Feathers & Wire
A man encounters the angel from his dreams in reality.
7.9k M/M light sci-fi erotica about a cis male hitman and a transmasc sex worker. Includes nipple play and vaginal sex.
CW: religious references, drinking, vaping, drug references, a brief scene that is misconstrued as non-con by the MC, and mentions of violent acts. Anatomical language used: cock, cunt, tits.
The rain hasn’t stopped for days — another malfunction in the weather system, but Morgen hardly minds as he ducks beneath sagging power lines to cut through an alley. The side streets are better, less people to gawk, and he’s grown fond of the fabricated static of rain.
He’d had the dream again. Waking in a field, sun hot on his face and blinding his eyes behind cotton strip clouds. Too bright for someone like him, yet he always finds himself kneeling in wait, dry grass sticking to his bare legs like filaments; bathed in the warm certainty that he is right where he needs to be.
He does not believe in the divine, the holy, the sanctified. Metal, gunpowder, a sharpened blade — those have been his religion since the very first scar. He’s lost count of them; rather, they all blend together like a system of rivers and streams, overlapping and coalescing and breaking apart from his jaw to his calves. There is no place for worship in a rotting city.
Rounding the corner, he finds a transport idling at the end of the block, demon-eye tail lights reflected in a puddle. He has seen plenty of those in other dreams, but that he is used to. The bright dreams are new. He is always naked. Always kneeling. Always with his head turned to the sun, a soothing caress that’s real, not a figment of the artificial weather system wired into the city’s overhead canopy.
He knows he could pay for company, that’s not the point; and besides, why would he do that to some poor urchin? Ashen scars rip through the blunt angles of his jaw, jagged paths down his neck like bolts of lightning. His thick brow hangs heavy, eyes like used motor oil. His mirror is an honest soothsayer, and he is at least smart enough to believe what it tells him each morning. But the last man stupid enough to compare his appearance to a mange-ridden dog had laughed before Morgen plunged a knife into his eye.
He pauses beneath a flashing sign for THE RED SWALLOW. He shoulders through a door rimmed in neon, the static of rain exchanged with the thrum of human voices and throbbing bass. He keeps his eyes down, thundering around bodies that do not acknowledge him outside of simply stepping aside.
The bartender nods at him and pours his drink — syrupy and brown like his eyes, but cloyingly sweeter. Morgen’s frequent visits to the club have saved him from the pressure of speaking, and he tries to relax as he slips his shaking hands inside his coat.
Black, reflective windows border the ceiling of the club, but Morgen well knows there are rooms beyond. Soon, he will be summoned to one of them. He will receive his orders. But for now he will drink saccharine spirit, waiting patiently for his next command.
Perhaps he resembles a hound, after all. Well-trained and waiting for the command to kill.
He sips, swallows, sips again. The dream had been different this time; like always, he woke up to the sun, he had knelt, and then a vision tumbled from the clouds — caked in gold, shimmering like a dragon’s hoard. Bronze skin, wheat-kissed hair, and sharp, white teeth. If there were wings they only cast a shadow on the ground; all Morgen could really remember were hands like a summer noon cupping his jaw.
There is no divine, no holy, no sanctified, yet he does not know what else to call what he’s seen. How real it had felt — soft lips tracing scar tissue, a touch too gentle for skin ripped by bullets, mended by miracle. Warm, wet, tight settling around him in a place he hardly bothered. The bubble of laughter in his ear; the caress of a moan.
He had woken up changed. He had woken up wanting, his dreams never crueler.
It’s when someone slides onto the stool next to him that he realizes the other patrons have given him a wide berth. Someone will inevitably say something; how he’s not supposed to linger at the bar because he’ll scare away the customers. But a hand slides into his field of vision, a slim finger dragging a line through the condensation on his glass.
“Another?” comes a voice.
Morgen assumes it’s one of the club’s urchins, probably a fresh cutlet who doesn’t yet know not to approach the big man covered in scars. He doesn’t want them in trouble anymore than he wants for himself, so he forces himself to look up, to meet their eyes so they can see all of his face. So they’ll know to stay away.
The world flutters away like a scarf catching the wind. The person next to him doesn’t need to be swathed in gold for Morgen to recognize them, every angelic detail already inked to his memory — their nose as delicate and breakable as heirloom ceramic; their dizzying curls, twisted and frazzled around their glass-shard cheeks.
“What are you having?” they ask, glossy lips folding around the words, their smile laced with divinity. He doesn’t know why the celestial vision is real, is here, their path slamming into his. Morgen wonders if the last job ended worse than he remembers; if he’s still sleeping in his tiny flat or if he’s comatose in a hospital ward, his dreams now a single reality.
He reaches inside the pocket of his coat, fingers closing around a slim rectangle of metal. A button on the side brings the screen to life, and after a moment a keyboard appears. Morgen types, the words appearing in neon over the tiny screen.
YOU SHOULD NOT SPEAK TO ME.
The urchin’s divine smile widens; a blessing. “Why not?”
Morgen almost laughs, but this is business. He’s supposed to wait at the bar until he’s summoned, one drink maximum in case they need him on a job that night. To explain is too much to type on the communicator, so he thinks it over.
