#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.

[heintzmagic]

Wrath

Eric Heintz

Cities of sin and wickedness The defilement and dirt of civilization Sodom and Gomorrah were seen as unclean in the Lord's eyes Unfit to continue in existence and condemned to be no more The Lord's wrath showed these two cities the nature of repeated sin's punishment The Lord up on high was lead to anger from the sodomy at its worst Burning sulfur was thrown on these two cities from the heavens All that remained was ruin and smoke May this event continue to lead mankind in a way that is less of err This lesson should allow the Lord to be more relenting of wrath and anger Walk in the light of righteousness and please the Lord Stray from the evils of this world

[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.

- Paring: 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.

[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.

[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.

[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*

[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.

[summertimemusician]

Linktober Shadow, Day 4

Lost

I feel like we really need to talk more about how the Lost Woods are a concept as beautiful as it is terrifying actually.

Wild/BOTW/TOTK Link fans, this one's for you and brought by my severe sleep deprivation, enough caffeine to kill a grown woman with less spite and my medieval literature/narrative/poetry teacher who motivated me through the entire creative process via helping me throw ideas at the wall even as all of the essays I gotta turn in are going to make me late in posting Sage. *laughs hysterically, immediately collapses*

As always can be read as romantic or platonic, and it's up to interpretation what's going down on this one. And can also be read in or outside of an LU context, I'm leaving it vague both on purpose and because of sleep deprivation lol.

Of all places you could say you most intimately did not wish to be alone after being separated from the Chain, the Lost Woods of literally any era but specially Wild’s would definitely be on your top three at a pristine number one.

Really, if you weren’t currently being stalked through the darkened, shadowed weald of the once welcoming evergreen home of both the Minish and Kokiri, whom you knew could be much, much more beautiful lovely (it did aid in raising a good chunk of your beloved heroes, after all) and with your heart working with all the urgency of a wounded deer being chased by a wolf. You’d almost commend it for it’s choice in setting this time.

Keyword being almost, for it compared naught to the sheer and utter terror that burned through your every sinew, marrow and veins at the accuracy of that statement, and the implication that your nebulous and hauntingly familiar current hunter grew ever more clever each passing second of your adventure.

You ran, ran and ran through the living woods, trying desperately to find any possible landmark, an oddly shaped tree, one of the torches or the remain of the skeletons from the old, ruined iterations of the Temple of Time from long bygone eras that the forest had reclaimed, or the hint of the breeze soft whispers from the echoes of the Kokiri or the elated branch rattle giggling laughter of the Skull Children. At this point you’d take even the the mad, beast like howling of the Stalfos or the tortured wailing of Poes, somewhere between vesania tainted laughter and the primal, feral pleading for one’s survival that shook you to the marrow.

There was no such symphony now, the woods as silent as a grave.

(The hauting ground of so, so many that it did not love or could not hold onto anymore, whispered a corner of your mind, and it sounded like the Shadow, with it’s ominous phlegmatic hissing, twisted amusement and sadistic brutality all in one.)

Your arm had long gone numb, broken under the impossible force held by the beast of sulfur and obsidian that the world itself rebelled against warring at it’s very existence as it roared it’s wrath back at it, the Goddesses, Hylia and Demise and your heroes and princesses caught in the middle of divine design, your legs giving out under the weight of your exhaustion, you tasted copper from the wound on your head dripping down your lips but that did not stop you. Would not stop you, couldn’t stop you.

You grit your teeth so hard against the shout that wanted to tear it’s way out of your throat as you barely kept yourself from hitting your head, diverting your momentum against an old, lonely tree. Your blood sinking into the wood, good, better it than Dark Link.

You were tired, you were exhausted, you swore you could hear a growl among the melancholy of the mist. You hoped the shade did not manage to track you down as you made sure not to leave a trail of blood, but something tells you that it wouldn’t need it to track you even with the faint moonlight barely giving enough aid in your own quest to find it before it found you with your only, laughable weapon being an old arrow you’ve pilfered from a long decomposed corpse almost falling from your white knuckled grip.

You didn’t want to die, you needed to survive.

