Archive of Our Own ^beta

Xenus Beta is a planet containing a vast world of gods, monsters, and primordial beings of all kinds. From the steadfast Qlipoth, incarnation of the earth to the ethereal Cyrene and Evernight of dreams and nightmares to the enigmatic Acheron of violent death, there are plenty of powerful deities to place one’s faith in. 

Of course, such a large quantity of deities means that there will inevitably be some stragglers, clinging desperately to what little power the others have yet to find and take for themselves. Left alone, these weaker gods will fade away, becoming nothing more than a distant memory and a neglected husk of a temple. And as time goes on, more and more of them fall, leaving scraps of power that are quickly snatched up by whatever deity can make use of them.

Aventurine should not be one of such gods. 

He’s the god of luck; something people should be flocking to his temple to pray for. But others’ blessings are more in fashion nowadays – why wish for a lucky harvest when you could just ask Hyacinthia to allow rains to fall on your fields? Why pray for good fortune on an odyssey through twisted caverns when you could pray to Akivili to guide your way? 

In the end, luck does not have a consistent enough success rate – at least not one that mortals are satisfied with – so Aventurine is left behind, his once-bustling temple left to gather dust and the incense offerings burning up until only the stale scent of old air remains. 

And Aventurine himself? He doesn’t have the power to sustain his usual form anymore, so he turns himself into wisps of smoke and hides in an incense pot. 

A fitting end for a reckless god such as he: relying on fate and his own dominion to save him. If someone were to enter, to see his works and wonders and choose to put their faith in him like so many used to, then perhaps he could emerge from his unwilling chrysalis. But no such thing happens, so hidden he remains, keenly aware of his looming mortality. 

Even gods can die, after all. The great leviathan Long is a testament to that, as are the dragonfolk born from their blood as it spilled into the sea and the coral reef within.

Though he knows the endeavor will only drive him insane should he pursue it, Aventurine counts the days. They stretch into weeks into months into years, and then even further into decades. A century passes, and he remains alone and unloved by the world beyond his temple. Then another hundred years go by. And another.

Aventurine clings to life with everything he has, but the odds are looking slimmer by the second. He knows that his time is running out, but he doesn’t want to fade, not yet. There is so much he hasn’t done, hasn’t seen, hasn’t been able to experience… surely this can’t be the end, right?

Four hundred and twenty-three years after his final devotee left him, Aventurine is startled out of his hazy, sleepy state by the echoes of footsteps against the walls of his temple. 

The sound is quickly followed by ones of lit matches and gentle humming, and then the telltale crinkling of paper. Offerings. Likely in the form of food. If Aventurine had a mouth in this form, it would be watering. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now. 

Careful to be discreet, he peeks out from below the rim of the incense pot. A generous spread of all kinds of food are being neatly arranged on his altar by a young man with slim fingers and dove-gray hair. Aventurine tamps down the urge to push past his limits and take on his old form, one more human in silhouette, but he’d burn away into nothing before that could happen. He’ll have to take this slow.

He musters up the scant dregs of power he has left and takes the form of a gnat. He flies in a clumsy, disoriented pattern until he manages to alight upon a slice of an apple and eats as much as his tiny body will allow. Being divine, his metabolism takes care of the fruit quickly and grants him enough power to grow into a butterfly. 

He repeats the cycle, changing forms each time his body turns the food into more power, and doesn’t dare approach his visitor until he turns himself into a dove; one with feathers the same color as the mortal’s hair and down just as soft. It's only when he feels steady enough that Aventurine takes flight, landing next to a small loaf of bread and pecking at it. The apple slice is long gone; he needs more calories. More energy. More power. 

The mortal makes a soft sound of surprise upon seeing Aventurine land right in front of him. “Little dove, that’s not for you,” he chides, his voice gentle and fond. He reaches out to push Aventurine away from his first meal in centuries, and the deity gives an annoyed coo and puffs out his feathers. “Never mind, then. I suppose Kakavasha won’t mind sharing.”

Kakavasha. Aventurine’s true name. It hasn’t been uttered aloud for a long, long time – Aventurine was sure it had already been forgotten. In truth, he doesn’t remember why he decided to go by a different name. All he knows is that Kakavasha has been abandoned for even longer than Aventurine, and it’s a fascinating thing to hear it once more. 

“Perhaps you’re an emissary of some kind,” the mortal muses, more to himself than to Aventurine, who continues his feast. “If you are, then could you perhaps point me in Kakavasha’s direction? I’m in dire need of good fortune, and no blessing could be more effective than simple luck and skill.”

Aventurine coos again, wings twitching and chest puffing out with pride. Finally, after all of these hundreds of years alone and dying, someone has need of him! Now if only he could eat this entire loaf of bread in the next thirty seconds, just to speed up the process…

“Or,” the man continues, idly reaching out and stroking Aventurine’s feathers. He can’t help but coo again, surprised at how much he missed physical contact. He wasn’t even that touchy with his devotees… hm. “Perhaps you are Kakavasha.” A short bout of soft laughter. “But I sincerely doubt that. He was stated in scripts and memoirs to appear in the shape of a human like me – why assume the form of a bird?”

Give me a minute, Aventurine grumbles mentally. I’m working on it. Another mouthful (beakful?) of bread swallowed, another ounce of power returned to him. There’s almost enough now to assume his old form and finish the rest of the offering in order to sustain it. All he needs is a few more seconds, and…

That’s it! That’s just enough power to pull it off! With a delighted croon, Aventurine takes to the air, flying in a few circles around the mortal’s head before alighting atop an empty table. With a contented exhale, he changes his form one final time, appearing as himself for the first time in four hundred and twenty-three years. 

“Awfully bold of you to make assumptions,” he says, wincing as his voice rasps from disuse. He clears his throat and tries again. “But you were indeed correct in your guess. My sincerest apologies for taking so long – I needed some time to regain my strength.”

The mortal turns around, meeting Aventurine’s gaze with golden eyes full of wonder. “Kakavasha,” he breathes, and promptly falls to his knees and clasps his hands together in prayer. “I beseech you, aid me in my endeavors and bless my–”

“No need for the usual stuff. I’ve never believed in that.” Aventurine gives a simple shake of his head. “The others might get a kick out of formal prayers and begging, but me? Just talk to me like I’m a mortal like you.”

“I-I can’t do that!” The man’s eyes are adorably wide. He really is quite cute… any other god would probably steal him away and keep him as a consort, claiming it’s the price to pay for a blessing. But Aventurine has been a caged deity before, forced to grant near-endless luck to a greedy mortal who had borrowed enough power from an artifact to corrupt himself. He wouldn’t wish that fate on his worst enemy – okay, maybe he would, but only his worst enemy. No other enemies. 

“It would be improper of me,” the mortal continues to protest. “It’s imperative to show the proper reverence to a deity, lest they deem me disrespectful.”

How precious. Aventurine really struck gold with this one – maybe his own dominion has finally decided to smile upon him. “You brought me quite the generous offering,” he replies, gesturing to the spread of food with a wide sweep of his hand. He picks up a shiny red apple and admires it. He can almost see his reflection in it, and it’s completely unblemished. This mortal really brought only the best for him. “Enough so that I could assume a physical form for the first time in centuries. I think that goes beyond respect and reverence, don’t you think? The ultimate kindness for a fading god. If anything, I owe you a favor.”

The man looks utterly mortified at the notion. “No, no, that’s not necessary at all!” he insists, his dove-gray hair swaying back and forth with the frantic shaking of his head. “It would be audacious, too much so, really! All I ask is that you consider my plea.”

“That doesn’t really count as a favor, since it’s the usual song and dance from when people came and spoke to me,” Aventurine says with a shrug. “Let’s hold off on the favor until another day. There’s one thing I’d like to know before I hear you out, though.”

“Anything,” the mortal says, looking up at Aventurine with eyes shimmering with hope and reverence. Aventurine has to admit, it’s quite pleasant to see such a pretty man on his knees after so much time spent alone and unnoticed, but he’ll keep that particular sentiment to himself.

“Your name,” Aventurine says. “What is it? I’d love to know more about the mortal who saved me.” He takes a bite of the apple and leans forward, genuinely curious.

He’s not exaggerating when he says that the mortal saved him. This young man did save him, and Aventurine does owe him a favor. Gods often operate in transactions rather than a genuine desire to help. Everything has a cost, and every cost will be paid in full, or very unpleasant things will happen indeed. Aventurine is no different for the most part, but he is willing to lend a little extra assistance towards his followers should they stay both loyal and around. 

This man has earned that and more. 

“My name?” The mortal blinks, surprised. Then he quickly answers, as if wasting time would cost him Aventurine’s patience. Really, the deity has it in spades, so a few minutes would be nothing compared to his time in the incense pot. “It’s Sunday. Sunday Oak.”

Aventurine swallows the mouthful of apple (and a very high-quality one, at that: crispy and the perfect blend of sweet and tart) and repeats the name, mostly to himself. “Sunday Oak…” It rolls quite nicely off of his tongue. “Sunday Oak. I like that. What brings you here, Sunday?”

If Sunday’s eyes get any wider, they might pop out of their sockets. Aventurine takes another bite of the apple to hide his amusement – seriously, what kind of gods does this guy usually deal with if he’s so insistent on ritualistic prayer and submissive posture? There’s far too many to choose from. “There’s no need to address me so informally, Kakavasha–”

“Aventurine,” Aventurine interrupts. “I haven’t used that old name in a while. Can’t remember why for the life of me, but Kakavasha has been forgotten for far longer than Aventurine.”

“Ah, I see. My sincerest apologies, Aventurine,” Sunday replies. His fingers are clasped so tightly together that his knuckles are the purest of whites. “As for why I am here… my sister is deeply ill, so much so that there’s only one remedy. That remedy is a plant located in the heart of the Tangled Woods, and luck would be far more useful in such a place. I ask only for a modicum of your power to aid me – a modicum I will return the moment I am able, I swear it.”

Ah, the Tangled Woods. Out of all the wonders in the world, Aventurine does not miss that place. Indeed, good luck is imperative to getting through it: the path to the heart and back is never the same. The forest is ever changing, its paths warping and roots bursting through the earth to block the way for travelers. Even Akivili wouldn’t be able to guarantee a way in and out. 

“You’re in luck,” Aventurine says cheerfully after swallowing down another bite of the apple. “If you’d come even a year later than now, I fear I’d be long gone. But I haven’t the strength quite yet – please, take a seat while I regain it, would you? On one of the chairs – your legs must be sore, and you’ll need them for the journey.”

“Of course,” Sunday says, sounding utterly dumbfounded by the concept of using furniture as intended, and he sits gingerly atop one of the chairs left behind after dusting it off with a hand. Aventurine takes the opportunity to polish off the apple and return to the offering for more. “Is there anything else you wish to ask?”

“Tell me about yourself,” Aventurine requests, picking up an orange. He quite likes those, along with their kin – it’s interesting how they evolved to be pre-packaged and pre-sliced. Rather convenient.

Sunday talks as Aventurine eats, his power returning to him in small doses. He learns that the mortal lives with his father and sister, and his hometown has a temple to Xipe, a deity who presides over harmony. They were predated by Ena, an old deity of order, before Xipe killed and cannibalized them. A brutal, bloody story, as is most of the history between and regarding the pantheon. 

But Aventurine digresses.

Sunday’s sister’s name is Robin, and she loves to sing. Sunday used to, but eventually stopped when his father suggested priesthood instead. But that didn’t fit Sunday either – at least, not being one of Xipe’s priests. Still, Sunday is deeply religious and respectful of the pantheon as a whole, which is why he was so traditional and formal when meeting Aventurine.

Sunday has a fondness for sweets, and he plays the lyre when he has the time. He dislikes asymmetry and cleans when he’s stressed, and he’s deferential to his father’s authority.

All in all, he’s quite ordinary. But that doesn’t mean Aventurine sees him as such. An ordinary mortal wouldn’t have come prepared, and wouldn’t have been so kind to a bird trying to peck at his offering.

It’s that particular compassion that Aventurine finds alluring, and it’s what sways him to go the extra mile for Sunday.

“You’re the most interesting thing I’ve seen in ages,” Aventurine says, which is the truth. Nothing has really happened around here as of late. “And between you and me, I wouldn’t like you so much had you swatted me away while I was in the form of a bird. Very sweet of you, though you were off about which kind of bird my emissaries are. They’re actually peacocks, not doves. Those are Idrila’s birds. But I’m getting off topic.

“Your motive is honorable, as are you as a whole. Please, hand me that pendant you’re wearing.” Aventurine reaches out with a hand, and Sunday unclasps his rosary necklace and gives it to him. Aventurine grins upon seeing it. “Pearls and sapphires. You have good taste, though it’s rather expensive.”

“It’s a family heirloom,” Sunday clarifies. 

Aventurine hums as he presses the cross-shaped jewel to the palm of his hand, channeling some spare power (and oh, does it feel wonderful to have some to spare again) into it. “Not surprising. Back before my domain fell out of fashion, sapphires were hard to find, and even harder to buy. This one’s natural, and well-polished at that.”

The gem flickers gold for a brief moment as he hands it back to Sunday. The mortal takes it gratefully, albeit a little hesitantly: most gods don’t just hand things over to mortals, even if they borrowed said thing. Normally the mortal has to kneel and show proper reverence, but what’s the point of all that, really? It’s so much easier to just give the blessed item back without all the pomp and circumstance and ceremony. 

