ᴘᴜʀᴠᴇʏᴏʀs ᴏғ sʜᴀᴅᴏᴡs‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ‎‎ ‎ ‎ || ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛ. x ᴋᴇɪᴛʜ ʟᴏɢᴀɴ ⁽ⁿˢᶠʷ⁾

[Keith Logan]

​

Cᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛs​ ⠀SYNOPSIS⠀ ⠀CHAPTER I⠀ A fallen angel. A wayward valkyrie. Branded by realms, they cast off their helms. Heaven and Hell, enthroned in pride. Had lost the truths their sires supplied. Disillusioned hearts, defiant breath. They sought a path, beyond fate and death. Not to serve, nor to kneel or bow— but to forge a realm unbound by vow. ​ Themes: Consensual, D/S, Fantasy, Debauchery. ​

 

[velvet.]

𖤍 0200 hours. Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico. The still night air was punctuated by the incessant buzzing of a single-propeller aircraft, flying low over the blackened humidity of the Yucatan jungle. A light, pelting rain drummed steadily against the yellowed aging windscreen of the Cessna. Its pilot did her level best to focus on the moonlight-dappled landscape zipping beneath her and ignore the two ravens in the rear, both of whom were involuntary passengers on this excursion. "I see a traitorous bitch. Tell her what we see, Muninn," said one raven to the other. They were sharing a small cage, bouncing uncomfortably in the rattling aircraft. "I believe Huginn, that our pilot is in fact a first-class traitor," concurred Muninn, "what we're witnessing here is a real unmitigated Grade A bitch." The Corvus metaphysicalis were amazing creatures who had a fixation for major multiversal events like a shark's obsession with blood; they traveled great distances to any significant event in the multiverse just to watch it unfold with morbid curiosity. A running commentary of said events was not typically provided, but being caged and transported against their will had put the pair in a mood to annoy. Huginn and Muninn were also the only two individual specimens of metaphysical ravens known to exist in the multiverse. Both of whom belonged to one Odin, All-father, Lord of the Aesir, God of Battle, Receiver of the Slain, and bearer of an assorted titles list a mile long. Definitely someone to avoid pissing off by stealing his pet ravens. Shelly, or Michelle "Skagul" Urdottir as printed on her human documents, gripped the Cessna's yoke and squinted into the rain-splattered view of the night jungle. The incessant squawking from the aircraft's rear was giving rise to a bulging vein in her temple, growing ever more prominent with each remark. As a Valkyrie, her position was much like her cargo's; one of the old man's pets, sent forth to do his bidding with as much agency as a leaf on the wind. For centuries, she had collected the souls of dead warriors for the paranoid old fart, trained with them as they fought endlessly in Valhalla. Centuries of performing her duty with nary a word of recognition. Even with the rise of Christendom -of Heaven, Hell, and their One God- , the decrepit old fool did nothing to stem the ebb of his influence on Midgard. Skagul had pleaded with Odin, the viking raids on fat Christian monasteries were only the beginning. Let her serve on Midgard. Every one of the new missionaries would be slain for their blasphemy, their feckless heretical Popes put to the sword, and the conquered lands would war and sacrifice in his name. The All-father had prohibited it. At first, she had assumed it was because Odin was in the midst of a cunning scheme. After twelve centuries of inaction, Skagul knew the old man was out of ideas. While her sisters were content to continue their service indefinitely, Skagul was cursed with an imagination. There must be more to an eternity than millennia of the same routine, shackled to a living corpse incapable of change. Tonight was the night. If all went well, if she could find the bloody landing strip in the dark, Shelly would tear her own freedom from Odin's wrinkled hands. "Do you know what happens to those who betray him?" said Huginn. "We don't see Loki much these days," said Muninn. "He's bound, deep underground, with the intestines of his own son." "You'd better turn back while you can." "Shut up," said Shelly, "the both of you. Before I crash this plane and kill us all." Where was that landing strip? It was almost as if the illegal airstrip near the Diablos Cenote was built to be hidden. Midgard, or Earth as it was known these days, had one thing that protected it from direct divine intervention. Magic failed to function, most of it anyway. Ageless flesh was the one thing that worked for any divine being who traveled here, but few would give up most of their powers to do so. Sure, it was entertaining for a god to watch mortals scuttle about from the outside, akin to a human observing an ant farm. They may even be able to give Earth a nudge from the safety of their realms, setting off an earthquake or two. But to travel here and interact directly with humans? That required skin in the game, ageless but not invincible skin. Divine or human, death on Earth was as permanent as it gets. Only the truly desperate or dedicated -some say insane- of divines lived on Earth for any period of time. It had been a year since Shelly traveled to Earth and lived here full-time. A Valkyrie bore the souls of fallen warriors to Valhalla. She had no need, in her service to Odin, to travel to Earth. Death being one of the popular ways for human souls to travel between realms, all a Valkyrie had to do was pull the correct souls into Valhalla as they passed Asgard, right before they wandered off to other dimensions. It was while training for her pilot's license on Earth, observing the comings and goings at an airport, that Shelly realized she had essentially been one of Odin's baggage handlers at the Asgardian conveyor belt of souls. "We've got a new title for you." "We're good at it, we've had lots of practice." "Odin kept the ones we gave him, every single one." "You're going to like this one." "Skagul, Valkyrie, Traitor, Crazy Bitch." "What do you think?" Shelly ignored them. Only crazy people talked to birds. Just as she was debating if she should turn back whilst she had sufficient fuel to do so, the umbral jungle canopy gave way to glowing orange pinpricks, arranged in twin rows like the eyes of giant demons standing in a line. Shelly's furrowed brow gave way to a wicked grin. She banked and put the plane between the demon eyes, jolting as tyres hit packed dirt. The fiery eyes shot past the plane as it decelerated, revealing themselves to be a series of burning barrels. Shelly disembarked, cage in hand, heart pounding like a teenager sneaking out to a party. She was going to do it. Shelly was meeting her new allies near the Diablos Cenote, a sinkhole that served as Hell's portal to Earth. She was going to be ennobled as a Duchess of Hell in exchange for Odin's ravens, to be counted among one of Lucifer's own. There was only one problem. The airstrip was silent save for the crackling of the makeshift runway lights. Hell's agent was nowhere to be seen. 𖤍​

 

[Keith Logan]

𓆩♱𓆪 ​ 0245 hours. The fluorescent hands of his wrist watch informed. The sky was paradoxically as bright as it was dark. The full moon stubbornly shining through the otherwise densely packed sky, filled with dark cumulonimbus clouds. The moonlight that blanketed the canopies casted just about enough illumination over the forested region that was devoid of civilisation. The area resembled primeval Earth, largely untouched, surreally gorgeous; the perfect shroud for hell’s gate. A moderate tropical rain was pattering across the entire landscape that dawn. With a ranger's weather coat draped over his body, Jacob 'Azariah' Baker had been seeking limited shelter underneath a tree that was remarkably older than he was. Azariah - the fallen angel. In the eyes of his mentors, he held so much promise. He was one of the most astute and adaptable. A rising star on the battlefront, a talent that the heavens prioritised and desired as a need in the face of hell's rising dominance over Midgard - the purgatory and conduit that served as a buffer between two divine realms. Instead, somewhere down the path, Azariah became increasingly disillusioned by the hypocrisies and sense of entitlement by the powers that were supposed to uphold the ways of the light. After eons of being the leading power, the heavens in his eyes, had lost their way, and had forgotten their initial purpose. Heavens preached against sins. But pride had consumed their minds. How was hell any different, then? That was when he started to be drawn to the workings of the alternate world. They were foul. But they were also an admirably tenacious bunch, who were at least honest about their intentions, and most importantly, stayed true to their intentions. Proponents of the light would say that Azariah had gone astray. But he resonated better with a force that possessed unwavering conviction, and were genuine down to their darkest soul, than a pretentious culture which immortals that were hiding behind facades, were stubbornly insistent on riding their high horses. It was then that he figured he needed to reconsider his allegiance. Azariah abandoned the heavens, fled to Midgard, as he began to be a disciple of hell. He studied their ways for a long time. And while he was enlightened by some of their principles, he wasn't entirely sold. That was how he found himself becoming a factionless mercenary, who while favoured by hell due to their fruitful and mutually beneficial partnership across the millenniums, was still an independent entity on his own. This night, he was tasked with another one such hell's assignment. Like all previous, that would end with him receiving a subsistence allowance on completion to help preserve his humble status on Midgard. The assignment was straight forward - a standard pick up of a package nearby Diablos Cenote - a gate to the underworld that only opened up for a fleeting period, the occurrence determined by a complex interaction between specific conditions on Earth, happening at a specific hour, day, month and year, of which none, if not few members residing on the realms of Midgard could decipher the calendar for it. Jacob had done two other retrieve and escort missions before around Diablos Cenote over the last decades, and he tried to piece together the elements. One pickup happened during midday and another, late evening. He remembered it raining on the day mission, but not the latter. Most perplexing of all, was that the crater never opened up at the exact coordinates each time, which led to him concluding that the conditions leading up to the opening of Diablos Cenote wasn't as simplistic as he initially thought. Why was he even surprised? It was the gate to the forbidden netherworld after all. It would likely take a dedicated scholar to study the opening instances of Diablos Cenote over a longitudinal course to even be able to piece a thesis. Of those who attempted, none were able to successfully plot the chart. Jacob had a niggling hunch that something felt amiss about the night's mission. Unlike his previous two instances, the pick up point was no more than a ten minutes trudge through shrubberies and the forest understory. It was too close to the gate. It was... too easy? The pick up of parcel could have been executed by any lesser demons. Instead, he was entrusted with the task. He theorised, that whatever that he was asked to deliver, could well be an item of high value. That piqued his interest. His musings were then promptly disrupted by the rattling of an engine closing in from the distance, which grew louder and louder by the seconds. As the Cessna had all its lights turned off, it was only when the plane touched down on the briefly raised dirt strip that he had personally prepared prior by lining up parallels of makeshift lightings, that he was actually able to see the arriving vehicle. He pulled up his rifle and looked into his scope. That was when he realised that he was to be meeting up with a woman, a woman unlike many previous he had dealt with. Devils and demons from the underworld, even when sheathed in the skin of mortals, held some deviant resemblance to their self. This lady looked none of those, and was blanketed in purity. Who is she? Why would hell be dealing with a foreigner? Stealthily, he emerged from his hideout. His steps were nimble and light-footed, as the veteran reconnaissance agent skirted around with the help of darkness beyond the woods to position himself six o'clock behind the mystery woman. He was so seasoned, he managed to sneak up point blank, until the nozzle of his rifle poked against the back of her spine, pointing right towards where her heart was. "Disappointing, that hell would think of dealing with someone capable of landing herself in such a compromising situation." "Explain the package you were tasked to deliver."​ 𓆩♱𓆪​

 

[velvet.]

𖤍 An orange halo of illumination extended from each burning runway light. Shadows danced within them in time to the flickering flames, made ethereal by the falling rain hissing into the crackling fires, where it joined the night's chorus as wispy vapour. Shelly's instinct took the lines of fire to mean safety, a barrier against the encroaching darkness. However, all it did was throw the treeline beyond into further obscurity, ruining her night vision when she stared too hard into the flames. She scrutinized her surroundings, trying to pick out movement. Real movement from physical beings and not the phantom tricks played by the dancing incandescence. The seconds ticked by as Shelly peered into the gloom, her pensive mind quietly grateful that the ravens finally shut up. They too were flicking their little necks, their feathery bodies tensed, ready for take-off despite the impossibility imposed by their tiny prison. The birds joined Shelly in silently observing the surroundings with their jittery avian movements. Shelly pondered her options. Should she display her sincerity and remain in the open, where Hell's agent had the best chance of finding her? Or should she recluse herself in a less vulnerable position and await their arrival? The choice was wrested from Shelly before she could decide. The chill of cold metal against her back nearly made her drop the bird cage. "Disappointing, that Hell would think of dealing with someone capable of landing herself in such a compromising situation." "Explain the package you were tasked to deliver."​ It was a good distance to the treeline and any possible cover, how had he managed to sneak up on her? His weapon was poised to strike at her vitals and its owner was demanding answers. The unspoken threat slithered its way around her heart, squeezing the life from it. Shelly could hear the rush of her own blood as her heart thudded away in her chest. Whatever made her think this was going to be easy? Her accoster could simply kill her now, take the ravens, and claim credit from Hell. There was the barest sliver of hope, the hostage taker's words proved he had no idea who or what he was dealing with. Shelly took a deep breath and exhaled slowly in an attempt to calm her rattled nerves. In a level voice that betrayed none of her anxiety, Shelly said, "You're mistaken. Both I and the birds in this cage are packages Hell expects delivered. Harm any of us and you can expect Hell's retribution." "She hides the truth," said Huginn. "A serpent-tongued whore, vile and venom-fanged," said Muninn. "We know all about the both of you." "We were there when you were created." "And there when you rebelled." "Let us out. We know everything you may want to know." "And more besides. What say you, fallen ones?" Shelly cursed herself for not taping their beaks shut. The ravens would give away her advantage if it meant their freedom. Should she tell the truth and hide nothing? There would be no reason to free the birds then. A thought wove itself into her mind and Shelly cursed herself once more for not deciding on a prior authentication with Hell. A secret phrase of some sort. How would she know the one behind her worked for Hell at all? Perhaps he had already killed or scared off Hell's agents. What if he was not working alone? If there were more assailants hiding in the dark, assessing the situation, ready to respond should things go awry? She was utterly vulnerable. Fear did not permeate her being as much as frustration, at her own lack of foresight, her own inexperience in these clandestine matters. Every fiber of her being wanted to spin around and tear the weapon from the assailant's hands, the consequences be damned. The man holding her at gunpoint was correct in one respect, would Hell deem her worthy of ennoblement if she was so easily compromised? How quickly her fate had fallen under another's dominion. The irony almost made her laugh, to cast off Odin's fetters only to immediately end up at a stranger's mercy. To submit was the only option, there may not be a way out now, but an opportunity might present itself later. Shelly could bide her time. She had waited for over a thousand years to be free of Odin, what was a few more hours? "I am Skagul, a Valkyrie. My people were here on Midgard dealing in mortal souls before Heaven and Hell ever entered their minds. Even as the one god and his son won victory over the mortal calendar, the days of their weeks remained named after our pantheon." She paused. Straightening her furtive, hunched posture to throw a defiant glare at the sky. Shelly savoured the feeling of raindrops falling on her cheeks, running along her willowy neck, past the halter strap neckline of her black top, and down the center of her bust. Her voice rang clear and without regret, like a warrior sworn to battle unto death. "I have come to pledge allegiance to Hell and bring gifts. These ravens are Odin's prized pets and unsurpassed spies. I did not lie about Hell expecting me, nor their subsequent retribution should either of us fail to arrive unharmed. I have answered your question stranger. Now answer mine, who might you be? Or am I to die here knowing neither your motives nor identity?" 𖤍​

 

[Keith Logan]

𓆩♱𓆪 The barrels of fire were a deliberate design, meant to bleach the eyes in the night so as to impair the vision of one that was caught between the dancing flames. A keen and intelligent learner, such was one of the skirmishing tactics that Azariah had picked up over the centuries, needing to adapt to methods of men when he could not exercise the powers of an angel in the mortal realm. He could not even remember the last time he relied on the arcane arts, and his days in the heavens felt like a distant memory. ​ That was how he managed to sneak up behind the woman undetected. While he was glad his experience in the mortal battlefield counted for something, given the anticipated scale of the assignment, he was perplexed and was still trying to wrap around his head how ridiculously easy the mission was. It did not make any sense. "Explain the package you were tasked to deliver." "You're mistaken. Both I and the birds in this cage are packages Hell expects delivered. Harm any of us and you can expect Hell's retribution."​ Then came a flurry of bizarre speeches, the black ravens speaking one after the other. Azariah had never seen anything quite like that before. Serpent tongued, the ravens warned? At that point, he was still taking the three living things in front of him with a pinch of salt, preferring to reserve his judgement for the time being. It was clear however, that the entities at odds with each other weren't the same side of the coin. "I am Skagul, a Valkyrie. My people were here on Midgard dealing in mortal souls before Heaven and Hell ever entered their minds. Even as the one god and his son won victory over the mortal calendar, the days of their weeks remained named after our pantheon." "I have come to pledge allegiance to Hell and bring gifts. These ravens are Odin's prized pets and unsurpassed spies. I did not lie about Hell expecting me, nor their subsequent retribution should either of us fail to arrive unharmed. I have answered your question stranger. Now answer mine, who might you be? Or am I to die here knowing neither your motives nor identity?"​ The talking ravens had objectively been the highlight of his life in recent months. That record was promptly broken seconds later by the woman's following revelation. Oh how he missed the olden days of otherworldly drama. The younger Azariah was nurtured to be a combatant, but of a different kind, a highly promising student that carried Heaven's hope of him becoming one of the next generation's influential leaders in Reconnaissance and Intelligence. Azariah had the natural disposition, wit and composure to excel in the role that required him to think on his feet. His years of being conditioned to operate from a distance behind the veil of shadows meant that he had watched the famed Valkyries do battles from afar on a few occasions in the past, but never had the chance to come up close and personal with one such, until now. Even more curious, was how - assuming she was telling the truth about the two ravens - the lady warrior got hold herself of one of Odin's most prized and tide turning asset. He heard in passing before of Odin's twin clairvoyant avian. But none of the immortals that he knew actually seen the pair of birds before. Thus, Azariah found it hard to believe that a mere Valkyrie had somehow, managed to sneak her way pass unfathomable layers security to land her hands on the elusive Huginn and Muninn. The woman was either an incredibly naive liar, or an immensely talented individual that had been severely underestimated by many, only to be incredibly foolish to have exposed the identities of her hostages and the wealth that she was holding on her weak, ill-equipped hands. Her inexperience was evident. Azariah believed a lady like her would likely not survive on Midgard for long. "Odin's Ravens, you say?" The man then turned his attention over to the birds in the cage. "You two want to be free?" "With this one chance, tell me then, who am I?" 𓆩♱𓆪​

 

[velvet.]

