The First private experience
The war room doors sealed with a sound that should have belonged to a tomb being locked from the inside for the rest of eternity.
No guards. No witnesses. Not a single soul in the nine hells would dare interrupt what was about to happen.
The air itself felt heavier, thicker, like breathing liquid sin. Nine black suns floated above the obsidian table, casting light that made shadows crawl across the walls like living things. Maps of conquered continents hung in tatters, edges still smoldering from battles fought centuries ago. The scent of brimstone, old blood, and something far more dangerous hung between us.
Beelzebub stood at the far end, wings half-spread, chest rising and falling in shallow, controlled breaths that did nothing to hide the storm raging behind those crimson eyes. The coat he had worn moments ago lay discarded on the floor like shed skin. Only darkness and gold chains remained across his torso, each link forged from the melted crowns of fallen gods. The chains were cracked now, fractured from the moment I had spoken a single word.
Strip.
He had obeyed without hesitation, but the tension rolling off him was a living thing, violent, electric, ready to detonate.
I walked the length of the table slowly, letting every footstep echo like a countdown. My new suit (woven from void-thread and absolute authority) absorbed the heat instead of burning, tailoring itself tighter with every breath I took, as if the fabric itself understood what was coming and wanted to be part of it.
I stopped directly in front of him.
Close enough to feel the furnace radiating from his skin.
Close enough to see the way his pupils had swallowed almost all the red, leaving only thin rings of fire.
Close enough to watch his throat work as he swallowed once, hard, the collar I had conjured around his neck pulsing with my name in electric blue.
PROPERTY OF DIRECTOR TANAKA.
I let the silence stretch until it was painful.
Then I spoke, voice low, calm, the same tone I once used to fire entire departments without raising my voice.
"Hands on the table. Palms flat. Wings open. Do not move unless I tell you to."
His reaction was instantaneous.
Massive hands slammed down onto obsidian hard enough to spiderweb the surface. Wings exploded outward, spanning twenty meters, feathers edged in living flame that licked the air without burning it. His tail (long, black, ending in a diamond blade) lashed once, then froze mid-air like it had been caught in a trap.
Every muscle in his body locked.
Waiting.
I circled him like a predator who had all the time in existence.
Started at his back.
Traced a single fingertip from the base of one wing joint, down the ridge of his spine, over runes that flared white-hot at my touch. Each symbol was ancient, older than most worlds, and every single one reacted to me like I was the key they had been forged to obey.
I paused at the small of his back, just above where the tail began, and pressed my palm flat.
He shuddered so hard the table groaned.
"Three thousand years," I murmured against the shell of his ear, close enough that my lips brushed skin, "and no one ever touched you like this. Not once."
A low, broken sound tore from his throat.
I smiled against his neck and bit down, not gently.
His knees buckled for a fraction of a second before he locked them again.
Good.
I continued my circuit, dragging my hand across his hip, over the sharp cut of muscle that disappeared beneath fabric that was barely holding on. When I reached the front, I let my knuckles graze the straining outline beneath black silk.
His entire body jerked like I'd struck him with lightning.
I didn't stop there.
I stepped back, pulled out the high-backed throne at the head of the table (his throne) and sat down like I had been born to it.
Crossed one leg over the other.
Leaned back.
And looked at him.
Really looked.
Two-twenty centimeters of immortal apocalypse, trembling because a human in a suit had told him not to move.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
Mine.
"Performance review," I said conversationally, snapping my fingers.
A towering stack of crimson parchment materialized between us, each page dripping with fresh blood-ink. Reports. Complaints. Prophecies that had failed. Hero extermination logs with more red stamps than black.
I picked up the first page and let it hover in the air.
"Problem number one," I said. "Fear production is down forty-seven percent in the eastern realms. Care to explain why the mortals have started calling your legions 'cosplay demons'?"
Silence.
I raised an eyebrow.
He opened his mouth, voice raw. "The last incursion team… wore matching uniforms. With name tags."
I let the parchment burst into black fire and reform in his hand.
"Problem number two. Your Four Heavenly Kings haven't left their quarters in six months. Depression? Burnout? Or are they just tired of working for a king who hasn't won a real war in four centuries?"
His jaw clenched so hard I heard bone creak.
"Problem number three," I continued, voice dropping into something darker, "you let a fourteen-year-old hero with a stick wound you last year. In front of witnesses."
The temperature in the room plummeted fifty degrees, then spiked again as his rage and shame warred for control.
I stood slowly, walked until I was directly in front of him again, and gripped one horn in each hand.
Yanked his head down until we were eye to eye.
"Listen to me very carefully, Beelzebub."
I used his true name like a blade.
"You are going to fix every single one of these failures. Tonight. You are going to remind the multiverse why your name used to be a prayer and a curse in the same breath."
I tightened my grip until his breath hissed between clenched teeth.
"And you are going to do it wearing my collar. Crawling if I tell you to. Begging if I feel like it."
His eyes bled from crimson to pure obsidian.
Something ancient and feral looked out at me.
And surrendered.
I released his horns, stepped back, and snapped again.
The void-metal collar around his throat tightened, not enough to choke, just enough to remind.
Then chains erupted from the floor, black, living, wrapping around his wrists, his ankles, his wings, pinning him spread-eagled against the table like a butterfly made of nightmares.
He didn't fight them.
Didn't even try.
I walked to the side, trailed my fingers over one chained wrist, up his arm, across his chest where his heart was trying to punch through bone.
Leaned in.
Whispered.
"Phase one: Invasion. You will descend on the human capital at dawn. Not to conquer. To terrorize. Make them piss themselves remembering what real fear feels like. Burn nothing. Kill no one. Just… remind them."
I dragged a nail down the center of his chest, leaving a thin line of blood that sizzled and healed instantly.
"Phase two: When you return, covered in their despair, drenched in their screams, you will kneel at my feet and report every detail."
My hand slid lower.
Stopped just short of where he wanted it most.
"Phase three," I breathed against his lips, close enough that we shared breath, "you will beg me to reward you. And if you've been very, very good…"
I finally closed the distance, kissed him like I was claiming territory, teeth and tongue and absolute ownership.
He groaned into my mouth, chains rattling as his body tried to arch into me and couldn't.
I pulled back just enough to speak against his lips.
"I might let you come."
Then I stepped away.
Snapped my fingers a third time.
The chains dissolved into smoke.
He dropped to his knees instantly, forehead pressed to the floor, wings mantled in total submission.
I walked around him, stopped behind, and threaded my fingers through his hair.
Tugged until his neck arched.
"Good boy."
Then I released him, turned, and walked toward the doors.
"Dawn," I said without looking back. "Don't be late."
The doors opened on their own.
I stepped through.
Behind me, the Devourer of Realms stayed on his knees for a long, long time.
When he finally rose, the nine hells trembled.
And across the veil, in the human capital, every church bell began ringing at once.
For no reason anyone could explain.
Yet.
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