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Every Sunday, he arrives at 11. It is an optimal hour, where the night has just begun in the land of festivals and dreams. Partygoers stream along the bright streets of the Golden Hour, singing and dancing without a care in the world as they get lost in the endless pleasures that seem to beckon at them around every corner. Customers and dreamchasers flood into your shop, each louder than the last and all too drunk to notice a winged figure amongst their midst.
As they say, the best disguise is one that blends in.
Sometimes he sends envoys.
But today, Sunday himself makes an appearance.
You sit up a little straighter when the door to your shop swings open. The soft jingle of bells is almost drowned by the soft whispers of giggles and whispered flirting. You’d miss it if you hadn’t been paying attention. It is easy to distinguish him from the envoys he sent. Even though they all wear the same cloaked hood and white attire, something about Sunday makes you hyper aware of his presence even amongst the crowd, like a slash of white paint carelessly spilled across a dark sea.
Against yourself, you tuck your hair around your ear, swiping your tongue across your lips when his tall frame drifts through the crowd like smoke slipping through fingers. No one heeds him any attention, all too busy indulging in the wondrous pleasures that your shop is known for.
You watch as Sunday makes his way into one of the many unmarked rooms that line your shop’s hallway, closing the door behind him without a sound.
You take it as your cue to stand up, giving one of your girls a nod as you weave through the room, ignoring multiple catcalls from the half-naked men around you. Yet, their calls are quickly distracted when your girls rush to attend them, cooing and coddling them like babies to soothe their bruised ego.
Soon, they will forget how you snubbed them. After all, your shop wasn’t known as the best Penacony has to offer for no reason.
Within a few steps, your hands reach for the brass doorknob and twist it open.
A familiar tune hums amidst the silent air. It takes you a few moments to register the virtuoso piece.
“Concerto alla rustica,” you mused, closing the door behind you. Effectively the bustle and noise from outside is muffled to whispers. You latch the lock shut. “You have good taste, Mr Sunday.”
“Sunday will do,” the man in question replies smoothly. His back is faced to you as his gloved hand rests delicately atop your golden record player, watching the record turn slowly as Vivaldi’s strings continue to play. You look around, noting that his cloak has been folded neatly over the bed. “Are we not long past the phase of pleasant formalities?”
Something seizes in your heart when he turns around. You often think that the title ‘the most handsome man in Penacony’ is unbefitting of the man before you. For Sunday is ethereal . Unlike his sister, who shines and basks under the golden light of fame like a glistening chandelier in the middle of a ballroom, your attention is drawn toward the way the light refracts into a million muted pieces when the sun hits the chandelier.
Past the opulence and grandeur of the Family, you see Sunday.
Despite his smile, it doesn’t quite reach his lovely, gold eyes. You often wondered how brilliantly they would gleam under the sun.
You make your way across the room. It is sparingly decorated. A sizable bed sits against the side of the wall, accompanied by a simple oak desk and two chairs. The record player plays quietly in the corner.
“Please sit, Mr Sunday,” you reply politely, ignoring his request. As usual, you take a seat to the one that faces the door. The other belongs to Sunday.
His smile doesn’t waver. But he complies, taking a seat across you so his back faces the door.
As usual, Sunday is dressed impeccably neat. Not a single hair or sleeve had come undone even as he slinked his way through the crowd of jostling elbows and limbs.
“Would you like some water?”
“No thank you,” Sunday says, crossing one leg over the other.
You pour one for yourself, fingers closing around the cool glass as you take a small sip. “There is nothing of note from this week, Mr Sunday,” you begin primly, settling into your business-like demeanour. After all, these weekly meetings were strictly for business only. More accurately, you traded information in return for security and prosperity.
You’d met Sunday 2 years ago. He came to you in the form of a young envoy, when your business had just barely begun.
“Tell me what you learn,” he’d told you. “And I will make sure your… pleasure house becomes Penacony’s most well-known.”
“And what if I refuse?”
The envoy was barely fazed by your retort. More accurately, it was as if he didn’t even react. There’s a dazed look amidst his dull and empty gaze. It didn’t take you long to realise the workings of the power of Harmony befuddling an individual. “Surely,” he replies monotonously, “You don’t want the Oak Family to come shutting down your business when you've just begun?”
“Pleasure houses are not illegal on Penacony,” you replied defensively.
