Quinn, the newest stable boy of the King's Guard, is rather fond of gryphons. A little too fond, perhaps.

6k words. This piece is a little different in terms of pacing and narrative structure (very rarely do sexual acts de-escalate over the course of a story), but expect something both wholesome and exceedingly horny all throughout. I hope you enjoy! Thank you to Dergum Dergum for the accompanying art.

I've also uploaded this onto SoFurry for those who prefer that site for reading.

Some minor content warnings, on top of all the gayness: near asphyxiation, intelligent feral, minor suicide ideation, a soft metaphor for the transition from the Devil to Tower arcana—just like in those purse owner games.

Torchlight brightened the spiral staircase too much for comfort. Quinn’s every step reverberated through the stone. His every breath fogged before his eyes, and every narrow slit of a window he passed quickened his heart as flickering orange leaked through, visible to any and all in the snowy night beyond.

With every step, Quinn reminded himself that he had nothing to fear. The guard had finished his midnight rounds. But more importantly, Quinn worked here.

Of course, such a technicality wouldn’t save him. If caught, he would never find work again, save for a dilapidated dairy farm on the Kingdom’s edge.

Before the rational part of his mind could dissuade him, Quinn stood before the towering door at the stairway’s end. Gryphon Nest, the brass sign read. He fumbled his key into the keyhole. Cannon fire would have been softer than the clank that followed. Once the echo faded, and the stairway remained a soundless spiral, Quinn smothered his torch and pushed the door, cringing as heavy iron groaned.

He expected darkness. Pale moonlight surprised him. The glow, silhouetting falling snow, seeped in through three roof-to-floor archways at the far end of the so-called nest. Scattered rays of light illuminated a trio of wooden stalls and a floor covered in hay. A sweet mustiness, like linen just taken off the clothesline, contrasted the reek of manure Quinn had grown accustomed to.

Silence. The gryphons must be asleep.

Quinn locked the door. After taking a moment to steady his legs, he crept towards the stalls. He rubbed his hands together as icy wind howled through the archways, and though hay softened his steps, every gentle tap against the stone beneath hitched his breath.

The stalls rose to his eyes. Their edges gleamed white in the moonlight.

The perfect tease.

He would just stand on his toes outside each stall, spend a minute—maybe ten—admiring all three gryphons. And then he would leave. No one would know. Not even the gryphons.

But Quinn froze as a shadow—long and thin—flicked across a frost-glazed fissure in the ceiling. The dark trail oozed from the centre stall. A waving tail? Quinn shifted closer to the source, not daring to lift his feet from the hay. Afraid the darkness would lurch down and strike, he contorted his body to avoid standing beneath the swaying shadow.

Quinn moved slower than a lame horse, but he reached the centre stall before the sun rose. The glint of brass caught his eyes. Finn.

Given Finn was awake, Quinn couldn’t peek over the stalls. Not without risking the ire of a frightened gryphon. But given Finn was awake, Quinn needn’t worry about waking the regal beast, which meant—

“Finn?”

He spoke before he could think.

The shadow whipped across the roof’s zigzagging cleft, then fell still. No going back. Though incapable of speech, gryphons gauge emotions—one’s character—through voice alone. Quinn had prepared for this. He needed to show integrity and reverence to earn the creature’s respect.

“Hi, Finn. My name is Quinn.” He spoke softly to not disturb the other gryphons, though strained to project above the wind. “I’m the newest stable boy, but… you can probably tell. The smell of horse is all over me.”

No response. Silent judgement, perhaps. Did Finn know Quinn was in breach of the rules? So much for his integrity. Despite having no glimpse of the majestic creature, his irritated leer penetrated the wood.

“I know I shouldn't be here. Not yet, at least. But I've been working really hard to prove myself, because… because there's nothing I want more than to work in the gryphon tower. With you.”

More painful silence. Despite the dark, Quinn found himself peeling off another layer of fingernail.

“Sorry, I guess it’s called the Gryphon Nest, isn’t it? It said so on the door. I’m honestly risking a lot just being up here, what with my job and all. Didn’t deserve to get it, really. I mean, a stable boy for the King’s Guard, that’s like… a cook for the Royal Family. An apothecary for Saint Claresse. By Galleon, even a whore in the Merchant’s District. You… probably don’t know what a whore is, do you?”

