Movie Night

Piranhacane 3 was a terrible film, and that was exactly why Gallus loved it so much.

Or, well, maybe “love” was the wrong word. He appreciated it, rather, for what it was: a series of two-dimensional images depicting one-dimensional characters, strung together into what had been a three-dimensional motion picture event when it first came out in theaters. In other words, it was the quintessential crappy movie: flashy and gory enough to be titillating, but cheesy enough that you could zone out for most of its runtime and really not miss anything important.

He’d tried to pay attention — sort of like how he tried to focus on the lecturer in his Microecon class, and not on how the gap between the hard back and lumpy seat of cheap college classroom chairs perfectly framed Silverstream’s ass in front of him, like it was a viewscreen built to fit two pillowy denim-wrapped cheeks and absolutely nothing else.

On the other hand, that was what movies like this were made for: focusing on anything but the main event. They were made for teenagers making out in the theater’s back row, frat brothers passing a bowl around after a party, or — in his case — sharing a sectional couch with his five housemates on a Friday night, knocking back drinks and enjoying what was quickly becoming his favorite weekly tradition.

He was in the middle of said couch tonight, with a perfect view of the TV that he’d at least had his eyes pointed towards for most of the evening. His attention, though, had more often shifted to the right or left: to Yona and Sandbar spooning next to one armrest, or to Smolder flopped over the other with her trademark cocktail — Firebolt cinnamon whiskey and Pepper M.D., light ice and even lighter pours of mixer as the night went on — propped against her prodigious hips, dripping condensation onto her comfy-looking cargo shorts.

Occasionally, he’d noticed Silverstream shift in place between him and Smolder, legs criss-crossed around some fruity concoction she made with vodka, bitters, and enough sugar to stop a normal hippogriff’s heart. But more than anyone else, he’d been distracted by the little changeling in an off-shoulder blouse slotted between Silver and him, tipsy off one glass of wine, sinking ever deeper into the crevice between catty-cornered couch sections with every irreverent scene that played in front of her.

Most of the time, Ocellus was the most patient creature Gallus had ever met, whether she was tutoring younger students after classes or doing prep work for the various clubs she’d joined or, more often, founded on campus. It was one of his favorite things about her, right up there with how she always smelled a little bit like lavender and the way she thoughtlessly bit the corner of her bottom lip whenever she was concentrating really hard.

Tonight, though, Ocellus had been anything but patient. She’d started squirming almost as soon as Gallus had hit “Play” on Webflix, and with every minute that passed, she’d grown more and more restless, and snuggled deeper and deeper into the side of the griffon next to her — nuzzling into his shoulder, playing with his bottom shirt button, slipping her fingers through the belt loops of his slacks and twisting in her seat until the hand he’d thrown across her shoulders was cupped around her butt.

He’d ignored her, of course, as he always did. That was part of the tradition, after all: the movie came first, no matter what. Even if every second that ticked by left a natural-born empath like Ocellus positively marinating in one of the most intense kinds of emotional energy there was: controlled, contained, ever-increasing desire.

Everyone else felt it too, if not quite so strongly, and they’d started showing it around the third act: a brush of Smolder’s foot against Silver’s thigh here, a flick of Sandbar’s hand under Yona’s spaghetti-strap top there, and for Gallus an occasional flexing and tensing of each of his fingers in succession, just enough to keep them from slamming down and squeezing until the changeling beside him squealed.

The waiting was the worst part, but also the best. It was torture sitting here for 90 minutes, wound up like an overtuned guitar, pretending not to feel a thing — but it made the rest of the night, the release, feel so much better.

Finally, he got his reprieve: with a shrill scream from the film’s bloodied, doomed heroine, the screen cut to black, and the credits started to roll. Gallus set his empty beer bottle down on the coffee table in front of him, glanced at the remote next to his coaster, almost picked it up, and then thought better of it. White text on an almost-black screen actually made for pretty decent lighting — he could see the outlines of bodies around him, and not much else. He’d have to feel his way forward instead.

“So,” he said as he leaned back into the couch, turning his head so he could catch Ocellus’ just-visible eye right as he pressed his palm into the supple flesh beneath their shorts. “What’d ya think of the movie, Cell?”

Ocellus blinked at him, opened their mouth as if to answer, and then didn’t. Gallus felt their weight shift and then land again as they threw herself onto him — straddling him at the waist, flattening themself against his chest, grabbing his face with both hands so they knew where their lips could come crashing down with a plaintive, possessive moan.

