Chapter 9: The Succubus's Claim
The Waldorf suite was a cathedral of silent luxury, high above the city’s pulse. Scott Summers knelt on the cold marble floor, the plush silk of the chaise lounge brushing his bare shoulder. His glasses were folded neatly on a side table. He didn’t need them here. In this room, with her, there was nothing to control, nothing to fear.
Morrigan’s fingers trailed through his short-cropped hair, a possessive, gentle rhythm. She lounged above him, a vision of decadence against the crimson silk, her pale skin luminous in the low light. Her great wings, leathery and vast, were half-spread in a relaxed canopy.
“You have done so well, my dear Scott,” she murmured, her voice a honeyed smoke that coiled in the air. “All those walls. All that control. Lifted away, just for me.” She applied subtle pressure, guiding his head lower. “Show me your gratitude.”
He obeyed without thought, without the internal struggle that had characterized every moment of his life until now. His lips met the arch of her bare foot. He kissed the cool skin there, a reverent touch. He moved to her ankle, his mouth tracing the delicate bone. Each kiss was a silent vow, a brick removed from the monument of Scott Summers, X-Man.
“Higher,” she whispered, a playful command.
He kissed the taut curve of her calf, the sensitive hollow behind her knee. His hands, those steady hands that had guided teams, calibrated optic blasts, held Jean’s face, now trembled as they slid up the impossibly smooth skin of her thighs. He nuzzled the soft inner flesh, breathing in her scent—night-blooming jasmine and something deeper, metallic, like ozone after a storm.
“You may taste me,” she said, her tone casually magnanimous, as if granting him a kingdom.
He needed no further permission. He buried his face between her legs, his broad shoulders pushing her thighs apart. She was already glistening, her folds swollen and parted. Her sex was a dark, pink promise. He licked a slow, flat stripe from her entrance to her clit.
Morrigan gasped, a genuinely surprised little sound, and her fingers tightened in his hair. “Oh, yes. Just like that. The famous Cyclops… on his knees… his tongue in a demon’s pussy.”
Her words, filthy and direct, sent a jolt through him. He redoubled his efforts. This was a task he could perfect. He fucked her with his tongue, dipping deep to drink the tangy-sweet fluid from her core, then circling her clit with tight, focused precision. He learned her rhythm quickly, attuning himself to her breathy sighs, the twitch of her thighs, the way her hips began a subtle roll against his mouth.
“Use your fingers,” she panted. “Fill me up.”
He slid two fingers inside her, crooking them upward. She was tight, scalding hot, her inner walls clenching around the intrusion. He worked them in and out, matching the rhythm of his tongue, scissoring them, seeking the spot that would—
“There!” she cried out, back arching off the chaise. “Right there, you perfect, devoted boy. Rub it.”
He pressed the pad of his fingers firmly against that spongy ridge, fucking her with steady, deep punches while his tongue lashed her clit. Her moans lost all melody, becoming raw, guttural sounds. One of her hands left his hair to grasp her own breast, pinching a pale nipple hard.
“I’m going to come all over your obedient face,” she growled. “Do you want that? Do you want to drink a succubus dry?”
He groaned against her, the vibration making her shriek. The sound of his submission, his eager, wordless assent, tipped her over.
Her climax crashed through her. Her thighs clamped around his head, her pussy pulsing violently around his fingers, a flood of wet heat coating his chin and tongue. He drank it down, worshipping at the source, until her convulsions subsided and her body went boneless against the silk.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing. Then she pushed him back gently. He looked up, her essence glistening on his lips, his eyes wide and pleading.
“On the bed,” she said, standing in one fluid motion. She led him by the hand to the vast expanse of the bed, its sheets black satin. “On your back.”
He lay down. The view was dizzying—the city glittered beyond the windows, and above him, Morrigan loomed, her wings now fully extended, blocking out the skyline. The intricate, bat-like tattoo over his heart—her brand, burned into him hours before in a frenzy of passion—began to throb with a faint, internal light.
She turned, presenting him with the exquisite curve of her back, the dramatic flare of her hips. She lowered herself onto him, not facing him, but taking him inside her from behind. Reverse cowgirl. He cried out as he sheathed himself in her hot, soaked channel once more. The angle was deeper, more claiming.
“Watch,” she commanded over her shoulder, her crimson eyes glowing. “Watch yourself disappear inside me.”
He looked down, mesmerized. His cock, slick with her and his own precum, plunged into the tight, gripping darkness of her body. With each slow, deliberate rise and fall of her hips, he saw it vanish, then reappear, glistening. It was obscene. It was beautiful. It was the only thing that mattered.
Her wings folded forward, enveloping them in a private, shadowy world of leathery membrane and her overpowering scent. The tattoo on his chest flared brighter, a sympathetic echo to each thrust.
“You feel so much better than duty,” she moaned, rolling her hips in a filthy circle. “So much hotter than responsibility.” She reached between her own legs, her fingers finding her clit, rubbing hard as she fucked herself on his length. “Your wife… does she let you take her like this? Does she let you be an animal?”
Jean. The name was a ghost, a faint echo from a sealed room in his mind. He saw a flash of red hair, a smile that felt like a reproach. It caused a reflex, a spasm of guilt.
Morrigan felt him tense inside her. She slammed down hard, impaling herself to the hilt, and his guilt shattered into pure sensation.
“No,” she hissed, grinding against him. “She doesn’t. She wants the leader. The hero. I want the man. The fucking man.” She began to ride him in earnest now, a brutal, rising pace, her ass slapping against his thighs. “Give it to me. Give me everything you’ve locked away.”
He broke. A dam of a lifetime burst.
His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into her pale flesh hard enough to bruise. He met her, thrust for thrust, pounding up into her from below. The bed rocked. The headboard hammered the wall in a steady, frantic rhythm.
“Whose are you?” she screamed, her composure unraveling into pure carnal need.
“Yours!” he roared.
“Who do you serve?”
“You! Fuck, Morrigan, only you!”
Her orgasm took her like a seizure. She threw her head back, a raw, shattering scream tearing from her throat as her pussy clamped down on him, a vise of pulsating velvet. The sight and feel of it, the utter abandonment of this ancient, powerful creature, was his undoing.
He erupted. His release was not a spill, but a conquest. He came in deep, scalding jets, filling her, claiming her even as she claimed him. It felt infinite, like his optic blasts channeled inward, a torrent of light and heat and surrender. He shook, his vision whiting out, every muscle locked.
The bat tattoo on his chest blazed like a brand new star, then settled into a permanent, warm glow.
She collapsed forward, her wings shivering, then relaxing. She slowly turned, still impaled, to lie atop him, her face buried in his neck. They were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged harmony. She purred, a deep, supernatural vibration that resonated in his very bones.
Her lips brushed his ear. “You’re mine, pet. Forever.”
And he was. The last fragment of Scott Summers, husband to Jean Grey, leader of the X-Men, dissolved into the satin sheets. What remained was hers. A perfect, devoted emptiness.
Across the city, in a clock tower, Felicia stirred in Peter’s arms, sensing the second bond lock into permanence. In a cluttered Queens apartment, Mary Jane Watson woke from a fitful sleep, her heart aching from a loss she could not yet name. The anchors were set. The door between worlds was wedged open, now, by two beating, stolen hearts.