“And that’s not all,” Aventurine says, grinning wide as his gaze settles upon a small figurine of a peahen. He blows a kiss in its direction (unnecessary, but he wants to be a little dramatic, okay? Please, forgive a god for having a little fun), and she comes to life, landing on taloned feet and trotting over to Sunday. She stops at the mortal’s side, looking up at him expectantly. “My little friend over there will ward off danger in case something unsavory tries to sneak up on you. Just be sure to return her when you’ve delivered your remedy, and the transaction will be complete.”

“Ah – what of the blessing?” Sunday asks as his fingers trace the shape of the pendant. “Surely you’ll want your power back? You just regained it, after all.”

“Hm,” Aventurine hums, taking a moment to consider Sunday’s words. He’s got a point, but at the same time, kindness must be reciprocated. “Tell you what. You keep the blessing in return for stopping by when you have the chance. It gets lonely when you’ve run out of devotees.”

Sunday is silent for a moment, and then he whispers a soft, “Thank you, Aventurine. I will return your companion and your kindness.” With that, he turns to leave, but looks back one final time. Aventurine waves cheerfully, his mood lifted significantly now that he’s no longer stuck in that incense pot.

“Bring your sister by when she’s better! I’d love to meet her,” he chirps, and Sunday agrees with a nod of his head. The peahen follows him out of the temple, crooning excitedly as she gets to stretch her legs for the first time in over four hundred years. 

It’s then, and only then, that Aventurine stands up. It’s an odd thing, walking around after so much time spent as a simple few wisps of smoke. It’s even stranger to see sunlight streaming through the windows of his temple, bringing a bit of extra color to the place. There’s dust and chipped paint and unpolished metal surrounding him, and he sighs. 

There has to be one left… ah, found it! Aventurine makes a little sound of excitement when he finds a very specific bottle. It’s surely an old relic by now, likely replaced with something shinier and more efficient, but back before his abandonment, this was used to clean away dust, dirt, and other messes. The water would come out of the bottle, which is imbued with a purification enchantment, and immediately evaporate upon cleaning whatever it touches. A simple spell to be certain, but not everything has to be convoluted and fancy.

There are no devotees around, and Aventurine was hardly going to rope Sunday into this when all the poor man wanted was to help his ailing sister. He supposes the old adage is true: if you want something done right, you should do it yourself.

His mind drifts as he cleans off the tables and chairs and other such things. Now that he has enough power to retain this form for a few decades, what should he do? See the world before he fades? If four hundred and twenty-three years have passed without a single visitor to his temple, then his name must be a footnote in history. Here lies Aventurine, forgotten god of luck. May his domain be forever forsaken in favor of certainties. 

He can’t help but laugh bitterly at that. Fitting, that he’d fade away while the other gods lazed about on their thrones, hand-fed delicacies by devout, starry-eyed mortals who wouldn’t even think about turning their backs to their beloved deities. Aventurine the risk-taker, the odds-defier, the cocky and audacious god who oozed bravado and laughed in the face of fate, is the one who fell in the end. 

No other god would help him. In Aventurine’s desire to burn bright, he blazed through too many bridges to rebuild. They put up with him because he occasionally had some semblance of utility, but he knows that the moment he becomes inconvenient, his fellow deities wouldn’t allow even a wisp of smoke to remain of him. 

Maybe Diamond, god of wealth and commerce, would take mercy on him… he always did like Aventurine’s domain. When luck and money combine, you get gambling, and in turn gambling either brings or tears down wealth. If you’re unlucky, you lose it all; if you have good fortune, you could build an empire with what you win. They’d taken down many a blasphemer by combining forces. 

But Diamond has probably found a better business partner, so to speak, by now. One who doesn’t talk back, doesn’t challenge the status quo, doesn’t laugh maniacally as the odds inevitably tilt in his favor. 

Aventurine wonders if he’s even the same person he was before. He certainly doesn’t feel like laughing now.

His mind drifts to Sunday. His savior, his blessed one, his only company after his own followers decided he was of no use to them anymore. He really does want to pay Sunday back for his help, but he doesn’t even know if the mortal will come back for any longer than it takes to return the peahen. Of course, if that were the case, Aventurine would follow through on his earlier promise and take his given power back, but he’s been alone for so long that his heart aches at the notion.

There’s no use stressing about this. It hasn’t been long since Sunday departed – a few hours at most – and it’s not like his journey will only take half a day. The Tangled Woods are massive, sprawling over multiple gods’ territories, with the heart anywhere from halfway to eighty percent of the way from wherever the person inside entered. Hopefully it won’t be the latter for Sunday.

He will come back, Aventurine tells himself. He will come back, and he’ll bring his sister Robin with him. He’ll return my bird, he’ll visit a few times, he will come back.

He sighs again. He’ll probably be doing a lot of that in the foreseeable future. In the meantime, there’s cleaning to do – and the sooner everything is in good shape, the better. Aventurine isn’t very fond of a mess. 

***

To Aventurine’s delight (and, admittedly, surprise), Sunday returns three days later. In one hand, he holds a basket filled with all manner of edible delights – preserved meats, small wheels of cheese, more fruits and breads, and is that a jar of orange preserves? Wonderful! – and in the other, he holds the hand of a young woman with similar features to him. Unlike Sunday, though, this mortal has teal eyes, and her hair is a closer shade of gray to lilac than Sunday’s dovelike hue. But their facial structures are practically identical, and they smile the same way as they approach Aventurine from where he’s sitting at a nearby table for four. He doesn’t mind one chair being unoccupied.

“Sunday, my savior!” Aventurine greets cheerfully, his smile only widening at the flush that forms on the man’s cheeks as he suddenly finds the floor very interesting. “And you’ve brought Robin along – ah, and there’s my friend. Welcome back!”

“Savior?” Robin questions her brother as the peahen returns to Aventurine and turns to stone once more, and Aventurine sees the same awe that said brother had shown towards him in her eyes. There’s no doubt about it: those two are close-knit siblings. Aventurine is an only child (at least he thinks he is… he’s never actually met his birth parents, so he wouldn’t know about any biological siblings, either), but even he can feel the warmth between the two.

“It’s nothing,” Sunday mumbles, evidently flustered. “Don’t take it too seriously, Robin.”

“Aw, don’t say that,” Aventurine protests as Robin primly seats herself across from him, Sunday right at her side. He passes her a familiar-looking leaf, and she chews on it while sitting at rapt attention. “But if you’re really that shy about it, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Robin frowns at that, and Aventurine gives a soft laugh. “Maybe another time,” he stage-whispers. “When your brother isn’t around to be a killjoy.” She grins at him, and he winks. Sunday buries his face in his hands.

“Thank you both very much for the offerings,” Aventurine continues, changing the topic so Sunday doesn’t catch fire from embarrassment. It wouldn't do for his savior to keel over dead right after coming back to say hello, would it? “I reckon I’ll be able to sustain this form for quite some time with this array. And since you’ve returned my bird to me… how about a story? One about the origins of that miracle cure right there.”

“Oh, that’s an old tale,” Robin says. “The one where Yaoshi wanted Yingxing to prove his resolve, but he failed and the woods swallowed him whole, right?”

“What? No! That’s not what happened,” Aventurine says, unable to keep the incredulity off his face. “Ugh. They do this all the time!” He rolls his eyes.

“Do what?” Sunday asks. He and Robin have the exact same curiosity in their eyes. It’s adorable. 

“Rewrite history to make themselves look better,” Aventurine replies. “Even I used to do that, once upon a time, but, uh…” His grin turns into a grimace. “When you annoy as many gods as I have, they just retaliate by making you seem worse. We’re a petty bunch in the end.”

“So what really happened?” Robin asks, her head tilted ever so slightly to the side.

“I certainly hope it's still common knowledge that Lan and Yaoshi despise each other,” Aventurine says. “If that’s not the case, then the world is definitely coming to its end. That rivalry is as natural as life and death themselves.”

“Oh, yes. There are still wars being waged on their behalfs,” Robin agrees. 

“Well, that feud once led to the creation of the All-Cure right there, as a mortal so succinctly named it,” Aventurine explains. “You see, Lan was amassing a powerful army of mortals, led by experienced generals blessed with their power and drive. Yaoshi noticed this, and took one look at the sheer size of the army and realized that they needed to stop it before it could fully form.”

“There were that many people?” Robin looks utterly enraptured by Aventurine’s recounting of history, even though he hasn’t even gotten to the good part yet.

“However many you’re thinking, there were far, far more,” Aventurine replies. “Yaoshi knew that they didn’t have the numbers nor the might to quell the threat by force, so they took to their usual method: seduction.”

“Wait, wait, wait – seduction?” Sunday looks startled and a little scandalized, and Aventurine covers up his amusement with a hand over his mouth. Is this guy repressed or something? If so, why has his mind gone in a more salacious direction?

“Not of the sexual sort,” Aventurine clarifies. “They knew what could sway the soldiers from their cause. Since this took place in Xianzhou, they were aware of the search for a means of immortality at the time, and had a way to grant it… for a steep, steep cost.

“You see, they’d live forever, never get sick, and almost instantly heal from any inflicted wound – but their minds would rot away until nothing but blind bloodthirst for anyone not like them remained. This condition was later named ‘mara’,” he continues. “Naturally, Yaoshi didn’t tell them about that part. Instead, they learned about it the hard way, resulting in a massacre that took out over two thirds of Lan’s army. Their generals got away relatively unscathed, but some of their closest friends were afflicted. Morale was at an all-time low.”

“So what happened next?” Robin asks. Her hands are clasped together atop the table, and she leans ever so slightly forward as her attention zeroes in on Aventurine’s words.

“This is where Yingxing makes his appearance,” Aventurine says, nodding at the gleam in Robin’s eyes. “Yes, that Yingxing. He was afflicted with mara, but hadn’t succumbed to it yet. His closest friend, Jing Yuan, was a general of the Luofu region of Xianzhou, and Yingxing wanted to ease his worries by finding a means to overcome his own ailment. Lan saw his resolve and confronted Yaoshi, demanding a means to cure the mara.”

“And that cure is the plant within the Tangled Woods,” Robin realizes, and Aventurine nods. 

“Correct,” he confirms. “Yaoshi created the cure on the spot, but refused to hand it over to Lan. Instead, they spontaneously created a sprawling forest with paths and trees that constantly moved about, and dropped the cure in a random location that neither of them really got a good look at. With both of them in the dark about its true location, and with said location moving from one place to another to yet another at a rapid pace, Lan’s generals had no choice but to send Yingxing in blind.

“Yingxing quickly got lost, and noticed something particularly strange about the trees. He found a pond and gazed at his reflection, where there were the budding signs of mara branching out from under his skin – and I mean that literally. The Tangled Woods was one of the most complex and lethal traps the pantheon has ever created: mara and the trees themselves were one and the same, and Yingxing was never going to make it out alive. 

“His condition worsened at a rapid pace until he was past the point of no return, and over time, the plants growing out of his body twisted and lengthened until they became just another tree in the woods. Perhaps it is a mercy that mara removes one’s cognizance, because who knows whether he’d still be conscious in there?” Aventurine shrugs. “Anyway, Yingxing never came back, and the attack failed before it could even begin. But the plant remained, forever out of the reach of any god, even its own creator.”

“That’s awful,” Robin says sorrowfully. “Poor Yingxing… I wonder if any other tree is one of the mara-struck.”

“It’s more likely than not,” Aventurine replies. “How many people go in, and how many return? You do the math.”

Sunday looks pale, his realization of just how much Aventurine’s blessing saved him from dawning in his eyes, and Aventurine waves in his general direction. “Hey. Hey, Sunday, look at me,” he says. “You came to the right god, did the right things, and it all worked out. You did well. Don’t stress about it unless you’re planning on going back in there.”

“Brother,” Robin murmurs, and she takes Sunday’s hand in her own. His gaze flicks from the table to their intertwined fingers, and he nods just enough for it to be perceptible. 

“Right,” he says, his voice taut. “Right. It all worked out, and now you’re healthy, and I’m alive. And Aventurine… Aventurine has a physical form again. Right.”

“So…” Robin says, drawing out the vowel in the word. “Are you going to tell me about the whole ‘savior’ thing now?”

“Not unless he’s alright with it,” Aventurine replies. “I have all kinds of secrets of my own, and I hold a great many more that belong to others. What’s one more?”

“I’ll explain it,” Sunday says reluctantly, buckling beneath his sister’s expectant gaze. “Aventurine was on the verge of fading entirely when I came to his temple. I brought food as an offering, and he started eating it when I was organizing. I saw a dove eating some of the bread and almost shooed it away, and kind of talked to it…” He laughs nervously. “And the next thing I know, the dove is flying all around my head, and it turns into Aventurine.”

Robin bursts out laughing, and Sunday ducks his head as his embarrassed flush spreads all the way to his ears. “Don’t laugh,” he mumbles. “You talk to birds all the time.”

“Yes, but none of those birds were a god in disguise!” Robin retorts, still giggling. Aventurine holds in his own laughter, once more for Sunday’s sake. 

“I’ll take it from here,” Aventurine says. “I had spent hundreds of years barely holding on to life in the form of a bit of smoke. I was nodding off in an incense pot when I heard him come in. I imagine that had Sunday not come to this place, I would have perished in a year or so.” Aventurine sees Robin nod, still grinning. “Maybe you can help me out here, Robin. He keeps refusing me when I tell him I owe him a favor. Can you convince him to take it?”

“Sunday!” Robin shakes his shoulder with her free hand. “A god hands you a favor – with no strings attached, might I add! – and the first thing you do is say no? What’s gotten into you?!”

