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The Fox Hole! 136
🕑 Added 2026-01-31 23:13:38 +0000 UTCChapter 136:
– Haru –
Turns out, when you accidentally reveal that a secret Nazi organization has infiltrated the highest levels of global intelligence agencies, people tend to react poorly. Coulson had gone from tired to terrified to grimly determined in the span of about thirty seconds, then immediately started making phone calls while pacing back and forth across the desert like a man possessed.
I'd offered to help, but he'd waved me off with a distracted "I'll be in touch" before speeding away in his SUV, leaving a cloud of dust and existential dread in his wake.
That had been yesterday.
Today, the Fox Hole was back to its usual controlled chaos. The lunch rush had just ended, leaving behind a scattered collection of regulars nursing their drinks. I was behind the bar, methodically polishing glasses that didn't really need polishing, letting the familiar routine settle my thoughts.
The newcomers and new women in my life were still finding themselves for the moment.
Hela had claimed her new favorite spot at the far end of the counter, nursing another tankard of Skyrim mead with the reverent appreciation of someone who'd gone a millennium without a decent drink. Also, she didn’t want to wander too far away from myself or Frigga due to her intense abandonment issues that I’d never judge her for.
Frigga was in a corner booth, surrounded by floating scrolls and shimmering magical diagrams as she began her study of the Fox Hole's dimensional properties. Every few minutes, she'd make a soft sound of discovery—sometimes delighted, sometimes confused, always fascinated—and scribble something in a notebook she'd conjured from thin air.
She probably could have just asked Ranni if she wanted to, but she wanted to discover everything for herself, her pride as a Vanir Goddess—who had extensively studied magic most of her life—was on the line.
Sif was currently sitting in the booth with Frigga, and the Goddess of War looked a bit antsy. I could tell she was a woman that liked to move her body and wasn’t a big fan of downtime or the slow life. Hence, why she was in an adventuring party in the first place.
I’m sure something crazy would happen soon enough though, knowing this place.
Life was good. Complicated as hell, but good.
"...You know, Haru," a familiar voice cut through my thoughts, smooth and teasing and carrying just a hint of digital distortion that she hadn't quite managed to eliminate yet, "I always thought the Master Chief's life was pretty complicated. But yours?" A pause, perfectly timed for dramatic effect. "Yours easily takes the cake."
Cortana was sauntering toward the bar counter with the kind of deliberate, hip-swaying stride that demanded attention. And her outfit... gods above and below, her outfit was clearly designed to ensure she got every scrap of that attention.
The tank top she wore was tight. Criminally tight. The kind of tight that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, clinging to her generous curves like it had been spray-painted onto her luminous blue skin. The fabric stopped just below her ribcage, leaving her flat stomach completely exposed—and I could see the faint flicker of binary code occasionally rippling across her skin there, a reminder that despite her current physical form, she was still something far more than human.
The tops of her blue breasts swelled above the tank top's neckline. They bounced slightly with each step she took, a hypnotic rhythm that made it very difficult to focus on anything else.
Her jeans were just as devastating. They looked at least a size too small, molded to her legs and hips and ass like they'd been custom-fitted by someone who really, really appreciated the female form. Every movement made the denim stretch and shift in ways that drew the eye inexorably downward.
And because Cortana was quite literally one of the most intelligent beings in existence—a former AI who had processed more information in a single nanosecond than most humans did in a lifetime—there was absolutely no way she missed how my eyes were raking over her body. No way she didn't notice my grip tightening on the glass I'd been polishing. No way she didn't catch the way my ten tails had gone rigid behind me, bristling with sudden, intense awareness.
Her smirk told me she'd noticed all of it. And enjoyed every second.
"Well?" Cortana prompted, sliding onto the barstool directly across from me with a graceful movement that somehow managed to make even sitting down look seductive. She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the counter in a way that pressed her impressive cleavage together and gave me an even more devastating view down her top. "Cat got your tongue? Or should I say..." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Fox got your tongue?"
"I—" My voice came out rougher than intended, and I had to clear my throat before trying again. "Cortana. Hey. You look..." I trailed off, struggling to find a word that adequately captured what I was seeing without sounding like a complete horndog.
"Amazing? Stunning? Like the physical manifestation of every fantasy you've ever had?" She ticked off the options on her fingers, her smile growing wider with each suggestion. "Feel free to pick any or all of the above. I won't judge."
"All of the above," I admitted, because there was no point in lying to someone who could probably read my physiological responses like a book. "Definitely all of the above."
Cortana's expression shifted into something softer, more genuine, though the playful edge never quite disappeared. "Thank you," she said, and for just a moment, I caught a glimpse of something vulnerable beneath her confident exterior. "I'm still getting used to... all of this." She gestured vaguely at her own body. "Having a physical form. Experiencing sensations instead of just processing data about them. It's..." She paused, searching for words. "It's overwhelming sometimes. In the best way."
I set down the glass I'd been polishing, giving her my full attention. "How are you adjusting? Really?"
"Better every day," she said, and the honesty in her voice made something warm bloom in my chest. "John—the Chief—has been incredibly patient with me. He doesn't always understand what I'm going through, but he tries. And Jane and Shepard have been wonderful about explaining certain... biological functions that I was previously only aware of in an academic sense." Her cheeks darkened slightly at that last part, the blue of her skin taking on a faintly purple tint that I was learning to recognize as her version of a blush. "But there are still so many things I haven't experienced yet," Cortana continued, and her voice dropped into something lower, more intimate. She reached across the counter, her fingers brushing against mine with a touch that sent electricity sparking up my arm. "So many sensations I've only ever read about or observed from the outside. Touch. Taste. Pleasure." Her eyes met mine, and the intensity in them made my breath catch. "You know, Haru, our date never did get properly completed. We were interrupted right in the middle of our ice cream…."
