Chapter Text
As it turns out, the next morning he receives another task: to bring the finalized document to Sunday. Obviously. He sighs, considering his own stupidity. Of course he would be the one to close the deal. Management doesn’t know about what happened last night.
Dutifully, he will set out on the task. But he half-wonders if Sunday will request someone else to come deliver the papers to him.
But, no, come time, Aventurine never receives a call saying otherwise, not even as his driver drops him off at the Family’s headquarters.
He might say he’s been through more stress than this, but honestly, none of it has ever involved an angel, so who’s to say? Maybe Sunday will delegate the task to someone else qualified to sign the paper.
Shoulders slumped, convincing himself of every unfavorable scenario at once, he makes his way to Sunday’s office, because no one told him to go anywhere else.
The door is open, like usual.
Sunday is present, like usual. And his wings are, too. He turns his head away from the window the second Aventurine steps inside. He’s truly inscrutable when he wants to be; Aventurine cannot discern a single emotion on his pretty face. So emotionless that he’s uncannily human. He gets closer to his desk, and holds out his hand.
Aventurine passes him the contract. Rubbing the back of his neck, he says, “Just need your signature.”
Sunday lies it down on his neatly kept desk, and flips to the end to sign it in his signature that is as pointily elegant as his halo. ‘There,” he says, his tone lacking any sort of emotion at all. “That should be it. The IPC and Oak’s partnership can be finalized.” He scoots the papers towards Aventurine, and turns around to resume his vigil by the windows.
Since he hasn’t been explicitly dismissed, Aventurine comes closer.
“Hey,” Aventurine says warily, “I’m really sorry about last night.”
Sunday crosses his arms tightly. Is he pouting? “I knew it wouldn’t be without strife if I were to try to integrate into human society, but it doesn’t make it any less harrowing, experiencing these feelings.”
“Which ones?” Aventurine probes.
There’s a pillar of dark wood on the balcony, and in the absence of light it creates, Sunday’s reflection is visible. He’s not so emotionless; Aventurine just needs to be able to read him better. The tightness around his eyes means something, and a twitch in the tips of his wings—Aventurine wishes he could tangle his fingers inside the lushness of his feathers—that has to mean something, too.
How is he supposed to read the body language of an angel, when the angel is exhibiting behaviors that humans can’t even do?
“I’m not here for work anymore, you know, so when I ask what’s wrong, it’s not because I’m trying to get something out of you.” He comes as close as he dares—he’s seen the lack of evidence left after an angel gets really angry. “I really am sorry about last night.”
“I had your peers reassigned,” Sunday admits, unprompted. “I didn’t like the way they looked at me. You looked at me differently.”
Aventurine is stumped. Has he broken his angel, to make him start confessing to things Aventurine hadn’t even known were in question? “I… How did I look at you?”
“Like you were curious, and only a little afraid. I could tell you wanted to ask me about my halo and my wings, about the angels. But you were polite, and didn’t.”
He doesn’t know how much politeness played into it, rather than the desire to get the job done… Maybe if it looked the same, Aventurine can roll with it. Because he is curious now, and not very afraid, comparatively.
“I mean… you’re still a person,” Aventurine ventures carefully. “Not like I’m a jackass for no reason to someone.”
Sunday rubs his chin. He shakes his head. “I suppose, then, that there are a lot of humans who disagree with the notion of us being people. But, that’s to be expected; the existence of angels is hard to stomach. I digress. My point being: I liked the way you treated me.”
“I didn’t treat you special, though.”
“Yes,” Sunday says simply. “I appreciated that. Before coming here, I hadn’t considered what it would be like to be so special. Most of the time, it isn’t very pleasant. It can be fun, but the act gets old.” He turns aside, careful this time not to hit Aventurine with a wing, just so he can poke Aventurine in the chest. “You started looking at me differently, eventually.”
Aventurine tries to protest, and Sunday pokes him harder, until Aventurine grabs onto his wrist. “Don’t get onto me for that—you were more than happy to reciprocate.”
“I’m not getting onto you.” Sunday’s pout strengthens, if it could really be called a pout; his mouth is firm, and his nose is slightly scrunched. “I’m trying to tell you that I would like to continue.”
Aventurine brightens in an instant. “Name the time and place.”
“Right now. Anywhere.”
Aventurine blinks, and convinces his mouth to form the word, “Anywhere?”
“You sucked me off in a bar bathroom last night,” Sunday says, exasperated. “Don’t act like this is something sacred to you now. We can do it here. I don’t care.”