He levels you with a blank stare, one that seems to transcend bodies and makes you wonder just who exactly you are talking to. “And so is my proposal,” he says evenly.
You’d accepted then. To share the drunken rambles of powerful men who visited your shop in return for Sunday’s invisible influence that keeps your shop full and makes security turn a blind eye.
It is an uneasy balance. One that you keep fearing will tumble anytime.
2 years later, your weekly meetings continue to run. But recently you’ve noticed them grow shorter as Sunday’s visits grow increasingly sparse. It sends alarm bells ringing in your head because deep down, you know that he’s plotting something behind his muted smiles and flowery words. Something that you don’t think you really want to find out. It’s easier this way, to pretend that your information serves nothing more but for a way for him to keep an eye out for Penacony.
You turn a blind eye to how some of your most loyal customers disappear from Penacony after you mention them. How Sunday’s influence seems to grow endlessly as more and more customers flock to your shop.
Yet, it is easy to forget when you talk to Sunday. Despite your differences in standings, he is easy to talk to and the both of you share a common interest for classical music. Come to think of it, you couldn’t quite recall when you’d let slip about it.
Nevertheless, Sunday has brought you countless records over his visits, from romantic to medieval, you now own several pieces from every era thanks to his little luxuries.
Though nothing could beat your love for the baroque era. Sunday seemed to have picked it up too, courtesy to Vivaldi’s piece that still plays in the background.
It puts you at ease, almost drowsy when you finish telling him the relevant details your girls have gathered. That’s odd , you think slowly. Words feel annoyingly heavy in your mouth, and you pray that Sunday doesn’t notice how sluggish you feel.
You take another sip of the cold water, hoping it makes you a little more refreshed from this heaviness.
Across the table, Sunday doesn’t seem to notice. Other than the occasional twitch of his feathered wings, the pleasant expression on his beautiful face doesn’t change.
“Thank you for today, as usual,” he begins, nodding slightly.
You return the nod. “Is there anything you want me to focus on next week?” you ask.
“No need.” Sunday rises smoothly to his feet. “This will be our last.”
“What?” Your disbelief escapes you before you can stop it. “Apologies,” you correct yourself. “Have I misheard you?”
Amusement dances across his face like a flicker of sunlight. “Thanks to your information over the years, my plan is almost at its fruition. I sincerely apologize for my absence recently, I have been smoothing out the last kinks to my final plan.”
An uneasy feeling crawls up your spine with invisible fingers when he does not elaborate further. “What plan?” You’re dancing on dangerous territory now. Skirting over the edge of an invisible line you swore you’d never cross 2 years ago.
He gives you a knowing look. The golden halo behind him casts pale shadows that dance across his face, making his features appear harsher than usual. More godlike than angelic. Do you actually want to know? He seems to ask you.
“I’ve worked tirelessly over the years for this,” Sunday begins, carefully stepping around the table as he does. Even the way he walks is quiet, meticulous, “Everything I’ve done was to hoist Penacony to new heights.” Sugary-sweet syrup drips off his every word. You feel drowsier than before. “It will all make sense soon when Order settles over this land.”
Perhaps it's the drowsiness. Perhaps it’s your muted shock. Perhaps it’s both. You don’t register the fact that Sunday is before you until his palm rests against your cheek.
When did he take off his glove?
You step back a few moments too late, blinking in bewilderment. Something feels wrong .
“You wound me,” Sunday says with a playful lilt in his rich voice. “I know of your rich past before you came to Penacony.”
It feels as if someone had splashed cold water over you. “I don’t think this is appropriate, Mr Sunday.”
“What is?” he questions relentlessly, nipping at your heels like a hunting dog after it’s prey. “There is no need to be ashamed of your past. We all do things we need to do to survive.”
Your tone comes out harsher than intended. “I’m not ashamed of it. But the past is the past for a reason. I see no reason for you to bring it up now unless you intend to coerce me into doing something,” you bite out coldly, “I’m surprised I am still undeserving of your trust even after 2 years.”
Sunday remains silent, observing you with the same light gaze that makes your heartbeat quicken. The same way you found his gaze so utterly breathtaking, the same beauty that shimmered underneath his molten orbs now made you uneasy as you shifted slightly in your seat.
Unable to stand his silence anymore, you blurt out, “What is it that you wish?”
For the first time in 2 years, you witness a crack in his pleasant mask. Like looking at a painted masterpiece under a different light and noticing it's little flaws peeking through the strokes of the paint.
