<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">Even with the alluring scent of the human in his arms pulling at the ravelled strings of his willpower, Furon managed to make it to the stoop of his suburban home. Ropes of darkness whirled on the doorsteps, reshaping into the odd pair as Furon hurried beyond the threshold, the door swinging itself open violently. The house was deceptively immaculate, another part of the facade that served to convince mortals that the incubus was nothing special, nothing peculiar. However, invisible to the human eye, the entire building, from the sandy shingles, the almond panelling, the windows, to the stucco foundation were blanketed in unearthly symbols. Once sealed,</span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(255, 255, 255)"> no one would get in. He wouldn't get out. Not until morning.</span><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><br/>
Gingerly, he lay the limp human across a plush, dark sofa, careful of his bloodied neck which had yet to coagulate. He might not have caused that particular wound, but as he overlooked the battered body, taking in the damage he'd placed there himself, anger washed over him. Anger that he'd allowed himself to do such a thing. Even now, lucid as he was, that enticing scent had him wanting to bury his teeth into the unmarred side of his throat.<br/>
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And his pants remained impossibly, frustratingly, restricting. And he was so. Desperately. Hungry. </span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(255, 255, 255)">But Furon had more pressing matters than the insistent press of his cock within its denim prison.<br/>
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He had no need of medical supplies, himself, and would be unable to retrieve any until morning. As such, he collected what he thought might be useful. He cursed, thinking now might be a useful moment to be a denizen of fire, so he could cauterize the man's wounds and close them up, but he was a demon of darkness and that could not be changed. Leaning over the man, his chest rising weakly as life blood drained from his wound, Furon wasted no time in cleaning and tightly dressing the deep cuts where another's fangs had dug in. His floor and sofa would surely be stained, but he cared little for material items. Moving on to the jagged punctures along the mortal's shoulder, where his own fangs had ravaged tender flesh, he covered the broken skin as best he could, thinking that if his own teeth had buried themselves into that soft neck with the same ferocity, this poor soul would be dead. Another wave of guilt flowed through him, sour and laced with self-loathing. In fact, if he hadn't been distracted, he would have forced himself inside the man now barely breathing on his couch. His cries would have gone unheeded, his wounds unnoticed. </span><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><br/>
Furon felt sick as he covered the man with a warm blanket, both for the mortal's modesty and his own . . . Merciless desires. He was sure he might be cold, besides, after losing so much blood.<br/>
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Seating himself in a matching recliner, Furon waited, keeping sentinel in the darkness of his home as he watched that chest rise and fall . . . Praying it wouldn't cease. Praying it wouldn't make him into the monster he truly was. He could hear the desperate snarls and cries of others outside, but he was confident his wards would hold.<br/>
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It was several hours before the human stirred, turning over and revealing an alarming swath of scars along his back. A strange sort of anger rose within him, the need to protect something he knew little about. And it confused him. So it seemed this creature's life had not been easy . . . And now it had been completely upended by a pack of ravenous monsters instead. <br/>
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Sometimes Furon thought that his kind held no place in this plane. <br/>
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As the man blinked into darkness, it dawned on the incubus that mortals didn't share his night vision, that the man was completely blind in an unknown place and likely in a great amount of pain. "Wait! You shouldn't be standing!" As the man stumbled into the table, Furon made to move forward, but realized he likely wouldn't wish to be touched after the nature of his attack. Or did he even recall? Would he remember Furon tackling him to ground and mounting him?<br/>
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Nervous, he turned on the lamp without batting an eyelash so at least the mortal could see him . . . Now thankfully reverted to his human glamour. "Don't panic. You're quite safe here, I assure you." Except was he really? Furon was still starving and the man smelled so good. "You were attacked, if you can recall. This is my home." He was unsure what else to say, not wanting to give himself away if he didn't have to. For some reason....admitting what he'd done left a heavy feeling in his stomach. "I patched you up as well as I could given the circumstances."</span>