1000 Rabbits’ [Angels with Slimed Faces]

And the blindness

…and mayhaps filthy souls?


She watches the mud dolls deal with a sabbatic goat as her duty entails and she thinks of her Father. She is troubled; so many false gods, yet so much power! Could the Morning Star have convinced so many? Or did they defy the One Great Will out of their own volition? Whispers in this barren land reach into her ear and speak of His absence, His departure, His death. She is troubled. She is weak. Her chains are heavy.

Still, she and her sisters believe and that strengthens her soul. The Great Captain’s whereabouts were unknown but the remaining Seraphim provide paths and plots. She has been sent to observe the mud dolls and their attempts at crafting Reason. Pitiful, she laughs to herself. Human, they once were; no more.

But she thinks of her Father. She wishes for His Might to purge this barren land, to burn away the Chaos as it preys upon the easily-misled. Bulbous-bellied spirits with insatiable hunger, blood-skinned brutes of wanton violence…they ought to perish. The worst, however, were those of the Fallen. Spawn of Man’s first wife, what wretched creatures! Their decadence would reserve them a special place in the Abyss!

She thinks of that particular devil that taunted her with promises of pleasure; that infuriated her with its declarations of her Father’s demise. It was an ugly thing of small stature, save its codpiece that was certainly grander than what it covered. It bounced about, shrieking lascivious nonsense as it thrust itself towards her direction. A hama spell erased its existence.

But she thinks of her Father. She knows not to question but she cannot stop. What would His Embrace feel like? Not the embrace of a Patriarch but of a Lover? Is He not He? What of His Virility? She thinks of that particular devil with its ungainly covering. Curved, it was; and sharp! Her hand draws to her locked purity. How would that have fit? Would it have removed the codpiece? What would have been underneath? She knows her Father is careful; He would not hurt her like that devil would have. She is afraid of force; He would certainly accommodate.

A dark light sparks across the environs, snapping her focus to the mud dolls once more. The blood has quickened; she curses that devil for inserting blasphemous thoughts and diverting her from duty. She hears perplexed chatter of the mud dolls and a bemused goat fade away. They must be leaving. Their summoning has failed. She sighs and is disappointed. She wished for a battle where she could prove her devotion to her cause, striking down all that oppose Him. Though her divinity, she would slaughter the heathens with single blows; no blood would be shed, only annihilation. Then her Father would smile upon her and beckon her to His Throne. She would not dare touch Him but He would permit it and she still would not dare. He would loosen her bondage and her wings would stretch wide, wider than any of her sisters ever had. She would be free. Gingerly, she would lift herself into the ether and her Father would approve. She would feel His Spirit surround her, carry her higher. Each feather would tingle at His breath and it would be sublime. The sensations would travel through her body; she would shiver and her leather would slip away, far away, to that which she no longer cared for. All she needed was her Father and His Zephyr.

Dampness runs along her thigh. She blanches; she recognizes the growing blasphemy. She curses the mud dolls, the fraudulent goat, that awful devil. They have made her weak; if her sisters ever were to witness such a scene, she would be cast out amongst the Fallen. But no fire rained upon her; no ice pierced her. She is free to explore herself if she so chose. She remembers the Daughters of Lilith. She remembers her locked purity. She needs to be pure.

Steadying her heart, she straightens her trembling legs. Must get that foul evidence off. Foul. Her legs cannot straighten. Foul. She trembles. She does not wish to feel that blasphemy with her hands. Its foulness consumes her. What fetor! What viscosity! Too much! No, it is impossible that she could have this much blasphemy! Too foul!

She looks.

It is a misshapen monster of slime and stench. It is a pale green, flecked with plague-like yellow; too thick to view through yet too much mucus to maintain one single form. But this one is different. This one has been summoned and not. Unlike its lesser kin, it is no simple blob to be blasted away without effort. Multiple tendrils extend and wrap themselves around her legs, curling up and up. That is the boon of slime; it slides smoothly across flesh. But the tendrils are not the unique aspect; oh no, any slime could do so if it wished. Rather, it is the monster’s glaring phallic head that set this one apart. Two testicles were amidst the meandering tendrils with a coagulated cock swaying back and forth like a freshly bloomed camellia of ooze; pulsating and eager yet amorphous and benign.