“Spend the night with me.” A statement, not a suggestion.
You once heard this phrase often. Back when you were a nobody with a different name at a different world, just another pretty face at a whorehouse. The men you pleased were never cruel to you, they respected your boundaries, paid you well, and knew when to leave you well alone.
But none of them gazed upon you the same way Sunday did with his lovely, shining eyes. With such intensity that one would almost confuse for love-
Perhaps if you looked closer, you’d understand that love and obsession were often confused with one another.
Two sides of the same coin he pays you with.
“Do not jest with me, Mr Sunday.” You shake your head. “This is unlike you.”
He seems to regain his composure, the light fades. “I do not jest.”
“If you insist, I can arrange for one of my girls to-”
“I do not want them,” he interrupts you with such hostility that it catches you by surprise. “I want you . You are the first piece of my plan. It needs to be you.”
“T-This is unprofessional.” You want him. Deep down, there’s no denying that Sunday is an attractive man. One who’s currently asking to sleep with you. A concept that you’re still struggling to wrap your head around.
“Define unprofessional,” he all but laughs. Even his laugh is melodious, like the gentle whispers of windchimes amidst a warm breeze. It lays out a deceiving pretense. One that lulls your sluggish mind into a faux sense of security.
Unknowingly, Sunday has closed the distance between you. So close that you could touch him if you lifted a mere finger. The air between the both of you simmers with an uncomfortable warmth.
“Will it be unprofessional if I reward you handsomely?” He whispers like the two of you are sharing a precious secret in your own little bubble. Cautiously, gently, he hooks a slender finger with yours, linking the both of you together. Crossing the line , you think.
The warmth makes you jolt, but you don’t yank your hand from his. Seeing that you don’t shy away, he laces the rest of your fingers with his, finger by finger, palm against palm. The action alone is made even more intimate by the fact that it is Sunday standing before you, a man whom you’d only known to be wreathed in swathes of gold and royalty. A man whose name illuminated the entirety of Penacony whilst you lived in the shadows behind his feet.
“You know I don’t do that work anymore,” you reply unconvincingly, heart pattering unevenly in your chest.
Despite your nervousness, the words come slowly to you as you struggled to speak around your unusually heavy tongue.
Something, something is definitely wrong in the air, because when the last thing you register is the dull glint of his halo as it catches the dim light along its sharp edge before you feel Sunday’s lips against yours.
He’s so warm . So soft and comforting that you find your protests melting away when his long fingers wind themselves into your hair. Sunday is careful, almost hesitant in the way he parts your mouth under his.
You whimper, like a kitten mewing for attention. The same attention that Sunday gladly showers you with when he leans forward to press your back against the wall as Vivaldi’s piece transcends toward a crescendo that makes your head spin.
Seemingly getting bolder, he deepens the kiss until the only thing in your senses is the soft tough of his lips and tongue against yours. Dimly, you hear a low groan, one that sounds out of character from a man so usually composed as Sunday. The warmth of his clean breath was a dizzying invitation, his taste on your tongue so bittersweet that you could get drunk on it forever.
All caution thrown to the wind, you laced your fingers into his tunic, closing the distance between the both of you until your hearts beat as one as the original gentleness of the kiss is replaced with a heightened intensity that made your toes curl.
”Mr Sunday,” you breathed when he reluctantly pulls away, the need for oxygen is a sore ache that throbs in both your lungs. You could hear your own breathing, as shallow as low tide. “Was that your first kiss?” The question slips from your tongue before you can stop yourself. And, oh . It was probably a bad idea to look into his eyes.
He’s looking at you like he wants to devour you. Sunday’s usually golden pupils the colour of high summer are flared open, reduced to nothing more but burnt gold rings that rims his heavy gaze. Sheer hunger has eaten away at his sophistication, leaving nothing but a beautiful, beautiful man you could barely recognize. The weight of his gaze causes something hot to ripple through your abdomen, it flares warmly in the depths of your stomach and makes you gulp.
There is a hint of unsteadiness in his voice when he replies, “Yes.”
“S-So you’re a…” You let your sentence trail off into the heated air, looking at him helplessly.
He remains quiet, but you are quick to notice the pink flush that creeps up the tip of his ears as he averts his gaze, wings twitching at the sides of his face, as if trying to cover his face. The stark contrast between his lust and sudden embarrassment almost makes you giggle. You blink up at thim, lashes fluttering over your cheekbones. “Well, I almost couldn’t tell,” you say lamely in an attempt to diffuse his shyness.
