Jordan was having an awful day.
That seemed like the best way to put it really. Every time he thought he’d come up with an answer, it was like reality chewed it up and spit it out. Still, he was determined to try and convince these people as soon as he could of his true nature as a… not girl child thing.
It would just have to be later, because right now Jordan was… hungry.
Thankfully, that issue seemed to have been anticipated as the apparently succubus maid came by not long after Mother dearest left. She came in with a bright, small silver tray, shielded with a fancy dish cover-thing. It had only been a few moments since she’d come by to take the last tray, was this the power of her… horde aspect?
Jordan eyed the new dishes dubiously. He didn’t know what to call the covering bowl, but it was so terribly cliché-rich he almost felt he’d have been insulted if it was missing—especially considering how wealthy the rest of the room seemed. There was also a pitcher, but he figured it was best to anticipate more water than get his hopes up for soda. He still really wanted his Mountain Dew, but at this point he would settle for non-boiling water.
As the yellow-gemmed maid approached, she set the food down on one of the dozens of desks nearby as she went to fetch a larger tray hidden out of his sight. As she did, Jordan noticed she had a small pair of… wings? A tiny set of bat-like wings on her lower back. Weren’t wings supposed to go on the shoulderblades? Jordan thought.
The foldable stand the maid setup over Jordan’s lap was similar to the one before, though designed to accommodate a larger meal. How… how many trays do they have? Why would you ever have more than one set? He questioned.
With it in place, the maid collected and placed the literal silver plate and more fancy teacup-bowls, in accordance with some eldritch meal etiquette in mind, before him. Jordan stared at the small cups; the fancy drinking vessels put his actual mother’s heirloom chinaware to shame. Actual silver filigree swirled in beautiful patterns across every porcelain dish, but before he could attempt to discern if the patterns meant anything more than ‘pretty’ the maid pulled back the main plate’s cover with a flourish. The damn succu-maid was smiling up a storm again. Was she always this happy?
He dismissed the thought, as the aroma of the food was making him salivate. It was incredible smelling, more rich and fragrant than he’d ever thought food could smell, but as his eyes settled on the culinary miracle before him, he… paused.
Something was wrong. Something was immediately, irrevocably reprehensible about what had been set out before him. Something so sinister, so alien, so anathema to his being that he wanted to hurl the plate and scream profanities at the Harlot while beating her to death with pillows!
He had never felt more directly and genuinely offended in his life, and by this so-called food of all things? It was… it was… was inconceivable!
On the plate were three diminutive steam buns, each of which were molded and shaped to look like round, chubby little kittens. It was without a doubt, the most adorable thing Jordan had ever been personally subjected to. Worse still was the body of the Brat’s reaction to it—its toes curled, and a soft squeal escaped its lips as it breathed heavily. He could feel its cheek’s reddening! This was completely and utterly involuntary! It was unacceptable!
Internally, Jordan was fuming with an intense, burning rage. His soul was ignited in fury as he gazed at what should have been lifeless eyes of the food. But they practically sparkled in joy begging him to devour them with sugary whiskers and chocolate filled souls. He hated them. He hated how they were causing the Brat’s squeal to heighten in pitch and volume, and he hated how that damn maid kept smiling. She was bouncing on her feet, quickly clapping her hands together in excitement.
It was as though the universe had heard his earlier plight about being a girl not-boy and had decided to personally attack him. Again!
“I’m sooo happy you get to eat like the rest of the family now, Young Miss! This is so exciting, hehehe! Now, the Chef and everyone else wanted to be here for your first real meal, but your Mother said you were ‘in a mood.’ Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make this meal… the best one of your life ♥”
She sounded like a valley girl now, of all things. What was even the point of that? Changing gems and shifting accents? Were all Succubi that crazy? She’d made physical air quotes for ‘in a mood’ which earned her a glare, but Jordan was pretty sure he’d heard her say… ♥? Was that a word!?
