#demon!sunoo

You were a good witch—phenomenal, even.

Your elderly professors at the Academy of Decelis still sang praises of you, even now, even after years had passed.

Despite your young age, despite how you used to spill half your potions on the floor or set feathers on fire because you misread a measurement, you excelled where it mattered:

You helped people.

Humans, elves, dwarves, dragon hybrids, even that one overly beautiful succubus who would saunter into your workshop during your academy days.

The one who asked for energy potions and always made you fumble the swan feathers with bright red ears because she thought your flustered panic was amusing.

You could handle all of that.

But nothing—and absolutely nothing—prepared you for hosting a housewarming party with half the witches from your district crammed inside your new home.

The kitchen alone felt like a bustling marketplace.

Your oven hummed with warm enchantments, the smell of barbecue ribs filling the entire house and drifting lazily into the living room. Pots floated overhead, levitating spices drifted like tiny stars, and animated brooms swept crumbs with attitudes.

You hummed under your breath as you pulled a fresh tray of brownies from the oven. The chocolatey scent instantly made two witches nearby perk up like cats offered tuna. You transferred the brownies onto a wide platter, careful not to burn your fingers as you moved.

Laughter and chatter filled the space, bouncing against the tall windows and wooden beams overhead. Colored lanterns flickered with soft witchlight, casting dancing glows on the countertops.

Hana—your tall, sharp-tongued, beautiful fellow witch—leaned over a giant slab of ribs with a dramatic sigh.

“Now that is a beef rib,” she declared, eyes sparkling.

You snorted softly, brushing a bit of flour off your apron. “Thank you,” you said, watching her wave her hand.

The massive pan floated off the stovetop, shimmering with Hana’s spellwork before landing gently on the counter. “My husband would die for something like that,”

You raised a brow at that, instantly remembering the orc who had come into your shop three days ago asking for something to help his cooking, “Wait, what?”

She grinned. “He tried to cook dinner for us.”

You gasped. “He actually cooked?”

Hana crossed her arms with a dramatic huff. “Not only did he cook, (Y/N)—it tasted really good.”

You raised a brow, impressed. “So you’re telling me the cooking potion bundle worked that well?”

Hana gave you a look that was half amusement and half exasperated fondness.

“That just means you’re really good with potions, (Y/N). Your stuff actually works. Which is terrifying, but also very helpful.”

You couldn’t help the warmth that spread across your chest. Your ears tinged pink as you placed the platter of brownies down next to the ribs.

“Oh, stop that,” you muttered, though your smile betrayed you.

You grabbed the platter again, circling around the counter. Hana trailed after you, balancing the massive tray of ribs in her arms like it weighed nothing.

Together, you set them down on the long dining table—already overflowing with dishes, spell-cooled drinks, enchanted fruit bowls, and pastries that periodically refilled themselves.

Three witches sat on the right side of the table, chatting loudly. Two more nestled on the left, whispering over steaming mugs. As soon as you and Hana took your seats, the chatter grew louder.

You huffed dramatically. “Are we feeding the whole town?”

A witch with silver-streaked hair—Haneul—laughed, waving a fork in your direction. “Well, it’s only necessary for us to welcome you properly. You’re new, after all. This is tradition.”

You untied your apron, letting it float away toward the kitchen rack with a soft shimmer of purple smoke. Bam immediately hopped onto your lap, curling up like a warm loaf of dough. You stroked his head, and he purred deeply, bell glowing faintly.

Miyoung, seated across from you, lifted her glass high. “I’m proposing a toast!”

A collective cheer rose around the table as every witch—yourself included—raised a glass. The scent of rich wine drifted up as Miyoung swirled hers dramatically.

“To (Y/N). Thank the gods and goddesses for bringing her to Vamfield. We needed another witch in town.”

You smiled sheepishly as murmurs of agreement rippled around you.

“And congratulations on opening your shop,” Miyoung continued, pride sparkling in her eyes. “I heard business is already booming.”

Your smile widened, chest tightening with a warm, fizzy feeling.

Before you could respond, Hana leaned in with a wicked grin. “And we hope she finds a husband soon—before some werewolf pounces on her.”

Your face went hot instantly. “Hana! I’m fine being single, thank you.”

The table erupted in laughter. A few witches clinked glasses together, others giggled behind their hands, and someone muttered something about werewolves being ‘terrible at subtlety.’

You took a quick sip of your wine, flushing even deeper at the implications. Bam flicked his tail in amusement.

You clapped your hands softly, trying to bury your embarrassment under hostess mode. “Please, enjoy the food.”

Dinner went on smoothly—smooth enough that you almost forgot how flustered Hana had made you earlier.

From small talk to loud banter to repeated compliments about the ribs, the evening mellowed into that warm glow only good food and good company could bring.

You had taken a particular liking to Sujin’s gravy mashed potatoes, sprinkled with fresh parsley leaves. You ate three small bowls before anyone noticed, and when they did, they only laughed and pushed the dish closer to you.

Eventually, as was natural when witches gathered, everyone drifted upstairs.

The next part of the night unfolded on the carpeted floor of your main bedroom. The soft purple glow from the enchanted lights hanging above your bed frame mixed with the warm, flickering glow of your chandelier, painting the room in shades of lavender and gold.

You sat in a circle with them, each holding a goblet of wine—goblets that had been refilled far too many times judging by the four empty bottles resting sadly near the foot of your bed.

Hana took a massive gulp of her wine and plopped her goblet down with theatrical flair. “Well,” she said, throwing her hands up, “he was a shy fellow despite his stature.”

Sujin nudged her, laughing. “Oh please. He’s been into you for the longest time! Don’t act innocent.”

You giggled, covering your mouth with one hand—partly from amusement, partly to keep the drunken smile off your face. “How long have you two even been together?”

Hana tapped her chin dramatically. “Hmm… oh, about five years? More or less.”

You nodded as you took a sip of wine… then paused mid-swallow. Four—no, five—emptied bottles sat near your circle, glistening like witnesses to your collective demise.

“Gods…” you murmured, staring at them. “How are we still alive?”

The women burst into laughter.

Haneul, leaning fully onto Yunhee’s shoulder, raised her goblet with dangerous confidence. “You can’t blame Hana. They say orcs are the best in bed.”

You instantly spat your wine back into your cup.

You folded forward, coughing into your hands as Yunhee rubbed circles on your back. “Are you okay?”

You nodded while coughing, eyes watering, face burning—and the more flustered you got, the harder the women laughed.

Hana scooted closer, cheeks rosy from alcohol. “Say, (Y/N)…?”

Your head lifted slowly. “…Yes?”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing with drunken curiosity. “Have you ever had sex?”

Your whole face flushed, your ears burned, your throat closed up—and you actually pulled your knees to your chest. The motion hiked your dress just an inch higher on your thighs, the soft fabric slipping upward without your permission.

Your skin prickled from the contrast: the cold air of the room against your legs… and the heat of the wine blooming through your chest.

Hana slapped her own forehead lightly. “Sorry! That came off so direct—gods, I’m tipsy. I meant… have you?”

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “N-No.”

Sujin reached over, gently tugging your skirt back down so it no longer exposed half your thigh. “There, there,” she cooed. “Nothing wrong with that.”

Your face burned even hotter.

Hana blinked at you in pure disbelief. “Really? But you’re so pretty.”

Haneul jabbed her with an elbow. “Oh come on. Just because you have a husband doesn’t mean everyone needs to get dicked down.”

Sujin groaned into her hands. “Haneul…”

“What?” Haneul lifted her chin proudly.

“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” Sujin asked.

Haneul perked up instantly. “I do! And he’s a werewolf. And they have the best knots ever.”

You let out a noise that could only be described as a tiny, strangled mouse-hiccup of horror.

Sujin dragged a hand down her face. “Ladies, please, not in front of (Y/N).”

You shook your head frantically. “N-No, it’s okay! I’m fine! Really!”

You hugged your knees tighter, trying to hide the fact your entire body felt like it was overheating. “It’s just… embarrassing to talk about.”

Miyoung leaned forward, brows raised. “How is it embarrassing?”

You slumped fully this time, resting your chin on your knees. “It’s weird because I haven’t experienced it.”

Hana took a slow sip of wine. “Not even with any of your ex-boyfriends?”

You inhaled deeply… and took a giant gulp of your wine for courage. “Never had one,” you admitted, voice small.

The collective gasp that erupted shook the room.

A strange, heavy, wine-thick silence that wrapped around you all for a few long, suspended heartbeats. Your flushed cheeks, your curled knees, the warm pulse of embarrassment in your ears—everything held still.

Until—Yunhee snapped her fingers.

In the very center of your small circle, three black candles materialised out of thin air, their smooth wax bodies glinting under the chandelier light.

You blinked. The wine haze in your head didn’t distort a thing—you saw that correctly.

“What… what’s that for?” you asked, eyes narrowing in wary confusion.

Hana turned toward her slowly, a grin stretching across her flushed face—one that promised trouble. Yunhee grinned back with the same exact expression, like their brains had merged the second the candles appeared.

Your brow lifted. “Okay, what are you two thinking?”

Sujin sighed, already massaging her temples. “That does not work.”

You blinked harder. “What exactly does not work?”

Miyoung gave you a sheepish smile, cheeks rosy, eyes sparkling with just enough alcohol to make her bold. “We do this little thing. As a joke. Mostly. But it never actually works—”

“It never does,” Sujin interrupted firmly, coughing into her fist like she refused to be associated with whatever foolishness was forming.

Miyoung shot her a glare sharp enough to slice through stone. Sujin avoided eye contact immediately, pretending the enchantment papers pinned to your pegboard were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

Miyoung continued, voice softer now. “We basically try to summon something—anything. But none of us are seasoned enough for real conjuring. They say it only works when you truly need a companion.”

