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“You look so good like this,” Aventurine whispers, warm breath brushing against the flushed shell of Sunday’s ear. He presses even closer, lips grazing skin with every murmur. “In my arms. Nice and disheveled, just for me.”
Sunday bites his lip, swallowing back a noise. Maybe a protest, maybe something exponentially more undignified, a noise that he’s never made before, that only Aventurine manages to draw out of him with soft lips and impossibly softer words. He wants to refute Aventurine, is of half a mind to push the man away and take refuge in the nearest bathroom, locking himself inside and going over his appearance again and again till every crease in his trousers is aligned with the tips of his shoes, till there’s not a hair out of place on his head –
Yet something roots him in place, compels him to remain as he is: straddling Aventurine’s lap, with gloved hands rubbing firm, deliberate circles into his waist.
Perhaps it’s the foreign intimacy of it. The warmth of their bodies, the way they’re pressed together like two puzzle pieces sliding into place, the way their breaths intermingle – all things he’s never felt before. Never even thought of feeling before. Even now, the reality of being in such a position threatens to overwhelm him, threatens to have him rearing back, shame prickling down his back in a cascade of needles, but he stays.
He stays because part of him, small and floundering and pushed aside for so long, enjoys the attention. The closeness, the touch of another. He yearns for it even, has the strangest urge to burrow into Aventurine’s chest as deeply as he can, to lace their fingers and tangle their legs together and never let go.
It’s revolting, it’s nauseating, just how bad he wants it. His hands tighten onto Aventurine’s shoulders, unsure whether to pull him closer like he wants to, to press their bodies as close as humanly possible –
Clingy, needy, improper.
The words coil into his mind like an oil spill, thick and suffocating, and his wings tremble in response, but there is no threat to shield him from. There is nothing but his own desire, his own yearning, his own feelings – all things he’d thought discarded long ago, buried under duty and order.
Order.
Oh, Almighty Ena, forgive me , he thinks and he leans closer till their noses are brushing together, till he can count each of Aventurine’s pale eyelashes. He cups Aventurine’s jaw, presses his thumb ever so slightly into the place where a dimple forms when the other man laughs, when his smile is genuine and coaxes him forward till their lips are touching again, just like they’d been earlier.
Someone sighs – it might have been him, might have been Aventurine. Sunday doesn’t know, nor can he focus on it. It’s always overwhelming, no matter how many times they’ve done it, to kiss Aventurine – to feel their mouths sliding together, the quick touches of a tongue poking at Sunday’s lips, teasing and imploring till he has no choice but to grant entry, to open his mouth and let Aventurine in.
As always, it doesn’t take long for the kiss to deepen, for Aventurine to reach upwards and brush the hair away from Sunday’s face with an indescribably gentle touch, guiding him into a better angle. Their tongues meet, sliding together with slick noises that would get stuck in his mind, playing on damning loop after loop if it weren’t for the Aventurine’s touch, for the way his palm rests against the small of Sunday’s back as if to hold him there – as if to ground him. He has no choice but to melt into sensations, the slow and pleasurable drag of them – to dig his fingers into Aventurine’s shoulders, wrinkling his clothes beyond repair. He can feel it under his fingertips – the bunched up fabric, the clamminess of his hands that’s seeped into it.
Something travels down his spine, light and fleeting, more akin to a zap of lightning than the prick of a needle embalmed in shame. It startles him, so much so that he gasps into the kiss, into Aventurine’s mouth. It’s a needy noise, disgraceful and improper – his stomach swoops with shame, with unease at Aventurine’s possible reaction, but it seems to do nothing but spur him on. His hand, the one still on Sunday’s waist, pulls him impossibly closer, going as far as to slide downwards, trying to sneak under his shirt, seeking skin. It’s easy, doing so – Sunday might care greatly for his appearance, but not even he’d wear his jacket inside his own room. Thus, the only obstacle Aventurine meets is his dress shirt, white and pressed and tucked into his waistband.
Have mercy on this pitiful soul of mine.
The first brush of Aventurine’s gloved fingertips against his bare side has Sunday breaking the kiss. He doesn’t mean to do it, would’ve preferred to continue getting lost in the slick closeness of it, but he shivers and his back arches – not away, but into Aventurine’s touch. It’s a barely there touch, more graze than stroke, yet he finds himself chasing it anyway – the high of it, the spark of pleasure running through his veins. A whimper spills from his lips when Aventurine does it again – tracing shapes into his skin with nothing but the tips of his fingers.
It’s a heady sensation, this pleasure – strong and intoxicating, yet weightless at the same time. He feels as if he could fly, as if he could live off nothing but this for the rest of his life. It’s a blasphemous thought, a horrible thought. One that goes against everything he’s been taught, everything he’s ever believed in – yet in the moment it rings truer than anything.