Nothing. Quinn did nothing but dig himself deeper—assuming Finn could comprehend half that drivel. While nerves make fools of us all, they always left Quinn with no filter, exposed to the embarrassment of his own stupidity. And of course, he had already humiliated himself in the presence of majesty incarnate.

At the very best, Finn wished not to be disturbed. More likely, Finn already despised him. But Quinn needed to say one last thing—to know for certain. As he opened his mouth, a sudden gale, squealing through the open archway, made his voice and body tremble.

“I’m sorry for being such a bother, but… can I come in? Please?”

He waited.

Nothing. Quinn was nothing but a worthless pest—as always. He turned and crept away, unable to lift his gaze from his feet.

Then came a huff. The clack of a beak. An invitation. A warm rush rolled over Quinn as he spun and stumbled to the stall. This was really happening. He held his breath. Gripped the rolling door’s edge. And slid it open.

Snow lined the far side of the stall, trickling in through the open archway—the perch from which the gryphons took flight. The city and its empty streets stretched out beyond. Thousands of streetlamps dotted the white districts; thousands of flames flickered as they withstood winter’s harsh wind.

The view couldn’t compare to Finn. Reclined on his belly, the gryphon’s feathers glowed as moonlight gilded their tiered layers. His hawk-like head peered over his wings, swivelling to every possible angle. Sky-blue eyes, wide with apparent curiosity, spent as much time examining Quinn as Quinn did him.

A gentle flick of his lion’s tail invited the stable boy closer. Quinn kept his reverence, taking slow steps along the gryphon’s side towards his head, ready to stop if the noble beast expressed even a hint of discomfort. A soft coo, however, melted Quinn’s fears and hurried him along. He paused but briefly to admire Finn’s stunning colours; his feathery mane of brown made the golden-cream fur of his flanks and hind legs all the more regal.

Once Quinn reached the gryphon’s head, he knelt before the creature. A gigantic beak, honed and deadly, loomed over at him. Quinn swallowed. He licked his chapped lips before extending his hand. Finn brought his beak closer, puffed warm steam over Quinn’s cold fingers, then nestled his cheek against Quinn’s palm.

Quinn shivered from contact alone. “Hi, Finn. It’s… really nice to meet you.” He couldn’t disguise the giddiness in his voice. Finn seemed to recognise his excitement; he clacked his beak and brushed his head across Quinn’s hand, inviting him to stroke his fingers through the smooth feathers.

“You’re… quite gorgeous.” An understatement, but Quinn knew not what else to say. Scant few words were worthy of describing Finn, fewer still when spoken by a lowly stable boy.

Like any animal he tended to, Quinn best relayed his awe through contact. He brought his hand to the gryphon’s chin and brushed his fingers from beak to neck. Finn leaned into the scratches, nuzzling into the strokes. A low rumble built from his chest, and the vibrations rolled up Quinn’s arms to knead his whole body. Quinn’s heartbeat rose with the volume. His stomach swirled with butterflies.

This was really happening.

With another coo and a stretch of his wings, Finn lowered his head onto the hay. He raised his taloned foreleg, baring his feathery mane—a sign of trust. Quinn’s hands instinctively reached for the plumage. His arms sank to their elbows as he caressed the fur beneath, following the grain of the feathers. Warmth, a soothing reprieve from the surrounding winter, imbued the depths of Finn’s mane, the purring tremor fiercest at his chest’s epicentre.

Without thinking, Quinn leaned into the gryphon’s mane. When feather tips tickled his cheek, he huffed deep. The plumage quivered around his face as summer sunshine—bright and strong and exhilarating—filled his nose. It was everything he had ever hoped it to be.

A swaying tail in his periphery pulled Quinn from his trance. The golden tip draped over the gryphon’s flank, guiding Quinn’s hands to the featherless underbelly. Finn’s golden fur was longer than that of any horse and smoother still. Quinn once more brought his face in, between his hands, and allowed himself to be enveloped by Finn’s gentle warmth.

