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Sunday knows that fleeing to the dreamscape does little to assuage his heat.
Alas, between meetings in and out of reality, he’s left with little time to keep tabs on his suppressants, and when finds out he’s gone through all of them without a second prescription for a refill, it’s already too late.
His own hand offers little to no alleviation of his symptoms. His desperation only amps up, and his hole clenches around nothing, begging for penetration. Try as he might to compose himself, once he’s left to his own devices, Sunday all but collapses against the nearest surface and is forced to chase away his building arousal with his hand again.
At least for the remainder of the day, he would remain undisturbed.
So he thinks.
Unfortunately, there’s one variable in his schedule he completely overlooked. While Sunday sits slumped in his chair, nursing a glass of cool SoulGlad, the doors to his office suddenly creak open. He sits up with a start, overwhelmed with a thick musk that penetrates his olfactory senses. It reeks of smoke, alcohol, and fire, and when he opens his mouth, he swears the air tastes bitter with a twinge of copper. His wings lower down, shoulders hunched.
“The hell?” Gallagher’s voice cuts through the air, ripping Sunday from his haze. He tries to sit up, tries to compose himself, but the blasted Hound has already caught a glimpse of his pitiful state, and Sunday knows he won’t just let it go. Psychedelic energy manifests in his eyes, aiming to penetrate Gallagher’s vision to throw him off balance. Gallagher stumbles forward, grabbing onto a chair. He grabs his head, gasping. “Easy, easy! You’re the one who set up this meeting, and now you’re attackin’ me out of the blue? I know you’re crazy, but at least try to hide it.”
Sunday’s control over Gallagher slowly wanes. He realizes his heat interferes with the extent of his powers, possibly amplifying them as he threw a full psychic blast at the intruder, who… is right on time, going by Sunday’s schedule. He’d completely forgotten about the scheduled evaluation; which in reality is nothing more than a ruse to keep tabs on The Family’s traitor. Sunday sucks in a breath of air, but that tang of flavor returns to his mouth, nearly driving him mad. He swallows around a mouthful of saliva.
It’s his scent, his flavor, Sunday realizes. It’s Gallagher who reeks of alcohol and smoke and who makes the very air around him taste of delicacies on Sunday’s tongue.
Gallagher.
Sunday clenches his fist. His cock is rock-hard, and he’s trying, oh by The Harmony he is trying to maintain his composure but every second Gallagher lingers in the room more of his perfect facade falters, crumbling before the Hound. “You ought to leave,” Sunday gets out.
“No need to tell me twice,” Gallagher grumbles, standing up straight. His head must still be spinning. “But the hell’s your problem today? If you’re gonna complain about my performance later, you’re the one who’s tellin’ me to leave. You trying to pull some kinda test?”
“No, no tests,” Sunday insists. Gallagher’s impudent tone and shift in attitude completely pass his notice. His vision swims and his mind lags far behind. “Out, Hound. Do not make me repeat…” he trails off. The air around him makes his head spin, and he realizes belatedly Gallagher has come closer, leaning over Sunday’s desk with a brow raised.
“Look, I’m more than happy to leave you here like this, but if somethin’ happens to you while I’m here, whose head are they gonna take, huh?” Gallagher sounds irate, but Sunday can barely focus on his words. His eyes are transfixed on the way Gallagher’s Adam’s apple moves when he swallows, the tightness of that vest around his chest, the stubble on his chin, and if he could plead to The Harmony Themselves for the faint sensation of that hair rubbing against Sunday’s skin as Gallagher eats him out to leave his visions, he’d be on his knees in an instant.
Sunday gasps for air, clutching at his chest. “Leave,” he commands again because, at this rate, it wouldn’t be long for Gallagher to catch on to Sunday’s predicament.
Gallagher shrugs, pushing himself up from the desk. He turns on his heel and heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the handle.
“Why are you lingering?” Sunday spits, his usual eloquence and infinite calm completely lost on him. He needs to take care of his little problem, now, and he can’t do anything until Gallagher gets out. “You’re dismissed! Get out.”
“You sure that’s what you want?”
Sunday’s eyes widen. “What?”
“Oh, don’t play stupid. I could smell you from a fucking mile away. It’s impressive no one’s caught on yet.”
