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Knowing the mechanics of his prison does not, in fact, make it easier to break free of.
Part of it is the distraction. How can he focus on unweaving the dream he is trapped in while faced with his most revolting self? How can he concentrate at all with Wonweek in his lap?
“So obsessed with your own image that you couldn't help but bring me back, hmm?” the apparition hums, soft lips brushing against his ear. This is different than the mirror, so much closer to the Dreamscape. Sunday tightens his hands on the armrest of his chair to avoid doing something he'll never live down, keeping his head lowered.
Wonweek runs delicate fingers along the line of his jaw, a smile in his every word. “Oh, come on. Are you really so disgusted by the sight of your own face that you won't even look at me?” He passes a gloved thumb over Sunday's lips.
It's embarrassing, the way Sunday's lips part for him. How can he stand it, spit-slick gloves tainted by Sunday's tongue, like every other lie he's told? How can his warm weight in Sunday's lap be anything other than his chickens coming home to roost, ill omens on the horizon? Sunday shivers as Wonweek presses down on his tongue. The nervous clench of his stomach is offset by the warmth that builds just beneath it.
Wonweek pushes his chin back up and Sunday lets him. “Keep your mouth open,” he hums, low, before replacing his thumb with two fingers instead. He tilts his head, eyes riveted to Sunday's face as he slides them along his tongue, spit clinging to soft white leather.
It's a wonder he manages to see the person come in.
“Oh,” Wonweek starts, sliding his fingers out of Sunday's mouth. Sunday refuses to be upset by the loss. “We have company. Handsome company.”
Sunday doesn't need the warning— it's in the way the space distorts around the intrusion. He can't see it but he can feel it, the dream bubble so small that it's impossible not to.
“Well isn't this a strange sight,” says a familiar voice, and Sunday would be tempted to write this off as another of the dream bubble’s conjurations if he hadn't felt the distortion himself. The reality of Aventurine of all people being here is stranger than fiction.
“Don't tell me they've already sold me to the highest bidder,” Sunday quips, half disbelieving.
A scoff sounds from behind him. Getting closer. “Haven't you heard of a— actually, no. Nevermind. Why are there two of you?”
“I'm the better him,” Wonweek grins, planting his hands on the back of Sunday's chair, the position emphasizing the curve of his spine. Posturing. It's pathetic.
Aventurine stops just behind his chair, hands on either side of Wonweek's. He leans forward, his gaze a physical thing. Goosebumps rise along Sunday's skin, like every cell in his body seeking the warmth his presence brings. He does not look up.
“And what makes you so much better?” Aventurine asks.
Wonweek gazes up at the Stoneheart through his lashes. “I'm not afraid to acknowledge a pretty face when I see one. You sold yourself short calling this idiot the most handsome man in Penacony.”
Aventurine snorts. “Which version of you is this, hmm? He's got lines,” he says.
Sunday exhales, letting go of a breath held too long. “An immature version, lacking in decorum and manifested here to torment me. It's better to ignore him.”
Wonweek smiles at Sunday. “Have I now become your enemy by telling you the truth?”
“Do not quote scripture at me right now,” Sunday grits, giving a pointed look at the way Wonweek is currently spread over his lap.
Wonweek ignores him in favor of flirting with Aventurine again. “I'm the honest version of him, the one in tune with his desires. You'll never guess what we want right now.”
Aventurine lets out a considering noise. “And I'm just supposed to believe that's better? Why don't you prove it?”
Wonweek tilts his head in what Sunday has come to recognize as a sign of trouble. The grin he gives only solidifies the feeling. “Look at you, making demands. Should I call you sir while we're at it?”
There's an almost tangible pause. “Y'know what? Yeah.”
Wonweek grins. “Yessir,” he purrs. Then, lifting his hands to cup Sunday's face, “Why don't you help me out, Sunny?”
Wonweek doesn't wait for an answer because Sunday won't give one. The unfortunate problem with his reflection is he knows Sunday as well as anyone can know themselves, so when he leans in to capture Sunday's lips he runs his thumbs along his wing bases as well, using the resulting moan to slip his tongue inside.
