I do not own Angel Sanctuary, or any of the characters therein. I do not advocate insanity, or destruction ...or, for that matter, the desecration of ruined churches.
His soul is blackened so completely that one more crime won't even show up, and Katan, who's been kneeling at his Lord's feet, tilts his head and presses a kiss to the inside of one warm thigh.
"You'd play the whore with me?" there's warmth in Lord Rosiel's voice too -- a little of it, but it's there, "why?"
How does he know what to say? It's got to be the sin that tells him, "because you're beautiful, my Lord."
One day -- less than a day in human terms -- since he unsealed Lord Rosiel, but he knows what to say. And he knows there's only one thing that might distract him from finding Alexiel, "how beautiful?" his Lord's voice is a purr.
A human church is not a place for seduction, not when you're used to Heaven. Knees on the lumpy, water-damaged carpet, Katan moves closer. He ignores the cold wind that blows through the broken stained-glass windows. And he slides his hands under Lord Rosiel's skirts and touches warm, bare flesh. "Very beautiful," his lips brush Rosiel's skin, and he feels a shiver; is it the touch, or is it just from his words? "As beautiful as when you reigned over Heaven. Nothing can touch your radiance."
Perfect hands cup his cheeks, "you seem to be touching it well enough," Lord Rosiel's voice is indulgent, "continue." Perfect clothing, that removes itself when Katan wants it to -- or when his Lord wills it? -- a perfect body underneath his lips, knees up trapping his head so his mouth goes where it's supposed to. Lord Rosiel's head rests against the arm support of the pew. His hair brushes the ground, crystalline curls against the mildewed leaves. And he arches his back, pressing further into Katan's mouth.
"How beautiful?" Silent, a moment too long as his mouth works, he feels a slap, and his Lord's voice continues playfully, "really, Katan, I'd expect better of you. Can't you do this and praise my beauty at the same time? ...I'm sure Kirie could do it," he adds. Perfect, perfect, everything about Lord Rosiel is perfect. The weird sensation of taking someone perfect, amid the cold stinking ruins of the church; Katan would like to hurry -- Kirie will be back soon, or else there will be another distraction -- but his Lord takes his own time.
"This is a sin you know," the remark doesn't change his rhythm, "and the wages of sin is death my dear Katan." Death. It's just a word right now, just a word. But for how long? Long enough to get them both back to Heaven? "Death," Lord Rosiel quickens his pace, his voice becomes uneven, "which cometh to human and Angel alike. Death -- oh, Katan!" His last words are a breath, and he comes, thrusting against the back of the cherub's throat. He comes, and he falls back limp against the pew. His perfect hand trails with his curls, along the dirty floor.
Lord Rosiel's eyes are closed. His lips curve upward. Sometimes the wages of sin can be paid by another, Katan thinks. He doesn't know why he thinks it, or have time to consider what it means. The sound of the ruined front door brings Rosiel's head upright, and they both watch as Kirie enters the vestibule.
Miraculously, Lord Rosiel's clothes return to where they're supposed to be, and he sits up. "Death," he says in a different voice, "which is what my sister has escaped so far, for all that she deserves it. I'll have to ask her when I find her whether she appreciates the Creator's mercy." He stands, motions to the girl in the vestibule. "Come, Kirie," he says, "there is work to do." He is gone, and Katan is alone in the ruined church. What are the wages of sin, he wonders, and how do you know when you're done paying them?