Chapter Text
In spite of everything else about him, renowned and powerful Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia is a fun one in private.
Batshit insane, yeah, but fun, between his appallingly grotesque sense of humor and how positively ecstatic he seems to get any time Blitzø as much as lays a hand on him. Or opens his mouth. Or looks at him. Or breathes in his general direction. He’s a talker, definitely, and a terrible one at that—even that, though, is sort of cute. For a good five minutes, at least, before the migraine inevitably starts brewing. He’s not that bad looking either; on the frilly side, for sure, and definitely not the kinda guy Blitzø would usually go for, but puberty has really done a lot of heavy lifting on him. Plus he always smells good, like flowers and pinecones and expensive tea. And remembers to clean down there, which Blitzø can’t say of every man he’s met.
It’s a comfortable arrangement, truly. It’s nice, even, and Satan fuck him sideways if he will ever admit that to anyone.
Sometimes, though, the damn bird just leaves him stumped.
On paper, he seems to have no boundaries whatsoever. He keeps telling Blitzø to show him who’s in charge, and show him hard, in a way that occasionally borders on concerning. Blitzø isn’t sure what sort of gross Harlequin novels Stolas is diddling himself to, but he probably should have realized he had a few screws loose after seeing how horned up he got over a home invasion. He gets literal heart eyes every time Blitzø tells him exactly how long his latest victim screamed for—almost as if it was foreplay, almost as if he was about to ask to be next. And Blitzø is a vile, no-good son of a bitch, sure, and he loves nothing more than a challenge, but this is different.
It’s not like he can afford to fuck it up, for one, with that book in the way. One wrong move and he’s out the door, back to working for peanuts in Greed. More than that, though, there’s something off about Stolas.
Sometimes he just looks… out of his element. Confused.
Shy.
Which makes no sense. He’s so outwardly flirtatious, to the point where Blitzø really wishes he would dial it down, and it’s not like he’s some blushing schoolgirl himself. Stolas harasses him with texts at every hour of the day, innocent questions about his job interspersed with paragraphs upon paragraphs about his dick and every hole he can stick it into. Half of it, Blitzø can barely even make sense of. He seems to have a sixth sense, too, because they always arrive the second he’s about to enter a meeting, so graphic that they leave him sweating for the next half hour at minimum. Still—
Blitzø swears he can feel Stolas’ heart hammer in his ribcage every time he rests a hand on his chest, loud enough that it could burst right out. That first night, he was so wound up and ticklish that every plan to keep things fast and rough immediately flew out the window the second he got him undressed. And the moment their lips met…
It was Hell. Complete Hell. He had to tell Stolas to open his mouth, then ask if he would maybe like to try moving his tongue a little. Had to remind him to breathe when he screwed his eyes shut and balled his fists, like he was bracing for a car crash. Blitzø’s teeth kept clinking with the hard part of his beak. When they pulled apart, Stolas had said—
I’m sorry. I’ve just… never really done anything like this before.
Which made his guts twist, the same way they did when he had called him his first ever friend. Earnest, timid, like he was handing him his heart on a silver platter. Like Blitzø was actually gonna believe him. Stolas had a daughter, didn’t he? A respectable life, way more than he could say about himself. Surely he must have…
But then, the moment he actually managed to get his dick in him, it happened again. Just fuck me, he’d begged, like he had never heard of foreplay before, and Blitzø had obliged, of course, because how could he not? He had seemed so cocksure, certain of what he wanted. Ram it in, split me in two, kill me if you want—I’m all yours. He was drenched, but still made this pained little sound when Blitzø pressed in from behind him. His thighs had locked up like steel.
(Are you—)
(It’s fine, just… I’m alright, go on, you don’t need to—please—)
His eyes were misty. Not glazed over with lust, though—no. Hazy. Lost, like he had suddenly gone somewhere else. Like he thought Blitzø might get mad at him.
Blitzø, mad at him. As if it was him who held Stolas’ life on a string, and not vice versa. As if he had the power to hurt him in any way that mattered. There was something keeping him grounded to that too-fancy mattress, though—something worse than the need for money or shelter, worse even than the simple pleasure of conning an airheaded royal into providing him with both.
It felt like shit, admitting it: he just wanted to give him something to feel nice about, ease the conscience he thought he had beaten to death fifteen years ago. Even if, rationally, he was sure Stolas didn’t need it. Even if he knew he was probably the type who always got everything he asked for.
