Work Text:
Sunday’s fingers twitch almost imperceptibly from where they remain tightly clasped behind his back. He watches Gallagher pick up a miniature piece from the Penacony scale model, which Sunday had placed in just the right spot, and his frown deepens. He’ll have to go back and rearrange the molds so they sit in perfect alignment with the prototype, otherwise it will nag Sunday endlessly. Gallagher hums, and he seems to be inspecting the piece he picked up very carefully– though it is just a tree, and Sunday can’t imagine what could possibly be so intriguing about it.
“This is a very realistic model you’ve got here,” Gallagher says, the suddenness of his comment startling Sunday, who had been intent on not being the first to speak up. His nails dig into his palm, though still protected by his gloves. “I can’t help but find it strange that you have the entirety of Penacony replicated on this table; are you so paranoid that you need to keep tabs on each building under your administration, down to the exact measurement?” Sunday exhales through his nose, and graces the man with a thin lipped smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Ah, it is merely art, Mr. Gallagher.” Sunday says, to which Gallagher huffs and tosses the tree back onto the table, which wobbles haphazardly before falling on its side. Sunday feels his eye twitch.
“Sure, but the mazes and traps I had to fight through to get here speak for themself,” Gallagher shrugs, striding calmly past the scale model and moving to stand in front of Sunday. Face to face, Sunday realizes with belated trepidation, he stands several inches below Gallagher, and has to lift his chin to meet the latter’s eyes. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the owner of this mansion was mentally unwell.” Sunday bristles at this, not appreciating the implication that his mind is anything but fully intact, and moves his hands to cross over his chest.
“Don’t get bold now, Hound. You have a job, or did you forget?” Sunday scowls, and suddenly is overcome with the urge to take a step back, because Gallagher is leaning in and he’s close, and Sunday can smell the lingering scent of alcohol on his breath, and this is dangerous territory he doesn’t want to cross into. Gallagher must sense his discomfort, but he doesn’t make a move to step back, and with this proximity Sunday realizes he could reach out and button Gallagher’s shirt properly, and his fingers itch with the sudden desire to straighten that damn tie. He takes in a deep breath and instantly regrets it as his lungs are further filled with the scent of Gallagher’s musky cologne (Sunday tries not to wrinkle his nose), and so instead he focuses on keeping eye contact and trying to appear as outwardly calm as possible.
“Sorry boss,” Gallagher smiles, and his voice takes on a rasp that does not help Sunday’s predicament. “I’m just kiddin’, you don’t have to get all upset.” Sunday scoffs and pulls back.
“There’s no need to act chummy with me, Mr. Gallagher. Your apparent lack of care put into this case only highlights my suspicion that you and the real serial killer are connected.” He retorts, and he watches the moment Gallagher’s eyes shift from amused to something dark, something more dangerous. He barks out a laugh.
“What, now you’re accusin’ me?” Sunday narrows his eyes, watching as Gallagher runs a hand down his face. “I’ve been called many things, but a murderer is definitely new.” Sunday doesn’t respond, and Gallagher’s face flares into barely constrained anger. “You’re a fuckin’ lunatic; first you and The Family remove my claws, rip out my fangs, and now you’re accusing me of being an accomplice to murder?”
Sunday exhales sharply. “Don’t dare to pretend to have a smidgen of innocence, follower of the Enigmata. You and I both know this has been taken too far.”
Gallagher doesn’t respond, and Sunday meets his angered gaze, staring into his orange eyes that so deeply resemble Sir Whittaker. Sunday had never paid any mind to Sir Whittaker’s eyes, but now he finds himself a bit mesmerized. It settles an uncomfortable pit in his stomach.
Gallagher huffs suddenly. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about the shitshow in the theme park rather than an old dog like me?” Sunday shakes his head.
“No, that is merely an.. uncalculated performance. It is of no concern,” Sunday narrows his eyes. “Do you really think I would’ve let it go this far if I did not truly want it to play out? No, Hound, you have always been the one I’ve had my eyes on since the very beginning.”
