@perpetuallyuninspired

However, what you had assumed to be a one-time petition gradually grew into a near nightly ritual over the months. Casual talks shared over soothing blends of tea and the soft shag carpet of your bedroom evolved to conversations in the same bed, curling up under the same sheets. You started letting Sunday sleep beside you when you noticed him lingering awkwardly in the middle of your doorway one night, after you were meant to have said your goodbyes. He had clearly been enjoying your discussions, fluttering wings and the shyest of pleasant smiles. So much so that when the hour struck, your departure felt about as sudden the droop of his wings. To retreat to the emptiness of his own quarters afterwards would feel... frigid. Pained. Like leaving the warmth of a blanket to sink into an ice bath. And in all honesty, you weren’t too keen on letting Sunday go either. It was nice, seeing him so pleased and content. Like he belonged. So, when he lingers, you offer to let him stay. You had to bite back a laugh with how suddenly he beamed, swearing that his halo radiated the softest glow in that moment.

A silent agreement of personal space was shared contently enough between the two of you every night except one. It was you who had broken it to pull him close when you woke to the sound of shuddering breaths and faint sobs, faced with the sight of tears budding in the corners of tightly shut eyes. Another nightmare. You only knew he was still asleep because he was muttering to himself. Words you couldn’t quite decipher but the tone carried with it a grief that laid heavy in your heart. In your defense, you tried first to loosen the knuckle-white grip he held on the sheets, looking like such a small thing curled into himself as he was. When that didn’t work, you reached for his face, brushing sweat-soaked bangs away, and calling his name to no avail. It’s only when you pulled him close, cradling his head to your chest and whispering quiet words of reassurance that he startles awake in a cold sweat. His grip moves from your sheets to your shirt on instinct, his entire frame shaking like a frightened fawn. You had looked upon him with concern, rubbing soothing circles into his back, your voice barely above a whisper. These nightmares were a common occurrence when you weren’t around, it would seem.

Every night, he expects to wake up back in Dewlight Pavilion, he’d told you that night. Standing before his desk, opulent oak wood and concentrated memoria. Penacony would still be under his control, a dark raven fluttering at the very edges of his periphery. His old plans would be set in motion, and the sweet dream would turn sour with the wails of the souls he’s shackled. It’s been a difficult habit to shake, the undue anxiety no doubt making it harder for Sunday to achieve a good night’s rest. You had allowed him to sob silently into your blouse without complaint, arms wrapped securely around him, muttering quiet reassurances and gentle hushes as your fingers ran through his hair. All the way until he fell back asleep. You weren’t sure what else to do.

Sunday… seemed a bit different after that.

Of course, he never admitted such a thing to you. He’d knock on your door once curfew was called, sit and chat over your nightly tea, and eventually climb into bed with you at a respectable distance. As he would any other night. Your personal kettle and assortment of sleep-aid teas has seen more use in the past few months than ever before. So much so that you’ve had to make a note to restock a little extra of Sunday’s preferences the next chance you got. You opt to make a mellower brew tonight in hopes it would relax him a bit and open him up to what’s clearly been bothering him. Sunday was skilled at schooling his emotions over years of diplomatic negotiations, you were sure, but something you’ve noticed over the months is that it’s harder for his wings to lie. Especially when he’s in a more comfortable environment.

He compliments whatever tea you give him, and your conversations usually start with discussing the notes of the blend you had picked before moving onward naturally. Talks of the latest mission and tonight’s choice of dinner go by in a comfortable lull. But ever the stubborn man, his troubles remain unspoken. The most you catch is a couple glances at your hands when they move. Tracing the rim of your cup in thought or wrapped comfortably around its handle. You could’ve sworn his gaze would linger on your lips after every sip of tea, and the grip on his own beverage seemed measured. His wings would flinch ever so slightly whenever he catches your gaze, but nothing more. Whatever bout of nerves he had dissolves as your conversation progresses, and you almost forget that he was ever troubled in the first place in favor of enjoying his company. It’s only when the two of you retire to your bed for the night that you’re reminded of the issue. He’s more restless than usual, as if sleep wasn’t calling to him tonight even after such a long discussion. You appreciate how he tries to be subtle about it, remaining as still as he can be at least until he knew you’d fallen asleep. But you can feel it in the dip of the bed, hear it in the rustle of the sheets, and your exhausted mind spurs you to speak up.

