The Demon's Due

The air in Emily Chen’s apartment was thick with the smells of old paper, burnt coffee, and now, the acrid bite of sulfurous incense. Stacks of books teetered precariously on every available surface, their cracked spines and faded titles a map of her obsession: De Praestigiis Daemonum, the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, and a heavily annotated copy of the Ars Goetia. This wasn't a hobby; it was the entire focus of her graduate thesis. Tonight was the practical application.

She knelt on the worn floorboards of her living room, a space she’d cleared by shoving her couch and coffee table against the wall. In her hand was a stub of pure white chalk, and with it, she drew the final sigil within the meticulously rendered summoning circle. Every line was perfect, every curve precise. This was a science, not a séance. She was a scholar, not some Goth kid trying to spook her friends. The goal was simple, controlled, and academic: summon a minor imp, a Gutterkin, to observe its energetic signature for a few hours before safely banishing it. It was the demonic equivalent of putting a microbe under a microscope.

Four black candles stood at the cardinal points of the circle, their flames barely flickering in the still, heavy air. The incense smoldered in a small brass censer, its foul smoke coiling toward the ceiling like a grasping hand. Emily reviewed her mental checklist. Circle of protection, complete. Glyphs of binding, inscribed. Offering, prepared. She picked up a sterile lancet from a small silver tray, her hand steady. Professor Albright had called her research "reckless and unprovable," but Emily knew he was just afraid of the unknown. She wasn’t. She was fascinated by it.

She paused, taking a deep, fortifying breath that did little to calm the frantic drumming in her chest. This was it. Years of research, of translating dead languages and deciphering cryptic texts, all led to this moment. She wiped a bead of sweat from her temple with the back of her wrist, leaving a faint smudge of chalk dust. With a sharp intake of breath, she pricked the tip of her left index finger. A single, perfect ruby droplet welled up. She extended her hand over the center of the circle, allowing the drop to fall directly onto the primary sigil. It sizzled faintly as it made contact, a barely audible hiss that seemed to suck the sound from the room.

The shift was immediate. The air grew colder, heavier, pressing in on her. The candle flames stretched tall and thin, burning with an unnatural stillness. It was time. Emily closed her eyes, focusing her will, and began the incantation. The words felt alien in her mouth, a series of guttural, sibilant phrases that scraped at her throat. It was a language not meant for a human tongue, full of sharp edges and deep, resonant tones. She pushed through, her voice gaining confidence with each verse, a low and steady chant that filled the small apartment. The floorboards beneath her knees began to vibrate, a low hum that resonated deep in her bones. The power in the room was building, coiling, far more than she had anticipated for a simple Gutterkin. But she was too deep in the ritual to stop, the ancient words pulling the energy from her, from the air, from somewhere else entirely. She spoke the final word of binding, and the vibration ceased. A profound, ringing silence fell. Emily opened her eyes, her gaze fixed on the center of the circle, expecting a puff of greasy smoke and the sight of a cowering, rat-like creature. The air shimmered, and she held her breath, waiting.

Instead of a wisp of smoke, a column of impenetrable darkness erupted from the sigil. It wasn't smoke; it had weight and substance, sucking the light from the candles into itself. The low hum Emily had felt in her bones escalated into a deep, guttural groan, the sound of a mountain splitting apart. The floorboards around the circle didn't just crack; they splintered, long fissures racing out from the chalk lines like black lightning. The protective circle she had so carefully drawn flared once with a brilliant, white-hot light, then shattered, the chalk lines blowing away like dust in a hurricane.

A wave of pressure slammed into her, forcing the air from her lungs and pinning her back against the legs of her couch. It was a physical force, immense and suffocating, laced with an energy that felt like raw, undiluted lust. It crawled over her skin, invasive and intimate, seeping into her pores and making every nerve ending scream. This was not the energy of a Gutterkin. This was the power of a king.

Her academic mind, her shield of logic and reason, fractured. Panic, cold and absolute, flooded her. Her eyes, wide with terror, were fixed on the column of shadow. It began to coalesce, to take a shape that was both horrifying and mesmerizingly perfect. First, a pair of long, powerful legs, clad in something that looked like black leather but shifted like living shadow. Then a torso, lean and corded with muscle, the likes of which she’d only ever seen on ancient marble statues. His skin was pale, almost luminous in the flickering candlelight, a stark contrast to the darkness that birthed him.

