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Fuck. It isn’t enough.
What a joke; it’s never been enough. No matter how many times Sunday forces himself to ride out his heats by himself, it never gets any less painful. If anything, the suffering only gets worse with every one. Locking himself in his room – or even his office if it comes on urgently – and thrusting his own fingers inside himself in a pitiful imitation of a cock only goes so far, which is not very.
Quivering in his chair with one hand beneath his legs and the other on his chest, he is far from the composed head of the Oak family the citizens expect from him. But what can he do? He simply can’t work or put up the front of orderliness like this, and frankly put, he doesn’t want to; what he wants is another man to split him open on a fat cock, send screams from his mouth and tears rolling down his face. What he gets is another too-weak orgasm where he grinds his own clit against his palm and rubs his fingers insistently over his g-spot.
“Fuck,” he shudders out, head rolling back against the back of the chair – it’s not enough, it’s never enough. He just can’t handle it. He’s moments away from leaving the room and seducing the nearest – no, no. None of those men are good enough for him. They’ll defile him, take more than they should. Sunday can’t hold control in a state like this, and what horrifies him is that he doesn’t want to.
Sunday whimpers. He’s been at this for the best part of the afternoon; his heat had hit him suddenly – and they’ve always been irregular, inconvenient too, but he somehow never expects it until he’s keeled over with it, whining and begging no one in particular – and he’s already tired of it. He dreads the next few days. Being trapped like a bird in a cage with only his own scent and no other to overpower it, oh, it’s sickening. It’s already curled its way over the room, settling in the air like some kind of heady fog.
His hand starts moving again, almost of its own accord this time. The wetness between his thighs speaks as to his desperation. Like this, he can force orgasm after orgasm out of himself, quick as lightning – but no matter how many times he does, he can never find true release. Each rock of his hips against his palm pulls a frustrated little whine out of him.
Fuck, if only he weren’t too prideful to buy a sex toy, if only every resident of Penacony didn’t know him by just his face, if only he could grasp spreading rumours and dispel them all by his own hand. Then, maybe, maybe, he could at least have the sensation of being full, like his biology demands of him. The frustration might be quelled at least a little.
Mewling through bitten lips, he cums again. His fingers are shoved as deep as they can go. Even as he comes down from his high, all he knows is that he needs more, more, and –
“Gorgeous singing voice you’ve got there, birdie.”
Sunday jumps, retracting his hands like he’s been stung.
Shit, shit – and it’s fucking Gallagher of all people, a snide smile gracing his features as he shuts the door behind him, and had Sunday seriously forgotten to lock the door? Oh, Aeons strike him down, his reputation is well and thoroughly fucked, and before he had even gotten the chance to be, either.
That smile is just mocking. “Don’t worry, you’re not as sloppy as you think you are. I picked the lock.”
Through the haze of panic and heat, Sunday all but sees red. He grits his teeth as insurance for anything he might inadvertently end up saying and snarls, “Get out before I shoot you like the dog you are.” He’s thankful for the desk. He hopes it’s hiding most of his lower half, preserving at least a little of his modesty where he had since failed.
“Oh, kitty got claws, huh?” Gallagher says. “I’d better steer clear.” He’s leaning against the door now. His gaze hasn’t left Sunday once, raking down over his naked form and back up to his face again. Sunday thinks he must look less like an angel and more like a deer in headlights.
Shameful.
Sunday avoids eye contact.
The shock of Gallagher’s sudden appearance is beginning to fade away, melting into something else – even quicker than he’d accounted for – and above all, that concerns him. Being alone in a room with a man is dangerous. He’d go through the embarrassment of getting caught a million times over again if it meant he would never have to experience the thoughts of Gallagher pinning him down and fucking him over the desk that flood into his head now.
Fuck, he can’t look at him. He can’t.
“Whatever filthy thoughts your head is stuffed with right now, I promise you, sunshine – mine are worse.”
Despite himself, Sunday freezes.
“I don’t care for the game you’re playing,” he says, but his composure – if there ever were any – is slipping. Fuck me, screams his inner voice. Bite me. Fill me with cum. “Leave before it’s too late.”
Gallagher is still wearing that dastardly smile; Sunday doesn’t have to look at him to know. “I think it was too late a long, long time ago.” Did he always sound like that? Voice alluringly husky, just the right pitch to make Sunday shudder in anticipation?
He takes a step towards him – then another, then another – and once he’s within his line of sight, far too close to the desk for Sunday’s modesty to remain veiled, the Halovian all but snaps.
