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Simulated Universe Run – World 7, Plane 5
Sunday supposes this is what comes of being polite.
A simple "of course" to the Trailblazer — because one does not refuse the one person in the galaxy who still looks at him without suspicion — has somehow led to this: trudging through a digital wasteland with Aventurine of the IPC humming off-key beside him and commenting on the curvature of simulated rocks.
It is, without question, a uniquely punishing experience.
The Trailblazer leads up front, cheerful, unbothered, apparently immune to tension. Aventurine lags behind, flipping a coin through his gloved fingers. Sunday walks to the Trailblazer's left, posture straight, expression composed, soul quietly eroding.
The SU's robotic voice cuts through the air with the chirp of a broken intercom.
Domain Completion: 63%.
Proceed to next challenge.
He sighs through his nose. "You’re unusually quiet, Mr. Aventurine," he remarks, because diplomacy requires at least the pretense of civility.
"Trying not to vomit from all the Harmony you've been using, Mr. Sunday," Aventurine answers without missing a beat.
"It is my sole source of power."
"Nauseating, regardless."
Sunday glances his way. "How courteous of you to restrain yourself, then."
"Wouldn’t want to stain your robes. They look...like the only ones you have."
Sunday shoots him a withering look. So what if they are? It's not like he can walk around with his flashy suit anymore.
He shakes his head and swears to himself to ask the Trailblazer who they're going to be doing this with next time they beg him to accompany them, and politely decline if the presence of any IPC member is required.
The person in question clears their throat, a sound that's somewhere between please stop and I regret inviting you both.
They press on through the simulated halls of the third plane.
Sunday speaks again, because if Aventurine gets to jab at him, then he can do the same. "I was under the impression you disliked simulated runs."
"I do. But our friend here asked nicely." Aventurine gestures toward the Trailblazer. "And, well, I was told there’d be high-value rewards. Couldn’t say no."
"Ah," Sunday says. "So we are both here out of obligation."
Aventurine snorts. "Don’t lump me in with you, Mr Sunday."
He smiles faintly. "I wouldn’t dare."
They eventually shred through another combat domain with guaranteed rewards, and Trailblazer gestures Sunday to choose.
Event Trigger: Randomized Blessing: Path of Harmony
Curio: Guaranteed to obtain blessings of Preservation next time you complete an Adventure challenge
Sunday selects the Harmony out of habit.
Aventurine rolls his eyes. "You're stingy, Mr Sunday."
"I’ve been accused of worse alignments," Sunday replies.
"Like tyranny?"
"Among others."
The Trailblazer interjects again, cheerfully oblivious. Or they're enjoying it all. "Okay, okay, both of you — focus! Next warp’s up ahead."
Sunday is relieved for the distraction. Every conversation with Aventurine feels like playing chess with someone who keeps flicking the pieces off the board.
He tells himself he only endures these games because it is useful to understand an IPC executive, a future threat, a variable to manage.
It does not explain why his attention keeps straying, though — why, whenever Aventurine visits the Express, Sunday's eyes in the room find the glint of his coin first. Why he recognizes the man’s signature at a glance on stray reports left in the Parlor Car. Why he knows, with obscene precision, the angle at which Aventurine tilts his head right before a lie, or the exact point his smile sharpens when a risk stops being fun and he starts getting irritated instead.
No one should occupy that much space in his mind, least of all a gambler who had a good hand in causing his great fall. Yet there Aventurine is, tucked between the past and his present, a persistent itch his mind never quite manages to stop scratching.
Regardless, they enter the warp. For a second, there’s only light which is the usual transition flicker, which is fine, and then the world tilts.
A low sound vibrates through the ground. Pixels distort around them, fracturing the domain into strips of data. The artificial voice returns, stuttering.
W-w-warning: Domain integrity—error. Re-routing—cohesion test initiated.
Sunday steadies himself and looks around.
The Trailblazer is gone. Oh no. "A system fault?"
Aventurine activates his shield for both of them, and takes a defensive stance. "Corrupted plane? Is Madam Herta's system this lacking?"
"She would be very displeased if she heard that," Sunday replies, scanning the domain with his halo.
Then the mechanical voice resounds inside once more.
Remaining players have exited the Simulated Universe.
To proceed: Synchronization between participants required.
They both pause to relax for a brief moment.
Then, in that same mechanical cheerfulness:
Warning: Low proximity detected. Participants must establish physical synchronization within five minutes to avoid data collapse.
Aventurine blinks. "You’ve got to be kidding me."
Sunday blinks back, already feeling the migraine approaching his poor skull. "It appears it is not."
Then the data lines bend.
Sunday knows that color should not drip, yet here it does, liquid light pooling at their feet before blooming outward, walls congealing into shape. The flickering void stabilizes, pixel by pixel, until they are no longer standing in a domain at all.
A room.
A bed.
He takes this in without visible reaction. Long practice. Years of facing disasters with an expression best described as tolerant suffering.
Aventurine, unfortunately, has no such restraint. "Oh, for the love of—no. No way."
The room is absurdly plain. Sterile walls, a nightstand. A flickering light fixture, two towels on the single, very prominent bed in the center.
"Curious choice of environment," Sunday declares at last.
"Curious? It’s a bedroom," Aventurine gestures broadly. "A bedroom in a corrupted domain. This cannot end well."
Countdown initiated: 5 Minutes Remaining
Sunday closes his eyes. He should have known.
"Alright," Aventurine says, rubbing his temples. "Let’s think this through. What exactly does ‘physical synchronization’ mean?"
"Presumably," Sunday replies, "contact."
"Like a handshake?"
"One would hope."
They both stare at the bed.
He attempts to open the door. It doesn’t budge. The knob pulses red mockingly.
Synchronization progress: 0%.
He turns back. Aventurine has his arms crossed and an expression that suggests he’d rather be ejected into deep space.
"Alright, new plan," Aventurine says. "You’re the expert on dispelling debuffs. Harmonize us out of here."
