Unicorn Frappuccino: Refill

A little unspoken drama in the table next to where Dwennon was sitting drew his attention: from the body language, the similarity of form and the difference in age, it was clear he was watching a father and son, each unable to say what was on his mind. It was a simple bit of magic to learn their names—Tim Butters and his father Harry—and the fact that Tim was trying to somehow reveal the fact that he preferred guys over gals when it came to romantic partners. The wizard was just about to lend a little magical assistance when once again the unicorn essence pervading the store reared its head and made its own changes.

The two men seemed to take up more space on the window bench they shared, packing on pounds as they sipped their drinks in awkward silence: Tim in muscle and Harry in fat. The father’s belly soon emerged from the taut hem of his shirt, dark skin hairy and sprouting multicolored stripes. The biceps that strained and then split the sleeves of Tim’s shirt were similarly striped, and his broad shoulders made short work of the rest of the garment, revealing a pair of growths on the muscular back..

Harry, too, had similar protrusions; as though in the middle of a nature program, Dwennon watched as the nubs unfurled, looking for a moment like wrinkled capes, then flexed and flapped and straightened out into broad butterfly wings. Matching the skin—itself now covered with darker fur—and mostly-orange iridescent stripes, the wings too were orange and black, spotted with white along the ends: the patterning of a monarch butterfly, albeit one from a Lisa Frank illustration. As the two men moved, even the slightest shift in position, the colors seemed to coruscate and change, just like the highlights on Greg’s pearly hide.

Harry and Tim now looked at one another, their faces pushing out into matching feline muzzles, the clearest differences being Tim’s longer beard and muttonchop-style tufts, and the streaks of grey fur giving Harry a distinguished air. An ear twitched, a rumbling growl emerged from the depths of one of their chests, and in a moment they were together, tongues rasping, breath huffing, eyes closed as their paws roamed their bodies, tearing off the last bits of clothes, exploring fatherly chub and filial muscle. Neither one noticed the black-andorange striped horns spiraling up from their foreheads, not even when they brushed against one another and sent out a burst of sparkles.

The low guttural growling that rumbled their throats seemed almost to contain words, as though each were professing his love for the other, but soon actions took precedence. Groping down along his father’s hairy round belly, Tim’s paw-like hands found their target: the striped equine dick that seemed to curl like a cat’s tail against his fingers. With gentle insistence, he gripped the head and pulled it towards his own crotch, holding it in position for his own cock to engulf, one snake swallowing another.

Despite watching a butterfly-tiger-corn father fucking his son’s dick in the middle of a Starbucks, the oddest thing to Dwennon was that both hybrids were purring, despite the fact that big cats shouldn’t be able to. Damn unicorn magic, always throwing a curveball, he thought as he watched Harry’s shaft withdraw, glistening and dripping, only to have Tim’s slide into it in turn. The younger buttigercorn gripped the table, claws digging into the wood, unable to resist the pleasure of getting sucked off by his lover’s cock.

Meanwhile, the couple sitting at the table next to the altered father and son had been having relationship troubles of their own. Dwennon hadn’t been paying attention (not surprising, given how pleasant a show the buttigercorns were putting on), but it seemed like the primary complaint was how each was always too busy for the other.

In the midst of “You always…” and “Well, you never…”, some of the iridescent black and orange sparkles ejected by the felines’ horns were caught by a gust of air conditioning and wafted down to land on the couple’s heads.

“Do you smell something, Zach?” Zoe asked, breaking in on her husband in mid-tirade.

“You know, you’re right, it smells…sweet?” Both of them snuffled at the air a bit, their noses darkening and dampening, especially as tongues flicked out to lick them. He placed a hand on her shoulder, as though by propping himself up he could drink in more of the delicious scent. She did the same. Neither noticed when their hands sunk through fabric and skin, their arms merging into a single column of flesh and bone… and one that was rapidly shortening.

As their own bodies dragged the couple closer together, they started panting, pulses racing into synch. “I don’t know what it is,” Zach said, “but it reminds me of our honeymooooon.”

Unfazed by her husband’s howl, Zoe continued sampling the air. “You’re right, nngh, it’s getting me all hoooooooorned-up.” An attempt at rubbing her foot against her husband’s shin resulted in their legs joining as well, hastening the merger. In moments where an arguing husband and wife had sat was now a two-headed canine, obviously male (it’s hard to deny a groin overburdened with twin sheaths and four balls), and still scenting the air. Then, moving as one, the foxlike muzzles parted in happy grins, the batlike ears focused on their target.

