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It smells of death. Not the abstract, poetic kind mortals talk about, but the faux thing meant to cover up the real. A waxy corpse steeped in formaldehyde and methanol, powdered and perfumed to imitate life. The scent threads through the air like a warning, and Abaddon can trace it all the way from the church steps. Rose’s body is inside, lacquered and still, and even without seeing her, he knows the shape of her remains. It all looks the same to him.
The demon cannot cross the threshold to the church door. The holy perimeter clings to him like static, pressing into his skin, prickling along his arms with an invisible boundary he’s forbidden to pass. Just one more step up the stairs and the air turns molten, burning, sharp, and hostile. So he stays where he is, planted on the cold stone step, hunched forward with one elbow on his knee, chin propped in his palm, a picture of sullen resentment.
His funeral attire doesn’t help. The stiff collar nips at his neck, the fabric itches, and the tag inside the waistband keeps sawing at his skin like a tiny, persistent blade. He tugs at it once, twice, then gives up with a growl. Each breath draws in more of the church’s sanctified air—metallic, incense-bitter, threaded with the sweet-rot of flowers wilting in the pots that flanked the door. He grumbles about the stench under his breath, but the words reach no one.
Nathan had begged him to go in his place in exchange for a particularly expensive yogurt cup. “Family obligations,” he’d said, “With you I can be there in spirit! Ha!” And Abaddon had eventually relented. Now he sits stranded outside, fulfilling a duty he cannot complete, counting down the minutes until his promised treat.
The Matriarch had dressed him herself that morning: black suit, white shirt, tie knotted with impossibly tight precision, ruffled collar and cuffs she’d insisted “looked dignified.” He looks like an unwilling Victorian choir boy, and he feels like he’s being swallowed by the fabric.
He wants to pace, to explore the graveyard behind the church, to put distance between himself and the sanctified air pressing in on him. Bathe in the old death, the rotted death, the buried death. But the moment he tries to stand, a dull heaviness clamps over his limbs, a silent warning from the holy ground itself, and he sinks back down with a frustrated huff. He never should have agreed to come here. This building has chains.
Above him, the stained-glass windows glow with warm colored light, casting halos across the church’s façade. And inside, muffled voices carry through the door. Prayers, murmurs, the shuffling of feet, all of it blurred and warbled.
Abaddon kicks his heels against the base of the stair step, his chin still pressed to his palm, tilting slightly as he listens to the sermon leaking through the church walls. Each holy word that trickles its way past the door singes him from the inside out—a dull, smoldering ache at the core of his ribs. He grits his teeth, eyes narrowing against the sting, like trying to endure a too-bright light.
The service is small. ‘Aunt’ Rose had not been a kind woman, nor a well-loved one. The handful of family who came carried the thick scent of obligation and pity, not grief. Their emotions taste flat and unseasoned to Abaddon. Surely it would be over soon. He can endure it.
For yogurt.
Maybe for something else, too.
The hinges of the door groan, it opens, and out slips Esther. Her small-heeled black boots clack softly against the stone deck as she steps into the light.
Overhead, a trio of ravens circle lazily, their caws cutting clean through the haze of holy air. Their wings stir the wind, which ripple through the trees that flank the church. Leaves sway, and the breeze slips through the cracked, rotted boards of the church exterior, making the old structure creak in complaint. The sound comforts him.
Mortals build things to last a lifetime, but Abaddon, unending, would still be here when it inevitably crumbled.
“How are you holding up?” Esther asks, one hip jutting out in a practiced gesture of feigned nonchalance. Her puffy skirt swishes around her legs like a restless shadow.
Abaddon looks up, then keeps looking, gaze trailing along her from the pointed toes of her boots, past the line of her tights, up to the cinch of her waist and her sternum, then finally her slender throat and the pout of her face.
She’s wearing makeup. Subtle, but noticeable—a rare sight. Black mascara dusts her lashes, giving her eyes more depth, and pink blush warms her cheekbones. The colors make the rest of her look paler, more porcelain-like, especially framed by the mourning attire her mother stuffed her into.
A knee-length black skirt puffed with layers, a crisp white button-up shirt, a soft black corset strapped over it, a neat bow tied at her collar; she looks like a doll carved for funerary rites. A pretty statue made to stand beside a six foot hole.
Abaddon glances down at himself, then back at her.
They almost match.
“I am managing,” he replies, dropping his hand from his face. His posture shifts, arms folding behind him as he leans back on his palms to look up at her properly. The movement is casual, but there’s tension in the set of his shoulders, the holy air still nipping at him like bee stings. “How goes the ceremony?”