Sunday considers many, many responses, and promptly discards all of them. He steps closer. "If the command is literal, physical contact may be necessary to stabilize the simulation’s parameters."
"Just say ‘we have to touch,’ it’s shorter."
Sunday exhales. "Very well. We have to touch."
"Fine. Touch away."
He extends a hand, mockingly gallant.
Sunday hesitates only a second before taking it. His glove meets Aventurine’s; and static sparks faintly at the contact point.
The simulation beeps.
Synchronization progress: 0.2%.
They both look at the percentage, then at each other.
"Not even one percent," Aventurine remarks flatly. "You’ve got to be kidding me."
"Perhaps it measures surface area," Sunday offers.
His unwilling companion snorts. "Oh, good. Maybe if I strangle you, it’ll hit twenty."
Sunday arches a brow. "Tempting, I’m sure. Yet I doubt aggression qualifies as synchronization."
Four minutes remaining.
The corrupted chipper tone feels most definitely mocking now.
Aventurine paces, muttering curses. Sunday watches him with politeness, as he concludes that he very much is malfunctioning himself.
What a funny thought. Better keep that to himself, lest he angers Aventurine further.
"Alright," Aventurine says right on cue. "Handholding isn’t enough. What’s next? A hug?"
"It seems a reasonable escalation."
Aventurine gapes at him. "You’re serious."
"I am no more comfortable with the situation than you are, Mr Aventurine. But it is either that, or we both disintegrate metaphysically."
He opens his arms to fasten the deal, nervous as one would be if they were inviting a particularly dangerous animal to approach.
Aventurine laughs once, disbelieving, then groans and steps forward. "You owe me for this."
Synchronization progress: 11%. Countdown timer disabled.
The screen beeps approvingly, then goes blessedly silent. No more countdowns and no more threats of immediate metaphysical disintegration occur.
Sunday allows himself one quiet sigh of relief. "It seems the immediate danger has passed."
Aventurine steps back like he’s been burned. "Good. Because that was the most awkward hug of my life."
"I’ve had worse," Sunday replies.
"Yeah? In your weird little Family?"
"Yes, actually."
That firmly shuts Aventurine up.
Sunday chooses to give him the most judgemental look possible for asking that question, then smooths his robes and surveys the blank walls for a way out. There isn’t one. The door remains pulsing red, a mechanical heartbeat that signals their doom if they don't do something about it soon.
The machine beeps again, far too pleased with itself.
Tip: Higher synchronization scores may unlock exit conditions. Explore contact options creatively.
The number in the air hovers smugly at 11%.
"If minimal hand contact yields zero point two percent, and a full embrace yields eleven, perhaps the system calculates based on the area of contact between participants."
The IPC executive stares at him, probably trying to judge whether he is joking. Which is ridiculous, because since when did Sunday ever joke? Then he shakes his head. "Fine. Your experiment. Tell me where to stand."
They maneuver around each other stiffly. Sunday turns his back to Aventurine; Aventurine does the same, until their shoulders align.
The contact is small. Sunday takes one careful step back. Aventurine huffs and matches it.
There is a brief, undignified shuffle as coats catch, belts tap, heels adjust. Eventually they manage it: backs pressed from shoulder to hip, legs straight, boots braced.
Synchronization progress: 11.3%.
They both stare at the new number.
"…Point three," Aventurine sighs. "For this."
Sunday's jaw tightens. "Perhaps if we adjust our stance. Mr Aventurine, I must ask you to take one more step back."
"I am already glued to you," Aventurine snaps. "What do you want, skin fusion?"
Sunday would not go that far. "Perhaps contact with the lower extremities may—"
"Do not say 'lower extremities' to me right now."
They compromise. Slowly they both inch their feet back until their heels bump.
Aventurine breathes out through his teeth. "We are standing back-to-back, ass-to-ass, heel-to-heel. If this thing does not appreciate commitment—"
Synchronization progress: 12%.
A full half-point. Not nearly enough.
"Progress," Sunday says anyway, because lying is a sin.
Aventurine reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "At this rate we will die of embarrassment long before we hit one hundred."
The machine, apparently thrilled, chimes again.
Analysis: participants attempting surface-area optimization.
> Clarification: Synchronization is not measured by area of contact.
Sunday straightens a stray feather. "Of course it is not," he mutters.
> Metric: intimacy of physical interaction.
Note: neutral contact yields low synchronization.
Examples of higher-value contact include:
– Contact considered private or personal by participants.
– Stimulation that increases physical response.
The silence that follows this time is oppressive.
Aventurine is the first to recover; he pulls away from Sunday like he has touched a live wire.
"No," he says. "No. Absolutely not."
"I concur," Sunday replies at once.
He keeps his gaze fixed on the door instead of the bed.
"There must be a way to outwit the system," he continues. "A loophole in how it defines 'intimacy'."
Aventurine starts pacing, coat flaring, coin spinning between his fingers with more speed than strictly necessary. Sunday is vaguely offended that the idea of sleeping with him is more distressing to Aventurine than dying. "It said ‘physical response’," he speaks up. "That doesn’t have to mean—" He cuts himself off, gesturing vaguely. “You know."
"I do not wish to know what you assume it means."
"Anything that gets the heart rate up, right?" Aventurine presses on. "That can be from pain, pressure, strong stimuli. It doesn’t have to be—" another broad gesture "—sexual."
“Do you suggest we cause each other discomfort for progress?"
"You put it that way, it sounds like we’re running a torture chamber."
"You are already acting as if touching me is no different than being in one."
"Well. Duh."
Good heavens. Is he that unsightly? He's sure he's been keeping his appearance impeccable, even on the Express. He had no idea Aventurine's distaste for him ran this deep. The more you know, really.
In front of him, Aventurine keeps pacing. Around the bed, past the nightstand, back to the door, like a caged animal in a very tastefully boring enclosure.
Sunday watches him, hsnds calmly folded. He can see the calculations running behind those captivating eyes.
