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Sunday misses the time when he did not have to doubt, because he knew what he was doing was right, truthful, morally correct. It was the only option… until it wasn’t. After that, he had to navigate the gray, the other, the world that he had never seen before, walked in shoes he had never cared to fill (just to use their stories to add to his justification that what he was doing was truly in the right), and now things were so multifaceted - there’s too much uncertainty, too much that is unknown, too many times where he tests his next step only to see the ground fall out from under his foot.
Sunday knows there is right, there is truth, there is justice - but after the lines that he felt had been drawn so clearly were found to be so incredibly warped and undefined, what’s to say the next thing that he puts his faith in is any different? He can’t trust others and their shifting allegiances, their potentially impure motivations, and after everything he believed, he certainly can’t trust himself, so all he can do is keep stepping lightly, testing each rock, each foothold, each deviation in the path before he puts his weight on it, and hope that in the end, whatever direction he chooses will not crumble below him once more.
For now, these thorns hold him down to earth, rooting him where he stands. The pain is a reminder of his past sins, stinging beneath his skin, into his heart, piercing his mind, all so that he might never return to a place where he was before. Sunday had learned that lesson. Certainty is a lie, and those who feel like they are unabashedly in the right without any room for growth will find themselves choking on their own ignorance.
Right now, he’s choking on something much more tangible.
Tears form in the corners of his eyes as he raises them to meet the golden gaze of the Stoneheart above him.
Sugilite always seeks to indulge in more, more, more, and in moments like this, where Sunday is on his knees, naked before him, he’s willing to let the man take all that he wants from him.
The Stoneheart smirks, settling his hand in Sunday’s hair, avoiding his wings - it’s not time for that yet, he knows this - as he tugs at those strands, easing Sunday off his cock until only the tip remains within his lips. The Halovian breathes deeply, regaining that blessed air, that needed oxygen, before swirling his tongue along the underside of the head, tracing the sensitive skin.
Sugilite sucks in a breath that he easily disguises as a laugh, but they both know he isn’t fooling anyone. “So eager, aren’t you, angel?” With his other hand, he cups Sunday’s cheek, smoothing away the streak of a fallen tear. “Taking my cock so well - just like the whore you are.”
Sunday resists the urge to lean into his touch, but he can’t suppress the compulsion to moan when Sugilite calls him a whore. It only proves him right - Sunday is a whore with a reaction like that - but it’s the way he says the word that sends a pulse of heat through him. He wants to move, find some friction against his clit to help relieve that building pressure, but Sugilite had told him to take it, to stay still where he was and do what he was made to do.
Sunday might be a whore, but the one thing he knows best is following instructions. He won’t break, despite how badly he wants it. Instead, he clenches his thighs, hoping that will at least help the feeling as he remains in place, mouth entirely for Sugilite to use.
And Sugilite uses him, just like they both want.
The Stoneheart thrusts into his mouth, touching the back of his throat, and Sunday directs all his focus to not gagging. Fresh tears cling to his eyelashes like clear crystals, and more roll down his cheeks. He can’t breathe like this, but he doesn’t want to.
He locks eyes with Sugilite as he desperately holds himself there, waiting.
The Stoneheart tugs on his hair, pulling a whine out of him. Heat pulses between his legs, intensity building as Sugilite pulls out before snapping his hips forward, sinking into Sunday’s waiting mouth. Another moan escapes him as Sugilite stays there, and Sunday feels his wings unconsciously flutter closer to his neck.
He quickly stills their movement, but Sugilite already saw the tell. Sugilite knows how to read him by now, and everything is laid bare before his eyes, exposing Sunday and his every thought, every feeling, every need.
The Stoneheart pauses his movement, still inside Sunday’s mouth. “You’re already that close? Just from this?”
A muffled whine escapes Sunday’s throat, and he watches Sugilite grin, feels the grip on his hair tighten. “If you keep behaving so well, you can come. It makes sense that all a cockslut like you needs is a good dick to suck for you to fall apart.”
It does feel like falling, Sunday knows that. And Sugilite might degrade him during acts like these, but in the end, he helps him come down so it doesn’t feel like he’s crashing to the ground again.