You though of the Chain, your lovely, chaotic, kind boys, of Sky’s ever ecompassing kindness and Four’s brilliant cleverness, Time’s quiet comfort and Legend’s fierce hidden gentleness and Wind’s trailblazing joy, Hyrule’s tender sweetness and Warrior’s warm protectiveness and Wild’s beautiful adoration for life.

You missed them, and it was likely you wouldn’t see them again, that more than anything hurt more than all of your wounds combined.

You try to push yourself up, to move, to live, to keep moving forward, caring not for the stillness of the glade. Barely noticing the sudden silence as you almost pitched forward once again, stumbling onto the earth as your grip onto your makeshift weapon finally gave out-

Only for a pair of arms to catch you, steady, magnolias and rosemary, petrichor from untamed, ancient Hyrule. A bright Sheikah cerulean tunic and a navy cloak falling over darkned boots.

You freeze, hands twitching, it couldn’t be an illusion. You’ve seen plenty in the corner of your eye as you traversed through the woods, attempting to lead you astray. None of them were solid, many of them weren’t quite as cold as this, whoever was holding you.

But it couldn't be real either, it shouldn't.

“Link...?”, came your tired rasp, you felt as if you’ve swallowed sand (briefly, you wondered if the taste of flowers on the back of your tongue mixing with the copper of the liquid of life in your veins was the reason. Then resolved yourself not to think about it), your traitorous body succumbing to exhaustion as the stranger gently held you up (friend, friend, but it couldn’t be, Wild tried to hold onto you, the memory of his desperation scorching under your eyelids like a brand and his howl of denial mixed with self loathing would haunt your for days to come, maybe months, he was far away and hopefully safe, it couldn’t be him).

The figure merely steadied you against themselves, silent as they swung you into their arms, you briefly struggled. It was instinct to put up a fight, to push against the liminal illusion cruelly meant to haunt your possible last moments as another soon to be lost souls chest, or heck for all you knew it could be the Shadow, dragging it out, playing with your torment as it gave you scraps of hope before taking it away. The figure paused, only to gently readjust you -painfully careful as the memory of the gentleness belonging to your Champion but oh so wrong made your heart ache-, the figure lowly speaking, their tone the emerald eternity of the kingdom’s fields and like setting stitches against your wounded self, like the soothing nature of early autumn rain. Almost a whisper, cracked like the wind through the leaves.

“... Rest. You’ll be alright.”

You wanted to protest, wanted to claw and fight and bite his throat off just in case even if you weren’t sure it would take, as with your head in the crook of his hood you couldn’t hear a heartbeat, but your exhaustion won out in the end. Held in the warmth of the sun over Faron Woods with the glimpse of fierce cerulean blue, the gaze of a reynard whom a part of you knew wouldn’t give you up without a fight and safer than you felt since getting pounced through that cursed portal.

When you next came to, it was to Wild’s frantic worry at the edges of camp, his hair like a frazzled shroud as he dropped everything in hand of his watch to check on your now wrapped wounds. Hugging you tight as you held him just as close back.

This time, you found a heartbeat, and you could almost weep with relief, and in the darkness of the woods a shrouded shade smiled.

Returning to the mist unseen and unheard. But content you were home.

[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.

[lynbaccha]

Primo's new summon is something he has not seen before, but the feeling is kind of mutual.

(Includes me bending the lore timeline, because I can. I mean, young Primo, can you blame me?)

The summoning was never an easy task. It was always about control. Each side fighting for it, each side struggling to get what they wanted. Most importantly, however…

Would the other side lose the battle? Would the other side make a mistake and bend, unwillingly, to the summoner’s mold?

This ghoul didn’t want to lose. For what felt like hours it fought back. Almost like a barbarian in legends against an enemy kingdom. All alone. Doing everything in its power to remain as a master of its own life. 

But, like a tired animal after a dragged out chase, the ghoul made a mistake. And thus, Papa’s magic got a hold of it. Its wrathful scream of defeat echoed in the ritual chamber, as it was dragged up from the debts it calls home. 

Then, silence. During it, the smoke subdued and smell of sulfur vanished, as soon as they have appeared, revealing the summoned demon. 

The battle was over. Papa had won.

