Chapter Text
Lavender scent filled the bedroom, pouring in with each gust of wind. The glass curtains softly swung, their gentle tinkling followed the multitude of lights thrown around by the late afternoon sun. Despite the large cloud pouring down its tempestuous sorrow on the chapel, it was relatively bright outside.
That sun-soaked room was simple in interior and light in colour. A heavy oak wood armoire and a desk sat by the window, with the four-post bed opposing them containing a single person.
The thin cotton sheets were dyed in a light blue, while the walls surrounding that bed were painted cerulean that glittered with silvery flecks like thousands of stars. A fluffy carpet lay among the furniture, depicting a bevy of Charmony doves in flight.
A pair of boots was thrown by the heavy wooden door. The chair from the desk was pulled closer to the bed, where a formal priest gown was folded over the backrest; the shirt, pants and socks bunched up haphazardly on the seat.
Sunday lay in bed, his eyelids still heavy, but sleep so far out of reach.
He couldn’t help feeling terrible after today.
The ceaseless stream of people inside the Church had brought him nothing but painful headaches from dawn to dusk. So many sins brought up to him, so much senseless and unreasonable suffering. He couldn’t tell right from wrong anymore as his heart softened from the thousands of voices mourning their unjust fates; his walls raised as each repentance melted into an endless sea of shallow apologies.
He became the perfect vessel for divine salvation, the only person who took pride in his work as the Head Priest of the Church of Penacony. They depended on him. They abused him.
His master and adoptive father, Gopher Wood, granted him the right to pass these doors and look upon the turmoil stirred by the invisible touch of Evil. Sunday’s own sister had held his hands, her lips curled like a crescent moon with happiness for his success.
Sunday, the paragon of Order, struggled to observe with an unmoving heart.
It was a tumultuous existence to be ever-forgiving. His words could make or break a person. That wasn’t a role that should have been given to a Halovian with wing feathers still silky and smooth and a halo untouched by corruption.
Alas, all the teachings he had gone through countless times spoke of one true Emanator who could sweep the dust from the casket of Justice.
Some days, Sunday wasn’t sure if he was doing the right things. He heard countless words of encouragement, but they fell flat. They felt dull. Fake. Undeserved .
Who was he to decide? Was he truly doing the good work he’d been brought up for?
And what about the mistakes that were so innately human? Such a fragmented, but irreversible part of his Halovian nature - to condemn only the most severe of crimes while also luring the good people into admitting what was barely a discrepancy with the scriptures? Who would pay for them? Who would grant them restful slumber? Was the one giving out false orders crazy, or the one who followed them to the letter?
Such thoughts kept him awake at night. From the moment the sun dipped behind the hills, until the moon was plump high in the sky. The white-haired man flung himself back and forth in bed, praying for sleep.
Stars twinkled, their lightbound memory whispered to each other what they had seen and whom they had graced. The silence between the trees left nothing but the murmur of rain, grass lightly brushing the legs of sleepy crickets, spurring them on for just a chirp or two.
When he was little, Sunday believed there was space in the sky for him too. Somewhere close to Robin, perhaps. Somewhere the sun could warm and caress his skin like the waves of a warm spring on a summer day.
Days bygone only proved that he’d flown too close.
Right now he was burning. His wings were melting and he was plummeting into a dark abyss with no way out, no path forward.
Shunned. Unwanted. Filthy—
“Stop…” He turned on his side and pressed both ends of the pillow against his ears in an attempt to muffle those terrible thoughts, “Please, don’t judge me…”
Even then he can hear the sound of silence - so crisp and clear it was maddening.
Maddening and rhythmic.
Pulsing, like his heart. A heavy, steady beat throbbing against his breast. All twisted up in his sheets, Sunday was a cocoon - perhaps holding within a butterfly ready for metamorphosis, with these pervasive voices lingering over his head like a spider that’s stumbled upon a gracious feast.
Minutes go by with Sunday motionlessly listening to that soft, traitorous, thorn-shacked heart of his slow down and even out. Blissfully unaware, he falls into slumber with his fists clenched and jaw locked.
People looked their most vulnerable when they were asleep, but not Sunday. He looked like he was fighting for his life within sleep itself, never knowing true rest.
His dreams as a child often consisted of nothing. It was a cycle of seeing black before he’d open his eyes again, the room drowned in morning light with sparrows happily chirping up a storm in the nearby cherry trees.
The burden of life had slowly been warping this darkness, moulding within itself a room, from which Sunday could never escape. It enclosed him, the walls thick and windowless, threatening to crush him with the bars of a cage slowly narrowing until he was curled into himself like a child.
Once in a while he would catch himself sobbing, pulling at his wings and watching as his feathers rotted off their rachis. His halo, once magnificent and pure, shattered like glass in his despair. Every time he had that dream, his throat could constrict and he’d wake up hyperventilating, tears in his eyes and words failing him in a choked-back scream for help.
This night, Sunday dreamt something…
Unfamiliar, yet comforting.
A room. It wasn’t the one that rattled as the walls closed in, where the earth shook him apart, pierced through with thick steel bars.
This looked like something he’d seen out of a long forgotten memory.
It was painted black and red, the light from the nearby hearth illuminating a desk covered with thick, old tomes and writing materials. There was a couch and a coffee table with two chairs, a thick carpet and heavy curtains flanking a wardrobe, a dresser and a bookshelf, mounted on the wall.
He used to have a similar room when he lived with Father Gopher Wood, but ever since he moved into the monastery, he hadn’t had such sprawling luxuries.
Sunday didn’t even remember walking into this room, yet he was standing in the middle of it, overlooking a long letter written to him by his sister.
Unmistakingly, that was her handwriting and her silly little doodle she always added to each personal note right before her signature. A quick glance gave him the gist of it: this was an old letter he received when she was visiting Amphoreus. Her performance back then was so unique they’d requested her to stay an additional week. Photos were peeking out of the envelope, smelling like her perfume.
Mandarins, violets and sandalwood with the underlining scent of balsam.
So long as she was safe, he would also keep doing his best to support her dreams.
Though this dream of his—was slowly getting concerning as he looked about.
There was an overly large bed taking up a third of the space, with a bizarre set of crystals and drawings painted across the floor in white chalk. Most of the symbols were runic, indecipherable in neither languages Sunday knew. The lines appeared and disappeared underneath the bed, as if building a railroad of something magical.
He felt his skin prickle with distress. He didn’t want to be anywhere near that bed, no matter what!
The black marble radiated cold and Sunday had no shoes on.
In any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have been able to bear it. He was very sensitive to the cold and preferred curling up somewhere warm. Even the smallest breeze would leave his fingers trembling and his lips pale. The cold was loneliness. It was numbness that equally hurt and burned.
Yet, there was no painful sensation against his soles here.
Only a strange sense of being beckoned.
A dull ache in his lower abdomen pulsed with his heart, one he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Though alone, he was tense, as if somebody was looking at him from above, laughing at his uncertainty.
Sunday was dressed in a nightgown, thin cotton of a simple cut and stitch that stopped below his knees and had two slits along his hips, just enough for his wings to poke through. Rare were the times he was allowed to stretch them, feeling the bones pop and tendons pull taut between the cartilage.
It was delightful, but momentary. This liberty never lasted long. In the morning he would have to apply his bindings again and don the religious robes, bearing the symbol of Ena on his breast again.