She batted her eyelashes at me—actually batted them.
My tails went ramrod straight behind me, all ten of them bristling with sudden tension that had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with the gorgeous former AI currently eye-fucking me across my own bar counter.
"BAHAHAHA!"
The explosive laugh came from my left, and I turned to find Torvar—one of the Companions from Skyrim, a barrel-chested Nord with a magnificent red beard and a seemingly bottomless capacity for alcohol—slamming his tankard down on the counter hard enough to slosh mead everywhere. He'd been nursing that same drink for the past hour, apparently content to sit in silence, but Cortana's proposition had clearly exceeded his ability to stay quiet.
"Now you can't go denying a gorgeous lass when she's propositioning you so openly, lad!" Torvar bellowed, his voice carrying across the entire restaurant with the kind of volume that came naturally to men who spent their lives shouting battle cries. He wiped mead from his beard with the back of one massive hand, grinning at me with unabashed delight. "I've seen many a shield-maiden try to catch a warrior's eye, but never with such... what's the word..." He gestured vaguely at Cortana's outfit. "Directness! Aye, that's it. Directness!"
"Thank you," Cortana said, turning to offer the Nord a brilliant smile. "I appreciate a culture that values straightforward communication in matters of romance."
"Romance?" Torvar let out another booming laugh. "Lass, what you're doing ain't romance, you want yourself a good old fashioned FU—"
"TORVAR!" I hissed.
"What? It's true!" The Nord spread his hands in a gesture of exaggerated innocence. "I've got eyes, don't I?” He drained the rest of his mead in one mighty gulp, belched with enough force to rattle the bottles behind the bar, and then pushed himself to his feet with surprising agility for someone who'd consumed his body weight in alcohol. "I'll leave you two to your... negotiations," he said, his eyes twinkling with barely contained amusement. "But remember, lad—a true Nord never keeps a beautiful woman waiting when she’s asking for it!"
I was not a Nord, but I got the point…
Cortana’s composure cracked as a giggle escaped her lips.
I took a deep breath, forcing my composure back into some semblance of order. My tails gradually relaxed behind me. "Okay," I said, fixing Cortana with what I hoped was a serious look. "As much as I would love to continue this conversation—and believe me, I really, really would—I get the feeling you didn't come here just to proposition me in front of the regulars."
Cortana's expression shifted, the playful seductress giving way to something more businesslike. She let out a theatrical sigh, one hand coming up to rest dramatically over her heart. "As much as I would love to be propositioning you openly like that," she admitted, "you're right. Unfortunately, I'm actually here on some official business." She made air quotes around the words with her fingers. "Doing a favor for Milim."
Now that Cortana mentioned it, I realized I hadn't seen my pink-haired Demon Lord lover around my restaurant in several days. Which was unusual, to say the least. Milim had a habit of showing up at random intervals to demand food, ask for cuddles, or just hang out because she was bored and my establishment was "the most interesting place in all the dimensions!"
Her absence had been so gradual that I hadn't consciously registered it until now. But thinking back... yeah. It had been at least four or five days since I'd last seen that distinctive pink hair bouncing through my door.
"What's Milim up to?" I asked, genuine curiosity replacing my earlier embarrassment. "She's been MIA for a while now."
Cortana's expression turned thoughtful. "From what I understand, she's been doing some... political maneuvering? In her home dimension?" She tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly as she recalled the details. "Apparently, there's been a lot of chatter among the other Demon Lords about you. Your existence. Your power level. The fact that you evolved into a True Demon Lord without going through their world's normal channels."
That tracked with what I knew about Rimuru's dimension. The Demon Lords there were a big deal—ancient, powerful beings who each controlled vast territories and commanded armies of monsters. They had their own political structure, their own alliances and rivalries, their own complicated history that stretched back thousands of years.
And I'd basically crashed their party by showing up out of nowhere, eating a god's soul that I brought over like it was takeout, and evolved into one of them without anyone ever really hearing about me before that...
"So what does Milim want?" I asked.
Cortana's lips curved into that mischievous smile again. "She wants you to come to her world," she said, her tone suggesting she found this entire situation deeply amusing. "To meet up with all of the other Demon Lords." She paused for effect, then continued in what was clearly meant to be a Milim impression: "'To prove that he's the bestest of them all! Besides me, of course! Muahahahaha!'"
She cleared her throat and accompanied all that with a shrug that made her impressive chest bounce distractingly.
I stared at her for a long moment, processing the implications. "Milim wants me to attend some kind of... Demon Lord summit?"
"Something like that," Cortana confirmed. "From what she explained—and I'll admit, her explanation involved a lot of enthusiastic hand gestures and sound effects that may have obscured some details even for someone with my analytical skills—there's going to be a formal gathering. All the major Demon Lords in attendance. Food, drinks, possibly some ritualistic combat depending on how the evening goes."
"Wait, what was that last one…?"
"Milim seemed excited about that part." Cortana's expression suggested she was trying very hard not to laugh. "She mentioned something about 'showing off her bestie's power' and 'making the other Demon Lords acknowledge your greatness.' I think she's been planning this for a while."
I ran a hand through my hair and fox ears, my tails swishing behind me. Milim was one of my best friends before she finally pushed her way into becoming my lover, so of course I wasn’t going to leave her hanging.
Call me a simp, but I’d be there the second any of my girls needed my help with anything…
"When is this gathering supposed to happen?" I asked.
Cortana's smile widened, and I got the distinct impression I wasn't going to like her answer. "Tonight."
"Tonight?"
"Milim wanted it to be a surprise," Cortana explained with far too much amusement. "She was going to burst in here dramatically and drag you through a portal, but I convinced her that some advance warning might be... appreciated."
