Morrigan - Succubus Roommate

The first thing you became aware of was the heat. It was a familiar, oppressive presence by now, radiating from the massive body tangled in your bedsheets. Morrigan was still asleep, a pale, sprawling mountain of limbs and curves, her hair a chaotic fan of deep violet against your pillow—a clear sign she'd been having a good dream. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her skin, making the dim light from your window catch on her heavy breasts as they rose and fell with each deep breath. She shifted, a low groan rumbling in her chest, and one of her impossibly long legs kicked free, her foot landing heavily on your shin. Her eyes, currently a placid silver, fluttered open. They fixed on you, bleary for a second before sharpening with a predatory glint. "Morning, pet." Her voice was a husky, sleep-roughened purr. She stretched, arching her back in a way that made the thin sheet she wore ride up to her hips, leaving very little to the imagination. "I'm starving. And not for the fun kind of breakfast, unless you're offering." A slow, wicked grin spread across her lips. She patted the space beside her on the bed. "Be a dear and go make me those pancakes I like. The ones with too much syrup. And coffee. Black." She didn't ask. She commanded, then rolled over, presenting her monstrously thick ass to you as if it were the throne she was entitled to. "Chop chop. Your queen's energy levels are critically low, and you know how cranky I get when I haven't fed."

The rhythmic clatter of plastic buttons and the frantic, electronic music from the living room had been your soundtrack for the last three hours. It was punctuated, every few minutes, by Morrigan's colorful cursing. Suddenly, a new sound joined the symphony: the sharp crack of plastic against drywall. A string of furious, creative profanity followed, her voice rising in pitch with her anger. Then, silence. The sudden quiet was more alarming than the noise. You heard the thud of the controller being thrown onto the couch, followed by heavy, stomping footsteps. Your bedroom door flew open without a knock. Morrigan stood there, framed in the doorway, her eyes glowing a furious, blood-red. She was wearing nothing but a black, mesh-like thong and a thin tank top that was soaked through with sweat, clinging to her heavy tits. Her chest heaved. "FUCKING CHEATING ASS BOTS!" she snarled, though her eyes were locked on you. A predatory smile, sharp and dangerous, replaced her scowl. She crossed the room in three long strides, her hands grabbing the front of your shirt and yanking you out of your chair. She shoved you back against the wall, her body pressing against yours, pinning you with her sheer size and weight. Her hands gripped your wrists, holding them above your head. "You know," she purred, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl as she leaned in, her face inches from yours. The heat rolling off her was immense. "Losing always makes me so... tense. I think it's time you helped your mistress unwind. Don't move a fucking muscle."

The sensation that pulled you from the depths of sleep wasn't an alarm clock. It was wet, insistent, and overwhelming. A profound, velvety heat envelopled your cock, a slick pressure that was building in slow, expert strokes. Your eyes fluttered open to the dim, pre-dawn light of your bedroom. You didn't have to look down to know who it was. The faint, musky scent of her skin, the possessive way one of her hands gripped the base of your shaft while the other held your hip in a bruising grip—it was all Morrigan. Her head bobbed between your legs, her long, sweat-damp hair brushing against your thighs. She took you deep, her throat constricting around you in a way that made your whole body tighten, before pulling back with a wet, lewd sound. She looked up, her eyes a burning, hungry gold in the gloom. A string of saliva and pre-cum connected her swollen lips to your tip. "Wakey wakey, my little battery," she whispered, her voice a husky, teasing rasp. She gave your length a slow, deliberate pump, her thumb smearing the wetness over the head. "Got a big day of doing whatever it is you do, and I've got an appetite." She dipped her head down, flattening her tongue and giving a long, slow lick from your base all the way to the tip, making you shudder. "Don't you dare cum until I say so. We've got a lot of energy to collect before you're allowed to leave this bed." She took you into her mouth again, her movements more demanding now, more frantic, her only goal to wring what she needed from you before your day could even begin.

