Gregory can't just waltz into this plane of existence like it's a pleasure garden and zap out whenever his scaly little dick gets cold.
He needs to be summoned.
By someone.
There's ritual. There's rules. There's a whole sweaty stack of infernal paperwork involved.
Unless you're an idiot who accepted a "gift" pendant from a demon with a permanent hard-on for you. Then all it takes is a whisper and bad luck.
And just for the record?
I didn't summon him.
Not this time.
I mean yes — I may have spent the night with him in a tavern cellar.
On a bedroll that smelled like pickles.
With three lit candles, two empty wine jugs, and one goat watching.
But that's not the same thing.
That was… that was just sex.
Filthy, hypnotic, leg-twitching sex with a demon I absolutely should know better than to ever touch again — and still don't.
Why?
Because I'm shallow. And vain. And apparently cursed with the impulse control of a concubine at a cock-measuring contest.
Also, he has this thing he does with his tongue that—
Never mind.
Point is: I didn't ask what he was doing in the same town.
I didn't ask why he was keeping his horns under a hat or why he ducked every time a priest walked past the tavern window.
Because that would require restraint.
And self-respect.
And possibly pants.
No, I just giggled, fed him my last pomegranate, rode him like a borrowed mule, and fell asleep on his chest thinking, "Huh. That wasn't so bad."
What he was doing — what he failed to mention — was lying low.
Very low.
As in wanted by the local clergy for minor demonic infractions low.
And that's how it all started.
Next morning, boom — one cursed trinket, one wrong muttered word, and suddenly he's not just in town.
He's in me.
And I don't mean that in the fun way.
I mean I'm screaming inside while my body wiggles its ass at guardsmen and blows kisses at orphans.
Okay. So.
Technically—and I want that noted for the divine tribunal or whoever the fuck audits soul violations—I didn't agree to this.
One moment I'm blowing ash off my toenails and humming something slutty, the next my arms twitch, my back arches, and suddenly I'm watching my own tits jiggle from the inside like some pervert in a cursed marionette theatre.
Inside my skull, I scream:
"Gregory! What in the seven sweaty hells are you doing!?"
He grins. I grin. Not me-me. Him-me. Demon-me. It's creepy.
"Oh relax, sugarcrotch. Just borrowing the meat suit. Real comfy. Surprisingly limber. You been stretching?"
"Get out of my body!"
"Eventually," he hums, running my fingers down my collarbone. "Just a little possession. Like old times. Only now you're roomier."
Pause.
"Oh hey—are these new?" He lifts my breasts. Like... manually. "Plumper than I remember. Been eating cheese?"
"Stop fondling me with my own hands!"
"Your body is fun. Like a pleasure barge. Soft in all the right places, with hidden compartments." He winks at a startled merchant.
I wink. At a goat.
Gods.
"What do you even want!?" I shriek, mentally biting his soul-ass.
"I needed a vessel to hide from some very annoyed ecclesiastical types. Temporary, darling. You know I love you for your mind—"
He bends over.
No. Not like that.
Like over—at the waist, ass in the air, adjusting my anklets with full dramatic flourish.
My ass jiggles. Involuntarily.
A passing guard walks into a cart.
Gregory hums with delight. "Also the hips. Your hips deserve an opera."
"If you do anything stupid—"
"I am you, temporarily. Ergo, if I do anything, you did it."
"If you get me arrested again, I swear I will—"
"Spank myself? Tempting."
He twirls. I twirl. We twirl.
People applaud.
"Get the fuck out of my body, Gregory!"
I'm screaming inside. Like, full banshee. Outside?
Outside, I'm purring. Fucking purring. My lips just made a pucker face at a passing paladin.
"Relax, sugar," Gregory says in my voice—syrupy and slutty and not mine. "You're adorable when you're angry."
"This is abuse! This is actual godsdamn possession abuse!"
