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wonderinc-sonic · 3 months

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TDW Day 5 "Muscle Memory" on Ao3

7.4K, Teen, Gen/No-Ship. Tags: Dysphoria, Body Dysmorphia, Injury, mellow, Hurt/Comfort

Continuing a setting I started in Metamy Week: TL:DR this is a setting about 5-8 years on, in which all the robot characters had to get biological bodies because Eggman sent a corruption wave both in the power grid and over the internet, so everything that used those is gone. This happened about a year or so ago, and society has had to adapt and go completely analogue. Omega is coming to terms with his new self; the changes run far deeper than the skin.

Omega cringed awake at the sound of the tinny analogue alarm at 0600. He contested against sleepy gravity, but dragged his eyes open to greet a banging headache that tingled the top of his skull.

He swung off the tiny bed, stretching his stiff neck and shoulders which clicked and creaked, and his chest chorused them with groans. He ignored himself, and followed protocol:

He shook capsules out of their tubs, threw them on his tongue, and drank the whole bottle of water next to the bed. Irrelevant sick feelings and aching head rightly disregarded, he stood to shake the bedclothes, then hung the bedding on the rail out the window. He proceeded to the shower to wash.

With a coarse cloth, he thoroughly scrubbed every centimetre of his body from top to bottom, until all the skin tingled under soft hairs and his eyes streamed with soap. Omega didn't rejoice in the uncomfortable feeling of water trickling and tickling him, but it was better than the smell: the scent of sweat and body that had always just been a note in the air he digitally recorded was now clinging to him and assaulting his nose. It never mattered how much those around him assured him it was indetectable, he smelled the foreign on himself, and it was a constant pang only dampened by floral soap.

Showers took as long as they could, until the water started to spurt and dwindled, spitting cold on him that screamed on his neck and back. Then, he had to be done, but he could still smell Body in the room and opened the bathroom window too. Like showering, brushing Teeth was a constant urge; he had thought he would enjoy having a jaw, but teeth never sat comfortably in his gums and clanked against themselves, and his tongue could find no comfortable rest as soon as his attention turned to it. Just the thought of it tempted him to gag.

It didn't feel clean, but the body was clean - what bothered him wouldn't scrub off any further. He dried it roughly, and quickly dressed it in today's once deep red - now heavily bleached and patchy- boiler suit. Clothing was itchy and frustrating, squeezing his neck and making him sweat, but it saved him seeing himself. Gloves, socks, and boots kept him from contaminating the space around him. He removed the gold rings one at a time from his wrists and ankles, scrubbed them with rubbing alcohol and a rag, then replaced each cuff before taking the next off. He felt the slight shift in pressure and power that his fingers exerted, and that came with a wave of head throbbing and disappointment that Omega didn't want to look in the eye. He had unmounted every mirror from the wall, but he still caught his reflection in the glass as it demisted, and the shiny inhibitors that distorted him further.

When he emerged from his room, Shadow was already sitting at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper. Their current home - until they were inevitably found again and harassed by robots - was certainly once grand, with glass and chrome and granite, but was also now scuffed and empty, with holes where the dishwasher, fridge, microwave and entertainment system had been. Instead, a simple gas burner and matches were all they could cook with. Neither of them needed to eat much, but the space looked incomplete without furnishings and tools.

"Good morning." Shadow said stiffly, eyes immediately over Omega, inspecting every inch of him. He clenched and turned his hands, itching his wrists until Shadow finally turned back to his paper.

"What day is that from?" Omega posed gruffly, grabbing a bag of potatoes to continue the protocol. Food was a waste of resources and space, but some crops adapted to the new world better than others: potatoes could be grown in many environments and had a mild taste, so were incidentally almost the only thing Omega ate. But they were flawed; they required processing to even be digestible. It was ridiculous to Omega that anyone ever tried cooking to find out it worked. He lit the stove carefully and broke the spuds with his hands over the water.

Shadow was speaking to him, and he had forgotten to listen in his contemplation of potatoes and fire. He stared at Shadow expectantly, and Shadow stared back for a minute waiting for a response. With just the two of them, they could stay like this for hours, and might have done if Shadow didn't remember that.

"You asked the date of the paper; the second. The forecast ends tomorrow." He stated again, some vague irritation in his face. Omega nodded, and returned to the food.

Shadow poured over it until the boiling process finished, despite having read the same page every morning for the past ten days. He crunched a handful of toasted grains of rice from a bag and drained weak coffee sadly.

"I may need to interrupt your work today." He sniffed, already most of the way out the door with laces in his fingers. Shadow hadn't complained about missing his shoes, but Omega could tell he still felt their betrayal sharply - he'd painted the bleached leather of these with red stain in their honour. Omega wanted to ask why he was needed, but from just looking at the shoes his throat felt strange and achy. Instead, he nodded and sniffed, turning away to fill the strange hollowness in his chest with carbohydrates as Shadow jogged out with his messenger bag.

Like most days, Omega worked silently at the construction site, letting others banter around him. Since the Metal Uprising, public spaces in high-tech cities had become deadly dangerous with machines that turned to serve Eggman. In this open park on a repaved street, they were rebuilding an exploded hospital. It needed to be huge, and every room with access to air for ventilation since no A/C units could be trusted. Analogue hospitals were less a place of curing, and more a safe shelter to let the body fight and heal itself, so no space was allocated to elaborate equipment, instead to private spacious rooms and waterstores for every floor. With no lifts, patients were organised by condition; more serious and debilitating ailments treated downstairs, and recuperation and clinic upstairs once people could manage the stairs or ramps. Many Mobians were claustrophobic after their homes had turned against them, so the top floor would be an open space, exposed to the elements but with a view far and across the land for the security to stand and the anxious to breathe.

Omega was bigger than most Mobians and even the majority of humans; he could carry two people's loads easily in one arm. This was his only point of pride these days, and he enjoyed his new pastime hefting pipes and H-bars. The other workers held quiet respect for him, unlike the smaller loners that they could pick on. That was another thing he liked about being here: it wasn't like being treated like a killing machine, but it was something. He wondered if they would hold him in higher esteem still if they knew what he once was, or just pity him. But when this project was done, he'd disappear to find somewhere else, so there was no need to know these nobodies.

He worked to his limit and beyond with a smidge of his old gusto, but he hated the sweat. Other bodies poured sweat while his barely glistened - but still, it offended him mortally. He grew too warm quickly in the daylight, and reluctantly unbuttoned the top of his jumpsuit to let air flow, and the bristley fur across his chest flexed appreciatively. He puffed air from his nostrils to dispel their movement, and lifted slabs of concrete alone in his corner of the site.

He let himself dissociate, until someone clapped him on the shoulder and raised a cup to his hand. The horse-woman, like her colleagues, didn't think he spoke English, so they tried to speak to him in gestures, or with slow and painfully patronising words. He shook his head, but she handed him a wooden cup anyway, then left when he did nothing with it. He had concluded this woman had been trying to befriend him for the whole project, which seemed bizarre to Omega. He observed Mobians of similar groups gravitating towards her, but if she knew how different from a regular Bull he was, she'd realize she had more in common with a house cat than him.

This body was made just six months ago, from carbon fibre bones, black arms DNA from Shadow, and donor mobian genetic material from research facilities before they could no longer run refrigerators. He had been entirely disassembled down to the head and eyes to prevent his body from responding to the cybervirus the Doctor sent across the globe, and in his last weeks they had tried to include him in designing his new self. But by the end he was barely there - the virus started to attack his mind and eyes and made him dangerous even as a detached head. He remembered Rouge and Shadow holding the last of him and framing themselves in his eyes as they removed the tiny chip that contained who he was. Shadow had nothing to say to him; he just held him still and seriously. Rouge was smiling firmly but her eyes wept: although what she had said scrambled in his sick head, he was sure she'd been telling him how soon they'd see him. In truth, it was months before the body was fully ready, and he 'woke up'. Becoming alive was his worst day, not going offline: going to sleep in his friends' hands had been comfortable and light - if terrible for them. But waking up was a torrent of a new thing he'd learned to call pain. Pain like nothing he had felt sense, and instilling in him a whole new sense of fear like he'd never known before.

He shook his head hard, which twinged his morning's headache back into force. He couldn't focus on lifting the next piece of scaffolding like this; the echoes of pain shivered in his nervous system like a school of fish remembering they could dance together and destroy him. He sat on the side of the wall, and took the cup of water, in his best impersonation of a natural person doing natural things, while he tried not to think about himself. Time passed oddly now, sometimes seeming to last forever and sometimes flicking by without his acknowledgement, like the tail hanging at his ankles. He blinked, and another five minutes of his limited life was gone.

When the sun was directly overhead, a rumble in the distance roused Omega from his work again, and he jumped from the scaffolding to meet Shadow on the ground as he skidded to a stop. He carried the leather messenger bag filled with different notes and letters than he'd had this morning, and looked Omega up and down again.

"Are you well?"

"Nothing has occurred. What is the purpose of this? You do not need to intrude on my work."

People were already staring at them together, and Omega's hairs raised. There was less of an idea of a celebrity in this world post-media, but people knew Shadow, as he'd changed so little. Omega was unrecognisable in form and manners - he wanted to keep it that way.

"I need you. I have to report back, then we will have a team meeting." Shadow said plainly, but quietly.

Suddenly Omega's stomach squeezed tight, and his heart rate spiked. Corporal sensations were not to be ignored, but he waited still for a minute to see if it would pass. Shadow stared at him expectantly, then with moderate concern.

"I cannot attend. I may be unwell."

"Unwell how?"

Shadow was already digging in his bag for the analogue sensors; he was ready to run the magnet over Omega's head to check the chip of his brain was not moved, the pressure armband to feel for his alien pulse, and acid paper to place on his tongue. Omega closed the bag forcefully over Shadow's own hands.

"Not here. I am fine. You will go without me."

"If you are unwell, I will not. Are your rings in working order?" He hissed, already fussing with one. At the loosening of them, the pounding in Omega's chest started to quicken his breath too, and he jolted away. Shadow didn't let go in time, so he was dragged with Omega and swung against the scaffolding with a heavy crash. They stopped dead still as people stared at them, and Omega placed him down carefully and slowly.

"Calm down!"

"I am clearly not ready to visit Rouge. You will go without me and report back. I will return home and sit exceedingly still until I am unconscious."

Shadow frowned sourly, watching him everywhere again. Omega hated the way Shadow stared at him while he thought, like he could read the odd behaviours of his body better than Omega could, because, of course, he could. He wasn't the same as Omega, but he was similar, and he drew a conclusion by sight.

"No. She would like to see you. If you must wait outside, then do. I do not believe you are seriously ill."

Omega glared at him. It occurred to him instantly that he did not have to do what Shadow said; he weighed less than a bag of cement, and Omega carried ten of those at a time; he could simply swat him away and proceed with his plan to go home and make no movement until all feelings stopped. But while he didn't have to, he felt ashamed to deny Shadow any simple request now.

Shadow had been caring for him all the time while he settled into his body. He kept watch over him while he was unconscious and literally gave his own blood to save Omega. And Shadow had stayed by his side even though being by Omega's side had proven to be dangerous. He did this alone, because only his own body was strong enough to withstand the random Chaos bursts and uncontrolled strength now coursing in him. Omega knew what pain felt like, and that Shadow never complained about how rough he had been, and he never really asked for anything. So, he found he couldn't say no. He didn't recognise himself as he followed, tail between his legs, from the construction site.

Shadow jogged before him across meadows. Omega was faster than a regular Mobian, but keeping up with Shadow built more sweat on him, and with the tight chest and stomach it was harder today, finally outdoing his aching head. He puffed and wheezed and hated it, but at least everything was training. This was a sliver lining of the body: he truly always had something to do. He could be working to gain more strength and agility every moment of the day until rest time. Resting was an enormous dark cloud of being biological, but at least he didn't remember when it happened.

They were exiting the more habitable land for the sparse rocky region, where a volcano had erupted some years prior and made long tracks to run on. Shadow slalomed, bored by the pace, and Omega took the chance to slow down more.

"This chest is malfunctioning. The skull is in distress. You will proceed without me, I will arrive later."

Shadow stopped them, and pressed a hand to Omega's chest, then his neck, then his ear, feeling his pulse in each.

"Your connections seem fine. They are reinforced."

"They are in distress."

"Yes, I understand you're uncomfortable. It's nothing."

"It is not nothing!" Omega snapped, shoving Shadow from him. Shadow landed on his feet and tutted, rolling his eyes as Omega clenched his fists and squared up, as if to fight him but his red eyes trembling.

"I am trying to care for this vessel! Something is wrong!" He shouted, stomping his heavy foot, incongruously frightening for how frightened Shadow could see he was.

Shadow raised one eyebrow, teeth bared but relaxed.

"Right. But you're fine. You're just anxious."

"It is right to concern for health! It is a gift, it is breaking! I must attend it!" Omega spat. His jaw clenched as he uttered the word 'gift'. It was pointless to pretend to Shadow that he didn't hate it, but he meant what he said all the same. They could have said goodbye to him, and he never forgot that. Shadow hissed angrily but did his best impression of comforting, grimacing and laying a hand on Omega's fist to lower it.

"I know you feel bad, and that makes you nervous. But the problem is your nervousness. You won't feel better until you calm down."

"Illogical. Incorporeal feelings are clearly-"

"Fear is highly corporal. We can slow down. But you need to come with me."

He gave him a minute to think, but when Omega didn't move, Shadow zipped behind him and started shoving.