“Please,” he says, more murmur than word.
He’s not sure what he’s asking for, who he is even talking to. Aventurine, maybe – the man who’s reduced him to such an unsightly state with nothing but his lips and his hands and a few well-placed words. Or perhaps he’s praying for a salvation that he doesn’t deserve, not after indulging in such sin, after behaving in such a disorderly way.
“What do you want, birdie?” Aventurine asks and he sounds as rumpled as Sunday feels, as he must look. It’s a balm to Sunday’s frayed nerves, this realization. A hand cups his cheek, coaxing him to meet Aventurine’s jewel eyes. “We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready, but if we are doing this, then you need to tell me. Use your words.”
There’s something in his tone that belies how little of a command this is – something like concern, like worry, like the pain that hurting Sunday would bring him.
At the beginning of their dalliance, Sunday did not understand this. He still doesn’t, not always. He cannot comprehend how, after everything he’s done to Aventurine, after using his powers in such a way on the man – Aventurine would still find it in himself to care for Sunday. To hold back from delivering just and deserved punishment, instead worrying about his well-being, visiting him, embracing him like this.
It’s unimaginable.
It’s more than he deserves.
Still, as he looks into Aventurine’s eyes, as he meets that steady gaze, feels the firm pressure of those hands on him, he can’t help but yearn. Can’t help but reach for it.
“Yes,” he says and it’s ripped from him, more an exhale than a word. It feels impossibly loud, almost echoing through the room. Then, straightening up as much as he can, “Yes. This is an adequate opportunity, so we should proceed.”
Aventurine’s lips twitch. “Glad to see you’re so enthusiastic, but still, we don’t have to,” he reassures. “I’m sure there’ll be other times when the Express is empty.”
Aventurine is right. Keeping the crew off the train is exponentially easier than herding them back onto it – Sunday can say as much, for he has plenty of experience with both.
But he doesn’t want to wait, not anymore.
He has waited enough, has spent an entire week with clammy hands and an uneasy mind, counting down the days till he’d see Aventurine, till they’d be alone. He couldn’t say he was looking forward to it, not with how shame was curling low and violent in his belly every time he even thought of the supplies he’d bought. But he wasn’t dreading it either. Inside him simmered a strange kind of excitement, a dying fire with embers barely clinging to life – a fire that needed to be stoked. That only Aventurine could stoke, could encourage to flare back to life.
Sunday swallows.
Bestow mercy upon this wretched soul , he thinks, then –
“I misspoke. This is…more than adequate,” he says, wets his lips. Then, taking care to enunciate each word as he reaches for Aventurine’s hand, pulling it from his bare side to peel the man’s glove off, he says, “I want this.”
Aventurine doesn’t reply. His eyes are wide, his lips parted, as he takes in the sight of their bare hands sliding together, of fingers interlocking. He looks akin to a man beholding a miracle, a soul witnessing paradise for the very first time. When he does speak, he sounds rough, sounds ragged – as if each word is seeping him of his strength. “If I do something you don’t like, tell me.”
“Likewise,” Sunday finds himself saying, almost absent-mindedly, marveling on the sensations, on the goosebumps trailing up his arm from something as simple as holding hands.
Aventurine’s hand flexes in his, tendons moving and Sunday watches, rapt – so absorbed that it takes him by surprise when soft lips land on the column of his throat, pressing kisses into the skin. He startles, jumping in place – but there’s nowhere to go. Aventurine has let go of their hands to loop his arms around Sunday’s waist, to bring him impossibly closer and mouth at his neck, at his collarbone.
Teeth nip at his skin and for a second it stings, but when Sunday’s lips part, it’s with a sound that he can barely describe. It’s loud, shameful, dirty – he can’t remember ever making such a sound before. Even during the rare times he dared touch himself, it was always a silent, distracted affair – he couldn’t never focus enough to make it truly pleasurable and less perfunctory, too consumed by the guilt of doing such a thing in the first place.
Aventurine smiles; Sunday can feel the shape of it pressing into his skin, right before Aventurine opens his mouth, soothing the spot he’s just bitten with his tongue. It’s warm and wet and part of him can’t help but scream how dirty this is, all of it. In spite of that –
No, maybe because of that –
He moans again. That’s right, it’s a moan. It can’t be anything else, not with how shameless and wanton he sounds.
Please, forgive this wretched soul, Holy Choir of Order, he can’t help but think as he clings to whatever part of Aventurine he can reach – his back, his shoulders, his arms, it doesn’t matter. He clings and digs his fingers in, anchoring himself in the moment the only way he can, the only way he knows to.
