Anime Deathmatch
Established: 2025-03-21
Chat room: #Anime_DM
- No holds barred
- Extreme violence
- Blood
- Broken bones
- Death
The perfect place for everyone that wants to have Anime style Characters fight each other but only one is allowed to leave the arena
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Starring
Unholy Dance
Part 2
Battle_Angel_Minerva: The Angel Minerva's once happy world is closing in around her, with each flex of your body. Each ship and grind of your hips into hers. Behind a couple of loose strands of such vibrant and vivid pink, those gazed blues are searching for something that's not to be found in either her subconscious or the here and now. There's only a narrowing vigente of darkness narrowing til all that's left are those blurring fires threatening to consume her, mind, body and even... her soul! WIll it truly be quick? Like torch paper going up? Or will the flames of despair lick slowly before they consume her so totally? That though alone draws a scream that would stir the armies of heaven themselves if it weren't trapped within your squirming morsel. But you see it on her face, across those delicate gaping lips. You feel it rumbling with her writhing body, taste it on the tang of her sweat. A scream just for you.. You and, she realises, for Seraphina...
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Somewhere, beyond the fire and the cold abyss, there's soft warmth, laced with sadness and... something else... Something so strong that perhaps even the demoness' can't conquer it. Minerva take hold of that hope more firmly than any other. Some focus returns to her gaze. "sssssiisssss..... teeeeeerrr". Does your irratating bring calm to the dove? we are after all opposing forces. But there is more to this. For as well as you know your prey, there are still surprises even for one as seasoned as you. Heavens wrath can only nourish the truly innocent and so when the shard hits the Songstress, it moves through her celestial system, from soul stone to remaining soul stone, healing her wounds, replenishing her energy, before it passes through to you with such force that... She's Free.....!?
Battle_Angel_Minerva: In a heartbeat, the saviour turned hostage is tumbling forward through the air while her skirt and bodice abandon her and drift like plucked feathers. Another heartbeat and her wings unfold in all their grandiose majesty and slow her descent to a gentle landing.. a warm gentle landing that makes her toes curl inward and her mind and core recoil in revulsion. Seconds later and her tattered clothes sink and soaking into that shameful spill and drag her spirits with them. More trophies, more testiments to a battle fought and lost... Yet it's Sera that pays for that failure....
Battle_Angel_Minerva: 
Battle_Angel_Minerva: For all that Sera's spell restored, Minerva's body is still left with dull sting's echoing across her paper white flesh, a burn deep within her lungs that each desperate gasp can only ease in stages and a fog settled so deep in her mind that the chop, tear and crack of the masacre on the cross roll in like a distant drumbeat. By the time she's able to stand straight and look up, your attrocities nearing it's crescendo. Blue eyes flit from the weapon to the welder and back. There's only a second to decide. One power push of those wings to propel her, like a shooting star toward you. Air swirls around her, flicking her air away from the determined grimace etched on her face as she reaches for your guiding hand first, trying to push it away and then to slam her shoulder into your side and carry your forth, into the canopy of the painted ceiling. "Nooooo.. You leave her... ALONE!!"
Seraphina: The cursed dagger, cold as a serpent's tooth and humming with a vile energy, punches through the center of my palm. The initial puncture is a shock, a sickening pop of skin, tendon, and bone giving way. But the real torment comes as the blade withdraws. Its jagged edges, like miniature, rusted mountain ranges, catch and hook inside me. It isn't a clean exit. It's a slow, deliberate excavation, tearing a wider, ragged channel through my flesh. My own scream tears from my throat, rising in pitch and volume as the metal grates against the delicate architecture of my hand. Spots dance at the edges of my vision. I couldn't bear to watch, to see that unholy instrument hovering, dripping with my blood. I squeeze my eyes shut, retreating into the dark behind my eyelids. Thud-crunch! Another blow. A jolt that rattles up my arm into my shoulder. Thud-crunch! And another. I try to focus on anything but the systematic destruction of my hand.
Seraphina: Then, a strange and terrible reprieve. Somewhere in the midst of the brutal rhythm, a deep, numb stillness begins to spread from the epicenter of the carnage. The sharp, clarifying screams of severed nerves simply... stop broadcasting. The feeling doesn't fade - it is severed, as if my hand has been abruptly disconnected from my mind. The blows continue, but they become distant thumps, like hearing someone brutalizing a piece of meat on a far-off block. Finally, the assault ceases. For a moment, there is only the ringing in my ears and the terrifying, hollow silence where my hand used to be. Gathering a shred of courage, I force my eyes open. The horror that fills them is so profound, so absolute, it is less an emotion and more a physical force. My breath doesn't just catch - it vanishes entirely, leaving my lungs as empty and paralyzed as my shattered hand, when I see where the dagger is aimed.
Nyrassa: The all-consuming rage has narrowed my world to a single, bleeding point: the angel on the cross. Every beat of my heart is a war drum, every ragged breath fuels for the fire of my fury. I completely forgot about the second angel, my entire being pours into the momentum of the killing swing. I feel the sweet, inevitable certainty of the edge meeting flesh... But there is you hand. It isn't a block - it's an eruption of wrongness into my violent geometry, which wrenches off my trajectory from its course. The blade, deflected by a fraction of an inch, whispers past the pale column of Seraphina's throat - a miss I don't even register. Because in the same splinter of time, your shoulder plows into my ribs. The breath explodes from my lungs in a grunt. Your momentum is a tidal wave, undeniable and upward. My arm jerks away from the collision, and the connection between my mind and the weapon shatters. The dagger, now a meaningless piece of metal, slows down before beginning to fall. This fall is swift and final, ending in a solitary clang against the stone below.
Nyrassa: And still, you carry me. The force is inexorable, lifting me higher, your shoulder now a grinding pivot point against my ribs. The motion turns me slightly in the air until my back is presented to the ceiling where painted saints and angels observe our profane struggle. Your shoulder now presses into my breasts, and out of the corner of my eye I see above me the rapidly approaching fresco, the serene face of some heavenly watcher growing larger, more detailed. *SLAM!!* The impact is a thunderclap inside my skeleton. Stone, unyielding and ancient, meets my spine and drives the air from my body in a pained wheeze. The glorious artwork shatters, a web of cracks radiate from the point of impact, obliterating a saint's serene face. A dull, profound ache blooms across my back, a shockwave of agony that vibrates through my organs. Heat rushes up my throat, and a short spray of crimson flecks from my lips. I wrench my head to the side and my eyes, which I know burn with the hellish light of my wrath, lock onto yours. Sound fights its way past my lips - not words, but a raw hiss of pure, undiluted hatred. Then I bend my right arm and throw it out, a piston of bone and fury, aiming the hard, sharp point of my elbow directly for the bridge of your nose, to bury it in your face as you had buried me in the stone!
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Somewhere, amid the powerful swoosh of her wings, Minerva hears the chime of the blade against stone. It's a chime of success, the first in what seems like an eternity since the early exchanges of this meandering and tumultuous dance. Yet poor Sera has paid so heavily for the second wind driving her sister's adrenaline fuelled ascent. The impact's shuddering and devasting even to such a deadly and devastating predator but it's the cushion of your chest that dampens the residual impacts shuddering through through you and into her shoulder.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Specks of crimson tarnish the Dove's magnificent, effervescent wingspan, opened as it is in a glorious, tilting plume that shifts the angle of Minerva's body. Every skin in her body, wants to pull away rather than tilt toward you, meeting your flesh with her china-doll skin. She brings herself stomach to stomach, lace hip to dark, sexually body leather. In a snap shot, it may seem like closeness, our faces cast in that neon pink by her halo. Minerva's arms sliding around you to link at the base of your back. Even those sombre, wounded saints watching around us would be shocked, though the sadness never leaves there static expressions as the little angel parts her thighs. She dare not let you wrap her into another serpentine squeeze so her pelvis rolls with a soft, static smooth rustle and her legs flaring and sweep around and around yours, locking her calves behind yours.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: A whisping gasp mixes with that low, menacing hiss, lifting her plush bountiful bust into the underside of your own. The Angel Dove looks up into those swirling orbs of fire and hate, boring into her soul. As if you can see right into her mind and the other battle that Minerva's fighting. Between her duty, her love, her honour such as it is.. And base mortal fear! And in that hesitant, fluttering heartbeat, your elbow finds it's mark with a soft crack against her button nose.. "nnnRRRRFFFFFFFF!!!"