“If you’re going to do it, then do it.”
Gallagher is on him the moment he finishes speaking.
Maybe Sunday’s reaction time is just slowed down or something, because Gallagher gets behind the desk in a flash, hoisting him up by the waist onto the edge and kissing down his neck. Sparks fly down Sunday’s spine, and he gasps.
This is happening.
“How do you want this?” murmurs Gallagher against his neck. He sounds eager, his breath hot against Sunday’s skin, and Sunday clings to him out of some deep-rooted impulse not to let him go, to stay close to that clinging scent of smoke and beer that he would typically despise. It’s rather pathetic, actually. Gallagher chuckles and moves upwards a little. “Actually, seems to me you’d be alright with just about anything I do right now. Tell me, angel – do you think you could cum from just me talking in your ear like this?”
Fuck, thinks Sunday, because there’s a real chance he could, and Gallagher knows it. “Just get me off,” he mutters, trying not to let his voice shake.
“Aye-aye.”
And then, Gallagher drops to his knees.
Sunday looks away – he has to. He might cum just from that if he doesn’t, just from seeing Gallagher’s devilish smirk as he pushes his legs apart. His fingers dig into his thighs, and gods, does he want those inside him, curling to press into his g-spot while a thumb rubs his clit. Shit –
The desire must be showing on his face because Gallagher says, “Easy.”
Sunday opens his mouth to protest, but what comes out instead is a choked moan when Gallagher spreads the folds of his pussy and tongues at his swollen clit. “Mmh-ah, hah!” His hand flies to Gallagher’s hair, and his hips instinctively grind up against the heat of his mouth, thighs wrapping around his head. The stubble on his jaw is rough against his sensitive skin, a contrast to the warmth of his mouth. “Oh, fuck –”
Considering how close he already feels, Sunday hopes he can’t be blamed for the way he cries out and rocks his hips in a desperate rhythm. He isn’t yet being filled like he’d wanted, but the idea of cumming like this first – with another person, finally – to take the edge off before getting his brains fucked out? Yeah, regardless of how orderly he might be in nature, when it comes down to it, Sunday is only a man.
Gallagher learns very quickly that it’s better if he just stays still and applies pressure with the flat of his tongue for Sunday to fuck himself against. Sunday is grateful for it. He can take what he needs and remain mostly in control – for now, at least – and no one is going to stop him or mess it all up.
“Mm- oh, shit, I’m going to – already –” He’s babbling and cursing like anything. Frankly, though, the closer to the edge he gets, the less he cares about things like dignity and status. His wings are twitching in place. “I’m – mm-hah –”
When Gallagher looks up at him through his eyelashes in wordless encouragement, he is a goner.
Hips jerking against the wet heat of Gallagher’s tongue, Sunday cums so hard he shakes with it . The sounds he makes are nothing if not straight-up embarrassing, and he claps a hand over his mouth to stifle them, eyes widening with the peak of his orgasm and settling into half-lids as he comes down. He can’t remember the last time he came like this. Maybe he never has.
Gallagher pulls away, a pleased look on his face. “You done, darlin’?” He bites the inside of his thigh. “You kinda made a mess of my face –”
Sunday doesn’t even register what he’s saying until he breathes out, “Fuck me, now .”
“Yessir.” It’s another mockery; Sunday lets it slide for the sake of preventing any faffing and inevitable teasing that will follow if he admonishes him. And, in the very least, he’s doing what he wants.
Before he knows it, he’s bent over the desk. His arousal is not as crippling now, but it’s still urgent and dizzying, a consuming static inside him that screams to be bred and fucked full of cum until he’s crying. He looks over his shoulder. “Hurry up.”
“Calm down, little birdie. I’ll have you singing again soon enough.” Gallagher seems to be enjoying his plight. Of course he is, the sick bastard. He looms over Sunday like a demon who’s found himself a feast, a hand smoothing over Sunday’s ass and thighs. He’s hard in his trousers; it almost looks painful, alongside . . . monstrous, that would probably be the word. Sunday needs him inside.
“And stop talking.”
“You like it.”
He does, and that’s the problem.
Fingers probe at Sunday’s dripping cunt, making him keen and push his hips backwards a little. He’s far too sensitive in his heats. “Hound –”
“Call me by my real name and maybe I’ll give you my fingers.”
Sunday grimaces. “ Gallagher.”