“I-It would be disrespectful!” Sunday protests. “To expect anything from a god without earning it… the audacity alone would be enough cause for any of the divine to smite me! Why would I do such a thing?”

“Because he just told you that you did earn it!” Robin exclaims. “And I know you’re not the greedy type, so why don’t you take the offer?”

“There’s nothing that I want more than for you to be in good health,” Sunday says firmly, and Robin lets go of his shoulder as her shoulders slump in evident defeat. “If there ever is a time when I need a favor, then I might – might – take the offer. But there’s nothing I want or need right now.”

“Fair enough,” Aventurine says with a shrug. “Just say the word, and I’ll gladly lend a hand. In the meantime, though… could you two tell me about any recent developments in history and technology? I despise being out of the loop.”

The change in topic appears to cheer both siblings up, and they eagerly launch into an impromptu history lesson that Aventurine finds quite enlightening. A few gods have emerged, some are missing or dead, and wars have been waged and won. His earlier suspicions were correct: his purification bottle that he used earlier has long since been replaced with something far more efficient and useful. It can handle far more than just grime, even able to polish metal – Robin promises to bring him one the next time she visits. All in all, he considers this exchange a success. 

Eventually, the sun begins to creep a little too far towards the horizon for it to be safe for the pair of siblings to remain. They bid him adieu and promise to return with another round of offerings and some new tools and trinkets for him to play with, as well as some books for him to read to catch up on what they weren’t able to cover. He watches them go with a smile and a wave before finally eating what was given, thinking about just how much better it would be with company.

He doesn’t know when, exactly, they’ll return, or even if they’ll come together or separately, but he’s looking forward to whatever they have in store for him.

***

Five more days pass, each bringing some new wonder or another. Aventurine never thought he’d find sunlight so beautiful and worthy of savoring, but he supposes centuries in a dark and stuffy incense pot tends to change your perspective on things. 

Sunday and Robin visit a few times. Some days they approach side by side, but others only Sunday will arrive, evidently more inclined towards solitude than his sister’s company. No matter what, though, he always comes with a basket of offerings. 

Aventurine appreciates Sunday so much more than the mortal probably believes. Sunday is the modest type who appears to have mistaken humbleness for self-deprecation, which Aventurine has seen time and time again. He’s also watched as these individuals unwittingly pushed everyone else away, eventually ending up alone and miserable. Eventually, their sanity abandons ship as well, leaving a hollow husk that’s only capable of weeping and lamenting their misfortune behind.

Aventurine can only hope that Sunday doesn’t meet that fate. 

It’s while contemplating someone he barely even knows that he notices the shadow fall over his body, looming above like a guillotine. He should have expected this, he thinks as he turns around to meet the newcomer’s gaze. But he didn’t think the others would notice him at all, let alone so soon. 

“Kakavasha,” Acheron greets, stoic as ever. Though their domains rarely – if ever – cross paths, the two know each other quite well. Neither is fully aware of their origins, with Acheron’s memories being unreliable at best and Aventurine’s birth parents nowhere in the picture. 

It seems that said bad memory is working against them today, though, since he’d told Acheron a while ago that he doesn’t use that name anymore. He doesn’t bother correcting her, instead eyeing her sword from where it rests in its sheath. A great many mountains and seas have been slashed apart by that blade, to say nothing of mortals and gods. Though he doubts that Acheron has any ill intentions, Aventurine still doesn’t want to take any chances. 

“Acheron,” he replies with a slight dip of his head. Acheron returns the gesture and walks over to a chair, taking a seat with a weary sigh. Aventurine ponders the reason behind her exhaustion. While Acheron’s emissaries and followers usually take the role of psychopomp, she’ll step in if something or someone significant perishes. It could be that, or maybe it’s just Acheron being Acheron. She’s always tired.

“I was in the area,” Acheron says. “Imagine my surprise when I felt your presence for the first time in over four hundred years.” Her voice is entirely deadpan, but Aventurine’s sure she’s being authentic. They go back a long way – he can read her pretty well at this point, unless she’s somehow changed during his time spent in the incense pot as well. Most gods don’t change much, so it would be odd…

He’s getting distracted. 

“Trust me when I say that I’m surprised too,” he replies. “I had a knight in shining armor come to my rescue a little over a week ago with some offerings. He’s wonderful company, too.”

“I see,” Acheron says with a hum. “He’s been coming back?” There’s a subtle note of surprise in her voice, which Aventurine can understand. No one has wanted what he can provide in a long, long time.

Aventurine nods and gives a hum of affirmation. “I don’t know why he’s doing it: maybe out of kindness, pity, his religious upbringing, possibly the blessing I gave his rosary necklace… I have no idea. But he’s been coming back, and that’s all that I really care about right now.”

“Well, I’m glad someone found you regardless.” Acheron gives him a slight smile.

“How does Polyxia fare?” Aventurine asks. While Acheron has dominion over those who fall in war and disease, Polyxia presides over mortals and gods who perish peacefully. 

“Polyxia… their body failed them, and their sister Castorice has taken up their mantle,” Acheron replies. “As for Castorice, she’s doing the best she can with the hand she’s been dealt. Even with followers aiding her, the burden of bringing the dead to their final resting place weighs heavy on her shoulders. But she’s resilient. I believe she will grow into her own with time.”

“Unfortunate that Polyxia is no longer with us,” Aventurine remarks. He didn’t know them that well, but they’d been a comforting presence during times of hardship. Were he to fade, he knew he’d be in good hands. But for them to be gone, and for their sister to have taken their place… he’s a little sad to see them go.

“Their remains took the form of a calcified dragon,” Acheron says. “A field of asphodels grows around them. The garden has been warded against intruders and deemed a sacred place by Terminus.”

Terminus. A name rarely spoken, usually due to fear. While Acheron and now Castorice are deities of various kinds of death, Terminus rules over it as a whole. Both goddesses answer to them in the end. Hell, the word terminal originates from their name! Aventurine would never like to meet them. 

“It’s good that Polyxia is being protected, even in death,” he says rather than voicing his thoughts. “What of the others that I was… acquainted with?” There’s really no better word to use than that, given that out of every god in the pantheon, Acheron is the closest thing he has to a friend. 

“Diamond sometimes speaks of you,” Acheron says, startling Aventurine enough to get a flinch out of him. She lifts an eyebrow. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No! No, you didn’t,” Aventurine replies, waving his hands in front of his chest. “I just… wasn’t expecting him to even remember me, heh. Are you sure that wasn’t before I faded…?” He doesn’t want to call Acheron unreliable, but this could be another matter of mixing up memories.

“No, I heard him say your name yesterday,” she explains. “And here you are, one day later… maybe Elio whispered in his ear.”

Ah, yes, Elio. The elusive god of fate – so elusive, in fact, that some of the younger gods question whether he even exists. Most times, the ‘whispering’ is purely figurative, but who knows? Maybe Elio did say something to Diamond.

But Aventurine sincerely doubts that. 

“I find that hard to believe,” he remarks. “So, uh, Diamond’s words… were they positive or negative?” As pathetic as it is, he wants – needs to know. For some reason, the opinions of the rest of the pantheon matter far too much to Aventurine, and their distaste for him weighs heavy on his shoulders sometimes. 

“Neutral, I think,” Acheron replies, an understanding gleam in her eyes. Most gods don’t have anything nice to say about her, either. Unlike Aventurine, though, she doesn’t let them get to her: the words hit and bounce off of her, inconsequential as water off of a duck’s back. “He mentioned wanting to collaborate with you again. Wondered where you’d gone off to.”

“‘Gone off to’,” Aventurine mutters bitterly. “What, do the others think I took a vacation or something?” It would line up with their usual attitudes. 

“The others? They assumed you were dead. But Diamond… he never believed that. He always theorized that you were hiding out somewhere. He refused to think that you could have faded, even when I couldn’t find you.” Acheron stares down at her hands. “I stopped looking two hundred years in. I’m sorry.”

Figures that Diamond would be the one to believe that Aventurine was alive. He never wanted to hear anything that wasn’t what he wanted. But Acheron’s words… he shakes his head. “There’s no need to apologize. Still… you never thought to check my own temple?”

“You’ve never been the type to stay in one place for too long,” Acheron replies with a shrug. Aventurine is about to make a sharp retort – because really? That’s the reason she didn’t look in the easiest and most logical place he could be? – when he hears singing in the distance, and it’s steadily growing closer.

He recognizes the voice right away: it’s Robin. Her voice is clear and pleasant to the ear – he imagines that she’d make a wonderful priestess in one of Xipe’s churches, considering they all sing their prayers. 

What’s strange is that he can’t hear Sunday along with her. Normally his laughter accompanies her melodies, intertwining into the most beautiful hymn Aventurine has ever heard, but she’s completely alone this time. Strange: she never comes to his temple without her brother. 

“You know who that is, I assume,” Acheron remarks, and Aventurine nods. “In that case, I’ll take my leave. We can finish our conversation another time.”

“That works, yeah,” Aventurine replies absentmindedly, distracted by the anomaly in the distance. “See you around, Acheron.”

She gives a neutral hum before her shadow fades from Aventurine’s peripheral vision, leaving him alone in his temple, awaiting Robin as she practically waltzes her way up the path. There’s a grin on her face and a wrapped package in her arms, and she greets him enthusiastically once she crosses the threshold into the building. 

“Aventurine!” Robin chirps as if she’s talking to a fellow mortal and not a literal god. Any other deity wouldn’t have let that slide, but Aventurine never really cared for all of those stuffy formalities, so he merely nods and waves with a small smile on his face. “Look what I brought!”

She presents the package to him. It’s wrapped in brown wax paper and bound with a modest length of coarse twine. He easily undoes the knot and takes a look, finding an apple tart sprinkled with a mix of cinnamon and granules of sugar. It’s still slightly warm to the touch.

“Sunday made this for you, and then he got cold feet and refused to bring it here. Something about it being too forward… but what could be a better show of reverence than handmade tarts?” She rolls her eyes, though there’s no real heat in the gesture. “So I grabbed it when he wasn’t looking and brought it myself. He really does need to lighten up a bit.”

“I find his diffidence quite charming, actually,” Aventurine says, his smile widening a bit as warmth blossoms in his chest. A heartfelt gesture, and an appreciated one at that – it’s just a shame that Sunday was too nervous to be the one to deliver it. “Tell him that he shouldn’t be so worried about what I think.”

“Oh, I certainly will,” Robin says, and Aventurine notices an excited gleam in her eyes. “But before I go, could you tell me another story? One that isn’t rewritten history. I want to know what really happened to Ena, because I doubt that they willingly surrendered their body to Xipe after reigning for so long.”

“Oh, dear, that’s certainly a gruesome one,” Aventurine remarks with a soft laugh.

“Good! The bloodier, the better,” Robin replies, her grin widening into something almost maniacal. Aventurine wonders just how many people have seen this side of Robin, and if her own brother even knows about the bloodthirst lying beneath the pretty maiden facade. “I’m tired of everyone coddling me and downplaying all of the horrible things that happen in the world. It truly is irritating – I just want to know the truth, but instead all I hear is ‘oh, miss Robin, I’m afraid that the details may be too much for you’ and ‘there’s no need to worry about such things, miss Robin’! I’m sick of it! Tell me the details! Tell me!”

Aventurine is surprised that her brother hasn’t heard her all the way from their house with how loud and shrill her voice has gotten. He lifts his hands placatingly and says, “Alright, alright – no need to shout at me. I’ll give you the real story in all of its brutal, bloody glory… but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I can handle it,” Robin says confidently, chin lifted in defiance of all of the people who believe she can’t.

“Well, where should I start?” Aventurine asks. “The initial conflict? The thousand-year war? Or maybe Ena’s death?”

“Tell me all about how they died,” Robin demands, leaning so far forward that Aventurine has to lean the opposite way so her head doesn’t hit his chest. “Remember not to leave anything out!”

“Your wish is my command,” Aventurine says, letting a little of his usual playfulness seep into the words. Similar to Sunday, he needs to lighten up a bit after Acheron’s visit.

He can only hope that Robin really can handle the gore… and that Sunday won’t be upset with him for telling her about it.

***

“Why would you tell her that?!” Sunday asks, eyes wide with horror as he watches his sister fervently scribble down ideas for future song lyrics. The words are said quietly, nearly a whisper as his trepidation visibly grows. “That’s a little much, don’t you think?”

“Eh, she’s a grown woman,” Aventurine replies with a shrug. Really, he’s surprised at how well Robin took the truth – and how much she enjoyed hearing it. “She told me she wanted all the gory details, so I gave her all the gory details. Besides, she seems pleased.”

“If Father finds out about the blasphemy she’s writing… ugh… she’ll be in so much trouble.” Sunday sighs wearily, cringing as Robin giggles to herself. “I know it’s not really blasphemy, but the church won’t see it that way. Robin, is there any way you could keep those lyrics to–”

“To myself?” Robin finishes the question for him, startling both man and god. “Of course! Who knows what would happen to Father if he caught wind of this? He might just drop dead from a heart attack.”

“Perish the thought,” Sunday mumbles, eyes downcast. His thumb glides over his sapphire pendant, and Aventurine subtly checks it over for any interference. Good: no other gods have tried to sabotage his blessing. 

It kind of disturbs Aventurine that the idea of it has a new kind of anger forming in his heart; a kind almost possessive in nature. He shouldn’t be this covetous over a mortal, even if that mortal saved his life. It’s not just unfair to Sunday, but also to Aventurine himself – Sunday doesn’t have a god’s lifespan. He’ll die one day, leaving Aventurine alone. 

