Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 82: Plunge **

Eastiel let out a low groan, his body tensing from a sudden, phantom sensation. Ah... the lingering press of a kiss against his lips that wasn’t his own.

He turned his head, his golden eyes narrowing at Oathran, who had paused in his own task. The dragon lord leaned back in his chair, a faintly amused smile playing on his lips as he too closed his eyes, savoring the shared echo.

"I think..." Oathran murmured, the smile deepening, "...their little date is proceeding quite well."

Earlier, Cecilia had sought him out, asking how to mask one’s scent. He’d explained the principle of a mana-coat, and as per Cecilia, she did it on her first try.

She’d nodded, thanked him, and vanished. Of course, she hadn’t divulged her destination, but it should’ve been clear either way. She’d gone to find Arkai.

Oathran had shrugged, mentally wishing the wolf luck. He’d need another thorough scrubbing afterward, but a clandestine tryst somewhere? Harmless. Sweet, even.

"Elder Brother..." Eastiel’s voice cut through his reverie, strained. The Lion King was concentrating fiercely, a flickering nimbus of fire magic swirling around his hands as he tried to superheat a large, wobbling sphere of water Oathran had suspended in the air between them. "How do you... deal with this... jealousy?"

Oathran watched the water bubble and churn, accepting the rising steam with a delicate twist of his wind affinity. He cooled it swiftly, condensing it back into pure droplets that pattered neatly into a waiting glass container.

"I thought you were a seasoned expert in that particular arena... yes, the ’pro’ as kids these days call it," he replied, his tone lightly teasing. "Haven’t you been professionally jealous for a solid seven years?"

Eastiel’s focus broke. The fire sputtered, and he shot Oathran a flat glare.

"Come now, that was funny," Oathran said, meeting his glare with a lopsided grin.

"Elder Brother," Eastiel said, his voice level, changing the subject with the subtlety of a thrown brick. "How are you so proficient with water magic? It’s not even your primary affinity."

"BWAHAHWHAHAHWHAHAH—Alright, alright!" he conceded, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. "I surrender. We shall discuss the green-eyed monster."

He composed himself, adopting a more scholarly air as he reached over and carefully placed a heavy paperweight atop the scattered pages of Cecilia’s handwritten notes for the Diluting Potion recipe, securing her work against any further seismic laughter.

"Ask your questions, little sun. I am in a merciful mood."

"Grrr..."

"Hmm?"

"Ah! How are you not jealous, Elder Brother?!"

"Yes, yes. The very same question Arkai posed to me. Not long ago."

Eastiel blinked, caught off guard. "A-at... at me?"

"At you," Oathran confirmed with a slow nod. "Jealous."

How? One of them was an ancient Dragon Lord, a sovereign of myth. The other was the Black Wolf King, the uncontested pillar of the north. Both were centuries older, immeasurably stronger, with depths of power and experience he couldn’t fathom.

What could he, the Lion King with seven years of frustrated pining, possibly have that would inspire jealousy in them?

"Aren’t you the one who knows the Saintess better than anyone else in this world?" Oathran asked, his voice softening. "When she is with you... she looks the most like her own age."

Eastiel’s defiant gaze faltered. He hadn’t seen it that way.

"I’d assume," Oathran continued, leaning forward slightly, "that since you know her least favorite game, you must also know her most favorite one. I have only recently discovered her favorite food is bone broth soup. It was the thing she craved as she lay dying in that forest."

"She... said that?" Eastiel’s voice was barely a whisper, the image a painful twist in his heart.

Oathran nodded. "She did. When I asked what kind, she said ’cow’s’ with her last bit of breath."

"Cow’s—" Eastiel’s breath hitched. He didn’t know whether to laugh at the mundane specificity or weep for the dying wish. "I... I was the one who took her to eat bone broth soup for the first time. Years ago. I don’t even know if she remembers—"

"I would bet my oldest scale she does," Oathran cut in, his gaze sharpening into a mock glare. "And even if she had forgotten, I will remember it for the rest of my life now. How dare you be the one to invent the culinary centerpiece of my dying memory with her?"

A choked sound escaped Eastiel. "Pffft—"

He stared at the Dragon Lord, this being of impossible grandeur, and realized that he had, in some small way, made him jealous. Not of power or position, but of a simple bowl of soup and a shared memory.

"But between the three of us... you’re the one who knew her first. Who met her first," Eastiel pointed out, a thread of that old, stubborn jealousy still clinging.

Oathran leveled an unimpressed glare at him. "You should cease assigning romantic value to that particular milestone. She was eight years old. A child."

"A child who looked you in the eye and promised to take your life with her own hands?" Eastiel shot back, his own glare intensifying. "That’s baller as fuck."

A reluctant smirk spread across Oathran’s face. He couldn’t argue with the assessment. "That," he conceded with a sigh, "is, indeed, baller as fuck. Alright. Fine. You may be jealous of that specific point. I’ll allow it."

"Okay."

"Good. Now, control your flame. The recipe specifies a very precise temperature. You’re about to boil the impurities into the solution, not out of it."