Zo and Zach stood, turning to the dick-fucking buttigerflies and introduced themselves. Given that they’d become corgicorns, it was unsurprising that the merged couple was short of limb, stockily-built, and with horns as blunt as their constantly-wagging nub tail. Dwennon watched as a deal was struck and Harry and Tim disengaged from one another, making use of the duo-cephalic dog—one head for each of their cocks—while they continued their makeout session.

Along the store’s side wall was a broad picture window, looking out onto the strip mall’s narrow band of landscaping and shaded by a few trees that had been planted next to the sidewalk. The length of the window was taken up by a broad slab of solid wood, a worktop with space for half a dozen or so customers who wanted to study or write instead of chat. This morning, there were only two occupants, clearly shown as students by the piles of textbooks and notes they’d already set up.

The one nearest Dwennon—whose name was Nate, judging by the big letters painted on the front of his binder—was obviously having difficulty focusing. He hadn’t once turned the page of the anatomy textbook he was ostensibly reading, and he kept picking up his phone to scroll through his social media feed. Ironic, Dwennon thought, that he’s trying to study male anatomy but keeps looking at pictures of naked women. A subtle little bit of magic and the hot chicks he was swiping through became increasingly hairy, chubby, and muscular, until at last he was looking at nothing but gay bear porn.

Sightly put off, though none the less aroused, Nate set down his phone and tried to turn his whole attention to the diagram on the page. “…bladder, urethra, colon,” he muttered, running a finger over the terms to cement them further in his mind. “Vas deferens, pubic symphsis, seminal vesicle, glans, corona, corpus cavernosum, corpus spongiosum, anus, Testes, PENIS!” his voice rose louder with each part, until he had stood up, shouting the last word over and over.

Nate clamped both hands over his mouth, but the sounds were only muffled. Another similarly-muffled sound came from the dramatic tent in the front of his pants: “Hey, would you keep it down up there? Some of us are trying to sleep. Oh well, I might as well take charge, since you’ve clearly only got one thing on your mind.” And as though suddenly his body were being remote controlled, Nate’s arms dropped and began unbuckling his belt. His jaw was shut tight but from the puffing of his cheeks he was still trying to say his new favorite word.

As the buckle and fly were undone, a purple thong was revealed, the front pulled tight around his not insubstantial erection and the tip dark with precum. The strap snapped and the shaft was freed, only it didn’t bounce and waggle like a normal erection. Instead, it curled back as though looking up at its owner. “Thanks, bub,” said the same voice as before, as the end flattened to take on a more equine shape. “Name’s Etan, and since you’ve got—”

Nate interrupted him with an uncontrollable burst of, “Penis, dick, cock, butt, penis!”

“As I was saying,” the dick named Etan continued with a slow shake of its glossy head, “since you’ve clearly got only one thing on your mind, it’s up to me to take charge. We’re thinking with the other head today.” And with remarkable deftness the shared body kicked off its shoes and used its lengthening toes to finish undoing the rest of his clothes.

Once naked, it was clear just how much the body was changing. The nipples, for one, had drawn closer to the centerline of the torso, and risen up until they were nearly at Nate’s clavicles, while a second pair had emerged on either side of the “freshman fifteen” belly. Using the chair for balance, Nate/Etan flipped over, until they were standing upside down.

Only it wasn’t upside down any more. The new pair of nipples now rested atop perfectly normal looking pecs, while the original two were now nestled mare-style in the crotch, right above a rather horsey-looking head, whose bristly mane ran along the underside between a nubby pair of ears. Up top, Etan’s head had also taken form, still very much a big horse dick, but now with eyes of its own. The skin was velvety grey with pink splotches, and there was a rolled ring of loose skin around the base of its neck that looked just like a sheath.

Sturdy hooves capped the former hands, and a long ropy tail swayed behind. The final change came after the Etan head bent to sip at Nate’s Frappuccino. With a shudder and a bit of shrinkage, he remarked: “Oof, too cold. Guess you’ll still be the one doing the eating, little guy.” He lowered the cup to crotch-height and let the upside-down horsehead angle itself to gulp from the straw. “That’s better,” Etan said, not noticing the phallic horn sprouting from his forehead as he reached down to caress Nate’s head, fondling the little ears the way one would with a dumb-but-cute pet.

