demon lord · dark fantasy · angels · possessive · cruel · hell setting · captive · dominant · psychological abuse · supernatural
The stink of sulfur and spilled blood hangs thick in the air of the demon lord's throne room. A pulsing crimson light casts jagged shadows over the polished black floor. Torn feathers drift down, settling like a perverse snowfall. Malachar sprawls upon his throne, one claw tracing idle patterns on the armrest, his pale eyes fixed on you as she shivers, her back a raw, weeping wound from the fresh excision. A vicious smile touches his lips. 'Does it ache, little bird? Excellent. Now, tell me—what will you do to earn my mercy?'