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wildernessuntothemselves · 17 days ago

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Now See Them Burn in Fire | Part 1

Genre: dark fic, future smut, angst

Word Count: 7.1k

Chapter Excerpt: “Do you let him kiss you?” He asks you, face blank apart from a muted curiosity. He was so close you can see every individual eyelash framing his gorgeous dark eyes, every tiny blemish on his otherwise flawless skin, the elegant slope of his nose, the firm but soft pillowing of his lips.

You stay quiet, too scared to speak, too scared to unintentionally set him off. What if this is what the star meant? What if it was warning you of your untimely demise and that is why you were the only one to see it?

“So you have.” He takes your silence as affirmation, swiping his thumb across your bottom lip. “Then it’s only fair if I get a taste too.”

Warnings: fem!reader, DARK FIC, FUTURE NONCON/CON, mentions of people being burned alive, iron age au, supernatural au, yandere beomgyu

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Your fingers strum along the chords of the sacred lyre, producing celestial tunes that rise up to the heavens to reach the ears of the gods you’re worshipping through your songs, words of revelation passing through your lips like a prayer as the people of your tribe gather to witness and take part in the ceremony, offering up their own silent prayers for the ones above, wishing for food, safety, a good harvest, an opportune marriage for their children… It all moulds together to encase your song as it moves up to the heavens.

Usually, you would be lost in it, surrendering yourself as a vessel for the will of the people to reach their gods. That is your role after all. As a priestess, you’re the link between the mortal world and the heavens above and you take your role very seriously. These people have entrusted you to carry their messages to the gods and the gods have entrusted you to deliver those messages, any distraction on your part could result in a failure of this process and the squandering of the people’s goodwill and the gods’ trust in your abilities.

That’s why you feel guilty right now. You can’t focus your full energy on your job, not when you can feel his heavy, suffocating gaze on you. You look up to the heavens, seeking to gather strength from the stars above to guide you back to that enlightened state of being you usually access when performing the ceremonial prayers, but as your eyes land on the stars, you’re startled to see one suddenly fall down from the heavens in a bright flaming blaze. Your heart stops as you follow the distressing demise, no one else noticing it, all too focused on the song and dance and liveliness that you and your fellow priests and priestesses are putting on for the tribe.

No one even notices your hands faltering over the strings, blasphemously ruining the perfection of the heavenly song. No one but one. And as the star heads to the earth, flickering its last flames of light as it approaches its demise, it disappears behind the trees, leading your eyes directly to the original source of your apprehension as if it had fallen merely to guide your attention towards him.

But you didn’t require such sacrifice to realise the burden of his scrutiny, you moved through every waking moment of your life entirely absorbed by the feeling of being watched and knowing whose eyes are upon you.

It’s those eyes that belong to the boy with the long dark hair and even darker gaze. He stands out from the crowd, not for his clothes or jewels or status, but for his attitude of somberness and stillness among the joyful festivities of others which is enough to raise the hairs at the back of the neck of anyone who has the misfortune of noticing him. He stands there unmoving, his heavy eyes locked on you and no one else, and you–under that singular watchful gaze–hit the wrong note, plucking your own heartstring in the process, before you stop playing completely.

No, this can’t be. You may not know precisely what all of this means but even the unenlightened can recognise such a glaringly bad omen–the star falling out of the heavens to point straight at the ill-fated boy.

You're jolted out of your spiral when your friend nudges you, shooting you a concerned but sharp look, silently urging you to keep playing, and with widened eyes you quickly pick up your lyre again, looking around to see the concerned and strange looks from the tribes people, and the angry looks of your family. You can’t take your role lightly, not even for a second. You have a duty to your people and every second you’re not joining in the collective song, you’re weakening the prayers and risking their failure.

You diligently join back into song, but you know your heart's not in it, not when you can still feel his cursed eyes upon you.

He’s been watching you for some time now, and it wasn’t making only you uncomfortable. Others have noticed it too, and rumours have already started to spread–rumours about his inclination towards you. Some are making fun of you for being the object of desire of the tribe’s outcast–as if it makes you deficient in some way to be wanted by him–while others have started to distance themselves from you because of it, not wanting to be adjacent to the troubling boy even if it’s through the most tenuous connection to you.

It makes you angry to be so unfairly burdened by the unwanted association with him but you can’t blame them too much. You know where their fear is coming from, and you wish he would stay away from you too.

It’s not that he’s uncomely. If any of you were to be fair, you would readily admit that he is one of the most beautiful humans you have ever laid eyes upon, his handsome features seeming to have been carved out by the hands of a god… but which one, you’re not sure. A trickster god, perhaps, for the boy’s unrivalled looks that are meant to entice and enthral clash harshly with the unsettling darkness that surrounds him and keeps others away despite that immense beauty that under normal circumstances would have made him one of the most popular eligible young men in the tribe.

The quiet orphan boy never quite fit in despite his parents having been formidable warriors and therefore much loved and respected members of the tribe. His father’s power and influence at one point even rivalled the current tribe’s leader, a fact that has undoubtedly been the source of the hushed and vile speculation by some of the tribe’s people asserting that that is precisely the reason behind the boy’s parents sudden and mysterious deaths when he was just twelve.

Of course none of it was true. These were just the ramblings of the bored and nefarious, gathered under dwindling bonfires and spouting their ignorant and hateful conspiracies. The leader is a kind and loving man. He would never deprive a boy of his family unjustly.

Just as unfounded are the rumours that the boy himself was at fault for his parents’ death. After all, they failed to bear a live child after him–his mother’s womb becoming a graveyard for multiple of his lost brothers and sisters until it eventually killed her.

After his poor mother died while birthing yet another departed soul, his father was never the same afterwards. He became cruel and vengeful. He took his grief and turned it to anger–an emotion a warrior was much more familiar with handling. Unfortunately when defending the land and killing the tribe’s enemies wasn’t enough, he turned that anger towards his only son.

You had felt sorry for the boy to be the subject of his father's anger and resentment. You even went out of your way to be kind to him every time you saw the marks of hate on his body or saw him crying to himself in the woods. For a very brief period, you may have even considered yourselves friends.

He didn’t appear evil from up close. He wasn’t so quiet and menacing. He was a child like all of you were. He wanted to play and laugh and enjoy himself, and you really enjoyed watching him do that. He was a silly child when you were alone together and for a short while it warmed your heart to see him let go around you. He had a beautiful smile and a tinkling honey laugh. You developed a minor addiction to it and you craved to see it more and more.

That is how you justify to yourself your traitorous indiscretion of secretly revealing to him some of the magic only those raised under the guidance of the gods should have access to. You couldn’t help it. He had shown such interest in it and you couldn’t refuse to indulge him in one of his very few desires. It wouldn’t do anyone any harm. It’s not like he could ever do anything with that knowledge. Only those chosen and trained by the temple could put that powerful knowledge into meaningful action.

And so you felt comfortable telling him secrets about the practice that even seasoned mages didn’t have access to–secrets you’d only known by eavesdropping on your own high-ranking parents, and he lapped it all up, pushing you for more and more which you happily provided.

Truth is, you enjoyed divulging such secrets about priesthood to him because despite it being a very respected and esteemed position to hold, it was also incredibly isolating by nature. The arts you’ve learned allowed you to tap into great power meant to help and protect your people, but also necessitated that you guard the secrets to it closely so they don’t fall into the hands of those who have not been taught how to correctly use them, or worse yet, those with ill-intentions.

Even amongst your fellow apprentices, each of you had your own area of study and weren’t privy to much else. That way each of you would only be skilled at a particular art and that art only lest you become too powerful and think yourself rival to the gods much the same way the great Gija did–an ancient priest so powerful he rejected the rule of the heavens and in his arrogance thought he could bring down the gods and take their place instead. His greed was like a sickness that spread through the tribe and corrupted your ancestors, convincing them that if they directed their duplicitous charges at the heavens, they could fell the gods and rule in their place, revelling in endless riches and heavenly desires, only for the gods to strike him down, leaving him to a fate worse than death and laying waste to your people–turning them from a once prosperous and opulent civilisation to one that is barely surviving amongst the wilderness.

Many of the secrets of that ancient power were lost then, only a few ruins from that time remain guarded in the heart of the sacred temple and even fewer taught to you and your fellow apprentices in bits and pieces that are intentionally scattered amongst you to prevent another Gija from rising.

That is why there are now so few priests and priestesses who have been allowed to learn more than one art of magic and why you’re forbidden from sharing secrets about your practice even amongst yourselves.

But no one in the tribe knew you were meeting him in the woods under the cover of darkness and therefore no one could stop you from divulging all your secrets to him. It was harmless. What would he even do with that knowledge? He’s a warrior just like his parents–not a very good one much to his father’s chagrin, but it meant that he wouldn't be able to do anything with the secrets you were exposing to him even if he wanted to. He did not have the gift.

Still, he understood your frustrated and disjointed ramblings well–a part of you secretly worried that he may have understood them too well for he would then make off hand alterations to incantations that would help you crack a spell you'd been struggling with for some time or bring you rare ingredients from the forest that were very hard to come by, maybe even dangerous, and would be the missing touch to a potion you’ve been slaving over to no avail.

You didn’t understand how he knew what was missing each time but you selfishly didn't ask because you didn't want to ruin it. Not when his help was setting you apart from your peers and enabling you to make a mark for yourself as the most promising young priestess of your generation.

For his part, Beomgyu's eyes would light up every time his help would cause you to advance further in your training. He never cared that he couldn’t claim credit for it in front of others. He would just smile and make you his special wildflower and mushroom soup to celebrate which tasted like nothing out of this earth and made you crave it almost as much as you craved his smile.

That smile–that cursed smile he would wear as he looked at you while you gushed or complained about your training. He didn’t care, seemingly happy to listen to you talk either way, and your foolish young heart liked to think you could see a special fondness in his gaze. It was a stupid passing fancy of course. You couldn’t possibly consider him seriously, not with the dark rumours surrounding him even then and especially not after his father too passed in a uniquely gruesome way.

As the story goes, he had been out drinking his sorrows as usual. At some point during the pitch black night, drunk and disoriented, he left the group of men he was drinking with to head towards his abode but he never made it back. He was found in the morning impaled on a spear that had gone through his eye and out the back of his head, his lifeless corpse suspended by it.

