Archive of Our Own

“Never in my life would I have imagined seeing the esteemed Mr. Sunday in such casual wear,” Aventurine notes as he slides into the private booth with ease.

Indeed, Sunday is considerably dressed down today. Gone is the alb and the cassock, the sashes and gold. He dons only a simple button-up and slacks, as well as a nondescript pair of white gloves—yes, he certainly looks informal. Perfectly ironed and crisp, but informal nonetheless.

In fact, Aventurine could almost mistake him for a common guest in the establishment—that is, if it weren’t for the gleaming revolver resting squarely in the middle of the lounge table.

“A pleasure as always, Mr. Aventurine,” Sunday says, lightly inclining his head in greeting. His fingers drum rhythmically on the table, mere centimeters away from the metaphorical elephant in the room. “I figured that my usual attire would be too uptight for a casual meeting such as this. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, not at all.” Aventurine tosses his left leg over his right knee and leans back into the seat languidly. His head tips, the motion ever-so-slight, as his eyes slide from Sunday to the pristine gun surrounded by fizzing drinks and syrupy sodas. “But I will say, I didn’t take you for the type to get your own hands dirty. I’m almost impressed. Did you decide to switch up your style so people wouldn’t recognize you leaving the scene of the crime?”

Sunday laughs that little half-laugh of his, an amused exhale that can’t seem to decide whether it’s a chuckle or a sigh. “Nothing of the sort. I merely had a simple proposition for you, if you would care to hear it.”

Aventurine leans forward, fingers laced. He says nothing, but his eyes are bright with piqued interest.

“We are both here to fulfill our own agendas.” Sunday crosses a leg over the other, mirroring Aventurine’s posturing. “And—at the risk of sounding conceited—I believe it is not an exaggeration to say that we are both skilled with the art of deception.”

“There is no need to be so modest, now. You and I both know that we did not reach our respective ranks through sheer luck alone.”

“I’m glad you agree,” Sunday says, a blasé smile on his face. “And I also hope you agree that while mind games are fun, they can be quite exhausting when prolonged, yes? As such, I have an idea to avoid the whole ordeal entirely.”

Sunday gestures to the firearm. “I hear that you are fond of gambling, Mr. Aventurine. As such, I suggest that we turn our little rendezvous into a game. The revolver has one round loaded in its chamber. We shall take turns asking the other questions, and if the other were to refuse, they must shoot themselves in the head after spinning the cylinder.” He inclines his head. “What say you?”

The ice in one of the drinks bobs to the surface. Aventurine watches the condensation sweat down the glass’s bowl, and stifles a laugh. He had heard many a rumor about the mysterious leader of the Oak Family, but he was under the impression that he wasn’t much of a risk-taker. Clearly, he’d underestimated him. 

A small smile is perched on Sunday’s thin lips. Aventurine can feel his gaze on him now; it’s expectant, heady, and confident. He almost wants to laugh. Forget risky— this suggestion is downright insane. Who in the universe would possibly bet their life on a mere information exchange? No normal person would.

No normal person would.

And that, too, tells Aventurine all he needs to know: the character that is Sunday does not play games he isn’t sure he’ll win. He’s certain of Aventurine accepting his deal. He’s certain of coming out on the other side of this wager not only unscathed, but as the victor.

This is a trap.

“That’s an awful lot of trust you’re asking us to put in each other,” Aventurine says, voice light. “What if I’m feeling provocative, hmm?”

Sunday’s chin tucks back neatly against his throat as he lowers his head, eyes fluttering shut. “If you are asking what we’d do if the other might be inclined to lie, don’t worry. The will of the Harmony will make it so that neither of us will be unable to deceive the other, at least not in this room.”

“Some kind of truth spell, then? Excuse the suspicions, but how can I guarantee that you won’t be able to worm your way out of it, Mr. Sunday?”

“The Great One of Paradise does not take bias. I could not escape THEIR gaze even if I wanted to. But I understand your apprehensiveness about the situation, so I will have an uninvolved third party enter to conduct the prayer.” Sunday’s hands fold atop each other, his fingers lacing delicately. “I will also refrain from telling them who exactly is in this room, so they will not attempt to exclude me from the spell.”

On the surface, it looks like the stakes are even—but Aventurine is a gambler well accustomed to its predatory trade. He would be foolish to think that the odds were balanced in this exchange; he would be foolish to take the bet at all. But then again, since when was he one to play it safe?

“Sounds fun,” Aventurine finally laughs, reclining back into the banquette. “Alright, I’ll take my chances. But only on one condition. For every shot that misses, we remove a singular article of clothing.”

Sunday’s wings suddenly jerk. He blinks rapidly, and—oh, that expression is quite nice on him. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again to ask, “…May I inquire why?”

“Well, you might have done something to mess with the revolver so that you would never get shot. Oh, don’t look so offended. You said it yourself. We work in deceiving others, so this is just another safety measure for me.” Aventurine gives him a smarmy grin. “Here, I’ll even take off my accessories now so I won’t have too big of an advantage. Don’t worry, I play fair.”

Watching the flicker of emotions flip through Sunday’s normally impassive face sends satisfaction curling deep into Aventurine’s gut. Impressively enough, his smile stays plastered on his face, twitching and wavering as it is. 

Finally, the furrow in his glitching brow smooths over, and he nods his head. “I will call for the prayer now.”

Things are quick going, after that. After a few moments’ pause—wherein Sunday sits stiffly and Aventurine fiddles to take off his bracelets and rings and the like—there’s a faint muttering near the door, and a wash of fuschia light. It leaves Aventurine feeling slightly disoriented, and he has to lean against the back of the seat to steady himself.

After the spots in his eyes fade, however, he notes that he doesn’t feel especially different, nor does he feel a sudden urge to spill all of his darkest secrets. Was Sunday just messing with him, after all?

“Do you doubt the effectiveness of it?” Sunday’s voice says. He’s smiling down at him, his previous restlessness seemingly settled. “If you’d like, you can ask me a question to test it out.”