He welcomes this feeling, embraces it.
Sugilite thrusts inside his mouth again, and Sunday surrenders to him, letting the man use his throat to bring himself closer and closer to the edge of his own pleasure.
Sunday no longer trusts himself after what he has done, so he gives what’s left of his control away, momentarily ridding himself of the anxiety, the fear, the weight of responsibility that his own autonomy forces him to bear.
He knows what Sugilite wants - beneath his opulent nature, he’s a rather simple man, and Sunday understands that these encounters between them are just as much for the Stoneheart’s desires as they are for his own needs. Sugilite isn’t gentle with him, but that’s not what either of them want. Sunday wants to be used, to know how he will be used, and Sugilite wants to take, take, take.
Sunday is all too willing to give.
He knows when Sugilite gets close, hears it in the way his pants get a little louder, feels it in the erratic movements of his hips. The Stoneheart opens his mouth to say something - warn him, most likely - but Sunday hollows out his cheeks, moans again, takes him deeper, and it’s too late for that.
The first few times they did this, Sunday was overwhelmed by the texture, the amount, the speed at which Sugilite emptied himself into his waiting mouth, had gagged and spit most of it out in the end.
Now, Sunday knows better, swallows around his dick until his own head feels fuzzy, until his own pleasure drops out from under him, and all he can do is moan around Sugilite’s cock.
For a moment after, they stay like that, Sugilite’s heavier breathing the loudest sound in his ears. Then, Sunday feels him pull away, feels a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.
“Stand up.” Sugilite helps pull him to his feet as his limbs struggle to comply, then glances down where he’d been kneeling, at the small puddle of slick he left behind. “You sure made quite a mess, angel. Did you seriously come untouched from just sucking me off?” He leans in like he’s about to say something, moves closer and closer to Sunday’s face, but in the end, he simply says, “Lay down on the bed.”
Sunday, despite his haziness, is quick to comply - but still not quick enough. Suddenly, he finds himself lifted into the air, light as a feather in the Stoneheart’s arms, before landing on the bed on his back, air knocked out of his lungs from the unexpected drop.
Immediately, Sugilite is on top of him, pressing him into the mattress, pushing Sunday’s arms over his head, holding them in place with his forearm as he leans into him. The kiss between them deepens as Sugilite bites his lip, working his tongue inside Sunday’s mouth.
Sunday compiles, of course he does, letting him inside as he lies below him, stretched out, exposed, restrained. It’s everything he wants, everything he needs.
He’s entirely at Sugilite’s mercy, and this Stoneheart isn’t known for that particular trait.
Sugilite moves his free hand lower, rolling one of Sunday’s sensitive nipples under his thumb, pinching it, and the Halovian can’t help but moan under the precise assault. He feels the area between his legs grow even wetter, feels the Stoneheart smirking against his lips as he twists the bud between his fingers, feels the tears roll down his face as he moans into his mouth.
Instinctively, his wings move to cover his eyes - it’s the only way he can cover any part of himself right now. Immediately, Sunday feels Sugilite pull away, lifting his hand from his chest, breaking off the kiss. “Don’t hide from me, angel. You know you can’t anyway, I already know how much of whore you are.”
Sunday knows he won’t continue until he follows instructions, so he peels his wings away, forces them to lay flat against the pillow as he stares at the man above him through his tear-filled eyes.
Sugilite smiles down at him, almost patronizing, but definitely pleased. “Good, you can follow instructions.” Backhanded praise, but Sunday still moans as he nods.
The Stoneheart doesn’t return his lips to Sunday’s. Instead, he leans down to suck on his nipple, moving his hand to give the other the same attention he had to the first.
The noise that comes out of Sunday is so loud it feels like it vibrates through his skull, and the only thing that keeps him from arching off the bed is the delicious pressure on his chest pushing against him.
“You really are a whore, aren’t you?”
