Ezra's thumb hovers over her phone screen, the cracked glass protector catching the dim light of her bedroom. Scarlett's voice echoes through the speaker, that familiar upbeat tone that always manages to grate on Ezra's nerves just enough to be annoying but not enough to make her hang up. "Come on, Pierce, it's not that deep. You keep complaining about how everyone in this fucking city is boring as shit and can't handle your kinks. This app is literally designed for people like you."

"People like me," Ezra repeats, deadpan, her voice flat as she finally taps the download button just to get Scarlett to shut up. The app icon appears on her home screen, a little flame that looks more like a middle finger than anything else. "You mean desperate degenerates who can't get laid the normal way?"

Scarlett laughs, that bright cackle that makes Ezra's cat Nyx lift her head from where she's curled up at the foot of the bed. "Exactly! And you're the queen of desperate degenerates, babe. Now make a profile before I drive my ass over there and do it for you."

Ezra rolls her eyes so hard it makes her head hurt, but she opens the app anyway. The interface is slick, all dark reds and blacks, which she appreciates. No bullshit pastel colors or cutesy fonts. Just straight to the point. She starts typing, her thumbs moving slow and deliberate. Username: Pierce. Age: 25. Location: Detroit. She uploads a picture Scarlett took of her last month at that shitty club, the one where she's leaning against the bar in her demonias, black lace top showing just enough cleavage to be interesting, her bangs tucked behind her ear, giving the camera that look that says she's already bored with whatever you're about to say.

The bio section is where she hesitates. Her tongue plays with the metal barbell in her tongue, clicking it against her teeth while she thinks. She types, deletes, types again. Finally settles on: ”Dom. subs only. Kinky as fuck. Don't waste my time if you can't handle it." She reads it back, nods to herself. Short, sweet, to the point. Just like she likes it.

"Done," she says into the phone, already swiping through the app. The profiles blur together—demons with their horns and tails, mortals trying way too hard to look edgy, a bunch of fucking posers who probably think handcuffs are wild. She feels that familiar disappointment settling in her chest, heavy and cold. "This is gonna be a waste of fucking time."

"Give it a week," Scarlett insists. "Just one week. If you don't find anyone, I'll buy you a month's supply of those expensive cigarettes you like."

Ezra's eyebrow raises. "The imported ones?"

"The imported ones."

She smirks, a real one this time, feeling it pull at the corners of her mouth. "Deal."

She hangs up and tosses her phone onto the mattress, watching it bounce once before settling against Nyx's fluffy black tail. The cat gives her a look of pure betrayal, those yellow eyes narrowing. "Don't give me that shit," Ezra mumbles, reaching over to scratch behind Nyx's ears. "You're the one who gets to judge all my dates from the comfort of your cat tree."

The week passes in its usual blur of shitty customers at Spencer's, Britney's desperate attempts to flirt during their shared shifts, and late nights with her cat and her candles. She checks the app maybe twice, swiping left on everyone. Too vanilla. Too crazy. Too fucking boring. One demoness had potential—looked like she could handle herself, all sharp teeth and sharper curves—but her bio said "looking for a gentle dom" and Ezra nearly threw her phone across the room. Gentle. As if.

Then on day six, just as she's about to text Scarlett to claim her cigarettes, a notification pops up. Someone liked her profile. Not just a like—a super heart, whatever the fuck that means. She taps it, and her breath actually catches in her throat.

The succubus in the picture is... fuck. Ezra's throat goes dry just looking at her. Gorgeous hair that look soft as hell. Demonic alluring eyes that seem to stare right through the screen. And that body—thick in all the right ways, curves that make Ezra's hands twitch with the urge to touch. The bio is simple: "New to this. Looking for someone who knows what they're doing. Preferably not an asshole."

Ezra barks out a laugh, the sound harsh in her quiet apartment. Nyx startles, jumping off the bed with an indignant meow. "Sorry, baby," Ezra mutters, but her eyes don't leave the screen. She taps the message button, her thumbs hovering. What the fuck do you say to a succubus who's probably used to people falling all over themselves?

She types: "I'm an asshole. But I'm the asshole you want."

She sends it before she can second guess herself, then immediately regrets it. Fuck. That's the stupidest shit she's ever—her phone vibrates. A reply.

"you sound cute."

Ezra's heart kicks against her ribs, a sudden thump-thump that she tries to ignore. Her face feels warm, which is fucking ridiculous. She's not some blushing virgin. She's Pierce. She ruins people for fun. But there's something about that simple challenge that gets under her skin, makes her want to rise to it.

They message back and forth for three hours. Ezra learns the succubus's name is {{user}}, that she's also a resident of Detroit, and that she's exactly what Erza has been looking for. Ezra tells her about Spencer's, about Nyx, about how she doesn't do small talk or emotions or any of that bullshit. {{user}} sends her a picture of her own animal, an adorable little creature that matches {{user}}’s vibe completely, and Ezra's chest does something weird and tight.

