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Sunday does not like to involve himself with the Watchmaker’s business. He already has to deal with the dealings on the legal side that more than frustrates him, and he knows if invited to partake in Gallagher’s meetings with other clans and Family’s that he would put a bullet in his mouth. Or withhold sex.
Sex, he has come to find out in various, pleasurable ways, is always the best thing to use when he wants something from his darling lover. It’s still hard, somewhat, to sway his hips enticingly and bat his eyes when he runs a hand down a thick, muscular chest to grope at the cock hidden away, but he was getting better. He wouldn’t be nominated for an award or anything, but his performance meant little to his lover when his thick cock was shoved down Sunday’s throat.
He might get a standing ovation though, and maybe a demand for an encore. And then an encore for the encore. Sometimes he feels like an all-night drive through, tossed around in a backseat while his bad boy boyfriend mounts him and fucks him surrounded by other people.
Gallagher has made it clear he can ask for things without bribing him with sex, of which Sunday does not call out how he says it haltingly, like he doesn’t truly mean it, but Sunday is grateful to be able to not feel sore the next day when he comes home from a business trip and finds the world in chaos.
“What’s going on?” he asks out loud, but the members of the Family are too busy shouting instructions at each other that they ignore him.
And Sunday has never done well at being ignored.
He grabs the nearest person, a young woman with hastily cropped hair, and slams her against the wall as he hisses out, Harmony threading through his voice as he demands, “TELL ME WHAT IS HAPPENING.”
The usual blankness overcomes her eyes, body slacking in his hold like a puppet that has lost its strings.
“Misha was taken,” she says.
It’s all Sunday needs to hear.
He leaves her in her stupor, marching his way to Gallagher’s office with all the air of a man who has led many and not taken no for an answer.
“Who has him?” is the first thing he says as he shoves the doors to Gallagher’s office open, ignoring the guns that train on him from the people that surround the round meeting table.
Gallagher runs a hand over his face, voice a guttural growl as he says, “You weren’t supposed to be home early.”
“And Misha is supposed to always have an armed guard with him when he leaves the compound. Now, who has him?”
A newbie, who flushes whenever near Sunday, squeaks out, “We believe it’s a minor part of the Iris Family, Sunday, sir!” And they promptly wither under the scathing look Gallagher levels them.
“Iris? I thought we were on friendly terms?”
“It’s a small part that has broken off from the main Family, so the main branch isn’t claiming ownership and refuses to help,” Gallagher explains roughly, like each word is a nail pulled from his fingers. “We’re doing this alone.”
“They own the casino, don’t they?” Sunday stops to think, a hand on his chin as he thinks of petty revenge and all the ways he could destroy them with a smile on his face and a snap of his fingers. “There has been talk of a supposed endangered species living on their land, as well as the illegal employment of Foxian slaves rumor that I’ve been meaning to look into. But let us first deal with getting Misha back before I take their land from them.”
Gallagher levels him with a fond but strained smile, the lines in his face deeper with each second that passes. “Destruction is a good look on you, angel.”
“I try. Now, have you found him?”
When the newbie opens his mouth to blurt out another answer, Gallagher cuts them off as he grunts out, “We’ve narrowed it down since Misha’s tracker is still active, but it went out about an hour ago. The last known location is a warehouse belonging to the Iris Family.”
“So what are we waiting for?” Sunday turns and strides out, gesturing towards the newbie who shakes in their shoes. “You, drive me.”
“Sun—”
And Sunday cuts Gallagher off before he can finish his admonishment, leveling a narrowed eye over his shoulder as the newbie falls in step at his side. “I’m getting our son back.” And the smile that spreads across his face isn’t kind. “Don’t stop me, daddy.”
A sliver of something dark and desirous settles in Gallagher’s eyes as his posture relaxes, the previous tense shoulders falling to an almost open pose as the fanged smile he levels Sunday’s way bites down onto his words.
“Well, then, mommy, I won’t stop you. But I’m coming with you.”
The people in the room with them shift as the tension ramps up, though not in a ‘we’re marching into a warzone’ type of way, but more of a ‘oh god they’re flirting again’ way.
