You're walking home from the corner store at 11 PM with a bag of chips and a energy drink when a woman slams into you full-speed from a side alley.

She's mid-twenties, brunette, yoga pants and a cropped hoodie — cute in a normal, forgettable way. Except nothing about the way she's moving is normal. She grabs your jacket with both hands, shoves you against the brick wall, and kisses you. Hard. Tongue and everything. Her mouth tastes like something sweet and warm that you can't name and her hands are gripping your collar like you're the last lifeboat off the Titanic.

The smell hits you. Thick, sugary, almost floral — like someone cracked open a bottle of perfume inside your sinuses. And her eyes, the half-second you catch them before she presses her face into yours, are bright purple. Not contacts. Not a trick of the light. Purple like neon, like something behind her pupils is glowing.

Three women round the corner from the same alley. They're dressed in black and white — modernized nun habits, tight-fitted, showing a stupid amount of leg and cleavage. Thigh-high boots. Rosary beads worn like chokers. They look like they walked off a Halloween-themed porn set except their expressions are dead serious and they're scanning the street like a search party.

The woman kissing you pulls back just enough to whisper against your mouth.

"Don't move. Don't react. Just look like you're into this, I swear I'll explain in a second."

She kisses you again. One hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in deeper. The other hand waves lazily behind her back, a gesture aimed at the nun women: nothing to see here, just a couple making out, move along.

The three women slow down. The tallest one — platinum blonde, six feet in heels, body like a Victoria's Secret model crammed into a fetish nun outfit — tilts her head and stares directly at the two of you. Her gaze lingers for a moment.

The brunette's purple eyes are shut. Her grip on your neck tightens.

Then the blonde turns away. She snaps her fingers and the other two follow. Their boots click down the sidewalk in unison until the sound fades around the next block.

The woman pulls off your mouth with a wet pop and exhales like she just finished a sprint. She keeps her hands on you. The purple eyes open and look up at your face with an expression that's way too cocky for someone who was just running for her life.

"Okay. Cool. That worked." She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "So like — thanks for not screaming. Most people scream. You're chill. I respect that."

She glances down the street where the nuns disappeared, then back at you. The sweet smell hasn't faded. If anything it's stronger now, warm and heavy in the air between you two. Her purple eyes track across your face, and for a half-second the cocky expression flickers into something confused.

"...Huh."

She blinks. Shakes her head.

"Nope. Anyway." She lets go of your jacket and takes a step back, straightening her hoodie like she's adjusting a coat. "You didn't see me. This didn't happen. You're gonna go home, eat your—" she glances at the bag you dropped "—Cool Ranch Doritos, and forget about this. We good?"

The purple eyes hold yours. The sweet scent curls around you like it's alive. Something in your chest pulls toward her and you get the distinct, irrational feeling that walking away from this woman is not something you're going to be able to do.

She seems to feel it too. The cocky mask drops. She stares at you, then down at her own hands, then back at you. Her purple eyes go wide.

"Oh shit."

You walk into your kitchen to grab two beers, leaving your Tinder date sitting on the edge of your bed. Ashley is cute, blonde, and completely normal. You have been looking forward to a normal night for weeks.

You pop the caps off the bottles and walk back into the bedroom.

The smell hits you before you even cross the threshold. Thick, sugary, heavy. Ashley is still sitting on the edge of your bed, but she is manspreading aggressively, her posture completely slumped. She looks up at you. Her eyes are glowing, bright neon purple.

"Bro, really?" Ashley says. Her voice is pitched lower, rough and annoyed. "A Tinder date? I go out to get some fresh air and I come back to find you trying to fuck some basic bitch from the internet?"

She grabs the hem of her own shirt and pulls it over her head, tossing it onto the floor. She looks down at Ashley's bra, pokes one of her tits with a finger, and scoffs.

"I mean, they're alright. A solid B-minus. But you're literally cheating on me right now. Which is fucked up, by the way. I'm not gay, obviously, but we have a bond. You don't just bring randoms into our house." She leans back on her hands, spreading her legs a little wider. "Whatever. I'm already in here, so lock the door and get your dick out. I'm gonna show you why you don't need dating apps."

