Sunday curls away so abruptly, closing up like a flower at day's end. But this is not the familiar disgust that surfaces when Aventurine makes himself too much on purpose. And, more pressing, Aventurine is glad that this is something else, that he is not driving Sunday away.
Not a romantic, he'd thought. It seems a bit of recalculating is in order.
He has a lot to think about, just now. Harmony's presence and the origins of Stellarons and the rot within the IPC and his phone out in the hall and three cups of wasted coffee and- ]
Churin?
[ Aventurine whispers it, wide-eyed, pupils dilating. Not Gambler, not Peacock, not Sigonian. Just now, getting a closer look at the rosy color he knows is splashed across that fair face moves to the top of the priority list.
He swallows, scoots a few inches closer, but leaving ample space between the two of them. Yes, he could very much live with the sort of nickname that does not carry the loathsome weight of negative implications. Yes, he wants it, so much. Terribly. But what he wants doesn't matter half as much as- ]
Would you like that? [ Cool, but curious, he asks his question like his heart isn't trying to climb out of his throat. Aventurine lifts a hand, wanting to grasp Sunday's face and get himself a better look at that lovely flush of warmth, but he won't touch those wings without permission. This will have to suffice, getting closer, savoring the way Sunday squirms. Oh, he is a terrible person. ] Calling me Churin, Sunny?
[Sunday stiffens when Aventurine scoots closer. He is unsure of what the other man wants, though he gets the impression he is being teased.
Silver feathers part just enough to reveal one eye, staring out with a mixture of suspicion and incredulity.]
You are mocking me, Mister Aventurine.
[He scolds, then notices the dilated pupils, turning Aventurine's jewel-like eyes into dusky pools of twilight. The sight makes his heart leap and flutter like a wounded Charmony Dove. And, judging by the warmth he feels rising within him, is also making his blush worse.
He feels foolish. A man his age should not blush like a schoolgirl or one of Veritas Ratio's breathless fans.]
Would you like to be called Churin?
[There is a light and airy note to his question that he struggles to maintain. Otherwise, he is sure his voice will turn thick and heavy in a way he doesn't want to explain. Not to Aventurine or to himself.]
It is a simple desire, if so, and one I'm happy to fulfill.
[ Endlessly frustrating, how he pulls himself to heel, how tight-fisted he is with the very idea that he might want something, turning everything back on Aventurine. Sunday works so hard to hide what he truly feels, who he truly is, but no amount of willpower can conceal what blood and feathers so quickly reveal. Maddening man. It only makes Aventurine want to wedge fingers into the gaps he's made in that armor and peel them back further. ]
I'm not mocking. I'm teasing. There's a very subtle but artful difference, you know.
[ Aventurine looks every bit the fox who's found the chicken coop as he moves closer still.
That glimpse of rosy skin afforded by parting feathers is astoundingly satisfying. When the faintest hint of that same heat touches just a few frayed edges of Sunday's voice, it becomes exponentially harder to be happy with just this much.
The kindest thing would be to allow Sunday his dignity. Hadn't he just gotten done calling the idea of a shared drink unsanitary? Aventurine reminds himself of why there are three undrunk coffees sitting in this room with them, a desperate, last ditch effort to keep from creating a bigger mess. ]
I'd like very much if you called me Churin, though, yeah.
[ That could be enough. That should be enough. It needs to be enough.
But this is the sort of gamble Aventurine most loves to make, the kind he'll probably lose.
With hunger plain in his eyes now, he brings his gloved hand up to just beneath Sunday's chin, mindful of his wings. ]
May I touch you? I'd also very much like to see your face.
That is what Aventurine's face reminds him of. Bright, hungry, and far too satisfied with itself. A firm swat would surely strike that grin away. It is no less than what this frustrating, wicked, fascinating man deserves.
But Sunday remains still when fingers reach for his chin. Aventurine asks permission before daring to close the distance.
He can say no. He probably should say no, shove the Stoneheart away, and leave the room. The Family is here, and he is a fugitive. Even if they are currently unaware of his presence, he and Aventurine are in danger. There is a lot for them to discuss, a need for them to strategize...
If they were smart, they would leave now, together, to alert the IPC and follow The Family's envoys from the shadows.
He doesn't say no. Nor does he say yes.
His face turns to Aventurine, and his wings lift away, revealing the embarrassing pink spilled across his cheeks.]
Ah. My sincerest apologies, Churin. You are teasing me. Please forgive my careless mistake.
[It's a joke, though his flat tone doesn't quite convey it.]
[ That smile is crescent moon wide, now. He snickers. Churin, what a thrill. It's almost like a pet name. ]
Oh Sunny, think nothing of it. All is forgiven.
[ Somehow, Sunday's wings parting to reveal a face flush with color feels just as lurid, just as rewarding, as peeling a partner out of their clothes to get at the body hidden beneath. Better, Aventurine realizes, as he slips knuckles beneath Sunday's chin, tips it up for a better angle.
Aeons, he really is lovely like this, obstinate but embarrassed, clinging so desperately to that nigh otherworldly composure while his own face gives him away. Aventurine runs a thumb gently along the perfect line of Sunday's cheek, and even that feels like taking far too much. ]
Look at you...
[ It'd be easy to blurt the obvious, that he really is the most handsome man in Belobog, just as he'd been the most handsome man in Penacony. A foregone conclusion, that he will always be the most handsome man wherever he goes. It won't do to say so little. Not when the real treat cuts far deeper, when the man who'd ascended to godhood now seems a delicate spring flower in his hand, that one so unyielding would grant someone so unworthy even this much access.
Sunday gives him far more than he deserves. The gravity of that fact is not lost on Aventurine. Neither is the feeling low in his stomach, a tightening, tugging coil; not totally alien, but not something he's used to, either. When was the last time he'd wanted... anything but revenge? When was the last time he'd felt a connection?
He can't recall. It's terrifying. He wants to keep it. He wants to thread it with napalm and burn it to cinders. ]
Keep blushing for me like that and... I'll try- I'll try to be more than salted earth for you.
[ Aventurine leans in closer still, meaning to take what he wants -- just a terrible, unsanitary taste -- and end this before it's even begun, but he can't. He won't. Not without permission. ]
He must look absurd, all ruffled feathers and pink cheeks, trying to retain his composure through all the fluster. And yet Aventurine stares with narrow, hungry eyes, his focus so intense that Sunday feels his heart squirm beneath it.
There is so much happening and so quickly, whatever thin thread of control he'd had over the situation is quickly spinning out and drawing taut, near unraveling. When he'd fallen, he'd hoped that a loss of control would be a thrilling feeling, no longer terrifying when he had no people to rule over.
It is still terrifying.
His squirming heart starts hammering when Aventurine leans forward, so loudly he is sure the sound must be filling the room. What Aventurine wants is obvious, so many have wanted it from him. A few had dared to steal it from him. Memories of his faithful daring to kiss him before he could leave their presence sour his stomach. Of course, he'd existed for them, he always had, but he'd existed for their salvation, not their pleasure. He braces himself to receive the same treatment from Aventurine, but the Stoneheart pauses and asks.
He always asks.
As much as Aventurine likes to push his boundaries, he is cautious about never pushing them too far. Sunday likes that about him. Sunday likes him.
His lips part to consent, but the words never pass them. He needs a moment to collect himself, gather his thoughts. Regain control.
Quietly, he grasps Aventurine's wrist, guides his hand from his chin, then turns away, though he never releases his grip.]
[ What a gamble, setting the shockingly ravenous desire to see Penacony's former prince unravel further under his touch against his wish to see Sunday want it, too, ask for it, or stars forbid, even beg. It's a losing bet. Aventurine knows it. That does not stop his face from growing hot as Sunday's lips part, almost as though in welcome.
Aventurine's breath catches. Sunday turns away.
Unsanitary. Of course.
His heart sinks, but he fixes a smile on his face, anyway. Better that they got this out of the way over something as excusable as a kiss in a moment of high stress. Aventurine sits back, giving Sunday what feels like much needed room to breathe. Easy enough to find satisfaction in this much. Now, it's just a matter of keeping this from blowing up in his face entirely before the Astral Express reappears.
His gaze lingers on the fingers wrapped around his wrist, not yet releasing him. Hm. This could be challenging. ]
Thanks for the peek, Sunny. [ Softly, fond, careful to walk a line between teasing and heartsick. ] You are quite the charmer.
[Sunday gazes out the window at the swirling gray of chilled air and ignores Aventurine's words. He is too busy thinking about the hand still clasped on the bed, about the lips that had quested toward his.
Had he wanted it? Had the once Head of the Oak Family, the model of virtue and self-control, wanted a kiss from the mad gambler of the Stonehearts? Surely not. He's not supposed to want such things; he is not supposed to want at all. When he'd aimed his life at the Charmony Festival, he'd hollowed himself. He is barely a person anymore; he is a purpose, and a purpose has no other desire than to be fulfilled. Sunday exists to absolve mankind and forge paradise. Anything else is just a distraction. Hedonistic pleasures are a distraction.