He has grown far too familiar with this sight over these trial runs. The restless swing of his coat, the flash of the coin between gloved fingers, the way tension turns Aventurine’s mouth sharp instead of slack.
He collects these patterns in his head, arranges them next to each other, and the image never comes out clean. That, more than anything, is what keeps him looking.
"Fine," Aventurine says at last. "Let’s reframe. Personal does not have to equal vulgar. There are entire businesses built on strangers touching strangers for money."
Sunday tilts his head. "…Brothels?"
Aventurine blinks, then laughs despite himself. "Spas, Sunday. Massage parlors."
"I see."
Sunday considers this. Objectively, it is a sound proposal. Subjectively, it is still a scenario where he offers his person up to Aventurine’s hands while a corrupted system software grades them on intimacy.
His life truly has taken several turns.
"Would that qualify as ‘personal’?" he asks.
"You’ve never had your shoulders worked over after a long meeting?"
"I used to have staff to handle tension."
"What, did you make them suck you off instead?"
"Some offered," He replies without thinking.
Aventurine makes a face. "Ew."
"I had no interest in my working personnel," Sunday clarifies.
Delightfully, he snorts at that. "Figures." He flicks the coin once, catches it, pockets it. "Look. It’s a controlled option. You keep your robes on, and I get to avoid all the other possibilities this thing clearly wants."
It is, unfortunately, the least awful suggestion on the table.
Sunday folds his arms, thinking.
"In that case," he admits finally, "I can accept it as a reasonable experiment."
Aventurine’s brows lift. "That easy?"
"Hardly." He undoes the buttons of his overcoat. "But if I must submit to another humiliation ritual, it may as well be one that is socially acceptable."
He looks down at his own hands, then back at Aventurine’s. "You may consider it… repayment."
"For what?"
He meets the executive’s stare in full. "For the pressure I put you under in Penacony."
He has apologized, in his own way. It does not change the fact that he enjoyed far too much power over the man now standing in this artificial room with him.
"If it helps re-balance the scales," he adds, "I can endure a massage."
Aventurine stares at him for a long stretch of seconds, then laughs low and incredulous. "Only you would frame this as moral restitution."
"I am trying to be fair."
"Fair would be me drugging you stupid and gaslighting you into you're dying."
Sunday pointedly ignores that. "Shall we begin, Mr Aventurine?"
He places himself primly at the edge of the bed, posture impeccable, wings tucked neatly and obediently behind each ear. He is the very picture of good behaviour, all things considered. They twitch a little but he smooths the feathers back with a practiced motion before it can become a source of his shame.
The massage is nothing out of the ordinary.
While his hands remain firm and soothing over the cloth on his skin, he can still feel Aventurine glaring at the back of his head.
This, he realizes, is the most fun he has had in weeks.
His wings flutter out of joy, and he forces them down quickly even though he knows the other man can't read his tells from the appendages alone.
Aventurine resumes the massage efficiently, despite Sunday's doubts. His hands glide down the slope of his shoulders, thumbs tracing the tension along the blades. They’re skilled, surprisingly so, and Sunday’s body reacts before his pride can stop it.
"Mmmh..."
Aventurine’s hands freeze.
"Sunday," he snarls, voice tight. "Don't moan."
Sunday opens one eye. "You are stimulating my nerves. It is involuntary."
"I should strangle you," Aventurine mutters.
Sunday’s mouth quirks at it. Ah, he thinks mildly. So he is struggling. How interesting.
His wings perk up in interest. How far can he push before it becomes obvious?
Aventurine’s hands move to the base of his neck, kneading in slow circles.
A broken sound slips out before he can stop it. (He could totally have stopped it.)
Aventurine makes a high noise of displeasure. "Stop that."
"Is this distressing you, Mr Aventurine?"
"I’m fine."
"That would be a first."
"Keep talking and I’ll start counting ribs."
"I have the usual number."
"Hate you."
"It appears mutuality is all the rage tonight," he lets out a shaky breath on purpose when his fingertios dig in his skin harder out of pettiness.
Aventurine's biggest mistake is thinking he is the pettiest person in this room.
"Ah—that feels good..."
The executive's hands jerk. "Are you—are you doing this on purpose?"
Sunday keeps his tone saintly. "I assure you, Mr Aventurine, I am merely being polite."
He is absolutely not merely being polite. But no way in hell is he ever going to admit that.
His wings betray him again, fluffing outwards in pleasure before he snaps them flat. It earns him a comment this time.
"What are those even for?" Aventurine mutters, fingers digging into the knot beneath Sunday’s shoulderblade.
"They are an organ like any other," Sunday replies vaguely, because admitting they reveal every emotional fluctuation he has ever experienced would give Aventurine far too much ammunition. "Please avoid touching them. They are sensitive."
"Oh great. You have erogenous zones on your head."
"They are not—" Sunday begins, then stops. "I am not having this conversation."
Aventurine snorts and moves lower down his back, palms dragging firmly, and Sunday has to bite back another sound. Not because he is embarrassed, but because he can feel Aventurine react each time he does it — a little hitch in breath, a stutter in rhythm.
How fascinating, Sunday thinks. He really is affected. I suspected as much, but confirmation is always pleasant.
My life may be terrible, but his is worse right now. How delightful.
And then the mechanical voice chimes in again and reminds him that their suffering is more mutual than he thinks.
Synchronization progress: 18%.
> Participant effort and time: wasted on meaningless contact.
> Suggested alternatives: oral stimulation, intercrural friction, manual climax.
Sunday keeps his eyes closed for another few seconds because it is the only way he can bear this existence, then opens them calmly.
"I believe," he begins evenly, "we might have a problem."
Aventurine, to his credit, simply drops his forehead on his back and groans. "Yeah, no shit."
Synchronization progress will not reach 100% until mutual ejaculation is achieved.
What a shameless program. Sunday recalls the Trailblazer telling him about Aeons being able to hijack Simulated Universe runs, but cannot for the life of him think of a specific God that would take pleasure in this. Is there an Aeon of Perversion? Any path related to indecency?
