For Issei Hyoudou, the week since his interdimensional detour to Skyrim had been a storm of suppressed fury.
Vali's mocking defeat of Asia lingered like a bruise on his soul, Diodora's ashes a hollow victory, and the Gacha System's silence—its daily pull yielding nothing but a useless trinket of enchanted Nordic mead that did little more than warm his throat—only amplified the itch under his skin.
True Excalibur and Dragon Slayer rested in his Inventory, their hum a distant echo, while the Phoenix Force coiled restlessly in his veins, demanding release.
Rias had buried herself in peerage politics, negotiating the fragile alliances post-Kokabiel, leaving Issei adrift.
Sona Sitri, ever the strategist, had sensed his unrest during their stolen moments, her glasses fogging with unspoken worry.
Asia Argento lay in a deep, enchanted slumber in the guest wing, her blonde hair fanned across silk pillows, chest rising and falling in serene rhythm.
Akeno's subtle sleep spell, woven with threads of twilight magic, ensured she wouldn't stir; the nun's battles had worn her fragile, and rest was her only salve.
Issei had checked on her earlier, brushing a kiss to her forehead, but his touch had been gentle, brotherly—his rage too volatile for tenderness now.
Down the hall, in Sona's private sanctum, the air thrummed with eldritch residue, the scent of ozone and ancient ink heavy as Sona knelt before a circle of glowing runes etched into the marble floor.
She was a vision of poised vulnerability: her raven hair unbound, cascading like liquid night over her shoulders, her usual school uniform discarded for a simple black robe that clung to her lithe frame.
At nineteen, Sona Sitri was the epitome of calculated grace—sharp blue eyes behind rimless glasses, full lips pressed into a determined line, her body a study in elegant curves: pert breasts straining against the robe's silk, a narrow waist flaring to hips that promised both control and surrender.
An heir, his child, conceived in the heat of their Eternal Bond. Joy had flickered briefly, but reality crashed in: the looming threats of Vali, the Khaos Brigade's whispers, and her role as Sitri heiress demanded focus she couldn't spare for motherhood.
Not yet. Virginity, in the supernatural sense—her hymen intact through devilish arts, her body a vessel of untapped purity—had been her shield, a deliberate choice in their intimacies. But conception had pierced that veil.
"I am not ready," she whispered to the empty room, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. The eldritch spell, drawn from the forbidden Codex Umbrae, a tome of void-born incantations smuggled from the Underworld's archives, was her recourse.
It was no crude abortion; it was a flushing, a reversal of essence, drawing the nascent life back into the ether while restoring her body's pristine state. Her virginity would remain intact, the spell weaving time's threads to unmake the union without scar or sin.
Sona traced the final rune with a silver athame, her fingertip pricking to draw a bead of blood that sizzled on the stone. The circle ignited, shadows coiling like serpents from the edges, the air growing thick with the hum of otherworldly power.
She shed the robe, standing nude in the circle's heart, her skin glowing faintly under the runes' azure light.
Her body was flawless porcelain: small, firm breasts with dusky nipples pebbling in the chill draft, a flat stomach taut over the subtle swell that only she could sense—the faint curve where Issei's child had begun to root.
Between her thighs, her sex was a neat, untouched slit, lips plump and pink, untouched by the ravages of birth yet heavy with the seed's burden.
Sona closed her eyes, chanting in the tongue of elder voids: "Umbrae reversa, semina expulsa, virginitas aeterna—fiat lux in tenebris." The words twisted the air, shadows lashing out to caress her form like lover's hands, cool and insistent.
The spell took hold with a gasp from her lips. Tendrils of darkness slithered up her legs, parting her thighs with gentle insistence, coiling around her hips to probe the sacred core.
One shadow-phallus, ethereal and throbbing with void energy, pressed against her entrance—slick with her own reluctant arousal, the spell demanding lubrication of will.