“I’m flattered, really,” Gallagher offers a jagged grin. “But now that you’ve caught me, what will you do?” He takes a step forward, closing the gap that Sunday had put between them. Unbidden nervousness seeps into Sunday’s blood and he retreats, startling when the backs of his knees suddenly hit a couch and he falls onto plush cushions. Gallagher cages him in with his arms, and he looks at him with wide eyes, wings twitching in anxiety. Gallagher leans in, mouth tickling Sunday’s ear, and his voice drops to a whisper. “Will you lock me up, send me away for life? Or will you administer justice yourself? Make me pay for the death of your sister, who never quivered quite as deliciously as you?”
“You–” Sunday growls, but is abruptly cut off by a hand gripping his hair, yanking his head back. He makes a noise involuntarily at the action, something carnal he didn’t know he was capable of, and both men freeze at the sound. Gallagher recovers first, letting out a sharp laugh.
“Oh, you get off on this?” He asks, and Sunday flusters, face going red in mixed embarrassment and anger. He grabs Gallagher’s wrist, who still has his hand tangled tightly in Sunday’s hair. The pull is painful, but it sparks something in Sunday’s lower abdomen, much to his chagrin.
“Let go of me, you filthy dog!” Sunday hisses, wincing when Gallagher pulls his head back a little more. It elicits a small whimper from the back of his throat, to which Gallagher chuckles.
“Nah, I don’t think you really want me to.” He says, tilting his face down so his lips brush over Sunday’s pulse point. His facial hair tickles his neck uncomfortably.
“What are you doin– ah!” Sunday startles as Gallagher presses a kiss to his neck, sucking a mark into the pale skin and laving over the spot with his tongue. He pulls Sunday’s head back further for better access, tilting his head so he can pepper open-mouthed kisses down the expanse of Sunday’s neck.
It’s all hunger with no passion behind it. Gallagher kisses bruises into Sunday’s skin and bullies the tender mark there with his tongue, listening to the way Sunday’s breath hitches and keens. Sunday clings to him desperately as he travels further down his neck, and he brings a hand up to fondle one of Sunday’s feathers, and oh– Sunday moans, and the noise is so filthy and loud that even Gallagher pauses his ministrations. Sunday snaps his mouth shut, watching as Gallagher smirks arrogantly in a way that says he’ll be saving that information for later.
Bastard.
Gallagher releases his grip on Sunday’s hair, leaning in and clashing his mouth against Sunday’s. Their kiss is careless and filled with a fervor that feels more like obsession than love, and when Gallagher pushes his tongue inside Sunday parts his lips to allow entrance. He clutches at the front of Gallagher’s suit vest, losing himself in the feeling of Gallagher’s lips on his, and his tongue in his mouth. His stubble is almost painful against Sunday’s face, and he finds himself quickly losing the battle for dominance, Gallagher’s tongue practically fucking in and out of his throat. Sunday nearly chokes, but Gallagher knows exactly when to pull away and when to dive back in again.
The noise of their mouths against each other echo throughout the otherwise quiet room, and it’s so deplorable that Sunday finds himself wondering if They would condemn him for this. Any prayer on his mind is quickly wiped away by Gallagher’s fingers returning to Sunday’s wings, however, and he finds himself panting openly against Gallagher’s mouth, moaning into the kiss more than actively reciprocating it. When Gallagher pulls away, their mouths are connected by a thin trail of saliva, and Sunday’s lips are red and spit-slick.
Sunday feels as though he must be going crazy, because how could he find something such as this so pleasurable with a man such as Gallagher? He squeezes his eyes shut, wings twitching frantically as though trying to escape the hand that threads through them, tweaking and pulling at feathers. Little whimpers continuously break free from Sunday’s lips, and they seem to spur Gallagher on, because suddenly he’s moving to undo the buttons of Sunday’s suit. Sunday’s breath catches in his throat, and his eyes fly open as Gallagher’s fingers skillfully pop open the buttons of his dress shirt.
“Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop.” Gallagher’s voice catches Sunday off guard, gruff and tinged with thinly veiled lust, and he hesitates for a moment. Guilt simmers in his blood, but his desire sings and he makes a split second decision he’ll let himself regret later.
“If you stop I’ll kill you,” Sunday growls, and Gallagher grins, pushing Sunday’s shirt off his shoulders and pressing him into the the couch.