Normally, if Sunday were anywhere other than here, in this position, any words spoken like this to him would be rebuffed with polite, yet firm denial. But here, it’s easier to give in, to sink deeper, to accept this. Sometimes, that’s exactly what he wants. So Sunday simply nods. Besides, he knows that in this moment, whore is the most accurate descriptor of how he acts, what he’s feeling, the need that drives him to follow everything this man asks of him.
This seems to satisfy Sugilite enough, so his hand moves deeper, finally, finally reaching his aching cunt. Sunday might have already come once, but he wants to be touched, is practically shaking with the need to be touched.
When Sugilite pinches his clit, the moan that escapes his mouth is more like a scream, clawing its way out of his throat. That heat is building again, not close enough for another release, but enough to make him writhe below the Stoneheart at each harsh, desired touch.
He almost misses the sound of Sugilite sucking in a breath, but somehow it registers in his head over everything. “God, you moan like a whore too.” Sunday can’t quite make out the quiet words he says after that, but it sounds something like “You’re perfect, angel,” which he immediately dismisses because that’s entirely too far from the truth.
The next thing Sunday knows is the welcome feeling of Sugilite pressing two fingers inside him, sinking into his cunt. He can hear how wet he is, the lewd sounds of the Stoneheart’s fingers swirling along his sensitive walls. His voice can’t take much more of this, but he wants it all, even as each of his moans, his whines, his every gasp rips their way out of him.
He knows Sugilite likes to hear him too, and he won’t deprive him of that.
Each sensation is too much, not enough - Sunday wants everything, nothing, his head is spinning - but then Sugilite pulls his fingers out, leaving him empty, too empty. The whine that escapes definitely makes him sound like a whore, but he’s long past the point of caring.
“You’ll get what you want soon enough.” The Stoneheart’s voice is patronizingly sweet, and he wears a smile to match as he moves his attention further up the Halovian’s body. “Besides, you like having your mouth full too, don’t you, angel?” That’s the only warning Sugilite gives before sliding his slick-covered fingers into Sunday’s mouth.
Sunday moans at the intrusion. The taste of himself fills his mouth, and he dutifully cleans Sugilite’s fingers, just like he knows he wants, rolling his tongue along their length.
Sunday has to blink away the newly forming tears in his eyes to see Sugilite’s face, and he seems enraptured by the show before him, of the Halovian sucking off his own slick like it’s water after days in a desert. When the Stoneheart sees him staring, his expression changes to a smirk, and he pushes those fingers in further, making Sunday gag on them before he pulls back to where they were.
“I wonder if you could just come again from my fingers like this, just like you did from sucking my cock,” he muses out loud, eyes eating up every reaction. Sugilite lifts his other arm away from where he’s pinned Sunday’s above his head. “Keep your arms up there, angel. I want you to stay there. Don’t move them.” He tilts his head, running his free hand under Sunday’s chin. “Can you do that for me?”
Sunday tries unsuccessfully to hold back another moan as he nods, gripping at the sheets above his pillow to keep them in place.
The Stoneheart grins. “Such a good slut you are.” The syrupy sweetness of Sugilite’s tone plays with the Halovian’s head, and he groans around his fingers, sucking with even more intensity.
Still smiling, Sugilite drags his hand lower, dancing his fingertips over the sensitive skin of Sunday’s hips.
Sunday whines, bucking into those brief touches, still keeping his arms stretched above his head. He can’t say anything - he’s at the Stoneheart’s whims entirely - but he wants more, he needs it. Another whine breaks out of his throat as he tightens his lips around Sugilite’s fingers, pleading to him with his eyes.
Sugilite smirks again, lifting his hand to pet Sunday’s hair, eliciting another whine as he moves his hand away from where he knows Sunday needs him. “God, you’re so desperate, angel. This look really suits you.” He sighs, a performative exhale, as his smirk grows. “Well, you have been good for me, following instructions so well, so I’ll give you what you want.”
The Stoneheart shifts above him, moving his knee so it rests against Sunday’s aching cunt. The look on Sugilite’s face showcases the satisfaction he seems to feel as he tells him, “There. Take what you want to like the whore you are.”
Another whine pulls its way out of Sunday as he grinds his hips against the Stoneheart, seeking any friction, any relief, any pleasure he can find. He knows that Sugilite wants a show, and right now, he’ll do anything to get him inside, to fill him up exactly the way Sugilite is best at.