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Big blue eyes narrow into thin, well slits as more blood explodes across her mouth and specks around your neck and colar bone like an surrealist impulsive flurry. Pink silk coils whip through the air with Medusa's fury as her body arches into a elegant crescent, dragging you with her as she pivots. Her wings shift and close inward, helping to angle us toward the ground, to bullet us toward the stone. And with you taller frame looming over the dove coiled around you, it'll you head, your horns that'll take the missile like impact!
Nyrassa: My elbow, a sudden and sharp punctuation in the chaos, finds your nose - a sensation so immediate and visceral it feels predestined. The impact vibrates up my arm, a jarring feedback I barely register. I take it for granted - the world operates on my violence, it is the default, the law. But the law has been suspended. By the time the shockwave ends in my hand you're already a cage of limbs and intent wrapped tight around me. My strike, meant to shatter and repel, doesn't even loosen your grip. If anything, it seems to fuse you to me tighter, as if the force I expended only welded us closer together. A surge of furious realization washes over me: Apparently, this white-haired bitch has really gotten her way! The thought is a silent, venomous roar in my skull.
Nyrassa: I growl, the sound vibrating in the cramped space between our touching breasts. Our bodies collide, every point of contact is a contested border. But this closeness is on your terms, an embrace I did not authorize. Your heavenly forms, all relentless grace and unyielding purpose, crashing against the devious geometry of my own. Or is it mine crashing into yours? It's impossible to tell right now: the sheer, plummeting certainty with which you dive down, dragging me into the vortex of your momentum can only be matched by the raw, upward surge of my strength, the primal fire in my muscles as I try to unravel the world you've knotted around me.
Nyrassa: "Hhhrrgghhh... get... off me!!" These words are more like a strangled command, gritted out between clenched teeth. The floor is now a stone ceiling rushing up to meet us with brutal indifference. I could see every scuff mark, every tiny crack in the tiles, magnified by our terrifying velocity. Every muscle in my shoulders and back cords, burning with the strain as I struggle against your grip. Inch by inch, I fight for my freedom, pushing through your unexpected strength. Finally, my own strength forces an expansion in the cage of your grip. I turn my head slightly to assess the situation... CRACK!! The sound is not loud, but profound. A sickening, wet snap that vibrates through the very core of my skull, a private earthquake. It is the previously damaged horn on the left side of my head, which finally surrendering completely. A lightning bolt of pain erupts from the point of the break, fanning out across my temple and jaw. For a second, maybe two, I'm nowhere. Disorientation is a physical wave, a vertigo that leaves me unmoored. But my body, hardened by thousands of battles, remembers its purpose. My right arm, fueled by pure adrenaline, jerks back and then swings forward in a wild, scything hook aimed not with sight, but with the memory of where your head has been a moment before. Even before I could register if it has connected, my weight shifts, and I follow through with a second, mirror-image swing from the left.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: It all happens in a heartbeat. A chess game of move and counter move where you shift and I roll, you push and Minerva pulls. keeping herbody tight and wrapped sensuously around yours. Yet she has her limits and you have already pushed past them with abandon once, perhaps you feel the resulting moisture soaked shamefully across the stretched fabric of my panties, leaving the fabric translucent just as you saw through her bravado. Perhaps you feel the trace residue feathered across the front of your shorts just as you feel her calves lock and quiver, my arms squeeze and my chest heave and jostle, all slick with beads of shimmer sweat and streaked with crimson where your claws met my arm and my back. "NNnnn... Neeever!" She growl with burning defiance, but still you start to peel away, a bend to your back the Angel fights so hard to control. You breasts lift and slide over her own, til the Doves chins cuped by the valley of sinful chest.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Even rejuvinated, even with the threat to her dearly decimated sister so real and so raw it already weighs so heavily on the Songstress soul, she can only hope to contain such a turbulent, ravenous force of darkness for so long. Time though, is not on your side. It's rusking toward you in a blue of intracate, blood stained stonework! You more powerful stature conspires with Minerva's lustrous wings to bring you down with a shudder that rocks through us both. The Dove's hips are thrown forwards in a full, pressing grind. Her legs quiver around you and her body flexes, trying to keep hold as you horn cracks and a pulse of pain and rage seems to radiate outward!
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Minerva's trying to steer with her weight, to bring us down from jacknife pose, with you underneath her. As it should surely be, Heeavens servant over Hells whore. Yet as her body twists, yours snaps venomously, with thousands of battles, thousands of slaughters to guide your fist. There's a solid thud and a mousey sweak as you connect with her temple and send pink slick rippling across the floor like turbulent waves. It's the Songstress turn to find her world shifting in and our of focus, leaving her swaying... loosening around you. "nnnuummppppHHHH!". The next connect with her jaw and that warm, soft flesh seems to meld off your body and topple onto her side where the cold stone stirs goosebumps as she rolls on her side and flops onto her back, half across the puddle of shame she left. "awwwhhhh... you... fiend....". Frustration and fear dance in the background of her mind, while heavy pain across her temple keeps things moving slow and out of focus.. Her gloved hands cup her face, easing the impacts out of her jaw with a soft click... "aaaaWWhhhhh"
Nyrassa: I cannot see it - my vision is still a smeared, indistinct blur of motion and light - but I can feel it with exquisite clarity. A jolt travels up my right arm, a sharp, clean feedback that is profoundly satisfying. I feel the dense bone of your skull meeting my knuckles, and the raw, animalistic thrill of retaliatory violence actually cools my rage, banking it into something more focused, more mine. The second strike is even more deliberate. I feel the connection, the slight give, and with it, the last shreds of my lost control snap back into place. The haze lifts completely because the physical proof is immediate: the tense, constricting pressure of your legs around mine vanishes as your limbs go slack, unlocking my body. A faint, unceremonious thud follows - the sound of your body meeting the cold floor. And as if that were the signal, my sight rushes back, completing my return to myself. My eyes sweep the scene, taking in the evidence of our struggle. My gaze lingers, not on you, but on my broken left horn lying on the stone. A moment ago, its sight would have sent me back into the abyss. Now, I just feel a cold, slick amusement. The corner of my mouth tilts in a smirk. "Feisty one, aren't you~?" My voice is my own again, that teasing lilt dripping with menace as my gaze finally settles on your dazed form near me.
