#simone selby

Rain: They are usually direct when they are in the mood. If they are confident you are receptive, they have no problem asking outright whether you want to get tangled in the sheets. When they are less certain, though, their restraint becomes obvious. You can feel them holding their breath around you, watching and waiting for the right moment. If a conversation is happening nearby and it does not involve you, Rain becomes noticeably distracted.

Eventually, if Taj is nearby, Rain may pull them aside and tell them to hurry up and mess around to get it out of their system—or simply get over it—because the pheromones are practically smothering the air.

Taj: Taj is pretty much in a perpetual state of “in the mood”; it’s a fact about themselves they have long since learned to manage, so the signs they are rearing to go are not quite so easy to spot. They are all too aware that their libido is higher than most, and they never want to impose upon their partner. Being in a relationship is new territory for Taj; they haven’t quite reached the point where they can comfortably express their needs.

Instead, you notice them lingering a little more, leaning a little closer into your personal space. A hand on your waist, almost purring in your ear, then watching to see how you respond. Once they are certain that you are more than up for it, whether it be with your actions or your scent, they will pounce.

N: Subtlety is not N’s strong suit when they are in the mood. Expect endless innuendo delivered in a silky-smooth voice, compliments that come thicker and faster than usual, paired with a grin that makes their intentions impossible to miss. It is their usual confidence dialled all the way up. They will set the scene properly. Your favourite record playing, rose petals scattered across the living room floor, their hand reaching for yours as they draw you close against their chest until you are swaying together in the middle of the room.

Not subtle at all.

Rain: The question makes Rain choke on their drink. They had been enjoying a nice cold strawberry milkshake through a straw when the server bent over, a twinkle in her eye. “You two together?” All the blood rushes to Rain’s head, cheeks burning in embarrassment.

Had they truly been so obvious? Rain glances at you nervously, concerned you might have already figured out their intentions. They didn’t want the first time you heard it to be from any mouth but theirs. When life was a little more forgiving—when the ghosts of their past stopped haunting them. But you don’t even blink. “Oh, no. I’m not their type.”

Rain wants to laugh. It’s only their mortification that stops them. “I don’t have a type,” they say quickly—a little too quickly. “Well, I mean, not any type in particular. I’m up for anyone, to be honest. Wait, no, not like that. Not anyone. They have to be special. Like you. Well, not like you. Just you; I’m not looking elsewhere—!”

They pray the ground swallows them whole.

Taj: They hold onto their hood a little tighter; their ears have been dying to break free from beneath it since your nosy neighbour dared to utter the question. Their first thought is “who the fuck are you to ask this?” The second is “don’t be ridiculous; as if they could ever be interested in a human.”

But then, they hear the words leave your mouth. “Oh, no. I’m not their type.”

Taj scowls. Who said you get to decide that? Shouldn’t they have a say? Fine, your easy denial could have been ripped straight from their mind, but hearing it spoken aloud—instinctively, as if you hadn’t even needed to think about it—fills them with dread. The words grate inside their mind like claws shredding skin.

“Exactly,” they say, out of pride. They swallow down the bile burning their throat. “There isn’t a single hope of me lookin’ twice at a koel.”

They force themselves to believe it.

N: It might surprise the others, but casual touch didn’t come as easily to N as they pretended it did. It was an easy enough game to play; N memorised the rules a long time ago. Except, it didn’t feel much like playing when it was with you. Throwing an arm across your shoulder, letting a hand drift across your back, leaning closer to whisper in your ear as if they were sharing a secret—N did these things because they wanted to. How long had it been since they truly wanted to?

So, the question truly wasn’t a surprise. Naturally, people would assume you were a couple—a rather handsome one at that.

“Oh, no! We’re not together. I’m not their type.”

Ouch. N feels it deep in their gut. Winded—wounded—like someone had just slammed a fist into it. Their smile diminishes, almost imperceptibly. Unnoticeable to anyone who refuses to look past their thin veneer. N’s heart tightens in a way that reminds them it still beats.

They bury it down. The charming demon comes out to play once again.