Esther huffs a breath through her nose and lowers herself beside him, her skirt puffing as she settles onto the cool stone step. “Boring,” she declares. “I told my mom I needed to go to the bathroom.”
She immediately starts picking at a small tear in her tights, hooking a finger into the hole and tugging it wider with idle rebellion. The sheer black fabric stretches, then gives with a soft rip. She doesn’t stop. It’s something to do with her hands, something to ruin so the rest of the day feels less rigid and staged.
Abaddon watches her, head tilted. Esther in formalwear is always a kind of paradox, like a fox wearing a wig. She never sits still, never wears anything the way it’s meant to be worn. And he likes it. Likes how awkward she looks in all the prim fabric, how it makes her edges sharper in contrast. She’s out of place here, out of depth, and somehow that only makes Abaddon see her more clearly.
It has him warm—not burning, like the church—but something gentle and coiling. The flush of his cheeks makes the hair on the back of the demon’s neck stand on end, reminding him of the sacrilegiousness of his affection.
The wind brushes Esther’s hair across her cheek, and she pushes it away with an irritated flick. The faint scent of incense clings to her from the church interior. It mixes strangely with her mother’s perfume, something faintly sweet he can’t name.
Abaddon knocks his shoe against hers. “You look uncomfortable,” he observes, voice low and amused.
She makes a disgruntled sound and keeps picking at her tights. “You look uncomfortable,” she says. “You could have thrown a fit, you know. I doubt mom would have had you come if she thought you’d be too unruly. A funeral isn’t the place for that.”
The demon hums, “I suppose.”
Inside, the sermon dissolves into a moment of silence, as the priest asks if anyone would like to speak. When it drags on too long Abaddon hears the matriarch begin to recite her practiced eulogy.
Eventually, Esther gives up on the tear in her tights and lets her hands fall to her lap with a sigh.
Out here, the world is less pressed in, less staged. Abaddon can sense her shoulders lowering, her whole posture loosening simply by having escaped the funeral’s inherent need for performance.
Abaddon shifts an inch closer, a small thing, subconscious, and she doesn’t move away.
“She’s gonna be mad I’m not there,” Esther mutters. “Honestly, I just wanted some air. Everyone in there keeps acting like they were close with her.” She leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees, hair curtaining part of her face. “It’s weird. And awkward. And I don’t… I don’t really know how to sit there and pretend I care the right amount.”
Abaddon grunts. “So don’t pretend,” he tells her. “Human rituals are pointless anyway. She will be lowered into the dirt just like everyone else. It’s not special.”
She glances at him, eyes narrowing slightly, more in thought than irritation. “Not everyone. Some people get cremated.”
Wind ruffles the hem of her skirt, and one of the ravens overhead croaks a call. Esther’s presence softens the sting of the holy ground; she’s like a buffer, a small warm pocket of safety he can cling to.
“I hate it when you burn yourselves to ash. You leave no remains! So greedy,” the demon scoffs.
Esther leans to the side until her shoulder brushes his. Lightly. A tap, a test, and she lets her weight rest there. Familiar. Easy.
The gentle wind still has Esther’s hair swaying, and the ribbons of her neck’s bow drifting back and forth across her chest in sweeps. She grimaces at the sky, glossy lips pulling tight and brushed-down eyebrows pinching together.
She looks pretty, Abaddon thinks, and he’s not sure what to do with that. He never is.
Esther is strange. Always has been, apparently. But strange in a way specific to Abaddon, too. It was like she was drawn to him, fascinated with him. Sometimes she treated him like her best friend, sometimes like a specimen to vivisect with a scalpel, sometimes a lover. The last part is the most confusing. Children did not usually engage in such intense romantic endeavors, but Esther was bold. Curious. Inappropriate at times.
Instead of acknowledging his grievances over cremation, Esther instead shifts the topic. “You know…” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, out of her eyes. “I’m glad you came. Even if you’re stuck out here.”
Abaddon angles his face toward her, eyes half-lidded in something close to contentment. “I was promised a treat,” he replies. “And I hate to turn down a good deal.”
“I don’t think that’s the only reason.”
Abaddon doesn’t push back on her statement, just tilts his head back, looking up at the ravens circling around the belfry. She was right. He’d been hoping she would find time to get away from the ceremony for him.
Inside, the talking drones on, dull and somber. But out here, with the scrape of leaves and the brush of her against him, things are much more manageable.
Esther lets out another slow breath. “Uncle Nathan’s funeral was sort of like this, too.”