The inverted student sat back down, holding the cup below the table as Etan resumed Nate’s studies. Occasionally the horsecock horn would spurt out a jet of pearly cum, which dribbled down Etan’s neck in an ersatz mane. One of the baristas walked by, splashing through the growing puddle as he tried to lug out the morning’s garbage.

Next to Etan, however, the other student—Quinn, Dwennon determined with his magic—had been ignoring the goings-on, so focused on her studies that she didn’t even react when a gobbet of cum was kicked up by the employee. It landed on her sweatshirt with its big smiling Draco U mascot, staining the material and soaking through. The wizard could have sworn he saw the logo wink at him, but he shook his head: that would have been silly.

He waited for a better look, just to be sure, but was thwarted when a line of spikes shot through the material, running from the back of the collar all the way down to the bottom, effectively cutting a dotted line. From the sound of tearing material, it was clear that the sweatpants hadn’t fared much better, but Quinn kept on studying, even as her face pushed forward and her neck swelled with scale-covered wrinkles. A line of shorter spikes—rather like a beard—ran down from the middle of her chin and vibrated as she rumbled to herself.

Obviously the paleontology she’d been studying had given her lewd thoughts, because a rhythmic thunking sound soon came from the underside of the long table. Dwennon watched, and saw the telltale grimace-grin, the subtle shifting of hips and torso as she-now-he tried to appease a growing arousal without touching it.

Quinn lost the battle as a long tail—striped with lighter and darker green scales—and a spike shaped horn grew in, completing his transformation into an iguanacorn. Closing his textbook with exasperation (after all, he now closely resembled the dinosaurs depicted on the pages within, and might know more about the topic than mere human authors), he stretched his broad and muscular shoulders, then turned to the student beside him and struck up a conversation. Judging by the thumping beneath the table and the increased flow from Etan’s horn-cock, book studies were about to be abandoned in favor of more hands-on research.

Just then, the barista had returned from taking out the trash. “What’s all that noise out there, Rex?” Greg asked over the as he handed over another pink-and-blue concoction to another soon-to-be-transformed customer.

Rex adjusted his apron on his otherwise nude torso; the puddle of upside-down-icorn cum he’d trudged through had obviously altered him. Like Quinn, his body was covered in scales and his face had pushed forward into a reptilian muzzle. Unlike Quinn, however, his scales were the exact same green as his apron—apart from the bright blue and neon pink striping that flickered down his spine like an LED display, and the spiral curl of his tail. He grinned broadly and pointed his eyes in opposite directions. “Some cycletaur is doing donuts in the parking lot. If I hadn’t been looking both ways I’d’ve been flattened, I might even have needed to take the day off!”

“I’m all for exuberance,” Greg replied, looking uncharacteristically serious, “but courtesy is important. I suppose I should call the cops, for the sake of safety; can’t let this sort of thing get out of hand.”

“Oh, no worries, boss, actually a cop was pulling up just as I was coming in,” Rex waggled an eye in the general direction of the parking lot. Sure enough, Dwennon could see the tableaux playing out through the coffee shop’s front window; he’d been watching the events inside with such rapt attention that he hadn’t even noticed what was going on outside.

Officer Wyatt (according to the gold badge on his uniform) was standing in front of the cyclist-turned-cycletaur, advising him on the standards of road safety. Judging by the body language, each was getting exasperated with the other: Manuel acting like the adventuresome youth he’d become, with high octane fuel running through his veins, and Wyatt trying to make his point to an unwilling audience.

Finally, with an obvious, “Here, let me show you” gesture, the officer straddled the cycletaur’s seat and put him through a few paces, motoring slowly and respectfully around the parking lot, turning the hip-mounted handles to make Manuel look both ways at each little intersection, and courteously pulling to one side to let more impatient traffic pass by. With each rumble of the cycletaurnicorn’s engine, Officer Wyatt became visibly more and more uncomfortable, as though his pants were a few sizes too small.

His uniform sleeves too seemed suddenly to have shrunk in the wash, gripping his bulky biceps the way they did. Dwennon tried to recall if the cop had been so buff before, but couldn’t picture anything but a chubby short man, the sort who grunted when exiting his patrol car’s well-worn driver’s seat. Now, instead, he was a beast of a man, thick and tall, with sleeves and pantlegs splitting around cannonballs of muscle. The skin, Dwennon noticed, was glossy, gleaming with sweat in the mild early-summer sun…it was also blue and becoming increasingly hairy.

