Work Text:
The thing is, when you get down to it, sex is easy.
Maybe it's the rizz Blitzø inherited from his momma (though to be honest, he doesn't really want to think about his mom in the context of sex, for a variety of reasons), but it's always been easy. Not always good, but easy. Simple.
He knows how to pitch his voice to get someone to look his way; he knows how to shift his body language anywhere between "slutty and gagging for it" to "interested but going to make you fucking work for it." He doesn't quite have a 'cubi's instinctive ability to tell exactly what the other person might be looking for, but he's still fucking (emphasis on) good at reading people. Do they want a daddy to rail them into next week? A quick and nasty fuck in the bathrooms? Something more elaborately spicy that's gonna require negotiations and safewords? A brat who'll shake his ass and snap his teeth even after he's pinned? All of that's fine and cool with him.
And he likes it, don't get him wrong. Verosika can spit whatever bullshit she wants, but he knows for a fucking fact that he rocked that bitch's world for months. Plus, contrary to what she might think, Blitzø had seen the signs of her falling long before she'd said a word about it. If you were a pervert nerd stalker, you could probably make some kind of chart to show how their sex life started getting worse the more obvious her feelings became.
Because sex is easy. Sex is fucking easy, pun fully intended.
Feelings, though? Fuck that shit, he's out. If you'd asked him five years ago--fuck, if you'd asked him last year, he would've said that his feelings burned to ash with the circus.
(Except for how he wouldn't bring up the circus with any curious rando, not if you strung him up by his tail and set him on fire again. No fucking way.)
But then there'd been Loona, furious, fierce, and so fucking fragile that just looking at her huddled in the corner of her cell had broken a heart he'd thought long since ground to dust. She'd been all fangs and edges, and even years later they haven't smoothed entirely--but she smiles now. She has fucking friends now. She's living proof that he doesn't destroy everything he tries to care for.
Then there'd been Moxxie, shivering and whining but the fucking best shot Blitzø had ever met, who'd looked at him with those big stupid doe eyes shining with hero worship. And for just a second, it'd been like being a kid again, before everything went to shit, with Fizz looking to him for guidance and protection. How the fuck could he turn away from that? He's never going to tell the puss to his face, but Blitzø's fucking proud of him for how far he's come.
Then Millie, the most badass bitch Blitzø has ever had the pleasure of knowing, who has never pulled her punches and has been the steadiest fucking rock he's ever had. Nothing will fill the hole that Barb has left in his heart, but Millie's got her own roots that go just as deep. He'll never tell a fucking soul, but he fantasizes, sometimes, okay? Not sexually, not anymore--but he dreams about maybe someday introducing his sisters and letting them fucking roast him alive.
And then--
...And then.
The Blitzø of five years ago--the Blitzø of a year ago, just starting on this wrecking ball swing that would land them here--would have laughed himself sick at the idea of taking care of a partner. After Verosika, he'd made a "three hits and I'm out" rule for himself; no matter how hot or fun someone was in bed, his ambition outstripped his horny. I.M.P. (and its members) came first.
Maybe it should have been a sign, how easily he agreed to break that rule for Stolas. He'd been annoyed, but even setting aside the necessity of keeping Stolas happy, it had only been irritation and not the soul-deep trapped itch he'd gotten with anyone and everyone else. That feels like it has to mean something.
Even being annoyed had faded, eventually.
Looking back on it, he thinks he could have negotiated different terms for their arrangement and Stolas would have happily agreed, so long as Blitzø stayed in his orbit... not that he thinks he was stupid or blind or anything for going along with things the way Stolas had laid them out. Fuck, maybe he's being stupid and blind now, thinking they could've done things differently if one or both of them had been paying just a little more attention.
After all, sex is easy.
But to his surprise, the caretaking is easy, too.
He'd credit his skills to Loona, with his whole chest. She'd been the first person since the fire that had inspired him to be--better, to reach into that dry, dry well inside him and find water for the first time in years. For the first time since the fire, he'd reached out with no desire other than to take care. It wasn't about getting his dick wet, or his holes filled, just something small and soft that saw hurt and wanted to fix it instead of make it worse.
(But if you tied him up and dosed him with that weird truth stuff again, he might be willing to admit that not everything had been bad with Verosika. Not for a long time. If you drowned him in that shit, he might even say she'd come closer than she'd ever know to making a breakthrough. He thinks that maybe Verosika made Loona possible, and that's not something he'll tell anyone ever, no matter how much honesty bitch drugs you shoved down his throat.)
These days, he's surprising himself. He keeps expecting to be annoyed again. Even on his better days, Stolas is still on his rich asshole bullshit more often than not. He gets better at the whole secretary/office manager thing, but he's still an elitest snob. And unlike Loona, who just rolls her eyes and ignores small petty annoyances, Stolas snipes back. He argues, he lectures, and he says the fucking bitchiest judgmental things Blitzø's ever heard come out of his mouth. It loses them some clients, but frankly, he's pretty sure some of them are just there to gawk--whether at Blitzø, The Imp Who Beat The Odds, or at Stolas, the disgraced ex-prince, he doesn't know. He doesn't fucking care.
What he cares about is that when he wakes up every morning, Stolas is there. He cares that Stolas smiles every time Blitzø gives him a cup of tea, even if it's only a little and only briefly. He cares that he knows now that Greed Seed is a surefire way to get Stolas to eat even on bad days. He cares that when he buys that cheap little weekly pill organizer with stars on it, Stolas actually starts taking them regularly.
He cares that as the weeks become another month, and then two, and more, that they seem to be working. It doesn't take away all of the shadows in Stolas's big red eyes, but nothing's going to do that until all the shit with his kid gets sorted out.
It does lighten them, though. There are less days where Stolas just lies on the couch and doesn't respond to any of Blitzø's attempts to rouse him. There are more days where he looks at Blitzø and actually sees him, with a smile that actually lights his whole face, the way they used to.
But even with all of that, there's a limit, right? There has to be. Blitzø's still fucking brand new to this "caring about other people" shit. He keeps waiting to get pissed off with Stolas's attitude, with his carelessness, with all the shitty little things that you only learn about someone by living with them.
He keeps waiting for his own temper to hit its boiling point, because it does everywhere else, just like usual. Sometimes the office TV plays commercials for that pussy hotel project that the Princess of Hell is running and Blitzø has to shoot the damn thing before his eyes roll right the fuck out of his head. Last week he'd looted a victim's house for shit to pawn just for funsies. He'd had Stolas charge a guy triple for the audacity of not liking the most recent episode of My Little Hellpony. He spent the first week of the new year stealing Moxxie's lunch until Millie caught him and strung him up with the leftover Sinsmas decorations that they hadn't bothered to take down yet.
