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This wasn’t supposed to happen.
With the Dewlight Pavillion under siege by rampant Memory Zone Memes, the Bloodhound Family was immediately summoned to the scene. As head of security, Gallagher was tasked with retrieving and protecting the mansion’s owner, Sunday.
He knows full well that within this fleeting Dreamscape, the head of the Oak Family could handle himself. Then, why, why is there an anxious feeling popping up in his chest? Sunday would not die here regardless of what happens—he will be pulled back to reality if things get too dire, and most of his staff have already left.
Sunday is the only one refusing to wake up from the dream.
Of course he is.
Gallagher can’t let him die here. No matter what, for his plans to come to fruition, Sunday has to live.
He finds Sunday amidst total carnage. Lifeless monsters are piled up around the Halovian’s feet. Gallagher whistles. “Well, look at that. Wasn’t necessary for them to make such a fuss about me comin’ to rescue you then, huh?”
Covered in blue fluid that could be akin to the blood of these monsters, Sunday smiles. It’s a haunting sight. “Indeed. The Triple-Faced Soul watches over all who embrace Them.” That added chuckle of him sends chills down Gallagher’s soul. Creepy bastard.
“Right, of course. Spare me your indoctrination.” He rolls his eyes, posture easing up. If Sunday isn’t in any danger, then—
Behind him.
It’s all too sudden. A creature slithers out of the shadows and transforms into a monster Gallagher’s never seen before on Penacony. Sunday is fast, but he isn’t fast enough, and in a panic, Gallagher does the unthinkable.
‘Death’ manifests and takes the monster with it. It vanishes as the command of its master has been completed.
Fuck.
Fuck!
Gallagher leans against a nearby wall, looking up at the ceiling that’s really just another floor with tables and chairs haphazardly knocked over.
Sunday approaches. His presence casts a shadow over Gallagher’s very being. The Hound grits his teeth, but his chin is quickly snatched up in Sunday’s grasp, his gaze forcibly turned downward. Sunday’s lips are downturned, trembling. The unspeakable rage in his eyes manifests as a swirling vortex of energy around his person. “Oh, Triple-Faced Soul, I implore you—”
Gallagher roughly shoves at the other. Sunday stumbles back and the energy around him dissipates.
“You really think there’s time for that? Look around you, they’re gonna start a second offense.”
If looks could kill, Gallagher would’ve been eviscerated where he stood with nothing left to ever hint at his existence. “This is your doing, is it not?”
“Much as I’d love to claim credit, this rowdy bunch isn’t my style.” Gallagher scoffs. “You think I would’ve revealed myself if it was, huh?”
Sunday glares at him.
And takes aim.
Gallagher reflexively reaches into his pockets, but the blast of psychic energy sent his way misses him by a hair. Just as he’s about to snark at Sunday’s lack of aim, he hears a thunk behind him and turns around to see a fallen monster. Its goo splatters all over Gallagher’s clothes, and he’s dripping blue.
It takes little time for them to be completely surrounded, their backs pressed against each other as the monsters advance on them. The proximity is nothing new, but the situation is. Gallagher is determined to keep Sunday alive, even though if he ‘died’ here he’d simply be sent back to reality, but there’s something in him that refuses to let any harm come to Sunday.
Unless it is by his own hands.
Gallagher forcibly suppresses it.
“Got any more fancy tricks, angel?”
“They are gifts, and you will not slander—”
Gallagher nimbly dodges a claw, pulling Sunday down with him to get out of the blast radius of a particular monster’s fiery breath. “Catch up to speed with the situation already, we don’t have time for your little outbursts,” Gallagher snaps.
Sunday grits his teeth, but he does not push the matter. Grabbing Gallagher by his tie, Sunday pulls them both behind an upside-down bookcase, temporarily shielding them from the blast. He looks at Gallagher, and Gallagher can practically hear the gears in his head turning.
“We ain’t got time this,” Gallagher repeats, more urgent this time. “Think, will you? Use that damned brain of yours!”