They were a messy kisser, and always had been as far as Gallus knew. Even Smolder could be coaxed sometimes into taking things slow, enjoying the moment rather than the raw sensations, but Ocellus? Ocellus overwhelmed you, laced their hands through your crest and soaked your whole face and pulled you so close it was like they wanted to meld your body chemically into theirs, so that you – once you got your bearings – could take control and overwhelm them.

And that was what Gallus did. He wrapped his hands around Ocellus’ midsection — just under her ribs, where her dainty form tapered so much his fingertips almost met at her waist — and pulled her down onto him, so she could feel exactly how impatient he’d been too. She whimpered into his mouth as his shaft rubbed against her, and she shifted away from his mouth so she could sink deeper into his embrace, hips haphazardly jerking as she ground herself up and down his rigid length.

Since he had a second to spare, Gallus glanced at both ends of the couch, already knowing exactly what he’d see. To his right, Yona had her head turned so she could kiss Sandbar hungrily and grind her ass into his crotch all at once, groaning with satisfaction every time his hand — slipped under her shirt up to the elbow — kneaded into her breast. To his left, Smolder and Silverstream were in more or less the same position, albeit up on their knees and with Silverstream facing forward, eyes squeezed shut in bliss as Smolder — topless already –- nibbled on her shoulder and squeezed both her tits over her wrinkled T-shirt.

A year ago, he might’ve been shocked by the scene, maybe even horrified. Now, though, he just smiled, tilted Ocellus’ chin up towards his with an authoritative thumb, and kissed them again. The movie was over now — and that meant the real show could begin.

For a couple minutes, he just let himself get lost in sensation: in Ocellus’ lips against his, her weight in his lap, her quivering body yielding to his every touch. As he ran his hands up and down her sides, she put her own to work on his shirt, undoing button after button until there was nothing blocking her fingers from rubbing over his chest and exploring around his back to where his wings and spine met.

The scent of lavender filled his nose, sinking deeper into his brain with every breath, and when he felt Ocellus’ tongue poke into his teeth, he pushed it back into her mouth with his own, relishing in the happy little noises he drew out of her throat. Her legs twitched as he shifted his hips, his trapped head poking into the humid heat between her thighs — a few layers of fabric all that stopped him from slipping inside her.

He could’ve changed that at any moment. Part of him ached to — his hands tingled against Ocellus’ belly, slowly creeping lower, folding the waistband of their shorts over so he could gently pinch the bony edges of their hips.

But for now, he forced himself to lift one hand and wrap it around their calf, tugging pointedly until they swung it over him and swiveled in place. They ended up seated sideways in his lap, both legs arched over his thigh, his steady hand behind their neck the only thing keeping them from tumbling onto the floor.

Ocellus looked up at him, faceted blue eyes half-lidded, chest heaving and already flushed. “Gallus…” she whispered. “Please…”

He let his free hand come to rest on her sternum, drumming his fingers against her collarbone, peeling the top of her blouse away from the soft, warm skin underneath. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath her top, or under her shorts for that matter. He’d been able to tell from the moment she sat down next to him, and been reminded with every touch the two had shared for the last ninety minutes. It had made the wait for this moment excruciating — and he was about to make sure she knew it.

“Please what?” he murmured down to her.

“Mmm…”

Ocellus’ hand darted towards their groin, surely so they could shimmy out of their shorts and get things really moving. Gallus caught their wrist mid-motion and gently pulled it back towards their chest, where it gripped their breast instinctively as they let out a frustrated grunt.

“I want you…” they said, eyes squeezed shut, contorted face a wordless plea for him to do anything and everything with them they wanted.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, tone husky enough to send a shudder down the little ling’s spine. Stars, he loved it when she felt like this: petite in every possible sense, barely five feet tall and so light she might break if you were as rough with her as she wanted. She was beautiful at any height, and in any form she felt like taking on a given day — but when she was like this, when she fit in his lap and barely fit any other part of him, she was just perfect.

“I…” Ocellus started to say, and then she trailed off as Gallus hooked his finger under her blouse and tugged it down, until she had no choice but to free one arm and then the other so the whole top could gather in a wrinkled pile at her waist. Her breasts were like the rest of her: small and soft and sweet as Silver’s cocktail, the perfect size for his hand to press into and wrap around and squeeze.

She moaned, and then moaned again as he switched from her left breast to her right, as he rolled her nipple between his fingers and then pressed the pad of his thumb into it. She slipped her own thumb under her waistband, and Gallus nudged it away again, this time leaving his hand in its place.

“I wanna hear it,” he crooned, slipping one finger after another an inch into her shorts, feeling her jolt with every tender touch. “I wanna hear you.”