I WORK HERE, is what he comes up with.
“I know that,” the urchin angel says, one elbow flattening against the counter as they lean closer. “You just looked lonely, and I’m paid to keep company.”
Morgen does laugh a bit at that, an amused puff of air through his nostrils. I CANT AFFORD YOU.
To his surprise, the urchin’s pleasant expression holds firm as they lean closer, fingers splayed on the bartop. “I’m on break,” they say quieter, as if only meant for Morgen’s ears. “I was going to step outside, get a bit of air. I thought you might want to join me in case I run into any trouble.”
The urchin angel wants his protection. And Morgen supposes, even though it’s not strictly his duty, he would be protecting a valuable asset. His nose wrinkles, then, and he types on his communicator again. HOW MUCH?
The urchin winks. “You already said you couldn’t afford me.”
Morgen scoffs, adds to the sentence. HOW MUCH IS YOUR DEBT?
And that he immediately regrets, because the angel’s face crumples, and they don’t look away quickly enough to keep it hidden. Definitely new to the payroll.
It’s just as well, because a tap comes on Morgen’s shoulder. He stands, waves his palm over a payment screen and steps away as soon as he hears the robotic chirp — Thank you for your patronage. He sends one last look toward his urchin angel now pretending to assess their manicured fingernails.
Better they learn now, Morgen thinks.
He follows bodies as shapeless and similar to his up a hidden flight of stairs, the music dimming as soon as his ears pop from the change in pressure.
Always a different door, but the rooms beyond are identical copies. A sprawl of white vinyl couches and plastic tables, occupied by urchins both club-sponsored and freelance. Surfaces stacked high with powders and tinctures and handheld vaporizers, every eye glazed and every pupil blown, except for those intending to convene. The nature of this particular business to which he’s found himself in servitude.
He’s followed the Volkov family since he was a scrappy kid living out of youth shelters. The eldest owns the Red Swallow, and it’s the eldest who summons him, a man with a bony face and silver hair; wears his nasty streak like a medal, though it has never been directed at Morgen, specifically.
“Have a seat,” Volkov says, sitting upright in an egg-shaped lounger. He folds his legs, glossy shoes refracting the spectrum of neon lights from the club below.
This alone is unusual; Morgen is rarely presented with such an invitation, his orders usually quick with no opportunity to linger. But he obeys the command like any other, perching his bulk on an empty edge of a serpentine vinyl sofa.
“Your last job,” Volkov says. “Exemplary work.”
Morgen nods in thanks.
The eldest is blunt, to the point, and Morgen appreciates that about him. He steeples his fingers, caging a thigh, and says, “I wanted to ensure you were still satisfied with your work. If not, there are other areas we could use your expertise.”
Morgen knows exactly what “places” those are, the sort of jobs the eldest is talking about. The jobs where he goes home with blood under his fingernails. The jobs people fear him for completing. Morgen was accustomed to the dirty work when he was young and desperate, but now he wants nothing to do with them.
He tries not to shake his head too emphatically, reaching for his communicator when he realizes he should offer more context.
“You don’t have to explain,” the eldest says, his voice almost nudging gentleness as he holds up a hand. “Not as spry as you used to be, I understand. So long as you know the option is available.” He lowers his hand. “But I do want to remind you that your line of work comes with perks.”
Morgen blinks; he retrieves his communicator, but all he can think to enter are three question marks, accompanied by a confused look.
The eldest Volkov laughs softly, and Morgen is sure he’s never heard him do so. “I’m sure you’re aware of the services this club offers.” He gestures around them; at the shadowy, neon space one floor below. “Should you ever wish to partake, you have the privilege of doing so free of charge.”
Morgen’s hairline shifts as his brows crest. He swallows, then types, THANK YOU on his communicator.
“I have a feeling you’ll do so in moderation, if at all,” the eldest says. “But try not to overindulge. Bad for business.”
JOB TONIGHT? Morgen asks.
“No, no, you’re off the hook for the next few days,” the eldest says. “But if something comes up, I’ll be in touch.”
Morgen nods, stands, makes his exit. He passes the doors of other VIP rooms, tries to block out the noises beyond. They’re supposed to be soundproof, but some patrons seem to take that as a challenge.
A sweep of the club’s main area tells him the urchin from the bar — the angel from his dreams — is either working or gone for the night. He heads down a corridor that leads to a back exit, pushing into the alley behind the Red Swallow.
The blissful rush of rain meets him, cool drops on his temple. He takes two steps before he feels eyes on him, but what makes him turn around is the sound of a delicate cough.
Maybe he’s surprised to find the urchin angel huddled beneath an awning, wrapped in a coat that hangs over their thighs; surprised that their eyes are on him, as if they’d wanted to get his attention.
Further cementing their intentions, they wave him forward, holding a slim vape pen in their other hand. A quick glance around the alley tells Morgen they’re alone, and maybe that is reason enough for him to linger.
“I didn’t introduce myself,” the angel says. “I’m Pierce.” They hold their free hand out, but Morgen knows he shouldn’t touch. Pierce’s hand falters after a few seconds of no-contact, then drops. “Am I allowed to know your name?”