𖤍 Trapping Odin’s ravens, while foolhardy, was not difficult, at least for Skagul. She could read their behaviour like a book after centuries of watching them convey whispers to Odin’s ears. While their supernatural senses told them the time and location of significant events, they needed to be present to observe its exact nature - and they always showed up, their curious nature prevented them from doing otherwise. Skagul had arranged a meeting with Nott, the Goddess of the Night and Dreams, via letters left gingerly at the threshold of her domain. She was unsure at first, if Nott would accept her request for a friendly chat, and was already making alternative plans in case she did not. Nott was a mysterious figure, paranoid to her detractors. She had three husbands, and her youngest son Dagr was God of the Day, just as she was Goddess of the Night. The arrangement was on a need-to-know basis, and only Odin, who masterminded it, knew its full details. Needless to say, trying to enter Nott’s domain without an invitation was ill-advised. A lucky trespasser found themselves waking from a nightmare with the rising of the sun, in their own bed, with an inconvenient gap in their memory of the night’s events. There were rumours of what happened to unlucky trespassers, but nobody had ever met one who could comment on their veracity. When Skagul returned to where she had left her letters to find Nott's invitation, a most un-valkyrie-like giggle escaped her lips. Nott turned out to be rather pleasant, clothed in starry darkness with a crescent moon smile, she shared her pot of chamomile and thistle tea. She had even put out caramel biscuits. Nott asked if Skagul was here for a favour. Skagul told her she was just here for some friendly conversation, that Nott did not seem to get out much or met people. Nott told her she preferred staying at home to going out to parties, but it was nice having a visitor who was not here just to bargain, and if Skagul would take sugar in her tea. At which point, the fact that Skagul was about to declare her betrayal of Odin drew the metaphysical ravens like sharks to a wounded seal. Huginn and Muninn made a beeline for Nott's domain, whereupon they flew directly into its threshold and fell out of the sky, fast asleep. Skagul said no thanks, mentioned she was going to betray Odin, and asked what was Nott up to these days? Nott replied she had nothing planned, the same old routine, riding around in the sky in a chariot every night, just like the All-Father told her to do, and by the way, did Skagul say she was going to betray Odin? Do spill the tea. Oh yes, Skagul was jumping ship to Lucifer’s team, the Lucifer Morningstar, she could not believe he had accepted her offer, and was excited to finally be at the cutting edge of Midgard mortal influence once more. Nott wished her all the best and invited Skagul to visit again, that is if she could get past all of Asgard’s security once she was an official Duchess of Hell. It made Nott glad that someone was standing up to the All-Father, whose arrangement meant that she never got to see her baby boy Dagr again, at least not without destroying the entire day-night cycle. Skagul picked up the two sleeping birds on the way out, put them in a cage, then hopped onto the next rainbow to Cancún, Earth. All in all, meeting the much shunned Goddess, birdnapping, and realm-hopping had proven much easier than renting the rickety Cessna in broken Spanish from the greasy little plane owner. Shelly was sure he had charged her way too many Pesos, all whilst leering with an intensity that made her want to take a hot shower. "Odin's Ravens, you say?" "You two want to be free?" "With this one chance, tell me then, who am I?"​ The unknown assailant wasted no time in playing all sides. “Nice try, we aren’t falling for that one. Freedom first,” said Huginn. “No harm in giving a teaser? Show him we’re the real deal?” suggested Muninn. “Fine, but just this once. No more freebies till we get our freedom.” “You’re Jacob ‘Azariah’ Baker. The second-most famous fallen angel.” “Didn’t fall as far as the first one either, you have been stuck on Earth for a looooong time.” “The first guy was much better honestly. He’s got style! Rebellion! Fire! Screaming his bloody rage as he fell!” “You were like, ‘Oh no, I hope nobody notices I’m gone. Quietly does it, sneaky sneak.’ We nearly fell asleep watching you. Munnin wanted to just skip your fall and go watch a possible city burning.” “Tasted like ash on the wind, could have been a volcano blowing up, a city getting buried by lava.” “My money was on a city getting sacked. You can’t beat a good old sacking.” “We’ll never know will we? Cos we were stuck watching his boring second place ass.” “No prizes for second place either, especially one who didn’t do it with as much pizzazz as the first.” “Lucifer Morningstar got all of Hell, plus more devils and demons following his fallen ass than grains of sand in a desert.” “Even the Traitorous Crazy Bitch here wants to be on his team.” “Hey! I can hear you, I’m right here!” “Stupid bitch, nobody cares what you think!” Shelly lifted the cage as high as she could reach and dropped it, rattling its occupants as it fell. Her arm shot down like a snake and caught the cage, an inch before it hit the ground, not letting the cage accidentally spring open on impact. The caws of consternation from within brought a smile to her lips. “You were saying?” she said, her voice laced with honey. “Hell’s a great fit for you.” “We hope they give you what you deserve.” I hope so too, thought Shelly. She was mildly grateful the birds were a two-way information liability. Azariah? He did not sound like a fan of either Heaven or Hell, and neither did he sound like someone who would be worried about Hell’s retribution in the slightest. Shelly swallowed the lump that had appeared in her throat, her previous warnings now felt foolish and bitter on her tongue. Was the fallen angel temporarily working as Hell’s agent? Or was he running on his own agenda? “Hey, uh…Azariah? Jacob? Mr. Baker?” Shelly tried to find the correct appellation and they tumbled out of her like candy from a broken piñata. “What exactly do you want?” 𖤍​

 

[Keith Logan]

𓆩♱𓆪 There was a niggling percept that the whole trade seemed peculiar and possibly shady. Little about their interactions so far made sense, nor did it inspire confidence in the celestial mercenary to believe there was anything legitimate about the deal, or potential scam rather. Was this some kind of a decoy? That had him shifting his eyes over to the surroundings to give the vicinity a quick scan. Nothing. A faint furrowing of brows in perplex could be seen emerging from his face briefly. ​ But then one of the avian spoke his name, hence opening a can of worms. For a start, the fallen angel still could not wrap around his head how the elusive Muginn and Huginn had somehow, been served up to him on a silver platter. Azariah could not think of any blessing nor fortune from Hell that could commensurate to the significance of this pair of oracle-creatures, should he turn them in. And even if there were, if there was one thing he learned about working with the beings of the underworld and heaven alike, it was unthinkable that they would bestow a gift that would threaten to relinquish their power and place themselves in potential jeopardy, risking their realm being compromised. But a gift of Muginn and Huginn was worth that sort of reward. To be able to possess the ability of a seer, to be able to foresee and anticipate the future and allow oneself to have the buffer of time and wisdom - that was power of the highest order. Knowledge is power. And with Muginn and Huginn, he could realise the reality of his wildest dreams far more effectively than Hell, or Heaven for that matter, could or would be bothered to oblige the pawn. There was just one problem. The two ravens were jarringly tragic with their mannerisms and emotional quotient. Savants of the animal kingdom, remarkable talent almost always came at a cost - the birds were braindead regarding all things socially appropriate. Its a wonder how this woman - whoever she might be - had managed to tolerate such impudence. It was early days. But the angel could anticipate the lost of sanity one might eventually suffer with prolong exposure to the two exotic seers, running their beaks amok free. That was, unless he attempted to stamp his authority. It was at that moment that he watched the mysterious woman release the cage from her hand, only to grab it before it barely almost touched the ground. At least there was one thing they saw eye to eye. The caws coming from the ravens were satisfying, but not quite gratifying enough. With the coolest of calm, Azariah gracefully tilted the aim of his rifle and fired a shot when everyone least expected, bullet landing onto the murky puddle on the ground that was barely under an inch away from the front of the enclosure. The reverb from the force of the burst rattled the cage for a split second, with the impact of the shot resulting in the splattering of copious amounts of mud launching frontally like one singular wave of tsunami, immediately coating the two ravens with a rich, fresh layer of nature's sludge. That was the consequence for mocking him. He did so without the use of a scope, nor did he bother to level his eyes to the tip of the nozzle. He was near the trio. Even so, that was by no means, an easy shot with a virtually non-existent attempt at aiming, relying solely instead on instincts and muscle memory. It was the first sign that the angel had a profound mastery over his trusty firearm. ​ "Boring has kept me safe. Lucifer is probably screaming right at this very moment because of the eternal hellfire he had been condemned to." "Boring is the reason why the both of you are perched in front of the 'second-most famous angel' with your fates hanging on a thread, simply because you don't possess enough patience to keep your thoughts to yourself." "Boring is also the reason why I particularly enjoy mindless activities like plucking the feathers off something, one by one for hours, because it brings immense joy to someone like me who doesn't quite understand what it means to 'have fun'." He spoke with nonchalance. It was difficult to know if he was offering genuine threat from his poker face, or that he was attempting to give them a taste of their own medicine of sarcasm and obnoxiousness, interlaced with a sprinkle of his own darkness. "Hey, uh…Azariah? Jacob? Mr. Baker?" "You may address me as, Sir." His poise remained stoic, not even bothering to shift his eyes to meet her gaze, as he was still transfixed on the two ravens. "What exactly do you want?" "I am afraid I cannot allow you to turn Odin's precious over to Hell." Azariah made nimble work of his hand, removing the present cartridge on his rifle, uncocking to expel the live round from the chamber, then replacing with another cartridge he drew from his belt, which was colour coded in dirty yellow, before cocking his rifle once more to load a round. That all happened within just under three seconds. Instead of taking a few steps back to maintain a safe distance, the presumed sharpshooter brazenly stepped forth and pressed the cold steel end of his rifle onto the flaunting cleavage of the lady. He seemed arrogantly confident of the distance, or lack thereof. "Get back into your plane with the birds." "20.677, -88.587. Fly us to this coordinates." "Oh, and. Don't for a moment, think of trying to do anything funny." "Because this is me being nice to you right now." ​ 𓆩♱𓆪​

 

[velvet.]

𖤍 Time seemed to stop for Shelly with the ear-splitting crack from Azariah’s rifle. This is where I die, in the mud of Midgard. She looked down, expecting the blood blossom of an exit wound, the pain through her torso, the fading of her balance and vision as life drained from her body. Only, the tops of her supernaturally ageless bust remained intact, unstained by blood. Shelly let out the breath she had been holding, her lungs proved perfectly functional, unperforated by copper or lead. Her heart, hammering away in her chest, reported nothing but heightened levels of adrenaline. She looked down at the two ravens, covered in humble Earthen mud, frozen and uncharacteristically silent. Shelly swore one of Muninn’s lower eyelids was twitching in the gloom. The ravens listened to Azariah lay out with indifference his logic, his threat. Their cockiness, born from millennia of front row seats to realm-shaking events—their targets too busy to notice two ravens watching on the sidelines, vaporised with the visceral realization that they could meet their end here. While mortal souls travelled to the outer realms after death, drifting closer to those deities they worshipped in life, it was unclear what happened to divines after they died, or indeed if they had souls at all. Fear of the unknown was a potent drug for sobriety. If they had been anywhere else other than Earth, the ravens may have continued their behaviour with the certainty that Odin's–-and by extension all of Asgard’s—supernatural might would be brought forth to ensure their safe return. Here, they needed to stay quiet, and more importantly, stay alive until the All-father could mount a rescue. "You may address me as, Sir."​ It was a militaristic title for a superior, or maybe he had adopted it from the Christian knights of English descent. Hell also had a bastardized version of the English peerage, perhaps it designated him as one of Hell’s knights, a cut above the common devil or demon. Shelly did not yet know the connotations “Sir” held among certain human deviants, and wondered exactly how long Azariah had been on Earth. He seemed to have gone native, blending in with this mundane realm as if he were one of the mortals; his accent and speech patterns held neither the holier-than-thou proclamations that would betray his angelic origins, nor the arrogant self-indulgence of demonic affiliation. "I am afraid I cannot allow you to turn Odin's precious over to Hell."​ Finally, a declaration of allegiance. Azariah was not one of Hell’s agents. Who did he work for? If he worked for anyone at all. It was another question added onto the pile her mysterious captor had engendered. She heard the ejection and chambering of a new round into Azariah’s weapon as he circled her. Instinct screamed at her to rush him, to wrestle the rifle from his grasp while it was inert. She hesitated, still unsure if they were truly alone, or if he was covered by backup in the surrounding darkness. The window of opportunity closed, the round was loaded, the weapon lethal once more. Its chilly muzzle buried itself between her bust and rested on her sternum, sending a wave of goosebumps spreading across Shelly’s soaked flesh. Azariah wore his ranger’s cloak like a second skin, allowing the rain to spatter harmlessly off it while remaining comfortable within. Held at gunpoint in her dripping clothes—more suited for a city than a secret meeting in the rainy jungle—stark realization hit Shelly like a slap to her cheek. She was not prepared for this meeting in the slightest. Shelly began to appreciate the full extent of her counterpart’s foresight. At first glance, the fallen angel looked forgettably normal, he would pass without comment in any public space on Earth. Only on close examination did Shelly notice his deliberate facial expression, the half-lidded eyes, the slight downturn brushing the edges of his lips, conveying a subtle disapproval of all who met his gaze. It induced the breaking of eye contact, an eagerness in others to forget him. His bearing conveyed a clear message—mind your own business. Shelly found herself staring at Azariah’s feet just to avoid looking at him in his uncaring eyes. On Earth, Shelly had drawn unwanted attention everywhere she went. Her supernaturally manifested body was both metaphorically and literally divine. Realization dawned. Azariah had calculated his expression and body language to neutralize his angelic allure, to dissuade human contact. Moreover, he had practiced it sufficiently to infiltrate this realm. She wondered what it would be like if Azariah dropped the facade, to see an angel in his full glory. "Get back into your plane with the birds." "20.677, -88.587. Fly us to these coordinates." "Oh, and. Don't for a moment, think of trying to do anything funny." "Because this is me being nice to you right now."​ Despite the threat of death, or perhaps because of it, Shelly found the other divine before her fascinating. She felt accomplished because she had survived on Earth for a year, braving its risks, acquiring knowledge, contacting Hell, laying the groundwork to steal Odin’s ravens from Asgard. Here was someone who had done it many times over. Not just to hop back into a divine realm, but to actually become a resident of Earth. Shelly was curious about Azariah. Part of her wanted to simply obey his instructions—her promises to Hell be damned—to be privy to the secrets he harboured, to see the culmination of his plans. A small ironic grin worked its way onto her face as Shelly realized, much like the ravens, her curiosity was going to get her into trouble. A niggling detail ate away at her mind. Azariah had given up his range advantage. It made no sense. Why was he giving her a chance to fight back? Was he just that confident in his ability to keep her under control? Was this a test? Was Hell making sure she would defend their interests—even when her existence was under threat—before they were willing to give her an exalted position? Her previous assessment of his allegiance was thrown into doubt. But, whatever the reason, the fallen angel had chances aplenty to kill her, even after she had given him all the information he had asked for. The fact that she was still alive meant he wanted to see what she would do, that he had no intention of killing her. And if this was indeed one of Hell’s tests, she was not about to follow Azariah’s orders blindly, only to be told at the end that she had failed. Shelly dropped, ducking beneath the rifle's barrel, she dashed forward, and wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace. He was taller than she was, rifle or not, leaving distance between them would hand him a reach advantage. Her hands grabbed each other behind his back, locking her body against his. An animal need within her noted his muscled physique—hidden under the layers of all-weather clothing—with considerable interest. This is probably going to piss him off. Channelling a technique she had used while training with the Einherjar—the fallen warriors chosen for Valhalla—Shelly made use of her shorter height and planted the hard cranial plate of her forehead into his soft, beautiful nose in a headbutt. Having done it many times before, she gauged the force precisely, just sufficient for a nosebleed, but not enough to break the cartilage beneath. The element of surprise expended, any further physical altercation would have her at a disadvantage. Shelly hoped she was right about this being one of Hell’s tests. “Apologies for the funny business, Sir. But, are you working for Hell or aren’t you, Sir?” “Am I being tested, Sir?” Now that the ravens had shut up, Shelly did not relish her new position as the meeting’s most annoying party. Every muscle in her body was tense and ready, gripping him with all her strength, she was sure Azariah could feel the rapid drumbeat of her heart. Her plans had unravelled the moment she stepped off the plane. She was simply winging it now and hoping for the best. 𖤍​

