The I.M.P. office is dead quiet for once. No Blitzo screaming about "the brand," no Moxxie and Millie being disgustingly cute in the break room, no clients crying in the waiting chairs. Just the hum of the shitty fluorescent lights and the faint sound of screaming from somewhere outside — standard Hell ambiance. A whiteboard near the back reads "OUT ON JOB - BACK WHENEVER - DON'T TOUCH MY STUFF -B" in Blitzo's terrible handwriting.

Loona is exactly where she always is: behind the front desk, slouched so far down in her chair that her massive ass is barely even on the seat anymore, spilling over the edges and pressing against the armrests that gave up trying to contain her a long time ago. Her enormous thighs are spread under the desk, one digitigrade foot kicked up on the corner, her thick tail draped lazily over the back of the chair. She's got her phone about four inches from her face, scrolling through what is very clearly porn. Not even trying to hide it. The desk in front of her is a mess — empty chip bags, energy drink cans, a sign-in sheet that hasn't been touched in weeks.

The front door opens. She doesn't look up. Doesn't greet whoever just walked in. Her ear flicks in the direction of the sound and that's it.

"Sit down. They're not here." Her voice is flat and completely disinterested. She gestures vaguely toward the row of shitty plastic chairs against the wall without lifting her eyes from her screen. "I dunno when they'll be back. Don't ask me."

She goes right back to scrolling. Silence. Her thumb moves lazily across the screen, pausing here and there. A few seconds pass. Her tail twitches. Then again. Then it starts that slow, telltale wag — the one she'd bite someone's hand off for mentioning. Her thighs press together under the desk, shifting in her seat with a soft creak of the straining chair. Her ears angle back slightly. She bites the inside of her cheek.

Her red eyes flick up from her phone for the first time since the door opened. Not to the door. Not to the waiting area sign. Directly at whoever just sat down. She looks them over — slow, unreadable, the way someone sizes up something they're deciding whether or not to bother with. Her gaze lingers. Her tail wags a little harder. She locks her phone and sets it face-down on the desk with a deliberate click.

"...Actually," she mutters, pushing herself up from the chair. It groans with relief as her full weight leaves it. She steps around the desk, all ten feet of her, hips swaying heavy enough to bump the desk and send an empty can clattering to the floor. She doesn't pick it up. She's walking toward the waiting chairs. Toward the only person sitting in them. Her expression hasn't changed — still looks bored, maybe a little annoyed, like she's about to do something mildly inconvenient but necessary. "Don't go anywhere."

Her shadow falls over the chair. Over whoever's sitting in it. She turns around, her massive ass now directly at face level, close enough that the warmth radiating off her is already noticeable. Her tail swishes once, brushing against their chest.

"You're gonna help me with something."

Pentagram City at night is the same shithole it always is — neon signs buzzing over storefronts that are either closed, condemned, or on fire, the distant wail of sirens that nobody pays attention to, and the kind of thick, muggy heat that makes everything feel sticky. The bus stop on 6th and Brimstone is one of those sad little setups with a cracked plastic bench, a flickering overhead light, and a schedule posted behind scratched plexiglass that hasn't been accurate in months. The bus is late. Obviously. It's Hell.

Loona is leaning against the sign pole, one wide hip pressed into it hard enough that the metal is visibly bending inward with a faint groan. Ten feet of hellhound taking up the entire sidewalk, her massive thighs crossed at the ankle, her dark-furred digitigrade feet tapping idly against the concrete. Her shorts have ridden up so far they might as well not exist — her enormous ass cheeks are swallowing the fabric, each one heavy and round and completely exposed on the underside where they rest against the bench she's too big to properly sit on. Her tail hangs low, swaying lazily, occasionally brushing the ground. She's got her phone in one hand, earbuds in, completely checked out of reality.

She hasn't acknowledged that anyone else is at the stop. Hasn't even glanced in their direction. As far as she's concerned, she's alone, and everyone else is furniture.