Sunday breaks his own rule by lifting his hands from the armrests, but he can't help it. Wonweek licks into his mouth, the wet heat of it dizzying against his lips. Sunday grips the front of his jacket, holding tight. Wonweek unbuttons Sunday's collar, pulling open as much of the shirt as he can, warm palms dragging over his chest.
Wonweek pulls away, his lips shiny pink. He grins at Sunday before leaning back in to suck a hickey into the base of his throat. He opens Sunday's jacket, pushing the garment off his shoulders entirely, then bites into the skin just below Sunday's collarbone, forcing a nearly-swallowed noise from him, half arousal and half hiss of pain.
Wonweek works open the rest of his shirt. He rises before placing another bite on Sunday’s chest, then around his nipple, then the flat of his tummy, revealing more pale skin to mark as he goes, until he slides down to kneel between Sunday's legs. He undoes Sunday's belt, pulling open his pants to take his cock in hand.
Sunday is already more than half-hard. From the stimulation, of course, his body sensitive. Not because of the desire in his fragment's eyes. That would be ridiculous. Wonweek takes him into his mouth, scattering the rest of the thought. He stares up at Sunday with half-lidded eyes as he does, pulling a moan from him. Then his eyes flick to the side as he begins to bob his head, reminding him that they have company.
Aventurine's hand curls beneath Sunday's chin, thick rings against his throat as he tilts Sunday's head back to look at him. His mouth opens but nothing comes out, staring first at Sunday's face then at Wonweek below him. The heat of his gaze could rival Wonweek's mouth, both sending prickles of arousal across Sunday's skin, concentrating in his core. Aventurine's hold around Sunday's throat tightens just enough to keep his head in place. His other hand slides over Sunday's chest, following the trail of Wonweek's mouth.
“Are you really this full of yourself?” Aventurine murmurs, plucking at a bitten nipple. “That you're enjoying sucking yourself off so much?”
Wonweek hums an affirmative around Sunday's cock, still continuing to suck. It causes his own denial to be trapped behind a moan. Aventurine chuckles, planting a kiss on his forehead first before connecting their lips. Aventurine doesn't need tricks to get Sunday to open up for him; he just does.
It's overwhelming, the demands of Aventurine’s tongue and Wonweek's mouth. He reaches a hand down to curl into Wonweek's hair, feels the resulting moan vibrate around his cock.
Aventurine finally breaks their kiss, diving in for a second and a third before pulling back. His eyes settle on Wonweek, Sunday's thighs squeezing around him. “What's his name?”
“Wonweek,” Sunday breathes, watching the fragment's lashes flutter as he looks up at them.
Aventurine snorts. “Carrying on the terrible naming tradition, I see.” Sunday opens his mouth to complain, whimpers instead when Aventurine's hand tightens around his throat briefly. “Wonweek, that's enough. Finish undressing him.”
Wonweek pulls off, just enough to leave Sunday's spit-soaked cock pressed against his lips. “Yessir,” he hums, a grin easily reforming. Sunday whines, his whole body tingling with arousal still. He hates to be teased.
Wonweek hooks his fingers in Sunday's waistband, pulling his pants over his thighs. He takes the opportunity to kiss those too, to feel the muscle jump beneath his teeth. Aventurine's eyes flick between Wonweek and Sunday, clearly fascinated by both. It's probably the way Sunday's chest heaves, his fingers back to gripping the armrest like it will keep him grounded, or the way Wonweek marks his skin incessantly, as if to make up for not having a body to harass Sunday with outside of this little dream bubble. Wonweek takes off Sunday's shoes, then his pants, reaching up to tug at his sleeves, yanking them off too. He takes the jacket and shirt and disappears them entirely.
Aventurine hums his approval. “I hope you have lube wherever you put that. Want you to open him up for me.”
Wonweek laughs, lifting one of Sunday's thighs over his shoulder, planting a kiss there. He tugs his glove off with his teeth before pressing two fingers to Sunday's rim, making him gasp at the already slick feeling against his hole. “This is a dream bubble. We can have as much or as little as you'd like. Should I get him nice and wet for you, sir?”
Aventurine makes a considering noise, running a gloved thumb along the line of Sunday’s jaw. He leans down, turning Sunday’s face until they’re only a hand span away from each other, Sunday’s pulse hammering away under his fingers. “What do you think?” the Stoneheart asks.
Sunday swallows, feeling the fingers move with his esophagus. He nods.
