The silence in the sanctum was thick, broken only by the soft, rhythmic sound of spoons scraping against ceramic bowls. Shiro ate with a numb, mechanical acceptance, each swallow a small funeral for his pride. But across from him, Kuro was trapped in a different kind of hell. The simple, warm porridge tasted of ash and memory, but it was the weight of Lucifera's gaze that truly choked him.

He finally lowered the spoon, his hands trembling not from weakness, but from a roiling storm of shame and residual anger. He couldn't look at her.

"Aunt Luci," he began, his voice rough, grating against the quiet. "I… I am sorry. For what I said. For comparing your… your care to his." He couldn't even bring himself to name Ryo, the comparison itself felt like a blasphemy. "It was… it was a foul thing to say. I'm truly sorry"

Lucifera's expression, which had been watchful, softened into something so profound and understanding it was almost painful to behold. She reached out and stilled his trembling hand with her own, her touch cool and steadying.

"Oh, my dear Storm Baby," she whispered, her voice devoid of any mockery. "There is no need. I know. I know that when the tempest rages inside, it sometimes throws out lightning that strikes the very hands trying to shelter it. It doesn't mean the lightning is true. It just means the storm is loud." She squeezed his hand. "You are forgiven. You were always forgiven before you even asked."

The grace was a different kind of weapon, one his defiance had no defence against. It disarmed him completely, leaving him feeling hollowed out and strangely, terribly young. He simply nodded, unable to speak, and accepted another spoon from his aunt as he, took another bite. This time, it just tasted like oats.

No sooner had the bowls been taken away than the next ordeal was presented. Statera brought forth the familiar crystalline vials, one shimmering with a fey, silver light, the other holding the thick, sentient seeming black tar.

"The salves," she announced, her tone shifting back to that gentle, unyielding medical authority. "The deep healing is done, but the nerve knitting is at its most delicate stage. This will soothe the final fires."

A fresh wave of dread, cold and sharp, washed over the twins. They remembered the searing, cosmic cold of the Luminis salve, the violating, icy claws of the black tar.

"We can… we can apply it ourselves," Shiro tried, his voice weak.

Nyxara let out a soft, musical laugh. "Oh, my rain baby. And miss all the spots? And risk getting it in your eye? I think not." She moved towards Kuro. "Come, Storm Baby. It's time for your medicine."

What followed was a new layer of humiliation. They were not expected to present their wounds. They were arranged for them. Lucifera simply scooped Shiro up from his seated position, cradling him in her arms as if he were an oversized, sulking infant, and sat down with him, holding him fast against her chest. Nyxara did the same with Kuro, settling back into the furs and pulling him across her lap, his head pillowed on her arm.

"Hold still now," Nyxara murmured, dipping her fingers into the black salve.

The twins went rigid, not just from the anticipation of pain, but from the sheer, infantilizing position. They were being held for their medicine like newborns.

"You are… unbelievably lucky," Kuro hissed through gritted teeth as the first, cold touch of the tar met his ruined socket, sending the familiar, nauseating scrabbling sensation deep into the nerve endings, "that I need this healing. So unbelievably lucky. Or I would… I would end you all for this."

His threat was a thin, brittle thing, lacking all conviction.

"We know, darling," Nyxara cooed, working the salve with a terrifying tenderness. "We are trembling in our boots. Now, hush. The scary medicine will be over soon."

On the other side of the hearth, Shiro was enduring his own trial. The Luminis salve was, as promised, less of a cataclysm and more of a deep, bone chilling ache that sank into the brand, smothering the itching under a blanket of absolute zero. He shuddered violently in Luci's arms.

"There, there, Rain Baby," she whispered into his hair, her hold tightening. "Just a little more. You're being so brave for your Aunt Luci."

When the ordeal was over, they were not released. They were simply rearranged. The four women settled onto the large divan, creating a nest of limbs and warmth, and the twins were placed between them, propped against bodies and furs, utterly trapped in a circle of affection.

The "naptime" was a misnomer. It was a state of enforced, wakeful captivity. The twins, Shiro and Kuro, were ensnared in a living net of their guardians, a tangle of limbs, soft robes, and suffocating affection. The initial fury had banked into a low, simmering ember of resentment, but the warmth of the bodies surrounding them was an insidious enemy, leaching the strength from their defiance.

"I can feel you thinking, Storm Baby," Nyxara murmured, her chin resting on Kuro's head. "The gears are turning. Planning a great escape, perhaps? Will it involve more flailing or a new, innovative form of stumbling?"

"I am devising a strategy to reclaim my stolen integrity." Kuro retorted, his voice muffled against her shoulder. He tried to shift, to put even an inch of cold air between them, but her arm was a warm, heavy band across his chest. The movement sent a dull throb from his eye socket, a reminder of his fragility.

"He's devising," Lucifera echoed from where she held Shiro, her tone rich with amusement. "He's using such big words for someone who was, just moments ago, making threats he lacks the physical capacity to carry out. It's adorable. Like a baby griffin trying to roar."