But through it all--even on one really fucking bad day, when Stolas is at Maximum Petty Bitch levels which culminates in a hysterical crying fit in the breakroom--he still feels steady when it comes to his owl. He'd thought he was working himself up into being nice and fully pissed off, and then the sight of those tears had derailed him entirely. They'd ended up watching horse videos on his phone for like a solid hour before bundling home to cuddle on the couch until Stolas fell asleep.
It'd be embarrassing if he weren't so fucking happy about it.
Because that's the thing, okay? He is.
It's not like he's glad that this shit has happened to Stolas, especially the stuff with his daughter, but--he's just fucking happy to sit there and listen to Stolas breathe and know if he reached out, there'd be soft feathers for him to touch. He never got to do this with Loona when she first came home, because she'd always locked her door (rightfully, fuck, Blitzø hates that on so many fucking levels)--but he can do it now. He closes his eyes at night and opens them in the morning to the sound of little hooting breaths. And even if the beanbag isn't the best for his back, he sleeps like a fucking baby because of that.
(Well, okay, sometimes he wakes up because of nightmares--his momma smiling as she burns to ash, or Loona clawing bloody lines into her face trying to rip the muzzle off, or Stolas's long body laid out in flowers, all neat and prettied up except for the bloody puddle where his head should be. But screaming awake is also what babies do sometimes, right? So it still counts.)
He's happy, and it's fucking messed up that he can be, when the last piece he'd needed in his shitty patchwork life is so fragile that a strong breeze could shatter him. Sometimes when it's really late and it's been a bad day, he works himself through a nice little self-hate jerkoff session, tucked in the tub with the curtain drawn, the door closed, and his shirt clenched in his fangs to muffle his noises.
It's not actually that much different than when he'd done that shit in the past. He shucks off his boxers and waits until the tile warms up a little under his bare ass, idly scrolling through his phone for photos of who'll hurt the worst before he gets his hands on himself. It used to be Fizz who was the primary target of his sick little sessions, but on rare occasion it'd be Verosika, and once or twice it had been Moxxie.
After that shitty fake date at Ozzie's, of course it had been Stolas all the way down.
But now, after he finishes and cleans up, running the water so that Loona won't smell anything in the morning--after he wipes himself down and pulls his boxers back on and creeps back into the living room--he can hear Stolas, and that just fucking... grounds him.
Turns out, maybe it wasn't chains that bound him to Stolas after all. Maybe they were just guides, so Blitzø could find his way home.
And he hopes, he fucking hopes, in a way that he hasn't done since he was a snot-nosed kit and spinning dreams for his sister and his best friend, that it'll be enough for Stolas to do the same.
He thinks that if he spent the rest of his life opening his arms for a soft feathered body to settle against him, he'd die a happy man. Fuck, just that--when you get down to it, he doesn't actually miss getting his dick wet as much as he thought he would.
Which isn't to say he doesn't miss it at all. Because he fucking does, okay, he is fucking ready to go. It feels less like being a teenager again (thank fuck), and more like the memory of being one: horny and interested, with his brain ready to whip up a fantasy to get him going at a moment's notice.
But he's not actually so amped that he's going to blow his load from brushing contact with his tail. (Barb hadn't let him live that down for months. Fuck, he misses her.) He can actually focus on other shit, no matter what shit Moxxie gives him. He's a fucking adult now.
Well. Okay. Maybe not a fucking-fucking adult, but still a fucking adult.
There's been a opportunities, of course. He still has some of that 'cubi rizz. No matter what Moxxie thinks, Blitzø's a fucking prime piece of meat. Even setting aside I.M.P.'s newfound popularity, there's always been people who wolf-whistle at him in the streets, bar patrons who like to lean into his personal space and smile.
There's a potential client who'd leaned over his desk with her tits basically spilling out of her shirt as she purred her way through her sob story. An incubus twink bartender when he'd grabbed drinks with Fizz a couple of weeks after Sinsmas, who probably would've crawled into Blitzø's lap if the bar hadn't been between them. An imp who'd thrown her panties in his face and her boyfriend who'd thrown a rock at Stolas--that one had been shut down immediately, but all of them had been a no-go.
Every one of them had been objectively hot. Even the asshole who'd thought chucking a rock at Stolas's head was a good idea, though he hadn't been that pretty to look at after Blitzø had been done with him. Blitzø's always had a few surefire strike zones, but his tastes have also always been broad. He's never been picky.
It's just that when that Sinner had leaned to shove her boobs into his face, he could see a tall feathery shape over her shoulder. That incubus twink kept trying to talk to him while he'd been texting Stolas to see if he could bring home anything for dinner. And the less said about the wannabe-threesome idiots, the better.
Blitzø probably could've gotten it up for any of them--maybe not the rock asshole, but the rest of them--and just couldn't be assed to try.
Because even if he had been tempted--which, let's just make it fucking clear, he's never been, not fucking once--he looks Stolas's way and what he sees is a bonerkill.
Not because of Stolas, though. Fuck no. Just looking at Stolas is the opposite of a bonerkill if it's just a normal thing, like seeing him across the dinner table, or watching him shuffle through paperwork, or shit like that.
The thing is that Stolas always looks so sad when people start flirting with Blitzø in front of him. He doesn't say shit about it, is always looking away before Blitzø can peep whether he was actually watching, but it's not like Stolas is good at hiding his feelings. It's kind of hilarious, honestly, the way the bird's practically an open fucking book. If anyone ever invents a time travel spell, Blitzø's going to go back in time and punch himself in the face for ever thinking that Stolas was hard to read.
And the thing about being good at sex--at being good at knowing what the other person wants out of him--means he's actually pretty fucking good at reading people, period. He's seen the way Stolas's eyes linger on him--his mouth, his hips, the line of his tail--but the bird never tries to make contact. And Blitzø knows some about how sometimes your brain wants you to get railed but your body just doesn't want to cooperate, but he's starting to think that might not be the case, here.
No, he's starting to get the feeling that maybe Stolas is waiting to get dumped before they even make it back to second base.
There's been some promising moments at first base, at least. Blitzø still thinks about the way Stolas had kissed him after being saved from Bitchy Elsa. He jerks off to it every other week, because he doesn't want to wear the memory out.
Plus, Stolas no longer either flinches or goes stone-still when Blitzø touches him. On the bad nights, when Blitzø breaks out the coals to make himself nice and toasty, Stolas has actually started putting his arms around Blitzø when he crawls into his lap. He's even flirting a little, all small and shy and awkward, nothing like the filthy bullshit he used to spew. It's progress, and he's grateful.
But sometimes when Blitzø hugs him on impulse, or wraps his tail around one skinny wrist, he goes all still and silent, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints. And that's bad enough, but it's worse that Stolas slinks around all guilty for hours after, like a kicked hound. It's not all the time, but often enough to be a pattern. There's probably bullshit that goes back to his shitty cunt of an ex-wife, but Blitzø's also starting to suspect that there's stuff that's directly tied to him, too.