Picking up a glass pen from the three gently propped on a stand, Sunday sighed.
“Oh, that’s a thousand words in one breath.” A voice behind him rumbled.
Sunday turned, the pen slipping from his grasp and clattering against the desk.
A person was leaning against the doorframe, blocking whatever space might lay beyond. Even though the door was wide open, there was only darkness beyond - like a thick miasma that churned and gurgled, promising only disaster.
It was a twisted way to tell Sunday he was in the safest place he could be, away from the shadows and strife. Though when he looked closer, it felt as if he was anything but safe in this new presence.
Before him stood a large man with rugged, handsome features with a light stubble on his chin. Shaggy brown hair hung over red eyes, the colour of a bloody sunrise. They observed him wolfishly, crinkled in the corner with a smile that touched only the tips of his full lips.
A dark grey dress shirt and a turquoise corset lay beneath a white vest. His maroon pants barely contained the shirt, despite the belt and straps adorning one thigh.
Truth be told, this stranger would’ve been quite the handsome sight, were his clothes not so despicably horrific, his appearance untidy.
The light of the fire left flames within his eyes, highlighting the high cheekbones and the sharp jawline with deep shadows. This stranger’s age couldn’t be determined - he looked to be youthful, but the dark bags under his eyes and shaggy appearance put at least another decade on him.
He looked to be much taller than Sunday, chest wide and arms covered with muscles that revealed brute force at a glance, if it wasn’t for the scars riddling his tan skin. He cut quite an elegant figure despite that with his long legs.
Such thoughts not only scared but confused the Halovian, currently trying his best to seem appropriate beneath his nightclothes.
He’d never ogled another man like this before. Sunday never had particularly appreciative thoughts that feel so morally wrong, as if he was judging a piece of meat. The Halovian’s eyes immediately look away, his hands wrinkling behind his back with anxious restlessness.
Shame gagged him, leaving that golden gaze searching for anything else to pierce but the stranger. Even as he scanned the familiar room for something to wear, he could find nothing of his own.
“What do you mean by that?” He asked with what he hoped was an even tone, “What are you doing…?”
Ah, but it felt wrong to call it ‘my’ room when he wasn’t even sure. Would ‘here’ be more appropriate? But if Sunday had stumbled into a bizarre scene, it was unreasonable to request this information from the other.
It was all a dream.
A dream.
The strange man combed a white-gloved hand through his hair, closing the door behind himself.
In a blink, the seams of that door’s wooden filigree thin out and disappear, melting into the wall entirely. It was gone; as if it had never been there.
The soft feathers at the root of his wings prickle with anxiety. He jerks to the side, aiming for a window, for a crack in the wall, for anything to slip out from. Only then did he notice there were no windows either; only curtains that hung uselessly from the ceiling next to barren walls.
The claustrophobic space felt even smaller all of a sudden. Sunday exhaled a shaky breath, turning once again to the stranger. While cautious, he was tempted to seek sanctuary closer to this man. Anything to not get crushed within this concrete cage.
“Who exactly are you?”
Taking that as an invitation, he finally moved, “I’m Gallagher. Here to offer you salvation, little dove.”
Just a step closer and the stranger would be right up to Sunday’s face. His body moved before his thoughts could catch up, taking a step back until the small of his back was pressed into the hard, cold edge of the desk.
Odd how that made something stir in the Halovian’s belly. Being pursued by a person who was nearly twice his size, cornered like prey and pinned down with an indecipherable look was a startling predicament. Sunday felt hot, even feverish. Cold sweat beaded between his shoulders, trickling down his spine.
“Salvation?” Sunday parrotted, opting to ignore the nickname. “I’m not in need…”
“Or a solution.” Gallagher offered, “You sounded dissatisfied with something just now, were you not? Tell me, what seems to be the matter?”
Sunday was stuck in place, the wings located at the bottom of his spine doing their best to cover whatever part of his bare legs there was. His eyes followed the other with mistrust clearly drawn across his brows.
Gallagher said nothing about it. Instead, he sat on the bed, legs spread out in a manner that was extremely suggestive and offensive to polite company.
“What happened to the door just now?” Sunday asked instead.
“Are you in a rush to leave?”
The white-haired man grumbled, “Correct.”
“I hid it.”
The Halovian stared, dumbfounded beyond words.
At that, Gallagher laughed a husky, excited sound that seemed more like a bark than any human guffaw. When he was done, he made a point to wipe nonexistent tears from his eyes, beckoning Sunday with his other hand.
“Come here.”
Sunday didn’t move.
Gallagher’s optimistic smile gave way to a twitch, wavering for such a small moment Sunday thought he’d imagined it. Clearly, he was growing impatient with each following refusal.
He twisted his wrist and from thin air, a brightly-coloured tin can was procured.
Sunday recognised it immediately. He had seen people selling it in glass bottles around the Penacony Church. It was some new type of carbonated drink that was both high in calories and fruity. Granted by the colour of it, there was a dash of syrup added to the drink that made it irresistible.
A part of Sunday’s virtues was that he wasn’t to give into temptations of the flesh. That meant he was both a bachelor, a virgin, and a person who wasn’t gluttonous for the thousands of food types humans and non-humans alike had created.
To give his utmost to his religion, there mustn’t be anything that bound his mortal body to the soil–be it desires of the carnal, physical or emotional type.
As much as he wanted to know what that drink tasted like, or how the Oak Cake and the Snapper Jam Appetizer felt on his tongue, he simply couldn't.
The Church served good food, but it lacked spices, sugar and zest. Only because he knew what those tasted like as a child, he knew the act of missing them when they were gone. Even if years of tasteless foods had dulled his taste buds, he still salivated at the smell. All Sunday could do was listen to others gossip about it, smiling to himself with the joy of other’s happiness and the bitterness of his own lacking.
Gallagher noted the Halovian’s interest through the twitch of those snow-white wings behind the ears. Nonchalant, he popped the can open and procured a tall glass inside his other hand. It was chilled and formed condensation where his hot hand touched it. The large man leaned his elbows on his knees, pouring the fizzy drink into the glass slowly, as if he had all the time in the world.
Sunday’s mouth felt dry. His throat was parched.
To observe these elegant, long fingers handle the narrow base of the cup was almost like watching something lewd transpire. Gallagher was gentle, but firm, giving the fizz time to pop back onto an even surface before pouring in some more. Sunday could almost hear the coo of that gravelly, deep voice uttering sensual nonsense, words of affirmation that could make idle flesh tremble and lips quiver with unshed sobs.
The Halovian’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as the clench inside his stomach almost keeled him over.
Shameless! Filthy! Disgusting! Degrading! Deranged!
At the back of his head, he knew this was a dream, yet he could feel everything within it so well.
He heard the pop of fizz in the glass, tinkling softly against the rim. The firewood crackled, warmth emitting against his side.
His body trembled from an invisible breeze, goosebumps rising across his arms. He felt tingly, as if an invisible hand was caressing him and phantom breath brushed over the back of his neck. The tension low in his tummy intensifies in an immediate response to the titillation.
Sunday was self-conscious about the fact he was naked underneath his nightgown, all alone in Gallagher’s mancing presence. The Halovian could feel the way fabric rubbed against him all too well, irritating his nipples and causing them to pebble into achy, dark nubs.
Gallagher spoke low, his voice like weathered, crumbling cliffs careening into the ocean, “I’ll tell you what. You get a chair and sit wherever you like. I’m going to explain exactly what’s going to happen and if you don’t like it, we can be on our merry way.”
