Work Text:
“It doesn’t leak so much anymore, so--”
“It used to leak?”
“Not a lot. Way more after I lost the wing--”
“Wait, when did you lose a fucking wing? Did you used to have more?”
“Yeah, man, I was the Game’s own biblically accurate angel. Six thousand wings, eight thousand eyes, literally on fire and the fire was green. Y’know, I guess Jade would be closer to the actual ideal, but fuck it.”
“Aight, what, so it grew back?”
“Ouch. Okay. Shoot me in the nuts like that, sure. Yeah, it grew back. Good thing, too, cuz otherwise I’d be spewing apple juice literally everywhere. Had to wander around with a mop cleaning up after myself or Nanna would get on my ass.”
You and D are sitting in your bed. Or, D is sitting in your bed, and you’re kind of draped around him like a lamia from one of Dirk’s Japanese animes. You clock the tip of your tail resting just over his shoulder and you’re not sure how it got there except that D fingerblasted your bird pussy (bussy) so good that you can’t remember much of anything from the last ten minutes.
He lifts his yellow-coated fingers and raises his eyebrows at you. “Dave. Davesprite. Are you telling me your blood is the same color as your spooge? Is that what you’re saying to me right now?”
“Have you met a troll?” The ruff of your feathers bristles in spite of yourself, your cheeks flushing dark orange. “It’s not news.”
D’s nose wrinkles the same way it always does when someone reminds him of trolls and their existence in the new world. “Yeah, yeah. Dunno how this is a surprise. You’re the orangest little shit I’ve ever seen.” He wipes his hand on your stomach and laughs when you squirm, the dick.
Then you’re not squirming, because he touches the hole in your chest.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what the fuck!” you squawk, batting his hand away.
To his credit, he leans back with his eyes real wide under his douchebag shades - which are also your douchebag shades - and goes, “Shit, sorry, did that hurt?”
“Did it hurt, he asks, after touching the literal hole in my chest. No, it didn’t hurt, can you fucking imagine?” You curl your own arm over the opening as though to protect it from intrusion, though you have to admit that the thing that’s supposed to go in there would probably be more threatening to your average Joe Schmoe. “I could’ve smacked you with my wings and broken your nose or some shit. You can’t just surprise cornhole a guy like that.”
“I didn’t cornhole jackshit,” D replies, relaxing at your spirited complaint. Asshole. Sure, alright, that means you’re okay, but he doesn’t have to be so obvious about it. “I just wanted to, like, touch it.”
“Morbid,” you scoff.
“Macabre,” he replies in the arch tones of Rose Lalonde. Not just your Rose, either, but the Roxy’s hot mom version of Rose, with the husky bourbon rasp. You shiver all the way down to the tip of your tail.
“You’re way too good at that voice.”
“Forty years’ll do that for you. Get some practice in and maybe one day you’ll be able to do what I can do.”
Tentatively, D puts his hand back down near your swordhole. You eye it suspiciously, shifting in place, but he doesn’t try anything. “You really wanna be playing the age card right now? We can make a whole thing about that.” You’ll call him Daddy again, you will. It’ll be embarrassing for literally everyone involved, but you’ll do it. You’ll do a lot of things for the bit.
D considers you from under dark lenses before his lip quirks up. “Nah. I can think of a few other cards I could be playing right now.”
“Cheesy, but aight. What’ve you got, bro?”
“What does it feel like?” he asks, his fingers again skirting perilously close to the danger zone in the middle of your chest. “Does it have any feeling at all?”
“Oh, the card’s just changing the subject, got it. Yeah, it has feeling, it’s fucking skin.” Or maybe it’s code, if you want to get technical. The Game has always been weird like that. It’s not ectobiological goop anymore, in the very least. “You really wanna get your hands on it that bad?”
“So what if I do? You’re telling me you’ve never in your life wanted to stick a finger in there?”
You pointedly lift one of your gnarled bird claws, rough with crow scales and each finger topped with a wicked talon. “Yeah, I love self-mutilation as a form of getting off. Gotta be one of my favorite things.”
D grimaces and gently pats your hand in something that might be an apology. You’ll never know, because he doesn’t say it out loud. “Got some good news for you, junior. I don’t have fuck-off huge meaty claws and I can put my fingers in your chest hole. Magic keys right here.” He wiggles his fingers in demonstration, with his neat flat nails that still have neon jizz trapped under them.