As Quinn glided his lip down the gryphon’s underbelly, Finn’s summer-like scent strengthened alongside his purrs. That musk soaked his fur. It shrouded Quinn’s thoughts. Engulfed his restraint. His conjectural limit of admiring from a distance had long since melted away, much like the chill of his face.

He would do anything to please this magnificent creature. To earn Finn’s favour. To prolong those beautiful coos for as long as possible.

Anything.

And yet the parting of the gryphon’s hind legs halted Quinn and his breath. Nestled between Finn’s toned haunches was the very thing that had tormented Quinn for the better part of a decade. The subject of many a sleepless night. A forbidden indulgence that should have forever remained in the realm of his mind.

Yet here it was—not merely on display, but on offer. On offer to him and him alone. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to worship. To taste. To fulfil that long, aching desire.

His thoughts fogged as he stared, transfixed. There were hundreds of hazy reasons why he swore this would forever remain a fantasy. Indulging meant the end of his career. The end of his future.

The end of him.

Yet a single sultry huff—timed with a tense of Finn’s sheath—eroded the last of Quinn’s resistance. No one would know. No one except the gryphon.

Quinn undressed before reason could intervene, tossing his clothes into the closest bucket. Winter stung his exposed flesh, but as if to confirm this was right, the pain faded once he huddled against Finn’s warm underbelly. Without a word to the gryphon, he rested his head atop his haunch. Soft fur tickled his cheek. He wiggled his face deeper between the beast’s legs. Like diving into a hot spring, the cold dissolved into a veneer of sweat—both his and Finn’s.

Then his nose brushed over the fuzzy sheath. His world became golden fur. Alongside purrs that tingled his ears, Finn shielded Quinn from both the whip and howl of winter’s wind.

Though blinded by fur, Quinn reached behind the sheath. His palms stroked two unwieldy orbs that needed no sight to confirm their bearing.

Self-restraint stopped him. Only a sliver, however; enough to seek his king’s blessing. “Can I… get you off?”

A hushed coo.

It was all Quinn needed. He glided his mouth along the sheath, planting kisses as he travelled up its length. The prize within twitched at the touch of his tongue, trembling much the same as Quinn. The stable boy moved slow. He savoured every pulse against his lips. Every coo in his ears. Every rumble through his chest. Each shaky breath filled Quinn’s lungs with rich musk, as though the air itself had evaporated in the heat between the gryphon’s legs.

Once Quinn reached the tip, he pulled back. The pink head of the gryphon’s cock teased its presence in the sheath, supple barbs stretching the ring. On each twitch, the length nudged further from its home. The slightest dribble of white leaked down the sheath’s underside.

Quinn just had to; he sealed his lips around the tip. With a powerful throb, cream spread over his tongue, dense with saltiness that subsumed his taste buds and filled his mouth with an endless heat. Quinn wrapped a hand around the sheath’s ring and tightened his lips. He moaned to knead the head, coaxing out another helping of bird seed, thick as glue. A heady tang of pure masculinity remained long after he swallowed.

As another serving warmed his tongue anew, Finn lowered his upper leg, sandwiching Quinn’s face between the fur of two brawny haunches. Quinn’s blood beat in his ears; here he was, nestled between a gryphon’s legs, mouth locked to the beast’s sheath. With a mere tense of those haunches, Finn would claim him.

But those haunches held Quinn in a gentle caress, nothing more. Quinn could shove them apart and leave—end this folly—if he so desired.

He didn’t, of course. He would never leave. Finn wanted this, and the desires of such a glorious creature far surpassed his own.

Between Quinn’s grip, the sheath swelled, and another half-inch of gryphon cock throbbed out. He stroked his fingers across the emerging length. Sticky lubricant rolled down his arms as he bobbed his head to reseal his lips to the sheath’s ring.

How much gryphon cock could he fit? Hoping to coax another few inches to weigh upon his tongue, Quinn suckled earnestly, moaning low and long between each eager gulp. Those fluffy haunches, tightening around his head, trembled whenever his tongue circled the gryphon’s head. A forelimb pressed into Quinn’s waist. It nuzzled him deeper into the underbelly fluff. Shivers tore through him as talons glided across his exposed back.