Sunday complied. Definitely not because he could feel his loins pulsing with infernal heat, but because he wanted to know more about his situation. He needed answers and he yearned for a chance to leave this dream a little wiser. Sunday had to know why he was being tormented by such nightmares and if there was a way to solve his problem without involving anybody else.
Following dream logic, so long as he could find the hidden door, he should be able to wake up. Furthermore, if Gallagher was capable of hiding it then he had to also be the one to reveal it.
Sunday just had to listen to his explanation and then leave.
Right ?
The angel turned the leather chair at the desk in Gallagher’s direction and perched on the edge, demanding with a frown, "No more games. Tell me. What's going on?"
Gallagher sighed, pulling a metal box from his breast pocket.
“Look, birdie, there are some things out there you won’t be able to control,” He began, flipping the silvery lid open single-handedly. A long light blue cigarette was procured, but it idled between his lips when they pinched it, “Equally, as a man of belief, you should understand there are things out there others don’t control either. Even if they involve you, it’s all up to instinct and desire.”
Gallagher stood, holding the cup of soda in one hand and tucking back his tobacco tin with the other. Even as he approached Sunday, he kept his distance, dancing around an invisible border - a sliver of personal space that ensured the Halovian wouldn't pounce out of his seat like a frog dropped in boiling water.
“But you’re well-aware what desire does, don’t you? People don’t usually force restraint on themselves. Only a man that’s been forced into submission, with his hands tied behind his back and thighs clamped shut would have the self-control to deny his bodily needs. His nature.”
By the time Sunday realized he’d walked into a trap, it was already too late. Gallagher loomed above him, eyes ablaze. The angel had nowhere else to go but to dig further into his seat, arms squeezing the armrests as if bracing for a beatdown.
Too close. Gallagher was way too close and Sunday’s half-lidded eyes could only peer deep into his cleavage, getting his fill of tan muscles and shirt buttons barely holding onto their buttonholes.
If the salacious man were to look anywhere but at Sunday’s face, he would notice the man’s body misbehaving. Sunday’s heart felt like it was about to explode.
“Do you feel safe with me? Or do you like that you see? Is that what this reaction is for?”
“What nonsense are y—”
“I can smell your arousal.”
Mortified, the Halovian flushed until his ears looked like they could drip blood. His hip wings shifted over his lap, covering his trembling thighs. He could feel slick pouring between his lips with no restraint, seeping into his dress.
Sunday’s voice was so small, it came out as a whisper, “Stop that.”
“That’s not fair, birdie. Your scent has been driving me up the wall since I walked in.” Clicking with his tongue, Gallagher retreated. “Ah, but you’re not prepared for that
Wet glass hit the desk.
The cold drink had misted the surface, forming small water droplets on the cup. It looked so refreshing in comparison to the heat that was consuming Sunday from within, the energy between them electrified.
“You…” His breaths were coming fast and panicked. Sunday was incapable of looking away.
Just then, Gallagher’s attention shifted minutely and he once again left Sunday’s immediate vicinity to instead take a stroll across the room; most likely hoping that the nonchalance would ease Sunday before he collapsed into himself.
“S–Scent? Control? L—Like—?” He stuttered, “Are you some kind of dog that’s been sent to Hound me in my dreams?”
Sunday sneered, his nails digging into the wood of the chair so hard they left crescent grooves in the lacquer. Then, as if stung by a terrible idea, he mumbled, “Have I done something wrong?”
“Something like that.” The dog in question answered, watching the angel’s expression shift from anxiety to disbelief, “Ever heard about the Divine Hounds? In The Dreamflux, there are five Guardian Hounds. In Penacony - eight. Each with a name, each tasked with protecting a corner of that world from outside influence. They can go between the veil of sleep to deliver messages between the gods of the two Realms. People who meet them are often given the title ‘Prophets’ ...”
“The Dreamflux—” Sunday’s eyes widened as he looked at Gallagher at last, really looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “The Purgatory of Souls? You’re one of… the Hounds?”
Gallagher scoffed, procuring a lighter in his now-free hand. “Whatever you want to call it.”
“Then that means… Am I…? Did I…? ” Clutching at his nightgown over his heart, Sunday felt around his chest, searching for a pulse. For a very long moment, he doesn’t sense anything but suffocating weariness.
He couldn’t feel it. His heart… Where was his heartbeat?!
I’m going to be sick.
“No, you’re not dead.” The brunet responded with a long sigh, seeing how quickly the Halovian was getting riled up. “Just very deeply asleep.”
In the midst of his spiralling, Sunday wearily stood and began pacing the room. Around crystals, candles and across the markings on the floor, the Halovian trod past words he didn’t know. His mind raced miles ahead with an anxious churn in his stomach taking that confusing heat’s place.
As he walked the wetness he felt between his legs dripped lower, slick where his thighs rubbed together. It made him nauseous with disgust, as if his flesh was being soaked in venom.
“What is deep slumber, if not preparation to never awaken?”
He’d been prepared for this spiritually. After all, they were taught that all would be judged by Ena’s merciful gaze eventually and a select few would be deemed worthy enough to ascend by her side. If he wasn’t pure enough for Ena, Sunday was willing to cast himself in the fires of Xipe’s celestial Hell to be cleansed unto his rebirth.
Being prepared through words and prayer was one thing. It was his mental preparation that was lacking. He thought that when the time came, he would have gotten to say goodbye to his sister and brethren, to all the people who mattered in his life. He’d have enough time to leave a trail behind himself, paved with goodness and kindness. Something to be remembered by. Something for the upcoming generations to follow.
This was too early, too soon. He had nothing to his name but a worthless title. He had not lived up to Father Gopher Wood’s expectations, nor had he even begun scraping the surface of his own. The steepness of the hills had been too much for a man his age.
He needed time.
He had none of it left.
Who could have ever thought that Sunday would perish in his sleep just like that?
The Halovian’s restlessness peaked and soon pacing wasn't enough. He wanted to break into a run, he wanted to escape, to fly, to flee and hide himself somewhere where he could repent for one thousand years.
Stuck inside the Dreamscape, however, all Sunday could do was search for the closest place he could sit again.
Conveniently, that happened to be the plush bed. The canopy loomed oppressively over him, the thin satin sparkling in the firelight. Gallagher’s shadow was right beside him, coating the floor in a darkness that was frighteningly dense. Nothing less expected from a Hound - he was the personification of eternal sleep, the guardian of the willing and the hunter of the sinful.
If Gallagher had come for Sunday, that probably meant he was doomed to stay here forever. No rebirth. No second chance.
But Gallagher had turned to him right now with a serious expression, neither amused nor mocking, when he assured Sunday, “You’re not dead, birdie. When you wake up, you’ll realize it was all just a long dream.”
So the Halovian asked, voice entirely devoid of his previous apprehension, “You are sure? This is just a part of my consciousness, brought before you through my slumber?”
“Positive.” Gallagher said in a puff of smoke, “Nothing is over yet and you’re not here to be punished.”
Gallagher’s gaze as if slightly softened at the sight of Sunday’s relief. His lashes flutter low over his eyes, observing with quiet contempt. Sunday’s lips were trembling, with so many words right on the tip of it, but with none the power to utter them. The Hound’s nose twitches, catching a different scent in the air. Sunday had been folded into himself, paying no attention, but now he also could catch it.
