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Blitzø always thinks of Stolas as a vegetarian. He’s not. Blitzø knows that. He’s seen the guy swallow enough cute little woodland critters whole with gusto, an entire mouse disappearing into that open beak and slipping down that slender throat, Blitzø following the bulge with his eyes and feeling the now familiar sensation of being both unsettled and turned on.
(Then later Stolas always excuses himself to go to the bathroom where he’ll cough up pellets of all the hair and bone and other indigestible shit his body doesn’t need. Blitzø has never seen him do it, though the sound is identical to some of the noises Blitzø had made during his brief, hazy time in college. Maybe one day they’ll get there—Stolas puking up an adorable little skeleton at the sink while Blitzø takes a dump across the room. Something to aim for. Couple goals.)
But the point is—he gives off a vegetarian vibe. Big vegetarian energy. Owls are birds of prey, and that means Stolas is too. But, Blitzø muses as he cards his claws through the downy feathers of Stolas’ neck and shoulders, how could a predator possibly be so soft?
They’re lying in bed, drowsy and self-indulgent, Stolas giving quiet little hoot-huffs of delight as Blitzø moves his hands idly over him. So, so soft. It’s why he can move so silently, he’d told Blitzø once. “That why you’re always wearing those squeaky slippers?” Blitzø had asked saucily. “You wouldn't rather have a little cat bell? I could get you a real nice collar.”
As his mind wanders, so too does his hand, stroking down Stolas’ leg, specifically the right one, the one that had been broken and healed long ago now. Hollow bones. That’s what birds have. It’s why Stolas feels so light it’s like he could float away at any moment. But they’re strong too. Blitzø clamps down a little too hard, and he soothes the mistake as soon as he catches it with the soft brush of his overturned fingers.
A little shiver runs through Stolas and he says in a low voice, “You’re provoking me.”
“M’not,” Blitzø argues leisurely. “You’re just easily provoked.”
“Guilty as charged,” Stolas admits with a hopeful leer, but Blitzø just lets that slide off him, rolling fully onto his side and contemplating Stolas with his cheek propped in his hand.
“I’ve got a question for you, birdy,” he says.
“Ask away,” Stolas says, putting way too much horn on an otherwise innocuous sentence.
“It’s about Via.”
“Oh.” Stolas deflates awkwardly, then says again more normally: “Ask away.”
“You’re the dad, right?” Blitzø asks. “I mean, you didn’t, like, poop out the egg?”
“‘Poop’ out the egg?” Stolas takes umbrage with the terminology, but confirms: “I wasn’t the one who carried it, no.”
“So, you topped?”
The look on Stolas’ face makes it clear how distasteful he finds revisiting the memory, but he does his best to answer patiently. “I fertilized the egg, yes.”
“Right.” Blitzø nods. “But, like, how? You don’t have a dick.”
“It’s called a cloacal kiss,” Stolas says. “It’s quite normal for demons like me and— for demons like me.”
“So, you just, what, rub your pusses together until something happens?” Blitzø frowns thoughtfully. “That’s gotta be the most awkward thing I’ve ever heard of.”
“Name one sex act that isn’t objectively silly, when viewed through a cold and sober lens.”
Blitzø raises a claw, opens his mouth, then falters. “Point taken.”
Stolas leans in and draws Blitzø’s face closer with a hand cupping the back of his head. “How long has this been percolating in that dirty little mind of yours?”
“I’ll never tell,” Blitzø says as he lets himself be drawn. “Not even on pain of torture. Not even if you whip out the nipple clamps, or the dick tenderizer.”
“Ooh, how fun,” Stolas titters before placing a soft peck of a kiss on his lips. “You’ve had a lot of questions lately.”
Blitzø shrugs, pushing a kiss of his own onto Stolas, parting his beak for a quick swipe of his tongue. “Just been thinking about some stuff. Guess that’s what happens when you’re regularly plowing—”
“Dating.”
“Regularly plowing one of you feathered fuckers. Just call me a— a bird studier. A bird nerd.”
“An ornithologist,” Stolas supplies.
“Eh?”
“That would make you an ornithologist.”
Blitzø pokes Stolas in the chest between kisses. “Hey, if anyone’s a horny-ologist it’s you, you thirsty bitch.”
Then he thinks for a second and amends: “Well, no, I guess I’m studying you so that would make me the horny-ologist.”
“Care to do some field research, professor?” Stolas asks, lying back, feathers fanning out on the sheets.
“Uh, sure.” It’s not the easiest roleplay Blitzø’s ever slipped into, but he goes for it as he lays his hands on that perfect, eager, slutty body. “Lemme just get my, uh, binoculars? And, uh, what’s it called? Like, a fucking field guide or whatever?”
“Scintillating banter as always, Blitzy.” Stolas’ impatient hand comes up to drag him down. “Now, I really must insist that you either stop riling me up or fuck me already.”
They roll around and kiss and grope and moan for a while but, despite his invitation—nay, command—it’s Stolas who eventually ends up lying on top of Blitzø, sliding down until his head is between Blitzø’s legs. He takes that thick, red cock down past his beak, into his throat in one smooth swallow. Oh, fuck yeah. That mouth’s good for more than just whole prey. A lover without a gag reflex. It’s every one of Blitzø’s adolescent wishes come true.
You’re gonna be okay, he whispers in his head to his past self—the dumb, lonely teenager jerking off pathetically with the few stolen minutes he had alone in his family’s tent. One day everything’s gonna be okay.
Stolas gives a particularly hard suck, with a particularly strong squeeze of his long, versatile tongue, and his big red eyes glint as they meet Blitzø’s—until Blitzø just can’t take it anymore, closing his eyes and groaning against the hot, wet pleasure. Stolas is toothless, but he has teeth.
