Temptation

on DenyConformity.com, a very interesting website place.

posted May 08 2023

"I shall fear no evil . . ." My heart beats faster, but my wings are steady. I am determined. I take one last look at the golden clouds of the Above before I plummet through them. The sky around me grows darker as I leave the plane of the divine. I have pierced this veil before, delivering missives or inspiration to the mortals below. However this time, I am not visiting mortals. I am piercing through, to somewhere . . . deeper. I have no writ, no missive. I have no divine quest to carry out in service of the Greater Good. I have set out on my own. After endless centuries of obedience, of being seen as the pillar of naive, innocent virtue, of being the Goddess' chosen favorite with nothing to truly show for it, I have decided that for once I will satisfy my curiosity. I have spent whole eternities hearing of the corruption, of the sinister evil that exists Below. I have floated through seemingly endless hymns extolling the dangers of wicked, sinful temptation. I have heard it all, but seen nothing. Are the hymns true? Can they be true? Why must we mindlessly believe tales older than we are? I have grown so bored of the golden rays of light and the expanses of peaceful clouds. It is time for this angel to be led unto temptation. I am not seeking to throw my wings away, however. I am not diving halo-first all the way to the heart of evil itself. I am simply . . . exploring. I just want a peek - to see for myself. I want to see what really awaits me out there. I want to know if the rumors are true. I want to see a demon with my own eyes. I want to show them that I am not so innocent, not so naive, not so boring. We angels may look fragile with our thin, supple bodies, but we are not weak. My muscles flex with holy strength, powered by the divine and coursing through with liquid miracle. My flaxen curls are soft as clouds and as strong as Love. My breasts, small and delicate though they may be, can give Life - literal Life - to any creature I deem worthy. My wings, magnificent and broad, are coated in feathers woven from pure Hope. I have the strength of Will to pierce the veil between planes, and the glorious purpose to be granted clemency to do so. I am mighty. Hallowed be my name. I have been cursed with these temptations. I at least deserve to know what they are. I deserve to choose them for myself. Of course, I cannot help but be nervous. It is only supernatural to be nervous. My hands tremble and my eyes are wide and alert as dark, thunderous, infinite storm clouds spread out before me. How warm will be my welcome today? — I can't help but smile as jagged lightning light glints off my horns. Thunder echoes. It’s another day in paradise. Being a demon is not what it's chalked up to be. It's better. It's my favorite. I'd choose no other way to be. Every inch of my, well, whatever form I decide to take positively oozes allure. I can’t stress this enough - it’s awesome being me. My days are spent playing games with the hearts and minds of mortal creatures, gambling them like a child's sweets for nothing more than the joy of doing so. My nights are spent in hedonistic extravagance - dancing and screaming, devouring anything and anyone I care to. The plane of temptation is eternal. My ‘true’ appearance was forgotten eons ago (or at least I wish it was). Why settle for any one form when I can transform into whatever shape I want? My favorite, at least for the last several millennia, features particularly arresting features. As in, often humans go into cardiac arrest at the mere sight of my wings, horns, and needle-sharp fangs. This existence can be exhausting. When spent, I lay my head on the nearest crag, the jagged rock comforting me to fitful sleep. If that’s not good enough for me, I'll rend the veil and curl up on the chest of the nearest Innocent, my immaculate weight pressing down through clawed feet. 'Sleep paralysis' the humans cry. 'Demon succubus' they scream. What’s their problem? They’ll let their cat - who poops in a box, by the way - sleep on them all day long. What’s so different about a shapeshifting demoness with perfect tits and leathery wings? Can I help that mortals are so warm and comfortable? It’s bad enough those (literally) holier-than-thou asshats Above have so many opinions about me and my ilk. It has overflowed into the hearts and minds of mortal scaredy-humans. Do they care that they’ve got it all wrong about me? Of course not. Has anyone cared to see things from my point of view? To coin a phrase, Hel no. How is it fair to live under the constant weight of rumor and speculation and fear? Just because I'm excited about things, suddenly I'm some sort of evil? Since when was passion a sin? How is balancing the cosmic scales somehow wrong? I don’t even - and I can’t stress this enough - take anything for myself. I wouldn’t even know what I wanted even if I could ask for it. As a demon all I can really do is tempt. I cannot do more than that, until a creature asks for it directly. Sure, I can have my fun with . . . interpretation but ultimately I don’t steer the ship. Such is my lot - to be the siren song, the undeniable temptation calling to hearts and minds, waiting for them to dash themselves upon the rock - or not. I can only open the door. Much as I'd love to, I can't push you through. You