By silhouette, it looked like a gentle push, but Shadow could exert as much pressure as a freight train with just his palms, and Omega instantly buckled forward.

"I do not want to." He grunted. Shadow shoved him again.

"I am not sufficiently prepared."

"You are."

He shoved him repeatedly, making Omega take stumbling steps along the obsidian road. He felt his stomach tie itself up over and over again, and thoroughly doubted any amount of petty concern could do that.

"I will not see her until I know I have control. I don't feel well. This will be a bad day."

Shadow stopped shoving, and Omega hoped he had won. He shot Shadow a filthy look, and turned on his heel.

"How disappointed will she be when she sees me drag you there?"

Shadow took him by the tail and started running. Omega had to fight to stay upright, tripping and howling. Shadow didn't run even half his speed, but fast enough that the only way for Omega to release the pressure on his tail was to run next to him.

"FINE! Release me."

Shadow did not, running holding his tail up the mountain path to the cave.

A little wooden door had been installed into a hole in the rock, and next to it a smaller one held a window pane. Omega stood ten paces from the door, panting; even after a minute the struggle didn't go away; his body wanted to shake and cough, and his head clouded.

"You've come this far." Shadow remarked, and gave him another half-minute before he knocked on the door. Omega barely heard it over his hammering heart thumping in his bones.

A small deep-purple flying Chao opened the door, small face pulling a wicked grin as they saw Shadow, then frowning evilly when they saw Omega.

"Amethyst. May we come in?" Shadow greeted them seriously, but they closed the door in his face, rushing back into the house. A minute later, they opened the door again, glaring at Omega.

"Thank you." Shadow said.

"It is unwise for me-"

"Hi boys, take your shoes off at the door?" She called from within, and Omega swallowed his words.

Rouge's cave was lit by candles and warmed by the geothermal rock. She hadn't been here long, but she had rolled sheharan rugs over the stone floor and hung her trinkets on the wall, so they glistened cheekily in the low light. Her receiving room was lit with a gothic tree of tealights in the centre of the floor, and she sat in a velvet armchair with a fur throw over herself. She looked beautiful in the low light; her hair was softly looped into a bun that hid the white ends where it had been bleached, but now without treatment her fur had shifted to golden cream colours, and even the red flecks at her ears returned. Her glasses rested on her chest, hooked by a shining jet-beaded chain. She wore a deep purple shift dress that Omega knew to be an old one she had resewn, but was still the finest thing anyone wore these days. Completely incongruent with the terrible state of the world, she sparkled with jewels on her fingers, wrists, and neck, the picture of opulence. She waved her left hand lazily to Shadow, eyes set on Omega as he hovered at the door.

"I've changed my mind about that coffee table, Shadow. Put it back next to my chair." She commanded. Shadow rolled his eyes, but immediately began moving the table. It was heavy, encrusted with mosaic and framed beautifully with mahogany.

"I don't see why you need it. It isn't very 'Vamp'."

"No? Well, I'll cover it. It'll all be valuable again one day." She tittered softly, and pointed him towards two of her dining chairs, which he pulled up. She still stared at Omega sharply, and his chest felt like it would burst.

"Well aren't you a shrinking violet these days, come on, come in - they'll make the coffee?" She called the last to the hallway. The purple chao glared at Omega, and stayed hovered in the room while two other Chao scurried down the cavern hall with a bucket of water.

As Omega stepped into her space, he was hit with the smell of sweet flowers and herb; Rouge never smelled of animal, or sweat, or imperfections - he wondered how she maintained it, even now that cosmetics were long since a thing of the past. She gestured her hand to the other seat - the same hand. Her right arm remained under the blanket with her body. But the blanket couldn't hide her face, and as he came around to her side he saw the long scar across her chin to her nose, the stitch on her lip, and blotchiness in her eye. Her ear on that side was torn but she had pierced it and hung diamonds over the damage - now the weight of that decoration drooped it. He sat as still as a statue, hardly daring to look at her.

"How's things, Omega? Bricklaying suit you?"

He moved as minutely as he could, just barely nodding his head. She sighed dramatically: the purple Chao fluttered forward, resting possessively on Rouge's lap. They all stewed in silence until Shadow cleared his throat.

"These'll not leave you alone, even after you don't need them." Shadow nodded at the little beast. They growled as he spoke, and Rouge nodded.

"The Chao garden up here is well stocked with food to forage, but they were very domestic. They missed all the fuss, didn't you?" She said sweetly to the Chao, scratching their chin and fluffing the moldable fur on their head. They rolled into her hand, but kept their eyes on Omega, and the dot over their head remained alert. The conversation fell dead, as Rouge and the Chao looked at Omega, who looked at the floor.

"Let's review the news. We distribute a paper tomorrow." Shadow tried again, and this turned Rouge's head. She gestured to the board on wheels, and Shadow pulled it over.

In a time post-internet, sharing information was done by fast runners and fliers spreading calls for aid, locations of safe shelters for refugees, down to things as simple as the date and weather. Ever nosy of everyone's business, Rouge had quickly begun demanding the fastest people she knew to bring her reports to collate on a homemade impression typewriter, then reprinted over and over from those stamps, and sent Shadow across the world to deliver them. She insisted it was purely out of selfish desire, a hobby now stealing things was too easy. Whyever she did it, her papers flew across the world, and had successfully evacuated whole countries before mechanical siege. She took just two weeks off while she was hospitalised a month and change ago, but now with one working arm she was back to typing again. Omega felt small in her presence; small and terrible.

She and Shadow pieced together the already-made impressions onto one page, and he rolled over her typewriter. She was an eloquent writer, and summarised the breaking news quickly to add on the top bill. Coffee and amaretti were delivered by Chao while they worked; teeny little matching cups and saucers that Omega held so carefully between two hands that he was afraid to sip and break position. Still, they were no longer looking at him, everyone except the guard Chao was busy. The guilty squeeze in him was easing as he heard them speak.

Rouge relaxed as she thought, and didn't notice that her blanket slipped, revealing the cast as she considered her words.

"Did you say the Charnel House was bolted, or has since been bolted?" She mused. Shadow noted her arm and flicked his eyes to Omega, but focussed on the board.

"They were cagey. I suspect it has since been bolted. I think it would be safest to presume it was not sealed."

Rouge nodded; "But let's not be alarmist. Ghost stories tend to spook people - ha ha. I'll include it in the 'light news' side, but if you could point it out to someone capable? I'd give it a look, but-"

"You must stay on bedrest." Omega said suddenly, surprising himself as much as them. Instantly he was all hot and his organs contorting again as Rouge renoticed him. She curled her lip to a gentle sneer, and fluttered her unexaggerated lashes.

"I'm enjoying my break, you mean? Really, I could, but it's been all go for years, and I've still got decor to hang around here." She gestured to her overlaiden walls.

"Do you worry how much you're hammering into a volcano? Or living in one, for that matter?" Shadow gruffed, but he smiled in his tiny way. Rouge shrugged.

"Eggman's hoards are after me, too, but they've yet to find this place; so why go yet? Besides, I like the drama, never been afraid of an explosive home." She laughed softly and winked at Omega, who bristled and placed the teacup on the table to squeeze his palms hard. "It's also beautiful up here, and I'll hear the rumbles before it goes. The Chao will know when to flee."

Shadow sniffed at that, and took her finished piece to print.

"Right. To the ink room. Help me up, little one-" She put her hand out to the Chao, but Shadow was at her side already. As she stood, the Chao hovered in front of Omega to keep him from her, as the blanket slipped off and revealed the heavily bandaged leg and the wing that had been reconstructed with rods and stitching. Omega didn't know much about Mobian biology, only that there was a high chance she'd not fly again, unless someone could get around to reinventing mechanical prosthetics. Rouge caught him staring and cleared her throat.

"Omega, carry the board." She demanded, so he picked it up as though it were as delicate as a cobweb, and crept behind them to her print gallery.

It was the darkest space, black and red from a glass-shaded candle, as Rouge delicately inked the pages. She trusted Shadow to ink the 'light' news side, while Omega stood back and watched them, not daring to breathe. It was monotonous, procedural work, just like his, but paper was so rare and breakable, and one errant finger out of place would spoil a whole print. Yet Rouge stopped what she was doing to look pointedly at him.

"Aren't you here to help?" She sniffed haughtily. He backed away, his hands behind his back.

"It is not wise."

"You can do your buttons up, you can light a match, you'll be fine holding a brush." She laughed. Shadow nudged her good side gently and shook his head, but she held the brush out expectantly to him. He shook his head again.

"Please, Omega. I'm a little tired." She said finally. Shadow had a firm hand at her side again, but she tutted him away; "It's fine, can we be normal, please? It's just easier for me to sit right now. I'll just... manage you."

She hobbled on her cast to a high backless seat and spread one wing to balance. Keeping his distance from her, Omega tiptoed across the room to Shadow, his body screaming with heavy lungs again. Shadow spread the paper out in front of him, and showed him the process.

Omega worked so slowly, the second sides Shadow had done piled up, but his imperfect hands still made uneven layers of ink, and the more he brushed the more imperfections he saw. The stencil started to saturate.

"It's fine. It's done, it can dry." Shadow hissed, taking Omega's hand off the page to hang it out. As he did so, the brush in Omega's fingers dribbled black ink, and the tiny drop plummeted towards the fancy rug. Omega dove to catch it in his palm, and would have upset the whole table if Shadow hadn't steadied it.

"Careful-" he hissed, and Omega stood as still as he could, his throat on fire. As soon as the danger was done he had to - gently - get himself out of here. The room sparkled in alarm with breakable things, and Rouge dazzled with all her gems in the corner of his eye. She huffed, snapping her good fingers.

"Well, that was your fault, Shadow. Don't rush him."

They worked in perfect - slow, painfully slow - silence, until Omega had hand-inked every paper. Shadow finished his sides some forty minutes before, and hovered over his shoulder like a wasp, itching to take over for him, until Rouge eventually called him over to do something for her. Omega absorbed himself into doing the task perfectly: if he forgot Rouge was there, his mind was less clouded by warnings, and he could fill it with letters, liquid pigment, and floral perfume. As he reached for the pile and found it empty, he heard a soft laugh at his shoulder.

"You're becoming quite the gentle giant - I never thought I'd see the day." Rouge sighed, and Omega tensed all over again. He turned his head as slow as he could to see her, and crept out of her space as she leant into his to take the last few drying papers and set them on the rack.

"Please - keep away." He whispered. She raised her eyebrow sharply at him, and Shadow grimaced on the other side of the room.

"Do you think I'm scared of you? Don't flatter yourself." She sneered, her wing and ears flexing with some hostility or insult. Omega felt his own ears flicking down, and his tail tried to whip his ankles nervously. The banging in his head re-announced itself.

"I... haven't perfected my control. Just today I threw Shadow. It is not safe for me to be in close proximity to someone..." he cut himself off before he insulted her further. She flared her nostrils sparkily, standing as tall as she could with a hunch and a limp.

"Threw him? Well, we've all done that, he deserves it!" She laughed, then tutted when he didn't join her:

"Frankly, get over yourself. If you're too weak-livered to rely on yourself, trust Shadow. I've been telling him to bring you for weeks, and he's finally deemed you calm enough to see me. You and I clearly have different impressions of calm, though." She shot the last over her shoulders. Shadow folded his arms and scowled at her.

"He has been. Everything's been fine until today-"

"Oh, I'm sure you've been a wonderful relaxing presence. Never like you to spring a surprise, or talk down-"

"I'm very relaxing to be around." He snarled.

"I'll leave." Omega stammered feeling for the wall as he shuffled away from Rouge, then hurried out of the house. The bickering continued but he couldn't hear them, and he slammed the door to the house behind him, then leant on the rock.

Omega sucked cold air into his mouth and held his breath. Out here on the slopes, there was no ceiling to cave in if he lost control of his strength, and no casualties to be had. He admired the rocky scenery, then started to wobble at lack of air, finally letting his mouth open and he choked. His body flapped under his skin to regulate all the millions of processes it needed to run. He needed to run, too, but he knew he'd only disappoint them if he left, and Shadow could catch up to him anyway, so he sat on the ground with his legs hanging off an outcrop.

Minutes passed, and he heard muffled talking in the cave before the door opened again. He didn't turn around.

"Funny, you used to love pitting us against each other." Rouge remarked softly, leaning on the doorway with Shadow before she quietly stepped out past him to rest a hand on Omega's arm. He panicked again.

"I had raised I am unwell today. Something is wrong with the breathing apparatus. I could not risk a malfunction in your enclosed space. Please don't touch."

She skirted her hand off him. Stood at full height, her eyes were level with him where he sat, and she looked over his ears thoughtfully.

"Doesn't your head hurt?" She whispered, nodding to the top of his head. Shadow joined her at his shoulder, holding her arm to help her balance on the rock. They both looked at something over Omega's eyes, it irked him.

"I hadn't noticed." He hummed. Omega felt studied again, and shuffled away, hand on his head.

"Oh. There are bones."

"They're horns. Like, for hitting people with." Rouge laughed, tracing a twirl in the air over her head. Omega grunted.

"Just another headache. Life has insufficient enemies to bash to warrant horns." He sighed.

"Only for now. We'll be back in the field when you're both ready. There's still Eggman and his new pet." Shadow said firmly, staring at the horizon.

"Don't tell me you're bored, paperboy? Besides, if you're looking to get the last hit, you'll have to fight for that honour. And Sonic won't let you kill him."

Shadow hissed, kicking a rock as he started pacing.