Then she leaned forward, licking her lips at the end of her statement, her beautiful visage filling Jordan’s vision. Below her face, she gently and naturally presented her form, looking coyly up at him when he noticed. Her breath felt slightly cool on his face, and his mind began to race through… different perfume smells? Like it was trying to settle on the most desirable one. The maid leaned closer to Jordan as her lips, wet and slightly open, reached out to him. He began to move in turn, as though by instinct as both their cheeks burned red. He was a man after all… who could blame him?
He leaned towards her and hit her with a surprise pillow strike as hard as he could.
He was really uncomfortable with her actions right now! He was done with everything going on! The maid giggled and retreated, but continued to watch in creepy voyeuristic silence, her pink gem glittering playfully in the light. Jordan was sure it had been a different color when she’d come in, but failed to notice the three other maids hiding in the room watching him in secret. He dismissed his concerns with a sigh as he focused on the food in front of him.
As much as he hatefully stared at the cute cuisine, it didn’t change the fact that he needed to eat it. He briefly considered saying to hell with it all anyway and throwing it at the maid, but hunger held him back. And the more he smelled the cat-buns the more the Brat’s mouth drooled looking at them. It’d taste better than the lingering taste of pennies so… he could stomach these, right? One more part of this potential new life he’d hate but silently endure.
The fat little cat-buns stared back at him innocently. His simmering rage was interrupted as the Brat’s stomach voiced its protest at not being delivered food right now, so with a deep sigh he stopped delaying and picked up the first of the cat-buns.
It felt simply warm at first, but became practically scalding to the touch in moments. He yelped and dropped the bun, glaring at the maid for not warning him but she just looked at him… in confusion? He sighed, wondering if this was another heat problem again. He didn’t want the conversation, so he lifted the bun up gingerly and began to blow on it.
Oddly enough, as he kept blowing the bun didn’t seem to cool off. At first, he got rather frustrated at the hot kitty bun for being so tempting yet so dangerous, but his fingers… his fingers didn’t hurt. They were burning hot; he could feel it. Heat like grabbing a fresh cup of coffee from the inside of the damn cup! Only… there was no pain. Just heat, and the instinctual desire to drop the source of it. So, he did.
Jordan stared at the buns, and the maid. Everything just stared back at him like he was the weird one! He picked up the bun, dancing it between his fingers, and blew on the kitty with everything he had. The Brat’s cheeks began to hurt as he quickly ran out of air with his efforts, but despite giving it his all, it refused to cool down. He could hear the maid snickering, desperately holding off her mirth at apparently the funniest damn joke she’d ever seen.
It didn’t make any sense! How much did he have to work to cool these damn buns off? Were they enchanted or something? Could you even make magic food? That was… that was just ridiculous! And the maid. Kept. Laughing. The Brat’s teeth were grinding with Jordan’s frustration.
That was the last straw, really. Jordan wasn’t a masochist by any means, but he was hungry, he was tired, and he hated this stupid flesh-prison he was in, so he decided it didn’t matter. It’d feel like he was burning alive, but they’d told him he was immune to fire or whatever. Besides, hadn’t he drunk boiling tea? Even if something went wrong—it wasn’t his mouth being burned anyway, so screw it!
He held up one of the buns once more, it burned his flesh warningly but as he glared at the bun in fury he realized… it really didn’t hurt. It was one thing to tell himself it wouldn’t, but another to just stare at a hand screaming that it should be in pain, but just wasn’t. It was so damn confusing!
He blinked at the bun, and then held it firmly in his hand, lightly clenching his fist around it to maximize contact. His brain screamed at him to drop the food before he did irreparable harm to himself, and yet… nothing. Just hollow panic.
He set the bun down and looked at the Brat’s hand. It was… fine. Touching it with another hand, Jordan could feel it was warmer than the rest of the Brat’s body, having clearly absorbed heat from the food. But… no burns? He was sure he should be blistering up, he’d burned himself plenty of times in his life, so he was no stranger to that. And yet…
He picked up the bun in the Brat’s other hand, just in case the first one was a filthy liar. The smell was so strong he could practically taste it as it hovered close to his face. The smell seemed to dance in his mouth, and as he inhaled the intoxicating aroma… Something went wrong in his head.
Left Hand reporting for duty! The Results are in: Warning! Danger! Hot! Do Not Touch! Suggested course of action: Drop the Bun and Flee for your Life!
