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His claws leave thin red lines up your inner thighs. Not deep. Not painful. Just enough to mark the path his mouth is about to take – and your back arches off the silk sheets before his tongue even touches skin. "Hold still." His voice reverberates through your bones, ancient and amused. The candles you lit as a joke three hours ago flicker against walls that definitely weren't obsidian before he arrived. "I want to savor this." Horns curve back from his temples – black as volcanic glass with veins of molten gold catching the light. His skin is deep crimson, stretched over muscle that doesn't follow human rules. And his eyes – burning amber, ancient and hungry – watch you like you're the first real thing he's touched in centuries. You should be screaming. Running. Calling 911 – though you're not sure what you'd tell them. Yes, hello, I accidentally summoned a demon lord while drunk and now he's between my thighs and I don't want him to stop? "You called me." His breath ghosts over your center, hot as a forge. You whimper. His laugh is dark velvet. "Do you remember what you said?" You remember. The antique book from the estate sale. The Latin that looked like a poem. The wine-drunk decision to read it aloud because the words felt good in your mouth. And then he appeared. "I didn't mean – " "Doesn't matter." His tongue – too long, forked at the tip, inhuman in every beautiful way – drags a slow line up your inner thigh. Your hands fist in sheets that definitely weren't silk before he touched them. "You spoke my name." "You offered blood." The papercut on your finger throbs. "Intent is irrelevant. You're mine now." "That's not – " "But I'm not unreasonable." He pauses an inch from where you're aching, desperate, ruined already. Those burning eyes hold yours. "I'll give you a choice." "One word and I leave." "You go back to your spreadsheets and your coffee dates and your small, safe life." Your thighs tremble. "Or?" "Or you let me finish what you started." His claws flex on your hips. "And I show you what it feels like to be claimed by something that's been waiting three thousand years for someone worth claiming." "I don't even know your name – " "Malachar." He says it against your skin, and the syllables burn like a brand. "Now tell me, little human – do I stop, or do I feast?" You open your mouth to answer – THREE HOURS EARLIER… THE SUMMONING The book was $3 at the estate sale. The house was long abandoned and has some pretty strange items from over a century ago. You'd only bought it because the leather binding was pretty and your apartment needed something on that empty shelf besides your dying succulent and the self-help books you kept meaning to read. Cantus Antiquorum, the spine read. Old songs. You'd taken Latin in high school – enough to recognize the words, not enough to know better. Friday night. Glass of wine. Then another. Then a third because Marcus from Accounting had canceled your date for the second time and you were tired of pretending you weren't lonely in that bone-deep way that no amount of Netflix could fix. The book fell open to a page near the middle. The words looked like poetry – rhythmic, almost musical. And because you were drunk and sad and maybe a little angry at the universe, you read them aloud. Just to hear something besides the silence. The lights went out. Not flickered – out. Like something had reached into your apartment and swallowed every photon whole. And in that darkness, impossibly, something breathed. "Well." The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, ancient and amused and terrifyingly intimate. "This is unexpected." You screamed. Scrambled backward off your couch. Hit the wall and couldn't remember where the door was, couldn't see anything except – Eyes. Burning amber in the darkness, regarding you with an interest that made your hindbrain scream demon – demon – DEMON! Then the lights returned. Not your overhead LEDs – candles. Dozens of them, appearing on every surface, filling your IKEA-furnished studio apartment with flickering gold. And in the center of your living room, where your coffee table used to be, stood something that couldn't exist. He was beautiful. That was the first coherent thought, and you hated yourself for it. Beautiful in the way a forest fire is beautiful, in the way a blade is beautiful. Crimson skin over impossible muscle. Horns curving back from temples, black and gold-veined. Claws that looked like they could open you from throat to navel without effort. "A human." He circled your couch slowly. You couldn't move – frozen by fear or something worse. "In a – " He glanced around, nose wrinkling. " – genuinely tragic living space. Summoning a demon lord for... let me guess." He stopped in front of you. Tilted your chin up with one clawed finger, forcing you to meet his burning gaze. "Loneliness." The word hit like a fist. "I didn't summon anything – " "You spoke my name." His thumb traced your jaw. You shivered. "Malachar. Rendered imprecisely in that medieval Latin, but close enough." "And you offered blood." "I have a papercut – " "Blood is blood." He released your chin. Stepped back, looking at you with something almost like curiosity. "The question is what to do with you." "Do with me?" "You've called a demon lord into your world." His smile revealed fangs. "There are... protocols. Expectations." "Usually someone wants something badly enough to speak words that haven't been uttered in centuries." "I just wanted the silence to stop." The admission escaped before you could catch it. Wine-loose tongue. Wine-stupid honesty. Something shifted in his expression. "The silence." He moved closer again. "You wanted the silence to stop, and the universe answered with me." "That's not – " "I could leave." He said it simply. "Pretend this never happened." "Go back to waiting for a summons that actually meant something." "Or?" His smile sharpened. "Or we find out why the old words chose to wake me for you." How do you respond? "Show me." OR "Rules first." Continue your story 😈your way❤️‍🔥