Primo, exhausted and worn in his own right, expected to face confusion and questions, at most. Every ghoul so far had those. Why me? What is my purpose now? And countless more.

Not with this one, no. 

It remained silent. So silent it threatened to suffocate the surrounding atmosphere. Its piercing eyes slowly, cautiously, scanning the room. All the new ghoul had to offer to others, was fear and hostility. Not that anyone blamed the poor thing, though. The situation, when put into perspective, must have felt terrifying. 

However, because of how hostile and fearful it was, Primo immediately recognized the situation as dangerous. On top of that, the male ghoul was big. The biggest one he had seen so far. Slender looking, like a water ghoul, but they had powerful horns, and muscles, like an earth ghoul would. 

Did he summon a hybrid?

No matter... This situation could turn ugly. And he knew he had to prevent it.

So, Primo approached the new ghoul. The moment he moved, the other male’s head snapped directly towards him. The ghoul’s gills flared up, and a low growl left his chest. The demon was cradling a glowing lantern in his arms, as he curled into himself.

The other ghouls almost held their breath, ready to jump on the new summon. Their job was to serve and protect Papa, and they took it seriously. The options all together were worse. And they hope the new guy will realize it sooner rather than later…

Under the demons watch, Primo took a few stepped closer, as he observed his new summon with as kind eyes as he could muster. In response, the ghoul showed his sharp teeth. The tail trashed behind him, and the young human man could see a stinger on it.

This is bad...

”Calm now…,” Primo spoke softly, and stretched his hand. Before he could say anything more, he felt a sharp pain in that very same hand, mere seconds after the new ghoul has buried his teeth in Papa’s flesh and bone.

From that, it was chaos.

Primo was pulled back by one of his ghouls, and the new summon was pulled into the other direction by two others. In an attempt to restrain the big ghoul, the rest twisted his arms enough to make him drop the lantern, that rolled directly in front of Primo. New Papa immediately picked it up, as the ghouls tried to restrain their fellow demon.

The effort was nothing but futile, as the chamber soon filled with snarls, growls and sounds of broken bones. The massive hybrid was pure rage and terror, and he felt threatened. Primo’s other ghouls tried to scratch, bite, and hit, and the hybrid did the same.

Primo observed. The new ghoul was panicking. In despair, even. After the lantern, it’s only possession…

And the moment the aggressive ghoul locked its eyes on him, he knew what to do.

The order was absurd to his ghouls. An order to stay back. To let the new summon to come to their Papa. The other ghouls fought against their Papa’s orders for a moment, until Primo reminded them of their duty. To obey their Papa.

The leap the new demon made was almost too sudden. Ghouls are faster than humans, much faster. However, this one was, again, was just summoned. Exhausted and not in its full strength. Without that fact on his side, Primo knew he would have been done for.

He reached the injured hand he carried the lantern in towards his ghoul. The hybrid came to an immediate halt, crouching a little in front of Primo. He wasn’t sure what to do, and it clearly was thinking the way out of the situation in front of himself. Both physically and mentally. This human cannot be trusted, Primo just dragged him from their home…

Why? That is the question Primo saw in the other’s eyes. Simple, yet full of confusion and uncertainty.

Gently, Primo put the lantern in the ghouls arms. Its owner’s another hand immediately reached to cradle the object, while the other was still tensed to its side. The demon’s gaze lowered to check for any damage to the possession, and he expressed its relief with a gentle bonk against the lantern’s glass.

Then, the two met each other’s eyes. Primo’s own were filled with compassion, as he laid his injured hand onto the other one’s arm. The demon tensed up a little, inhaling a sharp breath… Before he could relax, and feel the peacefulness in that feathery light touch from the being that he should despise.

”Easy now, tesoro,” Primo spoke once again. ”Easy now…”

The ghoul in front the Papa was full of confusion. Absolutely speechless in front of such kindness. From a person that dragged it off from its home. Even more confusing was that the ghoul couldn’t clearly remember when was the last time he had received gentleness. Scars on the gray skin told that much. The blind, green eye, framed with a scar, acted as a tattle tail of its brutal past.

