( He could always request photo evidence, but considering all the things Gallagher now knows about him, it is very well within Sunday's abilities to plan two, three, four moves ahead if he wanted to. He lies sometimes or rather, he simply doesn't disclose things he doesn't want known. It takes one to know one, though and he's not some angel but he is painfully innocent. )
...
( 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. )
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.