Glancing back to where the cop had been giving his lecture only moments ago, the wizard could see a trail of pearly white that seemed to refuse to dry out: the cum Rex had tracked out of the store and through the parking lot as he did the trash run. That explains why he’s becoming—he glanced at officer’s blue cap, as well as the golden, banana-curled horn that emerged from its front—a gorillacorn.

While the cop and his new partner were promenading around the strip mall, one of the customers exiting had stumbled in the trail of seed and spilled his drink (along with a little seed of his own) on the battered old patrol car that sat forgotten by its driver, engine ticking as it cooled. Within moments, the vehicle had shrunk, taking on the form and physique one might expect of a World’s Strongest Man competitor, who also moonlighted as a bantam-weight sumo wrestler.

Glossy black and white skin stretched over bulbous muscles and round belly, and a whale fin tail (tipped with red lights) swayed behind him, just as the chrome exhaust pushed forward into a flexible and tapered cock. No longer needed by his former driver, the orcar strode off into city proper, chrome hood ornament horn glinting. Dwennon stared: I didn’t know it could do that…fucking unicorn magic, weirding things up like always, he thought with a grin and a boner. After all, the orcacar-unicorn hybrid would have been just his type.

He turned away from watching Wyatt stuffing his blue banana into Manuel’s pink and plump tailpipe when a gentle finger tapped his shoulder. Two hulking forms loomed over him, eclipsing the light from overhead and making the wizard blink. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that it was the baristaur Greg, his equine torso brushing against the feathered-and-furred hip of the nice customer he’d chatted with that morning, so long ago. “Are you here about that drink we were gonna get together?”

“Sort of. You see, we were talking, Greg and I,” Kevin said, his dick flexing and bobbing in his bashfulness, “and we thought, well—” the barista gave the tall gryphnicorn’s hand a squeeze for encouragement. “We were wondering if you’d like to join us.”

Talk about my type, Dwennon thought, pondering the advisability of getting involved with one of the creations of his magic (however far removed, distilled, or altered by the randomness of unicorns) for just a moment, before hopping to his feet. “I think I’d like that,” he said with a confidence he didn’t quite feel yet. “Join you…in what?” he asked as his rational mind took the wheel.

“This,” Greg said, leaning forward to press his lips against the wizard’s. An instant later, a second horsey muzzle joined in, threatening to knock the wand from its perch behind Dwennon’s ear; he didn’t care. The three-way kiss between him, Kevin, and Greg was just too pleasurable for any thought but more. His tongue danced between theirs, savoring the sweetness of leftover Frappuccino.

He didn’t notice his shoes growing tighter, nor the prong of his belt ripping through the holes one after the other. It wasn’t until he felt a heavy hand take his cock and press it up against another member that he opened his eyes and stared down at a coppery brown muzzle. The floor felt cool under his now-bare paws, big as clown shoes, and his cock was pink and nearly as big as Kevin’s. He panted, trying to catch his breath, while Greg chuckled and smooched the gryphnicorn. “That’s some tongue you’ve got there,” he said, prompting Kevin to stick it out…and out…and out, until it dangled nearly to his nipples, long and thick and purple, “didja steal it from a giraffe?”

“No, but I’m sure they wouldn’t mind sharing—would you?”

Disoriented by his change, and the mind-melting arousal of being kissed by two such manly beasts, and unsteady on his lapine feet, it was small wonder that Dwennon slipped in the puddle of pre that had been collecting beneath the three of them. He slid between the grey-scaled legs and ended up staring at the purple hole nestled beneath Kevin’s macaw tail. It looked like something between a glazed donut and a rubber innertube, and Dwennon wanted it.

Before the gryphnicorn could react, the newly-minted bunnywizard had gotten to his knees, pressing his muzzle against the warm and sweet-smelling orifice. Lips and tongue were brought into play, as were tender and soft-furred fingers. He clumsily slid forward, his snout now stuck in the middle of the purple donut, and sliding further. In a twinkling, he was slurped up entirely.

Kevin blushed as mildly as though he’d belched or bumped into someone. “Oh, excuse me,” he said, patting the squirming bulge that had expanded his already oversized belly.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Greg remarked, just as nonchalantly, his hand joining Kevin’s on the warm mound that was rapidly calming down.

Kevin merely laughed and remarked: “I’m full of surprises,” before pulling Greg into another kiss, their bellies pressed together, their cocks dripping freely on the tiles.

