#battle of blood ridge

[rickstwocrows]

my favorite score i can't even deny

[aceofwhump]

Hacksaw Ridge

[frau-rainyfox]

[fanbun]

The music we've been getting in the past two seasons has been awesome and I can't wait for more official soundtrack releases.

[the-unofficial-village-idiot]

Forcibly adding birdrick to the list of gays who couldn't properly run away together

[endless-ineffabilities]

The Bolter (part six) (18+)

Steve Rogers x f!reader / Bucky Barnes x f!reader

synopsis : Steve carries out his decision to return to Peggy, aiming to live out the rest of his days with her. But this means he's leaving everything behind - he's leaving you. Did he make the right choice? Will there be anything left with you to come back to?

in this chapter : Bucky and the reader finally give in to their desires. In 2018, after the battle in Wakanda, Steve Rogers decides to be selfish and takes what he deserves (also known as, smut-filled self-indulgent chronicles with our super soldiers) + in the 1950s, Steve is greeted with the most unexpected of visitors

themes/warnings : language, smut ahead! 18+ - minors dni

word count : 4.3k

main masterlist ▪︎ series masterlist

2024, seven months after Steve's departure

It felt strange at first, feeling Bucky's lips against yours.

He's gentle, each kiss punctuated by a pause, like he's savouring each one.

He's worried that you might not kiss him back and that you don't feel the same.

But how could you not feel the same? How could this not feel right?

He pulls back for a second, and he takes you in. Your eyes blinking at him, lips left parted with a wet sheen over it.

He smiles. You mirror his gesture.

It's okay, he tells himself as he presses his forehead to yours, I am not alone in this.

He looks on as his warm-blooded hand grazes down to your collarbones, snakes above your ribs, then halts by the curve of your hips, gripping with a bit more strength, his reservations easing.

He wants more. His deep blue eyes beg the question.

That blue reminds you of someone else's for a split second, ones you would recognize anywhere, ocean eyes that you think you would love for all time.

Or so you thought.

Kissing Bucky feels like waking up from a drawn-out fever dream. All your life, you've been on the run, never quite finding a haven. Save for that cabin, many years ago.

But now, you could have this, and this something - someone - could actually be just yours.

You pull him back in, giving in, shivers running down your spine when his tongue snakes past your lips and dances with your own. His hands cup your backside, then lifts you up to wrap your legs to around his waist.

He slams you back against the wall as a result, and Bucky is quick to appraise you, asking, "Is this okay?"

Letting out a shaky breath, you affirm, "Bucky, this is more than fucking okay."

His body slumps in relief against you, and he nuzzles your neck, breaking into a grin, and god help you if he doesn't feel better than the warmth of sunlight after an endless winter.

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He kisses you again, messily sucking at your bottom lip as he deftly carries you over to your kitchen island. You feel flushed when he pulls back to admire you, his pupils dilated, and says, "You taste so good, doll."

"Bucky," you pant, your fingers curling at the back of his neck.

"So good," he repeats. "I bet you taste good all over, too."

You're suddenly grateful to be wearing only teensy pajama shorts, feeling the rough pads of his fingertips pressing against your skin. The ridges of his bionic arm leaving tingles in their wake.

He lowers himself, until his face is level with your regrettably still-clothed crotch. His every breath gusts between your inner thighs, and when he bites his lip and slowly pulls your shorts and underwear down, down, until they slide off your ankles, the hungry look that forms on his face is almost enough to make you explode.

"You don't know how much I've wanted this," he whispers, lips gliding along your upper thigh, until it lands at the crest of your labia, where he places the softest, open-mouthed kisses. Your ass presses against the cold tile on your kitchen counter instinctively, your tight-knuckled hands bracing at your sides.

Maybe this is all a damn good dream. Maybe you imbibed yourself to sweet slumber, white wine bottle rolling empty by your bedside table.

Bucky licks a stripe along your cunt, before eagerly sucking at your throbbing opening. He uses his bionic fingers to stretch you open, sliding in and out, as his tongue plunges just above. After a while, he looks up at you for assurance.

Yes, god yes.

He's real and he's warm and he's here.

"Say you're mine, doll," he says. It's a command, but it comes across almost pleading. You can't exactly fault Bucky for having his fair share of doubts and insecurity. Steve Rogers has a light that is hard to eclipse, even in memory.

But that's all he is now. A memory.

There are voices in the back of Bucky's mind that taunt him, saying, she'll never be yours. Not really. How could she, when you don't hold a candle to her former lover? The hero, the soldier, the Avenger.

But he drowns them all out, even just for tonight. One look at you falling apart from his touch is enough to quell all of his worries. I deserve this, he thinks. Steve left to get what he truly wants. Who's to stop me from doing the same?

"All yours," you say. "I'm all yours."

His heart soars, and his lips stretch out in a smile, glistening from the juices of your cunt.

He stands, his face levelling with yours, and his mouth gravitating towards your own. Your hands find purchase in his hair, holding him ever closer, fingernails massaging his scalp.

He groans in pleasure at the sensation and against your lips, he admits, half-muffled, "I could kiss you forever."

"Good thing you super soldiers live quite long then."

"Hmm," he agrees, then adds breathlessly, his blue eyes burning into you, "I wanna... wanna fuck you, doll. Would you let me have you?"

By his tone, you almost wonder how he held himself back from adding please at the end.

"Bucky," you can't help but smile, "do you even have to ask?"

And it's a goddamn blissful whirlwind from there.

He pulls you from the kitchen island, and you land clumsily on his shoes, tripping into his arms in the process. He laughs, jokily saying, "My girl right here..."

"Yeah," you wag your eyebrows, "I am so smooth."

"It's almost impressive," he responds, both hands framing your face, about to lean in.

"Almost?" you reach up and trace his lips.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were some secret agent or something," he makes a suspicious face, and it's all so silly that you break out into a giggle.

"Oh yeah?" you play along, while you two sway aimlessly, arms wrapped around each other.

"Yeah," he nods, then says, "come here and kiss me already."

"Just a kiss then?"

"A kiss," he nips at your earlobes, "then y'know, maybe we can make love and all that," then he pecks at the corner of your lips, "maybe... I dunno... you'll finally let me fuck you senseless." He shrugs at that, as if it was the most obvious thing.

You come to realise that Bucky Barnes has perhaps always been this charming. Was he like this in the 40s - a smooth talker, perennial ladies magnet? You remind yourself to ask him about it later.

But now... now the two of you stumble into your bedroom, in a flurry of kisses and the rest of your clothes haphazardly thrown on the floor.

Taking him in, you see how Bucky is undeniably well-built, his every muscle defined and trained to perfection. He makes a sound of appreciation when the last article of clothing is stripped from your body, his hands grabbing on the closest patch of skin he can find. "You're so beautiful," he preens, squeezing at the mounds of your breasts. He then guides you down on your bed, his mouth latching onto your nipple, sucking and gently nipping at the flesh.

"Are you kidding," you can barely speak, eyes shut in pleasure, when he plunges his fingers back into your soaked cunt. "Have you seen you?"

He merely continues, watching as you grip his wrist and beg, "Just like that, Buck... so good... faster...."

Adding a third finger in, he whispers in your ear, "You gonna come for me, doll?"

"Y-yes... keep going..."

"So damn perfect," he purrs, fingers making hook motions inside of you, speeding up the pace.

He alternates between kissing you full on the mouth, and nipping at your neck, letting you take grateful breaths of air. Your chest rises and falls almost in sync with his fingers audibly slopping in and out of your cunt.

Bucky can't seem to take it any longer when straddles you, lining up with your entrance. His sucks your pre-cum from his fingers before giving his taut cock a few strokes for good measure. He tilts his pelvis forward, his tip pressing right against your opening. Keeping it in position, he half-crawls up to you, until his forearms brace by the sides of your face.

His pupils are blown out and his eyes appear entirely darkened when they meet yours. You nod once, biting your lip in anticipation.

His cock enters you, stretching you out wide. It's a familiar kind of pain, one that's most welcome. He watches in awe as your eyes roll to the back of your head as he slides in, inch by inch, until he's fully sheathed.

He lets out a deep exhale, partially in relief. He's here, you've accepted him and you're only his for tonight.

You catch him smiling to himself, and ask, "Amused, Buck?"

"Oh, it's nothing," he replies. He slides out of you just so, before burying himself back in, right to the hilt. A moan bubbles out of you throat.

"Just thinkin' about how lucky I am," he rasps through another quick snap of his pelvis. "Thinkin' about how damn perfect you sound, taking my cock in so well like that."

"Mmmphh," is all you can manage, when he picks up the pace, slamming into you with every thrust, his balls slapping against your ass. He sits back, lifting your legs over his shoulders.

The new angle allows him to plunge in deeper, hitting that one sweet aching spot each time.

"Bucky," you moan, hands reaching to steady yourself using the headboard, greedily looking to where his body connects with yours. To where his thick cock disappears inside your pussy, again and again.

It turns sloppy, frantic, your legs freely extending to the sides. Beads of sweat forming by his brows, grunts freely emanating from his lips. He falls forward, and you wrap your arms around him, nails scratching his back.

"Oh yeah, doll," he would say, "...feel so good... so good..." until the words are no longer coherent, his pelvis jackrabbiting with no rhythm.

"Bucky," you moan, feeling your release nearing, getting hotter and hotter.

His forehead connects with yours, and with one wet all-tongue kiss, you feel him convulse inside of you, filling your insides with his cum.

He makes sure to keep moving, to keep kissing you all over, until you follow not long after.

Hands gripping the sheets, you're overwhelmed with bliss. It's all pleasure, all warmth, all Bucky.

He collapses next to you after a moment, breathless. The two of you share the smile of satisfied lovers, and he wants to say more. He wants to say it, but the confession isn't fully formed.

Not yet.

For now, this is enough.

You lean in and press a gentle kiss on his lips.

Oh yeah, he thinks. This is more than enough.

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2018, two nights after the battle in Wakanda

Once it started, it was like dominoes cascading right into place.

There was no stopping it - you and Steve definitely had no desire to stop.

He appeared in the doorway of your quarters just after midnight, the Avengers compound somber and silent. Once he spoke your name in that low voice, you knew what he wanted.

You wanted it too. Needed it even.

You both did everything you could, put it all on the line and it was all lost in a single second. With just a mere snap.

You were still trying to process the depth of your loss, still haven't reached out to your friends to check if they still existed. You didn't want to face the possibility of calls unanswered, no one left on the other line.

Steve was the same, but he bore it harder than you. In that moment, he hated himself - the so-called leader of the Avengers, ever the figurehead of guidance and hope. Everyone always looked on him to be perfect and dominant and steadfast.

He knew none of that would ease up anytime soon. And to the rest of the world, he would have to be Captain America. They would look to him for answers, and advice on how to proceed. He would be expected to carry everyone through their pain, and he would.

But who was ever there for him? When will he ever be allowed to just be Steve, and to show that he also feels completely vulnerable, especially in that time?

He whispered your name, just the once, and that was all it took.

America's Golden Boy had been holding everything in ever since they got him out of the ice. That night, you allowed him to release it all, and the two of you collided in a frenzy of lust and longing, frustration and defeat.

And unbridled love.

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Steve kissed you hungrily, much harder than he did right after the battle, if that were even possible.

That kiss had been bruising, but this was uninhibited.

No, there was nothing unsure in his movements. There was no doubt of what he wanted when he picked you up bridal-style, biting at your neck.

He gracelessly plops you down on your bed, and you bite your lip at the sight of him. He'd shaved again, so it was easy for you to spot the fleck of fresh blood on his lips.

He took notice, and he carelessly ran his thumb over it.

"You bit me," he said, "you fucking minx."

Steve Rogers sure had a mouth on him when he wanted to.

Getting on your knees, you pull his hand to your lips and suck the red spot off his thumb.

"Goddamn it, angel," he whispers huskily, eyes glazing over in lust.

Angel. You felt your warmth pooling down below.

He hurriedly stripped off his white shirt and stepped out of his navy sweatpants, then beckoned to you with a tilt of his jaw, "C'mere."

Standing upright by the foot of the bed, he simply watched as you crawled closer to him.

You knelt on the bed, palms pressed against his bare chest. Even at that height, he was still angled at almost a foot taller than you.

"What do you want?" he asked, his fingers tilting your face up at him. "Use your words, angel."

Tell me you want me.

"Steve," you started to say, but your words fumble when he started peppering soft kisses on your neck.

"Mmm," he purred against your skin, "what was that?"

"I... I want you."

His stony mask fell, but it was short-lived. His lips curled right back into that imperious smirk.

He then bunched his fists in the neckline of your shirt, then rips it down the middle, like it was nothing but paper.

Your torso left bare to him, he cast a hungry look over the curve of your breasts, before his eyes met yours again.

"Off," his fingers ran along the waistband of your trousers, drifting against your skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. "unless you want me to rip it apart, too."

His commanding voice made you scramble to follow, shakily pulling your trousers off and pushing them off the bed.

"All of it," he impatiently added. So you complied.

Aye, Captain.

Your underwear landed atop your trousers on the floor. You were exposed to him, fully, cold air making your nipples rise on attention. He shamelessly took you in, but he does not make a move just yet.

He made it known that you should follow his orders. "Well?" he said. "What are you waiting for?" His eyes lower to the shape of his cock straining against his boxers, then back to you.

Licking your lips, you lowered the cotton, until his erect manhood was revealed to you in all its glory, glistening at the tip. You'd imagined it, many times before, wondering whether the serum also made this part of him enhanced.

And it did. God, it did.

Or maybe Steve Rogers has always been this blessed.

Your eyes flit to him for permission, and he just looked amused. Gripping at base of his length, you angled your head forward, and let your saliva drip down on it. You use the wetness from your spit and his pre-cum to give his cock several, good strokes, making it twitch in the process.

He hummed, the sound deep in his chest. "Good girl," he praised you, making your whole body feel like fucking jelly, "don't keep me waiting, now."

Your mouth formed an O-shape, sliding down on his cock, and you take him in fully until his tip touched the back of your throat. He fucking moans, the sound so lewd to your ears, disjointed by his little shaky breaths.

"That's my... good... girl," he praised, when you moved your head up and back down, lips gliding smooth on the thick girth of his soaked cock. He pressed his palm on the back of your head, guiding you, making you suck him a faster pace.

It's too much - your own increasing pleasure, and the sensation of his cock repeatedly hitting the back of your throat - that errant tears escape the corners of your eyes.

"Shhh, my angel," he purred. "I'm coming... just you wait..."

"Mmm," you could barely make a sound, only glancing up to appreciate him. His eyebrows are ruffled, maroon lips parted and panting, his head tilted to see his good girl at a better angle.

His moaned loudly, almost growled, the sound rumbling in his chest. "Fuck, fuck," he curses, "I'm so close..."

You slid him in deep one last time, before he pulled out of your mouth suddenly, pushing you to your back. He clambered onto the sheets in a flourish, before releasing streams of hot milky cum on your chest.

His fingers squeezed his cock, as he emptied himself onto you, watching as the rivulets stream from your nipples down to your bedsheets.

"Steve," you watched in amazement, entranced by the sheer pleasure in his expression. "Take me."

"Oh I will," he promised, still stroking himself at the sight of you. He's hard again, and you just laid there, aching to be filled.

He positioned himself, darkened gaze greedily taking you in, pleased by the unabashed desire on your face. He doesn't break eye contact as he mercilessly pushed his cock inside you in one fell swoop. The sheer size of it gave rise to a slightly painful sensation, and you bit your tongue to keep from screaming his name.

He didn't like that, didn't take to the idea that you were holding back.

"Scream my name, angel," he prodded. "You know you want to."

And scream his name you did. You couldn't help it, repeatedly exclaiming, "Fuck yes, Steve," as he pounded into you without abandon. He gave it everything, let go of it all, with each relentless thrust.

Your eyes were closed in sheer pleasure when suddenly he deftly twists your body over, his cock never leaving the slick warmth of your pussy.

The sudden change in position rendered you alert for a moment, your hands out reaching out to brace yourself.

You're left on all fours, hands gripping the sheets, as Steve kept slamming into your dripping cunt. He kept a tight hold on you, squeezing your raised ass, using it to bury himself even deeper.

He made you see stars with every sharp snap of his hips, made you moan his name again and again. Your cunt getting slicker, the warmth in your belly spreading each time he praised you with, "My good girl," or, "You take me so well, angel."

He soon released again inside of you, then pulled out, your pussy dripping with his cum. But he wasn't finished just yet. He effortlessly carried you over to one side of your room, your back pressed against his chest.

You immediately realised what he wanted to do, when he stopped right in front of the full-length mirror, and bid you with a stern, "Hands up."

You braced your palms against the glass, catching his eyes in the reflection which were clouded over in sheer lust. He pressed his palm on your lower belly and takes you in from behind, his cock sliding right back into your cunt. The pleasure of it hit so damn good, that you knees almost gave way.

"Look at how good you take me," he groaned from behind you. "Look at how beautiful you are, angel."