He wonders if they can have a conversation with it, but before he can entertain the idea, the voice echoes again.
> Sexual contact is 98.7% effective in achieving full synchronization.
Please proceed efficiently.
The warmth of the breath Aventurine lets out almost makes him laugh. The effort it must be taking not to punt Sunday must be unbelievable to the poor executive.
Sunday turns around and watches him sink into the mattress, limbs askew, coat spilling over the side. A brief image of them discarded on the floor flashes in his mind before he suppresses it.
"Okay. Fine. Let's just get it over with."
"…Really," Sunday raises a brow.
Aventurine sighs, one arm thrown over his eyes. "Look, I’m tired. You’re tired. I’m not going to sit around in a box with you forever if it’s the only way out."
It's vaguely noble the way he says it, as if sacrificing his dignity for the greater good.
"You surprise me," Sunday admits.
"What, you thought I’d start crying?"
"I thought you’d start punching the walls before entertaining the idea."
"Well," Aventurine says, dragging the arm off his face, "it’s not like all the sex I’ve had was pleasant. This won’t be the worst." He looks him up and down. "And you’re not bad-looking. And probably clean. You're clean, right?"
He makes a face. "Of course I'm clean."
"Right, great," Aventurine waves a hand "So how are we doing it? I'd vote missionary with eye contact out. Would be awkward."
Sunday considers this.
Objectively, Aventurine is speaking plainly. Realistically. Even strategically. He is solving a problem in the seemingly only possible way but clearly, his pride is making him throw himself into a volcano because he refuses to be patient and think of another way.
Still, it is… amusing.
Sunday does not take pleasure in his discomfort, and has no interest in sexually involving himself with someone unwilling. But this performance? This half-prone swagger? It’s practically begging to be tested.
So he tilts his head. "You’re serious."
Aventurine shrugs. "Sure. Might as well. Got a better plan?"
"Not currently."
"Then come on. It’s not going to do itself."
This bravado is really impressive, he thinks. Certainly believable from a man like Aventurine who is all boldness and no hesitation. But Sunday knows better. He knows what contempt looks like. What loathing feels like when it's directed at him.
And Aventurine loathes him.
Which means he will fold at the first moment of sincerity.
At the first hint of actual contact, he’ll flinch, then gag, and shove Sunday off with that same disgusted noise he made when he admitted people once offered to service him.
He will not survive the reality of this bluff.
And so, Sunday thinks: How far will you take it, Mr. Aventurine?
Will you let me touch you? Will you arch your back and pretend it’s all just business? Will you make a joke when your breath stutters?
Or will you panic when you realize I’m not half as appalled as you want me to be?
One gloved finger flicks the button of his vest, enough to draw Aventurine’s gaze.
"Very well," he shrugs it off. "I only ask that when you change your mind —and you will— you do so without theatrics."
Aventurine scoffs. "Tch. You wish."
He lets the vest slide onto the mattress, and folds it away to the nightstand. His halo hums with anticipation, wings tucking flat—he is so morbidly curious.
Aventurine watches him with that gambler’s stare, chin lifted he’s bidding at an auction he intends to win by willpower alone. Brave, performative, and deliciously fragile.
"No change of heart?" Sunday asks as he turns to press one knee next to Aventurine's.
"I'm not a coward," Aventurine scoffs again, and parts his knees with a daring tilt of his head, then crooks two fingers in the air. "Come here."
It doesn't take him more than a second to listen. Why wouldn’t he. He crawls into Aventurine’s space, lets their knees touch, then their thighs.
"You can withdraw at any time," Sunday mutters as he observes the rise and fall of his chest. "I won’t think less of you."
"As if I give a shit what you think," Aventurine says, hooks two fingers in Sunday’s belt and drags him in. It's rough, possessive, too quick to be graceful. It betrays nerves. "Eyes up."
Sunday lifts his gaze obediently until it meets Aventurine’s.
The look in his eyes is molten, angry, and a little wild. He recognizes the sheen of heat behind it: defiance laced with lust, shame dressed up in swagger, willpower unraveling one inch at a time.
How lovely, he thinks.
How easy it is to tell when someone’s pride is bleeding.
Their thighs press flush as Aventurine’s grip on his belt tightens, and Sunday is too amused to point out that he just dragged him in like a lover that he's reuniting with.
There’s a strange kind of ache in his gut, a throbbing need to press his luck, to see what will hurt first: Aventurine’s pride, or his own self-control. He must be spending too much time with the man.
Without stalling further, he slides his hands along Aventurine’s thighs that tremble just a little beneath the tailored fabric. His palms drift upward, savoring the way Aventurine’s body shudders under his touch.
He leans in so that their breaths mingle, eager in spite of everything. Sunday feels the flutter of his own wings and hears the rustle of feathers as he spreads his fingers flat over Aventurine’s clothed stomach, pressing down, feeling the tense play of muscle and heat under his hand.
"Should we kiss?" Sunday asks, too casually.
"Are you asking to?"
"I’m asking if you’ll throw up if we do."
Aventurine bares his teeth. "Try me."
Sunday laughs low in his throat. He brings his face close to let his mouth graze Aventurine's bottom lip between his teeth enough to sting.
Aventurine groans in pain and surges up, mouth crashing into his. There’s nothing soft about the kiss. It’s vulgar, greedy, all fire and want and the scrape of teeth.
Before he can return the fervor, he is held firmly by the shoulders and dragged down until his thigh presses hard between Aventurine's thighs. Their hips grind together, the friction sharp and almost painful, but ecstasy rips through him anyway—hot and wild and untamed.
Sunday wants to handle him, to devour him, to carve every reaction into memory.
Similar to the urge to press on a bruise just to see the color bloom, he wants to know how far the man will bend before he snaps, whether the worship he gives to chance can be redirected, just for a moment, toward a pair of hands and a voice instead of a deck and a bet.
Their mouths don’t part so much as tear away with a breathless, slick noise, throb of want heavy in the air between them.