Quinn slipped his fingers into the sheath’s ring. The walls squeezed tight, binding them against the quivering cock, drenching them in heat and precum. The gryphon’s sheath had a rhythm to its pulses. Quinn found the tempo, and to it he clenched his fingers, tensed his lips, and moaned his delight. He did all he could to hasten the gryphon’s arousal. To welcome more of that length into his mouth.

This was really happening.

Between slick strands of golden fur, Quinn’s gaze fell upon the massive pair of jewels resting on the gryphon’s haunch. It may have been his imagination, but he swore the sac quivered, tensing in rhythm with everything else between Finn’s legs. Each clench delivered just a tease of their total payload; each shudder spread a new gift across Quinn’s tongue. If only his mouth weren’t occupied, for Quinn yearned to squeeze his lips around each orb, to worship them like he would any other part of this magnificent beast.

Finn cooed. His desires needed no words. Quinn would offer himself to fulfil each and every one. He would drain that enormous sac, lap up every drop of gryphon cum. If Finn wanted to use his body as nothing more than a breeding mount, Quinn would gladly bottom out his lips, kneading the gryphon’s majestic spheres as they pumped his belly full of seed. He would let Finn mount him. Fill his bowels. Breed him through the night. He would—

A heavy clank echoed through the stall.

Quinn froze. Finn flinched. Then came a low creak that quaked through Quinn’s bones. Flickering orange oozed through the gaps of the wooden stall.

The guard. He hadn’t done his rounds.

Quinn lurched away. His fingers slipped from the sheath, and the cock plopped from his lips. The gryphon’s heat left, and bitter wind battered the sweat rolling down his neck.

Quinn couldn’t sit up. The hay didn’t cushion the thump of steel-toed boots, growing louder with every step. Torchlight crept over Finn’s belly. Swallowed Quinn’s face.

He needed to do something. His head twisted between the bucket of clothes and the stall’s door, back and forth, desperate for a plan to form, but the rest of his body refused to move. His breath stalled. He was suffocating.

Why did he do this? What madness poisoned his mind? This wasn’t mere trespassing. He was naked in a prized gryphon’s pen, face beside the beast’s erect cock. The guard would kill Quinn on the spot—if Galleon showed him mercy.

A stall rattled. The door beside Finn’s. The guard would check all three. Quinn had to leap from the open perch—it was his only chance. Fresh snow might cushion his fall, but had it frozen, at least he’d have a kind death. That was the best he could hope for—the most he deserved. He didn’t—

The gryphon twitched. His haunches tensed. Quinn gawked at them, even as fur enveloped his body. Hide stuck tight to his skin. Before Quinn could free himself from his stupor, weight flattened him to the ground.

Finn had rolled on top of him.

Darkness snuffed out the orange glow. Fur blanketed Quinn’s sweat-soaked skin. Heat devoured every remnant of winter, radiating from two mighty legs that cradled his head, joined by a fat sheath pulsing atop his forehead and a wet cock throbbing over his lips.

There was no way this would work.

Finn’s heft tested Quinn’s chest. That immense rumble, a never-ending purr, quaked his body. And prevented a full breath. What little filled his lungs gushed with the gryphon’s overwhelming musk. At least suffocating between a gryphon’s haunches would prove a pleasanter end than plummeting to frozen snow. This way, Quinn would die happy.

Though only a mumble beneath the gryphon’s heartbeat and rolling breaths, the stall’s door rattled. Then, silence. Quinn stayed as still as possible, though the twitching cock on his face made up for his inaction.

What did Finn look like to the guard? Can a gryphon really hide a whole person underneath their fluff? Do gryphons have a poker face? Could anyone keep a poker face in Finn’s place? If he were Finn, he’d be looking at the guard from over his wings, flicking his tail, flashing the world’s smuggest smirk—the assured grin of a gryphon about to have their balls sucked dry by a human trapped beneath their sheath.

Wait.

Gryphons can’t smirk.

A clacking beak broke the silence.

