Too lazy

The eyes of the pokemon narrowed and it weakly raised a hand until your Oddish began bouncing in front of you, chirping over and over frantically at the other pokemon. She was so strange sometimes. You patted her leaves before walking over to the large pokemon. You gently patted the head of the strange new pokemon as you sat down next to it, putting some berries into its hands.

“Now, now. There’s no need to be so upset. The poor thing just wants some berries. I bet it’s starving. Be nice, Oddish. The poor baby’s coming home with us. It’s hurt and we’re not about to leave it here.” You chided the grass type who was actively trying to keep you from being eviscerated via psychic energy.

The new pokemon looked stunned at the head pats and just stared at you as if you were mentally disturbed. You started digging in your bag until you found the hyper spray that you kept in case of emergencies with Oddish or any of the wild pokemon that wandered onto your farm was injured. You carefully sprayed the medicine onto the wound on the poor thing’s leg injury and hummed in satisfaction as the torn flesh began to heal.

“There’s a good Skitty. Once you’ve finished your berries, you can come home with me and Oddish. I think I’ll have to make a sweater for you, buddy. I don’t think a hairless thing like you is supposed to be out here. You’re probably so cold! I can't believe that someone would leave you here all on your own in the middle of winter.” You said empathetically as you took your scarf off and wrapped it around the pokemon’s two strange necks.

You managed to haul the pokemon back to your house via wheelbarrow after attempting to feed it a few berries. You set up a makeshift bed for it on your couch and cover the beast in blankets. You're careful to reapply medicine when needed and turn on a TV show that your Oddish likes once you're sure that the new pokemon is comfortable.

Months later, the giant beast continues to stick around after regaining its health, much to your delight. You continue doting on it just as much as you do with your Oddish, despite it being feet taller than you. It was sceptical of your affection at first but after being snuggled and loved on for so long, it’s started to get cranky when you don’t give it enough attention. It had even started bringing you leaves and flowers in exchange for more cuddle time.

“I am not a poor baby.” A deep voice rumbles in your head as you coo at it while pulling warm blankets out of the dryer.

You whip around and stare at the pokemon resting on the couch. It was the first time that the pokemon had engaged in any kind of verbal communication other than growls and purrs. You immediately rush over to it and begin petting its face.

“Oh! I didn't know that you were a psychic type! You must be one of those fancy regional Espeon variants! Sorry cutie! I didn't mean to upset you!” You cooed at the massive creature.

Perhaps if you had kept your mouth shut instead of volunteering to replace James, whose bad knee had been acting up — if you had just nodded along when Roth assigned you to man the station — you would be tucked safely in bed at home. You would fall asleep to the gentle lull of your wind chimes instead of the unsettling constant buzzing of wings. You would be wrapped in blankets and that one quilt gifted to you by Ranger Anne before she retired instead of smothered in black and golden fuzz. 

You would be safe at home, by your definition of the word and not theirs. 

Instead, you opted to cover James' assigned section, the western sweep north of Boulder Creek. Now that the wildfire had been officially extinguished, surveys needed to be conducted, damage assessed, and any stray animals that didn't make it out tended to. Over a hundred and forty acres gone — charred and ashen. Now that clearance had been given, it was time to put boots back to the soil and work. You volunteered, assuring Roth that James was more comfortable with the radios than you were and his knee was still recovering. Roth listened. 

He shouldn't have. 

You had packed your bag, checked the handheld radio, and pocketed a compass before you set off for Boulder Creek. Normal. Routine. Even surrounded by the burnt, charred forest — a hole scorched into your chest as you navigated the ruins — you knew the land. You knew your way around. The sweep shouldn't have given you any issue. 

But it did. 

Because you noticed. Because you stopped. Because you were kind. 

You notice them only by happenstance, a shift in the sunlight through the thin clouds overhead caught on something iredecent and frail — unusual and forlorn framed by the scorched, bare trees that crumbled like weathered tombstones. It pulls your attention and beckons your feet from the path you knew by heart. Only as you near, soot framing your footsteps, do you realize what lay crumpled upon the ashen forest floor. Four arms, covered in fine black hair, curl tightly around a broad chest of golden fuzz and two similarly black legs pulled in close. That black fuzz, so close to fur, covers their hips and sweeps out in banding arcs across the abdomen that protrudes from their lower back. Four gossamer wings shudder ever so faintly on their back. You don't need to see their head, tucked into their arms and pressed into the soil, to know what they are. 

A bee hybrid. 

One that is certainly over double your height, judging by the length of their limbs — which isn't uncommon for the bee hybrids. They tended to be unnervingly tall, all long limbs and stark blacks against bold golden hues with a droning buzz that could split your head open if too many of them got aggitated in a small space. A colony or two were known to reside in the far recesses of the park, nestled into corners of the woods where humans and other hybrids would not bother them. They were a reclusive people. 

As far as you knew, both colonies had been warned when the fire broke out and then urged to leave once it became evident the flames could not be easily contained. The wildfire burned for nearly two months, violent and unquenchable. Had they not left? Had they braved the flames or, like you, had they only just now returned to stand in the wreckage of what remained? 

Worry furrows your brow as you knelt beside the hybrid — close but not close enough to touch with your shorter reach, you know better than to startle a bee hybrid. The soft shifting of soot beneath your boots seems to register to the hybrid, evident in the flinch of their claws across their ribs and the weak buzzing flutter of their wings. They do little else aside from their weak attempt at threatening, however, too weak to otherwise move. 

"Can I help you?" You ask softly, your hands open and flat on the ash covered soil in front of you: unarmed, harmless. 

The hybrid shifts, a twitch of antennae as their gaze, a deep brown nearly lost in black sclera, blurrily tries to narrow on you. The buzzing of their wings falters and picks up, faint but determined — the noise settles like a minor headache at the base of your skull. The black and golden hairs covering their body stand on end, puffing up and making the weakened creature seem even larger. A scowl pulls at their lips, a flash of white fangs visible. 

"Are you hurt?" You ask, your attention drifting from their face down to their torso. Ashen soot covers their body, discoloring the bold black and golden hues, but you do not see any burns. Blood should, likewise, be a rather stark contrast against their coloring but their fuzz could also easily hide it, depending on the severity. You're not an expert on hybrids by any means, but the Rangers did give you a few small pointers on the extremely rare chance you ever encountered the territorial bee hybrid residents. "Do you need anything?" 

The buzzing falters as your gaze drifts away from their face and slowly settles into something just barely softer — still there, vibrating a faint pressure at the back of your skull. But it's subdued, cautious. The hybrid shifts the upper pair of their arms, unwinding them from their torso and bracing against the ground, yet they do not move to sit up. Faint, barely audible — you think you hear a series of soft clicks and the hybrid pauses, as if waiting for something, before they scowl. When they speak, their voice is a raspy, rough thing — a shuddering, vibrating noise as if dragged over a fraying rope, "Drink." 

The single word sinks heavy between you two for a moment before it registers as an actual request. You fumble, reaching instinctively for your pack slung over your shoulder only to pause when your quick movement causes the hybrid to flinch and the buzzing picks up pace once more. "You're thirsty, right?" The hybrid does not answer, but their brow furrows further. It's hard to tell in the black sclera but you feel their gaze drilling a hole into you, unfocused though it may be. "I'm just going to get something out of my pack." 

This time, you make sure your movements are slow and easy, patient enough to allow the weary hybrid to follow the motion. The pack slides from you shoulder and you make a point to keep your gaze on it as you pull out the electrolyte drink you'd brought for your sweep. Pure sugar water would be better, you think — if you remember correctly, at least — but something is better than nothing. As you twist the cap off and place the bottle down on the ground, intent to gently nudge the bottle into the open space between you two, you hear the soft clicks once more. There's a lilt to it, curious and confused. 

You don't know what it means, if anything, so you simply push the bottle forward and retreat. 

The hybrid stares between you and the bottle for a long moment, a single click tumbling from their lips as their brow furrows into something softer. The buzzing dies down as the lower pair of arms unwind and reach for the bottle before they take a long drink. As the last of the electrolytes slips down their throat, the buzzing has stopped entirely, and a sharpness returns to their gaze. They shift, legs drawn in close as their upper pair of arms braces them fully against the ground. Their wings flutter, sweeping up a gentle gust of wind as they rise and stand to full height, his shadow fully swallowing you in its shade. Still clutched in one hand is the bottle, which they hold out to you, mindful claws careful not to puncture the plastic — there's a hint of disgust in the way only the tips of their claws hold it. 

"468, Drone," the hybrid says suddenly, tone even and calm, as if stating a fact. 

Drone… that's what the bees called the males of their species, isn't it? What did the number mean? 

"Thank you. Did you need another one?" You stand slowly, shouldering your pack and taking the bottle from his black claws gently. Your gaze drifts up from his still proffered claw to the golden fuzz of his chest covered in soot before it lifts to his face. Even now he is dwarfs you, his shadow completely encases you in its shade. Yet it is silence that hangs between you, empty of the buzzing from before and instead burdened with his gaze heavy on the crown of your head. 

The hybrid is quiet for a long moment, his head tilting this way and that. Behind him, his wings flutter quietly, but it's his arms that have your attention. Both pair hover, inching closer only to pull back — they drift near the top of your head, linger by your hands, one of them stretches to almost encircle your back as if seeking something. Again, he softly clicks at you, the furrow in his brow deepening when you merely stare up at him. His voice is still that rough tone, a faint vibration in the undercurrent of it, "Hurt?" 

"Oh, are you?" Your pack slips from your shoulder as you rummage through it once more, "I have a first aid kit with me, if you show me—" 

Cold, firm. His claws wrap around your upper arm, stopping you. He clicks and chitters once more, quick and hurried, his brow creased and a frown on his lips. There's something in his gaze you can't quite catch, though it's likely because you're unaccustomed to a bee hybrid's features. There's an edge of frustration to his tone you can read, however — a faint ripple of urgency. His wings flutter behind him, restless, as he tries again in a language you understand, "Lost?"

A flicker of panic nestles in your chest the longer his clawed hand cages your bicep — so easily swallowed in his grasp. You shift your weight, gently testing the strength of his grip, only for his hold to tighten and that flicker of emotion in your chest kindles into something brighter. It's instinctual, the way it vibrates in your lungs and shudders in your throat. A part of you seems to realize, innately, the difference in strength. You bury it, suffocate it beneath logic and reason: you're fine, he's just disorientated, you've followed every rule in the guidebook to make yourself as nonthreatening as possible, plus you should not be anywhere near his Queen. It's fine, you're fine. 

"I'm not lost," you explain, eyes downcast to his hand on your arm. The first words tumbling from your lips tremble a little but as they flow, your voice evens out. You're fine. You're fine. "I'm with the Rangers; we were just surveying the damage from the fire. If you're turned around, you're right by Boulder Creek. The lake is 30 degrees northeast of here." 

More clicks and chitters. The hybrid places a hand near the back of your head and suddenly bows low to lean in. You feel his breath brush against the top of your head, the faint skim of his antennae brushing over you and your heart leaps up to your throat. His firm grip on your arm is the only thing rooting you in place, effortlessly containing the visceral flinch that ran through you. Warnings blare across your mind — safety precautions, distance to keep, their speed, the deadly force of their strength, the sharp gouging edge of their stinger. Partial questions break upon your lips as you try to duck down, away from him but his grip is firm and unrelenting as his head follows — smelling, scenting, searching. 

His claws release you suddenly as he stands back to full height and you do not miss the opportunity to fling yourself away, scrambling until your back slams into the crumbling remnants of a burnt tree. Soot and ash flake off, coating your clothes and dusting your hair, but you pay it no mind as the hybrid stares long and hard at you, motionless save for the faint fluttering twitch of his wings.

You peel your tongue off the roof of your mouth, heart hammering in your chest, "What—" 

He points one clawed hand at you, his voice rough and firm, "Stay." 

Before you can argue, or even demand an explanation, his wings spread wide and kick up a gust strong enough you have to close your eyes against the soot it stirs up from the soil and trees. The bee hybrid flies off in a whirlwind of ash and soot, leaving you coughing and choking on the air left in his wake. You stumble away, eyes watering and throat rough with each cough that rakes through your lungs. Only when you put enough distance between yourself and the spot where you found him does the air settle enough for you to catch your breath. 

What the hell was that about? 

You pull out the only remaining water bottle from your pack and take a few sips before unclipping your handheld radio. When you radio back to the station and inform James to report a dehydrated bee hybrid, his voice is tinged with concern. Were you hurt? Was the hybrid hurt? Were they alone? Any sign of the Queen? You field his questions as honest as you can, leaving out the bee's strange behavior and promise to check in once you finish your sweep. Exhaustion settles in, a faint echo in your bones, as you return your radio back to your pack and sling it over your shoulder. 

Just finish your survey and get through the day. The hybrid was likely just… disorientated and dehydrated from the fire; many of the water reservoirs were damaged or contaminated and the creeks didn't fare much better. He likely hadn't seen a human before and wasn't sure whether you were friend or foe. He was just… confused. 

It's fine. You're fine. 

Before you can take a step forward, the sky overhead darkens and a sound fills your ears — buzzing. Loud. You snap your head up to see it wasn't a cloud overhead but a shadow — two shadows. Your heart sinks down to the soles of your feet, instinct flaring to life once more, the primal urge to flee igniting in your blood. Soot and dirt crunch underfoot as you take a single, instinctive step back, still swallowed in their shadow. With a shrill buzz, they dive down — a blur of black and gold that land with a gust of wind in front and behind you. 

Two of them. 

The bee hybrid before you is slightly slimmer than the drone you’d found, who now lingers nearly pressed against your back, the thrum of his wings passing through his chest and rattling your bones as all four of his hands find purchase on your arms. They both click and chitter at you, the one in front tilting his head to the side and the one behind you bows his head to nuzzle into your hair. Soft buzzing fills the air, needling at the back of your skull. 

You're shaking, shivering — heart in your throat. "I'm sorry, I—" 

— didn't know? Don't understand? 

The words tumble and collapse on your tongue, choking you. Did you make a mistake? Did you offend them? You were trying to help. You gave him something to drink so he could fly home. That's what people did to normal, little bees, right? 

The bee hybrid in front of you chitters and steps closer, claws plucking at the front of your shirt as if trying to grab your attention or pluck strands off it. When they speak, their voice is similar to the drone's, rough and deep with a vibration to it that sounds off to your ears. "Calm, calm," he soothes, the buzzing of his wings softening a fraction as his claws brush against your cheeks. "468 guide us. Safe, child." 

"Please let me go," your voice cracks as you flinch away from the hybrid's touch, cold and uncanny against your flesh. You struggle, dropping your weight and pulling against the drone's grasp, but he curves himself around you even more, his claws digging into delicate skin as his buzzing picks up in fervor. You feel him nuzzle against the crown of your head, his antennae brushing against you. 

You feel the other hybrid's touch again, ghosting over your cheeks and down your throat. "Child, confused." Their claws lightly scrape against your bare flesh, "Fire, hurt. Body, wings — bare, gone." 

A pressure builds at the back of your head as the buzzing increases, the drone's grip shifting to completely embrace you is the only warning you have before he curves himself even closer and presses you against his chest. Ash fills the air once more as the wind kicks up, swept up by the beat of the hybrids' wings, and the ground drops away. The hybrid hovering in front of you presses their palm against your mouth, muffling the scream that tore from your throat when the safety of the ground was torn from you. As the buzzing fills your ears, the pounding in your head swells — darkness, fueled by panic and pressure you are not built to withstand, bleeds into your vision before it swallows you whole. 

The morning you left, you left a note explaining everything and apologizing for hiding it from them. You left behind your coin purse, your favorite toy, and a freshly picked daffodil, a sign of rebirth after winter and a silent promise to come back to them.

When the men came, you told them you were 18. You'd stolen a bit of your grandmother's makeup to age your face a little, not that you think they've cared much if they realized you were lying. By the time you made it to your new commander, the makeup had all been rubbed off so it didn't matter much.

Commander Mattias was cruel in his own way. He loved watching the new cadets suffer, and it was obvious from the first day. He'd slapped your little portion of dinner rations into the dirt on your first day because he didn't like your name.

Then again, you were also the weakest in the group. The rest of the group was mainly men in their 20s or 30s and a few older women. You were just about to turn 16, still a child in all the ways that mattered.

You were smaller, weaker, and less knowledgeable. An easy target. Everyone had their own problems here; no one had time to deal with yours.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You could taste the battlefield, smell it. The fighting was nonstop now that you'd reached the frontlines. The clang of swords, the smell of gunpowder and iron. Blood. So much blood.

Death had started to haunt you, stalking your dreams in a large, black shadow. You still remembered the first body you saw, just abandoned on the side of the road. Now, you'd seen many bodies.

You tried not to think when you were out there, tried not to hurt anyone more than needed. This entire war was stupid, and you wanted it to be over; you wanted to go home. Unfortunately, the only way off the frontlines was with debilitating injury or... death.

You'd been eating less lately. Most days, you weren't hungry when you finally got back to the tents, just curling up on your cot. On other days, the others would steal your food before you could eat. The portions weren't enough for a grown person, let alone a growing teen like yourself, and you were the weak link they could take from.

The gnawing of hunger was beginning to become somewhat of a companion to you. It's not like you had anyone else here to be with you. That was made all the more obvious when one day, you went down in combat.

It was a simple lapse in guard, a simple moment of not moving fast enough. Then, there was a sword swung into your leg from the back, and you were on the ground, gasping in agony. Your helmet tumbled off, and then you were looking up at a goddess of war.

She was standing over you, bloody sword and armor, with a look of hatred in her eyes. Then she raised her sword again, and you prepared for the end, only for the blow to never land. Instead, when you gingerly opened your eyes expecting the afterlife, you were still there, blood rushing in your ears.

She looked puzzled, not regretful, but definitely confused. Still, whatever it was made her turn away from you, swinging her sword at someone else as you began the agonizing crawl towards the medic tent.

By the grace of some god out there, you made it. Nurses with no painkillers to offer but whiskey beginning to try and stitch up your leg. It was your Achilles, they tell you, despite you not knowing what that meant. Eventually, one explains that you wouldn't be walking for a while, likely sent back home with the next batch of disabled and dead soldiers.

It was both a relief and a horror to realize just how bad this must've been if you were being discharged. The next trip back wouldn't be for another week or so, so for now, you were stuck in the medic's tent trying to get through the pain and live another day.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Delirious. More and more so by the day. Your leg burned and throbbed, your mind usually stuck in a haze of fever, pain, and alcohol. It was infected, they said, and they didn't have the resources to treat it.

The whiskey was barely taking the edge off anymore, as you spent most of your days crying for your grandparents. You think they'd figured it out that you'd lied about your age.

Then one night, there was screaming. You watched the commanders drag the nurses out into the night, abandoning you and all the other injured and sick people unable to move themselves. You were stuck as the sounds of screaming and fighting drew closer.

It was your 16th birthday, not that you'd realized. You were just laying there, limp and sweaty, when the tent was ripped open. Some people tried to run, others to fight back. Some, like you, were too weak to do either.

Blood. Iron. It hung heavy in the air as footsteps approached your bed. Then there was a hand in your hair, tilting your face to be seen better.

"So I wasn't mistaken. You are a child." Her voice was low and deep, her eyes dark and hidden by shadow. Outside, the screaming continued as the camp began to burn. But then, a cool hand was supporting your back, another under your knees.

Your head lolled back when you were lifted up, a gasp of agonized pain leaving you. "No... no..."

She didn't even react, barking orders as you were carried away from the now-burning medical tent.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

"You're lucky." It's the same thing she's been telling you since you woke up. You're chained to a cot, your leg wrapped in bandages. Her medics had the necessary materials to remove the infection and clean the wound, unlike yours.

They hadn't seemed the least bit happy at having to help the enemy but when she'd leveled them with a sharp glare, they'd done it.

"Without me, you would've lost your leg." She seemed fine to ignore that she'd been the one who slashed your leg in the first place. The only reason she seemed to care was because you were a child, you'd heard the way she practically vibrated with glee talking about her other kills.

She really did hate your people. Or maybe she just loved killing. Either way, the happiest you saw her is when she'd walk back into the tent from the battlefield, covered in blood and her eyes trained straight on you.

"It's not like they were taking care of you anyway." Sure, the people there had sucked, but at least they were your countrymen. Now you were in a camp full of enemies who wouldn't care if you lived or died. Then again, the others hadn't seemed to care much either...

She told you gleefully about every kill and injury she caused. Her hand running through your hair as she ignored your horrified face and tremors of fear.

"Besides, you're a child. Who would ever let someone your age be alone anyway?" That was her excuse. Her excuse for the chains when you already couldn't move. Her excuse for making you sleep on a cot at the foot of her bed like some loyal dog. Her excuse for always feeding you herself.

WC: 4.1K (ig?)

Note: AAAAAAAAAGHH it's so cute I really enjoyed writing this, it was better in my mind tho but that's what i got. If you wonder why I made them twins it's because I think it will make sense as how they stayed together despite being orphans and honestly I just like twins, seriously who doesn't? Anyways i hope you enjoy it like i did, i might make another part idk XD

✦

It all began when that damn beggar hit him on the head.

As absurd as it sounded, that single strike seemed to drag him back from certain death, pulling him into the world of the living again. No longer surrounded by nothingness, he could feel the air on his skin, sense time passing.

Except… nothing was how it should be. He was now in the body of a small, frail boy. And time had moved on—by about a hundred years past his death. Not to mention, his beloved Mount Hua was no longer the flourishing, grand sect it used to be.

He didn’t have the luxury to care about side issues. He’d even postponed his revenge against that filthy beggar in order to rush back to Mount Hua.

So where the hell did she come from?!

“Pleaaaase!!”

Sure, he hadn’t gone far from where he woke up, but he had paused for a moment to establish his dantian—and apparently that was enough time for her to catch up.

“Don’t leave me behind!!!”

Chung Myung struggled with all his might to pry off the little girl clinging to him like a leech. It was almost impressive that such skinny arms could grip someone with that much strength!... Or maybe he was just too weak to shake her off.

He groaned in frustration and looked back over his shoulder, eyes lowering. The girl, probably about the same age as his current body, stared up at him with wide, tear-soaked eyes, her chin trembling pitifully.

“Cho Sam…”

Chung Myung’s face twisted.

“Don’t call me that! My name’s not Cho Sam—it’s Chung Myung!”

When he shouted in her face, the girl flinched, but her grip didn’t loosen even a little.

“I’m sorry!! Cho—Chung Myung, please don’t leave me!”

Chung Myung rubbed his hands over his face as if trying to tear it off, resisting the urge to actually do it. He didn’t have time for this! He couldn’t take a kid with him! He needed to move now, as fast as possible, to reach Mount Hua. He didn’t even know if he could find enough food for himself, let alone feed another mou—

Chung Myung froze. He replayed that last thought in his head.

He glanced down again. The girl looked up at him with desperate eyes, like a sad little puppy.

Actually… now that he thought about it, she did look a bit like him. Maybe she was his sister after all.

He cleared his throat, earning an anxious, expectant look from her.

“Ahem. You… want to come with me?”

Her face lit up with disbelief before she nodded vigorously, tears still streaking down her cheeks.

“Yes!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“It’d be easier if you stayed.”

“That’s fine!”

Chung Myung scratched his head, then shrugged as if there was no helping it.

“Hah… guess I’ve got no choice then.”

He gave her another look and clicked his tongue.

“Stand up. We’re leaving now. No whining about being tired.”

And even though her expression showed she still doubted him a little, she reluctantly let go and stood—tense, ready to launch at him if he tried to trick her.

“We’ll move fast. If you stop, I’m leaving you behind. Let’s go!”

Without waiting a second, Chung Myung dashed north, and his supposed sister ran after him with all the speed her skinny legs could muster.

Luckily, the next town wasn’t too far. Chung Myung had been blessed with a good-looking face even in this life—but two nearly identical, cute faces? Despite how underfed they both were, passersby couldn’t resist their pitiful charm and gave coins and food to them without a second thought.

Chung Myung ate with his usual bottomless appetite, and the girl didn’t even blink—so that must’ve been how he normally ate before getting his past life's memories back. Or maybe she was just too busy stuffing her own face.

“Wahhh!”

Chung Myung nearly jumped when she looked up mid-bite, cheeks puffed with food, eyes shining with joy.

“People here are so nice! We got so much food! Why was everyone so mean before?”

She muttered the last part mostly to herself before going back to eating. Chung Myung tilted his head in confusion.

By the way… if they could get this much food, why were they both so skinny in the first place?

Oh.

If he had the strength, he’d crush something—but all he had was food. And he needed that.

That damn beggar. He’d beat him within an inch of his life if their paths ever crossed again.

“You two!”

Chung Myung paused at the shout that sounded more like an accusation. The girl beside him almost choked on her food and looked nervously over his shoulder.

He turned with a frown to find a group of boys, older than his current body, closing in. The biggest one carried a wooden club, wearing a scowl that screamed “trouble.”

“Cho—uhm.. Chung Myung, this must be their turf.”

The girl whispered, eyes darting between him and the older boys. She almost stood up, but he beat her to it. She blinked in confusion as he rolled his shoulders like he was warming up.

“You two, begging around here? You looking for a beating?”

The leader shouted, clearly feeling righteous about waving his club around. His eyes went wide when the small boy in front of him—half his size—dodged it easily, like he knew exactly where it would land.

The next thing he saw was the sky—and pain exploded across his left cheek before his body hit the ground.

“Do these punks have a death wish against me, Chung Myung, The Plum Blossom Sword Saint!?”

Chung Myung lunged like a predator on its prey, thrashing the boys in a flurry of chaotic violence. The girl stared, dumbfounded. How could her brother—scrawny, bruised, always the one getting beaten—suddenly take down three older kids at once?

Sure, he always caused trouble, but he usually ended up the one swollen and limping even when he won a fight.

“Who said you could pass out!? Didn’t you say you’d beat me? Come on, get up and hit me! Do it!”

—

“So… you guys know the fastest way to Huayin, right?”

“H-Huayin?”

One of the bruised boys stammered, exchanging confused looks with the others before their leader spoke up nervously.

“Y-yeah! Do you want us to tell you how to get there the fastest?”

Chung Myung nodded, listening seriously as the three described the route—until a hesitant voice interrupted from behind.

“That’s… not the fastest road.”

“What?”

Chung Myung’s head snapped around so fast the girl flinched, but she swallowed and continued, louder this time.

“That road takes longer… there are shorter ones.”

Chung Myung hummed thoughtfully and turned very slowly back toward the boys, who were inching away.

The sound of cracking knuckles filled the air, and cold sweat drenched the boys’ backs as an ominous aura rolled toward them.

“R-run!!”

“Where do you think you’re going!?”

“AAAAAHHH!!”

Chung Myung pounced on the fleeing prey again, and she shut her eyes tightly, as if refusing to watch.

~

“So, which way now? You know the way to Huayin, right?”

Chung Myung scratched his head, glancing around before looking at her. She stared back in confusion for a few seconds before answering.

“Huayin…”

“Yes! Huayin!”

He watched her expectantly as she stood and turned toward a certain direction.

“I think I know the way. I’ve never been there, though… is that okay?”

“Yeah. No problem at all! Let’s move!”

He nudged her forward until she started walking ahead. Judging by how eager he was, there was something driving him to reach that little village as fast as possible—though no one else knew why.

“O-okay.”

Despite her obvious confusion, she didn’t ask questions. Chung Myung was genuinely grateful for that—mostly because he didn’t have any answers anyway.

She turned out not to be so unuseful after all.

~

It took them about a month. Maybe a little less.

He might’ve arrived sooner if not for the leech clinging to him with tooth and nail. They had to stop to eat and sleep constantly, wasting twice as much time as he would’ve alone.

He tried sneaking off at night many times, but she caught him every single time. Which, admittedly, was impressive—if only it worked for him instead of against him.

It reminded him unpleasantly of those annoying disciples from the old days.

Chung Myung glared up at the clear, starry sky. It seemed to mock him.

They were so close to Mount Hua. If only he could just—

“Ugh, this damned brat.”

Every time he so much as lifted a finger, the little octopus beside him would wrap her thin limbs around him tighter, he can feel his bones 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬. After weeks of failed escape attempts, she must’ve decided the only way to sleep peacefully was to tie him down.

Unfortunately, they were too poor for actual rope. So this… was the next best thing.

But seriously, where did those skinny arms get all that strength?

“Brother, if you go without me… I’ll yank your hair out.”

‘That’s… a bit violent.’

Chung Myung wanted to wipe the sweat from his brow—but that would require his arms to be free.

“Tsk.”

He closed his eyes, trying to get a bit of rest. He had to make use of most of these few quiet moments if he wanted to be able to run farther once the sun rose.

~

“Huff… huff…”

Chung Myung exhaled heavily, his frail arms trembling from exhaustion after pushing his weak body far beyond its limits. Sweat drenched every inch of him—he was practically drowning in it—and his tattered clothes, if they could even be called that, clung awkwardly to his skin.

He stopped for a second, a flicker of curiosity rising in him, and looked back toward the stairs he’d just climbed. His sister lay sprawled in the middle of the path, completely motionless. Looked like she’d actually died this time.

Chung Myung shut his eyes briefly and wiped the sweat off his brow with a dirty sleeve before glancing back at her. He looked like he was about to say something… then froze.