A string of spit breaks as Sunday pulls back just enough to look him in the eye. Aventurine is flushed, hair mussed, pupils blown wide with lust and defiance. His lips are kissed raw and pink already.
He looks…properly disheveled.
Sunday is absurdly pleased with this.
Aventurine seems to notice that look on his face; his chin tips up, chin high with dignity even as his fingers are already at his own belt.
Buckle, zipper, the soft tug of fabric down his hips. He shucks his slacks low and off to free himself, then drags his shirt open with careless flicks, buttons slipping loose and dangling. It hangs off his shoulders in a loose frame, exposing the line of his torso, the soft give at his waist, the faint dusting of hair under his navel.
"Quit staring like you've never seen a man undress before," he mutters, even as he reaches out, hooks a hand into Sunday’s collar, and drags him back in.
The next kiss finds Sunday unexpectedly.
Aventurine’s mouth is hot and a little clumsy against his own as if he’s rushing past his own hesitation before it can take hold. His hand fists in Sunday’s hair, rings biting at his scalp as he yanks him closer. Pain sparks across the back of Sunday's head, then runs down his neck and settles low, mixing with the steady pulse already building there.
Sunday lets him, tips his head just so, giving Aventurine a better grip, swallowing the groan that wants to escape his mouth.
His own hands settle where they have been wanting to go since the first time he noticed Aventurine's softness under all that tailoring.
Around his waist, fingers spreading over the small swell of stomach, thumbs pressing in. The contrast is intoxicating: the narrow cinch of his middle, the way the flesh under his thumbs yields with the smallest push, warm and alive.
"Checking out the goods?" Aventurine scoffs against his mouth. "I assure you, these are authentic parts."
Sunday hums idly despite the unsavory way Aventurine refers to himself.
He moves one of his hands until it's down over the curve of his belly, pressing the pads of his fingers into that tender strip above the line of his underwear. Right where, in another kind of body, another kind of life, there might have been space for a cradle.
Aventurine gasps into his mouth. His hips jerk forward to chase the pressure, and Sunday wonders if he's the first one to touch him in a long while.
"Ha—" He cuts himself off with a bitten-off noise, then tries again. "Wh… what are you doing? Don't press there,"
Sunday pulls back a breath away to watch him.
Aventurine’s lashes are half-lidded, pupils glossy, color blooming high across his cheekbones. His chest rises and falls too quickly.
"I’m verifying where your greed sits," Sunday says mildly. His fingers press in a little lower, palm fitting around the small rise of belly. "You store a great deal of it here, it seems."
Aventurine's breath hitches, his body arching instinctively under Sunday's touch.
"Can you stop fondling me and get to it already?" He shifts his hips, trying to grind against Sunday's palm, but the movement only makes the hand press firmer, pinning him in place.
Sunday sighs dramatically.
"You really could bear a plethora of beautiful children if you had the body for it."
Aventurine stares at him.
A moment passes where everything goes blank behind his eyes— his mind seemingly has simply crashed.
"Why would you say that before you’re going to—" He cuts himself off, clearly reconsidering vocabulary. His ears flush darker. "What's wrong with you?"
Sunday's lips curve into a serene smile. Oh, how endearing.
He's flustered, stumbling over his words like a fledgling bird testing its wings. Sunday wants to gather him up, cradle that sharp tongue and soften it with his own.
"I'm complimenting you," he says softly, feeling the skin of his tummy tighten under his palm.
He cannot stop watching him. Every twitch, every aborted protest, every flash of panic and want cycling behind his eyes. It is endlessly, shamefully precious, like watching a small wild animal trying to puff itself up to look dangerous while standing in his palm.
"They’re not compliments," Aventurine mutters, words slurring at the edges. "They’re… weird. You’re weird." His hand tightens in Sunday’s hair again, yanking him down to shut him up. "Just— come here."
With that, he seals their mouths together in a kiss that's more bite than a kiss. Sunday’s hands move to hook into the waistband of Aventurine's underwear while his attention is split, tugging it free, their lips parting only to share a breath.
The fabric slides down his thighs, and Aventurine kicks it off with an impatient jerk, his cock springing free, already flushed and heavy, a bead of precome glistening at the flushed tip.
Sunday's gaze flickers down to drink in the sight.
He should look ridiculous like this, half-undressed and flushed, but Aventurine insists on being annoyingly arresting about it.
He drags his mouth down, trailing along the column of Aventurine's throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses that linger enough to draw out a whine that vibrates against his lips. Aventurine's head tips back, exposing more skin, his fingers tangling tighter in Sunday's hair to anchor himself.
Pulling back, Sunday lifts two fingers up to his mouth, and commands softly: "Suck."
"For what." Aventurine breathes.
"I doubt you wish for me to enter you dry?"
That swiftly shuts him up, chest heaving before he obediently parts his lips.
Sunday slips two fingers inside, pressing them against his tongue, watching with rapt fascination as Aventurine's cheeks hollow. Saliva pools under his tongue until it covers the digits in a generous coat. It's messy, unrefined, and utterly captivating; Sunday's own arousal throbs insistently, an ache that yearns to bury itself in that warm, yielding heat, to fill him until he can see it take form inside the softness of his body.
He withdraws his fingers slowly, trailing a glistening string that snaps against Aventurine's chin. "Spread your legs wider," Sunday instructs, "And relax a little."
"Don't treat me like a virgin," the executive snaps, cheeks flushed. How cute.
"Then don't act like one," he replies smoothly, pushing his thighs apart. "Open."
Despite his show of reluctance, Aventurine's thighs part further with eagerness. So much for his earlier crises.
After a gentle push up under Aventurine's thigh, he circles the tight ring of muscle first, teasing with the pad of one slick finger before easing it inside, feeling the heat clench around him. Aventurine lets out a loud whine, high and broken, his body writhing under the intrusion, hips bucking instinctively into the touch.
Once he’s sure it’s used to the stretch, he adds a second finger, scissoring them with ease, his long digits curling just so, brushing against that spot that makes Aventurine's back arch off the surface beneath them.
