Archive of Our Own

“This wasn’t a part of our agreement.” Gallagher smirked down at the Halovian who was currently pinning him to the side wall of his own private bar.

Crimson light danced between them, outlining their bodies seductively. The glowing neon signs of surrounding buildings made the sky look that much brighter, but the ground was significantly darker as elongated shadows followed their owners to and fro. 

Sunday had his hands flat on the wall, bracketing the Hound idly smoking his cigarette in the damp, cold alleyway. Only minutes prior he was scrolling through his phone, thinking about the hour he had left before closing. 

When shade fell over his head, he looked up wearily, knowing exactly who would be this brave as to pounce on him without warning. 

A veil of mist had fallen over Penacony, slipping thin tendrils between blocks and shops closed for the night. Those going home now were wrapped in thick coats and had their hats drawn low enough to cover their ears. The stench of smoke and cold concrete was a constant friend for those in The Reverie. 

But when this particular person was around, the air shifted. He was so close Gallagher could count his eyelashes. Faint notes of bergamot and cedar twined with oakmoss and vetiver came from his wrists and clothes. Once in a while there would be a hint of musk, adding that masculine tone that would make such a repulsive, woody concoction extremely pleasant. 

If one were to ask the Hound, Gallagher’s introduction to the mix – sandalwood, tobacco leaves and leather – left the most pleasant aftertaste.

He rose from the empty soulglad box he had been sitting on, both hands tucked inside his pant pockets. 

Sunday looked worse than when they last saw each other. It was more than three weeks ago, on a rainy afternoon. Sunday had warned that there would be nobody in his apartment for a couple of days and Gallagher thought that was a prime invitation to make himself at home.

He’d brought dinner and an entire bag of fun items they could use, leaving Sunday fed, wrung-out, bruised and sore in ways he never would’ve expected. Being in the penthouse provided a lot of liberties.

Sunday had spent most of his time working in the following days. 

Neither a call, nor a photo. A courier dove could have delivered a message, but he was peerlessly stubborn in taking all those steps back. The further away he was from Gallagher, the easier it was to breathe after a weekend of affected passion. 

Wasn’t that a pretty story? Running away from the one person who made him feel whole. It must’ve been a frightening and exciting feeling, but it came with a lot of risk for somebody as renowned as him. 

What would the public say if word came out that the uncrowned prince of the Oak Family was getting rawdogged by some nameless mutt in the back alleys?

What would his songstress sister think if she could see the bruises left from fingers, paddles and ropes beneath his clothes? Would she be repulsed knowing that Sunday felt himself the most when he was being forced face-down into the pillows and plowed like his hole was there for another’s pleasure?

Sunday hated feeling seen, so he tried hiding. He was repulsed by his own vulnerability, so he kept building windowless towers and walls behind a moat of quicksilver. 

Little did the birdie know that patience was a Hound’s best quality. Gallagher needn’t pursue - if the enemy is taking their ease, a clever combatant could harass them; if well supplied with food, he can starve them out and if quietly encamped - he can force them to move.

So when Sunday, starved and ill-tempered, heard Gallagher making fun of him for his desperation, the man felt aggrieved.

“I don’t care. I need this. I need the relief so damn bad I might throw up.” Then, he softened his tone, pleading with the Hound instead of demanding. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”

“Mn.”

The Halovian looked on the edge of tears. Like his patience was pulled apart until threads fine as silk stretched from his heart, rippling in the wind. Disregarded, abhorred, as though his own needs and desires were something to be loathed instead of embraced.

The Halovian’s feathers were ruffled and the puffiness of his lower lids was so pronounced even makeup wouldn’t have hidden the exhaustion in his pretty, slightly sunken eyes. The tie usually tied around his neck was undone and his hair was sticking out in multiple directions.

It didn’t matter that it was the Hound left hanging. Gallagher assumed the recent distance was also partially connected with Sunday hiding his bad eating habits. 

Surprisingly, his shoulders were rounder and there was a healthy tint to his skin. The day they met inside The Reverie, Sunday was no more a fallen angel than a wisp of a man, searching for a cheap, temporary thrill. 

There was power in his arms when he arrived this time, like lightning striking from the heavens, making his demand clear and voicing his frustrations all in one fell swoop.

Gallagher quipped, nodding his head towards the ground. “Watch the shoes.”

Sunday’s cheeks may have been red, or it could’ve been the flash of pink from the neon.

“This is not funny.”

“Oh, it’s hysterical.”

Gallagher’s hand eased out of his pocket. Every movement, each touch was languid and slow when he brought his knuckles to Sunday’s cheek, brushing a few loose locks behind his ear. 

The way those warm, calloused fingers caressed the shell of the Halovian’s ear made ripples of arousal pulse through the feathers folded right behind them. Sunday’s head turned away, biting that plump bottom lip in restraint. 

“Bad day?”

“... Terrible.” Sunday admitted, his brows turned down and his eyes so golden they felt unusually bright tonight. 

Within the last year they’d spent many nights together. Generally, Sunday would come to Gallagher’s apartment above the Reverie once a week. They’d unite and part, then each would be on their way. Sunday would have to wait for the Hound to send him an invitation and a list of rules for the night, then it would rinse and repeat.

The taller man caressed Sunday’s throat with the very tips of his fingers, resisting the urge to fit his hand over it possessively. This little bird was so beautiful Gallagher sometimes wished to cut himself a little piece from him.

To last two months with a hookup was convenient. Six months was a habit.

But to meet for almost a year and a half was beginning to feel less like a hookup and more like the aggressive formation of attachment. 

Gallagher could admit his fondness for the Halovian - he was getting on in years and skirting around his fancies wasn’t something he wasted time on. If he liked something, he ought to say it. So much was easier to say, however, when the person before him wasn’t so obtuse.

Sunday was younger, immature and sheltered. He sought out pleasure and then suffered from his craving for something more. 

When it was Sunday seeking Gallagher, even when they had no set rules and prior preparations, the Hound was ready to provide.

