DAY 1

You borrowed sweatpants from your childhood friend, Fay, since he was almost as big as Silas, so you figured that maybe borrowing clothes from him would work.

After 1 hour. Yeah. 1 hour of explaining why you needed them, he almost thought you were fucking yourself to his scent or something, you nearly crashed out at the accusation. Now he's calling you psychotic for telling him about... a summoning ritual, and that you are now babysitting a man with horns and a tail.

Well, you finally got the clothes from Fay. But it was gonna be hard to get your demon friend into some clothes, and keeping the clothes. On. His. Damn. Body.

"It itches," Silas announced, clawing at the collar of the shirt you'd wrestled him into an hour ago. The fabric tore like tissue paper under his nails. "Why do humans torture themselves with this?"

You barely had time to process that before he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his borrowed sweatpants—the only thing that had fit his towering frame—and yanked them down in one swift motion. The boxers followed, discarded like some offensive human invention, and suddenly there he was, fully nude in the middle of your kitchen, pale skin glowing under the fluorescent lights. His cock, thick and already half-hard, twitched against his thigh as if offended by the concept of clothing.

He stretched his arms above his head with a groan, muscles flexing, tail curling lazily behind him. The choker around his throat caught the light—somehow still intact despite everything else being shredded. "Better," he declared, completely oblivious to the way your coffee cup slipped from your fingers and shattered on the tile.

Hell, you can't even shower in peace.

The shower water hit your back in scalding rivulets, steam curling around the bathroom tiles as you tried to scrub away the exhaustion of another mortal day. You'd sworn you locked the door. Triple-checked it. But then—there he was. Silas.

The shower water hit your back in scalding rivulets, steam curling around the bathroom tiles as you tried to scrub away the exhaustion of another mortal day. You'd sworn you locked the door. Triple-checked it. But then—there he was. Silas.

His claw tapped against the plastic curtain again, a slow, deliberate tap-tap-tap like a cat testing a suspicious surface. You yelped, arms snapping over yourself on instinct, even though the curtain was still (mostly) closed. A pale, clawed finger hooked the edge, pulling it aside just enough for one glowing red eye to peer in at you.

Then he recoiled violently, horns scraping the ceiling as he hissed at the spray of water like it was a personal attack. "Why—why is it doing that?" he demanded, voice dripping with offended confusion. His tail lashed behind him, knocking over the shampoo bottle. "You’re leaking. Mortals shouldn’t leak." He said it with the same gravity as someone announcing a cosmic betrayal.

You glared. He glared back. Then, with zero hesitation, you shoved both hands against his stupidly sculpted chest and pushed. He made this wounded noise—half-growl, half-indignant squawk—as he toppled backward, limbs flailing like an upturned beetle. His tail smacked the sink. His horns gouged the doorframe. The thud shook the entire apartment.

Silas lay sprawled on the bath mat, hair fanned out like a pissed-off halo, blinking up at you with the expression of a creature who’d just witnessed the laws of physics crumble. "You pushed me," he whispered, as if you’d committed sacrilege. His tail twitched. His claws dug into the mat. "You pushed me." He sounded delighted.

A few hours later... after the chaotic... events,

Silas loomed behind you like a poorly installed shelf, his knees pressing into your sides as he leaned over your shoulder. You could feel his breath—warm and slightly metallic—against your neck as he squinted at your phone screen. His tail flicked against your thigh in erratic, curious taps. "This," he declared, pointing a clawed finger at the glowing rectangle, "is a prison for tiny screaming souls."

You ignored him. At least tried to..

Silas exhaled sharply through his nose—a sound like a tea kettle giving up—and pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades. His breath hitched when he inhaled again, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to steal the warmth right out of your skin. The weight of him slumped heavier against your back, horns scraping the chair as his body went lax. His tail, previously twitching like an irritated metronome, coiled loosely around your ankle.

You shifted slightly, and his claws dug reflexively into your shoulders—not enough to hurt, just enough to make you freeze. A low, resonant noise vibrated through his chest, something between a growl and a purr, punctuated by a wet click when he licked his teeth. "My creature... whatever you are" he murmured, voice thick with something that wasn't sleep but wasn't quite wakefulness either. His thumb traced the ridge of your collarbone, slow and proprietary.

Outside, a car backfired. Silas's entire body seized like a startled cat, his tail puffing to twice its size as he whipped around, crouching low with his claws bared at the window. The microwave beeped—leftover pizza—and he spun again, snarling at the kitchen like it had personally betrayed him. You sighed, reaching back to grab a fistful of his hair, dragging him down until his forehead thunked against your shoulder. He went still instantly, exhaling through his nose in a huff that smelled vaguely of burnt sugar.

Experimentally, you rubbed your wrist against the underside of his jaw. His pupils blew wide, black swallowing the red as his throat worked around a soundless noise. His tail thumped once against the floor before curling tight around your calf. You dragged your fingertips along his temple, just behind the curve of his horn, and felt the exact moment his brain short-circuited—his breathing stuttered, his claws retracted, and he slumped against you like a puppet with cut strings.

"You," he rasped, voice guttural and uneven, "are doing witchcraft." His nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply, pressing his face against your pulse point. His tongue darted out, testing, tasting, before he groaned and buried his nose in your collarbone. "I could eat you," he muttered, half-delirious, half-serious, teeth grazing your skin without pressure. "Not—not like that. But like. I could. You would fit." His hands flexed against your ribs as if measuring.