"At this point, it's putting him out of his misery. There's no more time for redemption. Who would accept a senile, deathbed apology? He-"

"A lot of people you like would. But you don't have to tell us, Shadow. You know we'd all have cracked him ten times over." Rouge laughed as Shadow kicked a small boulder down the slope. Omega gripped the ledge he sat on and tried to not mind his anger, but Rouge felt it. She huffed and puffed as she tried to negotiate sitting, but her braced leg was uncooperative. Omega shivered, but tentatively put an arm out, and when she took it he delicately lifted her from under her arms to seat her down. He placed her like the turret of a house of cards, and pulled his hands away slowly, braced to catch her if she tipped. She rolled her eyes.

"Thank you, big guy, I'm actually not made of glass."

"... glass is more reparable."

"Shut up!" She huffed playfully, nudging him as she settled.

They sat in the quiet, but it wasn't silent; the wind rushed down the mountainside, rustling bushes and disturbing birds that cawed and cooed. Shadow's pacing footsteps slowed to a gentle rhythm, then he finally stopped next to Omega, and sat on his other side. For a while it was nice, but then the proximity started to squeeze Omega again, and the pressure built in him. His breath started to race.

"What's wrong? Something hurt?" Rouge hummed, letting her voice become soothing, but Omega panted and shook his head.

"I told you, you just need to calm down." Shadow growled.

"I told you something is wrong with this. The lungs are misfiring, there are bones where there shouldn't be, and the stomach is sick. It is loud and hard to think." Omega hissed back as the sides of his vision became cloudy. He rubbed his head over the tiny itching lumps, then it started to ache more, and he leant forward to relieve pressure from his neck.

Over Omega's back, Rouge silently inquired with Shadow. He shrugged, and leant back on his hands as though he didn't care. Rouge ran her tongue over her fangs, and floated her hand to his back, but thought better, and shuffled away from him by a few inches.

"Well, when you feel better enough to make the trip, you'd better go to the Prower Labs. I'm sure they'll have some answers."

Omega rolled his huge shoulders and nodded. Shadow rolled his eyes, but she shot him a fierce glare and he stayed quiet.

"Y'know, biological bodies have all kinds of cheat codes to feel better. Like, if you're too high in adrenaline, chewing gum can reduce stress. Apparently, it's because your brain thinks eating means you're safe, so it changes gear."

Shadow itched at his gloves, the urge to correct her almost overwhelming, but he stayed his tongue.

"That is ridiculous."

"It's true, though. And if you're aching, both hot and cold can make your brain forget about the hurt."

Omega considered this, rubbing a hand over the itching horns.

"Why?"

"Because it's a new sensation, and your brain ignores existing signals."

"She's not a doctor and she's barely right. She's making it up, Omega." Shadow huffed. Rouge made a mocking noise in her throat and glared at Shadow. Omega bristled, noticing the aches in his body where he sat on the rock, leant on his knees, and took deep breaths.

"Why are you ignoring the feeling? It is status information. It is vital." He mumbled into the wind. Rouge ruffled her hair as she thought, letting it out of its bun so it rested past her shoulders.

"Because... I don't know, you can't do anything about it? If I have a blister, but I have to be somewhere before I can deal with it, I don't wanna keep thinking about it."

"But you are damaging your skin."

"Yeah, but... ish happens. Stuff hurts, you get better."

"You hope you'll get better." Shadow nodded, and Rouge threw a pebble she'd been fiddling with at him.

"You are so miserable to be around! Look what you've done to my big guy, you've mucked him up with all your anxiety!" She laughed, reaching around Omega to mess with Shadow's hair. Omega felt her arm brush his bristly fur and flexed to get out of the way, but as she pulled it back she purposely ruffled his too.

Rouge had always patted and preened Omega when he was metal, and he accepted it as something animals needed to feel close to each other. And, when he first woke up, he thought he needed it too; his jaw was stuck and he couldn't make his limbs move, but she held his hand and for the first time, it meant more to him than just making Rouge happy. But that was before, when a rush of rage just meant a small muscle spasm, not the whole-body fit it would later become.

"Are you cold, Omega?" She asked softly, and he tuned back in and stopped shaking.

"No. It is errors. Please keep your distance from me."

She sighed, shuffling away.

"I hope you're still having fun, at least? You guys are doing things, right?"

Omega glanced quizzically at Shadow, who looked at the horizon.

"If we had time, we would."

"Sorry, what was that? You're boring without me?" She said gently, her hand to her decorated ear. He laughed once, and Omega grunted.

"I knew it. Just nice to hear it out loud."

"You can't come back. I'm not ready." Omega grunted.

"Yes, that's clear, dear, but you've got to do something about this grumpy guts nature you're learning. If you won't come to see me, will you at least find something you like doing? Talk to some people?"

"Not ready."

"Oh, come on! There are demo sites still - you used to love shooting at those! Why, won't Shadow take you?"

"I would. Central City is all being pulled down, I ran through today." Shadow nodded.

"Bullets were better controlled. I was more precise. I might pull a building down."

"That's the point!"

"I might pull a building down onto someone."

"Eh, they'll have hard hats."

Omega glared at her briefly, and she grinned a Cheshire grin.

"Awh, look at you, you big softie! Maybe you want to learn knitting? Baking? You could grow me flowers, I'm forever sending out the Chao to get them for perfume, you bring me some!" She cackled, placing a hand under her chin and blinking cheerfully. He took a deep breath in, and blew out through his nostrils thoughtfully.

"Perfume?"

"Yes, after everything that's happened, making cosmetics is what you fill your time with, Rouge? Ridiculous." Shadow snorted. She sniffed herself, thought for a moment, and then nodded.

"It makes me feel like me. You have to have that. Makes it all worth it."

"Shallow." Shadow snorted, but Omega's eyes drifted down to Shadow's shoes, tattily painted on the side and souls. He remembered the lump in his throat from this morning, and his eyes felt odd and blurred. Shadow kicked his shoes and frowned at him for staring, and he looked away down the mountain.

"It is not shallow. Meatbags smell constantly." He grunted.

"Rude."

"He's right. Not like you don't still swipe from the lavender fields."

Shadow shook his head, brushing his fur defensively. Lavender, Omega supposed, must be what Shadow smelled of, and maybe what he put in his shoes. They were bendy, spindly and crumbled into pieces.

"If I pick flowers, they will break."

"That happens when anyone picks flowers, genius."

"... if you would like them. I will try."

"Awh, you charmer, for little ol' me?"

"You told him to."

Shadow and Rouge bickered around him as the sun sank in the sky, and Omega watched the world. He started to calm, until he spotted something mechanical marching down below.

"Rouge, inside." He sprang up into a crouch, eying down the roving robot soldier, as Shadow zipped down the mountainside in imperceptibly fast bolts to view the incoming. Rouge wobbled and hissed as she tried to pull herself up, and before he knew it he had scooped her up and whisked them inside, a candle flickering in the rush of air.

"Oh my, how forward!" She tittered, but he didn't see the joke; he placed her in her velvet chair and let his hands tremble when he let go, backing away like she pointed a gun at him.

Rouge sniffed at him, once again intimidating despite her half-mangled state.

"Why don't you go see if Shadow wants help? You've got tiny pointed horns coming in, and those are made for ramming!"

"You will be safe?"

"Of course. Go on. You used to love smashing robots! Send Shadow back up when you've chased them all off, though - he has papers to do!"

Omega looked at his hands, felt his head, and nodded.

"I will help Shadow. I will not intrude any more."

"You're invited, idiot. I'm still missing you."

"I am responsible-"

"Zip! Go! I told you I won't hear it. Take care, Omega."

"... you too."

He nodded shamefully, and carefully made his way out the cave, before he careered down the mountain.

Rouge felt cold and alone again when they left, and sneered in disdain at her own disappointing body - it was bad to have been injured, but this state of affairs made her useless and alone. But of course, she didn't blame him for the damage; only for avoiding her.

Several Chao hovered at her side, helping her hobble up to gather the papers and tie them with twine. She heard crashing outside, and felt bitter, but hoped they were having fun. She'd give as good as them someday soon, she was sure of it - even if not how she once had. Like Omega, she might grow horns, and they'd grow back to menacing Eggman and the police alike together. She smiled to herself as she formed plans, and slipped a bottle of perfume into Shadow's messenger bag with a painted note in a fine ink brush.

Omega. Sorry life stinks. You don't have to. See you soon - xxx

@teamdarkweek

#teamdarkweek #team dark week #team dark #tdw 2024: day 5 #prose #fanfic #ao3 #shadow the hedgehog #rouge the bat #e-123 Omega #wonderincs #writincs #cybervirus au

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galemasters · 4 months

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How Gunvolt lost its muse, literally and figuratively

So, if you're a Mega Man fan, you've probably at least heard of the Azure Striker: Gunvolt series, which is a spiritual successor to Mega Man Zero by the developer of those games, Inti Creates. The gameplay is fairly well-received, as a score attack focused side scroller with a speed running mode. The narrative, on the other hand, has often been decried as a rehash of Mega Man Zero, except replace "androids" with "psychics".

This take, I feel, is at least partly based on those who had played the game when it first come out and no longer cared about it, because if you had played the initial release you absolutely would have left with that impression. The thing is, that's because the original localization bastardized the whole thing. It was a very unfaithful translation which also cut out a lot of dialogue, namely the stage chatter and, most importantly, the slice of life snippets that could be accessed from the stage select menu. This meant that the primary theme of the game was lost.

In the original localization, the fact that you had to collect jewels for Joule in order to get the true ending seemed like a silly pun, but it's not just that. The game starts with Gunvolt rescuing and adopting her for a reason. She is the spiritual center of the game, not merely a gameplay mechanic to justify how Gunvolt can come back back to life powered up on defeat. Those slice of life snippets helped build up Gunvolt's relationship with Joule. The jewels you collected for her were used to create a necklace that blocked a bullet, allowing Joule to bring Gunvolt back when all seemed lost. This is because everything Gunvolt does is to protect Joule. She is his muse. The "humans vs. Adepts" plot is ultimately just a framework for this very relationship-focused narrative, which is quite different from Mega Man Zero. Zero had relationships, true, but the narrative was very much about the human-Reploid conflict and the role Zero played in it.

The sequel continued this. Joule is now just a ghost, and Gunvolt is hung up on this, but still inspired by her to keep pushing forward. Of course, the sequel also made Gunvolt's rival Copen playable. Copen actually has a muse of his own: his biological sister, Mytyl. In the ending, it's revealed that Mytyl was the original muse whose Joule's powers come from. Joule merges with her, so Gunvolt and Copen's final battle is over the Muse, as a singular entity. Regardless of who wins, they ultimately decide to let her have what she always wanted: a normal life. This devastates them, but it does mean that rather than Gunvolt or Copen getting a happy ending, the Muse does. This is because the Muse is the main character, not merely a damsel in distress to be stuffed in the fridge.

So, in that case, how do future games follow up on that? In Copen's case, his spinoff games are part of an alternate timeline. Additionally, the first spinoff game of his really is about the human-Adept conflict, and rightly so given that Copen's fatal flaw is his bigotry towards Adepts. For these reasons, I won't dwell on it. That said, they do manage to incorporate the idea of the Muse into the plot by revealing that Mytyl has been transformed into a monster, forcing Copen to put her down. The second spinoff takes place in an entirely different setting, weirdly enough, and has very little to do with the human-Adept conflict or the Muse.

As for the third mainline game, Gunvolt 2 ended on a cliffhanger. Gunvolt's mission control was revealed to have plans involving Mytyl. I was admittedly a little nervous about how they might follow up on that. Gunvolt 2 was effectively the end of the Muse's arc. Why take away their happy ending? So, I was hoping that Gunvolt 3 would find a way to make those plans not end Mytyl's normal life, or else do something different.

Gunvolt 3 actually did nothing with this cliffhanger. Instead, it's revealed at the beginning of the game that Gunvolt's powers spiraled out of control, causing him to almost kill the character that was set up as his future love interest in the previous game, Quinn. Out of fear, he turned himself into the evil mega corporation from the first game, Sumeragi Group, whose goal is to control Adepts, and was sealed away for several decades until his power grew to the point that a shrine maiden with purification powers was forced to step in. Now Gunvolt helps the shrine maiden purify other Adepts whose powers are driving them mad.

"Great!" You say. "That's something different!" Except... no, they actually just brought in a counterpart to the Maverick virus from the Mega Man franchise, the one thing from that series Gunvolt was lacking. Gunvolt's narrative actually became even more of a Mega Man rehash. The Muse technically returns as a sort of program that achieves sentience as a result of Gunvolt's influence, but here she plays almost no narrative role and is just there for the returning gameplay mechanic. Additionally, the bad guys have a muse, of sorts, but she's not really all that important, and instead just the MacGuffin that the bad guys are using to try and brainwash everyone like they wanted to with Joule in the first game.

In essence, while I would disagree that the first two games were just a Mega Man Zero rehash narratively, the third game is and it makes me sad.

#azure striker gunvolt #gunvolt 3 #on writing

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dragonmuse · 2 years

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Hi! Your Leda verse is giving me life.

How/why did you decode to give Izzy severe allergies?

The cheap answer is that it came to me as I was writing I Want to Break Free.

The longer (possibly dull) answer is that I write in a linear way, so the way you read it is usually the order I wrote it in (sometimes I move a scene around if it really jars etc). I do have a sort of amorphous outline in my head, but I try to go with the flow of what makes sense in the moment.

When I was writing I Want to Break Free, I was amusing myself with Lucius being stumped by Izzy's coffee machine and then he opens the fridge.

