All-Guys August 1/4 - Squeals of the Summoner (Patreon)

It's dark here, and it smells of candlewax and violet candy; dry, faintly sweet, artificially floral and sticky. Ylwin stretches, yawns slightly into his cuff, and toes off his black buckled shoes under the desk. Transcribing old novels and almanacs is a bore, and the hum of the mansion has long lost its excitement. The creaks and murmurs of pipes and settling floors are no longer spine-chilling suggestions but ambient nothings, like the rumble of a distant washing machine.

Absently, Ylwin peels off his socks with the toes of his feet, first the left and then the right. It's normally icy cold during the night, but the ancient central heating system seems to have finally woken out of its slumber, casting the upper floor into a hazy summery warmth. Re-inking his pen, he stretches his arches and turns the page.

The devil is a fickle master.

Something interesting. Finally! Eyes widening, the raven-haired man gulps and traces the words with his pen, shoving the stack of transcription papers aside. A black-ink illustration details a figure (tall, he can only assume it's tall) with long, spiralling horns and wicked talons, surrounded by dark sigils and curling font.

Though he grants endless joy and mirth, he is the king of laughs and screams, he will be at your feet equally as you are at his - he knows every pleasure and no mercy...

Lips silently mouthing the words, Ylwin's shining eyes barely flick up as a bird caws shy of his window, dark wings eclipsing the eye of the moon. His porcelain heart beats double. Biting his lip, he cautiously turns the page over, jumping and squeaking in shock as he's greeted by the silver-inked eyes of the thick-furred demon. Its intense eyes almost make him shy back and slam the book shut, but the allure of the cryptic messages drive him on.

In that same silver ink, swirling scripts form sigils on the page that Ylwin echoes under his breath, hands trembling with excitement.

Is this...?

The drama- the danger- to summon a devil, such a creature, with all of its dark promises-?!

Zeb y'lir xalne ty gesvohv-

Thunder sounds outside his window. The candle flickers.

Orup zixavh syz vero-!

A loud crack makes him leap in his seat, gripping the armrests of his chair, breathing hard as the last syllable leaves his lips. The entire house trembles, then is still. Unconsciously, he brings his knees up, curling reflexively into a protective ball.

Something tugs his ankle.

The page is all black.

"Wh- what?!"

Croaking out the words, he kicks his legs to no avail, the pages grumbling as darkness spills from their bindings. Deep within, groaning like the shifting of clay, things that ought to lie begin to wake.

Thick, sinewy lengths of inky dark pull Ylwin's trembling ankles up and onto the heavy oak desk; their prying lengths curl and lave around his long, elegant toes to leave his arches taut and helpless. Like a body on the rack, they pinion his arms up above his head, curious, seeking. No ears hear his protests and grunts as he begins to sweat, unsure of what's to come.

Black plumes, an inky tangible smoke from some forbidden, terrible wing dance in the candle-light before his eyes, lightning filtering through the window and running its fingers through the fluffy dark fronds. He feels his soles begin to itch.

Before he can whimper, the quills fly into action, beginning their work against the stems of his toes. Why- why why why did it have to be this-! Why tickling!? Whining, he swallows a breath in an attempt not to laugh. They scribble and scrawl in careful but fervent motions, leaving cool inky trails against his supple, warm skin, each quillstroke tickling tenfold. The ink capturing his toes can't even grant him the mercy of being able to scrunch his soles or turn his ankles; all he can do is take it.

And laugh.

It takes the quills five minutes to break his icy, moody resolve, with a fluffy tip beneath his toes driving an uncharacteristically bubbly laugh from his throat. He brays out in a squeal, shaking his head desperately as the tickling increases further - there must be something in the ink, or the script, or the sigils that make it worse and worse the more they write. Another quill begins re-tracing the font and he bucks, trying desperately to ignore the feathers poised at his sides and preparing to strike.

As a plume reaches his heel, he heaves a breath between giggles. Just the moment of peace as it moves back up to the top is respite enough, blissful before the torture as it starts its descent again. He's hoarse; there's not much comedy in the manor so he hasn't laughed this much in months, it's dizzying, almost unbearable, so when the shadows begin to shift he almost believes it's a trick of his eyes-

"Mortal."

The voice is low, a deep purr that makes his arches tremble. The figure detaches itself from the dark like a polyp and stretches to its full height, horns irritating the gems of the old unlit chandelier.

"You summon m- oh, well, look at this. It's been decades since I've been called upon to inspect such a handsome human, and with such soft-looking feet."

Ylvin tries not to let on that he's blushing, but it's hard - the laughter is still coming and he can barely speak.

"Looks like my summoning quills have done a good job on you, hmm? You should be extra-extra sensitive now, they must've written the incantation at least thrice over. I'll have fun tonight."

He manages a squeal that sounds like a 'what?' as the shade approaches, sauntering and catlike.

"Don't worry. They'll fade in, hm, a month or so. You'll have to wear extra-thick socks or even the carpets will tickle so much you can't speak!"

Ylvin shrieks with laughter as a quill dives into the crook of his neck. The demon laughs, guttural.

"But given how handsome you are, I might just take you to my palace for that month... and uhuhu, no amount of thick wooly socks can protect you from the tickling you'll experience there, my mortal pet."

Gulping down breaths, the blushing and squirming Ylvin manages to choke out a coherent sentence, tears brimming in the corners of his grin-creased eyes.

"Th- the- the tome said you-!" Cut off by a screaming laugh. "-Y-you were the devil?!"

"That I am."

"And that you-"

The demon's eyes close as it nods.

"Ah, you must've misread. Poor little thing, to sign away your ticklish little feet without properly reading the contract, I must get a better scribe. The old one will make a nice ornament in my tickle-gallery..."

With one massive, clawed hand, the beast lifts Ylvin's chin, meeting his eyes with that intense silvery stare.

"It doesn't say the devil is a fickle master. It says the devil is a TICKLE master."