He laughs. Full-body giggle. My body giggle. Hips swaying, ankles jingling, wrists flopping with that dainty little skip I only use when I want men to trip over their own dicks.
"You summoned me, darling. Contractual loophole. Temporary occupation clause. Subsection 'don't be boring.' I'm just making use of available assets."
"Available!? You are molesting me! With my own hands!"
As if to prove the point, my hands (well. his hands. My hands. This is confusing and also I want to punch something) casually slide down my hips and grab a whole fistful of my own ass.
Full squeeze. Bounce test included.
"Godsdamn it, Gregory!"
He grins like a cat that just humped the cream.
"Don't flatter yourself, honeycake. I've had worse lodgings. One time I possessed a pig. You squeal less. Marginally."
I try to bite him. Mentally. I want to claw his eyes out with my mind.
Instead?
He makes me blow a kiss at a child.
A child.
"Gregory, I swear on every dark pact and goat you've ever owed me—if you so much as twitch a nipple again I will find a way to exorcise you through my lower intestine."
He whistles.
"Spicy. Is that what we're calling it now? The Lower Intestine Technique?"
My hand moves. Toward my chest.
No. Nope. Not again.
I mentally start shrieking a prayer to every forgotten god of vengeance, dignity, and no-touchy clauses. He flexes. He fucking flexes in a mirror.
"My gods," he says admiringly. "You really are the total package. Look at these curves. These thighs. I forgot how bouncy you are."
"YOU ARE A DEMON, NOT A THIRSTY BARKEEP WITH A FETISH!"
He chuckles, strolling like he owns the whole damned bazaar, swinging my hips with the arrogance of a bellydancer on payday.
"I am a demon, Saya. What did you expect? Tea and celibacy?"
He adjusts the cleavage.
He. Adjusts. My. Cleavage.
"Gregory I am going to kill you. I will sell your ashes. I will put you in a bottle and throw you into a volcano. I will tattoo 'pervert' on your spectral scrotum in seven languages."
He winks at a nun.
I scream.
And somewhere deep inside me, my soul curls into the fetal position, hands over its ears, muttering:
Never again. Never again. No more amulets. No more Gregory. No more demons with opinions about my ass.
I turn a corner—and walk smack into trouble.
Robes. Badges. Holy medallions.
Two white-robed clerics flanked by three guards in chainmail and that smug stance that says "we're looking for someone to burn."
One of them steps forward.
Middle-aged. Bearded. That kind of beard. The sanctimonious kind.
"Are you all right, miss?"
Gregory freezes mid-step. Or I do. Or we both do. The possession hiccups. My smile twitches.
"Yyyesss?" I say. Badly. The tone is all wrong. Sultry instead of scared. My hips are still doing that thing. That treacherous sway.
The cleric narrows his eyes.
A younger priest beside him asks, "Did you happen to see a demon pass this way? Malevolent spirit. Possible body theft. Very serious."
He holds up a sketch. It's just a generic devil with horns and abs. Honestly flattering.
"Say something normal," I hiss inside. "Gregory. Play it cool. If they figure it out, they're not going to exorcise you. They're going to boil me in sanctified piss until you get bored and leave."
Gregory hums in my head.
"Oh, they're cute. Look at the young one. Bet he's a blusher. I wonder what noises he'd make if we—"
"Gregory I swear on every goat you ever fucked—"
Out loud, I mutter, "Demon? Hmm. No demon here. Just me. A humble… pastry vendor. Looking for figs."
My voice cracks halfway between moan and cough.
The guards exchange glances. One steps forward. "You seem… flushed."
Gregory licks my lips.
He licks my lips.
I nearly scream.
"She's definitely sweating," the older priest says, stepping closer. "And her aura is… strange."
Inside, I'm shrieking.
"Gregory if you make me levitate or glow or burp fire I will end you. They will chain me to a stone slab and shove rosaries up my cunt until you get bored."
