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Once Penacony was returned to the hands of the IPC, Aventurine had known there would still be loose ties to be dealt with.
His boss never did like doing things in halves, after all.
Regardless, Aventurine doesn’t quite expect to be the one assigned this task in particular.
“You want to break him out?”
His tone is measured, a blend of curiosity and amusement acting as cover for the genuine confusion he feels hearing the reason for Jade’s summoning. There’s a gentle upward twist to the corner of his mouth as he ventures,“Why?”
Head tilted to the side, the broad rim of Jade’s hat obscures serpentine eyes. There’s power in the way she reveals only her smile, as pleasant and unfazed as ever. Aventurine watches manicured nails brush over the desk as the woman reaches for a fountain pen, twirling it idly around her fingers.
Aventurine’s own hands turn restless at the sight. He flicks out the poker chip he keeps hidden in his sleeve, running it across his knuckles in a practised gesture.
There’s no point in asking questions he’ll receive no answers to. Aventurine knows he’s just a cog in a well-oiled machine in the end. The silence between them stretches, filled only by the jangling of the weighty bracelet on Jade’s wrist as her hand curls the tip of the pen around her signature.
“Alright,” Aventurine concedes — folds his cards, as it were. “Why assign me the task then? Surely you can tell me that much.”
Finally, violet eyes are revealed as Jade’s gaze lifts. She pierces through Aventurine in a single look, reading him plainly. He does his best not to bristle in response, flesh itching beneath layers of skin as if coaxing him into peeling them off.
“There’s no reason in particular. I simply thought that, since this mission was entrusted to your hands to begin with. . . and you had, hm, rather intimate dealings with Mr. Sunday, you’d like to close this chapter off yourself.”
Aventurine doesn’t like the way she lingers over particular words, but his demeanour doesn’t slip. He stays relaxed in his seat, ankle propped up on his knee, leaning against the plush cushions at his back.
“This way you can take care of any. . . unfinished business,” she concludes. “Think of it as a small favour.”
He suppresses the urge to coil his lips back in a sneer. Aventurine deals in favours, in owing and collecting, the gambler’s trade. There’s a thrill in the exchange, comparable to that of rush he gets whenever the pair of dice cascade from his hand onto the table below. But that’s the thing; dealing in favours is bartering, and Aventurine has learned over the years that owing Jade is never a good thing.
“I see.” Aventurine inclines his head in a nod. In a quick flurry of fingers, he lets his poker chip disappear once more between the seam of his coat sleeve. “Well then, let’s discuss details.”
When the meeting draws to an end, Aventurine is stopped just as his hand reaches for the door by a call of his name. He turns just enough that it’s clear he’s listening.
“Do whatever you want with him, but make sure he stays alive.”
Aventurine breathes a quiet huff through his nose, the lock clicking open for him to step outside.
“Yes, boss.”
Kept on the lower levels of Penacony, hidden beneath all the glitz and glam of the prestigious Reverie in a place where all hints of the sweet dream are abandoned in favour of cold reality, there lies a prison. Remnants of the planet’s past linger in the maze-like structure, the pale blue lights and high ceilings, walls grey and barren.
Aventurine feels the chill go straight to his very bones, the frigid air easily slipping under the thick fur lining of his coat, every breath leaving him in a small wisp of white.
Time ceases to exit in a liminal space such as this, a place hidden away from any hope of the sun’s warmth. Aventurine can’t be sure if it takes a few minutes or close to an hour for the guard to lead him all the way to their destination. To the cell at the very centre, the one no doubt meant for those who’ve committed the greatest of sins.
How ironic, Aventurine muses, for the self-proclaimed saint to fall so far from grace he’s reduced to the worst of sinners. Surely, there’s a joke to be had there at the halovian’s expense.
As soon as the key clicks into the place, the heavy iron doors pull open, Aventurine signals for the guard to leave.
The man barely even blinks, retreating back the way they came with weighted steps. Aventurine knows he’s been paid off, that the eyes and ears of the prison have been rendered dormant for the next few minutes. Penacony once more belongs to the IPC, yes, but officially getting Sunday pardoned for his crimes is nigh impossible.
Not that the IPC has ever cared much for legalities, at least not below their polished surface.
Something bitter twists in his gut, more aware than most at just how deep that truth runs. He tries not to think on it too much, only on those nights where guilt and anger fester long enough that they rise like bile in his throat, and he drowns himself in the temporary reprieve of ludicrously expensive liquor.
Aventurine’s never really been one for healthy coping methods. A curse of the trade in which he finds himself, he supposes.
He shakes his head to rid himself of his thoughts. Nevermind. Aventurine isn't here to lament over his own life choices, he has a job to do. Straightening his collar, Aventurine plants a sly grin on his face and enters the dreary-looking cell with his head held high.