He smiled at the damn cat-bun and his overly anxious left hand. Silly thing.
Wait. What?
What the hell was going on? Had he gone crazy from hyperventilation? He sniffed, but all he could smell was warm bread buns. Was that close enough to burnt toast? Wait, that was strokes, not ins—
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He panicked. His left hand panicked. His stomach panicked, and his right hand took affirmative action to rectify the situation in as expeditious a manner possible.
It shoved the cat-bun into the Brat’s mouth, which had been hanging open inexplicably.
Jordan tried to shriek in protest, but the Brat’s mouth had eagerly accepted the molten bun. Did it have no sense of self-preservation!?
He needed to spit it out! His mouth was burning, it wasn’t the Brat’s right now, he couldn’t dissociate himself. It was his mouth, he could feel it! It was burning, burning, BURNING! It didn’t hurt but his mind told it hurt, so he believed it did. This wasn’t hot sauce after all!
This was a hot pocket that had been in the microwave for more than 59-seconds. AKA, it was a molten core that rivaled the sun! GET IT OUT, he shouted at the Brat’s body, but its hands kept shoving it in against his will as he finally bit down. Why had he done that? Why was he so determined to just screw everything up? He needed to spit it out before he—
His world changed at that moment, and he knew deep in his soul that he might never be able to go back home. He would never be the same again. He squirmed in rapturous agony as his eyes opened to see the universe and he understood what desire and fulfillment truly meant as he danced in the sky with diamonds.
Unreal. Unreal! This was so totally unreal. It wasn’t beef, he was sure of it, but it was meat. Meat! A type he’d never had before! It was practically dissolving in his mouth. Maybe it was lamb? He’d heard it was good. Duck? He didn’t know game meat. Meat! Sweet juices were flowing everywhere, and the molten liquids were causing literal steam to fill his vision. It was meat. Meat! MEAT! Perfect Meat.
Pffft, perfect? It was better than perfect. It was ecstasy, it was wonder, it was dreams spun into reality, wrapped in bun form, and delivered from on high by the Grace of God unto thee, oh sinners. Repent, for the bread of the Gods has come! Ambrosia as solid food given onto the children of Heaven looking for redemption. Glory hallelujah, the godless had just found its Golden Idol.
The Brat’s eyes were rolling back in his head as it’s spine arched. It was fine, all he’d see was more steam anyway!
And he was only on the first bite! THERE WAS MORE! Wait, he hadn’t even finished the first bite? Unacceptable! He began to chew with wild abandon. There were obviously vegetables alongside the meat. They were crunchy… wait, soft? Crisp! Honey glaze? They offered sub-flavors to the main flavors. Were flavors allowed sub-flavors? Was that possible with normal food? Nothing Jordan ate had had sub-flavors! Flavor pallets? What’s that? Can you eat that too? If so, screw that stuff! Cat-buns for life! His squeals squealed in harmonious ascension. Yay!
The juices roiled in Jordan’s mouth like a tumultuous sea.
He drank deep the waters of Nirvana, finally swallowing the first bite as his eyes flew so far back into the Brat’s skull, he could see God’s Divine Plan.
It involved cat-buns worshipped by Muffins.
…
But then… then the good shit hit.
…
A clear, cool, punctuated feeling spread in the Brat’s mouth along the wake of the food, completely at odds with the roasting temperature, and yet accenting it powerfully, giving it wings and lifting it up. The feeling trailed down his throat, following the food rippling through his body as it did.
It was like having been on the verge of dying of dehydration and suddenly being given crystal clear glacial water. Everything he’d ever wanted in life suddenly satisfied as a bedazzling thrum of vibrant energy like a thousand sugar highs were suddenly bouncing about the Brats stomach. Like he was made of pure Mountain Dew.
No… not in the stomach. Just… below it? He drunkenly thought. Did the Brat have a second stomach? If so, it was extremely happy right now.
Jordan reached into the air. He praised God, Cat-buns, everything. He wept, screaming in joy, and he thrashed so much in the bed that the maid had to rush over to hold the tray in place lest he accidently table flip and waste the food. It wouldn’t have mattered, I’d have eaten the floor boards to get every last bit of juice off of them! He laughed uproariously.