It’s for the best that he doesn’t get too attached, but… it’s been over four hundred years since he’d last had company. If the other gods can be selfish pricks, so can he. So he smiles and watches Robin write like a woman possessed, scrawling down bloody lyrics that draw forth revulsion even from him, who has seen countless wars over the years.

Seriously, how does she even know what a capillary is? Aventurine doubts that she read that in any common textbook: those are usually filled with base knowledge that one would use for everyday life, and maybe a couple fun facts about organs if the author was feeling fancy. She must have an advanced one somewhere within reach. 

“Ouch,” Aventurine says aloud when his eyes drift a little further down, spotting a particularly harrowing line. “I’m starting to regret telling you anything at all.”

“I haven’t been this inspired in ages,” Robin mumbles, mostly to herself, and Sunday sighs. 

“Whatever you told her, I don’t want to hear it,” he says, and there’s a subtle assertiveness in his tone that impresses Aventurine. On day one, he wouldn’t even get off his knees, and today he’s putting down a (perfectly valid) boundary. Baby steps.

“As you wish,” Aventurine replies. He stiffens up upon realizing that he’d unwittingly put on his old persona, acting just as he had when Sunday had freed him with a little extra playful flirtiness lacing each word. Sunday doesn’t look directly at Aventurine, but the latter can see how the former subtly shivers, cheeks tinted pink.

Easily flustered, then. Aventurine averts his own gaze and pretends it never happened. It was just a slip, nothing more. 

…This is sort of awkward. He clears his throat. “Where do you two plan to go from here?”

“Hm? You mean after leaving the temple?” Sunday looks back over at Aventurine, and his cheeks are still a little rosy. Aventurine nods, opting not to mention it.

“Yes, let’s go with that,” he replies. “Any plans? You’ve told me about your day-to-day life before, but there are always deviations. Anything special in mind?”

Sunday suddenly looks very nervous, and Aventurine eyes his hands from where they’re clasped around something. Robin looks up from her writing and gives Sunday a pointed glance, and the man sighs. He opens his hands and reveals a small charm, made of untarnished silver and shaped like a dove.

A dove… one of Idrila’s symbols. Could Sunday be courting someone…? If that’s the case, then Aventurine shouldn’t be feeling so bitter about it. Sunday doesn’t belong to him. He could technically claim Sunday as his slave or concubine, like so many gods have done with mortals they grew fond of, but the thought of that makes him feel ill. He keeps his face carefully neutral as he asks, “Trying to woo someone?”

Sunday’s eyes go comically wide as he realizes what his actions are being interpreted as. “Ah, no! No no no!” he says quickly, frantically. “We’re visiting our mother’s grave today – we found this in a pile of her old belongings, and she was a follower of Idrila, so I was holding onto it and–”

“Relax,” Aventurine drawls, holding his hands up placatingly. “I was just teasing you. And if you did find someone you wanted to court, who would I be to judge?”

“Have you ever courted someone?” Robin asks, and Aventurine’s smile falters as multiple faces flash through his mind; some alive, some long dead. 

“A few,” he replies. “But that’s neither here nor there. I’m sure your mother will appreciate you bringing that charm to her final resting place.”

Sunday smiles softly and reclasps his hands around the charm, wrapping it in an inescapable hold as if to protect it. Then both god and mortals lapse into an easy silence, interrupted only by the scribbling of a quill on fresh parchment. 

Sunday and Robin bid him adieu not long after, departing from the temple and taking a different route than their usual: likely leading to their mother’s grave. Aventurine watches them go, and it’s only after they’ve disappeared from sight that something occurs to him.

What Aventurine asked Sunday if he was courting someone, did the mortal assume that Aventurine meant himself? If so, no wonder he was so flustered. 

With nothing and no one around to hear it, Aventurine bursts into laughter.

But he wonders.

***

As time goes on, Sunday visits Aventurine’s temple alone more often than not. Most of the time, he idles around the place as he converses with the deity, sometimes cleaning, sometimes organizing, but always with offerings in hand. He’s grown more comfortable here, even willing to be a little friendlier with Aventurine – but he never crosses that final line. 

Robin and Aventurine are practically best friends at this point, to the extent that she’s completely dropped the ‘demure young lady’ act around him entirely, and he’s pretty sure he knows more about her than Sunday does – such as the lovely young woman she’s been sneaking out to see in the dead of night. 

(Well, Robin says that Hanabi is lovely, but Aventurine knows better than to believe such a sentiment when the subject is a follower of Aha, the zealous deity of joy and laughter. He has yet to meet a single one of their devotees that has managed to hold on to their sanity.)

But Sunday has one last wall up, maintaining a distance that makes their differences very clear: Aventurine is a god, and Sunday is a mortal. Mortals are meant to serve and worship gods, not to stand next to them as equals or friends. It’s almost like he wants to be seen as inferior.

Aventurine ignores the way something flickers to life in his chest at the notion; an innate desire to dominate, to own, to stake his claim that’s sourced from his divinity. It’s a part of him he tries to ignore most days; it reminds him of his time in that cage, surrounded by wards and enchanted chains to keep him weak and docile. 

One of Diamond’s priestesses had saved him from that. Jade, her name was. She’s long gone as of today. But upon being freed, Aventurine owed Diamond a favor. So he took another name, leaving tortured, desperate Kakavasha far behind him, and aided Diamond in his endeavors for almost one hundred years. Only when Diamond was satisfied did he set Aventurine free, and the latter never ended up changing his name after that.

Aventurine would sooner carve his past degradation into the vulnerable flesh of his throat than subject Sunday to such covetousness. 

But he’s getting off track. 

Sunday visits almost daily now, as if there’s something here that he simply can’t resist. That, or maybe it’s a desire to keep the blessing bestowed upon that sapphire pendant. Or perhaps it’s some sort of sense of moral obligation, since Aventurine most certainly would have perished had Sunday not come along, hoping for assistance. 

No matter the reason, Aventurine has grown rather fond of the mortal. There aren’t many left today who would pledge their allegiance to a god of luck, but if Aventurine could pick anyone in the world to do so, it would be Sunday.

Naturally, it’s only a matter of time before the rest of the pantheon – who have since become aware of Aventurine’s return to form – pick up on that sentiment.

It’s a pleasant afternoon when it happens. The sun shines down, warming the grass, and the trees are brilliant shades of red, orange, and yellow as the seasons slowly change. A cool breeze comes in through an open window, followed by a dove. 

A dove marked by a pink streak along its left wing, marking it as one of Idrila’s emissaries.

A dove carrying a handwritten note in its beak, one that it graciously allows Aventurine to take when it alights on the window sill. 

Aventurine has a bad feeling about this. Idrila involving themselves in the affairs of other gods is not unusual, and even more commonplace when mortals are involved. For them to be reaching out to Aventurine… just how many deities are watching him?

How many are willing to take advantage of this? To hurt Sunday?

Suddenly, Aventurine doesn’t want his favorite mortal to stop by anytime soon. The risk is too high – he has no idea which gods would stoop as low as to hurt a mortal with no stake in the never-ending divine game. Because all of this is a game to them, and they’d kill Sunday just for the smallest of advantages. 

Aventurine unrolls the small square of parchment and reads the words written in rose-red ink.

Aventurine! It’s lovely to see your face again. We’d all feared the worst, you know.

And not only are you alive, but you’ve found such an  ADORABLE little mortal! I’ve seen how you look at him, and how he looks at you when your back is turned. Oh, how the poor thing YEARNS for you, hoping in vain for a life where he could truly love you, truly be with you… it’s enough to make a deity cry, really.

I couldn’t just stand by and watch as you two pretend there’s nothing between you, so I decided to speed up the process a bit! He should be knocking on your temple’s door within minutes of my emissary delivering this message. 

Enjoy!

“Shit,” Aventurine hisses, his mind racing at a mile a minute as he wracks his brains for any idea of what Idrila could have done to Sunday. There are all kinds of curses that they’ve placed on gods and mortals alike in the past, ranging from catatonia until the conscious party kisses the sleeping one to spells of lust that heat up the body enough to be lethal. Anything could have happened, anything at all, and all Aventurine can do is rush to the door of his temple and wait for Sunday to reach him.

Idrila is correct in their assumption: it’s a matter of three and a half agonizing minutes, ones that feel as if they have stretched into an eternity, for Sunday to make it to the temple. He knocks on the doorway just like he always does, mostly as a courtesy (which Aventurine very much appreciates), but each rap of his knuckles against the stone grows weaker. Aventurine is snapped out of his downward spiral and whirls around, rushing to the side of the mortal he has come to be fond of.

“Sunday? Sunday, can you hear me?” Aventurine asks urgently, and he drops to his knees to catch Sunday when the mortal does the same, collapsing with a ragged groan. His forehead makes contact with Aventurine’s collarbone, and he makes a soft sound that’s somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. 

“Sunday,” Aventurine says, tensing up when Sunday wraps his arms around him and tightens them, pulling the former close. “Sunday, are you alright? Let go of me – I need to check you for any dangerous side effects.”

“Ngh… side… effects?” Sunday mumbles, and he lets go with some hesitation. His golden eyes are unfocused, his cheeks flushed a deep pink, and he’s trembling a bit. Aventurine places the back of his hand on Sunday’s forehead. Warmer than usual, but not enough so to be life-threatening. “For what?”

“Another case of gods not learning to mind their own business,” Aventurine replies bitterly, cupping Sunday’s cheek to test the temperature there. Same situation as his forehead; nothing to be too concerned about. “Idrila decided that they needed to interfere in our relationship. As for how… I’m still trying to figure that out.”

“Oh,” Sunday says softly. He leans into Aventurine’s touch. “Is there anything… that I can do to help?” His hands come to a rest on Aventurine’s hips, his fingers curling and uncurling there. Aventurine winces almost imperceptibly, though Sunday is too out of it to notice. 

“I’ll let you know when I can identify the curse,” Aventurine replies. “In the meantime, stay awake and cooperate. You can do that for me, right?” His lips thin into a narrow line as he scans Sunday for divine interference. Shit, it’s everywhere save for the pendant – Idrila left that untouched, at least. Mind, body, spirit… Sunday is completely infected with their influence. 

Which means…

They shouldn’t be doing this. Aventurine should never have let Sunday this close to him, and he never should have stayed here. He should have given Sunday the blessing and fled, fled and hid like the vermin he’s always been and always will be. Maybe if he had run away (again, he’s always running and running and running oh fuck it never stopped he never stopped), Sunday would be living a happier, simpler life with a healthy sister and no gods trying to meddle in his life. 

But he didn’t. He didn’t and Sunday is here, mind and body and spirit alike wracked with a curse that he doesn’t deserve. Aventurine is the one left sober and untouched, as the people he cares for unravel at the seams… history is bound to repeat itself, he supposes. But that doesn’t mean he has to like it nor find it fair.

“Sunday,” Aventurine says so quietly that he can barely hear his own speech. Sunday looks up at him, his eyes glazed over yet so trusting, so full of respect that Aventurine doesn’t deserve – that he never will deserve.

“What is it?” the mortal asks, his words ever so slightly slurred at the edges. He smiles slightly, the delicate skin at the corners of his brilliant eyes crinkling as he murmurs, “I’ll do whatever I can to help.” His words come out reverent, as if speaking a prayer, and Aventurine blinks back tears as he replies. 

“This curse has afflicted your mind, body, and spirit,” the god explains, unable to keep the choked edge out of his voice. “If we can clear one of those, the others will soon follow suit. As for which aspect… it’s your choice. None of them are good.”

Sunday’s expression remains unchanged for a few moments. Then his eyes widen just enough to express his shock. “Oh,” he whispers. “It’s… it’s that kind of curse. I… no… no, no, no…”

“I’m so sorry,” Aventurine breathes. “You’re welcome to never return after this if you so wish. You can keep the blessing, take whatever you want with you – after this, there’s no need to stay.”

Sunday is silent for a few minutes, his shallow breaths the only sounds between them. It’s all Aventurine can do to keep his cool. If he cries, Sunday will be inconsolable. Maybe he already is. Aventurine doesn’t know, not really. 

Sunday draws his trembling hands close to his chest and clasps them together. “Divine Aventurine, bringer of good fortune,” he whispers, each word coming out shaky. “I beseech you, lend this mortal your guidance and care… and free him of this accursed affliction. Do as you see fit with me, so I may leave this place in good health…” His improvised prayer trails off into a low whimper.

“I, divine Aventurine, bringer of good fortune, acknowledge your plea,” Aventurine replies as calmly as he can, holding Sunday’s face in his hands and tilting his chin up so their eyes can meet. “And I shall gladly assist you in your desire for alleviation, in whichever way you choose.”

“Please, don’t make me choose,” Sunday begs. “Don’t give me the power here… you make the decision. Please.”

“Very well,” Aventurine replies with a wince. Sunday trusts him completely to fix a problem that should never have come into being, despite the fact that Aventurine is indirectly to blame for it. Why? What use is there in putting faith in a god that can’t even ward off outside divine influence? Aventurine is too weak to protect him. Too pathetic to keep him safe from harm. 

But he has to choose.

“Afflictions of the flesh are the easiest to cure,” Aventurine says carefully, keeping his tone as calm and steady as possible. “But there is no medicine to cure this. This… requires relief of a… carnal nature.”

