Reincarnated as a Mushroom?-Chapter 63 - 62: The Pyrography of Possession — A Lover’s Seal in Flesh and Flame

Chapter 63: Chapter 62: The Pyrography of Possession — A Lover’s Seal in Flesh and Flame

Chapter 62: The Pyrography of Possession — A Lover’s Seal in Flesh and Flame

The warrior stood before me—upright, expectant, innocent in that grotesquely adorable way only Hive bio-forms could manage. Gleaming chitin, folded scythes, and those wide, glassy black eyes like ink-soaked marbles waiting to be judged.

I stepped closer and smiled.

"Cutie," I said, my voice low with mischief, "I want to give you a gift. Something... permanent. That way, if I ever see you again, I’ll know it’s you. You good with that?"

The warrior’s front legs tapped out an anxious staccato—her version of hell yes.

"Alright, sweet thing. Just screech if it hurts too bad. Otherwise, try not to flinch. Wouldn’t want the art to smudge."

Now, in most civilized societies, branding someone like livestock would be considered a war crime—or at least an aggressively intimate boundary violation. But within the Hive?

This was sacred.

Hive bio-forms didn’t mark each other like humans did. There were no tattoos, no piercings, no name tags. There was memory. There was feeling. And if a Queen’s consort—the consort—chose to burn his imprint onto your flesh?

That wasn’t branding.

That was exaltation.

I lifted my hand, palm out, and let the heat gather.

Psionic veins beneath my skin lit up like neon capillaries. I invoked both thermokinesis and pyrokinesis—twin disciplines that hated sharing space. One generated internal heat without physical combustion. The other wrapped fire around will like it was a second skin. Together? They made my hand glow with contained inferno.

Not viable for combat, not yet. Too much disruption from movement. I’d cooked my own fingers trying to slap someone once. Learned the hard way: magic is picky about being rushed.

The warrior tilted her head. I saw the instinct twitch in her spine—an old genetic memory that screamed: Fire bad, fire devours, fire takes everything.

But she held her ground.

Willing.

Wanting.

I stepped in and placed my burning palm slowly, carefully against the center of her forehead.

The smell hit instantly.

Scorched chitin and sweet meat. Like a crab roast at the end of the world.

Her body didn’t twitch. Hive exoplates like hers were mostly sensory-dead, intentionally severed from nerve clusters to prevent distractions during battle. She wasn’t feeling the burn. Not physically.

But emotionally? The Hive link lit up with ripples of satisfaction and wonder.

Thirty seconds passed. I pulled my hand back, smoke curling from her head.

My palm print—deep, blackened, unmistakable—now branded her forehead like a sigil of divine favor. I wasn’t a god. But to the Hive?

I was close enough.

I focused. Carefully, I pushed a private mental image of the mark directly into her mind—not into the Hivewide resonance, but to her alone. It was clumsy. Personal telepathy wasn’t my best skill. But she got the message.

She leapt into the air, legs flailing, clicking in what I could only describe as orgasmic joy.

And unbeknownst to me, that little psychic pulse—the trace of psionic energy I’d infused into the brand—began to catalyze. It reached back into the Hive web, pinging Crystal like a flare through hyperspace.

A surprise was forming.

A gift with teeth.

The warrior, not knowing how else to show her gratitude, bumbled forward and pressed her wide, flat maw against my cheek. A crude, buggy approximation of a kiss.

I couldn’t help it—I laughed.

"Well aren’t you the cutest war-born murder machine in the whole damn galaxy," I murmured, ruffling her chitin like she was an oversized hellhound. "Now come on, let’s find those sheets before Kimchi’s imagination floods the room with cunt-induced psychic runoff."

We walked the rest of the way in companionable silence.

The Hive had a chamber humorously labeled ’Irvine’s Daily Necessities’—Crystal’s idea, I’m sure. It was close, just a few corridors down. The warrior took the lead, her stride proud, her new brand gleaming like a fresh crown.

As we arrived, I moved to retrieve the sheets myself.

But she was faster.

With a dignified rush, she darted into the chamber, seized a folded cover in her mouth, and balanced it across the ridges of her scythe arms like a sacred relic.

When I reached to take it from her, she lifted her arms protectively—shielding it like a queen’s egg sac.

Huh.

"If she wants to carry my bed sheets like they’re holy relics, who am I to stop her?" I thought. It was weirdly flattering.

We marched back to my room—me in mild bemusement, her prancing like an honor guard delivering a bloodied banner to a war god.