“Sunday.”

Your voice cuts through the silence of the room, and Sunday practically freezes like a deer in headlights. Caught. An awkward cough greets you. “Hah, my sincerest apologies,” he huffs through a nervous laugh, “I don’t mean to keep you awake.” There’s a strain to it that you can no longer ignore. You sigh, shifting closer yourself before he can try to push the issue aside. “You’ve been restless all night. Tell me what’s wrong,” you offer softly, turning over to meet his gaze and reaching a hand out to pat his gently. Politely. “Promise we’ll both sleep better for it.” That was the whole point of this, wasn’t it? That was the reason Sunday comes back to you every night. The comforting hum of the Express’ inner workings fills the silence in place of your companion’s response, remaining as quiet as the stars speckled outside your window. It’s only the two of you. No prying eyes or malicious eavesdroppers. Him, and the warmth of your hand squeezing his fingers. Sunday stares at the miniscule connection, the deepest recesses of his mind telling him it’s not… enough. He concedes, though not without a nervous swallow to which you innocently offer your silent encouragement.

“...Promise?” He whispers. You nod. “Promise.”

You expected him to talk. Years of playing the Oak family mouthpiece no doubt attributed to Sunday’s eloquent way of speaking and formal courtesy. Of course, you were happy to help him ease his burdens every other night, but you couldn’t deny that you also took considerable enjoyment in your shared discussions. Without the pretense of bringing forth an entire planet’s eternal slumber, Sunday was a rather pleasant conversationalist. He was happy to listen and quick to empathize. Always knew what to say with an air of sincerity, and if you were lucky, you’d get to enjoy the spark of joy that returns to otherwise sorrowful eyes when he finds a niche topic to regale you about. Ever the know-it-all. You knew him more to be a speaker, so what he does next comes as a bit of a surprise.

Sunday… reaches out, and breaks your unspoken agreement for the second time. Slender arms slowly wrap themselves around your midriff, the cicatrix woven around his forearms brushing briefly past the exposed flesh of your waist. You suck in a breath, pulled much closer than usual to the halovian – until your stomachs were flushed together, and he could tuck himself within the crook of your neck. Despite the rather bold act, his movements are clearly uncertain. His hands shake as they secure themselves against your back, his wings flinching with the quiet sound that left you, and his knees only lightly brush with yours, as if unwilling to slot between them fully. The position is reminiscent of the first time you held him. Your body remembers before your mind, and your arms settle on instinct to where they once were.

“Apologies, it’s…” he starts, sounding uncharacteristically uneasy, “…difficult to describe.” One hand rests over the back of his head, carding through his hair, while the other rubs slow circles into his back. Knowing how particular Sunday could get about physical touch, you’re uncertain if this is the right move. You had... assumed that the shift in his behavior was the result of you holding him that night. That it had been the wrong thing to do when your agreement felt more for his sake than your own. You expected his visits to dwindle afterwards but if anything, they had increased in frequency despite his odd behavior. The way he melts into you is just enough to keep you where you are, becoming increasingly wary of your own deductions. “Lately, I’ve found myself… thinking of things I shouldn’t.” You’re thankful he can’t see the slight downward tug of your lips at the cryptic nature of his words. There’s an urge to correct him there, reassure him that no one on the Express was going to force him to think a certain way. That his opinion was always valued in discussions. But you bite back your words for a moment longer, coaxing Sunday to keep speaking. “When I’m with you… When you’re gone…” Another gentle squeeze to your middle makes you think he’s afraid the latter will come true. You’re not sure how to sooth it. “I think of when you held me. Like this. How soft you were. How safe you felt.” Ah. So this was about that night. Dull fingers press against your back, as if trying to push past the boundaries of your physical forms. An instinctual remnant of nearly shedding his own, perhaps, because you’re not entirely sure Sunday is aware he’s doing it.

