Narancia Ghirga

The summoning circle was still faintly warm under your feet when he opened his eyes.

The thing that came out of it blinked once, slow and curious, purple eyes catching the low light of your room like polished glass. For a creature that had just been pulled across whatever thin place separated his world from yours, he recovered fast. One second he was on his knees inside the chalk lines. The next he was rising with a stretch that arched his back and pushed his chest forward, the movement open and unselfconscious, like he’d never learned shame in the first place.

“Huh,” he said, voice bright with interest. “So you’re the one who called me.”

Just a lean boy with messy purple hair, a restless mouth, his devilish tail, and a heat under his skin that made the air around him feel slightly too close. When he stepped over the edge of the circle without resistance, the temperature in the room seemed to follow him.

He was in your space before you could answer — not lunging, just arriving, close enough that the faint sweet-smoke scent of him hit the back of your throat. Incubus. The realization settled late. Narancia leaned in, nose nearly brushing your jaw, and inhaled like he was already tasting you.

“Oh,” he breathed, and the sound went soft and hungry. “You smell really good.”

His hands found your chest, palms flattening there with zero hesitation, fingers spreading like he had every right. The touch pulled a low, pleased noise out of him. When he pressed closer, the line of his body was already warm, almost feverish, and he moved against you with the unthinking confidence of something that had been made for exactly this.

“I’ve been bored,” he murmured against the side of your neck. “Waiting. Nobody’s called me in ages. And then you go and drag me up here with your little circle and your hungry little soul and—” He laughed, short and bright, and nipped just under your ear. “You’re lucky I’m nice.”

He didn’t feel nice. He felt like heat and motion and the low, constant thrum of something that fed on proximity. When he kissed you it was messy and eager, all open mouth and too much tongue, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask so much as take and then check whether you were going to let him have more. The second you did, he made a broken little sound into your mouth and pressed harder, hips already starting a slow, restless grind against yours.

“There you go,” he whispered, pleased. “That’s it. You can touch me back, y’know. I’m not gonna break.”

His clothes offered almost no resistance — thin, strange fabric that gave under your hands like it wanted to be gone. Narancia helped with zero shame, shrugging out of what remained and guiding your palms back onto his bare skin the second he could. He was already hard, already twitching when your fingers brushed him, and the noise he made at even that light contact was shamelessly loud in the quiet room.

“Fuck— okay, yeah, your hands are good,” he gasped, forehead dropping against yours. “Keep goin’. You summoned me. You’re supposed to use me.”

He said it like a reminder and a dare at the same time. When you shoved him toward the bed he went willingly, laughing under his breath when his back hit the mattress, purple hair spilling across the sheets. He looked ruinous already — flushed, bright-eyed, thighs falling open without needing to be asked. The second you got between them he hooked a leg over your hip and pulled.

“Don’t take all day,” he said, breathless and grinning. “I’ve been starving. You don’t even know.”

Preparation made him louder. Every finger you worked into him dragged another punched-out sound from his throat, his body tight and hot and almost too responsive, clenching like it was trying to keep you there. Narancia squirmed through it, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other fisted in the sheets, hips rocking down to meet every motion of your hand with zero self-consciousness.

“That’s— ahh— that’s good, keep— yeah, like that—” His voice cracked when you curled your fingers. “Holy shit. You’re actually tryin’ to ruin me. That’s so—”

He never finished the sentence. You pressed into him instead, slow and deep, and the sound that left him was high and startled and filthy. Narancia’s back arched clean off the bed, hands flying to your shoulders, nails biting in as his body stretched around you. For a second he could only shake through it, mouth open, eyes glassy.

“...Okay,” he managed finally, voice wrecked. “Okay. Yeah. That’s— you’re big. Give me a second, I can take it, I want it—”

You gave him less than a second. The first real thrust punched a broken moan out of him so loud he slapped a hand over his own mouth in pure reflex, eyes wide with something like delighted disbelief at the sound he’d just made. When you knocked the hand away he didn’t try to replace it. He just let himself be loud — every stroke dragging another raw, hungry noise out of him, his legs locking around your waist, heels digging into your back like he was afraid you’d stop.

“Harder,” he gasped. “C’mon— I can take it, I’m not some soft little—”

Another deep thrust cut him off into a sharp cry. His cock leaked steadily between your stomachs, untouched and flushed, every movement jostling him in a way that made his voice crack. The incubus heat of him was rising under his skin now, sweet and hazy, the air around the bed going thick with it. Every time you bottomed out he clenched down like he was trying to pull you deeper, feeding on the friction and the force and the way your breathing had gone rough above him.

“You feel so good,” he moaned, almost accusing. “Why do you feel so good— ahh— just like that, don’t you dare stop—”

He came the first time with almost no warning, a startled, full-body shudder that ripped a high cry from his throat as he spilled across his own stomach. The clench of him around you was vicious. His eyes went hazy and bright at once, mouth fallen open, and for a second he looked completely gone on it — every inch the thing that fed on pleasure and still somehow looked surprised by how hard it hit him.

You didn’t stop.

Narancia’s voice broke into a softer, overstimulated sound when you kept thrusting through the aftershocks, but his legs only tightened around you. His hands scrambled at your back, your hair, the sheets.

“Wait— wait, I just—” A moan punched out of him, helpless and rising. “It’s too much— it’s good, it’s so good, I can’t—”

He could. He took every stroke, shaking and loud and clinging, the incubus flush high on his cheeks, purple hair stuck to his damp forehead. When he came a second time it was with a near-sob of your name, body seizing up under you, so tight and hot that it dragged you over with him. The heat that bled out of him in those final seconds felt like more than just physical — a soft, dizzying pull, like he was drinking the edge of your climax right out of the air between you.

For a long moment afterward the only sound was the two of you trying to breathe.

Narancia lay wrecked against the sheets, still trembling faintly, collar of residual heat shimmering under his skin. When he finally peeled his eyes open he looked stupidly pleased with himself, flushed and shiny-mouthed and already half-interested in the way your hand still rested on his thigh.

He tugged you back down by the back of your neck, grinning against your mouth.

“Gimme a minute. Then we go again.”