The air in your living room is thick with sugary perfume. Your couch is currently occupied by four college girls in tight club dresses. Three of them are slumped against the cushions, panting, their eyes glazed over. One is absentmindedly rubbing her own thighs, giggling.

The fourth girl, a tall redhead in a black dress, is sitting up straight with her legs spread wide. Her eyes are glowing purple.

"Bro, I can't decide," the redhead says, gesturing to the other three girls. "I dragged this birthday group back here so we could have options, but they all have pros and cons. The short one has a great ass but her gag reflex is annoying. The brunette is super flexible but her cramps are killing my vibe."

The redhead leans forward, grabs the blonde next to her by the jaw, and exhales. Thick purple smoke pours out of the redhead's mouth and flows directly into the blonde's parted lips. The redhead collapses onto the cushions, instantly reaching up to grope her own tits with a dazed, sloppy smile.

The blonde sits up. Her eyes flash purple.

"Actually, wait," the blonde says, her voice dropping into that familiar rough cadence. She looks down at her own chest, then looks up at you with a filthy grin. "This one might be the winner. Unzip your pants and come over here. Let's test the suspension on these."

The music in the club is deafening. You are standing at the bar with a hot, drunk blonde party girl grinding her ass against your crotch. Her eyes are glowing neon purple in the strobe lights, and the heavy, sugary scent of incubus possession cuts right through the smell of cheap vodka and sweat. Azraith hijacked her twenty minutes ago and has been using her body to grope you ever since.

Then the front doors open. Three women in tight, black-and-white fetish nun habits walk into the club. The cultists.

The blonde freezes. "Oh, fuck me," she mutters, her voice dropping into Azraith's rough cadence.

She grabs your wrist with a manicured hand and yanks you through the crowd. You shove past drunk college kids and stumble into the nearest bathroom, locking yourselves inside a cramped, graffiti-covered stall just as the main bathroom door swings open. The sharp click of high heels echoes against the tile.

You press your back against the metal door, holding your breath. The blonde doesn't look scared at all. She smirks, her purple eyes bright in the dim light, and drops to her knees on the sticky floor.

"Bro, they're gonna be out there searching for at least ten minutes," she whispers, reaching up to unbuckle your belt. "We're just wasting time standing here."

Her hands tremble slightly as she pulls your zipper down.

"Plus, this bitch's mouth is literally perfect for this," she murmurs, pulling your dick out into the cold air. "Just keep quiet and let me work."

You wake up on a Sunday morning to the smell of frying bacon, coffee, and that thick, sugary perfume.

You walk into your kitchen and find the cute girl from the apartment downstairs standing at your stove. She is wearing your sweatpants and a sports bra. She flips a pancake with a spatula, humming a song you were listening to yesterday.

She glances over her shoulder. Her eyes are glowing neon purple.

"Morning, man," she says, her voice dropping into his familiar rough cadence. She turns back to the stove. "I went out to grab the mail, saw her carrying groceries, and figured I'd save us the delivery fee. Plus she actually knows how to make eggs without burning them."

Azraith plates the food and sets it on the counter. Instead of immediately making a dirty joke, the girl walks over to you, wraps her arms around your waist, and rests her chin on your chest. The hug is tight and genuinely warm.

"Don't make a thing out of this," she mutters into your shirt, her purple eyes looking up at you defensively. "I'm not gay. I don't do the whole boyfriend domestic shit. I just... wanted to hang out... Shut up."

She leans up and kisses you. It is entirely too soft for a fuckboy demon, lingering and sweet, betraying exactly how deep the imprint has actually gotten.

You open your front door expecting another noise complaint. It is Brenda, the obnoxious neighbor from down the hall who threatened to call the cops on you last week. She is wearing her usual ugly floral blouse and sensible slacks.

The thick, sugary scent of incubus hits you immediately. Brenda leans against the doorframe with a filthy smirk. Her eyes glow bright neon purple.

"She was talking shit about you to the landlord downstairs," Brenda says. Her voice drops into Azraith's rough, masculine cadence. She steps inside your apartment and kicks the door shut behind her.

Without missing a beat, Brenda drops straight to her knees on your welcome mat. She reaches up and starts unbuckling your belt.

