#Historical Content | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ccazimi · 3 months ago

Text

The Contendings

cw: incest (sister!reader x brother!sukuna), noncon/dubcon, ancient egyptian mythology au, period typical sexism, blood/violence/gore, degradation, angst/tragedy, purposeful intoxication, coercion, oral (fem receiving), piv sex, creampie, etc., DDDNE wc: 8.1k a/n: so. this is kind of based on the myth of horus and set - in this story, reader plays the role of horus and sukuna plays the role of set

songs i listened to while writing:

the world is not enough - garbage

push the limits - enigma

You suppose you were created to be Sukuna’s antithesis from the very beginning.

He is the desert storm—violent, chaotic, unrelenting. You are the sky left in its wake, all sunlight and silence, casting light where he once tore through.

So perhaps, when he finally did the unthinkable—murdering your parents to seize the throne—it was inevitable that you’d end up here, shaped by nothing but the need to oppose him.

And despite the blood he spilled in his lust for power, the Great Ennead did not strike him down. They couldn’t.

Because it’s true: Sukuna—merciless, monstrous, insatiable—was the only god fierce enough to stand at the prow of Ra’s boat and face the serpent each night.

Without him, the sun would not rise.

And so, his destruction became divine necessity. His violence, a pillar of balance.

And you?

You never asked to be here, never wanted to stand as his rival.

Because despite the blood he’s shed, he was, once, your older brother. The one you admired as a child, the one who taught you how to fight.

He made you what you are, made you his equal whether you ever wanted it or not.

Yet fate had it so that in the end, you were reduced to your existence as a woman. And on that fact alone, the so-called ‘Great’ Ennead of Heliopolis hesitated.

Because how could a woman be king? And it was a king, they claimed, that Egypt needed to flourish.

Sukuna’s sin was a divide patricide and matricide, while yours was your femineity. He tore the world apart for a chance to sit at the table, and you were made to bleed for simply daring to sit beside him.

Numerous trials and proceedings just to deliberate over this—all culminating in a competition between you and Sukuna—who could last the longest underwater within the Nile River.

Three days of slipping in and out of consciousness, drowning in those murky depths where the water felt like the belly of the world itself, suffocating and closing in on your lungs. Nothing existed except his blood-red eyes, glowing like the hellfire of some ancient beast, watching, waiting beneath the surface.

But tensions had been rising long before this. The debate had gone on for so long because no one could agree. Some of the Ennead still believed Sukuna, with his raw chaos and brutal force, was meant to inherit the kingship, while others—like Shu and Tefnut—insisted you, the righteous daughter, the rightful heir, should rule Egypt.

When the copper harpoon pierced the murky waters, sinking deep into Sukuna’s flesh, and the river ran red with his blood, you knew without a doubt that someone had grown impatient and made their choice. It was one of the gods, you imagined, growing desperate as they watched Sukuna fight the current, staring those glowing eyes into the darkness as if the river could be conquered by will alone.

Three days of drowning just for that competition to be annulled because of tensions. How exhausted, enraged, frustrated you were when you’d learned that another sort of competition would have to be held — especially since you were sure you had a good chance of winning.

In your rage, you stalked off West, leaving the gods to bicker among themselves, seeking reprieve from the tangle of emotions threatening to choke you.

Soon enough, you came across it.

Waves of gold and bone-white sand stretched out like something alive, the very landscape seeming to breathe. And there, rising from the earth as though summoned by some unseen hand, was the oasis. It shimmered before your eyes, unreal and green, like something out of a dream.

A cluster of date palms swayed in the hot wind, their long, thin fronds casting graceful, almost hypnotic shadows on the ground, like dancers caught in a moment too perfect to last.

The pool of water below them was so still it seemed a part of the sky, glinting under the oppressive sun like liquid glass. It smelled faintly of minerals, and life—distant and ancient, like the memory of something lost.

Birds nested in the palms, their calls soft and muted as if hesitant to disturb the peace. Tiny insects buzzed lazily over desert flowers that seemed to bloom just for this place, their delicate petals swaying gently in the breeze.

Here, the earth was darker, fertile in a way the desert had long since forgotten. Reeds and grasses grew thick around the water’s edge, some trampled under the soft prints of foxes or jackals that came to drink at dusk. The air was cooler here, quieter, thick with the scent of dates, salt, dust, and something sweet.

It was a fragment of paradise.

So, under the shade of a date palm tree, you lay down to rest.

Just a second to escape it all.

The weight of your parents gone, their lives ripped from you by the one person you had always trusted—your brother.

You try to recall the days before the bloodshed, the times when you had convinced yourself that they were away, tending to some business, something important. You had been worried, of course, but you asked Sukuna and he told you it was fine, assured you they were likely attending to something important, that all was well.

It was only when you found fragments of their butchered bodies—your mother’s severed hand, your father’s disfigured nose—floating down the Nile, the very river that had once been a lifeline, that you started to piece together the truth.

The truth you had been so blind to, the truth that had never let you see him for what he truly was.

But right now? You rest. Soon enough the idyllic atmosphere of the oasis lulls you off into a calm, dreamless sleep.

