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To be honest, it's all Stolas's fucking fault.
Because he'd just mentioned it casually in the afterglow of a full moon fuckfest, sprawled comfortably against his bajillion-count thread sheets, blowing smoke circles with lazy satisfaction as Blitzø twisted and stretched to pop his spine back into alignment. Oh, you wore me out so very well, darling, I feel like I could just drift off with your cock inside me still. Wouldn't that be nice? I'd be so relaxed for you. You'd like that, wouldn't you?
And at the time, he'd rolled his eyes and said something like, You don't need to be more of a pillow princess than you already are, birdbrain, and Stolas had pouted, and the conversation had moved on to horse racing, because one of I.M.P.'s jobs that day had included offing a jockey, and Blitzø had to rant about the sheer unfairness of how that was a Real Actual Job humans could have, and none of them thought to keep it up when they landed in Hell. Waste of a perfect job, if you asked him.
But the thing is, Blitzø is a liar. He's a fucking professional at it. It's a skill he's honed over the years, alongside all the talents he's brought to the assassination business. He lies easier than he breathes, because that's the only way he can survive with any scrap of himself intact. He lies to clients, he lies to M&M, he lies to Loona and to Stolas--and most important of all, he lies to himself.
So when he leaves Stolas's fancy fucking palace early the next morning, he tells himself that weird sleep shit is not going to awaken anything in me, and then he mentally hi-5s himself because ha! Sleeping, waking, pretty good, right?
Right.
Except a couple of weeks later, Stolas texts a selfie of himself in a new babydoll nightie, which is surprisingly tame for the thirsty bird. It's still thin enough to be semi-transparent, the gray of his feathers a visible suggestion under the sheer cream fabric, edged in lace and embroidered with crescent moons and stars. The thing is, he isn't posing in the mirror or anything; he's lying back on his bed, looking ruffled and sleep-mussed and so fucking cozy it makes Blitzø's bones ache to crawl in next to him.
--Just to kick him out, obviously, because fuck that fucking asshole for lounging around and getting to take afternoon naps when SOME people have to spend their whole day busting their asses to make a living.
He considers leaving it on read, after he saves the photo to the secret gallery on his phone, then changes his mind and texts: wer it neckst fool moon
Stolas immediately hearts that reply, and that's where it all really just fucking goes to hell. Double hell. Super double hell.
Because after he does that, he also texts back, You know that you can do whatever you like to me, Blitzy 💜💜💜 You don't have to wait for me to wake up, if you want to have some fun first.
And that's as good as him told, right? Stolas has the subtlety of a fucking wrecking ball. He wants to do the fucking weird sleep thing, which means they'll do the fucking weird sleep thing. Blitzø's not looking forward to it, because despite him accusing Stolas of being a pillow princess, he's fucked a few (dozen) actual pillow princesses in the day--the ones that took it to the extreme, who laid there like a dead fish and whined to be railed harder without lifting a single finger. If nothing else, Stolas can't be accused of being passive, even when Blitzø has him trussed up and strung out of his mind. The idea of Stolas just lying there and taking it is just about the biggest boner kill he could think of.
But the thing is, Stolas is always, always awake whenever Blitzø shows up for the full moon. The cutesy babydoll gets ripped to shreds beyond salvaging, and the next couple that Stolas buys are just a collection of flimsy strings that are barely held together. But he's always awake, and he always welcomes Blitzø with open arms...
...until the time comes when he doesn't. Instead, there's a heavy new crystal on his arm, and the echoes of his own voice in an empty ballroom, and the sight of Stolas's tears ripping a bleeding wound deep in his guts. There's a fucking parade of apologies he nails because he doesn't mean them, and one that he utterly fails because he does.
Life goes on. Sinners continue to come to I.M.P. to get their stupid petty revenge on the world and people they left behind, M&M are disgustingly lovey-dovey at every opportunity, Loona is a perfect shining star who has never done a single thing wrong in her whole life, and Blitzø...
Blitzø skims the tabloids and the gossip mags and the actual news, but if Stolas is having a slut era, he's keeping it on the downlow, and Blitzø isn't sure if he's relieved or guilty. Maybe it's a little bit of both.
Because as much as he hates to admit it, there's some merit to what Verosika said to him at that fucking party. It'll be good for Stolas to get laid with partners that aren't selfish fuckbags of shit. He deserves the chance to have someone who'd actually call themself a lover, who'd look at a pretty selfie of a pretty bird in a pretty babydoll, soft and only half-awake, and go crawl into bed with him and refuse to leave until they were both satisfied.
Sometimes, when Blitzø is feeling particularly masochistic, he goes into that secret gallery, where he's saved every single fucking selfie that Stolas has ever sent him, and he pulls up that one in particular. He thinks about how Stolas had given him permission to do whatever he liked to his sleeping, defenseless body, and he isn't proud to admit that he's jerked off a few (dozen) times over it. He thinks about the way Stolas would often smile in his sleep, all gentle and secret, and how much it looked like the way he smiled at Blitzø when he was awake, too. In hindsight, it feels fucking obvious, everything that he'd written off as Stolas toying with him and had actually been--... something else. Something more.
Something that's nothing, now.
He lost the right to that sweet sleeping face, or the relaxed warmth of a long feathered body next to his. It didn't fucking matter that he hadn't realized it was actually for-real his; he'd still lost his chance.
But the thought just doesn't leave his head. It haunts him worse than any fucking ghost, because at least if it were a ghost he could throw salt in its face and then tell it to piss off while it cried. It just lives there, in the back of his head, under all the other thoughts and feelings of guilt and regret, completely fucking rent-free. Lucky bastard.
It follows him on the job, as he shoots and stabs his way through a menagerie of humans, as he tries not to just immediately insult Moxxie at every given opportunity, as he remembers how to be Fizz's best friend and a better dad to Loona--all as he tries his hardest to claw his way to being something approaching a better person. He never stops scanning the headlines on every cheap celebrity rag he can get his hands on, but he tells himself that it's allowed. He's just trying to keep an eye on things from a distance. He knows how to respect a boundary sometimes, and Stolas had drawn the line definitively. There's nothing for Blitzø to do but keep his distance, and hope that someday, an opportunity would come his way.
And come it does, like a teenager nutting all over his date before he can get it in. Blitzø is designing a new horse OC--a rich leggy bitch with an exceedingly long black-tipped tail, completely original, do not steal--when his phone buzzes with Fizz's ringtone. And because it's Fizz, he picks up the phone to check immediately, instead of letting it marinate for anywhere between five minutes and five hours.
Bad news, it says, which makes him frown, and that only deepens when he opens the attached photo: it's a selfie of Fizz outside one of those fucking overpriced fancy makeup stores he likes so much. He's with Stolas, which is a blow in and of itself--he may or may not have asked Fizz, in a drunk stupor at some point, to try and make friends with Stolas to help keep tabs on him, and also because they both need more friends--and they're both smiling. Stolas looks... good, in fact. Better than he had the night of that fucking party until the very end, when he'd been swept away onto the dance floor. Blitzø stares at the photo until it feels like it's burned into his eyes, and he's about to save it and then text Fizz some annoyed insult back, when he sees what Fizz actually means.
