#( thread: abaddon. );;

[helllords]

@zealctry asked: " y'know, it's always sorta funny to me. black this, black that, ooooh the horrors, the shadows, the dark, blah blah fucking blah. back where I'm from, black ain't the colour of death - that's white. " /mediate on this for a while Aba. asdfggjkl; / unprompted.

If there is one thing he enjoys, it is to be given insight into Hidan's mind ( granted glances, which are so unlike the forced ones he usually takes into split open heads of sinners ), a spontaneous offer to follow a trail and unravel it, see where it leads them. Some of them fascinating, some a cause for subtle concern that guides a hand to his back and pull him into the possessive safety he attempts to create for him.

Abaddon is not sure which emotions would linger in his mouth after this discussion, this path and yet he is intrigued and, thus, does not deny him an answer. A pause, silence filled only by the small sounds of his fingers tapping against his lips. " I assume that is because death, to you, is purifying, is it not? Something holy, to strive for? In this world--- ", a corner of his mouth briefly turns downwards, disdain tainting a neutral expression. His free hand fans out, encompassing the vastness of the pit with a mere, half-hearted wave. " ---is a light so bright, it blinds you, while promising a peaceful eternity. And look at them, still pleading for it. White thinks it's powerful because of this. " A chuckle. " Though I don't know if Death himself associates himself with black. "

[theirmadness]

congrats, @murderdeals! you're a dad. ♡

❝ what, you can't smell it on me? you really are losing your touch. the hormones are so potent they're making me choke. ❞ she places a hand on her stomach, a smile that's almost loving on her red lips. it's as close to an emotion that positive as something like abaddon can come to, even in such a situation. ❝ i didn't think it'd be possible, either. but what can i say? i suppose it's our little hellish miracle. ❞

[demonsfate]

❤️‍🔥 like for a starter ❤️‍🔥

[cainiine-a]

@zealctry

The rain taps gently against the colored windows of this holy abode ( a rhythmic mantra, a prayer, a funeral song; he hasn't quite decided what it sounds like the most and, maybe, it isn't for him to decide yet ), trying to at least wash the mosaic off of the sin festering within its walls when it cannot reach the one inside oblivious to it all. Or perhaps these are god's tears, lamenting the subsequent fall of another one of its priests, heaven's last attempt to clean him off of his intentions as though he still cares about anything sacred, anything divine. Because what do these saints matter to him now when hell has offered itself oh so temptingly to him? With promises of riches and power in a tongue too sweet to decipher the consequences laid beneath, and the lord of all these gifts able to fulfill his every desire? He will offer him entrance upon this damned earth and, in return, will make him his own Mephistopheles.

Lightning strikes somewhere in the distance of a tar-black sky. The painted glass stones of Jesus nailed to the cross shine brightly onto the dimly lit walls of the church but the Father is too lost in his own fantasies to lift his gaze from the ground, too hypnotized by what lingers beneath. If only he did, maybe he would have questioned the way the blood dripping from the saint's hands looked oddly black.

The smoke of the incense burning out is still sickeningly intense. But on a night like this, he supposes, nothing feels ordinary, normal. The rows of pews feel vast, as though they multiplied to fit all of hell within them and in the growing darkness, he almost feels as though someone is already sitting there ( a shape, seated in the last row, its figure a blur ). A trick of his nerves, certainly, and yet a bead of sweat is still running down his temple the moment he extinguishes another candle with distracted, callous fingertips. A breath, a shudder. He closes his eyes, shaking his head, and pretends he did not see.

Because soon it won't matter. Soon he will summon the one of the bottomless pit. Soon It will gain a body and won't It reward him greatly for it? It will. Certainly, It will. It must. His index fingers hovers over Its sigil, trembling, and without closing the book he sets out into the night to find it a suiting vessel.

It has to be good. It has to be. The father walks around the alleys, walking around the homeless nestled into nooks and crannies with gentle steps but the way he clings onto his umbrella and stares at them with furious, blazing eyes betray him. He needs a vessel. They are not good.

But one is. He finds him at a bus stop, a little punk of a man pressed into its farthest corner and he briefly wonders if he is naive enough to believe that the bus will still come. Or that this is his shelter for the night. He smiles, expression warm but empty, his cassock fluttering in the growing wind. Something within the deepest abyss of his mind chuckles; this one.

" Not the best time to be out, my son. Are you in need of shelter? "

[fxirytxlcfxtc]

For @unbrxken - Blood Starring Abaddon "Abby" Everhart

Abby huffs and leans her head back, arms crossed. "I didn't want to do this. I said I'm fine. No worse for wear."

Alec shrugs, leaning beside the door, slightly more in the shadow of it, on his phone. "For the best with what you came out of."

"You're a real conversationalist, y'know?" The dragon snaps slightly.

Alec shrugs at that, glancing up as the door opens, glimpsing who's walking in from the crack that comes at the hinges and nodding, but not getting up to walk out, continuing to play on his phone.

Abby cocks her head at the arrival, assessing him. Could he be...?

[blackorbs]

STARTER FECHADO ━━ ( @abbcdon ) na presença de MALLORY

“Tem maquiadores no inferno?” Perguntou, enquanto limpava cuidadosamente a ferida que sabia que não precisava de tantos cuidados assim, afinal, se tratava de um demônio. Entretanto, a urgência ali não era para impedir uma infecção, e sim para impedir que o príncipe fosse visto completamente arruinado de sua fantasia. Mallory sabia que seus questionamentos podiam soar irritantes, entretanto, não se importava o suficiente, especialmente uma vez que Abaddon acabava sempre lhe respondendo. “Eu tô perguntando de verdade.” Frisou, ao notar que havia um rasgado significativo na jaqueta alheia, que parecia quase criminoso. “Troca de jaqueta comigo, as duas são praticamente iguais.” Falou. “E a minha está um pouco mais larga, de qualquer modo. É mais convincente que eu, a boneca assassina, esteja com um rasgado, do que você, um galã dos anos cinquenta.”

[supernotnatural2005]

Sexual Encounters with Dean Winchester - Hair Pulling

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Exploring kinks with Dean.

