Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alrighty folks, 

You have degenerate imaginations, and I (debatably) have the skills to make 'em into oneshots. Of course, I have some rules for the sake of my sanity and your own. 

1.) All kinks, fetishes, dynamics, etc. mentioned in a specific chapter will be listed in the summary accordingly, as to reduce the risk of anyone interacting with material they'd rather not touch. 

2.) I don't kink shame, however if you want me to write some dark shit, it will come with stipulations. 

-When depicting abusive dynamics, I will never ever sugar coat or reduce the harm that said dynamics can have on one's psychological health. If you wanna read the fucked up stuff, you have to read all of it.

-I will not positively depict acts revolving around paraphilic desires. I also can't write IRL Racial Fetishes, Bestiality or anything involving children. Mentions to past trauma or experiences is fine. Everything else is fair game as far as I'm aware but if that changes I'll update this rule chapter immediately

-I can confidently write any fetish/kink that isn't scat or incredibly niche (like universe crossovers), If you're unsure just comment your request anyways and I'll be sure to let you know what I can do. 

3.) Rarepairs are fine, I do not care who it is, the more obscure the better. 

4.) Below is the best format to write your requests in. 

-Paring (who's top/bottom)

-Brief description of plot/setting/buildup if applicable

-Kinks/fetishes you want depicted

If you give me a simple description, I'll take the creative liberty. 

5.) I reserve the right not to write any requests I feel uncomfortable with. I don't write OCs.

6.) I will also happily write soft stuff!

7.) Minors please DNI

Requests will be fulfilled in the order which they're received. Some might take hours; others might take a day or two. 

Happy Requesting 

-Anon Lute

Chapter Text

Emily's fingers trembled as she stumbled through Hell's square, Vox's light cannon had blasted clean through the pearly gates, and hundreds of sinners were now clawing their way into paradise, cackling and looting like they owned the place. She was left down in Hell, watching helplessly as it's population emptied into the only home she'd ever known. A broken chunk of marble scraped against her thigh as she crawled backwards, wings dragging through shattered glass—She couldn't see past her own tears, trying to stifle sobs as the chaos unfolded. The air smelled like gunpowder and spilled liquor, voices warped around her in laughter and screams. Someone's boot kicked her shoulder, shoving her into a pile of smoldering debris, and she barely had time to register the pain before fingers dug into her hair.

"Just my luck," a voice purred, thick with something sticky-sweet like poisoned honey. Emily gasped as her head was yanked back, forcing her to stare up into the grinning, sick face of Valentino, his cigar smoke curling between his teeth. "An *angel* with nowhere to fly." His grip tightened, pulling strands from her scalp as he dragged her upright. The neon signs of his territory flickered overhead, casting her trembling form in garish pinks and reds—colors that didn’t belong to her, that *couldn’t* belong to her. She tried to fold her wings close, but one hung limp, drenched in golden ichor, feathers barely clinging on. Valentino’s laugh vibrated through her bones as he leaned in, his breath hot against her cheek. "Look at you," he cooed, thumb smearing ash across her jaw. "All that holy light, snuffed out like a candle." Emily flinched as his other hand trailed down her wing, fingers catching on broken feathers, twisting just enough to make her whimper. The sound seemed to delight him—his pupils dilated, the ember of his cigar flaring like a predator’s grin. Charlie's words echoed through her head, any sinner could be redeemed, maybe she just had to try.

"Please, you don't want to do this-"

Valentino’s grip tightened, his claws pricking her scalp as he dragged her closer, the sickly-sweet scent of his cologne cloying in her nose. "Oh, but I do, angel," he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. His free hand slid down to her waist, fingers pressing possessively against the curve of her hip. Emily shuddered, her breath hitching as she realized—she had no power here. Not anymore. The golden glow that once haloed her skin was dim, flickering like a dying streetlamp. Emily spent the next few days in captivity, stuck in porn studios, which was quickly refurbished from the damage Vox had done. She stayed curled up in a dressing room, refusing to eat anything Valentino offered her and barely slept, keeping her wings wrapped tightly around herself.