Aventurine thinks for a moment. “Do all of the Family sects get along as well as they make it seem?”

“Absolutely not. The Family is a huge organization. Even if we all try to follow the Harmony to the fullest, the best of our ability can only reach so far. It is only with THEIR all-encompassing forgiveness that we may continue to follow THEM despite our sin,” Sunday responds immediately. 

Huh. Maybe Aventurine chose too easy of a question.

“In that case, which of the branches do you like the least?” Aventurine asks, curious.

Sunday gives him a blithe smile. “I believe that your free question has already been answered, Mr. Aventurine.”

Aventurine cheekily shrugs. “Are you refusing to answer?”

“It’s less of a refusal and more of a correction. After all, it’s my turn to ask you something.” Sunday picks up one of the drinks on the table, and calmly swirls the liquid in its glass. “IPC or otherwise, how many eyes are on this room?”

The words leave Aventurine’s lips faster than he can even think to process the question. “Three men are stationed in the room next door. Four others are observing the entrances and exits to this floor. All remaining free agents are waiting on standby on my command in the case of an emergency. I don’t know how many.” He blinks once, hard, before sitting back to exhale. “Oh, that sucks. How am I supposed to refuse to answer if my mouth moves faster than my brain?”

“It’s a matter of focus. The Triple-Faced Soul is a magnanimous Aeon; if the question is one you truly cannot bring yourself to answer, THEY will not force a response.” He gestures to Aventurine. “You may ask your question now.”

After a moment’s consideration, Aventurine, too, grabs a drink from the table. He tastes it gingerly, and is pleasantly surprised to find it refreshing. “Alright,” he says. “How much authority do you have over the Family as a whole?”

Briefly, Sunday seems to struggle with himself. Aventurine’s question lies on the more dangerous side, it seems. But then his eyes flick to his nicely buttoned shirt, and his perfectly ironed pants, and he reluctantly answers. 

“The Family is not a centralized group. While I am considered Penacony’s representative, I cannot go around doing whatever I want, whenever I want.” As his eyes narrow, the shadows of his silver lashes brush against his cheekbone. “It would suffice to say that Penacony would run smoother if I had utmost control.”

Aventurine quirks a grin. “You think that Penacony is better off as a dictatorship?”

“If I were to be in the seat, yes,” Sunday automatically says, then frowns. Or rather, the tips of his eyebrows crease into a light furrow for half a second before he wipes that expression clean. Still, it’s an entertaining look on him. Aventurine wonders if he’d ever been so honest before. 

Sunday sighs, and takes a sip of his drink. “That was two questions, Mr. Aventurine. I ask that you please adhere to the rules of our game.”

Is he pouting? He’s surprisingly cute. Pathological, but cute. “Right, yeah, sorry,” Aventurine grins, waving a hand. “Jeez, you’re stingy. But you can ask me two questions if you want.”

Sunday pointedly ignores the less-than-flattering comment, although the corners of his mouth flatten just a smidge. “Very well.”

And so the game goes on: Sunday asks his two questions (“Are you an actual member of the Ten Stonehearts, or is your alias as Aventurine a fake?”; “What do your duties include within your position in the Strategic Investment Department?”), and Aventurine answers them. (“Yes, I’m one of the members—do you really think me foolish enough to borrow the name of a Stoneheart, Mr. Sunday?”; “The Strategic Investment Department is in charge of managing business investment deals across the cosmos. I lead many of the operations, and ensure that the IPC comes out of the deal with profit.”) Aventurine asks a question, Sunday answers and asks his own, so on and so forth. They continue the back-and-forth with quick tongues, firing off questions that toe the line between risky and safe, one after the other. 

In all honesty, it’s quite fun. Refreshing, too. It isn’t often that he gets to have his questions answered at face value. Of course, he’s paying quite the price for this information, but intel is currently of the essence. He’s more than willing to leak a few company secrets if it means being able to crack The Family open—high risks yield high rewards, after all.

And then, Sunday asks: 

“How did you begin working for the IPC?”

Aventurine’s mouth swings open on instinct, but the words remain trapped behind his stiffened tongue. There’s a few seconds of bated silence as he gapes at Sunday, face twitching, as he fights the overwhelming instinct to tell him the truth.

And then, he finally manages to force out the words. “That’s unimportant.”

Sunday’s gaze, already so impossibly razor-sharp, only grows more piercing. “Oh? Is that a refusal to answer?”

Ah, hell. Aventurine gives him a crooked smile as he shrugs helplessly. “As much as I love taking risks, prematurely revealing  your hand often leads to humiliating defeat. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I suppose so.” Sunday gestures to the gun. Though the motion seems indifferent, there’s a keen sort of satisfaction to be found in his gaze. “Well, you know how the game goes. It’s time to test your luck, Mr. Aventurine.”

Aventurine slides the revolver into his hand. The weight of it rests deftly against his palm. He pops open the cylinder—true to Sunday’s word, five empty chambers stare back at him. Neatly slotted in the sixth is one shining, fresh round.

He closes it back up, smiling. “You weren’t lying about the single round, at the very least.”

Sunday folds his hands atop one another, his face impassive. “You could always answer the question if you’re nervous.”

“I think I’ll take my chances.” Aventurine cocks the hammer, relishing in the sound of the cylinder’s spin, and then points it at his own temple. He tilts his head up so that he’s looking down at Sunday, and lets a lazy grin spread from ear to studded ear. 

Bang, he mouths, as he presses down on the trigger.

Click.

Nothing. Aventurine removes the muzzle from his head, and twirls the gun around his finger. “See? I’m perfectly safe and sound.”

There’s an odd sort of heat to Sunday’s gaze—but before Aventurine can study it further, he closes his eyes and lets out an amused huff. “You have quite the penchant for the dramatics, don’t you, Mr. Aventurine?”

“A good performance is essential in the art of gambling, Mr. Sunday; surely you know that much, at the very least.” Aventurine waves a hand. “Also, you can just call me Aventurine. The honorifics are getting tiring.”