"Sun—sunnhday, hhah, fuck—you pervert," Aventurine gasps, words tripping over themselves in a slurry of pleasure and protest, his hands clutching at Sunday's shoulders, nails digging in. "You're—experienced?"
He pauses mentally, but his hand doesn’t; it only presses in harder. They plunge deeper, the slick glide of them stretching Aventurine's tightness with a sharpened rhythm, knuckles brushing against the sensitive inner walls.
"Experienced," Sunday echoes, rolling the word on his tongue. His eyes lift from the obscene sight of his hand buried between Aventurine's trembling thighs to lock onto his face, drinking in the wrecked expression there. "You sound surprised."
Aventurine swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing under sweat-slicked skin. "You don’t exactly scream…"
His breath shudders out in a ragged gasp as Sunday curls his fingers inward, deliberately seeking out that swollen bundle of nerves deep inside, pressing hard against his prostate until Aventurine's spine snaps into a perfect arch, his ass lifting off the bed in a desperate bid for more—or escape, maybe.
"Scream what?" Sunday inquires mildly, his voice calm in spite of the lewd squelch of his fingers pumping in and out. "Competence?"
A fractured moan tears from Aventurine's throat before he can clamp it down, his nails scraping red lines into Sunday's skin through cloth.
"I thought you’d—" he gasps, voice cracking as Sunday quickens the pace, thrusting faster and much less patiently, each slide dragging along those velvet walls with ruthless intent. "Hah— ngh, slow down, you—fuck, that's too much—"
"Oh, but I assumed you were accustomed to this sort of thing."
"You're such an asshole," Aventurine manages, the insult breaking into a stuttering breath as another deep curve of Sunday's fingers sends sparks racing up his spine.
His hands scramble from Sunday's shoulders to his neck, carefully avoiding the base of his wings, then cup his jaw, fingers trembling as he seeks any anchor amid the building haze. "I said slow— down…"
Sunday lifts his eyes back to Aventurine's face, amusement apparent in their depths. "And I heard a great deal of noise," he replies calmly. "What I did not hear was a convincing reason."
Aventurine swallows thickly, pulls him closer.
Their foreheads press together in an unexpectedly tender collision, the world shrinking to the hot, shared rhythm of their breaths and the cool bite of Aventurine's rings against Sunday's skin where his fingers frame his face. Up close, the sharp edges of Aventurine's expression blur; his lashes quiver, his lips parted and slick with saliva, eyes dilated into hazy pools of mingled pleasure and frustration.
"Sunday," he breathes, the name stripped of its usual bite, unfolding instead as a soft, earnest plea. "Please. Slower."
Sunday forgets to move at all.
It is ridiculous, how quickly that tone takes a hold of him. He has endured much in his ridiculous life, all manner of believers and sinners; none of them have ever lodged under his ribs quite like this simple, stubborn sweetness from a man who called him an asshole two breaths ago.
He draws in a thin breath and forces his fingers to ease. The pace shifts from ruthless to coaxing, each movement drawn out enough that Aventurine can ride the crest instead of being drowned by it.
"Is that better?" he asks in a hushed tone.
Aventurine lets out a shaky laugh that breaks halfway through. His forehead stays pressed to Sunday’s.
"You're disgusting," he says, but the words come wrapped in a sigh of relief. "You know that? You act like you're doing me a favor."
"I am," Sunday answers simply. His gaze tracks every falter, every little unguarded twitch around his eyes. "You asked nicely. I am hardly immune to good manners."
Aventurine scoffs even as his hips roll forward instinctively, grinding down to meet the measured thrusts, his body lazily chasing the now-tempered pleasure.
"You're weak," he mutters, lashes fluttering as another slow, deliberate press inside sends a fresh wave shuddering through him, his walls clenching greedily around the intrusion. "All I—hah–had to do was bat my eyes at you."
Well. Sunday has never been able to ignore good manners.
Even as patient as he is, though, it is becoming acutely intolerable that he is not the one filling Aventurine at the moment. It makes him slow his hand, easing his fingers back until the tight ring of muscle flutters around the last knuckle, then slips free entirely.
He leans down, mouth finding the damp column of the executive’s throat.
"Aventurine," he murmurs, trying not to sound desperate. "I want to be inside you."
Aventurine huffs out a breath that breaks halfway with impatience. "Yeah," he pants, shoulders sagging against the sheets. "Obviously. Just— hurry up… Ugh…" His fingers curl tighter at the back of Sunday’s neck. "How are we even going to look at each other when we’re out of here?"
Sunday smiles against his throat. "Aren’t you remarkably talented at pretending you’re innocent?" he asks, straightening back up to see his face.
"I am innocent," Aventurine counters at once, and throws an arm above his chest in a show of exaggerated modesty. "You’re practically taking my virginity here."
Sunday sighs, long-suffering, and chooses not to dignify that with a response.
He reaches down instead, undoing his own belt and fly with practiced motions. He pushes his trousers open only enough to ease himself out, palm wrapped around the base.
Aventurine’s ever so curious gaze drops automatically.
"Oh," he goes, a little blankly.
Sunday stills, self-consciousness passing through him so quickly it almost irritates him. "What?" he asks, brows drawing together. "What is it?"
"That is going to come roughly from here…" Aventurine lifts a hand to trace an invisible line from his pubic bone, gliding up until it pauses just below his navel. "...to here."
Arousal blooms so fast and sudden in his lower belly that Sunday feels dizzy.
"Stop being obscene," he reprimands with a face that's probably red, even as his eyes flick, involuntary, to the point Aventurine has indicated. The thought of reaching that deep, of feeling Aventurine strain around him every inch of the way, punches through his composure so easily it's humiliating.
Then Aventurine keeps going, because he evidently has absolutely no concept of controlling what comes out of his mouth.
"Never thought I'd be deflowered by such a—"
Sunday clamps a hand over his mouth before the sentence can finish.