There, at the very corner, just barely visible, is an all-too-familiar sandy-colored tail, and the brim of a cowboy hat. Blitzø stares at it until a crack abruptly appears across the screen--shit, he hadn't realized he was holding on so hard. Whatever. A broken screen doesn't mean the phone is dead.
Unfortunately, it's a reminder that that cowboy fucker also isn't dead. A growl rises in his throat, low and guttural, and it's apparently loud enough that he hears Millie say, as if from a distance, "You okay there, B?"
It's enough to bring him back down to earth. He looks up and sees she's leaning into the doorway of his office, a little concerned frown on her pretty face. There's something in her eyes that makes his throat hurt. Somehow, Millie's maybe the only person he's ever met who's managed to never come across as pitying when she's trying for sympathetic. (Not to say she can't do a really withering pitying look. He's gotten that from her before. But that's not what he's seeing now.)
He swallows down bile and gets to his feet, and he says, "Business, Mills. You okay closing up?"
That gets him a raised eyebrow. She looks at him steadily for a few seconds, and he just barely resists the urge to squirm like some kind of fucking five year old.
But eventually, she says, "Be careful, Blitzø. Call us if you need backup, okay?"
He manages to give her a sickly grin, along with a couple of fingerguns, then slinks past her, out into the office at large and heading for the door. Loona's ears flick in his direction as he passes her, and she looks up for just a moment to make eye contact with him. For a moment he almost hesitates--no matter what, she's always been his priority. There's a whole lot of fucking confused guilt tied up in his guts about the day of her hellbies shot, but when he's clear-headed and not wallowing, he knows he doesn't regret staying with her. If she tells him to stop, he will. No matter how much his heart is racing, no matter how sick he feels knowing Striker was within spitting distance of both Fizz and Stolas, if Loona says--
"Don't do anything too stupid, asshole," she grunts, and goes back to her phone.
Oh, he loves her. She's the best thing that's ever happened to him. Blitzø blows her a kiss, because he doesn't want to distract her from whatever important scrolling she's doing on her phone, and slips out of the office. He hears Moxxie protest as the door swings shut, and Millie soothing him, and then he's in the elevator, headed out.
The first thing he does is text Fizz back for real: bech u buttr b sayf Il kill u uf ur nt
He's in the van, trying to get the fucking thing started, when Fizz texts back: Of course I am. Don't worry, Ozzie's got extra guards on duty right now.
That's not good enough, in Blitzø's opinion, but really, nothing is gonna be good enough until Blitzø's got both Striker's head and dick chopped off and mounted on the wall--in the badass cool display way, and not the nasty fun sexy way. And frankly speaking, he's not sure he'd actually trust anyone else doing it, not with the way Striker keeps fucking coming back, like he's a cockroach and not a snake.
He smashes a fist on the van's dashboard, and it finally sputters to life. Shit, maybe he should actually finally take the fucking thing in to be serviced. He's gotten pretty far on barbed wire and duct tape, but that's not really enough to keep things going forever.
...That's probably somehow a fucking metaphor. He's not going to think about it.
Instead, he focuses on breaking about ten traffic laws on the way to Stolas's palace. One crisis at a time.
He's careful to park a decent distance away, though. If Striker is lurking around, then Blitzø doesn't want to tip him off about his presence. The fucker is slippery and dangerous enough, and Blitzø is resentful enough, that he's ready to play as fucking dirty as possible.
The palace seems almost completely unchanged from the last time he'd been here. There's a few (dozen, fuck) new plants, most of which turn their weird beady eyes on him as he scales the wall and drops down on the other side. The closest one snaps its jaws at him, and he hisses right back, spines bristling. It recoils a little, but it doesn't stop watching him as he wades his way out of the bushes and out onto the walkway. Though he listens as hard as he can, he can't hear any kind of guards on patrol, which, fucking hell. The place had been crawling with them during that party, over a year ago at this point, so where the hell are they now?
You needn't worry about being stopped anymore, darling, Stolas had said to him, when he'd texted about it before their first proper full moon meetup. I've arranged to give them these nights off. You'll have free run of the place, unmolested.
There's no full moon tonight. Blitzø hasn't set foot in the palace for months. There's an actual fucking threat in the form of a maniac supremacist who's nearly killed Stolas twice. Where the FUCK are the guards?!
He keeps a mental tally of everything that's wrong with this scene as he makes his way across the path, towards the vine-covered wall that he can scale to get to Stolas's bedroom. No guards, the bushes provide too much cover for lurkers, no guards, the vines make it too fucking easy to climb up, no guards, why the fuck does his bedroom need a balcony in the first place, still no guards--
And also, the fucking doors are just standing wide open. Just like that! It's like Stolas is throwing his own party here, a "come and get me, all you sick fuckers, because here I am all vulnerable and unguarded, so now's the time to shoot your shot!"
"What the actual fuck, Stolas," he mutters, even though he takes that implied invitation and slinks in. Everything in him is screaming to run, to turn tail and escape before he actually has to talk to Stolas--or worse, find him in someone else's arms. Either is gonna feel like a knife to the gut, but he thinks he has a better chance of surviving one over the other. It's one thing to tell everyone else--your daughter, your employees, the randos ahead of you in line at the coffee shop--that you don't give a fuck if the guy who used to use you as a booty call has moved on.
It's another thing to tell yourself you don't miss the guy you caught feelings for. Blitzø's a fucking great liar, except when he's looking in the mirror on the night of a full moon.
Only it turns out to be an unexpected third option: a quiet dark room, where the only sound is soft hooting breaths, and a long lean body lying alone on the bed. It's so fucking familiar that it's a body blow; Blitzø actually fucking staggers in place, tripping over abso-fucking-lutely nothing to land flat on his face. The sting helps him focus a little, and he clambers to his feet, holding his breath. That was pretty loud? That had to have woken Stolas up...
...except, apparently, it hadn't. Stolas doesn't even twitch, his breathing still relaxed and even. As Blitzø's eyes adjust to the dimness, he sees that the bird has most of the blankets tossed off, so only a thin sheet covers his nakedness versus the world. It's probably because it's a warm night, but there's a part of Blitzø that expects Stolas to sit up and throw that last cover off and leer at him. Surprise, Blitzy! I've been waiting for you!
Except Stolas hasn't called him Blitzy in a long time. Longer than their break--not since that fucking night at fucking Ozzie's.
That had really been the fucking beginning of the end, hadn't it? There had been the phone calls, the texts, the comments on his Sinstagram, but after the night Blitzø had driven away from the palace, he'd only seen Stolas in person once before the end, and the bird had spent most of that day in a weird(ly hot) human disguise.
(There'd been the hospital, of course, but that was different. Seeing familiar long tailfeathers drifting overhead as the stretcher was rushed into the hospital didn't count.)