He had laid a hand on his lower back, rubbing soothing circles into his side. Maybe Stolas was just too much of a repressed masochist, or a sheltered stuck-up too unused to sex that felt good, but he wasn’t about to make this suck for everyone. He’d slid his arm around his body, teased the outside of his cunt until Stolas had cum on the tips of his fingers twice. Back to Earth again, keening his name. Stolas had smiled at him, then—gentle, apologetic. Content as Blitzø finally started rocking back and forth, quietly moaning ah, ah, ah.
And that was the hottest thing Blitzø had ever seen, maybe.
Hotter than any pornstar on the cracked screen of his phone, any succubus with plastic tits he’d been inside of. His shaky grin, his unsteady knees, the quiet murmur of thank you in the crook of his neck. Someone he could actually provide something for. Someone naive enough to fall for his superficial charms, or simply too uninterested to dig into the rot lurking beneath. Almost too easy, spinning it all in his favor. Lying to himself—you have the upper hand.
Stolas tries very hard to get him to believe it, after all.
He’s a joy to be with; responsive as anything, maddeningly easy to fluster. He doesn’t reciprocate, not really—he barely seems to know how to deal with his own body, sometimes—but this works in Blitzø’s favor, too.
It’s just easier this way. Having him in the palm of his hand like that. It’s almost enough to convince himself they’re actually equals, for one night a month: calling the shots, twisting him around his fingers however he likes, getting to indulge in the comfort of another body’s warmth without actually having to offer anything back.
Because he remembers Stolas does not want him that way. At the end of the night, he knows exactly what all of this is. Doesn’t get fooled by Stolas’ detached kindness, his polite attempts at nice conversation: they’re always there, lurking in the shadows, the reminders he’s not quite a real person. Just whatever Stolas needs him to be.
It’s not like most people he’s met have treated him any differently. He simply has a job, and a cushy one at that. Relaxing. Safe.
Satan willing, it’ll stay safe forever.
Stolas is great at following directions, too. Goes under like nothing, and Blitzø barely has to lift a finger. He’s not the spoiled brat he expected him to be, far from it: he hangs from his lips, does absolutely everything he asks him to. Lies down so prettily and simply takes it. Barely makes a sound or a movement—save from when he comes, keening and shuddering and shaking as if electrocuted, and it’s always a marvel to look at.
Always as if it was happening for the very first time.
Really, he’s almost impossible to punish. Blitzø has to wrack his brain just to find reasons to, sometimes.
There’s a black, silken blindfold around his head, fastened just tight enough to feel secure. He bought it special after Stolas whined and grumbled about the ruined brocade. The prince is lying face-down on the bed, his hips primly tilted up in the air. Blitzø brings down his hand again, as hard as he can, but the crack is simply not as satisfying with all that padding in the way. Stolas apparently feels the sting regardless, though, his yelp muffled by the pillow as Blitzø’s palm makes contact with his ass. The feathers under his tail are dark and damp, slick matting them together all the way down his inner thigh. It makes Blitzø salivate.
He has carefully avoided touching him there for the past hour and a half. Anywhere but there. Sometimes, a good yank on his feathers is all he needs to finish. Not tonight, though, it seems: Stolas pushes his hips backwards, trying to make contact with Blitzø’s bare crotch. If he had less self-resolve, Blitzø could just about let him.
“Blitzy … ugh, God, will you just—”
He’s hilarious when he gets mad, which sadly takes a lot of working up to. He always fluffs up, turns a little pink. It almost makes you want to ruffle his head.
Blitzø’s insides do a strange little flip. He swallows.
“Uh-uh, bitch. Manners.” He pulls sharply at his nape for good measure. Stolas moans.
“…Could you fuck me? Please?”
Could. His voice is proper, quiet, polite. It takes all of Blitzø’s willpower not to giggle. He gives a final, light pat to his side, then slumps down against the pillows with his legs spread. Stolas blindly turns his head back and forth, confused. He tilts it to the side, all birdlike. The red glow of his eyes seeps out from under the blindfold, giving his cheekbones a rosy tinge.
“Alright, hop on if you want it that bad. Give me a show like the whore you are.”
Stolas sits up, fumbling around for purchase. He crawls forward, moving his hand around the comforter until he finds Blitzø’s knee. Then his beak curls into the ghost of a smile, and he stops in place.
