Vigilance is among the most important skills an angel can hone. Vigilance over the spheres of mortal existence she's been entrusted to guard. Vigilance over herself, for even her purity can become infected by sin.

The angel Harael has failed in her vigil. It's why she now finds herself kneeling before an archdemon.

She's a scout, not part of the warrior order, and is gracile to match. Her mission was only to confirm the demon's presence in this corner of creation. She has, though she can hardly report it now; stripped bare to the sweltering sulphurous atmosphere, rope tightly binding her wrists and wings behind her back.

Still, Harael lifts her head to meet her enemy's stare.

The archdemon leers back down, amusement plain on her face. Filling a throne of silver and brimstone, she is a mountain of curvaceous grey draped in scant crimson silks and jewellery that glitters in the hellfire, like a hundred lidless eyes.

"Flew a bit too close to the ground," she taunts, her voice a sonorous rumble of distant thunder. "Didn't you, little bird?"

Harael sets her jaw. "I'm just where I need to be," she shoots back. "In your hovel, bringing the light to expose your vice."

A narrow smile. "Oh, I'm sure."

Harael refuses to be intimidated. She can see the demon wincing, eyes narrowed against the golden shine of her halo. Its light is brightest in the darkness, in the presence of sin to be cleansed. Already she plots her escape back to the heavens to rally her sisters.

The demon also has a plan.

She moves to rest her head on her fist, fat languidly shifting as she does. Her girth does nothing to diminish the power she exudes. Rather, it deepens it- leaves no room for doubt that she rules here. She has conquered and consumed, and is poised to do so again.

"Just what is it," asks the archdemon, "that you plan to do here?"

The angel is silent.

"Of course." The demon tilts her head, her crown of horns glinting like obsidian. "You're not to say anything, are you?"

Narrowing her golden eyes, Harael braces herself. She knows where this is going.

"Such a good little bird." The demon's smile widens. "Staying quiet like she's supposed to." She raises her eyes, looking over her captive, as if suddenly disinterested. "A shiny little doll, all pretty and obedient. The safest image of purity frightened old minds can imagine."

A seed of doubt, looking for fertile soil. The angel will give it none. She is devoted. No sin will grow in her.

Lazily fanning out her own dark wings, the demon pretends to examine them, as if the charcoal feathers were ruffled. "It gets tiring, doesn't it? Staying perfect and pure." Red eyes glance sidelong down at Harael. "Keeping yourself small."

"Save your breath," says the angel. "I am devoted."

The archdemon chuckles, a deep rumbling music. "Please. I remember how it was." Her horns swirl above her head, as if to recreate the halo she once had. "You learn to convince yourself that it isn't exhausting. That all those oaths and commandments are your nature, not something burned into you like a brand."

"It is our nature," Harael retorts. Keep the beast talking. Buy time to think. "We're born from the light. It gives us our power, and power brings responsibility, hence why we must keep it pure and kindled." The demon may have known this long ago, before her fall, but time has eroded her memory to a jagged point. Retaining only the things she can weaponize.

The archdemon turns her gaze down. "If purity is strength," she asks, "why am I so much bigger than you?"

Before Harael can reply, the demon's eyes flick up again, past her prisoner. For the first time since she was dragged blindfolded into this room, the angel thinks to look behind her.

A table looms over her.

Suddenly a huge hand like hot iron grabs her by the arm, and she finds herself hauled up into her captor's pillowy lap. Even there she has to look up into the archdemon's grinning face. "Little bird," asks the demon, "When's the last time you ate?"

Harael blinks. "We don't..."

Then it hits her, just as the crash of several doors being thrown open make her flinch. Angels do not eat. Yet all along this onyx hall, hooded servants file in, carrying plates piled high with food.

"Well?" The demon slides her hand down her captive's back as the first plate is set before them. It's small, with only a single item on it: an apple, perfectly shining and red.

"We don't eat," Harael answers, putting a point on each word. This is base temptation, almost laughable in its bluntness. She knows demons to be cunning. So what is this charade?

The demon holds the apple up to her. Lets her watch the gilded light of her own eyes and halo shimmer back at her in its face. "Never," the demon agrees. She brings the apple closer. It smells of fresh rain on leaves. "Not even a bite. Keeping yourselves empty and pretending it protects you from blemish."

The angel leans back, until she finds her body pressing into the soft wall of her captor's stomach.