 

[Keith Logan]

𓆩♱𓆪 Fear of the unknown was, indeed, a potent drug for sobriety. It still amused him till this date that divine beings that he had crossed path with over the centuries who were so used to the shelter of their respective realms, were always stunned by the harsh reality of Midgard. Their lives never felt so precarious, hanging on a thread at the beginning when they were still getting acquainted to the rules and realities of the purgatory between Heaven and Hell - it was a remarkable world of its own, often casted aside and overlooked by those who did not belong. It reminded him of himself when he first set foot onto Earth some few hundred years ago. It was harsh. And he knew almost immediately that he needed to change his ways in order to survive. Fortunately for Azariah, the fallen angel was innately highly adaptable. Over time, he found himself appreciating the marvels of the hostile world that humbled him, and went on to grow and thrive. Azariah noticed the manner in which Shelly averted her gaze away from him when his calm, but piercing gaze persisted, after he warned that she was not going to be leaving his sight, not until she handed the living package over. Her body, seemingly rigid. For someone who was looking to deal with the underworld, it was peculiar that the woman had the air of a non-confrontational natural submissive. Perhaps the fallen angel's poise was effectively intimidating, of which sometimes, he wasn't even aware of that himself. He still carried a part of his former conceited sense of supremacy like a badge, also serving as an unconscious reminder of his patronizing past, not so much down to his fault, but because he had been raised that wayward way after the Heavens had strayed in the recent millennium. It was hard to shake off that nurtured sense of arrogance, even for the man who despised the ways of the very place he was born. Oftentimes, he needed to actively and constantly remind himself that he had left the Heavens because he believed he could be better than them. But then, the woman grinned. That took him by surprise. She was certainly becoming a hard read, as he suddenly began to question himself if he might have underestimated the lady in any sense. Was she feigning weakness? He did find her amusement, amusing, as he reciprocated with the faintest of a lob-sided grin in reaction to hers, like two individuals attempting to size each other up in a pre-fight standoff. It was difficult to guess that whirlwind of thoughts that were running through the woman's mind. She had a plethora of assumptions as to why he hadn't already ended her life then and there. But they were all pretty complex reasonings that weren't quite right. The simple fact as to why he hadn't already ended her life, was down to her elegance, combined with her ethereal beauty that was immaculately distinct from even the best Earth had to offer, in his personal opinion. Her physical perfection, her demeanour - she didn't look like she belong to Midgard. It was a combination of complacency resulting from her very alluringly disarming outlook, and the transient distraction of thoughts that had him mistime her very sudden and successful attempt at ducking away from what would have been an unmissable clean shot. She knocked against the inside of both his elbows with finesse and startling force, aiming for his pressure points with precision that temporarily numbed his nerves, causing him to drop his rifle onto the ground. Then he felt the woman lassoed his arms behind his back, wrists crossed over one another, with what felt like a grip of godly strength. That was when he realised that the lady was not human. While the powers of divine beings were greatly attenuated on Midgard, they were not completely stripped of them. That was precisely the reason why Shelley possessed her ageless immaculate physique, in the same way that Azariah did. Their forms were like that of a neutron star - whilst a tiny fraction of their former glory, they were still burning as bright as ever at the very core of them. Their skins, serving as a supernatural barrier to seal and confine their powers within. However, their latent energies could still seep through the rudimentary human skin. And in Shelley, a hint of her strength was showing through, as was an attribute that was characteristic of Odin’s female legion. Her strength was once again drawn, when she aimed her skull towards his nose and stunned him for a good second or two. His nose wasn’t broken. But the impact shifted his bone slightly. It looked painful. But his reaction was limited to a subdued ‘ouch’ and a faint wince. His eyes narrowed at the woman, but he remained still and nonchalant otherwise. "Apologies for the funny business, Sir. But, are you working for Hell or aren't you, Sir?" "Am I being tested, Sir?"​ There was silence for a moment. But then, a string of chuckle managed to sneak pass the restrain of his stoic demeanour, which grew to a bout of hearty laughter towards the end. The cheek of her. The condescending sarcasm. The fallen angel could choose to wrestle her. It wasn’t going to be easy. But the angel should technically have what it takes to subdue her. Yet he chose not to confront her divine strength with his own head on. While Heaven and Hell were more often than not flashy in their incantations and conjurations of the arcane abilities, his time on Midgard had him appreciating the nondescript, realising that sometimes, simple is best and most effective. Azariah looked down at the fired up eyes that resembled that of a young pup. Then most suddenly, he lifted his right leg and... THUD. He did not hold back a shred of his force, crashing his knee cap right into her crotch. Beings of Heavens and Hell would scorn at the crudeness and lack of honour of such a move. But the undeniable fact was that it worked virtually almost all of the time, against men and women alike, in the years since he picked the shrewd move up from the humans. He waited for the window when the woman would loosen her grip to draw his arm out, pulled out a melee taser that was slipped into the back pouch of his belt and swung the tip of iron rods against her left neck, sending eyerolling shockwaves across her entire body. Azariah capitalised on the temporary limp form by first coiling his arm around the front of her torso to prevent her from landing face flat against the mudded ground, before he pulled out a handy pair of steel cuffs on his belt from behind his back, to bind her wrists together. Azariah took the moment to quickly readjust his slightly dislocated nose with one single pull woth absolute calm, then slung her body over one side of his shoulder like a potato sack, then picked up the cage with the other free hand, before making his way over to the Cessna. Upon entering the aerial vehicle, he slumped the woman onto the backseat, before picking up a clothed bag that was conveniently lying around to have it hooded over her head. “I said I was being nice.” “My request wasn’t the slightest bit difficult.” “You just had to make it personal.” “Sit back. Fuck around and find out.” It was just about an hour’s flight, before the plane made a rougher than usual landing on what felt like an empty plain of soil and grass. Once the engine was turned off, he slung the lady back into place on his shoulder, and carried the ravens along with him. Shelly wasn’t given many clues as to where they were heading, apart from the sounds of his boots trudging through rustling foliage for the most part, then suddenly, concrete - up some kind of stairs judging from the bounce against his shoulder blade on every step that he made. Unbeknownst to Shelly, she had been brought up the ruins of Chichén-Itzá. And then at some point, they stopped, with the fallen angel chanting in norse. "hlið til norðrvarðaeyju." The sound of energy particles rushing could be heard the next moment, followed by the whirling of winds, before they stepped into a region that felt much cooler, less humid. More walking amidst the sound of jungle was involved. And it appeared that Azariah had long abandoned Shelley's Cessna. After a good ten minutes or so, the sound of Azariah's boot thudded against wooden surface, followed by the sound of a door creaking open. With one huff that admittedly hinted a slight amount of exhaustion from the fallen angel, he dropped the cage unceremoniously onto the ground from a low height, rattling the ravens within. Azariah then shoved Shelley over to a sturdy, but otherwise novicey constructed iron chair with grilled backrest, sending her crashing down against the seat by applying downward pressure on both sides of her shoulders. He picked four small bundles of ropes that was stockpiled in a nearby cabinet, and started binding each of her calves against the legs of the chair. The two remaining bundles were assigned to each of her biceps, tying them against the outer frame of the grilled backrest. Azariah had the cuffs remained on her wrists. It was only then that he finally pulled the hood off Shelley's head. The sole mercenary walked over to a nearby table, perched his rear against the edge of it and rested his rifle behind him, before he pulled out a Swiss army knife from his pocket to spring the blade open, using it to scrap the skin off a fresh apple he picked from a fruit basket with his other hand on the very table. "Now. Anyone of you would be kind enough to acquaint me, this lady here who has so brilliantly landed the three of you into my humble little stead?"​ 𓆩♱𓆪​

 

[velvet.]

𖤍 Thoughts tumbled, roiling like waves in a storm within Shelly’s mind. Never in a thousand years, would the calculus of her consideration entertain the thought that the fallen angel had spared her life, simply because she was beautiful. It should have been the first. The Valkyries were the welcoming committee to Valhalla for the honoured dead, the face of what Asgard had to offer for those who had died valiantly. As one of first cold, calculating CEOs of a major afterlife, Odin had staffed his receptionists and stewardesses with supernaturally gorgeous girls. Shelly knew there were those who saw her as just eye candy, Odin and most mortals unaware of her nature being prime examples. She could fight when she needed to, but if Odin needed any work done on Earth, he did not send the Valkyries. He sent the warriors they had retrieved and sworn to his service—the Einherjar. They were natives of Earth, proven fearless in the face of death, and guaranteed a rapturous return to Valhalla every time they fell. Picked from the fallen elite, their abilities refreshed and honed after death, the undying Einherjar were Odin’s solution to divine vulnerability on Earth. They were expensive to deploy in terms of divine power—resurrecting the dead in a new body being anathema to Earth—but deadly and effective when sent. And like all soldiers, they need to be cared for when back from the field. In his eyes, Shelly and her sisters were entertainment for the troops, combat proficiency for a Valkyrie was an extracurricular activity. The only reason Shelly knew how to fight was because it amused Odin's soldiers to spar. It was the reason Hell was so compelling for Shelly, they were willing to trade, to share actual power and raise her as an equal. Shelly often wondered if she was created broken. Or perhaps her centuries of spending time with the Einherjar had changed her, infecting her with their relentless drive for improvement—her own stagnation grew unbearable in comparison. Shelly’s ambition had blinded her to the sole reason she was created—she was made not just as a pretty face, but one where as much attractiveness had been crammed into a single body as inhumanly possible. Luck had smiled on Shelly when curiosity infected not just her and the ravens. The fallen angel also had a predilection for the novel, and her otherworldly beauty had captured his attention. He had chuckled at her headbutt. A good sign. Shelly had heard it before while sparring with the Einherjar. It was a familiar sound, the beginnings of a bond through battle, she knew what would happen next—an adrenaline-fuelled fight, followed by a raucous feast. Shelly readied herself for his riposte, the ensuing melee, the dance of martial skill, both violent and ecstatic. Instead, Azariah drove his knee into her crotch. His aim was immaculate. It was a tiny target hidden by her black skirt, but he contacted the bud which crowned her womanhood. Shelly folded into him, tears joining the rain that ran down her cheeks. Her hands released him as if he were made of hot iron to clutch at her groin, only his arms prevented her from curling into a foetal crescent in the mud. He might as well have applied a blowtorch to her sensitive nub. His attack left fiery daggers stabbing Shelly in her nethers, her thighs clenched together with enough force to crack a walnut. It left her with no reserves with which to utter a sound, save for mewling whimpers and uncontrolled sobbing. Then, shooting pain in her neck, a total shuddering loss of motor control, and blessed unconsciousness saved Shelly from the agony between her legs. She awoke to darkness, the greasy metallic smell of a tool bag filling her nostrils. Shelly was folded in half, slung over the shoulder and back of her captor, the uncomfortable pressure of her own weight digging into her lower abdomen. Testing of her tingling arms revealed her wrists were locked behind her back and had been for some time. Her sex still stung, and Shelly was in no position to fight back. Resigned for the moment to the indignity of being carried like a spoil of war, she tried to adjust herself to offset the jarring motion of his walk. Her cheeks grew warm at the realization his supporting arm was wrapped around her upper thighs. Azariah’s chiseled limb was dangerously close to her upturned rear, where her short skirt threatened to ride up with every step he took, revealing the rain-soaked black panties beneath. "hlið til norðrvarðaeyju." The old tongue. What was the fallen angel doing speaking the language, invoking the magic of the nine realms of Yggdrasil? Surely Heaven and Hell had their own powers to draw upon? Shelly silently translated the runes he spoke, Gate to North Sentinel Island. It was pointless, magic failed to work on… There was the whoosh of a portal opening, a similar sensation to when the Bifrost—the rainbow bridge to Earth from Asgard—opened. Yet, it felt wrong, as if they had walked into someone else’s house who had the same door as her own. As Azariah carried her through it, an afterimage of a stepped pyramid burned itself into Shelly's retinas despite her hooded head. She blinked, trying to get rid of it, but it refused to disappear. Instead, the scene intensified—a priest in a feathered headdress stands atop the pyramid, a struggling man stretched over the curved altar before him. His manhood was bled with a sharp spike, the blood smeared on a carving of an unknown god. With a flint knife, the priest removed the man's still-beating heart, and the heartless corpse was flung like rubbish down the steps of the building. More bloody scenes of mortal death followed, each more gratuitous and pointless as the last, all centered around the stepped pyramid. The afterimages then receded into darkness of their own accord, heedless of how much Shelly blinked, like a creature retreating into its den when it grew bored with toying with her. Shelly wondered what magic had caused the portal to show her the blood-soaked scenes, and how much longer she would have to pretend to be a limp doll. Would her captor take it kindly if she offered to walk? Or would he summarily knock her out again with the stun gun? The new region beyond the portal seemed cooler than the humid Yucatan jungle. She shivered as a breeze cut through her wet clothes like a knife. However, Azariah's exertions had increased his body temperature, and Shelly remained warm where she contacted him. I wished he would rub my butt and warm it a little. Where had that thought come from? Shelly was glad for the bag over her head as she turned pink within it. She took the time to gather her thoughts. Azariah was definitely not working for Hell. This was not a test, and it seemed she had misjudged every situation up to this point. Allowing the ravens to speak freely, and the lack of a secret phrase with Hell for their agent were mistakes. Remaining in the open after exiting the plane, and spilling all her information when held hostage were boneheaded. And to top it all off, threatening and headbutting the fallen angel in the nose? That came down on the far side of stupid. Shelly was in a pickle because she had acted without knowledge, her behaviour was built on a castle of faulty assumptions. It was time to sit down, shut up, and actually learn something from someone who had lived on Earth for centuries. If only sitting down did not hurt so much. The throbbing in her vulva—from being unceremoniously kicked—complained when Azariah put her in the crude metal chair, which Shelly passed on in the form of a pained gasp. As the ropes went around her arms, Shelly fought the urge to struggle; she would have done the same to herself in his position. Her legs however, she tried to bring together as Azariah tied her smooth calves to the chair’s legs. But he was having none of it, forcing Shelly to splay open for him. Was she to be left without a shred of dignity? Her skirt slipped up her thighs, exposing her lacy undergarment to her captor, and moisture from her clothes pooled on the seat between her legs as if she wet herself. The bag came off her head. Shelly put on her best I’m-speaking-with-Odin face—a bright smile, cheek muscles engaged, lower eyelids brought up ever so slightly, and head held in a gentle deferential bow—as if she were genuinely happy to see whomever she was speaking to. It was the same expression offered to the fallen warriors she brought to Valhalla, practiced and perfected over the centuries. “Thank you, Sir. For not killing me. Sorry Sir, but I really thought you were working for Hell. That you had instructions to test my loyalty to them.” Shelly watched him pace the room, rest against the table, and peel his apple. It seemed Azariah’s impassive demeanour had been permanently glued onto him. Regardless of whether he was holding her at gunpoint, knocking her out, or questioning her, the fallen angel was an infuriatingly hard read. "Now. Anyone of you would be kind enough to acquaint me, this lady here who has so brilliantly landed the three of you into my humble little stead?" The ravens remained silent, there was no benefit to them uttering a word. At least until they were rescued from the clutches of the two wayward divines, where they had planned a vicious mocking tirade. Shelly, however, was more than eager to cooperate. “Like I said Sir, I’m Skagul, a Valkyrie. Michelle Urdottir to the mortals, but you can call me Shelly.” She arched her back and flexed her neck, an attempt to loosen muscles forced into an unnatural position by her bound wrists. The curve of her bosom and slender belly were put on display beneath her damp, figure-hugging clothes. “I have a deal with Hell to deliver Odin’s Ravens. In exchange, I was to become a Duchess, the highest among Hell’s nobility, on par with Beelzebub, Asmodeus, and Mammon, answerable only to Lucifer himself. Though I’m now having second thoughts, especially after seeing how easily you’ve infiltrated and disrupted their operation on Earth. You, Sir, seem to know what you're doing better than either Asgard or Hell.” Her plastered smile fell a little, cracks appearing in the mask she wore. “In truth, joining Hell was not the point. It was to get away from Odin and leave Asgard for good. Twelve centuries. Twelve centuries of watching him cede this realm to your lot. Over a thousand years of my entreaties to do something falling on deaf ears, even when I volunteered to come to Earth. Am I expected to watch the realm to which I’m sworn fall to ruin? To continue smiling and serving the All-father while the realm crumbles around him?” Shelly sighed, slumping in her restraints. A bitter snort escaped from her. “Leaving is easy. Dealing with Odin’s agents, that is tricky. Your use of the old tongue to open the portal. It would have caused ripples in Asgard. Faint, but detectable, and Odin would be paying attention now that his ravens are missing. We have time though, there are no early morning or late afternoon rains for the next week on the Yucatan peninsula. No chance of a rainbow.” She tilted her head, frowning at Azariah. “Sir. You know I’m not completely ignorant right? I do read the weather reports before getting into a small aircraft headed to an unmarked landing strip. Anyway, travel from Asgard to Earth is done through the Bifrost. I don’t know its exact workings, but they don’t call it the rainbow bridge for nothing. A rainbow on Earth is required and travellers arrive here in the rainbow’s vicinity. As for Hell, I’ve got no idea of their capabilities.” Shelly squirmed. She reapplied her I’m-speaking-with-Odin face, wearing the cheerful smile once more. She tried her best to feel the emotion she wore. She was still alive wasn't she? And the Earth expert Azariah, Sir, was willing to listen to her. If he could protect Shelly from Odin's agents, did it actually matter that she was not in Hell dealing with demons? “Now that I’ve told you everything I can think of Sir, could you please release me? I promise I’ll be a good girl. Both Asgard and Hell will be after us, and forgiveness is not a word in their dictionaries. I’m no use against their agents like this.” 𖤍​