They sit like that for a moment. Two mismatched silhouettes against the weathered church steps, fit together so naturally it feels like its own kind of sanctuary, despite the holy energy lapping at Abaddon’s self. It’s like the two of them are puzzle pieces, cut from different images but still somehow able to click together.
“I do not understand funerals,” Abaddon breaks the silence. “When a demon’s spirit ceases to exist, no ceremony is held. We move on like nothing happened. Dwelling is pointless.”
Esther’s breath clouds faintly in the cool autumn air. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I guess humans like to pretend we know how to live around death.”
Abaddon brows pull together, confused. “It makes no sense to gather and cry over something that has already ended. There is nothing to fix. Nothing to chase. Nothing to bargain for.” He pauses. “Well, usually.”
Esther nods, knowingly.
Abaddon lifts a hand, gesturing vaguely towards the church. “No one even liked that woman. They mourn like there’s an obligation. Like it changes something.”
“It doesn’t…” Esther agrees. “But it kind of helps. To cope, I mean. Like, with the idea of dying. For some people, at least.”
“How?”
She huffs out a half-laugh, elbow nudging against his. “You really want an answer?”
“I asked, did I not?”
Esther tips her head back, staring lazily at the circling ravens. “We aren’t built like you,” she says finally. “Humans don’t just… snap shut around pain. We leak. And we have to do something with all of that, or it eats us alive.”
Abaddon studies her. “Then why not let it? If the pain consumes you, you become stronger for surviving it.”
Esther gives him a dirty look, but it eases into exasperation quickly. “Pain doesn’t work like that for people.” She’s back to picking at her tights. “It… didn’t work like that for Uncle Nathan.” She chews her lip for a moment. “If we let things eat us, we just… start to disappear. Emotionally, bit by bit. Funerals aren’t for the dead. They’re for the people still alive.” She tilts her head to one side, and then the other. “Unless you’re a ghost. Then you send a demon in your place, I guess.” A small smile.
She adds, “I think it helps people feel a sense of connection. With each other, with the one who died. And it’s comforting to think that people will gather and care when you’re gone, too.”
Abaddon considers this for several breaths. Every once in a while he pinches the fluffy ruffles of Esther’s skirt hem, a thoughtful gesture.
“When a demon’s spirit ends,” he says, “There is no ache. No lack. We do not perish naturally, so to die is a great failure…” He hesitates, and then his voice dips, quieter. “We simply go on with what remains. We feel no absence, only the shape of what is.”
Esther eyes his hand on her skirt.
Abaddon goes on. “It is no wonder Hell has not come to retrieve me. I may as well be dead. The Mortal Plane my purgatory.”
Her hand slips up into his hair. “Even if Hell doesn’t, I would grieve you—miss you—if you were gone.”
At that the demon turns his head away from Esther, instead choosing to look at her from the corner of his vision. “I know…” he mumbles. And he means it.
He does know. Knows how she would cling to him if he were to try and vanish from her life.
In just a few months she would try to convince him to stay, and he would feign noncompliance. Indifference.
The girl’s hand traces down the base of his neck, sending a shiver down Abaddon’s spine.
He’d never had anyone yearn for his presence before. Never had anyone speak so kindly, so fondly.
He was really growing to like the way Esther wielded her voice. Her gentle touches. Sometimes it felt like her soul was singing to him, little incorporeal tendrils springing from her chest to grace his own spirit. It tickled. Spread goosebumps along his skin.
Abaddon ignores the sharp prickling of the blessed air around him to focus on the scent of his desire.
That smoke, the resin, magic, acrid fire.
He wants to taste it. Hold it in his mouth. Consider consuming her completely, but never actually swallow. Take her soul in his hands and defile it.
A particularly strong gust of wind has the trees trembling around them, and that holy heaviness weighs harder on the demon’s bones, punishing him for his thoughts and wants.
He hates this place.
But not Esther.
Abaddon lowers his head down to peak at her through his bangs. Puppy-dog-eyeing her.
“Will you tell me how you would? Mourn me?” he asks, shyly.
Esther seems taken aback by the question, her hand pausing her petting and her eyes widening. Then, she looks around the deck of the church, almost mischievously.
“Let’s go somewhere more private and I’ll tell you all about it okay?” Her hand drifts down his shoulder, down his arm, to his wrist, to take his hand. Their fingers interlock.
There it is. That boldness, the strangeness.
The demon nods, and she pulls him up to his feet. Her grip snaps him from his rigidity, the distant holy burn dulling.
She leads him down the steps—ruffles flowing—around the bend of the church property to the back. She clammers over the low fence towards the cemetery, and helps Abaddon over the iron bars by his hand.