You stared at her—then slowly nodded, your brain trying to swim through the wine to reach the meaning behind her words. “I’ve done summonings before…”

Collectively, all the women turned to look at you—eyes widening, wine-bright, glittering with instant mischief.

You sighed, waving a limp hand in defeat. “Like small things. Missing stuff I can’t find. Or Bam. Even when he decides to go sleep back in whatever realm he crawled from.”

You sighed again. “It never works on mythical beings.”

Sujin burst into laughter. “But aren’t we mythical beings?”

Hana swatted her arm. “You’re not a dragon or a prince of hell, you idiot.”

You couldn’t help it—you smiled. A soft, tiny, tired smile. Their banter was ridiculous. Loud. Sloppy. Endearing.

Your mind drifted—not fully by choice.

The mansion was beautiful, yes, but vast. Echoing. Too quiet. Too cold.

You often found yourself wandering through the gardens at dusk, the air thick with the scent of the dark red roses and white lilies you’d planted to make the place feel less… hollow. Less lonely.

Even Bam hissed when your room got too cold at night, forcing you to curl up in your silk blankets alone, the emptiness heavier than the darkness.

Maybe that was why the idea didn’t sound so insane.

You blinked down at your wine again—then lifted your head. “Let’s do it.”

“Hm?” Sujin’s head shot up. “(Y/N)… you know you really don’t have to.”

You shook your head, pushing your goblet gently aside. “But I want to. It sounds fun.”

A pause, a flicker of something bold beneath your embarrassment.

“Plus,” you added, looking at each of them, “you said it never works on anything big, right?”

Hana leaned in, whispering, “Correct…”

You inhaled as the wine emboldened you, the loneliness hummed beneath your ribs, the candles flickered—almost expectant.

“Well then,” you said slowly, your voice soft but certain as you placed your hands on your knees. “Let’s try summoning a Prince of Hell… shall we?”

You pushed yourself up from the plush carpet, your dress slipping slightly along your thighs with the movement, heat crawling across your skin despite the coolness of the room. The soft purple glow from your hanging lights draped your figure in a dreamy haze as you crossed your bedroom.

To the right—tucked beside your working table—was a single dark oak door.

You wrapped your fingers around the cold brass handle and pushed it open.

The enchantment responded immediately.

The door swung into a space far larger than the physical room allowed—a neverending storage that stretched into a twilight horizon. Shelves floated without touching the walls. Bottles glimmered like trapped stars. Failed potions shimmered in dusty glass, long-abandoned academy experiments lined up like trophies.

Your bare feet stepped onto the hardwood floor enchanted to look like the night sky. Indigo, navy, scattered with tiny glowing points—every step sent ripples through the illusion, as though you were walking through constellations.

Your eyes scanned shelf after shelf.

“Come on… where are you…” you murmured, fingertips grazing jars filled with swirling blues, bubbling purples, pulsing reds.

“Aha.” your lips curved softly. “There you are.”

Your hand closed around a tall crystal jar, the black salt inside glowing faintly—like ink infused with stars, shifting and restless under your touch.

You nudged the door shut behind you with your foot as you walked back toward your waiting circle of witches.

The moment they saw the jar, they straightened like children spotting candy.

Haneul whispered, “Is that…?”

“Black salt,” you confirmed, lifting a finger.

The lid popped open as though obeying your gesture. The salt rose in a soft swirl, forming a tiny suspended cloud before pouring itself gracefully onto the carpet.

The room fell into an expectant hush as the dark particles traced glowing lines across the floor—curves, sharp points, intersecting edges—until a summoning pentagram began to form between your group.

Miyoung hummed nervously. “Are we sure this is going to work this time…?”

You shrugged, entirely too honest. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. This is going to be my first time summoning a living being. Besides Bam.”

The jar finished emptying and, with a soft tink sound, dissolved into particles of black light before disappearing into the air.

You clapped your hands together, smile gentle yet tinged with uncertainty. “Am I missing something…?”

Yunhee raised her hand immediately like a student asking to speak. “A circle of protection?”

Haneul snorted. “We… don’t normally do that.”

“That’s because you always summon dust bunnies,” Sujin muttered.

Haneul scoffed, crossing her arms and jerking her head to the side in an offended posture. “Because I need something to eat the dust in the corners I can’t reach. You know my werewolf of a husband is so allergic to them.”

You let out a soft giggle—light, honest, not even bothering to hold it back.

“I… didn’t think dust allergies were a werewolf trait,” you murmured, tilting your head as you raised one hand.

At your gesture, a thin trail of white salt lifted from nowhere, swirling gently before cascading down in a soft ring around all of you. The protection circle formed effortlessly, a glowing band settling outside the much larger summoning circle.

Every grain of salt fell with a tiny sparkle of purple smoke—your magic flowing through each particle as it touched the hardwood floor.

“Do relationships usually end up with this much… bickering?” you asked softly, eyes following the final drifting grains. “Because I don’t think I’d enjoy it very much.”

The witches all paused—tipsy smiles blooming across their faces.

Sujin reached out, touching your arm lightly, careful not to break your focus as the salt sealed itself with a shimmer. “(Y/N), honey… you will. I promise.”

Miyoung coughed into her palm, trying to hide a smirk behind her wine goblet. “Says the single witch.”

Sujin shot her a glare sharp enough to cut a broom in half.

You flicked your fingers again, summoning the last of the ritual components: five tall black candles appearing in the pentagram’s corners, two more rising from the air as if grown from shadows.

You lit them with a twirl of your wrist, fire blooming from your fingertips in warm, golden sparks that made the room glow.

Sujin’s voice softened when her attention returned to you. She brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek—one you had styled perfectly earlier but had fallen loose in all the laughter.

“What I’m trying to say is that the gods and goddesses will answer your wishes, you know? You may never know… you might be married, and you’ll finally get to share easy birthing tricks with Hana in no time.”

Hana perked up instantly. “Hey, we’ve been trying, you know. I feel like I’ll get pregnant soon enough.”

Haneul sighed dramatically. “If you didn’t work so much, you’d probably be well-rested enough to conceive one.”

“Excuse you,” Hana shot back, smacking her lightly with her goblet. “Not all of us can rely on our boyfriends’ supernatural stamina.”

You smiled at the soft banter—warm, fond, something inside your chest loosening at the sound of it.

You turned your gaze toward Sujin again, your voice gentle. “Thank you. Really. It means a lot.”

She gave you a small, teasing but affectionate smile. “Oh please. I’m only doing my job as a good friend. Witches need to stick together after all.”

You laughed under your breath—quiet, sweet—before clapping your hands softly, loud enough to pull everyone's attention back to you.

“Now,” you said, letting your eyes linger on the glowing rune circle, the candles, your friends’ expectant faces. “Where were we?”

Miyoung moved forward immediately, the hem of her velvet skirt brushing the hardwood as she approached the shimmering ring of salt. She set her wine down with the softest clink, eyes fixed on the glow like a moth to flame.

“May I?” she asked, her voice suddenly steady—clearer than it had been all night—gesturing delicately to the protective circle you’d created.

You nodded.

Sujin and Haneul moved closer at the same time, though both hesitated the moment your hands lifted. Still, they reached for you—Sujin on your right, Haneul on your left—each of them lacing their fingers with yours like you were holding something fragile.

Hana and the other witch stepped in as well, their hands connecting around the circle until all five of you were linked, breath syncing, hearts thudding.

Miyoung inhaled deeply. You watched the rise of her chest, the way her lashes fluttered—she almost looked sober like this, stripped of her giggly exterior and dipped into something ancient.

“Great Ones above… Great Ones below…” Miyoung began, the words rolling out of her like she’d rehearsed them in dreams.

“Hear us as we call. Blood of earth, breath of moon, flame of the first spark… guide us. Open the veils you have woven. Let our intentions reach you—unbroken, untouched, unbound.”

You felt it immediately—magic tightening like a silk ribbon around your ribs.

The room’s music faltered into silence.

A hush pressed against your ears.

Miyoung continued, and gods, you couldn’t help staring. Her eyes had gone wide—glassy, childlike—like she was seeing the magic physically respond to her for once, bending and breathing differently under your influence.

The other witches kept their eyes shut tight, afraid of even blinking. Everyone knew this kind of magic didn’t appreciate sudden movement. Shadows could slip the wrong way. Candles could go out. A spark could—

Barely—a tremble in the atmosphere so light it could’ve been imagination.

It wasn’t Bam, you knew his presence like you knew your heartbeat.

He hadn’t been there since dinner ended, vanishing back to the Familiar Realm with a flick of his tail, wanting peace instead of dealing with you drunk-summoning gods at one in the morning.

Miyoung drew in another breath, her voice dipping lower, the candle flames tugged toward her like they were bowing.

“Divine Mothers… Watchers of fate… hear our sister’s longing. Let her wishes be carried to you on threads of light and shadow both. Let the path meant for her unfold.”

A ripple skated across the salt like wind over water.

You felt Sujin squeeze your hand tighter. You could practically feel her trying not to look at the pentagram—witches always said the quickest way to get a lash of magic to the eye was to stare directly at the center.

And as much as Sujin liked you, she liked her eyesight more.

The shadows on the walls had begun moving.

Tendrils—slithering, curling—stretching like fingers, twisting with the violet glow of your hanging lights, making the entire room look like something out of an ancient storybook your grandmother would’ve warned you not to read.

The chandelier flickered.

The enchanted flames—supposedly eternal—shrunk as if frightened, dimming until the crystals were bathed in almost-night.

“Let her heart be known,” Miyoung whispered, “let her name be marked. Let the future she seeks be brought forth with grace.”