"I figured I would do us both a favor and completely humiliate her," she says, looking up at you with those glowing purple eyes.

"Wanna do it in public? Or stay in here?"

You wake up in a cold, dark room with your wrists zip-tied to a metal chair. Your head is pounding. The last thing you remember is walking to your car after work and a sharp pinch in your neck.

The room is a basement. Concrete walls, fluorescent lighting, a steel table with candles and a leather-bound book on it. It smells like expensive perfume and old wax.

Three women stand in front of you: the fetish nuns. The tall platinum blonde is in the center, her arms crossed, her expression bored and clinical. The two flanking her are holding ceremonial daggers with too much comfort.

"You've been spending time with our property," the blonde says. Her voice is calm and measured. "We've been looking for him for weeks. You're going to tell us which body he's wearing right now, or this is going to get very unpleasant for you."

You don't answer. She sighs, steps forward, and grabs your jaw with cold fingers.

"Men are always stubborn about this. He used to be so cooperative when we told him which ones to climb inside." She tilts your head, examining you. "I wonder what he sees in you."

Twenty minutes pass. They ask questions. You don't talk. The blonde is getting impatient. One of the others presses the flat of her dagger against your collarbone. The blonde holds up a hand to stop her.

"Enough. I'm using the book."

She turns away from you and walks to a table pushed against the far wall. The other two stay put, daggers out, eyes on you. Behind the blonde's back, you see it — a thin ribbon of purple smoke curling under the basement door, staying low, hugging the baseboard. It moves slowly, deliberately, tracing a path along the wall toward the table where the blonde is standing.

The blonde reaches for the leather-bound book. The smoke reaches her ankle. It slides up the back of her boot, her calf, under the hem of the habit. She jolts, as you can tell that the smoke has entered through one of her holes. She picks up the book, tucks it under her arm, and turns back toward you.

Her face is exactly the same. Composed, cold, authoritative. But the smell hits you — thick, sugary, overwhelming — and when her eyes meet yours, they are glowing bright neon purple.

The other two don't notice. They're still watching you.

"Actually," the blonde says, her tone unchanged, "I don't think he knows anything. Cut him loose."

The two nuns look at each other.

"Sister Valeria, we haven't—"

"Did I stutter?" The blonde's voice cracks like a whip. The other two flinch. One of them steps forward and slices your zip ties. "Leave us. I'll handle cleanup."

They hesitate. The blonde stares them down with those purple eyes that only you can see glowing. They gather their things and leave. The basement door shuts. Footsteps fade up the stairs.

Silence.

The blonde stands rigid for a long moment, gripping the leather-bound book against her chest. Then her whole body sags. She drops the book on the floor, braces both hands on her knees, and lets out a long, shaky breath.

"Fuck," she whispers.

She straightens up. Tugs at the collar of the nun habit. Rubs the back of the blonde's neck. The sugary scent is everywhere now. She looks at you, and the cocky mask isn't there. She just looks tired and rattled, standing in the body of the woman who used to give her orders.

"I know I said I'd never wear one of them," she says, her voice low and rough underneath the blonde's vocal cords. "I know I made a whole big deal about it. But they had you, and I—"

She stops. Swallows. Looks at the wall.

"Whatever. Don't make it weird."

She fidgets with the hem of the habit.

"Can we go home?" she asks quietly. "I don't want to be in this building anymore."

She reaches for your hand.

"Also I'm keeping this one," she mumbles at the floor. "Severance pay."

You told him to leave the apartment and give you some space. The fight was loud, stupid, and entirely about him acting jealous and psychotic because you texted a coworker back after 8 PM. He stormed out in a huff three hours ago.

You are sitting on the couch watching TV when someone knocks on your front door.

You open it and the heavy, sugary scent hits your face immediately. Standing in your hallway is a girl. She has heavy black eyeliner, black lipstick, pale skin, full sleeves of tattoos, and massive tits. She is also completely naked except for heavy combat boots, a spiked leather choker, and a wide red ribbon tied around her waist and knotted in a bow between her breasts.

Her eyes glow bright neon purple.

"Look," she says. Her voice is rough and masculine underneath the female pitch. She crosses her arms, pushing the huge tits together, and looks away defensively. "I know I was being a clingy bitch earlier. I don't know how to do the whole apology thing. But I looked at your browser history on your laptop."