Your moans melded with his, along with the slick constant sound of his cock plunging into your sore pussy.

At some point, you fell forward and the motion made him follow. Your breasts pressed against the mirror, and he tilted your head back to sloppily kiss you, one hand applying pressure on your neck. He left bites on your neck and shoulders, his sharp teeth sinking into the skin to muffle his moans.

He fucked you wildly, drunk on the sight of your blissed-out face in the reflection. When your release came, it fell almost in sync with his, cum spilling down your thighs.

It took a long while to come down from such a high, and you lay in bed, letting everything sink in. You watched as he retrieved a wet towel from your bathroom and cleaned you up promptly.

When he joined you a moment later, he encased you with his entire body, legs entwined with yours, face nuzzled against your neck.

You felt tiredness quickly setting in, as you stroked his face, lovingly whispering, "How about we just go back to our cabin, hmm?"

That was just a dream, and you both knew it. The world just wasn't in the habit of allowing you two to simply be happy.

In that moment, Steve wanted to cry. Because you were perfect, just so perfect, and he wasn't.

He could never be good enough, never be the Steve you thought he was. Your Steve. All he was is a man out of time, a man who can never come home from the war.

He was broken, and all he had left was the last truth he held onto, the one thing he could give you.

"I love you," he whispered as you drifted to sleep.

He wouldn't be there when you woke in the morning. But you would remember everything, and like a resounding echo, his words would never leave you.

I love you.

If only that was enough. If only that made him stay.

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2024, seven months after Steve's departure

Bucky stays over for the night, and you wake up in his arms.

It's a lazy day, no routine in place, the two of you falling in and out of sleep, talking nonsense and sharing food. Smiling against kisses. Having to bite your lip at the sensation of his metal fingers pleasuring you over again.

At some point in the early evening, you decide to wash up and get dressed. You settle on the couch in your living room, as he takes it upon himself to make sandwiches in the kitchen.

You switch the TV on and the main news channel appears, the sound lowered as you watch Bucky find his way around your cupboards.

"Need any help?"

He winks at you, funnily waving a piece of toast up, "I got it, doll."

Then something flashes from the corner of your eye, that metallic red, white, and blue.

It's on the screen - that shield - being paraded around by some stranger.

Your heart pounding, you increase the volume to the maximum, and Bucky's attention is immediately piqued.

The sounds of a full marching band erupt in your apartment, theme music being played in what looks like a high school football field.

Bucky is now at your side, his work in the kitchen forgotten.

John Walker is our nation's new Captain America, the screen reads.

"What the fuck?" you exclaim.

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The 1950s, seven months after Steve's arrival

The visitors at the door render Steve alert, the sight an immediate wake-up call to his senses.

Nothing ever happens in his life in this time. There is no reason to look out for danger in his calm piece of suburbia.

Steve doesn't understand why it feels like he all but welcomed the presence of a threat, his neurons finally firing back up, all of his senses heightened.

"Loki," he greets coldly.

"Right," Loki says, then turns to his companion, "I told you he wouldn't be too eager to see me."

"Come on now, what do you mean?" the man responds. "This is Steve Rogers, he's possibly the most polite person of his time."

"Okay, but even this dutiful soldier would surely punch me in the face after what I tried to do to his world - "

"Well, you were being plain ridiculous when you made everyone kneel," the man says, without missing a beat, like he was simply talking about something regular that occurred over lunch.

"I know, I know," Loki shakes his head. "Can't we just forget about that?"

"Stop," Steve snaps, and the two visitors fall silent. He addresses Loki, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Oh," the man smiles, "Language, Cap."

He's met with an impatient glare from Steve who towers over him.

The man balks, "Hmm, isn't that a thing you say to - "

Loki only shakes his head at him.

"Well," the man straightens, "it's a pleasure to meet you, Captain," he offers his hand, "My name is Mobius and I work for the TVA."

Steve reluctantly shakes his hand, while routinely keeping watch on Loki.

Mobius, aware that Steve's sense of suspicion has no chance of easing, goes straight to the point.

"Steve, we're here because... well... you're not supposed to be here."

Read part seven here ~

taglist (let me know if you wish to be added!) : @vicmc624 @littleliyah16 @babezawa @klammykayla @justsebstan @blue--ingenue @numblytemporary @bradshawass @delicious-xx @mrsevans90 @heartarianagran @tinystarfishgalaxy @kyoquixote @mochibochinochi @spngingerbread21 @zbeez-outlet @rena15 @raging-panda @marveldaydreamer @integers @torntaltos @imthebadguyyy @iidear @blackhawkfanatic @smhnxdiii @nommingonfood @fortunatelyweepingninja @cyberaestheticals @loki-laufeyson68 @queenofshinigamis @samkickikc @utterlyhopeful-fics @mthealy

I know what you're thinking - how can Steve still leave after ALL THAT???? Well, he's a complicated man, darlings. And he'll battle his fair share of self-loathing and depression in the years prior to Endgame. Love is brutal sometimes, and Steve just won't be able to allow himself to succumb to it when he's not at peace :(

Also - I wanted to reverse the usual theme of Steve being the gentle lover, and Bucky being darker and self-assured. But I wanted it to still make sense - here Steve was rough because he's using it as a form of release, after all the trauma he went through. And sweet Bucky was understandably a bit reluctant because he doesn't trust himself completely yet.

you get the gist ;) I've loved each and every one of your comments/messages etc. Stay tuned for more of our beloved bolters 💙

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 1.5]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: There is a little, annoying human trapped in this bay with him. And he's going to eat them. (Vil's POV)

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

There was a little, raggedy human staring up at him from the sand, and Vil had never felt so miserably persecuted in all his years.

The thing had been bound to him in a mess of ropes and frantic, bipedal flailing, and he’d honestly thought that it had drowned. Hoped that it had drowned. But no, apparently he couldn’t be quite so lucky. None of his pod’s raids had ever gone so terribly, and normally he was better able to keep his head about him. But it had been Epel’s first attempt at sneaking on board one of the grand, creaking, human vessels, and maybe he’d been a touch concerned about it. Like a fretting parent sending their guppy off to the deep for their first solo-swim. And perhaps he’d struck a bit too quick and sharp when he saw things headed South. Not taking the normal care he would to assess for traps, or weapons, or stupid humans and their equally stupid, fraying ropes.  

But none of that mattered. It was hardly a crime to want to protect your family. It had happened, that was the end of it. There was no changing things. And now he was here. In this cove. With that thing.

You pedaled backward in the sand like those two legs of yours hardly worked at all, and even though it looked like you were retreating (rightfully so, at least you were smart enough to realize this was a lost battle), Vil still bared his teeth in a challenge. Because he was angry, and sore, and at the moment you were the cause of every, single one of his problems in the world. He tossed his tail in the surf, splattering stinging bits of ice water into your face.

“Stop! Stop!” you squawked, wheeling away like he was dousing you in acid rain rather than a bit of pissy water warfare. “I get it! I won’t come near you, jeesh! I wasn’t planning on it to begin with!”

“Of course you weren’t,” he spat. “From the looks of you, you don’t plan much of anything at all.”

You didn’t respond to his scathing insult, only kept scooting yourself back against the sand on legs that still apparently refused to work. Or maybe you’d simply forgotten about them. You seemed like you could be the type.

He ground his talons into the damp sand at his hips and felt the ridges of the fins along his spine prickling tight and painful, trying to puff out in a predatory display that they simply couldn’t because he was still bound in the godforsaken rope.

“I don’t know what your little plan was,” he hissed, “but you’ve done both of us a disservice. And while I’m sure you’re used to disappointment, I am not going to tolerate this.”

More silence. You looked—not confused, per se. But definitely not particularly keen on following his very justified rant against your person. Your gaze kept darting from his vicious glare, to his claws digging up the shoreline, and then to his lips. He could see your own mouth moving a bit alongside his, like you were trying to echo the shape of the insults flying off his tongue.

“Listen here, you fleshy rat,” he snapped, jabbing a black talon in your direction. “You’re going to tell me the course that your ridiculous ship had set so that I can return to my pod at once. Do you understand? And if you’re lucky, I won’t crawl my way up there to bite off your fingers one by one. How’s that sound?”

You blinked back at him with no comprehension, like his marvelous depiction of having your bones gnawed on for snacks just wasn’t a vivid enough picture.

The rage in his chest bubbled bright and hot, and the age-old magics in his veins zipped through his blood like a stroke of lightening.

Insolent brat.

Fine. He’d make you listen then.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” you said, and oh, you were a nuisance. He was going to rip your nerves out from the depths of your useless, human limbs. Feast on your bones until the marrow had been picked clean and leave the scraps for the gulls—

He parted his lips and sang loud and sharp—letting that familiar lull roll off his tongue like the sweetest poison. His Call had always been the strongest in his pod, after all. That’s why it was his job to keep them safe, to ensure that no one was lost in a hunt that was meant to be so simple just because they couldn’t keep their purple-headed curiosity under wraps long enough to not to be caught—

Vil turned his sneer back your way, fully prepared to see you kowtowed before him with your nose buried in the sand. And—

You were just sitting there. Butt in the muck and just as wide-eyed and brainless as before. Staring back at him with a startled sort of expression on your face and nothing else. Normally there was a sort of tether between him and his victims. A call, an answer. Simple principles. And while he could never see the tangible net of his influence tightening around their brains, he could always sense it. Or at least something like it. But this time, there was just… nothing.

Vil snarled, swallowing around the spiky pinch of something in his gut that he refused to call panic, and canted his head back to sing louder.

The shallow dregs of the cove rippled at his hips with the force of it, and he could feel the swell of his influence curling out further and further. Digging its claws into anything and everything it could reach. He could feel one tether spooling out and grabbing after the other, feel the familiar pull of subservience from the very sea itself. And—

“I can’t hear you!”

Oh, you mocking piece of—

He widened his mouth until his jaw was creaking and his tongue was going numb from the sharp bursts of arcana snapping from throat.

“It’s not a challenge!” you wailed, hands cupped over your mouth to try and shout over his howling song. “My ears literally, actually, do not work, you fucking overgrown anchovy!”

His mouth fell closed all at once, the Call cutting off so abruptly that the returning wave of snapping magics almost made his head spin. The power of it hung along his nerves like the zipping prickle of electric eels, and the water at his hips churned and bubbled.

“There,” you huffed, like someone who’d just been horribly inconvenienced by a gust of wind ruining their hair, rather than a human bearing the full weight of a siren’s fury. Brushing off some of the most powerful magics in the ocean like it was nothing worse than a bit of sand in your trousers. It was… unnerving. And it had something uneasy curdling in Vil’s stomach.

He dug his claws into the sand, fins flaring along his sides in a defensive display before he could help himself. Your eyes tracked the way the muck gave way beneath his talons and he watched your throat bob. Good. You should be afraid of him. Because he refused to be afraid of a human like you. No matter how the hair at his nape prickled or the fins at his ears pinned against the sides of his head.

“Well…” you said after a long moment, awkward and stiff. “I should get going, I suppose.”

And then you were stumbling your way to your feet to venture deeper into the crags of the small island. Vil smacked his tail against the surf, loud and sharp. A plaintive ‘good, begone,’ if ever there was one. But you didn’t even flinch, let alone turn around to witness his grand ‘fuck you.’ He wasn’t sure why he was expecting you to.

He watched you crawl your way up a mess of boulders and old shells, eyes narrowed and that same, unpleasant prickle running through his nerves. Once you were well and truly out of sight, he returned to his fins and started doing all he could to assess the damage. The sooner he could deal with this setback and set out into the depths of the ocean, the sooner he could return to his pod. And the sooner he’d be away from you, and all your strange, human ways.

.

.

You returned maybe an hour later, only a few minutes after he’d given up on trying to pick the horrid mess of twine from the wounds along his tail. His claws weren’t made for such delicate work, and the poisoned tips of them weren’t doing his shredded fins any favors.

He turned on you with a snarl that would have sent any other sentient creature scurrying for cover, fins pinned and canines on full display. But apparently you had less self-preservation than even the brainless, teeny, rock crabs burrowing hurriedly into the sand.    

“Hello,” you said. Like that was any way appropriate.

“Get lost,” he snarled.

You nodded back, simple and sage, and then pointed to the mess of your ropes twined along his fins.

“I can get that off if you promise not to eat me.”

Vil sneered and surged forward to scrape his claws through the muck again, hoping his demonstration of what he would do to your face if you stepped near him was clear enough to get through your head.

“Touch me and you’ll be lucky if all I do is eat you.”

You blinked back, and he watched the way your eyes jumped across his expression. Trailed to his mouth, his brow, his teeth. Reading whatever you could see there. And then you shrugged again, unbothered by his spitting threats as before.

“Alright. Your loss, I suppose.”

There was a keenness to your gaze though, a sharp, pointed consideration that had his hackles rising all over again.

“If you think that you can be rid of me that easily, you’re solely mistaken,” he spat, smacking his fins into the shallows until the water was churning wild and angry. “This is all your fault, and whatever ridiculous plot you’re considering, I’ll gladly return it tenfold.”

Your face pinched like you had any right to be annoyed by this at all, and then promptly turned away from him like you’d lost all interest in his theatrics. You meandered around the shore, scooping up the battered remains of some of the fish that had stranded themselves during his failed Call. Then you sat yourself well away from the water’s edge and pulled a knife from your boot, running it along the fish’s scales and clearing out the muck.

“Thanks for the food!” you chirped petulantly, making long, pointed, eye contact as you did so. Like that little blade of yours was supposed to be any sort of a threat. Perhaps he could use it to pick the leftover bits of you out of his teeth.

Vil turned up his nose and returned to carefully grooming the shredded ends of his fins.

“You’re an obnoxious brat,” he growled, wincing as his claws caught over a frayed patch of scales and began to bleed all over again. “And I’m going to drown you.”

Naturally, you did not respond.

.

.

The rope burned, and he knew he wasn’t helping himself. The twine of it was frayed, poor quality. And combined with the tacky, salt-sticky damp of the waves, it made the worst sort of web. Vil threw himself around in the shallows like a pup stuck in their first net. And he knew—knew—this wasn’t going to make things better. But the more he worked to free himself and the less progress he made, the angrier he got (Not afraid, angry. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t).

A tight bit of fibers snagged along the delicate mesh of the fins at his hips and gave a shrieking riiip that had him collapsing into the sand bed with a bitten off noise that he refused to call a gasp. But Sevens, it did hurt. He pressed his face into the shallow pool of warm water beneath his chin and forced his breath to calm, to dig his claws into the grit beneath him rather than his own scales. Because this wasn’t working. And he—he needed to fix it. On his own. Because he was on his own. And he was going to manage, just like he always had.

There was a noise off on the shore—the tumbling of pebbles against stone as you shifted around in your little, makeshift hideaway. And he refused to look up to meet your gaze. Because surely you were staring. Humans were always so happy to watch his kind suffer, flailing about in their traps and bound in nets like a garish display. And he wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction of knowing he’d been seen like… like this.

So he forced himself to go still and silent, ignoring the pain biting into his sides like the teeth of a shark and the panicked, clawing thing in his gut that kept screaming that he was going to die here.

.

.

The next morning, you were wandering the shoreline, scrounging after the remains of various crabs from the day prior. Vil refused to look at you, and spent the time pointedly running his claws through the tangles in his hair and primping himself like he didn’t have a care in the world. Because if a stupid, lowly human fit for nothing but an after-dinner-snack could thrive in these circumstances, than surely he could do even better.

There was the soft, wet sounds of your footsteps behind him, and Vil turned on you with a roaring snarl—fins pinned and spines perked, defensive.

“What?” he snapped, beating his tail.

You awkwardly held up one your pickings—a round, red crab with fat claws.

“I don’t know if you all eat fish or whatever, but…”

Vil fought the urge to gawk. Were you offering him one of—but why would you—

He bit through his surprise with another sneer. “Firstly, crabs are crustaceans, not fish. You’d think any self-respecting creature that spent their days on the ocean would know something as obvious as that. Secondly, why would you even think that I would share a meal with you? Even I didn’t think humans could be that stupid, but you’re certainly setting a new bar.”

Your mouth twitched at his very sharply enunciated ‘stupid’ and he fought a smirk.

“Oh. Know that one, do you?” he cooed, all mocking.

“Look, do you want it or not?” you snapped, irritated, and his fins flared up again—wide and defensive.

Vil crossed his arms on an exaggerated, pointed huff and turned in the other direction. A clear dismissal. “I’d rather starve.”

“Whatever,” you griped, voice canted sharp with your foul temper, and then there was a crack and a yelp.

Vil turned back to see you reeling away, hand over your mouth to catch a mix of blubbering, wincing curses and a shattered crab shell clenched between your fingers in the most obvious show of stupidity he’d perhaps ever seen. He burst out into laughter before he could help himself, and you stormed away with warm cheeks and pieces of jagged, red shell still clinging to the corners of your lips.

.

.