After that, it had been that fucking full moon, and Verosika's fucking party, and then... nothing. Only the crumbs that came from stalking six different tabloids, six different news stations, and six different gossip websites. This is the closest Blitzø has been to Stolas in person since Halloween.
Stolas had been drunk then; he's asleep now. Blitzø should leave--
Outside, in the garden, something rustles. Something crunches. He whips around, his whole body on sudden alert, his heart thundering in his chest. He rushes to the balcony, leaning over the railing and scanning the garden.
Nothing.
Blitzø stays in place for a solid five minutes--long enough that the cold from the stone railing is starting to seep into his guts, and his eyes burn from his refusal to blink. His heart still feels like it's going to rip its way out of his chest any second now.
Still nothing. Which would be a relief, except for how the "nothing" also means no fucking guards.
He finally turns to glance over his shoulder. Stolas is still fast asleep from the look and sound of it, as relaxed as ever. There's a part of Blitzø that wants to storm over and shake that fucking bird awake and then scream in his face. There's a shitstain psychopath lurking out there that has access to blessed weapons, who's almost killed him twice over, and who was so close to him earlier today that he could've tripped Stolas with his fucking tail and slit his throat before anyone else could react. There's probably others out there who'd love to take a shot at a Goetian prince, and there's no fucking way he's going to call Blitzø for help again, not after what happened last time, but also he has no fucking guards on duty--
But there's also a part of Blitzø that just kind of wants to curl up next to that soft body and count all of his gentle breaths, some small lost fucking pathetic creature that's found its way home at last. He wants to put his face in those feathers and remember how to breathe.
And on top of that, he knows what he should do: close those doors, maybe put something heavy in front of them so anyone trying to get in would have to struggle long enough to wake Stolas, and then leave. He could set some traps along the way, just in case any fuckers out there wanted to try their luck, but he should leave. This is definitely crossing a line, and while Blitzø still doesn't really care (that much) about doing that to most people, this is different. This is something he's been actively working on, and he hates wasted effort.
Then Stolas shifts in bed, with a cooing sigh, and Blitzø moves.
He steps back into the bedroom, closes the balcony doors behind him and locks them, and then he stalks his way over to the bed. His brain catches up as he's climbing his way up, crouched over Stolas's body like some sort of fucking animal. He's suddenly so close that every breath he takes tastes like feather dust and fancy bath products, staring at a face he's memorized and still feels fucking brand new. He freezes up as Stolas moves again, slipping from his side to his back, his shoulder brushing against where Blitzø's hand is braced on the bed.
This is it, he thinks. This is where Stolas wakes up and if he's lucky, there'll be time for a screaming match where he can impress the importance of being on his guard before Stolas turns him to fucking stone and chucks his carcass out the window.
Except that's not what happens.
If anything, Stolas seems to relax further, taking in a slow, deep breath and letting it out with another coo, and there is an honest to fucking goodness smile on his face that wasn't there a second ago. He has to know, on some level, that Blitzø is there, leaning over him like a fucking pervert creep. If he could know that I.M.P. was in trouble in the human world without a single hint, he has to know this is happening now. He has to know he's completely vulnerable like this, open and available to any jackass that might have once heard you can do whatever you want to my sleeping body, it's fine, and since he never took it back, that means it's still all right, right? Right--
"Stols," Blitzø says, his voice a low rumble. It's barely a name in that growl. He shifts his weight a little, just enough to put his hand right on that fluffy little poof of feathers on Stolas's chest that aren't boobs, but still kind of are like boobs. It's definitely as soft as any that Blitzø has groped in his life. Maybe softer, because it's just feathers and air, and he just needs to curl his fingers a little to reach delicate skin, which is always so fucking sensitive to pressure--
Stolas whines, so softly: an itty bitty little noise, so small that Blitzø knows he would've missed it if he wasn't so laser-focused. That skinny chest rocks under his hand, and his thinking brain knows it's just because Stolas is breathing (which is good, fuck, please keep breathing), but his dick brain thinks it's because Stolas wants to be touched.
(And is that wrong? Really? No matter how shitty things ended up, Stolas had always wanted to be touched. He'd always been so thirsty for any kind of contact. After the ropes were cut down, after the spikes were wrapped up and put away, Stolas had always reached out again and again, seeking out touch. Even now, fast asleep, he wants touch.)
For a few long seconds, Blitzø remains frozen. Maybe Stolas has woken up and turned him into hard rock (hard, hah) after all. But he's still breathing, so fucking loud in his own ears as he sits back on his haunches, and he lets that hand drag down, his big clumsy fingers dragging rows through those fucking soft feathers, over the length of that long ribcage and halfway down his belly, until Blitzø's own body blocks the way. And Stolas is like five thousand feet tall, but he looks so damn delicate in comparison to Blitzø's claws. Like it'd only take a little squeeze to snap him in fucking half.
Get out, he tells himself. Get out, get the fuck out, you know he doesn't want you here, you're fucking up your chances and also everything else if you're still here when he wakes up, get out, get out, get--
Stolas turns his head to the side, his body rocking with another one of those slow deep breaths, and there's a tiny smile on his face that is unfairly fucking hot, and--
"Blitzø," he says, a whisper, a mumble, and he is still fucking fast asleep, his breathing hasn't changed and he's still so completely relaxed, but he's fucking saying Blitzø's name and--
And fuck. Fuck. Blitzø is a fucking simple man. He's equal opportunity for tits and ass, he's flexible both literally and figuratively, and he hasn't gotten laid in like six months--longer if you didn't count M&M's ex, and half the time, he didn't. He's fucking horny, and because there's no one to admit it to but himself, he's missed this in particular. Of course he doesn't miss the absolutely batshit things Stolas could come up with (or maybe he did) (but only a little) (just a little!) (okay, a lot) (fuck you), but something like this, where Stolas was soft and sweet and acting like he actually gave a damn about Blitzø?
On top of that, being fuckass naked and spread out under Blitzø while also sounding like that? Again: he's a simple man. His dick brain hasn't gotten the notice that the bird is off-limits, so it is fucking ready to go.
(But is the bird off-limits? Because Blitzø is all for deluding himself to get through the day, but he knows what he heard. That had definitely been his name coming from Stolas's mouth. And it had been way too soft to be dreaming about a hatefuck, or even an angry one.)
So when you think about it, it really is all Stolas's fault.
Blitzø's moving before he can actually think about it again, sliding down Stolas's body, over his hips and halfway down those long, long legs. It's been months since he's done this, but the movement is still so fucking easy. Like finding his balance on the tightrope, or remembering the timing for his jumps so that his hands would find the bar, or Fizz's hand--things that he'd done so many times in the past that it's second nature to move like this. His tail lifts the remaining blanket out of the way, tossing it off to the side as he settles himself between Stolas's thighs.
This doesn't feel quite as "home" as the thought of being curled up at Stolas's side, but you know what? Close second.
"Hey," he whispers, his voice rough. "Hey, Stols. Tell me no if you don't want it."