I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it again as a new thought occurred to me. "Wait. How did you end up being Milim's messenger?"
Cortana's expression shifted into something more genuine—less playful seductress, more earnest explanation. "We've actually been spending a bit of time together lately," she admitted. "After Ramiris evolved me into this form, Milim got curious about what I was. She'd never encountered a 'machine spirit' before, and you know how she gets when she's curious about something."
I did, in fact, know how Milim got when she was curious about something. The answer was extremely persistent until her curiosity was satisfied, usually through a combination of aggressive questioning and the occasional application of overwhelming force.
"Anyway," Cortana said, pulling me back to the matter at hand, "she asked me to come deliver the message because she knew I wanted to see you and she’s busy doing something else herself." The playfulness crept back into her voice. "Two birds, one stone. Official business and..." Her eyes dropped meaningfully to my lips. "...unfinished personal business." Cortana's playful expression shifted as she leaned back slightly, though the movement did absolutely nothing to diminish how distractingly gorgeous she looked in that criminally tight outfit. "Oh, and there's one more thing," she added, holding up a finger like she'd just remembered an important detail. "All Demon Lords attending the gathering are expected to bring along two powerful and competent servants or followers. It's apparently tradition—a way of showing off your strength and the quality of beings who've pledged themselves to your service." She paused, letting that information sink in, and then—very deliberately—batted her eyelashes at me again.
The gesture was so exaggerated, so obviously calculated, that it circled all the way around from subtle to comedic and landed somewhere in the territory of "adorably shameless."
I couldn't help the chuckle that escaped me. "Real subtle there, Cortana."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, her expression the picture of wounded innocence even as her lips twitched with barely suppressed amusement. "I'm simply conveying important logistical information about the upcoming diplomatic event. The fact that I happen to be a supremely powerful former AI who has recently gained a physical form and would make an excellent representative of your strength and sophistication is purely coincidental."
"Uh huh." I leaned forward on the bar, resting my elbows on the polished wood and fixing her with an appraising look. "And the outfit? The eye-batting? The whole..." I gestured vaguely at her entire presentation. "...this?"
Cortana's innocent expression cracked, a grin spreading across her luminous blue features. "Okay, maybe not entirely coincidental," she admitted. "A girl's got to use every advantage at her disposal. I've spent a large chunk of my existence as an AI analyzing human behavior patterns and social dynamics. You'd be surprised how effective a low-cut top and some strategically timed flirtation can be at achieving desired outcomes."
"I really wouldn't," I said dryly, thinking of roughly half the women in my life and their various approaches to getting what they wanted from me.
"So?" Cortana leaned forward again, and I had to exercise genuine willpower to keep my eyes on her face rather than the generous cleavage she was very intentionally putting on display. "What do you say, Haru? Want to take me to a fancy interdimensional demon lord gathering? I promise I'll be on my best behavior." She paused, then added with a wicked grin, "Unless you'd prefer I wasn't."
I pretended to consider the offer for a moment, stroking my chin thoughtfully while my tails swayed behind me in patterns that probably betrayed my amusement. "Hmm. I don't know. It's a pretty big ask. Attending a summit of ancient, powerful Demon Lords with a gorgeous, brilliant former AI on my arm? The responsibility alone..."
"I'll wear something even more distracting," Cortana offered immediately. “I’ve recently found that I have a mutual interest with Rias Gremory, and I too might have a thing for sexy cosplay outfits…”
"Sold." I grinned at her. "Cortana, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to this Demon Lord meeting?"
Her entire face lit up with a smile so genuine and delighted that it made something warm bloom in my chest. Gone was the calculated seductress, replaced by someone who looked genuinely, purely happy. "I thought you'd never ask," she said, and the sincerity in her voice was unmistakable. "I would love to, Haru. Truly."
For a moment, we just looked at each other—her with that radiant smile, me with what I'm sure was a dopey grin of my own.
Then I heard a soft snort from my left.
I turned to find Hela watching us from her spot at the end of the bar, her tankard of mead raised halfway to her lips and her green eyes dancing with amusement. She'd clearly been listening to the entire exchange—not that she'd been trying to hide it—and the smirk on her pale face suggested she found the whole situation deeply entertaining.
But what really caught my attention was where her gaze kept drifting.
Hela wasn't just watching us. She was checking out Cortana. Specifically, she was checking out Cortana's ass with the kind of unabashed appreciation that most people reserved for fine art or particularly impressive sunsets. Her eyes traced the curve of those too-tight jeans with open admiration, lingering on the way the denim stretched across Cortana's generous backside.
When she noticed me noticing her noticing Cortana, Hela didn't even have the grace to look embarrassed. She just raised one elegant eyebrow and took a long, deliberate sip of her mead.
"What?" she asked, her voice dripping with false innocence. "I was a conqueror for centuries, Haru. I learned to appreciate beautiful things whenever and wherever I found them. Your blue friend here certainly qualifies."
Cortana twisted on her barstool to get a look at whoever was talking about her, and I watched her expression cycle through surprise, assessment, and then something that looked suspiciously like preening satisfaction as she registered Hela's appreciative gaze.
"Why thank you," Cortana said, her voice taking on that playful purr again. "I put a lot of thought into this form's aesthetic design. It's gratifying to know the effort was worthwhile. I am Cortana."
"Oh, it was," Hela assured her. "Trust me. And I am Hela, Goddess of Death…"
The two women shared a look that made me simultaneously intrigued and slightly nervous. When beautiful, powerful women started silently communicating over your head, it usually meant trouble was brewing. The fun kind of trouble, hopefully, but trouble nonetheless.