They land on the soft grass with twin thumps. Esther’s short-heeled boots skid a little in the dew; Abaddon, less graceful in his slick flat shoes, nearly topples before she steadies him with their joined hands.
“Careful,” she teases.
“I am careful,” he insists, right before his heel sinks into the soil and he wobbles again.
Esther snorts, the sound bubbling out of her with the wrinkle of her nose. “Sure you are.”
She keeps pulling him, hand warm in his, weaving through crooked headstones and lopsided angels whose faces have been half-eaten by time. The afternoon light filters through the pines in broken shards, dappling their clothes, turning her hair into sparks of gold and ember. Abaddon keeps stealing looks at her as they run, at the determined set of her mouth, the flush creeping into her cheeks, the slight bounce of her skirt.
She looks back at him once, and it’s enough to twist something in his chest. Like her soul is reaching out to him again. Can she feel it, too? Is that part of it for her? The fascination?
Each step away from the church lifts the sickening weight of the holy air just a bit more. It’s still around them—the whole property has it seeping into his being—but the heart is the worst, that building. He feels lighter the further into the wild green of the cemetery they get.
“If I lost you, like you really died, or you went back to Hell,” Esther says. “I would do everything I could to try and get you back.”
Their shoes crunch together through gravel paths, then thud softly over moss. Esther’s grip on his hand tightens, grounding him and urging him forward at the same time.
They dart between graves like two spirits bound together in death. Their footfalls echo off marble slabs and iron fences, off stone wings and weathered crosses. The cool wind nips at their faces; her skirt flares like a dark petal, and his suit jacket flaps open behind him.
“Even if you left on purpose,” she continues. “I would try any ritual, any spell. Anything to raise you again. And then I would keep you. Even if your body was rotted, or you wanted to get away.”
Her gaze is set hard on him even as her steps pull them forward.
“You would work against my will?” Abaddon queries, cheeks hot.
“If I had to.”
She tugs him behind one of the older crypts—a tall granite thing, carved with weeping women and yellow ivy gone brittle with age. Hidden from the church. Hidden from everyone.
A perfect, secluded pocket of the universe just for them.
The two stop there, shrouded under the cover of the trees and the shadow of the mausoleum, and Abaddon takes a deep breath. “But in the meantime… would you cry for me?” Testing the waters.
Esther cups his cheek with her free hand, and she takes several steps backwards so her back is to the stony wall of the crypt. She guides Abaddon to palm at her chest.
“I would. I would sob and wail and pray to you.”
“Demons don’t accept prayers.”
“I would do it anyway.”
The demon feels around her budding breast. She has no training bra on with her shirt, the ruffles and bow hiding anything that might be deemed too improper. It’s not much anyway, but the threat of puberty has Esther sensitive all the same. He thumbs over one of her nipples, and her breath hitches, back arches a bit.
She presses her lips to his. It’s clumsy, sloppy; they haven’t done this very many times.
“Can you picture it? Me on my knees? My hands clasped together?” Esther breathes against his mouth. “Oh, Apollyon, hear my voice. Return to me, come back to me…”
He can, and it rips a needy whimper from him.
Abaddon dips under her shirt, untucking it from her skirt, to feel at her soft skin. So warm, plush, it has him burning in a way far more pleasant than the church.
He never thought he could feel so free on holy ground.
“More, say more…” he pants, groping her.
Esther shuffles a knee between the demon’s thighs, prodding it against his hard on, urging on more desperate noises.
“I’d have tears on my cheeks, my whole body would quiver. I’d beg for you back, offer any sacrifice for you.”
He doesn’t question how much of it is just for the sake of fantasy or whether any of it is true. It doesn’t matter, not right now.
“W-want it…” Abaddon warbles, dragging his erection up her leg. “I need it.”
Esther uncups his cheek to tug at his hair, forcefully tilting his head back to nip at his neck. “Want what?” Teasing.
“I want more,” Abaddon moans. “Tell me more things. Touch me more.”
“So needy,” the girl chastises, pressing a kiss to his jugular. “You’re practically shaking.”
She nudges him away from her, and Abaddon complains, but she shushes him.
“Hold on,” Esther says. She shuffles them around, swapping their places so Abaddon’s back is now against the stone. She then brings herself down to her knees, head fixed up so she can keep looking into his eyes. “I’d lower myself like this, to pray for you…”
Her hands find his belt, unbuckles it, then flutters down to his fly, unzips. The demon gulps, not realizing his mouth had been hanging open. She brings his formal pants down, along with his underwear, letting his small erection spring free from its confines. Esther rests her palms to his bare thighs and plants a chaste kiss to the head of his dick.
