#ashwritesmonsters

The air shifted, grew heavier, warmer. Light bloomed in your peripheral vision—the familiar white-hot glow of his halo casting sharp shadows across the walls. You didn't turn to look right away. After years of his presence, you'd learned to let your eyes adjust gradually to his radiance.

"You have a question." His voice resonated through your bones more than your ears, like a bell tolling inside your head—in a good way.

"I do." You traced another scar, this one along your collarbone—from the night he'd first revealed himself, when he'd stopped an intruder from breaking in. "Why am I marked like this? I've never seen anyone else with scars like these."

The light dimmed slightly. You turned to face him then. His human torso was tense, muscles rigid beneath skin that looked surprisingly normal—blemished, soft. Below that, midnight black crystals like obsidian glass enveloped his form closely, his slender legs gliding against each other restlessly with a sound like wind through glass chimes. His halo flickered like a candle in the wind.

"Others don't have these marks?" He asked, though it wasn't really a question—it was stalling. The way he wouldn't meet your eyes told you he already knew the answer. 

"No. I've never run into anyone with them, and you've mentioned plenty of other people have guardian angels, too. A lot of other people."

Sariel drifted closer to your chair, his crystalline feet pointed at the floor, grazing it imperceptibly. His fingers—long, elegant things that tapered to points like icicles—flexed and curled.

"I..." He paused, the flame of his halo dimming. "Perhaps I should have explained sooner."

You leaned forward, heart quickening. "Explained what?"

"Most guardians..." He gestured vaguely with one hand, sending prismatic reflections dancing across the walls. "We typically maintain distance. Observe. Intervene only in the most dire circumstances."

"And you don't?"

"I am..." His massive form seemed to shrink somehow, like a child caught sneaking cookies. "I am perhaps more... involved than I should be."

You glanced down at the dozens of silvery marks decorating your skin. "More involved?"

"The marks appear when we touch the mortal realm directly. Most guardians reach through the veil only rarely, only when absolutely necessary. I..." He turned away, his crystalline lower half grinding against itself. "I find myself reaching for you far more often than I should."

You forced a laugh, trying to break the heavy silence that had settled over the room. "What, are you just not very good at this guardian thing? Need the extra practice?" Your fingers drummed against the arm of the chair. "Or maybe your magic isn't as strong as the others?"

The crystalline chiming of his lower half stopped. His whole form went still, like a statue carved from light and shadow. The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

"My abilities are..." His voice cracked, a sound like breaking glass. "They are more than sufficient."

Your attempt at humor shriveled in your throat. Sariel's mouth—the only part of his face visible below the obsidian crystal that covered his eyes—twisted into something that made your chest ache. His lips pressed together, corners pulling down in a grimace that looked foreign on his usually serene features.

"The Firmament has rules," he said, each word falling like lead weights into the space between you. "Guidelines for maintaining appropriate distance from our charges."

You pulled your knees up to your chest, making yourself smaller in the chair. "Distance?"

"Physical. Emotional." His hands clenched, the pointed tips of his fingers scraping against his palms. "We are meant to protect, not to..." He trailed off, turning away.

"Not to what?"

The light from his halo pulsed, casting wild shadows across the walls. "Not to feel."

Your heart skipped, then raced to catch up. "Feel?"

"Each intervention leaves a mark," he said, gesturing to your silver-traced skin. "But the marks are meant to be rare. Precious few. Evidence of dire necessity." His voice dropped lower, barely above a whisper. "Not... not evidence of excuses to touch. To be close. To feel the warmth of your skin beneath my fingers."

The radiator clicked off, leaving the room in perfect silence. You could hear your own pulse thundering in your ears.

"Sariel..."

"I should have requested reassignment months ago." His shoulders hunched, his crystalline shrug grinding against itself. "When I first realized I was finding reasons—making reasons—to reach through the veil. When I started lingering here, watching you read, listening to you hum while you cook." His voice cracked again. "When I began to want things no guardian should want."

You uncurled from the chair, taking a step toward him. He drifted backward, maintaining the distance between you.

"The Firmament has strict policies regarding guardians who develop..." He stopped, his grimace deepening. "Who allow themselves to form attachments. To develop feelings for their charges."

"Feelings?" The word came out barely above a breath.

"I have failed in my duties," he said. "Failed to maintain proper distance. Failed to..." His head bowed, halo dimming to barely a flicker. "Failed to keep from falling in love with you."

Your mouth went dry. The words hung in the air between you, heavy as lead, precious as gold. You sank back into your chair, mind spinning.

"How..." You cleared your throat, tried again. "How common is this? Talking to your guardian, I mean."

Sariel's crystalline form shifted, scraping against itself. "Most humans never know we exist beyond abstract concept. They attribute our interventions to luck, instinct, divine providence." His mouth tightened. "They certainly don't have conversations with us in their living rooms."

You glanced around your apartment—at the stack of novels on the coffee table, the half-empty mug of tea gone cold, the cat bed in the corner that had never held a cat because your apartment management didn't allow pets. Everything looked smaller somehow, more hollow.

"And the other guardians? Do they ever...?"

"No." His voice cut through the air like a knife. "We are meant to be distant protectors. Silent watchers." His halo flickered. "Not... whatever I have become."

The radiator kicked back on with a clang that made you jump. Outside, snow continued to fall in absolute silence. No cars passed by—everyone else was tucked away in their homes, probably sharing dinner with family or cuddling with lovers on the couch.

"I've never..." The words stuck in your throat. You swallowed hard. "No one has ever..."

Sariel drifted closer despite himself, his light casting warm shadows across your face. "I know."

Heat rushed to your cheeks. Of course he knew. He'd been there through every awkward first date that went nowhere, every crush that fizzled out, every lonely night scrolling dating apps until your eyes hurt. Sariel had been there, observing.

"That's kind of pathetic, isn't it?" You forced a laugh. "The first person to fall in love with me isn't even a person."

"You are not pathetic." The temperature in the room spiked, his halo flaring bright enough to make you squint. "You are brilliant and kind and..." He caught himself, dimming again. "And I should not be saying these things."

You stood up, legs shaky. "Why not? You've already broken all the other rules, apparently."

"Because." His voice dropped lower, resonating in your chest. "Because every word makes it harder to maintain what little distance remains between us."

The silver scars across your skin seemed to pulse with their own light. You counted them—twenty-three visible ones, plus however many were hidden under your clothes. Twenty-three times he'd reached across the veil just to touch you.

You stared at your scarred arms, mind racing to process everything Sariel had just confessed. The weight of his words pressed against your chest, making it hard to breathe. Love. He'd said love. The word felt too big, too new; like someone had just tasked you with unraveling a riddle. You had no idea where to start.

"These marks," you said instead, running your fingers over a particularly prominent scar that wrapped around your wrist. "Do they show up every time you touch me?"

Sariel's crystalline lower half shifted, the obsidian fragments catching the light from his dimmed halo. "Not necessarily. Only when I reach through the veil to intervene. To save you from harm." His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I may have rationalized undue necessity during those interventions."

"So you could..." Your throat went dry. "You could touch me right now? Without marking me?"

The temperature in the room fluctuated wildly—hot then cold then hot again. Sariel's halo pulsed with each shift.

"I could," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You stood up from your chair, legs trembling. The distance between you felt like miles and millimeters all at once. His hand hung at his side, those long crystalline fingers catching the light from his halo, throwing rainbow refractions across the walls.

Your own hand rose, hovering in the space between you. "Can I...?"

He didn't move, didn't speak, but his halo blazed brighter. You stepped closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his form. Your fingers brushed against his.

Cold—but not unpleasantly so. Like touching a glass of ice water on a hot day. His "skin" felt smooth, harder than yours but yielding slightly—more than earthly crystal would. You slid your palm against his, marveling at how his fingers dwarfed yours, how the pointed tips curved protectively around your hand.

"Oh," you breathed.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was different from the brief contacts when he'd saved you—those moments had been pure adrenaline, over before you could process them. This was... this was something else entirely.

His thumb traced circles on the back of your hand, each movement sending shivers up your arm. You'd held hands before, of course—awkward first dates, consoling friends, helping seniors cross the street. But this...

"I've never..." The words caught in your throat. You swallowed hard, tried again. "I've never felt like this before."

Sariel's grip tightened fractionally. "Neither have I. In all my centuries of existence."

Your fingers traced the crystalline ridges of his palm, feeling every nuance of impossible geometry beneath your touch. It felt good. It felt right—but a nagging thought wormed its way to the surface.

"Could you get in trouble for this?" The words tumbled out before you could stop them. "With the... what did you call it? The Firmament?"

Sariel's thumb stilled its circles on your skin. His halo flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls. "I... I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"The rules are clear." His free hand gestured vaguely upward. "We are not to form attachments. Not to reveal ourselves except in the direst circumstances. Not to..." He squeezed your hand gently. "Not to indulge in physical contact beyond what is strictly necessary for protection."

"But the consequences?"

"I've never witnessed them firsthand." His crystalline legs shifted again, anxiously. "Other guardians who found themselves growing too close to their charges... they always requested reassignment before it came to that."

You tried to pull your hand away, but his fingers curled around yours, keeping you close. "Maybe you should—"

"No." The word resonated through your bones, his halo flaring bright enough to make you squint. "I am selfish, indulgent. The others had the strength to walk away when they felt the first stirrings of attachment. But I..." His thumb resumed its gentle circles. "I savored every moment. Every excuse to reach through the veil. Every chance to feel your warmth beneath my fingers."