Maybe he was imagining it—but didn’t she seem… closer?

"Hey.. wait, I'll go get some help."

He turned forward as if to continue walking, then hesitated and slowly looked back again.

It happened again.

That was… kind of creepy. Was she sneaking closer to grab him? If so, he might actually feel a bit guilty. He’d probably driven the poor girl insane.

He turned away quickly and took two brisk steps forward, as if trying to convince himself he felt no guilt whatsoever—but the instant he glanced over his shoulder—

“AAAHHH!!!”

He almost tripped down the steps. There she was, just two stairs below, standing perfectly still, glaring at him with narrowed eyes. She didn’t say a word for several seconds.

"I'm coming with you."

"Y-yes."

“Here?”

“Huh?”

Chung Myung blinked at her nervously. She pointed toward the gate visible at the top of the staircase.

“Is this the place you meant?”

He followed the direction of her finger, then nodded hesitantly—only to feel a small hand grab his, nearly the same size as his own.

“Come on, let’s hurry. I hate those stairs.”

Chung Myung sped up a little, though neither of them could manage more than a brisk walk. They were both far too tired for anything more.

When they finally reached the gate, Chung Myung just stood there, staring at it like he was possessed. The wood was cracked and ancient, the signboard missing entirely.

Where was 𝘵𝘩𝘦 signboard?!

His sister didn't pay attention to his growing hysteria and knocked on the gate.

It opened immediately—apparently someone had been heading toward it already. A man in his thirties stood there, face firm but not scary.

He blinked in confusion when he saw the two identical-looking children, then finally spoke.

“You two—how on earth did you climb this mountain?”

The man, likely a Mount Hua disciple, looked genuinely puzzled. The twins exchanged a hesitant glance, but he didn’t press them for details. With night fast approaching, he simply let them in.

—

“You’re siblings, so share a room for now.”

‘But there should be many rooms left?!’

“Yes, sasuk!”

The girl chirped brightly, clutching the disciple’s uniform she’d just been handed. Despite her exhausted state, she managed a radiant smile.

The moment the man turned away and closed the door behind them, her eyes locked on her brother like daggers. His chance to be free is now officially gone.

‘Help me, sahyung…’

The next few days were rough.

Chung Myung taught the bratty younger disciples a painful lesson for trying to mess with him, then forced them up at dawn every morning to train. None of them had any remarkable skill when he’d arrived—honestly, their martial arts were practically nonexistent.

Still, to be fair, his sister wasn’t much better. The struggles she faced during training were about the same as theirs.

Not that it was his problem.

He had bigger things to worry about—like whipping the disciples into shape, fixing their pathetic performance, and, most importantly… making money.

He sighed.

Chung Myung glanced at his sister, who sighed again after dropping her chopsticks for what felt like the thousandth time since they’d sat down to eat. Not that there was much to eat anyway. He rolled his eyes as he chewed.

“Tsk. Where’d all that strength go? Guess I was wrong about you.”

A vein twitched on her forehead, and she glared at him in silence. She didn’t even have the energy to argue anymore… even talking seemed exhausting.

“I wonder why…”

Still, she was his sister. Surely she has to retort no matter what. Chung Myung felt almost proud of that thought.

“Don’t give me that look. We started training together and were in the same shape, so why are you the only one this tired?”

She opened her mouth—but nothing came out. Her expression hung there, mouth gaping like a dumb fish. Of course she didn’t have a comeback. He knew it wasn’t fair—his cultivation had progressed faster than hers—but he couldn’t resist teasing her anyway.

Maybe it was payback for all the times she’d annoyed him.

She scowled at his smug expression and turned away, fumbling with her trembling fingers to grab the chopsticks again. Not to eat—just to avoid his grin.

He smiled victoriously and went back to eating.

“Hmph. I miss the taste of meat…”

“???”

—

“Samae! Chung Myung-ah said he wants to talk to you!”

When Jo Gul said that, several wild possibilities raced through her mind.

Naturally, none of them were right.

“I want you to pretend to be me for a while!”

“What?”

Chung Myung rolled his eyes at her blank, confused stare. What was so hard to understand? He’d used the simplest words possible!

“Come on! I don’t have time—I’m a busy man with things to do!”

“You mean like the time you disappeared all night and came back in the morning with martial arts manuals and sack of gold?”

Chung Myung coughed into his fist, suddenly finding the ceiling fascinating. He completely ignored her as she crossed her arms and glared.

“Anyway, just do it!”

He patted her on the shoulder and dashed past her, vanishing out the door without even leaving a trace of dust behind.

She stared at the open door, speechless. What had just happened?

~

“He did what?!”

Yoon Jong and Jo Gul both gawked at her in disbelief. They’d known something strange was coming, but this?

Yoon Jong looked about ready to tear his hair out while Jo Gul just stared silently at the wall.

“Samae…”

“Y-yes, sahyung?”

She looked up nervously at the older disciple. He studied her for a moment, then asked flatly,

“Did your brother really eat like the other beggars?”

There wasn’t even a question in his tone. Her face flushed red with embarrassment over her brother’s complete lack of shame.

“I can confirm that, sahyung.”

Yoon Jong cleared his throat, trying to diffuse the tension. Jo Gul finally spoke up, voice strained.

“So… Samae’s pretending to be Chung Myung?”

“Yes…”

“Really?”

Both of them stared at the boy. A bead of sweat slid down her forehead.

“Really?”

“I mean…”

“We have to train Samae!”

Yoon Jong immediately shut the twins’ door, which had now become their “secret meeting room.” The two senior disciples then spent the night training her to shout like a thug while kicking their butts and ordering them to crawl in the name of “training.”

It was… a rough time for everyone.

—

“What’s with the gloomy atmosphere?”

Chung Myung walked over to his sister, who seemed to be the only person not suffering from the “depression symptoms” plaguing the others—constant sighing and staring blankly at the precious food before them. Considering how hard he’d worked to get that food on their plates, to the point of using his precious innate qi, the thought actually made him a little angry. Maybe he should hit someone—

“I’m not sure…”

His thoughts snapped back when his sister whispered nervously beside him, as if afraid the others might overhear.

“I heard it’s about the return of the Baek line disciples—”

The twin looked around suddenly, the disciples in the hall sighed at the same time she mentioned The Baek line. The sudden heaviness in the air making her flinch. She was sure she’d whispered.

Chung Myung sat down, grabbed his chopsticks, and started stuffing his face. Food first. His idiot disciples’ problems came second.

“So… what’s the issue?”

Yoon Jong and Jo Gul exchanged a long look before sighing again. Then they explained everything—about the Mount Hua and Zhongnan Conference.

They regretted it immediately, of course. Chung Myung proceeded to 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘳—uhm, train them thoroughly afterward.

~

“There he is!”

Chung Myung barely reacted as his sister let out a relieved sigh when she saw him joining the other third grade disciples—just in time to greet the second grade ones arriving.

“Where have you been? You’ve been gone for a while!”

“None of your business. What are you, my mother?”

“I’m your sister! You can’t just disappear like that without saying any—”

“Quiet!”

The disciples immediately straightened up at Un Am’s stern tone. Chung Myung smirked as his sister lowered her head in embarrassment under the sharp, grumpy stares of everyone around them.

“Next time, keep your mouth shut.”

“You heartless jerk…”

Chung Myung stopped when he noticed someone approaching them with clear intent. He ignored Jo Gul’s rambling about how pretty one of the sagos was and looked ahead.

The Baek disciples had stopped walking. One of them—the one in the lead—was walking toward them. That handsome face…

He recognized it instantly. That bastard—wait a second..

A sly grin tugged at his lips. He raised his sleeve to cover the lower half of the teenager's face standing before him.

“Have we met before?”

Chung Myung blinked once. Twice. His sister froze beside him, looking around in confusion before tilting her head.

“...Um. I don’t think so?”

“Oh, I’m sure. How could I forget—”

The taller man froze mid-sentence when he noticed Chung Myung at the side of his sight. His jaw dropped slightly, and he slowly moved his sleeve from in front of one face to the other.

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

“Which one of you is—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

Chung Myung groaned, his face twisting in sheer irritation.

“We don’t look that much alike!”

“Yes, we do!”

He glanced at his sister, who looked as if he’d just stabbed her in the back, and rolled his eyes.

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do! And why are you saying that in that tone? Do you hate that we look alike!?”

“Your words, not mine.”

She gasped.

“Don’t twist my words! Is this how you thank me after I spent a whole week trying to copy your weird personality!?”

This time he was the one who gasped, clutching his chest dramatically.

“My personality isn’t weird! It’s yours that’s weird! You still act like a street beggar!”

“How dare you!”

The second grade disciple instinctively stepped back in alarm. It seemed he had accidentally sparked a war between siblings without meaning to. In the end, Un Am made both of them kneel with their arms raised as punishment.

—

Nothing in the world beats a bath after training, right before bed.

Chung Myung roughly rubbed his hair to dry with a worn-out towel before tossing it aside somewhere—who cared where, really. All he wanted now was to throw himself into bed and—

His eye 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥.

That parasite was sprawled across what was supposed to be his bed. His! She was sleeping like an octopus, drooling all over his sheets.

“Ugh, ouch!”

She groaned as he shoved her toward the edge with his foot. Fortunately, the bed was large enough for two, though obviously that had never been its intended purpose.

“Tsk. How long do I have to put up with this annoying brat? I should throw you off the mountain first chance I get—ack!”

Chung Myung yanked his leg back just in time to dodge a fast, half-conscious punch aimed at his ankle. He barely avoided it by a hair’s breadth.

“Tsk. Why do I have to suffer like this?”

Unfortunately, this was his fault. The elders had tried to separate them into different rooms, since the sect rules stated that girls should stay in the White Plum Blossom Hall’s female side of quarters. But she couldn’t sleep—no matter what they tried. In the end, they’d given up entirely.

Despite lingering hesitation and the fear of another ambush punch, Chung Myung threw himself onto the bed, too exhausted to care anymore. Normally, he’d have fought back when her arms wrapped around him, but at this point, he had already resigned himself to his fate.

‘Like a little koala…’

He stared blankly at the ceiling for a few seconds, then shook his head to chase away the absurd thought. Koalas were cute. She was not.

“If you drool on me, I’ll kill you.”

“No you won't.”

“we’ll see.”

Her sleepy voice carried a faint tone of challenge.

Chung Myung fell asleep soon after, but her eyes fluttered open a moment later, revealing two glimmering irises in the dark.

Moments like these often stopped her cold—strange, foreign, dreamlike moments.

Where had they been, and where were they now?

Maybe it was the past that felt like a dream. She wasn’t sure anymore. She didn’t know if that was a good thing or not—because the truth was, her brother was no longer the person she once knew.

Not the same boy she saw the first time she opened her eyes on the world, not the one she counted the stars with and had silly, absurd conversations with all the time

The way he spoke, walked, thought… everything had changed overnight. He wasn’t the same brother she remembered.

She didn’t really know how she managed to deal with it till now. When she thought about how completely her life had been flipped upside down, she felt she ought to stop and reflect on everything.

It wasn’t all bad, though. Maybe it was just… exhausting. Chaotic. Confusing, all the time.

She lifted her gaze carefully, watching his sleeping face. The traces of his exhaustion from the day still lingered there.

Tired—but peaceful.

She closed her eyes, a quiet sigh slipping from her nostrils.

It was fine. As long as he—her only family—was happy, then it was fine.

—

• When the five swords learned why the reader couldn’t sleep without Chung Myung nearby, they gave him very accusing looks.

• Chung Myung would rather bicker or fight with the reader than see her cry. When she cries, he just wants to run away—mostly because he has no idea how to handle it and he usually ends up making things worse.

• The first time she received a marriage proposal, Jo Gul was spotted flying toward the top of the Lotus Peak. Even though Jo Gul had nothing to do with it (but being Chung Myung's punching bag)

• Baek Chun once made her cry by accident, and afterward, Chung Myung seemed to be waiting for any excuse—good or bad—to beat the shit out of him.

• Chung Myung sometimes catches himself in the middle of a silly, casual chat with his sister and wonders if this is the power of sibling bonds

It was your very first trip out of England. You were practically bouncing with excitement during the entire train ride to the meeting point with the first driver. Before going on the trip, you had read everything that you could find about Romania. It didn’t help much with your understanding of the language but you were very excited to see the countryside and castles. You kept your eyes on the beautiful towns, cities, and countryside the entire time that you weren’t asleep or speaking to Jonathan. You noticed that he was writing in a journal and you decided that you should do the same. You bought a small notebook on one of the stops in a city and wrote once the sun went down.

You wrote about how the train ride was beautiful and how the towns you stopped in were pretty. You decided that it was better to draw than to just write and carefully recreated the scene that you saw on one of the main streets when you were coming out of the train station on one of the pages. You proudly showed Jonathan but he simply brushed you off. He was too busy with his own thoughts to put any consideration into learning what yours were.

The morning that you were going to the first carriage before meeting the Count’s carriage, something strange happened. You watched the wife of the innkeeper plead with Jonathan to take a crucifix with him. He eventually took it and you were so enthralled by the scene that you didn’t notice the innkeeper approach you from behind. You jumped a little when he placed a large, rough hand on your shoulder and looked up at him with wide eyes before smiling at him. He paused for a moment before speaking.

“You are so… Young. You will need this.” He said softly, carefully placing a crucifix around your neck.

You politely thanked him, thrilled to get a souvenir, and hurried to the carriage. The carriage ride itself was fairly uneventful. You ended up napping for most of it. The eventful aspect was when the carriage was supposed to meet the Count’s. You didn’t hear much of the exchange between Jonathan and the drivers but you were curious about the way that the driver looked at you with those piercing eyes. You quietly got into the new carriage once you thanked the first driver. You almost immediately fell back asleep once the driver puts a heavy fur blanket over your lap. You sleep through the entire ride to the castle and are only awoken when Jonathan shakes you awake at the gates. 

You sleepily follow him into the castle, dragging your luggage behind you. You didn’t notice anyone there until the Count began speaking to your boss. You blinked a few times, trying to wake yourself up enough to fully understand the conversation.

“I am… Surprised that you have a child as an assistant.” The Count said slowly.

“Oh, they’re an adult. They’re young, yes, but rest assured, they’re very competent.” Jonathan replied, clearly not understanding what he meant. You were an adult and though you didn’t entirely know what you had signed up for, you should have known the risks of working for any man willing to hire someone so young to manage clients.

“Bietul copil. Unul atât de tânăr ca tine nu ar trebui să muncească așa. Știu ce așteaptă angajatorul tău de la tine.”¹ Dracula murmured under his breath as he stared at you.

Poor little child. One as young as you should not have to work like this. I know what your employer expects of you.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Jonathan said questioningly.

“It is nothing. All will be well, friend Jonathan.” The Count reassured him. He would make sure that you were treated the way that a child should be.

You were happy to eat the lavish dinner that was provided for you. You happily tried each and every dish available. You didn’t notice the affectionate look on the Count’s face as you ate everything that you could. You listened to your boss and his client speaking about legal details. You sat by the roaring fire, doing your very best to keep from nodding off. Your stomach was full, you were warm, and you were oh so sleepy after traveling so much. Your eyelids were heavy after watching the scenery go by for so long and it was getting hard for you to stay upright.

You were very grateful when you were led to your room. You didn’t bother changing into pajamas before passing out in the luxurious bed.

At first, you truly enjoyed your stay at Castle Dracula. Your room was warm and comfortable. The silk, velvet, and animal pelts on your bed made you feel like royalty. Sometimes, though you would never admit it anywhere but in your journal, you would pretend that you were the heir to a throne in some unnamed foreign land. The food was always delicious as well. There was always something new to try and as time went on, the side dishes that you favored the most showed up on the table more frequently. You were allowed anywhere in the castle and you particularly enjoyed the library.

After your supper, you were very fond of listening to stories that Dracula told you of wars and victories and trades within his homeland. He insisted that you sit on the floor by the fire where he had made you a little cushion to sit on made of pillows and soft furs on top of the lush carpet. He told you once that it reminded him of where he sat as a child when his father told him stories. He would carefully drape blankets made of soft furs over your shoulders and on your lap before handing you whatever treat was prepared for that night. He would keep a tray beside him and refill your tiny plate whenever you had finished whatever he had given you, cooing softly at you in Romanian in the process before continuing his story.

One night, Jonathan had attempted to take a cookie off of the tray that the Count would feed you from. They were Fursecuri cu Unt și Gem, the Romanian version of thumbprint cookies. You had told the Count how much you loved eating the strawberries that grew in your mother’s garden in an offhand comment and he had made sure that the cookies had strawberry jam in the center. You were almost in a trance from how comfortable you were when you were startled by the sharp cracking sound of the Count slapping away Jonathan’s hand.

“Not for you. For them.” Dracula hissed as his eyes flashed viciously.

Your eyes went wide. You had never seen Dracula behave in an aggressive way before. You merely thought that he was a sweet old man that was lonely and wanted to see England before he passed. As soon as the incident occurred, it was over. Your plate was empty and the Count immediately replaced the cookie that you had eaten.

“Copilul meu drag trebuie răsfățat.” He said softly, affectionately patting you on the head before returning to his story.

My darling child needs to be spoiled.

You quickly excused yourself to go to bed after scarfing down the cookie in a few bites, politely refusing the Count’s offer of walking you to your bedroom. It was the first time that you had declined the nightly walk to your room that you two always shared. You normally were very excited to spend time with him but it was obvious that you were a bit freaked out after watching him lash out at your boss for seemingly nothing. 

You hurried to your room, locking the door and immediately jumping into your bed. You buried your face into your pillows, trying to think about what to do. In reality, it wasn’t much. You were probably just overreacting. You couldn’t expect someone from another country to act like the people in England, especially when you’re in their country. It’s an entirely unreasonable expectation. You decided to apologize to him the next time you see him. Better yet, you decide to write a note to him. You haul yourself out of your bed and over to the desk. You pull out a piece of paper from a folder and carefully ink your pen. You had always thought that a handwritten note was more personal than a typed one. You think for a moment before your pen begins to scratch against the paper as you start to write.

Dearest Count Dracula,

I’m very sorry for the way that I acted today. It was rude and uncalled for and I deeply apologize. I hope that you can forgive me. I would really like to hear your stories tomorrow and walk with you again, if you would let me.

Yours truly,

You were interrupted by a knock on the door and you set your pen down after signing your name.

“Come in!” You called.

The door opened and the Count entered. You were surprised. He never came into your room.

“Little one, I wanted to see if you were okay. I didn’t mean to scare you. Sometimes I forget that your countrymen aren’t used to fighting for the sake of the young. I missed our little walk.” He said softly.

You felt a bit embarrassed and sheepish.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run off. I wrote this for you.” You apologized, tentatively offering up the note to him.

You didn’t miss the warm, paternal smile on his face as he read the note.

Things went back to relatively normal after that. You had your nightly story time and your sleep schedule slowly began to match his. Much to the dismay of your boss, you began sleeping all day and staying awake all night. Your sleep schedule slowly shifted to one similar to that of the Count. You loved staying up and chatting with him too much to sleep when you knew that he would be around.

Against your will, you began getting sleepier as the nights got later. You were too enthralled in his stories to notice how his eyes sparkled while his voice stayed low and gentle, lulling you into a sleepy state where you could barely keep your eyes open. You almost always fell asleep before the story ended, leaving a perfect opportunity for him to tell you another story the next night.

You started becoming paler as your stay stretched on. You felt more weak and sickly and the Count himself began to tend to you. He would bring you soups and all manner of soothing teas, all while gently petting the top of your head and adjusting your blankets so that you wouldn’t get cold. It was a bit unnerving how he seemed to treat you like the most delicate child in existence but you were grateful to have company. Jonathan didn’t visit you as much. He seemed more paranoid the more sick you became and would regularly say strange things to you about ghost women in the castle and the Count being a beast. You didn’t understand what was happening. The Count merely shooed him away, saying that he was upsetting you.

You continued to get colder and weaker as time went on. After weeks of becoming sicker and sicker, you eventually woke up one night to freezing cold filling your entire body. You began to cry, desperate for help and warmth. You immediately were lifted into the arms of someone much stronger than you.

“Look at you, dear little one. You’re perfect. Shhhhhh… You’re alright. I’m right here. You’ll be okay.” You heard Dracula coo sweetly at you.

You leaned into his hold. He was cold too but he was familiar and comforting. Your cries died down a bit as the Count cradled you in his arms. You sniffled as your head laid helplessly on his shoulder. You were too weak to move on your own but you smelled something metallic and sharp and delicious. The Count hummed softly as he held you, lifting a jeweled goblet into range of your blurry vision. You were practically drooling as he brought the cup closer until you saw the contents.

Blood.

Your nose wrinkled even as your stomach rumbled, desperate for any sustenance it could get.

“My darling starlight, there is no need for disgust. You did not feel disgusted when the hen laid down her life and you consumed her flesh the first night that you laid down your perfect head under my roof. There is no need for that now either. You must nourish yourself, dear child. Drink.” He said softly, gently petting the back of your head.

You were practically in a trance as he brought the chalice to your lips. You were too hungry to resist the mouthwatering scent. You instantly began drinking, sighing in relief as you felt your stomach being soothed as it filled. You didn't think to ask where the blood came from as you quietly drank. You couldn’t think much at all. All you knew was that it was sweet and it filled your cold body with warmth as it filled your stomach. He continued to hold you once you finished the chalice and he began meticulously placing your belongings into the trunk that you had brought with you.

Thinking about the neglected child in the Batfam fics but Zoldycks instead. Who else is more unemotionally unavailable then they?! Imagine being the child after Illumi. The one whose resemblance is questioned the most. The amount of baked in empathy clashing with your training to be an assassin. By all Zoldyck standards you’re a disgrace. Before Killua its unlikely you could’ve taken a step off the property. Their embarrassment of you extending well past your appearance to the weak demeanor they’ve tried beating out of you.

But when he’s born. When he’s walking. When he’s excelling you finally get the chance.

You leave for good. 

Not tailed by the butler assigned to you. Or having told your older brother you’ve placed your needle in some old pin cushion ages ago. Taking your chances by going into the world just barely gracing your teenage years. 

You leave it all behind with immense ease. Carving a way into the world much kinder to you than your parents ever were. 

“Introducing the one and only Idol of your hearts: Mirage!!!!”

From the streets to millions of people calling your name overnight. The life you had before is long gone, written off as some oppressive commune you escaped. You poured all your ‘sub-par’ assassin skills into taking the industry by storm. Able to dance at full energy 24 hours of consistent choreography, flexibility off the charts, and a creative asset to the team. You joined a minor group during their debut but not before long it became the (Y/n)-show. Your former teammates turning into background characters as the public comes to adore you. Since then for years you keep the music charts and entertainment as a whole in a chokehold. 

“Mirage what can you say about the teaser that’s recently come out for your first international international tour?”

“Well of course I can’t say much but I assure you it’ll be RIGHTEOUS!”

“Ahhh you said the thing! Give it up for Mirage, everyone!”

Sure enough you do enjoy it, how can you not? A small test of endurance in comparison to your wretched childhood. Attention and praise you never would have gotten from back then. Friends you never would of climbed to the top with and continue to work with. Honestly its a living dream, until someone breaks that illusion.

“Hi famous singer person!”

“Oh hi, do you want me to sign something?”

“No I actually was wondering if you could tell me about this?”

“The diamond Jezzera Tiara, yeah I wore it for one of my private performances. Why?”

“My friend and I were wondering if you knew where it is now?”

“Uh if you promise not to steal it sure by the way where’s this friend of yours?”

“Here I am.”

The second you look into those greyish blue eyes and white hair, you're on edge. The flashes you’ve repressed of Silva’s scowling face coming to mind, Zeno’s disappointed gaze, and Kikyo’s beautiful face scrunched up in a visceral hatred of the scrutiny you brought to her marriage. 

“---so where did you–”

“Sorry. Can’t help you. Please leave.”

“Wait hold on you were just–”

“Security will escort you out if you need.”

When the duo is chased out by your oddly powerful security team, you do your best to ground yourself. Using a breathing method, you try not to give more attention to that horrible correlation you made. But no matter how much you avoid it, your experience with Nen is more than certain that must be the new head the one who unknowingly gave you an escape. Still you feel compelled to be grateful…so on the day of your performance where you suspect they’ll attempt to confront you, you plan ahead.

“Hey uh are you the kids looking for a tiara?”

“Uh yeah…why?”

“Great Mirage wanted me to give this to you.”

“T-this has instructions to the vault it’s in and everything! Wow this is great!”

“Yeah that’s…unbelievably easy.”

With specific instructions and a notice at the end where you say: Please take these instructions to get the tiara, in return leave me alone. I would like not to see either of your faces at anything with me in the future. Consider this exchange our last. 

Signed, 

Mirage

Of course Killua knew this had to be about him, you were normal up until you saw his face. So he goes along with it when Gon takes the handout no questions asked. But he’s already thinking how does a blooming idol know about the Zoldyck name. Using the hunter database, Killua investigates on his own. Finding the lack of media on your childhood a topic of discussion among your more elite fans, who are more than happy to squash any theories that don’t paint you as the kind and alluring image you give off. Though he finds one comment…one lonesome comment buried in arguments of obsessive fans.

[Deleted User] For the longest time I cudn’t tell where I recognized that face but I’m pretty sure it’s from that dead kid of the Zoldycks.

Killuas is suddenly incredibly intrigued. A dead Zoldyck? First he chalks it up to coincidence: maybe an infant death or a past generation of Zoldycks. His clicks on the profile don’t prove too helpful, most of their existence on the private hunter forums leaving no trace…but he finds one thing. He’s no Milluki but he’s not above being able to access the last chat the deleted user has. Recognizing the username adamantly demanding a post be taken down.

“No way…is that Gotou?”

The name is too specific for anyone to know on a whim. As much as he dreads it, he goes home, asking the butler about the printed chat. Of course Gotou denies but Killua presses on, adamant to know about this dead Zoldyck. Naturally he caves to the future head of the family after receiving permission of course.

“Only because this isn’t completely classified. But after Master Illumi there was another child. They raised some suspicions because of how they looked.”

“What kind of suspicions?”

“I’m sure the young master knows that typically a babe retains the characteristics of their mother and father…if they don’t they’re suspected to–”

“I got it. I got it. Please continue.”

“They failed remarkably at all their missions and vacated the family shortly you were born.”

“So this cover–up was just to hide the fact they existed at all.”

“Correct…"

"Is the family aware of where they are now?”

“No...no actions have been implemented. Nor documents filed.”

“...What’s their name? Their real name?”

Killua’s unsettled and inspired to think you left the home when you could without inciting the entire staff to hunt you down. Knowing that his family could be so inclined to hatred of a family member didn’t surprise him but was still hard to swallow. He almost doesn’t want to ask him….but if there’s anyone who mirrored the way his mother obsessed over family. It was Illumi.

“It is rare for you to seek me out.”

“I’ll make it quick. Do you remember (Y/n)?”

“Is that an old target?”

“No nevermind, that’s all I needed.”

Killua innocently and unknowingly sets off a spiral for Illumi as he hits a mental block. He knows that name. Why does he know that name? Never before had he had such an issue with his memory. He goes to the family doctor, he looks through his medical records, looking for some source to this bout of memory loss. But he doesn’t go much further on account of there being a mission he has to complete.

“I’m so excited you’ve invited me! I’ve never gotten to see a Mirage concert in person.”

Illumi ignores Hisoka for the target. Mapping out where they’ll make their assault in the chaos of the concert. Both of them part, Hisoka engaging their fairly trained security while Illumi handles their target–a decent Nen ability that keeps the assassin focused. Everything goes as planned. Illumi and Hisoka are already back on the rooftop while Mirage finishes up their last performance. 

“Mmm I often wonder what it’d be like to fight them…but I have no interest in interrupting such a delectable dance.”

Looking at the idol in question, Illumi feels something ache. A migraine forming as he analyzes the face of the idol on the big screen. Illumi crouches down leaning over the roof of their stake out point as if the proximity would help his view.

Of course Hisoka’s giddy at Illumi’s interest, leans back to stare at the Zoldyck. Pausing when he views a reflective sliver of something unfamiliar in his long locks. He pulls out a card and strikes, a small spray of blood flying out as Illumi holds a needle to his neck.

“I never took you for one to lose your needles so carelessly.”

The hunter holds something miniscule. A needle that burns an aura similar to Illumi’s but something’s off about it.  

Snatching the foreign object, he recognizes the tactic.

Looking over his shoulder at the smiling Mirage disappearing back stage.

All too easily he snaps the needle. Hisoka backs away and excited blush blooming on his face.

“(YYYYY/NNNNN)!”

From birth Kikyo instilled a sense of responsibility over Illumi for the siblings to come. Which he prides himself in maintaining well into his adult years. But before Miluki came there was you. (Y/n). A tragic anomaly of mysterious genes that brought shame to his mother and father; on top of that you continuously failed the tests he could beat at four years old. 

“Idon’twanna!”

“Not a viable answer!”

SNAP

“Ack!”

That stubbornness that got you in trouble so many times never faltered, resulting in a very tangible disappointment as you continued to fail. Strong in the ways a Zoldyck should be but not enough initiative to finish any mock missions given to you.

“Illu I don’t want to go…it always hurts me.”