Gallagher tuts, turning around with his hands firmly in his pockets. “Didn’t know it was you at first, though. But that little tantrum of yours tells me all I need to know.”
“You insolent, disobedient…!”
“Hush, angel. Think about it. You really about to let yourself suffer through the humiliation of bein’ in heat while trying to arrange everything for your little festival? Trust me, it’s very funny to observe, but there’s far more fun to be had…”
“What… what are you…?” Sunday knows. Oh, he’s fully aware, but if he meets Gallagher’s piercing gaze and admits the truth to himself, his resolve would crumble faster than the transportation between Pinballs.
Gallagher rounds his desk and pushes his chair back. He pointedly eyes the bulge in Sunday’s pants and ignores the Halovian’s scandalized glare. “Bingo.”
Sunday tries to channel his powers, but the instability of his current state nearly causes the effects to backfire on himself instead. He grasps at his head, digging his nails into his skin. He cannot let himself be claimed by this man, this… this traitor. No matter what his mind insists. He would be no better than a heretic.
“If me offering myself on a silver platter isn’t enough to sway you, tell me, Sunday, are you really plannin’ on sitting through meetings like this, begging to be pounced? Can’t imagine what something like that would do to a man of your standing…”
“Enough,” Sunday rasps, his voice, as well as his entire body, trembling. “With you… with someone of your ilk… there is… there is a catch.”
Gallagher shrugs. “Maybe. But seein’ how you’re fairing, I’m givin’ you the best option here.”
“What, out of… out of the goodness of your rotten heart?” Sunday snaps, trying to ignore the black spots slowly obscuring his vision.
Gallagher scoffs. “Ha! You call me rotten? You’re not just crazy, you’re delusional . Of course I ain’t doing this out of the goodness of my heart, who do you take me for? But I won’t go spreading the news to anyone, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”
Sunday just glares tiredly. He needs, he needs so badly that it hurts. The rational part of him knows that if he grants Gallagher this indulgence, he will never hear the end of it, and the humiliation may just crush him, but the other part of him… The part that seizes control over his brain has already made its choice. Sunday doesn’t realize he’s stood up until he’s pressed into Gallagher’s chest and lifted off his feet.
“There you go,” Gallagher utters against his ear. Sunday swallows a moan, wetness prickling at his eyes. His entire body shivers in anticipation at being pulled so close to the source of the scent driving him mad. He can’t possibly keep denying himself. “You got a proper room or somethin’?”
“From the… in the back,” Sunday mumbles against Gallagher’s shoulder.
“I mean, I’m plannin’ to.”
Sunday sighs tiredly. “The back door, you mutt. My rooms are… are adjacent, first door to the left.”
“‘Kay.” And that’s the last he hears of it. He’s unceremoniously tossed over Gallagher’s shoulders and carried to his personal quarters. This was a terrible idea. Humiliation burns in his chest, chasing away his lust-filled haze for a fleeting moment.
And yet, he does not tell Gallagher to stop. Not when he’s thrown on his bed, not when he watches the other undress, and not when Gallagher starts to undress him, putting his hands on Sunday—the last chance he has to back out.
He can’t. Not this deep in. He’s desperate, and Gallagher was right; he’s presenting himself to Sunday on a silver platter when Sunday can barely walk let alone think.
But what… what does that make him? Sunday, Head of the Oak Family, sharing a bed with a traitor. The implications make his head spin. Especially because he knows he wants it, needs it, and has damned everything else in the process. If this heat persists for any longer, it will severely impede his progress on the Charmony Festival, he knows that. But if he lets Gallagher take him, soothe his Omega, there is no going back. Even if he takes his suppressants again, Gallagher will know, and his blasted scent will be stuck to Sunday.
Though, for someone like Gallagher… could that really be the case?
Oh, Xipe preserve him. Sunday closes his eyes and bites his bottom lip. Gallagher pulls his pants down, throwing them at the pile of clothes already on the floor. Callused hands roam his body.
“Tsk. You’re burning up, you—” Gallagher swallows a profanity, shaking his head. His scent has gotten stronger, Sunday notices. Sunday’s heat doesn’t just affect himself. He’s well aware of the implications, but he’s never cared much about finding a suitable partner to sate his Omega.
