No CGI: Arc 2 (M/M)
Story by Tagenar on SoFurry
Dinosaurs make the best art critics. Arc 2 of No CGI. Their story continues as they migrate to Hollywood to film Jurassic Park 2.
No CGI: Arc 2 (M/M)
by tagenar (https://www.furaffinity.net/user/tagenar | https://tagenar.sofurry.com/)
{Dinosaurs make the best art critics.
Welcome to Arc 2 of No CGI. Their story continues as they migrate to Hollywood to film Jurassic Park 2}
You never noticed this Valvoline in the Dinosaur District before, but now that your eyes are open to all the dinosaurs walking around, you wonder how you missed it.
As you wait in line behind three other vehicles, you take note of the nonhuman staff, and the the humans in their cars getting oil changes/tire rotations/transmission fluid changes while they wait. How do they not notice all the employees are dinosaurs?
E is easy to spot. His dark green scales and the white stripes on his fingers and down his flanks stand out against his dark blue apron. You smirk looking at his hat.
The line moves. E hasn't noticed you yet, and he seems to be the customer-facing employee. You smile as you play with the radio.
Fleetwood Mac does NOT belong on the oldies station.
Too soon.
You catch glimpses of dinosaur slits and wonder how none of these humans notice. Where do they think they are? Why did they come to this part of town? Only dinosaurs live here.
A raptor and a T-rex are standing to the side, smoking. You smirk, thinking of the Gary Larson cartoon.
After listening to The Beatles, Michael Jackson, Ace of Base, and one-hit-wonders uncounted, it's your turn. You pull into the bay and come face to face with E. His scent hits you. Somehow you can smell his slit from here, but the smell of oil and gas hides it well. You wonder how humans don't notice all these dinosaur scents around.
His name badge reads—
“Edmund?" you say.
His neck curls backwards, and you notice him peek from his slit at the sound of your voice.
“___!"
“Thought I'd drop in. Haven't seen you since the sparring."
“Yeah, yeah, we've [b]een getting ready to [m]igrate. Well, what we can do for you?"
“Just an oil change, please. And... _Edmund?"
He bobs from the waist. “It's what hu[m]ans call [m]e."
“Not Edward? Edmund seems out of place around here."
“It sounds close to [m]y real na[m]e. Anyway, you're set u[p]. Give us about twenty [m]inutes. And [m]y shift ends in half an hour."
“Need a ride home?"
“I'd love one. I have so[m]ething to show you at [m]y [p]lace."
“What's that?"
“You'll love it. Excuse [m]e."
He prances to the other bay and checks in the human pulling in. Yes, _prancing_ is a good word for it. His brother prowls like a dinosaur. E hops like a bird. You wonder if this means he is flamboyant in dinosaur culture.
You feel vibrations under the car. Techs are working on it. Normally you go to your dealer for things like this, but when you found out where E works, you decided to pay him a visit.
Five minutes later, E returns and taps some things on the terminal, glancing at you from time to time.
“Ins[p]ectors are kee[p]ing a closer eye on us now. I can't stay with R very [m]uch. I've [m]issed having your scent around, too."
You can't think of a more flattering thing for a dinosaur to say to you that does not involve penis.
“Thanks. I've missed being around dinosaurs. They've been more pleasant than the people I get to meet at the prison."
“Govern[m]ent guys are [p]atrolling our district [m]ore. See[m]s you and Charles caused an event that got the[m] to ste[p] u[p] enforce[m]ent."
“Sorry."
He wags his tail like a dog, leans into your window, and nuzzles you. “Don't [b]e. X was grateful for your cine[m]atic eye."
“Where's he work?"
“Downtown. He has [p]er[m]ission to leave his district for work. He tells me he sees agents following hi[m] [m]ore these [p]ast cou[p]le of weeks."
“Aren't you always under surveillance?"
He pretends to type on the keyboard. “They've [b]een lax for years."
“What are they afraid of?"
“That we'll go [b]erserk. Some countries require dinosaurs to have their teeth and claws re[m]oved as infants. This is the co[mp]ro[m]ise we live with in Ohio."
“Shit."
“We have an agent watching us right now."
“Really?"
“The wo[m]an in the corner, [b]ehind the desk."
You steal a glance where E has gestured. An elderly woman is seated at a tiny desk behind glass, seemingly watching a bank of cameras.
“She's not the manager?" you ask.
“No[p]e. [M]anager is [b]elow. He works with us. She's there to [m]ake sure we [b]ehave around hu[m]ans. [b]e [b]ack."