“Out loud,” Aventurine demands.
“Y-yes,” Sunday breathes.
Aventurine’s hand squeezes just a little tighter, just a small warning. “Yes to what?”
“Yes, I…” Sunday's eyes flick away from Aventurine’s piercing gaze for a moment, finds Wonweek staring up at them, eyes wide like he can't bear to miss a single moment. Sunday takes a breath. “I want him to make me wet.”
“Good boy,” Aventurine purrs, almost enough to cover the half-strangled moan Wonweek lets out. Aventurine kisses Sunday's temple before turning to him. “Well, you heard him. Go ahead.”
“Yes sir,” Wonweek responds, a sort of breathless quality to it. He pulls Sunday's hips forward slightly before pressing both fingers inside of him, even wetter than before. Sunday's back arches at the intrusion, Aventurine still holding him by the throat. They slide in with an ease that can only be accomplished in a dream.
Wonweek wastes no time fingerfucking him. His fingers slide in and out of Sunday's body, spread just enough to stretch his rim with each thrust. They pull little moans and gasps from Sunday that only get louder as Wonweek curls his fingers into his prostate, Sunday nearly trying to squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure.
“Easy, I don't want him cumming just yet,” Aventurine murmurs, then instantly contradicts himself by running his gloved palms over Sunday's unbearably sensitive skin. He rolls Sunday's nipples between his fingers, cups his chest, feeling each hitch of breath and oversensitive arc, marking the signs of Sunday's pleasure with his hands.
Wonweek pulls his fingers out, leaving Sunday temporarily bereft as he tucks a hand under his thigh, pressing Sunday's other leg to his chest. He worries two, three more marks into the skin of his inner thigh before fitting his mouth back around Sunday's cock. Sunday makes a choked-off noise, a hand squeezing around Aventurine's forearm as he's enveloped in wet heat again. Wonweek pushes three fingers back in, stretching him even further.
“What did I just say?” Aventurine huffs, bemused. Wonweek looks up, unrepentant as he slurps around Sunday's length, continuing to pump his fingers, drawing desperate noises from Sunday's heaving chest. “You just can't stand not having a dick in your mouth, huh?”
Wonweek nods, still not pulling off. It's almost unbearable. Aventurine’s hands leave Sunday as he finally steps from behind the chair. He comes around the front, standing before Wonweek, who stares up at him with a nearly tangible anticipation.
Aventurine threads his fingers through Wonweek's hair, setting his eyelashes to fluttering. Then he tightens his grip, physically pulling Wonweek off. Sunday makes a noise somewhere between relief and frustration as even the fingers leave him. Aventurine pulls Wonweek's head back further, leaning down to get closer. “You don't listen, do you?”
Wonweek shakes his head. He breathes hard enough Sunday can see the rise and fall of his chest, his pupils blown wide. “We never do,” he says, his voice noticeably rougher.
Aventurine snorts, standing straight again. “Yeah. You’re lucky you're pretty.”
Wonweek's eyes slide shut, a soft moan pulling from his lips. Sunday would judge— how could any version of him be that easy?— except the words settle molten in his core too, and they're not even directed at him.
Aventurine undoes his belt buckle, opening his pants and pulling out his cock, more than hard. It's beautiful just like him, and Sunday feels an irrational jealousy at not being the one on his knees, waiting for it. Wonweek's eyes open, focused immediately on the dick in front of him. His mouth drops open like an offering as he finally refocuses on Aventurine’s face.
Aventurine feeds Wonweek his cock, looks a little too pleased about Sunday's face looking up at him, eager to swallow him whole. He clenches a fist in Wonweek's hair, holding him in place with his cock shoved down his throat. Wonweek doesn't even have the decency to gag, but then what would a dream construction need a gag reflex for? Sunday would complain about it if Aventurine didn't take a moment to look at him with the kind of heat that suggests the wait will be worth it, so instead he presses his thighs together and reaches for what little patience he has left.
Aventurine runs his hands through Wonweek's hair, gathering it all at the back of his head into a fisted ponytail. He pulls out before rolling his hips back in. Wonweek scrambles to brace his hands on Aventurine's thighs as he begins to fuck his face properly, spit gathering at the edges of his lips. Sunday stuffs his own fingers in his mouth to prevent the punched-out noise that threatens to rise at the sight. Suddenly the waiting becomes unbearable.