Nyrassa: The rage is gone, replaced by something colder, more playful, and infinitely more dangerous. I reach out with my right hand and close my fingers around your left wrist. With a firm, inexorable pull, I draw your arm toward me, beginning to straighten it. My hips shift, sliding closer across the floor until I am seated beside you, settling the soft curve of my ass snugly against your left shoulder. I elevate my right leg, then let it descend, not with crushing weight, but with a promise of immobility, the back of my thigh now resting across your neck. My left leg comes across your chest, pinning your torso. Now your captured arm lies perfectly positioned, trapped in the valley between my thighs. My left hand joins the right, both now encircling your wrist in a double-handed grip. Then, I lean back. I arch against the pull, using the full weight of my upper body to straighten your arm into a flawless, hyper-extended line. Your elbow joint finds itself lodged firmly into my crotch, a vulnerable pivot point against an unyielding fulcrum. And your captured wrist, pulled taut by my leaning form, is drawn snugly into the deep, warm cleft between my breasts, held there as if by a living, breathing vice. "You broke my horn..." I muse, my tone light, almost conversational. I give a slight, testing push downward with my hips, applying pressure to the fulcrum of your elbow locked against me. "I think... I should break your arm in return~" A soft giggle escapes me as I begin to lean back further, incrementally increasing the strain, turning my own body into a living lever designed for one very specific, very audible snap.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Minerva's mind reels. After such a huge, crashing impact it should be her ascending to victory surely, yet it's her that finds herself splayed out on the rough, uneven stones watching blotches of colour blossom and fade above her while a coopery twang sours her tastebuds. Yet more proof, as if you needed it, that Sera, let alone you are a much more seasoned warrioress than the singer come battle maiden humming her soft, groaning hum to your side. Might she hope for indignant rage to carry you into another error when she hears movement to her side, that'd bring less terror than the cool, amused tone that draws her back to reality.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: The Dove's wings tilt gentlly, easing her back into a low angle as her hands slip away from her mouth, fingers sprinkled in claret. A track of thinned blood frames her teeth pink hues when her eyes meet with yours. "Fiesty and... far from.. done". How true that could prove to be, now your slinking toward her, while the Angel's still sluggish, still sorting out the tangle of sensation and emotion running though her in swirling waves of pain and building, crippling fear. Your touch is almost gentle at first, drawing her arm out at that wide angle, yet it brings a familiar dread. Those leather licked hips and strong legs still hold a serpentine menace for the little dove, once again being ensnared in your darkly seductive embrace. Seductive and destructive yet it's already too late for the songstress. Even as her whimpers reach higher notes and her body twists and pulls against you, trying to turn away your thigh drapes across her throat holds her down, with bulging eyes and gapping lips. Your other leg completes the vice, rolling across her soft bounty and settling to push those ivory cupped breasts to swell skyward in mockery of her pinned body!
Battle_Angel_Minerva: And as the would be saviour's pinned, a deep frantic panic settles in somewhere deep in her core. Her legs start to flail and kick, beating her bare heels on the ground. Her wings spasm more than flutter for she can feel what your doing. The tension building as that stray arm's drawn across your flesh. The leather bound pivot point of your pubic bone and the squeeze of your bosom bringing such soft heat around her wrist. There's almost something intimate about this. About your cooing voice and melodic giggle in the moment just ebfore you take away so much of the meagre threat she's posed to you...
Battle_Angel_Minerva: "Nnnn... Nnnooo.. Nononono... You can't.. you mustn't... Don't you da-daRE". A little rock of your hips serves as the prelude. Sharp and electric in the jolt it eases through bone and tendon like a cold knife. It's enough to draw a shudder through your prey before you pull on that wishbone and get the screams your yearn for. "aaaarrRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!" Somewhere in that rising cry you hear it, the sharp snap. You feel the tension quiver and give as muscle ingites in tearing pain. Her arm bend inward in a way it was never meant to shift. Her fingers stretch, rule and rack across the inside of your breast. ANd her body shakes, hips pumping and twisting in each shuddering attempt to twist and roll away from her tormentor. As if that will save her. As if she hasn't just went from opponent to a mere, broken toy! "Aarrrhhhhggggaaaww... you... YOU... Yo-Mon...stor!!!"
Nyrassa: "Aaaaaaahhh~" The sound that tears from my throat is less a moan and more a visceral exhalation of pure, unadulterated bliss. It is a long, ragged vowel that starts deep in my chest and climbs into an obscene moan, weaving itself inseparably into the symphony of your agony. Your scream is a sharp, desperate counterpoint, a beautiful thing that is abruptly punctuated by a low, visceral crunch. Not a clean snap, but a wet, grinding collapse of structure, like stepping on a bundle of dry twigs wrapped in damp linen. Your elbow, pushed past the tensile limit of tendon and bone by the relentless, calculated pressure of my leverage, surrenders all at once. I feel the precise moment it gives way - the arm, a rigid bar of defiance trembling with strain just a heartbeat before, goes utterly, completely limp in my grip. The angle is all wrong, a grotesque new geometry that speaks of a compound fracture, of sharp edges displaced beneath the skin.
Nyrassa: The sensation is... exquisite. That final, catastrophic give of resistance. The translation of my will into the irreversible language of broken anatomy. The memory of that crunch is the percussion, still echoing in my bones. It resonates in the very core of me, sparking a feral, euphoric pleasure so intense it announces itself physically. A warm, liquid thrill pulses low in my belly, and I become acutely, shamelessly aware of a corresponding heat and dampness between my own thighs, a primal response to the dominance so completely enacted. "Mmmmmmm~ That's... better~" I coo, my voice a husky purr of satisfaction. I give a slight, deliberate shift of my thighs, making sure the ruined knob of your broken elbow drags against my sleek leather panties, feeling the solid, wrong shape of your injury pressing through. A final, intimate degradation before I let your arm go.
Nyrassa: I don't go far. Instead, I draw my legs in, releasing you from the prison of my body only to sink into a low crouch beside your head. I rest my elbows on my knees, the posture casual, observant. I lace my fingers and prop my chin upon them, settling in with the attentive ease of a spectator at a particularly engaging play. From this intimate proximity, I watch. I study the way your eyes bulge, wide with a shock so profound it momentarily silences your screams. I observe the violent tremors that wrack your body, the way your mouth gaps, searching for air or a voice that has been shattered into fragments of pain. My gaze is a gentle, unwavering pressure, taking in every twitch and every silent gasp. I'm comfortably settled, drinking in the raw, unfiltered spectacle of your agony, my own quiet, hungry smile the only answer to the ruin I have so lovingly crafted.
Nyrassa: "Oh, you have no idea," I murmur, my voice a husky secret meant just for you, "how many times I've been called a monster~" A slow, chillingly beautiful smile spreads across my face, my eyes glinting with perverse delight. "Coming from you? I'll take that as a compliment~" The words are a silken ribbon, wrapping around the moment. My left hand lifts and comes to rest gently, so gently, on the crown of your head. For a single, suspended heartbeat, it is a caress, a lover's touch. But it shatters in the next instant - my fingers suddenly clench into a vise. They tighten ruthlessly around the strands of your long pink hair, roots screaming in their follicles. "Up we go~" The sweet tone grotesquely at odds with the action. My own body uncoils, rising from a crouch, as I haul you upward, forcing your body to follow the painful trajectory my arm dictates until we are abruptly, violently, standing face-to-face. "Let's see..." I whisper, the teasing lilt in my voice a grotesque parody of playfulness, "how much you can take~" My right hand draws back slowly, telegraphing the blow, letting the dread pool in your stomach. Then, with a sharp motion that blurs the air, my fist plunges forward, going to sink into the soft, vulnerable plane of your belly, right where your navel lies exposed!