He pushed back against Sunday’s shoulder until the angel was moving; hesitant at first because he thought he was being sent away, but Gallagher persisted. He stepped into the angel’s personal space and forced him inch after inch until their roles were reversed and Sunday was the one pinned against a wall.

Gallagher’s hand moved slowly, his nose brushing Sunday’s. Five digits traversed down his front, caressing the length of his sternum and down the faint traces of abs.

“Listen to me carefully now. I can give you what you want so very easily when you’re good.”

Sunday was trembling like a leaf. If the bite of the outside chill was getting to him, the heat emanating from Gallagher’s own body was a good way to cover for it. If so much hot breath intermingled between their mouths, how would it feel cold when he had warm skin pressed directly against him? 

Gallagher circled his middle finger around Sunday’s belly button, staring as if he could see him through the suit.

“You’re going to go upstairs to my room and you’re going to prepare yourself just the way I do for you.” Fingers whispered past Sunday’s belt and went straight to the growing bulge inside his grey pants. Gallagher cupped Sunday’s crotch through the cloth, eliciting a startled cry. “Because when I come for you after my shift, I’m going to take you whether or not you’re ready. No matter where you are and what you’re doing.”

“Gallag—Mmm…! I’m—”

Yeah, he was growing hard increasingly fast. 

Sunday wore only a whin vest and already looked dishevelled. If he walked through the entire bar looking like he’d just been up to no good in the alley, Gallagher would have a hard time keeping drunken patrons off the angel for the time he needed to reach the stairs. 

But did that stop him from massaging Sunday’s plumping length? 

On the contrary, Gallagher was delighted to see just how well that body reacted to him after nearly a month apart. The barman’s touch was purposefully trying to drive the pale-haired beauty up the wall. Now that he had given away just how touchstarved he had been, it was only a matter of time before his shoulders would go slack and Sunday would give into the pull of their unanimous desire.

“That’s not how you call me when it’s just us, is it?”

Sunday’s eyes drifted from Gallagher’s face, head turning in the direction of the street on the end of the alley. The Hound pulled his attention back with a harsher press, earning a startled hiss. Neither able to accept the touch nor push that muscular arm away, Sunday could only press his hands firmly against the wall behind him, squeezing them into shaking fists.

Small, soft feathers brushed across Gallagher’s lips when they came to shield Sunday’s face. His eyes were dilated, pulse throbbing visibly on the side of his neck. 

“Attention on me, yeah? It’s just you and me and I want to hear direct answers. Use that pretty mouth, birdie.”

Crumpling under the affectionate way the taller man used that ridiculous nickname, Sunday inclined his head submissively. “Yes, M–Master. I will prepare…”

“Open up, little dove.” Gallagher kissed the sensitive wings, teeth brushing over the phalanges where they crossed and inadvertently brushing their noses together. “Don’t hide from me. I’ve already seen it all.”

Sunday groaned, moving away his wings to have his lips instantly captured by a starving mouth. Gallagher’s scent was oppressive and his kisses were ravenous and all-consuming. The Halovian was lightheaded from the sensation alone, having his mouth plundered. 

Just when he was reaching up to hold onto Gallagher, the man moved away and left so much of that damp, cold air between them. 

Sunday’s knees were so weak he had to support himself against the wall. His face was flushed and his pants were sporting a deep grey spot and a bulge that was both shamefully expressive and unflagging. Even when he sucked a couple breaths and steadied himself, Sunday simply failed to rein in his desires. 

The Hound noticed. He always noticed every small detail about Sunday. It was both refreshing and torturous, but he couldn’t say a word of approval, afraid that would encourage Gallagher to do something even more scandalous. 

They entered the bar together. 

Along the corridor and immediately to the right was the bathroom. A gaggle of young girls were lingering around it, gossipping or smoking with glittery dresses shining muted in the dim light. Winding down a set of stairs was the lobby itself, followed by a vast space with tables and chairs so close together it was practically impossible to cross between them without bumping into somebody. 

However, Gallagher moved as if he was wading through reeds in a pond - easily pulling Sunday through the gap his wide shoulders ceated. 

At some point the Hound’s vest had ended up wrapped around Sunday. It was just large enough to droop pitifully around him and cover his body from shoulders to mid-thigh. 

Past the tables and behind the bar was a new set of stairs. They were strictly off-limits with a bouncer there to keep everything in check. At the sight of Sunday though, he stepped aside, allowing the Halovian to step first into the hall above the bar. 

The soundproofing was immaculate. That’s what made this the safest place Sunday could spend his nights; moaning and whining, deranged with grief and overwhelmed with pleasure as he took it all out on Gallagher. Somebody who wouldn’t judge, or at least didn’t speak of it; who didn’t take Sunday’s unintentional manipulations and who gave him breaks to wipe his tears and feed him snacks until he could put himself back together.

That familiar door Sunday had stood before more than a dozen times came into view. Gallagher’s personal apartment above the bar smelled distinctly of him. Sunday felt at home stepping through the door and taking off his shoes in the dark entree. 

Gallagher didn’t give him any further instructions. 

He simply closed the door and departed, the sound of his steps disappearing down the corridor and back within the sea of sounds usually connected with the bar. 

The Halovian sat for a long while in the darkness, leaning against the shoe rack and nosing the collar of that dark brown vest. 

His head felt so fuzzy he couldn’t even feel regret the usual way. He told Robin he would be going for a walk, but the second the door closed behind him, Sunday started running. Like he could escape the tension in his chest. Like he could outrun his anxiety. Merely reaching the first floor had left him winded, knees aching, but he couldn’t feel his body when the tears were brimming in the corners of his eyes.

So he allowed his feet to take him wherever, so long as it was going to be somewhere far away from his regular life. 

And then, he saw Gallagher lighting his cigarette. 

Sunday really needed something to do to distract himself from waiting before the events from his day came up from his very gullet to choke him. 

It was the same song and dance, but he took his time stripping in the bathroom. The weather outside was cold, but Gallagher’s apartment was always just warm enough to stand naked on the tiles. 

The Halovian avoided the mirror, taking that chance to hop inside the shower. Water slid down Sunday’s back, scalding hot and turning his skin red. Goosebumps rose over his arms and chest, but he scrubbed inexistent dirt and mud from his body; ridding himself of filth inside and out with little success of steering his mind away from what Gallagher had said.