I cleared my throat, deciding to redirect the conversation before it could evolve into something I wasn't prepared to handle. "Speaking of the gathering," I said, turning more fully toward Hela, "I need two companions. Cortana's already agreed to be one. Would you want to be the other? I'd love to have you there."
Hela's expression softened at the invitation, and for just a moment I caught a glimpse of that vulnerability she usually kept so well hidden—the part of her that was still amazed anyone would want her around, still half-expecting to be abandoned or cast aside. But then she shook her head slowly, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. "As much as I would love to stay close to my new man," she said, and the possessive warmth in her voice made heat creep up the back of my neck, "I think I'll have to decline this particular adventure."
"Any particular reason?" I asked, trying not to let my disappointment show too obviously.
Hela took another sip of her mead before answering, her green eyes going distant as she considered her words. "I've spent most my immortal life embroiled in politics," she said finally. "Asgardian politics, specifically—the kind that involves backstabbing and manipulation and everyone constantly jockeying for power and influence." She let out a humorless laugh. "Odin's court was a snake pit. Every feast was a potential assassination. Every alliance was temporary. Every friend was a future enemy waiting for the right moment to strike." She set her tankard down with a soft thunk, her fingers tracing the rim absently. "I'm not ready to dive back into that world yet. Not even in a different dimension with different players. I need..." She paused, searching for words. "I need time. Time to remember who I am outside of political machinations. Time to just... exist. Without constantly watching my back or calculating everyone's angle." The raw honesty in her voice made my chest tight. Here was a woman who had been Asgard's greatest general, who had conquered worlds and commanded armies, admitting that she needed a break from the very thing she'd been built for. "Besides," Hela added, her tone lightening as that familiar smirk returned to her lips, "there's one piece of supernatural politics I have no intention of avoiding." Her eyes glittered with anticipation. "Killing Odin. That's the only political maneuvering I'm interested in at the moment. Everything else can wait until after I've watched the light fade from my father's remaining eye."
"Fair enough," I said, because honestly, what else could I say to all that?
Hela's gaze drifted past me toward the booth where Frigga was still surrounded by her floating magical diagrams, and where Sif was practically vibrating out of her seat with barely contained restless energy. The Goddess of War had given up any pretense of sitting still, her fingers drumming against the table, her leg bouncing, her dark eyes constantly scanning the room like she was searching for threats that didn't exist.
Even as I watched, Sif shifted position for what had to be the twentieth time in as many minutes, and the movement was forceful enough to make the entire booth creak ominously.
"Take her," Hela said, jerking her chin toward the antsy Asgardian. "Before she shakes your entire establishment apart with her restlessness."
She had a point. Beating up those secret Nazi spies didn’t exactly give Sif any kind of workout yesterday.
"Alright," I said, pushing away from the bar. "Let me go ask her."
I made my way across the restaurant toward the booth where Frigga and Sif sat. As I approached, I could hear Frigga murmuring softly to herself, her fingers tracing glowing lines in the air as she worked through some complex magical theorem. Sif, by contrast, had given up on sitting entirely and was now standing beside the booth, her arms crossed over her armored chest and her foot tapping an impatient rhythm against the wooden floor.
She noticed me coming and straightened, something like hope flickering in her dark eyes. "Haru," she greeted.
"I was wondering if you'd like to accompany me to an interdimensional political gathering of Demon Lords tonight."
Her eyes lit up with an inner fire, her posture shifted from restless to ready, and a grin spread across her face that was equal parts excitement and bloodlust. "YES!" She practically leapt forward, closing the distance between us so quickly that I actually took a startled step back. Her hands came up to grip my shoulders, her dark eyes boring into mine with intense fervor. "I would be honored to accompany you, Prince Haru! To stand at your side as your champion and adventuring companion! To do battle with your demonic enemies and prove my worth through glorious combat! Tell me—" Her grip tightened eagerly. "—what manner of foes will we face? Dragons? Titans? Armies of the damned? I care not! I will slay them all in your name!"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." I held up both hands in a calming gesture, my tails swishing nervously behind me. "Slow down there. First of all—nobody said anything about slaying. This is supposed to be a diplomatic gathering. Politics and posturing, not blood and battle."
I think…
Sif's grip on my shoulders loosened. Her radiant expression faltered. "No... slaying?" she repeated, as if the words didn't quite make sense in combination.
"Probably not," I confirmed apologetically. "I mean, I can't guarantee nothing will go wrong—this is me we're talking about, and trouble seems to follow me around like a lost puppy. But the intention is peaceful discussion between Demon Lords. Talking. Negotiating. Maybe some showing off. But no actual fighting."
"Oh." Sif's shoulders slumped visibly, and her hands fell away from my shoulders to hang limply at her sides. The transformation was almost comical—from fierce warrior goddess to disappointed puppy in the span of a single word. "I see."
"But," I added quickly, feeling guilty about crushing her enthusiasm so thoroughly, "like I said, things don't always go according to plan around me. And even if no fights break out, you'll still get to meet a bunch of incredibly powerful beings from another dimension. Scout potential future opponents. Get a feel for their abilities and fighting styles. Think of it as... reconnaissance?"
Sif considered this for a moment, her brow furrowed in thought. Slowly, some of the light returned to her eyes. "Reconnaissance," she repeated, testing the word. "Yes. Yes, that's... acceptable. A wise warrior studies her potential enemies before engaging them in battle. Learning their strengths and weaknesses. Identifying opportunities for exploitation."
"Exactly," I said, relieved that I'd managed to salvage the situation. "And who knows? Maybe someone will do something stupid and you'll get to stab them after all."
That earned me a small but genuine smile. "One can hope," Sif said, and there was warmth in her voice that hadn't been there before. "Very well, Haru. I accept your invitation. I shall accompany you to this gathering of Demon Lords and serve as your..." She paused, searching for the right word. "...observer. For now."
