#also.. my king.. called an absolute evil..

Stiles’s heart broke a little. “Oh my God. Okay. Okay, come here, tiny wolf man.” He scooped Derek up awkwardly, arms full of baby werewolf, who immediately tucked his head under Stiles’s chin and exhaled like that was exactly what he needed.

Stiles had no idea what to do. Should he call Deaton? Peter? There was no handbook for “my grumpy werewolf friend got de aged and now he wants to cuddle.”

And cuddle Derek did.

He refused to be more than two feet away from Stiles at any time. Stiles tried to set him down once and the look he got in return was so betrayed, so deeply offended, that Stiles muttered an apology and let him stay glued to his chest.

Eventually, Stiles gave up and flopped onto the couch with Derek still clinging to him like a baby koala. Derek squirmed until he was fully sprawled across Stiles’s torso, cheek pressed over Stiles’s heart, tiny fist gripping the collar of his hoodie.

“Movie?” Derek mumbled, muffled by fabric.

Stiles blinked down at him. “You… wanna watch a movie?”

Derek nodded slowly, like he was still figuring out what that meant, but the idea of sitting on the couch with Stiles and a movie clearly felt right.

So Stiles turned on Disney+, because what else do you show a baby Alpha, and settled in to watch The Lion King. Halfway through, Derek was asleep, warm and heavy and completely trusting, drooling a little on Stiles’s hoodie.

Stiles stared at the ceiling, one hand resting protectively on Derek’s tiny back. “This is fine,” he whispered to himself. “Everything’s fine. I am so not qualified for this, but okay.”

He was absolutely not ready to be a toddler’s emotional support human… but if Derek needed him, he’d fake it till he made it. Or until someone figured out how to reverse the magical toddler curse.