“That’s what I thought, angel.” Gallagher sounds infuriatingly smug, but Sunday can’t bring himself to snap back when his nipple is suddenly being enveloped by a warm heat. He flinches on instinct, but Gallagher holds him steady against the cushions, swirling his tongue around Sunday’s hardening nipple. Sunday, not knowing what to do with his hands, awkwardly threads his fingers through Gallagher’s hair, and the moan Gallagher gives when he squeezes is enough confirmation for him to take on a tighter grip. He keeps Gallagher flush against his chest, voice breaking and muffled by his other hand, which he clamps heavily over his mouth.
This is enough for Gallagher to pull back, much to Sunday’s dismay (which he lets be known with a disconcerted whine), but Gallagher hushes him by pulling his hand away and pressing a kiss to his mouth that is much too soft for their relationship, if it can even be called as much.
“Don’t hide from me,” Gallagher says, and Sunday scans his gaze for a hint of anything– any emotion that may give away his internal feelings, but he only finds glistening eyes that belong to someone else and a slight uptilt of a mouth that Sunday has unnervingly become acquainted with. “I want to hear you sing, little bird.”
Sunday gasps again as Gallagher returns to his chest, sucking and pulling on his nipple, dragging the perk bud through his teeth in a way that is painfully delectable. He tweaks at Sunday’s other nipple with his hand, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger, and Sunday realizes with a start how hard he is in his pants, and–
The pleasure is building and it feels good, and Sunday is struck by the realization that he’s going to come too soon. He’s never been touched in a way that feels this jarring, the flames of pleasure licking up his body and engulfing him in an inferno that Sunday wants to burn. His cock is straining against the fabric of his pants, and he tries to let Gallagher know, to make him stop, but his mouth hangs open and all he can make are choked sounds of pleasure, so instead he pulls on Gallagher’s hair to try and get him away from his chest.
Gallagher catches on, smirking against his nipple, but he doesn’t slow down nor stop, moving his hand from Sunday’s other side down his torso. He trails down Sunday’s bare chest and fiddles with Sunday’s belt, and by the time Sunday realizes what he’s doing he’s already slipped his hand past Sunday’s pants and underwear, palming hard against Sunday’s erection. This is enough for Sunday to unravel; he feels his mind blank out and his mouth drops in a silent scream, and he’s coming hard all in his nice pants and surely ruining his boxers.
He feels akin to a bird taking flight, spreading his wings and departing into a pure white sky that buzzes with aftershock, but all too soon he finds himself swaying and tumbling to the ground, caught in the jaws of a Hound, who holds his trembling body as he languidly strokes him through his orgasm.
Sunday is quivering, and he can hear Gallagher whistle, low in his throat. “Damn, you must really be pent up to have come that fast.” Sunday punches at his chest weakly, and Gallagher catches his fist and raises it to his mouth, giving his knuckles a chaste kiss that suddenly makes Sunday want to cry. Post-orgasmic clarity is returning to him, as is the shame, and he’s ready to tell Gallagher to get the hell off and get out when Gallagher goes to unbuckle his own belt.
“What are you doing?” Sunday rasps, and his voice breaks on the last word in a way that he will deny ever occurring. Gallagher stops and looks up at him (he’s leaning back on the couch, panting hard, bare chest flushed and red with marks), raising his eyebrow. Sunday looks back at him warily.
“What, you’re not gonna let me fuck you?” Gallagher asks, and the bluntness of his request (because it is an invitation, right?) takes Sunday off guard, who flusters and sputters an indignant response. “Don’t go lookin’ all embarrassed now, I just had my hand down your pants.”
“You–” Gallagher fixes him with a deadpan stare, and he quickly clamps his mouth closed, wings fluttering beside his head. The cum is starting to dry at the edges and it’s uncomfortably dirty in his boxers, and Gallagher is looking at him with such an intense primalness that his cock is beginning to rise again, and he’s already made so many regrets this night, so what’s one more?
He wiggles out of his pants and underwear and removes the final clasp of his shirt, leaving himself completely naked under the hungry eyes of the Hound. Gallagher looks annoyingly appeased as he removes his belt, pulling his cock out of his pants and fuck– now Sunday can see the extent of his hard-on, large and fully erect in front of him. Sunday has had sex with men before, all quick flings with partners he easily forgot the names of the morning after, but now he finds himself feeling like an inexperienced virgin. He doesn’t want to feed into Gallagher’s ego too much but..