You awake to pain, sharp and stinging across your cheek, your eyes opening to find Sukuna above you, his face contorted in rage.

A gaping wound mars his side, the linen of his kilt stained red from the spear he must have had to pull out himself.

He grabs you by the collar of your dress, shaking you violently as his breath hisses through clenched teeth.

“You fucking bitch. You goddamn cheater—” he spits, his words venomous.

“I had no idea, I didn’t fucking ask anyone to do that! You think I’m scared to take on you myself, Sukuna?” you yell back, thrashing beneath his grip, feeling the soft grasses beneath you being crushed under the violence of his rage.

He sneers, his grip tightening. “Wretched, shitty fucking sister. Why won’t you just accept your goddamn place?” His eyes burn with an intensity that’s almost palpable. “You? Fit to be a ruler? The land needs someone strong, someone willing to spill blood and get their hands dirty—”

He shakes you again, his teeth bared like a wild animal. “Not some stupid, righteous ass bitch who’s too blinded by her ideals of ‘good.’”

The words hit like a punch to your gut, but before you can retort, he leans in closer, his breath hot against your face. You can feel the weight of his eyes, flitting about in anger as if searching for something to destroy. The collar around his neck flashes in the midday sun, the gold carnelian stones catching the light. It almost burns in its brilliance, as if a symbol of his twisted arrogance.

“Egypt needs a man,” he growls, the words spat like acid. “Not a dickless woman to guide it.”

His voice dips lower. “Do you hear that, sister? You’re just a little girl with ideals. And you know what? It makes you weak. Weak.”

His height and strength to tower over you, trapping you in the shadow of his rage, and soon his hand moves from your collar to the back of your neck, fingers digging into your skin, pulling you towards him.

“You were always so perfect in their eyes, weren’t you?” he taunts, his voice low and dangerous. “So pure—so fucking untainted—but that's not what this land needs. The gods don’t want some innocent little girl playing queen. They want a king. Someone who knows how to take what they want.” He leans in closer, his lips just grazing your ear. “Someone like me.”

The words feel like daggers, the way they cut through the fragile remnants of your self-worth.

“You think you’re fit to rule? Hah.” He scoffs, his grip on your neck tightening just enough to remind you of his power. “You’re not a king. And you never will be. You’re just a fucking woman with delusions of grandeur.”

His body presses into yours in a twisted mockery of intimacy, and every word is like a blow to your chest, one that’s impossible to block.

His eyes never leave yours, full of anger, of jealousy, of a deep-seated need to tear you down. And in that moment, you feel something shift—something cold and terrifying. You are no longer just his rival —you are his target.

"Do you get it now?" His voice is a low rasp. "You don’t get to be the one they admire. I am the one who will rule this land. Not you. Never you."

You can feel his fingers digging into your skin, his grip tightening with every word, and your pulse quickens with the panic that rises in your throat.

And the bile, the disdain, the bitter resentment you hold for him flows from the tip of your tongue as you stare him dead in the eyes.

“You should be glad that they annulled that competition because of someone else’s interference," you hiss, your voice sharp with venom. "Without it, they would’ve seen you lose to me, without any fucking excuse."

There’s a momentary calm, an unsettling stillness as he just stares back at you, silent and unreadable. His hands lock around your face with sickening force, and then—

Pain.

Henna-stained claws dig into your right eye first, the agony so intense it clouds your mind. For a split second, your vision goes completely red, and the world is swallowed by a violent haze. There’s a horrid squishing, squelching sound as he digs deeper, and fire bursts through every delicate nerve in your eye, making you scream, shriek, thrash under his hold.

The pain seems endless, the air thick with it. For a second, there’s just him, and the sharp, unbearable pressure.

And then half of your vision goes black.

Plop.

One of your eyes is thrown on the ground, splattering against the grass like a plucked fruit, turning the vibrant green into something sickening and red.

Your screams are raw now, desperate. But he's beyond rage. His fury has cooled into something worse— a detached, calculated cruelty. This isn't about justice anymore, or any twisted concept of right.

There is one goal here, and that goal is breaking you.

You, the only one who could ever challenge him. His only equal.

His voice is flat and detached as if he's already moved past any semblance of empathy. As if he’s done this before, as if it's nothing personal. Even as chaos rages around you, the blood rushing to your head, the heat of the desert sun scorching your skin, Sukuna’s presence is chillingly calm. His bloodied claws dig into your second eye. "I’ll take your eyes. I’ll take everything. You were never meant to challenge me."

You scream again, but it’s different now—please, just stop Sukuna, I’m your sister—the words barely form, the panic choking you as your face twists in agony. Your body jerks with the instinctive will to escape, but it’s futile. The world is consumed by pain, your mind reeling, each second lasting an eternity.

Then—nothing.

He leaves you there, your cries echoing, but fading into the soft rustle of the palm trees above you. The oasis is no longer an oasis., nothing more than a mirage.

It’s an emptiness so complete, so suffocating, that it steals away everything you were holding onto. There’s no darkness, no light. There’s nothing at all.