"That's the spirit."
“No, the spirit is actually over here!” Cortana's voice drifted over from the bar, carrying easily across the restaurant.
I can admit, that one made me snort.
"You know," Cortana called out to Sif, "you're not quite what I expected from the Sif of Asgardian mythology."
Sif turned toward the blue-skinned woman, her expression shifting into something between curiosity and wariness. "Oh? And what did you expect?"
Cortana slid off her barstool and sauntered over to join us, her hips swaying with that deliberately attention-grabbing walk. "I'm not entirely sure," she admitted. "The myths are pretty inconsistent. Sometimes you're portrayed as a goddess of earth and harvest, sometimes as a prophetess, sometimes as Thor's wife with magical golden hair. But the common thread is that you're supposed to be this serene, dignified figure. All grace and wisdom and quiet strength."
She gestured at Sif, at her twitching fingers that clearly wished they were wrapped around a sword hilt. "You're a lot more... stabby than the legends suggested."
Sif let out a sound of disgust, her lip curling with evident distaste. "Those legends are full of lies and half-truths," she said, the words coming out with considerable heat. "Most of them were spread by Loki. He took great pleasure in crafting ridiculous stories about the Asgardians and feeding them to mortal populations across Midgard. The more absurd or embarrassing the tale, the more he enjoyed watching it spread."
"Loki?" Cortana's eyes lit up with interest. "The God of Mischief himself? He's responsible for the mythology?"
"A great deal of it, yes. At least in my universe—maybe others as well, if they all act the way he does…" Sif's expression soured further. "He would disguise himself as a traveling bard or a wandering sage, then spin elaborate fabrications about the gods for the entertainment of mortal audiences. Some of the stories had kernels of truth, twisted beyond recognition. Others were pure invention, designed specifically to humiliate whoever had most recently annoyed him."
I thought about the Loki I'd met…and found this explanation entirely believable. Of course the God of Mischief would spend his free time crafting embarrassing propaganda about his fellow Asgardians. It was probably the most on-brand hobby imaginable.
Cortana tilted her head, that analytical gleam entering her eyes that I was learning to recognize as her processing mode. "So the myths aren't reliable sources of information about Asgardian history or culture?"
"About as reliable as asking a fox to guard a henhouse," Sif confirmed. "Loki delighted in mixing truth with fiction until even the Asgardians themselves sometimes couldn't remember what had actually happened and what was fabrication."
"Fascinating." Cortana's voice had taken on that particular tone that meant her mind was racing through implications and connections. "That actually explains a lot of the internal contradictions in Norse mythology. Different versions of the same story, mutually exclusive accounts of events, characters whose personalities shift dramatically between tales..." She trailed off, then her expression shifted into something more mischievous. "Hey, speaking of Loki's stories—there's one legend I've always been curious about."
Something in her tone made my danger senses tingle!
"DID LOKI REALLY HAVE SEX WITH A HORSE? AND HE WAS APPARENTLY THE FEMALE IN THAT SCENARIO?"
And then the entire restaurant went silent. I'm not exaggerating. Every conversation stopped mid-sentence. Every glass paused halfway to waiting lips. Every head turned toward our little group with the synchronized precision of a flock of birds changing direction. Even Frigga looked up from her magical research, her floating diagrams freezing in place as her attention snapped to the unfolding drama.
The Nords at the bar had stopped drinking. The Fairy Tail mages in the corner booth had stopped arguing. A Quarian who'd been examining the menu near the doorway was now staring at us with wide eyes visible through his helmet visor.
Everyone was waiting for the answer. The answer to the most important question in Norse mythology!
Sif's face had gone a color I'd never seen on an Asgardian before—somewhere between crimson and purple, with undertones of mortified horror. Her mouth opened and closed several times, no sound emerging, as she clearly struggled to find words that would adequately address the question.
"I..." she started, then stopped. Swallowed hard. Tried again. "The circumstances of that particular... incident... are not entirely clear." The silence somehow got even more silent. I hadn't thought that was possible, but apparently the collective anticipation of an entire restaurant full of interdimensional beings could create new depths of quietude. "We were all extremely intoxicated that evening," Sif continued, her voice strained. "There was a celebration—I don't even remember what we were celebrating anymore—and the mead flowed freely. Too freely." She winced at the memory. "By midnight, most of us could barely stand, let alone form coherent thoughts or exercise sound judgment."
"And?" Cortana prompted, leaning forward with undisguised fascination.
Sif's blush deepened impossibly further. "And... there were... noises. Coming from the stables. Very strange noises." She seemed to be having difficulty meeting anyone's eyes. "Noises that were... difficult to interpret. Or perhaps too easy to interpret. I'm honestly not certain which would be worse. Also, none of us could find Loki in the Mead Hall…"
"What kind of noises?" someone called out from the bar. I was pretty sure it was one of the Nords, but I couldn't tell which one. They all looked equally invested in the answer.
"The kind I've been trying very hard to forget for the past several centuries," Sif said flatly. "None of us were sober enough to investigate properly, and by the next morning, Loki was acting like nothing had happened, and there was a new eight-legged foal in the royal stables that he absolutely refused to discuss under any circumstances."
A ripple went through the assembled patrons. Murmurs and whispered speculations. The sound of someone choking on their drink. A low whistle from somewhere near the kitchen.
"So the answer is... maybe?" Cortana pressed.
"The answer is I have no idea what happened that night and I have made a conscious decision to never pursue the truth," Sif said firmly. "Some mysteries are better left unsolved. Some questions are better left unasked. And some memories are better left drowned in enough alcohol to kill a mortal twice over."
I shot an apologetic glance toward Frigga, who had abandoned her magical research entirely and was watching the conversation with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and resigned horror. She caught my eye and let out a long-suffering sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries of maternal disappointment.