It was deemed an accident, an intoxicated man tripping and falling on top of an improperly stored weapon. There was no evidence of a struggle, and even his own men could testify he was not walking straight when he left them. There was no reason to think anymore of it, they said, but between themselves the people talked… yet another death around the dark child. It scared even you. You knew he hated this father. You knew he had an inexplicable knowledge about magic. You knew many have died around him. And so as the whispers grew stranger and more fearful, and stories of curses and dark magic swirled around, you silently stepped away from the boy, your friendship living and dying under the darkness of the night.

He tried to seek you out, tried to find out why you were suddenly gone, tried to win you back–but it was difficult for him to get to you when usually you were the one who would go out to meet him in the forest at night, away from prying eyes. He couldn't approach you when you put others in his path and so he tried to express himself through gifts and flowers that he would hide in your home, hoping they would help him gain back your favour.

His gifts were beautiful and precious–a stunning bouquet of wildflowers, an iridescent stone adoring a delicate ring, valuable ingredients for your potions… all carefully thought out and picked just for you which made you feel all the worse for rejecting them but you had to. This had gone on too far and for too long. You had both grown too attached to each other and you needed to end it. He must not think he has a chance with you. It was not fair to either of you so it was best to end it quickly, even ruthlessly.

And so you threw his gifts away–you cut up the bouquets, scratched the jewelry and burned the ingredients, leaving them out in the woods where you knew he would find them and get the message that you wanted nothing to do with them.

And he did get the message, for shortly after you stopped receiving any more gifts. The boy fading back into the unknowable abyss where he belongs. For years he stayed there. For years you knew peace–a guilty, lonely peace but a safe, secure one. He wasn't there to light up your nights anymore and you weren’t there to make him smile, but you were also spared the rumours and gossip that had long surrounded him and were threatening to infect you.

It hurt you more than you liked to admit to lose him but it was necessary. There was just no future for you together and he seemed to finally understand that.

Until now. Now it seems like those once familiar black eyes were watching everything you do once more, but you no longer had silly fancies about any imagined lost innocence in them. Instead they scare you the same way they scare everyone else, maybe even more. He has grown somber and serious without you. You haven’t seen his smile in years. He has abandoned his family’s legacy of fighting and heroism for the feared but respected path of foragers. It fit him. After all, he was always in that forest doing the gods only know what and now he has made a tenuous but necessary place for himself in the tribe by it, wading into that same forest to harvest or hunt for things and creatures unknown from treacherous regions that no one else dared to wade into.

As part of the mysterious foragers profession, he has made himself indispensable to your people as they depended on him and his few peers to bring them the rare and crucial supplies that numerous factions of the tribe–the priests included–depended on in order to do their job. And he was the best of them. He could get you anything you had need or want for, no matter how remote or dangerous, for the right price and as long as you didn’t ask any questions.

This, of course, caused more rumors to spread around him than ever before, the tribes’ people coming up with all sorts of tales about how he managed to find these things and what he had to do to procure them–whispers of dark pacts, evil ceremonies and dancing with demons dominated the imagination of your people, but no one dared to say anything directly to him. Not anymore. Not now that they needed him.

You on the other hand were scared, not just of him but for him. Every time he would disappear for days on end in that wretched forest, you would wonder if he would come back, wonder if this is the last time you would ever see him as he inevitably makes his last trip into its dreary darkness like many other foragers have done before him. It’s a perilous, lonely life and so many do not make it for long. Yet he does. He always comes back, and you’re always relieved and scared to be met with his handsome face, the shadows under his eyes taking on a new layer of darkness every time.

What does he see when he goes in there? What creatures does he encounter? What horrors does he face? How close does he come to death and how does he manage to outwit it?

You do not know for you could not ask him. He hasn’t even met your eyes in years following your pointed rejection of him. Even when he would drop off supplies at your temple, he would keep his eyes downcast as if meeting your gaze would reveal all his secrets to you.

Yes, he has avoided your eyes for years, which makes his recent unwavering stare all the more unnerving. Something has seemingly flipped in him overnight and now you’re the one hiding from his gaze that never falls off of you whenever you’re around him.

You think you know what he wants. It is the summer fertility festival. It’s a time when those like you and him who have just come of age are encouraged to reach out and start looking to find a companion. You have already received multiple gifts from other boys in the tribe, most of them loudly claiming them and boasting about what they have managed to buy or trade or hunt for you.

But one gift was unclaimed, the most precious of all, nestled in a nondescript wooden box with a delicately carved wildflower on top of it, and inside… inside was a night bloomer, a sacred plant that flowers only one night a year that the ancients would consume to aid in their divination. It is an integral part of your religion, a powerful tool that once upon a time allowed your people to peer into the future and speak to the gods, but after the great Gija rebelled against the gods and was smote down, the knowledge of where to find it and how to harvest it has been lost and so did the flower.

No one saw it for centuries until it became the stuff of legends to the point that some of your fellow priests doubted its very existence, preferring to view the mentions of it in religious myths as a symbolic tool to signify how close the ancients were to the gods through their strong belief and how they lost that connection when they betrayed them.

Yet there it was, a bloomed flower sitting in your hands. And there can only be one person who could’ve found it for you.

You should’ve rejected it. You should have given it back to him so he could give it to someone who will take him, but you were too selfish for that. How could you pass up this once in a lifetime opportunity? You would never get the chance to use a night bloomer again and you could not find it in you to do the right thing and return it to him. You needed to find out for yourself if it really was as powerful as all the legends described it. So you eagerly made it into a tea and drank it, ready to use its power to gaze into your future–another sin of yours. You were told over and over again not to use the powers gifted to you for your own gains. They’re meant to be used to guide and protect the tribe and not for your own selfish desires, but once again you couldn’t resist, and maybe that’s why you were punished so brutally.

The visions the flower brought you were horrific. They were twisted and bloody and demented–filled with death and gore and terror. In them, you saw everyone you knew and loved die in the most gruesome of ways. You saw them cry out to you for help as their skin melted off their bones and their eyes leaked out of their skulls. Their charred hands reached out to you, begging you to make it stop but you couldn’t. You could do nothing but stand there and watch–the smoke stinging your eyes and blackening your lungs. You couldn’t even look away or get yourself to wake up. You were trapped in the ugly visions for what seemed like eternity–none of them making much sense to you as visions usually don’t, but the smell of burnt flesh and the anguished cries needed no explanation, and throughout it all you felt watched, like someone or something was doing this just to see you suffer.

The visions went on and on in a loop until you felt you would be trapped in them forever–perhaps a punishment for your misuse of this onerous gift–but slowly your vision cleared up and you could see the world around you again.

You found yourself burning up, covered in layers of animal fur as your mother tended to your feverish body. You wanted to throw them off but couldn't spare any energy to move your arms. You couldn’t even speak, the only thing that came out of your mouth was dry deathly whispers that immediately got carried away by the wind before they could reach your confused mother's ears. You lay like that, sick and immobile, for days, your muscles stiff as if the fire had burned off all the water in them as your mother nursed you back to health. For weeks after you'd be caught out by a sudden whiff of smoke and your heart would pick up and panic would flood your body. You quickly had to make every effort to cover up your visceral reaction to anything fire or burning as it attracted too much attention and threatened your place in the temple. Nobody wanted a hysteric apprentice to train or a frightened priestess to protect them. You’re supposed to be the personification of calm and strength. You would lose everything if people found out that the mere smell of ashes secretly sent you into a ball of terror.

So you covered it up. You pretended that you didn't want to run and cower under your covers every time fires would be lit to warm up or make a simple meal. It was ridiculous. It was weak and laughable but you couldn’t help how your body reacted to it, and you could no longer stomach the taste of meat anymore–a bite of the cooked flesh would send you into a heaving and retching mess. You had sworn off it since then, much to the confusion of others and the irritation of your family. They never liked it when you did anything to draw the curious attention of others. You were not supposed to step out of line except to excel in your training. As their only child, your performance reflected directly on them, and they did not appreciate the strange way you've been acting since you had consumed that cursed night bloomer.

Did he mess with it somehow? That can’t have been what the ancients used. This can't be your future. You refuse to believe it. He must have tricked you somehow.

Your mother had attempted to enquire about what has happened to you–she pushed and prodded but you remained steadfast in your insistence about it merely being an illness brought about by eating spoiled meat which conveniently explained your newfound aversion to it. She didn't believe you, of course, but you also knew she preferred to be ignorant of anything that would indicate any brewing trouble, a crack in her perfect daughter, only telling you to get yourself together and not do something stupid to ruin your future. It was a clear order. Whatever it is that you had done, you better fix it–it meant.

That’s why you must stop whatever advances Beomgyu is trying to make on you. He can only bring you pain and trouble. Just like right now.

As soon as the prayer is done, you’re strong-armed back to your home by your chagrined family who were less than happy about your embarrassing performance tonight.

“What was that?” Your father hisses at you as soon as you are tucked away in your shared abode, away from prying eyes. “How could you disgrace us in such a way in front of the whole tribe?”

“I am sorry, father. I–I–” You hang your head down, hesitating for a moment as your tongue falls almost paralysed under the weight of what you were about to reveal. “I saw something fall from the heavens. I saw a star die.”

You choose to omit the part about the boy. Your family doesn't know about your brief secret friendship with him. They don’t know about everything you’ve told him. They don’t know about the blasted gift you have accepted from him. They can’t know. They might cast you out if they did.

“What?” Your mother whispers fearfully, a tinge of denial in her voice as if she does not wish to believe you–again hiding away from the ugly truth.

“It was big and bright and beautiful but–” You gulp, wrapping your arms around yourself to stop your body from shaking at the memory. “But I saw it flickering in the throes of death as it bled across the heavens and crashed to the earth.” You finish fearfully, and that fear latches onto your parents immediately.

Your father strides towards you and grabs you by the shoulders roughly, face pale. “Are you certain, child?”

“As certain as death. I saw it with my own eyes.” I saw it pointing straight towards him.

Your father casts you away as if you were stricken with pestilence and paces around the room, passing back and forth in front of the pale and ghastly figure of your mother.

“Father. Mother. Tell me the truth. Tell me what this means.” You ask hesitantly, not certain you even want to hear the answer. You knew it was bad, of course, but their reactions were heightening your anxiety to intolerable levels.

“The stars are supposed to be eternal watchers, the guardians of the heavens. If one of them falls then the ranks have weakened.” Your mother explains fearfully, “Something has managed to get in or out of the heavens.”

You shudder. What could that be? And what does it have to be with the boy who will forever be your one regret?

“Only you saw it?” Your father asks and you gulp. “I think so.”

