The angel holding you by the neck forced you to your knees, and then let go, leaving you kneeling in front of Avacyn. Avacyn, the Purifier, humanity's guardian angel turned greatest foe. Eight feet tall, bristling with magical and physical strength, power practically radiating off her. Even lounging languidly in a throne made of loose bricks and human bones, there was a tension about her, like a coiled spring. If she decided to snap into action, she could break you in half with no effort.

There was a reason you'd been trying to kill her with anything _but_ open combat. Blades and hammers shattered against her skin, magical energy flowed off her like oil on water, and her own martial prowess was indomitable. If your pitiful militia somehow had every human on this plane acting under its banner, you _still_ wouldn't beat her in a fair fight. Tricks, traps, and subterfuge? That was the go-to strategy, but any thought of killing Avacyn was wishful thinking. You'd collapsed buildings on her, flattened surrounding woods with explosive rune traps, and even buried her under landslides of dirt and rock. It was a delaying action, at best- at worst, it pissed her off enough to wipe a town off the map personally, instead of leaving it to her marauding angel lieutenants.

And she'd caught you, the milita's leader. There was one place you didn't want to be in this conflict, and that was in Avacyn's line of sight. Moreso, in Avacyn's seat of power- a hastily-constructed cathedral built as a perverse mockery of her namesake church. Her base of operations, for however much it mattered. Angels didn't tire, angels didn't need to eat or sleep. It was symbolic- as long as this jagged, twisted building stood, Avacyn's grip on the plane was sure.

That, and when moonlight struck the blood-red moon etched in stained glass on the cathedral's aft wall, the crimson-tinted light backlit Avacyn in her throne like some manner of demon. That was the sight you were greeted with. Eight feet of angel, sitting cross-legged in her throne, wings casting a red-hued shadow over you. Leering at you. "Hmf. Pathetic. Caught by your enemy, and you're too gutless to take your own life? I suppose you'll beg for it now, or try to grandstand about your 'heroic ideals', like there's some kind of solace in righteousness."

The Angel stood. Eight wasn't a big number, Avacyn's height and frame, with her wings, struck an intimidating image. She was built like a warrior, a bringer of war, not peace. She'd be terrifying enough wearing a dress, but the snugly-fitted, metal-studded leather she wore accentuated as much as it flattered. Arm warmers and thigh high boots and a tight corset... it'd be gaudy, if you hadn't seen her tear men in two while dressed in that same outfit. It was just gothic, as is. "Or, are you going to play strong and silent," Avacyn purred, sauntering around to your side, lacing a few fingers through your hair, "Until I find what it takes to make you scream?"

A sharp tug. Avacyn pulls to your feet, snickering as you grab at her hand, trying to keep your hair from getting yanked out wholesale. With her hand level at her chest, you're standing on your tippy-toes. "Hmf. That's all a little cliche, isn't it? You've been a thorn in my side, miss milita captain, and it'd be a waste to just gut you like my other guests." Her voice wasn't really a purr, now that you thought of it- it was more a growl. A low thrumming you could just barely feel in your chest and belly, that made you feel warm and fuzzy inside as the angel let go of your hair, scooped her hand around the back of your head, and pulled you face-first into her bosom. A low v-cut in her corset met you with soft boob, instead of firm, shiny leather.

"No, I think we can make further use of you yet, and your defeat more utter and definite..." Her voice was low, husky, soothing. A gentle, sure hand cradled your cheek a moment... before tracing down to your shoulder, pushing down ever so slowly. "An angel needn't eat or sleep... but they do have needs."

Blood-stained wings encircled you, hemming you in against Avacyn's stature, below her breasts and against her belly, as a certain warmth and pressure made itself known against your _own_ belly. A pressure that trailed up your chest and neck as she pushed you back down, onto your knees, situated right between her legs. The tip of her cock, pressed against your body, now against your _lips_, as an eager bead of pre swelled at the tip, glistening. "If you don't satisfy, I'm going to lift you by the throat and ruin your asshole, standing. Get to work, miss militia captain, and try not to choke~"