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings/tags: Smut! (18+), hair pulling kink, Dean is a kinky s.o.b. swearing, the usual porn without a plot for this series 😅

AN: You know I had to use the Abaddon pulling his hair gif for this 🥵(different context ofc, but still). I told y'all, I'm a smut hoe, and I love these two kinky b*tches 😂. Now I had a theory about Dean and how he loves to be touched/hair played with, and I went with it 👀.. I hope you guys enjoy this one ❤️‍🔥

Main Masterlist

SEDW Masterlist

The first time you tugged on Dean’s hair, it was instinctive—fingers curling into the short strands at the nape of his neck as he kissed you, bodies pressed together in desperate need.

You hadn’t even thought much of it, just a reaction to the way he was making you feel. But the way he groaned, deep and guttural, the way his hips jerked forward like he couldn’t help himself? That stuck with you.

And it stuck with Dean too.

At first, he brushed it off. But every time you touched him—fingers threading through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp—he felt it. That heat curling low in his belly, the ache that settled deep in his bones, the way his cock twitched in response. It was worse when he had his head between your thighs, devouring you like a man starved. 

When you grabbed at his hair, yanking him closer as your back arched and breathless moans tumbled from your lips, it was like his brain short-circuited. His hips rutted against the mattress on their own accord, chasing any friction he could get, and the pathetic whimper he let out? Fuck. If you knew what you were doing to him, you might’ve never let go.

And that was the thing—he wanted you to know. He wanted more. Harder. Wanted to feel that sharp pull that sent shivers down his spine, that sent his blood rushing south, that made him lose control.

It took a while for him to admit it, first to himself, and then to you. However, you gave him an opening one night, when you were both discussing the things you enjoyed most in bed. You’d both already been experimenting with a lot of new kinks, but you wanted to know what really got to Dean.

And so, he confessed. He wanted you to pull on his hair. Hard.

“Really?” you asked, not in a teasing way, more so curious, and he nodded, watching as you processed that information before silently, you slipped into his lap. Your body, clad in only his shirt, brushed against his bare chest as you ran your hands along his shoulders, firm and warm beneath your palms.

You leaned in and kissed him soft, slow, just a barely there brush that had him leaning in for more. And that’s when he felt it—the sharp tug, making his nerve endings explode, his breath hitch, and his eyes snap open, wild and dangerous as you grinned down at him.

“Like that,” you murmured, and Dean pounced.

His mouth was on you, claiming, devouring, his hands yanking you against him, his cock thick and heavy beneath his boxers as he ground up against you. The friction had you both groaning, and when you rolled your hips, your fingers slipping into his hair once again to tug at the strands, he damn near lost it.

“Fuuck,” Dean drawled, breaking the kiss, his head falling back as his eyes fluttered shut. The pleasure of it ripped through him like a live wire, his cock jumping at just the right pressure. When he looked back at you, breathless, dazed, he grinned, sinfully, and before you could react he flipped you onto your back.

He kissed you deep and dirty, his body pressing you into the mattress, his hips rolling against your bare pussy, teasing you, pushing you right to the edge of madness. Your nails dragged down his back, over the ridges of taught muscle before you found his hair again, varying the pressure of your grip, feeling him unravel beneath you.

Dean panted, growled, fisting the sheets beside your head as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hips stuttering with every sharp tug.

“Shit, fuck,” he hissed before he suddenly sat up, his eyes blown black with lust as he ripped your shirt up and off, tossing it aside. His hands roamed the newly bared skin with reverence, palms rough and calloused as they mapped every dip, every curve.

Then, his mouth found your breasts, tongue swirling around each peak before he sucked one into his mouth, slow and deliberate until you were gasping, arching and desperate.

“Dean,” you breathed, and he groaned against your skin, nipping, teasing, before working his way down.

He wedged himself between your thighs, hooking them over his shoulders as he kissed the tender flesh on either side, his lips hot and wet against your skin.

Your head dropped back against the pillows at the soft press of his mouth, teasing you, building anticipation, everywhere but where you needed him most. Your hips lifted, seeking, and before you could beg, you felt a light smack against your thigh.

“Don’t hold back on me, sweetheart,” he warned, voice thick with need. His green eyes burned into you, dark and serious.

He wanted you to pull hard.

You swallowed, nodding your understanding, and then, with a wicked smile, you buried your hands into his hair and tugged.

Dean groaned, low and wrecked, and then he dug in.

His mouth latched onto your clit, tongue flicking, swirling, sucking as his hands gripped your thighs, keeping you spread wide. You keened, your back arching, your fingers twisting in his hair as you yanked harder, feeling the shudder that ran through his entire body in response.

Dean moaned into you, the vibration sending shocks of pleasure through your core. His hips rutted against the mattress, desperate, chasing friction as he devoured you. The more you pulled, the more he lost himself, his breath hot, ragged, his movements frenzied, almost sloppy with need.

“Dean—oh, fuck—” You gasped as the coil inside you snapped, your whole body tensing, trembling as pleasure crashed through you, white-hot and all-consuming.

Your thighs clenched around his head, your hands still tangled in his hair, tugging so hard it bordered on pain, and the wrecked noise he let out against you sent another wave of pleasure surging through your veins.

Dean groaned as your body pulsed beneath him, and he nearly lost it himself, his hips jerking erratically into the sheets. He dragged his mouth from you, breathless, his lips wet, his face wrecked with hunger as he climbed back up your body, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss.

You could taste yourself on his tongue, could feel the way his body shook with restraint, barely holding on.

When he pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath fanning across your lips, you searched his wild eyes, the darkness in them, the raw need.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice soft, teasing.

Dean let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head before kissing you again, slower, sweeter.

“More than okay,” he murmured, his voice wrecked.

Then, with a wicked grin, he grabbed your wrist, guiding your hand back to his hair.

“Again,” he rasped, and you didn’t hesitate.

Your fingers curled into the short strands, giving them a firm tug, and the way Dean’s eyes fluttered shut, the groan he released—low and ragged—sent another shiver down your spine.

His lips crashed against yours, hungry and insatiable, as he tugged down his boxers and settled against you. His cock, heavy and throbbing, teased through your folds, dragging against your slick heat, each slow, deliberate movement making your breath hitch.

