ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴏᴄᴋ ᴍᴏᴅs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
goldmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
peacockstop2024-06-15 12:00 pm
goldmods) wrote in peacockstop2024-06-15 12:00 pm
TDM 04
【 Thank you for choosing the Golden Peacock, 5-star resort and casino. You are currently registered as a WILDCARD in our system.
Due to a high volume of check-ins, temporary accommodations have been made on our brand new beachfront for new guests. We will endeavor to have all guests moved into their reserved rooms as soon as possible. We apologize for any inconvenience. Affected guests may convene with the nearest lifeguard or reception for a complimentary swimsuit, at their earliest convenience.
Please remember that beach-appropriate attire is mandatory. Guests found breaking dress code may be escorted off the beach until they return in proper swimwear. We hope you enjoy your stay, and have a beachy keen experience. 】
BEACHFRONT PROPERTY
A BRAND NEW DEVELOPMENT
As the resort moves into what it claims is summer, the days grow longer. The sun is projected well into the evening, the heat of its warmth dialed up to a level some guests complain is unreasonable. Then there’s the most excessive transformation of all – half the Cloud Dwelling Gardens have been transformed into a sparkling beach of white sands and blue waves, seemingly overnight. Statues nearby have been dressed up with wide hats and stylish sarongs. Upbeat music fills the air without any discernible source.
A section of the beach has been reserved for a collection of bungalows. These cute pastel homes open straight onto the sand, and are comparable in size and amenity to a rank 7 or 8 suite. All screens within these bungalows are fixed to a channel that airs reruns of Boobwatch around the clock, a classic TV series about blue-footed boobys running in slow-motion across the beach. Staff and long-standing guests all agree — there’s no better summer programming than this!
A section of the beach has been reserved for a collection of bungalows. These cute pastel homes open straight onto the sand, and are comparable in size and amenity to a rank 7 or 8 suite. All screens within these bungalows are fixed to a channel that airs reruns of Boobwatch around the clock, a classic TV series about blue-footed boobys running in slow-motion across the beach. Staff and long-standing guests all agree — there’s no better summer programming than this!
FUN IN THE SUN
DON'T FORGET TO OIL UP
What’s a beach without fun and games? Dreadfully boring! That’s why all of the beach classics have been expertly set up by staff, including strip volleyball nets, giant boob-shaped beach balls, and plenty of floaties for use in the shallower areas of the temporary ocean. A row of parasols with paired lounge chairs underneath them are placed in some prime viewing areas for festivities. Any time you get thirsty, there’s always a cooler full of canned drinks conveniently nearby, courtesy of Cock-a-Doodle-Doo’s. Sometimes you can hear the staff whispering to each other, “What if it’s too perfect? We won’t be able to deal with the ratings dip once the beach ends!”
Seashells have been arbitrarily scattered along the shoreline, coming in both natural shapes and ones a little more... erotic. The sexiest ones of all are conch shells that let you hear the moans of another guest when held up to your ear; supposedly, if you hook up with the person on the other end of the shell, you’ll be extra lucky in the casino for the rest of the summer. All in all, it’s a carefully tailored creation that can be called nothing short of paradise.
Seashells have been arbitrarily scattered along the shoreline, coming in both natural shapes and ones a little more... erotic. The sexiest ones of all are conch shells that let you hear the moans of another guest when held up to your ear; supposedly, if you hook up with the person on the other end of the shell, you’ll be extra lucky in the casino for the rest of the summer. All in all, it’s a carefully tailored creation that can be called nothing short of paradise.
NOTES
▶ All new arrivals have been issued four food and four clothing vouchers. These vouchers are as good as money around the resort. The staff will strongly insist on characters picking out "summery" attire with it, though.
▶ Existing characters may be booted into the bungalows or locked out of their room against their will. We leave it up to player discretion if this happens and the degree to which they're removed from their normal suite.
▶ For the Daydream Parasols, wildcards may be afflicted by whichever suit their player prefers for the duration of the dream. This will have no bearing on their suit selection when applying, and suit effects should not manifest once back in the waking world. It's just a dream, after all!
▶ The dreamscape has no explicit time limit, so feel free to make them as long or as short as desired. Dreams should also be sexy first and foremost. While you can include your mom dying in the background if you'd like, you have to be horny about it too.