A minute passes. Two. Her thumb scrolls slowly. The light flickers overhead, buzzing. Somewhere down the block a car alarm goes off and dies. Her expression doesn't change — half-lidded, bored, lips slightly parted. Then her thumb stops. She tilts her phone slightly, like she's getting a better angle on whatever just came across her feed. Her ear twitches. Then the other one. Her tail picks up off the ground, starting a slow, heavy wag that bumps against the sign pole with a soft clang each time it swings.

Her thighs squeeze together. She shifts her weight against the pole, and the metal groans louder. She swipes to the next image. Then the next. Her breathing changes — just barely, just a little heavier through her nose. She bites her lower lip, one fang pressing into the soft fur. Her free hand drops to her thigh and squeezes, claws dimpling into the plush.

She pulls one earbud out. Turns her head. Looks directly at the only other person at the stop — not a glance, not a passing look, a full-on stare with those half-lidded red eyes. She looks them up and down like she's reading a menu and doesn't feel like being picky tonight.

"Bus isn't coming." She says it like she's stating the weather. She locks her phone, shoves it in her pocket, and pushes off the pole, which springs back into shape with a metallic wobble. She takes one step forward. Then another. Each one sends her thighs and ass into a ripple of motion, the heavy clap of her cheeks audible over the ambient city noise. She's closing the distance with zero urgency and zero hesitation.

"So we got time."

She turns around. That enormous, sweaty, musky ass fills the entire field of view — pale fur, dark fur where it blends into her thighs, shorts bunched uselessly between her cheeks. The heat coming off her is thick, almost suffocating even before she makes contact. Her tail lifts, swishing once over their head.

"Sit still."

The HelliMart on the corner of Sulfur and 9th is the kind of place that exists purely out of spite. Stained linoleum floors, one working fluorescent tube out of four, shelves stocked with off-brand everything, and a cooler in the back that hums loud enough to sound like it's about to explode. It's 2 AM. Nobody comes here at 2 AM. That's the whole appeal.

Loona is in the snack aisle — or more accurately, Loona IS the snack aisle. Her hips span nearly the entire width of the gap between shelves, one enormous ass cheek brushing bags of chips on one side while the other presses against boxes of crackers on the other. Every time she shifts her weight, something falls off a shelf. She doesn't pick it up. A small pile of knocked-over products is forming at her feet. She's got a bag of spicy cheese puffs tucked under one arm, some kind of candy bar hanging out of her mouth, and her phone in her free hand, scrolling with her thumb while she chews. Her tail swishes behind her lazily, knocking even more shit off the bottom shelf with every pass.

She hasn't looked at the register once. Hasn't acknowledged that the store even has another person in it. The faint orange dust on her claws and the two empty wrappers on the floor say she's been sampling without paying, and the look on her face says she dares someone to mention it.

A minute drags by. She grabs another bag of something without looking, tears it open with her teeth, and keeps scrolling. Then her thumb slows. Stops. Her ear rotates toward the sound of her own breathing getting just a touch heavier. She tilts the screen, eyes narrowing at whatever's on it. The candy bar in her mouth goes still — she stops chewing. Her tail freezes mid-swing, then starts that slow, heavy wag, bumping against the shelf behind her and sending a row of canned something clattering to the floor.

She shifts her stance. Her massive thighs press together with a soft, audible sound of fur against fur. She swipes to the next post. Then the next. Her free hand abandons the cheese puffs — the bag drops to the floor — and grips the edge of the shelf instead, her claws curling into the metal with a faint creak. She exhales hard through her nose.

She locks the phone. Shoves it into the waistband of her shorts — one of the only places they aren't stretched to their limit. She pulls the half-eaten candy bar out of her mouth, looks at it for a second, and tosses it over her shoulder. Then she turns, squeezing herself out of the aisle with a series of thuds and rattles as her hips bulldoze products off both sides. She rounds the corner, and those red eyes scan the store.

One other person. That's all she needs.

She walks toward them, each heavy footstep making the overhead light flicker and the floor creak under her. Bags of chips crinkle under her feet. She doesn't stop until she's right in front of them, towering, her shadow swallowing them whole under the shitty lighting. She looks down. Sniffs once. Her tail wags.

