My Recovery Object is a Marital Aid

Content Warning: Some strong language, references to sexual themes and addiction

-

They say when Hell is full, the damned will inhabit the Earth. Well, it actually happened, although it was much less biblical than some had imagined.

You can see it in the details - the subway preachers now holding exorcisms between stops, the corporate wellness retreats that smell faintly of brimstone, and the growing number of demons working in fast food (I know, you'd think they'd all be lawyers). There are too many of them. Us. Whatever.

Hi, I’m Layla and I’m an addict. I’m also a succubus. Was a succubus. And I’m in recovery.

Not for the usual stuff - lust, corruption, eternal damnation, that's all part and parcel of the job. No, I’m only here because of ‘The Incident’.

It wasn’t my fault. The press blew it way out of proportion. You put one toy, slightly endowed with a damned soul, on a shelf and suddenly you’re “possessing household items for carnal influence” and “should be put on a list”. Please. It was barely sentient. She enjoyed herself. No to mention, the resulting hospital stay was relatively short.

But now I’m here. Earthbound. Court-mandated. Living in a refurbished convent turned halfway house for ‘ethically challenged’ infernals. The only real sin in these walls is that the coffee is decaf.

Worst of all? I have a therapist. Derek.

He’s an angel. No, not the metaphorical kind - like, actual wings, glowing aura, voice that sounds like the inside of a harp. It’s honestly sickening. Not to mention those judgmental eyes and the fact that he’s somehow always surrounded by beige.

Today, Derek hands me a box. Plain cardboard. Unmarked.

“It’s magical, though I’ll admit, a bit unorthodox,” he says. “It’s not cursed. It doesn’t work anymore. Battery’s dead. It’s just an object that I think will help. Yours.”

I open it. Look at him. Look back at it.

“You’re giving me a fucking vibrator…”

“I’m giving you a symbol.”

“Of what? Poor life choices?”

“Of intimacy without possession. Control without conquest. Connection without corruption.” He leans back, folding his hands. See, that's the problem with angels. Always come across smug, just because they're the only ones privy to the ‘big plan’. “You can try charging it, if that helps.”

I stare at the thing.

It’s neon pink.

It has glitter.

Did he put those googly eyes there?

Lucifer help me, maybe I am the problem.

I close the box slowly, as if Pandora herself had just handed it to me.

Derek just watches, his serene expression suggesting he’s either deeply proud of me (or maybe himself. Probably himself) or mentally redecorating the therapy room to incorporate even more beige.

“Isn’t this, like, giving a nicotine addict a fresh pack of smokes? How exactly is this supposed to help me?” I ask. “Do I talk to it? Name it? Introduce it to the support group?”

“That’s up to you,” he says, in that maddeningly gentle tone, like I’m a fledgling soul with potential and not a three-thousand-year-old entity who once convinced a televangelist to strip off live on air. “Some patients find comfort in grounding objects. Others… bond with them.”

Bond with them.

It stares up at me. Googly eyes and all.

“Great,” I mutter. “My recovery sponsor is now a glorified party favour.”

-

Susan Comes to Therapy

When I get to group therapy, the chairs are still warm. The coffee is still decaf. And the angel intern is still aggressively chipper.

I slump into my usual seat like I’m melting into it on purpose. That way, no one can say I’m sitting upright and ‘engaging.’ I’m here. That’s the court requirement. My enthusiasm wasn’t subpoenaed.

Across the circle, Kevin - a rage demon turned Dollar Store manager - tightens his grip on a mechanical pencil like it owes him money. Next to him, Cheryl the suburban kleptomaniac adjusts her yoga pants and radiates judgment.

Dante, the angel intern leading the session, claps his hands like he’s opening a school play.

“Welcome back, everyone! Let’s all remember this is a safe space for healing and honesty.”

Barf.

He does a quick roll call. Everyone grunts in turn. When he gets to me, I give him a two-fingered wave and a wink that would’ve started a war in the old days.

He doesn’t even flinch.

Coward.

“So,” he chirps, “who’d like to share tonight?”

The silence stretches. Demons avoid eye contact. A human starts eating his name tag. We are thriving.

Eventually Kevin speaks. “I didn’t hit anything today.”

Scattered applause.

“Did yell at a child. But I regret it.”

“Amazing growth, thank you Kevin,” Dante beams.

Cheryl chimes in next. “I made it through three store aisles without putting anything in my purse.”

“That’s amazing, Cheryl,” says Dante.

“Although I did, leave with twelve items I don’t remember picking up.”

“Still. That’s progress. Two less than last week.”

Then Dante makes a critical error.

He looks at me.

“Layla. How are you doing this week?”

I smile sweetly.

“Oh, just glowing, thank you. You know how it is—denial, rage, spiritual exfoliation.”

He gives me that saintly, patient nod, the one they must teach at angel school between courses in bland fashion and glowing passivity.

“I hear you got something new this week. Would you like to share your grounding object with the group?” he asks, all fake gentle.

Why does this feel like a sadistic show and tell at kindergarten?