Aventurine makes his own noises, little gasps and a trembling sound as he… he uses Wonweek, because isn't that what it is? Like a hole to be filled, and Wonweek lets him, and Sunday would too. Is entirely green about not being the one he extracts pleasure from.
Aventurine takes a stuttering breath. “Tap three times when you need to breathe, alright?” he says. He waits for Wonweek to nod before pressing him all the way down to the hilt, his nose against Aventurine's little happy trail. Wonweek moans, and so does Sunday, both of their mouths stuffed and still wanting.
Aventurine looks at him then, eyes wide, disbelieving. He extends a hand towards Sunday, says “Come're,” and looks even more surprised when Sunday immediately drops to his knees and crawls over. He runs a hand through Sunday's hair too, pressing Sunday's cheek to his thigh. Aventurine looks between their faces, something like wonder on his own features. “Shit, you are… gorgeous,” he breathes, then seems to remember something. “Do you need to breathe?” he asks Wonweek.
Wonweek shakes his head. This close, Sunday can see when he swallows around Aventurine's cock. Sunday brings a hand to Wonweek's throat, squeezing just tight enough to feel the bulge. Wonweek moans again, eyelids fluttering. Sunday shifts to prop his chin on Wonweek's shoulder, looking up at Aventurine as well. To see what his fragment sees.
“Holy shit,” Aventurine curses under his breath, a shudder running through him. “Stay just like that,” he gasps, pulling his cock out slow, then fucking back in.
Wonweek makes a muffled whining noise as Aventurine fucks his throat, the head of his cock pressing against Sunday's fingers. Sunday squeezes harder just to draw a helpless moan from his fragment. Wonweek's eyes flutter and fall shut.
“Fuck,” Aventurine curses, laser focused on their twin faces. His hips stutter, and he pulls back a little, stilling just inside Wonweek's mouth. “Don't swallow yet,” he demands.
Aventurine cums through gritted teeth, quieter than he's been the whole time. Wonweek reopens his eyes just as the cock in his mouth gives a final kick, and Sunday can't help himself. He leans forward to kiss the small slice of cock not buried inside Wonweek.
“That's enough,” Aventurine exhales, pulling away. He taps his spent cock against Wonweek's cheek, smearing saliva against the skin there. Wonweek takes a moment to show off his prize as it pools on his tongue, before closing his mouth to swallow what remains of the pearly mess. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown, a fucked out look on his face. Sunday's lips part as if to imitate it. He wonders if he looks like that.
“You're so good,” Aventurine praises, eyes still glued to Wonweek's face. Then his gaze flicks to Sunday, sending a sudden heat through his core. “Both of you,” he amends.
Aventurine takes a careful step back, letting go of Wonweek's hair but not Sunday's. “Take off your clothes,” he tells Wonweek, and the fragment snaps his fingers, naked in an instant. Aventurine gives a low laugh. “Yeah, I should've expected that.”
Wonweek responds with a shaky smile and an arc of his back, a quiet exhale, a forward lean. Sunday would be annoyed at the clear display of desperation if it weren't for Aventurine's nails dragging gently against his scalp. Was he not satisfied already? What business did he have showing off like he wanted more?
“I want you to fuck him,” Aventurine says. “Can you do that for me, Wonweek?”
Wonweek blinks at him, and then at Sunday. Sunday, who looks back at him with growing displeasure, then up at Aventurine instead. “And if I don't want him?” Sunday huffs, certainly not pouting.
Aventurine's hand leaves his hair, which is a crime. “Then we're done here,” he says, to which Sunday full on whines. “But you'll be good for me, right?”
“I want you,” Sunday grumbles.
“You'll get me,” Aventurine responds, a pleased curl to his lips. “If you listen.” He gives a breathless chuckle. “Didn't realize you were so needy.”
Sunday makes another unhappy noise, thinking about it. His thoughts are slow, though, and there's not much room for it after accounting for the urge to obey. He looks at Wonweek again, who tilts his head in that devious way and spreads his arms in invitation, and Sunday sighs and takes it despite his misgivings.