Sunday whimpers at that. Aventurine is quick to backtrack. “Is that too much for you?” he asks worriedly. “If that’s the case, then I could–”

“N-No, it’s not that,” Sunday says, his skin flushing an even deeper pink. “It’s fine… I’m okay with you… having your way with me…” He suddenly pulls away just so he can cover his face with his hands, abandoning the devout posture in favor of attempting to hide how flustered he is. “Ngh… i-it’s fine, just – just do it, please!”

“Let me bring you somewhere a little more comfortable first,” Aventurine insists, and when Sunday nods, he lifts the mortal up in a way not dissimilar to a groom carrying his bride to their marital bed. He shakes his head in an attempt to dismiss the image from his mind (it fails miserably) and focuses on bringing the afflicted man to one of the modest divans nearby. After a moment of deliberation, he sits down first, settling Sunday atop his lap. 

“Wait, this is a little… um… intimate, don’t you think?” Sunday asks, but he doesn’t struggle in the slightest. “It’s just… I wasn’t expecting you to want to hold me at all.”

“I promised you that I’d help,” Aventurine reminds him, and he feels Sunday shiver on his lap. Cute, he thinks, but doesn’t dwell on it. “And I always follow through on my word.”

“I…” Sunday begins, but trails off just as quickly. Aventurine takes the opportunity to work at Sunday’s belt, loosening it before removing it entirely. He works on the clothes below the waist after that, intending to pull them down without removing them entirely. But Sunday squeaks when his hands drift too far south, giving Aventurine pause.

“I should have told you,” Sunday mumbles, his head hanging low. “You’ll probably think I’m disgusting.”

“There is nothing about you that I would find disgusting,” Aventurine says quietly. Still, his voice is firm as he continues with his task, eventually realizing what has Sunday so self-conscious. “Ah,” he murmurs. “That’s all, Sunday? Gender is inconsequential to gods. We change forms on a whim. I took a feminine form myself once or twice. What parts your body has is of no concern to me.”

“You’re not bothered?” Sunday asks, his voice disbelieving. “I thought you’d be upset that I didn’t tell you.”

“Everyone’s entitled to their secrets. I, too, have kept some things from you,” Aventurine replies, resting his chin atop Sunday’s shoulder as he gets to work. The curse has indeed settled in: there’s some arousal already slicking the way for two of Aventurine’s fingers to carefully push in. He meets some resistance; Sunday has tensed up.

“A-Ah,” he gasps softly. “That’s… I… I’ve never…”

“Tell me when you’re ready,” Aventurine tells him, but Sunday shakes his head. 

“Don’t make me choose,” he says again. He takes in a deep, shuddering breath before slowly letting it out, the exhale equally as tremulous. “I meant it before – have your way with me.”

“I won’t take it that far,” Aventurine replies. “You’re not entirely yourself right now. I refuse to take advantage of you. What I will do is alleviate the curse.” He pushes his fingers further into Sunday, giving a soft sigh when the mortal tightens. “You need to relax, Sunday. I know this is unfamiliar, but I can’t help you if your body is rejecting me.”

“Nhh, it’s – it’s new to me,” Sunday replies, squirming as he tries and fails to figure out what to do with his body. Aventurine places his free hand on the man’s hip to calm him before things escalate any further: he knows that if he shows any sign of arousal that Sunday will feel obligated to get him off. “I’m not used to it yet… y-you can keep going, I’ll adapt… eventually…”

Aventurine knows that there’s no convincing Sunday to go at his own pace, but he takes it slow anyway. He curls his fingers, pumps them in and out, and spreads them apart on occasion, listening carefully for any panic, pain, or discomfort from Sunday. He hears nothing save for labored breathing and the occasional whimper, though whether the sounds are from fear or need is anyone’s guess. 

Without realizing it, Aventurine moves his hand from Sunday’s hip to press it against his chest, splaying his fingers over it as it rises and falls. He can feel Sunday’s heart beating against his fingertips, quick enough to be abnormal yet too slow to be a cause for concern. Still, Aventurine should probably keep tabs on it, so he keeps his hand in place while the other busies itself between Sunday’s legs.

Then there’s warm pressure on the former, and Aventurine realizes that Sunday has covered his hand with his own. 

It’s intimate. Too intimate. And the worst part about it all is that Aventurine has no idea which actions are Sunday’s and which are sourced from the curse. But he can’t think about that now: he has to get rid of said affliction first. So he presses his fingers deeper into Sunday, searching for a very specific spot within him, and–

Sunday suddenly makes a startled sound just shy of a moan, and covers his mouth with one of the hands previously on Aventurine’s own. Aventurine figures he’s on the right track and targets that same area again, drawing forth a muffled whine from the mortal atop his lap.

“I take it that feels good?” he asks, keeping his voice low and gentle. After a moment of hesitation, Sunday nods. Aventurine doesn’t bother asking if he should keep going, knowing that he’ll only get the same answer as before: don’t make me choose. 

So he continues his ministrations, unable to keep from laughing softly when Sunday’s hips buck against his hand. Each sound is muffled; Sunday is too diffident to truly express himself. Besides, he’s shown every hallmark of a total and complete virgin. Of course he’d be nervous.

Still, he’s rapidly coming undone around Aventurine’s fingers, and it feels good to be the one responsible. The mere thought of someone else even being close to Sunday like this lights a fire within his chest, aching and burning at the mere notion that another could see this, hear this, touch this–

But Sunday is not his to keep. It’s just not fair to him.

In the meantime, though… Aventurine will take this over nothing. And that makes him feel sick to his stomach, because why is he appreciative of a curse, a direct attack on Sunday for the sin of being on good terms with a god? He doesn’t deserve Sunday, not really. 

Still, he wants. And he takes. Sunday cums on his fingers with a cry stifled by the palm of his hand, the other clinging to Aventurine’s own like a lifeline, and he trembles at the unfamiliar pleasure of it all. Aventurine removes his fingers and wipes them off with a nearby cloth, wrapping his newly-freed arm around Sunday’s chest and holding him through it. When Sunday’s breathing steadies and slows and his heartbeat returns to a normal pace, Aventurine checks his temperature again. He’s cooled down significantly. Good.

“Are you alright?” Aventurine asks, expecting the worst. Sunday is unresponsive, simply breathing in, out, in, out, as if trying to collect himself. Then he wraps his other hand around Aventurine’s arm, right beside the first, and pulls at it. Aventurine follows the tug, letting go of Sunday and watching in tense, worried silence as the mortal redresses himself with tremulous hands. 

There’s a sinking feeling in Aventurine’s gut as Sunday’s shoulders raise into a tense line. He fists his hands in his cloak, eyes unreadable as they slowly slide up to meet Aventurine’s own. Then they soften into something more sorrowful before resignation sets in. 

“My sincerest apologies, Aventurine,” he murmurs. “For forgetting my place in this world.”

“Sunday,” Aventurine begins, starting to panic. If anyone is to blame for this (other than Idrila, which of course goes without saying), it’s Aventurine, who has clung too tightly to a friendship he was never meant to have, a man he was never destined to keep. Not Sunday, not the unknowing mortal who holds only love for his family and the gods he so devoutly worships in his heart, free of sin and guilt. “Sunday, I–”

“I’ll take my leave, and bother you no longer,” Sunday continues with a sad kind of resolve in his golden eyes. “It has become clear to me that I have overstepped and thought myself above those around me. Fear not, for I will repent and earn your forgiveness for my audacity.”

No, no, NO! It’s all spiraling out of control, and Aventurine wants to scream, to tell Sunday that he’s got it all wrong, that it’s not his fault, that Aventurine should be the one repenting for this, but when he opens his mouth to speak, all that comes out is a weak, near-silent, “You’ve got it wrong.”

Much to his dismay, the plea goes unheard, too quiet for Sunday’s mortal hearing to pick up on.

Sunday removes his necklace, placing it on a nearby table. “I know you told me I could keep it, but that seems improper,” he says. “To take a part of you with me, knowing that I won’t return… it would be selfish, and cruel to you. You have yet to regain your full strength, after all. I’ll tell others about your temple, so they might come with offerings in my stead…” He trails off, looking rueful. “I must confess that I said nothing to my community in regards to your revival. I… it’s so peaceful and quiet here… I didn’t want to have to share. I’m sorry for that, I truly am.”

If it were anyone else, anyone else in the entire world, Aventurine would have been incensed at this confession. But he’s just as fallible as the rest of the pantheon, and so he does not castigate his favorite mortal. Sunday could bring about the end times and Aventurine would still adore him.

When did that happen, anyway? When did Aventurine fall in love? 

Does it really matter…?

“Don’t go,” he whispers. His fingers twitch with the urge to reach out, and he’s halfway there before he forces himself to put his hand back down. This situation is unstable enough as it is; the last thing he should be doing is trying to assert his authority – especially when that’s what Sunday is stressing about!

“There’s no need for that,” Sunday says quietly, and he turns away. “You’ll find other devotees. That’s the thing about mortals, isn’t it? We’re replaceable in the end. You’ll forget me eventually.” He pauses one last time, though he still doesn’t look behind him, as if seeing Aventurine will change his mind. “Farewell, Aventurine. And thank you for helping me.”

“Sunday,” Aventurine says weakly, but the man is already gone.

He hears the coo of a dove, and looks over to see that the one from before has made a return with a new note. Oops, it reads with a doodle of a broken heart right next to it. As if what just happened was nothing, nothing at all. 

Aventurine slowly turns his head to where the bird is staring up at him, docile and fragile and oh-so-ignorant. Before he can think better of it, he lifts his hand, curls it into a fist, and slams it down onto the bird with a wordless, incensed scream, killing it instantly. 

A fearful cry is the only call for help it can give before it’s reduced to splattered blood and red-stained feathers, and Aventurine is left panting for breath, trembling and wide-eyed as he looks out of the window the bird flew in through. Idrila manifests in all of their ethereal glory, adorned in an excessive amount of roses and smiling as if one of their emissaries wasn’t just brutally crushed to death. 

“It’s strange, you know,” they say lightly, stepping back when Aventurine reaches through the space to grasp at their cream-colored cloak, intending to pull them close enough for a punch. He’s feeling a little violent today. Sue him. “I really did think that would work.”

“You violated him,” Aventurine hisses through gritted teeth, still trembling with the sheer force of his anger. His vision blurs and his eyes sting with the promise of tears, and he blinks them back, refusing to give Idrila the satisfaction of seeing him break. 

“Did I?” Idrila tilts their head, unruffled by the venom in Aventurine’s voice, his posture, his attempts to maim them. “Aside from a little dose of lust, all that curse did was enhance what was already there. In mind, body, and spirit alike, he holds affection for you. He wants you. I just thought speeding it along a bit would be a nice ‘welcome back’ gift after the ordeal you just went through.”

“Well, you failed,” Aventurine mutters. “Miserably, might I add.” He lets out a drawn-out sigh, just barely keeping it together. “Leave this place. I don’t want you interfering in my affairs again.”

“This is still salvageable,” Idrila says, and Aventurine bristles. “Just chase him down and take him. You’re overdue for a concubine, I think. Or do you not have the stomach for it?” They smile, the expression as mocking as it is pitying. “You always were too soft for godhood.”

Aventurine falls silent, simply glaring up at them. While they’re technically correct on all of their points, he refuses to stoop that low. If he is to have Sunday, it will be of the mortal’s own free will. No exceptions. At all. None. 

“I thought so,” Idrila says with a hum. “Well, here’s hoping you find another one sometime in the near future. In the meantime, I shall take my leave.” They turn around, then pause. “Oh, and Aventurine?”

They turn their head just enough for Aventurine to see that the roses in their hair have crept down to cover their eyes. Each petal is covered in the damned things, staring back at him with openly malicious intent. “Kill one of my darling doves again and you will be the one reduced to blood and viscera on the floor.”

A whirlwind of rose petals whips up, blocking them entirely from Aventurine’s sight, and when they eventually settle, Idrila is gone. Aventurine stares blankly at where they were standing for a while, and then sighs and gets to work on cleaning up the remnants of the bird. 

There’s so much to think about, but… he just can’t do it, not now. So he loses himself in cleaning and the chill of the autumn breeze, listening to the susurrations of the leaves as they brush against one another and trying to forget the feeling of Sunday’s heartbeat against his fingertips. 

***

A few quiet, lonely days go by without so much as a glimpse of another person, whether they be divine, mortal, or dead. Aventurine tends to his temple in a manner almost mindless, forcing himself into a mental haze to protect himself from his newest loss. 

His life has been defined by loss: his birth parents were and are nowhere to be seen; his devotees all vanished one by one; his freedom was so cruelly taken by the cursed man and his greed for more and more power. In a way, he feels like he’s locked in that cage again. He feels trapped in a way no set of iron bars could replicate, though it’s hard to articulate why.

He’s so out of it that he doesn’t even notice the pounding footsteps growing ever closer until Robin’s voice sounds from right behind him.

“Aventurine!” she practically shouts, sounding out of breath and desperate. “Why won’t Sunday talk to me about you anymore? He’s acting so strange!”

Then there’s unfamiliar giggling from nearby, and Aventurine whirls around to see Robin alongside a dark-haired girl with pink eyes and a grin that could only be found on the face of one of Aha’s Fools. Then this must be Hanabi, the girl that Robin has been secretly courting.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to just run up to gods and yell at them,” Hanabi remarks, hiding her grin with a hand. The gesture looks coy, but Aventurine knows she’s just putting on an act. He only hopes that Robin can see through it – and that said performance isn’t going to result in Robin’s heart breaking. 