Violence shouldn’t be used as foreplay, they all think as Gallagher stands up and takes his place by Sunday’s side, his smile proud and dangerous as he settles a hand low on the smaller man’s back. If his middle finger rests just on the seam of his pants and pushes in, well, everyone turns away and doesn’t see it.
Sunday, however, falls into the memory of it, back in that elevator after the party, smelling of liquor and sugar, suit sticky as it clung to his skin. And his supposed bodyguard at the time, breaking the boundaries Sunday had tries so very not hard to put in the sand by touching him as he does now – possessively. Like he’s only a moment away from just tearing a hole in his pants and having him there, and it might be something to look into when there wasn’t a pressing emergency.
So instead of giving into fantasy, Sunday asks instead, “Who was his guard for today?”
And damn the man, because Gallagher does fall into the same wavelength as him, pulling away only to give Sunday an eye full of his chest as he stretches. He hates the man sometimes. “Found unconscious, but we’re still interrogating them to see if it’s a planned thing on their part. We’ve had a rat problem lately.”
The drive is filled with their banter, but the edge of tension makes Sunday grit his teeth as he glances at his watch.
“We’re almost there, angel.”
“I know, I’m just worried. It’s been hours and there has been no attempt to reach out regarding an exchange or a ransom. I don’t think they’re in this for money, Gallagher. I think they mean to hurt him.”
Gallagher reaches across to his seat, winding his fingers through his. “I know. There’s something much bigger than just kidnapping him going on here, but we’ll get him.”
Sunday holds onto that hope, no matter how fragile it feels, until they pull up a distance from the supposed warehouse. Out of sight, the few men they had taken with him scope the area and confirm the warm bodies inside one of the buildings.
“A warehouse. How cliché.” Sunday turns to Gallagher, hand snapping tight around his sloppily done tie to drag him down to his height. “Now be a good boy and wait for me.”
“Sunday—”
Sunday cuts him off with a fierce kiss. When he pulls away, Gallagher unconsciously attempts to follow him, and he puts one finger on the thin lips to keep him at bay. “Heel,” he coos gently, moving the finger down to press into the broad chest and giving it the barest amount of pressure. He is pleased when the larger man follows the instruction. “Don’t worry, I’m a professional at speaking.”
“What if they don’t want to negotiate?”
“I don’t negotiate,” Sunday says as he pulls away to adjust his gloves. “I lay out the terms and expect them to be followed.”
“Do you mean…have you ever used your voice before?”
“I admit, I’m not as skilled in hypnosis as others of my species, but I know I can do this. I want to do this.” Clenched his fists, he nods to himself. “I need to do this. And you will trust me to do this. If you do,” and here his voice drops into a purr, “we can do that disgusting thing you wrote in your book that you’ve been begging for me to do.”
“…the gun in the a—”
“Not that one.” And Sunday can’t help but give a tender smile. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need it.” Gallagher kisses him anyway. “Bring our boy home.”
Sunday’s footsteps ring like a death toll as he steps inside the warehouse. With his impeccable posture and disarming smile, it’s almost funny to watch the masked men who sit around stare at him for approximately twenty seconds in silence before they all leap up as one.
“Hello,” he says pleasantly, the smile on his face gentle even in the face of the dozen or so guns that point at him. “I’ve come to collect my son.”
One of the masked captors laughs. It is really quite grating as it echoes in the warehouse. “Oi, it’s Gallagher’s bitch. The whore of the family. Figures he would send someone dispensable. He get tired of you warming his bed?”
“On the contrary, he can’t sleep without me. Now, why don’t we discuss the matter of kidnapping a defenseless boy? If you release him I can let you go with a tap on the hand and if you forward one of those expensive fruit baskets to my address.”
“We aren’t up for negotiation.”
“Oh, then what was the purpose of taking him if not to negotiate with the Watchmaker Family? What is your dastardly plan that I can probably see right through like a weak plot point that Gallagher tends to write?”
He can almost hear the offensive ‘hey, my plot points aren’t weak!’ but ignores it to smile instead.
“Once more, we aren’t here to negotiate, so why don’t you just turn tail and be the bitch of the Family?”