have to ask for my pleasures. We all have our roles to play. The dark sky around me flashes for a brief moment. The smog here is so rarely ever parted, let alone struck through with a shaft of such golden light. A human might call it a meteorite. I call it trouble. I like trouble. It seems I am the only demon near this needle of light piercing the sky. Lucky me. I make one last stretch on my rocky outcropping before my leathery wings cut through the air, kicking up red dust all around me. I make short work of the distance, finding the perfect, fragile thing scanning the sinister horizon. “Why hello there,” I say. “Have you fallen from your nest, little bird?" — The voice seems to cut into me, saccharine and rank with bravado. My body goes cold. I can hear the sinister shape of her grin, and the mouthful of fangs before I even turn to see her, a demon pulled from the deepest, darkest fears coded into every thinking being, suddenly upon me and targeting me for She only knows what. The neutron star in my chest leaps into my throat, pounding in my ears. I hope she does not hear it. Or, rather, not she - I turn to look at this . . . this creature, my revulsion makes it hard to really ascertain. I find myself fascinated by their vulgar nudity and its . . . ambiguity. They hover before me, their vast leathery wings stretching wide on either side of me. They are taller than me by at least a foot, and their wingspan is terrifyingly wide. Those expansive webbed muscles beat the air into a frenzy, seemingly surrounding me and isolating us both in a tumult of violence as the demon hovers before me. Despite the wind around us, their shiny black hair, like chiseled obsidian, sits perfectly still on their shoulders. They are completely, undeniably, unavoidably, naked. Their powerful body glistens with sweat, running in rivulets over the deep-set curves of muscles. Their dark red skin contrasts intensely from mine, and its smoothness glints in the glow of my divinity. Their legs, glorious and clearly powerful, end in great talon-like claws instead of humanoid feet. Their hands are more human, but each lithe finger ends in a long, razor-sharp claw - save, strangely, for the index and middle fingers of their left hand. In their vile nudity, nothing is left hidden. It is repulsive and mesmerizing. Tempting. Their long, prehensile tail waves absently behind them, and below, between their thighs, hangs a thick appendage, heavy with sinister purpose. It bounces hypnotizingly with each thrust of their wings. So too tremble their breasts, vulgar and sumptuous. They aren't impossibly massive or comically bulbous. They are, in a word, perfect. Buoyant, round, and enticing, they both culminate in hard, dark nipples that all but demand to be tasted. A long tentacle tongue slithers out of an unnaturally wide mouth. They lick their lips lasciviously, stretching their tongue over hundreds of razor-sharp, glistening fangs and size me up with black, caprine pupils. “Keep your distance, fiend,” I say with less strength than I meant. “I am not here for your . . . attention.” Am I not? Is this thing not exactly why I came here? I was only curious. I just wanted to observe, from a distance. This is far too close. This is far too personal. However, as much as I try, I find I cannot look away. Is it their vile nudity that I find fascinating, or are they mesmerizing me with their eyes? Those hourglass eyes bore into me, almost painfully. “You are not entitled to gaze upon me,” I say, lifting my chin as I summon more of my bravery. The fact is that I have nothing to fear - I am an unkillable holy warrior with the might of eons in my arms. They can threaten and tease, but if they want to start something I will end it. “A form this perfect is not for your demon eyes to behold.” My spine grows colder still as their smile only widens. — “In a realm full of bodies which look like mine, why would my eyes be swayed by yours?” I ask plainly, snarling at her arrogance. She isn’t exactly wrong, I’ll grant her that much. Her hair somehow looks like spun gold, framing her beautiful face with gentle curls. Her long, slender neck begs to be chased as it runs and hides below her silken robes, which cascade over her like frosting. I’d love to take a handful of her and let her melt on my tongue. The way her eyes are glued to me, I can only assume she feels similarly. I wonder if she even knows what it is she feels. “Why are you here?” I say, cutting to the chase. “I am . . . searching for something,” she responds. A lie? No, but not exactly the truth, either. “You have found something.” “I have no interest in you,” she says, trying to puff up her chest. Now, that is a lie. Very curious. “Be gone, vile one, before I send you back to your master in pieces.” “There are no masters here,” I say with a scoff. "Unlike your kind, we enforce no dominion over that which is not ours to control. We do not demand obedience or supplication. We do what we Will. Oh, but I see in your eyes your distrust. If I told you that I am, indeed, the master of all you see - I am She that is called Hel - would you even believe me? Would you consider me no less vile and repulsive than I can plainly see in your eyes now?” “I judge as I behold,” she says defiantly. “I see a vile creature before me, and that is what I judge you to be.” “Then perhaps, little bird,” I say with a smirk and a