#Sulfuric Wrath

[drondskaath]

Oppressive Descent | Sulfuric Wrath | 2024

American Raw Black Metal

Artwork by Ainuliblis

[therxtking]

Muse Updates;

Sulfur is screaming and running for his life like a little bitch and doesn't like how he can't escape into little tunnels anymore.

Gordon: Oblivious and asleep.

The Retchen kingdom: Losing their shit and really starting to worry.

Zicamaia and Creelissal: Having a picnic in the lovely fall colors for brunch.

Ira: Finished breakfast over private briefings and going through a national security briefing on her way to a Cabinet meeting before a public address before heading to an economic policy review over lunch doubling as a fundraiser and media interviews then flying down to Klentesky for a state dinner and honoring the Kendveil's day of the dead/ fall celebrations. On the flight home she has to squeeze in orchestrating a bilateral meeting with Gloria.

Runic: Napping with her puppies. The food is gone so she'll take a shift hunting as soon as Sulfur comes home. These puppies do not stop eating and have at least doubled in size.

[shapard]

Tantrum🕷️

Satan x Succubus!fem!reader

Tw: Smut, slow burn, therapist x client, Satan being Satan to the low life, p in v

6k

Satan is so Hot

Part 1 > Part 2

The story begins after the cut

You exhaled slowly, your breath shaky as your eyes scanned the list of today's clients. One name stood out like a drop of blood on pristine parchment: Satan. Yes, the Satan. You’d laughed when the receptionist first told you. Surely, it was some dark joke, right? But the chilling sincerity in her eyes told you otherwise. For the next month, the King of Wrath himself would be your client. His personal therapist—or "anger coach," as they called it—was conveniently on vacation, leaving the responsibility to you.

Your fingers hovered over the file, tapping lightly on the thick paper. His profile was sparse yet enough to send a chill down your spine. Anger issues. As if that needed to be stated. Brutal, cruel, unpredictable. Lies often. Has a dangerously short temper. And the last line, hastily scrawled like a warning, stood out the most: Approach with caution.

The note on your pad detailed when and where you were to meet him: Satan’s castle. Even the thought of it made your stomach churn. The clock on your desk screeched, breaking your trance. It was time.

Your palms were clammy as you left your room, dread curling around your spine. The limousine waiting outside was overkill, with its glossy black finish and an interior too luxurious for comfort. You sank into the seat, but even its plush softness couldn’t ease the knot tightening in your chest. Your fingers toyed nervously with the fabric of your shirt. "Why am I doing this to myself?" you muttered, your voice a hoarse whisper.

The drive stretched on, the limousine cutting through a landscape that seemed to grow darker, more twisted with every passing mile. Gnarled trees loomed like skeletal hands, their shadows dancing over the cracked road. The closer you got to his estate, the more oppressive the air became, thick with heat and a faint metallic tang that clung to your throat. When the car finally stopped, your breath hitched.

The castle loomed above you like a blackened wound carved into the earth itself. Jagged spires clawed at the sky, and the air was heavy with the faint stench of sulfur. The gates creaked open, revealing a procession of imps scurrying about with feverish purpose. Their glowing eyes briefly landed on you before darting away, like vermin avoiding a predator.

You swallowed hard, stepping out of the limousine. The ground beneath your sneakers radiated an uncomfortable heat, as if the very earth resented your presence. You hesitated, looking up at the fortress before you. Every instinct screamed for you to run. But you were a therapist—for Lucifer’s sake, you’d dealt with impossible clients before. Just not ones who could incinerate you with a single breath.

A small, hunched imp dressed in a tattered butler’s uniform approached, its head bowed. Without a word, it gestured for you to follow. You obliged, your legs moving stiffly as if weighed down by chains. The castle’s interior was worse. Shadows seemed alive, twisting and curling around corners like smoke. The halls were cavernous and eerily silent, save for the echo of your footsteps against the stone floor.

You were led through corridors that gleamed with wealth. Gold littered every surface, accompanied by piles of glittering jewels—rubies, diamonds, and sapphires, carelessly heaped as if they were nothing more than pocket change. It was suffocating in its opulence, but it was the odd details that unsettled you. A scorch mark on the wall, as if something—or someone—had been obliterated there. Deep claw marks gouged into the stone.

When you entered his chamber, the atmosphere shifted entirely. Heat rolled over you in waves, and the room smelled faintly of ash. Your eyes roamed over the space, catching glimpses of heavy iron chains, monstrous workout equipment, and a hulking throne that seemed carved from molten rock. And then, your gaze rose.

He was there.

The dragon loomed in the far corner, a creature of pure, terrifying majesty. His scales shimmered like molten obsidian, and his horns, wickedly curved and sharp, glinted faintly in the dim light. His golden eyes burned like twin suns, locking onto you with an intensity that made your stomach drop. His chest rose and fell with a deep, growling breath that reverberated through the floor.

"So," he rumbled, his voice a deep, guttural drawl that made the air vibrate. "You’re the replacement.”

You froze, your body rigid as his gaze raked over you. His tone dripped with disdain, his lips curling into something between a snarl and a smirk. You felt like a mouse under the eye of a serpent.

“A succubus?” he sneered, the word laced with contempt. His massive frame shifted as he lowered his head, bringing his razor-sharp teeth dangerously close to your trembling form. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of amusement dancing in their molten depths. “For a succubus, you look... innocent.”

You flinched as his claw moved, its sharp tip hooking under the edge of your buttoned shirt. With terrifying ease, he pulled you closer, the heat radiating from him suffocating.

“Sir,” you managed, your voice wavering as you fought to hold your ground, “this is… inappropriate.”

The dragon chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Inappropriate?” he repeated, his tone mockingly sweet. “Oh, little one, we’re far beyond ‘appropriate’ here.”

For a moment, the tension was unbearable, his golden gaze locking onto yours, unyielding and searing. Then, with a huff, he released you, his massive claw retracting as he settled back.

“Let’s see how long you last,” he muttered, his voice laced with dark amusement. “They always break, you know.”

Your knees felt weak, your breath shallow as you took a hesitant step back. This wasn’t going to be like any other client you’d dealt with. And as his gaze lingered on you, predatory and calculating, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were stepping into a game you didn’t fully understand—a game where the rules were written in blood.

“Let’s start with something simple—an introduction.” You tried to project confidence, raising your voice slightly to ensure he could hear you clearly. The weight of his molten gaze bore down on you, but you kept your posture straight. “Before we can trust each other, we need to know each other.”

Your words hung in the air, daring to challenge the suffocating silence. His golden eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his reptilian features. You forced a smile and continued, your voice steady despite the thrum of fear in your chest. “My name is Y/n L/n. I’ll be your therapist for the time being. In my spare time, I enjoy drawing. Now, would you care to introduce yourself?”

The room seemed to grow hotter. A deep huff escaped from Satan’s nostrils, the force of his breath stirring the papers on your clipboard. His head tilted ever so slightly, as though studying you from a new angle. “You know who I am.” His words were low and blunt, carrying the faintest edge of impatience.

You kept your expression neutral, though your heart thudded painfully in your chest. “Of course, I know. But I’d like to hear it from you.” Your tone was calm, measured, even as the edges of his form seemed to ripple with heat.

That caught him off guard. His brows furrowed, and for a moment, his eyes lost some of their predatory sharpness. His breathing, which had been fiery and erratic, grew slower, more controlled. “I am Satan,” he said at last, his voice still low but tinged with pride. “The Sin of Wrath. The first sin.”

You didn’t flinch, though the words carried a weight that pressed against you. Liar. The truth was well-known—Lucifer was the first. But you kept that observation to yourself, instead lowering your gaze to jot something down on your notepad.

The scratch of your pen seemed deafening in the charged silence.

“What are you writing?” His tone was sharper now, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. You glanced up cautiously, noting the slight flare of his nostrils and the way his claws flexed against the stone floor.

“It’s nothing important,” you assured him, your voice soft but deliberate. “Just a few notes for me. Is that okay?”

His eyes narrowed further, glowing faintly as if testing your words for deceit. After a tense moment, he leaned back, the massive muscles in his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Yeah… I guess.”

You allowed yourself a small exhale, the pen trembling faintly in your grip as you made another note. “Thank you. So, tell me—what’s your favorite hobby?” you asked, keeping your tone light, almost conversational.

Satan blinked, clearly caught off guard again. “Hobby?” he repeated, as if the concept were foreign to him. A pause stretched between you, and then he shrugged. “Uh… I like working out.”

Internally, you groaned. Great, you thought, suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. A gym bro with anger issues. But outwardly, you smiled, though your fingers tightened slightly around your pen.

As you scribbled his answer, you felt a subtle shift in the air. His gaze hadn’t left you, and there was something unsettling about the way he watched you now—curious, calculating, like a predator studying its prey. The edges of his mouth twitched, as if he were amused by something only he understood.

“Do you always write so much?” he asked suddenly, his voice a little too casual.

You froze for half a second before looking up. “Only when it helps me understand my client better,” you said evenly.

Satan’s lip curled faintly, exposing a hint of razor-sharp teeth. “Interesting,” he murmured, leaning forward slightly. His massive frame seemed to loom larger, casting a shadow that swallowed the light around you. “You seem… different. For a therapist. For a succubus.”

The word dripped with disdain, but there was an odd curiosity in his tone as well. Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

“I don’t think I fit the usual mold,” you replied lightly, though the words felt thin against the heavy atmosphere.

Satan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “No, you don’t. But we’ll see how long that lasts.”

The way he said it felt more like a warning than a casual remark. And as the room grew unnervingly quiet again, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had just stepped into something far more dangerous than you were prepared for.

“Anyway,” you began, trying to dissipate the strange tension in the air, “what do you usually do to calm yourself?” Your voice was steady, professional, but you were acutely aware of the weight of his golden gaze lingering on you.

Satan tapped his claw against his chin, the sharp tip glinting faintly in the dim light. “I work out,” he said simply.

You nodded and placed your notepad down. “Have you ever tried anything else? Something less… physical?”

He shook his head, leaning back with a nonchalant shrug. “No.”

“Interesting.” Your pen hovered over the page, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Bingo. A potential breakthrough, something to work on next week. “Maybe you should try something new,” you suggested, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction.

Satan raised an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Something new?”

You nodded, maintaining your professional tone. “Yes. There might be situations where you aren’t able to work out. Finding an alternative that brings you calm can help—something you enjoy that doesn’t rely on strength or exertion.”

You could see him thinking, his gaze becoming distant for a moment before snapping back to you. Then, he said it, blunt and unapologetic:

“Sex.”

Your pen slipped slightly, leaving a faint mark across your notepad as your head shot up to meet his gaze. “Excuse me?”

“Sex,” he repeated, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “I enjoy it. Specifically, I love to dominate. It brings me a sense of calm, of control.”

The heat in the room seemed to spike as his words hung in the air, heavy and electric. You felt your breath hitch slightly, your professionalism faltering under the weight of his admission. Your teeth caught your bottom lip, a subconscious reflex as your mind betrayed you with images you hadn’t invited.

Satan, towering over you, his claws dragging possessively over your skin. His deep growls vibrating against your neck as his body pressed you into the bed like prey. The way his molten gaze would devour every inch of you, a predator savoring its prize.

The thought was dangerous, forbidden—and utterly intoxicating.

“You’re quiet,” Satan observed, a faint smirk curling at the edge of his lips. He leaned forward, resting his massive claws on the table between you. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to sit straighter in your chair, though the heat creeping up your neck betrayed your inner turmoil. “Not at all,” you lied, your voice wavering slightly.

His smirk widened, the sharp tips of his teeth glinting faintly in the low light. “Liar.”

Your breath hitched again as he stood, the sheer size of him making the room feel smaller, more suffocating. He stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate, predatory. His shadow fell over you, and you tilted your head up to meet his gaze, your heart pounding furiously in your chest.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, velvety growl. “Have you ever let someone take control of you? Completely?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. His presence was overwhelming, his golden eyes boring into you with an intensity that felt like it could strip you bare.

“Let me guess,” he continued, his voice smooth and teasing. “You play the role of the confident therapist. Always in control, always composed. But I wonder…” He leaned closer, his claw tipping your chin up slightly. “What would happen if you let go? If you surrendered—for once?”

Your pulse raced as his words sent a shiver down your spine. The air between you was charged, thick with tension that felt ready to snap at any moment.

“I—” You barely managed to speak before his smirk deepened.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he purred, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “I can see it in your eyes, feel it in the way your body reacts to me.”

Your breath quickened, your mind a blur of conflicting thoughts. This wasn’t supposed to happen—this wasn’t professional. But the pull of his presence, the raw magnetism of him, was impossible to ignore.

As he leaned back, giving you a moment to catch your breath, his smirk softened into something darker, more sinister. “We’ll see how long you can resist,” he murmured, his voice like a promise—a challenge.

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of your notepad like it was a lifeline. Whatever line had just been crossed, there was no going back now. And the worst part? Some small, treacherous part of you didn’t want to.

You glanced at the clock on the wall, the ticking seconds echoing louder in your ears as you realized the session had come to an end. It felt like both a relief and a punishment. You cleared your throat, trying to regain your composure. “Our time is up for today.”

Gripping your notepad tightly, you rose from your chair, the slight tremble in your legs betraying the inner conflict you fought to suppress. “I’ll see you next week?” you asked, your voice carefully measured, though the second heartbeat between your thighs throbbed mercilessly, reminding you of how thin the line was between professionalism and raw, unspoken desire.

Satan leaned back into his seat, his massive frame exuding power and ease as his ever-present smirk stretched across his face. “You’re quite interesting, you know that?” he said, his golden eyes glinting with something dark, something dangerous.

The way his words curled in the air, dripping with molten heat, sent a shiver down your spine. And then he said it—your name.

“See you next week, Y/n.”

The sound of your name, as it rolled off his tongue like a lazy threat, like a predator marking its prey, felt like fire licking at your skin. It wasn’t just the way he said it—it was the way he owned it, as if your name wasn’t yours anymore but his to use, to savor, to command.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as you fought to maintain control of yourself. His gaze lingered on you, heavy and consuming, as if he could see every thought, every reaction you tried to bury. The room felt smaller, hotter, as if the very air bent to his will.