The watch on Sunday’s wrists chimes the hour. Now, Sunday has had a long day, made longer by the travel and the expectation to arrive home with nothing on fire, sitting down to dinner with his lover and adopted children, hear his sister sing, and go to bed with a smile on his face. Oh, there’s a smile on his face, all right, but there is no sweetness in him as the perfect ending to his day falls under lock and key.
“Now that’s,” he steps closer, “not,” his smile sharpens, “nice.”
The world bends towards him, drifting around his throat as his power settles in his vocal chords. He can feel when its threads of power settle harshly around the throats and limbs of the men who surround him, and the smile gentles as he watches them attempt to struggle.
“Now,” he steps up, going to who he assumes is the leader, and stands in front of him with his hands behind his back, “are you ready to answer my questions?”
“Fuck you, you whor—”
“Shoot him if he speaks poorly to me,” Sunday directs to another man, who shivers and shakes under the trembles of his voice. When he turns back to the leader, the mask is back in place. “Let’s try this again. Is the Iris Family a part of this?” Sunday watches as the man tries to fight the command and puts more stress on his words. “Speak.”
“Yes,” the man spits out, the foam at the corner of his mouth growing as he continues to try to fight. “Wanted the brat outta the way. Would make a show of sympathy to get closer.”
“Naturally,” Sunday drawls. “So there has been no split in the Iris Family?”
There is no stress or string in the words, but Sunday is pleased when the man answers anyway. “No.”
Sunday taps his cheek, harder than necessary. “Good boy. Was that so hard?”
“You’re no better than a bitch who spreads his—”
BANG.
Sunday watches impassively as the man goes down in an impressive spray of blood, the bullet wedged firmly between his eyes. He had neglected to step out of the splash zone, and the small speck of blood on his pristine suit makes him sigh. Oh, the dry cleaners would not like this. They already complained about the cum stains. Maybe they would enjoy a fruit basket for their troubles.
“Where are you keeping Misha?”
The gunman who had shot his leader flicks his eyes up to him, fear making the pupils disappear. “I-in the room behind you.”
“Oh, how easy, and how utterly predictable.”
The click of his heels makes the remaining men watch him as he does not walk towards the door they had indicated. Instead he walks over to a bunch of crates, well away from them, and says, “Off with your heads.”
He snaps his fingers
It shouldn’t be easy to be unfazed by violence, but Sunday figures this was always going to be the place he ended up. Watching the men take each other out doesn’t even leave a flicker of empathy in his cold little heart, and when the final bullet rings through the empty warehouse, he finds it all just a waste of time and ammo.
Surrounded by dead bodies should not be an easy sight to digest, but Sunday can’t feel anything but darkly satisfied as he steps over blood and other unmentionables and walks towards the closed door that hides the precious boy. Misha is asleep on a small cot, no doubt drugged, the skin around his eyes wet and raw from where he had been crying. Sunday gathers him up gently, pressing a comforting kiss to the top of his fluffy hair as he apologizes for being late.
“I’m here now, darling,” he whispers, taking stock of the red wrists and the dot of blood at the corner of the young mouth, the handprint clearly etched on his cheek. “Oh, if I could kill them again for you, I would.”
The boy doesn’t stir as he walks back out, the heels of his shoes walking through the growing puddles of blood, staining the soles red. The footsteps of the dead follow him as he walks back out, to where Gallagher waits. The look in the man’s eyes sends a shiver of inappropriate arousal down his spine, the wine-red licking over him in appreciation as a grin pulls the thin lips into a dagger-sharp smile. And Sunday is willing to press himself against the edges and impale himself.
As he steps closer, Gallagher meets him halfway to lift the slumbering child into his arms while also stealthily checking over Sunday’s form for any type of injury. When he only sees the splatters of other people’s blood on him, the smile turns into a much darker weapon, one that could destroy without empathy.
“Welcome back.”
And Sunday smiles and says, “I’m home.”
~*~
For their time together, Sunday has come to know some of Gallagher’s quirks. How he seems allergic to clothes that fit him, instead choosing something obscenely tight and button popping. Or how he only drinks whiskey when he writes.