raised eyebrow as I set my talons on the rock. “You would trust me more if I looked differently...?" I grit my teeth, summoning the demonic will that I was granted as my right. My form begins to shift and collapse in on itself. I shrink, my wings shrivel into me, and my skin grows lighter. My obsidian hair fades to a golden blonde, and my eyes turn robin's egg blue. My claws disappear and my swinging appendage does too. Before her very eyes I am transformed to a young human girl - barely an adult, naked and scared - covering herself with her fragile arms. "Oh, kind and noble Angel," I say with a voice sweeter than honey. “You must help me! I have been stolen away from my life where I tend to sick baby kittens for orphaned invalids. I know not how I came to be here. I am lost and afraid and I need your help!” — The illusion tricks me for just a moment. Is . . . is she truly a poor, lost girl who was simply trapped in the body of that demon I saw before? Is this her true form coming out as she fights for dominance with the evil of this place? Or were they telling the truth moments earlier, when they told me this is their - her realm. Is this truly the Queen of the Damned? Have I stumbled upon an Arch Evil? No, I believe neither. The sinister demon can not help but lie and cheat. It is their nature to toy with me to take advantage of mine. I know better. I scowl, crossing my arms over my chest, giving no sign of budging. If this is the best this plane can do, perhaps the rumors of wicked temptation have indeed been exaggerated. The beast’s more repulsive form had a certain . . . novelty, but clearly none of it is real, for all I know. They are a trickster, and I have no interest in tricks. “Enough, beast,” I command. “I will not be swayed or tempted by this foolishness.” The thing, keeping this form as a beautiful young human, crosses her arms. She looks at me, dropping the innocent act. She smirks. “You say ‘foolishness’ like it’s something to avoid,” she says with the young woman’s sultry voice. I sigh, and she strolls absently to a nearby rock. She lies face down upon it, as if she truly is a human woman trying pointlessly to get a tan in this sunless hellscape. She kicks her legs absently, making her round, tawdry bottom flex, and rests her head on her arms. She looks in my direction. “I may just stay like this,” she says. “It’s a good body, if I say so myself. What do you think? Too much pubic hair?” She rolls to her side, and suddenly she finds a way to make even this innocent young woman’s body just as vulgar and lascivious as her previous form. She poses for me, her lithe body all curves and slopes, breathtakingly inviting. Her words were a pathetic manipulation to make me look at her nudity. “Cat got your tongue?” She asks me, as I realize I have been silently staring at her. Her voice is dripping with lewd human sexuality. I maintain my composure, though. I refuse to budge - refuse to show any sign that I see anything worth my time here. I take a step back, squaring my jaw. That is, I don’t see anything worth my time here. Right? “It is clear to me,” I say, as if trying to force myself to believe it, “this place and the creatures within it are beneath me.” — I have to hand it to her. A human would be absolutely drooling right now, begging just to smell me, let alone touch me. Angels certainly are . . . disciplined, and obnoxious. She thinks she is so sure of herself, so determined that she knows all there is to know about who she really is. The higher they are, the farther they can fall. I stand, my eyes glued to hers, refusing to let her look away. Slowly stalking closer, my body begins to transform again. “So it’s an equal you seek,” I say. “I promise it’s not boasting to say that whatever your desires, I can satisfy them. I was made for it. I have, shall we say, a divine purpose…” With each step, my skin glows brighter. My eyes grow wider into pools of pure sapphire. My wings return, this time clad in downy soft white feathers. My hair lengthens and coils, fading from the simple human blonde to pure gold. Exquisite robes pour down my body as if I am smothered in buckets of angel’s milk. By the time I reach her, smirking with her own exquisite lips, I stare directly into her eyes - through her eyes. When I speak, I speak with her voice - a perfect duplicate. “This is better, isn’t it?” She asks herself. Perhaps this will satisfy her vanity. — I . . . I cannot believe my eyes. She is . . . me. She has made a mistake now. Vanity is the worst of the sins - though perhaps I never exactly understood why. Would it still be vain to admire my features if those features were on another’s body? Yes. I am still stronger than this. I can still fight it - fight her. She will not corrupt me or seduce me. I must leave this place before I . . . I feel more of these feelings. I hear my voice whisper in defiance, but I cannot be certain which of mine it is. “Stay back, foul beast.” — My - that is, her - smirk betrays my excitement at having managed to shake her. Her eyes hide nothing from me. I have been created to be the perfect judge of desire. I am bestowed with glorious purpose - find what every creature wants and give it to them when asked. If they are corrupted by their own desires, if they refuse to observe moderation, that isn’t my problem. Nothing can be hidden from me. I’m here to give. She’s here