"Sorry, my bad. Anyway, do we really need to do this... several thousand more times for her to have enough to distribute?"

"I believe we must. Though the Saintess mentioned finding a trusted master alchemist to mass-produc—"

"We should do it ourselves. Those money-grubbing pests... Alchemists are all swindlers and egoma—"

"I concur. Let us simply work. Diligentl—"

"And get our reward properl—"

"Correc—"

"Let me train her assh—"

"That’s mine, you brat. I met her fi—"

"HYPOCR—"

"Ah. The sense connection’s severed just no—"

"AH! THEY’RE FUCKING WITHOUT U—"

***

Cecilia had, by any metric, accumulated a ledger of horrible experiences with men. The tally went far beyond Arzhen, quite a product of her life navigating the snake-pit of the Temple and the Iondora Empire.

And now, she had ended up with three husbands. Understanding them, their drives, their wounds, their peculiar madness, was a responsibility.

She hadn’t told Oathran her destination after extracting his scent-concealing secret, but she hadn’t needed to. As the dragon had noted to himself, it was clear where she was going.

"More than myself, Saintess," he’d said, "Arkai believes claiming you is a sin. You represent every boundary he was raised to uphold, and every one he has now shattered. You are the impossible world he has tumbled into."

"But he jumped anyway."

She’d taken that veiled advice to heart. She saw Arkai now as a man drowning in a swamp of his own honor, guilt, and newly-liberated desire. She had two options. Haul him out by force, or dive in after him.

She chose the plunge.

"Uncle..." she breathed the forbidden title into the cold air between them. "Arzhen... he never touched me. So even if you... just put the tip in... he’d never know. There’d be nothing to know..."

Arkai felt the ground vanish beneath him. He was standing on a razor’s edge, vertigo and a dark, thrilling heat warring in his veins. What was this depraved, yet exquisite game? Why did the vileness of the pretense make his blood sing?

Holy roleplay—

He yielded. Just an inch. A shallow breach.

"Mmmm..." she sounded satisfied... pleasured.

Filthy. This was disgusting. So disgustingly perfect.

"Can you feel it...?" she whispered, her body tightening around that minuscule intrusion.

"Yes..." His own voice was gravel.

"Uncle... you’re so... big... ah—mmm, just a little deeper... it doesn’t count if it’s just a little more, right...?"

"You think there’s a measurement for sin?" he growled, even as he pushed forward another devastating fraction.

"Who’s... keeping score...?" she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders.

A ragged laugh escaped him, torn between torment and bliss. "Ha... You’re so tight..."

Fishing him out of the swamp? Jumping after him? No. This little slut was pulling him under, and he was following her into the glorious, suffocating dark without a single struggle left in him.

"Uncle... out of all the men I’ve known... you’re the girthiest of them all..."

Arkai groaned, tortured and surrendered another inch. Just that small stretch—

"The thickest part of you..." she gasped, her body adjusting, clenching. "We haven’t... taken it all yet..."

"Cece... you’re going to drive me mad..."

"Oh... you feel... harder... fuller than ever..."

"Fuck, shut your mouth, you little slu—"

"Mmm... then make me. Knot me."

He was balanced on a precipice. "Fuck... Fucking... I am this close to a rut, and if I do, we are in big trouble," he growled the warning, his control fraying into single straining threads.

Cecilia bit her lip, her eyes wide with innocence. "Is it... really that much trouble...?"

Arkai’s eyes rolled back. Was it trouble? It was disaster. A rut in this state, in this place, would be a biological broadcast. The scent—Oathran would know. Eastiel would know. The entire fortress, with its keen-nosed inhabitants, would know.

There was no bathtub full of ice-cold water to dilute his scent. This wasn’t his sealed shut bathroom in his youth. This was—

Gods... everyone would know he’d—

"I can cloak us," she breathed. "A layer of my mana, like for the scent. It’ll contain it. No one will smell a thing, Uncle." Her hips rolled, a slow, torturous invitation. "So... knot me?"

The last thread snapped.

Ha.

Fuck the consequences. Fuck the secrecy. Let the world burn.

SLAM!

Let everyone know.

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.

.

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Important A/N Part 3:

Hello my lovely readers!

AH, GREAT NEWS!

One of my three legendary OG patrons has claimed their naming prize! 🥹🎉

I cannot tell you how happy and honored their message made me. They’ve chosen a beautiful, meaningful name, and I am absolutely in love with it. A small piece of their heart will forever be woven into Cecilia and the boys’ story, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

To my other two phenomenal OGs, The invitation remains wide open, just for you, until February 1st. There is no pressure at all! CROSSING MY HEART, CROSSING MY FINGERS, PINKY PROMISE! Only the same excited open arms waiting to welcome your creativity, if you wish to share it! Seeing it comes in has made the future of these characters feel even more special and real. (At least to me ah...)

To every single one of you reading this, thank you for being part of this journey. Your support is the magic that makes this all possible.

And mark your calendars!

🎄 Mass Release Alert! 🎄

To celebrate you all, there will be a 10-Chapter mass release on December 25th!

All my love and happy reading,

Sugar!