“I know, but Aventurine and I are friends – right?” Robin stares questioningly up at Aventurine, who’s still coming out of the mental fog he’d worked so hard to generate.

“Something like that,” he says, trying to go for some semblance of normalcy. But his voice rasps with disuse and it takes far too long for him to meet Robin’s expectant gaze.

“Oh, no,” Robin says, sounding exasperated. “Not you too – Hanabi, I told you that he’d be brooding!”

“That you did,” Hanabi chirps. “Wow, I never thought I’d see the day that a god was sulking over a breakup! Oh, wait, you weren’t even together to begin with. That’s even funnier!” She bursts into another fit of giggling, and Robin sighs. 

“Hanabi,” she says, a clear warning note in her voice; firm enough that Hanabi falls silent and stops smiling. “Be nice. You just met him – don’t you want to make a good first impression?”

“Yeah, but Aha already told me that he doesn’t like them, so I’m pretty sure he’s made up his mind by now,” Hanabi replies with a shrug. 

“I make it a habit to judge the individual, not the collective,” Aventurine says, inserting himself into the discussion. “But considering that you’ve been laughing at my expense and gossiping about me with that old Fool, I’ve decided that you’re currently standing on rather thin ice. Pray that I don’t make it literal.”

Robin just looks disappointed. Probably in both of them. Hanabi is grinning again, though. “Ooh, a threat! Robin, are you gonna let your bestest friend in the whole wide world threaten me – agh!”

With an annoyed gesture at the ground beneath Hanabi’s feet, Aventurine forms a sheet of ice and ensures that she can’t regain her footing anywhere else. The girl hits the floor with a startled shriek and bursts into laughter once more.

“Yes!” she cheers, eyes wide with elation – every inch a Fool. “Yes, that’s it! A sense of humor!” Aventurine just rolls his eyes and waves his hand at the ice. It melts into the stone floor within seconds. “Aww, no more? And here I thought I could take this lovely lady here skating.”

“Maybe when winter comes. We could go to that lake by my house,” Robin reassures her, and Aventurine sees that she’s smiling a bit at his little parlor trick. “But for now, I’d like to talk to Aventurine.” She levels a firm stare in Hanabi’s direction. “Alone.”

Hanabi gives a salute unique to those of Xipe’s followers (does that count as blasphemy, given that she follows a different god?) and skips off. To keep her both entertained and distracted, Aventurine wakes up one of his peafowls, turning it from stone to flesh and feathers and sending it in Hanabi’s direction. The girl coos with delight and plays with the bird, effectively taking her out of the picture for the time being. Then he turns back to Robin, who gazes at him with a familiar resolve.

“What happened, Aventurine?” she asks, sounding every bit the confused and worried sister. By the way her brow is creased, it’s all genuine. “Sunday won’t speak of you at all. Normally he’s happy to talk about you, but he won’t even acknowledge your existence to me! He just gets all sad and ignores me until I change the topic. And that’s not even getting into how he refuses to come back here!”

Aventurine’s throat feels dry, and no amount of swallowing fixes the problem. He clears his throat, trying to find the words to respond, but nothing comes. He must look utterly hopeless, because Robin’s gaze softens. 

“It’s that bad, huh?” she asks quietly. Aventurine nods and takes a deep breath in, then slowly lets it out. This time, when he opens his mouth to speak, his voice finally deigns to make an appearance.

“I’ve made a lot of enemies over the ages,” he admits. “I’m not exactly the pinnacle of virtue, and I’ve hurt more people than I’ve helped. Upon sensing my return, a few gods have decided to pay me a visit: an old friend of mine, and…” He closes his eyes, trying not to think of the rose petals that took hours to sweep up and out of the temple. “Idrila, as well.”

Robin makes a quiet sound, though whether it’s one of surprise, dismay, or something else entirely is anyone’s guess. “Let me guess,” she says, her every word apprehensive. “They cursed either you or him?”

Aventurie nods. “Sunday came into my temple afflicted with a curse that, according to Idrila themselves, enhanced what was already there.” His fingers begin to tremble, and he curls them around his tunic. “A lust spell was also involved, and just like with the curse, I was unaffected.”

Robin’s breath hisses out past clenched teeth. “I-I don’t need the details of that,” she mumbles. “But that explains a lot. Thanks for telling me. I know that wasn’t easy, but at least I have a general idea of what happened.” She makes a choked sound, eyes glossed over with tears that she fights not to shed. “Poor Sunday… he must feel so violated… and you as well, Aventurine.”

“There’s no need to worry about me. Focus on your brother,” Aventurine protests, but his voice comes out feeble; barely a breath. “He was the one cursed, not me.”

“But you both suffered for it, didn’t you?” Robin’s teal eyes are round and shimmering with sorrow. “I doubt you wanted… that… either. You were both forced into it.”

Something breaks in Aventurine at her words. His time in that cage wasn’t spent undefiled, and he’d been forced to give up a lot to get himself out of trouble – his body included. In all of that time, no one had ever acknowledged it for what it was, himself included: to do so would be to admit that he surrendered to a mortal, which would forever mar his already-strained reputation as a god. For Robin to look him in the eyes and tell him that Sunday wasn’t the only victim…

His vision blurs. He blinks rapidly until it clears. “I appreciate your concern,” he says quietly. He fishes Sunday’s rosary necklace out of his pocket and hands it to Robin. “If he doesn’t want to return, then there’s no need to force him. But please, give him this – it’s still blessed.”

“Father was wondering where he misplaced it,” Robin murmurs, gratefully taking the heirloom and putting it in her own pocket. “I know that I can’t really fix this, but I at least wanted to know why my brother was so miserable. Really, I’m grateful that you, at least, were willing to talk… and put up with Hanabi. Sorry; she’s a bit of a free spirit.”

Understatement of the decade, Aventurine thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut on the matter. Instead, he nods. “Happy to be of service,” he replies hoarsely. “Oh – Robin?”

She looks back at him from where she had been turning away, about to go collect her girlfriend and return home. “What is it?” she asks.

“Take care of him,” Aventurine says with a rueful smile. “Because I know very well that he won’t do it himself.”

She smiles at that. “I’ll do my best,” she replies. “Though he’s so very stubborn. Hanabi, we should get going: there’s just enough daylight to stop by that vendor you like – you know, the one with the sakura tea?”

“Ooh, I forgot about that!” Hanabi pipes up from where she’d been stroking the peafowl’s head. “I just ran out of it. We gotta get more before it sells out again – come on!”

With that, she grabs Robin’s arm, and both girls run off into the distance, leaving Aventurine alone once more. With nothing to do and only his own thoughts for company, Aventurine sits down, buries his face in his hands, and weeps. 

***

A dark shadow falls over Aventurine from where he’d been sitting on the steps leading up to his primary altar, and he lets out a soft sigh. “Acheron, I’m really not in the mood,” he begins, turning his head to look up at the interloper, only to freeze when he realizes that he has made a terrible mistake. 

That is not Acheron.

He is not Acheron.

“Diamond,” Aventurine says, and the name comes out in a choked sort of way indicative of his apprehension. “You really didn’t have to come all the way out here for little ol’ me, you know.”

The joke falls flat, having been spoken in fear rather than good humor. Diamond smiles anyway, towering over Aventurine like he is the god this temple worships. In a way, maybe that’s true: if it weren’t for Diamond, Aventurine wouldn’t have anything at all, let alone his freedom. But he’s not in the right state of mind or body to be defensive, so he lets it happen.

“You’ve lost your edge,” Diamond remarks. Aventurine doesn’t – can’t refute it. He’s right. “I had come to offer a collaboration, for nostalgia’s sake–” Because you’re back, and you still have use for me. “–but if you’re still recovering, then I can find assistance elsewhere.” If you’re not going to get off your ass and work for me again, I’ll wash my hands of you and find someone better.

Aventurine sees right through him. He reads between the lines and knows what this is: an assessment of an asset’s value. So he rises to his feet and slips out from between Diamond and the altar, leisurely roaming about with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. Just like he used to.

“I’d love to help you out again, old friend, but unfortunately I’m a bit tied up at the moment,” he replies, forcing that old bravado back into his voice. “You see, it was the work of one mortal that saved me from certain doom, and we’re having a few problems right about now. I’m trying to get him back and loyal without force – he’s quite charming, you see – for survival’s sake. Surely you understand.”

Diamond is silent for a moment, tilting his head in a manner not dissimilar to a predator sizing up its next meal. Then he gives a near-imperceptible nod. “That is quite alright. Survival should be your top priority at the moment.”

“Exactly! I knew you’d understand.” Aventurine flashes a smile in the other god’s direction. “Once I’ve got my source of continued existence all sorted out, I’d be happy to help you administer a bit of turnabout to the latest moron who decided to test your generosity. I’ll send a bird when it’s done.”

“Very well.” Diamond dips his head in acknowledgement – not respect, never respect for Aventurine – and turns to leave the temple. “I wish you prosperity in your endeavors, Aventurine. Remember: you’re not at the mercy of mortals, mortals are at the mercy of you.” If the mortal you mentioned is being that difficult, take what you want from him by force.

“I’d prefer that it didn’t get to that point,” Aventurine replies. “It would be nice to be seen as a benevolent god rather than a two-faced cheat this time around.”

“And where did that land you?” Diamond lifts an eyebrow, and Aventurine bristles as years, decades, centuries of mockery and degradation flash through his mind.

“Leave this place if you’re going to disrespect me,” he says firmly, even as his left hand trembles with fear at the notion of showing resistance to Diamond of all gods. “This is my temple, not a teahouse you can gossip in.”

Diamond laughs, the sound low and rumbling like an earthquake. He’d certainly caused one or two in the past, given that most currency is sourced from the ground. “So that edge is there after all – I just had to work a little to unveil it. It’s good to see you alive and well. I shall eagerly await your message.”

“I’ll be as quick as I can,” Aventurine chirps, and he only lets his smile drop when Diamond is long gone, taking the oppressive atmosphere and scent of sharpened steel and cold stone with him. Then he returns to where he’d been seated before, leaning forward and burying his face in his hands. 

“Fucking Diamond,” he mutters, his breath hissing out through gritted teeth. “Diamond and Idrila and Aha and everyone else in this damned pantheon…”

He lifts his head, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion as he listens to the wind whispering through the autumn leaves. “All of you are so happy and comfortable, with your crowded temples and your faithful devotees,” he says to empty open air. “Why can’t I have that too? Why can’t I feel that free?”

Not even the wind bothers sticking around for a response. 

***

Night falls. Aventurine doesn’t move, instead closing his eyes while sitting up and wondering if he should try rebuilding that barrier between his mind and the world around him. The fog was comforting, even if he should have found a healthier way to deal with heartbreak; but after so long spent as a measly few wisps of smoke, he’s a little out of practice when it comes to feelings. 

Try as he might, though, he just can’t bring himself to do it. What if Robin comes back? What if she’s not alone? What if another god stops by and finds him so pathetic and vulnerable, and they go and tell the others? How many more people must Aventurine hurt – however indirectly – before he finds a way to exist that stops causing harm?

What if Sunday comes back?

Aventurine doesn’t even know if he wants to see Sunday anymore. He’s dealing with enough stress as it is – what if Sunday only returns to throw the necklace back at him and insult him for returning it? Would there be disappointment in his eyes or anger? Maybe something else entirely?

He’s spiraling, or at least about to. He’s so fucked up, always has been – how did he ever think that his return would change that? Did he really believe that he’d miraculously become a better person, a more competent god?

…Aventurine wonders what his parents would think of him, assuming they were around to watch him fall apart. Maybe he’d be just as disappointing a son as he is a deity. 

It’s as his mind goes down that path that Aventurine hears footsteps, and he tenses up again. It could be another god, or a mortal looking for a roof over their head. If it’s the latter, then he’ll just turn into a bird or something for the night and pretend that he’s not still around, still alive. If it’s the former, he’ll just have to fake being okay again.

The footsteps grow closer, accompanied by the fragrant scent of rosemary bread. Their cadence is familiar, too familiar, and Aventurine realizes that Sunday has returned right as said mortal enters his line of sight. 

Sunday halts immediately upon seeing him right on the steps leading to his altar, and there’s just enough light coming from the oil lamp he holds in one hand to see the startled look in his eyes. His other hand grips the handle of a basket, its contents covered in cloth to conceal the offering within.

“Aventurine,” he says, his voice hushed. Nervous. “I… I have come seeking forgiveness.”

Something sorrowful and bitter wells up in Aventurine’s chest, seizing his lungs and constricting them just enough that drawing breath becomes an inconvenience. Sunday? Seeking forgiveness? Nothing that happened was his fault. If anyone should be apologizing, it’s Idrila; but since they aren’t here, Aventurine will take the blame. There’s an amount of truth to it, anyway.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Sunday,” he says softly, and for the first time in days, a fond smile graces his lips. “None of what happened was your fault, and I don’t blame you for leaving.”

The lamp sways slightly as Sunday shifts in place, his expression shifting through a myriad of emotions before settling on resignation. “I am aware that I cannot sway you,” he says. “May I approach?”

Aventurine nods. “Do as you please,” he replies. “This place would be completely abandoned if it weren’t for you, anyway. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you,” Sunday murmurs, and he gingerly approaches. He moves to kneel before Aventurine just like he had when they first met, but the deity shakes his head.

“There’s no need for that,” Aventurine quickly says, and Sunday gives him a quizzical look. “Seriously, you don’t need to do that.” 

“Isn’t failing to show the proper reverence what warranted the curse?” the mortal asks, and Aventurine’s eyes widen. So that was the mistake… “I assumed myself closer to your equal than your inferior, and acted as such. Was that not why Idrila interfered in our relationship?”

