[ Caelus doesn't respond. Not to the debate of what Sunday will do with is love, or whether or not he can accept it, at least. But he responds to the puffing and fluffing of those pretty feathers; he takes in the way the pierced wing can't move as far as the unpierced one, how expectant it seems, how bashful he looks with his lashes lowered and his chest swelling with anticipation. And Caelus...
Caelus is hungry. He has an appetite for destruction, sometimes.
(And once upon a time, a little birdie in the narration told him to bite.)
So: he's gentle about it, but he's merciless, too. He sinks his teeth into the tip of the unpierced wing, so open to that sweet massage, so vulnerable to Caelus's fangs. He's not too rough — he could have bitten that pierced wing of his, but he wants to see if Sunday likes this, first — and it doesn't break skin, but it's hard enough to hurt. Maybe, if Sunday's a bit of a masochist, the pain will lead straight to blossoming arousal.
Has anybody ever done that? Caelus seems to ask, in silent satisfaction after the bite. He licks Sunday's feathers apologetically, but he's not very sorry at all. ]
no subject
Caelus is hungry. He has an appetite for destruction, sometimes.
(And once upon a time, a little birdie in the narration told him to bite.)
So: he's gentle about it, but he's merciless, too. He sinks his teeth into the tip of the unpierced wing, so open to that sweet massage, so vulnerable to Caelus's fangs. He's not too rough — he could have bitten that pierced wing of his, but he wants to see if Sunday likes this, first — and it doesn't break skin, but it's hard enough to hurt. Maybe, if Sunday's a bit of a masochist, the pain will lead straight to blossoming arousal.
Has anybody ever done that? Caelus seems to ask, in silent satisfaction after the bite. He licks Sunday's feathers apologetically, but he's not very sorry at all. ]