Sunday will take any opportunity to stake his claim, to weaponize his ownership. Even gentle touches have an underlying edge of dominance to them, per Sunday's design. It's to be expected. How young was Sunday when he was gifted the world? Five? Ten? He'd been preened to take power one day. Groomed, even. It'd take a lot for him to relinquish his hold on anything, Gallagher included.
Something as simple as removing a glove shouldn't be as licentious as Sunday makes it. Repression, and discipline, and patience — they've all made Sunday rather good with his hands, apparently. Gallagher traces the motion with his eyes. Penetrating the space beneath his glove with his fingers, fucking salacious. It makes Gallagher scoff. )
You been practicing that one?
( It's sexy.
That's unfair. )
Alright. Do me next. ( Jealous of a glove? What a mutt. ) But be careful. I bite.
( Just as he'd offered the crown of his head forward for Sunday's amusement, Gallagher tips forward his chin and parts his lips slightly, encouraging more exploration. )
( The answer is cold in his eyes, greeting Gallagher's jealousy with a share of revenge. Now he's going to have to wait. Sunday directs the attention down at his hands again as if silently ordering Gallagher to sit and observe. Don't miss the way the fabric slides off each knuckle and each masculine finger, that glove sure is lucky. He folds it neatly and tucks it inside Gallagher's breast pocket. Onto the next one, then. )
You know what happens to dogs who bite others, don't you? They get a muzzle.
( Now naked fingers slide into his glove and repeat the same, gentle motion, inching up the middle of his palm until it is stretched taut. They are tailor-made, you see, so anything extra is bound to stress the fabric. He wonders if Gallagher's ass is tighter than this.
He's the religious one here and yet Gallagher seems to be so affected by a pair of gloveless hands. Puritan. Sunday traces the tips of his fingers across his bottom lip, half-lidded. )
So perhaps you should be the one to be careful, hm.
( Times stretches slow, like taffy, or Dream Syrup, as Sunday gives his gloves more attention than he gives Gallagher. He's been bad; this is his punishment. It's what he gets for deigning to say no to Sunday. Who is he to form an ill word against the embodiment of the Family, Order incarnated? What a powerful tool denial is. He moves in, watching with his body as much as with his eyes. It's humiliating, but Gallagher holds his tongue throughout the display.
Until Sunday addresses him, that is. )
You wouldn't. You like my bark.
( Sunday doesn't want him tame, especially not at a time like this. There's a time for following orders, and there's a time for obstinacy. Gallagher wouldn't be so indulgent when it mattered, when the Family has a job for him to do, when there's a reason for him to exist. So long as Sunday relies on him, he'll be worthy of it.
But in the secret spaces beyond the gaze of even the Watchmaker, he can take and give freely. )
Muzzle me, and what does that leave you with?
( He speaks softly, not willing the butterfly touch of Sunday's forefinger to fly away. He tastes it with his tongue. When his eyes meet Sunday's, they're warm and full of want. )
( Sunday can’t deny liking his bark— as long as he’s given permission to do so. Gallagher is his minion to summon whenever there’s trouble, his faithful, charming old dog bound to a promise to Penacony.
Nothing gets between them here in the Dreamflux, so even Sunday gets to relish on a taste of freedom. His answer comes in the way his hands ease back through brown locks— soft as always, like a real dream. )
You would look rather handsome with a muzzle, though. You can bark all you want wearing it.
It would leave me with a smile, and the sight of you being gutted by punishment.
( Nails dig long streaks down his scalp and down his scruff. Words don’t match the fierceness of his actions, he’s feeding him what he wants at the end of the day.
He draws back his fingers over his ears and across his cheekbones, caressing the aged lines underneath his eyes. It’s like gracing him with his will, touched by a god. )
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tayzzyronth2024-05-29 06:51 pm
@befehl
Sunday will take any opportunity to stake his claim, to weaponize his ownership. Even gentle touches have an underlying edge of dominance to them, per Sunday's design. It's to be expected. How young was Sunday when he was gifted the world? Five? Ten? He'd been preened to take power one day. Groomed, even. It'd take a lot for him to relinquish his hold on anything, Gallagher included.
Something as simple as removing a glove shouldn't be as licentious as Sunday makes it. Repression, and discipline, and patience — they've all made Sunday rather good with his hands, apparently. Gallagher traces the motion with his eyes. Penetrating the space beneath his glove with his fingers, fucking salacious. It makes Gallagher scoff. )
You been practicing that one?
( It's sexy.
That's unfair. )
Alright. Do me next. ( Jealous of a glove? What a mutt. ) But be careful. I bite.
( Just as he'd offered the crown of his head forward for Sunday's amusement, Gallagher tips forward his chin and parts his lips slightly, encouraging more exploration. )
no subject
You know what happens to dogs who bite others, don't you? They get a muzzle.
( Now naked fingers slide into his glove and repeat the same, gentle motion, inching up the middle of his palm until it is stretched taut. They are tailor-made, you see, so anything extra is bound to stress the fabric. He wonders if Gallagher's ass is tighter than this.
He's the religious one here and yet Gallagher seems to be so affected by a pair of gloveless hands. Puritan. Sunday traces the tips of his fingers across his bottom lip, half-lidded. )
So perhaps you should be the one to be careful, hm.
no subject
Until Sunday addresses him, that is. )
You wouldn't. You like my bark.
( Sunday doesn't want him tame, especially not at a time like this. There's a time for following orders, and there's a time for obstinacy. Gallagher wouldn't be so indulgent when it mattered, when the Family has a job for him to do, when there's a reason for him to exist. So long as Sunday relies on him, he'll be worthy of it.
But in the secret spaces beyond the gaze of even the Watchmaker, he can take and give freely. )
Muzzle me, and what does that leave you with?
( He speaks softly, not willing the butterfly touch of Sunday's forefinger to fly away. He tastes it with his tongue. When his eyes meet Sunday's, they're warm and full of want. )
no subject
Nothing gets between them here in the Dreamflux, so even Sunday gets to relish on a taste of freedom. His answer comes in the way his hands ease back through brown locks— soft as always, like a real dream. )
You would look rather handsome with a muzzle, though. You can bark all you want wearing it.
It would leave me with a smile, and the sight of you being gutted by punishment.
( Nails dig long streaks down his scalp and down his scruff. Words don’t match the fierceness of his actions, he’s feeding him what he wants at the end of the day.
He draws back his fingers over his ears and across his cheekbones, caressing the aged lines underneath his eyes. It’s like gracing him with his will, touched by a god. )
You spoiled dog.