Apotheosis (Prince Ahzrak x Reader)

ORIGINALLY WRITTEN: June 2025

NOTES: This started as a very narrow idea without plot. However, my partner had given me a few ideas and... well.. that's how we ended up with a 5.2k word porn with plot fic WITH custom artwork. You can view the piece my partner drew at the end, as she has a wonderful creativity in developing sexual anatomy for demons. If you want to chekc out her socials, you can find her NSFW art on BlueSky.

CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+, Monsterfucking, Demonfucking, Dubious Consent, Mental Manipulation, Unsafe / Nonpracticed BSDM Dynamic, Minimal Prep, Mentions of War and Death

Things were not meant to be this way.

The war between Hell’s forces and the Sentinels–the Argenta–was brutal; long-lasting and stretched across the expanse of decades. It took, and took, and took. It wore people down until they withered away beneath the crushing pressure. Thousands died. Millions would, if this continued a second longer. Some questioned their faith in the Maykrs and the Wraiths. Why would they allow this to continue? Why would they not do more to intervene? Use their powers to do something to turn the tide? Others, though, found themselves turning to the Maykrs and Old Wraiths. Found their beliefs solidified in this Holy War. It was not born out of their ignorance, or the unwillingness to bend their hand. It was born of concern; a test that–should the Argenta survive–would promise great bounty.

You were among those who grew to question whether the bloodshed was worth continuing. It had brought your mind closer to temptation. Made you ponder things that, should they ever be spoken, was surely to send you to your grave. Yet at the same time...

What if this sisyphean cycle of victory and failure was meant to lead to total collapse? What if resistance was futile? Why not give in; surrender now and pray to whatever little belief you held that you would make it through?

What if you were on the wrong side?

The thoughts were just enough to allow the opposition through.

It started so simply; a manifestation of the Dark Prince in your chambers. You could still feel the weight in your chest as you scrubbed your companion's blood from your palms. As you looked into the rippling waters and saw a husk of your own visage. Ahzrak watched. Indulged in the fear that overcame you as you’d turned around to find him there. But he wasn’t there–not entirely, anyhow. You tried to strike at him, only for your hand to arc through him. He was an illusion, but you heard his voice so clearly as he spoke to you. As he confirmed how frivolous your attempts were. You’d raised your voice to shout, and he’d hushed you. Told you it was as pointless as your swinging, for as soon as it was hinted that backup would arrive, he would vanish and you would find yourself deluded before your squadron. A great warrior, reduced to mad ramblings of demonic invasion within the stronghold’s walls. There was a vitriolic amusement that bled into Ahzrak’s comments on the matter, one that pissed you off to no end. It led to an explosive back and forth exchanged through terse whispers. Yet once those initial comments were made… It seemed the Prince had few others. Whether it was your imagination tricking you–or some sort of ploy to strike true whilst your guard was down–there seemed to be sympathy coming from his presence. A warm, blanketing comfort that allowed you to spiral into divulging your doubts. To verbally question the King and your faith and your place as a pawn in this battle. And he drank it with an eerie silence; an understanding that made your head hurt. His words of comfort were sparse, yet the fact they existed was enough to widen the pit in your gut and allow the bile to hurl forth once you found yourself alone again.

When you’d finally gone to lay your head to rest that evening, you found a sigil beneath your pillow. His sigil. Tired as you were, you’d assumed it was another hallucination. A manifestation of your doubts and the lingering warmth that the conversation draped atop your shoulders. You captured it with your blanket, pulling the worn cloth tight to your form as you–against your better judgment–took the sigil into your palm and held it securely. As a faint glow enveloped your fingers, you moved to tuck it into your pouch and retire.

This would not be the last time you found it in your grasp.

For the initial period, the sigil remained hidden away from your sight. You couldn’t bear to look at it. The hot shame that grasped your core was enough to make you consider getting rid of it. The first, and briefest, thought in doing so was to show the sigil to the King. Why, in all the realms, would you even think that was a good idea? You didn’t have answers to the questions that would arise. It would be a clear cut case that you, somehow, had betrayed the Sentinels and deserved a fate worse than death. The next thought was to cast it over the nearest cliff. Simple, effective, and equally idiotic. If it were not you with direct access to the Dark Prince, then who? What bumbling dork would find the sigil and cast Argent D’Nur to certain doom? What if that tied back to you? The genocide of your people, all over a single cast stone? No. The sigil was safest with you. Nothing could happen if you guarded it. You were in control. For the first time in a long time… You were in control.

