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“Wait.” It is not a question; it’s a demand. Formal meeting over, Gallagher is stopped in his tracks by Sunday’s authoritative voice. A deviation, then.
“Need somethin’?” Gallagher asks airily, laid-back as ever. Hands tucked in his pockets, he turns around to look at Sunday.
“How very perceptive. Indeed, I do.” Sunday holds out his arm, motioning to the door leading to private chambers. The smile he wears does not reach his eyes, unnerving as ever.
Gallagher scoffs, but like the obedient dog he is, follows along.
This familiar song and dance of theirs… depending on Sunday’s needs, he isn’t particularly against it. Gallagher pushes past the open doors, and shuts them behind him with a kick of his foot. Sunday regards him with a scowl and Gallagher dismisses him easily.
“So, what’s on the menu today? Been a while.” Gallagher leans on the table, cocking a brow at Sunday.
“Watch your tone Hound,” Sunday responds sharply. Gallagher whistles, rolling his eyes.
“Bad mood, huh? Wonder what brought that about…”
Hands clasped behind his back, Sunday slowly approaches Gallagher. He keeps space between them and taps on the ground with the tip of his shoe. “On your knees.”
Gallagher kneels before the man, holding back a snappy comment about how Sunday really needs people beneath him in both the figurative and literal sense, but he’s not in the mood for a kick to the face. Instead, he just looks up at Sunday, grinning. “And what would the esteemed Sunday have today?”
“Wipe that smirk off your face,” Sunday snaps, and Gallagher turns it into a pout instead that sees Sunday seething. Wordlessly, Sunday makes his own pants vanish into thin air; another of those neat tricks in his arsenal, mind manipulation aside.
“Dicksuckin’ duty?” Gallagher guesses, slowly trailing his hands up Sunday’s legs. Oh, seeing how bad of a mood Sunday is in, he’ll get his chance to ruin the man later. For now, he’ll play along, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be a little cheeky if only for the sake of adding to Sunday’s irritation. He’s too easy to rile up.
“Not quite,” Sunday replies smoothly, his voice betraying nothing of the hatred in his eyes. He leans down to fetch a bottle of lube from Gallagher’s suit, and drops it for the Hound to catch. “Be thorough.”
“Yessir,” Gallagher sighs, and fuck he can’t wait to shut that damned mouth of his up and make his vocal cords produce only the raunchiest of noises for his loyal dog. Honestly, that’s why Gallagher goes along with all of this. He could just as easily leave Sunday in all his cold fury; but he knows what he’s getting out of this.
Patience.
Sunday’s gonna be whimpering for his cock soon.
Coating his fingers in lube, Gallagher shuffled forward, kissing the tip of Sunday’s dick while he reaches around his hips and slides his thick fingers between Sunday’s asscheeks. Sunday gives a little gasp.
Gallagher pushes in, and takes the head of Sunday’s cock into his mouth. Slowly enveloping Sunday’s hardening cock in the warm embrace of his throat, Gallagher hums against the sensitive organ, and one of Sunday’s hands flies down to grab a fistful of Gallagher’s hair. Gallagher looks up at Sunday whose icy gaze has faltered only a little and decides that Sunday is still far too rigid for his liking.
Right, time to really apply himself to his task. The only one worth Gallagher’s full attention.
He pulls off Sunday’s dick for a moment and spits on it before taking it back into his mouth until the tip hits the back of his throat. He bobs his head in time with the thrusts of his fingers and lewdly slurps up any excess saliva and precome, hearing Sunday groan above him.
“Y–You filthy– mm!”
Gallagher dares to grin around Sunday’s cock, and pushes in a second finger. He diligently applies himself to unraveling the rigid mess of a false angel, with more effort than a year’s worth of work as Head of Security. It elicits no complaints from Sunday though, only a figurative slap on the wrist every now and again that Gallagher dismisses almost immediately to go slack off elsewhere.