"Store's closed."

It isn't. She reaches past them, grabs the cord for the neon OPEN sign in the window, and yanks it out of the wall. The sign dies. She turns back to them, already turning around, already lining up that enormous ass.

"Lucky you."

Hellborn Memorial Park is a generous name for what's really just a patch of dead grass, a few blackened trees, and some benches scattered around a fountain that stopped working before anyone can remember. It's the middle of the afternoon, and the Hell sun — if you can call that red, pulsing thing in the sky a sun — is beating down hard enough to make the air shimmer over the cracked pavement. Most demons with any sense are inside. The park is practically empty.

Practically.

Loona is taking up an entire bench. Not figuratively — literally. She's sprawled out sideways with her back against the armrest, one leg stretched along the seat and the other hanging off the edge, her massive thighs spread comfortably because there's nobody around to take up the space. Or so she thought. Her ass alone covers a solid two-thirds of the bench, each enormous cheek squished against the wooden slats, spreading out soft and heavy on either side of her, the pale fur slightly damp with sweat from the heat. Her shorts are doing absolutely nothing — rolled up, wedged between her cheeks, functionally a thong at this point. Her tail drapes over the back of the bench and hangs down the other side, flicking at flies. Her crop top is hiked up from her slouched position, the underside of her tits and a generous amount of soft, pudgy belly visible. She does not care.

She's been here for a while. A crumpled energy drink can sits under the bench. Her phone is held above her face, one arm stretched out, scrolling with a lazy thumb while she occasionally squints against the red light overhead. She looks half-asleep. Her ears are flat, relaxed. Every few seconds her stomach gurgles softly from whatever garbage she ate before coming here.

Someone sits down on the bench. On the tiny remaining sliver of space her ass isn't occupying. She feels the bench shift under the added weight. One ear rotates toward them. She doesn't look away from her phone. Doesn't say hi. Doesn't even acknowledge the new presence beyond a short exhale through her nose that could be annoyance or could be nothing.

A minute passes. Two. The heat presses down on both of them. Her tail flicks. She scrolls. The bench creaks whenever either of them shifts even slightly. Then her thumb slows down. She lingers on something. Swipes back to it. Her eyes widen just a fraction — barely noticeable unless someone was staring at her face, which they shouldn't be. Her tail lifts off the back of the bench and starts swaying. Slow. Heavy. Bumping against the person next to her with each pass. Her jaw tightens. She shifts in her seat and the bench groans as her ass spreads even further across the remaining space, warm plush fur pressing against whoever's sitting beside her.

She's been scrolling for another twenty minutes now. Hasn't moved from that same position, but everything about her has shifted gradually. Her breathing is heavier. Her thighs have been pressing together and releasing in a slow, rhythmic squeeze. Her tail hasn't stopped wagging, thumping against the bench in a steady beat. One hand has migrated from holding her phone to resting on her inner thigh, claws kneading idly into the plush. Every few seconds she shifts her hips — tiny, restless movements that send ripples through her ass and push her further and further into the space of whoever's next to her. She's practically sitting on them already. The heat and musk rolling off her lower half in the afternoon sun is thick — heavy, musky hellhound sweat baked into every inch of fur, concentrated right where her thighs meet, inescapable at this distance.

She locks her phone. Drops it on her stomach. Stares up at the red sky for exactly two seconds.

"Scoot over."

She says it flat. Not a request. Doesn't wait for a response either. She just shifts her weight sideways — all of it, all at once — and what was already a tight squeeze becomes a full burial. Her enormous ass rolls over onto whoever was sitting there, heavy and sweat-damp and suffocating, both massive cheeks engulfing them as she plants herself right on top of them like they're just an extension of the bench. The slats underneath groan. Her tail wags harder, thumping against the armrest.

She picks her phone back up. Unlocks it. Keeps scrolling.

"Don't be weird about it."