“I have all kinds of types,” they say, a tempting lilt to their voice. “A dark-haired beauty, a light-haired menace, dim-witted, sharp-witted… I’m not all that fussy. There’s room for you on my schedule, I’m sure.”

Every word tastes like tears.

Umbra: Being with you was easy. Too easy. As easy as Umbra imagines it is for you to breathe. Breathing isn’t so easy for them.

There is a side of them that comes out when they are with you. The demon makes fun of it—says they go soft. Umbra doesn’t care. Being with you feels a lot like breathing.

And when something comes that easily, it isn’t the kind of thing you second-guess. So, when someone questions the relationship, asking if they were with you, well—“yes” was the obvious answer. That question only required eyes. Umbra is sitting right next to you.

“No, Umbra—they mean together together. Anyway, no, we’re not together. I’m not their type.”

Rain: Nips and kisses, pulling at your bottom lip with their teeth—a playful welcome home, as reliable as the tide. Greeting you at the door has become an essential part of Rain’s day. It starts out innocent enough, but with your heat so close, heart beating faster, they are reminded of the day spent without you, and suddenly, they are clinging to you like sand. Teasing pecks evolve into passionate embraces, lips locking together as if you were trying to steal the very breath from their lungs.

They want you to. Endlessly, they dived beneath the waters of their home, manipulating the tide to move out of tandem with the moon, if only to prolong their misadventures. They would drown those memories in the river of their sins if it meant a lifetime of breathing you in.

They are seconds from telling you—from confessing their dysfunction—as your leg wraps around their hip, opening yourself to them with a promise of salvation.

“Well, that does it,” they whisper against your lips, a bubbling of relieved laughter brewing in their chest, “I hope your neighbours are out because I’m going to hear you sing.”

Taj: There is little that is honest about Taj. Anyone hoping to grow closer to this churlish grump must perfect reading between the lines. It isn’t that Taj sees brooding or mystery as a personality trait—Taj is simply, and genuinely, that pissed off.

But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a kind of authenticity to be found. Like anyone, it is far more productive to read Taj’s intentions within their actions than their words. Every kiss is like a whispered secret, a promise shared, directions to hope—the key to every truth they long ago locked away, and you, the only person capable of unlocking it. Their body awakens with a simple glance. Anything more is striking a match to gasoline; Taj yearns to see what might catch fire next.

They are seconds away from tearing at your clothes when you throw a leg over their waist, cinching them against you so tight their belt buckle digs into their skin. “Big mistake, Koel,” they growl, the sound so deep it rumbles in their chest. “Now I’m going to pry you apart piece by piece until you beg for mercy.”

N: A demon is rarely caught off-guard: thirteen lifetimes for analysing a threat, and two for withstanding punishments. Countless lifetimes teaching them the benefits of pretending, one more to inflict the consequences. Yours is the only life now capable of teaching them something new.

With them, kisses unfold like acts in a play—each one telling a story that weaves salacious praise with unrestrained passion. They begin slow and sensual, but the demon soon cracks its façade and breaks free. Fangs itch for the taste of swollen lips; a forked tongue greedily swallows your fire to feed its own. The curtains draw as quickly as your leg wraps around their waist, blurring the boundary between performance and desire.

The demon’s heart stutters. A quip about your unfettered, esurient desire dies on their tongue as their eyes are drawn to the pitch black of yours, their attention captured by the raw honesty of emotion playing out before them. It chokes them of their pride, demanding truth in return.

“Naughty naughty—you’ve made the mistake of exposing my soul. Prepare yourself, my dear. Soon you won’t be able to stand at all.”

Umbra: The cold kiss of death—an inevitable end many yearn to circumvent. Fear makes them slaves. They cower from shadows, hoping death’s keen gaze never turns toward the light.

A mistake. Death has never feared the light’s rays. It may fester, burn and blister, but the heat is a welcome balm to the damned trapped in a blizzard.

Your kiss is like the sun. It burns, burrows into their heart like a newly formed glass shard, still hot from the furnace. The pain—sharp, searing—blends with the gentle promise of healing that follows. Dragged from the dark, they press into your flesh, sapping your heat into their flesh—a welcome reprieve for the unending chill. Amid hurt, a fragile sense of comfort soothes. They lose themselves, all good sense melting away with every press of your lips. Your whispered encouragement plunges them back into the frigid waters of sense. Even as pain lingers, your warmth becomes a quiet shelter against the cold of death.