He waits for what feels like a pretty fucking generous amount of time. He counts at least ten slow breaths from Stolas, and he distracts himself by running his hands up and down those thighs, alternating between watching that slack face and watching the way his hands push those soft, soft feathers up, then smooth them down again. The contact soothes him, but also it leaves his palms tingling. Fuck, he's missed this.
Ten breaths. Fifteen. Twenty. That's enough. That's him told right there.
"Okay," he says. He feels lightheaded, like he's on the good drugs, all these things sparking and lighting up inside him. "Okay, okay--fuck. Okay."
He pushes Stolas's legs wide open, taking a second to appreciate just how fucking flexible he is. There'd been a contortionist at the old circus who could twist her body in ways that could make even Hellborn audiences wince, but Blitzø thinks she had nothing on this. It's fucking obscene, how easy it is to push Stolas's legs up and then back, until they lie flat against the bed, his long spine bent into a sharp curl.
Has anyone else gotten to test this? How many? He wants a list of every fucker who's been given the opportunity to see Stolas spread open like this--every single one who's had this chance and decided not to stick around afterwards. Didn't they fucking know that Stolas wants someone who'll stick around? Someone who'll want him above any and every other piece of ass in Hell? Sure, Blitzø blew his fucking chance, but fucking hell, if no one else is going to fucking step up, then--
"I've got you, baby," he mutters, sliding one hand up Stolas's thigh until it's right up against his body, until Blitzø can stroke a thumb over the tiny downy feathers that covers Stolas's birdpuss, parting them until he can see the small slit. It's already slick, and he lets out a pleased hiss. "You fucking want someone to want you? I got it right here."
If he stops for too long, if he thinks about it, he knows he's gonna get all fucking in his head about what he's doing. Not just the whole fucking boundary thing, either, though he's still half-expecting to look up and see Stolas staring at him, as the last thing he sees before he's blasted into dust.
It's just, if he thinks about it, he remembers the fucking learning curve with the Asmodean Crystal, the whole fucking performance anxiety of it, and the weeks of second guessing if Stolas had actually liked any of the shit they'd done, if he'd just been faking it because he was some kind of freak who got off on laughing about an imp's shitty performance in bed later, after Blitzø was gone--
But when he presses his thumb a just a bit harder, parting those velvety folds and finding the little bundle of nerves that is not supposed to be a clit, but is also basically a fucking clit, checkmate, Stolas--it gets him a shuddering response, Stolas's hips lifting up into that touch. He makes such a fucking sweet cooing noise that Blitzø's face goes hot with something kind of like embarrassment.
That's an honest response, he thinks. That isn't something rehearsed, or faked, or fucking--roleplay, whatever. Stolas is still asleep, too relaxed to be anything but, so this is just, his raw, real, unfiltered response.
Holy fucking shit.
It's an opportunity that he's never actually considered before, that he's never been given with literally anyone else he's ever fucked. He has to stop for a moment to just breathe to stop himself from doing something really embarrassing, like nutting on the spot. Because he's never had an actual issue with the fucking Crystal since the one time, but look: like a lot of shit, it only has to happen once to haunt you for-fucking-ever.
He leans in, and down, exhaling in a hot rush right up against that exposed cunt. When he breathes in, his head spins a little from the familiar scent, and that's all it takes to get his mouth watering. Stolas's hips roll a little under his hands, a tiny, sleep-muted response.
"That's it," Blitzø mutters, letting the words brush right up against those wet feathers and the slick skin beneath. "That's right, baby, you just let Daddy know how you like it..."
And then of course he has to put his mouth where the money is, so he drags his tongue along the whole of Stolas's slit in a long, firm pass--not quite the same as a more traditional pussy, but maybe better, because Stolas whimpers quietly, his head dragging briefly against his pillows before he goes still again. He's breathing harder now, just a little, but his face is still slack. Blitzø is the one who has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning. Stolas might be out cold for now, but he wants a little more before the bird wakes up and puts an end to this. Just a little more.
Blitzø presses in harder, his snout right up against those damp feathers, breathing in Stolas's scent like it's the good stuff, stroking his tongue against the tighter ring of muscle that surrounds the hole buried in those soft folds. Even at the best of times, when Stolas is fully relaxed and eager, it takes some work to get anything deeper into him. But Blitzø is fucking determined, he is doing this, because he hadn't known the last time that it was gonna be the last, so if this is his actual final fucking (literally) hurrah, he's going to do this. He's going to go so deep to fucking memorize the taste so it'll carry him the rest of his life.
When his tongue finally dips in, Stolas moans louder, a cute trilling noise, his hips lifting higher, harder, like another invitation. He tries wiggling his tongue, curls it into an S shape, feels around for all those sensitive little pockets and and patches inside of Stolas's puss, and he's rewarded with more soft sleepy pleading noises, and more slick welling up, smoothing his way.
Fucking bingo?!
Blitzø makes a muffled noise of his own, encouraging, because he's so hungry, he's fucking starving, and it feels like he's going to die if he doesn't drown himself a little in Stolas's pussy.
(Yeah and maybe he'll die for real when this is over, but frankly? What a fucking way to go.)
He's only a little ashamed that he loses himself in the act, fucking his tongue as deep as he can reach, his claws kneading at the soft spread of Stolas's thighs. When one long leg tries to kick out, he leans his harder in, using his whole weight to pin his lanky bird to the mattress while he redoubles his efforts. He grazes the tip of one fang lightly over that not-a-clit--not hard enough to break the skin (yet? yet?!), but enough that it has to sting. And like he'd hoped, Stolas reacts beautifully, his voice rising into an even higher whine. There's a whole steady stream of sounds pouring out of him to match the slick flowing from his hole, little chirps and gasps and twitters and even--and maybe that's just Blitzø's delulu brain talking here--things that might just be a certain name.
He's so focused, in fact, that it takes him by surprise when Stolas comes.
Normally, he'd be paying attention, and he would've noticed the way Stolas's long body shivered and shook, the way he started to tighten up further around Blitzø's tongue, the way his voice took on a fever pitch and his scent a sharper edge... but it feels like one second, he's dragging his tongue against that textured patch of nerves just inside Stolas's cunt, and the next Stolas is shrieking outright, writhing as his thighs try to close around Blitzø's head and there's that whole lightning-storm feeling that means all that fucking intense eldritch magic Stolas has on tap is bubbling a little too close to the surface.
Fuck. Fuck yeah. That was definitely a success. Chalk that up as a victory for Blitzø, who does in fact know what he's doing, and his way around a puss.
He lifts his head, panting, and finds himself staring right into wide, dazed red eyes.
Oops.
Stolas looks like a wreck, his head feathers messed and pushed out of place, and all his other feathers fluffed up. His beak hangs open as he pants for breath, and he looks like he'd just gotten run over by a sexy, sexy truck. One with a horse painted on the side. Multiple horses. His eyes blink out of time with each other.