And I had to answer the question for myself 'What is in Izzy's fridge?'

That was the moment, I knew what his apartment was like too. I had originally vaguely though he'd be kind of a messy bachelor, too preoccupied with his work life to care, but I thought about how rigid canon Izzy seems to be and how things are supposed to be a certain way.

What if the rigidness extended to his space? A home is your inner life and Izzy's inner life is barren. There is control and cleanliness and emptiness. He can't let anything else in. There can't be mess in the home because that means there's mess in his head. His head is fine. Everything here is fine and normal according to a catalog from 2012.

So what's in the fridge? I find out along with Lucius: Beer because Izzy still drinks if not to excess regularly anymore, protein shakes because he's a bit of a gym rat, and then...I just knew there was prepared food. No one else can make his food.

It had to be something most people who only knew him very casually might sometimes need to know, but he would absolutely loathe telling anyone. A vulnerability? And he has to expose it to keep himself safe? The Worst. And he has to tell Lucius.

It's a real thing he struggles with and also a symbol of everything else. It's the crack that he can't spackle over or pretend isn't there. It's a place he has to let someone in if he wants to spend any serious amount of time with them.

It's not a coincidence that Izzy tells Lucius about everything important in the kitchen. It becomes the room where they talk about serious shit, things that can't go into the bedroom where the power dynamics shift so dramatically.

Over time, as their relationship deepens, the kitchen is no longer a place where Izzy is unwillingly cracking open, but a place where he feels safe and solid. It's his domain where he can nourish the man he loves and himself. It's where he'll eventually make Read the meals that help her body heal, prepare toddler charcuterie for Pickle and open a kitty lifetime of fishy cans for Sweeney.

And he'll always be vulnerable, always contend with allergies, but he doesn't care if Jim teases him about it or if Lucius carefully explains it to someone new with dire threats to their existence if they fuck it up. It's just a part of him, the way his scars and tattoos are.

...uh, so that's that! Goodness. What a ramble. If you made it this far, have a bonus Izzy fact:

He 100% kept the shirt Roach lent him for the performance in Sing a New Song. He claimed it got blood on it from the fight afterwards and gave Roach money to replace it apology. It is in fact, in heavy rotation as a garment that does not leave the apartment.

#leda house and the kraken verse #goblin king and the pup #ask answered

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d-l-dare · 1 year

Text

"Making a Change"

I find myself sitting in front of my computer. Another day where nothing gets done. Through my eyes, I can see the mess of paper plates and empty soda bottles scattered about my floor. I realize the mess of an apartment I lay in, but The lack of motivation leaves me tired. Just the thought of getting up from my chair feels like a drag.

My eyes are drawn back to my computer screen. Another video plays. It's a group of people playing a horror game. As they play, they say and do dumb things to make each other laugh, even getting a chuckle or two out of me. As the video progressed, however, I felt my eyes grow heavy. My head leaned to an uncomfortable position as I started to drift. I jerked awake when the video I was watching was interrupted by a loud advertisement. Why do they always have to make them so loud?

Glancing down at the corner of the screen, I noticed the time. There's no way it was that late in the day already. Was the sun starting to go down? I decided I needed to get myself up and make some food. Maybe that would give me some sort of energy. With a deep sigh, I lifted myself from my seat and made my way to the kitchen. I scoured the fridge, hoping to find something satisfying. Unfortunately, there was nothing but bland lunch meat, as well as a bunch of other junk that I needed to throw away. I figured I would do it tomorrow.

Closing the fridge, I decided to check the freezer. To my surprise, it was a lot fuller than I remembered. I was torn between frozen burritos and corn dogs. I made a grab for the corn dogs. They would be a lot faster to cook.

I ripped open the box and threw a couple of them onto a paper plate and tossed them in the microwave. There was a beep as I pressed the number '2', followed by a satisfying hum. I put the box back in the freezer before turning back and staring blankly at the corn dogs as they slowly turned in the microwave. As I stared, I couldn't help but think about how much of a slob I have become. Just judging by the smell, I knew that I needed to take out the trash. Badly.

I think that must have been the last straw. I forced myself over to the trash can and took the bag out. I tied it up and brought it outside. The setting sun made the world look a little dreary, as everything was overlayed with a dark blue tint. I made my way back into the house, just in time to hear the microwave beep. At last, my food was done. I took it out and grabbed some ketchup from the fridge and squirted some on my plate. I then grabbed some chips from the cabinet and filled any empty space on my plate with them.

As I was all set, I made my way back to my computer. I almost sat down, but the motivation to try something different hit me out of nowhere. Was it because I stepped outside today? I walked over to the living room and sat down in my recliner. I grabbed the TV remote from the table in front of me and clicked the 'Power On' button. Nothing happened. I pressed it again, harder this time. Still nothing. I moved it around and pressed it several more times, thinking that maybe the sensor wasn't picking it up. Still, the TV remained off. I wanted to give up and return to my computer desk, but again, I felt motivated to be productive. I knew there were batteries somewhere. I could just replace them and it should be good.

I made my way to the kitchen, opened a drawer, and there was a package of unopened batteries. I took the back off of the remote and, to my surprise, they were all corroded. Carefully, I took them out and tossed them in the trash. I put new ones in the remote and sat back down in front of my TV.

I turned the television on and watched some cartoons as I enjoyed my dinner.

***

I opened my eyes to find a dark room. Had I fallen asleep watching TV? I stood up, a paper plate clattering to the ground as I did so. At this point, I was disgusted with myself. I dusted the crumbs off of my shirt and made my way to my bedroom, careful to step over the trash that was scattered about my floor. I crawled into bed. As I pulled the covers over myself, I made myself a promise to clean everything tomorrow.

***

As the morning rolled in, I found myself awake, scrolling through social media apps on my phone before I could find the motivation to get up from my bed. When I finally did get up, I looked around and was reminded of what I told myself last night. I was going to clean this place up. I made my way to the kitchen and grabbed a couple trash bags. I came back to my room and threw everything that was on the floor in there, except for some clothes and dishes. There were a lot more dishes that I remembered there being.

By the time I was finished, I could finally see the floor. It almost looked like a brand-new room. I was pouring sweat, but I felt accomplished afterward. I was proud of my hard work. I brought the trash outside, the sunlight beaming down on me, making it hard to see. I made my way back inside, breathless. I decided I'd better sit down and watch some TV before I clean some more.

After turning on some cartoons, I grabbed a bottle of water from the package beside my recliner. As I picked it up, I noticed the outside of the bottle was wet. Was one of the bottles leaking? I fished around in the package until I found the culprit. I picked it out of the package and tossed it in the trash can. I was about to go sit back down when I smelled something, like rotten eggs. Was that coming from my trash can? I just had the water bottle in there, right?

I opened the lid of the trash can. Sure enough, that's where the smell was coming from. Was the water in the bottle rotten or something? Does that even happen to water? As I peered down, I noticed there was something else in the trash can. The corroded batteries. Was that what was causing the smell?

I leaned in closer. Maybe I can just grab them out and it'll be fine.

Just then, Something splashed at me. The moment it struck my skin, it burned. My hands felt like they were on fire. Another splash and this time, it landed on my face. It was getting hard to see. Hard to breathe through the incredible pain. I cried out but knew no one would hear me. The houses in this neighborhood were pretty well soundproofed.

I cowered in the corner as the pain spread. It was hurting to breathe, to speak, to exist. All I could do was wait in excruciating pain for my inevitable end.

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littlewalken · 3 months

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feb 9

Coffee, typing on a keyboard, and wifi, almost feeling normal.

I am definitely going to get my steps in as my new home is at least twice as big as my previous dwelling. We have pretty much agreed as much of a blessing and a port in a storm as that place was at the time it was little better than being in a crappy motel room with its own kitchen.

Except for all the Motel Shit locations I've been in and even a few places with wood paneling and regular keys none of them were as... I can't even come up with a word for it. But none of the motels had earwigs and a steady gas leak from the stove like that place did.

I know it served its purpose but even it knew we weren't going to stay there long. We did get to leave our fridge the power company gave us back in 2005. There are people who will fit in to that place just fine and to have a working fridge will be the biggest blessing anyone ever gave them.

Also replacing the fridge was on my list of things to do to improve our lives, along with a small stackable washer and dryer, but now I don't need to. Guess what we have here!

But yeah, this place is in a way like the blue carpet double wide, only this is a square instead of being long, and walking from my bedroom and bathroom just to the kitchen is longer than where we left. I'll also be out and walking to the mail box every day. I have an umbrella now, one of those pink flamingo ones with a stand so it's also a parasol.

Today and tomorrow we'll do what van loads we can to clear out the one storage and get what's left of our furnishings here. Sunday we're going to stay home, mostly because of traffic and drunks, and to give us a day to rest and arrange things nicely in our new to us home.

Would be nice to have someone help us with a load of heavier furnishings but this is what you get when coddling the golden child matters more than everything else but like the horse she can't afford (she's lived in a great home since 2017) and it ends up driving all your friends and family away.

The neighbors we've met so far are good. Still getting used to the idea none of them throw their trash outside their car, so you have to walk thru it, or make questionable puddles.

I have three doors I can put shoe/doll holder things on.

The dolls would be welcome in the common area but we'll be getting a hearing dog eventually and good as they can be I don't like to mix my dolls and critters. I sort of gave up setting up the doll house for awhile to let the cats in my room, no regurts, but I've been dying to set now two of them up for so long I really want to treat them and myself.

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fxllen-rxse · 10 months

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//Omg.... Wtf.....

Big vent rant under the cut to be deleted later. I may not be at home right now, but this explains how things are going back there. Scroll past if it's not your thing. I completely understand. I'm just venting because it frustrates me to no end...

So I'm from Tulsa, OK. On Saturday night/early Sunday morning a freak wind storm happened. Winds were 100+ mph. 80+ is the criteria to sound the sirens, which were indeed used. Local news tower cam at one point shows footage of almost every transformer within the shot blowing one after the other within seconds. The anticipation of the high winds even prompted a civil emergency alert to be issued at one point.

My husband and I had left for Minnesota the morning before. We knew it was supposed to storm, but nothing like this.

The damage was quite extensive. A vast majority of the city lost power. Poles were down in multiple areas, making most roads impassable. Structures are damaged or destroyed. For lack of better words, this storm has heavily disabled more than half of the city.

As a result, numerous businesses are closed and can't open. This includes multiple gas stations, which the ones who do have power and are open are being overcrowded with many desperately seeking fuel and what little supplies they can get their hands on. Not only that, but heat index this week is nearing or at the triple digits. As one can imagine, without electricity there's no AC.

The city has stepped up and began its own recovery efforts. The mayor immediately signed a disaster declaration. Cooling stations have been opened and crews are working around the clock to clean up and restore electricity. Obviously, it's not happening all at once, but slowly power is getting restored. After all, in one County alone it was near 150,000.

Though, lack of electricity means that most food left in the fridge for about 48 hours should probably be considered spoiled. Already, budgets are tight for many. Having to throw out and replace all of that isn't as easy as it is for some.

I think the major thing that is really bothering me here was that a state of emergency was not declared until 2pm today. The twist? It wasn't our "good ole" governor who did it. Nope, not the Lt. Governor either. It was the Senate President Pro Tem, who was apparently not notified that he was acting governor until about 1pm today.

As for the governor, he's enjoying himself in Paris. Even tweeting about it. No clue where the Lt. Governor is, but he is indeed out of state as well.

So... I'll give the Pro Tem, he got the state of emergency signed within an hour of being told he was acting governor. At least he's actually doing something instead of sending empty thoughts and prayers!

It's so frustrating and infuriating! So far, my husband and I have been fortunate enough to only come out of this with a downed section of fence and at least 2 days without electric. We will have to empty our fridge when we return, but aside from that, everything else looks to be fine. From what we can see, our house didn't appear to make it to 80 degrees inside. So I'm hoping that my refrigerated med will still be fine.

Even though we are not home right now, I can definitely feel all that frustration within the city. It has made it somewhat difficult to actually enjoy this vacation, but we're here and doing our best to make the most of it.

#ooc || Zorra Lynn speaks #//Big vent under the cut #delete later

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qualityoralsurgery · 1 year

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What is Oral Surgery? What Kinds of Oral Surgery Are There?

Oral care is a vital part of your overall health, not just because a great smile makes you feel more confident, but also because many dental concerns can significantly impact your health if left untreated and cause significant complications. Although the team at Dental Excellence does everything in its power to treat your dental conditions conservatively, there are times when dental surgery is necessary to correct serious problems. Oral surgeons, or dental surgeons, are medical doctors who specialize in surgeries of the mouth, sinuses, and jaw. They’re trained to diagnose the extent of damage that tooth decay, an accident or injury, chronic joint issues like TMJ disorder, or periodontitis has done to your mouth and then prepare a customized treatment to repair it. This often includes surgical procedures in the mouth or face. At Dental Excellence, we have several team members who hold either a Master’s Degree in Dental Surgery or their Doctorate in Dental Surgery in addition to excelling in traditional dental school, qualifying them to perform many types of oral surgery.

Oral surgery is an umbrella term that covers many different individual procedures. Sometimes, your treatment plan will involve more than one of these types of operations. For example, if you’re receiving oral surgery to remove a tumor, you may have additional reconstructive procedures afterward to repair any damage or abscesses the tumor caused. Or, if you’re receiving a dental implant to replace a missing tooth, you may have bone grafting surgery prior to the implant being placed. Common oral surgery procedures, Root canals, preserving the tooth by removing the inflamed or infected tooth root, Removing wisdom teeth, including those that are impacted, Completing a gum or bone graft, Placing dental implants, and Tooth and jaw repair after an accident or injury. Please go here to this dentist service and you get the best service.