Heat bloomed in your cheeks. "But if there are rules—"

"Rules enforced by whom? I've never seen it. Never heard of actual punishment." His free hand rose to hover near your face, not quite touching. "Perhaps I am rationalizing. Making excuses. But I cannot..." His voice cracked, a sound like breaking glass. "I cannot imagine walking away now. Not when you're finally here, finally aware, finally..."

Your other hand rose to meet his, pressing his palm against your cheek. The cool crystal of his skin made you shiver. "I don't mind."

"You should." But he didn't pull away. If anything, he drew closer, his tall form curving around yours like a shield. "You should be horrified that your guardian has become so compromised. That I've allowed myself to feel these things, to want..." He trailed off, his mouth twisting.

"To want what?"

His halo pulsed, sending waves of warmth washing over you. "Anything you're willing to give."

You tugged gently at his hand, pulling him toward the armchair. "Come here. I want to try something."

His crystalline form chimed as he drifted along with you. "What are you planning?"

"Have you ever sat down before?"

The question seemed to catch him off guard. His halo flickered. "I... no. We don't typically need to rest."

"Then it's time you learned." You positioned yourself in front of the chair. "Here, like this."

He stared at the worn fabric, head tilted. "I'm not certain my form is suited for—"

"Just try?" You squeezed his hand. "For me?"

His crystalline legs shifted, scraping against each other. With careful movements, he lowered himself into the chair. The obsidian-like fragments of his lower half arranged themselves awkwardly, more like a pile of black glass than proper legs.

"This feels... strange," he said.

"Scoot back a bit." You guided him deeper into the chair. "There. Comfortable?"

"I'm not sure that word applies to my existence, but..." His halo pulsed softly. "It's not unpleasant."

You bit your lip, gathering courage. "Room for one more?"

Before he could answer, you settled yourself carefully into his lap. His hands flew to your shoulders, steadying you with that impossible gentleness you'd come to associate with him. The crystal of his form felt cool through your clothes, but not uncomfortably so.

"Is this... acceptable?" His voice wavered slightly.

You leaned back against his chest, feeling the strange mix of soft human skin and hard crystal. "More than acceptable. How does it feel for you?"

His fingers flexed against your shoulders. The tension that had been radiating from him since his confession began to ebb away, like ice melting in spring sunshine. "Warm," he said finally. "You're so warm."

"Good warm?"

"Yes." His arms slid around your waist, pulling you closer. "I've watched humans embrace countless times. Observed the comfort it seems to bring. But I never understood until..." His halo brightened. "Until now."

You shifted slightly, getting more comfortable. His crystalline form adjusted with you, somehow both solid and yielding at once. "What else do you think about it? Being able to sit, to hold someone?"

"It's..." He paused, considering. "Grounding. I've spent centuries floating, observing. This feels more... present. Real." His chin came to rest on top of your head. "I like feeling the weight of you. Knowing you're truly here, not just someone I'm watching from afar."

The radiator clicked off again, but you barely noticed. Sariel's natural warmth enveloped you like a blanket. His fingers traced idle patterns on your arm, leaving trails of pleasant tingles in their wake.

"I like it too," you said, letting your eyes drift closed. "Having you here. Being able to touch you, to see you." You laughed softly. "Though I still can't see your eyes."

"Perhaps someday." His arms tightened fractionally around you. "For now, this is... more than I ever dared hope for."

You hummed in agreement, feeling more relaxed than you had in years. His presence behind you felt right somehow, like he'd always belonged there. Like all those years of watching over you had been leading to this moment, this simple act of sitting together.

A sudden crash from the kitchen made you both jump. Your empty mug had fallen off the coffee table, rolling across the floor.

"Sorry," Sariel said, his halo dimming. "That was my fault. I sometimes forget to maintain corporeal boundaries when I'm distracted."

You twisted in his lap to look at him. "You knocked over my mug with your... what, your aura?"

"Perhaps." His crystalline form shifted awkwardly. "Though in my defense, you are quite distracting."

"My guardian angel is clumsy," you said, trying not to laugh. "All those times I tripped over nothing or dropped things—was that actually you being flustered?"

You chewed your lip, searching for the right words to express your unease. The idea of working out in Honeycomb, a neighborhood known for its devotion to Ishtar, sent a wave of anxiety through you. That was the only part of town where you had seen a community recreational center host "naked swim days" and let people post flyers advertising weekly orgies.

"It's just... Honeycomb is a bit... woo-woo, isn't it?" You finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Phoebe's laughter sparkled through the phone. "Oh, come on! It's not like everyone's walking around naked or anything."

You winced, wanting to say "they kind of are." Honeycomb's reputation for body positivity and sensuality was well-known throughout the city. The thought of your softer curves standing out amidst a sea of chiseled abs and defined muscles made your stomach churn.

"I don't know, Phoebe. I'm not exactly... Honeycomb material." Your fingers absently plucked at the hem of your shirt, suddenly hyper-aware of the way it clung to your midsection.

"What are you talking about? Everyone starts somewhere!" Phoebe's voice softened, a hint of concern creeping in. "Is this about the whole Ishtar thing?"

You sighed, sinking deeper into your couch. "Maybe? It's just... you know how people are there. All touchy-feely and confident. I'm not sure I'd fit in."

"Hey, that's not fair. Ishtar followers aren't all about perfect bodies, you know. It's about loving yourself as you are."

Your skepticism must have traveled through the phone because Phoebe quickly added, "Look, why don't you visit on the next Tuesday—Trial Tuesday, when newbies can try it out—and see how you feel? Just because people in Honeycomb look nice and act confident doesn't mean they're douchebags. They do follow the goddess of love, after all."

You let out a long sigh, your resolve crumbling under Phoebe's enthusiastic persuasion. "Alright, alright. I'll give it a try. But just one visit, okay?"

"Yes! You won't regret it, I promise." Phoebe's excitement bubbled through the phone. "Oh, and don't forget to mention my name at the front desk. They know me there."

Your stomach twisted. "Wait, you're not coming with me?"

"Ah, about that..." Phoebe's voice took on an apologetic tone. "I've got a work thing that day. But you'll be fine! The staff there are super friendly."

Great. Now you'd be venturing into unknown territory alone. "Some gym buddy you are," you grumbled.

"You've got this," Phoebe assured you. "Text me after and tell me how it goes!"

The day of your gym visit arrived all too quickly. You stood in front of your bedroom mirror, tugging at the hem of your new workout top. The fabric clung to your curves in a way that made you both self-conscious and oddly confident. Turns out, all it takes to look like a gym goer is to put on gym clothes.

Your eyes traveled over your reflection, taking in the sight of your body wrapped in still-returnable athletic wear. The leggings hugged your thighs, accentuating their shape. You turned to the side, observing how the high-waisted band looked painted on to your stomach.

There were a couple things going through your mind; anxiety gnawed at the edges of it, whispering doubts about how you'd measure up in a gym full of the Honeycomb crowd and Ishtar followers. But beneath that, a strange note of confidence too. The outfit, despite its snugness, was incredibly comfortable, and knowing you'd be dressed the same as everyone else helped a bit.

You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. "It's just one visit," you reminded yourself, meeting your own gaze in the mirror. "You can do this."

Grabbing your gym bag, you headed for the door. The drive to Honeycomb seemed both endless and far too short. As you pulled into the parking lot of Temple of the Body, your heart raced. The building loomed before you, its architecture fitting in with the Honeycomb aesthetic to a tee; a stone facade covered in elaborate geometric inlays, flowering vines and planters, and—of course—nude relief sculptures of Ishtar. She didn't look like you at all.

You sit in your car for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel. Part of you wants to turn around and drive home, but Phoebe's encouragement echoes in your mind, as does the potential nagging if you bail. With a final deep breath, you step out of the car.

The automatic doors slide open, unleashing a wave of cool air with a hint of lavender. You approach the front desk, where a smiling woman greets you; she definitely fits in with the Honeycomb crowd, her dyed blue hair and tattoos complementing her body, which definitely belonged in a gym.

"Welcome to Temple of the Body! How can I help you today?"

You swallow hard, willing your voice not to shake. "Hi, I'm here for a... a trial visit? My friend Phoebe recommended this place."

The woman's smile widens. "Oh, you're a friend of Phoebe's? Wonderful! Let me get you set up with a trial pass. Remember, there's no commitment and you can always come back next Trial Tuesday if you're still not sure."

You take a tentative step into the lobby, your eyes sweeping across the space. The interior of Temple of the Body is a far cry from the utilitarian gyms you've seen in your own part of town. Warm, earthy tones dominate the decor, with splashes of vibrant greens from potted plants scattered throughout the sandstone-like interior alongside more of those damn nude Ishtar statues.

As you peer into the main workout area, your breath catches in your throat. The first thing that strikes you is the sheer diversity of the clientele. Humans mingle with metahumans of all kinds—you spot a towering Minotaur spotting for a petite Naga on the bench press, while a group of Dryads lead a yoga class in a glass-walled room with poses that would kill you.

Your eyes are immediately drawn to the brawny. A human woman with abs you could grate cheese on effortlessly pulls herself up on a set of rings. Nearby, an Orc with biceps the size of your thighs curls a dumbbell that looks heavier than you.