Sunday has never felt desperate like this before, but he arches his back, juts his hips upward, drags his sensitive skin along the Stoneheart’s thigh, leaves a wet trail in his wake. He’s practically soaking Sugilite’s leg in his slick, moaning against his fingers as his clit glides against it. It’s not enough, he needs more, but right now, he’ll take what he can get until the Stoneheart decides he’s been good enough to get what he wants, when he feels like Sunday has finally earned it.
Sugilite moves his hand from the Halovian’s hips back to his chest, rubbing his thumb over one of his nipples again. Sunday’s movements stutter against the Stoneheart’s thigh, and the whine that such a simple touch pulls out of him is so loud it would almost be embarrassing, if Sunday were not already past the point of shame as he continues chasing his pleasure in these certain ways that he’s allowed.
He loses himself as he finds a rhythm, pushing his hips forward, pressing against Sugilite, for once letting himself take and take and take. The Stoneheart plays with him in return, lazily swirling his fingers over his chest. The Halovian knows he’s watching him pleasure himself against his leg, but somehow this feels so good that he forgets this, forgets until he hears a groan above him. Sunday looks up at him with unfocused eyes, takes in the Stoneheart’s expression, realizes how truly affected Sugilite really is.
Mouth parted, eyes wide, the man stares down at him as really is an angel, like he is truly beautiful, like Sugilite is the one at Sunday’s mercy.
For a brief moment, that power goes to his head, but maybe the Stoneheart has a sixth sense for these things. Sugilite lowers his hand, restricting the movement of Sunday’s hips, restraining his pleasure. He pushes his fingers deeper into his mouth, forcing the Halovian to gag before removing them entirely.
Sunday whines at the loss, but the Stoneheart smirks at the sound. “Now, now - let’s not get ahead of ourselves, angel. I’m not going to just let you come like that - you haven’t earned it yet.”
The Halovian tilts his head, the question carried in his slight movement.
Sugilite isn’t a mind reader, but he seems like the next closest thing with Sunday in moments like this.
He squeezes Sunday’s hip, and he gasps at the sudden pressure. His other hand, still wet from Sunday’s mouth, drifts under his chin, pushing his head up. “You have a beautiful voice, angel,” he says, and something about it doesn’t sound so patronizing. Before that thought can take root, Sugilite leans in closer, grasping Sunday’s face in his hand, turning his head to the side so he can press his lips directly into his ear. “Your mouth isn’t sucking anything off right now,” he points out. “I’m sure a slut like you can figure out other ways to use it to get what you want.”
The way he says that sends another pulse of heat through his core, and Sunday pieces together what Sugilite wants him to do.
Sunday rarely talks during sex - what is there to say? He isn’t going to defend himself from the Stoneheart’s degradation, he already knows he’s a whore, it’s a truth that he’s accepted at this point - all the Stoneheart has to do is say that word, call him a slut, demean him in such ways, and he practically drips from how wet it makes him, how much he wants to drop to his knees at his feet.
Sugilite can see what he does to him, so he doesn’t need to hear the performative platitudes he already faces enough in his profession. Sunday is eloquent with words, but under the Stoneheart’s focused attention, he loses most of his capacity for them - Sugilite makes certain of that.
One thing that Sunday knows Sugilite does like to hear from him is begging.
“Please.” The Halovian’s voice sounds used, just as he has been, just like he wants to be.
Sugilite pulls back slightly, tilts Sunday’s face toward him so he can’t look away. “Please what, angel?” The Stoneheart stretches out the question as a small, teasing smile slips over his face.
Sunday whines, trying to piece together his thoughts, trying to find the words to tell him what he wants, what he needs.
Sugilite’s smile lingers, his thumb leisurely circling over the Halovian’s hip as he squirms underneath him. “How am I supposed to know what you want if you won’t tell me?”
Sunday digs his fingers into the sheets, keeping his arms stretched above his head. He wants to touch him, wants to... But the Stoneheart’s command holds him in place - if there’s one thing Sunday understands, it’s obedience. “I… just, please, let me come!”
