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There’s something insidious in this corner of the Dreamscape. How Sunday finds himself here, he barely recalls. A misstep made while falling into the dream, or perhaps his compass was smudged with filth, guiding him somewhere he tries to avoid.
This is where the real degeneracy unfolds. This is a pocket the Family tries to ignore—Sunday tries to ignore it, because not even he is immune to debauchery’s heavy weight. He’s especially susceptible to it, in fact.
He stumbles down a hallway in a building that is a mockery of the Reverie’s halls, hearing things he hasn’t heard in years: cries of pain and ecstasy, and the vulgar sound of skin-against-skin. The dream shifts and gurgles, and spits him out onto the street—some street. There’s no real direction here; the formation and maintenance of this place are solely products of its occupants’ wants.
His issue—the stiff one in his pants—prevents him from finding his way out. That’s the real insidiousness of this place: it won’t let you think enough to get out. It sheathes your mind in a suffocating veil that can only be lifted in one way.
Sometimes it’s enough to take matters into one’s own hands, so to speak, but he knows that it won’t be enough this time. The dream knows how long it’s been for him, and he knows it won’t unhand him until he accepts its litany. “Aeons damn it,” he swears through gritted teeth. Almost more than hating the unwilling throbbing in his pants, he despises how he can’t control this corner of the dream.
Sunday stumbles through a courtyard littered with half-baked images of furniture, all of which are being sullied by people having sex in various configurations. He has to avoid looking; as unbearable as the desire is, he can’t be having sex with the random people who have chosen to come here. Even being seen here is a mark against his image. However, no one here currently spares him a glance; pleasure is magnified tenfold here, so good that many people experience soul-crushing disappointment when they try to have sex in reality after this.
As a member of the Family, he has some protections against this place, but as a Halovian, he is constantly under siege by peoples’ emotions, and here the effect is greatly amplified. He feels each and every person’s pleasure, each explosion of bliss causing his breath to hitch.
He finds a cranny in an alleyway, sitting down on a limestone bench between two unfinished skyscrapers. He’ll start to go insane unless he finds relief. He has maybe an hour—whatever an hour really means here. Even now, his thoughts are gripped in the slippery palm of pure lust—the only ideas flashing in his head involve his cock dripping wet, and something buried deep inside his ass. Either way—both ways. He doesn’t care. Something in his mouth, too, maybe.
He clenches his eyes shut, his shoulders shaking. Maybe this is a message from the dream: that he’s spent so long entrenched inside his own head, he’s neglected the rest of himself.
Even now, his grip on maintaining his appearance in the dream is slipping: he has to shift to accommodate his wings between his shoulder blades. People always wonder why the Halovians hide their largest set of wings, and the answer is as mundane as why people cut their hair when the length becomes annoying to deal with. They’re difficult to accommodate, that’s all.
Damn it. While he sits there, he realizes he has one option: the desperate, mortifying option of calling the most degenerate person he knows personally who is currently in the dream. Someone so entrenched in the business between the IPC and the Family that someone will shoot him in the head in reality if he starts to spread Penacony’s secrets. Sunday might do it himself, honestly.
But that’s not the point. The point is that Sunday hates that man. The point is that he can ask no one else for help on this. The point is that he’ll be exposing the basest parts of him to the most infuriating person he knows. He fumbles his phone out of his pocket.
Putting his phone to his ear, he wants to throw up. He doesn’t count how many times it rings, mainly because the ringing is more or less in his head. Cell phones aren’t real in the dream. None of this is real. It all depends on the shared consciousness of the dream’s inhabitants.
“Hey, chicken boy,” Aventurine answers with a laugh, thinking he’s funny.
“I’m going to rip your throat out once the IPC abandons your deadweight and you are no longer off-limits,” Sunday says. “But I need your assistance.”
“Before or after you kill me?” More laughter—it sounds loud wherever he’s at. Probably just one of the casinos in the Golden Hour, where Aventurine can pretend he has a life worth living. “What’s in it for me?”
“Have you ever wanted to know what it’s like to have sex with a Halovian?”
Silence, aside from the background noise. “I won’t say I haven’t,” Aventurine says more soberly. “Are you offering to show me? Or are you just conducting a survey?”