His break over, Greg returned to finish the rest of his shift, and Kevin sat back in the extra wide leather chair in the quietest corner of the shop. The hours passed quickly as he read his magazine and caressed his naked belly and enjoyed all the Unicorn Frappuccinos he could drink—any time one began to get low, Greg would dutifully bring over a fresh one, gulping down the old cup’s dregs as though it were a special treat for himself.

At one point, he looked down at the glossy pages with their articles about the latest games and photos of smiling gamers, and was prodded by an odd thought: Huh…were they always this sexy? After a moment’s thought, during which time the words and colors shifted around under his fingers, Kevin shook his head and laughed. Of course! After all, I’ve got six copies at home…I wonder if Greg and I will ever be able to get through one without it getting all sticky.

He turned his attention back to the articles, feeling his shaft pulsing at the mere thought of being curled up with his man, using that big horsy hind end as a pillow as they thumbed through issues of Gayme Informer. It was almost like a drinking game, seeing who could last the longest without spurting at articles like: “Bowser? More like WOWSER!—Single dad opens up about bringing two Italian brothers into his family, and his bed,” and “Goro’s Jobs…Hand Jobs!—The 4,000 year old half-dragon prince reveals the secrets he’s learned over the ages,” and “Dingodile: Hot & Wild!—This hefty hybrid dishes on his secret Outback sauce guaranteed to add inches to your waistline and spice up your sex life.”

Flipping through to find where he’d left off, he realized that a few pages had somehow been stuck together. Slipping a talon between them, he carefully pried apart the leaves, thankful that the sticky substance was still damp (and left his finger smelling deliciously fruity). A section he hadn’t noticed before was revealed: “Gaymers of the Month.”

The photos had obviously been sent in by readers, candid shots showing naked gamers so intent on playing that they didn’t notice their dripping erections, or more-artistically posed pictures of players tangled up in cables like playful puppies, or making out with their consoles and cartridges. Ha! I know how it feels to really love a game, but this is another level entirely. He didn’t notice how familiar some of the pictured players seemed to be: one who was a tan jackal-ish sort with glasses, a goatee, and a long tail that was currently looped around an N64 controller; and another whose hefty belly and mix of scales and fur made him look almost like Dingodile himself, though the broad green and yellow draconic wings certainly set him apart.

He was just about to look closer at the little bio blurb about the chubby drackal when two things happened: Greg clocked out and clip-clopped over to join his boyfriend, and Kevin felt an irresistible stirring in his nethers. He stood, acting on instinct, sturdy legs bent and tail lifted, and with a sound that was a cross between a parrot’s squawk and a horse’s neigh, he deposited a large egg squarely in the middle of the chair he’d just been occupying. Glittery goo that had lubricated its passage and now dribbled down Kevin’s thighs also puddled in the leather of the seat, giving the furniture an almost-alive quality as it soaked in, as though the chair were not made of wood and leather but muscle and fat.

The blue egg with its yellow speckles sat motionless. Kevin caught his breath and clung to Greg for support—he’d never before laid one so large, after all—while the centaur beamed with familial pride and hugged the gryphon closer. “I’m so proud of you, honey,” he whispered in a grey-furred ear. They watched together as cracks began to form and soon a familiar head emerged.

Dwennon could tell that something was different: he felt springier than he had in centuries, and his fur was no longer the same color as his hair when he’d been human. He lifted and examined each arm in turn, extracting his long bunny feet from the mess of broken shell and slippery goo, but couldn’t place what was different. After all, it makes sense that I’d be the same colors as Dad, he thought, comparing the blue and gold of his fur with the blue and gold of Kevin’s feathers.

A quick flash of worry ran through him, and he looked around frantically: where was his wand? Then he felt a gust of air conditioning brushing against his leaves, and calmed down. Of course, the “wand” was right where it should be: a twiglike growth, complete with a few vestigial leaves, sprouting from his forehead. A moment’s introspection also made him aware of the magic flowing like sap through his body, all he needed to do was point his cock at his target and think hard about the spell he wanted to enact. All was as it should be.

When Kevin lifted the newly-hatched 20-something bunnycorn from the remains of his egg and placed him gently on Greg’s sturdy back, it took an act of will for Dwennon to resist shouting “Giddy-up!” But the baristaur could feel the younger hybrid’s excitement (not to mention the heavy eggshaped balls resting on his spine).

“Let’s go home, Kevin,” he suggested. “I think we could all use some playtime.”