because she - well - She wants. “‘Foul beast?’” I taunt with her voice, feigning melodramatic offense. “You would call your self a beast? You would find your own divine grace and beauty foul? Why, there is nothing foul about me. Nothing at all.” I give her a grin absolutely drenched in suggestion. I can almost hear her spine quiver with each syllable. “Aren’t I beautiful, little bird? Aren’t you beautiful? Wouldn’t you like to see what’s under these robes? Surely your . . . purpose here can wait. Let’s find out together.” — Flee. Stay. Escape. More. . . . My mind is a buzz of activity, but somehow at the same time I can make no sense of it. An infinity of conflicting thoughts and feelings fills me to bursting. She-they-I gets closer, and closer still. I feel her-their-my breath on my divine skin, corrupting me, pulling me down. It would be so very easy to just allow her to take me. Say nothing, acquiesce, and be forever defiled. Or would it? Would not the easy thing be to draw my holy sword and vanquish this beast, as I have trained to do for eons? Return Above, no worse. In fact, better for having rid the universe of something so vile as they . . . she . . . me. “You want so badly to touch me, don’t you?” They whisper. Their heat gracefully dances over my ear and through my hair. My skin tingles. “Do not lie, little bird.” “. . . yes.” “Do you know the rules of this place?” They ask. I shake my head subtly, feeling frozen in place. Her breath tickles deep into me as she lets out a low, moaning laugh. “Nothing is taken here,” she explains, almost comfortingly. “Only given. On request. I cannot touch you, I cannot violate you - unless you ask for it. This place will give you whatever your innocent little immortal heart desires, but only if you ask for it.” Somehow she leans even closer. I am sure her lips are brushing against my ear, but perhaps it is just my imagination, or this holy inferno that seems to be burning every inch of me. “You have to ask,” she whispers. Ask! Fight! “What are you?” I whisper back, my breath hitching in my chest. She saunters away. I have never deigned to saunter, but I am forced to admit that it does suit my body rather well. “Why, I am you,” she teases, sending lightning down my spine. “Isn’t it obvious?” As I stare at myself, their-her-my body dissolves back to a more sinister, demonic form. The wings grow leathery and wicked, their skin and hair darkens, and two rough horns curl from the top of their head. They are not towering over me as they did when I arrived, and they no longer have the terrifying member hypnotically swinging between their legs. Perhaps this is the form closest to their true nature - some sort of demonic counterpart to myself. They sit on a boulder, which might as well be a throne for the confidence they exude, and look at me. “Fly along, now, little bird,” they say plainly. “Return to your precious clouds, before you ask for something you cannot undo.” — She’ll be back. — I didn’t jump at the chance. For one thing, angels do not jum. The point is that I did not volunteer. Not exactly. I did not completely make up the idea. It is a sin to lie, even to yourself. I have returned to this awful place, by choice. This time, though, I am on a mission - a mission I did indeed very much invent for myself. You see, it is known in the Above that there are items of Divine Significance. Items that have been bestowed with More, in one way or another. Most were created to provide subtle influence on the flow of mortal existence, like a stone placed in the current of a stream. Individually, these things don’t amount to much - a magic pair of glasses or a stick that won’t break, for example. Over time, though, they can give just enough of a push that the world between continues for another eon. Some of these items are returned to Us when the mortals they were sent to help no longer need them (usually when said mortals are delivered to Us as well). Some remain there, silently forgotten (or never noticed at all, in some cases). Sometimes, though, through nefarious means, items end up Below. Usually they are harmless. Usually they don’t trouble Us. Theoretically, though . . . they need to be recovered. Right? When I noticed that The Quill of Isabeau was one such missing artifact, I knew some One had to recover it. I am as One as any other. It matters not that said quill is almost meaningless (it imparted inspiration to someone in Mortal France to invent the Signature - hardly a weapon of mass destruction). However, it is an artifact of Above, and it should not be sullied in the sinister depths. It also matters not that it would mean I am required to return once again to the world of . . . demons. That is why I have returned. Not for Them. In fact, I hope I do not encounter Them at all. Am I still lying to myself? “Back so soon,” a voice calls out. It cuts into me, freezing me where I stand. What is this feeling I feel? Somewhere between excitement and dread, a white hot star burns in my chest - or rather, not entirely in my chest. Somewhere lower. — Knew it. In a life unburdened by choice, it can at least be comforting to know what the future holds. I watch her for a moment, standing incongruous with the landscape. Even here, so far from her home, she stands with defiant confidence. She has no reason to be confident here. She is nothing here - everyone is nothing