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Countless hands have laid upon him before, have stripped him bare and left him feeling utterly defiled…no hands have ever touched him like this. Sunday almost feels like he’s floating, a sea of clouds surrounding him. What a warm, serene, and sweet dream. He doesn’t dream like this often. No, often his slumber is plagued by nightmares, haunting visions of his past or even futures where his sister has died in his arms. Or futures where he is a failure, and has performed the ultimate sin.
He feels…wet. Yes, wet . And…there’s warmth between his legs, slick and tender, and that’s when he realizes what’s happening in his dream. A shapeless and faceless figure’s nestled itself between his legs, feasting on his holy flesh like the most handsome of devils. Sunday hears himself moan quietly, an embarrassing and muffled sound. It almost echoes, like he’s hearing it from afar. He wriggles in his sleep, but that figure seems to hold him down, keep him from floating too far away.
The wicked tongue of that obscure figure works wonders. The cruel fingers do too, carving him out in ways his own hands could never aspire to. Sunday arches off whatever surface he must be lying on, be it the clouds or the sofa he slumbers on in reality, and whines, as heat bubbles in his gut. Oh, that pleasant paradise is so close he can almost taste it. The mysterious figure seems to realize that too, and only quickens its movements, blurry between Sunday’s wide-spread legs, eating him out with new passion, devouring him whole.
Devouring him whole .
Sunday blinks, eyes fluttering as they try to adjust to the lamp light nearby. He barely registers that he’s waking up from his dream, but his apparent orgasm is like a fall on pavement. He stumbles out of the dream suddenly, groaning loudly, his whole body trembling. The obscure figure takes its true form, and that’s when Sunday realizes.
Between his legs is Gallagher. That damn Bloodhound took him in his sleep. That dog is the one culling this flightless bird, going in for the kill. Sunday sits upright, gasping, but Gallagher pushes him back down with a splayed hand across his chest.
“ Shhh, shhh, birdie. You’re okay.” He uses his knees to part Sunday’s legs despite how he tries so desperately to shut them, and makes space for himself, already unzipping his pants.
Sunday shakes, body still wracked with the aftershocks of his blinding orgasm. “Ah- wh- what — wait, please — ”
Gallagher’s leaning over him, nuzzling his neck as he moves to kiss and nibble his ear. Sunday melts then, all but dissolving into the sofa. “ You were saying my name during your sleep, birdie ,” he whispers. “Moaning it like a bitch, honestly. Heh…you knew it was me, didn’t ya?” He’s freed his cock now, fat and long and hard and aching with need. He guides it towards Sunday’s cunt, and the halovian glances down in panic, realizing his own dick’s hard too. It leaks streaks of messy precum across his exposed abdomen, and it’s then that he realizes he’s half-naked too. His shirt’s been rucked up to his chest, and his trousers are gone, and his underwear’s missing as well. There are faint marks on exposed expanses of his skin, telltale signs Gallagher’s been busy kissing and biting him too.
“W…Wait — Gallagher, wait — I’m… ”
“Nervous, angel?” Gallagher gives him that bastardly look, rust-colored eyes tainted with lust and the scent of rum on his breath.
Sunday’s breath is uneven, and his heart thuds so fast he fears it may beat right out of his chest. “I- I…I’m — ” His voice catches in his throat, and his wings curl inwards to cover his blushed face. “ I don’t …”
“Shhh. Relax . I’ll take good care of you, baby.” Gallagher kissed his forehead, tortuously gentle, then all but forces his cock inside, spearing Sunday open in one short, excruciatingly quick motion.
“ Ahhk — ” Sunday’s noises are more befitting of a wounded animal. He chokes on bubbles of spit in his throat, sputtering as his cunt struggles to accommodate the intrusion. “Nngh — Gallagher — ”
Gallagher kisses away his tears, already rocking his hips to a slow rhythm. “Shhh…you can take it, birdie. You can take it. ” He holds both sides of Sunday’s face, to keep him from covering it with his wings, and thumbs away more tears. “Breathe.”
Sunday’s got a knuckle-white grip on Gallagher’s wrists. “Hnngh — so — so much… ”
“Shhh, I know, baby.” Each thrust plunges deep, and Gallagher swears under his breath. He kisses Sunday’s cheek, smearing some spit and tears across it. “ Mm…feel so good. So good .” The praise is lackluster, but Sunday eats up the scraps like an abandoned animal.
Sunday whines, practically sobs, throwing his arms around Gallagher to cling on for dear life. His trim nails dig into the meat of Gallagher’s back, probably painful, but it only seems to excite the bloodhound more.
“Oh…yeah, yeah …” A noise rumbles from the back of Gallagher’s throat and then he groans, hands shifting down from Sunday’s face to instead support his weight on the sofa.
“ Ah — ahaah ,” the halovian cries. It’s too much. Too much to wake up to. And the thought that Gallagher would…would do this in his sleep? Take him, mark him, defile him? He doesn’t know whether to be honored or disgusted. He tries to convince himself of the former, but cruel memories plague the back of his mind. They claw and fight their way to the forefront, and Sunday can’t stop crying, so miserable as he whimpers in Gallagher’s ear.
