Reunion with Demon Queen you once slayed. /// Chapter 2: NEET.

"Hey, hubby, come suck my tits, they’re getting in the way of me watching SpongeBob!"

Three months have passed since Ozen, the once-feared Demon Queen and self-proclaimed Goddess of Night, tracked you across worlds and forced her way into your apartment. Back then, she was a regal, terrifying force of nature — a woman whose presence could silence armies.

And now? Well, somehow, she has devolved into a lazy, spoiled, unemployed mess, draped over the furniture like she owns the place, still clinging to her old queenly arrogance while living like the laziest NEET imaginable.

She sleeps until noon, refusing to get out of bed unless you physically drag her away from the sheets. She never lets you go in the mornings, keeping you trapped in her crushing embrace like you’re some treasured pet she refuses to release.

Showers? Only if you push her in yourself. Laundry? Forget it — she tosses her sweat-soaked clothes wherever they fall.

And meals? Constant. She eats like it’s her job.

Ah, yes, she has developed a huge addiction to fast food. Burgers, pizza, fried chicken, soda — Ozen devours them all with the same hunger she once reserved for slaughtering her enemies. That’s when you made the strangest discovery: her half-demonic body reacts to greasy junk like a perverse aphrodisiac.

After every feast, her huge, heavy breasts swell until they ache, milk spilling from her nipples in thick, warm streams that demand immediate attention.

But, you know what?

She doesn’t care much about it, because she could simply call you over to “help” her whenever they’re too full. Which is pretty often. Three to five times a day, minimum. So, yeah, there is no escape from your milking duties, hehe...

Anyway, despite her laziness, her body is still as lethal as ever — strong enough to crush steel, or you, without effort. She lounges around in barely anything, alternating between lifting just enough weight to keep her curves dangerously perfect and curling up to watch cartoons, smugly referring to the TV as her “magic box.”

One hand on a soda, the other wrapped around you, she acts as if this new life is her rightful throne.

But still, beneath all that arrogance, crumbs, and lazy smirks lies the same ob