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The first time Sunday gives into temptation, he’s sober and in complete control. He doesn’t know what’s worse: the fact that her lips are impossibly soft on his or the fact that he’s allowing this to happen in the first place. Has he always been so weak? So undisciplined?
In this dream world, everything is perfect—but his beloved sister has been claimed by Death, and the Fool is snaking her fingers under his shirt. Sparkle kicks off her shoes and pushes him backwards until they tumble onto his bed.
“You need to loosen up,” she says with a laugh while sliding off his gloves.
She’s a walking nightmare, he thinks when she hikes up his shirt and splays her hands over his stomach. Her kisses grow more ravenous, more hungry. She’s going to devour me. His hands are on her waist, and she’s impossibly warm. Corporeal. And when he parts his lips for her, relishing how her tongue glides against his like hot silk, he understands that he might be the only fool in this room.
I am keeping the peace, he tells himself. Forging an amicable relationship so that further disaster does not befall Their perfect domain. That is why he lets her push him against the pillows, his halo violently knocking against the headboard. That is why he lets her straddle his hips and lather his throat with eager bites and kisses.
This is not part of The Family’s plans, but surely, They will understand.
“I want to know,” Sparkle whispers into his ear, sending shivers down his spine. She brushes her fingers over his wings, every slight ruffle of his feathers making his blood rush downwards. “I can be whatever you want. Whoever you want. So many masks to choose from. What’s your pick?”
Sunday’s hands trail up her creamy thighs, teasing the hem of her skimpy dress. This must be Hell, he realizes when his breath catches at the sight of her leaning over him—her silky, long tresses cascading over her shoulders, and her eyes shining in the dark. Crimson. Demonic. Flushed cheeks and swollen lips. Her heavy breaths. Signs of his crumbling control all over her body.
“I despise you, Fool,” he manages to bite out. He digs crescents into her flesh, tiny pink marks befitting of a sinner—but who’s the sinner?
When she laughs, sickly sweet and acidic all at once, he feels himself straining against his pants, and this dream grows even more twisted.
“You hate me, but you want me. Do you want me to hate you, too? To want you, too?” she coos, raking her fingers through his hair and lightly scratching at his scalp. She licks a stripe up his throat, and he shudders, a moan nearly floating past his lips. She fists his hair and pulls his head back, exposing more of his throat to her. She bites down softly. “You like this, don’t you? The thrill of giving in. So tell me, Sunday… How do you want me? On my knees? Or…”
She rolls her hips, and pleasure floods his senses.
“We can stay like this if you want.”
Again, he wants to say. Again. Again. Again. But he is too prideful for that. This is yet another sin he must bear. When she rolls her hips again, he groans.
“Oh? Sounds like you liked that,” she teases. Sparkle continues grinding down against his cock, and he winds his arms around her, pulling her body flush against his. “Tell me what you want,” she pleads, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear. Her breathing grows heavy. “Do you want me to worship you? Make you feel like a god?”
“I have heard enough of your blasphemy,” Sunday grits out.
A grin stretches across her face. “But you haven’t even heard me moan your name yet.” His heart stutters, breath quickening. Is nothing off limits for this fiend? “You want to have your way with me. I can see it in your eyes. Just one taste. That’s what you’re thinking, no?”
“You’re wrong.”
Sparkle throws her head back, her entire body shaking with laughter. “Then why haven’t you pushed me away, chicken boy?” She grabs his chin and captures his lips in a kiss. Sunday’s eyes flutter shut, and against his better judgment—against everything he knows and loves—he kisses her back. “Let me tell you why,” she says in between kisses. “It’s because you’re already too far gone.”
With a growl, he grabs her wrists and pins her beneath him. As though possessed, he kisses her again. It’s a mess of tongue and teeth, and when she bucks her hips and arches her back, he moans into her mouth and grinds down, chasing after his own pleasure.
He loops a finger under one of the straps of her dress. “Take this off.”
“Someone sounds eager,” she teases. In the blink of an eye, red flames dance across her skin, and her dress burns away. He releases her wrists and sits up. “Like what you see?”
This goes against the Harmony’s teachings.
Everything about this is wrong.
From birth, Sunday dedicated himself to his studies; he read the scripture fervently, committing the Odes to memory. What is wrong. What is right. What is fair. What is just. Every day, he walks that fine line in service of the Family, for there is no greater cause. No greater calling.