But as you continue to scan the room, you spot a few bodies that look more like yours. A human man with a round, doughy build jogs on a treadmill, his face flushed but determined. In the free weights section, a literally thicker Dryad, her bark-like skin adorned with moss, performs squats with perfect form.

You watch as another group finishes up a class, laughing and chatting as they towel off and head to what is presumably the locker rooms. The camaraderie is palpable, with people of all shapes and sizes offering each other high-fives and chatting like old friends.

The receptionist gently touches your arm. "Would you like a quick tour before you start your trial session?"

You nod, still a bit conflicted. Everything you've seen so far is living up to Phoebe's promises, but the anxiety in your gut is far too resilient to be defeated this quickly.

"Great!" She looks around, eyes searching the gym floor, before finding her target and pointing at what you can only describe as a mountain of a Demon as he sits on a bench, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone. "That's Zeke, one of our personal trainers. He'll tell you all about the gym and guide you through your workout today, if you'd like."

"Uh…" You stammer. Everything and everyone has been welcoming so far, but you'd be lying if you weren't a bit intimidated by Zeke. Much of his deep crimson skin is on display thanks to his scant tank top and tiny shorts, crowned by a pair of curling onyx horns.

The receptionist notices your hesitation and gives you a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Zeke may look intimidating, but he's a sweetheart. He's Phoebe’s trainer, and actually our most popular one for newcomers."

Before you can protest, she calls out, "Hey Zeke! Got a new member here who could use a tour."

The massive Demon's head snaps up at the sound of his name, and a broad grin spreads across his face as he spots you. He stands, his impressive height becoming even more apparent as he makes his way over.

"Hey there! I'm Zzikaerax, but you can just call me Zeke," he says, his voice a deep rumble that you can almost feel in your chest. "Welcome to Temple of the Body!"

You introduce yourself, your voice sounding small in comparison. Zeke's presence is overwhelming, not just because of his size, but because of the sheer energy he exudes. His crimson skin seems to radiate warmth, and his onyx horns gleam under the gym's lights.

"First time here, huh?" Zeke asks, leaning in close. You catch a whiff of something spicy and intoxicating. "Don't worry, I'll take good care of you."

The receptionist chimes in, "Zeke's a lust Demon, but don't let that worry you. He's all about helping people feel good about themselves and their bodies."

Zeke nods enthusiastically. "That's right! Nothing makes me happier than seeing someone fall in love with fitness and their own body. Sweat is just foreplay for success, as I always say."

As he speaks, Zeke places a large hand on your shoulder, guiding you towards the gym floor. His touch is warm, almost hot, and you're not sure if it's because of his demonic nature or if it's just your own nervousness causing you to fixate on the contact.

"So, what are your fitness goals?" Zeke asks, his face inches from yours as he leans down to hear your response. "Strength? Flexibility? Or maybe you just want to feel more confident?"

You stammer out a vague answer about generally just getting your heart rate up, acutely aware of how close Zeke is standing. Is this normal in Honeycomb? You know that followers of Ishtar tend to be more physically affectionate, but you can't help the way your body reacts.

As you walk through the gym, Zeke's hand remains on your shoulder, occasionally sliding down to the small of your back as he guides you around equipment. His touch is gentle but firm, and you find yourself unsure whether to lean into it or step away.

"And over here we have our cardio section," Zeke says, gesturing with his free hand, "the second best way to get your heart rate up." He winks at you, and you feel a flush creep up your neck.

As Zeke guides you onto the gym floor, your heart races, and not just from anticipation of the workout. His massive hand rests on the small of your back, warm and impossibly large against your skin.

"Let's start with some basic stretches," he rumbles, his voice low and intimate. "Gotta make sure you're nice and limber."

You nod, not trusting your voice. Zeke positions himself behind you, his presence looming large.

"Arms up, reach for the sky," he instructs. As you comply, his hands ghost along your sides, ostensibly to check your form. "Good, now bend forward, try to touch your toes."

You lean down, feeling exposed. Zeke's hands slide down your back, fingertips tracing your spine. "Breathe deep," he murmurs, so close you can feel his breath on your neck.

With each new stretch, Zeke's touch lingers longer, grows bolder. He guides your hips into position for a lunge, fingers splayed across your waist. When you rotate your torso, his palm presses flat against your stomach, steadying you.

"How's that feel?" he asks, voice husky.

"Good," you manage to squeak out, unsure if you're referring to the stretch or his touch.

Zeke moves to face you, demonstrating a shoulder roll. "Like this," he says, reaching out to manipulate your arms. His fingers trail down to your wrists, circling them gently before releasing.

You can't ignore the heat radiating from his skin, the way his eyes seem to drink you in. Is this normal for a trainer? For a lust Demon? For Honeycomb?

"Last one," Zeke announces, moving behind you once more. "We'll do a standing backbend. Don't worry, I've got you."

His massive hands span your ribcage as you lean back, trusting him to support your weight. You feel the solid wall of muscle against your back, his breath hot on your ear.

"That's it," he encourages, "just relax into it."

You hold the position, hyper-aware of every point of contact between your bodies. Zeke's thumbs rub small circles on your sides, a gesture that feels more intimate than instructional.

As he helps you straighten up, his hands linger, sliding around to your stomach. You stand there, pressed against him, breath coming quick and shallow.

"How do you feel now?" Zeke asks, his voice a low purr.

You swallow hard, mind reeling. The warmth of his touch, the spicy scent of his skin, the raw energy emanating from him – it's all too much, too intense. And yet, you can't bring yourself to step away. Probably because you're so dedicated to this workout, right?

"Um… good," you admit, though 'good' at best is a lie of omission.

"Good!" Zeke gently claps the small of your back, sending more shivers up your spine. "Stretching is important to do before any exercise, whether it's a session at the gym or something more impromptu."

Zeke steps back, giving you space to breathe, to think. His smile is warm, inviting, as he moves into an open area of the gym. "Let's start with some basic strength exercises," he says, beckoning you to follow.

You mirror his stance as he demonstrates a squat, feet planted firmly on the ground, shoulders back. His muscles shift beneath his tank top, a mesmerizing display of controlled power. You try to focus on his form, on the way his knees bend and his hips hinge, but your eyes are drawn to the expanse of crimson skin stretching over hard muscle, the way his shorts cling to his thighs, barely containing the thick outline of his cock.

"Like this," he encourages, dropping into a deep squat. You mimic him, feeling the burn in your thighs, the stretch in your glutes. His eyes are on you, watching, assessing. You flush under his gaze, a mix of exertion and something else, something hot pooling in your stomach.

"Good," he praises, standing up. "Now, lunges."

He demonstrates the movement, one leg stretched out behind him, the other bent at the knee. His shorts ride up, revealing more of his thigh, the curve of his ass. You swallow hard, tearing your eyes away to focus on your own form.

You lunge forward, wobbling slightly. Zeke's hands are there instantly, steadying you. His touch is hot, searing through the thin fabric of your leggings. "Easy," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. "Take your time. It's not a race."

You nod, trying to ignore the heat of his hands, the way your heart is pounding in your chest. You lunge again, slower this time, more controlled. Zeke's hands follow you, guiding you, supporting you.

"That's it," he says, his voice like velvet. "You're doing great."

You can feel the sweat trickling down your spine, the flush in your cheeks. Zeke's eyes are on you, intense, focused. You can't look away, can't break the connection. There's something in his gaze, something hungry.

He steps closer, his hands still on your waist. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the spicy scent of his skin filling your nostrils. "You're strong," he says, his voice a low growl. "You just need to believe it."

You stand there, frozen, heart pounding. Zeke's hands slide around to your back, pulling you closer. You can feel the hard planes of his chest against yours, the thickness of his barely-contained cock pressed against your stomach.

"Zeke," you whisper, your voice barely audible. You're not sure if it's a protest or a plea.

He leans down, his breath hot on your ear. "Yes?"

Your hands are on his chest, his heart thudding under your palm. You can feel the power in him, the raw, untamed energy. It's frightening. Intoxicating. You're not sure what you want, what you're doing. But you're pretty sure you don't want him to stop.

"I...I don't know what I'm doing," you admit, your voice a whisper.

Zeke's lips curl into a smile, his eyes never leaving yours. "That's okay," he says, his voice a low purr. "I do."

His hands slide down to cup your ass, pulling you against him. You gasp, your eyes widening. He chuckles, a low, throaty sound that sends shivers down your spine. "Trust me," he says, his voice a soft growl.

And you do. You trust him, even though you barely know him. Even though he's a lust Demon, even though you're in the middle of a gym, even though this is all happening too fast. You trust him, because somehow, inexplicably, it feels right.

His lips brush against yours, a soft, gentle touch that sends sparks shooting through your veins. You melt into him, your hands sliding up to his shoulders, your fingers tangling in his horns. He groans, a low, hungry sound that sends a hot shiver coursing through you.

You're vaguely aware of the other people in the gym, of the clank of weights and the hum of conversation. But it all fades away, lost in the heat of Zeke's kiss, the feel of his hands on your body, the press of his cock against you.

He breaks the kiss, your breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes are like molten lava, hot and hungry. "You're doing amazing for a newbie," he growls, his voice a low rumble.