“You’ve endured punishment before plenty of times. Just do it again.”

“No. It hurts in my heart.”

“...You should see the family doctor then.”

As much of a stain on the family that you were, you taught Illumi quite a lot about being an older brother. Learning that methods no matter how painful weren’t enough alone to protect keep you in line. Perhaps if you feared him more, obeyed him better you wouldn’t keep trying to leave.

“I would rather you stop the constant escape methods, especially with all the celebration happening.”

“....then you should stop chasing me. Go back and have fun.”

“I will not be doing that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m the eldest that’s why.”

That’s where the memory fades into obscurity. The next thing he recalls is being stricken with a fever, fainted on the Kukoroo forest floor. All that follows is a minor headache but nothing he hasn’t been taught to ignore.

Only now where it’s been over ten years, that the trick you cursed him with came to light.

For so long there was no resistance.

No picture to deign a thought.

No one important mentioning your name. 

For all intensive purposes you albeit vanished from his line of sight.

And now you parading yourself on a stage.

Illumi is beyond livid. 

“Do you enjoy leaving your family without a word?”

Is what you hear at the end of your meet & greet, the person speaking is a grown man a yellow balled piercing in his neck that tells you exactly who you’re speaking to. You check for any other lingering fans and drop your smile. 

“Last I checked none of you actually liked me, so yeah I do.”

The man creaks his head to the side, like a limp doll submitting to the pull of gravity. 

“Liking is arbitrary. You’re still family.”

You scoff. “Right and me not cut out to be an assassin is okay with you all now?”

“Yes, there are quite a few who aren’t.”

Reeling back, you think back to that white haired kid—Kill-something if you recall right. 

“Only because the future head of the family doesn’t, anymore right?” You watch the puppet stare and you can’t help but chuckle. Your brother, last you saw him had the makings of a control freak seems like this kid got away from him too. “So just because that kid doesn’t want to it’s okay if I don’t?”

It paused. A minor moment that you guessed was your brother stalling.

“Yes.”

Now that wasn’t so hard.

“Unbelievabe.” 

You stand prepared to release the man only for the puppet to strike. Of course you dodge the nen-infused needle it tries to pierce you with, hitting the arm in the precise nerves to make it topple over, paralyzed. Your distracted security comes rushing in weapons drawn and much more nervous that they missed it, inspect the man on the floor. 

“Your late.”

“I know. Accept our most humble apologies, Mirage!”

“It’s fine but from now on you need to be a lot more on top of it,” inspecting the needle then shattering it into a million pieces. “Things are about to get hairy.”

Naturally Illumi returns home with his findings and it ultimately is up to Silva on how to proceed. Of course the family that is present all come to vote, even Killua is alerted of this democratic decision and allowed to weigh in. By the end of it your fate within the family is decided.

“Then as the head of the Zoldyck family, (Y/n) will be returning home.”

Of course they don’t bother to inform you until your next public appearance. An interview with a renowned talk-show host. When they do make their peaceful approach, they don’t have the decency to even wait till after the interview. A butler of theirs holding an ipad where Silva and Kikyo sit staring down the barrel of the camera.

“Return home (Y/n). Everything we’ve done has been for you but you’ve drifted too far from your family.”

At first you laugh. Holding your belly as you keel over losing your breathe. Then you stop, standing up and leaning back into the chair with your idol-name on it. 

“I didn’t get this far in my career to let the relics of my past get in the way. Screw off.”

The glare at you just like back then.

“Fine. Claire complete your task by any means necessary.”

“Yes Master.”

You sit back as the young butler focuses her nen, the power of it making the loose items of the room whirl together. Even your Makeup-artist’s hair flies around in response. Nonetheless you sigh and make a speedy flick of your hand. 

The Nen powers down immediately, ‘Claire’s’ eyes widening as they fill with tears. Your Make-up artist cringes at the sight of the bloody stumps that used to be her hands. But she turns back to continue the rest of your makeup. The butler’s surprised expression warps as she changes her stance and charges. Your dressing door swings open and Claire is immediately encased in a black goop. In the door way is one of your guards, dressed in a suit with an ear piece in her right ear.

“Mirage, your on in five.”

You pop out of the chair, your Make-up artist following with.

“Great, I’ll go, will you clean up this mess? I’d hate to muck up their dressing room.”

Gesturing vaguely to the shrunken, wriggling black mass it isn’t long before all that’s left is a black stain and the ipad set up with the faces of your birth-givers still glaring at the screen. 

Your guard hums,“No problem, Mirage. Have a wonderful interview.”

“Thanks, I plan to!”

Practically skipping out of the room, you lament the peace you had just a short while ago. But you continue to keep your chin up considering you planned for this exact scenario before and so far they acted just as you predicted.

“Mirage has no use for interruptions to their career. Intervene again Zoldycks and I will personally see to it that you stop.”

Back at the Zoldyck manor, the butlers are are already preparing to move out. Kikyo barking at the bustling lot.“As of now (Y/n) is at a Level 5 clearance and must be returned home by any means necessary.”

Imagine getting isekai’d into your latest hyperfixation: an otome game filled with charming characters going gaga for the player. Constant love triangles and a touch of magic, you’re leaping to finally enact some of the scenes you’ve spent hours replaying. Oh but who can forget! You’re not exactly alone.

“Ew what is this place? Why is it so sparkly.”

“This is the game I told you about! The one with all my new crushes!”

“Great. I’m just glad we didn’t get hit by a truck to get here.”

Your dear friend is along for the ride and you feel like this is just perfect! All that time you’ve spent raving over the different routes and your favorite moments; they’re familiar enough with the world. Still they let you lead getting all the way to the climax of the tutorial where all the candidates make an appearance. 

“We’ll be in the same study group. What’s your name again?”

You open your mouth. Prepared to embrace the introduction with the illusive Ice Prince himself you’ve dreamt about. But your voice is giving out and the pumping in your chest overwhelms you and when those golden eyes squint at you in rising scorn. There’s no way you can speak now.

“Uh they’re (Y/n) and I’m Emy. Nice to meet ya!”

Their easy nonchalant introduction is the start of an adventure and the end of your dream. Their persistent uncaring attitude towards events or the array of colorful personality traits in the battlier doesn’t phase a practiced extrovert such as they. Casually resembling the answers programmed for players to say and deviating at the perfect times. All so easily the whole lot of the love interests are so obviously head over heels for her in no time. 

Leaving you behind.

Competitions meant to improve teamwork are lead by Emy. Study topics are chosen by Emy. Hang out spaces are where Emy decides. What challenges the group takes on are ordained because Emy wants to. Sparring sessions are always with Emy.

Everything begins to be centered around Emy.

“Emy…you’re amazing.”

“You’ll be my greatest rival yet, Emy!”

“Chu chu Marry me Emy! I’m just kidding…unless?”

“I’ve never met anyone like you Emy!”

While you can’t bring yourself to hate Emy because at the end of the day it makes you happy that Emy is happy. It still hurts. It still makes your chest heavy when the group is already headed to the sparring arena without you. It still makes you eyes water when there’s no space at the lunch table for you. It still hurts when you’ll hear about something monumental that Emy did from someone else who’s spouting some legendary feat. 

It hurts that your bias, hears your name and still asks who.

And it still hurts when the friendliest of the group, asks that you switch seats so that they can be closer to her.

And it burns more than anything to not be able to talk to your friend like you used to.

“Hey Emy I was wondering–”

“Sorry I’m just so wiped out from the honors awards can we talk later.”

_____

“Emy did you understand the lesson?”

“Haha uhh sorry what did you say (Y/n)?”

“I was asking–”

“Haha okay your crazy. Uh ask the teacher or something I have to go!”

_______

“Emy…do you ever think about going home?”

“Hmmm no.”

“Really? Like never?”

“Nope I love it here.”

“Ah okay…”

It’s an interesting problem. Should you let yourself be consumed with guilt when you begin to wish you were in Emy’s place?  Is it main-character syndrome if you clearly never were? Is it bad that you want to go home now that you know this is nothing like the game you used to play? It all culminates into a new goal. 

One for you to return home. 

So instead of walking alone at the back of the group; you confine yourself to the library or the study with one purpose. Nose deep in books and scrolls you desperately search for a lead. Some way that you can return back to the world you know. Back to where you weren’t just a side character fading in the background. 

“Oi rainy parade! What are you doing?”

This interruption was brought by the low-tier villain. Temple was an adversary to the mc during the first competitions. Beaten easily and humiliated they fade into obscurity before leaving for good. But for whatever reason they’re standing above you, waiting for you to answer. Swallowing an exhausted sigh you try to brush them off; ignoring bullies was the best way to get them to go away. 

“Reading.” 

“Yeah but what are you reading?”

“Just research…do you need something?”

“Yeah, join our group!”

Its then you’re acutely aware of who’s walking up behind him, stomach sinking when you realize precisely who they are. All of them are minor to major villains within the otome game with varying degrees of just beating mc to encapsulating the world in dark magic. So you weren’t exactly thrilled to see them all on board with you, specifically.

“Look if this is about revenge against Emy I’m not interested.”

“Revenge on who, now?” It was Starle, a known glutton that acted as the apathetic competitor. Currently crunching on some crackers, you tried to recall if that arc had even occurred yet. Coming up with blanks because you were so out of the loop when it came to Emy now…

Temple sighs and sits on the desk in front of you, forcing you to put the book down.

“Look if you’re talking about Emy I’m so over that I’m onto bigger things.”

“Like what kind?”

“The kind that can help you make a portal.”

Its Ryder Winsor, the aforementioned high-tier villain who’s well on their way to planning world domination by now. Only seeing him in passing you’re not only blown away by that outlandish statement but by the suaveness that the mc is built to fall prey to on a few occasions. Their smiles don’t assure you but your certain if anyone can beat them in the end it will be Emy…so in the meantime why not take advantage?

“Okay but anything too violent is completely off the table.”

“Deal. Welcome to our group (Y/n) we’re all so incredibly happy that you’re here.”

For once in a long time that doesn’t turn out to be a lie because now the time you’d quietly spend off to the side is filled with banter or one-sided ranting. Lunches spent alone are filled with very serious taste-testing of different snacks. Study sessions are now becoming unproductive because of all the time you spend laughing. Nights you spend lying awake waiting for the sun to come up are spent chatting about the mundane and the grandiose.

This what a real team feels like. What real friends are like. You almost forgot.

When you do remember to look over at the beaming Emy, you’re happy to say that nothing sparks guilt or envy. You’re happy too now and that’s enough for you.

What isn’t enough for Emy is when they’re caught off guard by one of their teacher’s praises, “Congratulations on getting that member out of your group! I think without them the power dynamics will finally even out.”

Whoa whoa a member left the group?!

Emy does a headcount at lunch, finding all the familiar smiling faces except for one. They shook their head as punishment for forgetting. (Y/n) had started sitting away from the group because it was so overcrowded at their favorite table….right? Is it bad that Emy can’t remember that conversation? So they scan the cafeteria looking over the students who admirably stared back at them to one of the few who weren’t. Lunches in one hand and arms linked with someone else that dastardly mean boy from the first magic competition—Temple. They remember that night you going over all the ins and outs of the world; so grateful back then that she had you on their team able to predict the exact sequence that they’d be attacked. Did they ever thank you for that? Either they look to see just who their chatting so animatedly with and it’s none other than you. Laughing almost loud enough over the din of the cafeteria, it dawns on Emy how it’s been awhile since they’ve seen it. Leaned on by another face you vaguely warned her about who does spare a glance in her direction before turning back to you. Maybe they’ll get your attention, since they have it so readily.

“Hey (Y/n)?! (Y/n)?!”

Calling out to you doesn’t work since you’re already out of the cafeteria on the way to wherever you’re going and the one that did see her doesn’t seem interested in passing along her message. Emy doesn’t take it to heart finally answering the concerned members of her battlier, her friends about what was on her mind.

“Did you know (Y/n), left?”

“Who’s that—OW!”

“That’s the one that tags along with our group alot, right?”

“I was aware when the teacher gave me their final resignation to sign, why?”

Emy’s face heats uncontrollably, how did they miss this? Shaking it off they move on, settling their nerves with the fact that they’ll catch you later. After all a change in party doesn’t mean a change in class.

“Oh no (Y/n) transferred out of this class a week ago. They moved up to advanced ancient magics to match their battlier. Why, would you like to go there as well?”

“N-n-no I’m just checking. Thank you, Professor.”

They shake it off again, they are dormmates so Emy has nothing to worry about. Granted in the past they’re usually so tired, they can manage to stay up to have this conversation. Tonight she’ll get to the bottom of your sudden absence. 

She waits diligently, constantly looking to the door and perking up when others footsteps pass by the door. Eventually with coursework done and the moon high in the sky they pace as they wait for you to come. Finally the lock to the door jiggles and behind it unfamiliar laughter…wait who is that?+

The door opens to reveal you and behind you the Scorpion twins. Another pair of handsome faces you warned her against and at one point raved about your mixed feelings about them. Why were the casually poking at you and then grabbing your stuff and leaving? Wait a minute your side of the room is incredibly barren when did that happen?

“Uh hi I didn’t know you were having friends over…”

“Oh we’re not staying we just came to get the last of their stuff!”

“Yup because someone apparently doesn’t like being bed buddies with me anymore!”

“I never said that! I just miss my bed and it beats going back and forth.”

“Y’know I really think you should’ve taken Winsor’s advice and just bought all this stuff again.”

“Don’t cry about it they’re just sentimental keepsakes, not because of any other reason.”

Emy doesn’t miss the grey eyed glare they both give her.

“(Y/n) can I talk to you…alone?”

You huff clearly annoyed, “I’d rather not, besides they’re going in and out of the room anyway. Just say what you want to say.”

Emy resists the urge to roll their eyes at your difficulty but still they confront you. Ask about why you left and what you’re doing hanging out with those guys—the villains you warned her about. You surprise her with a broken look on your face, “You really don’t know?”

Emy can do nothing but shrug as she tries to rack her brain for some reason. Finding none she expectantly waits for you to tell her. Just like back then. You refuse to do this again.

“You know what…they’re my friends and they’re helping me out with something important to me.”

“Wait what’s important to you?”

“....Goodbye Emy, Rogue I’m ready to go. For good.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice we finished ages ago.”

When Emy stares at your back and then the shutting of the door then to the empty side of the room, she feels as though a new hole has been made. She figures that's just in this moment when she doesn’t have anyone else shuffling in the room tonight. That it’s just in the moment when she’s in sparring and she can’t help but take more hits then necessary without you on her back. That’s its just in the moment that she’s overcome with disgust when you’re up on the podium with the Winsor’s crest on your newly fitted uniform. That’s just a coincidence that as she watches you hug the members of the team before giving a speech that she’s overcome with a hatred for the smug teammates of yours.

Who is she kidding?

Emy hates this.

That somehow you’d find comfort in the very people who were shaping up to be her worst enemies yet. That you looked happy getting your personal bubble invaded by these overly touchy villains. That you no longer looked in her direction when you passed in the halls.

She was just so angry. At you? At herself? At them?

Even her own team had begun to notice. Asking why she hadn’t dodged something so simple or why she’d been blankly staring at the door of the study room while they tried to talk. Trying to follow her gaze when she slowed in the hall. 

“Emy….did they do something to you we don’t know about.”

“What about that one? Their new member…WAIT isn’t that our old–”

“So it’s them. What did they do to you Emy you can tell us.”

She struggles with what to say. Looking in the eyes of the future heroes and leaders of this world. Their magic and beauty palpitating endlessly at her beck and call. What dare she say to them? That she failed you? That she neglected her best friend? That she took advantage of the one person who knew what this world was all about? “That (Y/n) is being deceived by Winsor’s battlier? And if we don’t intercept soon they’re going to be in bigger trouble than ever!”

Of course seeing their hero love of their life so passionate about something and having been right so many times before all they can do is rally behind. Beginning their plan of attack so that Emy can make amends save their friend who’s been led astray. Hopefully before its too late.

On the complete opposite side of the spectrum Winsor’s Battlier is more than enjoying their new member. Of course they figured as much after spending just as much time watching you before taking initiative in action. In truth after Temple’s defeat they all felt the need to monitor the group with the most potential. Analyzing each of their members with the upmost scrutiny all so that, they’d be prepared should they ever have to cross them again. But someone stood out in that group. More than the royalty….more than their dark mage…more than the shining star that had the whole school eating out the palm of her hand. 

You.

“Report everyone.”

“I witnessed that (Y/n)-fellow categorize and list the abilities of all their competitors.”

“I saw (Y/n) switch out that gift to the prince for something else.”

“(Y/n) was the one who solved the answer for the quiz the very day it was coming…it was 100 pages.”

“I saw (Y/n) kiss the University’s Dragon.”

“...”

“...”

“...what?”

It was clear to your newly avid stalkers that you were what gave the team such an easy start. Hearing you remind Emy about the likes and dislikes of your team-members. Subtly hinting at the right answers during team events. Solving all the quizzes and tests meant to stump even the well educated. All to walk behind the group who barely remembers you exist. 

Even Starle felt bad watching you be ignored and pushed aside. That doesn’t immediately spark their desire to have you in their group, in fact more than happy that the team’s greatest asset just wasn’t realized. Allowing the twins to provide fairly decent obstacles that had Emy discredit you on more than one occasion. Feeling as though they maintained the silent upper hand over Emy’s team, they felt that their job to take down the group was done. Now they're stalking just for ‘fun’ at this point; chatting over study group about what injustice (Y/n) has gone through today.’

But Ryder wasn’t done. Rarely has he ever witnessed or read about a prophetic ability so inconsistent, yet terribly precise. So while the others are used to standing over roofs or abandoned attics to watch, Ryder goes a step further. Crafting a magical spy glass that he uses to watch your private activities. One of these activities meant transcribing all that you know about the villains to come. Imagine his surprise when, he reads that his failure will be at the hands of Emy all because she discovers an ancient magic technique to counter his magic. A tiny voice in his head suggests he permanently shut you up…find some way to silent your all-knowing machinations to a team bound to collapse on itself. But when he invokes invisibility raises his hand to hex you for good; hearing your sobs under the covers the magic naturally flickers away. A new spell dancing along his fingertips that put you into a deep sleep. When he stands above you with the covers pulled back he can’t help but laugh to himself in disbelief. Who was he kidding? To believe he hadn’t just wanted to get know more of you from the start, making up some excuse about your good advice so that his team would be none the wiser. All for them to fall for exactly what captivated him from the start. 

“So boss, do we get to have them?”

“Patience Starle dream magic doesn’t change a mind in one night.”

“In the meantime do we get to work on the other plan?”

“The world dominating one?”

“...Once our final member joins we can put everything into full swing.”

“That Emy-chic will be the first to go, right?”

“Correct. Because a coward such as they has no place in our new world.”

Cato immediately shoves his face right back between your thighs and moans. Then he's stuffing his tongue about as far in your cunt as both your anatomies will allow. Because now that he knows—he can tell exactly what's biologically different. You're actively giving him an opening, you're letting him try. You're all but offering yourself on an Aucelite fucking platter.

You're so hot inside it's genuinely a fight to stifle another moan at the thought of sinking a finger into you. So, he gives in to the urge: he makes the sound, and stuffs not one, but two digits down to the knuckle with the hand not keeping you steady. The gasp that flees your throat is long-suffering in it's wanting, and so is the little, "S-Sicarius—" that chases it.

It's perfect, this'll be just perfect. Emperor help him, he's so hard right now he feels like he's halfway to finishing just sitting here with his tongue rolling over your clit and a few fingers in you. But you're fairing no better. The sounds you're making are already completely debauched, worsened tenfold with how they're bouncing back off the tiles. It makes him strain at the bit like a damned animal, fighting the accursed size disparity between you and him like this. Cato briefly considers the variables of how he might bend, or how he could lift you to his level.

There's not enough space. It won't work. It won't work, and he's fed up trying to make it work—especially when there's a perfectly good bed to pound you into just a few metres away.

Upon remembering that, he's hoisting you up like a stray and rushing to dump you on that very same surface not a moment later; wet hair and all.

You land on your back with an 'oof' and try to sit up, only to be yanked closer and rolled onto your front—lifted to arch by his hand on your hip and promptly mounted.

Cato groans when his cock slips between your legs. The press of your thighs are definitely not as tight as the vice of your insides, but fuck, it's a glorious sensation.

He can feel how riled up he is, and your antics over the past hour have only worsened that desperation.

"You're finally going to let me," he pants. "Aren't you?"

You whine, "Oh, Throne."

Almost automatically you rear back and bump your ass against his hips. Cato's brain is mush, and he's not about to hesitate the second he gets a clearance.

You keen softly when he adjusts the angle, letting his cock slide between your folds in tandem; making damn well sure he's rocking the length of himself over your clit.

With one hand firmly splayed out on your flank to keep you down, Cato thumbs the soft mound of your sex aside; and he feels like he's been punched. The view is dizzying, and he's tempted to completely pull away and stuff his mouth to your cunt again, more than anything. It's pink and puffy, and so eager to be stuffed full of Astartes cock there's a sloppy gleam of slick and his saliva giving it a hot sheen.

You try to speak, but a moan shudders out of you as you manage out, "A-Are you sure it's a good idea?"

"I can think of tactical alternatives, I—" he heaves, stopping only because he has to swallow the growing amount of drool in his mouth to hold back a laugh that'd be more dribble than sound. "I can see one, actually."

"No, no! No, you bloody can't," you laugh, flailing where he's holding you down but it's a faux-paus of true terror.

He dedicates himself to seizing you by the hips and leering closer; just to lick riiiight over your rear hole, delighting in the sudden revival of your temper.

"G-guh—get out of it!" You squeal, shaking. "Get your big snout out! Out!"

Cato feels every muscle south of your hips tense and jump under the drag of his tongue. And just to make a point, goes in for another salacious attack.

With a groan, you manage to worm out from under him in that moment; rolling onto your back and kicking at his chest.

"Oh, so your ankle's fine now? Fine enough to kick me?" He growls, promptly grabbing your leg and pulling you close, "Where do you think you're off to, Lady Ambassador?"

Another squeal leaves you, flustered as you're dragged beneath him again.

"I—I–uh, told you!" You yowl, squirming, "I told you it was almost healed!"

He huffs, "Feigning injury for my pity? For shame, woman."

A loud scoff from you almost makes him fumble his theatrics, if only to laugh at how obviously unswayed by it you clearly are.

You still say nothing, but the smile you tucked away finally, finally breaks lose and he can't help but laugh.

He leans forward, but is promptly halted by a foot still against his chest. Cato looks down at it, back at you, then down at it again.

"You're terribly lucky you're a looker, Cato," you say so flatly it's almost hilarious.

At last he grumbles, "What does that mean?"

"Whatever I want it to, thank you very much," you snark haughtily, mirroring his earlier dramatics.

"So you just get to do and say anything you like?" He snorts.

"You're terrible at acting like you don't enjoy that," you say, "I usually have very good ideas and opinions."

Cato harrumphs, "Well, that's because most of time they're base-logic groxshit, so you can understand why..."

His words trail off as your hand shoots to your forehead, faux-swooning like a damsel; and you act the part too—mock-sighing and sobbing.

Abruptly, some sort of high, holier-than-thou accent graces your voice as you warble, "Woe, so you don't want to breed me, then?"

Cato blinks.

The act drops, and you blink too, dithering. Suddenly looking mortified by your own forwardness, even if it was a slip of the tongue.

Cato takes the fuck-up for ever inch of ground it's worth.

"For all your talk," he snarks, grinning. "You might as well be begging to have a babe fucked into you."

The half-flustered, half-disgusted huff that leaves your throat is comedically loud, "T-Throne of Terra, you're foul sometimes."

"But you'll let me, won't you?" Cato lays down thickly, knowing he's acting smart—pointedly reasserting himself by saying, "Desperate little bitch in heat, you'll let me knock you up... hm?" in an even more salacious tone, finally adding; "Isn't that right, Lady Sicarius?"

Cato thrills at the whine that slips out of you at that. You're so frazzled it's hilarious, and it's hard not to laugh when you warble, "Stop talking, stop t-talking—"

"You can always shut me up by sitting on my face, little duchess," he drawls, nosing against your ear as you curl forward mindlessly.

"That's filthy, and i-it doesn't even work—" is your flushed, almost breathless reply.

Cato crowds closer, and your foot slides up with the movement to hook over his shoulder. The angle lets him slot his cock right between your legs. With the heavy tip of him against your navel, it gives him a great approximation of just how far he goes inside you. Pre-cum smears up to your belly-button when he juts his hips up. It's a vain, degenerate thing to just idly compare the variations in size between you both. But he roils in the hot air that fills his head at the sight.

Looking down your body, your mouth falls a little slack at watching the spectacle.

"You've such a gutter brain," you say breathlessly, unprompted.

"You're hooked up on the same thing I am," Cato snorts harshly—you're being mouthy on purpose, he thinks. But true higher thought doesn't stir even though he tries to fan it's flames; because he's so horrifically hot under the proverbial collar any hope of fire starting anywhere but between his legs is a blatant impossibility. Good thing your cunt's going to be taking the punishment for your antics in a short while. He's going to put a dent in your womb and paint your insides so thoroughly you'll still be dripping him come next week.

But—but if he does that now, chances are it'll take.

He swallows the surge of saliva that forms in his maw at that. He doesn't doubt your body works, because there's ways to fix that. Probably. Cato's not really sure, but he's hopeful. The real question is if his... ahem... personal sidearm actually has live rounds in the chamber, so to say. Or if it was only ever just left there for other Astartes to knee him in when he used to say something before thinking.

Speaking of that age old habit, Cato blurts out; "The Emperor Himself is going to have to pull me out of you."

"Cato!" You lurch away a tad and stare at him, your face contorted into something between flabbergasted horror and a shocked laugh as you bark, "Don't say that!"

"Why not?"

"Because—" you sputter, "B-Because, I don't know, what if... He..." there's a flustered rush to your words that makes him amused despite himself. "Isn't... the God-Emperor a psyker? Some of them can hear things said a-about themselves!"

"Neither one of us has spontaneously combusted, so personally, I think He's fine with the matter."

"His son probably won't be," you counter.

"His son won't be finding out anytime soon," Cato mumbles wryly, and sets about planting a few kisses along the side of your throat—heading down, down, down—until he's just about got a tit in his mouth.

You laugh, "You're going to stash me away on Talassar, aren't you?"

A sort of content, agreeable guffaw leaves Cato as he lathes his tongue over the top of your right nipple, "Like a canine with his bone."

"You'd better not l-leave me there alone," you bite out, breathing hard.

Cato scoffs loudly, "You're not going to be free of my mitts for a second, trust me."

You harrumph, "You're the one who complains about my mitts on you, more often than not."

"And I'm just supposed to go quietly with your petty torments? Take the little hand squeezing my arse without a grumble?"

"Well, you could always just..." you grin, "...tell me to stop?"

Cato snorts, features furrowed. As-fucking-if he'd say that, but he's wont to let your antics slide without putting on a show of a faux-reprimand. In reality, Cato's certainly got no real issue with you pawing at his rear. If anything... it irritates him he can't get away with it like you can. The entertaining parts to grope on you are far lower down at his height. He can't manage a pinch or palm-full without leaning, unlike you.

"Keep pushing your luck," he bites out, trying to sound threatening, "And you'll get my tongue up your ass again."

You immediately squirm out from under to get away from him. It's like wrangling a wet fish suddenly. It's hilarious. It's almost theatrical. His fake ultimatum worked a treat. You've clambered over the edge of the bed—then you're turning, then you're standing; and at last your brow quirks up suspiciously.

You look grumpy.

Okay, now he feels a little bad.

"Fine, fine..." Cato raises his hands, tutting, "I won't."

"You swear you won't?" You ask, trying to get him to reaffirm it again.

"Yes," he grumbles, though not before adding, "Now come back here."

Eyebrow somehow quirking even higher, you eye him up and down, pouting.

"Suit yourself," Cato says, well-aware he's being petulant.

There's one special trick he's got in his arsenal that's reserved for luring in spurned and sour Ambassadors. It's worked flawlessly before, and so, he lies himself down on his back and spreads his thighs a little. Sitting up just enough to make his bulk as pronounced as possible, and skates a hand down his front. Taking his cock in hand, just to stroke himself agonizingly slow, knowing full-well that you couldn't tear your eyes away from the show even if you wanted to.

Cato keeps his attention on you watching him, catching every tiny change of your features as they melt away from annoyance to complete and utter fixation.

His hand's not anywhere near as gratifying as yours would be, but riled up as he is, it's more than enough to stir a groan and a moment of shut-eyed bliss out of him.

The moment his eyes do shut—for scarcely a millisecond—you've spontaneously reappeared with him on the bed.

It actually catches Cato a little by surprise. It really didn't take much convincing to get you to join him again.

But he doesn't linger on that victory, nor is he given a real chance to. There's small fingers in his hair and a hand on his chest and lips on his.

Cato's free hand immediately cups the back of your head and tips your closer. He all but smothers his mouth fully into yours. Clumsy in your haste, you meet him, trying to kiss him back with just as much fervor. Cato opens his maw wide over yours, and is only made greedier when your tongue slides over his.