“Uh,” Aventurine says, grabbing onto Sunday’s wrist more insistently. His heartbeat feels a little too fast—why is Sunday staring at him so intently? He feels like he’s being hunted. “If you want to do it, like, all the way, we need… stuff.”
Sunday grits his teeth, expression flashing briefly into genuine annoyance, and he smooths out. “Your place, then.”
“Okay,” he says uncertainly, getting turned around and pushed out the door. “My place,” he repeats in the hallway. “Sure. You’re bossy.”
Aventurine’s driver takes them to his place, on Sunday’s order. Sunday opens the door for himself to clamber in, wings there one moment and gone the next, preventing them from smacking into the car’s frame. With a sudden headache, Aventurine rubs at his eyes, sliding into his seat next to Sunday in the middle.
“What’s wrong?” Sunday asks immediately.
Impressed that Sunday can read him so easily, he answers. “Nothing. It’s just… There are things that shouldn’t be possible on this planet, and when I see those things happen in front of me, my brain rebels.”
“Ah,” Sunday says readily. He launches into a lengthy explanation about the human brain’s functional inability to see some of the angels’ otherworldly aspects. He concludes with, “Humans just don’t have the sensory organs to detect it.”
“What, and some things other than humans do have it?”
“Apparently, cats can see some of these things.”
Aventurine stares at the car seat in front of him, until he says, “That’s weird,” giving Sunday a look.
Sunday’s smile is amused. He sits properly in his seat, although there’s no reason for him to be in the middle seat other than he wants to be against Aventurine.
It’s as endearing as it is terrifying that he’s become the subject of an angel’s infatuation. Might he end up as one of those vaporized smears he hears about on the news sometimes? They always hold a trial and everything, but containing angels in prison is hard when they just wind up vanishing from their jail cells—called back to their home world, or self-destructing into a single moment of nothingness?
Putting someone like Sunday in prison would be even harder; knowing how heavy-handedly in-favor of the angels the IPC’s contract is, he can only imagine how scared the government must be of him—of all the angels, but especially the ones who decided to engage in the criminal underworld as their first order of business.
He’s dragged out of gradually more horrific thoughts by the car coming to a stop.
Sunday is going to think his place is unremarkable. And boring. It isn’t like he spends much time there; he’s away for work more often than he’s home. It’s more a place to store his stuff, really, which is immediately evident as they walk in the door and the only decoration is some pieces of generic artwork on the walls.
But, of course, Sunday isn’t interested in his decor: as soon as the front door is closed, he claws at Aventurine’s lapels, and shoves him into the wood. The thump of Aventurine’s head against the door makes a fitting sound effect for the spontaneous reappearance of Sunday’s wings. While folded close to his body, they’re a foot taller than Sunday, and half as wide as him on both sides. His halo fits the gap between them, like a crown slotted into place above Sunday’s head..
Someone more poetic than Aventurine could have waxed infinitely on about the sight of Sunday tousled and impatient, but for right now, Aventurine mostly wants to see what he would look totally debauched. How many humans have gotten to see an angel spread open and begging? How many angels, for that matter? If other angels were able to fulfill these base desires, then why hadn’t they stayed wherever they came from?
He grabs Sunday’s wrists, gets him down the hallway, convinces him out of his clothes down to his underwear, convinces himself that the ripple in space when his clothes shift through his halo and wings is normal.
It must become normal, because there’s nothing else it can be.
Already, Sunday’s pale skin is flushed red, his chest rises and falls in rapid breaths, and Aventurine pushes him onto his knees on his bed’s edge. In the drabness of Aventurine’s bedroom, Sunday is a work of art.
Aventurine has him facing the opposite direction, letting Aventurine finally do what he wants to Sunday’s wings—and his halo, too: Aventurine wraps his fingers around it, clenching it in his fist, and pulls. Sunday gasps, his head pulling back with it, despite no physical link between them.
“Does it hurt?” Aventurine asks quietly, gliding his palm along its flat edge between two spikes.
“No,” Sunday murmurs. His eyes flutter closed. “It feels good.”
Aventurine presses his left hand into the feathers between Sunday’s shoulder blades, the fluffiest ones on his hefty wingspan. The tips rustle against the floor, partly limp as his body sags, imbued with numbing pleasure from his halo, stroked by Aventurine’s firm grip.