He wonders if he’s hurting Aventurine, if he’s bothered by Sunday’s spindly fingers trying to burrow into him. A smaller part of him wonders if Aventurine likes it, if the dull pressure of it is as electrifying as the scrape of teeth on his collarbone, the drag of a tongue against heated skin. Warmth rushes to his face at the thought.
“Your pulse is going crazy,” Aventurine murmurs, kissing his way up to Sunday’s ear. He nuzzles into the twitching wings that reside by it, brushing his nose along the feathers, casual and unhurried, as though he doesn’t know how intimate such touch is – as though he can’t hear the broken staccato of gasps spilling from Sunday’s lips. “What are you thinking about, hm? Won’t you share?”
He presses his lips together, tries to breathe. It comes out shaky, more of a shudder than anything. Have mercy , he implores. To Aventurine, to the divine, he isn’t sure. He doesn’t know. A fog is blanketing his mind, pink and fuzzy at the edges. He has never tasted wine, but this is what it must be like, what it must feel like – thick and cloying, alluring. Sinful. Intoxication and delirium that he can’t help but sink deeper and deeper into, all ration cast aside.
“More,” he says with a wrecked voice that isn’t his, that can’t be his – but it is.
Pathetic , some part of him scolds, slithers into his mind. He hasn’t even done anything. Is a little kissing all you need to turn into a wreck?
“Yeah,” Aventurine pauses. Swallows. The words fan Sunday’s face, brushing warmly against his skin. “Alright,” he says, drawing even closer and pressing the most fleeting of kisses to Sunday’s flushed cheek. “You read my mind,” he adds, a little smirk playing on his lips.
Sunday barely registers the humor, excruciating as it is. Instead, he leans down, their mouths meeting again. It’s just as slick and warm as before, as always – nothing about it has inherently changed, yet it seems to unravel him differently. It’s sharper, deeper – piercing, almost, the way lightning bolts travel down his spine, curling low in his abdomen.
He’s hard. He can feel it, can feel himself straining against the confines of his pants and it’s painful. It’s unseemly, it’s nothing more than a base instinct he’s failed to rise above. Shame scorches through him like a cleansing fire and he wants to shove Aventurine away, wants to run and hide this sin from the world’s eyes, wants to kneel and pray and repent.
But he can’t.
Try as he might, he can’t.
His hands grasp for Aventurine to push, only to dig in and pull him closer – only to slide under his shirt, clumsy fingers seeking skin. Seeking the warmth of another, a sweet fruit he has yet to taste.
Aventurine breaks their kiss, muffling a groan into the junction of Sunday’s neck and shoulder. “You’re going to be the death of me, birdie.”
Likewise , Sunday doesn’t say. Deliver me from myself, Almighty Order, he doesn’t say.
He refrains from speaking, for even his breath shudders and he fears what would come out, were he to open his mouth. Instead, he finds the buttons of Aventurine’s shirt, working them free with careful precision. It’s something he’s done a thousand times, yet his hands tremble and each button is a challenge. A trial. Every time he undoes one, he thinks about doing it back up, about retreating, about kneeling in the darkest of corners and begging for forgiveness, for penance, for a ruler to strike his palms till they’re red and inflamed.
Still, he perseveres. Slowly, but he does. Aventurine doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seems to think it intentional, teasing. He groans into Sunday’s skin as he presses kisses into it, nuzzling into the longer of his head feathers, all while his hands steadily pry the clothes from Sunday’s body.
Soon, they are both bare. Both of their shirts are folded neatly by Aventurine, then deposited onto the nightstand. Sunday would thank him, wants to thank him, but his mouth is dry, tongue stuck to the roof of it. He remains silent, tries to convey gratitude through touch, tentative as it is.
He looks away from the nightstand. There’s – more to do. He must focus. The pants are next…or they should be, but Sunday stalls.
It’s not only hesitation that stays his hand. It’s the sight of Aventurine’s skin. The tautness of it, the rosy color of his nipples. The subtle way his chest rises and falls with every ragged breath he takes. Desire swirls through his veins, slithering downwards, but so does the guilt, the shame – they cascade over him in warm, stinging waves that feel anything but, pricking at his skin, corroding his mind.
His mouth dries impossibly further.
He shouldn’t be looking at Aventurine.
He should rise, make excuses – anything to be rid of this sinful company – and atone. He must atone, must beg forgiveness before it’s too late. Before this monstrous feeling consumes him, before he’s fully intoxicated by it.
But it’s too late already, isn’t it?
His desire is not just a secret lingering into the darkest crevices of his mind – it’s physical and the proof of it is tangible. It’s real, painfully and irrefutably so.
Have mercy on this wretched soul , he implores. His eyes sting – he hasn’t blinked ever since Aventurine’s shirt fell away to reveal the expanse of his chest, the fine, barely there hair adorning his skin. His wings twitch, trembling uselessly around his head.