Another shadow curled around one of the candles. A violet spark sizzled.

You gasped—sharp and involuntary—as the air in the room suddenly changed.

Cold. Not winter cold. But the cold of forests and damp earth and moss crushed under invisible feet—the faint smell of pine, of night fog, of something old as time walking through the bushes surrounding your mansion.

The shadows responded instantly as they slithered closer.

From the corners of your room, from under the shelves, from behind the curtains—streaks of black stretching, lengthening, thickening. Growing larger with every second, as though something was inhaling them like threads being pulled into a loom.

The chandelier above you flickered violently.

The black candles—already burning faster than any candle had a right to—began melting like they were racing toward nothingness, wax dripping in long, frantic streams.

But not a drop hit the floor, every droplet froze mid-fall. A black tear suspended in the air, turning solid the moment the cold touched it.

The temperature dropped again—ice sliding down your spine.

Sujin cracked one eye open, “Look—” she whispered.

Your gaze snapped back to the center of the circle.

Black smoke was forming—twisting upward like a vine climbing an invisible pole, sparkling under the dim lighting—little flecks of starlight embedded inside the darkness.

It didn’t look like smoke, it looked like the night sky itself was leaking into your living room.

The others opened their eyes, one by one, breaths caught in their throats, their faces illuminated by the shifting gold and purple glow in the room.

You whispered, barely breathing, “It’s… beautiful.”

And terrifying, beautifully terrifying.

The smoke glittered like cosmic dust, or crystals mined from the deepest caverns—sharp and shimmering.

“That’s either your future husband,” Sujin muttered, “or Bam playing tricks on us.”

You blinked for the first time since Miyoung started speaking. Your voice came out soft, but sure, “Bam’s smoke is purple. He stems from my magic. This… there’s no way this is him.”

Miyoung swallowed, then continued the last of the spell, her voice trembling with reverence more than fear, “By star and stone… by thread and time… let what is destined answer. Let what is chosen appear.”

Her eyes squinted sharply at the shape forming in the smoke.

Shadows stretched across every surface, soaking your walls, your carpet, your faces in a wash of twilight—deep purples, molten golds, streaks of shadow dancing like they had minds of their own.

And then—in a single blink, a single heartbeat, a single terrifying, breath-snatching moment—the shadows slithered away.

Pulled back like liquid being sucked into cracks of the walls, like your home was drinking them in, swallowing them whole.

The warmth of the candles returned too quickly, too unnaturally—as if the darkness had only been a hallucination you all agreed upon.

And the smoke—the star-flecked, shimmering, impossibly ancient smoke rising in the center of the pentagram—vanished.

As if it hadn’t been reaching toward your chandelier just seconds ago, as if none of it had ever happened at all.

You stared at the empty space, bewildered, breath stuttering in your chest. Your eyes slowly drifted back down to Miyoung, who stared at you with the exact same confused crease between her brows.

“What in the world…” you murmured.

You broke your hands free from Sujin and Haneul’s grips, stepping directly into the summoning circle.

“(Y/N)—” Hana called after you, alarm tightening her tone.

But you barely heard her, your gaze was fixed on something glittering on the floor.

There were specks of black dust—not sand, not salt, not ash. It sparkled—tiny flecks of starlight, too dazzling, too alive to be anything from your jar of black salt.

You crouched, fingertips brushing the particles. They clung to your skin like they had chosen you.

“Huh,” you whispered, lifting your hand closer to your face. “Well… that was weird.”

You stood, the dust still shining between your fingers.

Miyoung stepped closer, leaning in with narrowed, fascinated eyes. “I’ve never seen that kind of dust before,” she whispered. “Not even in cross-realm summoning.”

You shrugged, though your heart was still sprinting inside your chest.

“Well, that just proves that summoning beings doesn’t really work,” you sighed. “At least not for me.”

You rubbed your fingers together to shake off the glitter, but the dust clung stubbornly—refusing to fall, refusing to fade.

Turning back to the group of women, you mustered a wry smile.

With a soft snap of your fingers, the entire mess of the failed summoning—salt, wax, lingering energy—burst into a small puff of purple smoke and vanished beneath you.

“Are you lot staying for the night,” you asked lightly, brushing your hands off, “or heading home before you sober up and regret everything?”

You stepped beside Hana, rubbing her shoulder despite the fact she was comforting you all evening.

Hana laughed under her breath, shaking her head at herself while leaning into your touch like she needed it more than she wanted to admit.

Yunhee spoke first, her pout dramatic enough to rival a teenager punished for breathing too loudly.

“As much as we’d love to,” she sighed, eyes soft with apology, “we have homes to get to.”

You waved a dismissive hand, your smile gentle.

“No need to apologize. I already bothered you ladies enough with this whole housewarming dilemma.”

Haneul let out a long sigh, stepping forward with her arms already open.

“Don’t say that,” she scolded softly. “We’re always welcome to help you. You know that. You’re part of the community now.”

Before you could respond, she wrapped you in a tight hug—warm, comforting, almost motherly. You let go of Hana’s shoulder to return it, pulling Haneul closer as if she was the one who needed reassurance.

“I’ll stop by your store tomorrow,” she mumbled into your shoulder, pouting. “Okay? I’ll make you my famous hot chocolate.”

Before you could tell her she didn’t have to, Yunhee grabbed her by the wrist and tugged her gently back.

“And give her chocolate poisoning because you’re too sad about what happened tonight?” Yunhee said, deadpan, eyebrows raised. “I don’t think (Y/N) would appreciate that.”

Haneul gasped dramatically. “H–Hey!”

You couldn’t help it—a soft, helpless laugh spilled out of you as you walked toward the door, your steps light on the carpet.

You wrapped your fingers around the dark oak handle and pulled; the wood groaned in that familiar old-house way, a soft creak that echoed down your long hallway.

“Okay, Haneul,” you said, glancing over your shoulder with a teasing smirk, “let’s get you back home before you start crying for your boyfriend, yes?”

Her pout deepened instantly.

Before she could fire back, Yunhee—ever the menace—grabbed her by the elbow and hauled her upward from her kneeling slump on the floor.

“Come on, you big baby,” Yunhee sighed, grinning, dragging the older witch up with a grunt.

“I am never drinking that much wine ever again,” Haneul grumbled, leaning about half of her body weight onto Yunhee. “My head is spinning, my ribs hurt, and my soul feels sideways.”

Sujin arched a brow as she rose to her feet, Hana joining her with a snort.

“So we’re cancelling our girls’ night at your place next week?” Sujin asked, brushing off her skirt.

Haneul gasped as though her reputation, status, and bloodline had just been insulted.

“No we are not!” she barked, wobbling, pointing a very shaky accusing finger at Hana. “I will be there with cookies and a face mas, don’t test me!”

You burst into another soft laugh, leaning lazily against the doorframe.

“You sure you ladies don’t want to stay?” you asked, raising a brow.

Miyoung—already half off the floor—snapped her head toward you. She didn’t even hesitate to stride past your summoning circle as she crossed the room with her wine glass dangling between her fingers like an accessory.

“Oh, we wouldn’t want to impose,” she said with a small smile, brushing past you and heading down the hall.

Sujin groaned dramatically. “Oh for Goddess’ sake—Miyoung, wait up!” She caught up quickly, stopping just beside you with a sigh.

She turned to you again, softer this time, “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.

You blinked—just a little caught off guard by her sincerity—before a small smile curled onto your lips. “Not my first failed summoning,” you said lightly. “Don’t worry too much about me.”

Sujin’s features softened. She gave a gentle nod before trailing after Miyoung, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

Now it was just you, Yunhee, and—

“Move,” Yunhee muttered under her breath, pulling Haneul back upright by both arms like she was handling a drunk, overly affectionate scarecrow.

Haneul’s pout remained immovable, glued to her lips like a curse.

“Well,” Yunhee sighed, adjusting her grip, “we better get going before she plants herself on your floor again.”

You shook your head—not enough to steady your own tipsiness, but enough to pretend—before pushing yourself off the doorframe.

“I better see you ladies out,” you said, stepping into the hallway. “Haneul might ram her broom into my trees again.”

“That happened once!” Haneul barked defensively, nearly tripping over her own feet. “You have a literal forest around your house, how was I supposed to see?”

Yunhee tightened her hold, dragging her away from your priceless framed paintings. “Exactly why I’m holding her,” she muttered.

You laughed, the sound echoing warm and soft through your dimly lit halls, the kind of laugh that bounced against polished wood and old portraits like it had lived there for years. Your hand slid onto the brass doorknob beside you, cool under your palm, as you let Yunhee and Haneul shuffle a few more wobbly steps forward.

But as they moved away, the smile slowly slipped from your face.

Your eyes flicked back—just once—towards your room, where the summoning circle had been.

Where you had removed every rune, every scatter of dust, every drop of wax. Nothing remained—no glow, no pulse, no faint hum of magic.

The shadows weren’t dancing on your walls anymore. The black smoke had thinned into nothing—air, only air. The room looked exactly how it always did: calm, untouched, like magic had never tried to claw its way out of the stones.

Your gaze swept over everything, slow and searching.

Your bed—pillows neatly stacked, silk sheets smoothed as if nothing chaotic had ever brushed against them. The delicate vines climbing your bedposts, still green, still perfect, not a leaf out of place.

You stood there longer than you meant to, squinting slightly, your brows pulling together as if you could force any lingering distortion to reveal itself. But the room remained silent.

You finally blinked, letting out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.

“…Everything seems normal,” you murmured. Not quite convinced. Not quite reassured.

Your fingers tightened around the doorknob as you pulled, shoulder bracing against the weight of the heavy wooden door. It swung shut slowly, the hinges groaning in that familiar old-house way.