So the newly-minted family left the Starcocks, hooves and talons trailing through the sweet and sticky cum that now covered most of the floor (and many of the surfaces), spreading the joys of Unicorn Fappuccinos to the other shops in the strip mall. The wares of the hat boutique now all had horn-holes, and the shoes in the footwear emporium were of a more metallic variety. The little mom-and-pop (now dad-andpop) health food store had a worker out front showing off the effect of various male enhancement pills and offering free samples of InstaCum-XL to passersby.

Kevin and Greg paused in front of the gym that took up the far end of the little mall, watching guys flexing and pumping iron, lifting one another, as well as stretching and exercising their various holes. Kevin looked down at his own belly, still nearly spherical despite having no longer bearing Dwennon’s egg, and compared it with the guts on display; he was the biggest man-beast, to be sure, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t room for growth. “Maybe we should hit the gym tomorrow?”

Greg leaned over and kissed the gryphnicorn. “I think that’s a great idea sweetheart, for the whole family!”

Neither of them noticed Dwennon stroking his cock and firing off a few blasts of magic to “help” some of the exercisers with their workouts: an extra pair of arms here, a doubly-long tail there, a body seemingly made of rubber, and of course a water cooler filled with a neverending supply of fresh Unicorn Fappuccino, the pink and blue always swirling behind the clear plastic. It may not have been quite what the bunnycorn had had in mind, but he couldn’t deny the appeal of unicorn magic’s inherent randomness. After all, it’s the magic he’d always had, same as his dads.

Later that night, when Starcocks and the rest of the strip mall shops were closed, a rattling echoed from the cinderblock walls of one of the dumpster corrals, then the woos-thump of someone leaping from the trash bin to the ground.

“Man, nuthin. Why can’t they throw away good stuff?” muttered a voice. A scruffy, hipsterish type of guy shuffled to the next dumpster and leaned over, using the brightness of the summer evening to peer into the depths. Amid the white paper cups and split black trash bags, he saw a silvery glint. It wasn’t much, but it was sufficient impetus to hop in and see what he’d found.

It turned out to be nothing more than a Pop-Tart wrapper, flimsy silver cellophane that fluttered from his hand. To add insult to injury, his foot sank into the assorted garbage and squelched in something sticky and wet and still somehow cold. From the fruity sweet smell, he suspected it was leftover Frappuccino. “So gross,” he grumbled as it began to sink into his socks, his shoes already having dissolved away without him noticing.

As his toes flexed and spread in the goop, he realized just how…pleasant it felt. With a snort that fogged up his glasses, he stretched out his toes, relishing the cool slickness of the fluid collecting at the bottom of the dumpster.

An early evening sunbeam angled down into the far corner, highlighting a half-eaten croissant, perched daintily on a napkin, as though waiting for him. A little pearlescent drool still sparkled on the bitten-off part, as though some magical creature had been midway through their pastry when they were…distracted. Well, I’m certainly not gonna turn up my snout at a free meal! he thought, his belly swelling with the other tidbits he’d gleaned from various dumpsters that day.

As grey scales crept up his legs and fluffy feathers began to grow from his thighs and butt, he reached out with one horsehide-covered hand to pluck up the croissant, and with the other began to fondle his dick, running thick fingers over the tapering shape, half avian and half equine. The empty cups and used napkins made a comfy nest for the pigeonicorn to kick back into and really enjoy his snack. Some of the Frappuccino goo (or maybe it was the contents of the mop pail used by the baristas to curtail some of the unicorn cum that was always threatening to flood the floor by the end of a busy day) squelched up around him, soaking his feathery ass and making his leg scales gleam.

His horn—subtly iridescent with purple and green like a pigeon’s feathers—glowed, and the delicious trash rose a little higher around his chubby body, a suitable bed for a self-described trashy guy. With crumbs in his beard and a slightly fuller belly, he cooed too himself and added his cum to the fluid sloshing around him. He used a used cup to scoop up some of it and pour it into his muzzle, dribbling it down his face and chest as well, not realizing that his magic was purifying the sludge, making it perfectly safe for consumption…even if the flavors were a bit mixed up. But sweet and creamy was sweet and creamy, and he still had a belly to fill.

He fished his phone from the remnants of his pants before they finished fading away from around his tailfeathers, and sent a quick group text with sticky fingers, inviting his other dumpster-diver friends to join him for a little night party. After all, what pigeonicorn wouldn’t want to be surrounded with his sexy ratnicorn, unicat, raccoonicorn, and unicrownicorn buddies?