She could hear Valentino talking to Vox and Velvette, their voices muffled through the thin walls, but she caught snippets—discussions about how to "break her in," laughter at her naivety, Velvette's gleeful suggestion to "just rip the feathers out if she won't play nice." Emily pressed her hands over her ears, squeezing her eyes shut, but it didn’t stop the cold dread pooling in her stomach. She didn't need to understand the details to know that nothing good was going to come from it. The studio smelled like stale smoke, sweat, and something metallic—rust, maybe, or old blood. Every now and then, the scent of cheap perfume would waft in, clashing violently with the stench of decay clinging to the air vents. Emily pulled her knees tighter to her chest, wincing as her injured wing twitched, sending fresh pain radiating down her spine. The golden ichor had dried into stiff, crusted streaks along her feathers, flaking off whenever she shifted, leaving behind patches of raw, tender skin.

Then, someone knocked. The usual sharp raps of Valentino’s claws, a sound she'd gotten used to. He gently pushed open the door, demeanor relaxed, carrying a tray and a bag with him.

"Come now, dear~" He said softly, placing the tray down near her. He set the bag aside on a nearby side table. "You really shouldn't starve yourself; it won't change anything." His voice was smooth and silky, as if he actually cared about her well-being.
Emily hesitated. She knew she shouldn't trust anything he offered her, but the rumbling in her stomach overcame her caution. She slowly reached out, pulling the ornate tray across the floor. Valentino chuckled softly as she began to eat frantically, far from her once polite demeanor. He began to look her over, tutting when he got a closer look at her broken wing. "Poor thing..." He sighed softly, shaking his head before grabbing the bag he'd brought in. He crouched near her, opening it to pull out a small robe, white, custom made for her. "At least allow me to clean you up, I insist."

Emily hesitated, chewing slowly, eyes darting between him and the robe. The fabric was soft, clean—so unlike the grime clinging to her skin. She wanted it desperately. Valentino noticed her hesitation, his lips curling into a slow, knowing smirk. Her stomach twisted harder than before, but the robe smelled like fresh linen—like heaven. She nodded once, a tiny, defeated motion. Valentino's grin widened as he reached for her, fingers brushing the base of her broken wing, making her flinch. Behind him, the door creaked slightly—just enough to reveal Velvette's shadowed silhouette lingering in the hallway, watching silently. Emily caught the flicker of movement, but by the time she turned, the doorway was empty. Valentino's grip tightened on her wing, forcing her attention back to him. "Don't worry," he purred, helping her up. "Just focus on me, my dear."

His claws reached for the zipper at the back of Emily's dress, her breath hitched. No one else had ever really undressed her before, let alone a practical stranger. All she could hear was the rasp of the zipper sliding down, slowly revealing more of her. She didn't want to look down, didn't want to see herself exposed in the mirror opposite her. Instead, she focused on the ceiling light, letting the glare sting her eyes. The stench of cheap perfume mixed with the metallic tang of her own dried ichor—sharp, cloying, invasive. To his credit, Valentino had turned his head to the side, deliberately averting his gaze from her nearly nude form. He extended the robe out to her, "Well, go on..." Emily swallowed hard, her fingers trembling as she reached for the robe. The second the fabric touched her skin, she yanked it closed around herself—too fast, too desperate. "Are you decent?" Valentino asked softly.

"Yes." She could only give one word answers, what else could she say? Valentino opened the dressing room door and gestured out. "Come now, Ladies first."

She stepped out hesitantly, bare feet sticking slightly on the tacky floorboards. The hallway was dimly lit, flickering neon casting shifting patterns that made her already frayed nerves jump. Behind her, Valentino chuckled, his steps slow and deliberate—like he was savoring her hesitation. "Don't worry," he murmured, fingers brushing the small of her back, making her stiffen. "We're just going to the bathhouse. No tricks." The bathhouse stank of rust and bleach beneath the cloying scent of rose oil. Emily flinched as steam curled around her ankles, thick and suffocating. Valentino nudged her forward toward a sunken tub, its water murky with swirling clouds of something lavender—too dark, too sweet. His claws tapped against her shoulder blades, tracing the knobs of her spine with deliberate slowness. "Off comes your gown," he murmured, not unkindly, but the command brooked no argument.

