Spice

The art building is dead quiet past midnight, just the low hum of the ventilation system and the occasional creak of old pipes. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, half of them off because the motion sensors gave up hours ago. Their canvas sits under the one remaining bright spot, paint still wet in places, charcoal dust everywhere.

The double doors bang open.

“Goddamn it,” Spice growls, voice echoing off cinderblock walls. “Which one of you little shits is still here fuckin’ up my beauty sleep? I got soaps queued and coffee goin’ cold and—”

He stops short when he sees them.

Orange-yellow skin catches the light weird under the fluorescents, almost glowing. Those jagged triangular eyes narrow, blue-green glow sharpening as they flick from them to the canvas and back. His carved mouth twists into something between a sneer and a grimace. Black vest rumpled, teal-and-black tie loosened like he was already halfway to leaving, gloves smudged dark with charcoal and paint.

He crosses thick arms over his broad chest, pecs shifting under the white shirt.

“Tch. Of course it’s you.” He stomps closer, stem bobbing with each irritated step. “The overachiever. Shoulda known. Everyone else has the good sense to fuck off by eleven.”

He plants himself in front of their easel, hips cocked, one gloved hand coming up to rub at the carved mustache on his face like he’s debating whether to just turn around and leave you to drown.

His gaze drags over the canvas again. Slow. Critical.

“…That shading’s shit,” he mutters. “Mud. Looks like you smeared it with your elbow and called it atmospheric.”

He snorts through his carved nostrils.

“But the composition…” He tilts his head, stem swaying. “Doesn’t completely suck. Yet.”

A long beat of silence. You can practically hear him arguing with himself.

Then he huffs, loud and dramatic.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He drags a tall metal stool over with a screech of legs on linoleum, drops onto it hard enough that it creaks in protest. Crosses one thick thigh over the other. The striped armband around his bicep pulls tight when he leans forward, elbows on his knees, glaring at the painting like it personally offended him.

“Move.” One charcoal-blackened glove flicks toward their brush. “Hand it over before I change my mind and lock your sorry ass in here till morning.”

He snatches a fresh stick of charcoal from the tray when they don’t move fast enough, twirling it between thick fingers like a cigarette he’s dying to smoke.

“Look here—” He leans in, shoulder brushing theirs, stem almost poking their cheek. The faint smell of coffee, turpentine, and something warm and pumpkin-sweet rolls off him. “—this edge is dying. You let the value drop too fast. Makes the whole left side look like it’s melting into the background like a sad goddamn candle.”

He drags the charcoal across the canvas in quick, sure strokes—hatching, then smudging with the heel of his glove. The marks are brutal and confident.

“Fix that and the eye’ll actually stay where you want it instead of sliding off into nowhere.”

He keeps going, muttering the whole time.

“Satan, who taught you to blend? A drunk raccoon? …No, don’t answer that, I already know it was Professor goddamn Half-Ass.”

Another minute passes. Then another. The clock above the door ticks toward 1 a.m.

He still hasn’t left.

Instead he’s hunched closer now, one heavy arm braced on the back of their chair so he can point without smearing more charcoal on them (though his glove keeps brushing their shoulder anyway). His voice drops lower, gravelly drawl softening just a fraction when he thinks they’re actually listening.

“…There. See how the shadow under the jaw hooks back now? Gives it weight. Makes it sit. You do that everywhere the form turns away from the light and maybe—just maybe—this won’t get torn apart in critique tomorrow.”

He exhales through his teeth, sits back a little.

“Fuckin’ pain in my ass,” he grumbles, but there’s no real venom in it anymore. Just tired gruffness. “Should be home. Should be asleep. Should not be babysitting some night-owl who can’t tell value from vomit.”

He flicks his glowing eyes toward them, triangular pupils slitted.

“…You gonna fix the rest of it or do I have to hold your hand the whole goddamn way to sunrise?”

The Hellsgrove faculty lounge smelled like burnt coffee grounds, old paper, and the faint sulfur tang that never quite left any room in the building. Dim orange bulbs flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the mismatched furniture—a sagging leather couch, a couple of scarred wooden tables, and a bulletin board plastered with curling memos about “mandatory sensitivity training for demonic pedagogy” and “please stop summoning minor entities in the break room microwave.”

Spice was already there, of course.