So why can't he cast the image of Aventurine's mouth from his mind? He wants the kiss. By the stars he does. He wants to be wanted by someone who has had the patience to spend more than a few minutes around him. He wants. He wants.
He wants, but he is not a bauble to be grabbed at anyone's fancy. He is Sunday, once Bronze Melodia, nearly a god. God of what, he isn't sure, but he remembers the aggressive determination that had raced through him like Path energy, so intense it had nearly replaced his purpose with a new one. There had been an urge to spread, to rule as the King of Humankind. To dominate. That urge is gone. He no longer yearns to see anyone kneel at his feet. But he is still the man who was nearly Domination incarnate. He is never taken; he takes.
Golden eyes cut back to Aventurine, bright and hungry. It is the same look he'd worn that day in the cargo bay, the look that had sent Aventurine fleeing and searching for a weapon.
He tugs Aventurine closer and leans in, intent on pressing their lips together, though he moves slowly to give the other man time to pull away.]
[ Well. There is that look again, not a request, but pure wild intent. The fussy dove folds its wings for a glimpse of the greedy raven hiding beneath, and Aventurine stiffens, but goes where guided. Fear floods his chest, lungs flattened and emptied by the thundering of his heart. He does not look away, though. Cannot look anywhere but those golden eyes, those still flushed cheeks, that perfect pink mouth. They are so close, and Sunday demands they be closer. This is exactly what he wants.
Something at the base of his stomach gives a firm tug, and suddenly all that fear is transmuted entirely.
In Dewlight Pavilion, Aventurine had encountered a monster. On his own ship, he'd thought he'd glimpsed it again, hungrier still than the last time. But here and now, with the risk of tuning so soundly put to bed, there is no monster save Aventurine, himself. And no denying that this hot feeling curling up every nerve is entirely his own.
Hm. This certainly puts some of those nightmares in an awkward new light.
A faint laugh escapes Aventurine as Sunday pulls him closer. The raven wants him, and Aventurine allows him to take, not diving in -- letting Sunday set their tempo -- but lips parted in welcome of what they both want. ]
[Sunday reels Aventurine in slowly, gently, expecting the Stoneheart to come to his senses and refuse him. But he doesn't. Handsome lips part in anticipation, and the sight makes Sunday's heart spin.
He moves in, cautious, worried that Aventurine will flinch if he goes too fast, and brushes their mouths past each other.
Growing up, Sunday had never felt the spark or had the thoughts other young men seemed to have. There were pretty girls and handsome boys he could acknowledge as lovely, but he never felt desire for them. He never fantasized. Oh, he knew the biology of how things worked. Growing up in Penacony, he knew a great deal about that. But aside from fleeting curiosity, he never thought about it. Always, his thoughts revolved around salvation and scripture.
Now, touching his lips to those of his first friend, he feels a spark and senses a door open into a whole new dimension of experiences he's never dared to imagine. His fingers curl more tightly around Aventurine's, and he tips his face to the side, allowing their mouths to properly fit together when he finally moves in for a proper kiss.
Young men were rhapsodic about all the wonders that happened between the sheets. Why did so few sing the praises of a kiss? He wishes he'd experienced sooner all the things lips and hands could do other than pray. Though maybe this, too, is prayer. It is, after all, a display of faith, but faith in something far more deserving of devotion than an uncaring Aeon.
One arm snakes around Aventurine's shoulder and tugs him closer still as Sunday deepens the kiss. His hunger quickly subsides into tenderness. Like most first kisses, his is sloppy and awkward. Aventurine has much more experience in these things, he's sure, and his own lack of it must be obvious. That thought does not prevent him from parting only long enough to breathe before pressing for a second time. There is, after all, only one way to gain such experience.]
[ Over the years, Aventurine has dutifully endured clacking teeth and too wet mouths, licks, nips, and bites that draw blood; a parade of demanding, over-eager partners and bad kissers to get the job done, All for the Amber Lord.
This, though. Absolutely no part of this gentle thing exists in the same universe as bad.
Sunday is clumsy from inexperience, (confirming a suspicion Aventurine had long held) but so slow, so careful as to make his efforts taste sweet. Aventurine enjoys his halting explorations and does not hesitate to lift a hand and run a thumb along his jaw, applying gentle pressure to steer each crooked landing to a better fit. What had been startlingly ravenous burns low now, banked to warm embers that Aventurine frankly finds ten times more frightening. This is no mere itch being satisfied, he realizes; he is not even sure that Sunday is indulging in some quiet, long-held craving. That'd be easier. It'd make sense. But, no. This is different.
Sunday is tasting something new and realizing how he likes it. Not merely laying the groundwork for future itches, future cravings, but... Aeons, it's so tentative, so warm. He leans where he is pulled, not merely obedient but eager to please.
Aventurine's heart flutters, not the urgent pounding of desire needing sated, but something far more delicate. He has never experienced anything quite like this. A soft, happy sound slips from the back of his throat, breathed against Sunday's lips.
Oh. This might just break him. How exciting.
Still unsure how welcome his own forward momentum is, he gentles a hand at the dip of Sunday's waist, slipping it around his back with care to pull him into an embrace. Here is the real challenge, trying to manage his own sparking fire and keep it a match for Sunday's gentle warmth. When they part for breath a third time, he swallows so hard the apple in his throat bobs. ]
[Sunday drinks in Aventurine's wine-sweet taste. Does he taste different on different days, he wonders? He wouldn't mind finding out.
There are so many things to discover with the Stoneheart. Lips are nice. Tongues are, too, he is finding, when their delicate tips touch. There are other places to kiss than lips, as well. Ears, necks, necks must be wonderful... Even the imagined sensation makes him shudder.
Aventurine hooks an arm around him and asks him a question that rouses him from his dreamy trance and makes him sit back, though only slightly, only enough that they can look each other in the eyes.]
You're fine. I'm fine. [A smile quirks the edge of his kiss-stained mouth.] I have thought about doing that for a long time. I admire you, Mister Aven- [He laughs softly]--Churin. I have for a while, actually, since before the day we first met.
[Maybe that admiration has made him over-eager. His golden eyes widen and sweep across Aventurine's face, searching for any signs of discomfort.]
My apologies if I am moving too quickly. I was caught up in the moment, I... foolishly forgot that I am your lion. [Not a true friend, but a dangerous roommate. A predator. A deadly, fanged creature who savages the mind and hunts in nightmares.] Please forgive me.
[ Sunday's attentions fill Aventurine's head with honey, thoughts going sweet and slow. He has not forgotten Harmony's incursion or their own specific need to stay on the move and out of the Family's way. But this is a matter most pressing, too; one he sure will go to pieces eventually. Whether the Express reappears or Aventurine inevitably ruins this, himself, they will necessarily be forced apart. So, he wants to carve out as much time as he can.
You're fine. I'm fine. What soft words, and chased by that nickname. Churin, he says, like Aventurine is something kinder than a gambler and a menace. He does not deserve to be treated so gently, but he is too wicked, too greedy, to tell Sunday to stop. Sunday, who knows the darkness in people's hearts better than most, looks at him and sees something fascinating, not revolting. As desperately as he clings to sobriety normally, Aventurine cannot deny glimpsing himself through Sunday's eyes is wildly intoxicating.
The hand not curled around Sunday's back to hold him greedily close lifts to cup Sunday's cheek as he admits to his fascination, his desire. He almost wishes he weren't wearing gloves, wants to feel how soft, how warm his still flushed skin is. Goddess, with kiss swollen lips and hair windswept by Belobog's cold breezes, he is the loveliest thing Aventurine has ever seen. ]
Don't apologize.
[ They are both still fully clothed. Gloved and booted, even. Too fast. What a silly bird. Aventurine cannot help but laugh, the sound all breath. ]
It was a pleasure, going toe-to-toe in Penacony, you know. I'd looked forward to challenging you. [ It was more than that, even, wasn't it? The most handsome man in Penacony, indeed. ] What happened... what you did to me, what I did to you...
[ Aventurine pauses, gaze drifting down to stare at their coats pressed together. ]
Duty drove each of us be unkind to each other, mm? [ That's putting it mildly, and he grins, close-mouthed and crooked. ] My fear is not your problem anymore, but... I wouldn't mind working through it with you. If you'd like.
[ He drifts closer again, presses his lips to that perfect mouth for another taste. ]
At whatever pace you'd like. Whatever you want to do, however you want to do it. You need only say the word, and I'm yours, Sunny.
[Sunday laughs softly against Aventurine's indulgent kisses. Oh, stars, he wouldn't mind staying here a while.
The Family is on this planet, and he is a fugitive; they need to keep moving. They need to discuss the Stellaron. They need to retrieve Aventurine's phone from the hallway. But surely that can wait a while. A few minutes at least. He needs to steal away more time with the man who has fascinated him for so long.]
You are too good to me, Churin.
[He murmurs and leans in to nuzzle against Aventurine's forehead.]
More than I deserve.
Even so, I would very much like for us to work past your fear. If we are to travel together, it would be to both our benefit if you were comfortable around me.
