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Here is my ranking of Hell’s layers from hottest to least hot.

1. Gluttony:

I described this in another ask, but this layer is carnality distilled into a physical form of throbbing flesh and warm, sweet blood. This is, in my opinion, easily the sexiest layer. I’m not super into the acid, but I’m willing to overlook it if I get to know every tendon and sinew of Hell’s meat, to see the walls pulse and contract as the skeletal hands twitch and the eyes of the room roll back.

2. Violence:

The sleek walls of marble, sculpted elegantly to fit together, forming aesthetic perfection. The contrast between the radiant white and the bubbling blood. The trees, pleading, begging for just a little more. Feed us. Please, please, feed us. We’re so hungry, we’re so desperate. We need you. We need you. Everything about this layer is bloodlust and desperation. The need to escape the labyrinth, the need to free the Tree of Life’s aortal sap, the need to feed on blood and blossom, the need to escape life so desperately that it ends in arboreal agonies, the need to fight, to destroy, to win this war, even if you don’t have a reason besides this need, this gnawing need.

3. Heresy:

Blood oozes from every crevice of these blasphemous corridors, screams echo from the scorching prisons that lie against the walls and floors, every inch of crimson brick, every falling drop of blood, every flickering candle and red-eyed skull is sensual beyond measure. The insolent stench of death and destruction stains these halls, and it couldn’t be any more arousing. Every piece works together in perfect hatred, of peace, of life, of joy, to stomp out and snuff out what little moments of painless pleasure may be found in the brick-lain bowels of Hell.

4. Lust:

The buzzing of electricity, the rushing water and whirring of fans, all creating this pristine cacophony of calm chaos. The shadow of greatness looms, filling every street with the memory of it being something more. You can feel where two friends used to meet, talking about life, about death, about love and all the rest, before they were crushed beneath a husk’s heel. You can feel the sin course through the concrete and steel, screaming that loving one another is not a crime that deserves this fate, but the tragedy only compounds it. It could’ve been different. It should’ve been different. Maybe we could have fought back, or spoken better, or begged more, pleaded more? But it’s too late now. The sorrow of lost peace has sunken into the very foundations of this city, blending with the lightning of the cables and the whispered wishes.

5. Wrath:

A tempest. Chaos, anger, hate, desperation, despair. Everything swirls together, mixing and melding into something colossal. Wrath is the place of everything. Some will never stop, never quit sailing the ferry, never stop for even a moment until their weary bones are cast from the deck and cast into infatuation. Some will try, and try, and try, and one day, they stop trying. They sink, sink, sink to the deepest pits, melding, molding, mixing into the Leviathan, a being of rage, filled with the wills of those who have given up, those who thought they had nothing to fight for. The Leviathan will fight for them. They don’t know who to hate, but they know to hate. Hate the ones who damned them, hate the ones to stand in their way, hate the ones who fight back, hate the weaklings that don’t. All that’s left is hatred and apathy, and neither will aim the blast of the sea serpent.

6. Limbo:

Calm silence as you sit against chiseled stone. The birdsong of the speakers echo and the screens play through the simulation of day they love so much. To frolic through the bushes, run your fingers through the rubbery grass, pluck a flower and smell it, smell the hollow scent of soft plastic, is to know Hell in its most intimate form. It tries to become unsettling, to delve into an uncanny valley, but you know it well enough to not let it stay in that pit. You will smell the roses that smell of nothing. You will feel the winds that are not there to be felt. You will admire the handiwork of Hell, cherishing its careful carvings, its perfect glass, and its beautiful colors. You know Hell, and you will love Hell. And it won’t know how to love you back. But that’s okay. You can teach it.

7. Prelude:

Pistons crash rhythmically, like a foundation, a pounding drum for Hell’s opening symphony, its Overture. The fans whir, filling the music and beckoning you to join. You can be the melody. Fast, energetic, powerful. You can show them yourself. Fast. Energetic. Powerful. Feel the beat of the machinery like the beat of your heart, feel the beat of the machinery as the voice pushing you onward. Press your heel to their skull and push. Push. Push until they pop. See? Didn’t that feel nice? Feeling the beat of the machinery as the tendrils grasping your mind, the hands in yours that guide you forward, the third, double-pupiled eye that lets you see what life truly is. That lets you see life as something to be played with, toyed with, just like how you’re being played with and toyed with, used as entertainment. But it’s alright. If Hell wants a show, you’ll show it exactly what it wants to see. After all, isn’t that what you’re meant for? Isn’t that all your meant for? To serve Hell, obediently and violently is your purpose. And you would never stray from your purpose.