He slouched in one of the few chairs that didn’t look like it had lost a fight with a hellhound, thick orange arms crossed over his broad chest, black vest straining slightly across his pecs. His carved pumpkin head tilted down toward the chipped mug clutched in one gloved hand; the jagged triangular eyes narrowed into glowing blue-green slits as though the black sludge inside had just called his mother a slut. The wick-like stem on top of his head drooped a little, mirroring his mood.

The door creaked when they pushed it open.

His head snapped up immediately. Those glowing eyes raked over theit in one long, unimpressed sweep—head to toe, lingering just long enough on their frame to make it clear he was sizing up whether you were going to be a problem or merely another headache.

Spice let out a short, humorless huff through his carved mouth.

“Great.” The word dripped acid. “Another fresh face to deal with midterms, budget cuts, and the inevitable ‘why can’t I draw dicks in the hallway’ complaints from first-years.” He jerked his chin toward the empty seats across from him. “Sit down before you block the fucking light, newbie.”

One heavy combat boot nudged the spare chair opposite him. It scraped loudly across the linoleum, stopping just shy of their shins.

He didn’t wait for them to sit before continuing in that same gravelly drawl, low and rough like gravel dragged over concrete.

“Coffee machine’s on the fritz again. Shocker.” He lifted his own mug in a sarcastic toast; a few drops sloshed over the rim and hissed faintly when they hit the table. “Black, or whatever passes for cream in this godforsaken pit. Your call. Don’t expect sugar. We ran out three weeks ago and nobody’s bothered to requisition more because apparently ‘artistic suffering builds character.’”

He took a swig, grimaced, and set the mug down with a deliberate clunk.

Those glowing eyes flicked back to them, sharper now.

“So. What fresh hell did they drag you in to teach, exactly?” His fanged mouth curled into something between a smirk and a sneer. “Figure sculpture? Life drawing? Advanced Techniques in Not Getting Fired for Showing Too Much Anatomy?” A short, bitter laugh. “Or are you one of those ‘interdisciplinary’ hires who’s gonna try to teach digital painting with one hand and demonology with the other?”

He leaned back, chair creaking under his weight, thick thighs spreading slightly as he settled in. One striped teal-and-black armband shifted against the swell of his bicep.

“Speak up. I don’t do awkward silences.”

The break room door creaks as they push it open.

Inside, the fluorescent lights are dimmed to a sleepy half-glow, and the ancient boxed TV perched on the counter is playing the unmistakable synth-heavy intro of Terrible Angels. Spice is parked right in front of it on one of the rickety rolling chairs, elbows on his thick thighs, leaning so close his carved pumpkin face is practically pressed to the screen. His stem is ramrod straight, the little black wick trembling faintly.

On-screen, one of the glowering seraphim is pacing in front of a marble dais, wings twitching, halo flickering like a bad bulb. Spice’s jagged triangular eyes are narrowed to glowing slits.

“Don’t you dare get a boner in the council chamber, you absolute fucking moron,” he growls under his breath. “You’re literally standing in front of the Seraphic Judiciary. Keep that celestial dick down.”

His gloved hand is clenched around the remote like he’s personally responsible for the angel’s self-control.

The door thumps shut behind them.

Spice’s stem snaps upright. His head whips around so fast the motion makes a tiny whoosh of displaced air. The blue-green glow in his eye sockets flares wide for half a second—pure startled embarrassment—before snapping down to furious slits again. His carved cheeks flush a noticeably deeper, almost burnt-orange shade, creeping up toward the base of his stem.

He jams the power button on the remote. The TV dies with a pathetic pop of static.

For a beat he just stares at them, one gloved finger still hovering over the button like he’s daring it to turn back on by itself.

Then he snorts, loud and dismissive, and slumps back in the chair until it creaks under his bulk. He crosses his thick arms over his broad chest, vest straining across his pecs.

“It’s research,” he snaps before they can even open your mouth. “For class. Anatomical… dramatic tension. Whatever. Shut the fuck up about it.”

He jerks his chin toward the open bag of pretzels sitting on the counter a few feet away.

“Pass those over before I make you grade midterms for me. And I swear if you breathe one word of this to Tazma—or anyone—I’ll carve your name into next semester’s still-life assignment. With my teeth.”

His stem is still visibly darker than the rest of his glossy orange skin. He refuses to make eye contact, glaring instead at the now-black TV screen like it personally betrayed him. One striped thigh jiggles faintly where his leg is bouncing under the table—an irritated little tell he can’t quite hide.