That night he fought the ropes even harder, ignoring the way they pulled, and tore, and dug into places that he knew they should not. And maybe it was self-destructive, stupid, but if he didn’t get himself free of this horrible mess his fins would never heal. He’d never be able to swim properly again. And he’d never be able to leave this cove, never return to his pod, his family. Never—

A shell walloped him in the back of the head and Vil turned with a shriek so vicious it nearly startled even him. Because there you were—the bane of his existence. Standing at the edge of the water with that ridiculous, deadpan look on your ridiculous face and already scrounging about in the sands like you were looking for something else to throw at him. He didn’t even know what he was screaming at that point, absolutely brought over the edge in rage, and pain, and fear, and it was all. your. faul—

Then something in your expression snapped and you were storming forward towards the surf—absolutely incensed.

“Look, fish face! You were the one who attacked me! You!” you shrieked, stomping in the sand and nearly pinning the longer, trailing ends of his fins beneath your heels. “So stop acting like I’m some scheming shithead who was planning to trap you like this from the start!”

“You trapped me!” he howled, outraged. “You were going to kill a member of my pod! Who’s barely out of his pup days! And he was my responsibility, and you were going to attack him!”

Magic zipped along his tongue, demanding that you kneel. Show your throat and be done with it. But when you just kept glaring back—absolutely stone-faced and seething with indignation—Vil forced himself to take a breath, and then another.

“Epel,” he spat, low and exaggerated. He saw your eyes flicker to his lips, trace the outline of the word. “Epel,” he said again, sharp and angry. And when your own mouth began to subconsciously follow the shape of it, he was off and running again. “He’s my responsibility. Epel. He—” Vil pointed at the pale, lavender creases at the base of his fins. “His hair is like this. You saw him. You spoke to him. And you were going to tie him up just like you did to me.”

Your eyes narrowed, sharp.

“That kid,” you said after a moment, lips twisting in a frown. “You attacked me because of Purple Head?!”

“Epel,” Vil spat again, smacking his fins into the surf to douse you in a mess of seawater. “Not some kid. A pup. Barely of age. And you were going to—”

“You—” you hissed, scrubbing the salt from your eyes with the back of your hand. “He was still attacking us first! He was going after my friend!” you snapped, kicking your own wave back. It splattered along Vil’s hips, barely a sprinkling in comparison to his own tidal waves. “You don’t get to act all noble and protective, and like any of that makes any difference when you all were going to eat us!”

Vil snarled, and the twist of it left a bitter, rotten taste on his tongue. It wasn’t the same. It didn’t matter what you wanted, because you were just some human. Humans were vile, and cruel, and good for nothing but filling their bellies. And this was his family. So what if you claimed you were just standing up for your own brood? It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t.

So he turned back to dive into the shallows with as much force as his aching, crippled fins could manage. Sinking to the bottom of the cove in a huff of bubbles and clawing his way through the muck until he was well and truly hidden in the murky, sandy depths. He smacked his tail against the mess of pebbles and rocks until every creature beneath was scurrying for safety—fleeing outwith the flailing, destructive force of a Siren’s tantrum.

Was that why he was here, then? Bound and gagged on some hellhole of an island because of his own mistakes? Because you’d just been aligning yourself with the moral high ground he’d been riding this whole time? Saving your kin at the cost of your own, fragile skin. Dragged overboard to fight the monsters trying to devour your family whole. Ridiculous. He wasn’t going to let himself feel bad for the slighted prey in a hunt gone wrong. Sharks certainly didn’t regret the fish they chased, nor did the great black-and-white whales that pursued those sharks in turn. This was just the way of things, the circle of life. And he wasn’t going to feel guilty about the tight, protectivelook on your face as you shouted him down about defending your own pod at all.

.

.

You were curled up by the same rock the next morning, sleeping soundly against the rough hewn edge. It looked hideously uncomfortable, with your chin tucked up against your chest and your head pressed against half-a-dozen layered, jagged ridges. Vil had always heard that humans were used to luxury—soft, plush blankets made of foreign fabrics and great, stuffed squares of bedding that could put even the finest woven siren nests to shame. And there you were. Scrunched up with a shell clearly embedded in your cheek.

He frowned, fins rippling awkwardly at his sides where the majority were still knotted up in twine.

He needed to leave this cove. As soon as possible. And get away from… all of this.

It generally wasn’t considered the best of ideas to Call openly across the sea. Lone sirens were prime targets for all sorts of nasty scavengers. Human hunters, rival pods, even other rogues looking for a fight. It was dangerous to mark one’s position so openly, let alone in a manner that made it obvious of the less than stellar situation they had no doubt found themselves in. It was also a nasty toll to try and Call so far for so long, on himself and the environment around him. A screeching, horrible thing that he’d only heard a few times in all his years. It was a terrible idea for everyone involved, himself and his fellow castaway most of all. But, well, desperate times, and all that.

Besides, it wasn’t like you’d be able to hear it anyways.

So began his endless song.

He’d sing, and sing, and sing—feeling the ripples of it carrying across the surface of the water and shivering through the air. And then, after he’d worn his throat ragged, he’d pause. Just long enough to swallow around the sting and tilt his head to listen. His fins would flare out against the side of his head, and he’d wait. And then, when there was no answer to his Calling, he’d circle back and do it again. A part of him hoped there would be none. He’d taught his pod better than to do something so foolish—to put themselves at the mercy of all the monsters of the sea. And… if they didn’t answer, perhaps that just meant they were searching for him. Using his own, ridiculous harping to trace him down. And if not that, then at least that they were off somewhere safe. Somewhere far, and hidden.

He swam and sang until he was too exhausted for either. Bound fins a heavy, leaden weight at his hips and head barely cresting above the water.

When the sun set over the horizon, Vil let himself roll in alongside the surf to rest in the sand, boneless and sore. His eyes slipped shut with the encroaching darkness, too heavy to hold open at all. He hadn’t seen much of you today. Occasionally you’d wander down to the shoreline, head popping up over a cluster of rocks to shoot him a look that he couldn’t quite decipher, but for the most part you’d stayed hidden away. Out of his hair, at least. Perhaps you’d finally learned what was good for you, and that keeping as far away from the beast lurking in the shallows was the only way you’d be getting out of this alive.

And then his eyes were snapping open to a field of stars overhead and the moon hanging fat and low in the sky like a fruit ripe for the plucking.

And there you were, hovering over him with that laughably small knife of yours.

Carefully and gently working the rope away from his tattered fins.

Your fingers were delicate, precise. Every time those woven fibers tugged in a way that could even begin to hurt, you were softening your touch and muttering reassurances under your breath. He wondered if you realized you were doing that at all—chattering quiet, rambling nonsense like a nervous tick. ‘Ack, don’t twitch so much, it’s just going to cut deeper,’ and ‘sorry! Sorry! I didn’t think that would move like that! Just—just stay still and it will all be done way faster and then you can swim off, and—’ You were exceptionally careful over the areas of rough, beaten scales along the dip of his tail, wincing in sympathy at the raw, raw skin there. The blade never strayed anywhere it wasn’t needed, and you never touched any part of him that wasn’t in an effort to work another tangle of knots free.

Vil kept himself perfectly still and his breaths even and deep. He watched you through the low, golden dip of his lashes, eyes tracking your fluttering hands and quiet mumblings.

The last of the rope fell away with a wet, heavy plap in the sand and when you sighed there was a smile in your voice.

“There,” you muttered, soft. “Now he can swim home again.”

He froze, startled, and something dropped low and tight in his gut.  

Because humans were cruel. Humans were food. Humans were nothing more than vermin crawling over the surface of his ocean in their hunkering, wooden vessels and finless feet. They didn’t deserve sympathy, or anything of that ilk. And—

Your gaze met his and the spark of horrified realization didn’t even manage to settle properly in your wide, wide eyes before he had you pinned in the sand.

It was easy—far too easy. Compared to him you were so small, so fragile. No heavy, bulk of muscle and scales to help keep you alive and fighting. Just fragile limbs and lungs that were good for nothing. He dug his claws into your shoulders and felt the warm prick of blood curl up beneath his talons—could see you wince with the first pinch of acrid poison sharpening the wound. He was going to rip you apart, just like he’d said he would. Even if you hadn’t been able to hear him, he’d show you. Because humans were vile, and no matter what you’d claimed, you didn’t deserve anything better than an end beneath the points of his fangs. Fuel for the journey back to his pod and nothing more.

‘There. Now he can swim home again.’

He reeled back, nose scrunching and teeth grinding in his jaw.

You were still beneath him, blinking up in shock but not fighting. Like being flipped onto your back had been startling out of principle, but not unexpected. Like the idea of dying at his claws was just something you’d been expecting from the get-go.

And yet—

‘Sorry! Sorry!’ you’d been rattling. ‘Ah, if you squirm it’s just going to hurt, you stupid, overgrown fish—'

Vil reared back with a snarl that had goosebumps racing all along your arms, and then he was diving back into the shallows—swiping the tip of his fins against your nose as he went in a sharp crack that he hoped would have you yelping and stumbling away from the ocean’s edge.

He paced along the edges of the bay, newly freed fins slowly uncurling in the lull of the tide. And he felt free. Sore, certainly, and aching in ways he never had before, but free.

When he popped his head back out of the water, you were sprawled out in the sand like a dying starfish, absolutely out of your mind and babbling nonsense about ‘captains’ and ‘collars’ under your breath.

‘Good,’ he harumphed, diving back into the shallows to twirl along his unbound tail. ‘Maybe that would teach you to stay out of the water.’

.

.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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[dulcescorderitas]

𝓫𝓪𝓽𝓱 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 C.Kent

the air carried the acrid tang of scorched metal and burnt ozone, remnants of superman's battle against luthor's viral monstrosity. the man of steel stood at the edge of the rubble, broad shoulders heaving, drenched in sweat and blood—not his own, but the traces left from lives saved and horrors fought.

"come here," you murmured, voice soft but firm, guiding him toward the battered washroom. his cape dragged behind him, frayed and stained. he moved like a man carrying the weight of a dying world, yet your touch on his wrist stopped him in his tracks. his cerulean eyes locked with yours, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths—relief, guilt, exhaustion.

the warm light of the room bathed his chiseled features as you led him inside, gently peeling away the remnants of his tattered suit. the fabric clung stubbornly to his skin, revealing the taut musculature beneath. his chest rose and fell with each labored breath, the sharp lines of his abs shimmering under the soft glow.

the tub filled quickly, steam rising like a veil around the two of you. you gestured for him to step in, your hands reaching instinctively for the soap. he hesitated, his voice a gravelly whisper, "you don't have to—"

"i want to," you cut him off, dipping the cloth into the water. you pressed it to his shoulder, the grime of battle washing away beneath your touch. he shivered at the contact, his head bowing as if ashamed to accept your care.

your movements were slow, deliberate, tracing the lines of his muscles, the scars he'd accumulated despite his invulnerability. when the cloth skimmed over his chest, a low sound rumbled in his throat—a sound that made you pause, glancing up at him. his eyes were dark, the tension in his jaw visible.

"clark," you said softly, the name falling like a benediction. he swallowed hard, the column of his throat flexing under the weight of his restraint. "let me take care of you."

your hand drifted lower, the cloth forgotten as your fingers met the warm water and found the ridge of his abdomen. his body stiffened beneath your touch, but he didn't pull away. the tension melted under your persistence, the water lapping softly against his skin as your hand explored, tentative but firm.

he leaned back, exhaling a shuddering breath, the ripples in the water reflecting the conflict within him. when your hand dipped lower still, wrapping gently around his half-hard cock, his sharp intake of breath filled the small space.

"is this okay?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper, your hand tightening just slightly. his nod was barely perceptible, but the way his hips shifted toward you spoke volumes.

you leaned closer, lips brushing against the curve of his jaw before trailing down to his neck. his hands gripped the edge of the tub, knuckles white, as if he were holding himself back from crushing you in his overwhelming need.

when you kissed him, your lips met his with a desperation that mirrored his own. he groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest as his hands found your waist, pulling you closer. the kiss deepened, his tongue claiming yours, messy and fervent. water splashed over the edges of the tub as he pulled you onto his lap, his cock pressing hot and heavy against your thigh.

"let me," you breathed against his lips, your hand returning to stroke him, the glide made easier by the warm water. his head fell back, exposing the strong column of his neck, his adam's apple bobbing with each gasping breath.

"you're... god, you're too good," he murmured, his voice thick with desire and guilt. but when your lips found his again, all words dissolved into the heated exchange, his hips bucking into your hand as you stroked him, slow and purposeful.

each movement of your hand, each kiss you pressed to his skin, was a promise: you were here. for him. always.

[dirty-bear-rick-sanchez]

DUDE YOU JUST READ MY MIND IN THOSE TAGS!!

Haha thank you! Steven Universe was my main special interest for a while and it's really fun to analyse it and compare it to Rick and Morty!

I did have a whole ramble typed up here but I think I should make a separate post for that because there are so many thoughts going on and it's an unorganised mess currently 😅

But yeah Steven and Morty have a lot of similarities and it's really cool! I definitely want to compare them in more detail at some point!

Speaking of SU/R&M comparisons, Rick and Pearl do actually have a lot of similarities (despite being a crackship) - they both fought a long/traumatic war solely because they were in love with the person fighting it, they have someone they've lost who's hugely important to them, they're wildly out of their depth when it comes to the 14 year olds they're responsible for.

[novaursa]

The Conqueror's Legacy

- Summary: Dragon blood is meant to twist and coil on itself, and so Aegon wishes to bethrode his children to each other.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen

- Note: This story is part of The Broke Crown series. These events happen after Fire and Heart. The masterlist is pinned to the top of my blog.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana @sunset18rose

You watch as Aegon’s figure cuts through the misty morning on the high ridge where Balerion waits. The sun catches his silver hair, casting a glow around him that feels both warm and commanding. Your son, Aerion, grips your hand tightly, his young face a mixture of excitement and fear. This will be his first flight on Balerion, the Black Dread—a rite of passage for a Targaryen child.

Aegon turns his gaze towards you both, a rare softness in his eyes as he walks back toward Aerion, kneeling before him. “Are you ready, my son?” he asks, his voice both gentle and firm.

Aerion swallows hard, his little hand clutching your fingers tighter. “I am, Father.” His voice trembles, betraying his nerves.

You kneel beside him, brushing his silver hair back. “Remember, Aerion,” you whisper, “Balerion is mighty, but he knows us. There is nothing to fear with your father by your side.” You give Aegon a small nod, silently entrusting him with the task of guiding your son into the skies.

Aegon’s hand, large and steady, rests on Aerion’s shoulder. “Hold on tight, and trust in me,” he says to the boy, a faint smile on his lips as he rises, extending a hand to help him onto Balerion’s massive saddle.

You watch, heart thudding, as Aegon lifts Aerion onto the dragon’s back and secures him. Turning his gaze back to you, he reaches out a hand. “Come, Y/N,” he calls. “Let us show Aerion the skies as we know them.”

With a nod, you join them, swinging up onto Balerion’s back and sitting just behind Aerion. The dragon beneath you shifts slightly, his wings stretching as he senses the journey to come.

“Are you ready, Aerion?” Aegon asks once more, his hands steady on the reins.

Aerion nods, clutching the saddle as tightly as his small hands can manage. “Yes, Father.”

With a powerful thrust of Balerion’s wings, you feel the ground fall away beneath you. The air whips against your face as you ascend, the dragon’s mighty beats echoing in your ears. Aerion gasps, and his grip on the saddle tightens.

“It’s alright,” you murmur to him, leaning forward to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Look around, Aerion. All of Westeros lies beneath you.”

Aegon glances back, his expression calm, though you catch the hint of pride in his gaze. “You see, Aerion, this is what it means to be a Targaryen. To look upon the world not as others do, but from above.” He gestures to the vast landscape stretching beneath, the rivers winding like silver ribbons, the mountains rising like ancient giants, and the green valleys unfurling in every direction.

“Do you remember what I told you of dragons, Aerion?” Aegon asks, his voice carrying over the wind.

Aerion nods, his awe-struck gaze locked on the view. “That they are our blood, bound to us.”

“Yes,” Aegon replies. “They are our blood and our legacy. And one day, you will ride a dragon of your own.” His gaze shifts from Aerion to you, a glimmer of affection in his eyes.

You smile, feeling a surge of pride in your son. “And on that day, he will remember this moment, with his father and mother by his side.”

As Balerion soars higher, Aegon begins to point out landmarks, recounting tales of battles, triumphs, and legends, his voice full of pride for his heritage and love for his family. Aerion listens raptly, his fear long forgotten.

After a time, Balerion’s massive wings tilt, and he begins a slow descent back to Dragonstone. You lean closer to Aegon, letting your hand rest on his back, finding comfort in the heat of his presence.

“A fine young dragonlord he will be,” you say quietly to Aegon, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest. “With his father’s strength and courage.”

“And his mother’s wisdom,” Aegon replies, his tone soft, but you hear the deep respect in it.