▶ Existing characters may be booted into the bungalows or locked out of their room against their will. We leave it up to player discretion if this happens and the degree to which they're removed from their normal suite.
▶ For the Daydream Parasols, wildcards may be afflicted by whichever suit their player prefers for the duration of the dream. This will have no bearing on their suit selection when applying, and suit effects should not manifest once back in the waking world. It's just a dream, after all!
▶ The dreamscape has no explicit time limit, so feel free to make them as long or as short as desired. Dreams should also be sexy first and foremost. While you can include your mom dying in the background if you'd like, you have to be horny about it too.
TWINKLING CURRENTS
THE PARTY NEVER STOPS
As the sun sets in a cascade of colors over the water, lamps are lit and floating lights surface from the depths. Stars twinkle in the sky, and Steve is finally released from his smoky shackles. Though the daytime amenities have gone to sleep, the night promises its own set of beachy wonders sure to please even the most distinguished of vacationers.
Flyers posted in the lobby and in the hallways promise of a bar ran by the most enchanting mermaids you could ever want to fuck, as well as a fireworks show in every color, including ones you’ve never heard of. With the seagulls gone to bed, peace settles across the sands, tinted blue, yellow, and pink from the myriad of lights. For those seeking a more subdued, romantic air — this is the beach for you.
Flyers posted in the lobby and in the hallways promise of a bar ran by the most enchanting mermaids you could ever want to fuck, as well as a fireworks show in every color, including ones you’ve never heard of. With the seagulls gone to bed, peace settles across the sands, tinted blue, yellow, and pink from the myriad of lights. For those seeking a more subdued, romantic air — this is the beach for you.
SANDY SCAVENGING
A GAME OF BEACHES
It wouldn't be the Golden Peacock without a game for guests to play! All guests that wander into the beach area may find themselves receiving one of two Watch messages. Some very special guests may even receive both challenges — or continuously receive a new challenge when the last 24 hours is up. The resort just wants you to have the most fun possible!
NOTES
▶ All effects from the swim-up bar last around 2-3 hours, but may be extended by having another drink.
INTO THE DEPTHS
IT'S HIGH TIDE WE GET OUT OF HERE
Though the beach experience is perfect on the surface, things are less elegant behind the scenes. Wave-making machines pulse and rattle down below, shaking the ceiling of the basement suites. Water leaks from pipes, streaking across walls and pooling on the uneven floors. The maintenance levels are abuzz with staff setting out buckets and pans, shooing lost guests away with a heightened level of urgency. Someone got a little too enthusiastic with mopping, they claim. Nothing to worry about at all!
Even the ocean itself isn’t without its issues. Despite appearing as a boundless expanse from the shore, the walls of the Golden Peacock are a very real factor. To avoid any undue damage to the screens that comprise the sky, the sea stops abruptly before it reaches them, cascading into a waterfall all the way down to the depths of the resort. Gentle currents become swirling vortexes and choppy waves, sure to pull down any guests that aren’t careful about where they swim. A few gull-guards patrol the line of buoys that mark the end of the safe swimming area, but the primary line of defense the resort relies on is the utter disinterest most of its guests have.
Even the ocean itself isn’t without its issues. Despite appearing as a boundless expanse from the shore, the walls of the Golden Peacock are a very real factor. To avoid any undue damage to the screens that comprise the sky, the sea stops abruptly before it reaches them, cascading into a waterfall all the way down to the depths of the resort. Gentle currents become swirling vortexes and choppy waves, sure to pull down any guests that aren’t careful about where they swim. A few gull-guards patrol the line of buoys that mark the end of the safe swimming area, but the primary line of defense the resort relies on is the utter disinterest most of its guests have.
NOTES
▶ Any amount of standing water is a valid target for a character’s resurfacing, even something as minor as a glass of water. For situations where a character would not actively fit into the source of their arrival, they will be violently flung out of it, knocking over or spilling it in the process if that’s possible.
▶ As always, players are free to control the level to which their individual characters are affected, and being flooded out of their space is not mandatory.
▶ As always, players are free to control the level to which their individual characters are affected, and being flooded out of their space is not mandatory.
OOC NOTES
▶ BLANKET CW: alcohol; altered states; aphrodisiacs; breeding urge; delusions; forced clotheswearing; hallucinations; harassment and bullying; jealousy; thalassophobia; transformation; unreality
▶ All characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. The house is still observing and deciding. As rank and suits are assigned upon acceptance your character's suit will not manifest until they are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's June event. The beach will ICly be present from June 15th - June 30th.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are prioritized and receive attention!