He crawls into Wonweek’s lap, and Wonweek wastes no time curling his arms around him, pulling until they're pressed together hips to shoulders. Wonweek is warm against his skin. Sunday takes a shaky breath, shifting a little, taking in the way their cocks slide together, both achingly hard, or the way his nipples brush against skin, feeling equally sensitive.
Aventurine sits behind Wonweek, resting his chin on the fragment's shoulder. He runs a gentle hand up Sunday's thigh, sending shivers through him. “I still don’t want him to cum, by the way.”
Wonweek turns his face just enough to brush his nose against Aventurine’s cheek. “And me?”
Aventurine grins. “Fill him up.”
“Yessir,” Wonweek hums, overpleased. He takes handfuls of Sunday’s ass, tipping back into Aventurine's chest. Sunday wraps his arms around the fragment’s shoulders as he's lifted briefly. He doesn't get much time to process this unfamiliar strength before Wonweek drops him back down on his cock.
Sunday moans, his voice echoing back at him through Wonweek. He clutches at Wonweek's shoulders, a helpless sort of heat flaring in his core as he's filled, and he would never describe himself as perfect but hell if the feeling isn't close.
Wonweek squeezes his ass before his hands clutch at the base of Sunday's spine, then his hips, pressing gasping, open-mouthed kisses at the base of his throat. Sunday shivers underneath his touch, each one sending fire through his veins. Then he's being tipped backwards, Wonweek lowering him until his back hits the ground. Sunday's whole world rotates, Wonweek sitting back up, pulling Sunday’s leg over his shoulder.
Sunday opens his mouth to complain, is silenced by the first roll of Wonweek's hips. He gives a startled moan instead, caught off guard by how good it feels. His next breath is similarly cut short when Wonweek begins to fuck him proper. His hand reaches for anything, really, to ground him, and Wonweek interlaces their fingers, kissing their knuckles. Sunday burns under his molten gaze.
Aventurine watches with rapt attention, the helpless way Sunday takes Wonweek's cock. It makes Sunday red all over, both of their gazes raking over him like a physical thing, and his wings flutter, trying and failing to hide his cries as Wonweek fucks him deep.
“Isn't he pretty?” Aventurine murmurs from over Wonweek's shoulder.
“Very pretty, sir,” Wonweek pants, emphasizing his words with a pointed thrust, one that makes Sunday whimper. Then it's like the floodgates open, Wonweek's pace increasing to something short of mind numbing. “More beautiful than he knows, sir. If only he could see himself.”
If he still had the mental capacity for it, Sunday might point out how ironic that was coming from a construct with his face. As it is, Sunday can only make a drawn out whine, squeezing Wonweek's hand as he approaches his peak. “Pl-ease,” Sunday gasps, the breath fucked out of him mid-word. “Please, I— ah! C-close, Wonweek!”
Wonweek makes a wounded noise at his name, and doubles down, chasing his own end and, inevitably, Sunday's. Aventurine watches, humming against Wonweek's shoulder. “Remember what I said,” he reminds the fragment.
Wonweek nods. “Yessir,” he moans, evidently all he can say. He doesn't stop or slow down though, rutting harder into Sunday's body.
Sunday trembles, something high pitched and needy trapped in the back of his throat, and Wonweek takes a gasping breath, and before they can tumble over the edge together something snaps in place around the base of Sunday's cock, denying his orgasm at the last moment. Sunday's betrayed noise tapers into a choked-off scream as his back arches off the floor, overcome with molten heat, Wonweek shamelessly burying himself as far as he can, flooding Sunday's insides with the release he callously denied him.
Sunday loses a few moments then, and comes back to his body with Wonweek leaning over him, panting and sweaty and sweeping bangs away from Sunday's face with a reverent hand. He smiles when he sees Sunday's vision refocus. “Welcome back,” he rasps, as if Sunday wasn't the only one who screamed himself hoarse.
“You…” Sunday begins, heated and trembling. Tingles wrack his frame, tears still sluggishly falling over his cheeks. “You bastard,” he hiccups.
Wonweek pouts at him. “That's not very nice of you,” he says, running a thumb over Sunday's tears. He doesn’t remove the cock ring.
“You weren't nice either,” Aventurine points out, gratifying Sunday with the soft whine that pulls out of Wonweek. “Or obedient.”
