PWP, basically an ERP response that got way out of hand.
"Ah! Ahhn!" Those fingers know just how to draw out every and any sound from you. To them you're a well learned instrument. Every coo and moan and warble from you is deliberate on his part. From pitch to length and volume. He loved to hear you sing for him and you were all too eager to give him a concert worth listening to.
His fingers are long, calloused, thicker than your own. He knew just how to use them too, the pads go his fingertips stroking either side of your sopping wet slit, the friction of his callouses felt even through all your self made lubrication, drawing out another long, quavering song past lips plumped from biting.
You can feel his eyes roam over you despite the layer of his dark triangular shades, taking in your flushed, sweat glistening skin, your hair disheveled and clinging damp to your forehead, thighs wet with bright gold that you seem to be producing in over abundance. You cry out his name and you can almost hear his breath catch. But that can't be, because he's Dirk Strider and he's too cool to react like that. Especially to you.
His administrations never falter, he knows you like the back of your hand so before you can start sobbing in frustration he grants you the rare mercy of giving you what you want without having to beg for it. Two fingers plunge in your cloaca at once and it's delicious in the way that it stings just enough to blend and enhance the pleasure.
"Bro-oh-oh!" You don't even care how embarrassing you're being. He doesn't seem to mind either. There's a slight smirk on his lips as he works his fingers inside you to the last knuckle, stretching you quickly and efficiently while still driving you up the wall. Constant begging cries of his name is all your vocabulary is reduced to. And you swear that you hear your name in response, a low, breathless sound that almost doesn't sound like your brother at all.
A third finger, then even a fourth, and it aches so good as it goes in and you're babbling at him, oh god, yes, no, fuck, oh fuck! Yessssss! More! There, harder! Dammit, you need it harder and more, always more, especially with the way his thumb insistently rubs the second, inner slit where your cock slides free from inside you. Pure sparks of pleasure misfiring in your head, sending coiling heat to places it really had no right to go to. But you couldn't find the wherewithal to complain.
You're so close already, you just need him a little, deeper, just a bit more, you beg, you downright grovel, but he doesn't give you what you want, instead those knowing, expert fingers abandon you altogether and you almost screech your dismay. But he doesn't let you, because those thickly coated fingers are presented to you lips and you know that those golden orange eyes are smoldering like flames behind his shades watching you expectantly. This time you know you don't imagine the moan as you wrap your lips over each finger individually and suckle every last trace off of them, tasting yourself fused to his skin even after you got it all off. You hold him with both hands by the wrist so he can't get away from you and you stare up at him, your own dimly glowing eyes reflected back at you.
It was a suitable distraction, you were suitably surprised when you felt the soft thickness of foam covered proboscis sliding up and down the length of your entrance, soaking up all your lubrications, grinding in a light tease over the sensitive folds of flesh before its pushing in, stretching you wide with its thick, but giving, girth. You cling to him fora whole new reason, throwing your head back with a warbling cry as your body arches forward, toes curling into the nest, stabbing a few more smuppets in the process but neither of you seem to care,
With slow, torturous deliberation he eases the toy in, stretching you wide, then with draws a little, thumbing your slit again, and then pushes back in, deeper. He does it again and again drawing out perfectly tuned moans, growing in pitch and length, and when you feel the rounded head of the smuppet collide with your slit, he stops completely. You feel his fingers fumble over the foam, teasing our burning hot skin. Something clicks and then you scream bucking and and thrashing wild. Or at least as much as he lets you while holding your hips down.
Vibrating! It's vibrating inside you! Holy shit! It's knocking against all the right places. You're helpless, his hold is firm, you can barely twitch your hips up at all. You keen, whimper, sob, break apart under him in your helplessness. It's all you can do not to cling to his shoulders, tear ribbons of flesh onto his back. You kill a few more smuppets with your talons instead. It wasn't a big loss, there was a whole nest of them around you.
"Bro! Oh my fuck, Bro! Brooo-oooh!" Your words barely sound human anymore. Your moans certainly don't. Trills, warbles, chirps, peeps, screeches. They all slip past slack lips in litany of this man who you would gladly call master if he just never stopped what he was doing. You'd give yourself over, you already had. You were his, and he'd be all you could ever want in life again.
The long, twitching proboscis shifts, touches inside of you something you hadn't known existed and you scream, vision white, body arches in what your sure is your first step in becoming a contortionist. The world breaks apart, tries to reform, but the shaking won't stop.
He does it again and again, touching that sweet spot inside you that creates universes behind your eyelids in bright, white flashes of too much and not enough and oh god, please more!
He withdraws, and the loss is indescribable. You wail in mourning, needing him back like you needed air to breathe, and then he grants you that mercy. Over and over, grinding vibrations in deep. And his eye, like gold ringed in fire
You're begging, sobbing, pleading. You don't know when that started, but you're breathless, low whispered streams of words escaping you with each inhale and exhale. It's hard to breathe, your head swims. Your vision blurs around the edges, and it feels like floating in the middle of a hurricane. You never want it to stop, but you need to find the eye of the storm before it kills you.
Those eyes, time slows down as you stare at those eyes, molten gold and burning heat and so much intensity that you drown without having to fall into them. Those eyes study you, size you up, swallow you whole. You're going to burn up, seize up, break apart. You try to tell him. He's killing you, he's killing you with pleasure and you're going to spontaneously combust at any moment.
Please, oh god, please! You try to beg, to appeal to his better nature, ask for mercy, but all that escapes you are little choked, desperate sounds. Your whole body is shaking with trembles, your entire be round system tiny avalanches of pleasure so intense it's painful racing up your spine.
He understands. He exhales, and it's low and drenched in heat and lust and want, need, possession, power. He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and you whimper. Oh god, he shouldn't have this much power over you. But you love it, you'd gladly let him have it again and again if he just promised to always kill you like this.
"Come."
Just one word, one command, that's all it takes for you to fly apart at the seams. You fly off the precipice, body taut, muscles spasming, and it's painful, and you never want it to end.
You fall down deep into black and everything becomes soft and quiet.
You wake to soft and quiet, unsure when you had come to exactly, only noticing the difference by the way he gently touches the soft down nestled under your feathers. A draws out a soft, content peep that you will never admit to, and he smile. He fucking smiles at you and he presses a little kiss to your lips that feels so much more personal and intimate than everything else you had just done.
You decide then and there you'd do anything to keep him looking at you that way. Anything so that he'd keep you.