Mara! The angel gasps. Mara!

But it is and is not the tempter of the Sammāsambuddha. The summoning has failed. It is slime. It is Mara. And it is foul.

Idlecil's Encased With The Simulacrum

No higher than the angel’s knees, the pseudo-Mara has already fastened itself to her with no intent of letting go. Both legs are encased with the simulacrum of what it ought to be testicles, the phallus flailing in between. The angel wishes to close her legs shut and squash the monster but cannot; the mock testicles held firm; in fact, her legs are pulled further apart, giving the illusion of the testicles being held together by only thin strands. The angel’s continued struggles prove the illusion wrong; while the testicles separate from the central phallus, it remains connected to the rest of the slime.

Fury replaces the angel’s shock and she shouts spells of light against the monster; they have no effect. The stench is heavier. Again, she shouts. Again! Nothing. She forgets that this is not quite Mara; a slime is a vessel. The spirit of audaciousness wanes; the monster grows. The phallus; the head; it gazes into the angel’s locked purity and is curious. It sniffs close and detects the angel’s blasphemy; the monster grows. It pushes now against that sealed door of leather and chain, inquisitive as to what lies on the other side. The angel shrieks and snatches at the phallus; her hand grasps slime and pulls away slime; the phallus stays to continue its investigation. Too absorbed in disgust at her foul right hand is the angel to notice her left being pulled, until it is too late; a new tendril has taken a chain and she is brought down to kowtow in the filth. The angel flaps her wings in a bid to take flight: one, twice, thrice; on the third, tendrils, larger than before, latch onto them and what was once white is stained with unsightly film. She cannot escape. Fear grips her; the monster grows.

Now thicker and longer than the angel’s legs, not difficult given how slender they are, the phallus does not simply poke but devours; the angel’s locked purity is covered with the sentient slime, all shifting in all directions. She is in horror but heaps scorn upon the monster, confident in her enforced security that all angels are bound in. The slime pays no heed; why, what good is a seal against that which can find its way through the most insignificant nook?

And so it does. The angel acknowledges; screams.

Her bondage that imprisons her purity extends as threads of slime within the slime reach in, slipping against skin, lengthening leather. That which has never tasted freedom does not; before the angel can even experience a moment of liberty, the monster fills the void with its head; the angel is filled. Her purity is broken; her lock is intact; she does not comprehend! Still imprisoned yet impure!

Idlecil's Mara Does Not Stab

The angel is wholly unprepared for the monster; she could envision being skewered by that devil’s dick, shredding her purity apart by sinister stabs but the monster; the slime; Mara, does not stab; it explores. Deeper and deeper it goes; when will its quest end? Each prod against her internal flesh suggests it has yet to reach its extents; not until all walls have been mapped and marked, perhaps? Carefully, gently even, the monster digs, a creature of science preserving its findings for future study rather than blasting through like a lout. But even the most methodical must tear down certain walls to go further; in the monster floats a streak of red.

The angel bleeds. She thinks of her Father; the monster grows.

With a flick of goo, another phallus flops out, then another from the first. The monster is aware of its failed form; Mara! Not Mara! Not Mara? Yes, as defective creation, why not take advantage of artistic license? More phalli, more tendrils, more foulness! Whoever said the Dark lacked imagination is proven wrong as the monster instantly bubbles inside; the central phallus brims with ersatz egg. Fertility: bane of the True Enemy!

The angel’s impurity heats to a boil. She thinks of her Father; the monster performs ejaculation.