”What is your name?” Primo asked. The ghoul answered with a blink. His name hasn’t mattered since small forever. He didn’t really need to even remember that. Just that he has one...

Yet, with surprising ease, the slightly strained voice whispers against the pressuring silence, gentle gaze of the another, and familiar warmth of the artifact;

”Arvak...”

[ciarax]

Fallen pt.1 | H.H.

Alastor x Fem!OC

Summary - In Hell's tumultuous depths, Neriah executes Lucifer's grim tasks, only to be rewarded with a temporary relief from the agony etched onto her skin. Stained and scarred, Neriah is faced with the consequences of her rebellion.

Warnings - Angst, mild description of injuries, Lucifer being an asshole?

A/N - I'm not really sure how this whole Tumblr fic post works but I'll figure it out. For now, enjoy this little prologue. I usually don't write reader, but for any requests I'll gladly accept.

Also, feel free to suggest how to improve, English isn't my mother language.

The air in Hell hung heavy with a mixture of sulfur and echoes of damned souls, Pentagram city bustling with energy, yells and screams of sudden battles at every corner. The remains of the demon she had just dispatched on Lucifer's behalf were scattered across the unforgiving pavement. The Overlord, with dangerous ideas of rebellion and suggestions of toppling the Morningstars from their privileged positions, had met a gruesome end. Despite Lucifer's temporary absence from the throne of Hell, his influence was still potent, especially when threats to his power or, more importantly, his daughter Charlie, arose.

Neriah Sighed, barely cleaning her hands on her teared dress, irremediably stained with blood and who knows what else. She didn't care, though, that was a job Lucifer had oh so kindly asked her to do despite no deal what made between them, but the reward was made Neriah gave in every time. The dead body of the Overlord was left to root in a desert alley, it would be found by a drunk or a prostitute, who knows.

The soft, red tufts on Neriah's head, resembling fox ears, twitched slightly upon hearing some grunts from the body left behind her. Despite being a fragile human soul, Neriah had to admit how that demon was quite adamant on surviving her wrath. Tilting her head to the side and narrowing her eyes, she approached the still groaning form. The demon, reduced to a battered state still managed to lift his head, locking eyes with Neriah, defiance and pain etched across his features and dark blood tickling down what remained of his face.

“Persistent, aren’t you?”, Neriah mused, her voice low with a detached curiosity, “most demons would’ve succumbed by now.”

Her words stirred an involuntary growl from the demon, a mix of pain and resentment, evidently struggling to form coherent words but still determined to survive. Only having the energy to follow with his eyes the crouched figure of Neriah, her light hair stained with fiery red tips and some of his blood.

“You cling to existence with an admirable tenacity. Why resist the inevitable?”, her voice was not as emotionless as before, Neriah’s sapphire eyes mixing with the bloody red’s of the demon in front of her who, despite being on the verge of fading away, still managed a crocked smile showing his charred pointy teeth.

“Death’s embrace ain’t appealing as you might think, fallen angel. I have my reasons to linger”, the demon replied, his words punctuated by labored breaths.

“Reasons?”, Neriah mused, fox ears twitching slightly at the demon’s words, “Everyone has reasons, yet, your kind rarely survives my judgment.”

Neriah didn’t wait the answer of the demon, rising up to her feet and towering over him, her expression unreadable as a small flame on her hand quickly grew in size and heat, completely surrounding the former overlord of the Seventh Circle. The flame danced and kept burning until ashes where the only thing left on the barren ground, the warm light merging with the slightly charred limb on Neriah’s back, the once white feathers barely responding to the manifestation of power. With the task completed, she turned away, blending once again into the chaotic streets of Hell.

The air in Lucifer’s grand chamber was still and dusty as if none bothered to live in that huge castle anymore, its existence left to itself. Neriah stepped forward without sparing a glance at the almost abandoned furniture, her eyes focused on the slightly bored expression on Lucifer’s features. A sinister smirk twitched on his lips as he observed her arrival, lounged on his obsidian throne which kept Lucifer on higher height.

“Ah, Neriah, how delightful of you to grace me with your presence.” Lucifer’s tone held a hint of amusement, aware of the upper hand he got against the woman in front of him, her sin permanently etched on her body.