“If you insist,” Sunday says. He doesn’t extend the same courtesy to him; Aventurine doesn’t let this slip his notice. And then, Sunday tilts his head questioningly. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Aventurine laughs, and moves to shrug his outermost fur coat off of his shoulders. “I didn’t think you’d be so eager to see me take off my clothes,” he says, giving him a squinty-eyed smirk. “Should I worry about my chastity?”

And then, something unexpected happens. The corners of Sunday’s mouth twitch up to mirror his expression as he says, “Given your general demeanor, I highly doubt you have any left for me to raze.” 

Aventurine blinks at him, more than slightly taken aback, as he struggles between deciding whether to feel offended or impressed. Sunday’s expression is much the same—his mouth has dropped open in minute shock, and his eyes have grown slightly wide, as if he hadn’t meant to let the comment slip so easily. Oh, that’s right. Aventurine’s teasing had been in the form of a question, hadn’t it? 

A genuine laugh bubbles out from his chest as the realization sets in, and it only grows in volume as Sunday’s hands twitch to instinctually cover his face in embarrassment. 

It is Sunday though, so he manages to keep his palms perfectly postured on his lap. But he is, at the end of the day, only mortal, and the mortal’s shame manifests as thus: a soft flush dusts from ear to ear, wing to wing, as his eyelashes flutter in his fluster.

How lovely; how positively exhilarating! Yes, this reaction has made the insult quite worth it.

Sunday closes his eyes, brows furrowed, as he lightly gestures with his head. “...I apologize.”

“No need. It isn’t often that people tell me what they’re thinking directly to my face. It’s refreshing.” Feeling mischievous, Aventurine decides to tack on, “Has anyone told you that you look cute when you’re embarrassed?”

Sunday’s eyes peek open, annoyed—oh, that’s a nice expression, too. Why does he insist on wearing that demure smile all the time? He looks so much better like this. “I already apologized,” he grits out. “There is no need for further teasing.”

Aventurine reclines into the banquette. “I’m just saying, you’re a lot more appealing when you’re being honest. Hey—if you’re ever looking to lose your chastity, this would be a good way to go about it.”

“Aventurine.”

When he opens his eyes, he sees Sunday glaring daggers at him. It’s a shame that he’s so handsome. Aventurine is absolutely not one for distractions, and far be it for him to slip under the duress of a mere pretty face—but god, he wishes. 

“Alright, alright.” He puts his hands up in the air in mock surrender. “My question now, isn’t it? Let’s see.”

So far, all of his inquiries have been answered. But Aventurine is no fool—he is well aware that all of Sunday’s responses have been on the careful side. While lying outright might be impossible, lying by omission seems to be a plausible workaround. 

Aventurine had been right, earlier, when he suspected that Sunday had rigged the game in his favor. Not only was he privy to this bit of important knowledge, but he was also clearly more accustomed to the weight of the Harmony’s spell. Aventurine could barely keep himself from spilling his guts out with Sunday’s earlier question, but Sunday could manipulate his own answers with seemingly relative ease—save for one instance.

The offhand comment from earlier. What was different about it? 

Aventurine’s eyes slide from Sunday’s face to his hands. They’re perfectly still, as usual, but something’s off—they’re tense, now, tightly gripping each other like a drowning man clutching a lifeline. 

Hm. Perhaps the answer isn’t as difficult as he thought.

“Well?” Sunday prompts.

Aventurine smiles at him. “Are your wings sensitive?”

Said wings jerk to attention. Sunday’s hand snaps up to touch them, as if calming them down. He narrows his eyes. “I beg your pardon?” He shifts in his seat, clearly rattled. “Why do you want to know?”

“Well, I’m curious. We did say we could ask any question to each other.” Aventurine leans forward, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. “So?”

Sunday’s wings flutter rapidly, and flustered annoyance rapidly fills his eyes. He reaches up to soothe his ruffled feathers again as he grits out, “I don’t see how this information is particularly important to you. Don’t you think this question is a bit of a waste?”

“Tick-tock, Mr. Sunday. Are you refusing to answer?”

Sunday falls silent for a minute, then two. 

And then, he picks up the revolver.

Aventurine watches him spin the cylinder, endlessly amused. “I didn’t think you’d be that bothered by it.”

Sunday keeps his gaze on the gun, expression impassive—but from what Aventurine’s gathered of him so far, he’s surely irritated. “Talking about a Halovian’s wings in such a manner is considered very inappropriate, especially in a non-intimate setting. While I don’t fault you for being unaware of our customs, I don’t feel particularly comfortable discussing it.”

“Hmm. Shame.” Aventurine picks up his glass, and raises it in a toast. “Well, best of luck. May THEY look favorably upon you, and all that.”

Sunday tips his head slightly back, and rests the muzzle squarely on the side of his temple. Shock-purple and deep blue-gold meet as their eyes lock.

Sunday smiles. And then, he presses the trigger.

Click.

Aventurine claps as Sunday removes the revolver from his head. “Congratulations. Don’t forget to strip.”

“Must you be so crass?” Sunday mutters, but obliges. His hands move to delicately tug the gloves off of his fingers, one by one; the snowy leather slips off, revealing even snowier skin with every inch.

Aventurine watches, enraptured. His fingers are just as he’d expected them to be: smooth, thin, and unblemished. His nails are well-kept, and have a slight sheen to them—does he use polish? Even his cuticles are perfectly trimmed. Aventurine wonders what touching his hands might feel like. Aventurine wonders how they’d feel if they touched him.

Sunday folds his now-bare hands on top of each other, mouth flat. “My turn,” he says shortly—and oh, isn’t that interesting? His placid diplomacy seems to be slipping now. “What planet do you hail from?”

Aventurine shrugs, and reaches out a hand. “Pass the gun, will you?”