“You’re still holding back,” he muttered, his voice thick with need. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you open as he rolled his hips again, coating himself in your arousal but refusing to give you what you wanted. “C’mon, sweetheart. Show me.”

You let out a frustrated whimper, rocking your hips against him, desperate for more friction. But Dean only smirked, dragging his cock through your wetness again, the head nudging your clit just enough to make you moan but not enough to satisfy.

“Dean,” you gasped, trying to move against him, but he held you firm, making you take every bit of his teasing. The bastard was enjoying this.

And that’s when you snapped.

You fisted his hair hard, yanking with all the pent-up frustration he had worked you into. Dean let out a strangled hiss, his whole body tensing as his cock throbbed against you.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice breaking, and before you could even take another breath, he drove into you in one smooth, deep stroke.

A broken moan spilled from your lips as he stretched you, filled you completely, his body shuddering above you from the sheer force of finally sinking into your heat.

He barely gave you a moment to adjust before pulling back, teasingly slow, only to press in just as torturously back in.

“Dean—” you panted, trying to buck your hips to urge him on, but he just grinned, dropping a kiss to your throat as he rolled his hips in another measured thrust. “Goddamn it, move.”

His breath was hot against your skin, his lips brushing your jaw. “Make me.”

You didn’t even hesitate. Your hand shot back into his hair, and you yanked. Hard.

Dean choked out a groan, hips snapping forward instinctively, driving into you deep. His control shattered, and he gave you exactly what you wanted—fast, hard, devastating thrusts that had you clawing at his back, gasping for breath.

Every time you tightened your grip, every time you tugged at his hair, he lost himself a little more. His movements turned desperate, his breath ragged, his moans growing more wrecked by the second.

“Fuck—sweetheart—” he all but whined, voice raw as he buried himself inside you, over and over, his cock hitting that perfect spot. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and he was panting, trembling, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

And when you finally came, when pleasure ripped through you and you yanked on his hair so hard he was sure some hairs had been pulled from the root, Dean lost it.

A strangled, broken moan tore from his throat as he slammed into you one last time, his whole body shuddering, cock throbbing deep inside of you as he coated your walls, wrecked and breathless.

He buried his face in your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against your damp skin as he tried to catch his breath, his body still trembling with aftershocks.

The only sounds filling the room were the ragged inhales, the slowing heartbeat between you, with the sticky warmth of your bodies still pressed together.

As you both calmed, you smoothed a hand through his hair, your fingers gentle now, soothing over his tender scalp, and Dean shivered.

As much as he enjoyed the sharp sting, fuck, if this didn’t feel just as good.

“One for the books?” you hummed a smile in your voice as you continued to play with his hair.

Dean’s head popped up, a tired but satisfied grin spreading across his face. “Oh, hell yes.”

Then he tackled you again, capturing your lips in another deep, lingering kiss, already hungry for more.

AN: Is it just me who thinks Dean has a bit of a hair kink? let me know 😅! Also if you are enjoying this series and would like to see a particular kink explored with these two, feel free to drop a comment, or DM. I won't touch wincest or threesomes, just keeping it between these two. ❤️

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @shadysoulangel @my-stories-vault

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

[helllords]

@zealctry asked: casually. "sooooo. hypothetically speaking. what would happen to a contractee. . . if a lord oh-so-happened to die?" ( not Hidan casually asking Aba for information. for no reason whatsoever. pure curiosity. promise. ) / unprompted.

The question does not surprise him, does not lift his gaze from the newspaper he is half-heartedly reading and does not stop him from digging his fork into the breakfast Hidan has made for them and just as casually bring it to his mouth. Because, truth be told, he has expected this ( hell likes to whisper among itself, especially when its usually unbothered lord of lust comes seething to Abaddon and hisses to keep his lover in check; its odd to behold his own sin on Asmodeus' face. he will not tell Hidan about it ).

A hum is his first reply, drowning in the coffee he takes a sip from as he debates his answer for a moment. " Lord Lucifer will have to announce a new lord who will take over. The souls still go to hell; they cannot escape their fate just because someone killed one of us. Which is another way of saying--- " Finally his gaze lifts as he takes his hand, placing a kiss to the ring on his finger. " --- I will not let you kill Asmodeus, my dear. "

[monnstrous]

abigail costumava achar graça na morte - cercada pelas crianças que não sobreviviam os males da época em que nasceu, e os jovens que tinham de ir para guerra , era inconsequente - a passagem desse mundo para outro. ela tinha feito muitas loucuras em sua juventude, e todas as vezes, o ceifador a rejeitou. pensou, como qualquer um poderia pensar, fato ou não , ser imortal. acreditou que o fim só viria quando a pele estivesse enrugada, e a bruxa se deitasse para dormir em uma cama aconchegante. isso tudo - antes do ritual.

aquele recorte de tempo, onde salvando sua própria vida , condenou sua alma. agora , achava um tipo de acalento mórbido quando pensava na morte. quando tudo aquilo acabasse, no último momento de todos seus objetivos e desejos, só ela iria permanecer & então estaria livre. ao ver abaddon deixar o salão, ela o seguiu ; faltavam poucos meses até que ele viesse para o terceiro ciclo, e abby se perguntava quantos mais ela podia aguentar até ser um receptáculo vazio de qualquer essência. queria ouvir essas respostas direto da boca dele. ― ❛ volte 'pra dentro. ❜  disse a pessoa próxima, e então assistiu enquanto eles se retiravam, claramente intimidados pela presença do demônio. ― ❛ nos encontramos de novo. ❜  dirigiu-se a ele, cruzando os braços sobre o peito e arqueando uma sobrancelha. ― ❛ falta o'que ? alguns meses 'pra nossa data marcada ? ❜

ㅤ—ㅤㅤDonatello Abbandando is pressing charges against you, this is his open statement. You can also read his opening argument, here.