You took a deep breath, willing the flush creeping up your neck to subside, and bowed your head slightly—a courteous gesture, but also an excuse to break free of his burning gaze. “I’ll… take my leave now,” you managed, your voice steadier than you expected, though your body betrayed you with every trembling step toward the door.

The silence stretched, but you could feel him watching you, his presence looming even as you turned your back to him. Each step felt heavier, your legs weaker, as if some invisible tether pulled you back to him.

“Y/n,” he called softly, his voice low and dripping with amusement. It was enough to stop you in your tracks, your hand hovering just above the door handle.

You turned slightly, not enough to meet his gaze but enough to let him know you were listening.

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” he said, his smirk audible in his voice. “Next week… I expect us to get much more personal.”

Your breath caught, and you didn’t trust yourself to respond. With a hurried nod, you pushed open the heavy door, stepping into the hall as quickly as you could without outright running.

As the door closed behind you, the weight of his words lingered, wrapping around you like a vice. Each step away from his chamber only made the ache within you stronger, and the echo of his voice—dark, commanding, possessive—played on repeat in your mind.

When you finally reached the outside air, you exhaled deeply, pressing a hand to your chest as if to steady the wild beat of your heart. But no matter how much distance you put between you and him, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were still trapped—bound not by his hands, but by his voice, his gaze, his presence.

And the worst part? You weren’t entirely sure you wanted to escape.

______________________

Your mind drifted to Satan again, as it often did these days. His golden eyes, the low timbre of his voice, the weight of his presence—all of it lingered with you like an intoxicating haze. It was wrong to think of him this way, wasn’t it? You're the therapist. A being of ancient power. Yet his words from the last session whispered through your mind, sending a shiver down your spine: “Next week… I expect us to get much more personal.” What did he mean? The thought left you breathless, your lip caught between your teeth as you tried to push the memory away.

With a sigh, you turned your attention to the mirror, pulling yourself together. Today was a new session, and you needed to remain professional. No room for fluttering thoughts or the heat that crept up your neck every time he said your name. After all, you had a job to do, and you’d prepared exercises meant to calm, not... whatever this was. You brushed out your hair, adjusted your outfit, and gave yourself one last look. You could do this.

The drive to his mansion felt longer than usual, the limousine’s quiet luxury giving your mind too much space to wander. By the time you arrived and stepped out, your palms were clammy despite the crisp air. You gathered your supplies—a palette, brushes, a canvas—and headed to the imposing doors. They opened with a creak, and there he was, standing tall, his figure sharper than usual in a tailored outfit that clung just enough to his form to make you notice. Was he doing this on purpose? The thought made your cheeks flush.

“Satan,” you greeted, keeping your voice steady as you stepped inside.

“Y/n,” he said simply, his golden eyes locking onto yours. He always said your name like it was a secret, something sacred.

You set your supplies down, the clinking of brushes breaking the charged silence. He tilted his head, his gaze flicking over the items with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “What is this?” he asked, his tone edged with intrigue.

“Painting,” you said, smiling softly. “It’s something that can help channel emotions. I thought it might be worth trying with you.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, but the flicker of interest in them was unmistakable. “You think this will calm me?”

“It’s worth a shot,” you replied, your tone light. “But first, I need you to… shrink a bit. Your current size might make it tricky.”

He arched a brow but complied without argument, his towering form diminishing to something more manageable. Even so, he still loomed over you, his presence filling the room in a way that made your breath catch.

You handed him one of your favorite brushes, your fingers grazing his. The brief contact sent a spark through you that you tried to ignore. “This one’s precious to me, so don’t break it,” you said with a teasing smile.

His golden eyes darkened slightly, his gaze lingering on you. “Why would you entrust me with something so valuable?” he asked, his voice low, almost reverent.

“Because I think you’ll manage,” you said simply, turning to demonstrate. The truth was, you trusted him in a way you couldn’t explain, and the weight of his gaze as you worked was almost palpable.

You dipped your brush into the paint, your movements fluid and purposeful as you applied color to the canvas. You explained the process, your voice calm, almost hypnotic, as you encouraged him to let his emotions guide him. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” you said, glancing at him. “Just let it flow.”

Satan watched you intently, his focus shifting between your hands and your face. There was something mesmerizing about the way you moved—graceful, confident, entirely at ease. He tried to mimic your strokes but grew frustrated when his didn’t have the same beauty. Fire flickered briefly at the corner of his mouth as his grip on the brush tightened.

“Take your time,” you said gently, your voice softening. “You’ll manage.”

Those words seemed to echo in his mind, silencing his frustration. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased. His golden eyes settled on you again, and this time, there was something softer in them—something that made your heart skip a beat.

“Pretty,” he murmured, the word so quiet you almost missed it.

You glanced up, assuming he meant his canvas. “It’s not bad for a first try,” you said, smiling.

But when your eyes met his, you realized he wasn’t looking at the canvas at all. He was looking at you. The intensity of his gaze made heat rise to your cheeks, and for a moment, you were lost in it.

“I… meant your canvas,” he said quickly, the faintest hint of a stammer in his voice. He turned away, focusing on his painting as if the moment hadn’t happened. “I suppose this isn’t for me,” he added, his tone returning to its usual steadiness.

You sighed softly, setting your brush down. “That’s okay. We’ll find something else to try next time.”

When it was time to leave, you gathered your supplies, his lingering gaze following you to the door. “Till next time, Y/n,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

You smiled, bidding him goodbye before stepping into the limousine. As the car pulled away, you stared out the window, your reflection blushing faintly. “Cute,” you muttered under your breath, thinking of his fleeting shyness.

And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to think of him a little differently too.

As the limousine glided down the winding road back into the city, Y/n leaned their head against the cool glass of the window. The world outside blurred into streaks of light and shadow, but their mind was too preoccupied to notice. Their chest tightened as they replayed the day's moments, each interaction with Satan etched into their memory with vivid clarity.

His golden eyes watching them, the way his brows furrowed in frustration only to soften when he heard their encouragement, and that one unguarded word he’d uttered—“pretty.” Y/n sighed and closed their eyes, the image of his intense gaze surfacing unbidden. He had said it so quietly, yet it echoed in their ears, lingering like a secret between them.

Why am I letting this get to me? Y/n thought, shaking their head. Satan was their patient. A being to be studied and guided, not… admired. And yet, there was something about him—something magnetic and impossible to ignore. His raw power was undeniable, but beneath the towering presence and occasional flashes of anger, there was a vulnerability that Y/n couldn’t help but find fascinating.

When the mansion’s doors had first opened to reveal him, standing there like some otherworldly figure carved out of the very shadows of the underworld, Y/n had been struck by how human he seemed despite his demonic origins. He was capable of humor, of curiosity, and, at times, even shyness—like when he stammered over his compliment and turned away. That brief flash of awkwardness had been disarming, endearing even, and it left a warmth in Y/n’s chest that refused to fade.

_______________

The past few weeks had been a blur of trial and error as you and Satan searched for a way to calm his tempestuous nature. Every method—meditation, physical exercises, even music—had ended in failure. Yet, with every attempt, the two of you had grown closer. Comfort had crept in between the boundaries you’d initially set, a warmth that softened the edges of your professional relationship. Perhaps it was too much comfort.

Frustrated, you ran your hands through your hair, tugging slightly as you let out a groan. “What’s left?” you muttered, mostly to yourself. You hated admitting defeat, but the lack of progress was wearing on you.

“Are you okay?” Satan’s deep voice broke through your spiraling thoughts. He leaned against the edge of his desk, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as they scanned your face. Concern lingered in his tone, though there was something else in his expression—something darker, more intent.

You sighed, leaning back against the wall, your shoulders sagging. “Yeah, I’m just… out of ideas,” you admitted, rubbing your temples. “Nothing seems to work. Maybe you were right all along—this isn’t going to change.”

A low growl escaped him, and he moved closer, the space between you shrinking with every step. “There’s one thing we haven’t tried,” he said, his voice a seductive rumble. He reached out, his clawed fingers brushing along the curve of your neck with a gentleness that sent a shiver down your spine. The ruby necklace he’d given you weeks ago caught the light, glinting like a drop of blood between you.

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching. “I’m open,” you replied, though your voice wavered. You weren’t sure what you expected him to say, but the tension in the air was thick enough to drown in.

His lips curved into a slow, wicked smile, and his eyes seemed to glow brighter. “Let me please you,” he said, the words both a question and a command.

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

His hand slid lower, taking yours in his. His touch was firm but surprisingly warm, and you couldn’t ignore the way your pulse quickened. “For weeks, I’ve been thinking of you. Not just as a distraction from my anger, but as something—someone—I want to consume. Every thought I’ve had has been about how to lure you in, how to make you mine.”

Your heart thundered in your chest, your body tingling with the weight of his confession. He slipped a delicate, shining ring onto your finger, the smooth metal cold against your skin.

“I’ve never felt this way before,” he continued, his voice dropping to a near-growl. “I’m throbbing for you, aching to show you what it means to be claimed by me.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat as he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. His clawed hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

The first touch of his tongue against your neck made you gasp, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. His other hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head to the side to give him better access as he traced slow, burning lines along your skin.

“Satan…” His name fell from your lips in a breathless moan as his claws found the waistband of your pants, the sharp tips grazing your skin without breaking it.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured against your throat, his voice raw with need. “Tell me you want it too.”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded, your hands clutching at his shoulders as if to ground yourself. That was all the confirmation he needed.

With a growl, he lifted you effortlessly, pinning you against the wall. His lips crashed into yours, the kiss rough and demanding, leaving no room for hesitation. His sharp teeth grazed your lower lip, and the pain mingled with pleasure in a way that made your head spin. His hands roamed your body, one clawed hand tangling in your hair while the other gripped your hip, holding you firmly in place.

You gasped as he tore open your shirt, the fabric giving way like paper under his strength. His golden eyes roamed hungrily over your exposed skin, and the heat in his gaze made you shiver. “Perfect,” he growled, his lips descending to your collarbone as his claws worked your pants down, leaving you bare beneath his burning gaze.

He pressed his body against yours, his skin hot like fire but not unbearable. The sensation was intoxicating, his power and desire radiating off him in waves that left you trembling. His mouth found your chest, his tongue and teeth teasing sensitive skin until you were writhing beneath him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you fought to keep some semblance of control.

But control was the last thing Satan allowed. “Let go,” he commanded, his voice a low snarl as his hand slipped between your thighs. His touch was rough but precise, drawing sounds from you that you’d never made before. He smirked against your skin, clearly pleased with the effect he had on you.

You couldn’t hold back anymore. Your hands roamed over his chest, tracing the hard lines of his muscles, the heat of his body searing into your palms. His growls deepened as you touched him, and when you whispered his name again, it seemed to drive him over the edge.

He latched onto your nipple, his hot, eager tongue swirling around the sensitive peak as though it held the key to quenching a deep, unrelenting hunger. The heat of his mouth sent a surge of pleasure coursing through you, your back arching instinctively to press closer to him. Each flick and tug of his tongue was deliberate, rough yet skilled, and it drove you wild with every second.

Your hands found his horns, gripping tightly as a loud, unrestrained moan tore from your lips. The sensation of his horns beneath your fingers—solid, commanding, and so uniquely him—only heightened the intensity of the moment. He groaned in response, the vibration of it against your skin adding a tantalizing edge to the pleasure.

As you opened your mouth to say something—perhaps to beg, perhaps to curse his name—his massive hand moved swiftly, covering your mouth and silencing you with an almost possessive dominance. His palm was warm, his claws just barely grazing your jawline, a silent reminder of his power.

“Shh,” he growled against your skin, his voice thick with desire and control. “No words. Just feel.”

The command sent a shiver down your spine, your muffled protests turning into needy whimpers against his hand. His golden eyes flicked up to meet yours, the intensity in them making your pulse race. He didn’t need to say more; the look alone spoke volumes. You’re mine, and I’m going to show you exactly what that means.

His free hand trailed down your side, the sharp edge of his claws leaving ghostly trails that tingled with a mix of anticipation and pleasure. He shifted slightly, his lips abandoning one nipple to lavish attention on the other, his teeth grazing it just enough to make you gasp against his palm.

“Such sweet sounds,” he murmured between kisses, his voice a deep, sinful growl that left you trembling. “I want to hear every single one.”

He claimed you fully then, his movements powerful and relentless as he pushed you to your limits and beyond. The roughness of his touch, the possessiveness in every kiss and thrust, sent you spiraling into a state of pure bliss. He was consuming, overwhelming, but it was everything you hadn’t known you needed.

When it was over, you were both breathing heavily, your bodies tangled together on the floor. His claws traced lazy circles on your skin, the sharp tips surprisingly gentle now.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, his golden eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that left no room for argument.

You smiled, brushing a hand through his tousled hair. “Yours,” you whispered, and for the first time in weeks, you felt completely at peace.

“I need to take you fully,” he growled, his voice rough with restraint, though his burning gaze made it clear his control was hanging by a thread. His golden eyes bore into yours, aflame with desire and something deeper—possessiveness, perhaps, or the primal need to claim you completely. His hot breath fanned across your face, each exhale like a spark threatening to ignite you from within.

You swallowed hard, your body trembling beneath him as you nodded, unable to form words. He stood, towering over you even in his "smallest" form, and the sound of his belt buckle clicking open made your heart skip. His hand gripped the base of his shaft, his claws brushing lightly against his skin as he stroked himself. His movements were deliberate, slow, as he smeared the slick arousal you’d already left on him along his length. The sight of it was utterly mesmerizing.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, his voice a rumble of raw need. His eyes darted to your smaller frame beneath him, the contrast between your softness and his powerful figure making his jaw tighten. Your body trembled under his intense scrutiny, and the way you shuddered only seemed to spur him on.

“You’ll take all of me,” he promised darkly, his lips pulling into a feral smirk before he positioned himself at your entrance. Slowly, he began to press in, the stretch almost overwhelming as he filled you inch by inch. The thickness of him made your breath hitch, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as your body struggled to accommodate him.

When he was fully seated inside you, he let out a guttural groan, his head falling forward as if savoring the way your body gripped him so tightly. “Perfect,” he muttered, his voice laced with awe and lust. “You were made for this. Made for me.”

He started to move, his thrusts deliberate and forceful, his pace building with every stroke. The wet, sinful sounds of your body meeting his filled the den, mingling with the guttural sounds he made as he lost himself in the rhythm. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you, his rough movements perfectly hitting every sensitive spot.