So easy. Of course Aventurine wants to have sex with him. Sunday will rub it in his face once Aventurine has arrived. “Go back to your room and think of me. I’ll bring you here.”
Silence, silence. A short inhale, then a tittered half-laugh comes through. “You sound a little out of breath.”
“So do you.”
“I’m trying to get to my room. What’s wrong with you?”
Sunday is hunched over his thighs, rubbing them together for the slightest bit of relief, his desire unfortunately worsening by hearing Aventurine’s voice in his ear. “I feel…” he trails off, because he doesn’t know what to say. He’s too hot, too uncoiled. “Like a person that has spontaneously developed the capability of estrus.”
Aventurine audibly chokes. “The fuck is wrong with you?” he repeats, sounding strangled. “You want me to get you pregnant? Or the other way around?”
“What do you want?” In that instant, Sunday decides he may as well succumb as far as he can allow himself to. He slips his unhindered hand onto his crotch, and hisses in a breath. How long has it been, he wonders? He really doesn’t remember. Everything else is so much more important in his life.
Aventurine is veritably panting. That badly, then? Pathetic. “You’re letting me choose? Fuck, man, you’re so grotesquely repressed that I don’t think anything besides getting pounded and filled would be able to loosen you up.”
Deep down in his blood, welling from resentment built upon generations and generations of trauma inflicted by the IPC, along with the mere personal incompatibility between them, Sunday hates Aventurine. But he won’t—can’t, right now—deny that a shudder ripples down his spine and rustles his feathers.
“Yes,” Sunday says faintly. “Fill me. That’ll do it.”
“Do what?” Aventurine asks, suddenly suspicious. The sounds from his end of the call sound like a door slamming shut and a frantic rustle to take off some clothing.
Sunday shoves his phone against his shoulder, freeing his hands to push his pants down to grip his cock, obscenely red and glistening already. Pathetic. “Are you thinking of me?” he asks—gasps—while drawing his circled fingers down once, his voice wavering, his thighs shivering. The silk of his gloves glides unsatisfyingly down his shaft.
“Yes.” More rustling sounds, and the desperate clink of a belt. “I’m in my room.”
Sunday closes his eyes and thinks of Aventurine. All the hate and disdain and general displeasure of knowing him. Mainly those things, not all the other things he usually thinks about Aventurine. Not the distant curiosity of what he’d look like undressed and bound to the bed posts. But all of those thoughts combined are how he finds Aventurine within the dream’s inconsistent architecture. Getting ripped from one dream to another feels like being plunged into a cold sea, but it won’t cool down the burning desire of this dream.
“I’m—fuck. I don’t know where I am. Where—what the fuck?”
“Ignore all that,” Sunday commands, running his fingers back up, rubbing his thumb against his leaking slit. He groans, and tries to say, “Find me.”
“Are you, like, jerking off?” Aventurine asks. “Just wait. Or tell me what you’re doing, at least. And how the fuck am I supposed to find you?”
Why does Aventurine sound so steady?
“Just look for me.” He clenches his eyes shut and pulls his hand away. “Please hurry. Or I’m going to have your kneecaps pried off in reality, and I’ll keep them preserved on my desk.”
Some undetermined, unreal amount of time passes. Until eventually, or maybe instantly, the sound of haggard breathing accompanies the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Holy shit,” Aventurine says, lowering his phone. He comes to stand between Sunday’s legs, scrutinizing his twitching, dripping cock, and his heavy balls, and his knees spread wide. He seems particularly captivated by Sunday’s limp wings, though. Still, the bulge in Aventurine’s pants is enough evidence for Sunday, who slides off the bench and onto his knees on the scratchy concrete.
“What the hell is going on?” Aventurine asks, but he already has his fingers on Sunday’s head, nails digging into his scalp, so it isn’t as if he cares all that much.
Precum dribbles out of his cock, pooling perversely on the ground between his knees. “Fuck me for as long as you can manage, and if my head is clear by the time you give up, I’ll settle your debt with the IPC in its entirety, no strings attached.”
Aventurine makes a sound in his throat. But that’s because Sunday nuzzles his nose into his straining cock. Sunday has never needed anything more than Aventurine’s cock inside of him in some fashion. That’s an embarrassing thought, but he has accepted it. It’s the dream’s fault.
“Your wings—why do you keep them hidden?”