"Aventurine," he cuts in, mortified, shame licking up the back of his neck. "Stop it. You're being awful."
Aventurine’s shoulders shake immediately, laughter spilling against his palm in helpless little bursts. His eyes crinkle at the corners, wicked and bright even blown wide like this, and he has the audacity to look delighted with himself.
He hums against Sunday’s hand then, and his free hand drops without warning. Warm fingers curl around his length firmly, making Sunday’s breath catch in his throat. His hips jolt forward, entirely undignified, pressing into the loose circle of Aventurine’s grip before he can stop himself. The pleasure is sharp and immediate, spiraling up his spine in a humiliating rush.
Aventurine gives him one slow, lazy pull that makes Sunday’s vision blur at the edges, then his eyes flick up, pulling Sunday closer with that grip, guiding him between his thighs. "Hurry up already..."
Well. Yes. Hurry. His body agrees with that, of course.
The hand around him gives another pointed squeeze before Aventurine lets go, settling back on the sheets and spreading his thighs wider in blatant invitation.
"Alright," Sunday huffs, "No more comments from you from this point on unless it is to say please."
He then breathes out slowly, steadying his hands as he pushes one of Aventurine’s legs higher, palm fitting into the curve of his knee. His other hand returns to himself, guiding him back to the slick heat he’s just left. The contrast makes his head swim.
He presses forward, the blunt head of his cock nudging against Aventurine's entrance, slick and yielding from the earlier preparation. The heat there is intoxicating, a velvet grip that drags an involuntary whimper from his throat as he sinks in inch by inch, feeling the tight clench give way around him.
Aventurine's breath hitches sharply, his fingers digging into Sunday's back. "Oh," he gasps, the syllable muffled against Sunday's neck, his legs trembling as they wrap around his waist, urging him deeper despite the strain.
Sunday wages a losing war with himself as Aventurine's hips shift restlessly, chasing the fullness, every subtle twitch a silent plea that feeds the frenzy in his chest. He bottoms out on a final slow thrust, hips flush to Aventurine’s ass, the sensation of being buried so deep sending sparks racing up his spine.
The heat enveloping him is exquisite, much better than he ever imagined. Sunday grits his teeth, jaw locked against the surge threatening to undo him as soon as that grip squeezes tighter.
Aventurine is…captivating like this, pinned open beneath him, all his usual edges blunted into shivers and bitten-off sounds. Sunday wants to keep him like this, pressed down and full, and watch every last trace of polish melt off his face. The urge to move unrestrained burns through his nerves, to see how far he can push him before he starts begging for reprieve.
Aventurine's belly presses against his own, that soft swell a tantalizing reminder of earlier, and Sunday can't resist sliding a hand down to palm it possessively, feeling the subtle give under his fingers as Aventurine clenches around him in response.
"See?" Aventurine pants as his cheeks flush deeper. "Told you it'd reach... hah... right here—" His hand drifts to press over Sunday's on his stomach, guiding it lower to emphasize the bulge he imagines there.
"Quiet," he commands sharply, fond and exasperated in equal measure.
He starts with a slow roll of his hips, drawing out a languid grind that makes Aventurine's eyes flutter shut, a broken moan spilling free. The friction is maddening, each drag pulling him out only to sink in again, building a rhythm that's measured at first, savoring the way Aventurine's body yields to him.
Restraint slips from him quickly after that.
It isn’t enough. The slow grind, the steady pull and sink, the way Aventurine’s body opens around him so obediently; it only sharpens the hunger gnawing at the edges of his composure. He wants more. Wants to see how far this body will bend for him, how small he can fold him, how many times he can reduce that sharp tongue to ragged little pleas.
A particularly tight clench around him punches the air from his lungs. Aventurine feels almost delicate like this, all narrow hips and soft body pressed to his own, long legs wrapped around his waist, clinging to him because they have nowhere else to go at this moment. It tempts every unspeakable urge he has tried to leave unnamed — to keep him like this, filled and trembling, until all that’s left in those clever eyes is the knowledge of exactly who did this to him.
He changes his grip before the thought can settle in too deeply. One hand slides down to the back of Aventurine’s thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes his leg higher, then the other follows, folding him in until his knees almost brush his chest. The shift in angle drags a curse out of Sunday’s throat; the next slow thrust drives in even deeper, and Aventurine gasps, fingers flying to clutch at his arms.
"Sun…day," he slurs, the name catching on a breath that comes out in a sob. "Too much…"
"Is it?" Sunday murmurs. His hands tighten around the backs of his thighs, keeping him neatly pinned in place as he sinks in to the hilt again. "But look at how well you’re taking it." He stills there, buried deep, the weight of him stretching Aventurine open around him. "Should I stop?"
Panic flickers sharp through the haze in Aventurine’s eyes; his head shakes at once. "No," he blurts, too fast. "No, nonono—don’t you dare—"
Sunday’s mouth curves. "That’s what I thought."
He starts to move again, keeping that same deep tempo, each slow thrust grinding in to the deepest point and holding long enough to feel Aventurine quake around him. Tears gather in Aventurine’s mesmerizing eyes, then spill, thin tracks cutting through the flush on his cheeks as he comes apart beneath him.
The break hits him hard and fast. Aventurine’s whole body seizes, back arching off the bed as his release spills between them in hot, helpless pulses, staining both their stomachs. Inside, he clenches in tight, stuttering waves, every flutter of muscle gripping down around Sunday like he’s trying to drag him even deeper.
Sunday holds there and rides it out, jaw tight, half convinced that if Aventurine bends any further he really will fold himself clean in two.
Regrettably he feels his own release coil tight. He knows he won’t last any longer if Aventurine keeps fluttering around him like this. With no choice but to pull out abruptly, slick cock throbbing in the cool air, he denies himself the urge to fill him. He strokes himself roughly, intent on finishing outside to preserve some shred of cleanliness in this mess.
