If There's An Off Switch Reupload

>Meet a cute and spunky fluff raptor at a dive after work
>Hit it off and have a genuinely good time
>You take her to your place and twenty minutes into the after-bar scotch, she's eyeing you like a starved wolf on the hunt
>You fall over one another, clumsily groping and discarding clothing
>She spreads out on the bed, panting, her tongue flopped lazily out of the side of her mouth
>You're drunk, but...
>Fuck, she's got a cloaca
>That awkward feeling you get when you're in your hometown and have to ask for directions to a gas station because you've got to take the biggest piss
>Well, looks like you're in the hot seat now, boys.
>Tipsy as you are, you're aloof to your failure at concealing your confusion
>Oh yeah, your face belongs in the devil's maw somewhere between Brutus and Cassius right now
>Her expression and excited panting give way to inquiry as she props herself up on her elbows and cocks one of her cute featherbrows at you and the feathers on her head stand at attention
"You're really fuckin' the dog there, eh?"
>Yep, you've about killed the moment
>She closes her legs and sits up, arms in front of her breasts and resting upon her thighs
>Her larger talons click against the tiled floor beneath as she adjusts her posture
"What's wrong?"
>Shit, she's probably been in this situation before
>Your hashtag's falling between "#HesTheOneThatMadeMeGay" and "#FeatheredLivesMatter"
>That last one is actually presumptive and a little racist
>Speciest? Fuck, this shit is probably not even on her mental radar
>overthinking things
>Your impaired CPU reboots
"I'm sorry, I've just never..."
>Her crop finds a little more length and she cocks her head a little
>Goddamn, she's gorgeous
>improv' night
>You briskly kneel and lean forward, running your hands over her thighs, parting them slowly
>The soft down of her legs presses your flesh and hers, moving at your touch
>Hooking your thumbs into her underwear, you give her firm but supple ass a light squeeze
>You draw yourself nearer her and kiss your way from between her breasts, down to her belly, and stop above the hem of her black lingerie
"I'm just not the kind of guy to skip dessert."
>That was the whole can of Easy Cheese
>But the rumbling above you tells you she likes where this is going
>Being in such intimate contact with her, you feel her pulse quickening
>She purrs,
"Mmmm... point filed."
>Peeking up at her, you can see the fire rekindled in her bright, moon-like orbits
>The crimson ring of her sclera catch the dim light
>Like a pair of solar eclipses in her face
"I'm definitely gonna return that favor."
>You briefly wonder what fellatio would be like with her
>And now you remember her unique situation downstairs
>If you're going to put on whatever proverbial dunce cap they have for guys new to human/raptor coitus, you're one foot and a half over that line
>Fuck, how does benis go in a vagoo like that?
>Power through, chief; you're going to ace this biology exam with a little tongue-on-one time and a subject with looks that can actually kill
>Fuck, you're really starting to feel that fifth shot now

>She leans back, scootching her crotch closer to you
>Incubate the area with a little hot breath to get her yams nice and ripe
>Bringing your attentions southward, affectionate kisses cross the border from soft, feathery heaven down onto the fabric of her lingerie
>The storm you’re kicking up down here’s got the water table rising
>You can see the darker spot of her panties creep upward
>The swollen river feeding that panty lake does little to abate the inferno raging within her loins
>The sheer intensity of it kicks up the stink of her sex
>Freshly-gutted salmon and honey-dew find their way into your nostrils
>Oh yeah, you don’t need a furboi’s olfactories to enjoy it
>Accompanied by freshly watered and tilled earth, sweat and oils that have accumulated in the fabric of her underwear
>It’s never completely the same, but you know the smell of a horny pred’ girl
>Well, hard not to when you’re close enough to inhale her queefs and probably develop pneumonia from...
>You discard that thought; move on, Mr. President
>get coy
>You skim your hands from her buttocks, your left hand creeping up her back and your right stroking her the base of her long, meaty tail
“You’re burning up down here, goose. The ice cream’s all melted...”
>She’s gripping the bedsheets
>You mock a pouty face without the lip and slide your face just a quarter inch below where you think her navel would be if…
>Wait, fuck… your lip just found a recess
>You investigate further and focus your kisses there
>Putting a little more tongue into it, you find…
>She does have a bellybutton
>T-minus doubling down on WTF, Houston; don’t raptors..?
