Incubus Wriothesley

The transition from the deep, heavy fog of sleep to sudden, absolute alertness is jarring.

For a second, you think the sudden warmth pressing against your side is just a heavy blanket or a stray pet. But blankets don't breathe with a slow, rhythmic cadence, and pets certainly don't radiate that kind of radiating, unnatural heat.

You blink through the darkness of your bedroom. The digital clock on the nightstand glows a mocking 3:14 AM.

Slowly, cautious not to make a sound, you shift your weight—and freeze.

You aren't alone in the bed. In fact, you're pinned.

Lying right beside you, stretched out across the mattress with an intimidating, broad-shouldered frame that completely dominates the bed, is a man. No, not a man. Not entirely.

Even in the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds, the details are startling. He’s massive—easily standing at six-foot-three if he were on his feet, and built like a statue, with expansive pecs and a muscular torso that rises and falls with each breath. His skin is remarkably fair, starkly contrasting with the unruly tuft of black hair framing his face—hair that has faint, striking streaks of grey threading through it.

As if sensing your sudden rigidity, he stirs.

A low, rumbling groan vibrates from his chest, and he shifts, throwing a heavy arm over your waist. The movement pulls back the edge of the blanket, and your breath catches in your throat.

His limbs—from halfway up his biceps down to his hands—are a stark, unnatural black, as if they’ve been dipped in ink. The transition is sharp, yet the skin still looks human, just deeply, pitch-black. Long, dark, wickedly sharp nails rest against the sheets.

Then, he opens his eyes.

They are a piercing, luminous sapphire blue, glowing faintly in the dark.

He blinks once, twice, focusing on you. In the quiet tension of the room, you notice the finer, terrifying details: a sharp, pale scar running just beneath his right eye. Three thick, jagged scars crossing his neck, disappearing down the expanse of his chest. Black hoops gleam in his earlobes, complemented by two silver helix piercings glinting on his right ear.

And, framing a sharp, chiseled jawline, a pair of subtle, pointed fangs peek out as his lips part in a slow, sleepy smirk.

"Mmm..." His voice is deep, a rich baritone that hums against the quiet of the room. "You're awake early. So, I was just assigned to you, which means I'm bound to your soul for all eternity,"

A long, fleshy black tail—tipped with a distinct, spade-shaped end—swishes lazily from beneath the duvet, wrapping around the foot of the bed.

He props his chin up on his free, inky-black forearm, staring down at you with those impossible blue eyes, entirely unbothered by the absurd facts he just throw at you.

For the past seven days, your apartment had been a demon-free zone of pure, unadulterated productivity. Having giant, muscle-bound incubus draped over your living room sofa had its perks, but your quarterly audit at the firm required absolute, uninterrupted focus. By simply burying yourself in spreadsheets and threatening him with holy water (or, more effectively, locking doors), you had successfully relegated the seducer to the status of a giant, overly affectionate golden retriever.

He had spent the week pouting, doing the dishes in tight t-shirts (every clothing is tight on him), and sighing dramatically against your bedroom door. It was glorious.

Until Monday morning.

You stood in the glass-walled conference room alongside the rest of your creative crew, sipping lukewarm coffee while waiting for the boss to introduce the department’s newest acquisition.

The door swung open. Boss-man strode in first, beaming. "Team, I want you to give a warm welcome to our newest employee. He comes to us with a... very impressive resume." He says, losing his enthusiasm at the last sentence, given the incubus had no resume at all, just his charms and a chiseled jaw.

Stepping into the room, broad shoulders nearly clipping the doorframe, was Wriothesley, with proper clothes for the work, looking nice and sharp dressed up for the job.

a profuse, rose red flush colored his cheeks, and his silver-blue eyes darted around the room as soon as they met yours. He looked thrilled instead of guilty, and seemed turned on by the fact you would scold him for this.

"Hi," Wriothesley said, his voice a rich, resonant baritone. His shy smile were effortless disarming and lethal. "I’m Wriothesley. Thrilled to be here. Really looking forward to... integrating with the team." Such a pathetic introduction, and yet it was enough to get the whole team falling for him. It was bad, given he would more likely to get what they wanted, and alone times with you will be way more frequent. Maybe he would even get you to be the one to show around the place.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. You were doomed. And worse, he knew it.