“Esther…” Abaddon groans. He grips her hair, rough, then gentle. He doesn’t want to hurt her.
“Easy, shh.” Esther nuzzles the inside of his leg. “This is okay?”
“Yeah,” he assures her. “K-Keep going.”
“You’re so cute.” One hand takes his cock, the whole thing fitting snug in her warm palm, and she gives him a gentle squeeze. Abaddon has to brace himself against the crypt as his legs buckle. “Getting off on the idea of me missing you.”
“Your dedication,” Abaddon grits, “Feels like worship.”
Esther hums, and licks the tip of his dick experimentally. “I can worship you.”
Little strokes, kisses, her tongue to his cock—it has Abaddon keening.
“I could make you a shrine… Decorate it with bones and crystals and runes…” Esther cooes. “Sit in front of it just like this and light a candle.”
She takes him in her mouth, just for a moment, just to see if she can put it all in. She can, and she drools over him, swirling her tongue around the length. Then she pops off, and continues on with her words.
“My dark angel, lord of destruction, grant upon me your power and wisdom, teach me all you have to offer…” There’s a teasing undertone to it, but it gets to the demon anyway. He throws his head back to pant at the sky, picturing the scenario she’d built up, and Esther giggles. “Haha, you actually like that?”
“Nng, don’t stop,” is all Abaddon can spit out as he pets fervently at the girl’s head, urging her on.
“Okay then.” He can tell she’s smirking without even looking at her face. “I give my body, my energy, my loyalty, to you. Only you.” He’s between her lips again, that tongue starting up a suckling motion. Esther braces a hand under his hip bone, helping to hold him up as he falters. She says something else, but it’s unintelligible with his cock still in her mouth. Regardless, the vibration of her voice is nice.
“Esther, saga mea! Perge ita facere, perge mihi placere, noli desistere!” Abaddon babbles.
The girl releases him for a breath to scoff, “Are you actually speaking Latin right now?”
In response, he pushes her head back down, urging her lips back to his dick. The girl rolls her eyes and lolls her tongue against him, guiding it back inside the wet warmth of her mouth.
“Me dulcem sentire facis… Infirma et mollis…” he mumbles, eyes now fixed back down to her, lidded.
“Thath acthually weally attracive,” she murmurs around him. She takes him as far back as he’ll go—which isn’t much, being stuck in a child’s body and all. But that works out for the both of them, really. He’s suctioned between her tongue and the roof of her mouth, and Esther swallows down the pre pooling from his head. Her thumbs rub circles into his skin where she holds him up, soothing some of the overstim. It takes a lot of willpower not to buck into her mouth.
She closes her eyes, keeping herself tilted up so Abaddon can gaze at her face. The way her lip-gloss smudges across his lips and over his cock, the mascara starting to bleed at the edges of her eyes; Abaddon doesn’t want to blink. Doesn’t want to miss any change of expression. Wants to burn the image into his mind.
“You’re pretty down there,” Abaddon tells her, And Esther cracks one eye open at him, smiling around his dick. “Do you want me to finish like this?”
She shakes her head ‘no’ before popping off of him, mouth trading places with one of her hands. She rubs him slowly. “I want you to put it inside me,” she says, matter-of-factly.
Abaddon throbs at her words. “Here?” Flushes dark in the cheeks, his ears.
Esther stands, keeping her hand on him and pecks at his mouth—chaste and sweet. “No one’s around.”
“How sacrilegious,” purrs the demon, as the girl presses him against the crypt. Her hands brush down his sides, then back up, drifting under his shirt to roll his nipples against her palms.
“My sweet boy…” she cooes into his ear while he chirps at her affection. “Don’t you wanna be inside? Wanna take every piece of me you can? I want to give you everything…”
Abaddon gulps, just as Esther’s lips glide over his throat.
“I want to be your sacrifice,” she hisses, right before she bites, clamping her teeth down on his skin, drawing blood inches from his windpipe. Abaddon arches, and his pelvis clashes against her fluffy skirt, the ruffles and lace tickling perfectly against his sensitive skin.
“Esther! Esther!” he wails, instinctively grinding, prodding around her dress, looking for a way past it. “Da corpus tuum! Da mihi omnia! All of you!”
His hands scrabble at her clothing, ripping the skirt upwards, clawing at her tights, shoving, pulling them out of the way, all while Esther grins against his throat, laps at the bite mark, smears his blood.
