Ascensionism
Ummmm.... so here's this for October............ im so, so sorry
Warnings: somno, deeply devotional Sunday, smut but not graphic? idk good luck
Odd shit under the cut, MDNI
How could he help himself when you looked so peaceful? The trust you have in him… inexplicable. Why would you trust someone who strayed so far from his path? Yet here you are, laying on your stomach in his bed. Wearing his shirt, under his blankets. You looked like an angel. So sweet, so content. So satisfied. Sunday knows you were made for him. He can’t help it. Maybe he hasn’t changed as much as he thought he did.
Every time you look at him with adoration in your eyes… Sunday feels sick with possessiveness. He knows how wrong it is, how you need to be free but… if you keep coming back to him… You belong with him. Even when you smile at Dan Heng or Stelle. You’re his. You’ve always been his.
Sunday shakes the sleep from his eyes, his wings fluttering behind his ears. His fingertips trace the lines of your body until they reach the hem of his shirt. The fabrics’ far too rough but you get so happy when you wear his clothes. His fingers hook under the hem, slowly pulling it up to see the handprints he left on your waist. He shouldn’t be so rough with you. You’re to be worshipped. Adored. Sunday feels a fresh surge of arousal as he remembers the beautiful sounds you make for him.
His breath catches in his throat when he hears the soft, happy sound you make in your sleep. You lean into his touch despite your unconsciousness. Sunday cannot describe how quickly his blood rushes south. Or how he suddenly feels dizzy seeing you still mostly bare.
You wouldn’t mind, right? You wouldn’t object to him looking at you like this. Not with how often you’ve come apart in his arms. Right? While he cannot help the guilt already gnawing away at his ribs… it is quite possible he’s not thinking with his head.
His hand finds the soft flesh of your thigh, gently tracing the hickeys he left earlier. Aeons, he can still taste you on his tongue. He would have kept going, kept his tongue buried at the altar of you. Anything to get that hazy look in your eyes, so full of the devotion he himself feels. If you were awake, he would take his time again. Sunday would repay you tenfold tomorrow.
But for now, he pushes your thighs open, watching his seed still between your legs. His mouth goes dry. Logically, he knew it was there. And yet seeing it like this… hours after the fact… Sunday can feel his heart racing now. A part of him knows he should pull away and let you rest. He knows this isn’t right.
Yet he can’t stop when he leans forward, pressing a kiss to the soft skin he’s marked so thoroughly. He bites back a groan, dragging his tongue over the mess he made of you earlier. You taste like something more than divine, something indescribable. His fingers tighten imperceptivity on your thighs, his nose pressing harder and harder against your skin with every small, sleepy whimper.
The knowledge that he’s the one drawing these sounds out from between your lips… Sunday pulls his lips away with a restraint that can only be described as herculean. He gazes down at your body splayed out on the sheets. Your face is buried in the pillows and he resists the urge to check your breathing.
He watches you shift slightly, raising yourself on your knees. He swears his heart stops for a moment. You’re welcoming him, opening yourself to him as if you know how much he needs you. Worships you. He would kneel at the altar of you as long as you would allow.
His hands quickly tug down the waistband of his sleep pants. He’s so hard that it hurts. He wants to prepare you again, he wants to touch you and taste you until you come undone again and again and again. Until you’re ready for him again. And yet… even he can’t wait. He needs you more than anything in this life. You are everything and you have no idea.
Or maybe you do. Maybe with how you moan softly as he eases himself inside of you… maybe you do know. Maybe you know how devoted he is, how utterly and completely obsessed he is. Maybe you truly were made for him.
You don’t wake up. Even as his hips snap against yours, you don’t stir. His hands find their way to the pillows by your head. Those hands that are simply unworthy of touching you. But you have blessed him. Blessed him with redemption. Yet here he was desecrating your body.
But you were moaning so sweetly for him. So beautifully.
And when he hears his name spilling from your lips? Moaning his name as you press back against him? His hands find your hips and he pulls you closer, needing you closer. Hearing your voice beg and plead for more was everything.
He doesn’t last long. He can’t last long. Not when gospel is pouring from your body. Sunday finishes with a strangled groan, his hips stuttering. He hangs his head between your shoulder blades, panting as he feels you shiver and shake underneath him. He feels you tighten and shudder, his name spilling from your lips.
“I love you…” he hears you whisper into the pillows. Sunday could die a happy man every single time he hears those words from your lips.
He knows he should pull out and clean you up. He should hold you, caress you. Yet the moment he starts to pull away, you’re reaching and pulling him down. He gasps, his face being buried in your chest before he can react properly. “My love…”
But the words are stolen from his lips as you pepper his face in those saccharine, adoring kisses. You don’t let him move. Your presence, your love… gently lulls him into a sweet, gentle sleep.