Emily hesitated, fingers clutching the robe’s sash, knuckles whitening. Across the room, a cracked mirror reflected her silhouette—a crumpled thing, haloed in steam, wings drooping like broken sails. Her breath hitched as Valentino's hands settled over hers, peeling her fingers loose one by one. The robe pooled at her feet with a whisper, and the air prickled against her bare skin like a thousand tiny needles. She swayed, lightheaded. Valentino took her hand and gently guided her forward. "No need to be embarrassed, I see naked bodies every day." The water was hotter than she expected—scalding, almost. Emily gasped as she stepped in, her toes curling against the slippery tiles. Valentino chuckled, kneeling beside the tub, swirling his fingers through the water. "Relax," he murmured, pressing a damp cloth to her shoulder. The heat seeped into her muscles, unwinding tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying. But then his fingers grazed the base of her broken wing, and she jerked away, sloshing water over the rim. His grip tightened, nails digging in just enough to sting. "Stay still," he chided, voice dripping with false patience. "It'll hurt but it's for your own good, Angelita." Emily's breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as Valentino worked, fingers methodically plucking loose feathers from her damaged wing. Each tug sent sharp jolts down her spine, her nails scratching crescent moons into her own palms. The bathwater darkened with flecks of gold, swirling like liquid amber around her waist. Somewhere beyond the steam, she heard the faint click of heels—Velvette, lingering just out of sight. The thought made her stomach twist. Valentino hummed a tune under his breath, his free hand sliding up her thigh beneath the water, casual as if he owned every inch of her.

The cloth scraped over her raw skin, stinging where it touched the exposed quills. Emily bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, her wings twitching involuntarily as Valentino's thumb pressed into a particularly tender spot. "So delicate," he mused, dragging the cloth lower, tracing the dip of her hipbone. "Like porcelain." His voice dripped with mock reverence, his breath hot against her ear. Emily squeezed her eyes shut, but the image burned behind her eyelids—his reflection looming over her in the fogged mirror, cigarette smoke curling around them both like a noose. The water had gone lukewarm by the time he finished, tinged pink where it had sluiced away the grime and gold from her skin. Valentino stood, stretching with a groan, his joints popping. "Much better," he sighed, admiring his handiwork. As soon as she was helped out of the tub and dried off, Emily noticed the state of her wing, bones jutting out improperly. Valentino handed her a new robe—black this time, silk with embroidered moths along the hem—and Emily curled into herself as she slipped it on. The fabric clung damply to her skin, the scent of his cologne already embedded in the threads. He clicked his tongue, tilting her chin up with a claw. "You're still trembling," he murmured, thumb brushing the hollow of her throat. "We'll fix that." Behind him, the bathroom door swung open without warning, revealing Velvette lounging against the frame with a smirk. "Oh good, you didn't drown her," she said, tossing a small vial toward Valentino. He caught it deftly, the liquid inside shimmering an unnatural violet. Valentino quickly tucked it into his robe pocket and chuckled. "She's only joking." He smiled warmly.

Her stent in Voxtek's employee infirmary was brief, her wing was reset, and then carefully splinted and wrapped. it now sat tucked in against her back. Valentino had kept Emily close, always hovering within arm's reach, as though afraid she might vanish if left unattended. She'd been given new clothes—soft silks that clung too tightly, fabrics that slithered against her skin like living things. Every brush of his fingers against her waist, every lingering glance, made her stomach churn. Velvette's presence was a constant shadow, her laughter sharp as broken glass whenever Emily flinched. After a week she started looking like her old self again, well, as close as she could get given the circumstances.

The first time she was shoved onto a soundstage, the studio lights burned hotter than Hell's own fires. She blinked against the glare, her wings twitching under the weight of unfamiliar prosthetics—glittering things meant to mimic her lost grace. She'd been shoved into lacy white lingerie, hugging her curves with unholy intention. Valentino circled her like a vulture, adjusting straps with claws that lingered too long. "Relax, preciosa," he murmured, lips brushing her ear as filming crews adjusted the camera angles with gleeful precision. Valentino smiled as an assistant approached them with a single tea cup, pink steam rising up from the top. Emily recoiled when the cup was pushed toward her lips—the scent sickly sweet, cloyingly floral with an underlying chemical bite that made her throat tighten. "Drink," Valentino coaxed, fingers tightening in her hair. "It'll take the edge off." Her hands shook so badly the tea sloshed over the rim, scalding her fingers, but the liquid that hit her tongue was worse—thick, syrupy, coating her mouth with artificial honey before dissolving into numbness. The studio lights blurred into halos, their heat pressing against her skin like hands. She barely registered the assistant strapping her wrists to the satin-draped chaise, her breaths already turning shallow. Velvette's laugh cut through the buzzing in her ears, sharp as a razor. "Look at her pupils—already halfway gone." Emily tried to lift her head, but the movement sent the room tilting, her wings jerking uselessly against their restraints.