O cigarro foi acesso com seu isqueiro predileto — uma peça metalizada em forma de túmulo, fria ao toque e desgastada pelo tempo. O hábito de fumar fora esquecido por muitos anos, mas era apenas adequado que o recordasse em uma noite como aquela. Ele leva o cigarro aos lábios e a fumaça preenche os pulmões rapidamente; a sensação é familiar, segurar o ar no peito, um costume quase esquecido, mas ele continua até sentir o queimor pelo esforço em excesso e quando a expira, o faz com calma, na direção oposta à sua companhia. “Me perguntei o que faria ao sair do salão…” o olhar acompanhou a silhueta que ambas as sombras formavam no jardim, os olhos brilhantes como os de um felino à espreita. “Mas vir ao jardim para ter uma crise existencial no meio de uma festa é…”, hesitava, fingindo escolher as palavras, “anticlimático”. Pendia o cigarro num ângulo quase descontraído, enquanto voltava a observar a outra pessoa. “Mas, quem sabe, talvez nem seja isso…” Um meio sorriso se formou. “Considero-me intrigado, se quiser esclarecer o motivo da fuga”.

[saintsylestine]

Abaddon's [Favorite?] Inquisitor

afab!reader x Abaddon the Despoiler

A/n: I came up with so many scenes to get to this one...safe to say, more to come (///ω///)♪ I wanna ruin this man. But warning - I'm a tease for posting this.

Cw: NSFW, dubcon, free use, bondage/restraints, whipping (not crazily but yeah) powerplay, humiliation, throat fucked with fingers (is there a nicer way to say that lol)

Inspiration by art from the great @magicalduck21

(´－ω－)人

Ok disclaimer I wrote him with his helm on but you can imagine this guy's face as you get on his nerves *blush*

---

You’re drooling again.

It slides down your chin in threads, pooling in the hollow of your throat before spilling across the upper swell of your chest. One strand has glued itself to your breast, now tugging painfully with every sway of the rig. It itches. Everything itches. The barbed binding cinched under your arms, the rope bite of daemonflesh cords crossing your ribs, the harsh seam of your cunt forced open by that infernal split-legged yoke. Sweat stings old lash marks. You can’t twitch without the chains creaking and reminding him you’re alive.

But it’s not the pain that gets you. It’s the waiting.

Your jaw aches from the gag. Big, brutal thing. Not ball-shaped—too simple. This is a bite bar, thick and metallic, hinged to keep your mouth pried wide like a beast’s muzzle. You can just barely move your tongue. Just enough to speak if you don’t mind sounding like you’ve had your jaw broken and sewn back together by a drunk servitor.

“Uhh... uhh wuhh... ‘bout oo fall uh-leep,” you slur, glaring around the room like he’s listening. He always is. That or the walls do it for him.

Nothing. No footfall. No hiss of doors. The silence makes your blood run hotter.

You snort and roll your eyes as best you can. “Ughhh... uff’s sake...”

Your leg’s gone numb again. The high one, raised and bent at the knee, ankle chained upward toward a ceiling hook. The opposite leg is stretched straight and low, foot hovering just off the ground. The asymmetry's surgical—crafted to wreck your hips slowly, to force your cunt open with no dignity or balance. You’re tilted, twisted, hanging like a dissected animal with tits thrust forward and your spine bowed. The only thing holding your posture is suffering.

And of course, your cunt is dripping.

Because that’s the joke.

That’s the game.

You’ve hung like this before. You remember the aches. The first time it was humiliation. The second was anger.

Now it’s a routine.

A sick little habit.

You're about to scream something through the gag—something deeply unwise but satisfyingly profane—when the air changes.

No sound.

Just pressure. That shift. Like an entire cathedral exhaling behind your skull.

He’s here.

You roll your head slowly, spit swinging from your chin like a pendulum, and you see the shape you know too well—black warplate, burning eyes, ruin-wrapped shoulders. He’s already watching.

Of course he is.

You inhale sharply through your nose and let out a long, muffled sound that’s just close enough to a sigh to qualify as mockery.

“Fihh-nuh-wee,” you groan around the gag. “Took oo long uh-fur... fuhhck.”

He steps forward. One step. Solid. Measured.

That’s all.

He always lets the weight of him speak first.

You laugh, though it scrapes your throat. “Whuh... whuh’suh matta?” you coo, words mangled but intent sharp. “Guhh nuhh... nuhh new toy-s, huh?” you slur, thick around the bar. “Oooh ‘fraid I’ll... ou’lass ‘em again?”

He halts.

You grin, or something like it—lips stretched obscenely wide, teeth slick with drool.

“Issh tha’ why oo... keep comin’ back?” you lilt, breath hitching with the ache in your ribs. “Cuhh... can’ break me... sho’ oo jushh... watch.”

That hits. Just slightly. You know his silences by now, and this one shifts—grows heavier. The air tightens. His helm turns. Not enough to admit you’ve scored a hit—but enough to make your gut flip.

You lean into it.

“Uhh ‘member lasss time,” you murmur, rasping through spit. “Uhh ‘member... when oo shuv’d me on tha’ shpine hook... riigh’ when I wuzz ‘bout tuh cuum.”

Your thighs twitch involuntarily. The bindings flex. Tighten.

Pain flares along your hip and shoulder. Your teeth scrape against the bar.

You moan—low, filthy, intentional.

Not submission. Not surrender.

Invitation.

He says nothing.

But he’s listening.

Still looming.

Still deciding.

Good.

Let the Despoiler think it’s his move.

You’ll make him earn it.

...

He moves.

One step.

Two.

The sound is obscene—metal plates grinding, floor trembling under the ruin-weight of him. You can feel your own body brace, just from proximity. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t need to. Warlords don’t hurry for entertainment.

You lift your head slightly, just enough to spit another drool-slick smile around the gag.

“Wuhh... ‘bout time, big boy.”

He doesn’t answer. You didn’t expect him to.

You track him with your eyes as he circles, inspecting you like something inert. Meat. Structure. Not a lover, not even a prisoner—just a thing. A device with too much voice. His fingers twitch, gauntleted and massive, dragging idly across the lowest hanging chain—the one between your thighs.

Your cunt clenches the moment he touches it.

Fuck.

The chain’s connected to the yoke forcing your legs apart—anchored to your hips and fed through a wicked little pulley up above. One tug shifts your entire weight downward and outward, dragging your pelvis deeper into exposure. You barely get a gasp out before he does exactly that.

—clink—

Your leg lifts another few degrees. The yoke bites into the crease of your thighs, the metal unforgiving. Your whole body shifts in the rig—your back arches further, your cunt gapes, and your clit brushes cold air, hypersensitive and angry.