Being the first to break off for air, you whine and nudge your nose and brow against Cato's cheek; your hand moving to meet his. You're slack-mouthed, and flushed with heat in the face. Your breathing's heavy and your small palm is firmly rolling up and down the thick, blood-heavy length of him. The sound of slick, pumping friction suffocates the room. His brain screams he ought to have you on your belly with your arse in the air. He ought to, but your hand feels sublime, especially after so long since that touch.

What the fuck, why not indulge you a little.

Your hand squeezes at the fat base of his cock, tight enough that a thick pearl of precum dribbles down the side of his length.

His bottom lip catches between his teeth, brows knitted together harshly above eyes half lidded.

He fights back the shrill rush of excitement that tempts him to buck upward into your palm. The urge is only worsened when your other hand joins in. The sight is divine obscene, your hands are so small compared to him it always makes his cock look like a weapon. It's almost funny. It's—

Oh, it's getting even better.

You lower your head and drag your tongue over the underside of his glans, making sure he can see you flutter your lashes when you look up at him.

Cato tries to hold your gaze but ultimately is robbed of the ability to do so; namely seeing as his eyes roll when he finally slips closer over the deep end.

His harshly stifled moan is followed by ragged, throaty sighs as he starts thrusting up into your hands and mouth.

The contact is divine, and he's desperate—waiting and waiting and waiting—just for you.

It nearly hurts with how quickly it builds up, his thoughts are so muddy with urgency he can't even manage a full breath of air. Cato's thighs twitch wildly as his hips keep pistoning.

Until at last he's finally finishing—cock throbbing in your hand—his spent slicking a sloppy passage into over-sensitivity as it streaks from him in fat ropes; leaving him huffing and puffing.

"Fuck," you say, splaying your palm and watching his cum string out between. "You really were pent up."

Still panting, Cato raises a brow at you—there's a few drops of cum that've gone stray to your chin. You follow his eyes and notice that, too, to which you chuckle; leering down and planting a kiss to side of his shaft before swiping the mess of yourself with the back if your hand.

"Should've been... spent somewhere else," Cato's breath catches at the view. His legs tense and ache with static minutely as you move your mouth to lick at the head of his cock. It's a little raw so soon after his finish, and he hisses, "Would you stop t-that—"

Regardless of his protestations, you continue. Running the flat of your tongue over the flushed head again, "You've got more than one round in you, don't you, Commander?"

His cock twitches, and he grumbles.

You, as a matter of fact, are right.

His erection hasn't flagged in the slightest and there's still thudding heat plastered up his neck and cheeks where it's been for the last fuck-knows how long.

"Throne help your cervix when my legs decide to work again," Cato snaps.

His legs decide to work again rather quickly, thanks to the measure of Astartes he most definitely is. But it's his arms he really uses. You're all but scooped up and dumped onto his middle, and you waste no time getting right to it.

It's obvious you're rushing in your desperation, as wound up and raring as he is.

Then you take him in hand, position him at your entrance, and waste no further time in sinking down.

All the way down.

You let out a heavy, rattling sound of satisfaction when you seat yourself to the hilt on him, and he's finally back where he belongs. The wet plap of your ass against his thighs is music to his ears.

You stay there for a moment, looking down at where you've joined, before looking back up at him.

A wild smile grows on your face, before that same expression quirks into a dazed look of relief as you lift yourself. Only for your eyes to flutter shut when you drop back down. Then you do it again, and again, and again.

He tries—with an emphasis on tries—to reach his hands up to settle on your hips. He wants to dig his fingers into your waist, he wants to feel your soft skin mould to the shape of his touch; until a perfect map of his grip starts to paint you underneath his grip.

It takes Cato by surprise when you start swatting at his approaching mitts, a crease forming between your eyebrows as you scowl despite the half-fucked out look on your face.

"N-No," you start, "No touching."

He pouts in annoyance as he snipes back with, "I'm already inside you, what do you mean 'no touching', you idiot?"

There's a short moment where you're simultaneously too full of cock and too annoyed to articulate yourself; so instead, you interlace your fingers with both of his hands.

"S-Shut up, and just let me..." is the mumbled answer he receives at last. "Let m-me do it like this."

Cato snorts, "Let you ride me? Like in the libraries? Where you couldn't even manage five minutes?"

You look away, embarrassed, "I-If you're going to act like a smart-ass, you'll get nothing."

For a moment, he's honestly about to press the point just to see you squirm on instinct—about to remind you you'd been a mess, almost insensible after a short while of bouncing—until his eyes draw down to the soft thatch of hair pressed to his own; just shy of where he's hilted and cozy and kept oh-so warm.

Just knowing he's rammed in you to the hilt makes him completely unable to argue, nevermind the convincing, steady squeezing of your cunt.

"Fine," Cato grunts, palms held up and turned outward in surrender, "I'll be good—but don't say I didn't tell you."

Nodding, you lean forward and move with him as he rests his hands back.

You look insane trying to pin him like this. Over-extended to simultaneously keep him in you, and his wrists down.

Still, you manage to start fucking yourself onto his lap, panting with exertion and pleasure—and Cato's still being good, he... he hasn't even tried to move. Even though he could. He could easily move his hands. The fact your little palms are holding about his wrists either side of his head is nothing more than a suggestion of control. But he's willing to play along. He can be good.

You bottom yourself out on him and roll your hips, and Throne, it's sublime.

He feels dizzy, like he's entranced—it's very much like the escapade in the libraries. The real difference is that was an Ambassador nervously failing to maintain a nonexistent guise of decorum. But now, Cato's on his back by your will—you're controlling this, not him—you're fucking him.

That makes him nearly rear up in delight, for reasons far beyond his currently cunt-dumb brain. But who cares, he doesn't really need to use his head to watch your tits bounce with the motion of you riding him.

"Fuck, f-fuck..." Cato groans raggedly, and is suddenly hyperaware he's been making those sounds for a while now.

Why is he acting like this? Cato knows he's being loud, but can't seem to shut himself up. He ought to at least try. He's an Astartes, he's the epitome of the Imperium's warring prowess, he should be able to close his bloody trap—for fuck sakes—he's the product of hundreds of years of martial discipline and he's... he's going to be a father, if—if this works, if you let him—if it takes.

Woozy on the rush of that train of previous though and the sudden downward slam of you hilting yourself again, Cato all but drool out, "You're—you're... ngh... gonna be the death of me, woman."

You roll your hips, keeping him fully sheathed and grin down at him. The nigh shattered noise that rips from his throat at that makes you whine empathetically.

He could help you along. He could move. Nothing is really stopping him. You're hardly a real restraint, and all he really needs... all he needs is to be better restrained if he's to be used like this—hold on, where did that thought come from?

Cato fights with the urge for a moment. Then he swallows harshly and rasps, "Wait, wait..."

"What's w-wrong?" You pant, finally coming to a stop.

Unfortunately, your cunt doesn't get the memo, because it squeezes hard enough to make Cato's legs twitch the very instant he wants to speak.

He fights to not acknowledge the way he stumbles his words as he answers with, "This isn't —" he flounders, "—this is stupid."

"A-And w–wuh... why's that?"

"Because I'm an Astartes, this... position... is losing, in close combat," he lies. Well, half-lies. It's not wrong, he just... can't admit the rest.

"Cato... you rolled belly up w-when I told you I'd fuck you this way, so... w-what's the actual problem?" You say tryingly as you lean a little closer to him, your still-slightly-damp hair curtaining his face as you do. The angle and height disparity make it a mismatch so you're unable to kiss him properly, and distantly that bothers him.

Unless he sits up, that is—but he's not going to move, not while you're still pretend-pinning him. His brains scolds it's a feeble shackle. Another thing that frustrates him.

He grunts, and glances aside, frowning with an almost comical harshness.

"It's—" he starts, "It's not enough."

"What's not enough?"

"I can still move," Cato mumbles, hyperaware he sounds like a child.

"I don't think I could stop you from doing that," you harrumph, a tad breathless. The flash of resignation on your face he catches when he returns to looking at you is acutely funny despite his agitation, and he huffs amusedly as he tips his head toward your hands to hint for you pull them away.

You oblige, and place them on his navel, still seated on him.

"Let me try this," he chuffs, "Hold on."

He tucks his arms behind himself as he sits up a little against the headboard, using his bulk to pin them back.

That's better—much better, really—it feels far more secure. And, even more importantly, it lets you get face to face with him properly.

You're smiling when you close in, hands settling on his chest.

"Sorry that I'm not strong enough to manhandle you," you nip out with a wry, good humoured laugh; pressing a kiss to his lips.

Cato makes a thoughtful hum, "I know a way you can atone for that."

You harrumph, "Oh? How's that?"

"By fucking moving, fool."

"You asked f-for it," You bark a laugh and your hands clamp down on either side of his traps, with a pretty fair amount of force for a baseline. At the same time, you speed up on his lap, breath hitching violently.

Now this feels spectacular, in some strange way that adds to simply being inside you. He can't even begin to articulate it, but he can definitely sound the part.

"That's it," Cato groans loudly, and you whine in tandem; barely able to keep your eyes open with the pace. "That's it, keep going. Aren't you pretty—aren't y-you so pretty."

A strangled, keening sob leaves you as your body bucks abruptly. He knows that tell far too well, and the tears that fill your eyes before a finish a bit too hard. It's blazingly apparent you're not gonna last, but he's not about to stop you crying out on his cock.

"Not yet, come on—not y-yet," he heaves, trying to keep you going just that little longer. But, unsurprisingly, it achieves nothing. If anything him talking harries you along because suddenly you're clawing into his shoulders and pressing closer to him, so close he can feel your ragged breathing against his ear.

"O-oh... fuck," you curse, moving even faster. "C-Cato, f-f-fuck—I can't—'m..."

You come with a shaking gasp, slick walls flooding heat and convulsing around him in waves.

Slumping with a waning series of sobs, you stop fucking yourself on him, seeming insensible despite the juddering squeeze of your insides. Cato's nigh rabid at the loss—he told you that you'd tucker yourself out—he told you, and he can't move—he's so close—he needs you to keep going, you can't stop yet, you can't—

As soon as that wave of frustration hits, he jerks forward in a lunge, obeying the shrieking want in his mind; but he's unable to dedicate himself to the venture wholly. He stops short of sitting up with a jerky, pyrrhic effort, like he's reached the end of his lead and was now choking himself. It leaves Cato open mouthed and heaving, he's pinioned himself too thoroughly. In a rabid, urgent succession of events; he attempts a different approach—wantonly trying to hip thrust you on his lap. It's some complex fulcrum of angling his shoulders into the bedhead and bucking that make the muscles in his abdomen overcompensate nigh to the point of cramping.

Panting, ribs heaving like a forge bellows, he tents his knees and plants his feet flat firmly to the mattress; bouncing you in his lap. As if he isn't already as deep inside of you as he can get. As if he's not slamming into the soft tissue gating your womb like a beast in rut. But as with any slavering thing lost in it's desire, he doesn't feel like it's far inside enough.

You're whining loudly, and then you finally regain enough sense to work with him. Fucking yourself back into his thrusts at last, making a lewd cacophony of wet, sticky bliss nigh deafening.

"Still—" he snarls, "Still want a-ah babe?"

The question has you slamming back into him faster, dragging another garbled, pleading noise out of yourself. Scrambling at Cato's shoulders, clenching hot and slick on his cock, sobbing in pleasure.

"Yes, yes, y-yes... C-Cato—" you're crying, pawing at him; "Ple—ah—ease, Cato—in me, i-in me, in me..."

How could he even possibly argue with that?

He grits his teeth. The sides of his vision edge in static before he screws his eyes shut, both his hearts feel like they palpitate off rhythm for a second—and then a white-hot line of fire races up from his gut. Somehow in the process he's managed to worm his arms out from under himself. They're glued to your hips faster than the conscious thought to do so arrives in his head. Now that you're really being treated to a ride, the rapt sobs of 'yes-yes-yes' increase tenfold. Your cunt shivers around him again, and he's got no alternative nor want but to fill a warm, inviting womb to the brim.

You wanted it—you wanted it, and who's he to deny you? He's already more than willing to give you anything you could ever even think to ask for, so what meagre thing is this in comparison?

Cato doesn't even get a chance to properly moan. It's just one long, defeated keen as his nervous system stalls. The last time he'd made a noise like it, a Necron Lord had run him through. It feels like he's dying. His legs strain, and he's wrung dry. His mind blanks. It's red hot pleasure that has him wincing like he's in pain as he spills as deep as he can go. He's stupid afterwards. Drool drying across his cheek, his head pounding. After-tremors of your pleasure squeezing actually hurt his poor cock still lodged so far up you he's practically a new organ. And yet, he gathers enough sense to glance down himself to you.

You're limp against his haired chest, face-down between his pectorals.

After some indeterminate amount of time, Cato notices you're still conscious, thankfully. That much is clear as you stir on shaky palms, sidling yourself up; before being promptly pulled up and off his sore length by two big Astartesian hands.

Cato's treated to an absolutely depraved view. The second his cock pops out of you, a thick, milky rope of cum drips down your thighs, and you whine, "N-No, no, stay in... C–ah—Cato, leave i-it in..."

"Later," he swallows dryly, "It's all yours."

He sits you on his navel; only for you to then slump into his chest again and start grumbling.

"I think," he rasps, tilting his head to accommodate you tucking your chin on his shoulder, "I've spoilt you rotten today."

A soft scoff slips free from you as you arch up just enough to be nose-to-nose with him. He cards his fingers through your hair, and you kiss him slowly. It's a long, tender thing—and his hearts, still beating hard, flutter at it.

He moans softly at the gesture.

It's perfect, you're perfect, and everything's as it should be. Well... aside from the all-round stickiness. But that's to be expected, so he rolls onto his side, pulling you along with him; despite the fact you're both still absolutely filthy.

You'd been assigned a Primaris escort for the venture; and Cato's only slightly homicidal when he sees it's the prodigal's lieutenant—Demetrian Titus—following you up the far off ramp.

Demetrian Titus, the incompetent stand-in for him after Davin—the tainted, tossed tool that Calgar insisted be put back in the kit—the one brother that's gotten a smile out of you on Cato's watch.

Is he—is he like Cato? Are you just a magnet for aberrant Astartes?

Cato'd sooner opt to be rendered daft, dull and derelict before he lets that slide.

And he is very well rendered just that by the thought.

Because Cato's not given the chance to kick up the stink he wants to, and it nearly kills him. Namely because he's not allowed to tantrum complain when there's traitors running rife in a nearby sub-sector.

The particular planet they are thrashing around on like cut-snakes is Jugur-8A; the only non death-world of nine in a cluster orbiting the gas giant, Numidus, and the only one with a huge, Crusade-era Mechanicus station posited on it's large moon.

Chaos forces have broken the backs of seven of those other lesser planets, to little real advantage.

And, much like you to your quota haggling, Cato similarly answers the call to duty when he's told the Victrix are to make planet fall.

In all actuality, Cato only hearkens to it, because there's a niggling desire to remain behind pulling his leash.

That being, a very real part of him which eventually makes him stay, and wait—like some pining hound—of all bloody things.

Guilliman seems somewhat bemused by his hesitation.

It's not as if Cato actively fusses about the Primarch's request. It's more or less an offer to join his Brothers, really.

He gets halfway to readying up, and then his resolve stalls. He procrastinates. He tells the arming serfs to polish his armour a third time that day.

Still grasping for more time, Cato lets arming serfs shave him clean—and finally, he lets them give his hair a much needed cut. He tries to draw it out, almost praying Guilliman just commands him to go; if only to just to rob him of the choice he knows he'll back out of. And yet nothing comes. He sullenly stands on the embarkation deck and watches his men go.

As it turns out, the Victrix are more than happy to stretch their stiff joints in the time-honoured tradition of butchering the old foe; even if it's without him.

Cato's ultimately just... not particularly in the mood for it. He's not sulking. He's definitely not sulking—fuck off, would you?

So he stays behind, and makes the main command bridge his roost, for what turns out to be the next twenty-seven days.

Seeing as he's sans his war-gear, with nothing but a tunic, his Tempest blade on his hip is the only thing he can fidget with.

Studying the near never-ending pict-feed cast in the far corner; born of an under-deck hololithic display of his stand-in's helmet feed.

His foremost proxy's name is Cornelius Sulla, and he is not who Cato originally would've picked, given the fact he's newly filling the position.

Yes, Sulla is a good duelist—but, he is only an alright shot—as far as exemplified Veterans go. And he's certainly no Gaius when it comes to martial prowess. Cato noticed that after the first five days of watching meager skirmishes, but it's clear now the Victrix finally meet the enemy head-on.

Gaius Prabian would have minced them quicker than a muscle-tick, nigh quicker than Cato himself—Throne, the man was a good fighter, he misses having a real challenge sparring, he misses—no, no.

Cato forcibly shakes his head to stave off the train of thought, and reminds himself that he will have to grill Sulla regarding his technique; should he prove to survive this mission. But that's a later thing to ponder on, he admonishes, and keenly returns to watching.

The perspective feed whirls heavenward, and Cato sees the sky above his Brothers is little more than a bloody smear; a weeping, red-raw wound painted across the firmament. It's an ill omen, if Cato had any belief in such things. Practically speaking, it's more so a telltale sign of warp-touch made material as the field of battle becomes an abattoir.

Simply seeing the newly birthed warp-born abominations taste the teeth of chainswords for another ten days helps ease the discomfort the scene stirs; and Cato only pauses watching to lick the nutrient paste off the bottom of the food bowl, which is brought to him by servitor every simulated morning and evening.

He doesn't go back to his quarters. The few times he sleeps—if dozing for an hour could be really called sleep—he wakes to return to studying his brother's actions.

He won't leave them unattended, even if it's a pointless task from so far away.

Cato himself had not seen these particular, detestable Chaos variations before, even though he'd fought similar.

And then there are old, familiar shapes in the frame. Ones that didn't crawl, nor limp, nor drag their putrid half-bloated legs behind them.

Objectively, he knew what they were.

But then again, experience told him most of the hideous, bipedal creatures that ate man had been them once—or, well... they had started as men—and that they were nothing but seething abominations wearing flesh and filigree, now. But the clarification remains a notable point.

These traitors had been Astartes, once. And that much is clear in the way they travel in packs; albeit those packs are really nothing more than vile mimicry of martial squadrons. Some stand upright and fight like Astartes, too—corrupted and rotted as they are—reduced to nothing but a sharp-toothed maw and a giant cancer on ceramite-clad legs; infested with rank polyps of parasitic disease eating away at them... and Throne, did they surely look to stink like it too. He can see his Brothers cautiously recoil despite their helmet filtration systems, like they reek twice as bad as plague-struck corpses. But that foul gas was the real danger of them: their toxic fumes would burst their bodies upon death, suffocating everything in a fifty step radius.

He remembers well the fetid odour of warp-molested things. He remembers the sounds they make. In the form of eidetic echoes, he hears them closing in; he can hear Gaius—no, he couldn't, the door was sealed when... he refuses to remember it now, damn it.

Cato won't listen. Cato is not there. Not now, not now—he's heard enough screaming.

Cato turns away from the holographic display, and rubs his eyes. Swallows down the acid on his tongue. Where once the tactic of watching the battle lent him peace; it's no longer enough to distract him entirely, which only furthers his wider irritation.

Pointedly, Cato's deeper irritation stems from his lack of control, in all aspects.

He can't control his own wretched mind, he can't control his wants, and he can't control what happens to you.

Regarding the latter, it's the simple, plain cut fact there's no information currently privy to him on how you're faring. The Victrix would be fine, ultimately. He knows his men have dealt with hardier foes, but what you are facing is what he doesn't know. Cato could, theoretically, pester Calgar into fessing it up, but that's... well, plainly suspicious; given the Chapter-Master's already heightened interest in someone fucking fraternising.

Cato is worried—and doesn't like not knowing, because he'll be damned if something happens to you where he can't strangle the perpetrators.

He cannot stand the impotence he feels because of it.

He cannot stand the fact that there's a very real distance between you and him.

He cannot stand the hollow space at his side that's meant to be filled by a yapping, aggravating little Ambassador.

You're off gallivanting around with that twice-accused fool on some wretched rock, and Cato's stuck waiting for you to come back. It in itself is a testament to how love affection could addle a man’s brain—no matter how beyond simply being just a man he was—and replace it instead with his loins, figuratively speaking.

It's after a Throne-knows-how-long span of time that he realises he's been twirling the scabbard of his Tempest blade into the deck.

The smell of burning is what snaps him out of it.

The bottom guard of the sheath is glowing faintly from the friction heat, and there's a hot, pitted scuff on the priceless, crusade era antique floor that he toes his sandal at—but the mark doesn't fade—he'll just... walk away, a tad.

He sniffs derisively as the burning fades, and...

Cato smells you well before he sees you.

A wild, unbridled surge of emotion seizes him and he perks up despite the vague drowsiness of too many denied proper rest-periods in a row.

His Catalapsean node is probably a cluster headache itching to pounce, but that can wait.

Because, you're back. And he's sure of it. Sure of it by the hint of you carried on the recirculating air, which sends him spinning on his heel, looking around nervously; but he fusses slightly when something itches at his brow. He swipes his hand over his forehead, skimming his hair back annoyedly—eyes frantically tracking through the personnel going about their tasks on the Stratesium deck looking out over the bridge.

A small lift pedestal lowers a gaggle of baselines, alongside two Primaris, down onto the level from the galleries.

One of the senior Tacticae is closely ushering you in the crowd, while carrying a small stack of data-slates in his arms.

Your gaze is cast down, and there's a crease between your brows that looks like worry.

Something's wrong. You're not looking at him, and Cato doesn't understand why. Did he do something wrong? Did Titus do something, did he—

The gathered step aside to rush to their stations, and the senior Tacticae and you take a fully visible step free of the crowd... and you're lob sided ever-so-slightly, Cato notices.

You've a limp, and are trying very hard not to make a show of it. It's stupid to think that the dozens of transhumans with practiced eyes for weakness wouldn't notice, let alone just Cato.

With gritted teeth, Cato has to set his stance into line to fight the urge to rush toward you.

Then he notices the Primarch is on the other side of the central mezzanine. At what point had Guilliman joined him? He is not sure how he hadn't realised.

He scrubs a palm across his cheek with a tired haste, and is greeted by the scritch-scratch sound of a beard. Cato'd enjoyed not having the damn thing on his chin and chops, and now it's back. But when had it grown...?

Shit, he must be more out of it than he thought. How bloody long had he been standing around for?

Guilliman tips his head to look down and take the measure of you, but there's no criticality in his gaze; just a familiar, thoughtful look.

"Lady Ambassador," his voice is low, strangely nigh tutting.

You bow low—wobbling a slight bit as you answer, "My Lord Primarch."

"I see it did not go well," Guilliman's dark blonde brow creases, a time etched line on a face wholly marked by them, now. Since the Primarch's revival, Cato's seen them deepen; in a way only his eidetic memory lets him notice. Fractional millimeter by fractional millimeter, his Father is aging—he's grown stockier than his old, Crusade-Era portraiture, too—he's also greyer at the temples, ever-so-slightly.

Cato feels bad about the multitude of observations he's making about his Father. It feels like a swing below the belt taking the measure of the stressed Primarch like a judgemental fishwife.

Cato tries to imagine what Guilliman was like when all was seemingly well in the Imperium... but he struggles to match the character shown on ancient frescoes to the tired patriarch across the deck from him.

Functionally immortal as the mighty sons of the Emperor may be, it seems that even they are not immune to the passage of centuries.

Stasis simply staved it off, but it's all finally catching up.

That thought makes Cato melancholic—in an strange, indescribable way.

"A minor hiccup that's since been rectified," you offer quietly.

"And what of you, are you well?" Guilliman asks softly.

"Yes, my Lord."

"I think," The Primarch hums with only a thinly guised disbelief, then continues, "Some time to rest for the remainder of the week is due for you, Ambassador."

"My Lord, I'm in no pain; I do not think it's a good idea to—" you sputter out, rather boldly.

Or, well... it's bold when there is such an audience around. Cato has seen you disagree with the Primarch before, sure; but that is in the confides of his offices, and it's not very often you do. It's not very often anyone does. He is a Primarch, after all—but Guilliman's never actually fully reprimanded anyone for disagreeing with him. Not without them deserving it outright. Cato has seen him become irate at discourse, but never unjustly furious. He actually seems to enjoy the fact more than anything. Probably because the backtalk is inconsequential to someone like him, largely. Still, Cato can count all the times you've done so when he's been standing watch outside on one hand. And right now, he swears he can hear each of them in his head.

My Lord, I think it would help—my Lord, may I object? My Lord, it is not this—my Lord, it is not that, it's—

"I," Guilliman interrupts, sounding on the brink of waggling a massive finger at you, "Would be loathe to make it two weeks, but I will, should you continue to protest."

He's glaring at you in the same way he glares at Cato when he routinely speaks right over the baseline consular generals.

It almost amuses Cato seeing it inflicted on another from a different perspective. But the lingering reality of your injury smothers any humour in the matter to him.

Your lips purse tightly as you break eye contact. Then you nod and bow again as best you can with your limp, before taking a step back.

Cato's still staring with a flabbergasted look plastered across his face when Guilliman turns to him. He doesn't manage to hide it in time, but Guilliman seems not to really take note of the expression beyond simply sighing.

"Escort her, Cato—" the Primarch begins, and then pauses to inhale sharply with a wrinkled nose, "—and then go bathe."

Cato blinks owlishly at him for a second; then ducks his head to sniff himself.

He isn't—hm... his Primarch might have a point. Nigh a month essentially standing around might not have exactly worked wonders to the state of his character.

Cato nods, bows a little, and hesitantly starts to follow the first part of his orders.

With you in tow, he makes his way to the lift, and tries not to let his eyes flick back to trace your form shadowing him. He plods across the mezzanine, and down the long winding hallway, dragging his heels over the long velvet carpet chasing the length of the artery.

He cuts a sharp path through the commotion, trying to clear the way ahead of you; serfs and the likes peeling away to let him through. He ignores all other typical pageantry he's afforded.

Brothers salute, miscellaneous other on-board staff bow, and Cato keeps his chin high; even though he can hear you labouring to keep up.

The large main blast-doors of the outermost chambers crack open at the behest of the high serf's manning their operation to allow him passage, and he slows. Trudging now, hyper aware of less and less passersby now that you're both out of the majority of the hustle and bustle—he's tempted to break etiquette at past—but there's still too many eyes, still too many ears.

Not enough peace and quiet to have you all to himself.

Cato blinks, and his mind promptly stuffs his frontal lobe full to bursting with a rainbow of eidetic memories. He swallows dryly, he doesn't mean having you like that. Not out in the open. But Throne, having you—it's been so long.

At last you draw to a halt, the both of you a ways down the corridor, finally out of sight of others as the last meandering serf turns a corner far down.

He pauses too, and turns.

Cato preens when he receives the grace of your eyes on his own. And you stare at him, long and focused. He is suddenly well aware his heart is thumping high in his throat. His stomach is abruptly tangled up in knots, tunic too tight and hackles raised. He feels like a live bolter round is trapped inside his rib-cage, turning him into one long, exposed nerve. You step close, until he’s within arm’s reach—close enough to touch were he quick he about it; and he looks down on you in the hard hallway lights.

You're looking up at him softly, and he's a hairpin trigger away from acting on his urges.

But others could still pass down this way.

Neither of you are fully clear to break the propriety, as much as Cato aches for it.

"Why—"

"Why—" he starts, at the same time as you, apparently.

Cato hesitates, glaring as you both try to parse out who'll speak first.

You raise your hands, palms bared, indicating to him to take the lead; ever the diplomat.

"Why are you limping," he bites out sharply.

"It's nothing," you say.

"It's clearly not nothing," Cato immediately doubles down, "What happened?"

"It's fine—"

"That's not an answer," he cuts you off.

You harrumph, "I'm just waiting for the Medicae shot from last cycle to wear off, they said to keep weight off it. And it'll be healed by the end of the—"

"That's not the question I asked, woman," Cato snarks. "Stop with the yapping and tell me."

"There was a riot," you digress. "No—no, actually, more of a large, angry, communal misunderstanding..."

"So," Cato sighs, "A riot."

"No, it wasn't."

He grits his teeth to fight against the urge to dropkick you for the attempt at arguing semantics.

Whatever. Whatever, it's not important. He takes a deep breath, and decides he has a more pressing matter to attend to.

"And?"

"And..." you tut, "I had to be evacuated."

Cato lets out an exasperated breath, "Again?"

"It's only the second time!" Your voice raises sharply, before you swallow down your volume and sternly digress. "The second time, out of thousands of successful meetings."

"How?"

"How, what?" The words gust out of you, exasperated. "How did the entire thing go south?"

Cato inhales sharply, eyebrows furrowing as he shifts closer. "Are you being intentionally dense?"

"There..." you mumble softly, "There was... was an accident."

"I'm going to wring you out in a second," Cato sneers.

"It was purely unintentional!" You spit out loudly, fists clenched at your sides. "I might have been... yanked off a gentleman's shoulder, a little not-so-gently... by an Astartes."

"Demetrian Titus yanked you?" Cato all but snarls, seething now, straining at the proverbial leash tight around his neck.

You flounder, "I didn't name any names!"

"Don't you get smart with me, you little shit, I'm not as big of a fool as you think I am," Cato puffs his chest out and grits his teeth, hand raising to point a big finger at you with a tightly wound fury rising.

