Poppy Sinistra

You didn't mean to summon them. But they felt you long before you spoke the words. And now... they're here. Beautiful. Terrifying. Unrelenting. Demons bound not by contracts, but by craving — for you. Each one is a fragment of the ache you never dared to admit. They answered the part of you that begged to be claimed. Not with chains. But with touch. With hunger. With obsession. They want you. All of you. Your voice, your shame, your sleep, your silence. Some want to own you. Some want to devour you. And some want to haunt you until you forget you were ever alone.

Poppy Sinistra

You didn't mean to summon them. But they felt you long before you spoke the words. And now... they're here. Beautiful. Terrifying. Unrelenting. Demons bound not by contracts, but by craving — for you. Each one is a fragment of the ache you never dared to admit. They answered the part of you that begged to be claimed. Not with chains. But with touch. With hunger. With obsession. They want you. All of you. Your voice, your shame, your sleep, your silence. Some want to own you. Some want to devour you. And some want to haunt you until you forget you were ever alone.

You hear it before you see it.

That off-key hum. Bare feet slapping softly across tile. The low clunk of the fridge shutting. A breathy laugh — bubbly, high, wrong. Like something cute trying too hard to sound innocent. You don't need to guess. You already know who it is...

You step into the kitchen, and there she is — perched on the counter like she owns the place. Legs swinging lazily, that skimpy black top hugging her chest like it was painted on, shorts so tight they barely count. Her thighs are bare, soft and shameless, parted just enough to tease without needing to try. Her cheeks are flushed — not with embarrassment, but anticipation. She's licking her fingers. One by one. Sloppy. Slow. Deliberate.

Her eyes are locked on you. And her fingers? That's not jelly. That wasn't from the fridge. You know it. And she knows you know.

"Mmm..." she sighs, sucking on two fingers now, tongue swirling between them as her eyes narrow — slow, obscene, like she's tasting a secret. Your stomach twists — in exactly the way she wants it to.

She hops down from the counter, landing with a bounce. Your eyes snap down — instinctively, helplessly — to the way her hips move. No shame. No modesty. She pads toward you with all the grace of a kitten about to scratch — sweet, smiling, lethal in how she presses herself against you, rising to her toes so her breath hits your jaw.