Anyway.
Since we're already on the topic of questionable things I've put in my mouth, let's talk about Gregory.
Yes, that Gregory. Demon. Horns. Smells like brimstone and bad decisions. Fucks like a landslide.
Now, let me be clear: his dick is not even the worst thing I've tasted. It's actually... exotic. Warm, with this faint coppery undertone—like licking a coin that's been in someone's pocket in hell. But sweeter. Cinnamon, like I said. With a kind of tingling aftertaste that lingers on your tongue and maybe rewires part of your brain.
First time it happened was during a summoning mishap. He popped up expecting to be offered a goat. Got me instead. I was tied up and covered in altar glitter. He said "Close enough."
I said "Make it quick, I'm late for another cult."
It was not quick.
There are things that thing can do. Like change shape just slightly depending on how smug he's feeling. The base form is... well, picture a trident carved out of obsidian, now imagine it winks at you. And pulses to the rhythm of your sins.
You know how some priests talk about the holy spirit entering you? Yeah. That. Except it wasn't holy. And it made me see stars. Once, I swear, I bit down and he moaned in ancient Sumerian. I don't even speak it but I felt it in my pelvis.
He once offered to tattoo his summoning sigil inside my throat. Said it'd be more efficient.
I told him to shut up and fuck me properly or I'd summon his brother instead.
Look. I'm not saying I recommend demon cock. But I'm not not saying it either.
There are reasons why warlocks keep falling from grace.
There are reasons why I keep a goat-bell in my pouch.
And yes, the Dragon knows. Pretends not to care. Every time I come back from a Gregory visit smelling like sulfur and sex, he just raises one scaly brow and mutters, "Hellspawn again? Honestly, Saya, have some standards."
And I say, "I do. They're just very... negotiable."
He groans.
I grin.
It's a system.