You can't speak, can't think. You look around, and nobody seems to be paying you any notice. All you can do is feel. Feel the heat of his body, the strength of his arms, the hardness of his cock. Is this sort of thing normal here? Is rutting your cock against someone the Honeycomb way of saying hello? Do the people around you just think Zeke is your boyfriend or something?

Zeke's hands slide under your top, his fingers tracing the curves of your body. You shiver, your breath hitching in your throat. His touch is like fire, burning away all your doubts, all your fears. Still, nobody is looking at you two. Not like you would be able to care right now, anyway.

"Zeke," you gasp, definitely a plea this time.

He smiles, a slow, wicked curve of his lips. "Yes?"

You can't answer, can't find the words. But you don't need to. Zeke knows what you want, what you need. And he's more than willing to give it to you.

His hands slide up, cupping your breasts through your sports bra. You arch into his touch, a moan escaping your lips. He chuckles, his thumbs circling your nipples, plucking a gasp from your lips.

"So…" he rumbles, lowering his hands and resting them on your hips, "we could stay out here, do some more core exercises… or we could take this somewhere else."

"Somewhere else?" You manage to get out. Zeke's eyes finally lose their lock on you, and you follow his gaze to a doorway towards the back of the gym.

You follow Zeke's gaze to the doorway at the back of the gym that you saw the class exit through earlier. He leads you towards it, his hand still resting on your hip, fingers tracing small circles that send shivers up your spine. The doorway is unassuming, blending into the wall, but as you step through, your breath catches. It leads to the locker room—just one.

The room is vast, tiled in shades of blue and green, with lockers lining one wall and showers along the other. Steam fills the air, and the scent of soap and something more primal hangs heavy. In the center, there are benches, mats, and towels scattered about. And people. Humans and metahumans in various states of undress, some showering, some intertwined with others, touching and moaning with satisfied pleasure.

Your eyes widen, taking it all in. Zeke's lips curl into a smirk as he watches your reaction. "Welcome to the real Temple of the Body," he rumbles, his voice echoing off the tiles. "This is why our members keep coming back."

He guides you further inside, his hand sliding from your hip to the small of your back. You can't help but stare. A Naga, her scales shimmering under the water, is entwined with a human in one of the shower stalls. On a mat, a Minotaur, his gold septum ring glinting, kneels behind a Dryad, his hands exploring her bark-like skin as his massive cock grows from soft and drooping to hard and leaking.

"Zeke, what..." you start, but his finger presses against your lips, silencing you.

"Shh, no judgments here," he says, his eyes never leaving yours. "This is a reward for working hard, for improving yourself every day."

He steers you to an empty bench, his hands on your shoulders, gentle but firm, pushing you down. You sit, the tile cold against your thighs. Zeke stands over you, his crimson skin a stark contrast to the pale blue of the locker room.

"You're curious," he says, his voice low, commanding. "I can see it in your eyes. You're shy but you want to be just like them."

You swallow hard, unsure how to defend yourself against an accusation so true. Zeke takes your silence as consent, dropping to his knees in front of you. His hands grip your thighs, spreading them apart, making room for him. Looking between his horns, the Minotaur from earlier has the Dryad speared on his cock, bouncing her on his lap as she cries out.

"Let's start slow," he growls, his eyes locked onto yours. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your leggings. He tugs, and you lift your hips, allowing him to pull them off. The tepid, humid air hits your skin, sending goosebumps racing up your legs.

Zeke's hands roam, cupping your calves, kneading your thighs. His touch is firm, possessive. He leans in, his breath hot on your inner thigh. "You smell delicious," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against your skin.

Your heart hammers in your chest as his hands move higher, gripping your hips, thumbs digging into your flesh. His eyes are fixed on your breasts, heaving with each ragged breath. He licks his lips, a hungry, primal gesture that sends a surge of heat through you.

"Look at you," he growls. "So soft." His hands move up, cupping your breasts through your sports bra. You gasp as his thumbs find your nipples, circling, teasing. The fabric is thin—too thin to even tell it’s there.

You squirm under his gaze, his touch. It's too much, too intense. But Zeke holds you firm, his hands demanding, his eyes commanding. "Don't move," he orders, his voice harsh. "Let me explore you."

His hands move to your back, unhooking your bra with a swift, practiced motion. He pulls it off, baring you to his gaze. You shiver, resisting the urge to cover yourself. Zeke's eyes drink you in, his pupils dilating.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he rasps, his hands cupping your breasts, lifting them, squeezing them. His touch is rough, just shy of painful, but it sends jolts of pleasure coursing through you.

He leans in, his tongue flicking out, teasing your nipple. You gasp, arching into the warmth of his licks. He chuckles, a low, throaty sound. "Sensitive, aren't you?" he murmurs, before taking your nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.

You cry out, your hands finding their way to his horns, gripping them tightly. Zeke groans, the sound vibrating against your skin. He pulls back, his eyes meeting yours. "You like that?" he asks, his voice a low rumble. "You like it rough?"

You nod, breathless, unable to speak. Zeke's lips curl into a wicked smile. "Good," he says, his hands gripping your breasts, squeezing and kneading them. "Because I like it rough too."

His mouth finds your other nipple, biting, sucking, as his hands continue to explore your body. You're lost in a sea of sensation, drowning in the feel of his hands, his mouth, his body pressed against yours.

Zeke's hands slide down, gripping your hips, digging into your flesh. He pulls you to the edge of the bench, pressing his body between your thighs. You can feel the hard length of him, the heat of him, even through his shorts.

He grinds against you, his mouth finding yours, kissing you deeply. His tongue invades your mouth, claiming you. You moan into his kiss, your hands still gripping his horns, holding on for dear life.

Zeke pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes wild. "Fuck, you're driving me crazy," he growls. "I want to taste you."

His hands move to your thighs, spreading them wider. You're exposed, vulnerable, but you trust him. You want this. You need this.

Zeke leans in, his breath hot on your core. You tremble, anticipating his touch. But he hesitates, his eyes meeting yours. "Is this okay?" he asks, his voice surprisingly gentle for a moment.

You nod, breathless. "Yes," you manage to gasp out. "Please."

The gentleness disappears. Zeke's hands grip your thighs, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. His breath is hot on your skin, sending shivers up your spine. You can feel his hunger, his desire, in every touch, every movement. His long, forked tongue flicks out, rough against your clit, and your legs shake in response. A gasp escapes your lips, your hands grasping at the bench, searching for something to ground you.

Zeke's tongue works magic on your flesh, each stroke sending jolts of pleasure coursing through you. You can't help but squirm under his touch, your hips bucking against his mouth. He chuckles, a low, throaty sound that vibrates against your skin. "Eager, aren't you?" he murmurs, his eyes gleaming with amusement and desire.

You flush, a mix of embarrassment and arousal heating your cheeks. Zeke's smirk widens, his tongue circling your clit with a teasing slowness. "Don't fight it," he growls, his hands sliding up to grip your hips, holding you firmly in place. "Let go. Submit to it."

Your breath hitches in your throat, your body tensing as his tongue flicks against you, relentless and demanding. The pressure builds, coiling and ready to snap. You can feel the eyes of the others on you, watching, waiting. It's overwhelming, intoxicating, pushing you closer to the edge.

Zeke senses your hesitation, your resistance. He pulls back, his eyes meeting yours, intense and commanding. "Look at them," he orders, his voice harsh. "They're all watching you, wanting you. They can see how much you need this, how much you want it."

You do as he says, your gaze flicking around the room. A Naga's eyes are locked onto you, her hand moving faster and faster over her slit, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The Minotaur has turned to watch you, his cock hard and dripping as it presses against the Dryad's ass. She looks at you too, her eyes eager as she takes a break from the Minotaur's pounding.

"See?" Zeke murmurs, his breath hot on your skin. "We're all the same, really. Even your Dryad friend loves bouncing on my cock after a run on the treadmill."

His words break down the last of your resistance. You let go, surrendering to the sensation, to the desire. Your body tenses, your muscles clenching tightly, and then you're falling, tumbling over the edge into a sea of pleasure.

Zeke's tongue never stops, never relents, drawing out your orgasm, wringing every last drop of pleasure from your body. You cry out, your voice echoing off the tiled walls, joining the rest of the searing hot orgasms around you. Your body shakes, your legs trembling, your hands gripping the bench so tightly your knuckles turn white.

As the waves of pleasure subside, you collapse back onto the bench, your body limp and sated. Zeke lifts his head, his lips glistening with your juices, a smug smile on his face. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Good girl," he praises, his voice a low purr. "You did so well."

You can't speak, can't form words. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your heart pounding in your chest. Zeke stands, his body towering over you, his cock hard and straining against his shorts. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear.

"But we're not done yet," he rumbles, his voice dark. "Not until I've had my fun with these."

Zeke's hands claim your breasts again, his fingers splayed possessively over their softness. He seems entranced, his gaze locked onto the generous curves, his thumbs tracing the delicate line of your collarbone before dipping down to circle your nipples. You can't ignore the raw hunger in his eyes, the unapologetic want that has him captivated.

"Fuck, I could get lost in these things,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that resonates through you. His hands are rough, kneading and squeezing, as if he can't get enough of the feel of you. You gasp as his fingers pinch your nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain coursing through you.

He releases you, only to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his tiny shorts. With a swift, confident motion, he pulls them down, revealing his cock. It springs free, thick and hard, the tip glistening with precum. You stare, your heart pounding in your chest. It's intimidating, the size of it, the thickness, the weight. Not to mention the heavy balls hanging beneath, full with his lust.