No, all that he’s eliciting from Sunday now are wanton noises, and a jerk on his hair. Gallagher briefly pulls out of Sunday’s ass to put his hand on Sunday’s hip, coaxing the man into moving his hips. Sunday would not oblige; he only cooperates out of his own volition, but damn, every time the tip of his cock hits the back of Gallagher’s throat, Gallagher muffles a filthy groan on the same man’s dick.
He stays focused on his task, still diligently working Sunday open with two fingers and sliding in a third when he draws a whine from Sunday’s trembling lips. Sunday graces him with a drawn-out moan that Gallagher wishes he could bottle up for later, fueling his drive for days to come.
But alas. Such isn’t permitted under the gaze of The Harmony, at least as per Sunday’s words. It’s likely about preserving his own pride, though.
Laving his tongue along the underside of Sunday’s cock and pressing it against the head, flicking it over the slit as he draws back, Sunday’s hips start to tremble tellingly. All too predictably he yanks Gallagher off his cock, leaning over on the table and panting heavily. He’s edging himself, as usual. And fuck, in this state, it’s hard not to just bend Sunday over the damn table and fuck him silly, but he’s yet to receive the order.
Gallagher licks his lips, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He stands up, the bulge in his own trousers more than obvious, and that’s what immediately draws Sunday’s gaze, the sheer hunger in those golden eyes pushing Gallagher forward and forcing the man into a greedy kiss. Before Sunday has time to react, Gallagher seizes his momentary confusion to force his tongue inside Sunday’s mouth, and bullies the man further back against the table. Sunday’s hands grab hold of his shoulders, but he does not push him away, not just yet, and Gallagher swallows up the moan that leaves Sunday upon tasting his own precome.
Uptight he may be, it is so easy to make Sunday come undone. All that perfect facade, gone in an instant, at the lightest stroke of a hand against his erogenous zones and gone is he.
Satisfied, Gallagher pulls back. A bewildered Sunday stares up at him, somewhere between real fucking horny and mildly scandalized. Gallagher laughs, slowly unbuttoning his blouse.
“Why the face? C’mon, I’m givin’ you what you want, aren’t I? Spoiled little angel.” That last part is muttered under his breath a tad hatefully, but Sunday catches it nonetheless.
Sunday bristles. “I do not recall giving you the order to spea—ah?!k!” His sentence is cut off when Gallagher nips at the edge of a wing. Gallagher throws his blouse behind him much to Sunday’s dismay, but he quickly diverts the Halovian’s attention by grabbing his chin and forcing his gaze on Gallagher.
“You want this,” Gallagher tells him, almost growling. “If you wanted obedient, you could’ve asked any of your little servants. I’m sure they’d be delighted to please the oh-so-great Sunday.”
Sunday shakes his head loose. “Do not pretend as if you do not derive pleasure from this.”
“Oh, I ain’t sayin’ that. This is more than agreeable for an old dog like me.” Gallagher grins toothily, and rips open Sunday’s jacket.
Pushing Sunday to lay down on the table, Gallagher wastes no time lining up his dick and shoving it in. Sunday moans at the intrusion, but Gallagher isn’t giving him any time to adjust to it. He sets a brutal pace from the get-go, putting his elbows on the table and pinning Sunday’s wings to the polished wooden surface. Their faces mere inches away, none of Sunday’s reactions are lost on him. Every little detail is etched into his memory, and fuck, if he could, he’d create an entire damned memory bubble solely dedicated to this moment alone.
By the Watchmaker, if only Sunday could be like this all the time, he’d actually be bearable. Sure, Sunday wouldn’t agree to be fucked to an inch of his life, but Gallagher happily indulges the fantasy nonetheless.
Sunday’s eyelids flicker, and Gallagher squeezes his wings tightly, ripping a pained yelp from Sunday’s throat.
