Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Ngh— Oh god, oh— Hah— God, please—“

“He certainly won’t be coming to your rescue,” Jayce chuckles, watching the human beneath him writhe pathetically. He presses a finger back into the man’s gaping asshole, still leaking copious amounts of Jayce’s come. It earns him another helpless twitch from the body.

He gives it a final twist, savouring the way the man’s back arches off the bed. Smiling to himself, he pulls the digit out and trails it up the man’s trembling torso, smearing a glistening line across the bare skin. Then he leans down, and brushes a light peck against the man’s cheek.

“Thanks for the meal, sweetheart,” he whispers.

Jayce makes to stand, shrugging his suit jacket back over his shoulders. Without another glance back, he strides toward the open window, and leaps.

Lights blur past as his massive, leathery wings burst out of his back through the slits in his suit. The city spreads at his feet like a gift, streetlamps flickering like jewels and streets meandering like silver ribbons. For a moment, he simply glides, enjoying the view and the comfortable brush of night air against his skin.

Then, with grace, he angles downward and lands lightly on the narrow railing of a nondescript rooftop. The woman already there startles with a yelp, jumping back from the ledge.

“Stop doing that!” Caitlyn snaps, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“Do what?” Jayce laughs, dropping down beside her.

“That,” Caitlyn says. “Swooping around scaring the daylights out of people like an overgrown bat. Have some culture.”

“I am nothing if not a man of culture,” Jayce says, grinning. “How’s business going?”

“Same as always. Staking out the next target,” she replies, scanning the distant skyline. Her eyes narrow, glowing faintly. A reminder that, like Jayce, she isn’t human.

“Do you also see people picking their nose when they think no one’s watching?”

“Oh, at least twelve times a day. Perks of the bloodline.”

“Fun.”

“And you?” Caitlyn cocks a brow. “Seems like you’ve had quite the feast just now. Any idea who you’ll go for next?”

“Oh, I’ve already picked,” Jayce answers easily. He nods toward the street below. “Look over there.”

Caitlyn follows his gaze— and cringes.

“A church?” Her voice rises shrilly. “A church?! Have you lost your mind? You know we can’t even land so much as a toe on—“

“Holy ground, yeah,” Jayce interjects, calm as ever. “I’m aware. You remember Ol’ Benzo? I’ve acquired a charm from him— lets me walk on holy ground temporarily. A week, to be exact. And honestly—”

His eyes glint.

“A week is all I need.”

Caitlyn blanches visibly. “And who exactly, in the church, are you planning to go for?”

“Ah, the lamb in question’s come out to play. Look.”

The heavy oak doors swing open, and sure enough, a man steps through the archway.

The first thing Caitlyn notices is that he’s got a crutch under his arms, and— there’s something funny in the way he walks. He seems to be missing his right leg from the knee down, moving slowly, limping with the aid of the crutch.

His brown hair, on the other hand, falls in soft waves to his shoulders, streaked with threads of gold that scintillate in the dim light as he moves. The man’s features are almost ethereal, all high cheekbones and sharp angles. A mole rests above his lip, another beneath his right eye, punctuating a near-perfect face.

He’s beautiful alright, but—

“You’re insane,” she breathes, staring at the collar on the man’s neck. “You’re an incubus and you’re going after a priest?”

Jayce merely shrugs, as if they’re discussing coffee orders.

“Why not?” He hums. “Imagine it— Watching the ones who claim to be pure, so blindly devout to a god who doesn’t even care— fall apart in your hands. Oh, the fun I’m going to have.”

Caitlyn stares. Jayce pays her no mind, eyes fixed on the priest like a cat watching a trembling canary.

“Besides, he’s cute.”

Caitlyn finally finds her voice. “Cute won’t save you when you’re coughing up holy water or finding a crucifix stuffed down your throat.”

“C’mon, you really think I’d lose to that? The scrawny midget?”

“I’m saying churches have been around as long as we have. And they’ve been closely associated with demon hunters in the past. They even served as guilds and sanctuaries for them. You need to be careful.”

“I will.”

Caitlyn sighs. “You always go for these people. CEOs, politicians, media moguls… and now a priest. You’ve got a thing for power.”

“It’s what makes it so fun,” Jayce smirks. “They want it, and they don’t. You can see their tug-of-war between restraint and desire in their hearts. Watching them tear themselves apart over wanting you is kind of the point. And—“

He glances back at her.

“Don’t tell me you don’t get it. You drag down a human who thinks they’re untouchable, all-powerful—do you not find satisfaction in that, watching them realise they’re not?”

“I get it,” Caitlyn replies. “I just think you’re playing with fire.”

“Good thing we’re from hell, then. Fire’s kind of a staple there.”

Caitlyn pinches the bridge of her nose. “Well, don’t come crying when you end up getting exorcised.”

“Roger that, sprout.”

—

Jayce goes about the next few days like any other man with a ten-figure net worth and a board of directors under his heel.

He dresses well, attends his meetings, and gives interviews when news stations come knocking on the doors of Talis Dynamics, the current top name in engineering. No one ever questions the way he seems wiser than his years suggest.

Because the truth was— he is.

Jayce had been born sometime in the early 1700s, deep in the heart of Nueva España, or, as the modern maps now call it, Mexico. Back then, it had been a land of contradictions and contrabands alike: gold and poverty, opulence and rot, the Church pressing on one side and indigenous gods clamouring on the other.

He’d come into his nature young. Realised his physical hunger and need for desire and domination—and the magical abilities that came with it. The way people would hang onto his every word, how they offered themselves like sacrifices before he even knew their names.

But, he was also more than his nature.

Jayce was curious, even as a sapling. While other incubi lost themselves in brothels and darkened alleys, he found himself drawn to mechanisms the humans came up with— iron pulleys in mining towns, gears inside clocks, the likes. He’d spend hours watching blacksmiths shape metal, mimicking their movements until he could outwork most of them.

Once he grew into a form that could pass as a human teenager, he began his own business. It started small, of course, fixing sugarcane presses in Veracruz, repairing watches for the more wealthy.

Then, he expanded, offering “miraculous” improvements to mines, repairing clock towers in Puebla. By the time the colonies began to fracture and revolution encroached on both sides of the Atlantic, Jayce saw the shift coming and moved north—first to Louisiana, then to Boston, where the beginnings of industry buzzed under the skin of the new republic.

In 1831, under the name Jayce Talis, he filed papers for what would eventually become Talis Dynamics— though back then it was little more than a machine shop and consultancy for steam engine repairs. He convinced bright minds to work for him with a smile, used the occasional charm when a deal needed to lean in his favour.

He watched industry bloom into adolescence, railroads beginning to sprawl across the land, chimneys of factories stabbing into the sky. And he evolved with it.

When electricity arrived, he adapted; when computing began, he invested.

Today, Talis Dynamics is a global engineering powerhouse; working in energy infrastructure, automation systems, defence contracts, even space tech.

Whenever the question of age came up— a curious investor, an employee a little too inconveniently observant— he simply smiled, shaved the beard, tousled his hair, and reemerged as his own son. Currently, he’s Jude Cross Talis— though he’s more known as J.C. Talis.

Talis Dynamics runs without him, for the most part— just the way he designed it. A well-oiled machine of division heads, automated processes, fastidiously curated executive team that believes “J.C.” is a visionary heir rather than the original founder. He only shows up when it matters— quarterly board meetings, major mergers, the occasional appearance at tech summits.

He lets the others handle the day-to-day chaos. During the day, he simply enjoys the wealth he’s accrued over the centuries— property in half a dozen countries, art collections older than the government itself, and patents tucked under shell companies that continue to rake in profits long after the original investors have turned to dust. For the most part, though, he stays in his penthouse in New York City, the top flat in a skyscraper of 73 floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows all along one side of the flat shows a stunning view of the Hudson, and topiary shrubs are interspersed throughout the space. Hidden beneath it is a personal workshop, where autonomous drone swarms sleep in wall-mounted docks, and quantum chips are crafted by machines he built before quantum computing was even christened.

And at night, Jayce hunts. He doesn’t stumble into encounters or latch onto the desperate like so many of his kind do, no, he chooses his prey meticulously, assiduously. Presentation matters. Quality, too.

They must be powerful— or at least believe they are. Politicians, celebrities, presidents— or VPs, at least— of some well-respected business empire. Confidence is essential. Arrogance, even better. And, oh, of course, they have to be beautiful. Jayce has standards, after all. He likes the ones who think they’re sacred, invulnerable, so used to being coveted but never one to covet— the ones who expect to dominate every room they enter.

And then, he dominates them.

He lures them oh so easily— a glance, a smirk, a few select words coupled with his magic— and they fall right into his claws. Desire comes easily when it’s fed the right illusions. When the door finally closes behind them, when the clothes are scattered and whispers become pleads, he takes his time. He draws out every second, every moan, every tremble. Not because he needs to, per se, but because he can.

Then, when they’re at their most open, when they’re whimpering and begging underneath him— he drains them. Slowly, sensually, leaving them twitching in the afterglow, flushed and shivering. He wipes their memory afterward with a whisper or a kiss, and they never question the missing time, only the vague throbbing in their bones and the sense that something fundamental in them has changed.

And now, he’s finally got the chance to reach for the most untouchable, most sacred of the lot. The one cloaked in purity and power— ripe for the fall.

—

A week since his talk with Caitlyn passes without much incident, and Sunday comes.

It’s a warm spring afternoon, and Jayce strides on down towards St. Mawes, its pale parchment- coloured brick and ornate gilding picturesque in the sun. A single swan bobs along the Hudson beside the far bank.

He stops just outside the edifice, hands tucked casually in the pockets of his pants. The charm, a blue crystal in the shape of a tear, lies beneath his shirt, pressed against his chest. He whispers the activation phrase beneath his breath, and a chill rushes through him. He knows, that holy ground will not be able to reject him today.

His foot crosses the threshold, and lands.

It takes a considerable amount of self-restraint to not laugh right then and there. For all its consecrated grandeur, it can no longer deny him entry.

The very air seems to shift around him, turning dense and frigid, like the ground knows what he is and resents every fibre of his being. But, the charm holds, and he walks without resistance until he’s right outside the heavy oak doors.

He grasps the handle, and throws the doors open.

Jayce steps through, and looks around and the structure he has been forbidden to enter since he was born. It is a beautiful thing.

His eyes move upward. The ceiling above him is fan vaulted, criss-crossing in elegant lines. He follows the load paths of them instinctively, noting where stress is carried, marvelling inwardly at the intricacies of the mechanisms. To think he had been denied observing these structural wonders for centuries…

He smirks, and makes his way further into the establishment. At the entrance to the quire stands a rood screen. It seems to be Renaissance in style, and stands out from the Gothic nature of the rest of the church.

He stops just before the altar and tilts his head back, looking at the crucifix above.

“Hm,” he muses, to no one in particular. “Guess I’ll make myself at home then.”

Jayce turns and/ takes a seat at the very back, waiting for Mass to start. He leans back, one arm draped along the top of the bench, stretching his legs out a little too comfortably for the house of god. A few other churchgoers are interspersed in the space, an old man murmuring prayers beneath his breath; a mother gently rocking a half-asleep toddler on her lap, each of them immersed in their private devotions.

He waits, and the church gradually begins to fill up with people. A few shoot him scandalised looks for the way he’s sitting, but he pays them no mind.

The crowd begins to settle. Voices die down. Someone coughs, then silence.

After several long minutes, he hears it with his supernaturally enhanced senses— the sound of approaching footsteps, leather soles on stone. The organ moans, and everyone in the church turns.

Jayce straightens, the corners of his mouth ticking up involuntarily.

The priest— Father Viktor, Jayce has now learned— appears just past the nave, white vestments trailing behind him like smoke. The cane he usually has with him is absent today— perhaps owed to the presence of a prosthetic. The man has milk-white skin and pale amber eyes that glitter like twinned jewels, further accentuating his already ethereal features. Brown hair, threaded with the barest of gold, falls in soft waves just past his collar.

Fuck, that collar.

That damned white collar peeking out from the black cassock under the vestment, buttoned all the way to the collar. There’s something obscenely enticing about how clean he looks— he’s a blank canvas begging to be ruined.

The priest moves toward the chancel, and the last vestiges of whispers die down. Commanded by the presence of him alone.

Father Viktor bows his head as he reaches the altar, bringing his hands together. He kisses the stone briefly, then straightens.

“In the name of the Father,” he begins, voice honey-smooth and low, “and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

The Mass begins in prayers, verses, and century-old songs wafting from hidden speakers. Jayce doesn’t hear them fully, though— He’s filtered out everything else apart from the cadence of that voice.

Father Viktor speaks, and Jayce listens. Not the words, of course, but the sound. Warm, collected, articulate. Every sentence delivered with utmost conviction.