“Read my mind,” Aventurine commanded, to have him see what Aventurine wanted to do: to yank on his feathers, to scratch his halo, to leave bite marks up and down the slope of his shoulder. Then, to have him bent over, ass raised, so that Aventurine could fuck him properly. There’s a primal, lurid appeal to being the first one to render Sunday weak, to be the first one to fill his hole with cum.
Sunday’s squirming must mean he receives the message. He falls forward onto his palms to mimic the pose Aventurine wants him in. Aventurine slides both hands down the inner slope of Sunday’s wings to brace his fingers beside the smooth junction between skin and feathers. He scratches at the base of his wings, fingernails indenting his smooth skin.
Sunday drops his head onto his folded arms, back remaining arched. He poses like a natural: with the perfect curve to his spine, keeping his ass steady despite his shaking knees.
Given implicit acceptance to continue as he would, Aventurine entertains himself for far too long by tugging on Sunday’s feathers, raking his nails through them, delighting in how Sunday whines.
Once, he digs his hand into the solid upper curve that ends in his tertial feathers, and he yanks. Sunday gasps with a full-body jerk. He's shivering by this point, his wings draping down his sides and flat on the bed on either side next to him. He's easy to dismantle.
In a weak tone, muffled by his arm under his mouth, Sunday asks, “Can you.. touch me?”
“I am touching you,” Aventurine says, putting one knee on the bed to lean over Sunday's frame and grab onto his halo.
“No, I mean…”
“You can’t be shy now,” Aventurine chides him. “Just tell me what you want.”
Sunday makes a noise made of pure irritation. He shoves upward to sit on his heels, bringing Aventurine up with him. Grabbing for Aventurine’s wrist, Sunday’s left wing smashed between them and filling Aventurine’s mouth with feathers, he glides Aventurine’s hand down his stomach.
“Hurry and fuck me,” Sunday demands with a surprisingly steady voice. “And you better not disappoint.”
“Damn, alright,” Aventurine mumbles.
In short order, Aventurine slips his hand further down, and places his other hand on Sunday’s chest, kneeling behind him again. Within minutes, pinching at Sunday’s too-sensitive nipples while stroking his cock and biting his neck, he has Sunday speechless again.
He goes one further, and after he convinces Sunday to put his head on the pillow, he pulls down Sunday’s black boxers, and digs his thumbs into his supple flesh to pull him apart.
“You sure about this?” Aventurine asks, placing his thumb right over Sunday’s soft, pink hole.
Sunday lifts his head to glare over his shoulder; his eyes are watery, still beautifully distracting. At present, they’re squinted in irritation. “Put something inside me within the next five seconds, or I’m going to liquefy your eyes.”
“Fuck, alright, damn,” Aventurine says in more of a panic.
Scared and in a hurry, Aventurine bends down, and replaces his thumb with the flat of his tongue to lap once at his tight rim. Sunday yelps satisfactorily, feathers rustling abruptly as his wings retract in a jerk—how responsive his wings are.
“That’s not what I—”
“Too bad,” Aventurine says, breathing cool air onto the patch of spit he left behind, “you didn’t specify.”
Sunday’s groan sounds more like embarrassment, as he buries his face into his arms. But he doesn’t tell Aventurine to stop, and within moments, Sunday’s throat is too occupied by frantic gasping. Wettened enough, willing enough, Aventurine slips his fingers inside of his clenching hole, and strokes his cock between his legs. It’s easy to stretch him open, and it’s easier to show him that this feels good. Sunday’s body isn’t hard to convince.
Having to listen to him mewl and to feel him squirm, Aventurine adjusts his pants. His pulse is pounding in his ears, but his head isn’t where all his blood is pooling.
It isn’t Aventurine who decides to move on: his tongue is as far as he can get it into Sunday’s ass when Sunday suddenly jerks away, and moves, and his wings fill the air around Aventurine, who realizes only once he’s on his back that the coldness that flittered through his chest was the feeling of Sunday’s wings phasing through him.
Sunday isn’t shy, no, not at all: he’s the one to somehow have lube in his hand, and to get Aventurine’s pants around his knees, and his hand is on Aventurine’s sore cock, both covered in slick lube. It’s Sunday who jams his palms onto Aventurine’s shoulders to pin him down, and here, Aventurine helps—a little afraid, having an angel in full angelic regalia, wings out and halo shining brightly, straddling him like a horse—by guiding his cock against Sunday’s ass when he sits down.
Sunday is in spectacular disarray, especially with his feathers crumpled. His wings are puffy, like a fluffed-up bird. It’s kind of cute.