Look, they've talked a little. Not much, and it's all been kind of like pulling out his guts through his mouth each time, but they have. The problem with spending most of your life swallowing the words down is that when you finally find someone you wanna give them to, the hooks are set so fucking deep. He swears that sometimes he tastes blood after he talks to Stolas, just from the effort of saying the words.
But he's trying. Like fucking shit is he gonna let his own fucking stupid ass get in his way. Stolas loves words, even if he's actually kind of shit at them most of the time, so he's gonna fucking get words.
Or, you know, he's going to get some words. Stolas knows a little more about Barb now, that she was the only other person in the circus who'd shared his taste for cheese and hot sauce, that she didn't share his fascination with horses but would play along just to rile Fizz up--that they'd been born with their tails so tangled up that it had taken their momma the better part of fifteen minutes to get them safely separated. He knows that the "thing" that Blitzø did is the same thing that had wrecked his relationship with Fizz for years, even if Blitzø still can't bring himself to fully talk about that just yet.
And on the flipside, Blitzø knows that Stolas used to let Octavia name the plants in the palace, and that tradition had carried on even as she got older and became a prickly teenager. He's learned that her little crowned beanie is because when she was eight, she decided she also wanted a hat "like Daddy's" rather than just the kind of tiara her mother wore, and that Stolas had simply gone behind the ex-wife's back when she'd refused.
(He knows that's the first time that screeching shitbag hit him. Stolas doesn't say it in so many words, but when he tells the story he keeps touching his cheek, and his eyes are so fucking far away, he might as well be on the other fucking side of the galaxy.)
He's learned that apparently Stolas can play like six different instruments because of his fancy royal upbringing, but that he'd taught himself guitar just so that he could teach Octavia when she'd expressed interest as a preteen.
He's learned that actually, having a dad who didn't give a single shit about you isn't any better than a dad who hated every little thing about you.
(Imagine his fucking surprise when Stolas casually mentions that his father is still alive, and that the asshole's only seen his own fucking granddaughter once in her entire life. When Stolas marvels over the idea that siblings could grow up together and actually know each others' names, Blitzø has to call a fucking red just to go run around the block a half-dozen times so he doesn't just go hunt the fuckers down. As far as he can tell, Stolas is the fucking baby of his family, so where the fuck are those older brothers and sisters now? Why hasn't a single fucking one tried to reach out to him? It's not like it's a secret that they're living together; it was on the fucking TV multiple times in the months after the trial--the only reason it's moved on is because some turf war between Overlords had leveled buildings near the Elevator.)
Stolas knows that Blitzø considers Verosika his one and only true ex of all the other assholes who'd attended her party. (He very deliberately separates Stolas from them in the conversation, and repeats it until Stolas seems to get it.) Blitzø knows that it had taken a year of trying before Stolas was able to successfully knock his cunt ex-wife up--and he knows that he'd gotten a bit hot and heavy with that one cockbag, but nothing more than that.
And while he's not gonna ever say it to anyone, he's so, so fucking relieved. He's a possessive asshole, okay? His whole fucking life has been a desperate scramble to keep and to protect what's his, and even if Stolas isn't--wasn't--isn't?--fuck.
Even if Stolas comes to his fucking senses and walks out the door for someone better, there's always gonna be a part of Blitzø that will gloat that he got there first. The ex-wife doesn't count. Blitzø was the first to blow that bird's mind, to learn all the secret places on and in that long lean body--he was the one who got to teach Stolas how to feel good, and that has to count for something. It has to.
It's just that they haven't talked about... that. About the whole fucking "what are we" thing.
Blitzø would say they're actually friends now, for real--the fact that they haven't murdered each other after this long living and working together says a fucking lot. And with Millie being weirdly cagey about going out for drinks lately, Friday nights have become "introduce ex-richie to the realities of mundane life." Sometimes it's boring necessary shit, like practicing grocery shopping and laundry, but sometimes it's going to a movie, or shooting range--they go to a bar once and that triggers a really bad week, so never fucking again.
Blitzø even scrapes together the cash for musical tickets, and it turns out Stolas is a lot more fun to watch one with than Moxxie. Where Moxxie always hisses at him to be quiet, Stolas leans over and says the most catty mean bitch shit about the singers, the choreography, the sets, and he giggles when Blitzø makes crude jokes out of the lyrics.
It's all friend shit, right? Stuff you do with friends, because you are friends, and do... friend... things. Fuck. He's repeating himself.
But even though Blitzø knows for a fact that his definition of friendship is questionable--Millie is still the only one that has solidly transcended beyond his kneejerk desire to fuck his buddies--he also knows it's different here. Friends don't watch each other from across the room, tracking every little movement and gesture. Friends don't stare at a friend's mouth like it's the only thing a picky eater wants, or...
...or look so fucking sad when someone's hitting on their friend.
Sad but also resigned, like they're ready to sink back into that shitty dark place they were in not that long ago, and maybe this time they won't even try to make it back to the surface. Like maybe they're so used to wanting something they can't have that they've just completely swallowed the longing and made it part of themself.
Yeah. Fuck. That part is definitely on Blitzø. He thinks--he knows--that the other shit they've talked about is important, too. It's fucking vital that Stolas understands about Barb and Fizz, and how there's still huge jagged pieces of himself that Blitzø will never get back because of the fire. (Not that Stolas knows it was a fire, just that it was something big, and something bad.) It's important that he has a clearer picture of the shitshow that Stolas's marriage was behind closed doors, because it puts a lot of things into crystal fucking clarity.
But every time he opens his mouth to say something else, something more, the words get all choked up and stuck in his throat. And then some asshole doesn't read the room and bats their lashes at him and Stolas just turns away, wilting like one of the flowers he keeps on his desk. There's pressure building, and it feels too uncomfortably close to that last full moon.
And while there's a lot of shit Blitzø knows he could and would bounce back from, he doesn't think he'd survive the impact of that fall.
So fuck it. If he has to fucking reach into his own mouth and pull the words out, he's gonna fucking do it.
He's gonna fucking talk about his fucking feelings.
(But if someone wants to shoot him and put him out of his fucking misery, he'd--... not actually appreciate it, because who the fuck else is gonna take care of Loona and Stolas? Fuck. Well. Never mind.)
So one Friday afternoon, as they're closing up for the weekend, he pulls Loona aside before she can be the first one out the door and shoves some cash into her hands. It's enough for her to grab a hotel and food for the weekend, assuming she doesn't crash with one of her friends.
She looks at the money, and then at him. He shrugs helplessly.
"Looney," he says, because what the fuck else can he do? She's a smart girl, his baby, and as she starts to count the amount he gave her, he sees her eyebrows go up.
Just as he's starting to sweat, trying to figure out what else he can say, she bends down enough to give him a quick hug.
"Be careful, dumbass," she says. "I'm obligated to kick his ass if he hurts you, and I like him, okay? Don't make me have to."
"It wouldn't be his fault, Looney--"
"Don't make me," she repeats, more firmly than before. "I'll text you my hotel info when I get it settled."