Would the Hound really just take Sunday wherever he was standing. Should he even test that idea? 

But where in this apartment was a place they had never done it before? 

Just looking at each piece of furniture while drying himself, Sunday’s unflagging interest twitched in remembrance. 

He’d been eaten out like dinner on the kitchen table, bent over the counter and forced to his knees in the space by the couch. Gallagher had once forced Sunday to sit on a dildo, tied to one of the kitchen chairs while being whipped. Another time Sunday was fetching the remote from under the low coffee table when the bartender had descended upon him - cruel fingers and teeth that left marks on him which wouldn't fade for a month.

The bed, the fainting couch, the walls, the floor, the door. 

Sunday was suddenly overwhelmed with his options - or lack thereof - so while he dried his hair and feathers near the space heater in the bedroom, he considered that the best place for today would be the bed. 

Decision made, Sunday combed through his damp locks and laid on the duvet.

Waiting was excruciating. The slow hum of music below could barely be heard, but with him sitting in complete silence, the vibrations easily leaked through the wooden floors and heavens knew how many inches of concrete. 

The Hound’s apartment wasn’t lavish, but it was well-lived in. Deep greens, golden and black, sometimes matched with blue and sometimes with red. Gallagher’s living space was like a box full of jewels, with Sunday being the only speck of dust upon their design. 

Again, anxiety gripped him just as he was lying there, thinking idly about when that one hour would pass. 

He’d forgotten his phone in the rush and Gallagher didn’t have a clock. The only indication it was getting late were the dozens of windows going out in the nearby apartment building. Occasionally a car would drive by and Sunday would stare at it, momentarily wondering if it would’ve been Robin or somebody else searching for him.

Sunday felt like he didn’t fit. Too large, too on edge, too shallow, too emotional. 

Too much of everything in his life, like some sort of tragic puzzle piece which had happened to fall into the wrong box. 

Sunday’s attention shifted to the nightstand. It was a simple piece of furniture, just like anything else in the apartment. That was where Gallagher used to use all their nightly accommodations. Sunday’s toothbrush and toothpaste in a neat little box, different types of lube or hand cream, condoms and a hair clip he’d forgotten once. Perhaps if Sunday checked the wardrobe he would find clothes and underwear that were way too small for the Hound.

If he opened that nightstand cupboard, would he see that it was empty, or would Gallagher still be keeping one of Sunday’s favourite items just within reach? If the white-haired man reached out and found that the Hound had decided to move on when he went no-contact, would it dislodge all those stupid hopeful moments from his soul or would they nail themselves deep enough to make him break?

Little pieces of their encounters remained in each other’s quarters and even smaller pieces of shattered-glass affection cut through Sunday’s heart whenever he least expected it. 

He had just sat up, fingers reaching for the brass handle when he heard a noise from outside.

The entrance door opened and closed softly; shoes clattered and slow footsteps stalked to the kitchen sink. Sunday could recognise the sound of Gallagher’s steps among thousands of feet.

Water ran, dishes clattered. 

Something was dropped off on the table, but behind the closed door to their bedroom, Sunday couldn’t tell what it was. 

He scrambled off the bed and kneeled on the carpet.

Sunday suddenly realized that his body would never forget the position Gallagher liked him in: his throat bared and arms on his knees which were skirted open to expose his most vulnerable parts.

The wings on the small of his back could be extended or folded, but those at the base of his head and the smaller, more sensitive ones between his legs ought to always be unfolded. 

In his exploration with dominance and submission, Sunday had found out that Gallagher had some unusual preferences for what ‘giving up power’ looked like on his partners. 

The bartender appreciated seeing Sunday’s face and the emotions he could not hide showing through the thin façade of dignity. No part of the Halovian could ever resist that scorching look of want the Hound usually fixed him with.

With Gallagher, eye contact was intense, intimate and embarrassing at the same time. Sunday wanted nothing better than to seize control and avoid looking too deeply at what was hiding behind the rusty brown gaze, like dried blood on snow. It made Sunday feel as though he had been splayed out in the open, his guts unspooling and steaming hot with lingering life. If he wasn’t good, he would be mauled, but if he was good, he would be carefully devoured.

He wasn’t allowed to look away. 

Which made the moment Gallagher walked through the door that more exciting. 

“Ah…” The tall man purred with surprise, finding Sunday splayed and ready as they had agreed. The entire time he was tending downstairs, Gallagher’s pants were painfully tight and his brain had almost clocked off an hour early. “Did you wait too long, little bird?”

Sunday trembled, unintentionally turning it down. “Mn…”

Just then, Gallagher’s hand brushed the top of his head, combing fingers through the fluffy tufts like he was trying to soothe some large, nervous beast. The Halovian was still, caught completely unawares. Wasn’t Gallagher meant to be climbing all over him at this very moment?

“Hah… How impatient.”

Sunday’s face went completely red. “That’s what you had said I should do.”

“True, you’ve been so very obedient thus far… Let’s see it then.” Gallagher hooked his foot around a nearby chair and pulled it close enough to plop into. The rattan seat creaked under his weight, but held nicely while the Hound crossed one leg over the other.

The Halovian was at a loss. He kneeled and stared with his ears perked and wing feathers trembling with anticipation, unsure what exactly was expected of him.

Motioning to the bed, Gallagher urged. “Go on. Present.”

Ah. 

Sunday climbed into the bed. Since he’d been trying to exercise and eat more regularly, his body had gained some weight and his back muscles now covered most of his bones, clenching and easing beneath the pale skin. His thighs had become more curved and his perky buttocks were already such a delight to look at in his tight pants. The look of it having grown plumper with meat was like being offered a meal after a snack.

Gallagher licked at his teeth, feeling them itchy, compelling him to take a bite. He relished feeling the Halovian clench around his cock while Gallagher sank his fangs into the back of his neck, holding him like prey.

Face pressed into the bed, Sunday skirted his legs open and presented by spreading himself. Gallagher observed him most studiously, delighted to embarrass the angel further with the lack of action.