The skin on their lips breaks as they pull away—they don’t get far before your leg traps them against you. “Don’t go.”

Their script dissolves the moment James greets them with an excited, welcoming embrace. With kind, smile-lined eyes, he invites Selby into the living room, where photo albums of a young you wait, to your embarrassment.

Each new photo causes their heart to beat a little steadier, every new anecdote stitched into its seams. For a few seconds, Selby is reminded of their own parents and how the only childhood photos they have of themselves are the posed ones from the school photographer.

But they are quickly swept back up in the memories of you and James—the gentle ribbing, the caffeine-fuelled stories, the easy conversation that flows without accusation or ridicule.

Selby decides, there and then, that they will marry you one day.

Rain: They take the responsibility of meeting your father extremely seriously. The initial excitement at being asked over for dinner gives way to crippling anxiety, leaving them curled up with stomach cramps for days.

They want—nay, need—to make a good impression.

But how does one make a good impression on a human? They unload a million questions on Selby, who does their best to teach them good manners and social etiquette in the lead-up to the big day. They ask Taj for advice, too, but all they receive in return is a glare that would put a gorgon to shame.

It was stupid, they supposed, to spend all the time fretting without asking the one person who was capable of calming their nerves with a single whispered encouragement or a gentle squeeze of their hand.

"Just be yourself, Rain. He will love you."

It was all they needed to hear.

The second James answers the front door, they each lean enthusiastically in for an embrace and knock heads. It was about as perfect a start as they could have predicted—both laughing with a rapidly forming bruise on their foreheads.

"You're practically family already," James jokes, and Rain's heart sings.

Taj: Initially, they are very reluctant to meet James at all. Scrutiny is difficult for Taj to grapple with, especially if they feel they are being judged, and they all too easily assume that to be the case.

Each mention of a dinner invitation is met with denial—"there's no fuckin' way I'm letting you dress me up like a doll only for your old man to take one look at me and throw me out the door"—they truly cannot comprehend that the outcome could be any different.

After weeks spent trying to convince them that their dad would not do that, Taj finally relents. Bearing a too-expensive gift box, hair styled far more elaborately than they have ever bothered with, and a pit deep in their stomach, Taj shakily knocks on James' door.

Whatever they expected, it was not the immediate handshake followed by the fiercest embrace that Taj had ever experienced. Taj's instinct is to pull away, to reject the apparent kindness, afraid that it is a deception. They turn their head to you, watching from the sidelines with a smile filled with such love and hope that they cannot help but feel it too.

And they realise, James is so much like you.

N: When you first mention that your father wishes to meet them, they assume you are joking.

"Hilarious, darling. Next, you'll be telling me that Daddy Dearest is already in contact with the church, planning our first demon child's christening."

It took some assurance that you were being serious—and a whole lot of sherry.

After about the fiftieth explanation of the time, date, and place, it finally began to feel real. On the surface, N maintained an air of indifference to the whole meeting—"Oh, I'm certain he will love me, darling. Everyone does"—but that hubris was a mere mask to hide the true depth of their fear.

They are the very worst: an ill-intentioned demon whose only useful quality is how easily they can manipulate someone into falling into bed with them. It would crucify them to discover that the person you care for most in this world thought of them as nothing but a lascivious sycophant whose only motivation for staying is the magic that you have safeguarded.

They never could have anticipated the genuine warmth James exuded—not to them.

The pleasant handshake, the welcoming laughter, the inside jokes as if they had been a part of your family all this time. It's exactly how you said it would be.

"Well, darling, if I should ever doubt you again, do remind me of this moment. But only in the most pressing of matters; my ego couldn't withstand the damage otherwise."

Umbra: It has been a long time since they have seen James.

Twisted inside; broken in parts, fractured in others, different to how they had been, and yet, the same cold touch of death emanated from them, sapping the life out of any room. The fear that James would take one look at them and see the monster that Umbra saw in every reflection kept them at bay.