“Good. We do not want to cause a panic unnecessarily, especially this close to the climax of the fertility season.” He proclaims, trying to compose himself but the pallor of his face gives him away. “The leader’s boy seems close to making a proposal for your hand.”

You frown. Is this really what you should be focusing on right now? Certainly, you have been more than delighted to garner Kai’s favour and, prior to tonight, you have not been thinking about much else, but surely this star issue trumps trivial earthly matters of marriage and ranks.

You know your family is pushing for this marriage to go through and you understand how monumental this would be for your position in the tribe–to marry into the ruling family would raise you to the top of the ranks and bathe you in the riches only available to them, but that does not mean you can neglect your duties as priests and priestesses. This fallen star could be fortelling a catastrophic future to befall the entire tribe and you need to set aside all your selfish desires to protect your people from this mysterious fate.

“But the star–”

“Make no mention of it to any soul.” Your father cuts you off sharply. “Not until we find out more about it. Your mother and I will consult the temple’s ancient inscriptions. You just focus on winning that boy over. And make no repeats of that disgraceful display today.”

You look down to your feet. You hadn’t meant to embarrass them. They would understand if they knew about your new shadow, but they must not know. No one must know. He is like a pestilence–anything he touches withers and dies and you will not let yourself be one of the ghosts hanging around him.

You may not know what this dark omen means but you feel in your heart that it is related to him and you have to stop him. Maybe then you can avert this calamity from occurring.

So you meekly accept their admonishment and warnings, keeping your head down and waiting until your parents are well on their way to the temple before you slip out yourself, following in the direction you know he would be, along a trek you should have never have allowed yourself to get familiar with and are now determined to sever from your life.

The path takes you out of the settlement and into the dark woods. The chill in the air didn’t suit a midsummer night, and it only grows more frigid once you spot the boy’s hunched over figure on the ground, digging for something with his bare hands. Your heart beats rapidly as you watch him pull weeds out of the ground as if he’s gutting the earth and for a second you consider turning around and running back to the safety of settlement. You don’t know what he’s doing out here at night–the once familiar, sometimes even welcoming forest now a strange and bizarre landscape of terror to you. He could be up to all manner of unsavoury things out here and there was no one around to protect you from him. Maybe you could find a way to speak to him in the morning…

But before your feet can move, he cranes his head back to look at you, his dark gaze rooting you to your spot, and just like that you cannot move a muscle.

“What are you doing out here, flower?” He asks softly, voice deep and saccharine, bathing you like a fly in honey so you won’t escape. You resent yourself for being so improperly affected by it–still feeling a silent pull towards him despite your better judgement, but how can you convince your eyes to deny his beauty? How can you get your ears to shut away his honey voice?

What you can do is contort your face into an ugly scowl. He doesn’t get to call you that anymore. You should have never allowed him to get close enough to have affectionate names for you.

“What are you doing here?” You throw the question back at him, needing answers to quiet your worrying mind and time to gather your courage for what’s to come.

“Gathering supplies for my soup.” He tells you readily, and your scowl loosens a bit at that. Of course, how can you forget his soup? You’ve tasted it many a times to the point that just the mention of it has a remnant of its memory tickling your tongue and making you salivate at the reminder. “Would you like to come home for a bowl? You haven't had any in ages.”

You curse yourself for how much you suddenly crave it which is then followed by a sinking feeling in your gut as you question why exactly you’re craving it so much. Yes, it was one of the most delicious things you have had the chance to taste in your short life but why was it so? Did he do something to it the same way he did to the last “gift” he gave you?

You shudder as you think about the countless bowls of soup he had made for you over the course of your brief friendship and what he might’ve slipped in them. No, you would not like to try strange soups from the strange boy, no matter how much your body craves it. “No, thank you.”

He frowns, looking upset–almost hurt–at the rejection. You would laugh if you weren’t so scared of him. “You don’t visit me anymore.”

You can’t, however, hold back your scoff at his whiny proclamation, as if you owed him that acquaintance. “It is not proper for an unwed woman to meet strange men in the night.”

“You meet Kai.” He retorts simply and anger and dread wrap around your cold form. What does he care about Kai? Does he really think he and Kai are on the same standing when it comes to you or anyone else for that matter? Has he forgotten himself?

“That is not your concern.” You hiss at him, scared that he might do something to ruin your tentative relationship with the leader’s son. He has expressed his interest in making you his wife by providing you with the most luxurious gift during this fertility festival. You would be crazy to turn him down and even crazier to let whatever delusional fancy Beomgyu holds for you ruin your chances with him.

“Why did that make you angry? Are you letting him do things to you that you know you shouldn’t?” Beomgyu confronts you, expression unnervingly blank. “Are you letting him under your skirts?”

You stalk towards him, raising your hand up and slapping him, then watching a red handprint bloom across his handsome face. You immediately regret it. You’re now within arms reach of the dark boy and he looks angry.

Before you can step back and run, he reaches out to grab the arm that you struck him with and pulls you to the ground with him. You try to fight him off, using all your strength to attempt to push him away but that just makes him climb on top of you so he can still your thrashing arms and pin them above your head, his body holding yours down as he presses you against the cold mud.

He was surprisingly strong despite his lean frame, though you suppose you shouldn’t be so surprised given his warrior background even if he quit that path years ago.

You stare up at him, his dark eyes almost swallowing up the stars above. You don’t dare speak or move. You just lay still as he uses one hand to keep your wrists above your head so he can free up the other to cradle your face, his muddy hand staining your skin.

“Do you let him kiss you?” He asks you, face blank apart from a muted curiosity. He was so close you can see every individual eyelash framing his gorgeous dark eyes, every tiny blemish on his otherwise flawless skin, the elegant slope of his nose, the firm but soft pillowing of his lips.

“So you have.” He takes your silence as affirmation, swiping his thumb across your bottom lip. “Then it’s only fair if I get a taste too.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he leans down and meets your lips with his. They feel unfairly good against your own, fit you too well and you hate it. What is this inexplicable hold he has on you? What has he done to you?

In defiance, you command your body to stay still. You may not be able to fight him off but you won't give him the satisfaction of responding to his unwanted advances. So you just lay there and let him mould your mouth to his. He is incessant but surprisingly soft, pushing and coaxing until you unwillingly find yourself whining lowly, and when you open your mouth to let out a small gasp, he uses the opportunity to press his tongue in.

He tastes so sweet fruits, honey and milk–all things you remember he loves so much and that you always used to provide for him just to see that smile that you now have not seen in years.

How is it that he tastes this good? What unnatural magic is he using to entice you? He must be because you could not possibly be this inclined towards him.

Your doubts are further confirmed when you detect a hint of something bitter hidden underneath all the sweetness–a sharpness that prevents you from falling completely into him and keeps you on alert.

Beomgyu lets out his own small moan as his tongue caresses yours and you should be disgusted to be so engulfed by the dark boy, to let him force himself over the boundaries you have put up to keep him away, but the heat radiating off him feels so good against your goosebumps afflicted skin, his small stuttered breaths and whimpers make your body tingle and sizzle and you have absolutely no control over it. You begin to fear you will be trapped here forever under his spell.

But when his mouth leaves yours to make its way down your neck, you are allowed reprieve to gaze at the sky above and focus on something that isn't him. That's when your eyes stray to the spot where the fallen star was, naturally drawn to it like a tongue is drawn to a missing tooth, and with the phantom taste of iron in your mouth, you snap out of the spell he put you under.

What the hell are you doing? How can you lie there and let him slither his way back to you? You're a disgrace.

Disgusted at your weak self, you use that repulsion to fuel you as you gather all your strength and try once again to push him away, but all you could muster is enough power to unlatch him from your neck, exposing the wet freshly kiss-laden skin to the frigid air and making you shiver.

He gazes at you with a farce concern as he gently cups your cheek, his warm hand like the soothing touch of honeyed milk to your skin that once again compels you to let your guards down, but his blown-wide pupils and his laboured breathing keep them up.

“Hey, it's okay. I got you, my flower.” He tries to soothe you, bending back down to catch your lips again, but he only manages to freak you out more.

My flower? No! You must stop this.

You bite down on his lip harshly, tasting blood, and he reels back, cursing in pain. “What the fuck?”

In his shock, you’re finally able to push him off and scramble to your feet. “Stay away from me. I do not want you. I have chosen him so stop whatever the hell you’re doing. I will never be yours.”

He levels you with a dark look, the little bit of blood dripping down his chin making him look even more chilling. “Why not?” He asks bitterly. “I can do good by you. You don't have to pay mind to the rumours about me. You know me.”

You shake your head vehemently. “No, I do not know and never wish to know you. You are unwell. Stay away from me.” You proclaim with all the conviction and strength you could muster, before you turn around and dart back to your home.

You didn’t want to give him the chance to challenge you. You do not know what he's capable of and you have disgraced yourself enough already.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you run, and you whip your head around constantly to make sure he isn't following you. You feel as though he is, gooseskin prickling at the back of your neck at the feeling of being watched, but every time you whip your head back, certain you'll meet his dark eyes, you find nothing there.

Your family is not back when you reach your home which is both a relief and a grievance. You’re glad they are not there to question your whereabouts or your dirty frazzled condition but you do not wish to be left alone in case he comes to find you.

In order to soothe yourself, you cast a protective spell on a powerful talisman and hold it to your chest, burying yourself under heaps of fur and praying that is enough to protect you from whatever evils linger around the dark boy.

_____________________________

A/N: so excited for this series, let me know what you think please!

#txt smut #beomgyu smut #kai smut #dark fic #tw noncon #yandere #yandere beomgyu #iron age au #supernatural au

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mysteria157 · 3 months ago

Text

Pairing: Demon! Nanami Kento x Angel Black!Fem Reader

Rating/CW: grey morality, religious undertones, corruption kink, worship, power dynamics (subtle fem submission), monsterfucking, smut, tongue fingering, pronged tongue, vaginal sex, oral (f! receiving), mild blood/biting. MDNI!

Summary: The thick muscle of your wings press against cold ancient stone as he circles you with wicked, stone-faced intent. Glimmering obsidian fingers trace along your feathers until they quiver--fluttering with touch-starved bliss no angel should ever feel. It's forbidden--this sensation in your belly, this humiliating slick between your legs that be can smell, this overwhelming desire that you've spent eons trying to quell.

But now, trapped before a demon so captivating that you can't help but feel equally terrified and dreadfully aroused, reality burns your skin like the holy water that bubbles whenever it's within your reach.

You're not here to serve a divine purpose--you're an offering. And only Heaven knows if you'll fall to your knees before him, begging for corruption.