And you’re alone, under the palm tree. Blood running down your face, dripping into the earth that once seemed alive with peace.

Only the sound of your ragged, broken breaths fills the nothingness.

In the relentless heat of the desert, the world has never felt so cold.

You don’t know how long you’ve been lying there, crumpled in the sand, crying, screaming — drowning in the void where your vision once was.

Sukuna takes. It’s all he knows.

The most painful part is that despite your rivalry, despite the fact that he orphaned you, you would never do this to him. You would never mutilate him like this.

And then you hear it.

Soft footsteps in the sand — gentle, even, like something divine. The faint smell of incense, the warmth of her presence wrapping around you like an embrace.

Hathor.

She’s merciful, pitying you. With her hands, she catches a gazelle, milks it, and kneels beside you.

“Uncover your face,” she commands softly.

Warm milk drips onto your wounds, and instantly, the pain begins to dull.

“Open your eyes,” she says, a quiet command.

You do, though your swollen, torn lids barely lift — revealing the hollow, empty sockets underneath. With delicate hands, she pours more milk into them, running into the raw flesh, and you feel the sting of it, like a faint echo of life.

The nothingness is gone, and though you blink, the world is still dimmed — but before you, her face: a serene mask of compassion, golden headdress catching the sun’s dying light.

It’s a miracle. You have your eyes back, but no magic can repair what’s truly broken within you.

The taste of his cruelty, the memory of his hands ripping into your face, lingers on your tongue like bitter ash.

When Hathor returns to the encampment and tells the Ennead what Sukuna has done to you, the ruling is immediate. He is disqualified for violating sacred conduct — his assault is seen as a disgrace not only to the competition, but to the gods themselves.

Ra summons you both before the assembly. You stand in the golden light of dusk, your wounds still fresh beneath the miracle of Hathor’s healing, while Sukuna stands opposite you, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“This feud ends now,” Ra declares, voice echoing like thunder through the gathering. “The throne belongs to you, daughter of Osiris.”

A hush falls over the gods. The battle is over.

But Ra is not done. His gaze hardens. “For the sake of Ma’at, balance must be restored. The war between you must cease. And to prove it—” his eyes flick between the two of you, “—you will share a tent tonight. There are many gods, not enough shelter. Let this be a symbol of peace between siblings.”

You want to protest, you want to scream. But before you can speak, Sukuna gives a small, sharp smile.

“Of course,” he says smoothly. “We’re family, after all.”

He looks right at you when he says it, eyes gleaming like blood in the light.

The celebration of the feud’s resolution begins at sunset.

The sun has long slipped beneath the horizon, but the desert air still hums with warmth as the banquet begins. Beneath a canopy of linen and woven reeds, the gods gather in finery—lapis and turquoise glint at their throats, sheer linen robes perfumed with rare oils, gold flashing in the firelight.

At the entrance to the pavilion, basins filled with warm water and aromatics are set out—infused with blue lotus, crushed jasmine petals, and moringa blossoms. Attendants pour it over the hands of each guest, steam curling upward like incense, purifying and sweet.

Perfumed cones of scented fat—jasmine, blue lotus, and blossoms of myrrh—rest atop the heads of revelers, slowly melting in the heat, releasing their fragrance in soft trails of smoke. Lilies are handed out, and the air thickens with the rich sweetness of flowers, clinging to skin and linen like a second perfume.

Musicians play—low, slow notes from harps and flutes, tambourines trembling like windchimes in the desert breeze. Dancers move barefoot on the sand, anklets chiming, their hair braided with golden thread. Low tables are spread with roasted fowl, honey-glazed dates, pomegranate seeds like rubies in alabaster bowls. Jars of dark, spiced wine are passed from hand to hand, their scent mingling with cinnamon and thyme.

But you taste none of it.

On Ra’s orders you sit by Sukuna, on finely crafted linen cushions atop a thick, embroidered mat that separates you from the dusty earth beneath.

Sukuna lounges with a casual air, his legs stretched out on a cushion, dressed in his finest— the large gold wesekh with carnelians against his throat like drops of blood, golden cuffs on his arms and wrists, the girdle draped around his hips holding the soft linen kilt. He holds a cup of wine, sipping and watching dancers with those sharp eyes rimmed with kohl as dark as the tattoos that adorn his body, looking like every bit of the god that he is.

You suppose you must look the part too — winged kohl lining your malachite powdered eyes, lips painted a deep ochre, your linen dress falling around you and cinched at the waist by the beaded girdle, accented by your gold jewelry, the wesekh around your neck inlaid with deep blue lapis lazulis — a direct contrast to Sukuna’s fiery carnelians.

Then Sukuna claps his hands once, sharp, commanding. “Bring us something worth watching,” he drawls, eyes never leaving yours. “My sister and I have earned it.”

Dancers appear moments later — veiled, gliding like whispers across the sand, golden bangles clinking faintly as they move. They sway their hips in time to the music, spinning in slow, sinuous circles, bodies glowing in the torchlight.