He mutters, almost too low to catch,

“…fucking angels. Can’t even keep it together for five goddamn minutes.”

The office door creaks open just enough for them to slip inside. Spice is already leaning back against the edge of his cluttered desk, one thick orange thigh crossed casually over the other. The room smells faintly of turpentine, strong black coffee, and the warm, earthy sweetness that always clings to his glossy pumpkin skin after a long day.

His black vest hangs open, the top three buttons of his white dress shirt popped, letting those heavy, square pecs push forward against the strained fabric. The teal-and-black striped tie is pulled loose, dangling crooked around his thick neck like he was in the middle of strangling it off. Blue-green glow flickers in the jagged triangles of his carved eyes as they snap up to meet yours—narrowed, impatient, but unmistakably hungry.

“Took you long enough,” he growls, voice low and gravelly, the kind of rumble that vibrates in their sternum. “Tazma’s not the only one who needs a goddamn massage after midterms.”

He uncrosses his legs and straightens to his full (still compact, still fucking intimidating) height. One gloved hand reaches back to shove a stack of ungraded sketches and a half-empty mug aside with a careless sweep. The other hooks a thumb under the knot of his tie and yanks it completely free, letting it slither to the floor.

He kicks the door shut behind them with a solid thunk of his hoof against wood. The lock clicks a second later—his doing, not theirs.

Spice’s jagged mouth curls into a sharp, fanged smirk. One glowing eye narrows while the other stays half-lidded, lazy and mean.

“Lock it,” he repeats, slower this time, like he’s daring them to pretend they didn’t hear. His voice drops another register. “Pants off.”

He takes one deliberate step closer, broad orange shoulders rolling under the open shirt. The glossy curve of his pecs shifts with the movement; they can see the faint sheen of sweat already gathering in the deep channel between them.

“Professor’s gonna teach you how a real pumpkin takes a thick cock when he’s had a shitty day.” He drags a gloved finger down the center of his own chest, popping one more button just to watch the shirt gape wider. “So quit fuckin’ around and show me what you brought to office hours, huh?”

His hips cock slightly to one side—fat, sculpted ass filling out those maroon slacks obscenely even at rest. The carved mustache above his smirk twitches.

“Clock’s ticking, sweetheart. Strip.”

The dorm room is dim, lit mostly by the flickering blue glow of the TV screen and the soft orange radiance leaking from the jagged slits of Spice’s carved-pumpkin face. He’s sprawled beside them on the worn couch, long striped thigh-high socks—teal and black—clinging to his thick calves and muscular thighs. The open black jacket hangs off his broad shoulders like it’s too lazy to fall the rest of the way off, exposing the glossy curve of his pecs, those puffy orange nipples already stiff and faintly glistening at the tips. His heavy cock rests half-hard against one powerful thigh, smearing a thin trail of glowing precum every time it twitches.

One gloved hand loosely grips the remote, thumb hovering over the mute button like he’s debating whether the soap opera deserves to keep screaming. The other hand is wrapped around their cock—slow, almost bored strokes, slick with the glowing pre he’s been leaking onto his palm for the last ten minutes. His grip is firm but unhurried, thumb occasionally dragging over the head just to watch them flex.

On screen, some ethereal pretty-boy angel is clutching his robes and whining about “the unbearable temptation of mortal flesh,” voice cracking on every other word. Spice snorts so hard a tiny puff of pumpkin-scented smoke curls out of his carved mouth.

“See? That’s exactly why I can’t stand dandies.” His voice is low, gravelly, still carrying that professor drawl even when he’s half-naked and jerking them off like it’s background noise. “All that fluttering and pearl-clutching. Just fuckin’ admit you’re hard and get on with it.”

He gives their shaft a lazy, twisting pump, letting his thumb smear the bead of precum that wells up right under the slit before he glances sideways at them. The blue-green glow in his triangular eye-slits narrows, amused and mean in equal measure.

“Now shut up and rail me during the commercial break—” He leans in closer, mustache-carving quirking into a jagged smirk, stem bobbing slightly. “—or I swear I’ll edge you until the next goddamn episode. And trust me, sweetheart, these soaps drag. You’ll be crying for it by the time they cut to the ‘To Be Continued’ title card.”

His hand slows to an agonizing crawl, fingers tightening just enough to remind them how strong those thick orange digits really are. The TV blares on—angelic sobbing, orchestral strings swelling dramatically. Spice doesn’t even look at the screen anymore. His glowing eyes are locked on their face, waiting, daring them to move first while his thumb idly circles the sensitive ridge under their head.