Then she's gone, waving a hand over her shoulder as she goes. And Blitzø watches her with something huge and complicated swirling in his chest, because it's hitting him that: 1) Loona is willing to fight for his honor or what-the-fuck-ever, and 2) she's just said, outright, that she likes Stolas.
She hasn't even said that about either M&M yet.
Fuck. He's gonna cry.
"Blitzø?" There's a light rapping on the wall, because he's in the breakroom and Stolas is a polite fucker, sometimes even when he's being a cunty bitch. "Did Loona already leave?"
"Uh. Yeah." He rolls his shoulders, like he can just shrug off the tension he can feel knotting there. "She's got plans tonight. What about M&M?"
Stolas glances to the side, weirdly cagey for a second in that way he's been about Millie in particular for months now, and then he shrugs. "They apparently have some sort of dinner reservation tonight. In Lust. At a place called The Boneyard, apparently. If you hurry, you can catch up with them."
His tone is so bland it gives Blitzø the chills. He's been doing so much better lately--even his tantrums are better than how fucking dead his voice had been for weeks after Sinsmas--but right now, he sounds about as flat and soft as he had thinking about his baby bird hating him. He isn't looking at Blitzø either, the same way he doesn't when someone gets real flirty, and Blitzø doesn't get why.
"Why would I do that?" he asks, because he's too confused to be anything but honest. "It's Friday, Stols."
"Yes. It is." Stolas shrugs, and Blitzø recognizes the motion because it's the same kind of shit he does, and fuck, what is he teaching Stolas? Is that his fault? Fuck, fuck, shit. "So I won't keep you. I don't believe that The Boneyard requires a companion to enter, so you shouldn't need to worry."
"What?" There's a ringing in Blitzø's ears, the feeling of teetering on the edge of something huge in his guts. "What are you talking about?"
For just a second, those big white pupils slide over to him, then away again. "They were quite excited," he says quietly. "Moxxie told me that it was their anniversary today... and that even if you're on better terms with Fizzarolli now, they've decided to go somewhere a little... quieter for the celebration this year."
And then it clicks, and that teetering becomes a freefall.
Fuck. Fuck. He's been so occupied in trying to get Stolas situated, trying to help his sad bird find any kind of space in this shitty world that he'd lost track of time. The months had just kind of blurred together, marked mostly by things like "Stolas smiled twice today" or "caught Loona watching that shitty soap opera Stolas likes with him," shit like that. It feels unreal that they're a year out from that disaster at Ozzie's.
They've never talked about what happened, but it was fucking stupid to think Stolas wouldn't have figured it out.
Blitzø opens his mouth, and all those fucking words just stick in his throat again. It's like those gold feathers from that shitty truth drug trip hallucination all over again, like they're wrapping around him, clogging his voice up.
For a moment he's sitting in that stupid club again, seeing Stolas's hand timidly reaching out and yanking his away. He's standing in a dim fancy bedroom, seeing the way his attempt at roleplay fails to land. He's standing in the crowd at Verosika's shitty party as Stolas sings I don't think it meant a thing at all to you.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuckshit--
"It's Friday," he blurts, desperate, because of course at the fucking moment it matters the most, that's the only thing he can say.
Stolas sets his jaw. He still won't look at Blitzø. "I am aware."
"So, that's... c-c'mon, Stols." He wrings his hands, because the alternative is throwing himself full body forward, and even he knows that's a bad idea right now. "Friday's our day."
Stolas's eyes go wide for a moment, and fuck, it hurts to see the pure open shock on his face, like that was the last thing he expected to hear. "...What?"
"You know." His tail's lashing, anxious, snapping, and he thinks he's going to be sick from the way the stuck words are churning inside of him. "Friday's the day we do shit together. That's our day. Do--do you really think I'd cancel on that just to go stalk M&M?"
A year ago, he thinks Stolas would have immediately protested. There would have been a whole flurry of apologies and backtracking, all those things Blitzø would have read as sucking up and not a desperate attempt to please and appease.
Now, Stolas's eyes go dull, and his throat works a couple of times. He opens his beak, and then he closes it, and he shrugs again, wrapping his spindly arms around himself. That's an answer all on its own, and the fucking worst part is that Blitzø knows he's not wrong to believe it.
A year ago, it would have been true. Fuck it, a year ago, that had been true. And Blitzø knows damn fucking well how long that shit can linger.
"It's fine, Blitzø," he says. He sounds so tired. It makes Blitzø's fangs and claws itch with the desire to rip into the threat... except it's him. He's the reason. He can't do anything about that in front of Stolas. "Plans can change. I am an adult, and I am capable of taking care of myself." The lines of his beak twitch, and Blitzø realizes he's trying to smile. It looks awful, and it makes him feel sick. "I looked at the reviews for The Boneyard. They apparently do excellent steaks. You should be able to enjoy your meal there."
There's a ringing in his ears, so loud that it makes his head throb. The tightrope under his feet is wobbling, bowing under his weight, and if he doesn't act fast, it's going to unravel--and there's no safety net beneath him.
"Yeah?" He steps forward, and he almost stops when Stolas flinches before he makes himself keep moving. "Guess we'll have to see for ourselves."
Stolas's eyes narrow. His jaw tightens further, his shoulders hunching up all tight and stiff, fully defensive. "I'll have to pass. I rather like both Moxxie and Millie, you know. I'd rather not intrude on their private night."
Not again, he doesn't say, but the words hang there like he had. And ouch, but also, fair.
"Who said anything about intruding?" Blitzø's palms are sweating, his tail tucked defensively close to his back. "We had other plans tonight."
"Blitzø, I do not need you to--"
He's close enough now, and so he makes a grab for Stolas's closest hand. It's the kind of thing he'd normally ask for permission for, but he's desperate right now, okay? He can feel the rope slipping, and he needs that fucking lifeline, because if he fucks this up, his guts are gonna look fucking gruesome splattered against the pavement. Stolas jumps like he's been shot or stabbed--but after that instinctive jerk, he doesn't try to pull away, and he finally, fucking finally, looks at Blitzø.
"Maybe I need you, asshole," Blitzø says, his voice all choked and little and rough. It's not the sort of swagger he wanted--he'd wanted to say it with such confidence that there'd be no way Stolas could mistake him.
Instead, it's this. Fuck.
But Stolas is still looking at him, his pupils wide, his beak hanging open. He looks stupid, and also so stupidly pretty that Blitzø's fangs itch to sink right into that long long neck, right where he knows the bird likes it.
"If you wanna try a bone so bad, we can go some other night," he says, and it feels like the words are cutting his mouth up as they come out. He's a little surprised he isn't spitting blood with them. "Next week? The week after that? Fuck it, I dunno, I have no idea how long their reservation waitlist is. I'll figure it out. Tonight, though? Tonight, you and I have a date with that soap opera marathon you've been going on about for weeks. Remember?"
