TW: NSFW / MDNI, Explicit sexual content, First time / virgin!reader, Soft dom!Choso, Praise kink, Overstimulation, Light restraint, Slight power imbalance, Religious/angelic imagery (used erotically), Consensual power dynamics, Aftercare
🚫 Do not interact if you're under 18.
"Am I being good, angel?"
You weren’t quite sure when the shift happened—one moment he was at the front door juggling groceries, and the next he was between your thighs, as if gravity itself had changed its rules for him.
Earlier, you'd been kneeling on the floor like a devout little disciple, hands folded, eyes shut, whispering sweet apologies to the heavens. Begging for reentry.
Your brothers and sisters had exiled you—maybe for sneaking around too often, fighting too many battles that weren't worth fighting for.
The door creaked open.
Choso stepped in, the rustle of plastic bags and the slump of his shoulders announcing his arrival. His grocery bag looked lighter than the exhaustion tugging at his body.
You didn’t flinch, still praying. Still hoping.
He set the bags down, eyeing you warily like he’d walked into something too sacred to watch. Which, in fairness, he had.
“When I left, you were watching Hell’s Kitchen,” he said softly, crouching beside you. “How’d we end up here?”
You cracked one eye open. “My sisters used to tell me that only good people get to live in heaven. And I want to be good so I can go back.”
He blinked. “Angel…”
Choso had done a laundry list of morally questionable things—enough to earn a restraining order from heaven itself. But watching you cry because you thought you were too tarnished to go back? That hit somewhere deep.
Without thinking, he reached for your hands.
“C’mere.”
He pulled you up gently, as though afraid you’d break or float away. You landed against his chest with a soft thud, all warm limbs and wet cheeks.
He wrapped his arms around you, tucking your face into his neck. You sniffled once—then twice—and suddenly he was walking the both of you toward his room.
His safe place. Maybe it could be yours, too.
At the foot of the bed, he tried to put you down.
You didn’t let go.
Your arms stayed looped around him like he was your personal flotation device. He felt the soft press of your chest against him, your body rising and falling with every shaky breath.
Now he was definitely going to hell.
Because somehow, despite your red-rimmed eyes and angelic despair, you were turning him on. He cursed himself. Loudly. Internally. Multiple times.
You. An angel. Crying.
Him. Horny.
Hell. Immediate.
Still, he ran a soothing hand down your back, hoping it would ease your trembling. It did. Your sobs quieted, soft hiccups fading into gentle exhales. And then, you started rocking slightly on your feet, swaying him with you in a slow, clumsy dance.
“This feels nice,” you murmured, voice muffled into his shoulder.
Your breath hit his skin, warm and sweet—and he felt it in his spine.
God was definitely watching. And God was definitely judging.
Something in him short-circuited the moment your fingers ghosted down his spine. Light. Barely there. But it lit him up like a struck match.
Your touch wasn’t just gentle—it was deliberate. The kind of intimacy that made his thoughts feel soft around the edges.
You looked up at him, and God, he was finished.
Your eyes were glazed, lashes damp, brows drawn together in that pouty, kiss-me expression that made his chest ache. And your lips—oh, you were staring at his like they held answers to every prayer you’d whispered.
You inched closer, slow and steady. Like gravity wasn’t pulling you, he was.
Choso’s arms tightened ever so slightly around you, trembling from the effort of holding himself back. His breathing hitched, shallow, his control thinning with every blink.
You looked so desperate. So soft. So willing.
He could die happy right now—and still go straight to hell, because there was absolutely no way this was sanctioned by the angels above.
Was this divine intervention? Or just a very, very vivid sin?
Whatever it was, confidence bloomed in his chest—nervous, fragile, but real. Like a boy holding something holy with both hands.
He reached up slowly, thumbs brushing away the dried remnants of your tears. His hands framed your cheeks, gently coaxing you to look at him, really look.
“Tell me what you want, angel,” he whispered, voice hoarse with restraint.
You didn’t hesitate. You leaned into his touch, breath trembling as you murmured.
“Make me feel good, Choso.”