And so it continues. The nature of the questions shift in an entirely different direction; they’ve become more pointed, now, and there is a clear reluctance to answer on both sides. How ironic—there’s no hesitation to answer when presented with state and company secrets, but they’d rather flirt with death than share information about themselves. 

Off go their shoes, their socks. Aventurine’s gloves are tossed to the side; Sunday’s earrings are removed and neatly put away. It isn’t long before all that’s left of them are their shirts and slacks, where refusing to answer a question would force them to inevitably show skin.

Aventurine, in all his good fortune, gets to ask his question next. 

He smiles. “Despite the frequent clashes between our factions, the Family invited the IPC to celebrate the Charmony Festival. But no matter how I try to rationalize it, I just can’t find a good reason for this. The only conclusion I can come to is that the invitations weren’t sent out by the Family, but by a hidden second party.” He leans forward. “Am I correct?”

And there it is, the hidden hand! Disappointingly enough, Sunday seems to have expected the topic change, so his reaction isn’t as entertaining as Aventurine wanted. But the conflict in his expression is as delicious as he’d been hoping for—Sunday visibly struggles as he tries to balance the weight of the intel against the heft of his shame.

Finally, he closes his eyes, and draws the revolver back to his head. 

A wicked smile curls on Aventurine’s lips. A non-answer is an answer in and of itself. Oh, how he loves winning.

Sunday presses the trigger fast, and the familiar click resounds in the air. He exhales, and sets it down. Aventurine watches soundlessly as he reaches up to the topmost button of his shirt.

Pop, pop, pop. He goes about unbuttoning his shirt slowly, methodically; it’s at an aching pace, where every single second seems to stretch for minutes at a time. Is he doing this on purpose?

When he gets to the middle of his shirt, he suddenly stops.

Aventurine tilts his head. “What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is rougher than usual.

“I—” Sunday’s mouth twitches as he struggles to hold his words back. But Aventurine’s earlier theory seems to have proven right—the more flustered he is, the less discipline he has over himself. 

“I can’t get this button off,” Sunday admits in a rush.

Aventurine lets out a startled laugh. “What, is it stuck?”

“I—think so. It’s hard to tell from this angle. I can’t undo it.” Sunday clenches his jaw, as if to physically stop himself from talking—but the will of an Aeon is infinitely stronger than that of THEIR servant, it seems, and so he continues speaking. “I need help taking this off.”

Cute, cute. Aventurine slides over easily, smiling. “You want me to take it off for you?”

“Yes. No. I need help. I don’t want your help. Your clothing addendum is a pain in the ass. Sweet Xipe,” Sunday swears.

Oh, this is so much fun. Aventurine reaches over clasps Sunday’s white-knuckled hand in his, lightly easing him off of the offending button. “I’ve got you,” he says softly.

Finally, Sunday forces his mouth shut, and nods, his hand falling away. 

Unlike Sunday’s previous ministrations, Aventurine makes quick work of unbuttoning him. The garment is stuck, but it’s an easy fix on Aventurine’s end, and he pops off the rest with quick finesse.

Halfway through, he steals a glance at Sunday’s face. It’s contorted in frustration, and his lips are drawn extremely tight. When Sunday’s eyes flick over to meet Aventurine’s stare, he holds it, smiling just so; Sunday, in all of his stubborn pride, also refuses to look away. Their eyes remain locked even as Aventurine slides the shirt off of Sunday’s shoulders, even as the cloth pools around his waist in a bundle of downy white.

His gaze is hot. His pupils are wide. They’re a mere few inches apart, now.

God, he really is so handsome—Aventurine kind of wants to kiss him.

Fuck it. Why not? He does.

He leans forward, and allows his lips to softly brush against Sunday’s; it’s a far gentler kiss than he would’ve normally gone for, this is what feels most right in the moment. The air feels thin, delicate, as if one stray breath might cause the entire atmosphere to shatter around them—and so Aventurine complies to its will, only opting to chastly press his mouth to Sunday’s and nothing more.

He pulls away, eyes fluttering open, and grins. “Sorry. I just couldn’t resist— mnf.”

His sentence is abruptly cut off by Sunday positively pouncing on him, reaching forward to roughly grab him by the collar of his shirt and yanking him forward to meet his lips again. The speed of it all sends Aventurine’s head in a dizzying spin, and the slow simmer of heat that had been rolling in his underbelly suddenly roars in a hot, heady wave.

If he had doubts about questioning Sunday’s seemingly mild demeanor, they’ve all been banished this instant. The way he kisses is unforgiving, erring on the edge of passionate frenzy. But despite the franticness of it all, it’s still unmistakably, unquestionably Sunday: every slide of his lips carry the intent to subdue, to control, to win.

Aventurine loves it; Aventurine loathes it. It’s the same sort of hunger he possesses in a high-stakes game, the kind of obsessive desperation rarely found in others who have all their bolts screwed on tight. But given the gleaming gun tossed to the side, given the clothes strewn about the garishly tiled floor, neither Sunday nor Aventurine seem to walk the line of sanity.

As pleasurable as this is, though, Aventurine has never quite been one to follow the whims of others, especially not those of someone as harrowing as Sunday. So he snakes his fingers through Sunday’s well-kept hair, motioning as if he’s about to lightly tug—but just as Sunday relaxes against his touch, he fists his hand tightly into his locks, and pulls hard enough to hurt.

Sunday lets out a startled noise, and Aventurine laughs in the midst of the kiss. His laughter is quickly cut short, however, by the sudden pain tearing through his lower lip. 

But Aventurine is no stranger to pain—in the twisted life he’s led, pain has been the one constant he could rely on, familiar enough to almost feel comforting. So he swipes his tongue against the offending lip and cleans off the blood dribbling from his skin, relishing in the sharp tang of iron filling his mouth. 

As quickly as he’d bit him, Sunday shoves him back onto the settee. A practiced hand harshly grips Aventurine’s  hand digging into his hair, and pins it down above his head. 

“Do not touch my head,” he warns. Despite the heated makeout, he seems to be almost entirely unaffected; the only indication of their kiss at all is the smear of blood staining his lower lip. 