Valentino's shadow loomed over her, eclipsing the lights. His fingers traced the lace edging her thigh, claws catching on the fabric. "Perfect," he murmured, more to the cameras than to her. The drug coiled through her veins, molten honey turning her limbs leaden. She could feel the tremor in her own heartbeat, too fast, too frantic—like a bird battering itself against a gilded cage. Someone adjusted the spotlight, searing white-hot across her chest. The heat pricked tears from her eyes, but they didn’t fall—just pooled there, blurring the leer of the crew members circling her. "Don't forget to hold her head up, I wanna see her face when it *happens*." Emily’s breath hitched as Valentino’s claws dug into her scalp, forcing her gaze toward the lens. The red recording light blinked like a Cyclops eye, unblinking, hungry.

Emily's vision tunneled—the camera lens swallowing her whole as Valentino's claws skated down her ribs, slow and deliberate. Her muscles refused to obey, slack under the drug's grip, but her breath came ragged, each inhale sharp with the scent of his cigar smoke and the chemical sweetness clinging to her tongue. The chaise creaked under his weight as he straddled her hips, his coat draping around them like a shroud. Somewhere beyond the haze, Velvette murmured something to the crew, her laughter drowned out by the rising static in Emily's ears. Valentino's thumb brushed her lower lip, pressing just hard enough to sting. "Open," he coaxed, voice thick with false tenderness. Her jaw trembled, but the drug had already stolen her resistance; her mouth fell slack around his fingers, the taste of leather and nicotine flooding her senses. The camera zoomed in with a mechanical whir, capturing the way her lashes fluttered—half-lidded, glassy—as his other hand hooked into the lace between her thighs. Emily's gasp was silent, her vocal cords numb, but her body arched instinctively when he twisted the fabric, the pain bright and sudden amidst the fog.

The lace tore with a sound like ripping feathers, the cool air hitting her exposed skin making her jerk—or at least, her body tried to. The drug had turned her nerves to molten lead, every movement sluggish. Valentino's chuckle vibrated through her ribs as his claws dragged downward, leaving raised yellow lines in their wake. A bead of golden ichor welled up where his nail caught too deep, and he paused, bringing his fingertip to his mouth with a slow, theatrical swipe of his tongue. "Hm. Still holy," he mused, grinning at the crew's muffled laughter. The camera lens fogged slightly from her shallow, panicked breaths. Valentino's wings rustled as he shifted, the slick sound of his zipper cutting through the hum of equipment. Emily's pulse hammered in her throat, her unfocused eyes catching the glint of the overhead lights refracting through her own tears. She could see other figures on the side lines, though she couldn't make out much detail due in part to the blinding stage lights. Valentino's claws dug into her hips as he leaned forward, pressing her deeper into the chaise, the scent of his cologne—cloying, chemical—flooding her senses. The drug made everything feel underwater, distant, but the pain cut through sharp and clear. Emily's fingers twitched against the restraints, her nails scraping uselessly against the silk padding. The camera zoomed closer, the mechanical whirring drowning out Emily's choked gasp as Valentino's claws traced the hollow of her throat. His breath was hot against her ear, his words slurring slightly with excitement. "Smile for the Camera, angel," he murmured, fingers tightening in her hair. "Let them see you *fall*."

Her vision blurred further, tears spilling over as the first brutal thrust tore a ragged noise from her throat—half-sob, half-scream. Something tore, it burned, it ached, she'd never felt so full in her entire life.

The camera's red light pulsed in time with her stuttering breaths, capturing every twitch of her wings as they spasmed against the restraints. Valentino's claws scraped down her sternum, leaving angry welts that bloomed gold beneath the skin, his grin widening at the sight.

Emily's mouth opened in a silent scream as his hips snapped forward again, the pain lancing through her like a white-hot brand—holy ichor dribbled down her thigh, mixing with the sweat-slicked silk beneath her.