“Look at you,” he growled, his voice thick with pride as he watched your body arch beneath him, your moans spilling out freely. “Taking me so well—every inch of me.”

His hands gripped your hips tightly, claws digging in just enough to leave marks as he pulled you into each thrust. His pace quickened, his breathing harsh and uneven, a symphony of raw need that filled the space around you.

Your moans turned into cries of ecstasy as he pounded into you harder, the force of it making your head spin. The pressure building inside you was unbearable, each stroke bringing you closer to the edge. He growled your name, the sound reverberating through the air as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, his voice breaking slightly as he thrust even harder, his control finally snapping. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped, your voice trembling with pleasure and submission. “I’m yours.”

The words seemed to ignite something in him, his movements becoming even more relentless. His growls deepened, and the way he pounded into you left you utterly breathless. Every nerve in your body was aflame, and as you reached your peak, the intensity of it shattered you completely, your cries echoing through the den.

Moments later, he followed, his movements faltering as he let out a deep, primal groan. You felt him shudder above you, his body rigid as he spilled into you, marking you in a way that felt both physical and otherworldly.

For a moment, the only sounds were the two of you catching your breath, the heat of his body still pressed against yours. He leaned down, brushing a surprisingly tender kiss against your forehead, a stark contrast to the ferocity he’d shown moments before.

“You’re mine,” he repeated softly, almost as if reassuring himself.

And as you lay there in his arms, thoroughly claimed and utterly sated, you knew he was right. You were his. And you didn’t want it any other way.

Saw no one making shit about him so here I am your savior. Damn y'all.

💫

Masterlist

[thought--bubble]

The Tragedy of a Dragon

Canon Aemond X Wife Reader

Word Count: 1,545

For the 12 days of smuffmas (Prompts by @ewanmitchellcrumbs)

December 12th - candlelight and collaring

Smuffmas Masterlist

Canon Aemond Masterlist

Full Masterlist

Dividers & Banners by @arcielee

Warnings: Sad emo Aemond, Slightly dom Aemond, P in V smut, mentions of death, mentions of murder. short sweet and to the point

“Welcome back, love,” you say gently, lighting the last candle in your shared chambers. You had painstakingly laid candles all about the room to create an aura of softness and lightness. You knew your job: to be a sense of comfort, a sense of peace for your husband, a man who knew very little of comfort and even less of peace.

You breathe in the strong smell of sulfur and ash that emanates from your husband as he grunts his hello, landing with a loud thud on the edge of the bed and immediately reaching to remove his boots.

“Aemond,” you glide across the room, making sure your steps are light, nearly imperceptible. “Let me assist you.” You move closer and wait for his consent. You have learned through trial and error that Aemond will only accept help if he approves it; if you try to help him without his explicit permission, he is liable to burn you where you stand.

“I burnt an entire village to ash today, and still you surmise I cannot remove my own boots?” His tone is clipped and harsh, and his one eye glares at you, just waiting for a retort, something, anything he can use to set light to the kindling weighing so heavily upon his chest. Aemond is a dragon in more than name. He embodies that power, loyal, yet quick to cut you down if he's feeling weak or cornered. For the last few days, since his nephew was beheaded in his bed, a cruel act he feels entirely responsible for, he has been looking for a fight. With anyone, anywhere; not even you, his sweet wife, are safe from his wrath.

“No. I simply thought you might enjoy that I bear the weight of this one small burden.” You stand with your hands clasped in front of you. Do not react. No matter how much he lashes out at you, do not react. This mantra has been playing through your head for days. You maintain a gentle facade and an air of indifference, waiting for him to relent.

Aemond swallows audibly and finally waves you over. “Yes, yes, dear wife.” He lays back on the bed, looking up at the rich tapestry of the canopy above. “You are too kind when I am cruel.”

You kneel before him and dutifully remove his boots, slipping one off after the other. “Or you are too cruel when I am kind.” You lift your head and smirk gently, placing your hands on his thighs.

Aemond chuckles darkly. “That may be, for I am as cruel as they come��� but alas, you know this… do you not?”

“I am afraid that I do not. I know a kind man, a man I call my lord husband.” You rise slowly from your knees. "Is there anything else, husband? Would you like me to have the servants run you a bath?”

“No, I would not,” he huffs, pulling his eyepatch off and tossing it onto the nearby end table.

“Hmmm…” You click your tongue as you watch him lay on the bed, clearly exhausted from the day's activities.

“Say what is on your mind, wife,” he breathes out, exasperated, rubbing slow circles over his temples.

“Burnt an entire village to the ground, you say?” You walk to a nearby chest and slowly run your fingers over the lid before pulling it open.

Aemond lifts his head and raises an eyebrow. “I do not require that tonight, wife.”

“Yet you tell me you burnt down an entire village!” You pull out the thick black leather collar, snapping the tough material with a quick tug. “That sounds an awful lot like a beast that needs taming to me.”

Aemond chuckles, his voice gravelly as you round the bed. “Does it now? Well, that could simply be a dragon's morning greeting. Nothing to get worked up about.”

You carefully lift your dress to straddle his lap. “Lift.” You hold the collar open before his throat.

He smiles to himself, eyes closed and humming slightly, ignoring your demand.

“Aemond Targaryen, I said LIFT!” You yank his head off the bed by his hair, and he gasps, a much wider smile gracing his strong features.

“Lykiri, my love, lykiri.” He holds his head, hovering above the mattress as you wrap the collar around the porcelain skin of his long, muscular neck.

“Good boy.” You push him back down with a light thump. “Now to get this disobedient dragon in order.”

“What makes you think this dragon would want to be tamed?” He brings his hands to your hips, pulling you tighter to him. “A dragon is never truly tamed, love… they simply allow you to ride them.” He grips your hips tightly, his fingers digging into the fabric of your dress, and rolls your hips against his. He closes his eyes and moans as his breathing grows heavy, his hips thrusting upwards against your heat.

“Now, now, now. Stop that.” You slip your hands under his shirt, slowly sliding the offending fabric higher and higher up his torso.

Aemond loses his patience and quickly rips the shirt over his head, tossing it behind him to fall over to the other side of the bed. As soon as the shirt is off, he pulls you down to him, his kisses frantic and needy. “Trust me, love,” he growls against your lips. “You can tell a dragon to stop, yet if they want to do something, they will do it.”

He rolls you over onto your back, causing you to squeak, hiking up your dress to your hips. His fingernails scratch at your skin as he makes quick work of your underclothes, pulling them down the length of your legs.

“And this… this, I want to do.” He dives into the crook of your neck like a beast seeking sustenance, one hand buried in your hair and holding your head in place while he ravages the soft skin between your shoulder and neck, his other hand moving hastily between your spread thighs, pulling and tugging at his breeches, trying to move just enough fabric for his manhood to escape the suffocating clothing item.

“It is you who must be taught a lesson, my dragon!” You reach up and gently tug at the leather collar around his throat, but you know it's no use. When Aemond wants something from you, he gets it.

“I have learned all I wish to learn,” he pants heavily as he finally frees himself, lifting one of your legs around his hip and lining himself up with your heated core.

“That cannot possibly be tr—oh!” Your words are cut off as he thrusts into you with no preamble. Not that you needed much of a warm-up.

“Oh, but it is, sweet wife.” He pants heavily as he bottoms out. With a loud, throaty groan, he sets the pace, his hips moving rhythmically against yours, the subtle creak of the bed growing louder with every thrust as his pace quickly increases. He holds your thigh tight to his hip, his fingernails digging into the soft flesh. “I have learned the world is cruel and cold everywhere,” he leans down, bringing his face to yours without slowing his pace. “Everywhere in this entire blasted kingdom but here, between your thighs.” He groans and throws his head back while licking his lips, mouth wide open, surrendering himself to the physical sensations. “Here is where I should be,” he lets go of your hair to instead grip your hip, holding you in place, his thrusts growing harder. “Pounding your cunt every waking moment. This is the only place that is warm and good.” His eyes open and stare down at you as he chuckles. “My sweet wife.” He roughly tugs down the top of your dress, allowing your breasts to spill free. “Yes, right here is where I should be.”

You try to come back with a retort, a funny quip, anything, but your mind is blank, and the only thing you can do is whimper, “Aemond.” You reach up and grab at his chest, his sharp abdominal muscles flexing with each movement. The tightness under your fingers pushes you closer to the edge of bliss.

“Oh, Aemond! Ah!” You squeeze your eyes shut tight, your back arching off the bed. Your body temporarily goes numb; the only place capable of registering feeling is the heat between your legs. Aemond quickly follows you over the edge, yelling things in High Valyrian. You don't know what he said, but it didn't matter. You were filled with him, the warm sensation giving you tingles.

When you fall limp against the bed, Aemond is quick to drop beside you, his chest heaving, struggling to refill his lungs with the oxygen he so desperately requires.

The two of you lay in silence until Aemond breaks it with four quiet words that break your heart.

“It was my fault.”

You roll onto your side and pull him into your arms by the collar still wrapped around his neck, stroking his hair. You feel the hot and heavy sensation of his turmoil drip onto your shoulder, and you rub his back in silence, eventually falling asleep to the sound of his heavy, shuddering breaths.

[novaursa]

Legacy (strings of time)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: dark wings

- Next part: long live the king

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi

The air on Dragonstone was heavy with the scent of salt and sulfur, the volcanic island shrouded in an eerie mist that clung to its ancient stone walls. Melisandre stood alone in the shadowed chamber of the Painted Table, her crimson robes flowing like molten fire as she chanted in the guttural tones of her native Asshai. The flickering flames of the surrounding braziers cast dancing shadows against the walls, the light refracting through the ruby at her throat, which pulsed like a heartbeat.

Before her, a small brazier burned with an unnatural intensity, fed by oils and powders she had sprinkled into its depths. The fire danced and leaped, responding to her incantations, its flames twisting into shapes that seemed to defy the natural world. Faces appeared briefly—shadowy, indistinct forms that flickered in and out of existence like ghosts.

She was searching, reaching across the vastness of Westeros for her target. The former Targaryen princess, now Lady Lannister, was an anomaly to her visions, an enigma that refused to be revealed fully. Melisandre’s lips moved faster, her voice rising in urgency as she pushed harder against the veil of the unseen.

But then, something shifted.

The flames, which had been obedient and malleable, suddenly roared higher, blazing with a white-hot intensity that forced Melisandre to step back. A wave of heat rolled over her, searing and oppressive, and she raised her hands to shield her face. The ruby at her throat flared violently, its light so bright it painted the chamber in crimson.

“No!” she hissed, her voice breaking. “Show me! Reveal her to me!”

But instead of clarity, the fire erupted in a burst of chaotic energy. A deafening roar filled the chamber, echoing like the cry of a great beast, and a sudden force slammed into Melisandre, sending her sprawling to the floor. Her head struck the cold stone with a sickening crack, and the room spun as she struggled to regain her bearings.

The flames in the brazier had turned black, writhing and twisting as if alive, and from within the inferno, a shape began to emerge. It was dark and indistinct, but there was a sense of immense power emanating from it—something ancient and wild, something that defied her control.

The ruby at her throat burned like a brand, and she cried out, clutching at it as a searing pain shot through her body. Her connection to the flames, to her magic, was being turned against her, and she felt the power she had called forth recoil like a snake, striking at its master.

“No!” she gasped, her voice a mix of pain and desperation. “This cannot be!”

The shadowy form in the flames surged forward, and for a moment, Melisandre thought she saw the outline of a dragon—massive wings and a serpentine neck, its eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. The roar came again, shaking the very foundations of the chamber, and the flames exploded outward in a wave of force that extinguished the braziers and plunged the room into darkness.

Melisandre lay motionless on the floor, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The ruby at her throat had dimmed, its light flickering weakly, and the room was deathly silent except for the faint crackling of the dying fire. Her hands trembled as she pushed herself up, her vision swimming.

“What… what was that?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

A faint whisper echoed in the darkness, a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was deep and resonant, carrying a weight that made her blood run cold.

"You meddle in powers beyond your understanding, priestess."

Her breath hitched, and she looked around wildly, but the chamber was empty. The fire in the brazier had gone out completely, leaving only smoldering ashes. The ruby at her throat gave one final, weak pulse of light before dimming entirely.

Shaken, Melisandre staggered to her feet, clutching the edge of the Painted Table for support. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of what had happened. She had sought to pierce the veil, to uncover the truth about the Targaryen woman who had eluded her visions, but instead, she had been struck by a force far greater than anything she had encountered before.

“She is protected,” Melisandre whispered, her voice trembling. “By what, I do not know, but she is not alone in this world.”

Her gaze turned to the darkened brazier, the lingering scent of burnt oils still heavy in the air. She felt a pang of unease, a rare crack in her unwavering confidence. Whatever power surrounded the Targaryen woman, it was beyond her control, and that realization sent a chill down her spine.

With unsteady steps, Melisandre left the chamber, her mind reeling. She would have to tread carefully now, for the game had become far more dangerous than she had anticipated.

The warm glow of the mid-morning sun streamed through the arched windows of the Red Keep as you walked with Ser Barristan at your side and two of Tywin’s personal guards trailing close behind. It had been one moon since the shadow had invaded your bedchamber, and the increased protection around you had become your constant reality. Every step you took was measured, every moment scrutinized, and yet, the weight of unseen threats lingered.

As you rounded a corner leading to the gardens, soft, muffled sobs reached your ears. Your steps faltered, and you exchanged a glance with Ser Barristan, who instinctively moved closer, his eyes scanning the area for potential threats. But it wasn’t danger that awaited you—just heartbreak.

There, beneath the shade of a tall ash tree, you saw Sansa Stark crumpled on a stone bench, her face buried in her hands. Her delicate shoulders shook as she wept, and beside her sat Margaery Tyrell, her arm wrapped around Sansa’s trembling form, whispering words of comfort.

Concerned, you quickened your pace, your gown trailing behind you as you approached. “Sansa?” you called softly, your voice filled with worry. “What’s happened?”

Both women looked up, Sansa’s tear-streaked face breaking your heart. Her blue eyes were swollen and red, her expression one of utter despair. Margaery, ever poised, gave you a faint smile of greeting, though her own eyes carried a shadow of frustration.

“My lady,” Margaery began, her voice smooth but tinged with sadness, “it seems the council has made a… decision this morning. One that has upset Sansa greatly.”