“How, angel?” Sugilite asks, dragging out his words as if he has all the time in the world, as if there is no urgency to Sunday’s pleas, as if he can’t see the tears beginning to form once again. “There’s so many ways a whore like you could want it, you’re going to have to narrow it down for me.”
Sunday’s mind is spinning, grasping at anything to spur the Stoneheart into action. “Fingers, I just… please-“
Immediately, he feels Sugilite’s fingers enter his leaking cunt once again, and he moans as the Stoneheart leans closer, whispering into his ear. “There, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?”
Sugilite teases the shell of Sunday’s ear with his teeth, and any semblance of coherent thought shatters under that pinch of pleasure that feels as if it courses through his entire body.
With how much Sugilite has wound him up, Sunday knows he isn’t going to last much longer. The Stoneheart is skilled with his fingers, knows exactly where Sunday needs them, and he keeps crooking them into that spot over and over.
The heat builds, threatens to overwhelm him, but a part of Sunday fights it, looks to Sugilite, whines.
“Isn’t this what you asked for, angel?” His mouth is close to Sunday’s ear. The words, his voice, his warm breath, it all makes him shiver. “Go ahead, come for me.”
It’s as if those words are all he needs.
The crest of pleasure overtakes Sunday - he can’t hold it back anymore, doesn’t want to - and his cunt pulses around Sugilite’s fingers as he cries out, as he comes.
His vision whites out, he’s speaking, but can’t hear his words but he knows he’s saying Sugilite’s name - his real name, given to him in confidence, never used outside of this context, only for these moments and nothing else.
When Sunday returns to his senses, the first thing he sees is Sugilite above him. The man looks at him as if in a trance of his own. When the Stoneheart sees him coming out of it, he wipes the look off his face, returning the mask Sunday is more familiar with in moments like this to its usual place.
“You look wrecked, angel.” Sugilite runs his fingers through Sunday’s hair - the fingers that hadn’t been in his cunt, hadn’t been in his mouth. The soothing touch grounds him, helps Sunday come back to his body, this moment. “But a whore like you wants more, don’t you?”
The man’s expression shifts slightly, mask dipping low enough to let his thoughts shine through on his face. Is that what you want? More? I want to be sure before going further. Sugilite doesn’t push Sunday past the point he’s willing to go. He knows the Stoneheart has garnered distrust in other areas - affiliations, dealings, other affairs - but here, with him like this, Sunday has more than enough faith that Sugilite will take care of him, that he won’t regret sharing a bed with him.
Sunday nods. “Please.” His voice sounds more desperate than before, and maybe he really is that desperate, even as the haze from his orgasm is still fading.
Sugilite nods, pulling his mask back into place. “And I’m sure nothing will satisfy you except my cock, is that it?” His smile is there again, teasing, yet the way the grip on the Halovian’s hair tightens betrays his own need.
As he feels the tug, the pull, Sunday whimpers at all the thoughts flooding his mind, the thought of being filled by his cock, the thought of more, the thought of how much Sugilite wants him too.
The Stoneheart laughs, patronizing, amused, a beautiful sound in his ears. “Angel, I need words.” His other hand, still covered in Sunday’s last orgasm, drifts up to his face. He tilts the Halovian’s head upward, guiding him with slicked fingers under his chin. ”I want to know what’s going through that pretty head of yours.”
Too many things - feelings, half-formed thoughts, impulsive ideas (he doesn’t look at anyone else like that, you could stare into those eyes all day, why don’t you just tell him how you feel). Verbalizing anything now is too much - he doesn’t know if he can, just knows that it’ll be a disaster if he tries. Instead, he leans his head back down, takes Sugilite’s fingers into his mouth again, swirls his tongue around them, moans.
It’s not words, but Sunday hopes it’s enough to satisfy him.
And at the end of the day, Sugilite is simply a man.
He sucks in a breath, can’t even come close to hiding how ragged the intake of air is as he takes in the display below him. “Angel…” The word comes out in a groan, like he’s losing himself just as much as Sunday.
