kinktober 2024

12 | exhibitionism and edging | galladay

Sunday grips his coffee tightly, wings fluttering out of distress. It's not like he's in pain or anything, but Gallagher fisting his cock under the table at this quaint little café isn't really appropriate and it's the only way Sunday can even remotely hold himself back from moaning.

A thumb rubs over his slit. He chokes on the little scone Gallagher had been oh so kind enough to buy for him. His wings flare out before going to cover his face. Not to blaspheme or anything but God, he wishes his wings didn't betray his emotions so much.

"You close again, birdie?" Gallagher murmurs into his ear. He strokes Sunday rougher, firm drags up and down his cock, slick with copious amounts of precum. His hips buck up into Gallagher's fist, barely suppressing a moan.

'Again.' They've been sitting in this booth for not even half an hour and Gallagher's already worked him close to an orgasm five times, never actually giving him any relief. Sunday doesn't know whether he hates it or loves it— on one hand, he just wants to fucking cum already, but on the other hand, having to clean his cum up after it splatters all over the bottom of the café table is really not ideal for someone of his status.

Sunday can feel himself getting closer, the heat pooling in his stomach making him feel like he's about to burst. For a second, he contemplates just not telling Gallagher. Letting Gallagher make him cum all over his fist, finally getting his release. But Sunday knows that if he doesn't say anything, Gallagher will know. Gallagher knows his body better than he knows it himself. Gallagher will stop right before he cums without Sunday needing to say anything, and then he will punish Sunday mercilessly for disobeying direct orders. So Sunday decides to tell him.

He taps against Gallagher's wrist under the table. "I'm close.." he pants out, voice barely above a hushed whisper. "I'll cum soon.."

Gallagher doesn't slow his fist. He pumps Sunday's cock faster and faster, working Sunday closer to the edge. And Sunday almost panics, wings flapping urgently, because Gallagher is really about to make him cum all over this table and he genuinely doesn't know if he will be able to hold back his voice.

"Gallagher— stop, what're you— I'm too fucking clo— Gallagherrr~" He whines into the man's ear.

Gallagher acts like he can't hear him, just stroking him and holding his hips down. Sunday tries to close his legs, tries to get Gallagher's fist off of him because it's dangerously close to becoming too much. Gallagher uses his own leg to keep them spread, his left thigh holding Sunday's right leg immobile.

And Sunday's cumming, just a little more pressure.. "Galla— Gallagher—"

And Gallagher pulls his hand away. Sunday could fucking punch something. He almost feels like crying as the high that was building up just dissipates like it never existed. Gallagher does nothing but grin, pulling his messy hand out of Sunday's pants. He lets Sunday catch his breath, using napkins to wipe up the coffee that Sunday belatedly realizes he spilled. Sunday is feeling so many emotions that he doesn't even know what to say, staying silent as Gallagher adjusts himself in his pants. Sunday fixes his pants as well, straightening his suit out as Gallagher stands up.

Gallagher pulls him out of the booth, leaning into Sunday's ear.

"Let's go home so I can fuck you properly."

Sunday decides he isn't mad anymore.