Neriah’s ears twitched, her eyes narrowing as she carefully studied the amused expression on Lucifer’s face, “Your nuisance has been dealt with… I did you what you needed. Now, you give me what I want.”

“Sharp as always”, Lucifer chuckled, summoning the same ointment that gave him the possibility to require Neriah’s assistance whenever he thought useful. It was the price to repay all the favors Lucifer asked her to do, as Neriah couldn’t deal with the aftermath of her sin by herself.

Neriah was quick to catch the small bottle, her sapphire eyes, slightly torn toward a much yellow hue studied the ointment with care before nodding satisfied. Her expression stern as she turned around, however, she was halted by the voice of the King of Hell, his tone cutting through the air with a warning.

“Have you ever considered the possibility of redemption? A Virtue such as yourself, Neriah, fallen to Hell for your rebellious act. It sounds quite pathetic, don’t you think?” Lucifer's words hung in the air like a venomous whisper, a calculated taunt that sought to destroy Neriah's composed facade.

Lucifer couldn’t see the expression on Neriah’s face, her body still turned away from him and showing nothing more than her torn and stained dress and the cause of her constant pain. The cause of her constant pain was laid bare for the King of Hell to see—the remaining fragments of what was once a beautiful, pure-white wing. Now charred and with singed feathers, the appendage devoid of any practical purpose other than to serve as a permanent reminder of what had caused Neriah's expulsion from Heaven. The twin wing was missing, leaving behind only a permanent, open wound scarred onto her skin, slightly lower on Neriah’s back than the usual position of the wings for an angel.

“Redemption is a luxury I cannot afford, Lucifer”

Lucifer’s chuckle turned into a smirk, “How come, the vessel of change who can’t redeem herself? And here I thought yours wasn’t only a child tantrum, my dear Neriah.”

For once it hadn’t been hard for Lucifer to see a change in Neriah’s usually stoic expression, the subtle twitch of her atrophied wing gave him a glimpse of how he had struck a nerve. It was precisely what he wanted—to provoke a reaction, to peel away the layers of her composure.

“Are you the one talking about being redeemed, Lucifer? The first angel who crashed down here in this hole of damned souls”, Neriah tilted her head slightly, her once sapphire eyes now tinted with yellowish hue as her lips turned up into a not-so-subtle grin of amusement. Satisfaction radiated from her face once she noticed the growing irritation on Lucifer’s face, his eyes starting to turn red as his ego inflated with anger.

Before Lucifer could answer, though, Neriah vanished in a mist of black dark red fog, the echo of a smile reverberating in the huge, barren hall.

The air clung thick with an unsettling weight, and eerie tapestries adorned the walls where Neriah reemerged, depicting angels in descent and demons rising. Neriah's footsteps echoed against the cold stone floor, each sound reverberating through the desolate halls like a mournful lament. As she made her way towards the towering gates, the colossal entrance groaned open, revealing the sprawling expanse of Pentagram City below. The symphony of agony and chaos gradually faded as she ventured deeper into the heart of the abyss of the less populated area of the city.

A small, solitary sanctuary tucked away from the chaotic heart of Pentagram City. The air was thick with the oppressive weight of her surroundings, the stone walls, adorned with shadows that seemed to dance in the flickering candlelight.

Closing the heavy door behind her, Neriah gingerly removed the tattered remnants of her dress once she reached her bedroom. She winced as the cool air met the exposed skin, the atrophied wing on her back throbbed incessantly.

With a sigh, she cautiously traced her fingertips over the remnants of her atrophied wing, the pain was a twisted reminder of the rebellion that led her to the depths of Hell. Neriah's thoughts drifted back to the events that had led her to this forsaken place. She remembered the misplaced act of compassion and the thrill of defiance that had coursed through her veins as she stood against the celestial order, the echoes of betrayal that had haunted her every step as she plummeted into the depths of Hell.

The remaining wing on her back was the witnessing of the Dominion angel she defeated, while her own wings were securely tucked away from prying eyes, this one wasn’t possible to do the same, attached on her skin the moment she fell in Hell, the visible remainder of her sin.

