series: emotional regulation (full series available on my ao3 @ sinkingwmyships (registered users only); i won't be publishing the nsfw parts on wp)

cw: Aventurine/Sunday, implied/referenced sex, aftercare, fluff, overwhelmed Sunday, crying, bruises (from bondage), pet names, cuddling, kissing, masochist Sunday

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By the time they're finished, Sunday has close to forgotten what being in his body is supposed to feel like.

Toys are taken from him with minimal resistance. Knots and ties are finally loosened around his limbs and torso, though he has given up on struggling against them long ago. The blindfold is removed, but Sunday's eyes remain screwed shut, as if that could lessen the overwhelming sensations within him, or hamper the steady flow of his tears. It doesn't.

His body is confused. It feels hollow and spent in the most satiating way. When he's repositioned, the coolness of sheets instead of burning of ropes against his skin fills him with loneliness. When his legs are guided apart, humiliation becomes warmth within his chest and on the apples of his cheeks. Sunday covers his face with his hands and continues to weep while Aventurine cleans him up.

Eventually, the reins of his body are given back to him. This Sunday doesn't notice. What he does notice is Aventurine coming to lie down by his side with open arms, and Sunday doesn't waste a second in diving into them, burying his tear-stained face into Aventurine's chest—uncaring of whether it is sympathy or pity he will get.

Regardless, Aventurine pulls him in with all the tenderness in the world. Holds Sunday close with an arm around his shoulders, combs fingers through his hair while he hiccups and whimpers and sobs. Lets Sunday rumple his expensive shirt, soak up as much as he wants of his human warmth. Like how Sunday let Aventurine bring him to ruin, wring bout after bout of pleasure from him until he has nothing left to give.

And yet, he is still crying. Whatever it is within him that responses to dissatisfaction, evokes the need to protest, believes that his cries will be listened to—Aventurine has not rendered it completely useless. He never did like yanking too hard on the figurative leash Sunday is always trying to surrender to him. It makes Sunday feel a mixture of relief, annoyance, and guilt-steeped hesitancy.

He inches back from where he was pressed against Aventurine's chest, and spends a few moments catching his breath before speaking. "Sorry for being such a crybaby."

The kiss Aventurine places onto his forehead is softer than Sunday can imagine. "It's alright," he says, hand still cupping Sunday's face as he pulls back; Sunday's eyes flutter shut when Aventurine swipes a thumb over the tears beneath them.

"Does it turn you off?"

"No." Fingers resume their carding through Sunday's hair. They find and draw out the small wing loosely folded behind his ear; the touch is unfamiliar, but not in a bad way. Sunday could fall asleep to the sensation of Aventurine smoothing out his feathers.

Instead, he continues, "Does it turn you on?"

He looks up at Aventurine, who looks down at him at that. The motion of Aventurine's hand slows and he falls into a brief silence. When he replies, there is a veil of pleasantry over his somber honesty. "I don't usually derive enjoyment from others' suffering, my heart."

He kisses Sunday again, on the crown of his head this time. Sunday reaches up and guides Aventurine toward his lips. He murmurs in between their light kisses, "Why spoil me then?"

He feels a smile against his lips. Aventurine pulls back and takes hold of his hand—or rather, his wrist, already braceleted with a rope-like bruise. Suddenly, the streak of disapproval within Aventurine's smile becomes easy to spot.

"You call this 'spoiling'?" he asks. His fingers trail to the next closest mark on Sunday's skin—then the next, and the next, and the next. It would tickle, if it didn't draw Sunday's attention so efficiently to how burnt-out he is, both physically and mentally. He huffs, and Aventurine pauses the rude awakening.

"I don't mind it," Sunday mutters. He sucks in a breath when Aventurine's hand slides to a stop on his waist—gets himself a lungful of the other's intoxicating cologne.

"That's a gross understatement," remarks Aventurine.

"Fine." Sunday grits his teeth. "I like it. I like it, okay?" Heat rushes to his face, as do desires to the forefront of his mind. "I like that it hurts. I like it when you're rough to me. It gets me off, when you act mean, when you don't seem to care how I'll end up." He raises his wings attempting to cover his blush, but Aventurine easily deflects them before cupping Sunday's face in his own hands, planting a kiss onto each warm cheek.

"So you cry, but you can't get enough." He smiles. "In a similar way, my heart, I can't help but indulge you." He leans in again, and Sunday tastes the salt of his own tears on Aventurine's lips. It's a little embarrassing, but... well, let's just say neither of them would have gotten here had they let something like embarrassment hold them back.

The rest of the night blends into whispers, body heat, and sweet dreams.

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i'm kinda bad at thinking up pet names, but i thought it'd be interesting for Aven to call his partner "heart," like the card suit.