As you touch down, Aerion dismounts with a newfound confidence, turning to you and Aegon with a bright, excited smile.

“I’ll remember this forever,” he promises, his voice filled with a young boy’s awe and reverence.

Aegon kneels to meet his son’s eyes. “Good,” he replies, his hand resting on Aerion’s shoulder. “For one day, you may need to call upon this strength.”

Watching them together, you feel a profound sense of belonging. In this moment, high above the world, there is only the legacy you have built together.

The children’s laughter drifted through the courtyard, a sound of innocence against the heavy stone walls of Dragonstone. Aelora and Vaella, the daughters of Aegon and yourself, played hand-in-hand with their older half-brothers, Maegor and Aenys. Their silver hair gleamed in the sunlight, a reminder of their Targaryen blood, as their games wove them closer together like threads in a tapestry.

Visenya, regal and vigilant, observed the children, her expression one of quiet contemplation. She saw Maegor take Vaella’s hand, guiding her gently through the intricate game of dragon scales—a game she had taught him. Meanwhile, Aenys tried his best to keep up with Aelora’s boundless energy, his warm laughter echoing with hers.

“Aegon,” Visenya murmured, her voice barely a whisper, but Aegon’s attention turned to her as though he’d been waiting. She glanced his way, her piercing gaze softened by a hint of curiosity. “Do you mean for them to be more than just kin?”

Aegon didn’t answer at once. Instead, he watched his children, seeing something in them that ran deeper than family ties. “I do,” he replied after a moment, his voice steady. “The blood of Old Valyria runs strong in them. A union between the four would keep our line unbroken, ensuring the strength of our House.”

Visenya raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on her lips. “You have thought well on this, brother.”

“Of course,” Aegon replied. “But I will speak with Y/N when she returns from her flight. The skies bring her peace; she feels freer with Tesaerix. And with the pregnancy…” He trailed off, his gaze thoughtful. “I would not place added weight upon her without her counsel.”

Visenya’s eyes softened as she followed his gaze back to the children. “She has always been close with all young ones,” she remarked, thinking of your gentle, protective presence with Aelora and Vaella. “They adore her. When she speaks of their future, I see the pride in her eyes. She would want a say in this, Aegon.”

Aegon nodded, his expression warming at the thought of you. “She has a sense for them, a way of knowing what is best,” he agreed. “I would have her wisdom in this. And besides,” he added, a touch of humor entering his voice, “I am certain she would be eager to decide who suits whom best.”

At that, Visenya laughed, a soft, restrained sound that felt rare and genuine. “No doubt. I imagine she has her own ideas on their futures.”

Aelora’s sudden cry of joy drew their attention back to the children. She and Aenys were locked in a playful contest, each trying to topple the other over a small pile of stones. Vaella, more reserved, clung to Maegor’s hand, watching her sister’s antics with wide, curious eyes. Maegor himself seemed slightly amused, his normally serious expression softened by Vaella’s quiet admiration.

“They’re well-matched,” Visenya observed, her gaze flicking between the pairs. ��Aelora has a fiery spirit, much like you. She would balance Aenys’ gentler nature.” She looked at Maegor, her pride for her son evident in her gaze. “And Vaella... she has a steadiness, a quiet strength. I believe she would understand Maegor’s nature better than most.”

Aegon nodded, deep in thought. “I see it, too. But I would hear her thoughts, her dreams for them.”

“She will approve,” Visenya murmured confidently. “She has always held our family’s future close to her heart.”

As they watched, Aelora and Aenys finished their game, both flushed with triumph and laughter. Aelora’s hair whipped around her face as she gave a victorious cheer, and Aenys gave her a mock bow, ever the polite young prince. Meanwhile, Vaella offered Maegor a small, shy smile, her hand still in his. Maegor, unsmiling but gentle, squeezed her hand in response, a quiet exchange that needed no words.

Aegon’s face softened. “There is promise in them, Visenya. A unity that could bring us all closer.”

“And yet, I think she would caution you to give them time,” Visenya added. “She would want them to come to this union willingly, even as we guide them.”

At that moment, the air stirred, carrying the distant sound of dragon wings. Tesaerix appeared on the horizon, her brilliant scales glinting in the sun, with you at her helm. Aegon’s gaze brightened as he watched you descend, your bond with your dragon evident in the graceful way you rode.

Visenya offered him a knowing smile. “Go to her, brother. Speak to her of your plans.”

Aegon nodded, a rare smile touching his lips. As Tesaerix landed, he walked toward you, watching as you dismounted with a practiced ease. He reached for your hand, steadying you with gentle strength. “You seem lighter,” he murmured, noting the glow of your cheeks.

“The skies ease me,” you replied, your hand lingering in his. “It is as if the weight of the world falls away up there.”

Aegon led you closer to the courtyard, guiding your gaze to the children as they played. “Y/N,” he began carefully, “I have been thinking of their futures.” He gestured toward Aelora and Vaella. “And those of their older brothers.”

You raised an eyebrow, a spark of curiosity in your eyes. “Tell me,” you encouraged, leaning into him.

Aegon explained his thoughts, his desire to bind the four children together, ensuring the strength of their line. As he spoke, you listened carefully, a soft smile curving your lips as you watched your daughters with their half-brothers.

“They care for each other already,” you murmured, seeing the gentle way Maegor looked after Vaella and the joy that sparked between Aelora and Aenys. “A bond would feel natural to them.”

Aegon nodded, his fingers grazing yours in a quiet show of unity. “Yet I would not do so without your voice in this. They are ours, as much your vision as mine.”

You looked at him, warmth in your gaze. “I see the wisdom in it, Aegon,” you replied softly. “But give them time to grow into this bond on their own. Let it become their choice as much as ours.”

He nodded, gratitude in his eyes. “Then it will be as you say.”

You shared a look, both of you understanding that this moment was but the beginning. And as you watched the children, your hand in his, the future felt secure, a vision built not just on legacy, but on love and understanding.

[aceofwhump]

Hacksaw Ridge

[frau-rainyfox]

I love this Paul and Keel moment.

[pursuitseternal]

“All Vim and Vigor, dearest…” a soft, nsfw Vampire Rogue Astarion update for “Bites in the Night:”

Astarion x F!Reader | E | 4K wound tending sex

Summary: the aftermath of a battle, and one companion is missing. Astarion. You race to find him, pulling him the the grip of death.. true death. Your tender, loving care can restore him. After all, you have to make sure all his vim and vigor is returned to him. Entirely.

CW: Blood, near death experience, healing, wound cleaning, flirtation, awkward Karlach interrupting growing intimacy, blow jobs and mutual hand jobs and fingering, just too be sure everything is… healed.

For @genesis-6666 💌

Read here if you prefer on AO3

Find him, save him…

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The dead lay around you. Goblins. An ambush. You bend over, hands on your knees, panting to catch your breath. Your wounds are minimal, and already Shadowheart has run to find the rest of your party, healing… or reviving… when needed. She looks up from over Gale’s body, his chest finally breathing again. But her eyes look worried. You scan the area, seeing everyone staggering between the trees. Almost all, you realize as your thumping heart stills. There is one of you missing. And your stomach twirls in knots as you realize just who.

You spin your head, looking. “Where is he?” you call to her. “Where’s Astarion?”

She shakes her head. “I thought he was with you, on the high ground,” she pants. “He was up there last I saw.” Her lithe hand points into the crags of rock and mountain that line the canyon.

It had been quick, sudden, and brutal. The ambush of Goblins swallowing you up. Last you remember, he had stared at you. Excitement, surprise, the thrill of bloodlust and eagerness in his eyes, as the goblin ranks kept coming and coming down from those ridges. One last fang-flashing smirk before he ran into the shadows, skirting up to their source. Your fearless, reckless, stupid rogue.

You hurry, scrambling up the trail, swerving past the thicker pools of goblin blood, leaping over their bodies. You see them scattered all over, dagger stab wounds and slashes.

Signs that he was here.

It’s carnage that you push past. Climbing higher until you reach a plateau, empty, the end of the trail, where you expect to see your vampire, your rogue, your… your love. But there is… nothing. Not a body. No enemies. No Astarion.

Panic fills you, heart rapping in your chest, breath growing short. But you force yourself forward. You make your eyes scan the ground for any clues. His blood. Or signs of his capture. You make your lungs fill, you shout his name…

Then, you hold your breath.

A faint groan comes from the distance, somewhere near the sheer rock face that pierces the sky, from the dense shrubs that line it. You race after it, feet almost skittering as you stumble in that direction. Your hands pushing into the brambles, catching sight of pale skin. Covered in blood.

You reach for his body. His skin is cold, waxy, and tight. You find one arm and pull. He groans as you tug, you grab his second arm, freeing him from the brambles, even as your lungs ease to see his face again.

But your hope fades to agony, his face is bruised and beaten, black and blue and shadowed more than his undead charisma. His breathing is quick and shallow, his eyes nearly swollen shut from whatever beating he took up here. You finally slide him free, his clothing is torn, almost every inch of the skin you see is darkened with bruises.

His voice shakes as he tries to catch a breath, eyes forcing themselves open to look at you. “You’re here,” he manages to rasp out. “I knew you would find me. You always find me.”

“Shhh,” you run your hand through his hair, his brow damp with sweat, his eyes losing focus as his head begins to loll. “It’s going to be alright.”

“At least I got to see you once more…” his voice grates against his throat, breath growing ragged.

You hand digs into your pocket, pulling out your last vial of healing potion. You pull the cork and press it instantly to his lips. The liquid flows into those pale lips, and you can only kneel and pray it’s enough. His breath begins to ease instead of rattle, his face beginning to heal, his pallor returning, the traces of blue-black death fading.

His mouth twitches trying to talk. But you shush him softly, “I’m here, Astarion, it’s alright.”

“F-far from,” he ekes out as his eyes flutter open slightly, the swelling abating just enough for you to see both crimson eyes again.

“I’ll get you back to the others,” you look around, sizing up his lean body, running a hand through his hair before you brace behind his shoulders to get him to sit upright. He groans, limp in your arm. He can be so strong and swift, but it’s only now you also notice how lithe he is. How lean. But still, he’s too great a weight for you to bear alone.

That’s when the running of heavier feet makes your lungs fill fully and your heart leap in hope. “You found him, good for you, soldier!” Karlach trods right up next to you, barely out of breath. “Shadowheart said you would hopefully have found him, I’m to help you back where we are making camp.” Her thick tiefling arms pick him up, none too gently, and you hiss in worry to see him pulled to his feet so quickly.

“I swear, if you throw me around like that, I would puke on you if I had anything left in me…” he snipes as Karlach takes him by one arm, shaking her fiery head at his sass with a smile and waiting for you to take the other.

You snigger. He must be on the mend if he is throwing those barbs out again. But he falls silent again, head hanging low. You shoulder his body as best you can, bracing one hand on his bare chest, wishing for once he had a living heart that beat so you knew he was alive. “Stay with me,” you grunt, shoving your mouth into his long, pointed ear. “I’ll kill you if you die, you know.”

“I know… my sweet,” he manages to rasp, a slight turn of his head to throw you a feeble smirk. Karlach is definitely bearing most of him, but she doesn’t complain, not as you finally make it down the ridges and back to the main road.

“Not too much further,” Karlach heaves more of him on her shoulder, “Gale should have the tents up by now so he can rest.”

You three round a bend, the flickering of a fire and the spattered sight of tents warms your heart. You made it. Even the rose and burgundy canvas of Astarion’s tent is set to perfection. You’ll have to remember to thank Gale later, once your rogue is through the worst of it.

Into the warm dark you go, setting Astarion out on his bedroll, propping him cautiously on a stack of pillows.

“Water, clothes, and another potion,” Karlach points to the supplies placed tidily within reach. “I’ll be back, just shout if you need anything.”

And then she steps away, taking her warmth and her glowing presence back through the flaps of his tent.

You look after her, another friend you’ll have to thank.

Something hard and cold grips around your hand from where it rests on the ground. He’s clutching you, making sure he’s not alone.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before you rest it on his own stomach. “Let me get you cleaned up,” you look into his face, his eyes still shut, face still and unmoving. “Is that alright?”

“More than alright,” he speaks quietly, “the sooner you get rid of this stinking goblin blood off me, the sooner I can just savor that delicious fragrance of yours…” he hisses in pain before the last word is completely off his tongue. Your hand ghosts over the still-sprawling bruisers that run along his side. He tries so hard to be the usually suave, charismatic charmer, but something still troubles him.

Your hand hovers between the cloth and the potion, unsure what to do first. Then you hear it, a wracking cough, one that shakes his frame, bringing blood to his lips.

His blood.

You quickly uncork the second bottle, fairly shoving it in his mouth. “What did they do to you?” You barely get the question out your mouth as he sighs from swallowing the healing mix down.

“Thrashed me an inch from life… or an inch from undeath I suppose…” He forces a blithe smile, his giggle is slick with his own blood, but at least you can hear his lungs filling. More fully than before. The potion working to heal whatever internal damage he must have had.

You eye the red around his lips, pausing for a second. It was a common sight, his bloodied lips, but… never his own blood.

You wonder, for a moment, how does he taste?

You know the salt of his sweat, the bitter tang of his cum, why not? Why not see what his blood tastes of, for once…

“Gods below,” he throws you a mischievous smirk. “You’re wanting to taste my blood now, aren’t you?” You feel your surprise lifting your face, and he only sucks his teeth, shaking his head in feigned disbelief. “Tch, I don’t need a spell to read your dirty thoughts, darling…”

Your eyes dart to his conceited, smirking mouth. You hold your breath… until you close your hand around the towel and soak it in the soapy water. “Don’t be ridiculous, Astarion…” you huff, starting to bring the cloth to his face.

His hand grips the back of your neck, clutching you against his mouth for a wet and bloodied kiss. It tastes… ancient, refined and heady. Rich in a way that coats your tongue, even as his own delves in to tangle with yours. You swallow, sucking on his lips for more. He laughs, lightly, hiding a groan, “If you’re planning on more rigorous pursuits, I’d say I need bathing and tending first, darling.”

You pull away, shocked at yourself, so aroused with him only moments ago near-death. Your cheeks flush, white hot as you begin to clean him. He closes his eyes, propped up as he is on pillows. Lounging, relishing your full attention.

You wash and rinse, wash and rinse. It’s hard not to stare at his beauty, at the hard edges of his cheeks and jaw, the little lines about his eyes that crinkle when he smirks or laughs. He locks those piercing eyes on you as you dip the rag back and wring it out. He stalks every movement you make, washing his body lower and lower, inspecting his bruises as they slowly fade with the healing magic.

You finish his chest, forcing your breath to steady as you wash that rising and falling belly of his.

“Are you sure I don’t need tending any lower…?” he purrs.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Perhaps you rest first before you insist on everything checked for being in good working order, hmm?”

He rolls his eyes back in his head, a sigh of total emphatic drama. “Doctor’s orders…” he grumbles, lounging back against the throws, but not before he gives a little thrust of his hips, a clench of his belly under your hand where it rests on him still.

“Sleep, you scoundrel,” you chide, reaching to dry off his now clean skin, savoring the fresh scent in the air from the soap. You feel his body, still tense under your touch, wound tight and stiff that isn’t the result of his charming flirtation or dirty, lustful thoughts. You look at him, staring at his face, worry furrowing your brows. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes flicker over you, bright with mischief, half-lidded with flirtation. “Vampires don’t require… sleep. Not much. Not as much as… well… other things…”

You look into that beautiful face. He’s gaunt. Pale, well more than usual. Rings line his eyes, cradling that crimson glare in shadow. His lips twitch, fighting the urge to bare those glistening and pointed fangs.

“Oh, gods, now?” you breathe, heart racing.

He waves a hand dismissively, a sharp edge to his voice. Hungry. Annoyed. “Well, if you don’t want your strong, well-fed vampire to heal completely, then by all means…”

“No,” you almost leap next to his face, those smirking eyes scan over you, dilating in his hunger, fixating on the rapid pulse you know must be just throbbing under your skin for him to salivate over. But his hand grips yours, raising it to his lips. Kissing your fingers so softly, your stomach drops and your throat tightens. Slowly, he turns your hand over in his, raising your tingling inner wrist to his nose. You feel his breath, cold and quick, as he inhales your scent. Probably already savoring the scent of your blood rushing just beneath your skin.

“So then, I may?” his voice almost fails to reach your ears, you hear it more from the little tickles his breath makes across your skin, the gentle flutters of his lips over the nerves of your wrist. Like lighting in the air, his breath ripples in pinpricks on your skin.

“Yes,” you sigh, lungs burning as you hold your breath until he bites thos razor-sharp fangs into your tender flesh. Gasping, you hold your wrist to his mouth, every drop of your blood that leaves you, you can almost feel, almost sense, how it makes him stronger again. Empowered again. Hungry again for more.