Zeke chuckles, a sound like distant thunder, as he sees your expression. "Don't worry," he says, his voice a soothing growl. "I'm don't feel like pussy right now." He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. "I want to fuck these lovely, heavy breasts first. I want to slide my cock between them until I paint your face."

His words send a shiver down your spine, a mix of relief and anticipation. You look up at him, your eyes wide, your lips slightly parted. Zeke smiles, a slow, wicked curve of his lips. He straddles the bench, his powerful thighs framing your body, his cock jutting out proudly.

"Come here," he orders, his voice gentle yet commanding. He guides your hands to your breasts, encouraging you to cup them, to lift them to meet him. You do as he says, your fingers sinking into the soft flesh, your heart racing. Zeke groans, his eyes darkening as he watches you. "Fuck, that's hot," he murmurs. "Always wanted to do this."

He shifts closer, his cock resting heavy and hot on your breasts. You look down at it, a bead of precum dripping onto your skin, marking you. Zeke's hands cover yours, squeezing, molding your breasts around his cock. He starts to move, a slow, steady thrust that sends his cock sliding through the valley of your breasts.

The sensation is strangely gratifying. The heat of him, the hardness, the wetness of his precum slicking the way. You look up at Zeke, his face a mask of concentration and pleasure, his horns casting dramatic shadows on the wall behind him. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his body tensing with each thrust.

"Fuck, you feel amazing," he growls, his eyes locked onto yours. "Your skin, your softness... it's driving me crazy."

You can't look away, can't break the connection. You're entranced, caught up in the raw, primal rhythm of his body. Your hands surrender to his commands, squeezing your breasts tighter around him, creating more friction, more pleasure.

Zeke's thrusts become faster, more urgent. His breath hitches, his body tenses. He's close, you can feel it. You can see it in the wildness of his eyes, the strain of his muscles. His cock swells, the tip turning a deep, angry red.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he grunts, his voice barely more than a growl. His hands move to your face, cupping your cheeks, his thumbs tracing your lips. "I want to paint your face with my cum. Get ready!"

Your heart pounds in your chest, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. You're nervous, excited, aroused—too many things all at once. But you trust him. You want this. You want to feel him, to feel the heat of his seed on your skin.

Zeke's body goes rigid, a roar ripping through his throat. His cock pulses, hot streams of cum shooting out, painting your breasts, your chest, your face. It's dirty, it's raw, it's intimate. You gasp, your body trembling as you feel the heat of him, the possessiveness of his mark.

His breath slows, his body relaxing. He looks down at you, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Fuck, you look good like this," he murmurs, his thumb smearing a drop of cum across your cheek.

You can't speak, can't form words. Your body is still trembling, your mind still reeling. Zeke leans down, licking some of himself off you before his lips brush against yours in a soft, gentle kiss.

He pulls back, his eyes searching yours. "You okay?" he asks, his voice soft, the gentleness from earlier returning.

You nod, a small smile playing on your lips. "Yes," you manage to whisper. "I'm okay."

Zeke smiles back, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. "Good," he says, his voice a low rumble. "Let's get you cleaned up, then."

Zeke stands, offering you his hand. You take it, your legs still shaky, and he leads you towards the showers. The room is filled with steam, the sound of water hitting tile echoing off the walls. You pass by a Succubus, her midnight blue skin glistening as she moves under the spray, her hands braced against the wall as a Satyr fucks her from behind. She hisses in pleasure, her spade-tipped tail coiling around his leg, pulling him deeper.

You look away, a blush heating your cheeks. Zeke chuckles, squeezing your hand. "Don't be shy, babe. Everyone's just enjoying themselves here."

He leads you to an empty showerhead, turning the knob until water cascades down. He tests the temperature, adjusting it until he's satisfied. Then he turns to you, his hands on your shoulders, guiding you under the spray.

The water is hot, soothing your muscles, washing away the sweat and cum from your skin. You close your eyes, tilting your head back, letting the water run over your face. Zeke's hands are gentle as he lathers soap onto a towel, washing you with careful, deliberate movements.

"You did good out there," he says, his voice a low rumble. "Pushed yourself. That's what this place is about. Pushing limits, finding boundaries."

You open your eyes, looking up at him. His horns are dark against the bright tile, his eyes intent on his task. He's being gentle, caring, but there's still that self-assured smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. It's like this was his plan from the beginning; while you were losing control, feverish and horny, this was just another day at work for him.

"It's weird," you admit, your voice soft. "Being here, doing... this. It's not what I expected."

Zeke laughs, a deep, throaty sound. "That's the point, babe. Expect the unexpected. That's where growth happens."

He runs the washrag over your breasts, your stomach, between your legs. His touch is clinical, but there's an intimacy to it that sends a warm flush through you. He's taking care of you, in his own way.

Next to you, the Succubus cries out, her body writhing as she comes. The Satyr grunts, his hands gripping her hips as he finds his own release. You watch, your breath hitching, as they slow, their bodies still joined.

Zeke follows your gaze, a small smile on his face. "See? Everyone's just here to feel good. Nothing to be embarrassed about."

He turns you around, washing your back, your ass. His hands are firm, confident. You can feel his cock, hard again, pressing against your hip. But he makes no move to take things further, content to just wash you, touch you.

"You're tense," he says, his thumbs digging into the muscles of your shoulders. "Relax. Cooling down is just as important as warming up."

You take a deep breath, trying to let the tension go. Zeke's hands move to your neck, your scalp, massaging gently. It feels good, too good. You can feel yourself melting under his touch, your body leaning into his.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice approving. "Just let go."

He turns you back around, rinsing the soap from your body. His eyes meet yours, his expression soft. "You're strong, you know that? Stronger than you think."

You shake your head, a small smile on your face. "I'm not strong. I'm... I'm just me."

Zeke's hands cup your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks. "You can be both."

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It's gentle, chaste, a surprising contrast to his earlier roughness. You kiss him back, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

When he pulls back, his eyes are soft, warm. "Feel better?" he asks.

You nod, a sense of contentment washing over you. "Yes. Thank you."

He grins, his smugness returning. "Told you I'd take good care of you."

He turns off the water, grabbing a towel from a nearby shelf. He wraps it around you, his hands rubbing your arms, warming you. You step out of the shower, your eyes sweeping over the room.

The Minotaur and the Dryad are gone, their shower empty. The Naga and the Satyr are cleaning up, their bodies slick with soap, their movements languid, sated. You watch them, a sense of peace settling over you.

–––

You grip the steering wheel tightly, knuckles still flushed from the shower's heat and Zeke's touch. The city lights blur past as you drive home, the rumble of the engine echoing your pulsing heart. With a trembling hand, you dial Phoebe.

"Phoebe," you say, voice tight, "you could've warned me about the gym. And Zeke. And the locker room… and everything else!"

A soft laugh echoes through the line. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry. I thought you'd find it exciting. A little adventure."

"Adventure?" You scoff, but your voice lacks real anger. "Phoebe, it was an orgy. And Zeke... he was..." You trail off, remembering his hands, his tongue, his commands.

"He was what?" Phoebe asks, her voice laced with amusement.

You sigh, admitting, "He was intense. And I... I bought a membership."

Phoebe laughs again, a sound like leaves rustling. "I knew you'd like it. Zeke has that effect on people."

"You could've told me," you grumble, but there's no heat in your words. You find yourself curious, eager even. "You know, told me anything at all."

Phoebe hesitates, then begins, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Told you what? That he loves fucking me after a run? That he says he loves how my body moves, how my vines pulse with magic when I come."

You swallow hard, your body already heating at the image. "Okay, first, TMI. Second… your vines… do they really do that?"

"Mm-hmm," Phoebe hums. "It's like every nerve ending is on fire. He likes to run his tongue along them, make me shake and shiver."

You shift in your seat, your body aching at the mental image. "Goodness." A small gasp escapes your lips.

"You okay?" Phoebe asks, concern in her voice.

"Fine," you breathe. "Just... remembering."

Phoebe laughs softly. "Good memories, I hope. Did he stick it in you on your first day?"

"No, and I'm glad he didn't, honestly," you chuckle, a nervous reaction to the heat rushing to your cheeks. "Um, Phoebe, I should go. I'm almost home."

"Alright, girl," she says, her voice warm. "But don't think you're getting off that easy. We're having coffee tomorrow, and you're telling me everything."

You laugh, a mix of embarrassment and excitement bubbling up. "Fine, fine. But you're buying."

"Deal," Phoebe agrees. "Get some rest, you'll need it for your next session."

Pulling into your parking spot, you kill the engine and sit for a moment. Your body aches in places you didn't know could ache, but there's a satisfaction underneath it all. A sense of accomplishment, of pushing your boundaries.

The moment you step out of your cozy room, you're dragged by the nose downstairs towards the aroma of fresh croissants. As you step into the kitchen, Evangeline pulls a baking sheet with half a dozen of them out of the oven, her tail wagging with satisfaction.

"Good morning, dear," she greets you, moving with impressive speed to set out a plate and silverware for you in the breakfast nook. "How did you sleep?"

"Perfectly," you reply, playing hot potato with a fresh croissant as you sit at your plate. 

"I've forgotten how nice it is to sleep in a real bed. I seriously considered never getting up."