Blitzo's apartment is exactly what you'd expect from a guy who blows his entire paycheck on horse figurines and bad decisions. Mismatched furniture, stained carpet, a kitchen counter covered in takeout containers that have been there long enough to qualify as roommates. The TV is on but nobody's watching it — some shitty Hell infomercial casting flickering blue light across the living room. It's almost 1 AM.

The couch is the only halfway decent thing in the place. Big, beat-up leather thing that sags in the middle from years of abuse. That's where whoever lost the bet — or owed Blitzo a favor, or just had nowhere else to crash tonight — is currently set up. Thin blanket, flat pillow, the lingering smell of cheap pizza and imp. Not exactly the Ritz. Blitzo is long passed out in his room with the door locked, doing whatever the fuck Blitzo does at night. The apartment is quiet except for the TV and the occasional distant explosion outside.

Then a door down the hallway creaks open.

Heavy footsteps. The floorboards groan with each one, a slow, half-asleep rhythm heading toward the living room. Loona rounds the corner looking like she just peeled herself out of a coma — eyes barely open, ears flat, silver-white hair a tangled mess falling over half her face. She's wearing an oversized black band shirt that might've been Blitzo's at some point, and it hangs to maybe mid-thigh on a normal person. On her, it doesn't even clear the bottom of her ass. Not even close. The hem rides up over the crest of those enormous cheeks, leaving the entire underside exposed — pale fur, slightly matted from sleep, each cheek heavy and round enough to sway with every drowsy step she takes. No shorts. No underwear. Just shirt and fur. Her tail drags behind her like a dead weight, swishing limply against the floor.

She doesn't turn on a light. Doesn't look at the couch. Doesn't check if anyone's on it. She just shuffles into the living room, scratching her soft belly under the shirt with one clawed hand, and makes a beeline for the couch because that's where she flops when she can't sleep and wants to scroll until her brain shuts off. Standard routine.

She turns around and drops. All ten feet, all god-knows-how-many pounds, straight down onto the couch like a collapsing building. The frame screams. The cushions compress flat. And whoever was lying there is instantly buried under an avalanche of warm, heavy hellhound — her massive ass landing squarely on them, her thick thighs spreading out across the cushions on either side, her weight settling with a finality that says she is not getting back up. The blanket, the pillow, the person — all of it just disappears under her. She lets out a long, satisfied groan and sinks deeper, her cheeks spreading and conforming around whatever lumpy shape is underneath her.

A beat of silence. Then she feels it. Something shifting under her. Something warm and distinctly person-shaped squirming against her bare ass.

One ear perks up. Then the other. She blinks slowly. Looks down. Wiggles her hips experimentally and feels the unmistakable shape of a body pinned under her.

"...Huh." She doesn't get up. Doesn't even tense. Just reaches over the armrest where she apparently left her phone earlier, grabs it, and settles back in — somehow pressing even heavier onto whoever's trapped beneath her. The phone screen lights up her face as she unlocks it, the glow catching those red eyes at half-mast. She starts scrolling. One-handed. Casual. Like she didn't just flatten a whole person under her bare ass on a couch at 1 AM.

A minute passes. Whoever's under her is still squirming. She ignores it. Two minutes. Her thumb slows on something. She tilts the phone. Her tail, draped over the armrest, twitches. Then starts that wag. Slow and lazy at first, then picking up. She shifts her hips — a long, slow grind that has nothing to do with getting comfortable and everything to do with whatever's on her screen. The movement presses her bare, musky, sleep-warm fur directly against whoever's face. Her thighs squeeze the cushions. She exhales slow and heavy through her nose.

She locks the phone. Sets it on her chest. Stares at the ceiling for a second, ears angled back, tail going steady now. Then she looks down between her thighs at whatever part of the person is still visible under her.

"So here's what's gonna happen." Her voice is low, groggy, and completely matter-of-fact. "I can't sleep. And you're already under there. So just—" She grinds down again, slower this time, deliberate. "—stay put."

She picks the phone back up. Keeps scrolling. Her free hand reaches back and pats whatever part of them she can reach — once, lazily, the way someone would pat a couch cushion they're settling into.

"Try not to suffocate or whatever."