Can I eat after oral surgery? Room-temperature soft foods are the best to eat after surgery – and some of our patients may even choose to eat baby food. Don’t drink anything through a straw, and avoid overly hot or cold beverages. Soft foods eaten at room temperature are the ideal foods to eat after oral surgery. Avoid consuming anything through a straw and don’t eat any hard, crunchy, or chewy foods.

Preparing For Oral Surgery: Each procedure is different, and although many oral surgery procedures are minimally invasive, and can be done on an outpatient basis, these are still serious medical procedures, and it’s important to follow your physician’s directions carefully for the best results. If you smoke or drink alcohol, try to abstain for a few days before your surgery and afterward, until you’re fully healed. Alcohol and the chemicals in cigarettes can slow the healing process and may cause inflammation or complications in your mouth following oral surgery.

Preparing your home before surgery so that you can comfortably rest and recover is also important. Check which kinds of foods and drinks you can have after your surgery and stock your fridge. If you have an active pet, you may wish to have a pet sitter help you out for the first couple of days. Clean the house and make your bed comfortable, so that you can rest peacefully as you heal. If possible, arrange for someone to give you a ride to and from the surgery, especially if you will have IV anesthesia or if you’ll be sedated. You’ll likely have pre-surgical instructions from your oral surgeon, which often include not eating or drinking within 8-12 hours of your surgery.

Oral Surgery Recovery Like: Depending on the kind of procedure you have done, recovery can take as little as a couple of days or as long as a month, if it’s intensive jaw realignment and reconstruction, or a bone graft. There will likely be some swelling around the site, and you may use an ice pack to soothe this or a warm compress. Instead of brushing your teeth, rinse your mouth with salt water every few hours to kill off any bacteria, and ask your oral surgeon when you can brush and floss normally again.

1821 Westinghouse Rd

1821 Westinghouse Rd, Georgetown, TX 78626, USA

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xcziel · 3 years

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Presented without further explanation, just bc @foxofninetales is a horrible (wonderful) enabler

liu chang photos via @wirwerdensiegen

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blackwoolncrown · 3 years

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For the past few days, a heatwave has glowered over the Pacific Northwest, forcing temperatures in the region to a record-breaking 118ºF. Few people in the region—neither Americans nor Canadians—have air-conditioning. Stores sold out of new AC units in hours as a panicked public sought a reasonable solution to the emergency. Unfortunately, air-conditioning is part of what’s causing the unusual heatwave in the first place.

We came close to destroying all life on Earth during the Cold War, with the threat of nuclear annihilation. But we may have come even closer during the cooling war, when the rising number of Americans with air conditioners—and a refrigerant industry that fought regulation—nearly obliterated the ozone layer. We avoided that environmental catastrophe, but the fundamental problem of air conditioning has never really been resolved.

Mechanical cooling appeared in the early 1900s not for comfort but for business. In manufacturing, the regulation of temperature—“process cooling”—controlled the quality of commodities like cotton, tobacco, and chewing gum. In 1903, Alfred Wolff installed the first cooling system for people at the New York Stock Exchange because comfortable traders yielded considerably higher stock returns. Only in the ’20s did “commercial cooling” appear. On Memorial Day weekend 1925, Willis Carrier debuted the first centrifugal air-conditioning system at the Rivoli Theater in Midtown Manhattan. Previously, theaters had shut down in the summer. With air-conditioning, the Rivoli became “the talk of Broadway” and inaugurated the summer blockbuster.

-another direct tie to capitalism. Everything born out of colonio-capitalism carries its toxic mark. Article totally not under the cut for those who can’t pay for Time. It honestly paints a really clear picture of the situation. Bolding mine.-

“It’s time we become more comfortable with discomfort. Our survival may depend on it.“

Before World War II, almost no one had air-conditioning at home. Besides being financially impractical and culturally odd, it was also dangerous. Chemical refrigerants like sulfur dioxide and methyl chloride filled most fridges and coolers, and leaks could kill a child, poison a hospital floor, even blow up a basement. Everything changed with the invention of Freon in 1928. Non-toxic and non-explosive, Freon was hailed as a “miracle.” It made the modernist skyscraper—with its sealed windows and heat-absorbing materials—possible. It made living in the desert possible. The small, winter resort of Phoenix, Arizona, became a year-round attraction. Architecture could now ignore the local climate. Anywhere could be 65ºF with 55% humidity. Cheap materials made boxy, suburban tract housing affordable to most Americans, but the sealed-up, stifling design of these homes required air-conditioning to keep the heat at bay. Quickly, air-conditioning transitioned from a luxury to a necessity. By 1980, more than half of all U.S. homes were air-conditioned. And despite millions of Black Americans fleeing the violence of Jim Crow, the South saw greater in-migration than out-migration for the first time—a direct result of AC. The American car was similarly transformed. In 1955, only 10 percent of American cars had air-conditioning. Thirty years later, it came standard.

The cooling boom also altered the way we work. Now, Americans could work anywhere at any hour of the day. Early ads for air-conditioning promised not health or comfort but productivity. The workday could proceed no matter the season or the climate. Even in the home, A/C brought comfort as a means to rest up before the next work day.

The use of air-conditioning was as symbolic as it was material. It conveyed class status. Who did and didn’t have air-conditioning often fell starkly along the color line, too, especially in the South. It conquered the weather and, with it, the need to sweat or squirm or lie down in the summer swelter. In that sense, air-conditioning allowed Americans to transcend their physical bodies, that long-sought fantasy of the Puritan settlers: to be in the world but not of it. Miracle, indeed.

But it came with a price. As it turned out, Freon isn’t exactly non-toxic. Freon is a chlorofluorocarbon (CFC), which depletes the ozone layer and also acts as a global warming gas. By 1974, the industrialized world was churning out CFCs, chemicals that had never appeared on the planet in any significant quantities, at a rate of one million metric tons a year—the equivalent mass of more than 500,000 cars. That was the year atmospheric chemists Sherry Rowland and Mario Molina first hypothesized that the chlorine molecules in CFCs might be destroying ozone in the stratosphere by bonding to free oxygen atoms and disrupting the atmosphere’s delicate chemistry. By then, CFCs were used not only as refrigerants but also as spray can propellants, manufacturing degreasers, and foam-blowing agents.

The ozone layer absorbs the worst of the sun’s ultraviolet radiation. Without stratospheric ozone, life as we know it is impossible. A 1 percent decline in the ozone layer’s thickness results in thousands of new cases of skin cancer. Greater depletion would lead to crop failures, the collapse of oceanic food systems, and, eventually, the destruction of all life on Earth.

In the 1980s, geophysicist Joseph Farman confirmed the Rowland-Molina hypothesis when he detected a near-absence of ozone over Antarctica—the “Ozone Hole.” A fierce battle ensued among industry, scientists, environmentalists, and politicians, but in 1987 the U.S signed the Montreal Protocol on Substances that Deplete the Ozone Layer, which ended Freon production.

The Montreal Protocol remains the world’s only successful international environmental treaty with legally binding emissions targets. Annual conferences to re-assess the goals of the treaty make it a living document, which is revised in light of up-to-date scientific data. For instance, the Montreal Protocol set out only to slow production of CFCs, but, by 1997, industrialized countries had stopped production entirely, far sooner than was thought possible. The world was saved through global cooperation.

The trouble is that the refrigerants replacing CFCs, hydrofluorocarbons (HFCs), turned out to be terrible for the planet, too. While they have an ozone-depleting potential of zero, they are potent greenhouse gases. They absorb infrared radiation from the sun and Earth and block heat that normally escapes into outer space. Carbon dioxide and methane do this too, but HFCs trap heat at rates thousands of times higher. Although the number of refrigerant molecules in the atmosphere is far fewer than those of other greenhouse gases, their destructive force, molecule for molecule, is far greater.

In three decades, the production of HFCs grew exponentially. Today, HFCs provide the cooling power to almost any air conditioner in the home, in the office, in the supermarket, or in the car. They cool vaccines, blood for transfusions, and temperature-sensitive medications, as well as the data processors and computer servers that make up the internet—everything from the cloud to blockchains. In 2019, annual global warming emissions from HFCs were the equivalent of 175 million metric tons of carbon dioxide.

In May, the EPA signaled it will begin phasing down HFCs and replacing them with more climate-friendly alternatives. Experts agree that a swift end to HFCs could prevent as much as 0.5ºC of warming over the next century—a third of the way to the goals of the Paris Climate Agreement.

Yet regardless of the refrigerant used, cooling still requires energy. According to the U.S. Energy Information Administration, air-conditioning accounts for nearly a fifth of annual U.S. residential electricity use. This is more energy for cooling overall and per capita than in any other nation. Most Americans consider the cost of energy only in terms of their electricity bills. But it’s also costing us the planet. Joe Biden’s announcement to shift toward a renewable energy infrastructure obscures the uncertainty of whether that infrastructure could meet Americans’ outrageously high energy demand—much of it for cooling that doesn’t save lives. Renewable energy infrastructure can take us only so far. The rest of the work is cultural. From Freon to HFCs, we keep replacing chemical refrigerants without taking a hard look at why we’re cooling in the first place.

Comfort cooling began not as a survival strategy but as a business venture. It still carries all those symbolic meanings, though its currency now works globally, cleaving the world into civilized cooling and barbaric heat. Despite what we assume, as a means of weathering a heat wave, individual air-conditioning is terribly ineffective. It works only for those who can afford it. But even then, their use in urban areas only makes the surrounding micro-climate hotter, sometimes by a factor of 10ºF, actively threatening the lives of those who don’t have access to cooling. (The sociologist Eric Klinenberg has brilliantly studied how, in a 1995 Chicago heat wave, about twice as many people died than in a comparable heat wave forty years earlier due to the city’s neglect of certain neighborhoods and social infrastructure.) Ironically, research suggests that exposure to constant air-conditioning can prevent our bodies from acclimatizing to hot weather, so those who subject themselves to “thermal monotony” are, in the end, making themselves more vulnerable to heat-related illness.

And, of course, air-conditioning only works when you have the electricity to power it. During heatwaves, when air-conditioning is needed most, blackouts are frequent. On Sunday, with afternoon temperatures reaching 112ºF around Portland, the power grid failed for more than 6,300 residences under control by Portland General Electrics.

The troubled history of air-conditioning suggests not that we chuck it entirely but that we focus on public cooling, on public comfort, rather than individual cooling, on individual comfort. Ensuring that the most vulnerable among the planet’s human inhabitants can keep cool through better access to public cooling centers, shade-giving trees, safe green spaces, water infrastructure to cool, and smart design will not only enrich our cities overall, it will lower the temperature for everyone. It’s far more efficient this way.

To do so, we’ll have to re-orient ourselves to the meaning of air-conditioning. And to comfort. Privatized air-conditioning survived the ozone crisis, but its power to separate—by class, by race, by nation, by ability—has survived, too. Comfort for some comes at the expense of the life on this planet.

It’s time we become more comfortable with discomfort. Our survival may depend on it.

#ac #climate change #climate crisis #eco #environment #comfort #articles #to read

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plush-rabbit · 3 years

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Aphrodisiac Induced Brothers + Royals

Word Count: 1K Each

A/N: Lesson 21 was not enough for me. Also let me know if I should do one for Solo and Simmy?? I don’t know if the syrup would affect angels but I could write a different aphrodisiac for them?? (also breasts is used gn!!)

It’s been a long day for him. His limbs are sore and he can feel a headache approaching as he walks into the house. His steps are met with silence, not a single sound coming from the house, the only thing that he can hear is you rummaging around in your room. He reaches the kitchen, a batch of cookies served on a silver platter, covered by a glass casing. Your name is scribbled on a sticky note and underneath it is a sticky note that reads “do not eat” but he’s hungry and tired. He debates with himself, wondering if maybe he should eat something else- surely there has to be something else in the fridge- but then again, you made these. You must have added love to it, something so sweet that he can taste your emotions.

He gives a cautious look over his shoulder, wondering if you’re standing behind him, almost wanting to have you there so you could let him have a baked good, but you aren’t there. He can hear your music, muffled by the walls and your light steps as you walk around. It’s just one cookie. Besides, you’ve forgiven him for much worse. The glass is stained with his fingerprints, the cookie bitten between his teeth and he moans in pleasure. It really does taste like love- something so sweet and heavy on his tongue that his body tingles in excitement. His tongue wets his top lip, his eyes closed for a brief moment until something settles on his tongue, a bittersweet taste replaces the initial sweetness, his tongue feels as if it were dipped in tart, his brows scrunching together for a moment.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have eaten something that you had marked as “do not eat”. Did you trick him? Play some sort of prank on the unsuspecting person who would eat your food? To be fair, you do live with demons- it would only make sense. The music stops, and you call out to him, and it’s then that he realizes that something is too familiar about this taste. His eyes widen, his hand clawing at the tabletop leaving claw marks in its wake. His pupils dilate and there’s a burning desire deep in him, leaving his chest feeling as if something heavy were resting on it. He walks to your room, arousal making his mouth salivate and heart beat against his chest as his cock begins to harden under the fabric of his pants and briefs.