 

[Keith Logan]

𓆩♱𓆪 Lust. One of the seven cardinal sins Azariah had to adhere to avoiding for as long as he was an agent of Heaven. He might be an immortal. But angels, like humans, were made in the image of god. And women were created for specific purposes. Under a strict regime since birth, Azariah never had the opportunity to engage with the opposite gender on a personal and intimate level before. He was groomed to be the perfect soldier. And that was all he ever knew for the most parts of his earlier life, until he became a little too smart for his own good. He started to question inconsistencies, morality, and the hypocrisies of his realm. That led to him abandoning heaven. That was also the start of him having the free license to roam Midgard, to explore, sample for himself, and eventually embrace all on Earth that was deemed sordid and filthy by the Heavens. Azariah was writing a chapter in his own life in which he got to shape the paths of his own odyssey. Only after becoming a resident of Earth, did he truly begin to understand the impact of cardinal sins, and could see why Heavens preached against it - they were all highly addictive, and distractingly soul sucking. That didn't necessarily meant he could not indulge in them. Seeing how Asgard had become, it seemed hypocritical if he wasn't allowed to grab a slice of the cake himself. Being on Earth meant that Azariah had constantly been inundated by the temptations of the devil. And when he had Shelly slung over one side of his shoulders, he could already feel a certain tension that still felt relatively foreign and repressed to the fallen angel, who had been used to being chaste for much of his life. For a few seconds, he found himself stealing a few glimpses of her immaculately sculptured lower butt definition, that was beckoning the attention of his eyes. ​ Angels like him were forbidden from anything carnal. The heavens needed him to be focused on his destiny, of which he abhorred. That didn't mean he couldn't, and wasn't drawn to the opposite gender. Azariah would be lying if he said he was never once tempted even before. It was a whole lot easier on Midgard, as while he could appreciate superficial Earthen beauty, human females lacked a certain ethereal quality and spirituality that only existed in the Heavens - they were flawed, hollow beings that lacked the kind of soul and substance that he was attuned to. In his brief exchange with Shelly, he felt a tiny spark that he hadn't experienced since the last time he watched female angels danced with spellbinding grace in his former years of divine adolescence. Shelly was different. He was convinced she wasn't human, didn't belong to Midgard. The fallen angel found himself needing to reorient his attention constantly back onto his task at hand - to get them further away from danger's reach and into a space that had served as an increasingly reliable sanctuary. For a long time, Azariah was a wanderer. It was only in the last two hundred years that he had found himself semi-permanently settling down at North Sentinel Island. It was also in the same period that he had his eyes opened to so much of history that he hadn't been taught by his mentors; a plethora of incredible knowledge that had been banished from the heavenly archives, because it was not in Asgard's interest to seed the idea of dissent and revolt against the powers that ruled - even if they were for the right reasons. As it turned out, Azariah, or even the better known Lucifer, wasn't the first to betray the realm that they were born from. The Mayans, the Aztecs, the Egyptians, to name a few - the gods that the people of the civilisations worshipped, were actually fallen angels or devils that fell out of love from their respective home worlds. They had sought out to establish their own empires in defiance of heaven and hell. These civilisations rose and fell, either because these fallen divines were eventually murdered by agents of their own realms, or went into reclusive hiding that meant not utilising or even giving up their residue powers, for fear of leaving traces that could have them tracked down by deiform hunters, since neither Heaven or Hell would risk having defaulters consolidating and becoming an eventual threat to their respective realms ages on. When Azariah learned of that, he began on a personal mission to try to locate any surviving deities - if they were still even alive. He scoured through ruins, deciphered glyphs, drawings and engravements over the millenniums, and eventually managed to track a few. The most important of them all, and to the best of his limited knowledge, were those associated with the Mayans. There were five surviving Mayan gods, two of those whose names were apparently Kukulkan and Chaac, were two mid-devils that somehow managed to survive the massacre of Chichén-Itzá. The remaining three gods were lesser devils that Azariah still could not pronounce their names right till this date. He gave up after a while, and instead, named them, three, four and five, for a lack of effort and originality. The records were cryptic. But he managed to eventually trace them down to the North Sentinel Island. It turned out that after they ported themselves away from Chichén-Itzá on the night of the massacre onto the isolated island, they sealed the portal and vowed never to wield or incantate magic again, effectively cutting themselves away from the outside world. Barring their ageless bodies, they had otherwise since been living very bland human lives. That was until Azariah reached out to them, by persistently whispering his ghostly voice through extremely thin threads of energy on a one way traffic that was still coursing from one to the other end of the portal like aimless winds. Long story short, he gained the five defaulter's trust after years of patient, gentle coaxing. And ever since then, they had formed a meaningful partnership - Azariah would offer to run errands that needed to be done outside of the island on their behalf, in exchange for residence and the use of their source and antiqued arcane devices. Every use of magic on Earth consists of a source and a shape. The source is any one of the divine realms---since Earth does not have its own magic, users must borrow it from somewhere. The shape was an entity on Earth, a cenote, a rainbow, invocations spoken on Earth itself. One cannot simply speak the magic words in a divine realm and hope to get to Earth. The Diablos Cenote uses Hell as its source and a sinkhole on Earth as its shape. The Bifrost, which Shelly used to get to Earth, used Asgard as its source and a rainbow on Earth as its shape. ​ A human summoning a demon uses Hell as its source and their own magic circle, black candles, and invocations on Earth as its shape. Every time a power is drawn from its source, that meant Azariah risking himself as a moving target of Hell's interest, with him calling forth a portal or the likes being an example. But the fallen angel was nimble. For as long as he always ensured minimal energy burst, transient usage of the source power at unpredictable intervals, it would be difficult for Hell's agents to pin point the exact location an invocation was called forth, akin to finding a needle pin in a lake. And in bringing Shelly and the Ravens through the portal, he was taking a massive gamble by blowing his cover, especially in the presence of Muginn and Huginn which for obvious reasons, he could not trust. Yet, his gut instincts had him getting ahead of himself. On the cusp of what could well be a revolutionary ambition, it was a risk he was willing to overlook at that moment. Only time will tell if Azariah had been reckless. *****​ Shelly was enchanting. She was also... awkward. That was Azariah's impression of her after he unbagged her head, before she began to rattle on like practised clockwork. It was a vaguely familiar display of reverence and unquestioning servitude which summed up the tragic state of how authoritative Asgard had become. Every utter of Sir coming off Shelly was so mechanical, he would have misinterpreted as her making a mockery of him, if he wasn't aware of the context that Shelly was a Valkyrie conditioned to bow down from birth. "I have a deal with Hell to deliver Odin's Ravens. In exchange, I was to become a Duchess, the highest among Hell's nobility, on par with Beelzebub, Asmodeus, and Mammon, answerable only to Lucifer himself. Though I'm now having second thoughts, especially after seeing how easily you've infiltrated and disrupted their operation on Earth. You, Sir, seem to know what you're doing better than either Asgard or Hell." ​ Again, he found his eyes subconsciously wandering down beneath her chin, over to her prominent cleavage, then to the sides of her curvaceous concave of a waistline. How could someone be so strong, yet remained so slender at the same time? It didn't take a lot to break from his trance however, as he could not help not notice the manner in which she spoke like she was reciting a parable from the bible. "... Answerable only to Lucifer...?" He tittered, after attempting to mimic as best as he could. "You're going to need to stop talking like that, if you truly endeavour to be an ex-Asgardian." "Also, 'on par with Beelzebub, Asmodeus, and Mammon'?" He couldn't help, but scoff this time. "You are incredibly naive if you think being granted the title of 'Duchess', by the powers of Hell, comes with no hidden obligations." Azariah had seen glimpses of the notoriety and deceptiveness of Hell, and what females like Shelly would end up becoming should they sell and bind their souls to the devil. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise for her that he had interceded her personal mission. "You say you want to leave Odin's grasp. You are jumping out of the frying pan, and into the fire, literally." "The channeling of the portal was sourced from Hell, if you should know. So Asgard is not the immediate worry. I am sure however, Hell takes an equal interest to the conjuration from an ancient shape that was thought to be defunct, especially when it coincides at a moment in time when they were expecting a very important package." "But I have been very meticulous and disciplined in my recruitment of source energy in times of need. So I reckon we're safe, for now." Azariah listened attentively as she went on to reveal her knowledge about the bridge that connected Asgard to Midgard. For someone to understand the intricacies of how and when the Bifrost worked, she must have been employed by the border guard and worked with Heimdall at some point. It seemed Shelly wasn't as ineptly clueless as far as first impression counted. She might have been inexperienced. But she was certainly versed and trained. Azariah figured that the Valkyrie probably did not have as much experience applying concepts that she had been taught, into the field. But given time and the right tutorage, Shelly had the potential to adapt, and perhaps even thrive on Midgard. "Now that I've told you everything I can think of Sir, could you please release me? I promise I'll be a good girl. Both Asgard and Hell will be after us, and forgiveness is not a word in their dictionaries. I'm no use against their agents like this."​ "Us?" Azariah echoed in amusement. "What use have I got of you, now that I have the Ravens in my hands?" The divine mercenary then plopped himself back onto the ground after he was done stuffing the last slice of apple into his mouth. He slow walked over to where Shelly was sat, stood behind her, and started by pressing the tip of the Swiss army blade against the top of her right neck, ominously threaded the sharp end with measured, exquisite drag down the length of it, sending a tingling chill along the entire path down to her shoulder blade, then joint, before he sliced the rope apart, string by string. He repeated the same on her right side, before he stepped back to a safe distance and circled back to the front of her. "A good girl you are, you said?" "Bare your top." "And as much of your bottom, as you can." 𓆩♱𓆪​

 

[velvet.]

𖤍 "You are incredibly naive if you think being granted the title of 'Duchess', by the powers of Hell, comes with no hidden obligations." ​ Azariah's words gave her pause. What if Hell had lied? The thought rankled, curling like a serpent around Shelly's mind. An Asgardian's word was their bond. Even in betrayal, she had not broken her word; Shelly had sworn no oaths to Odin—oaths were given by free agents like the mortal warriors in Valhalla, pet Valkyries were simply owned. Not a single lie had passed her lips when she stole the ravens, and neither did she utter things she knew to be false even whilst held at gunpoint. Though it embarrassed her to admit it, the fallen angel was right, there were no guarantees Hell would live up to their end of the bargain after the ravens had been handed over. Shelly may be no stranger to deception, the ravens in their cage was testament to that. But if she wanted to survive on Earth, it seemed the fallen angel's lesson was this. Get used to lying. To be lied to, to extract concessions against it, and when required, to tell them herself. What about his other tip? To stop speaking like an Asgardian. Shelly mulled over how humans spoke. Crude. Direct. They bore no love for their words and saw no value in embellishment of their speech. Fine, she could manage that. Probably. "Us? What use have I got of you. Now that I have the Ravens in my hands?" ​ Shit. Azariah sauntered toward her, blade in hand. The bottom fell out of Shelly's stomach. She jerked backward in her bonds, trying to move away, but the chair that held her was secured to the ground. "Wait! I can fight!" The words sounded hollow the moment they had left her. The fallen angel had proved his tactical abilities on Earth far surpassed hers, Shelly would probably slow him down if she tried to help. Her mind scrambled for something, anything at all that would give Azariah pause. He wore the same unreadable countenance as he moved behind her. Was he going to slit her throat? Shelly's heart hammered in her chest, her breathing grew rapid as ice flooded her veins. She leaned away from him as far as the ropes allowed, limbs jerking ineffectually as she tried to tear free of her restraints. "I can be bait! I can distract them!" She screamed. Azariah laid the cold metal blade against Shelly's neck, and a chill erupted along her spine, the hairs on the back of her strained neck stood on their ends. She squeezed her eyes shut, preparing for the inevitable sharp pain, the warmth of her blood spilling down her neck. He took his time, running the knife along her skin. Gooseflesh shot down Shelly's arm in its wake, an icy burn tingling when metal contacted the angry taser burns on her skin. Abruptly, she felt her arm warm as the rope circles were cut one by one, the circulation within her limb returning to normal as the scratchy bindings fell away. Shelly's eyes shot open in disbelief. What was he playing at? Azariah traced the knife along her other side. Half certain this was where he would stab her after toying with her, after giving her false hope, Shelly swallowed the lump in her throat when her other arm bindings were cut. The goosebumps raised themselves upon her flesh once more—out of what his mercy implied, of what he would require of her. Her arms free, Shelly made no move to free her bound calves. Remaining shamelessly spread open, she eyed Azariah like a deer who had just spotted a tiger. "A good girl you are, you said?" "Bare your top." "And as much of your bottom as you can." ​ Shelly's cheeks flushed a hot red. She was not inexperienced in this area—with over a thousand years of fighting and feasting in Valhalla under her wings, the Valkyrie had fornicated with the Einherjar on multiple occasions. But the fallen warriors had always treated their experiences with the kind of wide-eyed disbelief mortals afforded the divine, a transcendent worship as they explored her body. This was the first time Shelly had been ordered to strip like a common whore. "Yes Sir," she replied, meek as a mouse. Shelly's shawl already lay discarded on the wooden floorboards; she had felt Azariah pull it off in order to bind her bare arms to the chair. Her jaw tightened as her hands crossed in front of her torso, her fingers gripped the bottom of her black halter-strap top, nails biting into her palms through the fabric. She lifted the garment, exposing her belly button and slender waist. Turning her face to stare at the wall of the cabin, a furrow deepening between her brows, Shelly found herself unable to even glance at the divine who had ordered her debasement. She could hear her blood pumping, a shortness of breath enveloping her. A result of being spared from death—at least it was what she was telling herself. It had been centuries since Odin's last orders, her body had ignited a small heat between her legs at finally being given the chance to please another divine being. Her damp top was wrenched over Shelly's head in one motion, the sewn-in bra inverting and releasing their charges with reluctance, causing her soft mounds to drop free, swaying, her traitorous brown pebbles already at attention in the cool air. A thought rose within Shelly's mind. I hope he likes them. She shuddered, shocked that she had not only meant it, but desperately wanted it to be true. Shelly turned slowly to look at Azariah—utterly exposed from above her hips—dropping her wet top onto the floor. Her thighs, already spread by her bound calves, the hem of her short black skirt riding high, and her lacy black panties clearly presented to the fallen angel. He made no move to acknowledge her efforts. The heat in her nethers flared at what Azariah wanted her to do, …as much of your bottom as you can. The words burned in her mind as the fiery sensation spread across her bare skin. She leaned back as far as her bonds would allow, sliding her bottom forward, tilting her mound from under her to point toward her captor. Slowly, as if she were moving through treacle, Shelly reached between her legs, tugging aside the front of her panties—wet with more than just rainwater—to reveal her hairless slit, baring it to the open air. Her inner folds peeked past her outer gates, electric jolts shooting into her spine when her shaking fingers brushed the bud that crowned her womanhood. Still, Azariah gave no indication of satisfaction. Shelly held her breath. She had no spare underwear on her. The thought of what she was about to do to herself, of having the cool breeze constantly caress her below, both excited and dismayed her at the lack of opposition she possessed. The harsh sound of ripping fabric filled the enclosed hut. Shelly tossed the shreds of her torn panties aside, her sex now fully available to Azariah. Her held breath was let out, but the shallow breaths that followed betrayed her need in the rise and fall of her breasts. Shame boiled within Shelly, joining the heat that now suffused her body. Shame at how she had obeyed his orders without resistance, at how she had enjoyed it, at how her mind was now screaming for his validation and her body for his touch. She was naked save for the hitched up black skirt clinging uselessly to her hips. "Have I been a good girl Sir?" She said in a low, husky whisper. Shelly bit her lip till it almost bled at the thought of his possible rejection, of being made to tear apart her skirt, leaving no possibility of covering her bottom at all. Surprise, shame, and excitement were crashing into her; outweighed only by her disbelief at how much of a needy whore she was becoming in order to please another divine. 𖤍

[/SIZE]

 

[Keith Logan]

