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Tired

Ambrosius

T he golden wristwatch had returned sometime after Ambrosius had laid down.

He could feel it enter the Antiquarium, materializing and finding its usual spot on a shelf.

The same tag it originally came with looped around the band with the familiar lot numbers on it.

Pristine as the day it had left the shop.

“Had fun, did you?” Ambrosius asked.

It didn’t respond, but he could feel the spirit inside.

A youthful thing that had once been alive around the creation of the object it inhabited.

It was full and satisfied, which meant his little owner had perished not too long ago.

One more satisfied customer, hundreds more to please.

And Ambrosius was fucking sick of it.

Or perhaps his tolerance for the swell of jealous, hungry spirits within the Antiquarium was beginning to evaporate .

Ambrosius had been doing the same song and dance far longer than anyone should.

Day in and day out, customer after customer, soul after unsuspecting soul.

Humans would ferry his haunted objects out of his Antiquarium, and like clockwork, they would return days or weeks later.

It didn’t matter if Ambrosius was in the shop or not.

Didn’t matter if he was in Canada or Japan.

The bonded objects would seek him out again, eternally stuck in the Antiquarium with him.

But for every satisfied spirit, there were a hundred more that were screaming for relief.

He could hear the low moans and ghostly wails that humans could not.

Angry, restless, and pained.

Ungrateful, all of them, Ambrosius thought as he gritted his teeth.

Pain had made itself known at the start of the workday.

The dull ache radiating from around his hip had become sharp and constant.

Fraying at every nerve and putting him in a sour mood.

The day was only halfway over, and Ambrosius had found himself collapsing into a loveseat, arm stretched across his closed eyes.

As a demon, he rather liked pain.

It grounded him, made him feel focused, alive even.

A demon might even say it was their bread and butter—or rather, blood and guts, depending on preference.

However, pain usually had an end in sight.

The pain Ambrosius suffered was not temporary, but constant.

An old wound that was perpetually festering.

A bite that never relented, no matter which way Ambrosius turned or positioned his body.

Ambrosius’ hand tightened into a fist as he felt the ink on his skin twist around it.

Frustration boiled beneath his skin.

For all his power and talent for molding his human form, some things were unchangeable.

There was no mending, no stitching that would fix that particular problem.

He had accepted it, but that didn’t make managing the pain any easier.

And for what? A warlock that continues to disobey me.

Once again, the source of his ire was tied up with her.

Not just her, but her exasperating human emotions.

While Ambrosius could admit she had many qualities that suited the work he had planned, he wasn’t sure it was worth the headache.

Humans and their free will were always so annoying .

They could never make decisions quickly enough, always twiddling their thumbs and hesitating.

Before they knew it, their entire lifetime had gone by, and they hadn’t done a damn thing.

Ambrosius had seen it enough in businesses and governments.

And while he hadn’t haunted a corporation or political figure in a long time, Ambrosius knew not much had changed.

Gwen was proof enough of that.

Her useless efforts to break their deal was time wasted.

Time that could have been used to read the scroll, to unlock the potential that was inside of her.

Inside her.

Ambrosius groaned.

Spontaneous as he was, Ambrosius had not intended to escalate their little tête-à-tête.

He could easily blame his taxed state of being.

Coaxing a human to invite him in cost energy, manifesting outside of the Antiquarium had cost a lot of energy.

Managing his power to craft his mortal form had been an expense, providing her his eye, cleaning up after her —

Ambrosius growled.

But when she had the nerve to cheekily respond to his grievances, something had snapped inside him.

Ambrosius had simply had enough of her rebellious nature, and acted accordingly.

Which for him usually meant horrible acts of violence and terror, but instead he had gone with …

that.

Most demons weren’t strangers to carnality.

There was an entire legion of demons who fed on sex, but Ambrosius was not one of them.

To respond to her like that meant he had done it because he had wanted to.

Ambrosius enjoyed depravity, but even he could admit that crossing that line with Gwen had made things even more complicated.

Messy .

None of it had mattered in the moment.

Not when he had her unraveling before him, soft and yearning, and mad.

Ambrosius could tell in the subtle ways her body had reacted to him.

There had been desire—so much of it, radiating off her that it had been impossible not to feel drunk with it.

The swell of pride was still nestled against his ego when he thought of it.

But in those desperate moments, she had also shown her displeasure for him.

Ambrosius could still feel her hands, pulling his hair mercilessly as she fought against her orgasm.

That moment—that singular moment caught between pleasure and hatred—had captivated him.

Gwen had wanted him, but she clearly hated that she did.

A very human reaction, but one Ambrosius didn’t particularly mind.

In fact, based on the stirring interest, his cock rather liked it.

Shit.

Though it would cost him more precious energy, Ambrosius dissipated from the love seat.

He reformed in the small accommodations the Antiquarium had given him.

There was no door, making it impossible for any customers to find it.

The room was no bigger than Gwen’s bathroom, with only enough room to fit a single bed at one end and a cello at the other.

It was surrounded by hanging bookshelves, all of which held what little personal items Ambrosius had been able to collect over time.

Ambrosius rarely got to spend time in it, given he was at the call of whatever whims the Antiquarium had.

But there was no way he was going to indulge in carnal fantasy with witnesses.

