In the alternate world of High School DxD, the era of the Ancient War was a chaos of blood and ashes. The plains of Nethervale, littered with corpses, stank of death.
Valzaroth, an Incubus slave, dragged his chains under a blood-red sky, his muscular body covered in scars and grime. His unruly black hair framed an angular face, his scarlet eyes burning with an ambition that clashed with his status. He was nothing but a tool, a plaything of the demon lords of the Astaroth clan, forced to seduce or kill for their glory.
That day, an angelic raid struck the camp. Divine lances pierced tents, the screams of the dying echoing. Valzaroth, freed by a burst of light that shattered his chains, grabbed a broken sword and plunged into the fray. His movements were fluid, savage, each strike fueled by restrained fury. An angel, his golden armor stained with blood, charged. Valzaroth dodged, plunged the sword into his flank, and tore out a scream as entrails spilled. Blood splattered his chest, but he didn't stop, slashing another enemy, a traitorous demon, whose head rolled into the mud.
Amid the carnage, he saw her: Lilithara, the first succubus, matriarch of lust. She fought with deadly grace, her membranous wings spread, her sculpted body encased in black leather armor that accentuated every curve. Her silver hair, flowing to her hips, danced in the wind, and her violet eyes gleamed with predatory intensity. Her ample breasts, barely contained by her corset, drew gazes before her claws slit throats. She impaled an angel with a crimson energy whip, the celestial body exploding in a spray of feathers and blood.
Their eyes met. Valzaroth, covered in blood, panting, felt a spark. Lilithara, intrigued by this wretched Incubus who fought like a god, approached. "A slave who kills with such fervor… What a waste," she murmured, her voice as smooth as poisoned honey. She caressed his chin, her nails grazing his skin. "Follow me, or die here."
Valzaroth, defiant, spat on the ground. "I serve no one."
She laughed, a sound both melodious and cruel. "We'll see, dog."
...
They fled the battlefield, Nethervale burning behind them. Lilithara led Valzaroth to a ruined fortress, an ancient demonic sanctuary. There, she revealed her plan: to unite the scattered demon clans to counter the angels and the fallen. But she needed an ally, someone as ambitious as she was. Valzaroth, wary, sized her up. Her body, a weapon in itself, distracted him. Her wide hips, narrow waist, full lips… Every detail seemed designed to break wills. Yet, he saw beyond: a woman as alone as he was, trapped by her own power.
"Why me?" he asked, leaning against a wall, wiping blood from his sword.
"Because you want more," she replied, sitting on a broken throne. Her crossed leg revealed a shapely thigh, her armor creaking slightly. "Broken slaves don't look like you. Your eyes… they want to devour the world."
He snorted. "And you? Want another dog?"
She rose, approaching, her hips swaying. "An equal." She placed a hand on his chest, her nails tracing burning lines. "Help me, and I'll give you power. Betray me, and I'll break you."
"Fuck you!"
Valzaroth, refusing to yield, attacked her. She parried his blows with ease, her whip wrapping around his arm, slamming him into a pillar. Blood trickled from his forehead, but he rose, charging again. He grabbed her wrist, pinning her to the ground, their faces inches apart. Their breath mingled, heavy, charged with tension. "You want an equal? Prove it," he growled.
Lilithara smiled, her lips brushing his. "Oh, I'll do better." She reversed the hold, pinning him to the ground, her thighs locking around his hips. "Join me, Valzaroth. Together, we'll burn this world."
He yielded, not out of weakness, but because he saw in her what he desired: a partner, a flame as fierce as his own. Their pact was sealed that night, not with words, but with a feverish embrace. In the darkness, their bodies united, a blend of violence and passion, his hands exploring every curve of Lilithara, his lips tasting the salty sweat of her skin. She moaned his name, her nails clawing his back, leaving marks he'd wear like trophies.
Their alliance bore fruit. Valzaroth and Lilithara infiltrated an Astaroth clan camp, the one that had once enslaved Valzaroth. Their plan: massacre the demon lord, Zalthor, and seize control. The night was moonless, perfect for a bloodbath. Lilithara, clad in a slit dress revealing her endless legs, lured guards with her charm. When they lowered their guard, she struck. Her claws ripped out a throat, her whip sliced a torso, splattering her pale skin with scarlet blood.
Valzaroth, armed with a stolen halberd, charged the reinforcements. He gutted a demon, its intestines spilling in a disgusting gurgle. Another tried to flee; Valzaroth smashed its skull with a blow, brains bursting like rotten fruit. "Stay with me!" Lilithara shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos. She unleashed a spell, a wave of purple energy pulverizing a wall, crushing two enemies in a rain of debris.
They found Zalthor in his throne room, a colossus in armor. "Traitors!" he roared, summoning a flame lance. Valzaroth dodged, but the heat scorched his skin. Lilithara countered, her whip wrapping around Zalthor's arm, making him howl. Valzaroth seized the opening, driving his halberd into the lord's flank. Blood gushed, thick, black. Zalthor collapsed, but not before slashing Valzaroth's shoulder, a gaping wound.
Lilithara, breathless, knelt beside him. "Idiot, you're not dying now," she growled, her trembling hands bandaging his wound with fabric torn from her dress. Her usually cold eyes betrayed genuine fear. Valzaroth, grimacing, grasped her hand. "For you, I'll survive anything."
Their victory marked a turning point. The Astaroth clan knelt, and Valzaroth, now master, claimed Lilithara not as a conquest, but as a partner.