Laughter. Oh, he’s certainly enjoying this, the dog. Defiling an angel was probably number one on his to-do list. “Good boy,” he says, and Sunday shudders unsubtly. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He thrusts two of his fingers inside. Sunday claws at the desk, back arching; they’re thicker and longer than his own, not by much but enough to make a difference. He bites down on his lip hard, thinking in his haze that he tastes a little of his own blood, but that’s put on the back-burner when Gallagher quickly finds his g-spot and massages it.
The breath is all but stolen from him as pleasure sparks and ricochets through his body. “Gallagher, I –” His wings flutter in place, hole tightening around those wretched fingers, and he’s panting, undignified in his bliss.
“ Aeons, you’re tense,” groans Gallagher, and he’s affected too, eagerly fucking his fingers in and out and rubbing Sunday’s g-spot with each pass, making obscene slick sounds. “How I’m supposed to fit my cock in this tight little cunt of yours, I don’t know.”
“I can’t – ah! – I can’t d-do anything about it.”
“Maybe if I make you cum again, you’ll loosen up.” Gallagher doesn’t give him chance to process those words before he’s shoving another finger inside and readjusting his hand so that he can thumb at his clit. Simultaneously, his other hand moves around to his torso, smoothing softly over the scars on his chest to roll a perked pink nipple between his fingers. The moan he knocks out of Sunday is loud enough to make the angel go red. Humiliating. “Yeah, that sounds good, doesn’t it? Wanna orgasm on my fingers before I shove my cock inside?”
Yes, yes, yes, thinks Sunday – he probably doesn’t need to say it; his body speaks for him well enough, with the way he shakes and clenches around Gallagher’s fingers, keens at the way he plays with his chest. He can feel his own wetness dripping down the insides of his thighs, marring Gallagher’s hands, easing the slide. He feels filthy. Perhaps that’s how one is supposed to feel during their heat.
Again, the pleasure is overwhelming. It’s different from the heat of Gallagher’s mouth, a tongue lapping at his clit for him to grind up against, but it somewhat satisfies the need to have something inside him. Really, three fingers can never compare to a cock, but Sunday rocks back on them nonetheless, little moans and gasps escaping him as he does. He must look quite the vulgar sight.
“Been wanting to do this for a while,” mutters Gallagher. “ Fuck, I always knew you’d be tight as anything. Didn’t imagine you’d have a cunt, but hey. I don’t discriminate.”
“T-there are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
Sunday is getting closer, peak building in his stomach, a coil that winds and tightens. Gallagher leans over him. He licks a stripe up over Sunday’s nape then bites, sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin; Sunday cries out and scrabbles at the desk for purchase, suddenly forced closer to the edge by the small spike of pain. He thinks he hears a quiet growl slip through Gallagher’s teeth where he’s latched onto him. Like a dog, he thinks with some vague sense of mirth among the haze, he’s possessive and violent.
The weight of Gallagher leaning over him – almost resting on top of him as he still works his fingers inside him and over his nipples – is overwhelming, nearly crushing, even, and the proximity comes with that familiar smell of human indulgences. Cigarettes, alcohol, who knows what else. The presence of a man, with all those guilty pleasures on his breath that make him alive, is horrifically pleasing to Sunday’s heat.
Not this man. Anyone but him.
Sunday doesn’t recognise he’s about to cum until he does. He clenches around those wicked fingers and moans, higher and higher, wings and body shivering as he reaches his peak. Gallagher’s teeth detach from his nape to talk him through it. “That’s it, angel. Take what you need.” Sunday whimpers, still grinding backwards, spearing himself on Gallagher’s fingers again and again until his high begins to dissipate and he finally slumps against the desk. “That’s your second.”
For a moment – just one – everything inside Sunday seems to calm down. His heat feels a little more quelled. Just the presence of Gallagher leaning over him, murmuring into his ear and fingerfucking him like a mate . . . it’s almost enough to satisfy his instincts. He feels the strong urge to craft himself a nest, curl up in it and cling to Gallagher until his heat passes. It makes him feel more than a little panicky. Any day, he’d take mindless sexual desire over something so soft, so emotionally intimate, especially concerning a man like him –
Familiar carnal emotions once again replace his panic when Sunday hears the soft clatter of a belt buckle.
“The only thing a pretty little overthinker like you needs is to get fucked until you’re sobbing.”