8. Greed:

Sharp and pointed, pyramids pierce the Heavens. The sun beats down on the golden sands, and there’s no escape from it. Greed is intensity, blasting down on you. You feel the intensity of the heat, the miserable, terrible heat clawing at your skin and threatening to rip your very flesh apart. You see the intensity of the labor, the insurrectionists toiling to lift their stones, sweat dripping slowly, so agonizingly slowly down their skin, collecting dirt and blood as their muscles ache and their bones grow tired. There is no respite, there is no rest, there is no requiem. There’s only intensity. There’s only the need to take more once you’ve already given over every piece of yourself. There’s only Greed.

1. Preparation:

You need to come to Hell before you can come to Hell, plus you need its consent. I assume everyone here already knows how to go to Hell, so I won’t get into it, and I’m sure y’all’ve already talked through intimacy with it, so I’m just leaving this part unsaid. One important thing to mention is that getting close to Hell, physically, emotionally, and sensually, Isn’t always specifically sex. It’s hard to have ordinary, penetrative sex with a place, especially a place as varied as Hell, so the pleasure won’t always be coital.

2. Choosing a layer:

The methodology of intimacy for Hell would be very, very different depending on each individual layer, ranging from emotional appreciation and praise, to pain and degradation, to actually getting to fuck (Yay!), so you’ll wanna make this choice early on.

3. Crescendo:

You need to know exactly how you want to do this and want you want from this experience. There’s a million and one ways to get to know the Inferno so, so intimately, and you have to understand which you would like most. Do you want carnal pleasure, physical closeness, emotional warmth, or something more painful? Every layer of Hell has something for someone.

3a. Getting into it:

Since each layer is so distinct, a brief description of what you might experience in each layer seems useful.

Limbo: An artificial mask for a curious creature, not able to keep itself from gravitating to the Earth it’s heard so much about, but never got to experience. Expect praise, both to and from you, beauty, and a distinct sense of unreality.

Lust: A place of cold sadness. Desolate and destitute, with everything about it that once thrived and shined now dulled. Expect to have a conversation, if a silent one, about life, what’s been lost, and what you and it never had.

Gluttony: Everything about Hell’s physicality poured into one place, filled to bursting with the fleshly wants and needs of Hell. Feeding, fucking, frothing at the mouth for the pleasures of the body. This place is a place of ravaging, ripping, a place of worship towards the body and the soul, the soul’s basest attributes. Do what you’ve always wanted to do, but have always had too much shame to. Bite, pound, taste, anything and everything. There is no holding back, no resting until you’re drained dry of everything you have, splattering your essence of the body, whether that be blood, sweat, spit, or even more primal. Expect rough, relentless, animalistic behavior, and a full release of inhibition.

Greed: So close. You’re so close, sweetheart. You just need to go a little further and you’ll reach the peak, place your boulder down, and you’ll finally get your release. You see all of that golden sand, all of those beautiful monuments? You’re so close to getting them. You just need to stay a little cooler. It’s not too hot for you, honey. You’re so close. This is a layer of temptation that you can’t reach. This a place of begging, pleading for something you can’t have. Expect to be on your knees, grasping your hands together like you’re praying to the false god even He couldn’t end, and doing it while you’re so, so close to finishing. So close to releasing it all until you can’t get up. Just a little more. Just a little more. Just a little m

Wrath: Carried on the Ferry to where you deserve, pulled down to where you deserve, sunken all the way down to where you deserve, amalgamated and fused into the Leviathan, a being that will fight with the wrath of the Sullen for what they deserve. Wrath is punishment and reward. Even when you’re being fought for, you’re on a leash. Pulled by the throat to your damnation, whether it be another layer, or another depth of the Ocean Styx. Expect degradation, praise, punishment, reward, and a tight collar.