Morgen supposes there’s no rule against it, even though it feels somehow foolish to divulge such information. He pulls out his communicator.
“Morgen,” Pierce reads.
Their golden voice wrapped around the syllables of his name brings warmth to Morgen’s cheeks. He shuffles a step closer, back against the side wall of the club. The half of him that’s not beneath the awning is getting wet, the weatherproof coat earning its keep.
“Why did you ask how much my debt was?”
Morgen’s cheeks get hotter, but for a different reason. He shouldn’t have asked; it’s not his business how much anyone owes the Volkovs, or what reasoning they have for working for them. He lifts one shoulder in a shrug, shaking his head.
“I’ll admit I was irritated before,” Pierce says. “But now I’m curious.”
Morgen frowns, tilting his head back against the crumbling brick facade. He doesn’t have an answer, equally as confused about why he’d asked; why he’s at all concerned.
He sighs, then types, YOU WERE IN MY DREAMS and stares at the keyboard so he doesn’t see Pierce’s expression as they reads the words.
“Your dreams?”
Morgen nods.
“Because you’ve seen me before, right? Around the club?”
Hesitating, Morgen shakes his head. Wets his lips as he waits for the inevitable.
“Then how can you be sure it was me in your dreams?”
IT WAS YOU. Morgen brings his head up then. Pierce isn’t looking at him but straight ahead, rolling the vape pen between their fingers in thought.
“What was I doing?” they ask.
Morgen inhales through his nose, types, YOU WERE AN ANGEL even though Pierce is probably going to think he’s insane.
A laugh bursts out of the urchin before they slap a slim, manicured hand over their mouth. “Sorry, sorry — I’m not laughing at you, that’s just — not what I expected.” They press their lips together, then add, “Also doesn’t answer my question. What was I doing as an angel?”
That, Morgen knows, he probably shouldn’t say; though he figures he might as well be honest and strangle the possibility of ever interacting with them again. YOU TOUCHED ME, he says, waiting for the letters to fade before he continues. IN A FIELD IN THE SUN. Pause, wait. WE WERE UNDRESSED.
“Oh,” Pierce says, taking another hit. “I see.”
By the time Morgen looks at them again, their eyes are aimed at the ground. The vape pen lights up at the tip with each hit, the glow bouncing off the curls spilling across their eyes.
“Did you enjoy it?”
Morgen would have missed the question if he hadn’t watched Pierce’s lips shape around the words. He thinks before he types, like it suddenly matters that Pierce is going to talk to him after this.
YES is the eloquent response he decides on, but anything more would feel trite and desperate.
Pierce lifts their head, tilts it to the side, and says, “It’s too bad you can’t afford me, then.” They slip the vape pen into an inner coat pocket, and Morgen freezes when they lean close, the smell of synthetic cherries clinging to their breath. “I’d show you how a real angel would touch you.”
Morgen closes his eyes, adrenaline shooting up his spine like a dart. He hasn’t felt true, hard fear in a long time but this is like that, pulse pounding in his ears, every follicle of hair raised.
Pierce is long gone when Morgen collects himself, the alley once again empty save the sheetfall of rain.
Morgen spends his off time at home, cleaning and sharpening his knives and washing blood from his clothes. Burning them is, of course, against building and fire code, so anything he has to get rid of gets shoved in a trash bag until he can make it to the dump.
He hasn’t been visited by his angel in his dreams again, but now Pierce consumes his thoughts, rendering him unable to focus on anything — their honey voice and languid gestures, the shimmery hue of their skin.
He’s never gone to the club on a day off, preferring to avoid it until he absolutely has to set foot in that noisy, people-ridden place.
But tonight, he goes. He sits at the bar for an hour before he decides Pierce must not be working. When the bartender brings him a second drink, he gestures to his communicator.
PIERCE?
The bartender shrugs. “Saw ’em earlier.”
WHEN?
The bartender sweeps the room with his eyes only, then leans forward. “Some of the girls were sayin’ blondie got hired for one of those real private gigs.” Morgen’s confusion must show on his face, so the bartender huffs and adds, “C’mon, you know what I mean. You’re smarter than that, big guy.”
Morgen is used to hearing the opposite — that he has the brains of a mongrel and the face to match — but because the bartender is being somewhat helpful, he chooses to ignore the backhanded compliment.
ROOM?
“Now you know that’s against policy to be spreadin’ that kind of information around,” the bartender says, smirking. “But I can tell you there was an awful lot of booze pulled up from the basement last night, and most of it disappeared in V05.” He then nods at Morgen’s drink, barely touched. “You should finish that, then leave me a nice fat tip for being the best bartender you’ve ever had, yeah?”
Morgen snorts, but he does what’s asked of him. He downs the rest of his drink, taps his paycard on the panel and tips more than the cost of both drinks.
It takes another swipe of his ID card to gain access to the VIP floor. He nods to the two bouncers on duty chatting quietly in the corner, before he turns down the hall and heads for V05, one of the larger suites.
As Morgen approaches, he hears the sounds from behind the door. Glasses clinking. Animated chatter. The creak of leather against skin, then–
“No! Stop!”