Something deep in him cracked.
And all he could think was: Amen.
Choso didn’t hesitate. The moment the words left your lips, his mouth was on yours—hot, hungry, and all-consuming. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t soft. It was desperate. Messy. Tongue, teeth, spit, breath—like he’d been starving for this, for you.
In another universe, he might’ve been gentler. Maybe he would’ve taken his time, worshipped you like you deserved. But not here. Not now.
Right now, he needed you. Needed to taste the sin on your lips. Needed to prove, in the only way he knew how, that you were his salvation and his damnation all at once.
Your fingers gripped his waist, nails biting into his shirt, grounding yourself against the storm of him. You’d never kissed been kiised like this—never been kissed at all—and your body trembled from the intensity, overwhelmed but unwilling to let go. You gave him everything, lips parted, breath stolen, letting him lead.
And God, Choso had never felt more alive.
You were melting into him, clinging like he was the only thing tethering you to earth. You whimpered into his mouth and he drank it in like it was the sweetest nectar, swallowing every gasp, every needy moan like a man dying of thirst.
His hands cradled the back of your head and your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, like he could fuse you together and maybe then it would be enough.
When he finally pulled back, both of you gasping, your mouths were still linked by a thread of spit. Choso leaned his forehead against yours, his breath ragged, his voice wrecked.
“Make yourself comfortable on the bed,” he murmured, low and commanding, but reverent. Like a priest guiding his angel into the altar of sin.
His hands lingered on your hips, warm and trembling.
“Please,” he added, barely above a whisper.
You laid back in the center of the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight, your chest heaving with anticipation. Choso was over you in an instant, his arms caging you in as his eyes searched your face for any flicker of hesitation.
But before he could say a word, your fingers threaded through his dark, silky hair—tugging him down, guiding him to the crook of your neck.
“Worship me,” you whispered, voice shaky and sweet, your breath brushing his ear, “Please.”
That was all it took.
Choso collapsed into you like a man falling to his knees at an altar. His lips latched onto your neck, slow at first—soft, reverent kisses. But each gasp you gave, each shift of your hips beneath him, drove him deeper into sin.
He kissed and sucked your throat, your collarbones, dragging his teeth along your skin just to hear that pretty little gasp again—the one that made his cock twitch painfully in his jeans.
Your fingers tugged harder at his hair, pushing him down your body, silently begging him to keep going.
His lips stayed tender, but his hands—God, his hands—were desperate.
They palmed your chest with unrestrained hunger, like he couldn’t believe how full and soft you were, like he was committing the weight and feel of you to memory. He squeezed, massaged, thumbed over the peaks just to watch your back arch, your thighs rub together, needing more.
“Can I take this off?” Choso rasped, though his voice was already half gone, drunk off the taste of your skin. His hands stayed glued to your chest, greedy even in their restraint.
But you couldn’t take the teasing. Not when he was already halfway to heaven between your breasts.
With a low groan of impatience, you ripped the shirt clean off, the fabric tearing like paper under your divine strength. Then you shoved his head down with both hands—no more hints, no more patience. Your nipple pressed against his open mouth, and he welcomed it instantly, groaning as he latched on.
Choso lost his balance for a second, but it didn’t matter—he braced himself on his forearms, mouth already wet and hot around you, tongue circling your nipple like he was starving.
His hair tickled your skin as he buried himself against your chest, suckling deep, nuzzling, losing himself completely in your body.
But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly.
When he moved to your other breast, tongue flicking the stiff peak, you caught his hand and tugged it upward—placing it over your neglected nipple. Your fingers squeezed over his, guiding him, letting him feel just how raw and desperate you were for his touch.
“Give me more,” you whined, breathless, “Please…”
Choso groaned—low, deep, feral. He’d never felt anything so soft. So warm. So responsive. You were arching into him, hips squirming, eyes fluttering shut as he mouthed and licked over your chest, soaking your skin with spit and hickeys.
He couldn’t help himself.