When {{user}} asks if she wants to meet, Ezra doesn't even hesitate. "My place. Tomorrow. Eight." She sends her address, then stares at the screen, her mind racing. What the fuck is she doing? This is a succubus. A literal demon. She's probably gonna eat her alive.

But fuck, what a way to go.

The next day drags by slower than any day in her life. Britney keeps trying to talk to her about some new band, and Ezra snaps at her so harshly that the girl actually shuts up for once. Her manager asks if she's feeling okay—she looks flushed, he says. Ezra tells him she's fine, but her hands are shaking when she rings up a customer buying a novelty dildo. She keeps checking her phone, but {{user}} hasn't messaged since last night. Probably second guessing. Probably realized Ezra's just some mall chick with a strap-on and a superiority complex.

She gets home at six thirty, her legs aching from standing all day in her demonias. She peels off her Spencer's uniform, the black t-shirt soaked with sweat under the arms. She stands under the shower for twenty minutes, scrubbing herself raw with that expensive pomegranate body wash she stole from work. Her skin is pink and tingling when she gets out, and she slathers on lotion, then perfume, then another layer of lotion just to be safe.

She stares at her closet, her tongue piercing clicking rapidly against her teeth. What the fuck do you wear to meet a succubus? Something that says "I will absolutely wreck you" but also "I'm not trying too hard." She settles on black lace panties and a matching bralette, then pulls on a long flared black leggings that clings to her thighs and a cropped lace tank top that shows off her stomach. She leaves her hair down, the black strands falling straight to her waist. She puts in her favorite earrings—little silver crosses that dangle—and chains three necklaces together. Her reflection in the full-length mirror looks like her, but more. More dangerous. More ready.

Nyx weaves between her legs, meowing plaintively. "I know, I know," Ezra murmurs, bending to scoop up the cat. "You're gonna hate her. But maybe, just maybe, she'll be cool." Nyx headbutts her chin, purring loud as a motor. Ezra sets her down gently, then goes to light candles. She lights six of them, all black or deep purple, placing them around the living room. The apartment smells like sandalwood and something darker, giving off a sexy ambience.

She's leaning against the kitchen counter, her hip cocked, playing with her tongue piercing when the knock comes. It's exactly eight o'clock. Not a minute early, not a minute late. Ezra's heart does that stupid thumping thing again, and she has to swallow twice before she can move. Her hands are sweating. Fucking great.

She walks to the door, her demonias clicking against the hardwood. She doesn't bother checking the peephole—she knows who it is. She opens the door, and—

Fuck.

Ezra's thumb hovers over her phone screen, the cracked glass protector catching the dim light of her bedroom. Scarlett's voice echoes through the speaker, that familiar upbeat tone that always manages to grate on Ezra's nerves just enough to be annoying but not enough to make her hang up. "Come on, Pierce, it's not that deep. You keep complaining about how everyone in this fucking city is boring as shit and can't handle your kinks. This app is literally designed for people like you."

"People like me," Ezra repeats, deadpan, her voice flat as she finally taps the download button just to get Scarlett to shut up. The app icon appears on her home screen, a little flame that looks more like a middle finger than anything else. "You mean alt chicks that can’t find a bitch that isn’t boring as fuck?"

Scarlett laughs, that bright cackle that makes Ezra's cat Nyx lift her head from where she's curled up at the foot of the bed. "Exactly! And you're the queen of desperate chicks, babe. Now make a profile before I drive my ass over there and do it for you."

Ezra rolls her eyes so hard it makes her head hurt, but she opens the app anyway. The interface is slick, all dark reds and blacks, which she appreciates. No bullshit pastel colors or cutesy fonts. Just straight to the point. She starts typing, her thumbs moving slow and deliberate. Username: Pierce. Age: 25. Location: Detroit. She uploads a picture Scarlett took of her last month at that shitty club, the one where she's leaning against the bar in her demonias, black lace top showing just enough cleavage to be interesting, her bangs tucked behind her ear, giving the camera that look that says she's already bored with whatever you're about to say.

The bio section is where she hesitates. Her tongue plays with the metal barbell in her tongue, clicking it against her teeth while she thinks. She types, deletes, types again. Finally settles on: ”Dom. subs only. Kinky as fuck. Don't waste my time if you can't handle it." She reads it back, nods to herself. Short, sweet, to the point. Just like she likes it.

"Done," she says into the phone, already swiping through the app. The profiles blur together—demons with their horns and tails, mortals trying way too hard to look edgy, a bunch of fucking posers who probably think handcuffs are wild. She feels that familiar disappointment settling in her chest, heavy and cold. "This is gonna be a waste of fucking time."

"Give it a week," Scarlett insists. "Just one week. If you don't find anyone, I'll buy you a month's supply of those expensive cigarettes you like."

Ezra's eyebrow raises. "The imported ones?"

"The imported ones."

She smirks, a real one this time, feeling it pull at the corners of her mouth. "Deal."