Fear kept them rooted to the doorstep of James' house for a good thirty minutes before you successfully encouraged them to knock.

But like you, James is sunshine.

Tempered by you, he holds back on the hug, but his eyes are so filled with light and happiness that it would be impossible to misinterpret his sincere joy. They are pulled inside the familiar home, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of hot cocoa—exactly as they had done as children—as James invited them to share every detail of the years he had missed. Umbra lied. It was too special a moment to dull with the truth.

He seems to understand anyway. So instead, he reminisces about days long past.

“Not hurt,” you whisper, shifting your weight until they feel your body heat pressing against their back. Then, slowly, an arm wraps around their middle in the dark, squeezing ever so slightly. “Couldn’t sleep.”

The fragile admission fractures any sense of decorum they have left. Selby turns to face you, catching what features of your face they can in the dark. They press a cool hand to your cheek, gently running their thumb across it, hoping it is a comfort. Then, delicately, they slide their hand across to the back of your neck to press you closer into their chest.

“Rest, now. I’ll be right here when you wake. I promise.”

Rain: They lie awake, staring up at the ceiling, counting the imagined sheep Selby has so often suggested should exist before bed. It doesn’t help. It never does. Normally, on the nights when sleep fails to find them, they will sneak into Taj’s bedroom, wake the disgruntled Qita up by climbing into the end of their bed, most likely piss them off by accidentally lying on their foot, before they roll over and instantly fall back to sleep.

They are mercifully saved from having to do so tonight.

“Rain?” a tiny voice whispers through the crack of their bedroom door—your tiny voice. “Are you awake?”

Rain immediately sits up, hair sticking up in every direction, and they grin at you in the dark. “Yes. Can’t sleep? Then, please.” They don’t even wait for a response before pulling the covers into the air, giving space for you to climb in. “Please.”

Their desire for your companionship could be conveyed through entirely different planes of existence, so naturally, it reaches you across the few feet of darkness. Silent, but eager, you rush across to their bed, jumping into the open space with earnest enthusiasm. Rain tucks you into the covers beside them, so you are both cocooned together in a soft embrace, not an inch of space between you.

“Is this okay, Rain?” you ask, voice already disappearing into a dream.

“Yes. Absolutely, yes. There is nowhere else I would rather you be,” they whisper, sleep finally finding them.

Taj: For some reason, they don’t expect you to act so brazenly.

Stupidity. They first met you after you broke into a cordoned-off crime scene—you were never going to let a little sign that read ‘keep out’ on a bedroom door stop you from doing whatever it is you want.

Taj remains stubbornly asleep until a hand slips between his arm and his stomach. “Rain, you can’t be—” It isn’t Rain; the twitching ears pick up a nervous gasp, the stuttering of breath, and the uneasy fluttering of a heartbeat. The sounds are a comfort they have come to resent… because they belong to you. “Koel?”

I... couldn’t sleep. I tried calling your name, but you didn’t wake. I thought…” You trail off, quickly realising that no explanation exists that isn’t, even at the most generous, strange. So, instead, you do what you always do… take a deep breath, puff out your chest as best as you can while lying in another person’s bed, then with all the unearned bravado you can muster, continue. “But I’m not leaving now. S-so, you’ll have to deal with it…”

Taj’s mouth drops in disbelief—quickly followed by an almost impressed scoff, which they quickly smother. “You better not snore.” They don’t know why they accept it; it’s easy to tell themselves it’s because they wish to sleep.

Your smile at their response is wide, wild, and untamed, almost as if you do not realise how well they can see in the dark.

“Cute,” they whisper, the words slipping out before they can stop them.

“What did you say?” you ask, pressing into their back far too close, so much so that Taj can feel your heartbeat rather than just hear it.

“Nothing. Go to sleep.”

Taj is unsure they will be doing much of that for the rest of the night.