“I—yeah, of course, let me just—”
He’s still out of breath, a little shaky. Adjusting to the shift, maybe. They’ve never done this before, Blitzø realizes. Stolas never seemed particularly fond of taking initiative.
He grabs him by both hands, gently guiding him closer, making him sit in his lap. He moves to circle his waist. “Hey there, buddy.”
“Oh… hello.”
He’s usually pretty good at staying in character until they’re done. He wonders if Stolas will be upset about it, the breaking of the spell. If he’s learned anything about him, it’s that he doesn’t want Blitzø to treat him kindly. He expects something of him, after all—something he’s not always sure he can give.
He just seems so insecure, sometimes. And if Blitzø had a half-working brain, he wouldn’t care at all.
It’s not like he gets paid enough to.
He guides him down on his cock, making sure he’s spread enough first. Stolas gasps, and so does he, in spite of himself. The stretch is pleasant, but definitely still there. He bottoms out and starts kneading his ass.
“Good boy,” he says. His voice is a half-croak. “Go on. Do what feels good.”
Stolas bucks his hips so very minutely, up and down, his thighs straining. He still feels so impossibly tight, a searing hot vice grip. He looks lost and overwhelmed, entranced and gasping under the blindfold. Blitzø grabs him by the waist again, gently, settling him down flush against him. Stolas keens.
“Here. Try it like this.”
He slowly guides him back and forth, grinding their crotches together as opposed to actually fucking him. It feels like very little on his end, but that’s not what he’s here for. Stolas mewls, clenching on his dick. “That better, right?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Show me.” He presses his thumb around his opening, teasing the sensitive nerve endings. Stolas moans, ragged and low in his throat. “Show me how you fuck yourself when I’m not here. Come on.”
“I don’t—”
Blitzø hisses, half his brain power migrated to where their bodies connect. “Whuh?”
“I don’t—don’t—I never…” another gasp. “It doesn’t—ah—feel the same, without you—”
Stolas loves pointless, insincere flattery. Sometimes it seems like the only card he knows how to play. Oh, Blitzy, you’re so strong for such an itty bitty little imp titty, now let me just get your coat off this rack you can’t reach. Your dick is so big, Blitzy, nearly as big as two of my whole fingers! You look so good in those shitstained jeans you forgot to change on the way over. Oh, you’re just so funny. You’re so smart, and charming, and…
And it makes Blitzø dizzy, because what does he think he’s gonna gain from it? Why does he even try so hard? Does he think Blitzø is some sleaze with a weird purity kink, getting off on the thought of Stolas preserving the sanctity of his princely hole for him and only him to plow?
Well, maybe it’s working. Just a little.
“Really, birdie?” he asks, punctuating his question by grinding him down harder. Stolas shivers. “Better give you something to hold you over until next month, then.”
“Ah—”
“Nobody’s ever fucked you as good as me, huh? Nobody ever—”
“N-no, I—”
But Blitzø pauses, because he knows that part might as well be true. Stolas is starting to tremble. He pulls him in closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Come on, you’re doing good. Just like that. Let me see you.”
He presses his thumb along Stolas’ opening again, watching him clench and flutter. It’s not enough to make him cum, but it’s one hell of a show regardless. “A-ah…” he gasps under his hands.
“Come on, sugar. I wanna see you feel good.”
“Blitzy—”
Stolas grips his wrist to steady himself, moving his hips in circles, coating his dick in white after a particularly pointed cant of his pelvis. It takes him a while to still down—forehead to forehead, his hand still around his arm. The silk of the blindfold looks a little damp.
It feels a bit too close for comfort.
Blitzø goes back to rubbing circles between his thighs, fast and abrupt, making him scream.
“Can I touch it?”
They’re lying back together on the wrinkled sheets, ropes and gags and three different vibrators scattered all around the hardwood floors. Stolas says it like he always does when he wants to ask something he’s uncertain about: with a small, steadying gasp just before he opens his mouth. Blitzø snuffs out the cigarette butt on his own horn, tossing it some nondescript direction in front of him. “Huh?”
He turns to Stolas, who is suddenly sitting upright, his hands primly folded in his lap. His face is still a little pink from earlier, a couple feathers sticking out at odd angles. He’s staring at his crotch quite pointedly. “Can I… I mean, you didn’t get much action tonight, and if you were to need a helping hand I could always… I’d like you to enjoy it too, that’s all.”