The moment the lock clicked into place—the chandelier in your room, kept alive only by old magic and older stubbornness, flickered sharply. Once. Twice. Like a dying heartbeat trying to restart.

And then the shadows moved.

Not the way normal shadows sway with candlelight—these stretched, peeling themselves off the walls, sliding across the room as if reacting to the absence of your presence.

Right where the summoning pentagram once burned into the floor, the air trembled.

A thin line of darkness split between the wooden boards—then widening, the edges warping, pulsing.

Black smoke curled upward in slow, sinuous coils, climbing like fingers searching for something to hold onto. It crawled across the floorboards, swallowing the moonlight, growing thicker, heavier—like ink swimming through water.

Then came the sound.

Soft nails at first—barely whispering against the floorboards. Each scrape crawled up the walls, and into the hollow center of the room where the smoke churned like a living thing.

Right at the center of the dark mass, something pressed outward.

First the shape of knuckles, then slender fingers, then—a hand.

A pale hand, deathly white and impossibly clean against the rolling black smoke, shot out of the shadows with a sudden, jerking lunge—fingers splayed, nails long enough to carve lines directly into the wood as they hooked downward.

The nails curved like the talons of something that had never been human.

The hand clawed against the floor, pulling, dragging, searching for purchase as the rest of the arm trembled behind the veil of darkness, straining to push through.

And you—

You were blissfully unaware down the hall, your soft laughter echoing faintly as you walked your drunken friends toward the stairs, the warmth of their complaints and teasing filling the air.

You hum softly to yourself, a little tune that's half-forgotten from some old grimoire melody, as you brush away the stray strands of hair that had already dried and clung to your face.

Your raised finger dances in the air, commanding a gentle gust of wind that swirls around your head like a playful breeze, teasing the locks into place.

As you lower your finger, the small puff of purple smoke curling from its tip dissipates into nothingness, leaving behind the faint scent of lavender and ozone that always lingers after your minor spells.

Leaning closer to the fogged mirror, you run a hand over your damp hair, feeling the cool silkiness against your palm, and mumble to yourself with a tired sigh, “Yeah, I'm not gonna do my face mask tonight.”

A small yawn escapes your lips, stretching your jaw as you adjust the thin straps of your nightgown.

The light purple material clings just a bit from the humidity, ending teasingly just above your thighs, and your eyes flick down to scan the delicate lace cupping your breasts, the fabric whispering against your skin with every subtle shift.

Pushing your hair behind your ears, you let the soft strands cascade over your back like a dark waterfall, brushing against the silk of your gown in a way that sends a faint shiver down your spine—not from cold, but from that post-bath warmth settling into your bones.

Your bare feet meet the cold tiled floor of the bathroom, and you shudder at the chill seeping up through your soles, toes curling instinctively against the smooth surface.

With a casual push, you swing open the wooden door, the hinges creaking faintly in the quiet night, and call out into the hallway, hoping to spot your little black-furred rascal.

“Bam?”

No usual response comes—no playful meow or the patter of paws that you're so accustomed to, the ones that always demand your attention whether you want to give it or not.

You glance back into the bathroom, eyes scanning the empty tub and the shower curtain hanging limp and still. He wasn't curled up in his favorite spot by the sink, either.

Shrugging it off for a moment, you call out again, just in case the little furball is lurking somewhere out of sight. “Bam?”

You step a bit further into the hallway, the only sounds breaking the silence being the soft sway of your hair against the silk of your nightgown and the distant, mournful howl of the wind slipping through the open windows in your bedroom.

Nothing else stirs—no scamper of claws, no inquisitive whiskers twitching in the shadows.

A sigh slips from your lips as you mutter to yourself, “Seriously, that little rascal,” the words laced with affectionate exasperation while a tiny knot of worry begins to form in your chest.

You flick a finger behind you, and the chandelier in the bathroom flickers once before fading to a soft, enveloping darkness, the door clicking shut with a finality that echoes in the quiet.

Another step forward toward your room, and then—you freeze.

The air thickens around you, heavy with something unspoken, as a voice you don't recognize slithers into your ears, low and humming like the rumble of thunder far off in the forest.

“For a seasoned witch, you sure are bad at detecting other creatures’ presences, no?”

Ice prickles down your spine, that familiar coldness from your earlier failed summoning ritual flooding back, sharper this time, like frostbite nipping at your exposed skin.

Your nightgown feels too thin suddenly, the air in the hallway turning clammy and oppressive against your arms and legs, and it's not the chill from Bam’s magic that he always trails around like a mischievous aura, making rooms feel brisk and alive.

No, this is something else entirely—darker, heavier, coiling around you like invisible smoke that steals the warmth from your veins.

Your breath hitches in your throat, chest tightening as the voice speaks again, closer now, laced with a mocking lilt. “Don’t tell me you're scared, little witch?”

The air leaves your lungs in a rush, as if whatever this creature is has reached out and squeezed the breath right out of you.

That faint breathing—his breathing—feels heavy and pressing, like a weight settling on your shoulders, sucking the oxygen from the room and leaving you lightheaded, heart pounding erratically against your ribs.

You force yourself to tilt your head just the slightest bit, afraid to move too much, afraid this thing might strike if you show too much fear—or too little.

Your eyes dart toward the window in your bedroom, and there, silhouetted against the moonlit glass, is a shadow that doesn’t belong.

He’s tall, towering really, with broad shoulders tapering to a slender waist, the moonlight carving sharp lines along his form like it’s afraid to touch him fully.

His hair sways gently against the soft howl of the wind outside, dark strands catching the silver glow, while the shadows of the forest beyond your home—twisted trees and whispering leaves—seem like a mere joke compared to the darkness he brings.

Slithery tendrils of shadow swirl around your walls, creeping like living ink, dimming the candlelight from your bedside and making the room feel smaller, more confined.

You gulp, throat dry as sandpaper, summoning the courage from somewhere deep in your gut to whisper, “What are you doing in my home?”

Your voice comes out smaller than you'd like, trembling just a fraction, but you hold your ground, fingers twitching at your sides as if ready to summon a spark of magic.

He pauses, his long fingers that had been idly toying with the edges of your open curtains stilling for a beat.

Slowly, he turns his head, and those eyes—red, almost orange, glowing like embers in the heart of a dying fire—pierce right through the dimness, locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

He hums, a low vibration that you feel more than hear, resonating in your chest. “Not a very welcoming host, are you?”

His voice is as soft as the silk of your nightgown rubbing against your skin with every shallow breath, smooth and inviting in a way that sends unwelcome tingles across your flesh, but the sarcasm drips from his words in thick, unrelenting waves, sharp as a blade hidden in velvet.

‘Gods, what have I let into my house?’ Your mind races, thoughts tumbling over the failed ritual earlier that evening—the incantation that fizzled into smoke instead of summoning power.

Now, with this… thing standing in your bedroom, shadows dancing at his command, you wonder if her success bled over into your failure somehow.

The air grows thicker, charged with an electric undercurrent that raises the fine hairs on your arms, and you take a half-step back, the cold floor biting into your heels.

His eyes narrow just a touch, amusement flickering in their glow as he fully turns toward you, his form unfolding from the window like a predator uncoiling from the dark.

The wind outside picks up, rattling the panes, but inside, it's his presence that stirs the real storm—oppressive, intoxicating, pulling you in even as every instinct screams to run.

“Who—or what—are you?” you manage, voice steadier this time, though your pulse thuds wildly in your ears.

You glance around for Bam again, willing your familiar to appear, to lend his chaotic energy to chase this intruder away, but the room remains eerily silent save for the soft rustle of curtains and the distant call of night creatures in the forest.

He chuckles, a sound like gravel wrapped in silk, stepping closer with deliberate slowness, his shadows trailing like loyal hounds. “Ah, straight to the questions. How charming.”

Those glowing eyes rake over you, lingering on the way your nightgown clings to your curves, the lace edging your breasts rising and falling with your quickened breaths.

The cold from before intensifies, but it's laced now with something warmer, deeper—a heat building in the pit of your stomach that you can't quite name, or don't want to.

“Let’s just say… your little ritual mishap opened a door. And I walked through. Courtesy of your friend’s success, perhaps? But don’t worry, little witch—I’m not here to harm. Not yet, anyway.”

His lips curve into a smirk, teeth glinting faintly in the moonlight, and the sarcasm in his tone sharpens, cutting through the tension like a ritual knife. “Unless, of course, you make me.”

Your skin prickles under his gaze, a thousand tiny needles dancing across your arms and the exposed curve of your neck, as if his eyes are tracing invisible runes that burn without heat.

He pushes off from the window with a fluid grace that belies his size, each step deliberate, the shadows at his feet rippling like disturbed water as he closes the distance.

The only barrier left between you now is your bed, its rumpled sheets and scattered pillows a flimsy divide in the moon-drenched room. He leans against one of the sturdy posts at the foot of the bed, the aged wood creaking softly under his weight, protesting the sudden pressure like a sigh from the house itself.

Half of his body submerges into the silvery moonlight bleeding through the open windows, casting him in stark contrasts—light kissing one side while darkness clings greedily to the other.

His skin, where the light touches, is pale as fresh-fallen snow, looking utterly soft, almost inviting to the touch, like velvet stretched over honed muscle.

But it’s the tail that snags your attention, swaying lazily behind him—a sinuous length that you can only describe as echoing the lore of incubi and succubi from your forbidden tomes, yet his is longer, sharper, the end curling into a heart shape that's wickedly pointed, like a barbed arrow ready to pierce.

It flicks idly, brushing against the edge of your bedframe with a whisper of sound, sending a fresh wave of chills racing up your spine. His face, though, remains concealed in the lingering shadows, a deliberate veil that heightens the mystery, making your pulse stutter in your throat.