“Nnghh—fuhhhckk,” you groan, helpless and furious.

Your nerves light up. It’s not even direct stimulation—it’s geometry. Your posture’s now one breath away from cramp, your spine so bowed your ribs scream. Every twitch pulls your own cunt taut like a wound.

You try to laugh again. Try.

Comes out more like a whimper.

And he hears that.

His hand lifts.

You feel the shadow first—then the weight of it, right between your legs. One thick, gloved finger presses flat against your slit. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just... flat. Steady. As if he’s bracing himself on a bulkhead.

You moan through your nose.

He moves the finger. Up. Down. Slowly. Just enough to coat the metal in your slick. He doesn't probe. Doesn’t circle your clit. Just gathers evidence.

You jerk your hips in protest—or try. The restraints punish the attempt instantly. The yoke pulls tighter. One of the ropes bites your sternum so hard you gasp.

He knows what he’s doing.

He brings the finger up to eye level.

Examines it.

You choke out a snort. “Wuzz zat for?” you slur, straining to twist your head and look at him. “Geddin’ yer fuckin’ sammple?”

And then he does something that makes your mouth go silent.

He turns his hand over.

And lets your slick drip off his gauntlet.

Onto the floor.

You watch it fall.

Wasted.

A beat.

“Fuhhhck... you,” you hiss, gag mangling it to something desperate and ugly.

He doesn’t respond.

But he steps behind you.

And that’s when your stomach flips.

Because there’s a long, vertical panel of your body he hasn’t touched yet—spine, ass, back of thighs. All raw and twitching from being exposed so long.

You hear a sound.

—kssshht—

A retractable blade? No. Something worse.

Straps.

You twist your neck and barely glimpse it: a thin, whip-like implement, barbed at intervals. Painfully intimate. Not meant to cut.

Meant to sting.

He presses the tip of it to your tailbone.

And waits.

You freeze.

You don’t beg.

But your breath starts to shake.

And you know he’s smiling under that fucking helm.

...

You hold your breath without meaning to.

The whip—if it even deserves that name—is light. Flexible. Too thin to do real damage. That’s what makes it cruel. You know this one. You remember it. It doesn’t open the skin. It makes the nerves feel peeled. The barbs on the cord are dull. Just enough to raise welts. Just enough to force your body into a language of twitching.

He lifts it.

You brace.

The first strike lands low, across the back of your lower thigh.

CRACK.

You scream.

It’s not a choice. It tears through your throat like lightning. Your whole body jolts—your toes curl, your shoulders seize against their bindings, your cunt clenches around nothing. You can’t even process the pain fully before the second one follows.

CRACK.

This one higher—just below your ass. Direct. Cruel. Perfectly placed.

The sound you make is a gurgle, a sob mashed through the bite-bar and soaked in spit. You shake your head. Drool splashes the floor.

He waits.

You feel the stillness again. That calculated pause. He’s watching your breath now. Measuring your ragged little gasps. The rise and fall of your chest, taut and gleaming with sweat, nipples hard from shock and exposure.

You try to say something.

“Fffuhhhk... ooouh—”

But it’s mangled, half-spit, half-sob.

Good.

Let him hear it.

The third strike doesn’t come right away. You feel the whip brush up your spine—mocking. A phantom whisper against the bruises already forming. You know what he’s doing. You just don’t know where the next one will fall.

So you speak.

Because silence would mean he’s winning.

“Guhhh... guh’ a lil ten-shun tuhday, don’choo?” you growl through clenched teeth and leaking drool. “C’mere tuh... tuh beat yer meat on mine?”

You regret it before it finishes leaving your mouth.

CRACK.

Across your ribs. Side-on. The angle hits wrong—intentionally—snapping across bruised muscle and burned skin. It hurts in a way that makes your lungs seize. The sound that comes out of you is wet.

“Ghhha—fuckhh—!”

And still he’s not panting. Not vocal. Not even moving fast.

He lands five more.

Each one paced. Measured. Cruel.

One across your right shoulder blade.

One across your lower back—perfectly parallel to your spine.

Two across the meat of your ass, left and right.

And the final one...

...across your cunt.

It doesn’t slice. It buzzes. The barbs drag through the slickness there like someone dragging teeth through open nerve. Your thighs slam together on reflex—but the yoke holds them apart. You feel yourself spasm.

And then—

then—you moan.

Loud.

Long.

You hate yourself for it.

He steps away.

You hang there, trembling, ribs strobing with pain, slick running down your thighs, drool smearing your chest, your voice a shredded thing you no longer own.

He leaves you in silence again.

To feel it.

...

You’re hanging.

Breathing hard.

Wet.

Marked.

The rig creaks with each tremor of your thighs. The whip’s last kiss still sings through your cunt and ribs. You can taste blood now—somewhere deep in your mouth from biting the gag too hard. Or maybe that’s from trying to speak through it. You don’t know.

You only know he hasn’t left.

He’s watching.

You feel it—his weight in the air behind you. Still. Waiting. Deciding whether you’re worth more or less now.

Then—

He steps forward.

Boots slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

You try to lift your head, but the posture won’t let you. All you can see is his chestplate now—dark, massive, gleaming with tiny smears of you. You’re strung up like an offering. And he stands like a god who never needed prayer.

He doesn’t touch you.

Not yet.

He just speaks.

Low. Brutal.

“Louder than you’re worth.”

You flinch. Not from fear. From heat.

He circles to the side. Another pause. You hear the wet tap of his gauntlet against the chain stretched between your thighs. The rig tightens just slightly.

You groan. Legs spasm. More slick drips to the floor.

He leans in, helm level with your ear.

“Still leaking.”

A pause.

Then one gauntlet against your cheek—slick with your own arousal, dried and flaking.

He smears it there. Slow. Deliberate.

“Pathetic.”

Then nothing.

He steps back again, arms still at his sides, gaze crawling over you like a lash.

“You’re not finished.”

The silence after that is worse than any strike.

Because it means he’s thinking.

Planning.

And you're still open. Still dripping.

Still waiting.

..

You feel him move before you hear him.