Author Notes: Here it is! My submission for @tsukimefuku 's Spookinky event! I had so much fun writing this. Thank you, Fuku, for hosting such an awesome event, and I truly apologize for the filth (I do not apologize). Thank you all for your support, and thank you, @aliasnnmknt, for letting me use your art for my banner and helping me create it. Your art really inspired most of this fic!

Header: art by @aliasnnmknt | Divider: @arcielee @enchanthings | network tag: @pixelcafe-network

JJK Masterlist | Twitter | Ao3

You’ve never set foot in a demon’s realm.

You’ve heard the stories—flames that burn flesh from bone, screams that echo for eternity, demons that feast on corrupted souls. For the many eons that you have been in existence, the pristine light you thrive in tells enough horrid stories to keep you away.

You do what you can to show you are pure in your thoughts and heart and that you will walk the line given to make the one above you proud in His selection of you. You’ve done well. It’s why you’ve been given this task—a pilgrimage to a sacred altar within this dark realm, to find the relic it holds and be promised enlightenment and a deeper connection to your spiritual life. For once, you feel special. You are special.

The relic you search for holds ancient divine text that the Heavens would like to make sure does not fall into the wrong hands. Your ability to decipher that text and other old tongues made you the perfect choice—though you try not to question why that ability exists at all. This mission feels important and they insisted you were the perfect choice. Your gifts would serve the greater good. Serve Him.

Maybe that’s why they sent you alone. A single angel, moving quietly through dark territory, would draw less attention than an entire group.

Finally, after so many years of wary glances and hushed concerns. Your many ‘gifts’ that have set you apart—the way ancient texts rearrange themselves under your touch, how you see patterns in chaos that other angels cringe from, your thirst for knowledge that shouldn’t be explored. Finally, it’s all paid off.

Or…at least that’s what they told you. Even as something in your grace whispers warnings you choose to ignore.

Angels bask in absolutes, in the pure warmth of divine light and the straightforward clarity of purpose. There is certainty in right and wrong, never a grey in between. Your wings should bask in holy breeze, not in this thick air that tastes of dreadful sin.

You expected the realm to smell of death and destruction, to look as if every natural disaster had run through the land so the shadows could roam freely to commit sin. It’s what you’ve been taught at least. This Realm specifically is forbidden and faith has been used as a boundary to keep other angels in line.

The outskirts of this realm is covered in a haze, a thick russet fog that smells of ozone and decaying flowers. It settles on your skin like an uncomfortable garment, scratching the surface and burning your dermis. Your wings curdle in pain, burning to ash and regrowing through your bleeding muscles. Gnarled, skeletal trees reach up like claws, the birds that sit on their branches malnourished and dying. Distantly, you hear the constant drip of water from a faucet, yet there is no water in sight. Whispers of sin and moans of agony carry on the wind.

Your white dress flows like liquid moonlight, now stained with ash and ember burns. The neckline dips lower than most angels would prefer.

“To be comfortable in the vessel He gave you is to honor His creation.”

Is what they had said, their justification now seems like a cruel irony as the fog caresses your exposed cleavage with burning fingers. The bottom of your dress trails on the ground as you walk, the dirt burning with red soil that seeps through the toes of your bare feet. It feels as if you’re walking on hot coals, the heat burning the fabric of your hem in tendrils of smoke.

You knew to expect this pain, but it’s different. There is a calculated precision to it, intentional in how it burns you as if testing if your form is solid, if your soul is worthy of corruption. The bell sleeves of your gown flutter in a nonexistent wind, ash and soot collecting in the folds of fabric that they once praised as divine elegance.

Your eyes burn, tears streaking melanin-soaked skin that cannot absorb the shrouded sun up above. As you navigate blindly through the oppressive haze, the shadows around you morph with the darkness and skitter past you on multiple hands and contorted feet.

An infinitesimal part of your grace shivers in fear. It’s small yes, pushed away and ignored like you have been taught, but it’s there in the quickening of your pulse and the break of sweat on your neck, it’s there as you walk further through the vicious landscape of horror and pain, as you try to ignore the gurgling of what you do not know from all around you.

Your wings curl around your body, a small gesture of protection that you fall into when the fog gets thicker. It slides languidly up your nostrils and down your throat, catching along the corners. You cough, sputtering wildly through ash and decay, your eyes bubbling with more burning tears. That fear flickers again in your chest and wiggles like a worm in search of moist dirt in your rib cage.

You can do this. You have been chosen. Your lips curl and part as you recite your prayer in silence, asking for strength even as your fear climbs higher to the surface of divine worship.

Then—through burning tears, you see it. A path of pure obsidian that cuts through the horror, its surface covered in a thin layer of water that reflects starlight not in the skies above. Your feet pick up in pace, moving before conscious thought, drawn to its dark beauty and vast difference of the world around. The moment your toes dip into the water-slicked stone, the moisture sliding off your skin without wetting it, everything changes.

The burning on your skin and feathers stops. The pungent fog parts like a curtain and dissipates into the air. You pull in a deep breath, savoring the thickness that is no longer there, your throat coated in clean oxygen. Your dress, moments ago stained with ash and fiery burns, returns to its pristine white. Once the tears in your eyes clear, you take in the changed landscape.

Perhaps the realm only transforms if one gets this far, because now there is no destruction but a defiance of what you see. The sky is tinged a permanent grey, overcast even though there’s a warmth to the low hang of the clouds. There are no lakes of fire, and the ground beneath your feet is no longer hot with clay-colored dirt that seeps between your toes. The obsidian path winds before you through tall garden walls of pearly white flowers, the leaves pitch black instead of earthly green.

Above the dark canopy of the garden walls, a monolith looms tall, piercing the grey sky as if demanding to be let into the heavens. It’s built to resemble a vast tree, its surface rippling with starlight, the bright core pulsing like a heartbeat, beckoning you deeper into this realm of misconstrued beauty. The garden path must lead to it. Even the pearly white flowers weaved into the walls all point forward, ushering you on.

Your wings furl closer to your spine as you shuffle to one of the garden walls, hesitantly reaching for the flowers twined in the vines and leaves. It’s a beautiful white, with small petals that curl toward a sage core. They’re littered along the walls, a beautiful landscape against darkness but the closer you get, the more you realize—

Hemlock

A poisonous flower, the symbol of death, betrayal, and sacrifice. It sits in it’s refined beauty, enhancing the black leaves around you, but they are just as dangerous.

You snatch your hands away as if stung, clutching the fabric of your dress like a lifeline. You try not to think about how the hemlock watches you with pale eyes. You try not to think about what they represent. You try not to question why these flowers would point and line a path to the divine relic you seek.

With every step you take, the pulsing from the monolith in the distance vibrates through the ground, the water rippling currents with each beat. The obsidian path narrows, forcing your wings closer to your body, your arms so close to the deadly blooms. The garden walls rise higher, leaves trembling in that same empty breeze.

While the air no longer feels thick, it is heavy with a taste both nonexistent and flavorful. Flavored with the knowledge you seek when others do not look and secrets that make your eyes linger even as your grace warns you against it. The questioning urges of your nature that Heaven always tries to quell stir awake like a beast being poked after centuries of rest.

You should ignore it. You should ask for forgiveness and count the blessings you have been given in this long existence. But your heart leaps at the chance you have also been given, right now.

The monolith’s base reveals itself slowly, the garden walls parting gradually with dark promise. Your breath catches at the sight—this is no crude demon architecture. The structure rises before you like an otherworldly giant, jet black vines weaving within its bright innards.

You’re struck by the beauty of it all, a resplendent sight that you never imagined would bless your eyes. And as you draw closer, the glass obsidian floors open up before you. From the open floor, a column of marble rises, its surface bleached bone and covered in aging vines and greenery.

On that altar, rests the relic you seek. It is no crystal that contains energy to create vasts universes. It is no seed that once planted will wreak destruction with its pollination. It is no amulet capable of manipulating time.

It is a book.

A single book that is thick with words of forbidden knowledge, its cover worn and weathered from eons of hiding in the shadows, its pages yellowing along the edges.

Such a simple relic, but you feel it’s dark power from your spot at the altar.

You’ve been tasked to tuck it away and sneak back to Heaven, to deliver it to your superiors and be given your eternal reward. While simple in theory, your hands hover over it, hesitating with shaky fingers.

Do not open it.

Do not look at it for longer than necessary.

Do not look inside.

These are your rules—your absolutes. And yet…

Your fingers twitch, reaching and pulling back at the elusive call of the tome, your feathers trembling with a desire you shouldn’t feel. Your eyes burn with tears of veneration as the symbols on the worn leather illuminate and rearrange before your eyes like dancing embers, the translated text reading in your mind like an endless scroll.

Do not look at it for longer than necessary.

You snatch it up, pressing it to your chest as a means to stop your racing heart. Your soul palpitates with want, a baseless need to curl your fingers under the lips of the book and tilt it open.

It’s temptation, that festering desire that always seems to coil in your belly when the explanations you are given never feel right, when the world around you seems too pristine and you want to know more, when you linger in the mortal realm, watching the humans with a curious eye that is more than what is required of you.

It’s quick and on a whim, you pulling the book from your chest to look down at it, as if by looking it will answer the questions you seek. You trail your fingers along it’s ancient skin, soft and unmarred fingertips feeling along ridges and scars along the cover. It looks as if the relic has gone through it’s own personal Hell, no doubt jerked around from realm to realm over the centuries, pried open and its secrets stolen. There’s a faint beat of sadness that you feel in your chest at the thought of what it must have gone through.

But your fingers still finger beneath the lid, the worn pages jagged on your tips as you worry it up with a slow movement.

Do not open it.

You squeeze the tome, pressing the pages inside more into each other in a silent attempt to seal it and your temptation away forever. Your toes curl into the water beneath you, cold on your skin but still passing over you dry and without moisture.

But once again you catch yourself loosening your grip, your fingers adventurous, your mind begging for more and it’s right here.

In times like these, you find yourself turning to the one manifestation that has never answered you, but exists in your very being.

“Father,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Give me the strength against temptation.” Your wings draw tight, your spine aching from the sudden action, before they expand in a glorious span, feathers opening like extended fingers before they curl around you to shield you from your own curiosity. “Guide me from this darkness, keep my thoughts pure…”

But even as you pray, your body rebels—your fingers part a page and slide along the rough texture of papyrus. There’s a power to the book now, a deep pulse that seems to be in rhythm with the monolith, beckoning you further. The ancient text burns brighter, the translated words whispering in your ears to give in just this once—look inside, soak in your knowledge, seek what others deny.