Pierce’s voice. Morgen doesn’t think, just slaps his card against the scanner and punches in the door override code. The door fans open, and Morgen’s vision darkens, closing in from the edges. His eyes land on Pierce first, their hands and knees pressed into a vinyl sofa yanked into the center of the room. Wrists bound by a striped necktie, their black makeup trails down their cheeks as a man fucks them from behind, another pumping his cock into Pierce’s mouth. A third stands nearby, stroking himself over Pierce’s back, neck craned toward the ceiling.
Morgen counts seven men total around the room. Shirts untucked and half-unbuttoned, belts dangling around hips. Like they’ve been doing this for a while, with what he assumes are Pierce’s clothes littering the floor as if torn off in a struggle.
Another man pushes off the bar nearby the door, cutting into Morgen’s line of sight. “Who the fuck are you?” he sneers, ice sloshing against the rim of the drink clutched in his hand. “We paid for three hours.”
The men gathered around Pierce look in Morgen’s direction but don’t stop what they’re doing, and a quick glance at Pierce’s face tells Morgen they’ve seen him, followed by a sharp sound from their throat; to Morgen, it sounds like a rattled cry for help.
He barely raises his fist before someone seizes his shoulder from behind, yanking him backwards into the dark hallway. The two bouncers from before cage him in, the door to V05 shutting on a whisper.
“Hell do you think you’re doing?” one snaps, crossing his arms. “We aren’t supposed to interrupt. Didn’t you get the alert?”
Morgen has to unclench his fists to reach for his communicator. OFF DUTY.
“Well, shit, that makes it worse,” the bouncer says, shaking his head. “I know you’re not used to working the floor but you can’t just barge into VIP rooms like that.”
THERE WAS TROUBLE, is all he says.
The other bouncer snorts. The same way people do when they think Morgen is the dumbest person alive, which is confirmed when the first bouncer looks at him with full pity and says, “Volkov is gonna pop out a brick when he hears about this. You better hope that clean track record of yours is worth a shit.”
Of all the things he’d been asked, this is the first time Morgen feels like it’s wrong. Not these two specific bouncers, but the entirety of the Volkovs’ operation.
His knuckles ache, hungry for a jaw or a nose to break in. Now he does feel like an animal, scenting the air for the hint of blood; the need to hurt something and watch it suffer.
He stumbles to the first floor and leaves out the back door of the Red Swallow. He pauses in the alley as the rain washes over him, but instead of heading home he steps under the awning, crosses his arms, and waits.
He has waited for much longer, in awful conditions, but this is worse because Pierce may not come. He might have gotten Pierce in more trouble than he’d ever seen in his entire career.
Hours later, he flinches when a hand touches his arm, allowing himself a brief glance to confirm that Pierce is not only there, but smiling gently at him, shouldering in next to him beneath the awning. The dark tracks on their cheeks are gone, the black around their eyes replenished. All evidence wiped away, like it never happened.
“He wasn’t happy, but I talked him into a compromise.” No need to explain who they’re talking about, but at the rise of Morgen’s brows, Pierce adds, “The guests will get a discount for the interruption.”
Morgen taps his chest, then rubs his fingers to indicate money.
Surprisingly, Pierce understands him — nodding, they take another hit and say, “It’s coming out of my pay.” Morgen jerks his head away like he’s been slapped, but Pierce doesn’t let him catch his breath. “You’ve worked for them how long?” they ask. “I’d figured out of anyone, you would know what goes on upstairs.”
Morgen pulls his communicator out before they finish speaking. DIDNT KNOW ABOUT THAT, he says.
Pierce stares impassively at the message, then takes a hit off the vape pen. “Well. Guess you do now.”
Spoken like he should have known better, and they’re right. He’s used to making quick decisions based on little information, and he should have put it together sooner. And the facts make it all too obvious in hindsight — there are cameras in every VIP room, guests sign an agreement to be recorded for security purposes, the footage is monitored every minute the club is open…
ARE YOU OK? Morgen asks.
Pierce’s eyes flip between the neon words hanging midair and Morgen’s face. “Me?” Realization dawns, and their smile fades to not quite a frown as they turn their head away. They take another hit, pushing a cloud between their lips as they say, “I’ve done worse.”
Me too, Morgen wants to say. What he types instead is, WHY?
Pierce turns their body toward him. “Do you always want to do everything they ask of you?”
Morgen hesitates. Really thinks about it. It’s just the way of the world for him. Volkov pointed, and he shot. Or stabbed. Or strangled. Now, when he’s called to clean up a mess, he shows up within an hour to wipe away all traces.
To think it’s the same for Pierce, well. He supposes he hadn’t thought of it that way.
“Hey,” Pierce says, their fingers resting against Morgen’s jaw to turn his head toward them. “You know what I think?”
Morgen blinks, struggling not to pull away with Pierce’s face so close to his.
“I think it takes a very good person to do what you did,” they say, smiling. “You don’t know me from Adam and you came to rescue me when you thought I was in trouble. As misguided as it was, it’s very sweet.”