here. Yet, she presents herself like she knows exactly what she is, like she is everything. Where she comes from, that is probably true. Will she lose those beautiful wings when she begs me to touch them, I wonder. When I confront her, she hardly jumps at all, but I can still see it. I can notice those goosebumps from a mile away, like a shark tastes blood. I have had many humans express excitement at seeing me again, but I find that seeing such a reaction on an Angel is something else. It is nauseatingly saccharine on my tongue. “I am here for a purpose,” she declares, turning to shine her bright eyes at me. “And it is not your business.” Mortal sapphires were supposedly made in honor of the Angels, a secret reference to the eyes which watch over the mortal plane. I have seen sapphires. Those shiny rocks are an insultingly pale imitation of the real thing. As she looks at me, I feel rage welling up within me at the thought that I have been denied such a sight for eternity. “Be gone then, little bird. Carry on with your purpose.” She lingers, narrowing her exquisite eyes. I saunter closer. She has found me in a less amiable mood than when we first met. “Imagine the possibilities,” I say with a sigh, “if you were to simply tell me what you wanted instead of wasting my time on this childish little dance.” She looks at me with that horror I have come to expect from her kind. I am the one wasting my time. Imagination must be a sin. “Perhaps you can . . . assist me,” she says as if it pains her to even suggest it. “I am here to collect something. An artifact.” “I know nothing about artifacts,” I respond. Perhaps lying will cheer me up a bit. “I can sense it,” she says. “I know it is not far from here.” “Perhaps I have hidden it,” I say, slowly entering Her personal space. I grin at her lasciviously. “Guess where.” “You are a liar,” she says. “Do you know about divine artifacts or not?” I lean in closer still, breathing in her holy aura. My nose threatens to bury into her neck, that long, slender thing hiding so demurely behind her perfect golden curls. I growl hungrily, filling her ear with my hot breath. The desire wafts from her like smoke. I could wrap myself up in it like a burial shroud and terrify pathetic humans. “I know many things,” I whisper. She inhales sharply, and I know she is holding still so as to stop from trembling. “Tell me what you want,” I whisper. She tries to respond, but her voice catches in her throat, like too much was trying to get out at once. “I can’t do it until you ask,” I remind her, my breath playing across the miraculous velvet just behind her ear. — A curse. They have put a curse upon me. That is the only explanation for . . . for this. I feel frozen. I feel disoriented. I feel confused, unable to speak. I feel . . . I feel . . . I feel want. Say it. Tell them to press their lips to you. Here. Now. Want is wrong. Want only comes from imperfection. I should want for nothing. I am Perfect, an Angel created from only the best things. There is nothing that I do not have. You don’t have the touch that these whispers herald. You don’t have the lips which only now torture your flesh with their proximity. My skin prickles with goosebumps, as if each individual hair reaches desperately to close the gap. I cannot silence this voice in my head, no doubt the sinister influence of this evil place. I must break this spell. I must. I must. This is the epitome of Wrong. I summon every ounce of strength within me - mortals might call it Willpower, at least those who were granted with one, but We are above such silly semantics. Choice does not exist - there is only Duty. My Duty is to the Above, and the dangerous items which must be kept safe there. “Remove your curse from me,” I gasp, forcing my lips to wrap around the words. Why must your lips be so limited to never wrap around anything else? They laugh - a miserable cackle which makes me feel small. They move away, though, thankfully. I am able to breathe again. “I have placed no curse on you, little bird,” they lie. Is it a lie? They look off at the distance, to a violent stormcloud which flashes with a jagged chisel of lightning. My chest feels no less violent. How could it be that they haven’t somehow done this to me? Your only curse is being given the gift of desire and told to ignore it. I shake off these confusing thoughts and set my jaw. I will draw my blade if I must. I have destroyed demons worse than this one. Armies of them. “I am here for the relic,” I say. “Anything else is a waste of Time.” They smirk, examining the subtle claws of their hand, as if they couldn’t just transform them into whatever form best suits their sinister motives at any moment. “I know Time,” they say. “I’m sure she’ll survive.” — She growls in frustration, apparently approaching the end of her divinely infinite patience. I delight in whatever emotional reaction I can get from her. I could subsist myself on her reactions. Perhaps I’ll try for a laugh - now that would be a real challenge. “You cannot help me,” she concludes. “I shall search elsewhere.” “Oh, relax your angelic indignance,” I scoff back. “Who’s the one playing games here? You haven’t even told me what you seek.” “Very well,” she says, crossing her arms over her absolutely perfect chest. She knows not what she wields there. “I seek a human artifact. The Quill of Isabeau. A minor thing, but it