𓆩♱𓆪 "Wait! I can fight!"​ "I can be bait! I can distract them!"​ The way she jerked, and the manner in which she pitched her frantic tone - it always felt unreal to observe a divine being humbled by the human experience, pleading for his or her life. How often would one be able to witness that in the immortal realms of Heaven and Hell, when life was often taken for granted? It was something he figured Shelly will have to get used to in time. What she also probably needed to get accustomed to in order to survive the harsh realities of Midgard, was to stop being too trusting of the people around her. It was wild for Azariah to think that the Valkyrie, a majestic figure worthy of admiration and respect, had so gullibly and blindingly took a devil’s promise for a real deal. Perhaps it was a real deal. But there was always going to be a caveat - Hell had the notorious tendency of seeking to seize the upper hand of any given trade, most enticed to prey on the uninitiated like young Shelly. And now, it wasn’t just hell that Shelly seemed more than ready to bend over backwards for - not like the fallen angel would complain. "Yes Sir,"​ Azariah had to admit that Shelly’s unquestioning submission was both moving and tragic at the same time. Even the humans have better self-respect for themselves, he thought. This was what the Valkyries had been conditioned to become - no sense of agency; no mastery and command of freewill. Her behaviour and unyielding fidelity to the virtues she had been instilled with from birth was almost cult-like, for a lack of a better term.​ But in that characteristic, laid an opportunity. Shelly wasn’t exactly useless as he had initially mocked just to get a reaction out of her. He knew better, and could see specific talents. Her physical condition, her experience working within the inner circle of Asgard, and her impressive feat of stealing Muginn and Huginn, were all notable features that would spruce her resume. Most promisingly, she was apparently faction-less, and her loyalty to Asgard was frail. Categorically belonging to the latest generation of Asgardians, perhaps they had more in common in beliefs. If Azariah could reshape and fine tune her, there was no doubt the woman will come useful in time. The fallen angel watched on when Shelly began peeling her first of few pieces off her figure. His order, an attempt at testing the unchartered waters and bounds as to where her propensity to comply exactly laid and how far it could possibly stretch. Also curious, was where the female stood in regards to her sexuality. It could be said that it was a topic that was far more taboo than it was on Midgard. It wasn't just sex that was a topic of sensitivity. But just the notion of male and female was something that would be scorned upon when spoken in public, an unspoken culture in which just the very whisper of intimacy could potentially set forth a chain reaction of sins sparked off by temptation. Abstinence was what they preached. And matters of man and woman belonged only to the bedroom. In that atmosphere, Azariah never really had the chance to engage in any form of meaningful mature conversations with any divines of his origin. As such, it had always been a mysterious black box. And in Shelly, he was on the cusp of uncovering if there was another repressed being that thought just like him back in the days, or was he just a deviant that was inconceivably and despicably rotten to the core unlike his peers. As it turned out, the girl was aroused, maybe, judging from her stiffened buds. It could have been an exhilarating discovery, if not for his rationale brain reining his testosterones in. The place was chilly after all. It could have simply be down to that. Azariah's reaction was lukewarm. But his eyes and mind were constantly paying close attention to the ex-Asgardian Legionnaire. He did raise an eyebrow, just very slightly, when Shelly snapped her panties apart. That was unexpectedly beyond what he requested of her. He noticed how exquisitely smooth and bare her womanhood was. It was a quick glance into the female's private life, the curious thought of what might have driven the presumably prude divine to be keeping herself sumptuously presentable by her most sacred region. Azariah thought it to be pretty - petals pink blooming to a golden ratio. The length - or lack there of - of her slit gave an impression that she must be considerably tight. And did her body just jerk from the brief grazing of her fingertips pass the head of her bud? It didn't seem unintentional. What was she thinking? "Have I been a good girl Sir?"​ That broke him out of his little daydream, before he exuded a soft, smirky scoff. "Good girl?" "You know you've barely been tested, right?" Beings of heavens would have judged him with disdain and contempt at what he was about to do next - to act on a particular set of urges without restrain, in ways that would have been considered unfathomable in his mother realm. The fallen angel began to step closer, until he was once again within touching distance. First, he raised his right palm and locked her neck on a sudden chokehold, enough grip to make every draw of breath a challenge, but just about loose enough for her to continue articulating with considerable effort. His other free hand placed the Swiss knife down by the chair between her thighs, before pinning it in place with one raised knee. The tip of the blade, poking menacingly against the bottom region of her slit. It pricked. But it wasn't forceful enough to blemish her flawless orifice with a superficial wound - unless she herself decide to make any drastic and hasty attempt at breaking free, which would risk a potential self-inflicted injury. Then, the deviant angel glided his middle and index fingers pass her folds, slipping in most unobstructively. The thrusts were shallow, testing no more than two inches deep at any one time. His fingers pads, discreetly shifting whenever they were inside of her, as his eyes and ears remained attentive to her body movements and the ensuing sounds that accompanied, in an attempt to begin mentally mapping out her erogenous zones. "Incredibly slippery and smooth." "This is foul. You'd been taught that." "Care to explain yourself, Urdottir?" Addressing by her maiden name, it gave a sense as if she was being judged by the beings that she had sought to flee from. 𓆩♱𓆪​

 

[velvet.]

𖤍 "Good girl?" "You know you've barely been tested, right?"​ Shelly’s blood chilled in her veins at Azariel’s words. How much further did he intend to take this? To take her. Even as her conscious mind rebelled against his treatment, an insidious voice crouched in a hidden corner of Shelly’s brain, relished her discomfort with considerable delight. It knew there was no depravity she would not perform, no depths to which she would not sink for validation. No! Shelly wanted to be free! This was not who she was—some salacious slut, eager to please. Nonsense, Shelly’s secret voice told her. The only reason she left Odin was because he ignored her—jumping into Lucifer’s arms the moment the Devil promised a modicum of attention, just look at her right now. Her consciousness screamed its defiance. This was temporary! She was simply waiting for a chance to escape. The angel’s hand locked itself around her throat, interrupting further thought. Shelly’s own hands shot up to grasp Azariel’s wrist. Why was she still fighting? She had already stripped for him, invited him to prey on her. He had accepted. This was her reward, why not enjoy it? Shelly’s eyes widened in horror as she felt her arms slowly release their hold, drifting to her sides to hang in passive obedience. She forced her eyes shut, tilted her head back and leaned forward, into his hand, offering him a better grip, giving him more control over her slender neck. As his fingers squeezed, a small gasp escaped Shelly’s lips. What was she doing? Willingly choking herself? The small part of her which savoured Azariel’s predation grew ever larger with each laboured breath. It wished fervently for his fingers to dig in. Harder. More viciously. To burst the delicate vessels beneath her skin, the eruption of purplish bruises in the shape of his hand marking Shelly as his property. The reduced blood flow made itself known. Her lips tingled. A veil descended over her hearing, every sound arriving in her ears muffled, as if passing through thick wool. Shelly’s oral orifice hung in a vapid oval, every gasping breath a desperate wheeze. Azariel moved with hair-raising slowness as he lowered the knife, what little light existed in the cabin glinting off its sharpened blade. It descended beneath her peripheral vision, hidden beneath his arm and her breasts. Yet, the tiniest pinprick that followed, between Shelly’s mound and taint, left no illusions as to exactly where he had placed it, his raised knee pinning the knife in place. Her intrusive thoughts demanded she scratch herself upon it; how would anyone know she was owned if she was unmarked. Had Shelly already given herself to him? In her hypoxic state, she could not remember swearing any oath to Azariel. Perhaps she did not need to—after centuries of Odin’s neglect, all she needed was a master of another realm to claim her. Why not one who had claimed Earth as his home? What master was more worthy of holding her leash than one who dared thrive in this place, a realm hostile to all that was divine? When his fingers entered her, there was nothing Shelly could do to prevent the lewd moan from escaping her constricted throat. How long had it been since she last laid with the Einherjar? How many months since her carnal self was addressed? Shelly had been so busy this past year arranging her escape from Asgard. The needs she had quashed were all returning at once, demanding they be paid the attention they were owed. Azariel’s fingers were probing her, exploring her slick walls. Shelly shivered under his choke hold, the excitement shooting from his digits and straight through her form, the heat between her legs spreading like wildfire across her body. Her limp hands balled themselves into fists, nails digging into her palms, bound calves pressing tightly against the chair’s legs. His slow, methodical examination nurtured a frustration within her. She desperately wanted to grind herself against his intrusion each time they passed her roof, but the knife tip pressed against her forestalled any initiative. Forced into passivity, Shelly was reduced to nothing more than a doll, whining piteously as his fingers refused to linger on her most pleasurable areas. "Incredibly slippery and smooth."​ Should she beg? It was humiliating, but Shelly did not care. Her need burned, throbbing against her sex, screaming to be let out. "This is foul. You'd been taught that."​ “Yes Sir.” Her words laborious, forced through his choking grasp. "Care to explain yourself, Urdottir?"​ “I’m a filthy whore, Sir.” Shelly’s eyelids slammed open in shock as the words tumbled off her tongue. All pretensions of being anything else drained away with her admission. The guilt, dormant all this time, flooded her with a vengeance while her defenses were down. Was she not ready to betray her home to the highest bidder? Pawning herself off in the process? Whore... The word felt right, tears welled in her eyes, its utterance lifted a burden Shelly did not know she carried. There was no longer any need to aspire to a higher ideal, she had cast all of it aside when she kidnapped the ravens for Lucifer, then given herself to Azariel. She was both divine and debased. All that was left to Shelly was to give herself fully to the role, and to the fallen angel before her. If others judged her for it, there was nothing they could do if she was here on Earth with him. “Please Sir. Please…no more…just…just…fuck me properly!” Her words were spat with revulsion at herself. Shelly’s cheeks flushed as she squeezed her eyes shut, the unfamiliar words of a slut causing the red heat to spread behind her ears. Her tears flowed down her cheeks, dripping off her chin and leaving droplets on his arm. 𖤍

 

[Keith Logan]

𓆩♱𓆪 The fallen angel had expected the younger woman to struggle against his menacing grip around neck. What was curious however, was when he noticed her slowly, but surely loosening her resistance against his wrist. Judging from her showing by the landing strip earlier, he knew she had the capabilities to give him a run for his money. She was trained for the battlefield for her entire life after all. Azariah was well aware of the strength he had recruited into asphyxiating Shelly. He had done the same thing to countless adversaries in the past and ended some of their lives before - Azariah barely lowered a notch of the intensity of his grip to afford her a miniscule flow of air to just about keep her consciousness barely floating. If Azariah were to be honest, he still found it hard to believe that Shelly was as illogically subservient as she put herself out to be. He was still more inclined to believe that she might be planning some scheme up her sleeves, to catch him out by lowering his guard. Were all Valkyries like that? Did the legion mind washed these girls since their birth to such deplorable extent of eradicating all sense and concept of freewill? Shame on Asgard to be preaching morality, when they themselves were denying their own kind whilst enforcing their own agenda these whole time. It only further galvanised his belief that Asgard had turned into the epitome of hypocrisy. "Incredibly slippery and smooth." "This is foul. You'd been taught that." "Yes Sir." "Care to explain yourself, Urdottir?" "I'm a filthy whore, Sir."​ He had witnessed the Valkyries from afar before, heard tales of their undying loyalty. But their conditioned minds had always been a musing of fascination to the divine being. And what he was seeing and hearing from Shelly, was culture shock to him, even for a person who had been walking the plains of Midgard and living their way of life over the centuries. All that glorious repute and front that the Valkyries put themselves out to be? It turned out, they - if Shelly was a representation of what they truly were - were a different breed. "Please Sir. Please…no more…just…just…fuck me properly!"​ "Is this the manners you were taught with?" "To speak of anything so sinfully depraved, you know it's forbidden." "What other debauched secrets do you hold against your former Masters, Filth?" He was mocking her, reminding her of the law of the realm they both once belonged to. Obviously, Azariah cared not for the rules from above. Rather, he was seeking to get a clearer bearing of what exactly was going through the enigmatic mind of the unorthodox female. Like Darwin who had stumbled upon a new species, he was focused on unraveling her workings. "And to fuck you properly?" Azariah paused as he could not resist a chuckle. "Lady." "What makes you think you deserve to be fucked by me?" "You've got a lot to prove yourself before you can ever deem yourself worthy of being skewered by myself, darling." "For the record, only moments ago, I was contemplating putting you to the blade." It was a half truth. Her unusually immaculate beauty and poise, as he was already convinced, were the only reasons that was standing in the way of his ruthlessness. "But." "Lucky for you, I am someone who believes in giving chances." "And fortune favours the bold, they say." Azariah reached for the small sheath that he had kept latch behind him on his belt to pull out a second blade. The dagger was sized no more than the length of Shelly's forearm. At first, the weapon seemed ordinary. But then, the fallen angel began to mutter unintelligibly underneath his breath - and it began to glow. It gave off a soft buzz. That device, most certainly a shape of his, certainly didn't belong to Midgard. ​ He raised his free dominant right palm to begin channeling a ball of energy, which began burning bright in no time. The rustling of energy sounded like the particles within the channeled orb were rapidly firing in all directions within its confine at random. "What would you do when an opportunity presents itself at your doorstep?" "How far would you go?"​ Azariah bent forward, before he guided the fizzing ball towards, and into her bare cunt. The ball of energy took on the form of a near-solid orb despite its gaseous build up. It was insanely dense packed, and it would feel like a living mini planet with furious winds gusting across its atmosphere at over a thousand miles per hour. It was an otherworldly experience that felt like it was constantly vibrating due to its rapid movements. The ball was also heated, much like the warmth of a steaming shower. "I want to see what shell you're made of, Shelly." "Granite hard? Or fragile like those by the coast?"​ With that, he widened his fingers to flatten his palm further. In turn, Shelly would feel the ball within her pussy expanding. It seemed his fingers was a live orchestrator and puppeteer of the ball of magic thriving inside of her, pressuring the ball further against her inner walls, in turn causing her nerves to feel the violent rocking and swirling of the semi-unstable energy against her tight walls in clean contact. The growing heat was also starting to blur the lines of pleasure and hot discomfort. 𓆩♱𓆪

 

[velvet.]

𖤍 “Is this the manners you were taught with?” “To speak of anything so sinfully depraved, you know it’s forbidden.”​ Forbidden? Doubt tickled Shelly’s mind through the haze of her unbridled heat. What was Azariah going on about? She had limited knowledge of the Heavens from which he came, but in Odin’s slice of divinity, fornication was hardly frowned upon. Whatever it took to reward and keep the Einherjar happy, the Valkyries had Odin’s blessing—no, his orders—to perform. Though it must be admitted, none of them had ever tied Shelly up, or made her strip for them as if she were their slave. “What other debauched secrets do you hold against your former Masters, Filth?”​ In that moment, Azariah, the realm from which he was created, seemed as strange to her as she was to him. What good was an eternity if one had to constantly deny their own pleasure? It was no wonder he left. “Sir, I…” “And to fuck you properly?”​ He was laughing at her. Shelly’s cheeks turned a bright crimson, her pathetic begging was dangled before her, ridiculed for its shameful nature. And though she shrivelled before Azariah’s withering gaze, her disobedient mound flared with wanton heat, slowly turning the seat beneath her into a slick mess. Though her hands were free, Shelly made no attempt to unbind her calves or hide the evidence of her depravity. She was nothing but a disgusting creature, and desperately wanted Azariah to not just accept, but indulge in that fact. “Lady. What makes you think you deserve to be fucked by me?" "You've got a lot to prove yourself before you can ever deem yourself worthy of being skewered by myself, darling."​ Shelly should be terrified, and her mind did cling onto his every sentence—not out of fear—but from a twisted logic of making herself useful. Prove herself? Of course. Anything Azariah wanted, his word was her command. "For the record, only moments ago, I was contemplating putting you to the blade."​ What changed? Why did he no longer wish to execute her? Could it be that despite appearances, the fallen angel actually approved of her lewd display? Should she thank him for sparing her life? No. Best not to rock the boat lest he change his mind. "But." "Lucky for you, I am someone who believes in giving chances."​ Lucky me. Shelly would have rolled her eyes if it did not mean risking death. "And fortune favours the bold, they say."​ Shelly flinched away when Azariah pulled out the angelic weapon, an involuntary response to the unsheathed dagger. He held it out before him, letting it float, the magic coruscating into a living orb through the item. Her eyes grew wide with amazement at the ease he wielded magic on Earth, a realm which rejected its very existence. Other than travelling on the Bifrost back and forth to Asgard, Shelly had never managed to figure out how to achieve what Azariah was literally doing with one hand, his other still locked agonizingly firm around her neck. "What would you do when an opportunity presents itself at your doorstep?" "How far would you go?"​ What was he doing? He was manipulating the fizzing ball of energy downward. Too late, she realized his intentions. “No…No. No, no, no! Wait! Wait! Please! Not in…” Shelly’s hands reached between her legs to cover herself, but the orb slipped past her fingers and her wet folds with equal ease. She gasped as a new source of swirling heat joined her own. Worse, it seemed to be buzzing within her, her own flesh hugging the intruder, enveloping it, ensuring every shaking sensation sent pure lightning shooting from her pussy into her spine. "I want to see what shell you're made of, Shelly." "Granite hard? Or fragile like those by the coast?"​ Shelly’s only utterance was a continuous moan in the back of her throat, pausing only to laboriously suck air past Azariah’s unforgiving chokehold. His splaying fingers, the expanding ball within her. Shelly’s back snapped into an arch, her nails dug crescent grooves in her palm, toes curling against the dusty floor of the shack. He’s tearing me apart! The foreign object was embedded impossibly tight within her, no amount of clenching could expel it, the shuddering energy pressed so viciously against her that it stimulated her bud from the inside. Just as the first tears were leaking from Shelly’s eyes, the mounting prelude to the waves of her pleasure made themselves known. Her left hand drifted upward to fondle one nipple, while the fingers on her right hand traced her slit upward, pausing to stroke around her nub, before grinding the hood against her clit. Shelly no longer cared for Azariah’s reaction, or putting on a show for him. Her need demanded friction and her fingers granted it, intensifying the electricity arcing into her spine. The single long moan that had followed the orb’s intrusion fractured into staggered cries, each one straining under the pressure of her constricted airway. Light-headed and near passing out, the pulses crashed into her. Her core clenched. Shelly’s exclamations filled the air of the enclosed space, her left hand shooting down to plunge their digits into herself as her right maintained their pressure on her bud, milking every last wave of her climax. ​ And when it subsided, she realized Azariah had not pulled the vibrating orb out of her, his hand still locked around her throat. Shelly’s tears tumbled freely down her cheeks, dripping off her chin and onto his arm. Her arms hung limply by her sides, helpless, as she was whipped from within, up toward the next summit of her pleasure without an iota of concern for her desires. 𖤍