Morgen shakes his head. He can’t even say anyone would have done the same because he knows that’s not true — not in this place, not in this line of work. Good people don’t have blood to scrape from underneath their fingernails. Good people don’t go to bed with their hand wrapped around a gun, always looking over their shoulder when they walk through the city.
Pierce takes a final hit and pockets the pen. “If you ever want to visit, you know where to find me.” Then they push up on their toes and peck Morgen on the cheek. “My hero,” they murmur.
Later that night, as Morgan crowds into the slender shower stall in his flat, the image of Pierce speared between the two men comes back to him. The details return clearer now that he has time to mull: the black eyeliner running down pink cheeks; the curve of their spine, back slick with sweat and cum; hair a ratty crown clinging to their head.
With a bent arm slotted against the wall, he thinks of that same vision coming to him in his dreams. The opposite of perfect; messy and untamed, falling from the heavens looking like a proper divine exile. Cupping Morgen’s face, crawling on grass-stained knees, begging.
Cock aching, Morgen wraps his fingers around it; imagines nudging the tip against candy pink lips until they open, until they swallow him. To be the cause of those dark tracks down their cheeks — Morgen grunts even though he’s alone. Watches the stroke of his hand up and down his flushed cock as water scalds his back.
His legs nearly buckle, cum slow-dripping down the cracked tile after he finishes. Wonders what it would look like painting Pierce’s cherub cheeks, or if they’d swallow it like an offering.
Weeks proceed, and Morgen finds himself more and more hanging around after jobs; waiting for Pierce to appear next to him like an apparition, coaxing him outside where they huddle together out of the neverending rain.
Tonight Morgen he finds himself wanting a drink. Finds himself wanting to meet fate head on for a change. And wouldn’t he know it, not two sips in, a familiar figure slides onto the stool next to his, fingernails tapping on cold varnished wood.
“Long day?”
Morgen nods, because that’s all he can do not to reach for Pierce’s hand and cover it with his own. Eventually, as Pierce hails the bartender, he does look up — but Pierce doesn’t return the glance and it’s a bittersweet feeling. With their hands steepled beneath their chin, elbows against the bar top, they say, “I’m on break,” their lips barely moving.
It’s the code they’ve established; they’ll slip out a back door, quiet and separate, and huddle under the tin awning. Pierce takes hits off one of those vape pens that lights up at the end, Morgen standing guard even though no one has ever made the mistake of approaching.
But when Morgen throws his drink back and goes to stand, Pierce’s hand on his arm stops him. “No,” they say, eyes glittering, rounded by neon. “Come upstairs.”
Morgen starts to shake his head, but he remembers what Volkov had said. That indulgence was encouraged, almost a requirement.
Pierce leans in close. “Meet me in V15.” A smaller room. More intimate. Morgen’s cheeks go hot as he watches the angel urchin slink up the stairs, not sure how long he’s supposed to wait before he follows.
Making his way toward the stairs, he ducks his head as if it’ll turn him into a ghost. The bouncers don’t stop him, but one shifts his weight and says, “Keep it cool,” as Morgen passes and ascends to the second floor.
He finds V15 at the end of the hall and swipes his card on the panel, fingers hovering over the number keys to enter the override code, but the door opens without it. Inside the lights are turned low, one wall comprised of dark glass overlooking the club floor. Morgen immediately spots Pierce lounging on a loveseat, the scrubbed white vinyl contrasting with the gold shorts and loose top they’re now wearing.
“Hi there.”
Morgen’s chest tightens. As soon as the door slips shut at his back, Pierce folds their legs, pulling their bare feet beneath them as they pat the empty cushion.
Morgen advances cautiously, like he’s getting away with something forbidden. He still isn’t convinced Pierce invited him up here for the same reason as anyone else — that they just wanted some privacy. Some peaceful quiet.
Slowly he lowers himself, sweaty drink clutched tight in his hand. Pierce lays an arm across the back of the sofa, and Morgen tenses, waiting for the inevitable touch.
“Comfortable?” Pierce asks.
Morgen nods slowly, lifts the drink to his mouth. Sips, swallows, licks his lips.
“You should take off your coat,” Pierce says. “It gets awfully warm up here.”
Morgen nods again, surprised when Piece plucks his drink from his hand to allow him to slip his arms free. Pierce then trades his drink for his coat, walking it across the room to hang on the back of a lounger. Entranced, Morgen watches the swivel of their long, lean legs; the sway of their tunic, almost sheer against their skin. He finishes his drink and sets it on the floor before they return, and with no hesitation, Pierce lowers themself, bent legs on either side of Morgen’s lap.
“Better?” they ask.
Morgen’s arms remain limp at his sides, not knowing where to touch, or if he’s even allowed.
“You can,” Pierce says, reaching for Morgen’s hands one at a time, placing them on their hips. “It’s alright.”
Morgen’s skin crawls like it’s trying to shed from his bones, but other parts of his body respond accordingly to the figment of his dreams sitting on top of him, stroking the scarred skin of his wrists.