▶ If you aren't satisfied with these prompts, please feel free to check out our LOCATIONS to explore more of the resort! There are recent additions to the locations page as well, for those who have yet to see them!
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread regardless!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate.
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
▶ Don't forget your sunscreen! We'd hate for any chicken wings to come out burnt.
▶ All characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. The house is still observing and deciding. As rank and suits are assigned upon acceptance your character's suit will not manifest until they are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's June event. The beach will ICly be present from June 15th - June 30th.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are prioritized and receive attention!
▶ If you aren't satisfied with these prompts, please feel free to check out our LOCATIONS to explore more of the resort! There are recent additions to the locations page as well, for those who have yet to see them!
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread regardless!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate.
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
▶ Don't forget your sunscreen! We'd hate for any chicken wings to come out burnt.
no subject
( It's one low, languid, cavalier syllable. Sure, they're dead. Sure, this is what exists beyond the unknown. Sure, the last thing Gallagher remembers before blissful oblivion is watching his goodbyes fall on deaf ears, hands tight with vigor mortis clutching onto anything but him.
This place is prettier than he imagined his Hell would be like. He didn't picture Sunday being alongside him, either. They weren't meant to end up in the same place, these two.
So what? He's found himself saying it before, and it rings just as true now. Death, a true death, clearly isn't an ending if they're both here. If Sunday is indeed here and not just a figment of Gallagher's tormented imagination, that has to mean something. Are they supposed to stop living just because they're dead?
With Sunday's gaze still occupied by the stars, Gallagher comes behind him and wraps his arms around Sunday's waist. If they're dead, nothing really matters. His fear of consequence had always been concerningly low, but now? Living through the worst-case really puts things into perspective.
His cheek is rough where it brushes against Sunday's face. )
There's definitely beauty in chaos, Feathers. Look harder.
no subject
Sure, existing here with Gallagher means there is hope, but it also means it is Hell. Seriously, any realm of existence is prone to chaos with him around - who knows what information he will manipulate for his cause, for his mission! Sunday is still unaware he is to blame for that invitation list to begin with. He better take that to the proverbial grave. )
What are you doing?
( Naturally this question is bound to be left unanswered, but Sunday doesn't jerk himself away from him. If Gallagher is to become his vision of hope, then is he also putting his faith on him to find their way back home?
He's a little tense surrounded by his arms, frozen as he stares at the sky still.
And Gallagher's face is warm, prickly with stubble and very warm, as soothing as the sound of rolling waves hushing everything else in the distance. His wings fold behind him so they don't press against his neck and he lifts his hand - gloveless - against his other cheek. )
What will take for you to address me properly? Anyway, I'm looking. These aren't like the ones back in the Asdana system. You might have liked those now that I think about it.
I thought I saw a familiar shape earlier, but I was wrong. I'm not sure what I should be looking at from here. It has been a long day. Who would have thought Hell had any stars at all, let alone a sun. Hmph.
no subject
And yet— )
All this time, and you're telling me no one's ever given you a hug? ...So that's what's wrong with you. ( If Sunday had someone to offer him affection every day of his life, there's a chance he would have still plunged Penacony into oblivion — if his Master asked it of him. Bird and Hound, both loyal to whom they serve. Gallagher leans his weight on Sunday's back. ) You'll make me feel sorry for you.
( Sunday had his sister, and Gallagher had countless nights of unnamed bedfellows. They both had their sources of warmth. So, no, there's no way for Sunday to be as touch-starved as he appears on the outside. Maybe it's just because his color palette is cool, and his manner is aloof.
That could be the reason he seems so lonely. )
Who'd've thought Hell's got beaches, seagulls, and barbecues? It's full of surprises. ( He should feel more violent, less forgiving. He points to a star instead. ) If you connect that one to that one, and then to that one there... it looks like a dove.
Your turn. Draw something.
no subject
He's right, he has never been hugged like this. )
Shut up, Hound.
( The words are whispered, they're sharp like blades as they come out but they don't deny the allegations. Of course he's lonely, he has been ever since Robin left, and perhaps even before that. )
Hmph. And you must be sick, clinging to me like this? You don't have to pity me.