You swallow hard, words tumbling out in a stutter as fear and confusion tangle on your tongue. “W-What do you want from me?” Your voice cracks, barely above a whisper, echoing faintly off the wooden walls lined with your spellbooks and dried herbs.

He laughs then—loudly, the sound bursting from him like thunder wrapped in velvet, dark chuckles rolling through the expanse of your room and vibrating in your chest.

It’s seductive, that laughter, laced with a timbre that coils low in your belly, and you feel a sharp pang of revulsion at yourself for the way your body responds.

Heat blooms unbidden across your skin, flushing your cheeks and seeping downward, warming places it has no right to amid this intrusion.

‘No, this isn’t right,’ you think, clenching your fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms to ground yourself against the treacherous pull.

He uncrosses his arms slowly, the motion drawing your eyes to the way his shirt strains against his chest, and those glowing eyes—red-orange embers—intensify, pinning you in place.

“Wasn’t your little friend the one who summoned me here?” His voice dips lower, teasing the edges of your resolve. “What was it for, hmm?”

He lifts a finger to his chin, tapping it thoughtfully as if savoring a memory, his lips quirking in mock contemplation. “The one named Miyoung, was it? Didn’t she ask for a husband… for you?”

The words hit like a hex, your knees buckling under the intense weight of his stare, the room tilting as you sway on unsteady feet. Magic or not, his presence presses against you, an invisible force that makes the air thick and your thoughts scatter.

“W-Well, I mean, she didn’t exactly—” you start, the denial spilling out in a rush, your mind flashing back to Miyoung’s giggly insistence during her ritual, the way she’d woven your name into her chants with your full consent.

He cuts you off with a soft laugh, the sound gentler this time but no less disarming, slithering through the space like smoke from an extinguished flame.

He straightens from the bedpost, moving away with that predatory ease, his bare feet silent on the creaking floorboards as he walks toward you.

The moonlight bathes him fully now, and gods, it’s an understatement to call him gorgeous—he’s breathtaking, a vision carved from midnight and desire.

His dark hair catches the light in flashes of ginger, like embers woven into silk, falling in tousled waves that frame his face. Fox-like eyes, sharp and slitted, stare into yours with an intensity that strips you bare, promising secrets and sins in equal measure.

Full lips, glossed as if kissed by dew, curve in that perpetual smirk, and the sharp horns curving from his forehead—ebony and elegantly twisted—only enhance the otherworldly allure, crowning him like a dark king.

A fitted black shirt hugs his torso, the fabric clinging to the defined lines of his shoulders and abdomen, while matching black pants taper tightly at the edges, accentuating the lean power of his legs.

His bare feet leave faint trails of shadow in their wake, as if the darkness itself bows to his passage, tendrils curling up from the floor like eager pets.

He walks closer, invading your space until his breath mingles with yours—your heart hammers wildly, the silk of your nightgown suddenly too constricting against your heated skin.

His fingers—long, cool, and deceptively gentle—capture your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze fully.

The touch sends sparks skittering across your jaw, and he leans in, lips brushing so near to yours that you can taste the whisper of his words against your own.

“Well, aren’t you supposed to be my wife, (Y/N)?” The sound of your name on his tongue—smooth, possessive, rolling like a spell—unravels something deep inside you, a thread of resistance snapping as surrender flickers in your core.

You give in then, a soft gasp escaping as his other arm snakes around your waist, strong and unyielding, pulling you flush against him.

His body is a furnace beneath the cool facade, hard planes pressing into your softer curves, the heat of him seeping through the thin barriers of fabric.

Your hands instinctively rise to his chest, fingers splaying against the shirt, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat—or whatever pulses in a being like him—syncing with your own erratic rhythm.

The pointed tip of his tail brushes against your calf, a teasing graze that makes you shiver, while those glowing eyes bore into yours, daring you to pull away.

Your breath shudders as his gaze trails slowly from your lips back up to your eyes, scanning every inch of your face for the slightest sign of resistance.

But there’s none—just wide-eyed curiosity mixed with that undeniable spark of heat building in your core. He hums low in his throat, the sound vibrating through the air like a dark promise, as he feels your magic pulsing against him.

It’s weird, though; you’re nothing like the others he’s stalked through shadows for fun, just to feed on their fleeting fears and desires before vanishing into the night.

No, you and your little set of witch friends had summoned him with that botched ritual, pulling him straight into this moonlit room, and now here he was, entranced more than he’d ever admit by a fragile little human like you.

A wicked grin spreads across his face, his sharp fangs brushing teasingly over his lower lip as he leans in closer.

His warm breath fans over your ear, sending another shiver racing down your spine, and you can’t help but press your thighs together, trying to quell the ache starting to throb between them.

“Usually, people run away in fear,” he murmurs, his voice a silky rumble that wraps around you like smoke, “but tell me, why are you shivering in pleasure?”

You bite your lip hard, not trusting how your body is responding to him—the way your skin flushes under his stare, the fear in your eyes warring with this pull that makes your pulse race.

“But that’s impossible,” you breathe out, your voice barely above a whisper, “the ritual didn’t work.”

The demon chuckles softly, his fingers capturing your chin in a light grip that belies the danger in his touch—his nails glint sharply under the moonlight streaming through your window, a reminder of the power coiled in his frame.

He pulls you closer, so close that your breaths mingle, and gods, he smells incredible—intoxicating, making your head feel hazy and your body warm all over. You press your thighs together again, the friction doing nothing to ease the growing wetness you feel.

His tail rides higher now, the pointed tip caressing the back of your thighs, sliding up just high enough to tease the delicate lace trimming of your nightgown.

The sensation is electric, making your breath hitch as it dances along your sensitive skin. “What are you doing?” you mumble, your voice trembling with a mix of nerves and that forbidden thrill.

He hums again, deeper this time, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he leans down even closer. Those glowing eyes have dimmed to a smoldering ember, still far from human, piercing and predatory as he smiles down at you.

His other hand finds your waist, caressing it softly despite the firm grip that pins you in place, your chest pressing flush against his solid one.

He doesn’t even try to hide the way his body reacts—the satisfied rumble in his chest as your soft curves mold to his harder lines, the subtle shift of his hips that presses his growing arousal against you.

“Can’t I enjoy my future wife’s presence?” he says, his tone laced with teasing possession, those words hanging heavy in the air.

You blink up at him, flustered heat flooding your cheeks. “A-are you shitting me right now?” you stammer, your heart pounding wildly.

He throws his head back and laughs, the sound rich and genuine, echoing softly in your room before he dips down to press a singular peck to the side of your head.

You curse yourself inwardly—you’re not supposed to enjoy this, not the touch of a demon who spawned from a failed ritual meant to bind something lesser.

But he’s already making you feel safer than you have in ages, your body melting effortlessly under his hold, pliant and warm. A grumble escapes your lips as you try to summon some defiance.

“Don’t you incubi usually just suck the energy out of your victims with kissing or sex and then run off?” you manage, raising a brow even as your voice wavers.

He laughs again, pressing his forehead gently against yours, a glint sparking in those unearthly eyes as he smiles widely, both fangs on full display in a way that should terrify you but only sends another shiver of heat through your veins.

“I hate to break it to you, darling,” he purrs, his breath ghosting your lips, “but demon princes usually mate once in a lifetime.”

You blink at him incredulously, your mind reeling from the implication, the weight of it all crashing over you like a wave.

Before you can form a response, he releases more of his scent, letting it flood the room—thick, enveloping, like velvet darkness wrapping around every corner, seeping into your skin and making your thoughts fuzzy with desire.

Then his lips are on yours, the kiss soft yet scorching hot, inviting in ways that make your toes curl.

Both his arms snake around your waist, pulling you flush against his body, the hard planes of his chest pressing into your softness as your hands fly up to brace against him, fingers splaying over the warm fabric covering his skin to steady yourself.

His tongue teases the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart just enough to taste you, and you whimper softly into his mouth, the sound swallowed by the deepening press.

He pulls back slowly, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips, glistening in the moonlight. He pecks your lips once more, light and teasing, watching as you flush deeper, your cheeks burning.

Tilting his head, he studies you with that predatory amusement. “First time getting kissed?”

You look down, avoiding his gaze, but that’s all the confirmation he needs—your shy nod, the way your fingers twist in his shirt. His grin turns triumphant, and in one fluid motion, he grabs your thigh, forcing it open with a firm but careful strength that makes your breath catch.

He lifts you effortlessly, carrying you to your bed as if you weigh nothing, then sits down on the edge, settling you to straddle his lap.

The position presses you right against the evident bulge in his pants, the heat of him seeping through the thin barriers of fabric, making you squirm instinctively.

“I don’t want to keep calling you ‘stupid demon’ in my head, you know,” you say, pausing as your fingers fiddle with the fabric of his shirt, tracing the edges nervously.

“What’s your name?” you mumble, your voice soft against the pounding of your heart.

A real, genuine smile takes over his lips this time—less wicked, more warm, softening the sharp edges of his demonic features.

“Sunoo,” he says, his voice a gentle murmur as he leans in, pressing a trail of kisses along your neck, each one hot and lingering, nipping just enough to make you gasp.

“My name’s Sunoo.” He pauses, his lips brushing your pulse point as he mumbles again, “And I’m mated to you now, apparently.”

The words hang in the air like a spell, warm and binding, as his fingers gently sweep your hair away from your shoulders, exposing the delicate curve of your neck to the cool night air.

The silky strands cascade down your back, and before you can process the weight of his declaration, his mouth descends—soft bites trailing along your skin, each one a teasing nip that sends shivers racing through your body.

