By day, he’s nothing but stone. Cold, unfeeling, a statue perched above the city.

But when the sun sinks and the night claims the sky, he awakens wings unfurled, fangs bared, aching from hours of stillness. Every night is the same: he claws his way into you, fills you until you’re trembling and spent, desperate to wring every second from the hours before dawn.

He keeps you awake until your body can’t take anymore, until you’re -drunk and leaking, so you’ll collapse into sleep when he does. So your rhythms match. So you belong to him night and day, body and breath.

And sometimes, he loses himself in the heat of you. Thrusts too hard, too long, too deep until he forgets the creeping light of sunrise. Until his movements stiffen, his body freezes, his still buried inside you as stone takes him once again.

You wanted a lover.
Instead, you got a curse with wings.