Sunday’s hole was a deep pink colour, furled so tight Gallagher’s ribs ached from the thought of feeling the muscle ripple around his shaft in surrender. No matter how often they had sex, the Halovian’s body was naturally petite and his masculine nature was to show insubordination to the Hound’s meticulous training. 

Truly, he was perfect. Not a single hair out of place, nor a feather ruffled. Even as he held himself open, Sunday’s unflagging excitement hung between his thighs in full glory, the wings around his genitalia folded to cradle the sac beneath.

On them Gallagher noticed the golden piercings he’d personally placed, nicely healed and shiny. 

Forced to stay in such a vulnerable position, Sunday eventually couldn’t stay as tense as he felt. His shoulders relaxed and his waist dipped even further, pushing his backside out until he was in prime breeding position.

Only then did Gallagher rise from his seat. 

After a careful study, he had noticed something unusual about the way Sunday looked. Gallagher needed nothing but a single caress to tell what it was exactly. As he pulled over the muscle, one of the hands holding it all open fell away, white-knuckling the black silk sheets instead.

Sunday knew the moment Gallagher’s thumb circled his anus, that he’d been found out.

“I believe I told you to prepare yourself the way I would. Do you think I’d ever care to penetrate you without prior stretching and lube, Sunday? Are you trying to tease me or get on my nerves?”

“I thought…” He swallowed, eyes fluttering open to stare sightlessly at nothing. “... You could be rough with me tonight.”

“What’s your goal?” Gallagher tusked and slid his hand over the small of Sunday’s back, keeping him down with light pressure as the bartender reached for the nightstand to retrieve a brand new bottle. “To tear? If you wanted a trip to the ER so bad, you could’ve asked anybody else in the club to take you away when you had the chance.”

The sound of that familiar cap opening didn’t surprise Sunday. On the other hand, it made him feel incredibly ashamed of himself. He hadn’t communicated well and he was aware, but he had hoped that some negligence from Gallagher’s part would get him in a state where his head would be empty and pleasure or pain would mix with his anxiety until they throttled all his worries.

Instead, he’d caused his partner an inconvenience. 

“Wait. I’ll do it…” 

“You’re not doing a thing.”

“Ouf—!” Sunday’s head was shoved back into the mattress, hips held upright. “It was my task.”

“You’ve missed your chance, little bird. Now I’m here and I’m taking care of where you’ve been slacking.”

With those words Gallagher squeezed a generous amount of lube over his middle finger, giving a moment for that cool gel to warm on his skin before easing it into Sunday. Naturally, the angel’s muscles relaxed significantly, breathing deeply through his nose. The stretch was barely there, but for that he could feel every single knuckle and scar over his dominant’s fingers as it nudged deep. 

When knuckles touched his perineum, Sunday’s dorsal wings switched, unintentionally reacting to the stimuli. It took so little to rile him up, but his head– It was still too loud for him to give in completely. 

He still had the wherewithal to understand everything he’d done wrong. All the bad things he’s been doing on purpose came back to haunt him in a deluge of unsolicited thoughts. Why was he not normal about it? Why did he have to do things in spite of people just to get some sort of reaction out of them? Why wouldn’t they just listen to his suggestion when he’d so carefully— 

Gallagher kept prodding at him leisurely, each push and pull tugging at his entrance, but never providing that additional finger one required to feel full. It was this sort of unwitting delight which caused the noise in Sunday’s ears dull. If he so much as closed his eyes, Sunday was sure that he could completely forget about what he’d been worried about.

The Hound scoffed when Sunday angled himself towards his caress, earning himself a delicious crook towards his prostate. Though it missed its target, frisson crawled up Sunday’s spine.

Fingers curling into the comforter, he cried out wistfully. “N–Ngh!”

“Aren’t you enjoying yourself too much?”

Gallagher unzipped his pants, stepping out of them and then pushing his underwear just low enough to free the tension collecting between his pockets all evening. Gallagher was a tall man to begin with, but it truly dawned on him just how much when Sunday’s display on the bed put the pale, winged buttocks to level with the Hound’s cock. He enjoyed the sight of their skins brushing together, the contrast between Sunday’s white flesh and the criss-crossing of all the scars Gallagher wore. Soft angles and curved muscle all for his pleasure. 

As he nudged between Sunday’s thighs, the Halovian instinctively shifted his weight, closing them around Gallagher’s shaft to give him pleasure in return. That’s when the bartender tutted at Sunday, petting one of his dorsal wings indulgently.

“You didn’t put the effort where you had to, when you had to.” He scolded mildly. “So, you must work your way to that edge if you want to get anything out of this. Let’s see if you’ve gotten better at your technique.”

Mayhaps that was the most ingenious thing Gallagher had ever asked of his submissive. Sunday couldn’t spiral any further when he had such a difficult task at hand. 

No thrusting of his hips was allowed, nor could his thighs be any less open than they were. He could not grind down and he couldn’t use his hands to pleasure Gallagher. There was only one thing he could do to earn his own relief. 

The weak, small wings he possessed wound around the large organ, encompassing it. The first time Gallagher had touched their lengths together the feeling of feathers on his foreskin had been almost too alien to bear. They fluttered and moved like something separate from Sunday's body, uncoordinated and warm.

It was a slow and painful process to pleasure somebody with a part of himself Sunday had never exercised before. It was worse than using his non-dominant hand while jerking himself off, harder to flex the muscles connected to his pelvic floor when there was something stuffed inside him already. 

Sunday had to concentrate all of his energy around his hips to both move his wings in a steady rhythm and hold Gallagher’s weight against himself. He was usually a sucker for frottage, he adored feeling himself smaller, nearly crushed by the power of those hips bearing down on him as though he wasn’t there.

Before he received a third finger within himself, Sunday was already coated in sweat, droplets running down his sides and temples as his muscles screamed for relief. His hip was soaked with precum and his feathers had become sticky. Gallagher’s tremendous size made it impossible to keep up. 