He walks to the other terminal and handles the customer in the other bay. You feel more vibrations through your seat as dinosaurs take off the tires. You peek in the side-view mirrors. Amusing to see raptors and dilophosaurus and other species using tools and wearing aprons and hats.
The hats look silly. You can't articulate why you are thinking this. You imagine the raptors in the finale of _Jurassic Park_ all wearing hats, and the human actors just laughing.
A few minutes later, E returns.
“K, sir, you're all set. That'll [b]e..."
You pay in cash, and then you marvel how E manages to make change with claws.
He leans into your window, bumping noses with you. “[P]ull around to the side. I'[m] off in ten [m]inutes."
You nuzzle him. You have indeed missed feeling scales against your skin. You are hard. E can smell it; he glances down and winks. You wonder how they know.
E guides you off the lift and out of the bay, and you pull around the building. Switching on the radio, you jam to some hits by Queen and Falco, of all things for this station to play. You ponder the whole payola thing, wondering what that was about. All background news once upon a time. Seems so distant now.
Fifteen minutes later, your backseat door opens, and your rear shocks groan as a utahraptor climbs in. A blue apron flings over your passenger seat. The hat falls to the cushion. He smells of grease and gasoline.
“Thanks for the ride, Co[mm]a."
“Running home is probably no big deal for you, but I'm here to help."
“X is the runner. R only runs in the s[p]ring and autumn, when he's cutting. I'[m] lazy. So what've you [b]een u[p] to?"
You had just put the car in gear and are about to pull into traffic when something knocks on your window. You look. The elderly lady is standing beside your car, clipboard in hand.
“Greetings, sir," she says. “The state of Ohio requires me to document this interspecies interaction. All I need is your license."
You blink. Then you turn to E.
He nuzzles you. “Welco[m]e to life as a dinosaur."
You reach into your pocket and produce your ID card. She takes it, writes something down, and then hands it back.
“Signature here, please, Mr. ___."
You look over the form she presents you with. The heading reads STATE OF OHIO SPECIES INTERACTION 185-c.
Checkboxes line the top third. Apparently any instance of interaction between humans and dinosaurs including private conversation, ride-sharing, physical touching, and food purchases, require a form.
You note the name of the dinosaur on the form is “Edmund-32659."
When you sign, she nods and returns to the office.
“Wow," you say.
“Our [m]ove[m]ents are tracked," E responds. “In case so[m]ething [b]ad ha[pp]ens, the last dinosaur who had contact with you would [b]e detained."
“I sure feel safe now."
You pull into traffic. It's only a ten-minute drive to Grid Street, and when you put it in park, the rear shocks sigh in relief as E gets out, grabbing his apron. You pick up his hat for him, slipping it on.
He huffs. “Not your color."
“More dinosaurs should wear hats. All of you look so adorable."
E slings his apron over a forearm and leads the way down the street and up to an apartment you've never been to before.
“Your place?"
“Yeah, ins[p]ections have ra[mp]ed up. I can't stay with R as [m]uch as I want."
The door is not locked.
It's a sparse interior. Only a television resting on top of a milk crate and two bean bag chairs. Bottles of olive oil everywhere, most of them half empty.
“Nice decorating choice."
He shrugs. “Have a glass if you want. None of it is for cooking. This is the good stuff. Greece, Italy, France, you na[m]e a country, I have olive oil fro[m] it."
He crosses the room and heads straight for the shared bathroom. Without closing the door, he turns on the water.
“Wanna hel[p] [m]e wash all this grease off?"
“You know it."
The locker-room-style shower is spacious, more than enough room for a human and a raptor. He lathers up and slaps your back. You lather up and begin with his neck, the part that needs cleaning most.
E seems to be going out of his way not to hide his claws and teeth. You are much more comfortable being inches from them than you used to be.
Nothing sensual about this; E needs the shower badly. The water/soap mix coming off him is like tar. E has a belly, and his muscles aren't nearly as tight as R's or E's.
The green raptor scrapes you with his claws up and down. Up and down. He pokes your sac with one of them.
“You don't even wince any[m]ore," he says.
“Does that mean you're losing interest in me?"
E huffs. “I know [m]any dinos who are only interested in hu[m]ans who are afraid of the[m]. Fear[b]oner is a great scent."
“Is there a form to sign for this interaction?"
“Yes, actually."
“Shit."
“I'll re[p]ort it to[m]orrow at work." E growls. “It's only for statistics."
“I feel so much safer knowing I've been tracked."
His scales shine now, thanks to you. When you step out of the shower area, you look in the mirror. E has practically scraped your skin clean; you are red all over as if a cat has clawed you from crown to foot.
“Geeze!"
