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As ordained by THEM, scripture often wrote of repentance and atonement followed suit by the great comfort of the seventh day of creation; Sunday lived in that valley of idealistic paradise.
There was no limit on clear marble stone tops wiped clean, nor on the depth of disordered order which permeated the dreamscape with talking clocks and singing paper birds. It was all by the design of THEM.
Sunday had never been dirtied by anyone before, never gone on a date and felt no intention to hold hands or engage in frivolous things which distracted him from maintaining a hardened order over Penacony.
How silly it was then— that a halovian of all things, on that same seventh day, the crown of The Family, crumbled beneath the aeonic horror of something as simple as a human-made, plastic cock.
He’s knelt, knees painfully stretched to pull at his anterior muscles and tied at the base of his spine. You stand drawing red bleeding lines across his knees, then you say to him, slow and sultry and burning, “Being baptised by what you love most, aren’t you such a good slut?”
His lips glisten with saliva and that plasticity, artificially white precum as he swallows down, sinking until he’d swallowed your entire cock and his nose was nestled against your pelvis.
Your palm presses warningly against his neck, his frantic rabbit pulse thrums – Sunday lets out a wretched gasp when you dig your fingers into the roots of his hair.
“Thank you.” - Is what you think he replies, it’s hard to tell with how deep your cock stuffs him, but judging by the way his tongue curls beneath its girth and the half-strangled guzzling, drawled syllable he croaks at the end, you’d haphazard to say it’d be right.
There’s a grotesque sickness rolling in the pits of his stomach, something between his partial nudity— Half clothed, as in, upright suit, half undressed, with a loose tie and pants shimmied to the heels – Which makes his feathers stick. It peels just right at the leather buckles, painfully snaps when you tug too hard and it’s still slick (it’s wet, disgustingly wet, and slimy and it’s so big he’s dying) from sweat.
“You like this so much, don’t you?” You huff against his ear, a shaky laugh following its careful steps, as if you didn’t already know that the tyrant and traitor of Penacony loved being treated like shit. Sunday doesn’t even have to think about it, he breathes through his nose and lets out some pathetic wail from his chest around the silicon.
It’s barely been a moment of not choking on cock before you realise Sunday’s eyes have begun to glaze over.
You can almost see that childlike wonder in him, like there’s a charmony dove caught in his hands, in his pupils, which dilate and blow out so wide you can see your reflection.
“Don’t look so excited to take it, birdie.” You see him jitter to life, you push his cheek together until he’s puffing his lips out and before he can say even a word,you spit in his face.
“Lick.”
Like that, all his wonder, hope, is snuffed and that fated charmony dove dies the moment its wings fan out across the sky. You crane his jaw apart with your thumb and drag it across his tongue. The edges of your mouth come up in some betraying smile as you see him obediently come apart.
Almost lazily, you push him onto his back, digging your fingers into the depth of his ribs hard enough that he feels the bones creak - it wrings a low and heated whine from between his teeth – You go lower, nails drawing circles on the puffy rim of his ass before spreading them apart.
You feel the flesh folding, giving way to you as you thrust into him, centimeter by painful centimeter, then, without much deliberation, you force the entire thing through his swollen hole. He’s sobbing, and despite Sunday’s hips trembling beneath your bruising grip, you could’ve sworn he was desperately pulling you in now.
You can tell his walls are flexing wildly around you, like he was born to only take cock and do nothing else but be used as a fuck toy. The wings fluttering around his head, closing over his eyes, the pinkish hue and blackened blue his skin takes when you punch him, it’s so slutty that you think you’ll keep him as a slave forever.
Your hands find root in his feathers, tugging them like handlebars until he’s arching his head back and – Oh, fuck, there's a wealth of tears pouring from his eyes.
He feels it pressing against his stomach, distending it grossly.
He chokes on his spit, barely registering your hand reach for his dick and it only comes to Sunday that he has drooled cum in thick ropes all on his marble stone floors.
You’re loud, when you finally squirt, hips slamming into Sunday’s reddened ass before the constant friction against your clit becomes too much and it comes dribbling down your thigh with a satisfied moan. He's twitching as he feels your hips stutter, another pitiful load bursting from his dick as he goes limp, head lolling backwards in his office chair.
Sunday will get off on it now, and he’ll hate himself for it in the morning, because you know you’ll leave him dissociating and fucked til he passes out with your cock against his stomach– The Family’s head has no appreciation for your spontaneity, because you know he’ll find himself bleeding and handcuffed to his bed frame covered in white, and he’ll feel it all collide at that exact instant.
He’ll stare, blank at the wall with empty eyes itching with exhaustion and brain stuck in this smooth vinyl groove of ‘I’ll never be clean again.’ It plays on loop in the shower, and it fills his head until it spills out onto the floor when he collapses, against the marble floor, drooling and drunkenly grinning to himself.