It just feels so good, even as he feasts on you, as you savor that strange sensation that follows every time he feeds, that union of your bodies, your blood sating his hunger, beginning to course in his veins. A small, strangled moan escapes your lips, your eyes fixated on the way his mouth sucks on your wrist. You’ve never seen it before, never been able to watch his consuming of you, as he drinks from your neck. The little ways his tongue laps at your skin, the small bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallows you down. A different sort of pleasure denied you when he drinks in the middle of the night. Your stomach churns, your thighs burning hot as you can’t look away.

A slight, definitely insufferable smile tugs at the corner of his lip as he sets your wrist back in your lap. “Liked what you saw?” he preens, so proud as he dabs a single finger at the bloodied corner of his mouth. “Or just thankful I’m still here to have my fill of you?”

“Both,” you reply before even a second thought crosses you mind. Your sight lowers to his mouth, you can almost feel those lips on yours, the way the twitch ever so slightly, the little tweaks that lift them to show those pointed fangs you love to have catch your flesh and nip at you when he kisses….

So close, you feel him closing that distance, his breath rushing into you, filling your lungs, your soul, ice cold and tangible.

“Hope you like rabbit, Gale’s got stew nearly done for…” Karlach sticks her flaming, sparking scarlet head into your tent then she strides all the way in. Those glowing eyes go wide. You’re so close, even as you turn your head, you can hear Astarion’s laugh tickle the creases of your ear.

You go flush, and not just because he insists on still giving your cheek a lingering kiss.

“Feeling better, is he?” Karlach laughs, a bit forced. A bit uncomfortable.

“Clearly,” you huff, sliding slightly from his side. But he only leans all the closer.

His eyes rake over you. You can feel it. You can almost see it in the way Karlach sifts from foot to foot. He chuckles, low and slow, “Yes, all vim and vigor, dearest. We were just about to discuss how I was going to make it up to her for all that attentive care and healing I required to pull me back from the brink of death…”

Your eyes flicker to Karlach, who would be blushing beet red now if she weren’t already so scarlet. “Ahem,” she clears her voice and stands quickly, “that’ll be my cue. I’ll leave you two to it..:”

“No it’s okay… the stew...” you begin but she’s already gone and yelling on the other side of the tent.

“Oi, Gale, keep it warm…” a long pause follows, a deep voice muted in the distance. Then Karlach guffaws with gusto. “Yeah, they’ll be fucking for hours most likely… she might not even be hungry once he stuffs her again…” the tiefling’s boisterous laugh fades as she trods away.

Your face goes hotter than an inferno, but that only makes his cold fingers sear all the more as he caresses your cheek. A single finger lifts your chin, turning your face towards that rakish, sultry smirk. “I thought she’d never leave. Now,” he hovers his mouth right over yours, “where were we?”

“We…” you clear your throat, “we were just making sure you were healed…”

“Mmmm, I’m pretty sure you’ve inspected me thoroughly everywhere but one place, darling,” he rasps, catching your lips in a commanding, languorous kiss.

“You almost died, Astarion,” you hiss between his teeth, fighting the way your folds are burning up, the way his other hand begins to slink over the buckskin of your breeches. “Should you really risk so much exertion?” Your body is tensing, your mind remembering the way he rattled as he struggled for air on the mountain, the way his flesh was blackened and sickly. Dead, almost truely dead.

His chuckle, that low-throated giggle, pulls you out of those macabre imaginings. “Well, I'd be more than happy to simply lay back and let you do all the hard work, if that’s what your concern is…”

You give him a mocking smile, “Oh yes, I’m very certain you are only doing this for my sake, love. Making sure I feel good after pulling you back from near death to life… well to undeath…” You give a sheepish grin, relieved that your humor only adds to the mischievous glint in his crimson eyes.

“You know me, the image of selflessness. I’m doing you a favor. If you left now…” his smirk widened, deliciously, wickedly, “…you’d be thinking about it all night.” His hand weaves into the little hairs at the nape of your neck, twirling them in the way he knows drives you crazy.

“Well, I suppose I can be persuaded… just to make sure you’re all vim and vigor.” You laugh as his hand is already loosening the laces of his breeches. “But,” you place one of yours to stay him a moment. Gods, you can already feel his cock, hard and pushing his way out for pleasure. You swallow, making yourself look in his eyes. At how they swirl with his lust, glassy with his need. “But you tell me the moment it’s too much, you promise?”

“If you wanted me to just be more vocal during our couplings, you had only to ask, darling…” he purrs, forcing his fingers loose under your palm to continue unlacing.

You grab them in yours. “I mean it,” you insist, hard in tone, commanding in just three words.

“I promise, I’ll say when, my dear,” he laughs, finally freeing himself from the confines of his breeches. You look down at him, his devious pleasure of just watching you crawling between his thighs.

You give his cock a good, long lick from base to tip, his groan of approval sending shivers between your own thighs. But you force a dispassionate hum as you wrap your lips around his twitching head. “Seems in good working order,” you whisper.

“I think it needs a little more.. attentive care, darling…” he groans, very loudly as you wrap your mouth all the way around him, taking him in deeply over your tongue. You roll your eyes, unsurprised at how he gives a moan with each suck you make, each lap of your tongue running up his length.

More vocal indeed.

You bob up and down, your lover relaxing back against his pillows, fingers toying languorously through your hair. Your own hand pumps over the rest of him that just can’t fit inside your lips. He feels so good, so hard and strong and full of life. And he seems to be getting louder… his moans increasing. “So good for me, darling…” he starts to praise. “Always so attentive and eager… and…”

You pop off him, meeting that insufferable smirk and quirked brows. “You want them to know, don’t you?”

“Me? Wanting to draw some attention to our lustful pursuits?” He casts that look at you that makes every nerve in your body flame with unbridled desire for him. “I just want them to make sure you care of me is certainly thorough,” he grins, “I’m just so… thankful… it’s hard to keep it in. After all you do… so much for me, darling…”

“Be a dear and shut up,” you purr, giving one more swirl around that ridge of his tip.

“Make me,” he growls, flashing that roguish smirk down at you, licking his lips.

You pounce, flooded with relief that he is alive... that he’s filled with all that vim and vigor and irascible, irritating sass. You’re brimming with the need to feel him, for all his taunting and flirtation, all his lust and passion, you’re just… happy he is here. To kiss, to fuck, to banter with. And you do make him shut up, your lips on his, your teeth sinking playfully into his lower lip, sucking it with a tug. You keep one hand on his cock, riding it, pumping it, keeping time with the way his tongue darts in and out of your mouth. Something cold slips under your shirt, his fingers skating into the band of your breeches.

You keep your mouth fixed on his, making certain he’s far too busy for any noises you can’t muffle. But as his fingers slip between your thighs, an unbidden cry rips from your throat.

“Who’s the loud mouth now?” He chides, sucking his teeth at you, even with your lips coupled as they are. He laughs again, his fingers catching on your clit just right as he rides up and down your seam. “Don’t cease your own task at hand on my account,” he sniggers, his cold fingers lacing around his shaft, interweaving with yours.

His breath sucks in yours. His fingers playing in you, teasing so much wetness from your folds, you wish you had just taken your pants off when you had the chance. Now it was too late. Now, you’d be sticky from your own arousal, probably covered in his cum too as you leave his tent.

The thought makes your cheeks burn but not in shame. In a searing wave of desire. Your hand works up and down, catching that thick, blunt tip with your thumb in the way that makes him groan. His kisses deepen, hungry and feral, the same he’s stoked in you with the little ways his fangs catch on the inside of your lips. He’s losing that refined control he keeps. Pushed past the calculating movements as you stroke him in your fist and lick his tongue with your own.

“Gods,” he growls, his cock so hard, his fingers inside you working at a fevered pace. “You’ll come for me too, darling. My recompense for your care.”

“Yes,” you moan, his fingers diving deep into your cunt, crooking on that sweet spot he knows well.

You clench, shaking as he pummels inside you, your own hand struggling to work on his cock with how hard he is. How thick he is. But the instant you drench his fingers and fill his palm as you climax, he follows you into that messy, groaning bliss. Hot cum drips down your arm, spattered on your sleeve, on the belly of your shirt.

He’s gasping into your mouth, his lips pulled back wide in a genuine smile. His forehead presses against yours as he catches his breath, stealing your own from your lips. “Well,” he pants, “am I fully recovered?”

“All vim… and vigor…” you heave, moaning as he slips his fingers from your thighs.

“Hmm,” he hums against your lips, trapping them in his own with a slight nip. “Are you sure you’re satisfied with my performance?”

You laugh, giving a little shove against his chest. “For now,” you tease, “but it seems another round of cleaning is in order.” Your hand reaches for the rag, wiping his juices from your hand, your arm. Only to hear him sucking on his own fingers.

His brow arched wryly as you turn to watch. Those two long fingers that still drip with your cum are shoved far back in his mouth, his tongue swirling over every inch. “What?” he smirks, “why waste something so delicious…”

You shake your head, lovingly irritated at his cheekiness, but already your body is already aching for more. “Perhaps,” you clear your throat, heart pounding as you watch him sliding those already drenched fingers over his tongue. “Perhaps you do need a little more inspection, just to be sure…”

“Thought so,” he sniffs, that insufferable smirk widening to show his teeth. “Best be sure… just in case…”

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Read more “Bites in the Night:”

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Read Ascended Astarion in “The Rogue You Were:”

🩸Part 1 🩸 Part 2 🩸Part 3 🩸 Part 4🩸

Read my Drabbles

“Just a Drop…” Astarion as Tav turns

“Beg me…” A highly NSFW Ascended Astarion x reader

“Your Reward:” Ascended Astarion Dark!Fic

[dee-writes-anime]

Chapter 7: The King’s Consort

FEATURING Ryomen Sukuna x Witch!Reader

SUMMARY On the battlefield, you unleash your full power, a force of precision and ruthlessness that silences any remaining doubts among Sukuna’s court. Back at the estate, the celebration is a stark contrast to the chaos of war, but it’s not the feasting that defines the night. When Sukuna leads you to his chambers, the tension that has simmered between you finally erupts. What begins as a battle of wills becomes a surrender—not to him, but to the undeniable connection that binds you both. Together, you are unstoppable.

CONTENT WARNINGS Highly detailed and graphic descriptions of battlefield carnage, including bloodshed, dismemberment, and death, depictions of brutal killings by cursed spirits and warriors, involving visceral imagery of crushed bodies, entrails, and shattered bones, SMUT aka explicit sexual content with graphic descriptions of intimacy and anatomy, including Sukuna’s unique physical traits (e.g., four arms, multiple eyes, two penises, and a stomach mouth), scenes include BDSM-adjacent themes of control, defiance, and surrender, depictions of overstimulation, dominance, and consensual power exchange, emotional manipulation and psychological tension woven into Sukuna and the reader’s dynamic, the juxtaposition of violence and pleasure, highlighting the darker aspects of their relationship, themes of possession, claiming, and ruthless ambition as part of the romantic and narrative arcs.

PLAYLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

The ridge beneath our feet was jagged and uneven, slick with the residue of countless battles fought long before this day. The dark stone glistened, as though it drank in the blood spilled over centuries, staining its crevices with memories of endless violence. Below us, chaos unfolded in a nightmare tableau. The battlefield stretched far and wide, a living, heaving mass of carnage and destruction, each moment more brutal than the last. 

The air was suffocating. It carried the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood, thick enough to coat the tongue, mingled with the acrid stench of charred flesh and cursed energy. A fetid wind blew in short, sporadic bursts, spreading the rancid smell of death across the ridge and forcing the acrid taste deeper into the throat. Every breath felt like inhaling smoke from a pyre, heavy and cloying, a visceral reminder of the carnage below. 

Above, the sky churned like a cauldron on the brink of boiling over. Black clouds swirled ominously, shot through with jagged streaks of crimson lightning. Each crack illuminated the battlefield in sharp, stuttering flashes, revealing brief, harrowing glimpses of the destruction below. The heavens themselves seemed to rage, an uncontrollable storm mirroring the chaos on the ground. 

Sukuna stood beside me, silent but commanding, his presence a force more tangible than the ridge beneath my feet. His crimson robes, embroidered with jagged gold sigils, rippled faintly in the howling wind, as though even the air itself was hesitant to touch him. His cursed energy radiated outward in steady pulses, pressing against my skin with an almost suffocating intensity. He surveyed the carnage below like a monarch inspecting his domain, his four eyes gleaming with a dangerous mix of amusement and bloodlust. 

“Look,” he murmured, his voice low and resonant, cutting through the cacophony like a blade. “This is what defiance earns them.” 

I followed his gaze, my eyes drawn to the chaos below, where Sukuna’s forces clashed with Kaito’s rebels in a maelstrom of violence. The battlefield was a living nightmare. Sukuna’s cursed spirits, monstrous and grotesque, tore through the rebel lines with merciless efficiency, their inhuman forms drenched in blood and viscera. 

A hulking spirit, its body covered in overlapping plates of bone that gleamed like ivory, let out a deafening roar as it slammed a clawed hand into the chest of a rebel soldier. The impact was brutal, a sickening crunch echoing through the air as ribs snapped like dry twigs. Blood sprayed in an arc, splattering the ground in vivid crimson. The soldier’s body convulsed once before going limp, his lifeless form discarded like refuse as the spirit turned its attention to its next victim. 

Further down the line, a serpentine spirit coiled around a screaming rebel, its glistening black scales reflecting the flickering light of cursed energy that crackled across the battlefield. The man thrashed desperately, his screams choked as the spirit’s crushing coils tightened, bones snapping audibly under the relentless pressure. The spirit’s fanged maw darted forward, tearing into his throat with savage precision. Blood erupted in a torrent, pooling beneath the writhing mass as the man’s struggles ceased. 

The ground itself was a hellscape. Torn earth mixed with spilled blood and entrails, forming a grotesque mire that squelched underfoot as the living struggled to maintain their footing amidst the carnage. Severed limbs jutted from the muck like grotesque markers of the fallen, their pale flesh stark against the dark, churning ground. 

The sounds were relentless: screams of the dying, guttural roars of cursed spirits, the sharp clang of metal striking metal, and the wet, nauseating squelch of flesh torn asunder. A rebel soldier, barely more than a boy, stumbled through the chaos, his face a mask of terror. He clutched at the stump of his arm, crimson spurting from the jagged wound as he tried to flee. A spirit descended upon him, its taloned foot crushing his chest with a sound like splintering wood. His scream ended abruptly as the spirit’s claws plunged into his abdomen, disemboweling him with one savage motion. 

Sukuna’s forces were merciless, their loyalty to him etched into every savage blow they delivered. A cursed warrior in blackened armor swung a massive mace, its spiked head dripping with gore. With a feral roar, he brought it down on a rebel’s head, shattering the skull like a ripe melon. Brain matter and blood sprayed outward, painting the nearby fighters in a gruesome mist. The rebel’s body collapsed in a heap, twitching feebly before going still. 

The rebels, though desperate, fought with an intensity born of hatred and fear. Kaito’s soldiers hurled themselves at Sukuna’s forces, wielding cursed weapons that shimmered with volatile energy. One such soldier—a woman with wild eyes and a blade that glowed faintly red—managed to pierce the hide of a cursed spirit, her weapon sinking into its side with a wet, crunching sound. The spirit shrieked, its many eyes bulging as it convulsed violently, but its agony was short-lived. A second spirit, its form hunched and sinewy, leapt onto the woman, its needle-like teeth tearing into her throat. Blood spurted in rhythmic bursts as the spirit shook her like a ragdoll, her body flopping lifelessly before being flung aside. 

“Do you hear it?” Sukuna asked, his tone laced with dark satisfaction. “The sound of their desperation.” 

The cacophony below seemed to grow louder, as if answering his words. A rebel captain bellowed orders, his voice raw and strained, but his commands were drowned out by the chaos around him. A cursed spirit lunged at him, its grotesque body covered in oozing boils that burst as it moved, spraying viscous black fluid. The captain raised his weapon, but the spirit’s claws tore through him before he could strike. His body crumpled to the ground, his eyes wide and unseeing, as the spirit howled its triumph. 

The ground trembled beneath our feet, the force of the battle below sending faint vibrations through the ridge. Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the carnage in brief, horrifying clarity. In the flash, I saw a rebel impaled on the jagged horns of a cursed spirit, his body writhing as the spirit lifted him high before tossing him aside like a broken toy. 

I turned my gaze back to Sukuna, his crimson eyes alight with cruel satisfaction as he surveyed the slaughter. His presence was unshakable, a towering force that loomed over the battlefield like a god presiding over his domain. The pulse of the choker at my throat quickened, its energy threading through me like a steady drumbeat, grounding me amidst the chaos. 

“This is their choice,” Sukuna said, his voice low and deliberate. “To stand against me. Let them see what their defiance has earned.” 

Below, the tide of battle raged on, but there was no question of its outcome. This was not a fight. It was a massacre. 

The ridge beneath us trembled with the force of the battle below, the vibrations echoing in the soles of my boots. The acrid air, thick with blood and despair, clung to my skin like an unwelcome shroud. Beside me, Sukuna stood as an immovable force, his four crimson eyes surveying the battlefield with unshakable certainty. The faint glimmer of amusement that curled at his lips was overshadowed by something far more potent—bloodlust, raw and unrestrained, woven with the faintest flicker of pride. 