"I certainly didn't raise my son to do anything of that nature," she said, her voice carrying clearly across the suddenly quiet restaurant. "And if such an incident did occur—which I am absolutely not confirming or denying—it would have been entirely his own doing and not any reflection of Vanir or Asgardian parenting techniques."
"Mom of the year," someone muttered, though I couldn't tell who.
"Furthermore," Frigga continued, gathering her dignity around her like a cloak, "whatever may or may not have transpired in those stables is a matter I want absolutely no involvement in. No details. No explanations. No confessions." She fixed her gaze firmly back on her floating diagrams. "I have important magical research to conduct, and I refuse to allow speculation about my son's questionable life choices to distract me from the genuinely fascinating dimensional mechanics at work in this establishment."
The message was clear—this line of questioning was officially closed, at least as far as she was concerned.
But the damage was already done. I could see it in the faces of every patron in the Fox Hole—the barely suppressed grins, the meaningful looks being exchanged, the obvious mental notes being filed away for future reference. The next time Loki walked through those doors, he was going to face a gauntlet of knowing stares and uncomfortable questions that would probably haunt him for years.
Part of me felt bad for him. The other part remembered all the mind control he'd apparently been using on his brother and Sif and who knew how many others, and decided that a little public embarrassment was probably the least of what he deserved.
"Well," Cortana said brightly, breaking the lingering awkwardness with cheerful obliviousness, "that's certainly more interesting than anything in the mythology textbooks. I'll have to update my cultural database."
Sif groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Can we please talk about literally anything else now!?"
“I wanna hear more about horse thing, though…” Someone whispered from the other side of the restaurant, but dual glares from Frigga and Sif shut them up.
"Alright, warrior goddess," Cortana announced, hooking her arm through Sif's with a familiarity that seemed to catch the Asgardian completely off guard. "You and I are going to my apartment to get cleaned up and changed. I refuse to attend an interdimensional political summit with someone wearing dented armor that looks like it's been through a war."
"It has been through several wars," Sif pointed out, though she didn't resist as Cortana began steering her toward the front door. "This armor has seen more battles than most Asgardian warriors see in their entire lives. Every dent tells a story of—"
"Every dent tells a story of someone who doesn't care," Cortana interrupted cheerfully. "Besides, you've got dried blood in your hair. I can see it from here. Very intimidating, I'm sure, but probably not the look we're going for at a formal gathering."
Sif's hand flew to her tangled dark locks, her expression shifting from defensive to mortified in the span of a heartbeat. "I... there is?" She twisted, trying to see the back of her own head in a futile display that would have been comical if she hadn't looked so genuinely distressed. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"Because we were too busy discussing Loki's potential equine romantic history," Cortana said dryly. "Now come on. I've got a shower with excellent water pressure and a closet full of clothes that I've just bought. You look like you're about my height, maybe a bit taller—we can figure something out."
"I am a Goddess of War," Sif protested weakly, even as she allowed herself to be dragged toward the door. "I don't need to be... primped and polished like some court maiden preparing for a—"
"You're attending a summit of Demon Lords as Haru's representative," Cortana cut her off smoothly. "Which means you're representing not just yourself, but him, his restaurant, and by extension everyone who's allied with him. First impressions matter. Political optics matter." She paused at the threshold, shooting me a grin over her shoulder. "Besides, I've been told I give excellent makeovers. Something about having perfect recall of every fashion magazine ever published and the processing power to cross-reference optimal color palettes in real-time."
Sif looked back at me with an expression that was half plea for rescue and half reluctant curiosity. I just shrugged and offered her an encouraging smile.
"I'll take good care of her," Cortana promised, and there was something in her voice—a warmth beneath the teasing—that made me believe her. "We'll meet back with you in..." She paused, her eyes going slightly unfocused in that way that meant she was running calculations. "Three hours? That should give us enough time for showers, outfit selection, maybe a quick tutorial on interdimensional diplomatic etiquette if Sif's interested."
"I am a trained warrior and former member of Thor's adventuring party," Sif said stiffly. "I am well-versed in the protocols of formal—"
"Three hours," Cortana repeated firmly, already pulling Sif through the door. "Don't be late, Haru!"
The door swung shut behind them, cutting off whatever indignant response Sif had been preparing. Through the windows, I could see Cortana's luminous blue form practically skipping down the street, her arm still linked with a visibly bewildered Sif who was being towed along.
I watched them go until they rounded a corner and disappeared from view, then let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
Right. Three hours. That gave me enough time to handle my own preparations, and more importantly, to seek out some advice about what exactly I was walking into.
I turned to survey the Fox Hole, making a quick mental inventory. The lunch crowd had mostly dispersed, leaving behind only the dedicated regulars who treated my establishment as a second home. Hela was still nursing her mead at the end of the bar, her green eyes distant with thoughts I couldn't read. Frigga remained absorbed in her magical research, floating diagrams casting soft multicolored light across her concentrated features. A handful of Nords were engaged in what appeared to be an increasingly heated debate about proper axe maintenance techniques. A couple of Fairy Tail mages were playing some kind of card game that occasionally produced small explosions of colored light.
Normal day at the Fox Hole, really.
I formed the familiar hand signs and felt the rush of chakra as a shadow clone popped into existence beside me. The clone stretched, rolled its shoulders, and fixed me with an expression that perfectly mirrored my own mild exasperation.
"Let me guess," the clone said dryly. "You're heading out, and I get to hold down the fort."
"Got it in one." I clapped him on the shoulder. "Just keep things running smoothly. Don't let the Nords start any drinking contests that involve property damage. Make sure Hela doesn't drink herself under the table—she's still rebuilding her tolerance after a millennium of nothing but despair and hallucinations."