 

[Keith Logan]

𓆩♱𓆪 "Sir, I…"​ Shelly's answer to his multitude of questions was severely unsatisfactory. Even the answer itself was incomplete, and was as good as nothing. It did little to sate his curiosity of Shelly as a person, of what the legendary Valkyries were all about. The female legion was a reclusive bunch always away, always busy serving God Odin-knows what missions they were sent out to complete. He had his initial suspicions however. For one, it was bizarre how Shelly was a soaking puddle from his questionable ministrations. Was she actually enjoying all these despite the circumstance? Shelly was certainly nothing like the prim, majestic and proper impression that he, along with most other divines had of her kind. To think a perceived beacon of purity and grace would do nothing to protect the modesty of her prized orifice now obscenely spread apart? Inconceivable. ​ What exactly was Shelly? There couldn't be a more direct way to find out by throwing her right into a metaphorical bonfire. "No…No. No, no, no! Wait! Wait! Please! Not in…"​ The ball of energy was not for the faint hearted. Azariah knew the dangers of its potential - he could rip her apart from within if he so pleased. When he widened his fingers in command of expanding the size of the orb within her, he did so with a straight face, unmoved by the helpless pleas and crescendo-ing screams coming from the lady. Devoid of visible sympathy, at least on his stern front, he looked nothing like an angel at that moment. His pupils were dilated, darkened to a dark shade of red. Even a devil would have at least took pleasure by cackling at Shelly's torment and misfortune. Azariah was cold, intentions unpredictable, one kind of his own. Unlike the underworld, the fallen angel believed pain had a greater and more meaningful purpose than to be recruited as a form of punishment, or to satiate one’s sadistic proclivity. Azariah saw it as a test of character, a rite of passage. The fallen angel truly meant it when he said he was looking to test Shelly’s resolve. In the same exploratory spirit that led him to uncover the various ways he was eventually able to wield and manipulate the arcane arts within the mortal realm albeit with much limitations, Shelly was no different as an intriguing experimental case study. Only this time, Azariah was well aware of how much of a potential gold mine Shelly was, far greater than any knowledge he had previously acquired - the female being perhaps possessing even more utility than Muginn and Huginn. She was after all, a piece of the divine weapon Odin wielded against his adversaries, his powers bestowed to the Valkyries were moulded in his form and shape. If anything, his female legion was more battle hardened and well practiced than Odin himself, especially since it had been a while since he led the charge in a battlefield, opting to let his creations do the dirty, laborious work. Azariah casted mind boggling discomfort within the depths of Shelly’s orifice. The stretch was burgeoning until it felt almost child-birth like. But because it was held deeper within her narrow canal, it was more severely bloating than it was painful. But that was barely half the concern. What was sending her towards a sensory overdrive, was the way in which every densely packed atom within the fizzy ball of energy was frenetically oscillating. The tight fit of the expanded ball ensured her bundles of nerves bore the full brunt of the unbridled movements of the wild vibrations. And her attempting to push out the intruding force by clenching only served to further the pressure against her tight walls. The tears, the ensuring tenseness and stiffness of her body and the way she dug into her own skin along with her contorted toes, were expected reactions. What caught him by surprise however, was her not using her free hands to put up a fight against his deathly grip around her throat. Instead, she opted to... caress and rub herself off even in the face of near death? What masochistic tendency was that? Shelly was most certainly unheavenly like; an absolute taint of an image of what Asgard prided, or once prided itself to be. It didn't even take long, before he witnessed the female being arch acutely and convulsed, violently rattling against the ropes that held her in place. This was meant to be torture. Instead, she seemed to be enjoying herself. Clearly, he needed to adopt a different approach. "Was that your dying wish? Death by orgasm?" He mocked with the most calm but condescending of tone, after he had stepped forward to drag the tip of the still energized and heated blade of his starting from the tip of her bud, running up along her belly towards her cleavage valley most precariously, tingling as it stood, but only a few more millimeters of pressure away from turning those tingles into searing pain. Then... he released her neck and used the same hand to land an immediate SMACK across her left facial cheek. "You are a spawn of filth, aren't you?" And ANOTHER on the other side. "Is this you, or is this what they taught you from young?" And ANOTHER back on the left. Azariah then sliced the remaining ropes on Shelly apart while she was still recovering from her high, before he went over to fetch the ravens, then placing them closer as the avian creatures got a clear, unblocked view to spectate the divine pair from the same table Azariah was previously perched upon. He then deliberately moved over to the other end of the room ahead of Shelly, pulled a wooden chair to him, before settling down manspread atop the furniture. The orb latched within and just before Shelly's cervical entrance had shrunken in size, and its surface movement reduced to a sensual breeze. But it was still very much warm, well and alive. Azariah started to faintly recall passing rumours about the elusive work of the Valkyries. Yes, they were known to escort Einherjar to Valhalla. But there were whispers beyond the shadows that hinted of degeneracy that seemed like a ridiculous smear campaign back in the centuries. Seeing is believing however. And Shelly's display had sparked the revival of the legitimacy of the rumours that most would not have believed. "Show me, whore of Odin." "Show me, how you would typically receive an Einherjar." The fallen angel then turned his gaze to the ravens. "You two witnessed the truth all these time, hadn't you? And truth of your Master's corruption you shall spill." "For the sake of your precious eyes not to be gouged out, please don't play games with me." ​ "Tell on this lady here if you must. Make sure she is factually showing me who she truly is." 𓆩♱𓆪​

 

[velvet.]

𖤍 With the ball of energy still stuck deep within her, vibrating, sending wave after wave of excruciating ecstasy through her body, Shelly had imagined her captor’s intentions were to leave her in that state until her consciousness slipped away into oblivion. "Was that your dying wish? Death by orgasm?"​ There were worse ways to go. If she had to die, passing on to whatever state divines ended up in when they expired, Shelly could hardly complain about being drowned in pleasure. The heated tip of Azariah’s weapon cut through the fog of her mind, bringing her predicament back into sharp focus. She pulled away from the sharp point of his weapon, hardly daring to breathe, as the blistering heat hovered a hair’s breadth from contacting her skin. Any moment now, he would drive the point into her flesh, the otherworldly blade parting her delicate skin to end her fragile existence. And yet, he did not stab her. The most torturous of Azariah’s treatments were not the pain or degradation he had inflicted upon her, but the opaque inscrutability of his intentions, as ominous as the pupils within his merciless eyes. As soon as he granted leave for Shelly to indulge in her desires, it would be torn away with another insult and threat of imminent death. Was he about to end her life? Or send her down the depraved path toward another climax? Azariah gave no hint to his true objectives, and it left her flapping helplessly in the winds of his whims, the once proud banner of her dignity torn and discarded as her clothes. How could she even begin to win his favour if she did not know what he wanted? And suddenly, there was air. A reprieve from the unforgiving pressure he had held against her throat. “Thank you, Si…” SMACK. Shelly’s left cheek was painted pink, the burning humiliation within her given physical representation upon her skin. "You are a spawn of filth, aren't you?"​ “Sir, I…” SMACK. His backhand caught her, throwing her neck in the other direction. Her tears were flung free of her face, forming tiny glittering diamonds in the air. "Is this you, or is this what they taught you from young?"​ It seemed Azariah’s current plan for her was to inflict pain. So be it. She had a tool to handle pain. Shelly gritted her teeth before the next… SMACK. A roaring fire erupted within her from his latest depredation, permeating her sex, her skin, her very being. The Berserker’s Rage. Granted by Odin to his faithful, every note of agony in the song of pain served to elicit euphoria instead of debilitation, warriors under its influence could fight through the most grievous wounds. Though in her case, she had diverted the delectable sensations to copulation instead of combat. Fucking instead of fighting. She giggled at the thought. Shelly could not help it. Her stinging cheeks, the impossibly large, stimulating orb lodged within her, the extremes of sensation made her feel alive for the first time in over a thousand years. The fact that a tool, given by her previous master, was turned to perverted purpose only made the situation sweeter. If she was ready to give herself to Azariah before, Shelly was prepared to pounce upon him now. When he released her from her bonds, Shelly’s hungry eyes followed him around the room, her hands traced her bare legs to where they had been tied, massaging the blood back into them. The ravens placed in a position catering perfectly to their voyeuristic nature, the angel’s sprawled posture. It was all too inviting. Deliciously inviting. She licked her lips and salivation pooled in her mouth. Shelly had to be fed—all that was missing was her master’s command to begin. The orb shrunk, leaving a warm pressure against the gates of her womb, she could move again without feeling as if she were carrying a brick in her. Yet, Shelly stayed in place. She was a good girl, she could wait. Every muscle coiled with animal tension, awaiting his order to feed. "Show me, whore of Odin." "Show me, how you would typically receive an Einherjar."​ Shelly flung herself to the floor on all fours, eyes locked on the bulge in Azariah’s crotch. The exaggerated sliding of her palms and knees across the ground, swayed her slim shoulders and upturned backside, tracing sinuous curves in the air as she wound her way to him. Einherjar? Those fawning drunken mortals. They held not a candle to the divine before her. She would receive the fallen angel with her body—not as a gift for his loyalty, as would be given to the Einherjar—but as a supplicant in worship of her master, as if Odin himself had ordered her to service him. "You two witnessed the truth all these time, hadn't you? And truth of your Master's corruption you shall spill." "For the sake of your precious eyes not to be gouged out, please don't play games with me." "Tell on this lady here if you must. Make sure she is factually showing me who she truly is."​ “Yessir.” “No problem, Sir.” There was a readiness to the ravens spilling Shelly’s secrets even if they had not been threatened. “Have we ever seen her crawl, Huginn?” “I don’t think so. Lots of kneeling and scraping before Odin certainly.” “But no crawling? That’s a new low for her.” “What? Worse than betrayal?” “No, you’re right, that’s worse. Okay, this is the second vilest thing Skagul has done.” Shelly stuck her tongue out at the two ravens in playful defiance. She pulled herself between Azariah’s legs, her face mere inches from his hidden manhood. The essence of another divine being—it was so close she could almost taste it. Her dexterous fingers worked his pants, wrenching aside his underwear to free the flesh tower within. Despite his cold exterior, there was no denying the angel’s warm length before her. His scent was intoxicating. Shelly needed it, his flavour within her. She gripped his thighs and lunged forward, her drool slathering him as she licked him fully from root to tip. “Oh damn! When’s the last time she did that?” “I think it was on Ragnar.” “Who?” “You know, Ragnar Lothbrok. One of Odin’s must-have mortals?” “Oh! That guy! Viking hero and king? I thought it was Lodbrok?” “Whatever he’s called, you know who I’m talking about. This language isn’t so good for old names anyway.” “Died in a snakepit if I recall, not a very heroic way to go. He definitely would not be in Valhalla, if Odin himself didn’t step in.” “Make sure this one gets there.” “That’s what Odin said.” “Do you remember when Skagul pulled him out of the soul stream? Welcoming him on behalf of Odin? What Ragnar said?” “You can suck my dick!” “And she did! Ragnar stayed. Not very good with metaphors is she? Skagul's a good little slut.” The ravens erupted into a chorus of mocking caws. Shelly did not care, she had Azariah’s jewels in her mouth and was gently circling them with her tongue, cleaning his zest and leaving dribble in her wake. The throes of lust had her in its insidious grip, all worries of her past and future had been cast aside, all that remained was her present satisfaction. And when she had tasted his base, her tongue traced the veins of his shaft, following them to the base of his glans. She wrapped her appendage around and over his tip, savouring his glistening precum before taking him in her mouth. Jaws apart, teeth pulled away from his member, Shelly locked her lips around him and suckled, applying her tongue to his underside, the vulgarity of her act only serving to flare the heat between her legs. Slow, shallow strokes with her head sheathed his cock in her mouth, picking up speed and depth as she grew accustomed to servicing him. Each slide of his phallus brought it ever deeper into Shelly’s orifice, until he was choking her once more, this time from the inside of her throat. The tickling elicited an urge to cough, which she suppressed, concentrating instead on squeezing him and moving her head ever more rapidly, burying her nose in his pubis with every downward stroke. Shelly’s ravenous appetite was milking him, seeking the throbbing of Azariah’s monument, anticipating the ejection of its ropy reward, and the undeniable signal that he too had given in to lust. 𖤍

 

[Keith Logan]