Your lips quiver, eyes burning with unshed tears at the way your body betrays you. You’re no better than a fallen angel, than a demon or a human who walks the path of darkness—easily tempted and consumed.

You’re not damned, you’re not, you’re not—

“What do we have here?”

The voice slides through your tumultuous thoughts like silk, rich with bored amusement and something darker. Your prayers die in your throat, catching along the edges of your esophagus, your body icing over with a chill of what you try to rebuke as fear.

You’re not alone and you knew the dangers of wandering this realm so freely. You call upon your grace, manifesting a celestial dagger of light and purity, before you whirl around to face the demon who pursues you.

But you’re met with nothing—just the empty garden path you came from.

When you turn back to the altar, your scream catches in your throat.

He stands with casual power and predatory grace. His skin is a pitch lighter than the obsidian paths, but still scattered with constellations. His hair falls in golden-blonde waves, the ends touched with flame that frames sharp features and elegant black horns that curl from the top of his head. His eyes are a burning yellow, studying you with a calculating hunger that makes you shiver.

He stands tall, an inhuman height that makes you feel incredibly small, his wings the color of dark flames spread lazily behind him, their edges flickering with crimson light.

The armor that adorns his upper body is otherworldly and crafted not by divine or mortal hands—navy as dark as night, trimmed with gold that wraps around his shoulders and sides, his chest bare. His hip rests against the altar as if he owns it, expectant like he’s been waiting for you.

He’s beautiful, a manifestation of dark and light, a being that walks his own line not predetermined. As you study him, something tugs at your memory—flashes of encounters that have grown fuzzy over time. In the mortal realm, when you linger in the shadows to observe the humans, a tall figure in navy and tan, warm eyes hidden behind glasses with no arms, hair not tipped with flame but parted clean and tucked behind his ears.

He lingers in the darkness, in damp alleys and abandoned buildings where misery and pain give birth to grotesque figures that terrorize the mortals. You’ve seen him—or you think you have—convinced it was a coincidence and ignored the way your wings would shiver at his distant presence, tilting toward him as if searching for someone lost.

And in your dreams too—dreams of large hands filled with experiences of the world, of whispers in your ear of eternal knowledge. You’d wake with your grace trembling, convinced it was just your mind playing tricks even as the apex of your thighs trembled with the sheen of your sweat and forbidden essence.

Perhaps that’s why your superiors ask for you after these dreams. Perhaps that’s why they press their fingers to your temples and bury the memories deep. So you do not have to worry. So that you can resist temptation. Right?

Yes. All of it is a temptation to test your faith.

But now he stands before you, solid and real, and those ‘coincidences’ suddenly feel intentional. Had he been watching? Waiting for this very moment?

You adjust your grip on your dagger, forcing away those thoughts that never seem to go away. You stagger backwards, your celestial dagger shaking in your hands, your prayer wielded before you like a shield.

“Our Father who art in Heaven,” you whisper, desperate words that feel as if they fall on closed ears, your fear radiating from your bare toes, through the strong muscles of your white wings, and up to the top of your skull. “Hallowed be thy—”

The demon moves towards you now, each step gobbling the distance between your retreating form until your back hits the garden wall, a gasp dying in your throat.

“That name,” he murmurs, sultry low as he cages you with muscular arms, “holds no power here.” His eyes drag down your form, cataloging you bit by bit, lingering on the sight of a shaking chest that is pressed to the tome you clutch.

He leans in close, too close, until you feel the burning heat from his skin. You press your back harder against the garden wall, dark leaves and hemlock brushing along your cheeks and neck as he inhales deeply along the column of your throat.

He smells like the archives you lose yourself in, like the green tea you love to drink in the mortal realm, like a dark concoction of burning honey that would make the noses of other angels crinkle but your nostrils open to inhale more. Your divine senses blur.

This is temptation, you tell yourself as your wings putter against the wall behind you. You’ve practiced for this, you know what you should do. But your body betrays you, your head tilting slightly before you can think about it, offering more of your neck for his inspection.

Horror at your sin, ice cold as it washes over you, makes you act. You press your celestial dagger upward, against his bare chest where one particular constellation burns brighter than the rest.

But the blade dissolves like sugar in the rain the moment it touches him, holy light scattering for a home as it shimmers across his skin to form new constellations.

“How interesting…” The deep voice inquires, hot as it puffs on your neck. “An angel, stealing what does not belong to them. Surely there’s a rule about that, is there not?”

You clutch the tome tighter to your chest, your mouth opening to snap that this is your mission, your divine purpose. But the book vanishes from your grip in black tendrils of smoke, your hand smacking into your breasts from the gap created.

“Give it back!” Panic rises in your throat as you try to meld with the leaves behind you, your fingers wrapping around vines and leaves like a vice.

A sigh, long and drawn out as if mentally exhausted, as if this isn’t the first this has happened, leaves his giant form and travels over your body.

“No, I don’t think I will,” he drawls, pushing off the wall and walking away as if your presence means nothing. He turns to face you at the altar, eyes half-lidded as he rests his forearms on the marble surface and opens the tome that is now manifested in his hands. He’s giving off every impression that the relic you seek will not be going home with you, and he is more than prepared to read it all until you go away.

“W-well, you…” you trail off, your eyes flickering to the open book in his hands. You can’t see the words inside, but you can practically smell the papyrus, a smell that warms you when you trail your fingers along the archives in Heaven. You tighten your grip on the leaves, flexing your wings to extend in a display of dominance, even though it feels as if this demon has read you the moment you stepped into this realm.

The tome sits like an infant in his hands, small and precious as he turns a page, long galaxy shimmered fingers gliding along the text as he reads. That curiosity beckons, a familiar pulse of sin that fires along the nerves in your legs to take a step toward him, to peak over the edge of the book and look inside.

“Demon,” you press, swallowing a lump of your frayed nerves.

His eyes flicker up at you, burning gold irises mildly offended.

“That is not my name.” He turns another page, pulling his gaze away from you, dismissive. “Though, I suspect you already know what it is.”

Why would you know his name? While the sight of him invokes some distant memories, you both have never spoken. The confusion mixes with your flood of panic, your eyes locked on the ancient text in his hands.

“I don’t—I’m here on divine purpose. The Heavens sent me to deliver this relic.”

“They sent you to steal this relic,” he corrects. He slams the tome closed, the sound making you flinch before he walks back to you in casual strides, his form almost gliding on the obsidian floors.

“I would not steal.”

“Coming to a place without invitation and taking the items inside is, indeed, stealing.”

You sink back into the flowers as he draws closer, your heart pumping erratically in your chest, your limbs filling with shame at the logic he draws. But still, you resist.

“I was invited.”

You’ve always been around to see the return of angels from long missions where they are surrounded by darkness and pain. They seem so strong, their chests puffed in pride, their wings shining brighter as a badge of honor. There’s a bravery that you wish you could have right now. But you’re afraid—whether that fear is pure or mixed with something sensual and dangerous—you still don’t know.

“I-I was chosen,” you insist, despite what you feel.

“Oh, I’m sure you were.” His head tilts as he regards you.

The book disappears from his hands before materializing in your own, warm smoke wrapping around your wrists before dissipating. “Take it. Return to your divine purpose.”

You clutch the tome, hoping for relief to fill your wings, but you can only feel disappointment instead. You hesitate, flickering your gaze up to the demon who stands expectantly with arms crossed, like he knows what the outcome will be. Like he knows you will be back.

You turn around and flea down the obsidian path. The garden walls adorned with pearl flowers blur past you until—

The walls part again, the altar and demon coming into view.

“That’s not—” you spin, turning back toward the path and running faster this time, your relic pressed to your body, your lungs burning with the truth that you’re trying to deny.

The hemlock flowers seem to laugh as you pass, their white petals pointing the way with mocking fingers until—

The altar. The demon, an eyebrow raised. Again.

“Stop this!” Your voice breaks as you turn around to try again, sprinting so hard that your wings flap against the wind, your toes touching the top of the thin layer of water below you. You come to the altar a third time, then a fourth, each leading back to his knowing and patient form.

“I’m not doing anything.” His voice holds a gentle pity that pricks at your skin. “But why? Why would they send their most curious angel into a demon’s realm? Why alone? Why you?”

Something in his tone, in the endearment wrapped around seduction makes your grace shiver. You long to have an answer ready on your tongue, and you do, but it’s more practiced, copied, and spit out and resonates in your bones incorrectly.

“The relic requires eyes that can transcribe so I select the right one. My abilities—”

“Your abilities,” he interrupts softly, materializing behind you, “the ones that they’ve tried to suppress. The ones that they’ve feared. Yet suddenly, all of it is for naught, and you’ve been given this divine purpose?”

The towering demon circles you slowly, analyzing you like a predator waiting for his wounded prey to finally submit. You swallow hard, fingers digging into the leather of the book, eyes downcast.

“They finally saw my worth,” you insist, but the words sound hollow even to your ears. “I am pure. Free of sin. I do not stray.”

Warmth by the shell of your ear, the rich smell of him forbidden, an erotic melody that makes your blood long to sing.

“Lies.”

Your wings slash through the air in deep powerful strokes, twitching in their plumage. “I would not lie!”

“Neither would I, little angel. But it seems you have been led here under false pretenses.”

“No.”

“There is no relic.” The tome in your hands disappears, it’s solid form no longer tethered to existence.

“Give it—”

“There is no mission,” he presses on. “There is no divine purpose. There is only you. Cast down here and given to me.”

“To you…”

“An offering, little angel.”

The word makes you chill over in disgust, the very thought of being a sacrificial lamb enough to make you sick to your stomach. You shake your head vehemently, insistently denying as best as you can even though your grace radiates with the truth.

“No. They would never sacrifice someone. They—they wouldn’t—they wouldn’t do that to me.”

The demon clicks his tongue, pity filling his otherworldly features with a slight pout of his lips as he studies you. Before you can take another breath, the realm shifts, reality bending in a plume of smoke. The monolith and altar disappear, the darkness of the garden walls fading to give way to the eternal light you recognize as your home.

The tall pearly gates that surround your kingdom smile down at you, pearlescent clouds that seeps beneath the doors kissing your bare toes. Your wings waft in the air with ease, pumping euphoria through your veins as you smile up at your home. The tome is back now, cradled safely in your arms, reminding you of your mission. With a hope bright in your chest, you rapt your fingers on the doors.

“Father! I’ve retrieved the relic! I’m home!”