Battle_Angel_Minerva: It all becomes a haze as Minerva thrashes her head side to side, as if somehow she could just wish this all away. Just click those Ivory heels together three times and be whisked away to some place soft, comforting and homely. If only those heels weren't scattered across the floor along with her once pristine battle armour. If only she wasn't already in a home of sorts, this grandiose cathedral you've already defiled and stained with celestial blood. A crimson tine that creeps into her vision turning the corridor of abandon pews, the vandalised celling and woe filled saints. And of course her noble sister, still clinging somehow to life, to a surely fading glimmer of hope while everything else seems to stand still, as if time itself were shaken into the unnatural trajectory of her shattered arm.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: The agony feels eternal yet for moments, it is a least contained to that mangled crook, focused on the point of lasting and prophetic destruction. But the chorus moves on and mingles, despair and desire forming melody and harmony. And then, that violin stroke across sensual leather cuts through the noise. It peaks through the pain til cuts through the haze with such languid, eased sin that it still her thrashing legs and tenses through her spine as if the knot in her stomach were holding her frozen, dead weight. It is one thing to be bested in battle, quite another for all the fight to be little more than... foreplay for such a vivaciously ravenous presence. Yet that's never been far from her racing mind. How could it be with the unashamedly sexual aura, the closeness of the struggle. Now though, your moan rises over everything else.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: And when it finally stop churning through the broken battle angel's very soul, time races, carrying that sharp, angry pain shooting up and down her arm like a lit fuse. The show begins even before you can uncil and take up your hunched pew, looming over to take in the shock filling those pin prick, pupiled hues, so watery and blue they swell into ponds then drain as everything contorts and twists. Her brow furrows, her lips curl and tighten into a trembling line etched pale pink across her china doll features. Even that halo dims, flickers and then erupts with pulsating pinks as another silent scream rises up, as if private.. intimate and only for you. And with it, every shudder, every twitch of her majestic wingspan and ripple of her frantic, pliant bust.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Another tremble jolts through the broken dove when you reach down, caressing that rich silken hair as if you tending to a distressed pet. It does bring a kind of fickle comfort, if only in it's distraction from the electric pulses searing through her limp arm. Yet behind that touch, two glowing embers and a windening, joker grind of pointed incissors, each so poised and able to penetrate the innocent her flesh, to drink in the life force pumping through her at white water pace. Would that be mercy?
Battle_Angel_Minerva: A cold sweat breaks out over Mina's body, turning into a slick, frosty sheen before your eyes. Terrible, all consuming, infernal eyes. She turns her head away even as her unharmed hand reaches across her body, delicate fingers coiling around her bicep to oh to tentatively lift and carry dead weight with her as she rolls onto her side and tries to coil up and bring her knees into her tummy.. "aaawhhh... hhrrgggg... h... h... can.. yo.... do th-this.... How can you.... enjoy this?" Yet there is a perverse closeness in your methods, your touch and tone. Even when you bring a rapid spreading wildfire of pain across her scalp and drag the fluttering angel, legs sprawling, to her feet. As she rises, her gaze sweeps over her torn clothes, scattered wand.. even your broken horns. All of them testament to what she is.. Or was.. Proof that she battled.. she struggled... and now... face to face with you. Onyx and Ivory lingerie marking the contrast between the predator and the prey... "wh-whatever I must".
Battle_Angel_Minerva: With that tiny, resigned whisper, you draw your hand back in a fist. Minerva takes in a deep, tense breath bringing tension across that expanse of smooth milky flesh. No attempt to defend herself. She's still holding that arm still to her side, as if nothing could surpass that shrill echoing of anguish. "hhhrRRMMMPPPHHH!!!!" Muscle shudders and gives to the sheer inhuman force you bring. Enough to wretch her body forward til those winged bra cups almost let her bosum spill free. Spit flies from her lips and speckles your top as she doubles over, reaching out with with her good arm to try and push you away. To at least earn precious seconds to recover her stolen breath.
Nyrassa: The feedback to my fist is even less substantial than I expected. It seems that if your angelic frame had nowhere to bend, had been braced against stone or steel, my fist would have punched clean through you, leaving a ruin of flesh and shattered spine in its wake. But you had enough space. So instead of breaking, you folded. My fist sinks deep into the soft cradle of your belly, a full, merciless immersion that drives your diaphragm into a violent spasm. I don't pull back. I let my fist linger in that crushing depression, feeling the frantic quiver of tortured muscles beneath, and just grin - a slow, malicious baring of teeth as I glance down, noting with detached pleasure the flecks of saliva that have splattered across me. "How can I enjoy this?" I muse, my voice a low, conversational rumble that belies the violence of the act. I tilt my head, studying your shock-wide eyes, the silent gasp of your mouth. "You angels, with your hymns and your halos, will never understand the texture of triumph. The intimate poetry of feeling another's strength become weakness, of witnessing order become chaos..." I lean in slightly, my breath ghosting over your sweat-damped brow. "But then, you don't need to~"
Nyrassa: Your only remaining intact arm flails weakly, palm slapping against me with all the force of a trembling leaf. I don't even acknowledge the pathetic effort - it's less than an insect's resistance. "The only thing you need," I continue, the promise dripping like venom, "is to sing your best song for me~" A dark laugh escapes me, short and humorless. In one fluid, deliberate motion, I unclench the fist buried in your belly, my right hand sliding around to splay against the small of your back, finding the alarming slightness of your waist. Simultaneously, my left hand, which had been fisted in your hair, releasing its cruel anchor, performs a mirror movement to the left. Both my hands travel the desperate arc of your ribs, meeting in a ruthless clasp behind you. And then I pull, eliminating every precious inch of defensive space and locking you into a vicious bearhug.
Nyrassa: My arms become iron bands that seal your shattered breath against me. I feel the frantic, bird-like flutter of your heart hammering against my own, the damp heat of your struggle, the complete and utter captivity of your form. The soft, yielding pressure of your chest against mine is its own exquisite conversation. My fuller breasts, heavy and eager, push against the smaller, pert swell of yours with a slow, claiming pressure, as if to envelop them. The idea enchants me, and I decide to become an accomplice to their rough conquest. My hands, which had been resting on the dip of your back, now guide you. I shift you upward just a fraction, then slowly lower you again - a deliberate, rocking motion. The friction is sublime. My own taut peaks catch on the edge of your bra's cup, which has slipped down a little after my previous punch. The winged trim provides delicious resistance, a tiny battle before surrender.
Nyrassa: On the next languid downward glide, that delicate barrier yields completely. The fabric slips, gathering beneath the soft curve of your breast, and in a breathless, perfect moment, you spring free. The sight is a sudden gift: pale skin flushed, the delicate rose peak offered fully to the cold air and my rapt attention. A soft, breathy laugh escapes me. "Oh, yes... You look much better this way~" A giggle escapes me as I pull you even tighter against me, drunk on the sight and sensation. My arms lock around your ribcage, securing you in a possessive embrace, and I even lift us just slightly off the ground with a couple of strong beats of my wings. I nuzzle against your ear, my whisper a promise and a playful threat all at once. "Now, now, sweetie~ Try your very best not to break~"
Nyrassa: 
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Minvera's world shifts in and out of focus with each choked cough. That world is so small right now that her eyes are level with your stomach, bowed under a mess of criss crossed pink silk, like ribbon decorating the meek look of fear etched across her delicate features. Slowly, two bright blue pools of sadness rise, following the sinew and muscle still bring flutters of pain and nausea through her core. Higher still past the leather creaking across your chest until the source of that cool soft voice, razor teeth bared in a grin that never ceases to make her blood cool. A brimstone breath whips over her skin and pushes her stay bangs away. It pushes all the noise away so there is just you and her... And her sister still impaled on the cross, a dark comedy that somehow she's managed to bare with resolute dignity; Truly a diamond in heavens crown. Little wonder that soul manifests as the personification of purity. Minerva on the other hand, her visage is marked by pink passion, such effeminate frailty and even her halo casts neon hues. There's fear, so deep it flowed. Shame sapping her belief with each almost purred tone and pain rippling through on every fluttering breath. Where Sera proved as resolute as a diamond, Mina's putty to shape and manipulate as much with a flick of your tongue as a swipe of claws.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: As you take your dance partner's accommodatingly slim waist and draw us across the slither of space, you can feel her arm still pushing, swing and thudding against you, one fist shaped drum beat at a time. A slow precussion that only compliment the rat-ta-tap of her heart, now pressed so tight. You've made no secret of what this is for you.. What she is. Yet it's only truly becoming clear from the press of flesh. The meeting of leather with silk and satin lace. A darkly sexual dance which you're leading her on while the little songstress sings her swan song. Will it be a chime.. Or an epic ballad for ages?