The hot press of his body on yours is dizzying, more fierce and delicious than anything Penacony could ever offer in its wildest dreams, the feverish flush of desire rushes through your brain.
Still looking like the picture perfect painting of innocence, you slowly tiptoed to kiss him again. Maybe you’re getting swept away. Maybe it’s the kiss, or maybe it’s the same hazy spell that muddles your brain, making you cross the invisible line with open arms.
“I could help you with that. If you want.”
Burning fever glistened in his eyes and Sunday smiles down at you like a divine being. “...I would very much love that,” he tells you.
—
“Are you comfortable?” You ask, your voice slightly lower than it usually is when you talk to him. Sunday has never heard this tone from you before. He wonders if this is how you used to talk to your old customers. Low and sensual. No, everything you do is sensual, Maybe-
“Yes,” he answers before his thoughts derail his already frayed mind. Before he can add anything further, he feels your light breath on his cock from where you are kneeling before him.
The fact that you’re still fully clothed, and Sunday still has his shirt on… It’s oddly intimate.
All of a sudden, Sunday, who prided himself on his silver tongue and flowery words, feels his throat dry up.
You really shouldn’t look up at him like that. It’s a dangerous thing, the heavy want that snakes through him and twists into a tight, angry coiling serpent. He hates how the feeling is foreign to him. Hates how all sense of Order slips through his fingers when you give him that wide-eyed look from his feet as he sits on the bed.
And he hates how hard he becomes the moment you look him in the eye.
But you’re here to solve that, aren’t you? You even suggested it yourself, albeit with a little nudge of Harmony…
You seem to take his silence as indication to continue because Sunday jolts in surprise when your hand closes around his base as your pretty little tongue slides slowly up the underside of his cock, tracing around each vein as you go. Your touch sends lightning up his core. When you reach the tip, he almost comes right there when the both of you lock eyes and you kiss the tip of his cock.
Sunday shivers, fingers fisting amongst the bedsheets so tightly that they shine bone white.
You lick your lips, tasting the taste of his precum before bowing closer and Sunday can’t help the way his head arches backward, wings frantically twitching in ecstasy when your mouth ducks down as you take his length into your warm throat. You can’t quite fit the whole of his length in your throat, but Sunday almost whines when you take him an inch deeper, feeling your soft walls sucking him in.
This is how people drown , he thinks almost in a daze. This was the very sin that he had been warned to stay away from ever since he was a child. The same sin that he has heard whispered to him in hushed, shameful confessions, only for the sinners and dreamchasers to repeat and indulge in the very same sins every week. Perhaps now, he understands why they commit the same mistakes if each mistake tasted like you.
He groans under his breath, his exhale ruffling the top of your head when you bob your head upward, sliding up his length at a torturously slow pace so he vividly feels your tongue glide over every throbbing vein that lines his shaft. You give his tip another small lick before sucking your cheeks in and ducking down again, lapping up the length of his heated cock.
Sunday can’t help himself this time. His fingers leave the sheets to twist into your hair, pulling back the strands of your hair almost tenderly until his broad grip closes around the back of your head, forcing your pace to match his hand instead. It’s light at first, the way he’s just guiding you, but it doesn’t take long before Sunday’s hand turns heavier and he’s holding you down now. You whimper at that, a sound that sends pleasurable vibrations down his cock, prompting his grip to tighten even further.
It’s probably borderline painful now, with his grip tangled in your hair and his cock repeatedly hitting the back of your throat. Yet, you don’t struggle. Instead, you give him that same wet look that makes Sunday want to utterly devastate you.
No. It makes him want to tear you to little pieces and rebuild them around him.
And he intends to do exactly just that.
“Good girl,” he hums softly, guiding your head up and down his length. There’s something darker in his tone, the ugly side of his obsession rearing its twisted head when you make a gagging noise around his cock. Sunday decides then that he quite likes seeing you at his mercy. He’d savoured it once when he forced you to comply with his proposal. This… This is different, but he eats up that helpless look across your face like a starved man all the same. “Y-You’re used to this, right?” Sunday continues breathlessly, his usually melodic voice almost breaking when your throat closes around his cock and causes him to become undone.