"I don't think you're a fool, you're just a drama—" you say haughtily, only to be reduced to that typical confused, hurried questioning when he starts stomping ahead at double pace. "Cato? Wait, Sicarius! Where do you think you're going!"

"I'm just going to have a few words with him," Cato hisses, hastening his march despite the sound of you struggling to keep up behind him niggling at his conscience.

"It wasn't his fault! He was sorry!" You warble after him, still trying to follow.

"I'll be the judge of that," Cato grumbles, absolutely furious.

Cato can hear you snarl and sneer at yourself. Then he hears your voice bouncing off the walls behind him, "What more do you want? Is this how you Astartes handle things? With some oh-so-manly sword-measuring contest?"

"My Talassarian Tempest blade is larger than the standard Primaris side-arm, I assure you, I have the bigger..." he begins hastily, only to hesitate and let the sentence putter out to nothing as the cogs in his head mesh into alignment, and he scowls, freezing where he stands and looking over his shoulder.

You blanch, "Cato, no—"

"Did he—" he starts, storming back towards you, only to be cut off.

"No!" You bark, seizing Cato by the side of the tunic.

He stays silent, stewing in his anger, glowering down over you now.

"Listen—just, listen—I know what you're going to ask," you say quickly as you take a step backwards from him and cross your arms over your chest.

"No, you don't."

"I guarantee that I do," you hiss.

Cato's lip curls up as he scowls, "Did he try anything?"

You clap a palm to your forehead and sigh; all the while Cato's working out the logistics of cracking the Second Company Lieutenant's skull in with a nice pointy rock. Or a brick. Or his own pauldron. He could take him, Primaris or not.

If he finds out the moron dared one longing hand on you he's going to mop the sparring chambers with him.

Cato is sure he can take the twice-accused fool. Even if Calgar'll probably have a sook over it. But the aftermath is moot, whether it's reprimands or demotions, he'll take it on the chin like the Commander of the Victrix that he is—because ultimately, the torment punishment Titus deserves is paramount. Honestly, so long as the bastard eats dirt Cato could care less.

"I'm not some bloody siren luring Astartes into my quarters, Cato," you say with a steely, unimpressed tone.

Cato grunts and tips his chin up, fixing you with a wry look, "That's arguable. It worked on me."

You stare at him for a moment, sour. For some reason, he doesn't like that. It makes him feel cornered; but not in a way he can fight his way out of, like being sidelined and scolded.

Cato's not sure what to say to save his own ass.

And that makes him want to stuff his head in a sandpit and mound the rest on-top of himself.

"Do you honestly think I go around fucking every one of your Battle Brothers who talks to me for more than two seconds?" You snap, furious and hot faced.

This is hell—pure, unadulterated hell. Cato has dug himself into a pit, as he ever does with the stupid haste of his anger; and it nips at his heels that starting an argument isn't even close to what he hoped to do upon seeing you again. What he'd hoped was to—to—to simply have you back. Press close, tuck himself against you, find solace in the only person he was able to not doom to suffer by simply being near them. He didn't want this to happen. He wanted to be nice. Cato's cheeks burn, a heat born from his frustration; face flaring with fire like he's glaring into a thruster engine, and he digs his nails into his fists as if it would help ground him in any way.

"For fuck sakes," Cato says with every ounce of sincerity in the sopping, wet shivering animal he currently has as one of his hearts. "I-I don't know how to explain this, damn it."

"Are you..." You trail off, squinting. "Are you jealous, Cato?"

He averts his eyes and inhales sharply, trying not to start a scene; even though the temptation to start raging like a fool again immediately rises in him like a tide. He should have anticipated this. So there you stand: a little, biting creature of justice and pent‑up fury, poised to tear into him with the depth of your disappointment—and yet more than anything he's frustrated that you're upset.

It irks him—it irks him he's cornered. However, the reality is that he knows he deserves it. He deserves this ridicule.

Well before all of this, he'd been irked at the thought another would get to you first. Now, after everything, he's irked for exactly the opposite reason. Cato's aware of the fact he's ever seized by the neurotic vice of fussing that another would take you from him. He is always on the offensive. It's the best defense he's ever known. That obsessive need to strike before being attacked rarely fails. Because if his brothers find out about you, what's to really stop them? By intention or not, whether in malice or in lust, what's to stop them having the tiny slice of peace you offer him ripped away?

"I'm not jealous," Cato says hurriedly, lying through his teeth as he walks away with you still in tow—marching up to the blast door ahead and thumbing in the access code. "Astartes do not get jealous."

You open your mouth to speak, and Cato looks over his shoulder to watch you.

But you promptly shut your mouth, and go so wide-eyed that he can see the entire circle of your iris in your sclera.

Just because the cosmos always intends foremost to fucking punish him, the doors have revealed anything but another empty hallway.

Severus Agemman, heightened by the Rubicon, a head and a half taller than Cato—Severus Agemman, in full First company war-gear, and all his adornments, and all his weapons, and all his pomp.

There is a sudden life in Agemman's gaze when he sees you that was stony and far-off in thought a moment ago.

He huffs out a very not-Astartes-like shocked breath.

"Ambassador," Agemman greets softly with a downward tip of his bald head. "It is good to finally meet you in person, my lady."

If Cato was stupid... shut up—he'd have missed the fractional millisecond of proud puffing up Severus lets slip.

"First Captain," you manage to collected yourself surprisingly fast and offer a bow, not serf-low, but just enough to show you mean it. "The feeling is mutual, my Lord. I am thankful for your correspondence, and your tolerance regarding my questions."

"Hopefully, before my departure we will have time to meet to discuss the letters, Lady," Severus notes, voice still level but—but Cato can hear the subvocal purr to it that escapes your baseline ears. "I would very much like to schedule a meeting, there is much I could not disclose to you over wider channels. I would also like to properly apologise for my outburst over the holo, it was... inappropriate."

Cato bites the inside of his cheek, holding a one-way staring contest with Agemman like an aggrieved widow.

Inappropriate doesn't even begin to cover the first thing about the situation. You'd been terrified, and fuck, he's going to make it his life goal to be there when that meeting takes place. Not to say Cato cares what Agemman has to blab on about—he could care less for the idle vapourings of a mind so hollowed out it probably had an echo when his vox-bead chirped.

Cato only wants to be there to put the fear of the Emperor into Agemman. He wants to stand in the corner and polish his bolter the entire time. Preferably with a live round still in the chamber, just in-case he gets too friendly.

Truthfully, Cato's opinion of Severus seesaws depending on his mood. Well, more accurately, his opinion seesaws depending on exactly how close Severus is to him quantum super-position-wise. The further away the First Captain is in realspace from Cato, the less judgemental he is. The closer, the more Cato wants to go off like a primed meltabomb.

That is to say, Agemman is so stuck up, and so out of touch, that he is surely the only Captain in this entire Chapter who could polish the chandeliers of Guilliman's study with his nose—simply thanks to the fact he is constantly looking over and out above everybody. And that hubris is all the more jarring considering his brain could revolve inside an ammo casing for a thousand years, and never touch the sides.

"It's of no consequence, my Lord, also I only returned aboard today so you are in luck regarding a meeting," you note lightheartedly, utterly oblivious. "Our Lord Primarch has me on a rest period."

"Truly?" Agemman blinks, "I hope he has not been underutilising your skills."

It's a joke. It's Severus' piss poor attempt at a joke and, seething, Cato sucks the other side of his cheek between his teeth alongside the former.

"Nothing of the sort," You gesticulate vaguely, caught a little unawares by the flattering; only to breathe a soft huff out from your nose and shake your head, "I was slightly injured in my last venture. Our Lord has only put me on to the sidelines temporarily, I assure you. I'm not shelved just yet... or so I hope."

"That would be a surprising turn of events," Agemman smiles with his eyes, but the expression sloughs off his features a second later. "I am not surprised, however, by the presence of... Commander Sicarius," he remarks at last, dragging his gaze up from you.

Coldly, all he can really get out is a curt; "Why are you here, Severus?"

Cato refuses forgets to politely use the Captain's surname in his words. He also purposely spontaneously happens to forget to keep the venom out of it.

"Marneus requested me," Agemman says with a sharp inhale, as if he's been called to battle rather than called to have a conversation over a glass of Amasec. Which isn't very far off from the truth considering the way Calgar runs his conversations. "Apparently, there's new developments needing to be addressed, and subsequently resolved."

Cato grunts, "And those would be...?"

"Sicarius, you're the only one between us both who's primarily on board for long swaths of time," he fills, frowning at him the whole while. It's not exactly anger. The stare is intense, nearly burning Cato with the sudden burst of focus he riddles on him. It's a little weird. "I would think you, especially, would be privy to the developments by now."

An eternal fight to not roll his eyes seizes Cato at having to endure the cryptic slop—and he decides sneering out, "If it's a need-to-know basis, I suppose it's well beyond my station," is the best plan of action.

Agemman simply stares at him, and his frown falls away.

It's actually quite jarring to see the man do that, if Cato's honest. It's rare to see confusion show on his face. He looks flabbergasted, disbelieving of the whole situation. The last time Agemman had looked so stunned, it was after Damnos; when Cato had clawed his way out a coma, bolted out of a healing pod bare-arsed, and threw himself on the warpath.

Agemman blinks a few times, swallows the saliva in his mouth and sighs, suddenly resigned to the whole interaction.

"Very well, Cato..." he tuts, and turns to look at you. Another strange flash of expression lights Agemman's features as he meets your gaze. "I must be off, I fear—but I will be in contact for that meeting. It has been a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Lady Ambassador."

You bow again, "And I, you, my Lord."

"I do hope Commander Sicarius is a forgiving escort," Agemman nods, tipping his chin down politely; and starts on his way. As he strides past Cato, he quickly adds, "Try to maintain some decorum, would you?"

But before Cato acts on the urge to bark out something absolutely vile in answer, Agemman is a fair way down the corridor. It's no longer as satisfying a time to snark with the man so long gone. Damn longer Primaris legs and their quicker pace.

"I hate that bastard," Cato uffishly mumbles, plowing forwards.

You grumble softly, "You don't think what he said to you was strange?"

He scoffs, "It's Agemman, he's always strange. Always a pain. Always a disciplinarian."

Another soft grumble leaves you as you say: "If you say so... anyways, I think it's my turn for interrogating," You suddenly blurt out, sneering a tad as you hasten forward to his side and take a whiff. "Why do you smell... like that?"

You're giving him a look that means you're likely about to start nagging him further, which is honestly a solace in some respect—you still enjoy him enough to bicker, clearly. So he takes that as a sign he hasn't fucked something else up, somehow.

"I've been on the observation bridge," Cato answers matter-of-factly.

You raise a brow, "For how long?"

Cato doesn't answer, because if he does, you'll take it in stride.

"How long, Commander?"

That choice of title isn't good, nor is the tone; that tone means 'tell me, now' or suffer your tiny, niggling wrath.

He grits his teeth and huffs, "Since... your leave."

"Cato!" You bark.

"I know," He groans, raising a hand to his brow and massaging the crease between them. "I know, I know... I'll bathe as soon as—"

A hand suddenly lands on his stomach, halting him. He looks down, sees your palm on his tunic, and glances around.

You're outside your quarters. He hadn't even noticed you'd both neared, let alone arrived. Too practiced at scurrying to your door to realise his feet kept a well-trained path to it.

You thumb in your code and slide in as the entry opens, ushering him in.

The smell of you inside is a little stale after your absence, but it's still in every atom of the room.

You disappear into the en-suite and Cato huffs when you start making demands of him immediately.

"Lose the robes, Sicarius," a clatter of things moving in the washroom resound, "You're cleaning up here."

Shedding his tunic is an easy matter if not for the belt holding up his Tempest Blade being a but finicky. But when both are finally off, Cato realises just how much the tunic stinks—and just how much he does, too. He holds the fabric bundle for a while, sniffing himself on it curiously until you walk into the en-suite and start slowly disrobing too.

He immediately loses any interest he had in his own tunic and starts to stare like a hungry wolf, standing there in the dacks as more and more of your skin comes on display.

You're done well before he realises he's still dumbly watching, and you start to shove at him.

He ducks a little to get under the threshold of the door as usual, and spots the shower. It's of hybrid construct, meaning the allowance of water to your quarters grants that you do, in fact, receive an actual wash between the humming of vibrations lifting debris away. A far, far more luxurious allowance than is given to most baselines upon the vessel. The standard bathing for humans, even aboard the Flagship itself, is strictly pulse driven—the same is not so true for his Brothers, but you don't need to know just how communal the nature of the many balnearies is. Namely because Cato doesn't rightly trust what you'd do with the information. He'd fully expect you to not believe him, purposely go on some investigative hunt, accidentally get lost among the barracks levels, and oh-so-conveniently happen upon two dozen of bare-arsed-as-the-day-they-were-inducted Astartes; like a schoolboy sneaking into a girls locker room.

Okay, that might be an overreaction. But the fact remains, the only ass you're allowed to ogle is his—which is exactly what you're doing, actually. It's a warning shot before you start groping him.

"Don't even think about it," he says sternly as he lets you nudge him into the cubicle.

You scoff, "Move, then."

"I haven't even taken off my—"

"Don't care," you laugh, and promptly turn on the jet system.

Water abruptly sprays him in the face, and he shuts his eyes and curls his lip in a silent snarl, blindly holding his mitts up to block the assault.

His palms find one wall far too close and the other finds much the same—he's too damn big to be in this small space. This shower isn't designed with Astartes in mind.

"Turn it down!" He snaps, and he can hear you trying to hide the fact you're still laughing at him.

You snigger, pulling at his forearm as you say, "Lean this way."

Frowning harshly, he complies and then he's out of the jet stream; blinking the water out of his eyes as the thrum of the pulse systems make droplets scatter mid-fall. His hair is stuck to his forehead, he's still in his bottoms—which are soggy—and he feels all but a wet feline in that instant.

You smile up at him.

He swallows a lump in his throat and stares. He's liable to wish to freeze solid, and Throne, he'd be happy about it if the view before him now would last as long as his petrification would.

Cato's brain then tells him it's absolutely imperative to ogle down at your tits for an extended period of time. He watches the water track down each globe, and imagines one of them in his mouth.

That thought shatters about all the impulse control Cato has.

He grunts, wrapping an arm around you in a concise motion, and... immediately all that cunning falls short to an overbearing embrace as he leans against you. He can't manage anything more in the small space. Still, you bear yourself back, letting him use his advantage as leeway to press forward. One arm shifting from clutching under your cleavage to kneading a breast, and Cato groans. The soaked fabric barely even a hindrance to the bliss of him rolling his hips, slowly rutting against your rear.

"You still stink, you know," he hears you say, but doesn't stop grinding. Even if that tone of yours makes it clear you're scolding him.

He hums in agreement, not really listening still, all but using your nice, cozy rump as a tool for his enjoyment. His mouth brushes against the side of your throat, indulging while maintaining shallow rolls of his hips; he holds you close, too content to let you get away.

You involuntarily moan for him at the brash drag of tongue. All too receptive to him mapping from the curve of your trapezius to under your ear, mouth garnishing flesh with soft bites and warm kisses.

"Cato, y-you're not putting anything in me until that's dealt with," you chide, in vain.

He hums again against your flesh, a decent approach to ignoring your words, biting down a little harder at the skin one your neck-side.

"Ah—'m not falling for your charms, Cato," You gasp, trying to wriggle to disengage him, but despite your complaints you're clearly steadily being convinced that letting him pound you in this pathetic little cubicle is a stellar idea. He can almost imagine it, so hot and wet that he wonders how he hasn't lost his mind yet.

While he's distracted, you manage to pull away. But Cato only realises it when the feeling of your plump ass departs from humping-range, and he grumbles dumbly; but not before you announce, "Sit down, you smelly oaf."

He grunts again, leaning in as he lowers himself—pulling you down with him into the cradle of his lap as his attentions sweep down your thighs.

You shimmy a little and reorient yourself to face him as you stay straddled.

"What now?" He sniffs derisively, bowing his head, acquiescing.

"I get demoted to bathing serf, I suppose," You huff as you hook your ankles together behind him, reaching sidelong for the pump-topped bottle on the floor to his left.

Sitting in his cross-legged embrace as the water cascades down over you both, you start to scrub the sides of his jaw.

He definitely has not had his cock this hard around a bathing serf before. That also probably has something to do with the pretty, naked Ambassador in his lap.

Content with your efforts, you pull Cato closer and let the water wash the suds free. Then you move on to his hair.

A long groan leaves him as you scrub his scalp. You apparently don't pay any particular mind to the sound, staying focused even as he leans his head on your shoulder.

"Good?" You pause, waiting for him to answer; but for once, he stays quiet and just squeezes your hips. Once you're apparently satisfied with the lather, you start to work on the back of his head; but are halted when you apparently feel his lips ghost over the skin aside your neck. 

He starts placing kisses again, trailing up just shy of your jaw, before going back down. Cato fights down a smug comment at the airy sigh his affections earn. He does it once more, and he swears he can practically feel the proximal heat rushing to your face even though you don't not say anything; only shuddering when his tongue grazes over your skin again. He takes his time, licking the water off your collarbone, now.

"Fuck..." you breathe out ever so softly.

With a low laugh, he dignifies the needy little curse of yours—though not before pressing his cheek to your temple—and palming your ass in one big mitt.

"We ought to," he adds, groping harder until you've got a fist-full of his hair tightly in your grasp.

Somehow, impossibly, the minor discomfort makes him hyper aware of his cock, and he rocks his hips to roll his confined erection right against your cunt.

He hears the whine you partially fail to swallow down, "Cato, n-not here."

"Why not?" He grits out, nosing at your wet hair.

Your fingers fall away from his head, "There's no room, it won't w-work."

"We—" he starts, "We can at least try, just... lie down."

You roll your eyes and scoot backwards off his lap. Almost instantly, he becomes aware of the fact you're right. But he refuses to admit it immediately. You're half in the cubicle, and half on the tiles outside it.

Cato kneels and then tries to arch over you between your spread legs, to some mild success.

Some of his hair falls forward on to his forehead and he scowls, so he shakes his head to displace the strands that stick from itching and goes cross eyed for a second. Finally reaching up and swiping them back before looking down at you with a grimace.

You look smugly up at him, and a frustrated growl is all he can really offer.

With an almost held back smile, you mumble; "I told you it wouldn't work," and slip away out from under him.

"You—hm..." Cato stops himself. He would've continued, if not for the good look at your ass he's gets as you make to stand and reach for your towel.

"What was that, Cato?" Your laugh is muffled by you scrubbing your towel over you head and hair.

"Nothing," he grunts petulantly, settles back into a kneel, and then promptly gets up; shimmying his saturated unders off his hips, down this thighs—before finally stepping out of them.

After elbowing the water dial off, he turns to you.

For some reason you look unnecessarily cute swaddled in a fluffy white towel.

You ought've stayed bare, the part of his mind that wants to bury a bone brays lowly. It's not as if anyone can see your immodest little rump gallivanting about in the privacy of your quarters—well, besides him of course.

More than anything, Cato's mental tirade is born of the fact he's none too happy to be robbed of the chance to take another well-earned eyeful of you; but you've clearly taken to that role, seeing as you've started staring at him.

Cato contemplates it for a moment, and pretends not to feel the burning of your eyes glued to his navel.

It feels... nice, to be beheld like this. He always used to puff his chest out when met by a crowd, sure. But this is different. And Throne knows he'll never pass up an opportunity to turn his nose up and—and... act the peacock noble knight on your behalf.

He certainly doesn't look the part right now, though. He needs a haircut, again, and he needs to shave, again.

"This is getting ridiculous," Cato grumbles, watching you in the mirror as you fix your eyes on his side profile.

You seem like you're disassociating, really.

Your pupils are blown wide, honed in and focused on something about his face; yours looks a little hot—a little too fixed on him—probably boiling with thoughts of nagging him rattling around an empty skull, no doubt.

You blink owlishly and shake your head a little to wake yourself from your distraction, and promptly chirp, "Hm? Sorry... what's ridiculous?"

"Me," Cato starts, glancing at you. "I look as unkempt as I had after my stint in the Warp."

A sudden confusion graces your features as you furrow your brows, "You'd been stuck in the Warp?"

"You didn't know?" He snorts, "I'm surprised you hadn't heard it from Guilliman."

"He mentioned something about you being unaccounted for briefly during the his return," You begin softly, and your scowl shifts into a glum little frown. "But I hadn't thought it was that bad... how stuck are we talking?"

He grunts vapidly and looks away.

"Sicarius, wait... was it—was it that bad?"

Cato sighs, "Yes."

"Are you okay?"

The question makes him hesitate. He's not really even thought to ask himself that, he mentally scolds. Truth be told, the notion of introspection regarding it was not a fond one—some have asked him vaguely similar questions about it in passing, and he's answered—but doing so now makes his posture stiffen and his jaw set tight, trying his best to seem stoic.

Cato purses his lips, inhaling sharply through his nose, "I don't really..." he acquiesces, only to immediately stop himself to rephrase; deciding it better to ease in on the topic and cover his slip up by pretending to clear his throat abruptly, "As with all interactions with the Immaterium, my experience was... abhorrent."

"Cato," you fuss, and he finally looks back to you to find you look even more concerned than before, "That wasn't the question."

"I'm fine, woman," he snaps out. "Let it be."

Your small hand glides up his oblique as you continue accosting him with your eyes, "Are you sure you're fine?"

"I only hear screams sometimes," he says hurriedly all of a sudden, his mouth betraying him, and he's well aware of the fact he's flaying a piece of himself to speak it aloud. You look downright wilted when his tall statures sags a little and he mumbles, "It's the screaming I hate most."

It makes his chest hurt hearing how shaky your voice becomes as you softly inquire, "Who's screams?"

"The others onboard—my brothers," he fills quickly.

The lack of words you offer before you sigh has him feeling a bit bared well beyond the mere physical for a moment. That is, before you take a step closer; and snare him in an embrace.

He doesn't know how to react.

Part of him still stomps and snorts and carries on like a petulant, brutish Neophyte that he's not meant to be rolling over to show his soft underbelly—but the majority of him wants to lean into it, even if you'd probably be tipped over and squished with his full bulk weighing on you.

"Oh, Cato... what are we going to do with you?" You warble softly, and a part of his chest feels heavy with a sudden bloated heat. Your small hands pet stripes down his flanks, trailing softly over the large scar on his side; and it's all-in-all hard to fight the tender, drawn out hum that steals away from him.

He's not going to deny the affection. Because Cato is well aware he's hook, line, and sinker'd when the matter of being at your behest arises in his mind—hell, he's probably chewing on a good bit of the rod at this point as usual, too.

"Enough of that," he tuts at last, and carefully—ever so carefully unhooks your wandering hands from his form and moves you aside.

You pout at him, "Why?"

"Because I want you to go and get my knife," he says not a second later, moving toward his reflection and scratching at the coarse fluff of his jaw.

A small scoff is all the answer he receives before you repeat, "Why?"

Back to the your typical ambassadorial programming, then. A thousand and one painfully innocuous questions, a million new haughty, oh-so-incessant back and forths of why, why, why, slowly driving him to insanity—forever making it easier and easier to justify pounding you insensible if only to shut you up for a while. Certainly only for that reason. You can't bite back at his remarks or poke holes in his tirades if you're drooling from your cervix being used for blunted target practice.

"Because, I'm going to grate this bloody shrub off my chin," he grounds out with a slow, tired blink.

You're suddenly clawing at him like some aggrieved widow, and Cato hisses, proverbial hackles rising up like an angry tom.

"Don't you get handsy with me, you little shit," he all but yowls. "Either I trim my hair or my beard, pick one."

"No," your voice shrills like an approach siren, ever the over-dramatic. "You can't make me."

"I absolutely can," Cato growls, "You're lucky to even have a say in the matter, damn you, now choose."

A long suffering whine tears from you as you protest wordlessly.

Cato stares at you for a long moment, contemplating; taking in the sum of your theatrics, and ultimately finding them compelling enough to humour.

He's wrangling you up the very next instant and promptly dumping your rear in the bowl of the sink.

It's not exactly as easy as it should be for his strength class; but considering the fact you're still slippery from your wash, it's complex—and he's already half saturated with the runoff.

"What are you—" you yelp, fumbling awkwardly at the angle you're suddenly uncomfortably stuck in, only to be quickly silenced by him leaning close.

The gesture apparently transfixes you.

He doesn't say anything, just breathes in slowly, and then carefully leans closer still.

You shrink back a little where you're seated in the sink, pointedly looking up at him as he boxes you between his own bulk and the mirror.

Your legs splay to accommodate; and damn, if the act isn't welcoming.

"Cato," you whine, fussing—so painfully wanton it's almost unbearable to deny.

The towel parts, and the skin of one of your thighs peeks free. It's warm, and you're so terribly keen that just the heavy drag of his large, calloused palm over your exposed leg has your breath quickening.

A gruff snort leaves him, brow raised at the sudden eager display.

"Just can't help but meet me with spread legs, can you?" He snipes at last.

You pant a small, disbelieving laugh, "You're absolutely insufferable sometimes."

"Only sometimes?" Cato smirks, hyper-aware of the air being shared between you both.

He can really smell the soaps you used, now—they're saturating his senses, mixing with the hormone reek of molasses steadily spiking the air. But it's—it's a little different—it's a little thicker than it usually is in his vomeronasal passage.

Your gaze slides from his eyes to his bearded mouth.

All the more reason to greedily take the opportunity to press it to yours.

His tongue lathes against your lip, before managing to slide straight in to meet your own. It's not a good angle. He can't arch as low as he seeks to, nor lift you to level with him. But if he's to choose between practically lapping at your tonsils or not, there's no way he's settling for the latter. There's a messiness to the whole kiss borne of some sudden, charged desperation—whether it's yours or his matters little—and he's certainly not going to shrug off the small fingers now carding through the hair at his temples and the others cupping his jaw. Then your hands move, arms tangling around the back of his neck as you redouble the press of your tongue against his.

You don't seem to be complaining.

At least, not yet.

But eventually you do softly whimper before you pull away for air, panting hard, saliva stringing out between you both.

In a haze, you peek your tongue out over your bottom lip and suck the mix of yours—plus an Astartes' spit—right back in.

Cato hums, and mirrors the gesture.

Then he pauses.

Your saliva tastes... sweeter than usual, too, which is strange.

He opts to ignore that for the time being and scoops you out of the basin to stand again.

Cato tips your chin up and guides your head to face yourself in the mirror over your shoulder, letting you turn with the gesture.

"See? It rubs you raw," he grumbles, "I'm getting rid of it."

There's a sour little scowl painting your features in the reflection alongside the friction-borne irritation around your maw.

"I don't care," you hiss.

He scoffs, "You look like you're anaphylactic."

The sneer that paints your face is so utterly toothless a display he can't help but laugh a little.

"Get the knife, or I'll make myself as bald all over as Agemman," he taunts plainly, still smirking.

You scowl, "You wouldn't."

"Want to bet?"

"You're lying."

"I'll more than happily allow the attendants to toast every hair off my body if only to win out on a bet," Cato says with a raised brow.

You huff and puff, but ultimately opt to disappear for a moment through the doorway in a soft rhythm of bare footsteps, only to reappear with the large drop point blade he gifted you in hand.

It's amusing seeing such a large weapon in your small grasp. You're two-handing the little scabbard like a sword as you hand it to him.

Dipping down to turn the faucet and splash some water up from the sink on his chin, he reaches for a rather sad looking bar of soap and scrubs it against his jaw to a lather. The handle of his blade balances easily in his palm as he unsheathes it and brings it up to his face.

You make some grumpy, feckless sound, knitting your brows as you lean over to fix your gaze on his foam covered beard once again.

Cato moves as if about to drag the edge along his cheek in the direction of his stubble; he knows the act well, so well he often does it himself instead of delegating it to attendants—it's a series of slow, methodical swipes, rinsing the blade every so often under the faucet—before mirroring the same technique on the other side. Then he'd tilt his head back, mimicking the same downward strokes on the underside of his jaw before pursing his mouth taut and starting on the mustache plaguing his top lip. The fact he's not starting the task he's done thousands of times before is more the result of curiosity than anything... namely aimed at a certain little pest of an Ambassador peering closer and closer.

You lean in so close Cato can feel you breathing.

Then again, that is probably because you've started inhaling and exhaling harshly from your nose.

He meets your gaze.

"Cato... please," you warble, misty eyed.

He scowls, "Why not?"

"Don't," you warble again, even whinier this time.

"Give me one good reason."

It's apparently a leviathan task for you to do. Suddenly you're cringing and dithering, stalling for time like a dolt—until eventually, he's finally met with a mumbled:

"I... like it."

"That's it?" Cato quirks his lip, "You like it?"

"I..." the forced harrumph you make to clear your not-clogged throat only makes the fact of just how embarrassed you are about the matter more apparent; but still, you carry on, "I really like it."

Finally, Cato's chance to give you a taste of your own medicine arrives and he sharply asks, "Why?"

"Is me liking it not enough of a reason?" You supply nervously, glancing up, gesticulating.

"No, it's not," Cato counters.

Your face scrunches up, and you meet his eyes again, more irate than shameful now, "Screw you, maybe I also like how it—it..." your confidence putters out and you're left grimacing, holding back.