“Magic something alright,” you mutter. “So you wanna scissor the gory hole in my chest. Pretty fucked up of you.”
“Buuuut…” He leads you on with a sort of conspiratory lean and half a smile.
“...But I’m not the least fucked up person around, I’ll give you that.”
“Fucking score.”
You’re about to ask what’s so exciting about touching the hole where your sword is supposed to go, but instead you make an awful squawking sound because D just goes and does it, the absolute dickweed. The perfectly normal human pads of his fingertips skate along the slit with a sort of caution that’s almost ticklish.
It doesn’t feel like… a lot. The sound you make is more from surprise than anything, you’re pretty sure--you don’t know what you were expecting, but it has to have been something more. Pain, maybe, or for it to be more sensitive. You don’t know why. You’ve had a sword in there before. It was cold and unyielding and it never felt great, but it never hurt.
Mostly it was weighty, and D doesn’t press hard enough to rival it. He’s much warmer, though, and not as smooth. If you close your eyes you can almost imagine the whorls of his fingerprints--they used to be your fingerprints. They aren’t anymore.
“Still with me?” D asks before you can spiral too far down that train of thought.
“What? Pfft. Yeah.”
“Cool, because I’m going in, and I’d hate for you to miss this shit.”
Your skin offers only trace resistance as D dips his fingers in, but you, personally, freak out a little more than is probably chill of you. D swears as your wings give a mighty flap and your tail tightens around him like some fuck-off huge anaconda, withdrawing again. “I thought you said it didn’t hurt!”
“It doesn’t!” you snip back.
“Getting some seriously mixed messages on whether this is cool or not, mini-me.”
“It’s cool, we’re cool, of course it’s fucking cool. You just startled me, aight, it’s not every day someone goes sticking their fingers in my no-no zones.” Oh god you just said no-no zone out loud with your mouth.
“Babe, I’ll finger your no-no zones any time you want.” Oh god he just said it too. You’re both embarrassing. “But only if you want. Right now you’re more skittish than a baby bird and I gotta say: not doing it for me.”
“I can literally feel your dick drilling a hole in my back right now.”
“Okay, okay, it’s only kinda doing it for me. It’s cute, aight? You blush like fuckin’ orange juice.”
“First of all, fuck you. Second of all, in what universe is orange juice cute? Third of all,” and you flip him the bird.
“Your first and third points kinda mean the same thing, but to the second all I gotta say is that you make it work. That shit does fly cuz you made it so, you feel me?”
“Course I made it fly,” you say, spreading one wing all the way out, feeling the stretch between the pinions. Fuck, that’s good. “Nobody else does it like me.”
“Lmao,” D enunciates far too clearly. “So, we on or off? I’m good for a bj or a date with ole Rosie Palms, but I do kinda wanna stick my dick in this.”
People have said a lot of terrible shit to you, but none so awful as this fucking guy, and this fucking guy is basically you. Rose would have a field day with that. Shit, Rose would have a field day with all of this. You can picture her there with her notebook and her knowing smile and oh goddammit you’re drenched again.
“You’re the worst,” you complain, and squirm until you’re nestled comfortably in his lap. You can still feel his boner against your spine, but that just gets you hotter. “Yeah, fuck it, let’s go. I’m not gonna freak out this time.”
You don’t freak out this time. You don’t even lose it when he dips one finger in and tugs on the skin, even though that feels fucking weird. “Sorta like you’re yanking on the inside of my belly button,” you tell him when he asks, in both of your roundabout ways, how it feels. He can go much deeper than if he was actually jabbing something in your belly button, though, and watching his finger vanish into your chest is a trip and a half.
The dissonance persists when he wiggles it around a little and you can almost feel it in your heart. You should definitely be able to feel it in your ribcage, at least, but it’s not like this thing is a normal wound.
There’s an uncomfortable sort of stretch as D worms another finger in.
You make one of your weird chirps and he hesitates, tipping his head. “Don’t recognize that one. Good bird sound or bad bird sound?”
“How about ‘you’re trying to stretch open the world’s weirdest fucking hole’ bird sound? Is that an option I can check?”
D tugs on your skin and you peep again, feeling heat pool in your cheeks. It doesn’t feel like your funky bird pussy, and it finally starts to burn a little the more he pulls, but he’s slow and careful and his eyes are so curious behind his shades. Maybe you already got off, but he hasn’t, and the idea of his dick peeking through your shiny orange chest is hilarious and hot in ways you can’t begin to nail down.