Battle_Angel_Minerva: "aaahhhnn.... aaarrrhhhh... ya... you.. don't desearve mmmsssong". She whimpers even as you embrace her close. So close that her ornate, gloved hand can find no leverage. Silks brust and slip away as your bring a crook to her back that offers such elegance even as it serves up her bountiful chest to her engulfed an encompassing leather kiss, in the pliant smoother of your decadent delight. Taut swells shift so easily, slick yet clammy from her body's spirited but so completely inadequate struggles. There's a petulant flutter of those wings, a warm, perfumed breeze that lifts her half an inch higher before you draw her back and start to overcome the lift of her satin wing crested bra. Slip, slip and straining heave that makes her rich flesh almost flow against yours, two opposing currents bringing such warm, kissing friction.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: "gggyyfff...cccaa.. caaa... breath". ANother bite of pressure. She must do something.. She has to fight, even as every sinew, even every coil of pink silk screams that's it's hopeless. That's she's to be lead, just as she was by Sera's pleading Siren song. So her legs flick out as her wings snap and ripple. Her thighs shift and glide around your sides and lock ancles crossed at your back. She flexes as you rock forward with a lewd sweep of leather against silk and sodden shame "Unnggghhhh!" And still's she drawn back down on your whims. Another pivot in this slow waltz that brings another bite of breath stilling pressure across her ribs and back.. "gggfffigggg!!!"
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Every private note the Dove sings speaks, first from the lift of her chest, then the tickle of her breath across her skin. Her lips part and her slick, drool glazed jaw hangs. Still always struggling to replenish what you so methodically take. Another roll into the clammy gusset strewn between thoses things, shifts the arch of her body and smoosh of her rosy flushed tits til... "nnnaahhh... awwwhhhh naaawwhhhH!". Then pop free and spring forth with treacherous eagerness, each pale rose bud standing tall and proud from the lick of cool air and humid friction. "Uunnggghhh!". Those cups still conspire, pushing into the soft underside of her breasts, pushing them higher, into your infernal gaze. Even as your whisper sweeps over her nape and the choker still wrapped so snug over a pulsating attery. How tempting to sink those teeth in and drink in the very essence of the twitching lamb? "Mee.... Meeercy?.... Mu... must you.... take everything?". Minerva manages somehow to whisper. By now those wings have folded inward and stilled. Her bodies folding back on the pressure point of your hands. You can feel ribs bend. See the world crushing in on Mina by the frozening, twitching look on her face. Grim resignation in those eyes. Tears rolling over her cheeks now she's left in nothing much more than the piss soaked panties smearing across the front of your shorts with each obscene rock of our bodies.... "Unnnnhhh"
Battle_Angel_Minerva: 
Nyrassa: My lips form a satisfied, almost lazy, smile as your thighs encircle my waist... But this constriction is not enough to steal my breath or cause me pain. Instead, that delicious tension only amplifies everything - the heat of you, the rhythm of your breath, the faint, captivating scent of your divinity mingled with the salt of our exertion. This intimate, full-bodied contact sends a fresh, molten pulse through my core, a deep, private ache that answers the pressure of your limbs. I feel tangible evidence of my arousal growing further - a heated slickness that now crests at my folds, a hidden dew that seeps just enough to dampen the inner lining of my leather panties. "Don't deserve~?" The question is a mockery of the very idea. "Silly angel, I'll just force it out of you then~" A light giggle escapes me, but my mind is a battlefield of exquisite temptation. Do I lose myself here, in the devastating generosity of these gorgeous, exposed tits, just one look from me would be a disgrace for you? Or do I draw back, to look up and savor the exquisite pain storming in your eyes, to watch your celestial composure fracture for me?
Nyrassa: The second option wins out. With a conscious effort, as if pulling myself from a dream, I drag my gaze upward from your breasts. It travels over your neck, until, finally, ascends to your face. To your eyes. And there it is - a brilliant, piercing pain, a shattered dignity that makes my breath catch. The sight of the tear tracing a path on your cheek drives a visceral craving within me. I don't decide - I simply lean. My tongue darts out, catching the tear at the crest of your cheekbone, a fleeting, intimate theft. The taste blooms on my tongue: a little salty, yes, but beneath that, a shocking, poignant... sincerity. It is anguish distilled, a liqueur of pure, unadulterated pain. It saturates the salt, giving it depth, a devastating richness. I lick my lips slowly, deliberately, as if to parse every nuanced note of this holy vintage.
Nyrassa: As I do, my sleek and possessive tail uncurls to start its new journey. It slides sinuously down before lifting, reaching your back and encountering my own hands where they grip you. Then, it finds the slipped silk of your bra and with a precise, cruel flick of its sharp tip, it snags the fragile fabric. A soft, decisive rip whispers through the air as the material parts, letting the garment fall away completely. Higher it climbs, now tracing the hidden seams where your magnificent wings erupt from your scapulae. It teases the lowest, smallest feathers, the covert ones, stirring them with an almost idle curiosity. Its ultimate destination is the choker I had noted earlier - that elegant, restrictive band around your neck. The slick, cool tip of my tail finds the precious sliver of space where the material meets your skin. It slips underneath, slithering with insidious gentleness until it has wrapped around the back of the choker. And then, I begin to pull. It is not a yank, but a steady, relentless retraction, which transforms your own choker into a leash of my making. The elegant fabric bites into the tender flesh of your throat, a constant, tightening pressure that promises another kind of breathlessness, another raw note to add to the song I am so ruthlessly composing from your suffering.
Nyrassa: "Little angel... I'm not going to take everything~" I purr as my embrace recalibrates. The primary focus - the stolen air from your lungs - is now efficiently managed by your own ornate choker... So now I can change the goal from the air to the very architecture that contains it. The pressure, once diffuse, becomes surgical. The strong, relentless curve of my biceps and forearms cease to merely restrain and begin to compress. They become industrial bands, pressing inward on the fragile architecture of your ribcage. A new, more profound strain sings through your body, a creaking, groaning anthem of protest from bone and cartilage. Our bodies are pressed so close that not a whisper of light could pass between us. My breasts, sheathed in their sleek material, crush against yours. Through the fabric, I could feel the rigid peaks of your nipples against mine, a sharp, defiant protest met with the unyielding pressure of my own. It's a silent, brutal contest fought across the minute distance of our fused chests. "I'M gOiNg tO tAkE mOrE tHaN eVeRyThInG!!" I burst into maniacal laughter while my arms dig into your back. I pull, forcing your spine into a painful arc, bowing you backward over the anvil of my body. It is the desperate, performing bend of a whore on a pole, all forced display and strained sinew, not the gentle, celestial curve of an angel in repose. This is worship of a darker liturgy, where the altar is your body and the ritual is compression. And all the while, the steady, increasing pressure on your ribs continues. It is a slow, inevitable tide, so strong that I feel some of your ribs are crossing the line between pressure and fracture!
Seraphina: Though a spark of defiance still burns in my eyes for any who might look upon me, a profound and chilling inversion is taking place within. The blood that still remains inside me is turning to ice in my veins, crystalizing with each fresh atrocity I am forced to witness. My disbelief is not a mere mental pause, but a total systemic shock - a rupture between what the mind knows to be possible and what the eyes, horrifyingly, confirm. My angelic sister, who came here with light in her hands, who crossed into this darkness to save me... To see her grace subdued, her kindness met with such calculated brutality, is to watch the very concept of goodness being violently defiled... Her suffering is a language of pure pain, and I am forced to read every agonizing word. My body has become a prison of petrified horror, my mouth hanging open in a silent, endless gasp that draws no air. Every muscle, every nerve, is locked in a rigor of absolute dread. The command to scream, to roar, to plead, is sent from my mind but dies somewhere in the frozen expanse of my throat, leaving only a terrible, voiceless void. All I can do is stare, as my wide, unblinking eyes etching this nightmare onto my soul forever.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Minverva's pink cascading hair drapes toward the floor, catching flickers of light which dance and stretch into the crux of her still rippling, lustrous feathers. Each squeeze, each flex of your arms deepens the tilt on her body into elegant pole dancers arch while moonlight washes over her like a stage light. Only the pole she's locked around so tight, is looming, leering in malevolent glee that she can almost sense that razor grin. Worse she can feel the rock of your body.. The heat radiating through leather and translucent silk like an infectious corruption encroaching with the slow rhythm which each creak of her spine and grind into her splayed core!