"Go on," Cato taunts, "Where's that silver tongue of yours, Ambassador?"

You're flustered, and thoroughly goaded, and your words spill out like they're only held back by a sieve, "It feels, nice... when you're... lower."

Of course, you like a nice, coarse Astartesian carpet to sit yourself on. It's a filthy, egregious statement—but it's true—you really are partial to a bit of fine seating as a spoiled little diplomat, aren't you?

"Happy now?" You grit out, still trying your best to seem unfazed.

"I could be happier," Cato chuffs, self-content, or much rather... plotting.

"That sounds ominous," You scoff, shuffling on your feet before placing your hand over his as he slots the blade in it's scabbard, and rests it on the sink-top.

With his attention now unburdened, he moves you to slide between his bulk and the basin easily. Your palms settle on his upper pectorals, slowly skating upward through the dusting of hair to paw at his scruffy chin and cheeks.

"You're aware it'd grow back?" Cato says offhandedly, trying not to dignify the triumphant smirk you're wearing.

Your smirk turns into a pout as you grumble, "Haven't you tormented me enough for a night?"

Cato doesn't even think before he answers, "No," and promptly drops to his knees.

He's so quick about dropping to his knees and scooping your lower half up on his shoulders you yelp in surprise. It's only a matter of arching ever so slightly forward to stuff his face between your thighs, towel be damned.

It sloughs to the floor with a half-hearted slop. And finally, Cato's got his eyeful. You're—you're absolutely sopping wet. Throne of Terra, the sight is mouth wateringly obscene. He's stunned because you're supposed to be spotless as a power-washed rig after the shower you'd both had, and yet you're dripping slick well before he drags the thick, solid flat of his tongue up from hole to hood.

An indulgent suck at your clit has you wriggling already.

"...ngh, Cato," you pant, squirming like you're trying to not fall slack as you fight to keep your elbows up on the sink top. It's a very intense reaction to him only starting on you, but he doesn't bemoan his lot until a heady wave of something lights up his Omophagea like a struck match. Something's different, something he couldn't discern under the spray of water on your skin earlier. You definitely taste different—ever so slightly, but enough that he's hyper fixated on the change.

He takes the opportunity to give you another long, greedy lick and you shiver; partially losing your grip and settling with only an elbow keeping you angled up.

One hand sinks into his hair, but your upper arm slams back against the surface. A little 'ouch' snags his attention and he pauses, letting up slightly to look and assess.

"Still a little bruised," you keen.

He hesitates, "What? What happened now?"

Breathless, you take a few seconds to gather your words before saying, "I-Implant extraction."

Cato's tone is plainly egregious, "You had it taken out?"

"I was about to tell you, if you hadn't jumped my bones the second we stopped bickering, Commander Sicarius."

Never mind acknowledging the backtalk, he's too stunned to indulge; all he can say is, "It's gone?"

You are absolutely precious.

“I can’t imagine being locked up all alone here for all this time for just being born the way you are…” 

He tastes the copper tang of blood as he bites his lip, utterly captivated as you look straight into his eyes with neither fear nor revulsion at his draconic features, like all those that damned his kind into this hell.

His nostrils flare as he inhales your scent in the air, practically tasting the sweetness of your pheromones beckoning out to him. Like ripe, untouched fruit, he’s practically salivating at the knowledge of an adorably naive, fertile, and unmated little dragoness serving herself up to him on a golden platter after more than a millennium of captivity.

Despite his best efforts at keeping his expressions neutral, his traitorous tail was all too determined to seek yours out. Almost as if it had a mind of its own, it slithered about your own smooth ivory-colored appendage, which contrasted greatly to his own dark armored one.

It was not unlike watching snakes perform a mating dance as the male of the pair seemingly coaxed and flirted with yours in a way that comes naturally to all dragonkin.

“Oh shit— I mean, sorry! I’ve never had any problems with my tail before, and I promise that this is the first time it's acted like this!” 

You look positively ravishing as you try to wrap your arms around your tail to no avail, as it keeps slipping out to continue its version of footsies with his own. It takes all of his remaining restraint not to just mount you on the crumbling floors then and there.

“‘Tis no trouble. It’s been too long since I’ve encountered another such as I, and I assume it’s the same for you as well. So, it’s only natural to feel elated,” he lies smoothly, noting how you simply take his words at face value and cementing the fact that you know little to nothing about your kind.

That’s alright, because he has many, many years to teach you everything you need to know.

Placing a clawed hand on the small of your back, he leads you forward and takes care with every step not to let you notice that he is at the very end of his rope as you continuously tempt him to knot you with the sway of your hips and your scent taunting him.

Ancestors save him from this new hell in the form of a little, unwitting temptress.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your eyes widen into saucers as your new companion and only friend in this new world opens his maw to unfurl his serpentine tongue, the forked tip capturing your gaze in particular. However, you aren’t given the opportunity to ogle any longer as that same thing dips into your cunt as he holds your legs wide open and feasts upon you like a man starved. Even as you thrashed and writhed in pleasure as he reached into depths you’ve never touched or knew existed, his grip is firm and tongue unrelenting in its assault.

When you cum into his awaiting mouth, your body feels almost boneless as you slump against the silk blankets and goose-feather pillows he’d used to create a much more comfortable nest. You’d only just mentioned upon first arriving at his old cave that some sort of bedding would allow for a more comfortable rest.

The last thing you expected after he’d turned up with the said silks and pillows the next day that you’d be the one making the most of them.

Not that you were complaining—

“Delicious. The sweetest nectar I can ever hope to consume,” He sounds almost drunk as he unlatches from your pussy, opening his mouth to show the pearlescent liquid that stains it before swallowing.

“I could get drunk on you and you alone and I would be thankful for it…” The deep crimson of his eyes seemed to glow beneath the warm lights within the cave as he held your gaze for a few moments more.

“But I shall save that for another day. For now…” He releases your thighs after pressing one last kiss to each one before he crawls on top of you. 

From your vantage below him, Sylus looks otherworldly as the golden glow coats his body from head to toe and highlighting each bump and ridge. However, it is the long, thick, pulsating cock that seems to swell an almost angry red that captures your attention.

You stare at it, then to your cunt, and then back to it as it twitched beneath your gaze.

The corner of his lips curls up to an amused grin. “Don’t worry, it will fit.” 

Wrapping his arms around your thighs once more, Sylus practically folds your body in half as he drags the length of his cock on your weeping slit that coats it in copious amounts of slick.

“I’ll make sure it fits.”

As the weeping tip slips inside along with the rest of him until he’s balls-deep hilted within, you barely take notice how your body seems to go on autopilot as your tails intertwine and your legs lock around his trim waist. You only feel the heavy drag of his cock as it batters into your gummy walls, tip repeatedly hitting what could only be the entrance of your womb with how deep he was inside.

Your moans echo across the walls of the vast cave along with the unmistakable sounds of your frantic mating. The squelches you hear from each time he bullies his way back inside you make your ears burn in both embarrassment and an undeniable thrill.

“If you keep clenching like that…you’re going to make me think that you want me to put a clutch in you…Is that what you want?” His whispery voice is like a caress against your heated ear as he gives the shell of it a teasing lick.

Maybe it’s the animal brain of the creature you’d turned into, instincts that come naturally to it, tempting you to accept this because both of you were the last dragons left in the world. It is simply your duty to procreate with him to ensure the survival of your species. 

.

.

.

But that’s not the case at all.

You helped him without even knowing he was the last of his kind, which just so happened to be the same as yours. Even if you were both of different species…you’d have helped him regardless. 

You would have fallen in love with him regardless.

So caught up in the addictive feeling of your pussy, Sylus doesn’t notice your hands reaching out to him until your hands gently cup his face. His concentration breaks as he wordlessly gazes down at you in curiosity.

The last thing he expects is for you to pull him down into a kiss, your tongue shyly licking at the seam of his lips until he opens them slightly to meet it with his. Your liplock is as hot, messy, and wet as your cunt as it edges him closer and closer to the brink.

He has never met someone like you, nor does he believe he will ever meet anyone like you ever again. 

You are precious.

So, so precious.

And after this, utterly and irrevocably his.

His teeth clamp onto the junction between your shoulder and neck as his knot finally catches, flooding your pussy with his hot, virile cum as it shoots straight into your womb.

Sylus croons and coaxes you to sleep, your eyelids fluttering in exhaustion as he carefully moves both of you to your sides instead of crushing you with his weight, taking care not to hurt you with his knot still firmly stuck within you.

You were in an activity for extra credits for your vet degree. Your professor, Mr. Smith, gave the opportunity to your class to accompany him to a community out in a rural area, very out of the way if you say so yourself a little bit hidden, but you also haven't been near these areas before so maybe this was normal.

You guys were supposed to help out in the community with the farm animals and check if they were in good living conditions. The activity was set for two and a half weeks and you expected it to be all.

But the animals were in great shape, even if the place was a bit technology lacking, they were great structures and machinery fitting for a comfortable life for the animals. So you guys finished the hands on experience pretty early on the trip.

Some of your classmates were now taking this time as a vacation, others were seeking ways of trying to go home early, you and a couple of the others decided to make the best of this time and try to help out were you could. It was better than nothing and you wanted to give back to the community for taking great care of your group.

It felt great to be able to give back some of the kindness they have showed you. But there was a thing that was kind of bothering you, they were fairly polite, even friendly with the ones that helped out, but there was this constant feeling of being an outsider, like they all were in secret you didn't know about. This feeling of being observed constantly was feeling more of a reality.

The feeling got worst almost at the middle of your stay here, after you played with some of the kids, looking after them to give some of the people you were helping out that day some time to finish their tasks and get some rest.

It was fun for you actually, no longer having time to just play around with all your new responsibilities. The kids actually got very attached to you quite quickly, having someone new that have them cool facts and played with them when they asked was a treat for them. After a whole afternoon of that the kids were spent and after having dinner, and a story from you, they just went to sleep.

The parents thanked you profusely for the help, and you talked a bit into the night. After that the community as a whole seemed to treat you in a kinder way, even more than the others that also helped out, looking for you when they need help in small things, gifting you special treats and just chatting with you. But also they seemed to get you away from “dangerous” jobs, when something was too exhausting or too complex they will seek out some of your classmates and if you happen to be accompanying them the residents will somehow find a way to get you out of the group and doing some simpler task.

It felt weird, but you didn’t think they were doing it in bad faith, maybe they were worried the children will tail you? After all, sometimes the kids follow you around like little ducklings, a cute habit of them on your opinion, so you tried to not look to deep into it.

On the final days of your stay the residents really got used to babying you, in your opinion, someone always was asking if you had eaten something, giving you snacks and someone always had to be with you on the day. You thought it was a bit flattering in a way, about how comfortable they were with you, but also it seemed a bit strange that after all this time they didn’t seem to have half of this consideration with your other classmates. It was even a bit of a joke with some of your friends that you just got adopted by these people.

But sometimes you cached shushed conversations that stopped as soon as you got close, and even when they were taking care of you it didn’t feel exactly like a parent with a child, sure they were babying you, but it felt more like some kind of reverence? Afraid to make you tired or get hurt, but not being able to tell you no. You could have sworn that once you heard someone referring to you as a “holy child” but when you prodded about it they deflected and distracted you from asking again.

The day when your group was schedule you to leave you could sense that everyone was kind of on edge, the residents had this air of sadness and worry about them, you thought it was your idea when one of your friends also pointed that out. Before you all left they gave you all some gifts as a thanks for all the help, but you not only received slightly more than everyone else, you were also gifted a bracelet, it was very cute with a very modern design if you said so yourself, a bit strange considering that they wouldn’t have a place to get something like it out here, but you didn’t have any time to really ask because after the goodbyes you were immediately told to get in the bus.

Your professor had stayed out talking with them when you all were inside, he was talking with someone you couldn’t see very well, it seemed they were comfortable with each other, and at the end they shook hands like finishing some type of deal, when he got back he acted like nothing happened, just telling you all that he will give you reports and grades for the extra credits at the start of the new semester, the trip back going in complete calm as you played with your new bracelet.

You unpacked the last of your belongings in your new adult apartment, you found this really good place when you were hunting down cheap places for uni, at first you were planning to live with some roommates to save on costs, but then you found this extremely good deal for the apartment, something about experimental technology for ease of life, they were looking for someone that would just live a normal day to day and help them get some data to perfect it. Sure the conditions for living here were a bit harsh, just one person per apartment, or certified partners/families, the visiting privileges were a pain, having to disclose in advance if you would have visitors, no pets allowed, and a ton of other things.

BUT rent was very affordable, they had cleaning and laundry services, it was actually very close to a bus stop if you needed to go somewhere, and the neighbors were pretty calm and friendly, at least the couple right beside you were.

They were an older couple, Alexander and Nevan you learned after multiple lunch and dinners you have ended up having with them. Alexander was a business man from what you knew as when you tried to learn more about his career he always deflected telling you it was too boring of a subject for a kid like you, he was a bit intimidating having a natural no-nonsense face, you always felt a bit shy around him, his attention making you feel a bit small and nervous, but somehow he also made you crave his small smiles and words of encouragement. His partner, Nevan was his complete opposite, a warm welcoming smile adorning his face almost at all times you have encountered him, he had a warm calming voice, always there with a listening ear and words of advice when you needed it, Nevan just had an energy that compelled you to trust him and smile wildly when he praised you.

They were pretty nice to you, helping you figuring out some stuff, and dealing with problems, after some time Nevan invited you to have dinner with them when you had free time, and more times than not you would accept, you tried to help make dinner once, but when you tried to arrive early dinner was already on the table, but you could have sworn it would have taken longer to make, not trying to be ungrateful you didn’t bring it up, but you never saw them cooking if it was not to make tea or maybe a snack for you.

And that’s how most of your free time was spent as all the students were overwhelmed with projects and assignments, so having those slow nights talking with your neighbors felt pretty great. But as soon as you started to go out with friends things started to become more tense with them.

They weren’t really happy with you started to deny their invitations for dinner so you could go out with others, if you spent more than 5 minutes after 7 out they were messaging you and asking where were you, why are you late, and god forbid they catch the smell of alcohol when you were back, earning you a lecture about safety and how alcohol is bad for you, even if they did drink and you have seen them doing so, when you pointed that out they told you that children shouldn’t be doing it, ignoring that technically you already are an adult.

A notice suddenly went around from the administrators of the building about some safety concerns and that they would be a bit harder on times for some months, so now you all had a curfew on when to enter the apartment, you almost had to run from the classroom to reach the bus stop to reach your building before the curfew and to avoid the penalty of arriving late, after a few times of this, and whining about it to your neighbors, Alexander told you he could pick you up after class, but that you will need to be on time because he likes to avoid the traffic. You were grateful about not having to sprint home so you said yes.

Thanks to that you ended up having even less time to hang out with friends, and even in weekends you felt too bad saying no to them when they told you they wanted to invite you over to hang out or when Nevan asked you to accompany him to do groceries, and at the end you fell in this routine of coming after class to have dinner with them, Nevan giving you a packed lunch to take to uni and on the days that you felt a bit lazy or overslept Alex dropped you off, to then everyday pick you up and repeating the process.

Your friends and classmates started to ask if they were your parents, and even when you said no, they started to think you felt just ashamed of still being taken care of by your dads. You felt a little bit trapped, but that was overshadowed by the gratitude and feeling of being in debt to them for being so nice to you, even when they didn't need to. Everyday feeling more like their adopted child rather than their neighbor, but as the days passed you felt less annoyed by that, almost just slipping in the role without noticing. Getting them little presents that reminded you a bit of them, trying to surprise them with nice things to show how grateful you were, they were just so nice, you felt like you needed to match it to be fair to them, but it always felt like taking a cup of water out of the ocean, not making a dent on the imaginary debt you had to them.

It wasn’t until your summer break that you felt your relationship with them had something wrong about it.

It was the first of the break, your friends and you decided to plan a sleepover together as you haven’t been able to hang out together lately. You, of course told Nevan and Alex about your plans, excited to share it with them, but their reaction wasn’t what you expected. They immediately told you how that was a bad idea, how dangerous would it be for you to stay over with “strangers”, giving you every single reason why you could get in trouble, how your friends looked like trouble and how unappreciated you were in that group. After your real first fight you told them you would go whether they like it or not, that they aren’t your parents and you aren’t a child, for them to decide what you could do or not. That comment seem to affect them a bit, Alex looked as hurt as he could be, but Nevan had this look in his eyes, something that made you feel small like you just made a terrible misstep. You went to your own apartment that sadly felt more alien than theirs as you spend so little time in it.

You packed your trip bag ignoring the calls and knocks on your door, for some reason inside all that anger you felt guilty, guilty about ignoring them, about not obeying them and staying home with them. But you couldn’t understand why.

The next day you got up really early in the morning and as fast as you could get out of the apartment complex. You spent the weekend at your friend’s house, you realized how much you missed them, the whole time you kept your phone turned off, too scared to see if they were angry or disappointed with you, always on the back of your mind about how you just left them after the fight, you constantly have to remind yourself that they don't need you, you aren't even family, even if you have gotten very attached to them and saying it out loud kinda stings a bit. Your friends after hearing about your problem told you that you don't owe them anything, and you had every right to do what you wanted.

On Monday you went back to class as if nothing bad had happened, trying to ignore the guilt of avoiding them. Your plan for the day was to make sure to get out later than your normal so you could avoid them just for a bit more. You could have sworn that in the middle of the day you saw Alex’s car around, but when you tried to look for it again it disappeared.

Later you had class with Mr. Smith, but when your group tried to enter class the door was locked, which was strange because you could hear him having a conversation with someone inside. Once your classmate tried to enter they both became silent, and after some shuffling Mr Smith opened the door, looking inside no one else seemed to be there, but no one commented about it.

But as strange as it was you thought Mr. Smith seemed to be looking intensely at you, after a bit he called out your name and told you to stay after class, and when he announced a group activity he made sure to put you in a group far from your friends.

When everyone was gone he told you there seem to be some trouble with some of your assignments, and it will probably affect you being able to pass his class. That completely floored you, it isn’t like you were a straight A student, but you were a pretty decent one so this news was just bonkers to you. Thankfully he gave you a solution, to accompany him to his office so you could fix this problem together, identify your missing assignments and try to fix it.

On the way there you noticed how empty the halls were, not too strange as it was becoming very late, a better excuse for you to go later to your apartment, or not at all.

He entered his office and told you to follow him after a bit, closing the door behind you when you did so. You looked around his office for a second, noticing how messy it was, that would explain how your assignments probably got lost, but it was weird, as you knew him and being a very tidy man normally.

Before you could ask him were to start you heard some steps and a hand shot up to cover your mouth, as you felt something pricking you. You tried to trash around, but before making any significant progress on that you started to feel very droopy, limbs starting to fail you, and after a minute or two you almost dropped to the floor if not by your professor holding you.

He dragged you to a chair and left you there as he made a call. Your brain started to fog up, making harder to really understand what was happening. Words like “being ready” and “not overly harmed” swimming around the edge of your recognition. After what felt like hours someone entered the room, your professor was… bowing? To them. And some type of conversation was going on. You felt a hand brushing through your hair, it felt nice, recognizable in a way. And as they went to carry you, you felt that you could recognizes those warm welcoming eyes before the darkness took you.

Nevan took you out of his husband’s car, the moon going down as the sun started to rise. People were waiting for him on the front of the apartment complex, they bowed to him and offered to carry you to the treatment room. With a warning gaze they quickly got the message that they shouldn’t touch you for now.

He made his way to his own apartment, entering what seemed like service room, to then open a secret door, inside it was an all-white room, lights always on and no windows on sight, he left you on the bed before kissing you on the forehead.

Oh how happy he was that you were finally back home, he was so mad when that dirty trash took you from him, helping you hide even if for only a day or two. But don’t worry little angel, he will make sure to erase those silly thoughts of leaving your family from your mind, exterminating all the impurities that those pigs have put in you.  

If all goes according to plan he could take you back to the commune where you belong and his people are waiting to see his dear child once again.

-----------.* ✶  ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✧ ₍ᐢ•ﻌ•ᐢ₎✧ ꒱ ˎˊ˗  ✶ *.-----------

The feeling was so unsettling that you unconsciously wandered towards the edge of the restaurant district, where you stumbled across a road leading to a large, traditional bath house. Deciding not to wander too far, and still unsettled by the emptiness of it all, you settled down on a large rock beside the path.

From your backpack you withdrew your sketchbook and pencils, deciding to try and draw the majestic bath house. You forced away the lingering anxiety and put your pencil to paper. After all, you probably wouldn't get halfway through your sketch before you heard your parents calling for you and you wanted to remember this.

You let your mind lock into your work, focusing only on the page in front of you. You had just finished the bare outline of the sketch and were about to start on the finer details when someone cleared their throat beside you.

You jumped, whirling around to see a boy. He looked a bit older than you, maybe 16 or 17? He was watching you from the path leading from the bath house. He almost looked like a normal teenager with messy black hair and a bored expression on his face that was starting to morph into one of subtle intrigue. However, his clothes were traditional and expensive looking, and your gut was screaming at you that something was wrong with him.

"You seem a little young to be on your own. Are you lost?" He asked. His voice was friendly enough, and it was clear he was trying not to scare you, but you just shook your head and went back to your drawing. The boy didn't seem to get the hint that you were done interacting as he didn't move on. 

"It would be wrong of me to leave a child all alone." He said, when you finally gave in and glanced back up at him.

"I'm not a child." You huffed, comparing your sketch to the building in front of you. The boy just grinned, stepping off the path and gracefully settling down on the grassy ground between you and the path.

"Sure, sure. So, 'not-a-child', what's your name?" He asked.

"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers." You answered, getting a bit annoyed. Clearly the boy had no intention of leaving you alone. But, the unease you had felt at the desertion of this place was starting to fade, so you weren't entirely opposed to him staying there.

"Well, my name is Aspen. I live with my father and brother and our family owns the bath house." He said. He started talking about random things while you finished up the details on your sketch.

When you were finally happy with the sketch, you placed down your sketchbook and stood up to stretch. Aspen stared up at you from where he lay on the grass, watching as you dug around in your backpack. When you finally found the snack you had packed for yourself you joined him on the grass.

It quickly became clear that the grass was way more comfortable than the rock you'd been sitting on. The sun was warm but the breeze kept everything a perfect temperature. You opened your snack, pausing when you saw Aspen staring at you.

"Why would you go for that," he gestured at your snack. "When there's food all around? I'm sure you saw all the restaurants down there. I can attest that the food is quite... divine."

"I'm good." You said, enjoying your snack away from the emptiness of the food district. Even if the scent of the food still wafted over when the wind blew just right, it was too strange of a situation for you to feel comfortable. 

Your answer seemed to entrance the boy who tilted his head in curiosity. However, he quickly went back to his aimless chatting as the both of you enjoyed the nice afternoon. Unfortunately, the tranquility couldn't last forever.

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When the sun began to set your unease at the silence returned tenfold. You still hadn't heard anything from your parents or siblings and were beginning to think that they had forgotten about you. So you decided to be the bigger person and go looking for them.

Aspen watched with curiosity as you tucked your sketchbook and pencils back into your bag and stood from your spot on the grass. You'd finished all your snacks in the time you'd been sitting there as well as completing your drawing and having time to color it in.

Aspen caught up to you as you began to walk, gently grabbing ahold of your arm. 

"The... locals... aren't the fondest of outsiders," he explained. "So I'll walk with you. They should leave you alone then."

So, you let him walk with you. The sun had fully disappeared and the moon was rising. The smell of delicious food grew stronger the closer you walked but you didn't look up from your feet until a light came on.

One by one, the booths all around you lit up. The light seemed welcoming but the patrons and staff told a different story. Some of them looked human, with some extra limbs or tails or twitching animal ears. Others...? Other's were nothing even close, a strange shadow with eyes like stars staring out of a black void.

They went about their business, chatting and sitting at the booths and being served food while you looked on in horror. It was Aspen squeezing your hand that snapped you out of it and you turned to him, eyes wide.

He still looked human for the most part but two delicate looking fox ears had appeared on top of his head and several bushy tails sprouted from his lower back. His eyes, once a regular hazel, seemed to glow golden in the dim lighting. He grinned at you, his mouth full of sharp teeth.

"You're quite the lucky little human, aren't you?" He asked. He was practically dragging you along at this point, navigating the marketplace with ease. His grip on your arm grew firmer as you started to struggle but never tight enough to hurt you. "So smart and cute, you'll make the perfect little sibling. I'm sure father will love you! Micah as well, but his opinion doesn't matter."

"W-Wait-! Let me go!" You were struggling with all your might but nothing was working. The only thing being accomplished was tiring yourself out more and more.

"See, we spirits don't like sharing what we believe to be ours. We're very possessive like that. So, when it comes to food most of it is cursed!" Aspen finally stopped in front of a restaurant. Sitting at one of the tables were four giant pigs, scarfing down plate after plate of food. You got the insinuation as icy cold fear shot through your body.

"M-Mom? Dad?" You whispered. You wanted to approach them, to see that this was all some elaborate prank. You wanted to prove that your parents and siblings weren't the pigs you were seeing in front of you, but when you moved Aspen's pulled you back.

"I wouldn't approach them right now. Transformation magic, especially curses, are rather finicky when they first take effect. Seeing as you are a full blooded human right now, you could find yourself under it's influence as well with just a touch." He said, sending your formerly human family members a look of distain.

A low gong rang through the district and all the spirits stopped and looked up. You were shaking in fear as a large shape with giant wings flew overhead, directly towards the bath house. Aspen smiled, tugging you back in the direction you'd come from.

"Seeing as you can't be left alone, you are a child after all, I'll take you to father! Besides, it's almost dinner time!"

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Seeing as it was cursed food that turned your family into pigs, and the adrenaline rush you were having was making you want to run away as fast as you could, you weren't looking forward to dinner. Aspen had carried you all the way to the bath house after your attempt at dragging your feet had caused you to trip and scrape your knees.

He'd plopped you into a fine velvety chair at a tall dining table. There were three other chairs, and he'd taken the one beside you. He was rambling on again, the same way he had while you were drawing earlier, only now it felt more sinister. 

You jumped when the giant door to the dining room slammed open and another boy strode in. Instead of being part fox, he seemed to be part wolf. He looked older than Aspen by a few years and he did an almost comedic double take upon seeing you at the table.

"Aspen. Why is there some small human at our table?" He growled out. You shrank into yourself, which wasn't helping any allegations about your size.

"It is fine, Micah. The human child may stay and enjoy a meal with us." A deeper voice rumbled from behind the wolf spirit. The voice belonged to a giant man who exuded a regal and powerful aura. His eyes were the color of melted gold but his hair was the same pitch black as Aspen's. He took his position at the head of the table while Micah sat across from Aspen. 

"What is your name, human?" The man asked, smiling at you kindly. Despite this, you couldn't shake the fear away.

"Y-Y/N..." You answered quietly. Your hands shook in your lap, but the man didn't seem to notice.

"That's a beautiful name. You may call me father." He tapped his knife against a opulent golden goblet causing a spread of food to appear on the table in front of the four of you. 

"Well then, dinner is served. I hope you enjoy it."

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Dinner was painfully silent. You sat in your seat, clutching your backpack close as you stared at the plate of food in front of you. Would it turn you into a pig as well? Was it cursed to do some other horrible thing? Your anxiety and adrenaline had killed any appetite or hunger you may have felt.

Your companions didn't seem as emotionally dampened. Aspen and Micah were enjoying their food, bickering with each other about something you weren't paying enough attention to catch. Father had already finished eating and was drinking a cup of something steaming. Your own food seemed to be magically warmed because it had never stopped emitting steam. 

"Are you alright, child? I believe young humans require many meals throughout the day." Father asked you. He set down his cup, of what you assumed to be some kind of tea, not that you could see the color. 

"I'm fine." You whispered, holding your bag closer. Food was the last thing on your mind right now. You weren't sure if you would ever see food the same again. Or if you would ever see your parents and siblings alive and human again.

"Hmm... you seem rather pale." Father noted with a frown. From his seat beside you Aspen finally looked up from his meal.

"Father is right. You look way worse than when we met this afternoon. You should eat something." He gently encouraged. You grimaced and looked away, wishing to be left alone.

That didn't sit right with Father who stood up with a frown. He walked over to where you sat, towering over you. From there, he gently picked you up before he sat in your chair, placing you onto his lap like a baby.

"Come here, child. I must've underestimated how young you are if you are unable to eat by yourself. My apologies, I've never been around human children before." Father hummed, picking up your fork for you.

"I- I can feed myself! I'm not a child!" You protested. If it was between feeding yourself or being fed you'd pick the former.

Father merely chuckled, holding the fork out of your reach. "It is nothing to be embarrassed about, dear. I remember when Aspen and Micah were still young."

At the sound of their names both boys choked on their food, turning to father with panic in their eyes. "Father, you don't need to tell them about-!"

"I remember this one time when Aspen was still a small fox spirit, unable to hold a human form, he tried to take down a wild turkey. It was quite adorable and very entertaining. Then, there was Micah. Micah could hold a human form quickly but any sudden shock would make him change back. He'd sneeze and suddenly there'd be a little wolf in his place." Father recounted to you. The way he told embarrassing stories so casually reminded you once again of your own family.

