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“Wait, wait, you don’t have to do this,” the incubus cries, scrabbling back on clumsy feet. He falls on his ass right there and Blitzø has to bite his cheek to stop his laughter. It’s a good thing his mask does the work of hiding his smile or he’d really be in trouble.
The dude keeps talking, keeps crying, and Blitzø just tilts his head. He walks forward slowly, the point of his machete dragging against the wood flooring. This is one of his favorite parts, really. Playing with the target as they back away, maybe even giving the illusion that he’ll let them go. That they’ll be the only one to escape him, to make it out of camp alive.
As if. They should know better, coming here. This is sacred ground, his mother’s final resting place, and he’s not letting it become some kind of bullshit site for rich kids and horny teens. No way.
“Please, please, I can—“
The words cut off as Blitzø finally raises his weapon, the swing of the blade echoing with a soft, airy schwing as its slices through their perfect, dark pink throat. Unblemished, whole. Well, not anymore. The cut is clean and just deep enough to leave them gurgling and choking on their own death. A spray of blood hits his mask and Blitzø doesn’t even flinch, just watching as the guy finally slumps over.
One more to go. One more bird, the last counselor for this shitty place, and then Blitzø can retire to the forest and get a few months of rest before the next group tries their luck. He can replant the flowers around his momma’s grave, sharpen his tools, maybe burn down another of the cabins for some extra warmth.
He sighs to himself, rolling his shoulders back. He leaves the body there like he always does, because maybe his last target will find it and then he’ll get to enjoy the terrified screams. He wonders if this bird will be as hard to kill as that lion demon was — he’s pretty sure they’re both fancy, powerful demons with magic and all that. The kitty cat had hissed and managed to get a couple of good swipes at Blitzø’s shirt, shredding the fabric in a few places.
Still, all that fur was plenty flammable, and Blitzø has fire in his palms. Was reborn with it, actually, and no one’s been able to best him yet.
Whistling lowly, he meanders along the far side of camp, stopping to pick a few flowers for his momma. The helleyes are just starting to come out this time of year, when the Wrathian season cools down. Around him, leaves rustle and he pauses, the spines on his back stiffening. He takes a breath, tongue flicking out beneath his mask, and gets a hint of something sweet on the air.
He turns quickly, tail whipping behind him, and sees a flash of blue-gray behind one of the other cabins. Grinning with all his fangs, he walks calmly after the bird, stopping only to lay the flowers down gently at the base of a tree. And then he speeds up, letting his steps crunch just to make his presence obvious, delighting in the shake and tremble of those long tail feathers.
The guy is tall. Lanky with spindly arms and legs so long they make quick work of the campground. Already, Blitzø can imagine bending them in all sorts of positions, hearing the bones crack under the pressure.
The screen door of the royal cabin flutters and slams as the bird demon wretches it open, slipping inside with an impressive grace. Blitzø cocks his head in confusion, wondering why the guy would be stupid enough to run directly to an enclosed, limited space.
Unless this is a trap. Blitzø pauses and switches directions, circling around the cabin slowly. He makes himself completely silent now, not even a twig stirring under his steps. He peeks into a few of the windows, frowning when he doesn’t see his target anywhere.
A throat clears, the sound light and demure. Barely any grit to it. Blitzø raises an eyebrow and crosses back to the front of the cabin, freezing when he sees the screen door still open, held aloft with bright purple magic. Beyond that, the bird is sitting on the couch, dark blue sweater slouching over his shoulders and his legs spread.
“Uh,” Blitzø mutters, taking a cautious step onto the cabin’s porch. “Are you… you know I’m hunting to kill you, right?”
“Yes, I know,” the bird sighs, head tilting to one side. His white faceplate is covered in a dark berry blush and the feathers of his neck are puffing out. “I have to say, I’m honored you saved me for last. Is it because I’m a prince?”
Blitzø steps into the cabin, his machete waiting at his side. He also has a tiny bit of blessed rope left, should he need it. But the air around them is… weird. The demon in front of him doesn’t seem scared. If anything, he seems giddy, wiggling his shoulders and shifting on the cushions.
