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The Pit of Wrath can be a “pit” of a lot of feelings. He has many ways of expressing himself. Right now, he’s following the sun to get to the Tip of the Arrow’s house. He has decided it is time to spar, and the Tip is his favorite sparring partner.
He always knows how to start the journey, but making it all the way to the hidden treehouse isn’t too easy. He follows the sun, ignoring his aches from the long trek. He’s only made it all the way there a few times, and it never looks the same. All he can do is follow the sun.
But it’s about to hit the top of the trees and be out of his line of sight. He hopes it means he’s close.
The Pit tries to weave his sight through the endless forest, but it’s feeling more and more useless.
He sighs, and it comes out shaking. The sun dips below the treetops.
Then, he blinks. Ahead, a clearing full of spikes and traps. No matter the stress of the journey, he’s always elated to reach his destination. He rushes ahead despite his soreness.
There in the clearing is a great tree, hiding a lovely treehouse. The Pit steps over activated traps strewn across the “lawn,” giddy with excitement.
He flies up to the door. Blood is splattered all over the patio; remnants of his other visits.
“Tip!!!” He shouts, loud and clear. He slaps the bottom half of the front door with his palm, causing lots of loud pattering.
He waits eagerly, tail swishing behind him as he stares at the door. After a moment, there’s some clicking of locks and deactivating of defense mechanisms.
The door opens, and the Tip peeks through with a flat expression.
“Pit,” he greets.
“Let’s spar!” The Pit declares with a wild grin, straight to the point.
“I’m not in the mood, meathead.”
The grin falls in an instant. Tip definitely sounds ‘not in the mood.’
Nevertheless, he lets the Pit into his house, and turns on some lights, now that the sun is setting.
“Why not?”
He follows Tip around like a sad dog, tail and wings dragging on the floor. He came all this way… For nothing?
The Tip preens himself as he responds, “I’m just busy, Pit. Sorry. Maybe you can find Now and play with him.”
“But you’re… More fun to fight than them. I can actually be scared of you,” the Pit rolls his eyes, “None of them are close to intimidating.”
The Tip looks over at him with a little smile that pulls on the Pit’s heartstrings. He liked that compliment. He’s intimidating, and he’s very pretty.
The Pit looks away, kind of flustered. The treehouse is quiet and cozy, it doesn’t welcome his energy too well. He kind of just wants to sit down and read now.
The Tip has gone back to his worktable, currently smattered with jewels and metals.
“I’m working on something, Pit. I’ll come down eventually,” He says in dismissal. The Pit scoffs.
He walks right up beside the seated one, arms crossed in a familiarly stubborn fashion. The Tip pretends to ignore him, until he huffs. Then, he looks over and up at him.
“I came all this way,” the Pit mumbles, childish and disappointed.
The Tip smiles again, and gently touches his arm. “You did. And no injuries this time. Only you, Thing, and Bell know the way.” He tics, and some wings twitch.
The Pit can’t help his tail wagging. It was a lot of hard work that paid off, it’s nice to get the recognition for it.
“I’m sure you can make it back okay, too,” the Tip adds before turning back to his work.
The Pit makes a choking noise in disbelief. “You’re kicking me out?”
The other shrugs. “What would you do here?”
“Read?” The Pit plops into another chair at the table. “I dunno.”
“I’m going to be working for a while. You might as well go home now.”
The Pit puffs up his chest in defiance, ready to argue and stand his ground for as long as he needs, but the Tip doesn’t even flinch, and he quickly loses steam. He probably will get bored pretty damn quickly, and it’s not like he hasn’t waited for other things. It isn’t the kind of fight he wins at, and the Tip’s trying to be nice about it.
That doesn’t mean he can’t be upset about it. He leans on the table and watches the Tip mess around with some metal parts with some superheated tool. Sharp claws work deftly around a little piece of art, probably some type of jewelry.
“What is it?” He asks, and his curiosity isn’t fabricated.
“A gift,” the Tip answers simply.
The Pit watches for another moment, before giving a knowing, sly look. “For Ray?”
“Yes, it’s for the Ray of Light, if you must know,” he says with a returned smile.
“Think it’ll do it?”
The Tip hesitates his next move. “Probably not.”
It goes quiet again. And, yeah, the Pit of Wrath gets kind of bored.
“...How long did you say this would take?”
“Goodbye, Pit,” says the Tip.
“Hey…” he groans.
The Tip puts down his tool. His tone is cool and smug. “Do you need me to show you the door?”