“Relax,” Sukuna says, nudging your cup closer to you. “Why so tense? You’ve won, haven’t you?” He leans in, voice low and smooth like honey over steel. “There’s no need to be afraid of your own brother.”

His smile is all teeth.

You refuse to look at him as you reply coldly, “You tore out my fucking eyes. ‘My own brother.’”

He only grins wider, laughing softly. “My apologies, sister. I got… carried away. But you did get your pretty little eyes back, didn’t you?”

He moves closer. You instinctively shrink back, but his hand wraps around your waist, pulling you in.

“And you got the throne, too. So relax,” he says, lifting his own cup to your wine-stained lips. “Drink a little more. For tonight, let me just be your big brother.”

You’re still stiff, your body pressed against his sun-warmed skin.

But you did win. So you part your lips just enough for the rim of the cup, letting him pour the wine into your mouth.

“There you go,” he murmurs, feeling you begin to soften against him. “My good little sister…”

The wine seeps into your veins as the sweet incense and rhythmic music lull your mind into a haze.

Just for a second, you let yourself forget the crown, the violence, the mutilation.

Just for a second, you are not the Daughter of Osiris. You are only Sukuna’s younger sister.

After all—despite it all—he’s the only one you have left.

You finish drinking, and he lifts the cup away, passing it to an attendant for a refill before settling deeper into the cushions—pulling you with him.

“Remember when we were younger?” he asks, almost wistful. His hand skims your waist, nails brushing softly along the cloth, a gesture that might’ve once been fond. “The way you used to look at me—all wide-eyed, like I was your protector.”

His fingers trail lower, resting on your hip. “You followed me everywhere. Mother and Father used to call you my tail.”

At the mention of them, your throat tightens as you reply tightly, “You don’t get to speak of them.”

He laughs, soft and mocking. “Why not? I killed them, didn’t I? Surely that makes them mine to remember however I please.”

You breathe deeply, chest rising with the effort of not crying. The stinging behind your eyes only sharpens your voice. “Don’t… I can’t do this. Not with you. Not—”

You push against his chest, trying to get up. “Not after what you’ve done.”

“Now, now, sister,” he croons, yanking you back down into his side. “Wouldn’t want to upset Ra, would you?”

Tears well in your eyes, blurring your vision as you refuse to look at him.

Sukuna sighs, caressing your cheek before gently turning your face to him. “Do you think I’m evil because of what I did to them? I didn’t have a choice. You know that.”

You shake your head. “No, no I don’t know that brother. Of course you had a choice.”

“I never wanted to be the monster you think I am.” His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing along your lips. “I did it for us to rule together. I thought…maybe you’d understand. Maybe you’d want it too.”

You look at him incredulously through your glossy eyes. “Want it? Why would I ever want that?!”

Sukuna sighs again but this time it’s a bit harsher, like he’s getting exasperated. The hand on you hip tightens a bit as he presses his thumb into your mouth. “Father and mother didn’t have what it takes to rule. They never had the power to turn this land into what it can really be. So much potential, wasted.”

You watch him silently, brows pulling together a bit when the look on his face changes, eyes shifting to something like sparks in the fire.

“They did do one thing right, though…” he murmurs.

You peek up at him through your lashes, feeling warm all over, perhaps not just from the alcohol.

“And what’s that?” you whisper.

“They made you…” His hands dip lower as he gazes at you with that sultry look in his eyes. “And this perfect body.” He leans forward, hand finally trail down to settle on your rear. “Have I ever told you what a lovely ass you have, sister?” He abruptly gives your butt a sharp squeeze.

You stiffen, shame burning hot across your face as a soft, involuntary sound escapes your throat. You hate the way he smirks at it.

You try to pull away again, but his grip holds fast, fingers splayed possessively over your flesh.

"Don't touch me like that," you whisper, but your voice trembles—too thin, too breathless to carry the weight you want it to.

Sukuna leans in closer, nose brushing along the curve of your cheek, his breath warm with wine and smoke. "You didn’t seem to mind a moment ago," he murmurs, the words dripping with mock affection.

The attendant returns silently, head bowed, presenting the freshly filled cup of wine in both hands. Sukuna takes it without a word, his fingers brushing the rim as he turns back to you, expression unreadable.

“Thirsty, little sister?” he asks, voice syrupy and low.

You don’t answer. Your lips are still parted slightly from the last time he touched you, the warmth of his hand lingering on your skin like the fading sting of a bruise. But the moment your eyes meet his, the glint behind them gives you away—fear, confusion, a flicker of something darker.

He smiles again.

“Drink,” he says, the cup already at your lips, the sweet scent of spiced wine thick in your nose. “It’ll help you relax. We still have the whole night ahead.”

You hesitate, breath hitching as your gaze drops to the cup, then flicks back to him. He’s waiting. Expecting. His other hand still rests heavy on your body, fingers drumming lightly as if keeping time with the music, a quiet reminder of who’s in control here.

Your body tenses… then loosens. Just enough to part your lips. The wine flows into your mouth—rich and heady, cinnamon and sun-ripened fruit, darker than blood.