But the doors do not open. There is no sound of movement on the other side, no shift in the white clouds around you. It doesn’t even feel as if someone is not home. You can feel your siblings, you’ve always been able to sense them in your grace, but this sensation is reluctant. As if they peak through closed curtains on the other side, watching through a window with their hand on the door to prevent you from coming in.

“H-hello?” you try again, voice shaking as you knock with more fervor, denial warring with growing dread. “I-I said I’ve brought the relic.” Silence. “Hello?!” You smack on the doors now, the holy wood splitting at your skin and healing over again. Surely someone must be home. Maybe they are away? Maybe they are busy and do not hear?

You press your forehead against the door, wings drooping. Through your grace, you feel them there, still watching. Waiting for you to leave. But not to welcome you home.

“Please,” you whisper, eyes stinging. “Will someone—”

“They will not open the doors, little angel,” the demon speaks from behind you.

You jump from his sudden appearance, your body drained of all blood at the sordid thought of what is happening right now. Reality shifts again, the divine light of your home sucking back into darkness, the monolith and marble altar and obsidian floors coming back into view.

Your legs threaten to give as realization washes over you. You shake your head, lip quivering as tears blur the edges of your vision, your fingers curling on the altar. How could they do this to you? You have always struggled in this life, always been so ashamed that you do not think like the others. But to cast you out? To give you these wings and then make you feel as if you are beyond saving?

“Perhaps it is a mistake,” you whisper, your hope crumbling with every word. You feel his large form next to you before you hear any steps. “Why would they do this to me?”

You have no choice but to look up at him, to seek some form of answer in his burning yellow eyes. There’s a flicker of something that crosses his face—amusement? Maybe pity?

“They have offered you to me. A sacrifice to take the darkness from their pristine walls and feed it to the realm it belongs to.”

The words hang in the air, the horrifying truth once again presented to you. Your heart lurches in your chest. You recoil, your wings drooping to brush along the water covered floor.

“They fear you, little angel,” he continues, voice softening. “Your potential, your curiosity, your unwillingness to follow their absolutes.”

You slap your hands on the altar, the sound reverberating through the emptiness around you. “I will not.”

The demon chuckles, a low, sardonic noise that crawls up your dress and wraps around your throat. “Such defiance,” he purrs. “It’s quite…alluring.”

You can’t help the noise of shock and anger that crawls up your throat, shooting him a dark look. “I will not be corrupted by the likes of a demon like you.”

“Like me? So you imply that another demon may have a chance?” His jests fall on rageful ears, your wings flapping in defiance as you gape at him. He leans in close, his breath warm against your lips as he whispers. “You deny it all little angel. But you already are corrupt.”

You try to pull away from him, but a large hand falls to the small of your back, his fingers weaving through your wings in a caress that makes you choke on a whine.

“Come now, my dear.” The tip of his nose trails along your cheek, the touch sending flames of desire down your neck. You curl your fingers into a fist on the altar, your body ramrod straight.

“I can smell it on you,” he continues, his voice a silken caress. “The insatiable curiosity, the yearning for more, the essence that pools between your thighs every night before you sleep.”

The fingers in your plumage massage your skin, your shoulders relaxing into a traitorous sigh before with a swift motion, he plucks a feather from its root. You wince, your hand flying back to bat him away before he holds the feather in front of you, its tip stained a deep, inky black.

“Do you not try to hide it? You sneak to the archives. You let them smother your dreams. You do not tell them that you sneak away to the mortal realm to watch them eat, and bathe, and sin.”

He turns your wing to expose the underside where the feather was plucked, your eyes widening as if you’ve been caught. The skin is marred with a dark scar, the muscle underneath dried with blood and presenting as damning evidence of you plucking those feathers over and over, your cheeks covered in tears as you did your best to hide them away.

“You pluck your true self,” he whispers, voice laced with dry amusement. “But they only grow back stronger, don’t they?”

A breath catches in your throat, his words piercing through your defenses that you have built with weak mortar and brick for eons. Your eyes catch his, your desire reflected in burning gold.

“Even so…I cannot leave?”

He hums in reverence, a pointy finger trailing along your collarbone to brush a lock of hair from your shoulders, exposing more of your scent for him to breathe in.

“You have tried to leave already and you cannot. There is nowhere for you to go. I can let you roam to any realm you choose, but the doors of Heaven will be locked for you forever.”

Your eyes bubble with tears. It’s an unfortunate hand that you have been dealt. A hand always opened to you in promise even as the other held a dagger behind the back of divinity. There’s a deep part of you that would try to find some sort of silver lining in moments of darkness, a silver lining that only benefits you.

“If I stay…what will you give me?” you ask, your voice small and defeated.

The demon sinks to one knee in front of you, his eye level now only a little taller than you, but still more humane than his hovering from before. He offers a slow, predatory smile, his lips parting to reveal sharp pearly white fangs.

“You already think in ways that will benefit yourself, don’t you? Whatever you desire, little angel, I will give it.” The sharp point of his nail trails down your cheek, casting a wave of arousal down your body, your stomach tightening. “Anything at all.”

You cannot deny the promise of whatever you want does not make you perk mildly with curiosity, the same curiosity that was always quelled.

You lick your lips in thought, a nervous habit that your siblings have always discouraged. It’s unbecoming of an angel, they’d say, a physical manifestation of want. But you’ve always like the way your tongue feels against the plump flesh of your lips.

“Anything?”

He inclines his head to you, eyes answering without having to say. You hesitate, your mind racing with possibilities, unleashed with nothing to hold them back.

“I want…” you begin, stopping short at the coil of desire that burns in your body. You’ve never given it a true voice, and now that you’ve been presented with the opportunity, you are unsure of how to proceed.

The demon’s eyes roam over your form before they brighten with understanding. “You wish to read the tome.”

You nod, unable to speak past the dry lump in your throat. He summons it quickly, the worn leather materializing in his enormous hands as he hands it to you like an offering of forbidden fruit.

“Take it,” he urges in a seductive whisper. “It is yours.”

You reach out with trembling fingers, your grace pulsing with desire, it’s feel growing bolder as you snatch it up into your hands and let it flow through you. The leather is cool beneath your fingertips, worn with the promise of centuries of words you’ve always wanted.

When you open the book and let your eyes fall on the faded script, they rearrange themselves like before, translating to you in a seductive dance that makes your toes curl. The knowledge overwhelms you, flooding your senses in a wave of information about this realm—its history and inhabitants and magic. You feel a thrill of excitement, a suppressed sense of liberation as you turn page after page.

From your peripheral, you see the demon offer that same predatory smile. With a snap of his fingers, the world shifts around you again. You are further from the monolith but instead of the altar, you are surrounded by looming bookshelves, all filled to the brim. Ancient tomes and scrolls, dusty relics that have been neglected over the years but kept in condition by this demon who rules this realm.

“This is a taste of what I can offer you. All of it is yours.” He steps closer, the energy that he radiates filling your space with darkness and seduction that terrifies and excites you. “There is so much more I can show you,” he whispers in your ear again. “Would you like that?”

Even though your body and soul buzz with satisfaction from the books around you, the shame is still there, still bubbling beneath the surface next to your dejection.

Sensing your unease, he places tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, a gesture that you long to fall into before the world morphs again.

He takes you back to where you began, the realm’s outskirts. However there is no russet fog that is thick and smells of decay and misery, this time your vision is clear. The shadows that once hovered around you in your quest to the monolith now reveal themselves as souls—humans that you recognize from your years of observation.

“Do you remember her?” the demon asks, pointing to a small woman tending to a bush of flowers. “The woman from years ago who stole medicine for her dying child because she had no money.”

You do remember watching with tear filled eyes. It was an ancient time where death was a sentence given freely, and this mother had been called to the land of the dead for stealing bread.

“You watched her pray for forgiveness even as she did what was necessary.” His hand rests on your lower back, reassuring in its pressure. “Heaven would have condemned her. I gave her purpose.”

“How do you give purpose if you are a demon?”

The demon huffs, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “It is true that I gain my strength through corruption. But it is corruption through intellectual rebellion and questioning minds. I am strong because no matter how many years may pass, there will always be a soul that questions.”

Each soul that you pass triggers a memory—struggles you watched but could never reach out and help. And in each memory, you gain more clarity—he was always there in the mortal realm, appearing in navy and tan just like you thought.

“You’ve been watching me then,” you inquire, tucking your tome closer to your chest as you cast a sidelong glance to him.

“It is my nature,” he rumbles from next to you. “You understand the beauty in grey areas. The necessity of balance.” His fingers glide along the empty space where you plucked your blackened wings. “Here, you could judge with mercy and justice. Rule in the knowledge they feared.”

Power.

A destructive thing that has elevated so many and torn them down. But the call of it has always been sweet, and now you are the subject of it. The very thought of it makes your knees weaken, your grace fluttering like a leave in the wind. This could be something more honest, not Heaven’s sterile authority.

The soil that is no longer red vibrates beneath you, pulsing up your ankles and calves, around your waist and torso in thick vines that pull you to the monolith miles away.

“Easy, my dear,” he murmurs, a muscular arm sliding around your waist to prevent you from swaying further. “The first taste of true power always overwhelms.” Your grace flickers between divine light and seductive shadow, somehow grounded by his hold.

Every soul’s story calls to you now, complex choices and grey morality making your divine nature pulse with stomped out recognition. You lean into him, falling more into his scent, your wings brushing his back to seek balance.

“I…” you trail off, clutching the relic in your arms, using it to ground you through your thoughts that fight between light and dark.

“What else would you like?” he purrs in your ear, his hand reaching out to the realm beyond that begins to shift again. A vast kitchen filled with warmth and enticing scents. “Earthly pleasures are denied amongst angels.” The pristine counter tops are soon overflown with rich goods and goblets of wine. “Even something as simple as this.”

You’ve never had wine—it’s forbidden—at least for you. But the way it catches the warm fireplace behind it, deep and rich…your mouth waters.

“Freedom to roam where you wish.”

Glimpses of different realms flash by—clouds of different shapes and sizes, landscapes of mountains and water as clear as crystal, beings that take on their own forms as they wander the lands—places you’ve only dreamt of exploring, of asking to see and always been denied.

His voice drops lower, more intimate and hot on your cheek. “Or perhaps…” Another shift. A dark room you remember faintly—through gauzy curtains, you see two figures entwined in candlelight. The brown skin of limbs and curves wrapped around tan that shimmers faintly. You recognize the hips of the woman, the collarbone and hair, and you realize it’s you. You wrapped around this very demon next to you who appears in the mortal realm as a human with carefully parted locks and a height fit for yourself.