"Father, the child still needs to eat." Micah reminded, though he was noticeably flushed and he looked a bit more grumpy. 

"Right, thank you Micah." Father said. "Let's get you fed, yes?"

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One humiliating experience later and you'd finished half a plate of the food. Though, that was only after being reassured multiple times that the food wasn't enchanted in any other way than to keep it warm. Even then, the food felt like a rock in your gut.

"It's rather late. Though that is quite normal for most spirits and we tend to be nocturnal, it must be rather hard on a human. Especially for one so young." Father said. He stood from the table, picking you up again.

While you tried to squirm, he easily overpowered you and carried you out of the dining room. Aspen and Micah trailed behind you, bickering about something or another. Father carried you to a giant doorway which he opened. Behind it was a room full of pillows and toys with a giant bed in the middle.

"It's been a while since I've needed the nursery." He said, mostly to himself. He walked over to a large wooden chest of drawers and opened the top one, shifting his hold on you so you could see. "Would you like to pick your sleepwear?"

You hesitated, not wanting to give in to anything that these people wanted of you. At the same time, they held your life in their hands. For that reason alone you picked up a random pajama set, just wanting to be left alone.

Father let you have some privacy to change, which was a simple folding screen. He did ask if you needed help numerous times though and seemed to be fussing over the pillows when you finally emerged from behind the screen.

Your old clothes were magicked away somewhere while you clutched onto your backpack as you were once again picked up and set on the bed. With a wave of Father's hand the lights dimmed and a faint melody began to play. Little stars, swirls and moons danced across the ceiling and walls from some enchantment cast over the room. 

"Good night child." Father said, tucking you in. Aspen and Micah watched from the doorway as father kissed you on the forehead. Instantly, the strength and adrenaline faded from your body and you began to fall asleep. "I'm sure it will be a joy to have a little one running around again. Do not worry, Y/N. You're in very capable hands."

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It had been a few weeks and all you felt was sick. Every waking moment was filled with nausea and light headedness. You knew it had something to do with Father and the strange magic that surrounded you every day. Aspen and Micah would often perform little tricks for you when they weren't helping to oversee the bath house. 

However, it had gotten to the point where you barely left the room dubbed 'the nursery'. You spent every moment curled up under your sheets, miserable and dizzy. You could barely even eat sometimes, refusing food for hours on end. Father had taken to sitting at your bedside every second he was free with Aspen and Micah checking on you routinely. 

Despite how achey and fevered you felt, you knew that this place was the reason behind it. For that reason, you'd began stumbling down the halls of the bath house the second you were left alone one day. Even if you wanted to give up, you'd lost the nursery in the endless intersecting halls and pathways. 

You weren't sure how much time had passed, or if someone was looking for you yet. All you knew is that when you finally found your way outside, the sun was beginning to rise. A cool wind easily chilled you through the pajamas you were wearing which only increased your instability.

Eventually you stumbled off the path into a cool patch of grass, the same area where you'd met Aspen when you first arrived here. You feverishly leaned against a rock in the clearing, closing your eyes as you breathed heavily.

The sun was slowly becoming stronger and stronger as it rose in the sky. When your stomach stopped doing flips you opened your eyes to watch as the sky turned pink then orange then blue. Your eyes fell closed when the once cold breeze started to feel nice on your warm skin.

It was unintentional, but you were just so tired... Your eyes stayed shut just a second too long and suddenly you were asleep.

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"There you are!" You slowly opened your eyes, looking up at Father. He stood over you, two large wings protruding from his back. His hair was disheveled and he was panting as if he'd run a marathon. It was strange since he normally looked so composed. 

You closed your eyes again, just wanting to go back to sleep. You were still tired and felt sick, both of which you wouldn't notice if you were alseep. Father didn't seem to get the message as he placed his hands on your shoulders and shook you awake again. 

"Y/N, I am talking to you. Why did you leave the nursery? Or, more importantly, why did you leave the bath house?! It isn't safe for you yet!"

When you didn't respond again, Father finally sighed. He kneeled down next to you in the wet grass, looking into your hazy eyes.

"You are very lucky that you aren't in the right mind at the moment. I'll let this slide this time because you are ill and I doubt you knew what you were doing. Next time I won't be so lenient." He pulled you up with him, taking you into his arms. 

You couldn't have resisted if you wanted to, your body weak as another wave of nausea washed over you. You just lay there and watched as the wings on his back flared, propelling the both of you into the air as he soared back to the bath house. The cold and serious demeanor he was attempting to put on fully shattered when he noticed you staring at him.

"Ah, I don't suppose you've ever seen my wings before. Similar to Aspen and Micah, I too have an animal form. Only, instead of a fox or wolf, my form is that of a dragon." You could barely comprehend the words he was saying as one of your hands weakly gripped at his shirt, willing him not to drop you. 

"I wonder what your form will be, now that your humanity has started to burn away." He mused to himself. You gripped his shirt tighter, your eyes immediately forced open as you registered his words. "Apologies, I don't think any of us mentioned the reason behind why you got suddenly ill. Poor dear, I suppose we forgot to consider how frightening this must be to a human, especially one of your age. No wonder you were trying to get some fresh air."

Father gently touched down on a balcony of the bath house, carrying you into a grand bedroom. From there he seemed to linger by a door before changing his mind. Instead, he lay you down on what you guessed was his bed. 

"I would bring you back to the nursery, but I feel it's best if you remain within my sight for a while. As for your symptoms... I'll let you finish your nap. Take all the time you need, little one." With that, he leaned over and gave you a kiss on the forehead. Like every other time, his magic stole away the last of your strength as your eyes fell closed.

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"Y/N. It's time to wake up." Someone's hands were running through your hair. Slowly your eyes opened and you found yourself staring up at Father. He smiled down at you, helping you to sit up against the headboard.

A teapot and two cups appeared on the bedside table and Father poured the both of you a cup. After he was sure you wouldn't drop the cup he took a sip of the tea. A lazy smile adorned his face as he watched you carefully drink the tea. It was ginger tea and he'd been giving it to you regularly to help with your nausea and keep you hydrated.

"You remember when you first came here, yes? How Aspen told you about some of the properties of spirit food?" You nodded, setting your now half empty tea cup back on the bedside table. "Well, there is one property that we did not mention. One that happens when willingly given spirit food is ingested by someone who is fully human."

"What did you do to me?" You whispered. Father just smiled, placing down his tea cup to pull up the blankets around you. 

"If willingly given spirit food is ingested by a full blooded human for long enough, the magic will start to burn away their humanity, leaving behind their spirit." Father looked at you with a gentle smile. "You, my dear, will make a lovely addition to my family- our family. Trust me, the boys will love finally having another sibling. You'll fit in perfectly."

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~~~~~~~~

Waking up slowly in a nest not made by your own hands and surrounded by beasts that craved you like a drug addict craved their next high was an increasingly familiar and disquieting feeling. Grim was a lifeline in your heart and the stress your carried for his well-being was as heavy as lead shoes. Everything felt exhausting and as if the world weighed far too heavy on your shoulders.

If anything, it felt like you were about to be sick.

Removing yourself quickly from the tangled mess that was your nestmates was not as difficult as getting past those quickly rousing nestmates to your bathroom. There wasn't even enough time to close the door before you were hunched, entire body heaving and expelling everything inside of your stomach. Unfortunately, as it had been a while since you last ate, it was mostly just stomach acid.

Your entire body ached and felt as if your skeleton were far too heavy, to the point that your muscles just couldn't attach to it properly. Even as you shook and whimpered from the rolling force in your stomach, you stayed hunched over your toilet, trying to not continue heaving and gagging. From where you crouched, you heard constant voices overlapping as a low hum seemed to fill your ears enough that you cried out in agony from all of the sounds.

Your cry was followed by a heavy and deathly silence in the room beyond. The silence was better than the cacophony of sound that had been prior, your head continuing to throb and dully ache. If there were any footsteps beyond your little bubble, you didn't hear them. Instead, you slowly rocked yourself back and forth with a soft whining sound as you tried to self soothe.

As you rocked your body slowly you realized the silence was lasting longer than it usually would. Slowly, a cold hand rest on your back. It was far larger than the hands of Lilia or Malleus, so you had to guess it was likely one of the Shinigami given how cold the figure was.

"Little One, try to breathe for me."

Papa Hades.

Of course. Only Lilia had dealt with Humans before and that was limited given their scarcity, so they called for the one who was more equipped to deal with such things. Lucky for you, the elder Shinigami was in the dorm and had been for at least a week.

Despite things calming down around you for a few days following everything that happened with Vil, you had been feeling worse and worse. Part of you understood you were unwell and physically ill, the other part of you was busy silently cursing everyone for the sheer stress you had been experiencing for more than a month at that point. In fact, the week you were going into was supposed to be the beginning of your cycle again, so you would need those reusable pads sooner rather than later.

You felt something cold touch your forehead and leaned into it, loving the icy cold touch when you felt so exhaustively warm. It was nice enough you even tried to follow the hand as its owner moved away somewhat. Seeing your instance for the cool and cold feeling, Papa Hades left his large hand across your forehead.

"May I move you to your nest, or would you like to brush your teeth first?"

"... Brush."

"Alright. Let's get you up. Steady now."

The large Shinigami moved his hands under your arms before he gently lifted you to your feet. You felt shaky, but the steady hands of the elder kept you upright as you laboriously lifted your arm to brush your teeth and remove that awful taste in your mouth.

"Come, let's get you back to resting."

"My classes..."

"You don't need classes right now. I feel you need rest. Actual rest. Not taking classes, cooking, dealing with Overblots, weapons training, and parenting. Rest. Now, may I help you back into your nest or can you walk?"

"... Help..."

"Happily."

Getting back into the nest was easy when you were cradled like a child on the broad shoulder of the elder. It was as if you weighed nothing to the ancient man that looked no older than forty, cuddled up to the chilly body of the man who actually gave a damn about how you felt. He was gentle setting you down into the bed and pulling the covers up around your shoulders, resting his hand against your forehead one more time. This time, the cold lasted and you felt the ache in your head slowly subside, numbed and cooled by the frosty touch.

"There. Now, I am going to go get you something to drink that will be gentle on your stomach. You will be resting here and I will be making sure you stay resting. Alright?"

"Not going anywhere anyway..."

This relaxed the Shinigami as he turned to the wide-eyed group of students staring at him in absolute confusion. They needed guidance, and he was going to guide them right out of the room so you could rest. It didn't take more than a look from the elder to compel the worried males all out of the room, one large hand scooping up the worried Hellcat kit as he went.

The moment the door closed, you slowly closed your eyes and let sleep overtake you.

~•§•~

The moment the door closed, the questions began in rapid fire. Six males trailing after their elder and all of them talking over one another in concern.

"Lord Hades, what's going on?"

"She's unwell. I have no doubt it is a result of stress. She has been through quite a lot in a very short amount of time. Humans may handle it better than we can, but even they have limits."

"Is she going to die?"

"I will do everything I can to prevent that."

"That wasn't a 'no'!"

"Humans can die of a lot of things. Truly, I'm astounded she hasn't fallen ill before now with all of the exposure she has had to illnesses her immune system is not resistant to. I don't think she will die from this, but if she keeps being put under such endless stress, she will break."

"How do we help her?"

The Shinigami stopped, turning around to face the group that continued to prod for information. He couldn't blame them for being stressed, he was extremely stressed by the situation but was trying not to show it. Still, that didn't mean they were helping any.

"Help her by leaving her alone for now. She needs sleep. She needs time for her immune system to work. She needs privacy. She needs fluids. Gentle company is good and the mental stimulation will help, overwhelming her while she is trying to sleep will make her health degrade faster. Let her rest for now."

The group continued to follow the Shinigami down the stairs, not unlike a group of ducklings trailing after their parent. Sitting with confused looks at the set table were the other Shinigami, the five Heartslabyul guards for the week, the Yeti Clay, and Vil's father Eric. Idia was first to notice something was wrong and he was quick to stand.

"What?"

"Illness. Fluids."

"Got it."

The awkward Shinigami may be shy and hide around others, but he was no stranger to recognizing stress in his own ancestor. They all saw that crease of worry in his brow and they all knew only the Human could cause such concern. That meant they should all be concerned.

"Is mama going to be okay?"

"She will be. We just have to make sure she rests."

"Okay... You better make my mama feel better, got it, Sad-Guy?"

The ancient man laughed, a short barking sound of a chuckle as he nodded.

"Yes, sir."

This seemed to placate the kit who smiled in return as the elder set him down on the counter top. It seemed little Grim was taking after his mother in many regards, especially in her quick readiness to fight for others. Idia was quick to get an armful of drinks and presented them to the elder to sort through and decide which would be best for the Human they all adored.

"Tell me how to help."

The Yeti stated, walking over with his arms crossed and worry in his eyes. He wasn't alone either.

In the few days Eric had been staying in the run down dorm, he had come to several conclusions. His first conclusion was that the Human Vil adored so much was a wonderful and kind-hearted creature that deserved all the kindness he could muster. From her unusual and lasting patience to her willingness to care for everyone including himself. That kind of inherent kindness and affection even among strong personalities like Vil told Eric what a genuine soul the Human truly was.

Secondly, Eric saw how desperate Vil was to be around this Human however possible. From choosing to share his resting place- something Vil had been exceedingly high maintenance about- to the gentle way he attempted to preen the soft Human. All of it showed just how deeply the beautiful actor had fallen for this widely loved Human.

Finally, that Human needed a parental figure. Many of the professors- from Clay to Divus- had shown themselves to be good guardians but none were actually like a parent figure. Eric felt he could be that figure for the soft Human if he were just given the chance to try.

Now he was ready to aid the decorated Yeti in nursing that soft Human back to health. He had done it before for Vil, he could do it again for the Human. Truthfully, he had been apprehensive of this seemingly pointless Human, but now he felt compelled to care about her and take care of her however possible.

"You both can help by making sure she drinks liquid and stays hydrated. She was quite weak and unable to move easily so I do believe that she may need help in getting around her room. For now, she is sleeping. I will work on adding sugars and other vitamins into her drinks so she does not starve while she is ill. Can I rely on the two of you to follow my example and even teach the other staff to care for her in this state? Young Crowley will need to be informed of this as well."

"Of course, Lord Hades."

Clay and Hades were both leagues above Eric in terms of magic and physical skill. Where Eric never used stunt doubles and he was a skilled actor, he was still acutely aware of the fact that the two were far more adept in almost every regard. He scarcely even believed that he would encounter the two- one a famed hunter and the other being the equivalent of a God- and be considered on the same level as them.

"Very well. I shall be relying on the both of you."

~•§•~

You woke slowly to the feeling of a cool hand upon your heated forehead. Despite how your head felt like it was swimming in a fog and like the room was spinning around you, the gentle cold was a very welcome change. Slowly leaning into the touch, you turned on your side to cuddle into the Shinigami's arm.

"Can you sit up for me, Little One?"

"... No..."

"May I help you sit up? You need to drink something. I will be working on figuring out what you have fallen ill with to synthesize something that should help your immune system fight off this illness."

"... Okay..."

The larger arm slid underneath your back, slowly and gently lifting you into a sitting position. You were vaguely able to register the appearance of Clay and Eric standing nearby as an icy cold bottle was held up to your lips. Each slow and unhurried gulp of that water was crisp and almost had you shaking from the sudden change in temperature. From your stomach, the cold seemed to spread through your body so you were not as painfully overheated while you leaned heavily into the elder.

"I'll leave the rest right here in the nest, so you can drink more when you need it. Tell me, Little One, would it be alright if Young Clay and Young Eric aided me while we care for you?"

"... Sure."

You didn't really care what you were agreeing to as you leaned back into the hold of the Shinigami, eyes sliding shut. Though your stomach continued to roll in discomfort, the gentle embrace of the elder against your back had you cuddling into him. Something about the way he always asked your permission was soothing and a true comfort to you. None of the others had bothered to ask you permission or cared much what you wanted in a situation, so the caring nature of the elder was a welcome change.

"... Papa Hades?"

"Yes, Little One?"

"... Will you stay here until I fall asleep?"

"Whatever you need, Little One."

Leaning back into the Shinigami was a peaceful and comforting feeling as you began to drift off again. The room was nice and quiet and you felt more at peace than you had in a while. It seemed the elder was correct; you did not need more stressors and anxiety, what you needed was actual rest. Time spent away from the herd of guards that constantly required you to play mediator and emotional regulator.

Luckily for you, Papa Hades was just the being to bring you that comfort and peace.

As you faded away from consciousness, the three older males felt a kind of endearment for how trusting you were towards them. Your gentle behavior was sweet and set their hearts at ease despite how the three felt stress for you.

Papa Hades felt he was to blame for your sudden illness, or at least he played a part in it. Perhaps he was too hasty to tell you of your addictive nature and by doing so he had pushed your stress to the point of illness.

Clay had been present for such a short amount of time in your life, but he had seen the way you pushed yourself to help those around you. He was aware of your addictive nature thanks to the elder Shinigami and he had been trying to remain a steady comfort in your life. Maybe he didn't intervene enough when he noticed the many young males flocking to you for attention.

Eric barely knew you, yet felt a deep sense of gratitude towards you. That first day he had practically demanded to stay in your dorm- so he could keep an eye on his beloved son- had opened his eyes to how much the others and Vil valued you. Vil had even gone into detail as to what you had done to save his boy's life and he felt that debt needed to be repaid in kind.

The three males watched as your head lulled to one side, the elder helping you settle fully into the nest and cuddle deep under the many blankets around you. Despite your unwellness, they were willing to do what it took to see you healthy again even if they fell ill as a result. Each mentally resolved to do all they could to help you regain your footing but it was going to be an exhaustive week of keeping your admirers at bay.

~~~~~~~~

It was a calm and quiet day after the storm had passed by. It was odd to see the world from up high as you had been placed on the palm of the elder Shinigami. You knew he had a larger form, but you were unaccustomed to just how large he truly was given his usual appearance. Even in his small form, he towered over you more than Idia did.

Now he was large enough to hold you in one hand, relaxing back on his summoned throne. His silencing magic once again swirled around the two of you, this time only blocking sound. You could see outside of the tangible magic and it was quite the view given everything you could see from on high.

"I wanted a moment to speak with you, Little one. It is... A long time overdue."

"What's wrong?"

"(Y/n), I'm certain you've noticed how... Interested everyone is with you. From your teachers to your classmates, even to those you've met only moments prior."

You went quiet at this, trying to find a way to tactfully imply you are aware of the situation without exposing the spirits that aided you. Of course the old Shinigami would be acutely aware of the aura that Humans seemed to have. He was the Lord of the dead, he would know the passed Humans well and likely knew of their aura.

Still, you couldn't give too much of what you knew away or he would question you. He was a curious soul.

"It feels like everyone can't help themselves but try to be around me. Where they want to be by my side almost aggressively and they are willing to fight one another to achieve that."

"There is a reason that so many seek you out so keenly. It is no fault of your own, and I don't intend to blame you for it, you are addictive to those with magic."

"... Addictive how?"

Though you knew the basics of how you were addictive, you needed to know in what ways and how bad the addiction got. If he was willing to share that information with you, you were willing to listen. It was now a game of information and you were keen to win without giving away your own knowledge.

"In every way. Your scent, your voice, your touch, the sight of you, even tastes of your skin or blood are addictive. Everything about you enchants and entices the species around you. Even I am not free from addiction. All Humans had such addictive qualities I have observed throughout the years."

"... How bad did the addictions get?"

"Bad enough to encourage others to consume and hoard Humans."

You took in his words, wondering how far that addictive reach was. If looking at you was addictive, then did that have any influence on those who saw your image on Magicam? How did this impact Lilia who has consumed your blood? Would he try to eat you later due to the tastes you have let him have of your blood?

"Do pictures and recordings have the same effect?"

"No. For the addiction to grow and fester, it has to be a direct observation made. Images have no addictive qualities, but that does not stop others from taking interest in you simply because you are Human."

You thought about this for a moment and faintly worried that you were being too calm for having been given this information. If you were going to be convincing in acting like you just learned this information, you would have to own the part. If you could help it, you were going to try to keep the Human spirits a secret even from Papa Hades.

"So... I'm why they're acting this way?"

"No. Not at all. You can't control being Human or the addiction others form to you. I don't tell you this to hurt you, I am telling you this because I want you to be able to keep yourself safe. Even after just meeting others, your addictive nature takes hold. But know this; it is not your fault you fell into this world and it is not your fault others can't help but crave you. Some may take the craving and perceive it as love, others may take this craving as hatred, so be cautious who you invite into your inner circle. Even that Harpy woman was interested solely in you, though she lied due to her affiliation with young Vil."

You looked away for a moment, feeling badly for leading the Shinigami on with your questions, but your loyalty to the Human spirits was strong. Still, it was endearing to have the Shinigami insist so strongly that you were not at fault. Had it actually been your first time learning about the addiction others had to you, it would have been soothing to hear the words of the elder being.

"I... Thank you, for telling me. I won't lie, I suspected there was something more at play. There's no way everyone I have met just happens to enjoy my personality. Is there any way to stop or lessen the addiction?"

"No. Not one I have found."

"Do you know what causes this addiction?"

"I don't know for certain, but I do have theories about a few things."

"Does my blot absorption have something to do with my addictive qualities?"

"I believe so. I believe the addiction you cause is a result of your blot abilities. That you calm the blot and the instincts of others by your presence alone. By doing so, they relax and let their guards down, no longer needed to self regulate to keep emotions in check. When you leave them, they are unable to return to that self regulation and begin to panic until you are back with them. Young Malleus Draconia is deep in his addiction to you. I have also heard Young Lilia is showing concerning signs of a dangerous addiction to your blood."

You remained in silence for a moment, observing the older Shinigami sitting before you. Though he literally held you in the palm of his hand, he didn't seem to lord that difference in size or strength over you. Out of everyone you had met, Papa Hades had been the most forthcoming and respectful of you.

"... Would you be honest if I asked you something?"

"Of course, Little One. Whatever you need."

"Even if I found a way home, or suddenly disappeared one day, all of those here would spend the rest of their lives trying to find me. Right?"

"... I believe so."

"No matter where I go, or what I do, they will try to follow because of the addiction?"

"Yes."

"Keeping them all at a distance won't stop their addiction to me?"

"No."

"Will they get increasingly impatient the longer I hesitate to choose one of them?"

"Yes. They may even become violent in their frustrations."

You went silent at this, eyes downcast as you considered what he was saying. If the spirits didn't find you a way home soon, you would have no choice but to choose one or more of the beasts as 'boyfriends' if only to placate them. Maybe choosing a handful of your strongest guards would be enough to keep the others in line, or it would make them worse.

You already saw how Vil reacted to not being selected as a guard, let alone a significant other. If the others followed his actions, there was a certainty you would be drowning in a group of Ferals that once protected you. If you didn't chose any of them the same result would take place.

"Would it preserve my life to choose all of them?"

"What?"

"It would take time, and more energy than I could possibly muster, but it seems like the only thing I can do to keep them all calm. If I choose only a few, the rest will turn Feral. If I choose only one, the rest will kill him for the favoritism. I don't want any of them, really. I want to go home, away from a place I am hunted, and attacked, and kidnapped, and hurt... But I can't. I can't just not choose either. No matter what decision I make, it is the wrong one."

A genuine look of pity overtook the expression of the elder Shinigami. He was worried something like this would happen and he was stressed about how it may affect your mental health. You didn't ask for this and he knows that. It was tough to try and stay positive in a world that seemed to constantly be pitted against you.

No matter who he personally believed you should choose, it was not his place to tell you such things. It was only his place to offer you an ear to listen and input when asked. Perhaps a bit of advice could aid you from his long and storied life, if you wished to listen to the elder's ramblings.

"Who would you choose, if you were me?"

"..."

~•§•~

Vil stood by the window, anxiously waiting for the soft Human he adored to return to his side. That suffocating feeling was back and it only hurt his chest to realize how close his awful mother had gotten to you. On top of his worries, no one would tell him what happened to the woman that attacked you.

Rook had been unusually quiet, refusing to allow the Harpy to look too closely at the Dragon that occasionally plucked lovely purple feathers from his maw. As frowned upon as it was for any of them to gravely wound another sentient being- let alone do as Malleus had done- they all had agreed it was for the good of Vil and the Human. None of them could have stopped the furious Dragon even if they wanted to.

Intentionally injuring you was a crime and they all felt it needed to be paid in blood. Even the more peaceful Unicorn and Alicorn felt the punishment fit the crime. None of them would tell Vil what happened and none of them would tell their beloved Human. That was not something that needed to be shared outside of the group.

It was during this moment of silence that the Headmage of their school arrived, either to explain himself or make excuses. The only way that Harpy woman could have had access to the dorm was if she was allowed in. Odds are, that meant the Headmage had decided to allow her entry and had likely been lied to as to the true intentions of the woman.

The only thing that confused the others was that Crowley didn't show up alone.

Following the Crow with his feathers ruffled and his mature face set in a frown was a man very familiar to Vil. He looked like he flew the entire way to the school given how disgruntled and ruffled he was from the ordeal.

"Vil!"

The older Harpy rushed to the side of the blond beauty who happily accepted the winged embrace of his father. A deep cooing came from both of the peacock Harpies as the elder ensured to keep his young protectively wrapped in his embrace. Eric Venue was furious his son was ever subjected to that awful woman for any amount of time, knowing how frightened and unsettled the young adult had to have been.

Eric had been soothing Vil's night terrors ever since Calliope attacked him. Night after night, he held his sobbing son who screamed in terror and tried to flee anything or anyone with feathers. The boy had even been frightened of his own feathers for a while. Over the years, acting helped Vil cover his weakness and pain, but it had never truly gone away.

For those that had no idea who this man was or his relation to Vil, they were confused and tense when the male entered the room so aggressively. One Harpy had already tricked them, they would not allow this Harpy to do the same.

"My boy..! My poor boy!"

The elder Harpy was cooing softly now, smoothing down his son's feathers in a repetitive and caring way. Vil was just thrilled to have his father by his side. His father had always been a busy man who was always doing something, so the fact that he had abandoned whatever movie- be it one he is producing, acting in, or writing for- to come see him meant the world to the younger Harpy man.

As welcome as the hold of his father was to the distressed Harpy, it didn't stop that feeling of suffocation.

"What happened-?"

The back door to the dorm opened, allowing the soft Human and the ducking Shinigami entry into the home. Despite the unrest with his own situation, Vil was eager to return to the side of the soft Human he adored. Eric easily let his son go to the Human's side, trying to figure out who this soft and featherless biped was.

Similarly, you were surprised to see yet another familiar Harpy standing before you. He looked older than he had when you saw him in that vision, the lines around his mouth and eyes lending themselves to the wizened appearance on the Harpy's face. His blond hair was a bit darker than Vil's and his colors were less vibrant than the younger Harpy, but he was also quite clearly a peacock Harpy.

"(Y/n), this is my father, Eric Venue. Dad, this is (Y/n), she's... the one I've been telling you about."

This seemed to relax the older Harpy, his almost glaring expression softening and turning gentle. Vil had spent hours telling his father about the lovely Human of Night Raven College. Eric was well aware of how much Vil adored the soft female and he held out hope that his son would be the one the Human chose in the end.

After everything he had seen Vil go through, Eric felt Vil deserved the most comfort and love from the Human. He was biased, but his son meant the world to him and always would.

"Pleasure to meet you, but no one has explained anything to me other than Calliope was here. What happened? Why are Vil's feathers dyed?"

It was then that you intervened, seeing how Vil flinched at the mere naming of his mother. You didn't know what happened to the Harpy woman after Malleus' rage, you just hoped she was far away from both you and Vil. On top of that, you knew you couldn't lie to Eric as he obviously knew Vil was different visually.

"I'll start from last night. Vil... was not in his proper state of mind and decided to create a very dangerous potion. This potion..." you glanced at Vil in concern, not wanting to upset the Harpy, "was a blot potion. It attacked Vil and tried to consume him. I- and a few others- were able to intervene before it turned him Feral, but he did not leave unscathed by it. Given Papa Hades is here to study blot and my supposed influence on blot, Vil has been added to the group of subjects to see if we can't help him heal."

Eric seemed less angry and more devastated that Vil had not only made a blot potion, but had been the one to suffer from it. Still, the older Harpy refused to comment, as he knew that was not all there was to the story, given you hadn't even mentioned his ex-wife yet.

"Because I can apparently lessen the impact of blot on others, Vil is staying here in this dorm for the time being so he doesn't have greater lasting effects. That leads to this morning. I don't know what lies she told everyone, but she was here when Vil and I woke up. She started off the interaction insulting Vil and taunting him, saying cruel and unneeded things. I... am aware of what she did to Vil when he was a child. I refused to let her talk to him that way or hurt him again, instead she attacked me. I don't know what happened after that... You'd have to ask Tsuno that question."

You nodded your head to the Dragon, neither you nor Eric missing the sight of the Dragon plucking another scrap of a pretty purple feather from his teeth. Seeing that made you shudder, having a vague idea of what the Dragon did to the woman but not wanting to question it. Truthfully, you had been under the impression that eating another sentient being was a crime against nature in the eyes of the monster men, but none seemed too bothered by Malleus' perceived actions. Perhaps he had merely chased her off?

You refused to ask, not wanting the answer and not wanting to upset the already mentally fragile Vil.

Eric was glad either way. Either the Dragon- a truly terrifying apex predator- did as all predators do and removed the threat with deadly force, or he had taken more than a few feathers off of the cruel woman's hide as payment for the violence and let her flee. The older Harpy hoped it was the former of the two options.

There was no love lost in Eric's heart for the woman that had tried to kill his son when he was barely old enough to remember. He would not mourn the woman who destroyed his chick's confidence and pride for the rest of his life.

"Now, you know about as much as I do."

Eric regarded you curiously, seeing the staining of darkness on your skin. He knew of the highly illegal blot potion Vil had crafted, and he would scold his son later for such foolishness. The staining on your person told him you had been a direct instrument in saving his son, and for that he was grateful. Now he needed to puff out his chest and get to the heart of the matter and the one who carelessly allowed that wretched woman back into his son's life.

Turning with unusual speed, his wings raised up in anger, the famed Harpy hissed at the Fae Crow that had allowed such actions to take place. Crowley seemed to be expecting this, as he didn't even attempt to return the challenge to the male that hissed at him. Crowley didn't often screw up to such a degree, but even he had to admit that trusting the lies of the Harpy woman had been a very poor choice.

"You let that woman get close to my son! MY SON! I had even made it more than clear she was to be allowed nowhere near him the moment he began attending this school! Give me one good reason I shouldn't pull him from classes and make you answer for your folly!"

"... Because, if he is no longer a Night Raven student, he can no longer be around (Y/n) or be part of this study on blot. His best chance for healing is here."

"You are careless and foolish to ever trust her near Vil!"

"You are right. I carelessly let her in believing her words of reconciliation and desire to be a parent. I will take full responsibility for my mistake, as you see fit."

The oddly calm way the Crow approached the situation greatly reduced the rage of the other Harpy, soothing it to a low simmer of annoyance. It was no solution, but it was a step towards reconciliation.

"Fine. I will remain here for the week, to ensure she is truly gone. If you are as remorseful as you say and this study is as harmless as you claim, you should have no issue with my presence."

"Wait- but don't you have a movie you are working on, Dad?"

"Doesn't matter."

"But-"

"Vil, I couldn't care less if the movie goes under because I stepped away. It wasn't going to be worth much if a small timeline disruption sinks it. You are my son, my boy, and I will not let any paltry movie take priority over your wellbeing. I simply refuse to do that. If this place is as safe as they claim, I will be here to ensure it. You are my priority. You always will be."