Then Pierce wraps their slim arms around Morgen’s neck. Leaning close, they whisper in his ear: “This is what they make me do, you know. Put me in these skimpy fucking outfits. Make me pour their drinks and sit on their laps.” They shift, lips so close to Morgen’s ear he can feel the near-invisible hairs reaching out. “Then they fuck me. Sometimes, for hours.”
They shift back just enough for Morgen to see their big, black pupils.
“You said you dreamed about me,” they say. “Said I looked like an angel.”
Morgen nods shakily, and Pierce gives him that soft, little smile; brackets their hands around Morgen’s neck like they’re cradling a dying bird, and murmurs, “Are you going to let them treat your angel like that?”
And at that, Morgen may as well put a bullet between every Volkovs’ eyes because he’s done for; shipwrecked in a pearl blue sea as Pierce leans forward, rocking their hips, grinding against the leather of his pants. Morgen’s mouth drops at the sound he hears — slick, syrupy, like dipping a finger into loosened viscera.
But it’s not blood, it’s not organs, it’s just —
Pierce’s lips land on his, his mind suddenly plucked free of thoughts as synthetic sugar explodes on his tongue. Muscle memory is a quick study, his hands circling Pierce’s waist to pull them closer. To move them, to hear that fucking sound again, to make a sanctified mess on the crotch of his pants.
“I pretend it’s you, you know,” Pierce says against his cheek. “When they’re fucking me.”
This isn’t real. Has to be another dream. But Morgen shudders, acutely aware of the stirring sensation beneath the warmth of Pierce’s wet cunt.
Pierce’s pointy nose nuzzles against a scar cutting across Morgen’s forehead. “Do you want to?” they ask, still speaking quietly like they know the VIP rooms aren’t soundproofed at all; like they know there are cameras watching, that someone is always listening. Morgen doesn’t nod or shake his head, and his communicator is uselessly across the room.
He lifts a hand from Pierce’s waist and points at his coat. And Pierce knows exactly what he’s asking for, exactly where to find it, digging the communicator out of Morgen’s coat pocket before they hand it over. They don’t, however, resume their previous seat, much to Morgen’s disappointment.
I DO NOT THINK I AM ALLOWED.
“‘Allowed’?” Pierce lifts a brow. “Who decides who you get to fuck?”
Morgen rolls his eyes, sweeps a hand at the tinted windows overlooking the club.
But the look on Pierce’s face is neither nervous nor scared. “It’s just us,” they say.
Morgen huffs, points at the corner of the room, at a pinprick of blue light invisible to someone who doesn’t know where to look.
Pierce doesn’t bother following the direction of Morgen’s outstretched finger. They tilt down again, bracing their hands on his shoulders, legs on either side of his lap again. Their mouth returns to his ear, voice dropped low when they ask, “You don’t think I’m worth breaking the rules?”
Fuck. A simple nod won’t do, it’s complicated. Morgen can’t even get his fingers on the comm device to type a response, and thinks better of it anyway when Pierce notches their thumbs beneath his jaw.
“Do you want to see what they make me do for them?” The crackle of licked lips fills Morgen’s ear. “After all, you’re just another customer, aren’t you?”
Morgen does nod at that — frantic, chin bobbing, sniffling a bit as Pierce’s face comes back into view. That fond smile is back, framed in gold-leaf curls.
Pierce sits back on Morgen’s thighs, teasing at the hem of their top. Morgen hadn’t really looked before, but now he can see what’s waiting — soft mounds hidden beneath the loose shirt, nearly flat except for two hard nipples straining against papery fabric.
“Do you want to see them?”
They didn’t have those in the dream, but Morgen supposes he hadn’t known better; didn’t know the sorts of luxuries he could possibly wish for. He nods, slower this time.
Pierce shimmies out of the shirt, freckled skin and small, pointed tits spilling out, and Morgen’s mind goes spotless as bleached tile. His eyes dart back to their face, their plump bottom lip sucked inward as they bare themself.
Morgen gropes for the communicator, barely types the words in the correct order. DON’T PRETEND.
“You think I’m pretending?” Pierce almost looks hurt, and shit, Morgen thinks maybe he can’t actually tell if they’re putting on an act or not. “Don’t you remember what I said?” their voice cuts in. “I’m only thinking about your cock these days.”
He wants to say they’ve never even seen it, how could they know, but the fact that Pierce has thought about him — that they actually want to fuck him — makes Morgen’s dick twitch.
“I want you to like me too, you know,” Pierce says, cupping beneath their tits; running their fingers over stiff nipples, the kind Morgen decides he’d very much like in his mouth. “No one’s ever dreamed about me before. Definitely never called me an angel.”
You are, Morgen thinks, wetting his cracked lips with a swipe of his tongue. That feeling of waking up after his dreams — sweating, warm all over, dick hard and leaking — hits him like a bludgeon. Why did he think he could control himself?
He taps his mouth, mimics drinking from a glass, all the while trying to look apologetic. Pierce just laughs softly and pecks his forehead. “I certainly don’t mind pouring you a drink.”
They slink off Morgen’s lap, dropping their top on the floor as they approach a mini bar in the corner, golden shorts hugging the cleft down their pert ass as they half-turn and hold up a bottle. “This one, right?”