But D sure will, haha, oh fuck.
“You can check any option you want, baby,” he tells you, “Just as long as you ain’t hurt. Might need to try to stretch you from the back too, by the way. This is some all the way through sort of shit.”
“Oh, yeah, I always wanted to star in one of those hentais,” you say, dry and sarcastic, but don’t complain when he flips you on your side so he can press another finger in through the space between your shoulder blades. He’s between your wings, now, and drowning in feathers for it, but he doesn’t seem put off. It’s even weirder when you’re not watching it happen, you guess, because you can just feel him tugging around inside of you and your overactive imagination provides a colorful overlay of internal body parts that he should be hitting but isn’t.
How fucked up are you, really?
But before you spiral (again) D ruffles the feathers of your wings and draws an ungodly chirrup out of you.
“I think we’re good. I’m gonna try to pop your chest cherry now,” he tells you, which is all kinds of not-exactly-comforting, but your mouth is dry and your heart flickers with something like excitement, or maybe anxiety that you’re about to shove the poor little shit aside to make room for something else. Biologists hate you.
He reaches for the lube on the bedside table and absolutely drenches himself in it, and then does the same for your chest.
“Gross, dude, lube in my feathers.”
“Better than no lube in your feathers, am I right or am I right?”
“Shut the fuck up,” you say, but he only laughs and pulls you more securely into position on his lap. The head of his dick budges up between your shoulders, nestled in feathers, deceptively soft skin slick against you. He thrusts shallowly and barely pushes you open, but it’s immediately larger and more prominent than his fingers. Your breath stutters and you swear, but when D stops to check on you you caw at him like he’s being personally offensive, even though it makes you feel kinda warm and fuzzy that he does it in the first place.
D gets an inch in and it’s a little like being punched in the chest, but not in an awful way. All the air wheezes out of you in a godawful sound. It still doesn’t hurt like it probably should. Instead his skin is hot and he swears like you, mutters, “Fuck, tight,” in a strangled voice on the knife’s edge of pain and bliss.
You squawk something out that might be agreement, might be a long uttering about how he’s forcing your lungs to warp around his dick, which shouldn’t be hot at all but you think you’re starting to drip, so that’s on you. D stays like that, just barely inside of you, moving in centimeters.
It’s not like a sword at all, however many euphemisms that throws out the window. It’s thicker and hotter and it doesn’t really fit, except that D’s making it work because he’s batshit insane fucked up and honestly so are you. He pulls you down further and you go with it because what other choice do you have, because you’re curious, because you really want to see if he can get all the way through without cutting off circulation to his cock.
It occurs to you that this is not safe or sane, probably.
It also occurs to you that when your back is flush to D’s pelvis you could literally not give less of a shit, because you can see the head of his dick poking out of your chest. You garble out, “This is the weirdest shit I’ve ever seen and I’m half-crow.”
“You’re tellin’ me.” D’s voice is strained, like he’s the one with schlong where his organs should be. “That’s hot, right. This is super fucking hot, right. I can’t be the only one who thinks that.”
He’s undoubtedly making eye contact with his own cock like a schmuck, but considering you’re doing the same thing, you can’t blame him. Or, you could, but you’re more interested in getting him to move, so you shift slightly and ruffle your feathers.
D takes the hint and rolls his hips, rocking you in place. You swear in stereo, though yours is pitched high and layered with a shrill caw that you have to be kind of a freak to get really into. He fucks you slow, then, at least at first, and both of you are unduly fascinated by this brand new game of peekaboo.
Your bottom half coils and uncoils as you look for some small relief from the heat again building up in your gut, but D is busy picking up the pace and holding you tight. He barely even notices the flap of your wings or the curl of your tail around him, tighter, yet tighter. “Jesus wept,” he’s muttering, “you’re so hot, kid,” and other totally asinine bullshit, until he’s stuttering and jerky.
You’ve been teasing and taunting each other for the better part of half an hour, so the jizz-splosion out of your chest isn’t exactly a surprise, but it looks funny as hell in a way that shouldn’t be sexy at all, and yet… And yet.
“Dude,” you complain, knotting up around him - more snake than sprite - when he starts to go limp. “Dude, you can’t leave a bro hanging like this.”
“I already got you off, twerp,” he groans, but he leans over you to reach for your cunt again. “Calm your tits, I got it, I got it.” There’s a thoughtful pause just long enough to make you squirm. “...Do you think that counted as a titjob?”
“Aughhhhhh.”