Chapter 200: +18 Shower. Mikasa & Esdeath’s sparring match. Breakfast.

You drift off surrounded by warmth, Kurumu's breasts pressed against your side, Esdeath's fingers finally relaxed against your chest, Mikasa's weight settled comfortably on your hips, her pussy still wrapped around your cock as her breathing deepens into sleep. Albedo's thighs cushion your head, her fingers threading lazily through your hair. The mansion hums with ambient mana, and the world outside is quiet.

- - -

Sunlight cuts through the mansion's windows when you wake. Mikasa has shifted during the night but remains straddling you, her cheek pressed to your chest, her black hair fanned between Kurumu and Esdeaths light blues. Around you, the pile of women stirs, yawns, stretches, the soft rustle of bodies rearranging.

"Good morning," Asia says brightly, already standing beside the bed holding her modified habit miniskirt, her blonde hair freshly brushed. "It's time for the showers."

You exchange groggy good mornings with the waking women, Kurumu mumbles something about five more minutes, Esdeath sits up with predatory alertness, and Albedo stretches her wings with a satisfied sigh. Mikasa finally dismounts with reluctant slowness, her thighs glistening.

Asia leads you to the mansion's bathroom, Liza and Priestess trailing behind. The shower room is warm, steam already rising. Liza stands with her arms crossed, her scaled forearms catching the light, her amber eyes steady. Priestess fidgets with her golden hair, her blue eyes still carrying that mixture of awe and nervousness.

You kneel before Liza first. Her tail curls involuntarily as your tongue finds her slit, her scales flushing darker green along her forearms. She gasps once, sharply, then bites her lip. Her tail wraps around you. When she comes, her whole body goes rigid, then her tail goes completely limp, wagging once before she catches herself.

Priestess is gentler. You guide her thighs apart, her fuller curves trembling as your mouth meets her folds. She whimpers softly, her fingers threading into your hair. "D-Divine Savior-" she breathes, and then words fail her entirely. Her orgasm is quiet, a shuddering release that leaves her knees buckling.

Asia pulls you against the tile wall, her small breasts pressing into your chest as she wraps her legs around your hips. "Inside me," she whispers, and you push into her wet pussy, her tight walls gripping your shaft. She moans against your neck as you thrust slowly, her emerald eyes half-closing. "Liza, Priestess- get dressed first," she instructs between gasps. "I'll keep him busy."

The two dress quickly, watching you fuck Asia against the wall with wide eyes. When Asia finally climaxes around your cock, her pussy clenching in rhythmic pulses, she instructs the others forward. Liza kisses you, firm, brief, her scaled hand on your jaw. Priestess kisses you softer, her lips trembling, tasting herself on your mouth.

Asia dresses with practiced efficiency, then physically steers Liza and Priestess out the door before you can reach for any of them again. "Breakfast!" she calls over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed.

You chuckle at their quick escape, dressing instantly via inventory. Before heading to the galley you cast Scrying, your consciousness stretching to the White House.

The Oval Office appears in your mind's eye, but the pristine historical monument of the old world is gone. The famous Resolute Desk sits beneath shattered windows, its surface caked in dark, dried blood and scored by deep bullet gouges. This wasn’t a single orderly evacuation, it is a graveyard of failed ambitions.

The building shows signs of a brutal, recurring cycle of violence. The circular driveway is choked with rusted military Humvees and improvised raider technicals, their doors flung wide over carpets of picked-clean corpses. Inside the wing, the halls are a chaotic maze of smashed barricades, overturned antique furniture, and the rotting remnants of multiple different factions who tried to claim this throne and died for it.

Yet, right now, it is eerily silent. The scavengers and rogue militias have bled each other dry over the last month, leaving the White House a scorched, empty prize. The iron gates are warped and jammed shut with rusted chains. A handful of bloated, sun-baked zombies, perhaps six or seven, sluggishly drag themselves across the corpse-littered dirt of the South Lawn. The building's interior appears temporarily clear of active movement, but it is entirely unsecured, a dark labyrinth of shadows and decay. Securing it will require a grim hour of clearing out the lingering dead and navigating the debris, but there is no one left alive to negotiate with. It is an abandoned, blood-soaked tomb in the heart of a dead city.

You push the sight deeper, through shattered drywall and collapsed ceiling tiles, past a hallway strewn with military ration wrappers gnawed by rats, down a maintenance stairwell whose door hangs crooked on one hinge. The underground bunker reveals itself in flickering emergency lighting that's somehow still functional. You count eleven living in the Situation Room below, warm and steady beneath the cold concrete. Canned food wrappers, secured entrances. They've been down there for weeks. Survivors, waiting it out, not raiders. You note their presence with detached interest and dismiss the scrying.

Not your problem today.

You stride toward the galley, your mind already churning through logistics. The Oval Office needs corpse clearance, bloodstain removal, minor repair, and historical artifact preservation. Telekinesis for the bodies, mass movement, pile them somewhere out of sight. Repair and Cleanliness enchantments handle the rest. Sinon and Nova for perimeter security. Hinata and Kurumi for the office itself, both meticulous enough to handle the Oval Office. Robin and C.C. for moving valuables to Icon storage.