Whichever came first.

~~~~

The loft was quiet after everyone else left, all determined to find the witch who had cursed Derek into a pocket sized version of himself. Stiles had volunteered to stay behind, mostly because someone had to babysit, but also because, well… tiny Derek was starting to grow on him. Literally. He wouldn’t stop climbing into Stiles’s lap.

Stiles didn’t mind, though. Not really.

It turned out toddler Derek talked a lot more than adult Derek. Most of it was nonsense; half formed thoughts, jumbled memories, or whatever wild idea was bouncing around his too big brain in his too small body.

"Do werewolves like peanut butter?" Derek asked one evening, legs swinging off the couch and head leaning against Stiles's arm.

Stiles snorted. "You tell me, buddy. You're the expert."

“I think yes,” Derek said seriously. “But only with jelly. Grape. Not strawberry.”

Stiles chuckled and nudged his shoulder. “Noted.”

Derek would wander the loft, always staying within ten feet of Stiles, muttering things like “My ears are fuzzy” or “Do you think fullshift wolves can wear hats?” and Stiles would play along every time, something warm unfurling in his chest every time Derek grinned at him or tugged on his hoodie to get his attention.

One afternoon, while Stiles was flipping through a book on magical reversals and Derek was curled into his side watching Finding Nemo, Derek tilted his head and whispered, “You smell like cookies and lightning.”

Stiles blinked down at him. “That… might be the weirdest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I like cookies,” Derek mumbled with a yawn. “And lightning is fast. I like you.”

And just like that, Stiles melted.

He didn’t say anything, just pressed a kiss to Derek’s wild curls and whispered, “I like you too, little dude.”

They fell into a rhythm after that. Derek would babble; Stiles would listen. Derek would get overwhelmed, and Stiles would pull him into a hug, rocking them gently. Nights were the hardest, Derek would get scared and cling to Stiles, crawling into bed beside him like Stiles could shelter Derek from the scary realities of the world.

And then, one morning, Stiles woke up to warmth and the weight of someone beside him.

He stretched, cracked one eye open…and froze.

Adult Derek was lying there, curled on his side, watching him quietly. His eyes were soft. So soft.

“Oh my God,” Stiles whispered. “You’re…you’re you again.”

Derek nodded slowly. “Hi.”

Stiles blinked. “Hi.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Derek said, “You smiled a lot at me. When I was little.”

Stiles flushed. “Well, yeah. You were adorable.”

“You made me feel safe,” Derek said, voice low and sincere, like it was the most important thing he could ever say. “No one’s ever made me feel that safe, Stiles. Not even when I was really a kid.”

Stiles swallowed hard. “Derek…”

Derek reached out, fingers brushing against Stiles’s wrist. “I meant what I said. You do smell like cookies and lightning.”

Stiles laughed, a little watery. “Still the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Still true,” Derek said with a small smile.

many have met their untimely demise at his hands; he walks the earth with their tormented souls at his feet. from village to village, their numbers increased until a procession of weeping thickened behind him. hundreds of graves mark the land since his advent, and yet the heavens remain deaf to the hysterical prayers for justice. only he can hear the prayers; only he laughs at them. 

they say he is a devil. you say he is a god. because only a god can saturate the earth with blood and emerge unpunished from such transgression. hasn’t it been written that wherever the fire of evil blazes, a god will be there to douse it? but who saves the damned if a god kindled the fire? 

ryomen sukuna, in a form of some twisted mockery, decides to act the part. and so like every famished god, he demands a sacrifice to satisfy his voracious appetite. you would think that a house of gold would placate his hunger for blood, but riches mean nothing to him. his appetite needs flesh and it is flesh he got. 

“have i been too lenient that you’d dare fight amongst yourselves when i’m not around?” his voice reverberates inside the room. low, guttural, and pregnant with malice. it is enough to scorch everyone’s lungs with tension. 

you want to run away from this nightmare. go back to the peaceful bliss of mundanity when sukuna is only a piece of horrifying tale used to frighten children and not an absolute being seated cross-legged mere inches away. you try transporting your mind back to the days before his pillaging, before your village succumbed to his authority. yet his pervasive presence obstructs all your pathetic attempts at nostalgia. 

“look at what you did to the poor girl.” two of his four hands sweep you from your position to his lap, parading you to the rest of tearful eyes looking at him with entreaty. 

and it stings— their eyes. you’re in the claw of a savage hound from hell, ready to be devoured, with only your hadajuban as protection. even in this pitiful state, they offer no sympathy. their tears are for themselves alone despite their cruelty being the reason for your shared plight.

selfish bitches. 

“was it jealousy that caused this infighting? have i not divided my attention to all of you equally?” sukuna continuously taunts, lacing his voice with poisonous prudence. he fools no one and that’s what urges him forward. everyone knows that his seemingly laidback attitude is plain derision. nonetheless, he tastes the lingering hope in each of your faces before dragging his teeth along such pathetic daydreams.

“y… you have, my lord,” one of the women answers, her voice betraying a noticeable stutter. “if you would permit me to speak, i can offer his lordship an explanation for what transpired in the courtyard.”