You swallow.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, tipping the cup higher, making you take a second, deeper drink before pulling it away with a satisfied hum. “See? Much better.”

The alcohol burns slightly on the way down, but it also dulls the edge of the terror thrumming in your chest. The haze thickens, and for a brief moment you forget where you are. Who he is.

He pulls you closer again, your back pressed to his chest now, the cup held lazily in his hand. His breath brushes your ear.

Your mind muddles further, confusion, shame, anger, affection and desire pulsing through you all at once.

Because part of you remembers the boy you’d followed like a shadow as a child, who’d carried you through reeds on his back, who smiled like the sun itself lived in his chest. Part of you still sees him in there under the blood, gold, his chaos and perversions.

You shift slightly, realizing his hand is still splayed across your rear.

“Sukuna,” you breathe nervously, uncertain about anything right now.

You try to move his hand up from its inappropriate placement but he grips your flesh tighter.

“Hm? What’s the matter, sister?”

You tense at the question, blood thrumming in your ears. His tone is light—mocking, as always—but there’s an edge behind it, something darker curling beneath the surface like smoke.

“I told you not to touch me like that,” you say again, trying to make your voice firm. It only comes out soft.

Fragile.

He hums low in his throat, hand still firmly palming the curve of you. “You keep saying that,” he murmurs, “but your body doesn’t quite agree, does it?” His thumb strokes over the fabric of your wrap, slow, almost absentminded. “Or is it just the wine making you honest?”

You flinch, but the heat in your face betrays you. You hate that your body reacts at all—to the wine, the music, his warmth pressing behind you. You hate the way his presence scrapes against your memories, dredging up things you buried long ago.

“I haven’t changed,” he murmurs into your ear, as if reading your thoughts. “Not really. You just stopped looking.”

You swallow, feeling a certain hardness forming under his kilt, perfectly aware of what’s happening right now, caught in it. Yet you don’t resist, not really.

Unsure.

Torn.

Your brother’s potent sexual appetite is well-known, a characteristic of his that adds to his reputation of chaos, sin, and darkness.

“I was never looking” you want to protest. But maybe the alcohol isn’t letting you hide from uncomfortable truths anymore — there’s always been a sort of tension between you, one that’s only grown as you both became older.

His lips twitch, amused at the emotions warring on your face, before skimming his fingers upwards along your leg. “Or maybe… you tried. How successful has that been, sister?”

You don’t answer, you don’t have to.

He sees it—drinks it from the flicker of emotion in your eyes, the way your thighs press ever so slightly together, the way your shoulders tense and then slacken, like surrender dressed up as fatigue.

Your head swims in a haze of heat, the thick scents of incense and perfumes — resinous, floral, sweet, redolent in the air, but deceptively so with a certain bitterness underneath, like something sacred that’s rotting away. Time is melting at the edges, and somewhere beyond in the large expanse of the desert stars twinkle over ancient truths, yet here in this circle of shadow and perfume and indulgence, there’s only you and him.

Only the now.

Sukuna leans down, brushing his nose along your temple, lips grazing your skin without ever really kissing it.

“Come,” he says, voice saccharine sweet.

A single word. A command cloaked in gentleness.

He rises from the cushions and offers you a hand—not rough, not demanding, just… expectant.

You stare at his hand for a moment, hesitating.

And then you take it, fingers intertwining with his as he helps you to your feet, the ground swaying a bit underneath them.

He leads you through the dark, past the veil of hanging beads that shimmer like bones, past attendants who bow without looking up.

The tent is not far, but it feels like you walk forever. The moonlight bathes the sand in silver, and the torches flicker like dying stars. Your heart beats like a war drum in your chest.

You finally arrive, passing through the parted flaps of the tent. The inside is rich with silks and shadows, oil lamps casting golden light over thick furs and gilded ornaments. It smells like rosewater and something deeper—metallic, almost coppery. The smell of old blood beneath perfume.

He guides you in.

The tent flap falls shut like the seal of a tomb and the air shifts immediately—warmer, heavier, laced with incense, myrrh, and the faint animalic musk of fur and smoke. Outside, the celebration dulls to a ghostly thrum.

In here, there is no music. No sound at all, save for the soft crunch of sand underfoot and your breathing—too fast, too shallow.

Your vision tilts as though the floor beneath you has changed shape. Before you can protest, your knees give, and you collapse onto a bed of cushions. They swallow you whole—thick, perfumed, decadently soft—exotic furs brushing against the backs of your thighs as your linen tunic rides up. Cool air grazes your exposed skin, but you feel flushed, burning from the inside out.

You look up at him through lidded eyes, your head swimming. The wine sloshes inside your stomach like something alive. You don’t feel drunk—you feel poisoned.

Sacredly, intimately, poisoned.

He stands above you, quiet. Watching. His silhouette haloed by the flickering oil lamps that make everything shimmer—walls, skin, memories.

Too much. It’s too much.

Nothing has happened, but it’s too much.

Your body feels like it’s floating wrong—limbs light, head heavy, the edges of your mind curling inward like paper in fire.

“I’m sleepy,” you murmur softly.

He kneels beside you.