That slow, towering shift of shadow in your peripheral vision. One gauntlet lifts. Big. Heavy. You brace for another strike—something to set your ribs screaming again.

Instead, you feel cold metal pinch at the corners of your mouth.

The gag.

The release is mechanical—hinged buckles, unfastened with a slow, surgical detachment. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t speak. Just unlocks you.

The bar slips from your teeth, thick with spit. Your jaw screams the moment it relaxes. Muscles twitch. Your tongue feels swollen, stupid. You barely register the drool pouring freely from your mouth now, sliding down your chin and between your breasts.

He doesn’t wipe it away.

Of course not.

He lets you hang there—open-mouthed, gasping, humiliated.

“Thhh—fuck...,” you rasp. Your voice is shredded, barely a thread of breath.

But you speak anyway.

You have to.

“Th-that’s it?” you spit, voice cracking as it crawls up your throat. “Needed to shut me up just long enough to—nghh—edge your ego, and now you wanna listen?”

Your throat seizes halfway through the insult. But you don’t stop.

“You done staring, or do I need to drip a little louder for you to get the hint?”

A beat.

Silence.

Then—

“Speak clearly.”

His voice.

Short. Low.

So quiet it hurts.

He steps closer. You feel the heat of him again. You don’t dare close your mouth now. Not after that command.

He tilts your head back with two gloved fingers under your jaw—forcing you to look up. Your neck aches. Your whole body shudders from the strain of that angle.

“Last chance.”

You swallow hard. Try not to. Try not to show the fear prickling behind your tongue. But it’s there.

And still, you smile.

Blood and spit painting your teeth.

“Bite me.”

A pause.

Then—so soft you almost miss it:

“I will.”

...

Your jaw aches from the gag’s absence—nerves flaring back to life as your muscles twitch, slack and wet and sore. You can’t fully close your mouth yet. Not that it matters.

He’s in front of you again. Close.

Too close.

Your breath catches when you realize how tall he feels this near. How much bigger he becomes when you're suspended and ruined. You’ve faced warlords across interrogation chambers before. Faced daemons in sanctified blacksteel cages. But you’ve never felt small like this.

Not until now.

His gauntlet comes up again—no flourish, no threat. Just inevitability. He drags two fingers down the line of your jaw. Spit clings to them. He doesn’t care.

“You wanted to be heard.”

He presses those same fingers—thick, metal, wet—against your lips.

“Then speak with this.”

And he pushes them into your mouth.

Not gently.

Not like a lover.

Like a tool checking a gear for fit.

The taste hits first.

Iron. Gunmetal. Skin-temperature steel.

Warp-stained machine oil.

And something fainter beneath it all: your own slick. Dried into the creases of his gauntlet.

He presses two fingers past your lips like he owns them. Like your mouth is waiting. Like this isn’t a punishment, but a test to see if you’re still useful. The gag’s gone—but you’re still not free.

Your lips part with no resistance. He doesn’t ask permission. He fills your mouth, thick-knuckled gauntlet scraping your molars, the cold ridge of each joint dragging across your tongue like you’re being filed down from the inside out.

You groan.

Not because you mean to. Because your tongue panics, trying to move—trying to escape. There’s no space. No room to reposition. His fingers are too big, too deliberate.

And then they deepen.

Not a thrust. Not yet.

Just pressure.

Down.

His middle finger presses hard on your tongue, flattening it toward your jaw. Your throat starts to tickle—a tight itch right where your body knows something’s wrong, where breath shouldn’t be interrupted. You try to suppress the reflex, but he feels it—he wants it.

He shifts again. The ring finger joins.

Three now.

You moan, loud and sharp. Your jaw pops. Your neck strains. Your lips tear at the corners as your teeth scrape across the metal’s seams.

He curls them slightly.

Just the smallest flex.

And your tongue is pinned—helpless beneath him.

“Better than your voice.”

You barely hear it through the haze. But your cunt clenches like it does.

The fingers rock forward. Gently.

Then harder.

Not fast. Not cruel. Insistent.

Your body jerks in the rig as he begins to fuck your mouth with his hand—short, precise strokes. He lets you feel everything. The ridged knuckles scraping your palate. The cold press behind your uvula. The saliva bubbling past your lips and down your chin as your gag reflex fires, again and again.

You choke.

You gag.

You don’t look away.

His helm tilts slightly—watching your throat bulge around the intrusion. Watching you lose shape. Watching you become a vessel.

Your nose runs. Drool pours freely. You sob around the seal of his gauntlet and the thick scrape of his knuckles sawing in and out of your mouth.

He goes deeper.

Your shoulders seize. Your eyes blur.

The sound is obscene—wet, raw, gulping, muffled.

He pulls back just slightly—enough for you to gasp in a rush of breath, your tongue clinging to his fingers like a drowning thing.

But he doesn’t leave.

His hand stays.

His fingers rest on your tongue now—heavy, unmoving. Just resting, like a reminder of your failure to shut up when you had the chance.

“Keep them there,” he says.

And steps back.

His fingers still in your mouth.

His gaze raking you.

Daring you to flinch.

You moan low in your throat, trembling from head to toe, and obey.

Because you don’t want him to stop.

Not yet.

...

You can’t swallow.

Not properly. Not with his fingers on your tongue like a commandment carved in metal. You keep twitching—your throat spasming, your mouth filling again and again with warm spit that you can’t do anything with. It slides past your lips. Down your chin. Along your breasts.

You’re soaked in it.

And still he hasn’t moved.

He’s standing in front of you, gauntlet still lodged in your mouth, watching—measuring. Every flick of your tongue against his knuckles. Every time your lips try to seal tighter, then fail from exhaustion.

You try not to groan.

It leaks out anyway.

He hears it.

And now he moves.

Not with the fingers in your mouth—no. He lifts his other hand, thick and gloved, and presses it between your thighs. Flat palm. Full contact. No penetration. Just weight and heat and the power of attention.

You jerk in the rig, reflexive and raw, legs straining against the yoke that holds them spread. Your cunt’s been wet for so long it’s a shameful flood. His palm glides through it effortlessly. And he doesn’t even seem interested. Just... confirming.

“Still soft,” he mutters.

Then, without warning, his fingers in your mouth thrust forward again.

No buildup.

Just deep.