“I’m trying, but you insist on interrupting me,” Sunday hisses back. Another attack shatters the bookcase, prompting Gallagher to take Sunday into his arms and leaps over to the opposing wall. Gravity shifts around them, briefly knocking the air out of his lungs until it settles. He sets Sunday down gentler than he does during their many trysts, the look in his eyes urgent, panicked, as he too tries to think of something to get them out of this mess.
“Keep them busy for a moment, Mr. Security Officer,” Sunday calls out a little after the monsters caught wind of their location. It’s an order moreso than a request, but Gallagher nods regardless.
“How long?”
“You’ll know.”
“So I just have to put my faith in you, huh.”
Sunday’s withering glare is far more intimidating than anything those monsters have thrown at them thus far. “Just as I am forced to put mine in you. Believe me, if there were another way, I would have already figured it out.”
“You’re the boss,” Gallagher shrugs. Since he’s already pulled out his ace, it seems he’s bound to go all out. He stands up and gives a nod to Sunday before he throws himself into the fray again, the scar on his left arm glowing brightly as he manifests his claws.
It’s not long before Gallagher hears Sunday start to talk. He’s invoking Their name again, and Gallagher has half a mind to grab Sunday by his damn halo and urge him to do something actually useful instead of reciting a fucking prayer in the middle of the battlefield, but he doesn’t.
Given what Sunday has accomplished with that power before, Gallagher doesn’t question it like he once did. He delivers swift blows to the onslaught of monsters that seem to be focusing on Sunday rather than him, slowly pushing him closer to the Halovian until he’s nearly tripping over him. Sunday retains his concentration, and for just a fleeting moment, Gallagher wonders if the man is genuinely putting his trust in him.
Wonders whether he did so in the past, too. He’d certainly put a great amount of his pride in Gallagher’s hands after their meetings turned far less… formal, once Gallagher had figured out that all it took to shut Sunday up was a nice fondling of his wings and a good dicking from the back.
He shakes himself out of it.
Sunday finishes invoking Them. “Close your eyes,” he urges. Gallagher does so, no questions asked.
There’s a flash so bright it threatens to seep through his eyelids, followed by complete silence.
Reopening his eyes, Gallagher is met by a grisly sight. There’s not a monster left standing, and they’re both covered in mechanical parts and blue ooze alike.
He grabs Sunday by the arm. “C’mon, we gotta go.”
Sunday doesn’t protest. He allows Gallagher to drag him along, giving directions to a safe place where they can rest and recuperate. They end up in the conference hall, with Sunday leaning against a pillar and Gallagher grabbing the back of a chair to steady himself.
“Is there anyone else still inside?” Sunday asks after a minute or two.
“Nah, they’ve all been evacuated and woken up. You were the last one left.”
Sunday nods. “I see.”
The tension between them is sharper than the finest blade. Neither of them speak for a while, until Gallagher can bear Sunday’s calculating gaze no longer.
“So, we’re clear on the whole, this not being my doing thing, eh?” Gallagher asks.
“Indeed. I don’t peg you as suicidal type, Hound,” Sunday calmly says, but that rage is still there, almost boiling over.
Gallagher scoops up some blue fluid from his clothes and makes a face. “Guess we’re even, then. I’m surprised though, why’d you save me? Would’ve been a hell of a lot easier for you to let ‘em stab me to death. Be done with it, and all.” Gallagher slowly advances on Sunday. Sunday stands his ground, his posture rigid. Gallagher imagines he’s reciting another prayer to his precious Harmony, this time to keep Gallagher from summoning that thing again. The air becomes thick and oppressive as Sunday’s power manifests, a psychedelic energy swirling around his halo and in his eyes. Gallagher grunts, but pushes through.
Sunday looks on in alarm. He opens his mouth to speak, to prevent his untimely demise, but there’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. Gallagher wonders if there’s a limit to invoking his powers, or perhaps he thinks it impolite to ask for Their blessing more than twice a day. Not that he particularly dabbled in anything related to the Harmony; it doesn’t have anything to do with him.
