[Short] Misunderstanding (Patreon)

A certain rumour has been spreading insidiously across monstrous guests and staff alike: that you keep a log of your favourite fuck buddies. Appearance, performance, stamina, whatever could make a creature succeed in breeding you are - supposedly - written down to the finest detail, in a dutifully compiled report.

Nonsense, of course. You most certainly have better things to do than scribble down all of your hot encounters. That's what the Centaur Manager tells himself with a tense smile, filing the paperwork in his office. He glances at the numbers, the lists, the bullet points. Well, alright, assuming there was such a ranking, where would he stand? He shifts on his hooves, pondering the hypotheticals. First, he'd need to know his competition; the hotel is quite large and houses a plethora of beastly visitors, yet only a handful of them have the privilege of coming back for seconds. His mind bounces from fellow coworkers to highly esteemed guests.

Before he can continue with his calculations, the door opens unceremoniously. Plant Daddy bolts in with a huff, his succulent locks dangling stiffly with his movements.

"What’s this I’ve been hearing about some list? Is (Y/N) actually documenting their top choices?"

"It's just foolish gossip," the manager grunts, embarrassed to be caught in equally foolish thoughts. "I doubt it to be true."

"Yeah? Have you checked?"

The horned man glances at his visitor incredulously.

“Have I... checked? How would I even proceed to do that?”

“You’re the manager, what the hell. You have access to their belongings.”

“Outrageous!” his hand lunges at his tie, loosening up the knot to breathe after hearing such a blasphemy. Fantastic audacity! He’d never-

“I’m number one, aren’t I?”

The office door is swung open once more, and Puppy Hybrid drags himself in with panic in his voice.

“It has to be,” he cries, affectionately holding onto his collar. “I’m (Y/N)’s favourite, after all.”

Plant Daddy turns to the intruder with a scowl. He knows better than to give in to such low dangling bait, yet today he’s particularly frustrated. He’s about to open his mouth and tell the little mutt off, when they hear another knock.

In the doorframe stands Vampire Noble, tall and silent.

“Is this about the list?” Centaur Manager asks, visibly defeated.

The elegantly dressed royal nods, then steps inside, acknowledging the other monsters presently filling the cramped room.

Unbelievable, the manager thinks to himself. He briefly looks out the window, considering his choices, when he spots Minotaur Maid stomping his way towards the building. This is it. If even the ancient devil can be summoned from his labyrinth, the issue is much greater than he’d originally suspected. As much as he despises the idea of invading your privacy, something needs to be done before they start wresting with each other for an imaginary win.

Thus, the unusual alliance of fiends is now ransacking your locker room, flipping everything upside down in a desperate attempt to find the cursed document. A fruitless undertaking, as it quickly occurs to them that the worst-case scenario might be the only remaining option: the papers are with you.

You sneeze. Toby signs a swift bless you before returning to his lawn trimming. Could it be that you have a cold? It wouldn’t surprise you. These past days have had you working like a slave in the sex mines. You don’t know what’s possessing the Hotel members, or why they’ve been on such a crusade of relentlessly fucking you, but it’s been wearing you out for sure.

Puppy Hybrid shouldn’t be in his horny season yet, and besides, he’s not the only one acting exceptionally horny. Or bizarre, for that matter. Yesterday, the Centaur Manager stood up after pounding you, grabbed a little notebook, and asked you if you’d be so kind as to provide him with a little feedback. Feedback, you repeated in confusion. Yes, for the act of copulation, he said. Were you fully satisfied? Was there anything he could improve? How would you rate his performance on a scale of 1 to 10?

The other monsters have been on a similarly odd behaviour. Plant Daddy nearly begging you to tell him whether anyone else fills you up just as good, or Minotaur Maid rambling endlessly about the fact you were moulded for his cock only.

At last, you have a moment to yourself. You took the day off so you could hang out with Toby in the quietness of the gardens.

“By the way,” you say, pulling out a stack of papers. “I finally won my first game!

I’ve been playing a lot of bingo recently, with the owner. Maybe I’m overdoing it a little,” you remark, eyeing the endless scribbles and numbers crowding along the page borders.