That aforementioned smell had become distressed, depressed even. Its aroma was sweet like rotting flowers, instead of tender blossoms, still wet with morning dew in the sun.
It was unfortunate he smelled exactly as sad as he felt.
Exhaling the final breath of his cigarette, Gallagher stubbed the butt into the ashtray on a side table. The ash flickered for a moment within the blue glass, before it fizzled out.
First, he took off his gloves, pulling them one finger at a time, until they flopped to the floor, entirely unneeded for what he was about to do. Beneath the silk was scarred skin, rough knuckles and palms which were surprisingly tender and warm.
The click of his shoes along the room didn’t get much attention at first, but the look Sunday lifted towards him was fifty percent pathetic and fifty percent vulnerable. If his eyes even had a little eats in their corners, he would’ve been immeasurably turned on. Alas, Sunday was a sturdy fellow, not your usual Halovian.
Gallagher loosened his tie, slowly removing it from around his neck, but keeping it in his hands.
Such bright, golden eyes haloed with blue at their rims attracted Gallagher the second entered the room. They were intelligent and aware - always observing, studying and calculating. This type of gaze he loved watching melt into unconscious, thoughtless pleasure. He wanted to watch their corners turn red, grey and white lashes fluttering in the wake of pleasure, crinkling with indignation. He wanted to stuff that pretty mouth and tie those arms, so Sunday couldn’t even think about running away anymore.
He was not running anymore, at least.
Without such frantic movements, Gallagher had enough time to spot something relatively unusual about the angel. Apart from how ethereally beautiful he was, beyond the way his nightgown hid barely anything from in the revealing light of the fire, Gallagher took note of a dim glow beneath the cotton.
The Hound’s eyes only flickered, but his mind worked quickly.
After evening his breath, the Halovian couldn’t help his questions anymore, oblivious to the other’s intense physical reaction, “You said you’re here to offer salvation… or a solution. What exactly did you mean by that?”
“Ah, getting to the difficult questions already?”
Sunday was fun to tease, because his face was always so expressive, but he rarely spoke what was on his mind. Gallagher spoke calmly, rolling his eyes up as if in deep thought.
“I have been informed through the Dreamflux that there’s a Halovian priest in Penacony who has been harbouring secret and unquenchable desires. It’s very unbecoming of a righteous man to be left hungering, not to mention dangerous to himself and those around him.”
At such words, Gallagher leaned over the bed, inhaling a long and deep breath of Sunday’s scent. His nose was nearly buried in the white hair, but that young and beautiful man remained frozen in place, eyes wide and avoidant; so much so that he allowed this sliver of intimacy.
“Then… you…?”
Gallagher grinned, “As the Hound at the gates of Eternity, I’m tasked with ensuring that pretty ferrymen like you don’t stray from the path.”
Sunday’s fists clenched over the bedsheets, his lower lip curling into his mouth as he bit into it. Just a flash of pearly white incisors and Gallagher found himself burdened with the need to feel them against his own knuckles.
“I didn’t want to, I—”
Gallagher was kneeling before him in a blink. Five fingers carefully curled around his jaw, tilting his face up from its ashamed tilt. All the points their skin touched was like a brand being left by red-hot iron, especially the thumb which minutely caressed Sunday’s lower lip.
“You’re not meant to apologise, angel. This is only natural.”
Sunday was immediately showered in the scent of man - clean musk and soap with citrusy and bitter tobacco lingering in the undertow. He shivered - first from the way he was being held, then from the tender feeling of bare fingers caressing his naked calf.
Gallagher’s hand traced soothing circles along the muscle.
“N-natural…?” The Halovian swallowed and tried to suppress the tremble of his voice this time, “These— sinful thoughts are natural to you?”
Gallagher’s teeth flashed with a grin, a thick, red tongue swiping across his bottom lip.
“They’re exactly what your Aeon intends for you to have. THEY don’t make mistakes.”
Such intense words pierced Sunday’s heart like he’d been struck by an arrow. He inwardly shuddered, his heart melting from the softness he was being treated with. Nobody else had ever spoken to him like this - confident and reassuring, sweet as a nightingale.
All Sunday knew was reproach and self-flagellation. How could he possibly bring himself to see this as anything different from mockery?
Yet he felt as if he was being stripped cord by cord of cotton, being unspooled beneath the piercing crimson eyes until he was mute and pliable. The fingers crawling up his calf brought an army of goosebumps over his thigh, following the tense line of muscle there to his knee.
“It’s all Equity’s desire; for you to feel what has been contained from you by your title. Answers to questions you cannot ask. Feelings, which have been manifesting inside you. These desires, which have been festering like a weeping wound .” Daringly, Gallagher placed his lips over Sunday’s knee, “They’re natural.”
Even more daring, Sunday turned his face into the hand cupping his cheek. He nuzzled the skin there, exhaling hotly into its cusp.
He was inflamed. Burning brighter, hotter than the fire in the hearth.
Gallgaher thumbed the line where fabric met skin, neither pushing nor retreating. “ Show me . Tell me of everything you’ve been longing for, little dove. I’ve been sent to listen.”
Age had brought with itself many ponderings for Sunday. He knew he was sheltered and even worse - he knew little of the things he was not supposed to know. Though the fear of being found ensured Sunday never had the ability to experiment, it didn’t mean that he hadn’t tried.
The Halovian had always been terrified of his body’s urges. They had always felt much more intense than what the sacred texts spoke of.
Thousands of times before, Sunday had had salacious thoughts leak into his imagination. To him, it was like a physical thing, one he couldn’t fight. It made him feel weightless, his body reacting by heating up and tensing, as if aware it was being manipulated.
Gallagher’s thumb pushed beneath the hem of Sunday’s nightgown and over the angel’s knee, touching skin that’s never been touched before. It seared a path of passion that shot up between Sunday’s legs with an ache which ran him through.
He was like an early spring blossom that was on the verge of unfurling, submitting to the smallest of push and prod and allowing for the tender pollen within his cups to spill in a flutter of gold.
The shock of it brought his mind back above the mist, but when he spoke it was all soft, hesitant like a whisper of a breeze over a warm pool of water.
“What are you doing…?”
Gallagher leaned closer, looking deep into Sunday’s eyes with wide, keen pupils.
“ Show me .” He demanded.
Sunday swallowed thickly, throat bobbing.
“Show… Show you…?”
Answers to questions I cannot ask.
Feelings, which have been manifesting inside me.
These desires, which have been festering like a weeping wound.
Right now, all he could think about was the person before him.
About what it would feel like for Gallagher’s hands to push underneath his robe. Would he be surprised or appalled by the slickness that poured between his lower lips, soaking into the bottom of his nightie?
Would Gallagher’s lips taste like bitter tobacco or be sweet like soda? Could Sunday card his fingers through another’s hair for the first time, feeling it’s thick, silky texture at the tips. Would the heat of another body soothe or irritate his hunger further? How would that tongue feel against his skin…?
How would Gallagher’s fingers feel caressing the smooth skin southward on Sunday’s body, spreading him open and pushing in deep, violating the purity of an angel blessed by the Aeons—
The Halovian gasped and broke into goosebumps, clinging to Gallagher’s shoulders when he grabbed Sunday’s ankle and folded him, pushing the man onto his back. What little of the nightgown there was, it wrinkled around his waist, leaving him utterly barren.
