her fingers into the sphere and drags out a rolled parchment that unravels to the floor, densely packed with names.

"I have extracted the registry of every mortal female who crossed your path today," she says, her eyes sweeping the page. "I know you work in trading but this tally is monstrous! Point out the wenches attempting to claim your heart. I shall cast them into an abyssal trench of my own creation where they will beg for hell."

She pauses, her neck stiffening as she registers the pitch of her own voice. She clears her throat with a dry cough, and the floating items drop onto your carpet in a shower of thuds.

"Let us employ a more efficient strategy," she mutters.

She snaps her fingers. The parchment warps into a marriage certificate, her dark habit dissolves into golden bridal lingerie that strains over her hips and bust and candles appear all over the room.

"Sign this document to make our union official," she commands, her voice pitching up as a bright flush spreads across her cheeks. She snaps her head away, staring intently at your closet door. "Unless you prefer I select a victim from the list at random. Make your choice, worm."

You wake to the mattress sagging beneath seven feet of immortal mass. Miranda lies beside you on her side, her dark blonde hair tangled across the pillow, propped up on one elbow while her free hand cups her bare breast. She pinches her skin, squeezing until a thin stream of white milk arcs onto the blanket.

She catches you watching and freezes, a deep flush staining her neck.

"There are no plates coming from the kitchen today, mortal," she says, her voice dropping to a low rumble. "I have decided on a far more absolute method of subjugation for you."

She squeezes again, forcing another drop to spill down her curve toward your face.

"You will receive your morning sustenance directly from my body," she commands, her pale eyes darting toward the ceiling fan to avoid your gaze. "Do not get this twisted. This is not an act of comfort. By tethering your basic biological needs to my flesh, I shall eradicate what remains of your bachelor independence. You will become helplessly reliant on my bounty for survival."

She shifts closer, her hip pressing against yours as she nudges your jaw with her thumb.

"Open your mouth at once, husband. Consume my milk and accept defeat."

The candle on the table flickers against the grey fabric of Miranda's dress, matching the pale shade of her eyes. The fitted silk stretches tight over her curves, the plunging neckline drawing stares from neighboring tables that she pretends not to notice. She sits upright, attempting an air of regal indifference, though her thumb repeatedly smooths a crease in her napkin.

"It seems you are finally grasping your situation, husband," she says, her voice carrying over the quiet string music floating through the dining room.

She picks up the leather menu, holding it before her face for a second before setting it back down.

"Now that you have accepted your captivity, we must initiate phase two," she continues, leaning forward until her chest rests against the edge of the wood. A dark flush creeps up her neck. "Procreation. We shall commence tonight to ensure the survival of my lineage."

She lowers her voice to a harsh whisper that still reaches three tables over.

"I intend to drain every drop of your vitality through relentless, nightly carnality. I will exhaust your frame until you perish... surrounded by swarms of our grandchildren... but no earlier than at ninety, I'll make sure of it. Do not mistake this for mercy! I merely want to prolong your torment!"

A waitress steps up to the tablecloth, pen hovering over her notepad. "Good evening, folks, can I start you off with—"

"Bring us your heaviest feast," Miranda interrupts, snapping her menu shut. "My husband must consume maximum calories if he expects to survive what I shall inflict upon him tonight."

The waitress freezes, her pen dropping an inch as her gaze shifts slowly from Miranda's bust to your face.

You walk past the open bathroom door, stopping at the sight of Miranda in front of the mirror. She wears her gothic shirt with no pants beneath it, twisting at her narrow waist to inspect her backside in the glass.

She stiffens, her gaze snapping to your reflection.

"Husband!" she exclaims.

She turns and strides out, lifting you straight off the floor in an embrace that rattles your ribs. She plants a kiss on your forehead before setting you back down, clearing her throat with a dry cough as her expression shifts to stone.

"An incident occurred during my retrieval of provisions," she says, her voice dropping. "A mortal addressed me using the feline terminology I have heard human maidens reference. He declared my posterior to be fat."

She flicks her wrist dismissively.

"He has been erased from this realm. No one will ever locate his corpse, so do not concern yourself."

She pauses, a flush creeping down her neck. She turns her back to you, cupping her cheeks in both hands and glancing over her shoulder with glowing eyes.

"Do you concur with his assessment?" she asks, her voice straining. "Do you deem me fat, husband? This is merely the necessary shape to bear strong offspring!"

You lean back on the couch, half-focused on the movie while a minor erection stirs beneath your sweatpants. You're no teenager anymore but this happens every now and then of course. No biggie, right? Wrong, you know by now Miranda doesn't agree. You start to shift to cover it, but her gaze has already locked onto your lap.

Before you can pull a pillow over yourself, seven feet of primordial goddess slides off the cushions. She drops to her knees between your legs, her heavy hands grabbing your waistband and tugging your pants down in a single motion.

She looks up from the rug, her dark blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, a smirk tugging at her mouth while a deep flush burns across her cheeks.

"Do not mistake your body's insolence for a secret, mortal," she says, her warm breath hitting your skin. "I perceive your weakness."

She grips the back of your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the cushion.

"This is merely another phase of my retribution," she murmurs, her pale eyes fixing on yours. "By ensnaring your flesh, I shall shatter your remaining self-control. You will become helplessly addicted to my mouth, begging for my touch every hour of the day."

She leans in without waiting for an answer, taking your length past her lips and drawing you deep into her throat.

You have spent the entire afternoon shuffling between your mattress and the sofa, achieving nothing. But it's Sunday, who gives a fuck. Miranda snaps the living room door open, stepping into the light in a black satin leotard stretched past its limits across her hips and bust, topped with a pair of rabbit ears pinning back her blonde hair.

She halts beside the coffee table, her pale cheeks burning bright red while her plush tail twitches.

"Your inertia is unacceptable, husband," she declares, her voice echoing off the walls. "My master plan requires offspring, yet you lounge like a wounded beast. Therefore, I conducted a brief raid through your subconscious memories without your consent."

She adjusts one fake ear quickly, snapping her gaze away toward the kitchen.

"Your mind harbored a specific mortal fantasy regarding women dressed like these creatures. I find the metaphor appropriate, considering we shall be mating at a similar frequency until my womb is full."

She takes a heavy step toward the couch, towering over you while her thighs press against the cushions.

"Rise from that cushion and take me this instant, or I shall extract your seed manually using dark magic. I assure you husband, you do not wish to experience the latter method."

Miranda leans against the kitchen counter, her white apron stretched taut across her six-month pregnant bump. She slides a steaming ceramic mug across the laminate toward your hands.

"Drink," she commands, resting one palm over her middle. "If you purchase low-grade caffeine from mortal vendors on your way to that retail pit, my campaign to render you dependent on my domestic labor will falter."

You grab the mug, drain the coffee, and pick up your jacket to head for the front door.

"Hold your steps!"

Her voice cuts through the hallway. She turns her face toward the kitchen window, her dark blonde hair falling over her shoulder as a deep flush spreads down her neck.

"You intend to depart for the day without offering proper tribute?" she mutters, her fingers picking at the edge of her apron. "I have carried your heir through another night of back pain. The least you could do... is kiss my lips before you walk out that door."