And that felt good. To hold such a power in your hands. To thumb over the etchings in the dark of the night, and think back to that first conversation, knowing it could happen again on your terms; with no consequence to your people. At least, that you’d been able to tell.

That was when it began.

One night led to another, and another, and another. Brief check-ins turned into hours long philosophical discussions about power and eternity. Those ‘debates’–which hardly felt as such once you’d realized the overlap in your views–turned into strangely sincere conversations. Shared worries, mostly on your behalf, that became a creature of comfort. The Dark Prince drank in every word. At first, it was as a way to gather intelligence–place bets on where the mentality of the Sentinels as a whole was so that he knew how to strike harder with each punishing blow. Then it became a curiosity on his part; humans had turned to demonic alliance in order to serve their own purposes for decades. The act of sacrificial honor was not new to him, and he’d considered the weight of your own potential alliance. A soldier such as yourself would prove a valuable asset, especially with Hell’s energy coursing through your veins.

But as you grew more vulnerable, so did he. At least, in his own, strange way. His thoughts of using you as a pawn evolved into pondering your uses elsewhere. Perhaps as a tactician? No, such a menial task was beneath someone of your caliber. You would be worth more at his side–at his beck and call. The Witch would sit on his left, and you on his right. You would be elevated to a status incomprehensible by those you found yourself in the company of.

Then, after one fateful battle where the two of you had seen one another across the bloodied field… he knew that time was wearing thin. The time was now, and it was worth the risk to manifest behind enemy lines. You believed him to have cast another projection; it appeared as such through your tears. Yet, when you felt a firm hand on your shoulders, your blood ran cold once more.

This was no illusion. Ahzrak was there before you, and you sat before him.

"What are you–”

“Still your voice, champion.” The nickname had not been new to you, but its tone had. No longer was it taunting. It was… sincere.

You slowly nodded, harshly wiping your eyes as he spoke again.

"How much more blood needs to be shed before you realize that, to your traitorous King, you are no more than a living weapon?" His voice was low; firm. “These… Sentinels… are not your allies. They are so easily broken by desperation. As are you.”

His gaze met yours, and you bowed your head in shame. He continued.

“They waste their talents–your talents–on preserving a beast. You have seen him, have you not?”

You have. You know you have. The Kreed Makyr was in close alliance with the King and Princess; you had caught their conversations as you passed by to fulfill your duties. Heard the hushed whispers referring to The Slayer. When you had first seen him on the battlefield, you swore it was he who would kill you, not the demonic hoard approaching the rendezvous point. That feeling never quite went away, either. The more you pondered on it, the more you had realized the truth in the Prince’s words. Every mission where The Slayer was involved resulted in unfounded bloodshed. Orders changed seemingly at a whim, accounting for his position. His actions. Not those of your own. In return, you–and those still standing–only received the pleasure of living another day. Everything else was drowned in sorrow, whilst The Slayer was recalled back to the Makyr’s possession.

A part of you felt guilt for the brewing jealousy. You could not have been certain if he was just another weapon–a mirror to your own position among the Sentinels–or if he were partaking in luxuries you and your own could not afford. Whichever may have been the case, it did not change the repercussions you poured blood, sweat, and tears into rectifying.

You had, simply, had enough. Ahzrak knew it, too. It drew him closer; to kneel before you and cusp his claws beneath your jawline. Your breath hitched as he tilted your head back to force eye contact.

“You are stranded in this realm. There is nothing here that would be worth your sacrifice. Not so long as The Beast continues to walk the fires. There is no one left to trust. That is why you allow me to speak.” He paused, studying your features; drinking in the strange combination of fear and knowing. “And so… I bring myself here with an offer.”

He could feel your throat contract as you swallowed. He relished in the way your pulse became more prominent beneath his fingers. You could not bring yourself to speak at this moment, only managing a choked sound in response.

