( Gallagher likes them stubborn, doesn’t he? And what is more stubborn than a man’s faith burning brightly even after death? Maybe Mikhail’s tongue also weaved dreams into the hound’s mouth, giving him purpose in exchange for loyalty. Funny how they both served masters and their dreams but failed to acknowledge their own desires. Sunday’s gaze can penetrate as sheer ice, but even ice is capable of burns.
Between raindrops there’s empty spaces that makes them fall as rain. Between stars there’s darkness that makes the shape of the night sky. A city wouldn’t be a city without alleys, holes, or cracks in cement. So for all that it’s worth, between each of Gallagher’s scars there’s space left for Sunday to leave his mark— to add to his reality as the most perfect lie.
So he latches his blunt nails into his biceps as he’s thrown over with a soft grunt. Streaks are left behind when he’s turned and he’s greeted by a concentration of his scent on that mattress. This is indeed his bed. The punch of old nicotine and sweet drinks stir the masculine tones and flesh. He’s hard against the raw bedsheets thinking about him and the cock lodged between his pristine piece of ass. He’s warm and smooth, and without guidance Sunday can’t help but grind back towards him and his weight. He barely budges against Gallagher’s entire mass pinning him, but he doesn’t hate it. It has to be Gallagher— who else could he trust in this resort of the wicked?
Besides, the contours of his muscles and imperfections leave searing impressions on him and he can't get enough. Is he nervous? Yes he is. The first time should be special, after all. )
! ! !
( He can feel the vibrations of his voice skirting around the fragility of his wing long before he feels his teeth on it. The sharpness of the nerves there are like fire shooting down his spine, choking any sense of his words as he sucks in a rough gasp. He tries turning towards him, spreading his wing further on full display for him to keep taking and taking. Sunday grits his teeth to keep himself from making any embarrassing sounds - what if others hear them? )
Yes... Every step of the way was worth it.
Even now.
That will never. Change.
( He doesn't brush his feathers - you can't brush feathers, dog. He grooms them and rinses every feather into perfection. Whatever this scent is is probably Sunday's own and remnants of whatever product he last used before his demise. The brutality between his ear and wing is a blissful escape from his polite facade, but Sunday is Sunday. And Sunday isn't shy to tell Gallagher what he wants. When his halo gets breached through by his hand, the energy convulses and he withers underneath him, leaving a moan to seep into sheets and his ass to thrust back trying to rub himself against his cock. This is purposefully done, albeit erratic and out of sync.
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Between raindrops there’s empty spaces that makes them fall as rain. Between stars there’s darkness that makes the shape of the night sky. A city wouldn’t be a city without alleys, holes, or cracks in cement. So for all that it’s worth, between each of Gallagher’s scars there’s space left for Sunday to leave his mark— to add to his reality as the most perfect lie.
So he latches his blunt nails into his biceps as he’s thrown over with a soft grunt. Streaks are left behind when he’s turned and he’s greeted by a concentration of his scent on that mattress. This is indeed his bed. The punch of old nicotine and sweet drinks stir the masculine tones and flesh. He’s hard against the raw bedsheets thinking about him and the cock lodged between his pristine piece of ass. He’s warm and smooth, and without guidance Sunday can’t help but grind back towards him and his weight. He barely budges against Gallagher’s entire mass pinning him, but he doesn’t hate it. It has to be Gallagher— who else could he trust in this resort of the wicked?
Besides, the contours of his muscles and imperfections leave searing impressions on him and he can't get enough.
Is he nervous? Yes he is. The first time should be special, after all. )
! ! !
( He can feel the vibrations of his voice skirting around the fragility of his wing long before he feels his teeth on it. The sharpness of the nerves there are like fire shooting down his spine, choking any sense of his words as he sucks in a rough gasp. He tries turning towards him, spreading his wing further on full display for him to keep taking and taking. Sunday grits his teeth to keep himself from making any embarrassing sounds - what if others hear them? )
Yes... Every step of the way was worth it.
Even now.
That will never. Change.
( He doesn't brush his feathers - you can't brush feathers, dog. He grooms them and rinses every feather into perfection. Whatever this scent is is probably Sunday's own and remnants of whatever product he last used before his demise. The brutality between his ear and wing is a blissful escape from his polite facade, but Sunday is Sunday. And Sunday isn't shy to tell Gallagher what he wants. When his halo gets breached through by his hand, the energy convulses and he withers underneath him, leaving a moan to seep into sheets and his ass to thrust back trying to rub himself against his cock. This is purposefully done, albeit erratic and out of sync.
He turns enough to shoot a glare at him. )
You're heavy. I can't move like this, you Hound.