The Pit gives his best pout yet, but is only met with mild amusement, and lidded eyes that are being used incredibly unfairly. “You… Better come to my house first, pretty boy.” He gets up from his chair.
“If you can be patient, sure,” the Tip hums.
The Pit lingers just a bit longer, and then heads out the door.
He steps outside into the dusk. His big, fluffy wings spread, and he drops off of the patio, back to the ground. He huffs again to himself, but there’s not much else to do. Arguing with the Tip of the Arrow is much different from fighting with him. They’re usually pretty evenly matched when it's anything but a match of wit and words. And patience, the Pit of Wrath hasn’t much of that.
He starts to head back to the housing area. He’s a little tired, but that just means he’ll sleep extra well once he gets home.
He walks for a bit, only a few meters out of the clearing, before he hears something. He figures it’s probably fine the first time, but the second time has him stop in his tracks.
The Thing wouldn’t make noise like this, so the Pit calls out, “Now?”
“Mm, no. Close,” a voice jokes.
The Pit walks over and finds the Temperate One, holding a half-dozen shiny, new arrows.
“Temp? The hell, were you following me?” He snarls.
“No, I went to find him by myself,” the Temp says, referring to the Tip, then smiles in a vaguely sinister, teasing way. “Why, am I near?”
The Pit’s eyes widen, giving him away. The Temp chuckles darkly.
The Pit thought he was special, because he knew how to get to the Tip’s house. And now this guy, who the Tip can’t stand, wants to show up?
“He’s not in the mood to hang out right now,” the Pit says out of the side of his mouth.
“Is that why you look so butthurt?” The Temp asks in the voice that no one can ever tell is sarcastic or not. “Maybe he’s just not in the mood for you.”
He walks right around the Pit and his very pissed expression.
The Pit stomps right up to him and grabs his wing, holding him in place. “You’re not allowed.”
The Temp stands up straighter, and the Pit releases his grip.
Then, in a flash, the Temp’s wings spread and he takes off in the direction of the Tip’s house.
“Hey-!” The Pit shouts and takes off after him. He isn’t exactly a great flyer, and the Temp is one of the best, so it’s no match at the moment. Still, the Pit chases him right up to the edge of the clearing, and has an idea.
He snatches up a stake from one of the many activated traps in the ground, and throws it like a javelin. It hits the Temp at the hip, so one of his wings stops working, and he falls into the sea of traps. Something snaps shut over another one of his wings, and he’s scowling, completely susceptible.
The Pit walks up to him. It’s quite dark out now, but the two of them glare daggers at each other.
“Go home, Temp,” the Pit growls.
Instead of a response, the Temperate one lashes out, and swings his handful of razor-sharp arrows at the Pit, slicing across his chest and one of his arms. Thankfully, his scales helped protect his arm, but a few sliced chest feathers catch the air, along with a bit of blood.
The Pit grits his teeth and shouts towards the house, “Tip!!!” The Temp strikes again, but the blow is better prepared-for, and the Pit deflects it with his bare hands.
But, it isn’t a fair fight, not in the slightest. The Temp is stuck to the ground, and a handful of sharp sticks may be dangerous, but it isn’t the best of weapons. He puts up a fight, grabbing and clawing at the other, trying to fight as dirty as possible to make up for his clear disadvantage. His claws dig into the Pit’s ankle, but something snaps when the Pit’s talons grab and twist that arm to get it off of him.
He’s losing limbs, and not just that. A disapproving scowl is all the Pit can see in the dark of night. He looks up and calls again, “Tip!”
The Temp swings again, scratching up the other’s legs. “You’re so loud,” he complains.
“Shut up and take the loss, creep,” the Pit spits down at him, lifting his foot and stomping on his face.
Again, something snaps, and the Temp goes limp. The arrows in his hand clatter on the ground as they slip out of his grip.
“Ah, shit,” the Pit curses, looking down at the bloody mess. Once more, he yells towards the house in the tree, but much less frantically than the previous times, “Tip…”
He leans down to the Temp’s still face, which is even more blank than usual. He presses two fingers against the underside of his chin, and feels for a pulse. He groans when he finds nothing.
“And what happened to being patient?” The Tip grumbles as he comes out onto the patio, then gasps. He turns on a light, and it illuminates the damage.
The Temp’s eyes are very lifeless, and a bit of blood pools in his mouth. The other nudges him with a talon to see his response, but it’s just dead weight.