Like before, Stolas's beak opens, closes, then opens again. He looks like someone's smacked him up the head with a board, except how that's never gonna happen, because Blitzø would shoot anyone who'd try before they got close enough. His hand, which was limp in Blitzø's, flexes and then--
And then he grips back, just as tightly as Blitzø is holding onto him, and the relief that sweeps through him is so intense that he almost loses control of his knees.
"Blitzø," he says softly, but there's more life in his voice again, thank fuck. There's something all fragile and shaky there, but there's still a spark. There's something there, and that's enough. He's not a gardener the way Stolas is--it's fucking amazing, honestly, how he managed to revive that shitty little lemon tree--but he is good at taking care, when he wants.
And right now, he wants.
He smiles, and it feels shaky but it feels real, and he feels Stolas's talons grip him harder, shaking a little from the intensity.
"Blitzø," Stolas says again, basically a whisper. "Forgive me if--I don't wish to presume--I thought..." He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a big shaky breath, and then opens them again. There's a wet shine to them, but no actual tears, thank fuck. "I thought... perhaps you'd already moved on."
"Moved on?" He blinks out of sync at that, because the words make sense without making sense at all. "Uh, the fuck?"
Stolas's shoulders droop a little, but he doesn't look away, and that still feels like a victory. His other hand comes up to touch Blitzø's cheek, all gentle, like Blitzø is the fragile one between them.
"I know I have been... difficult," Stolas says, a frown pulling at his pretty beak. "Even at my best, I can be a trial, and I have certainly not been that for a while."
"You've gotten better." Blitzø covers the hand on his face with his own, holding it there, and he lets his tail wrap around Stolas's ankle for extra security. He hadn't planned to hash this shit out in the office, but whatever. The ball's rolling, and the more tangled up they are, the less likely either of them can run from this. "Shit, Stols, you've been doing so good. I'm fucking proud of you, okay? Anyone's gonna be their fucking worst after all the shit you went through."
That gets him a little smile and a stroke of Stolas's thumb across his cheek. "Thank you. But that doesn't change the fact that I--well. You have given me so much, Blitzø, in these past few months. Both you and Loona have sacrificed a great deal, and I have not been as grateful as I should have been."
"This isn't a 'should have' thing, Stols," he says, and he tightens all grips he has on Stolas when he feels the bird tense up. "We don't do charity cases. It's one of our office policies. You should know, you kicked that one whiny asshole out 'cause of it last week."
To his relief, that gets another smile and a little tittering giggle from Stolas before he goes all solemn again. "Our lives are not dictated by office policy, Blitzø."
"Yeah, well, that's a life policy too." He risks sliding a half-step closer, so he can feel the light press of Stolas's long body against his when they breathe. "I don't do shit unless I want to, Stols. So get it through your skull, okay? I wanted to take care of you. I--I still do."
He feels as much as he hears the hitch in Stolas's breathing. The hand on his face trembles, but Stolas doesn't try to pull it back.
"Is that what we are, now?" he asks softly. It's barely more than a breath, which is fine, because Blitzø is holding his. "Am I just something for you to put back together and care for, until the next broken thing comes along?"
He bares his teeth at that, because he can't find the words to answer just yet. They're there, swirling in his head--you're not broken, what the fuck and you're more than that and even the only way I'm fucking letting you go is if YOU find someone better and I'll still always be yours--but they won't come out. But Stolas seems to read something in his expression and the low growl in his throat, tilting his head a little.
"I know that wasn't fair," he whispers. "I'm sorry."
"It's not about being fair," Blitzø says, more roughly than he wants. "Fuck, Stols, you've gotta know that I don't--it's not like that. You know that, right?"
Stolas just blinks at him, slow and soft, and Blitzø thinks, with sinking certainty, that he does not know that.
There's a couple of seconds where they just stare at each other, and Blitzø's head is buzzing. He has to say something, he's gotta fucking drag the words out of himself somehow, because he knows he's losing Stolas now, by seconds. And it's not because some smug cockbag has swept in to pull his bird away, but because for some fucking reason Stolas thinks that Blitzø's kind, that he's been doing all this shit because of that and not because he's desperate to keep Stolas as close as possible.
Before he can say anything, though, Stolas sighs.
"I want to apologize," he says. "Will you let me?"
"What the fuck do you have to apologize for?" His own voice sounds high and panicky to his own ears. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He wants to run, to tear himself free and throw himself out the fucking window so he doesn't have to hear this. But if he does that, that's like giving up, and he can't do that. Not yet.
"Oh, so many things." Stolas smiles again, all sweet and soft and impossibly out of reach. "I have been so selfish with you for so long, Blitzø. From the moment you came back into my life, I have only wanted more and more from you. And I have seen--I am often oblivious, I know, and I frequently miss signs until it's too late, but..." He swallows, those long feathery lashes dipping low. It's the kind of shit that Blitzø has done before, to play up being coy and sexy, but this just feels... sad. Like this is something old getting dug up, exposed to the air after years of being buried.
"Stolas, I--"
"...Hell is such a large place," Stolas says, eyes closed. "I knew that before, of course, but I know that now. It's so vast, in ways I couldn't have imagined until I saw it for myself. Until you showed me. And you are so very--you're always so... I have always--I've only ever wanted--I..." He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, the way Blitzø has taught him, which is a weird sort of relief. At least he can know he's taught some good shit to Stolas. "I only want the best for you, Blitzø. For a while, I hoped it would be me. And now--well, I've seen--I'm not surprised, you know, how very popular you--you've so many options, Blitzø. You deserve better than to be tethered to some old obligation."
Obligation.
What a fucking ugly word. If someone gave Blitzø ultimate fucking power in the universe, the first thing he'd do would be--well, no, the first thing he'd do would be give Loona and Stolas everything they'd ever wanted, and then give himself a stable of horses and the ability to take care of them properly--but then he'd get rid of that word. Zap, gone. Even when he'd bought into the whole "it's a transactional fucking" story, he'd hated it.
He hates it about a thousand fucking times more now.
"You think I deserve better?" he asks, and he's a little surprised he can even talk. Something is vibrating in him, like it's gonna explode at any second.
Stolas opens those big eyes, looking at him with a sad kind of affection, like he's already lost. Like Blitzø is some kind of fucking prize and Stolas knows he's never going to get him, because he doesn't know he already has--
"You deserve everything that makes you happy," Stolas says, which is the fucking biggest crock of bullshit that anyone's ever cooked up, but he says it like he believes it, and unfortunately, Blitzø knows he does. "You deserve someone who will make you happy. Who you can love with all of that beautiful heart of yours."
He swallows. It feels kind of like someone else is piloting his body for a moment, like he's--what's the fucking word that Moxxie uses? Disastering? Disassisting? Something like that.
But maybe he'll have to give whoever's in charge a fucking gift basket or something, because he opens his mouth and instead of shit spewing out, he says, "If I fucking deserve that, then I fucking deserve you, Stolas."