Shiro, trapped in the circle of Luci's arms, squirmed. "We don't need to be held down. The salve is applied. We're not going to scratch." His protest was weak, undercut by the way he unconsciously leaned back into her solidity as a fresh, deep ache pulsed from the brand on his face.

"But how can we be sure, Rain Baby?" Statera asked from his other side, her fingers gently combing through his hair. "The itch is a cunning foe. It whispers lies. It tells strong, brave boys to do very silly, counterproductive things. Like run face first into walls of water."

"I didn't run face first! I was tripped by a… a poetic nuisance!" Shiro shot back, gesturing weakly towards Lyra, who smiled serenely.

"The Muse of Stumbling," Lyra agreed, not offended in the slightest. "I accept the title. I shall be the patron saint of graceful failures and catastrophic escapes. Your story is my inspiration."

The teasing was a constant, gentle rain, and their defences were a roof made of tissue. Every retort they launched was met with a fond dismissal that stripped it of all power.

"This is not healing," Kuro grumbled, another wave of pain from his eye making him grit his teeth. "This is… smothering. How is this meant to mend bone and nerve?"

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

"The deepest healing, my tempest, is not just of the flesh," Nyxara whispered, her breath warm against his ear. "It is of the spirit. And a spirit that believes it must always stand alone is a spirit that will forever be fractured. We are… gluing your pieces back together with cuddles. It's an ancient, powerful magic."

"It's a bizarre and undignified magic," Kuro muttered, but the fight was draining from him. The thrumming pain was a relentless drain, and the warmth surrounding him was the only comfort offered. He found his head growing heavier against Nyxara's shoulder, his body reluctantly accepting the support it so desperately needed.

Seeing his brother's slow surrender, Shiro felt his own resolve crumble. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, the tension seeping from his muscles. Lucifera felt it and held him a little tighter, a silent, triumphant acknowledgment.

For a few minutes, there was a quiet peace, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire. The guardians exchanged soft, knowing smiles over the boys heads. The war was being won not on a battlefield, but here, in this nest of furs.

It was then that Kuro made his last, desperate bid for freedom. Perhaps it was the cloying sweetness of the moment, or a final spike of pride. With a sudden, grunting effort, he tried to vault over Nyxara's legs and off the divan.

It was, like all his previous attempts, pathetic. His body, wracked with pain and weakness, moved with all the grace of a sack of stones. He didn't even clear her lap. Nyxara simply grunted in mild surprise, and Lucifera, with a speed that belied her relaxed posture, shot out a hand and caught the back of his tunic.

He dangled there for a moment, suspended over the edge of the divan by her effortless strength, his escape ended before it began.

"And where," Lucifera asked, her voice deceptively soft, "did you think you were going, my little storm?"

Defeated, utterly and completely, Kuro went limp in her grip. Instead of letting him drop or pulling him back with a teasing remark, she did something different. She hauled him gently but firmly across the space between them and gathered him into her own arms, pulling him against her chest alongside Shiro.

For a moment, Kuro was rigid with renewed humiliation. Then, with a sound that was half sob, half sigh of utter capitulation, he melted. His head dropped onto her shoulder, his hands, which had been clenched into fists, came up to weakly clutch at the fabric of her robe. It was not an embrace of affection, but one of sheer, exhausted surrender.

"…monsters…" he mumbled into her neck, the word devoid of any real heat. "You're all… terrible, smothering monsters…"

But he didn't let go.

Lucifera's breath hitched. She looked over his head at Nyxara and Statera, her brilliant white eyes wide with a shock that quickly melted into a joy so profound it was almost painful to behold. She held him tighter, her cheek resting against his hair.

"I know, Storm Baby," she whispered, her voice thick with an emotion she no longer bothered to name. "We're the most terrible monsters in all the cosmos. We specialize in love and healing and utterly destroying the dignity of our wittle babies."

He winced then, a sharp, involuntary spasm as the pain in his eye flared again.

"Ah, and the little storm cloud has a wittle ache," Luci cooed, her joy undimmed. She began to rock him gently, just a subtle sway. "Does it hurt, my wittle prince? Does my poor, brave infant feel pain?"

To everyone's astonishment, including his own, Kuro gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod against her shoulder.

The reaction from the circle of women was a silent, collective exhalation of a fear they had never voiced. The fear that, perhaps, their infants didn't love them. That the bond was one sided, forged in trauma and duty. This small, vulnerable admission, this acceptance of comfort, was a greater victory than any battle.

"We know, my wittle storm be stwong we are here," Nyxara whispered, her own eyes shining as she watched Luci hold her son.

Kuro's surrender had been a quiet collapse, a falling fortress. But Shiro's was a siege, and the four guardians were masters of this ancient, affectionate warfare. The atmosphere in the sanctum grew thicker, the teasing shifting from general mockery to a specific, targeted baby talk that was somehow more humiliating than any strategic analysis.