Your stomach tightened, dread pooling in your chest as you looked between them. “What decision?” you asked, your tone sharpening as your gaze fixed on Margaery.

Margaery sighed, brushing a strand of Sansa’s auburn hair away from her tear-streaked face. “They have decided that Sansa is to marry Lord Tyrion. The arrangement was finalized this morning.”

For a moment, the words didn’t register. When they did, your breath caught, a rush of disbelief and anger flooding through you. “Tyrion?” you repeated, your voice low but incredulous. “This was not the plan. The Tyrells promised she would marry Willas, did you not?”

Margaery’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of resigned frustration. “We did, my lady, but Lord Tywin is not a man to be countered easily. It seems he was… persuasive.”

Sansa let out a quiet sob, shaking her head as she clung to Margaery’s arm. “They’re using me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I have no choice. They’re… they’re taking everything from me.”

You knelt before her, gently taking her hands in yours. “Sansa,” you said softly, your tone firm yet filled with compassion, “look at me.”

Reluctantly, she raised her tear-filled eyes to meet yours.

“This is not fair, and it is not right,” you continued, your voice steady. “But you are stronger than you know. Tyrion is not like the others—he is not cruel. If this is to happen, you will not be alone in it.”

Sansa’s lips trembled, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I don’t love him. I barely even know him.”

Your heart ached for her, and you squeezed her hands gently. “Love is rarely a luxury afforded to those of us born into noble houses,” you said softly. “But you have survived worse, Sansa. You will survive this too.”

Margaery glanced at you, her expression thoughtful. “You speak with such certainty, my lady. Do you truly believe this will be a kinder fate for her?”

You met her gaze, your own eyes shadowed by the weight of your experiences. “I know Tyrion,” you replied quietly. “He is flawed, yes, but he is not heartless. He will not harm her.”

Margaery seemed to consider this, her lips pressing into a thin line before she nodded. “Then perhaps there is some hope,” she murmured, though her tone lacked conviction.

Sansa sniffled, her tears slowing slightly as she clung to your words. “What if… what if they change their minds again?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What if they decide something even worse?”

You shook your head firmly. “Then I will stand by you,” you said, your voice unwavering. “No matter what happens, you will not face it alone.”

Ser Barristan, who had remained a respectful distance away, stepped closer, his presence a quiet reminder of your own precarious position in the court. You rose to your feet, glancing back at him briefly before returning your focus to Sansa and Margaery.

“Stay with her,” you said to Margaery, your tone soft but commanding. “She needs someone who can keep her steady right now.”

Margaery nodded, her expression solemn. “Of course.”

You reached out, brushing a strand of Sansa’s hair away from her face. “Take the time you need to grieve this, Sansa,” you said gently. “But do not let it consume you. You are a wolf, and wolves endure.”

She nodded faintly, her tears slowing as a flicker of determination began to creep into her expression. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

As you turned to leave, Barristan fell into step beside you, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. “You spoke well, my lady,” he said quietly. “But this court is filled with vipers. You cannot save everyone.”

You glanced at him, your expression hardening. “Perhaps not, Ser Barristan,” you replied, your voice low. “But I can try. And I will not let her be devoured by them.”

The weight of your words hung between you as you walked away, your mind racing with thoughts of how to protect Sansa in a world determined to break her.

The chamber where Tywin and Olenna Tyrell sat was austere. The Painted Table between them was littered with scrolls, maps, and the remnants of a freshly poured pot of tea. Tywin, ever composed, sat upright in his chair, his steely gaze fixed on Olenna, whose sharp wit and relaxed demeanor made the tension in the room almost seen.

"You do understand, Lady Olenna," Tywin said in his measured tone, "this arrangement is not up for negotiation. Sansa Stark will marry my son, Tyrion. It is the best way to secure both her claim to Winterfell and the loyalty of the North, should Roose Bolton’s efforts falter."

Olenna tilted her head, a sardonic smile playing on her lips as she sipped her tea. "Yes, yes, Lord Tywin, but you can’t possibly expect the girl to be overjoyed at this prospect. A Lannister wedding is hardly a maiden’s dream these days. You’ve quite the reputation, you know."

Before Tywin could reply, the door opened abruptly, and you stepped in, your gown trailing behind you as Ser Barristan lingered in the doorway. The room grew heavier as both Tywin and Olenna turned their gazes toward you, the latter looking more intrigued than perturbed by the interruption.

“Forgive me,” you said, though your tone carried little contrition. “But I need to speak with you, Lord Tywin.”

Tywin arched a brow, his hands folding neatly in front of him. “We are in the middle of a discussion, Lady Y/N,” he said, his tone cold but measured. “Surely it can wait.”

“It cannot,” you countered, stepping further into the room. Your gaze flickered briefly to Olenna, who watched with unabashed interest. “This is about Sansa Stark.”

Olenna’s brows rose slightly, and she leaned back in her chair, clearly pleased to witness the exchange.

“What about her?” Tywin asked, his voice edged with impatience.

You clasped your hands in front of you, your posture straight and unyielding. “I’ve just spoken with her. She’s devastated by this decision to marry her to Tyrion. She was promised to Willas Tyrell. You’ve taken her hope and replaced it with something she cannot understand. She is a child, Tywin.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his composure hardening further. “She is a Stark, and she is a key to securing the North. Her feelings are irrelevant.”

You stepped closer, your voice rising slightly. “Irrelevant? You would sacrifice her peace of mind, her future, for your ambition?”

Tywin stood, his towering form casting a long shadow across the table. “Peace of mind?” he repeated, his tone cold. “You speak of peace as though it were a luxury afforded to those in power. It is not. Sansa Stark has a duty to her family and to the realm. Just as you do.”

Olenna smirked, sipping her tea as she watched the exchange unfold like a play meant for her amusement.

“Duty,” you snapped, your voice sharp now. “Always duty with you, Tywin. Did you ever once consider the weight of what you demand from others? Or is everything and everyone simply another puppet to be moved around when it suits you?”

The room fell silent, the air crackling between you. Olenna’s eyes darted between the two of you, her smirk growing wider.

“I fail to see why this concerns you so deeply,” Tywin said finally, his tone softer but no less commanding. “You’ve made your point, Lady Y/N. Now leave the matter to those who understand it.”

You crossed your arms, tilting your head slightly as you replied, “If you understood it so well, Tywin, you wouldn’t have to deal with me right now.”

For a moment, it seemed as though Tywin might argue further, but then a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head slightly, his expression shifting into something almost amused, though his voice remained firm. “Very well. I’ll speak with Sansa myself and ensure she understands her duty. You may go.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden concession, but you refused to let it show. Nodding curtly, you turned on your heel and left the room, Ser Barristan falling into step beside you as the door closed behind you.

Olenna chuckled softly, setting her teacup down with a satisfied clink. “Well, that was entertaining,” she said, her sharp eyes glinting with mischief. “I must say, Tywin, I didn’t think you had it in you to yield so gracefully.”

Tywin exhaled slowly, lowering himself back into his chair. “It wasn’t yielding,” he replied, his tone clipped. “It was strategy.”

Olenna leaned forward slightly, her grin widening. “Oh, is that what you’re calling it now? Strategy? I’ve never seen you so…” She waved a hand, searching for the word. “Accommodating.”

Tywin shot her a warning look, but Olenna merely laughed, clearly enjoying herself. “I like her,” she said, nodding toward the door. “She has spirit. A dangerous thing to allow in your wife, but entertaining nonetheless.”

Tywin didn’t respond, instead turning his attention back to the maps before him, though the faintest flicker of amusement lingered in his eyes.

The echoes of your footsteps on the stone floor were accompanied by Ser Barristan’s steady presence behind you. The corridor felt colder as you moved toward your chambers, the weight of your conversation with Tywin still fresh in your mind. As you rounded a corner, a familiar figure appeared before you—Cersei, her golden locks framing her smug expression. Her arms were crossed, and the glint in her emerald eyes told you she had been waiting for this encounter.

“Well, if it isn’t the Lady Lannister herself,” Cersei drawled, her tone laced with condescension. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

You stopped, your expression calm but guarded. “Cersei,” you greeted, your voice civil. “What brings you here?”

She took a step closer, her eyes flickering briefly to your midsection before returning to your face. “I was merely curious,” she said with a practiced smile. “How is the pregnancy progressing? My father must be… overjoyed.”

Your hand instinctively rested on your growing belly, though your face betrayed none of the irritation her words stirred. “It progresses well,” you replied evenly. “Better than Grand Maester Pycelle expected, though I doubt his predictions are ever worth much.”

Cersei let out a soft laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Yes, Pycelle has a way of overstating his usefulness. But how fascinating that you’re handling it so well. I wonder, is it because of your Valyrian blood? Or do you simply thrive on being the center of attention?”

You met her gaze steadily, refusing to rise to the bait. “It’s neither, Cersei. Perhaps I’m simply stronger than you give me credit for.”

Her smirk faltered briefly before she recovered, stepping even closer. “Strength is important,” she said, her tone softening, though her eyes remained calculating. “Especially when surrounded by people pretending to be something else. You should remember that.”

“I do,” you replied, your voice calm but firm. “And I’ve learned that strength comes not from tearing others down but from knowing when to rise above them.”

Cersei’s lips tightened, but she masked it quickly with another smile. “How noble of you,” she said archly. “I imagine you must be feeling quite sad about all of this.”

You tilted your head slightly, curious. “Sad? About what, exactly?”

Her smile widened, her tone turning syrupy. “About poor little Sansa, of course. Such a sweet girl, isn’t she? So naive. It must pain you to see her traded like a pawn in a game she doesn’t understand.”

You allowed a pause, studying her carefully before replying. “It does pain me,” you said softly. “But not for the reasons you think.”

Cersei arched an eyebrow, her amusement flickering with confusion. “Oh? Do enlighten me, then.”

You stepped closer, your gaze steady and unflinching as you lowered your voice. “It pains me, Cersei, because I see so much of you in her. A young girl, trapped in a world she cannot control, used and discarded by those around her. But where Sansa may still find hope, you…” You let the sentence hang, your tone laced with veiled courtesy. “You’ve lost yours.”

Her face hardened, the smugness draining away as she stared at you. “What nonsense is this?” she demanded, her voice low but sharp. “I’ve lost nothing.”

You offered a faint, almost pitying smile. “Haven’t you? You wear your crown of bitterness like armor, Cersei. But all it does is isolate you, even from those who should stand beside you.”

Her jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing. “Careful, Lady Lannister,” she said coldly. “You may be my father’s wife, but that does not grant you the right to lecture me.”

“I have no intention of lecturing,” you replied smoothly. “Only to remind you that strength comes in many forms. You may believe yourself untouchable, but even the tallest towers can crumble when their foundations are weak.”

Cersei’s gaze burned into yours, her hands clenched at her sides. For a moment, it seemed as though she might lash out, but instead, she forced a tight smile. “You think yourself so wise, don’t you?” she said, her voice dripping with venom. “But wisdom won’t save you from this game. You’ll see that soon enough.”

You inclined your head slightly, the gesture both respectful and dismissive. “Perhaps. But for now, I must prepare for the rest of the day. If you’ll excuse me, Cersei.”

You moved past her, your steps measured and composed, leaving her standing alone in the corridor. As you walked away, you felt her gaze burning into your back, but you did not look back. Ser Barristan fell into step beside you, his expression stoic but his presence reassuring.

“You were bold,” he murmured quietly. “She will not forget that.”

“She doesn’t need to forget,” you replied softly, your voice steady. “She only needs to think.”

Tywin sat at the head of the table, his posture as straight and imposing as ever, his hands steepled before him as he continued listening to Olenna Tyrell with a mixture of patience and calculation.

Olenna, for her part, seemed perfectly at ease, perched in her chair with an air of casual authority. Her sharp eyes danced with amusement as she studied Tywin, her teacup cradled delicately in her hands.

“Lord Tywin,” she began, her tone laced with a sly edge, “you and I have had many discussions about alliances, strategies, and, of course, the peculiarities of your family. But today, I thought we might delve into something a little more… personal.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow, though his expression remained stoic. “Personal, Lady Olenna? I was under the impression that our discussions were strictly political.”

“Oh, politics and personal matters are often one and the same,” Olenna replied breezily, taking a delicate sip of her tea. “Especially when it comes to you, Lord Tywin. You’ve built your house on both, haven’t you?”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened slightly, though his tone remained cool. “If you have a point, Lady Olenna, I suggest you make it.”

Olenna set her teacup down with a soft clink, leaning forward slightly as her expression grew more pointed. “Very well. I’ve recently had the pleasure of reconnecting with an old acquaintance—someone who, let’s say, remembers the court of King Aerys rather vividly.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, but he said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“This acquaintance of mine,” Olenna went on, her voice smooth and unhurried, “mentioned something quite interesting about you. Specifically, about your… ambitions during those years. A certain proposal you made to the Mad King regarding his youngest daughter.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, but there was a faint glint of something in his eyes—irritation, perhaps, or caution. “And what, pray, does this acquaintance claim to know?”

Olenna’s smile widened, the corners of her lips curling with satisfaction. “Oh, nothing too scandalous. Just that you were rather… eager to secure a match between yourself and the young princess. A match, it seems, that the Mad King outright rejected.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, his voice low but measured. “That is old history, Lady Olenna. If your intent is to dredge up ancient slights, I suggest you focus on matters more relevant to the present.”

“Oh, but it is relevant,” Olenna countered, her tone sharp as a blade. “After all, here we are, decades later, and you’ve finally achieved what you wanted, haven’t you? A Targaryen bride, the union of fire and gold.”

Tywin’s jaw clenched slightly, though he refused to rise to her bait. “What happened in the past is of no consequence to the decisions I make now.”

“Isn’t it?” Olenna pressed, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I find it fascinating, really. You’ve always prided yourself on being a man of logic and control, yet here you are, married to the very woman whose family’s rejection you’ve surely never forgotten. One might wonder if this is about more than just strategy.”

Tywin leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a cold, measured tone. “You would do well to remember, Lady Olenna, that I do not allow sentiment to cloud my judgment. My marriage to Lady Y/N is a calculated move—one that ensures the stability and legacy of House Lannister.”

Olenna chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Oh, Tywin, you’re as predictable as ever. Always so quick to dismiss anything that might suggest you’re… human. But you forget, I’ve known men like you all my life. You can claim strategy all you like, but I see it for what it is. You wanted her. You’ve always wanted her.”