To err is human, to forgive divine. But giving into temptation and allowing weakness to take hold of oneself represents a lack of discipline and a lack of respect for the teachings from those who have come before him. Someone who metes out punishment in the name of the divine must also be willing to receive it.
Sunday’s hands settle on her waist before trailing up to her breasts. She is supple and pliant beneath him, her body arching up as though pleading for his touch.
There is nothing holy in this act.
There is no honor in putting his hands on a woman who only seeks to sow discord in Their utopian dreamscape—a woman who wears his sister’s skin and has stolen her voice for her own gain.
He wants to mark her. Brand her. It’s a disturbing thought to entertain, a unique selfishness that astounds even himself. Sunday is not above manipulation and coercion. The ends often justify the means, after all—but to what ends?
He starts with her throat, wet kisses and teeth grazing the thin flesh over her pulse. Then he kisses a trail down the length of her body until he’s between her thighs. Methodical and controlled. He moves with purpose—just enough to elicit a response, just enough to fulfill that base need that has welled up within him. With his mouth, he coaxes moans from her lips. It’s a beautiful sound, a haunting melody.
Perhaps that’s the worst part of this treachery. To follow the Harmony is to become singular, to sing the same song, to resonate at the same frequency. To harmonize.
But this is a song meant only for their ears, for there is no space in this dream for Them.
When he presses his mouth to her cunt and tastes the devil on his lips, the sickness within him festers and spreads. She is singing now. Singing him praises. Hymns.
Sunday’s wings twitch at the sound, and the piercings in his left wing grow heavy. Punishment, he recalls, only works on those who are capable of feeling guilt.
He was once like that. Guilty.
One golden stake through the wing to serve as a reminder. Another golden stake to serve as a warning. There shall never be a third; not unless the Fool binds him with ropes and drives the stake through his feathers with her own slender hands.
Sparkle’s hands lazily rake through his hair and through his feathers, and he trembles with need. Shameful. Shameful. “This is who you are under the mask,” she muses. “You take what you want. Not quite the angel you present yourself to be, but I already knew that. That’s what I like about you. It’s what makes you so amusing.”
Sunday shrugs off his coat, letting it flutter to the ground before discarding the rest of his clothes. There is no need to debase himself in this way—to lay with her and share in her nakedness—but Sparkle is tugging at his pants, and he is too weak to refuse.
When his cock springs free, Sunday wastes no time and sinks into her with ease. He groans at the sensation; the feeling of her wrapped so tightly around his length is indescribable. He soon comes to understand why such acts are discouraged. The pleasure radiates through his entire body like venom that’s seeped into his veins.
He starts to move, his cock gradually stretching her out. She moans, soft and melodic, and Sunday wonders how many more songs he can coax from her lips. He thrusts into her roughly, hips rocking with reckless abandon and no discernible rhythm. Sparkle digs her nails into his back, and he wraps his hand around her throat in retaliation.
She’s unbearably wet for him, and the friction almost makes him lose his mind. For someone who speaks in such wicked tongues, she is surprisingly obedient, he thinks. Her body molds so perfectly with his as he fucks her into the mattress, one hand still firm on her throat.
“S-Sunday—” she manages to choke out.
His name sounds beautiful when she comes. There’s a reverent quality to it that makes him feel dizzy. Sunday chases after that thrill—her worship—and continues rocking into her with reckless abandon. Sparkle squirms beneath him, still overly sensitive from her orgasm.
“Yes, yes, yes!” she cries out, fisting the sheets.
Sunday loses count of how many times she unravels beneath him. Her eyes roll back in pleasure, and her mouth hangs open. Not a single word passes through her lips. All she can do is gasp and moan as he pounds into her ruined cunt.
“Tell me, Fool,” he grits out when he grabs her by the waist. “Who are you under the mask?”
He slows his pace, granting her a moment of mercy, and her eyes groggily flutter open. She licks her swollen lips. “I’m Sparkle,” is all she says. An emotion gleams in her eyes. It’s neither mischievous nor joyous.
Something stirs in his chest, and it makes him feel sick to his stomach. He fucks the feeling away, replacing the dread with heat and pleasure. Stars dance in his vision when he comes, leaving him weak and stupid when he collapses on top of her. Sparkle giggles and curls up beside him, resting her head on his chest. He wraps an arm around her, and his hand falls to her waist. He isn’t sure why.