“My my, how the mighty have fallen,” he muses, purposely injecting a teasing lilt into his tone. “This is quite a downgrade from your precious mansion, Mr. Sunday.”
He expects a snarky reply, a hiss of words, the clink of chains as Sunday pulls at his chains to snarl up at him. Instead, he receives nothing. His greeting is met with complete, utter silence.
Aventurine lowers his gaze, slipping off his shades to tuck them into his pocket, his hands following soon after. Leaning back on his heels, Aventurine sighs, his voice now sounding bored as it echoes in the narrow space. “What? I don't even get a ‘hello’ from you now? Mr. Sunday, don't tell me you've forgotten all your manners in such a short time. . .”
He trails off as his eyes properly take in the halovian's appearance.
With his head ducked, Aventurine can't see his face, but he has a clear view of the heavy cuffs that circle his wrists and ankles, even his waist, keeping him bound tight to the slab of stone that serves as a chair. It’s colder still in the cell than it had been in the hallway, and Aventurine is sure the metal must feel like ice even through the thin layer of his clothes.
Clothes which are a far cry from Sunday’s usual pristine appearance. They’ve allowed him to keep his suit, but the layers are dishevelled and dirty, small tears visible in the expensive fabric. It feels uncanny almost, like some sort of funhouse mirror has distorted the image of him that Aventurine has grown accustomed to.
He takes a step closer, pupils widening in response to the dark shadows that blanket the room.
His gaze continues to wander, catching onto the bare skin of Sunday’s hands. He’s not wearing his gloves, fingers curled and gone stiff from the frigid air. Aventurine has to bite back a small gasp of surprise as he sees the welts peeking out from under the iron cuffs. Strangely, they look older than if they were caused by the rough metal.
No, Aventurine wagers these go back at least a few years, perhaps as the result of consistent strike of some hard object. A ruler, perhaps. How intriguing. Aventurine had always assumed Sunday wore the gloves as part of his desire for cleanliness or his strict religious views, but it seems there may have been more to it.
He’s not sure what it is that prompts him to remove one of his own gloves before reaching for Sunday’s face — maybe the curiosity of feeling cold skin beneath his own — but he’s moving before he can think better of it. Grabbing the halovian’s jaw with none too little force, he yanks him up.
The chains rattle at the sudden movement, scraping together. Only now does Aventurine realise that the wings at Sunday’s neck have been restrained as well. The one not pierced through at the marginal coverts quiver weakly as they’re jostled, folding in on itself while the other remains limp, unmoving.
Aventurine leans in closer, noting the way dulled halcyon eyes only barely track the movement. His cheeks are more sunken than Aventurine remembers, the contours of his face sharper, his skin a shade pale enough to border on ashen. He’s no less stunning for it, but it feels different.
As if this version of Sunday were merely a shell, a faded afterimage of the angel once stood bathed in glory.
A sick desire thrills up Aventurine’s spine at being faced with Sunday’s despondence, plagued by the kind of twisted thoughts that are best kept hidden from the light.
There’s a promise of power at fingertips, in the way Sunday’s skin gives under his touch, not an ounce of rebellion left in the one who’d once looked down at Aventurine with so much disdain. Toying with him, treating him as a cat would its prey.
But the role of the feline is ill-suited to one coated in soft, pale feathers. It’s best left to the players who know what it’s like to have shed their once fragile skin for that of a predator; who deal in both shadow in dark, have learned to hide the quiet tremor of a hand behind flashy colours and dazzling gold.
No matter the heights Sunday had longed to reach, the inescapable truth is his wings have always been clipped. Doomed to fall from the heavens from the very beginning.
He looks so pitiful now, cupped in Aventurine’s hand, and it makes the gambler’s head spin. His plan had never been to do much more except a change a few clever barbs at Sunday's expense before hauling him off to wherever Jade would tell him to, but now. . .
Aventurine just can’t resist.
Only when he slips out the small key hidden within his sleeve to unlock the cufflinks restraining Sunday’s body does the halovian finally speak. His voice is hoarse from disuse, lower than Aventurine remembers it; enough to fan at the flames crackling at the base of his stomach.
“What. . . are you doing. . . ?”
“Don’t you know?” His breath ghosts against Sunday’s cheek, eliciting an involuntary shutter at the soothing warmth to his cold skin. “It’s your lucky day. . .”
He lets his mouth curve up into a grin.
“You’re coming with me.”
It proves an easy task to discreetly cart Sunday off of Penacony.
Given Aventurine’s rank and Jade’s backing, he’s able to wield his resources into earning them a secret passageway to one of the many planets under the IPC’s jurisdiction. Sunday plays the part of the willing prisoner all too well, head hung low as he follows Aventurine with little to no protest.
