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With ease, Sunday picks the lock. His fingers, nimble and determined, make quick work of the aged doorknob. It rattles as he gently jostles it, working the small, rusted keyhole. The door's wood is battered and scarred, shaking with every heavy press of Sunday’s bruised palms as he leans against it. For a moment, he considers kicking it in and saving himself the trouble, but the lock clicks quietly before he can fully convince himself to engage in property damage. Not bad, that was quicker than I expected. Sunday feels the faintest, fleeting sense of pride.
When he was younger, wild and untamed, Sunday would make it his mission to break into the locked doors of Dewlight Pavillion. The seemingly endless corridors of closed doors, outlined with an eerie radiant light, were like a nightmare, a reminder of captivity that frightened him. Sunday had always believed the only way to break free of that fear was to break open the doors. An ideology that quickly vanished as the Oak Family molded him with their hands, crushing and snapping any dreams of resistance he had. His lockpicking skills became prisoners to etiquette the same way his dreams were held captive by the promise of purpose.
Love.
Inside his chest, there is a heavy feeling that squeezes the air from his bruised lungs. The word feels silly in his head – a concept that he banishes along with the momentary joy of success. He fits a proper frown on his face as he slips through the door and he hopes it will ease the discomfort. Quietly, Sunday shuts the door and locks it behind him. The smell of smoke greets him. Thick, it pollutes the air, though the ashtray by the door is absent of any fresh cigarettes. Sunday counts the wilted stubs – one, two, three, and he briefly smirks as the number reaches double digits. He shifts his gaze to the rest of the apartment, though the darkness clings to every corner and cranny possible. The lack of light is only offset by the large open windows at the end of the hall, spanning across two open rooms that Sunday pieces together are a kitchen and living room. With eyes adjusted to the darkness, he studies every minute detail. The loafers by the door are haphazardly thrown across one another. Their leather surfaces are dull and unpolished, scuffed and scratched from wear. One of them, thrown astray from its matching pair, is left in the middle of the floor before the door. Sunday nudges it with his foot, pushing it aside towards the lump. Gingerly, he steps out of his shoes, tattered from the collapse of his entire life, and neatly places them on the opposite wall beneath the table and ashtray. He pauses, for a moment, and looks at the difference between the shoes.
There is something comforting about their differences — an almost homely feeling. Certainly, some couples live in totally opposite manners from one another. In his mind, Sunday can picture dozens of people, their faces half-obscured by the guarded window of the confessional, and their half-hearted complaints. Too sloppy. Too clean. Too social. Too quiet. Sunday can name none of them who didn’t end their confession with a reminder of how much they loved the other person, despite all the differences.
He moves further into the apartment, silent and ethereal in the night. The light from the windows casts a ghostly blue sheen on everything it touches, and Sunday can see the dust sparkle as it dances in the air.
If someone could love him, despite his differences, could they build a home that feels right, even though their shoes are mismatched and some of their habits make it hard to breathe?
Don’t be silly, can you imagine anyone who would want you after everything you’ve done? Sunday smiles wistfully. Of course, he knows that this home, or any home, isn’t meant for him. He is an intruder, an unwelcome guest even when there is an invitation. Sunday does not belong there, or anywhere – no matter how perfectly his shoes are placed or how carefully he tries not to mess anything up.
He passes the kitchen, stopping for another moment to ponder the things around him. A familiar white vest is thrown across the table. Empty beer cans are abandoned beneath the table, while a few are left sideways beneath the jacket and atop a stack of letters. The mismatched envelopes are ripped open, the paper roughly torn apart. Sunday could never imagine handling his correspondence in such a manner. Each letter he receives is treated with care. Sunday treasures every envelope addressed to him. He devours the contents – most often wishes and confessions – and keeps each one. Sunday’s thoughts go back to the small box filled with letters, each neatly tied in a stack and labeled, which sits in his own, fractured home.
Drawing closer, Sunday creeps towards the letters. He blinks in the dim moonlight, adjusting his eyes to scan the name scrawled across the front.
Each ink signature reads one singular name: Gallagher.
Sunday traces his fingers across the ink. With the tip of his finger, he writes the name with his own signature. He has never addressed a personal letter to Gallagher, but he imagines how prettily he could make it. However, it likely wouldn’t matter – some of the envelopes are torn at an angle that eviscerates even the neatest, looping writing. Unlike Sunday, Gallagher appears unconcerned with the letters – unattached to the sight of his name on an envelope and people vying for his attention. He must have a lot of free time. Sunday wonders how it would feel to be unbothered by other people. To be Gallagher. He eyes the vest and looks over his shoulder across the room towards the bedroom door. Nervous. Sunday knows he’s pushing his luck, but he can’t help himself. The bandages across his arms are dirty and bloody from a night of exhaustion. His knuckles are bruised and his ribs are aching, and Sunday is desperate for an escape. Any escape, really.
If he could be anyone else, he would erase everything he was.