Fingers trailing across his own skin, circling a nipple – that’s what breaks him out of his thoughts. His lips part with a noise he refuses to acknowledge, with a half-hearted attempt at Aventurine’s name.
“I’m right here,” Aventurine coos. He isn’t as close as before. He’s leaning back, and it’s maddening, it’s foolish and deplorable, just how exposed Sunday feels without a body pressing into his. “Is this still okay?”
He nods, but Aventurine’s steady gaze doesn’t leave him, nor does his hand move. A finger is hovering above his nipple, just a hair’s width away from actually touching him.
Sunday bites his lip, even as his mind screams about decorum and manners and every possible way to redirect his nerves so that his face doesn’t betray him. Feathers tickle his cheeks as his wings twitch closer, stoking the flames of his shame, of his body’s traitorous desire, oh so visible on his skin. “Please.”
“Okay,” Aventurine breathes. “Good. You’re doing so good.”
But he’s not. He’s doing the opposite of good, he’s nothing but a wretched sinner, a blasphemer, a Bronze Melodia not worthy of his station, not worthy of his name or his wings or anything but punishment –
His mind blanks.
A mouth, wet and warm – Aventurine’s, he registers vaguely, distantly – is on his chest, on one of his nipples. There’s pressure, the drag of a tongue, then teeth, barely grazing him. Still, Sunday jolts. His mouth falls open, a startled moan slipping out. His thighs clench around Aventurine’s legs, his fingers jerking uselessly as he searches for something to grasp, to anchor himself with.
But Aventurine isn’t done with him. He finds Sunday’s other nipple and flicks it, rubs the thickest of his callouses against it, rolls it back and forth between his fingers – anything to get a reaction, to see what makes Sunday tick.
Sunday can only hold onto him, fingers sliding against broad shoulders and pale hair as he struggles not to let his pleasure be heard, be seen. But Aventurine isn’t kind enough for that – he wrenches it out of Sunday anyway, coaxes moans and whimpers out with nothing but his mouth and fingers.
Forgive me, absolve me of my sin , he begs, yet he cannot push Aventurine away – can only rock his hips downwards, grinding clumsily. It’s a barely conscious movement, more instinct than intent, driven by his body’s impulse to sin, to disobey.
When Aventurine’s other hand slips behind Sunday to brush against the feathers of his larger wings, the ones on his back, he yelps. It’s a loud, broken sound, one that seems to reverberate through the room, but it’s not a sound of protest – though it should be. His mouth falls open, jaw slack from the pleasure that courses through him at Aventurine’s touch. His fingers have found the joints of his wings, are kneading the place where cartilage meets skin with firm, circular touches.
It’s unbearable. It’s divine. He pants like a dog, like a man on the verge of revelation and his grip on Aventurine tightens.
“Hah,” comes a laugh, a puff of air against Sunday’s heated skin, oh so deceptively casual. “You like this, don’t you?”
Sunday can’t answer. He has no opportunity to, for Aventurine’s mouth closes over his nipple again, teeth grazing the sensitive nub. He moans, a broken, disjointed sound, his hips grinding against Aventurine’s with the clumsiest of motions.
“Aeons, you’re so hot,” Aventurine murmurs into his skin.
He lets go of Sunday’s wing joints, instead gliding his hand, ever so careful, through trembling primaries. Please, keep still , Sunday wants to beg, but they don’t listen. His wings – both on his head and back – fan out in spite of his pleas into a vain and instinctive attempt to court, to impress, to convey a desire so strong that it threatens to overwhelm him.
“Yeah, just like that,” comes the whisper, the sweet words spoken right into the skin of his shoulder. They’re followed by a kiss to that same spot, then one to his lips, feather-light, chaste, tender.
Sunday moans again and Aventurine swallows it, sliding his tongue between parted lips. The kiss turns deeper, dirtier and Sunday’s accursed blood sings with it, with the way Aventurine Is toying with his feathers, the way he’s tracing the bone of them with his fingers.
He doesn’t even notice he’s being lowered onto the bed till his back hits the mattress, wings fanning out to avoid being squished.
“Wha…?” he tries and it comes out so indecorous, so slurred that warmth floods his face again, spreading downwards.
Aventurine cups his jaw, thumb tracing patterns on his cheek. It’s a soothing sensation, much cooler than his heated skin; a sigh escapes him at the touch and Sunday shuts his mouth, wings twitching towards his face.
“You’re so pretty,” Aventurine murmurs, his eyes never straying from Sunday’s. He can’t look away either, not even as the glint of desire oh so visible in Aventurine’s half-lidded gaze threatens to burn him, to swallow him whole.