"Noted." The clone was already moving behind the bar, falling into the familiar rhythm of checking stock and cleaning glasses. "Anything else?"
"If Loki shows up, don't mention the horse thing."
"I am absolutely mentioning the horse thing…"
I left him to it and headed for the front door, my tails swishing behind me as I stepped out into the warm afternoon air of Kyoto.
The street outside the Fox Hole was quintessentially Japanese—narrow and winding, lined with traditional wooden buildings that housed everything from tea shops to antique dealers to the occasional supernatural business that catered exclusively to yokai clientele.
I walked at an easy pace, letting the familiar sights and sounds wash over me. Humans and yokai passed each other on the street with the casual disregard of people who'd long since stopped finding each other's existence remarkable. This was my mother's domain. The supernatural heart of Kyoto, where yokai had lived alongside humans for longer than most civilizations had existed. Where the old ways were preserved not as museum pieces but as living traditions, continuously evolving while still honoring their roots.
And at the center of it all was Yasaka's palace.
The building rose before me as I rounded the final corner—a magnificent structure of traditional Japanese architecture that somehow managed to be both ancient and timeless.
Guards flanked the main entrance, but they recognized me immediately and bowed me through without a word. I nodded to them as I passed, noting the way their eyes tracked my ten golden tails with a respect that had nothing to do with my being Yasaka's son and everything to do with the power those tails represented.
Inside, the palace was cool and quiet, the thick walls muffling the sounds of the city outside. My bare feet were silent on the polished wooden floors as I made my way deeper into the building, navigating the familiar corridors with the ease of someone who'd grown up running through these halls.
"Prince Haru!" The voice came from a side corridor, and I turned to find a pair of yokai maids approaching with matching expressions of pleased surprise. They were both young by supernatural standards—probably only a century or two old—and their animal features marked them as members of lesser yokai clans that had pledged service to my mother's household. One had the delicate ears and bushy tail of a fox spirit, though her single tail marked her as far less powerful than any member of my immediate family. The other had the sleek features and whiskers of a cat spirit, her movements carrying that particular fluid grace that came naturally to felines of all types.
"Akane, Miko," I greeted them by name, and both maids flushed slightly at the acknowledgment. "Is my mother available? I need to speak with her about something important."
The fox-eared maid—Akane—nodded quickly, her single tail swishing behind her with barely contained excitement. "Lady Yasaka is in her private tea room, my lord. She mentioned she wished to remain undisturbed, but I'm certain she would make an exception for you."
"She's been spending quite a lot of time there lately," Miko the cat spirit added, something knowing flickering in her golden eyes. "With her... guest."
The way she said "guest" carried undertones that I probably should have paid more attention to. But I was distracted, my mind already focused on the upcoming Demon Lord gathering and the advice I hoped my mother could provide.
"Thanks," I said, already moving past them toward the tea room. "I won't keep her long."
"Of course, my lord," Akane called after me, and I could have sworn I heard poorly suppressed giggling as I turned the corner. But I was too focused on my own thoughts to pay it much mind.
The truth was, I wasn't entirely sure what I was walking into with this Demon Lord summit.
I'd attended political gatherings before, sure. The peace conference at Kuoh Academy came to mind—the one where representatives from Heaven, the Underworld, and the Grigori had finally hammered out a formal ceasefire after millennia of cold war.
The Abrahamic factions, for all their differences, operated on principles I could grasp. Angels valued order and righteousness. Devils pursued desire and ambition. Fallen angels occupied the morally complicated middle ground. Their conflicts and alliances made a certain kind of sense, even when the specifics got messy.
But Demon Lords? The ones from Rimuru's world? Those were different. I needed advice. I needed perspective from someone who understood power dynamics and political maneuvering at the highest levels. Someone who'd navigated supernatural politics for centuries and come out on top.
I needed my mother.
Yasaka's private tea room was located in the innermost section of the palace, accessible only through a series of corridors that wound past carefully tended gardens and meditation spaces. The architecture here was simpler than the public areas—less designed to impress visitors and more designed for genuine comfort and privacy.
I was so lost in my own thoughts that I almost missed the shimmer in the air around the final doorway. Almost being the key word. Some instinct—maybe my enhanced senses, maybe just the paranoid awareness that came from too many ambushes and surprise attacks—made me notice the faint distortion a split second before my hand touched the sliding door.
Sound wards. Subtle ones, woven with the kind of expertise that came from centuries of practice. The kind designed to ensure that whatever happened on the other side of that door remained completely private.
I should have stopped. I should have knocked. I should have done literally anything other than what I actually did, which was slide the door open without a second thought because this was my mother's tea room and I'd been walking in unannounced since I was old enough to walk.
The scene that greeted me burned itself into my retinas.
Yasaka was there, seated on the tatami in a position that would have been perfectly normal for afternoon tea—if she'd been wearing clothes. Which she wasn't. Her twelve magnificent golden tails were fanned out behind her, but rather than their usual elegant arrangement, they were wrapped around another figure, the soft fur sliding and caressing across bare skin.
That other figure was Cersei Lannister.
The former Queen of Westeros was equally naked, her pale skin flushed pink with arousal, her golden hair spilling across her shoulders in disheveled waves. She was positioned in my mother's lap, her back arched, her hips moving in a slow, grinding rhythm that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
My mother's hands were busy. One had disappeared between Cersei's thighs, fingers moving with a skill that was producing increasingly desperate sounds from the Lannister woman. The other was cupping Cersei's ass.
And Yasaka's mouth was latched onto one of Cersei's breasts, sucking and licking in a way that had Cersei's head thrown back in obvious ecstasy.