Through his desperation, Esther eventually concedes to help him navigate her mourning attire, reaching around to push under her petticoat, lifting it up teasingly slow to expose her front. She grinds towards him, rubbing her tights-cladded pelvis to his erection. Abaddon pushes it along her tights, and his precum soaks into the sheer fabric. He groans as she slips her thumbs up to her waistband and pulls, putting on a show of sliding her undergarments down for him.
The demon’s tongue darts across his top lip, eyes drinking in the view. The puffy ruffles and layers of her skirt make her frame look even smaller and more limber, and the black and white colors make her look tanner.
She’s perfect, eyes on him as she stretches the fabric around her ankles between her shoes. She has a knowing look, a soft grin; Esther is fully aware that she looks good, knows he can’t resist her. One hand returns to her skirt to lift it further out of the way, positioning herself over his waiting dick.
“Everything for you, my Patron,” she murmurs. Any teasingness to her tone has vanished as she says it, as she bends her knees a bit and presses her chest to him. She sinks onto him cautiously, allowing Abaddon’s tip to breach. Abaddon visualizes two hands in prayer parting just for him, blooming open like petals to allow in his sin.
He nudges her wet folds apart, and she’s so warm, contrast to the cool cemetery air. Warm and wet and fluttering as he pushes into her. He dips once, then out, then back in deeper, piercing through the tightness to stretch and mold her walls around his length.
Her breath stutters as he fills her, and her fingers dig into his shoulders. “Nng,” Esther whines, body stiffening at the intrusion.
Abaddon strokes her sides, soothing.
“Good boy…” she pants. “Easy…” A kiss to the bite mark. “You feel so good.”
To reward her praise, he thrusts, sweetly, and wraps his arms around her. He balances himself against the stone crypt, lifting one leg up to angle himself just right, searching for any spots that elicit more whines and moans from her. She rests against him, the plush of her chest pressing on him delicious. Her face tucks into the crook of his neck, mouth by his ear, so he can feel her breath escape her lips with each push of his hips.
“You’re perfect,” Abaddon tells her, breathy and desperate. “Just perfect. Desecrating holy land for me.” His voice is high, pleased, agonized over the sin she commits for him. Just for him.
“A-Anything, my Lord.” Esther moves with him, helping him press into her just right, twisting her hips so he hits that spot that has her whimpering. “I can feel your energy,” she tells him. “Haa, your power, it burns so good.”
“Fuck…” Abaddon stutters in his rhythm. “If I were in my true form this would break you.”
She seems to like that visage, based on the way her walls tighten and grip around him. It feels so good, and Abaddon rocks them together, gripping her waist to help bounce her.
“Uff!” Esther cries out. “Abby!”
The sound of skin on skin echoes off the stone around them, mixed with the girl’s cries of bliss and Abaddon’s moans of pleasure.
She looks beautiful like this, hair becoming a mess, sweat down her temple, face now thrown back so he can see her biting into her own lip. She keeps her eyes on him, lidded and sultry.
“It’s so good, ahh, Abaddon, my demon, my ruin, my angel!”
He thrust partially hard at that last affectionate nickname.
“You like it when I call you that, don’t you?” teases the girl, a devious look breaking through the pleasure on her face. “My angel?”
All Abaddon can do is growl, a low rumble bubbling in his chest. It strikes something carnal in him. Something ancient and tainted.
“My guardian angel…” she lilts. “You’re taking care of me so well. Answering all my prayers, granting me bliss.”
He fucks her harder, leaning forwards to loll his tongue over her throat. “There is nothing angelic about this,” he groans. Angels don’t steal innocence.”
Esther has a smile on her face, too big, unhinged. She’s eating up his reaction.
“Can you feel it?” Abaddon asks. “Feel me sapping away whatever purity you have left?”
“You can have it all,” Esther says, face red both from exertion and arousal. “I want you to take all of it. Trade me—trade me my devotion for power, trade me grace for hellfire.”
There’s drool pooling down her chin.
Abaddon leans back again to the crypt, letting the back of his head fall against the stone. His thrusts take on a mind of their own, pushing in and out, it's almost like her walls are suckling him, fluttering, squeezing. She’s close.
“You are my favorite acolyte,” the demon chokes. “My true follower. One day, when I return to Hell, I will make you my Queen.”
Esther shakes, her knees nearly buckling, and Abaddon takes that as his queue to shift their positions, flipping their places. He attacks her lips, giving her no time to answer, a flurry of bites, kisses, tongue. He fucks her hard, pressing up into her g-spot, turning her into a further mess. When their faces finally break away she wails, filling the air with praise and declarations of loyalty.