“Join me. Allow yourself to rid of the burden of tradition; to join me at my side not as a tool, but as a beacon worthy of respect. A symbol of true, unbreaking strength. Or, allow yourself to perish when we next meet across the battlefield. To be buried by your brethren without honor.”

A clawed finger traced over your windpipe, his hand moving to release you. To leave the weight of the decision atop the crumbling foundation of your psyche, and stand by to watch whether it would balance itself… or collapse entirely.

When all else had seemed hopeless, the idea was far too tempting. His voice, low and silken with purpose, was far too tempting. You couldn’t say no. You couldn’t bear another day of this heartbreak. You couldn’t bear to watch yourself wither away whilst others prevailed. Temptation was what brought you to extend a shaking hand toward the Dark Prince. With a surprising gentleness, he took it in his own.

Your voice was hardly above a whisper, shuddered by the flood of tears that streamed down your face. “I accept.” As soon as the words left your mouth, you felt an intense warmth envelop you; saw a bright light swallow everything you had come to know. Once it faded, you found yourself in a new environment. One few had the privilege of seeing. Ahzrak’s own quarters; the other half of those dozens of conversations. The source of all your comforts for your solemn nights. Your hand was still in his, though not for long. He’d withdrawn once you seemed steady on your own feet, focused now on another train of thought. Wordlessly, he moved around you. It was as if you weren’t there. His stride was comfortable, although still incredibly practiced. His posture was still upright, though not so tense. He navigated to an offshoot room, vanishing behind the gore-colored walls and appearing with a set of crimson robes to rest by your feet.

Then, he left, and you found yourself alone with your thoughts once again.

The next set of time was a blur, only grounded by the tremor in your hands as you found ways to occupy yourself in this new realm. You were free to roam a select section of the greater ship; limited to the quarters and those emptied, recreational areas that surrounded it. Company was much more sparse than it had been in the Sentinel’s castle, though it was oddly peaceful to have genuine peace and quiet. Those you did encounter, the higher-ranking lieutenants of Ahzrak’s command, gave you minimal regard. Every so often, one would stop to watch you wander the halls. But none went out of their way to interrupt your roaming. They were much too focused on their duties to pay you mind.

They had, too, received orders from Ahzrak to leave you alone. That you were meant to be there, and that you would be no threat to their operation. Even as you found yourself sneaking off to investigate Hell’s inner workings.

Hours passed–or was it days? Weeks? It was difficult to tell from within the inner sanctum. Those lieutenants came and went. Ahzrak’s routine, while inconsistent, would become evident to you. It was his appearances that would help you gain a sense of time. His returns would signal the end of the day, or at least the conclusion of his operations. He would enter his chambers and converse with you as if he’d grown expectant of the company. Perhaps a part of him had; his expressions were hard to decipher and his words remained as cryptic as they had always been. Yet there was comfort. A camaraderie that you had not felt in some time, at least as you pondered the days since Hell’s invasion of Argenta. Though, the longer you found yourself away from the Sentinels, you thought back to the times before. To the days of your training, your rise to the warrior you had become. And you found–or perhaps simply believed–that camaraderie had never been there to begin with.

It found you here, though, in the form of claws languidly finding themselves on your chin. You felt your head tilt back, eyes widening as Ahzrak’s gaze bore into you. Studied you. Memorized the way your breath hitched and your pulse quickened. The way you finally found yourself able to hold his gaze, and how your lashes would flutter as focus overcame you.

No words need be exchanged. With a practiced ease, you sank to your knees before him. Allowed him to guide you beneath him so that he may truly take in the depths of your subservience.

“You find yourself in familiar territory, do you not?” His tone was unchanged; still so formal and distanced. What changed was his expression; he smirked. “It is all you humans know–to devote yourself to those who hold power. There is no resistance.”

He paused, dragging the tip of his claw along your jawline. You shivered. It slunk down along your throat, tracing over your weakest point. His voice lowered. “You know it is futile. Why fight something you know is inevitable? That you know serves to your benefit.”

A pathetic sound crawled itself from your throat, something between a whimper and a grunt of disapproval. “It is not… so simple.”

“Is it not?” The tip of his claw pressed into your skin, threatening to pierce it. Your breath hitched. A wave of shame came over you as you felt your stomach drop. Your jaw clenched as you held your resolve.