N: They tug their sleep mask off the moment they hear the creak of their bedroom door. The elastic catches on their left horn in their haste to rip it off their face; they tried to hide their embarrassment at having been caught wearing a bonnet, sleep mask and little else. That embarrassment morphs into well-practised salacity on the night you creep into their bedroom.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise. Come for a little midnight tryst? I always knew you had a lecherous streak—”

You climb into bed without a word, but your touch never ventures into dangerous territory. Instead, you press close, throwing an arm carelessly over their stomach, resting your head on the pillow beside theirs, as if this casual intimacy is less shocking than their more provocative suggestion.

They stare at you, still silent, but breathing steadily and audibly enough for them to hear. Your eyes are drooping, heavy, moments away from drifting entirely. “I couldn’t sleep,” you finally whisper, voice trailing away like you are already beginning to walk a path in your dreams.

N’s heart seizes. You didn’t approach them with the expectation of a performance of pleasure or promiscuity, but instead, for an intimacy and comfort they stopped believing in a very long time ago.

Except the evidence is right there, in front of their eyes, curled up beside them, breathing already, as if there is genuine trust here. It would be enough to make a non-demonic-feeling person tear up.

“Snooze away then, my dear. I’ll do my best to keep my hands to myself."

“Mm,” you grunt, sleep catching you quickly.

And somehow, that little grunt is the most beautiful sound they have ever heard.

Umbra: You spend much of the night tossing and turning. This occurs sometimes. Stress often causes your busy mind to work overtime, and on those days, you talk and talk, voicing every little grievance of the day, hoping that giving the thoughts a voice will somehow quieten them in the end.

It doesn’t seem to work for you.

Umbra remains vigilant, sitting on your bedroom windowsill, trying and failing to ignore every grunt of annoyance as you toss them back. They consider leaving—perhaps their unfortunate appearance was making you uncomfortable—but as they unfurl their legs and sliver over to the bedroom door, you cry out.

“Wait! Umbra, don’t go…”

They turn and blink. “Yes? Is there something I can do for you?”

“Stay,” you whisper, lifting the covers of your bed beside you. “Join me?”

Umbra blinks again. “In the bed?” You shift the covers slightly as a form of response. “I… I’m not sure… You might get cold,” they reason, despite how much they wish to say yes; despite how desperate they are to feel your warmth, your gentle skin, to feel the pulsing of your wrist and the strands of your hair between their fingers…

“Please.”

One word—that’s all it takes for them to break. Carefully, and cautious that no part of their skin is exposed, they climb into the bed beside you. Their limbs are stiff like stone, but you are warm, soft, gentle… accepting.

“Thank you,” you whisper, pressing the words into their hair. Umbra doesn’t understand what you are thanking them for—surely it is they who should be thanking you—but they drink up the praise like a life-giving elixir.

Rain: It seemed like the kind of practical joke Taj might convince you to play after they had eaten all of the qita's favourite pastries. Or a dream plucked from their very worst nightmares that could only be salved with the promise of family. They had spent so long attempting to fill the void left behind by the destruction of their home—they found Selby and Taj, but you were the true revelation. A tour de force, you pulled them from the burning wreckage of their life and offered them direction and tranquility.

This, however, also came with many ardent, strenuous, and sleepless nights.

Despite all of their precautions, the moment you hold up that positive pregnancy test, they smother you in kisses, caressing your cheeks, catching any stray tears that might escape with loving attention. "I know it's early days for us," they begin, shaking with uncontrollable excitement, "but I am happy. I want to make you happy. I want to paint both your lives with colour, as you have mine."

Taj: She never gave it much thought. Pregnancy did not seem like a real thing that could happen—or, if it did, it was something that happened to others. Or at the very least, it only happened between people who shared a heritage. Was this second, fucking glaring line on the plastic stick proof of a lie she had been fed? Existential dread aside, this was a mess.

Breaking the news was a painful affair—she spent half the time trying to conjure up a worthwhile reason for him to stick around. "Look, I know this is my fuck up; I d-didn't even know it would have been possible for us to, y'know, but we can s-still figure this shit out. I don't think I could endure this if—" She never expected the embrace. In seconds, every lynching lie or paralysing fear she might have come up with evaporates into a moment of pure peace. A hand, resting at the base of her back, might as well have been a hand reached across a ravine in which she had abandoned herself. It felt like a promise that she would not wade through these muddy waters alone.