Picking up the vest, Sunday hurriedly presses his face into it and inhales. The cigarette smoke is suffocating, mixing with the residual scent of cheap whiskey, sweat, and earthy cologne. He can’t get enough of it – the way it feels like hands around his throat, nails scraping his skin, and soft kisses that taste like Sunday’s blood mixed with ash. Gallagher. It smells like him. Suffocatingly so. Sunday’s head spins. His insides burn – fluttering and twitching with excitement. His pants feel tight and his skin aches to feel the touch of rough, calloused hands. He imagines Gallagher – angry and tired, calculating and cold. Eyes fluttering shut, he pictures the narrowed eyes, determined and focused, as Gallagher grabs him mid-air and holds him tightly as they fall.
Sunday can still taste the air in his mouth and the salt of his own tears.
Like a child, he holds the vest tightly in his scarred hands. His fingers grip it until the knuckles turn pale, desperately clutching the leather as if someone is coming to steal it away from him. He abandons the table, silent as his socks carry him across the discolored wooden floor. Though the arrangement is new, Sunday finds the bedroom door with ease. He opens it and slips through, holding his breath carefully as he shuts it behind him. The door shuts with a quiet click. Sunday stands rigid in the darkness until the sound of a low, rumbling breath disturbs the quiet.
For a moment, he’s skeptical.
They’ve discussed an arrangement like this vaguely, but Sunday is there unannounced. He knows Gallagher – well enough, at least, to doubt that the man doesn’t have borderline cosmic sensors built into him. Sunday would be surprised if anyone could manage to sneak up on him. But, as he draws closer to the bed, Gallagher snores again. When Sunday reaches out and prods an uncovered foot, the only reaction he receives is an animalistic grunt. The tension leaves his body slowly and it is replaced by intrigue.
Gallagher is completely asleep .
Sunday studies him. He stands mesmerized by the sight. Gallagher is sprawled amongst an ocean of blankets, his arms thrown open wide – lazily stretched across several pillows and their aged lumps. His upper body is completely naked. A beer can, crushed, lays beside his head.
He’s disgusting. The thought lacks conviction, meant comically because Sunday knows that he is so much worse. His eyes are drawn to the dark pair of circles on Gallagher’s chest, the puffy areolas framed by hair. Sunday knows he’s acting odd. If anyone else could see them, he was certain it would only confirm the belief that there is something wrong with Oak Family Head.
And there is something wrong with him.
The sight of Gallagher sleeping and the light sound of rumbling snores steal Sunday’s breath away. His fingers fidget, adjusting their grip on the vest, as he feels a dizzying rush of blood moving throughout his body. Fantasies flash through his head – an array of different ideas of everything Sunday could do to him. He imagines himself knelt between spread legs, licking at the man’s cock and balls before traveling down to push his tongue inside him. He could slap him awake, opting for a roughness more befitting their previous interactions, and push him down into the sheets. Or, he could let Gallagher fuck him. Sunday’s fingers tighten their hold, squeezing until it feels like they’re going to snap. How would it feel to be the one pressed against the mattress? His body roughly pushes against the threadbare sheets, while his cock is trapped and neglected as Gallagher pins him down. No matter the form of intimacy, Gallagher’s voice always seems to drop an octave – the tone reaching new rough depths that leave Sunday breathless.
His heart skips a beat and the wings beside his head flap.
So far, their dynamic has been disjointed — uncertain as both of them are used to being in control. Sunday is too used to being expected to perform. Though he’s disappeared from the limelight of Penacony, the mannerisms are still etched into his soul. He expects to focus on someone else – to love them in whatever way fits them best and to leave his pleasure forgotten. He has spent his lifetime filling this role, but his mind still lingers on a new concept.
Gallagher dominating him.
He could ruin him. Even in the dark, the outline of his thick muscles is visible and Sunday is hyper-aware that Gallagher is everything he is not. If Sunday is the light, fragile and waning, then Gallagher is the dark, constant and waxing with every moment. He is rough, equal parts selfish and selfless, and adored nonetheless.
Sunday, desperate and devoted, is everything he never wanted to be — a monster.
A devil.
You are nothing, little bird. The moment you leave this cage, you will see that everything seeks to rip off your wings and devour your flesh. There is no room in this world for weakness – for wanting. You would do best to remember the part you’re expected to play and focus on filling that role. Even a gilded cage is better than an unmarked grave.
The Dreammaster’s words echo in his head, creeping in as Sunday loses himself in his fantasies. They pollute his dreams. Reality washes over him, cold and unkind, and Sunday becomes aware of himself. He sees the ghost of himself in the reflection of the grand bedroom window. Haggard. Tired. The bags under his eyes and the messy state of his hair make him look deranged. Bandages wrap around his arms, disappearing underneath the short sleeves of a blood-stained white shirt. A dark bruise is painted on his neck and jaw.
He is ugly.