Morgen nods, not taking his eyes off Pierce as they pour it neat, watching the pendulum sway of their hips as they walk back. He reaches for the glass, frowning when Pierce holds it to their mouth instead.
“Sometimes,” they say, almost kissing the rim of the glass. “They make me take the first sip, but I’m not supposed to swallow.”
Morgen doesn’t want to hear about any of the things the other guests make Pierce do, but he doesn’t reach for the communicator to say as much. Pierce hooks their thumb in the band of their shorts, working the shimmery stretch over their hips.
“Then,” they continue, “after they’ve decided I’ve held it long enough, they make me kiss them.”
Eyes wide and limbs stiff, Morgen sits still as Pierce’s golden shorts drop to the floor. Can’t look away from the fistful of curls between their legs, their plump, pink cock peeking out, a gold hoop through the hood.
He’s heard it happens to urchins who either don’t cooperate or have a hefty debt to pay off — a piercing, somewhere typically discreet but visible during work, so ownership is explicit when clothes are off and money changes hands.
“I know what you’re thinking, but I actually like it,” Pierce says, oddly timid as they take a slow step forward. “And it didn’t really hurt, if that’s what you’re thinking.” They sink one careful knee into the couch, followed by the other, blessing Morgen with his own private viewing of angelic embodiment.
Pierce sips the drink, then reaches for Morgen’s hand to transfer it. They don’t swallow before catching his mouth with theirs, prying his lips open before a burst of violent, acidic whiskey trickles into his mouth.
Morgen moans, fingers tightening around the glass. The action cracks his resolve enough to reach behind Pierce’s head and hold them there, long after he’s swallowed. He licks the taste from their mouth as Pierce grinds against his resilient erection. When they break away, Morgen drains the glass, drops it carelessly on the sofa, then pulls Pierce in for another kiss like a chaser.
Pierce’s dumpling-soft tits fit easily into his scarred palms. Morgen nips their lower lip, a warning before he bends down, sucking a nipple into his mouth like he’s finally claiming what belongs to him. What he deserves.
“Wait, just — ” Pierce doesn’t push him away, but they tuck their fingers under the fat, forcing the nipple to poke out. “Now,” they breathe. “Keep going.”
Morgen pulls more into his mouth, sucks hard, scrapes his teeth over tender skin. Teases the opposite nipple with his fingers, pinching and pulling until it’s puffy.
“Fuck,” Pierce whispers, throwing their head back, rocking their hips again. “You — fuck, you didn’t tell me you were good at this.”
Good? Morgen almost rears his head back, either to laugh or to glare at Pierce for pretending again. But there is nothing fabricated about the way their breath catches, their uneven, high pitched whines; the way their nails dig into the back of his neck to urge him closer, like they want Morgen to sink into their skin.
He would do that, he thinks. Maybe even die for it.
Morgen switches sides, going gentler on the opposite nipple he’s been tweaking with his fingers. Drags the full length of his tongue over it, flicks it, closes his mouth around it. Pierce moans, dropping a hand between their legs like they can’t stand not touching themself for a second longer.
And Morgen wants to watch, but he can’t stop his mouth. Can’t stop sucking the taste off Pierce’s skin to get more — he needs more, so he drops a hand and runs his thumb up Pierce’s thigh, giving plenty of warning.
Pierce whines, splitting their legs wider around Morgen’s broad lap. Their fingers close around Morgen’s wrist, tugging his hand closer until the butt of his palm presses against those impossibly soft curls between their legs.
“I’ll walk you through it,” Pierce says at Morgen’s hesitation. “Relax, okay?”
Morgen wants them to feel good; ideally, to be the cause of it, so he allows Pierce to arrange his larger fingers in place, pushing back the lips of his cunt so their cock slots between his index and middle fingers.
“Just — just rub, okay? Like this.” Pierce shifts Morgen’s hand, their cock catching against the lip of skin between Morgen’s two fingers. “Yeah.” Pierce’s breath catches, mouth gaping as they drag Morgen’s fingers through plush, slick warmth. “Yeah, that’s it.”
Morgen has caused life to leave someone’s eyes, but it’s never made him feel any sort of power or control. Not like this; it’s nothing compared to having Pierce moan and writhe on his fingers, whispering Morgen-yes-please-Morgen-please.
“Put one inside,” Pierce says, gasping when Morgen slides his thick middle finger into his weeping cunt. “In and out, but slow, your — ” Pierce breathes a laugh. “Your fingers are fucking huge.”
Morgen would show more indignance — of course they are — if the tight squeeze of Pierce’s cunt around his finger wasn’t so distracting. He straightens his finger to plunge as deep as possible; curls it until he touches a soft ridge of skin that makes Pierce gasp.
They ride his finger, huffing against his temple. “How are you — already the best fuck I’ve ever had — and you haven’t even taken your cock out?”
Taking it as a suggestion, Morgen squeezes their thigh before reaching for the fly of his pants, but Pierce laughs and swats his hand away. “No — not yet. I want — I want to come like this first.” They grab at Morgen’s shoulders. “Another. Please.”