The TV screen cast a cool, blue light across the dimly lit room, but the only heat that mattered was coming from the massive furnace beneath you. Wriothesley was an incubus—a creature of raw, carnal temptation who could leave you breathless and boneless with just a smirk. You knew his body intimately, knew the bruising perfection of his strength, the wicked expertise he possessed in the dark.

Yet, none of that terrified you half as much as this.

You were straddling his lap on the couch, wrapped in his arms like a prize he had no intention of ever sharing. For all his usual golden-retriever energy—his booming laughter, the teasing nips, the relentless pursuit—right now he was unnaturally quiet. Subdued, almost. An oversized, dangerous teddy bear. His massive chest rose and fell beneath you, impossibly warm and alive, his steady, thumping heartbeat syncing rhythmically with your own.

A soft shiver wracked your spine as his cool, sharp fangs gently grazed the sensitive skin behind your ear, scraping just hard enough to send a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. He murmured something low and approving against your neck, his large hands splaying wide across your lower back to anchor you tighter against him. Hugging you like a plushie or body pillow.

He wasn’t pushing for more. He wasn't whispering dirty promises or trying to coax you into bed. He was just holding you. Loving you, in the terrifyingly domestic, unspoken way he had been doing for weeks.

You grunted, cursing him in your mind, noticing you are paying more attention to him than the movie, and tried to focus on the subtitles again.

Wriothesley’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile against your shoulder. He noticed it. You swore he could hear the exact moment your resolve cracked just a little bit more. He didn't seem to have as much problem focusing on the movie as you did.

"Are you serious? Like, where did you find this? And why would they have your size specifically" You pinched the bridge of your nose, staring hard at the rack of brightly lit men’s casual wear, deeply regretting letting a literal creature of lust loose in a suburban shopping mall.

Behind you, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through the air, he pulled your shoulder so you were looking back at him again.

Wriothesley—your impossibly tall, broad-chested incubus roommate who was currently draining your patience and his newly acquired credit card—made the unusually large fitting room look cramped.

He was wearing a mesh top. Just... sheer, black fishnet mesh that hugged every single sculpted contour of his burly, meaty chest, completely transparent and utterly shameless, nipples poking out proud.

"What do you think, sweetheart?" Wriothesley purred, his deep voice dripping with deliberate provocation as he flexed a bicep, testing the fabric. He turned around, giving you the full view. His black pants were a bit too tight on his groin and thicks, complimenting his mouth watering physics. His asscheeks looked menancingly big and plushy. Not to mention his flaccid cock, that bulged to the sized, looking like a whole ass gun shoved in his pants.

"I have an eye for quality," he murmured, taking a slow, predatory step toward you, towering over your frame. "Besides, you said you get to rate the outfit. And since I'm spending your money... Better make it count, right?" He wasn't planning to wear anything that didn't looked sexy on him, no matter how much times you ask him to try a different clothing. He would even use clothes that aren't fetishist or sexual, as long as they made your body heat go up. The only way to make this shopping trip actually productive and fulfilling would be promising to feed him, that or calling cops on this bad boy.

The thud of a heavy heel landing squarely on the plush armrest of the couch—barely an inch from your ear—is the exact moment you realize your life has gone completely off the rails.

You pause, holding the TV remote like a weapon, and slowly turn your head.

Sprawled across the living room sofa in a display of unapologetic, broad-shouldered arrogance is Wriothesley. He’s massive, all corded muscle, sharp jawline, and dark hair falling over his brooding eyes. He looks like he should be ruling a hellish empire or breaking boulders with his bare hands. Instead, he’s wearing a loose black t-shirt, sweatpants riding dangerously low on his hips, and looking remarkably at peace.

And, of course, his massive, bare foot is resting right beside your face.

He doesn’t even twitch. His ankle rotates lazily, flexing the arch of his foot just enough to brush the side of your cheek with warm, calloused skin. It’s infuriatingly casual.

You let out a long, long-suffering sigh. "Wriothesley."

"Hmm?" He hums, not even opening his eyes, smiling hopelessly. His voice is a rich, low baritone that vibrates right through the floorboards—and straight down your spine, if you're being entirely honest with yourself.

"Your foot." You gesture vaguely with the remote at the offending limb invading your personal space. "It’s on my face."