[Which is a silly thing to say when they are searching out each other's lips.]
I...do not know what will become of us, I admit. Maybe I am not a man who is destined for a happy ending.
[He certainly doesn't deserve one.]
What I do know is I intend to live every moment I have left to its fullest.
[In itself, not a comment about their pacing, but he leans in to slowly, gently graze his lips against the sliver of of Aventurine's neck peeking out of his winter clothes.]
[ Ah, accursed, pretty thing. Hearing his own thoughts echoed aloud by Sunday, as though his fussy bird is the unworthy one, aches and sours his thoughts. Difficult to think Sunday absurd for saying such things and not shine the light on his own dark thoughts as well. Blessedly, a problem easily ignored for now when Sunday is within reach, eager and promising more. Aventurine can show him all the ways he is deserving. Aventurine will teach him, spoil him, at least until...
Well. Destiny is never kind. Maybe they are doomed. Certainly, in some ways they are, but Aventurine has no interest in dampening the still burning flame under his skin, and so he does not comment. He does not make promises he cannot keep.
He hums, a sound that is meant to be thoughtful, but threads thin and eager when Sunday's mouth steals a taste of his neck. Aventurine nudges fingers beneath Sunday's chin to guide their faces together again. ]
Don't worry about deserving. [ His words are as firm as the kiss that chases them, open-mouthed and unchaste, hungry. He unwinds himself from Sunday as they kiss, leaning back enough to undo the buttons on his jacket. ] Just enjoy me, and understand that I want you to. I want you. For however long we have. If not for a happy ending, then... a content journey, okay? I'll follow you for that.
[ In fast order, almost urgent, he removes his scarf, shrugs out of his heavy coat and lets it fall to the bed behind him. There's still a vest, a fine green shirt with rolled sleeves, gloves and slacks and all the rest, but he is much less confined. It does not make his body feel any less hot.
Another kiss, hasty, almost smeared in its excitement. Aeons, he smells and tastes sweeter than anything Aventurine has had the pleasure of indulging in. He shuts his eyes, trying to master this growing want. There is, he realizes, one thing that must be brought up, and quiets his fire at once. ]
Just- just don't touch the... product code.
[ Those last two words escape him so small. Try as he might, he cannot help the sadness that threads in when he draws attention to the brand on his neck.
He pushes past it, lifts hands to the collar of Sunday's coat. ]
[Aventurine's kisses are eager now, tasting him but hungry for more. He wonders if he will ever satisfy such an appetite. For reasons he isn't sure he understands, he wants to try.
Trembling, needy hands reach for his collar, and he waves them away.]
No, it is okay, I've got it.
[Sunday, unaware that Aventurine may want to undress him himself, reaches up and unfastens the clasps on his coat. It quickly joins Aventurine's winter clothes on the bed, then he leans in, ready to chase after more of that ravenous, wine-sweet mouth.
Beneath his coat, he wears the dark shirt he often does, which clings to the lines of his body. Despite still being fully clothed, he feels naked and exposed without the extra layers. He hopes Aventurine likes what he sees, even if it is only the shape of him.]
I want to enjoy you, Churin, and I want you to enjoy...me.
[He doesn't mean to sound seductive, but his sudden shyness at the lack of his coat makes him whisper, and his voice vibrates in a murmured purr. One gloved hand reaches out to cradle the side of Aventurine's face, and his pinky grazes the skin near the tattoo. The accursed tattoo. As requested, he doesn't touch it, but his pinky sways to demonstrate his awareness of its presence and the painful story it tells.
The flawless sun of Penacony has fallen and is only embers now, but those embers still burn with the same ambition: To create a paradise free from suffering. Aventurine has suffered more than most. He deserves to be folded into the sun's nurturing warmth.]
You have endured such hardships. I cannot undo that, but I promise that for as long as we travel together, I will do everything in my power to protect you from further harm.
[Before the nervous urge to ramble can run away with him, he gently kisses Aventurine's lips again.]
[ Fate is not romantic. It's cruel. To think otherwise is a fool's errand, a surefire way to get yourself killed or worse. Aventurine reminds himself of that just now, on the tails of one of the silliest thoughts he's ever had. That thought...?
Well, what is he supposed to think when Sunday so easily denies him the slow pleasure of peeling him out of his clothes? When he so effectively treats coatlessness as nakedness that it makes Aventurine feel sinful for even looking his way? When he purrs his next words, that nickname, touch straying so close to skin that Aventurine had just asked him to avoid?
He's supposed to think that fate is not romantic. That it must be coincidence, what Sunday does to him -- Aventurine does not even notice how a graze of Sunday's (still gloved! Aeons!!) fingertips coaxes a low, needy groan from the back of his throat. -- because the alternative is that the universe conspired to weave the two of them together explicitly to drive him crazy. Maddening, beautiful bird, promising the sort of devotion best left to fairy tales and denying him the chance to do the protecting, himself, at every turn.
Aventurine can almost believe Sunday knows exactly what he's doing. Does the former Bronze Melodia, who'd looked so pleased to humble him in Penacony, find satisfaction in making him weak waiting here and now? Or is he simply shy and inexperienced, as judging by that hasty, almost anxious next kiss? It's more fun not knowing, really. The results are the same, either way. No tuning necessary, Sunday has him in a trance. ]
Just so you know- [ Grappling for purchase on his composure as they part, Aventurine scrounges up a hungry grin, wide and wicked. He dips in again, drawing the pause long with another sweet, slow kiss, teeth catching Sunday's lower lip. ] -letting a partner disrobe you is part of the fun. You can practice on me, if you want.
[ Not that he gives Sunday the chance, the narrow point of his waist too delicious not to explore. Aventurine watches wings and eyes for any sign of reluctance or discomfort before leaning in to kiss him again, mouth and chin and jaw, as he runs palms up and back down Sunday's flank, savoring the shape beneath his hands.
Anything to distract him from that promise of protection, how it makes something fizzle beneath his rib cage. Want cannot factor in. He doesn't need or deserve it, was made to survive. ]
You're beautiful. [ He murmurs, mouth drifting down to show Sunday just how delightful it is to have lips upon your neck. Aventurine breathes him in and sighs as he seeks out a pulse point to savor. ] Aeons, you're like something holy. [ Stupidly, he thinks he could find salvation here, in this, in him. ] Please don't put yourself in danger for me.
[Sunday says, embarrassed, when Aventurine scolds him. He doesn't have time to say more. Hands roam his sides, and lips press against his, inhaling the breath from his lungs. And when those lips take a sojourn to the sensitive skin of his neck, his wings flap wide and vibrate. So this is why people kiss necks.
A soft, bird-like trill purls from his well-adored throat. His hands slide up Aventurine's back, then pull him in more closely and wrap him in a tight embrace. Earlier, he'd thought they would share the briefest kiss, a simple expression of a bond. Things have escalated from there so quickly that he feels dizzy. Aventurine is suddenly holding and touching and drinking him in as if he were a chalice of cool, crystalline water found in the middle of a desert. How long has the Stoneheart wanted this? Such daring hunger should bother Sunday, but it doesn't.
Here, now, in this moment, he is not the Oak Family Head, the Bronze Melodia, or a fallen sun. He is just the man in Aventurine's arms. That man is no less sacred than the Melodia, however. The words spoken low against his throat are a prayer, the hands feeling him through the dense fabric of his shirt are as reverent as they are eager. On Penacony, his faithful had run to him in their desperation. A similar desperation races through Aventurine. Sunday can feel it in every touch.
Kisses, licks, hands, beating hearts, pleas.
His next kiss to Aventurine's lips is slow, gentle, soothing.]
I am already in danger, so it is too late for that. You are my friend, and I want to protect you. I want you to be happy.
[Another lingering kiss. Sunday's kisses are less ravenous than Aventurine's but no less passionate. He wants to savor his friend, enjoy his company, and make him happy. How can he do any of that if he is also devouring the poor man?.]
I apologize for removing my coat. Would you like to remove my gloves? [If he'd asked Aventurine to unbutton his trousers, he doubts the blush that spills anew across his cheeks would be any worse.]
[ How certain Aventurine had been that he could unravel the former Bronze Melodia. And how very, very wrong he'd been. It seems no matter what he tries, Sunday will always find a way to match him, even if on accident. Somewhere between the trembling of those wings and that strange, lovely fluttering sound from his throat, Aventurine's want burns into need. And need is not something he knows. His grip tightens, breath hitching, as he tries and fails to master himself.
Clumsily, he kicks his shoes off, brings both feet up onto the bed, and does his best to hide his arousal, half-believing Sunday might be too scandalized by the sight to even stay in the room with him. He leans in, chasing another taste, one hand flattening against the bed behind Sunday's back to keep himself stable. Mortifying that this is immediately followed by Sunday calling him friend. It almost feels like Aha's work. ]
Happy. [ A little incredulous.