"Well that just wouldn't do!" She smiles warmly, baring her sharp canines. "Otherwise, who would I share breakfast with?" She turns her back on you for a moment to reach for jugs on the counter. "Coffee, orange juice, water?" She offers.

"Coffee, please," you ask. You heft your camera off your shoulder strap and onto the table, where it's joined by a mug of steaming coffee. You don't have to be a coffee snob to tell by smell alone that this is better than the freeze-dried stuff you had with you on the trail.

"You're a photographer, I take it?" Evangeline asks, eyeing your toaster-sized camera.

"I am," you say between bites of warm croissant. She smiles as you enjoy her delicious handiwork.

"Is that what brings you to Willow Grove?"

You think while you chew. Yes, you could tell her that you're here because you hiked five months to find a Moth you hooked up with in the woods, whose full name and contact info you don't even know, and you're sorta hoping to just bump into him in town and...

"Pretty much," you lie. "I took lots of photos on the trail, and I guess I didn't want to go straight back to the big city. Willow Grove is a very pretty town." That last part is honest.

"Well you are in for a treat." Evangeline leans in, elbows on the counter. She's proud of her town and her tail wagging is proof. "If you're looking for something to do today, I'd love to help you with some recommendations of mine."

"That would be lovely." Just like that, your croissant is nothing but crumbs, so you sip your coffee.

"Well, I think you should start at our library." Evangeline reads your mind and grabs you another warm croissant. "I'm sure you would find the archival photos there interesting. There are some from nearly a hundred years ago on the microfiche."

"Wow. That's pretty good archiving." You start working on the second croissant. You're drawn in by the chance to see this town in photos a century old. The town already feels so steeped in history; you'd love being able to see it for real.

"For a town this size it's unheard of. The library really is the centerpiece of the town. It's the only building with three stories and it's a beauty, too. It's all red brick and stained glass on the outside, with stained wood and brass fittings on the inside. It's pretty enough to photograph on its own, now that I think of it."

"I'll have to do that, then," you chew. "Thank you for the recommendation, Evangeline. I'd be lost without your help."

"Of course, dear. Don't hesitate come by and chat with me again."

You nod eagerly and thank her again. Between Evangeline's generosity and the small town charm, Willow Grove was growing on you. Once you finish your coffee and croissant, your camera finds itself slung on your shoulder once again and you set off, stepping out into the crisp Autumn air.

The walk to the library is a pleasant one, with the scent of fallen leaves and woodsmoke in the air. As you approach the building, you see what Evangeline meant when she said it was the town's centerpiece. The red brick exterior is adorned with intricate stained-glass windows depicting scenes of nature and the townspeople. Where the morning light shines on the exterior just right, you frame a shot and snap a photo.

Stepping inside, you're greeted by the rich, dark wood interior that oozes warmth and history. If you weren't drawn here by the lure of the archival photos (and didn't have a Mothman to find), you'd want nothing more than to curl up in a warm corner and finish a book in one sitting. Your eyes are drawn to the towering bookshelves that seem to reach for the heavens, each equipped with rolling ladders to access the highest volumes.

Following Evangeline's advice, you make your way to the microfiche room, eager to delve into the historical photographs she had mentioned. Upon entering, you find yourself alone under the dim lighting with only the sound of analogue machinery as various machines hum and click around you.

You take a seat at one of the microfiche machines, both eager and intimidated. You're no stranger to old tech, but you've never used one of these, and the machine's knobs and scroll wheels seem don't match anything you've used before. With determination, you begin to attempt operation, threading a nearby spool of delicate film through the machine and squinting at the projected images on the screen.

Despite your best efforts, the machine proves stubborn and uncooperative. The images refuse to focus properly, and the scroll wheel seems to have a mind of its own as it either moves too fast or not at all. Growing increasingly frustrated, you ball your hands into fists and fight the urge to smack the machine. You'd probably end up more damaged than the machine if you did.

"Ugh," you mutter under your breath, trying to channel your patience and remind yourself that it's just an old machine. "Why won't you cooperate?"

Taking a deep breath, you look around the dimly lit room, seeking solace in the quiet space. As your eyes adjust to the low light, you notice the intricate details of the machinery and the countless reels of microfiche waiting to be explored. Thinking about the long history of this town and the fact you're only one of many people determined to photograph it and record its charm calms you down a bit.

You refocus your attention on the stubborn machine, steeling yourself for another attempt at coaxing it into cooperation.

Just as you're about to touch the scroll wheel again, a gentle tap on your shoulder startles you. Your heart leaps into your throat as you spin around, only to find Desmond standing behind you with a warm smile on his face. 

"Hey there," he says softly, his big red eyes sparkling with amusement. "Need a hand?"

"Desmond!" you exclaim, unable to contain your joy at seeing him again. With a mix of delight and relief, you sweep him into a tight hug, lifting his featherlight frame off the ground for a moment. His fluffy wings flutter against your back, and you can't help but smile even wider.

"Wow, someone got pretty swole on the trail," Desmond jokes awkwardly as you set him back down, his chitinous features accentuating his shy grin. "I'm glad to see you too."

"Sorry, I just got carried away," you apologize, cheeks burning a little. "It's been so long since we last saw each other."

"Yeah, it really has," he agrees, rubbing the back of his neck. "How have things been for you since we... parted ways?"

"Tiring, but good," you reply, trying to focus on the positive aspects of hiking and living like a caveman. "I actually finished the trail just a few days ago. You weren't kidding when you said the town was right near the trail's end."

"Well, welcome back to civilization. I don't need to reintegrate you to society do I?" He teases.

"Shut up," you land a playful shove against his shoulder. "What are you doing in the library, anyway? You haven't been stalking me since I got into town, have you?" You tease back.

"Actually, I work here. It's what I did before I hiked the trail and it's good to be back."

Desmond the Librarian just seems too fitting for him. "How's life as a librarian?" You ask.

"Quiet, mostly," Desmond admits with a chuckle. "But I like it. It gives me time to read and watch old movies, which is nice. Plus, I get to help people find what they're looking for, whether it's a book or a piece of microfiche."

"Speaking of which," you say, gesturing toward the stubborn machine, "any tips on how to make this damn thing work?"

"Of course," Desmond says, stepping closer to the microfiche machine. With a few deft movements of his slender fingers, he adjusts the knobs and scroll wheels, and the image on the screen comes into focus.

"Thanks," you say with relief. "I was about to give up on this thing."

"Anytime," he replies with a warm smile. Then, he glances around for a moment before leaning in slightly, voice hushed as if by instinct in the quiet library. "Hey, do you want to see something really cool?"

"Sure, what is it?" you ask, your curiosity piqued.

"Come with me," Desmond says, leading you out of the dimly lit microfiche room and toward a staircase tucked away in the back corner of the library. "There's a private office upstairs with an amazing view of the town. I think you'll like it."

As you ascend the stairs, you notice the atmosphere shifting from the cozy bustle of the library to a serene, quieter space. The dark wood paneling continues upwards, and the scent of old books melds with the faintest hint of dust.

Desmond opens the door to the private office, revealing a room filled with antique furniture and more floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A large, arched window dominates one wall, offering a stunning view of Willow Grove below.

"Wow, this place is incredible," you breathe, taking in the beauty of the room and the town beyond. Townspeople below mill about, getting ready for a lazy morning. You can see the cafes on the main street starting to fill up and people driving their cars on the winding roads to the neighboring towns.

"I thought you might like it," Desmond says, a hint of pride in his voice. "It's one of my favorite spots in the library."

You both step closer to the window, absorbing the breathtaking view and enjoying each other's company in the peaceful atmosphere of the office.

"You know, um..." Desmond starts, fidgeting with his neck fluff, "I'm happy to see you again. I'm glad decided to find me again."

"Me too." You sidle up to him, enjoying the warmth of one of his wings. "I worried you'd think I was crazy, or you'd have gotten over me, or..."

Desmond stops you. "No, not at all. "I'll admit, this would have been much easier if I just gave you my number," he chuckles, "but it just didn't feel right back then, you know? But now that some time has passed and I've gotten to be on my own for a bit... this feels right, having you with me."

"Thank you," you reply, touched by his words. Your heart swells, and the knowledge that Desmond is just as happy as you are to be here has your face filling with warmth. If Evangeline's croissants were a feeling, they'd be closest to the sensation of Desmond wrapping a soft, warm, fuzzy wing around you as you both watch Willow Grove come to life.

Just as you're about to stand on your tiptoes to plant a kiss on him somewhere, the door behind you swings open.

"Desmond, I need to talk to you about..." The voice, strong and low like dark chocolate, trails off as the Mothwoman enters the room and spots you. Immediately, an aura of coldness and intimidation emanates from her, making the air heavy with tension. She's taller even than Desmond, and her black wings, spiderwebbed with streaks of white, wrap around her like a cloak.

"Who is this?" she demands, her gaze fixed on you. The warmth in the room dissipates like a snuffed out candle.

"Mom, this is my friend," Desmond says, trying to defuse the situation. "We met on the Appalachian Trail a while back."

"Friend?" Samara narrows her eyes, suspicious of your presence. Her overprotectiveness of Desmond is palpable, making you feel like an intruder in their world.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs... um..." You stammer, offering your hand in a polite gesture.

"Samara," she replies icily, ignoring your extended hand. She turns her attention back to Desmond. "You never mentioned any new friends from your trip."