He wonders how that voice would sound like in different circumstances. Less composed. Breathless. Moaning his name. Bony hands gripping the edge of a bed, instead of a pulpit.

And it will happen. Eventually. Jayce has never failed before.

For now, however, he leans his cheek into his knuckles, and listens to Father Viktor preach about grace and forgiveness. Jayce wonders how long it will take for that pretty mouth to start praying for his own.

Then, comes Communion.

He moves with the others, lined up in rows like lambs. He waits his turn, eyes fixed not on the body of Christ, but rather, the man delivering it.

Jayce’s gaze roams over the priest shamelessly. He drinks in the way his fingers lift each communion wafer— those digits were made for something far more sinful. He watches the curve of Viktor’s throat as he speaks— it would look better arched back, flushed, glistening with sweat.

The man was made for worship, yes, but not like this. Bare skin, instead of vestments. Trembling, not from reverence, but from ecstasy. Suffocating gently, sweetly, breath caught between moans, instead of scripture.

He’d make a far better whore than a priest.

Finally, it’s Jayce’s turn.

He takes a step forward and lowers his head, opening his mouth without raising his hands.

Father Viktor barely even spares him a glance, lifting the host with the same mild, neutral expression.

Jayce throws up a glamour, ensuring no one around them will see this for what it is. He doesn’t want to stir up a commotion, after all. Just another communion, another soul being fed.

But Father Viktor isn’t feeding a soul.

Jayce closes his mouth slowly around the priest’s fingers, tongue flat against the base of the digits. He sucks gently, letting his tongue curl around the offered touch, eyes never leaving amber.

The priest inhales sharply, jolting back, but Jayce reaches out and grabs at his wrist, preventing the man from extracting his fingers.

“What,” the priest hisses, barely moving his lips, “do you think you’re doing?”

Jayce merely smiles, teeth brushing the pad of one finger before he suckles again, deeper this time, pulling Viktor’s hand further into his mouth. The priest looks around hurriedly, but no one reacts. The glamour holds.

Jayce releases the fingers, and a thin string of spit stretches between them and his lips before snapping, dribbling down his chin. The priest’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.

“I see what you want, Father,” Jayce purrs. “And I can give it to you.”

Viktor yanks his hand back, eyes burning. The light filtered down from the stained glass dance in his irises, giving them a faint red glow.

“Must be hard, being celibate,” Jayce continues. “But you know it’s still there. The desire. It never leaves. You just… pretend.”

Father Viktor doesn’t respond. He probably can’t. Jayce smiles.

“I’ll see you around then, Father,” he murmurs.

He winks and steps away just as Viktor turns, retreating behind the safety of the ritual. Jayce lets the glamour fall, and savours the way the priest’s hands tremble as he moves toward the next churchgoer.

God’s loss, will be his.

—

Jayce waits another week. It’s strategy—letting anticipation seep, making the priest simmer beneath his own skin. He’s certain the man thinks of him every night, fingers twitching at the memory, plush lips parting for god’s forgiveness. The thought alone sends a wave of contentment rushing through him.

Patience, Jayce thinks to himself. Let the lamb wait, let him grapple with his own want until he’s at the brink of himself. He’ll break so much more prettily when he finally falls into Jayce’s claws.

And then, finally, finally— Saturday arrives.

Jayce can’t deny that he hasn’t been thinking about it all week himself either. The priest beneath him, hands trembling, that perfectly composed facade starting to crack the moment Jayce touches him. He imagines Viktor gasping, moaning oh so sweetly as Jayce rocks into him, his voice crumbling into a litany of unholy prayers.

Then, crying, coming until Viktor’s squirting, until there’s nothing left, and Jayce will drain him so thoroughly of his energy. He’ll become a twitching, shivering mess, an embassy of the Lord reduced to nothing but a pathetic, mewling wreck.

Jayce smiles as he walks into his dressing room. Waiting for him is the suit he keeps reserved for nights like this. He reaches for a black shirt— tailored from a line of fabrics aptly named “diamond”, woven in a mill called Scabal he’d passed by once on a trip through Europe. The cloth is obscenely decadent, laced with diamond dust that lends it the barest trace of a shimmer, a black that reflects light instead of swallowing it. He slides into the shirt, then pulls on the matching trousers, securing a simple belt at his waist. He deliberately leaves the top two buttons unclasped, just enough to suggest, to invite.

Then, he retreats to his bathroom, and cards wet fingers through his hair, mussing it artfully. A final trim to his beard, another glance at the contours of his face, and he steps back, pleased.

He looks good— no, better, he looks dangerous. Seductive in a way that absolutely demands attention. There’s no way the priest will stand a chance.

He grabs the tailored black jacket he’s similarly saved for his more predatory pursuits, and leaps into the night.

Jayce arrives at the church just after sundown, the rose-coloured stained glass reflecting the last vestiges of day. He’d booked the final confessional slot online, ensuring he’d be alone with Father Viktor.

The irony of it all makes him chuckle. Ah, humans. Always eager to fuse technology and faith. The absolution of sins, filed so neatly between work meetings and dinner reservations. Did they truly believe that is all it took for their transgressions to be forgiven?

He steps inside, the echo of his shoes oppressively loud in the silence.

What becomes of the absolver, when temptation forces him to face his own sins?

The double doors groan shut behind him, and Jayce walks down the centre aisle. At the end waits the confessional, and he slips inside, taking a seat.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he purrs, voice sultry.

There’s the tiniest beat of silence. Then—

“…It’s you.”

Jayce grins— the priest does remember him, how could he not? He leans closer to the ornate mesh, the only barrier between them right now. “C’mon, Father, that’s not how it goes. Or is our dear Father feeling a little… naughty tonight?”

To Jayce’s amusement, the priest’s voice comes back steady, though the tension beneath is as tight as a drawn bow.

“…How long has it been since your last confession?” Viktor resumes.

Jayce’s smile widens.

“Hmmn, let’s see…” Jayce pretends to ponder. “It’s been a while. But, lately, I’ve been troubled, Father. By thoughts.”

“As long as you do not will them into being, thoughts alone are not sin.”

“But Father, I have been tempted,” Jayce continues, letting his voice drop into a whisper. “Desire, for someone in robes. Someone holy. Someone…right in front of me.”

Viktor says nothing, but Jayce can feel the man stiffen slightly on the other side. He knows he’s hit the mark.

“I don’t think you’re here to absolve your sins,” Viktor replies, the faintest edge in his voice.

“And what if I’m not?” Jayce asks, letting a thread of incubi magic slip into his voice, just enough to convince, to persuade. “Will Father absolve me of… other things?”

A pause. Then, a soft sigh.

“Let us step outside.”

Jayce grins like the devil himself.

“Of course, Father.”

—

Jayce is barely able to contain his excitement as he exits the church and debouches into the garden. It’s a beautiful place, lush with greenery and neatly trimmed rose bushes.

Then, he catches sight of the priest walking, well, hobbling toward him. Today, for whatever reason, the man has chosen not to fasten the prosthetic, and the cane bears the weight his body cannot. Jayce almost feels bad.

“Need a hand?” Jayce smiles.

“A ‘leg’ might be more useful in these circumstances, but I appreciate your offer,” the priest replies mildly. It truly is impressive how the man’s still keeping his cool, but Jayce is sure it’s all mere pretence.

Jayce shrugs, and waits for the man to approach. When he does, he steps forward, crowding the priest gently against the garden wall, and letting him settle his weight against it. Jayce towers over him—the priest barely comes up to his nose. One hand finds its way lazily to the stone beside Viktor’s head, palm splayed wide.

“Good evening, Father,” he purrs. “How lovely to finally have you all to myself.”

Viktor tilts his head, not a single trace of emotion in his contours. “Is this truly what you want?”

“Why, of course,” Jayce replies easily. “Is it not what you want, too?”

“Very well,” the priest shrugs. “You may do what you like with me. But heed this. I will resist. I will fight you. And if you win, you may do as you please.”

Jayce blinks. Then, he barks out a laugh, throwing his head back. “Oh, you’re fun. Is that how you’ll soothe your guilt? Pretend you fought it off, that this is all… forced?”

He grins, canines flashing.

“Kinky.”

“You may interpret it however you want,” the priest replies, unfazed.

“Alright,” Jayce concurs. “Bring it, little lamb.”

He leans in, and the space between them vanishes. He nudges his knee between Viktor’s thighs as he murmur’s into the priest’s ear.

“But… Truth be told, I don’t think you want to resist, do you?”

He’s about to nip at Viktor’s earlobe, going in for the kill, when—

Wait. What. Why is he on the floor?

Jayce does’t know what’s happened. He’s got the priest pinned against the wall one second, and cheek mushed up against the ground next. Jayce coughs and splutters, trying to push himself up, but to no avail.

He’s got a foot on his neck.

“Oh, dear,” the priest muses, as if he wasn’t the one holding Jayce down. “Are you quite alright?”

Jayce growls. “Fuck, lemme up, lemme—“

The heel on his neck grinds down, and stars erupt before Jayce’s eyes.

“Hardly the tone one should take when asking for something,” the man says. “Try again.”

Jayce’s entire being roars in protest.

What the fuck.

What the fuck.

He’s a demon. He’s an incubus. Ancient, powerful, seduction incarnate. He’s toppled politicians, broken wills with a kiss. There’s no way this thin, mild-mannered priest should be able to do this to him.

Then, he catches sight of the foot on his neck. It’s the man’s right, and Jayce’s mind reels— it can’t be possible, wasn’t the man still missing this particular limb literally seconds ago? But as he looks more closely, he realises what he’s seeing— it’s not a foot at all, but a cloven hoof.

The priest isn’t human.

As if hearing him, the priest responds.

“That is correct, I am not.”

The weight on his neck lifts, and Jayce pushes himself up—

And freezes in shock.

The man standing before him is still clad in the priest’s black cassock, but that’s where the resemblance ends. His eyes are no longer human, but pitch-black voids with molten amber slits. Curled horns arc from his temples, the colour of obsidian. Thin, violet marks snake along his pale throat and arms, pulsing faintly. A sharp, diamond-shaped sigil adorns his forehead, and inside it sits a third eye— gold, with a horizontal pupil.

And behind him— towering, vast, and completely impossible— are a set of huge, black, feathered wings.

Not leathery like a lesser demons’s. Feathered, like an angel, but twisted, corrupted.

A Greater Demon. One of the first among God’s soldiers, one of the fallen.

Jayce’s blood runs cold.

“You’re a Greater Demon,” he whispers numbly.

“Yes,” the man—the demon, replies, as if he’s merely commenting on his breakfast preferences.

“That’s impossible,” Jayce mutters, chest heaving. “If you were, I would’ve known, demons can sense their own kind.”

“Unlikely,” the demon replies. “You do not seem to possess enough magical prowess to see through my glamour unless I permit it.”

Jayce is dumbfounded. As an incubus, he ranks among the most powerful of his kind. Never once has he been spoken to with such disdain, never once looked down upon. But, there is something else nagging at him.

“Then why the act? Why pretend to be some sanctified priest? You were cast out of His garden, and yet you continue to serve Him? What in the heavens are you playing at?”

“I have received reports of an incubus prowling through my territory,” Viktor replies, without inflection. “Charming his way into the minds of my people. Feeding without permission.”

“So what? They’re free game, most of them wanted it anywa—“

“Enough.”

Jayce’s words are cut off with a sharp choke as the demon grabs his face. Bony fingers tilt his chin up, and the strength behind them is staggering. Jayce is forced to meet his eyes— those amber slits glowing like embers.

“This city is under my jurisdiction,” Viktor says softly. “There must be balance, order, control. Without it, all hell breaks loose.”

Jayce stares at him, silent. Then, without thinking, he spits in the demon’s face.

“Fuck your balance.”

The Greater Demon does not react. Jayce’s stomach tightens. It had been pure impulse—his usual reflex when cornered, when overpowered. But he’s forgotten what he’s dealing with. The Greater Demon could probably make him evaporate on the spot if he wanted to.

Calmly, Viktor wipes the spit away with his free hand, his expression unchanged.

“You are… intriguing,” he says. “More than most. So I will make you an offer.”

Jayce looks at him, dubiety evident in his eyes.

“A deal?”

“Not quite,” the demon says. “A game.”

He finally releases Jayce’s face, and he stumbles back, rubbing his jaw as he glares at the demon.

“If you win,” the demon continues, “you may do as you please in this city. Feed, take, indulge. I’ll even offer myself to you.” He gestures to his own body, matter-of-fact. “Your personal sex slave, if that is what you so desire. You are an incubus, after all.”

“Yeah, right. As if a demon like you would play fair,” Jayce mutters. “You just proved there’s no way I’m beating you in a physical fight.”