Stolas averts his gaze with a flourish of his fingers, which is funny as fuck, after everything he’s just let Blitzø do to him. Didn’t get much action is a strange way of putting it: Blitzø is still catching his breath from taking that damn apparatus off the canopy, still feeling the precum dry around his wrist. Although, to be fair to Stolas, yes—he hasn’t taken his briefs off yet.
Which is not that uncommon for them. Everything considered, his dick gets surprisingly little use in here; toys are just more fun, and fingers and mouth allow him to truly focus on the task at hand. He’s not mad about it, really—quite the opposite, in fact. He’s content with polishing himself off when he needs to, or even doing it in the bathroom alone if the mood requires his undivided attention. This is one of those nights. He’ll probably calm down in a couple more minutes and won’t even need to do anything about it.
He tells Stolas as much. “I mean, it’s your night. I have fun if you do, you don’t have to worry about that shit.”
He means it. He truly means it.
“I… of course, dear.”
Dear is somehow worse than Blitzy. Blitzy just makes him roll his eyes, most of the time. Dear leaves him feeling like a five year old. A spoiled one, who gets birthday parties and sticky lipstick-kisses from his two dozen aunts. The kind he never was.
He shoves the feeling down as Stolas settles on the pillow, cards his hand through the mussed feathers of his leg. “Still, it would make me happy, really,” he begins. Another one of those little gasps. “You know, I—I had never seen a penis before.”
Blitzø turns to him, eyes wide. Stolas is red as a beet. “You’re shitting me.”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m an avian demon, most of us don’t…”
“Not even a picture?”
“I don’t know! A diagram, maybe, in a textbook, but… It’s just so uncommon, and—”
Blitzø chuckles, watching Stolas sputter. It’s incredibly amusing. Thirty five years without browsing a single porn website, fuck him. “I mean, imps don’t even have a proper one, with the slit and all. You’d be better off googling—”
Stolas fusses with his hand, his smile halfway between embarrassed and amused. “It’s still different! Besides, it’s the one you have, I don’t want to see whatever random…”
Blitzø’s ears ring, drowning the rest of the sentence out. There he goes again, trying to trick him into believing he’s actually special. He does it so casually. He’s good. He’s damn good.
Blitzø shimmies out of his underwear in silence, Stolas’ gaze immediately trailing back to him. He flashes him a shit-eating green, despite the fluttering in his guts. He doesn’t even know why he’s nervous about this, of all things—it’s not like he usually keeps the old girl locked away.
But Stolas’ eyes are bright. Intense in a way that borders on clinical. He’s seen what hunger looks like on him, and this is not quite it.
He’d call it longing if he didn’t know better.
He’s half peeking out already, courtesy of the two hours of blue-balling he just endured. He presses down on his lower stomach, letting it slip out completely. He hisses at the feeling of cool air against wet skin; it almost hurts, he realizes suddenly, how hard he actually is. Stolas blinks and cranes his neck in that way of his, moving closer; he reaches his hand out instinctively, then stills it as he scooches down further. He presses his chest at Blitzø’s back slightly, leaning over his shoulder. It’s like being enveloped in a duvet.
Stolas takes him in hand, finally. He does it so very carefully, like he’s studying a bug, and it makes Blitzø squirm. He can feel his warm breath on the skin of his neck as his long, long fingers skirt along the underside way too gently. “He’s very handsome,” Stolas coos quietly, a quiver in his voice. Corny, corny, corny, but it still makes his cheeks burn.
“She.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s a she. I call her Madam President.”
He doesn’t know what possessed him to say that out loud—it’s not exactly the kinda thing you tell hookups in the heat of passion, at least if you want to keep them around. Stolas freezes, then breaks into a hooting fit. Always an easy audience here.
“Forgive me for the assumption, madam,” he says, faking consternation. Talking directly to his dick, now, apparently, which shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is. “You’re a very beautiful lady.”
That’s possibly even worse. If Stolas notices his cock twitching, he doesn’t say anything.
With the way he’s pressing up against him, Blitzø can almost feel his heartbeat. The hitch in his breath. Stolas finally wraps his hand around him, shaking minutely with excitement. He moves it up and down uncertainly, too gently, still somehow nicking and dragging on his skin in the process. Blitzø hisses.