"Blitzø...?" he says, and Blitzø can't suppress the smug thrill that goes through him at how rough he sounds. That's the sound of a bird who's been well-fucked, and--
"What are you doing here?"
--oh fuck. That's right.
Well. Okay. There are two options that Blitzø has now, as far as he can tell:
One, he makes a run for it. He can just hide in the garden and keep watch from there, which might be a better position, anyway, and then he can have Moxxie draft some anonymous note later that say something like HIRE GUARDS AND KEEP THEM AROUND YOU STUPID ASSHOLE, but maybe a little more nicely. He'd probably have to wait until later to deal with his boner, but fuck it, being blueballed might give him the edge if a fight happened.
Two, he stays. Which means he'll get turned to stone as soon as Stolas's sleep-fuzzy brain wakes up enough to realize what's happened, what Blitzø has done, and under some circumstances, Blitzø would have welcomed it. But there's Loona waiting for him, and there's M&M who are expecting him tomorrow morning, and there's Fizz, who has no one else who remembers what it was like, when they were kids.
(Barbie won't talk to Fizz, either. Blitzø had wondered if maybe they'd bonded over hating him, but no. Her hurt and resentment are for her past as a whole, and she and Fizz haven't spoken since he was discharged from the hospital.)
So fuck. As much as there is a part of Blitzø who thinks he'd deserve it, to let himself get fucking skewered and powderized by Stolas, he can't. Maybe after he loses everyone else, he can come back and present himself and say, okay. Fine. You got me, do it.
A little hitchy sound drags him out of his thoughts--shit, fuck, he'd gotten distracted, and now it's too late, he's going to get caught, except--
Except Stolas is crying. He's not angry, though he probably deserves to be this time--he's crying from all four eyes again, which is still one of the worst fucking things Blitzø has ever seen in his life. It feels like being gutted with a serrated knife, like Stolas had reached those long wickedly sharp claws into his chest and just ripped them out again.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, Stols, look, don't--"
"Why are you here? What do you want from me?" Stolas whispers, and fuck, he sounds as heartbroken as he did at Verosika's fucking party, like maybe he's also got fresh injuries just from seeing Blitzø again. Only this time, there's no pretty-faced cockbag to slide in and sweep Stolas away for something better--there's just Blitzø, disaster fuckwad extraordinare, his face still damp from Stolas's slick and his dick still fucking hard, with a heart so full of holes and patches that it's worth less than shit. There's still Striker out there, lurking, and who the fuck knew what that asshole might try this time?
As it turns out, there was a hidden third option that Blitzø hadn't even considered: he lunges forward and he smashes his mouth against Stolas's.
It is an absolutely shitty kiss, his snout smashing against Stolas's cheek and Stolas's sharp beak slicing a bloody line into Blitzø's lip. Stolas makes a startled noise, and his mouth tastes like blood and tears and something sweeter too, and his hands land on Blitzø's shoulders, but though he pushes, there's no strength to it. Blitzø knows for a fact that Stolas is a lot fucking stronger than his hollow bones would suggest, that the magic that's in his blood means he could probably rip apart a raging hellephant with his bare hands without getting a single feather out of place. It means something, now, that he's acting like he wants to push Blitzø off, but he's putting no actual intent in the motion.
Also, look, Blitzø's specialty is guns, not hand-to-hand, but he's no slouch in that department. He knows what it feels like when someone is trying to throw him off so they can go for his throat, his belly, whatever's vulnerable. This isn't that.
What it is, though, he has no fucking idea. He just keeps holding that kiss, bad as it is, shoving his hands deep into those ruffled head feathers, wrapping his tail around Stolas's thin waist. Anything for another anchor point, whatever it fucking took to tie them together, because he's fucking home here, home in a way he hasn't been since he was a drooling kit in his mom's arms--and this isn't like that, fuck no it's not like that, but it's also not not like that.
And at some point, Stolas's hands slip from his arms to his back instead, those long thin arms wrapping around him, and they're both clinging to each other like fucking romcom assholes. Stolas is still crying, and fuck it, maybe Blitzø is too, but just a little. He's not fucking admitting anything. But he does rut a little against Stolas's belly, because apparently near-certain death is not enough to kill his boner. Good to know.
When he finally pulls back, Stolas's upper eyes aren't crying anymore, which is a relief, but his lower eyes are still teary, so it's not that much of one. He keeps a solid grip on those longer silky feathers, leaning in close enough that those eyes eclipse almost everything else in his vision. If he sees anything more, he'll lose his nerve, and he's just so fucking tired.
He's so, so, so fucking tired. And maybe it's that which makes him open his mouth to let bullshit fall out.
"I miss you," he says, and, "I'm a fucking piece of shit because that fucking supremacist is after you again and it took that much to get my ass in gear," and, "I'm sorry."
Stolas blinks. This close, he doesn't look like some kind of fucking pompous royal asshole, the way he does in all those tabloids, and the way he does in Blitzø's nightmares. He looks fragile, like if Blitzø breathes wrong he'll shatter into pieces, and he also looks tired. And soft. And like a lot of things that Blitzø hasn't let himself think about wanting in years.
"You're sorry?" he breathes, and fuck, of course that's what he locks onto. His fingers flex against Blitzø's back, curled around the spines. For a moment he looks so fucking shocked and maybe even a little happy--and then his expression crumbles all over again, and fuck, fuck, Blitzø doesn't even know what he's done this time, but he just knows what's coming next--
"I'm the one who should be saying that," Stolas says, and what? What??
"Uh, the fuck?" Blitzø says, and he finally pulls back enough so they can look at each other properly, instead of that too-close, almost-romantic angle. "Why?"
"Why--you know why, don't you?" Stolas says, and he's anxious, he's pleading, this is the fucking bargaining stage of something. "All the things I've done, and said--the way I treated you for so long--you were the one who forced me to confront them, Blitzø. I've had the time to think about it, to--to reflect, and I--"
"No," Blitzø says. He tightens the grip of his tail around Stolas's waist, shifts his weight so he can grab that soft fluffy face in both hands. "No, fuck it, that's not, I didn't mean--I mean, I did mean it, but I--"
"You deserved so much better than I gave you," Stolas says, breathless, and okay, they're doing this, they're talking over each other loud and fast, except it's apologies instead of angry words. "I didn't really understand at first, and not for a long time, and I'm sure I still have so many blind spots, dar--Blitzø, I know I do, but I can see now how terribly I treated you, how condescending and self-important I was--"
"You're the one who had to put up with too much shit," Blitzø insists. "I'm a fucking mess, Stols, you of all people should know that. I always knew you wanted all that romantic shit, and I didn't give it to you--"
"You had no reason to! It was wrong of me to expect that of you, when I was the one treating you like some sort of toy--"
"--but I wanted to!" Blitzø yells, in spite of his best intentions. He gets right into Stolas's pretty face, still clutching those feathers. He's going to explode, he's vibrating like all his blood's going to boil up in his veins, he's still fucking hard somehow, and he is trying to make a point that isn't his dick (for once). "You fucking asshole, I wanted to give you that bullshit, and the problem was that I couldn't fucking tell if you wanted it from me specifically, and I don't even fucking know if it would've made it better or worse if I had!"