“... And if it were?”

A curious question. The Prince hummed in consideration, watching as the blood beneath your skin warmed the territory beneath his hand. “Then you know your place, Champion, and are worthy of recompense.”

It was endearing to him, the way you looked up at him as if he'd descended from the heavens; ironic enough to bring a coy expression to his features. It reminds him of his own ascension into royalty, the solidification of his status and the way he'd devoted himself in that moment. There was this intangible sense of pride–of belonging–that could only be felt if one's feet were in those shoes. And that was where you now were, with reverent hands raising to cusp his arm and trace along the sleeve.

"Thank you... for everything..." You began, your voice outlandish to your psyche. It didn't sound like you; didn't feel like you. Even as your teeth scraped your tongue and your lips found themselves moving against slowly exposed skin, it couldn't have been you.

Yet, despite everything... It was still you.

Your movements were calculated, perhaps more so than they had ever been on the battlefield. There was a lingering uncertainty beneath every devout gesture, yet you could not stop yourself. Ahzrak knew that, and he was enjoying the way you unraveled yourself beneath him. The way your hands moved to push his robe open, allowing those lips to traverse scarred skin. The way they sank along the contour of his thighs and his clawed hand found itself rested atop your head, heavier than any crown you'd imagined.

"Please?" You breathed out, only stopping your movements once your fingers had found the waist of his pants.

There was a moment of uncertainty from the Prince. It had been so long since his duties had allowed him to indulge in his temptations that, for a moment, he wasn't really sure of the specifics of what you were asking. Yet, the obvious arousal that now bled from your visage was enough to suggest what it was you were seeking. In his eyes, that human hunger was enough to make him want to squirm.

"Go on, then." He mumbles, voice much less commanding than you had ever heard it being. It was enough to break you out of your trance; intimate enough to spread the heat within your core and envelope your heart.

You moved with a surprising haste, fingers deft in undoing the clasps holding the fabric on his hips and allowing them to tumble to the floor. What awaited you was an equally surprising sight. He can feel your breath on his dick as you look up at him.

"Expecting something more familiar? How naive."

The flesh was in similar color to what little of him you had seen with the clothing, and like his features remained without any signs of blush. It was perplexing, given you have seen him bleed, yet it had seemed his skin was thicker, or his blood ran deeper than you'd initially believed. Yet the lack of coloration was the smallest source of confusion. Everything else was entirely unfamiliar; nearly inhumane in its presence. Erect, he was of above-average size–damn near a foot if you had to assume by a persecutory look over. The shape was almost sharp, accentuated by the dart-like appendage prodding from his slick tip. That dart was the most prominent of the cascading series of spines traversing his shaft, only parting ways to reveal illuminated golden accenting. While it appeared metallic at first, perhaps a form of embedded jewelry to show his status, the subtle pulsating quickly proved that theory otherwise. The further along the shaft you examined, the thicker those spines grew, broadening in a manner that revealed their true purpose–to ensure his lineage would take. That much quickly became clear, atop the fact that at his base, he had a knot. A thick, fleshy bulge that replaced testicles, and seemed to swell with anticipation as it was observed.

You shuddered at the ideas that flashed in your mind.

"If you're quite finished marveling," he began, his grip on your head growing firm as he shoved you against him. You couldn't help gasping, hot and breathy as your cheek squished against his thigh and his natural musk overwhelmed your senses. "You are free to sanctify this moment."

If it were not for your position, you would find such a tease insufferable, though oddly charming.

You recover from the momentary shock quickly enough, avoiding testing his patience any further–although a part of you wonders what would await if you had. What length would he go to prove his position over you? The thoughts were dizzying; distracting. You kept yourself grounded by coaxing him into your mouth with your tongue. The lazy appendage swirled around his dripping head, catching the salted nectar and committing to memory those odd textures. The mere gesture was enough to capture his undivided attention. What you may have lacked in skill for his anatomy, you made up for in enthusiasm. It showed in the way you wrapped your lips around him and used your hand to hold the exposed length. It, too, showed in the way you found yourself pressed to his leg, shifting your weight idly to mirror the bobbing of your head. Your other hand finds itself rested on the divot in his hip, holding tight like you were afraid of something. Being pulled away? Finding yourself alone? Discovering that this was all some sick, perverted dream that you would carry with shame as you went about your duties within the Sentinel's stronghold...