Sunday stares hatefully at the Halovian who looks back. In the past two weeks, he has tried to free himself from the role of Oak Family Head and accept that he has failed. Sunday has tried to piece himself back after the fall. The creature that looks back at him is the result. Who would ever love someone like you? Sunday only keeps the words to himself because the grumble of Gallagher’s breaths reminds him that he is not alone. His lonely, dilapidated room with cracks in the roof and spiders in every wall, is far away and Sunday is there for a reason. Release.
Gallagher cannot judge him if Sunday fucks him from behind.
Yes, that’s how this is supposed to go. Sunday repeats the thought over and over like a ritualistic mantra. He feels the pull to abandon the vest on the floor, but it ends up thrown on the edge of the bed. Sunday’s shirt finds itself thrown to the ground. His breaths are raggedy. His wings fold back. They close themselves in, hugging the sides of his head and the planes of his back. The air brushes against his warm skin, but the discomfort is dissolved by the rough sheets against his skin.
Sunday climbs into the bed with Gallagher in a quiet frenzy.
He’s quick to push himself flush against the other man, occupying the space beside him and running his hands across his chest. Sunday threads his hands through the black chest hairs. He traces every discolored scar that’s slashed across the tan skin, and he feels the heavy rhythmic beat beneath the skin. His hands tremble as they gently ghost the skin with their touch, but his confidence quickly returns to him. Sunday leans down and his nose brushes against the warm skin, he inhales the smell and hums quietly. The wings beside his head relax a little, their tips venturing outwards as the tension slowly dissipates. In a moment of unchecked affection, Sunday presses a soft kiss to the skin. Gallagher grunts in his sleep. His head shifts, but Sunday knows his sleeping patterns well. The Hound is stirring, but he’s still asleep.
Sunday takes one of Gallagher’s nipples into his mouth. He sucks on it. His tongue laps and traces the bud of his nipple eagerly, lavishing it with attention as his other hand glides across Gallagher’s chest. Fingers card through the coarse hair, searching and mapping out the expanse until his hand grazes across another small bud. He pinches it between his fingers and rolls the hardening skin, determined not to leave either neglected.
In his mouth, the skin tastes of copper and the slightest hint of sweat.
A hand lazily strokes at his side and Gallagher rumbles a gruff sound, “You let yourself in?”
Sunday bites his nipple, sharp teeth nipping the skin in response. He grinds it carefully between his teeth, and Gallagher groans – the low timbre of his voice resonating in Sunday’s chest. Hard calluses scrap at his skin, and he flinches, ever-so-slightly, as they run along the black bruise on his neck.
“What the fuck happened to you, Sunday?”
Gallagher sounds cold, indifferent – more curious than anything else, but Sunday feels his eyes burning holes through his skin. He tries to ignore it, but the hand moves down to grip tightly on his arm and the ache of the wounds beneath the bandages causes Sunday to hiss. Gallagher doesn’t intend to let it go. When the Halovian glances up, irate at the distraction, Gallagher’s eyes are narrowed and the irises glow dimly in the darkness.
Sunday’s stomach shifts, clenching into a tight uneasy knot that falls in the pit of his body. He releases the nub from his mouth and sighs, “If I don’t mention it, Hound, it means I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I didn’t ask whether you wanted to talk about it, I asked what happened.”
Asked or demanded? Sunday doesn’t push his luck with the quip. Instead, he presses quick kisses to Gallagher’s chest and climbs the man. His arms plant themselves beside his head and Sunday beams down at him with a disinterested stare.
He tries to act unbothered – mimicking Gallagher’s own expressions.
“A poor choice of company.”
Gallagher’s eyebrow raises and his eyes narrow, “You call being strangled a problem of ‘poor choice of company?”
Sunday’s wings flap and flatten themselves against him. His fingers dig deeper into the mattress, the knuckles quietly popping as their grip turns harsh, “If you want me to admit that you were right then fine. Relish in being told that I should have listened.”
“Why do you care so fucking much about being right or wrong?” Gallagher rolls himself to the side and Sunday snarls as he moves to avoid being smacked aside. His heart thunders in his chest. Afraid. The tell-tale click of the zippo lighter warns him before the small flame flickers in the darkness. As Gallagher returns to his original position, the bed groans and creaks obscenely. Sunday’s wings twitch, fluttering at the sound. The soft feathers tickle his face and their gentle brush feels like a comforting touch.
Smoke fills the air, and it burns Sunday’s lungs.
He’s tempted to snatch it from Gallagher’s hands and toss it into a corner of the room, but his arms remain frozen in place. Petrified, he watches the tip of it between Gallagher's lips and the way the dark skin holds it gently. With an impossible grace, the cigarette is fondled carefully between Gallagher’s thick fingers and he blows a lazy trail of smoke into the air. The moonlight illuminates the vapor and it slithers upwards.
“I hate when you smoke.”
Gallagher grunts, “If you hated it that much, you’d have left by now.”
Sunday bites his tongue.