You pause, the galley is empty. Plates from breakfast sit setup on the long table, coffee mugs still warm, but not a single woman remains. Then you remember-

The sparring match.

You sprint through the Anchorage's corridors, toward the flight deck where the open area has become the default combat space. You arrive slightly winded, and the clash of steel already rings across the morning air.

Mikasa and Esdeath circle each other on the concrete pad, both stripped to combat essentials. Mikasa wears her Survey Corps jacket open over a sports bra, dual blades held low. Esdeath has shed her tactical ensemble for a simple dark training shirt and pants, her Imperial rapier held in a high guard position, ice crystals already forming along the blade's edge.

"Ice limited to weapon manifestation," Musashi calls from the sideline, her silver-pink hair catching the morning light. She holds a stopwatch. "Any ice construct larger than the blade itself is a foul. First blood or surrender."

Mikasa moves first. She closes the distance in three explosive steps, blades sweeping in a cross-pattern that would bisect a human torso. Esdeath parries the first blade with her rapier, ice crystallizing along the contact point to reinforce the thinner weapon, and sidesteps the second with predatory grace.

"Fast," Esdeath acknowledges, her ice-blue eyes narrowing. "But predictable."

Mikasa doesn't respond. She flows into a low sweep, one blade hooking toward Esdeath's ankle while the other rises toward her throat. Esdeath leaps high, her athletic frame clearing both blades, and comes down with her rapier thrusting toward Mikasa's shoulder.

Mikasa twists, the rapier tip scoring a thin line across her jacket sleeve without breaking skin. She uses the momentum to spin, both blades arcing in a horizontal scissor cut that forces Esdeath back three steps.

The gathered women watch from the sidelines. Albedo sits with a satisfied smile, her wings folded. Kurumu cheers softly. Akame observes with clinical intensity, her red eyes tracking every movement. Tatsumaki sits apart, her small frame rigid, watching Esdeath's fluid combat movements with something between envy and fascination.

Esdeath manifests ice along her rapier's length, extending it into a curved saber shape. She tests the weight, then advances with measured steps, her hunting instincts visible in the way she reads Mikasa's footwork.

"You fight like someone who learned against larger opponents," Esdeath observes between exchanges. "Compensating for reach disadvantage."

"I fight to kill titans," Mikasa replies flatly, and launches another assault.

The fight escalates rapidly. Mikasa's dual blades create a blinding lattice of steel, her footwork shifting between low sweeps and overhead arcs with the fluid economy of someone who learned to fight things sixty feet tall. Esdeath matches her pace, rapier flickering between high and low guards, ice crystallizing along the blade in jagged extensions that snap off and reform with each parry.

Esdeath feints left, then drives her ice-extended rapier toward Mikasa's exposed flank. Mikasa reads it, her instinctive spatial awareness giving her the split-second edge, and drops beneath the thrust, one blade hooking Esdeath's ankle while the other slashes across her forearm.

Blood wells from the cut. Esdeath hisses, ice flaring involuntarily along her wounded arm before she catches herself. She disengages with a backward leap, her ice-blue eyes blazing.

"You're reading my movements before I commit," Esdeath says, not accusatory but analytical. "How?"

"Instinct," Mikasa replies flatly.

Esdeath's jaw tightens. She shifts tactics, abandoning precision rapier work for broader saber strokes that give less telegraphing. The ice along her blade thickens into a curved edge, and she presses forward with raw aggression, forcing Mikasa into defensive retreats.

The exchange lasts another forty seconds of brutal, efficient combat. Both women accumulate small cuts, Mikasa's shoulder, Esdeath's thigh, a thin line across Mikasa's ribs. The regeneration enchantment from their Anchoring Bands seals each wound within seconds, pink skin knitting closed before the fight even ends.

Finally, Mikasa catches Esdeath's rapier between both blades in a cross-lock, twists her wrists, and disarms her. The rapier clatters across the concrete. Esdeath's hand immediately manifests an ice dagger, but Mikasa's second blade is already at her throat.

"Draw," Musashi announces, lowering her stopwatch. "Mikasa disarmed, Esdeath had secondary weapon. Neither yielded."

Both women stare at each other, breathing hard, sweat glistening on their skin. A grudging nod passes between them.

"Your spatial awareness is inhuman," Esdeath says, retrieving her rapier.

"Your ice manifestation speed is faster than I expected," Mikasa acknowledges.

You step forward as the gathered women begin drifting toward the galley. "You both were beautiful, so fast I could barely follow." you tell them both. "Thank you both, you followed my rules about not dragging it out."

Esdeath's ice-blue eyes flick to you with something warmer than her usual predatory assessment. Mikasa simply nods, her dark eyes meeting yours with quiet satisfaction.

As the group moves inside, you open the Telepathy Web, "Ladies, I have a project that will need a bit of support. Nova, Sinon- I need you watching surrounding buildings for raiders during an operation today. Hinata, Kurumi- I need help cleaning the Oval Office itself while I use Telekinesis to clear corpses and wreckage. Robin, C.C.- you're free to clear out historical art and objects while we work. There's supposedly a small library room that's likely very valuable given the location."

