Love birds

The moon had slipped behind a veil of clouds, leaving the fledgling’s hollow in bruised indigo shadow. Gylfie’s silhouette cut sharp against the dark—small, lethal, every feather humming with intent. Englantine lay sprawled on the moss-lined floor, wings half-spread, chest heaving. She was all long limbs and new down, the last of her juvenile gray still clinging to her primaries like a guilty secret.

“Gylfie,” she breathed, voice cracking on the second syllable. “The guardians said I’m not to be touched until my second molt. They’ll clip your wings if they catch you.”

Gylfie’s laugh was velvet and venom. “Let them try.” She prowled forward, talons clicking, until she loomed over the trembling girl. “You’re dripping already, little one. I can smell it—sweet, untouched, *mine*.”

Englantine’s thighs parted on instinct, exposing the slick pink seam between them. “I—I shouldn’t want this,” she whimpered, but her hips rolled up, begging. “I’m barely fledged. I’m—”

“Perfect,” Gylfie snarled, dropping to her knees. She buried her beak in that virgin heat without ceremony, tongue spearing deep, curling, *claiming*. Englantine’s scream cracked the silence—high, desperate, obscene.

“****—*Gylfie*—it’s too big, your tongue’s splitting me—”

Gylfie only hummed, the vibration ripping another cry from the girl’s throat. She lapped greedily, drinking the flood of slick that coated her chin, her cheeks, the soft feathers of her breast. “Taste yourself,” she ordered, rising to press two slick talons to Englantine’s beak. The fledgling sucked them clean with a broken moan, eyes rolling back.

Then Gylfie flipped her—rough, possessive—pinning those gangly wings beneath her weight. “On your belly, baby. Ass up. Let me see what the guardians are so desperate to protect.”

Englantine obeyed, trembling, presenting herself like prey. Gylfie ground their cloacas together in one brutal thrust—wet flesh slapping, grinding, *****ing*. The size difference made it filthy: Gylfie’s compact body dominating the taller girl, hips snapping with feral precision.

“Take it,” Gylfie hissed, beak buried in the soft nape of Englantine’s neck. “Take your elder’s **** like the greedy little **** you are.”

Englantine sobbed into the moss, pushing back, meeting every thrust. “Yes—*ruin me*—make me come on your pussy before they lock me away—”

Their rhythm turned savage, feathers ripping free, talons scoring bark. When Englantine shattered again—gushing, clenching, *screaming*—Gylfie followed with a guttural snarl, grinding deep, marking her inside and out.

Dawn’s first light crept through the hollow as they lay tangled, sweat-slick and spent. Gylfie licked a lazy stripe up Englantine’s spine. “Next time,” she whispered, “I’ll take you mid-flight. Let the sky itself witness me ****ing their precious fledgling raw.”

Englantine, voice hoarse, could only nod—already ruined, already *hers*.