She can feel the ripples of corruption expanding throughout her; can an angel carry child? She has beheld the low creatures partake in such biology; but she is from Divine Will and above that of Nature. She tries to take comfort in her lack of human womb; the infeasibility of birth from flesh; yet her swollen stomach is too shocking to ignore. Thousands upon thousands of fetal slime are unleashed into this impossible mother; a sup of her liquors and they mature. A kick here, a kick there; the monster is now familiar with its surroundings. It can afford to be cavalier; it can afford brutality.

Idlecil's Down Her Blessed Throat

The two new phalli make their way to their destinations. One whets itself into a fine point; a tendril pries a wedge in the leather; this phallus dives straight into her anus, craving to dine on this exotic meat. Are you surprised by this anatomy? Did you not know? Even an angel defecates but only when permitted; was Man not crafted after angels? She is surprised, though for other reasons: sodomy is the art of the Fallen; she is an angel and has no such wisdom. So surprised is the angel that she yowls; that phallus has decided to be more solid than its brethren. An opportunity for the third; extending up from her saturated impurity, beyond her bulging belly, between her breasts in black bondage and chain, twisting around her lily neck, and finally, it feeds her further agony; slime plunges down her Blessed throat!

But there are more orifices to be overwhelmed; the monster deems phalli to be too clumsy of tools for these particular gaps of faith. Tendrils instead; thousands of tendrils! Coiling about anything that could be coiled about, a number finds the angel’s ears not yet befouled; they do their duty. Spiraling inwards, they molest her reason well; she transgresses and let loose piss; at that spot the slime glistens with gold. The monster prepares another thousand seeds of slime in return. Spirit soiled; and now the mind? What a delightful show for the Dark!

There is to be no more subtlety! Reconnaissance is done! War…war! Charge the child’s cunt! Assault the Father-crafted ass! Make her sing music fitting of her angelic tongue! Listen to her gurgles; her gulps! Slime explodes into every hypocritical hole; she is as foul as she smells! She slaves; still! Futility! By now the monster has engulfed her whole, even those wings; those thrashing wings of not-quite-white! All her leather bondage is warped beyond repair, all save the strip of black across her eyes! Her eyes!

Ah. The child’s belief endures.

And so I reveal myself as that Father.

As she sees the True Enemy, I permit the monster to grow into excess. I will not describe the indulgence she savors in this moment. To the demonic rabble, they would be disinterested in this defilement of a divine creature; they have not the appreciation for abuse without overt savagery. But to you, oh aficionado of the erotic, surely you can enjoy the barely discernable motions of impalement of the child from three points of perspective? Not a climax of shallow frenzy as per Abaddon’s appetite; nothing of that baroque fluff Mammon revels in; no, what I present is so much more.

I prolong the art until it bores me. Unleash thy fuck.

One last eruption and the avatar of Mara departs from its host. I loan the tempter demon a harem of succubi as a reward.

The child cannot move; entwined in the impassive putrescence, she can hardly breathe. Slime blankets her lips and nostrils; each suck of air draws in more sludge. Tiny convulsions rake her holy form as the infertile sperm spews from her holy holes. She is thinking of her Father, as she did for those countless hours within the avatar. In ecstasy, she was. Now, no longer; the child’s rapture has ended and she is left only with contemplation of her irredeemable decisions. Tears force their way out from beneath the blindfold, mixing with the muck. What sister would sing to her? What general would lead her? What Father would hold her?

Idlecil's Myself as Myself

And so I reveal myself as myself.

I sing of the True Enemy. I spread my wings and my armies roar. I embrace her as both a father and a lover would, despite her foulness.

She removes her final bondage and frees herself. She sees my smile; I pluck her wings.


A Megaten tale. Loosely based off this little scene from Atlus’ “Shin Megami Tensei: Nocturne”. Crossed with John Milton’s “Paradise Lost”. Cheers to Kazuma Kaneko. Danke to a dear, dear, dear friend……….NDE I LOVE YOU. And Peking Duck for INSPIRING it all. Art commissioned from the illustrious illustrator Idlecil.

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