“You’re kinda cute,” Aventurine says, unsure how unwisely, but that’s what his mouth says.
Sunday lifts his gaze, dark on pleasure. He doesn’t look angry, at least. Then he lowers his hips, and Aventurine’s cock pushes into his ass, slow and tight.
“Fuck,” Aventurine mumbles, head rolling back. He had planned on being more active for Sunday’s first time, but he’s pinned on his back, and Sunday seems content to do the work himself. Aventurine has always known that Sunday is a control freak, and that nature of his apparently extends into the bedroom.
As long as Sunday is enjoying it, he won’t try to argue. He feels precisely the opposite of argumentative, once Sunday starts to roll his hips. His movements are experimental at first, shaking with tempered desire to go faster, holding himself back with impressive restraint. Aventurine sees it in his expression: the tightness around his eyes and his bared teeth. His hair, messy in his eyes and down his neck, is damp with sweat. Aventurine must look much the same, except for the wings: Sunday’s are limp at his sides, draping across the bed in carelessness.
And then, Sunday gains his confidence, and the rhythm that he sets to fuck himself on Aventurine’s cock almost makes Aventurine black-out immediately. He hangs onto a shred of clarity, anchored by the feel of Sunday’s feathers when they brush his overheated skin.
It’s almost unfair how quickly Sunday picks up on it: he finds how to slam down and to clench just right to make Aventurine moan, while precum dribbles out of him and coats Aventurine’s stomach. Aventurine has spent half his life perfecting sex, and here Sunday is, completely inexperienced, knocking him flat. He can’t do much other than grip Sunday’s thighs as a lifeline, occasionally unable to help himself from bucking, burying himself harder and deeper into Sunday’s ass.
But when Sunday reaches the end, he hangs his head, gasping, and his motions turn into thrusts against Aventurine’s skin, rutting his cock against him, while using Aventurine to perfectly pound into his prostate, forcing them both over the edge at the same time.
Sunday cries out, Aventurine groans, and he’s glad he closes his eyes, because right before he does, he sees an indescribable ripple of iridescent light, and he figures he wouldn’t have survived seeing Sunday losing control over his earthly self.
At least he can still feel it: Sunday’s violent shudders, and how his clenching turns uncontrolled, and the splashes of warm stickiness that coats Aventurine’s skin.
Aventurine thinks he might almost see God in the depths of his own bliss.
They both still, although their haggard breathing continues to fill the silent room. Aventurine cracks an eye, and isn’t blinded. He opens them entirely to observe Sunday’s slumped kneel.
“Think angels can get pregnant?” Aventurie asks raspily, his cock still wet inside of Sunday.
Sunday lifts his head. Plastered on his face is his common look of muted exasperation. “If that’s what you’re after, I’m afraid you’ll have to find one of my kindred who is theoretically better equipped for such a thing. I wouldn’t think so, though. I don’t believe we have DNA, for one.”
He’s too put-together for how hard he just came. Aventurine wishes he had the energy to knock Sunday down a few pegs, but at the moment, he’s distracted by thinking about the next absurdity he has learned about the angles.
Aventurine hums. “I—” An all-too-familiar ring tears shrilly through his bedroom. His phone. “Fuck,” he mumbles, leaning aside to dig through his pants on the bed. As he moves his thumb to answer the call, Sunday’s fingers envelop his, and a sickening crackle erupts from his phone. The screen goes black, and the scent of burnt plastic quickly sears his nostrils.
“Oh,” Aventurine says, feeling a little ill. “Fuck.”
Sunday pulls his phone free, and throws it across the room.
Light-headed, Aventurine lies back down, and Sunday leans over him, palms jammed into the bed by Aventurine’s head.
“I’m not done,” Sunday says, with a sharp glint in his eyes.
“They’re going to fire me,” Aventurine complains weakly, and out of obligation more than anything, because he’s already a little hard again, and if Sunday’s really offering to stay in bed fucking all day—
“You were turned over to me today. You’re still doing your job.”
“But—”
Sunday kisses him. “But?” Sunday says against his mouth.
“But I…”
Sunday kisses him again. And again, and longer, and his fingers are in Sunday’s hair, and he manages to forget the blood-curdling anxiety of being fired. Maybe one day of this is worth losing his job that he hates most days.
“I’ll let you try to impregnate me,” Sunday says in a gentle coo incongruent with the filthiness he promises.
There’s no saying no to that.