( His body is heavy, he's massive - compact and muscular. He pushes against him in order to support him, glancing up at the stars. He points his finger up and begins tracing some points to another. )
Just above your dove. See it? It looks like the head of those hound statues scattered in Golden Hour.
no subject
( The Nameless, obviously, held their own. They didn't need Gallagher's help in keeping things together, but the old dog wanted one last scuffle before he got put down.
Moreover, his grievance with Sunday is more on behalf of the Watchmaker than anyone. They're all dead now: Gallagher, Sunday, the Watchmaker, the man who gave him his face. Holding onto old grudges of their forefathers here of all places seems like something of a lost cause, a misplaced effort.
Maybe they can let their grudges die with their pasts and leave it all for a new generation to figure out. That's what Gallagher plans to do, at least. He's got no mission, no purpose, no drive to keep him moving forward. He's got no reason to exist other than as fuel to keep the flames of Hell alive.
He smiles against Sunday's skin. )
I see them. ( He does. He's always been able to see the things he wants to. ) Want me to let go?
no subject
This man is frustrating. His shoulders lift as he takes a deep, solemn breath staring up at their constellations. Look at them long enough and they begin to lose their shape and blend with the others. Close your eyes and they're right there, bright as ever. Sunday closes his eyes in some silent prayer that THEY could light a new path for him.
It's not like Sunday has a master anymore, either. They're both lost causes. )
If your idea of pity consists of embracing me like this, then don't let me go. Who knows how long we'll be stuck here. Save your judgment for what I'm about to say, but I've never experienced someone holding me like this.
( He would turn his head to look at him but that means practically kissing him. Where are his arms supposed to go in this position? He changes the subject awkwardly. )
I woke up with a mark on my body and I'm not sure what it means. Did you experience something similar?
( They could compare! Sunday's is found on the middle of his chest. )
no subject
( It implies the judgement was there at one point, but he's chosen to take it away at Sunday's request. When did he begin judging The Family's most sacred — when he rose, or when he fell?
Sunday hasn't been hugged. He hasn't been held. He hasn't been needed for anything beyond mutual annihilation and fleeting absolution from the worst of his wretched subjects — Gallagher included, should his drunken antics warrant an evening of ironic cleansing. From his own experience, he knows it's not enough to wash away the sins in the light of day. )
No. Nothing like that.
( Not to his knowledge. Granted, he hadn't thought to do a full-body inspection. On the surface, everything is where he last remembered it — hair, eyes, every other borrowed body part. All of his scars in their place, most of which are on display now that he's got nothing but puppy-patterned swim trunks on. He loosens his hold, giving Sunday space to turn around in his arms. )
—Show me.
no subject
And based on what he does know about him, from the placement of his scars to his eyelashes to the aging lines giving him his character - Sunday would be able to easily tell if this were a real Gallagher or another lie.
He turns around to first inspect his features. It's him. No questions asked.
Stark is the difference between their aesthetic choices. Golden palm trees against white, soft fabrics and white swimming trunks. Void of taste, really, and yet there are no stains or wrinkles on them. He begins undoing the buttons on his shirt, gaze still on him as he follows the order - it could be useful to Gallagher if he sees if they're going to be some kind of team here. The Clubs is bestowed upon the middle of his chest, laced around it is a vertical oval resembling the eye of Ena. )
This is it.
( He glances down at their bodies, at his shorts. Knowing Gallagher, he picked those himself and shocking to the world, Sunday also keeps judgment at bay. Instead, something else emerges, sadness. ) You miss your pets, I see.
no subject
( Dormancy is a gem. Besides, it was one stab one time; what will it take for Sunday to let it go?
As he undresses, Gallagher's gaze follows the path of popped buttons. This is an academic venture, nothing more. He doubts Sunday would allow things to go beyond that, unmarred as he is. Once undone, what the shirt opens to is impossible to miss, a dark mark against otherwise unblemished skin. Gallagher reaches out to touch it, and doesn't think better of it. His fingertips graze the tattoo's outer rim, the curved line between murky chaos and Sunday's natural, blissful order. )
You just woke up like this? ...Looks like you were branded.
( So, Hell has a cult.