“That is true,” Viktor replies. “So let us choose something more… suited to your expertise. Say—a challenge, regarding sexual activity.”

Jayce blinks dumbly. “Huh?”

Viktor folds his hands behind his back, wings fluttering lazily behind him. “One week. If I do not make you climax within this timeframe, I lose. However, if you do… you lose. A simple challenge.”

Jayce narrows his eyes, already suspicious. “And what’s stopping you from just using some spell and make me come in, like, five seconds?”

“I could,” Viktor says, “But I won’t. I will not use magic to enhance your arousal, to alter your body, nor to directly force an orgasm. The only magic I will use for this challenge is to touch you— remotely. I assume you wouldn’t want me hovering over your shoulder all day. This allows you to function. And, to further ease your struggle, I will not touch your…phallus, nor will I trespass upon your sleep. Does this sound acceptable?”

“Wait—touch me? With magic? Is this some kind of curse?”

“No,” Viktor says. “It merely means I will use my own hands, conjured from a distance. There will be no dark enchantments, no twisted bindings. Just me. Touching you. Unseen.”

“And you won’t… do anything to the people around me? You’re not going to humiliate me in front of humans or—whatever?”

“I would not stoop to something so crude. I will touch only you, and only your body. Though, naturally, I may do so through your clothing.”

Jayce huffs a laugh. “And you won’t touch my cock?”

“I will not,” Viktor confirms.

Jayce grins. This won’t even be a struggle. It’s like Viktor’s offering himself up on a silver platter.

“No take backs,” Jayce says.

“Of course not,” Viktor replies. “For me. But, speaking of take backs, if at any point, you wish to withdraw, simply say the word “sanctuary,” and I will release you from the game. However, should you do so, you will follow my rules within this city from that point on. No more feeding without permission, and without restraint.”

“And if I don’t? If I don’t quit before I lose?”

The demon tilts his head.

“Hmm. The same terms. You yield to my authority within this city, as all other demons do.”

“Doesn’t seem very fair for you.”

Viktor doesn’t reply, and merely raises a hand and draws a circle of pale, burning light in the air. Ancient text spark into existence, forming a glowing contract between them.

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

Pact of Temptation — Formal Terms

Parties

• Jayce Talis, Incubus-class demon
• Viktor, Greater Demon, Warden of New York City

Duration

• Seven consecutive days (168 hours) from the moment of pact activation.

Stipulations for Viktor

• Shall not touch Jayce’s phallus for the duration of the pact.
• Shall not use any magical enhancement affecting Jayce’s arousal, sensitivity, emotional state, or orgasmic threshold.
• Shall only use personal conjured touch (i.e. projected hands), and only upon Jayce’s physical form. Touching of bystanders, environmental interference, or psychological manipulation via magical abilities is forbidden.
• Shall not engage Jayce during sleep.

Victory Conditions

• If Viktor successfully causes Jayce to orgasm before the seventh day concludes, Jayce forfeits and shall adhere to Viktor’s rules established for demons operating in New York City.
• If Jayce withholds orgasm for the entire duration, Viktor shall be bound to Jayce as his personal servant, in perpetuity or until released by Jayce.

Escape Clause

• The pact may be ended prematurely by Jayce via the word “sanctuary.” Doing so results in immediate forfeit of all rights to continue unregulated feeding in the territory.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The moment Jayce’s name burns itself onto the glowing parchment, the garden air turns charged.

“Well, then,” Viktor says, his voice like the edge of a knife and twice as dangerous. “Let the game begin.”

—

Day 1 (Sun)

Jayce wakes up the next day with a strange tingling sliding between his thighs.

“Wha—“

A light, teasing warmth moves along his inner thighs. What feels like two hands knead his flesh in slow, sensual strokes; giving an occasional rub here, leaving a soft pinch there.

Jayce frowns. He’s never needed— or wanted, for that matter— to be…fondled, during his sexual proclivities. He’s always been the one in control, the one doing the touching. No one’s ever laid hands on him like that before. Right now, all he feels is a mild sense of discomfort.

He sighs, throws the sheets off his body, and swings his legs out of bed. But the moment he makes to stand, those invisible hands slide upward, and gives his ass a nice, firm squeeze.

He nearly falls over.

Fuck, he’s going to get that blessed demon back for this, mark his words.

The rest of the day unfurls with an almost deceptive calmness. Every so often, Jayce feels the tantalising drag of a palm up the length of his arms, but he isn’t particularly bothered.

Evening comes, and he heads toward the garage, sliding into the driver’s seat of his Porsche Taycan. Most humans of his wealth and status wouldn’t dream of driving themselves, but Jayce prefers solitude. Too many mortals too close for too long, and someone’s bound to start noticing things.

He speeds through the city and stops before a striking building that looked more like a futuristic pagoda than anything he had ever seen. The thick white roof, looking like a giant book that had been placed down on its open pages, is supported by concertinaed glass.

The glass doors opens to a marbled lobby, and directly opposite the entrance is a handsome built-in mahogany desk. The uniformed concierge standing behind it notices him almost immediately, and nods.

“Good evening, Mr. Talis,” the concierge says, gesturing toward the elevators.

The entrance to the lifts was a burnished gold door, set into the white-painted wall. Jayce crosses the lobby, and the door slides open without a sound.

The elevator opens onto the penthouse level of Eos club. It’s the kind of gym that doesn’t advertise its existence. No signage, no membership applications, and if you had to ask how much it cost, well, you’re not invited.

The scent of lilies and metal is heavy on the warm air of the private gym floor. State-of-art machines line the space, engineered with aerospace precision.

His trainer is already waiting— a tall, hyper-fit man named Jackson. He’s whipped Hollywood stars into living statues of peak human performance in mere months, and is an ISSN-certified sports nutritionist.

“Right on time,” Jackson says. “Are we ready?”

Jayce grins. “Let’s make it hurt.”

They begin their circuit— weighted pull-ups, barbell rows, the likes. Jayce’s muscles ripple beneath his moisture-wicking shirt, fabric clinging to his back and chest. He doesn’t train for vanity, but a well-sculpted body lures prey more easily. Strength is a language, and his speaks in temptation.

Jayce sits down at the lat pulldown machine, and Jackson reaches for the magnetic selector pin and slots it into the weight stack plate, three kilos heavier than his usual weight.

“Let’s go, Mr. Talis,” he says. “Up three. Time to adapt.”

Jayce grips the knurled steel handles, shoulders set. He pulls.

“Oh!”

Jayce jolts.

The touch is as light as a feather— a single finger trailing from the top of his back down the line of his spine, then gliding back up again. The contact isn’t cold, but it sends goosebumps all over his skin all the same.

“Mr. Talis?” Jackson asks. “Are you alright?”

“Y—Yeah,” Jayce stammers out. The fingers have now migrated to his waist, pinching at both sides teasingly. He forces out a laugh. “I’m just tired, I guess.”

“If you’re overtraining, I need to know, Mr. Talis.”

“I can— ah—! I can handle it.”

Jayce repositions himself and resumes the exercise. But then, a warm breath caresses the back of his neck, and an unmistakable flick of a tongue against his earlobe follows. Sly. Playful.

Jayce bites the inside of his cheek. He mustn’t react.

His hands grip the bars harder, forcing himself to power through the final set. By the time Jackson is signalling for a break, Jayce’s skin is tingling all over, flushed from something other than exertion.

“I think… I’m not feeling well,” Jayce mutters, standing and pretending to stretch. “Gonna call it early.”

“Listen to your body,” Jackson agrees. “I’ll send you the rest of the programme.”

Jayce nods, already turning toward the locker room.

He makes it home without further incident. The touches recommence once he’s back in his apartment, soft and shameless, but he endures them with a locked jaw. He throws himself onto the bed once he’s showered, and tries to convince himself he can sleep through it. If he falls asleep, the demon can’t—

Oh, fuck.

A hot, possessive mouth latches onto the nape of his neck, licking and sucking with such sensuality it makes his toes curl. Jayce’s breath hitches, and he digs his fingers into the sheets.

A moan slips out of him before he can stop it.

His eyes go wide, hand flying to his mouth. Him, moaning? He’s the one who draws those sounds from others. He doesn’t make them.

But then, that maddening mouth finds the juncture of his neck and shoulder again, suckling at that sensitive strip of skin, intent, apparently, to unravel him entirely. And it— fuck— it’s working.

His back arches involuntarily, hips twitching under the covers. He has to bite down hard on the edge of his palm to keep from crying out.

He can almost see the demon in his mind’s eye— those amber eyes glittering with mirth, a smirk playing on its lips.

“Hmm. Already? Bit sooner than I expected.”

Jayce jumps. The voice isn’t spoken aloud. Rather, it slips into his head, sweet and taunting, like honey drizzled across the inside of his mind.

“Do not fret, little one,” the voice purrs as the fingers at his waist resume their touches. “I have promised to abstain from mind control. I’m merely projecting my thoughts to you, as a little way of checking in… Seeing if you’re still up for the challenge.”

“‘Course I—hahhh—I am, you geriatric fuc— oh—fuck you…” Jayce pants, hips jerking erratically.

“The mouth on you,” the demon muses, clearly entertained. “I suppose it’s past your bedtime now, no wonder you’re so snappish. Go to sleep, little one.”

“I was going to—hnnngh!”

The voice vanishes, leaving behind a smug silence, but the touches don’t stop.

Hands roam even more boldly across his body; calloused fingers sliding up his calves, petting his thighs, kneading the flesh there with a languid possessiveness. A hand squeezes his ass while the other strokes his waist, rubbing circles into the curve. A mouth bites down lovingly at the shell of his ear, then trails down his neck again.

Jayce trembles beneath the sheets, overwhelmed and furious, legs kicking involuntarily. That fucking demon. When he wins— and he will, bless it— he’s going to return every touch, every tease. He’s going to break that smug bastard down, turn him into a whining, begging mess, and he’ll make him his.

Fuck. Him.

—

Day 2 (Mon)

Jayce didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment, he’d been tangled in the sweat-soaked sheets, body on fire from the ceaseless caresses, then— nothing.

He comes to in the morning with a shiver. He wakes twitchy, hypersensitive all over. The cotton of his sheets feel like fire against his skin. The moment he makes to turn over, a moan catches in his throat, shuddering at how the fabric teases his inner thigh. It’s as if the world had grown new textures overnight and decided to drag them across his entire body.

He drags a hand down his face and stands, making his way to the bathroom. He has a board meeting at eleven and no time for dwelling. He brushes his teeth and steps into the shower.

The water is warm and he tilts his head back, letting it run down his shoulders in rivulets. He cards his fingers through his hair, rinsing the shampoo out. It’s fine. If this was the extent of its games, he’s pretty sure he could handle it. There’s no way he’d come like this.

Pinch.

Jayce’s eyes snap open. Both of his nipples are suddenly caught between fingers that aren’t his.

He gives an involuntary shudder. No one’s ever touched him there— not that anyone would ever think to try. His chest is carved like a statue; admired, not explored. Nipple play was something he, like many others, did not associate with the hard, honed lines of his own body.

But this. This is doing something. It sends a lance of discomfort down his spine— not pleasure, but not pain either.

He swallows and forces himself to ignore it, resolutely ploughing on with the task of washing his hair. He massages shampoo into his scalp with businesslike motions, refusing to be deterred by the touches.

The hands don’t stop, however, and the pinching slowly turns to rolling. The sensitive nubs are rocked between invisible fingers, and Jayce has to swallow a whine. It’s eerily similar to the techniques he’s used on his victims, when the control was all his, when he made them squirm beneath his hands.

Now, he’s the one squirming, fighting the heat pooling in his belly.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, and grabs the shower gel with a little more force than he intended. He slathers it over his skin and the touch turns to friction, and friction to fire.

His hands work faster than they would have normally done. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters except getting out.

The moment he finishes rinsing himself off, he bolts from the shower and grabs the towel.

Patting himself dry, he catches a glance of his reflection in the full-length mirror to his left, and— Hell.

His nipples are swollen, puffy, flushed a dusky red like bruised fruit, practically begging for another touch. His mouth dries at the sight.

And even worse— he’s half hard.

He stares at himself, and for a split second, he’s unable to move. Another flick teases his nipple, as if silently asking, Like what you see? And this time, Jayce can’t help but keen.

He grabs the edge of the bathroom counter to steady himself. This is insane. Just a few touches, and he’s already whining like a bitch.

Get a grip, Jayce thinks.

He forces himself upright and reaches for his shirt—a tailored, sleek, light grey thing— shrugging it on. His nipples brush the inside of the shirt as he buttons himself up and he shivers violently, but he’s not shaking. He refuses to be shaking.