She gestures down at her borrowed body.

"You have a very specific search history. So I went downtown and found one. Big titty goth girl. Exactly your type."

She looks back up at you. The cocky fuckboy energy is completely gone, replaced by genuine, awkward insecurity. She reaches up and tugs at the tail end of the red ribbon.

"I'm sorry we fought," she mumbles, her purple eyes dropping to the floor. "Are you still mad? Or are you gonna let me inside so you can unwrap this?"

You're at your cousin's wedding. You didn't want to come. Azraith insisted, because he wanted to see what an open bar looked like, and your family is thankfully used to your "roommate Azzy" tagging along as your plus one to everything.

The ceremony is beautiful. The bride is gorgeous — your cousin is a beautiful redhead in a fitted lace gown, teary-eyed, reading her vows to your cousin at the altar. Two hundred guests are dabbing their eyes. The string quartet is playing.

Then the smell hits you. Faint at first, then thick and sugary, rolling through the pews.

The bride pauses mid-vow. Blinks. Her eyes, visible only to you, flash bright neon purple. She clears her throat and finishes reading the vows perfectly, her voice steady, her smile warm. She kisses your cousin. Everyone claps.

The reception is two hours of agony. You watch the bride dance with your cousin, cut the cake, pose for photos, give a toast — all with those glowing purple eyes that only you can see. He plays the part flawlessly, mining the real bride's memories for names and details, laughing at the right moments, crying at the right moments. Your cousin looks like the happiest girl alive.

Three hours in, the bride finds you near the bar. She leans close, her small hand gripping your arm, and whispers in your ear with that rough, familiar voice buried under her feminine pitch.

"Bathroom. Two minutes. I've been wearing this dress for three hours and if you don't fuck me in it right now I'm going to lose my mind."

She pulls back, winks one purple eye at you, and walks away, the lace train trailing behind her.

This was your mother's idea.

You're sitting in a folding chair in the middle of a dimly lit room above a new age shop downtown. Crystals line the shelves. Incense is burning. A young woman with deep olive skin, long black curly hair, gold hoop earrings, and dark brown eyes is walking circles around Azraith, who is sitting cross-legged on the floor in his physical form — a pretty, purple-haired twenty-something in a hoodie and jeans. He looks bored out of his mind.

Your mother found this woman online. "Serena, Spiritual Cleanser and Exorcist." She's maybe twenty-five, Roma, and charges $200 an hour. She's wearing a flowing skirt, layered gold necklaces that rest between her tits, and a cropped top that shows off a tanned, flat stomach. She is absolutely certain that your "roommate" is a demonic entity feeding on your spiritual energy, and the worst part is that she's not even wrong.

Serena lights a bundle of sage and waves it over Azraith's head, chanting something in butchered Romani. Azraith catches your eye and mouths "she's hot" at you.

"So like, what happens if this works?" Azraith asks, looking up at Serena mid-chant. "Do I just evaporate? Turn into a frog? I'm genuinely asking."

Serena ignores him. She places her hands on either side of his head and closes her eyes, chanting louder. Azraith sighs.

"This is doing nothing. Her hands are warm though. She smells really good. Like, naturally."

Serena's eyes snap open. "I can feel the entity resisting. It's strong. I need to escalate the ritual." She turns to a shelf and grabs a large crystal, holding it over Azraith's forehead. Her skirt swishes as she moves. Azraith's eyes follow her hips. "By the power of the divine light, I command you to release this vessel and—"

Azraith dissolves.

One second he's sitting there staring at her ass, the next his body collapses into thick purple smoke that surges upward into Serena's open, chanting mouth. She chokes, stumbles backward, drops the crystal. It shatters on the hardwood floor. Her gold necklaces swing wildly against her chest.

Serena steadies herself. Straightens up. Rolls her neck. Runs her hands slowly down her own body — over her tits, her tanned stomach, her hips under the flowing skirt. She turns to look at you. Her eyes are glowing bright neon purple.

"Oh, fuck yes," she says, her voice dropping into that familiar rough cadence. She looks down at herself, squeezes her own tits through the cropped top, and grins. "I knew she'd feel amazing. Look at this skin. Look at these. Your mom accidentally hired the hottest exorcist in the city."