You gag instantly. A wet, humiliating choke that makes your whole body jolt. Your thighs clench. Your eyes snap open, watering. It hurts.

He holds you there.

Not long.

Just enough.

Just long enough for the fear to rise in your chest.

Just long enough for your spit to start pouring faster, your lungs to beg.

Then he pulls back—slowly.

Lets you breathe.

And you do���gasps sharp and hoarse, his fingers still there, stretching your lips open.

“I said hold.”

And you do. Even as your throat trembles. Even as more saliva spills out past your teeth and runs down your breastbone.

Then he speaks again.

“Good.”

You want to feel victorious. You don’t.

Because he follows it with—

“Now take more.”

And this time, he pushes in a fourth finger.

Your mouth flares in protest. Your jaw splits wider than it ever has—too wide. Your lips tear. Your teeth scrape metal. You scream around it—guttural, ugly, a noise from the back of your throat that barely qualifies as human. It’s too much.

Your gag reflex explodes.

You twitch violently in the rig. Spit floods out in torrents. Your nose runs. Your eyes stream. Your neck burns from the angle, from the intrusion. Every nerve in your face howls.

He thrusts.

Not fast.

But with weight.

Four thick, armored fingers working in and out of your mouth in shallow, deliberate strokes. He doesn’t need to bury them. He’s not looking for depth. Just control. Just the sound of your suffering. Just the proof that your mouth isn’t a weapon—it’s a hole.

He watches every twitch of your tongue trying—and failing—to move. Every spasm of your throat as it tries to clench. Every wet gag as your body tries to reject him.

But your mind doesn’t.

Your mind is on fire.

And your cunt is still dripping.

He holds you there again—gagging, sputtering, wide open—and finally pulls back.

This time, when the fingers leave your mouth, your lips stay parted.

You gasp.

A broken, ragged gasp.

No pride left.

Just need.

Just pain.

And then—

It slips out.

Barely audible.

But real.

"...thank you."

You didn’t plan it.

But you meant it.

And he knows it.

He stands over you in silence.

And says nothing.

Because he doesn’t need to.

You’ve already answered the question he never asked.

---------to be continued... or prefaced...-----------

Hehe. Thank you for reading. I could write foreplay forever.

Tagged: @incrediblethirst @druidwolf21 @kit-williams (maybeee you'll like?)

(*ノ▽ノ)

[blackorbs]

STARTER FECHADO ━━ ( @abbcdon ) na presença de BA’AL na fazenda braun.

encarando as plantações à disposição da própria cesta, soltou um suspiro cansado. parte de si perguntava se aquela era, de fato, a melhor ideia que poderia ter tido na semana. entretanto, o halloween, para ele, era como o natal ou o dia de ação de graças para os mundanos e se sentia levemente mais emotivo, propenso a tentar se aproximar do que, de maneira complexa, era o que possuía de família. não que tivesse de fato um laço fraterno com abbadon, mas o príncipe jamais deixaria de ser uma figura importante para o demônio das encruzilhadas, e era uma companhia interessante, considerando a atividade proposta. “agradeço por me acompanhar, meu príncipe.” não conseguia deixar de lado a formalidade, a não ser que fosse o pedido da realeza infernal. deveria sempre mostrar respeito. “meu plano é fazer uma torta de maçã para althea, afinal, é uma data familiar.” confessou, e revirou os olhos no mesmo segundo, de maneira quase contraditória. “pretendo passar no mercado noturno para comprar alguma coisa forte e colocar no recheio depois.” não muito a frente escutou o som de gritos. provavelmente alguém assustado com o espantalho. “queria que ela deixasse essa rebeldia de lado, estou sempre tendo que limpar a babunça que ela faz.” ser pai não era fácil, afinal.

“mas, bem, eu também era assim quando era jovem, tenho certeza que você, em especial, se recorda bem.” emotivo, vingativo e bagunceiro. às vezes ba’al se surpreendia como já havia agido de forma tão diferente da que se portava nos dias atuais.

[luceafarul-de-dimineata]

Hi, I apologize if I'm being annoying but I love your shipping au and I was thinking of something and wanted to tell you

What if once the shipp that is most trending is MC x the worst possible noble of that country. Like, people notice mc has a lot of chemistry with glasya or bimet and instead of a king there is now a whole thread talking about how mc should stay with the noble instead of the king? I think it would be really funny

Oh, I love this. Mc that has terrible taste in men is so real.

*Glasylabolas posts a photo of him kissing Mc*

Glasylabolas: Task failed succesfully

Foras: I'm glad you like the dead so much because there's no way you're going to keep on living after this

Barbatos: I'm preparing the candles

Glasylabolas: It's fineeeeee I made it so only people that follow me can see it. His majesty Leviathan doesn't follow anyone.

Dantalian: BROOOOOOOO THIS IS SO COOOOOOL

Glasylabolas: I know, right? The child of Solomon is my significant other now. Everyone else can go cry about it.

Dantalian: You'll be sharing with your bestie, right

Dantalian: 🥹👉👈

Glasylabolas: Of course

Dantalian: Yepeeeee

Glasylabolas: Tell Ronové to check his dms

Dantalian: He's busy. We're in the middle of a battle

Glasylabolas: I don't care, I want to see if he has time in his scheduel for our threesome

Dantalian: wait... I thought I was your bestie!

Glasylabolas: I have many besties, Dantalian

Glasylabolas: Most of them from Abaddon. You people trully understand me

Dantalian: It's fine. Wanting to fuck corpses is tame. Just yesterday someone died from getting fucked by a horse.

Glasylabolas: Crazy

Dantalian: Can I have more pics with you and Mc? I want to make an edit

Glasylabolas: Absolutely, just send it to me directly

Dantalian: sure sure

*Glasylabolas posted 10 more photos*

Dantalian: wiat ill doiy when i grt homt

Glasylabolas: Are you having a stroke?

Dantalian: m typng wjth m feert

Glasylabolas: Pop off

5 hours later

*Dantalian posted an edit*

Dantalian: It's done!

Glasylabolas: This is great! Though why is the song "Be my bad boy"

Dantalian: Because you're the bad boy and Mc is the badass dom

Glasylabolas: They haven't dommed yet

Dantalian: yet

Gamigin: WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS??????