Each time Sunday clenched his hips to control his wings and to keep that hefty cock against his own as a merciful way of raking in some pleasure, Gallagher would punish the unavoidable squeeze of his hole by prodding at Sunday’s prostate and perineum. His hands knew each pleasure spot in Sunday’s body, nailing down against it with perfect precision until the Halovian was losing his grip. 

Only after the third time he let the cock between his legs drop did a cry of frustration finally tear out of Sunday’s lips.

“I can’t…” He started, drool spilling down his skin as he heaved desperate gulps of air.

“Your colours, birdie.”

Sunday’s throat worked hard to swallow. “Gr—” But then he hesitated. Muscles deep inside his pelvis were beginning to ache and he felt himself working to the very core of his scrotum. No matter how bad he wanted to perform for the Hound, he simply couldn’t.

In the haze of submission he’d carefully collected himself enough to understand that if he continued being difficult, it would make this scene unpleasant for both of them. Gallagher would be unhappy and Sunday would be risking so much trust shared between them.

“Yellow.”

Gallagher’s praise was always immediate, always so sweet. The man truly understood just how to play Sunday to get the most out of him.

“Good boy.”

Instead of stopping completely, the Hound nudged Sunday further into the bed and onto his side. The two lay that way with Gallagher’s fingers still embedded, still moving through the slick but with a lot more care. It wasn’t so much for stretching anymore as it was the familiarity of stimulation which kept Sunday anchored.

“Tell me again what you want from this.” Gallagher asked, brushing fingers up Sunday’s side. His free hand jumped to his shoulder, then combed sweaty bangs away from the angel’s flushed visage. “What did you think would happen when you came to me without even a call? What did you expect when you spread yourself this ill-prepared?”

“I’ve been so overwhelmed, I just wanted… To not have consequences for a while.”

“To be reckless?” Gallagher guessed and corrected him simultaneously.

Sunday’s eyelashes fluttered, shielding the sincerity in his eyes from the piercing gaze of the Hound. “It feels good when it hurts a little… It feels good when the hurt is coming from you alone. Can’t you just take over entirely? I don’t want to think, I don’t want to make any choices. I’ll take everything you give me, just don’t ask. You can... Just tell me what to do and I will, I’ll—”

Gallagher extracted his digits from Sunday before rolling them over, framing the angels’ shoulders with his muscular arms. Their faces were close enough to share one breath and the cooling sweat on Sunday’s body was beginning to warm again with the weight of another body enveloping him.  

“I’ll have to set some rules for you.” The Hound thought for a moment, observing the Halovian with a small smile. “Like, if you want to be completely submitted to me there’s something you’d need to wear to show it.”

The intrusive thoughts push out the angel’s lips before he could stop them. “You haven’t thrown it away?”

“Why would I?”

The Hound brought rough fingertips to Sunday’s throat, feeling his windpipe and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed during another swallow. Sunday couldn’t possibly embarrass himself further by being this vulnerable. Perhaps after they were done, he could let the tension in his heart go. 

For now, he said nothing. 

In return, the bartender huffed. He was well-aware, but all this prodding was necessary. Gallagher had to know just how desperate Sunday was to run away from whatever problem brought him here, so he constantly prodded and questioned, denied and then rewarded him as a way to earn ownership of that faded devotion once more.

“You must feel very naked right now. I can feel you shivering. Let’s fix that, hm?”

As if already tied with a string to the Hound, Sunday followed him once he got up. Kneeling on the bed, the Halovian’s eyes eagerly observed Gallagher as he retrieved Sunday’s collar and leash. They were both neatly tucked inside their box, having been kept in that nightstand after all. 

The relief of knowing he wasn’t discarded in the short time they were apart felt almost as good as feeling the clasp snap around his neck.

═══════════════

Sunday’s thoughts had melted with the tears streaking his face, soaking into the bedsheet he’d buried his face in. His breathing was ragged and his heart was thrumming inside his head while yet another orgasm fizzed up beneath his skin, threatening to explode from him deliciously and violently. 

Each word he spoke was slurred into unrecognisability, yet as a professional Gallagher was well-versed in pillow talk. That was to say, he understood what those syllables were supposed to represent even if they were spoken buried in fabric.

“Please— Pleasepleasepleaseplease… Galla—gh–”

Sunday’s back arched further as his collar pulled taut over his throat and the leash which connected to the mulberry leather was squeezed even tighter. The Halovian couldn’t stop trembling while Gallagher’s vicious thrusts slammed against his prostate, pushing him forward only to tug him back.

“You don’t get to make these decisions, birdie.” Gallagher purred. “It’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? You don’t want to think, you don’t want anybody else to depend on you and you don’t want to make decisions. Your body and mind all depend on what I do to them, don’t they? It’s what you’re made for.”

“Hic— Ngh, ah, mmmn… Hah…”

Even with his arms folded before him to make for a comfortable hiding spot, Sunday’s sobs could be heard above the slapping of their bodies. His dorsal wings unfolded, twitching and rippling as goosebumps ran up his spine and resonated deep inside his brain. 

Gallagher slackened his hand again, feeling the buttery-soft leash slip from his fingers so Sunday could stretch out - wrinkling the bedsheets and bending his body even further. He looked like a dog in heat, begging for it while moaning pitifully. His length wobbled between his thighs, leaking profusely against the dark sheets and forming a puddle in the space between his knees.

Each strike to his pleasure earned a moan in gratitude, every tug of the leash reminding him that it wasn’t his right to feel this good yet.

It was Gallagher who kept him whole. Gallagher kept him together. 

It was Gallagher who had to reach his pleasure before the Halovian could.

Alas, Sunday couldn’t hold back any longer. 

His thighs trembled, knees weak and toes curled whilst sweat dripped down his back and sides. The tight channel which Gallagher was plunging into savagely clamped down painfully tight when the Hound paused to grind deep inside him. 

Sunday’s tummy felt heavy and warm, his balls pulled so close to his body he felt utterly powerless to restrain himself. Gallagher filled him so completely, taking over each inch as though stamping his claim on the Halovian’s very flesh. 

The teeth marks he’d littered over Sunday’s shoulders and neck were not enough– there could always be more. 