Tywin’s gaze bore into hers, his silence heavy and deliberate. For a moment, something unspoken was in the room, the air thick with unspoken truths.

Finally, Olenna broke the silence, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. “Well, whatever your reasons, I must admit, it’s all rather fascinating. The Mad King’s refusal, your patience—or perhaps obsession—and now this union. I do hope it works out for you, Tywin. It would be such a shame if history repeated itself.”

Tywin’s voice was as cold as steel when he finally spoke. “I appreciate your insights, Lady Olenna. But you would do well to remember that my choices are mine alone. If you wish to continue speculating on my motives, I suggest you do so elsewhere.”

Olenna smirked, rising from her seat with a regal grace. “Oh, don’t worry, Lord Tywin. I have no intention of causing trouble. But as I said, I find it all very… enlightening. Good day.”

With that, she turned and swept out of the room, leaving Tywin alone with his thoughts. For a moment, he sat in silence, his hands steepled before him once more. His face betrayed nothing, but his mind churned with the memories Olenna had dredged up—memories he had long since buried.

The memories unfolded in Tywin’s mind like pages from an old, worn book. The vivid colors and echoes of King’s Landing during the height of Aerys Targaryen’s reign came rushing back—though the stench of paranoia and decay that lingered in the Red Keep overshadowed its grandeur. It was the day Tywin had laid out his plans to the Mad King, the day he believed he would solidify the ultimate alliance between House Lannister and House Targaryen.

The throne room was alive with dread, its gilded splendor marred by the unsettling presence of Aerys on the Iron Throne. The Mad King, even then, exuded a sense of menace, his long, unkempt hair cascading over his gaunt face, his violet eyes burning with deranged delight as he listened to Tywin.

"You think," Aerys had said, his voice high-pitched and mocking, "that I would tie my daughter—the blood of Old Valyria, the dragon's line—to you, Tywin? To a lion? A beast of the field?"

Tywin had stood at the base of the Iron Throne, as unflinching as he had been when he first took up the position of Hand. He had chosen his words carefully, keeping his tone steady and devoid of the sharpness that often accompanied his temper. “Your Grace,” he began, “a union between House Lannister and House Targaryen would strengthen the realm immeasurably. My daughter, Cersei, is young and beautiful, a match fit for Prince Rhaegar. And I—”

“You,” Aerys interrupted with a cackle, leaning forward on the throne, his fingers twitching against the jagged edges of the swords that surrounded him. “You would take my daughter as your wife? A dragoness for a lion?”

Varys had been there, lingering in the shadows, his expression inscrutable as his keen eyes darted between Tywin and the Mad King. Several courtiers stood nearby, including Lord Chelsted and Lord Merryweather, their faces betraying thinly veiled discomfort at the volatile mood in the room.

“I would,” Tywin continued, ignoring the ripple of murmurs that spread through the chamber. “Lady Y/N is a princess of royal blood, but she is also young and unwed. A match between us would unify the crown and the wealthiest house in the realm. Such a bond—”

“Enough!” Aerys’s voice boomed, and he rose from the throne, his movements erratic. He descended the steps slowly, his robes trailing behind him like blackened fire. “You think to bind me with your gold, Tywin? To cage the dragons with your lions’ claws? No. Never.”

Tywin remained composed, though the heat of anger burned beneath his skin. “Your Grace, I seek only to serve the realm and secure the future of your house. A union with House Lannister—”

“Would be an insult!” Aerys snarled, his voice echoing off the walls. “The blood of the dragon is pure, untainted by the likes of you. Lions have no place among dragons. They belong in the dirt, clawing for scraps.”

Laughter erupted from Aerys, high and shrill, as he turned his back on Tywin and ascended the steps once more. “Perhaps your daughter can find herself a kennel,” Aerys continued, his voice dripping with malice. “And as for you, Tywin, you forget your place. You serve me. Do not presume to dictate terms to your king.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the courtiers, though it was hesitant, wary. Varys stepped forward then, his movements as fluid as a shadow. “Your Grace,” the spymaster said, his voice silken and unassuming, “perhaps Lord Tywin’s offer was made out of his deep respect for your house. A rare moment of… misjudgment, surely.”

Aerys turned to Varys, his expression shifting from contempt to suspicion. “Misjudgment?” he repeated, narrowing his eyes. “Or treason?”

“Never treason, Your Grace,” Varys replied smoothly. “Lord Tywin’s loyalty is beyond question. But he is ambitious, and ambition often blinds even the most loyal servants.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked to Varys briefly, his jaw tightening. He knew the eunuch’s words were calculated, a subtle way of defusing the situation while also keeping Aerys’s ire focused elsewhere.

The Mad King waved his hand dismissively, his attention already waning. “Begone, Tywin,” he muttered, sinking back onto the Iron Throne. “And take your golden dreams with you. My bloodline will not be sullied by yours.”

Tywin bowed stiffly, his mind churning with barely restrained fury as he turned and left the chamber. The laughter of Aerys echoed behind him, a sound that would linger in his memory for years to come.

Back in the present, Tywin’s jaw tightened as he recalled that day, the humiliation of being so openly dismissed. Aerys’s madness had only grown after that, and the rift between them widened beyond repair. It was a lesson he never forgot: power was not given—it was taken, seized with unrelenting force.

And now, decades later, he had what Aerys had denied him. The Targaryen princess was his, bound by marriage and bearing his child. Tywin’s lips thinned into a faint smirk. Aerys had laughed at him, but the Mad King was long dead, his dragons reduced to ashes, while Tywin Lannister remained unbroken, building his legacy one calculated step at a time.

[voxslays]

Warnings: Persephone! Reader and Hades! Satan, songfic, will make more sense if you’ve listened to the song or seen the play.

You had just arrived back in the wrath ring, at your husband’s side, after six months of being on earth. You weren’t happy to be back. The smell of sulfur and coal infected your nose, and the red landscape was an eyesore as usual. The souls under Satan’s control were chanting something about keeping their heads low, something you didn’t understand. “In the coldest time of year, why is it so hot down here?” You complained, looking up at your dragon-like husband. “Hotter than a crucible.” You huffed looking down, crossing your arms. “It ain’t right, and it ain’t natural.”

Satan looks down at you with a smirk, his dragon-like wings rustling behind him "Lover, you were gone so long~” You roll your eyes at him. “Lover, I was lonesome.” He strokes your cheek with his large red, calloused hands. “So I built a foundry, in the ground beneath your feet." You stare at him in disbelief, your arms still crossed as you look up at the large dragon man. "Here, I fashioned things of steel, oil drums and automobiles.” Satan lets go of your hands, his orange eyes burning with desire. “Then I kept that furnace fed with the fossils of the dead.” He summons his powers and lights a flame in the palm of his scaly red hand.

He throws the flame into a nearby pit, causing the ground to rumble and shake. He laughs, a deep rumbling sound that echoes through the ring. "Lover, when you feel that fire, think of it as my desire~” He sings lowly. “Think of it as my desire for you!” Satan growls. You quickly storm out of the courtroom and into the streets, only to be met with the bright reds and oranges of the metropolis your ‘husband’ created. In the far distance, you can hear someone singing a sweet melody ‘la, la, la, la, la, la~’ they sang. You stomp on the ground angrily. “In the darkest time of year, why is it so bright down here?” You can feel Satan walk out after you, his giant footsteps shaking the earth beneath his feet. “Brighter than a carnival~” You turn around to face the man. “It ain't right, and it ain't natural!”

Satan steps closer, towering over you with a knowing grin. "Lover, you were gone so long.” He gently grabs your hand. “Lover, I was lonesome." Satan gestures around with a clawed hand "So I laid a power grid, in the ground on which you stand. And wasn't it electrifying when I made the neon shine?" His muscular arms wrap around your waist possessively. He pulls you flush against his hard chest, his hot breath fanning over your face. "Silver screen, cathode ray, brighter than the light of day~" His orange eyes bore into yours intensely. "Lover, when you see that glare, think of it as my despair.” You glare at him angrily. Really? Was he really doing this!? “Think of it as my despair for you!"

All you can hear is the sound of machinery and screams…and your husband's deep voice. But you refused to give into his antics. “Every year, it's getting worse! Wrath Ring, hell on Earth!” You shout, trying to talk some sense into your delusional husband. “Did you think I'd be impressed with this neon necropolis?” He laughs, a deep rumbling sound that makes the ground tremble slightly. “Lover, what have you become?” You cry. “Coal cars and oil drums, warehouse walls and factory floors~” You gesture to the industrial factories and dirty smoke clouding the air of the used-to-be western country. “I don’t know you anymore…”

Satan’s expression turns cold, letting out a menacing growl. “And in the meantime up above,” You look up at the bright orange-red sky, and slowly raise your hands. “The harvest dies and people starve.” You turn back to face your husband. “Oceans rise and overflow. It ain't right and it ain't natural.” You point your finger into his chest. He takes a menacing step forward, his dragon-like features becoming more pronounced. "Lover, everything I do…I do it for the love of you. If you don't even want my love, I'll give it to someone who does." His voice drips with venomous sarcasm. 

He snarls, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light of the factory. "Someone grateful for her fate, someone who appreciates the comforts of a gilded cage and doesn't try to fly away the moment Mother Nature calls.” He roughly grabs your arm, tugging you into his toned red chest. He looks down at you, his orange eyes glinting with an unnatural light. “Someone who could love these walls that hold her close and keep her safe, and think of them as my embrace.”

“Think of them as my embrace to you.”

[pursuitseternal]

“Wrath:” an update to “Seven Devilish Sins”

Ascended Fiend Raphael x F!Reader | E | 2K

🔥🎨 by @marimosalad

Summary: Doomed, detected, and caught… He has you in his clutches, bony and monstrous as the Ascended Fiend pins you to make you feel his wrath

CW: Dub!con, Monster Fuqqing, predator/prey, size difference, knotting, breeding, but reader is into it, knife play (mild violence), purring Fiend…

Ao3 link | Raphael masterlist

He had said… down come the claws…. He had called you mouse…

You should have known better. Snooping around his House, as if you would go undetected in the home of a devil. And this devil in particular, he seemed so obviously fixated on you, fascinated by you… maybe his favorite mortal for some time.

Favorite morsel for some time.

Prey. That’s all you are now.

You hear the sizzling of hellfire, the thwacking of his great plated tail behind him. You know you’d die of fright if you open your eyes. You know your mortal heart would stop on sight. At the sight.

Of this monster, this fiend, that closes in on you and backs you against the wall of his entrance chamber.

He was supposed to be fair dealing, level headed in his contacts, this Raphael… but you did the one thing to set his temper ablaze, coming into his home… trying to steal his things…

Disturbing the order of a devil and violating his trust, not to mention your deal….

Now, three sets of eyes glow in the flickering heat, the drag of claws on the tiles coming inexorably closer until you feel the singeing steam of his breath on your face.

He stinks of charcoal and sulfur. Gone the sweetness of cherries and the sharpness of citrus to mask it all.

It violates your nose, assaults your senses.

Then, you make the single mistake of cracking one eye lid…

Bony and horrific, three faces in one disgusting skill glare at you, three tongues clean three maws… not all at once. Your eyes dart to follow each jaw as it unhinges, each pink tongue as it licks the bony mandible only to snap shut in rapid succession.

Then, you hear him speak… lower, like rocks grinding in an avalanche. He grumbles your name…. “My lost little mouse… that couldn’t escape my house…. Oh what to do with you, I wonder….”

A strange sort of clacking reverberates before you, as you realize he’s… laughing.

“You know… the old adage about playing with fire…” something hot, searing, wraps around your middle. His tail. Flames licking through the skeletal weave of his black bony exterior. “One is bound to get burned.”

Pain wracks your body as it’s lifted by that coil around your belly as he hoists you up and slams you against the wall. That center face presses against your pulse point, and you feel him smelling you.

Scenting you.

“I’ve been watching you, waiting for you… and now… you came into the devil’s lair, spoiling for a fight, and finally… you’re going to give the devil his due.”

That wash of breath on your skin steals the air from your lungs, a shakey, trembling exhale is all you have to offer in reply. Your eyes go wide at the sight of him. That smarmy devil, dark hair and eyes entirely replaced by this… You shudder as you take him in. All of him. This magnificent fiend. His devilishly handsome mortal veil, you didn’t trust, the Cambion was more interesting, but this…

“Hells,” you aptly curse as you feel the heat from his form melting into your flesh. “Raphael…” his name is barely more than a tickle as it scratches your throat, unwantedly slipping out.

You see his hideous head cock to one side, yellow eyes wreathed in flame wandering over your form, where he’s pinned you to the wall.

“The very same. The devil is ready to collect his due, and of course, there are many ways to be paid…” his deep voice chortles. Feeling you twitching in his grip, his fleshless nostrils sniffing as his heads press lower… lower… until that center head is snug against the apex of your thighs.

“Fuck…” you breath, but it’s enough. Your body does the rest of the effort to betray you as your press your thighs together for relief, hot and wet in your core and not from the heat of the hells.

That grinding laughter echoes again. “You should not smell so enticing while facing down your judgment and my wrath, little mouse.” The bony edges of his face rub into your belly, the cloth of your leathers tearing easily away from your flesh in gashes.

So easy. So thin. So dangerous. Monstrous.

Your hand fumbles at your hip, some last ditch effort at survival. Hilt in hand, your instincts react before your mind, driving that blade into his chest.

It looks so small the tip barely wedged in his ribs of blacked bone.

And he only laughs harder; one clawed hand lifts from your supple flesh to close around your shaking grip on the weapon.

Then he pushes, driving it into his body, all three maws gaping in a deep and guttural groan. “Oh… an excellent idea, little mouse. An amusing attempt at defense… if entirely futile.”

You gasp, jaw dropped as you can feel his heartbeat through the blade, the metal warming in your fist as you use it to hold yourself up.

But then the fiend only closes his clutches around you and moans… head arching back with the pleasure-pain as he purrs, “Oh, I didn’t know you planned such an exquisite introduction.” He levels those three faces at you again, yellow eyes of flame glinting with sadistic glee.

“Do it again…” he growls. “No hesitancy this time, little mouse. Stab me, cut me, maim me… wound me like you mean it.” His clawed hand grips around your own holding the weapon, pulling it back out.

