Reincarnated as a Mushroom?-Chapter 45 - 44: Bonk II – The Stick Remembers

Chapter 44: Bonk II – The Stick Remembers

Onyx’s luminous void-pupils dilated in dread. "W-what...?"

I repeated myself—calm, precise, sharp enough to shear the air but quiet enough not to stir the exhausted Kimchi sleeping atop my chest. "Go. Get. The. Stick."

She froze, as if shackled by an invisible verdict. Though she had never once felt the brunt of the stick’s wrath herself, the echoes of its psychic aftermath had travelled down the hivemind’s lattice of shared memory. She had tasted its consequence in futures where my "don’t talk about eating me" rule had been broken. She had died, reborn, and been bonked many times over in possibility space.

I clarified, voice low but laced with accusation. "Telling me—right before it happened—that I was about to get pelvis-shattering love-fucked to death is not ’helpful foresight.’ That was terror. That was psychic whiplash. And whether or not you meant it, it counts as emotional manipulation. Hence..."

I pointed.

"Go. Get. The. Fucking. Stick."

There was no room for argument. My command laced itself through our psionic bond, curling around the edges of her compulsion like a divine script etched in antimatter.

She left without a word—but her eyes, usually indifferent, flickered with a shade of regret.

Meanwhile, Kimchi twitched in her sleep at the mention of "the stick"—a word she loathed with every polyplasmic fiber of her being. I soothed her with soft psychic strokes, whispering into her dreaming link: You’re a good girl. No punishment awaits you. She relaxed, smiling unconsciously and nuzzling deeper into my warmth like a cat made of war crime potential.

—

Onyx, on the other side of the room, held the anti-psionic rod with two fingers, as though it were an unwashed jockstrap soaked in acidic regret.

To vent her humiliation, she chose mockery.

"Wretched, crude relic. You are but a stick. No mind. No purpose. You shall not bend me, disruptor. I am Onyx—seer of timelines, breaker of causality, apex of restraint!" freёnovelkiss.com

She should not have said that.

For you see, power-forged weapons made with psionic intent sometimes gained... personalities. Zircon was proof of that. And it turns out, anti-psionic tools—especially ones soaked in symbolic retribution—are no different. This stick, forged to be both judgment and comedy, heard her.

It did not forgive.

The moment I would grip it, it decided it would act. It would swing not with gravity, but with vengeance.

—

Eventually, she returned, her expression the very image of noble martyrdom. I carefully disentangled myself from Kimchi, whose frown appeared the moment I left her embrace, and met Onyx at the center of the adjacent chamber.

She handed me the stick like it was a cursed scepter. I gave it a gentle rub. "You ready to serve justice, old friend?" I swear it trembled in my palm.

I turned to Onyx, solemn as a priest. "Kneel."

She obeyed, wordlessly, sinking down so her obsidian gaze was level with mine.

"Onyx of the Hivemind," I declared. "You stand guilty of one count of fearmongering, one count of useless prophecy, and one count of extremely poor timing. For these crimes, this one grants no trial, no plea, and no reprieve. Sentence: one bonk. No defense. So sayeth Irvine."

And I swung.

Normally, it would have been a light tap. Symbolic. Funny. A gesture of dominion, not a real punishment.

But the stick had made its decision.

FWOMP

The sound was not a bonk. It was a shockwave. Onyx screamed—a high, disturbingly feminine shriek that shattered her usual monotone. Her body seized and spasmed as anti-psionic backlash danced across her neural lattice.

"...Shit."

The stick vibrated in smug satisfaction.

Feeling genuinely bad now, I lifted her twitching form with a dash of gyrokinesis and carried her limp stalker-body back to the bed, where Kimchi still lay nestled. I placed Onyx beside me, between Kimchi and I, forming an accidental snuggle-sandwich of two overpowered alien waifus and one mildly guilty reincarnated pervert.

I stroked Onyx’s tentacles as one would comb through the hair of a stunned cat. After ten full minutes, the stick’s vengeance finally wore off. Her breathing stabilized. Her brain quieted. She, too, slipped into torpor—peaceful, for now.

—

Hours passed in quiet bliss.

To be cradled between two women who loved me this obsessively—who would raze star systems in my name—was a kind of bliss no therapy session could ever replicate. I was safe, warm, and slightly worried about what would happen when Kimchi woke up.

And then she did.

She stirred, sniffing my chest like a bloodhound, then blinked up at me with eyes full of adoration. "Good morning, Apollo-love. Did you stay with Orchid the whole time she slept?"

"For the most part. Had to bonk someone."

She blinked. Confused. "Who would...?"

She turned—and saw her.

Onyx.

The traitor.

Her rival.

Her competition for eternity-bonded matriarch status.

For a moment, Kimchi forgot that she was Kimchi. She was now Wrath Incarnate.

The atmosphere curdled. I could taste the jealousy in the air—sharp, sweet, with notes of venom. Before she could lunge, I grabbed her by the neck, gently but firmly, and pulled her in for a kiss that would’ve made the stars blush.

She melted. All rational thought turned to pudding.

She climbed into my lap, straddling me, and kissed harder, deeper, more feverishly. The kind of kiss that said, I love you, but also I will kill her in her sleep if you so much as look impressed by her disruptor resilience.

After twenty minutes of tongue gymnastics and mutual groping, Kimchi broke the kiss first. Her eyes were hungry, yes—but there was something else there.

"Darling... Orchid is hungry. She hasn’t eaten in weeks."

I nodded. Of course. She’d watched over me all this time, never once leaving for a meal. She was starving for biomass. For nutrients.

And, as I’ve learned, nothing says romance like feeding your girlfriend a protein shake... from the source.

"How about instead of leaving to find a snack," she cooed, sliding downward, cheeks settling warmly across my abs, "Orchid gets her nourishment... from her Apollo?"

I smirked. "Fine. But only foreplay. The first time has to be special. Not food-motivated."

Her smile turned downright demonic.

In one smooth movement, she inverted herself—hands on the bed, legs kicked up—and aligned her body with my now-aching erection. Her soft, armored chest engulfed me from below. Her tongue, dextrous and eager, licked circles around the tip before her lips took me in like the start of a sacred ritual.

And she knew exactly what she was doing.

When your girlfriend can read your mind and emotions in real time, every lick is a goddamn divine calculation. She played me like a harp made of nerves and desire.

She sucked. She slurped. She moaned in satisfaction as if she were eating the universe’s last lollipop.

Then, without warning, she went deep. Three-quarters of my dick disappeared down her throat, and she began humming.

Frequencies only a hivemind could manipulate. Vibrations that rippled through my entire soul.

I came harder than I’d ever come in my multiple lifetimes.

She took it all, never flinching, never gagging, just humming with delighted satisfaction until my trembling hips stilled and my brain rebooted.

She let go with a pop that echoed like a divine punctuation mark.

Beside us, Onyx—still recovering, still bodiless—groaned in longing. I could feel her psychic pulse radiating envy and arousal. "I need to finish developing my next form," she muttered through our bond. "I need genitals."

I exhaled, still half-dazed, and whispered, "Get in line."

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