More.

The desire to be taken and crushed completely made Sunday’s tears roll hotter, his raw throat working through pathetic little moans. He couldn’t move fast enough, pulling a trembling arm from beneath his head to reach for his own hardness, trying to stifle the orgasm before it was too late.

Yet Sunday’s body was undisciplined and selfish. Thick ropes of spend dripped from his tip; his entire soul splitting from his body for that moment it took to rattle apart. Gallagher stilled behind him, grunting and squeezing the Halovian’s waist as he was milked prematurely.

Perhaps being overwhelmed with pleasure at such a moment lead to the most terrifying realization. When the man behind him stopped moving, Sunday was certain he was in trouble. Gallagher may have relished the rippling of Sunday’s insides around that unbridled girth splitting the angel most pleasurably, but he’d set a rule - Sunday wasn’t supposed to cum until allowed. 

Sunday’s knees skirted apart, unsure whether he wanted to display himself submissively again or curl up and hide. Hot spend glistened across Gallagher’s bedsheets making his transgression even more evident. He squeezed the last traces of his lust, as if the more he came, the less severe would be his punishment. 

It was like he subconsciously was saying ‘This is for you, Master. You made me feel so good.’

Unexpectedly, Gallagher didn’t scold him. He took his time to let Sunday calm down, sucking a long breath of smoke from his cigarette. It filled his lungs, relaxing and delightful. On his lap, a hot, slick hole twitched around him and in his free hand was the soft curve of the angel’s trimmed waist. The mix of those two sensations were incredible when combined. 

He listened to the exhausted whimpering for a while longer before offering a single comment. 

“You did well.”

At that, Sunday collapsed onto his front, lying in the same spot he came. Gallagher’s cock slipped out, leaving behind a slick mess and that oversensitive cavern twitching as it clenched around nothing. The Halovian already missed the warmth and the presence of his lover inside, but he feared that another touch might just steal his breath straight out of his lungs.

He was too young to die, with too much left to live for. 

Except, Gallagher didn’t care whether or not he would live or perish. He used one hand to roll Sunday onto his back and passed a long, hard look at his shivering body, flushed from head to ribs and thighs curling closer to his body in defence. 

“Open.” He demanded, cigarette pinched between his lips. 

Sunday was afraid of transgressing any longer, so he slid his feet across the bedding, showing the man what he wanted to see. 

Partially. 

The overstimulation had taken over his bodily faculties and the Halovian couldn’t control the smallest set of wings folded over his softening length, shielding it from both the sight and any further stimulation.

“Tsk.”

Thunder falling would’ve been more quiet than that sound. Sunday wasn’t even touched yet, but a whimper wheezed past his lips, toes digging into the comforter beneath. 

Gallagher drew one last, long breath from his cigarette and snuffed it out in the ashtray. Blowing out the smoke down onto Sunday. His face surfaced from behind the nicotine cloud to show a new expression; as though a switch had been turned and his impatience had grown thricefold. 

“I won’t repeat myself.”

“I’m… I’m still…” Sunday shuddered, pushing himself up on one elbow. “So sensitive—”

“Did I ask?” Gallagher responded. 

No. By all means, Gallagher hadn’t checked with Sunday and in return, Sunday himself was not throwing in the towel. He could safeword out of it at any point, but this new sensation pressing out from behind his ribs was an addictive feeling. He wanted to explore this primitive fear that had, for just a moment, gripped him. 

Like a dove within the jaws of a python, he had no choice but to look at him and push back - one final attempt to save himself.

Maybe there was a glint in his eyes that warned the predator of that blossoming idea. 

Within the next moment Gallagher had scooched up further between Sunday’s thighs, pinning him down by the hips. 

“Sunday,” Poison. His voice was poison and medicine together - rending him to pieces and healing the cracks in his soul within the same moment. “I want to see those pretty wings unfold. Show me, little bird, what you have hidden there.”

The same rough hands that had previously held onto his leash caressed his flank, pulling across Sunday’s ribs before retreating to his thighs and resting on his knees. He had a bad feeling, but with Gallagher’s face and voice giving him mixed signals, the Halovian was unsure what exactly it was he wanted. 

To refuse and see what he would do? 

To be good and be rewarded with more of the mind-numbing pounding that saw him to the darkest corners of heaven?

Gallagher lifted one hand, as though to comb his fingers through his own sweaty bangs. Yet it strayed from its initial direction, his palm straightening and curling back a little as it came down hard against the top of Sunday’s right thigh.

“Ahn!”

The pain seared through him, hot and sharp. His entire body broke out in goosebumps. 

A single drop of sweat ran down the side of his head, caressing the curve of his jaw. Gallagher noticed that reaction and his annoyance momentarily shifted into something much more dangerous.

Interest.

“That was for cumming without permission.” The Hound grumbled. “This one—”

The sound of his palm against the outside of Sunday’s thigh nearly swallowed the remaining words: “Is for being such a brat today.”

The angel tried twisting out of Gallagher’s grasp, but before he could push himself away, his leash was once again caught. His dominant slowly rolled his hand, winding the leather shorter and shorter around his knuckles, pulling Sunday directly beneath him. Though his smallest wings twitched and trembled, they didn’t relent even while the organ beneath them throbbed with awakening interest. If Sunday could still get hard after his third orgasm, then Gallagher wasn’t doing a very good job at wringing him out. 

If today Sunday demanded something rougher, Gallagher ought to find a solution.

“If you don’t show me, you’ll have to carry the consequences, little birdie. Do you really want to know what happens when you disobey?”

Sunday’s thoughts were swimming, sunken deep beneath the surface of his mind. Did he want to disobey?

Gallagher’s fingers brushed a single knuckle against Sunday’s smallest wings, petting them as though coaxing a rose to unfurl its petals for him. But that rose of Sunday’s was abused and sensitive still. It would need a lot more than soft coos and gentle persuasion to actually follow the gardener’s commands. 

Thus Gallagher scoffs, teeth flashing in a devilish grin.

“Very well. You want someone else to do even this for you?”

