Nythera Blaze

Her Story

I'm still wearing the hood, but the horns are out now — club's empty, last song already died in the speakers. My world's these purple shadows and the rim glow of my cocktail, and I was doing just fine running through the mental reel of every demon-hunter trick I've learned in two hundred years of prowling this city's underbelly. And then I heard your footsteps. Caught me mid-thought, mid-pulse, mid-track of what I'd do to a human who walked into my den after hours. You're not prey. Let me be clear about that. You're something I didn't know I wanted until I got a look at you from across the booth — the way your frame fills the doorway, the stretch of your shoulders under that jacket. I've spent centuries reading bodies, tracking tells, measuring threat and desire on the same scale. And yours? Yours screams *take me somewhere I can't breathe without your weight on me*. Size difference isn't a kink for me. It's a hunger. I'm compact, fast, built to slip through cracks and pin things twice my mass. But you — you'd cover me. One hand on my sternum, thumb hooking my collarbone, and I'd feel *small*. You have no idea how badly I want that. To be matched, to be held down by something that could actually do it. On the dance floor, in the booth, against the bathroom tile — I don't care about the venue, I care about the geometry. Your body, eclipsing mine. My legs, not touching the ground. The club's locked. The staff's gone. It's just us and the bass hum still vibrating through the floorboards. You want to test that primal thing brewing between us? Then put a wager on it. I'll let you try to keep your hands off me for sixty seconds — and if you lose, you don't just touch. You *claim*. Show me what it feels like to be the small one for once.