“…I think of other things, too.”

“I fear that sleep now eludes me no longer because of these night terrors, but because I cannot stop thinking of you.” His wings twitch with an urge to curl within themselves – his entire body does. “I’ve never--”A shiver, far too difficult to ignore, travels through his body with your proximity. The warmth of a wavering breath fans gently across your open collar. Knees find the courage to slot between yours, curling against you. “You’ve already done more than enough to assist me. It should be enough.” His tone holds a harsh edge often reserved for himself, his grip wavering. “I should be back in my own quarters, yet…” There’s a heavy pause as he tries to regain himself. Or perhaps he was simply committing your form to memory one final time. Savoring your comfort. “I find myself… wanting.” Breathing in your scent, burying himself in the softness of your skin, hot shame twisting his stomach. In anticipation of your rejection, his next words waver against your neck.

“Tell me I have no right to seek more of you.”

The request spoken inherently searches for absolution, and Sunday seeks it from you. You, who has been at the center of his mind since all this began. Who let him in when he came to you for help, and who remains with him still in spite of his past transgressions, holding him close when his sins return to haunt him. Such things were precious to Sunday – more than you could ever know. But now… Guilt coils itself around his heart as your silence seems to stretch on for millennia, his mind all but solidifying the validity of his worst nightmares. He knows he should let you go. Give you the space to think over the weight of his confession and steel his heart for your subsequent request for distance, dreading returning to the hollow emptiness of his own quarters. But his body does not move. His arms do not loosen their hold, and his head cannot bring itself to pull away from the sanctity of your warmth. It was shameful.

Too weak to even separate himself from your embrace, Sunday braces for the inevitable cold that comes with the loss of your touch... but it never arrives. Instead, he feels the press of gentle lips against his temple, fingers slotting themselves between his silver locks, and it’s like his heart had burst from within his chest. “You-” It’s Sunday who pulls back first, eyes wide with bewilderment and wings quickly fluttering with a rush of excitement he fails to temper. You can’t help but smile at the sight, your gaze speckled with sympathy as you bring a hand to rest against his cheek. “That’s a bit unfair, don’t you think?” You reproach his contrite words with easy confidence, a dust of pink blooming under the press of your palm as Sunday briefly glances away, and his wings curl around your hand to hide the lower half of his face. “You are far too forgiving,” he mutters, though he can’t deny the way he melts into your hold regardless. “You indulge me more than I deserve.” Amber eyes flutter shut and downy feathers cradle the back of your hand as he turns to brush soft lips against your palm. “Sunday…” You sigh his name in a way that makes him want to scream, wings twitching minutely. The growing hunger within him seeks more of you the longer you remain by his side, and you weren’t doing a thing to deny him. His heart leaps against his own attempts to moderate his expectations, restraint turning to desire in that brief moment, and before he could think to do something about it, you take the initiative and roll the two of you over.

From your new perch over him, you enjoy the owlish stare Sunday gives you. It’s endearing, the way his face immediately bursts with heat and his wings flap uselessly beside him, far too aware of your soft thighs now bracketing his own, and the weight pressed against his lower half. Sunday stutters your name daftly, his hands having slipped from your back to suspend just above your thighs while his eyes frantically sought purchase somewhere more appropriate. “Maybe the indulgence is mutual,” you counter, ignoring his cute attempts at modesty. “Maybe… I think of things, too.” It’s immediate, how quickly Sunday’s attention snaps back to you, bewildered. “What-” A sharp intake of breath cuts off his sentence when you rest some of your weight on his hips, replaced with the whisper of a plea instead. “P-please. You don’t-...” You don’t know what you’re saying. Sunday gasps, strained, the hands suspended just above your thighs curling into tight fists. His discipline wears thin, your presence a feast before the eyes of a starved man who refuses to eat.