A rush of air escapes him between kisses, half a laugh. It helps. Cools this too hot fire that has him leaning hungrily into every kiss. Coming back to his senses, he might've been discouraged, except that Sunday is still flush with warmth, still holding him close, still meeting every kiss with his own gentle enthusiasm.
That apology, though, it earns a genuine laugh, all bright, delighted sound. Giggling still, Aventurine sits back, stares at Sunday with beetled brows. Even knowing that Sunday has made three times a mess of him with less than half the effort, Aventurine still savors the satisfaction of watching Sunday's face flood with color anew over the suggestion.
Oh, this ridiculous, infuriating bird. He likes him so much. ]
I would. Yeah. Very much. [ He says, taking one of Sunday's hands in both of his own, running thumbs along his palm, then with careful, curious fingers and wickedly deliberate slowness, working his rings off, one at a time. All the while, he stares into Sunday's eyes, hunger only just held at bay. ] It's nice, isn't it?
[Is it? He is not so sure. Yielding even this much power to someone else borders on uncomfortable. What is nice is how much Aventurine is enjoying it. His eyes are bright and focused, as if he were unwrapping a wonderful gift bound in gold leaf. His skin is warm, his kisses more so.
And his body is enjoying it too. Sunday notices it from the corner of his vision, notices Aventurine shuffling to hide it, and does not comment. They are evolved from animals, after all. Even his own body is teetering close to the edge of making itself known and would have tumbled over it long ago if not for his rigid self-control. His biology yields to his will. It has too. It was a necessary thing to master when he was still a teenager. Experiencing arousal at the salacious stories he heard come through the lattice of his confessional would have ended his term as Melodia.
But even he has his limits, and Aventurine is testing them. Biology can only be contained for so long.]
I suppose it is.
[He lies, though only partially.
He leans forward to kiss Aventurine's smiling mouth again.]
I do like that you like it, Mister--
[Losing the formalities will take some getting used to. He sighs, then, with a warm smile....]
[ Sunday is effluent with kind, gentle words affirming fondness that still shocks Aventurine. Were it not for the way he keeps dipping in for tastes that Aventurine is all too happy to provide, he might think the overtures entirely platonic. It'd be silly, except... when Sunday asserts that it is him he likes, Aventurine can no longer hide his embarrassment. His gaze dips, and for a few seconds he has to fight plainly with his own self-loathing, fingers moving to undo the clasp holding Sunday's glove secure.
People do not like Aventurine. Aventurine is a loathsome scoundrel, an untrustworthy corporate dog, a danger to all around him. He is tolerated at best, for his skills, his status, his wealth. Aventurine's own desires have never mattered, just the work, just the results, just the aurora at the end of his path.
Sweet Sunday, who is warm in every way Aventurine can think of, calls him pet names, praises him, promises to protect him, and guiltily Aventurine finds himself wondering -- what's the catch? What is it Sunday needs from him? Is this repayment for his escape? For the escort across the cosmos? How could he be so stupid? So careless?
Oh, he'd been right after all. This is going to smash him to pieces.
He forces a laugh, light, soldiers on like his own head isn't at war with the rest of him. The fine silver rings are deposited with care on the bedside table, and he returns to his work, slipping his fingers beneath the lip of Sunday's glove. It's not skin to skin, not when he is still in gloves, so why does his own face fill with rosy color?
He stills, just a moment, then glances up, gaze far too adoring. ]
[Sunday watches Aventurine's face and frowns when the blissful smile turns briefly pensive. He can tell Aventurine is trying to hide a deep pain, but there is no hiding from the gaze of the Bronze Melodia, who spent over a decade hearing the pleas of the suffering.]
Have I not been taking?
[He asks at the unexpected request. He had gone in for the first kiss and taste of Aventurine's neck. But maybe he has been too passive in his desire to see his friend happy. He likes giving. It is not the same as being taken; it is freely offering morsels of himself, and he wants Aventurine to enjoy those morsels. He wants to see Aventurine enjoy them. The bliss in Aventurine's eyes, the adoration in his smile, the way he, until now, seemed looser than he had been since they started their journey. Sunday loves all of it and loves being loved.
It is in his nature. He does not exist for anyone's pleasure, but he can choose to. After all, what he exists for is the creation of paradise. If he can carve out a small sliver of it for Aventurine using his own body, he will gladly do it. He will give his lips and hands, and skin, and feel rapture in every moment if he can cast light upon the darkness that still plainly infects his dear friend's heart.
As for taking, well...]
My apologies...
I had intended to take more, but I think, maybe, I was worried about frightening you.
[The still gloved hand drifts upward to settle over the golden eye of Ena still emblazoned on the front of his shirt.]
I will try my best to be more proactive, but...
[Golden eyes search lusty jeweled ones.]
Something is on your mind. Please, tell me what it is.
[ Goddess, he deserves so much more than this, than hiding in a tiny ship, aimlessly wandering until he stumbles on the very thing he should've avoided. Sunday belongs with the Nameless, better people better equipped to show him how to achieve that dream of his. More patient, more caring, more a family than Aventurine could ever hope to be. Were he aboard that train, he would not fall back into old habits so readily.
But here, Sunday makes himself the holy vessel again, empty and eager to be filled with others' pain. Aventurine stares, hungry for him, for his body, for his heart, for the sacred thing he tries to be. It's shameful, this desire. Given the chance to escape that destiny, Sunday runs back toward it, and Aventurine's awful mind enables him.
No. He won't allow it. ]
You're making yourself high confessor again. [ A little warning song touches his voice as his gaze falls to the gloved hand still in his clutches.
Gently, he gets back to ruching fabric, pressing up until its loose enough to easily pull the glove away. On Lushaka, the sight of his ungloved hand had felt improper. Now, he can't look away. Sunday has the fingers of a pianist, elegant and strong. Less than a week ago, he'd used that hand to choke him in the dream. Now, Aventurine lifts it to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to the center of his palm, guides his hand to cup his cheek. Finally, his gaze lifts and levels at Sunday.
Though there is an undeniable appeal in supplicating before something holy, Aventurine will not poison a garden he'd only just professed a desire to see grow. All he can offer is honesty. ]
I feel unworthy. And I don't know how to trust that you are as good as you... [ There is pain in the gap between words as he struggles with himself, with total honesty and the truth. His heartbeat roars anew, and he urges Sunday's bare hand up into his hair. ] ...as I know you are.
Can we leave it at that? It's not the sort of thing fixed by talking, anyway. I'd rather just-
[ His fingers flutter, slip forward and grasp Sunday's shoulders. Aventurine leans in, but this time does not wholly close the distance, afraid that he has again ruined something good. Mere inches from Sunday's face, from another kiss, he mutters, ]
I'd rather just lose myself in you, Sunny, if that's okay.
[It is strange, being scolded for being what Aventurine so clearly wants and needs him to be.
Sunday will always be High Confessor. Until the day he dies, a part of his soul will remain in that booth, hearing the lamentation of others. Aventurine knows this, knows that no matter how far they travel from Penacony and no matter how much Sunday's faith fades, he will always be a priest. He must know that. He kisses Sunday's hands and nuzzles into them like a repentant sinner seeking absolution from a divine touch.
Sunday yearns to grant that absolution. His fingers reach out to reel Aventurine into another slow, sweet kiss...
Then the Stoneheart admits what he truly wants, and Sunday's feathers droop. He will be a priest, and he will offer soothing touches and blessings with his lips. He wants to give his friend much-needed moments of joy. But allowing Aventurine to be lost within him...
Aventurine seeks escape and wants to escape into Sunday's body. Everyone seeks escape sometimes, and Sunday knows this better than anyone. He had once offered humanity a chance to hide from the cruel whims of reality in a false paradise. That is the past he is ashamed of, not his time as a confessor.
Guilt floods his heart. His affection isn't enough to light up the darkness in Aventurine. Maybe no light ever will be. Maybe the yawning nothingness in Aventurine's soul will always swallow the light. And Sunday will never be enough.
He slowly turns away and rises from the bed.]
I don't think there is anything wrong with escapism, Mister Aventurine. [Not Churin] But I do not want to be the man who provides it. Not anymore. Please, do not ask that of me.
[They need to confront life with their heads held high. Together, they will endure hardships, and somewhere on the other side of pain, where relief and laughter lie, there they will find the road to paradise. Sunday wants to guide them there.
He crouches down and removes his boots, then gently places them by the nightstand, side by side.]
Besides, I do not want to see you lose yourself at all. I like you right where you are.
[Slowly, he crawls onto the bed, kisses Aventurine, takes his hand, and lies back until he is supine with the Stoneheart lying atop him. Only now does his burgeoning desire finally break free from his will. It is shameful timing. He shifts his hips so they are not spearing each other. That's better. More than better. Pressed against the inside of Aventurine's thigh like this---
No.
One elegant finger dances up along Aventurine's spine, then traces slow circles between his shoulder blades.]
You have committed misdeeds and made mistakes, and for this, you think you are a monster. Mistakes do not make you a monster; they make you human. If humanity were flawless, I wouldn't have done what I did.