~~~~~~~~

You woke to the feeling of warmth around you, wondering why it was so warm when Malleus was typically quite cool in comparison of body heat. Looking over your shoulder you realized the wing laying over you was feathered and not scaled or furred. The colors of the wings and the black striping along the flight feathers let you know that it was Vil holding you, still in a deep sleep as he looked more at peace than you had ever seen him.

Looking around, you saw that it must have been daylight for a while. Only you and Vil occupied the nest at the moment, not even little Grim or faithful Rook was present in the large bed. Perhaps you both had been left to sleep after the events of the night prior and only now were waking.

The peaceful room gave you a moment to roll over and look at Vil closely. His face was clean of the usual makeup and he was resting peacefully instead of pridefully flaunting. Even without makeup, Vil's face was clear of all blemishes and had several markings around his eyes that reminded you of a peacock. His hair was loose and his face was somewhat squished into the pillow below his head, almost giving him a gentle and innocent look.

Despite his many similarities to the birds his species evolved from, it would be a lie to say he was not a lovely creature to look at. Truthfully, he was beautiful.

As you continued to look at the lovely Harpy, he slowly began to rouse. His eyes seemed distant as if he were still somewhere between sleep and consciousness when he realized you were laying in his arms. This seemed to catch his interest as one of those lovely purple eyes focused on you, almost looking pink in the light of day.

"Good morning, (Y/n)..."

The Harpy murmured in a half asleep state, smiling as he gazed affectionately at you and pulling you close. Along with not being fully awake, Vil seemed to be in a trance-like state. A soft cooing escaping the lovely Harpy who nuzzled your forehead with a gentle touch.

"Good morning, Vil. We should probably be getting up soon."

He somewhat frowned at this and his gaze trailed over to fix on the window. After a moment of staring out he nodded and seemed to agree with your statement rather quickly.

"Alright. First, I have a question though. My memories of... of last night are hazy, but I do believe I remember feeling someone's lips against my own when that wretched potion was trying to consume me. Did that happen, or was I delusional from a severe lack of air?"

You hesitated, feeling like Vil deserved the truth but not knowing how he would actually take it if you told him flat out. If anything, you had been hoping he was too unaware to notice or really realize what you had done to save him. Again you scolded yourself for not finding another way but knowing it was likely still the best choice given how well Vil was recovering.

"That potion was trying to consume you, but it seemed drawn to me in a way. The only way I could think of to save you as quickly as possible was to allow it quick access to my own body. You can probably tell what I chose..."

Your hand absently came up to your lips, likely still stained by the blot potion just like your fingertips. Vil could feel his heart practically skipping a few beats as he stared at you in adoration. Though he had long given up on childish fantasy and tales of reviving others with a kiss, there was something almost poetic about how you had saved him. To be so willing to throw yourself to the mercy of the merciless and seal your own fate with a kiss of life in exchange for his own meant the world to the Harpy.

"Thank you, (Y/n)."

The Harpy's smile was warm and genuine, just like the warmth his body let off as you lay in his arms. He must have moved to cuddle you as you both slept and now he was laying with you under his wing and close to his chest. There was something incredibly comforting about laying in the arms of the Harpy that relaxed your heart just enough to let your guard down with him somewhat.

"Well, keep the memory to yourself for now, Vil. We both know how a certain someone would react even if the circumstances called for such actions."

Vil laughed at this, a soft and still somewhat sad tinge to his voice. Though it was a true sound of amusement from him, it was clear he was still grappling with whatever the blot potion had brought to the forefront of his mind. Part of you wanted to ask if he remembered anything or if any memories had come up, but you didn't want to upset the Harpy when he had finally calmed himself down somewhat.

"You truly don't belong here, do you?"

"What?"

"You are kind, (Y/n). Most of us would have abandoned anyone in the same position as me... I would have. You actually chose to help me when very few would have done the same. Though I could never bear the thought, you would fit in more at Royal Sword Academy."

"I don't want to go to Royal Sword Academy. I want to stay here. So don't worry, I'm not going anywhere, Vil."

This soothed the Harpy more than he cared to admit, happy to know that you were keen to stay. He was being honest though, he would have hesitated to do the same as you and actually choose to sacrifice himself for someone else. You were perhaps the only one he could confidently say he would choose to do that for. Maybe Rook, but absolutely for you.

"Let's get up. Who knows what type of testing Papa Hades wants to do today. Hopefully there is nothing too intense. I just really want to rest."

Vil allowed you to get up and prepare yourself for the day. Despite how desperately the Harpy wanted to be around you and hold you, he was trying his hardest to not push you away or make you uncomfortable. He was given a glorious gift that he would not trade anything for. The Harpy had been allowed to sleep in your nest with you and even got to cuddle you in that same nest.

Though the price for such an honor had been steeper than he could have ever anticipated, Vil was thrilled to have even a moment of holding you. When you left his side he felt like a crushing weight was squeezing the life out of him, and it only went away when you returned to his side and he could breathe again.

That isolation felt so much like when he was drowning and choking on the potion he created. His heart raced, his body shook with adrenaline, and his throat felt like it was closing up. Those feelings went away with you by his side and your affectionate smile directed at him, warming him inside and out. The screaming of his own mind and instincts quieted so drastically with your simple presence.

"Come on, Vil."

The Harpy was quick to scramble to get up, using his own magic to speed through his usual morning routine. He was almost sad to notice he didn't have his usual skincare products present, but he could always get them from his room when he next got the chance. Hopefully Pomefiore would be able to handle being without their Housewarden for the time it took the research to be completed. If needed, he could always go back and send Rook between the two dorms to keep the peace.

As you emerged from your room with the Harpy, an unknown voice met your ears. They sounded feminine and it piqued your interest enough to explore where the sound was coming from. Vil followed you closely as you reached the main lounge area of the dorm, feeling confusion and vague recognition wash over you.

Sitting with their legs crossed neatly and their wings tucked behind them was an effeminate Harpy. They wore a simple off the shoulder dress with long sleeves that covered up their hands. The Harpy was visibly mature and though they had a few lines that wore their face, they were fairly lovely with darker than expected colors.

Something about their coloration reminded you of male Violet Sabrewing Hummingbirds as the others and the Harpy seemed to take notice of your added presence.

As they turned to look at you, you felt Vil stiffen behind you, holding your shoulder with an almost vise grip. A quick glance at his face showed pure fear in the typically calm and proud Harpy's eyes, his silent terror speaking volumes to you.

Looking at the Harpy in front of you now registered to your brain why they looked so oddly familiar. Though the coloration was typically seen on males, the one in front of you was decidedly a female Harpy and you knew that for a fact. She had aged considerably since you last saw her screeching at her own son and attacking him viciously, but you knew this Harpy all too well.

"Ah, there you are, Villy. Took you long enough to come downstairs. I see you match your father more than ever in looks and laziness, but your purple will always be mine. Perhaps one of your best qualities, so of course it came from me, Dear. A good thing you grew into it too, you always were an ugly chick."

She approached the two of you as if trying to seem motherly even with her vinegar tainted words and you felt your entire body tense with anger. The last time you saw this woman she was screeching at a literal child and trying to kill him because she blamed him for something. Though her full reasoning was lost to you, the look of genuine horror in Vil's eyes as he shook behind you was not. His face was more stoic due to years of acting, but to you he looked like the same sobbing and frightened child that had clung to you for comfort while his parents fought in the adjacent room.

The Harpy Housewarden's body flinched and recoiled with her harsh words dripping in a honey sweet tone, seeming like he wanted to flee. Years of hearing the most hateful words that scarred his heart echoing in his head all screamed back at him as the female Harpy approached. He was stuck between wanting to escape the Harpy woman and seeking comfort from you as that suffocating sensation returned.

After what you've seen, you'd be damned before you let this awful woman anywhere near Vil.

"Get out."

Your voice was cold and steely, a sharp edge to your tone highlighting your anger and actually seeming to catch everyone off guard. None of them knew Vil's painful history, not even Rook had managed to coax the tale from the Harpy so none of them knew why you were so suddenly unhappy. The others had been under the impression that this was an unfairly estranged mother wanting to reconnect with her son, your tone told a different story.

Where you were usually friendly at best and coolly polite at worst with most upon first meeting them, your sudden change to smoldering rage was confusing and jarring to the others. Any time you had to bear your teeth in the past was shortly following provocation by others. From poor behavior to blatantly cruel acts, you always had reserved your genuine dislike for those who wronged you or those you cared for around you.

This Harpy- as far as they knew- showed no such disrespect towards you which only made your sudden distaste for her all the more confusing. Even Papa Hades felt a certain level of unrest as you placed yourself quite clearly between the Harpy woman and Vil.

"That's no way to speak to your elders, clearly manners are quite lax where you're from-"

"Get out now or you leave in a casket, Calliope."

There was something different about your tone that had everyone straightening up and feeling those echoes of your anger in their own hearts. Where confusion had once been, mistrust and dislike took its place. Your anger and hatred fueling their individual dislike for the woman.

Calliope was stunned that you knew her name, but even more stunned to see your sudden dislike towards her. She had only reached back out to that Feral brat that shared her genetics to meet you and it was certainly not going the way she had planned. It had been her belief that you would be sweet and cute towards her, having seen Vil in pictures with you. She had been so careful to keep her true intentions of spiriting you away with her quiet, so your anger ruffled her feathers.

"I'm just here to reconnect with-"

"GET OUT. You have hurt Vil enough, you wretched woman! Or did you forget what you did to your own child? Did you forget how you attacked him in cold blood? Did you forget how you screamed at him for simply existing? Did you forget that he was just a chick when you tried to kill him?"

Your last sentence made a look of disgust and anger take over her face as she hissed at you, her wings spreading behind her. It seemed she couldn't keep up the false affection with your direct accusations.

"He took everything from me! The least he can do is give me something of use and open the door for me to get my hands on you, even if you do act like a brat-!"

Your hands gripped the handle of the blade Idia had created for you, anger taking hold of you as she tried to grab at your shirt. Clearly, Clay's teachings were already proving useful as you moved your hand, the blade springing to life as you slashed the female Harpy's arm. She cried out in pain as she reeled back in surprise, hissing at you in rage as she tried to actually attack you now. She succeeded in slicing down your arm as you raised it to shield your face from her sudden attack.

Her violent behavior was enough to shock most of your guards out of their stupor, Rook's webbing restraining and pulling her down onto the floor before she could get to you again. Things were chaos for only a moment before a deep and thunderous sound rolled over the sky, filling it with darkness and electric green lightning. Everyone tensed at this and fell silent, instinctually shying away from the loud sounds of the storm outside.

Grim ran straight to your arms as a pair wings suddenly wrapped around you, shielding the both of you while the entire building groaned from the storm. The colorful feathers were familiar and it seemed Vil was hiding behind his wings as well, his face pressed into your shoulder and body tensed almost painfully. There was no mistaking who was so furiously guarding you, the simple act of aggression towards you being enough to trigger the Dragon into a rage.

You felt silence suddenly fall over everything and looked up to see the elder Shinigami had joined your small group, an odd shield of magic surrounding the four of you as the Shinigami looked down at you with concern. You couldn't see or hear anything outside of that bubble of influence. It was oddly calming compared to the near hurricane sounding storm outside.

"Papa Hades?"

He just shook his head and you figured it was for Vil's benefit. His nightmare and personal monster returned to his life, and he was forced to confront her and her cruelty. Who knows what Malleus had decided to do, but it was beyond your influence now.

If the Dragon torched the Harpy woman, you would not weep for her.

The elder Shinigami picked up your arm, a low glow coming from his hand as the burn of the cut soothed. He seemed to use a white bandage to wrap your arm, ensuring it didn't bleed anymore.

"How did you know what she had done, Little One?"

"... The same thing that happened with Alistair's Overblot happened with that potion... Like I saw the deepest and most painful parts of their soul that blot feeds on and exploits."

Vil curled closer to you, his breathing strained as he shook and gasped. He seemed like he was having a panic attack of some kind after seeing his mother again and all you could do was hold him. The lovely Harpy was shaking and seemed to only have enough awareness left in his mind to cling to you.

To Vil, it felt like his world was ending. His entire body struggling to stay calm as he panicked and tried to suck down every breath. The struggle of inflating his lungs only panicked him further as he tried to cuddle close to you. Every painful memory and time spent longingly wishing his mother loved him as much as his father did washing over the Harpy in drowning waves.

Grim also seemed to understand the stress the Harpy was feeling as he tried to purr and rub his cheeks against the upset Housewarden. Vil took to the affectionate behavior readily and you were quick to join in petting his hair. Even Papa Hades decided to show the frightened Harpy his gentle support while the four of you waited in the bubble of silence.

"Little One, when this is all over, I need to have a conversation with you about something important. I swear to you it is nothing bad, but we do need to talk privately."

You nodded and let Vil continue to lay against you, his eyes closed as he calmed down. His breathing slowing and relaxing as he no longer seemed to be fighting for air like he had been. When he got a deep breath, his eyes slowly slid open, his voice so soft.

"Don't let her get me, please. I... I know it's childish, but I could never bring myself to face her again. I don't care if she falls off the ends of this world..! I just want her to leave me alone."

You pet Vil's back, noticing how the Harpy leaned into your touch and closed his eyes. He seemed more than relaxed with your kindness as Grim nuzzled his cheek and feathered neck. Despite his discomfort with his wrapped wings, the kit was eager to soothe Vil.

"It's okay, Papa Birdy! I think you're pretty!"

This actually made Vil smile, a warm and affectionate smile pulling onto his lips as he looked at the kit. Vil had seemed indifferent to Grim when he had interacted with him prior but now seemed to be genuinely fond of the kit you cared for.

Grim clearly believed adding 'Papa' to names meant he respected and trusted them, having already added it to Malleus and Vil's nicknames. Perhaps- depending on how long it took for the Human ghosts to find you an escape- you should trust Grim's intuition regarding the others. Thus far, Vil, Papa Hades, and Malleus had earned the affection of your kit.

~~~~~~~~

"What happened?"

Standing before you- with his eyes wide and his entire body stiff- was a very unhappy and stressed Dragon. Malleus had been trying to keep himself calm with the aid of Lilia, but seeing your exhausted state sent him spiraling. The tell-tale black ink-like coloration at the ends of your fingers, lips, and hair told him you had more than just a brush with blot.

"Blot potion out of control. We're both good now, but we need a snack and some rest. Papa Hades said he would be up with something for us to snack on soon."

"..."

Malleus stood in silence, the tip of his tail flicking angrily and the low roll of thunder sounded in the distance. It often took a moment or two for the Dragon to fully process what was being said to him, and it often took your calmly stated words just a moment longer than most. You had been touched by blot and he was furious to think such a vile liquid could even have a hold on you for seconds, let alone long enough to stain your flesh.

"... Blot potion?"

"Yeah. A bad idea that became a dangerous opponent. It's sealed up now and Papa Hades said he would be dealing with it later. For now, I think Vil and I need a bit of a rest."

The trip back to your dorm had been a long one, or at least it felt so much longer to you and Vil given the prior events. Luckily Rook and Silver- after pulling themselves together- straightened up and carried the both of you. You were put on Silver's back while Vil was on Rook's back. Sebek, professor Clay, and Papa Hades led your group back to Ramshackle, all the while ensuring that any ne'er-do-wells knew to keep their distance.

Now you all were looking for a bit of rest, and Malleus was likely to panic upon fully realizing what took place. You weren't exactly keen to argue with the Dragon and you knew complete fallout would occur if he ever learned you had kissed Vil in order to give the blot potion easy access to your body. Though you could have likely done it a different way, it was the only thing you could think of to encourage the blot potion out of Vil and into you fast enough to save the Harpy.

"Tsuno, I know you aren't happy about it, but it happened and is over now. All that matters is we are back safe and sound. Right?"

"..."

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm not going to classes tomorrow. Well, Vil won't be either after tonight's events, so you can stick around with us tomorrow if you feel like skipping a class or two."

This made the Dragon perk up somewhat, clearly pleased at the idea of spending more time with you than he usually would be able to. Still, he seemed hesitant to believe that all of the present issues were resolved so easily.

"Now, let's talk about who gets to sleep where in the nest."

~•§•~

The ancient Shinigami watched the pan sizzle as he cooked a small meal quickly and fiddled with a device in his hands. If the Harpy was so keen to be a data point in this study, Hades wasn't going to argue. It unsettled him that several of the students were showing signs of desperation and of performing desperate acts to get the soft and coveted Human's attention.

Who knows what the next desperate action will be or how far it will go.

"Lord Hades?"

"Yes, Child?"

The Shinigami turned his head towards the Yeti who had been present for the fallout of the Harpy and had been a rather helpful aide when it came to restraining the other students. Had they all tried to help and not been held back by the Ape-man, they likely would have all Overblotted or worse given the situation at hand. He at least lived up to his reputation of being calm under pressure and having a good grasp on dangerous situations.

"That much blot should have killed her."

"I know, Child. That much blot would have killed all of them had it gotten a hold on them."

"I know that potion. Poachers use it to infest their prey to claim they were 'putting down a Feral' instead of illegally harvesting parts from a non Feral. It never ends well for those who use it. Ever."

"I am familiar with the potion as well."

This only made Clay's frown deepen. He had seen entire poaching encampments turned Feral due to that specific potion and he had seen the way it acted like a blight on any magical being. How it moved from body to body, infesting and possessing anything it touched.

"Why didn't it kill her?"

"I have several theories. Humans are not magical, so they have next to no accumulation of blot as they go through life. Blot is a byproduct of magic, and without magic, Humans don't form blot but are susceptible to those who have turned Feral. My own Humans had very little interaction with Ferals by design. Though I knew they were blot resistant, I did not know the extent of their blot related abilities."

"So you don't know?"

"I don't know for certain, no. She has shown an incredible ability to neutralize blot and even attract blot towards her, as shown by the potion itself choosing to abandon it's prize of young Vil and anchor itself to her instead where it could have just taken them both."

The Shinigami turned towards Clay, moving the pan off of the heat to let it and the food he was cooking rest. The monitoring collar he was fiddling with coming to life in his hands as he adjusted it.

"I have a theory that Humans are natural blot absorbers and neutralizers. They likely developed this and their addictive nature by evolving hand in hand with magic using species. Humans needed protection from magical species so they developed a way to be needed and helpful to those that protected them. The magical species create blot, and the Humans absorb it, creating a symbiotic relationship. Perhaps it is this blot absorption that led to Humans being so addictive as they relieve the negative impact of blot, which all magical species have."

"It would make sense... To have blot creators and blot neutralizers. But still, this rampant almost infectious attraction and obsession doesn't really fit..."

"That is why it must be studied. There is the potential that Little (Y/n) is a fluke among Humans with an unnatural resistance to blot. The only thing that I know for certain is the data that has been gathered. Humans are addictive, thousands of years worth of research has proven that as fact. This blot absorption is a new development, and with only one Human as the sample size, it can't be asserted that (Y/n) isn't the only blot neutralizer."

The Yeti crossed his arms, deep in thought. It made sense from a scientific view. No science was perfect and with the sample size being a grand total of one, there was always room for misinterpretation. Even still, there was more than just the science to be considered.

"She deserves to know."

"Hm?"

"(Y/n) deserves to be told of her addictive qualities. If not for the sake of others, than for her own sake so she can protect herself. If everyone is going to have some kind of obsession- deadly or not- she deserves to know about it."

"... I know. I have considered broaching the topic many times before, yet have found myself struggling to find the right words to tell her."

"Why?"

"Because," the Shinigami sighed, running his fingers through his flame hair, "Humans are delicate compared to us. Physically they could be a credible threat to other species, especially when their young were put in harm's way, but emotionally they put more value into how others viewed them. It makes sense, they were at the whims of others for an extended period of time and are an incredibly social species as a whole, but that does mean they are more delicate to the emotional impact they have on others. Little (Y/n) in particular seems mostly aware of her impact on the others, but I worry what guilt she will feel when she learns the truth."

Clay nodded at this, having seen his own fair share of just how impactful the affectionate Human was on the wellbeing of those around her. From the guards that flocked to her, to the students that stared whenever she passed by, she impacted everyone she interacted with. He had also noticed his own growing attachment to the kind little Human that so innocently looked to him for instruction.

"Young Vil and Little (Y/n) are likely hungry with the blot still in their systems, they need food before they rest."

Clay dropped the subject as the elder Shinigami split the ample and warm food into two servings, turning to leave. He paused for just a moment at the threshold of the door to speak to the Yeti with an even and measured tone.

"I will broach the subject when I feel it is right, but trust that I will do it. For now, I ask you keep our conversation to yourself. She doesn't need such stress so soon after an event like this one, alright?"

"... I understand."

~•§•~

Rook was almost vibrating with how thrilled he was, settled down in the nest with his boon companion laying against his side. Vil had his long tail tucked and curled under his legs as he himself had taken an almost fetal position up against the side of the Drider. You were sitting close by, petting a sore and less than pleased Grim who demanded cuddles when he realized you were back.

The storm outside had quieted somewhat, as Malleus had managed to calm himself despite not liking the two outsiders laying in your nest. Silver was already back to sleep, Sebek laying against his side but still warily observing the Harpy and Drider duo in the nest. Though the Dragon was displeased with the interlopers, he was more relieved that you were alright. He didn't overlook the staining you had on your skin, seeing the darker tints around your eyes and lips where the blot had forced itself into you.

"Are you certain you are alright, (Y/n)?"

"Yes, Tsuno, I'm okay. I promise. If I wasn't, we wouldn't be having this conversation. I appreciate that you care so deeply about me and want to make sure I'm alright, but I promise you I am okay."

"..."

The Dragon continued to frown as a light knock sounded from the door. It slowly opened to reveal the large Shinigami with two steaming bowls of food and you couldn't help but smile at him. At least Papa Hades was present and could help care for you and Vil after the impact of the disastrous potion the Harpy had created.

"Here you are, Little One. Eat up and get some rest, you and Young Vil are no doubt exhausted by the evenings events."

You happily accepted the bowl of warm food, Grim taking several long sniffs towards your meal as you pet his forehead. His little nose wiggled and you were content to give the sore kit bites from your bowl. Vil seemed much more hesitant to take the food offered, seeming as if he were close to crying despite the kind gesture.

"Vil?"

"... I don't deserve it."

Your smile fell and you sighed, having seen similar remorseful driven behavior from Riddle and Alistair following their Overblots. He was likely going to need an encouraging hand if he was going to accept the meal offered. At least his behavior showed he was regretting his actions that drove him to his current state.

"Yes, you do. Eat, or you will regret it tomorrow."

"... (Y/n), I almost killed you with my actions. I could have killed myself as well. I don't deserve accolades or kindness after my actions."

A beat of silence passed as you handed the bowl off to a confused Lilia, handing Grim to Malleus. Vil seemed confused by your actions as you moved through the nest to his side, grabbing the second bowl from the elder Shinigami. Using the provided spoon, you scooped up some of the food and looked at Vil expectantly, holding the spoon up to him.

"(Y/n), I-"

"If your next actions are not eating and saying 'thank you' to Papa Hades, I'm not going to listen or entertain any further complaints. You will eat. You will be thankful someone took the time to make you food. You will accept that I am not angry with you. And above all else, you will forgive yourself for your own misguided actions. If I have to sit here and feed you myself, I will."

Vil was silent for another long moment, but his stomach spoke for him with an impatient growl as he could smell the warm food you held. With a certain hesitance to his movements and very much like a baby bird, he let you feed him that first spoonful. You didn't have to feed him the rest as that one bite triggered his obvious hunger and he happily took the bowl from you.

Once Vil was eating his fair share you gently pet his head, making the Harpy let out a gentle cooing noise at the affection. Lilia returned your bowl to you and you proceeded to follow the Harpy's example, pausing to give the occasional piece to Grim. Papa Hades seemed pleased with the both of you eating and nodded, resting on the edge of the nest to wait until you both had finished your impromptu meals.

"Young Vil, given the... events... that took place, I would rather you join the current study I am overseeing. It is on blot and how Little (Y/n) affects blot in other species. It will require you wear this monitor on your neck so we can get vitals and a fairly accurate measurement of blot remaining inside of you. Is that amenable to you?"

"Yes. I... am still mortified that I even considered Overblotting in the first place, but I understand now how lucky I truly am (Y/n) intervened when she did. It would be meaningless to deny my own participation in your research given my misguided actions."

Vil moved towards you, Papa Hades taking both bowls away and setting them to the side as he held up what looked like the same collars Riddle and Alistair wore. The Harpy held up his hair to allow the elder Shinigami to place the device around his neck, shivering from the cold touch. It clicked in place and seemed to not bother the Harpy too much despite the way it sat on his neck feathers.

"The both of you, get some rest. You have had an eventful night and tomorrow will be more rest and testing. I wish you all a pleasant evening."

"Goodnight, Papa Hades."

The elder chucked at this, smiling warmly at you.

"Goodnight, Little One."

With that, he left the room and closed the door behind him so you and your company could get some rest. Vil seemed much more at peace as he returned to Rook's side, the Drider placing pillows against his abdomen for the Harpy to rest comfortably on him. You settled down with Grim, noticing the way Malleus kept his back to the outside of the nest before pulling you under his wing so he could keep an eye on you.

As the room settled down, Lilia turned out the lights and a tentative calm washed over your group. Rook, Sebek, and Grim were quick to drift off, comfortable among the others in the nest and trusting their company wholeheartedly. You, Lilia, Malleus and Vil still clung to some awareness instead of succumbing fully to sleep.

Though you fought to cling to consciousness, you were quickly pulled into the embrace of rest. Malleus and Lilia both wanted to stay awake and keep an eye on the nest given their own anxieties with the situation. As they were both nocturnal Fae, they were less affected by the siren song of sleep than the others were.

Vil was just trying to process all that had happened. Though it was all orchestrated by him, he still had to come to terms with the memories that had been dredged up from the darker corners of his mind. Your forgiveness was a soothing balm to his worrying mind as he contemplated the cruelty of his mother juxtaposed with your compassion.

Something odd happened with his hazy memories of his mother that the Harpy couldn't explain. Where he remembered crying and hiding from her under a rather sturdy table, sobbing as his father fought in a flurry of feathers for his safety, another figure had appeared. You were somehow in his childhood memory, holding him and soothing him after his mother had attacked him. Though he knew it wasn't possibly true, he still valued that odd change to his memories and cherished your comfort.

Perhaps something had happened to alter his memories to a more soothing outcome when you took on his blot. Perhaps he rewrote his own memories to include someone soothing his distraught child self. All he knew for certain was that you were a very calming and soothing presence that made his heart ache less when you were around.

Your presence comforted and relaxed him more than anything else could. Given the way he had lived his life up until that point, he considered it a miracle that he could find anyone he is willing to accept affection from. He even struggled to accept the endless praise Rook heaped on his shoulders, believing the Drider only focused on his outward appearance despite being his closest friend.