“Accidentally killed him,” the Pit says, “I’ll bring him back with me…” With the light, he sees the holes in his shirt and the bloodstains accompanying them. He doesn’t feel too bad, but it’s kind of gross. “Uh… But could I clean up first?”
“You… Killed him?” The Tip says, and it’s barely audible due to the distance.
The Pit flies back up to the porch, leaving the body behind for now.
“He found your house, and was coming to bother you,” the Pit explains, “And you hate when he bothers you.”
He walks past the Tip, letting himself back into the treehouse.
Once inside, he takes off his soiled shirt, and heads to the medical supplies. He finds himself there quite often, most notably after sparring matches. He looks around the cupboards for something to stop the blood, but it really isn’t his forte.
The Tip quietly walks past him, and pulls out gauze and ointment from the cabinets, then hands them over before walking back to his workbench. The Pit gives him a funny look and looks down at the supplies.
It’s just unusual; the Tip is typically right on top of any injury the unkindness acquires. The Pit can do it himself, of course, most of them can, but the Tip does it best, right beside the Thing of the Night.
But it’s whatever, the Pit knows he’s already kind of intruding. He sits at a different table and starts to fix himself up. Blotting the wounds until they stop bleeding, and covering them with some weird gunk the Tip and the Flora made that helps them heal.
“You killed him… So he would leave me alone…?” The Tip mumbles from the other table, in a kind of disbelief.
The Pit has just started working on his ankle. “Well, yeah, I know how you get. But I mean, a ‘thank you’ would be nice…” But his voice dies out when he looks over at the other.
The Tip’s face is kind of scrunched up, embarrassed. His feathers have completely puffed out, making him much fluffier than his typical, cool, sleek look. He is irreparably flustered. The Pit’s own wings spread and lift in quiet shock. The Tip can’t meet his eye.
The Pit feels his face heating up, and can imagine the other one’s cheeks are just as hot. “I didn’t mean— I wasn’t trying to, you know–”
“I know,” the Tip says quickly, voice unsteady.
He can’t say ‘thank you,’ because that would mean he accepts the unintentional ‘courting gift.’ It would mean he accepts the other as a mate. It would mean he was successfully courted.
The Pit’s tail wags. He managed to accidentally court the Tip of the Arrow. Courting is a big deal for some of them– Most are pretty easy, to find or do something for someone that they can’t repay, to be a provider, an eligible mate, it’s a low bar for most of them, including the Pit. But as far as anyone knows, only the Ray of Light had ever managed to court the Tip. It was usually the Tip doing the courting.
He managed to provide, though. To protect. The Tip thinks he’s a good enough mate. The Pit is suddenly much less willing to go back to his house. He gets up from his seat.
“You still want me to leave?” He asks, only barely trying to hide his smile.
The Tip’s brow kind of furrows as he can’t relate to the amusement. “Don’t be– click– Smart with me.” He tics with more intensity, before covering his mouth.
The Pit steps closer, and the Tip’s usual scent is stronger than usual. It’s kind of deep and mossy, but still clean. His pheromones are working overtime now. The Pit didn’t expect to be doing all this, but it might just be better than sparring.
He walks right up to where the Tip is sitting, and glances at his twitchy, wagging tail.
“Will you thank me?” He smiles, a little smug but mostly excited.
The Tip, with admirable patience, takes a moment to think. His expression softens a bit, he looks like he might beg, but his eyes slowly trace the newly formed wounds. The gaze does linger quite a bit around the gash on his chest, and his attention falters with how the scent of blood is so, very strong.
“Clean… Clean yourself up, first,” the Tip says, and twitches again.
The Pit leans in, pushing his limits, “Don’t you like when I’m a mess?”
The Tip’s brow furrows again for a second, and he’s almost pouting.
He reasons, like a whine, “You’ll get the bed dirty.”
The Pit’s eyes slowly widen, and his grin trembles with giddiness. He leans back and hurries off, fully persuaded. The Tip’s burning gaze follows him for as long as it can.
He’s in a room with a wash-bin and drain, and rushes to clean off all the lost blood. He can’t get his mind off of how needy the Tip looked, and how it’s not something the rest of them can brag about. Except for the Ray, of course, but he doesn’t count.
He gets to play around with the Tip, just because he accidentally killed the Temperate One.
He thinks back to his accidental murder. The Temp was bringing some very nice arrows. Weapon-making is one of his specialties. They were probably going to be a courting gift, one of his many attempts to woo the Tip.
The Pit gets even giddier when he thinks about it. It wouldn’t have worked, anyway.
