MxF Male Angels vs Female Demons in a Rugby Match = A Femdom themed play by play?

[JJJSmith]

Initially posted in "Men Seeking Fortune" – I am reposting this here because I am willing to play the female demoness roles as well. I'm open to males playing female roles and vice versa because it's role play, where you get to play something you aren't in real life.)

Some knowledge of Rugby would be useful – but I don't mind doing a bit of coaching- the potential for fun is worth the effort many times over.

When I say Angels and Demons, I'm not talking about Japanese Anime – I'm talking about the supernatural beings you might encounter in Italian Renaissance art.

So here's the idea:

Heaven was challenged to play rugby against a team representing Hell. (I'm talking Rugby Union here – because – the scrum. And the ruck.) It was all a set-up of course.

The most skilled warrior angels were assembled to represent Heaven. They were expecting to play against a team of hideous demons, the sort they had been battling (and generally beating) for ages.

Hell's team, however, consisted entirely of extremely sexy demonesses. Surprise!


The idea for the roleplay is that the Demoness team cheats. A lot. And while the Angels are favored to win, the Demonesses gain the upper hand even before the match starts, and things just get worse for the Angels from there. Perhaps Hell agreed to a highly respected Angel as referee, but one of the Demonesses seduced him before the game and he fails to call any of their flagrant fouls?

The roleplay, as I envision it, will be something like a play-by-play (abridged) in which I describe that one or more demonesses does to an angel on the pitch, and you respond with the angels' reactions. For instance, the ball is kicked to Gabriel. Lilith is there in an instant, with a knee to the groin, an elbow to the ribs, and claws across his face. Meanwhile, Jezebel comes up behind him to pluck a feather from his wings to adorn her hair. The referee didn't see a thing. Later, they might double-team him in a different way - in the bottom of a pile of bodies, one massages his groin while the other kisses him and whispers of unspeakable pleasures that await him after the game.

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If interested in playing – or if you have questions – or even if you just want to talk about how weird but hot the idea is, feel free to message me.

Thanks for reading.

 

[JJJSmith]

If you are not familiar with Rugby, don't be discouraged from the idea of this roleplay. It's not that difficult.

Think of it as a cross between American Football and Soccer. You have an oval shaped ball which you advance into the goal area, but the ball can be carried, kicked, or passed to a teammate (but no forward passes). Unlike the US version of football, the play doesn't stop when someone is tackled - it just starts a lot of pushing and shoving to determine which team gets possession of the ball. So the play is pretty much non-stop. (There are stoppages, of course, but nothing like American Football where they can squeeze in five television commercial ads every three minutes.) The referee can stop the clock to deal with something, but there are no team "time outs".

There are no separate "offense" and "defense" teams - everybody keeps playing when possession of the ball changes sides. There are 15 players per side on the field (aka the "pitch") with eight replacements/substitutes. A player can be substituted temporarily (for a head injury assessment or to get the bleeding stopped) and go back into the game, but once he or she is replaced there is no going back in. This means half the team will play the whole game with no breaks.

As for protective gear (helmets and pads, like in American Football) they don't exist. Some padding is permitted, but it is minimal. You will see the occasional padded "cap" but that is more to prevent the ears from being ripped off rather than protect the brain.

As for the other stuff - rucks and mauls and scrums and lineouts - it's simple enough to explain what's going on when the time comes. (Most of those things just mean there's a lot of up-close personal contact going on, both with teammates and with the opposing team.) So again, do not be discouraged. There is great potential for a lot of naughty, painful, sexy fun.

 

[JJJSmith]

The Setting:

The stadium has no name. It is known only by its location: The In-Between. It sits in a perpetual grey twilight, under a sky that is neither day nor night, swirling with clouds the color of old pewter. There is no sun, no moon, only a diffused, impartial luminescence that casts no shadows. The air itself is neutral, stripped of Heaven's cloying sweetness and Hell's sulphuros bite. It smells only of damp earth, ozone, and the sharp, metallic tang of anticipation.

The structure is a masterpiece of brutalist, utilitarian architecture. A perfect, colossal circle of grey, unadorned stone and tarnished steel, it seems less built and more to have been extruded from the very fabric of this neutral plane. It was erected for a single purpose, and there is no beauty in it, only function.

The seating is bisected with unnerving precision.

To the west, rising towards a great arch of pearlescent light—the Empyrean Gate—are the stands for Heaven. Here, the legions of the blessed gather. Most, but not all, are clad in simple white robes. Most, but not all, for this is a rugby match, after all. Some wear jerseys of brilliant, blinding white, accented with shimmering gold. Scarves knitted from what looks like spun sunlight are wrapped around necks, and faces are painted with sigils of hope and victory. The cherubim, too small to see the pitch properly, flutter on restless wings just above the back rows, their usual grace replaced with a nervous energy. The sound from this side is a symphony of support: vast, swelling hymns repurposed into stadium chants, their harmonies so perfect they seem to vibrate in your very bones. When they cheer, it sounds like the breaking of dawn.

To the east, sloping down towards a jagged maw of obsidian and smoldering iron—the Infernal Gate—are the stands for Hell. This side is a chaotic riot of black and crimson. The demons, imps, and damned souls roar their allegiance. Their hatred for all things good and pure and noble. Their jerseys are scorched black, the team numbers branded on in letters of flickering ember. Spiked paldrons adorn the shoulders of hulking pit lords, and lesser fiends rattle chains not for bondage, but as makeshift percussion instruments. Their banners are torn, depicting acts of glorious on-field violence. The noise from this half is a cacophony, a wall of pure, discordant sound. Guttural war-chants compete with screeching insults and the percussive, rhythmic pounding of millions of booted feet on stone.

Separating the two is not a mere fence, but a chasm.

A ten-meter-wide abyss cuts through the heart of the stadium, a sheer drop into a swirling, colorless mist. Spanning the chasm, but still keeping the stands apart, is a transparent barrier that shimmers like a heat haze. It is said to be forged from solidified neutrality, utterly unbreakable. Spectators from both sides press against it, their forms distorted through its strange lens. A seraph mouths a prayer of encouragement, her face serene but her knuckles white where she grips a railing. Directly opposite, a horned beast with a face like cracked lava snarls, pounding a fist against the barrier. They can see each other, glare at each other, gesture obscenely at each other, but they can never touch. At least, it's never happened before.

Down below, the pitch itself is the only truly vibrant thing in the entire realm. The grass is a shocking, impossible green, sustained by the sheer gravity of the conflict it hosts. The white lines of the field are stark and absolute. At the center of it all, the rugby ball rests on the halfway line, a simple leather object that has become the focus of two entire realities.

Here, in The In-Between, miracles fail and curses fizzle into nothingness. Divine intervention cannot guide a kick, and demonic influence cannot cause a player to trip. All power is stripped away at the gates, rendering every spectator, from the highest archangel to the most despised duke of Hell, equal. The spectators are reduced to simple fans, and the players must rely on brawn, agility, and their wits.

That was the intent of the In-Between, anyway.

A deep, resonant horn blows, a sound that is neither holy nor unholy, merely final. A collective breath is drawn, a million beings inhaling as one. From the West stand, a unified, harmonious roar of hope. From the East, a discordant shriek of malice. The sounds meet over the chasm, cancelling each other out into a tense, vibrating hum, as obscured shapes form in tunnels at each end of the pitch - the players ready to run onto the field and begin their warm-up routines.

Then, for eighty minutes of play, in the dead center of everything, all that mattered was the mud, the muscle, and the ball. Or was it?