Sunday watches Sugilite’s other hand reach toward the side of the bed, retrieving the lube that they’d put there earlier. He pulls his fingers out of the Halovian’s mouth, and Sunday can’t help but whine at the loss. He really is a whore for having Sugilite fill his mouth with his cock, his fingers, whatever the man is willing to give.
Sugilite squeezes some of the cool liquid on his fingers, and Sunday watches him stroke his cock, hissing as he spreads the lube along his length. That noise tells Sunday that he’s painfully hard, that he got that way from simply playing with him like this, toying with him as he likes to do. The thought of that sends another pulse of pleasure through him.
Sunday wants him too, he feels like he needs Sugilite inside him again, feels too empty.
“Soon enough, angel.” The ragged words cut through his thoughts, and he realizes he must have said them out loud. The man above him doesn’t give him any time to reflect on this thought - they both know they want this, need this too much to stop to dwell on the implications of it all, these small slips between the cracks in the masks they both know they wear but never acknowledge.
Sugilite pulls him in closer, the head of his cock brushing against Sunday’s sensitive folds, dragging another loud moan out of him. Sunday thinks he’ll tease him more - Sugilite usually does when he is begging like this - but no, not this time. Instead, he sinks inside him in one swift motion, and Sunday’s eyes seem to roll back into his head at the sensation of suddenly being filled. He’s moaning, he knows he is, his mouth is open and he feels the vibrations emerging from his used throat, but all his mind is letting him take in is just how full he is.
The man above him seems to also need a moment to adjust to being inside him, eyes unfocused, yet somehow focused entirely on Sunday. “Is that what you wanted?” He asks, the confident edge in his tone giving way to the need that permeates them both.
Sunday nods as he feels tears stream down the sides of his face.
This time, Sugilite doesn’t seem so particular about words, takes his answer at face value as he slowly pulls out before thrusting in again, and both their moans intertwine in the air. “God, you’re already so wet. Feels like I didn’t even need the lube.”
Sunday moans again as the man moves his hips, dragging his cock along the sensitive wet walls inside him, hitting all those spots that make him grow louder, his tears flow faster, the heat builds more quickly in his core. He’s a mess, he knows he is, but he’s only a mess like this when he’s beneath Sugilite, when he places all aspects of himself within the man’s capable hands.
Within these moments between them, Sunday trusts him to do what they need, to take care of him after he’s been rung out for both of their enjoyment.
Where Sunday’s vice is the need for control, he gives that to Sugilite, believes that these touches of his, those that are tender and taunting and all between, will not break him, that Sugilite will not let him fall like he did before, never leave him to pick up the pieces of himself.
Sunday hopes that Sugilite finds that same satisfaction, that same comfort, in him as well, but even now, there are still aspects of the man’s mask that the Halovian struggles to see behind.
Sugilite leans his head down next to his neck, and Sunday can hear the harsh pants that border on groans escape his lips. He’s close, Sunday vaguely registers as his thrusting becomes more erratic, and the Halovian’s own pleasure threatens to spill over.
But Sunday knows he needs to hold on, can only come when he has permission to.
Sugilite’s hand makes its way to his face, trails down his neck, brushes against his wings. The man has always been careful when touching his wings, even during heated moments like this.
He feels Sugilite’s soft yet needy touch on the underside of his wings, feels that contact travel from the soft vanes of his feathers to their quills, feels that sensation reaching the sensitive skin of his wing connecting them all.
“Want you to come with me, angel.” The words are so strained, they’re practically breaking, just like the man above him. “You can do that - right?”
Sunday is already at his limit, but he tries his best to hold on, to nod, even as Sugilite keeps rolling his hips forward, keeps running his fingers through his feathers. He can’t - it’s all so much, so good - but he’s far past the point of verbal coherency, only unintelligible noises that sound vaguely like Sugilite’s name slipping past his lips alongside vocal moans and drawn out whimpers.
His own heavy breaths are amplified in his ears, and he clenches around Sugilite’s cock, tightening his grip on him.
Sunday doesn’t want to disobey, but if he can’t follow Sugilite’s instructions, at least he can try to drag him down with him.