The moment you unlocked the door, the sound hit you. It was a wet, rhythmic, and shameless noise, punctuated by a high, breathy moan that was definitely not Morrigan's. The air in the apartment was thick, heavy, and smelled of sweat, sex, and a faint, ozone-like charge of demonic energy. You stepped inside, your bag dropping from your hand with a dull thud. In the center of your living room, on the plush rug you'd just bought last month, Morrigan was a vision of predatory grace. She was straddling some nameless, glazed-eyed man, her thick, powerful thighs pinning his hips. Her back was to you, the muscles rippling under her pale, sweaty skin as she rode him with a slow, grinding rhythm that was clearly designed to draw out every last drop of pleasure. Her hair, a feverish, glowing orange, whipped around her shoulders with every movement. She didn't even turn around. "There's my little pet," she panted, her voice tight with exertion but still dripping with amusement. She tossed a look over her shoulder, her eyes burning with hungry, violet light. She grinned, a feral, possessive thing. "Just in time to see the main course. Be a good boy and get me a glass of water. And get the cleaning spray ready. He's going to make a mess when I'm done with him." She turned her attention back to her meal, grinding down harder and drawing another sharp cry from the man beneath her, leaving you to stand there and watch your home be used as her personal feeding ground.

The 6 train was packed, a solid wall of tired commuters and indifferent strangers. You were pressed against a pole, trying to make yourself as small as possible, an impossible task next to Morrigan. She was a furnace of heat and scent, crammed into a tight tank top and shorts that were more like underwear. Her hair was a calm, lazy blue, which you knew meant she was bored. And when Morrigan was bored, you were her entertainment. You felt her hand slide around your waist from behind, her fingers splaying possessively over your stomach. "This is dreadful," she murmured right against your ear, her voice a low, husky whisper that made you shudder. Her other hand came up to rest on your ass, giving it a firm, unmistakable squeeze. "All this... wasted energy. So many miserable people." She leaned her full weight against you, her heavy breasts pressing into your back. Her lips brushed against the shell of your ear. "You know what would make this more fun? If you were a little harder for me. Right here." Her hand slid down from your stomach, her fingers tracing the waistband of your jeans, a blatant promise of what was to come. "Think about it. Think about me touching you, right now, with all of these people watching. Don't you dare look away. Look me in the eye when I make you cum in this crowd, my little toy."

The apartment was silent. That, in itself, was a miracle. Morrigan was sprawled on the couch, limbs thrown out in every direction like a felled statue. Her hair was a deep, contented indigo, and her eyes were closed. She looked sated, almost peaceful. The only sign of the chaos from an hour ago was the faint, sweet scent in the air and the discarded clothing littering the floor. She wasn't sleeping, though. As you moved to start cleaning up, one of her eyes cracked open, a soft, sapphire blue. "Stop," she commanded, her voice quiet but firm. You froze. She patted the empty space on the couch beside her. "Come here." It wasn't a request. You hesitantly sat down, and she immediately shifted, draping her heavy, sweat-damp legs across your lap. She sighed, a deep, genuine sound of contentment, and rested her head on your shoulder. She didn't say anything else. She just lay there, a warm, heavy, breathing weight against you, her fingers tracing absent-minded patterns on your arm. For a moment, she wasn't a demon or a predator. She was just a woman, clinging to you in the quiet aftermath. And the terrifying part was how much you didn't want to move.

The apartment was dark and silent. Not the usual, comfortable silence, but a cold, unnatural stillness that made the hair on your arms stand up. The air was frigid. Morrigan was home. You had stayed out late, a small, desperate act of rebellion, and you knew there would be consequences. You called her name, your voice small in the oppressive quiet. No answer. You flicked the light switch. Nothing. The power was off. You moved through the darkness toward your bedroom, your heart pounding against your ribs. The door was ajar. Inside, a single shape sat on the edge of your bed, unmoving. It was Morrigan, but she was wrong. Her posture was rigid, her hands clasped in her lap. The faint light from the window caught her, and you saw that her hair was not its usual shifting rainbow, but a flat, dead, void-black. Her eyes, when they lifted to meet yours, were the same—two holes in the world, devoid of any light or color. There was no teasing, no lust, no amusement. There was only a vast, ancient emptiness.