sukuna emits a languid sigh as he rests his cheek upon his fist. he runs a rough hand down your arm, triggering vibration in the pit of your stomach. his hand is as huge as your face, his fingers long enough to snap your neck with ease. despite the surge of terror, you fight the urge to retch.

after a moment of battling your dread, it’s repulsion that filled you afterwards. repulsion rising from the woman’s explanation for your wretched state. the rest of the women nod their heads along with her account of how you tripped on a slippery stone multiple times, causing your current injuries, as if you’re a toddler who cannot orient her legs properly. 

they will save themselves with falsehood. 

sukuna yawns after the woman’s narration. his set of eyes seeking you after in the silence. 

“this matter is of your stupidity, then? you’ve wasted my time, brat.” he dips his cadence in amusement and disgust. 

anger flares within you, filling your nose and ears with the bitter scent of hatred, yet its heat descended down your throat, dampening your ability to defend yourself. what is one against many? there are twenty concubines in this room and nineteen of them just sold you to your demise for unintentionally raising this trifle to the lord of the land.

all of this— all of this merely because they have immersed themselves in playing a game in which you’ve been excluded since your arrival. after all, you’re just another competition for sukuna’s attention. 

“have mercy, my lord,” you whisper, on the verge of losing your sentience. “i… i mean no disrespect. it’s… it’s stupid of me—”

sukuna drawls, “speak no more of your nonsense. i have heard enough.” 

distressed apologies race past your mouth, along with entreaties that he spares your life. but you should’ve known that a god won’t turn his back on the sacrifice of blood. 

thus, when his enormous body finally moves to encase your fragility, you close your eyes and with jittering teeth have accepted your fate. you wait for the final release of death, a snap or his fist through your heart, but none came. instead, at your feet lay your torn garments, casting your nakedness before the other concubines in a humiliating display. the crisp air blows against your nipples, causing them to pucker tight. the same air turns your blood gelid, your bones immovable. 

“now, let’s see what all the fuss is about.” from behind, sukuna gropes your breasts, swirling the tips of your nipples with his fingers. “i’ll kill anyone who looks away.” the warning is vehement, ripe with threat, that even mere insects won’t dare defy it. 

is this the ultimate act of worship? to be stripped of all your layers? to be eaten?

his lips latch onto the bareness of your neck, sharp teeth dragging across the skin. the silence is thick, saved for the sound of your uneven breathing and the rustling of fabric as the concubines shift uncomfortably on their seats. sukuna’s wet and unusually long tongue starts licking the base of your shoulder to the back of your ear, before placing his thick and robust thigh between your quivering legs. 

your exposed cunt sticks to his skin, pussy folds flapping open. with practiced ease, as if manipulating the strings of a marionette, he subtly guided your movements. he has your pulsing clit riding the ridges of his thigh as if gushing all over will save you from inevitable demise. 

“m… mhm!” no longer entirely in control of your own form, you turn and sway in a helpless dance to his hands’ command. a gasp tinged with surprise and undeniable pleasure, escapes your lips and echoes softly in the confines of the room. you feel the searing heat of the concubines’ gazes drilling into you, a tangible weight of disapproval and something more primal — a flicker of envious fascination.

“for a condemned woman, aren’t you loving this too much?” sukuna takes the reins to your body. with speed that has your heavy tits bouncing, he secures your waist and drags your slick pussy faster and more recklessly. 

pleasure, sharp and electric at first, surges through your core, blossoming outwards like a firework. your cunt clenches and unclenches involuntarily, a delicious tremor wracking your body. the world narrows, sound and sight fading at the edges as every nerve ending sings with a single, glorious purpose. slowly, the intensity ebbs to leave a pleasant afterglow that paints your limbs with a newfound weight.

you’re but a tiny speck compared to sukuna’s imposing body; a feeble creature under the jurisdiction of a god. 

possessive hands have found you in your fleeting refuge, scooping your lower body up like you weigh nothing. with the tip of his finger he traces the curve of your spine, pressing enough weight to flatten your stomach against the tatami mat. 

“even your back is filled with lacerations,” he points out brusquely.

sukuna’s hefty cock drops to the base of your spine, its puffed up cocktip lazily pulsing to leak his thick liquids of pre-ejaculate. it must’ve been a whole arm laying heavy against your spine, warm with a gluttonous desire to ram itself through the sloppy confines of your pussy. 

and you lay there, waiting for his teeth and his claws and his animalistic hunger to devour. he presses his chest to your back, filling your ears with promises that he’s going to feed on you, eat you down to the marrow of your bones— and you’ll love it. 

“look at them,” sukuna hisses as he tugs at your forehead, “i want you to look at them while i fuck you.”

with your flesh you’ve received him like some kind of communion from root to tip. he hammers your cunt with his cock, until the heat of his savage lust reaches the pit of your belly. you feel his warmth soiling your cervix and uterus with every vigorous thrust. 

“oh! m… mhm!”  completely overtaken by sukuna, your thighs can only twitch as he destroys your insides. 

“you’re soaking wet,” he groans in your ear, deliberately adjusting his pace so he can coat his thick girth all over with your creamy hole, “and so fucking tight.” 