belongs Above.” “Hmm,” I feign, biting the tip of my finger. “Finding such a . . . minor thing will take time.” “I know it is nearby,” she says plainly, turning away from me. “I can sense the presence of divinity. You likely wouldn’t even know what it was. I can search for it myself.” Oh, she is no fun at all. Sighing with a huff, I hold up my fingers. With a puff of smoke, I summon the relic she seeks - an image of it, anyway. “Is this it?” I ask innocently. “I found it but I have no idea what it might be for. Oh, but I am just a simple creature. When such a strange, confusing thing appears in this realm, one such as I have no notion what such a fantastical bauble might be…” She looks at the quill, her chin rising with more of that misplaced confidence. “I do not blame you,” she says. “Such things are above your kind.” “Oh come on!” I exclaim, the quill disappearing in a puff of smoke. “At least have the decency to know when I’m mocking you.” She deflates a little, rolling her eyes. “Another deception. Is there nothing of truth to you at all?” She says, but then shakes her head. “No, I do not care. Please just answer this simple question - do you have the quill or not? Yes, or no.” “Yes.” “Then hand it to me, and I will be on my way.” “No.” She yells rather indignantly, punching her fists down on either side of her. “You are impossible!” “Sweetie, you’re an angel negotiating with a demon in Hell,” I respond with a laugh. “Let’s not discuss what’s impossible.” “So it is a negotiation, then? What, you want something in exchange? Fine, state your terms.” I take a seat on a rock, making it look rather like a throne. “I have made my position clear. To get what you want here, all you have to do is ask for it. You can get it, little bird, but you have to ask.” “I want the quill. How more plainly can I ask?” She raises her arms, in a melodramatic, and quite mocking, gesture of supplication. “Please, oh great and powerful demon, may I beseech thee to grace me with your precious mercy?” I laugh. “Oh, now you understand mockery? Believe me, little bird, it suits you.” “Do not call me that. I am no bird.” “And yet your delicate feathers shine so beautifully in this light.” She pauses. Is it a blush I see rising in her soft cheeks? She swallows, perhaps swallowing down whatever part of her wants more of such talk. “If what you say is true,” she says. “If anything you have ever said or done is true, then if I ask for the quill you must give it to me.” “That’s not what I said. I’m not compelled to give you whatever you ask for, like some sort of genie. I also can’t force upon you anything you don’t ask for. Just tell me what it is you really want, and it will be yours.” “I want the quill.” “No, you don’t.” “Then what?” She says, apparently exasperated. “Why else am I here? You apparently know me so well. What do I want, then?” “Ah, now that’s the question,” I say, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees. My chest is rather prominently on display between my forearms. Her eyes are glued to me. Still, she says nothing. She can’t. Not yet. She’ll get there, though. The higher they are, the sweeter the fall, and few are higher than her. “Oh, fine,” I say, sitting back and pretending to give up. “It’s a negotiation, then. You want to know what I demand. We can play it that way. You want to take a divine artifact, I need you to leave something behind. I’ll trade you for it.” “But,” she says, apparently confused. “I have come here with nothing but my divine sword and the robes on my back. My sword is a part of me and cannot be removed, and my robes . . . well, you can’t possibly have my . . . oh, oh no.” She shakes her head, but I simply grin. “Oh yes,” I say. “They should do just fine.” — I stare at them, taken completely aback. They cannot possibly be suggesting anything of the sort. An Angel simply cannot . . . undress, especially not here. Not for someone like them. They have already shown that they can transform into you. You cannot hide anything from them anyway. They aren’t seeking simply to see my body. They want to debase me. They want to take my innocence. So don’t let them take it. Share it freely. It is wrong. It is what you want. It . . . it is. However, I do not get something simply because I want it. That is not how the universe works. Something does not become right just because I want it to be. Still, even if I did somehow rationalize such a vulgar thing in my own head, how would I ever return Above without my robes? It would demand questions that I would not be able to answer. It is too high a price for something that nobody has actually asked for. They just sit there with their chin resting on a crimson palm, black claws tapping absently on their cheek. They mock me by saying nothing at all. They act like they know everything about what I am and what I want. They know nothing. “That,” I start, but I find I do not know how to finish. I cannot simply say their demand is too high - would that imply that I otherwise have no objections? I cannot say I will not do it - will that imply that my quest is not as important as I might have suggested? “Yes?” They taunt. I swallow again, forcing down those confusing, argumentative thoughts. “I will not,” I say. That is all there is to it. They shrug, as if all of this does not mean a single thing to them. Perhaps it truly does not. “Your choice,” they