This unworthy vessel begs for mercy, Sunday thinks, tensing. How can Aventurine not see him for the ruined, unsightly mess that he is? How can he not despise him? How can he stand to look at him?
Aventurine runs a hand down his flank and it’s only then that Sunday realizes he’d tensed; even his headwings had, covering half of his face with quivering feathers.
“Relax, yeah?” Aventurine says, breathless and disheveled, his lips twitching into a smile. He’s trying to be reassuring, comforting, yet all Sunday can focus on is the mix of desire and guilt swirling inside of him. “I'm aware that’s a bit of a tall order for you, but this won’t work unless you’re relaxed. Unless,” Aventurine adds, petting turning into poking as the tips of his fingers dig lightly into Sunday’s side. “You don’t want to do this anymore.”
It’s not too late, it’s not too late, you can still put a stop to this and atone and be forgiven, the voice from earlier insists, frantic and desperate.
Sunday’s heart slams against his ribcage, galloping wildly. He tries picturing it – imagines the look on Aventurine’s face if he were to kick the man out, if he were to lock himself in this room and beseech the divine for absolution that he hasn’t earned. That he might never earn.
Yes, that’s certainly a solution.
A viable one.
Far more likely to be successful than most of his previous plans.
And yet…
Sunday looks away, smushing his cheek into a pillow. He spreads his legs, breath hitching, allowing Aventurine to kneel between them more comfortably than before.
“Please,” he says in a voice that hurts to use, that would’ve gotten him lectures upon lectures on the matter of public speaking, of eloquence. It’s a tiny voice, barely above a whisper – small and tremulous. “Make me feel good.”
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Nothing but the sharp sting of shame, the stomach-churning swirl of guilt, the burn of unsated desire –
But then Aventurine surges forward, pressing their bodies together and leaning onto an elbow as his lips find Sunday’s. It’s not a kiss that he gets – not a proper one. Instead, Aventurine pecks at him again and again, the touch as fleeting as it is teasing, electrifying. He’s everywhere. No part of Sunday’s face goes unkissed: his lips, his cheeks, even the bridge of his nose.
“ Fuck ,” he whispers and he sounds undone, sounds as wrecked as Sunday feels, flayed open for the world to see. “Fuck, Sunday. I’m going to make you feel so good, you have no idea.”
His words ignite something in Sunday – something small and forbidden, something buried so deep that he gasps as it courses through him: anticipation, excitement. A thrill that shouldn’t exist in an orderly world, a sensation that he’d thought purged from his body. Mercy, he beseeches, yet he leans into Aventurine’s touch anyway, into the hand on his chest, trailing lower and lower.
Light pressure on his bulge, on his clothed cock – even through the layers of his clothes, it’s akin to a heated iron. Aventurine’s found the source of his shame, the proof of his corruption, his desire, and is now toying with it – cupping, testing, and trailing his fingers all over the button of Sunday’s pants.
Aventurine leans away, just enough for Sunday to meet his eyes. They’re smoldering with desire, so much so that the shortest shared glance burns Sunday. It seems to fuel something inside him, seems to spur on his recklessness, for he pushes into Aventurine’s hand. His mouth falls open at the friction, dulled as it is through layers of fabric.
“Let’s get this off you, okay, birdie? I wanna see you. See what we’re working with here,” Aventurine tells him, whispers right into his ear as if it were a secret.
“You too,” slips from Sunday’s mouth before he can think twice of it, heresy in its purest form. “Off."
Aventurine’s smirk, languid and teasing, falls as he blinks – only for it to return in the shape of a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Don’t you worry, I’ll take everything off for you. With you.”
Sunday blinks. He averts his gaze, pushes his flaming face further into the pillow. He has no way to voice the maelstrom of emotions inside of him – no answer to give save for the one plea running through his mind: imploring pity for my weakness.
Aventurine peels the pants off his body, peppering his chest with kisses and trailing lower as he does. It tickles, it burns, it leaves Sunday with a dry mouth and a throat so parched that it almost hurts. He pushes into it, a soft whimper spilling forth when his underwear too is removed. His cock springs free, slapping messily, noisily, against his belly. It’s dripping. He’s dripping. Onto himself.
Forgive me , he thinks desperately, tears springing to his eyes. Even the touch of lukewarm air feels divine on his cock, neglected as it’s been. Have mercy on this –
Calluses, rubbing against the sensitive skin of his cock. Fingers, brushing against him, engulfing him in a gentle grip that nonetheless leaves him breathless. Tears spring to his eyes as Aventurine’s hand starts moving, as his thumb swipes over the head of Sunday’s cock, smearing his precome. His hand slides much more languidly over Sunday’s length, each stroke a paradise of friction, of pleasure so intense that he can almost taste it. The richness, the sweetness of it, so akin to salvation –
But it’s not.
