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DIVE-BOMBING

When Nettie was a freshman in college, he'd closed out his first semester in the hospital.

He'd gone out drinking with his dormmates, flush with the false confidence of student loans. He'd drunk too much, struck out hard with a crush of his, and then walked home in the snow, trying not to cry about it. It was, as his mum might put it, a shitshow sundae. Double scoop. All the fixin's.

And then he'd got mugged.

The mugger, some wolf, Nettie was pretty sure, had pulled him into an alley, stuck a knife against his ribs, and gone through his shit. The guy had been pressed close, growling directions in his ear:Stay still. Stop crying. Shut the fuck up. His hands had been rough and thorough and utterly pitiless. He'd reeked like cheap deodorant and menthol cigarettes.

Both of them noticed Nettie's hard-on at about the same time, and both were about as surprised. In retrospect, the memory felt a bit like the setup to a porno.Big Bad Wolf takes Bird Twink in Alley.

Kinda hot.

But instead of having gross alley-sex like they'd ought to have, the wolf had instead opted to call him a fag. And stab him. And then leave him there in the snow, as if he hadn't just flipped a switch in Nettie's brain that he could never un-flip.

In the hospital, Nettie had a lot of time to dwell on the mugging--though admittedly, he spent most of that time masturbating confusedly in hospital bathrooms, researching psychosexual disorders, and eating apple-flavoured jello. Sexual epiphanies, he discovered, didn't pair well with strict orders to avoid physical exertion.

After all was said and done, Nettie had entered the New Year with a daunting medical bill, ten stitches, and the sticky, exciting notion that there was something_deeply_fucking wrong with him.

***

All of this to say, when Nettie arrives home from the crocodile's place completely unmolested, he's a little underwhelmed.

The shower is heavenly, hot enough to melt his aches away. It takes a while to get the evening's mess out of his plumage, but it's all part of the routine. Afterward, naked and damp, he preens himself in the living room, in full view of the window overlooking the neighboring street. He doesn't bother closing the blinds--he's pretty sure he's got a peeping Tom across the way, and he likes to put on a show every now and again. Voyeurs gotta eat, too.

He's running low on ointment, the good stuff that he likes to order online. The bite marks on his clavicle and shoulder are shallow, easily treated--but the bruising is obvious, even after he's combed his feathers over the worst of it. The crocodile gave him a good mauling, though not good enough to join the rough map of scars hiding beneath his feathers. He dabs on the ointment onto his newest additions and winces.

Probably not, anyway.

The crocodile did leave him with something, at least. The plug makes itself at home, taking up space like a kitschy impulse souvenir. He hasn't taken it out just yet. The weight of it between his legs has him moving gingerly, adjusting his gait around its silicon girth. It doesn't hurt, exactly--more the burning muscle sensation of a stretch held just beyond comfort.

It's not _bad,_he decides. Just... insistent. Like a well-earned bruise. The preening helps a little; he's relaxed after the shower, and each twinge of discomfort comes less often and fades faster.

He fiddles with the thing idly as he gets ready for bed. Sticks the key into the lock and leaves it there, unturned. Walks to the kitchen and back just to hear the soft clink of the padlock bouncing against the curved metal exterior. He'd never call it comfortable--but it_is_ novel. The flare of it shifting around in his slit lends a low, constant tremor to everything he does, an undercurrent of anxiety and arousal, even in something as banal as getting a glass of water. He takes the key out of the lock and holds it between two fingers thoughtfully. It's such a tiny thing. Fragile. Easily lost, he imagines. Or broken.

He doesn't make it into bed, just ends up passed out on his couch with the preening comb stuck in his chest plumage. Morning wood, he discovers, is a real issue. He waddles his way into a cold shower, then to the coffee machine, then, finally into bed as the sun rises between the buildings outside. The discomfort is fine. He's gotten used to moving carefully after a hookup, and today isn't all that different.

He'd be lying if the morning-after soreness wasn't part of the appeal.

Flings like the crocodile--which is to say, the memorable ones--usually satisfy his urges and leave him recuperating for a few days afterward. It's all expected: the soreness, the empty calm of his apartment, the hazy come-down after a sex-soaked adrenaline high. Nice and predictable.