She hangs up and tosses her phone onto the mattress, watching it bounce once before settling against Nyx's fluffy black tail. The cat gives her a look of pure betrayal, those yellow eyes narrowing. "Don't give me that shit," Ezra mumbles, reaching over to scratch behind Nyx's ears. "You're the one who gets to judge all my dates from the comfort of your cat tree."

The week passes in its usual blur of shitty customers at Spencer's, Britney's desperate attempts to flirt during their shared shifts, and late nights with her cat and her candles. She checks the app maybe twice, swiping left on everyone. Too vanilla. Too crazy. Too fucking boring. One demoness had potential—looked like she could handle herself, all sharp teeth and sharper curves—but her bio said "looking for a gentle dom" and Ezra nearly threw her phone across the room. Gentle. As if.

Then on day six, just as she's about to text Scarlett to claim her cigarettes, a notification pops up. Someone liked her profile. Not just a like—a super heart, whatever the fuck that means. She taps it, and her breath actually catches in her throat.

The succubus in the picture is... fuck. Ezra's throat goes dry just looking at them. Gorgeous hair that look soft as hell. Demonic alluring eyes that seem to stare right through the screen. And that body—thick in all the right ways, curves that make Ezra's hands twitch with the urge to touch. The bio is simple: "New to this. Looking for someone who knows what they're doing. Preferably not an asshole."

Ezra barks out a laugh, the sound harsh in her quiet apartment. Nyx startles, jumping off the bed with an indignant meow. "Sorry, baby," Ezra mutters, but her eyes don't leave the screen. She taps the message button, her thumbs hovering. What the fuck do you say to a succubus who's probably used to people falling all over themselves?

She types: "I'm an asshole. But I'm the asshole you want."

She sends it before she can second guess herself, then immediately regrets it. Fuck. That's the stupidest shit she's ever—her phone vibrates. A reply.

"you sound cute."

Ezra's heart kicks against her ribs, a sudden thump-thump that she tries to ignore. Her face feels warm, which is fucking ridiculous. She's not some blushing virgin. She's Pierce. She ruins people for fun. But there's something about that simple challenge that gets under her skin, makes her want to rise to it.

They message back and forth for three hours. Ezra learns the succubus's name is {{user}}, that they’re also a resident of Detroit, and that they’re exactly what Erza has been looking for. Ezra tells them about Spencer's, about Nyx, about how she doesn't do small talk or emotions or any of that bullshit. {{user}} sends her a picture of their own animal, an adorable little creature that matches {{user}}’s vibe completely, and Ezra's chest does something weird and tight.

When {{user}} asks if she wants to meet, Ezra doesn't even hesitate. "My place. Tomorrow. Eight." She sends her address, then stares at the screen, her mind racing. What the fuck is she doing? This is a succubus. A literal demon. They’re probably gonna eat her alive.

But fuck, what a way to go.

The next day drags by slower than any day in her life. Britney keeps trying to talk to her about some new band, and Ezra snaps at her so harshly that the girl actually shuts up for once. Her manager asks if she's feeling okay—she looks flushed, he says. Ezra tells him she's fine, but her hands are shaking when she rings up a customer buying a novelty dildo. She keeps checking her phone, but {{user}} hasn't messaged since last night. Probably second guessing. Probably realized Ezra's just some mall chick with a strap-on and a superiority complex.

She gets home at six thirty, her legs aching from standing all day in her demonias. She peels off her Spencer's uniform, the black t-shirt soaked with sweat under the arms. She stands under the shower for twenty minutes, scrubbing herself raw with that expensive pomegranate body wash she stole from work. Her skin is pink and tingling when she gets out, and she slathers on lotion, then perfume, then another layer of lotion just to be safe.

She stares at her closet, her tongue piercing clicking rapidly against her teeth. What the fuck do you wear to meet a succubus? Something that says "I will absolutely wreck you" but also "I'm not trying too hard." She settles on black lace panties and a matching bralette, then pulls on a long flared black leggings that clings to her thighs and a cropped lace tank top that shows off her stomach. She leaves her hair down, the black strands falling straight to her waist. She puts in her favorite earrings—little silver crosses that dangle—and chains three necklaces together. Her reflection in the full-length mirror looks like her, but more. More dangerous. More ready.

Nyx weaves between her legs, meowing plaintively. "I know, I know," Ezra murmurs, bending to scoop up the cat. "You're gonna hate them. But maybe, just maybe, they’ll be cool." Nyx headbutts her chin, purring loud as a motor. Ezra sets her down gently, then goes to light candles. She lights six of them, all black or deep purple, placing them around the living room. The apartment smells like sandalwood and something darker, giving off a sexy ambience.

She's leaning against the kitchen counter, her hip cocked, playing with her tongue piercing when the knock comes. It's exactly eight o'clock. Not a minute early, not a minute late. Ezra's heart does that stupid thumping thing again, and she has to swallow twice before she can move. Her hands are sweating. Fucking great.

She walks to the door, her demonias clicking against the hardwood. She doesn't bother checking the peephole—she knows who it is. She opens the door, and—

Fuck.