Inspired by this fanart sent by @raincxtter
cw: gore, detailed torture(?), very religious
The bone was sweet against their lips, hallowing their cheeks around the structure. The stubborn pieces of flesh stick to their vessel. Angel’s tongue contracted against it, turning the soft muscle into a scraper, laps turning into strikes. It was stringy and gummy as some stuck clung on to their teeth. They pull the bone with a ‘pop’ and let it fall into the pile of white hydroxyapatite.
Angel’s knees unfolded from the floor—the robe was heavy, wet and dragging at its shoulders. The wet muscle in their mouth fixated on the tissue between their teeth, pulling and sucking; it yearned to wrap around the skeleton, to serve its purpose to cover the white, but the angel's throat tugged. “Are you done?” The throat tensed. The remains in their mouth triggered the salvia to finish the job.
The gentle syllables of the voice grazed their ear canal in soft waves. Angel wiped its mouth with the back of its hand, its wet hand. The warm syrup only smudged its porcelain material. It turned, despite the clothing’s reluctance.
Their eyes were wide in front of him. Not in surprise, but in humiliation—their pupils blown, taking in all that the Lord is.
The Lord’s form was incomprehensible. The Lord was nothing. Nothing cannot be understood from meat, who were too spoiled with the neural organ that hides what it cannot understand.
You will never know that the Lord was there, by your side, tasting your rancid sins in the air. You should be grateful the Lord was there beside you. You should be grateful the Lord gave you a kind death. You deserved to die, you wretched heathen. You will be clean in the afterlife, you will be cleansed by the tongues of the Lord’s devotees.
The weight of the Lord’s presence grew on the servant. Angel’s wings did not so much as twitch under the Lord’s existence despite the crushing density. The Lord hummed a low tune, a constant note, before grabbing its chin.
The red nectar covering the lower half of its face dripped onto his fingers. Red rivers carved down the thin folds of the Lord’s skin, trailing down his hand and wrist in streams. “I see you’ve licked your plate clean,” they didn't dare to turn away, but the white slits in their eyes fluttered in pulsations.
A finger rubbed into the tainted paleness. The Lord pulled back—the divine eyes left it, and their throat convulsed—and tapped his fingers together, watching clots and strings form between each digit.
The Lord returned his attention to the still obedience in front of him, and watched the rich blood pool at their chin and drip silently. “Messy, messy eater,” there was a click in the Lord’s voice, a sound of praise, a show of his own skeleton. Angel’s costume of skin ached to return, to flay from its form and crawl to its creator. Had the Lord not been in front of it, its nails would have reached the base of the opposite hand, targeting the thickest layer that craved the closeness of redemption.
The Lord brought his fingers back to the residue, and dragged across it with a pressure sure to leave a physical memory later: a bruise from the Lord is but a reminder that Angel was clean enough to touch, a mark to show off to others of its sainthood.
The white skin had a stain of red, but most of the meat’s liquid stuffing united between the Lord’s thumb and index, the largest valley between the fingers, a chalice of wine.
“Clean it up properly, now.”
And Angel did so. The flat of their tongue lapped up the blood, sucking the lingering saliva that threatened to expose itself. It acted not with hunger, but with intention, with precision. It was slow. Their eyes fluttered, but remained open, never leaving the Lord. He tasted of a holy weight, gold within his skin that weathered with its pious tongue.
To anyone else, the Lord wouldn't have a taste, he would mimic the meat, and those people would have their skin turned inside out with their intestines holding them up by a noose while their ribs laid beneath them, the fallen wings.
Those people cannot be saved. There is no amount of repentance one could do to regain the taste of him. Their saliva is the rain of hell, their voice is the sound of the announcements of their punishments, their skin is the leather of the ground they walk on.
Their lack of taste will be the first sign of their damnation.