And Gallagher is hardly suitable in the first place.
“I should make you work for it. Beg for it. You drive me insane every damn day, you know that?” Gallagher flips Sunday over onto his stomach, shoving his legs apart and pushes his thighs up, forcing him on his knees with his ass in the air. Sunday’s hole produces natural slick as a result of his heat, and the smallest brush of Gallagher’s thumb against his rim rips a whine from his throat. Gallagher chuckles. “Eh, I’ll get my chance. You’re just beggin’ to be ruined, aren’t ya.”
“Stop… stop talking,” Sunday gasps.
“Want me to use my mouth for somethin’ else?” Gallagher suggests. Sunday nods. Gallagher shuffles forwards, his face mere inches away from Sunday’s ass. Hot breath wafting against Sunday’s hole, Gallagher purrs, “ask nicely.”
Sunday chokes back a sob. “You— ah!! Oh, p—” No! No, he should not stoop as low as to plead this trash for his tongue. Yet he cannot stop himself. Gallagher teases his rim again, and Sunday’s frustration manifests in a long, drawn-out whine, his knuckles turning white where he’s holding onto his pillow. “Please.”
His heart feels heavy. How could he have begged Gallagher of all people? Such… such blasphemy.
He’s not left to wallow in his guilt for too long as Gallagher kisses his hole, and thrusts his tongue inside. Sunday’s body lurches forward, and he keens. Gallagher’s hands part his asscheeks further and Sunday’s trembling legs barely keep him from collapsing while Gallagher works him open with his tongue.
He moans. Oh, what must They think of him now? Yet, all thought of Them is gradually chased from his mind as Gallagher does not let up. He laps up Sunday’s slick with lewd slurps, swallowing audibly. Gallagher has the audacity to moan against his hole, and barely a second later, Sunday feels a thick finger press in alongside that tongue. Sunday moans into his pillow, needily rocking his hips back on Gallagher’s digit and mouth.
He feels Gallagher smirk against him. A moment later, he draws away, leaving Sunday feeling so horribly empty. His legs tremble, and his resolve has withered away with every stroke of Gallagher’s tongue.
“No,” Sunday whispers, fisting the sheets. “I—I need—” His wings flick up and fan out, their movements asymmetrical yet oddly enchanting to Gallagher. A slick hand grabs and fondles one of them, nails raking across feathers and tousling them. Sunday whimpers, his eyes brimming with tears. The stimulation is going to drive him mad. He needs Gallagher inside, instead of this torture. “Hound!”
“You know, I got a name. Maybe, if you moan it nicely enough, I’ll give you my fingers.”
Internally, Sunday seethes. A war rages on inside him, torn between giving his all to Gallagher, and that part of him that knows how wrong this all is. He is willingly letting himself be defiled, his feathers ruffled, his visage ruined with tears and saliva.
Pitiful. But the Omega’s instincts inside him rejoice.
He tries. Oh, he tries, to remain lucid, to regain control over his tone, his body, but it’s already far too late for that. He’s teetering on a dangerous edge, hanging onto the cliff with a single hand, his fingers slipping.
Gallagher smacks his ass. Sunday jolts from his thoughts, a filthy moan leaving him. “Gallagher,” he gasps, screwing his eyes shut. “Gallagher, Gallagher!”
“There you go. That wasn’t so difficult now, was it?” Gallagher croons, his tone dripping with mockery. Sunday’s too far gone to catch that, whining and panting as the relentless Hound once against teases his hole with a finger, rubbing at the rim but never pushing in. “But you can do better.”
If he doesn’t get those fingers inside, Sunday feels that he might just break. He fails to grasp even a strand of his dignity, the very essence of his control slipping through his hands and preyed on by the instincts of his Omega. The intensity of his heat is all-encompassing, and with every step in Gallagher’s direction, he strays further from Them.
But it doesn’t matter in this moment. He can’t think of anything but his intense need for Gallagher’s cock, their intermingled scents permeating the air. “Gallagher,” Sunday can only muster a broken little whine, a sob threatening to escape him again.
“You want it, don’t you?”
