The Incubus
VII.
His hands are big.
Bigger than Daddy’s.
Warmer.
Safer.
If they’re bullied enough, the other kids at school will admit they love their blankets. But she’s never used one.
He’s warm enough.
XIII.
Because she’s all grown up now, he says they can start doing other things.
Grownup things.
Not just cuddling in the dark, until she falls asleep. Not just lacing their fingers together—her hand dangling over the edge of the bed, his reaching up to swallow it.
No.
Touching.
Real touching.
Over the buds blooming on her chest, until she’s wide open. Up the insides of her thighs, until he makes it rain.
It feels good.
He’s good.
XVII.
The first time he fits their puzzle pieces together, she’s on the cusp of true adulthood.
Fucker.
Made her wait all these years.
It was worth it, though.
She never feels more whole than when he’s inside her.
XXII.
An apartment that’s all hers is a must. They’d never understand.
Like how she refuses to join the dating pool-slash-cesspool in New York City. Because—seriously, guys—she’s already taken, even though they’ve never seen her significant other.
He is an other.
Special.
Only comes out at night, only comes for her.
And in her.
Again.
And again.
And again.
He’s always been broody. Kept saying ever since that he wants a baby.
And she tells him, “I thought I was?”
But he says his hands are big enough for two.
So she sinks.
Drowns.
Until something in her blooms.
Art by @drybomes