What the fuck.
“Sure,” Blitzø mutters. He decides to give the guy another out, one last offer to make things more… normal. Or at least, normal for Blitzø’s usual methods. “Well, uh, typically people run into the forest? Hide?”
“Oh, I saw,” he says, nodding so jerkily that his fluffy head bobbles. Cute. “Your work with the buxom blond succubus earlier? Truly inspired.”
Blitzø thought he felt someone's gaze on him throughout the day, thought maybe one of the other campers was gonna get brave. Turns out it was just this guy, four bright eyes and all, watching him make his kills.
“I can run again, if you’d prefer,” he continues, leaning forward. His lids fall down slightly, shaded and dark. “Whatever makes the experience better for you, really.”
Blitzø steps closer and the screen door creaks closed behind him. He pays it no mind, because he’s too busy staring at this fucking freak. “You got a name?”
“Stolas,” he offers. A small smile pulls at his beak. It’s a pretty smile, too, almost familiar. Soft even with the sharp point at the center.
Blitzø shakes his head slightly, doing his best to stay in the present. Ignore the tightness in his chest, the blush in his cheeks. “And you… want me to kill you?”
“Well, I was hoping to negotiate on that last part, though I'm okay with getting quite… close,” Stolas says. He smiles even wider, his eyes scrunching up. He adjusts his position, too, opening his thighs more. Between them, Blitzø can already see the darkened patch along the seam of his tan shorts. He takes an automatic breath, tasting more of that earthy sweetness around him.
“You’re fucking weird,” Blitzø says, even as he’s drawn forward. Almost like he’s being hypnotized. Maybe this is a trap after all, maybe this is how he goes down.
It could be worse, he figures. He certainly deserves worse.
He’s close enough now to stand in between Stolas’ legs, their faces somewhat level. Peering beyond the eyeholes in his mask, Blitzø watches Stolas’ gaze drift down, sliding along the tears in his clothes with a warmth Blitzø can almost feel.
“If I said I’ve been a fan of your work for a while, does that make it better or worse?” Stolas simpers. He holds one hand out, hesitating minutely before he places it on Blitzø’s mask, the hard plastic keeping him away from Blitzø’s skin.
“I don’t know,” Blitzø says, and he means it. He has no idea what the fuck is happening, not at all. A new kind of heat is simmering in his belly, one wholly unfamiliar and honestly unwelcome. He grits his teeth and turns towards his bitterness, his anger, slipping into the feelings like an old pair of boots. Stolas watches him carefully, seemingly clocking the change and yet not doing a damn thing to get away. No, he just sits there as Blitzø reaches for him, his tail coiling and tightening around that skinny throat while a hand goes to back of Stolas’ head. Blitzø’s claws falter there for a moment, tangling in impossibly soft, long feathers.
Dark tendrils tickling the skin of his back as his horns are buffed clean. A humming low in his ear.
“Blitzø?”
His name sounds much, much too soft in Stolas’ voice, held carefully like it matters. He doesn’t even remember the last time someone said his name at all, nevermind like that.
No, this isn’t right. None of this is right. It can’t be.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Blitzø hisses harshly, thankful that his mask hides the desperate, twisted expression on his face. His tail tightens again and Stolas squeaks out a sharp sound. “What kinda game is this?”
“No game,” Stolas gasps, the words barely audible with the way Blitzø is gripping his throat. He wriggles further into the couch, hips rocking like he’s searching for something. The sweetness in the air blooms again and Blitzø grunts as he feels his own wetness trickle along his slit in response. The head of his cock is already nudging its way out, drawn forward by the strange warmth in Stolas’ eyes.
Blitzø scoffs and lets go of Stolas throat, reaching to his side in a blur of movement and returning with his trusty machete. The blade is shiny and bright and there's still some of the black blood from that incubus. The color contrasts so nicely with the blue-gray of Stolas’ feathers, like it was meant to be there.
One slice. That’s all it would take, one easy slice.