He fastens the cufflinks— neat, plain silver. Then he ties a silk scarf around the collar, a cheap thing he picked up offhandedly at Hermès, knotted in a four-in-hand and grey to match everything else. He throws on the suit jacket—tailored, like the rest, in a darker shade of grey than the shirt—and turns to the mirror, examining himself.

Much better.

He looks like a man who sells power to kings and faith to priests. No trace of the lewd, unraveling thing from moments ago.

He sighs and heads to his car. The moment he slips into the black coupe, the touches begin to fade. Somehow the demon’s influence doesn’t extend to him whenever Jayce is inside his vehicle.

Talis tower rises before him in ten minutes, a fortress of glass. The automatic doors glide open the moment he approaches, and the lobby welcomes him with its usual bustle.

“Good morning, Mr. Talis,” comes the chorus of greetings— receptionists, assistants, a few low-level execs flashing toothy smiles designed to impress. He nods once, curt, and steps into the elevator. Floor twenty-three— executive level. The doors close.

He presses his palms into the steel railing behind him, forcing his breath to steady.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

The meeting room is glass-walled, high ceilinged, the very definition of minimalist. A single oak table occupies the centre of the room, and a massive screen against one wall is flashing with slides. The room is mirrored, doubling the apparent size of the space. Department heads are already inside, a low buzzing filling the room.

He takes his seat at the head of the table, flanked by his inner circle. Dmitri to his left— a young and able man, though sometimes too boisterous for his liking. Across from him, Aline, the CFO of the company, flipping through documents on her tablet. Others fall quiet as Jayce settles into his seat.

The meeting begins with nothing out of the norm. Financials, supply chain updates, product roadmaps. Numbers, projections, risk. Jayce nods, speaks when required, raises pointed questions without qualms. But, beneath the table—

Flick. Pinch.

Jayce’s back arches imperceptibly in his chair. His nipples are positively throbbing beneath his shirt, and he bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood. He shifts, trying to hide the twitch in his legs, as an invisible hand drags itself up the inside of his thigh like it owns him. Fingers stroke, tease, riling him up more and more until he feels like he’s going to unravel at the seams.

Jayce lets out a nearly inaudible groan, but the man next to him hears anyway.

“Are you quite alright, Mr. Talis?” Dmitri asks, bewildered.

Shit. Not now. Don’t draw attention to him.

“I’m fine, Dmitri.” Jayce grits out. The current presenter has paused, casting them a polite glance, unsure whether to continue or not.

“You sure? You look a little—“

“I said I’m fine,” Jayce growls, gesturing for the presenter to carry on.

“As you say.” Dmitri shrugs.

Jayce breathes out slowly, trying to focus on the screen and the charts. Someone’s presenting a breakthrough in battery design, something about cooling thresholds and predictive diagnostics, but the words make no sense to him. All Jayce can feel is that hand still circling the sensitive patch of skin just above his knee, and the ceaseless tug at his nipples that just won’t stop.

The moment the meeting ends, he’s out of his chair like a man running from a building on fire. He doesn’t heed the polite nods and clipped farewells, moving on autopilot, barely even aware of the elevator ride down. He throws himself into his car and drives, grateful, for the brief reprieve it grants.The demon never touches him here.

When he arrives back at the garage of his apartment, he parks carefully, and lets his head fall back against the seat. He contemplates staying here. It’s safe, keeps him sheltered from the talons of the demon—

The pinching begins again.

Jayce’s eyes go wide. No. There’s no way. Not in the one place—

“Did you truly believe a box of steel and glass could keep me from you?”

The ancient voice purrs through his mind, the barest hint of amusement present.

Jayce whimpers. “What?”

“I refrained, all these times, merely because I had no interest in watching you die should your hand slip due to my— ah— ministrations, while driving. What is it that the humans say? Safety first?”

There’s definitely a smile in the voice. Jayce can hear it.

He groans, heat blossoming across his face. He doesn’t answer— what can he say anyway? He simply opens the door, and gets out in defeat.

The second he crosses the threshold of his apartment, the slow pinches turn to tugging once more, sharp pulls that shoot straight through his chest like bolts of lightning. He hisses, stumbling through the living room, stripping as he goes.

The shirt goes first— he can’t stand it anymore, the friction is too much; and his pants are unfastened with trembling fingers, kicked aside as he moves.

The hallway mirror catches him, and he turns his head—

And freezes.

His nipples— hell, his nipples— are swollen and stretched unnaturally, elongated like soft peaks of obscene flesh, stiff and flushed. They move, tightening and pulling as the invisible hands toy with them.

He looks debauched. Marked. Like a toy left mid-play.

Worse still, his cock is rock hard, twitching helplessly against the flat of his belly, smearing clear fluid over his abs. It pulses once, visibly, and he slumps forward towards the wall, a serrated whimper caught in his throat.

He’s an incubus. Born of lust, fed on desire. He’s made mortals weep from just a touch, and now here he is, moaning and trembling like some needy whore just from what, a few ghostly touches?

He must be going mad.

With a growl of fury, Jayce stalks into the bathroom, cranking the shower as cold as it will go. The icy-cold water hits him and he gasps, recoiling from the shock. His dick twitches again, but the worst of the heat in his abdomen begins to dull.

But his nipples. Gods, his nipples.

They tingle, still being rolled between fingers. He stumbles out of the shower, dripping, and lurches to the freezer. Yanking it open, Jayce grabs two ice cubes with a trembling hand.

He presses them to the taut buds, hissing between clenched teeth.

Cold. Sweet, biting cold.

He must look ridiculous, hands cupping his chest, pressing melting ice to the swollen, aching peaks. He certainly feels ridiculous. But relief floods him like a drug, and his head falls back against the freezer with a sigh.

“You look pretty like that,” the demon’s voice rings out again in his mind.

Jayce snarls. “Fuck you.”

“How unoriginal.”

Jayce drops the half-melted ice into the sink and braces himself against the counter, shivering. The cold has managed to dull the burn for a moment, but his nipples remain stiff and eager. Now that the ice is gone, even the room-temperature air feels searing, making him twitch all over.

He stumbles to the bedroom, body still wet, and throws himself onto the mattress. He sleeps naked usually anyway, but today, it’s a necessity. Even the brush of the duvet makes him gasp, nipples aching as the fabric catches on them.

He tosses and turns, his whole body feverish. He grabs a pillow and mushes his face into it, trying to muffle the soft moans escaping him without his permission.

Hours pass, or maybe minutes, he can’t tell anymore. All he is aware of is the teasing touches roaming across his body, every strip of skin being touched and taunted.

It’s not until the sky outside begins to gray that his body gives up. A last, pitiful shudder rakes through him, and sleep finally, finally, drags him under.

—

Day 3 (Tues)

When Jayce wakes the next day, he’s got an idea.

If there’s one thing he’s learned— other than how expertly good the demon is at making him squirm— it’s that the touches act as though they’re real. They’re not hallucinations, or illusions of sensations. His body responds as if someone’s physically there, which means, physical barriers might work.

He strides into the bathroom and throws open the mirrored cabinet. He grabs two padded bandages and slaps them over his nipples, wincing only slightly at the tenderness beneath.

“There,” he mutters. “Let’s see you get through that.”

He can almost hear Viktor’s irritated tsk in his mind.

It works, for the most part. The bandages blunt the air against his skin, and there’s no more friction from the insufferable brush of cotton and linen. The rules had been clear as well, Viktor can’t touch anything but Jayce’s body.

If he rips them off? That counts as touching something external. Checkmate.

Still grinning, he hums to himself and walks barefoot down a spiral staircase to his personal workshop. It’s a vaulted space full of workbenches, cramped and cluttered with projects in various stages of completion, the walls a collage of fluttering sketches, blueprints and notes.

He gets to work on a portable fusion battery he’s been designing for over a decade— one that could power entire field ops or even remote colonies. For a while, he loses himself in the activity, all senses of tension left behind. Until—

Scratch. Scratch, scratch.

Oh shit.

What feels like nails—or claws— rake over the fabric of the bandages, gently dragging across the thin barrier like a cat pawing at the cage of a canary. With a clatter, Jayce’s pen clatters to the floor.

“Fuck,” he groans, one hand gripping the edge of the workbench for support, his head bowed as he tries to even out his breathing. The claws scrape again, slowly, languidly, and he feels the pleasure resonating even through the bandages.

Then come the hands. They start low, beginning as gentle presses sliding over his hips, dipping under his waistband, not enough to violate the rules, but close. Thumbs stroke along the V of his pelvis, rubbing circles into the skin just above where his cock lies. Another hand brushes the underside of his arm, then trails along his side. Fingertips dart across his ribs, like a lover reacquainting themselves with what they already own.

But he doesn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. He has something to focus on, and he refuses to give the demon the satisfaction of knowing he’s getting to him.

Jayce leans over the containment housing, stylus in hand, tweaking the quantum dampener array on the main interface. The simulated energy profile pulses for a few seconds… then collapses.

【Containment breach detected at Node B-17】

“What the…”Jayce grunts, half at the error message, half at the continued caresses at his lower back. This shouldn’t be happening. The phase drift’s within tolerances. Unless the harmonics are off because of—

“You’re overcompensating for plasma drift. Recalibrate the Hall sensors to 11.3 Tesla.”

Huh.

Jayce’s mind, just for a moment, tunes out the phantom touches. Viktor’s suggestion… actually makes sense. Why the hell hadn’t he thought of that?

“You—“ He winces as an invisible claw gives his right nipple an absentminded scratch. “How do you know all this?”

“My dear Jayce, I’ve been around for five thousand years. That’s plenty of time to figure out a few things. Especially when you take an interest in watching humanity tinker with forces it barely understands.”

“Right. A fallen angel with a hard-on for plasma physics. What, Hell not exciting enough for you?”

“Oh, please. Do you know how boring damnation is after the first thousand years? Science, at least, evolves. Sin doesn’t.”

Jayce clenches his jaw, taps the override command, and adjusts the field strength.

Seconds tick by, and the simulation runs again. This time, it holds. The field stabilises, and efficiency spikes. The power curve locks in, and no anomalies occur.

Jayce breathes out. “Fine. You were right.”

“Mmm. Music to my ears,” Viktor croons. “See what happens when you stop being so stubborn?”

“Ha.”

“You know,” the demon muses. “You seem far more at peace in here, among wires and equations. Why waste yourself playing mortal games in boardrooms and politics?”

Jayce goes still.

He is more at ease here, tried in data and circuitry, if he’s being honest with himself. Research, invention, engineering—his first love, older than Talis Dynamics, older than the gleaming tower that bears his name. It’s where he’s most himself.

But the hunger for control has only grown ever since he’s realised what he was. It runs parallel to his need for sexual energy, primal and all-devouring. He wants the world to bend. Not just to admire, but to obey. It’s not enough to create. He has to own, shape, command. Dominion, in every sense.

“…You don’t know me,” Jayce forces out, eventually.

“If you say so,” Viktor replies.

They stay like that for the rest of the day—Jayce tinkering with his invention, Viktor offering a word or two of advice whenever he gets stuck. The caresses continue, but for the most part, Jayce manages to ignore them.

Late afternoon finds Jayce back in his study, leaning on his leather office chaise, shirt loose but still on— he isn’t planning to give the demon the satisfaction of nudity again anytime soon.

“You look pretty like this.”

The words still echo from the day before, slinking through his mind, setting his face aflame at intervals.

Jayce spends the better part of the afternoon scrolling through stock reports, adjusting his biotech portfolio, pondering an acquisition he’s been circling for months. His empire continues to grow, as always.

Scratch!

Jayce jumps. The claws are still there, drawing playful little circles against the bandages.

He nearly whimpers, but he shoves it down ruthlessly. He’s not giving this thing so much as another inch, no matter how much help it’s been.

As if hearing his thoughts, another hand drifts between his thighs and begins petting again. Jayce lets his head fall back against the headrest, mouth parted, but not a single sound escapes.

The touch falters, and Jayce smiles.

“Getting bored already, sweetheart?” He asks at the empty room.

Suddenly, the hands are back on him, this time kneading the flesh of his ass. They fondle his cheeks with slow, lazy movements, coaxing them apart slowly. They explore the soft give of muscle, working them open, only to let go again abruptly, and start all over again.

Then, a wet finger slips between his cheeks, and presses gently against the rim of his ass.

“Oh hell below—“

It doesn’t breach him, at least, not fully. He feels the head of a thumb press past the tight ring of muscle ever slightly, then withdraw just as quickly. It teases him with a fixed rhythm: dip, retreat… dip, retreat… dip, retreat… Every push sinking just a little deeper than the last. Then, without warning, the entire thumb buries itself inside the heat of his ass.

Jayce mewls.