As the shadows receded further, they revealed broad shoulders and a strong neck. Two horns, curved and black as polished obsidian, swept back from his temples, disappearing into a mane of thick, dark hair that fell around his face. And then, his face. It was a masterpiece of cruel beauty, all sharp angles and unforgiving planes. High cheekbones, a straight nose, and a jaw that could have been cut from granite. His eyes opened, and Emily felt her heart stop. They were not human eyes. They were molten gold, glowing with their own internal light, ancient and intelligent and filled with a terrifying, predatory amusement.

He stood well over six feet tall, his presence dominating the small apartment, making it feel like a shoebox. He was completely naked, his body a study in masculine perfection. His cock, thick and heavy, hung nestled in a patch of dark hair, a clear and potent declaration of his nature. He was Bael. First and principal king of the East, commander of sixty-six legions. A demon of lust and power whose name was only ever whispered in the most forbidden of grimoires. The demon she had read about with a detached, scholarly fascination was now standing three feet away from her, radiating an aura of raw sexuality so potent it made her dizzy.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, inhaling the scent of her small, human world. His golden eyes roamed the room, taking in the teetering stacks of books, the shoved-aside furniture, and finally, they settled on her. He saw her, truly saw her, huddled and trembling on the floor. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips, revealing the tips of sharp canines.

"You were expecting someone smaller, I take it," he said. His voice was a low, resonant baritone, smooth as velvet but with an undercurrent of power that vibrated through the floor and up Emily's spine. It was the most beautiful and terrifying sound she had ever heard.

Emily’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. Her throat was a knot of pure terror. All the academic theories, all the carefully studied texts, had evaporated, leaving only the primal, animal fear of a predator. He was real. He was naked. And he was amused by her.

“B-Bael,” she finally managed to whisper, the name a puff of air. “No. I… the ritual was for a Gutterkin. A minor servitor.”

His lips curled into a smirk, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. “Your ritual had ambition, little scholar, even if you did not. You used a binding of the seventh order with a blood offering under a waning moon. You might as well have put up a sign.” He took a step forward, his bare feet silent on the splintered wood. The movement was fluid, impossibly graceful, the coiled power of a panther. Emily instinctively scrambled backward, her hands sliding on the dusty floor until her back hit the solid frame of the couch.

He stopped just outside the faint, ghost-image of the shattered circle. His golden eyes swept over her again, a slow, appraising look that felt more violating than a physical touch. He took in her frayed jeans, her oversized university sweatshirt, her face pale with shock. His gaze lingered for a moment on the frantic pulse beating in her throat.

“Still,” he mused, his voice dropping lower, “this is… quaint.” He gestured with one elegant hand at her cramped living space. “All these flammable little scrolls. The pathetic mortal attempts to categorize the infinite.” He turned his back on her, a gesture of supreme confidence, and began to walk toward the apartment door. Every muscle in his back shifted under his pale skin, a perfect anatomical display. His hips swayed with a natural, masculine grace, and Emily’s eyes were unwillingly drawn to the tight globes of his ass and the heavy weight of his cock and balls swinging gently between his powerful thighs.

He reached the door and wrapped his hand around the cheap brass doorknob. He turned it. Nothing happened. He turned it again, with more force. The lock clicked, but the door remained stubbornly shut. A faint, shimmering barrier of turquoise light, visible only for a second, flashed across the doorframe, repelling his touch with a sharp crackle of energy.

Bael snatched his hand back, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his perfect features. He stared at his palm, then back at the door. A low growl rumbled in his chest. He turned his head slowly, pinning Emily with a gaze that had lost all its amusement. The molten gold of his eyes was now hard, cold, and utterly furious.

“What did you do?” he demanded, the velvet stripped from his voice, leaving only raw, menacing power.

Emily flinched, pressing herself harder against the couch. “I-I don’t know! It’s a standard binding ritual! It’s supposed to bind you to my will for the duration of the observation period!”

He laughed, a harsh, grating sound devoid of humor. “Your will?” He stalked back towards her, his nudity seeming more threatening with every step. He stopped a foot from her, forcing her to crane her neck to look up at him. The heat rolling off his body was immense. “You have no will that could hold me, mortal. Your spell was a butcher’s clumsy work. Powerful, yes. You poured more of your own life force into it than you realize, but it was unfocused. Sloppy.”

He crouched down, bringing his face level with hers. The smell of ozone and something else, something musky and uniquely masculine, filled her senses. “You didn’t bind me to you,” he snarled, his voice a low whisper that cut through her panic. “You bound me to the circle. To the space in which it was cast. You’ve turned your pathetic little home into my cage.”