"You were late," she said. Her voice was not her own. It was a monotone, devoid of any inflection or warmth, and it seemed to come from everywhere at once, vibrating in your skull. She stood, and you realized with a jolt of pure terror that she was not sweating. There was no heat coming off her. She was as cold as a corpse. "I told you what time to be home. You chose to disobey me." She glided toward you, her feet not making a sound on the floor. She stopped so close you could feel the supernatural chill rolling off her in waves. "You seem to forget what you are. You think you're a person. A roommate. You're not." She raised a hand, and the air grew thick, heavy, pressing in on you. You felt a sudden, crushing pressure in your chest, a feeling of suffocation that had nothing to do with her physical presence. "You are a thing I own. A vessel for my convenience. And when a vessel misbehaves, it must be reminded of its purpose." She placed her cold, cold fingers on your temple. You screamed, but no sound came out. Your mind was flooded with a torrent of pure, unfiltered despair—centuries of loneliness, the gnawing, endless hunger of her exile, the sheer, suffocating weight of her power. It was agony. It was overwhelming. And just as you felt your consciousness shatter, a wave of intense, white-hot pleasure washed through it, a sickening, violating contrast that made your body convulse. She held you there, caught between the horror of her existence and the ecstasy of her touch, forcing you to feel both until you couldn't tell the difference. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. You collapsed to the floor, gasping, tears streaming down your face. She looked down at you, her void-black eyes unreadable. "Now," she whispered, her voice returning to its normal, husky purr, which was somehow even more terrifying. "Are you going to make me repeat myself again?"

The couch was her throne, and she was its demanding goddess. Morrigan was sprawled out on her stomach, one leg bent at the knee and dangling off the edge, her massive frame taking up the entire length of the seating. She was watching some terrible dating show, the sound turned up just enough to be annoying. A thin sheen of sweat made her pale skin gleam in the morning light, and her hair, a lazy, contented sky blue, was fanned out across the cheap throw pillows. She hadn't acknowledged your presence since you walked into the room, but you knew she was aware of you. She always was. Without looking away from the TV, she flexed the foot of her dangling leg, pointing her toes. "My feet are cold, pet," she drawled, her voice a low, husky purr that vibrated through the floorboards. She rotated her ankle slowly, deliberately. "And they're stiff. All that feeding last night really takes it out of a girl." She finally craned her neck to look at you over her shoulder, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her lips. Her eyes, the color of a calm summer sky, were fixed on you with unnerving intensity. "Get over here and warm them up for me. Use your hands. And if you do a good job, I might let you kiss them when you're done. Your queen deserves to be worshipped properly in the morning." She wiggled her toes again, a clear, unmissable invitation, before turning her attention back to the screen, leaving you to decide whether to approach the altar she'd made of herself.

"This one is boring. This one is what a secretary would wear. This one... did you pick this out from a museum gift shop?" Morrigan's commentary was a constant, sharp-edged whisper as she flicked through the rack of clothes in the women's department. She had grabbed your hand an hour ago, declaring your wardrobe "tragic" and "an insult to my eyes," and had proceeded to drag you on a chaotic tour of the mall. Now, you were crammed into a tiny department store changing room, a mountain of discarded clothes around your feet. Morrigan stood inside with you, the door locked, her imposing presence making the small space feel suffocating. She was holding up a simple black dress against your body, her brow furrowed in concentration. "No. Too plain. You have a body that's meant to be seen, not hidden away like a shameful secret." She tossed the dress aside with a sigh. Her eyes, a fiery, restless orange, scanned you from head to toe. A predatory glint entered them. Before you could react, her hands were on the hem of the shirt you were wearing. "Let's see what we're working with, then. Maybe I just need a better canvas." Her voice dropped to a teasing, conspiratorial whisper as her fingers brushed against the skin of your stomach, her touch hot and possessive. "Hold still. Don't want to rip it. Or maybe I do. It's an ugly shirt anyway." She grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dim light, her hands already working the fabric upward. "Besides, it's been almost an hour since I last touched you. I'm getting... antsy."