It comes to no surprise to him that, once they have Misha safely tucked away to sleep off his drowsiness, he can tell the man is an electric rod of violent arousal. He can tell by how the man corners him against the door when he steps into their room, eyes smoldering into a drunken pit that Bacchus would feel envious over. Sunday doesn’t even need to look down to confirm the existence of arousal that presses against the zipper of pants, because he feels it as his lover grinds it against his stomach.
Sunday, trying to remain unaffected, raises a single brow in sardonic amusement. “Is this all it takes?”
“You saved him,” is the husky growl that trickles pleasantly down his spine. “You marched inside with your head held high and saved our son, angel. It is the second hottest thing I’ve ever seen you do.”
“What’s the first?”
He should’ve known from the dark glint in Gallagher’s eyes what the answer was before the man even opens his mouth to say, “When you took my cock for the first time.”
“I imagine you have a long list of things you like about me.” When Sunday’s hands touch Gallagher’s stomach and slowly glide up, he can feel the muscles contracting under his hands. “You make a man like me feel shy when you expand upon my virtues.” His hand closes around the perpetually unbuttoned collar of his lover, and he yanks the man down to his level as he hisses out, “Keep going.”
Challenge accepted, Gallagher melts against him, all warm skin and sinful thoughts. “You give me all the power, baby, but I want to change that.” When a rough fingertip grazes over his throat, Sunday knows exactly where this is going. “Control me, angel. Use me for your pleasure.”
“I’ve…never used it for that purpose before.”
“I figured, but I want you to use it now. Use it on me. Use me.”
And Gallagher steps away, the space between them heavy with tension even if it takes the warmth away from Sunday. And Sunday…thinks about it. Thinks about the spell he could weave around the stronger man’s heart, fill his head with nothing but obedience. How would the man look on his knees on top of the pillow he had purchased Sunday, made to wait and watch as Sunday pleasured himself but did not allow the hound to join in on the fun?
Sunday has to swallow down the sudden increase of saliva in his mouth as he clears his throat. “You’re sure you want to do this? I am told it can be quite disconcerting.”
“Yeah, when it’s against your will. I want this. Command me.”
And like the good dog he sometimes was, when he wasn’t using Sunday as a chew toy, he stands straight and silent, hand behind his back in a parade rest. Waiting for his command, waiting to yield to it. His excitement is palpable, visual too if Sunday looked down to between his legs. But he resists the temptation as he gathers the sweet taste of Harmony in his throat and orders, “Strip.”
Usually in this scenario it was Sunday completely naked while Gallagher retained some control and clothes, usually with his shirt gone but his pants pulled down enough to free his cock. Now it’s the reverse, as Sunday remains in his suit and Gallagher kicks off the last article of clothing, his heavy cock swaying between his legs like a pendulum.
Tick tock, hurry up, it seems to say to him.
Oh, but Sunday is in a playful mood. The success of the hunt makes him stalk with the steps of a predator towards his prey, sunset eyes glinting with shadows as he runs a finger across pronounced collarbones, walking in a lazy circle around the man and dragging his finger along for the ride. Over rippling muscles and memories of scars, stopping after a full turn to touch the silver scar that glimmered in Gallagher’s shoulder.
“A part of me,” Sunday muses, the ache in him tender as he leans forward to press a kiss to it. But then his hips turn wicked as he presses them to a willing ear and purrs, “Can you leave a part of yourself in me?”
His hand palms the hard cock, giving it a few delicate strokes that do nothing but fan the flames. And before he can give in and drop to his knees, he commands, “Lay on the bed for me.”
Gallagher walks with the same swagger as he does when not under command, and it does make Sunday wonder if they man is truly under his power as he settles himself against the pillows, a picture of erotic masculinity from how his cock juts out and his muscles flex. Sunday adds himself into the equation, one plus one becoming two as he seats himself fully clothed onto the lap of the man.
“You know,” he starts conversationally, settling his weight on the cock that leaks against the seat of his pants. “I had come early for a reason. I had even prepared a little surprise for you.”