Paimon: It's not even photoshopped... Glasy, how could you?!

Eligos: Nooooooo out of all the bad decisions, Mc made the worst one

Amon: I think I just lost my appatite for the next century

Dantalian: Come on, guys, it's not that bad!

Amon: @Gamigin are there any free beds in Paradise Lost? I think I need emergency medical attention

Gamigin: I'll send Buer over

Amon: Thx

Eligos: This is fucking outragous

Paimon: My main question is how Glasy is still alive

Foras: @Glasylabolas I think you should brace yourself

Gamigin: What happened?

Barbatos: Hi guys!!!! So, his handsome majesty Leviathan took care of everything. His last words were "This is hot"

Gamigin: Is he dead?

Paimon: Good

Dantalian: He was a good devil.

Dantalian:

Dantalian: Stay strong, brothers

Foras: He's not dead, just unconcious

Paimon: Bumeeeer

*This forum has been terminated at the request of his majesty Leviathan*

[simantopia]

[ txt ] : most belong in the trash lol

[ txt ] : that's funny!

[ crispin is typing . . . ]

[ txt ] : wait r u being hyperbolic or r u srs?

[ txt ] : is that rly a family tradition?

[txt] o same, sone exes belong in the trash 🗑

[txt] O GOD THAT WOULD B WORSE 🤢

[txt]thankfully that never happened. If it did id have to do the family tradition and yeet the whole man off a cliff

[helllords]

@zealctry asked: he rests his cheek against Abaddon’s thigh, seemingly ( and perfectly, factually ) oblivious to the weight of tenderness carried by his own gesture. he just rests, for a long moment, fixating an unblinking gaze upon him, pupils wide and dilated in the semi-dark. and then he shifts, making himself more comfortable. doesn't hesitate, not even for a heartbeat, a stranger to reluctance. like a wild child, chases his thoughts to their end, careless of any precipice awaiting. “ say, Abaddon. you love me, don’t you? ” it isn’t an accusation, or the frigid stab of a shiv between the ribs; in their stead? a lazy, indulgent, question. “ . . . what’s it feel like? ” / unprompted.

Peace is an odd sensation he first ever experienced with him ( and, he is certain, will never come to feel with anyone else again ). Something he always comes to acknowledge whenever he is in Hidan's presence and yet something he comes to cherish so strongly in tender, quiet moments such as these. There is no need for words. When they are settled in the soft approach of darkness with just enough light to peer into each other's eyes, when he knows that the green hellfire in his gaze conveys exactly what he feels, what reason is there to exchange words? So all he does is brush his warm hand over Hidan's hair as he beholds him with a gentle smile clinging to his lips, etching this memory into his mind, into the very core of all that makes him so that he may never forget his little token of peace.

The question is abrupt but doesn't sway him, doesn't twist his expression, even through the implication that rests behind these words ( what does it feel like? what does loving someone feel like when he does not experience it himsef? Abaddon does not fault him for it; he will love him nonetheless and know that, somewhere, his feelings are returned ).

" I do, my darling, without a doubt. Forever. ", his voice is a delighted hum, his hand not stilling. Though he does take a moment for himself to think it over before he is satisfied with his reply. " Love manifests in many ways. Loving you is trusting you, for instance. Feeling safe enough with you to be vulnerable, to allow you to have the very thing that could end me and knowing you wouldn't. " A chuckle, his palm cupping his face to brush his thumb beneath his eye. " It is being happy to see you and wondering when I can make the time to see you again afterwards. It is a longing to have you in my arms and feeling complete when you finally are. It is being utterly content in moments like these. " His voice softens, just as much as his gaze, as his touch. " That is what being in love is for me. And I value ever single second I get to experience it. "

[theirmadness]

sarcastically, ❛ you don’t have to be so gentle . ❜ / @ abaddon >:)

meme status: accepting. meme source: uknown.

❝ oh, am i losing my grip, lover? ❞ abaddon took it for the challenge that it was. dean should've known better. the hold she has on his chin tightens. she could snap his jaw clean off his skull without breaking a sweat. but then again, that would just ruin his pretty face, wouldn't it? abaddon didn't want that. she lets go of his chin so she could tug on his hair instead, forcing it backwards to expose his neck.

abaddon shushes him like one might a child as he makes noises. her grip must hurt quite a bit. ❝ be a good boy now. ❞ pulling a knife out of seemingly thin air, she holds him as still as she can, as she starts carving something on the side of his neck. a cursive A. a wicked grin spreads across her face, as the blood dripped down his tanned skin. she licked her lips. he kept struggling. silly thing. ❝ oh, hold still, or i will hold you down. and you won't like that. ❞ she pushed him down with force, climbing on top of him. she's hovering over his chest, as she carves the Ds next. she takes her time, knowing each brush of the blade on his skin must sting. ❝ dear satan, that's fuckin' hot. ❞

she's branding him like a toy.

[jazeswhbhaven]

when i saw zepar i creamed my pants so hard it busted every single thread in it open..but anws I FUCKING LOVEEE LOVEE HIS NEW REDESIGN. It was so out of nowhere i deadass woke uo at 5 in the morning, checked why I got tagged in the whb server im in and suprise suprise my glorious king zepar got a new redesign.. it woke me up so fast..

If he usually switches out body parts then maybe he can change his form w the body parts too..i need him so bad its not FUNNYYYY💔💔💔💔💔💔💔, Also I need to know why this mf doesnt talk to zagan anymore lol, maybe its for zagans own safety?? or maybe they got into a fight☹️

Hes rocking those red stilettos, he looks sassy asl too

-🐉

🐉 anon I was surprised too when I saw his redesignnnnnnn I love the color palette so much too that's used.

I also wanna know why he and Zagan don't talk anymore because that's literally his mentor! I wonder if something bad happened or because it was just for him to study he was there for a bit and then hopped back to Gehenna because he's loyal to Satan first and foremost.

I have this theory in my head that Zepar did ask him to stay in Abaddon but Zagan declined politely and after that they just lost touch with each other because I mean...unless someone needs Zepar for something he's locked up lmao Yeah he could send a text or a letter or something but uhhhhh just maybe cutting off communication was better