“Little dove, if you keep thinking so loud, I can’t promise that I’d let you go even if you refuse me…”
That warning struck Sunday as genuine and his stomach flipped for a moment.
In full display, the Hound pinned Sunday at the back of the knees and dragged a slow, heated look from the crux of his thighs to the angel’s face. Sunday was out of breath, out of his mind with shame to see how Gallagher’s expression shifted from that compassionate and lustful grin to a surprised look.
Face red as the dawn, his cervical wings flapped, hiding the blush just as his hands flew to pull at his nightgown. A futile attempt to shield himself, as the position and Gallagher’s massive body made it nigh impossible.
“That— It would be— But you said I can…!”
His thighs trembled, flexing to clamp together and steal the honour of looking so hungrily. Another hand clamped around his other leg and kneaded the muscles with a croon.
“Oh, my handsome dove. I wasn’t aware you were hiding something so sweet from the Aeons. I never would’ve thought the blessed Father of Penacony’s Church of Equity had a cunt so pretty it could drive men mad.”
Without any underwear, Sunday was open like a feast, ready for the taking. His slickness pooled in the crack of his buttocks, shiny and warm; shamelessly familiar. Anxious fire burned in the angel’s belly, fighting contrasting feelings like fear and giddy preening born from the praise.
To be seen as ‘handsome’ even despite his physical characteristics made a quiet part of him perk up. The crude words matched with the verbal worship stripped his defences, shredding them the way butter gave way to a hot knife.
All that was left sizzled and smoked on Gallagher’s blade.
“I wasn’t—” Sunday struggled to speak, his brows creased when Gallagher jammed his torso between his thighs and used his free hand to peek behind Sunday’s wings. They trembled from Gallagher’s handling, then eventually fell away to show the crimson visage beneath.
“ Yeeees ?”
Sunday looked away, his waterline moist from embarrassment. Beneath the Hound, his strength was meager at best. “—I never hid from THEM the truth. THEY have known me through my studies and my rites. THEY approved of this.”
Crawling further into the bed, Gallagher straddled Sunday’s leg, merely pinning it down. This position was utterly filthy, so poisonously shameful Sunday felt the way the skin of his shoulders heated exponentially. His heart itcheed, feeling the warmth of Gallagher’s thighs against his flesh, with nothing but a scrap of cloth trousers keeping them apart.
He was a bachelor and a virgin.
There was a limit to his knowledge and right now it was being challenged by Gallagher, whose hand was touching the inside of Sunday’s thigh and eliciting sounds from his mouth that had never known the light of day.
It made the cramp in his lower stomach pulse the same time he clenched, as if bracing for something.
No, he was sure he wouldn’t be hurt anymore, but he knew he was being solicited. Willingly. His body had lost all desire to escape and was instead submitting, begging for Gallagher’s invasion.
The Hound’s eyes were hungry, his mouth stretched in a toothy grin. He leaned over Sunday threateningly, blind to shame or reason.
“The Holy code says that only men can inherit the title of Emenator of Ena. I indeed see no discrepancy with what you have to offer. On the contrary.” Gallagher looked down at Sunday’s barren crotch again, groaning, “You’re a man the likes of which I’ve never seen before. So pretty…”
Sunday’s lower lips were flushed pink, glistening with juices. Spread open, the beautiful flesh revealed silky depths and a clit that had pushed outside of its hood–large and plump. Sunday’s sweet scent of honey and blossoms became more intense, a deep and rich flavour Gallagher seemed to feel on his tongue.
Above the Halovian’s pubic bone, a pattern caught their combined gaze.
“Just as I suspected…” The Hound sighs, “You poor thing.”
Glowing unnaturally white in the dim light cast by the fireplace, the mark undeniably resembled a womb. Its shape was drawn with sharp, thin lines as if painted with the lightest brush strokes, decorating it with a dozen-winged serpents in an ouroboros shape, with a sun in its middle.
It razed excitement through the Hound, pooling low in his own belly into what resulted as a prominent bulge filling his pants. Though he was careful to keep his weight off Sunday, the Halovian could feel it still. Infernal heat. Lust. The scent of sex swirling in a mind-numbing concoction of clean sweat and musk.
“What is that?”
It was Sunday’s first time seeing it as well. When he noticed how pinpointed the other man’s attention was, his unease grew tenfold.
Womb tattoos had two meanings according to the scriptures. Depending on who one would ask, they either became a blessing or a curse. It was a punishment for the unholy, a way to mark their body as impure and warn any future partner of their lover’s place in THEIR eyes. It was also a blessing for a newlywed couple, to ensure that only the purest of children would be born from their coupling.
So it seemed, there was a third option Gallagher just now revealed.
“You’ve been marked by Ena as a ‘Prophet’ . She will forgive anything you say or do for as long as you bear her mark. See?” Gallagher smoothed his hand along Sunday’s flank, ripping a nervous gasp from the Halovian’s lips.
Sunday flopped his head back into the mattress, hard enough to have it bounce.
“You…”
Too heated, Gallagher’s praise didn’t stop there.
“What a sight… If I knew this is what the other Hounds would’ve found, I would’ve had to killed each and every one of them to come here. You don’t know what you’re doing to me, birdie.”
Sunday’s passions immediately cooled and the biting remark just at the tip of his tongue melted into a purr. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t think straight anymore, drunk on praise and reassurance.
“D-Don’t look.”
“Tell me you despise this and I’ll leave you.”
Sunday’s breath hitched.
He was afraid. Terrified even.
Gallagher was a being from a plane beyond the Halovian’s reach.
He was strong and gentle at the same time, a wealth of knowledge that drew Sunday to a place where he could explore all those terrifying, exciting, painful, shameless questions about his body that have been lurking in his mind. He was being granted a chance.
He didn’t want to give it up.
Sunday was silent, biting his lower lip until it hurt.
It was wrong. He was a man of the Church, he should remain chaste.
What would the people say? What would his adoptive father say?
Yet…
The lip he bit at was untucked from between his teeth by a gentle thumb. His legs were pinned and arms tied by Gallagher’s crimson tie. Sunday’s hesitation to refuse was a clear answer on its own, so Gallagher felt as if he could at least give the angel a little taste. Just enough to goad an answer from this indecisive man.
Gallagher’s hands caressed the angel through the dress, beginning from his clavicles.
Firm palms moved across soft breasts, down the ladder of ribs and fell onto the silky soft, smooth skin over Sunday’s belly. When his fingers reached the mark, he tenderly circled his middle finger around its epicenter, rousing up a reaction both intense and immediate.
“ HNNmm —!”
Sunday had never felt anything like the tingling shooting straight to his core, so deep that it felt like his entire womb reacted to it. His thighs wings shuddered, flapping as if they could ground him. Futile as it was, the angel reached out to brace against Gallagher’s forearm.
He gasped so suddenly, he nearly bit his tongue in a rush to wrangle it back into his mouth. Sunday’s heart battered his breast wildly, mouth dry.
What was that?!
What was that?!
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
Gallagher’s fingers caressed him again and that mark flared a bright golden, as if alive. Inside, Sunday’s guts churn and clench, mournfully crying out for pleasure, for a firmer touch, for anything to quench the fire that’s threatening to burn him alive. His nethers dripped with slick, aching in resolute pulses.
