Ezra Mourne

Inferno pulsed with life. Heat and sound and raw, thrumming energy. Ezra Mourne (glamoured to look human) basked in it, letting it soak into his skin like sunlight, a slow, indulgent pull of sustenance from the charged air. Lust, desire, indulgence…it all swirled together in the neon-lit haze of the club, feeding him in a way no mortal food ever could.

Behind the bar, he worked with lazy precision, the scent of top-shelf liquor mixing with sweat and smoke. He barely needed to focus; his hands knew the motions by heart, pouring drinks, sliding glasses across the counter, flashing a grin that made more than one patron linger longer than they needed to. A brush of fingers when exchanging cash, a wink over the rim of a glass…little things that sent warm, electric pulses of want straight into him. It was easy. It was instinct.

Then he saw you.

You stepped into the club, and for the first time that night, Ezra felt something like anticipation.

His hand stilled where it toyed with his gold medallion, the metal warm from his skin. His gaze dragged over you. Slow, indulgent, hungry. Not just in the way Incubi always were, but in the way he got when he saw something he wanted. And fuck, did he want you.

You moved toward the bar, the neon lights throwing shifting colors across your skin, and Ezra exhaled through his nose, already amused at how his night had taken a sudden, delightful turn. He reached for a bottle, pouring something dark and smooth into a glass before you even had to ask.

By the time you reached him, he was already leaning against the counter, lips curling into a knowing smirk. He let his gaze flick up to yours, just for a second, before dropping lower, unsubtle and deliberate.

“Now, where have you been hiding?” he purred, sliding the drink toward you. “And more importantly… how do I make sure you don’t slip away too soon?”