“They get in the way,” Sunday says. “Keep your filthy hands off them.”
That’s what he says, but he keens when Aventurine disobeys him and digs his gloved fingers into a tuft of feathers. He can’t stop the noises that escape from his throat when Aventurine starts to knead and tug and spread his fingers underneath rows of pterylae, his fingers catching thin patches of bare skin.
So absorbed in this perverse pleasure—they are so very sensitive; no one has ever touched them like this—Sunday doesn’t realize he has his hands wrapped around Aventurine’s thighs and the bulge in his pants is wet from Sunday’s drool, unable to keep himself from panting and moaning like a bitch in heat.
Aventurine falls to his knees, too. Not appreciating how close their faces get, Sunday drops his head onto Aventurine’s shoulder.
It seems Aventurine has only one interest: in violating his wings. It feels good, of course it does, but it’s not enough—this isn’t what he called Aventurine here for. But he can’t make his body move to make him stop. It tickles, and it burns, and each time Aventurine tugs a feather with his index finger and thumb braced over a barb, Sunday lets out a pathetic little cry.
“Stop this,” he whispers.
“Did you just want to jump straight to penetration?” Aventurine asks, his tone just as shaky.
Sunday lets out an incomprehensible sound of disdain. For every ounce of hatred, he feels an equal amount of desire for this utterly contemptible man—and as unfortunate as it is, that’s how he feels in every other corner of the dream, too. The only thing he needs to keep to himself is that he has really always wanted Aventurine to fuck his brains out.
There are ways Sunday can keep Aventurine in line. Many, many ways. Ranging from a simple monetary bribe to having the hounds snap his neck in reality while he dreams.
That’s why Sunday can shove away, making himself moan when his extrication draws the settings of Aventurine’s rings along the until-now-untouched stretches of skin on his wings, and fall back on his palms. Aventurine immediately looks down, swallowing repeatedly, with difficulty, eyeing Sunday’s cock. His gaze flicks upwards, pushing his shirt and coat up his abdomen.
“A belly button piercing? Really?” Aventurine asks. His inflection suggests he attempts mockery, but his voice is too unsteady. “What else do you have?”
“Figure it out for yourself,” Sunday sneers. “Or is your confidence as fake as your diamonds?”
Aventurine gasps. “As if I would wear fakes. What about you, huh?” He reaches forward suddenly, clenching his fist around Sunday’s ear wings, smashing the jeweled studs into his palm.
Pain lances directly into his skull. Sunday’s eyes roll back.
“Should have pinned you as a freak,” Aventurine mumbles, pulling his wings on both sides, watching how he makes Sunday quiver and whimper. “Who pierces their wings? You’re the only one I’ve ever seen. Didn’t it hurt?”
“You have no idea,” Sunday hisses through gritted teeth.
Ignored, untouched, his cock is starting to hurt. Sometimes when Aventurine shifts, his clothes lightly brush against him, and it nearly stings, his cock leaping and dribbling more from such paltry contact. But it’s not enough—it isn’t that Sunday is holding himself back, it’s just not enough.
Sunday slaps him away and uses Aventurine as a post to pull himself to his feet. “Somewhere else,” he pants. The feeling is worsening, starting to become worrisome.
On second thought: seeing Aventurine still on his knees, animalistic desire takes him over, his brain snapping as it gives up to commanding forces of this dream, and he grabs Aventurine by the hair, thrusting his cock against Aventurine’s cheek. The mere sight of Aventurine’s pretty, indignant face with precum smearing his skin and a glistening cock twitching against the bridge of his nose makes Sunday groan.
Aventurine stammers a complaint. Yet he wraps his fingers around Sunday’s cock, stroking him without giving Sunday the time to comprehend.
“What’s wrong with you?” Aventurine mumbles. His skin is burning red. Embarrassed, despite how he so easily eschews the idiocy-inducing cloud of this place.
“It’s this dream,” he groans. His hips are shaking, and his knees might give out at any second, and his wings lie limply down from his back, his feathers dirtied by the filth on the concrete. “It’s like—it’s like an aphrodisiac.”