It’s unlike any sound he’s ever made before, a loud and wanton thing, and he can’t even string two thoughts together to reprimand himself for doing so anymore. The digit is picking up its pace, fucking in and out of his rim in a punishing rhythm.

He lets whimper after whimper fall from his lips, unheeding of how he must look. At the same time, the scratching at his covered nipples resumes, claws flicking, teasing, tormenting. It should sting, under usual circumstances, but the cotton dampens it enough just to make it almost mind-numbingly pleasurable.

Jayce moans, cheek grinding into the table now, his entire body twitching erratically.

He’s still trying to keep the noises in when he feels the hand at his chest leave and join the other at his ass. The one buried inside him withdraws slightly, and with one swift motion, the palms spread his cheeks wide open; exposing him humiliatingly.

Then Jayce feels it. A warm breath, ghosting over his hole. The demon is exhaling against his stretched rim, and Jayce shivers at the pure obscenity of it.

“Mmmf—hnngh—stop— stop it—”

“Stop?” The demon purrs in his mind once more. “That’s not the word. Giving up already, darling?”

“N-no way in heaven am I giving— ah! Giving up… You’re not going to wi— ohhh—“

“I’m sure I won’t. Do go on struggling, it’s adorable.”

“Oh, fuck…”

Jayce feels something thick, wet, and warm tonguing at his asshole. It presses past the tight ring slowly, insistently, working him open bit by tantalising bit. The muscle flexes, trying to resist, but the tongue refuses to be deterred, swirling and stroking the inside of his walls.

Jayce’s legs clamp together as he shakes, powerless against the overwhelming tide of ecstasy. He doesn’t know how long it goes on for, but he somehow makes it back into his room, and drifts off to sleep like that: the ghost of a scrape over his nipple, and the slow, delicious pressure of a thumb circling the rim of his ass.

—

Day 4 (Wed)

Jayce’s face is pressed into the ground as he moans. There’s something—someone—behind him, rocking into him in a steady rhythm, drawing whines and whimpers of ecstasy out of Jayce’s mouth with every powerful thrust.

Jayce is drooling onto the marble beneath him, the saliva pooling beneath his parted lips. But something else drips just as freely. Slick is dripping down his thighs in torrents, his hole wet and open, as it is ravaged mercilessly.

What’s happening?

But then, the man behind him gives another deep thrust, and all coherent thoughts are wiped clean from Jayce’s mind. Jayce lets out a long and wanton moan, entire body shuddering under the pleasure.

“Ah—“

Jayce wakes with a moan.

“Mmh?” He whimpers as his eyes flutter open. Then realisation crashes over him like a bucket of ice water.

“You said you wouldn’t use magic!” He shouts at the empty room.

“I can assure you, I didn’t,” the bored voice in his mind intones. “That was all you, I’m afraid.”

“Then how—“

“That magical contract binds me as much as it does you,” Viktor continues. “If I broke it, I wouldn’t be here. Maybe it's time you accepted what you actually want.”

“That’s— That’s just because of everything that’s happened today! It’s residual!” Jayce’s face goes red-hot. Why is it doing that?!

“Of course it is. Nothing says ‘residual’ like moaning my name in your sleep.”

Jayce launches the blanket off himself and it lands on a heap on the floor. Cursing, he climbs out of his bed and throws it back on the duvet, and heads for the bathroom.

He has no obligations today, a rare gap in his schedule. He’ll use it to collect himself.

He turns the tap for cold water on in the embedded marble furo, watching the water fill with a hush. He stands next to it, bare feet on stone, gaze carefully averted from the mirror a few feet away.

When it’s almost ready, he slips carefully into the cold water, drawing in a serrated breath as he feels the chill sink beneath his skin. He scrubs himself roughly, on his chest, his thighs, his arms, trying to wash away the phantom sensations of slick and arousal still taut in his gut. He rubs harder, as if he can scrub the dream itself clean away.

Once he’s done, he settles fully into the pool, letting the water soothe his muscles. He closes his eyes, about to let out a sigh of relief, when he feels a finger teasing the rim of his asshole.

“Please,” he whispers. “Not again…”

“Word?” The demon purrs.

“Fuck. You. I do what I want around here.”

“Suit yourself.”

This time, an index finger, instead of a thumb, enters him in one swift push. Jayce’s back arches at the intrusion, a lewd whine falling from his lips. There’s no point in pretending anymore; the sounds won’t stay in, and he doesn’t try to hold them back. Moans rise freely as the finger pistons in and out of his entrance, drawing in small, teasing rivulets of water with each thrust.

As long as he doesn’t come, Jayce thinks, he still wins the challenge. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

He thrashes in the water, limbs kicking as the fingers curl and press deep, right into the p-spot in his walls. His eyes roll back, mouth falling open in a soundless cry. He’d thought that organ wouldn’t exist for incubi— he’s never bothered to test out the theory himself. But it does. And he’s so, so sensitive.

The fingers prod against that bundle of nerves again, and a full-body shiver wracks his entire body. He turns, chest pressed against the edge of the furo, water biting against his skin as he bites into his hand. It’s overwhelming, It’s too much. His body is melting around the touch, subsumed in waves of pleasure. But he’ll be damned if Viktor thinks he’s winning.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Jayce pants out. “You’ll have to— hnngg— you’ll have do better than that if you want me to— oh!— to come.”

Viktor doesn’t reply. But another finger joins the one already buried inside Jayce, stretching him wider as they begin to scissor him open. Cool water flows in alongside the motion, trickling into his eager, parted hole. Two fingers become three, then four, working him open slowly, pressing against that sensitive spot with every other thrust.

It goes on for what seems like forever. Every touch sends a fresh wave of pleasure shooting through Jayce, tightening in his belly, making him tremble all over. He groans, head lolling backwards. It’s too much. It’s not enough. He can’t tell anymore.

Eventually, the motions begin to ebb, and the fingers retreat with a final, teasing stroke. Gasping, legs shaking, Jayce seizes the brief mercy and hauls himself out of the furo, water sheeting off his skin as he tries to regain his balance.

His legs tremble beneath him as he towels himself dry. But, to add insult to injury, there’s still water dripping— down the insides of his thighs, clear and warm— from his throughly ravaged hole. The demon had brought water into him, fucking it in as if to mark his territory.

Jayce’s face burns with humiliation, equal parts fury and arousal. Gritting his teeth, he grabs a tissue and wipes himself dry with angry swabs.

Only three days left, he thinks to himself as he straightens. He’s got this.

When it’s over, the greater demon will be his plaything.

He keeps wiping himself down as another spurt of clear fluid dribbles down his thighs, and— fuck. He notices the bandages on his chest for the first time. They’re soaked through, plastered against his skin, dangling half off his nipples.

He peels them away, intending to toss them—

And invisible fingers clamp down on his nipples.

Jayce gasps, eyes going wide and his knees buckle. He hits the floor with a thud, hands scrabbling to brace himself as the sudden surge of pleasure tears through him. His head tips back and his mouth opens in a obscene moan.

The pressure in his chest climbs as the fingers twist and yank, flicking and tugging until every touch feels like fire. Another finger drives into him from behind, sinking too easily back into his hole now that it has been stretched. His hips rock helplessly as he chases the sensations even though he knows he’s not supposed to, and he pants loudly, sounding all too much like a needy bitch in heat. Shameless noises fall from his lips incessantly, whines and moans that would humiliate him if he had a single coherent thought left in his skull.

Jayce doesn’t know how he makes it back to his bed—only that he does, dragging himself there on shaky limbs, muscles twitching with aftershocks.

The rest of the day blurs. He sprawls across the sheets, flushed and fevered, feeling one invisible hand twisting at his swollen nipples and the other fucking his hole. Time slips, and awareness frays. Eventually, exhaustion wins out and he falls asleep like that, spent and thoroughly wrecked.

—

Day 5 (Thurs)

Jayce doesn’t remember what he’s been dreaming about, but he wakes with a soft, broken whimper. The sheets seem to cling to his skin as he shuffles, hips squirming slowly while his eyes flutter open.

Everything looks normal— his room just as he left it, blinds closed, not a single thing out of place. But something feels wrong.

Or rather, too right.

He feels it in his body before he fully understands.

There’s a slick warmth between his cheeks. It’s not water, not remnants of last night’s… bath. It’s sticky, hot, gushing in pulses from his fluttering hole.

His heart sinks as he tosses the covers back and takes in the sight.

Between his legs is a pool of clear, sticky fluid, glistening in the sun filtering through the blinds. It’s drenched into the mattress, coating his thighs, hot and obscene, spreading with every tiny movement.

That can’t be.

Incubi didn’t produce slick— they didn’t need to. They took what they wanted, when they wanted, who they wanted— and it was the others who opened and offered.

There were stories— old myths passed from one demon to another, as warnings, or cautionary tales— of incubi so thoroughly overwhelmed, so thoroughly influenced by a more dominant force that something in them transformed. An incubus who let go of power, who let themselves be taken, who enjoyed offering up their submission, could become something else entirely.

A reversal of nature.

A surrender.

They could turn into succubi.

Jayce had always rolled his eyes at those stories. Incubi were born of power. They were dominance made manifest, control given form. They took, they commanded, they conquered. He fed off the surrender of others, not the other way around.

Those who let themselves be owned, who showed their belly like some tamed thing begging for scraps, deserved to be remade. Pathetic, needy creatures, that fed on attention, on being fucked on the residue of other people’s lust— always giving in, always wet. They didn’t deserve to be incubi, they were just prey masquerading as predators.

There is no way in Heaven he’ll ever become one of them.

But now his body is telling a different story. The lewd, liquid proof between his legs, warm and humiliating, mocked every certainty he’d ever been indoctrinated in. His breath is coming in shallow bursts, his hole twitching and gaping like it’s missing something. The sticky sheen on his inner thighs is telling him the irrefutable truth— he’s turned.

Only succubi slicked like this, because they are expected to kneel, to be used. This is preparation, invitation. His body… his trembling, treacherous body, has already decided what it wants to be.

“You knew this would happen,” Jayce grits out to the empty room.

“I assure you, I did not.” Viktor’s reply is calm, unaffected as ever. “Such a transformation only occurs if the subject wants it. However deeply buried that desire might be. As— forgive me— powerful as I am, not even I can overwrite a being's nature entirely.”

Jayce’s fingers dig into the sheets, creasing them. Deep down, he knows Viktor’s right.

“Did you not want this?” Viktor asks mildly. “Because truly, it shouldn’t be possible otherwise.”

“Of course I don’t!” Jayce snaps. “I never wanted this! Turn me back!”

Viktor shrugs. “Well then… of course, as you wish. While I can’t incite this change, reversing it will be simple enough. But of course, this will have to wait until our pact is over. As per our contract, I can’t alter or affect your body with magic until then.”

Jayce fumes. His breath catches as he throws the damp sheets off his body. Swinging his legs off the bed, he tries to stand, but the moment the ball of his right foot touches the ground, a full body shudder rakes through him and he feels his asshole unfurl beyond his control. An electric, tantalising jolt of pleasure shoots through him, threatening to make his knees buckle.

“Are you sure you’d like to go through with the challenge?” Viktor asks. “Even in such a…compromised, state?”

“Of course I am,” Jayce snaps. “Or are you finally beginning to worry that you’d lose?”

“Merely confirming,” Viktor replies mildly. “You do seem to be…eh, on the brink of losing yourself.”

Biting down on the inside of his cheek, Jayce sways slightly as he steadies himself. No. He can’t let the feeling win. He’s just got to hold out for three more days now, and then he’ll get Viktor to turn him back, to—

“Ah—“

Another involuntary spasm, and Jayce feels wetness begin to trickle down the inside of his bare thighs. His hand shoots out to brace himself against the corridor wall, panting as if he’s run miles.

Once he’s managed to garner some semblance of control, he walks down the hallway to his bathroom. He has to pull himself together. Today is Talis Dynamic’s annual gala— a evening of smiles polished enough to blind, of meticulously curated speeches, of champagne flutes and barbed power plays. A social event at a glance, a hunt in truth. He’s set up this tradition himself, and for years it has served as fertile ground for finding his next victim among the powerful and the elite. This year will be no different. By the time the evening ends, he will know who to mark.

His current… diversion will end in three days. Then the game begins anew.

After a quick shower, Jayce heads toward his dressing room, where the suit he has set aside for the occasion is waiting for him. He reaches for the shirt first— sea-island cotton the colour of parchment, so soft it may as well have been made from liquid. The moment the fabric brushes against his bare arms, he jerks. A gasp falls out as a jolt of pleasure runs through him.

The trousers follow. Ivory, cut to climb high on his waist, cinching his form. He pauses to draw  in a slight breath, calming himself and reaches for the tie: silk jacquard, bone-coloured, hand-loomed in Como. His fingers move deftly from years of muscle memory, pulling the tie into a van Wijk knot at his throat.