“Stol—Stolas—wait, not like that. Try tugging, use your wrist, just like…”
He wraps his hand over his, guiding his movements. It’s clumsy at first, like the world’s most awkward medical exam, but Stolas takes to it quickly. He always does. Blitzø leans into the softness of his chest, the warmth of it. Something about it is making his insides churn, the intensity of the touch despite how measured it is.
“Is this good? Am I doing it right?” Stolas asks, quietly. His breath is labored. His gaze is locked between Blitzø’s legs in terrifying, earnest single-mindedness. He swipes his thumb over the bead of precum at the tip, gingerly. Blitzø grunts.
“So good, babe—fuck—”
Art by nagaremajo
He swears he can hear Stolas’ breath catch with his. There’s something inexplicably filthy about it, having to teach him how to do something he had down to a science by age twelve. His eagerness, his uncertainty. It’s almost enough to dull the alarm bells out, the discomfort of baring his middle at him.
“H–harder, birdie. Fuck, you’re good, you sure you’ve n–never—”
Stolas rests his face into his neck, keens, picks up ever so slightly. Blitzø is putting on a bit of a show for him, but shit, if it isn’t worth it. The guy can say he wants to be degraded all he likes, but it’s praise that truly gets him.
“Like that, Blitzy?” He’s completely out of breath.
“Fuck yeah, baby, I—”
The orgasm creeps up on him slowly, soft and fuzzy like a blanket. Drawn out. Stolas gasps as cum drips out on his palm, almost like he wasn’t expecting it. Blitzø feels bone tired, sated. He leans back, stares into Stolas’ eyes—but Stolas doesn’t stare back, just gazes intently at his open hand. Deep in thought again, analytical. That curiosity in it that always bizarrely reminds Blitzø of when they were kids.
Art by blitzbittz
He brings it up to his beak, licks the cum out of it in silence, meets Blitzø’s eyes with a vaguely quizzical expression. Blitzø feels like he could go again immediately, right about now.
“Ew,” he says instead, laughing.
After that night, Stolas can barely keep his hands off him. Rubs the underside of his tail when he bends over him, drags big dark scratches down his back whenever Blitzø forgets the handcuffs, starts palming at his crotch the second he walks through the glass doors. Blitzø has created a monster, he thinks. Cockzilla. He restrains himself from calling Stolas that to his face, although he does get one very disgusted look from Moxxie after telling him he’s off to meet the creature from the ushy gushy lagoon.
(“No, I’m just saying, you should see how messy it gets after—”)
(“Enough!!”)
No one ever appreciates him.
He promised Stolas they would try whatever he likes. The bird is usually fond of cheesy roleplay that inevitably ends with him on his back or his belly, dressed in a ridiculous glitter costume and possibly hogtied like a salami—nothing out of the realm of your typical unsatisfied housewife’s fantasies, really. But tonight, he looks him dead in the eyes and says—
“I’d like to fellate you.”
“Whoah, hey, hey—what did you just call me?”
Stolas goes red, frantically holding his hands out in front of him. “No, no! Oral sex, Blitzy. I’d like to go down on you, if you’re amenable.”
There it is again, the delighted glimmer in his eyes. It makes even the dumbest, most mundane thing seem so much more exciting. It makes everything else so deeply, irrevocably fucked.
Blitzø wishes he’d just call it sucking dick, like a normal person, before he makes said dick fall right off.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m abominable, I—”
He has to admit it—the beak kinda scares him.
“…How do you wanna do this?”
“I… was going to leave that up to you, I admit. I’m not really sure how—” he says, looking away for a split second before seemingly catching himself. Nothing new, really. He sits on the bed next to him, gently snakes a finger up his leg while making direct eye contact with the fly of his pants. “What I meant is… will you teach me? I’m at your service, boss.”
Blitzø hates how much that does it for him.
Fucking tease.
He pulls Stolas into a kiss that makes him whimper, trailing his claws through the soft down of his chest. Stolas’ robe falls around his shoulders as he yanks him down on the mattress with one hand, undoes his own jacket with the other. Stolas breaks away. “Let me help you—”
No. Fuck no.
He wiggles out of his turtleneck, pulling a few threads on his horns. Stolas cups his chest, his bare belly, two of his hands more than big enough to wrap around his torso completely. His tongue twists around his mouth softly, more so than Blitzø would prefer at this particular moment. He doesn’t know what to make of it, this recent switch, suddenly being the center of attention like this. Actively desired and not used like the 80-buck rabbit he brought in his bag.