Sunday nods. His ass is smacked again, and he yelps.
“Tell me you want it. How much you need it.”
Sunday’s reply comes without any hesitation. He should’ve balked at it. Should have resisted. Should have ordered. But instead, he gives in, helpless against his heat. Against his desire. “I need it,” Sunday whispers, voice breaking. “I need it, Gallagher!”
“Yeah,” Gallagher groans, shoving two fingers inside. “That’s more like it. You’re already so loose. Played with yourself a lot, did you?”
His question goes unanswered. Sunday is far too focused on the temporary relief of finally having something inside, his insides nearly sucking up Gallagher’s fingers in sheer desperation. Gallagher spares no effort, pistoning them in and out at a rapid pace, quickly adding a third. Sunday cries out, growing louder with each well-aimed thrust of Gallagher’s fingers.
“You gonna cum, huh?” For his lazy disposition, Gallagher is quite talkative and proactive in bed. “From just my fingers? You want that, Sunday?”
He should snap at Gallagher for talking to him in such a casual manner, but there’s nothing left of his usual composed self. Sunday is no more than a slave to his heat, frantically nodding even though he hears his heart pound in his ears, nearly drowning out all other sounds.
“Filthy little angel,” Gallagher chuckles, shoving a fourth finger inside and speeding up his pace again.
“Ah, ah, ah!” Sunday’s moans bloom into full-on cries, and he climaxes violently, his body thrashing and spasming before he goes limp and slumps against the bed. He cannot will his limbs into cooperating, and besides, Gallagher already beats him to it.
Sunday is unceremoniously flipped over on his back, giving Gallagher the chance to take a good look at the Halovian’s debauched face. Sunday isn’t given any respite as his heat demands Gallagher put his cock in immediately, and he nearly salivates upon seeing just how massive it is.
Gallagher drags a finger through the cum splattered on Sunday’s abdomen and smears it on Sunday’s lips. Sunday instinctively opens his mouth, letting Gallagher's fingers inside. They plunge into his mouth and Sunday nearly chokes. He tries to fellate them, tries to get a grip, but all his mind wanders to is Gallagher’s cock, and his quivering hole clenching around nothing makes him irate. He bites Gallagher’s fingers, breathing heavily.
Gallagher laughs. “Oh, Sunday… if you could see yourself now. I wonder what you’d think.”
But Sunday doesn’t care for his mockery and thinly-veiled threats. “Inside,” he almost begs, squirming when Gallagher holds him down.
“Alright, alright, stop squirming, I’m gonna put it in. You’re a real piece of work, angel.” True to his word, after parting with a mildly exasperated sigh, Gallagher pushes the tip against Sunday’s hole, breaching the rim.
He stills. It’s agonizing. Sunday sobs, clenching his walls around Gallagher, trying to force him in deeper. It only pushes him out, and Sunday barely catches what Gallagher asks of him next.
“Sure we don’t need lube?” As if Sunday’s hole, practically drooling slick, isn’t enough to go by. Having tasted just a fraction of what he needed only for it to be immediately taken from him again, Sunday feels only anguish. It’s pure torture. He slams his hand against the bedsheets, muttering a curse under his breath, his wings flaring up. His halo thrums with energy and Gallagher’s eyes are transfixed by that particular piece of Sunday’s anatomy for a moment.
“In!” Sunday demands, channeling as much hatred and need as he can muster. He swallows around a mouthful of saliva, wildly bucking his hips up against nothing.
Gallagher’s hands alight on Sunday’s hips and he pulls the man onto his cock in one smooth motion. Sunday’s cry is a mix of pleasure and relief. The fire in his body rages on, but it is contained, steered to where they’re joined. Gallagher grunts, and to a lucid Sunday, it would have been clear that the other man was more than a little affected by the air around them too. He grabs Sunday’s thighs and pushes them up, using them as leverage to brutally pound Sunday’s clenching hole. Sunday cries out, back arching off the bed and wings flapping uselessly. Gallagher’s eyes are trained on those unique features of his, but he doesn’t do anything.
Not yet.