Next, the waistcoat, tailored from creamy vicuña. His hands shake slightly as he buttons it up, every mother-of-pearl clasp coaxing another shudder out of him, anther hit of unwanted ecstasy straight to his core. He lets out a sigh as he clips the rose-gold fob chain into place, weight of the Patek Phillips watch a reassuring presence against his abdomen. It seems to be ticking louder now— or maybe it’s just his pulse.

Finally, he shimmies the jacket on— a silk-cashmere thing from Loro Piana, single-breasted, tailored to his exact measurements. He looks in the mirror, and in it is a man composed, pristine, perfectly dressed.

But, upon closer inspection, his pupils are blown, and his lips slightly parted.

“Looking good, darling,” the demon’s voice slices through the silence without warning, causing Jayce to jump. “Big night later?”

“Gala for the company,” Jayce grumbles. “And if you screw with me tonight, I swear—”

“Relax. I’ll be a perfect gentleman. I won’t touch you at all,” Viktor concurs. “Unless, of course, you ask me to.”

Jayce’s eyes narrow at how easy this is. Surely, there must be a catch.

“You’d really hold back?” When you’ve only got three days left to win the bet?”

“Especially then,” Viktor says, and Jayce can hear the smirk on his lips. “Have fun at the gala, Jayce.”

—

Jayce shows up at the gala right on time. To his surprise, Viktor keeps his word, not even laying so much as a finger on him as he made his way there.

Still, he’s able to feel the way his body has changed. Every lurch of his car on the way to the venue causes a warmness to spread between his cheeks, an itch to build deep in his abdomen, a reminder of what he’s becoming.

The valet is waiting at the curb, and Jayce doesn’t meet his eyes as he tosses the keys into the young man’s hands. He mutters a stuttered “Thanks” before pushing through the heavy oak doors of the venue.

Even the mere act of walking sends maddening pinpricks of pleasure racing through his nerves. He forces his strides to remain even anyway, though every step brings forth another torrent of mind-numbing pleasure.

Inside, the building glows with grandeur. Chandeliers dangle from the ceiling like shimmering constellations, walls gleaming with old money and new dreams. The mingled scent of expensive cologne and champagne waft through the air, while the buzz of conversation fill the hall.

Jayce moves quickly through the lobby, past mingling donors and low-level executives, until he reaches the doors of the main ballroom, resolutely ignoring the building want deep inside him.

As soon as he enters, he spots Dmitri, talking to a balding, besuited Asian man and a younger woman donning a green dress that shimmered under the light like a lizard’s skin. Dmitri catches his eye and offers a deferential nod.

Jayce walks up to him, and Dmitri moves aside to make room.

“Mr. Talis, our chief executive officer of Talis Dynamics,” Dmitri says to the two people. Turning to Jayce, he continues. “Sir, I was just speaking with this gentleman and lady you’ll want to meet. May I introduce Mr. Eiji Sakamoto, of SokuTech. And Miss Porter, from Novo Systems.”

Jayce shakes each hand in turn, murmuring greetings and rehearsed compliments. In the past, he would have been sizing them up as potential victims— well, not Sakamoto, perhaps, he does prefer his men with a full head of hair— but Porter certainly does fit his standards.

“A very impressive turnout tonight,” Sakamoto says. “I hear they doubled security just for the guest list.”

Jayce gives a polite laugh in return. “Well, half the room could probably build their own private army, and the other half might already have. I’d say the caution’s justified.”

“And so it is, the lives of men divided—those with worth, and those who are expendable.” Sakamoto chuckles, then raises his flute of champagne. “To power disguised as progress, Mr. Talis. And to those of us clever enough to profit from it.”

They clink glasses lightly and Jayce takes a sip. His expression remains placid, genial, until he sees a figure emerge through the crowd.

Dark hair, shorter than it was since Jayce last saw it at the church. A sleek, perfectly tailored black suit with a matching black shirt, and an ebony cane in his right hand. The same sharp, elegant cheekbones, and amber eyes piercing through his very soul.

Viktor.

Jayce freezes, and his heart misses a beat before picking up again, thumping painfully loudly in his ears.

Impossible.

How did he get in here? Jayce watches as Viktor accepts a flute of champagne by a passing attendant, offering a small smile of thanks to the young man. It’s not a glamour, or an apparition— he’s here, physically.

“Mr. Talis?” Porter prompts, looking at him expectantly.

“Miss Porter here has just been outlining Novon Systems’ interest in exploring a joint development initiative with Talis Dynamics,” Dmitry supplies helpfully, catching onto Jayce’s inattention. His tone betrays no accusation, as though he is merely highlighting what Jayce already knows. “A sensible proposal, I must say.”

“I—“ Jayce tears his eyes away from Viktor, who is now watching him with his head cocked slightly to the side. “Yes, of course. But collaboration only works if both sides are willing to put real skin in the game. If Novon is prepared to match our pace of innovation, then yes—there’s certainly opportunity there,” he says with a smile, attempting to replicate his old bravado.

His gaze flickers back toward the other side of the room involuntarily. Viktor is still watching him intently, a hawk circling his prey.

And he smiles.

Jayce’s breath catches in his throat. Something twists deep inside his gut, and he feels a gush of slick threatening to seep from his hole.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfu—

He clenches hard, as if straining against the urge to defecate, embarrassment rushing to his face and setting his cheeks ablaze. He bites down on the inside of his mouth so hard that he tastes blood.

Dmitry is speaking again, clearly filling space until Jayce chooses to engage. But Jayce can’t hold it for much longer.

“Sir?”

“Sorry,” Jayce forces through clenched teeth. “Bathroom.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before he’s moving, too fast to be dignified but he can’t even bring himself to care. The restrooms are mercifully close: separate, single-occupancy, perfect for solitude. He seizes the handle of the nearest vacant door, pushes inside and tries to shut it behind him—

Click.

The door catches, refuses to close. A flash of irritation surges in him, but then he sees it: the posted end of a cane lodged neatly in the frame.

Jayce’s stomach twists. He doesn’t even need to look up to know who it is.

“Mr Talis,” the voice purrs. “Do you need help?”

Jayce looks up to see Viktor standing there, lips drawn in a faint smile that could almost pass for concern.

“I’m fine,” Jayce growls, moving to shut the door once more, but the cane remains, immovable.

“Really?” Viktor murmurs. “You looked…pressed, back there. Wouldn’t want your investors catching sight of the high and mighty Mr. Talis in—shall we say—less than impeccable condition.”

Viktor takes advantage of Jayce’s hesitation at the words, and steps forward into the bathroom. He swings the door shut behind him with a nonchalant wave of his hand, and the lock slides into place with a final “snick”.

“Why are you here?” Jayce asks roughly. “You said you wouldn’t do anything to me today.”

“Wouldn’t do anything 'unless you ask',” Viktor corrects mildly as he props his cane against the marble wall. Jayce notices that the prosthetic leg is back on today— even demons must fashion themselves to pass among men.

“Like I said,” Viktor continues, turning around. “I’m here to help. You can’t walk around in public like this, can you? Not unless you want to excuse yourself every three minutes for a change of clothes— or have the entire gala bear witness to the illustrious CEO of Talis Dynamics wetting his pants like a child.”

Heat snakes up Jayce’s neck and to his face—the bastard is right. Slick is threatening to gush out of him at any moment, and the sultry timbre of Viktor’s voice is only making it worse. His hole pulses with need, desperate for something to fill the gaping emptiness that’s building with every passing second.

Jayce forces out a humourless sound, half a laugh, half a groan. “And how— how do you propose we fix that?”

“You might want to start with taking off your trousers,” Viktor says, voice infuriatingly courteous, as if what he’s asking of Jayce is the most normal thing in the world. “I do fear they’d be soiled quite thoroughly soon at the rate you’re going, if you don’t.”

Jayce’s jaw tightens until his teeth hurt. With a defeated sigh, he heeds the demon’s suggestion and strips them off. Viktor has seen far more— no use clinging to dignity that has long since evaporated now.

“What then?” Jayce snaps. “I am not asking you to fuck me, if that’s what you were going to suggest.“

“Ah, no— though that certainly would be fun— but not quite,” Viktor says as he slips a hand into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. From it, he produces something small and rose-gold in colour, with a flared base inset with a dark red stone. Viktor turns it around between his fingers idly, as if he were admiring a work of art. “This should, I presume, keep your condition under control quite nicely.”

Jayce stares.

“That’s a butt plug.”

“Why, yes, the secretion is originating from your anal canal. How else would we occlude it?” Viktor looks at him innocently. “I have even selected a colour that matches the suit you are wearing today.”

“I— What?” Jayce feels like he’s being talked in circles. “No. No. I am not walking around in public with that up my ass.”

Viktor shrugs in response. “Ah, well. Worth offering anyway. But do tell me, Mr. Talis— how exactly are you planning to endure the rest of the evening?”

“Pad with tissues or something, I guess. Whatever.”

“With the rate you’re leaking already?” Viktor asks, looking downwards between Jayce’s bare legs. “Tissues won’t last you ten minutes.”

Jayce follows the gaze before he can help himself— and curses out loud. The insides of his thighs are coated in sheens of slick, shimmering tauntingly under the light. A small pool is already gathering on the floor, the drip-drip-drip mocking everything he’s become.

Jayce chews on his lip before looking back at Viktor.

“Bless you, fucking demon,” he mutters. The fight drains out of him. He’s walked around with Viktor’s fingers toying with him. What’s so different about a plug?

“So I take it that you’re willing to accept my offer?”

“Yes,” Jayce half-shouts, which is a mistake, as the force of it causes another wave of pleasure to crash over him, and another spurt of slick squirts messily between his thighs. “Just…ugh, just get it over with, I have to get back out there.”

He turns around, bracing against the wall as he cants his ass up towards Viktor. It’s humiliating, but he can’t afford to care now. He nearly misses it, but he swears he could hear Viktor’s breath catch. He didn’t know demons like Viktor even needed to breathe.

“Well?” Jayce grumbles. “What are you waiting for?”

“Ah— sorry,” Viktor seems to snap out of his reverie. “I thought you would have preferred to do it yourself.”

Jayce feels his face burn for the umpteenth time tonight. He attempts to straighten, but then he feels Viktor’s hand on the small of his back, guiding him back against the wall.

“I could never refuse you—how could I? Allow me.”

Viktor gathers a few tissues and gently wipes along the insides of Jayce’s thighs, then dampens fresh ones to carefully tend to the rim of his entrance. Jayce shudders, little zings of pleasure shooting up his spine at the care in every touch.

Then, Jayce feels fingers prodding at his asshole.

“Mm, I don’t think stretching is strictly necessary from the way you’re dripping, but we wouldn’t want to risk hurting you,” Viktor says. Not waiting for an answer, he plunges the digit in with one swift push.

Jayce can’t help it— he throws his head back and keens. He doesn’t want to admit it, he can’t, but the itch inside him that’s been building since this morning is finally satisfied, though only just.

Soon, another finger joins the first, both working together to stretch him open.

“I think that should suffice,” Viktor says as he draws back.

The next thing Jayce knows, something cold is pressing against his entrance, and the sudden chill makes him shiver involuntarily.

“Relax,” Viktor chuckles.

The plug slides in easily with a lewd “pop,” sealing the slick inside him and filling the emptiness of his entrance. Jayce doesn’t want to admit it, but oh—this feels so, so right. He clenches down experimentally and nearly moans—the plug presses against his prostate in all the right ways, and his legs almost give way from how good it feels.

Viktor doesn’t comment on it, though, and merely takes a step back once it is done. He smooths down the lapels of his jacket, as if nothing at all has transpired. “There,” he says with a small smile. “Crisis averted.”

Jayce somehow manages to pull his boxers and trousers back on, and when he’s still trying to even his breathing, he hears the door open and close. Viktor’s gone, just like that.

Jayce spends the rest of the night forcing himself into doing what he’s always done. He makes the usual rounds, trading polite words with patrons, laughter where it is expected, occasional clink when prompted.

He ignores the plug the best he can, and stifles his moans when they rub up against the sensitive bundle of nerves inside him as he walks. Dmitri keeps throwing him covert glances, and Jayce offers the easy excuse of feeling a little under the weather, assuring him it is nothing to worry about.

The moment he gets back home however, restraint becomes impossible. His clothes feel like shackles clinging to his skin, trapping his entire being in a furnace. Every breath he takes scorches his throat, and his heartbeat pounds like fire through his veins.

He stumbles into the bedroom and tears off his clothes before collapsing onto the bed, and with shaking hands, he yanks the plug free.