The motion is slow, deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment before striking. The warmth of his body presses against the cool of the cushions, the space between you charged with something utterly sinful.

His fingers brush the loose strands of your hair back from your face, tender, a strange sort of gentleness in his touch. His thumb skims over your cheekbone, his voice a murmur, smooth and low, “Sleepy, sister?”

You nod lazily, the exhaustion in your body making you feel like you’re sinking deeper into the cushions, deeper into the fuzziness of the wine. His hand travels lower, tracing the curve of your jaw, a gesture too soft for the man you know him to be.

For a brief second, you think it’s genuine. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the haze around your mind, but his touch is soothing—comforting, even. You almost let yourself close your eyes and sink into it, but then his grip tightens around your wrist, pulling you back to the present, to him.

"You won’t sleep yet." His voice is calm, but there’s an edge beneath it, like the steady pull of a rope around your chest. “Not until you understand.”

You blink, the words unclear, the room tilting again. But you can’t tell if it's the wine or his gaze that makes your pulse quicken. He shifts, moving to straddle the cushions beside you, looming over you like a shadow. The scent of wine and smoke clings to his skin, intoxicating you further.

His fingers dip beneath the fabric of your tunic, fingertips brushing the exposed skin of your thigh, a trail of heat left in their wake. The gentle, almost affectionate touch makes your stomach lurch—some part of you wants to pull away, but the alcohol and the weight of your exhaustion make you too heavy to move, too willing to stay.

"I know you’re confused," he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “You’ve always been confused—but you’ll understand soon enough.”

Your body stiffens, dread rising in your chest like something sharp, but before you can voice your protest, his other hand is gently cupping your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

“Just relax, little sister. Relax, and trust me.”

You want to shout at him, tell him that this is wrong—that he’s wrong—but your voice catches in your throat. The words seem so distant, so irrelevant in the face of the suffocating pressure in the air. You don’t want to feel this, but you do.

"You always wanted to trust me, didn’t you?" He smiles, a cold, knowing smile that twists at the corners of his lips. "You always followed me, always looked up to me."

His words echo in your mind, fragments of the past slipping through the fog. The boy you followed. The brother you trusted. But you know now—he’s no protector. He’s everything they say he is.

You shiver, but it isn’t from cold.

You try to pull away, shaking your head as your breath hitches.

"Stop," you whisper hoarsely, but even your voice seems distant, swallowed by the heavy air of the tent. Your hands, trembling, push weakly against his chest, but the motion is futile.

He doesn’t budge. If anything, his grip tightens, steady and unwavering.

Sukuna’s eyes glint but his tone remains smooth, almost tender. "You’re the queen now, sister. The new queen of Egypt," he murmurs, almost coaxingly, as if the words themselves hold some sort of spell over you.

"Look at you." His fingers trace the line of your collarbone, like he’s memorizing you. "A queen should be revered, adored, …worshiped."

You close your eyes, a choked sob catching in your throat.

You want to argue. You want to tell him that this—this isn’t the kind of reverence you wanted, that this is a mockery of everything you’ve worked for. But it’s hard to find your voice, hard to even summon the strength to push back.

His hand moves lower, brushing against the curve of your breast, squeezing it slightly, and you suck in a sharp breath, heart racing. "You’ve earned your crown, sister," he repeats, as if that should somehow excuse everything. "And the crown must be honored... mustn’t it?"

You can’t find your words. You can’t even find your strength.

His fingers slide beneath the fabric of your tunic, the soft pressure of his touch spreading heat through your skin. And still, he coaxes, his voice a low hum in the back of your mind, urging you to let go, to surrender to the moment.

The tips of his fingers caress your inner thighs, and you twitch just slightly, suddenly feeling more and more unsure.

“I don’t know about this, brother,” you protest softly.

Then, you try and pull away from him.

Instantly, his hand clamps around your thigh, eyes swimming with something cold, and dangerous.

The feeling of being held down activates the panic that bubbles up through you and your eyes widen a bit, trying to thrash about. But your body is weighed down with alcohol, and all you do is flail futilely.

“Don’t worry. You’ll know soon enough,” he says calmly, before bunching the hem of your tunic.

You suck in a sharp breath, trying to crawl back away from him, but it’s too late, the cloth is yanked up, exposing your glistening sex to him.

“S-Sukuna!” you cry out, squirming as he just manhandles you effortlessly, laying down in the cushions and draping your legs over his broad shoulders.

“I’ll show you what it means to be a queen,” he murmurs lowly and then his mouth is on your inner thigh, kissing and biting as he makes his way up, ignoring your pleas for him to stop.

Suddenly a new sensation shoots up your spine — his tongue on your folds, licking a strip across your clit.

“Oh!” you squeak, instinctively trying to jerk your hips away as he begins lapping at your cunt with the most lewd noises.

You want to tell him to stop again, but with the alcohol in your veins and his tongue on your clit, the words fall away in favor of a breathy moan.

He hums against your slit, eyes closed as he eats, really eats you out like a man starved. Your pussy feels simultaneously hot from his tongue, and cold from the air brushing on the slick mess of fluids dripping between your thighs.