It breached her slowly, stretching the tight ring of her virginity without tearing, a paradox of intrusion and preservation. Sona arched, a moan escaping as the tendril delved deep, kissing the cervix with pulsating warmth.
Inside, it stirred: the spark of life, Issei's draconic essence mingled with her devilish blood, quivered under the assault.
The shadows pulsed, flushing the seeds outward in a reverse tide—cum and embryonic fluid drawn forth in glistening rivulets, expelled from her womb in a gush that splattered the runes, steaming as it hit the floor.
Her body convulsed, waves of eldritch ecstasy crashing through her as the tendril thrust rhythmically, ensuring every drop was purged. Sona's hands clutched her breasts, pinching nipples to ground the pleasure-pain, her hips bucking involuntarily against the invading shadow.
"Out... all of it," she panted, feeling the swell in her belly recede, the warmth of conception cooling to nothingness. The tendril swelled, mimicking Issei's girth, pounding her depths to dislodge the last vestiges—ropes of spectral seed erupting within to wash away his, a counter-ritual of unmaking.
She came with a cry, her pussy clenching around the void, juices mingling with the flushed essence as it poured free, her virginity snapping back like an elastic thread, hymen reforming in a shimmer of magic.
The shadows withdrew, leaving her quivering, knees buckling as she collapsed into the circle's fading glow. Empty, intact, unburdened. Tears pricked her eyes—not regret, but resolve.
"Forgive me, my love," she murmured, knowing Issei would understand when the time came. For now, her body was hers again, ready to stand beside him unencumbered.
In the adjacent chamber, separated by wards that muffled sound and scent, Issei wrestled his own demons. Sona had excused herself for "preparations," leaving him with Raynare, Kalawarner, and Mittelt—the fallen angel trio, his devoted sirens, who had sensed his turmoil like sharks to blood.
The room was a den of indulgence: velvet drapes, a massive four-poster bed piled with furs, candles flickering shadows that danced like lovers.
Asia's sleep ward extended here too, a distant hum ensuring her rest remained unbroken. Issei paced, shirt unbuttoned to reveal the taut planes of his chest, Phoenix Force simmering in his eyes like embers.
"I need... this," he growled, the anger from Vali's taunt, from the system's betrayal, coiling tight.
Raynare, the raven-haired temptress with her lithe, athletic build and piercing violet eyes, stepped first, her black lingerie hugging curves honed for sin: full C-cup breasts spilling over lace, a narrow waist dipping to flared hips and long legs.
"Then take it, our dragon," she purred, pulling him to the bed. Kalawarner, the blue-haired bombshell with her voluptuous D-cups and hourglass figure, flanked him, her wings twitching with anticipation. Mittelt, the petite blonde with perky B-cups and a mischievous grin, completed the circle, her compact body radiating playful heat.
They were his outlets, his unjudging flames, and tonight, he would drown his rage in their flesh.
He started with Raynare, anger morphing to lust as he claimed her mouth. His hands cupped her face, thumbs tracing her high cheekbones, before his lips crashed against hers—soft at first, then demanding.
His tongue invaded, thick and insistent, sliding past her parted lips to tangle with hers in a wet, swirling dance. Raynare moaned into him, her tongue dueling back, slick and eager, tasting of dark cherries and devotion.
For twenty minutes, he devoured her: lips sucking her lower one, teeth grazing gently, tongue plunging deep to explore every crevice—the roof of her mouth, the sensitive undersides, coiling around hers in lazy spirals that built to frenzied thrusts mimicking his cock's rhythm.
Saliva trailed between them when he pulled back for breaths, only to dive in again, his free hand roaming her back, wings fluttering against his touch.
Raynare's body melted, knees weakening, her nipples hardening visibly through lace as his kiss drained her resistance, leaving her panting, lips swollen and glistening.
Kalawarner next, her full lips yielding to his assault with a gasp. Issei's tongue was relentless, spearing into her warmth, lapping at her teeth before curling against hers in a possessive embrace.