It wasn’t supposed to go this way.
It wasn’t ever supposed to actually feel good.
He kicks his pants off, then his briefs, then thanks Satan he actually had time to wash his pussy before coming here as opposed to patting it down with wet wipes like usual. Stolas has latched at his neck, making soft little sounds. Purring, he’d call it, if it made any sense whatsoever.
Blitzø tears his robe off, sinks his claws into his waist. Stolas sighs. He pulls them both upright, then says—
“On the floor, in front of me.”
Stolas shivers but obeys in seconds, like he always does, kneeling on the carpet in perfect silence. He looks up at him with glittering eyes, a small smirk of excitement. Blitzø idly hopes his knees won’t hurt too much by the end of it—almost offers to toss down a pillow, before he thinks better of it. This is a game. Let Stolas have what he asked for.
He parts his legs. “Alright, hot stuff. Put your mouth where your money is.”
Stolas giggles, and Blitzø’s chest floods with uncomfortable heat. His dick has barely just come out to say hello, two inches peeking between the slickening folds, polite, unassertive. Stolas bends forward with both his hands on his thighs, and Blitzø just lets him: watches him as he scooches down further, dips his head, darts his pink tongue out. He does this the same way he kisses: kitten licks, gentle prods, waiting to be taken by the hand and led. People-pleasing, afraid to make a ruckus.
“Come on, Stols, I know who you are,” Blitzø teases, placing an encouraging hand on the back of his head. “It’s not gonna bite you. I mean, unless you’d like—”
He feels Stolas’ lips pull into a smirk before they wrap around his glans and suck. The beak inevitably digs in, pulling a sharp hiss out of him—but shit, it’s actually not half bad. Stolas draws him out of the sheath carefully, experimentally swirling his tongue around the shaft. Then, as soon as the old miss is standing in all her glory, he gulps the whole thing down with no warning. Blitzø gasps, strangled and out of breath.
Damn him and his fucking romance novels. Damn Blitzø for thinking challenging him was a good idea.
When it hits the back of his throat, Stolas gags. But not in the way you put on to flatter your high school boyfriend’s limp four-incher, no: actually gags, tears pricking at his jelly-red eyes, white pupils floating about in a daze. Blitzø’s cunt clenches at the sound, followed by a wave of self-loathing over apparently being just as hormonal as a sixteen year old. Then Stolas starts bobbing his head back and forth, clumsily, artlessly, spittle dripping down his chin. He truly does do this the way he kisses: desperate, like someone could take it away from him.
A man starved, getting food stains all over himself.
“Hold up, Stolas—no, wait, don’t make that face, just—”
He grabs the feathers on the back of his head, slowly guiding him back before gently pushing him down again. Stolas’ tongue goes slack as he applies just the slightest bit of suction. Blitzø whimpers. “Like that. You’re doing good. Fuck…”
Stolas moans around his cock, the vibrations shooting right through him. Blitzø very slowly starts bucking his hips up into his mouth, getting him used to the sensation. A modicum of control to avoid succumbing completely. Stolas blinks languidly, open and closed, staring up at him the entire time in that way that always has him burning right through, that makes him question if he’s about to get petrified or simply having a heart attack. Possibly both. Beautiful, his brain supplies idiotically.
He’ll be dead before he lets that slip out. It takes all of his self-restraint not to ram down—he would certainly do it to someone who’s sucked dick before.
Or someone he cared less to disappoint.
He pushes down to the back of Stolas’ throat again, keeping him flush against his pubic bone for a second. Stolas shuts his eyes, grabs the side of his thigh.
“Good boy. Holy shit. You’re taking it so well, tell me if you need a brea—”
But Stolas digs his talons into his skin with a pointed grumble, a lean of his head. He looks up at Blitzø in near desperation. Melts into his touch as Blitzø scratches his nape.
Then Blitzø thrusts down, pointedly, and Stolas moans low and hoarse as his eyes squeeze shut in surprise. Face bright pink, feathers fanning out in bliss. Tears running down his cheeks as Blitzø fucks his mouth just as he’s done every other part of him. Stolas frantically sneaks a hand between his legs, desperate for relief.
Blitzø knows, there and then, that he’s done for. That Stolas has ruined him for everyone else.