I sigh dramatically and pull out the box like I’m revealing a bomb.

Cheryl leans back. Kevin leans in. The human man eating his name tag stops chewing.

I open the lid.

Gasps. One demon drops her sippy cup.

Inside, resting like the world's most scandalous relic, is Susan. Yeah, I named it. So what?

“She’s not in active duty anymore,” I clarify. “The battery’s dead. Just like my dignity.”

Cheryl blinks. “Is that… what I think it is?”

“I mean, unless you think it’s a magical sceptre of self-love, in which case: yes.”

Dante, to his credit, stays calm. “Thank you for sharing, Layla.”

“I wasn’t sharing, I was traumatizing. For community building.”

Kevin chuckles. A few others laugh too.

But then something weird happens.

I don’t put Susan away.

Instead, I rest her on my knee. She wobbles a little, her plastic eyes shifting with every movement like she’s watching me bomb a stand-up set.

“I haven’t… used her,” I say, quietly. “Not in that way. But sometimes, when I start feeling like… you know. Hungry. Hollow. I just hold her. At least, I assume that what I’m meant to do.”

I glance around. The group is listening.

“Feels dumb. But she’s mine. No contracts. No power exchange. Just this dumb, stupid little… thing. Derek said she's magical, but I haven't worked out how yet.”

Silence. Did I actually just say all that? Yuck.

Dante nods like he just won therapist bingo. “That’s a powerful step, Layla. Thank you for sharing.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t argue.

And maybe—for the briefest second—I feel something, although I can’t quite explain it.

-

VIP: Very Infernal Pressure

The city’s always had a pulse, but this late? It’s practically panting.

Sweat, smoke, sin—you can taste it in the air. That desperate kind of nightlife that invites you to forget tomorrow exists. It used to be my favourite flavour.

I don’t know why I’m here.

Wait. That’s a lie.

I know exactly why I’m here.

Recovery is exhausting, okay? Being good is boring, and group therapy doesn’t come with bottle service or flirtation you can weaponize. I just wanted to walk. Just to clear my head. And maybe circle the old haunts. Just for nostalgia sake.

But then I see her.

Celeste.

A walking bad idea in stilettos, wearing sin like perfume. She’s still got that smirk that could melt morals, leaning on the velvet rope outside a club called Limbo. Cute.

“Layla?” she purrs, like we’re old friends and not former co-conspirators in half a dozen spiritual malpractice suits. “Didn’t expect to see you crawling out of angel day care.”

“Celeste,” I reply, coolly. “Still fishing for compliments with your cleavage, I see.”

She grins, eyes glittering. “Always. Thanks for noticing. You in?” She points her cigarette back towards the club.

I laugh. The kind that tries too hard to sound in control. “You know I’m in recovery.”

“So?” she shrugs. “We’re demons, we all relapse eventually. Might as well enjoy it.”

I want to say no, don't I?

I should say no.

I really should.

But, I follow her inside.

The bass hits like a deafening heartbeat.

Red lights swirl like blood in water. The air is thick with cologne and desperation.

God, it feels good.

Too good.

Celeste guides me to the back room. A VIP booth. Two mortals waiting—early twenties, slick hair, open collars, soft souls begging to be chewed on. They look up at me like I’m dessert. Ha, they wish.

Celeste slides in beside one. He shudders. Delicious.

“Take your pick,” she murmurs. “They’re not even drunk yet. Still full of that sweet, dumb hope.”

I sit down.

Smile. Slowly.

This is easy. This is familiar. This is me.

One of them reaches for my hand.

And I flinch.

Not from the touch.

From what I don’t feel.

No hunger. No rush. No thrill.

Just… guilt.

My hand goes to my purse.

She’s there. Susan. Plastic. Neon pink. Googly eyes wobbling in time with the bass.

It’s like she’s watching me. Judging me. Loving me in that weird, tacky, unconditional way only a dead glittery vibrator can.

I stand up. Fast.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Suddenly remembered I have to, uh… wash my tail.”

Celeste blinks. “Seriously?”

I’m already backing away. “Yeah. Also, I think I left my dignity at the support group. Gotta run!”

“Layla, don’t be boring.”

But I’m already pushing through the crowd, gasping like I’ve just surfaced from the river Styx.

-

Sin Withdrawal Sucks

The cool night air slams into me.

I stumble out into the alley behind Limbo, heels clicking on cracked pavement, the thump of the bass still pounding in my chest like a second heartbeat I never asked for.

My hands are shaking. I lean against the brick wall, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

I dig through my purse with clawed fingers until I find her.

Susan.

Glittery. Ridiculous. Safe.

I clutch her like a lifeline, like she’s the only thing tethering me to this stupid, exhausting, unforgiving version of myself that’s actually trying—for whatever reason—to be better.

And then I break.

Tears come hard and fast, hot down my cheeks, smudging eyeliner and pride in equal measure. I don’t cry cute, alright? It’s ugly. Snotty. Loud. The whole nine hells.