Both hands grabbed your breasts, squeezing them together until they spilled between his fingers. And then he dove in—his tongue flicking back and forth, his mouth trying to take both into his mouth at once. Messy. Wet. Devoted.
Maybe he was greedy.
But if he was going to hell for this, he was taking every inch of heaven with him.
Choso’s hands squeezed greedily at your flesh as he descended, kneading and molding you like he was trying to memorize every curve. Your body jolted beneath him, hypersensitive, yet still rising eagerly into his mouth. You were trembling, overstimulated, but so needy.
Your fingers slipped from his hair, searching instead for his hands—gripping them like you needed grounding.
When he reached the hem of your pants, he didn’t bother with gentleness. His teeth dragged them down your thighs, slow, filthy, worshipful. And then—
His face disappeared between your legs.
You’d forgone panties, as always—what use were such things in the heavens?—so his nose made instant, divine contact with your clit.
You gasped, back arching violently off the bed. The sensation was electric—unfamiliar and overwhelming, like the first time you ever truly felt. Slick flooded from you, coating his face. Without thinking, your thighs parted even wider, silently inviting him in.
Choso groaned, deep and guttural, nose nudging your clit again and again. You clawed at the sheets, mind unraveling as he mouthed at your most sacred place like a man possessed.
And then, just as your whines started to crest, he pulled away.
You let out a desperate cry, but he said nothing—just stood at the edge of the bed, his hands sliding under your thighs. In one sharp tug, he dragged you to the edge.
You gasped at the sudden movement, but Choso didn’t break focus—not even for a second. His eyes zeroed in on your twitching hole, fluttering around nothing, slick and needy.
He dropped to his kness and pried your thighs open, locking you in. His gaze—heated, reverent—never left your cunt.
"I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he murmured, voice slurred with lust, head dipping lower. “Okay, angel? Please let me make you feel good..."
Your breath caught, heart thudding as you nodded.
Then he tasted you.
One tentative lick had his eyes rolling back. Your taste—sweet, heavenly, addictive. He moaned low into your folds and dove in again. His tongue was warm and soft, but firm, working in long, deliberate strokes that left you sobbing into the air.
You gave in completely.
His mouth worshiped you, licking you clean, as though each drop of slick was a sacrament. His tongue swirled around your entrance, then up to your clit—devouring you like he was starving.
It wasn’t just the pleasure—it was the devotion. Someone was willing to see you, taste you, even in your filthiest moments. And not just accept it, but savor it. The reverence in his touch made your chest tighten. You felt holy in his mouth.
Choso licked and slurped with abandon. When your clit started to ache from overstimulation, he sucked on it harder, and pushed his tongue deeper into your leaking hole. You could barely form thoughts—only gasps and twitching limbs.
Your hands found his hair again, trying to guide him. But Choso, ever the stubborn sinner, gently pried your hands away. Instead, he maneuvered your trembling fingers to hold your own thighs open.
“Be good and keep them open for me, yeah?” he murmured, lips glossy with you.
You moaned, obeying even as your arms trembled under the weight of your pleasure.
Choso used one hand to pull back your clit’s hood, exposing the throbbing nub completely. With the other, he spread your lips open, stretching your hole, watching the way it twitched, slick gushing freely.
His tongue dragged from your entrance to your clit, and when he suckled hard, your thighs spasmed—but his thick arm pinned you in place.
You were dripping—onto his face, down the bed. Choso couldn’t keep up. Without thinking, his thick index finger pressed into you, sliding in with ease from how wet you were.
“Oh! Choso—” you gasped, hips rocking up for more.
“Yeah?” he breathed, finally rising to look at you. "Am I being good, angel?"
Your face—red, glossy, mouth open and eyes glassy—was enough to make him feral.
You were holding your legs shakily, pout forming on your lips as tears gathered in your lashes.
“Kiss me,” you begged, voice broken.
Choso leaned forward, lips brushing yours as his finger thrust slow and deep. Your tongue met his eagerly, licking into his mouth—tasting yourself. His face was still wet with your slick, smearing against your cheek, but you didn’t care. You wanted all of him.
He swallowed your breathless moans in the kiss.