“Don’t give me that,” came the voice of someone who hates their job. “Yeah, yeah, I’m late, but I wasn’t trudging through that bloody gale. Besides, you should have been asleep hours ago, you dumb bird. Get your ass to bed.”

Finn snorted; roughly translated, Yeah, whatever. Get lost. Both he and Quinn knew the gryphon wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon.

“Stop giving me that look, asshole. Go to sleep.” The stall slammed shut.

That guard ought to thank Galleon that Quinn couldn’t see his face. He had the best job in all the King’s Guard—nay, the Kingdom—and used it to hurl abuse at gryphons. A pitiful excuse for a man.

A third stall slid open, then closed moments later. The guard hadn’t yet left, but Quinn’s lust-dazed impatience won out; he planted a kiss on the cock squished against his lips and suckled the closest barb. The legs on both sides of his head shuddered as precum dribbled onto his neck.

Having received Finn’s apparent approval, Quinn wiggled his arms out from under the gryphon’s belly. He rolled his hands down the slick length of Finn’s cock, squeezing them against the stretched sheath. Precum leaked from the pouch and cock, warming his fingers and neck. Quinn then reached behind the sheath and, to his delight, found the gryphon’s low-hanging sac squished behind his head.

Low on air, high on musk, Quinn couldn’t stop huffing. His head swam with renewed lust, and neither dizziness nor imminent asphyxiation would stand in the way of the worship Finn so achingly deserved. He wrapped his hands around the gryphon’s balls—one in each palm. They proved too big to grasp, but of course they did; sexual prowess of this magnitude couldn’t be restrained. There was no doubt in Quinn’s delirious mind that Finn had sired dozens—nay, hundreds of children. The source of all that fertility now pulsed in his tiny hands.

It was an honour, truly. Few have the privilege of coming so close to magnificence, and fewer still admire the symbol of pure masculinity even closer. Quinn had found paradise—underneath a gryphon, face nuzzled into the creature’s sex. Even better, Finn had put him there. Finn knew Quinn’s place—a cushion for his sheath. Quinn belonged here.

A heavy thud. The guard must have left, but Quinn didn’t care; kneading Finn’s sac eclipsed any other concern. Even his life. His hands paid extra attention to the curve between each weighty oval, the dimple that separated the pair, and he inched his fingers into the excess hide. Oh, what a shame mating season had long passed. How low they must have dangled. How ponderously they must have swung as Finn strutted before a mate.

Quinn’s stomach swirled as the thought rekindled the fiercest of fantasies. The one that reared whenever he was at his weakest. It always started just as he was now—his face buried into fuzzy nuts, worshipping a gryphon amid a rut. His darkest dream replayed.

But now Quinn took the starring role of the once nondescript gryphon.

It began as it always began—Finn breeding his bitch. Quinn stood between the gryphon’s legs, his face pressed against the cleft of gryphon testicles, of Finn’s fertile masculinity. They eclipsed his sight. As his hands kneaded and groped each jewel, his mouth sucked and kissed and nibbled the puffy hide. Those nuts swung with each thrust, enveloping Quinn between them whenever they bounced back. Out of view, Finn’s knot battered whatever wet tunnel he claimed ownership of, its hastening smack signalling his approaching climax.

Wait.

Do gryphons have knots?

Of course they do; Quinn loved knots.

Once that knot breached and locked Finn to his bitch, those enormous orbs tensed. They jumped and clenched. They smothered Quinn’s face between their massive heft. Quinn gave each a kiss as they readied to erupt. With a screech of triumph, Finn emptied litres of life-giving batter into his mate, each shot heralded by a body-quaking throb. Quinn merely kept up his worship as the pair lightened before his eyes.

For the ten minutes—nay, an hour—of knotted connection that followed, Quinn showered the gryphon’s sac with love. He continued long after his tongue dried out.

Finn eventually rose from his bitch. Quinn whined as those nuts drifted away, but a more glorious sight greeted him. Beneath Finn glistened the golden fur of a smaller gryphon, collapsed beneath his new alpha. Between his splayed legs, squished backwards, his sheath and nuts twitched.