When he comes to a stop in front of the smaller man, Gallagher just reaches over to brush some of the goo off Sunday’s wings. “Had something there.”
Sunday blinks. “What?”
“Here, too. Hold still.” He flicks some off Sunday’s halo. Sunday draws a shuddering breath that isn’t lost on Gallagher. He’s well aware of just how sensitive that particular part of Sunday’s anatomy is. Only Gallagher had ever dared to defile it. A strange surge of possessiveness overtakes him for a moment as he looks Sunday over to see him covered in the stuff. “‘Scuse me for being crass, but this really ain’t a good look on you. You look far better covered in my—”
“Why?”
Gallagher pretends not to understand Sunday’s question. “I’m sure you can figure that out. Your wings look nicer when I’m the one who—”
“Not that, you impudent dog! If your sole purpose is to bring about my suffering as per your master’s desire, then why did you intervene? Would this not have suited your perverse methods? You could have let them take me like you took her.”
Gallagher looks him in the eye. Playtime’s over, he supposes. And Sunday clearly knows more than he’s letting on. Running a hand through his hair, he sighs. “You wanna know so badly? Fine. Listen, I’ll only say this once, yeah?” Sunday’s gaze is trained on the floor, his fists trembling. That just won’t do. Gallagher roughly grabs his face, redirecting his attention back to Gallagher. “It isn’t time yet. And I’m the one who gets to kill you. Nothin’ and no one else. You got that? Me. If I catch you throwin’ yourself in danger again, I’m gonna have to take measures, as head of security.”
A strange look flits across Sunday’s face. “Release me,” he demands.
“I ain’t done yet,” Gallagher snaps back. “Throw yourself in danger again, Sunday, and I’ll keep ya restrained and under constant surveillance.”
Sunday scoffs hatefully. “Careful, Mr. Gallagher. Those threats of yours are bordering on concern.”
Oh, it would be so easy for Gallagher to get rid of Sunday with just a flick of his lighter.
Just as easy as it is for Sunday to get rid of Gallagher in turn.
Yet neither of them move.
Gallagher wants to devour Sunday. He wants to rip apart that facade, to tear down this supposedly beautiful dream of his, and force him to watch as it all crumbles.
Those rogue monsters did not have the right.
Only Gallagher has.
His grasp on Sunday’s face never faltered. He roughly yanks the Halovian towards himself, forcing him into a bruising kiss. Sunday’s eyes widen but he can’t pull away.
Nor can he deny himself any longer.
Slender arms wrap around Gallagher’s back, fingertips digging into his clothed skin. Sunday reciprocates the kiss with a mixture of anger and desperation, a clash of teeth and tongues that is anything but romantic, but it is so intricately them, embodying every aspect of their relationship, if one could call it that. Oxygen is redundant; all that exists in this moment is the coupling of their lips, the taste of copper introduced to the kiss when Gallagher bites Sunday’s lip, or is it Sunday who bites him? It doesn’t matter. They blend together as one, messy, frantic, and desperate.
Sunday pulls away when he relearns the need for air. Gallagher isn’t granting him much respite; he lifts Sunday up by his hips, feeling the Halovian’s arms and legs wrap around him in a moment of panic. Gallagher veers away from the table, laying Sunday down on one of the velvety couches instead.
Fuck.
He’s utterly mesmerized by that man. Sunday is beautiful, especially when his lips are slick and parted, his cheeks are dusted red, and his pupils are dilated. Gallagher straddles Sunday’s calves and grabs Sunday by the collar, yanking him up into another kiss. Sunday gasps and Gallagher seizes the opportunity to thrust his tongue into Sunday’s mouth, roughly mingling with his. He greedily laps up Sunday’s noises before they as much as leave his throat, happy to take his time until Sunday suddenly pushes him away.