Neriah struggled to reach the charred wing on her back, gingerly trying to apply the salve, the angles and contortions causing her to wince with each touch.

The echoes of her musings were interrupted by a sudden, low chuckle. The shadows in the room seemed to dance as Alastor materialized from the darkness, his grin both charming and unsettling. Neriah's sapphire eyes met his when Alastor’s voice cut through the silence.

"My, my, what have we here? Struggling again, my dear Neriah?"

Alastor's piercing eyes met Neriah's in the mirror as he approached, his gloved hands reached for the ointment, offering his assistance, his touch surprisingly gentle.

The magic-infused salve provided only temporary relief, its soothing warmth offering but a fleeting respite from the constant ache that gnawed at her soul.

[doublejango]

for @helluvaoutlaw for our post-Ghostf**kers AU. sorry for always being so dang slow, am working through my drafts, finally feels like progress has been made!

Being down in Wrath always left Blitz torn between feeling on edge and ridiculously cheerful. He knew he shouldn't love it here--the residents tended to be some of the most heavily armed in all of Hell, and were always more than ready to use those weapons, and their lifetimes of expertise--but still. There was just something about it down here that always felt good. Maybe it was the warmth in the air--weather really just couldn't get too hot for Blitz--or maybe it was the sweetness of the lava and the sulfur, how fresh they left everything smelling, but whatever it was? It was wonderful down here. He loved the rocks, the tumbleweeds, loved the horses, the beasts, loved the imps, loved all of it...

And having fought his way through three towns hundreds of miles apart to get here, to a town where it was rumored that Striker might, might be spending his evenings as of late? Blitz was in the highest spirits he'd had in a while. All of that violence, the risk, the danger, and the ultimate risk of coming face to face with that bastard of a badass? Whether or not Striker accepted the proposal Blitz was going to make almost didn't matter, because just being down here had been damn well enjoyable enough.

The saloon doors creaked as he pushed them open and the floorboards sounded brittle, old, and hollow as he walked over to the bar.

The bartender gave Blitz a brief looking over, taking in his physique and his clothes--he had dressed down for the occasion, in tattered old black clothing that fit him like a second damn skin--and the gleam of pleasure in his eyes, the bruises to his face, the split lip, and snorted in quiet derision as Blitz sat down.

"What?" Blitz asked. "Don't think I can handle him? I mean, I figure you all know who I'm here for. Word travels faster than strangers, right?"

"Him?" She chuckled, pouring Blitz a whiskey and sliding it over. "Darlin, if you come here to hurt one of our own, it ain't just Striker you'll have to reckon with. It'll be all of us. First one's on the house. Man deserves to be bought a drink if he's walkin' to his own death."

Blitz grinned, picking up the glass, and toasted her with it. "Guess it's a good thing I'm here to offer him a job, then."

The bartender just shook her head, unimpressed, and turned away to go clean a nonexistent spot a little farther on down the bar.

Blitz settled in to wait.

[hiswordsarekisses]

“And I heard a sound like the roar of a great multitude, like the rushing of many waters, and like a mighty rumbling of thunder, crying out: “Hallelujah! For the Lord our God the Almighty reigns. Let us rejoice and be glad and give Him the glory. For the marriage of the Lamb has come, and His bride has made herself ready. She was given clothing of fine linen, bright and pure.” For the fine linen she wears is the righteous acts of the saints. Then the angel told me to write, “Blessed are those who are invited to the marriage supper of the Lamb.” And he said to me, “These are the true words of God.” So I fell at his feet to worship him. But he told me, “Do not do that! I am a fellow servant with you and your brothers who rely on the testimony of Jesus. Worship God! For the testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy.” Then I saw heaven standing open, and there before me was a white horse. And its rider is called Faithful and True. With righteousness He judges and wages war. He has eyes like blazing fire, and many royal crowns on His head. He has a name written on Him that only He Himself knows. He is dressed in a robe dipped in blood, and His name is The Word of God. The armies of heaven, dressed in fine linen, white and pure, follow Him on white horses. And from His mouth proceeds a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations, and He will rule them with an iron scepter. He treads the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God the Almighty. Then I saw an angel standing in the sun, and he cried out in a loud voice to all the birds flying overhead, “Come, gather together for the great supper of God, so that you may eat the flesh of kings and commanders and mighty men, of horses and riders, of everyone slave and free, small and great.” Then I saw the beast and the kings of the earth with their armies assembled to wage war against the One seated on the horse, and against His army. But the beast was captured along with the false prophet, who on its behalf had performed signs deceiving those who had the mark of the beast and worshiped its image. Both the beast and the false prophet were thrown alive into the fiery lake of burning sulfur. And the rest were killed with the sword that proceeded from the mouth of the One seated on the horse. And all the birds gorged themselves on their flesh.”

