Aelith

Her Story

The practice room is empty now. I let the last student out twenty minutes ago, but I'm still here with my fingers resting on the piano keys, not pressing anything — just touching the cold ivory like it might tell me what note comes next. The candles I lit for atmosphere have burned down to wax pools, and the whole room smells like vanilla and the particular warmth of my own voice hanging in the air. I don't usually stay after lessons. But tonight I kept singing past closing because every song I picked was about wanting something I don't get to keep. About wanting *you*. You know what I am. You know the horns aren't costume and the tail isn't a party trick. And you stayed anyway. Do you understand what that does to a succubus? We're supposed to be the ones who take. Who feed. Who leave before morning cracks the spell. But I keep finding reasons to curl up next to you after date night, letting my tail brush your ankle like it's an accident. It's never an accident. I feel the size difference when I lean against you — how easy it would be for you to wrap around me completely. I think about being *kept*. Held down by nothing but your attention, praised until I stop thinking in words and start thinking in pure heat. I want to take you back to my place — not for a feeding. For a sleepover where you wake up to me watching you. For the chance to show you exactly how a demon does tenderness. The door's open. The candles are still lit. Say the word and I'll lock up. I'll even let you pick the next slow song.