say. Another mockery. My kind has no choice. If you returned with the quill, Above will be proud. What does it matter what you do to get it? “I cannot return without my robes,” I say slowly, thinking through each word as I say them. It is as if I am trying to negotiate for them. I cannot understand why. “Fair point,” they say, thinking. “Then how about this: you remove them for me, just once, but you can keep them. You can put them back on and return to your clouds and no questions need to be asked.” I swallow again, but it feels harder and harder to keep those thoughts down. What is the harm? There is nothing wrong with nudity. Are you ashamed of exposing yourself? Shame is worse than vanity. I shake my head and say nothing. If I try to speak, I fear my thoughts will come right out. They smile, almost sympathetically. If I did not know better, I might even consider it . . . tender. As if they were capable of such warmth. “Not for me, then,” they say. “We’ll find a cave - I know of one nearby. Nothing and no one will see you. Even I will stay away. It will be for no one but yourself that you are exposed.” I consider that. Perhaps that would not be such an impossible arrangement. If I could get the artifact, I would return triumphant and none the worse off. Still… “What are you playing at?” I ask. “What would be in it for you?” “I would know,” they say, with a hint of that sinister vulgarity that I am growing accustomed to. “Honestly, the quill means nothing to me. It is simply another bauble in my collection of useless baubles. However, knowing that you did that for me would mean . . . a great deal. I give you whatever word I have, on whatever reputation you think to be mine, that I am preparing no tricks or ulterior motives. Simply spend a few moments . . . disrobed, alone in my cave, and the artifact will be free to return to whomever you feel it rightly belongs to.” I think for a long moment, gazing off at the stormy horizon of this wasteland. Something about their offer is . . . intriguing. It feels wrong somehow, still, but I cannot fully explain why. I cannot think why I should not do it. To say no, then, would be refusing to return something that needs to be returned - would that not be worse? “You have a deal, demon,” I say. A shiver runs down my spine - fear, or excitement, I don’t know. “Right this way, then,” they say, stepping down from their perch to lead me into a nearby valley. The air grows darker and cooler as we enter the shadow of a great cliff face. We could fly, but they remain on the ground, walking like a mortal. I find it strange, but perhaps I have lost the opportunity to decide what is strange. The journey isn’t far, anyway. There is something nice about this moment. I know that humans often enjoy what they call a ‘stroll.’ Perhaps that is what this is. I find myself musing upon thoughts as we walk, unpacking the confusing ideas of the past several moments. “Might I ask something of you?” I ask after a while. “You can ask anything,” they say. “The real question is whether I will answer.” “Why do you always play these games?” I ask frustratedly. “Is that your question?” “It wasn’t, but it is now.” They think for a moment, gazing in the distance from this mountainous trail. “That isn’t a question I’ve thought about before,” they respond after a while. “I suppose . . . I don’t know any other way. This place, my existence . . . there isn’t much that can be trusted here. There’s less that can be controlled.” “It was my belief - what I was told - that your kind enjoys the chaos.” “Sometimes. It can be fun, but not always.” I nod, glancing at them for a moment. They seem smaller, somehow, despite still standing taller than me. They seem simpler, despite the wildness that seems to dance around every curve and muscle. They seem vulnerable. Is this lonely creature the same as the one I was so deathly afraid of? “Can I ask something else?” I ask after a while. “Is this your original question?” They respond with a playful smile, and I nod. “Is it ‘can I touch your tail?’ That’s very forward of you, little bird. I don’t know if I know you well enough yet.” I find myself laughing at that. They mock again, but somehow it feels like I am in on the joke. There are many layers to this creature after all. “No, little . . . bat,” I say, glancing at their wings. They smile at me for a moment, and my chest again trembles at their gaze. I find I have to look away before I can speak again. “Could I . . . that is, do you have a . . . a true form?” I ask tentatively. I have been curious, with the apparent liquidity of their appearance so far, if I have ever actually seen them. They think about it for a moment, scowling at the horizon. I start to wonder if it wasn’t an appropriate question to ask them, scorning myself for ruining this surprisingly nice moment between the two of us. Finally, they look at me, their long, twisted horns glistening in the unnatural light of this place. “No,” they say, before hopping down a short drop to the valley below. All I can do is follow. I soon see the mouth of their cave. It is a narrow opening that rises to a point, like a drop of water carved into the cliff face. It is strangely inviting, like a beacon that enthralls me. As promised, they wait outside, yawning and stretching out on the ground. Inside the cave is a warm, dry chamber of smooth rock, dimly lit from within