“You’re so good, you’re so good! Abby! Right there! Don’t stop! Good boy, good job, you’re perfect!”
It feels like squeezing his heart. Each word penetrates him right back, like a dagger to his spirit. It aches, beautifully, strikes like a lightening bolt and jolts each of his movements.
Like a dog, he whines, whimpers, howls for her. “Esther! My Esther!” Quieter, desperately, under his breath he chants, “Mine, mine… meus, meus…”
“I-I’m coming…!” Esther squirms, arching against him, trembling. He feels her core grip and ungrip, and it drags him into his own undoing. Abaddon pushes hard, filling her all the way up, deep as he can go, perfectly into her. “Don’t stop,” Esther warbles. “Keep going!”
He grinds her through it, jabbing incessantly at that spot inside of her until he reaches his own release, painting her insides white and hot. Esther scratches down his back, crying his name, “Abaddon! Abaddon! Fuck! Abby!” She trembles around him. “I lo—!” Tears on her face. “I need you!”
Just when he thought he was done her words pull forth another wave of orgasm, and he kisses her again at the pulses throbbing through his cock. Their teeth brush heatedly, viciously. It’s claiming, ungentle, needy. When his tongue runs along the backs of them she bites down, trapping him against her mouth in a fit of possessiveness.
“Ack!” Abaddon grunts. Blood licks down his face, over his chin and congregates in a river across his throat, dripping to stain his pristine collar.
She sucks on him, his blood, her own tongue dancing in swirls to lap at his essence. Her eyes, mere slits, bore into his own. It’s the hottest thing Abaddon has ever experienced. If this body were older and had more stamina, he was pretty sure he would start fucking her again right away, but as it was his dick was wilting, drained and spent. Eventually she releases his tongue at the same time his cock droops from her hole, and she shoves him off of her with a devilish smile—toothy, stained red.
Its cockiness is a bit broken by her tears.
She wipes her eyes with her sleeve, then her mouth and chin, smudging the last of her lipgloss and Abaddon’s blood across it. They’ve ruined their outfits. The demon is sure Esther is secretly pleased. If anything, it may have been her plan all along.
Chest heaving up and down, she leans back on the crypt, pulling her skirt up for Abaddon to get a view of his dirty work. Slick on her thighs, cum dripping from her core. The expression on her face is somewhere between shy and coy. Eyebrows shifting their positions from pinched to a nervous arch, fingers ever so slightly shaking where she grips her skirt. Air puffs from her lips, pink dusts her pretty cheeks. Her mascara is smudged and dripping down her face where her tears fell. Something inside Abaddon’s chest is cracking.
“Clean me up?” she requests, spreading her quivering knees apart.
Gulping, Abaddon complies, falling to his own knees not unlike how Esther did earlier for him, and scoots towards her. His hands push and spread her thighs, thumbs pulling apart the lips of her pussy, and he dips his tongue into her, cupping it to pull his own seed. Salty. A bit bitter. Mixed with her own sweet and tangy taste. Esther sighs in content, pushing herself to his mouth.
“Good, good,” she says. “Keep going.”
Long strokes with his tongue, he laps up every bit of juice from her. Between each fold, around her clit, which has her putting her hands in his messed hair. She pets him, pleased.
Along the insides of her thighs, sweaty, sticky, there’s so much scent of her it makes Abaddon feel woozy. He nips and kisses her skin every so often, causing Esther's breath to falter. Back to her swollen clit, red and engorged from their previous coitus, he lolls over it, lazily, slowly. Esther’s grip on his hair urges him to pick up the pace, pushing him down, against her, smothering him. He wraps his lips around her and suckles, lashing his tongue from side to side, treating her like a little marble to toy with. She grinds into his face with pleased little noises, moans, whines, praise.
“Ohhh, Abby!”
It’s sore, the bites on his tongue throb and pulse, still bleeding. He has to swallow down her fluids and his own, in more ways than one, to keep from drowning.
“So warm…” Esther observes. “You make such a good dog.”
“Mmph.” Abaddon hitches, breath stuttered against her.
“You’re such a loyal thing. Taking such good care of me.”
Abaddon picks up the tempo of his licking and sucking, closing his eyes, taking in her scent and her palate. The way he can feel her clit twitch beneath his tongue, her legs clench under his grip.
“Do you worship me back?” she queries, scratching behind his ear. “Treasure me?” A bit of that teasing tone returned.
“My witch…” Abaddon groans. “Of course.”
One of his hands slips from her thigh to her pussy, and he replaces his tongue with a thumb to begin eating out her core, tongue pushing deep and desperate, lapping at her walls. He presses rough and hard with the finger, swirling, silently begging another orgasm from her. He wants to feel it.
