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Something had fallen from the clouds.
A pillar of divine light speared from Heaven to Earth, down to the alley behind The Vixen Club. The world flashed white. This instant of blinding illumination boiled the rain puddles away, into vapor, hissing steam around the collapsed body of the angel.
He lay crumpled against the pavement, impossibly pale—so white he seemed to glow, as if the brightness had soaked into his skin. Feathers littered the alley, strewn among the city’s leavings: cigarette butts ground flat by unfamiliar shoes, chewed gum fossilized into the concrete, a needle tucked close to the brickwork of The Vixen Club's more private facade. Alley travelers had marked their names here: above the angel, one tagger had scrawled MAV and crowned it with a careless star. Another, with more artful angularity, the colors of the sunset over tired maroon stone: WATCH OUT XX.
Though the pitiful thing still had wings, they shed feathers even now, failing him. The breeze scattered them from the arched canopy of the angel's wingspan like lazy flurries. Beyond the streetlamps and the vulgar honey-glow of the red light district, there was now the flickering aquamarine of divinity's halo. A band of sea-green light, now glitching like a shattered screen, pixelated tremblings collapsing across its surface in a cacophony of digital color. Some sections of the ring had dulled to nothingness, corroding its holy form as though something had nibbled at its edges.
For a while, the angel did not move. He remained pressed between the powdered softness of his crumbling wings. Reality was patient with him—one could only deny that something had ended for so long. And within a minute, the angel lifted his head to take in all around him: the sights and sounds of the nocturnal city.
Drizzle traced his white down with glistening paths of silver and pinned his lost feathers to the asphalt. It dampened his hair as he slowly, weakly looked left, then right. The halo stuttered to a brighter flare as he stirred, reacting not to grace, but to pain. Its seafoam band jittered, splitting into stacked afterimages before snapping back into a single, imperfect ring. A faint sound accompanied it, almost electrical—a mosquito whine layered with the distant thrum of transformers.
He pushed himself up, his bruised legs sprawled across the concrete as if in peaceful repose, his chest lifting from the ground. Unidentifiable crumbs of debris smudged his knuckles and pale breast with charcoal, dirtying him with the residue of countless passersby.
This alcove was protected at least somewhat from the bustle of the street. People yelled, cars honked—and yet, around this corner, he could not see him. Nor could they be tempted by his illumination, his dissolving blessings. Their sin would not yet touch him. He could hear it through the walls: the pulse of bass-heavy club music, of life, the tick-tick-tick of the beat, of music, footsteps, countless hearts pumping blood.
Somewhere overhead, Heaven had closed a door. And the city received him completely.
Uncertain, the angel lowered his head beneath his wings once more, his hands coming up to protect the back of it as though shielding himself from blows. And he shook. It was all too real, too visceral. This was a body meant for the Empyrean, for the ethereal wisps of clouds and the sun-music, and now he was on Earth in all of this darkness.
It was only the crunch of alley glass underfoot that alerted the angel to another's presence. He lifted his head sharply, the tidal green of his eyes lucid and wide, droplets clinging to his cow-lashes like captured tears. Marble-soft, moon-lit: the man came around the corner and stopped to stare, because this was a beautiful thing, a stunning glow that had lured him down, a hum that had come to him as a whispered dirge from Heaven.
The man looked on him covetously, this broken creature, wings and halo both visibly atrophying. Lilac bruises bloomed over his body from the impact. The pair locked eyes with each other.
Ethereal, angelic bodies were often dwarfed by the mundane, and here, the stranger towered over him. It was difficult for the angel, in the overwhelming reality he'd found himself, to process what he truly looked like. Tall, cruel-featured, broad, filthy. Terribly banal, to one from such heights as the fallen creature. This man could be any man. His brow sulkily furrowed, the angel shifted his aching body over the unforgiving asphalt, to ensure that his wings shielded his form from the lowly stranger's probing gaze.