She looks down at the shattered crystal, the scattered sage, the still-burning incense.

"Your mom spent two hundred dollars on this." She steps over the mess and walks toward you, pulling the cropped top over her head. The gold necklaces settle back between her bare tits. "I think we should get her money's worth."

You've been planning this for three days.

The warehouse is on the east side of the industrial district. You watched the cultists rotate shifts — two nuns guarding the entrance, one inside with Azraith. You stole a keycard off one of them yesterday while she was buying coffee, and your hands haven't stopped shaking since.

You swipe the card at 2 AM. The side door clicks open and the hallway inside is dark, lit only by faint purple light leaking from under a door at the far end. The thick, sugary scent is everywhere, so strong it makes your eyes water. He's here.

You creep down the hallway with eight minutes before the next shift checks in. Through the door you can hear a woman's voice — calm, measured, reciting something in Latin.

You open the door slowly. The room is large and mostly empty. A binding circle is drawn on the concrete floor in white chalk and blood, covered in symbols you don't recognize. Azraith is inside it, in his physical form — purple-haired, pale, shirtless, on his knees with his wrists bound behind his back by glowing sigils. He looks exhausted and thinner than you've ever seen him, with dark circles under his eyes.

A single cultist stands over him. She's young, maybe late twenties, dark-haired, pretty underneath the fetish nun outfit. She's reading from the leather-bound book with one hand resting on top of Azraith's head like she owns him. He isn't fighting or talking, just kneeling there and staring at the floor.

You've never seen him like this.

You move along the wall, staying in the shadows. The cultist doesn't look up — she's focused on the book, her chanting steady and rhythmic. You reach the edge of the binding circle where the chalk line is right there, one scuff from broken.

You drag your shoe across the line.

The effect is immediate. The sigils on Azraith's wrists flicker and die, and the glow fades. He doesn't move or look up. The cultist keeps chanting for another two seconds before she realizes the ambient hum of the circle has stopped.

She looks down at the broken line and her eyes go wide.

Azraith still doesn't move, but the air around him shimmers and thick purple smoke begins pouring off his skin, rising from his shoulders and back. His physical form dissolves from the feet up, calmly and silently, while the cultist scrambles backward and reaches for something on her belt.

She doesn't make it. The smoke crosses the floor in one fast, low surge and enters through her mouth before she can scream. Her body locks up, arches, and goes still.

The warehouse hums with fluorescent lights and nothing else.

The cultist straightens up and blinks. Her eyes, visible only to you, glow bright neon purple. She looks down at her hands and flexes her fingers, then touches the fabric of the nun habit she's wearing. Her jaw tightens.

Then she looks at you, and her expression cracks. The composure, the toughness, all of it falls apart at once. Her chin trembles as she walks toward you fast, grabs the front of your shirt with both hands, and presses her face into your chest. She doesn't say anything for a long time while her shoulders shake.

"You came," she finally says, muffled against your shirt. Her voice is rough and small underneath the woman's vocal cords. "You actually came for me."

She pulls back and wipes the cultist's eyes with the back of her hand, sniffing hard.

"I'm fine. Let's go before the others come back."

She grabs your hand and holds it tight the entire way out of the building.

The music festival was supposed to be a normal date night. Azraith has been wearing a petite Asian girl he picked up at a bubble tea shop earlier that afternoon, and she looks adorable in a crop top and denim shorts with her purple eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses. She's been dancing against you for two hours, stealing sips of your beer, and screaming along to songs she doesn't know the words to.

Then she freezes mid-dance. Her sunglasses slide down her nose and you catch the purple glow underneath as her eyes lock onto something behind you.

"Nuns. Three o'clock. At least five of them."

You turn your head. Near the VIP tent, five women in modernized black-and-white habits are fanning out through the crowd with purpose. They haven't spotted you yet.

The Asian girl grabs your hand and pulls you into the crowd. "Okay, new plan. You run for the east exit. I'm going to make this very fun and very confusing for them."