Eyebrow raised, Gallagher looks down. Sunday is panting, covering his mouth with the back of a gloved hand, and his eyes are somewhere on the ceiling. A deep frown creases his brows, and Gallagher almost instinctively reaches out to rub that tension out of Sunday’s face.
“This… this wasn’t supposed to happen,” Sunday laments, his voice thick with guilt.
“Don’t think anyone had a siege on their list today,” Gallagher comments. Sunday’s gaze snaps to him, as if suddenly remembering he’s still there too.
“Not that,” Sunday shakes his head. “You.”
He does not elaborate.
He does not have to.
His eyes tell the whole tale. Gallagher inhales through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment.
“Yeah,” he agrees, the way he cups Sunday’s face almost tender. “You weren’t, either.”
It’s as much of a confession as one can pull from either of them. Breaths mingle as lips crash, desperate hands clutching at whatever they can reach. Gallagher bites down on Sunday’s bottom lip with such ferocity that he draws blood. He laps it up, groaning as he swallows it down. Everything about Sunday is utterly intoxicating, but nothing matches the control Gallagher has over him in moments like these.
The control Sunday relinquishes to him.
He grabs Sunday’s wrist and brings Sunday’s hand to his mouth. He pulls off Sunday’s glove with his teeth, tosses it behind him, and presses his lips to Sunday’s delicate fingers. Sunday’s breath stalls, anticipating. Gallagher smirks, taking Sunday’s index finger into his mouth and bites down. He doesn’t break skin—not that it matters in the Dreamscape, it would not affect Sunday’s physical body—but just hard enough to leave a clear mark. Under Sunday’s watchful gaze, he bestows the same attention to all his fingers, then to his knuckles, down his hand, his wrist, and Aeons he has to pull away because he might actually devour this man.
Taking advantage of his stupor, Sunday pushes him over, clambering on top of Gallager’s chest. His wings fan out, blocking out the light, and Gallagher is instinctively drawn to Sunday’s sharp gaze. His eyes pierce through his very soul, laying his every intention bare. Sunday grabs Gallagher’s face, and Gallagher holds his breath. Perfectly trimmed nails dig into his face, trailing down to his neck. Sunday’s slender hands aren’t big enough to fully wrap around Gallagher’s throat, so he has to use both, pressing his thumbs inward. Gallagher gasps for air, involuntarily bucking his hips.
“Fuck,” he groans, heat coursing through his body. If he wasn’t hard before, he sure as hell is now.
“You enjoy that,” Sunday comments, his tone indecipherable. He pushes down harder, cutting off Gallagher’s airflow. Gallagher just stares up at the angel above him, covered in the blue blood of his enemies, his eyes so cold that they could very well bring about his death in an instant. He parades as a saint, but in this very moment, he looks like a fallen deity, the very picture of blasphemy, and if Gallagher could, he would bend the knee to this cruel creature.
Sunday’s grip tightens. His halo starts to glow, and that same psychedelic energy from before manifests around his head. If he’s aiming for the kill, to snap Gallagher’s neck and be done with it, in this moment, Gallagher might actually let him.
“You’re enjoying this,” Sunday repeats, venom to his words. The pulsating energy intensifies, and Gallagher is helpless against it. “I could snap your neck.”
Gallagher grins. “Then do it.”
His master would be displeased by how much he means it in the moment. But he knows that Sunday wouldn’t actually follow through with it, regardless of how much he wants. Sunday of all people cannot have blood on his hands, and they both know this damn well.
Sunday, with blood on his hands. It’s not hard to imagine. Gallagher pictures Sunday as he was earlier today, amidst piles of worthless Memory Zone Memes, covered in their life essence—except, it’s not them he sees. He sees the bodies of the Family, he sees Sunday covered in red, his halo and wings stained with sin.
Gallagher shudders. Moonlight would filter in through the windows, and Sunday would bathe in its light as the Harmony turns Their gaze away from him. Fuck, Gallagher would be on his knees in an instant.