He pulls his touch away with a scrape of nail as he hastily looks down at himself. Nothing on his chest aside from the large, off-center scarring and hair along his pecs. His torso is much in the same way, scarred but devoid of anything that he hasn't placed there himself. )
Look for me. If there's anything, it's probably in a place I can't see.
no subject
( Who wouldn't miss the charm in his lies? Hopefully, Micah is taking good care of it and oh give Sunday time! He's still processing everything like it's a blur. At least they will get plenty of time to bond here.
If it is so academic then he better be taking good notes. Who knows, they might be useful in the future, when he needs to recall how Sunday's chest fills with air the second he touches. The breeze flowing between the two flaps of the open shirt also gets his nipples hard. Look at him ignore the fact and meet his gaze gain. )
Yes. I don't think it's a brand otherwise I would feel pain and-
( And the stir of nerves Gallagher leaves behind is the opposite of painful. Sunday buttons the middle but leaves all the other ones undone so he can begin inspecting Gallagher. Easy when his line of sight is almost on his chest. The scars appear as real as they have ever been, carbon copies and lively. Sunday reaches for one on his pectoral near his nipple, caressing his fingers across one of them and his hair. )
They're all yours now. Everything about you.
( That's the only thing he says before pulls away to eye him from head to toe. He walks back around him, tracing the scar on his side around his ribcage, his spine, and thick shoulder blades. His ass. He honestly expected the marking to be somewhere on his back, but this is no good. )
Well, hah. We should return to the bungalow. Unless you want to undress here completely.
no subject
What a terrific liar he is.
When the moment passes, Sunday is behind him. )
Can't imagine anyone here would notice, given all the things I've seen today.
( Somehow, it's got less moral structure than the sweet dream, and you can do anything there.
To the bungalow it is. Gallagher's is empty, probably. He hasn't seen much of his new roommate throughout the day. The only indication of another person sharing his space comes in the form of shifted bedsheets and occasional wardrobe changes strewn in the hamper. He doesn't even know what they look like.
He's half-tempted to take Sunday's hand and pull him along. The man can walk himself, he figures. )
You know there are easier ways to get me out of my clothes.
no subject
He walks himself just fine, side by side like they’re about to take over Hell. It begins with entering this little bungalow and Gallagher’s room, lived in and messy but that’s to be expected.
Best to not touch anything— who knows where all these things have been. This place is one easy way his OCD could relapse and hit him like a truck. )
What’s an easier way than to ask you to? It’s either that or I take them off for you if you’re going to drag your feet and keep me waiting.
You were willing to undress in the open like some savage, I promise I won’t be making fun of your body, if that’s of any concern.
( As far as he’s able to tell, Gallagher is undoubtedly blessed when it comes to appearances. It’s just that he doesn’t know how to dress. )
no subject
( He wanted a proper title, and he's getting one. It's mocking, mischievous, but at least he's calling Sunday by his real, given name. )
My body's not the issue, though it's considerate of you to care. ( Did Sunday really think he was shy? No, Sunday's comments on the state of Gallagher's being have never been anything short of encouraging. He feels seen by Sunday, heard by him. Sunday touches his skin and it feels alive. Under his knowing gaze, Gallagher becomes real, more than a collection of parts.
His warm gaze glides to the shut door behind them before he drops his puppy trunks. They will be missed.
All around, Gallagher is pleasantly hirsute, as his motif would suggest. Fully nude before the Family's leader, he feels like Sunday's foil in every way. An angel's pale to his warm tan, Sunday's feathers to his fur. He's soft in places where Gallagher is hard, smooth where Gallagher is weathered. A dense happy trail leads to a darker forest, but there's no sign of a tattoo there. )
Well. Anything?
no subject
( It's a reaction he can't control as soon as he hears his name roll out of his mouth - mocked and all yet so deliberate that Sunday wishes he could hear it again. And then again after that. Progress is progress taming this hound. )
It's not about how I feel, but if you're into that sort of thing, well, I shouldn't be surprised.
( Since when has Sunday seen him? Perhaps the moment he was betrayed, or when he was stabbed from the back. He always faced Gallagher through those times.
And now he does the same here: when those shorts are rolled down and forgotten, he never looks away.
His entire body looks like he was put in a blender with 52 other people, yes. All those scars, every aged line, and every deliberately placed hair made something surreal. If he counts the seconds, Sunday stalls for at least ten, staring down the hairs of his happy trail to the mound around his cock, his thighs, his knees. This is the Gallagher he has never seen.