Your hands instinctively rise to his chest, pushing lightly against the firm planes of muscle beneath his shirt, a half-hearted attempt to create some distance.

But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t yield even an inch; his body remains an unmovable force, warm and insistent against yours.

“A-aren’t we going too fast?” you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper, laced with a mix of uncertainty and the growing heat pooling in your core.

The words tumble out as his lips hover near your collarbone, the sensation of his breath ghosting over your skin making your heart stutter.

He pauses at that, his amber eyes flickering up to meet yours for a brief moment, a spark of something hungry in their depths.

Then, without a word, he leans in and softly bites your shoulder—not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to draw a sharp mewl from your lips as pleasure-pain blooms across your flesh.

Your hand grips his shoulder tightly, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if steadying yourself against the wave of sensation crashing over you.

A tiny bead of blood wells up from the mark, warm and metallic, and Sunoo’s tongue darts out to lick it away with deliberate slowness, the wet heat of it soothing the sting while igniting something deeper.

“I’m afraid I cannot wait anymore, darling,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you.

He gazes up at you then, those amber eyes glowing back to their intensity, like embers flaring in the dim light of the room. The glow holds for a heartbeat, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, before it fades just as quickly, leaving his expression softened by desire.

“Waiting for your husband for centuries isn’t exactly such a nice thing to do, no?”

Before you can even form a response—your mind reeling from the casual drop of that word, husband—his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

Your bodies press flush together, the heat of him seeping through the thin silk of your nightgown, and he resumes his ministrations on your neck with renewed fervor. His lips and teeth work in tandem, sucking and nipping along the sensitive column of your throat, leaving behind blooming marks—reddened bites and deep bruises that throb with every heartbeat.

Little moans escape your lips unbidden, soft and breathy, as the sensations build, your body arching into him despite your earlier protests.

“S-Sunoo,” you gasp, testing his name on your tongue for the first time, the syllables tasting like forbidden fruit—sweet and sinful.

The sound of it seems to unravel something in him. The demon beneath you licks his lips slowly, a predatory gleam in his eyes, before his warm tongue traces a languid path down the exposed valley of your breasts, dipping into the shadowed cleft where the nightgown clings to your curves.

He hums deeply, the vibration rumbling against your skin, clearly loving the way you seem to melt under his touch—your body going pliant, boneless, as heat floods your veins.

His hands roam freely now, caressing the swell of your hips and the dip of your waist, fingers squeezing the soft flesh there with just enough pressure to make you whimper, possessive and reverent all at once.

Your hands slide from his shoulders to his neck, wrapping around him in a desperate bid to hide your flushed face, burying your burning cheeks against the crook of his shoulder. The scent of him—intoxicating, like spiced smoke and dark honey—fills your lungs, making your head spin.

Sunoo clicks his tongue in mild disapproval, the sound sharp and teasing. “Hiding from me already, darling?”

His hands trail lower, cupping the full curve of your ass through the silk, then pushing the fabric up inch by inch until it bunches at your waist.

The sudden exposure makes you squeak, cool air kissing your bare skin. “W-Wait—” you stammer, but the protest dies on your lips as his palms meet your naked flesh, reeling at the discovery.

His nails press into your skin—firm, teasing scratches that send sparks of electricity racing up your spine, but not deep enough to draw blood. He hums teasingly, the sound vibrating against your chest as he explores.

“Really? No panties? Are you witches always this so obscene?”

His voice drips with mock scandal, but there’s an undercurrent of delight, of hunger, as he pushes the fabric higher still, bunching it at your stomach to fully expose you to his gaze.

You feel weak under that stare, your mind hazy, clouded by the way his scent wraps around you like invisible chains, pulling you deeper into this haze of desire. Every breath you take draws more of it in, making your thoughts fuzzy, your resistance crumbling like ash.

He pulls away just enough to tilt his head, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that pins you in place.

“May I?” he asks softly, one finger tapping the bunched-up fabric of your nightgown, a gentlemanly gesture that contrasts sharply with the fire in his touch.

You huff lowly, pouting despite the flush creeping down your neck—which he finds more than adorable, if the way his lips twitch into a fond smile is any indication.

“Do I have a choice?” you mumble, your voice small but threaded with reluctant curiosity.

He hums thoughtfully, pretending to mull it over as his thumb strokes lazy circles on your hip. “Well, you do, wife.” The nickname hits like a spark, making you flush even deeper, heat blooming across your cheeks and chest at the intimate claim.

“Do you want this?” he presses, his tone turning earnest as he leans in to press a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering there as if savoring your warmth.

You blink down at him, caught off guard by the vulnerability in his gaze—those glowing eyes, still shimmering with that otherworldly red-orange hue, but softened now, almost human. Admiration shines through them, raw and unguarded, despite having known you for mere minutes. It’s as if he’s seeing something precious, something he’s waited lifetimes for.

As if to underscore the moment, his tail—sleek and sinuous, tipped with a subtle spade—slips around to rub the expanse of your ass, the textured length gliding over your bare skin in slow, soothing strokes.

The sensation is electric, intimate, and combined with the overwhelming pull of his intoxicating scent, it takes over your senses completely. Your vision blurs at the edges, the world narrowing to just him—the heat of his body, the possessiveness in his touch.

Hazy, yes, but not unwilling; your body responds on instinct, leaning into him as the last threads of hesitation fray.

You nod slowly, the motion feeling foreign yet right, letting him know in no uncertain terms that you were more than willing to try this out. You didn't trust your own voice right now, certain that it would emerge as a pathetic, breathless whimper.

Sunoo’s grin is immediate and devastatingly handsome, a flash of sharp canines in the dim light of your bedroom.

“Lovely,” he purrs, the single word a caress. In one fluid motion, he stands, taking you with him as if you weigh nothing.

A startled squeak escapes your lips as your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, the fabric of your nightgown bunching up around your thighs.

He presses a soft kiss to the side of your head, his lips warm against your hair. “Don’t fret, my love. I’m not a fool to drop my own wife.” The word wife sends another jolt through you, a fresh wave of heat blooming in your cheeks as he softly lays you down against the cool softness of your sheets.

Your head sinks into the pillows, and he follows, settling over you. He’s careful, supporting his weight on his arms caged on either side of your head, not crushing you but surrounding you.

He lowers his head and presses a kiss to your lips, then he lets go, far too soon for your liking. A soft sound of dismay escapes you before you can stop it.

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound you feel in your own chest. “I’m not going anywhere, darling. Patience.” His kisses trail downwards, a hot path against your jaw, down the sensitive column of your throat.

He nudges the thin straps of your silk nightgown down, one by one, his fingers brushing your shoulders and leaving goosebumps in their wake. He pulls the material down, exposing your breasts to the cool air, and your hands fly up to cover yourself on pure instinct.

Sunoo hums, a sound of gentle disapproval, and presses his lips against the valley between your breasts. The feeling makes you moan, a soft, broken sound.

“Don’t hide yourself from me, wife,” he whispers, the words vibrating against your skin. He slowly, gently removes your hands, his touch firm but not demanding.

As soon as your chest is bare to him, he dips his head, taking one pebbled nipple into his mouth. The hardened peak tingles, warm and wet against his tongue.

You gasp as you feel it—his tongue is long, forked, and it effortlessly swirls around the bud, sending sparks of pleasure straight to your core. His other hand comes up to play with your neglected breast, long fingers kneading the soft flesh.

Your hands reach down, tangling in his soft hair, tugging lightly. He groans against your skin, the sound a deep, primal vibration.

In response, he pinches and rolls the nipple in his hand, the slight, sharp poke of his nails adding a delicious edge to the pleasure that makes you arch against him.

He lets go with a soft pop, grinning down at you, his eyes dark with lust. His hands find the bunched-up material of your nightgown, and with a single, decisive motion, he pulls it completely down your legs and throws it roughly somewhere across the room. It lands with a soft thud.

He licks his lips, his gaze raking over your now completely naked form. “Satan, you smell so good,” he breathes, his voice thick with hunger.

He presses kisses against your stomach, going lower and lower until he is settled between your thighs, his face level with your glistening, aching pussy. He runs a single finger down your slit, retracting his sharp nails so he won’t hurt you. The touch is so light, so teasing, it makes you mewl.

“F-feels weird,” you manage to stammer out, your hips twitching.

He grins, a wicked, knowing smile as he looks up at you from between your legs. “Worry not, my little virgin wife,” he says, his tone a mix of taunt and promise. “I’ll make you feel good.”

You don’t know if he’s mocking your inexperience or simply teasing you, and before you can even form a retort, his forked tongue licks a long, slow stripe up your folds.

The sensation is electrifying. He’s quick to focus on your clit, abusing the sensitive bundle of nerves with relentless, swirling motions.

You moan out, loud and unrestrained. “S-Sunoo, oh fuck—”

Your hand grasps his hair, holding on for dear life as he groans against your pussy, the vibrations adding to the overwhelming pleasure.

His fingers slowly stroke your slick folds before one, then two, slide into you with shocking ease thanks to the juices spilling out of you. He curls them inside, caressing your inner walls in a way that makes your fingernails scratch against his scalp.

He could almost mock you for the softness of your fingers compared to his own, but he’s already too drunk on the taste of you, the feel of you clenching around him. He groans against you, his tongue circling your clit relentlessly, making you squeak.

Your hands, desperate for purchase, find purchase elsewhere. They wrap around the base of his horns, which seem to be growing longer with every passing second.

The moment you touch them, he stills, letting out a guttural moan. As your fingers caress the base, you feel the pleasure spark through him, a jolt so intense it makes his hips twitch. His fingers scissor in and out of you, stretching you, preparing you.

He smirks up at you, his eyes hazy with lust. “My darling wife sure does her research, huh?” he pants out, his voice strained.