“You’ve seen what defiance earns them,” he murmured, his voice low, carrying the weight of a command. He turned to me, the sharp angles of his face illuminated by the violent crimson flashes of lightning that cracked across the sky. “Now show them why you stand at my side.” 

My breath caught, not from fear, but from the raw intensity in his gaze. His words weren’t a request—they were a demand. A decree. One that carried the weight of his trust and expectation. 

I nodded, the pulse of the choker at my throat quickening, its energy resonating with my own. The crimson gemstone glowed faintly, casting restless shadows that flickered across the polished plates of my armor. The armor itself was a masterpiece, each piece etched with jagged patterns that mirrored Sukuna’s sigil, glinting gold against the deep crimson base. The chest plate hugged my form, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen, while the pauldrons arched upward like jagged flames. A layered skirt of flexible metal plates hung at my hips, allowing for movement without sacrificing protection. 

The armor wasn’t just functional—it was a declaration. A reflection of the power I wielded and the place I had claimed at Sukuna’s side. 

My cursed energy thrummed beneath the surface, coiling tightly like a serpent poised to strike. It hummed in tandem with the choker’s pulse, sharp and electric, begging to be unleashed. As I stepped forward, the weight of the moment settled over me, heavy and unrelenting, but I didn’t falter. 

The path down to the battlefield was steep, the jagged stones slick with blood and viscera. My boots crunched against the uneven terrain, the sound barely audible over the cacophony of battle cries and the wet, sickening thuds of bodies colliding and breaking. The screams of the dying mingled with the guttural roars of Sukuna’s cursed spirits, creating a symphony of chaos that stirred the fire burning within me. 

Sukuna’s gaze lingered on me as I descended, his presence a steady weight at my back. He didn’t need to speak to make his thoughts clear—I wasn’t just stepping onto the battlefield as a combatant. I was stepping into my role as his equal, his partner, his chosen. 

The battlefield was chaos incarnate, a living tempest of blood and curses, steel and screams. It writhed with unrelenting motion, the clash of armies staining the torn earth in crimson and shadow. Yet, amidst the carnage, there was a clarity to my purpose—a sharp, crystalline focus that sharpened every movement and guided every strike. 

I moved like a phantom through the chaos, my armor whispering against my skin as I stepped into the fray. My cursed energy flared to life, its tendrils slicing through the dense fog of curses and bloodshed with deliberate precision. Each lash of power struck true, severing limbs and shattering weapons, reducing even the most defiant rebels to twisted heaps of flesh and armor. 

“Show them,” Sukuna’s voice echoed in my mind, a steady drumbeat that fueled the fire in my chest. 

A rebel soldier lunged at me, his blade arcing through the air with a desperate ferocity. I sidestepped his strike with fluid ease, my energy coiling around his wrist like a living serpent. His scream tore through the chaos as the tendrils tightened, snapping bone and tearing flesh before the final strike pierced his chest, silencing him. Blood splattered across my armor, painting the gleaming sigil etched into my chest plate. 

I didn’t pause to watch him fall. My cursed energy surged outward in a jagged arc, finding two more targets—one a hulking brute wielding a spiked club, the other a smaller figure with a jagged staff. The tendrils struck them in unison, the brute’s club shattering as his chest exploded in a spray of viscera, while the staff-wielder’s throat was slit so cleanly that his head lolled grotesquely before his body crumpled to the ground. 

The movements of the enemy were erratic, driven by fear and the sheer force of Sukuna’s cursed army. I read their disarray like an open book, calculating the flow of the battle as though it were a puzzle meant to be solved. With every step, I maneuvered the chaos to my advantage—luring soldiers into traps, dividing their ranks, and picking them apart with ruthless precision. 

Above the cacophony, Sukuna’s power roared like a thunderstorm made flesh. His cursed energy surged in waves, crashing through the rebel forces with an unrelenting ferocity that was almost beautiful in its destruction. He stood at the heart of the carnage, his four arms a blur of motion as they wielded jagged claws and brutal strength to cleave through enemies. His strikes were raw, visceral—bodies split apart as though they were nothing more than parchment under the edge of a blade. 

Where my attacks were calculated and deliberate, Sukuna’s were devastating and overwhelming, his cursed energy swallowing entire swathes of the battlefield in shadow and flame. The ground cracked beneath his onslaught, the earth itself groaning under the weight of his power. Screams filled the air as his cursed energy coiled like a living storm, devouring rebels and their curses alike. 

Yet, despite the contrast in our methods, there was a strange synchronicity in the way we fought. His ferocity created openings, scattering the enemy’s formations and leaving them vulnerable to my precision strikes. My calculated maneuvers drew enemies toward his path, herding them like cattle into the jaws of a lion. Together, we were unstoppable—a force that moved as one, the battlefield bending to our will. 

A rebel officer barked orders from atop a jagged hill, his voice rising above the chaos as he rallied his troops. His silver armor gleamed in the flickering light, the crimson accents on his chest plate marking him as a high-ranking leader. His presence steadied the rebels around him, their desperation giving way to a grim determination as they turned to face us with renewed vigor. 

My gaze locked onto him, my cursed energy flaring in response to the challenge. With a single motion, I raised my hand, summoning a wave of energy that surged forward like a tide. The officer’s eyes widened as the tendrils lashed out, striking the ground around him with a deafening crack that sent shards of rock and earth flying into the air. His shield shattered under the force of the impact, the jagged metal slicing into the soldiers flanking him. 

He stumbled, his composure faltering for a split second—just long enough for me to close the distance. My cursed energy swirled around me, a crimson vortex that cut through the air as I leapt onto the hill. He raised his blade in a desperate attempt to counter, but my strike was faster. The energy coiled around his arm, twisting and breaking it with a sickening crunch. His scream was cut short as a second tendril pierced his chest, lifting him off the ground before hurling him into the midst of his retreating troops. 

The rebels hesitated, their leader’s defeat sending a ripple of doubt through their ranks. It was all the opening Sukuna needed. 

His laughter rolled across the battlefield, low and menacing, as his cursed energy surged like an unrelenting tide. He moved with terrifying speed, his massive frame blurring as he tore through the enemy ranks with brutal efficiency. A swipe of his claws reduced a line of soldiers to little more than torn flesh and broken bone, while his cursed energy surged outward in tendrils of shadow that consumed everything in their path. 

The battlefield was no longer a clash of armies—it was a massacre, a symphony of death and destruction orchestrated by Sukuna’s will. And at the heart of it all, I stood as his equal, our powers weaving together in a dance of precision and devastation that left no room for defiance. 

We fought as one—a storm of blood and fire that swept across the battlefield, leaving nothing but carnage in our wake. 

The tide of the battle shifted when Kaito’s focus snapped to me. His golden eye burned with malice, the jagged staff in his gnarled hand radiating a raw, untamed energy that seemed to pierce the chaos. He stood atop a rise of shattered earth, his dark robes billowing around him like a predator poised to strike. 

"You," he snarled, his voice carrying over the battlefield like a blade cutting through the din. "You are nothing but a distraction, a mockery of power." 

The weight of his gaze settled heavily on me, but I did not falter. Around us, the cacophony of battle dulled to a distant roar, the air thickening with the static charge of his cursed energy. The ground beneath my feet cracked as his power coiled outward, a wave of black and crimson that surged toward me with the force of a hurricane. 

Sukuna stood a distance away, the carnage around him momentarily stilled. His crimson eyes locked on me, two half-lidded with apparent disinterest, while the other two gleamed with sharp intensity. He made no move to intervene, his towering presence passive yet commanding. His silence spoke volumes: this was my fight. 

Kaito’s attack tore through the air, jagged tendrils of energy lashing like the claws of a starving beast. They writhed and twisted, their movements erratic but deliberate, each arc aimed to ensnare and destroy. The ground they touched shattered, molten shards spraying outward as the cursed energy carved a path of devastation. 

I stood my ground, my cursed energy surging to the surface as I raised both hands, summoning the full weight of my magic. The choker at my throat pulsed wildly, its rhythm matching the sharp thrum of my heartbeat as the power coiled and twisted around me. 

The tendrils struck first, crashing against my barrier with the force of a tidal wave. Light flared between us, the collision sending a shockwave through the battlefield that knocked nearby soldiers off their feet. The air burned, the acrid scent of scorched energy mingling with the metallic tang of blood. 

Kaito’s sneer deepened, his energy surging harder, testing the limits of my defenses. “You think you can withstand me, witch?” he roared, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’re nothing but a pawn playing at power!” 

I didn’t answer. Instead, I reached deeper, drawing on the energy coiled within me and weaving it into the threads of his attack. My magic threaded through his power, seizing control of the chaotic tendrils and twisting them into a deliberate shape—a blade honed from his own energy. 

The shift was immediate. Kaito’s sneer faltered, confusion flickering across his scarred face as his attack turned against him. The jagged tendrils, once wild and destructive, now coiled back toward their origin, striking at him with a precision that mirrored my intent. 

The first tendril slashed across his shoulder, tearing through his robes and biting deep into flesh. Blood sprayed into the air, the dark crimson stark against the pale glow of the cursed energy. Kaito stumbled, his staff trembling in his grip as he struggled to regain control. 

“You underestimated me,” I said, my voice calm but edged with steel. “And now you’ll pay for it.” 

Another tendril struck, this time slicing across his chest, leaving a jagged, smoking wound that glowed faintly with the remnants of my magic. He let out a guttural snarl, his golden eye blazing with fury and pain. 

From the sidelines, the lords and courtiers who had been watching in tense silence erupted into murmurs. Their voices carried a mixture of awe and terror, their expressions a blend of disbelief and grudging respect. 

“Did you see that?” one whispered. 

“She turned his own power against him,” another murmured, their voice trembling. 

“She’s not just surviving,” someone else said, their tone tinged with fear. “She’s dominating.” 

Kaito staggered, his energy faltering as he glared at me with unrestrained hatred. The jagged staff in his hand cracked under the weight of his frustration, its crystal tip dimming as his power wavered. 

“You dare to—” he began, but his words were cut short as I took a deliberate step forward, my energy flaring brighter. 

“You dared first,” I said sharply, my voice carrying the weight of command. “And you failed.” 

The battlefield stilled as Kaito's power faltered, his jagged energy retracting like a wounded beast slinking back to its den. His golden eye burned with defiance, but there was fear now too, a flicker that he couldn’t suppress. Blood oozed from the wounds I had carved into him—thick, dark rivulets that dripped onto the broken earth beneath us. The acrid scent of scorched flesh and cursed energy mingled with the metallic tang of his lifeblood, hanging heavy in the air like a storm cloud refusing to disperse. 

“Stand down, Kaito,” someone muttered from the sidelines, their voice trembling. But there was no escape for him. Not now. Not ever. 

I stepped forward, my heels clicking softly against the shattered stone as my energy coiled tighter, sharp and deliberate. My crimson and gold armor gleamed in the flickering light of the cursed flames scattered across the battlefield, the jagged sigils etched into the plates reflecting the eerie glow. I tilted my head slightly, the faintest smile curving my lips as I regarded him. 

“Is that it?” I asked, my voice carrying a mocking sweetness that cut through the stillness. “I expected more from the great Kaito of the Obsidian Claw.” 

Kaito’s chest heaved as he struggled to stay upright, his staff trembling in his bloodied hands. “You… will regret this,” he growled, though his voice cracked under the weight of his own weakness. 

I laughed, the sound low and sharp, ringing across the battlefield like the tolling of a bell. It wasn’t the laugh of someone merely amused—it was the laugh of someone reveling in the exquisite thrill of destruction, of domination. “Regret?” I echoed, my eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “Oh no, Kaito. I don’t regret anything. Least of all this.” 

With a flick of my wrist, my energy surged outward, twisting into jagged tendrils that circled him like predators closing in on prey. The sharp crackle of my power filled the air, a symphony of violence that sent shivers racing through the watching court. The tendrils danced around him, slicing through the air with deliberate slowness, their edges gleaming with the promise of pain. 

“You’ve caused enough trouble,” I said, my voice dropping to a soft purr as I stepped closer. “Now it’s time you learned what happens when you challenge someone like me.” 

Kaito’s curses grew louder, his defiance rekindling in the face of his inevitable defeat. “You’re nothing but a pawn!” he spat, his words laced with venom. “A puppet on Sukuna’s strings, pretending to—” 

“Pretending?” I cut him off, my voice sharp as a blade. “Oh, Kaito. You’ve mistaken me for someone who cares what you think.” 

With a snap of my fingers, the tendrils struck. The first lashed across his legs, slicing through muscle and sinew with brutal precision. He screamed, the sound ripping through the battlefield as he collapsed to his knees, his staff clattering to the ground beside him. Blood poured from the fresh wounds, pooling beneath him in a dark, glistening puddle. 

The second tendril wrapped around his arm, tightening with merciless force. The bones beneath his scarred flesh cracked audibly, the sound sending a shiver of satisfaction racing through me. He howled, his golden eye wide with agony, but I didn’t falter. I leaned into the moment, savoring every flicker of pain that crossed his grotesque features. 

“You talk too much,” I said, my smile widening as I twisted the tendril tighter. The jagged edges bit into his flesh, carving deep grooves that bled freely, staining the dark stone beneath him. 

Kaito’s struggles grew weaker, his curses dissolving into ragged gasps. His golden eye darted wildly, searching for an escape that didn’t exist. “Sukuna… he’ll—” 

“Sukuna?” I interrupted, laughing again, the sound brighter now, more unhinged. “Sukuna doesn’t need to lift a finger. I’m handling you just fine on my own.” 

I crouched before him, the hem of my crimson gown brushing the bloodstained earth as I tilted his chin upward with the sharp edge of a tendril. His face was pale, his body trembling, but I saw the flicker of hatred in his gaze—a hatred I would snuff out before the end. 

“Look at me, Kaito,” I commanded, my voice soft but edged with steel. “I want you to remember this moment. Remember who ended you.” 

With a final surge of my power, the tendrils coiled tighter, their jagged edges sinking deeper into his flesh. His screams rose again, raw and broken, echoing across the battlefield like the final notes of a symphony. I laughed once more, the sound reverberating through the air as I relished the sight of him unraveling before me. 

And then, with deliberate slowness, I raised my hand, summoning a single, searing tendril of energy. It hovered above him, its edges glowing with a molten intensity that promised nothing but agony. 

“This is for your arrogance,” I said, my voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. The tendril plunged into his chest, piercing through muscle and bone to the core of his cursed energy. The light in his golden eye flickered, dimming as the tendril twisted, consuming him from the inside out. 

Kaito’s final scream was cut short as his body crumpled to the ground, his cursed energy dissolving into ash that scattered in the faint wind. Silence fell over the battlefield, heavy and absolute, as every eye turned to me. 

I straightened, the pulse of the choker steady against my throat as I surveyed the carnage I had wrought. Blood stained the air, the earth, and my armor, but I felt no shame—only exhilaration. My laughter rang out once more, bright and unrestrained, as I turned to meet Sukuna’s gaze. 

Sukuna’s laughter rang out across the battlefield, low and resonant, cutting through the lingering tension like a blade. “Well done, little witch,” he said, his tone laced with approval and amusement. “You’ve shown them why you’re mine.” 

The words sent a ripple through the court, their murmurs growing louder as they processed the declaration. Pride and fear mingled in their expressions as their gazes flicked between Sukuna and me. 

“You’ve exceeded even my expectations,” he continues over the noise, pleased. 

I inclined my head slightly, the faintest smirk curling my lips. “I told you I was more than capable.” 

The murmurs of the court grew louder, their voices laced with awe and fear as they whispered of the witch who had brought Kaito to his knees. But I didn’t care about their opinions. I cared only for the thrill that still coursed through me, the rush of power and domination that left me craving more. 

As I stepped back into the fray, I knew one thing for certain: this battlefield was mine, and anyone who dared to challenge me would meet the same fate as Kaito. 

The battlefield fell eerily silent as Sukuna stepped forward, his towering presence commanding attention. The faint crackle of cursed energy still lingered in the air, brushing against the senses of all who stood witness. The storm clouds above churned with crimson streaks of lightning, a tempest echoing the tension and finality of what was to come. 

Sukuna’s crimson robes trailed behind him, stained dark at the edges with blood and soot from the battle. Each step he took was deliberate, a reminder of his dominion over all present. His four eyes gleamed with an intensity that left no room for doubt, two half-lidded with amusement while the other two burned with a sharp, predatory light. 

The faint whispers of his court and soldiers stilled entirely as he reached the center of the ridge, his gaze sweeping over the bloodied battlefield below. The jagged earth was littered with broken bodies and the remnants of cursed energy, a testament to the carnage wrought in his name. And at his side stood me, my crimson and gold armor glinting faintly in the flickering light, the pulse of my choker steady against my throat. 