“You want more?” he whispered, voice cracking at the edges.
Then he slid his middle finger in beside the first.
You whimpered at the stretch, the unfamiliar burn, but instead of pulling away—you tilted your hips higher, silently pleading for more of him.
Choso groaned into your mouth, curling his fingers inside your soaked heat.
“Good girl,” he rasped. “You’re taking me so well…”
Choso’s hips pinned your thigh down firmly, spreading you open and holding you steady like you might float away. His fingers moved with skill and care, curling inside you in slow, deliberate strokes.
He kept his pace steady, watching every twitch of your face, every arch of your body, like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
His free hand found your hair, gently carding through it—soothing, grounding you, even as he unraveled you completely.
And when he hit that spot—that spot—you choked on a whine, your voice cracking as you gasped, "Choso... feels weird..."
"I know, angel," he murmured, voice deep and low in your ear. "It’s just new. You’re doing so well. Just breathe. Let go for me."
His lips brushed the shell of your ear as he kept his strokes consistent, coaxing you closer, deeper into the edge. You could feel your body tensing, your legs beginning to tremble.
Then came the third finger.
Your back arched hard, and a raw cry tore from your throat as your orgasm took hold—sudden and all-consuming. Your hands flew off your thighs, one gripping Choso’s wrist, the other fisting the sheets. Your thighs clamped around his arm, body shuddering as the climax rippled through you.
"That's it," he praised, breath brushing warm across your cheek. "Good girl... just like that. Keep going. Make yourself feel good."
His fingers kept moving, not rushing, not overwhelming—just helping you ride it out, gentle wriggles that kept the pleasure alive until it ebbed naturally.
His other hand never left your hair, stroking softly, his lips finding your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Kissing away the tears and sweat, whispering in that low, reverent voice, “You did so good for me. So perfect, angel.”
When he felt your grip loosen and your thighs slowly fall open, he finally let his fingers still inside you, pressing a tender kiss to your temple.
"Just breathe. I’ve got you," he whispered.
He eased his fingers out of you slowly. You whined softly at the emptiness, your body still humming, overstimulated and spent.
"Shhh, I know, baby... I know,” he cooed, brushing hair out of your face. “Let’s get you cleaned up first.”
Choso lifted his hand, his fingers coated in your release—slick and glistening. You blinked up at him, dazed, still catching your breath.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean—slow and indulgent, like he was savoring something rare and sacred. You watched, wide-eyed, heat blooming fresh in your belly despite your exhaustion.
But he only chuckled softly, eyes crinkling. “Mm. Sweet,” he teased, before leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. “Now go get some rest, angel.”
You barely noticed him guiding you onto your back, tucking a pillow beneath your head, adjusting the sheets. The scent of his bed—warm, musky, his—wrapped around you like a blanket. It was comforting, familiar in a way you hadn’t expected. Like safety. Like home.
Your breath slowed, deepened. In the background, you heard the faucet run, but your eyes were already too heavy to keep open.
You felt it, though—cool cloth on your thighs, your hips, between your legs. Gentle hands, reverent and unhurried, cleaning you with the same care he worshiped you with.
Soft fingers pulling clothes back into place.
A blanket drawn over your legs.
And then, Choso’s hand returned to your hair, stroking slowly, lulling you deeper into rest. He didn’t say anything. Just breathed with you. Stayed close. Stayed present.
The heavenly Seraphim (Hazbin Hotel - Azrael!Alastor AU)
Card boarder made by StaticStarDoll
Info on all the Seraphim (Including Sera and Emily) below
Sera: The high Seraphim
Female presenting she/her
Sera is the Seraphim who deals with most matters regarding the running of heaven. She precides over the Angelic council which handles most of the rules and guidelines citizens must follow.
She often has the final say if the Senate of Seraphims can not reach a majority decision.
She is also the authority that all human souls must answer to, and runs the main city where they precide.
Emily: The Seraphim of Joy
Female presenting she/her
Emily's job is to make sure all heavenly human souls are happy and content. She is the one who spends most of her time with Winners, talking and trying to make sure every soul sees her as a friend. They can trust her to always have their best interests at heart.