Aventurine licks at his own lips, and bares his teeth in a smile. “You were eating my face off. I was trying to stop you.”

The corners of Sunday’s mouth twitch up, one higher than the other. “Apologies, I didn’t realize you wanted to be treated like a maiden. Would you prefer that I take you nice and slow?”

“Is that your question?”

“Is that your answer?”

Aventurine grins. “What do you think?”

Sunday presses down more insistently, his breath fanning across Aventurine’s mouth. The gold of his eyes almost seem to pierce through his shadows of the dimly lit room.

And then, in a flash, Sunday’s free hand grasps the revolver; he cocks the hammer and steadies it squarely against Aventurine’s forehead, the motion quick enough that he can still physically feel the whrrrr of the cylinder rotating inside. It rattles against his skin, vibrating ever so, before it finally clicks to a finite stop.

“I think,” Sunday murmurs, finger lightly resting across the trigger, “you should answer the question properly. You of all people should understand—in any relationship at all, communication is of the utmost importance.”

Aventurine tilts his head up, and leans into the cold barrel. “Why don’t we make a wager?” he breathes. “If you think I want to be treated gently, you’ll put the gun down. If you think I want it rough, you’ll shoot.”

He doesn’t even stop to consider it, the bastard. 

Click.

Sunday shrugs, and tosses the gun on the table; Aventurine snickers, loops his free hand around the back of his neck, and pulls him down to engage in another heated kiss. Sunday lets go of his hand, allowing him to loop his other hand around as well, as he trails his fingers down past Aventurine’s shoulders and abs to finally rest in between his legs.

There’s a tight squeeze, and Aventurine promptly lets out a loud moan. He feels Sunday’s lips curl up in a satisfied grin as he presses harder, insistently grinding the heel of his palm against the swell of his cock.

“Oh, right,” Sunday murmurs, voice hot. “Since you so generously helped me earlier, let me return the favor.”

His hands tease up, slipping into the waistband of his slacks. Slow, slow, achingly slow—he puts off unzipping him entirely, only just enough to give his hands enough room to explore. One dips against the curve of his ass, and the other reaches up to trace spiders up his back. 

Aventurine lets out an annoyed sound, and attempts to nip at Sunday’s lower lip. “I didn’t realize you were so fond of fondling, Mr. Sunday,” he huffs as he tries to pull him closer. “I’m flattered you’re so appreciative of my ass, but do you think you could appreciate it a little faster?”

Sunday’s nails dig into the bonier part of his ass, intentionally curling in to hurt. “Be patient.”

“I would, but at the rate you’re going I’ll die a flabby old man before I get to cum once— ahhh,” Aventurine’s voice breaks as Sunday abruptly tugs his dick out of his pants. “Yeah, okay, that’s more like it, thanks.”

“Do you never stop talking?” Sunday finally slips him out of his slacks, intentionally scraping his nicely manicured nails against his skin on his way down. He leans away to fold them neatly, and places them next to where he’d put his earrings on the table. 

Aventurine watches him, equal parts exasperated and amused. “Of course I don’t. Don’t you know that my job is dependent on my clever tongue?”

“I can imagine far cleverer uses for that tongue other than for firing off complaints.” Sunday immediately cringes, and swings his jaw shut—ah, the truth spell is fiercely kicking in again, it seems. Aventurine’s grown quite appreciative of Xipe the Harmony.

Sunday shakes off the embarrassment quickly enough, and extends a hand. Momentarily, Aventurine is blinded by the striking visual of Sunday straddling his hips, looking down at him as if he’s little more than an ant underneath his heel. When he finds his voice again, he croaks out, “What?”

Sunday’s gaze is flat. “Oil. I refuse to believe that you didn’t bring any.”

Aventurine isn’t sure if he should feel insulted or not, but he’s right regardless. He blindly reaches down to feel for his discarded jacket, where he fishes out a small bottle of half-used lube.

Sunday immediately snatches it away from him, and pops the cap open with a practiced schlick. He turns the bottle over, and drizzles the thin liquid over Aventurine’s shaft; the cold temperature of it makes him flinch. 

He scoops some of the stray lube with his fingers, and deftly takes his cock into his hand. Aventurine fights off a groan as he jerks him off, squeezing just right at the base and loosening his touch at the tip. It feels so good—it feels so good. It hasn’t even been that long since he’s had sex; why is it that it feels so good?

“Question,” he rasps. Sunday digs his thumb into the slit, an unspoken command to stop speaking—Aventurine bites down the whine that builds in his throat, and shakily continues. “Have you done this before?”

Sunday keeps his gaze focused down; the sounds of his fist pumping his cock is obscenely loud. “Why do you want to know?”

“Is that a refusal to answer?”

A familiar flash of irritation makes its way onto Sunday’s face. He casts a glance at the discarded revolver—still with the single round miraculously in its barrel—then down at his pants, his only article of clothing left. Finally, he huffs. “I have,” he grits out, keeping his answer short. 

Before Aventurine can comment, tease, or jeer, Sunday leans down to take his cock in his mouth. All thoughts of talking immediately fizzle out of his brain as Sunday drags his tongue across the underside, slow and thick and heavy. 

Aventurine had already been close from the handjob. But then Sunday hollows his cheeks and looks up through his lashes, eyes half-lidded, and that’s enough to send him over the edge. His hands fly to Sunday’s head, scrabbling for something, anything, to hold onto as his hips kick over and over and over again.

Distantly, he can hear Sunday choke. The sound sends another lash of heat whipping in his gut, and he only holds on tighter, sinking his cock as deep as it will go.

It feels like forever before Sunday wrenches himself off, chest heaving; Aventurine realizes a second too late that he’d accidentally grabbed his wings along with his hair. Unfamiliar guilt flickers inside of him as he sits up, reaching out. “Hey,” he says, concerned. “I didn’t mean to—are you okay?”