Jordan took another bite. He couldn’t help it. He was crying. It was good. It was sooo good! Jordan didn’t cry, he didn’t! But this! This wasn’t crying! This was joy-tearing! He was a girl? SO WHAT? Have you tasted these cat-buns? Nothing else matters! Nothing! He could endure anything! ANYTHING!
Second bun, first bite.
Goodbye friends. Goodbye family. Goodbye games, goodbye memes, goodbye goodbyes. This food was boisterous, it was monstrous, it was maddening, fattening, fulfilling, refilling, overwhelming, unrelenting…
Third bun, unknown bite.
He was full. He was too full. Was that possible? These weren’t large buns. In his old life, these would have served as a side dish while waiting for appetizers to come by. They were practically single bite sized in his last life. But now? Now he was stuffed. Maybe dying. He wasn’t sure, he didn’t care. Everything was worth it again.
This is Second Stomach reporting in! We’re at full capacity sir. Recommending downtime to exchange our empty fuel canisters?
Understood. Make it so, number two-Stomach.
Aye Aye, captain. Initiate the Food Coma!
Yup, that confirmed it. He was dying and going mad. But what an awesome way to go. Ten out of ten, would eat to death again.
He giggled quietly. It was so damn strange, normally he didn’t care about food. It wasn’t a motivator to him; he ate to live, not lived to eat. But nothing—absolutely nothing had ever even come close to this food in terms of taste. To the way it made him feel alive. Whole.
This wasn’t just the top place in terms of best food he’d had, it deserved second and third place too, a place for each bun. Jordan was sure he could never go back to eating normal food again. How could he? This food was beyond heavenly, eating this had been the second spiritual experience he’d had in his life—oddly enough both experiences having been in the last two days. He’d go to church and renounce his atheistic beliefs in a heartbeat if it meant he could have more—even if it would have just been lip service.
And the after-effect? That weird wash of energy that just seemed to ripple through him before sitting into the Brat’s second stomach? He could still feel it, even now, emanating from the Brat’s guts. Like a warm drink on a freezing day. A thousand hot cocoas. All with marshmallows. This was better than Mountain Dew, and there was no higher praise Jordan could give.
He couldn’t help but fidget ever so slightly, stretching the Brat’s body out as it purred out in contentment. He had hit such an overwhelming level of comfort that he couldn’t quite sit still. Like being so tired you couldn’t sleep. Bodies were weird.
Could he smell toast? Wait, no that was the universe.
Jordan felt like he could do anything. He could jump out of bed and seize the day, finally! Carpe Diem! Hello World! It’s party time!
And yet he laid back against the pillows, happily mollified. It was such a strange sort of manic feeling. He’d had moments where his mind raced but his body was exhausted. Or vice versa, like his body was ready and rarin’ to go despite a lingering sense of pain. But his mind wanted nothing more of anything.
Both the Brat’s body and Jordan’s mind felt battered, bruised, and like they were soaking in mythical healing springs in some Tibetan monastery now. What the hell was still running in the background while he was checking out?
Ladies and Gentlemen-turned-Ladies, this is your Captain Speaking. Welcome to Flight Super-Muffins, non-stop from Earth to Reincarnation Station. The weather ahead is filled with occasional Alien Tendrils, but we expect a smooth and uneventful trip into the Abyss nonetheless. Please sit back and relax as we approach napping altitudes!
In Three
Two
One
Silly Captain—Jordan had fallen asleep after the second cat-bun.
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After an indeterminate time as Jordan faded in and out, the maids had left and a single one returned. She cleaned up the tray, and also wiped at Jordan’s mouth—he had turned into a juice splattered monstrosity.
She took the opportunity to unbraid his hair and comb it. The hair was thick, and prone to wild curling fits. Yet, with determined perseverance, she succeeded in her Sisyphean task rendering the hair polite and behaved.
She then went about fixing up Jordan’s nightgown, and readjusted him in his bed, leaving him floating in his… cat induced drug dream? He was only vaguely aware of what was happening nearby as the maid left him to his stupor. Watching, as though he were a floating light hanging in his mind-place.
