At first, it is a small thing: a warm pulse at the base of my throat, a pressure in my wrist where Bastion’s strength has always fit, a cool and steady light blooming behind my ribs where Cassiel’s flame waits. Deimos breathes my name against my mouth, and that sound threads through all of it.
The world stills, breathless. Then the door opens, and they come—already shedding their clothes, not barging in but drawn as if gravity itself demanded it. Bastion with the slow, dangerous grace of someone who knows how to make things break or hold; Cassiel with the solemn steadiness of dawn in human form; Deimos with the taut, protective heat that has always been my axis. Their eyes find mine and words fall away.
“What are you doing?” Bastion asks against my collarbone, voice rough with tenderness as he climbs onto the bed behind me. It is not a demand. It is a knowing.
“I want you,” I whisper.
Deimos shifts and Cassiel claims his spot, their mouths and hands mapping me, claiming me, until the world narrows to the press of skin and the chorus of our bond.
I move, straddling Bastion. He meets me with hunger softened by something fiercer, something perilously close to love. His hands anchor me as I sink down onto his cock, heat coursing through my bones.
“Cassiel,” I breathe, and he answers without hesitation, moving behind me, sinking into me with as much need as my own. “Oh fuck…” They fill me, stretch me, and I brace myself against Bastion’s chest.
“You’re so fucking perfect like that, Lustling,” Deimos murmurs from where he watches.
“Are you going to join?” I ask, though I already know he understands. I am saying goodbye without saying the words.
His jaw locks, but he nods. Rising, he plants his feet on either side of Bastion’s chest, his cock before me. “I will always feed you,” he vows, voice both claim and comfort, before guiding me to take his cock into my mouth.
The rhythm of us is immediate and primal. Hands anchor. Mouths take. Breath scrapes breath. The motion becomes liturgy. Cassiel steadies me with a hand over my sternum, white light threading through me. Bastion is stone under me, grounding me. Deimos binds the seams so nothing breaks. Magic slides along bone and skin, not spectacle but sacrament.
This is not coarse. Not appetite alone. It is ritual, shelter, reclamation. The succubus in me drinks not just pleasure but meaning—the fierce intimacy braided into every stroke, every sigh. Threads of bond tighten, unravel, weave again. They give without measure; I take only what I dare. For a little while, the hollow inside me fills.
And then we crest. Together.
Cassiel’s light flares behind my ribs, steady as dawn breaking. Bastion drives upward, anchoring me with a strength that feels like the earth itself holding me in place. Deimos thrusts deep into my throat, voice catching on my name, and when he shudders I feel it thread through all three of them, into me.
The bonds knot tight, no longer just threads but a braid of silver and fire, basalt and light. It floods me, pours into every hollow corner, and I drink it down greedily, until my vision sparks white. It is more than release. It is completion. My body convulses around them, pulled under by the tide of their shared climax, and the fortress itself seems to tremble, walls resonating with the strength of our joined power.
The bond hums louder than blood, thrumming at my sternum where Cassiel’s hand still rests, his light spilling steadyinto me. Bastion’s roar breaks into a groan against my spine, grounding me even as the wave carries me higher. Deimos’s heat sears my throat as he spills, and even that fire feels like sanctuary.
Together, they feed me until I am not only sated but remade. The succubus in me drinks until there is no hunger left, until for one heartbeat I feel whole—seen, known, woven into something far stronger than I deserve.
When urgency softens and the hearth burns low, we collapse in a tangle of limbs and breath. Cassiel hums a benediction into the hollow of my neck, his voice like a prayer meant only for me. Bastion’s hand rests heavy at my hip, grounding me even in the afterglow.
I close my eyes and let their breathing become the vow I cannot speak. For one dangerous night, their strength stitches itself into my ribs. I sleep bolstered—not healed, not whole, but harder against what waits. Morning will bring consequence. Tonight, they gave me everything. Tonight, I take it with me.
The dream takes me in a darker, thinner way tonight. There is no initial scream. No frantic charred bodies. It opens like a room I walk into willingly: quiet, dressed up, patient.
Zepharion is there, as always, like a man who has read his own part and delights in it. He is taller than the gates, his robe falling like shadow. His eyes are the kind of black that swallows sun. He does not have to name me to make me his.
“You came,” he murmurs, the words silk unspooling.
“I want to talk,” I say, steady. Practice has made my voice less like pleading and more like purpose.
He smiles with the patience of a king who keeps knives in his sleeves. “A bargain? A confession? Which is it, petal?”
I breathe once and count them in my head—Deimos, Bastion, Cassiel—feel the braid under my ribs. If I go to him willingly, I think, I will be close enough to learn his rhythm. I will be the wedge that finds the seam.
“If I come to you willingly,” I say, “will you let them live?”
His expression tightens into something curious and delighted. “You would give yourself to me to save them?”
“Yes,” I answer. The word is not surrender. It is a plan. I will be inside his walls. I will watch. I will break him.
The laugh that slips out of him is small and hungry. I can see the doubt in his shadow-face. “If you come willingly, I will leave them alone. And alive.”
He steps back and the dark answers him. A door blooms where there was none, blood-red and slick, steam wreathing its seams. It pulses like a heart with its own private life, and the room smells of iron and old promises.
