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It wasn't supposed to be like this.
It was supposed to be Sunday, looking over all as the ever-waking Sun, bringing about Paradise.
Failing that, it should have ended with him in chains, at the very least. Eternal castigation for the inept child who failed at his task right at the final hurdle.
Jade and Robin's contract, the Express, the Silver Rail- none of that was in the script!
Sunday should have lost his body to duty, his soul to punishment. Should have ceased to be-
None of it was ever meant to come to this, warm hands on his wings, lips on his skin, praise soaking him up like liquor-drunken cherries, ruby red flush running down his neck and up his cheeks with every sinful little sound he allows himself.
Nowhere was it planned for the Trailblazer's blazing fingers to carve into him and fill him with liquid gold, branding him with her name, her being, scalding hot and bordering on painful (but never cruel, Aeons, never cruel.)
Sunday thought he was ready for everything. But everything didn't account for too-sweet murmurs, too-clever quips, or dirty talk that's popping spicy like candy where it drops from her tongue to his, spit traded like medicine between dying soldiers and teeth marking up pale skin like wolves branding pray.
It's been a very long time since he's been made to sing. But by the gods, Sunday sings when her lips wrap around his rose, happy little chirps spilling out shamelessly between stanzas.
Sunday's going to lose his mind. He can feel himself slipping, racing to the edge with a lap, toeing the abyss with a suck, opening his arms and leaping with a keen- and he shakes apart, overwhelmed whines going just this side of pitiful and turning into whimpers.
It's quiet after he crashes, and it would make him horribly uncomfortable were he in his right mind. Fortunately, Stelle is a master at making sure his right mind is the furthest place he could possibly be.
She's licking her lips as she leans down to steal a kiss - slick runs down her chin and smears on his own, but it could be blood for all he cares, he's on cloud 12.
When he's like this, nothing matters. Not the chills that she'll soon quiet with her body and a blanket, not the dull ache in his bones, and especially not the vicious murmurs that have haunted his mind every waking hour since he was a child. The pleasant haze and the thrum in his bones are the only things he's aware of, and Sunday is quite content to leave it that way.
Sunday lets his eyes slips closed and falls.