His teeth draw blood and he sucks it, devouring the metallic taste on his tongue. There is something sickeningly infuriating about the way Gallagher can easily silence him, backing him into the corner and striking him down. The lazy frown on Gallagher’s face makes Sunday feel small and powerless, and he feels the blood rush through him. It’s an intoxicating mix of indignation and lechery — a force that drives Sunday crazy. He can never tell if he wants to strangle Gallagher or spend the rest of the night between the sheets, covering each other in fluids and bitemarks.
The cigarette leaves his lips again, and he breathes a sigh of smoke, “So, what’s it gonna be, little owl – you gonna leave?”
Sunday shoves him back and forces their lips together – forceful. Demanding. He is so demanding, but Gallagher indulges him. Their lips are slotted together in a mismatched, open-mouthed kiss. The angle is off, imbalance as Gallagher tries to meet Sunday with equal force. Teeth clicking together, their tongues press against one another. Licking. Teasing. Every inch of Gallagher’s mouth tastes like ash and smoke, but Sunday breathes it in like he’s starved. When they finally pull apart, Sunday’s lungs greedily devour the fresh air and it suffocates him. A string of saliva remains between their lips and he takes the initiative to swipe at it with his tongue, licking the bottom of Gallagher’s lips.
Violet eyes watched him, oddly luminous in the dark, and the look Gallagher wears is predatory. Still, his touch is gentle as his free hand softly touches Sunday’s shoulder, “Greedy tonight. If you miss this much, I can give you a key.”
The offer doesn’t click in Sunday’s head.
His eyes are drawn to Gallagher's lips, bruised from the force of their kiss, and the trail of smoke between them. With slow intent, he turns to look pointedly at the cigarette poised between Gallagher’s fingers. Gallagher follows his gaze. When he finally pieces together the silent demand, his voice is an earthquake of deep vibrations beneath Sunday’s hands, “You want it?”
Sunday nodded.
He couldn’t bring himself to speak the words. It is antithetical to every teaching ingrained in Sunday’s existence — dirty, improper, vulgar, but Sunday feels bliss when his mouth touches the wet filter and inhales the heavy taste. For a moment, there is nothing except a burning heat in his chest, filling his lungs and spreading through his limbs. But his chest heaves and sputters when Sunday breathes out, blowing smoke into Gallagher’s face.
Gallagher smirks, “If you want to start, I’d recommend a lighter brand. My stuff’s not for beginners—”
“I want you to fuck me, Gallagher.”
Violet eyes widen in surprise and their aura dims – unsure.
“What?”
Sunday’s wings smack against his head, irritable, but he bites down his impatience – the embarrassment burnt across his face. Patience is a virtue, but it isn’t limitless. “I want to fuck, and I want you to use that while you’re doing it.”
He jerks his head to motion at the cigarette, and he hopes Gallagher didn’t hear the change in instructions. Sunday knows what he wants, but the insecurity returns as he tries to get Gallagher to do something. Anything. It takes all his effort to look back and meet Gallagher’s gaze, but Sunday isn’t given the choice to avoid him when a rough hand turns his head back. The cigarette is back on Gallagher’s lips. When it leaves, Sunday’s mouth is opened by a lascivious tongue and Gallagher breathes smoke into his mouth. They trade the polluted air, their tongues writhing against each other as smoke escapes from the space between them. A heavy hand is on the back of Sunday’s neck, pulling him down – closer and closer as they minimize the distance between each other.
Sunday wonders, between the ephemeral lapses of their tongue’s conquest, why Gallagher indulges him.
He thinks about that day.
The events leading up to it are a blur, gaps are missing in Sunday’s normally pristine memory. No matter how hard he tries, Sunday can’t find the moment to fill it in. He can only remember the feeling of air through his outstretched wings — the pain of air against the broken bones and tattered feathers. His own tears, the first he had ever cried since Father first began educating him, were inconsequential compared to the weight of his own body. It had been the first time Sunday ever felt alive, broken and heavy, but alive. Like he was a real person, rather than some well-drawn portrait or cartoon. Gallagher had called him crazy, and Sunday agreed. It never occurred to him then to ask why the Hound had jumped off the rooftop after him, or how he had known Sunday was there.
Maybe, it didn’t matter much.
Caught in the moment of his memories, Sunday doesn’t realize Gallagher is guiding his hips down until their cocks rub against each other — flesh against worn cloth. The jolts of pleasure electrify the nerves at the base of Sunday’s spine, and his momentary rumination melts away. Hands curling in the sheets, he sneers like a wild animal as his wings flap and smack against the sheets.
“Now, look who’s being impatient, mutt.”
Gallagher huffs, but the wild look in his eyes darkens. His one hand is roughly gripping Sunday’s hip, fingers looped through the belt hoop, and pulling him down to grind them together. The other hand remains upright, steadily holding the cigarette. Sunday leans forward and takes another drag. He doesn’t miss the way Gallagher’s hand tightens or the twitch of Gallagher’s cock against his own. When he glances down, the sheets are strewn away and Gallagher is fully naked. His muscular, hairy legs are framing Sunday’s lithe body. His cock is full-hard, and precum drips steadily from the tip. It smears against Sunday’s black dress pants and Sunday can see the light sheen of the stain in the faint light.