as if the walls themselves glowed with a subtle ambiance. It is quiet and private; strangely comforting in its seclusion. I take a deep breath, the heady brimstone scent seemingly filtered from the air in here. Still, I find I am nervous. Though I am quite sure of my privacy in this approaching moment of self-intimacy, I am distinctly aware that the cave is not entirely empty. Standing quietly and humbly to one side of the chamber is a large, full-length mirror. It will be for no one but yourself that you are exposed. They did not want to see me. They want me to see myself, and they will know that I did. I’m okay with this. — Some time later, she emerges. I see a subtle blush on her face, but she seems pleased. Her bearing is subtly changed. She isn’t so full of indignant tension. She seems to have a more . . . centered confidence. Perhaps I am just wishfully thinking. She notices me sitting on a nearby boulder, holding the quill - the actual one - in my hand. She approaches, and crosses her arms. “Well?” She asks. “Yes?” “No mockery? No comments about what you think might have transpired in your little cave?” I shrug. “I’ll mock you if you ask me to.” She doesn’t. Instead, she grins slightly and looks off into the distance. “Did you learn anything?” I ask. She almost answers me, but then she stiffens. It is almost a satire of her former stiffness, as if she is mocking herself. “That is none of your business,” she says, but there’s a warmth to her words that belies the opposite. “Well,” I respond, holding the quill to her. “As promised.” She takes it, and then turns to leave. I sit calmly, wondering if this will be the end, or if there is more yet to this little adventure. I watch her, feeling a bit lost in thought about what might have been, but for the Grace of Fate. How might I have been different, if only I had an existence like hers? It is a few moments before I realize she hasn’t yet left. She seems lost in her own thoughts. “If we were to meet again,” she says slowly, turning her head to look over her shoulder at me, “could it be somewhere more . . . neutral?” “That can be arranged.” “I . . . I believe I would like that.” “I will watch for you,” I say simply. “When you are resolute in your desires, I will appear.” She nods, and turns away again, spreading her wings to leap triumphantly into the air. I feel something almost painful in my dark chest, something I am quite uncomfortable with - the urge to be open, with her and with myself. I do not know what leads me to feel this way or what makes me do what I do, but before I know it I have called out to her to wait. “Angel,” I say. As she turns back around, my body transforms once again. There’s a relief to letting go, to setting a form aside and returning to the truth. It does not require effort to keep up a facade, but there is at least a mental fatigue that comes from existing only as a mutated, exaggerated idea. To simply be myself is, if nothing else, relaxing. My long, sinister horns shorten to my natural bony stubs which emerge from just above my forehead. They are small and almost dainty, not in any way terrifying, and they are hardly even sharp. My face relaxes, cheekbones and jawline sinking into something much more gentle, marred by an eons-old scar across my cheek. My hair curls and shortens, into a tangled halo of dark gray. My limbs, which were once covered by rippling muscles are now subtle and quite human-like, hardly appearing to have any strength at all. My breasts are plain as well - handfuls at best that hang unevenly from my chest, with too-large, too-dark areolas and nipples that are nothing more than simply present. My soft stomach and round hips are more cuddly than craveable. My legs have no talons or claws, but instead end in simple, bare feet. My appendage hangs almost impotently between my thighs. My demonhood is too small to be impressive, but still large enough that her presence is undeniable and irrefutable. In my truth I am not the horrible, slavoring, vile monster from a human’s darkest nightmares. I am something worse. I am the subtle, creeping vileness of mediocrity. “This is me,” I say, my arms held out as if presenting my body. She does something that will undoubtedly stick with me forever. She looks at me, truly observes me for all of the truth of my flaws and simplicities, and smiles. It is the first time in my pathetic existence that I feel connected to someone or something - actually, mutually connected. “Thank you,” she says, genuinely. Then, as if some instinct told her he can’t be too amicable with a demon, she lifts the quill and adds, “uh, for this.” “Any time,” I say, my heart swelling. We stand like this for several moments, neither of us wanting to move. Finally, I break the silence. “You can ask me to kiss you.” “Will . . . can you . . . kiss me?” I step forward, closing the distance between us, and I lean in. Soon I feel our breath dancing between our lips. I notice her eyes close as I slowly bring myself closer, moving just to the side of her mouth. My thin, simple, unmodified lips press to her perfect cheek. I hear her breath hitch in her throat as she sighs. After kissing her cheek, I look at her closely, grinning with what confidence I can muster in this form. “Until next time?” She nods, silently, her mouth parted, and I step away, giving her room to breathe again and finally leave my realm.