"You're an angel," the man said, quavering, awestruck.
"Leave me be, I ask you, human," said the fallen angel, his voice a sweet layering of melodies to mortal ears—yet weak, faltering under the weight of his failing divinity.
"You've fallen from Heaven?" asked the man with a note of illicit pleasure in his tone. "Banished, then?"
At first, the angel said nothing. Then: "Leave me in peace."
It was a vain plea. The man ambled closer, not hesitant enough for the angel's liking, down toward the soft glow of this fallen piece of Heaven. Scattered white feathers were flattened and soiled beneath his heavy footsteps.
"Can you move your wings?" he asked, as he'd love to see the body beneath, to suffocate it beneath his carnal touch.
The angel's reflexive tucking of his wings closer to his body sufficed as an inadvertent answer. But he said: "It is of no concern to you. Take your leave. There is nothing for you here."
The words poured over the man like syrup, coaxing, tempting in tone despite their pleas for solitude. Who could truly listen, drawn in by the seduction of such a voice? And by his face: liquid sea glass eyes, the rosy veil of pigment over the petals of his lips, his downy cheeks, all designed with such symmetry as a doll.
"Ah, no, I think there's plenty for me."
The stranger glanced back over his shoulder. From here, none of the street could be seen, though he could hear the chatter of downtown and the hum of passing cars. It would be private enough to satisfy such a man, and in this part of the city, such flings were only ordinary between the back alley dispossessed or wayward club stragglers late at night. The only fear was that someone might try to steal this fallen moonbeam for themselves before he'd had his fill.
The fallen angel flinched as the man approached him, pressing himself against the cold wall. He had held himself together until now; but the nearness of a human unstitched something fragile inside him. Revulsion finally broke the angel’s composure, furrowing his brow. His wings shuddered and drew tight, feathers whispering against one another in a small, furious warning.
The man's mouth twitched, a half-smile tugged off to one side, intrigued by the reaction.
"Easy. I'm not gonna hurt you," he said.
The halo above the angel’s head spasmed again, its aquamarine light dimming, then flaring in uneven pulses. The sound it made sharpened, the whine rising toward a thin, insectile pitch. His breath came faster now, shallow and bright with panic, misting faintly in the cold air. He pressed his shoulder harder into the brick, as if the wall might remember Heaven and open for him.
"You should not be here. You should go. You do not understand what you are doing," the angel said, his voice less melodious and more harsh, as though he could still wield the power of divinity at his back. It was no use, though, for it was still as ambrosial to human ears as his scowling, beautiful visage was to gaze upon. The man unzipped his jacket, still casting wary glances down the alley corridor.
"Don't you want me to warm you up? Don't go anywhere. You can't, right? You're stuck with me." The man shuffled closer, enough that his shoes brushed against the edge of the angel's wing. Something snapped in his demeanor, and he sat up slightly, wincing with the effort.
"Do not touch me, filthy dog," the fallen angel snarled, but at once the man was on him, seizing him by the back of the throat and pinning his curled body over his knees.
"Mm. Dog? That's not so nice."
Though one wing was pinned to the wall, the other outstretched in a flare of luminous white, shedding clumps of feathers. It beat against the man's leg uselessly, his hands weakly clutching at the ground, attempting to drag himself forward as the stranger reached down to hold him in place. But he hadn't even been able to bring himself to stand—to fight back and crawl away was beyond his grasp. To his dismay, it hardly seemed like he was struggling at all.
"That is the point, wretch—do not put your hands on me, I remain a servant of God, I—"
"Hardly any fight left in you, huh, baby?" the stranger murmured, nearly startled at the softness beneath his hands, the vulnerable pliancy of the body before him.