Stolas blinks. "...I don't believe I follow?"
Blitzø makes a strangled noise, all frustration, and bangs their foreheads together. He considers kissing Stolas again, just to see if that'll work as a distraction, but fuck, he doesn't think he'll be able to get away with it this time. Still tempting, though. Maybe he should table the possibility for later.
"You were shitty sometimes," he says at last, through his teeth. "Fucking pompous asshole--I'm not taking that back. You acted like I was just some kind of fun toy you could shove into the back of your closet when it was convenient--hey, no, fuck you, you look at me when I'm talking." He gives Stolas a shake, forcing those pinpoint white pupils to swing back towards him, from where they'd been moving away. "That was shit. I'm not giving you that out."
"I wouldn't ask for that," Stolas says quietly. "I want to be someone who listens, not someone who makes excuses. Not that I expect you to do that labor for me, just... I can only learn when I am taught, Blitzø."
"Yeah, well." Blitzø is the one who looks away this time, before he forces himself back to the eye contact. "The thing is... fuck. I'm a fucking shitty partner, you know that? What the fuck am I saying, of course you do, you were at that stupid party--"
"It was stupid," Stolas says. He lifts a hand, slow, like he thinks Blitzø might bolt--and fuck if he isn't wrong to think it. But Blitzø forces himself to stay still, waiting as that elegant thin hand settles on one of his horns, right where it curves, and strokes in slow, careful movements. "A stupid party, thrown for stupid reasons, for people made stupid by heartbreak."
Blitzø hunches his shoulders. "Don't let Verosika hear you saying that, she'd--"
"I've already told her," Stolas says, so calmly, still petting Blitzø's horn. "She took a liking to me in particular, for whatever reason. I couldn't tell you why. But we are... friends, I dare say, in a fashion."
"Oh, well, fuck me, then--"
"And as friends," Stolas's tone is firmer now, a little more of His Royal Bitchiness that is doing wonders for Blitzø's boner, thanks for asking, "I felt it was only right that I give her my honest opinion on the event."
Blitzø raises an eyebrow. "And?"
"And do you know, she agreed with me." There is the tiniest little smile on Stolas's face, and it's fucking cute. "She has her reasons for holding onto it for so long, and we aren't so close that I wanted to pry. I do think that if she throws another party this Halloween, the theme will be different. Either way, I did tell her that if the, ah, if things were the same as previous years, I wouldn't be attending."
Blitzø opens his mouth. Closes it. He unwinds his tail from around Stolas, then wraps it around him again, tighter than before. "Why?"
That smile grows, but it's so fucking sad--no, wistful, the way one of those fucking heroines in all of Stolas's shitty romance novels might smile, when faced with heartbreak.
"I thought it'd be obvious," he says. "Even if I'm not your 'someone,' Blitzø, you have always been mine."
And that's not really a big dramatic declaration, not the kind of over the top melodrama he knows the damn bird adores, but that says a lot, doesn't it? That's a fucking book in and of itself. Blitzø's shitty at reading, but even he can't miss this.
What the fuck does he even say to that?
Probably not what comes out of his mouth, which is: "I'm gonna fuck you."
Stolas blinks. "I beg your pardon?"
He's already moving, shifting back from where he's been sprawled on top of Stolas, pushing those long, long legs open again, enough for him to settle between them. Stolas doesn't fight him, but he doesn't help either, staring at him with open bewilderment. Probably he's expecting something more--a rejection or an agreement, but unfortunately for him, he picked Blitzø to hang all his soft feelings on, so he's just gotta take what he gets.
"I'm gonna fuck you," he says again, with what he thinks is a fucking heroic amount of patience. Give him a damn medal. Maybe all those shitty self-help podcasts Moxxie keeps linking him have done some good after all. "Listen, Stols, I have been shitty with words since my whole life. The second you expect me to actually say shit is where you're gonna be fucking disappointed."
Stolas's eyebrows draw together, the beginning of a frown pulling at his pretty mouth. "Blitzø..."
"So I'll just fucking show you, instead," he says, determined. He sits back on his haunches, as much as he can with his tail still wrapped around Stolas--slid down to his hips rather than higher on his waist now--and starts to undo his belt. "...And if you wanna sit around and talk more like pussy crybabies, we can do that... too. Later."
"Blitzø, this is really rather unorthodox--"
"I have no idea what that fucking means," he says, then hisses as he gets his pants open, tugging them down enough to free his cock. He takes a moment to breathe in relief, and then he makes himself talk, because doing words is still the hardest (heh) thing for him, but he's trying to give this whole don't blow everything up on purpose thing a shot. "Stols, I will fucking bite off my own damn tongue and choke on it right now if I try to say any of the kind of shit you actually deserve to hear. So let me just tell you like this, okay? Let me do it this way, and then we'll do it your way. With all the fucking... words. And shit."
A hand touches his face, cool and smooth and kind of leathery, where the feathers drop away to just naked skin. "Blitzø," Stolas says, "please, even if you don't want to use words, I need--" and here he pauses, because he looks like maybe he's going to be sick, and he's not the only one, they're both teetering on the edge of it all, "I need to know. I need to know where this is going."
It's my dick going into your birdpuss so deep I come out your throat, he wants to say, but he swallows that down and shoves his face hard into that hand.
"You're... not," he says at last, rough. "You're--you're just--you're not not my 'someone,' asshole. Okay?"
I care if you stay or go. You're the one I want. I'll fucking talk to you if that's what you want so badly, just let me hold you, and maybe we can help each other not feel so... so.
He grimaces, because fuck, that sounds so fucking stupid--for once, even if he's shitty at words, it seems like he's actually said the right fucking thing. Stolas is looking at him with those big, big red eyes, shining like Blitzø somehow pulled the fucking moon out of the sky and offered it to him.
"Okay," Stolas says, so softly. "Okay, Blitzø."
"Now can I fuck you?" he mutters, turning his head more so that his mouth is pressed against Stolas's palm. "Like I said. I'll tell you this way. Then we can try with fucking words."
"Okay," Stolas murmurs again. "I'd like that."
At which point Blitzø has to kiss him again, because he can't not, okay? Look at that, they successfully did a communication. Sort of. Ish. Enough. Whatever.
This time, Stolas kisses back immediately, no hesitation at all. He opens right up like a good bird, all soft and fucking sweet, with his hands so fucking gentle as they wander up and down Blitzø's back. When Blitzø fucks his tongue into his mouth, like a preview of what's coming next, Stolas just twines their tongues together and opens his mouth wider, welcoming in a way that he hasn't been--that anyone has ever been--in so long.
It all feels so stupidly easy. Even though it's been months, they're in sync in a way that surprises him. They move like it's some sort of well-rehearsed dance, Blitzø grabbing Stolas's hips to hitch them up, bending him nearly in half, and Stolas crossing his ankles behind Blitzø's back while keeping his knees open so that he's spread nice and wide for easy access. They're being fucking vanilla, and it'd be embarrassing if it didn't feel so stupidly good.