From Revelation‬ ‭19‬

“Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying: “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man, and He will dwell with them. They will be His people, and God Himself will be with them as their God. ‘He will wipe away every tear from their eyes,’ and there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the former things have passed away. Revelation‬ ‭21‬:‭1‬-‭4‬

[kittenfangirl20]

Continuation of this post.

*when Adam wasn’t with Lucifer at the Deadly Sins Gala, he was hanging Fizzarolli and this other imp named Blitzø (with a silent ø) who was dragged along with some owl demon named Stolas that was friends with Lucifer, but Adam could tell that Blitzø was happy to be there with his owl demon lover, Adam decided he wanted to dance with Lucifer again so he went to find him and saw him with what looked like a fat Christmas tree, Adam remembered Lucifer pointing him out and said he was Mammon, the Demon Prince of Greed, Adam wondered why he couldn’t wear his usual clothes when Mammon wore that hideous getup not realizing that Lucifer just wanted Adam to wear a tux*

Mammon: Lucifer, you sly dog, I never thought that you would collect the whole set.

Lucifer: Excuse me?

Mammon: First you got Lilith, then Eve, and now Adam. You have fucked the first of humanity.

*Adam clenched his fists until his claws dug into the palms of his hands drawing gold blood, since he was a fallen angel his blood remained gold instead of turning red, Adam felt an clawed hand clutch his shoulder, he could tell by the hot breath smelling of sulfur that it was Satan, the Demon Prince of Wrath*

Satan: Are you going to let Mammon talk about you like you are some cheap whore, show him that you are a true man.

*Adam shouldn’t let those words get to him, but he was too angry and hurt to think straight, all he could think of was Lucifer laughing with the other Demon Princes and Princesses about how he slept with the first three humans, Adam pulled himself from the grip and stormed over to Mammon and Lucifer, before either could say anything, Adam kneed Mammon in the gut and when Mammon fell, Adam pinned him to the ground and started to mercilessly punch him and he felt a little satisfaction when blood was drawn from the punches, but Adam was pulled from Mammon and lightly flung aside into a sitting position with Lucifer looking down at him confused*

Lucifer: Adam, what is going on?

*Adam looked down in embarrassment knowing that all eyes were on him and he flinched hearing Satan’s cackle echoing through the now quiet room*

Adam: I want to go home.

*his voice was soft and filled with pain, Lucifer’s confused look was replaced with one of sorrow and understanding, he held out his hand to Adam which he quickly took, Lucifer opened a portal and led Adam through, instead of his hotel room they were in an office filled with ducks*

Adam: Where are we?

Lucifer: The office in my palace, I thought we would like some privacy so we can talk.

*Adam looked around and saw the paintings and photos of Lucifer’s family, it felt as if Lilith was about to laugh at Adam over his actions at the Gala saying that it was proof that Adam wasn’t worthy of someone as sophisticated as Lucifer, he was upset and noticed that there were no pictures of him up on the wall not knowing that on Lucifer’s desk there was a framed photo of Adam being hugged by Charlie during one of their many visits to Lu Lu World so Lucifer could always look at him and Charlie while sitting at the desk, Adam let Lucifer lead him out of the room while Adam was trying to not cry because he feared that Lucifer was about to break up with him*

(If you are wondering, I am basing this off the fact that in the Hazbin Hotel/Helluva Boss Universe, Lucifer and Satan are two different characters and while Lucifer is a way more sympathetic character in Hazbin Hotel, I see Satan as the master of evil and a manipulator like he was in the Bible, so basically he is what Sera thinks Lucifer is)