Battle_Angel_Minerva: She shuts her eyes tight, as if that would block out this nightmare when in truth, it only brings her focus sharper on the sensations flooding though her body. The slide and give of slick, sweat sheened skin on your soft, seductive figuire. The bite of pain and pressure bearing in around her lower ribs, restricting her diaphragm. All the while, your voice, your breath rolling across those pert breasts, those stiff peach crowns that rake the humid air and drag across your larger, domineering bust while she squirms and wriggles within your snare. Perhap's this is what's so truly terrifying. That a hellbeast like you, born of fire and hunger, can resist such a plush offering and instead bring your attention back to her face.. Look into her soul and remain sooo.. calm.. patient.. Breaking her piece by piece...
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Minerva has to fight, yet one arm hangs broken and the other, exhausted and starved of precious air. So those thighs shift and slide. They flex. It's hopeless, like trying to bend steel. Her wings spasm. Your breath and gaze climb, over the nape of her neck, the soul stone still shimmering with her choker. Again, she finds herself locked into the fiery abyss as you lean in, content to savour when you could so easily feast... "N... N... wwhh...aaiieee". You leave a trail of moisture as taste a cocktail of magically charged misery. One she's felt in a thousand nightmares, all locked away in the darkest corners of her innocent mind and drown out by sweet lullabies.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Yet this the nightmare she's living right now. The one making her heart race and her rich blood rush through her shuddering body, bringing a flushed glow. And then, that terrible tail flickering to life. Her ass cheeks tighten when it brushes up and slithers it's way up her back. You feel the tension locking her tighter to you. So tight that sweat almost glues us together in this terrible waltz. You're leading her, and she's powerless to stop it. The way that pointed tip brushes, ruffles and separates stray feathers from her magnificent wingspan. They sway to the floor, dulled and dampened as if an extension of the Doves once empassioned spirit. Now it's breaking. You can see it. Two more tears creeping from those sapphire hues, the choked shock etched across her pretty features. That expression gets more stark when you capture her choker and stretch on the fabric, bringing tension biting around her neck. "gggccckkkk.. ggrrkkk... hhlllrrppp!!"
Battle_Angel_Minerva: There's silence. A silence that burns deep in her chest from such desperate yearning need, just to breath. The writhing dove's tongue tumbles from her gaping mouth. You fill that silence with a cool promise.. A prophecy that both Mina and her watching sister know to be inevitable. The evidence is hanging, bleeding on the cross. And now, with a choked, silent contortion. An intimate squeal and a devil's whim, it begins. Minerva's eyes bulge out as if drawn into the fire as your embrace becomes an irrepressible crush. HEr brow creases, lips twitch and a slow precussion errupts. A pop, a rip a crack. You feel the reverberates snap through her in grinding spasm. Another pop, a twist. True music is felt as much as heard, and you feel every bend. Every crack and snap as her ribcage so deforms into jagged daggers. Those eyes finally break from yours, rolling upwards while tears flow free and her mind recoils into such sheer, pure agony!
Nyrassa: First, it's a quiet pop - like a bubble bursting deep within you. A small, almost delicate sound, so intimate I feel it more than hear it. Then it grows louder, a wet, grating crescendo as my hands dig deeper into the delicate cage of your sides. I find the architecture of your ribs, and I squeeze. There's a shudder, then a series of crackling reports, not unlike stepping on a bundle of dry twigs in a silent forest. They crumple under my pressure, a sensation both horrifying and exquisite - the structured strength of bone yielding, becoming something pliant and broken. I feel several bones detach and begin to move freely inside your angelic body, floating in a sea of ruin. The satisfying resistance of your frame gives way to a terrifying softness, a collapse that allows me to squeeze you even tighter against me, as if to merge your brokenness with my own form. Your legs gradually lose their purchase around my waist, sliding down and beginning to dangle uselessly in the air. I study the landscape of your agony - the wide, glistening eyes, the divine tears on your cheeks, the parted lips that gasp for a air that won't come. A lingering, malicious smile rests on my own lips, a private amusement at the art of your dismantling, as my tail continues its steady, relentless pull on the choker around your throat. Two orchestras of destruction are playing: one of crushing, one of strangulation.
Nyrassa: A dark, overwhelming curiosity consumes me. Which finale will arrive first? Will you be a sculpture of shattered bone in my arms, or a limp doll silenced by the very adornment you wore? The question is beautiful to me. And in that moment of distracted fascination, I make a mistake. The symphony of your cracking bones is suddenly joined by a sharp, vulgar sound - the ripping of fabric. A misjudgment of my own grip, a fractional slip of control. The sharp tip of my tail slices through the material of your collar as if it were mist, instantly freeing your throat from the embrace of death. My smile vanishes. "Tck..." The sound of disapproval clicks against my teeth. I feel a genuine, hot spike of upset - not for your suffering, but for the spoiled elegance of the end. "What a pity," I sigh, "it would have been... very funny if your own piece of clothing had been the thing to strangle the life from you~"
Nyrassa: The melody of your suffering loses its charm in direct proportion to the distance that the ruined fabric travels to the ground. So I decide to change its tune. I loosen the bearhug, my left hand uncurls from your waist, becoming a slow ascent up the arch of your spine. It travels the still arching geography of your back, over the aching knobs of vertebrae, past the startling junction where the majestic roots of your wings erupt from your scapulae. The journey disturbs the downy filaments there, sending a constellation of dislodged feathers spiraling into the air once again. My hand does not stop. It travels the final slope until my palm cups the nape of your now-bare neck. My right hand charts a contrary descent, a counterpoint of dark intent. It slides down you belly before curving, with an almost courtly grace, around the firm swell of your right thigh. The motion is deceptively intimate as I slip my hand behind you, into the forbidden space between your legs.
Nyrassa: The discovery is electric. My palm cups you fully, encountering not just the heat of your intimate place, but the drenched silk of your panties, thoroughly soaked through with a evidence of a terror you cannot disguise. My hand closes, not with brutality, but with absolute, possessive certainty, claiming your groin in a firm, encompassing grasp. Then, I engage the strength of my form. With a controlled, unyielding force, I straighten both arms. Your celestial body, for all its ethereal grace, is startlingly light in my grasp. I lift you as one would raise a sacred, profane offering - up, up, until I hold you aloft on fully extended arms, suspended between the indifferent ceiling and the cold floor. I look up at you, a dark star gazing at a captured angel. "This is gonna hurt, little light~" My voice is a low chuckle that vibrates with promised violence... But first, a punctuation mark of exquisite humiliation. The middle finger of my right hand, already positioned so perfectly, exerts a subtle, insistent pressure. It draws a slow, teasing line downwards along your slit, tracing every contour through your soaked panties. I follow the entire length, feeling the heat, the tight shape of your pussy beneath the fabric, until I return my finger to rest it at your apex.
Nyrassa: This moment of teasing ends as suddenly as it started. My wings cease supporting our low hovering, gravity reasserts its claim. My right foot meets the ground first, the sole absorbing the impact with a sharp slap, the knee above it buckling into a deep, loaded bend. My left leg follows, boot settling wide to create a solid pillar of stability. And... I pull my arms. Your body completes its fall, guided by my grip, the small of your back meeting the bone of my knee with a devastating, hollow CRACK! The sound is dense, a percussive shock that tears through the air. I don't see your spine contort - my view is obscured by your right wing, a curtain of feathers blocking the sight... But I feel it. The impact is a solid, jarring wave that travels up through my thigh, into my hips, rattling my teeth.