You moan as you feel his hand on your head and cock in your throat. It tumbles into a pathetic whine when Ahzrak tugs your hair, and he does so again, just for the fun of it. You jerk, mouth falling open and his dick resting against your tongue as another deep, scratchy moan escapes. When you fall still, he sighs, craning his head to see what's come over you. It is only when your eyes meet that he sees a guilt all too familiar. The smirk that overcomes him is twisted with glee. To know you got off from nothing more than his hand on your head and cock in your throat is divine. Even as you pull back and accentuate the thick strand of drool connecting your lips to his tip.

"Sorry... my Lord..." You pant, blinking rapidly to keep the hot tears in those puppy-like eyes. "I don't–I can keep going–”

“Do you wish to?”

There’s pause as you process that underlying tenderness; solidify that it is, in fact, real. The subtle softening of his expression confirms that it is. You swallow harshly as your stomach drops–as attention is brought to how painfully empty you are.

You nod. “Yes… Yes, my Prince.”

He is surprised by the intimacy of the title. Whereas others could speak it and it would mean nothing to him, it means everything coming from you. It makes his own stomach turn, and he occupies himself with grasping your jaw and yanking you to your feet. He studies the way your face contorts and your muscles grow taut. The instinct to fight, overtaken by the need for something so vulnerable.

“Hm…” The Prince leans in, drawing your faces closer until no more than a few mere inches separate you two. Your breaths mingle in the marginal space. Under any other’s scrutiny, you would feel shame. Under his, you feel as if you were a prize. To him, you were. “Then you shall partake, and have earned your indulgence.”

The statement should not have stricken you the way it did; yet there was undeniable excitement at the prospect. Before you could express such, firm lips found yours. Between the rhythmic motions of your kissing, you could feel those razored teeth scrape at your bottom lip, subtly threatening to tear the flesh beneath them. You allowed your jaw to slacken, providing easy access for that slit tongue to worm its way through and explore every accessible inch of your mouth. You couldn’t help the way your hands reached to cling onto Ahzrak’s forearms, and he relished in the display of need. His own hands found themselves finally releasing your face and dragging sharpened claws along the seams of the robes you adorned. All the while, he mused against your lips with a sinister sense of amusement.

“You mortals always complicate things. All of this–mmph–grandstanding… These displays of power and defiance… Yet you fold… So easily when given the opportunity.”

What was not stated was that, when it came to it, he needed this as much as you did.

Ahzrak grabbed at you firmly, forcing you to stumble back and follow his lead. Just as your knees were about to bump the edge of the bed–his bed–you were suddenly brought into the air. Lifted as if you were nothing more than an out of place decoration. He withdrew briefly from the kiss, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he sat you down and placed a firm hand on the center of your chest. The gesture, brief as it were, was enough to guide your back into the sheets. Enough to place you beneath that hyperfixated gaze once more.

“So far from what your own would consider grace, yet so enthralled by your deeper desires.” The Prince’s hand snaked down your front, coming to rest just above the hemline of your bottoms. Your back arched, hips raising to chase the potential for contact. His hand withdrew, leaving you dissatisfied for the moment.

And it was only for a moment, as after observing the visible contortion of your features, Ahzrak moved so that his dominant hand may remove the unholy cloth from your frame. There was a strange sensation to it; the way he’d undressed you was, as brief as it was, near-ritualistic. There was an odd sense of dedication in the way he revealed your form, and the notable arousal that painted it. A thick claw dragged itself down your torso, relishing in the path of goosebumps it left behind in its travel. As he reached the aching space between your legs, his wrist curled so that the softer, padded flesh of his finger could tease at your entrance. Your breath hitched at the contact, the sensation of his rubbing enough to draw more of those wondrous sounds of yours. Where his anatomy prevented him from stretching you around his fingers, he made up for by allowing his fingers to explore the nearby flesh. To hover his claws so closely to such an intimate space. The subtle threat that something dire could happen, yet that he was taking care to ensure it would not.