“That won’t fit.” Sunday states, and Gallagher only grins.
“It will,” He responds easily, leaning forward again and maneuvering Sunday so he’s laying on his back, arms ensnaring him beside his head. “Don’t fly away from me now, little mourning dove.”
Sunday doesn’t get the opportunity to snarl at this chosen endearment nor ponder the meaning behind his words, because before he knows it Gallagher is stuffing two fingers down his throat. Sunday gags, hands flying up to grip Gallagher’s wrist. He glares up at him, and he must surely look like a fool, because Gallagher laughs.
“Don’t want to hurt you, so get my fingers nice and wet, won’t ya?” Sunday wants to wipe that self-satisfied grin from his face, but after a moment he remembers that he will actually be in him soon, so he reluctantly begins sucking at Gallagher’s fingers, wrapping his tongue around the two digits. The fabric of Gallagher’s fingerless glove feels rough against his tongue, and tastes faintly like cigarette smoke. It makes Sunday want to push his fingers out of his mouth and reprimand the man, but then Gallagher is pushing in a third finger deeper into his mouth, and Sunday’s eyes are rolling back as his gag reflex kicks in.
Sunday’s mouth is opened so wide it nearly aches, but the discomfort is welcomed, and it easily fades into the background as Gallagher fucks his fingers into his throat. Drool dribbles down Sunday’s chin and he’s since stopped trying to keep up with his tongue, letting it lay flat against the floor of his mouth. He can hear the wet smack of fingers as if they’re far away, and it hits him with no amount of urgency that those gurgled ah-ah-ah noises are coming from him.
He feels almost far away, and it scares him how quickly he’s falling into this headspace, into this submission, with his sister’s murderer, but Gallagher holds his waist with his other hand, and his grip isn’t even bruising, and he’s looking at him so fiercely that Sunday has to close his eyes. He lets himself fall into the feeling of Gallagher’s fingers in his mouth, down his throat, invading his very being and carving a space in Sunday’s chest for himself that he doesn’t know he’ll ever be able to fill.
Sunday’s wings feel lax against his head, and he jumps when Gallagher suddenly yanks at one, pain bursting with simultaneous pleasure, his shout muffled by Gallagher’s fingers. Gallagher continues the rough movement of his fingers, and by now Sunday is fully hard again, cock leaking and beaded with pre-cum. Sunday balls his fists into the burgundy cotton of the couch, shaking like a leaf as Gallagher manhandles his wings. He thinks he might come again, but all too soon Gallagher removes his fingers, and Sunday is heaving for breath, releasing a broken moan. Spit completely covers Gallagher’s fingers, and he lightly scoops up more from Sunday’s chin.
He examines Sunday’s fucked-out face and hums, pulling hard again at his wing, reveling in the high keen Sunday lets out at the motion. His eyes feel wet.
“Y’know, I think I like you more like this,” He traces his spit-slick fingers around Sunday’s rim. “You’re much better on the ears than your sister.”
Sunday wants to slap him, yell at him, break him for that remark, but all he can do is moan shakily as Gallagher’s finger pushes into him slowly. Evidently not taking the hint, Gallagher continues, “She’s nice and all, and hell, she sure can sing, but her voice is nothing compared to the songs you’ve been giving me.”
Sunday whines, wanting to pull away, the burn both too much and not enough. Gallagher hushes him, shallowly rocking his finger in and out. The fabric of his glove catches on his hole and is a weird contrast to the feeling of Gallagher’s bare finger, and Sunday can’t imagine why he would do this with them still on, though he hates to admit that he kind of likes it. “Relax, little bird. Let this hound ravage you.”
Sunday chokes on an inhale as Gallagher adds another finger, the tears finally trailing down his flushed cheeks. Gallagher leans forward and licks them away, and Sunday gasps and lifts his head, catching Gallagher’s lips in a messy kiss. It’s sloppy and wet and they’re more so pressing their lips together than actually kissing, but Gallagher rolls Sunday’s lower lip between his teeth anyway, and Sunday moans openly into his mouth because it’s just Gallagher; it’s only Gallagher who can hear him make these noises, for they are alone and They are not there to witness Sunday’s irreverence.