Lucifer:

The prideful demon staggers to your room, paintings askew in his wake, his breaths heavy and when he’s in front of your door, his mouth is dry. Lucifer doesn’t remember knocking on your door, but you open it, and when he sees you, the scent of you rushes to him. Just by the way that he leans to you and kicks the door close, his body hunched over and hands at your side, it is evident that something is wrong. He’s much heavier than he shows, his body pushing you until you hit the bed post, and when you hiss, he presses himself against you. For a moment, he can pretend that he’s rutting against you, that your sounds are purposeful and caused by him.

He confesses that he doesn’t know what’s wrong- it takes more than a simple snack to drug someone as powerful as him, his voice slowly becoming bitter as his nails scratch against your body. You question him- a simple snack? He shakes his head in response, a cookie- yours, he admits. He wonders what you placed in it? A spell? A prank? Something so devious that it’s making him of all demons act so- so vulgar and odd. Your reply makes his blood run cold- Gold Hellfire Newt Syrup. It has no effect towards you, but it has all the effect towards him. He swallows nervously, his head resting on your shoulder and the room is still, his breath held as he listens to your heart beat. His voice is low- strained and told in a hoarse whisper that he just needs a command- any command, he doesn’t care what it is, just tell him something to rid the effect, it’s too much. Any hint of motion makes his cock rub painstakingly sweet in his pants, and all that he needs is to be told something, given an order to do anything. He’ll go away, he’ll give you his card and let you buy whatever you need, just tell him something to stop the pain.

When you call his name, he lifts his head, his face flushed and shame evident on him. Your voice is gentle, your hands cradling his head as you peck his lips. It only makes him want more, his tongue running over his lips, tasting your chapstick on his tongue. You’re careful with your words, giving soft suggestions and guiding him towards the bed, but never an actual command. You let yourself be beside him, your leg slipped between his legs, your thigh resting against his crotch. His cock is hard against you, pressed against your plump thigh as you cradle him close to you. His nose presses right above your collarbone, his lips wet as they touch your skin. His eyes are half-lidded, his mouth parted and hands fisting the back of your shirt. He can feel your shoulder blades press against his knuckles. Your hand snakes between the bodies, shimming his tie loose and unbuttoning his shirt. The cool air hits his burning skin, his body twitching further into you. He hisses at the feeling of your thigh squished between his legs, his cock rubbing against it.

Shame fuels him, burning his skin off and leaving him bare as he breathes onto you, begging for you to touch him. Sin weighs heavy on his shoulders, his mouth pressing deep kisses against your body. He can’t help the stuttering motion of his hips, the way that the fire in his stomach simmers down with every thrust. His face is hidden, your hands knitted into his hair as you twirl a graying strand around your finger- he is quite literally wrapped around your finger as he humps your leg like some sort of degenerate. He is the embodiment of pride, taking the sin as his own, and yet, here he is, humping a human’s leg while he hides his face that burns with shame. However, you aren’t just some measly human, you’re his, his master and his everything. You know what you’re doing to him, making him hump your leg but his mind is too fuzzy with arousal. All that the demon can think of is feeling your body, the soft press of your thighs, the way that you coo his name as you begin to move your own leg, your hand fisting his hair and yanking on it causing him to spill in his pants, red in the face from either his still ongoing high or from shame, he isn’t quite sure, but he’s sure that he can hear your teasing voice as you pull his head back, giving him a fleeting kiss.

His eyes are a deep red, darkened with his current state as he looks you in the eyes. In a swift movement, he hovers above you, his tie slipping down your neck, curing over and an inch away from your bedsheets. There’s a loud crackling sound, his horns jutting out and his clothing replaced and removed just as quick, your body buzzes with electricity, goosebumps pricking your body and making a chill run down your spine. Lucifer begs you to touch him, to let him just indulge himself, his lips over yours, a hand slipping under your shirt, to cup over your chest. His wings are stiff, a few feathers ruffling as you shift under him, grabbing his hand through your shirt and keeping it place. Your smile is wide, your heart beating erratically and when you nod your head, his lips are on you, wings creating a small breeze that makes you press yourself deeper into him. Your hand is held tenderly in his, your palm wrapped around his cock as he begs for you to relieve him. His pride has slipped, vulnerability bare on his face that it's almost angelic compared to who he is; his cries are loud, hands that grab at you and beg for release. His climax is against your chest, wheezing and panting, his face adorned with a flush that makes him appear even more lovely.

Mammon:

He isn’t entirely sure why he rushes to you so quickly, his eyes already half-lidded and jacket slipped off and clutched in his hand. Mammon is barely at your door, and he’s already burning with heat, sweat slick against his back and face burning. If he wasn’t so focused on seeing you, he’s sure that he would’ve believed it was melting off with every step. He knocks rapidly at your door, breathing heavily and jiggling the door handle before you can. He’s begging for you to open the door, his speech slurred as he tells you that it’s important- something about his charger or his cologne, even he can’t decide what to say. He might not know exactly what’s affected him, but he’s aware that it’s not something natural- at least given how sudden the change in his nature was. He’s calling your name, pressing his forehead against the door, hissing when the wood cools him off. His hands stay firm around the doorknob, a crack in his voice as he begs for you to let him in. He's unaware of how much time has passed since he’s come knocking at your door, but it’s far too long for his taste.

When you open the door, you are met with a disheveled demon- his hair is messy, strands that stick to his forehead from sweat, his cheeks a deep hue and his eyes nearly closed as if he were exhausted. It’s a normal occurrence for you to have him make himself at home in your room, erasing boundaries between the both of you until they’re nothing more than blur. The door closes behind you and his stomach is in a knot, every step that he takes inside of your room is sluggish, a weight tied around his ankles and pulling him back with every step. He tosses his jacket onto your chair, not bothering to look to see if its slipped. As he lies on his side on your bed, a neatly folded blanket at the foot of it, covering his already feverish body. He’s shaking despite the heat, his erection almost painful and a part of the blanket stuffed into his mouth to prevent himself from moaning out. Whether it be pain or pleasure from the smallest of movements, he doesn’t care enough to think about it. All his mind can focus on is you laying beside him, your lips pressed against his as he holds you down and fills you with his cock. It’s much easier to think about that than thinking about anything else at the moment. Maybe he shouldn’t have laid himself on your bed- something that you use every night, something that holds your scent in.

Your bed dips as you sit upon it, your hand curved over his shoulder, a deep frown set on your lips. He doesn’t answer any of your questions, he’s only focused on trying not to pleasure himself as your hand curves from his shoulder over to his neck- where you hiss at how his skin burns, no doubt- to his cheek, and finally over his forehead as your other hand turns him onto his back. He stares at you through bleary eyesight, his blue eyes squinted as they stare at you, your body illuminated by the light behind you making you appear as if you are glowing. He reaches for you with open hands, pulling down above him. He murmurs how hot his body feels, your weight crushing above him, and his voice grows hoarse. Yet, no matter how much he tells you how much it hurts having you so close to him, he does not let go of you, keeping you pressed against him with his hands digging into your sides, holding you down as if you’d leave him given the chance. His lips are dry, scratching against the curve of your neck and brushing up to your jawline, and you can feel a kiss against there, his lips pursed, pulling away with a heavy gasp.

His leg twitches, soft movements turned into constant ones that press deeper against you. You realize with wide eyes that he’s grinding himself against you. Not normally so open with his feelings, you ask him what’s wrong and he answers that he only started to act this way when he ate something of yours. You turn your body, laying beside him, his eyes never leaving yours and hands reluctant to let go of you for even a second. In a hoarse whisper, you confess how you placed Gold Hellfire Newt Syrup in them. His chest trembles as he lets out a breath, his hands covering his face as he realizes what that means for him. He turns to you, a pout on his lips and his leg placed above yours, trapping you there. Your heartbeat quickens and you’re sure that he hears the difference but if he does, he chooses not to comment on it. There’s a minute of silence, and he stares at you through the gaps in his fingers, his rings shining under your light. You blink and he’s above you, his hands placed on either side of your head, the comforter pulled under his hands.

With a shaky breath, he asks for you to indulge him- to take care of him in the way that he needs you to. Mammon leans close to you, his lips ghosting over yours, his breath still sweet with the aphrodisiac, as he guides your hand to cup his erection. He begs that he’ll be good- that he’ll listen to what you have to say as long as you let him relieve himself in your room. Surely, you could have stopped his suffering with a simple command, but that’s not important right now- what’s important is that he got himself into trouble, and he’s seeking you out to help him. Your lips meet his, a tender kiss that soon turns passionate, clothes removed and tossed, his erection springing to life and already dripping with his seed, spilling onto your thigh in syrupy strands. He wastes no time, wanting to spill inside of you- a part of him hoping that that will be all there is to the damned aphrodisiac and another part of him hoping that it won’t, that he’ll continue on until he's completely spent. Inside of your warm walls, he spills, pumping in and out, the base of his cock stretching you until you’re arching your back and calling his name. The sight is enough for him to pull you into an intense kiss where he spills yet again. Any and all stimulation is welcome, your hands tugging on his silvery hair, your teeth pressed into the soft spot of where his neck and shoulder meet, to your words sweet and silk, praising him with every thrust.

Leviathan:

Leviathan feels sleazy, rushing to your room for some odd reason with his shirt being pulled down in an attempt to hide his erection. Perhaps this is what the otaku deserved for eating something that wasn’t his, but he couldn’t have known that you would have added some sort of trap into it. It was just his luck to eat something that was cursed. His ears are tipped red, his face no doubt beet red as he rushes to your room, hoping against all odds that you’ll spare him a cure. He knocks rapidly at your door, bouncing in place and hissing for you to hurry up, his words slowly being slurred together as his anxiety rises. He doesn’t even know why you would put this type of humiliating curse onto a simple treat. He calls your name again, only to be interrupted when your door opens, revealing you with raised brows. His frantic words and worry get stuck in his throat, his erection now throbbing at the sight of you. It was a bad idea coming to you, he concludes. He’s debating turning around and hoping that dealing with the matter himself will be the end of it all, but then you call his name and hearing you say his name in such a sweet tone nearly makes him spill into his pants. He groans, doubling over, your hands now on him and pulling him into your room. Your hands both feel fantastic and horrible on him.

His eyes are on the floor, unwavering and when you call his name, he flinches. He would rather not tell you what’s going on, but he needs the cure because the longer that he’s around you- and in your room no less- the longer he wants to pleasure himself. Shame floods him as he confesses that he ate something of yours- a cookie to be exact. He would have rather not told you but he wants the erection gone because the sooner it's gone, the sooner he can go hide in his room until you’ve forgotten this image of him. You voice confusion, and it’s until he clarifies what exactly he ate, that he hears you hiss between your teeth. When he looks up at you, you have a sheepish look on your face, clearing your throat and looking away from him, a hand rubbing the back of your neck as you confess that you used a certain ingredient when baking. He presses further, standing up, his worry for his erection fading as he presses further, hoping that perhaps hearing it will cause him to find the curse on his own, but fear also settles in, and when he hears the words “Gold Hellfire Newt Syrup,” do his fears have become reality. His stomach drops and he falls onto your bed, shaking his head.

It’s humiliating for him to be put under such a dumb effect of a simple thing, but he can’t change it. Thankfully, he knows what he’s dealing with and how to fix the entire thing. He looks at you for hope, begging for you to give him a command, something to simply ease the erection so the effects will wear off. However, he notices the glint in your eyes, the sly, kittenish smile that curves your lips as you approach him. Your hands cup his face and with the aphrodisiac still heavy on his tongue, he leans into your touch, swallowing nervously with his eyes stuck to how your lips move. You’re allowing him to relieve himself with you. He doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a sick joke, but his cock seems to love the idea, leaking heavily and making his briefs stick to his skin. There has to be some sort of catch to this- why would you want him- especially in such a deprived state. However, he can’t deny how appealing your offer is, his face inching closer to you with every second, his legs bouncing and your body already so close to him, your chest pressed against his and when you pull him into a kiss, he only deepens it.

You bring him onto the bed, your hands knitting into his hair, twisting the hair around your fingers and tugging on them hard enough for him to whimper into the kiss. Your touch burns him, clothes removed, your bare skin making his chest ache and mouth salivate. He lays beside you, his body bare and cock leaking against your thigh. His eyes are clenched tight, colors appearing behind his closed lids as he grinds himself against you. Your voice is sweet even if your words are less so, names being told lovingly in his direction, ordering him as he ruts against your bare thigh, begging to at least have your thighs pinched around cock. He’s sloppy, his mouth parted as he spills against your thigh. He inches closer to you, pinching your thighs around his cock, giving out a moan when you pinch at his skin. Your body is warm, soft and plush as he spills once more, a thin strand of drool spilling from the corner of his mouth.

It isn’t fair that you aren’t letting him slip inside of you, Leviathan whines. He can feel your sex press against his, his face hidden in the crook of your neck and his hands gripping onto you. He isn’t sure how much longer he can last, already feeling his demonic form press against his skin. When you tell him in a soft voice that he can finally slip inside of you, he kisses you harshly, the smell of the ocean strong in the air, and when he pulls away, his tail presses against your sex as he he enters you. The scales in both his cock and tail add a sensation that makes you clench around him, enough for him to spill inside of you. He lets the tip of his tail curl around your sex, rubbing against the slit and brush against your chest to have your nipples go pebbled, to wrap around your neck in a heavy necklace. His cock is buried deep inside of you as he ruts inside of you. He whines into your chest, cooing about how good you feel, begging for you to touch him, his cheeks a deep red as you tighten yourself around him. There's a lovesick smile on his face, his head bowed as he thanks you, burying himself inside of you.