E huffs, grinning like a human as he shuts the water off and steps into the dryer. “It [b]rings out your scent [m]ore." He makes a big show of sniffing your shoulders and back. “I've [m]issed having this around."
There are no towels, so you step into the dryer with the dinosaur. Two streams of air hit you from either side. You turn around and try to get everything.
“You said you have something to show me."
E perks. “Oh yeah. You'll love this."
He shuts off the air streams and steps out of the bathroom. Not bothering to put on clothes, you follow him to the television. He picks up a folder on top of it and hands it to you.
“R did so[m]e [m]odeling for OSU."
The Ohio State University.
The first page shows a muscular... human.
Next page shows the same thing. The quality of the pages hints that these are photocopies, so you feel comfortable touching them.
Page after page shows a human male in various poses. Light skin. No facial hair. No body hair. Same proportions of pecs, biceps, thighs, calves, shoulders. Some students focused on certain parts more than others. Most surprising is how many drew R's hands.
Five fingers.
“This is R?" you ask.
He bobs from the waist and the neck at the same time. “Fifty students drew hi[m] this way. Ha[pp]ens every ti[m]e he [m]odels."
“This is how humans see him? How? Why?"
“It just ha[pp]ens. R makes a lot of [m]oney [p]osing like this. And everywhere he goes, this is what [p]eo[p]le see."
Every single drawing has the same proportions, the same human face. You assume they did not have a meeting to coordinate these features beforehand, and now that you see them, you remember something.
“So I _did_ see R at the club. I remember this face. I remember glancing at his chest a few times, but Lawrence was always right there, so I didn't really look. This is the face. I must have seen you, too."
E nuzzles your cheek. “Jurassic [P]ark o[p]ened a lot of eyes. R was right a[b]out that. I still don't like it, but it see[m]s to [b]e working."
“You don't like what?"
E plops down on one of the bean bags. “[M]ost of the roles we get are [m]onsters in shitty [b]-movies no[b]ody's going to see. I ke[p]t asking him what good will that do? It'll just kee[p] [p]eo[p]le seeing [m]onsters. But he see[m]s to [b]e right. Just seeing us at all is hel[p]ing."
“Is that what you're hoping for?"
“R doesn't want fa[m]e and fortune. He just [w]ants to [b]e seen for what he is."
“What do _you want?"
“To [b]e with R. To enjoy the city. [M]ost would love to have the life I have. Feels wrong to resent it. R's [b]een at it for so[m]e twenty years. He's getting tired of trying. I don't bla[m]e hi[m]. That re[m]inds [m]e. X is done du[p]licating ta[p]es. They go out for distribution [M]onday."
You look up from the drawings. “Finally. I'm going to be dinosaur-famous."
“Just your [b]otto[m]less ass."
“Should I expect anything?"
“I wouldn't. I've [b]een in a few of those videos and nothing exciting ha[pp]ened to [m]e."
You flip to another drawing. This student drew him like a Greek statue. You can't decide if these features are exaggerated or not; R's pecs are big enough to be a bookstand, and his biceps are pushing them further out. He doesn't look like he can move. While you stare, you lean down and pick up a bottle from the floor. You uncap it and take a swig. Olive oil flavored with rosemary and lime. Too fancy for cooking.
E huffs. “Straight from the [b]ottle. Unrefined swine."
“You _have_ glasses?"
“Hel[p] yourself." He swings his muzzle in the vague direction of the cabinets against the other wall. You carry the papers and the bottle. Setting the drawings down and fanning them out, you pull a stein from the cabinet and fill it up with the remainder, taking a moment to note the many bottles resting on the floor.
“Do you ever finish a bottle?"
E yawns. “Eventually, [b]ut I don't like to. The scent is gone forever. Kee[p]ing the[m] around [m]eans I can take a sniff any time. Hel[p]s [m]e co[m]e down fro[m] work."
Images of the human R cover the countertop. Human poses. Human proportions. His limp cock is the same size each time. How did everyone draw the same thing? After studying, you gather them and carry everything to the other beanbag. E curls his neck backwards.
“You insult [m]y olive oil with a [b]eer stein."
“It makes me feel masculine!" You drop the papers on the floor and lean over them. “This one is not flattering. Kind of makes his muscles look like they're sagging. R doesn't have hanging tits. He has manly man pecs. Also his triceps. Look at them. They're dangling."
E huffs.
“Out it goes." You flip it upside down and set it aside.
“Next up." You turn the page so E can see. “Sort of an Atlas pose going on here. Shows off the thighs and core."
E leans toward the page. “The artist didn't draw the hands or the feet. Good jo[b] on the a[b]s, though. Hhhhhh kee[p]."