He hears clicks and chirps off in the other room. The Tip sounds excited, or at the very least, stimulated. The little sounds make his tail sore from wagging.
The water finally runs clear all over, so the Pit stumbles for something to dry himself with. He grabs a towel for himself, and then another, just in case.
He scurries to follow the origin of the Tip’s tics, off into his bedroom.
He finds the courted one sitting on the edge of his bed, fidgeting with and removing his wrist guards. Upon noticing the Pit, his tail starts thumping against the wooden part of his bed, which he quickly gets embarrassed of.
Still giddy, and practically bouncing on his feet, the Pit walks up to him with a big grin. The Tip opens his mouth to speak, but gets lifted up under his armpits and thrown all the way onto the bed, squeaking as his head hits his pillow. Again, there is now wasted time as the Pit crawls right on top of him, and kisses him. The Tip simply melts, quietly sighing and letting his arms slide around his shoulders to embrace the other.
Then, he twitches again, and his head snaps out of the kiss. It doesn’t deter the Pit, of course, who simply starts to nuzzle his face into the fluffy head-feathers.
“Pit,” the Tip breathes.
“Mm?” The Pit’s hand gently presses against the other’s waist, disturbing the feathers and finding its way under his shirt.
“Tie me first,” he requests. His arms carefully fall away from their hug around the Pit’s neck.
He rubs closer to the Tip’s ear and happily growls, “I’m not afraid of your twitching.” He leaves more kisses.
The Tip tries to hold onto his arms to reduce the spasms, but one kiss makes his fist jut out in a punch right in the Pit’s sternum. The pair exclaims in shock, and the Tip twitches two more small times.
“Tie my hands,” he says again, as more of a demand.
The Pit tries to reassure him, “I’m fine, Tip.” It’s the truth, it was only a punch.
“I’m not g–!!” He cuts himself off with a very intense, drawn-out trill, caused by the stimulation of the Pit’s hand sliding back down his hip. His face flushes with embarrassment as the Pit does nothing but grin and wait for him to finish. “I’m not going to let you let me hurt you.”
“I don’t care if you hurt me,” he says cattily. The Pit moves in to kiss his neck, but the other squirms to make him focus.
“Not right now,” the Tip pleads, “I’m not going to risk killing you again while I’m like this.”
The Pit’s grin turns to pursed lips. Yeah, the Tip has accidentally killed him before during sex, he wasn’t even the only one it’d happened to, but he still found it really hot. But neither of them were courted then, they were just messing around. This is pretty different.
He’s about to get up and agree to his terms, before the Tip speaks again.
“Next time… Whenever you say… You can have me however you want. Nothing tied down.”
He was already going to, but this really sweetened the deal. The Pit’s eyes go wide as saucers, and the Tip gestures his arms to him.
“Just not… Right now,” he hisses.
The Pit takes off his own metal cuffs. He puts the Tip’s arms together so that both hands can hold the other arm’s wrist; it’s as comfortable and non-limiting as the restraints can safely be. He closes a cuff around where the two wrists meet, and the Tip breathes out a sigh of relief.
The joined hands slip over the Pit’s head to embrace him again, and they go back to kissing. There’s a few flinches, but the constraints keep fists from flying.
The Tip is finally able to relax, so the Pit gradually starts to lick into his mouth, prying him open and making a few chirps squeak out. He loves when the Tip can let loose. His hands returned to gentle fondling of the waist and stomach, ruffling the feathers and feeling the shakiness of every breath.
They both let out an affectionate little growl when the Pit presses their hips together. They’re both erect, each having a wet, tentacle-like protrusion from between their legs. When the Pit moves, they slide against each other, slimy and sensitive.
He moves again, trying to be patient. He’s enthralled with the way the Tip swallows his tongue and spit like it’s nectar. It’s all so smooth and intense. A part of the Pit wants to run the Tip ragged with stimulation, to pull all those special little noises, to find new ones exclusive to those who court him. Parts of him want to make him beg or fight or squirm.
But that’s not what courted the Tip.
“Arms up,” the Pit tells him. The Tip doesn’t even hesitate taking his arms from around his neck to let him go. He’s as pliant as rubber, and a worse man would take full advantage of that.
Or, the exact same man in a different situation. The promise of “later on” still lives well in the Pit’s heart, already excited for a time where he can play around while the Tip of the Arrow is of a more sound mind.
“Click–” The Tip tics again, and his feathers puff up even more. The other slides down the bed, until his face is right next to the Tip’s dripping, wriggling cock. A sharp-toothed grin can’t seem to leave the Pit’s face.