Nyrassa: And as for that wing, which is spread wide and vulnerable above me? It presents an opportunity I would be a fool to ignore. With a swift, twisting adjustment of my head, I position my only remaining intact horn - a cold, deliberate placement. I angle the sharp point to meet the soft feathers of your wing as it falls across my space. There is a terrible, yielding resistance, a sickening punch through strained muscles as I drive the tip all the way through, pinning the wing like a macabre trophy upon my crown.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: A few coils of pink silk drape across one overflowing, azure pool but the other remains locked in, twitching with each note of this symphony, moving her body is a slow dance dance. You can see the yearning for this to the last waltz in the contorted, open mouthed expression, such terror and agony! They grip her so tight, that each pop and scrunch turns jagged breaks cutting inward and outword, creating little bumps under her slick ivory skin. A twitch here, and spasm there, all while every sinew of body screams with burning hot pain. The press of your body brings with it such oppressive humidity and yet, despite it all, deaths cold embrace is closing in. There’s only the two us, moving in a perverse synchronicity while the glow of her Halo flickers. Perhaps death is the angel Sera should have preyed to? If only she wasn’t so resolute, so noble. She should have prayed to you.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: “PLck….”
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Even the once majestic form of an angel has it’s limits and the damage inflicted could be a slow death sentence already for the beauty wilting in your embrace. You feel it, a contrast between the rolling and racing drum beat of her heart at the core of our press, it almost enough to distract from the press and poke and press from the peach peaks of her dwarfed and smothered breast, or how her legs slide down yours and dangle, toes seeking the floor just inches away with one foot, the other still lingers, coiled calf to calf. Is it the intimate press of flesh that spurs you to draw out Mina’s anguish when a whim is all it would take to collapse her body inward in one final pain spasm? But the truth is etched on your face.. In shines in your eyes and almost drips from pointed incisors.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: “Psff”
Battle_Angel_Minerva: You’ve found another verse of indignity to each onto the pale canvas. Even in the dancing neon, you can see a blue tinge creep into her lips as the colour drains from her agonised expression. A frozen anguish that the broken dove wishes you’d simply shatter. Instead her collar bites deep around the throbbing artery in her neck. Choking pain centres under the flickering jewel still flickering above her collar bones. Your dark poetry is coming to a quiet, tragic finale. She’s breathlessly pleading for it. For the symbol of her heaven sent duty to be her last humiliation. A cruel twist
Battle_Angel_Minerva: And then, with a slip, the silk parts and slithers away, weaving its way between the press of our bodies to flutter to floor, dulled and dead. And with that, the flow of bountiful energies shifts with in body, circulating like blood between her Halo and soul stones on her gloves and resting centred on the waist of her sodden panties. And so a deep emptiness sets in her heart, even as her lungs fill with air and her body spasms on a choked cough which brings a spray of cooper tinged claret across your face and speckles over her lips.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: “ppllffff… I…aye… be….. beg”
Battle_Angel_Minerva: A weak, gloved hand still pushes against your shoulder in an unconscious instinct of terror stricken prey but there’s no real fight left. Her head lulls forward, bringing her brow to yours, so close you feel her breath, hear every gurgled inhale, every wet exhale just as she feels the unrelenting fires casting her tears in rich gold. You can feel the heat from her Halo. Not quite the searing cleansing force that radiated once from Sera’s. No.. Mina’s glow’s soften by a weakness you’ve already displayed. Continue to put on show for both fallen champions. You have all the time in the world, so slow and careful your talons feel, creeping their way through her feathers. Each drifting plume another tear falling from sobbing mess that once thought herself a savour. Each touch is a whispered, tactile insult. Another swirl of soul sapping weakness. Minerva’s breath catches and bubbles down her chin as your hand creeps over the stone in her silken waist band. You can feel the whisps of pink under that thin veil, a mere distraction before you take what’s yours, left on offer by the gentle hook of her leg.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: “uuhhnn… NNnn…. Ple……”
Battle_Angel_Minerva: You feel her hand tighten on your shoulder, while the other hangs crippled and useless to stop this degradation. Soaked silks only remind her of the fearful, it does nothing to mask the squishing press of your hand. The upward pressure as you hoist her into the air like the sacrificial lamb. Yet would the heavens accept such an offering, such as she is now. Stripped of dignity and broken. With her body draped across your airs, as if offering those pert, full breasts and treacherous nipples.. No beam of light reaches down to carry her to Nirvana. Only the curl of your fingers, pushing piss soaked silk into the grove of her lips as it lives a shivering tingle stirring a coughed groan, a spurt of blood which stains her lips in vivacious shade of scarlet.. Minerva’s soul shrinks within her when the world starts to rush around her. Her wings fold inward as if they protect her.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: *CRUNCH!!!!*
Battle_Angel_Minerva: The Cathedral falls silent, in a moment of shock, disbelief. As if Mina’s own body, her nerves themselves fall into denial for a heartbeat, maybe two. Then a shudder, a jiggle of her breasts as the impact sweeps out in waves from a shattered epic centre followed by fiery hot pain zipping through her like lit torchpaper, spreading fast through her spine. As she folds over your knee. That same hellfire rolls through her legs, leaving only a phantom chill. Yet she can hear her feeth slapping off the ground in death spasming kick.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: And then you hear it. A song sweat as any you’ve ever heard, one so full of everything Mina still is. Every she was. A song coupled with flutter and flex of heckled feathers. “AaaiIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!” And there’s no reprieve.. Just a rip and pop as your horn pierces through her plume. More blood spreading. “aaaWWWRRHHHHPLEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaseeee!” The screams rise as the dove shakes and thrashes her head… “PleeeAARRIIIEEESSEEEE PlllLLLEEasse…. Ppllleeeasse… jjjsss..k…. ki… mmmeeeEEeeeee…”
Nyrassa: "And you said you wouldn't sing to me~" The pained note you'd just uttered was more beautiful to me than any choir. "Now that's something worthy of coming out of an angel's mouth~ But I know you can do better. You're holding back the symphony~" With a dismissive motion, I push you forward from your precarious perch on my knee. But I do not remove my demonic horn I had earlier driven into the musculature of your wing. As you fall, the horn tears through the celestial joints and delicate bone structure with a wet, shredding sound. A jagged, bloody gash erupts from the point of penetration all the way to the trailing edge of your wing, scattering white feathers that now gleam with a patina of crimson. As you find yourself on the cold floor on your belly, my gaze settles on the exposed landscape of your vulnerable back, on the twin masterpieces of your wing - one now brutally marred.
Nyrassa: "You know, I usually break them~" I muse, glancing briefly at Seraphina's wings. The words casual, almost fond, as if recalling a favorite hobby. "But you..." I pause, kneeling behind you. "You'll be an excellent test subject for my experiment~" Before the sentence even finished, I drive my right knee down, not with a savage impact, but with a precise, inexorable force, planting it squarely right between the anchoring muscles of your wings. You are pinned, the very architecture of your body now a lever for its own destruction. Immediately after, my hands descend. They do not fumble or seek. They know their target. My palms find the precise point where the magnificent, feathered appendages erupt from your scapulae - the warm, living cradle of bone and sinew hidden beneath the down and contour feathers. My fingers sink through the plumage and close like vices around the very roots. I can feel the complex anatomy beneath: the thick, cable-like primary tendons, the frantic pulse of blood vessels, the hard curve of the scapula bones. I squeeze... And begin to pull.
Nyrassa: It is not a quick, savage rip, but a slow, appalling application of force. I feel it all. The minute shifts and creaks of skeletal junctions deep within your body. The individual protest of every major ligament stretching beyond their design, becoming taut as harp strings about to snap. The sickening, elastic tension of muscle fibers parting from bone. But my own biceps and latissimus muscles bunch and cord, swelling against my skin with a strain I rarely feel: even with all my gathered, terrible strength, tearing off your wings with my bare hands is proving to be quite a difficult task, they cling to you with a stubborn loyalty. That tremor of effort sparks something in me. The difficulty transmutes from obstacle to objective. I begin to see it as a challenge, a test of my abilities, and, gritting my teeth and leaning back, I continue to pull.