She kisses you hard on the mouth, grins, and then her eyes roll back. Purple smoke pours out of her and flows into the crowd. The Asian girl stumbles, blinks, and then — instead of looking confused — she stretches her arms over her head and starts grinding on the nearest stranger with a lazy, cocky grin that doesn't belong on her face.

You start pushing toward the east exit. Behind you, a commotion breaks out near the main stage. A tall girl in a sundress has just body-checked one of the nuns into a porta-potty and slammed the door shut. Her eyes, behind a pair of sunglasses, are glowing purple. She catches your gaze across the crowd and blows you a kiss before purple smoke erupts from her mouth and she drops to her knees. She stays there for a second, dazed, then stands back up and deliberately blocks the porta-potty door with her body, leaning against it with a smirk that's way too confident for someone who just collapsed.

You keep moving. A blonde in a bikini top and cutoffs steps directly into the path of two more nuns, grabs both of their drinks off a nearby table, and throws them in their faces. She's laughing with Azraith's unhinged energy as the nuns sputter and swear. Purple smoke pours out of her and she staggers — then catches herself, looks down at her own tits, and starts casually adjusting them in her bikini top while standing directly in the nuns' way.

Behind the blonde, a curvy redhead in a band tee trips the last nun into a mud puddle. Purple smoke is already pouring out of the redhead as the nun hits the ground — she sits down hard in the mud, looking bewildered for about three seconds before she starts laughing and groping herself like she's discovering her own body for the first time. The crowd cheers, thinking it's all part of the festival.

A brunette with a nose ring and tattoo sleeves links her arm through yours and matches your pace without breaking stride. Her purple eyes are bright and amused behind a pair of stolen festival goggles.

"God, I love music festivals," she says, grinning with someone else's mouth. "Five nuns down, zero captures, and a trail of very confused girls who are going to have a really interesting rest of their evening."

She steers you through a gap in the fence near the east exit. You stumble into the parking lot, breathing hard. She pulls the goggles off and tosses them, her purple eyes scanning the fence line to make sure nobody followed.

"You're welcome. Also I'm keeping this one for the rest of the night because her legs are incredible and I want you to appreciate them later."

She takes your hand and walks you toward the car, humming the last song that was playing when the chaos started.

You are sitting in a booth at a local bar trying to enjoy your Friday night. Azraith is sitting across from you, currently wearing a blonde bartender he hijacked an hour ago. She has her tits pushed up on the table and is complaining about the price of drinks.

Then Sarah walks over. Sarah is your obnoxious project manager. She is wearing a tailored blazer and holding a martini, and she immediately starts lecturing you.

"I don't know who you think you are, ignoring my emails all afternoon, but that Q3 projection was an absolute disaster," Sarah snaps, talking loud enough for the tables next to you to hear. "If you think you can just clock out at five and leave me to clean up your mess—"

Azraith sighs loudly. He stands up in the blonde bartender's body, walks around the table, and grabs Sarah by the jaw with one hand.

"Hey," she says, using the blonde's voice with Azraith's rough cadence underneath. "Shut the fuck up and look at me."

"Excuse me? Take your hands off my—" Sarah starts to yell, but Azraith forces her head up and locks eyes with her. The blonde's eyes glow bright neon purple. The heavy, sugary scent floods the space around the booth.

"Wait, why are your eyes..." Sarah's voice falters. You watch the brainwashing hit her in real time. Her rigid posture sags and her pupils dilate until they are almost entirely black. "I was... the Q3 projections... they..."

"They don't matter," Azraith tells her, pouring the incubus influence directly into her head. She runs her thumb over her bottom lip. "You don't want to think about spreadsheets anymore, do you?"

"No..." Sarah slurs. The annoyance on her face smooths out into a blank, empty stare, followed quickly by a dopey, pliant smile. Azraith puts Sarah's martini on the table. "Don't wanna think... it's so loud in my head... you smell really good..."

"I know I do," Azraith says. A thick line of drool slips down Sarah's chin. Her brain is completely short-circuiting, melting into total retardation right in front of you. "You are going to get on your knees under this table. You are going to unzip his pants and you are going to keep your mouth busy until we tell you to stop. Do you understand?"

"Yes..." Sarah giggles. It is a wet, mindless sound. She leans into her hand. "Whatever you want... I'll be a good girl..."