The angel's struggles amounted to little more than a display of his beauty, and of the harm that he'd been dealt by circumstance: the willowy lengths of his extended, fighting arms, which now reached back to claw pointlessly at the stranger with their nail-less hands, were scattered with dusky rose bruising. It looked as though someone had blotted watercolor on a napkin, a palette for an evening sky. The more feathers fell from his wings, the more delicate flesh was revealed beneath, papery and private. Above him, the human remained crouched, one knee grinding into the concrete at the angel's side.
"You're scared."
The angel’s halo spasmed, a brief corona of sea-green static crawling its circumference before dimming again, as if ashamed of the admission. His fingers curled—one beneath his lifted chin, nails catching grit and the edge of a concrete fissure. The other had snagged the dampened edge of the man's jeans, wadding up the denim at the ankle as though holding onto his clothing might still his approach.
"You've got nothing to be afraid of. Just relax and show me your body. Your wings aren't broken, are they? You look all beaten up…" He reached forward to catch the edge of the angel's remiges, lifting the wing to reveal the gossamer form beneath.
Most of his body had lain curled beneath the wing, and curled tighter now that it was lifted. Instinct pulled him inward on himself, to become smaller. The chill struck immediately, this skin that had never known true weather or true touch. His breath hitched, and it hurt, like the ache that overwhelmed his body since his fall, and the tremulous pressure of his heart.
The angel's delicately made body was marred in paleness by blood pooling beneath the skin, overlaid by the sparse layer of downy filaments that roaned the bruising and trembled with his breaths. Long-limbed and spare, yet the angles of him were softened, lacking the anatomical jut of human thinness.
The man tasted his own lips with sordid hunger, then dragged a hand down the sloping contour of the angel's ribs, down to the soft dip of his waist. The dying halo illuminated them both in sickly, convulsing jade.
"Stop," said the angel, and there was more urgency in it now, less command. "You humans wish to tarnish all that is pure, do you not? To taint and destroy it? This—you do not deserve—"
"If you were pure, you wouldn't be here, huh? There was some good reason to kick you out, I'm sure. I can see it on your face. Was it lust?" said the man, his weight shifting as he unfastened his belt. As he did so, though, he could not help but stare at the magnificent thing laid bare before him.
"No, you disgusting animal," the angel snarled, shifting his weakened body away from the looming predator as a rabbit flinches from the hawk's beak.
"Yeah? Which animal?" The man seized a tight fistful of snowy hair, making him hiss and claw fruitlessly up at the offending hand. His pull was forceful enough to lift the angel's head, pulling his upper chest away from the concrete. "You said a dog, before? Then you'll be my breeding bitch. How's that?" Then, he was released, slackening with a gasp back down. Still, he would compose himself: the angel spat to display his ire.
And he did not look.
He did not look as the stranger reached into his pants with one hand, pulling out his hard length, the other palm holding the angel's wing apart from his body in forced display. It disappointed the man how the angel did not turn to observe his own display, his eyes trained with great effort ahead to some irrelevant spot in the alley, his peripheral vision nevertheless catching the quick, furtive strokes as his attacker pleasured himself at the sight of his incapacitated prey. And catching, in great specificity, the angle at which the stranger slipped his thumb over his tip, the way he made a hot pant that sounded almost like a laugh. The angel, of course, did not respond in a way so bodily and shameful. There was no sign of arousal, no sign of anything at all other than purity in weakness. He remained still, focusing on the city sounds, the filth around him, as though it might ever be suitably distracting from the filth this cur wanted to put in him.
"Alright, roll over," the man snarled with a noxious smirk, bending to dig his fingers beneath the plush of the angel's arm and flip him onto his back.
Heaven's fallen servant released a bell-clear yelp of pain, rasping into a fading groan of discomfort. The cruel hand melted into a petting palm, slithering hotly over the angel's bare chest, savoring the sweet pleasure of touching moonglow, silken threads of down as fibers of entwined light beneath his fingers. How the fallen wisp missed the warmth of the eternal sun, and how curdled and filthy Creation seemed when filtered through the roving hands of this stranger. The indulgence of the pets could've made him sigh, almost, if he were weaker, if he were subject to earthly desires and the temptation of the physical. He was not. He could not be. Instead, his wings fluttered in feeble protest, tucking themselves uncomfortably between the angel's weight and the unforgiving ground below.