And then his jaws snap shut, and they're left staring at each other in complete silence. Even the usual outside noise has faded, like the whole fucking city is holding its breath.
Then Stolas swallows hard. Both of his hands are shaking--his whole body is shaking, but Blitzø thinks he might be too.
"I will always be your friend, Blitzø," he whispers. Part of Blitzø wants to scream that he could say shit like that and still not get through, but also--also.
Also.
The thing is, Stolas really is a fucking open book most of the time these days, and Blitzø has gotten real fucking good at reading over the past few months. There's a question in those words, even if it's a statement.
So he leans in, this time to knock their foreheads together. Stolas makes a tiny offended chirping noise, and he grins with all his teeth.
"Bitch," he says, "I don't do half the shit I do for you for someone who's just a friend. Remember? No fucking charity cases from me."
Because it's true he would put his fucking head on the block again to save his family, and he'd punch Fizz's sugar daddy in the face if that cockbag makes Fizz upset again--and he'd tear apart the whole fucking Pride Ring if Barb gave him a second chance, but everyday time? Going through the slow grind of leveling up every fucking self-care thing he's ever learned, to teach to someone else? Other than Loona, there's only one person he'd give that for.
For a few seconds they keep staring at each other, and then Stolas clears his throat.
"Be that as it may," he says, and fuck it, it has to be love if Blitzø's happy to hear him use that snooty voice and fancy phrasing right now, "all your kindnesses aside, there is... a significant difference between wanting to help a--someone you care for, and wanting..." He swallows, looks away, then glances at Blitzø sidelong. There's a definite heat in his eyes. "Wanting... more."
Oh shit. Ohhhhh shit. Shit, shit, fuck, fuckshit. The tightrope is wobbling under Blitzø's feet again, but he can see the other end now, the safety of the platform waiting. He's fucking clinging now, and he'd be embarrassed except for how Stolas is clinging back equally hard.
"Stols," he says, in a tight rasp. How does he say it? He wants more. He wants so much fucking more. That Sinsmas fantasy of a family still haunts him more than he really wants to admit. The want is there, but all he can force out of his fucking stupid mouth is that name. But from the hopeful little light in Stolas's big red eyes, he thinks maybe that's enough.
And Stolas, stupid sexy sweet Stolas, sinks down to his knees and says, with his whole fucking feathery chest, "Blitzø, please don't get on that train. I cannot be without you."
What the fuck else is he supposed to do about that? Not throw himself at that stupid owl and kiss him senseless?
Ha! As if!
Because yeah, their height difference is definitely a Thing, but also, Blitzø is all muscle and Stolas is hollow bones and feathers, so it's easy to crash right into him and send them both sprawling down onto the office carpet, and they're kissing like maybe they're both gonna die if they stop.
Which, who fucking knows? Maybe they will. Blitzø isn't about to test to find out. Just in case, he digs all his fingers deep into Stolas's feathers to keep him anchored close as they kiss, as deep and nasty as they used to, but also--not. There's something sweet about it, something that's a little less fucky, a little more--...
Ah, fuck it. A little more romantic.
The office carpet is threadbare, torn in some spots, stained in others, but there's more space than Blitzø's couch. They roll a couple of times, and it's probably sheer dumb luck they don't run into anything. Blitzø frankly does not give a single fuck.
In the end, they come to a stop with Stolas on his back and Blitzø straddling him, still kissing frantically. Stolas squirms a little, but once Blitzø gets his wrists pinned over his head, he just goes beautifully, perfectly limp. They're months out of practice, but he can still slot himself into place like he never left it.
He ends up with his knees pressed against Stolas's hollow ribs and holding both of those delicately thin wrists with one hand, digging the other into that fucking soft ruff of chest feathers. It's easy to tilt his head the right way to keep the kiss going; it's easy to wrap his tail around Stolas's skinny twig waist; it's so fucking easy to lose himself in the moment.
What's not easy is trying to pull back from the kiss to do anything else. There's other places he wants to put his mouth, but Stolas makes a pleading noise that he has to swallow down first. Then he lifts his head to try and follow Blitzø when he tries to pull back the second time, and then he has the fucking audacity to look already fucked out when Blitzø tries to catch his breath, so of course he has to dive back in.
Look. Blitzø is a simple imp, and sex is fucking easy. He's had months to replay memories and get them all tangled up with fantasies--because surprise! Even he can only take self-hate so far! (Yeah, it had surprised him, too.) And it'd be a lie to say he hasn't imagined fucking Stolas in multiple ways, in multiple spots across the office.
He ruts his hips against Stolas's belly, and he misses the feel of feathers against his skin, but he's busy. There's a thrill in feeling those wrists flex under his hands, and realize: fuck, he can't break free. Without his magic, Stolas is only as strong as any other sheltered little twink who's never worked out a day in his fucking life.
Which is to say, not fucking much at all.
For the first time ever, Blitzø has his owl completely, utterly caught under him.
That's incentive enough for him to pull back at last, in spite of the temptation of Stolas whining and trying to chase him again. He stays close, though, his gaze fixed on that pretty face, and uncoils his tail so that he can slide it down between those million-mile legs instead. It's a shame he can't get Stolas's pants open (seriously? A button-fly? Who the fuck wore shit like that? He's gotta get his bird back on elastic waistbands immediately), but the material is thin. They've learned that anything too heavy makes Stolas overheat real fast, and in the not-fun way, with all of those feathers.
Right now, though, Blitzø is real focused on the more fun kind of overheating.
He wedges the spade of his tail right up between Stolas's legs, stroking and grinding until he feels wetness seeping through, until that flimsy material is practically molded to the lines of Stolas's cloaca. There's that tiny bundle of nerves at the top of the slit that's like a clit (or maybe, like, a prologue dick or whatever it's called), but the beauty of a cloaca is that it's fucking sensitive all over. And while he hasn't forgotten how fun that pretty little birdpuss is, it's still fucking fantastic to have access to it again.
Under him, Stolas whines and shudders, dragging his head against the carpet, his beak hanging open and blushing through his feathers. Little twitters and chirps come spilling out of him, only occasionally broken up by stammers of Blitzø's name.
It's the kind of show that'd put porn actors to shame, and it makes Blitzø greedy.
Anyone else who wants to see Stolas like this has lost their chance. Everything about this moment, this owl, is fucking his now. He'll rip the throat out of anyone who wants to try to take it.
"That's it," he mutters, when Stolas's back arches, his hips squirming like he wants to pull away from Blitzø's tail and push into it at the same time. "That's it, baby, you're doing so fucking good, you're so fucking pretty, that's right. I got you. I got you."