He licks up a side of it, and it is completely drenched in slick. He runs his lips down the underside and the Tip’s leg twitches. He takes his fingers and strokes the tentacle a little, getting his fingers wet, then has the Tip spread his legs.
The Pit has never disliked how his claws grew in blunt, but it’s times like these when he’s quite grateful for them. His hand blindly searches through feathers for the Tip’s hole, so the other shifts his hips to get him on-target. The largest finger slips in almost immediately, with such little resistance, the Pit wonders if the Tip had prepared himself at some point. Maybe he got busy before the Pit came even by?
As the Tip moans quietly, and moves back to take more in, the Pit can’t help but think, maybe the Tip is just very excited. He quickly starts to pump his finger in and out, and adds a second.
“Ka-Chick,” the Tip squeaks out. It’s clear he’s trying to remain composed, but his wings and tail just won’t hold still. The Pit watches their reactions for feedback; he speeds up when they relax, but slow down if anything gets too strained. In a bit, it gets hard to discern.
He watches the Tip’s dick leak precum all over his hips, making a lot of his feathers look dark and wet. He decides his mouth has gotten bored, and presses his tongue against the base.
“W-W–” the Tip tries to say either ‘Wrath’ or ‘Wait,’ but gets out neither. His face is all scrunched up, with bared teeth but tears in his eyes.
The Pit lets a deep breath out, which pours against the coolness from the air-exposed slick. His tongue dips further, sliding between the skin and member; into the penile sheath. The Tip chirps loudly once, but is then silenced to quiet coos from the back of his throat.
The Pit digs around in the cavity. It is incredibly slick-wet, and has the strongest source of the Tip’s scent he’s smelled so far. The tentacle is right up against his snout, twitching, somewhere between delighted and frustrated. The slick has a strange, medicinal taste, but the Pit doesn’t mind licking it up.
He can’t see the Tip’s eyes now, he has his head thrown back.
“Nnh. More,” groans the Tip.
The Pit is kind of slow to catch up. That could be heard as ‘No more,’ after all, but that isn’t the vibe he’s getting.
“More o’what?” He asks, mouth thick with precum-slick.
The Tip shifts against the sheets, maybe trying to get closer. “Inside,” he insists.
The other doesn’t have to be told twice, and pushes in another finger to help stretch the entrance. He goes back to playing in the sheath, now using his other hand to help. The cock itself isn’t getting much attention, but it really doesn’t seem like the Tip minds.
It is as slow as the pair can handle, and as gentle as their pheromones allow. The Tip’s breathing is halted and uneven, but he seems as collected as he can be. The Pit feels the muscles of his ass squeezing him.
He pulls out his tongue and carefully removes the fingers. The Tip’s foot talons grab at him as the subconscious begs him to continue. He gently pulls them off, and they twitch again in his grasp.
“You’re all grabby,” the Pit says, “You still haven’t thanked me, though.”
The Tip’s lip curls. He opens his mouth, and a very birdish warble is all that comes out.
“Aw, lost your words, pretty boy? But those are your favorite.”
“K-K-Keh. Just. Get on. With it.” It’s a struggle to get the sentence out.
The Pit sits up on the bed between the Tip’s legs. He sees now that the stuff that leaks out of the end of the Tip’s dick isn’t clear anymore; It’s a continuous oozing of cum, dripping down and smearing across his dark feathers. The end tries to curl against itself for friction.
“Come here,” says the Pit, taking a firm hold of the other’s lower half and lining the hole up with his own wet tentacle. The Tip can’t do much to comply except lay and wait patiently.
His dick slips in, smoothly and wetly. The Tip whines, as high as his gravelly voice can get.
The Pit grunts at the tightness; It’s more than he thought it would be.
“Hurry,” the Tip breathes.
“I’m tryin’, babe. You just need to relax.” He shifts forward, trying to go in further. It starts to sting in a way that makes him shiver. “I thought you were supposed to be the patient one?”
“I thought you were– chick– the impatient one…”
“I don’t know, I’ve been pretty patient waiting on you to say ‘thank you,’” the Pit teases, “Besides, am I really the most impatient?”
The Tip’s eyes open up at him as he realizes who he’s talking about. It’s probably true; the most impatient of the entire unkindness is lying dead on his lawn. He probably could have found that funny, under other circumstances, but the hormones running wild in his brain, it’s kind of a metaphorical jab to the heart.
It’s true, the Temperate One would be anything but patient. He might even be cruel, with the Tip’s fragile state. He doesn’t want to think about it. He curls in on himself, hiding as much as he can from the person currently penetrating him.