The pleasure coiling in your stomach is unbearable, and you moan, “I’m close.”

And then, suddenly, he pulls his fingers away. You look down at him incredulously, the desperate need for release making your vision blur. The shit-eating grin on his face does nothing to satisfy you.

In a flash, he moves up, his mouth crashing against yours. You moan into the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, a musky, sweet flavor that is intoxicating. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against his chest.

He pulls away just enough to speak, his lips brushing against yours, a triumphant smirk in place. “Didn’t I tell you to have patience?”

You groan in frustration, the sound a mix of desperation and annoyance. Your hands shoot out, grabbing the collar of the simple black shirt he wore.

“What kind of husband are you,” you pant, tugging him closer, “if you won’t even give into your wife’s desires?”

Something in Sunoo snaps. The air crackles, and for a split second, you see his eyes glow with a deep, crimson light. The clothes he had on—the shirt you were just clutching, his trousers—they simply burned away into harmless, flickering flames that vanished as quickly as they appeared.

In a matter of seconds, the lean, sculpted muscles of his body are revealed to you. His skin is smooth and unblemished, marked only by the faint, elegant lines of what look like demonic runes that trace his hips and disappear down his thighs. You stare, eyes wide, your mouth slightly agape.

“Is… is demonic magic really that strong?” you mutter, more to yourself than to him.

He grins, a truly predatory sight, and lowers himself back down, pressing his bare chest against yours. The skin-to-skin contact is electric, making you gasp.

“I’m a prince, darling,” he says, his voice a low, possessive rumble against your lips before he kisses you. “I’m better than those who live in this town.” He presses his body down against yours, his hands pulling you closer by the waist, molding you to him.

You wrap your arms around his neck, letting him devour you whole. His long, forked tongue plays with yours, a sensual dance that has your head spinning. He then nips down on your lower lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make you reel at the sharp, stinging pleasure.

He pulls away just the slightest bit, only to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. With each press of his lips, you feel a tingle of magic, a burn that isn’t enough to hurt you but is more than enough to sting, to leave a trail of fire in its wake.

“Oh, gods,” you moan, arching your back against the sheets as the sensation overwhelms you.

Sunoo smirks to himself, but the expression quickly shifts to a hiss of pure pleasure as the soft skin of your inner thighs brushes against his hard, leaking cock. He presses his kisses back up your body, a slow, torturous journey, until he reaches your lips again, pressing a soft, almost chaste peck to them.

You stare up at him, your eyes wide and doe-like, glossy with unshed tears of pleasure. Your long lashes flutter against your cheekbones as you blink, and he grins down at you.

“The things you do to me, dear wife,” he breathes. He grabs the base of his cock, thick and heavy in his hand, and guides it along your entrance, not pushing in, just rubbing himself against you.

He uses your own slick juices as lubrication, the glide of him against your sensitive folds making you moan and writhe. His other hand finds yours, his long fingers intertwining with your own, squeezing lightly as if to calm you, to help you through it. He continues to press soft kisses to the side of your face.

“Relax for me,” he murmurs against your temple.

You try your best, taking a deep breath, but the moment the bulbous tip of his cock begins to press into you, you bite down on your bottom lip to stifle a whimper. It’s not enough. “S-so big,” you stutter out, your voice trembling. “Too big.”

Sunoo hums, a low, soothing sound that contradicts the relentless pressure of his hips. “You can take it,” he whispers, his voice hypnotic as he sinks in another agonizing inch. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

You moan, a long, drawn-out sound, as he pushes another thick inch into you. The stretch is searing, a delicious pain that borders on too much.

“T-too big, please, I c-can’t,” you whimper, your hands tightening where they’re intertwined with his.

Sunoo takes your mouth in a heated, demanding kiss, swallowing your protests. His hand, which was resting on your waist, slides down your side, over the curve of your hip, to your thigh. He hooks his hand behind your knee and lifts it, pushing your leg up and out, giving him deeper access to your weeping folds.

He keeps kissing you, his tongue a hypnotic distraction, as he continues to press forward, bullying his cock into your tight heat. You moan his name into his mouth, “Sunoo—”

He cuts you off with another kiss, deeper this time, and mutters directly into your lips, “That’s not my name.” The possessive claim makes you gasp against his mouth, and in that moment of shock, he enters another inch.

You can practically see stars behind your closed eyelids by the way his cock bullies into your folds, hitting spots deep inside you that you couldn’t reach with your own fingers, spots that often left you feeling unsatisfied and wanting.

But now, now you can’t help the lewd, broken sounds that leave your mouth.

With one final, decisive roll of his hips, Sunoo pushes all the way into you, sheathing himself to the hilt. You cry out, a string of profanities falling from your lips.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m so full—” you babble, your mind going hazy from the overwhelming sensation of being so completely, utterly stuffed.

Sunoo looks down at you, a dark, intoxicating mix of sadism and admiration in his eyes. His gaze trails lower, to the place where your folds are stretched around him, sucking him in greedily. He can’t help himself; he presses down on your lower stomach, just above your pubic bone, just to feel himself inside you.

You whimper at the pressure, at the sheer knowledge of how deep he is. Your senses are all on high, the way his scent—something like sandalwood and spice and ozone—keeps leaking into the air, filling your lungs and making you feel more hazy, more pliant than before.

He presses down on your thigh, pushing it back against your chest, changing the angle. With one sharp stroke, the head of his cock slams directly into your G-spot. You see white. Your arms fly up, wrapping around his neck as you hold on for dear life.

“I’m going to move now,” he mutters, a warning and a promise.

He starts thrusting almost immediately, a punishing, deep rhythm that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head after only a few strokes. The sheer pleasure running through you is blinding, a tidal wave of sensation brought on by your demon husband.

“Sunoo! Oh my gods

Sunoo looks down at you, a dark, intoxicating mix of sadism and admiration in his eyes. His gaze trails lower, to the place where your folds are stretched around him, sucking him in greedily. He can’t help himself; he presses down on your lower stomach, just above your pubic bone, just to feel himself inside you. You whimper at the pressure, at the sheer knowledge of how deep he is. Your senses are all on high, the way his scent—something like sandalwood and spice and ozone—keeps leaking into the air, filling your lungs and making you feel more hazy, more pliant than before.

He presses down on your thigh, pushing it back against your chest, changing the angle. With one sharp stroke, the head of his cock slams directly into your G-spot. You see white. Your arms fly up, wrapping around his neck as you hold on for dear life.

“I’m going to move now,” he mutters, a warning and a promise.

He starts thrusting almost immediately, a punishing, deep rhythm that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head after only a few strokes. The sheer pleasure running through you is blinding, a tidal wave of sensation brought on by your demon husband.

Sunoo looks down at you, a dark, intoxicating mix of sadism and admiration in his eyes. His gaze trails lower, to the place where your folds are stretched around him, sucking him in greedily. He can’t help himself; he presses down on your lower stomach, just above your pubic bone, just to feel himself inside you. You whimper at the pressure, at the sheer knowledge of how deep he is. Your senses are all on high, the way his scent—something like sandalwood and spice and ozone—keeps leaking into the air, filling your lungs and making you feel more hazy, more pliant than before.

He presses down on your thigh, pushing it back against your chest, changing the angle. With one sharp stroke, the head of his cock slams directly into your G-spot. You see white. Your arms fly up, wrapping around his neck as you hold on for dear life.

“I’m going to move now,” he mutters, a warning and a promise.

He starts thrusting almost immediately, a punishing, deep rhythm that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head after only a few strokes. The sheer pleasure running through you is blinding, a tidal wave of sensation brought on by your demon husband.

“Sunoo—oh my gods—fuck, right there!” you scream, your voice cracking.

Sunoo chuckles, the sound deep and seductive, vibrating through his chest and into yours. “Aren’t you just such a darling for me?” he purrs.

He clicks his tongue, sticking it out and letting it drag across the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a cooling trail of saliva. His hot breath fans against you as he continues, his voice a low taunt, “We barely even started and you’re already squeezing me so tight.”

He thrusts, the force anything but soft. It’s a deep, punishing rhythm that steals the air from your lungs with every snap of his hips. His hand grips your intertwined fingers tightly, his own composure beginning to fray as he gets lost in the overwhelming pleasure of your pussy sucking him in.

He finally understands now, fully, when incubi from the human world would return to their realm with satisfied grins and an aura that didn’t quite suit the hot, barren lands of Hell. This—this was what they found.

With the way you moan out his name, your fingers scratching desperately at the nape of his neck as you hold on for dear life, a string of profanities falls from your mouth that even surprises him.

The whispers from the shadows had told him you were shy, meek, a quiet little witch. But with the obscene, wet sounds of your pussy greedily sucking him in, it seems that was far from the truth.

His other hand lets go of your thigh, his sharp nails retracting so he won’t hurt you. His fingers find your clit, pressing tight, merciless circles against the swollen bundle of nerves.

“Yes, just like that—fuck! Don’t stop, please,” you moan out, arching your back against the sheets. Your body is pressed against his, hot and slick with sweat, despite the howls of the wind from your open window.

Sunoo hisses, reveling in the way your pussy sucks his cock in with surprising ease. Despite his size, you take him perfectly, your walls clenching around him like you were made for this, made for him.

He groans, the sound raw and broken. “Fuck, you’re doing so well for me, wife.”

You moan directly against his ear, the sound hot and desperate. “C-cumming!” you squeak out.

Your body seizes, clenching around him like a vice. Sunoo hisses at the sudden, tight pressure, his rhythm faltering for a beat as your juices gush around him, coating the base of his cock with every thrust to help you ride out your high.

“Fuck, my darling wife,” he breathes, his voice laced with awe.