You’re not fighting him anymore, just drowning in the sensation of him, and you cum soon with an arch of your spine and incoherent words falling from your lips.

The fog in your mind is even thicker now, as you lay there just half awake while he pulls away, chin and lips glistening with your juices.

Sukuna licks his lips, eyes admiring the mess he’s made between your legs and soon he’s pulling his kilt down to reveal his length hard and leaking at the flushed tip, while a golden band glimmers at the base of his cock.

“Just lay there and relax.” He pumps his cock before positioning it in front of your dripping entrance. “Let me take care of you.”

You watch as he holds your hip in place with one hand, the other pushing the tip of his cock into you. There’s a stretch, even a bit of pain from the sheer size of him, and you wince softly as he continues sliding into you, splitting you open on his length.

“Shh. Almost there, sister,” he coos, voice a bit ragged as your heat envelopes him until he finally bottoms out.

For a second he looks at you, at your cunt stretching to accommodate his cock.

Then he leans forward, lips pressing into the hollow of your jaw, and starts thrusting his hips. You gasp as you feel him move, the fullness disappearing for a second and then coming back as he slides inside you again, brushing against a spot that makes you whimper.

In and out, in and out.

He looks into your eyes as he fucks you before leaning down to capture your lips in an almost tender kiss.

You wish that it was dirty, hard, rough — but it’s not. It’s disturbingly intimate, which is worse.

He begins fucking you harder, the ring around his cock sliding in and out of your cunt as wet sounds of skin hitting skin fill the tent.

“Good sister,” he pants against your skin, lips sucking and nipping at your neck as you moan his name. “You’ve always wanted to be a good sister to me, haven’t you?”

“Not like this”, you want to say.

But you don’t.

Instead you just nod desperately, hands crawling up his muscled back as tears start to well in your eyes for some reason.

“I missed you,” you whisper, and in a twisted way it’s true — you haven’t felt this close to your brother in years, especially not since he did what he did.

“I know you did,” he breathes, wet, open mouthed kisses trailing up from your neck, across your jaw and cheek.

Those hands roam your body, hands that murdered your parents. Tears flow from your eyes, dripping down your face.

“I miss Mother and Father too,” you sob pathetically, burying your face into his neck. “Wh-Why did you do it, brother? Why?!”

Something in him shifts.

His hands tighten their hold on your body and suddenly he’s thrusting into you faster, harder, the tip of his cock ramming into your cervix over and over again, making you wail and your whole body rock with the motion.

“God do you never stop thinking about them?” he hisses, “I told you — I did what I had to do. You don’t get it, do you, sister?”

“They wanted you to rule the -hah- world, but me?” He leans down, folding your legs up to hit the deepest spots inside of you, knocking the breath from your lungs as he nips at your lobe. “They wanted to chain me to its side.”

You just cry harder as he keeps going, words now laced with bitterness.

“Osiris, Isis. Saints in your mouth, rotting in mine,” he growls in your ear.

Sukuna's hand tightens, almost possessively, as you tremble beneath him, still clinging to his body despite the growing hatred within you. Your sobs turn ragged, breath coming in sharp bursts.

"You think I did it for them? For you?" His voice lowers, becoming cold and venomous. “Silly girl. I did it for myself. I earned it. I deserved it." His grip on your waist tightens painfully, as he fucks you so hard it almost hurts, pain blending with depraved pleasure.

You gasp, eyes blurred with tears, but your voice shakes with defiance. "And what about me, Sukuna? What about what I deserve? I never asked for this... I never asked for you to take everything away—”

“Stupid sister!” he snarls, “You got the goddamn throne and you’re complaining about everything being taken away?!” He leans down to murmur darkly in your ear. “And this…this is why I’m going to take it back. Show you what it really looks like when I take everything…”

Horrid realization dawns on you, making your eyes widen and your mind clear with disturbing clarity. Realization on what he’s really doing.

Because there is one thing he has that you never will — a cock. The corrupting power only a man can have.

He’s going to defile you with his semen, desecrating you so that you can no longer have the throne.

You scream, trying to push him off with all the strength in your limbs still lethargic with alcohol — that goddamn wine he filled you with.

“Get off me, get the FUCK OFF ME YOU DISGUSTING BASTARD—”

He keeps you pinned down effortlessly, one hand forcing your neck to twist, smushing your cheek into the fur beneath you as he fucks you harder and harder, with brutal intensity.

“Don’t -hah- think so sister,” he snickers, leaning down to stick his tongue out and lick a long wet stripe along the tears streaming down your cheeks, leaving behind dark stains with the messy kohl. “What’s the matter now? I thought you missed me?”

You thrash under his hold, nose wrinkling in disgust when you feel his warm saliva on your face. “D-Don’t cum inside, you c-cant—”

“Don’t cum inside?” he repeats, that horrid, evil smirk on his lips as he thrusts turn messy. “Aw, but I want to, sister. Don’t you think I’ve earned that much?”