Those pathetic spirits were some of the worst voyeurs, and Ambrosius wasn’t about to give them a free show.

Some things are meant to be secret, Ambrosius thought as he leaned back into the bed.

Gwen was … an unfortunate ailment that he would need to work himself through.

Or so Ambrosius believed as he thought about her.

It hadn’t helped that she had already piqued his more demonic interests.

The chase in her apartment had brought out something instinctual, something old that Ambrosius thought had been lost. The urge to torment had teased him just as she had.

He wouldn’t be allowed much time to linger here, but it would be a small reprieve from the pain.

Ambrosius trailed his hand over his abdomen, allowing the dam he had built to burst through.

She had been tense, on edge, never knowing when he would show up behind her.

Breath tinged with fear as her eyes searched for him.

Her instinct had been to run, and his had been to chase, to devour .

There was a selfish need to consume all of her.

Every morsel, every drop of blood was meant to be savored on his tongue.

To crack the shell of her mortal body and slurp down her soul like an egg yolk .

He had already gotten a taste.

The moment she had agreed to the deal, he had taken a drink.

Easily slipping his tongue past her barrier and inviting the quiver of soul into his mouth.

And fuck, she had been divine.

The corruption in her soul from the years of torment she had endured from others was a feast of delectable flavors.

But the most delicious note had been the pain she had inflicted upon herself.

A soul tormented by their own making—

The form of his own hand slowly appeared from the darkness, pale and corporeal.

It trailed across the back of his hand, before it loosened his belt.

Soon, it had unbuttoned his pants, lowered the zipper, and snaked inside.

Ambrosius hissed as the chill touch wrapped around his cock.

The pressure was light, not the same as his physical hand, but it made him grind his teeth all the same.

Languid strokes started what his own hand could not, spreading fluid from the tip down, and allowing Ambrosius’ mind to come back to her.

Gwen, pliant in his arms as he kissed her.

Mouth soft, open, willing despite the fear and hatred she held for him.

The way she had breathed him in, lips pressing desperately to his.

Her tongue—so different from his real tongue, short and stubby as it tasted his.

Ambrosius could still smell the peach flavor on her skin that had buried itself in the back of his nose.

He shuddered, the ink on his skin becoming fluid as it shifted with every breath he released.

He had grown hotter, sweat building along his back.

His fingers had slowly melted to sharp claws that pierced the bedding beneath him.

Frustration mounting as the phantom hand continued its lazy pace, never quite giving Ambrosius the friction he craved.

His mind continued its torturous reminder of what Gwen had felt like around his fingers.

Hot and wet, like an open wound weeping beneath his claws.

Even her cries had sounded like pain as Gwen failed to stifle the noises Ambrosius elicited from her.

She was stubborn, but Ambrosius had been a quick study.

Finding what pleased her was just as easy as knowing what would break her.

I hate you, Ambrosius thought as he ripped his hand away from the torn sheet.

With a snarl, he wrapped his hand around his length and bucked.

The extra, teasing hand glided away, stroking along his weak human flesh.

A small reprieve from the heat that was driving him mad.

No, not the heat.

Her.

Her heat, her skin, her everything was driving him mad.

Ambrosius clawed open his shirt, ripping it apart in an attempt to alleviate the suffocating heat.

Interconnecting lines—a cosmic web of black ink pulsated along his chest with every erratic breath.

Gwen may have thought he was haunting her, but she had no idea how she was tormenting him.

Crossing that line with her had been a mistake.

Because now, as he fucked into his fist with desperate, uncoordinated thrusts, Ambrosius felt like she was there with him.

A gorgeous and forbidding newly born monster who had begged so sweetly.

Not just for anyone, but for him.

Pain burst from his forehead, black ichor flowing into his hairline as two large horns broke the surface of his human vessel.

They curved high, the tips catching on the pillow above Ambrosius’ head.

His eye pushed against the edge of its socket as another eye erupted, filling the space his old eye had once occupied.

They darted back and forth as Ambrosius tightened his hold on his cock, body burning up with every breath, every awful stroke.

It wasn’t enough to know what her insides felt like.

Not enough to know what she tasted like.

Ambrosius wanted to see , wanted to touch all the places he hadn’t yet been able to.

He wanted to slice her clothes away, revealing more flesh to him.

Skin that he wanted to lick, bruise, bite into with abandon.

He wanted to consume her anyway he could.

Blood filled Ambrosius’ mouth as his canines broke the surface of his tongue.

It flowed down his throat and, for a moment, his terrible mind imagined it was hers.

His teeth biting through her flesh, sinking into her fragile neck.

Her nails piercing the flesh of his back, her own blunt teeth biting his face.

Both of them falling into mutual destruction as he buried himself in her over and over, until all he knew was her.

Furious relief broke through Ambrosius as he spilled into his hand.

It left him panting, hand sticky with an all too human looking fluid.

The high had thoroughly distracted him from the sharp pain in his side, at least temporarily.

And for a moment, Ambrosius just breathed.

The urge had been satisfied …

but it left Ambrosius full of contempt.

One extra hand became two as they traveled along his own filthy hand, cleaning away the evidence of his…

Humanity , he thought with disdain.

Ambrosius could smell peaches. This has to end.