Nyrassa: The symphony of tearing begins. A sickening, wet creak of tendons stretched beyond their yield. The sharper, drier pop of connective tissue giving way. The soft, horrific rip of integument and muscle fiber. Sweat, hot and stinging, beads on my brow and temples, tracing a path through the grime of effort. Then, a shift. A critical failure in the integrity of your form. The tension reaches its absolute peak, and for a fraction of a second, there is a terrifying equilibrium - a standstill between my relentless pull and your body's desperate cohesion. Which is broken by a catastrophic CRUNCH! My arms, having conquered the impossible resistance, swing upward in a perfect, symmetrical arc. And in my hands, held aloft, are the beautiful proofs of my victory: your wings, torn free not at a joint, but through a ravaged landscape of muscle, splintered bone, and shredded vessels. Two parabolic arcs of blood spray the air behind them, hanging for a moment before beginning their fall. For a breathtaking moment, I hold them high. The warmth of them seeps into my hands, a fading echo of life. Then, I let them go - a casual, dismissive flick of my wrists to the left and right. They sail away, those broken things, tumbling end over end to land on the floor, their connection to you, to the sky, to grace, forever and terribly severed.
Nyrassa: I remove my knee from your back and sit down on the vacant spot with my juicy butt. My body, warmed from the exertion, radiates a palpable heat. My now-freed hands come to rest first on the crests of my own shoulders, fingers splaying against the collarbone. Then, with a knowing slowness, they begin their descent. They glide over the slopes of my chest, pausing with theatrical emphasis to cup the full weight of my lush breasts. A shuddering breath leaves me, my back curving in a graceful, feline arc, pushing my chest forward into my own palms. A low, resonant moan escapes my lips - a sound of pure, unadulterated satisfaction that hangs in the air. It's a moan for the success of the experiment, for the potent thrill of absolute control. My fingers curl, gently pulling the yielding softness downward before releasing. As my hands slide lower, tracing the pronounced line of my ribcage, the released breasts bounce back with a heavy, languid resilience. They settle into a gentle, mesmerizing jiggle. The dark fabric of my panties is now soaked through, clinging to me with a damp intimacy. Now they are as wet as yours - the only difference being the source. Yours bear the salt of fear and struggle, mine are saturated with the slick, unmistakable heat of pure arousal. You could even feel the humid ghost of my excitement against your back, if the sharp, persistent agony of your own injuries not overshadowed every other sense.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Your composition is perfect. Behind that wounded wing you can hear a new verse blend. Perhaps the sweetest yet for an ear like yours. One that’s indulged in every cry, every crack. That’s used her arm like a violent bow of sensual cruelty and savoured the tears. Piercing screams give way to whimpering and then, to uncontrolled, trembling whailing. No longer just a tear of resignation or agony. No, now a fountain streams from those dulled pool pools as she blubbers on the sacrificial alter of your knee.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Dismissively, perhaps, even with disgust? It feels so at least, you shove her and that loud shhhrrrRRIIIIPPPPPPP!!” rings out with a flurry of falling feathers and a streak of claret which freckles over your face, you neck and your bust. It streaks over the floor in crimson lightening bolts as Minerva’s body lands with a bump and lays there, broken and writhing. Her breasts pancake under her while that broken wing wilts. It’s twin still flutters in panic. After she knows your intent doesn’t she? Sera’s suspended right in front of her, as a blue print of your whims, a trophy to your cruelty. Yet that ivory angel would never sate you completely. Never break near as easily or as totally as her delicate wings. The pathetic little pink dove, sprawled at your feet with dead legs still twitching, sending ripples through the peachy cheeks so visible under sodden, translucent silk that’ll soon serve as the curved lip of your saddle? You can take everything!
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Your voice is so calm it’s almost tender, where it not so devoid of compassed and so laced with cusious amusement. You call for a symphony and deep down, Mina know’s that she’s going to give you one. Before day breaks she’ll have gave whatever you wish and more. For she’s your dance partner? Your songstress? Or just an instrument for you you to tone your art with. If only the ground would open and swallow her now, so that so many of sisters wouldn’t have to suffer from you learn from this experiment. “nnnnNnnoooooooo”. She manages, a meagre plea that does nothing to stop you from searching for the next note.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: And so, as the pink haired angel bows her brow against the cold ground, surrounded by her own sundered clothes and shame, she feels you knee plant into her spine, above shattered vertebrae. But a broken instrument can still give a note. “nnnnrrrrrgGGGGG!”. A shiver ripples up those wings, feathers tilting on edge and falling around her as your hands, move over those intraicate bones and gentle muscles. “nnNNnoonooono… Pl… Pl…. No… Not my wings!” She sobs, “Please… Leave me… something!”
Battle_Angel_Minerva: One good arm stretches out in front of the arching angel, clawing over ungiven marble, collecting dust and grime on the last remaints of her once pristine uniform. Her white, silken glove turns grey and dull as she tries to drag herself away from you. As if such a feat were possible against your patient yet absolute control. Just capturing the base of her wings draws a new, rising cry from the wounded dove. You feel quivers shift and pulse through muscle and bone in voluntary spasms. In so many ways, her wings are her. They’re delicate, soft yet deliciously resolute. A task in of themselves. So you pivot and lean back, lifting her body til her breasts slip forward from under her body and her eyes meet Sera’s across the room. Every expressing, a twitch of pain, and spasm, grimace of tremble of her lips as tears flow like the sweetest of nectars? Her sister has to watch it all. Watch Mina shift and strain as you so slowly make every stage of this latest failure it’s own verse.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Fresh beads of sweat glisten and roll in rivets down the base of her spine, bringing vivid detail to the master piece your almost lovingly completing. There’s a kind of communication, playing back and forth. Not just the shrill cries rising to her heavens like church bells ringing another travesty. No, this conversation is quiet. Your whispered purrs, a tactile pop or creak rippling through your finger tips. A sensation that only wets your appetite more and more. An each portion that little louder. A crack, a break til a trembling moment. Mina’s stretched so tight across your knee something must give. Perhaps you worry it will be her spine again but it’s so much more.. A wet shredding sound weaves over chaotic, breaking precussion and in a crimson, spraying plume those wings rip away.
Battle_Angel_Minerva: “AaAIIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
Battle_Angel_Minerva: Specks of claret freckle across her collaped body, they litter you from your face to your waist and keep frothing, like a popped champaigne bottles. No sooner have you held those trophies aloft in victory, than their discarded to the dirt and piss that’s become Mina’s sacrificial alter… There’s just you and her now… She’s craning her neck to look back at you as you savour the moment. Her halo flickers like a failing circuit as new wings emerge from the bloody gashs and stretch across her shoulder blades and lick around her shattered rib cage like clawing tendrils. From those well springs, Pink energy rises in sad little sparkles. The very energy that sustains her even as her ribs shred internally and her body falls silent, as fresh, choked crimon half masks her chin? It’s starting to desert her. She can see it all, just as she can see you shift and grind. Eyes widen as you peel away that little leather top so you smear her essences into such sinful flesh in raw, heated lust!
Battle_Angel_Minerva: And in that moment. As she sings her garbled song. Pitched and sharp and rising, eyes meet. There is only you and your prey. She’s no longer an angel, not really. Minerva is Agony. Minerva is Despair. She’s humiliation, weakness and failure. You see 1000 deaths hidden in the blacks of her eyes but this one is different. She is your magnum opus and she realises, you are hers. For she still has more that you want. More to endure. More to give. That this massacre will linger in memory and legend, in the songs you play long after her souls has been devoured, broken and burned away to celestial ash.
To be continued...
Published: 7 days ago, viewed 30 times.
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