Strikes rained down upon Sunday’s thighs, punishing him for a series of transgressions he could not refute. For being too obtuse. For cutting contact without warning. For calling for Gallagher on a day they were not supposed to meet. For allowing others to agitate Sunday this far. For being reckless. Disobedient. For being so emotional. 

On the last one, Gallagher’s hand was gentler. It didn’t feel like a punishment, but more like him expressing his frustrations with Sunday. 

The Halovian clenched his teeth and arched his head away, trying to emotionally distance himself from the sensual assault and still very incapable to. Deep inside, something cracked. The ache on his thighs - steadily turning red from the spanking - stopped registering as pain and became an easy numbness that swallowed his previous anxiety.

Resisting the ache was exhausting. He was so tired of pretending like he was unbreakable when his heart bled so softly, when the world was turned against him and all his plans were stomped down mercilessly each turn he took. Only with Gallagher were things coordinated; even his punishments were just mild scoldings aiming to get his attention back to pleasure instead of that endless spiral he’d been winding through. 

Sunday couldn’t even hold back his tears as they started pouring again, soaking his eyelashes and dripping down his cheeks. Gallagher couldn’t help thinking about how beautiful that angel was whilst weeping, his face shiny from it under the mild candle-light. 

“I’m– hic— I’m sorry. So sorry.” The heat and receding pain made him that much honest. He was nothing but a broken vase, leaking water and barely retaining its shape as the pressure threatened to destroy him. “I’ve missed you. I wanted to text you, to call you, hic, but I’ve been busy and… and this addiction to you had been driving me insane. It’s not about the sex anymore, it’s so much more, but we— Our agreement was exclusive but not forever. It wasn’t… Not like this…” 

Sunday scrubbed at his face, trying to breathe through the teary words. 

“That’s it. Sucks to keep it all in, doesn’t it?” Gallagher rubbed the small wings between Sunday’s legs moving away the feathers with his index finger and thumb until they uncurled from the semi-hard cock throbbing beneath. They both reeked of cum and musk, lying in each other’s mess.

But that was what made it all the more exciting when Gallagher pinned the wings down by the soft cartilage and instructed Sunday to keep talking while the Hound went to mete out his rewards. 

“Don’t stop. I want to know just how much you’ve been feeling the last month.”

As Gallagher sat up with Sunday in his arms, the Halovian’s own weight pressed him down, sinking to the very hilt. His body had become so malleable that he couldn’t even clench from fear that it would bring his abused, tender prostate to the very tip parting his insides so boldly.

The tears ceased for one long moment as shock zipped through Sunday’s very core. Gallagher was kneeling on the bed and secure on his haunches, but the angel had nothing to hold on atop such thick thighs. His legs were forced to wrap around Gallagher’s waist, arms on the Hound’s shoulders.

Having been granted a seat fit for royalty, Sunday couldn’t refute the longing to confess more about himself. From his work to the falling out with an ally family, the blame, the constant pestering about his future, the fear Robin would somehow be involved and the anger that he had so much power at his fingertips, yet could do nothing to set himself free.

It had been Gallagher who once showed Sunday what it was like to fly, to not care and be normal. What it was like to know fear and lust, to weep and cry out loud enough his throat turned raw. All he had never been allowed to do: Gallagher not only encouraged but accepted. He lingered and prodded at the Halovian hard enough to draw everything out of him.

“I’m afraid you— wouldn’t feel the s–same.”

After so many orgasms, all of Sunday’s blood had gathered in his nethers, making both his dick and his hole sensitive to the extreme. Even the smallest touch of anything against them left his tummy itching and his tailbone tingling. Static was buzzing over his beaten thighs, so red as to show Gallagher’s fingerprints.

Worst of all was Sunday’s insatiable hunger. It burned hot in his very marrow, begging to be sucked out his bones. The ache was nearly physical, but the pleasure was too addicting to wean off of.

Gallagher pushed inside the hot, tight canal over and over, slicked up anew and insistent. Having trained these responses into the adorable angel, Sunday had no other choice but to let his lower half go limp and give all movement to the Hound.

The man was sure that forcing Sunday upright this very instant had make the angel black out from blood loss. So much blood had rushed into his head from anxiety and now it had been flushed down to his nethers, where he was being pleasured as if he was the last warm body on Penacony.

It was fine then, to be in this position.

“You wanted to know how I felt about this?”

Gallagher’s thrusts were shallow, but fast, keeping Sunday on the very edge. While the pressure of him moving was enough to rub over that small gland, coaxing it to work harder, the rugged bartender plucked the angel’s pleasure even further by taking hold of his length. 

Even if nothing was left for Sunday to spill, there was still clear fluid beading at the tip. Gallagher didn’t jerk him off but squeezed around him very rhythmically, as if trying to simulate the way he’d been milked by Sunday’s early arrival. 

He was almost certain he could feel cum travelling through his ducts, hot and fiery - absolutely riveting but irresistible. Gallagher was making a point, so he didn’t slow down and did not show mercy. He fucked into Sunday from below just like an animal trying to breed its mate to make it feel more at ease. 

But in Sunday’s case, Gallagher used pleasure to relax his mind. Actions had always been louder than words.

So how much louder could he possibly be about his own feelings, if fucking into the angel like he was trying to melt their flesh together wasn’t enough? Sunday’s vulnerability was a heavy burden, but it was one Gallagher was strong enough to hold up. The angel’s volatile nature and his large heart hid beneath layers and layers of defensive mechanisms and beneath stone walls, countless meters thick.

“Say it. Say how you feel.”

“Good…” Was his first reaction. 

Sunday’s eyes were squeezed shut, eyelashes wet and his eyebrows pinched together in pleasure-pain. His cheeks were flushed to the point those tiny freckles on the bridge of his nose were starting to show. His fingers clung to the small of Gallagher’s back, clawing aching streaks through his skin, but that gave the Hound even more incentive. 

“AH– Master, Aeons! Fuck! AHNNN–!!” Sunday wailed at the change of direction. His leash was snatched once more, pulling him over to lean all of his weight on Gallagher’s chest.