Finn had used his load not to fill a mate’s womb, but to claim a male competitor, to mark him with his lasting, unmistakable musk. Not that lesser gryphon seemed to mind; the aftermath of multiple orgasms painted the grass behind him, each zigzagging glaze leading back to his cocktip.

Finn treated his conquests well.

But the best was yet to come. With a shift of his hips, Finn’s cock sprung free of his mate’s hole. The distended rim spasmed. A flood of cream gushed forth. A broken squawk rang through the air—a cry of submission—as the avalanche submerged the bitch’s genitals.

Finn, of course, took his rightful place atop his throne. He laid on the smaller gryphon’s rump, spreading his haunches wide to straddle his flanks, framing his mate’s leaking asshole between his legs. That sloppy hole proved the smaller gryphon belonged to Finn, and Finn wanted nothing to hide his royal decree.

Well, nothing but his cock. His sac dangled above the bitch’s hole, and the tip of his dick, still hard and dribbling, rested against the shuddering rim. Glistening strings connected barbs to stretched wrinkles.

Quinn, in tireless service of his superior, always yearned to suck a gryphon’s asshole. He had never done something like that. What would it be like?

He would soon find out; Finn leered down at him from over his golden crown of wings. His blue eyes narrowed, those of a steadfast king. His gaze conveyed a silent order.

Clean.

Before Quinn knew it, his body flushed with the heat of two gryphon rumps, both inches from his face. Finn’s plump nuts bore their weight on his head. The gryphon’s cock throbbed against his cheek. And ahead, the reddened pucker quivered. Another spurt of cream oozed down the claimed gryphon’s golden taint.

Quinn clasped his hands into the fuzzy hide of the mate’s behind, gripping two handfuls of thick rump, and buried his face into the soaked hole. Hot seed drenched his face. It dribbled over his chin and down his torso, overwhelming his nose. Quinn opened his mouth to welcome the mess onto his tongue.

While he gulped and swallowed, Finn’s powerful legs locked around the back of his head.

This was really happening. There was no pulling away. He would suffocate wedged against a gryphon’s clenching pucker. He would give his life in service of the majestic gryphon known as Finn.

He would die happy.

And with that, Quinn wheezed as something rose from his face. His lungs burned, rasping for air. His limbs refused to move. The world, a dim haze of colours, spun and twisted, shapes and sounds merging into an indistinct numb.

Nothing made sense. Objects formed and vanished before his eyes, not one he recognised enough to name. Profound nonsense. Incapable of comprehension, forever beyond his grasp.

Until one took meaning. Moonlight. Then snow. Through an open archway, both glittered in the dark.

Where was he?

A blurry cloud of feathers, shining in pale light, answered. The gryphon tower. He lay on his back, cushioned by hay, beside the world’s best gryphon—a golden beauty named Finn.

But something was wrong. Moonlight filtered through Finn’s ruffled plumage. His beak stroked Quinn’s cheek, prodding with sudden urgency. Frantic squawks pierced the muted ambience. Wide blue eyes—glistening in moonlight—reeled across Quinn’s body, searching for something.

A sign of life.

The realisation struck Quinn like a horse’s hoof to the head.

He wanted to die.

Quinn tried to speak, but his words escaped as a sputtering cough. Finn croaked, as though crying out in relief. He clenched his eyes and rubbed his cheek against Quinn’s. Damp feathers grazed his mouth. Bitter saltiness spread over his lips. Finn trembled.

What had Quinn done? He filled Finn with terror and distress beyond even his darkest depressive spirals, and for what? To live out some warped fantasy?

He was a pitiful excuse for a man. An unforgivable monster. Nay, worse than a monster, for a feral beast like Finn showed more empathy than he ever could.

He didn’t just want to die. He deserved to die.

Quinn shoved Finn’s head away and looked to the open perch, but he hesitated, having always been a coward. The most he could do—the least he could do—was run. Run far away and disappear. Never return, lest Finn or any other creature suffer again for his failings.

Quinn staggered to his feet. His sight blurred again, this time from tears. “I’m sorry, Finn. I’m so sorry.” He couldn’t look at the squawking gryphon as he hobbled to his clothes. Cold gusts battered his skin, though he deserved a lashing much worse. “I should go. I’m sorry.”