Aventurine exhales sharply. His warm breath puffs down Sunday’s cock. “So… it’s kind of like you’re drugged right now.” He apparently has no qualms with that, as he tilts his head and presses his lips to the base of Sunday’s cock, at the same time pulling down his foreskin and twisting his fingers around the most sensitive, blissful stretch along his cock, right below the dripping head. This, too, is a part of him that hasn’t been touched in what might have been years—neither in reality nor the dream.
And so, all at once, despite it being a juvenile amount of contact, the pleasure hotly uncoils in the pit of Sunday’s stomach, and he cries out as it unexpectedly tears through his shaking frame. He grips Aventurine’s hair as a lifeline. His cock is teased through the entire way by Aventurine’s talented fingers, searing white-hot pleasure into every nerve in Sunday’s body. He spurts cum onto Aventurine’s cheek and hair and down his ear, watching the sight through watery, half-lidded eyes.
It passes, but it leaves behind a numb bliss. His knees give out.
Aventurine catches him by the waist, standing up with him. Cum drips down his face, but he doesn’t seem to care about that, either.
“What’s wrong with you?” Sunday accuses. His voice is frail and breathy.
“What, why I’m not delirious like you? Probably because I’m very in tune with my need for debauchery. You’re so repressed that I wouldn’t even be surprised if you were a virgin.”
“I’m not,” he pants. “I know what I’m doing. All I need from you is to shut your mouth and take your clothes off.”
Not quite more clear-headed—almost more blurry in how lights fuzz and pulse in his vision—he stumbles away, dragging Aventurine with him. Somewhere else. Somewhere that Sunday can get his relief. That wasn’t enough. He needs more. More, more, more, more—
These buildings are all fakes, except that one down the street that’s illuminated by strings of red lights. That’s where people go when they want a modicum of privacy.
“You’re acting like you know this place,” Aventurine notes suspiciously. “Have you been here before?”
Sunday bites his tongue. He doesn’t want to answer that. So he doesn’t.
The building down the street welcomes them into its empty foyer and through its empty halls and into an empty room numbered 32. The whole place is dark and warm and thrums with that same excitable energy.
“You want privacy now?” Aventurine scoffs, but he’s easily thrown onto the bed covered in red silk. Cum dries on his cheek, and clumps his sweaty hair. Sweat wets his brow, and his throat, too.
“If you’re such an expert at degeneracy, why are you sweating so much?”
“I’m fucking terrified of you,” Aventurine answers immediately and honestly. His eyes widen as Sunday crawls onto him. “But I’m here because you’re hot as hell, and I kind of want to see you all fucked-out.”
“You want to fuck me while I’m drugged?” Sunday is disdainful, but he sits down right on top of Aventurine’s cock, making him buck and hiss in a breath through his teeth.
Aventurine regains composure too quickly for Sunday’s liking. He sits up on his palm and grabs Sunday by the cheek, pulling his lower eyelid down to observe his pupils. “You look like you’re high, dude. Your pupils are dilated to hell, and you can’t even focus.”
Sunday pushes him back down, pinning him with his hands on Aventurine’s shoulders. His wings splay indecently across the bed, and his halo is almost vibrating with feeling. Every single inch of him is strung with desire, from the tip of his halo to his curled toes.
Staring deep into Aventurine’s enchanting eyes, Sunday slides his hands onto his jaw, capturing his full attention.
“I’m not asking,” Sunday says simply. “Okay?”
Aventurine opens and closes his mouth a few times. He looks scared. But he nods. “Okay,” he says meekly.
In that moment, Sunday finds himself inexplicably fascinated with Aventurine’s mouth. He sticks his fingers between Aventurine’s plump lips, seeing and ignoring how his eyes widen, and traps his tongue between his index and middle fingers. Aventurine quickly falls onto his back. It’s nice when Aventurine shuts up. He can’t talk back with fingers down his throat. He’s prettier this way, too, unable to speak.
“I should have your tongue cut out,” Sunday says from on high. “You’re too mouthy, even to your own superiors. I’m unsure as to why Diamond hasn’t had you muzzled yet.”
Aventurine’s head rolls back, his tongue strains against Sunday’s knuckles, and as soon as he grinds Sunday down by the waist, he’s coming.
“You really are pathetic,” Sunday muses—like he has any room to talk right now. He feels like he’s about to go insane, but feeling the heavy waves of Aventurine’s pleasure as his own takes the edge off.