He blows a trail of smoke between their bodies and tries to trap it between them.
“Damn, angel, didn’t expect you to like it this much,” Gallagher grunted. “Though, I’d like it better if you’d remove your pants.”
“Feeling self-conscious?”
Sunday cringes at his voice – airy and pitched with pleasure. He can barely recognize himself in it, but the insecurity fades. Gallagher roughly grabs Sunday’s cock through his pants, and the other man gasps – mouth parted in a wet groan as he feels skilled fingers tracing the outline of the bulge.
“Like I said, this would be a hell of a lot more productive if you’d take this off.”
Gallagher’s thumb finds the head of Sunday’s cock and presses into it, applying a pressure that leaves Sunday keening – grinding into the touch as his eyes squeeze shut and he hisses through gritted teeth, “Point well-made.”
“Off.”
The command bristles against Sunday’s skin, but he gives in. Sitting back, he works the buttons of his pants – his fingers tearing at the cheap material. Gallagher leans back, resting an arm behind his head as he watches Sunday with hazy, half-lidded eyes. He holds the cigarette in his mouth and grips his cock in his hand, pulling the foreskin back and stroking himself with a languid pace as Sunday slipped free from the remaining clothes.
In the frenzy of the moment, Sunday forgets about the bandages around his thighs.
And the cigarette burns along his waistband.
Free of his clothes, the realization hits when Sunday sees that blood has leaked through the gauze on his leg. His fingers lightly graze the dark spot, and his heart falls. The feathers touch his face, and Sunday feels his handshake.
“– the fuck you waiting for, feathers?”
Sunday licks his lips, nervous, and he turns. He doesn’t meet Gallagher’s face, opting to crawl his way back between the open legs and plant his hand on the firm chest. Eyes closed, he kisses Gallagher with a hesitant carefulness. Sunday expects to be pushed away – interrogated, but the question never comes. Instead, Gallagher deepens their kiss and reaches down. He grabs Sunday’s cock and strokes him, rough skin electrifying the sensitive nerves. Sunday nips and bites at his lips — thankful. His hips move with their own purpose, thrusting into Gallagher’s hand as his precum eases the glide. Their lips separate and the cigarettes replace the place where they touched. Sunday breaths it in, picking up the paces as he fucks Gallagher’s hand and moans a quiet, shaky noise.
It hasn’t been long since he last masturbated, but the feeling of Gallagher’s hands on his cock drive him crazy.
His legs clench, tightening and shaking, as the heat growing at the bottom of his stomach gets stronger and the rhythm of his thrusts grows erratic. Still, it isn’t enough — the firm grip is teasing, but Sunday wants more. He needs more, but he bites his lips and groans angrily because he can’t bring himself to say it.
The shame still haunts the crackling pleasure building at the base of his spine.
Gods, I want it.
Sunday’s tongue is heavy in his mouth and he can taste the remnants of Gallagher’s spit. The words are weighty – crushing as his body begins to sweat. He closes his eyes, trying to imagine that the hand around him is Gallagher’s hole, but he can’t make the fantasy work. There’s something off about it — the frenzied pace works him up, but Sunday wants Gallagher to tip him over the edge. He mulls over the words, lost in his thoughts until a searing pain brings him back down to the battered Penacony apartment.
The feeling burns.
Sunday cries and his eyes flutter open – spit is wet on his lips, mixing with the blood that wells to the surface of a cut that Sunday’s teeth have formed. He stares down at the blistering mark on his stomach, the muscles aching and fluttering despite the small, circular black burn. Sunday’s entire body trembles and Gallagher stares up at him.
Smiling.
A dark, predatory smile. His lips are pulled back and Sunday realizes that he’s sneering at him – vicious and unkind. Gallagher gives him a moment to rest, but he squeezes Sunday’s cock tightly.
It’s a warning because Gallagher is no fool.
Of course, Sunday couldn’t fool him — even at the height of his power, Gallagher can see through him with ease. A rough thumb pushes against the skin, and tears drip onto Gallagher’s chest mixing with the droplets of pre-cum. The liquids shine the black hairs. Sunday takes a stuttering breath through his nose, but the noise comes out with a humiliating, whimpering sound when Gallagher pushes the cigarette beside his belly button. The hand draped across Gallagher’s chest curls and Sunday’s fingers pull the chest hair. His body is tense and rigid – frozen in place as he fights to keep himself from flinching or cumming from the way his nerves feel overworked.
His cock throbs, needy and wet with its own seed.
“Didn’t realize you could get like this, all prim and proper with a stick up your ass. But, damn, if it isn’t hot,” Gallagher whistles a low tune, and he pulls the cigarette away. His other hand runs comfortingly along Sunday’s sides, the nails alternating between gently scraping the skin and petting Sunday’s side. His thumb presses into the tense muscles surrounding the outward bones that extend to make Sunday’s wings, and Sunday preens with the warm pleasure that tickles his spine.