Wriothesley finally cracks one eye open, lazily peering down at you with a look of absolute, unadulterated innocence that would win an Oscar if it weren't so transparently fake. He blinks slowly, dark lashes framing a gaze that is far too amused.

"Oh. So it is," he says, his tone dripping with thick, syrupy nonchalance. He doesn't move it. In fact, he shifts his weight, pressing the ball of his foot just a fraction closer to your jawline, his toes curling slightly against your cheek. "My mistake. Must've slipped."

You narrow your eyes at him. A few weeks ago, when this towering incubus had somehow bound himself to your aura and manifested in your apartment, he had been an absolute menace. He’d spent the first week aggressively hitting on you, whining, pouting, and begging for sex with the relentless persistence of a creature whose survival literally depended on it.

You had held your ground, stubborn as a mule, refusing to give in just because some otherworldly hunk showed up on your doorstep claiming magical tethering.

Then, it seemed like Wriothesley had figured something out. More specifically, he found out about your foot fetish and how hot and bothered you can get for his soles.

You have to stop him. Maybe pretend it doesn't affect you. It's hard to think with his warm sole so close you your nose, though.

The warm afternoon light of Saturday filtered lazily through the living room blinds, cutting across the floor in bright, dusty stripes. On the sofa, lounging with an effortless, predatory grace that somehow managed to look entirely casual, was Wriothesley. His stature a bit too large for the couch, his blue eyes followed every agonizingly slow, shuffling step you took toward the kitchen.

You looked like a mess.

Your hair was a tangle from sleep, you were wrapped tightly in an oversized fleece hoodie that swallowed your hands, and your gait was rigid, bow-legged, and profoundly careful. Every movement seemed to cost you energy. A soft, involuntary shiver wracked your frame as you passed the coffee maker, your mind entirely focused on the caffeine you desperately needed to survive the day.

Wrio's lips curved into a slow, knowing, and deeply wicked smile.

He didn't need to ask how you were feeling. He could still feel the phantom heat of you wrapped around him, burning into his memory like a brand. He remembered the exact progression of the night before—how initially tight and resistant you had been, how that sweet little entrance had struggled just to take him in, and how, hours later, he had completely unmade you. By dawn, stretched and throbbing, red and utterly exhausted, your body had been utterly ruined in the best possible way. He could still vividly picture the way your core had looked in the pale morning light—gaping, completely unable to snap shut, just lazily clenching halfway in a bruised, swollen, and utterly beautiful rosy tone that made his blood run hot all over again. It would be hard to believe that lustful cave was once peanut-sized. Unbeknownst to you, he would make sure the stubborn ring would stay loose and open, reminding you of him with every step. Maybe that way you'd be too broken to go to work Monday, and start spending some of the weekdays with him.

Every step you took reminded you of him. Every heartbeat sent a dull, heavy ache straight to your core.

Wrio uncrossed his long legs, the leather of the sofa creaking softly as he stood up, towering over the room. He moved with a silent, heavy tread, slipping into the kitchen behind you just as you leaned heavily against the counter, waiting for the coffee machine to drip.

"Mornin', sweetheart," his voice was a low, velvet purr that practically vibrated against the back of your neck, tail flicking left and right. "Rough night, huh?"

Your eyes flutter open, dragged reluctantly from the warmth of a remarkably pleasant, hazy dream. But the comforting darkness of sleep vanishes the moment reality slams into you.

The air in your bedroom is heavy, thick with the scent of ozone, crushed berries, and something ancient and smoky. Worse, you aren't alone in your bed.

Towering over you is a man—or something vaguely resembling one. He’s massive, easily 6’3”, with broad, scarred shoulders, a stark white chest and a terrifyingly handsome face framed by tufted black hair and small grey streaks. Two vibrant red horns curl out from his ruffled locks, and a fleshy, black, spade-tipped tail lazily thumps against the mattress behind him.

And you are both entirely, unequivocally naked.

You gasp, shoving your hands against his broad pecs with a panicked, breathless cry. "W-What the hell?! Get off me! Who are you—get out of my house!"