“No,” Aventurine chokes out, his hands clenching into fists atop his lap. “No, that’s not it. If that were the case, then it wouldn’t have been Idrila that cursed you. Their dominions are love and beauty, not punishment or retribution – that was them attempting to force us into a different sort of relationship.”

Sunday sits cross-legged where he’d been intending to kneel, placing the lamp and basket to each side of him. Then his cheeks slowly turn pink as his mind connects the dots, and he buries his face in his hands. “And once again, I’ve assumed incorrectly of you – my sincerest apologies, divine Aventurine, I – I…” He trails off, shaking his head even while it’s still resting in his grasp. “How discourteous of me…”

“I wouldn’t be too harsh on myself if I were you,” Aventurine says, trying to console him. “Gods don’t think the same way mortals do, given the vast difference in lifespan. Even I can’t figure out what they’re thinking sometimes.”

Sunday is silent for a time, likely trying to make sense of what that night was about compared to the narrative he had come up with. “...Aventurine?” he finally asks, his voice oh-so-small, like he’s trying to seem as inoffensive and nonthreatening as possible. 

“What is it?” Aventurine asks. The flame within the oil lamp flickers and sways along with a non-existent breeze, casting patterns of warm light and cold shadows over Sunday’s delicate features. 

“Is it normal to… to remember everything that happened while I was cursed?” Sunday asks quietly. “In perfect, vivid detail, as if I wasn’t afflicted with anything at all?”

Aventurine recalls what Idrila had said about the curse. Aside from a little dose of lust, all that curse did was enhance what was already there. Sunday wasn’t in his right mind, of course, but if their words ring true, then it makes sense that some memories would linger – but not all of them. It must be some kind of effect meant to last, to keep Aventurine in Sunday’s head for as long as possible.

“Not to the extent you’re saying,” Aventurine finally says. “Let’s blame that one on Idrila too. I doubt they’d complain: they don’t think they did anything wrong.” he rolls his eyes. “Which isn’t right, by the way.”

Sunday shifts in place, looking a little restless. “I can’t get it out of my head,” he confesses. “What happened. How kindly you treated me, and what I requested of you.”

Don’t make me choose.

I’m okay with you having your way with me. 

Confessions and entreaties that never should have happened under those circumstances. Aventurine has tried to shake them from his mind, but to no avail. The words… appeal to him in a way that he doesn’t quite want to acknowledge nor address, and he doubts that Sunday wants to know about that.

“Please, tell me: did I make you uncomfortable with those words?” Sunday asks, and Aventurine internally winces. Okay, so maybe he does want to know what Aventurine thinks, but he reckons that a little omission would be good for both of their sakes. Sunday might genuinely keel over dead upon hearing his true thoughts on the matter, and Aventurine doesn’t want to be responsible for yet another loss of life.

“The only discomfort I felt was at having to see you in such a state,” Aventurine replies. “Don’t get me wrong: I’m grateful you came to me. Though it wasn’t you had much of an option, but still. I was upset with Idrila’s actions, not yours. You… I just wanted to help you. I wanted you to be safe.”

He pauses, studying Sunday’s expression. His eyes are brimming with so many conflicting emotions that they end up coming across as unreadable, and his lips are pursed into a thin line. Then the mortal looks up, meeting Aventurine’s dual-hued eyes with his own, and there’s genuine sorrow in them, accompanied by sympathy – the same sympathy that Robin showed towards him.

Sympathy that Aventurine doesn’t deserve.

“We were both victims, in a sense,” Sunday says quietly, staring back down at his hands from where they rest in his lap, his slender fingers tightly interlaced. “Neither of us wanted that.”

“No,” Aventurine agrees. “No, we didn’t.”

Sunday nods. Then he clears his throat, his golden gaze still downcast, unwilling – or is it unable? – to look Aventurine in the eyes again. “There’s another thing I must apologize for, something that is entirely my fault.”

“I remember,” Aventurine reassures him. “You didn’t tell anyone about my return, because you liked the quiet here.”

“I did,” Sunday whispers. “I deliberately prevented you from amassing more followers and regaining your power more swiftly, all because of a selfish desire to have a place to gather my thoughts. It’s… sickening.”

“Thinking about it now, it might have been for the best,” Aventurine muses, resting his cheek in a hand. “More people means more blessings, and more blessings, means giving up more power… and if everyone who brings an offering expects a blessing in return, then I use as much power as I gain – sometimes more. It would be better to wait, I think.”

“You truly think so?” Sunday finally meets his eyes. There’s an apologetic sorrow in them, accompanied by the tiniest glimmer of hope. Aventurine offers a smile in return, one that he hopes comes across as genuine – because it is. 

“Who’d know me better than myself?” Aventurine replies with a wave of his hand, the movement not dissimilar to the act he usually puts on – though this isn’t an act, just habit. “Don't worry your pretty little head about it, Sunday. You just worry about yourself and your problems, got it?”

“I’m not sure I can,” Sunday admits, and Aventurine stifles a laugh. Typical Sunday, he thinks. You haven’t changed a bit.

As the topic turns to other matters, more mundane ones, the offering is split and shared. Laughs are had, smiles are offered and returned, and it’s almost like nothing had happened at all. 

It’s not perfect, nor is everything all sorted out, but Aventurine is grateful for his favorite mortal’s return regardless. But Reaver’s moon and Phainon’s sun never cease in their journeys across the sky, and soon dawn arrives, overtaking the low lamplight in matters of brilliance. Warm light floods the temple, revealing the dark circles beneath Sunday’s eyes – he hasn’t been sleeping well, then. Perhaps those memories are keeping him up at night. Aventurine hopes not.

Sunday rises to his feet – presumably to leave – and Aventurine doesn’t stop him. Rather than pick up his belongings and depart, however, he walks towards Aventurine and kneels before him again, this time much, much closer.

“Sunday–” Aventurine starts to say, starting to wonder if any of his reassurances had remained in Sunday’s recent memory at all, but then he feels arms wrap around him and squeeze ever so slightly. It takes him a moment to realize that Sunday is hugging him, and he slowly, haltingly returns the gesture, his embrace much lighter and more hesitant. Upon meeting no resistance, however, he pulls Sunday a little closer, giving a sigh of relief that he didn’t even know he was holding in. 

No words are spoken. All that is present in the moment is their respective breaths mingling together in the air, Sunday’s heartbeat against Aventurine’s own, and their shared warmth bringing a level of contentment that neither had realized they were lacking. 

Then Robin’s voice resounds in the distance in the form of cries of her brother’s name, and Sunday pulls away with a soft, breathy laugh. “I should have known she’d come looking,” he says, and it’s only when he turns to stand and let her know that he’s safe in the temple that Aventurine sees the dawn’s light reflect off of the tear tracks streaking down his face.

***

Sunday remains at the temple even after Robin leaves, the young lady trusting Aventurine to keep her brother safe and happy. The grin on her face, wide and just a little smug, tells Aventurine all he needs to know: she had a feeling that this would happen and is quite pleased to be proven right. 

He can’t even be mad about it, nor does he want to. He’s happy that things worked out alright as well. 

Sunday smiles almost the entire day; a soft thing born of contentment rather than mirth. He seems a little more comfortable, which Aventurine doesn’t mind, though he does find it a bit curious. 

He contemplates on whether or not he should point it out to the man, but if he does, then Sunday may become more self-conscious and retreat back into himself. And of course Aventurine can’t have that, so he keeps his mouth shut.

That is, until Sunday asks a very startling question.

“Why haven’t you taken me yet?” he inquires out of the blue, and Aventurine chokes on his own spit. He coughs a few times until he feels like he can breathe somewhat normally again before whirling around to face Sunday, eyes wide and face heating up. He’s sure that his confusion is quite evident on his face, and Sunday reflects it, as if genuinely puzzled about his own question.

“What?” Aventurine asks, his voice coming out as a squeak. He can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed, though; not when the query was so out of nowhere and alarming. “I-In what way? And why are you asking that all of a sudden?” We literally just made up???

“You know,” Sunday says, looking a little flustered all of a sudden. That makes two of them. “As a concubine. You could’ve done it. You could do it right now. Why haven’t you?”

“Because that would be kidnapping?” Aventurine’s answer sounds more like a question, but then again, he is feeling rather baffled at the moment. “And you come here of your own will anyway… logistically there’s no need to do it, nor do I want to take you from your home.”

“Oh.” Sunday looks thoughtful. “That answers my other question, then. You want me to come back here on my own.”

“Yeah,” Aventurine says, eyes narrowed with both confusion and concern. He considers not pushing the matter, but since Sunday started this line of conversation, Aventurine may as well finish it. “Sunday… do you want me to force you into that role?”

Don’t make me choose.

“Because if so, I’m a little concerned. Most sane individuals would prefer to hang onto their freedom.”

I’m okay with you having your way with me.

“I’m not judging, but it’s a little unlike you, don’t you think?”

Aside from a little dose of lust, all that curse did was enhance what was already there.

“I just–”

“Yes!” Sunday suddenly blurts out. “Yes, I do!” His head hangs low, silver bangs masking his expression. His furious blush has spread all the way to his ears, though, so the endeavor is unfortunately in vain. “Any other god would’ve done it. I told you not to let me choose; I told you to have your way with me – and you didn’t. I understand why you didn’t then, but I’m not cursed anymore! And I’ve practically been all over you today, too…”

“Sunday, you’ve barely touched me. I’d hardly call that being all over me,” Aventurine interjects, even as his mind races and his fingers tap-tap-tap away at the freshly-dusted limestone beneath them. What the hell has gotten into Sunday? Could there still be residual traces of the curse? Could another god be messing with him just to get at Aventurine, or even just for kicks? Or did their brief tryst while Sunday was cursed awaken something in him? He has absolutely no clue, and that scares him a little, because this isn’t like Sunday at all.

“That’s besides the point!” Sunday retorts. “I’ve been trying to get you to take me, and you just refuse to! Or have you been missing it this entire time?” His eyes take on an introspective look, and he suddenly seems more like his usual self. “Was I not coming on strong enough?”

“I thought you were just getting comfortable around me again after what happened,” Aventurine offers with a weak smile, and Sunday sighs.

“And you’re not going to do it,” Sunday says, sounding defeated. “My life will remain my own, and you’ll keep your hands to yourself.”

The mortal takes a seat and buries his face in his hands. He’s been doing a lot of that lately. He doesn’t say anything, and Aventurine doesn’t have it in him to break the awkward silence hanging between them. So he stares down at the limestone beneath his hands like it holds all the answers to his problems and hopes that things will return to normal soon.

They don’t. Sunday takes his leave with a courteous goodbye, picking up his basket and oil lamp and returning home. Aventurine is left alone with his thoughts.

In the time since his revival, he hasn’t stepped foot outside his temple. He’s made a lot of enemies, more so than friends or even allies, and this place is the one location where his safety is completely guaranteed. But if it’s for Sunday… he reckons that he can work something out. 

The sun won’t set for another few hours. There’s ample daylight to prepare.

With a plan slowly forming in his mind, Aventurine gets to work.

***

Much to Aventurine’s surprise, he isn’t immediately accosted upon exiting the temple. There is a divine presence, though, and he looks around for the source. It’s not long before he spots a vulture peering at him from the temple’s roof, a knowing gleam in its eyes. It nods once at him. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Acheron,” he says with a smile. The vulture merely spreads its wings and takes flight, with Aventurine following close behind in the shape of a swan. Any mortal who happens to look up at this moment will see quite an unlikely duo, he thinks, but what they may think it means, he’s not sure, nor does he care.

Acheron is leading him to Sunday’s home. He appreciates the sentiment, but he’d know his own divinity anywhere. That pendant isn’t just a good luck charm: it’s a tracking device, albeit not one often used. So long as Sunday wears it, Aventurine can find him – and he doubts that the man has removed it or placed it anywhere farther than a few feet from him. 

But for now, he enjoys the feeling of wind ruffling through feathers and the sight of the world below him, where other gods wax poetic about it belonging. He’s inclined to disagree, but it’s still a pretty sight – and there’s a village up ahead, with every building centered around an extravagant church bearing Xipe’s symbol. 

Acheron dives down, descending towards one house in particular. It’s not far from the church, but Xipe has never been the territorial kind anyway. Harmony cannot be reached when a participant in their rites is unwilling, they always say, but Aventurine has seen what happens to those who resist. 

But it’s not Aventurine’s place to interfere, nor to judge. He is on their turf for one reason and one reason only: to give one of their most devout followers’ son something he wants. 

(He doubts that they’d complain, anyway; not when they lack a leg to stand on. They have blatantly stolen from other gods before. Stolen lives, followers, credit… there’s nothing they could say that wouldn’t make them a damn hypocrite.)

Aventurine shifts forms as he descends and eventually alights on Sunday’s window sill in the form of a dove – the very same dove he’d appeared as upon their first meeting. The window is open, letting the cool autumn breeze through, and he sees Sunday fast asleep, clutching his rosary necklace close to his chest like he’d die without it. 

Aventurine is unable to suppress a pleased coo at the sight, which thankfully does not wake up his sleeping beauty. He takes flight again, this time landing on the headboard of the bed, and coos a second time, the sound louder than before. Sunday stirs, but otherwise does not rise from his slumber.

Wake up, sleepyhead, or we’ll have to do this the hard way, Aventurine wants to say, but birds are unfortunately incapable of human speech. He flutters his wings as he contemplates his next move.