“I like how the abs look, too. Seems to be the focus of this piece. Keep."
You place it face-up in another pile.
“Next up, he's leaning against something, arms behind his head."
E licks his lips. “Good details on the trice[p]s. Ca[p]tures the se[p]aration of the [m]uscles. They look so fir[m]."
“Look at the way his pecs distort in this position. I think the artist did the pose justice."
E nods. “Kee[p]."
You nod in reply. “Keep."
Face-up pile.
The next pic is sketchy. The artist seems to have rendered R in triangles. His pecs look pointy, to say nothing of his nose. A good attempt at a style, but doesn't quite work.
“Reject."
“Reject."
Face-down pile.
You take a swig from the stein and then hold up the next piece, easily the least realistic so far. It's a rear view, and the artist attempted to render his back muscles, but there seems to be no rhyme or reason to the lines. Also the artist did not render anything below the waist.
“No glutes," E says. “Coward artist. Reject."
“Reject."
At some point E had grabbed a bottle from the floor and is now taking a swig from it. You present your stein and point to it, narrowing your eyes in indignation. He sticks his tongue out at you. You raise your glass and take a sip with him.
Next image is another rear shot, but much better rendered. In fact, the artist seems to have exaggerated the deltoids and the traps, but not so much as to be out of proportion to the rest of him.
E: “[b]onus [p]oints for drawing the hands. Kee[p]."
“Accurate linework while taking appropriate liberties. Keep."
Face-up pile.
The next three are the same pose from different angles. R is doing his most self-aware muscle-pose here: arms at his sides, tensed but not obscuring the view of his torso. He was clearly rippling his chest and abs for the crowd. This artist rendered one of his pecs in motion—the striations are apparent.
Two keeps, one reject.
E takes another swig, and so do you. He offers you some from his bottle, so you take a drink. This stuff is thicker, and it tastes of orange peel and other spices. He tells you he bought it at the mall a while ago, one of those fancy olive oil and vinegar places. It's mostly dinosaurs who buy from them, even going outside their district to do so—technically illegal, but nobody seems to stop them.
The next drawing is easily the best of the lot thus far. Both of you lean close and inspect the details. It has no linework, only shading. Very ambitious, and the musculature shows up very well with this technique. Especially his pectorals. They look bulbous. This artist's professor probably docked points for lack of realism, but for you and E, this is a plus.
Keep.
The bottle E has was less than half full, and he has finished it and moved on to the next one within reach. You have to admit this olive oil is good enough to drink on its own. You can't imagine what else anyone would use it for.
Four drawings of R standing on one leg, hands behind his back. Abs and thighs are the focus of these sketches. One student with a profile view captured the moment very well. You and E run your fingers over the photocopied image, marveling at how far human-R's pecs jut out, how deep his abs are, how many lines make up his thighs.
Two keeps, two rejects.
E takes another drink. Your stein is nearly empty, and you begin eyeing the other bottles around the room.
“What else is good?" you say, holding up your tankard. “Pick something for me."
E brightens. “Oh, try this one."
The theropod rises from the bean bag chair and crosses the room, snatching a red bottle from the floor. He sets it next to you, and you can now see his cock is out and swinging.
“Are you hard looking at the human R?"
E nuzzles you. “It's still hi[m]."
“But how? How did everyone draw the same human when they were looking at a dinosaur? How does this work?"
“Who knows." He swings his hips, shaking his cock for you, and then plops down on the bean bag.
“Next up, oh, look at this one."
R has a soda can between his pecs, clearly straining his muscles to keep it there.
E takes a swig. “Kee[p]."
“His face is scumbled."
“Artist drew the [m]ost i[mp]ortant [p]arts. Kee[p]."
Face-up pile.
A casual stance is next. R doing nothing but standing, as if smoking a cigarette.
E: “Reject."
“But the linework is good."
The green dinosaur takes another drink. “Can't whack off to it. Reject."
“Oh, that's what we're going by."
E huffs and sways as he takes another drink. You have emptied your stein, and you refill it with the stuff in the red bottle. Sure enough, the olive oil within is colored red, and it smells of chili.
Only ten drawings left to critique. You fan them out on the floor before both of you. Human-R in three poses, two sitting, one apparently in the act of walking.
You think you know which ones the art professor would like: the sitting poses are the most realistic and capture the moment. The walking one seems distorted and sketchy, as if the artist couldn't get past how big R's biceps and shoulders were and focused on that area while leaving the rest half-done.
It's E's favorite. He caresses it, licking his olive-oiled lips.