Twenty minutes blurred: slow, sensual licks tracing her inner cheeks, then rapid flicks that made her whimper, her tongue chasing his in desperate swirls.
He sucked her tongue into his mouth, nursing it like a delicacy, saliva dripping down her chin as she ground against his thigh, wings enveloping them in a feathered cocoon.
Her taste was salt and storm, her moans vibrating through him, fueling his fire until she trembled, on the edge without a single touch below.
Mittelt's turn was playful at first, her smaller mouth stretching around his invading tongue, but Issei deepened it, twenty minutes of unyielding exploration: his tongue fucking hers in shallow pumps, then delving to stroke the back of her throat, making her gag softly before she relaxed into the rhythm.
She sucked back greedily, nipping his lip, their tongues wrestling in a slick, heated knot that left strings of spit connecting them when he surfaced for air.
Her petite frame quivered, hands fisting his hair, the kiss turning her mischief to molten need.
Sated on mouths, Issei turned to their breasts, stripping lace away to bare pale, perfect globes. Raynare's C-cups were firm handfuls, nipples dark and erect like chocolate peaks. He latched onto the left first, mouth engulfing the areola in a wet seal, tongue swirling the bud in tight circles while suction pulled it deep.
Twenty minutes per breast: alternating sides, his lips tugging rhythmically, teeth grazing edges to elicit sharp gasps, his free hand kneading the other mound, thumb flicking the twin peak.
Raynare arched, fingers threading his hair, milk-white skin flushing as he hummed vibrations against her flesh, sucking until her nipples throbbed, hypersensitive and glistening with his saliva.
Kalawarner's D-cups overflowed his palms, heavy and buoyant, her pale pink nipples begging. He buried his face between them, motorboating briefly before capturing one, sucking with voracious pulls that hollowed his cheeks, tongue lashing the tip in figure-eights.
Twenty minutes each: lavish attention, lips stretching wide to encompass as much as possible, his teeth nibbling the areola's edge while his hand massaged the underside, rolling the breast like sacred fruit.
She cried out, back bowing, the suction drawing phantom milk from her core, her body slick with sweat as he worshipped, leaving bite marks like constellations.
Mittelt's perky B-cups were pert handfuls, nipples tiny and rosy. Issei suckled gently at first, tongue cradling the bud before ramping to fervent pulls, twenty minutes per side: his mouth a vacuum of pleasure, swirling and flicking while pinching the opposite nipple between fingers.
She squirmed, giggling turning to moans, her small breasts heaving under his assault, skin pebbling as he nursed, the intimacy raw and consuming.
Finally, their stomachs—exposed canvases of soft flesh. Raynare's was toned, navel a deep, inviting oval.
Issei laid her back, lips descending to kiss the smooth plane, tongue dipping into the navel for twenty minutes of delving worship: circling the rim with feather-light laps, then plunging deep, fucking the sensitive hollow with wet thrusts, his hands splaying over her sides to hold her steady.
She writhed, the ticklish intimacy igniting her core, his tongue exploring every ridge inside, saliva pooling in the dimple.
Kalawarner's belly was softer, navel a shallow cup. He kissed broadly, tongue bathing the skin in broad strokes before zeroing in—twenty minutes of probing, swirling counterclockwise, then clockwise, sucking the navel like a mini-clit, his breath hot against her quivering abs.
She panted, hips lifting, the deep kisses sending jolts straight to her sex.
Mittelt's stomach was flat and youthful, navel a pert button. Issei's tongue assaulted it for twenty minutes: teasing licks around the edge, then deep, swirling penetrations that made her squeal, his lips sealing to suckle the indentation, drawing out gasps as if claiming her womb through skin.
By the end, the angels lay spent, bodies marked by his lust, Issei's anger quenched in their surrender.
Sona returned then, robe loose, her secret flushed away, joining them in quiet afterglow. Asia slept on, oblivious, as the night wove its healing threads.