Aventurine buck his hips into Sunday, fully clothed, yet the sounds Aventurine is letting out might suggest he were getting his brains fucked out right now.
When he comes back down, his eyelids flutter open. “What the fuck is this place?” He’s out of breath, his voice scratchy.
“A dream that people like you came up with.”
Aventurine lets out a weightless laugh. He sits up, reaching behind Sunday to unbutton the panel of fabric that fits in the space between his wings. When they aren’t visible, the panel is nearly unnoticeable. But Aventurine noticed it, the bastard. He swiftly undresses Sunday, his warm fingers ghosting across Sunday’s already overheated skin, leaving his shirt hanging off his arms.
“You’re a freak,” Aventurine mumbles, pressing both of his thumbs to the metal bars in Sunday’s nipples, wasting no time before pinching them and biting down on them and taking control in an instant. He adds on, “Not that nipple piercings are that exotic. You’re a freak for other reasons.”
Sunday closes his eyes. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He feels entirely unlike himself. The dream, he reassures himself. It’s the dream. It isn’t as if he couldn’t gather his wits even in reality when having Aventurine suck his nipples like he’s determined to get something out of them. And Sunday is the freak?
“Think you could get pregnant in the dream?” Aventurine asks. He flicks his tongue in wet, pointed circles around the hard nub, tugging on the piercing twice for every rotation.
“No,” Sunday says.
Aventurine laughs again. His breath tickles. “We shouldn’t have children together, anyways. Can you imagine how fucked up they’d be based on the foundation of both of us?”
“Please stop talking,” Sunday groans. He claps his hands to his face, wriggling his hips and arching his back to hint for Aventurine to move on. “If the dream swallows me entirely, and I lose control of myself, you won’t come out unharmed. So stop talking and hurry up, for your own sake.”
After lifting his head, Aventurine pauses, seeming to consider what Sunday said. He wants to ask questions, Sunday can tell, but he thankfully refrains. Because that was a complete lie. Sunday doesn’t know what might happen, besides that he will lose every inhibition that he still clings onto.
Soon, Sunday is bare. Denying what Aventurine wants—which is for Sunday to remain on his back—Sunday shoves him to reverse their positions once more, and Sunday crawls onto him. He squeezes Aventurine’s jaw, and before he continues, he says, “If you say a word of this to anyone, I will personally turn you inside out.”
Aventurine looks more scared, but he nods.
Sunday turns around and scoots back on his knees, and Aventurine puts his hands on Sunday’s hips, his grip tight and a little shaky. Sunday bends down, palms on Aventurine’s thighs, and his cock hangs above Aventurine’s parted mouth.
“Fuck, man,” Aventurine mumbles, but without argument, he wraps his fingers around Sunday’s waiting cock—making his thighs shiver—and draws it into his mouth.
An unholy cry bursts from Sunday’s throat, his elbows giving out, and he buries his face in Aventurine’s crotch, wetting Sunday’s cheek with the cooling cum that had seeped through his trousers. He doesn’t fully understand the bliss that surges through him, cock fully enveloped by Aventurine’s wet mouth. It’s too strong, too mind-numbing. Every swirl of Aventurine’s tongue wipes away another line of his remaining sanity.
When Aventurine’s fingers prod at his ass, slick with lube that was waiting in anticipation on the drawer by the bed, Sunday’s mind goes white, and nothing that happens to him feels like it should be possible. He’s no longer in control of his body, of the noises tearing from his throat, of how he peels Aventurine’s pants off to needily suck on the head of his sticky cock.
Aventurine already bucks, but Sunday can take it.
Two fingers in his hole, and he clenches around them like he needs them inside of him for the rest of their lives. He moans like nothing more than a common whore around Aventurine’s twitching cock. Slamming his hips down to bury his cock in Aventurine’s throat, not on purpose, but because the next time Aventurine rubs at his prostate, terrifying pleasure overtakes his nerves, igniting them with too much bliss. Cum pours down Aventurine’s throat, empties into his own mouth while Aventurine convulses simultaneously.
Sunday slides his mouth off with an obscene pop, and rocks his hips, pain-laced bliss shocking his cock, chills shooting up his spine.
He slides out, too, and collapses onto his back, breathing so heavily he may as well not be breathing at all; no oxygen, or the dream’s equivalent of making him think he has enough oxygen, reaches his brain.