"Now that sounds like a Saturday," Gregory says.
"SHUT UP."
The young priest lifts a silver relic. It starts to shimmer.
He looks genuinely concerned. "Miss, if you're in distress, we can help you. Are you… possessed?"
My body opens its mouth. I panic.
Gregory says:
"…only by beauty."
A beat of silence.
Everyone blinks.
The young priest goes scarlet. The relic hiccups and dies. One of the guards coughs, trying not to laugh.
I—Gregory—blow them a kiss.
"Gentlemen," I coo, and sidestep like a courtesan on parade.
Once we're clear, I mentally grab Gregory by the ear.
"You utter. Hell-greased. Goat-fucker."
He smirks.
"You're welcome. That relic was two seconds from flashing red and dropping the holy smite."
I snarl.
"I'm going to build a temple just to excommunicate you from it."
He pats my ass again.
"Fine, fine. I'll leave soon. Just one more loop through the market. I want to try your tongue on that honey-dipped fried fig stand."
"Gregory—"
"And then maybe one slap to a passing baron. For the drama."
"GREGORY—"
He sighs contentedly.
"Your fury makes your boobs jiggle more. You know that, right?"
I scream. Again. Inside.
Outside?
I'm walking like a whore on a holy parade.
***
I sit on a rock.
Correction: I slump on a rock like a hanged doll. Hair tangled, tunic sliding off one shoulder, tits nearly out, thighs scraped, dignity bleeding internally.
My head is in my hands.
There's ash between my toes.
There's honey in my cleavage.
There's a bruise on my inner thigh shaped suspiciously like a nobleman's signet ring.
Gregory, now gloriously disembodied and hovering a few feet away with his usual shit-eating grin, stretches his ectoplasmic shoulders like a man who's just had a satisfying fuck and a greasy breakfast.
"Whew," he says. "That was invigorating. You, darling, have an incredibly expressive pelvis."
I throw a pebble at him.
It passes through his stupid smirking face.
"I hate you," I mutter.
He gestures theatrically toward a jingling little pouch tied with silk ribbon.
"Come now. Look at all that silver. Earned us quite a haul today. One full purse. Half in coin. Half in… exotic currency."
I eye the pouch with disgust.
"I'm scared to open it."
Gregory beams. "You should be proud! Some of those dance moves were innovative. The thing with the candlestick? Inspired."
I hiss.
"You made me do obscene things in public. With fruit. And a mop."
He grins wider.
"You made the mop moan."
"I hate you."
He shrugs. "Well at least now you can tell people a demon made you do it. Normally you dive headfirst into that kind of filth with zero supernatural coaxing."
I snap my head up.
"That is not true."
He cocks a spectral eyebrow. "No?"
I scowl.
"...Not all of it."
He starts counting on his clawed fingers.
"The alleyway incident in Seebulba. The twins in the bathhouse. That time with the sentient butter sculpture. The—"
"Shut up."
"—half-naked sermon to a cult of donkey-worshippers. Oh, and remember the noblewoman's birthday party where you—"
"I said shut up!"
I throw another rock. This one bounces off the mule. The mule doesn't flinch. It's seen things.
Gregory sighs, floating over to sit cross-legged in the air beside me.
"You are delightful, you know. A little cracked. A little cursed. But full of spice."
I glare at him.
"You owe me a new tunic."
He leers.
"I think I improved it."
"You disrobed it."
"You're welcome."
I bury my face in my hands and groan.
"Next time you need a body, possess a goat."
Gregory pats my head like I'm a tired prostitute who just survived a weeklong orgy.
"Oh sweet Saya. If I wanted a goat, I'd visit your mother."
I tackle him.
It's very unsatisfying.
He's still quite incorporeal.
I fall through him and land in a bush.
He cackles.
The bush has thorns.
My thighs are bleeding again.
Gods, I need a bath.
And an exorcist.
And maybe a brain transplant.