Morgen would deny an angel nothing; on the next thrust he pushes in two fingers, utterly hypnotized by the stretch of skin around his own, nothing short of intelligent design the way Pierce’s body just accommodates him.
“Fuck, that’s good,” Pierce says, digging their nails into the nape of Morgen’s neck. “Keep going. Faster.”
Morgen does, using his free hand to toy with a nipple, tweaking and pinching just to watch Pierce’s beautiful face break. Power, he thinks; the kind he’s never found with a blade in his hand.
Pierce tightens around his fingers, their sharp cry buried into his shoulder as they come. Then they wrench Morgen’s hand away, and for a terrifying second that Morgen thinks he’s ruined everything until they guide his fingers to his own mouth, their knowing smile returned.
Morgen sucks his trembling fingers into his mouth, eyes slipping closed as he relishes the taste of milk and honey on his tongue.
“You like it?”
Morgen yanks his fingers free with a slick pop, nodding so vigorously Pierce giggles, their cheeks rosy like apples.
“You really are sweeter than you look,” they say, reaching between them, brushing the bulge in Morgen’s pants. “Let me make you feel good, okay?”
Morgen nods after a beat, knowing he is helpless to whatever this angel asks of him. He lifts his hips, allowing Pierce to tug his pants down his thighs, his leaking, hard cock ending up in their palm.
“Oh,” Pierce whispers, eyes lighting up as they slowly pump Morgen’s cock. “I should have known,” they add wryly. “Big, strong man like you.”
Morgen blushes again, not entirely out of shame.
“I like it,” Pierce says, tilting forward to kiss Morgen’s cheek as they line themselves up. “You’re going to feel so good inside me.”
Without preamble, Pierce drops their lower half, groaning as they fill themself with Morgen’s cock; the fit of a holster around a custom piece. Nails digging into his shoulders, Pierce rides him with enough force to make their tiny tits quiver, nipples bouncing, and it turns Morgen feral like everyone assumes him to be.
He slips his hands under Pierce’s arms, squeezing, then flicks his thumbs over their pebbled tits. Watches their face break with pleasure again, his angel clearly enjoying themself as they ride him. Morgen wants more, wants to see them come apart again, wants to believe this is true devotion and not a simple transaction.
“Suck on them,” they rasp, bending forward to place their tits directly in front of Morgan’s face. “Do it hard. Hurt me.”
His angel asks the impossible, but Morgen acquiesces like a faithful acolyte, lashing his tongue and scraping his teeth across tender flesh.
“Fuck — ” Pierce grapples at Morgen’s hair, pulling hard, making him grunt against their nearly-bruised skin. “Keep doing that. Keep — fuck, fuck!”
The last syllable draws out like a stubborn roll of thunder. Wet warmth splashes down Morgen’s cock, dribbling onto the couch and the floor.
Despite the mess between them, Pierce doesn’t stop. The couch strains, shudders, as they continue bouncing, nails tearing at Morgen’s hair to bury his face in their chest, skirting so close to suffocation Morgen instantly accepts his fate.
Then he grabs Pierce’s hips and takes over, digging his fingers into meaty, feather-down skin. His mouth opens in a silent cry as he bounces Pierce on his cock as if they weigh nothing, giving them little choice but to hold on.
They slip their sounds into Morgen’s ear, like they don’t want to be heard by anyone else; a secret Morgen is more than willing to keep. He would tell no one of their muscles and tendons pulsating beneath their skin; of their birdlike whimpers and ragged moans; of the tight clench of their cunt around him, the sweat beading down their chest.
They are perfect, and he is worthy.
His climax is silent except on his face, head tipping against the couch back, mouth wrenched open in a forceful exhale as he slams them down by the hips and comes deep inside. Pierce’s teeth scrape his neck before they let out a slow, noisy sigh, their body deflating against him.
After, when they’ve cleaned their mess, Pierce throws their legs over Morgen’s lap, curled against his side with their head on his shoulder, their wild curls barely tickling his throat.
Morgen gropes for the communicator, finding it lodged under his thigh. WHAT ARE WE DOING?
Pierce glances down at the words, then smiles at him. “What do you mean?”
Morgen hates typing out lengthy replies, so he thinks for a moment, the best way to explain in as few words as possible. WHY DID YOU ASK ME TO COME HERE is what he settles on.
“I like your company.”
Morgen frowns, fingers flexing on the communicator’s keyboard before Pierce cups his chin and turns his face toward theirs.
“I like you, Morgen.”
Hearing them say it is nothing short of an answered prayer. Morgen slips to his knees in front of the couch, presses his cheek against the top of their thigh, waiting for them to push him away.
Pierce only hums softly, their fingers scraping across his scalp as they murmur, “Is that all it takes to bring a big man like you to his knees?”
Morgen nods like he’s possessed, nosing against their skin, inhaling. Not caring if he disgusts them, but again, no judgment is passed.
He shudders when a gentle knuckle brushes the shell of his ear, lifting his head as Pierce gazes down at him, their lips forming words Morgen would never have conceived hearing, even in his dreams.
“Do you want to come home with me?”
Even with the lines they’re skirting, dancing around the danger of getting caught — the word NO is not what he types. There is no denying his angel, after all.