Sukuna’s gaze flicked to me, his grin widening into something cold, deliberate, and impossibly proud. Then, his voice boomed across the battlefield, low and resonant, carrying the weight of an unbreakable decree. 

“This one,” he began, his words slicing through the heavy air like a blade, “stands with me—not as a servant, not as a follower, but as my equal.” 

The words struck like a thunderclap, reverberating through the gathered forces. The court lords, the soldiers, even the lingering spirits frozen in the wake of the battle—all turned their attention to him, their gazes wide with shock and disbelief. The weight of his claim hung heavily in the air, undeniable and absolute. 

“She is no pawn,” Sukuna continued, his tone sharpening into something more dangerous. “No mere piece to be sacrificed in the games of lesser men. She has proven herself in blood and fire, in strength and ruthlessness. And now, she is mine.” 

He stepped closer to me, his cursed energy coiling outward in sharp, deliberate waves. The weight of it pressed against me, heavy and suffocating, yet grounding in a way that left no room for doubt. His hand lifted, his clawed fingers brushing lightly against the edge of my jaw as his crimson eyes met mine. 

“My queen,” he said, his voice dropping lower, softer, but no less commanding. 

The silence that followed was deafening. 

I straightened, my gaze steady as I met his, refusing to shrink under the weight of his declaration. The bloodstained earth beneath my feet, the sharp tang of iron in the air, the whispers of power threading through the choker at my throat—all of it burned with a singular truth: this was no mere title. It was a claim, forged in battle and sealed in the ruthless power we had both unleashed. 

The words reverberated through me, their meaning sinking deeper than they ever had before. I had resisted, challenged, and even mocked the idea of standing at his side. I had worn my defiance like armor, my hesitation a shield against the gravity of what this role demanded. But now, standing here amidst the blood and fire, the truth was undeniable: this wasn’t about submission. It was about power, about taking what was mine and ruling as the force I was meant to be. 

My hesitation unraveled, piece by piece, until only clarity remained. This was my place, not in the shadows or at the edges of power, but in its heart, where decisions were made, and kingdoms were forged. The fire that had always burned within me flared, no longer caged but roaring to life, a flame that would consume everything in its path. 

I turned my gaze back to Sukuna, meeting his with a sharp, unflinching intensity. “You’ve waited for my answer,” I said, my voice steady and carrying an edge of finality. “And now you have it.” 

He tilted his head slightly, his grin widening as though he had already known what I would say. “Do you mean to make me wait longer, little witch?” he teased, his tone laced with dark amusement. 

“No,” I replied, stepping closer until the space between us was nearly nonexistent. My voice dropped, each word deliberate and brimming with conviction. “I accept.” 

The storm above roared in approval, the crimson lightning striking the distant horizon as though sealing the moment with fire and light. The choker pulsed sharply against my throat, a tangible reminder of the power now tethered to me, not as a servant, but as a queen. 

Sukuna’s grin sharpened into something darker, more triumphant, as his gaze burned into mine. “Finally,” he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver racing down my spine. “It seems you’ve come to your senses.” 

The weight of his cursed energy pressed against me again, heavier now, as though acknowledging the shift between us. But this time, I didn’t push back. I stepped forward, into the heat and suffocating presence, letting it thread through me like molten fire. It wasn’t submission—it was a claiming of power, an acceptance of the role I had fought for and earned in blood and ruthlessness. 

A ripple of energy swept through the crowd as the weight of Sukuna’s words sank in. Some of the lords bowed their heads in silent acknowledgment, their faces pale but resigned. Others exchanged sharp, uneasy glances, their discomfort betraying their reluctance to accept the reality before them. The soldiers murmured softly, their voices carrying a mixture of awe and terror. 

And then, one by one, they knelt. 

The lords, the soldiers, even the cursed spirits lingering at the edges of the battlefield—all fell to their knees, their heads bowed as they submitted to the claim Sukuna had made. The sound of their movements was a quiet chorus, a symphony of submission that rippled outward until none remained standing. 

Sukuna’s grin widened, his satisfaction gleaming in the sharp light of his gaze. His hand lingered at my jaw for a moment longer before he turned his attention back to the gathered forces, his voice booming once more across the battlefield. 

“Let this day mark the beginning of a new era,” he declared, his tone carrying the weight of an unyielding command. “An era where power reigns, where strength is rewarded, and where those who stand against us are crushed beneath our feet.” 

The murmurs of the crowd swelled briefly before fading into silence once more, their collective fear and reverence palpable. Sukuna turned to me again, his grin softening into something colder, more deliberate. 

“And you,” he said, his voice dropping into a near-growl as his gaze burned into mine. “You will rule at my side. Together, we will tear down kingdoms and reshape this world in our image.” 

The storm above roared with approval, crimson lightning splitting the churning clouds as the battlefield trembled beneath the weight of his words. My chest tightened, the pulse of the choker quickening as I nodded once, the faintest smirk curling my lips. 

I turned to face the gathered court, the pulse of my cursed energy rippling outward in sharp, deliberate waves that coiled through the air like a warning. Their gazes lifted cautiously, their expressions a mixture of fear and reverence as they looked upon me, no longer a figure of doubt but of undeniable authority. 

“I am not your weakness,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence with a clarity that left no room for argument. “I am your reckoning. And if any of you doubt that, step forward now and face me.” 

The silence that followed was deafening. Not a single lord, soldier, or spirit moved. Their fear was palpable, but so was their acceptance, their acknowledgment of what I had become. My chin lifted, the smirk curling my lips a reflection of Sukuna’s own, sharp and triumphant. 

Sukuna stepped beside me, his towering presence a shadow that loomed over the gathered forces. His four eyes gleamed with satisfaction as his voice boomed across the battlefield once more. 

“Let it be known,” he declared, his tone carrying the weight of an unbreakable decree. “This is your queen. The one who stands with me, not beneath me. The one who will rule this court with a strength unmatched and a fire that will consume those who stand against her.” 

The court remained kneeling, their silence a testament to the power that now bound them to me, to us. Sukuna’s gaze swept over them one final time before returning to mine, his grin widening into something that sent a thrill racing through my veins. 

“You’ve done well,” he said, his voice dropping lower as he leaned in slightly, his breath warm against my ear. “But this is only the beginning, little queen.” 

“You said this was only the beginning,” I said, my voice quiet but deliberate. “Let it be.” 

His grin widened, sharp and dangerous, as he leaned closer, his voice a low growl that sent another shiver through me. “Then we’ll rule together, little queen,” he murmured. “And the world will tremble beneath our feet.” 

The battlefield trembled as the storm raged on, and for the first time, I stood at its center, unshaken, unrelenting, and undeniably his. 

The storm raged on, the battlefield trembling beneath the weight of what had been claimed, not just by Sukuna, but by me. And as the world seemed to bow beneath our feet, I knew there was no turning back. 

This was my place. 

This was my power. 

This was my kingdom. 

The halls of Sukuna’s estate blazed with vibrant life, an opulence so rich it felt suffocating. Golden lanterns hung high from the vaulted ceilings, their delicate frames adorned with carvings of dragons entwined with flames. Their warm light cast intricate patterns across the polished wood floors, refracting off gilded walls and jeweled goblets clutched by the uneasy hands of Sukuna’s court. The air was thick with indulgence: the rich scent of roasted meats glazed with exotic spices, the tang of aged wine pouring freely, and the faint burn of incense coiling like a serpent from ornate braziers. 

Laughter and sharp voices filled the cavernous space, a false cheer that masked the tension lingering just beneath the surface. The clatter of silverware and the low hum of hurried whispers reverberated against the walls like a symphony out of tune. The scene was a stark contrast to the battlefield—a place where blood and chaos had reigned, now replaced with silk-clad decadence and fleeting triumph. 

At the head of the hall, I sat at Sukuna’s right hand. His presence was inescapable, a tangible weight that pressed against my senses. His arm rested casually along the back of my chair, his long, clawed fingers brushing the carved wood. It was a subtle gesture, but no less potent than a banner unfurled—an unspoken declaration that I was his. Not a servant, not a plaything, but something more. 

The lords sat in neat rows along the long tables that stretched the length of the hall, their silks and jewels glittering in the firelight like the scales of snakes. Their eyes darted toward me when they thought I wasn’t looking, sharp with judgment and thinly veiled fear. The smiles they wore were brittle, cracking beneath the weight of whispered conspiracies and the unspoken truths that now bound them. They bowed their heads, they raised their goblets, but their unease clung to the air, heavy and unmistakable. 

Sukuna, of course, thrived on it. His crimson eyes gleamed with a sharp, predatory amusement as he leaned closer, his breath brushing against my ear like a phantom touch. 

“Do you hear them, little queen?” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that sent a shiver down my spine. “They toast to our victory, but their fear? Their fear is louder than their cheers.” 

I turned my head to meet his gaze, unwilling to be swallowed by the intensity of his presence. His four eyes bore into me, two half-lidded in calculated indifference, while the others burned with the glint of something darker, something hungrier. “Good,” I said, my voice steady despite the thrum of the choker at my throat. “Let them choke on it.” 

Sukuna’s grin widened, sharp and feral, as he lifted his golden goblet. The chalice caught the light, its jagged edges glinting like a blade as he stood, his crimson robes pooling around him in fluid waves. The hall fell silent at once, the hum of whispers dying as every gaze fixed on him. 

“To my queen,” Sukuna declared, his voice cutting through the quiet with the weight of a command. It carried effortlessly, settling over the court like the blade of a guillotine. “May her strength be as unrelenting as her fire.” 

The words hung heavily in the air, their weight pressing against the gathered lords like an iron hand. For a moment, no one moved, the silence stretching taut as their gazes flickered between Sukuna and me. 

Then, reluctantly, they raised their goblets, the motion stiff and mechanical. Their voices rose in unison, low and hollow, the words carrying a mix of forced reverence and thinly veiled resentment. “To the queen.” 

I lifted my own goblet, the dark wine swirling like blood beneath the firelight. “And to the king,” I said, my tone smooth but edged with a deliberate sharpness. “May the world tremble beneath his shadow.” 

The lords drank deeply, their discomfort as palpable as the weight of Sukuna’s presence. Some avoided my gaze entirely, their eyes fixed firmly on their goblets, while others dared to glance at me, their expressions tight with barely concealed fear. 

Beside me, Sukuna chuckled, the sound low and resonant as he sank back into his chair. His arm remained draped along the back of mine, his claws brushing the edge of my shoulder in a touch that was both casual and possessive. His amusement vibrated in the air between us, a quiet storm that only I could feel. 

“They’ll kneel,” he murmured, his voice low enough for only me to hear. “Eventually. Fear is a powerful motivator, little queen. And you wear it well.” 

I tilted my head slightly, the faintest smile curving my lips as I took a deliberate sip of my wine. “Then let them kneel,” I said softly. “Let them learn their place.” 

His crimson eyes gleamed, his grin widening further as he leaned closer, his breath brushing against the curve of my neck. “Oh, they will,” he said, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. The corridor leading to the side chamber was quiet, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the grand hall. Each step felt deliberate, my pace unhurried, as if the very walls of Sukuna’s estate encouraged reflection. The air was cooler here, untouched by the heat of roaring fires and raised goblets. The faint scent of tea and incense wafted through the hall, grounding me after the chaos of the feast. 

The side chamber was modest compared to the opulence of the main hall. Low lacquered tables sat neatly arranged with carefully placed scrolls and simple floral arrangements that added a touch of calm to the room. The flickering lanterns cast long shadows on the polished wood floors, their light soft and warm, inviting introspection. 

Uraume stood at the far end of the chamber, their pale, frost-like eyes focused on a tray of tea and delicately arranged dishes. Their movements, always meticulous, carried an edge of tension now. Their hands, though steady, lingered just a second too long on the edges of the tray, as though their mind was elsewhere. Even their usually impeccable posture seemed slightly less rigid. 

I lingered in the doorway for a moment, taking in the sight before me. For all their sharpness and composure, there was a quiet humanity in Uraume now, one that I hadn’t fully noticed before. It was subtle but present—the faint crease at the edge of their brow, the way their shoulders curved inward ever so slightly. 

“You’re avoiding the celebration,” I said, my voice soft but carrying enough weight to break the silence. 

Uraume looked up, their movements unhurried, as though they had already known I was there. Their pale eyes met mine, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between us—a quiet acknowledgment of everything that had transpired. “And you are not?” 

I smiled faintly, stepping further into the room, letting the door close softly behind me. “It’s different for me,” I said, moving closer. “They’re watching.” 

“They always will,” Uraume replied, their tone calm but laced with truth. “You’ve chosen this path, and it’s not one that allows for shadows.” 

I stopped just shy of the low table, the faint scent of the tea reaching me as I folded my arms. “And you?” I asked after a pause, my voice quieter now. “Are you... satisfied with what’s come of this?” 

Uraume stilled, their hands hovering over the tray before finally resting at their sides. They glanced at the tea as though searching for the right words, then slowly turned to face me fully. Their expression, so often a mask of detachment, softened. Their lips quirked faintly—not quite a smile, but close—and their eyes carried a warmth I hadn’t seen before. 

“I am,” they said simply, their tone steady but quieter than usual. “I’ve served Lord Sukuna for many years. In that time, I’ve seen many attempt to stand beside him. None succeeded. None could.” 

They took a single step closer, their gaze never leaving mine. “But you... You’ve done more than stand. You’ve proven yourself. To him, to the court, to everyone who doubted you. And, if I may speak plainly—” 

“You may,” I interjected softly, though my voice held a quiet curiosity. 

“I couldn’t imagine anyone else ever fitting the role,” Uraume said, their tone carrying a weight that was unshakable. “You belong here. And I... am glad for it.” 

Their words struck something deep within me, a place I hadn’t dared to acknowledge. For all my defiance, for all the power I had claimed for myself, there had been doubt—a lingering shadow of wondering whether I truly belonged in this place, at Sukuna’s side, under the relentless gaze of his court. But Uraume’s words carried no hesitation, no room for misinterpretation. They weren’t merely acknowledging my position—they were accepting it. 

I lowered my gaze for a moment, not out of submission, but to gather myself. The weight of their sincerity pressed heavily against my chest, threatening to unravel the composure I had worked so hard to maintain. When I looked back at them, my voice was softer than I intended. “Thank you.” 

Uraume inclined their head slightly, their usual composure returning, though their eyes retained a flicker of warmth. “It is not gratitude I seek,” they said simply. “Only that you understand what this means—not just for you, but for all of us.” 

I tilted my head slightly, curious. “All of us?” 

“You’ve changed the court,” they said, their voice quieter now, almost reverent. “They see you as a threat, as a challenge. But I see you as something else entirely. A balance. Something... necessary.” 

The words settled between us, their weight heavier than the air in the chamber. I exhaled slowly, my hands dropping to my sides as I stepped closer to the table. “And you?” I asked again, my tone softer now. “Where do you see yourself in all of this?” 

Uraume’s lips twitched faintly, their eyes narrowing slightly as though considering the question. “By your side,” they said finally, their voice carrying a quiet conviction. “As I have always been.” 

I couldn’t stop the faint smile that tugged at the corners of my lips. “You make it sound so simple.” 

“Because it is,” they replied, their tone firm but not unkind. “You’ve earned this, and I... I am honored to witness it.” 

For the first time, I saw Uraume not as Sukuna’s steadfast second, but as someone who had chosen to trust me, to place their faith in my strength, my choices. The realization was as humbling as it was empowering. 

I stepped back, my smile lingering as I inclined my head slightly. “Thank you, Uraume.” 

They bowed their head in return, their movements as precise as ever. But before I could turn to leave, their voice stopped me. 

“The king will be looking for you,” they said, their tone lighter now but carrying an edge of amusement. 

I arched an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing on my lips. “Let him wait.” 

Their lips quirked faintly, the closest thing to a smile I had ever seen from them, before they turned back to the tray of tea. The quiet sound of pouring water filled the chamber as I stepped into the corridor beyond, my pulse steady, my heart lighter than it had been in days. 

When I returned to the hall, the revelry had quieted, the lords and soldiers sinking into the haze of wine and exhaustion. Sukuna was already on his feet, his towering frame a beacon of authority as he waited by the doors.  

His crimson eyes locked onto mine the moment I entered, a flicker of something dangerous and primal gleaming in their depths. Without a word, he extended a hand, the gesture both a command and an invitation.  

I took it, my pulse quickening as his cursed energy brushed against mine, sharp and electric. He led me through the shadowed halls of the estate, the silence between us charged with unspoken tension. 

The air in Sukuna’s private chambers was suffocating, thick with his cursed energy, wrapping around me like smoke and seeping into my lungs. Each breath felt heavier, each step more deliberate as the door clicked shut behind us, sealing the space from the rest of the estate. 

The room was vast but intimate, a paradox of opulence and power. Dark silk tapestries adorned the walls, their jagged golden sigils glinting faintly in the flickering firelight. The braziers burned low, casting restless shadows that danced across the polished wood floors and the intricately carved furniture. The faint scent of incense lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of cursed energy that seemed to hum in the very walls. 