Nova responds immediately, her psionic presence crisp. "Understood. Sinon and I can establish overwatch. Full perimeter coverage. When do you need us?"

Sinon's response comes quieter but steady. "I'll grab my rifle. How long are we looking at?"

Hinata's presence radiates gentle determination. "I'll prepare cleaning supplies, Goshujin-sama."

Kurumu giggles through the link. "Cleaning the Oval Office? That's quite the date location, Master."

Robin's analytical tone cuts through. "The library of such a location should contain volumes including rare first editions. If it's intact, the historical value is incalculable. I'll bring preservation containers."

C.C.'s response is characteristically lazy. "I suppose I can be persuaded to rescue history from the apocalypse. Pizza afterward?"

"Prep starts after lunch," you confirm to Nova. "I'll portal us in directly. Sinon, expect two to three hours maximum. We should be done on time for dinner."

Albedo falls into step beside you as you enter the galley, her golden eyes finding yours with knowing warmth. "You're planning something," she observes.

"Just some logistics," you say.

Her smile deepens. She doesn't press.

The galley hums with the warmth of Heroes' Feast conjured food and the clatter of plates. You settle into a seat, Kurumi materializing at your elbow with coffee before you've fully sat down, her maid outfit crisp, her heterochromatic eyes bright with morning energy.

"You're late," she announces, sliding eggs onto your plate. "The match was worth watching, though."

"Draw," Musashi says from across the table, her silver-pink hair still damp from an ocean spray. She's nursing tea with the satisfied expression of someone who witnessed excellent swordwork. "Both of them could have pushed harder. Pride kept them honest."

Esdeath sits at the far end, her ice-blue eyes distant, picking at her food with unusual slowness. The faint pink marks on her forearm where Mikasa's blade scored have already vanished, but something else lingers in her expression. Vulnerability, perhaps, still processing.

Mikasa eats beside you with quiet efficiency, her dark eyes occasionally flicking to Esdeath with something approaching respect. "Her ice manifestation speed is faster than anything I've faced," she admits between bites. "If she hadn't been limited to weapon-form only, I'd have lost."

"Flattery," Esdeath mutters, but her shoulders relax slightly.

Bulma pushes her glasses up her nose, a tablet propped against her water glass. "Brad, I've been thinking about the Job Class system. When are you assigning mine?"

"You'd first have to make the master-servant contract..." you say between mouthfuls. "Then we'd want to discuss what fits your capabilities best."

"Tinkerer," she says immediately. "Obviously."

Kurumu giggles from your other side, her wings folded beneath her modified top. "She's been asking every morning for a week."

"Because it matters," Bulma shoots back, her blue ponytail swinging. "I've catalogued everything in Vash's kit. That revolver has mechanisms that don't exist in any firearms database I can access. I want to understand them."

Tatsumaki sits apart, her small frame hunched over a bowl of rice, her green hair falling across her face. She's been uncharacteristically quiet all morning, eating mechanically, her eyes occasionally drifting toward you before snapping back to her food.

"You okay?" Kurumu asks her directly, her succubus perception picking up on the tension.

Tatsumaki's head snaps up. "Fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?"

"No reason." Kurumu's smile carries knowing warmth.

Tatsumaki's cheeks flush and she returns to her rice with aggressive focus.

Robin appears via Telepathy Web, her presence crisp. "Brad, I've pulled preservation containers for the White House operation from the storage. Skipping why you have something so specific in storage. Twelve acid-free archival boxes, reinforced corners. Could we start early?"

Albedo leans across the table toward you, her golden eyes finding yours with that particular intensity she reserves for matters she considers important. "You have plans today," she observes. Not a question.

"Logistics," you say.

Her smile deepens. "Of course. Logistics." She reaches across and takes your hand briefly, her fingers cool and deliberate. "Don't forget, I have something important this afternoon."

"I haven't forgotten."

Her wings rustle with satisfaction.

You reply to Robin, "I'll open a portal as soon as breakfast breaks up."

Erza speaks from down the table, her scarlet hair loose around her shoulders, her voice calm and steady. "Brad, would you have time tomorrow evening? I'd like to speak with you privately."

The table goes quiet for a moment. Every woman present understands what that request means.

"Tomorrow evening," you confirm.

Erza nods once, her expression resolute, and returns to her breakfast.

Akame catches your eye from her seat beside Yugito, her red gaze steady. She gives you the smallest nod, acknowledgment, approval, something filed away.

Yugito's golden feline eyes meet yours briefly, and through the Telepathy Web, Matatabi's presence flickers. "Thank you," the Bijuu says quietly. "For being honest about the possibility. Yugito slept better last night than she has in weeks."

The galley settles back into comfortable noise, Sango discussing blade maintenance with Musashi, Liza's tail swaying gently as she eats, Roxanne's ears perking at every conversation, Priestess watching Asia with quiet admiration as the smaller woman organizes the breakfast cleanup.