( It's only because they're dwelling beneath the shadow of Hell, far from the bonds of loyalty and, presumably, far from the watchful eyes of their masters, that they're able to engage with each other beyond charged quips and icy-hot stares. Prior to the reveal of the Watchmaker's origin, Gallagher kept himself at a calculated distance β close enough to call, but too far to touch. How a man like Sunday β brilliant, observant Sunday β could topple a legacy, and how close he came to doing just that...
But Gallagher likes when he waxes poetic. He wants to kiss that rambling mouth.
Instead, with the new leverage offered by Sunday's proffered leg, Gallagher takes his chance and tosses Sunday to the bed. He's off-balance and easy to grab. His waist was crafted to be held, hips sculpted to be gripped. It's a lyrical one-two-pull to bring Sunday down, face-down against the mattress. It's not how he plans on taking him β as if he'd deprive himself the sight of Sunday's ecstasy. But lying atop Sunday, cock nestled against his ass, gives him access to a different part of him. )
Mr. Wings...
( He says it sweetly, low and melodic, just before burying his face in the place behind Sunday's ear, the origin point of his wing, and kissing greedily. He smothers himself in it, licking and biting, mouthing the soft-warm area untouched by anyone but him. Do his feathers get a special conditioner? Does Sunday brush his wings before leaving his home? Gallagher tastes divinity on each of his feathers and throbs for it.
His experience with Halovians isn't so limited that he believes their halos to be corporeal, but his desire is strong enough to allow him to lose sight of that fact. He reaches for it, something to grab and pull and deepen his teeth's reach through Sunday's feathers, but his fingers pass through. He holds fast to Sunday's hair and pulls that instead. )
no subject
( It's only because they're dwelling beneath the shadow of Hell, far from the bonds of loyalty and, presumably, far from the watchful eyes of their masters, that they're able to engage with each other beyond charged quips and icy-hot stares. Prior to the reveal of the Watchmaker's origin, Gallagher kept himself at a calculated distance β close enough to call, but too far to touch. How a man like Sunday β brilliant, observant Sunday β could topple a legacy, and how close he came to doing just that...
But Gallagher likes when he waxes poetic. He wants to kiss that rambling mouth.
Instead, with the new leverage offered by Sunday's proffered leg, Gallagher takes his chance and tosses Sunday to the bed. He's off-balance and easy to grab. His waist was crafted to be held, hips sculpted to be gripped. It's a lyrical one-two-pull to bring Sunday down, face-down against the mattress. It's not how he plans on taking him β as if he'd deprive himself the sight of Sunday's ecstasy. But lying atop Sunday, cock nestled against his ass, gives him access to a different part of him. )
Mr. Wings...
( He says it sweetly, low and melodic, just before burying his face in the place behind Sunday's ear, the origin point of his wing, and kissing greedily. He smothers himself in it, licking and biting, mouthing the soft-warm area untouched by anyone but him. Do his feathers get a special conditioner? Does Sunday brush his wings before leaving his home? Gallagher tastes divinity on each of his feathers and throbs for it.
His experience with Halovians isn't so limited that he believes their halos to be corporeal, but his desire is strong enough to allow him to lose sight of that fact. He reaches for it, something to grab and pull and deepen his teeth's reach through Sunday's feathers, but his fingers pass through. He holds fast to Sunday's hair and pulls that instead. )
Heh... Was dying worth it?