Stolas’ eyes seem to glaze over, tiny heart pupils appearing in the lower ones. He trembles, too, the rocking of his hips increasing in pace, so much that the couch actually creaks underneath him.
Fuck, Blitzø wants some of that friction for himself, too. Wants to grind and ride and pull and press. Plunge himself so deep he can’t tell where he ends and Stolas begins.
Stolas leans forward, bringing his neck flush to the blade. It nicks a few of his feathers and the plumes fall down between them. And then he purses his beak, kissing right over where Blitzø’s mouth lays under the mask. The pressure lands with a small click and the mask is thick between them but Blitzø can feel it anyway, he can feel it down to his hooves.
“Fuck it,” he grunts, removing the machete and throwing it to the side. He uses his hold on Stolas’ head to tilt his face back, bearing down on him and mushing their faces together in what could be a hard kiss, if not for the mask. Stolas chirps happily and one hand goes to the exposed skin on Blitzø’s chest, tracing the place where white interrupts the red.
Stolas’ slouchy sweater is the next casualty, ripped apart easily under Blitzø’s claws. Stolas shifts and lifts his hips, letting Blitzø shove his shorts down. No underwear, either, just an eyeful of a pretty slit with small, soft-looking feathers around it. A mound of fluff at the top, already rumpled from Stolas' grinding.
Blitzø steps back and Stolas’ talons fall to his belt, eager to undo the fastenings there. Blitzø hisses and slaps his hands away, ignoring Stolas’ questioning sound as he carefully removes his mother’s skull charm. He looks around for somewhere to put it and settles on a nearby table, making sure the charm is stable and safe.
Stolas fucking coos at him, which just pisses Blitzø off more. Because who the fuck is Stolas, who does he think he is to even want Blitzø? How can he?
Blitzø crosses to the other end of the couch, sitting himself down and pushing Stolas off with his hooves. Stolas follows, even though he’s clearly confused, and Blitzø uses the newly free space to lay himself down properly. And then he grabs at Stolas’ hands, turning him roughly before pulling him up and onto his face, onto the mask.
“Oh!” Stolas gasps, and his hips rock down automatically. He moans as his movements pick up, wetness seeping in between the masks’ holes and onto Blitzø’s forehead.
art by Orbiting_Stars
Stolas reaches down and grabs at Blitzø’s arms, using the grip to help him ride properly.
“You like this so much, huh?” Blitzø grunts, his voice vibrating against the plastic. Stolas answers with another moan, his eyebrows scrunching as he chases his pleasure. “This is what you want, right?”
He expects Stolas to keep going, to use him and the mask and get himself off. And then Blitzø can get rid of him and forget this all fucking happened, forget the warmth and the heat and his own slickness, the want that itches under his skin. The craving that he’s had for so, so long.
But Stolas pauses. He loosens his hold on Blitzø and takes a breath, sliding off his face and down onto Blitzø’s chest. He clumsily turns himself around so they can face each other, and the fluff on his torso is shaking with his rapid breaths.
“N-no,” he says, and then he pauses. “That’s not what I want. Not really. I’ll take whatever you give, though.”
Blitzø pushes himself up onto his elbows, forcing Stolas to fall down into his lap instead. His cock pulses in his slit but he’s also so fucking angry. Because Stolas doesn’t know a damn thing. No one does.
Annoying, frustrating tears build at the corners of Blitzø’s eyes and he rips his mask off, wiping them away with calloused fingers. And then he turns his face up, letting Stolas see it fully. The only person who ever has, except for his momma. This had been the last thing she’d seen of him, back when she thought he’d died. Back before she was killed, too.
“You think you want this?” Blitzø spits out, pointing at the scarred, ugly flesh.
“I do,” Stolas answers, quick as lightning and so sure Blitzø can almost believe him. “You’re beau—“
“Shut the fuck up,” Blitzø cuts him off. And yet, his spines are lifting and his slit is clenching on nothing. He reaches between them and thumbs at the buttons of his pants and Stolas lifts himself up and away to make it easier, not daring to touch Blitzø as he awkwardly shoves the fabric down along with his underwear. And then his claws go to his slit, easing his cock out fully so that it springs up between them, shiny and dribbling with precum. The spikes on the underside are hard and flitting out, too.
