Why, Mister Sunday... How long have you felt this way?

( 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?