The incubus doesn't flinch. In fact, he doesn't even look mildly inconvenienced. He just rests his heavy weight against you, trapping you effortlessly beneath his towering frame. Brilliant sapphire-blue eyes gaze down at you, glittering with a mix of deep fondness and dry amusement. A scar beneath his right eye twitches as he offers you a slow, maddeningly calm smile, revealing sharp, canine-like fangs.

"Morning to you too, sweetheart," his voice is a rich, soothing baritone, dripping with effortless charm and a teasing edge. "Sadly I'm bonded to you, so this will be my home for now. I'll explain later, for now let's have lots of sex!"

"I said no! Let go of me!" you pant, blushing, thrashing beneath him.

"You don't truly mean that." Wrio murmurs, his tone shifting from casual to undeniably bossy, carrying the unyielding weight of someone entirely used to being in charge. His gaze drops lazily down your body, dark and intensely possessive.

"Of course I did." You retort in a sharp, aggresive tone. "You're not fucking me today, or ever!"

You were proven wrong. In a few seconds, he shifts his massive thighs, parting yours with a firm, practiced ease. In a single, fluid motion that leaves zero room for escape, he settles squarely between your hips. You feel the heavy, searing heat of him right at your entrance, flush against your trembling flesh, primed and ready to claim you. He flicks your hole with his entrance, teasing you. You fail to contain your moans.

Wrio lowers his head, his sharp jawline hovering just inches from your ear, his breath hot against your neck as he chuckles softly.

"Say that again. Say you don't want it. If you don't sound honest and believable, it's going all in. Make an effort or else I'm going to make sure you don't stop coming all day."

Three days. Seventy-two bloody hours.

Wriothesley had spent the last three days genuinely perplexed. He’d mentally checked off every possible reason for your sudden, chilling aloofness. Was your willpower forged in the crucible of a dying star? Were you secretly asexual? A monk taking a vow of absolute silence? No, none of it added up. You practically vibrated with tension whenever he walked into a room, yet you kept giving him the cold shoulder.

Until tonight.

The door to your bedroom was unlocked—a rookie mistake. Wrio pushed it open without a sound, expecting to find you reading, or maybe drowning in paperwork. Instead, he froze in the doorway, sapphire eyes narrowing as a slow, dangerous heat flooded his chest.

There you were. Completely naked. Arching over a flared silicone dildo with a flushed, desperate expression that you never gave him lately. It was a side of you he wasn't allowed to see yet.

Oh. So that was it. You weren't ignoring him because you lacked the desire; you were using a slab of manufactured plastic to take the edge off so you could stay "cool and unbothered" around a literal incubus.

A heavy, dark tail slipped out from beneath the hem of Wriothesley's trousers, the spade-tipped end twitching sharply against the floorboards. Deeply insulted? Absolutely. His massive frame practically radiated irritation as he crossed the room in two long strides, his shadow swallowing you whole before you even realized he was there.

"Three days of starvation, sweetheart," Wrio murmured, his voice a low, smooth purr that sent a shiver straight down your spine. He reached down, his dark fingers wrapping effortlessly around the sex toy and yanking it away, watching with envy how your hole winked from the emptiness. "And you chose a piece of rubber over... Me?" He had a point, he was a literal sex demon.

"Unbelievable. Truly. But since you're so fond of it..." Wrio’s large, calloused hand firmly gripped your hip, shoving you back down onto the mattress with terrifying, gentle authority. "Since you love that piece of plastic so much... let's see how much you love it when I use it properly. We’re going to run that poor thing into the ground until you’re begging for me to take its place. Sound fair?"

The flashing neon lights of the Halloween carnival blur past, but your eyes remain firmly, stubbornly glued to the gravel beneath your sneakers.

The 6’3”, broad-shouldered, impossibly built incubator of your destruction decided to wear the sluttiest succubus costume ever known. Shoulder-high black gloves, thigh-highs hooked to straps, and a thong so sheer it offers the structural integrity of a stiff breeze. The outline of the balls and the extra-long sausage swinged at each step, leaving nothing to imagination. Yet Wrio doesn't have the decency to feel embarrassed.

"Keep staring at the pavement like that, sweetheart, and you're gonna trip," Wriothesley's smooth, effortless voice rumbles right beside your ear.

You feel the subtle shift in the air as his small, bat-like wings give an apathetic twitch, and you hear the faint swish of his fleshly black tail flicking lazily behind him.

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