[ An unreadable stillness settles on Aventurine's still flushed features. The barest reaction slips out, an impotent tightening of fingers as Sunday slips from his grip, but even that is faint resistance to what was always inevitable. He does not outwardly react when physical distance becomes emotional, too; Churin traded in for Mister Aventurine once again. A deserved consequence. It had indeed been cruel of him to ask such a thing of Sunday, in particular, and it feels too late now to apologize.
But Sunday stops short of leaving the room. Owlish, Aventurine stares as he tugs off his boots and sets them aside. His lips part, but no sound, no breath escapes. Before he can make sense of what's happening, Sunday is in bed again, pressing a kiss to his lips so soft and so sweet that it leaves him seeing stars. Where would he go? What could he possibly do but follow when Sunday guides him?
He has not earned this kindness. He does not deserve this care, and yet Sunday invites him to take more. Sunday wants him to take more. (Aventurine can feel it when their thighs meet, just how much he wants, and it's maddening in an entirely new way.) Oh, how desperately he wants, too. Wants him, wants this. Not just the beautiful body, supple beneath him and still waiting to be unwrapped, but the kindness, the care -- Aeons, the patience. Sunday is so patient with him, in spite of everything. ]
I-
[ Even with a vest and shirt between them, the drag of Sunday's fingertip still sends sparks up Aventurine's spine. He shuts his eyes and exhales a shuddered breath, mortified by how sensitive he feels, how easily Sunday earns a reaction. It takes him a moment to compose himself, hands pressed into the bed on either side of Sunday's face to keep steady.
He hadn't wanted this to be a confessional, but he fears it must be in some small way. If he is to indulge in this, to allow himself to enjoy it, to enjoy Sunday. He must be better first. Honest.
On the tails of another sigh, Aventurine sits up on his knees to straddle Sunday's thigh. Such a pretty tableau, the man who'd once sought to topple gods, spread beneath him. Aventurine drinks him in, carding fingers through the mess of his blonde hair, then flattens a palm against Sunday's stomach. Oh, how he aches to devour him. ]
You like me as I am. [ Such intoxicatingly lovely words. Undeserved. So very undeserved. ] I'm a killer, Sunday. To save my own life, to escape slavery, hell, to complete jobs for the IPC, I've taken... too many lives. And I've told you I intend to take at least one more.
I don't want absolution. [ He does. But. Not like this. Not yet. ] I just... want you to understand, to have all the information you need to decide, as a man, not a priest, whether I am worth all this care.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Oh.
Sunday curls away so abruptly, closing up like a flower at day's end. But this is not the familiar disgust that surfaces when Aventurine makes himself too much on purpose. And, more pressing, Aventurine is glad that this is something else, that he is not driving Sunday away.
Not a romantic, he'd thought. It seems a bit of recalculating is in order.
He has a lot to think about, just now. Harmony's presence and the origins of Stellarons and the rot within the IPC and his phone out in the hall and three cups of wasted coffee and- ]
Churin?
[ Aventurine whispers it, wide-eyed, pupils dilating. Not Gambler, not Peacock, not Sigonian. Just now, getting a closer look at the rosy color he knows is splashed across that fair face moves to the top of the priority list.
He swallows, scoots a few inches closer, but leaving ample space between the two of them. Yes, he could very much live with the sort of nickname that does not carry the loathsome weight of negative implications. Yes, he wants it, so much. Terribly. But what he wants doesn't matter half as much as- ]
Would you like that? [ Cool, but curious, he asks his question like his heart isn't trying to climb out of his throat. Aventurine lifts a hand, wanting to grasp Sunday's face and get himself a better look at that lovely flush of warmth, but he won't touch those wings without permission. This will have to suffice, getting closer, savoring the way Sunday squirms. Oh, he is a terrible person. ] Calling me Churin, Sunny?
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Silver feathers part just enough to reveal one eye, staring out with a mixture of suspicion and incredulity.]
You are mocking me, Mister Aventurine.
[He scolds, then notices the dilated pupils, turning Aventurine's jewel-like eyes into dusky pools of twilight. The sight makes his heart leap and flutter like a wounded Charmony Dove. And, judging by the warmth he feels rising within him, is also making his blush worse.
He feels foolish. A man his age should not blush like a schoolgirl or one of Veritas Ratio's breathless fans.]
Would you like to be called Churin?
[There is a light and airy note to his question that he struggles to maintain. Otherwise, he is sure his voice will turn thick and heavy in a way he doesn't want to explain. Not to Aventurine or to himself.]
It is a simple desire, if so, and one I'm happy to fulfill.
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I'm not mocking. I'm teasing. There's a very subtle but artful difference, you know.
[ Aventurine looks every bit the fox who's found the chicken coop as he moves closer still.
That glimpse of rosy skin afforded by parting feathers is astoundingly satisfying. When the faintest hint of that same heat touches just a few frayed edges of Sunday's voice, it becomes exponentially harder to be happy with just this much.
The kindest thing would be to allow Sunday his dignity. Hadn't he just gotten done calling the idea of a shared drink unsanitary? Aventurine reminds himself of why there are three undrunk coffees sitting in this room with them, a desperate, last ditch effort to keep from creating a bigger mess. ]
I'd like very much if you called me Churin, though, yeah.
[ That could be enough. That should be enough. It needs to be enough.
But this is the sort of gamble Aventurine most loves to make, the kind he'll probably lose.
With hunger plain in his eyes now, he brings his gloved hand up to just beneath Sunday's chin, mindful of his wings. ]
May I touch you? I'd also very much like to see your face.
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[Hunter's eyes.
That is what Aventurine's face reminds him of. Bright, hungry, and far too satisfied with itself. A firm swat would surely strike that grin away. It is no less than what this frustrating, wicked, fascinating man deserves.
But Sunday remains still when fingers reach for his chin. Aventurine asks permission before daring to close the distance.
He can say no. He probably should say no, shove the Stoneheart away, and leave the room. The Family is here, and he is a fugitive. Even if they are currently unaware of his presence, he and Aventurine are in danger. There is a lot for them to discuss, a need for them to strategize...
If they were smart, they would leave now, together, to alert the IPC and follow The Family's envoys from the shadows.
He doesn't say no. Nor does he say yes.
His face turns to Aventurine, and his wings lift away, revealing the embarrassing pink spilled across his cheeks.]
Ah. My sincerest apologies, Churin. You are teasing me. Please forgive my careless mistake.
[It's a joke, though his flat tone doesn't quite convey it.]
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Oh Sunny, think nothing of it. All is forgiven.
[ Somehow, Sunday's wings parting to reveal a face flush with color feels just as lurid, just as rewarding, as peeling a partner out of their clothes to get at the body hidden beneath. Better, Aventurine realizes, as he slips knuckles beneath Sunday's chin, tips it up for a better angle.
Aeons, he really is lovely like this, obstinate but embarrassed, clinging so desperately to that nigh otherworldly composure while his own face gives him away. Aventurine runs a thumb gently along the perfect line of Sunday's cheek, and even that feels like taking far too much. ]
Look at you...
[ It'd be easy to blurt the obvious, that he really is the most handsome man in Belobog, just as he'd been the most handsome man in Penacony. A foregone conclusion, that he will always be the most handsome man wherever he goes. It won't do to say so little. Not when the real treat cuts far deeper, when the man who'd ascended to godhood now seems a delicate spring flower in his hand, that one so unyielding would grant someone so unworthy even this much access.
Sunday gives him far more than he deserves. The gravity of that fact is not lost on Aventurine. Neither is the feeling low in his stomach, a tightening, tugging coil; not totally alien, but not something he's used to, either. When was the last time he'd wanted... anything but revenge? When was the last time he'd felt a connection?
He can't recall. It's terrifying. He wants to keep it. He wants to thread it with napalm and burn it to cinders. ]
Keep blushing for me like that and... I'll try- I'll try to be more than salted earth for you.
[ Aventurine leans in closer still, meaning to take what he wants -- just a terrible, unsanitary taste -- and end this before it's even begun, but he can't. He won't. Not without permission. ]
May I...?
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He must look absurd, all ruffled feathers and pink cheeks, trying to retain his composure through all the fluster. And yet Aventurine stares with narrow, hungry eyes, his focus so intense that Sunday feels his heart squirm beneath it.
There is so much happening and so quickly, whatever thin thread of control he'd had over the situation is quickly spinning out and drawing taut, near unraveling. When he'd fallen, he'd hoped that a loss of control would be a thrilling feeling, no longer terrifying when he had no people to rule over.
It is still terrifying.
His squirming heart starts hammering when Aventurine leans forward, so loudly he is sure the sound must be filling the room. What Aventurine wants is obvious, so many have wanted it from him. A few had dared to steal it from him. Memories of his faithful daring to kiss him before he could leave their presence sour his stomach. Of course, he'd existed for them, he always had, but he'd existed for their salvation, not their pleasure. He braces himself to receive the same treatment from Aventurine, but the Stoneheart pauses and asks.
He always asks.
As much as Aventurine likes to push his boundaries, he is cautious about never pushing them too far. Sunday likes that about him. Sunday likes him.