He fucks into Sunday with a desperation that rivals Sunday’s own, wild and almost feral. Sunday’s jaw hangs slack, his mouth agape, a chorus of wanton noise continuously streaming from Sunday’s mouth. Gallagher’s rough yet rhythmic thrusts almost put him in a daze, his eyes rolling back.
Hoisting one of Sunday’s legs over his shoulder, Gallagher uses his free hand to grab hold of Sunday’s cock, squeezing tightly. Sunday chokes on a cry and gasps for air, squirming wildly. It only serves to cause more friction, driving Sunday utterly mad with stimulation.
Gallagher very nearly folds him in half and his grip is bound to leave bruises on Sunday’s leg, but all Sunday can muster to care about at this very moment is the stretch of Gallagher’s cock, the hand around his own, and the way they slot together almost perfectly.
His vision goes white, and with a long, broken sob, Sunday climaxes, violently thrusting up into Gallagher’s fist.
“Fuck,” Gallagher grunts, releasing Sunday’s cock after giving the slit a rough flick. His pace falters for a moment, but he doesn’t stop. “More, huh?”
“More,” Sunday gasps, far from satiated. He clenches around Gallagher’s cock, eliciting a filthy groan from the man.
“Greedy little angel. Didn’t your precious Harmony teach you about patience?” Gallagher punctuates his sentence with a particularly rough thrust, chasing all thought from Sunday’s mind.
His Harmony. What…
Oh.
Right.
They would not want Their faithful to suffer, would They? Yes, perhaps They put Gallagher on his path, and—
Sunday keens.
He’s growing properly delusional trying to justify his actions to himself with what little thought he has left not currently occupied with how good Gallagher makes him feel, but then Gallagher shifts, angling his thrusts until he rams against Sunday’s prostate, and the Halovian swears he sees stars.
He vaguely hears Gallagher chuckle, but it’s of no consequence. Sunday re-opens his eyes to find Gallagher hovering over him, and his lips are immediately captured in a kiss before he has time to process what’s going on. It’s all teeth and tongues, desperate and oh-so-sloppy because Sunday is so overwhelmed with stimulation that his attempts at reciprocation are messy and utterly pathetic. Gallagher greedily swallows down his moans, exploring Sunday’s mouth with that same tongue that had been inside him before. His own taste still lingers, and he wants to savor it, greedily sucking on Gallagher’s tongue.
When Gallagher’s hands suddenly pin his wings to the bed, Sunday’s body lurches beyond his control and he rips himself away from the kiss with a keen, the appendages fluttering against the tight grasp.
“Think I can make you come from these?” Gallagher leans down to catch the edge of one in his mouth, and bites.
Sunday’s mind goes blank, and someone screams.
Ah.
That’s him, isn’t it? He’s the one screaming.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, except Gallagher’s cock pounding him at just the right angle and those rough hands fondling his wings, and all Sunday can think of is more, more, more!
He’s long lost count of his orgasms when Gallagher finally spills inside him, and Sunday sobs his name. His halo glows, bathing the room in an otherworldly, ethereal light.
Gallagher’s fingers graze its edges and Sunday nearly passes out from stimulation. The Hound relents for a moment, letting go of Sunday’s halo.
Grunting, Gallagher pulls out of an utterly debauched Sunday. “Look at you,” he taunts, grabbing Sunday’s chin. He smacks his cock against the Halovian’s wings, staining those pretty white feathers with splatters of cum. Leaning down, Gallagher stares into Sunday’s eyes, his gaze as intense as the fiercest fire. Sunday cannot look away. “Does your Harmony still accept you?”
Sunday whimpers. It still isn’t enough. He closes his eyes, a moan ripped from his lips when Gallagher’s fingertips dig into his wings. Something in him fills to bursting. “Yes,” he replies weakly, somewhere between a whimper and a whine.
Gallagher laughs roughly. Sunday is flipped over on his stomach again, head pulled up by his halo. He cries out in a mix of pain and pleasure.
“Then let’s give them a show to remember.”
Gallagher plunges back inside Sunday. He wraps his other arm around Sunday’s body, hand slithering up to take Sunday’s neck. He holds Sunday’s head up like that, leaning over until he can nip at his halo, leaving little bitemarks along the golden structure that heal almost immediately. Sunday keens, hot tears streaming down his face. He gasps for air, but he’s given no rest, no respite. Gallagher pulls Sunday back on his cock by his halo, using such a sacred part of him as a mere handle.