You probably are. Sunday knows of your illustrious history. Knows how you used to be one of the most sought after courtesans. It was part of the reason why he picked you in the first place. Yet, it makes him green with envy, makes him force your mouth down to the hilt as your tongue flutters around his twitching shaft.
He’s close. A part of him is almost embarrassed at how fast he’s coming, but how can he not when it’s with you? This a scene straight out of his deepest dreams except this time, you’re real - not another figment of a dream Penacony’s famed Golden Hour is known for.
You really shouldn’t have said yes. Really shouldn’t have indulged Sunday in his deepest desires. This is almost your fault as is it his , he thinks in increasing delirium.
Sunday’s fingers tighten hungrily and he ignores the gagging noises you cough out in favour of sliding your throat up and down his cock again as his hips jerk forward.
“I-I’m close. Just a little longer,” he tells you amidst heavy pants, a mere courtesy for the way he becomes totally overcome with the feeling of your mouth around his cock. The pace of his hand guiding your head gets increasingly sloppier as you whine around his cock, saliva gathering around the sides of your mouth.
Everything seems to go eerily blank for a brief moment when Sunday comes with a violent shudder, mouth agape in a silent gasp and halo glowing. His orgasm is gratifying, nothing like when he shamefully rubs one out under the cover of darkness after your previous meetings. His own ministrations only left him feeling dirty, like he was stained by his own sinfulness.
But you.
Coming in your mouth is almost cruel. It leaves a heavenly yearning within him that has him gasping for every greedy breath when he descends from his impossible high.
“Swallow it,” he tells you while you pull yourself off him, almost falling to the floor in the process until he catches your arm. You cough and choke, a tear streaming down your cheek.
Unsatisfied, he traps your chin in his palm, guiding you to turn toward him as you try to get your coughing under control. “Show me,” Sunday demands, tapping your cheek.
Trembling, you open your mouth, even sticking your tongue out, and he smiles almost adoringly, as a drowned person does at the ocean. “Good girl.” Praise is something Sunday has noticed you like. Though you try hard to hide it, he notices the way your cheeks warm when he lets slip a careless praise. This is no different.
“Was I too rough with you?”
You blink in surprise, taken aback by the sudden switch of his demeanour. “J-Just a little,” you whisper through your battered throat. There is the slightest hint of spite in your voice.
Sunday smiles again. Harmony hums and sings in the air in response to the curve of his terrible smile.
Your spite is quickly replaced by confusion when your eyelids get heavier.
“I apologize.” He guides you up from the floor to sit next to him on the bed. You smell clean, is it your lotion or your perfume? Sunday doesn’t mention how that exact combination of vanilla, mandarin, and ylang ylang is the same scent that he has scoured the entirety of Penacony in a desperate attempt to remind himself of you on the days he doesn’t see you.
Touching you, having your scent this up close makes him hard again, something you notice when your still teary gaze darts downward. This time, there’s no cloak to hide it.
A flicker of hesitance dances across your flushed face. Sunday is quick to pounce before your hesitance can blossom further. With a mere flutter of his wings, you find yourself on your back, pinned against the bed with both of his hands braced at the sides of your face so he doesn’t crush you under his weight.
Your eyes widen in surprise, mouth opening to speak but you are cut off by Sunday. “May I?” he sighs, running his hands indulgently over your waist and down your hips, almost as if he was trying to memorize the map of your body through your clothes.
He feels you tremble underneath his touch. There is a brief moment of tense silence hanging in the air when you don’t respond right away. Sunday’s eyes narrow, his teeth glint when he parts his lips, pulling them back as he gets ready to call upon Harmony–
Timidly, you nod.
Sunday carefully unbuttons your shirt like he’s unwrapping a precious present. His piercing gaze savours and lingers upon every inch of newly exposed skin so intensely that you can’t help but squirm underneath him. “Stop that,” he chides you almost patronizingly, flattening his palm against your belly to keep you still. His strength is unbefitting of his stature, and it makes you squeak in surprise when he pins you down without even batting an eye.
Almost instinctively, his hips push forward, grinding into the softness of your thigh when the last of your clothes are discarded on the floor as you are left in nothing but your underwear. Though it’s a matching set, it’s nothing fancy, just plain cotton. You didn’t dress up for him , Sunday thinks, toying with the band of your panties as he traces your hip bone ignoring the way you whimper and tremble. He likes that. No false sense of pretense, no defenses. He’s so used to always having to play the game of high society that he finds you so utterly refreshing.