Sunday raises a hand to ward him off, his face obscured by the loose tresses of his hair. He’s trembling. Apprehensive, Aventurine presses further, leaning in to gently move his hand away. “Sunday,” he starts, then stops.

It’s nearly imperceptible. But against the deep blue of his slacks, there’s a slightly darker wet spot in between his legs.

He’s still shaking.

Aventurine’s mouth goes dry. “Did you—from—”

He barely registers what happens next. In a matter of seconds, he’s shoved back onto the banquette seat; a pale, manicured hand wraps itself neatly around the expanse of his throat, effectively cutting off his air supply. And above him, above him…

A tousled Sunday towers over him, hair trailing messily across his shoulders. Eyes bright, he snarls, “I told you not to touch my head.”

He can’t breathe. Aventurine’s hand reaches up to tap Sunday's, desperate. “You liked it,” he wheezes, an uncontrollable laugh bubbling out from his lips. “You liked it so much that— ack— I didn’t even need to—to touch you—”

Oh, he’s gonna die. He’s gonna die here, horny and pantsless, and it won’t even be from the fucking gun. 

Right when he starts seeing spots, Sunday lets go. A rush of air immediately floods back into his lungs, making him dizzy with the blood returning to his cheeks; remotely, he registers his dick’s renewed interest. Great.

Sunday sits on top of him—a near-perfect recreation of how he’d done earlier—with his arms crossed, irritation still visibly splayed across his features. But he doesn’t seem nearly as murderous as he’d been earlier, so Aventurine, in all of his gambler glory, decides to rasp: “Is that why you wouldn’t talk about your wings before?”

Sunday’s eyes snap back to his. “If you tell anyone,” he starts.

Aventurine waves a hand, coughing out the rest of his suffocation. “If I wanted to tell anyone, I’d have to explain how I found out in the first place. And as sleazy as people think I am, I’m not one to go around engaging in locker room talk. You’re fine.”

Sunday glares at him, seemingly scrutinizing his logic. But slowly, eventually, his shoulders relax.

Aventurine takes that as a cue to cheekily smile. “So. They’re sensitive, huh? Enough to make you cum on the spot?”

Sunday looks like he wants to punch him. Honestly, Aventurine kind of hopes he would. “I’m not answering that,” he says, voice snippy.

“Oh yeah? That’s the second time you’ve denied me an answer to that question, you know. Are you really gonna risk your life twice for the sake of a secret I already know?”

Sunday’s hand lashes out to grab the revolver, cock the hammer, and hold it firmly against his head. “I’ll take my chances,” he snarls, before pressing the trigger—

Click. Seriously, is this thing broken?

Aventurine grins up at him. “You’re still alive. And your pants look rather uncomfortable to be in right now. Do you want help?”

“Shut up,” Sunday mutters, looking too tired to care about decorum now. With a single hand, he manages to unzip and fold his slacks in record time. He deigns to take off his boxers while he’s at it, too, so he’s now first to be completely bare.

His cock is still soft and sticky from his orgasm, cum streaked across his milky thigh. Aventurine wants to lick it off. 

Sunday fixes a flat stare onto him. “Flip over.”

Aventurine raises a brow. “What, so you can stab me in the back?”

“Unless you want me to enter you without any preparation, flip over,” Sunday repeats. His voice strains on the precipice of his previously boundless patience. Chuckling, Aventurine obliges.

Almost immediately, a swift slap is delivered to his ass. Aventurine’s laughter suddenly pitches into a high moan, which only climbs higher as another one lands on the same spot on the other cheek. 

“I loathe associating myself with people like you,” Sunday says conversationally, as if he’s discussing the weather and not currently spanking someone over his knee. “Impertinent, hurried, and reckless, with complete disregard for respect and discipline. The entirety of the Interastral Peace Corporation is a prime example of this. And you, as its representative, also fit the bill.”

Two more smacks land themselves across the earlier hits, ushering in a new sort of burn. Aventurine nearly bites his tongue off as he holds back a yelp. “But at the same time,” Sunday continues, “there’s no greater satisfaction than in bringing insolents to heel. To arrange everything to have its own position and place… this does mean, of course, that my patience is thoroughly tested. But I always come out victorious in the end.”

A particularly harsh slap causes Aventurine to lurch forward. Pain and pleasure dance in tango as tears prick at his eyes. How could such a thin man be so damn strong?

Despite his shuddering, he manages to force out, “Unfortunately for you, I’ve never lost.”

Sunday hums. “Not to worry. I’ll change that soon enough.”

He reaches over to grab Aventurine’s jaw, and two slender fingers slide into his mouth, squelching with every devious curl. Aventurine nearly chokes at the rough treatment, saliva coagulating in thick, sticky strings, before they pull out as fast as they’d entered.

The same pair of fingers then find themselves needling at his hole, prodding in just deep into the first knuckle. He lets out another shaky moan at the treatment, despite his indignation that Sunday decided to use Aventurine’s own spit when he had a perfectly good bottle of lube for use right there. 

Sunday fucks in with shallow strokes, only going deep enough to nudge past the rim. With his other hand, he smacks Aventurine’s red and purpling ass, each strike deviously unforgiving. It’s too little and too much at the same time; the pain of the hits gives way to bone-shuddering pleasure, but it fades all too quickly with the barely-there thrusts of his fingers. 

Aventurine’s shoulders shake with the effort to keep himself held up. Sunday notices this, and pauses momentarily to haul him across his knees like a child; with this position, Aventurine is made to splay limply across the settee and his lap. 

He feels ridiculous. He feels good. He feels—he feels like he’s going to cum again. Again. Now? When Sunday’s all but put half a finger in? Smack, smack, smack— his ass is so warm, Sunday’s lap is so warm, his hole needs something bigger, he needs to—

“Fuck you,” Aventurine chokes out, desperately scrabbling to keep a hold on his slipping sanity.

And then he moans, because Sunday decides to punish him by smacking his ass and squeeze. Oh, that’s infinitely worse. The burn of it radiates through the heat of his fingers, layering on top of the waves upon waves of pain. Aventurine keens, immediately falling limp.