Aventurine finds his behaviour bordering on eerie at times, the hair on his nape prickling with the underlying wariness that all of this is still part of Sunday’s plan somehow.
But then he watches him stare off into the distance, eyes a muted gold which renders them hollow, and he realises it can’t be. None of this had ever been part of Sunday’s gamble, the foremost reason being that it had never been a gamble at all. Every one of Sunday’s moves had been perfectly calculated, careful to keep all of his pawns in place, to keep things in order.
Not even his dear sister could’ve talked him out of his master plan in the end.
She couldn’t save him either. At least, not in the way she would’ve wanted.
Aventurine is sure this whole thing has something to do with her, but Jade had breathed no word of the deal in their meeting. He very much doubts the darling Robin had gotten much on her end however, left to wonder just what she’d traded to ensure her brother’s freedom. If it could be called that in the first place.
For now, Sunday is property of the IPC.
And for tonight, he is property of Aventurine.
The room he books them is a private suite, the hotel hidden between the skyscrapers reigning the capital city’s streets.
In the morning, Aventurine will notify Jade so she can send over a squadron of her men, carter Sunday off to whatever future it is that awaits the fallen angel. In this moment, however, Sunday is his to play with however he pleases. Jade had been right after all, Aventurine does need the closure.
Having his mind invaded, truths pulled from the depths of his throat he’d never otherwise admit. Subjected to Sunday’s cruelty, forced to hide a trembling hand behind his back as he stood in the face of the halovian’s power.
Sure, hearing of Sunday’s spectacular defeat had brought him some sense of vindication. But this, this is so much more satisfying.
Taking one final glance at the view beyond the floor to ceiling windows, Aventurine draws the blinds, the room bathed only in a slight orange glow. He turns to look at Sunday, still stood at the foot of the bed just as Aventurine had instructed him to, and feels that same sick desire curl in his gut.
Quietly, he strides over.
It only takes one half-hard shove to Sunday’s shoulder to get the halovian to crumble to his knees before him. When he tilts his head up, there’s something in his gaze that tells Aventurine he’d been expecting this.
How curious.
Aventurine wonders what kind of thoughts are swirling in that pretty little head of his, whether Sunday will see this as penance for his sins. Is this why he’s been oh-so-obedient thus far? His mind so plagued by guilt that he seeks punishment in whatever shape it may take?
What is Aventurine to him; a saviour, or the devil himself?
He very much doubts he’d get any conclusive answer were he to ask these questions aloud. Even now, Sunday’s awareness is layered by a daze, plunged so deep into depression his mind appears trapped within its murky waters.
Not that Aventurine cares very much. The reason he’s doing this is for his own satisfaction, for that quiet fire that burns for revenge, craves it in even the most meagre of forms.
He doesn’t allow himself to indulge in these wicked desires often, but this time. . .
This time he’s been presented with this proud, arrogant man who once stood above him, reduced to such a state that Aventurine can easily topple him to his knees. A doll cut from its strings, gazing up at him with pliant, glassy eyes. How is Aventurine to resist?
He presses his thumb down on Sunday’s plush bottom lip, watches as Sunday’s mouth parts with no resistance to let him in, and smiles.
In the end, he’s no saviour nor devil.
Only a man.
Sunday truly is a broken thing now.
Aventurine knows what it’s like to be broken. He’s been shattered, split apart into a million shards. But a broken gem still glitters under the light, and Aventurine had known his value even then, when Jade had picked him, nails sharpened like claws as she welcomed him into her clutches. His saviour.
Sunday, however, is no precious stone.
No. He’s a glass prism, stripped of the kaleidoscope of light refracted within him as soon as the parts of him scattered when he hit the ground.
The emptiness to him now is undeniable.
A void where there should be something resplendent, otherworldly. A vessel robbed of its god, a shell of the glory that once was.
Aventurine feels sick delight curl in his gut at the sight, outweighing the margin of guilt at the edge of his mind. He likes hollow things. Hollow people. Likes to bury himself into the empty space left behind, carve out a place for himself, etch his name there. Like an imprint. A tattoo.
A brand.
The body beneath him shudders as Aventurine drives himself deep.
The power trip gets him high; a flipped mirror image of his younger years spent behind bars, confined to a cage, forced to take what he was given with no complaint.
Now, he gets to cage Sunday in. His fingers tug at the wings that spasm and contract under his touch, trailing his hands along their curve until he reaches feathers that have been clipped short, denied the ability to fly. He presses down to mouth at the piercings that marr the soft surface, drunk on the breathy, choked up moan it awards him.
“How did you do it, little peacock? Did you strip yourself naked, apologise to him on your knees, and promise the IPC would never harm Penacony?”