His lips part to consent, but the words never pass them. He needs a moment to collect himself, gather his thoughts. Regain control.
Quietly, he grasps Aventurine's wrist, guides his hand from his chin, then turns away, though he never releases his grip.]
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Aventurine's breath catches. Sunday turns away.
Unsanitary. Of course.
His heart sinks, but he fixes a smile on his face, anyway. Better that they got this out of the way over something as excusable as a kiss in a moment of high stress. Aventurine sits back, giving Sunday what feels like much needed room to breathe. Easy enough to find satisfaction in this much. Now, it's just a matter of keeping this from blowing up in his face entirely before the Astral Express reappears.
His gaze lingers on the fingers wrapped around his wrist, not yet releasing him. Hm. This could be challenging. ]
Thanks for the peek, Sunny. [ Softly, fond, careful to walk a line between teasing and heartsick. ] You are quite the charmer.
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Had he wanted it? Had the once Head of the Oak Family, the model of virtue and self-control, wanted a kiss from the mad gambler of the Stonehearts? Surely not. He's not supposed to want such things; he is not supposed to want at all. When he'd aimed his life at the Charmony Festival, he'd hollowed himself. He is barely a person anymore; he is a purpose, and a purpose has no other desire than to be fulfilled. Sunday exists to absolve mankind and forge paradise. Anything else is just a distraction. Hedonistic pleasures are a distraction.
So why can't he cast the image of Aventurine's mouth from his mind? He wants the kiss. By the stars he does. He wants to be wanted by someone who has had the patience to spend more than a few minutes around him. He wants. He wants.
He wants, but he is not a bauble to be grabbed at anyone's fancy. He is Sunday, once Bronze Melodia, nearly a god. God of what, he isn't sure, but he remembers the aggressive determination that had raced through him like Path energy, so intense it had nearly replaced his purpose with a new one. There had been an urge to spread, to rule as the King of Humankind. To dominate. That urge is gone. He no longer yearns to see anyone kneel at his feet. But he is still the man who was nearly Domination incarnate. He is never taken; he takes.
Golden eyes cut back to Aventurine, bright and hungry. It is the same look he'd worn that day in the cargo bay, the look that had sent Aventurine fleeing and searching for a weapon.
He tugs Aventurine closer and leans in, intent on pressing their lips together, though he moves slowly to give the other man time to pull away.]
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Something at the base of his stomach gives a firm tug, and suddenly all that fear is transmuted entirely.
In Dewlight Pavilion, Aventurine had encountered a monster. On his own ship, he'd thought he'd glimpsed it again, hungrier still than the last time. But here and now, with the risk of tuning so soundly put to bed, there is no monster save Aventurine, himself. And no denying that this hot feeling curling up every nerve is entirely his own.
Hm. This certainly puts some of those nightmares in an awkward new light.
A faint laugh escapes Aventurine as Sunday pulls him closer. The raven wants him, and Aventurine allows him to take, not diving in -- letting Sunday set their tempo -- but lips parted in welcome of what they both want. ]
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He moves in, cautious, worried that Aventurine will flinch if he goes too fast, and brushes their mouths past each other.
Growing up, Sunday had never felt the spark or had the thoughts other young men seemed to have. There were pretty girls and handsome boys he could acknowledge as lovely, but he never felt desire for them. He never fantasized. Oh, he knew the biology of how things worked. Growing up in Penacony, he knew a great deal about that. But aside from fleeting curiosity, he never thought about it. Always, his thoughts revolved around salvation and scripture.
Now, touching his lips to those of his first friend, he feels a spark and senses a door open into a whole new dimension of experiences he's never dared to imagine. His fingers curl more tightly around Aventurine's, and he tips his face to the side, allowing their mouths to properly fit together when he finally moves in for a proper kiss.
Young men were rhapsodic about all the wonders that happened between the sheets. Why did so few sing the praises of a kiss? He wishes he'd experienced sooner all the things lips and hands could do other than pray. Though maybe this, too, is prayer. It is, after all, a display of faith, but faith in something far more deserving of devotion than an uncaring Aeon.
One arm snakes around Aventurine's shoulder and tugs him closer still as Sunday deepens the kiss. His hunger quickly subsides into tenderness. Like most first kisses, his is sloppy and awkward. Aventurine has much more experience in these things, he's sure, and his own lack of it must be obvious. That thought does not prevent him from parting only long enough to breathe before pressing for a second time. There is, after all, only one way to gain such experience.]
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This, though. Absolutely no part of this gentle thing exists in the same universe as bad.
Sunday is clumsy from inexperience, (confirming a suspicion Aventurine had long held) but so slow, so careful as to make his efforts taste sweet. Aventurine enjoys his halting explorations and does not hesitate to lift a hand and run a thumb along his jaw, applying gentle pressure to steer each crooked landing to a better fit. What had been startlingly ravenous burns low now, banked to warm embers that Aventurine frankly finds ten times more frightening. This is no mere itch being satisfied, he realizes; he is not even sure that Sunday is indulging in some quiet, long-held craving. That'd be easier. It'd make sense. But, no. This is different.
Sunday is tasting something new and realizing how he likes it. Not merely laying the groundwork for future itches, future cravings, but... Aeons, it's so tentative, so warm. He leans where he is pulled, not merely obedient but eager to please.
Aventurine's heart flutters, not the urgent pounding of desire needing sated, but something far more delicate. He has never experienced anything quite like this. A soft, happy sound slips from the back of his throat, breathed against Sunday's lips.
Oh. This might just break him. How exciting.
Still unsure how welcome his own forward momentum is, he gentles a hand at the dip of Sunday's waist, slipping it around his back with care to pull him into an embrace. Here is the real challenge, trying to manage his own sparking fire and keep it a match for Sunday's gentle warmth. When they part for breath a third time, he swallows so hard the apple in his throat bobs. ]
It's not too much, is it?
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There are so many things to discover with the Stoneheart. Lips are nice. Tongues are, too, he is finding, when their delicate tips touch. There are other places to kiss than lips, as well. Ears, necks, necks must be wonderful... Even the imagined sensation makes him shudder.
Aventurine hooks an arm around him and asks him a question that rouses him from his dreamy trance and makes him sit back, though only slightly, only enough that they can look each other in the eyes.]
You're fine. I'm fine. [A smile quirks the edge of his kiss-stained mouth.] I have thought about doing that for a long time. I admire you, Mister Aven- [He laughs softly]--Churin. I have for a while, actually, since before the day we first met.
[Maybe that admiration has made him over-eager. His golden eyes widen and sweep across Aventurine's face, searching for any signs of discomfort.]
My apologies if I am moving too quickly. I was caught up in the moment, I... foolishly forgot that I am your lion. [Not a true friend, but a dangerous roommate. A predator. A deadly, fanged creature who savages the mind and hunts in nightmares.] Please forgive me.
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You're fine. I'm fine. What soft words, and chased by that nickname. Churin, he says, like Aventurine is something kinder than a gambler and a menace. He does not deserve to be treated so gently, but he is too wicked, too greedy, to tell Sunday to stop. Sunday, who knows the darkness in people's hearts better than most, looks at him and sees something fascinating, not revolting. As desperately as he clings to sobriety normally, Aventurine cannot deny glimpsing himself through Sunday's eyes is wildly intoxicating.
The hand not curled around Sunday's back to hold him greedily close lifts to cup Sunday's cheek as he admits to his fascination, his desire. He almost wishes he weren't wearing gloves, wants to feel how soft, how warm his still flushed skin is. Goddess, with kiss swollen lips and hair windswept by Belobog's cold breezes, he is the loveliest thing Aventurine has ever seen. ]
Don't apologize.
[ They are both still fully clothed. Gloved and booted, even. Too fast. What a silly bird. Aventurine cannot help but laugh, the sound all breath. ]
It was a pleasure, going toe-to-toe in Penacony, you know. I'd looked forward to challenging you. [ It was more than that, even, wasn't it? The most handsome man in Penacony, indeed. ] What happened... what you did to me, what I did to you...
[ Aventurine pauses, gaze drifting down to stare at their coats pressed together. ]
Duty drove each of us be unkind to each other, mm? [ That's putting it mildly, and he grins, close-mouthed and crooked. ] My fear is not your problem anymore, but... I wouldn't mind working through it with you. If you'd like.
[ He drifts closer again, presses his lips to that perfect mouth for another taste. ]
At whatever pace you'd like. Whatever you want to do, however you want to do it. You need only say the word, and I'm yours, Sunny.
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The Family is on this planet, and he is a fugitive; they need to keep moving. They need to discuss the Stellaron. They need to retrieve Aventurine's phone from the hallway. But surely that can wait a while. A few minutes at least. He needs to steal away more time with the man who has fascinated him for so long.]
You are too good to me, Churin.
[He murmurs and leans in to nuzzle against Aventurine's forehead.]
More than I deserve.
Even so, I would very much like for us to work past your fear. If we are to travel together, it would be to both our benefit if you were comfortable around me.