Sunday tuts his tongue disapprovingly as he tugs him back to proper position. “Behave,” he says dangerously, and god, he shouldn’t be this hot for someone who’s currently completely fucking naked. He runs a hot hand over his stinging cheeks, the gentle motion sending jolts of pain running up his spine. “Or I’ll leave you here with nothing but an untouched cock and a bullet in your brain.”

Because Aventurine doesn’t know when to shut up and take it, he says, “You’re hot when you talk dirty, Mr. Sunday,” and chokes out a half-laugh, half-moan when he rakes his nails down his abused ass in retaliation. 

“Brat,” Sunday says, as he finally, finally plunges his fingers in deep.

Aventurine’s head tips forward, his mouth falling open in abject pleasure. He kind of regrets wasting that question, earlier, when he’d asked if Sunday had ever slept with another before. Given a bit of patience, the answer would have made itself obvious: Sunday’s fingers press insistently at the tight spot inside with a precision impossible for someone with no experience, unforgiving and uncaring. It’s a startling contrast to the slow and steady preparation from earlier, and Aventurine, despite his attempts to keep quiet, embarrassingly whimpers.

He’s close, but his cock has been entirely neglected, so he attempts to rut into Sunday’s thigh. Sunday’s fingers immediately still when he does so, and Aventurine turns his head to shoot him a—well, he’d like to think it’s a glare. For his own sake, he’ll say it’s a glare.

In a turn of events, Sunday’s free hand reaches up to caress Aventurine’s hair. The motion is gentle, soft, and entirely in contrast with how harshly he was finger-fucking him just seconds prior. 

“Don’t make me say it twice,” Sunday says. His signature blasé smile is back, perched perfectly on his reddened lips. “Stay still, and behave. I might even reward you if you do.”

Aventurine doesn’t trust himself to speak right now, but he doesn’t need to. Sunday’s sudden gentle demeanor both confuses him and arouses him, and it’s with this drunken heat that he slowly nods.

Sunday coos, pleased. “Good boy,” he says—Aventurine shudders—before he allows his fingers to move again.

This time, Aventurine really does behave. He stays perfectly still—or as still as he possibly can—as Sunday preps him with a newly added third finger.  The hand in his hair helps. 

(It takes him back years and years; plops him in the middle of an unforgiving desert with nothing and no one but his older sister, who strokes his hair and sings him songs and promises that they’ll stay forever until the end.)

(He probably shouldn’t be thinking about her while his ass is getting mowed, actually.)

Thankfully, the wave of nostalgia is fleeting as Sunday removes his fingers from his ass and turns Aventurine over on his back. He reaches over to gently brush some of the matted hair out of his eyes, all the while wiping his fingers on the hem of Aventurine’s shirt with distaste. It’s a movement that’s so unmistakably Sunday that Aventurine has to hold back a begrudging laugh.

After slicking his cock with lube, Sunday stares down at him for a moment. One hand splays across Aventurine’s still-clothed chest, while the other tightly grips his cock to position against his hole. The halo behind him blocks out some of the overhead lights, and his wings flutter lazily against his ears. This in combination with his holier-than-thou expression makes him look so—well, angelic— that Aventurine momentarily forgets how to speak.

And then he enters him.

As expected, he’s slow. Aventurine would call it sweet if he didn’t suspect that he was only slow to be a tease. But it’s mind-numbingly effective; given all the prep, there’s hardly a burn, but he can still feel the satisfying heat enter him, inch by searing inch. 

They both groan when he finally bottoms out. 

Despite being as hard as a rock, Sunday only moves in little thrusts, similar to how he’d prepped him with his fingers earlier. Seriously, how patient is this guy? Aventurine would be more impressed if he wasn’t so frustrated. “Come on,” he needles, reaching over to curl his fingers around the hand on his chest. “Do it properly.”

Sunday rolls his hips once, sending jolts of pleasure up Aventurine’s quivering spine. “I’m beginning to think that you want it to hurt,” he says, and isn’t that rich coming from someone who just sent Aventurine’s ass flying into next Tuesday? “I’m doing you a favor. I could stop completely and leave you out to dry, if I wished.”

We do it my way or not at all goes unsaid. 

Yeah, that isn’t happening. When Sunday moves to slowly fuck back in, Aventurine seizes his chance: his arms snap forward to catch Sunday’s wrists, and he surges forward to pin him down. He straddles him, now, and hisses when his cock slips deeper in the commotion. 

Sunday stares up at him as his expressions flicker through emotions like a television switching programs: surprise, indignation, and then anger. He struggles to get his wrists out of his grip to no avail, sending licks of dark satisfaction curling deep into Aventurine’s gut; when that doesn’t work, he stills. “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Aventurine?”

Sunday’s teeth are clenched in an affronted smile; on the contrary, Aventurine bares his teeth in a razor grin. “You just seemed so tired, Mr. Sunday,” he croons. He lifts his hips up just so, and slams down; Sunday lets out a hiss of barely-restrained pleasure. “Why, you were practically falling asleep at the wheel! I figured— ah— that I might help you out.”

Sunday opens his mouth—to argue back, no doubt—but Aventurine tires of their barbed exchange, so he collapses forward to envelop his lips in a forceful kiss. 

Between the squelching of Sunday’s dick being driven deep into his ass, and the wet slide of their lips and battling tongues, the sounds that follow their kiss can only be described as pure filth. Aventurine rams himself on his cock, and fills Sunday’s mouth with desperate, reedy noises. 

He gives him no chance to even breathe. He slams himself down on his leaking cock with as much fervor he can muster, and any and all complaints Sunday might have about their relative positions are swallowed up and spat back out in the form of a helpless moan. Aventurine’s grip on Sunday’s wrists remains ironclad, and Sunday can do nothing but take the raw, fast pace Aventurine sets.