It can’t be.
It’s sin. A sin that covers him, covers every inch of his body and he can’t help but revel in it, can’t help but drown in it anyway, even though he shouldn’t. Even his own tears betray him, for they’re not a sign of repentance, of punishment – they’re a simple plea for more.
“You’re so fucking hot, Sunday,” Aventurine says, words spilling out on the edge of an exhale, soft and reverent. “I’m going to try something, alright? If you don’t like it, do something – talk to me, push me, anything.”
Sunday can’t answer. He tries, yet all that leaves him is a series of whimper, each one needier, more pathetic than the last. He reaches for Aventurine’s hand, the free one, lacing their fingers together and squeezing.
Aventurine squeezes back, then pulls away. “I’m gonna need my hands for this,” he says and with that he leans down, lower and lower, his lips parting to –
To –
To close around the tip of Sunday’s cock.
Sunday lets out a noise, as indescribable as it is loud. His hips buck upwards to bury themselves further inside that scorching heat, but Aventurine must have anticipated this, for he digs his fingers into Sunday’s skin, holding him down easily. His mind blanks at the first swipe of a tongue. He whimpers, half-formed words escaping him as Aventurine slides down, taking even more of Sunday’s cock. He hollows out his cheeks and sucks –
The tears clinging to Sunday’s lashes spring free, trailing down his cheeks slowly, languidly. His thighs tense, trembling furiously. Pleasure’s coiling low in his belly and he’s keenly, unbearably aware of his own filth, of his own sin, of the revelry of corruption he’s partaking in with no regard for his God.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry , he thinks, this unworthy vessel is –
But then there’s the click of a cap, the muted thud of plastic against the mattress and a finger slips inside him.
Aventurine pulls off his cock, pressing a kiss to the weeping tip. “You’re so tight. I’ll feel so good inside of you, I just know it,” he says and it’s praise, soft and adoring, but Sunday barely hears it. All he can focus on is the blurry, tear-stained image of Aventurine’s lips – on the thin string of saliva connecting them to Sunday’s cock.
Then the finger inside him curls, sending lightning up his spine and he’s gone. His toes curl, his hands jerk uselessly in aborted motions. His entire body tenses as he comes, tormented by pleasure, undone by the sight of Aventurine and the velvety feel of his mouth, by the intoxicating allure he has failed to resist – corruption. Sin.
Aventurine works him through it, his hand wrapped around the base of Sunday’s cock and stroking as he mouths at the head, taking all Sunday has to give – the tangible proof of his desire, fulfilled. The waves of pleasure recede, eventually, slowly, yet the fire in his belly does not. His body’s still alight with agitation that he doesn’t understand, each muscle quivering and trembling.
“I,” he starts, lost and breathless, chest tight. “I must apologize –”
Aventurine leans away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Sunday’s eyes widen, his wings thumping against the mattress as it registers in his mind, fully and wholly, what exactly Aventurine did with his spend.
“For what?” Aventurine meets Sunday’s gaze, holding it as he licks the spend off the back of his hand. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, birdie. Besides,” he adds, pausing to brush his lips against Sunday’s inner thigh.
Sunday jumps at the contact, but Aventurine doesn’t seem to mind. He simply does it again, going as far as to nibble at his skin, slow and deliberate. Gentle. “You’re more relaxed now.”
Sunday can’t muster an answer. All he has are a bunch of disjointed thoughts and a trembling body that refuses to obey him – that’s always refused to obey him, that’s never been anything but a source of sin and disorder.
Forgive this wretched sinner, comes the thought, almost unbidden and Sunday’s lips move wordlessly with the completion of the prayer – or at least they try to, for Aventurine crooks his fingers and Sunday’s mouth falls open with a soundless gasp.
Fingers , for there are two of them inside Sunday. The pleasure’s different from before – more intense, almost to the point of overwhelming him. Sharper, maybe, yet lacking the nettle sting that usually accompanies such sensations. Shame still lingers and so does guilt, but his mind struggles to grasp onto such concepts when Aventurine’s pressing their mouths together. The peculiar taste on his tongue – the taste of Sunday’s spend, of the climax he so thoughtlessly spilled into his partner’s mouth – takes him a bit to place, but the realization only serves to unravel him when it finally settles in.
He clings onto Aventurine with unsteady hands, with sweaty hands, yet the man doesn’t seem to mind his uncertainty, his lack of experience; he encourages the exploration, even, pushing into Sunday’s touch, groaning into Sunday’s mouth.