His eyes flicker up at him and he walks around him, sternly. The pale flesh that Sunday is so known for is a different color, but even he has no idea what to do with it. No mark on his ass, either. )
No.
Nothing.
( His gaze burns on that ass, on his skin, and all the way up his spine again. )
Wait a minute.
( He reaches for the back of his neck and all the hair covering it, brushing it aside with cold fingertips. They trace the marking there, much how Gallagher had done to him. )
It's here.
no subject
He likes to believe that he can feel the path of Sunday's gaze on his skin, even when he can't see it. Parts of him feel warmer, like the back of his thighs, and the center of his spine. Due to Sunday's attention, or is it all in Gallagher's head? )
Nothing. Maybe they spared me.
( Maybe he could be so lucky, but Sunday's fingers push against the warm skin of his neck before the thought has a chance to settle, and Gallagher makes a sound a bit like a scoff. The image is of three diamonds stacked in a column. They're dark in nature, and it most closely resembles the pink diamond pattern atop Dormancy's 'head'. The stack from the nape of his neck to the top of his spine. The diamonds are eye-ish in nature, like Dormancy's own. )
What's the damage?
( And are you saying he could have left his pants on for this— )
no subject
Without Mikhail, he gets to choose now, no?
Sunday dabs his index over each diamond, frowning - those shapes are familiar. )
Your mark reminds me of your pet. It’s not so bad on you, I think it suits you.
( Yes— he must have been too nervous earlier to search him properly. Sunday glances down at the puppy trunks, all that for nothing. He walks around to face him and deliver the news more concretely. )
You were not spared after all. I’ve yet to investigate the origin of these.
Have you felt any sort of fatigue in your stay so far?
( it’s impossible not looking down even for a fraction of a second, okay? He’s just bigger than Sunday is all. He’s probably just yapping away because he’s trying to fill the space with a distraction. )
no subject
( If there was ever a mark at all.
While it's possible, even probable, for Sunday to make an earnest mistake in the low starlight of the beach, Gallagher is choosing to believe that Sunday is just as dishonest as he is. It's a strange methodology, deliberately missing his tattoo, inventing a reason to get Gallagher naked and alone, but he admires the effort. He's smiling. )
You wanted me out of these pants. Don't get shy on me now.
( With Sunday standing in front of him, eyes flickering from Gallagher's face to someplace lower, Gallagher closes the space between them and plucks free the single button holding Sunday's breezy summer shirt together. He slides the material off of his shoulders, pressing a kiss against his neck, letting the fabric drag slow along Sunday's skin. There was always this rumor about Halovians having tailfeathers...
If he ever experienced fatigue, that doesn't seem to be the case now. )
Take 'em off. ( The shorts, the place that Gallagher's hands are steadily sliding down towards. ) Let's see ya'.
no subject
...
( That frown says it all and at the same it says nothing. How was he supposed to admit how warm those arms were around him? How does anybody go about this without utter humiliation? )
Don't put words in my mouth.
( Words are sharp as any whisper, hiking up on a breath as soon as his button gives and his lips press against his neck - his jugular is throbbing underneath it, racing as fast as his heart from one head to another. Sunday tilts his chin up trying to find his gaze again, but he fails, and he can't hold onto him because he's naked. Dangerous territory.
He's not insecure, contrary to what certain others might think, he's just average, okay? He's not Gallagher size. He releases a hot sigh while he's undoing the laces on his swimming trunks and the fabric of his shirt falls on his elbows. His wings unfold widely, flinching as each individual feather bristles to make them seem bigger and puffed. Unforunately, the rumors are proven wrong. He doesn't have any tailfeathers or wings for that matter.
His fingers are stalling a little, eyes closed as if he's enjoying the rush on his neck - he's also trying to will away the blood pooling between his legs.
The fabric is raw at his sides, inching down his hipbones and over the lumps from front and back. With them, the shirt also falls through his wrists, and then everything feels cold. )
Tch.
no subject
Willing away his desire is the opposite of what Gallagher wants from him. Sunday should be hard and needy in a way unbefitting of Penacony's leader. He should want Gallagher in a way he's never wanted anyone before. This dirty dog isn't good for much, but untold Amber Eras worth of kissing, sucking, fucking, and otherwise unwisely mitigating his way through his problems have taught Gallagher where most people like to be touched. Everyone's different, naturally, but some places are universal.
