The angel couldn’t be irked when his chair clattered to the floor, not when the demon was giving him such a show. The smile at his lips parts into another grin, leaning back against the door and a hand at his jaw to half-assedly hide the smugness at his features. Messiah is barely listening to Arlo’s gripes against him, pink hues fixated on the way Arlo teases him with every undoing of his coat’s buttons. The snug shirt underneath makes Messiah swallow, and the thrum of the music beneath his office fits perfectly with Arlo’s burning hot anger. Even his own faux skin was growing hot, but the angel makes no move. He’s enthralled with every action Arlo takes, captivated by the angles and curves of his body once hidden away from Messiah’s prying eyes.
Messiah was not virtuous. From the day he was created, the throne was partial to greed, to pride, to lust. He wanted everything and anything. But right now, Messiah solely wanted Arlo in his entirety. The angel was used to getting what he wanted, his club a prime example of that. Under the cover of his human form, his true body pulsed with excitement, vibrated with want. He wanted, and wanted, and wanted. Messiah wanted Arlo in the same way he’s had him before, and he wanted to push Arlo further. He craved it. He wanted it. He wanted Arlo.
“Where do you think you are right now?” He asks, his voice even despite the large surge of yearning pushing at his flesh. Messiah drifts towards the nearest window, his back to Arlo as he peeks through the blinds, “you should know what my employees consist of.” Even from where he stood, the vitality in the air was heavy. One step into his club was enough to make even the strong-willed fall to their knees, addicted to everything The Midnight Rectory had to offer. Messiah turns his head to look over his shoulder at Arlo, still without his jacket, and still painfully tempting. Messiah slowly pulls up the blinds, and with his other hand outstretched towards Arlo, he beckons the demon over. “My club is their sanctuary. This is one of the only places on earth they can let loose without the threat of death looming over their heads.”
Reds and pinks color his skin again, illuminating his office and everything in it with vibrant color. When Arlo reaches him, Messiah trails his fingers up the musculature of Arlo’s arm, his attention fully on the taller man. Not even his dancers, erotic and beautiful, getting their fill on primally charged humans below, compared to the demonic agent standing next to him in his office. “What you’re feeling right now is only instinct. You can’t be faulted for that, they’re just doing their jobs.” Head slightly tilted back, Messiah laughs, taking his hand from Arlo’s arm to position it at the small of his back. Anything to just touch him. “Do you need a moment before heading down? You’re free to stay as long as you like.”
〈 ⊗* 〉 ┊ Instinct. Sanctuary. Let loose. All words he’s heard before, but never have they set him alight like this. Or perhaps it’s the way angel’s fingers trace over his bicep that sets already simmering blood aflame. A noise shamefully similar to another whine builds in the back of his throat. He locks his jaw, hoping to keep the sound muffled. Each breath he takes becomes heavier, headier, as he drinks in the sight of the man smirking up at him. When he feels his palm pressed to the small of angel’s back, he stiffens. His fingers bunch the back of Messiah’s shirt. For a moment he’s tempted to tear right through it. Breathe. That’s all he has to do– but each breath packs his lungs even fuller of sweet allure, and he’s already at the boiling point.
“You’re– haah –you’re doing this on purpose,” he accuses, the whine from before slipping out and pitching his voice up. Shame blazes a trail along his neck and cheeks. It sends sparks flying from the gills that open up on either side of his throat, but it’s nothing in comparison to the heat building in his gut. That heat thrums in time to the music below, to the flickering of neon lights, to his own racing heartbeat. His own body betrays his wavering will with a hand tugging at the neckline of his shirt in vain attempt to circulate cooler air. He’s painfully aware of how his throat bobs when he swallows, how his head lowers in defeat while labored breath pours from parted lips. He should fight this. He should tell this smug asshole where he can shove it. Better yet, he should keep badgering the angel about his involvement in all this. Because even though he hardly cares a whit, Arlo does. And he feels crazy for it. What does it all matter now, when all he can do is stare, quivering all over from sheer overload, when he hasn’t even been properly touched yet? He’s fighting a losing battle– a losing war, if this continues.
With another frustrated growl, Arlo sheds the coat hanging from his forearms. He shifts his weight, causing the hem of his shirt to ride up and expose a peek of hip bone and midriff. It’s not enough. All it does is make him more aware of himself, so wound up and taut with pent-up want. And with Messiah right there in front of him, his lips curling in sadistic amusement and eyes raking over every single inch of him, he can’t help but recount his last visit. The phantom feeling of fingers tugging at his hair jolts through his body, and with it comes the remembered sensation of something hot and thick dragging against his tongue, filling his throat, making it nigh impossible to breathe. Arlo chokes on a strangled noise.
‘I can’t leave like this,’ he thinks, and finds he doesn’t know if that means he can’t leave without more definitive information, or without the release of this unbearable tension. It’s maddening how even his thoughts betray him so readily. Further proof he should give up, give in. He draws closer, body nearly flush with the angel’s. Through the thick haze of indecision and desire, he notes how well his cut build fits against the elegant lines and curves of Messiah’s form. It makes him shudder. His grip on the club owner’s shirt tightens, and claws scrape ever so close to alabaster skin. Frenzied words tumble out, all breathless and debauched.
“It’s not them doin’ this, it’s–” and he cuts himself off with a sharp breath, unable to admit the truth and therefore give testament to how easily Messiah makes him crumble. “–You. This conversation’s about you. Not them. Don’t– don’t detract. I’m fine, just… warm.” Yet he still doesn’t pull away; if anything, he draws closer still. He cocks his head towards the office’s window, completely unable– completely unwilling –to tear his eyes away from Messiah. “What about them? They could all suffer ‘cause of this. Do you even–” a hitch in his breath interrupts, and he can’t hide how his gaze flicks down before finding Messiah’s face again, “–care about that?”