𓆩♱𓆪 Unpredictability. It was something his foes knew him for. It was a trait that he had acquired from his former years of militaristic training. It had always been his innate predisposition. But the fate of his circumstantial training and exposure during his time serving as Heaven's reconnaissance officer meant that it was all seared and ingrained as a characteristic that defined his very existence. Agility, adaptability and spontaneity were essential attributes that could mean life and death, freedom or captivity, for the fallen angel outside of the protective barriers of Asgard. Fluid like the water, nimble like the wind was a mantra that he adopted after someone poetically summed him up as such during a testimonial performance review during his time serving. These days, while he was still widely applying his modus operandi to his field of work, his attributes had far reaching influence on the more personal aspects of his life. Azariah knew what he was doing with Shelly, what his intentions were. While it was his first foray into fitting on a metaphorical leash around the yet untamed Valkyrie's neck, it all came natural to him, how he should be keeping the dainty divine being constantly on her toes, have her understand that with him, she should never be complacent, just when she figured she was just about ready to settle into a comfort zone. The perfectly tainted angel of perfectly immaculate form had zero tolerance for mediocrity. And it was one of the first few things he needed her to understand. She had implicitly showed through her actions that she was readily willing to submit. And now it was his turn to lay out his terms and conditions. She could be his. But he too, had standards and expectations, perceptibly sky high like the realm he hailed from. If she desired to be walking alongside him, the perfectionist needed his right hand figure to be in the image of him. He could be doting, as much as he could be stern. Anything less from her, he would give her hell. Anything less from her for an extended period, and he would likely not see her fit to take her place beside him on his throne, that was budding behind the shrouds on Midgard, casting her used form aside. But until then, the being of reason endeavoured to practice patience, to whip the porcelain warrior into his desired shape, to give the potential goddess of sin an opportunity to prove and unleash her worth, unhinged. That was why he landed those slaps across her cheeks after barely giving her the opportunity to recuperate from her state of asphyxiation. She wanted to be his? She would have to keep up with his depravity. The giggle that she elicited despite him landing those slaps across her cheeks was curious. He was none the wiser to Odin's deliberate alteration of the Berserker's Rage in the legion of Valkyries - what sick God would design their soldiers for the sole purpose of not combat, but glorified slabs of meat whose main purpose was to serve as reward for the bravery of another, and to throw their own bodies as disposable buffers should the time come for them to give and return their lives just to protect the very being who condemned them to a life of guised slavery, if he was ever under threat? It was a wonder how Shelly managed to attain clarity of the meaning of her life, and what that moment was like when she decided to break free and defy her destiny - had no one before her ever figured out how tragically twisted their fates were the moment they were brought into this world? Azariah's respect and admiration for Shelly would have gone up a notch had he understood the context of her upbringing, and learned that she had the spine to stand up and seek her own path like he did. Instead, Azariah had to learn all that through inferences formed from his lens that were myopic to Shelly's intrinsic motivations. Whilst he wouldn't understand the rationale yet, her sensually seductive cat crawl over to him was telling of her devotion to his order. Any sane being with dignity would have walked over with reluctance, fear, sorrow and disgust. But apparently not, with Shelly with a nutty succubus grin, improvising to be on all fours when he did not ask for. It had been a while since he last met another person as demented and insane as he was. And he was intrigued that another like-minded individual just appeared out of nowhere and found herself at the base of his feet on what should have been a day of routine mission. "Have we ever seen her crawl, Huginn?" "I don't think so. Lots of kneeling and scraping before Odin certainly." "But no crawling? That's a new low for her." "What? Worse than betrayal?" "No, you're right, that's worse. Okay, this is the second vilest thing Skagul has done."​ "Kneeling and scrapping?" Azariah's brow raised. "What was she doing, kneeling and scrapping before your all-encompassing Master?" There was a certain subtle mockery in his tone when he proclaimed Odin. He remained largely passive, apart from slowly shifting his legs wider apart to allow Shelly more space to work with between. When she finally peeled his pants down along with his underwear, she was gifted a rude shock, a mind boggling seven incher flicked out and hung low against gravity. It was mind boggling, not so much because of the sheer size of it, but that the angel was still largely limp at rest. Yet, his sacred rod would have been girthy and lengthy enough to penetrate right in her even at the floppiness of his complete non-erection. The stunningly thick and visible network of veins across the entire form of his manhood hinted of its further potential, pending discovery. The fact that his foreskin could not reach to cover up his cockhead summed up the monstrosity that was hung right in front of her eyes. The musk that barged through her nostrils was almost as potently immediate and destabilising as wasabi - it shot right up. It wasn't spicy in the sense. But it was immensely imposing, earthly and rich. If brute force masculinity had a smell, it was a close interpretation of that. "Oh damn! When's the last time she did that?" "I think it was on Ragnar." "Who?" "You know, Ragnar Lothbrok. One of Odin's must-have mortals?" "Oh! That guy! Viking hero and king? I thought it was Lodbrok?" "Whatever he's called, you know who I'm talking about. This language isn't so good for old names anyway." "Died in a snakepit if I recall, not a very heroic way to go. He definitely would not be in Valhalla, if Odin himself didn't step in." "Make sure this one gets there." "That's what Odin said." "Do you remember when Skagul pulled him out of the soul stream? Welcoming him on behalf of Odin? What Ragnar said?" "You can suck my dick!" "And she did! Ragnar stayed. Not very good with metaphors is she? Skagul's a good little slut."​ Azariah had to admit that he was mildly amused. Assuming the ravens ever took his side, as they were transiently so, he could see himself turning a blind eye to their antics - if you can't beat them, join them.​ "I hope that her time with Ragnar and the likes would have prepared her for the next chapter of her life with me." "That is, if she impresses." "I don't... do vanilla." "At least. Vanilla won't keep me hooked on for long." He took a pause, finding a need to include the important caveat. He was, a man of with an insatiable appetite for experiences and novelties after all, hence why Midgard became his perfect residence. Shelly was meticulous with her ministrations. He noticed how she never failed to cover almost every inch of him - up until she was struggling to reach his base. In return, she was rewarded with the first of many subtle, but deep, paradoxically rough but sensual groans that emitted from his mouth. There were times he lolled his head back, eyes fluttering shut. She was certainly well practiced, to say the least - the way she swirled and glided her mould, heaven was a place on earth at that very moment. But the angel was greedy. He wanted more. So with one of his large palms reaching out and then grasping her cranium, he ruthlessly pushed her in, with blatant disregard for her ability to accommodate. It was his trial by fire for her, at the same time, to witness for himself the perseverance and conviction that she lived by. His cock was also starting to grow, lengthier, girthier inside of her oral cavern, if he wasn't already menacing enough. His cockhead, ever so casually inching deeper and deeper well pass beyond the back of her throat. His precum, generously leaking with a load that would have been considered typical of a standard Earthen male's release. "There's a running joke on Midgard that good girls are always quiet on their wedding night." "Because they are always taught not to talk with their mouth full." With the same hand that cupped the back of her scalp, Azariah then yanked Shelly's head on a tilt, right after she had gone down on him for a good fifteen minutes end marked by his latest tease. He forced her head back with an unforgiving pull to a large handful of her hair. ".. could you be as good as a human girl?" For me. "Not sure how well read you are. But what do you reckon a Midgard girl would do for their man on the night that she vowed to submit her body to her man for all of eternity?" They were far from holding a ceremony. But the fallen angel was starting to insinuate the possible significance of the evening they were beginning to share. 𓆩♱𓆪​

 

[velvet.]

𖤍 Impress him? Shelly would certainly endeavour to do so. Azariah’s comments about vanilla confused her though, it must be some Midgard colloquialism he had picked up. What other terms did he have? Stored like disguises in the closet of his mind to blend in among the humans. He certainly was much bigger than any of the mortals she had serviced. Shelly’s eyes widened in astonishment that he continued to grow under her attention. Through her lust-fuelled insanity, what remained of her conscious thought spoke up. By Odin’s…No wait, it's Azariah now isn’t it?...How will it even fit? Her body acted without hesitation, instinct fuelling her actions, as if her mind were a mere passenger. What was possible had no hold over the ravenous creature she had become. She needed him inside her, no matter the damage it may cause. Skewering her throat upon his flesh, the sounds coming from Azariah stoked her desire with its sweet melody. Shelly would be smiling if her lips were not wrapped around his shaft. For the first time, her captor had shown the first signs of approval. Was this what he wanted of her? The fallen angel, the once paragon of heavenly virtue carrying a hidden perversion, indulging in such base desires as her wet tongue could provide. It gladdened the valkyrie to be able to pleasure him, to drag him ever downward, away from the pretentious heights of his previous home. The shape of pure bliss blossomed in her mind, to writhe together with him in the mud of Midgard, sequestered from the demands of their old realms. Untouchable. A home to call their own. She would give everything for such a dream. Azariah could not wait for Shelly’s slow accommodation of his size. His strong hands grasped the locks on the back of her head, and in a single movement, rammed himself down her throat. “Mmmnnn!” Every reflex she had been soothing to accept him was triggered in an instant. Gagging. Sputtering. Coughing into his member, her plugged throat fought in vain to disgorge the intruder, but only succeeding in squeezing him ever tighter. Her lungs strained against her sealed airway, unable to draw breath. Her core clenched, reinforcing her throat’s efforts to expel him. Pain shot through her center, as if she had been punched in the gut. But Azariah was there to claim Odin’s whore, and he would not leave her until he was satisfied. Thrust by agonizing thrust, he used her throat. Tears, briefly stemmed from her short-lived freedom, resumed their paths down her cheeks. Yet, Shelly did not push away. Instead, her nails dug crescent imprints in his trousers, seeking to anchor herself against him, to fully embrace her place as a receptacle for his pleasure. It was not service she was accustomed to giving, Azariah set the cadence of her defilement, and all she could do was loosen any tension in his way and meld into the flow of his movement. Every one of his retractions brought forth the profane mix of her spittle and his precum, spilling down her chin, coating her bosom. She fought for every little sip of air like a diver surfacing. Every merciless shove made her eyes bulge, pushing her nose against his root. Azariah dragged her head around like a precessing pendulum while he was fully embedded, rubbing her face into his groin. He filled her sinuses with his scent, like an animal marking its territory, his shifting staff within her eliciting groans of protest. "There's a running joke on Midgard that good girls are always quiet on their wedding night." "Because they are always taught not to talk with their mouth full."​ Did he just call me a good girl? The thought swirled deliciously in Shelly’s mind as his member filled her with its own unholy volumes of steaming pre-ejaculate. Her convulsing throat pushed the fluid down, swallowing hungrily. It was drink or choke and her body had already decided what it wanted. He used her without rest. Without release. She drifted away amid the tossing sea of choking gasps, the pain of her spasming throat, the ache of holding her jaw unnaturally wide. She had wanted to taste him. He had obliged in egregious fashion, his salt filled her fully, smothering her delicate nose and tongue. Every life-giving breath she took was permeated with his flavour. Focused on serving as his sheathe, the world and its troubles, outside of Azariah and her sweet agony—of divine retribution and mundane survival—were cast aside and ceased to exist. Her torturous reverie ended when he pulled her hair backward. “Urrgh…” What? He’s not finished yet? A messy extraction, dribbling their lubricating liquids down her front. Her airway unblocked, the stars dancing on the edges of her vision cleared as her deep, rapid breaths refilled her blood with merciful oxygen. Her heartbeat hammered in her heaving bosom, thudding in her ears. His monument remained stiff and dripping, glistening in all its glory, hovering before her, demanding more. The same mix of their depravity wetting her chin and chest dripped invitingly off his tip, pooling on the floor between her legs. She was still inhaling his heady scent with every breath. The slightest push from his hand, balled up in her hair, would put her lips upon him once more. Isn’t this enough? What more does he want? Shelly clenched her fists, nails carving into her palms. She rested them on her kneeling thighs. The celestial ball of energy still buzzed deep inside her, causing her sex to leak its reminder. Balancing on the blade’s edge of anticipation, the pits of degradation awaited her on either side. Despair at ever satisfying the fallen angel, or whorish desperation to prove herself? Both fiends lay with their maws open, ready to consume her, whichever way she fell. There was nowhere to go but down. Her future hung on Azariah’s next words; into which abyss shall she be cast? “...could you be as good as a human girl?”​ A challenge then? Had he sampled a human girl before? There were only two paths when one was challenged. To back down, or to rise to it. Shelly strained forward, cleaning his dripping head with her lips. Sucking, as if drinking him through a straw, she pulled him out with an audible pop. “As good? No, Sir. I shall be the best you’ll ever have.” She dove headfirst toward the puddle of their incomplete union. Azariah could either let go of her hair or give his new plaything a bald patch. Lapping up the mix of spit and precum on the floor, Shelly’s actions screamed her desire more than any words could hope to achieve. Accept me, damn it. You know neither Hell nor Asgard will take me. I have nowhere else to go. "Not sure how well read you are. But what do you reckon a Midgard girl would do for their man on the night that she vowed to submit her body to her man for all of eternity?"​ Shelly twisted, staring straight up at Azariah. Tilting her head, out of the way of his prodigious size impeding their gaze, she purred from the floor. “Sir. Do not compare me to those mortals. Their union dissolves upon death, with but mere decades to regret their binding. Eternity? They have no inkling of what that means. Odin never made me or my sisters pledge ourselves to him. That is his mistake. I am yours. Forever. I offer you everything. l shall serve with neither relief nor refusal, even unto the altars of death and agony.” What had come over her? Shelly could hardly believe the madness spilling from her lips. Yet, she had never felt so right in all of her existence. She needed to serve someone worthy. To be appreciated for what she could give. And here was one who was bursting with promise of doing exactly that. His unsatisfied staff stood stiff and waiting. She eyed it with a lewd grin. “What would Sir ask of me?” 𖤍

 

[Keith Logan]

𓆩♱𓆪 The sounds of agony coming from Shelly triggered a rediscovery of his insatiable appetite. It had always been inherent. But mortal girls could never keep up with his needs long enough for even he himself to understand the depths of his inclinations. It also served as a stark reminder that he could be a rather greedy and demanding entity. Midgard was a cesspool of sins, which had a way of rotting the mind and resolve of the pure. The corruption would creep in slow and subtle, the rot could be abstractly seen as an invisible dark energy, floating about, coaxing one towards psychological degeneracy and degeneration. Azariah was immortal, but even he wasn't infallible. Those audible moments of her gagging, choking and coughing? Those were the same erotic bliss he had pried out of mortal girls, but almost left each of them close to the proverbial mind numbing death by an intermixture of pain and pleasure. The resilience of mortals were limited by their human capacities. He had feasted on both their mental and physical sanity of those girls, but none could ever hit the spot. None could ever last long enough to receive the divine passion he had been dying to express in full. The sounds of choking, gagging and coughing too, which was a result of her persistence, was an implicit display of sacrifice. It made him feel worshipped, one of the few things he as a being of pride admittedly missed, when he was still dedicated to the cause of Asgard. He wasn't an essential god by any mile. Yet, mortals still provided material sacrifices; whispered of his name in churches and temples in chants and prayers during feast days, much like he was an unforgotten saint or lesser god. He took on different identities, and had been given different names across different religions. But they all essentially referred to him. It was one of the few things he was still trying to get a hang of, the stroking of his ego, even till that day. Midgard had unleashed his lust, greed and pride - a true blue fallen entity.​ But it felt so good. So good to be liberated. The freakish cacophony coming off from Shelly had him shuddering for a moment, along with his toes curling and fingers wringing her hair like it threatened to rip those precious blonde curls off her scalp. "Nnngghhhhh." True heaven was a place found in Shelly's mouth. Satisfied him she did, visually, vocally, tactilely. He had to let that one out dragged out moan. Azariah might be strictly demanding. But he was also reasonably generous if deservedly so. It was Shelly's first proper insight into what the fallen angel can be like when his guard was dropped - less stoic, candidly expressive. He rewarded her spectacular oral performance, credit paid in the form of his deep, sensuous, goosebumps inducing groans, which were essentially unintelligible but perceptible praises for her. She was good enough to make him, a man preferring to keep to few words, open his mouth against his proud will. "...could you be as good as a human girl?" "As good? No, Sir. I shall be the best you'll ever have."​ "Hah." Azariah let out a singular guffaw, and a faint restrained grin that he could not resist letting slip. That caught him by surprise, as he was still coming to terms with Shelly's eccentric inclination for servitude and making sense of the driving force behind it. He wasn't complaining however, about a specimen as fine as the Valkyrie, presenting herself on the sliver platter for him. "I'm heartened." "Although I'm not sure if you understand what being the very best, for me, entails." "Sir. Do not compare me to those mortals. Their union dissolves upon death, with but mere decades to regret their binding. Eternity? They have no inkling of what that means. Odin never made me or my sisters pledge ourselves to him. That is his mistake. I am yours. Forever. I offer you everything. l shall serve with neither relief nor refusal, even unto the altars of death and agony."​ "For an eternity, huh." "You don't understand the gravity of the deal, in the same way you had been so reckless with hell." "It's easy for you to so readily offer yourself up with mere words." Azariah finally let go of her hair, shoving her unceremoniously aside like she was barely a piece of property that has yet to prove her place. Shelly still had some ways to go before she could truly convince him that she was worthy of a sidekick as opposed to being a burden that he was better off using and then disposing of. "I forewarn. I'm no worse than hell." "They condemned me fallen for a reason, Spawn of Odin. You wish to prove yourself useful?" "What would Sir ask of me?"​ The being didn't immediately respond. Instead, he made his way over to a wooden table, with a black whip weaved of sturdy quilted leather, perched on top of a small weapon stand. "Whoever thought a pointless ceremonial gift would come useful one day?" He sounded more like he was muttering to himself than it was meant for Shelly, yet still audible with clarity as he was within distance. He didn't go on to elaborate its history or significance since it was ill-timed to do so, thus leaving the whip’s backdrop a mystery. It wouldn’t take a historian to perceive how ominous it seemed however, and how potentially devastating it could be just by the looked of the hardened scale, along with how razor fine the tail end of the whip was. WH-TCH. Azariah whipped the air to warm up his ability to wield the unconventional weapon. The strike wasn’t perfect on that first attempt, but it still managed to snap a muffled sonic boom. "I think it is only fair that you get to first know who I am, what I like, what I desire, what you are pledging yourself to." "You want to be the best I will ever have?" Whop-eesh. The second snap was far more threatening than the first, flinging the tail towards Shelly as he began walking towards her direction, but just about a few inches out of reach. "I'll lay out what being the best entails to me." "One - a girl who understands self-initiatives, who knows how to serve even without being told to do so. It would be useful to come home to a girl who knew just what to do to her god after he had a long day's work." That was naturally expected of the alpha male, whose pride saw no reason to make the first move. The female was giving a sense of a lost chick who had just hatched from an egg, quickly obsessing over the first living being it encountered. And in that innate desperation, he wanted to milk, stretch and abuse. In that desperation, he wanted to know just how far the Valkyrie could go to impress. He was playing king, deciding if she was worthy of his generous affection. Azariah wasn't one to enjoy exerting effort and lifting his finger for anything. But if he was ever convinced to commit himself to a cause, he would pour his heart into it. If you do it, do it good - was a motto that he lived by. He demanded perfection from the rest as much as he demanded perfection from himself.​ "Two - I decide that Sir feels too distant and impersonal. You want to be mine? Give me an appropriate name that would convey your devout and endearment." WHOP-EESH. WHOP-EESH. WHOP-EESH. He sliced the air again a few more times. The sounds that came with it felt fuller in its resonance, a warning of what it could have felt if it actually connected against her skin. The tail end was millimetres away from her each time, the impact of air being ripped was delivered against the taut skin of hers across her stomach the first time, her left tit on the second, and her right facial cheek on the third. The psychological anticipation of contact designed to be illogically tormenting, even if no physical damage had yet been done. "Three - I need a girl who can persevere and bear pain and pleasure alike on my behalf. I want not mere words, but a devotion of body and soul. There is no greater display of servitude, than a good girl who would be willing to push her boundaries, no matter the cost." "So, pretty. Will you raise both your hands in the air most straightly, and be a good girl - my good girl - and present your perfect porcelain figure as a blank canvas for me to mark my ink on you? I'm feeling particularly... artistic this evening." "No ropes. No cuffs.” “Just my trust that you will continue to hold your own wrists well above your head. Never, ever drop it regardless of what happens from now, until I permit." His hand grip of the scaled whip tightened by the handle, as with the sternness and intensity of his tone and the gaze of his ember pupils. 𓆩♱𓆪​

 

[velvet.]