The reality of his words crashed down on her with the force of a physical blow. He wasn’t her demonic captive to be studied and dismissed. He was a king. A being of immense power and insatiable lust. And she had just locked him in her one-bedroom apartment with her.

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. A cage. Her home, her tiny sanctuary of books and tea and quiet desperation, was now a cage for one of the most powerful entities she had ever studied. His proximity was overwhelming. She could feel the heat of his skin, see the intricate gold patterns swirling in his irises, smell the sharp, electric scent of his anger.

“A cage?” she whispered, the words barely audible. The sheer absurdity of it warbled with the terror in her voice.

Bael’s lip curled in a sneer. “Do you have trouble with simple concepts, scholar?” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “This room. These walls. They are now the bars. Your clumsy magic has anchored me to the foundation of this miserable little hovel. I can feel it, a leaden weight tied to my essence. I cannot pass the threshold of your door. I cannot break through your windows. I am… here.”

He straightened up, turning away from her again to pace the small confines of the living room. It was like watching a tiger in a shoebox. Every movement was fraught with coiled energy, a promise of violence barely contained. His nakedness was no longer just a fact; it was a weapon. He dominated the space, his perfect, powerful body a constant reminder of what he was. Emily found herself unable to look away from the smooth, taut skin of his back, the flex of his thighs, the heavy, pendulous weight of his cock and balls. Her academic mind registered him as a specimen of immense interest. The rest of her, the terrified woman huddled on the floor, registered him as a predator.

“This presents a problem,” he said, his back still to her. “Beyond the obvious indignity of my imprisonment.” He stopped and turned, his golden eyes locking onto hers. The raw anger had been replaced by something colder, more calculating. “I am a being of specific appetites, mortal. I do not subsist on bread and water.”

Emily swallowed hard, her throat dry. She knew his nature. It was in every text, every grimoire. Bael, the King of the East, drew his power from the carnal. From lust.

“You feed on… emotion,” she managed, trying to sound clinical, trying to cling to the shreds of her academic detachment.

He let out a short, sharp laugh. “Emotion? What a delicate, human word. No, little scholar. I feed on the raw, filthy energy of desire. I consume arousal. I gorge on the frantic, mindless moments before climax. I sustain myself with the hot, wet fucking of mortals who can think of nothing but sinking into the flesh of another.” His gaze was intense, unwavering, and Emily felt a strange, hot shame coil deep in her belly, as if he could see every private thought she’d ever had.

“I require a steady diet of it,” he continued, taking a slow step towards her. “Without it, I weaken. And a weakened demon of my stature is not something you wish to be confined with. I become… irritable. Unpredictable. My very presence will begin to sour this place. The air will grow heavy, the food will rot in your cupboards, your dreams will fill with unspeakable things. My hunger will leak out, and it will be unpleasant for you.”

The implication was as clear as it was terrifying. He was trapped in here. His food source was out there, in the world of teeming, fucking humanity. He had no access to it. He looked down at her, a slow, deliberate appraisal that made her skin prickle with a mixture of fear and a strange, unwelcome heat.

“There is no one else here,” he stated, the words simple, the meaning vast.

The air crackled with the unspoken truth. She was the only source. Her. The thought sent a jolt through her, part terror, part a shocking, electric thrill that she immediately tried to smother.

“And then there is the matter of the binding itself,” he went on, seemingly bored with the topic of his own starvation. “This spell must be concluded. It is a contract, whether you intended it or not. It cannot simply be broken; it must be fulfilled. Only then can I return to my realm.”

“Fulfilled how?” Emily asked, her voice trembling. “The texts… they don’t say. They don’t describe what happens when you summon a king by mistake.”

“Of course they don’t,” he sneered. “Because the mortals who are stupid enough to do so are rarely left alive to write about it.” He ran a hand through his dark hair, a gesture of profound frustration. “We will have to examine your pathetic scrawlings. Your ritual. There will be a clause, a condition for release, buried in the arcane language you so carelessly threw around. We must find it. You will help me.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command. He needed her to decipher her own mistake so he could be free. She needed to help him, or be trapped indefinitely with a starving, volatile demon king. They were bound together not just by the apartment, but by a shared, desperate goal.

He looked at her, his golden eyes seeming to glow brighter in the dim light. “So, we have two problems, little scholar. First, we must decipher the terms of my release. And second,” his gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, over her body, a slow, possessive inventory, “we must figure out how I am going to feed.”