And the archdemon brings the apple closer. Brushes it against Harael's perfect lips. "Just a bite," she says. "Why not? You're devoted, aren't you? Too pure for this to ruin, surely."

Turning her face away, the angel tightens her jaw. She is devoted and pure, and will remain so, because she sees this game for what it is. It's almost insulting how easy her foe seems to think she is.

A shudder runs through that mountainous belly as the demon laughs. "Oh, don't be a brat."

Frustrated now, Harael tries to wriggle away from her enemy's grip; from the apple, its perfect red sheen. It's hopeless. The demon grabs her by the chin.

"Just a bite," taunts the demon, forcing long talons between her captive's teeth. Prying them apart, pain throbbing in the angel's jaw as she fails to resist.

"Aahn-!" This is all the protest Harael manages before the apple is shoved into her mouth.

"There you are." Now that huge, strong hand braces itself beneath the angel's delicate chin, and makes her take a bite. Crunch. Firm skin breaking to damp flesh. Juice so sweet it almost burns, flooding the angel's mouth. The archdemon holds her like that a moment. Forces her to sit with it, to commit the taste and texture to memory. Then she orders, "Chew."

Harael will not do that. She can be forced to bite, but she can't be made to consume. No matter the wonderful sweetness sizzling on her tongue.

"When did you get so rebellious?" The demon traces the tips of her claws down the angel's flat stomach. "It's already there. Besides, your radiance can outshine one dust mote of sin."

One bite. One delicious bite. She won't eat it all, doesn't need to give herself to such indulgence. But it's so sweet, and her foe is right. One bite won't hurt.

She starts to chew. The motion is new to her so she takes it slow. The only worse indignity than this would be ending up as the only angel to ever choke to death. That's the only reason why she's chewing so slowly.

"Good girl," purrs the demon into her ear.

"Mmph..." The apple is so sweet it stings, and she has to chew it with such tedious care. That's the only reason that little moan just slipped out of the angel's full mouth.

"Swallow."

And Harael does. Saccharine pulp flowing down her throat- another new sensation, uncomfortable, almost crass. Like it's something her body isn't supposed to be able to do.

And it isn't. Angels don't need to eat. Indulgence leads to sin.

So what is this sensation, as she feels that first mouthful settle in her stomach? That's also new. That should also feel crude and wrong. Why is it almost pleasant, to feel it sit in there?

The demon strokes the exposed wet of the apple's flesh against the captive's lips. "Now the rest."

Just eat the apple. Play this game a little longer. The angel will take it into herself, however unnecessary, however risky, and then she'll say she felt nothing. It did nothing. She remains pure and faithful. She takes another bite. It's as sweet as the first. Chewing and swallowing still feel strange, but the flesh feels good in the hollow of her stomach. And then she takes another, and another, until the apple is gone. Just the core dangling in front of her and the juices on her lips and tongue.

"Well?" The archdemon is so sure. That conniving grin can be heard in her voice.

"Well what?" deflects Harael. She feels nothing. That pleasant feeling in her stomach will fade quickly enough.

"Ah." Cocking her head, the demon reaches for the table again. "That was only a morsel, wasn't it? Maybe a little more." She tears a fat drumstick from a roast chicken and brings it to the angel's mouth.

Harael recoils again. For her, a stalwart servant of the divine, touched by the highest grace, to gorge on flesh would be abhorrent. Lowering her to a base animal. No matter how enticing the cooked meat smells. No matter the fine grease dripping from the torn flesh into her lap.

"Come now, little bird." A brush of warm, moist meat across the angel's lips. "Just a bite, remember?"

Harael is strong. She pinches her lips together. Turns away again.

"Still such a bratty little thing," teases her captor. "The apple wasn't so bad. Why not this?"

Harael is strong, of will and of faith. What she is less strong of, however, is body. That's what betrays her. With the scent filling her nose and whatever tempting new world of flavor so close at hand, it's her body that gives in.

Her stomach rumbles.

"Ah." The demon strokes a scalding thumb across her captive's jawline. "It's been a while," she says, voice softening ever so slightly. It almost sounds like sympathy. "Hasn't it?"

Harael tries to compose herself but the gap in her armor has been found. Slipping claws between her lips, the demon once again pries her mouth open, and both of them feel how much weaker her resistance is. Then, she forces the drumstick in.