"Nooo," Aventurine whines much to his surprise, dazed and desperate, hand shooting down to grab Sunday's hip, trying to guide him back in. "Don't waste it—put it back in—"
Oh.
Oh, the words don’t even sound like him; they tumble out raw, stripped of polish, all want and no calculation.
He is out of his mind right now, Sunday decides. But he has, admittedly, been remarkably cooperative through all of this.
"Very well," he pants.
His hand falls away from himself. He fits the head of his cock back where Aventurine is still clenching around nothing, and pushes in with one steady, unhurried thrust. The aftershocks make it unbearable; Aventurine’s whole body jumps, a ragged noise torn from his throat as that empty ache is filled again, slick heat gripping him tight.
Sunday buries himself to the hilt and stays there.
Heat floods through him not much later, and for a moment all he can do is brace himself, forehead pressed to Aventurine’s shoulder, riding out the sharp, white-static edge of release until there is nothing left to give.
Silence follows, heavy and thick with the sound of their breathing.
Sunday forces himself to move first.
He eases out with care, one hand braced under Aventurine’s thigh while he makes a small, wrecked noise at the loss, but his body gradually loosens, legs sliding down, heels dragging against the sheets.
Sunday lies down beside him on his back, staring up at the warped, shifting ceiling of the domain. His chest still rises a little too quickly.
Then, the demonic voice chirps from above:
Synchronization: 100%
> Emotional and physical parameters fulfilled. Exit protocol available. Please initiate manual confirmation to leave the current simulated environment.
"Well," he croaks eventually, turning his head on the pillow to squint at Sunday. His hair is a mess, mascara a little smudged. "What a day, huh?"
"Please don’t start," Sunday replies at once.
Aventurine in response tries not to laugh and fails, and even presses a hand to his own stomach to hold it in. His lashes are still clumped from tears, lips swollen, cheeks blotched red.
Utterly undignified. Infuriatingly charming.
Aventurine lets the last of the chuckles taper off, then turns his head on the pillow to look at him.
"You know we didn't have to do all this," he says.
Sunday slowly shifts his gaze over. "Pardon?"
"It said mutual climax," Aventurine continues, "We could've just jerked off facing opposite walls."
Sunday blinks.
"What."
Aventurine snorts, then winces as the movement jostles his sore hips. "Yeah. You didn't hear it?"
Sunday stares up at the distorted ceiling for a long moment, replaying the earlier announcements in his mind. Herta’s corrupted simulation, droning cheerfully about synchronization parameters. Physical contact. Shared arousal. Mutual—
Ah.
Oh.
"I," he says slowly, "must have missed that particular option."
He turns his head at last to look at Aventurine properly, eyes narrow with suspicion. "And you failed to mention it sooner because…?"
"Because I wanted to see you embarrass yourself, obviously." He shifts, hissing softly as his legs protest, then gestures vaguely at his own wrecked state. "But look where that got me."
"I seriously cannot believe you."
"What?" Aventurine props himself up on his elbows with visible effort, turning to face him fully. "Also, where is my aftercare?"
Sunday gives him a flat look. "You are not getting any."
Aventurine looks comically offended. "No kiss?"
"No."
"No 'you did so well, Aventurine, I am very proud of you'?"
"Absolutely not."
Aventurine stares at him like he has just kicked a puppy. "How cruel. You're heartless."
"You are grown," Sunday replies, turning his face back toward the ceiling. "You can regulate your own nervous system. Recover quickly so we can leave."
A small silence envelops them.
Then, Aventurine whispers quietly. "My legs are jelly."
Sunday closes his eyes, presses his fingertips to the bridge of his nose for a moment, and counts to three.
When he opens them, Aventurine is still looking at him, bottom lip pushed out to be irritating enough.
"I am not kissing you," Sunday says.
"You could at least hold me upright on the way out," Aventurine counters. "I did let you put it back in. That has to count for something."
"It does not."
"Oh, come on."
Sunday sighs as if this is a great burden, and shifts so close that their shoulders bump.
He braces one hand beside Aventurine’s head and leans in to catch his mouth in a kiss that is far too soft for the amount of complaining he has just done. Just the press and slide of lips, the faint taste of salt at the corner where tears have dried. Aventurine makes a small, pleased noise in his throat and melts into it, fingers curling weakly in the front of Sunday’s shirt to keep him there.
Sunday pulls back first.
"There," he mutters. "Your aftercare."
Aventurine blinks at him, dazed, then grins like sun coming through cracked glass.
"Do you want to be cradled as well," Sunday asks dryly, "since you are so intent on behaving like a big baby?"
He lifts his arms, entirely unashamed. "Obviously," he says. "Princess carry out of the domain, minimum."
"Absolutely not."
"Maximum, then."
Sunday looks back up at the warped ceiling instead, as if the simulation might offer him a third option besides indulging him or leaving him here.
It does not.
He sighs again. "We will negotiate the manner of your exit in a moment," he says. "Assuming you can sit up without dissolving into complaints."
"Good luck with that," says Aventurine.
He keeps staring, though, shameless and soft around the edges, no doubt waiting for Sunday to give in again.
Sunday clicks his tongue, refusing to acknowledge the way his chest tightens at the sight.
"Where did all that disgust go," he asks mildly, "the vitriol, the grand speeches about how I make your skin crawl? You are being suspiciously agreeable."
Aventurine snorts. "You fucked it out of me. You should be flattered."
"I sincerely doubt it is that simple?"
Aventurine hums, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone who can barely move. "Well," he concedes, "I still kind of hate you. But you’re also a very good fuck, so I’m willing to negotiate my stance."
"I see," Sunday replies with a sigh. "Am I to expect improved treatment, then?"
"Don’t push it." Aventurine rolls his head to the side to look at him properly, mouth curved in a lazy little grin. "I’ll just be…selectively less awful. When you earn it."
"Selective charity," he muses. "How generous."
"You’re welcome."
Sunday exhales through his nose and decides, for the sake of his own sanity, to let the matter rest.
The spoils of a corrupted domain just might be better than any reward domain, after all.