004 » broke all the promises i made last night

[receptacles]

OPEN POST: BARTENDER.

fanart by lendmyheart.
open post.

Comments

[receptacles]

You only ever think in absolutes...

[ It's chiding, but affectionate. Loving and sweet, for the sad little birdie who is so determined to stay sad. He kisses Sunday's forehead again, and then the bridge of his nose. His lips, softly and sweetly at first, and then more, deeper. Tongue against tongue, licking into the roof of Sunday's mouth, the sides of his cheeks, in a way that will leave his sensitive mouth tingling with pleasure. Everything slow and soft and unhurried. Everything sweet. ]

Look, I'll show you. Let me show you how I'd love you.

[ Hands cradling his handsome face, teasing those pretty wings. Caelus coaxes him back down into his seat again, and then straddles his lap. The Trailblazer's heavy, very heavy — lot of solid muscle there, in his shoulders and chest and arms — but his thighs, pressed against Sunday's own, oh, those are pillowy-soft. His ass is downright voluptuous. He feels like comfort.

Firmly, Caelus seizes one of those wings between his index finger and thumb — the unpierced one — and rubs it slowly from wingtip to wingjoint. Slowly, slowly, massaging the flesh and the thin bones beneath the pretty feathers. ]

[befehl]

Of course. Leaving any room for error would only result in tragedy.

( He's just as soft-spoken through that first layer of sheer finality. There is no steering Sunday from his path once he's settled on it. Or once he starts falling. He remains frozen as each of Caelus' kisses begins to smother him, casting warmth across his features. Whenever he tries to lift his chin so their lips meet, Caelus has a similar idea, languidly tasting him as they kiss deeply. Sunday's tongue rolls along with his, closing his eyes at the moment and simply following along each slight tilt, swallowing as much of him as he's able to so they don't make a mess. But a kiss can only take them so far and a kiss is still not enough to shake Sunday off his stance. )

You may do as you'd like, but I'm not asking you to convince me.

( He's inquisitive about his next move, tracing the back of his hand with his gloved one before he's ultimately guided down on his seat. His weight is ironically comfortable on him, his plump thighs around him, and a surprisingly good ass. He looks up at him patiently, still as a statue before Caelus takes to his wings. They expose how much he likes the touch itself, puffing up to him rubbing it, the joint, and shuffling between them to their roots. He can't help but gaze down so he can hide the way his chest fills up with pure delight. His wing stretches outward for him, taut and waiting for more attention. The other one can't move as far, naturally. )

Nobody has ever done this.

[receptacles]

[ 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. ]