Your jaw drops, as you scan his form. His dilated eyes, his heaving, bleeding chest, even something hard and copiously hot prods between your legs into the gusset of your leathers.

Raphael chuckles, grinding that hard heat up into you. “Do not insult me with leniency. You came into my house, you sought to end the master… finish your task and savor my wrath. Thrust!” he growls, one maw of his face opening and rolling out its tongue to lap at the sweat on your neck.

Your body obeys, but only because you loved the noise he made as the blade bit flesh. You press the dagger to his chest, locking eyes with the beast that pins you to the wall, and you thrust inside his chest slowly. Your own wanton moan slips from your mouth as you feel the blade sink into his flesh and your own body shiver with need.

That makes him both freeze and… hum. “Oh… little mouse, if I had known the sort of predator you would seek, I would have come with my contract, my offer for you in my maw.”

“Perhaps I would have accepted you… perhaps not,” you somehow manage to find a hint of wit through the veil of your fear and the shroud of your lust. “Guess we will never know.”

His monstrous laugh rumbles and shakes your bones as his cock grinds up your pelvis, its large, weeping head already past your navel. “Perhaps you wish to indulge in my wrath?” his voice almost echoes threefold as he grinds against you, as his tail wraps around your stomach and tightens.

You raise your head, lips parted as you try to wet them. “How wrathful are you?” you seem to whisper and purr at once…

…as if the idea excites you.

“Mmm, very…” he pants, thrusting against you, humping you faster, “very… wrathful.”

His claws reach for your waistband, making quick work of your leathers, the fabric parting to bare your soft, supple and very mortal flesh. He drags you higher up the wall, tail lifting you until your hips are at his eye level… his mouth level.

Three tongues slide from bony jaws, trailing steaming, scalding hot spittle up both your thighs and the thickest laves right through your dripping seam. A flurry of curses leave your lips, but none are sufficient to really convey just how good it feels. They lick and swirl and circle, everywhere all at once… and you curse again, knowing your body is his and your soul is damned for this bliss. Then you whimper his name, “Raphael…”

Lapping his maws, he lifts his head. With that bony mane of horns and tusks so close to your face, you’re more nervous to lose an eye than anything. It’s all too close for comfort. You press a kiss on the bleached white of his muzzle.

He grows impossibly hot, engulfing you in that inferno, making you sweat until your top sticks and clings to your curves and breasts. Then you hear your name in his unholy voice. His hips shift, that thick, blunted head of this cock now pushes against your cunt. The way you are soaked in sweat and… other things, it makes you blush with unabashed need and flush with desire.

“Go on then, devil,” you goad him, smiling and pulling him by the bony tusk of his face to kiss him. “Give me your judgment, condemn me to your wrath….”

“Music to my ears,” he replies dangerously fast before holding you tight and thrusting into you. It burns so deliciously, hips splitting to take him in.

You scream, not in terror or pain, but in the blissful pressure it is to be filled. Your mind races through your encounters with the devil before, ones rife with tension and flirtation, hints of desire and mutual lust, ones that always left you suddenly cold and aching for more.

And now, you have more, more than you thought you ever could handle. He pushes deep inside you, and, hanging your head, you gasp. Your eyes well with blissful tears to see just how much of him is still… unsheathed between your thighs.

Your nose fills with the scent of flame and sulfur, your body dripping with sweat so close to those flames that lick and dance beneath the cages of black winding bone of his body. With every thrust, your body opens, every press of him inside you he chuffs threefold in your face. You lift your head, breathless from the pressure and pain as you meet those unholy eyes.

“Mine…” he growls, hips snapping harder, his breath beating down at you as he pants with every thrust. Your walls would clench if they could do more than take his massive size inside you. You’re already so hot, the inferno of lust and pleasure tightens in your belly. “My mouse, my quarry, my prey.”

Any thought of contracts or purloined treasure are fucked from your thoughts. All is fire on your skins and in your cunt, and you struggle to breath as you feel the ridges raise along the width of his cock as he grows more insistent and sloppy.

Close to his orgasm.

You whine at the friction, at the foreign drag between your thighs, inside your belly. It sends you careening into climax, your screams echoing louder than the shrill whine of the souls bound to this place.

A roar above you from his middle-maw and his tail clenches hard and fast, almost cutting off your air supply. It’s steaming. Scalding. Hot inside you. His cum pulses and pushes to fill you, those ridges of his cock gripping into your walls and locking him in place, even as he gives a few final, deep-driving thrusts.

“Hells…” the curse leaves your lips before you can prevent the irony. Then, you look up with wide eyes at the sound that comes from the fiend before you. In you.

A strange noise settles in his throat. A low rumble. A laugh… that gives way to something gentle. Soft. As if he’s… purring.

“Such a good little mouse, a delicious morsel to submit to my wrath. Why… I have half a mind to keep you,” he growls his words even as he purrs still, the vibrations shaking your chest. “But there are many ways to… negotiate such an arrangement. You’ll have one final deal from me before it’s over.”

His lipless faces smile. “And I advise you to take it when it comes, my mouse.”

A special dedication to @astarionancuntnin @absolutelydegenerateme @charmandabear @tinosawruswrites @moochiepoo

And to @marimosalad and @nyx-knox my coven sisters and betas

[maxispixels]

HANDPICKED

PART FIVE.

Hobie Brown x GN!Reader

1.4k words

You work at a flower shop in late 70s London and Hobie's being a menace. Slowburn? Probably will be around 10 parts. Strangers to reluctant acquaintances to friends to something more. Maybe a lil' messy?

Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part six. Part seven. Part eight.

You forgot to ask his name. Again. You let him leave the shop and you didn't ask his name.

You rolled in your bed, holding your pillow on your chest, feeling all foolish. When did he start getting to you so much? Probably the beginning. This idiot’s mysterious act got you good, you thought.

Finding sleep had become a difficult task. Your mind was plagued with warm thoughts of him, while your body was desperately cold from the lack of functioning heating. Especially as the weather reporters announced this winter as one of the coldest in the decade.

The news was pretty depressing, with one sordid headline after another. You stopped reading the articles in detail. It was killing your spirits, and frankly you didn't need that. People were out on the streets, demonstrations increasingly frequent and violent. The whole atmosphere of the city had changed for the worst.

Your teeth chattered a little as you turned in your heavy blanket, a bottle filled with hot water resting to your feet.

Your eyelids finally grew heavy as a familiar silhouette filled your mind. That had become a regular thing as you fell asleep, his face haunting you. You didn't even fight it anymore, letting the memory of his voice echo in your mind and lull you to sleep. 

The night had been restless, filled with honking, police sirens, the distant screams and chants of protesters. You wondered if he went to that kind of event. Probably. The thought twisted your stomach—not just because it was dangerous, but because you didn’t want to imagine him as part of the chaos you tried so hard to shut out.

When morning light seeped through your curtains, you were reluctantly pulled out of Morpheus’ arms. You had to face a new day, and you really didn't want to, feeling the exhaustion adding up. It was a bit early — not early enough that you’d have time to fall asleep, but enough that you had extra time. After getting your breakfast of choice, you reached for your sketchbook.

At first, you didn’t notice anything unusual—just your own messy sketches of his face. Then you saw it: unfamiliar handwriting scrawled next to the portraits, on yellow sticky notes, careful not to ruin any of your pages. Your breath caught as you read the first line. ‘Basically forgot me, huh?’ Your eyes widened as you stared at the sloppy ink.

‘looks like the only thing you forgot is the shape of my nose’ You could hear the smugness in his voice just reading this. 

This handwriting was messy but legible, he mixed uppercase and lowercase letters inconsistently. 

Next to the pressed flowers, another note, reading ‘you kept them’,  and at the end of the couple of pages filled with his portraits, he added, ‘flattered to be your muse.’

You felt the embarrassment grow in your stomach, bearing its ugly head. You didn’t know what scared you more—that he’d never show up again, or that he would.

It was signed with his name. You swallowed as you read it. Hobie. You repeated it to the walls of your home, tasting his name on your tongue, letting it twirl in your mouth like a wine connoisseur. 

You couldn't figure out the taste. And before you knew it, you had to leave and go to work. 

There was quite a mess in the street leading to the flower shop. Ashes from stuff burning during the night, trash all over, bins laying on the ground, glass scattered from broken front windows and the smell of sulfur in the air. 

It filled you with growing unease, your guts twisting as you reached the shop. It seemed that this stretch of street had been spared the wrath of the protestors. You sighed as you unlocked the door, the sound of your keys melting into that of the bell above the door.

You did the bare minimum, only switching the water before going to sit behind the counter, not feeling like doing anything of substance.

Soon, Hobie came in. Much earlier than any other time, which was weird. You didn’t expect him. He gave you a familiar wave and none of you mentioned the sketchbook book. 

He looked like he had gone through a war or something, his eye bags somehow even deeper, the hollow of his cheeks more defined. He gave you a smile, making your stomach do the familiar flip of… intimidation, yeah, that’s the word. Definitely intimidated by that gentle smile and mug.

You wondered if he’d been out there last night, caught in the chaos. Maybe that’s where the exhaustion came from.

He sat down on the floor, his back against the wall. He had curled up in the corner beside you, hidden from view. You looked down at him from the height of your stool. It gave you a new point of you, you never saw him from this angle. 

“Comfortable?” You finally broke the silence.

“Very much.”

You had no idea what he was doing, but you didn’t ask. You think that’s why he kept coming back. Ever since the funeral incident, you learned not to be too curious. He’d talk if he wanted to.

At this point, you assumed this had become his resting place, warm and cosy. You wondered if he had that comfort elsewhere.

“Want some tea?” You offered.

“...Yeah, I'll have a cuppa.”

You stood up and headed for the back of the store, turning on the light. You almost sneezed at the amount of dust. Yep, this needed cleaning too. 

You plugged the kettle in and let the tea infuse. You grabbed two porcelain cups from Rose, the delicate gold lining and flower paintings fitting the shop’s atmosphere. All of it was such an old lady thing.

You came and handed him one. He nodded and you two drank in silence.

The tea was comforting, for sure, its aroma spilling in the air and meddling with the sweet scent of flowers. It was hot on your tongue and warm against the palms of your hands, which was always welcomed in that climate.

You glanced at his form on the ground. He looked quite funny, all punk and scary, holding the small, delicate porcelain. It looked like a little girl’s toy in his large, scarred hands.

You weren’t sure whether it was the cuppa or his presence that gave you energy, but you eventually started to take care of some potted plants, tending to the soil.

You heard him follow behind at some point, watching you do some work as if it was a common form of entertainment. 

“You’ve got a bit of dirt on your cheek.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You wiped it off with the back of your hand.

“Wait, no! Don't take it off. Adds character.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What?..”

“You look like you've been in a flower fight. It’s very avant-garde.” He grinned down at you.

“...” You glared up. “I’m going to ignore that because you look like you’ve been in an actual fight.”

He just laughed at that.

Soon though, you were both back behind the counter, as he took that warm spot in the corner. He looked quite relaxed, like he could doze off anytime.

You took care of the occasional customer, and Hobie kept it quiet this time. You were still a little mad at how good his last suggestion was, and a little more afraid of just how good he was at slipping into your life.

As the evening crept in, the cloudy sky darkened a little. You watched the last customer leave, happy as can be, holding a big bouquet of roses. You were a little envious of those people with places to be and company waiting for them.

You looked at the clock. Time to close. You expected him to stand and stretch like he had somewhere to be, but he didn’t move. You stood and turned around the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’. You also turned off the warm lights, letting the last bits of sunlight peak through the cloud to shine yellow rectangles on the old waxed floor. 

“You’re still here,” you said softly, barely a question.

He tilted his head, the corner of his lip lifting up in that familiar smirk. “Guess I am.” 

There was something in his tone, neither apologetic or teasing, instead weirdly honest. He didn’t seem in a rush to go, and for once, you didn’t feel the urge to make him.

You dragged yourself back across the shop and eyed him in his cosy corner. You plopped down next to him, tucking your knees under your chin. He didn’t say anything, nor did he tease you for your choice of seating. You didn’t notice he moved until you felt the comfortably heavy weight of his arms around your shoulders. He smelled of old leather, sweat and pine. 

Without thinking, you leaned into him. Wordless, the moment stretched. You didn't feel the need to question anything.

You could get used to this.

Part six.

[inbabylontheywept]

All that remains: Part I

In the land just past the Decapolis, by the tombs of the city's most ancient forebears, there lived a man called Legion. Some days, he howled like a beast, laughing as he savaged his own flesh with the jagged edges of stones. Other days he wept like a child, teeth chattering even as the sun blazed overhead. But more days still, he lingered in the quiet spaces, haunted but lucid: A stranger to the land and a stranger to himself.

He called himself Legion because he was made of many parts. Memories without attachments, stories without endings. Fragments. Worse, he felt like he could only hold a few of the pieces at a time. Trying to assemble himself felt like an endless effort of cupping his hands together tight, filling them with details, reaching up to his mouth, and realizing they had already slipped through his fingers. An endless thirst for which he had no cure. 

The town called him Legion, because they remembered what he often forgot: That he was a Roman, as well as a former soldier. If he’d been anything less, they’d have driven him away. Instead, they fussed over him endlessly, all too aware that to harm a single hair upon his head was to invoke the wrath of the largest army the world had ever seen.

(Which was a problem, because he was all too willing to harm himself.)

On Legion’s good days they simply gave him space. He’d tried describing once, all the things that could bring his demons out: The clash of metal, the twang of a bowstring. A scream of pain. Those were easy enough to remember and avoid, but others were not. Certain phrases in Latin, ones related to marching, used for giving directions. Certain smells - the roasting of pork, the burning of sulfur. The way some men from distant lands braided their hair. 

So many little things. 

They were a lot to keep track of, and the cost of failure was high. It seemed easier for the people of the town to simply avoid him altogether. That it let them ignore his suffering was simply a pleasant side effect. 

On his bad days, they had to intervene more directly. He was strong when he was well, but his sickness could make him almost invincible. Whole teams of men would be sent into the tombs while he screamed and roared, and it could take them hours to tie him down and pry the rocks from his trembling fingers. To put a rolled up rag into his mouth and silence the phrase he shouted over and over, summoning more demons into himself with each incantation: TORNA MIRA, TALIS EST COMODUM MILES BARBATI. 