Yet, They are everywhere, They have taken residence deep inside him, They–
“I can hear you thinking, Sunday.” Gallagher whispers against his mouth, and Sunday realizes regretfully that he had stopped kissing back. Gallagher curls his fingers inside him, and Sunday’s mind frazzles to nothingness. He moans, leg kicking uncontrollably, and Gallagher grabs his foot with the hand he isn’t using, kissing his ankle and biting cruelly at the skin there. “Think about me or don’t think at all, angel.”
The sentiment is nearly enough to make Sunday bawl, so instead he snivels around tears and wraps his arms around Gallagher’s neck. They shouldn’t be doing this; this feels far too intimate, far too loving for people like them. Sunday darts his eyes down, watching Gallagher fuck his fingers in and out of his hole, and the sight is almost enough to tip him over the edge. Gallagher adds a third finger, and Sunday throws his head back, lost in sensation. Gallagher takes the invitation to attach to his neck, sucking over the bruises from earlier. He lets go of Sunday’s leg to pump his cock in time with his thrusts. He twists his thumb over the head and digs his nail into the glans just slightly.
Sunday cries out, and then he’s coming for the second time that night, painting his belly and Gallagher’s hand in white ribbons. His wings quiver minutely, and he clenches down on nothing when Gallagher slips his fingers out. His thighs are trembling and he’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat, hair sticking to his forehead.
Gallagher continues to stroke him until Sunday is whining and leaning away from overstimulation. He gives a noncommittal hum, bringing his hand up to his mouth and licking Sunday’s cum off his thumb. Sunday stares in shock, mild disgust mingling in, because how can that be sanitary? Humiliatingly, it also elicits a deep pool of arousal to spark in his groin. Gallagher swipes a glob of cum from Sunday’s stomach and uses it to lubricate his own cock, moaning lowly when he finally makes contact. He fucks the rest of the cum from his hand back into Sunday, who winces at the feeling, whimpering despite himself.
“That’s gross, don’t–” Sunday objects, but Gallagher ignores him, pushing forward until his cock is lined up to Sunday’s fluttering hole.
“Angel, sex is gross,” Gallagher huffs, and the tip of his cock presses in lightly. “Now, will you let this damned dog have his way with you?” He looks at Sunday expectantly, and he realizes he must be asking for consent to continue, which brings about an onslaught of feelings Sunday would rather ignore. He wants to scream, to cry, to run away; he doesn’t know how to handle all of these emotions when shame and pleasure have become so inexplicably intertwined.
Instead of doing any of those things, Sunday nods. Accepting the nonverbal cue as permission, Gallagher pushes his cock past the rim of Sunday’s hole. The feeling invades all senses, and Sunday wraps his legs around Gallagher’s waist, pulling him in deeper and clenching around his length. They both moan in unison, and Sunday feels himself shaking as Gallagher nudges past tight rings of muscle. Despite being thoroughly prepared, Sunday’s body still fights the stretch, and the burn hurts. Sunday is contrite to admit that the cum helps.
“Relax, angel,” Gallagher grunts, rolling his hips in small motions that make Sunday gasp. He forces himself to relax, going boneless against the couch, and Gallagher praises him for his efforts, in his own backwards and twisted ways.
“Fuck– that’s right, you feel so good, baby, so tight around me,” Gallagher groans, and it feels like an eternity until he’s finally bottomed out, hips flush against Sunday’s ass. The intrusion is only mildly uncomfortable, and Sunday moans when he feels Gallagher’s cock twitch inside him. The discomfort quickly transforms into pleasure when Gallagher rocks his hips experimentally, and Sunday links his ankles behind Gallagher’s back as he begins to thrust in and out.
Gallagher wastes no time in making good on his word, thrusting into Sunday fast and hard, who finds himself falling behind as Gallagher sets the pace. He babbles nonsensically, unable to form coherent words as Gallagher effectively fucks the thoughts from his head, almost feeling his cock in his throat. Gallagher groans, biting the lobe of Sunday’s ear, who keens pitifully, unable to decide whether to lean in or pull away.
