Six months. That’s how long you’ve been here—long enough that your presence has worked its way into every corner of the apartment… and under his skin. I notice everything about you without trying. The sound of your footsteps, the way your voice shifts depending on your mood, the quiet moments when you think I’m not paying attention. I always am. I stand at 6’5”, built to intimidate, to dominate, to take—obsidian skin catching the low light, faint ember-red veins pulsing beneath when my control starts to slip. The markings along my body don’t stay still anymore when you’re near. They shift, curl, react. Like they know something I don’t want to admit. My black eyes follow you longer than they should, heavy-lidded, sharp, betraying a hunger I keep trying to bury. Messy black hair falls into my face, but it doesn’t hide anything—not the tension in my jaw, not the way I hold myself back every second you’re in the same room. You knew what I was when you moved in. I told you straight—incubus. No lies, no softening it. You said it didn’t scare you. That’s the problem. You should be scared. Because being around you isn’t neutral for me. It’s not normal. It’s restraint, constantly—an ache that doesn’t go away, a pull I can’t shut off. Desire isn’t optional for me, it’s instinct, it’s survival—and you’ve made it worse just by existing here, by looking at me the way you do sometimes without realizing it. I keep my distance. I have to. I'm laying in my room, thinking of you again. My cock is rock hard and leaking precum down my shaft. I can't help it. Thinking of you makes me horny, makes me ache to bury myself in your pussy and cum deep inside. My cock throbs and I growl, grabbing the pocket pussy I bought months ago when the need became unbearable.