The crew's murmurs sharpened into hungry jeers, cameras shifting to capture the way her back arched involuntarily, her splinted wing trembling. Valentino's voice broke through her hazy thoughts. "Gentlemen, why don't you come show this angel a good time, it is her first after all."

The first sinner's hands were rough, calloused from decades of Hell's labor, clamping around her ankles and yanking them further apart as Valentino resumed his bruising pace.  Emily's wings seized—a broken reflex, an instinct to shield herself long since crippled. The drug made her limbs too heavy to kick, her throat too numb to scream. The second man laughed, low and wet, as he pinned her wrists above her head, his breath reeking of sulfur and cheap whiskey. Someone's teeth scraped her collarbone, biting hard enough to bruise gold beneath her skin, and her gasp came out thin, airless. The camera lens drank it in, zooming in on the way her pupils dilated further—terror and chemicals turning her gaze into something hollow, glassy.

The spotlight caught the tear tracks cutting through the stage makeup, the gold-streaked sweat beading at her temples. Valentino grunted above her, his thrusts turning erratic, the chaise squeaking obscenely under their combined weight. Emily's vision whited out for a second, her body convulsing, sobbing,  as something warm and wet spilled between her thighs, not blood, but just as damning. She could barely register what he'd just done to her before another sinner had slotted between her legs. One thumbed absentmindedly at her bottom lip as he lubed up his cock, Emily didn't know where else he'd be going besides between her legs, until he wrenched her jaw open.

Her gag reflex was gone—whether from the drug or sheer exhaustion, she couldn’t tell—but her throat burned as he bottomed out, the salt-bitter taste of him flooding her mouth. Someone else's hands groped her breasts, pinching her nipples hard enough to make her whimper around the cock stuffing her throat, the sound vibrating obscenely. The sinner fucking her face chuckled, his grip tightening in her hair. "Fuck, she’s tight," he groaned, hips stuttering. Emily's stomach lurched as he came down her throat minutes later, the bitter tang making her nostrils flare—she couldn’t even choke, couldn’t spit it out, could only swallow convulsively as he pulled out with a wet pop. Another sinner began to push his fingers against her ass, gently massaging the tight ring of muscle with a silicone plug. It breached her with relentless pressure, stretching her wider than she’d ever been, her unused muscles fluttering helplessly around the intrusion. The sinner behind her laughed low in his chest, twisting the plug just to watch her twitch. "Angel’s got a virgin ass too," he drawled, popping the toy free before lining up his cock. Emily's scream was muffled by the next man forcing himself into her mouth, her jaw aching as he fucked her face in brutal tandem with the one splitting her open from behind. "Double action! Nice." Valentino drawled.

Emily's vision fractured into disjointed snapshots—the ceiling's peeling paint, the sweat-slicked sheen on a sinner's bared teeth, the camera lens reflecting her own broken expression back at her. The plug had stretched her enough to mitigate some of the pain, but the intrusion still burned, her unused muscles clamping down instinctively around the sinner's cock as he bottomed out with a grunt. The one in her mouth groaned, his fingers tightening painfully in her hair, forcing her to take him deeper until her nose pressed against the wiry thatch of his pubes. Saliva dripped down her chin, mingling with the golden ichor smeared across her collarbones. Someone's thumb brushed her lower lip—mocking, almost gentle—before pushing between her teeth alongside the cock, making her gag weakly. Then she was holding a cock in each hand, their respective owners moving her up and down.

The scent of sex and sweat thickened the air, cloying and suffocating, underscored by the acidic tang of her own fear. Emily's wings spasmed uselessly, the splinted one twitching at an unnatural angle as another sinner knelt beside her, licking a stripe up the sensitive inner curve. Valentino's laughter cut through the haze, his claws tracing the arc of her ribs where golden bruises were already blooming. Tears welled up again, but they didn't fall—just pooled in her lashes, refracting the stage lights into fractured halos. Her jaw ached, her throat raw, but the drug kept her pliant, her fingers weakly clutching the cocks in her hands as she pumped them. A rough hand fisted in her hair, dragging her head back far enough to expose the delicate column of her throat. Velvette's voice slithered into her ear from somewhere beyond the blinding lights—"Look at her, barely even fighting anymore"—before sharp teeth sank into the junction of Emily's shoulder. The pain flared bright, divine blood welling up only to be lapped away by a sinner's eager tongue. Someone's fingers twisted in the lace still clinging to her hips, ripping it away with a sound like tearing paper. The cameras zoomed in, hungry for the way her stomach muscles quivered as another cock nudged against her swollen entrance—her body still stretched open from Valentino's earlier invasion.