Their kiss doesn’t last long – can’t. Not when every move of Aventurine’s fingers inside of him, spreading his walls and brushing a spot that leaves Sunday breathless every time, has him crying out, wings flapping against the bed with agitation, with desperation that he has never felt before.
Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, plays on loop in his mind, each repetition harsher than the last, more tormented, drowning him. Drowning in his own anguish, in his own faithlessness, in Aventurine’s body – the warmth of it, the closeness, the shelter Sunday managed to carve into his ribs.
Aventurine’s fingers slip away. A whine spills from Sunday’s lips and he clenches down, but it’s too late; Aventurine has already retreated, rolling a condom down his own cock.
Sunday can’t help but stare, transfixed. The pleas in his head rev up, the words jumbling together as something – warm, pleasant, heady – curls low in his belly.
He’ll be taking that inside of him.
He’ll be taking Aventurine inside of him.
Sinner, wretch, blasphemer, a voice chants and Sunday agrees – oh, how fervently he agrees, but it’s impossible to focus on it, to muster even the shortest of prayers with Aventurine’s hands on him, guiding his legs around lithe hips.
“If anything hurts or feels off –”
Sunday can’t bear it, the thought of further prolonging this wait, this gap between them. He’s a sinner and a blasphemer and filthy, rotten to the core, yet his body refuses to listen – it hungers for touch, for Aventurine to seek his pleasure within Sunday, to fulfill this foolish, burning desire to merge into one. “Please,” he says with a sinner’s voice, a wrecked voice. “Hurry.”
Aventurine’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Yeah. You’re right,” he murmurs, taking a hold of Sunday’s hip and –
And pushing inside.
Despite all the preparation, all the time Aventurine spent playing his body like an instrument, it burns. It’s a manageable burn, nothing compared to the purging fire that awaits him within Ena’s grasp – it’s exquisite, it’s more than he deserves. His cock twitches, once again dripping with precome as it rests on his belly, as it brushes against Aventurine’s body. His back arches, mouth falling open as a litany of noises spills forth; a filthy, corrupted song, a mockery of everything he’s ever been taught.
“Fuck,” Aventurine says, leaning over him to steal a kiss. His hair frames his face akin to a halo and Sunday’s eyes slide shut at the sight, at the inexplicable beauty of it. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, each word a warm brush against Sunday’s skin. “Can I move, birdie? I’ll make you feel so good, you just got to let me.”
Sinner, sinner, sinner , the voice chants, filthy sinner, wretch, look at you, blasphemer, how dare you pray to THEM?
Sunday’s eyes open, the slightest bit, just enough to take in Aventurine’s face – the rosiness of his lips, the thin scratches adorning his shoulders, the messiness of his hair. “Make me feel good,” he manages, an echo of his earlier plea.
Unlike the divine, Aventurine listens.
He sets a slow and steady rhythm, his hips slamming against Sunday’s in a way that’s gentle, yet still firm enough to have him pant a song of disjointed moans, of broken attempts at forming words. He loops his arms around Aventurine, digs his nails into whichever part of the man he manages to reach first, to grasp onto.
Forgive this wretch for falling into sin, he tries, but the words come slowly, as if through molasses, his mind slipping further and further away from reason with every thrust, with every rub of his weeping cock against Aventurine’s abdomen. Both sets of wings flap uselessly, thumping against the bed and the pillows with jerky movements fueled solely by agitation, by a desire so strong he doesn’t know how to process it, let alone contain it.
Have mercy, have mercy , he tries again, frustration mixing with the pleasure coiling itself low and fierce in his belly. His legs tighten their grip on Aventurine’s hips, drawing the man impossibly closer.
Cleanse me of sin , he begs, but his body betrays him, falling prey to Aventurine’s slow and deliberate thrusts, to the gentleness of his lips on Sunday’s throat, on his collarbone. Tears fall from Sunday’s eyes, lingering on his cheeks as he arches into it, as he presses himself into Aventurine the best he can.
A wet, hot tongue drags across his face, licking up his tears and Sunday can’t help but lean into it, even as he mouths pleas to the order, pleas for forgiveness, for a chance at atonement.
“Forgive me for this sin,” bursts forth from his lips, weak and stuttery, barely coherent – a plea ripped from him by lust-fueled delirium, by the intoxicating sparks of pleasure travelling up and down his spine. “Have, ah – have mercy!”
“Yeah,” Aventurine whispers, biting into his earlobe. “That’s it, birdie. Say what you need to say, I’ve got you. I’m here,” he says and he presses in, hips angled in such a way that he strikes Sunday’s prostate dead on.
His eyes slide shut, stars exploding behind his lids as prayers blubber from his mouth, jagged and pathetic, mingling with broken moans. Wetness trails down his cheeks – tangible proof of his desire, overwhelming and all consuming, of how overwrought he is by this desire.