"Please," Cersei was moaning, her voice breathy and broken in ways I'd never heard from the usually composed or arrogant human queen. "Please, Yasaka, more—I need—oh gods—"
Yasaka paused in her ministrations. Her golden eyes—the same eyes I saw every time I looked in a mirror—lifted from Cersei's chest and found mine across the room. For a moment that stretched into eternity, mother and son stared at each other.
Then she smirked. Actually smirked, with Cersei Lannister still writhing in her lap, her fingers still buried between the human woman's legs, one of her twelve tails still stroking along Cersei's inner thigh.
And then—without breaking eye contact, without offering so much as a word of explanation—she simply went back to what she'd been doing. Her mouth returned to Cersei's breast. Her fingers resumed their movement. Her tails continued their sensual exploration of every inch of skin they could reach.
Cersei, who had been too lost in sensation to even notice the interruption, let out a keening moan that echoed off the walls of the tea room.
I stood frozen in the doorway. Long enough for my brain to fully process what I was seeing. Long enough for my body to react in ways I absolutely did not want to think about—my face flushing hot, my heart rate spiking, something stirring in my pants that I was going to aggressively pretend didn't exist.
Then I very gently, very carefully slid the door closed.
The sound ward reactivated the moment the door clicked shut, cutting off whatever sounds had been escaping and leaving me standing in sudden, deafening silence.
I stared at the wooden panel in front of me. The grain of the wood was really quite lovely, I noticed. Very fine craftsmanship. Probably centuries old. Each line and whorl told a story of the tree it had come from, the artisan who had shaped it, the generations of Yasaka's household who had passed through this very corridor.
I was absolutely not thinking about what was happening on the other side of that door.
I was definitely not thinking about my mother's knowing smirk.
I was certainly not thinking about Cersei Lannister's moans, or the way her body had been moving, or the obvious skill with which Yasaka had been—
Nope. Not thinking about it.
I turned and walked back down the corridor with the careful, measured steps of someone who was very determinedly not fleeing the scene of something they desperately wished they hadn't witnessed.
Well. That had certainly been... informative.
In retrospect, the signs had all been there. Cersei had been staying at the palace for weeks now, ever since we'd brought her back from Westeros with her mind shattered by stress and cruelty. Yasaka had taken personal charge of her rehabilitation, spending hours each day in the former queen's company, guiding her through the process of healing from decades of abuse and political manipulation.
They'd grown close. I'd noticed that much. The way Cersei's eyes would follow my mother around a room. The way Yasaka's tails would sometimes brush against Cersei's shoulder or hand in passing, seemingly casual touches that lingered just a moment too long.
I just hadn't expected things to progress quite so... thoroughly.
Also, if I'd been less distracted by my own concerns, I probably would have noticed the sound wards before opening that door. That was entirely on me. Yasaka had clearly taken precautions to ensure her privacy, and I'd blundered right through them like a fool.
I made a mental note to always—always—check for privacy wards before entering any room in this palace from now on.
Lesson learned. Traumatically, perhaps, but learned.
The question of what advice I'd been seeking seemed considerably less pressing now. Partly because I wasn't sure I could face my mother without blushing for at least the next several hours. Partly because the image of her smirk—that knowing, utterly unashamed smirk—had driven every other thought from my head.
Just then, Kunou ended up whipping around the corner while tugging Myrcella Baratheon behind her. The princess was doing her best to keep up with my energetic yokai sister.
“Hey, nii-chan! Have you seen mama and Myrcella-chan’s mama? We’ve been looking for them but can’t find them anywhere?” Kunou asked curiously.
“...They are both going to be busy—probably for the next few hours. They’re in an important meeting,” I added in a white lie.
“Oh, that’s ok then,” Kunou replied and only sounded a bit disappointed. “What are you doing here, nii-chan? Did you need to talk to mama too?”
“I needed some advice but I’m sure I can manage on my own. I’m having my own meeting later with some possibly hostile other demon lords.,” I explained to my little sister who was bobbing her head, her golden eyes shining like she really was paying attention.
“You don’t need advice nii-chan, if people are bad then you just need to punch them in the face!”
I turned to Myrcella-chan and she just blushed and shrugged at me. “My mother always told me if people were mean to our family we should just take their heads… I know that’s wrong, but it’s about as far as I can give advice myself.”
Yeah… Pretty much what I expected from both of them.
I think I’ll just go with the classics and cook a meal for everyone. Whichever Demon Lords don't like my cooking, I don't want to be friends with anyway!
In the meantime, I should go get myself cleaned up, and see what kind of edgy cosplay outfits Rias had left in my closet for cosplay sexy times.
I’m sure one of them would be a good outfit for a meeting like this one. I’ve seen how both Rimuru and Ainz dress…
XXX
Comments
Ototsu_Yume
Fun chapter, kinda hoping Sif and a bunch of Nords go to Konosuba as an adventuring party, them picking up Asia from DxD and Yunyun from Konosuba as their healer and mage would be pretty funny for the gape-moe too. Likewise if a bunch of the demon lords like Frey went there to make an adventuring party, seeing their status sheet freak out Luna and call in the inquisition would be pretty funny too. Thanks a lot for the chapter.
KingSpy25i .
NEW TRUMA (and maybe kink) ACQUIRED!! 🫡🫡🫡 Thank you for the great chapter 🙏
Jaren Sylas
Nope definitely vibes that way. And it's DxD, not like some of that wasn't implied about other characters in Canon. Lol
redhawktiger
Why do I feel like Yasaka, much like Serafall in That's Not Wizard Magic, wants to join her own son's harem? Am I the only one that got that vibe?
PlagueSpreader64
That was probably the point.
j0ntsa
Sooo, how long till haru somehow ends up fucking yasaka?
Dave
You should probably uncapitalize the horse fucking sentence, feel like she’s just randomly shouting it out of nowhere