“Eyes on me, angel .” Gallagher almost soothingly rubs his thumb over the piercings as if he’s not pistoning his hips in and out of Sunday at a mad pace, struggling to keep his own voice under control. “Can’t have you puttin’ your head in the clouds just yet.”
Gallagher takes perverse delight in watching that sharpness in Sunday’s gaze glaze over to become something entirely else, unfocused, diluted pupils unable to focus on anything as tears of pleasure well up in the corners.
Pathetic. Gallagher wants to ruin this man ‘til there’s nothing left for anyone else, and Sunday’s reverent tones aren’t about The Harmony, but about him.
Even if it’s a lie, it’s good to indulge for a moment. It’s only hurting Sunday’s pride, and that’s a plus for Gallagher.
Sunday’s eyes roll back and he bucks his hips up in stuttering motions as he cums, but Gallagher’s nowhere near his own orgasm. He just smirks at the Halovian, and picks up the pace again. Sunday nearly screams, and Gallagher is utterly captivated by that filthy look on his face. He’s pretty sure the table actually moves due to the sheer force of his thrusts, but he’s too damn busy blowing out Sunday’s back to really give a fuck.
Gallagher can control himself with no problem and is more than pleased to hold his orgasm back ‘til Sunday nearly passes out from pleasure. It’s a sight he hasn’t seen in several weeks, and damn, it’s as if the bastard’s been deliberately starving him.
Payback is sweet, and sounds a whole lot like the aggressive slapping of skin on skin, Sunday’s filthy, loud moans almost enough to drown out the sound. He’s crying out for nothing in particular, his voice breaking, and Gallagher’s fondling his wings like a madman, pushing the feathers up and then down again. He briefly contemplates taking one home as a souvenir, but he’s pretty sure Sunday would actually kill him for that.
Emboldened by Sunday’s wrecked state, Gallagher leans down further to nip at his halo.
Sunday keens, his body nearly lurching off the table.
Damn.
Jackpot.
Gallagher traces the golden structure with his tongue and switches it out for his lips now and again, drawing downright pornographic noises from Sunday. The man starts pawing at his chest, and Gallagher realizes that Sunday came again just by playing with his halo.
A little too sensitive, maybe. Something to keep in mind for the future. He gives it a final nip and lifts his head again. Sunday is writhing under him, his eyes brimming with tears brought about by pure overstimulation.
“I… haah! e-enough… enou—aah!”
Gallagher doesn’t slow down. “You sure ‘bout that? If you’re still coherent, I ain’t doin’ my job enough, and I ain’t in the mood to hear a lecture from you later.”
Sunday furrows his brows. Thought… sure is hard. But somewhere, he must realize Gallagher’s right, because the next second, he’s grabbing at Gallagher’s tie, forcing him closer and into a bruising kiss that’s all teeth and no passion. “More,” he growls.
“More it is,” Gallagher chuckles roughly, nipping at Sunday’s bottom lip.
By the time they’re done, Sunday can barely lift an eyelid. Gallagher pulls away and stands up to survey the mess he’s made of the man, though he’s not faring much better, himself.
“Fuck,” he grunts, gathering the bundle of Sunday up in his arms and has the good graces not to throw the man over his shoulder like a burlap sack as he carries him to a room adjacent. “Don’t say I don’t go the extra mile for you, spoiled little thing.” Sure, it’s out of selfishness, but that’s not to say Sunday doesn’t get anything out of it either.
In fact, he’s so blissed out, he’s fucking cuddling up into Gallagher’s chest, mumbling utter nonsense. Gallagher is somewhere between disgusted and almost…
No.
He quickly suppresses anything remotely positive towards Sunday and throws the man onto the ridiculously oversized bed. Even in a dream, he just has to overperform to an ostentatious degree.
Sunday’s a good fuck, and that’s all. There’ll come a day when Gallagher will get his revenge on the bastard for branding him a traitor, but until that day comes, he’ll more than happily bide his time ruining him instead.