Even the crocodile's morning-after message seems right on schedule.

It's a photo: Nettie's underwear, held like a trophy in thick, clawed fingers. Beneath that, three words. He can almost hear the crocodile's drawl as he reads them.

forget something, birdy?

Nettie rubs his temple. Shit. He'd liked those. Nothing for it now, though.

_Keep 'em,_he sends. Short and sweet. More than he gives most guys. Then, with a sense of crossing off a to-do list, he bins the conversation, blocks the crocodile's account, then sleeps the app.

All that's left now is the dry ache of his muscles, the fading bite marks on his collarbone, and the lingering question of the plug.

The key fits into the padlock eagerly. His trapped dick twitches, like it can sense freedom. Nettie sighs, clenching his thighs around the silicon knot, shivering a little as it rolls against a bundle of nerves inside his slit. For a second, he thinks the crocodile might have a point about this whole thing--but he'd love to be able to walk into work without bowed legs, so it'll have to come out eventually.

He's still got a few days to mess around before that bridge gets crossed. In the meantime, he's looking forward to some experimentation by way of sketchy stranger. His body seems to groan at the thought--but the low thrill of excitement hasn't gone sour like it usually does the morning after, which is an interesting development. Even fucked half to hell, Nettie's already got ideas burning away in the back of his mind, the plug acting like a drip-feed of arousal and tension. Seeing just how long it takes to get to a boiling-point sounds like a fun way to kill a weekend.

He tosses the little key into his jacket pocket and goes in search of some trouble.

***

Nettie's running out of bars to prowl.

He doesn't double-dip as a rule--doesn't want to risk any of his hookups turning out to be regulars wherever he happened to pick them up. He's not looking for friends with his benefits.

The dive bar he ends up at is a good spot though; dingy, smoky, and cheap. Its got a little pride flag sticker in the doorpane, which is encouraging.

Nettie hangs his jacket, orders an Old Fashioned from the dopey retriever tending the bar. He sips it slowly, and peruses tonight's menu.

The pickings are a little slim: a tall horse with lovely, wine-coloured fur, a stocky bull doom-scrolling social media, and a two-pack of wolves laughing loudly in their booth.

The wolves are raucous and drunk enough to give him a little shiver of adrenaline. Nettie takes a sip of his drink to hide the wince that comes with the rush of blood to his groin. His mind is conjuring lovely little images: some ménage à trois, a la Eiffel Tower, Nettie spread out on the table, nibbled at like charcuterie. He's always wanted to go to France.

Mid-daydream, Nettie's sixth sense kicks in. He's being watched; the bull at the end of the bar, eyeing him darkly. He's tempted to ignore him--but then the bull shifts, and Nettie catches the glimmer of a wedding ring on the guy's finger.

Ooh.

Okay.

Nettie lets the bull ogle him, switching tack without skipping a beat. He can't tell what kind of attention it is--but that only serves to pull his interest further in the bull's direction. This guy's in a bad mood, and if Nettie can't fix that, it might be fun to make it worse.

Nettie wanders over.

The bull hunches in a bit. Over one broad shoulder, Nettie can see the feed on his phone: two people, a woman -maybe the wifey- standing with some stag on a beach. The guy, a reindeer or something, has his hand on the cow's waist.

Nettie snorts. Sits down. Sharpens a stick, and pokes.

"Who's the stud?"

The bull makes a face like Nettie's just pissed in his drink. It takes a minute to get a response, but eventually he gets it. "Fred," the bull growls, with the kind of vitriol usually reserved for war criminals.

"Ah," Nettie says, with the tingle of a plan rushing up his spine. He lets the guy stew for a moment while he picks a line. "Trouble in paradise?" he says, waving the bartender over.

The bull grunts.

Nettie orders bottom-shelf whiskey. Neat. A sad drink for sad people. "That's rough, man," he wheedles, sliding the snifter towards the bull. It's hard, keeping the shit-eating grin off his face. "I think I get it, though."

He's not even lying. He'd fuck Fred, too.