Yeah. That’s never happening. A man can dream, though. He’s surprised by how much he wants to tear Sunday away from Xipe with his very own hands and wants a first-row seat to the fall of Their most devoted angel.
Yet, just as much, he wants to see Sunday impaled on Gallagher’s claws, wants to see the pure shock and horror on his face as he realizes what’s happening.
Gallagher bucks his hips, groaning. He pushes at Sunday’s shoulders and Sunday falls back, nails slicing through the skin on Gallagher’s neck as he seeks for purchase. Once Sunday is laid out before him once again, Gallagher isn’t about to let himself be distracted. He stares at Sunday for a moment too long, debating between fucking and outright killing the man, but for the sake of his own master, and the need in his body, settles for the former. He tears off Sunday’s clothes like a man possessed and Sunday reciprocates the gesture, shredding Gallagher’s vest, his tie, his undershirt, throwing it all away.
“You’re depraved,” Sunday spits venom even as he’s manhandled onto his front, then pulled into Gallagher’s lap as Gallagher finally sits up, chests pressed together. Gallagher’s hard cock presses against Sunday’s ass. Tempting as it is to just impale him right this moment, Gallagher reaches for a bottle of lube that had fallen out of the pocket of his now-tattered clothes.
“What’s that make you, then?” Gallagher fires back, a wicked grin on his lips. He coats his hand in lube, emptying the whole damn bottle on his fingers and cock before he throws it at the mess already on the floor. He licks a stripe up Sunday’s chest, bites his collarbone, and the heat inside of him rages to an inferno when Sunday rewards him with a groan that’s part pain and part pleasure. He shoves two fingers inside Sunday’s hole, ripping a strangled cry from the Halovian’s throat. “You’re gettin’ off on this, mighty Sunday. You’re just as much of a beast as you claim me to be. Look at you, already so hard, and so willing.”
Sunday hisses, his eyes wide and the sheer intensity of the anger in his gaze would evaporate a lesser person.
But not Gallagher. Because he’s right, because Sunday’s just as depraved as him, even if he refuses to admit it to even himself.
“Besides, you’re the one who fell for me. Said so yourself, didn’t you? It wasn’t supposed to happen. Think your precious Harmony’s gonna turn Their back on you for bedding your killer, huh? For allowing this to happen, knowin’ full well I’m plannin’ to kill you when the time’s right. Shouldn’t you be gettin’ rid of me, Sunday ?”
Gallagher expects Sunday to snap, to shout, to demand and command, but out of all the possibilities he envisioned he did not imagine Sunday throwing his head back, a deranged cackle falling from his lips as he lowers himself down onto Gallagher’s thick fingers, again and again, laughing all the while.
“You’re fucking insane,” Gallagher tells him, unable to help the sheer admiration in his tone.
“And you,” Sunday gasps, his wild eyes back on Gallagher. His hair is a complete mess, strands falling over his face, and in that moment, as the dim lights illuminate his shadow, he’s the very picture of madness. “You, beast, will learn your place, and you will bow before me! ”
“We’ll see who gets the last laugh in the end, angel,” Gallagher spits back, but he’s grinning, flashing dangerous fangs at an utterly unhinged Sunday. He can’t see himself reflected through those crazed eyes, but he expects his own expression is much of the same.
There’s no need for masks anymore. They’re broken down to their very cores, every desire, every emotion laid bare for the other to tear into and rip apart.
Gallagher pushes a third finger inside. Sunday’s hips stutter, his pace faltering for a moment. Soft, ragged pants leave his lips, and he’s tilting his head back again, but his gaze does not leave Gallagher’s. Presented with the unblemished skin of Sunday´s neck, Gallagher growls and bites at it. Sunday chokes on a moan, urging Gallagher on.
“You degenerative mutt,” Sunday gasps hoarsely, grabbing a fistful of Gallagher’s hair and pulls. Gallagher moans at the sting, his teeth torn away from Sunday’s neck.