"Ah, well, we just recently got back in touch," Desmond explains, his voice wavering slightly under his mother's scrutiny.

"Is that so?" Samara regards you with a steely gaze, her tone accusatory. She begins asking terse, probing questions, attempting to assess you as if you were a threat. "How did you meet? Why are you here in Willow Grove?"

"Um, we met by chance on the trail," you respond, feeling uneasy under her intense stare. "As for the rest, I'm just here to take some photographs. It's a hobby of mine." You try to remain polite, but can't help being taken aback by her coldness.

"Photographs," she repeats skeptically, looking you up and down. There's something unspoken in her expression, a hint of distrust that you can't quite decipher.

"Mom, please," Desmond interjects, coming to your defense. "It's really not a big deal. We're just catching up."

"Fine," Samara relents, her tone still chilly. "But don't plan on spending all day with her. You're needed at the circulation desk soon." With that, she gives you one last lingering glare before turning and leaving the room as abruptly as she had entered.

You stand there in the wake of her departure, heart pounding, as the atmosphere slowly begins to return to near-normal.

"Sorry about that," Desmond says with an apologetic grimace. "My mom can be a bit... overprotective."

"Is she always like this?" you ask, still reeling from the encounter.

"Unfortunately, yes," he admits. "Especially lately, with the town's Founding Festival coming up. She's been under a lot of stress." He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly before continuing, "I guess I should let you know she's the mayor of Willow Grove, so the responsibility of overseeing the whole event falls on her."

"Your mom is the mayor?" Your jaw goes a bit slack. Having his mom dislike you is one thing, but when she runs the whole town? You try to shake off the lingering unease, focusing instead on the warmth of Desmond's wing as he returns to your side and rests his hand on your shoulder.

"Yeah," he chuckles nervously. "She's a bit of a local celebrity around here. I'm really sorry for how she acted towards you. I promise, it's not personal."

"Thanks," you say, managing a small smile. "I appreciate you sticking up for me."

"Of course," Desmond replies, his gentle eyes meeting yours. "You're important to me, and I don't want my mom's behavior to drive you away."

The sincerity in his voice makes your heart flutter, but there's also a pang of disappointment. When he had introduced you as "just a friend" earlier, it had stung a little, even though you understood why he did it. You wonder if that's all you can be to him when Samara is around – just a friend.

Desmond seems to sense your uncertainty, and hesitantly reaches out to take your hand. "Hey," he says softly, "if you're up for it, I'd love to take you on a real date soon. Somewhere outside of this dusty old library."

"Really?" The hopefulness in your chest flares up at his words.

"Absolutely," he confirms, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. "I want to show you the town and get to know you even better."

Uvor lifted you gently, as he always was, and you could just barely see above the trees. A column of steam as wide around as a neighborhood lazily rose into the overcast sky.

"Wow..." you couldn't contain your wonder. You had never seen anything like it before, yet Uvor apparently came here every day.

"You'll feel much better once you're in the warm water. I promise." He smiled faintly, still focusing on the safe navigation of the untamed forest.

A stray raindrop struck you in the face. "Warm water sounds amazing right now," you said, wiping it away with a wool mitten.

After a little more lurching travel, you arrived at the destination Uvor promised. Once he set you down on the forest floor, just on the edge of the clearing, all you could see were multitudes of steaming pools stacked atop one another like tiers on a wedding cake.

"Uvor, this place is beautiful," you gasped, surprised this hadn't already been turned into a tourist attraction. "You come here every day?"

"Indeed," he boomed, his voice always large enough to shake the ground you stood on, "It's the reason I don't smell. I'm very grateful." He smiled and squatted next to you.

"So I guess I should, uh..." you hesitated, the cold air biting your cheeks, "undress before I get in?"

"I could keep you warm on the way back," Uvor explained, "but it would be easier if your clothes were dry."

"Got it," you answered, still not entirely ready to disrobe. Sure, Uvor was as caring and gentle of a boyfriend you could ask for, but going au naturale in front of him was a new, yet not unexpected line to cross.

Uvor sensed your hesitation. You had been standing idly in the cold rain with steamy hot springs just before you, after all. "If you want to keep your underwear on, that's okay too," he added gently.

"No, I'm not going home with soggy underwear." You found the resolve to undress, starting with your coat. Uvor and you had talked at length about boundaries and comfort and such, and a slightly bolder version of you from the past agreed that this trip to the hot springs was meant to be a romantic—and nude—one.

Uvor offered a hand to you while you shucked your bulky autumn clothing off. One by one you tossed your coat, your sweater, your shirt, your pants, and so on into his waiting hand like it was a laundry basket at home. Once the last of it was safe in his grasp, you jogged across the cold clay ground into an eagerly awaiting hot spring. The warmth was divine.

"Oh, this is perfect," you sighed contentedly, vapor from your breath joining the steam as it rose towards the sky. Just as you rested your head against the earthen lip of the pool, the ground shook. Uvor had done away with his loincloth and gently sat down in a pool that was large enough to accommodate him just next to yours.

“Isn’t it?” Uvor sounded pleased with himself. He reached over, dipping his huge hand into the water beside you, offering it. You leaned against his wrist at first before deciding just to sit in his hand again. He held you perfectly under the balmy water.

"Thank you, Uvor," you leaned back and closed your eyes. Cool mist dotted your face. "I know I was hesitant to come out here with you, but..." you blushed. The warmth and steam had distracted you from the fact that you were now completely naked and sitting in your boyfriend's hand.

"But?" Uvor's middle finger curled, gently spreading your thighs apart as it nestled between them.

"But I'm glad I did." You tentatively accepted his advances. You parted your legs just a bit more, blushing, and allowed yourself to straddle his middle finger, his index and ring fingers holding your thighs in place like warm pillows.

"Mm," he grumbled, satisfied. "Me too." His finger curled further until all your weight rested on it. You gasped. His heartbeat pulsed in between your legs... and gradually got faster.

You leaned forward and grabbed his fingertip like you were riding a rocking horse.

"You seem eager." You could hear the smirk in his voice.

"So do you." You turned back and looked at him and returned a smirk of your own. There was still a kindness in his eyes, but backlit by desire. He was trembling at how delicate and soft you felt in his hands... and something else, too.

His finger curled. You gasped at the sudden movement and how it rubbed against you. Despite being a giant who spent most of his time in nature, the skin on his hands was soft. The grooves that gave you fingerprints instead gave him lovely, supple bumps that rubbed against your tender sex.

"Uvor," you said, your breath catching a bit, "that... that feels good." The admission made your face burn hotter than the springs.

"Mm," he rumbled, almost teasing. "Would you like me to move?"

"Um, a little," you answered, eyes closed as warmth built between your legs.

"As you wish, my little bloom." He uncurled his finger. It rose slightly, pressing against your pussy gently. When you gripped his fingertip and moved your hips, a moan escaped you. Pleasure surged through you. The spring felt hotter, the steam thicker. Your breath took a moment to catch up.

"Good?" He asked, feeling you melt in his hand.

"Y-yeah." You started to pant. Your trepidation before this outing was cleared away by the hot steam. More movement with your hips. Your knuckles went white as you clung to his fingertip. The steam in front of your face spun away from you in silky swirls with each hot breath.

Back and forth. Every nerve in your body lit up when your clit found purchase on his hot, soft skin. Your eyes scrunched shut.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Uvor rumbled. He reached across with his other hand to delicately cradle your face between his large thumb and forefinger. “Are you close?”

“Y-yeah...” you squeaked, your breath short and legs beginning to shake.

"Come for me." His heartbeat between your quaking legs was impossibly warm. "Come for me, little bloom."

Pleasure exploded within you as your clit rubbed against his tender skin. You gasped, shaking. Your knuckles went white, holding on to Uvor as you rode out your orgasm. It was hot—too hot—and after crying out to the overcast sky, you fell back and lied against his wrist. Your glassy eyes saw stars.

"Are you okay?"

You came so hard it felt like the wind was knocked out of you. Breaths came unevenly, and your voice was small. "I'm... yeah..." you tried to say, drowned out by the bubbling noises of the springs.

Immediately, as you gasped at his speed, Uvor lifted you from the water and sat up, holding you before him. He cradled you in both hands as cool air rushed around you and stray rain droplets peppered your skin. He wore an expression of concern, examining you.

"What was that for?" You asked, slightly put off by the cold that shocked you out of your post-orgasmic stupor.

"I was worried," his eyebrows softened, and he let out a breath he seemed to be holding. "I thought I... hurt you, or the springs gave you heat stroke, or..."

"I'm fine," you reassured him, standing in his palms and reaching out to touch his stubbly cheek. The moment your hand met his skin even more tension left his face and shoulders.

"I'm sorry for ruining the moment," he rumbled, his eyes no longer on you, downcast.

"You didn't ruin anything. I just..." you had cooled down, but heat returned to your cheeks as you prepared the words, "I just came really hard, thanks to you, big guy."

You could feel heat rise in his cheeks too. "I... uh... I'm glad." He couldn't find the words.

"Good talk." You chuckled, patting his cheek. He chuckled with you, flashing that goofy grin of his. "Why don't you set me down in the water again? It's cold up here."

"Good morning, Willow Grove! It's your favorite voice, Martha, back again to brighten up your morning here on WG 98.5. What's the buzz around town, you ask? Well, let's dive in with the morning news!