The bull glances away from his phone; first at Nettie, then at the glass of sad-sack whiskey for one. There's something dark in his expression, like the creaking of a dry kettle.

"Fuck do you_get_ exactly?" the bull mutters.

Nettie places a finger on the edge of the glass and tips it onto an edge. "Your wife's a fucking bombshell," he says, conversationally. He glances again at the phone, eyeing the stag's wandering hand. "Think they've fucked, yet?"

The phone makes a crackling noise in the bull's hand. "You'd better be real careful, boy," the bull growls. The muscles of his forearm tighten. A silvery crack appears across one corner of the screen.

Holy shit.

Nettie leans into one hand, and runs a talon up the bull's ankle. "You better tell that to Freddie, before he learns to take a hint."

The bull stands up, knocking the stool over with a bang. It probably gets them some attention--but Nettie couldn't care less. The bull is uncomfortably close, puffing hot breaths down onto Nettie's upturned face. His breath is boozy. There's a vein in his temple. Dimly, Nettie wonders if he's about to get the shit beaten out of him.

Too bad Nettie's brain is busted. Every nerve in his body is screaming at him to leave, or shut up, or do_anything_ but sharpen his goddamn stick. His groin aches from the half-hard twitching of his plugged slit. He stays very, very still, the bull teetering over him like a guillotine.

"So... did you come out tonight for a drink?" Nettie asks, softly. Without taking his eyes off the bull, he picks up the whiskey glass and rolls the edge of it under one of the bull's shirt buttons.

The bull's already strung about as tight as he'll go--but there's no mistaking the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Nettie smirks.

"Or," Nettie says, almost purring, "did you come to get even?"

A flush creeps across the bull's face. His expression doesn't change, but that's alright; his answer is plain as day. Nettie should have been a detective.

Or maybe, he thinks, as the bull snorts and takes him by the wrist, a matador.

***

The drive is longer than he'd like--but Nettie finds ways to entertain himself.

From the passenger seat, he palms the bull through his jeans, listening to the rise and fall of his breaths. At a stoplight, the guy shoves Nettie's hand away just long enough to unbutton, then takes Nettie by the wrist and reintroduces himself.

The guy's cock rises in his palm, hot and giving. By the time he's fully hard, the flared tip is level with the steering wheel, bunching the fabric of his shirt. Nettie runs his fingers up and down the bull's length, then crawls over the console to whisper dirty promises into his lap. He smells musky. Tastes sweaty. Drives like a fucking maniac. Nettie gags a few times, thrown down onto the pillar of cock as the car swerves and brakes. Out of the corner of his eye, Nettie sees the bull's fingers creaking into the grip of the steering wheel. Nettie swallows, and puts his focus in not biting down.

Nettie barely notices when they pull into a garage. He's preoccupied; eyes closed, suckling on the guy's medial ring, massaging the swell of the bull's sack. His position, bent over the center console, has his hips up in the air, plugged slit throbbing and neglected. He shivers. Swallows. Groans gently into the bull's cock.

The garage door's still closing as the bull pulls him bodily out of the car, slams him over the hood and practically rips Nettie's shorts down over his ass.

The transition is abrupt--he's still licking the taste of precum out of his mouth when the bull grabs him by the back of his shirt, kicks his legs apart, and presses the flare of his cock under Nettie's tail.

He prepared before he left the house--but the bull is drunk and pissed off and too hung for his own good. The end result is a bit of fumbling, two false starts, and the dry stinging that means Nettie_really_ should have given this another day.

Nettie shifts on his talons, making it harder than it needs to be. With a snort, the bull grabs either side of his waist with both meaty hands and holds him in place, fingers digging divots beneath his ribs, dragging tracks into the freshly-combed plumage of his stomach.

Nettie shivers at the treatment, unable to stop a full-body twitch as the bull's thumbs dig hard into the rise of muscle on either side of his spine. The whimper that follows is just as involuntary, a thick coo of interest as the bull wedges his cock between Nettie's thighs and starts to rut against him. It's probably accidental--but feeling the warm thickness of the bull's cock dragging against his plugged slit melts him. The bull snorts hotly across his shoulders, and Nettie closes his thighs around the bull's cock, shivering and bucking his hips, chasing that melted feeling backward. The bull flexes his cock, and it rises hard and warm between his legs, ruffling the soft down on the inside of his thighs until it comes to rest against the plug. Nettie can feel the bull's medial ring dragging over his slit, and the noise that draws out of him is lower this time, his voice going cracked and needy at the unexpected stimulation.