But as Quinn leaned down, lightheadedness flared anew. He lurched for the stall’s edge, but his legs buckled before he could grip. The harsh stone didn’t rise to split his skull, however; warm feathers cushioned his fall. He squeezed Finn’s neck as the gryphon lowered him to the hay.

“Why? I deserve this.” Quinn covered his face, hid his tears; he couldn’t upset Finn any further. “Please, Finn, just forget about me.”

Finn replied with a coo—calm and steady, unlike Quinn. He sounded… happy? Quinn peeked between his fingers, only for a wet tongue to caress his nose. Quinn lurched back, and Finn took advantage of his surprise by nuzzling his beak into Quinn’s cheek, purring as he licked the stable boy’s ear.

“Finn?”

Finn cooed, an acknowledgement that crossed species, yet proffered no explanation for his actions.

Quinn grabbed the gryphon’s head, ready to push it away, but the rumble of the massive creature’s chest, the warmth of his feathers, urged the opposite—he pulled Finn in. Finn stepped closer and swayed his tail high above the pair. After a gentle preen of Quinn’s hair, Finn brought his beak to Quinn’s chest. Each affectionate lap of his skin, wordless reassurance, warmed him inside and out.

Neither of them wanted Quinn to leave.

Quinn suppressed a sob. “Thank you.”

Finn, again, did all he could do—coo. His tenderness exceeded his beauty.

The gryphon’s purrs strengthened as he traced his tongue down Quinn’s torso, across his soft belly, before pausing at his waist. He then brought a talon to Quinn’s chest. It lacked any ounce of weight, not intended to pin, but guide Quinn to rest on his back. With the gentle stroke of feathers, Finn nudged the human’s legs apart. He nestled his beak beside Quinn’s cock.

“What… what are you doing?” Quinn knew the answer, but it made no sense. Why would a beast of such majesty humble themselves by pleasuring one like himself?

Finn answered with a quiet coo. He opened his beak and huffed. His breath steamed in the winter air, engulfing Quinn’s cock in trembling warmth. Quinn gasped. Soft hay stroked his back as he shivered. He craned up his head just as Finn blew another puff, and Quinn’s cock lurched more than he did. White drooled down his length. Finn noticed; his stout tongue swayed from his beak and swiped the mess clean, replacing precum with a glistening streak of gryphon saliva.

Quinn’s breath hitched. He gripped both hands around the talon on his chest. “Wait, Finn, you really don’t have to. I… I don’t…”

But Finn wanted to. In one swift motion, he curled his tongue around Quinn’s cock and stroked from base to head.

Quinn nearly croaked. Although another pump from that powerful tongue—tightening as it soaked his length in steam and heat—coaxed a squeak. “W-why?”

The stable boy’s reaction must have delighted Finn; his purr rekindled, blazing fiercer than ever. His tongue massaged Quinn’s cock with a rousing rumble. Each time Quinn started a protest, Finn ended it by puffing another sweltering breath over his crotch. Though Finn’s eagerness was without doubt, the act itself—a gryphon being subservient to him—felt so much more depraved than the inverse. It was wrong.

But being wrong felt incredible.

Finn circled his tongue around Quinn’s crown. Whenever his cock twitched, Finn lapped across the tip to greet the flow of precum, cooing from the taste—or the thrill of bringing his mate such pleasure. He kneaded his talons on Quinn’s chest, his gentleness in stark contrast to Quinn’s own nails; they clenched between the talon’s ridges with every lick.

“Finn, I’m…”

Quinn waited for the huff to interrupt. None came. Just a sharp blue glare.

“I’m so close.”

Finn flicked his tail and lifted his talons from Quinn’s chest. After one last full-length stroke with his tongue, he pulled back, angling his beak away from Quinn’s crotch. He widened his mouth, hovered over Quinn’s dick, and—not breaking his gaze—slowly sank his beak.