Sometimes, it took more than a day of being restrained that way for him to find himself again. They’d send children out to the edge of the town to listen, and when he finally went silent they’d travel back to free him from his chains. It was a beastly, shameful task every time, and Legion made it worse by never being angry. Without fail, the first thing he said every time the rag was removed was:

Συγγνώμη, δεν ήθελα να σε τρομάξω.

Forgive me, I did not mean to scare you. 

Everyone knew that the way things were being handled wasn’t enough. Everyone, even Legion, knew how things would end. They just weren’t sure when. 

It turned out that it was longer than six years.

[princesssarahblog]

"obx" characters in "aib"

characters: john b, jj maybank, pope heyward, kiara carrera, cleo anderson, sarah cameron, rafe cameron, ward cameron, big john b

warnin: murders, death, death games and just my headcanons

◇ - intelligence ♤ - physical ♡ - psychology ♧ - balance

author notes: I highly recommend watching "alice in borderland" there are spoilers for this series!

John B ◇ Arisu

john b will lose many people, eventually losing hope for anything. but, with each day in the borderland, his hope for life and the will to get out of here will only become greater.

he is literally the brains of the whole group and always thinks through all the plans, and pope can help him finalize the plan.

his life is always on the line, but his friends and especially sarah are always by his side. he will play the last game with sarah and they will finally put an end to these games

◇ In a way, john b is the equivalent of arisu. he loses people and hope but gains it back slowly. his plans and ideas keep the group together and help them survive. sarah and the others are his source of strength and support, and he does his best to protect and help them. In the end, he plays the final game with sarah and they finally overcome the games and return to the real world

JJ Maybank ♧ Karube

literally almost died from a laser along with kiara when they both protested the games

he became more and more desperate every day but never showed it, he felt lost when he was separated from his group and had to play the games alone.

when jj needs his gun, it's never there. but jj always manages to survive and get out of the water dry.

jj will eventually meet pope and they will both continue playing together and look for the rest of the group.

♧ jj shares many similarities with karube. both are carefree and enjoy living life on the edge, constantly seeking thrills and adventure. however, jj also has a loyal and protective side, always looking out for his friends and ready to stand up for themhis quick wit and ability to think on his feet make him a valuable member of the group, but his impulsive decisions can sometimes lead him into dangerous situations.

Pope Heyward ◇/♡ Chota/Chishiya

the most dangerous of the group, it will literally be a red flag if you upset him and hurt his friends.

rafe felt the wrath of pope and to this day is covered in bandages because hayward burned him

pope has been to some of the most horrific games. his biggest turnoff would be the "beauty contest" where losing players had sulfuric acid poured on them.

◇ pope will have the most emotional challenges in the borderland, struggling with the loss of friends and family. it's very difficult to define his character, so he is both chota and chishiya. his logical mind will help him deal with the games, but he will struggle with the psychological aspect of the situation. he will have moments of doubt and depression, but his love and loyalty to his friends will keep him going. he will work with others to try and find a way out of the borderland and back to the real world. ♡

Kiara Carrera ♡ Saori

she almost died from a laser when she protested the games, but she was lucky

she will be negative towards newcomers in the group, especially sarah and cleo, and will try to get rid of them.

desperation got the better of kiara every time, and she unknowingly manipulated her own friends and family, turning everyone against each other and driving herself into a dead end

kiara was angry at everything in this world. at her friends and family, at sarah, at these games and even more at herself.. she thought that she did not deserve it and without noticing it resorted to manipulation

from extreme despair and stress, she died in a game of trust. she set everyone against each other, and it turned against her

♡ kiara's transformation into saori will be a reflection of her own despair and desperation in the borderland. her attempts to manipulate her friends and family will lead to a situation where everyone turns against each other, further increasing the sense of hopelessness and isolation. despite her best efforts, kiara's actions will lead to sad and tragic outcomes, both for herself and those around her.

Cleo Anderson ♧ Kuina

the most experienced, fearless and ready for anything. she is very trained to survive and it was as if every day she was waiting for something to happen

the pogues met cleo on the "beach" and she immediately fought them and stabbed them from behind when they least expected it. but after.. she joined them and became part of the group

cleo has the greatest desire to live, when she met the pouges she made real friends for whom she is ready to give her life. she found love.. pope.

♧ fighting skills, strong will to live, experience to survive makes her similar to kuina. she also changes and chooses the best side for herself by making the right decision. she finds friends and a new meaning of life, ready to give her life for it

Sarah Cameron ♧ Usagi

will have a lot of problems with her family and rafe, she will meet the pogues on the beach and will become attached to john b and after the house on the beach she will become part of their group

always ready to protect and help, she is literally the heart of their group and always keeps the group united and strong

sarah often encounters her brother who went crazy when he was engulfed in fire, she felt sorry for her brother and at every skirmish she tried to bring him to his senses

♧ sarah will likely struggle with feelings of helplessness and hopelessness like usagi. she will be emotionally vulnerable throughout the borderland experience, but her loyalty and resilience will help her push onward. she will stick with john b through thick and thin, and their relationship will be a source of strength for both of them. despite her struggles, sarah will ultimately find the strength to keep going, driven by her love for john b.

Rafe Cameron ◇ Niragi

will always be high on almost all games, he does this to forget about panic.

teamed up with barry and he sometimes tries to talk rafe down from doing so much cocaine. he also still holds a grudge against him for not giving him his money back

was furious after pope roasted him and he and his friends destroyed the entire beach. rafe is always trying to find pope and get revenge on him

◇ rafe is likely to act similarly to niragi, as his selfishness and cruelty are likely to come out in the borderland. he will be confrontational and aggressive, and will prioritize his own survival over the safety of others. rafe is unlikely to feel much empathy for his fellow players, and will view them as opponents rather than allies. his actions and behavior will likely be selfish and ruthless, with little regard for the wellbeing of others.

Ward Cameron ♡ Hatter

the main antagonist at the location "beach"

"the beach" is his own house where he gathered all the people he could gather, he did this not out of sympathy for them but to gather for himself and his family essentially slaves. he pretends to be kind to them, but of course he also does this to get out of the mud and make people trust him

in the final battle at this location, he will kill john b's father right in front of him because of the "betrayal" ward will be very sorry for what he did.

will die at the hands of john b himself and all the people will watch all this and will understand that: "ward cameron has not changed at all"

he did everything for his family and died.

♡ ward is a wealthy and greedy man who values material possessions above all else. he is willing to use any means necessary to achieve his goals, including manipulation and deception. this is similar to the hatter, who is also a wealthy and manipulative character. both ward and the hatter are willing to go to any lengths to get what they want, even if it means harming others.

Big John B ◇ Aguni

secret second head of the "beach"

tried to get out of ward's house all the time but it was very difficult for him. ward kept him close to him all the time and hid him from other people all the time

as a result, he will reveal himself in the finale right in front of everyone and his son, he will tell that eard attacked him but he miraculously survived. he will also tell about that very gold. but, in the end, he will die at the hands of ward himself right in front of his son's eyes.

◇ big john b and aguni share some similarities in terms of their personalities and roles in the story. both characters are tough, experienced, and have a sense of loyalty and duty. they are also both highly skilled and capable. however, they differ in their motivations and actions, as big john b is motivated by the protection of his loved ones and the search for the truth, while aguni is motivated by vengeance and survival.

the main question... who is the queen of hearts? ♡

[play-now-my-lord]

We all know the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah here. We all know the story about Lot begging his wife not to look back at the place they lived their entire lives burning to ashes behind them, not to turn her face to the horrible wrath of God bearing down on their backs - salt water in his eyes, his voice hoarse, pleading with her and the creator of the universe for the story to end any other way. Burning, sulfurous wind singing both of their hair, unearthly sounds never heard by a living person, all receding behind them agonizingly slow. And yes, we know what Lot knew in his heart when all of a sudden his wife's labored breaths, the unsteady shuffling of her feet, all came to a sudden stop. We all know this story, and we experience it every day of our lives.

That's what getting an email feels like

[spnbangbang]

First Communion

Author: butterflyslinky

Artist: KaylieMalinza

Primary Ship: Ruby/Nancy

Other Ships: N/A

Length: 5,535

Warnings: Dubious Consent, Mild Violence

Tags: Femslash, Futanari, Spanking, Loss of Virginity, Catholic Guilt

Posting Date: November 2, 2024

Summary Nancy is saved from Lilith, and all she has to trade is her chastity.

Excerpt Nancy remembers her first communion.

It had been a special day. She stood before the priest, in her little white dress with the blue belt, head bowed as he blessed her. The wafer had been tasteless, but she recalled the wine, dry and bitter. She hadn’t liked it, but she kept that to herself. That was the blood of Christ, and she would be grateful for it.

She thinks Ruby’s pussy tastes a little like that.

The thought is blasphemous in the best way. Thirty-six hours ago, Nancy was a good Catholic girl, said her prayers every night, went to church on Sunday and confession on Wednesday, never drank, did drugs, had sex, or even swore. She worked as a secretary for the police as an act of service more than necessity, at least until she could finish her Masters in social work and start doing more meaningful work. Nancy was a good girl.

Now, she’s lying on a motel bed with a demon straddling her face, clumsily licking at her, desperate, with no real idea of what she’s doing or why she’s doing it. All she knows is one minute, she was on the floor of the police station with what appeared to be a little girl starting to rip her skin off, and the next she was in a motel room with Ruby next to her.

She had been saved from Lilith’s wrath. That’s what Ruby said. She had been rescued, because Sam and Dean refused to kill her, so Ruby figures there must be something special there.

And in exchange, Ruby wants a sacrifice. Not Nancy’s life, that has no value now, but Nancy’s chastity.

All things considered, it’s not a bad trade.

Ruby’s been so kind, too. Nancy’s still clothed, not even her braid undone. Ruby purrs over her, rocking gently, praising Nancy with every breath. Nancy licks and sucks, learning quickly. She’s never thought about this, didn’t even consider it would be possible. Sex is supposed to be between men and women, a penis, a vagina, maybe a hand on a breast, for procreation and nothing more. It never occurred to her that one could put their mouth on genitals.

It’s filthy, wet, and Nancy…

She wants more of it. More of the slickness sliding across her mouth and nose. More of the scent of sulfur overwhelming her, more of the bitter taste dripping past her lips. More of the weight, more of the hands reaching back to grope her through her clothes.

[therxtking]

Ok I need to rewrite some of my characters to make them more like. RP compatible.

Runic will never change tho, she's a shitty steed that wants to eat children. She stays. Cannot change perfection.

[kittenfangirl20]

*something was wrong with how Lucifer was with Adam this time, he wasn’t being loving like he usually was, he seemed to be putting his desires over making Adam happy, he just stormed over to Adam and started to rip off his clothes, it was when the kiss with a bruising amount of force which caused Adam to cry out in pain did it hit him, he smelled sulfur the man’s breath*

Adam: Satan.

Satan: I came to get what I deserve.

*Adam hated hearing Satan use Lucifer’s voice, but then Satan roared in pain when an arrow of angelic steel hit his shoulder, Adam kneed Satan between the legs and got away from him, Satan went to his archangel form while pulling the arrow out of him, Adam then saw Eve with a bow and arrow along with Lucifer in his demon form*

Lucifer: Stay the fuck away from Adam!!!!!

Eve: Go near Adam again and the next arrow is going in your heart.

*Adam glared at Satan and before he could talk himself out of it he beat Satan until the Sin of Wrath flew off, he stumbled to the bathroom and put on a baggy shirt and sweat pants, he couldn’t believe that Satan almost did that to him, he let out a surprised sound when Lucifer picked him up*

Lucifer: Don’t blame yourself, the only one at fault is my fucking brother, you will always be protected.

*Lucifer carried him to the bed to lay Adam between Lucifer and Eve, the two just comforting him and saying words of love while Adam sobbed*

[fickleminder]

someday you’ll walk tall with pride

AU. Satan has always felt a little out of place among the demons he was raised by. Maybe a runaway human can help him figure out who he is.

This was one of two pieces I wrote for the Satan Birthday Collab back in 2021. It was on AO3 but I never posted the full fic on tumblr (only reblogged the event post).

The magic circle on the ground crackles with bright green energy. A low-pitched hum in the air grows louder as the spell tightens its hold on the victim standing in the center, but it quickly dissipates as the light dies down and vanishes altogether.

“FUCK!”

“You almost had it.”

“Don’t patronize me. You could have walked out of there anytime and you know it.”

“Of course.” Lucifer grins smugly. “Have you forgotten who I am?”

Satan has to squash the urge to flip him the bird. His restraint is Lucifer’s only recompense for teaching him magic and being a practice dummy. After all, who better to test his skills against than the third-strongest demon in the Devildom?

“Patience, Satan. You may have been named after the former Lord of Wrath, but I didn’t think you’d pick up his temper as well.”

The comparison makes Satan bristle. Screw decency, the middle finger it is.

.

.

.

As though sensing his bad mood, Callie is exceptionally affectionate today. She’s been lounging in Satan’s lap for close to an hour now, leaving the other strays to compete for petting rights from his free hand. Satan can literally feel the stress leaking out of his body as Callie purrs loudly under his gentle touch.

He keeps his love for cats a well-guarded secret. Although his family suspects he is fond of the felines that occasionally visit the house garden, Satan has never dared to enjoy their company in public. He’s already looked down upon by everyone else for being weak, for not measuring up to the rest of his peers; adding ‘soft’ to that list is just asking for more trouble.

Stupid demons, he thinks angrily. Stupid social norms, stupid —

Callie jumps out of his lap and flees into the bushes, along with the rest of the strays. Satan barely registers the sudden emptiness of the abandoned park before the smell of sulfur assaults his nose — a portal, some distant part of his brain notes — and a startled scream rings in his ears as something heavy crashes into his head from above, leaving him sprawled on his back with the mother of all headaches.

He takes a moment to regain his bearings before getting ready to tear into the imbecile who dared to use him as a landing pad, but the words quickly die in his throat.

There’s a girl lying on his chest, clutching a tattered book in her hands. Her hair is greasy and unkempt, and her ill-fitting clothes envelop a frame that looks way too thin to be healthy. Even her skin is littered in cuts and bruises, and there’s no telling what other injuries she may be hiding.

The fall had knocked her out cold, but Satan is unable to pry the book from her death grip. Curiosity drives him to at least catch a glimpse of its title, and his eyes widen at the sight. This is —

.