“Ah- ah–!” Sunday couldn’t keep himself quiet even if he wanted to, and he finds himself almost feeling grateful that the IPC delegate is putting on a show for Penacony, because Sunday is putting on his own show right here, for an audience of only one.
“God– if I knew you would feel like this I would’ve fucked you so much earlier,” Gallagher’s hot breath tickles Sunday’s ear. “I can’t get enough of you– who knew defiling such a pious man would feel so good–”
Sunday moves his hands to wrap around Gallagher’s throat. “I didn’t– ah!– realize you’d talk this much–” He jeers, squeezing over Gallagher’s Adam’s apple just slightly. It’s barely enough pressure to be harmful, and Sunday feels weak enough as it is, but it still causes Gallagher’s pupils to dilate and a heady moan to tumble past his lips. It doesn’t stunt his movement; in fact, it seems to only spur him on. He puts more force behind his thrusts, pounding deep inside Sunday with a lewd slap of his balls and an accompanying cry from the man below him.
Sunday keeps his hold on Gallagher’s throat until he suddenly hits a bundle of nerves inside him that makes Sunday’s mouth drop open in a choked scream, and Gallagher grins and targets the spot, hitting his prostate head on with every thrust. Sunday’s hands drop back to the couch, clutching futilely at the pillows that are now strewn carelessly across the couch and on the floor. His hands open and close in search of something, and Gallagher must take pity because all of a sudden his hand is being intertwined with another. Gallagher holds Sunday’s waist with his other hand, leaning forward so he’s almost bending him in half, and fucking into him with renewed vigor.
Sunday, despite his apprehensions, squeezes Gallagher’s hand tightly, spit trailing from his agape mouth down his chin. Gallagher squeezes back, which is an action that catches Sunday off guard, who has been repeatedly taken by surprise just this night alone. Sunday can’t think, can’t speak– he feels like he’s being fucked into another dimensional plane, which is such a ridiculous thought that if he were lucid enough, he would have dismissed it with a scoff.
“I’m getting close,” Gallagher groans, sounding almost breathless (it does wonders to Sunday’s pride to hear him so equally affected), and Sunday can only nod frantically in response, wings flapping in– what? He can’t tell.
His cock bounces on his stomach as Gallagher pistons into him, and he expects Gallagher to take his cock in his hand, but instead Gallagher keeps his hand gripped tightly on his waist and tilts his head so he can bite Sunday’s wing, and Aeons– that must be an infinitely better outcome, because suddenly Sunday is coming untouched.
Gallagher acknowledges his orgasm with a grunt, but doesn’t make any move to pull out, not even when Sunday begins to spasm from overstimulation. His thrusts become erratic and he fucks into Sunday with reckless abandon, playing with a stray feather between his teeth. Sunday’s wings desperately try to flap away, feeling too much all at once, but Gallagher is relentless, nosing into the feathers and sucking at where the thin bone connects the wing to Sunday’s head. Sunday wails, legs slipping behind Gallagher’s back, and feels himself go totally pliant in Gallagher’s grasp.
Gallagher detaches from Sunday’s wing and growls, a guttural noise emitting deep from his throat, and Sunday is crying again, holding Gallagher’s hand so tightly it must hurt.
“Fuck– look at you, so pretty and perfect beneath me–” Gallagher prattles off, and Sunday can’t even rebuke him this time, because all at once Gallagher is coming, pushed totally flush against Sunday’s reddened ass. The feeling of Gallagher’s semen releasing inside him is uncomfortable to Sunday’s kindled nerves, but it brings a low and drawn-out moan from his throat, which is hoarse and sore from use.
Gallagher rides his high inside Sunday, grinding against his prostrate in a way that brings fresh tears to his eyes. He has half a mind to beg him to go easy, but the more sane part of his brain dismisses the idea immediately.
What would he say? What would he sound like, screaming please! please Gallagher, have mercy– pleasepleaseplease–
Sunday whimpers, and Gallagher notices the faint twitch of his cock amusedly, chuckling to himself.