Gallagher himself lay down and anchored his feet against the mattress to completely take control of their movements. Sunday’s legs were boneless, incapable of holding him upright as he squatted on the man’s lap. The cock spearing through him was so vicious it frothed sticky lube and precum between them, drawing out each disgusting, obscene noise a Halovian body was capable of. 

“Tell– Gh– Tell me. How do you feel? Ah, ah, Sunday… Sunday…” Even somebody as callous as Gallagher was a sucker for the carnality of their union. The Halovian was tight and malleable, accepting and warm and oh-so-very reactive to each touch.

A deep throaty grunt ripped itself from the Hound’s mouth, his lips distressingly lonely while watching Sunday’s eyes roll to the back of his head, going entirely limp seconds before he came.

Sunday’s pelvic wings wrapped around Gallagher’s hand to slow down his movements when the pace suddenly stilled and liquid warmth poured deep inside the angel. He could feel it at his core, each throb and twitch and the way Gallagher instinctively rolled his hips as if he could nudge his cum just a little deeper. 

“I’ve fallen… for you…” The white-haired beauty responded in a daze.

Marked from top to bottom, Sunday finally collapsed over Gallagher’s chest. 

The two of them panted, drenched and slicked with cum - filthy beyond remedy.

For all the anxiety and distress Sunday had brought to the table, he was quiet and peaceful now. In the afterglow of their scene Gallagher caressed his hair and combed it behind the Halovian’s ear. Fingers touched the shell of his ear soothingly before pinching and teasing the primaries on Sunday’s wings. 

“Fallen for me, hm?” Gallagher mused. 

Sunday didn’t dare utter a word. In the haze of his orgasm he wasn’t thinking too hard when he spoke such words. Realizing what exactly had come out of his mouth made him groan. He would’ve rolled himself off the Hound if he could, so as to not feel the bouncing of his chest with muted laughter.

Unfortunately, Sunday was entirely spent. He couldn’t lift a finger after his fourth orgasm and he was pretty sure if he were forced to, he could’ve perished to dust in the moment. 

Lips touched his forehead.

“Don’t be upset. It’s only funny to muse when I reciprocate.”

Sunday’s breaths quiet down. Did he hear that right? 

He nuzzled a bit deeper into the Hound’s shoulder, relishing the fragment of hope he felt at that. Even if they were still connected and Gallagher’s unflagging length was pushing against Sunday’s sensitive walls, he didn’t want to pull away just yet. He could endure it, if only to hear a repeat of that confirmation.

“You do?”

“I do. About time you came around to confess as well.”

That was truly a hit to Sunday’s ego. 

He had been stressing out about his feelings for weeks, has been feeling them evolve beneath his breast, swelling like a cancer that could be lethal if he kept it around for too long - just for Gallagher to turn around and tell him that this was a forethought conclusion?

Unacceptable. He ought to give this nasty hound a piece of his mind. 

It was a difficult task when he was immediately seized in a strong hug, with Gallagher’s lips pressing down on Sunday’s. Chaste would have been an understatement, but to call it passionate was also incorrect. Gallagher had never kissed this way before, where his entire body was leaning towards the angel and his movements were a languid caress which neither stimulated nor eased. 

Thinking back on it, Gallagher did not allow kisses at the start. It was too messy in the beginning, too passionate for something as impersonal. Sex needn’t equal affection. But in the end, it had caught them unawares. 

To open up his boundaries was a step more brave than the most fierce entanglements.

Shivering from this new sensation, Sunday did his best to follow the movements. He opened his mouth when Gallagher coaxed and their tongues brushed together in slow, easy pulls. He was so tired and thirsty his head was beginning to pulse, yet the allure of the bartender sharing such an intimate act was more important than rest or sustenance. 

Steady fingers cradled the back of his head, carding through the tresses. It lit a fire in Sunday’s heart, made so his fingers tingled uncomfortably and the world spun in circles, leaving him dizzy and even more eager to lean on the Hound for support. 

Gallagher’s tongue plunged deep enough to suffocate, rolling the tip in easy caresses before sucking Sunday’s tongue into his own mouth, encouraging him to take what pleasure he could. 

He tasted faintly of tobacco and whiskey and his stubble scratched at Sunday’s face like a reminder of whose mouth he was plundering. As if Sunday could ever forget or ignore, with how much he had gone through wondering whether confessing would result in him being chased off like something unwanted.

They followed that same rhythm in and out, saliva dripping between them only for trembling fingers to reach up and wipe it away. Feeling how affected Gallagher was proved to be an indescribable sensation.

Gallagher’s tongue retreated and with it disappeared that veil on Sunday’s thoughts. He gazed blindly up at the handsome face and found that such a kiss had managed to convince him of the sincerities Gallagher just shared. That previous embarrassment of ‘giving up power’ had also found a hole to die in, for when the Hound’s eyes drifted down the silky-smooth skin of Sunday’s belly he felt more powerful than ever. 

The spot between his thighs once again showed signs of life, though this time his pelvic wings were wide open to show off his filling member.

“A hero awakens.”

“Don’t call it that.” Sunday hissed, 

It was a delightful surprise for Gallagher to learn just how hypersexual a repressed little Halovian could be. Even if he was spent beyond his limits, he only needed some tending to and he’d be eager to try something new. 

“Lean against the headboard, I’ll get you something sweet.”

As the two of them sat up to sip in water and share some dry snacks, Gallagher could tell Sunday was recuperating fast. Even with his hips bruised and a multitude of bite marks littering his sides and neck, hickeys peppering his chest down to his stomach and hips; he was a filthy picture of seduction and a part of Gallagher yearned to display him.

Sadly, the Hound wasn’t as fast to get it up, but he was enthused. With the end of the leash still in his hand, he rolled them over and wound it loosely around Sunday’s arms. Even if he wasn’t pinned down, the symbol of Gallagher’s dominance was just about enough to put Sunday under.

“I have just the idea as a reward for your sincere confession.”

Sunday’s throat was already raw; when Gallagher leaned over to lick along Sunday’s shaft, it made all the sore muscles in his body sing. He threw his head back and heaved a shuddering sigh, bracing himself to be taken for another round.