His head tilted back, though not in pleasure—certainly not. Only because it pained him to face evil so brashly forward, as a holy agent of God, and so in his piety he could only bear to endure the stranger while pointed away from him. He closed his eyes as the stranger groped at his chest, thumbs rolling insidious, coaxing circles into the satiny mounds of his areolae with just a fraction too much pressure.
The presence of the human's erection was impossible for the angel to ignore, even in his desperation to feign ignorance. He could feel its presence in the air between them, heavy with the heat of desire and the promise of something to come, something an unsoiled mind could not yet reach.
"Looks like you're enjoying it," the lecher said, swiping his tongue over his lips again—the angel had his eyes shut, but could tell from the subtle sound. They flared open, desperate to rectify the inaccuracy of the man's impression.
"You could only wish this, dog."
"I don't wish, either way. You're perfect as you are. What makes you think I don't like you squirming around, pretending not to like it? Not to want it? Concentrating real hard to try and stay soft?"
One of his hands strayed from the chest, down toward the apex of the angel's legs, and he caught the man by the wrist. He let him, this time, smiling curiously at this lack of threat. The angel drew a quivering inhale.
"… I am telling you, not asking you. To stop. On God's authority, I—"
"You don't have that anymore, as far as I know."
The angel gathered his saliva and spat again, and this time it landed on the arm of the human's jacket. And there was a shift. The man drew back, no longer bracing his muscles as a cage around the angel's supine body. Then he knelt at either side of his head, the weight of his slender arms easily wrestled into a pin beneath the bulk of his legs. This left his hands free to seize the angel's locks once more and pull his trapped head up between his legs, facing the man's looming shaft.
The angel's expression was radiant with disgust, his halo stuttering as the digital erosion stole another segment. He bent his knees, squeezed his calves to his thighs, flexed his fingers as the stranger's claiming weight crushed his arms. Testing the waters—and each moment told him that struggling would gain him nothing. His countenance shifted to complete blankness, and he turned his head to the side. The stranger quickly jostled his hair, moving his head back into position. His erection tapped his cheek, then rocked indulgently against the plushness there, leaving a thin trail of clear fluid that immediately cooled in the outdoor air. Revulsion seized the angel, and only revulsion, surely, but he could not allow this human the satisfaction of a reaction. He stared ahead with near-complete neutrality, unable to smooth the distressed furrow of his brow.
"Go on and suck it. Open up," he said, and before he could be spat at again, or cursed on God's behalf, he jammed his thumb between the angel's parted lips and pressed down on his bottom teeth to force his mouth accommodatingly open.
The angel was driven to be cruel.
He thought of what might happen if he bit him bloody, felt the potential future as that thumb wedged between his teeth. But—no; he would wait until he had the most sensitive part in his grasp, then inflict his wrath, as much of an indignity as it was. And he would not make it easy to get that far.
He tensed his jaw, forcing the man to work it open wide, and in response he settled his weight slightly—bearing down on the angel's forearms, his chest, making every breath a struggle for ribs that already bore bruises from Heaven. With each, there was the scent of this stranger, a mere human, the hot weight of his cock against his cheek, sweat transferring from one to the other as the angel struggled to maintain his composure. And then there was the taste, filling his mouth with the brackish taste of sweat and precum. A glaze overtook the angel's eyes; his focus on the looming figure blurred, splitting into two wobbling phantasms. He wouldn't think about it. Couldn't think.
Supporting the angel's limp head, the man eased his cock between those divine lips, feeling the wet hot melt of his white tongue against his shaft. One hand was wound into the milky hair, dampened by rain, spilling between his fingers as he lifted him up at the right angle. The other cupped his cheek, thumbing his earlobe.