Inside, Kimchi was still emotionally catatonic, trapped in the psychic equivalent of an erotic fugue state.

I nudged her shoulder.

"You good?"

No response. Just wide eyes and clenched thighs.

Yep. That checked out.

One glance at the bed confirmed my suspicions—yep, giant wet patch. She’d soaked the sheets with pure unspent lust. Probably hadn’t moved since I left.

I stripped the bedding off and passed it to my devoted warrior courier. "Thanks, cutie. Take these to wherever Hive laundry happens, yeah?"

She didn’t leave immediately.

She lingered. Just a second. Watching me.

I was already stripping—too tired for modesty, too used to being objectified by aliens to care. I dropped onto the bed naked and exhaled.

The warrior’s eyes held me like a painter memorizing a muse.

Then she was gone.

Kimchi, meanwhile, continued to stare at the doorway like it had personally insulted her pheromones.

---

The first week passed in a blur.

Twelve-hour naps. Fifteen-hour fuck sessions. The occasional protein block. I was living like a hedonistic space sloth.

And I loved it.

For once, I wasn’t inside a lab, mutating genetics or refining energy systems. I wasn’t under Crystal’s microscope, or giving tactical briefings, or being seduced into Hive politics.

Just... Kimchi. Sleep. Muscle burn. Floaty lights outside the window membrane.

The colors of psionic space never got old.

I was watching them one day—gazing into the kaleidoscope horror-beauty of the Psionic Tendril—when two arms slinked around my waist like vipers.

"Ah, so your legs work again," I muttered, not turning around. "They were still jelly the last time I left you."

Kimchi purred against my spine. "They still tremble, my mate. But I needed to feel your warmth."

She’d been extremely clingy since the trip started. Not that I minded. Hivebonding meant proximity was pleasure. Just being near each other sparked feedback loops of calm, affection, even arousal.

It was like snuggling a living pleasure drug that could also bite tanks in half.

Our week had been one long loop of: fuck → snuggle → eat → train → fuck → sleep → repeat.

No complaints.

Together we stood at the window membrane, skin against skin, staring into the vastness.

Then I heard it.

Footsteps.

Turning slightly, I caught sight of a familiar gait—careful, deliberate, proud.

It was her. My branded warrior.

She walked past us like a sentinel on patrol, her new mark dark and clear on her forehead.

I smiled, watching her go.

Kimchi, however, twitched.

She’d been obsessed ever since that first encounter. Spent hours combing Hive memory to find the warrior’s genetic code. And what she discovered left her torn between pride and possessive rage.

That warrior had been one of hers.

Back from the old days, when Kimchi was a Freethinker. A scout strain.

Over twenty years old.

Survivor of the invasion of Ker’min. On the opposite side of the planet from where I’d first arrived, but still part of that initial campaign.

She’d lived. Adapted. Returned with Kimchi. Been reassigned countless times. And now stood, marked by the mate of her old command.

Jealousy boiled in Kimchi’s chest like acidic wine.

I felt it.

Hard.

Her emotions bled into the bond and gave me a psychic nosebleed.

So I kissed her.

Tactically.

Reset her brain with tongue.

Then leaned in with a grin. "Is my Kimchi jealous? Because I branded a little murder-cutie?"

I wrapped my arms around her, positioning myself behind her so I could whisper into her soul.

"Want one too?" I murmured, squeezing her tit.

"Or maybe here?" My other hand gripped her ass.

"Or... down here?" I faked a reach, then spanked her hard enough to echo.

She gasped, full-body shiver.

"Or," I continued, slipping from flirty to firm, "you can remember that you’re one of only two Hive members who get my dick on the regular. That brand is nothing compared to what we’ve shared. So quit glaring at the furniture."

Her pout returned.

I sighed.

"If I spoil you too hard, you start getting possessive. Next thing I know, you’re bullying warriors just for making eye contact."

She nodded. Shameful. Soggy.

"Come on. Back to bed. I’m starving. And don’t give me that look—you’re officially back in punishment."

We returned to my room.

And that’s when all psychic hell broke loose.

Kimchi stopped.

Stared.

Her fury boiled like a sunspot.

"This... bitch!"

There, sprawled across my bed like a gift-wrapped heresy, was a naked woman.

Flesh. Curves. Smirk.

"Ah~ hello, my love~" the mystery woman cooed. "So good to see you~"

Kimchi’s fists clenched.

The room dropped ten degrees.

And I just blinked.

"...Well. This just got interesting."

---

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