He adjusts enough in the kiss so that the sharp edge of Stolas's beak nicks his lip again, but even the fresh blood doesn't make it feel any less sweet. Blitzø digs his claws into those fluffed feathers and drags his hands down as far as he can reach without breaking the kiss, and the smooth glide under his palms leaves his skin tingling.
And Stolas doesn't just lie there, either. He's definitely getting something out of those kisses, and when he tastes Blitzø's blood again he arches his hips, so that the wet feathers of his cunt rub right up against Blitzø's cock, and it's like fucking fireworks going off in his head. Especially when Stolas manages to tilt himself just so that the head catches against his hole, wet and soft but still not quite the angle to let him slide in.
Things go from "vanilla missionary" to "horny teenagers who are on a fucking deadline (the deadline is getting it in before one or both of them blows their load)" real fast from there. It's a lot of fumbling, with Blitzø just short of jamming his fingers into Stolas's cunt to get him a little loosened up again, just enough so that when he does find the right angle, he can slide his cock right in, deep as he can in one smooth motion.
"Fuck," he mutters, right up against Stolas's open beak, the air shared hot and humid between them. "Fuck, I missed this, baby, did you miss me? Did you miss Daddy's big red dick in your tight little pussy?"
"I did," Stolas gasps, all whiny and bratty, and still so fucking sweet somehow. His hands curl against Blitzø's back, those long fingers clutching at his shoulders and his spines. "I did, so much, please, please, harder, harder--"
"Oh, I'll give you harder," Blitzø hisses, grabbing the backs of Stolas's knees, pinning them down against the bed, using that as leverage to piston his hips harder, reveling in the wet slap of skin against feathers. He's a little surprised he didn't nut the second he was inside of Stolas, but fuck it, he'll take advantage of that for as long as he can. "I'll give it to you so good, baby, so fucking good you'll dream of me for-fucking-ever, you'll never be able to get away from me, even in your damn dreams--"
"Please," Stolas cries, and those white pupils are fixed on Blitzø, bigger than usual, and Blitzø doesn't think he could look away even if he wanted to. "Please, Blitzø, I want it, I want you so deep you never leave, oh, oh, oh fuck--"
Blitzø grits his teeth and screws his eyes shut, because he'd forgotten, somehow, he'd forgotten that Stolas is a fucking triple threat, because he feels good, he sounds good (when he isn't going freakish with his dirty talk), and forget looking at him, because Blitzø has fucked a lot of very pretty people in his slutty, slutty life, but it turns out there's maybe something to fucking with feelings. Looking at Stolas when he's this worked up is like getting punched in the chest and the gut in the sexiest possible way.
And there's no fucking way he's going to pull out now, and it's too late to shove a gag into Stolas's beak (not that it really fixes the real problem, which is that all the little whimpers and cries and nonverbal noises are the best parts of the sounds Stolas makes), so it's gotta be not looking at him.
Stolas's fingers curl so that the talons are digging into Blitzø's skin now, through his shirt, and he can't even be mad that it's another piece of clothing ruined. He'll wear it as a fucking badge of honor or whatever. New holes! But earned through someone's pleasure and not attempted murder, which he can get behind. He can feel the sting of sweat against those cuts, and probably some of what he feels trickling down his back is blood as well as sweat, and that sharp stinging edge is so fucking sweet.
Even with his eyes closed, even with everything in him focused on trying to hold out just a little more, a little longer, he can tell when Stolas is right there at the edge. And his tail, like the thing has a fucking mind of its own, winds its way just so around Stolas's hips, so that he can nudge the tip of it against that magic little bundle of nerves. He doesn't bother with any fancy tricks or stroking, just holds it there and lets the motion of their hips drive Stolas up into that pressure.
And guess what? That's fucking enough.
Stolas arches with a piercing shriek as his body seizes, the walls of his cunt squeezing and rippling in waves around Blitzø's cock. His talons rake bloody lines down Blitzø's back, and those dual sensations are the last straw for him, too. His own claws dig in too hard, too tight, and he knows he's drawing blood too as his hips slam forward one last time, moving into a rolling grind once, twice, three times as they both ride out the orgasm.
For a single second, Blitzø stays crouched over Stolas's body. His heart is pounding in his chest, his blood roaring in his ears, and his throat and chest hurt like he's run some kind of fucking marathon. Which, hey, that's not too off the mark if you emphasize the "fucking" part of it.
Then his arms start shaking, and he collapses forward and down, faceplanting into that soft, soft puff of feathers on Stolas's chest. The movement means he pulls out a little, but he's too jelly-limbed to manage the whole way, and from the way Stolas just grunts and flexes his fingers on Blitzø's back, he's feeling the same.
They lay there, panting for some long amount of time. Maybe it's fucking hours, he doesn't know. His sense of time tends to get away from him. But he's so fucking comfortable right now, like he could just curl up and go right the fuck to sleep and maybe even wake up refreshed.
A hand settles on his head, between his horns, and strokes slowly down to the spines at the back of his skull, then lifts to repeat the motion.
"Blitzø," Stolas says softly.
He grunts. "Not yet," he says, into those stupidly soft feathers. "I need... not yet."
Under him, Stolas's body trembles, but he recognizes it as a near-silent laugh, so he stays as flat as possible. "No, I understand... I do too. But I did have a question."
"Y'can ask," he mumbles. "Dunno if I'll answer."
There's a pause that goes on so long that Blitzø starts to drift off. It doesn't help that Stolas keeps petting his head too, all soft and gentle and lov-- nice.
"You said you came here because someone was after me...?"
That's a whole jolt of adrenaline, which is enough to get Blitzø to lift his head, his spines lifting in an aggressive display against... absolutely nothing and no one, because even when he looks around the whole room, there's no one in it but the two of them. Which means he has to look at Stolas again, who is watching him with open curiosity and some worry, too.
"Blitzø?"
He shrugs aggressively, pushing himself up on his shaky arms so he can glare properly. It does mean his dick slips out of Stolas entirely, which is a shame, but maybe they'll get to revisit fucking in a little bit. Gotta live in hope, right?
"You were out with Fizz earlier, right?" he asks gruffly.
Stolas's eyes widen. "Fizzarolli? Well, yes, but--how did you--?"
"He texted me." Blitzø considers his position, then shifts to arrange Stolas better--legs closed now, but knees still bent up, like he could bundle the lanky ass motherfucker into a neat package, small enough for Blitzø to keep proper guard over. "Real fucking cute picture, by the way. Anyway. Looks like that asshole Striker's sniffing around again."
Stolas blinks, slowly. "He's probably after Fizzarolli, not me," he says. "As nasty as he was, he doesn't strike me as the sort of man who'd go through so much trouble without getting paid for it."
Blitzø pauses and eyes him. "Yeah? So? We don't know who it was who hired him, so--"
"I do," Stolas says.