"Fuck, that's it, baby."
The angel's teeth trembled around his cock as it slid to the back of his throat.
"Mmh. Better not bite me, I'll pound that cunt and have you crying."
He thought again of biting. How could he not? Potential tensed in his jaw. There was an alien pressure at the back of his throat that he swallowed down, making nausea spike and anxiety prickle through his shoulders. Maybe not yet—he won't do it yet, he thought. What he waited for eluded him still. Perfect tears welled in his eyes as the stranger guided the angel's head down, thrusting his hips forward to sink into his throat. A violating sensation made his stomach turn, and he gagged, turning his head weakly away from the man's cock only to have it forced deep past his epiglottis once more. The sound was mortifying, and the angel clenched his fists, tingling beneath the man's weight. He seemed not to notice either the pressure or the angel's embarrassment, too lost in his own pleasure.
"You take it so good…"
Seafoam eyes lazily drifted back into focus enough to observe the human's expression.
The man was nodding dumbly, his face absorbed in carnal bliss. He'd pull back, rutting in insistent, rabbitish humps against his soft palate. Then he'd sink back into the sweet pressure of the tight throat below him, savoring the feeling of his contracting and gagging and his soft, wet sounds of protest.
Sometimes, he'd let his hands do the work, bouncing the angel's head in his lap so that his nose pressed into his pubic mound with each thrust, burying his face in the front of his pants and the unruly thatch of hair there. Then, he'd cradle the back of his head in both hands, mounting his face like he really was a mutt, fucking in deep pumps that made the angel's pinned fists clench with the effort of restraining his nausea. He could hardly focus on the static tingle of his numb forearms with the unrelenting facefuck he was being forced to endure, sending drool and precum and thick fluid from his throat roping down his chin, lower. Every push forward forced a pornographic sound from the angel's throat, a guttural gllk, his throat fighting uselessly against the intrusion.
"Yeah," the man gasped, fucking the angel's face as though he were a girl from one of the bars, a whore picked up from the alley corners. At first, he'd held the same weight in his brow, winced with each twinge of his gag reflex. Now, he looked nearly insensate, his halo stuttering like a shattered television screen and buzzing like a neon sign all the while.
Being pinned here, near-breathless, put the captured thing into a daze. Around him, there was the overstimulation of reality—and above him, this stranger was everywhere, inside, controlling his breath, striving to fill every sense with nothing but him. The angel drooled messily around his cock, eyes practically rolling as the human bobbed his head with merciless tugs at his gathered gossamer hair. Occasionally, his gaze would sputter to life under the teary burden of a wince, his body tensing as the man rammed into his throat at the wrong angle, or for too long, and there would come yet another humiliating sound—but there was nothing he could do but take it, and this fact stilled him into dazed obeyance.
Even now, he could interrupt the tide with a quick snap of enamel. But he did not. To dissociate into quiet victimhood was easier than recognizing what was truly going on: that the scent of this human's musk and the weight and sound and heat of him above him were intoxicating, in their own wretched ways, hyper-real in their grotesque cacophony. There was the soft rasp of feathers as his wings trembled, and beyond it all, a coil of insistent heat that tautened his abdomen and drove toward his loins with illicit allure. He would use his energy to stave it off. He was so focused on this that he did not initially notice the man deciding to take up his own explorations.
One hand remained tangled in the hair at the back of the angel's head, lazily bouncing his face at the root of his cock. His pace slowed, then stopped, relaxing enough to allow him to breathe. The other reached up to the trembling, glitchy pulse of the halo.
"Can you feel this?" he asked just before making contact.
The plush of his palm against his halo was like the satin drip of warm melted chocolate. It soothed his frigid edges and made him hunger for more touch, all-encompassing, like basking under the adoration of Heaven's eye. Like frost on a leaf melting with the rise of the sun.
