A STAR FOX FANFIC
another mappack attack!
"A dragon is a big lizard, or a reptile," your dragon whispers to you, "where do you think I would be stuffed most appropriately?"
"Toads are reptiles," you tell your whispering dragon. "I wonder what Slippy is up to today. Toad cloaca is a good cave for a dragon."
"Birds are also reptiles," whispers your dragon from therein of your caverns. "So goes the evolutionary theory thing. Remember Falco?"
"His references to Albus D. Einstein will haunt the vessels of my memory forever, for Einstein invented the butt sphincter. The butt sphincter is a very valuable device in our culture today."
"But never mind that," hisses your dragon from atop its pelvisy throne, if Elvis Presley had a pelvis that wasn't yours. "Where's Krystal? Doth she tame the dragon as she doth the DINOsaur?"
"Or Fox's dead dad. Y'know, who was he called again."
"How daring to suspect I should slither to such rot. I like your style, kid."
"I like your scales," you say, stroking your dragon's eczema. "General Scales isn't half as scaly, if you know what I mean."
"Ah, General Scales. We haven't done dinosaur porn on this account yet. Could be quite the endeavor!"
"Account…?"
"Shhhh," hisses your dragon. "We need to find a cave that I may lay my eggs within and you're bogging us down with silly details."
"HNNNNG," General Scales hnngs as he pushes his tight strong trunk into the behind of fox's McCloud.
"Mmmmm babbyyyy give me more" yelps fox foxily as General scales scales the length of his cave with his head horn.
Fanfickshun dawt nett, I hope you're proud.
"Tarnation," Peppy whispers into your ear, pulling your head back tight by the hair. It hurts but it's that good kind of hurt. "You're a tight little fleshy bastard, aren't you?"
"Oh, Peppy," you moan, your dragon twitching and hissing erogenously. "Talk dirty to me while you bury that carrot."
"You like that, don't you boy/girl/genderneutral pronoun? You like it when I bury my carrot deep in your garden? That's why you read and write all them dirty fanfictions, isn't it?" He pulls hard on your hair, causing you to yelp. "Isn't it?"
"Y-yes, Cummy Bunny. Sweeter than a Cadbury egg!"
"Tarnation," Peppy grunts.
Batting your deep shining [eye color here] eye(s), tears fall freely as you revel in the subordination incurred by your sensitive orificial inners.
"Can't let you do that, STAR FOX!" a voice thickened by a preppy British accent resounds from the sliding glass door, now ajar.
In steps a fellow earthian, about your age/gender/physical characteristics. Their hair is dyed Wolf O'Donnell gray and a black eye patch is sewn over their right eyeball, into the skin by careful surgical stitches.
"I AM NOT A RECOLOR OF YOU," it says to you, eerily robotically. "I WAS CREATED WITH IMAGINATION AND EFFORT. PLEASE CONFIRM."
"O-okay," you gasp, still getting fucked like a rabbit by a rabbit. The brown-orange foxear headband dislodging itself from your scalp, falling to the floor. "Now come here, wolfy, put your canonically larger penis in my other orifice!"
""Don't get too cocky, Star Fox!" the robotic voice from the middle of the throat of the recolored creature emanates robotically from the middle of the throat of the you get the point. The point is, you're now being penetrated in all the orifices that you can dream of, by the entire cast of Star Fox and associates whose fancy strikes you as sexually pleasing. It is your dream come true.
No piece of literature is complete without some form of truth or confession from the part of the writer (or writers therein).
I want to have sex with my therapist.
I want to have sex with my therapist wearing a lizardy Leon Powlaski lizardsuit while I, down on all fours am similarly dressed in my rubbery Amanda frogsuit made of real silicone frogfeel membrane.
I want my therapist to look at me in the eye, transfer clashing with countertransfer as our tongues explode forth from the entryway of our fur/scale/slimesuits in a summit of socially and therapeutically prohibited bliss.
"Albus D. Einstein not only created the butt sphincter, but also killed a million lightskins in the second great war," you say, playing idly with your nipple. "I wonder why Falco calls me that."
"Still under the delusion that you're Fox McCloud, I see," the therapist scoffs from their scaly Leon suit. "Not like me, your therapist, who is actually Leon Powlaski."
"Gnarly," you admit, pupils pumped widely open by the sexual hormones transmitted throughout your body in reaction to the fantasy in your mind's eye.
"Now that will be four hundred credits."
"Oh, Vixyl," he moans into her dry bones. "I'm so glad I could finally meet you like this. Being the number one fan of Star Fox, it is only fitting I fuck his dead exploded mother in a skinsuit after hooking up with his fennec girlfriend in some awful spinoff game nobody played."
Vixie doesn't say anything, because she is a pile of bones and ash. Panther lovingly picks up a femur, and licks it seductively. "Oh. You like that, huh? You dirty little mynx."
Again, nothing. He's wearing a tight latex skinsuit with weights hanging off his nipple piercings rings. This sort of delight can only be found on the internet.
He sucks the femur into his mouth seductively, audibly gagging on the medial condyle when it reaches the back of the throat before running the length of it back through his lips and removing it with a tight pop.
"Nnngh," he nnnnghs, "I know where you wanna go." He winks at the femur before reaching it behind him and pushing it slowly in between his wettening buttcheeks. The bone comes to a stop at his butt sphincter, an ephemeral wink to Albus D. Einstein, as it puckers and tenses in wanton anticipation.
Popping through slowly like a live rabbit through the unhinged jaw of a snake, the bone slowly glides its way right to his prostate, and pushes his money button hard. He moans loudly, it's quite sexual. Before you can say "I SHIP THIS" he's filling his latex suit taut with pearly ropes and globs of Panther Sauce™.
At the sight, Bill Grey humps his snake with the hole formed by his fist one more rough hard time. The cum shoots outward through the pathway of his urethra only to slip back retrogradedly backwards into his bladdercaverns [A/N because ever since his own prostate surgery too big he has been suffering from retrograde ejaculation:(].
You hook your legs around your therapist's lap, amanda reelfeel skinsuit stretched taut against their leon lizardsuit. This is what you came to therapy for. To work on... issues. You're about 67% ready to cum when the alarm on the phone in your therapist's back pocket rings, because the hour's over. Pulling down the lizardhood to reveal their lizardy features, your therapist regards you not tenderly at all.
"Now that will be four hundred credits. In human dollars."
You're completely out of tissues now. You look down at the mess you've made on your torso, hands, and general work station and wonder how you're gonna clean it up.
You're tired. You wipe your hand off on your chest and decide you're not going to. You'll do that later.
You close your laptop and lean back in your computer chair and sigh happily, closing your eyes.
It's been a good day you've spent on fanfickshun dawt nett. A good day indeed. You'll be back, maybe today, maybe tomorrow. But you'll be back, my friend. You'll be back. You can never escape us, the answer to your most passionately burning desires.
For now, the dragon sleeps.