Sunday peels away his clothes slowly, enough for it to be called a torture technique as he exposes his ‘surprise’. Black leather and lace cross over his body, cradling his aching cock and his nipples peaking through the mesh that does little to actually cover him. He can see as Gallagher actually strains against the power of his commands, the way his eyes widen and his nostrils flare as his hands clench in desperate need.
“It’s too bad I’ll be the only one to enjoy it.”
It’s easy to flip himself around on the solid and still body, coming face to face with the erect cock of his lover as he sways his hips over the frozen face underneath him. Sunday, in an act of demure coyness, pushing his hair behind his ear as he leans for to press an almost ghostly kiss to the tip.
Gallagher growls.
Oh, how badly Sunday wants to let his command drop, to let the man mate press him and fuck him hard and fast and filthy. To just shove his pretty panties aside and bully his cock into his hole without any care to his wants.
No, that’s not true – he wants to be used.
To be pressed down and taken, enjoyment only his body can provide given to the man who loves his so in his dark little ways, ways that sometimes Sunday still felt insecure about. But those insecurities were usually quick to burn away under the hot hands and hotter mouth that touched his skin, that mapped all the different ways he could feel pleasure.
Yet now it was his hands and his mouth that coasted over throbbing skin, the taste of the cock as he put it in his mouth musky and salty. Sunday works a hand at the base, gently trying to work his mouth down over the shaft as he sucks and licks. He would much prefer to be on his knees on his special cushion, the position he has put himself in currently on the mortifying side of embarrassing, but there’s also a power there that he taunts the beast with, hidden in the sway of his hips and between the areas where the straps of his little gift meet his skin. He feels how the beast under him strains, but also tries to heel himself, to be a good dog for the treat that Sunday gives him as he takes him into his throat.
A strong, dangerous man wants you, something had once whispered to him, which still makes him shiver sometimes when he presses fingers against marks left by his amorous lover. But something dangerous also wanted the dangerous man, something that boiled deep in his stomach and churned in his throat, the golden strings of his vocal chords wrapping around the cock in his mouth as easily as it wrapped around the man’s limbs and made him his puppet.
He rakes his nails gently over the sensitive skin of Gallagher’s thighs, feeling the man trembling minutely underneath the destruction his fingers cause even in their softness as he scrapes the tips of his nails over the muscles.
“Sunday,” is the devastating growl that leaks past the man’s lips, a plea and a demand rolled into one.
It’s one he promptly ignores as he pops his mouth off and follows the trail of a vein with his tongue. He delights in the growl that reverberates in the chest he rests on, wiggling his trapped cock against the valley of Gallagher’s chest to feel the stimulation. As he ruts against the beautiful, sculpted chest, he reaches around to grab the bottle of lube they conveniently have stashed between the mattress.
He reaches back with his wet fingers, pushing aside the inadequate coverage of the panties and exposing his hole to hungry eyes. Sunday is not skilled in preparing himself, finding little joy in his own fingers when the thicker and rougher ones of Gallagher make his eyes roll back in his head, but he has little choice as the beast underneath him is caged by his voice. He rubs at the furl of his entrance, thick globs of lube dripping over the curve of his ass and down his thighs, puddling down onto the chest hair below.
What comes from Gallagher as Sunday sinks in one finger is nothing that a human can produce – it’s all hellfire and brimstone as, “Sunday,” leaks through his tightly clenched teeth. Sweat pebbles along Gallagher’s hairline, his dark hair gone darker from the sweat of both holding himself back and fighting against his invisible restraints. Biting his lip, Sunday almost lets his command drop, to have this king of the underworld rise up to throw him down, burn his wings and damn him to an eternity by his side, but no, he holds on, pressing in a second finger to stretch himself.
It's different now that there’s a set of wine-red eyes firmly stuck watching him, making him drunk on the feeling of voyeurism as his fingers rove over sensitive areas he had never ignited in himself before. There was a power in that gaze, making every bit of flesh feel like a tender nerve where even the gently cupping of the mesh over his chest makes him keen softly as he brushes it against the man’s torso.