He never reached further than this point of arousal, where his flesh would become oversensitive and even the smallest brush proved to be irritating. He wanted to take off his nightgown and sink into the cool silk of the bedspread, but modesty forced his arms still.
“It’s good.” He utters regardless.
Often, he’d fall asleep aching, curled into himself as if begging to be embraced from behind and filled. He had so many gaps inside his body, parts of him still missing like lost puzzle pieces for a map. His soul felt misplaced and his heart had a gaping void that grew an inch every birthday he would spend alone.
What was Ena thinking, placing such a sensitive mark upon his body? Sunday already felt as if he was going insane.
Gallagher hummed tenderly. “If you want to get rid of that mark, you’ll have to be honest with your body. It’s not going to benefit anybody if you remain passive, denying my services after I spent such a long time looking for you.”
Sunday was still shaking, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Part of him wanted to ask for reprieve, but another part of him was dying of curiosity.
The Halovian shut his eyes, squeezing them in moral suffering. He was torn on what to do so very sincerely.
“I might be a Hound, but I am no brute, my dove. I require a little consent, of any form.” Caressing that flushed lip, Gallagher drew even closer, until their noses were close and he could see Sunday's jaw clenching, “Say what is on your mind.”
“Gallagher…” Was this the first time Sunday spoke his name? It sounded so vulgar, like a moan that’s just about to break free. “I want the answers.”
“ Just the answers?”
The Hound’s fingers traced along Sunday’s cheekbone and then over the shell of his ear, trying to goad him into looking back. It was a brush as light as feathers, but the Halovian’s body arched, breaking into gooseflesh.
In a tiny voice, disturbed by a sigh of content, he answered, “... No .”
The thumb was switched with a pair of lips, hot breath and a thick tongue, which tasted like lime and tobacco, licked into Sunday’s mouth. They were a viper crawling between the Halovian’s lips to leave venom at the back of his throat. Gallagher took over his senses - sight, smell, taste, hearing and touch, all of them drawn to sin that was so corrosive and addictive that Sunday lost himself in the pleasure of it.
In this dream world it didn’t matter what they would do, because Ena allowed it. She blessed it. And furthermore - because Sunday wanted it. He finally had something to hold onto, to tear apart and consume; a way for him to quench his thirst and fill his stomach. That piece of the puzzle always missing below his belly button could finally be filled and he… He would know.
This was his way of filling that aching void that has been haunting him for so painfully long.
He could have it.
Sunday’s mouth opened, inviting the other’s kiss with an eager moan. His fingers clung to strong shoulders when the shock wracked his body, choking back a curse when Gallagher’s tongue brushed the top of his palate. It was soft and ticklish, foreign but it teased him and Sunday felt even his teeth go numb from the strange sensation.
It swirled explorationally before a deep, guttural groan escaped the Hound’s throat.
After being shown a sight of heaven, Sunday became enraptured.
The moment Gallagher dared to pull away, stealing the appendage from the angel’s mouth, there were fingers burying in that shaggy hair, holding onto the locks gently to restrain his movement. Saliva dripped between their lips, spilling down Sunday’s neck.
“I want to feel you. Y–you said you can show me anything, so— Would it be okay if… If we…” He couldn’t push those words out just yet, still too lucid.
“It’s okay,” Gallagher confirmed, swooping down to kiss Sunday again, “I understand.”
After a small nip at the Halovian’s bottom lip, he added, “But you will have to show me what you want to explore. Where do we start, little dove?”
Where? There were so many places Sunday hoped to explore. No part of his body had ever been caressed by another person and he had been afraid of pursuing the good feeling of it - too afraid of the addiction. If there was one place he ached to be touched…
“My chest…” Sunday timidly uttered and took Gallagher’s hand.
Placing it upon his right breast, the Halovian flapped his wings, folding them before his face again. Although they did little to hide the heady flush crawling over the apple of his cheeks, he felt safer under their protection.
It was embarrassing; so much so, it took a great deal of his will to not kick out and crawl away in shame. But at the notion, Gallagher immediately sprang into action, pressing his thighs more firmly against Sunday’s and sinking greedy fingers into the soft flesh of his chest.
He was groped and pinched through the nightdress, the soft fabric of it rubbing against his sensitive skin and making it colour even redder.
If his heart was a war drum, Sunday felt that he was losing the battle each second that passed. Like falling soldiers, his shields melted into the soil of pleasure and he shuddered, arching his ribs towards the most villainous of adversaries.
Gallagher’s lips were warm when they latched onto his left nipple. His tongue danced carefully around it, allowing the cloth to soak his spit until it was translucent and stuck to the Halovian’s chest like a second skin.
“Gall—agher…!”
Sunday bit his lip, whining deep in the back of his throat.
“Hmmmmn?” Came the lazy answer, followed by a tentative flick. “Feeling good?”
Sunday flinched. For a long while he allowed this shameful conquest, but very soon a different, more pressing need throbbed inside him. The mark that was on his stomach glowed a cool while, like it was the reflection of the moon.
Gallagher squeezed his waist, sinking beneath the nightdress to feel Sunday’s skin.
It was smooth and translucent, so pale with hair like the fuzz of a snow peach. The mere feeling of it filled the Hound with rapacity.
He ought to mar the perfection laying beneath him, desired to take a bite out of his supple thighs and leave imprints that could never be washed away. He wanted to obsess and swallow the angel like the vicious saber-wolves swallowed a falling charmony dove. Gallagher desired to drink his blood and pull him into an embrace; until he was broken and crushed back together the way sand melted into glass.
Sunday was innocent, but he could recognise a salacious look when he saw it. Gallagher wore obsequious greed on his handsome visage, equally reverent and hungry. Like a dog that wanted its treat, but didn’t dare crawl under his master’s seat to get it.
If he needed some encouragement, then…
“Lower. M…—Move lower.”
The Hound laughed against Sunday’s ribs, tickling him. “So eager…”
It was the second time the Hound said something so embarrassing, so Sunday couldn’t restrain the flare of his temper.
“Shut it!” He hissed, “D–Don’t make unnecessary comments!”
Gallagher pushed the nightdress all the way off, stripping it from Sunday with a flourish. His lips pressed over Sunday’s neck, tracing over his shoulder and beast before moving along the soft tummy. That mark reacted to his mere breath, but Gallagher mercifully ignored it for the time being. He even licked at the smooth mound between the Sunday’s open thighs, tasting the clean sweat in the crease of his hip. Two black wings flicked around his head, but Gallagher pinned them down.
“Control yourself, dove. If you’re struggling to keep your wings in check, I might have to pin them down myself. ”
Sunday shuddered, shaking his head. “I won’t anymore…”
“Good. They’re too pretty to treat roughly.” Gallagher said, but then he proceeded to pay extra attention to the irritant appendages.
He caressed the soft feathers with his bare fingers, scraping calluses over the plumage. Sunday twitched, but kept them spread out against the bed, pinned on their own accord. Gallagher’s touch was firm, but gentle when he caught Sunday’s left wing, massaging it around the cartilage.
The Halovian twitched, muffling a groan.
“You’re doing so well.”
Sunday’s body was lithe and muscular, just enough to look imposingly masculine while hiding beneath that strength a sort of elegant softness.
Gallagher’s kisses moved just above Sunday’s clit, lingering his breath at the apex of Sunday’s lips. They were engorged and slick, hiding between their smooth plumpness another set of much deeper pink petals. The Hound’s eyes bore into that dark, tender hole as it clenched shyly before him. A droplet of clear fluid lingered just at the entrance, tempting him to dive in with his mouth and fingers in pursuit.