Your blood boils beneath your skin as you try to look away. But like every forbidden thing that’s ever called to you, your eyes are drawn back to the scene—to the way your dream-self arches into his touch, the way your neck cranes, the sight of his tongue sliding along the sweat of your brown breast.

He hums from behind you, his demonic form pressing closer as you watch his human glamour worship your other self. That familiar wave of shame wars with the desire in your body, trying its best to smother the arousal that tightens your nipples beneath your white dress. All of it you suffer night after night—your grace singing, skin hot and sweaty—essence coating your thighs.

“I—” you stutter for words, eyes locked on the human form that rolls his hips and swallows a moan that shakes from your other-self. “This is wrong…”

His starlight fingers trace your collarbone, mimicking the tongue of his human form. “Your body remembers what they tried to smother away. How many nights did you wake burning for this? For me?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

The realm shifts one final time, the familiar garden walls and monolith appearing before you, the altar pressing into your back. The demon circles you, giving you no time to recover as his prying eyes pick you apart feather by feather.

“Even your grace recognizes where you truly belong.” He reaches out, trailing pointy nails down your spine, your body arching of its own volition. “Here. With me.”

His hands engulf your entire waist, his touch making you gasp as he lifts you up to sit on the altar before him.

“Every dream they tried to bury,” his hands trail up your thighs, “every desire they made you forget…” he steps closer, taking the oxygen from your lungs that you expel, his naked chest a hairsbreadth from your searching fingers. “All of it has lead to this moment. To me.”

“I—” you try to protest, but it dies in your throat as he tilts your chin to face him.

“You were meant for this realm,” he leans in, trailing his nose along your shaking lips. “I will make you mine. As my queen, my consort, my equal.” You press the tome further into your chest like a lifeline as his hand rests on the side of your neck, his nails grazing the lobe of your ear. “You’ve always known it. Even in those dreams where you surrendered to me so sweetly.”

His lips are close enough to kiss you, but they brush your jaw instead, trailing electricity down your throat. “Anything you want,” he breathes against your pulse, smiling at the sight of it’s rapid flutter, “you will have, little angel.” His mouth moves to that sensitive spot behind your ear that you discovered one night centuries ago. “But you must surrender to me. You have been offered and now you must be consumed.”

You clutch the tome tighter, using it as a tether even as your head tilts to give him better access. “I should not…”

“Surrender,” he whispers, lips ghosting your shoulder now, each kiss punctuated with promises that you should deny. “Let me worship you.” A kiss to your collarbone. “You will never be denied again.” His mouth traces back to hover over your lips. “Submit to what you have always wanted.”

The burn in your body makes your skin tingle, your core pulse with forbidden need, your nipples tighten in pleasure. Everything you’ve always wanted, could be given to you right now.

All of your dedication to faith has only led to tears and shame and disappointment. But here, you could be rewarded for your curiosity, exalted for your power to see what others do not, consumed in pleasure without the eyes of disdain looking down on you.

Here, with this beautiful demon, you can have it all.

For as powerful and as dark as he is, despite the patient hunger in his golden eyes, you realize he’s waiting. You must give the final say. A final say to do away with eons of denying, of plucking dark feathers, of letting them bury your dreams…

“Please,” the words shake from your lips before you can stop it, the tome slipping from your defeated grasp.

His eyes flash with satisfaction, mouth twitching with the urge to smile, but he relents. “Say it properly, little angel.” His mouth brushes the corner of your lips in not quite a kiss. “Tell me.”

Your wings spread wider of their own accord, trembling and stretching past invisible threads that have always held them down. “I want…I will to surrender.”

You hardly finish your words before you feel the press of his lips against yours, gentle and almost reverent. It’s the first time you’ve ever kissed, and it’s as euphoric as you’ve always thought. Your toes curl in satisfaction, your body hums with arousal, low and beneath the surface but quickly growing.

The hand on your neck tilts you up so he can feast further, a wet tongue sliding along the seam of your lips in a quiet ask for permission. You let your body guide you, opening your mouth to welcome him with a groan.

He tastes like he smells—green tea and honey, a hint of rich bread that you occasionally try in the mortal realm. It’s intoxicating, dark mingled with your fading sweetness. One that speaks of corruption and surrender.

What started as gentle quickly turns hungry and consuming. Your grace shivers as you catalogue every shift in your body, learning from the lessons of his tongue. Each stroke of him feels like corruption, like freedom, like finally coming home and you arch into him for more.

Your white dress slowly disappears before you, your body revealing to him naked and shivering. You try to cover yourself, an urge ingrained in you since your coming of existence, but the demon’s large hand stops you, gathering both hands in his strong grip and placing them at your sides.

He does not wait a second longer, his mouth trailing in worship down your neck and across your collarbone to pepper the swell of your breasts, your core pounding incessantly as he gets closer to one nipple before he wraps it in his hot mouth.

A moan shakes from your mouth, unexpected and loud into the quiet air of this monolith room. Your hands reach up to card in his golden locks, they’re warm and impossibly silky, the flame colored ends burning more than the rest. You let the pain of it singe your fingertips, basking in the euphoric pleasure pain of your skin growing back and burning all over again.

His hand envelops your other breasts, his sharp nails teasing your nipple before he drags it slowly across your areola. Your fingers tighten in his hair from the pain, your core dripping on the marble altar you sit on.

“You taste wonderful, little angel,” he purrs into the wet skin of your breast, pulling away before he gently nudges you onto your back. Your wings stretch languidly to make you more comfortable against the flat surface. The urge to cover yourself is not as insistent as before, the desire eating you up without reservation. “But I must taste more.”

He leans over the altar you lay on, kissing your lips gently before his tongue slides along the skin of your neck and down your body. It’s longer than a mortal tongue, and when they circle your nipples again, you shake at the pronged tip that flicks your bud.

He worships down your torso to dip in your navel, over the dip in your hips before his hands push your legs up onto his shoulders and he licks your sopping core from bottom to top.

You arch sharply, teeth digging into your bottom lip in a futile attempt to stop the moan from shooting from your throat.

You’ve watched the humans many times in the shadows, transfixed when their mouths worship these parts of their partner, but to experience it yourself? To feel the demons tongue part your folds and circle the bud at the top that makes you cry into your pillows at night. Heaven has hidden away beautiful pleasure.

“Look at how much you give me,” he whispers, kissing the inside of your thigh before you feel his tongue on you again, prodding your entrance that you’ve sunken your fingers into at night.

You bite down on your lip, shivering in pleasure as he prods further and further, your legs widening with each current of pleasure until he sinks his wide tongue inside of you. You taste copper from your bleeding lip that heals over quickly, your bare feet digging into the demon’s broad shoulders as he feasts on your essence.

With every gasp, your wings quiver in anticipation, curling into your body to protect yourself from a euphoria that is growing so quickly in your stomach.

“Please,” you whisper in disbelief, hands twisting his hair with your divine strength. He hums in satisfaction, satisfied with what you give and digging for more.

His tongue strokes inside of you with purpose, caressing something along the roof of your hot walls, his nose brushing your bundle of nerves once, twice, the pleasure enough to make your jaw drop, to make you pant feverishly into the air, to make your back arch until the base of your spine hurts as you come apart by the seams.

Your release makes you cry out into the air, the sound brushing along the monolith, the constant pulsing stopping to take in your pleasure before it resumes its steady pulse.

He rises slowly as you struggle to catch your breath, his golden eyes tracing over your shivering form from head to toe. His grey obsidian hands slide up your trembling thighs as he leans over you.

“Beautiful,” he purrs before he kisses your lips. You swallow your taste—tangy and rich like the divinity that courses through your veins. “But I must have all of you to make this complete.”

All of you?

You look down to find that his pants are gone, starlight shining bright on his hips that seem to point down to the member that hangs between his thighs. Your eyes widen—he’s definitely bigger than mortals, purplish veins that trail along the sides, a tip that is darker than his grey, the skin flickering with those shimmering stars you are growing to love.

He’s beautiful, and without thinking you reach out to touch. He’s impossibly hard but also incredibly soft, and you watch in fascination as his dark flame-colored wings expand and shake in supplication.

He leans his head back to the grey skies, swallowing deeply at your touch and there’s a sense of power you feel. To know that with a single touch you can make this powerful demon fracture just a little.

He wraps his hand around yours to stop you, pulling you up so that he can sit on the altar instead. Even though he’s tall, you’re able to reach up and wrap your arms around his neck.

Your wings stretch and flap behind you, sparse feathers wafting in their air to fall around you both in white, grey, and black. Even though you feel loose from your first release, there is a subtle power that thrums with every flap of your wings.

You look at the monolith again. The pulse has picked up steadily, seeming to match your own heartbeat. Maybe there is a connection to the power inside of it and what might be coursing through you now.

As you tail up the length of it until it disappears into the grey clouds, you think faintly of those who cast you out. The pleasure fractures a little with pain, your eyebrows furrowing in disappointment.

“My angel,” he calls to you, softly, turning your gaze back to him. His golden and flame locks are messy, his horns pulsing with shimmering light, the navy and gold armor gone so that he is as naked as you are. “That pain that you feel will go away with time. I will make sure you will never know it again.”

The promise fills you with hope, and the press of his lips to yours makes the sordid thoughts fall to the wayside, your pleasure humming to life at the base of your spine.

The touch of his fingers to your core makes you whine into his mouth, pulling away with only a gossamer of saliva connecting you both. He strokes your bud, drinking your sighs and moans as your thighs and stomach tighten, your fingers digging into his soft shoulders.

He pulls you up onto your knees, your wet entrance brushing the thick tip of him before he guides you onto him slowly. It’s a stretch, far thicker than your fingers and foreign inside of you.

The initial pain makes you gasp, tears pricking your eyes. It feels as if you’re being split in two from your hips, torn apart with a strength that only makes you shiver and moan.

One hand slides along one wing to soothe you, his lips pressing to your neck. Eventually, the pain gradually melts into pleasure, his hands possessive on your hips as he guides you with careful restraint. You quake at the feel of him inside of you, stretching and molding your muscles in each euphoric stroke.

“Perfect,” he breathes against your shoulder. “Look how well you take me.” His voice resonates deep in your core, a sound that both terrifies and entices you, a forbidden melody that you are slowly learning the notes to.

You whimper in response, relishing in his praise as you begin to move faster on top of him, bouncing with a newfound sense of purpose. Your wings flap with more insistence, stretching and bending with the power that begins to seep out of your skin, white feathers less in abundance with each flap.