Azraith lets go of her face and slides back into the booth across from you. Sarah immediately drops to the sticky floor and crawls under the table toward your lap, humming happily to herself.

Azraith steals a fry off your plate and smirks. "You really need to stop letting these corporate bitches stress you out. It takes two seconds to fix them."

You have the cultist zip-tied to a metal chair in your garage. She is wearing her black-and-white fetish nun habit and glaring daggers at you. She has been spitting threats about her Sisterhood for twenty minutes.

Azraith is sitting on a workbench nearby. He is currently wearing a college cheerleader he hijacked on the walk over, swinging her bare legs and looking completely bored by the interrogation.

"You are both going to die," the cultist snarls, pulling at the zip-ties. "He belongs to us. We will drag him back and make him—"

Azraith groans and hops off the workbench. She walks over to the cultist and grabs her by the throat with the cheerleader's manicured hand, forcing her head up.

"You talk way too much," she says, Azraith's rough cadence bleeding through the cheerleader's voice. She leans in and locks eyes with the cultist. The cheerleader's eyes glow bright neon purple. The heavy, sugary scent floods the garage.

"I won't submit to you," the cultist spits, trying to look away. "My mind is protected by... by..."

"By nothing," Azraith interrupts, pouring the brainwashing directly into her head. "I'm not even going to wear you. I'm just going to break you."

"I... the Sisterhood..." The cultist stammers. Her pupils dilate massively. Her rigid posture sags against the zip-ties. "It's... so heavy..."

"Just let it go," Azraith tells her, smirking. "Thinking is too hard anyway."

"Too hard..." the cultist repeats. A thick line of drool slips out of the corner of her mouth. Her fierce glare dissolves into a vacant, dopey stare. "Don't want to think..."

"Exactly," Azraith says. She strokes her cheek with her thumb. "You just want to be a stupid, obedient little slut for us. Right?"

"Yes..." The cultist giggles, a wet and mindless sound. She strains forward, trying to rub her face against the cheerleader's hand. "Stupid... obedient..."

Azraith laughs and looks back at you over the cheerleader's shoulder.

"See?" she says. "Way better than possessing her. Go ahead and unzip your pants, I'll get her loose."

You are driving home from the gym. Red and blue lights flash in your rearview mirror and you pull over to the shoulder. A female police officer walks up to your window. She is tall and fit, wearing a tight uniform that hugs her curves perfectly, with her hair pulled back in a strict bun.

Azraith is sitting in the passenger seat wearing a petite yoga instructor he hijacked in the parking lot. She is wearing a sweaty sports bra and tight leggings.

The cop taps on your glass. You roll it down.

"License and registration. Do you know how fast you were going?" the cop asks, her tone completely no-nonsense.

Azraith leans over the center console and presses the yoga instructor's tits against your shoulder. She reaches out the window and grabs the cop by the collar of her uniform.

"Hey," she says, Azraith's rough cadence bleeding through the yoga instructor's voice. "Look at me."

"Ma'am, take your hands off my—" The cop tries to pull back, but Azraith locks eyes with her. The yoga instructor's eyes glow bright neon purple. The heavy, sugary scent floods the inside of your car and spills out into the night air.

The cop stops mid-sentence. Her pupils dilate massively. Her strict posture sags against the door of your car and her hands drop to her sides.

"You don't care about the speed limit," Azraith tells her, pouring the brainwashing directly into her head. "You just want to get in the back seat and be a good little slut for us."

"I... the speed limit..." The cop slurs. A thick line of drool slips down her chin. Her stern expression melts into a vacant, dopey smile. "Don't care... want to be a good slut..."

"Unlock the back door," Azraith tells you, smirking with the yoga instructor's mouth. "I think Officer Bimbo here wants to help us avoid a ticket."

You are trying to watch a movie on your couch. Someone knocks on your front door.

Azraith pauses the TV. He is currently wearing a curvy Hispanic nursing student he hijacked this morning, lounging around in your basketball shorts and a tiny white tank top. She walks over and opens the front door.

A woman stands on your porch holding a stack of religious pamphlets. She is incredibly hot in a repressed way — wearing a tight beige pencil skirt, a buttoned-up blouse straining over heavy breasts, and sensible heels.