In response, Stolas whimpers, all four eyes squeezing shut. "Blitzø," he gasps, all breathy and sweet, and Blitzø's dick gives a hopeful twitch at the sound. "P-please, I, oh fuck, I w-want--"
"Yeah?" he purrs. He leans down further, though he dodges the kiss Stolas tries to lunge for, just nuzzling the edge of those white feathers, his eyes hungry as he watches all the little ripples and changes of expression as he works Stolas towards the edge. It's a rush, how easily he can make this pretty bird fall apart, and one he's going to be chasing for the rest of his fucking life. "Yeah, baby, whatever you want. Daddy's got you, you just let go."
Those big white pupils swing towards him, all hazy and unfocused. Under Blitzø's gripping hand, his wrists flex and strain. His hips rock insistently into the pressure of Blitzø's tail, and dimly Blitzø hears a ripping noise that is probably his carpet getting torn up some more by Stolas's hugeass claws.
Whatever. Worth it.
He lets his tongue flick out, tracing the sharp line of that gasping beak, making brief contact with Stolas's tongue in open air. His other hand, still braced on Stolas's thin chest and buried in those longer feathers, gives a playfully mean twist and yank.
It works. He knew it would, because sex has always been fucking easy, Stolas has (almost) always been so fucking easy, but it's no less spectacular seeing it happen. Blitzø leans back to watch as those big eyes roll back and his pretty face goes slack with pleasure even as he arches up as much as he can with Blitzø's weight over him. Blitzø watches until he starts to come back down, then peppers kisses all over his face, across those fluffy white cheeks and closed eyelids and open panting beak.
At some point, he realizes he's mumbling things to Stolas in between those kisses, little soft praises, half-formed words of affection blending into a purr. Somewhere along the way he'd let go of Stolas's wrists so he could curl a hand under his head instead, and Stolas turns into him without any prompting, clumsily trying to return those kisses. It's fucking adorable.
That was probably not his best idea ever, but right now, he can't really regret it. Especially since Stolas seems to be drinking up all those little gestures, as thirsty for the affection as he ever was for cock. And it feels good to give that to him, to feel all those little hopeful return gestures as his bird comes down.
Finally, Blitzø plants a last little kiss on Stolas's beak, almost fucking chaste, then leans their foreheads together. He watches as Stolas's eyes blink open, slow and out of sync, before he makes direct eye contact with Blitzø and blushes.
"Hey, Stols," Blitzø says. "You with me?"
Stolas's tongue darts out to wet his beak, and then his gaze drops. He actually looks at Blitzø through his lashes, which is so disgustingly cute that Blitzø wants to bite him for it. He shifts to try and avoid that, which has the side effect of rubbing his dick against Stolas's body, and Stolas gasps.
"You didn't--"
"I can wait," he says, and he brushes longer feathers back from Stolas's face. He smiles a little at the way Stolas's blush deepens, which is not helping the desire to bite him. "How are you feeling?"
Stolas clicks his beak, then tries to tuck himself closer, angling his head under Blitzø's chin. Blitzø allows it for now, running his claws lightly through all those mussed feathers.
"I feel... good," he says at last, the words muffled into Blitzø's throat. He sounds surprised. "Not--oh, not to say that sex solves everything, I'm certainly aware of that, I promise you, but I just--"
Blitzø slings his other arm over Stolas's thin shoulders, giving him a careful hug. Stolas cuts himself off with a little chirp. "Yeah. Things are still kinda fucked. Us fucking doesn't fix that. I get it."
There's a long pause. It's a thoughtful silence, but for a rare once, it doesn't make him want to claw his skin off or chop off his tail so he can flee.
And then Stolas pulls back, just a little, just enough to peek up at him with one big eye.
"Things are fucked," he says. "But I would argue that I haven't been, yet. Not properly."
It's tentative, awkward in the way that all of Stolas's flirting has been, which is why it takes Blitzø a moment to get it. But only a moment, and then he barks a laugh, wrapping his tail around Stolas's waist again and using that to keep him close as he rolls them, so that he's on his back now, with his bird on top of him. Stolas makes another one of those cute surprised bird noises, both of his long elegant hands resting on Blitzø's chest and his hips hovering without making contact.
And Blitzø grins at him, all teeth, gesturing down at his body to the obvious bulge in his pants. "You want this, baby? You know what to do."
There's a shy little smile tugging at Stolas's beak now, but he hesitates as he shifts his weight. This time, when his gaze drops, there's an echo of his earlier uncertainty there again. It's a bit frustrating, but Blitzø is in it for the long haul. He can deal with this. "And--you do too, right...?"
Of course he'd ask that when Blitzø is so fucking hard that he feels kind of lightheaded. He adores this stupid bird. He's gonna fuck his brains out and then he's gonna figure out how to make sure Stolas never feels like he has to ask something like that again.
"Babe, if you don't get on my dick soon, I'm gonna have to go take care of it myself," he says through gritted teeth. "And I will be using your photos, 'cause if you don't want it, then no one else is getting it."
He can practically hear Moxxie sputtering about that. It's not his best line--but what matters is that it works. Stolas's eyes get all big again, his blush deepening.
More importantly, though, he pushes up onto his knees so he can first kick his own pants off, then fumbles Blitzø's belt loose and his pants open. His pupils go all heart-shaped as he looks at Blitzø's dick, which frankly has always been an ego boost, and it's no different now.
"Oh, I missed this," he sighs, running his long pretty fingers gently up the length of Blitzø's cock, smearing through the precum beading at the tip. To be honest, the touch is so light he can barely feel it, but he can see it, and that does plenty for him. He hisses, his hips jerking up, but Stolas rides the motion just as easily as he's ever done.
"Stols," he hisses, just short of a whine. "Fuck, c'mon, just--"
"One moment," Stolas says, before he wraps a hand around Blitzø's dick and starts to stroke, still too light. His fingers are slightly cool to the touch--he always runs a little cold since losing his powers--and they look so fucking delicate and confident on Blitzø's cock. There's probably shit to unpack with how much that makes his his blood run even hotter, but he'll worry about that later. Right now, he's got some more immediate concerns.
"You keep that up, and I'm gonna blow," he says through gritted teeth. In spite of his best efforts, he's already moving, thrusting shallowly into Stolas's hand. It's been so fucking long since his dick has seen any action but his own hand, okay? He's allowed. "Fuck, Stols, I don't wanna--I've waited too fucking long to just, shit--"
Stolas leans down to kiss him, a soft sweet thing, and then he finally takes a firmer hold of Blitzø's cock, holding it steady as he lifts himself up and angles his hips so that he can sink down onto it. It's a tight fit--almost as tight as the very first time, when all Stolas had ever taken was his own fingers. He feels like a dream, hot and wet and yielding in spite of the pressure, and Blitzø has to dig his claws into the carpet to ground himself. There's a real fucking danger he's gonna nut before Stolas bottoms out, and he really, really, really doesn't want to do that.
He doesn't, but it's a near fucking thing.
It doesn't help that Stolas has to go slowly, unlike their wilder full moons, and once his hips are fully settled against Blitzø's he has to stop, panting roughly. His hands settle on Blitzø's shoulders, kneading like he's a cat instead of an owl. His eyes squeeze shut, his beak hanging open again, and each of his exhales is a shaky little hoot.