The taste sends a jolt through Harael’s senses. Atrophied nerves flaring to life at how it all but melts between her teeth, the light seasoning of oregano and paprika on the tender flesh.

"Bite," orders her captor.

The angel hesitates. This is indulgence. Indulgence leads to sin.

A firm push on her chin forces her mouth shut, filling it with meat and crisp, flavorful skin.

She doesn't need to be told to chew. She does it slowly, as before so she doesn't choke. Only for that reason. Nor does she need to be told to swallow. The mouthful settles pleasantly inside her.

"Open."

It's a test, Harael tells herself. A trial to prove her strength of soul. Whatever the demon does afterwards, she can withstand this. One meal won't stain her. She opens her mouth. The drumstick is forced back in.

"Bite."

She does, and chews slowly. It's a test, and she'll pass it. Even after she swallows that mouthful, and another, and another, until there's only the bone left, trussed with a few frayed sinews of flesh. Grease coats her lips, dribbles down her chin onto her breasts and thighs.

But she is strong. This means nothing.

The demon brushes a thumb over her mouth, wiping the fat away. "How does it feel?"

"I feel nothing," Harael lies. Lying is not always a sin, and even then not always such a bad one. It can be a necessary evil at times. Such as right now. Because the truth is that it feels fucking good to not be hollow. To have something inside her.

"We can fix that." Tossing the leg bone aside, the demon reaches out again and brings over a sizable slice of pie next, lightly steaming, rhubarb glistening within the flaky golden crust. "Open."

The angel does. This is a test and she will pass. She'll take all of this into herself and remain pure.

It's delicious. A sweet crust to balance the tartness of the rhubarb, the filling rich and moist. A hint of cinnamon to bring it together. The first bite melts in her mouth. The angel tries to chew slowly, but a dollop of filling falls out into her lap as her hostess pulls it away, warm on her bare thigh.

She swallows and cranes her neck after the slice, mouth open for another bite.

The demon's laughter fills the hall. "Oh? What happened to that devotion of yours, little bird?"

It's still there. This is a test and Harael will pass it. She'll remain pure. Even after she's eaten the rest of the slice. She just wants more. A needful little shudder runs through her, tongue out over her bottom lip, eager for another brush with that tartness.

"Would you like more?"

The angel nods, whining.

"Use your words, little bird."

"Yes. More, ple-"

She's suddenly gagged when her hostess crams the slice into her waiting mouth. She eagerly takes another bite, one so large her mouth can barely hold it.

She manages regardless. The rest of the slice follows. But the feast has only started. Next comes a bowl overflowing with mashed potato, fluffed with butter and swimming in gravy. Harael devours it all. This is a test, she faintly remembers, and she'll pass. Gravy flecks her cheeks and chin and lingers warmly on her tongue. Then comes a fat fillet of salmon, thin slices of lemon laid over it so the flavor seeps into the flesh. This too she eats. By now that fullness she feels- that wonderful sense of something in her belly- is starting to curdle. She's beginning to feel uncomfortably heavy. Her throat tenses when she swallows, resisting her.

But it doesn't stop. Next come skewers laden with thick pieces of seared pepper, onion, and juicy beef. Harael has started to pant, so much crammed inside her now that it feels like it's filling the whole cavity of her torso. "No," she groans, "no mo-"

Spearing a chunk of pepper on her talon, the demon forces it into her mouth.

Gagging a little, the angel works the pepper back towards her lips with her heavy tongue and spits it out. This this a test, and she can still pass. She will pass.

"And that now pretty neediness is gone, as well?" The demon tuts. "Come, little bird." She fishes off a cube of beef next. "One more bite."

"No-" But in it goes anyway. The demon then clamps her strong hand over her mouth, leaving the angel no choice but to chew. She does it slowly again, because now she can hardly breathe, there's been so much forced into her. Her jaw hurts. Still she can taste the juices on her tongue, feel the firm charred surface give way to a soft center.

Finally, she swallows. It crawls slowly down her throat, like thick mud.

"Open."

Automatically, she does. In goes a slice of onion and pepper at once. Then the rest of that skewer. Time slows to an icy creep. Every action requires all of her focus, because her focus is quickly melting to a haze of discomfort. There's two more skewers.

The angel manages the second.