Looking back over his shoulder, Sunday watches as Gallagher runs his fingertips through the wetness on his pussy, pulling his erection from the confines of his trousers and jerking it until it’s sufficiently slicked. The size almost makes Sunday’s mouth water. Is that really going to fit . . ?
Gallagher teases the tip up against his folds. “Fuck, you’re dripping, darlin’.”
“Put it in,” Sunday half-demands, half-whines. He’s still so damn keyed-up.
“Alright, princess, alright.” But Gallagher is still stalling, rubbing his tip up against Sunday’s cunt and absently jerking himself off. Maybe it’s the lack of protection that has him hovering so unsurely. “I don’t think I’ve ever fucked someone so eager for my cock.”
“You’d do well to remember that it’s the heat that wants you, not – nghh, fuck –” Sunday is cut off with a moan when the head breaches him, tightening around it enough that he almost pushes it back out. Gallagher forces his hips forwards, slowly at first – but then, in a single thrust, he sheathes his cock entirely into Sunday’s wet heat, grunting out a curse –
– and Sunday cums again.
It’s the years-overdue sensation of finally, finally being filled that does him in. Gallagher’s cock is long enough to push up against his cervix, thick enough to stretch him to breaking, and he almost screams as he orgasms, quivering around it. His hand flies down to his clit to work himself through it, fingers rubbing desperately over the bundle of nerves. Fuck.
“God damn,” says Gallagher.
Sunday whimpers as he comes down. “F- fuck , I –”
“If I knew you were this desperate for some good dick I would’ve jumped on you ages ago,” the bartender says – and he’s still not moving, just standing there while Sunday tries to calm his breathing. Sunday is half-grateful, half-impatient. Gallagher leans down over him again. “What would you have done if I hadn’t smelled your scent on the air and found you here, huh? Would you still be whining and crying, bucking pathetically against your own hand? Or would you have found another man to do the job?”
“Fuck me right now or I will go and find another –” Sunday starts, embuing his voice with as much vitriol as he can, but he’s cut off when Gallagher bites down on the base of his wing. “ Fuck!”
Chuckling, Gallagher just murmurs, “Always knew you’d be sensitive here.” Then, he starts to fuck his hips in and out, setting an impatient pace right from the start, and Sunday all but loses it.
Every thrust knocks little moans out of him, a chorus of ah, ah, ah that echoes around the office. He feels like he’s going to break, like Gallagher’s fat cock is going to split him apart, the tip forced up against his cervix with each push of his hips to perpetuate the ache inside Sunday’s abdomen. The sound of his balls slapping against his cunt are synchronised with the lurid squelches of his cock fucking into it.
“So fucking wet,” groans Gallagher, right into Sunday’s ear, before biting down on his wing again. He seems to have gained a small fixation on it – marring the typically pristine feathers with his saliva – and in any other situation Sunday would hit him, but now he just keens and arches his back. “I can’t believe no one else has fucked this tight little pussy of yours. You were made for this – to take dick.” In the heat of the moment, forced down under Gallagher’s weight and speared on his cock, Sunday thinks he might just agree.
Gallagher bites – oh, he bites, over and over again, from little nips to sinking his teeth in and near-enough drawing blood – and each new hickey he creates, he laves over with his tongue, facial hair pleasantly rough against Sunday’s back, nape, and neck. Sunday clenches around him each time he feels Gallagher’s teeth break skin, eliciting pleasured groans and encouraging him to litter the Halovian’s back with one bruise after another. It’s almost primal how he fixates on leaving his own mark, on blemishing him. Defiling him. Sunday doesn’t want him to stop.
Another orgasm is building, refractory period made non-existent by his heat. Sunday grinds back again and again, taking his pleasure. Gallagher reaches down Sunday’s front, fingers finding his clit and rubbing it to the pace of his thrusts. Sunday whines and grinds against his hand. The simultaneous pleasure of being fucked and having his clit stimulated is pushing him back to the edge dangerously fast.
“Feel good, angel?” says Gallagher. “Got a taste for being railed now, huh? Can’t get enough of it?” He kisses over Sunday’s neck and back, leaving nips along the pale expanse of his skin. “How about playing with your nipples for me? My hands are a little occupied.”
Sunday, who usually would not bow to any man for anything less than professional purposes, obeys immediately, hands moving up to his hard nipples. It’s the heat, he tells himself, as he feels his cunt wetten at the added sensations on his chest. That’s what’s making me obey him. He rolls a bud between his fingers and cries out, overwhelmed. He’s so close.
