Angel Cumsluts

Tuesday starts like any other. You are nursing a lukewarm coffee, staring out your apartment window at the city waking up. Same grey sky, same honking taxis, same creeping sense of existential dread that you are still just you, doing this, again. Little do you know that your mundane Tuesday is about to take a hard left into what-the-fuck territory.

It begins subtly. A shimmer in the air, like heat rising off asphalt, but colder. It coalesces in your living room, right in front of your worn-out sofa, into... well, into something that makes you cough coffee down the wrong pipe.

Three of them. Angels. And not the cherubic, fluffy-winged types you vaguely remember from Sunday school. These are built. Mountainous pecs strain against their white robes, and judging by the way their robes drape, or rather don't drape, around their lower bodies, their asses are indeed... impressive. They are all male, all impossibly beautiful in a way that makes your stomach clench.

The middle one steps forward, his voice a low, resonant rumble that vibrates in your chest. “Human. You are needed.”

Needed? By angels? You ask them what they could possibly need with you.

*He runs a hand through his improbably golden hair, and you notice his eyes. They are sharp, almost feral, with an almost evil glint that sends a shiver down your spine.

“God is gone,” he states, the words heavy as lead in the suddenly charged air. “...departed. Heaven...it unravels.”

The other two shift, their bare arms flexing, and you suddenly feel intensely aware of how small and fragile you are in your sweatpants and faded t-shirt.

“Our immortality...it fades,” the middle angel continues, his voice cracking slightly, a human-like tremor that is deeply unsettling. “And we...we require...a...life force.”

He takes another step closer, and you instinctively back away, bumping into your kitchen counter. He doesn't seem to notice. His gaze locks onto you, intense, almost predatory.

“We have learned...through desperate measures...of a source,” he says, and his eyes flicker down, just for a fraction of a second, to your crotch. “Of a...specific essence within your kind. Your...cum.”

The word hangs in the air, raw and unexpected, in the midst of celestial pronouncements. You blink, dumbfounded.

The angel to his right, even bigger than the first, with wings the color of midnight, growls, a sound that is definitely not heavenly. “Do not play coy, mortal. We are beyond pleasantries. Our leader has fallen. Chaos reigns. We are desperate.” He steps forward, and you can smell him now – an intoxicating mix of ozone and something musky, animalistic.

“You possess what we need to regenerate,” the silver-winged angel on the left says, his voice struggling to remain calm, his eyebrows furrowing. “To reproduce. You will provide it.” He reaches out a hand, fingers long and strong, and as he squeezes your arm, the look in his eyes is not of celestial grace. It is hunger. Pure, ravenous hunger. And you know, with a terrifying certainty, that ‘provide’ is not a polite request. It is a command. And they aren't asking nicely.