[Which is a silly thing to say when they are searching out each other's lips.]
I...do not know what will become of us, I admit. Maybe I am not a man who is destined for a happy ending.
[He certainly doesn't deserve one.]
What I do know is I intend to live every moment I have left to its fullest.
[In itself, not a comment about their pacing, but he leans in to slowly, gently graze his lips against the sliver of of Aventurine's neck peeking out of his winter clothes.]
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Well. Destiny is never kind. Maybe they are doomed. Certainly, in some ways they are, but Aventurine has no interest in dampening the still burning flame under his skin, and so he does not comment. He does not make promises he cannot keep.
He hums, a sound that is meant to be thoughtful, but threads thin and eager when Sunday's mouth steals a taste of his neck. Aventurine nudges fingers beneath Sunday's chin to guide their faces together again. ]
Don't worry about deserving. [ His words are as firm as the kiss that chases them, open-mouthed and unchaste, hungry. He unwinds himself from Sunday as they kiss, leaning back enough to undo the buttons on his jacket. ] Just enjoy me, and understand that I want you to. I want you. For however long we have. If not for a happy ending, then... a content journey, okay? I'll follow you for that.
[ In fast order, almost urgent, he removes his scarf, shrugs out of his heavy coat and lets it fall to the bed behind him. There's still a vest, a fine green shirt with rolled sleeves, gloves and slacks and all the rest, but he is much less confined. It does not make his body feel any less hot.
Another kiss, hasty, almost smeared in its excitement. Aeons, he smells and tastes sweeter than anything Aventurine has had the pleasure of indulging in. He shuts his eyes, trying to master this growing want. There is, he realizes, one thing that must be brought up, and quiets his fire at once. ]
Just- just don't touch the... product code.
[ Those last two words escape him so small. Try as he might, he cannot help the sadness that threads in when he draws attention to the brand on his neck.
He pushes past it, lifts hands to the collar of Sunday's coat. ]
Can I help you with this?
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Trembling, needy hands reach for his collar, and he waves them away.]
No, it is okay, I've got it.
[Sunday, unaware that Aventurine may want to undress him himself, reaches up and unfastens the clasps on his coat. It quickly joins Aventurine's winter clothes on the bed, then he leans in, ready to chase after more of that ravenous, wine-sweet mouth.
Beneath his coat, he wears the dark shirt he often does, which clings to the lines of his body. Despite still being fully clothed, he feels naked and exposed without the extra layers. He hopes Aventurine likes what he sees, even if it is only the shape of him.]
I want to enjoy you, Churin, and I want you to enjoy...me.
[He doesn't mean to sound seductive, but his sudden shyness at the lack of his coat makes him whisper, and his voice vibrates in a murmured purr. One gloved hand reaches out to cradle the side of Aventurine's face, and his pinky grazes the skin near the tattoo. The accursed tattoo. As requested, he doesn't touch it, but his pinky sways to demonstrate his awareness of its presence and the painful story it tells.
The flawless sun of Penacony has fallen and is only embers now, but those embers still burn with the same ambition: To create a paradise free from suffering. Aventurine has suffered more than most. He deserves to be folded into the sun's nurturing warmth.]
You have endured such hardships. I cannot undo that, but I promise that for as long as we travel together, I will do everything in my power to protect you from further harm.
[Before the nervous urge to ramble can run away with him, he gently kisses Aventurine's lips again.]
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Well, what is he supposed to think when Sunday so easily denies him the slow pleasure of peeling him out of his clothes? When he so effectively treats coatlessness as nakedness that it makes Aventurine feel sinful for even looking his way? When he purrs his next words, that nickname, touch straying so close to skin that Aventurine had just asked him to avoid?
He's supposed to think that fate is not romantic. That it must be coincidence, what Sunday does to him -- Aventurine does not even notice how a graze of Sunday's (still gloved! Aeons!!) fingertips coaxes a low, needy groan from the back of his throat. -- because the alternative is that the universe conspired to weave the two of them together explicitly to drive him crazy. Maddening, beautiful bird, promising the sort of devotion best left to fairy tales and denying him the chance to do the protecting, himself, at every turn.
Aventurine can almost believe Sunday knows exactly what he's doing. Does the former Bronze Melodia, who'd looked so pleased to humble him in Penacony, find satisfaction in making him weak waiting here and now? Or is he simply shy and inexperienced, as judging by that hasty, almost anxious next kiss? It's more fun not knowing, really. The results are the same, either way. No tuning necessary, Sunday has him in a trance. ]
Just so you know- [ Grappling for purchase on his composure as they part, Aventurine scrounges up a hungry grin, wide and wicked. He dips in again, drawing the pause long with another sweet, slow kiss, teeth catching Sunday's lower lip. ] -letting a partner disrobe you is part of the fun. You can practice on me, if you want.
[ Not that he gives Sunday the chance, the narrow point of his waist too delicious not to explore. Aventurine watches wings and eyes for any sign of reluctance or discomfort before leaning in to kiss him again, mouth and chin and jaw, as he runs palms up and back down Sunday's flank, savoring the shape beneath his hands.
Anything to distract him from that promise of protection, how it makes something fizzle beneath his rib cage. Want cannot factor in. He doesn't need or deserve it, was made to survive. ]
You're beautiful. [ He murmurs, mouth drifting down to show Sunday just how delightful it is to have lips upon your neck. Aventurine breathes him in and sighs as he seeks out a pulse point to savor. ] Aeons, you're like something holy. [ Stupidly, he thinks he could find salvation here, in this, in him. ] Please don't put yourself in danger for me.
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[Sunday says, embarrassed, when Aventurine scolds him. He doesn't have time to say more. Hands roam his sides, and lips press against his, inhaling the breath from his lungs. And when those lips take a sojourn to the sensitive skin of his neck, his wings flap wide and vibrate. So this is why people kiss necks.
A soft, bird-like trill purls from his well-adored throat. His hands slide up Aventurine's back, then pull him in more closely and wrap him in a tight embrace. Earlier, he'd thought they would share the briefest kiss, a simple expression of a bond. Things have escalated from there so quickly that he feels dizzy. Aventurine is suddenly holding and touching and drinking him in as if he were a chalice of cool, crystalline water found in the middle of a desert. How long has the Stoneheart wanted this? Such daring hunger should bother Sunday, but it doesn't.
Here, now, in this moment, he is not the Oak Family Head, the Bronze Melodia, or a fallen sun. He is just the man in Aventurine's arms. That man is no less sacred than the Melodia, however. The words spoken low against his throat are a prayer, the hands feeling him through the dense fabric of his shirt are as reverent as they are eager. On Penacony, his faithful had run to him in their desperation. A similar desperation races through Aventurine. Sunday can feel it in every touch.
Kisses, licks, hands, beating hearts, pleas.
His next kiss to Aventurine's lips is slow, gentle, soothing.]
I am already in danger, so it is too late for that. You are my friend, and I want to protect you. I want you to be happy.
[Another lingering kiss. Sunday's kisses are less ravenous than Aventurine's but no less passionate. He wants to savor his friend, enjoy his company, and make him happy. How can he do any of that if he is also devouring the poor man?.]
I apologize for removing my coat. Would you like to remove my gloves? [If he'd asked Aventurine to unbutton his trousers, he doubts the blush that spills anew across his cheeks would be any worse.]
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Clumsily, he kicks his shoes off, brings both feet up onto the bed, and does his best to hide his arousal, half-believing Sunday might be too scandalized by the sight to even stay in the room with him. He leans in, chasing another taste, one hand flattening against the bed behind Sunday's back to keep himself stable. Mortifying that this is immediately followed by Sunday calling him friend. It almost feels like Aha's work. ]
Happy. [ A little incredulous.
A rush of air escapes him between kisses, half a laugh. It helps. Cools this too hot fire that has him leaning hungrily into every kiss. Coming back to his senses, he might've been discouraged, except that Sunday is still flush with warmth, still holding him close, still meeting every kiss with his own gentle enthusiasm.
That apology, though, it earns a genuine laugh, all bright, delighted sound. Giggling still, Aventurine sits back, stares at Sunday with beetled brows. Even knowing that Sunday has made three times a mess of him with less than half the effort, Aventurine still savors the satisfaction of watching Sunday's face flood with color anew over the suggestion.
Oh, this ridiculous, infuriating bird. He likes him so much. ]
I would. Yeah. Very much. [ He says, taking one of Sunday's hands in both of his own, running thumbs along his palm, then with careful, curious fingers and wickedly deliberate slowness, working his rings off, one at a time. All the while, he stares into Sunday's eyes, hunger only just held at bay. ] It's nice, isn't it?
not entirely worksafe
And his body is enjoying it too. Sunday notices it from the corner of his vision, notices Aventurine shuffling to hide it, and does not comment. They are evolved from animals, after all. Even his own body is teetering close to the edge of making itself known and would have tumbled over it long ago if not for his rigid self-control. His biology yields to his will. It has too. It was a necessary thing to master when he was still a teenager. Experiencing arousal at the salacious stories he heard come through the lattice of his confessional would have ended his term as Melodia.