You pant beneath him, boneless and spent, your hands moving from his neck to his back, leaving small, red scratches across the pale skin of his shoulders.

The feeling makes him moan, a low, guttural sound. His hand goes back to your thigh, pushing it forward so close that his chest is almost flush against yours. His thrusts slow, becoming deeper, more deliberate, and you breathe out in a sigh of relief.

“S-Sunoo, wait,” you whimper, oversensitive. “I’m still sensitive.”

He slows down just a little more, his movements almost languid now, and presses a lingering kiss to your lips. It’s soft, a stark contrast to the brutal pace he just set. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his own gaze dark with a hunger that is far from sated.

“I’m sorry, dearest,” he says, his voice a low, sincere murmur that sends a shiver down your spine, “but I fear I have to disobey you.”

With those words lingering in the air, Sunoo shifted his weight ever so slightly, his hips drawing back with a teasing slowness that left you gasping.

The sudden withdrawal stretched you taut with an aching emptiness, his thick length pulling away until only the very tip remained nestled inside, pulsing with heat that made your inner walls clench futilely around nothing.

Your chest heaved beneath him, each ragged pant escaping your lips in warm bursts against his skin, the silk sheets beneath you twisting as your body instinctively arched, craving the fullness he’d so abruptly denied.

His hand, which had been firmly pressing your thigh against your chest, slid away with a gentle glide—fingers trailing fire across your flushed skin before intertwining into yours, mirroring the way his other hand already held you so possessively.

Your thoughts swirled like mist as you blinked up at him, curiosity flickering in your wide eyes despite the fog of pleasure clouding your senses.

Sunoo’s gaze met yours, his irises swirling with that familiar red and orange glow, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he squeezed your hand tighter, his voice a husky whisper that brushed over you like velvet.

“You feel it, don’t you, my beautiful human wife? That pull, that need…” his words trailed off, his breath hot against your cheek, even as his hips surged forward without warning, plunging his full length back into you with a brute force that shattered your world into stars.

The impact drove a broken moan from your throat, raw and unrestrained, as waves of pleasure crashed through your body, radiating from the deep, insistent stretch of him filling you once more.

Your toes curled against the cool silk sheets, your back arching sharply as he hit that perfect, devastating spot inside you, his heated body pressing flush against yours in a way that made your skin sing with friction and fire.

Sunoo’s lips found the side of your face, peppering soft, lingering kisses along your jawline, his voice a low growl against your ear. “That’s it—let go for me.”

His horns, already imposing, seemed to enlarge with every beat of your shared rhythm, the air around them shimmering with his mounting magic, fueled by the intoxicating grip of your body clenching around him.

You moaned out his name, “S-Sunoo, oh fuck—” your eyes rolling back as he maintained that relentless pace, abusing that sweet spot with inhuman speed that left you utterly lost in the torrent of sensation.

is own breath hitched, a deep moan escaping him—“Shit, you feel so good”—as he buried his head in the crook of your neck, his elongated canines grazing your skin with a teasing promise.

Then, with a grin that you felt more than saw, he bit down just enough to draw a bead of blood, lapping at the metallic droplets with a satisfied hum, his tail coiling tighter around your waist to hold you impossibly close.

Whispers fell from his lips to the shadows, too faint for you to catch, but the glow in his eyes intensified, his magic thrumming like a living thing between you.

“My darling wife, where do you want me?” His head lifted slowly, the sharp angles of his face illuminated by the faint, otherworldly glow of his eyes.

He brushed away the stray strands of hair clinging to your sweat-dampened forehead, his fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long against your skin, cool and commanding yet gentle in their touch.

Your breath hitched, a mewling whisper escaping you, “I—inside, please, I want you inside,” the words tumbling out in a rush of vulnerability and yearning, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

He grinned against your lips, the curve of his mouth wicked and knowing, “And what kind of husband would I be to deny you?” he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers cascading down your spine.

He pressed a hot, searing kiss to your lips, his tongue delving into yours with an exploratory fervor, tasting and teasing as if savoring the very essence of you.

The world narrowed to this singular point of connection, his body shifting, inching closer, the pressure building until he pushed himself to the hilt inside you.

A guttural groan spilling from his mouth into yours, the way your body clenched around him like a velvet vice, drawing him deeper despite the overwhelming fullness that bordered on exquisite pain, his hips stuttering in that first, profound thrust as if the very act unraveled him.

Heat bloomed within you, his essence painting your core with thick, pulsing waves, the intimate rush of it mingling with your own release, your juices blending in a shared crescendo that left you both trembling, your highs ebbing slowly as he continued with shallow, languid thrusts, each one a gentle aftershock.

All the while, his kisses softened against your lips, light and reverent, a stark contrast to the storm he'd just unleashed, before he finally pulled back with a sigh, collapsing toward your chest, his breaths coming in heavy, ragged heaves that warmed your skin.

Your hands, still tangled with his, slowly untangled, fingers weaving through the silken strands of his hair, tracing the curve of his horns as they receded to their original, elegant size, no longer the imposing spires they had been in the height of passion.

His tail, once coiled tightly around your waist, slithered down to wrap around your thighs, its cool, scaled surface a startling counterpoint to the burning heat of his body pressed against yours, the sensation making you shiver anew as you caught your breath.

“Sunoo,” you whispered, your voice hoarse and laced with affection, and he groaned in response, burying his face deeper into the curve of your chest, the sound muffled and content.

Raising a finger wreathed in tendrils of orange smoke, he summoned the discarded blanket from the foot of the bed with a lazy flick, letting it drift down to envelop you both in its soft embrace.

“That’s not my name, dear wife,” he teased, his tone playful despite the weight of his breathing, the words brushing against your skin like a secret shared in the quiet aftermath.

You rolled your eyes fondly at the demon you'd encountered just an hour ago, the absurdity of it all mingling with the lingering glow of intimacy.

Leaning down, you pressed a kiss to the top of his head, the faint scent of brimstone and something uniquely him filling your senses.

“Dear husband,” you murmured, and he looked up at you, his fox-like eyes reclaiming that predatory glint from earlier, though softened now by satisfaction.

“What is it, my darling wife?” he asked, his voice a velvety purr as he adjusted the blanket around you both, the fabric settling like a cocoon.

You huffed lightly, the question bubbling up from the haze of your thoughts, “Did you intoxicate me with your scent earlier?”

He smiled, that guilty-as-charged expression playing across his features as if he’d been waiting for this, “And here I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

Your hand moved instinctively, softly flicking his forehead with a finger, the playful reprimand making him catch your wrist in his grasp, his long nails grazing your skin with a thrilling edge.

“Don’t do that,” his voice was a low, teasing growl that vibrates through the air between you, his grip on your wrist firm yet careful, the sharp tips of his long nails grazing your skin just enough to send a shiver racing up your arm.

You huff softly, the sound escaping your lips in a playful mix of frustration and affection, your fingers twitching in his hold as you feel the slight sting from his nails—not painful, but electrifying, a reminder of his otherworldly nature.

“I was just asking,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, the words carrying the weight of your curiosity as you turn your head slightly to meet his eyes, the dim light of the room casting shadows that dance across his sharp features.

His tail, now loosely draped over your thighs, twitches lazily, its cool, smooth scales brushing against your warm flesh in a way that makes your breath catch, the sensation both soothing and oddly arousing amidst the haze of exhaustion.

Sunoo—or rather, your dear husband, as you’ve come to call him in this whirlwind hour—moves fractionally, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths that fan across your collarbone, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of amber and spice that had enveloped you earlier.

It lingers in the air like a spell, making your thoughts swirl as you search his face for answers. His lips curve into that sly smile again, the one that had drawn you in from the start, and he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper.

“And what if I did, my darling wife? Would that make you any less mine?” the words hang between you, his free hand trailing lazily up your side, fingertips tracing the curve of your hip with sensual slowness that reignites the embers of desire deep within you.

You smile despite his answer, the warmth of it blooming across your lips as you draw him closer, your arms draping languidly around his neck and shoulders, pulling the solid weight of his body flush against yours.

“No, it won’t,” you murmur, your voice a husky whisper that vibrates through the space between you, your fingers threading into the silken strands of his hair, where the subtle ridges of his horns press gently against your palms.

He smiles in return, a lazy curve of his lips that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and he snuggles deeper into you, his head nestling against the curve of your shoulder with a contented sigh that sends a shiver racing down your spine.

“Remember to thank your friend for me, yeah?” he says, his voice low and teasing, the words brushing warm against your ear as his tail tightens just a fraction around your waist, the smooth, scaled surface gliding against your bare skin like a secret caress.

You laugh then, the sound bubbling up from your chest, light and genuine, as memories of Miyoung’s wide-eyed panic during that botched summoning flicker through your mind—and how it all culminated in this demon, now your husband, tangled so intimately in your arms.

You shift ever so slightly, the movement minimal but deliberate, and call out again, your voice softening to a tender murmur, “Sunoo?”

He opens one eye, the deep amber iris glinting with feigned annoyance and unmistakable affection, his gaze locking onto yours to signal his full attention.

“Where’s Bam?” you ask, your words laced with a mix of curiosity and amusement, picturing your feline familiar’s sleek black form perched somewhere safe.

He hums in response, the sound a low rumble against your chest, his breath steady and warm as he replies, “Up on the roof. He wouldn’t leave there the moment he sensed me.”

You roll your eyes playfully, tugging just the slightest bit on his hair, feeling the soft give of it between your fingers, and he groans, the sound half-protest, half-pleasure, as he mutters, “I told you not to do that.”

A smirk tugs at your lips as you lean in closer, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “Remind me to get you two acquainted later—might do Bam some good to see you’re not so bad after all.”

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