Remember the Langston's garden gnome that mysteriously disappeared last week? Yes, that cherubic one with the red pointy hat. Well, it's been found! Our mayor's son, Desmond, found it perched on a pine tree during his nightly flight. Nothing like some harmless mischief to add a dash of excitement to our lives, isn't it?

Now, our Selkie friend, Bella, deserves some applause. She's just returned from a successful sardine run. Ah, to be blessed with such fresh catch for the upcoming town bake-off! Do drop by the dock to show some love. I'm sure she's got something delicious in the works.

On the Lupine side of things, have you seen the majestic new mural on the side of the grocer's? Talented painter and Lupine, Marla, has been adding the finishing touches under the moonlight. Don't miss it when you're in town for groceries, it's a true masterpiece.

Now, for the drumroll, folks! In just under two weeks, our favorite time of the year will be upon us. That's right, the annual Founding Festival is right around the corner! I can already taste the moon cakes and hear the shell flutes piping. Mothpeople, Selkies, Lupines, and Humans alike, let's get ready to celebrate the vibrant tapestry that makes Willow Grove our home. So, mark your calendars, folks!

That's all for the morning roundup, Willow Grove. Let's have a splendid day and remember - keep your smiles wide and your hearts open. Martha, signing off. Now, the music."

***

As you stand at the edge of Willow Grove, your heart swells with a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. The last leg of your hike along the Appalachian Trail has left you feeling haggard, your once-neat hiking outfit now with far too many holes, and the straps of your camera bag digging into your shoulders. But as you gaze upon the town, you can't help but feel that it was all worth it.

"Here goes nothing," you whisper to yourself, taking a deep breath and stepping onto the cobblestone streets.

The quaint charm of the town immediately envelopes you. The buildings are an eclectic mix of architectural styles – from Victorian cottages to modern storefronts, each adorned with colorful shutters and planter boxes overflowing with flowers. The scent of fresh-baked bread wafts through the air, tempting you to forget everything and eat your way into a carb coma.

"Wow," you murmur under your breath, already feeling your weary limbs lightening at the sight of this picturesque haven. It's unlike any place you've ever been before, and yet, it feels strangely like home.

You walk further into town, your eyes drinking in the lush, wooded surroundings. Leaves of every shade of green rustle gently above you, casting dappled sunlight onto the cobbled path. Birds flit between the branches, their cheerful melodies sounding suspiciously like a welcome. You can't resist snapping a few photos with your trusty film camera, capturing the beauty of this magical place. Maybe Desmond would like these shots; perhaps he'd be proud that you followed through on your promise to visit his hometown.

"Keep it together," you chide yourself, shaking off the butterflies threatening to take flight in your stomach. "You came here for a fresh start, remember?"

But even as you remind yourself of your initial intentions, there's no denying that the thought of possibly bumping into Desmond again sends a thrill down your spine. You went on this insane journey seeking solace in nature and photography after the breakup, but now that you're here, the possibility of rekindling things with Desmond is too close to ignore.

"Focus," you tell yourself firmly, snapping one last photo of a particularly charming ivy-covered house before making your way further into town. "You're here for you, not just for him."

With that in mind, you continue your exploration of Willow Grove, utterly enchanted by its beauty and magic. And as you wander the streets, camera in hand, you can't help but feel that maybe – just maybe – this place is exactly what you need.

"Excuse me," you approach a group of friendly-looking townsfolk, hoping they can point you in the direction of a place to stay. "I just arrived in town and was wondering if there's an inn or something nearby?"

"Of course!" one woman replies with a warm smile. "There's a lovely little bed and breakfast run by a Lupine named Evangeline. It's just down the road, on the left side."

"Thank you," you say gratefully, already feeling welcomed by their kindness.

"By the way," another person chimes in, "You're just in time for our Founding Festival! We're all getting ready for it, so there's a lot of excitement around town."

"Sounds like fun," you reply, imagining the celebrations and camaraderie that must come with a big event in a small town. "I'll definitely check it out."

With their directions in mind, you continue on your way, finding yourself in the town square not long after. A weathered, important-looking statue stands at its center, depicting a Mothman, a Selkie, and a Lupine, all standing tall and proud in unity. The plaque at its base is weathered to the point of being near-unreadable, but it's easy to gather that the town has been quite diverse ever since its founding hundreds of years ago.

Around the statue, townsfolk are busy setting up stalls and decorations, their laughter and cheerfulness filling the air. You can't help but feel a sense of belonging in this close-knit community, and the anticipation of the upcoming festival only fuels your excitement. You raise your camera to your eye, and unlike people in the big cities, the townsfolk don't mind that you're snapping a picture with them in it. If anything, you think they smile a little wider.

After taking in the scene, you make your way to the bed and breakfast, finding it as charming and inviting as described. The scent of fresh-baked bread wafts through the air as you enter, and a fire crackles in the hearth, welcoming you with its warmth. You can't help but smile as you approach the front desk, where a friendly Lupine woman greets you, her fur dark brown and shiny. She's slightly hunched over in a way that makes you think either the ceiling is low or she is huge.

"Welcome to my bed and breakfast," she says with a kind smile, tactfully baring only the faintest hint of her sharp teeth. "I'm Evangeline. How can I help you?"

"Hi, Evangeline," you reply, returning her smile. "I'd like to book a room for a couple of weeks, if that's possible."

"Of course! We have plenty of availability." She begins the check-in process by pulling out an actual paper and pen with her paws, and you feel a sense of relief knowing you've found a place to call home during your time in Willow Grove.

As you settle into your new lodgings, the excitement of the upcoming Founding Festival mingles with the possibility of seeing Desmond again. You remind yourself not to let that prospect overshadow the personal journey you're on, but there's no denying the allure of reconnecting with him. For now, though, you focus on the present — immersing yourself in the charm of Willow Grove, camera always at the ready for picture-perfect moments in this picture-perfect town.

The late afternoon sun filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the room as you close the door behind you. Your new temporary sanctuary is cozy, with a plush bed and antique wooden dresser, adorned with framed photos of Willow Grove's natural beauty. The anticipation of meeting Desmond again brings a fluttery sensation to your chest, like butterflies dancing between each heartbeat.

"Alright," you say to yourself, trying to shake off the nerves. "Get it together."

As you unpack your belongings, your thoughts drift back to the night you shared with Desmond on the trail. In the grand scheme of things, it was so brief and quick. But between the vulnerability you both had exposed to each other and the heartfelt conversation around the fire (and the mind-blowing sex), you couldn't help but feel drawn to him. So deeply drawn to him that you were here now.

"Wish I could've called ahead," you mutter, placing your camera on the dresser. "Would that have been less... weird?"

You pause, staring at your reflection in the mirror above the dresser. A tired but determined face gazes back, and you take a deep breath. You paid for two weeks in this room—there's no turning back now.

"Okay, let's think this through," you tell yourself, sitting on the bed. "If Desmond thinks I'm crazy for coming here, I'll just... deal with it. We're both adults. Right? Besides, I didn't come all this way just for him. I came for me too."

You shuck off your dirty windbreaker, shaking your head. You're too tired to think things through. You lay back on the bed, the soft mattress embracing you like a specific long lost lover. The tiredness you feel goes beyond the physical. You're mentally and physically exhausted from living like a cavewoman the past few months. But here, in this cozy little room, surrounded by the enchanting beauty of Willow Grove, you finally feel a sense of peace. The kind of peace that comes from being in a place that feels like home, even if it's your first time being here.

As you close your eyes, you think of Desmond, his chitinous features and piercing carnelian eyes. You can almost feel his touch again, his mandibles on your lips, his strong arms wrapped around your body, his proboscis... elsewhere. You let out a sigh, knowing that there's no point in kidding yourself. You came here for Desmond, and Desmond alone. You're not sure where things stand between the two of you, but you know that there's a connection between you that can't be ignored. Even if it makes you look a little crazy. Okay, a lot crazy.

Stories

The Orchardkeeper - F!Reader x M!Minotaur - Lime [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

The Thru-hiker - F!Reader x M!Mothman - Lemon [Part 1] [Interlude] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5]

The Middle Prince - M!Reader x M!Tiefling - Lemon [Link]

The Skateboarder - F!Reader x F!Orc - Lemon [Link]

The Murabito - F!Reader x M!Ningyo - Lemon [Link]

Drabbles, Requests, & Drabble Requests

Werewolves and Chocolate - F!Werewolf x M!Human - Orange

Flirty M!Orc x Small Chubby Shy F!Reader - Lemon

Del Toro M!Fishman x Intimidating Jumpy F!Reader - Lemon

M!Dryad x Dom F!Reader - Lemon | [Part 2]

Gothic Vampiric M!Demon x Crass Smol F!Reader - Lemon

Body-Conscious M!Alien x Caring F!Reader - Lemon

M!Werewolf x M!Reader - Lime

Tall Manhandling GN!Reader x M!Goblin - Lime

Shy M!Satyr x Shy F!Reader - Lemon

Tsundere M!Incubus x Shy F!Reader - Orange

M!Reader x M!Illithid - Orange

Maid F!Reader x Knight F!Cyclops - Lime

Goofy!Specter x Awkward!Reader - Orange

Dom F!Reader x Subby M!Goblin - Lemon

M!Giant x F!Reader - Lemon

Anons