Quinn jolted upright as muggy heat consumed his length. Inch by inch, his cock vanished into Finn’s maw. Tightness followed, starting at the tip as the gryphon’s tongue enveloped his cock. And once the beak’s chill surface nuzzled against Quinn’s crotch, Finn huffed, long and hard. Steam billowed from the corners of his maw, blanketing Quinn’s crotch and balls before spiralling to the roof, dancing through moonlight.

Too much. Quinn needed a brace. He found one—he wrapped his arms around Finn’s neck, grasping the fuzzy hide beneath his feathers. Finn flinched, but his eyes softened. He puffed another humid breath, now bathing both their heads in mist. An unending purr filled the silent stable.

Finn bobbed his head. He started slow, but combined with the tenderness of his prehensile tongue, Quinn found himself thrusting by the fifth descent. He wanted to say something—thank Finn for this privilege—but he only stuttered out the gryphon’s name before breaking into a moan.

And so that’s all he did—huff Finn’s name between kisses. Quinn kissed everywhere—on his beak, beside his eye, on his feathers, beneath his feathers. Between each kiss, each unsteady mutter of the gryphon’s name, Finn returned an equally loving coo.

Though Finn’s acrobatic tongue caressed Quinn’s cock with prowess unmatched, it was the rumble of his coos—an unspoken declaration of affection, one transcending language and species—that soared Quinn over the edge. He wanted this to last forever, but that was just another of his foolish fantasies. Why ruin something already so perfect? With that thought rebounding through his exhausted mind, Quinn buried his face into the gryphon’s feathers, moaning Finn’s name as he climaxed.

It didn’t feel real. Not even his wildest fantasies envisioned him cumming into a gryphon’s mouth. But those excited purrs didn’t lie. Nor did the sudden tense of that tongue, still pumping away, urging him to drain every drop. Nor did the soft gulps of Finn swallowing his load. Not even the clenching throat, the one his fingers so desperately gripped to stop himself from collapsing.

This was happening.

Why?

How long did it last? Hours, perhaps; Quinn wouldn’t be surprised if he lifted himself from the fluff and saw morning light through the archway. Not that he would lift himself from the fluff. Quinn wanted to stay here forever.

But Finn had other plans. With one last steamy huff and a thorough licking, he rose from Quinn’s cock. Warm drool shielded it from winter’s chill. Before Quinn summoned enough composure to say thank you, talons gripped his shoulders and lifted him from the neck feathers. Finn rolled onto his back in the same motion, then pulled Quinn into a new set of feathers—that of his chest.

They were even warmer. Exhausted, Quinn almost sank into the plumage, but a realisation lurched him awake; Finn hadn’t gotten off. Quinn scrambled through the feathers to Finn’s sheath, shivering as bristles stroked his sweat-soaked body. He made it halfway before talons forced his face back into the fluff.

With some wiggling, Quinn resurfaced—only to flinch when he met Finn’s stern eyes. He felt like a child about to be scolded. He deserved it, no doubt. But he had an excuse. “That’s not fair to you, Finn. I’ll just get you off, real quick, that way…”

Quinn swallowed his voice as Finn replied with a glare that spoke clearer than words ever could.

Get your ass to bed.

“O-okay.”

The gryphon huffed. He pushed Quinn’s shoulders, slowly submerging him into his chest feathers. The world went dark, and Quinn’s eyes struggled to stay open. Not even his favourite quilt matched the warmth radiating from the silky fur hidden beneath the plumage. Amplified within the feathers’ embrace was a reassuring scent he couldn’t huff enough of, and a soothing heartbeat that broke through the constant rumble from Finn’s chest.

Quinn had an answer for why.

Finn cared. Finn cared for this diffident stable boy. He cared for this lowly wreck of a man.

As for why he cared, however, Quinn’s tired mind fought and failed to give a reason. Even his conclusion—Finn cared—remained a guess, for Quinn would never know Finn’s thoughts for certain. He had solved but one mystery.

Gryphons have a good poker face.

Regardless, Quinn still needed to say thank you. Or good night. One or the other. But much like nerves, exhaustion makes fools of us all; when our minds are weary, we speak from the heart, unfiltered, exposed to whatever embarrassment the truth may bring.

“Love you.”

A soft coo carried him off to sleep.