.

.

“— a very powerful artifact that was stolen from the treasury several months ago. How did it come to be in your possession?” Diavolo asks.

Kirana looks very small under the blanket Barbatos had draped over her shoulders. She hunches timidly into herself as she’s surrounded and stared down by nine powerful men.

Demons, she corrects herself, swallowing tightly at the horns and wings and tails all out on display. The only one who remains human-looking is the blond man who had carried her to the castle, and she subconsciously scoots closer to him.

“They — they forced pacts onto demons and made them steal it,” she explains. “I don’t know how. Those demons didn’t do anything wrong, but more and more are being killed everyday! I can’t — it’s horrible. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I grabbed the book and ran.”

Barbatos presses a warm cup of tea into Kirana’s shaking hands as Diavolo and Lucifer exchange looks. The Hunters are getting bolder by the day, violating the terms of the inter-realm treaty as they please. Why the Sorcerers’ Society has yet to step in is something that bears further investigation.

“Thank you, Kirana.” Diavolo says after the girl has finished her drink and calmed down somewhat. He smiles kindly at her. “You were very brave to bring this back to us. In return, the Lords of Sin will protect you and welcome you into their home, where you will remain until the situation has been dealt with. Is that acceptable to you?”

Kirana’s eyes shine with barely concealed hope. “I — I can stay here? Really?”

“Yes, you have our word.” Lucifer does a cursory sweep of his brothers until his gaze lands on Satan, who is already frowning in anticipation. “In fact, I’ll even assign you a guardian.”

.

.

.

Despite her newfound freedom, Kirana seems content to remain indoors in the comfort of a dusty guest room. So long as she doesn’t cause any trouble or try to walk out the front door by herself, Satan is more than happy to leave her to her own devices. Playing babysitter is such a chore.

She’s clearly wary of them and keeps to herself, but he can tell she isn’t as tense around him. Her tone isn’t so guarded, and she goes to him for any questions about her new environment. Satan knows her familiarity stems from the fact that he had “saved” her, but a part of him can’t help but think it’s because she caught him in the garden the other day making faces at a tabby cat. Maybe I ought to remind her just where she is, he thinks wickedly.

His conviction falters one evening when he spots Kirana wandering around the library after dinner, flipping open books at random and returning them to their shelves. Something in him takes pity on her. “What genre are you looking for?”

To her credit, Kirana doesn’t startle at his voice. “I don’t know. What are these?”

“You’re standing in front of the history section, obviously. Can’t you read?” He sneers with a roll of his eyes, but his jaw slackens when Kirana only lowers her head in shame. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“They took me when I was young,” she admits softly. “I never went to school.”

Satan has the sudden urge to maim someone. Kirana has to be at least in her twenties by now. “You come into my house, and you don’t know how to read? I can’t believe you’re worse than Mammon!” He stomps towards her angrily, ignoring the way she goes absolutely still, and grabs several books before ushering her onto the nearest couch.

This girl is really pissing me off, he thinks, plopping down next to her. “Okay, listen closely because I’ll only say this once. Firstly, mystery novels are the best. No questions asked. Secondly, you need to start building your phonemic awareness. It’s basically breaking down individual words into…” Satan trails off as a horrifying thought strikes him. “Please tell me you know your ABCs,” he almost begs.

Kirana nods excitedly and leans into him, her eyes fixed on the open book in his hands. All things considered, she’s a pretty good student. Satan rarely has patience for idiots, but given her enthusiasm for learning how to read, he makes the effort to slow down and enunciate properly, tracing every word on the pages as she listens attentively and repeats after him.

The hours fly by. At some point, a cat print blanket finds its way across Kirana’s lap; it had been a birthday present from Belphie several years back, and Satan usually left it in the library in case either of them wanted to use it.

“...then whatever remains, however improbable, must be — Oh.”

Satan doesn’t realise he’s been reading aloud to himself for a while now. Kirana’s lack of response should have been a dead giveaway, but somehow he’s gotten used to her silent company and warmth at his side. Seeing her deep, steady breaths and the peaceful expression on her face, he decides to let her sleep.

“Alright, let’s resume this session tomorrow then.” Satan moves slowly, shifting Kirana to lie flat on the couch and pillowing her head with a cushion. He tucks her in with the blanket before quietly taking his leave.

.

.

.

It’s been a few weeks since Kirana found shelter in the House of Lamentation, yet she still can’t seem to get used to the fact that all the food on her plate is for her. And even if her stomach is full, or there’s anything not to her tastes, she won’t be punished for leaving it, especially not with Beel at her service.

“You’re looking much better in your clothes, honey.” Asmo appraises her thoughtfully, his eyes glimmering with interest. “Say, let’s go shopping one of these days and pick out something nicer for you to wear. What’s your favorite color?”

Kirana pauses, lowering a half-eaten roll of bread. “...I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I can wear whatever you want.”

Lucifer interrupts Asmo’s dirty snigger with a sharp cough.

“How about your favorite food?” Beel asks as he puts aside his fourth plate for the night.

“I’ll eat anything. I’m not picky.”

“Do you play games?” Levi chimes in.

“Movies! What kind do you like?” Mammon adds.

“She’s probably never done any of those, dumbasses.” Belphie yawns, right before Lucifer tells them to cut it out, clearly noticing Kirana’s growing discomfort and embarrassment.

“Aww come on, big bro! First you axe our trips to the human realm and now you’re censoring us in our own home? That’s unfair!”

Satan eats his meal in silence as Mammon continues to complain about Lucifer’s controlling tendencies.

Maybe Kirana doesn’t quite know who she is either, he realizes.

.

.

.

Not a demon!

Not your son!

The double doors to the library fly open with a resounding bang. Satan storms inside seething with rage, fresh from another argument about his behavior in RAD which had quickly derailed into more personal territory.

Anyone can tell he’ll tear the head off of the next unfortunate soul who so much as looks at him funny, so it’s no surprise when he turns and snarls at the person approaching him from behind, growling louder when Kirana doesn’t even flinch or back away.

“Not scared?” He mocks her, fists curled and itching for a fight.

“You like cats,” she says as though it’s the answer to all his problems. “So you can’t be all bad.”

“You think you know me so well, huh?” Kirana’s logic makes no sense, but she doesn’t give him a chance to argue.

“You’re smart; you know all sorts of things. You’re teaching me to read, you share the books you like with me, and you never say anything but I can tell you always figure out the bad guy before we reach the end.

“You’re kind to the cats in the garden, and I like the way you laugh when you play with them. You care a lot about your family even though you prank them all the time. I think you’re really cool.”

Satan refuses to falter. “Bold words. I was raised by demons, you know.”

“Doesn’t make you a bad person.” She shakes her head. “Astaroth was a demon, but he was nice to me too.”

Now that catches Satan’s attention, and his eyes widen in shock. Astaroth had disappeared from RAD without a trace almost a year ago. “Where is he now? How did —”

Kirana’s shoulders slump miserably. “He’s gone. I don’t know why, he never hurt anyone. He talked to me and gave me some of his food. He was too strong for them to force a pact on him, but they couldn’t let him go.

“Somebody came to take him away. I don’t know who it was, I’ve never seen them before. Ast told me to close my eyes, said I shouldn’t look at them or I’ll go blind… I never saw him again.”

Astaroth was a cocky bastard, but he’d been one of the more decent demons. Maybe that’s why he was so popular in RAD. He and Satan hadn’t exactly been close, but hearing about his fate was saddening. “Nice doesn’t mean good,” Satan protests weakly.

“Angry doesn’t mean bad either,” Kirana counters. “You get mad a lot, but you’ve never hurt anyone. You’ve never hurt me. When I fell on you, the first thing you did was carry me to get help. When I woke up, you asked me if I was okay, even when you had that big bruise on your forehead.”

She unfolds the cat print blanket in her arms and throws it over his head and shoulders like a comforting hug.

“It’s my turn to ask. Are you okay?”

.

.

.

There’s the longest pause before a faint sniffle reaches Lucifer’s ears. At the back of his mind, memories stir.

It had been out of a twisted sort of obligation that led the Lord of Pride to adopt the baby and raise him as his own, but he owed the mother that much. She’d been riddled with holes mere minutes after he had let them go, after she had warned him that her captors’ next hunting grounds were the high-end casinos in Vegas. Innocent civilians got caught up in the senseless bursts of violence between the three realms everyday, but the vital piece of information that had allowed Lucifer to save his brother had put him in her debt.

He retrieved the crying infant from under the mother’s bloody corpse and razed the rest of the camp to ashes.

Lucifer’s pride takes a hit knowing that Kirana had gotten through to Satan when he couldn’t, but as long as his son comes out stronger for it, he thinks he can let it slide.

Assured that Satan will be alright, Lucifer retreats from behind the double doors.

.

.

.

The marketplace is bustling with activity, the streets packed with crowds. Kirana holds on to the empty sleeve of Satan’s jacket as the two navigate their way between the stalls.

Getting through the portals was easy, seeing as they only restricted demonic traffic. Kirana had been inspired by cookbooks lately and expressed interest in learning how to recreate the pretty looking food illustrated in the pages. The recipes demanded ingredients their kitchen was short of however, prompting Satan to propose an ad hoc trip to the surface. Lucifer made grocery runs in the human realm all the time, so he figured it should be safe.

But danger often lurks where it’s least expected.

A sharp tug is all the warning Satan gets; he pivots to see the soles of Kirana’s shoes disappearing around a corner. The backstreet he chases her into is filled with twists and turns, but there’s really only one way to go. He swerves into an alley and promptly finds himself blasted with a spell which sends him crashing to the ground, the wind knocked out of him.

“Well now, this is interesting,” a tall figure says, staring down at him in amusement. “You smell like them, but you’re human.”

Behind them, Kirana is curled into a shaking ball at the feet of several men, her eyes tightly screwed shut. Likely out of fear, but Satan suspects that is the same monster who smote Astaroth.

“Forget about him, he’s nothing.” The stranger tells their men. “Let’s —”

“He’s my friend!” Kirana shouts in defiance, despite the slight tremble in her voice. She reels backwards with a cry as a heavy boot strikes her in the stomach, and her head collides with the brick wall with a sickening crack.

“If the girl is what you want, then just take her and go. We’re wasting time.” A blink, and the stranger is gone.

Kirana whimpers as rough hands sink into her blood-matted hair and start dragging her away, but her eyes snap open when the Hunters suddenly scream and release her.

Satan moves in a flash, scooping her up and depositing her a safe distance away. Through her blurry vision, she can see green fire circling the men. They curse and swear as they struggle to free themselves, but their feet are practically glued to the cobblestone, the spell unyielding.

“What is this sorcery? Who are you?” One of them demands.

“I am Satan, Lord of Wrath.”

It could be the pain making her see things, but Satan’s horns curl beautifully against the sides of his head. His blackened nails have never looked sharper, and an armored tail whips back and forth in gleeful anticipation.

“And I will make you pay for hurting Kirana.”

[sky-kiss]

A/N: Can't sleep. And horrible, horrible, unholy creatures prompted for soft ascended fiend. Please understand, any additional ficlets this week will be horrific and dark to counterbalance this crime.

Also. Using my OC (which I don't do here) to cheat this prompt. In an established universe. HAH.

Ascended Fiend Raphael: You think he chuffs? I think he chuffs.

“He’s making a mess of the place.” 

“Well, we wanted to see what he was capable of?”

Haarlep fixes her with a withering look, lips pressing to a thin line. Their face is naturally expressive; Joi has the distinct pleasure of watching all his thoughts pass across his face without pretense or restraint. The sum of these parts amounts to an unambiguous: you fucking dolt. 

“We knew. The princeling wanted to showboat. And now look.”

The fiend continues its rampage through the arena, tail lashing behind it, wings spread. Its fires burn brighter than ever, hot enough to leave the entirety of the building sweltering. A tinge of iron hangs in the air, married to sulfur and the sickly sweetness of charred flesh. Raphael has been neither subtle nor graceful in his carnage: the room is a mess of gore, devils, and demons alike. 

A bolt of hellfire tears from its right hand, ripping across the arena. The Abishai screams in agony, briefly sputtering before its form gives way. Ash flutters about the arena, and the fiend howls its delight. 

He’s beautiful, she thinks. All the wrath of the Hells made manifest. Raphael lifts his head, scenting the air. Robbed of his toys and the distraction of live prey, it looks for alternate means of entertainment. The creature’s good eyes fix upon them. 

“If the brute comes over here, I’ll sacrifice you,” Haarlep grumbles.

She pats their chest. “I’m well aware.” He’s done it before; he’ll do it again. The incubus intends to outlive them all. “Help me down?” 

Their expression twists with savage delight. “As the lady wishes.” 

Haarlep holds her elbow as she climbs over the arena’s edge. The distance makes her dizzy, forty or fifty down into the pit, necessary for some of the beasts the Archduke houses below. Flight is an option, but it’s easier to fall, whispering the familiar incantation to make herself feather-light. 

The fiend shrieks. Raphael’s voice bleeds into the bestial sound, one note among many; she holds onto this familiarity as it tears across the remaining space, hellfire, and claws. She swallows. 

The claws of its right-hand curl around her waist, pressing just to the point of pain. Some break flesh. Raphael huffs again, sniffing, hot gusts of air ruffling her hair. Joi holds out her hand. 

It kneels. The distance between them remains too great, the size difference too vast. The fiend hauls her nearer, chuffing, nuzzling the center skull against her chest. She trails the tips of her nails across his forehead, ignoring the hiss of pain in her side and the blood staining his jaws. 

“You’ve upset Haarlep, dear one.” One could be forgiven for mistaking the sound it makes for a laugh. If nothing else, her duke preens, wings stretching to their full span. It tries to get nearer, to close what little invisible space exists between them, recognizing its scent on her skin.  It purrs. “They worked very hard to find you all these toys…” 

“...and he’s broken them immediately.” The incubus snaps, voice echoing around them. “Ungrateful little brat.” 

"They're going to be insufferable tonight. You understand this, yes?" The right head’s expression twists in some approximation of glee. Joi shakes her head, cooing to the great beast until it finally sets her down. She kisses its ruined skull, motioning it to follow her towards the holding pens. Perhaps they will find new prey among the wastes; perhaps she’ll indulge its appetites. 

So much potential. So little time.