sukuna grunts like a wounded animal each time his cocktip kisses the smooth spot of your womb. a sheen of sweat glazes his body, tattoos aglow in the lanterns, from manically fucking your cunt. he bares his fangs whenever you tighten around his shaft enfolded with prominent and proud veins. 

the once vibrant forms of the concubines, their faces alight with prurient interest, dissolve into a sea of indistinct shapes as fog descends upon your sight. you’ve been reduced to a babbling and drooling mess, unable to grasp the reality that you’re being mounted and fucked to madness before several witnesses.

sukuna extends his hand, searching for your abandoned clit during his primal need to turn your pussy to pulp. 

“there it is,” he breathes against your clammy cheek, satisfied at his discovery. 

“n… no! not there…!” you pant as the last thread of reason frays and snaps. 

a tempestuous force of pleasure sweeps through you, leaving behind a tremor that has shaken you to the core. around you, a kaleidoscope of colors and sensations spins until a guttural moan runs from your lips, delivered by the exquisite torment of rapture. your nails scrape desperately across the tatami mat, clinging at the remnants of spilled sanity. 

sukuna cackles at your desperation to find a moment’s reprieve. the roughened end of his fingers dip into your yielding flesh as he forcefully slams your pussy back to his cock.  

“you’re not going anywhere,” he pronounces frenziedly, his eyes blowing wide. sukuna’s desperation for release intensifies to the point where he’s blatantly manhandling you, brutalizing your cunt and his cock during the process of reaching zenith. flesh meets flesh, fervid thrusts after fervid thrusts, until he feels that familiar coil in his own stomach. 

sukuna plugs your abused cunt with inconceivable amounts of cum. his cock pulses wildly, shooting globules straight to your womb it’s almost physically possible to feel his viscous cum filling every crevice of your uterus. when he’s finally pulled out, ropy cum still links his raw cocktip to your pulsing pussy hole. despite such a mind-numbing culmination, sukuna’s cock refuses to yield. it springs up proudly, aching for another taste.  

“what a sight,” sukuna issues with cavernous and demonic utterance, pertaining to your body lying inert upon the tatami mat. he sweeps the sodden hair from his brow with a lordly air, his pride evident in the contemptuous curve of his lips. 

look at the state he’s reduced you to. his thick ejaculation pools around your lower body because your little pussy can’t hold all of him. with an indifferent shrug, sukuna lowers his formidable body to your level. and only when the malevolent glint in his eyes becomes apparent does the gravity of the situation dawn upon you.

he starts fucking your cunt with his tongue.

you grit your teeth in response as sukuna places your knees upon his shoulders, burying the slimy width of his tongue in your heated pussy. it’s no mere licking— he’s practically shoved his tongue up your gummy walls, toying with the warmth of his cum pooled in your poor cunt while simultaneously licking your puffed up clit. 

“o… oh! c… can’t— please, please!” drool seeps between your gritted cuspids after your hysterical plea.

pearlescent tears warm the corner of your eyes. your sensitivity from his rigorous fucking has not yet abated, but another swell of release approaches at a hand’s reach. down to your heart, the bundles of nerves and veins constrict painfully because it’s too much. you have nowhere else to put the pleasure— the imminent pinnacle will utterly ruin you.

i’m losing my mind

i’m losing my mind

i’m losing my mind—

when ecstasy is but a heartbeat away, sukuna withdraws, denying you the finality your body craves. as if saved from drowning, you suck in and grace your lungs with air only to be propelled back to the brink of delirium when he lifts you up from the floor like a breeze. 

with carnal ferocity, he seizes the meaty flesh of your haunches with two of his limbs, while the others secure your torso. there and there, sukuna slots his insatiable cock in your dribbling cunt; an act that he’s accomplished without effort because you’re so wet, he’s slid right in. 

everyone has witnessed sukuna’s cock abusing your tingling pussy; all can see how he bounces your tingling cunt along his stiff length without strain. 

“yes… squeeze my cock like the obedient girl you are,” he sibilates on your face, followed by a harsh chuckle. “you can’t hear me now, can you?”

the voice is a distant echo, barely perceptible to your waning senses. your body, devoid of strength, limps completely in sukuna’s embrace. he buries his face in the crooks of your damped neck, groaning and babbling as he ruts into your swollen pussy. 

“how come you’re still so fucking tight?”

hasn’t he prepared you for his sheer girth? hasn’t he stimulated your pussy enough to hug his cock smoothly and effortlessly? you’ve already coated his balls shiny with all the slick your cunt has produced, but sukuna’s chest tightens because you’re milking him with a viselike grip. 

yes, it is human that he’s even affected by this carnal desire. what more can he do? he feels faint with exultation merely by fucking you. 

sukuna pumps your pussy to the hilt with slow yet profound thrusts. he bares his teeth down the blade of your shoulder as the maelstrom of release engulfs him completely. battered by waves of ecstasy, he grunts with your flesh between his teeth, the rough sound reverberating deep from his belly.

you must’ve reached the peak with him— you absolutely cannot tell. the only thing that your puddled mind can grasp is the swirl of his potent cum in the pit of your womb and the endless pulse of your cunt as you struggle to accommodate his release. 

petrified and silent, the remaining concubines are as fixed in place as if struck by an immobilizing spell. yet they watch— they watch intently while sukuna’s cock throbs with white strings of cum dripping from your cunt hole down to his balls and thighs. a hefty amount pools beneath him, oozing from where the both of you are connected. 