“Gallagher –”
His voice warbles, the words lost to another shaky moan as the familiar, branding heat circles his nipples. Sunday watches through half-lidded eyes, and a full-body shudder courses through him when Gallagher’s finger taps the base. Ashes fall from the end of the paper casing, a few landing on Sunday’s cock. His hips jolt, but Gallagher’s hand holds him steady.
“Let me tell you something, feathers, there’s nothing wrong with being as freaky as you are, but you better start being careful with yourself – and who you let touch you,” Gallagher leans up and drags another breath of smoke, “Because I don’t mind sharing, but these marks –”
His hand tightens around a bruise on Sunday’s side, painfully pressing into the skin until Sunday mouths a silent plea for him to stop — to not push any harder because his cock is steadily dripping cum.
“— These were made by fucking amateurs. And I don’t like the way they ruin the damn view.”
The end of the cigarette meets Sunday’s nipple, and he screams. Loud. An echoing sound dripping with want and desperation as he ground his cock against Gallagher’s. Humiliation is bright on his cheeks, but Sunday is too far gone to process it. Instead, he pushes his body into the aching bite of the pain. His teeth gnaw at his battered lips.
His mind feels unshackled – free.
“Gallagher,” Sunday’s voice is heavy, dripping in want and roughened by need, “I want you to fuck me.”
He expects the other man to be surprised, but Gallagher only smirks and leans back. A cocksure grin on his face as he runs his fingers over Sunday’s other nipple, teasing it fondly, “I can do that, feathers, but you sure that’s all you want?”
Gallagher’s hand runs down, his calloused fingers tracing the top of bruises and bandages. He doesn’t outwardly acknowledge them, but his touch tickles Sunday’s skin – exciting his fantasies. Sunday takes a small gulp of air, and he groans as Gallagher’s hips rock up to grind them together.
Sunday is sure the Hound will be the death of him — again.
“Make it hurt.”
The simple command is enough for Gallagher. He leans over and abandons the cigarette in the ashtray. The scars across his chest, discolored jagged cuts seem to luminate and Sunday swears he can see veins beneath the skin– purple and discreetly radiant.
“Now, these are some orders I can tolerate.”
Hands grip Sunday’s hip and Gallagher rolls them, slamming Sunday into the sheets beneath him as his hand shifts to grip the bruised throat. Gallagher’s hand outgrows the outline of fading fingerprints. He shackles the soft flesh and Sunday loses his sense of reality — his back arches as sharp metal, hidden by Gallagher’s large, scraps against his thigh.
“Don’t forget to sing for me, birdie.”
The piercing bite is brief – a quick kiss of a blade’s edge along the shape of Sunday’s abdomen, and it throbs. A dull, aching pulsation of blood through his veins, and Sunday moans. Gallagher’s face is blurry, but Sunday can feel him. His lips kiss and nip at Sunday’s chest, biting the skin and sucking dark bruises along his collarbone. With each cut, Sunday’s body writhes and his throat pushes against the hand clamping him down. Everywhere Gallagher touches him, Sunday’s skin burns, and he grinds up – uselessly fucking Gallagher’s chest as he moved downward.
Every second is an agony of the most perfect kind. Sunday’s blood is electrified, his senses overwhelmed as Gallagher litters his skin with small bloody scratches, bites, and the gentlest kisses to the faded marks that Sunday had placed on himself. When Gallagher reaches the healing burns on Sunday’s hips, he covers them with his mouth, and his hand releases Sunday’s throat – opting to grasp his cock instead and pump the neglected length. The rush of air leaves him dizzy – dazed and unable to retort when Gallagher scraps his teeth against the marks, pulling tears into the corners of Sunday’s eyes. The pleasure blends with the pain – equal parts overwhelming and Sunday can’t find a way to entangle him. It hurts when Gallagher bites the wounded skin, but his cock twitches in the rough palm, and his shaft is wet as Gallagher coats him with his own slick.
“Gods, stop teasing me, you bastard!”
Gallagher glances up at him and his fingers push against the slit of Sunday’s cock, punishing him for his outburst. He lavishes the scarred skin with his love, scraping his teeth across a few more marks as he sucks the skin, before dragging the tip along the crown of Sunday’s cock.
It shuts him up.
Sunday’s hands grasp the sheets, shaking. His palms are sweaty and he can’t bring himself to look when he feels teeth scraping the sensitive head.
“Hate to break it to you, angel, but there aren’t any Gods here – not in this bedroom,” Gallagher holds Sunday’s dick firmly and he draws his tongue across the slit to collect the beads of precum preparing to dribble down. “Though, with the sounds you’re making, someone might think we’re holding choir practice. ‘Didn’t realize you’d be so loud birdie, do you get this work up for everybody that sucks you off?”
“No –”
Sunday’s wings slap against the pillows – indignant on his behalf, though he can’t bring himself to voice his thoughts. He doesn’t want to admit it. Not yet, at least. Gallagher unravels him in a way that leaves Sunday convinced he’s leaving his body. Sunday isn’t a virgin by any means, the Dreammaster had been determined to utilize every advantage Sunday’s natural beauty could offer, but the pleasure is different when Gallagher is involved.