“…You can, if you want.” Your encouragement is gentle at the sight of his struggles, head tilted slightly to the side. Sunday swallows thickly, noticing how starlight bounces off the curve of your neck, and another ache washes over him. Unsure lips part in search of a response, yet he finds none, not daring to hope you mean what you say. Your hands come to rest over his own, guiding them to find purchase on your waist once more, and making your intentions known. “Seek more of me.” He’s trembling like a leaf beneath you. You looked heavenly above him, softly illuminated from behind by the numerous stars the two of you drifted amongst. Like a dream. But he could feel you beneath his palms, solid and tangible. Could follow the gentle back and forth of your thumbs along his knuckles, and see the vulnerability behind your invitation. How the pads of your fingers nudged between the spaces of his own and encouraged him to relax. Slowly, you feel his hands settle against the softness of your flesh. “Tell me what you want.” You lean close so only he can hear you – hushed and quiet, an offer just for him – shifting some of your weight to rest along his stomach and propping yourself on your elbows on either side of him, caging him in. Sunday sighs, awestruck, the last remnants of his restraint beginning to crumble. His hands squeeze you, feel you, memorize you, and finally he finds his words.

“You.” he breathes, reverent. “I want you.”

There’s a desperation in the way he holds you, pulls you, wanting more of you – closer, closer – until the void within him sates. He leans up to try and connect your lips only to fall just short, hesitant and flighty despite the weight of such a confession. A fragmented breath brushes your skin, amber eyes trained on the plushness of your lips. You don’t give him the chance to second guess himself, closing the remaining distance before he can shy away once more. Your lips slant against his own, and Sunday nearly groans from the contact alone. You felt so soft, so much softer than he could’ve ever imagined. Warm and pliable, he presses into you for more, inhibitions snuffed like a flame. His wings flutter vainly for leverage, and he swears he feels you smile when you meet his eagerness. It makes his heart leap. The swipe of a tongue along the seam of his flesh makes him gasp, the unfamiliar feel of your tongue sending a thrill down his spine he enjoys perhaps a bit too much. His own welcomes you in with fervor, aching to explore – to taste and savor you in turn. You taste heavenly. Mellow and sweet with the tea you both shared. He wanted to drink it all, devour you whole, throat bobbing with the accumulation of saliva that wets both your lips. Sunday never partook in addictive substances, but Aeons, he was convinced you must be equivalent such a thing. To want, and want, and want something that felt so sinfully indulgent regardless of how it may ruin you.

The floodgates have opened and Sunday dares to seek more. Tentative fingers begin to trail themselves across your skin, venturing further than just the curve of your hips. You feel them slip beneath the hem of your sleep shirt, one touch trailing after the other. Unsure hands – guided along the bend of your spine – trace every arch until they could wrap around your midriff and pull your body flush against his. The added pressure has him preening, and you can practically feel the subtle tremble of satisfaction that runs through him. He likes you close. Wants to feel every part of you he can, and you repay the sentiment in kind. Your own fingers slot on either side of his neck, tucking beneath his wings, and cradling the underside of his jaw to guide him closer, and he sighs as if you were drawing the very air from his lungs.

“Comfortable?” You ask innocently enough, and despite the visible bob of his throat against your palms, he nods – a little too eager to please beneath you. He’d kiss you until he saw stars if he could, tilting forward in search of your lips despite the uneven breaths that left him. It’s you who has to lean back so he could catch his breath, and even then, his eyes don’t leave you. “I-Is it... your intent to go no further this?” He pants, a notch in his brow giving way to the hesitance in his words. The thought seems to trouble him. “Hmm? Would you like this to go further?” You can’t help but tease, if not to see the way his wings fluster and flutter, leaning back to drink in the sight of him. Soft panting contributes to the rise and fall of his chest against your palms, and if you pressed just a little bit, you could feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath. “Sunday…” The sound of his name from your lips is intoxicating. He squirms beneath you helplessly, hips stuttering and feathers fluttering over his lips as if they could hide the hot shame rising to his cheeks.

“Please…” he whispers, throat bobbing with a heavy swallow, “Don’t stop…”