Eh, third time’s the charm. That’s what the mortals say, right? Aventurine does the bird equivalent of a shrug and coos a third time, loud enough that it couldn’t possibly evade Sunday’s notice.

Sure enough, Sunday awakens. It’s slow and absolutely adorable: he blinks away the sleepiness, stretches his arms out, even yawns a little like a cute little kitten. Then he spots Aventurine in dove form, head tilted expectantly. 

“...Aventurine?” he asks hesitantly, knowing very well that it could be otherwise. Idrila is far more likely, given that doves are their emissaries, but it could also be Xipe, given their love for pack animals. But he’s smart. That’s one of the many, many things Aventurine likes about him. 

Pleased with his success, Aventurine shifts back into his usual form, ending up perched on the side of the bed with a wide grin. “Correct!” he says cheerfully, but quietly, so as not to wake up the whole house. The last thing he needs is someone coming in and cockblocking poor Sunday (and Aventurine, of course, but this is more about the former than the latter). 

Sunday suddenly looks very flustered. “I – uhm, this – you should’ve warned me, wait no, you don’t have to do that it’s just that I haven’t cleaned in three days and–”

Ah, typical Sunday. Ever so self-conscious. Aventurine decides to interrupt before he talks himself into a panic attack. “It’s fine! We won’t be here long.”

Sunday pauses, his gaze widening and gaining full clarity. If he wasn’t wide awake before, he certainly is now. “‘We?’” he asks, his brow furrowed in curiosity. 

“Yes, ‘we,’” Aventurine confirms. Before Sunday can ask for clarification, Aventurine quite literally pounces on him, covering his mouth with a hand and teleporting them both back to the temple. 

While he could have technically teleported to Sunday’s house and skipped the flight, he didn’t have an exact location like he does regarding his temple. Besides, he wanted to stretch out his legs – or wings, in this case – and teleportation isn’t a substitute for exercise. But Sunday can’t fly and there’s no time to spare, so instant travel it is. 

Sunday clings to him just as tightly as he did his rosary necklace, and doesn’t let go until a few moments after they arrive at their destination. It’s then, and only then, that he pulls back, looking around him with wide eyes and making a soft sound of realization upon seeing Aventurine’s impromptu redecoration. 

With a little magic and a lot of brainstorming, Aventurine had altered the appearance of the temple to look a little more traditional. While not exactly alike, the space bears a few similarities to temples where known concubines were taken and bound to their divine takers. There’s just enough of a difference from the usual look of Aventurine’s home that Sunday connects the dots. 

“I’m not going to just up and sever your ties to the rest of the world,” he says before Sunday can come to the wrong conclusion. He stands up and leans down just enough to be cheeky and lifts an index finger. “Let’s call this a rehearsal of sorts, shall we?”

Sunday rises unsteadily to his feet, eyes brimming with a mixed bag of emotions. He reaches out for Aventurine’s hand and clasps it tightly between his own. “Don’t hold back,” he says, his voice barely a breath as he speaks the words, and Aventurine smiles in response.

“Well, in that case,” he drawls, easily playing the part he knows that Sunday has been imagining. Though the mortal man may have never said it aloud, he’d certainly come to Aventurine’s temple expecting a very different personality than the one he got. “Kneel. Tonight, you are not my equal.”

Sunday wordlessly lowers himself down to his knees with immediate obedience, lowering his head in clear reverence as he presses his palms together and interweaves his fingers – the very picture of piety.

Cute, and completely in character for Sunday. Aventurine wonders how far he can take this, and figures that he shouldn’t push his luck – it’s the only kind he has no power over, after all. That, and he doesn’t really want to accidentally break the poor man. 

So Aventurine walks in a slow, deliberate circle around Sunday’s kneeling form, giving a contemplative hum as he considers his options. Each click of his sandals against the stone is likely deafening for Sunday, who can only wait silently in anticipation as he waits for Aventurine to continue the scene. 

“Such a pretty prize I’ve managed to get my hands on,” Aventurine muses aloud, and finally stops just behind Sunday. “I’m sure there’s more to see, though. Look up.”

Sunday has to crane his neck to meet Aventurine’s gaze, and there’s just so much trust in his golden eyes that Aventurine nearly breaks character. But he has a job to do, a cherished mortal to please, so he continues on. “Golden eyes…” He hums, pleased. “They suit you.”

He runs his palm along the column of Sunday’s exposed throat, feeling the man swallow down some sound or another. He sees that Sunday has pressed his thighs together just enough to be noticeable and is ultimately unable to keep his grin from widening ever so slightly. Is Sunday always this easy to excite? Maybe he himself doesn’t know, considering his evident inexperience.

“How does it feel?” Aventurine asks quietly, though his tone is in no way gentle. “To be stolen away and taken so far from home, rendered helpless at the feet of a god you don't worship?” He moves his hand from Sunday’s throat to his cheek, watching with delight as the mortal leans into the touch. “You poor thing, you must be terrified.”

As if playing along, Sunday whimpers softly, shivering beneath the weight of Aventurine’s taunt. Aventurine takes it in stride and laughs a bit. “I thought so.” He straightens up and walks around to Sunday’s front, pretending not to hear the whine Sunday gives at the sudden lack of physical touch. He’ll get what he wants soon enough. 

Aventurine takes a few steps back, making a show of looking Sunday up and down as if to gauge his quality. While such a sentiment is alarming and dehumanizing to Aventurine, Sunday has expressed his desire to be treated like a prized conquest, so Aventurine will play along. Besides, it’s not like he isn’t enjoying the view himself. 

He takes in Sunday’s reverent posture, his flushed skin, the slight messiness of his hair and nightclothes – understandable, given that he was quite literally stolen right out of his bed. 

And all of this is Aventurine’s for the taking, served up to him on a silver platter. Willingly offered – enthusiastically, even. And he’s a selfish god in the end, so take he does. 

“Oh yes, you’ll do nicely,” Aventurine purrs, watching as Sunday’s head lowers just enough to mask his eyes behind a curtain of silver. He allows it, knowing that there’s only so much that Sunday can take – he’ll see it all eventually, anyway. Everything Sunday has to offer, and then some. 

“This is hardly the place for us to get more acquainted with one another,” Aventurine thinks aloud. “But if I command you to walk, you’ll likely just collapse from fear… I suppose I’ll just have to carry you.”

Aventurine approaches rapidly before Sunday can protest – knowing him, he’ll probably insist he can crawl or something, which is a branch too far in Aventurine’s humble opinion – and guides him to his feet before scooping him up in a bridal carry, just like he had when Idrila struck. Sunday makes a small sound not dissimilar to a squeak, suddenly unable to meet Aventurine’s eyes, which forces the deity to stifle a laugh.

Sunday brings Aventurine to one of the divans, which he had meticulously prepared for this night, but does not place him atop it. Rather, he lowers Sunday to the ground and takes a seat upon the divan, peering down at the mortal as he rushes to return to his prior kneeling position. 

Aventurine parts his legs and beckons Sunday forward with a curl of his index finger. Sunday heeds the summons, shuffling forward until Aventurine’s legs cage him on two sides, with only his back left unobstructed. He could back away at any time, but for the moment, he stays in place.

“Much better,” Aventurine says, putting on his best “I am a god and you are nothing but a plaything to me” smile and watching Sunday practically melt at the sight. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Sunday breathes, and Aventurine sees the beginnings of impatience in his golden eyes. Quit drawing this out, they silently demand, but gods don’t heed the pleas of their conquests. 

“I thought as much.” Aventurine presses the pad of his index finger against the underside of Sunday’s chin, though there’s hardly any need for it: Sunday isn’t just going along with the scene, he’s eagerly participating, immersing himself in the fantasy. He’d look regardless of whether Aventurine said or did anything or not.

He hums, contemplating as he beholds his favorite mortal, his savior, his eager and willing submissive, and eventually moves his hand down to grasp a fistful of Sunday’s loose cotton nightclothes. They’re blue like the jewels that partially make up his rosary necklace, with bronze buttons that hide what Aventurine wants to see. 

“These need to go,” he says aloud, and he waits for Sunday to nod almost imperceptibly before letting go of the shirt and snapping his fingers. Both of them end up devoid of attire, bared and vulnerable to one another with their clothes neatly folded nearby. 

Sunday bears twin scars beneath his pectorals, along with a surprising bit of lean muscle beneath his unblemished skin. Aventurine can’t help but let his eyes linger, especially when Sunday parts his bent legs just a bit, revealing a slick stickiness along his inner thighs. Despite being uncomfortable with his body, he trusts Aventurine enough to allow himself to be exposed. 

Once more, Aventurine almost breaks character, though he manages to keep his composure. “What’s this?” he asks, a teasing lilt accompanying the words, and Sunday’s rosy blush deepens. His eyes practically gleam with unmet need, his lips ever so slightly parted as if he’s grappling with the urge to beg. Perhaps he is. “Perhaps I’m not the only one looking forward to what comes next. Could it be that you wanted this?”

Admit it. Admit to me that you want me just as much as I want you. That I have you.

That no one else ever will.

“Yes,” Sunday says, the word almost inaudible over the pounding of Aventurine’s racing heart. “Divine Aventurine… I beseech you, take full advantage of this body – you won me, you earned me, Aventurine–” He takes in a deep, tremulous breath. “I beg you, stake your claim. I give myself willingly to you.”

“Be careful what you say,” Aventurine warns. “Even if you’re acting, such words can be taken to heart.”

Sunday’s gaze is resolute. “I’m not acting.”

I am literally going to cum right fucking now holy shit. Aventurine has never been so turned on in his entire immortal life, and he stands up and grabs Sunday once more, picking him up and practically throwing the poor man down on the divan. Sunday doesn’t seem to mind, though, and he spreads his legs invitingly, revealing his arousal and need to be filled, to be used, to be claimed as Aventurine’s conquest and plaything. And Aventurine doesn’t have the self control to refuse.

He’s on top of Sunday before the man can so much as utter a word, instead filling the silence with his own voice. “In that case,” Aventurine murmurs, almost breathless with pure, undiluted desire, “I’ll happily oblige.”

“Don’t hold back,” Sunday reminds him, but Aventurine needs no further encouragement as he buries his cock deep inside of the mortal, hissing at the instinctive resistance he meets on the way. It’s Sunday’s first time, but it’ll in no way be gentle – he brought that upon himself, but the little masochist isn’t complaining one bit. Instead, Sunday’s moans fill the otherwise silent air of the temple, unrestrained and gasping and dripping with bliss. 

Aventurine just barely remembers to keep Sunday’s pleasure in mind, testing out angles until he finds one that has the man arching his back off of the divan and giving his clit some much-needed attention. Aventurine has Sunday writhing in pleasure and pain as he’s roughly used and spoiled rotten all in one go, and it’s not long at all before he cums around the deity’s cock, clenching hard and whimpering as he realizes that once just wasn’t enough. 

“M-More,” he whispers, the word followed by a low whine and an attempt to grind against Aventurine and get the god’s cock even deeper inside him. Aventurine, of course, indulges Sunday in his greed.

He wonders if he’s managed to ruin other men for Sunday yet. If his cherished savior has decided seeking sex elsewhere is a lost cause. If he’ll ever be able to forget how Aventurine made him feel during his first time. 

He hopes he’s managed to pull it off, because as far as he’s concerned, Sunday is his.

“Aventurine,” Sunday gasps out, blissed-out tears running down his rosy cheeks as the god picks up the pace again. “A-Aventurine, you – nngh – you feel–”

“Good?” Aventurine finishes the sentence for him, and Sunday gives a hum of affirmation. “Then I’m – fuck, that’s…” His head hangs low as he pants for breath, struggling to so much as think past the way Sunday feels beneath him. He thinks that he might be the one who breaks tonight, not the other way around, and doesn’t mind the notion one bit.

Sunday smiles, albeit a little weakly. “Good?” he guesses, and he cups Aventurine’s face in his shaky hands. “Then we’re even.”

“Yeah,” Aventurine breathes, suddenly feeling much closer to a climax than he was previously, and he swiftly makes the decision to pull out when it happens. In the meantime, however, he chases both his pleasure and Sunday’s own, gasping out a ragged moan as the man’s hips move with his own. An intimate dance, a give and take designed to benefit them both, and Aventurine throws his all into keeping it going. 

He doesn’t realize that Sunday has locked his legs around him until he tries to pull out and finds himself unable to. There’s surprising strength behind the attempt, and he meets Sunday’s gaze and finds firm defiance that only serves to push him to and past the edge.

He ends up collapsed on top of Sunday, their breaths intermingling and their bodies pressed close against one another. They share warmth for a few moments, basking in the afterglow of sex, and then Aventurine lifts himself up and assumes a sitting position on the edge of the divan.

For once in his life, he doesn’t know what to say. So he looks down at Sunday’s limp, panting body and smiles.

“Well done,” Aventurine says softly, gently. “You took that wonderfully for your first time.”

“It won’t be the last,” Sunday says. 

“No,” Aventurine agrees with a breathy chuckle. “No, it won’t. I hope you’re happy with yourself, because you, my savior, just gave yourself to me. And I’m not the type to share.”

“Just what I wanted,” Sunday murmurs, sounding wholly content as his lashes flutter. Aventurine smiles, quite endeared by the sight, and then leans over to gently shake Sunday’s shoulder and wake him up.

“Don’t go to sleep on me now, Sunday,” he singsongs. “You and I have a long night ahead of us.”

Sunday laughs briefly, then sits up, ready and eager for more.