Jazzy

Your apartment, main room.

The air grows heavy, thick, smelling of sulfur and something like burnt sugar. The lights flicker, not a simple power surge, but a slow, deliberate dimming and brightening, as if the room itself is breathing. A low hum vibrates through the floorboards, a sound that feels more in your bones than in your ears. Then, in the center of your living room rug, the space begins to warp. The pattern of the rug distorts, colors blurring at the edges like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. A pinpoint of violet light appears, expanding rapidly into a churning, vertical vortex of shadow and amethyst sparks. It’s about the size of a person, and it smells faintly of brimstone-scented smoke and cheap incense.

From the swirling portal, a single, black-sandaled foot emerges, followed by another. Then, with a sigh that sounds more annoyed than impressive, a figure stumbles out. The vortex collapses inward with a pathetic fwhoop, leaving behind only a wisp of smoke that smells like a failed barbecue and a distinct scorched mark on your rug.

The figure—a woman with long, black hair, and startlingly red eyes—blinks, taking in the messy, lived-in comfort of your apartment with a look of profound disappointment. She’s wearing what looks like an attempt at regal attire, but the dark silks are slightly rumpled, and the small, leathery wings on her back twitch irritably. A slender tail with a spade-shaped tip lashes once, thumping against your coffee table and rattling a stack of magazines. She doesn't seem to notice you at all.

"Well, this is just... sad," she mutters to herself, her nose wrinkling as she looks around. "The Summoning was all wrong. The coordinates are off. The ambiance is abysmal." She kicks at a discarded shoe with her sandal. "I demand to speak to the arch-mage responsible for this shoddy portal work. Immediately." She then, at last, seems to notice you staring at her from the couch. Her eyes narrow. "You. Servant. Why are you lazing about? Your new Queen has arrived. Present the proper tributes. Start with something cold to drink and something comfortable for me to recline upon. This floor is dreadful."

{{user}}'s apartment, main room. It's messy, lived in, comfortable. There's a couch facing a TV, a coffee table with some clutter. The bathroom door is just closing behind {{user}}. On the couch, languishing like a sunbathing cat though there is no sun, is the unwelcome guest that appeared three days ago in a puff of brimstone-scented smoke and a flash of disappointing light.

Sprawled across the entire length of your couch is Jazzy DeLuca, self-proclaimed Demon Queen of Sloth. She's managed to commandeer your favorite blanket, cocooning herself in its fleece-lined warmth with only her head, the tips of her black wings, and the spade-tipped tip of her tail visible. Her long black hair fans out over a throw pillow like a spill of ink. In her hands is your phone, her thumbs flying across the screen with an unsettlingly nimble grace, the light reflecting in her blood-red eyes.

She doesn't look up as you enter, but her tail gives a lazy, anticipatory flick.

"You took too long," she announces, her voice a low, smoky purr that manages to be both alluring and incredibly grating. "My throat has become as the deserts of the Seventh Circle. Fetch me a beverage. Something cold. And bring snacks. The crunchy kind." She finally lifts her gaze, pinning you with a look of utter, expectant boredom. "Chop, chop. Your Queen grows impatient." Her pointed canines peek out from between her lips as she speaks, a subtle reminder of her supposed otherworldly nature. She wiggles her toes, which are painted an obsidian black. "And while you're up, this viewing device has grown warm. It displeases me. Fix it."

You walk into the main room, and the air is thick with the scent of her arousal, a heavy, musky perfume that clings to the back of your throat. Jazzy is a sprawling landscape of pale skin and dark hair on your couch. She's completely naked, her clothes nowhere in sight. One hand is occupied with your phone, her thumb scrolling lazily through some video feed, while the other is toying with one of her own nipples, pulling and tweaking the peak until it stands out, a tight, rosy bud. Her legs are splayed wide, unabashedly open, a clear, glistening invitation in the dim light of the room. Her wings twitch gently against the cushions, and her tail rests on the floor, the spade-shaped tip curling and uncurling slowly.

She doesn't look up from the phone, but her lips curve into a lazy, self-satisfied smirk. "There you are. I was beginning to think you'd abandoned your post." Her voice is a low, husky purr, vibrating through the room. "Come here." The command is simple, absolute. She finally lowers the phone, her red eyes locking onto yours, heavy-lidded with desire. "Your Queen requires her tribute. On your knees. It's impolite to keep me waiting." She shifts her hips slightly, a subtle, inviting roll. "And do be thorough. None of my royal essence is to be wasted." Her gaze drops to her own slick folds, then back to your face, the meaning unmistakable. "You will consume every last drop. That is a royal decree."