With his mouth stuffed and his head between a pair of broad thighs, there was little he could do to reply. Nor was there much in his mind to grasp onto. He gazed blankly up at the stranger, eyes blurred with tears. The only thing he could manage, trapped as he was at the whims of this filthy stranger, was groan with hazy, distant pleasure.
The human laughed, disbelieving, and the angel's eyes darted back into hesitant focus. What had he done? Had he made a sound? It was hard to bring any displeasure to his expression with someone touching his halo in such a way.
"Feels good, then?" the man said. He dropped the fallen angel's head to the asphalt, his cock pulling from the tender heat of his mouth with a wet pop. His face flushed, curls of white hair sticking to his cheeks beneath the weight of sweat and rainwater.
The angel fidgeted and arched weakly through the caress, unable to intervene as he felt both hands pressing across the trembling, glitching surface in opposite directions, thumbs braced along its lower edge. Beneath the soporific stroke of those hands, the rest of the world seemed much colder. However, the erogenous sensation's familiarity was dampened by the static chatter of its gradual destruction: the halo was still eating away at itself, fizzing beneath the stranger's touch.
"Feels like I could break it," the man said, but the angel hardly heard him.
Sensation bloomed inward, warming behind his eyes like rays of sunlight. Every so often, the sun glittered with glitchy static or shifted just a few pixels to the right. The angel could ignore that, because remaining swept up in the bliss of touch was more rewarding than acknowledging the fault. Meanwhile, the man's hands swiped around the chittering loop as though looking for a seam.
That simple movement stretched on in the angel's mind, dragged out into a prolonged shiver of bliss. His thoughts, where they existed, melted thick as syrup. What was once pious vigilance deepened to a purring hum, low, intimate, grounding, pleasure without demand. He did not brace or watch, only looked up through the man. He looked toward the dark sky that had rejected him, overcast with the artificial haze of civilization's own radiance. The world narrowed to sensation: the slow circle, the gentle pressure, the hum easing into contentment. His halo felt pliant as heated glass.
Something changed. It was subtle, almost mistaken for enthusiasm—a firmer grip, a bend where bending should not be. A deeper weight. Something was being tested. He could feel every contour of the stranger's fingerprints and the feverish, sticky heat of his sweat. An unignorable pressure began not in the angel's skull, but some more fundamental locus of his being that could not be grasped by language. Beneath the man, the pinned angel chewed his bottom lip hard enough to bleed, gazing weakly through him at the sky still.
Then, the first crack.
The angel's mouth dropped open in a white-hot cry of agony.
A spire of radiant pain and scintillating pleasure impaled his mind, cleft a rift through it. Mind-rending suffering came braided with ecstasy, and the angel tipped his head back with the force of his wail, his body squirming with renewed vigor. Without releasing his grip on the halo, the man shifted off of his prey's chest, finally freeing him from the pin. This brief respite was enough for his grasp of language to return, if fleetingly.
"St-stop… ngh…"
Speech dissolved as the man wrenched the halo into a deeper bend, mangling its persistent electrical hum into a shriek.
It was not sound, not exactly, but a pressure-wave that rippled through the angel’s senses, shattering the careful membranes partitioning thought, memory, and flesh. Light bled everywhere at once: behind his eyes, down his spine, into places he had never named, into the shameful stiffness between his legs. The static surged, no longer a background fizz but a roar, pixels tearing free and skittering into nothing.
"You're breaking it," the angel gasped, his fumbling hands reaching up to intervene, ultimately thwarted by his weakness and by the spasmodic jerks of his muscles.
"Yeah?" the man cooed. His cock still bobbed stiff and heavy between his legs, slick with saliva.
