If you could pass on to the next world, forever forfeiting your memories and conscious to the sea of nothingness, would you take the chance?
( Sunday and his rhetorical questions what else is new, as if he doesn't already know the answers. Yet he speaks as if it is a prayer for each other, a promise to continue their existence as long as they're allowed to. If Gallagher won't let Sunday rot away as stone, then Sunday won't let him erode, either. Physically or spiritually. )
You're not some dumb dog, you know by now what this Hell is about. So yes, I know what I'm asking, why do you think...
( And that's where his voice gives, broken between politeness and a sudden rush of actual stars fogging his vision. He swallows his words, tensing for him and growing beautifully hard for his that lying tongue. Even his knees feel weak so he's having to clutch onto his soft hair - and this is just a tame little flick over his cockhead. Another part of him Gallagher can claim forever as his first.
Pleasure has always been a complicated, far away illusion. Masturbating is alright, but doing this with Gallagher is like getting pierced through his chest. Having Gallagher explore him, his balls and taint until those sleek fingers find their way over his shut hole scatters his morals. His gaze has never been so divine on him, gazing past those red eyes and allowing himself to lust freely for Gallagher. Sunday's hips roll carefully over the feeling of his fingers. He lifts one knee over the edge of the bed trying to give him more space and arching involuntarily. )
no subject
( Sunday and his rhetorical questions what else is new, as if he doesn't already know the answers. Yet he speaks as if it is a prayer for each other, a promise to continue their existence as long as they're allowed to. If Gallagher won't let Sunday rot away as stone, then Sunday won't let him erode, either. Physically or spiritually. )
You're not some dumb dog, you know by now what this Hell is about. So yes, I know what I'm asking, why do you think...
( And that's where his voice gives, broken between politeness and a sudden rush of actual stars fogging his vision. He swallows his words, tensing for him and growing beautifully hard for his that lying tongue. Even his knees feel weak so he's having to clutch onto his soft hair - and this is just a tame little flick over his cockhead. Another part of him Gallagher can claim forever as his first.
Pleasure has always been a complicated, far away illusion. Masturbating is alright, but doing this with Gallagher is like getting pierced through his chest. Having Gallagher explore him, his balls and taint until those sleek fingers find their way over his shut hole scatters his morals. His gaze has never been so divine on him, gazing past those red eyes and allowing himself to lust freely for Gallagher. Sunday's hips roll carefully over the feeling of his fingers. He lifts one knee over the edge of the bed trying to give him more space and arching involuntarily. )
In theory, I know enough.
( In practice? Nothing. )