"Ooh," he croons, his own dick twitching dully in its enclosure. "Oh fuck yeah."

Unlucky for him, the bull isn't really paying him any attention. In the space of two heavy breaths, the bull's cock goes from between Nettie's legs to beneath his tail, pressing carelessly. The bull doesn't talk, or mock, or ask, and Nettie's too preoccupied with the sudden, desperate ache of his own dick to do anything but spread his legs and whimper when the bull finds his way in.

Nettie starts out with his talons touching the floor, but that doesn't last long. The bull's first shallow thrust pushes him forward, talons scrabbling at the concrete pad as the bull fucks him up onto the hood of the car. The palms of the bull's hands migrate onto the curve of Nettie's hips, two hundred pounds of beef pinning him down like a feathered hood ornament. Nettie's plugged slit ends up crushed against the slope of the hood, lock clinking madly with the motion of Nettie's hips, grinding in on his trapped dick hard enough to hurt. Either the bull doesn't notice, or just doesn't care.

Either one is fine, really.

Breathing ragged, Nettie pushes back against the bull's thrusts, and gets one knee up on top of the hood, opening himself wider. The new position has the bull's cock sawing against his prostate, turning his breaths wet and his thoughts vacant. His tailfeathers fan wide, and a shiver climbs his spine, raising feathers in its molten wake.

Panting, Nettie pushes himself up on his palms, grinding backward, trying to relieve the pressure on the plug. He drops his head, opens his beak and moans happily.

The car's shiny red paintjob is scratched from the clattering of the lock swinging between his legs. The bull notices the damage a few thrusts after Nettie does, snorts hotly, and shoves him back down across the hood with vandalous intent. The whole car leans as the bull hilts him, and stays there, buried--the bull's not so much fucking Nettie at this point as much as he's keying his wife's car with Nettie's plug, dragging him around by the hem of his crumpled shirt.

It would probably be hot, if it didn't fucking hurt. Hissing, Nettie tries to get his arms under his chest, scrabbling for purchase. There's a pinching sensation in his slit that doesn't feel like it should-

The bull grabs one of his hands out from under him, wrenches it behind his back and_slams_him back down. The hood dents, audibly. Nettie's head rings with the impact, his protestations knocked loose along with the last of his struggle. The bull leans forward, snaps his hips, once,hard, driving downward like a machine. Nettie's expecting more of the same--but the bull keeps him waiting long enough that he wiggles his chin onto one shoulder, breathing hard and looking back.

There's a manic look in the bull's eyes, like the sudden slow down makes him realize he might be making a mistake. He's eyeing the dent in the hood with guilty clarity that isn't helping either of them.

"Hey," Nettie slurs. He squeezes around the bull's cock, wriggles his hips as much as he can, ignoring the twinge of pain that shoots up his groin. The bull's gaze snaps onto him, hot as red iron. "Your wife must like it rough, huh?"

He can almost_hear_ the sound of the bull's final nerve snapping.

When the bull starts back up, it's like he's been possessed. Nettie takes what he gives, moaning loudly into the hood. It's only partly for show. There's a wet streak under his cheek from his gasping, and the arm twisted behind his back goes numb all the way to the fingertips. The bull just keeps going. Nettie's skin is raw where it rubs against the car, but even if he could get a word out between ragged gasps, he's certain the guy doesn't care. He can feel the bull's flare widening inside him, The trunks of his legs going taught as steel cables.

The bull doesn't stop, even when his cock twitches and his heavy sack pulls against the inside of Nettie's thighs. Warmth pools low in Nettie's abdomen and he coos in delight at the pulsing heat. The bull's grunting gets louder and the snapping of his hips gets wetter, and he just keeps going, fucking his mess into Nettie until it spills down Nettie's shaking legs, splattering the hood. It's a lot--he can hear it dripping out of him, hitting the concrete between his curled talons.