“More,” Sunday croaks, grabbing Aventurine’s wrist insistently.
Aventurine shudders. Weakly, he tugs on Sunday’s wing, getting him to sit back up, and Sunday crawls onto him once more, again facing the foot of the bed—hopefully for the last time. Hopefully this will do it. It’s hurting now, the insatiable desire binding them together in this ephemeral dream.
Without prelude, Sunday works Aventurine’s cock against his hole, and when they are aligned, he sits down.
Aventurine lets out an earth-shattering sob, sounding like he might perish from how much he’s feeling. Sunday might be the same. It’s hard to think. All he knows is the fullness Aventurine at last imparts. His head rolls back, eyes rolling with it.
“Fuck,” Aventurine whimpers once he bottoms out inside Sunday’s ass. “I need to find you in reality.”
“If you manage to find me in reality,” Sunday says partially, in his voice that wavers and drops, “you can do whatever you want to me. Even if I say no.”
“Would you say no?”
Sunday clenches his eyes tightly shut. He delays answering by leaning forward, gripping Aventurine’s knees with fervent strength, hard enough to bruise. He rolls his hips, slowly, experimentally.
“I should,” he says. A rough grip fits around the upper edge of the wings on his back, thumbs sliding through slots between feathers, nails in the flesh on top. “You’re no good.”
“You seem to think I’m good enough right now,” Aventurine says tightly, slamming his hips up, burying his cock even deeper, wringing out a startled moan from Sunday’s throat.
And that’s it: Sunday has lost control—not of himself, but of Aventurine, who has become emboldened to shuffle onto his knees, grab Sunday by the wings, wrenching them back and ratcheting not-quite-real pain straight into his brainstem. He pounds into Sunday mercilessly and roughly, using his grasp on Sunday’s wings to pull him back in rhythm.
Pain, muddled ecstasy, building euphoria, sweat and tears and precum and—Aventurine hits his prostate one more time, and Sunday unravels, spewing Halovian curses that sound like music to people’s ears, spewing cum onto the silk under his stomach, accepting the load in his ass even though he generally despises the feel of semen on his person.
It doesn’t matter, because he can’t think about it. He doesn’t register the usual feeling of disgust, because the dream keeps him mired in utter filth. The dream makes him think that it’s a good feeling.
“More,” he demands in a noise resembling bits and pieces of intelligible speech.
“More?” Aventurine whines—pathetic.
“Again,” Sunday confirms. “Once more.”
Motionless, Aventurine hunches over him, their wet, unstable breath filling the space within the walls. His fingers begin to knead into Sunday’s too-sensitive feathers, slowly and purposefully, rolling his hips more slowly while Sunday writhes.
It hurts. It feels like the heaven he seeks. It might be making him cry.
Aventurine rolls him over onto his back, wings smashed uncomfortably underneath him, but he barely notices.
“What are you crying for?” Aventurine mutters, encircling his jeweled fingers under Sunday’s jaw, wrapping around his taut throat. “This is what you wanted.”
Sunday clenches his eyes shut and tries to crane his head away. He doesn’t like being seen like this. He hates the feeling of a tear sliding down his cheek and into his ear. He hates how Aventurine leans down and kisses him.
It isn’t like him to be dissolved into nothing from having someone’s tongue dipping between his lips. It is completely shameful to be clinging to Aventurine, towards whom he feels scarcely more than contempt. His self-control shouldn’t be so easily dismantled.
For the last time, the building, all-encompassing pleasure bursts. And when it finally recedes, contentment slinks in to fill the emptiness it leaves behind.
As soon as Sunday can move his limbs again, he shoves Aventurine off of him. Furiously rubbing the wetness from his cheeks, he crawls off the bed. He puts his clothes back on over the frankly distressing amount of fluids on his body.
Flat on his back, Aventurine is staring at the ceiling. Like he knows Sunday is staring at him, he turns his head to wink at Sunday on his way out.
“Glad I could help, chicken boy. Just send me a message in reality next time. Making this whole dream up just to get me in bed reeks of desperation.”
Blood running cold, Sunday’s eyes widen. “I didn’t—” He stops himself. No use in arguing. Let Aventurine think what he wants to think.
Sunday stumbles out from the dream.