“My Prince… Please–” Another moan, this time drawn out, escaped as his hand toyed with you.

A curious hum was all that left his lips, his eyes flickering to meet your gaze. While he did not verbalize it, it was clear he expected elaboration. He expected begging; for you to grovel. And, as shameful as it was, you couldn’t bite back the thoughts as they spilled forth from your tongue.

“Please…” You panted. “I have given myself to you. I give myself to you. My eyes have been opened to witness how blessed I am to receive such an honor; to solidify my status as your Champion.”

Your eyes met his and, had he not been aroused before, the way you spoke to him was certainly enough to bring him to such a point of desire. It was enough to coax him to press himself over you and box you against the sheets. His legs settled between yours, ensuring they remained open. The gesture was enough to bring attention to those girthy ridges pressing against you as his slick coated your skin. As he moved, he noticed the way your muscles clenched and grew taut with anticipation. His own breath shuddered, his resolve broken enough for his own eagerness to slip through the carefully-crafted mask he wore. He shivered as you snuck your hand between your torsos, reaching to cradle his erection and guide his leaking tip to rub against your entrance.

Then he pushed forth, moving past your flesh and burying himself within you.

At first, the sensation was fiery–sore and uncomfortable as the dart rested atop his tip pricked at your inner walls and stuck itself into your flesh. As his movement ceased, and that dart dissolved, that soreness began to subside. Your brows furrowed, your features twisted with a cocktail of curiosity and pleasure. Ahzrak growled as you clenched down on him, his hips meeting yours and pressing all but that knot in. It was only as the initial pleasure steadied that he noticed your expression.

“It’s… an aphrodisiac.” He paused, sensing your amusement. His eyes rolled. “Whatever comments you may have, you can save them for another time.”

His point was made certain as his hips bucked, drawing attention to the various textured ridges that were deep within you.

The sensations were overwhelming; no longer painful as a thick cloud of lust and pleasure overtook you. Whatever it was, it was working. It made everything feel so much more intense than you ever could have imagined. Every movement drew languid moans and throaty pleas from you, your hands unable to rest as they gripped tirelessly at the sheets. Ahzrak’s own joined yours, holding them down in place firmly as his own guttural sounds escaped him; they were equally intoxicating. Those sharp growls and subtle whines. The way he held your hands, albeit with an ulterior motive, and created this strange sense of intimacy between those rough, rhythmic thrusts that pressed all the right places. Your fingers flexed against his in a vain attempt to return the gesture. And, when you’d considered it hopeless to continue in your attempts, you felt his own fingers shift just enough to provide leeway. To allow your fingers to intertwine as your legs did, wrapping around his flesh and encouraging your closeness. With that closeness came escalation. The further intensifying of your excitements; the devolution into absolute sin.

Any shame you had was whisked away by the feeling of the Prince reaching to force your hazy gaze to him.

“Of all–” he growled, his grip tightening in an attempt to keep his voice steady. “–all the specimens in this domain. All those who would blindly swear their allegiance to Lucifer–It had to be you that fell into my lap. The perfect specimen. The perfect Champion.”

His movements grew less steady; more erratic. More desperate. Every deep rut brought you to arch your back and squirm beneath his hold. Yet, easy as it would have been to truly free yourself, you held no intentions of doing so. Not when everything had felt so… perfectly in place. Not when you finally felt worthy of something in this miserable era of slaughter.

Not when you found your muscles taut and your voice shattering as you climaxed.

Ahzrak was quick in following your example, a hellish roar escaping him as he’d forced that knot within you and spilled his seed. He held your hands with an iron grip, weight pressing down onto you as his eyes widened and were encased with a golden glow. As yours did, his own muscles would slowly ease; would unwind as your hips remained connected, even as the Prince moved to change your positioning so that you were laying face to face.

“You’re not…” Your voice was hoarse. He caught on and shook his head, hushing you. “And I will not be until the swelling secedes.” There was an undertone of pride in the statement. “Nothing is just for show.”

There was a lull in conversation. A quiet respite from the intense activities that occurred just moments before. Then, you felt lips press to the top of your head.

“... Now rest, Champion. You will need it.”

And here's the actual anatomy of Ahzrak's dick! Make sure to click for the full, colored image.