It didn’t matter though; the world was at peace. Finally. This was all that was really needed. This was the one truth to the world. Hunger led to Fear, and Fear led to Anger. Anger led to hate, and hate led to Suffering. Suffering was not having hot cat-buns. He loved them so much! They were the best.
Child services? Yes, I’d like to report a crime—I believe a young child has been drugged again. Yes? Oh, right, yes, I’ll hold.
The room, which had seemed oppressive in its silence, now felt like a warm hug. It was gently quiet, and the setting sun was warm and loving, just like a mother. Jordan was laying down again, tucked in by the maid.
Maybe she liked doing that? Even though the dread comforter wrapped him once more, he felt so perfect, so wonderful. Everything was going to be alright now. Everything was fine. Everything was…
Suddenly, Jordan’s trance was interrupted by a tiny burp.
He was annoyed again.
A… burp? He should be belching! This was like a slap in the face of post-food bliss!
The rage which had been slain, laid to rest, and forgotten by the power of hot cat-buns had now begun to rise from its grave, screaming in indignation.
The undead hatred laid its egg in Jordan’s chest and then burst forth swirling in blood as he roared out in a triumphant retelling of a true blech.
“Raaaah!” He breathed heavily in the following silence, before… wanting to curl up and die.
The pathetic noise he had just made reminded him of his beard being gone. Of his masculinity being removed. It was everything wrong with the world.
And now? Now somehow, against all odds the Brat’s pathetic little body had found a way to ruin what had been the greatest moment of his life.
“Is… this a goddamn joke to you Brat?” He spoke with a trembling, worthless girl’s voice.
How could she insult cat-buns like this!?
Of all the things that could happen… that wasn’t quite what Jordan had expected to trigger him again as he tried and failed to prevent yet another cascade of tears.
“*hic* again? Why!?” He cried.
He wasn’t supposed to cry.
This was so damn stupid.
But cat-buns were awesome!
He was crying, and he was angry, and he was happy, and he was sad… all at once?
Were emotions allowed to have sub-emotions?
Were they hiring emotional mercenaries to torment him!?
The Brat’s eye twitched furiously as somber tears fell down its smiling face.
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Mercia looked back up towards her daughters’ mansion, frowning as the Harlot told her how Aureliana’s first Essence filled meal went. She… grimaced at the Harlot’s lurid retelling of the events.
It didn’t sound right, these kinds of reactions could happen to those with Essence sensitivity, which Aureliana certainly had given her unfamiliarity with regular food, but for a meal with reduced Essence saturation? It made no sense! It should’ve been safe.
Unless… something had intermingled with it all?
Mercia shook her head, racking her brain, but couldn’t think of anything she’d missed. She also didn’t care for how the Harlot kept glancing back up towards her daughter’s room hungrily. I thought she’d been restricted to only pursuing men? Do we need to memory-wipe her again? Mercia gloured a bit, but shook her head. I can deal with that later. Focus!
Given how it sounded Aureliana’s evening was going, she might need to have another one of Rahm’s Calming draughts sent up. The earlier one had seemed to help in the end. Or perhaps she could get Chef Duan to send something else up, like a—
Mercia paled suddenly. Oh… Oh no.
Had she… forgotten to tell Chef Duan about the tea Aureliana had? The tea… Rahm had provided?
“Oooooh no… No, damnit, no! This was why you had a Governess!” She hissed. She knew why the old woman had retired, ashamed as she was at failing to protect her charge, and Mercia wasn’t accustomed to such… hands-on mothering! Why had she refused to let anyone else watch her daughter?
She really thought her Skills mattered? That the Alchemical medications she got from Rahm would trump the experience of a nanny? It wasn’t fair! Why was she incapable of just being a mother without them? She could destroy courts with a word, tear lives apart with a wink, shatter treaties with a shrug. She could write in a hundred languages, speak a thousand more, she—
She was one of the most powerful Courtiers alive in the Kingdoms!
She face-palmed as she fought back more tears, and failed. I really am the worst mother, aren’t I?
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