Sukuna turned to face me, his towering frame silhouetted by the warm glow of the flames. His robes hung loose, their crimson and gold embroidery catching the light as he moved. His four crimson eyes bore into mine, their sharp intensity making the space between us feel both infinite and impossibly small. His grin widened, predatory and sharp, as though he could taste the tension coiling between us. 

“Tonight,” he said, his voice a low growl that reverberated through the room, “you are not just my queen. You are mine.” 

The words pressed against me like a physical force, his cursed energy surging in time with their weight. My chest tightened, the wild thrum of my heartbeat echoing against the stillness as his gaze held me captive. The firelight carved sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the edges of his grin, the curve of his jaw, and the hunger that burned in his eyes. 

I didn’t back away; I took a step forward, closing the distance with deliberate defiance. My chin lifted, and my voice carried a sharp edge as I met his intensity head-on. “I don’t belong to anyone, Sukuna. But if you think you’ve earned my place at your side, show me.” 

His grin faltered for the briefest moment, his eyes narrowing with something sharper, more dangerous. Then his laugh broke through the air, low and rough, curling around me like smoke. “Bold,” he murmured, his tone brimming with dark amusement. “You think this is about earning you?” 

“No,” I replied evenly, my gaze unwavering. “It’s about proving to me that standing beside you is worth the cost.” 

His cursed energy flared, the force of it sending a sharp ripple through the room, rattling the edges of the braziers and making the shadows leap. His expression darkened, but there was something gleaming beneath the sharpness—something that might have been approval. 

“I’ve already proven it,” he said, his voice dropping lower, more deliberate. “You’ve seen what I am. What we could be together. And still, you stand here, defiant.” His gaze burned into mine, the weight of his presence pressing closer, suffocating yet exhilarating. “But if you want me to show you again...” 

It was then that Sukuna moved. His hand came to rest on my waist, his grip firm as he pulled me closer, the heat of him searing through the layers of silk and armor as though they weren’t there. His other hand braced against the wall beside my head, his claws grazing the polished wood with a deliberate scrape that sent a shiver racing down my spine. 

“You’ve tested me at every turn,” he said, his breath warm against my temple. “You’ve pushed, defied, and still, here you stand. But let’s see how far that defiance really goes.” 

My hands moved instinctively, bracing against his chest. The fabric of his robes was smooth beneath my fingers, but the heat of his skin burned through it, electric and unrelenting. “And what will you do if I never stop defying you?” I asked, my voice steady despite the tension coiling in my chest. 

His grin widened, predatory and sharp. “Then we’ll burn the world down together,” he said simply, his tone carrying a dark promise. “And you’ll love every second of it.” After a pause, he spoke again, “don’t you feel it?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, a velvet rasp that sent a shiver racing down my spine. “The pull between us. It’s been there since the moment you stepped into my domain.” 

I said nothing, my breath caught in my chest as I stepped away from him, frozen near the door. His words were true, and he knew it. The electric tension that coiled in the air was undeniable, a force that drew us together even as my defiance screamed against it. 

He took a slow step forward, his robes whispering against the stone floor. “You’ve fought it, little queen,” he continued, his grin widening. “Clung to your defiance like it could save you. But tonight, there’s nowhere left to run.” 

His cursed energy flared, brushing against my senses like a tangible force, suffocating and intoxicating all at once. I swallowed hard, my fingers curling into fists at my sides as I forced myself to meet his gaze. 

“You think you know me,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “But I’m not some plaything for you to claim.” 

His laughter was low, rumbling, and dark. “Not a plaything, no,” he said, closing the distance between us with deliberate slowness. “A partner. My equal. My queen.” 

The words sent a jolt through me, the weight of his declaration sinking deep into my chest. He reached me then, his four hands moving with disarming gentleness to brush hair from my face, to trail claws lightly down my arm, and to rest firmly at my waist. The contradiction in his touch—gentle and possessive—left me breathless. 

“I’ve seen your strength,” he murmured, his voice softening, though it still carried an edge of command. “Your fire. And I’ll take it all.” 

Before I could escape, he surged forward, one hand threading into my hair to tilt my face up as his lips crashed against mine. The kiss was anything but gentle—hungry, consuming, and laced with the same dominance that radiated from him. My protests dissolved, swallowed by the heat of his mouth and the relentless pull of his cursed energy. 

I gasped against his lips when I felt his lower hands slide lower, gripping my thighs and lifting me effortlessly. The cold stone wall met my back, the contrast to the searing heat of his body against mine sending a shudder through me. His tongue teased against my bottom lip, demanding entry, and when I relented, the kiss deepened, turning feral. 

“Still defiant?” he growled against my lips, his four eyes gleaming as he pulled back just enough to watch me. “Or will you admit what we both know?” 

“You want words?” I spat, my breath hitching as his tongue, the grotesque one on his stomach, slid against the bare skin of my thigh. “You’ll be waiting forever.” 

His grin widened, dark amusement curling at the corners of his mouth. “I have all the time in the world.” 

The stomach tongue flicked higher, teasing at the edges of my wetness, and I couldn’t suppress the sharp gasp that escaped me. He took full advantage, his hands spreading my legs wider as the wet appendage began its assault. It lapped at my clit, slow and deliberate, as though savoring every reaction it coaxed from me. The obscene sound of it only heightened the heat pooling low in my belly. 

I tried to close my legs, instinctively seeking to deny him access, but his hands simply wedged them apart, his strength making resistance futile. His tongue delved deeper, teasing and thrusting into my wetness, tasting me in a way that was both torturous and intoxicating. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing my moans, but my body betrayed me. My hips rolled of their own accord, seeking more of the sinful pleasure he delivered. 

“You’re already so wet,” he taunted, the tongue on his stomach withdrawing momentarily as his hands repositioned my hips to hold me still. “You can say ‘never’ all you like, but your body knows the truth.” 

I opened my mouth to retort, but he surged forward again, his tongue curled against my most sensitive spots. He licked, sucked, and thrusted with a skill that boarded on cruelty, leaving me trembling and on the edge of an orgasm that I knew I shouldn’t want.

I bit down hard on my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my moans. But Sukuna was nothing if not patient—and wickedly skilled. His tongue curled and pressed in ways that had my hips bucking against his hold, my breath hitching despite myself. 

“You’ll beg,” he said, his voice muffled but dripping with confidence. “They all beg.” 

“I’m not them,” I managed, though my voice wavered under the strain of holding back. 

He chuckled, dark and taunting, the sound vibrating against my skin as his tongue plunged inside me. I arched against him, my nails clawing at the wall behind me as the relentless motions of his tongue sent sharp jolts of pleasure racing through my body. Every flick, every thrust was calculated to push me closer to the edge. 

Just as I felt the coil of my orgasm tightening, he pulled away abruptly and left me gasping, empty, and shaking with frustration. I cried out, the sound raw and needy before I could stop it. The cruel satisfaction in his eyes burned as he leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear. 

“Beg for it,” he commanded, his voice low and dangerous. 

I shook my head, my resolve faltering but not yet broken. “Never.” 

His hands tightened their grip, one sliding to press against my throat, the gentle pressure igniting another wave of heat. “We’ll see,” he murmured, his voice dark with promise. 

He adjusted his stance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. The sheer size of him made me hesitate, but he didn’t wait for permission. With one hard thrust, he buried himself inside me, stretching and filling me in a way that left no room for thought, only sensation. 

I screamed, my head falling back against the wall as he began to move, his pace unrelenting. His second cock brushed against my folds, sliding against the sensitive flesh with each thrust, adding another layer of overwhelming sensation. 

“You take me so well,” he growled, his hands everywhere—gripping my thighs, holding my waist, caressing my breasts. “Your body was made for this.” 

His words sent a thrill through me, the possessive heat of his voice driving me higher. My resolve shattered as he shifted, angling his hips to hit a spot deep inside me that made my vision blur. When he thrusted into me, the stretch was intense, overwhelming. Every nerve alight as he filled me completely, his cursed energy crackling against my senses like a storm.  

I tried and bite back my cries as I struggled to adjust, but Sukuna doesn’t give me time. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips drove into me with a force that left no room for hesitation. His four hands held me firmly, guiding my movements as he thrusted deeper with every motion. I clawed at his shoulders, my moans escaping freely now, I no longer cared about giving him the satisfaction he craved.  

“Look at you,” he growled, his voice rough with satisfaction. “Your body loves this—taking me, begging for more even when your lips refuse to admit it.” 

My magic flared in response, a golden glow that intertwined with his cursed energy, creating a storm of light and shadow that engulfed the room. The clash of our powers only heightened the intensity, every thrust sent shockwaves through my body. 

Despite the overwhelming sensations, I met his rhythm, my defiance sparking brighter than my fear. My voice was breathy but firm as I matched his taunts with my own. “Is that all you’ve got, King?” 

He growls, low and dangerous, and the pace quickens, his movements growing rougher as his cursed energy pulses with unrestrained power. Each thrust drives me closer to the edge, my cries mingling with his guttural groans as the storm within the room reaches its crescendo. The stomach tongue joins the assault, flicking against my clit in time with his thrusts. The combined sensations tore a scream from my throat as my orgasm built, impossible to deny. My walls tightened around him, drawing a guttural groan from his lips. 

“Say it,” he demanded, his thrusts growing faster, harder. “Say you’re mine.” 

My mind spun, torn between the need to defy him and the overwhelming pleasure wracking my body. He leaned in, his teeth grazing my neck, his voice a rough whisper against my skin. “Say it.” 

“I—” My voice broke as the coil of pleasure snapped, my orgasm tearing through me with a force that left me shaking in his grasp. “Yours,” I gasped, the word spilling from my lips as my body convulsed around him. 

“That’s it,” he snarled, his pace quickening. “Come for me, queen.” It didn’t take much longer before Sukuna roared his satisfaction, his movements growing erratic as he followed me over the edge. His release came in hot, overwhelming waves, filling me completely and leaving me breathless. He didn’t pull away immediately, his hands and tongue lingering, teasing and prolonging the aftershocks of my orgasm. When he finally withdrew, I slumped against the wall, my legs trembling, my breath ragged.  

Sukuna tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze once more. His smile was triumphant, his voice softer but no less commanding as he says, “You belong to me now, little queen. No more hesitation. No more doubt.” 

I glared at him, even as my body betrayed me again, still trembling from the echoes of his touch. “We’ll see,” I whispered, but the words lacked the conviction they once held. 

His grin widened, his satisfaction evident as he leaned in, his teeth grazing the shell of my ear. “Oh, we will.” 

dividers by @strangergraphics

AUTHORS NOTE I'm back with a little treat as an apology for my absence 😼 hope you all enjoyed it! <3

TAGLIST @slutlight2ndver @surielstea @duhhitzstarr @arcanefeelings @numbuh666 @tejan-sunny @lavenderandoranges @after-laughter-comes-tears @maomimii @theplacetoputfics

[derww]

DEVOTIONS WEEK DAY 1: OBSESSION/HUNTING

This time he sleeps for too long – not because he gave up and not because he was not afraid, but because his too mortal body is so exhausted that he lies in oblivion for almost a day. When he finally opens his infinitely heavy eyes, Mapicc is already here. He is a shadow melted into the corner of the house, burning gaze and still posture. He's silent. His hand clutches an axe.

The situation could have been considered ridiculous, even funny, if he hadn't been so horrified.

It's not that you can't talk to Mapicc, but talking to him is a minefield: he can hear, but he doesn't want to listen. He doesn't need any apologies. He doesn't need a compromise. He needs to put an axe between Zam's eyes, and again, and again, until the weak body gives up, peeling, crumbling, bubbling and crunching. And again. And again. And again.

He doesn't have a chance. Mapicc slowly and methodically chastises him for his weaknesses and mistakes, for his unworthiness and for his pity. He imputes him for betrayal, and Zam, really, has nothing to say, because Mapicc is right.

At this stage, the only realistic option was to give up, but what remained true about Zam was that he refused to give up. And he takes up the sword and collects a parody of a battle kit from his remains, and everything falls apart in an instant. Mapicc attacks once, twice, thrice, and very soon Zam is cornered, and Mapicc mauls him, hitting again and again, even when he stops moving, letting the splashing blood stain himself and everything around him, breaking bones and severing arteries and tearing muscles and splitting his belly open. There is not even sadism in this, there is no joy and pleasure – Mapicc is silent, keeping an unperturbed expression on his face, and just hits, and hits, and hits, and hits.

At some point, Zam starts screaming. At some point, he stops. At some point, when there seems to be nothing working left in his inhuman body, he finally dies. It's excruciating. It's a relief.

This time he wakes up instantly. His whole body is giving off phantom pains. There is inky darkness outside the window, simultaneously frightening and sheltering. He sits down on the bed, breathing heavily, and clutches his head.

To come up with. He needs to come up with something. Solution. The way out of this.

***

The castle is as beautiful as ever: only completed, solidly built, and cleaned. Brand new brewing setup, clean bed, fresh dandelions on the windowsill. The quiet idyll of a man who has run from problems, but he sees blood stains here and there – when you refuse to leave space, there are only so many places to die.

He fought Mapicc every new time. Prepared and not, sooner or later, but this is how it all was ending: Mapicc wins. Mapicc kills him. It starts all over again. No matter what he did, it was useless: nothing could equal their skill difference. He could have been prepared as much as he wanted – once he spent all his remaining time on grinding a full battle kit, and the other time – on mining the area around the castle, and in the end everything turned out to be useless anyway. Mapicc went ahead, took the blows as if they were worthless, threw venomous words and hit, and hit, and hit. This was not a battle that Zam could win. He tried, and tried, and tried – even after he realized that he was stuck in a time loop, he died over and over again, but he only had more splashes of phantom pain on his body. A couple of times he calls people for help, but they always die before him, and he stops.

It's an endless loop. He gets up, he prepares, he fights, he dies. Even if something changes, the outcome remains the same. Mapicc still looks at him terrifyingly, and his axe still easily crumbles the ridge. And then Zam wakes up choking on blood.

This is the first time he decides to run away.

And: don't get me wrong, he loves this place, truly loves and appreciates it. But even his pride is worthless if everything stays as it is. And he says to himself: I'll let him destroy the Sanctuary. That doesn't mean I'm giving up.

It's terrible, it's monstrous, it will break his heart, but if time continues to flow on, then he can – he can do at least something. Restore it. Turn it into a memorial. Anything.

He hides all his pets a hundred blocks away from the castle. He takes the horn from Walter's grave. He prepares – to the best of his ability. And when his time runs out, when Mapicc will soon find this place even with the turned-off beacon, he runs.

It's almost absurdly easy – almost the entire vast world is in front of him, and he gets lost in endless forests thousands of blocks from the Sanctuary, mourning his fate, but promising that he will do... Something. He stays away from known places, spending long hours alone and never ceasing to think about what he left behind.

And then Mapicc finds him.

Mapicc is a furious hellhound, blinded by the chase. This time he doesn't give him time – he rushes at him, barely preserving his humanity, and hits, hits, hits. Zam, of course, defends himself, but he is scared, he is terrified, he – how could this happen, he thinks in despair, realizing that he sacrificed the most important place for nothing. Mapicc is so out of his mind that he doesn't say a word. And then Zam wakes up.

He does a lot of things: he fights, he hides, he runs. In the end, he betrays all his principles, because they are worthless in a frozen world, but nothing ever justifies his hopes. Mapicc finds him even at the edge of the world, and the longer the chase, the worse he gets. Sometimes Zam remembers the second season. Was he like that then, he thinks, and starts to feel sick.

He hates it, but mostly he's scared. His ex-partner became his worst nightmare. He killed Zam so many times that he stopped counting long ago. He dragged his corpse all over the server and smeared the entire Sanctuary, a place of peace and tranquility, in blood. Zam had no hope, but he couldn't afford to give up. He never gives up, and maybe he couldn't.

The pain does not go away, and at one point, after a particularly crushing blow, which eventually hit right on his wrists, his hands begin to shake. He manages to suppress it – one cycle, another, third, fifth, tenth, but one day it becomes unstoppable.

– Look at you, – Mapicc says with disgust, – how far have you fallen.

He puts him down. Zam barely resists. For him, this is the closest thing possible to giving up.

He sleeps late, and every joint in his body responds with excruciating pain. He gets up, makes himself a cup of coffee, and drinks it. He writes goodbyes to those he values – even if they are erased the next day, something in this makes it better. he braids his hair and plays with Friend. When Mapicc bursts into the castle, bringing snow and wind from the outside, he does not even flinch.

– I miss you, – he says almost softly. He didn't give up. He didn't give up. He didn't give up. He didn't give up.

Talking doesn't solve anything, and he knows it from the very beginning. Mapicc answers him, but he is still bitter, and when he asks if Zam is ready to accept death for the betrayal, he agrees. This death, at least, comes quickly.

He wakes up and looks at the window, behind which a blizzard is sweeping. He notices that the dandelions on the windowsill seem to have wilted.