He's fucking beautiful. Someday, Blitzø is going to figure out how to tell him.
For now, he braces his feet against the floor, using that as leverage to rock his hips up. He tries to make it as gentle as possible, but he's reaching the end of his patience. Because while he really would have been fine waiting as long as Stolas needed--no matter how fucking long it was--now that he's actually inside Stolas again, he can't help it.
To his relief, Stolas rides the motion with a crooning sigh, tipping his head back. Seeing all of that long graceful neck exposed makes Blitzø's fangs itch, but he's effectively pinned for the moment, for all that Stolas is no longer strong enough to force him in place. Maybe another time.
(Maybe soon.)
This time, Blitzø starts a slow, careful rhythm, more rolling his hips than thrusting. It's not so different from their Sinsmas dance in some ways: watching all the little expressions that cross Stolas's face, focused on the way his body moves and adjusting as needed. Doing that helps distract a little from the whole hotslicksweet of Stolas's cloaca, and he needs all the help he can get.
"Good boy," he whispers, as Stolas rocks to meet him, matching him with perfect synchronization. It's the same kind of understanding that had always made their full moon nights so fucking mindblowing. And Stolas chirps at him, a shy pleased noise, so Blitzø rewards him with a harder thrust that makes him keen instead.
He's lost after that. Even though he wants to be careful, he can't really be gentle, not when Stolas makes those high begging noises. It's been so fucking long, and he's missed this. He's missed this so fucking much, and he says so, even if the words are all garbled and growls, punctuated by rough, sharper punches of his hips and answered by Stolas's pleading, demanding whimpers. At some point as they move, Stolas's hands move away from Blitzø's shoulders, trailing down his arms, until they're plucking at his claws, buried in the carpet. The next thing he knows, they're holding hands, palm to palm, as Stolas rides him harder and faster.
And if there's a part of him that wants to rip his hands away and just fuck Stolas brutal and hard until he's done, to make this as bad for them both as he can--that part feels so small and distant now. Fuck, he's not sure he can even look away from Stolas's body over his to even think about that.
When he starts feeling the telltale tightness in his gut, his breath rattling shaky and loud through his clenched teeth, he slides his tail down lower on Stolas's body, using it to press his bird's thin hips down harder as he grinds up. Using his tail had been fucking great the first time, but he knows what Stolas likes best is this: the full-body contact between them, wet and messy and as fucking close as they can get.
He's rewarded with Stolas wailing, tossing his head back as all his feathers fluff up and his cloaca clenches impossibly tight around Blitzø's dick. His talons dig into the back of Blitzø's hands, and he's probably drawing blood, but Blitzø could not give less of a shit right now. He has to watch as much of this as he can, until his own orgasm hits him like a fucking (literal! ha!) bodyblow, which is kind of awesome, and also kind of ow.
They come back down slowly. Blitzø's breath feels like it's rattling in his lungs, and the office floor is actually real fucking uncomfortable, but he still feels... pretty damn good. He blinks until his vision clears, watching Stolas swaying on top of him for a couple of smug seconds before he moves, reaching to urge Stolas to just lie down against him. He's soft and he's warm and he's so fucking light, and Blitzø gives in to the urge to wrap around him, close and protective.
You know. Just in case.
There's long seconds where they just breathe. When he notices Stolas is matching to him, Blitzø forces himself to take deeper, slower breaths, and after the last bit of tension bleeds out of Stolas's thin shoulders, he reaches up and runs his fingers through those messy crest feathers.
"So, that happened," he says.
Stolas twitches, too small to be a wince, but too sudden to be an adjustment. "...It did."
Blitzø stares at the ceiling. There's a water stain that looks kind of like a horse right over his head. Maybe on Monday he'll get a stepladder and fill out the outline.
And then he says, "I'm not sorry."
Stolas goes still against him for a second, then lifts his head just a little. His eyes are glowing, those pupils huge and focused on Blitzø. "You're not?"
"Fuck no." He digs his claws in a little deeper, finds a couple of feathers that are still solidly anchored, and twirls them carefully around his fingers. "If you need to take a break again after this, that's fine. I didn't--it took me years before I fucked anyone for fun after the accident. I don't want you to think you've gotta do shit like this just for me. But I don't..." he takes a breath. His tail slides a little further down Stolas's body, so that it's wrapped around his hips and down around one feathery thigh. "I don't regret you, Stols."
"Oh." It's a tiny gasp, and Stolas's hand creeps to find Blitzø's again. The movements are all small and hesitant, but when he tries to lace their fingers together, Blitzø returns the hold immediately. "Blitzø..."
"I'm not getting on any fucking trains, Stolas," he says. He turns his head so that his mouth is buried in soft feathers. When he breathes in, it brings the smell of feathers and sweat, flowers and that tiny, tiny remaining spark of what he's always assumed is the stardust in Stolas's blood. "Not unless you're there with me. And wherever the fuck we're going? It's gonna be both of us together."
Stolas's breath hitches, but he doesn't cry--he just presses his face into Blitzø's throat, clinging to his hand. Blitzø keeps petting his fingers through those soft feathers, letting all the little aches and pains of a well-used body seep back into his awareness. The office floor is a shitty place to be cuddling, but he thinks he could fall asleep right now and take the inevitable back pain and sore neck as worth it.
Eventually, though, he gives Stolas a gentle nudge. "C'mon," he says. "We should open the windows to air this place out a little, 'cause Moxxie's gonna be a whiny little bitch on Monday if we don't. Then we can go home, okay? We can order dinner from that pasta place you like. Though shit, maybe a bath first--we can probably fit if we get real close and personal--why are you crying?!"
The thing is, he isn't, not really. There's just the threat of them, gathered in the corners of Stolas's eyes. His beak wobbles, but instead of answer, he leans in and kisses Blitzø. It's slow and sweet and deep, and it feels like the answer to questions Blitzø didn't even know he'd had.
When Stolas pulls back, he only goes far enough to lean their foreheads together. There's still tears in his eyes, but he's smiling--really smiling, all bright and brilliant that hits Blitzø like a shot straight to the heart.
"Yes," he says softly. "I'd like to go home, Blitzø."
He doesn't lean too hard on the word, not in his usual drama queen sort of way, but Blitzø still feels the weight of it. It settles on his shoulders, across his palms--not chains, just beloved hands, reaching to guide him where he belongs.
He sits up, slinging his arms under Stolas's body to lift him close, and rubs the Asmodean Crystal to wake it up. The portal opens to his--their--living room, quiet and dark, and he doesn't know if he's ever been so happy to see it.
Especially when Stolas makes a content little chirping noise and puts that soft fluffy head on his shoulder. Blitzø's the fucking King of Hell right now, no matter what things like "the law" or "society" say.
"On second thought, Moxxie can suck it the fuck up," he says. "You want home, baby? Let's go home."