"You better not fuckin' go anywhere, Koel," she begs, because even her pride has no place here. "I can't do this without you."

N: She should have known better—the words rattle incessantly in her brain. How long has she been preventing this exact kind of accident from happening? The consequences of fornication were whipped into her as thoroughly as the effectiveness of high heels and stockings. Outrageous that she would set aside her stringent rituals and preparations for the sake of... what... love? She shudders at the thought.

And yet, she cannot deny the change in her heart. Could it be possible that somewhere, deep within the insensate stone of her heart, she might harbour a desire she never knew herself capable of?

Was it too obscene to hope that you might feel the same?

Speaking the words aloud was too difficult. Yet, it was all too easy to notice something amiss when she was acting so uncharacteristically taciturn. Naera was never very diplomatic when confronted. "It seems I may be carrying your child—I hope this doesn't displease you overly much, but if it does, feel free to live with it. It doesn't matter to me one bit—"

She would have carried on like that all night had you not kissed her. And if she wipes away a single tear afterwards, well... at least you had the good sense to make no mention of it.

Umbra: It wasn't possible. How could it be? Umbra was a creature of the night—of shadow. Necrotic energy weaves black tendrils that seep out of his very pores, whispering promises of death. The very notion that he might supply anything but a swift end feels like make-believe. And yet, there you sit, holding up those two little lines like a torch deep within the darkness.

And he weeps.

The lines of his face crease, his lips crack as unbridled fear, elation, apprehension, and peace feast on him like a swarm of locusts. He buries his head into your chest, clinging to your clothes, as if afraid his shadow might finally eclipse your light and he will never find you again.

Rain: They are quite oblivious when with a drink in their hand and good conversation happening around them. More than once since working with Taj, the Qita has scolded them for being so easily distracted. In this instance, they cannot bring themselves to feel too badly about it.

The moment they catch a glimpse of your hair at the corner of their eye, they almost throw their cup into the air. Desperate to prevent you from potential harm, they don’t even consider that they have just committed the cardinal sin of littering.

You land neatly in their arms, even if their knees slightly buckle from the unexpectedness of your attack. “Are you okay?” they ask, wide-eyed and panicked.

“You caught me.” Your grin is infectious; they cannot think of a sight more consummate than this.

“I will always catch you.”

Taj: The likelihood of you being able to say something like that aloud without Taj hearing it is… very slim. Or impossible. The moment you start running, they quickly set their drink aside and turn so you land directly in their arms. Your indignant cry of surprise makes playing along feel worth it.

“Nice try, Koel, but I wouldn’t ever recommend trying to sneak up on a Qita. Especially a bird that chirps so loudly…” they pause, averting their gaze in a sudden fit of shyness. “It… It was only your faith in me that saved you this time.”

N: The first sign of danger is a subtle twinge in their amygdala—a discordant note in an otherwise perfect lullaby. Your presence is a song they have memorised to help make it easier to tune it out when you demand silence.

So, they truly do not realise you are about to throw yourself onto their person until you are already in the air. It’s not a decision they make consciously—there’s no time for that—but they throw their drink to the side, freeing their arms to accept your form as you beam up at them.

“I knew you would catch me!” you gloat, with a shit-eating grin.

They return your smile with one far more dangerous. “Indeed? I had no idea you held such faith in me..." Still grinning, they pull you into their chest. “You just cost me a perfectly good double espresso, the evidence of which is currently seeping into my socks. I do hope you intend to recompense my loss, my dear..."

You gulp.

Umbra: It’s rare enough for Umbra to be distracted, but Selby had just finished making them a comforting caffè mocha, hoping to tempt them into the dark side of coffee by introducing something sweet first. Umbra is just about to take a sip when a body suddenly launches into the air in front of them. Their eyes snap to you, and their arms move with almost otherworldly instinct.

They don’t even flinch when the almost scalding drink splatters up their legs, eyes focused and searching yours for any sign of distress. “A-Are you alright? What’s wrong? A-Are you hurt?”

“You caught me!” you call out in glee with a smile so wide it captures Umbra’s heart.

“Y-Yes… Is that good?”

“The best—I knew you would.”