“You’re mine to claim,” Gallagher snarls, surging up to kiss Sunday, and he’s pretty sure they’re both trying to maul each other. Nothing about their union is gentle; it’s just as cruel as a battlefield, just as unrelenting as both their masters.
“Ha! The audacity of you!” Sunday’s laugh is utterly deranged, and that smirk that hangs on his lips after he pulls away is nothing short of mad. “You… you are the one who is mine to claim. You will kneel before Them, before me, and I will crush you with the weight of your sins, in the name of the Triple-Faced Soul.”
Gallagher barks out a laugh of his own. He pushes his fingers against Sunday’s prostate, relentlessly massaging the tender spot. Sunday keens, fingernails digging into Gallagher’s shoulder blades. They’re vying for control over the other, engaged in a battle that could very well dictate the remainder of their lives.
One of their lives, at least.
Sunday suddenly grabs Gallagher’s cock. The sting drags him back to reality. He bites Sunday’s jaw, rakes his nails down Sunday’s back, and gropes his ass. “You want this, huh? Want me to fucking impale you on my cock? That’s what you need, Sunday?” Gallagher spits his name like a curse.
Sunday’s grasp tightens. He squeezes just below the head, punching a grunt out of Gallagher’s throat. “Less talk, Gallagher, and more initiative.”
Gallagher doesn’t need to be told twice. He bats Sunday’s hand away from his cock and pulls his fingers out of Sunday’s hole, both delighted and disgusted by the whine that leaves Sunday when he’s left so terribly empty. “Greedy, selfish bastard,” Gallagher spits, lines his cock up with Sunday’s entrance, and bucks his hips up. He puts his hands on Sunday’s hips, roughly yanking him onto his cock. He spears Sunday on his cock and Sunday’s body goes rigid. Sunday’s back arches. “You can’t even control yourself like this. Never could. You need it, huh? Wanna be stained, don’t you?”
Light returns to Sunday’s eyes and he finds his words, dousing them in poison. His wings flare up, moving asymmetrically, just as unhinged as the rest of him. “And what does that make you?” He throws Gallagher’s words back at him like a dagger aiming for the heart. “You can’t get enough, Gallagher. You claim you want to stain me, that you want to defile me, but that’s not all there is to it, isn’t it?”
Gallagher growls. “Stop talking, princess, before I change my mind and end you right here and now.”
The nickname rips a howl of laughter from Sunday, the noise broken off into a guttural moan. Gallagher relentlessly moves him on his cock, and because his hands are unfortunately occupied, it seems he has to use his mouth to silence Sunday.
“You couldn’t,” Sunday sneers, “Before your precious beast can even— ah!!”
Gallagher bites down on one of his wings. Hard. Sunday retaliates by wrapping his hands around Gallagher’s throat again, but he doesn’t push him away. He just presses with a force hard enough to bruise, to leave Gallagher breathless, but Gallagher doesn’t need to breathe.
No, the only need he has is to ruin Sunday so thoroughly that the wicked creature loses his bark, his bite, just like Gallagher was forced to. He wants to tear off Sunday’s wings and smash his halo to pieces, just as Sunday wants to rip him apart from the inside out, carve deeper scars into Gallagher’s flesh and remind him of just who holds his leash.
…Gallagher wants to be ruined in turn. He tugs on the edge of Sunday’s wing with his teeth, pulling out a feather. Sunday hisses, but his mouth is soon claimed by Gallagher, and he’s forced to swallow down that very same feather as Gallagher thrusts it into his mouth and pushes it down his damn throat with his tongue. Sunday bites, and Gallagher wonders for a moment if the Halovian is just as eager and willing to consume Gallagher as Gallagher is him.
Gallagher tears himself away from Sunday’s mouth, tasting blood on his tongue. He’s tempted to spit it on Sunday’s face, but there are far better things to do. He might’ve called Sunday greedy, but he knows that he’s even worse than him. His eyes are transfixed by Sunday’s halo, by the blue that still stains it, and Gallagher is surprised at how much he wants to be torn to pieces of the damn thing.