Halfway through the third, as she tries to swallow another chunk of beef, her stomach lurches. A burning fills her throat and splashes the back of her mouth, bringing the masticated flesh back up with it- along with the rest of the skewers.

The demon slaps a palm over her mouth. "Swallow."

With great, pained effort, Harael does. Her hostess keeps her hand in place but lets the angel breathe a moment. Gives her some time for the burn of stomach acid in her mouth to subside. It doesn't. It's another rancid new sensation, dousing her perception in searing, noxious bile.

The demon orders, "Open."

Well trained now, Harael does. A base animal, following orders for rewards- whether she wants these treats anymore or not. She finishes the third skewer. The demon sets the plate aside. Instead of reaching for any more, she leans back in her throne, allowing the angel to do so as well.

There's little comfort in it, even settling back into the plush folds of her captor's body. Everything hurts. Her back has arched to accommodate a taut, distended belly. It's as if she's been cut open and a boulder is sewn up into her body.

For a moment they remain like that.

Harael is allowed to pant shallow, labored breaths. Allowed to twitch, tongue lolling from her mouth and a mixture of drool and scraps of food running down her cheek.

Finally the demon asks, with an odd softness, "And now?"

Harael tries to formulate a reply. Her mind is as overloaded as her body, however. All she manages is a thick belch.

"It never feels good right away." The demon wipes her captive's face clean. "Not for long, not with any sin. Ask any of us down here. The fall is the worst, of course, but then there's the adjustment. Letting the sin into yourself, and then training yourself towards it."

Blinking slowly, Harael tries to follow her words. She's cognizant enough to know they mean something. But her mind is too bogged down in the certainty that if she shifts too much, inhales too deeply, she'll burst like an overripe corpse.

"Not to worry, little bird." Warm claws run over the swell of her engorged stomach. "I've helped you get started."

With another, smaller burp, the angel gives in. She can't follow whatever her hostess is saying- can't wrap her mind around the words, even knowing they should mean something to her. She feels a flicker of frustration, which is immediately snuffed by the exhaustion crashing over her.

Faintly she remembers the words, this is a test. What for, again? It's too late to remember now. She's nodding off, her eyelids becoming as heavy as her overfilled belly. There is a pleasantness to this satiety- a satisfying haze settling over her now that she's gotten into a more comfortable position to savor it.

She'll figure it out later. Closing her eyes, she settles in to digest.

Above her head, tilted to one side where it's dislodged by one of the demon's ample breasts, her halo flickers. Just a little, just for a moment. When its light stabilizes again, its golden sheen is just a little dimmer.

***

It was cute, really. The angel had been so sure. It’s always the ones who are certain- the most wholly convinced of their unimpeachable sanctity. Angels all know they can fall, but few really understand what that means. Those who do are better prepared, more careful. Dainty, cocky Harael had been neither prepared nor careful.

Of course, she’s not dainty or cocky anymore, either.

Beelzebub reclines in Her throne, a hand on the plump little creature grinding against Her thigh. Harael hasn’t attained full demonhood yet- there’s still some work to be done on her. Her skin is gaining the granite hue of demon flesh, however, her shining white wings dimmed to dark grey. The gold of her hooded, hollow eyes are rusted to orange, flecked with the first hints of red. Her plush body jiggles as she rolls her sopping cunt against her new mistress’s leg, panting lightly.

What really makes Beelzebub smile, however, is the halo. Little pops of gold are all that remains of its sacredness. The rest of it is reduced to a ring of dull, rusting iron, tilting to one side as if it may fall from its axis if she ruts any harder.

Beelzebub runs Her claws along those soft shoulders. Her acolyte will make a fine priestess of gluttony, once she’s past this intermediary stage; the angel slowly crumbling apart so the new demon can pick her way out. With her Lady’s help, of course.

“Open,” She orders.

Harael gapes her mouth, whimpering with need. Just like a baby bird. Still so cute.

Chuckling, Beelzebub plucks a cube of roast pork from the platter on Her other thigh. She holds it over Her acolyte’s mouth. “Do you want it?”

Harael nods, halo wobbling as she does.

“Use your words.”

“Yes, Lady Beelzebub.” Breathless, frantic with maddening hunger. “I want it. Please.”

The archdemon’s smile gains a touch of real fondness. “Good girl.” Then, she drops the scrap of meat in. Whining with pleasure, Harael chews it slowly.