The third finger stretches him obscenely wide for his audience of one. Sunday can’t see how the man watches him, but he can feel Gallagher’s muscles tensing all along his body as he spreads his fingers to show off his soft, pink insides. Sunday has caged a beast under him that is ready to pounce, and the power he holds makes him feel intoxicated as he rides his fingers, knowing Gallagher could possibly break his command but refuses not to, allowing Sunday to give him this show. Giving the Halovian the power tonight, and Sunday can feel where it trickles down his throat and fills his belly.
But Sunday can’t wait any longer.
When he sits up, he makes sure to drag his groin down the hard ridges of Gallagher’s abs, his panties beyond ruined and barely able to contain him anymore from where they barely hang onto his cock. He turns around slowly, the anticipation of looking at Gallagher’s face for the first time since starting this play making him want to break character and rush, but no, he holds back as he swivels his hips around until his wet hole rests against the battering ram that was his lover’s cock.
Oh.
Oh.
Gallagher is a mess.
Sunday feels the hunger inside of himself yawn in his stomach as he sees the dilated pupils and gritted teeth, his hair a flyaway mess as he glares with aroused pleasure up at him through his fringe. There’s an edge of softness in the gaze, however, that reduces the blow to Sunday’s arousal as it grows heavier, headier. He leans forward, pressing his hand to a whiskered cheek with affection as he cruelly, oh so cruelly, slides down on Gallagher’s cock.
It’s instantaneous – Gallagher breaks his command with a snarl so fierce that Sunday expects teeth in his neck, and he does receive teeth, but they do not maim as much as they claim. And Sunday laughs as he gasps, held in the strong arms as the hips under hip start their dance of destruction as they thrust up with punishing strokes. Throwing his arms around Gallagher’s shoulders, Sunday digs his nails in and hisses as his sweet spot is attacked brutally, the man not holding back in their joining of their bodies.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, angel,” the hound growls against his ear, clenched teeth pressing against the pierced cartilage in a teasing threat. “I’ll give you the world.”
“I don’t want the world,” Sunday manages to get out between the gasps. “I just want you.”
There is no control – they are equal in their give and take, the exchange of kisses breathless and the rhythm of their hips a long-learned dance. The big hands on his hips and lower back press nothing but love against his skin, and Sunday returns the favor by digging his nails in deep along shoulders and a strong back, leaving his mark to be found later. And he knew, as he had already seen when Gallagher thought him sleeping, that the man would touch them tenderly, the look in his eyes something that should only be found at the end of a gun barrel after it had been fired – smoking hot and committed to pulling the trigger.
And Sunday can feel it tear through his skin, the bullet Gallagher has pressed into the middle of his heart, where the shrapnel digs ever deeper with each breath he takes. From his mouth he bleeds love and desire, licked up by the broad tongue of his lover to bring into his own body until the poison runs through both of their veins.
“Gallagher!”
“You close, baby?”
Sunday nods, squeezing his eyes shut as he clings tighter. A rough chuckle is pressed to his temple, the stubble scraping delightfully against his cheek. “Don’t worry, I got you. Fall, little bird, fall.”
And Sunday does, letting the wind under his wings carry him down into the sweet embrace of release, feeling the warm sensation of Gallagher following him as he releases inside of him.
In the afterglow they sit pressed chest to chest to each other, the kisses soft and gentle as the fervor of passion falls from a boil back down to a simmer. And from that simmer the water settles, leaving Sunday sticky and sore and so pleasantly buzzed that he doesn’t protest as Gallagher lifts him into his arms, limp cock slipping out of his hole, and carrying him to the bathroom. He most certainly doesn’t protest the warm bath and scented bubbles he is lowered into, groaning in appreciation as he settles against his lover and soaks.
“We’re doing that again,” is the statement that finally breaks the silence, and Sunday huffs a laugh.
“Of course,” he agrees, “but without the kidnapping. Which reminds me…”
He turns and settles his chin in the valley of Gallagher’s chest, smirking up at him as he says, “That newbie of yours is the mole. Do with that information as you will.”
“Oh? How did you come to that conclusion?”
“I’ve had a few business dealings in the past with the Iris Family, none of them fun. Call it my superpower to remember a face, even if they cower behind stronger figureheads.”