Satan:

The one time that Satan decides to indulge himself in something of yours is that time that he chooses a cookie that has him desperately trying to his erection. He goes to your room and he isn’t sure why. He has an inkling of a thought on what you might have used for the recipe, but he still goes to your room. He knocks on your door, clenching his hands in an attempt to stop them from creeping towards his cock and teasing himself. You're taking far too long to open the door- he can hear your footsteps, the way that you shuffle and try to catch your breath. The logical part of him wants to believe that you’re simply cleaning or putting something away but the more aroused state of his mind is picturing you with your hand touching tenderly at your sex, bringing your fingers up to taste your own arousal. His canine sinks into the inside of his cheeks, something bitter filling his mouth as your doorknob turns. You stand at the door, a smile on your face, as he stands before you, red in the face and a cock that strains in his pants. He is wrath, but he is also someone desperate for attention, wanting to lay on your lap and try to keep all your attention on him.

He enters your room, not waiting for your reply, already so close to creaming himself just from your look and his imagination. Your voice sounds as if it's in the distance, a mere whisper compared to his raging thoughts that don’t seem to end. Your hand presses between his shoulder blades, and despite the layers, he can feel the warmth of your hand. His eyes glow as they dart to your figure, a crackle of energy sparks out of him, popping against your skin and if he was hot before, he’s burning in hell as he takes in ragged breaths. Despite being in his demonic form previously, he can feel every sensation burst out as his horns emerge from inside his head, the way that his tail pushes against a barrier and curls around his leg, the sharp claws of his hands that jut out. He turns to you, his brows knitted together and lips pulled into a thin line. His arms wrap around you, his tail uncoiling itself from his leg and wrapping around your waist, the small edges pressing against your skin as his arms tighten around you. With you so close to him, he can feel every small movement of your body- your heart beating, the sharp intake of breath when his nails glide over your skin, and even the way that you try so hard to stay still for him.

Being so close to you is slowly making him grow groggy, thoughts muddled as his erection pokes against your thigh. His lips brush against the shell of your ear, his breath hot as he speaks in a strained voice. Gold Hellfire Newt Syrup. That has to be the reason why it’s so difficult to control himself around you, isn’t it? Why he can’t think straight nor why he can’t seem to get the image of you out of his mind. His forehead rests against your shoulder, his hands clammy as they wrap around your wrists and beg for you to do something about the state that he’s in. He needs you to do something. His tail is attentive as it slides under your shirt, tugging on the skin and when you hiss, his lips press against your neck. His tongue is sharp, pressing the tip of the muscle against you, savoring you as he thrusts lightly against you. He’s pleading for you to give him a command- to do anything to get rid of the ache that’s in his pants.

You pull away from him and he whines, shaking his head and inching closer to you, stumbling on his feet and his eyes wet with tears. You cradle his face in your hands, his lips in a pout and hand clutching at the front of his shirt. His tongue peeks to wet his lips and in the same breath, it’s hidden inside his mouth. When your lips press against his, he lets out a whine, shifting in place and holding your hands, his tail still around you as he guides you to the bed. His moans muffle out any noise from the outside. The aphrodisiac does it’s work well, your tongue swirling around his, brushing against the roof of his mouth that leaves him melting against you, his whines low and his hands guiding you to touch at his cock. He doesn’t know how it’s come to it, a demon so powerful as him being reduced to such a weak mess with a simple ingredient. He never thought himself to be so sensitive to touch, your lips pressed against the curse of his horns leaves him rutting against your sex, his hands clawed at your back as every touch just sends him closer to his high.

He’s always been a giving lover, wanting you to feel pleasure before he’s had the chance to and even just seeing your climax is enough for him to start dripping in thick strands. However, now, Satan is selfish, pulling you in for a kiss, slipping his cock inside of your hole, the head of his cock stretching your rim and when you whine, tears pricking your eyes and his name nothing more than a mess of syllables, does he release inside of you. His lips are tasted with salt, kissing your tears and thrusting wildly into you, his tail curling around your legs and keeping you situated above him. He latches to your breast, leaving marks behind with every kiss and suckle, begging for your hole to clench around him, the soft walls that wrap around his cock and pull him deeper despite being nearly at the base. He pants and pulls you close, letting your hands roam throughout his body, pull at his nipples and curve around his horns.

Asmodeus:

He knows what it is the minute he arrives at your door. If there’s one thing Asmodeus is excellent at, it’s identifying his sin- no matter the shape it comes in. It’s just a surprise he hadn’t noticed that it was in your baking- perhaps there’s a level as to when aphrodisiacs can become apparent to him. No matter, he knocks on your door, clicking his tongue when he notices that his erection has begun to show itself. He knocks at your door, the inside of his cheek bitten as he awaits for you to open your door. He can handle lust just well- it's who he is, it's the entirety of his being- but he also knows that you’re on the other side of the door. Lust is a fickle thing- a strong desire that overpowers even the strongest of minds, and he’s mastered it, he’s been the one in control but now, he isn’t sure. He stands outside your door, his first two knocks, polite but after a moment of waiting, his knuckles burn as they continuously knock against your door. He needs you to open your door, he needs to see you and to just take you in. His erection pulses and he can’t risk staining the inside of his pants with his seed. His forehead is against the cool wood of the door, begging you in a cracking voice that he simply cannot stay outside, not like this- not when he needs to see you so badly.

When you open your door, he’s pushing past, falling into the grace of your arms and burying his head into the rook of your neck. Somewhere in the distance, your door closes, the click echoing throughout his entire body. He chuckles lowly, nuzzling himself against you, replacing your scent with his. Gold Hellfire Newt Syrup. What a little minx you are. Surely you had to have an idea on what you were doing. There’s a lovely aroma in the air- vanilla and roses mixed, a lingering scent of perfume that fills your lungs and his horns press against your plush cheeks. He pulls away, a lovesick smile gracing his features as his face fills with a blushing shade of pink. Was it some sort of joke? Or were you perhaps hoping that it would get his attention? His lips hover over yours, the smell of your baked goods thick on his tongue, as he guides himself closer to you, attracted to your entire being. His hands rest on your waist, pulling you close, trying to close the gap as slowly as he can. You have his attention, if that’s what you wanted. His lips meet yours in a breathless kiss, your hands curling around his neck and grabbing his face, pulling him closer to you. A kiss from lust themselves is sure to make anyone’s knees buckle. It takes a simple kiss for him to nearly stain the inside of his pants and he pulls away quickly, his lips bruised and the clear balm that he wears is now resting faint on the inside of his mouth.

Your bed is soft, pillows fluffed under him as he relaxes, his mind now drunk off of lust and the taste of you. He simply can’t think at this very moment. He’s torn between wanting to take you and wanting for you to give him a command. A command will surely snap him out of it and push him to go do something- anything else that isn’t staying here and potentially resulting in him jerking off in your bed from a mere kiss. He looks over to you, a heavy blush across his face, ears tipped hot and chest rising and falling slowly. He appears almost lazy in your eyes, but still beautiful as ever. His hair is slightly askew, small curled strands that stick out of place, his eyes half-lidded but still looking at you with lust, and his lips parted, the balm that wears gleaming off the to the corner of his lips, small hints of glitter that shine across his bottom lip. Give him an order, he begs. He’s felt lust before- something so heavy and thick that it made him completely lose his mind and focus only on pleasure- but it's never been like this, never been with you. He wants you to kiss him. He wants to feel your body grind against his. He wants everything that he’s ever felt before with you because he knows that with you, it’ll be amplified. He wants your body to rest beside his, to touch your bare skin with his sinful hands and let him take over for the both of you. But he also wants to stop himself, to let the lust wash over for a moment. He can’t think, he wants to different things but he also just wants the one- he wants to have sex with you while his mind is thick with lust.

The bed creaks as you weigh it down, shifting and moving close to him and somewhere in the back of his mind, he makes a note to get you a new one that won’t make noise. Your body sits perched above his, his head tilted upwards and his gaze dark. His hands find themselves at home against your hips, rubbing small circles with his thumbs as you press yourself close to him. Your chest presses against his, your heart beating loud enough for the both of you, echoing in your chest and vibrating against his. His mouth moves in a quiet whisper, begging for you to touch him- to at least kiss him once more before he truly loses his mind. Your lips meet his and as opposed to the more passionate one early, this one is softer, your lips moving against his in a slow embrace, your hands freeing his cock. You pay special attention to each fold of his cock, the petal-like ridges that flare around his tip, your hands working softly around him. The kiss is intense, heated and breathless, your lungs burning as you need to pull away, your face on fire and darkening with each lasting second until he pulls away, licking his lips as if to savor you on his tongue.

Rather than letting him take the lead, you do, your hands knitting into his silky hair, threading your hands into his hair and tugging lightly, breaking the kiss as you catch your breath. His lips, on the other hand, don’t leave your body. His wings flutter and tense, his teeth prick at your neck and when something warm burns against your skin, the flat of his tongue wipes it away just as quick. It isn’t long until Asmodeus is buried inside of you, his face contorted to pleasure, tears forming against the corners of his eyes and sliding down his face. He isn’t ashamed to admit that the kiss was enough to send him over the edge, spilling inside of your warm hole, pumping inside of you until he floods out and warms the base of his cock. He gets to feel you orgasm just as quick, the way you clench around him, pulling taut and fluttering your walls against his already sensitive cock just makes him hold tighter onto you, begging for you to continue your movement.

Beelzebub:

He really hadn’t meant to eat something of yours. Well, he did, but he felt guilty afterwards when his body became engulfed in flames, his tongue heavy and his mouth salivating with every movement of his tongue. Beelzebub knocks on your door, a pout on his face as he tries to ignore the aching sensation in his stomach. It’s familiar, but he can’t quite place his tongue on it- his mind too rattled by guilt and shame to do anything more than think about how the cookie practically melted into his mouth. When you open the door, he’s greeted by your smile, your head tilting as you step back and welcome him into your room without a word being said between the both of you. A guilty smile crosses his features, his eyes downturned and hands fiddling with each other. Once inside your room, does he take notice of how much more prominent you’ve been.

His sin is gluttony, and while the others- and even other demons alike- might have a stronger noise than humans, his nose is even stronger. He could always smell you from a mile away- your aroma, the difference of body wash or cream that you use, what snacks you’ve eaten if your mouth is freshly filled with mint- he can smell it all. Yet, even with his sin, your aroma has never been so heavy, so potent and filling his lungs with something that makes him feel as if he were about to implode. He sits on your bed, his stomach churning as if he had eaten something awful, and he just stares at the floor. He doesn't know what to think, he doesn’t know why he’s acting as if his mind is muddled, his mouth stuffed with cotton making him unable to speak. But, it isn’t stuffed with cotton, it’s flooded with his saliva, threatening to spill from the corners of his mouth and he’s forgotten how to swallow. Your hands are lifting his head, a plea for him to look at you and when you do so, his mouth parts, drool spilling from his mouth and landing onto your floor. He mumbles an gargled apology, even more of saliva spilling out. He can smell your cream- citrus that makes his lungs fill with the sweet air of it, grapefruit that leaves the lingering bitter sweetness that still rests on his tongue and the freesia petals that make you smell so sweet that it's making his jaw feel as if were being pricked by pins and needles. In a slurred speech, he confesses that he ate a cookie of yours, his arms wrapped around your body and pulling you close to him, his head resting on your chest as he apologies. He just wants whatever curse you placed on it to go away.

There’s a crackle in the room, building and sparking inside of him, his wings pushing against his back as they're begging for release from the confines of his more human appearance. He doesn’t know what’s going on, only that there's intense pressure coursing through his body, making him feel as if he’s slowly going insane. His hands clench, dragging your shirt into fistfuls as he can hear your beating heart echo against your ribs. Your hand runs through his hair, a soft shushing sound and he subconsciously nuzzles closer to you, his breathing ragged and heavy, his cock aching in the confines of his pants, a thick strand of pre-ejaculate staining him. You confess that it wasn’t a curse, just an ingredient you used that perhaps you shouldn’t consider who you live with. The ends of his hair are pulled gently as your fingers wrap his strands in a soft taunt. You used Gold Hellfire Newt Syrup. He groans, tears in his eyes as he lowers his head, pressing himself against your stomach, his hands moving lower until his pinkies tease at the curve of your rear. He repeats the words back to you, his mouth growing heavier with each syllable, and when he pries away, your shirt now sports a dark spot of where his mouth had pressed against you.

It wasn’t a curse then? Just an odd ingredient to add to your baking? Relief floods throughout him, a brief pause to his current heated self, and his shoulders drop. With the guilty feeling now out of the way, he has to focus on how to relieve himself, his erection making a noticeable tent in his pants as he falls to his back on your bed. The action is akin to pollen that floats off of a flower, your bed drenched in your entire essence, dripping and sticking onto his skin and when he closes his eyes, he can only focus on the faint scent of your sex, the arousal that dripped onto your bed covers and laid there. Your hand curves over his breasts, his nipples pert and he stares at you through half-lidded eyes. He’s in pain- the good type, the sore muscle type that lets him know that he’ll wake up feeling a certain type of way. He’s under your command, his hands covering yours and pulling your hand to his mouth where he kisses at your knuckles. Please, he’s begging in a hoarse whisper, to give him a command so he can leave or allow him to be a toy for you. He won’t mind either option, just let the aching pain in his stomach- the twisting and turning that doesn't let him think straight.