It riles Sunday up more than it should. It’s utterly unacceptable, and yet, he doesn’t want it to stop. Doesn’t want Gallagher to stop.
Sunday’s vocabulary is reduced to two words, then one, until he can no longer utter even a single syllable, only capable of producing a cacophony of wanton noise so utterly filthy he would never have believed himself even capable of.
Or accepted that it came from him, for that matter.
Because of Gallagher.
The hand around his throat moves up. Sunday’s wings are Gallagher’s next target, though the hand on his halo keeps pulling, keeps gripping with bruising force, and Sunday cries helplessly as the most tender bits of his anatomy are completely and utterly defiled.
Gallagher nips and licks and sucks on Sunday’s halo and Sunday is rendered completely helpless when a psychedelic energy manifests in the air, penetrating both their minds. He knows it’s his doing, his power, but he has no conscious control over it, let alone his own body.
He doesn’t even care about the headache that comes with it, and if his increase in pace is anything to go by, it only serves as fuel to Gallagher’s drive. He fucks Sunday until neither of them have any energy left in them anymore, until Sunday isn’t sure where he begins, and where Gallagher ends, until all he can feel is Gallagher’s throbbing cock splitting him open with every thrust and filling him up with warm seed over and over again, barely aware that some of it starts to spill out of his hole, trickling down his legs.
With one final mind-breaking climax, Sunday’s Omega is appeased. Gallagher pulls out and sits back on his knees, slumping forward against Sunday’s body. Gallagher’s hands leave Sunday’s wings and halo, restoring a shred of coherency to the Halovian’s mind. They stay like that for a while, until Sunday regains control over his power and the thick air around them dissipates somewhat.
Exhaling loudly, Gallagher collapses on top of Sunday. After what feels like an eternity of trying to catch his breath, Sunday grunts. He weakly tries shoving at whatever parts of the other man he can reach. “Get… get off.”
Gallagher rolls over onto his side. He surveys the mess he’s made of Sunday, smirking. “Think your little lackeys are gonna pull you out soon?”
“No need,” Sunday replies, rubbing at his throat. Talking puts considerable strain on his voice, even in this dreamscape. He tries to glare at Gallagher, but cannot even muster that. “Get out. You’ve… you long overstayed your welcome.”
“What, you gotta pray to your Harmony? Can’t say I follow.”
Sunday snarls despite his sorry state. “Keep Their name out of your filthy mouth.” He coughs, gasping for breath.
“Sure, I’m the filthy one.” Gallagher rolls his eyes, unamused by Sunday’s change in attitude. Sunday isn’t particularly pleased with him either, even if he did sate Sunday’s needs.
For now, he reminds himself.
“Can't really leave though, can I? You know damn well you imprinted on me, you bastard. You’re gonna flare up again, and I’m going to have to deal with it.”
Sunday sets his jaw. “Take the floor.” That’s the only compromise he is willing to make. Oh, he could sink through the floor himself and vanish in his shame, but he must remain composed and remind Gallagher who is truly in control here.
…Until he’ll wake up with needs to attend to, and he’ll likely be whining for the Hound’s cock. Sunday grits his teeth, putting a hand on his head.
“Very kind of you, but I think I prefer this.” Gallagher doesn’t move an inch. Sunday can’t get him to, either. All his strength has been sapped from him and he can only lay there limply, trying to move Gallagher with the sheer intensity of his glare alone.
Gallagher smirks coldly. “Sweet dreams, angel. Don’t worry, I’ll be here when you wake up all needy. Think I’ll craft some ideas on how to wreck that pretty body of yours next.”
Sunday laments his fate but knows full well it is far too late for that. The pit in his stomach urges him to curl up and his wings flatten against his head, a telltale sign of his distress. He’s sticky, sweaty, completely naked, and utterly spent.
Roughly yanking the blankets for himself, Sunday wraps them around his bare body in a hopeless effort to return some of his dignity to him and forces his eyes shut.
Their merciful gaze be upon him, this cycle proves to be his worst yet, and it has only just started.