He ignores your threats of murder, the way your walls clench trying to push him out, and it only gets him closer. “You know how long I’ve thought about this? How many times I’ve imagined filling your little cunt with my seed?”

“You’re sick, don’t you fucking dare do it—”

To your horror, those words seem to push him over the edge, and in one suspended moment his hips still a bit.

And then, warmth.

You scream and cry as you feel his hot, potent cum flooding your hole, ropes and ropes of white liquid just continuing to spurt into you. And somehow the sensation sends you over the edge and you cum along with him as you curse his name, cunt gushing and clenching as your eyes roll back.

By the time he’s done, all the fight has faded from you. You’ve given up, just crying softly as he collapses on you, his softening cock still plugged up inside you.

“Why, why, why…” you sob over and over.

And then the bastard kisses you, swallowing your broken cries as he pulls out of you, sitting back on his haunches to look at you. You lying there like a broken creature, body still twitching, skin flushed, his cum dripping out from your hole.

“It’ll all be okay sister,” he murmurs. “You’ve been so good, I might even let you sit beside me as I rule…”

“Go to hell!” you spit, between cries.

The humiliation is unbearable the next morning when Sukuna brings you forth before the Ennead, proudly announcing that he has “performed the labour of a male” on you.

And of course, the wise gods of Egypt, they look at you with revulsion and disgust, cursing you and spewing words of venom.

Ra denounces your spot from the throne, and thus Sukuna is instead hailed the next successor of Egypt.

The words of the Ennead echo in your mind as you kneel before them, the weight of their scorn pressing down upon your chest. The gods' looks are unforgiving, their expressions twisted with contempt as Sukuna stands at your side, his presence cold and domineering.

“See?” Sukuna boasts, a dark smirk spreading across his lips. “I’ve taken what was destined for me. And now, I’ll have it all. Even you, sister.” His voice is triumphant, but there's a coldness in it—a void where his humanity should have been.

Maybe where it once was.

You can barely lift your head. Your spirit, your hope, has been shattered. The world you knew is gone, replaced by a reality you never asked for, never wanted.

What’s left of you? What’s left of that girl who once dreamed of ruling with honor, with grace? She is gone, replaced by the woman kneeling in front of gods who now turn their backs on her.

Ra’s voice booms through the chamber, harsh and unforgiving. “You are no queen. You are no heir. You are nothing but the vessel of corruption.”

The gods, those who once represented the promise of divine order and protection, now curse you. Your bloodline is tainted, your destiny undone. Sukuna, the one who betrayed you, who stained your very soul, stands beside you, unrepentant.

And you realize the truth—the thing you’ve been denying all along.

There is no redemption. There is no reclaiming what was lost. Sukuna has taken everything from you, including your place in the world, your identity, your purity.

You are a shadow of the woman you once were.

The gods will forget your name. The people will never speak of you again. But somewhere deep within, you remain. The queen who was never crowned, the ruler who was never allowed to reign.

But as Sukuna stands triumphant, his form casting a long shadow over your broken body, you feel it—the faintest stir of something within you. A flicker, a breath of life that refuses to be extinguished.

He may have the throne now, may have destroyed everything you held dear, but there is something wild within you, something that cannot be chained, cannot be broken.

Even if the world has turned its back on you, even if the gods have forsaken you, one thing remains undeniable: You are still his sister.

And that bond—however twisted, however corrupted—can never truly be severed. Not by a throne, not by power.

Your gaze flickers upward, meeting his once again. He may see only a pawn now, a symbol of his victory, but you know better. His eyes are filled with ambition, yes. But they are also filled with something else. Something darker, something that feeds on the struggle between you, something that still needs you in his own twisted way.

You feel it in the air, a tension that will never dissipate. He is not your king.

Not yet, not ever.

“Enjoy it while you can,” you murmur, your voice quieter now but still filled with the weight of defiance. “You’ll never have peace with the throne. Not with me still here.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrow, his lips curling into a sneer “You think this ends here, sister?” His tone is dripping with mockery, but there’s a flicker of something deeper, something undeniable between you both.

“No,” you whisper, feeling the last vestiges of hope slipping away like sand through your fingers. “But it will never be what you think it is.”

And with that, you silently vow that your battle is far from over. Not as a queen, not as his pawn—but as something else entirely, as what you were always meant to be.

His equal.

For as long as the desert storm rages, the promise of clear skies will endure.

a/n: some context - in ancient egyptian mythology, semen was considered such a corrupting substanc, that it was likened to poison or venom

in the original story when set cums in horus, horus actually catches it in his hands, so that it only touches his hands. when he goes to show his mother afterwards what set has done, his mother screams and chops off his hands and throws them into the nile river (because that's how bad the defilement of semen was considered). anyways, after that she jerks him off and collects his cum and then puts it on some lettuce (set's favorite food), which set then eats. the next day when set tells the ennead that horus cannot rule because set has "performed the labour of a male" on him, and the ennead basically cuss out horus and spit at him. but horus just laughs and says that his cum is in set's stomach. so they sort it out by calling out to the semen, and it responds from inside set - humiliating him, and making horus the ultimate winner.

649 notes · View notes