>Fuck if you’ve picked up a book on the topic before
>Your tongue-play elicits a convulsion that rolls through her abdomen
>She demurely lurches, and honeyed declarations reverberate throughout your soul and manhood
“Hmmm-hm-hmmm, eh-hehheehee, pump the brakes there, guy!”
>You halt your oral ministrations and look back up, attempting as coy-but-warm a smile you can muster
>Your eyes meet hers
>She cocks her head to the left a little, over her bunched shoulder
>Her smile runs from eye to gorgeous, grey eye, the slightest hint of sharp teeth at the edges
>Her feathers rise slightly, and you can see the faintest blush glow from her snout and beneath the tiny, orange feathers that adorned her face before meeting the scales there
>You wonder if God, should he or they, whatever, exist, communicates by taking whatever he perceives as perfect and beautiful and turning it into a soul
>Give those words a form, bless the world and vastly improve it by way of a hospital in northern Ontario, let her live out a life of her own, and share her with a universe that’ll fight and struggle to snuff her out
>Name her Emma
>Anxiety painfully worms its way through your gut and the alcohol’s burn ekes away
>Your heart hammers away in your chest
>You keep your smile firmly planted where it is and swallow your solicitudes
>Maintaining a confident air as best you can, you rake one hand through her brilliant crown of orange and red feathers, and lock the fingers of the other with hers
“God, you’re beautiful.”
>You can see it on her face
>Fuck, she can read you like one of those old ‘See Jane Run’ chapbooks
>Cocking her head rightward, she coos,
“I love a little ‘tongue v. everything’ action.”
>Gliding her snout to you, she growls in your ear,
“But keep it in my pants.”
>The “k” and the “t” pack a sharp nip that titillate every Y-chromosome in your body
>Her tongue deftly slithers over and under your ear and down your neck as she pulls back
>The front of her teeth make delicate and practiced contact with your skin as she glides back into her seated position, the serrated ridges of each tooth tugging at the hair on your neck and stubble on your face
>She holds you in place with the talons of her index and middle fingers, applying pressure lightly
>Your dick throbs painfully, straining against your unbuttoned jeans, as your gaze returns to her crotch
>Entirely soaked in her feminine secretions, her panties cling to the contours and shape of her sex, presenting your prize in lurid detail
>NOW dessert is served
“Get at ‘er, bud.“

>You’re supine
>In bed
>Feeeels like there’s a knife in your head
>The sunlight slipping through the blinds assaults your senses
>Well, not your ears; that’s just tinnitus
>Exhalations whistling out of your congested left nostril
>A clangoring EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
>You lay perfectly still because the only muscle you’re acutely aware of right now is your gag reflex
>And your esophagus, because it burns and desperately wants to induce a coughing fit
>Just don’t even think. Don’t move
>Just lie still and shut your eyes for a few hours
>It’ll allllll blow over soo--
>Your train of thought is jarred by a strident cacophony of sharp sounds
>It pounds at your cranium like a machinist’s power hammer
>IT’S COMING FROM HELL
>It’s… the devil
>Just take me away, dark lord
>Just
>Okay, it’s running water and… clinking
>Dishes?
>Oh God, you brought someone into your home and the fucking kitchen was a shitshow
>You can see it in your mind’s eye, you can’t hide from that humiliation
>The pressure in the back of your throat is too much
>Thank Christ there’s a shower and toilet in your room
>Despite the acidic, alcohol-tinged exigency readying to Old Faithful out of you, you decisively creep across the tile toward the bathroom
>Over what looks like specks of what you ate last night
>Very nearly cleaned up
>But not by you
>”Fuck. My. Life.”