“Sins, what is wrong with me?” I choke out, sliding down the wall until I’m crouched on the cold pavement, hugging a vibrator like it’s a teddy bear.

“This shouldn’t be hard. This should be easy. I’m a succubus—I’ve ruined kings, seduced saints, crashed two weddings with nothing but a wink and a sinful smirk, and now I can’t even trust myself around a pair of soft-eyed mortals and bad club lighting?”

Susan doesn’t respond.

But I hold her tighter anyway.

“I didn’t do it,” I whisper, voice raw. “I didn’t feed. I didn’t fall. I walked away.”

Maybe that should feel like a win.

But right now?

It just hurts.

It hurts to want and not take. To ache and not act. To choose healing over hunger when every bone in my body is wired for temptation.

But I did it.

I did it.

And maybe that means something.

-

Existential Mascot

Back at the convent, I’m curled on my bed, knees up, still wearing the same, less than saintly, club outfit like some tragic monument to poor decisions and cheap mascara. I haven’t even taken off my heels.

The walls here are so thin. I can hear Kevin snoring two rooms over and someone - probably Gloratha - watching TV. Is that Supernatural reruns again?

Susan sits on the nightstand.

She’s just there. Waiting. Googly eyes slightly askew. A little glitter rubbed off from where I clutched her too hard in the alley.

I stare at her.

Then, quietly, I say, “You’re very bad at being a sex toy.”

Pause.

“No offense.”

Another pause.

“I mean, you’re great at being a symbol, I guess. Emotional grounding. Existential mascot. Glitter-coated metaphor. All that crap.”

Silence.

I sit up. Pull her into my lap. Thumb across the little plastic heart sticker Derek must’ve slapped on without me noticing.

My voice comes out too soft, almost shaky. “I wanted to go through with it. You know? I wanted to fall. Because it’s easier. Because I know how to do that. Feed, burn out, sleep, repeat.”

I look around the room. Like anyone else could possibly be listening.

“But I didn’t. And now I feel like I’m falling apart anyway. Like if I’m not the succubus, if I’m not seducing and stealing and spiralling… then I don’t know who I am. Like, what's the point?”

I laugh. “Recovery is supposed to make you feel better, right? But all it’s done is strip me down and leave me with this—this raw, screaming silence inside me. And no one tells you how loud silence is when you’re used to living in noise.”

My hands grip her tighter.

“I miss it. The power. The hunger. The high. Fuck, I miss being worshipped. I miss being feared.”

Silence.

“Although, I don’t miss being empty after.”

I rest my forehead against her plastic case, tears prickling again but refusing to fall this time.

“I don’t know if this is working. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to keep saying no.”

Another breath.

“But, I did. And that has to count for something, right?”

Susan wobbles slightly in my lap. Googly eyes bobbing in what I like to imagine is understanding.

I give a small, exhausted smile.

“Thanks for sticking around. Even if you are a useless sparkly piece of silicone.”

I place her back on the nightstand gently. Like she’s breakable. Or sacred.

And for the first time since coming here, I sleep without dreaming of sin.

-

If It Helps, It’s Magic

Back in Derek’s office, the beige is somehow even more unbearable than before.

And I’m back on the couch.

Different outfit. Same emotional damage.

Derek sits across from me in his usual celestial glow, looking like a sentient motivational poster.

I place Susan on the coffee table between us, gently. Like she’s the most sacred object I’ve ever owned.

“She survived the week,” I say. “Can’t say the same for my eyeliner.”

Derek looks at her. Then at me.

“How are you feeling?”

I give a tired smile. “Shitty? Like I went twelve rounds with the Seven. But I’m here.”

He nods, patient as ever.

“I went to a club,” I add. “With Celeste.”

His brow twitches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I sat down. Picked a target. And then I… left.”

I'm not looking at him, but I can tell he's smiling.

“I walked out. I didn’t take. I didn’t feed. I just… walked away.”

Silence.

Then he leans forward, voice soft. “That’s huge, Layla.”

I shrug. “I cried in an alley clutching a dead vibrator like it was a life preserver, but sure - let’s call it growth.”

He smiles—warm, not smug, for once.

“I’d call it healing.”

I glance at Susan. Her googly eyes are still slightly crooked.

“I’m disappointed. I thought angels couldn't lie. She’s not actually magical, is she?” I murmur, more to myself than him. “She doesn’t glow or talk or shoot glitter bolts of redemption.”

Derek’s voice is quiet with a light chuckle.

“No, she's not magical. Few things in the overworld really are. But if something helps you to recover, helps you be a better version of yourself, then it might as well be. Don't you agree?”

I sit with that.

Not because it’s profound. But because… maybe I find myself agreeing with him.

Because in this weird, broken, beige-painted world where demons cry in alleys and angels wear cardigans, that might be the closest thing to real magic I’ve ever known.

I look up at him.

“I still want to punch you sometimes.”

He chuckles. “That's normal.”

“I might never be ‘good.’”

“You don’t have to be. None of us do. The important thing is to never stop trying to be better.”

I nod.

And for once—I believe him.