—the erogenous zone of someone's waist, down to their thighs, for one. Without the trunks, Gallagher's got free rein to glide his fingers and rake his nails down the newly exposed space. Deliberately avoiding Sunday's cock, he takes pleasure in just... feeling a place he's certain no one's ever felt before, staking claim to a mouth no one's owned before him. )
Not bad, Mister Wings...
( All first kisses are, by their nature, a little bad, but Gallagher's not going to burst his bubble so soon. He pulls away from him, but only to sit on his bungalow bed and offer Sunday a chance to rid himself of the clinging clothing. Mister Wing is welcome to take a seat atop him. )
Your turn.
no subject
Yet he has never felt a presence as warm as Gallagher's right now. This is further proof that here, he is real. His hand can reach out to him and cradle his jawline firmly in their kiss. Sharing the same air until there is nothing else to give. Sunday even ends up on his toes just so he can properly meet him, awkwardly, feeling every prick of his hair and breathing him in.
For death is the only path they will ever share. After this, who knows.
Sunday's lips are left with a clear sheen of saliva, reddened slightly. )
Save your insincere praise, you Hound.
( He gets it, he's not some sex god. Every pressure point, every inch of skin is prone to swarm with hotness as soon as it's touched. Sunday glances towards the locked door, paranoid, feeling exposed and seen through. His mouth feels defiled, fulfilled and starved.
The little strip show consists of Sunday stepping out of the trunks glaring at him, his stupid, beautiful face. His eyes are the same as always, unique in their own way despite them being stolen. The light above shines well against the energy on his halo, over every curve of light muscle. The trail of hair on his abdomen is less prominent than Gallagher's, silver, and darker as it reaches over his swelled cock. He keeps himself groomed but not clean shaven.
And he doesn't sit on him, but he does walk between his generously spread legs, taking a hold of his wrist tightly to guide him directly where he wants, up between his thighs. It takes everything not to make a sound. )
Don't think you can slack here just like you did in Penacony. So have me.
( Besides, he's the more experienced one. Show him how it's done, Gallagher. Put the former Family Head in a scandalizing position. )
no subject
Instead, he's finding it to be a new beginning.
Strange, isn't it? Only in death have they begun to live. )
Huh...
( Sunday's impatience guides him forward, but he doesn't take the lead. As expected, Gallagher finds Sunday's cock to be as beautiful as everything else about him. He holds him, feels him, gives into the temptation to briefly run his tongue along the now-exposed head. The taste is smooth and soft — a cock like champagne [? no, wrong adjunct flavoring, try again]. Everything about him is nothing short of elegant, an adjective that Gallagher can't imagine using for anyone else's body.
On Sunday, it just works. )
I get the feeling you don't know what you're asking for. ( He pulls away, looking up at Sunday with a hazy, self-assured gaze. ) It isn't clean.
( As if to exemplify the slovenly, licentious act being proposed, Gallagher takes a moment to drag two fingers onto his waiting tongue, coating them casually. There's real lube about, plenty of it, but Gallagher is only offering a tease in place of the real thing as presses them against Sunday's ass. It's not enough to push inside, but something to get Sunday an idea of what's to come, palpitative, urgent, but deliberately obfuscasive, resting on the gates of Heaven without taking the step needed to go inside.
Is if he'd lost it, Gallagher scrapes his teeth along Sunday's torso to get his attention, the dog. )
What do you know about this? Hm?
no subject
( Sunday and his rhetorical questions what else is new, as if he doesn't already know the answers. Yet he speaks as if it is a prayer for each other, a promise to continue their existence as long as they're allowed to. If Gallagher won't let Sunday rot away as stone, then Sunday won't let him erode, either. Physically or spiritually. )
You're not some dumb dog, you know by now what this Hell is about. So yes, I know what I'm asking, why do you think...
( And that's where his voice gives, broken between politeness and a sudden rush of actual stars fogging his vision. He swallows his words, tensing for him and growing beautifully hard for his that lying tongue. Even his knees feel weak so he's having to clutch onto his soft hair - and this is just a tame little flick over his cockhead. Another part of him Gallagher can claim forever as his first.