the envy that consumed them is a silent, suffocating thing, a palpable presence thick enough to choke. this envy deepens as they witness the delicacy with which sukuna has placed your dormant body on his own tatami mat. they grit their teeth secretly, throwing every known curse your way. may your womb not bear the fruits of sukuna’s seed, they vehemently pray. 

for ryomen sukuna, it’s nothing but a moment’s weakness, a foreign string of unknown emotion that you’ve managed to evoke from him. and even though he’s beyond human grace, he’s wasted your body to his own satisfaction, it’s only right to touch you with his claws retracted.

“performance is over, my dearests,” sukuna announces while a smirk tugs at his lips. facing his concubines, he dons his fundoshi haphazardly that it barely covers what it means to hide. 

“w… what will become of her, my lord?” one dares to ask. 

a fleeting, imperious gaze from sukuna sweeps over you before ushering the women from the opulent chamber. “you shouldn’t worry yourselves about such trivial matters. she will meet her own reckoning by my hands.”

a wave of malicious satisfaction ripples through the group as they exchange covert nods. you’re already a dead woman. with poisonous glee, they bow before ryomen sukuna with their faces shaped in unbridled mirth. 

“make sure that my wives are accompanied home safely,” sukuna orders the nearest guards. he tastes their fear hanging heavy in the air just by being in his presence. oh, humans. 

as the group began to retreat, they cast over their shoulders a flurry of flirtatious farewells to the imposing sukuna. however, before they could vanish entirely from sight, his deep voice cut through their progress.

“guards, before i forgot…” sukuna displays a grotesque smile filled with malice. “kill them all. i want nineteen heads on my feet tomorrow.”

they say he is a devil. 

you say he is a god. 

and despite all the names, sukuna has found himself a place of worship, with you as his altar. 

Despite (or perhaps because of) this fondness for the Liberation, I enjoy it when people wrestle with the concept, when they really, genuinely engage with its messiness. This includes things like having characters who are, for one reason or another, opposed to the Liberation even if they are also of the mind that heavenly law is unjust. Or critique of how the Liberation goes about its means - that this movement, so fundamentally analogous to real-world anarchism in its opposition to hierarchy, is prey to hierarchy itself. (That would be the Calendar Council, ostensibly the leaders of the revolution - but its members include an ex-king-turned-luxury-hotel-owner who treats his staff horrendously and a literal nightmare woman who drives her acolytes to suicide.) Or that many Liberationists play into the worst stereotypes of the bomb-throwing anarchist. (I personally believe that nonviolence must be a central tenet of any meaningful anarchist movement - this article explains it better than I can. Obviously, there are times when violence is necessary for self-defense, but it should be seen as an absolute last resort.) Or simply thinking about what a world without light might be like - where reality is a joint creation, where all beings have a say in how their world works, from the forms they personally take to the flow of time and space - and what the inevitable birthing-pains of such a world would be like.

That kind of engagement, I respect a lot. What I don't respect is this particular kind of dismissive non-engagement from a vocal minority of the playerbase. People who won't engage with the concept beyond calling it "stupid" and claiming that every pro-Liberation player or character is a "psychopath." (Mandatory pause here to point out the ableism inherent to this language.) People who say that they "don't want politics in games." (Another mandatory pause here to point out that for many of us, our very existences are political, and it is both privilege and ignorance to demand that stories be "apolitical.") People who say that the Liberation is an obviously bad idea because people are inherently evil and need ironclad authority to keep them in line. (This idea is a construct that has been proven wrong time and time again - read Rebecca Solnit's A Paradise Built in Hell, or if you can handle current events, her discussion of anti-ICE movements in Minnesota and beyond. Certainly, people are messy, and I wouldn't be so charitable as to say that people are Inherently Good under all that mess. However, that the typical response to disaster is compassionate unity, not selfish chaos, does say that we, on the whole, are more than our worst selves.)

And to be quite clear, I'm also rather bothered when enthusiastic young leftists in the fandom (by which I mean players, not characters - it's fun when characters do this) treat the Liberation as the best thing since sliced mushroom loaf. As something that will save everyone and everything without fail, to which ends all means and losses are justified, under which the Calendar Council are our glorious leaders, after which everyone will live happily ever after, and anyone who questions it is either a heretic or has yet to see the unlight - as, essentially, the Rapture, but with darkness coming to save us all instead of Jesus. That way is a dangerous way. That way, applied to real-world leftist movements, leads to things like telling diabetics anxious about insulin supplies during civil war that they should be happy to die for the sake of Revolution. (This is a real thing I have witnessed. It's why I keep the fediverse community at arm's length, despite generally being in favor of fedi's core idea.) But the former issue is more common than this latter one - and thus, I am here writing a 6 AM post where I complain about people not engaging with fictional anarchism Rigorously enough.