Yet, he cannot deny that some part of him is somewhat mildly disappointed. Do you not think of him in the same way he does of you? Do you not crave for him with the same thirst as he does?
“Mr Sunday,” you gasp when long, nimble fingers unclasp your bra, rewarding him with the sight of your breasts. He cups them in his palm, savouring the weight and little noises you make when he tugs experimentally on your nipples. You are all warm and soft and inviting.
Sunday has had women throw themselves at him, has seen far more scandalous things than the sight of your naked breasts. Yet, none make him hard out of his mind. None make him so utterly mesmerized and lust-filled as the feeling of your soft skin against his. He doesn’t really know how to keep himself in control when you look up at him like that, with your hair splayed around your face like a halo that puts his own to shame, and the needy little noises that fall out of your open mouth. All of a sudden, his high collar feels all too constricting.
“How do women like it?”
“Mm?” It takes you a moment to register through your hazy mind that Sunday is asking you a question. “Um, I know women who like it soft and gentle while others-”
“How do you like it?”
Your mouth falls open in a startled O while Sunday levels you with an even stare, waiting for your answer.
He can feel your skin turn even hot under his touch. “Me? I-I like it- Um, a little hard, I guess?” Embarrassed, you cover your face with your hands. Your voice has become so muffled that Sunday really has to strain to hear your answer properly.
“A little?” Sunday tugs on both of your nipples, adding more force than earlier. The way your hips jerk upward in response, the seat of your panties brushing against his cock doesn’t go unnoticed. “Like this?” He asks with a smile, prying your hands away from your face so he can relish the look of utter sin painted masterfully on your round cheeks.
“Answer me,” he says, rolling and pulling your nipples around his fingers, harsher this time. You avert your gaze from his half-lidded amber slits, nodding weakly in response.
Unable to stave his curiosity, Sunday finds himself dipping down, lapping a curious tongue over your feverish skin. Your scent is dizzyingly sweet on his tongue, like getting drunk on summer wine on a sticky afternoon night. Without warning, he takes your right nipple into his mouth, nipping none too gently onto it, prompting you to whimper.
You must like it, because he feels the way your hips twitch and your heat presses right up against his cock.
The room is silent as Vivaldi concludes his masterful piece. The silence merely amplifies a new piece of music - your soft gasps when Sunday continues to worship your heaving breasts, biting and sucking in a way that has your back arching and toes curling.
Unable to help himself, his blunt teeth sets against the plush skin right under your neck, ignoring your weak noises of protest. Sunday has never done this before. In fact, he often found it vulgar when he saw marks left by others marred on their skin. Yet, when he leans back to assess the small bloom of purple and red he has left on your skin, the serpent within his chest rumbles its approval. It serves as a reminder that tonight was indeed real. That the sight of you sprawled underneath him was not just another one of his shameful fantasies.
Nevertheless, everything thus far has merely been an appetizer to the final main course.
“I’ll do it,” you rush out when Sunday reaches for the band of your panties. “I-I’ll need to prep myself before you-” you explain, trailing off into silence.
Sunday tilts his head almost quizzically. “Let me,” he says in a tone that brokers no room for discussion.
You squirm when Sunday pulls your panties down, eyes zeroing in on the string of arousal that clings from your slit to your damp panties. It’s almost adorable the way you splutter out a string of nonsense. Anyone might have confused you for the blushing virgin instead of him. “Adorable,” Sunday purrs, gently guiding your legs open, his entire focus lasered on your pussy. “I’ve always dreamed of how it would look,” he tells you, breath washing over your sensitive clit.
“Why don’t you guide me through it, hm?” Sunday says with a grin and that’s the only warning you get before his mouth latches over your pussy.
You open your mouth, but instead of words, the only response he gets is a high-pitched whine. “S-Sunday,” you stutter. He notes with please that you’ve finally dropped the honorifics.
Flattening his tongue, the first taste of divinity that he has been chasing after for so long stains his lips. Your scent usually mingled in with your perfume, floods his senses, and Sunday chases after it like a hound on a hunt. It's one no bloom or water can hope to recreate, a fine scent that belonged to you and you alone. It's good for him that you are more than willing to share.
He’s only drawn back into reality when your fingers comb through his hair, almost bumping into his halo. “S-Start off slow, please?” you gasp out through broken whines, and Sunday tries his best to listen, reducing his movements to little licks over your slit.