Heresy: Pain. So, so much pain. But you can take it, can’t you? You’re not weak, you can take it. Just a few more burns, just a couple more scratches, just a bit more time. You can see them, right? The other sinners, condemned to the pits and screaming for mercy? You can do better than them. Take it. Or maybe you can’t do better than them. You’re one in a crowd, getting used, hurt, abused to its whims, and you couldn’t be any happier about it? Isn’t that just a good little toy? Do you feel that? That crushing pressure, the enveloping warmth and harrowing heat? That’s the others. Don’t you just love the feeling of being surrounded, molded into your other sinners to make up the foundations of this beautiful, blasphemous cathedral towards your new God? Follow my command, and I’ll give you exactly what you want. Servitude. Aren’t you just the cutest little thing? Expect to be treated as less than mortal, like the thing you are, praised for your obedience and your worship, and to be hurt, bruised and beaten, feeling the warm sting of red-hot iron, the biting pain of lacerations and chains. And above all, expect to enjoy it.

Violence: Slowly, steadily, slowly, steadily, silently. Every step through this gorgeous labyrinth just gives more and more appreciation towards the handiwork of Hell. It is an artist. And it seems you’re being encouraged to follow in its footsteps. Complete the blank canvas you’ve been left, and fill it in with red. Violence is artistry, a depiction of desperation made with so much infatuation. Hell loves every forked path, every forked crack in iron an and concrete, every forked branch of a silently screaming tree, and every fork in the rivers of blood that are spilt through Violence. All of this war isn’t about hatred. It’s about love. Love for the craft, love for the victors, love for the victims, love for the methods and for the mists of red. This is a love letter to you. Hell is declaring its absolute adoration for you with its art. It made these for you. These halls, these machines, these bullets and beams, this war. It’s all for you. And, if you really want to show your appreciation for it all, then you need to join. Fight, kill, feel the sting of lead. Bleed. Hell is calling for you, and you need to answer. Expect love. Expect obsession. Expect to see your blood drip across the unblemished white and cry at how Hell turned itself inside out to make Violence as beautiful as your own insides. This beloved, beautiful place is your canvas. So pick up your brush and, please, paint. It. RED.

4. Conviction:

Arrive at your destination. Prepare accordingly. Understand what you’re going to do, and what is going to be done to you. Are you ready? Are you sure? Alright. Go ahead. H A V E F U N .

So, to start, let me paint a scene. You’re sitting in Limbo, electric stars shine above you as technicolor lights dance from a nearby stained glass window. You can hear the steady, silent hum of fans as you help to sharpen the teeth of it’s blade. You run your fingers down the exposed wires and vibrant yellow plating. Specific spots seem to elicit beeps and mechanical chirps from the machine, so of course you focus on those areas. You can feel its legs twitching under you as you sit on its lap, caressing the spots that seem to be sensitive. The beeps are getting quicker now, plus more frequent. They accelerate like a train rolling down tracks, whizzing by with a steady beat of clank, clank, clank. Your fingers speed up more and more, gently pulling on the dark cords now, which seems to get even more of a reaction, until the Swordsmachine lets out one long, continuous beep, fans kicking into overdrive as their body slows. Hot air pours from its overworked systems, overwhelmed with sensations, and you can tell just how much it loved it.

Or you’re sitting in Violence, underneath a pitch black sky, surrounded by pale trees that stretch into smaller and smaller sprigs, listening to the rustle of grass, the distant array of blasts and beams. If you were closer, it’d be cacophonous, but from here, it’s just calming sounds that settle comfortably into the background. A machine sits in your arms, letting out series of rings, dings, and beeps. You press a dented, scratched plate of vibrant, worn green into its leg, shifting it until it clicks into place. You tuck its cables into its chassis, keeping it neat, keeping it together. It leans a against you, pressing plates of faded pinks, and old, jagged bronzes, and deep purples into your, nestling its cold silver neck into your shoulder, hearing it enter sleep mode with a whir as you hold it, keeping it comfortable in your lap. It’s calm. It’s nice. Right now, it’s perfect.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64520860

HOLDING THE HAND THAT FEEDS HAS BEEN STARTED. INV1RNO WILL BE DELIVERED. I'VE NEVER WRITTEN FANFIC BEFORE, SO I'M NOT GOOD AT IT YET, BUT I WILL BE.

— Lethe

— Lethe