“Hnn–? Tip, come on…” The Pit’s voice softens and he leans forward. The Tip won’t look at him.
The Pit gently slides an arm behind the other’s back, making it arch slightly and carefully embracing.
“I’ve got you babe, come here,” he hums, moving in even closer and grinding up against the Tip, making him squeak. “You don’t have to worry about him now. You know why, Arrow?”
The Tip forces his eyes open to await an answer. He tics again, a small wink.
The Pit smiles, slowly pulling the tentacle out of the vice-grip it’s held in. “‘Cause I killed him,” he says, “I kept him from getting to you. I kept you safe.” He moves back in with the same leisured pace.
The other squirms under him. He wasn’t kidding about words being his favorite thing– This is really hitting something in him. He hisses and tries to move to make the Pit go faster, but it’s in vain, and he knows it.
“None of ‘em can get to you, yeah?” He strains, it’s a measure of patience for himself, too. “I’ll shoo ‘em all off. It’ll just be you and me up here. We can spar…” He rubs his face against the side of the Tip’s head, punctuating each point with a toothy kiss. “We can talk, we can play, anything you want.” He moves out, then in again.
The Tip’s tail is wagging so hard against his sheets, it might get rug-burn.
“That sound good, pretty boy?” He smirks down at the inebriated Tip. “What do you think you should say, if I’m doing all that for you?” He baits again.
The Tip grabs a hold of him again, the best he can, putting his arms around the Pit’s neck. The latter gets a good view of the tears in the corners of his eyes.
“Please, more,” he says through gritted teeth.
It’s not the ‘thank you’ the Pit was going for, but he’s never been the type to sweat the specifics. In a huff, he starts to move his hips faster. It’s kind of dangerous, with how good it feels, and all the pheromones overwhelming them. He’s close to finishing already.
The Tip, who has been cumming either multiple small times or one really long, continuous climax, began to notice the Pit’s deviation from the usual.
“Why are you holding back?” He asks.
It’s unlike him, and they both know that, but, “You’re courted,” the Pit reasons. They kind of have to be… Careful, with courtship. And, well, he doesn’t want to be done yet.
“Go faster,” The Tip pleas, his voice, like a song, “Cum in me.”
It’s hard to refuse. The Pit quickly speeds up to get himself over the edge. The Tip hugs him even closer as another wave of his own ejaculation spurts onto his stomach.
After just a moment, he feels the warmth of the Pit’s cum, spurting down and stickying his rear end. The Tip is so, so grateful that the other doesn't stop moving.
“Fuck,” the Pit growls against his ear, “You good? More?”
The Tip croaks, “I can take it.”
The Pit’s feathers puff up. The confident words go straight to his dick. He moves their hips so he can more effectively pound into the Tip’s ass.
“Yeah. Yeah, you can, shit,” he says, almost whining. The stimulation is driving him crazy, and the Tip takes it so well.
He keeps pulling the Tip’s hips to meet his thrusts every time, shaking the whole bed and making their feathers even more unruly. He isn’t sure when, or if, he should stop, but the Tip keeps trilling and chirping, and their dicks are still hard and dripping. The rhythm is overwhelming, matching with the heartbeat pounding in the Pit’s ears.
“You’re so good, Tip,” he pants.
The other groans out, “Go faster.”
“I just came…”
The Tip squeezes him. “What happened to your ridiculous stamina?” He says with that familiar bite.
The Pit starts going faster, because, well, he’s right. He can go for a while, even when it starts to ache.
“You’re so on-edge. ‘M not going to break,” the Tip says.
“You’re courted,” the Pit growls his reasoning between thrusts, “I’m not fucking this up. Not letting this be one-and-done.”
The Tip looks up at him, as soft as his sharp expression can be. “Calm down. I’m not going anywhere. And like hell I’m letting you leave after one or two rounds.”
The Pit slows down again, takes a second to breathe, then rubs his face against the other’s again.
“Be a good mate,” the Tip purrs, rubbing back, “Put your scent on me.”
The Pit is happy to comply, and let the reverse happen as well. He wants to come out of this room smelling like the medicine cabinet, just like the Tip. He buries his snout into his neck, right up against the scent gland, and causing more twitches.
The Tip hums happily, scooting so the other can embrace him more comfortably. He is pretty close to his scent gland too, and slowly breathes in that musky, bloody scent, in and out in time with the thrusts. His wings flap, and he cuddles closer.