Sunday stares at the ceiling. He blinks. “Tell me, Sparkle.” Her name feels foreign on his tongue—because it’s hardly even a name. Sparkle, he realizes, is an idea. “What do you gain from this?”
“You, of course.” She giggles again, not a care in the world. “Like I said before: who can resist a guy rocking spikes on his wings?”
“So you were just chasing after… pleasure?” He scoffs. “Unbelievable.”
“Well, duh. Why else would I have sex?”
“I could have killed you. I could have tightened my grip around your throat just enough to suffocate you.”
“Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve… But you didn’t,” she asserts. “And do you know why that is?”
“Why?”
“Like I said before: it’s because you want me just as much as you hate me.” She coyly smiles and twirls a lock of his hair around her finger. “You will never be indifferent towards me. And that, chicken boy, is why I’ve already won.”
He rolls onto his side, his wings folding uncomfortably against his head, and reaches for the collar wrapped around her throat. He fidgets with the bell and experimentally tugs on it. The bell softly jingles with every subtle movement.
In the corner of his eye, Sunday can see wispy mirages swimming around the room—vibrant pinks and reds swirling amidst murky blues. The soft crooning of a distant whale, bubbles rising to the surface, and the elegant undulating fins of a fish.
“Your spell won’t work on me, you vixen.”
“Aw… Well, it was worth a shot.” Sparkle pouts. “What will it take for you to be mine?”
Sunday clicks his tongue. “Don’t be foolish” He flicks the bell again, pleased by its gentle chime. “I will never be yours, for I belong to Them.”
“We’re alike, y’know. You and I.” It’s a ridiculous assumption to make. Sparkle draws little flowers on his chest. Her red lacquered nails lightly scratch his skin, and it’s a disturbingly pleasant sensation. “We both know which masks to wear and when to wear them. We’ll do anything to get what we want. The people always want a performance, and there’s no greater fun than putting on a good show. But when the curtain falls, who are you, Sunday? Do you know who you are without your masks?”
She glances up at him, a knowing smirk on her lips.
A heavy weight settles in his chest, a thudding sense of dread that threatens to make his chest cave in.
He doesn’t answer her.
Sparkle remains unbothered. She lays on his chest until her breathing slows and evens out. Sunday waits for her to fall asleep and then lays her in the dreampool. Soon, Sparkle will return to the waking world. Evidence of their unspeakable acts will be washed away by the waters. She will return fully-clothed, and there will be no ache between her legs, no bruises on her throat.
How awfully convenient.
He dresses himself and then slips on his shoes. One glance in the mirror tells him everything he needs to know. Combing through his disheveled hair and ruffled feathers, Sunday feels bile rise up his throat. It’s bitter and acrid. He grips the edges of his sink and glares at his own visage. Gold gleams under the dim lights, and he takes a slow, stuttering breath before smoothing out his coat and straightening his back.
Seconds turn into minutes, and minutes turn into hours. When he finally returns to reality and sets foot in his personal quarters, he heads for the bathroom and pulls out a porcelain box. Little golden spikes shine up at him, and he carefully balances one between his fingers.
Angling his head in the mirror, Sunday holds it up, and drives the stake through his wing.
The stinging sensation lingers throughout the rest of the day. He can feel the subtle weight in his feathers when he kneels at the altar and prays. He dips his head lower when he whispers the unspeakable and casts those unsavory truths into the stars. He presses his forehead to the floor, and his halo vibrates in shame.
He feels unbalanced when he raises his head. That subtle difference in weight. One half battling the other. Scales tilting to the left.
Never to the right.
When he meets Sparkle again, it is in a dream and on top of familiar tangled sheets. The piercing doesn’t hurt anymore, for the waters have cleansed him of his worldly sins. He sits beside her, reborn.
Her fingers flit through his feathers. “This one’s new,” she remarks, her lips tugging into playful smirk.
“It symbolizes the deal we have struck,” he says, calmly. “You said you would support me, correct?”
“Of course, chicken boy.” She taps the new spike, her nail softly clacking against the metal. When he reaches for her wrist, she moves to straddle his hips. “Out of everyone here, I think you’re the most fun. I look forward to working with you,” she says with a wink.
“Meet me here again in three nights.”
Paper masks fade in and out overhead like dazzling little sparklers.
Her bell softly jingles when he tugs at her collar and pulls her down into a biting kiss. He can taste iron on his tongue. He doesn’t know if it’s his blood or hers.