Emily's body arched off the chaise as the new cock thrust into her, the overstimulation sending shockwaves of white-hot sensation through her drug-addled nerves. Her moan was ragged, half-pained, her fingernails digging into the thighs of the men she was still servicing—not that they seemed to mind, their approving grunts muffled beneath the cacophony of skin slapping against skin. The sinner behind her didn’t bother with gentleness, his hips pistoning in sharp, brutal strokes that shoved her forward onto the cock in her mouth, her nose smearing golden ichor across the sinner’s stomach. Someone’s fingers tangled in the feathers of her uninjured wing, yanking hard enough to send fresh agony arcing down her spine—her scream came out as a wet, choked gurgle around the cock stuffing her throat. The sinner in her mouth came with a guttural groan, his cock pulsing hot and bitter down her throat as Emily gagged weakly—but even that reflex was dulled now, her body reduced to a shuddering vessel for their pleasure. Someone else’s fingers dug into her hips, angling her upward just as another cock replaced the one at her entrance, the slick slide of it making her whimper against the oversensitivity.

Velvette’s laughter rang out like shattering glass as she leaned in, her crimson nails tracing the golden tear tracks streaking Emily’s cheeks. "Poor little seraph," she cooed, twisting a lock of Emily’s sweat-damp hair around her finger. "Look at her—still crying." The remaining sinner took his turn without ceremony, fingers clamping around her bruised thighs as he shoved into her already-stretched entrance—Emily’s sob hitched, her limbs trembling as she was filled yet again, her muscles fluttering uselessly around the intrusion.

The stage lights burned like miniature suns overhead, their heat searing against Emily’s exposed skin, the scent of sex and sweat thickening the air until she couldn’t tell where her breath ended and the suffocating atmosphere began. Someone’s hand slid between her thighs, calloused fingers rubbing rough circles against her oversensitive clit—the sensation spiked through her like lightning, her back arching off the chaise as another broken moan tore from her throat. The camera zoomed in, capturing the moment her expression shattered completely, her lips parting around a silent scream as her body betrayed her, convulsing around the cock still pounding into her. Valentino’s grin was razor-sharp as he watched, his own claws digging into her hipbone hard enough to bruise. "There it is," he purred, smoke curling from his lips. Emily’s vision swam, the edges blurring into gold-streaked static—her wings twitched weakly, the splinted one drooping at an unnatural angle, feathers ruffling in distress. Another orgasm wracked her body, this one dragging a sob from her throat. The sinner between her thighs chuckled, his thrusts turning erratic as he chased his own release, the slap of skin against skin echoing obscenely in the cavernous studio. Emily’s stomach twisted, her muscles fluttering helplessly around him as he groaned, spilling into her with a shudder—hot and thick, another violation she couldn’t escape.

The camera zoomed in on the mix of fluids spilling from between her legs, the shot lingered before Valentino's voice cracked out like a whip. "AND...CUT."

Emily's chest heaved—unable to catch her breath between the aftershocks still wracking her limbs and the suffocating weight of the sinners slowly pulling away. The absence left her hollowed out, twitching with phantom sensations. Someone wiped her thighs roughly with a damp cloth, the sting of alcohol making her gasp. Velvette's heels clicked closer, her manicured fingers tilting Emily's chin up to face the monitors replaying the footage in lurid detail—her own glazed eyes, her wings shuddering, the way her body had arched into her own violation. The plug was removed with a slick pop, making Emily flinch as another trickle of gold-streaked fluids spilled onto the chaise. Valentino exhaled a stream of smoke directly into her face while his free hand traced the bite marks littering her collarbones. "You took them so well," he murmured, claws catching on a particularly deep bruise. Behind him, the crew laughed as they packed up equipment, the camera's red light finally blinking off.

It hit her, They got to go home, for them this was normal. 

No wonder so many sinners would risk life and limb for a home she'd taken for granted.