Feeling your lips on his is enough of an answer. He returns the kiss eagerly, his tongue filling your mouth, twisting and turning, thin trails of saliva that spill between the open gaps and drip on your chins. He cries in the kiss, his hand palming at his cock, his seed staining the inside of his pants. Beelzebub is one to give into his sin, so eager and giving despite his intimidating appearance. Your clothes are discarded, thrown show here to the empty room as he pulls you up to his face, his mouth parted as your sex rests on his tongue. Your arousal is heavy, thick and sweet like honey as it slips down his throat as his tongue wraps itself around your sex, licking at the slit as your nectar fills his mouth. One hand is curved over your breast, teasing at your nipple until your hand is covering his, tears in your eyes at how it’s all too much, while his other hand is wrapped around his cock that is gleaming with his seed and burning in his palm. He continues past the overstimulation, mumbling into your sex, suckling on you and pushing himself close to you, letting the tip of his canine glide against your pulsing sex.

Belphegor:

His knuckles knock against your door, a deep frown on his features that makes the middle of his brows crease. Belphegor doesn’t offer a moment of explanation when the door opens, simply pushing past you and resting on your bed. His arms remain open, his expression solemn as he stares at you, waiting for you to join him in bed. He’s always been one to rest with you, telling you that you’re so warm and soft, a perfect body pillow for the Avatar of Sloth. He doesn't know what is wrong with him right now, all that he’s aware of is that he’s restless, his mind too fuzzy and chest too tight. He’s coming to you, asking for a nap, hopeful but pessimistic that that will cure him of his current ailment. However, for whatever reason, being in your room proves to be a horrendous experience. Has your natural scent always been this strong? Has your heart always beat so loud that it makes him feel as if he’s going crazy? Has your hand on his chest ever felt this heavy?

He’d never describe your room as the attic- the loneliness, the cramped space, the emptiness of it all except for red eyes that were filled with regret- but right now, as he lays on your bed with you at his side, he feels like he’s back. Or rather, he wishes that he were back. Your room is cramped, every inch of it thick with your and your presence, your beside him, your index finger drawing organic shapes over his abdomen and he’s reminded that he isn’t alone. He’s with you at this very moment. He confesses that he ate something of yours. A cookie that was left out. He apologizes in the same breath, his hand over yours, gripping it tighter and tighter with every uneven breath. What was in it? Why is it making it so difficult to breathe and why can’t he stop focusing on how frail you are compared to him. He turns his head, eyes meeting yours, his blown out and face flushed with an almost lovesick look on him. Why is it now that you’re making him act so tense around you?

Gold Hellfire Newt Syrup. That explains so much and it leaves him with a heavier weight on his chest. Just give him a command, let him be done and over with it. The effects of it are too painful- too much pressure that rests on his stomach and he’s suddenly aware that his erection isn’t due to whatever he had hoped it was, but it’s due to your little treat. There’s crackling in the air, a sweet scent of chamomile and honey in the air as his horns grow and tail elongates, the end of it wrapped around your wrist, tickling at your palm. It pricks your forearm, a sharp breath between your teeth when he tightens around you. He inches closer to you, his chest pressed against your and his eyes half-lidded- he asks you to give him a command, to let him sulk off to the attic and bury himself under the covers with a hand around his cock. Your lips meet his and his tail tightens around your wrist. You let out a muted whine between the closed lips and he nearly climaxes in his pants, his tail slowly loosening it’s grasp.

Your hands move from the side of his face, slowly creeping up until they hook over his curled horns. He presses closer to you, hands so desperate to hold onto you- wanting to touch every inch of your body and memorize every rise and dip. Your shorts are thin enough to feel what lies hidden, the way that your own sex throbs and aches from him with just a simple kiss. If it were any other day, or at least a day when he wasn’t aroused by some aphrodisiac, perhaps he would have teased you- played with your sex and make you edge yourself on his thigh, but right now, he’s bratty. He wants to feel good, wants to actually touch you and get off like that rather than some fantasy. He pushes closer to you, his hands spread on your back, a leg nudging into your, a silent plea to remove your clothing. He’s eager for sex, but he won’t show it, so desperate to have you do all the dirty work and slip yourself onto him. Just the thought of falling asleep as he’s been drained with every ounce of his semen makes him buck his hips, his cock rubbing against the fabric and tight space. A nail drags down your back, straight from the base of your neck to the end of your spine, your clothes tearing away. You bite his tongue and he spills inside of his pants.

The air in the room is mixed with your scent, the thick arousal that drips between your slit and onto his stomach, mixed with his own arousal, his cock that throbs, the base of it thick and the hottest part of his entire cock. He’s ended up with you below him, his cockhead pressed against your pubic bone, a hand squeezing at your chest as he pulls away, a trail of saliva still connecting you to him and him to you. His cock slides down, meeting your sex and he hisses almost painfully, bowing his head and burying himself into the crook of your neck. His head shakes, his cock not even inside of you yet as he begins to thrust himself against your body. He breathes heavily, panting and groaning as he reaches his high, spilling himself against your sex. Your legs are bent, his smile wide and almost unnerving as he leans over, his cock pressed against your rim. His tail feathers around your abdomen, tickling your sides until the rest against your nipples, the fluffed end feathering until you become pert with the attention. He leans for a kiss while his cock is hugged by your warm walls.

Barbatos:

Every step to your room feels as if pins and needles are shooting throughout his body, every step painful and uneven breaths that puff out as sweat sticks to his brow and a fever burns his body. Barbatos knocks against your door and he hates to admit it, but when you open it and greet him, all he can think of is pressing you against the floor and letting himself let go for just a moment. But, he clears his throat and asks to be let in, wandering inside with staggered steps. He sits on your bed, fully aware of just how much of you in your room. You invade every nook and cranny of it, your entire essence drenched in the room. His mouth salivates when he can hear your blood pump and heart echo against your chest. When he meets your eyes, he can see your lips move but the only sound is ringing in his ears. He can’t seem to focus on anything- eyes constantly moving to every feature of you, watching as your eyes mix with color near the pupil, and how your lips are cracked near the inside of your mouth, the way that your tongue licks at your lips and he has to force himself to look away.

He shakes off your worry, telling you that he had something- he doesn’t want to say bad, it’s quite the contrary to that- he decides to go with something new. He lets out a low laugh, short and breathless as he confesses that he had one of your cookies. There’s a part of him that already knew what it was- the intoxicating taste, the way that it lit him on fire and made him act so... irrational. When you give him a look of surprise, he can only nod his head. You tell him that you used Gold Hellfire Newt Syrup- just as he expected. He almost wishes that you had placed an alcoholic drink, something that wouldn’t make him feel so hot around you. He can’t be with you right now- not this close, not when he’s so drunk off of lust that the only thought that swims in his head is how pretty you look. This is a situation that he got himself into, one that he should have known better than to take something of yours. He had only visited to retrieve something, or perhaps it was to drop something off, he can’t remember, not when his erection aches and pulses in his pants. Truth be told, he’s surprised you haven’t commented on it, but maybe that’s his only saving grace when he’s in your presence.

Your hand presses against his forehead and he leans into your touch. The dutiful butler is gone, replaced by a demon so drunk off of lust that he’s whimpering and palming himself through his pants, mumbling apologies as he keeps your hand stationed against his face. He’s weak under you, loyal to one but so desperate, so distant from everyone that he falls before you. Your hand pulls away and he can hear you mutter, your breath close to his and he falls into your embrace. Your breath is cool, smelling like mint and your perfume faint, lingering against your skin like a kiss given by the sun. Your heart beats, your neck pulsing as you cradle him close to your body as he palms himself. Static is thick in the air, his head tilting just at the right moment, his horns pressed against the side of your head. He promises that if you tell him to leave, he will, his hands knitting into the back of your shirt, his erection aching in his pants as it’s lost touch. Just tell him to leave, let him be gone from your sight.

There’s no warning when you push him further onto your bed, your hands pressed against his chest, his eyes dilated with arousal and mouth open. His tail slithers out from under him, poised above you, the split ends of it standing straight as you rest above his stomach. His hands rest on your hips, and he’s hoping that you’ll allow him to indulge, for just a moment, he watches as your tongue wets your lips and he wishes that it were him touching your lips. He calls your name, his hands curling against the fabric of your shorts, and when he begs that if you tell him to leave, he’s silenced with a kiss that he reciprocates. The touch of your lips makes his body heat up, everything in his mind screaming and silent all at once, enough for the poor demon to whimper against you, his hands shaky as they go to grab at your body, desperate to feel any type of warmth. Your hands cradle his face, sliding up until his horns are teased by your fingertips, playing dangerously close at the barbs and thin spikes. His hands feel around, his breaths heavy as he pulls away, spit shining on his lips and his hair askew from the constant movement.

He removes his clothing, tugging at the hem of yours, pleading with you to remove the fabric, begging with his lips and tongue, his tail wet as it teases the base of your spine. Your hand is soft compared to his, wrapped around his cock, your lips against his neck as his tail wraps around your neck, the ends of it just below your bottom lip. Barbatos begs for more, pleased for you to do something more than just a steady pace that leaves him wanting more. His back is arched as he climaxes against your covered stomach, his seed an opalescent color that lingers with hints of blue. Your ruined clothing s removed and you sit bare chested above him, your nipples pert and his hands come to cover your chest, rolling the pebbled buds between his clawed hands, his cock rutting against your clothed sex, already so close to yet another high but the aphrodisiac is still flowing through him, begging for more until he’s satisfied. His tail flexes, a part of it catching in the light, gleaming with color as if slides to your sex, breathing out a halfhearted apology before his lips move to your neck.

Diavolo:

The prince knows what is on his tongue right as he’s standing in front of your door. His cock aches, calling for his attention. Right behind the wooden door, he can smell you. Diavolo can smell your shampoo, your body wash, your cream, the way that your cunt is already slick. If he could focus on his hearing he could probably focus on how you rummage throughout the room, the way your footsteps are much softer than those of demons’ or even how you clear your throat. He’s had his ruts before, always satiated with demons and others alike coming into his room and taking care of it for him, but it was only that- a rut. He’s dealt with the common fling, never anything romantic as he never had the time, so it was easy for him to simply let his mind be filled with desire rather than something more intimate. It was anything like what he’s feeling now; something so strong that it's propelling him to knock against your door, his vision bleary and mouth wet as your scent- already so filling- grows closer. When you open the door, he leaves his mark on the wall beside him- four deep, jagged lines that stretch from the wall to the doorframe.

You open the door to him, the straps on your shoulders loose- one already slipping off and stopped by your bicep. He welcomes himself in, toppling over and breathing deeply. He’s on his hands and knees, his mouth open as spit drops onto your floor. While his body burns hotter than it’s ever done before, your hand on the back of his neck and cradling his face burns him even more so, igniting something in him. He is focused on your eyes, the way that they crease with worry, how your emotions are so clearly written. A part of him feels a tad guilty- he knew what he was doing when he entered your room, he could stop himself, he’s sure of it, but if you kept touching him so tenderly, the way that he’s always craved, then he’s sure he’d grovel at your feet and stain the inside of his pants.

On his knees, he’ll joke about it, looking towards you as sweat begins to form, his mind focusing on your hands, the soft grooves and how they’re small compared to his. He has to forcibly stop his thoughts from straying any further. He’ll make a small joke of it, an easy way to ease your worry while also answering your questions. Gold Hellfire Newt Syrup, huh? You really couldn’t pick something else, could you? His smile is crooked as he slowly rises, removing your hands from his body- you should know to ask him if you need anything else to substitute the flavor that it brings to you. The knees of his pants are dirtied by your floor, your lips parted and he’s sure that he can see your pink tongue that rests in your mouth. There’s various ways to rid the symptoms of the aphrodisiac- you must know that- and he wants you to give him an order, a helpless attempt to finally ease the tight knot in his lower belly. Inching closer to him does nothing but make him recoil, his body shaking and brows knitted, ears tipped with heat. It was a mistake to linger at your door when he realized what he had consumed- he should have walked away, dealt with this on his own, but he’s here now. He’s stuck in a room that mocks him with your being.

With every attempt that you make to get closer to him, is a step that he takes back, moving with the heels of his hands, his legs kicking at the floor beneath him. His back meets the wooden edge of your bed, the back of his face comforted by your blankets. You rest between his parted legs, his hands still when yours lingers on his knees. He wants you to give him an order, just to whisk him away so he doesn’t succumb to his desires. Your lips are ghosted above his, a phantom that pulls at his heartstrings like the ghost of wishful thinking. He leans closer, wanting the gap to close, needing to have you kiss him. But you pull away and he’s whining, shaking his head, a plea under his breath as his hands finally move, gripping at your shoulders and begging for you to come closer. Tell him to kiss you, he’s begging on the floor beneath you, wanting to just taste you once and even if he’s so drunk on arousal, he’s sure that he’ll remember the feel of your tongue.

He’s asked a simple question. Does he really want this or is it simply the aphrodisiac making his judgement cloudy? His kiss is enough to answer your question. He wants this- he needs this. He wants to feel you wrap around his cock and moan that it’s too much to take it. He wants to feel your gummy walls hug tight around him and milk him for his cock. It’s all a blur of the moment for the future king- his clothes are off and you rest above him, your sex leaking onto him, sweet and making him salivate with just the scent of it. His cock pulses in your hands, throbbing, the thick veins that burn under your fingertips, the ribbed rings around his cock that leaves him throwing his head back, his semen already staining your hands. Diavolo pleads with you to stop the teasing, to just do what you want, use his body while he’s still too drunk with lust to fully take control over the situation and let his cock stretch your pretty hole. His hands grab at your breasts, kneading the muscles and pulling taut on the nipples, grinning when you let out a yelp. His mouth is filled with your tongue, something bittersweet fills his mouth, his tongue desperate to suck every last of the taste into his mouth.

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