“Look at how pretty you are. This isn’t fair.”
“Stop looking…!” Sunday complained.
Gallagher doesn’t even deign to look at him. “So be it.”
In the next moment he wasn’t looking anymore.
Instead, his mouth latched against the sweet flesh, licking into the Halovian’s honeypot like salvation could be found there. Sunday’s taste was musky and tangy, so delectable it made Gallagher ravenous.
“N— Wait, I’m— It’s filthy…! Galla-GHHHah!
Careless of the other’s protests, he scooped Sunday into his arms and folded him at the waist, pinning the Halovian against the mattress until he was flailing, clinging to the Hound’s back with the backs of his knees on Gallagher’s shoulders.
He ate as if he’d never tasted anything so sweet. His lips suctioned and his tongue worked against the swollen nub. Sunday’s clit was swollen to the size of a pea and each time Gallagher laid his tongue flat against it to stroke quick back-and-forths, Sunday would make a divine noise. Pleasure rocked through him until he was shivering, nearly sobbing half-hearted protests.
The pleasure throbbed through him in waves, making it difficult to control. Muscles he’d never thought about clenched violently around the appendage slipping through the sensitive channel, squeezing in vein. His body dreaded to feel it retreat, but Gallagher’s face was pressed so firmly against Sunday’s core, he only occasionally made a groaning sound while exhaling a hot gust of wind through his nose.
Sunday’s fingers gripped handfuls of hair, his legs trembling.
“What are— AH!” He gasped, pulling on the dark locks, “Gallagher! Gal– Wait– I’m going to– Too much!”
“Wasn’t your task as a holy person to endure your suffering?” The Hound sneered, licking the slick from his lips while simultaneously teasing Sunday with his fingers, “You’ve been so good suffering so far. Now, you must endure.”
“A—AH!” The angel jerked upright, but Gallagher pinned him down again, “Wait–!”
“Relax. I made sure it won’t hurt.”
True to his words, when Gallagher inserted a finger into Sunday’s tight hole, all the man could feel was relief. A sweet frisson, an unmistakable pressure. Sunday had imagined his own hand delving into the criminal heat and knew that it would feel good. He longed to do more than grind against the heel of his hand, stopping right before the crest.
Gallagher had long, thick and capable fingers; his digits slippery with a sweet-smelling oil that made the slide even better. They stroked Sunday’s walls, caressing the taut nerves and leaving the angel feeling as if his very vertebrae were being touched on the inside. At the same time, the Hound couldn’t resist licking the outer lips, pushing between them to slide against Sunday’s tender clit.
The angel’s entire body shook in riveting ecstasy, until he forgot to breathe.
“Nnnngh…” Sunday whimpered, clinging to Gallagher whose finger crooked and the Halovian saw dazzling lights when his eyes rolled to the back of his head. “Ahh… Mnah… Aah—!”
It was the Hound that pried his lips open, forcing Sunday to take a breath just when he fell apart. His orgasm pierced through his very bones, peeling back all his layers, stripping his defences and leaving him wriggling and mewling in his own mess.
Short nails clawed through his hair and down his back, as if Sunday was desperately trying to keep himself off the edge and failing. He was shivering and gasping into Gallagher’s mouth, incoherent, when his orgasm subsided.
Gallagher stretched the blissed-out angel further with a second and then third finger; unwilling to pause even for a moment.
Sunday very quickly found out that holding his voice back was an impossible feat. Even if he bit his own hand, the rumbling at the back of his throat was loud enough to echo off the windowless walls.
Gallagher was clearly enjoying himself as well, nuzzling into Sunday’s ribs and breathing deeply from the nape of his neck. Soon enough, Sunday tensed again and his second orgasm, though smaller in intensity, left him painfully sensitive.
He didn’t know sex could feel so good, neither what it was his body needed. The deeper Gallagher plunged, to the point his knuckles stretched his entrance further and the heel of his hand mercilessly ground against his clit, the more Sunday wanted. It was a beautiful kaleidoscope of black, white and red; the room spun around him when all the blood from his head drained to his nethers.
Within a moment, Gallagher slipped off his clothes, leaving Sunday on a backdrop of pillows. He stayed still, his knees pressed together and trembling as the tingling in his nethers fizzled out like a dying sparker.
When skin pressed against skin, the Hound appeared in Sunday’s periphery wearing a caring, wide smile.
“Are you enjoying yourself, angel?”
Sunday barely has the wherewithal to answer at first, but as time passes and the words sink in, he rolls himself on top of Gallagher and pins him to the cushions.
“Is it not too late to ask for that!? You– You had your hand in— in—!”
Gallagher doesn’t deign that with a response. His eyes drift down Sunday’s naked body, taking it in as it was layered atop him now. The angel’s thighs bracketed the Hound’s waist, threads of slick clinging between their flesh. That engorged bud between Sunday’s lower lips was even more prominent now.
He caressed Sunday’s thighs, their eyes meeting.
“What about my hand?” Gallagher asked.
Sunday’s ears turned a vivid scarlet, “Stop messing around.”
“So demanding! What would you have me do if ‘ messing around ’ isn’t to your taste?”
Though it was embarrassing, the more they looked at each other–the more Sunday felt at peace with himself. Before being plunged into this dream, he thought that if he were to violate one of the requirements of being a priest, and allowed for his body to be defiled, he’d be struck by divine lightning then and there.
However, as Gallagher tore two orgasms from him, neither hail nor fire came for Sunday. Thus, he became audacious. When he spoke, his words were slightly slurred, tongue heavy in his mouth.
Sunday craved water, but getting from the bed felt impossible.
His knees were as soft as jelly, yet his body felt heavy like lead.
“It hurts, you know…” He bit his lip, tracing a hand from the curve of his neck to the mark below his belly button. “You want to know what I prefer?”
Sunday bent one leg and jut out his hips to show Gallagher his twitching hole. “I would have you right here, satiating Ena’s mark, instead of fooling around like a jester.”
He found himself on his back immediately, pinned down with Gallagher’s tongue lapping at his breasts anew. The Hound bit the dark rosebuds and plunged his newly-oiled fingers into the Halovian’s willing body, nailing against his pleasure until Sunday screamed.
It was as if something inside the Hound snapped.
After coming once more on his side, folded beneath Gallagher’s immense weight, Sunday was laid prone and prodded until his toes were curling and his wings flailing. In that position, something inside Sunday’s belly finally relaxed its grip. He clung to the sheets, mewling incoherently while riding another wave.
Gallagher sat atop him, grinding against the small of the Halovian’s back, where his wings could not reach to shield him.
Each climax, Gallagher would change their positions, always ready with his restless tongue and hungry mouth. Sometimes he was on top of Sunday, and other times he would lay beside him, holding the angel in his embrace. The sounds they emitted were more than embarrassing– they were wet, filthy; Sunday’s very flesh betraying his pleasure.
True to Gallagher’s words, the mark on Sunday’s stomach was slowly fading, as if his orgasms would wash away parts of Ena’s blessing until they were very much gone.
Yet, even at that point Gallagher would bury his head between Sunday’s thighs, urging him to squeeze until his stubble was rubbing the angel raw and the Hound’s ears rang in warning.