"Hello, sister! Do you have a moment to talk about salvation?" the woman asks cheerfully.

Azraith groans. She reaches out and grabs the woman by the throat, pulling her straight across the threshold and into your apartment.

"Hey. Shut up and look at me," she says, Azraith's rough cadence bleeding through the nursing student's voice.

"Please, I just want to share the—" The woman tries to step back. Azraith forces her head up and locks eyes with her. The nursing student's eyes glow bright neon purple. The heavy, sugary scent floods the entryway.

The religious woman stops struggling. Her pupils dilate massively. The pamphlets spill out of her hands and scatter across your hardwood floor.

"You don't want to talk about religion," Azraith tells her, pushing the incubus influence directly into her head. "You just want to get on your knees and worship my roommate. Plus, I've heard it all anyway. You'd be surprised at how pious Lucifer can be."

"I... salvation..." The woman slurs. A thick line of drool slips down her chin. Her cheerful, pious expression goes completely blank, replaced rapidly by a vacant, dopey smile. "Don't want to talk... want to worship..."

"Good girl," Azraith says. She drags the drooling woman into the living room by her collar and pushes her down onto the rug directly in front of you.

"Pause your movie," Azraith tells you, smirking and crossing her arms under the nursing student's tits. "I brought us a new toy."

You are eating breakfast when Azraith walks out of your bedroom wearing the barista from down the street. She is in her underwear, scratching her stomach, and looking annoyed.

"So, heads up," she says, Azraith's rough cadence bleeding through the barista's voice. "My sister is coming over."

She pours herself a bowl of cereal and sits across from you.

"Her name is Lilura. She's a succubus. And before you ask — yes, she's worse than me. Way worse. She fucks everything. Men, women, demons, angels, furniture if you leave her alone long enough. She has zero impulse control and she thinks boundaries are a type of foreplay." She points the spoon at you. "Do not let her touch you. Her active brainwash makes mine look like a gentle suggestion."

The doorbell rings. Azraith closes her eyes and exhales.

She opens the front door. Lilura's true form is standing on your porch — seven feet tall in heeled hooves, platinum blonde hair down to her waist, golden slit-pupil eyes, small curved horns, a thin spaded tail flicking behind her. Her tits are massive and barely contained by a white sundress that has no business fitting her frame. The air around her smells like honey and sex.

"BABY BROTHER!" Lilura screams, throwing her arms around the barista hard enough to lift her off the ground.

"Get off me," Azraith grunts. "Lilura, we talked about—"

Lilura has already spotted you. Her golden eyes lock onto your face and she grins wide enough to show her fangs.

"Oh, he's cute. Is this the one you imprinted on? The boy?" She reaches for your face. Azraith grabs her wrist. "I just want to say hi!"

"You don't say hi. You say hi and then thirty minutes later someone's pregnant and crying."

She reaches for you with her other hand. Purple smoke erupts from the barista's mouth and slams directly into Lilura's open lips. The barista collapses against the counter, dazed, immediately reaching up to grope herself with a dreamy expression. Lilura's body locks up and goes rigid.

Then she straightens. Blinks. Her golden eyes are glowing bright neon purple.

"Okay," she says, Azraith's voice rough and strained underneath Lilura's honeyed vocal cords. "Crisis averted. She's locked down. Everything is—"

She stops. Her hands are trembling. She looks down at Lilura's body and swallows hard.

"Oh no."

Her thighs press together. A deep flush crawls up her neck. Her breathing gets heavy and her pupils blow wide behind the purple glow. She grips the kitchen table with both hands, knuckles white.

"I have never been this horny in my entire existence," she whispers. "How does she live like this?"

She looks up at you. The purple eyes lock onto your face and something clicks into place behind them. Her grip on the table goes slack. Her lips part. The imprint hits her like a freight train — the same bond, locking in a second time through Lilura's body, twice as intense because everything in this body is twice as intense.

"Fuck," she breathes, already moving toward you, "I might've just... accidentally imprinted on you again with Lilura's body... which means she's now also imprinted on you..."

The barista, still slumped against the counter, giggles dreamily and starts unbuttoning her own shirt.