She works closely with both Rapheal and Sera, acting as a liaison between the human souls, heavenborn, and the seraphim. She passes on any concerns that people may have and suggests ways to improve their lives.
Micheal: The sword of Heaven
Male presenting he/him
Micheal was the Seraphim who was closest to Lucifer, the two being inseparable until the creation of Edan took Lucifers full attention.
He was the one who personally enforced Lucifers exile, casting him out for betraying heaven for the sake of humans. Because of this, he has a huge chip on his shoulder when it comes to any mention of Luicfer.
Feeling scorned and betrayed on a far more personal level than any other member of the heavenly host, his pride and temper make him very biased when it comes to matters of Lucifer's realm and people.
He is very protective of heaven, intending to make sure another event like the one that released evil onto the world never occurs again.
He is the leader of heaven's official army, maintaining the safety and protection of all heavenborn and human souls under their jurisdiction.
Raphael: The healer
Male presenting he/him
Raphael is responsible for keeping all citizens of Heaven healthy and cared for. He works closely with Emily to make sure everyone receives any help they may need.
Even the virtuous souls of Hevean have things from their life that may weigh on their soul, and he ensures they have a safe space and the tools to come to terms with difficult situations and memories.
He is also in charge of the cherubim and guardian angels, making him one of the only ones who can permit heavenborn under him to visit the living world.
C.H.E.R.U.B. had permission from him to conduct their buisness. They were only permitted to vist souls that were destined for hell, to give them a second chance to turn their lives around and join their loved ones in Heaven. He was devastated by what happened with them.
Gabriel: The messenger
Genderfluid - presents differently depending on mood he/they/she
Gabriel is the only Seraphim who is allowed to appear directly to humans in the living world. He is also the one who blesses humans and steers important people on the right track.
He works closely with Uriel, who directs him to people who are destined to achieve greatness, but may may need a guiding hand to achieve it.
He is in constant vigil over humanity, able to sense both the most currupt, and most pure souls.
Of all the Seraphim, he is the one who has embraced human culture the most. Fascinated by the advancements they've made, and the creative solutions they come up with.
Unlike the majority of the Seraphim, Gabriel is of the opinion that evil has just as much a place in humanity as good does, that darkness is needed to emphasize the light. He often weighs the pros and cons of any situation, being one of the least biased of the heavenly host, and always willing to hear and weigh both sides of an argument.
Uriel: The eyes of heaven
Non binary they/them
Uriel very rarely interacts with heavenborn or human souls, keeping to themselves and mostly communicating only with their fellow Seraphim.
They are able to read the stars for prophecies, spending most of their time studying their movements and patterns.
Their prophecies and premonitions are something even they don't fully understand.
Though they can deliberately see into the future for certain events by entering a trance like state, it is not guaranteed for them to be successful if they try to force it.
Most of their visions are for humanity, of events that will shape them. They pass these onto Gabriel, who ensures that they happen as they've been fortold.
Their gift is one of the only reliable sources for what God intends to happen. Though they are often vauge and up for interpretation.
Their main priorities is in shaping humanity into what God designed them for. Not taking as much interest in the heavenborn, but in the human souls that make it both to heaven and hell.
On extremely rare occasions, they will get a premonition about Hell. Because of this, they are one of the few Seraphim that will contact Azrael to communicate their concerns.
They are very patient, non confrontational, and happy in their own solitude. Despite this, they have a talent for mediating disputes between the other Seraphim in a fair and calm way, not liking seeing them fighting amongst themselves.
Azrael: The unbound
Male presenting he/him
Also known as the Angel of death, mostly among human souls.
Azraels job is to maintain purgatory, a liminal realm between living and death. All the roads Souls must walk to be sorted into their respective afterlives reside in his domain.
The whole situation is mostly automated, but he is required to interfere the rare tomes when a restless soul tries to resist their chosen path.
Purgatory is also a place for souls who have no place in either heaven or hell. He is able to drag souls to this realm himself, which he does as a form of exile.