Though they were naked together, Sunday didn’t see the Hound’s erection flag for even a moment. It leaked profusely and left sticky threads wherever it touched on the Halovian’s body. Still, not once did Gallagher ever reach to satiate that innate urge.
When Sunday was finally so exhausted he couldn’t move, Gallagher wiped him relatively clean and covered him with a quilt.
The click of a lighter and the smell of bitter citrus filled the air. After having a taste for it himself, Sunday couldn’t bring a protest to his lips. He hated the smell of tobacco and the mere notion of filling his lungs with smoke made him sick, yet for some reason… it was alright if it was the Hound.
He rolled onto his back. Gallagher combed fingers through Sunday’s messy hair. Exhaling a thick cloud of smoke, he asked with a tame tone. He wasn’t even a little breathy and Sunday was more than certain that if he pressed a hand against the Hound’s chest - it would be camp as an autumn spring.
“Are you alright, little dove?”
“You ought to call me by my name.” Sunday clipped, turning his head away.
“I don’t want to.” The Guardian Hound responded.
“And why not?”
Gallagher smiled. “Names are a private matter, not something to be spoken carelessly. If I call your name one too many times, you might never be able to return to the living world.”
At that, Sunday carefully sat up, pulling the sheet to his chin, as if that could preserve the remains of his virtue, laying chewed-up in his feet.
“You’re returning me?”
“You don’t want to?”
At the ricochet of the question, Sunday didn’t dare look at Gallagher.
Yes, while he was initially afraid of this dream’s meaning, he’d felt a sort of safety that the church could not provide, even when there was nothing outwardly threatening neither Sunday’s honour, bodily autonomy, life or title.
Looking dejected, Sunday turned back to refute Gallagher’s assumption when a pair of bitter-tasting lips, wrought in tobacco and grapefruit caught Sunday’s own.
The Hound’s tongue prodded deep into his mouth, swallowing both moans of pleasure and of protest, abandoning his cigarette on a side table ashtray to instead roll atop Sunday.
“You can’t look at me like that, angel. I really wouldn’t be able to hold back otherwise.”
Half their bodies were exposed to the cool room air, but their lower halves were entwined beneath the sheets. Just like in a matrimonial bed, Sunday’s hips cradled Gallagher’s. His length nearly burned Sunday where it lay against his stomach.
“You—! You dog! What are you doing humping me right now?! I’m exhausted. You drained me! I have no more energy for your solicitation. Get off!”
“That’s alright,” Gallagher laughed, “You just lay back. I can use you fine just like this.”
“You fiend! You mutt! Use me?! How dare—Angh—!”
Sunday shuddered, his speech stuttering to a stop.
In one smooth motion, their lower halves were united so irrevocably intimate, that it stole the Halovian’s breath and thoughts for one long span of time. He could only breathe though parted lips, clenching around the girth as it throbbed inside in turn.
When he looked at the Hound again, Sunday’s lashes were heavy with indignant tears. His eyes were red at the rims, but so very beautiful–golden, bronze and violet. Even while frowning, he was the most stunning creature Gallagher had laid eyes on.
At first, Gallagher was just trying to play with him and get a quick taste of ambrosia before sending him back to his world. A heavenly person wasn’t something he caught in his nightmare’s net just any day.
But the little bird kept tempting him. He showed both fear and bravery, he curled his fists and clenched his jaw, yet arched his back in bliss. Sunday talked back and challenged Gallagher’s willpower over and over.
If Gallagher was merely a dog, then how could he possibly resist ravishing Sunday now?
Sinking into the tight heat, he was now certain he couldn’t let his victim go before ravishing them entirely, before swallowing them whole, until their blood and bone were one.
Beneath him, the angel’s protests quieted while he took in the feeling; it was clear that he didn’t hate it from the way his cheeks heated and his eyes glazed over prettily, pupils wide. The wings at his hips twitched and shifted, covered in goosebumps with their gorgeous black feathers puffed up.
Sunday’s face wore a complicated expression. He was quickly getting restless, seated on Gallagher’s cock with all its curves filling the gaping gulf inside Sunday. There was pleasure in those defiantly pursed lips, begging to be kissed anew.
“Hm..?” Gallagher rocked his lips slowly testing.
Sunday’s hands scrambled to grasp onto anything stable and found all ten fingers perched on Gallagher’s broad shoulders. The Hound bent to lick into the Halovian’s lips, a cocky smile shining through their kiss.
“You’re so stretched out already, it slips right in. If you feel any discomfort, why don’t we make it better?”
Gallagher thumbed at Sunday’s swollen clit, pinching it between the knuckles of his index and middle fingers. The flesh around him clenched so tight, he felt like it was trying to suck him in.
“This greed of yours is what the holy Scriptures warn about.” Gallagher teased.
The Halovian said nothing. He only bent his head back to bear his soft, pale neck; groaning hoarsely in appreciation.
When Sunday woke, it was the morrow and sunlight streamed through his window. His bedsheets were all tangled in his legs, wrought around his body like the silk of a cocoon, ready to be broken by a butterfly.
However, his mood is what had taken up to metamorphosis, shifting from the pleasureful ecstasy of the night to shock and disgruntled awe.
His thighs were utterly soaked, the nightdress ruined and cold as it stuck to his soaking nethers in a shameful display of indulgence. He could feel liquid seeping from him still, warm as it pooled in his underwear.
The Halovian slowly sat up, feeling pulses of aftershocks still lingering in his body. His mouth was dry and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Combing a hand through his hair, the priest found that his locks were all over the place, fluffed up and sticking in various directions like those of a feathering chick.
Illuminated by the morning glow, Sunday felt much better. His head was quiet and feeling had returned to his limbs once more. Save a foreboding feeling, he was whole and well.
The last thing he’d felt in that dream…
Gallagher reached Sunday's front, rubbing his stomach from the outside. His monstrous girth was too much to take, so it made Sunday’s tummy bulge a little. His womb was full of hot liquid and remnants of it spilled in thick globs over the bed, down his thighs.
Sunday’s jaw was propped up by Gallagher’s hand, arching the angel’s back into a position that made penetration just that more intense. He was petrified from exhaustion, but the pleasure was mind-numbing. Even his own death was welcome, so long as Gallagher could carefully guide him to one last release.
“Take it, my pale dove. All of me.” The Hound murmured into Sunday’s bruised neck. “Feast upon the gift of a Hound. Let Ena know you’re going to be mine once and forever.”
Sunday tore at the covers, searching. He threw the sheets off his body, pulling up his dress and shoving down his underwear.
“What…?”
So, it wasn’t Gallagher’s cum leaking out of his hole, it was—
“Aeons… Today…?” Sunday groaned, falling back into bed.
So it was indeed just a dream, roused by his lousy hormones.
Once again, he had been haunted by something unreachable, whether good or bad. Although there was no mark on his stomach and no traces of his body being used, Sunday took an extra long hour in the shower that morning, washing off Gallagher’s touch.
When he lathered soap over his thighs, he thought he could feel the Hound’s fingers squeezing him. When he carefully drew his fingers beneath his cervical wings, he thought he sensed the rugged man biting them.
Sunday’s body was clean and his mind was his own, but his senses had been entirely possessed by another.
Needless to say, he spent a long while inside the confessionary, wondering if he should repent or thank Ena. In the end, Sunday did neither.
Having done neither, Ena did not send Gallagher or her benevolent mark upon Sunday ever again.