A sharp inhale beside Sunday’s ear, a moan, a stuttering of his hips - Sugilite’s falling too, just as Sunday lets go and plunges after him.
Sunday falls deep, depths that only Sugilite has ever brought him too, not that he’s ever tried to go there with anyone else. He’s under for what seems like forever and yet no time at all, though he realizes afterwards that this lasts for much longer than usual.
When he comes back to himself, Sugilite has already pulled out of him, already cleaned away the fluids on his legs, around his folds, on his face. The man has always been attentive, caring like this - that’s just who he is with his partner in bed, and those actions never fail to bring a certain warmth to Sunday’s chest.
Now, Sugilite looks down at him, and the Halovian can see the concern he’s trying to hide etched into the details of his expression. “Are you okay after that?”
Sunday nods, trying to get his bearings. “’M fine.” The words scratch his used, dry throat as he says this. “Water, please?”
Sugilite hands him a glass from the bedside table, and Sunday takes a few long sips before handing it back to him. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Sugilite tells him, setting it back down. “I’d do this for any partner.”
Sunday knows this; the Stoneheart has said as much before, yet there’s a strange twinge of pain he’s not accustomed to that accompanies those sentiments now.
He pushes down that feeling as he shakily stands to his feet, Sugilite holding out a hand to support him as he momentarily steps away from the bed. He knows their routine well now - the Stoneheart likes to swap out the sheets for clean ones after taking care of Sunday, so the Halovian makes way for this, just as he always does.
Once the linens on the bed are clean, Sugilite helps him back down onto the bed, lying down next to him.
Sunday isn’t expecting to linger there long, but his eyelids begin to fall, and he jolts awake to the feeling of Sugilite’s hand on his shoulder.
“You don’t have to leave, you know.” Sunday knows this is the closest the Stoneheart will come to saying that he wants the Halovian to stay. Sugilite may know how to read him, but Sunday has also learned a bit of translation in this regard as well. “The Astral Express isn’t scheduled to head out in the next few days, and your companions seem busy enough on their own, so… if you’d like to sleep here for the night…” Sugilite trails off, and that’s the first true break that Sunday has seen in the Stoneheart’s mask in quite some time.
Sugilite has made this clear since the beginning of their arrangement that this was casual - that that’s all it was, and it wouldn’t ever be more than that. Sugilite has never had a relationship that was more than that. Sunday accepts this, but he won’t sleep with anyone else. It just… the idea of it feels wrong to him, and he’s more than willing to wait for their paths to cross, for the Stoneheart to visit when he has a rare, free moment, and seeks him out for stress relief.
Though, from what Sunday understands, Sugilite isn’t sleeping with anyone else, either. He refuses to read into that any further, remembers the Stoneheart’s sentiment when they started meeting like this, reminds himself of that. Hope can be a good thing, but he’s seen many crushed by the weight of it all the same.
Moments like this give him mixed signals. He doesn’t have much of a metric for what a “casual” relationship is, what it entails, just knows what Sugilite expects from him, knows that the Stoneheart understands what he needs in return.
Maybe Sunday does not want to take back control just yet, to pretend that perhaps this is more than what he knows their relationship to be. “I… suppose I can stay tonight.”
Sugilite’s eyes glance back at him, a flicker of surprise glinting in their depths before they’re smothered by the usual confidence Sunday is accustomed to seeing there. “Good. Let me know if you need anything at all - I’ll take care of it.”
Sunday nods, too tired to fully register those words as he rests his head on the pillow next to Sugilite’s again.
It’s easier than Sunday expects to just settle back down next to him, for his eyes to close, for his breathing to slow. He feels Sugilite shift next to him, can tell from how the bed moves beneath them that the Stoneheart’s eyes are on him. Normally, this thought would bother him, wake him from this lethargic lull, but now it is another passing thought as his mind begins to drift.
Before he settles into unconsciousness, he can’t help but hope that Sugilite, this… whatever this is that they are doing together, that it isn’t ground that crumbles underfoot, that this is something solid.
Only time will tell, but for now, he dreams.