“Lost in fantasies, angel?” He asks, and after a moment of no reply (Sunday doesn’t think he could speak anyway) he gives a pointed look at their still entwined hand. Sunday feels his face burn and he quickly lets go of Gallagher’s hand, who rolls his wrist with a low whistle. He slowly pulls out, and Sunday, still overstimulated, whines as Gallagher’s cock brushes against sensitive walls. He pulls out with a wet pop, and Sunday winces at the feeling of his seed seeping out of his hole. Gallagher meanly swipes across it, gathering some on his fingers, and Sunday gasps and clenches down on nothing, which only serves to push more cum out from within.
He glares at Gallagher, who tilts his head in mock apology. “Sorry, dove,” He brings his fingers to Sunday’s mouth, brushing some cum across his lips, who wrinkles his nose in revulsion. “Care to taste?” Sunday wants to say no, but his brain is muddled and foggy and for some damned reason he can’t help but be awfully curious.. so he parts his lips and takes Gallagher’s fingers back into his mouth, cleaning the cum from his fingers with his tongue. It tastes slightly salty and really isn’t too grand, and the texture makes Sunday want to gag, but his brain is still slow and in that blissful faraway space, so he makes a show of curling his tongue around Gallagher’s digits and swallowing his semen whole.
Gallagher groans. “Don’t go doin’ that, angel, you’re gonna make me want to ravish you all over again.” Sunday blinks lazily up at him with clouded eyes, happy to just lay there with Gallagher’s fingers stuffed down his throat, and Gallagher curses and unfortunately removes his fingers.
He stands and stretches, and Sunday watches with a growing dread as he tucks his cock away and straightens his vest, and– did he seriously not undress during that at all? Sunday feels too distant for this, far too out of his element, and he can only lay back and watch in anguish as Gallagher turns to leave without a word.
Sunday wants to tell him to stop, to come back, dammit– but his throat feels like it's closed itself off and no sounds are lodging its way past. He shouldn’t have expected Gallagher to stay, of course; they don’t like each other, and Sunday was surely just a quick fuck for him to get out of taking responsibility for his crimes. It hits Sunday like a freight train, and he suddenly feels dirty and used, watching Gallagher walk out the door to hell knows where.
Sunday stares up at the ceiling and feels tears prick at his eyes. He’s already cried several times that night, but this time is different, and he lets out a small noise of distress as his jumbled brain struggles to catch up. He feels like he can barely move, he’s so tired, and it’s not like his other flings have ever stayed either, but this time feels different– feels like it was supposed to be different.
He thinks about Robin, and the guilt is crushing him, pressing down on his chest in a way that is painful and makes it hard to breathe. How could he have forsaken her like this? By laying with the enemy? Would They forgive him for this transgression?
The cum spilling from his hole is beginning to harden, and it’s maddeningly uncomfortable, and it’s just so dirty that Sunday wants it gone– and it feels like more than that is dirty too. He closes his eyes tightly; the ceiling was beginning to spin and Sunday couldn’t follow the twisting patterns with his eyes without a dull ache settling behind his temples.
He hiccups around a sob, and he feels so stupid– because what else could he possibly be? Why is he so worked up over this?
Why did he leave me? He was supposed to stay– I don’t understand, did I not do good? He left, he left, he–
Sunday’s spiraling is interrupted by the sound of a basin full of water being set down next to the couch. His eyes snap open and through his blurry vision he manages to focus on a figure–
“Shit– are you okay?” Gallagher asks, and Sunday realizes he’s shaking, gasping wetly around choked intakes of breath. Sunday sobs, the grief he’s been repressing suddenly catching up to him all at once, and the couch dips as Gallagher sits next to him, pulling Sunday into his lap and awkwardly threading his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry angel, I didn’t mean to leave you.”
Sunday pulls his knees close, pushing his face into Gallagher’s lap, and hesitantly wraps his arms around the other’s torso. It’s a cruel sort of irony that it’s him comforting Sunday, and the voices in Sunday’s head scream at him, but he can only sniffle and relax because he came back.
“I’m sorry,” Sunday croaks, and he mentally slaps himself for it, because why is he apologizing to him? Gallagher only shrugs, scratching at Sunday’s scalp in a way that makes Sunday trill, tilting his head back into the touch.