It’s hard to listen when he’s drowning. He thinks you must have said something else, maybe telling him what to do next, but Sunday’s nose bumps into your clit and your voice cuts off into a needy noise instead.
You’re also not doing a very good job at directing him when your fingers are tangled amidst his hair and your thighs are starting to lock around his face. Even so, the enormity of his desire for you torments him, for Sunday feels like it is not enough because give him an inch and he will take a mile. Sunday makes up for his inexperience by tailoring himself to your responses. He notes the way your lashes flutter, strings together whatever coherent thing you’re trying to say when he does the right thing, like slithering his tongue into your cunt.
Bless you; you really are trying your best. “Mm-Y-Yes, keep licking there, p-please,” you reply, trying to catch your breath when Sunday finds your sensitive little clit and sucks . “F-Feels so good.” Your sigh is like a melody to his ears, better than any classical piece the greatest composer could ever play.
You keen when Sunday plays your body like an instrument. His grandiose ideas of Order and dreams seemed to fade away when the only thing right now is your taste filling his senses. There is no grace when Sunday finds himself in the heaven between your legs. Only you.
All of a sudden, it made perfect sense why wars were waged and empires crumbled in the name for love.
“You cannot love her,” HE whispers, “For it is a sin.”
Sunday only chuckles, fingers curling around your thighs so tightly he’s sure to leave bruises across your skin. They have not knelt at your altar nor tasted the sweetness that lingers from your touch. They have not heard the way you sing so beautifully under his touch. His throaty laugh sends a rumble through your body as you convulse around him.
So be it then, Sunday accepts his fate with open arms. For he is already going to hell, God would not be so cruel to deny him a taste of heaven.
He chases after the wetness of your arousal, making sure to reward you by showering your sensitive clit with the same amount of attention when he finally picks up the fact that your body really enjoys it when his mouth latches around it.
Sunday can feel your thighs tense around him and you call out, “W-Wait, stop, Sunday.”
He is quick to respond, giving your pussy a final lick before he pushes himself onto his elbows. “Is something the matter?” he questions, licking the remnants of your taste of his lips.
Your gaze darts to his tongue, as if transfixed.
Blinking, you regained your senses. “Don’t you want me to come on your cock?” you ask so innocently that Sunday almost goes sick with desire. How your previous customers never tied you up, clipped your pretty wings and keep you in a gilded cage so you would only sing for him-
He exhales sharply, cock twitching at your question.
“Yes,” Sunday breathes out, pulling you in for another kiss. This one is far from gentle, this was a kiss to devour. With a single hand, he catches your cheek, forcing you to angle your mouth closer to his. It’s never close enough. Not even close to conveying just how deep his obsession runs for you. “I would very much like that,” he tells you in between kisses. It’s alright if you don’t feel the same way , he thinks darkly, he has more than enough to share.
He pulls back to gracefully remove his shirt. The way your gaze immediately traces his strong jaw, the graceful column of his throat, down to the lines of his chest doesn’t go by unnoticed, and Sunday can feel his wings almost preen at your attention.
Tonight, at the height of his power, Sunday looked more celestial than human. Indeed, he has never felt stronger with Xipe bleeding into his veins, practically begging to be unleashed upon Penacony.
“You will be the first piece of my glorious puzzle,” Sunday tells you as he lines his cock with your glistening slit, pushing lightly but not quite entering you yet. A confused look crosses your face but he pays you no heed, leaning down to kiss your cheek affectionately before pushing the tip in. “Ahh… I’ve wanted this, wanted you the moment I set my eyes on you,” he stutters, eyes rolling back when he continues to inch his cock in.
“You will be my first subject in my dream for Order,” Sunday hisses when he’s fully sheathed. He really has to concentrate to think because a growl escapes his mouth when he feels your walls close around his shaft. “Thanks to y-your hard work, I have eliminated every obstacle to my plan.” Sunday pulls out carefully, feeling the way your warmth clings pleasurably to him. You can only mewl in response.
“All that is left is to claim my reward... I-I love you,” he whispers his confession with rosy cheeks, snapping his hips forward to fuck into you again. A reward that took 2 years. 2 years of exerting his influence over you every week, making you pliant and willing, making you his.
You smile up at him and Sunday feels his pulse rise like the sea that swallows him whole.
“I love you too, Sunday.”