"You do?"
"I do."
Blitzø waits for what he thinks is a really generous amount of time, and then, when Stolas says nothing, prompts, "So...?"
"It's handled, Blitzø," Stolas says. He won't quite meet his eyes. "You needn't concern yourself. In fact, she--they'd called off the hit entirely by the time your employees arrived."
She. She. Blitzø's eyes narrow. "That fucking miserable piss-brained screeching cuntwaffle--"
"Blitzø." There's a firmness in Stolas's tone that is almost never there--not authority, not exactly, but something that manages to shut even him up for a few seconds. "Not yet."
He frowns. "Not yet?"
"Not yet." Stolas lifts a hand, stroking the backs of his knuckles down Blitzø's scarred cheek, light as his feathers. Light as a dream, really, like maybe one or both of them are asleep somehow, somewhere. "It's... not easy for me to discuss either. But if you want to hear, I'll tell you."
Blitzø growls. There's a part of him that doesn't want to settle, no matter how fucking nice that gentle touch is. He doesn't know if he likes the idea that someone (a fucking shitbag, not "someone") paid Striker for the hit better than Striker just being an asshole with a superiority complex and a shitload of ambition. "I'm gonna put a fucking bullet between her eyes."
Stolas makes a face, then curls his hand behind Blitzø's neck and pulls him down, until his face is buried in sweet-smelling feathers again. "Please don't," he says. "She's not worth your effort. Or your bullets." When Blitzø doesn't stop growling, he breaks out the big guns, scritching the very tips of his talons around the base of his horns and spines, which is just fucking not fair. "Please. It's more complicated than it sounds. Trust me."
Another annoyed noise bubbles out of Blitzø's throat, but he's relaxing too much for it to be a proper snarl. He can't let go of his irritation just yet, though. "You don't even have any fucking guards," he mutters. "What the fuck, Stols. You're a fucking prince, shouldn't you have people on your ass every single second? What happened to those assholes from that party?"
"Party?" Stolas pauses for a second, then huffs something that's almost maybe a laugh. "Those were Stella's guards, Blitzø. I don't need them."
Blitzø turns his head just enough to glare up at him with one eye. He hopes that his silence says enough. Maybe it does, because Stolas fucking laughs, covering his mouth with his other hand.
"I mean it," he says. There's a smile on his face and his voice, like his safety is funny, like Blitzø wouldn't just fucking burn the entire Pride Ring down if something happened to him. "Just in level of potential alone, I outstrip Stella entirely. There's simply no comparing us. We employed guards when she lived in this house, and more when Octavia was younger. Now it's just me, and I hardly need them." And then, like he's realized that maybe Blitzø has a point, he adds, "That time with--Striker, you said his name was? That was a miscalculation on my part. No one among the Goetia uses blessed weaponry when they try to assassinate each other. It's considered poor manners."
"You're fucking immortal," Blitzø mutters. He turns his face back into the feathers, because that's probably better than doing something like losing his fucking mind and barricading the doors and windows Just In Case. "How the fuck else do you royal assholes take each other out?"
"Trade secret, darling," Stolas trills, then freezes. "Oh, oh dear, I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"
Blitzø groans and lifts a hand, grabbing Stolas's beak and pinching it shut. He's not about to admit outright that hearing that feels like some huge weight sliding off his shoulders. Things are far from fucking perfect, but they're far from perfectly fucked, too. "It's fine," he grumbles. "Don't take it back unless you didn't mean it."
Stolas chirps, since he can't use his words, but Blitzø doesn't let go of his beak just yet. "Also fuck you, you do need guards, because you fucking almost died twice because of that shitbag, and that's completely ignoring that I only ever got caught once, and I was climbing up that wall of yours once a fucking month for how fucking long? Long enough," he answers himself. "Yes, you do need someone looking after your ass. Got it?" He uses his grip on Stolas's beak to make him nod. "Good. Glad we've got that cleared up."
Stolas chitters in his throat, sounding exasperated, and peels Blitzø's hand off his beak. "I suppose that's another thing we'll have to discuss. But not yet."
"Not yet," Blitzø agrees. He puts his head down and wraps arms, legs, and tail around Stolas's thin body. This is better than curling up next to him--fuck, if he's completely and absolutely honest, it's even better than being between his legs, facedeep in his birdpuss. It feels less like "home" and more like just belonging. He's not sure he's ever actually felt that before in his entire life.
Stolas's hand settles on his head again, petting slowly, and he says, so, so softly, like it's some kind of fucking secret, "I missed you. I've wanted to see you for so long, but I was afraid. I'm glad you came, no matter what your reasoning."
Blitzø snorts. "What, you liked waking up with me eating you out? Fucking weirdo."
A giggle rocks Stolas's body, and his other arm wraps around Blitzø in turn, giving him a fond little squeeze. "As I recall, I told you once you could do whatever you liked, whether I was awake or not."
Fuck. Of course he remembers that. Blitzø hunches his shoulders, rubbing his cheek against feathers, and mutters, "There's gotta be a fucking statue of limitations for that kind of shit, Stols. Don't give me permission like that when you think I fucking hate your guts or whatever bullshit you were telling yourself. Don't let just any motherfucker do whatever the fuck they want to you."
"I'm not interested in 'just any motherfucker' doing as he likes to me," Stolas says, all cutely snooty. "There's only room for one of those in my life, and I only have interest in the one with me right now."
"No one else?" he mumbles, and he hates how small and weak his voice sounds. When the fuck did he become such a pussy?
"No one else," Stolas says. "There has never been anyone else."
He frowns. That doesn't seem right. He tips his head just enough to glare at Stolas, all squinty-eyed, and he gets one of those stupidly big bright smiles in response.
"Go to sleep, darling," Stolas murmurs. "Tomorrow morning, we can see if it's still 'not yet.'"
"It could be fucking 'not yet' for the rest of our lives," Blitzø mutters, but he closes his eyes. "What if we did that?"
"Absolutely not." Those talons find the absolute perfect itchy-tingly spot on the back of his right horn, and it's fucking embarrassing, the noise he makes as he melts into it. "But forgive me for assuming... I don't think you actually want that, either."
"Assuming is for assholes," he says, and then, because maybe he has actually swallowed more of that self-help bullshit than he thought, "No. Yeah. You're right. Fuck. I don't."
"I'm glad," Stolas murmurs. Maybe he's also been doing that kind of shit too. Blitzø doesn't know, and he kind of suspects that asking is also part of all the shit they're putting into the "not yet" territory. Fine. He'll ask later, then. "Good night, Blitzø."
He grumbles something that isn't actually an answering good night, because he's too fucking comfortable to open his mouth enough for words, and those long fingers are still petting him in a way that feels like it should turn him on, but instead just makes him relax, deeper and deeper, until he can't fight the urge to drift off. His head is at the exact wrong angle for purring but the exact right one for snoring.
If Stolas doesn't like that, who fucking cares? All of this is his fucking fault, anyway.