“I don’t know about THEM, but I’d forgive you,” Aventurine says and it’s breathless, it’s ripped out of him, each word hanging from the edge of a groan. “For this, I’d forgive you a hundred times over.”
Shockingly, shamefully, the words undo him. His entire body turns into a fine line of tension, each joint locking up, digging into the sheets, into Aventurine’s skin, as he comes. Come spills between both of their bodies, reaching as far as Aventurine’s chest. Sunday shakes with the force of it, noises escaping his mouth as eagerly as the tears from his eyes.
Aventurine fucks him through it, whispers words of comfort that don’t quite make it to Sunday’s ears. His wings tremble with every thrust, the lower pair going as far as to fan out, displaying for a mate that’s caught him.
“Forgive me, forgive me,” he mutters quickly, fervently. Then, pulling Aventurine impossibly closer till their noses are brushing together, Sunday whispers damning pleas against his lips. “Seek your pleasure within me,” he says and he wishes it could be a command, but it lacks the sharp, clear dictation such words should carry.
He says it anyway, for his chest is tight and it almost hurts, thinking of it – of Aventurine leaving unsatisfied. Of himself being so inherently broken and misaligned that he cannot even sin properly. That he can’t even indulge in the things he must rise above.
“ Aeons , you have no idea what you do to me,” Aventurine rasps, raw and ragged, breath hitching with each word. Sunday clenches around him, desperate to feel him, and Aventurine comes as well. His hips stutter once, then twice, and he shoves himself as deeply as can be inside Sunday, finally spilling.
Part of him wishes he could feel it, the wetness of Aventurine’s spend, the warmth of it painting his insides, but his mind, somewhat quietened by his own climax, awakens enough to rebel – to flash warning signs, predictions of how difficult cleaning himself will be afterwards.
The thought has his wings twitching, his lips morphing into a scowl. He tightens his hold on Aventurine, runs a hand through messy hair. Pale strands glide through his fingers, tangling around them. Slowly, his wings fall back onto the bed, still save for the shivers that run through him every time Aventurine moves.
It’s different than before, this sensation. Still somewhat pleasurable, yet nearing the verge of too much with each passing moment.
Sunday remains still, however. Guilt still pricks at him, gnaws at his mind, but he’s breathless, he’s pinned to the bed like a butterfly to a board and his muscles are looser than they’ve ever been. His usually ordered thoughts too are in disarray, so much so that he can only muster another quick, futile forgive me as he urges his heart to slow.
He watches as Aventurine pulls out of him slowly, gingerly, stopping only to dispose of the condom before drawing Sunday into his arms. He goes willingly, desperately – anything to feel the rise and fall of Aventurine’s chest, to hear the thudding of his heart as he too struggles to regain his breath.
Silence reigns in the room, punctuated solely by their exhales, by legs rubbing against bed sheets as they get more comfortable.
“So, what do you think?” Aventurine’s voice is loud, no longer a whisper. Sunday’s head wings twitch.
Aventurine must notice; a hint of sheepishness flickers through his eyes and when he next speaks, his voice is noticeably more subdued. “Sorry about that. What do you think, though? Did it feel good?”
Sunday’s fingers tap against Aventurine’s chest. Once, twice, three times, before falling to a stop. He considers, ever so briefly, lying. It would be a sin, yes, but what’s one more? At least it would be for a noble cause, serving as the first step to getting rid of the source of corruption and hedonism in his life.
But…
This source – Aventurine – he is dear to Sunday. Enough so that he has betrayed his staunchest beliefs for him. With him. And Aventurine has supported him, always, even during his most unbecoming moments, even when Sunday was at his weakest, nothing more than a recently escaped prisoner, stumbling about on the Express, shying from even friendly smiles and kind words.
He reaches up, cupping Aventurine’s cheek and brushing the hair out of his face, pushing it behind his ear. It’s a bit of an awkward angle, one that strains his wrist, but he doesn’t mind. He just looks into Aventurine’s eyes, into the exposed softness of them and –
He comes to a conclusion. A decision.
Perhaps it’s been a long time coming. Perhaps he should’ve realized this sooner, but…
The relationship he has with Aventurine, the bonds he has forged since leaving Penacony – he does not want to be absolved from them. Forgiven, perhaps, but not absolved.
Absolution would mean relief, would mean letting go – and he does not want that.
Sunday can, for the first time in his life, keep the things he holds dearest.
“Yes,” he says and it’s the truth, spilling from his lips free of guilt, of shame. “Even now, I feel good.”
Aventurine’s smile is tiny, but it's soft, it’s blinding – Sunday thinks, inanely, that he could drown in it.
And so he does, closing the distance as he presses their mouths into the lightest, most fleeting of kisses.