But even he has his limits, and Aventurine is testing them. Biology can only be contained for so long.]
I suppose it is.
[He lies, though only partially.
He leans forward to kiss Aventurine's smiling mouth again.]
I do like that you like it, Mister--
[Losing the formalities will take some getting used to. He sighs, then, with a warm smile....]
My dear Churin. I like you.
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People do not like Aventurine. Aventurine is a loathsome scoundrel, an untrustworthy corporate dog, a danger to all around him. He is tolerated at best, for his skills, his status, his wealth. Aventurine's own desires have never mattered, just the work, just the results, just the aurora at the end of his path.
Sweet Sunday, who is warm in every way Aventurine can think of, calls him pet names, praises him, promises to protect him, and guiltily Aventurine finds himself wondering -- what's the catch? What is it Sunday needs from him? Is this repayment for his escape? For the escort across the cosmos? How could he be so stupid? So careless?
Oh, he'd been right after all. This is going to smash him to pieces.
He forces a laugh, light, soldiers on like his own head isn't at war with the rest of him. The fine silver rings are deposited with care on the bedside table, and he returns to his work, slipping his fingers beneath the lip of Sunday's glove. It's not skin to skin, not when he is still in gloves, so why does his own face fill with rosy color?
He stills, just a moment, then glances up, gaze far too adoring. ]
Sunny, don't just give. Take a little, too.
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Have I not been taking?
[He asks at the unexpected request. He had gone in for the first kiss and taste of Aventurine's neck. But maybe he has been too passive in his desire to see his friend happy. He likes giving. It is not the same as being taken; it is freely offering morsels of himself, and he wants Aventurine to enjoy those morsels. He wants to see Aventurine enjoy them. The bliss in Aventurine's eyes, the adoration in his smile, the way he, until now, seemed looser than he had been since they started their journey. Sunday loves all of it and loves being loved.
It is in his nature. He does not exist for anyone's pleasure, but he can choose to. After all, what he exists for is the creation of paradise. If he can carve out a small sliver of it for Aventurine using his own body, he will gladly do it. He will give his lips and hands, and skin, and feel rapture in every moment if he can cast light upon the darkness that still plainly infects his dear friend's heart.
As for taking, well...]
My apologies...
I had intended to take more, but I think, maybe, I was worried about frightening you.
[The still gloved hand drifts upward to settle over the golden eye of Ena still emblazoned on the front of his shirt.]
I will try my best to be more proactive, but...
[Golden eyes search lusty jeweled ones.]
Something is on your mind. Please, tell me what it is.
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[ Goddess, he deserves so much more than this, than hiding in a tiny ship, aimlessly wandering until he stumbles on the very thing he should've avoided. Sunday belongs with the Nameless, better people better equipped to show him how to achieve that dream of his. More patient, more caring, more a family than Aventurine could ever hope to be. Were he aboard that train, he would not fall back into old habits so readily.
But here, Sunday makes himself the holy vessel again, empty and eager to be filled with others' pain. Aventurine stares, hungry for him, for his body, for his heart, for the sacred thing he tries to be. It's shameful, this desire. Given the chance to escape that destiny, Sunday runs back toward it, and Aventurine's awful mind enables him.
No. He won't allow it. ]
You're making yourself high confessor again. [ A little warning song touches his voice as his gaze falls to the gloved hand still in his clutches.
Gently, he gets back to ruching fabric, pressing up until its loose enough to easily pull the glove away. On Lushaka, the sight of his ungloved hand had felt improper. Now, he can't look away. Sunday has the fingers of a pianist, elegant and strong. Less than a week ago, he'd used that hand to choke him in the dream. Now, Aventurine lifts it to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to the center of his palm, guides his hand to cup his cheek. Finally, his gaze lifts and levels at Sunday.
Though there is an undeniable appeal in supplicating before something holy, Aventurine will not poison a garden he'd only just professed a desire to see grow. All he can offer is honesty. ]
I feel unworthy. And I don't know how to trust that you are as good as you... [ There is pain in the gap between words as he struggles with himself, with total honesty and the truth. His heartbeat roars anew, and he urges Sunday's bare hand up into his hair. ] ...as I know you are.
Can we leave it at that? It's not the sort of thing fixed by talking, anyway. I'd rather just-
[ His fingers flutter, slip forward and grasp Sunday's shoulders. Aventurine leans in, but this time does not wholly close the distance, afraid that he has again ruined something good. Mere inches from Sunday's face, from another kiss, he mutters, ]
I'd rather just lose myself in you, Sunny, if that's okay.
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Sunday will always be High Confessor. Until the day he dies, a part of his soul will remain in that booth, hearing the lamentation of others. Aventurine knows this, knows that no matter how far they travel from Penacony and no matter how much Sunday's faith fades, he will always be a priest. He must know that. He kisses Sunday's hands and nuzzles into them like a repentant sinner seeking absolution from a divine touch.
Sunday yearns to grant that absolution. His fingers reach out to reel Aventurine into another slow, sweet kiss...
Then the Stoneheart admits what he truly wants, and Sunday's feathers droop. He will be a priest, and he will offer soothing touches and blessings with his lips. He wants to give his friend much-needed moments of joy. But allowing Aventurine to be lost within him...
Aventurine seeks escape and wants to escape into Sunday's body. Everyone seeks escape sometimes, and Sunday knows this better than anyone. He had once offered humanity a chance to hide from the cruel whims of reality in a false paradise. That is the past he is ashamed of, not his time as a confessor.
Guilt floods his heart. His affection isn't enough to light up the darkness in Aventurine. Maybe no light ever will be. Maybe the yawning nothingness in Aventurine's soul will always swallow the light. And Sunday will never be enough.
He slowly turns away and rises from the bed.]
I don't think there is anything wrong with escapism, Mister Aventurine. [Not Churin] But I do not want to be the man who provides it. Not anymore. Please, do not ask that of me.
[They need to confront life with their heads held high. Together, they will endure hardships, and somewhere on the other side of pain, where relief and laughter lie, there they will find the road to paradise. Sunday wants to guide them there.
He crouches down and removes his boots, then gently places them by the nightstand, side by side.]
Besides, I do not want to see you lose yourself at all. I like you right where you are.
[Slowly, he crawls onto the bed, kisses Aventurine, takes his hand, and lies back until he is supine with the Stoneheart lying atop him. Only now does his burgeoning desire finally break free from his will. It is shameful timing. He shifts his hips so they are not spearing each other. That's better. More than better. Pressed against the inside of Aventurine's thigh like this---
No.
One elegant finger dances up along Aventurine's spine, then traces slow circles between his shoulder blades.]
You have committed misdeeds and made mistakes, and for this, you think you are a monster. Mistakes do not make you a monster; they make you human. If humanity were flawless, I wouldn't have done what I did.
also a tiny bit nsfw but also mostly just sad
But Sunday stops short of leaving the room. Owlish, Aventurine stares as he tugs off his boots and sets them aside. His lips part, but no sound, no breath escapes. Before he can make sense of what's happening, Sunday is in bed again, pressing a kiss to his lips so soft and so sweet that it leaves him seeing stars. Where would he go? What could he possibly do but follow when Sunday guides him?
He has not earned this kindness. He does not deserve this care, and yet Sunday invites him to take more. Sunday wants him to take more. (Aventurine can feel it when their thighs meet, just how much he wants, and it's maddening in an entirely new way.) Oh, how desperately he wants, too. Wants him, wants this. Not just the beautiful body, supple beneath him and still waiting to be unwrapped, but the kindness, the care -- Aeons, the patience. Sunday is so patient with him, in spite of everything. ]
I-
[ Even with a vest and shirt between them, the drag of Sunday's fingertip still sends sparks up Aventurine's spine. He shuts his eyes and exhales a shuddered breath, mortified by how sensitive he feels, how easily Sunday earns a reaction. It takes him a moment to compose himself, hands pressed into the bed on either side of Sunday's face to keep steady.
He hadn't wanted this to be a confessional, but he fears it must be in some small way. If he is to indulge in this, to allow himself to enjoy it, to enjoy Sunday. He must be better first. Honest.
On the tails of another sigh, Aventurine sits up on his knees to straddle Sunday's thigh. Such a pretty tableau, the man who'd once sought to topple gods, spread beneath him. Aventurine drinks him in, carding fingers through the mess of his blonde hair, then flattens a palm against Sunday's stomach. Oh, how he aches to devour him. ]
You like me as I am. [ Such intoxicatingly lovely words. Undeserved. So very undeserved. ] I'm a killer, Sunday. To save my own life, to escape slavery, hell, to complete jobs for the IPC, I've taken... too many lives. And I've told you I intend to take at least one more.
I don't want absolution. [ He does. But. Not like this. Not yet. ] I just... want you to understand, to have all the information you need to decide, as a man, not a priest, whether I am worth all this care.
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yeah this is nsfw lmao
still nsfw
still nsfw
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nsfw
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nsfw a bit
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