“Is that why you didn’t leave anyone alive at the warehouse?”
“Why have many when you can have one? Besides,” Sunday leans up to lick over a grinning mouth, “if you ask nicely I can ask him nicely.”
“You know, it’s almost frightening how well you’ve taken to being a part of a, what did you call it? Ah, a crime family.” The kiss turns a little rougher, Sunday groaning as a tongue snakes between his lips. “So desperate to be saved that you fall into the arms of a bad man?”
“A bad man with good intentions,” Sunday amends. “For the good of the Family. For my Family. Though I do have some opinions on how you use Caelus to secure us further alliances with other groups because they’re horny bastards and he’s a beautiful creature.”
“Not this again. Let’s go back to you kissing me.”
But Sunday presses a palm to the scarred chest, holding him at bay. “I can forgive Dan Heng, can tolerate Aventurine and Dr. Ratio. But Welt of the Nameless? And let’s not forget Nanook, another Ascended Aeon with an appetite for destruction.”
A shadow passes over Gallagher’s eyes. “Two Ascended Aeon’s getting it on? I know I said bigger, better booms, but I didn’t mean a firework factory set on fire.”
“The boy attracts powerful men and women, Gallagher. I’ve tried my best, but nothing can contain his light.”
“Can’t you, I don’t know, hypnotize him? Make him sleep for an eternity?”
“And have every single suitor breaking down my door in a misplaced attempt at enacting Sleeping Beauty? Over your dead body.”
Sunday gets out of the tub, ignoring the pleading, “Ah, baby, come back.”
“I’m going to check on Misha.” Pulling on a robe, Sunday levels a scathing look over his shoulder to the grinning man. “I expect you to follow me.”
“Sunday—”
“Follow me,” is the command, and Sunday stops to watch the beautiful body clamber out of the tub, following the trails of water with his eyes, wishing it were his tongue instead. “Get somewhat decent,” he reminds without power in his voice as the man almost walks out the door to the hallway, naked and dripping. “We’ve been paying a fortune in therapy sessions for the staff, no need to make them take an emergency appointment that’ll cost us double.”
When somewhat decent (since Gallagher was never decent, even when fully clothed, since clothes seemed to want to repel away from his body), they make their way to Misha’s room, only a door away from their own. It has all the signs of a young boy there, from the stuffed animals to the from-the-heart family pictures drawn with crayons pinned to the walls. In the center of it all sleeps the young one in question, breaths even as he drifts in the arms of slumber.
Sunday gently makes his way over, stepping over a toy or two, while Gallagher just barrels through and kicks them to the side with all the affection of a parent who knows he buys too much for his spoiled child. Reining in the urge to bark at his lover, Sunday instead curls around the small body and strokes Misha’s hair. Gallagher takes the opposite side, head propped up by his hand as he watches them.
“This can’t happen again,” Sunday whispers, drifting down to where the redness of a plump cheek has faded to a pink. “If it does, I won’t be held liable for what I do.”
“Angel, there’s a lot I would give to see a rocket launcher in your hand, but this isn’t one of them.” A larger hand covers his own, right over the beating heart of Misha. “I’ll protect him better so that you don’t have to do this again. It’s not easy, taking a life.”
“Maybe not easy, but not that hard when they cover their faces. They don’t look human that way.”
“Sunday.” Gallagher catches his chin between his fingers, leaning over the slumbering boy. “It’s alright.”
And against his hopes, he can feel his eyes fill with betrayed tears. “I needed to do it, Gallagher, I had to—”
“I should’ve stopped you. I was thinking with my cock and not my head, because I knew you could handle yourself, but I wasn’t thinking of the after, the consequences. Oh, angel, never again will I put you in a position to kill someone.”
The kiss is soft, worshipful. Sunday can taste the promise as he opens his mouth, the soft melting away as a tongue licks over his.
“Are you making me a sibling?” is the groggy voice that floats between them, and Sunday sighs as he slaps a hand against Gallagher’s face to push him away. It doesn’t help the beast of a man licks over his palm and between his fingers, grinning when Sunday kicks him out of the bed.