( The searing flesh on his neck doesn't get a chance to recover. The sensation of desire throbs sinfully in his veins when Gallagher's mouth steals the breath from him. The gravity of their paths would never allow this to happen. One of them finds its fate deep in hell, and the other far up with the royals of Penacony, leading a choir to absolution.
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
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. )