The bull pulls out of him with one last twitch, spending the last of himself over Nettie's ruined ass. Nettie lies there on the hood, panting, feeling warm and raw and suddenly, utterly, empty. He shifts his hips and winces. Shaking, he pulls his numb arm from behind his back and gets up on his good elbow, shivering as more of the bull's warmth dribbles out of him.

There's a fire lit in him now. He hiccups, wipes the drool from the side of his beak and shoots a wrecked, molten look over his shoulder.

The bull huffs tiredly, just a pace away, staring down between Nettie's legs. Unlike the crocodile from yesterday, there's no hunger there, no infectious sense of a mess well made. The bull is looking at him--no, actually, at the dented, scraped-up car--with a weird expression on his face.

Shit.

Nettie catches his breath, puffing gently. "That's it?" he goads, fanning his tail like an invitation. It's not his best line. It's barely a line at all. The bull glances up like he forgot Nettie was even there. In the space between them, a fan or something kicks on elsewhere in the garage, rattling and whirring in the sudden quiet.

The bull just stands there. "Yeah," the bull huffs, after a long moment. "That's it."

Stunned, Nettie watches the guy walk over to a shelf and grab a roll of shop towels. At first, Nettie thinks they're for him--but then the bull just sort of..._moves_him out of the way and starts to wipe the mess from the hood of the car.

"Wait- what?" Nettie sputters. His arm is getting tingly. "Seriously?"

The bull doesn't even look at him. Instead, he kicks Nettie's crumpled shorts in his direction, and goes back to cleaning the car.

"Get dressed," he says, in that same quiet voice.

The dismissal stings. Wincing and sore, Nettie waffles like an intern, still half-waiting for the bull to get with the fucking program. Carry him inside or something. Round fucking two, where hopefully the bull will last longer than two minutes.

Nettie's not_done_. Not even close. Despite the sudden coldness of the room, the aching in his groin smolders like a brush-fire. He's sticky and sore, and if it weren't for the plug, he'd be well on his way to a good time. He's still got the adrenaline shakes, for christ's sake. His arm is still tingling from the half-nelson. He shifts on his talons like a spurned stag, hot and wanting.

He only knows the one soft spot, so he takes his sharpest stick and pokes. "Maybe it's because Fred can go twice," Nettie says, low and goading.

There's a long moment where they both listen to the whirring fan. Then, the bull straightens up, and throws the used rag in Nettie's face. "Get the fuck out of my house."

Huh. That's not the anger he was looking for. It's not even a little bit sexy, all reserved and cold and decidedly final.

"Sure," Nettie says. Then with a spark of self-righteous anger, and a sharp click of his beak, "Fuck you, too."

The bull doesn't respond.

Nettie leaves.

The bull's cold mood follows him. It's been so long since he got kicked out on his ass, he almost forgot how it feels. For (what,years? Has it been that long?) Nettie's routine had gone undisturbed: chase, fuck, regret, repeat. It's a closed loop. The cycle starts and stops at his whim, and he's only done when_he_decides he's done. That's how this fucking works.

Nettie glares back at the house. So what if the bull had some post-nut regrets? Nettie does too. Everybody does. Maybe if the bull had just gotten over it, or better yet, gotten_angry,_ they might still be fucking, and Nettie would be feeling like shit a few hours from now instead of_now_, now. They could have at least moved the mistake-making to the bedroom. Christ.

What a pussy,_Nettie seethes, limping away down the street like a wounded duck._Fucking asshole.

He's so caught up in his own head that he doesn't even realize he's missing something until he's all the way down the block--his jacket. He never picked up his jacket from the bar.

"Fuck," he mutters, rubbing his beak. Maybe he can go back, try his luck with some other insecure shmuck. The void's still calling; the heat built up in him needs a release, and he doesn't much care how he gets it. Maybe he should just go home and beat one out to take the edge off. The bar will be closed by now anyway, so-

Nettie stops dead, struck through the heart: the key. In his jacket. In the bar. A shiver rolls up Nettie's spine. His dick throbs resentfully against the plug.

"Ah," Nettie sighs. "Fuck."