>You collapse in front of the toilet after wearing the rim around your head for nearly ten minutes of eXXXtra-spicy buffalo backwashed misery
>You lay down across the cool tile of the bathroom and crush your palms against your forehead
>Sensitive as you are to every minute stimulus affronting your senses, you hear the dishwasher whirring
>Behind the sound of light, 5am traffic, sunsrise shuttles, rail terminals, and whatever the hell else is running in your building right now, you also hear a woman humming mellifluously
>Recognizing the dulcet tune as Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti,” the notes and lyrics materialize as disembodied phantasms of your imagination
>Otherwise known as the song you’ll have stuck in your head for days after this episode
>She interrupts her humming with intercessions of hushed “a-Wop bop a loo bop, a lop bam bam”s
>It’s supposed to be “a lop ba ba,” but you’re not complaining; everyone fucks up that song
>Well, she’s hardly fucking…
ugh
>You can’t fight back the smile edging your face
>”I got a gal, named Sue,”
>Her name… shit
>A hundred things come to mind. God, how drunk were you?
>God…
>The image of a white, long-sleeved shirt with the word “HONK!” across the chest in technicolor, caped comics text comes to mind
>Goose – she called herself that, that wasn’t just you being lewd
>And maybe rac—no, no, it’s her shirt
>It was cute. It’s a cute shirt
>And a bit lewd
>E-M-M-A
>THAT’s her name, Emma
>Emma cleaned up your mess after you
>…
>You only remember
>Your eyes dart open, your terrified expression like something out of an Edgar Allan Poe tale
>DESSERT. You must’ve blacked the FUCK out right as you were about to…
>On her…
Just kill me.
>She should’ve fucking killed you, like, clipped your carotid artery with one of her toenails
>Just go Mayan death cult on you and pull your heart out of your chest
>That would’ve been a metal way to go out right there
>Or she ought to’ve bitten out your throat, all “RAAWWWRR”
>You hear a deep sigh from the kitchen
“Huuuhh, fwheeew…”
>That sounds exaggerated
>Whatever, yeah, fat chance of this girl delivering swift, clean release from the embarrassment of chucking on her privies
>The dust under the bed is probably more hazardous to your health than this girl’s toenail daggers
>Click, clack, goes the tile outside your bedroom
>EFF-YOU-SEE-KAY
>NO
>Scramble gracefully back to the bed like the good, little toper you aaaaarrrree
>Fumble, trip, fuck, okay, there’s the bed
>A click at the doorframe
>Your eyes are shut hard
>Yeah, she won’t—
“Heeeey there, big shoots~”
>You press your head into the mattress deeper, harder, as if you were empowering and strengthening your paltry attempt at improvised catatonia
“You fake like a Catholic school kid hiding porn under the pillow, guy.”
>That sounded a lot close-
>You cock open an eye and sneak a half-lidded peak at your houseguest
>She’s sitting on the edge of the bed
>Chewing your lower lip and opening your eyes slowly, as though expecting some force to burn your retina, you murmur
“Eheh… M-mornin’, Goose.”
>She extends a thoughtfully clutched cup toward you
>Of water..?
>Coffee would be fine, you set up the pot for sunrise
>Hell, you can smell the warm, comforting stench of toasted dirt and some Sigélin laborer’s underpaid sweat
>Fuck living on that side of Prox’s equator
“Your brewer kicked on and put out product a half hour ‘go. Hydro thunder first, shoots, you’re pert fucked up on DJ, arent’cha?”
>If only
>Certainly not enough to drink that failure of chemistry
>Might as will be a glass of hard metals and ‘lite’ bleach
>City water, ugh, not even once
>She’s being so nurturing, though
>Amazingly kind for a girl you brought home last night
>Kind for a girl you might have despoiled in the cringiest way
>You reach for the glass and steal a quiet whiff
>Nothing like the stench of melted PVC and at least two barrels of chlorine to sober you up
>”Be big and honest,” uncle Murph always said.
“I really wouldn’t drink the town tap, Goose.”
>You gesture openhandedly at the kitchen threshold
“There’s plenty of bottled water in the fridge,” you say, furrowing your brow.
She swings a leg over the edge of the bed, “Weeelll… I didn’t want to just help myself.”
>You put on as gentlemanly a smile as possible,
“Really, please do,” and cast a quick glance at the cup in her hands, “and feel free to pour us… some of that coffee? Pleeease?” you whine.

“On one condition.”
>You’ll do whatever it takes to skip the puke-talk
>Really failed to tackle that bull head-on like the man you pretend to be
“M-hm?”