Kuro, now nestled between Nyxara and Lucifera, had become a placid, if deeply embarrassed, centre of calm. The frantic energy had left him, replaced by a weary acceptance that was both a defeat and a strange, new kind of strength.

"Is my wittle stworm baby comfortable?" Nyxara would murmur, adjusting a fur under his head.

Kuro, his face half buried in the fabric of Luci's robe, would simply give a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. A faint pinkness would touch his ears, but the spectacular, full face crimson of before was gone, replaced by a constant, low grade warmth of shame.

"He nodded!" Lucifera would announce with gushing delight, as if he'd just recited an epic poem. "Our good boy! He knows he's our precious wittle tempest, don't you? Yes, you do!"

Kuro's only response was a low, muffled grunt that sounded like "mmhmm," the sound vibrating through Luci's chest. He was learning the new language of this existence: small, non committal sounds and minimal movement to avoid provoking further bouts of soul scorching baby talk.

Shiro, on the other hand, was a live wire. Every gentle touch from Statera, every humming note from Lyra, made him flinch as if branded.

"Aww, is the widdle Wain Baby getting all fwustrated?" Nyxara cooed from where she cradled Kuro, her voice a saccharine melody that grated on Shiro's last nerve. "Does he need his binky?"

"I will shove that hypothetical binky somewhere the sun doesn't shine," Shiro snarled, trying to pry Statera's fingers from his wrist. His struggle was stronger now, fuelled by a fresh wave of rage at the infantile language.

"Such a big, strong threat from such a itty bitty baby," Lucifera chimed in, her tone one of mock awe. "Look at him, Statera! He thinks he's a fearsome warrior! He's our fierce, tiny, wiggly little soldier!"

The escape attempt was his most coordinated by far. He waited until Lyra began one of her soft, hypnotic hums. As the melody wove through the air, he gathered the last dregs of his strength and, with a sudden, explosive force, tried to launch himself backwards over the back of the divan. It was a mad, desperate gamble, a bid for the shadowy floor behind it.

He didn't even get fully upright. Four sets of hands moved not with speed, but with an inevitable, practiced synchronicity, as if they had been waiting for this exact move. They didn't grab or restrain. They enveloped.

Nyxara caught his head, cradling it in her hands with absurd gentleness. Statera caught his torso, her arms becoming a soft but unbreakable cage. Lucifera and Lyra each took a leg, their grips firm but not painful.

"And up we go!" Lucifera chirped, as if he were a toddler being lifted into a high chair.

They lifted him into the air, horizontal and utterly helpless, suspended in the centre of their circle. He hung there, flailing for a moment, a beetle on its back.

"Uh oh," Nyxara sang, her face appearing above his, her multi hued eyes wide with theatrical concern. "Did the baby try to fly? Did the widdle birdie think it could leap from the nest?"

"Put me down!" he roared, his voice echoing in the chamber.

"Tut tut," Statera scolded, her voice adopting a gentle, nursery rhyme rhythm. "No no, little one. We do not throw ourselves from furniture. That's a no no. Very bad baby."

"You are fucking all insane!" he screamed, thrashing, but their collective hold was like being trapped in warm, living stone.

"Is that any way to talk?" Lyra asked, her melodic voice laced with disappointment. "Such ugly words from such a sweet little face. The song of your spirit is so beautiful, but you keep singing these nasty, dissonant notes."

They didn't put him down. Instead, they began to sway, a gentle, rocking motion, as if he were an over large, furious newborn in need of calming.

"There, there," they murmured in a horrifying, overlapping chorus. "Is the baby angry? Is the baby cross? Does the baby need a cuddle?"

They lowered him then, not onto the furs, but directly into Statera's lap. She rearranged him without a word, turning him so his back was against her chest, and then, with a deftness that spoke of unspoken practice, she pulled a large, incredibly soft fur around him.

"Look at him," Nyxara observed, stroking Kuro's hair while watching Shiro's latest tense struggle. "The Rain Baby is all puffed up. Like a little frog about to pop."

"He's not a frog, he's a furious little kitten," Statera corrected, nuzzling the top of Shiro's head as he tried to duck away. "All hissy and spitty, but with such soft, tiny paws."

"I am not a kitten!" Shiro exploded, his voice cracking. The blush was instant and total, a wave of violent scarlet that consumed his face, neck, and even crept down his chest. It was a beacon of his humiliation, and the guardians fed on it.

"Oh, but you are!" Lyra clapped. "Look at that blush! It's the most adorable shade of 'I'm a big swong man weally I am! It should have its own name!"

"We shall call it 'Infantile Fury Crimson'," Lucifera declared. "I shall have a dye made from crushed rubies and the tears of wounded pride, all in your honour, Rain Baby."

The teasing was a feedback loop. Their blushes, Kuro's subtle, constant flush of resigned shame, Shiro's explosive, full body flares of outrage, only invited more torment. It was a game they couldn't win, a battle where their own physiology was the enemy's greatest weapon.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.