“Why have you slowed down?” He asks. It’s gentle, not the usual abrasive accusation. A soft plea, mind fuzzy from all the sensations. “I said I wouldn’t break.”
The Pit keeps a steady pace and responds, “And I said you wouldn't hurt me if you weren’t tied down.” He lifts his head to better look him in the eye. “If you won’t let me, let you, hurt me, then I won’t let you, let me, hurt you.”
The Tip squints at him, kind of lost.
He grunts in frustration, then takes a breath.
“Right now, your body isn’t yours,” he says, “It’s mine. You’re not courted much, so you don’t know your limits.”
“You like pushing limits,” the Tip argues, still soft.
The Pit growls in reply, “I do, and it’s taking a hell of a lot of willpower to not wreck the shit out of you and wring you dry.”
The other hugs him, clingy and sweet. “You’re such a good mate.” Purposely pushing him.
The Pit grinds into him again. “You’re damn-fucking-right I am, you slutty little nerd,” his voice, exasperated.
The Tip chuckles in return. “And you’ll keep everyone away from me?”
“D’you think I was bluffing?”
“Not bluffing,” says the Tip, “You’re not the type. Overestimation, though, sure.”
“Shut up,” he huffs, and shoves his hand in the Tip’s face as leverage to sit up.
But, as he moves, he shifts against a sweet spot that makes them both gasp in pleasure.
“Wrath, there,” the Tip says before twitching aggressively.
The Pit hums in agreement, taking a firm hold of his waist and working it against his ebb and flow. He still hasn’t increased his pace.
“Pit,” the Tip pleas again, “Mate. More, faster.”
“Not right now,” he says in reply.
But the Tip’s voice raises, angrier than he’s been all night, to say, “If you won’t fuck me harder, then kiss me harder.”
The Pit carefully moves his head back down to meet the Tip’s. “Just relax. And quit trying to cut off the circulation to my dick.” He can tell the Tip doesn’t mind the banter in the slightest, because he keeps clenching down on the Pit’s tentacle as if he’s cum again.
But he does as requested, pressing his lips against the Tip’s, who chirps a tic. He lets his tongue get desperately swallowed, humping in shallow thrusts against that one spot.
Unfortunately, the Tip tics again, and bites it.
The Pit flinches back on instinct. The Tip looks mortified. He covers his mouth with his bound arms.
“Agh,” the Pit winces and rubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth to soothe it. It wasn’t a complete chomp but it was quite a shock.
“I’m sorry,” says the Tip. His eyes are wide and worried.
The other had paused his movements to his surprise, but quickly goes back to thrusting, eliciting more squeaks from the Tip. The Pit leans back down and lets him wrap his arms around his neck again, hugging and hiding his face in embarrassment.
“Calm down, I’m fine,” the Pit coos, “Just keep making your little noises, pretty boy.”
But the Tip can’t relax, not with all the things he is feeling. “I’m sorry. I– chh– don’t get… Why people court me. I’m not a good mate.” He hugs tighter.
“You’re fine. You still smell good, you still feel good.”
The Pit moves his head to go kiss him again.
“No,” the Tip stops him, blinking away oversensitive tears, “I did it once, and I know I’ll do it again.”
The Pit kind of pouts. Defiance and stubbornness flash in his eyes, before he leans in again and presses his lips against the Tip’s. He knows the Tip wants to kiss, and is just uneasy. But the Pit doesn’t need to use his tongue to kiss.
When the Tip realizes, he melts once again. The Pit is finally starting to speed up, and he’s trying not to moan too hard.
With a sharp chu noise, the pair moves an inch apart. The Pit looks down into lidded, admiring eyes that fight back tears like their life depends on it. The stinging of his tongue sends a shiver down his spine. Through panting, he gives a toothy smile.
“Open,” he says.
The command takes a moment to register, but the Tip’s mouth opens. He tics again, and it’s a good thing there’s nothing between his teeth as they click shut again for a split second.
The Pit gathers as much spit as he can, then looks down at the Tip. He can see right into his throat, and how the muscles keep spasming to hold back his moans. The Pit lets saliva gather on his tongue, then sticks it out, and it drips down the tip of it in a clear, sticky dollop. In the air, connected to the tip of his tongue by a strand, it swings from the force of the thrusting. It finally falls into the Tip’s awaiting mouth, who doesn’t swallow just yet. He savors it.
The Pit hums, “There you go. I’m gonna cum again, and then we’re taking a break.”