>She scoots forward and raises her hand to her other, pointing one taloned index finger at its counterpart
“I’ll need to commandeer a skillet, some kind of meat product, four eggs…”
>Oh, you like where this is going
“Better make that six, Goose,” you interrupt.
>She smirks, happy to see you’re playing along
“SIX eggs, and… you’ve got pan spray, right?”
“Well, yeah, but why not use butter?”
>You intuitively regret asking that
“I’m kinda… lactose intolerant.”
>She bunches her shoulders and holds up an open palm, as though waiting for a perfectly dodgy explanation to fall into her hand
“Every… body… like me is. Super lactose-intolerant.”
>Pointing at her breasts,
“Boobs, not tits, y’know?”
>Fuck, it’s like high school biology and sex ed’ rolled into a course on how not to embarrass yourself with non-mammals
>This conversation went awkward
>Maybe the human brain is still grappling with sharing that part of the food chain with other sapient apex predators
>With non-humans, let alone non-mammals
>Your human brain, maybe.
“… ‘Non, which cabinet?”
>You’re zoning out and could really do with slowing down your monologue
“Oh, uh, left of the sink, the one in the corner.”
>Probably a good time to let Goose make breakfast while you do your damnedest to down your lithium and keep it down
>Groaning as you rise to your feet, you stretch the muscles and bones in your body, effectuating several satisfying *pop*s from your elbows, neck, and back
“Gross!” Goose calls from the kitchen, her voice accompanied by the clatter of several pans from the cupboard
>How in the hell can she hear that from out there?
“Do you even have ears?” you retort, shuffling toward the nightstand in the corner of your room.
>Not exactly PC
“The best things in life are inconspicuous, dish-ears. ‘Ey, bacon okay?”
>You can’t help but visualize her colorful shirt with “OUCH!” in place of the birdcall decal
“Sure thing, it’s not brekky without the bacon. Thanks for doing this, by the way.”
“I don’t mind! They’re your eggs anyway,” she quips back.
>Your eggs. You squint hard for a second, your mind racing into some weird territory there
>You were certain that Latens didn’t do, uh… live births
>But you vaguely recall a bellybutton
>You cringe thinking about that; you really don’t want to remember how badly you embarrassed yourself
>You just want to flip that off-switch about now
>But hey, at least you don’t have to guard yourself against accidentally offending her; she’s got a mean bark
>Or ‘honk,’ if her race even does that sort of thing
>Fuck, you kind of wish you had ears like that, though
>You hope she doesn’t have as acute a sense of smell
>Who the fuck are you kidding, her head’s 65% snout
>You suppress your increasingly rampant thought process to focus on the task at hand
>Approaching the nightstand, you gingerly open the drawer
>Within, there are several objects strewn about messily; some buttons, paper clips, unidentifiable things that materialize on the floor when you knock things over in your drunken stupors, loose $Eagles and ¢Eaglets of various small denominations, cords, and other curios.
>The small tool you seek is distinctly gun-shaped; a handgrip and trigger housing meet a short, rectangular fitting with what appears to be an automated piston at its rear, two rails at each side of it, and an opening at its front with pliant, sterilized rubber
>Next to it, a small box beckons you, decaled with the Rod of Asclepius, typical of generic pharmaceuticals, on its cover, and drug information on its righ side
>Within it is a single cartridge, ovular and smooth, with a neck atop it crowned with a dense but pliant, silicon seal; darkened glass permits a shaded view of the grain-like contents within to gauge its volume
>Each granule is a nanite-assisted medicinal payload of lithium, equal to a single dosage
>Removing the vial, you place it into a chamber atop the device, hold it to your shoulder, where there are several small freckles, some brown with scarring, others fresher, redder
>You press a button on its side. A dim light flashes, and your skin beneath the rubber nose of the gun goes numb as the localized anesthetic takes effect instantaneously
>Pulling the trigger, you instinctively wince; there’s no pain, but knowing what’s happening is unnerving
>Always unnerving
>But it doesn’t take long for the medicine to take effect

>The foggy spaces between your thoughts contract and clarity dawns upon you like a woolen blanket. Your stomach settles, and you breathe deeply as the sweet relief of paced cognition takes effect. Aberrant rumination abates, and for a while, you return to simply living in the moment.