Having narrowed the portfolio to a shortlist, you arrange the _keep pile_ before the two of you. Three rows of drawings, fifteen total, all showing human R in various poses. Seems the two of you picked the ones that show off his muscles best, or the ones where the artist clearly exaggerated.
“We need to choose three," you say. “Win, Place, Show."
E is licking his lips. He stands up. His cock makes a line of lube connecting it to the bean bag chair. It doesn't break as he steps into the matrix of papers.
He stands over them, scenting them subconsciously. You stare at his raptor cock, which in this posture touches the ground. E is almost as big as R. You would hate to meet their father. The scent is filling the room, and the string of lube is so thick it looks like steel.
“Final vote goes to you, _Edmund." you say, taking a swig of the red olive oil. It tastes of chili-pepper and a few other herbs. Not hot, and very well balanced.
E reaches down and grips himself while he stares at one particular drawing, the one that is all shading.
You scoot off your bean bad chair and take position by the dinosaur's thigh. You reach under him and grasp his length. Finally the string of lube breaks, and it wraps around your hand. The rest splatters on the drawings.
“Oh yeah, E, I'll take care of you. Be impartial and pick the winner."
E growls, tapping you on the head with his claws. He thrusts a few times. You keep a good grip on his cock as he caresses R's shaded muscles. His slit is making an obscene amount of juice, and it's getting all over your hand and soaking the papers.
He side-steps to the next drawing in the matrix, the leaning pose. You scoot across the floor, still holding his cock around one leg. He looks it over. He only bucks his hips twice. You try to encourage him by squeezing his shaft, and this gets him to buck a third time.
You feel E's thighs while he judges impartially. The green raptor is out of shape, but even so he has more muscle on his thighs than any human. You take some time to feel the lines up and down while he bucks his hips as he walks over the drawings. You scoot around the room to keep up with the dinosaur, rubbing his shaft, your hand completely drenched in slit juice.
“Holy crap, E, I've never seen you leak this much."
He growls as he studies this page, R in the Atlas pose. “Father leaked a lot, too. R got [m]ore of it than I did. I only leak when I'[m] a[b]out to cu[m]. R leaks all the ti[m]e."
“How do you know how [m]uch your father leaked?"
You wince realizing you have just imitated his accent.
E huffs, fucking your hand. “Saw it all the ti[m]e when [m]other was in heat. R dri[p]s even [m]ore. I wish I did."
He steps to another page. You scoot to keep up, trying not to think about mother or father in the context of “heat."
A few minutes later, all fifteen _keeps_ have slit juice covering them, and E has returned to the shaded pose.
“You like those abs, Edmund? Those pecs and those biceps. Solid wall right there. Lucky students. They got to see him pose for hours, and they didn't even have to tip him."
He's bucking into your hand hard as he stares at this page. “Even as a hu[m]an he's a[m]azing."
You feel his thighs at work, taking a moment to look under his tail. His shaft feels hotter. The ridges are starting to chafe.
He sends a few ropes over the image that has no linework and only dark-shaded areas next to lighter-shaded places. You aim his cock to hit it.
“Winner!"
E is panting. Suddenly he breaks out of your grip and then stands over you, smacking you in the face with his cock. Your cheek now his slit juice all over it. The force sends you to the floor.
Now you feel a hot cock on your face. You laugh and open your mouth, sucking down the last of the votes. Dinosaur cum is so thick, and their slit juice tastes so good. In a way, you like being covered in it.
Holding yourself by E's thighs, you follow his cock as it retracts all the way back into his slit. Panting, he steps away and plops down on the bean bag, surveying the mess. You continue to lie on the floor, looking over the splotchy lumps of dinosaur cum and slit juice covering the matrix of drawings.
E, licking his lips at you: “We [m]ade art!"
You clap your hands twice. “Yes, we did!"
E laughs, and then picks up a different bottle and takes a swig. You don't feel the need to get up. In fact, you feel full.
E takes deep breaths for several minutes, and then he looks down at you, licking his lips.
“Don't shower. You s[m]ell [b]etter this way. [P]airs great with this stuff. Wish I could [b]ottle your scent and kee[p] it here so I can get a whiff every day after work."
He takes another drink.
“What is it?"
“I [p]aid three hundred for this [b]ottle. Truffle infused, fro[m] Italy. Goes with Co[mm]a scent covered in [m]y slit juice."
“Three hundred? May I get a lick?"
He holds the bottle out. You strain to sit up and take it. You feel heavy and slick. You are completely covered in E's lube. You wish you knew how you smell to dinosaurs.
{If you like what I do, consider buying one of my published books. Links below. Thanks!}
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4539730.James\_L\_Steele