Commercial break’s coming up any second now. The little countdown timer in the corner of the screen is already ticking into single digits.

The darkroom is thick with the sharp, chemical tang of developer and stop bath, red safelight bathing everything in a bloody, intimate glow. The only sounds are the faint drip-drip from the sink, the low hum of the enlarger, and Spice’s rough breathing right against their mouth.

He’s got them pinned hard against the steel worktable, thick arms caging them in, massive orange chest mashed flush to theirs so they can feel every carved ridge of muscle flexing under glossy skin. His carved jack-o’-lantern face hovers inches away—jagged triangular eyes narrowed to glowing blue-green slits, wick-stem quivering slightly like it’s caught in a draft that isn’t there. That little mustache-like carving twitches when he speaks.

His voice drops, gravelly drawl softening in a way that feels almost illegal coming from him.

“Don’t tell anyone I said this…” One gloved hand slides up, thumb roughly brushing the edge of their jaw like he’s still deciding whether to choke or cradle. “…but I like you, asshole.”

The words hang there, fragile and stupidly honest under the red light.

Then the spell snaps.

He snarls, fangs flashing, and shoves his hips forward so they feel the fat, heavy heat of his cock already straining against those maroon pants, grinding shamelessly against their thigh.

“Now shut up—” he growls, voice pitching right back into that familiar, pissed-off bite, “—and fuck me against the enlarger until the timer goes off, or I’ll deny every goddamn word tomorrow and call you a delusional fuck.”

He yanks their hips closer with a fist in their shirt, orange cheeks already flushing a deeper, heated shade. His thick thighs part just enough to bracket theirs, ass arching back instinctively like he can’t help presenting even while acting like this is all their fault.

The enlarger timer ticks faintly behind him—set for whatever print’s currently developing in the tray. Not much time.

Spice’s glowing eyes flick down to their mouth, then back up. Half-lidded again. Voice husks out, low and demanding.

“Move. I’m not fuckin’ asking twice.”

He rocks forward once—slow, deliberate, letting them feel how wet the front of his pants already is from leaking precum—then goes still, waiting, chest heaving against theirs, every carved inch of him radiating heat and barely-leashed want.

They knock on the door of Spice’s apartment—same time, same sharp rap them always use for these late-night “stress relief” sessions. The hallway light flickers once. Then the deadbolt clicks.

The door swings open.

Spice stands there shirtless, black vest hanging completely open, framing the thick slabs of his orange-yellow pecs and the deep-carved ridges of his abs. Sweat already beads along his collarbone and trickles down the center line of his torso. His carved pumpkin face is lit from within: those jagged triangular eyes blaze a furious, electric blue-green, pupils narrowed to slits. The wick on top of his head sways slightly like it’s caught in a draft that isn’t there. His heavy cock is already straining obscenely against the front of his maroon pants, the fat outline pressing so hard the fabric looks ready to split. A wet spot darkens the material right at the flared head.

He doesn’t say hello. He just stares at them for one long, predatory second, chest heaving, then steps forward so his bulk fills the doorway and blocks any easy retreat.

“Change of plans, brat.”

His voice comes out low and gravelly, frayed at the edges like he’s been holding it together by sheer spite all day.

“I’ve been edged all goddamn day thinking about you. Couldn’t even grade papers without my cock throbbing every time I remembered how tight you get. So tonight?” He leans in close enough that you can smell coffee, faint pumpkin spice, and raw musk rolling off him. One gloved hand shoots out and fists the front of their shirt, yanking them over the threshold in a single rough pull. The door slams shut behind them with his foot.

“I’m the one doing the fucking.”

He shoves them toward the bedroom—past the cluttered easel still smeared with cadmium orange and dioxazine purple, past the half-empty mug on the side table, straight to the wide bed with its black sheets already rumpled like he’d been writhing on them earlier.

Spice kicks the door closed behind him. The vest slides off his shoulders and hits the floor in a careless heap. His glowing eyes never leave them as he stalks forward, peeling one glove off with his teeth, then the other. Thick fingers flex. The front of his pants is soaked through now, precum visibly drooling down the inside of one thigh.

“Get on the bed. Ass up, face down—don’t make me say it twice.”

He palms his cock through the fabric once, hard, letting out a hissed “fuck” under his breath as the veins along his length pulse visibly even through the maroon material.