“Hah—“

The moan he lets out is long and wanton, delicious pressure deepening around the rim of his ass before disappearing completely. He whines at the loss, then gives himself a mental reprimand as he remembers he’s not supposed to want this.

But he does. Oh, he does. The plug has been brushing up his prostate the entire night, teasing him with every other step he makes. The dull arousal he has felt at the beginning of the night has erupted into a scorching need, eating him alive from the inside out.

He feels his asshole gape weakly around nothing, slick trickling freely from the entrance now that there’s nothing in the way, silently pleading for something to fill it up again,

Like a man in a trance, Jayce reaches down and rubs a finger around the puckered entrance. Surely, if it’s just a finger, it’s fine. There’s no way he would come just from this.

The finger sinks inside him easily, and Jayce’s eyes roll back in relief. There’s no describing how good it feels. It’s so right to have something inside him, and his hole clenches down greedily on the digit to milk more pleasure out of it.

Soon, one finger becomes two, then three, and he begins to thrust them in and out with fervour, heedless of how whorish he must look. He lets whimper after whimper fall from his lips, feeling the bone-deep ache within him finally begin to find the faintest hint of satiation.

“Ah—Hah—“ Jayce pants and cries, losing himself completely in the onslaught of pleasure. “Viktor— I’m gonna—“

Wait.

With that, Jayce snaps out of his trance. He can’t come. That’s the whole point of the challenge with Viktor.

Gingerly, he extricates his fingers from his ass, the muscles fluttering weakly around them as he does, as if trying to retain them. He flops back bonelessly against the mattress.

But…

Images rise, unbidden, to the forefront of his mind. Thin, pale fingers threading through his hair, gliding down his spine, clasping his throat like a necklace.

A voice cooing to him, whispering that he’s enough, calling him a good boy—

God. Fucking. Damn it.

He’s an incubus. Maybe not now, but he will be again. Once this is over, he’ll make the demon turn him back. He’s not giving up like this.

Somehow, despite it all, he falls into a fitful sleep. He dreams, of feathers and slitted eyes.

—

Day 6 (Fri)

When Jayce wakes up on Friday, it’s like he’s run a marathon. He’s drenched in sweat, the sheets beneath him damp and wet, and a deep, gnawing emptiness churns inside him, telling him he needs to be filled.

Jayce tries to breathe, but a moan slips out the moment his lips part. Every inch of him is on fire, pleasure and need erupting across his body like fireworks, searing and ceaseless.

“Ah—Oh, hnng—What—?”

He racks his brains for what he knows of succubi. They feed on sexual energy, just like incubi, but if they are denied too long, their bodies turn traitor, slipping into a restless heat that draws others in, coaxing desire to the surface whether they want it or not, until they fulfil the succubi’s needs. And, more than mere energy, they also crave the physical— touch, bodily fluids, the likes. Without them, the hunger spreads, burns, until it consumes every coherent thought.

Jayce is glad he hasn’t hired anyone to work in his apartment. The thought of someone witnessing him in such a state makes his stomach twist with embarrassment.

But the shame is nothing compared to the need. He writhes against the mattress, every movement of his body sending another flash of pleasure ricocheting around his nerves. The sheets are too soft and too rough at the same time, every light rub against them a shudder of pure ecstasy that tears a whine from his throat. His very fibre feels starved, aching to be touched, filled, eased.

When another glob of slick spurts from his ass, he’s forced to face the truth of what he’s become. The hunger he’s felt yesterday is nothing compared to what he’s feeling now.

Caution and pride thrown to the wind, he gingerly begins to finger the swollen, puffy ring of muscle around his hole, and breathes out a sigh of relief at the contact.

Slowly, he sinks a finger in, his eyes rolling back into his skull at the perfect relief of finally being filled. It’s quickly joined by another, and soon, he’s scissoring himself open with three fingers, a lewd cacophony of schlick-schlick-schlick’s filling the silence.

He loses all track of time, with three fingers up his own ass and fucking himself frantically. Every thrust sends another wave of pleasure crashing through him, and he keens and moans in tandem with his own movements.

He needs to come. Challenge be blessed, he needs to.

Still fucking himself on his fingers, he wraps his free hand around his cock and, using his own slick, begins to pump the shaft. A whine escapes his mouth as he feels himself nearing the edge, and he moves faster.

He tells himself he’ll just feed less often from now on—it’s not that big of a deal. He can’t even remember why control ever mattered, why he needed to stay on top all these years. All that fills his mind now is the mind-numbing pleasure, and the desperate need to come.

He’s so close now— so close—

And his eyes fly open.

He can’t come.

No, not that he doesn’t want to, but he physically can’t. No matter how hard he’s worked himself, release just refuses to come, the pressure mounting higher and higher with nowhere to go. A confused groan rumbles out of his chest— until the truth slams into him like a falling piece of stone.

Succubi can’t finish on their own. They need more, need someone inside them, feeding their hunger, or the climax will always slip out of reach.

Jayce lets his head fall back against the headboard as a low, desperate whine escapes him. He rubs his thighs together pathetically, but of course, it does nothing to help his current predicament.

He needs to come. Please. Someone, anyone, help him.

He’s so lost in need and want that he doesn’t even notice the clock strike midnight.

—

Day 7 (Saturday)

“Oh, look at you,” a voice croons out in the darkness. “You poor thing.”

Jayce whimpers and looks up.

Viktor is standing at the foot of his bed. He doesn’t look fully human this time, hair spilling past his shoulders in black waves in the dark, his sclera the colour of ink. His right foot ends in a cloven hoof right now, but the sweeping wings and horns are absent.

Jayce barely has the presence of mind to care how Viktor got in here. All he knows is that the demon can give him what he desperately craves, and he needs it now.

“Please…” Jayce whines, muffled against the sheets. He lifts his ass into the air, pressing his face into the mattress, a perfect picture of surrender. Every nerve in his body is screaming for relief, for mercy, for the demon to take him. He needs it, he needs it so badly it hurts.

The mattress dips as Viktor clambers onto the bed with the languid grace of a panther. Jayce nearly cries out in relief as he feels the demon pressing his body against his own bare back, heat radiating even through the clothes the demon has on. But Viktor only lowers his mouth to Jayce’s ear, voice as smooth as honey.

“Please what, little one?”

“Please— fuck me, please, I can’t take it anymore…” Jayce’s voice cracks, the words tumbling in a half-sob as he trembles beneath the weight on his back.

“Well,” Viktor purrs, pressing a little harder against him, and Jayce writhes under the pressure. “As you wish.”

There’s a rustle of cloth and a soft thump as something falls to the ground, and Jayce feels the heavenly sensation of the demon’s tip nudging against his wet, gaping hole. It prods at the entrance playfully, the head pushing in just far enough to breach Jayce and send a shock of pleasure tearing through his body. But before he realises it, it retreats again, and something in Jayce snaps.

“Please—“ Jayce wails, voice breaking. “Stop teasing me— I’m sorry, I won’t feed without permission anymore, I swear, just—please, please fuck me!”

The words barely leave his lips before Viktor answers— with action. In one smooth thrust, the demon buries himself to the hilt.

Everything shatters. Time slows to a stop as white bursts behind Jayce’s eyes. His entire body seizes, wracked with ecstasy so all-consuming it toes the line of being pain, every nerve lit on fire and screaming. The orgasm rips through him, violent, unstoppable, tearing the breath clean from his lungs. Hot pulses of come spill from his dick in thick, helpless spurts, and his muscles clench down on Viktor in tandem with each wave, causing more pleasure to ripple through him.

When he comes to, his face is pressed against the mattress, body twitching in helpless spasms. It’s the hardest he’s ever come— leaving him trembling, wrung out, and gasping for air. He feels like jelly all over, every bit of energy drained. He lets himself be pulled up by the waist and into Viktor’s lap, dick still balls deep inside Jayce.

“All that, just from a single thrust?” Viktor muses.

Jayce can only whimper weakly in response.

“Well then,” Viktor says. “I suppose that concludes our challenge. You’ve lost. No more unsolicited, unregulated feeding— From now on, it is limited to once a month. More than enough to sustain an incubi’s energy. And I shall return you to your original form, since that is what you so desire—”

Jayce shakes his head with what little strength he has left.

“The terms are the terms,” Viktor says. “And it ill befits you to play the petulant child when the game is ov—“

“Fuck me…”

“…Pardon?”

Jayce lets his head fall back against Viktor’s shoulders, nuzzling weakly at the demon’s neck. “More… I want more… Please…?”

Viktor goes very still. “The challenge is over, Jayce.”

“Ngh… Fuck me, please… Fuck me, Viktor…”

The barest of pauses. Then, “You are not in your right mind. I will turn you back into your original form, and then you may speak with clarity—”

Irritation and raw want surge in Jayce’s chest, and with a sudden burst of strength he pushes himself up and drives back down, hard, on Viktor’s cock. This earns him a startled moan from Viktor— the first sound of its kind he has made all week— and Jayce’s heart swells with content.

“I will—hells below—Jayce—” Viktor hisses, but the words get cut off as Jayce clenches down, hard, around the length buried inside him.

Clarity floods back as Jayce’s body finally takes what it needs, and to his surprise, no shame greets him as he realises what he’s doing. There’s only a heady surge of triumph— he’s bending a Greater Demon to his will— Viktor, now panting beneath him, glaring up with amber eyes.

A little smile spreads across Jayce’s lips as he rolls his hips slowly, drinking in every ragged sound Viktor lets slip.

“Why would I— Oh—“ Jayce moans, feeling the tip of Viktor’s cock dragging across his prostate. “Why would I ever want to turn back, now that I know this is all it takes to make the mighty fallen angel come undone? What’s the matter—can’t even hold it against a poor little succubus? Greater Demon, milked dry by a tight. Virgin. Hole.”

He punctuates the last three words with three languid squeezes, and to his delight, patches of pink bloom across Viktor’s sharp cheekbones. The amber irises turn molten, desire slipping through the cracks of his quickly dissolving composure.

Jayce feels the demon going still beneath him, and in a blur, the world flips. His back slams against the mattress, hard, legs caught and pinned high in Viktor’s grip.

“The challenge is over. You don’t have to do this.” Viktor’s voice is low, and there’s a much rougher edge to it. He sounds slightly out of breath.

Jayce merely cocks an eyebrow, grinning. “What, are you scared?”

With a growl, Viktor drives his length into him, and stars erupt across Jayce’s vision. It feels so good, so right, that he can’t imagine how he ever lived so long without it.

Viktor snaps his hips upwards, every thrust striking perfectly against Jayce’s prostate. The sensation is blinding, pure bliss, and Jayce throws his head back, moaning freely.

He wonders, distantly, if it’s really so terrible to stay a succubus after all. The need for control and power had always dogged him like a second pulse in his veins, an instinct bred into every incubi. To hold the reins, to dominate, to never yield.

It had consumed him, in the boardroom, in the workshop, in every sleepless night spent expanding his company and wealth instead of giving himself wholly to the work he loved. Control had been a chain, not a crown, binding him to endless ambition and ceaseless hunger.

But now— that hunger is gone. This body craves differently. It doesn’t demand that he bend the world under his will; it aches to be filled, to surrender, to give. And, in Viktor’s arms, that surrender feels nothing like weakness. It feels like freedom instead.

With every thrust, every whimper pulled from his lips, Jayce feels the need for power and control slip away, leaving only clarity. He doesn’t need to rule, doesn’t need to dominate.

He can just be.

He imagines devoting himself wholly to what he was always meant for—his inventions, his creations. At last, he can let go of the reins, no longer shackled by that relentless drive for control. To be taken care of, to belong, to surrender that burden… and focus only on what he truly loves.

“Want— Ah—“ Jayce babbles without thought, lost in the pleasure and his own musings. “Want you— Viktor— Wanna be yours—“

The words tumble out before Jayce realises what he’s saying. Viktor’s thrusts falter, then stop entirely. Slowly, the demon looks up at him, amber irises glinting with an indecipherable intensity.

“Do you mean that, Jayce?”

“Huh?” Jayce blinks, dazed.

“You are a… fascinating creature,” Viktor says, the slight unevenness in his breath the only sign of his exertion. “You are not quite like the others of your kind, from what I have learned of you in the past weeks. You are curious, intelligent, capable of creation. I have long thought you would fare better if you were not shackled by your nature.”

Jayce swallows, the words sinking in. He thinks of the constant pull of hunger for dominance that has drained him for so long, and he thinks of how; with Viktor, that agony had fallen away.

“If you stay by my side,” Viktor continues, “You will not need to hunt, nor waste yourself on endless feeding. You may take from me, as much as you require. Always. And I would place no limits on what you choose to do with your inventions. They are truly fascinating. I would be more than glad to see them flourish—and to help you bring them to life.”