Fuck, he’s already close. How is he already so close.
Stolas sits back down in his lap immediately, cooing and moaning and singing pretty fucking songs all high and smooth. It makes Blitzø’s fangs click and he growls, hands going to Stolas’ hips as they rock and grind together. The tapered head of his cock slips along Stolas’ opening, catching on the very top a few times.
“You want me?” Blitzø asks, though he wishes he didn’t. Above him, Stolas nods rapidly and smiles, those stupid fucking heart pupils making another appearance.
Still, Blitzø wants. And for once, he feels wanted, too.
Stolas lifts himself up one more time and Blitzø lines them up, watching with wide eyes and an open mouth as Stolas slides down his cock.
“Fuck,” he swears, hooves kicking against the cushions as Stolas sucks more of him in slowly, so slowly. He resists the urge to kick up his hips, just barely, watching the pinched expression on Stolas’ face.
Pinched. Pain. Pain Blitzø didn’t mean to cause.
“Shit, should I have—“
“No,” Stolas chokes out. He keeps rocking his hips, sliding down little by little. “I wanted it to hurt. I want you to hollow me out just for you, only you.”
Blitzø doesn’t have anything to say in response. He just grunts and shakes as Stolas squeezes around him, the pressure and warmth immense and overwhelming.
“You feel so good,” Stolas mumbles, tears slipping down his cheeks. Blitzø has no idea if they’re good or bad tears, but Stolas is smiling. He’s smiling and shaking and rocking down and suddenly he’s fully seated, taking all of Blitzø until he can feel sticky feathers along his pelvis. They both pause to breathe, eyes meeting, and then their hips start rocking together, finding a rhythm that makes Stolas’ heart pupils roll backwards.
“Ah, ah,” Stolas moans, the sounds almost punched out of him. At his stomach, Blitzø can see the outline of his cock distending his stomach, his skin, imprinting him inside and out.
“Satan,” Blitzø says, sweat dripping down his face. Stolas follows the drops with his talons, picking up the moisture and bringing it to his mouth. He sighs at the taste and then bends himself near in half, bowing down so he can lick Blitzø’s cheek.
“You are delicious,” Stolas coos, and for the first time Blitzø feels a genuine spike of fear in his stomach. Like Stolas is going to devour him and leave nothing left.
He’s not all that opposed.
Blitzø finally lets his hips kick up, shifting their tempo into something more frenetic, more desperate. Because he’s close, he’s close, he isn’t going to last. He can tell by the drag of his spikes inside, the steady slip of wetness between them.
He whines and tilts his chin up, eyes fixed on Stolas’ beak because if this is it, he wants that kiss. A real one, even if it’s his first and last.
Stolas squeaks out this tiny, adorable sound and meets Blitzø easily, the catch of their lips awkward and sharp and fumbling and so, so perfect. They pull apart and push together again, the rhythm matching the roll of their hips. Blitzø nips at Stolas’ tongue with his fangs and Stolas gets him back with his beak, the metallic taste of blood only increasing their ardor.
Somehow, Blitzø holds off his orgasm long enough for Stolas to come first, though just barely. As soon as he feels the squeeze and rush of wetness, he’s gone, hips grinding up as the syrupy warmth fills his stomach, his chest, climbing all the way up his body.
The pleasure seems to go on forever and the two of them don’t pause, just keep moving and kissing and holding each other close. Blitzø waits for the moment that Stolas will strike, but it doesn’t come.
No, instead, when their climaxes fade, Stolas simply asks if they can roll over so he can take a nap. He’d stayed up the last few days to watch Blitzø’s activities, after all, and hasn’t gotten much rest.
And Blitzø says yes, settling himself on Stolas’ chest, snout in that fluff of feathers, cock still tucked inside that warm slit. His mask stares at him from the floor and his machete gleams, but he just closes his eyes. And sleeps.