Sunday might be a control freak, but at the end of the day, he is only a man. Slowly, uncontrollably, he begins to rock back up to meet Aventurine’s enthusiastic bounces. The newfound effort on his end reaches a spot deep inside of Aventurine, one he’d been struggling to reach alone. It sends a wave of pleasure so staggering that he breaks the kiss, a high whine escaping his throat. 

Sunday, also robbed of his words, only breathlessly chuckles as he moves from Aventurine’s mouth to the edge of his jaw, down the expanse of his neck; he licks at the brand marking Aventurine’s skin, his tongue hot and wet and so, so good. He’s fully following Aventurine’s pace now, plowing himself in as deep as he can go; Aventurine’s core aches with the position, but the soreness disappears with every stroke of heat that seems to fill his entire belly.

He’s close, he’s close. Aventurine reaches down blindly to grasp at his own cock, gasping when his fingers wrap around his base—but before he can stroke himself to completion, a second hand clamps down harshly at the tip, forcibly pinching him off from his release. 

A pathetic whimper tears itself out of Aventurine’s throat as he grinds down, clenching and unclenching desperately to get Sunday to let go. “You little,” he half-snarls, half-whines, “let go, I’m close— fuck you—”

Sunday’s grip only tightens, sending a dull pain radiating up Aventurine’s dick. It hurts. It’s delicious. “Our bet,” he says.. “I get to ask you one last question.”

There’s a tiny smirk on his face—this fake, twisted, fucking sadist—

He hits Aventurine’s sweet spot and stays there, hips canted; every coherent thought immediately flies out the window. He needs to cum so bad. 

“What,” Aventurine gasps. “What, what?”

“Let me think.” Aventurine wants to strangle him. “Hmm… ah, I’ve got it. Yes, that’ll do.” Sunday smiles up at him.

“How did it feel, leaving Sigonia-IV to save your own worthless skin?”

Every bit of desperation Aventurine has is tempered in an instant. His stomach swoops at the question, and the heady warmth is immediately replaced with cold, dreadful ice. He stares down at Sunday, expression struck, as the latter only smiles and smiles and smiles—

Suddenly, everything starts moving again. Sunday’s hips snap up at the same time his fist strokes down, the intensity of it knocking Aventurine’s loosened hand easily to the side. The rush of sensation nearly overwhelms him, and he chokes as his spot is mercilessly pounded again and again—it’s fast, and hard, and so good, and his head is spinning, and he feels warm again but also feels cold enough to shatter into brittle pieces—

Somehow, the revolver is in his hand; Sunday gently helps curl his fingers around the trigger. Dazed, fucked out of his mind, Aventurine slowly raises the gun to the side of his head.

Sunday grinds deep into him. His thumb digs into the twitching slit of his cockhead. The mounting pleasure tips over, and Aventurine cums—

His finger presses down on the trigger.

BANG!

-

Aventurine’s eyes fly open with a shuddering gasp.

His clothes are soaked through with a mixture of sweat and water. The Dreampool comes up to his chin—and thankfully so, since he can hardly move. 

His eyes flutter shut as a low groan escapes his paralyzed lips. Oh, how he hates dying. This is his second time losing his life in Penacony, but it feels just as horrible as it did in the first round—his skin feels stretched over his bones, and his bones feel more brittle than thinly rolled toffee. Saliva gathers underneath his frozen tongue, but he can’t even get himself to swallow it down.

Still, he’s glad he was the one to go. Sending Sunday back to reality would have been a bigger hassle to deal with. Given the sheer number of Family members crawling around the area, leaving the room without fuss would have been near impossible. At least here, he’s back without any unnecessary bother.

 There’s the sudden sound of a door creaking open. Aventurine doesn’t even have the bodily control to see who it is—but it doesn’t matter, because only a second passes before Ratio’s voice drawls out, “You reckless fool. What manner of trouble have you gotten yourself tied up with this time, gambler?”

Aventurine’s shoulders shake—not with fear or anger, but with amusement. He would be laughing if his body would permit it. How he wishes he could speak! How he wishes he could see Ratio’s reaction to the words locked under his tongue!

(It is only with foolishness that trouble may be found; it is only with trouble that luck has the chance to shine.)

Although he cannot hear Aventurine’s thoughts, Ratio’s voice sighs as if he can.   

Aventurine’s lips manage to twitch up in a smile.

(And it is only with luck—pure, untarnished luck that shines like the head of a golden coin—that victory may finally be achieved.)

-

How disappointing, Sunday thinks.

After the bullet finally went off, Aventurine’s body disappeared in a cloud of fluorescent bubbles—a sure sign that he was no longer in the Dreamscape and had, in all likelihood, returned to his physical body. He was likely waking up now, though he’d be unable to move for quite a bit. Sunday should send for someone to check on him—as infuriating as he was, he’s still considered a guest of Penacony.

(While people have died in the Dreamscape in the past, Sunday’s fairly certain that no one went out in the midst of an orgasm. If it weren’t for his extreme propriety, he’d laugh.)

Sunday sits up, and takes his leaking cock in his hand. In one, two, three methodical strokes, he brings himself to his own release. The only sign of him being affected is through the twitch of an eye; his free hand swiftly cups around his head and catches the splurts of white, preventing his seed from dirtying the floor. 

With a wave of his hand, his neatly-folded clothing disappears (the proof of his release, too, winks out of existence). With another wave, his usual attire fits itself cleanly on top of Sunday’s then-bare figure, cassock and all. The only adjusting he has left to do is to tuck himself away more comfortably in his slacks.

There’s a practiced knock on the door. “Mr. Sunday,” someone calls. “All of the IPC agents were found exactly where Mr. Aventurine confessed.”

Right on time. Just as he likes it. 

Sunday tugs on his glove. “Where are they now?”

“Rounded up for questioning, sir. Shall I ask the Bloodhound Family for their services?”

Sunday stands up. A practiced hand is held loosely behind his back, his elbow bent at a precise angle. His expression is cool steel.

Perfection.

“No need,” he says as he strides forward.

"I have it all under control.”