( 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. )
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.