Pleasure has always been a complicated, far away illusion. Masturbating is alright, but doing this with Gallagher is like getting pierced through his chest. Having Gallagher explore him, his balls and taint until those sleek fingers find their way over his shut hole scatters his morals. His gaze has never been so divine on him, gazing past those red eyes and allowing himself to lust freely for Gallagher. Sunday's hips roll carefully over the feeling of his fingers. He lifts one knee over the edge of the bed trying to give him more space and arching involuntarily. )
In theory, I know enough.
( In practice? Nothing. )
no subject
( It's only because they're dwelling beneath the shadow of Hell, far from the bonds of loyalty and, presumably, far from the watchful eyes of their masters, that they're able to engage with each other beyond charged quips and icy-hot stares. Prior to the reveal of the Watchmaker's origin, Gallagher kept himself at a calculated distance — close enough to call, but too far to touch. How a man like Sunday — brilliant, observant Sunday — could topple a legacy, and how close he came to doing just that...
But Gallagher likes when he waxes poetic. He wants to kiss that rambling mouth.
Instead, with the new leverage offered by Sunday's proffered leg, Gallagher takes his chance and tosses Sunday to the bed. He's off-balance and easy to grab. His waist was crafted to be held, hips sculpted to be gripped. It's a lyrical one-two-pull to bring Sunday down, face-down against the mattress. It's not how he plans on taking him — as if he'd deprive himself the sight of Sunday's ecstasy. But lying atop Sunday, cock nestled against his ass, gives him access to a different part of him. )
Mr. Wings...
( He says it sweetly, low and melodic, just before burying his face in the place behind Sunday's ear, the origin point of his wing, and kissing greedily. He smothers himself in it, licking and biting, mouthing the soft-warm area untouched by anyone but him. Do his feathers get a special conditioner? Does Sunday brush his wings before leaving his home? Gallagher tastes divinity on each of his feathers and throbs for it.
His experience with Halovians isn't so limited that he believes their halos to be corporeal, but his desire is strong enough to allow him to lose sight of that fact. He reaches for it, something to grab and pull and deepen his teeth's reach through Sunday's feathers, but his fingers pass through. He holds fast to Sunday's hair and pulls that instead. )
Heh... Was dying worth it?
no subject
Between raindrops there’s empty spaces that makes them fall as rain. Between stars there’s darkness that makes the shape of the night sky. A city wouldn’t be a city without alleys, holes, or cracks in cement. So for all that it’s worth, between each of Gallagher’s scars there’s space left for Sunday to leave his mark— to add to his reality as the most perfect lie.
So he latches his blunt nails into his biceps as he’s thrown over with a soft grunt. Streaks are left behind when he’s turned and he’s greeted by a concentration of his scent on that mattress. This is indeed his bed. The punch of old nicotine and sweet drinks stir the masculine tones and flesh. He’s hard against the raw bedsheets thinking about him and the cock lodged between his pristine piece of ass. He’s warm and smooth, and without guidance Sunday can’t help but grind back towards him and his weight. He barely budges against Gallagher’s entire mass pinning him, but he doesn’t hate it. It has to be Gallagher— who else could he trust in this resort of the wicked?
Besides, the contours of his muscles and imperfections leave searing impressions on him and he can't get enough.
Is he nervous? Yes he is. The first time should be special, after all. )
! ! !
( He can feel the vibrations of his voice skirting around the fragility of his wing long before he feels his teeth on it. The sharpness of the nerves there are like fire shooting down his spine, choking any sense of his words as he sucks in a rough gasp. He tries turning towards him, spreading his wing further on full display for him to keep taking and taking. Sunday grits his teeth to keep himself from making any embarrassing sounds - what if others hear them? )
Yes... Every step of the way was worth it.
Even now.
That will never. Change.
( He doesn't brush his feathers - you can't brush feathers, dog. He grooms them and rinses every feather into perfection. Whatever this scent is is probably Sunday's own and remnants of whatever product he last used before his demise. The brutality between his ear and wing is a blissful escape from his polite facade, but Sunday is Sunday. And Sunday isn't shy to tell Gallagher what he wants. When his halo gets breached through by his hand, the energy convulses and he withers underneath him, leaving a moan to seep into sheets and his ass to thrust back trying to rub himself against his cock. This is purposefully done, albeit erratic and out of sync.
He turns enough to shoot a glare at him. )
You're heavy. I can't move like this, you Hound.