Before everything can end too soon, Blitzø swats him off and rises up to push him down into position for a good, hard fucking.
But Stolas stills him with a hand on his chest and asks hesitantly, “Would you like me to show you?”
Breath a little short and head a little empty of blood, Blitzø squints at him, uncomprehending.
“Would you like me to… top?” Stolas clarifies, voice barely more than a whisper.
They’ve used strap-ons before, but this—what he’s suggesting—feels somehow so much filthier than that. So much more intimate.
“Uh, sure. Yeah. If— if you want to,” Blitzø says, face blisteringly hot for some reason.
“I think I do,” Stolas confesses, then kisses him again, moaning into it.
Blitzø’s dick is already rock hard from all that earlier attention. He pushes Stolas’ hand away when it reaches for it, instead pressing his own palm up between Stolas’ legs. Stolas gives a little mmf and lets his hands fall to his side, giving himself over to Blitzø’s clever little fingers as they slip through the slick already building there. Biting his lip, a low growl rumbling in his chest, Blitzø incites that curious little part of Stolas to peek out, his feathers parting as the mound of the cloaca protrudes, pink and hot and swollen with violent desire.
The hand that suddenly grasps Blitzø’s wrist is not gentle and soft, but the clinching talon of a bird of prey. And when Blitzø looks up from his handiwork into Stolas’ face, he is meeting the sharp, penetrating eyes of a predator. Stolas maneuvers him down onto his hands and knees, then presses him down further, until his chest is pressed into the mattress, his back curved into a deep dip that Stolas strokes with his sharp fingertips, his ass tilted up.
Stolas’ presence is a smoldering heat at the backs of his thighs, and Blitzø finds himself swallowing, turning his head against the bedsheets to catch sight of his Goetic lover, kneeling behind him, looming. And it’s— they don’t do this. It’s got both of them on fire. Blitzø gives his straining dick a quick squeeze before Stolas’ hands capture him and push his arms firmly down into the mattress before letting go.
“Fuck,” Blitzø groans. “Holy shit.”
Stolas hums in idle indulgence, stroking the length of Blitzø’s tail from root to tip and then moving it to the side, exposing his little red hole and sighing in admiration. Ffffuck. Blitzø quivers. Then Stolas hunches over him, long body curling until their thighs are touching, sliding against each other as Stolas finds his way to the right position. Then there is a damp, pulsing heat against Blitzø’s asshole and Stolas presses closer, closer, so close it’s like they could swallow each other.
So, this is the cloacal kiss. Blitzø opens his legs wider for it, and Stolas kisses him again, and again, and again, and again, the pressure a hot, sweet drag across the nerve endings. Normally you can’t shut this guy up, but now he’s silent except for his soft little grunts of exertion and growls of pleasure as he rubs single-mindedly against Blitzø. He’s an animal. A beast. A carnivore. And this is weird. It’s awkward as shit. It shouldn’t be hot, but fuck if Blitzø isn’t already panting open-mouthed against the bed sheets, drool soaking into the fabric. He’s not even being penetrated, but there’s no other way to say it: Stolas is fucking him open.
Stolas reaches around and curls his talons around Blitzø’s cock, pumping in time with his thrusts, and Blitzø makes an embarrassing little squeal and tries to bat him away.
“Shit. Fuck. No, Stols. I’m gonna blow.”
He means it as a deterrent, but Stolas snarls, his cloaca throbbing hard and hot against Blitzø’s asshole, his hips rolling with helpless biological imperative. His hand continues to work Blitzø’s dick and Blitzø relinquishes himself to the madness of it all, going fully pliant and empty-headed.
As they both reach the peak of their frenzy, Stolas stops stroking and instead grips Blitzø’s thighs, one in each hand. He spreads Blitzø’s ass cheeks to open his hole a little wider to fuck his cum in there, smothering him from behind as he leans down to press bruising little bites from his hooked beak into the soft flesh of Blitzø’s neck. Blitzø shouts something unintelligible and sprays over the sheets, his cock so hot it’s burning. Stolas shudders against him, most of his cum spilling down Blitzø’s thighs, but some going inside, warm and wet and slipping into the deepest places of him.
With one final, hoarse cry, Stolas lets go and falls back into the pillows, returning to his roost, pulling Blitzø into his arms and holding him safe as they both tremble though the little electric aftershocks of pleasure. Blitzø’s brain is a jumble, but one word floats to the top: Carnivore.
“Are you alright, darling?” Stolas asks, voice reedy, preening gently at the bruises he left on Blitzø’s neck.
“Muhhh,” is about all Blitzø can manage in response, but he gives a shaky thumbs up to get the point across.
“Well,” Stolas says, breathless and bright, “I’d say you’ve more than earned your bachelor of science in horny-ology.”
Blitzø, blissed out and fucked out, gives a weak, “Bachelor of guy-ance.”
Not his best, but Stolas indulges him with a chuckle anyway.
Blitzø, still senseless, mutters, “Bachelor of farts,” then goes limp like a popped balloon.
“Oh, dear. Did I break you?” Stolas teases, pulling him tighter into his warm feathers.
“Stolas,” Blitzø says when the ability returns to him. “I don’t even know what the fuck just happened.”
“That, dearest,” Stolas whispers against his skin, “was the kiss.”
They lie like that for a while, until Blitzø can feel the tips of his hooves again. Then, once he’s recovered, he flips them over and bears down on Stolas with a cock that’s already back to half-hard and a desire to give that smug bird a ‘kiss’ of his own. Stolas is game, and together they go for their PhD.