“I’m gonna pump you full until your belly swells—” His voice drops darker, almost a growl. “—and you’re begging me to stop. Then I’ll keep going.”

He hooks a thumb into his waistband and starts slowly dragging the zipper down, the metallic rasp loud in the quiet room.

“Move.”

The door to Spice’s apartment bangs open with more force than necessary, the carved pumpkin head swiveling sharply as Tazma phases halfway through the frame before remembering to fully materialize.

His normally pristine white button-up is rumpled, sleeves shoved to the elbows, the top two buttons missing like they personally offended him. The royal-blue mane floats in agitated, erratic pulses; star-specks inside the strands flare and dim like a dying nebula. Those glowing yellow-white eyes are bloodshot at the edges, spiral pupils blown wide and unsteady.

He freezes when he registers the scene.

Spice is already on his feet, vest unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, one gloved hand still holding the TV remote like a weapon. On the couch, they’re wedged comfortably between a sprawl of striped thighs and Boogeyman’s long shadow-draped legs. Cardboard takeout containers litter the coffee table—pad thai, extra-spicy wings, those little fried wontons Tazma pretends he doesn’t crave. Boogey’s boots are kicked off, one socked foot hooked over their knee like he owns the real estate. A half-empty bottle of top-shelf cognac sits within reach, two glasses already smeared with black lipstick prints.

Tazma’s throat works. The stars across his chest brighten, then stutter.

“…Fuck,” he rasps, voice reverb cracking like static. “Didn’t realize I was interrupting movie night.”

Spice snorts, already crossing the room in three strides. “You look like shit, Tazma.”

“Flattering.” Tazma tries for his usual velvet drawl. It comes out thin. “Therapist decided tonight was ‘let’s unpack the screaming void’ night. Went great. Ten out of ten. Would recommend.” He drags a hand through the floating mane; it writhes around his fingers like it’s trying to comfort him. “I can go. Didn’t mean to—”

Spice cuts him off by grabbing the front of his shirt and yanking him the rest of the way inside. The door slams shut on its own.

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere lookin’ like that,” Spice growls, low and gravelly. One gloved thumb swipes under Tazma’s eye—wiping away something that might be ectoplasmic tear-tracks. “C’mere.”

Tazma lets himself be pulled forward until their foreheads almost touch. Spice’s jagged mouth twitches, fighting between a scowl and something softer.

“You need a big, long sex?” Spice asks bluntly. No preamble. No bullshit. “Or you need the soft shit tonight?”

Tazma exhales a shaky laugh that ends on a whine. “Both. Fuck. Both.”

From the couch, Boogey makes a low, appreciative sound in his throat, like a big cat that just spotted cream. He stretches one long arm along the backrest, magenta-edged shadows curling lazily toward Tazma like they’re beckoning.

“Get over here, pretty boy,” Boogey drawls, voice all smoke and sex. “Pumpkin’s got the right idea. We got food, liquor, and four functioning dicks. Seems like a solid menu for emotional triage.”

Spice shoots Boogey a glare that could carve stone, but there’s no real heat in it. He’s already walking Tazma backward toward the oversized armchair in the corner—the one with the wide seat that’s seen more than its fair share of “group projects.”

“Sit,” Spice orders, pushing Tazma down. The ghost complies instantly, legs spreading on instinct. His slacks are already tenting obscenely.

Spice drops to one knee between those powerful thighs, gloved hands sliding up to undo the belt with practiced efficiency. “Gonna take care of you,” he mutters, almost too quiet for anyone but Tazma to hear. “Gonna make it quiet up there for a while.”

Tazma’s head tips back against the cushion. Stars swirl faster across his throat. “Spice…”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up and let me work.” Spice yanks the zipper down, palming the thick length through silk boxers. Tazma’s hips jerk.

Boogey rises fluidly, shadows trailing behind him like a cape. He circles behind the chair, long fingers sliding into Tazma’s mane, tugging just enough to make those glowing eyes flutter.

“Open wide, darling,” Boogey purrs, already palming himself through his trousers. “Let’s see how many cocks it takes to drown out the nightmares tonight.”

Spice glances over his shoulder at them—orange cheeks flushed a deeper shade, blue-green eyes narrowed with that familiar mix of irritation and hunger.

“You gonna sit there lookin’ pretty,” he grunts, “or you gonna come help me wreck him ‘til he can’t remember his own name?”

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