That elicits a genuine protest. “I did what you said,” Wonweek argues, eyes wide. “Look, no cum!” He brushes his fingers against Sunday’s oversensitive cock, pulling a hiss out of him, but Sunday's stomach is indeed clean.
“Hm.” Aventurine side-eyes the fragment, who squirms under his scrutiny. He tilts his head, letting Wonweek stew in it for a moment, before he huffs a laugh. “I suppose you're still a good boy then. On a technicality.”
Wonweek exhales, relief written across his face. “Thank you, sir.”
“Mmhm,” Aventurine hums, kissing Wonweek on the cheek. “Thank me by pulling out. I wanna see the mess you made.”
Wonweek nods, finally easing his way out of Sunday. He and Aventurine both moan at the sight, and Sunday can't help the weak noise he makes as he feels Wonweek's cum slip out of him, his wings folding over his wet face.
“None of that,” Aventurine huffs. There's shuffling, and a quiet stay here, and then a gentle hand strokes the top of his wings until they flutter, pulling away from his face. When he looks up again, it’s with Aventurine between his legs instead. “Look at you,” he purrs, “all fucked out and dripping.” Sunday whimpers as Aventurine traces his rim, before sliding in two fingers, slow but effortless. “I need you to do something for me before I let you cum.”
His fingers slide all the way in, crooking until they press into Sunday’s prostate. Sunday gasps, his hips raising of their own accord. “A-anything,” he mewls.
Aventurine hums, idly strumming Sunday’s insides. “Tell me how much you want my cock.”
Sunday makes a pitiful noise, bearing down on and squirming away from the fingers in turn. “Please,” he moans, the single word all he can string together for a moment. “Y-your cock, inside me, I-I need you to fill me,” he whines, the tail end of it trailing into another wanting noise.
Aventurine’s dick twitches at his words. Its owner smiles, something indulgent. “Since you asked so nicely.”
Aventurine presses in easily, Sunday already wet and open from Wonweek before him. He rocks his hips, and Sunday sobs, relieved and overwhelmed in equal measure.
“You can take it,” Aventurine assures him, gripping Sunday’s hips to pull him further onto his cock.
Sunday whimpers, something high and pleading. Not even he knows if he wants Aventurine to stop or keep going, to endure the pleasure-pain of being dangled over this particular cliff. Aventurine makes the choice for him with insistent rolls of his hips, pulling all the way out then back in, so that Sunday feels every inch of him. It's good. It's too much. Sunday voices this with desperate panting, broken only by his half-realized begging.
Aventurine’s rhythm falters, his face briefly looking just as desperate as Sunday feels. “Wonweek,” he grits between clenched teeth.
“Yes sir,” Wonweek responds, eyes laser focused on Sunday’s face. And just like that the cock ring dissipates, leaving Sunday to shudder his release, eyes squeezed shut. Tears gather in his lashes, a sob in his throat as Aventurine adds to the mess already inside him.
“I've got you,” Aventurine pants. He wipes the tears from Sunday's lashes, cupping his face gently. Sunday leans into it as he comes back to himself.
So of course that's when the dream bubble shifts, the whole space dripping at the edges.
“Hm. Time to go,” Wonweek muses, and then, planting a kiss on Aventurine's cheek, he purrs, “It was good meeting you, sir.” By the time Aventurine turns to reply, Wonweek has simply stopped existing.
“What's happening?” Sunday asks, much more concerned about the liminal space around them collapsing into something more solid than his fragment finally remembering where he belongs.
“Probably means we're out of time,” Aventurine reasons, hurrying to make himself presentable again. “Can you—”
Sunday snaps, disappearing the filth and reappearing his clothes without bothering to get up.
“...right,” Aventurine huffs. He extends a hand to help Sunday to his feet.
Sunday takes it, because the soreness in his ass and legs is very real. “What do you mean out of time? Why are you even here?”
“Prisoner exchange,” Aventurine explains. “Turns out the Astral Express really wants you back, and the IPC had someone the Family wanted, so.”
“And you couldn't have lead with that?” Sunday asks, incredulous.
“Hey now, it’s your dream prison,” Aventurine scoffs. “You’re the one who wanted to fuck yourself. Don't put that on me.”
After everything, Sunday still has the audacity to blush.