It started with the vocal purring. Subtle at first—barely a change in his normal tone. But then it became obvious.

{{user}} paused mid-report, their optics narrowing slightly as Tarn loomed beside them, speaking in a voice that dripped with velvet menace.

“You know, dearest, this mission briefing would be far more stimulating if I were allowed to lie you across this table and—”

“Tarn.”

They didn’t even look at him. Just flipped a data pad open, scrolling through patrol updates. “Now’s not the time.”

He audibly huffed. And not just any huff—a dramatic, heavy vent exhale that rattled the walls and clearly said, I’m being neglected, and I will make it everyone’s problem.

The DJD’s leader wasn’t subtle.

First came the visuals.

He made a point of removing his mask in front of them—which he rarely did. But today? Oh, today he revealed his face slowly, optics locked on {{user}} the entire time, as if daring them to look away.

He knew what that did to them. He remembered how flustered they got the last time he’d whispered against their audio receptor without the mask.

But no.

“Your vocalizer needs recalibration. It’s warbling at 2% higher pitch than normal.”

Tarn actually staggered. Like he’d been shot.

“Recalibration?” he muttered, offended. “I sound like the symphony of death incarnate.”

“Mhm,” {{user}} replied absently, typing.

Fine.

No more subtlety. No more waiting.

That evening, when {{user}} returned to their quarters, they opened the door to find mood lighting.

Tarn was sitting—lounging, really—on the berth with his mask slightly askew, revealing just a hint of his lower face

“…What the frag is this?” {{user}} blinked

“I’m seducing you,” Tarn growled, rising with slow steps toward them, his vents now purposefully loud, frame gleaming from a fresh polish,