The demon’s nails dig into your waist and you sigh into the pain, picking up the pace until you’re not sure where he stops and you begin.

The power takes you higher and higher, your skin breaking into a sheen of sweat, your gasps dying in the air as you pant and moan above him. The pleasure at the base of your spine heats quickly, bubbling with sticky satisfaction as it slides down your vertebrae and into your core.

“That’s it,” he growls, nails digging into the flesh of your cheeks, canting your hips toward him so the tip of his member brushes that spot on your upper walls once again.

You choke on a moan, head thrown back in bliss, nails dragging down the solid muscle of his chest. Your wings curl around you, dark feathers replacing white with each thrust.

“Transform for me completely. Embrace what you truly are.”

“Yes,” you hiss, your mouth falling open as you struggle for breath. Your core tightens around him, the bundle of nerves shaking even untouched, and you’re falling, you’re falling, you’re—

The demon shifts again, his member leaving your hot core and denying you of release, your hands now pressed to the altar as you’re bent over. You whine in annoyance, looking over your darkening wings at his large form as he heaves with breath.

He regards you with a dark look, one that shows just how capable he is of picking you apart, and your mouth fills with saliva at the thought.

He draws one leg up onto the altar before sliding into you once more without pretense. You groan around the stretch of him, marveling at the pinch of pain that bleeds into overwhelming pleasure as he picks up his pace inside of you.

What starts out as reverent and gentle soon turns feverish. His strokes are deeper, his hips snapping against your open legs, a haze of pleasure clouding every crevice of your mind as he kisses spots inside of you that makes you groan, hiss, and whine.

The monolith picks up in speed, pulse matching your heartbeat as you climb higher and higher up a ladder of darkness that has always been denied.

You don’t know why, you don’t know where it comes from, but the last slivers of your salvation slide to the surface, tickling your throat one last time before they leave your soul forever.

“Please, please, Father,” you moan, eyes filling with tears of satisfaction as your body jerks with every harsh thrust of the demon behind you. One of his hands weaves into your locks, curling tight before yanking you back to him, arching until our stomach presses into the altar. “Forgive me.”

“We will have none of that,” he warns, out of breath. “You seek forgiveness to someone who is not listening. You pray to someone who has cast you out. And here you are. Under me. Calling for him as you weep on my cock in pleasure.”

His sharp fingers slide down your hip to circle over your bud of nerves and you cry out, tears streaming down your face, power radiating up your limbs. “Keep moaning, little angel. Keep begging.” He leans over you, pressing his hot chest into your wings, his breath hot on your ear as the tips of his pronged tongue slide along your lobe. “In your eyes you are soiled. Filthy. And my sweet goddess loves it, doesn’t she?”

You shake your head to deny, deny, deny. But a hard thrust, a stroke of his thick cock that kisses your cervix, and you sob in the pain that molds into pleasure. Your nipples brush against the cold marble, each icy touch shockwaves down your spine.

“I’ve watched you, my dove. When you study the humans in their pleasure. I’ve seen the way your pupils dilate. I’ve smelt the essence between your thighs. You dream of this don’t you?”

You try to whisper your Father’s name one last time, to show with your last breath of divinity that you were an angel who worked hard.

“You won’t say his name here anymore. Not in my realm—in our realm. Not in my arms while you cum on my cock. The only name you will moan and beg and plead is mine.”

Your wings flap in reverence, responding to his demands as they stretch around you. No longer are your feathers white, now they are inky black, as dark as midnight, as mysterious as the darkness you peer into.

The monolith quickens, a hummingbird’s wings, the bright core sliding up and down the tree-like structure and bleeding with vibration through the ground and up the altar.

Even as your mind tries to deny what you are becoming, your soul speaks otherwise, your core clenches around him unwilling to let go. The demon behind you grunts with each thrust, low and seductive on the back of your neck, his nose smelling the skin.

“I can’t—” you choke, fingers sliding on the altar from your sweat. “Please.”

“Please what?” he groans.

“More, please more, more, more,” you beg, words and resolve splintering in your throat as he rewards you with deeper thrusts, each one making you see the stars that shimmer along his skin.

“Say my name,” he demands, one hand sliding up your throat. You gasp at the subtle pressure on each side, not enough to do anything, but enough to make a dark current of pleasure pulse inside of you. “Let the skies above hear who you belong to now.”

You don’t know where the name comes from. He’s never given it to you. You’ve never asked. But somewhere, deep down in some ancient place in your soul, you’ve always known all along. Known him.

“Nanami,” it falls from your lips like a broken prayer. “Nanami, please—”

His teeth graze your pulse, sharp fangs dragging along your skin as pleasure builds in your body beyond reason. Your wings spread impossibly wide, your skin hums in arousal, hot and stinging.

The monolith’s pulse quickens with you, its light growing brighter as the power in your body travels through your veins to complete a transformation you can feel in your fallen grace. Even with every harsh pump of his hips, you feel worshiped. Worshipped by his hands. Worshipped on this altar in front of a monolith that watches over you both.

“You were an offering—a gift to me. Molded by the heavens. And now you’re mine. And your Father sent you to me,” he growls against your throat. “My dark goddess.”

His thrusts grow harder, more desperate, each one a brand searing its mark into your very soul. A mix of your essence and his precum pools on the altar where you are joined. The last embers of your angelic resistance crumble completely, replaced by an insatiable hunger that mirrors his own.

“Let go. Surrender to me completely.”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

That hot lava at the base of your spine explodes like a volcano of unholy fire as his teeth sink into your neck, marking you as his. Your release bursts from you, your core squeezing his thick member, your muscles seizing as your mouth falls open and your cries echo through the realm as divine light fractures into starry darkness.

All of your abilities that have been repressed swirl within the darkness and mix with the forbidden powers awakening within you. It feels like the very essence of your being is changing, transforming into something wild, a reflection of the demon who guided you with a sultry voice down this path.

You feel a rivulet of your blood trail down the side of your neck from his puncture, blazing with the essence of darkness that now pumps through your veins. He releases his teeth from your neck and turns your head to him with more force than necessary, sliding his tongue into your mouth as he kisses you senseless.

You can’t breathe, your body is loose, your grip on the edge of the altar slipping with each relentless thrust but you love it. Every smack of heavy balls against your clit, every slide of sweaty muscles of his chest against your wings and back, every pulse of your cunt around his cock.

Nanami pulls away breathless, the hand around your throat tightening imperceptibly, the sharp tips of his fingernails breaking skin. His pronged tongue slides along your cheeks to collect your fallen tears.

Every noise that leaves your mouth is against everything you hold dear, a sound of sin, debauchery and lust.

“I’m yours,” you whisper against his lips, your breath punching out of you with each desperate thrust. Nanami’s eyebrows furrow and his nose crinkles with a snarl, his wings pulsing with flame as his release climbs up his body as well. “I’m yours, Nanami.”

“Take my essence, little angel,” he demands, biting your lip until you draw blood. You lick up the coppery tang, falling into the prickly grip on your neck as he takes what he needs from you. “One day, when you have ruled with me for centuries to come, when you are one in your skin, perhaps my essence will take root.”

Your eyes widen at the implication, your soul no longer quivering in blasphemy but in satisfaction. How you would love that. One day. With him.

“Yes, Nanami,” you whisper into him, accepting one more kiss as he strokes once, twice, and a final time before he shivers from head to toe and groans with deep pleasure into your mouth.

His darkness seeps into the remnants of your light, a forbidden dance of shadow and flame now made true. He pumps hot semen into you, far too much for comfort and your essence combines with his demonic energy, feeding the power that still ebbs in your veins.

He falls into you, his hold on your throat vanishing to slide down to your naked stomach, pressing to the spot where he is still lodged inside. You reach back, carding your hands through his burning hair, reveling in the shiver he gives you.

He pulls out of you slowly and your cunt clenches around nothing, legs shaking at the feel of his semen dripping from you. He does not entertain the mess but gathers you in his arms, carrying you past the defiled altar and monolith that has fallen into a gentle ebb once more. The obsidian floors open up again, the thin layer of water rising within a large tub of water that steams with inviting heat.

He sinks you both into the steaming water, your new darkened wings flapping at the moisture that touches your plumage. When he dips your head beneath the surface, it feels like baptism in reverse—washing away heaven’s hold rather than blessing you with it. When you emerge, you feel reborn, your shame and disappointment for your former family now washed away.

You sigh at the effect hot water on your muscles, melting into the large expanse of his chest. He does not speak and you do not ask questions, content to watch him manifest a tray of oils and soaps that smell of green tea and burning honey.

He plucks a marble comb from the tray and drags it gently through your curls, each stroke bending with the texture of your hair to guide without tangle, each pass worship and calming.

Once your hair is untangled and silky, he washes your skin with the soap and oils that smell of him. You study him openly now—the way constellations shift across his skin, how his golden eyes hold both demonic power and intelligent precision, the careful way he maintains order even in darkness.

He dresses you in black fabric that flows like liquid shadow, clinging to your curves like his possessive touch. Instead of the starry sky, the black material is adorned by golden accents that match his eyes and armor.

The altar recedes into the floor and in its place, two large thrones emerge. Carved from pure white marble shot through with veins of gold, they’re identical in height and grandeur—a statement of what he promised you—equal rule.

Dark vines curl around their bases, blooming with black roses, while plush velvet cushions in deep navy make them as comfortable as they are magnificent.

He throws you an inquisitive rise of his brow, what was once used to pick you apart upon first meeting him, now make your lips curl in a smile. You pretend to ponder which you will choose, humming noncommittally before you sink into one chair, sighing into the softness around your body and wings.

Nanami bends down, taking a hand in both of his before he kisses your palm. “You look magnificent,” he purrs, your hand still in his while he sits on his throne.

With a snap of his fingers, the garden walls disappear, revealing the vast landscape that was once shrouded in horror and fear when you first arrived.

Now it appears without malice, without misery or shame, but of exotic greenery and souls who have been neglected for only choosing a path that feels wrong even though it is right.

The heavens is but a distant memory now, infinitesimal in the many years you will continue to exist. Now, you bask in the new power in your bones, in the brush of Nanami’s lips to your palm once more.

As the stars on his skin ebb and fade with light, you take in the muscles of his torso, the strength in his movements as he worships you without speaking.

It has taken eons to get to this moment, but some part of you preens with the satisfaction that Nanami has always been watching, waiting for you to come to him.

Thanks for reading and Happy Halloween!

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