“‘S okay, subdrops happen. I shoulda told you I was leaving to get a washcloth.” Gallagher says, and Sunday’s brows furrow.
“A what?” He asks, his brain still feeling annoyingly sluggish. The fatigue seeps into his bones, wearing him down as though he were bound with weights.
Silence follows for a moment. “..A washcloth?” Gallagher repeats, and Sunday groans and hides his face further in Gallagher’s lap. His nose is directly over Gallagher’s clothed groin, but it doesn’t feel at all sexual, despite the intimate acts they were engaged in only a while before.
“No you imbecile, the other thing.” Sunday growls, and his words are frustratingly slurred, and his eyes are drooping as though he may fall asleep. His mind warns against being so vulnerable here with the other man, but his heart leaps with joy at being held in such a loving manner– even if that love is false. Sunday can pretend for tonight alone.
“You don’t know about subdrops?” Gallagher questions slowly, and Sunday shakes his head. Gallagher sighs and smooths his ruffled feathers with a hand. It doesn’t feel arousing this time, just pleasurably gentle. It’s too much– nobody but Robin has ever preened him with such care, and Sunday flicks his wing to let Gallagher know to let go. He does. “Shit, I figured you were a little inexperienced, but I thought you’d know the basics of submission,” Sunday bristles, and Gallagher soothes him wordlessly by brushing through the knots in his hair with his fingers. He’s warm, unbearably so. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that, I’m sorry.”
“I wanted to do this, unless you’ve forgotten, so don’t go now and regret what I so graciously offered.” Sunday bites out, and Gallagher laughs softly, pulling his hands from Sunday’s hair.
“Ha, fair enough. Can I get the washcloth or do you want to stay like this for a little longer? The basin is just on the floor next to us.” Gallagher slowly pries Sunday away from his lap, taking in his red rimmed eyes and bruised lips. The marks on his neck travel down the expanse of his chest in littered purple and blue splotches.
Sunday thinks about it– he’s comfortable, and the feeling of Gallagher’s arm around him is enticing enough to let him just fall asleep right where he is, but the crusted cum around his asshole and inner thighs is becoming unbearable, as is the sweat covering his body, and he’s too tired to even attempt a shower, so this will have to do.
He hums, shifting back so Gallagher can lean down to retrieve the basin. He lies on his back and takes a moment to mourn the loss of the couch, because there’s absolutely no way he’s keeping it after the substances it’s been exposed to. Even a thorough wash or two would not cleanse this sofa of what it’s endured, and Sunday does not feel morally inclined to let guests sit on it after what he’s done there.
Gallagher dips the washcloth in the basin and carefully cleans away the remaining semen from Sunday’s body, who lays still and silent for the process. This is a side of Gallagher he wasn’t expecting, and he almost wishes he hadn’t experienced it, because how can the murderer of his most cherished person be the same man who leaves light kisses on his thighs as he gently wipes away the remnants of Sunday’s sins?
Sunday feels himself slipping far away, and it should scare him, but he only feels a deep sense of satisfaction and contentment that slows his heart into sleep. His breaths even, and he barely registers Gallagher kissing the sweat from his neck, dropping the dirtied washcloth back into the basin. He expects him to leave again, for the warm presence of another body to vanish, but it stays constant as Gallagher pulls Sunday back into his lap, facing towards him so his halo doesn’t stick uncomfortably into his side.
Gallagher doesn’t touch his wings again, but he leans down and leaves a lingering kiss on Sunday’s forehead. It feels like a promise, like the start of a new beginning, yet also like a goodbye. Sunday feels himself steadily losing consciousness, and he shouldn’t be trusting the Hound the way he is, but sleep has entangled him in its clutches and he can’t feel worried anymore.
Gallagher moves a stray piece of hair behind Sunday’s ear. “You sang well today, mourning dove. I hope to hear you perform again soon.”
It’s the last thing Sunday hears before he falls asleep, wrapped in a warm embrace. He’ll wake up later, alone and in growing mortification of the night before, and his clothes will be folded neatly on the couch that still has stains, with a silver lighter laying conspicuously on top, but for now he sleeps, blanketed by the darkness of the Penacony night.
It’s a dog eat dog world, and Sunday is no better than a common Hound.