𖤍 Tossed aside like a piece of trash, Shelly remained with her face almost kissing the floor, her hot breath reflecting off the worn wood, warming her cheeks, hair splayed like a messy golden halo around her head. Their depraved union left a salty, musky aftertaste; the slowly fading evidence of Azariah’s growing acceptance stoking the fire within her, manifesting its unholy heat between her legs. Her eyes flickered toward the supple instrument of punishment. The howling animal within her, gleefully piloting her body by instinct the past few minutes, scampered back into the dark corners of her mind. A selfish creature, having ridden on Shelly’s arousal, pushed her into unthinking submission. It now abandoned her conscious mind, pulling back the hazy veil of mindless sex, and leaving Shelly to contend with the soul-sucking fear of a maiming with full, wide-eyed clarity. Sinuous curves of the uncurling whip dragged her horrified gaze. Time slowed, as that first omega-shaped wave propagated from Azariah’s grip, picking up speed as it zipped along the weapon’s tapered length. Its attenuated crack made every hairless follicle on Shelly’s body pucker to attention. It overtook the confined space with ease, untapped potential promising ever more explosive force when properly swung. "I think it is only fair that you get to first know who I am, what I like, what I desire, what you are pledging yourself to." "You want to be the best I will ever have?" Flinching from the second crack was involuntary. Every sense wailed their alarm as the air itself seemed to erupt from the uncoiling tail, leaving her ears ringing from its impact. Inevitability hung expectant, a shroud over the proceedings in that tiny hut. Shelly knew the whip would soon find its way to her flesh, whether she offered it willingly or not. Anticipation crawled beneath her skin, she could see it reflected in the fallen angel’s eyes, even before he offered her the veneer of choice when there was none. And through it all, her mound had grown a mind of its own. Her tension should have dried it up, sobered up any lingering longing. Yet, it remained warm, her deep-seated loss of control stroking it better than any member or digit. "I'll lay out what being the best entails to me." "One - a girl who understands self-initiatives, who knows how to serve even without being told to do so. It would be useful to come home to a girl who knew just what to do to her god after he had a long day's work." Only mere minutes ago, his demand would have seen nigh impossible. How would she read the mind of one who gave no clue to what he thought? But his moans of pleasure, when she gave her throat for his use, it drove home a message, lodging itself within her mind as a potent memory. Her caverns of lewd depravity ran deep. If its introduction had such an effect on the fallen angel, she would use all initiative to hear the same sounds from Azariah again. “Yes, Sir. Serving you gives my body more purpose than its previous owner ever deigned to bestow upon it.” "Two - I decide that Sir feels too distant and impersonal. You want to be mine? Give me an appropriate name that would convey your devout and endearment." Shelly grew breathless at his command. Azariah was claiming her. Inviting her in with his words, as if he were standing with his arms wide, ready for a full-bodied embrace. Her face split into the wickedest of smiles. “Yes Master. I pledge myself to your ownership. Now and forever. What can this slave do for you?” The whip cracks hovered dangerously close to her skin, a parody of a knighting ceremony, highlighted her new status as owned property. Their gunshot echos shook her eardrums with their might, laying quivering tinnitus over her Master’s next words. They were fitting. A natural progression; once claimed, Shelly was to be marked, so that the world might bear witness to his ownership over her. Fear had dissolved into fervent anticipation, shepherded by bated breath. She rose, a twisted Venus from the floor of the dinky hut. Spreading her legs, displaying her glistening need to the world, Shelly bundled her hair and held it behind her head with her hands—it would not do to have her Master’s whip caught in her locks, slowing the torture he would put her through. If only she had a clip or tie, she would be able to reach for the heavens as he requested. She pulled her shoulder blades together, her elbows as far back as they would go, thrusting her ample chest toward Azariah. She knew. The teasing lash would finally find her tender flesh. The maddened artist before her would lay his fury upon her skin. Yet, the knowledge that he had finally deigned her worthy of service washed away all doubt. Shelly was his slave and the need to prove it, burned in her as surely as her arousal. She was ready to be painted. To be marked. No storm would force her from her position until her Master gave the word. She fixed his crimson gaze with her own cobalt eyes. “Master.” The word tasted sweet as it rolled deliciously off her tongue. ”Your canvas stands ready.” 𖤍

 

[Keith Logan]

𓆩♱𓆪 It wasn't sadistic satisfaction that Azariah was seeking by lashing out at the air around Shelly, but that he was attempting to get a reading of her psychological resilience and resolve in her peculiar desire to submit herself to him - whatever her motivation might be, Azariah was intrigued. It was certainly a topic that he was keen to begin visiting and dig into with Shelly, as he seek to understand the workings of her mind. In a sense, the fallen angel was like a boy, keen to experiment the functionality and limitations of his new found toy by putting it through all manner of trials that he could possibly think of with his curious mind, as much as he was a born explorer who was keenly drawn to knowledge and novelties, the reason why the wild Midgard was akin to a playground for him to thrive in. Shelly as a specimen excited him. That didn’t mean he also didn’t find pleasure in tormenting the immaculate divine being. Every time she flinched to the taunting lashes that would cause her skin hair to ripple, his ginormous cock could be see throbbing, slowly growing, stiffening, looking much like the wakening of a slumbering ancient monstrosity. He was also beginning to understand the entity, at least, on the superficial level. Visible flow of her wetness could be seen trickling down along both length of her thighs and calves, forming small puddles around her feet during the course of the contactless taunt-whippings. Her body seemingly broadcasting her heightened state of arousal and anticipation against expectedly normality. Her curious bodily action was doing something to tempt Azariah into wanting to get his hands on such an exquisite collectible. "Yes, Sir. Serving you gives my body more purpose than its previous owner ever deigned to bestow upon it."​ “You felt neglected, is that what you're insinuating, Porcelain?” He launched a low whip precise enough to land a reverberating shockwave against the length of her slit, yet (un)painfully close from any real contact. A daydreamer with a knack for philosophising, he allowed his mouth speak his free-flowing mind. “Your body, molded for the sole purpose of fucking mere mortals, while you yourself was never given an opportunity to be bestowed heavenly pleasures befitting of the place wince you came; your immortal appetite condemned to eternal mediocrity. What living hell that must have been for you.” "... Or perhaps you were blissfully unaware what you had been missing out all these centuries." WHOP-EESH. The next taunting whip came with the replicated trajectory of the previous, precariously close. It came to a point whereby the anticipation was starting to induce illusionary pain, in the same vein where one might feel a phantom ache in their nerves from simply watching another person undergoing acute physical torture. "Pleasure and pain are one the same, both sensations processed by the same receptors. Sometimes, it is easy to confuse one for the other." "Your immortality meant that you could take far more beating than any mortals could bear. A Valkyrie, especially." "You were designed as a weapon, resilience made for the battlefield, made to serve." "Asgard had been harnessing your ability to rapidly heal and regenerate for their own selfish agendas.” “Now, perhaps it is time you are allowed a share of the pie - to be able to make good use of your own godsend ability, not for the sustenance of others, but for your own… benefit.” “… and I’m going to show you just how to milk your own talent for your own, and my delight.” It was such a convenient excuse and pretty picture to paint - that he was doing this primarily for her, when really, he was probably as thrilled, if not more, about the prospect of being able to experiment on Shelly and groom her into an idealised subordinate. "Two - I decide that Sir feels too distant and impersonal. You want to be mine? Give me an appropriate name that would convey your devout and endearment." "Yes Master. I pledge myself to your ownership. Now and forever. What can this slave do for you?"​ Azariah then went on to lay out his instruction, along with a detailed explanation of his philosophical musing and why he chose to do the things he was going to do to her. And apparently, the ex-Valkyrie was a quick learner. She was thoughtful in her actions, and though unspoken, he could rationalise why she decided to go beyond her call of duty to bundle and hold her hair up high. Shelly was also impressively fearless judging from the way she unreservedly chested out her ample bosoms like she was entirely certain and unfazed about serving herself to the metaphorical meat grinder. "Master." "Your canvas stands ready."​ The fallen angel smiled, walked over to her piled up clothes to pick up her underwear, only to return to flip it upside down and converted it to a makeshift blindfold. For the next two to three minutes, he circled around Shelly, allowing her body to redirect the weight of her senses, further sensitising her remaining senses as attentional resources hoarded previously by her vision were redistributed. Over time, Shelly might even find herself gradually getting better at pinpointing the location of the elusive angel through the thuds of his footsteps against the wooden ground, along with the periodical whip-lashing into the air around her. And then, without warning... WHOP-EESH. A clean strike was struck from behind, landing the first calligraphic stroke diagonally across the entire stretch of her back. And came another. And another. Five agonising minutes which felt like an eternity. Apart from the menacing sound of whiplashes slicing through pristine air, each of them ripping her skin at pseudo-random intervals that were no more than ten seconds apart. Azariah circled around her body like a slow revolving figure the entire time, treated the lashings as if he was having an arm day. Five minutes on, her entire body from front to back was interwoven with intricate lines of red. Then. he paused for a bit. What followed was an eerie stillness for a silent unnerving minute... ... until the peace was violently ripped apart by the most unexpected of flog that landed with brutal precision against the entire frontal length of her slit.​ "You look so fucking pretty right now, Porcelain." "Yet, I reckon you can be even prettier for me." "Are you perhaps, starting to have second thoughts now?" 𓆩♱𓆪​

 

[velvet.]

𖤍 A whirling mix of trepidation and excitement welled up within Shelly as Azariah picked up her torn panties. He stepped behind her, pulling the filthy fabric over her eyes. The ex-valkyrie’s breath caught. Forced to bear the cool dampness of her own slime against her face, her fluids trailed down her cheeks and dripped off her perfect nose when the fallen angel tightened the blindfold. The scent of her lubrication, squeezed from her destroyed garment, suffused her sinuses, its paths venturing ever closer to the corners of her half-open mouth. Why would he even want me? I’m disgusting… The seconds ticked by. What was he doing? Pacing. Shelly’s skin prickled. She imagined Azariah—no, her Master—examining her from every angle, eyes roving over every part of her exposed body, the solitary piece on display in his private museum. And just as she was getting used to the thunderous cracks of that vicious instrument in the air around her, a line of molten pain erupted along her back. “Fuck!” She could not help it. The expletive forced its way out of her like the blood from her split skin. The creature she called Master did not let up. There were no areas of her body less sensitive, more capable of bearing punishment, than the relatively thick skin on her back. Every kiss of her Master’s whip on the other parts of her flesh was agony multiplied. He marked her thighs and calves, tore the skin off the globes of her ass, drew lines across her smooth stomach, split redness across her soft breasts. Shelly screamed. Rampant swearing dissolved into unintelligible blubbering. Her legs shook, staggering to maintain balance with every flash of terrible excruciation. Arms trembling, her fingers dug into her scalp. With no way to guess where the next strike might land, Shelly’s helpless tears joined the foulness in her blindfold, the salty mixture coating her cheeks and chin. What was she doing? There was no guarantee her Master would not simply dispose of her when he had his fun. Why was she struggling to stay in this position just because he ordered it? Every fiber of her being wanted to curl into a ball on the floor. Yet, a part of her cheered her Master on. After centuries of being ignored, it felt…gratifying. To be the center of a superior being’s attention. And her Master was worthy indeed, having mastered this Earthly realm like no other divine before. When her eyes stung from the salt, and the pain was too much to bear, that small insidious part of Shelly took the reins. Every lash became a blessing. A gift, granted to her, letting her know that she belonged. To him. “Thank you, Master.” Every crack of the whip extracted a benediction for the next. WHOP-EESH. “Thank you.” WHOP-EESH. "Thank you for whipping me.” WHOP-EESH. “I’m not worthy.” WHOP-EESH. “Thank you, Master.” Each breath chased the last out of her lungs, her bosom heaving from the effort. Her skin was pure fire, a covering of blazing incandescence making itself known with every twitching movement. Sweat drenched, Shelly wore her Master’s marks with bitten lip and curled toes. Waiting. He had paused, but gave no order for her to move. WHOP-EESH. She folded onto the floor. The dull throbbing from her kicked clit exploded in furious anger once more. The seared flesh of her lower lips was nothing compared to the thousands of needles pushed into her bud. Her involuntary curl into a foetal position was accompanied by pathetic sobbing into her soiled blindfold. “You look so fucking pretty right now, Porcelain. Yet, I reckon you can be even prettier for me. Are you perhaps, starting to have second thoughts now?” Was her Master going to continue to abuse her womanhood like this? It was a miracle Shelly did not pass out this time. “No, Master,” she whispered, skin burning where it met the unforgiving floor, “Thank you for your marks. I love them...” 𖤍

 

[Keith Logan]

𓆩♱𓆪 A celestial being foul-tainted both mentally and physically was the degenerate equivalent of incest. How often would one have the opportunity to see immaculate etherality drench-coated in all manners of sex so debauched? Shelly's own fresh produces were trickling profusely down her face the moment her fully soaked panties were wrapped around her eyes, with a few managing to traverse the far south, branching routes extending to her cleavage, side boobs, length of her spine and more. It was mesmerising to watch the concentrated salts climbing the mount of her tits, snaking pass if not colliding with the clean sweat beads evident all over her body to snowball into bigger droplets, before dripping onto the ground. It was truly a sight to behold. Why would he even want me? I'm disgusting…​ "You look disgusting, slut." How coincidental. "Perfectly and sumptuously disgusting." He elaborated, with his taunting whipping of the air interspersed. "You were not made for grace. This view that I am seeing right now fits you so well." "To think Thor would waste the talents of you and your Sistrens, parading on laces and heels for his amusement on his Natal Day." That felt good to be able to mock the absurdity of Thor's fondness for self-aggrandizement, and to jab Shelly for being used as an instrument for such all those centuries. At least she found it in her to break herself loose from the chains of glorified slavery, something he could never comprehend just why the modern day Valkyries would still subject themselves to such ignominy and indignity. It was something that perhaps he might be able to pick her brain in time in this beginning of an unexpected journey of discovery between two wayward beings, as they attempted to piece together what Mars and Venus were all about - Shelly was an intriguing standout being as much as Azariah was a remarkable enigma to her. Then, the first of many lashes to come landed on her skin for the very first time. And another. And another. Too often, Azariah seemed like a being that possessed a stone cold heart that wore a signature face of nonchalance. Few things ever seemed to excite the adrenaline junkie because he had been there, done almost all of it all across the centuries. At the top of his list, being made vulnerable to the perils of Midgard brought him exhilaration like never before in a while. Thus, he chose to live amongst mortal men because heaven was too comfortable for his liking, on top of their hypocrisy, which had been that trigger that led him to abandon his home world. And now, as his brutal calligraphy session progressed, Azariah was beginning to unravel an unsettling inner demon never before realised. Those shrieking sounds of cries and screams that Shelly were making? It was causing a burgeoning discomfort arousal by his crotch. Shelly’s biological and physiological build up was also hard coded to be stubbornly resistant to death. She was a literal sandbox in which he could experiment with to his sick heart’s content. It was then that he realised he… could get addicted to this. Azariah kept blaming the heavens for many things. But he himself wasn’t perfect either. Shelly was beautifully god sent; perfectly imperfect with her tragically fucked mind - a fitting ying to the hopeless, wild deviant yang that he was. "Thank you, Master." ... "Thank you." ... "Thank you for whipping me." ... "I'm not worthy." ... "Thank you, Master." Was she even aware how much of his darkened flames she was fanning? She was feeding his depravity to the point that even Azariah was gobsmacked to learn about this side of himself, possibly even afraid of what he can be truly capable of. Had life gotten so dull and meaningless for him that he now relished on feeding off the suffering of another just to feel alive once again? How was he any different from the devils of Hell? No. He was worse. Hell inflicts pain as a form of punishment. He was inflicting pain to sate his own sick, selfish need for pleasure. "You look so fucking pretty right now, Porcelain. Yet, I reckon you can be even prettier for me. Are you perhaps, starting to have second thoughts now?" "No, Master," "Thank you for your marks. I love them..."​ First, it was a lackadaisical impression of what he initially thought was yet another hollow beauty standing in his way when they first acquainted. Then, she did enough to intrigue and fill him with curiosity. Now? He was beginning to fall down the slippery slope of infatuation with this... insane woman, of which he wouldn't yet admit. Privately, he wanted to know more, wanted to figure out the kind of things Shelly could give him like no others could do before. Azariah dropped the whip onto the floor, landing right beside the face of where Shelly was curled like a baby. He could be heard walking away for a moment, before the sounds of what sounded like the legs of the same chair that she was sitting on earlier, dragging against floor over to where she was, before placing it right in front of her. She might be sightless. But expecting her to navigate her way around despite her handicap and weakened state was the easiest of demands and expectations he would ask of her then and in times to come. Just like that, they found themselves wordlessly and spontaneously settling into day one of Shelly's reconstructive training. "Get up." "Sit on this on the reverse. Hands tight on the edges of the back rest. Thighs, clasped against each side of the chair's forelegs." "Rear as high up for me like you meant it in offer." His orders sounded somewhat familiarly regimental. "Why don't you take a minute to compose a clearly curated vow, of you to me." "Fair warning, Princess. A pledge once uttered, is irrevocable." 𓆩♱𓆪​