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Sunday seems to have a particular fondness for Aventurine’s eyes. Aventurine can hazard a guess as to why — his eyes, an indication of who he used to be and where he came from, look so similar to Ena’s. Aventurine and the Order both gaze upon him with the same colors — why wouldn’t Sunday be enamored by them?
Aventurine supposes he should be grateful that he’s even been allowed to keep his sight. Gaiathra knows Sunday’s taken everything else. No freedom, no dignity, no ability to think too hard without attracting his captor’s attention. Any schemes can and have been shut down before a first step can even be formed.
“Kakavasha,” Sunday says suddenly, snapping Aventurine out of his reverie. “Look at me, will you?” He sounds patient enough, but Aventurine knows quite well that said patience is usually only performative.
Aventurine reluctantly looks up at Sunday from where he’s been made to kneel at the man’s feet — and promptly begins to panic when he sees the dagger in his hand.
“No,” Aventurine whimpers, cringing back when Sunday’s free hand grabs onto a few locks of his hair, clenching into a fist tightly enough to pull at the roots. “No, please, please don’t—“
“Hush.” Sunday’s voice is a little harsher now. “I don’t intend on harming you. Now, be still and silent.”
Aventurine’s panicked brain ditches fight and flight and jumps to freeze. His limbs lock up, even as they continue to tremble in ill-disguised terror, and his breathing is swift and shallow. He barely blinks, only daring to do so when he absolutely needs to, and his brow creases as he struggles to find any readable emotion in Sunday’s eyes. He sees nothing. Nothing but mild clinical intrigue.
Sunday idly flips the knife in a hand, and Aventurine flinches back. He’s borne the brunt of enough beatings to shy away from any instrument of violence. Sunday is well aware of this, if the gleam in his eye is any indication, and appears to be using the paranoia he’s instilled in his captive as some form of entertainment. Aventurine would be rightfully angry were he not used to it by now. And isn’t that tragic?
“Tell me, Kakavasha,” Sunday says casually, as if talking about the weather. He lifts the blade just a bit higher, letting the light bounce off of it. “If I were to put this dagger to your throat, how would you beg for mercy?”
The question is rhetorical, so Aventurine doesn’t respond. He does, however, give Sunday a pleading, miserable look that only has the other man smiling wider.
“Would you promise me undying loyalty and obedience?” Sunday continues. “Or would you prostrate yourself before me? Offer up your body in exchange for some leniency? How would you do it?”
Aventurine can’t bite back the fearful whimper that escapes him, pitiful as it is. Sunday only laughs softly. “You’d do whatever you could to make me happy,” he says, successfully answering his own question. “Of course you would. I’ve trained you well.”
Aventurine yelps as the hand in his hair suddenly yanks his head back, exposing his bare throat to the apex predator grinning down at him. His wide, panicked eyes meet Sunday’s serene gaze, and he blinks back tears as that damned dagger slowly lowers until it hovers less than an inch away from the delicate skin of his neck.
“Beg, Kakavasha,” Sunday murmurs, and Aventurine does.
He begs for mercy, for lenience and for kindness. He promises obedience and loyalty and any possible service he and his useless body can provide. He swears that he’ll do anything Sunday wants if it means he lives another day, even if his existence could barely be called living. Sunday listens with that same serene smile on his face, smug in his ability to force Aventurine into debasing himself for no reason other than amusement.
“Good,” Sunday coos to Aventurine after he’s worn out his vocal cords, and he places the dagger aside. He simultaneously lets go of Aventurine’s hair, and the Avgin shivers and gives a soft whine of relief. “Very well done, Kakavasha. Would you like your reward now or later?”
Aventurine deliberates on that. If he takes it now, his reward will be short-lived and messy, but if he takes it later, it’ll be drawn-out and far more pleasurable. That aside, he really needs the dopamine hit that comes with an orgasm… in the end, though, he decides on holding off on it. “Later,” he murmurs, and then tacks on a “please” for good measure.
“Smart thing,” Sunday croons. He cups Aventurine’s cheek, brushing his thumb over the soft, pale skin, and Aventurine closes his eyes. He leans into the touch, cherishing every second of friendly contact, and doesn’t offer up a single complaint for a long time afterward.