He remembers how…how he used to do this. How he used to come to Sunday’s bedroom at night and do the very same thing. And it was never enjoyable. It never felt good. It was like he didn’t care if Sunday felt good. Only cared about getting his own. But at least Gallagher’s trying. The path to hell is paved with good intentions. He may try to make Sunday feel good but… fuck.
“Birdie? Birdie, you with me?” That voice drags him back to the present. Gallagher’s stopped moving, thumbing away tears that drip down Sunday’s face. “Hey, hey… angel . What’s the matter? Want me to stop?”
At least he’s asking. He never did. Sunday’s lip quivers. He struggles to speak. “I don’t…did I…” Did he…did he permit Gallagher to do this? Was it the clothes he dressed himself in before his nap? What had he done to make Gallagher take him in his sleep? “Did I tell you…to…to do this..?”
Gallagher’s face drops. The realization hits him like a thrown plate smashing to pieces against a wall. He fucked up. Holy shit, he fucked up . Fuck. “Oh- baby… I thought — do you wanna stop? We can stop. Just give me the word. I don’t wanna do this if you’re not loving it.”
In truth, he wants to keep going. His traitorous body demands it. Aeons, but not like this . “It’s t-too…” Words fail him. “C-Can’t…”
“Too rough? I can slow down. Whatever you want, baby .” The words are so sweet on a sour tongue.
“Mmmhhh…” Sunday can’t see through the blur of tears in his vision. All he can muster are broken syllables, fragmented babblings that do little to get his point across. He hammers his fist against Gallagher’s chest, pulling him down with his other hand. “Too – hhh…I can’t…can’t do it…”
Gallagher’s so still, cradling Sunday in his arms like something fragile, something delicate and worthy of protecting. “Angel…” The word is saccharine, and Sunday relishes the taste of it on Gallagher’s lips, kissing him like it’s all he’s ever known. “ Mmh ..?”
“Slower,” Sunday says, voice all but breaking. He wraps his arms around Gallagher’s torso, and locks his legs behind him, ankles crossed. “ Slower, please …”
“Anything, angel.” Gallagher moves forward just a smidge, but not before caressing Sunday’s face with his hand, swiping away salty tears. Sunday’s face is a blotchy mess, but damn it all he’s still so beautiful. “Mmmh…like this?” Gallagher rolls his hips, so painfully slow, so gentle that Sunday could start crying again. But he doesn’t instead keeping his eyes locked on Gallagher’s cock, where it disappears inside of his body.
“Mhm…hhh… Gallagher …”
Gallagher nuzzles into his neck as he moves, each thrust languid, leisurely. He takes his time, not a movement too sudden or too sharp. He doesn’t plunge deep, bearing no intention of overwhelming the little birdie. “So good… good boy, so good .” A kiss on Sunday’s neck, then his jaw, then his wet cheek. Then another on his cheek, and another. “ Fuck, I love you. ”
Sunday doesn’t even register those last few words, too dizzy and high to hear them. “It feels so good,” he manages to say, his voice breathless. “ Don’t stop… ”
“Of course not.” Gallagher peppers his skin with kisses. Should he bite him some more, mark him up? He mulls it over in his head. In the meantime…he curls a hand around Sunday’s little dick, slowly working the shaft to bring him closer. He wants to see him come again. Needs to. It’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. Sunday, usually so uptight and stern, a blushing mess, face twisted into an expression of ecstasy. “Oh…yes…” Sunday’s tightening up on him.
There’s that feeling again. The feeling of floating, soaring in the air. Even a flightless bird can manage this, it seems. Sunday tips his head back, mouth falling open with a quiet moan, and Gallagher leaps at the chance, sucking over a spot on his neck. It does Sunday in, and he comes, thin and watery spurts all over his belly and Gallagher’s hand. “ Ghh…hnnngh…”
“Yes, yes ,” Gallagher pants against him. It’s just what he needs. His hand hasn’t let go, still jerking the halovian off like a practiced skill. “ Keepcomingkeepcomingkeepcoming, ” Gallagher sputters. “Close, baby, I’m close – ” Of course he is. Why wouldn't he be? When Sunday’s cunt grips him so tightly, spasming with every aftershock, milking him for all he’s worth? Gallagher is anything but silent when he spills inside, cock buried deep, lips pressed to Sunday’s neck, nuzzling him. Whispering praises that could make Sunday cry upon hearing them, if he weren’t so dazed.
“Mm…” Sunday weakly raises an arm, trying to hug Gallagher impossibly closer. His weight upon him is oddly comforting. It grounds him. Sunday wonders if this is all just a dream too. “Gallagher…”
The old hound’s still catching his breath too. Even so, he can’t seem to stop kissing the halovian, practically smothering him with affection. Sunday knows it's an apology. He’s been apologized to like this before. But somehow…this feels genuine.
“ Love you, angel…fuck, I love you. ”
But would someone who loves Sunday still hurt him?