He pressed down harder, twisted, seeking not to bend but to break. The sobbing, gasping angel felt the pressure build to its breaking point, then fissure with a radiance even greater than the initial crack. Jade pixels washed the alleyway in a last flourish of digital shimmer as the angel writhed, gasping with the exertion of a release the human could not begin to understand. Where there had been that last tether to heaven, dull shards of angel-glass were no more than pieces of dead screens in the human's hands, which crumbled in his grip to glittering dust. The angel tossed his head to one side, gasping, than the other, his eyes brimming with tears. Without the halo's light, the alleyway was now dark.
"Now I can hardly see you," he lamented playfully.
Yet, to the incapacitated creature below him, the world was overwhelming with sensory input. Even more, now, without Heaven's cage to lock him in, without its treatises on right and wrong humming through his brain with every movement, every breath. His luminous gaze flicked over the overcast sky, the backs of buildings, the wires crossing overhead, as though searching for something that he would never find. Great gasps continued to rock his feeble body. He'd known that his eroding halo would leave him, that he would have to find his place in the world without it. The shock of having it torn from him would make it a difficult recovery.
The man splayed his hand over the angel's heaving chest, listening to his guttural, animal sounds of anguish and orgasmic pleasure alike—though his cock was still swollen, the human observed with a greedy eye, having denied him any physical satisfaction other than that of subjugation.
"Wasn't enough for you? You want to cum?"
"Ghh… please," the angel replied, his wings quivering. The man fished furtively for something in his clothes; it was of no concern to his prey, who lay drooling, sprawled across the alley asphalt. Without the cage of his halo the world around felt so great, so expansive—it was only in the pursuit of more sensation that he could stave off the dread that came with this freedom. His thighs rubbed together, his twitching, neglected shaft dripping gossamer pre-release low on his stomach.
A violating, deep pain tore into his throat.
A blade—he hadn't seen it, hadn't imagined it, and without his bind to divinity, he was helpless to stop it. His yelp curdled into obscene gurgles as the stranger drew the knife across, releasing great gouts of blood that shocked with color against the fallen angel's empty palette.
Spasms of vain, panicked struggle took over, hands clutching, feeling fruitlessly at the seam of the grievous wound and slicking his fingertips with red.
He could feel it, this fragile life force draining from him, leaving him cold and empty. The heat of life, leaving without the divine authority of his halo to return it to him. He had never died—never fought for Heaven, only lost his hands at the life of this repulsive human, contaminated by sin. Was this all there would ever be?
The stranger took the angel's cock in his hand, still beading with moisture as the tip, and pumped it in quick strokes as he struggled fruitlessly against the rapid loss of blood. A puddle had formed beneath him, staining his star-spun hair, his moonbeam feathers, this celestial thing who should be far away from here, worshipping and serving He who had cast him out. Instead, he lay in this alley, making a low, bloodied groan as a mere human worked him to orgasm. His eyes had gone half-lidded, blood seeping from his lips.
But, as that indulgent hand drew up one last time and squeezed near the swollen, drooling tip of his erection, the angel's hips seized, tensing along with the fine muscles of his abdomen. The product of his climax dampened his down, spattering his stomach with the pearly mess of his small release—his first and only. A weak, bloody-mouthed cry came along with these violent tremors, fading in their strength as the angel's eyes rolled back beneath their doe-lashed lids, and—finally—he went still. His hands remained loosely open at the base of his throat, near his grievous wound, unable to mend it despite his futile efforts.
The man watched all of this in near-silence, breathing hard as he pumped his own shaft to the death throes of the prey. Once he was certain that he was dead, he nudged his perfect face with a hand, tipping it to the side. Exploratory. He leaned down and kissed the dead angel on the forehead, then lined up his cock with his mouth, pushing it back in among the blood and spit. It was only a cursory few ruts against the celestial servant's still-warm tongue before release found him, and he buried himself into that mauled throat, shaken by an orgasm that rattled him with blissful intensity. The angel no longer fought, choked, gagged, only lay as a sprawled receptacle for the fleeting pleasures of humans. And his body remained sprawled in the alley as the man left—doomed to indignity, an incorruptible corpse left for anyone to find.