Ocellus tried to obey him, but for the moment, words were beyond them. All they could manage was mumbled snatches of sentences and haggard gasps of air, and more lovely little twitches as his fingers crept further down their pelvis. One row of his knuckles vanished from view, then two fingers, then almost his entire hand — and finally, they told him what they wanted.

“T-Touch me…”

So he did — as lightly as he could, with the tip of a single finger, right on the little bud usually hidden beneath petite, perfect petals. They were soaked, searing-hot, and as he rubbed around their clit in a soft, lazy circle, they grit their teeth and hunched forward in his lap, clutching his opened shirt with one hand and clapping their mouth shut with the other.

“Like this?” he asked her, knowing the answer, thrumming with a need to hear her repeat it. Ocellus squeaked, nodded, and convulsed as his hand slid lower, as he cupped his fingers around her mound and let one rest over her entrance, pressing into her, almost slipping inside. The hand she’d had over her mouth slammed into his knee, and the one that had been knotted into his shirt fumbled around in his lap, scrabbled for purchase on his pants button, dove beneath it once it was undone until her fingers found his cock and clamped around it.

“You want me to fuck you?” Gallus sighed. One knuckle crept inside her, then two, then his whole finger — joined quickly by a second — all the way up to his palm, pushing slowly in and pulling languidly back out until they landed on the ribbed spot in her core that made her go rigid from head to curling toes. “You want me to make you mine?”

“Y-Y… y-y-ye…”

He cut them off with a flex of his arm, pulling them into his chest so they could answer with their lips instead of their lungs. They kissed his neck fervently, desperately, rubbed their thumb under the head of his dick and quaked in his grip and grunted, groaned, squealed louder and louder with every beckoning stroke of his fingers until, all at once, the tension broke.

Their cunt clenched around his knuckles. Slick fluid drenched his palm. Ocellus went stiff, then slack, then completely limp in Gallus’ lap, slumping against his shoulder, their final ecstatic yelp still reverberating through his gut. Gallus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in – then, chuckling, he kissed Ocellus’ forehead right under their horn.

“You’re doing laundry again,” he informed her. In response, she whined into his chest, gave his cock another squeeze, and accepted her fate. Not that she wasn’t used to it by now. Laundry duty going to the first housemate to finish was another part of the tradition — and while the movie always came first, Ocellus almost always came second.

Gallus didn’t have to look around to confirm she’d “won,” but he did anyway just to see how the rest of their friends were getting along. Yona and Sandbar were fully nude, the former splayed out on the couch with her bottom half draped over an ottoman, and the latter kneeling beneath her legs and — if her expression was anything to go by — doing downright magical things between them. He couldn’t see either Silver or Smolder’s faces, but he could tell they were pressed together near the couch’s armrest, and the view he did have of them — Silver’s glistening pussy on full display, Smolder’s knee grinding into it — didn’t exactly suck.

He could’ve sat there and watched them go for hours, but he knew he didn’t need to. He loved all his friends, and they loved him, and they had a lot of time to show and share that love before the night was over. For now, he could focus on Ocellus, and on how their breathing was starting to slow and their hold on his dick was getting more insistent.

He leaned down to kiss her, and she leaned up to meet him, miles more relaxed than she’d been a few minutes before. When he slid his fingers out of her and lifted them towards her face, there was no point counting knuckles — eyes closed and face drained of stress, she opened her mouth and enveloped them all at once, suckling down every drop of her essence, flicking her tongue against his fingertips so he knew exactly what she wanted to be doing instead.

With a grin, Gallus gently pulled his hand free and used it to tug her shirt and shorts down past her knees so she could kick free of them completely. She returned the favor as best she could, unzipping his pants and lifting herself off him just long enough for him to shimmy the garment down over his ankles.

She settled down back onto him, and for the first time that night her pussy grazed over his shaft with absolutely nothing between them. A sigh shot out of both their throats, and Gallus felt a shudder roll down Ocellus’ spine — then he nudged her forward a bit, leading her off the couch and onto her knees, hooking his hand around her head so he could guide her gently, firmly, finally into slipping his cock past her eagerly parted lips and into the warmth of her waiting mouth.

Ocellus moaned in satisfaction as Gallus’ tip reached their throat, and Gallus grunted as he settled back into the couch, sparks of bliss flitting down his shaft and through the base of his tail. There was no doubt about it: this tradition was by far the best one he’d ever been part of.

Maybe he’d pick a better movie next time, though. Something with a plot to it, at least.