The thought sends a shiver of want racing down Jayce’s spine. To belong, to be free of the gnawing hunger, to give himself over completely, and still have the space to be who he is. To create without restraint, to devote himself entirely to his inventions… and to have, at his side, a mind enough to rival his own, a hand steady enough to guide him.

The idea is intoxicating.

Jayce lifts his gaze to Viktor. His hair falls in a messy frame around his angular face, flushed a delicious shade of red, lips parted as he pants slightly, for breath. The perpetually cool depths of his amber eyes are clouded now, glinting with raw desire— and Jayce is struck all over again by how devastatingly beautiful he is.

As if spellbound, Jayce leans in and presses his lips to Viktor’s.

Viktor startles at first, rigid against Jayce’s lips— but then he presses back, deepening the kiss. His mouth slants over Jayce’s tongue forcing its way past parted lips, swiping, ravaging, tasting as if he intends to devour Jayce whole. Jayce moans wantonly into the kiss, surrendering to the force of it as heat pools in his belly.

When they finally part, a thin line of spit clings between their lips, and Jayce smiles, breathless.

“Yeah…I think I would like that.”

He wraps his arms around Viktor’s shoulders, pulling him down and nuzzles into the nape of Viktor’s neck like an overgrown housecat. “So… are you going to make a contract? One that binds me to you?”

Viktor’s expression softens, and shakes his head slowly.

“I do not think there would be a need for chains, Jayce. What I am offering is for you to stand with me, not beneath me. A partner, as the humans say.”

“Oh,” Jayce says, momentarily struck speechless. For once, he can’t seem to find the witty rejoinder always waiting on his tongue. “That’s…sweet.”

A glint of amusement flashes across Viktor’s flushed face. “Yes, very ‘sweet’, I suppose. Now, shall we continue? Or have you been satiated?”

Before Jayce can answer, Viktor rolls his hips, burying himself deeper, and a bolt of ecstasy shoots through Jayce’s body. His back arches off the mattress with a broken cry, hands gripping at Viktor’s shoulders in an attempt to ground himself in the devastating pleasure.

“Yes— ah, fuck—oh—” Jayce keens, his next words swallowed quickly by another thrust.

“We have all night,” Viktor smiles as he places another light peck at Jayce’s cheek. “Take all you want.”

—

Epilogue

It had been years since Viktor had claimed Jayce as his partner. Today, they are attending the annual gala of Talis Dynamics. Jayce is no longer the company’s CEO—he had passed the reins to Dmitri—but he still makes appearances at the gala from time to time.

Viktor’s gaze is trained on him across the venue. Jayce is wearing a simple black shirt, much thinner than the ones he used to don, his suit jacket slung carelessly over one arm, and still he draws every eye in the room.

Viktor marvels at his beauty as he lifts a flute of champagne to his lips, drinking in every detail— the warm olive of his skin, the now clean-shaven cut of his jaw, the hazel eyes that glitter with flecks of gold under the lights.

Truth be told, Viktor had never imagined things would turn out this way. His original task had been a tedious one— monitoring demonic activity in New York City, keep the too unruly under control. A particular incubus had ben brought to his attention— feeding recklessly, dabbling too often among the wealthy and the powerful, while maintaining a high profile himself. It was inevitable someone would notice sooner or later, and if left unchecked, the existence of demons and other such magical creatures could very well be exposed to the human world.

At first, Viktor had dismissed Jayce as just another arrogant incubus, a crude creature drunk on power, revelling in the base thrill of seducing the influential and bringing them to their knees.

But the longer he watched, the more his curiosity grew. His investigation stretched from the boardrooms of Talis Dynamics to Jayce’s personal routines, and the man that emerged had surprised him.

Jayce was not a mindless predator— he was clever, inventive, and his mind carried the same intrigue for innovation and creation that Viktor himself harboured. Viktor noted records of energy converters efficient enough to rival demonic reservoirs, prototypes of practical tools impressive in both style and function. Viktor, who had always nurtured a fascination with human engineering, found himself drawn in to such brilliance against his better judgement.

So he began to weave his plan. Jayce’s tastes veered, apart from the powerful and influential, toward the pure and corrupted.

With a simple glamour, Viktor conjured the image of a church, planting it several blocks away from Jayce’s abode and casting a spell to make every passerby, magical origin or not, to believe it had always been there. Donning the guise of a human priest, he arranged to cross Jayce’s path, ensuring the incubus would take notice—of the church, and of him.

To deepen the illusion, he entrusted a lesser demon named Benzo— who ran a stall in the black markets hidden from mortal eyes, a place where only demons could barter for the tools and trinkets of their kind—with a trinket. The charm, Viktor tells him, will grant demons passage onto consecrated ground, and Benzo was instructed to offer it to an incubus named Jayce Talis, a frequent customer of his stall, forever scrounging for scraps and oddities he could merge into his inventions.

In truth, of course, the church was no holy place at all, and the charm was really just a piece of crystal he had picked up. But Viktor needed Jayce to believe that fate was turning in his favour, and that the mysterious priest was the key.

And so, piece by piece, Viktor laid the snare that would lead Jayce straight to him.

All Viktor had intended to do at first was to teach the incubus a small lesson, perhaps nudge him onto a better path, one more worthy of his talent once he could make the man listen. He had never expected the plan to yield so much more than he imagined. Here they are, years later, the same incubus no longer a nuisance, but his loving partner.

Said partner is making his way back to him now, sliding into place at his side with the small grin Viktor has come to know so well.

“Are you having fun?” Jayce asks, tilting his head.

“Ah, you know I am not particularly fond of such big gatherings,” Viktor replies. “They remind me too much of the old days, when humans would summon me with their little rituals and pester me with foolish wishes.”

“Well, we can go home anytime,” Jayce smiles, a mischievous grin glinting in his eyes.

“Well, what are we waiting for?”

A short while later, they slip away unnoticed to the topmost floor of the building. With a sweep of his hand, Viktor casts a glamour around them, rendering them invisible to the human eye. 

The air shifts faintly as Viktor unfurls his wings, feathers ruffling softly in the wind. Beside him, Jayce stretches his own, two small, delicate wings that sprout from the base of his waist, the telltale mark of a succubus.

"I think someone should carry me," Jayce announces, seemingly to no one in particular. "I'm tired. And my wings are too small." 

Viktor sighs. "They are perfectly functional. If we are talking about hindrances, my human form is missing a limb, and yet I am not demanding to be carried around like an overgrown sapling.”

”Yeah but do you fly with your legs?”

Viktor sighs in exasperation. Still, he guides Jayce easily into his arms, holding him close against his chest. With one powerful beat of his wings, they rise into the night sky together.

The moment they arrive back at the apartment, Jayce grabs Viktor by the nape of his neck and pulls him into a messy kiss. Viktor closes his eyes and allows himself to be drawn in, Jayce clutching him so tightly it feels as though he’s trying to fuse them into one.

When Jayce finally breaks the kiss, breathless, Viktor aches a single brow. “Needy, aren’t we?”

“‘M hungry,” Jayce pouts, lips still adorably swollen. “You said I can take as much as I want.”

“And so I did.  Come—let us continue in the bedroom, hm?”

They stumble their way toward the room, fetching up against walls and doorframes as Jayce steals kisses whenever he can, desperate and insatiable. It takes them nearly ten minutes to climb the flight of stairs, every step interrupted by Jayce pressing his mouth against Viktor’s in fevered insistence, and Viktor, in turn, indulging him with the patience of a saint.

At last, they cross the threshold of the bedroom and Jayce collapses back onto the bed, tugging Viktor down with him. His eyes are wide and molten, an endearing tooth gap just visible behind his parted lips.

“Give it to me, please?” Jayce croons, surging up to peck at Viktor’s cheek again.

“Since you asked so sweetly…” Viktor smiles as he begins to unbutton Jayce’s shirt. He takes his time with it, heedless of the whining from the man below, parting the fabric until two stiff peaks adorned with silver piercings are revealed to him.

“Do you think they noticed?” Viktor’s voice drops into a low purr as he brushes one pert nipple with the pad of his thumb. “All night, wandering about in nothing but a flimsy shirt. Surely every eye must have caught the way these little decorations are pressed against the fabric. Tell me, Jayce—“ Viktor leans down, breath ghosting over one stiff peak, and he savours the way Jayce shivers. “Did you want them to see? For your former employees to realise what their esteemed boss has become… nothing but a wanton little whore?”

Jayce tilts his head back, a moan spilling from his lips. “Yes— for you, just for you—“

Viktor’s smile widens as he closes his lips around the nipple. His tongue laps slowly at the cold silver piercing, before he sucks hard enough to draw another lewd cry from Jayce’s throat.

“Want you in me, Viktor, please—“

“Patience,” Viktor soothes. With a lazy flick of his hand, Jayce’s dress pants dissolve into thin air. What remains makes Viktor go still—a pair of thin, lacy black panties hugs Jayce’s crotch, so sheer they leave little to the imagination.

Taking notice of Viktor’s pause, Jayce arches a brow, sly smile creeping across his face. “Put them on just for you, sweetie. Like what you see?”

Viktor, however, says nothing. He merely hooks a finger under the thin string and brushes it aside, sinking his thumb into the slick heat waiting beneath.

“Oooooh—“

Jayce’s eyes flutter shut as his head tilts back. His muscles clamp down greedily around Viktor’s finger, flexing as if it’s desperate to draw out every drop of pleasure it can.

“…I do,” Viktor finally replies, his voice betraying no hint of the turmoil inside. For millennia, he has prided himself on his ability to remain unshaken even in the direst of circumstances. Yet with Jayce, that iron discipline slips from his grasp as though it had never been there at all. No one has ever undone him so effortlessly— Jayce drives him to the brink of madness with a smile, with a moan, with the way he takes as though he were made for Viktor alone.

With a small sigh, Viktor frees himself with another wave of his hand and presses forward, lining his cock against Jayce’s entrance. The tight ring of muscle flexes in response, ripping around the tip, coaxing him inward in an shameless invitation.

In one swift push, Viktor buries himself inside the wet heat of Jayce’s hole, and he drinks in the delicious sight of Jayce’s back arching off the bed, eyes rolling back in sheer ecstasy. A serrated chorus of pants and whines greet him as Viktor begins to move in earnest. Jayce’s fingers dig into his forearms, latching on as if he’s grounding himself against the barrage of pleasure.

Lewd squelches fill the air as Viktor drives his cock in and out of Jayce’s hole, every thrust slicker, harder. The edge looms up all to quickly, a pressure building low in his abdomen, but still Viktor presses on, losing himself in every heavenly clench around him. Jayce is wet and so perfectly warm, the tightness of him an exquisite vice— a body made to create pleasure, and to take it.

“I’m going to—Jayce—” Viktor pants, his composure fraying with each thrust.

Jayce meets his gaze through half-lidded eyes, lips curving upwards in a content smile. “Come inside, baby… give it to me.”

With a low, guttural groan, Viktor’s control finally snaps. Release crashes through him in pulsing waves as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling deep inside Jayce.

The moment his seed coats those tight, clenching walls, Jayce cries out in a wanton mewl, and his body tightens around Viktor, milking him greedily as his own release follows. It pulses weakly out of his dick, spilling across his stomach in ribbons of white.

For a breathless moment, the world seems to hold still, Viktor trembling ever so slightly above and Jayce arching beneath, both bound together in the same blinding rush of pleasure.

Then, Viktor lowers himself carefully, settling atop Jayce and encasing him in an embrace.

“Was that enough, my dear?” he murmurs against Jayce’s temple.

“Hmnnn…” Jayce hums, voice muffled with drowsy satisfaction. “Could do with more later… Oh!”

He suddenly stirs, pushing himself up on his elbows. Viktor blinks, eyes opening in faint confusion as he studies Jayce’s expression.

“What is it, Jayce?” Viktor asks.

“I just had a thought,” Jayce sits up a little straighter, all previous exhaustion dissipating on the spot. “When you come, you release a bit of magic into the air, right? And all demons do the same even just when they’re exhausted, unconsciously, every day. Which means there’s loose magic everywhere—particles just floating around.”

“Yes?” Viktor sits up, smiling at the way Jayce’s eyes light up whenever inspiration strikes him.

“So what if I could design something to capture the loose magic in the air? If I could condense it into stable crystals, like batteries, for the magical folk to draw on. I could find a way to filter and compress it without destabilising the weave, I think, and it could help a lot of our kind.”

“You’d need a containment matrix, and something self-regulating so the crystal doesn’t break under pressure, but yes. I assume it could work,” Viktor says. “Would you like to shower, and we can begin shaping its framework immediately?”

Jayce sinks back down onto the mattress with a little hum and pulls Viktor down on top of him. “Mmh. Maybe just a little more cuddle time first.”

“As you wish.”