He uses one hand to fuck Sunday on his cock, and Sunday himself supplies the strength that Gallagher cannot provide with just one hand, using Gallagher’s shoulders to steady himself and slams his hips back down whenever Gallagher thrusts up, setting a brutal rhythm that rips the air from both their lungs. Sunday’s eyes glow and the swirling mass of energy that manifests around his halo begs Gallagher to reach out. He grabs the thing, yanking Sunday’s head back. He’s vaguely aware of the cuts the sharp edges inflict on his skin, the way the sharp spikes tear through his flesh, but it doesn’t matter because what stains Sunday’s halo now isn’t the blue mess of their enemies but Gallagher’s blood, and it’s a sight he’s sure to obsess over for the rest of his damned life.
Sunday howls as his halo is tugged on, played with, and defiled, but never once does he think to stop. No, the feeling is fuel for him to rock himself on Gallagher’s cock with such fervor and desperation, his hole clenching so tight around Gallagher’s cock that he nearly pulls an orgasm out of the man.
Determined to stain his angel further, an appetizer before the inevitable main course, Gallagher’s bleeding hands move to Sunday’s wings, the pure white stained with a deep crimson. He pulls and pushes and Sunday’s cries bring him to the fucking edge because the Halovian sounds so divine even while he’s being tainted, especially while he’s being tainted.
Neither of them will last long at this rate.
Their joined pursuit of brutal, filthy pleasure comes to a head when Gallagher takes one of Sunday’s wings into his mouth in its entirety, suppressing his gag reflex so he can bite the base and Sunday screams so beautifully for him, so desperately, that Gallagher can’t hope to deny himself any further. He tears himself away from Sunday’s wings and grabs the man’s halo again, forcing his head forward, their gazes meeting and nearly igniting a fire in the sheer intensity radiating off both of them.
Gallagher fucks up into Sunday with renewed brutality, driven by instinct and need. Sunday comes around his cock and drags Gallagher along with him. Gallagher spills his seed deep into Sunday, holding him still while he fills the Halovian up. The air around them crackles with energy, Sunday’s energy, his powers, threatening to invade Gallagher’s mind and tear him apart.
For a moment, he almost wants to welcome it.
But then it fizzes out, and Sunday slumps against him.
Gallagher pulls Sunday off his cock with a grunt, watching as his cum dribbles from Sunday’s hole with a crooked grin. After indulging the sight for a moment, he deposits the mess that is Sunday on his lap again, and Gallagher himself honestly fares no better. He sags against the couch, idly running his fingers along the edges of Sunday’s halo. All that fills the room is the sound of their panting, until Gallagher gathers his bearings and works his mouth into cooperating with him.
“Always knew you were twisted.”
Sunday huffs, lifting his head. He looks positively wrecked. Gallagher licks his lips. “The mere sound of your voice makes me want to rip out that mocking tongue of yours.”
Oh, he isn’t even trying to hide it. How delightful. Gallagher laughs, cupping Sunday’s face. “I welcome you to try.”
They sit in silence for a while, the sharpness of their glares conveying unspoken threats. Of course, it’s Gallagher who breaks it again.
“If I’d known you felt this way about me, I woulda done this much sooner.”
“I’ll tear you apart,” Sunday whispers, digging his nails into Gallagher’s skin. Gallagher pulls him close, his embrace oddly tender despite their earlier frenzied coupling. “You and that master of yours.”
Gallagher laughs roughly, resting his chin on top of Sunday’s head. “That better be a promise.”
Sunday settles against his chest, his wings drooping down as a sign of exhaustion and relaxation. Funny thing, how he thinks Gallagher can be relaxing.
Gallagher supposes he’s just as much a fool as Sunday, because the sentiment is reciprocated.
“Oh, you have no idea,” Sunday hisses.
Gallagher grins. “I look forward to it.”
Until that day comes, he’s content to take Sunday apart over and over again. Now that there’s no longer a need to hide their true selves, things are about to get much more interesting.