“Ahn!” Esther cries, bucking. “Yes!”
This position is no place for him. At the feet of a human, obeying her orders. It’s against his nature, against his purposes, but it feels perfectly right. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
Esther’s skin is so soft, the ruffles of her skirt teasing at his forehead, the gentle blow of the graveyard wind, the damp dirt staining his knees. Sweat, slick, blood, cum on his tongue. Perfume, iron, salt, petrichor in his nose. Her nails scrape the skin under his hair.
Abaddon laps eagerly, gladly suffocating in all the sensations.
“My sweet angel, my good boy…” Esther moans. “Don’t stop, I’m so close!”
A few more quirks of his thumb, and his tongue darting in and out of her, has the girl keening and pushing herself roughly against his mouth. He feels her release, feels that fluttering and throbbing of her walls close in on his bloody tongue. Her clit twitches and pulses with each movement, and Abaddon removes his tongue from her hole to sooth over it.
“That’s it…” Abaddon purrs against her. “There we go.”
Esther forcefully grinds against him, hair vice gripped in her fingers, mouth open and head tilted up, a picture of euphoria.
Abaddon cleans the wetness that drools from her, eager, happy to drink it up.
Eventually, her grip on him softens, and he takes that as a message to ease up a bit, slowing his licks down to something more akin to a soothing lather, before he nuzzles into her thigh with a soft nip. Above him, the girl’s breath begins to slow. She’s looking down at him, pleased, gentle. She pets his bangs out of his face.
Abaddon rests there on the ground, licking his lips and closing his eyes. The wind rustles the tree leaves, Esther’s ruffles and bow, their hair. For a moment it feels like the two of them are the only living creatures in existence, before the call of a raven above snaps the demon from that idea.
He feels Esther shift, and when he opens his eyes she’s sliding down the crypt, planting herself down in front of him, shutting her legs. She almost looks shy, pinching her knees together and covering herself up with her skirt.
“I dunno how we’re gonna explain this to my mom,” she says with the nervousness of a child who’d been caught with their hand in a cookie jar, chocolate chips melted into the corners of their mouth. “You have blood all over you.”
“That’s normal for me. It’s more unusual on you, if only a little.” Abaddon points to her chin, her neck, and the pink stains on the ruffles of her bow. “You really bit the Hell out of me.” He sort of sounds like he has a mouth full of cotton, his tongue swollen from her assault.
Esther purses her lips, thinking. “We’ll have to make something up…” The girl looks around. “Maybe we can say something attacked us.” She shuffles, moving to pull her tights back up, shifting away from the demon as if her decency matters. “Fix your pants…” she mutters. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
Abaddon grumbles as he redresses himself. He buckles his belt too loose, doesn’t bother tucking his shirt.
“C’mon, man.” Esther catches Abaddon by the collar and yanks him closer, fingers pinching and tugging at the fabric like she can bully it back into decency. She pulls his lapels straight, shoves stray fabric back into his waistband, smooths, resmooths, tightens—brushes him off, like the blood might fall away with a light touch or scolding. “At least try,” she grumps. “Stand up.”
He obeys, rising with her so she can continue fretting at his clothes. Esther’s thumb swipes at the dried blood on his cheek. It only spreads, rust-red against pale skin and white shirt. She swears under her breath, drags her sleeve across it instead, making it worse. “Crap. My mom is going to kill me. I didn’t mean to get so intense with it,” she laments, as the graveyard looms quiet around them.
At the end of her fussing she tucks some strands of Abaddon’s hair from his face, behind his ear, and then rests her hand there. Abaddon leans into her touch without hesitation, cheek warming against her palm. His eyes flutter, almost closing. “I liked it,” he says simply, then straightens the ribbon around her neck.
Her mouth quirks into half a grin. “You would.” In return she reaches up and adjusts his bowtie again, hiding the bite on him. “Maybe a ghoul.”
“What?”
Esther laughs curtly. “As an excuse.” She nods. “We’ll say we met a ghoul. They hang out in graveyards. It’s plausible.”
Abaddon considers this, glancing around at the headstones, the overgrown earth. “It is… a possibility.”
“Exactly,” Esther affirms. “Totally possible, and totally why we’re all stained up.”
She holds her nod, head tilted down, as her mouth begins to strain and her shoulders tense.
“Oh, she is not going to buy that at all,” the girl relents, deflating like a balloon. “Dammit, we are so fucked.”
She’s probably right. At this point, he’ll never get that yogurt. Though, deep down, he thought it was worth it.