“God, you’re fucking perfect,” Gallagher mutters.
And of all things, that’s what throws him over the edge.
“I’m gonna – ah!” is all he gets out; then, he’s cumming so hard he’s dizzy with it. He hears Gallagher’s drawn out groan as he squeezes and quivers around his cock, tugs at his own chest and grinds against the hand on his clit with an urgency that’s near animal. “ Fuck!” he sobs as Gallagher fucks him through it, even harder than before, the edge of the table digging into Sunday’s hips in surprisingly welcome pain.
As soon as he comes down, Gallagher pulls out, eliciting a displeased yelp from Sunday, a flare of panic rising in his gut. Is he going to leave him before he even fills him up? Sunday can’t bear the thought of that, and he opens his mouth to protest – but then, Gallagher flips him over onto his back on the desk, spreading his legs and sliding right back in with a punched-out grunt.
Sunday immediately wraps his legs around his waist, forcing him in as deep as he can go. He doesn’t want to experience the feeling of being empty ever again. He’ll simply keep Gallagher inside him forever, relishing in the fullness, in each twitch of the thick cock that stretches his walls. They can nest together until the end of time. Yes, that’ll do. Fuck.
“Whatever you’re thinking about, clue me in on it too,” Gallagher pants, “you’re squeezing me tight enough to cut off my circulation.”
“S-stay,” starts Sunday, “stay inside me –”
“Oh boy. Do I sense possessiveness?”
Heels digging into Gallagher’s lower back to keep him in, Sunday continues, “Even after you fill me up – ah, f-fuck! – even after that, when I’m dripping with your cum, stay . . . I can’t –”
Gallagher’s eyes widen a little, the rhythm of his hips faltering. Now that Sunday can see his face, he can watch the way his brows draw together, the way his eyes glaze over and his lips part ever so slightly when his orgasm is building. “ Shit, Sunday, don’t say that or I’ll cum.”
“ Please,” Sunday says, perhaps too quickly. “Breed me, please, I need it – cum inside –”
“Someone’s getting talkative.” As much as Gallagher teases, he has to know something about Halovian heats. They won’t be satisfied until they’re dripping with spend, until their body is plugged with the evidence that they’ve been well and truly fucked. If Gallagher pulls out, this will all have been for nothing. “What if you – fuck, Sunday, what if I get you pregnant?”
Unfortunately – humiliatingly – at the idea, Sunday only throws his head back and moans.
And despite his words, Gallagher isn’t slowing down. “A-alright, I’ll – fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he mutters. “I’m gonna –”
Sunday wraps his arms around Gallagher’s neck, pulls him in, and kisses him.
It tears a surprised noise from the other man’s throat, but soon they’re licking desperately into each other’s mouths, the kiss more teeth and tongue than lips. Sunday has completely lost himself. He must have. He’s kissing Gallagher, the filthy hound, with all his bad habits and inelegant remarks, and yet he’s so placated by the cock inside him that he can’t help but moan in ecstasy.
A few more thrusts, and Gallagher is shuddering against him, finally filling him with his spend. Sunday locks his legs around his waist and forces him as deep as he can manage, taking pleasure in the rocking of Gallagher’s hips as he rides out his orgasm. The feeling of cum spurting so deep inside of him forces Sunday straight to the brink again, and he reaches down to rub at his still-swollen clit, Gallagher’s spend spilling out around his cock and slicking Sunday’s fingers as he brings himself to orgasm again.
When Sunday regains his wits, he’s panting against Gallagher’s mouth, still clinging to him as firmly as he had been before.
“How are you feeling, pretty boy?” says Gallagher.
Sunday wants to get up and clean himself up, but his heat wants to stay exactly where he is – or, better yet, create a nest and lay in it. Yes, that sounds good. Falling asleep with his mate wrapped around him, just to be filled again when he wakes . . .
Gallagher starts to pull out, cum spilling out of Sunday’s hole in rivets, and Sunday makes a noise of indignation, both at the mess and at the waste. “ Hound –”
“Oh, so we’re back to that now?” says Gallagher – but he’s smiling with the afterglow, standing between Sunday’s legs with his dick out, and he doesn’t look particularly irritated. “I was going to find you some blankets to nest with, then slip back inside you once I get hard again so you can warm my cock as you fall asleep, but I guess you don’t want that anymore, since I’m just an old dog again now . . .”
Sunday sighs. “I suppose that doesn’t sound too bad.”