It hurts him.
Ripping through him, the warmth of his desire scratches across his skin like a hundred knives, leaving him cut to pieces. Sunday’s heart bleeds freely — every rough touch encourages him to let it flow. He can demand more. In this bed, Sunday can fall apart. Gallagher can eviscerate him, and the pain makes him feel alive.
But, he keeps the truth locked away.
Gallagher doesn’t offer him the opportunity to respond anyway. He abandons Sunday’s cock. Grabbing the long, thin legs, he yanks Sunday down and spreads his legs. Gallagher pulls his ass apart and shoves his tongue against the bare hole.
“Gallagher – gods!”
His wings spasm and beat at the sheets – furiously smacking themselves against the sheets. Feathers fall free in the frenzy, the soft, blue-tinted forms landing all around Sunday as he struggles against Gallagher’s grip on his legs. The tongue pushes further – probing and prodding every inch of the hot walls that clamp around it. Gallagher’s nails sharpen themselves, and the slightest droplets of blood form where he cuts through Sunday’s skin. At the base of his spine, a warmth tingles and spreads up his back – its jagged teeth beneath Sunday’s skin as the electrifying heat collects in the base of his cock.
Sunday’s hand hurriedly reaches down and tightly grips his base, squeezing the member until it hurts and he whimpers. His climax gnaws at his lower back, gnashing its teeth in desperation. His voice warbles as he lets out a greedy whine, “I’m going to cum if you don’t stop –”
Gallagher’s tongue pushes deeper, thrusting in and out of his sloppy hole – working it open with his tongue. He doesn’t respond to Sunday’s warning and pointedly ignores the way Sunday’s legs tremble.
“Gallagher, stop, I want —” Sunday struggles to find the words. He’s so close to begging, but the pleas still teeter on the edge of his tongue. He has never begged anyone to fuck him before, but Sunday’s pulse is thrumming and he wants Gallagher inside him. His halo pulsates a soft light at the thought of Gallagher splitting him open.
But, the Hound remains busy, sloppily making out with his rim.
Teeth gently bite at the rim, nipping, and Sunday shudders. The scratch of Gallagher’s stubble irritates his skin, teasing the overstimulated nerves, and his rationality leaves him.
“Gallagher – please. I want your cock inside me, I’ve never come like that before — I need it.”
The words hit their mark. Sunday sees Gallagher’s eyes darken and he knows he’s won. Gallagher grabs his legs and shoves them away, forcefully rotating Sunday onto his stomach. He raises his hand and brings down on Sunday’s ass, spanking him across his upper thigh.
“Ass up, angel.”
“What –” Sunday yelps, startled at a second strike.
There is a hunger heavy in the air – suffocating. Sunday’s head spins as he tries to keep up, but he opts for allowing Gallagher to manhandle him. His fingers claw at the sheets as he’s forcefully yanked backward, his ass smacking against the Hound’s rock-hard cock. He hears Gallagher spit into his hand, and his body burns in anticipation. For a moment, Sunday doubts himself. He throws a glance over his shoulder. Gallagher holds his gaze as he strokes himself, wetting his cock. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration as he presses the head of his cock to Sunday’s entrance and adds his precum to the makeshift lube.
The sight goes straight to Sunday’s cock.
He devours the sight of Gallagher – the frown lines etched on his face and the few gray hairs amidst the tangle of black chest hair. His nose crinkles as he focuses, and Sunday can’t help the way his heart feels heavy in his chest. Uptop his head, his halo feels warm.
“Enjoy the view while it lasts, feathers, you won’t be seeing much in a minute.”
“What do you mean –”
Gallagher grabs his halo and uses it to shove Sunday’s head into the pillow. Cruelly, he swats at Sunday’s ass, imprinting his own handmark on the pale skin. The head of his cock teases Sunday’s hole, and it pushes in. If Gallagher is s cautiously cruel during their foreplay, he is downright vicious as he fucks him. Gallagher’s cock buries itself to the hilt, forcing its way through the tight opening, until his pelvic bone bumps against Sunday’s ass. He pauses, for a moment, if only to relish in the tattered scream that Sunday gives. Muffled by the mattress, his fingers spasm in a frenzy. The bones of his wings expand and stretch, the feathers extending outwards.
A hand playfully smacks one of them out of the way, and Gallagher lets out a gruff laugh, “Watch it, birdie. Neither of us won’t have much fun if your wings knock me out.”
