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“Can you swim?” asks Dagon, offhandedly. They’re in the middle of a meeting, sitting in silence at a table in a conference room somewhere between Heaven and Hell, each reviewing files that demand the attention of both the divine and the damned. Soul policy is tedious work.
Michael frowns.
Dagon smirks. “You can’t!”
“I can,” says Michael, not quickly enough. “An Archangel of the Lord can do anything she pleases by faith alone.”
The Lord of the Files arches an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? That how you fuck me, too?”
Michael sputters, blushing pink. It’s really rather fortunate that she doesn’t understand how blushing works physiologically, because her blood is gold.
“You should swim,” says Dagon.
“It’s unseemly,” says Michael. “Let me concentrate. It’s hard to read with all the burn marks you’ve let get on here.”
Dagon sighs. “Killjoy.” She pulls a thing of pre-used chewing gum out of her pocket and pops it into her mouth, chewing obnoxiously, and swings her legs onto the table.
“You’re supposed to be working,” says Michael.
“I am working,” says Dagon, and pointedly she shuffles the papers in her hands, leaning her head back on the back of the chair. She wriggles her toes in Michael’s direction, crossing and uncrossing her ankles.
“Haven’t you ever heard of boot polish?” Michael snaps. She is so predictable.
“Enlighten me, O great Commander of the Heavenly Troops,” drawls Dagon, if only to make her talk. She won’t explain, of course. Michael so hates when she plays dumb.
True to form Michael pounds a fist on the table. “Can’t you focus.”
“Again,” says the demon, “I’m focused.”
And she is. Michael knows she is, and Michael is already in her trap. The question is: how much will she struggle before concluding she’s got her pretty angel wings all tangled up in Dagon’s web?
She enjoys the spider metaphor. Not that she’d ever revolt, of course, not that she wants to, not that she’s not loyal to Beelzebub - but if she can’t have a mildly revolutionary fantasy every now and again, what is she doing with her immortal existence? Her position is secure enough that she can speculate about how satisfying it would be to feel the fading and desperate throes of submission.
While she waits, she sets about scratching off a flaking scale on the side of her cheek. She’d polished them, before she came, not that she’d ever admit it, but this one had been stubborn. And, well, it wouldn’t do to make too much of an effort.
Lower case e.
She had made the Effort Michael favoured, although she doesn't plan on using it. It's entirely unnecessary. “Less ostentatious,” the archangel had said once, when she’d let her guard down. Which is interesting, because if Dagon hadn’t known the truth perfectly well, she would have assumed Michael might like a style more like a weapon.
(It’s always a weapon. The only difference is in combat style.)
Michael looks very much like she is concentrating, completely unbothered, which of course means that really she is bothered. Perfect. Dagon swings herself up in a fluid movement, rather like an eel, in a way that suggests that for her, bones are optional.
Michael doesn’t look at her.
Dagon’s boots click on the floor as she rounds the table.
“I hope you’re not hoping to spy,” says Michael, which is patently ridiculous - as if she would have brought anything too confidential.
Dagon leans over, inhaling the faintly metallic scent of angel, and spits her gum into Michael’s perfectly done hair.
Michael’s spine stiffens.
“Oh no,” Dagon says with faux regret.
“Clean that up!” Michael snaps.
“But of course,” says Dagon smoothly, and puts her mouth over the spot where the gum is sagging into the angel’s hair. She spits into it again, and works it around with her tongue, tangling it worse.
Another result of Michael not knowing much about physiology: she’s put a lot of nerve endings in her hair. After all, why shouldn’t they be there?
Dagon’s tongue is deft and sure, and she knows how to spell her name in the flourishing way that makes Michael throw back her head, dragging her with, and thrust a hand onto her hip, gripping her and squeezing with fingers that are starting to shake.
She hopes she bruises. She’ll wear the mark as long as it lasts - concrete proof of being had. Or of conquering, as the case may be.
Michael cries out and Dagon stops. The archangel’s eyes are gleaming with frustration and something else. “Foul demon!”
“Be quiet,” says Dagon. “If you can’t control yourself I’ll have to make you.”
She scrapes Michael’s hair with her teeth, where it’s silky and soft, where she has not yet defiled it, just where she can feel the angelic energy thrumming in expectation.
Michael moans. It’s obscene.
“Last warning,” says Dagon.
There’s nothing sweet about Michael, but the taste of her makes Dagon’s mouth water like sugar and cinnamon. Dagon closes her eyes and inhales her as if she will consume her, then begins twisting the tangled lock of her hair around her tongue. Michael is a delicacy.
She cries out, and the demon shoves two fingers into her mouth. At first, in irritation, Michael bites down. A jolt of pain bursts up Dagon’s arm, making her suck Michael’s hair harder in response. She loves the way it hurts. Her skin is electric.
“You’re pathetic,” she spits huskily. “You’d let me do anything to you.”
Michael grunts something around her fingers, lips buzzing pleasantly.
“You’re in no state to talk back to me,” Dagon continues. “You came here and you knew- you wanted this.”
Again Michael tries to reply something muffled and completely unintelligible. Dagon cuts her off with a calculated thrust of her tongue.
“The Archangel Michael,” Dagon breathes. “I’ve got you. At my mercy.”
Michael stops fighting and takes it. She trembles and sweats, makes mumbled little noises. Dagon pulls away to look at her and she’s spectacular. Flushed and disheveled and desperate.
“Keep going,” Michael says when Dagon lets her speak, so she works her to the edge and over it.
When she’s finally finished, Michael is a mess. Dagon sweeps her gaze over her. “Shame to do this,” she says, and snaps her fingers, vanishing the worst of the evidence of what they’ve done. The chewing gum disappears. Michael appears clean, if slightly damp and salty. They both pack up their files and prepare to leave.
“Well,” says Michael, “until duty next calls us to meet.”