Not being bound to heaven, Hell, or the living world, he is able to freely travel between them at his leisure. Despite this, he does not appear as himself to living humans, often being completely unseen by them. On the rare occasion he's made contact with a living soul, he has to don a mortal disguise.
Lucifer: The dreamer The fallen
Male presenting he/him
Most commonly referred to as the morning star. He was previously referred to as 'heaven's brightest' and 'The light of heaven'.
Lucifer was a visionary in heaven, blessed with unlimited creativity and the power to manifest the beautiful things in his mind.
When Edan was created, he became infatuated with this brand new world and life that resided there. Despite warnings from his fellow Seraphim to not get too involved, none of which was louder than Micheal, Lucifer would often visit the first humans in the garden.
Lucifers relationship with the humans was taboo even before his exile. He was blamed for why Adam and Lilith had such a rift between then, despite him only becoming involved with Lilith after seeing how unhappy she was.
Despite his exile, he is still considered a Seraphim, and has a seat in the Senate that remains empty, as a reminder to them all that even Seraphim are not above repercussions for their actions.
Because of his calm and fair demeanour, he is unofficially recognised as the second most authoritative Seraphim after Sera, a fact that Michael resents, feeling like that role should go to him.
“Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes. Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green. The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters of fir.”
Just a little fanart page in which I went apeshit tbh bc I can not contain my excitement over wings for Angel in the Architecture on Ao3!
Love trauma chicken Vash and if you cant tell, I love wings and feathers.
Summary: Steve finally tracks down the rouge angel and confronts him.
Warnings: angst, bucky's a rogue angel, murder
WC: 448
Characters: Angel!Steve, Angel!Bucky
Read on ao3! Tag List
Grinning maliciously as he perches himself on the tree branch, he focuses on the object of his mission: James Barnes. The poor man who stood beneath him had no idea that today would be his last day. And it was Steve’s duty to see that the deed be done quickly and without any onlookers. Luckily, today was full of storm clouds; it was perfect for a murder in James Barnes’s way of thinking, Steve observed.
He watches with hungry intent as James stealthily pulls out a switchblade from the inner pocket of the jacket he donned and walks up to an innocent woman shielding herself from the rain with an umbrella. He looked pleading and asked her if she had any spare change. Seemingly giving in to Bucky’s pleas, the woman looked into her purse for a few bills. As she had become distracted, Bucky lunged at her. He covered her mouth quickly as he pulled her into the nearest alleyway.
Steve watched intently, quietly gliding down to street level, shielding his ashy wings with a wave of his fingers. Steve waited an extra moment as the female's voice faded into silence. Bucky heard a gleeful yelp, and Steve rushed to his side. Hungrily, Steve licked his lips, breathing in the scent of the dead flesh mere metres in front of him. His mouth salivated for a few seconds before he remembered his assignment.
He turned on his heel and cocked his head at the dark-haired man, who was wide-eyed and shaking in fear at the sight of Steve. “Well, well, well.” Steve taunted, licking his lips as the aroma of fear and anguish filled his nostrils. “Finally, I’ve caught you, James Barnes. The hunter has finally become the hunted.”
“She was worthless.” James spat, making a show of kicking his heel into the poor broad’s arm.
“She was an angel of the Lord above, James.”
“She deserved her fate,” James argued in malice.
“You’ve gone rogue for too long, Barnes. It’s time to come home and receive your fair punishment.”
“Blasphemy.” Bucky spat. Steve grabbed his bicep as the man tried to run for it. “I won’t go with you, brother.”
“Then I have no choice but to force you, Barnes.” Steve stroked his cheek with his free hand and let a small pout purse his plump lips. “ ‘S shame, really. You were a damn fine recruit. Where did I go wrong?”
“You’re a pity.” Bucky snarled at him. “You’ve grown soft.”
“No,” a headshake. “You’ve lost your way. You’ve grown bloodthirsty. You’re going to be punished.” Without waiting for an answer, Steve created a portal in the ground before descending into the depths of fiery heat.