The words echo in his mind; what was once the masked fool’s mockery verging on cosmic irony in the present moment.
Aventurine had stripped himself bare. Metaphorically laid himself on the table for Sunday to see, his hope held in the fist curled and trembling behind his back. Vulnerable, exposed, all for the sake of the mission.
The higher the risk, the higher the reward. A gamble through and through.
Now, the roles are reversed. Except Sunday’s submission is more than a mere metaphor, more than the taunting imagery of a wolf in fox’s clothing. His naked body is real, writhing under Aventurine’s touch, for him to toy with and tease.
Two birds caught in a fight of feathers.
It seems peacock trumps dove, in the end.
Aventurine’s hands fist at the base of Sunday’s wings, yanking him back with enough force to make him cry out. His back yields under the pressure, shaped into a sinful arch as Aventurine leans back on his haunches to pound into him harder, faster.
Beautiful in his debauched state, Sunday resembles a holy painting besmirched. A priest turned whore. Something sacred, defiled. Sacrilegious.
It stokes the flames in his stomach higher, the knowledge that Aventurine is the one who gets to ruin him, to make him bend under his will. To have his be the touch that subjugates the lofty angel, his filth dredging itself under those pure celeste wings, forever dirtying them.
Keeping his fingers tight around those quivering feathers, Aventurine pushes Sunday’s head down into the sheets, sure to angle his face to the side so he can continue to soak in every noise. Aventurine is almost in awe at how vocal he is, had expected for the man to stifle himself by biting his lips bloody. Though perhaps his inability to keep a handle on his precious self-control is not so surprising after all, Aventurine is half-convinced Sunday had been a virgin before tonight.
The thought alone is enough to send a thrill up his spine, redoubling his efforts as he ploughs into him, hips smacking hard enough against Sunday’s ass to render the soft skin raw.
Completely at Aventurine’s mercy, Sunday’s body jerks at his every move. Despite the harsh treatment, the pain he no doubt feels at the meagre prep he’d been granted, Sunday’s arousal is obvious. His wings flutter wildly even within Aventurine’s iron grip, a flush spread from his cheeks down to his chest, his length bouncing against his stomach with every thrust despite already spilling onto the sheets more than once without a single touch.
Truly, a pathetic sight.
Aventurine can’t help but adore it, his revenge made all the more sweet knowing shame will curl in Sunday’s gut whenever he thinks back on this night.
That when he remembers the feeling of warmth coating his insides, laying claim to him in the most perverse of ways, that it is Aventurine who now owns a part of him he’ll never get back.
The hotel room stinks of sin after they’re done.
It’s a cloying scent, the blend of sex and sweat. Aventurine revels in it, one more physical evidence of his triumph. Both of them are still nude; though Aventurine stands by the window in all his glory, smoking out of one the tilted panels, while Sunday is curled up on the bed. The halovian hasn’t even bothered to hide under the covers, Aventurine’s spend leaking from between his thighs onto the sheets below.
Eyes of coral and azure rings drag slowly over the array of bite and scratch marks that litter Sunday’s skin, each one further satiating the beast which hungers for power. Now that it’s gotten its fill, it can retreat into the darkest tresses of his mind to slumber once more.
Breathing out the last of the smoke, Aventurine tosses the cigarette butt into the void outside. He saunters toward the armchair where his clothes lie neatly folded, intent on disappearing into the night and letting Jade know come morning where she can pick up her little package.
A quiet whimper stops him in his tracks.
Slowly, Aventurine turns his head to glance over his shoulder right as Sunday gently shifts his leg, likely trying to find a position that’s marginally more comfortable.
Tear tracks stain his face, his hair in disarray, feathers ruffled and sticking up in all the wrong directions as his wings curl toward his neck. His eyes are clouded with mist, still red rimmed around the edges. Aventurine doubts he’s even aware of the fact he’s made the noise, a knee-jerk reaction to the ache in his limbs.
He looks so utterly defeated. Pitiful.
And yet still so goddamn beautiful, even in ruins.
Aventurine sighs. He’s always been weak to pretty things.
That’s what he tells himself when he settles onto the bed next to Sunday, forsaking his earlier plan to draw the covers over them both. He startles when Sunday shifts closer as if on instinct, seeking out Aventurine’s warmth as he nestles against him.
Broken. Defeated.
Despite everything, the action manages to tug at his heart, twinging with a faint sense of hurt.
His hands hover for a moment longer before settling on Sunday’s waist and arm, drawing him further into his embrace. He stares at the ceiling for a long while, listening to Sunday’s breaths slowly even out to a steady rhythm.
Turning his head, Aventurine brushes his lips against Sunday’s forehead in a barely-there caress.
“Sleep well. . . little dove.”