He accents his words with a brutal thrust. Pulling out until only the head of his cock is hugged by the rim, Gallagher adjusts his grip on the halo and then sets a savage pace. He fucks Sunday like an animal. Relentless and determined, their bodies smack together with a wet, filthy noise. The bed beneath them creaks and protests the sudden movement, scraping against the floor as Gallagher pounds into Sunday. Their skin slaps together and the sweat glistens on their bodies as Gallagher fucks him deeper into the mattress. His hand refuses to budge, leveraging Sunday’s halo to keep him smothered against the sheets. The weight pushes Sunday down, closer and closer until his cock is squished beneath him – uselessly fucking the bed at whatever tempo Gallagher keeps. His body is shoved forward and Sunday has little control over anything except his hands, which claw at the sheets to try to stabilize himself. Though, the effort is useless. Gallagher makes it his mission to completely unravel him, and his hand encloses Sunday’s neck as his thrusts shift their angle.
“Fuck!”
His cock rams upwards – the heading punching against Sunday’s prostate. An isolated string of cum wets the sheet, and he gasps as his lungs burn with the need for air.
Gallagher doesn’t care to oblige him. Instead, he crushes the windpipe beneath his hand and snarls as he ruts into Sunday’s ass, “First, you break into my home. Then, you sneak into my bed and squirt all over my sheets like some mindless bitch.”
The headboard bangs against the wall, and the entire apartment complex seems to shake.
“Such a naughty, little thing. If you wanted to be caged so badly, you should have told me — I can tie you up and leave you here. Warm, wrapped in my shirt with your ass uncovered and waiting for me to breed it.”
Every word out of Gallagher’s mouth is vulgar and rabid — lecherous in a way that makes every inch of Sunday’s skin feel dirty. Tainted. Gallagher uses him like Sunday’s little more than a cheap whore, but, to Sunday, it feels like the kindest show of love. Spit drips from his mouth. His cock rubs itself ragged against the sheets, neglected. When Gallagher finally lets him breathe, it’s only because he wrenches Sunday up off the sheets by his halo and backward until they’re back-to-chest.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I bet you’ve spent your entire lifetime fucking your hand, dreaming of being someone’s bitch.”
“Please, Gallagher !”
The words sting in the sweetest way. Sunday feels completely undone – ruined and ravaged. He feels like a ghost of himself. The version of him that his Father created feels so far removed from the Halovian that’s being ruthlessly fucked by the man who once killed him. And. somehow, Sunday feels so much more alive ruined than he ever did standing on the elaborate stage of Penacony’s limelight.
He feels the most like himself when he’s broken.
“Sunday, come for me – show me how pretty you can really be.”
Gallagher’s gravelly voice rasps in his ear. Sunday can feel the rumble of his chest against his back, and he can smell aftershave and sweat on Gallagher’s skin. His hands reach up and bury themselves in the brown hair, yanking the strands so he can kiss him. The thrusts inside him grow frenzied, their rhythm turning erratic. Sunday’s cock bounces uselessly, the head weeping as his climax claws its way forward. He forces Gallagher’s mouth open with his tongue and chases after the lingering taste of ash in his mouth. The little air trapped between them mingles and trades like the spit between their lips. They kiss until Sunday’s lungs protest and his head spins from the absence of oxygen.
When Gallagher allows them to part, his lips peck at Sunday’s neck until they reach the junction of his shoulder, and then he bites down. Teeth split open the skin, and the sharp ends draw blood that he laps with his tongue.
The pain drives Sunday over the edge.
He comes with a scream – a garble of vowels that sound almost like Gallagher’s name. His cock, swollen and full, shoots long strings of cum across the sheets, painting some of the stray feathers with Sunday’s seed as his eyes lost their focus. Gallagher releases his grip on Sunday’s halo. He wraps his arm around him and lowers him to the mattress. Planting his arms beside Sunday’s tired head, he continues fucking into the tired body until his own orgasm burned through. Gallagher presses one last deep, unforgiving thrust into Sunday’s body, and he spills inside him – wetting the Halovian’s inside with his cum as he kisses at the stray tears running down the side of his face.
Gallagher whispers something in Sunday’s ears.
But, the words are lost to him. Sunday tries to hear through the thunder of his own heartbeat, but his eyes grow lazy as he settles into the afterglow of his climax. He blinks furiously, trying to fight away the urge to fall asleep, but Gallagher settles himself beside him and wraps his arms around Sunday. He pulls them close together and buries his head in the soft, damp locks of blue hair. Neither of them speaks. For once, there is nothing but silence between them. It stretches on, unhindered, as they each take long, ragged breaths and bask in the warmth that’s trapped between them.
Sunday counts each of Gallagher's breaths. He times the rise and fall of his chest, imprinting them in his brain along with every other detail he’s collected throughout the night. The world around them grows gradually darker, fading away as Sunday eases into the security of Gallagher’s arms.
A part of his heart scolds him. It reminds Sunday that the sex is nothing more than charity work. He is still a monster to the people he loves, and the scars across his body – the ones not placed by Gallagher – are still fresh. Sunday is not free. He still has sins to atone for. He is the Oak Family’s former Head and a traitor in the eyes of the majority of Penacony. But, the memories drift away with the rest of the world as warm lips press against his shoulder and a blanket is pulled across his body. He has no energy left to hate himself.
For tonight, at least, Sunday is content to remain ruined, and he falls asleep.