The Tip’s mind finds itself in conflict. On one hand, he’s very excited for a second load. On the other hand, taking a break seems like the worst thing ever. His snout scrunches as a tear finally ekes out, down the side of his face and into his feathers.
The other leans over and kisses his forehead. “Don’t cry. I told you I’m not letting this be over. We’re gonna go ‘til you can’t count the rounds, you hear me?”
The Tip snickers at him, thick with tears and spit. It’s a promise he knows he can trust.
His own dick is numb, in a weirdly good way. All he can feels is the spread of spend all over his lower midsection. All he can think of is how it will only get messier.
The Pit starts thrusting faster once again. The Tip’s arms quiver as he tries to pull him in closer.
“I’m here, I’ve got you,” says the Pit, grunting and moaning. “Not going anywhere.”
After one more pretty little chirp, the Pit starts to unload for the second time that evening. This one strung out longer, it had more build-up. He shoves his hips forward, plunging himself as deep as he can. His tentacle-dick pulses excitedly, not fatigued in the slightest. A hefty amount of cum joins what was already inside, filling the Tip to excess. Of course, the Tip doesn’t quite feel that way, it takes more than a couple soft rounds to get over courtship. Still, it is satisfying, and he can’t help squirming and gasping.
“Just a second,” the Pit tries to soothe him, “We’re not in a rush.”
The Tip shakes his head. He doesn’t quite trust his voice, but he clearly disagrees. He wants as much as he can get, as quickly as he can get.
But then, the Pit pulls out of him, and he shudders from head to tail. His breathing is labored.
“You’re alright. In and out.”
The Tip closes his eyes and collects himself.
It clears a bit of the brain fog, and a bit of cognition allows him to think: Yeah, he’s right. I need a second.
The Pit kisses him a few more times around his face. It helps him focus on other sensations.
Beyond his courted mind, the Tip truly does think the Pit is a very good mate.
“You okay to let me go for a minute?”
The Tip brings his arms over his head to rest on the bed.
The Pit has a happy little smile as he gets off the bed. The Tip looks down at himself, and sees the mess splattered across his waist. The other grabs both towels from earlier and throws them over the Tip’s crotch, as if that would give him a sense of decency.
“I’m gonna go get you some water,” says the Pit.
The Tip can’t help the way he flinches when the Pit turns to leave. His breath gets caught in his throat again, but he just tries to collect himself. He tells himself he’ll only be gone a moment.
He does what he can, with his bound arms, to sop up the cum all over him with the towel. It isn’t too bad, but his feathers still feel damp. He’ll have to take a nice long shower once he can think about anything other than the Pit.
He turns onto his side, not realizing how much it would ache. All he can do is wait and want more.
The Pit finally returns with a wooden cup of water. His dick is still fully erect and writhing slightly. The fact makes the Tip’s wings and tail curl up with giddiness.
“My eyes are up here, Arrow,” the Pit grunts.
The Tip kind of pouts, but looks up at him. His feathers are all puffed out, even more than usual.
“Here,” he says, and brings the cup of water to the Tip’s face.
It takes his dulled brain a moment to comprehend once again. He parts his lips and lets the cup rest on his mouth as the Pit slowly tilts it for him, allowing a steady stream of cool water down his throat. The Tip didn’t realize how much he needed it, but it was extremely refreshing, and it did help clear his mind a bit.
He tilts his head back down, and the cup is pulled away. The Pit wipes his mouth for him.
“Thank you,” says the Tip.
Immediately, the Pit’s eyes widen, and his wings puff out in interest.
“For the water, meathead. You’ll need more than that for the rest of this.”
The Pit smiles smugly and sets the cup down.
The Tip is kind of floaty. His hands still work, he could’ve taken a sip himself. But then the Pit’s hefty hand carefully pets down his flustered head-feathers, and is reminded just how this bird loves pushing. All this, just to make sure the Tip can handle even more. He can give him everything he’s asking for, and then some.
“You good?” the Pit smiles down at him.
“Of course,” the other responds.
He grabs the other towel, the one the Pit used after his shower, and sets it out flat on the bed, then lays prone atop it. He lifts his ass in the air, just as much as he can comfortably reach without stinging from the soreness, then looks over at the Pit, who has intently watched. He chuckles once the Tip is in his final position.
“What’s that thing you say?” The Tip teases, still half breathless, “I didn’t hear a bell.”
Instead of joining him on the bed, the Pit lifts his chin, making him arch his back and bringing their faces close together.
“You’re damn right,” he growls.
“Of course I am.”
The Pit kisses him again.