Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Pathetic. 

How many times had that word been hurled his way, only for him to truly believe it in this moment?

The dark lord sat perched on his mattress, his fingers laced together as he fiddled with his talons. Pressing the blunted points of his thumbs together while his attention drifted from the balcony to the clock once more. Bright eyes locked on the glow of the small screen, the numbers appearing across the surface leaving him feeling as if his insides were churning. 

01:37am. 

Stolas finally released the breath he had been holding and found himself dropping back to lay on silk sheets in a spill of long limbs and feathers, his organs tying themselves into knots the longer he wallowed in his own self hatred. Never once did he think to blame Blitzø for his lack of appearance tonight, surely the prince had done something to keep him away. It was his failure, he was aware of that, but what had been the final straw that apparently pushed Blitzø to not show up tonight? 

Had he appeared too needy as he sent him a text this morning, his eagerness apparent in the inclusion of the tiny little pink hearts he had tacked on at the end? Perhaps the picture attached to it had been too bold or perhaps not bold enough? Or perhaps he had said something last time that had rubbed the imp the wrong way? However, thinking back on it now, Stolas was fairly sure he had been gagged the entirety of their last meeting. Had he even spoken a single word before the imp was upon him? 

Stolas froze, dual sets of eyes fluttering open as he sucked in a breath just as realization dawned on him. 

Mine. Oh dearest, you are mine.

Stolas rolled his weight onto his stomach, burying his face into a pillow to quiet the low warble of frustration in his throat. Not at Blitzø, never him, but with himself. He had ran his mouth again, lost in his own pleasure and emotions to the point he had tried to claim the imp as his own. 

How foolish could he be? 

Realistically, he knew Blitzø was a free spirit, and he had caught the scent of another's body on him weeks ago as the hitman recounted something about the father of one of his employees, a failed wedding, and how he had 'done a shrek'. 

Stolas was still unsure what that last part had meant, too focused on the scent that lingered on mottled skin and the healing but faint bruises on the imp's hips to ask too many questions. Or really any questions at all, instead he had put his all into his performance that night. Had kissed, licked, and sucked nearly every inch of him, determined to replace that scent with his own. He nipped, he clawed, he bruised all in his desperation, and Blitzø had enjoyed his eagerness to please. His willingness to humiliate himself, to beg for more, to cry and call out for him in ecstasy. 

But it had been a fantasy to claim Blitzø as his that night, a deep seated yearning that he ached to conjure into reality, only to end face down in a pillow over analyzing every action he has ever committed. 

His arms wrapped around the pillow, squeezing it tighter to his face, only for a hand to slip into the pillowcase. Fingers searched silently, groping in their quest to find what he was looking for, and once he brushed his fingers over it, his talons hooked on the fabric and he rolled onto his side. Withdrawing his prize, Stolas held it in his palms as if it were made of polished alexandrite.

'Just horsing around'

The sprawled print across the shirt was faded, the ink cracking and splintered from too many washes under too high of heat, and beneath the loop of a lasso underlining the tagline, was a faded image of two horses eating grass. His talons caressed the image, trying to recall just how Blitzø's warm muscles had felt beneath it as they had laid together in post-coital bliss. The sweat cooling on their bodies as the used condom was tied and tossed in the direction of the trashcan, never quite making it there.

Stolas felt his mouth go dry, fingers curling in the fabric before he tugged it up towards his face. Pressing his beak into the shirt to draw a deep lungful of the scent still clinging to the fibers. The spiced musk sent a shiver down his spine and he felt his head start to spin as he pressed his face a little harder into his palms, each inhale filled with Blitzø.

Pathetic

Oh, but he did not care, no one was there to witness his shame as he curled in on himself and pressed his thighs together. Squeezing the muscles taut for a tiny amount of friction and pressure, which was enough to make the prince coo into the fabric. 

"Forgive me"  Stolas breathed, both for taking possession of the shirt, and for the depravity he found himself at the mercy of as a hand slid down his body. Trailing over the swell of his own hips before dipping down to skirt over his inner thigh with a singular goal in mind. Talons caught the inside leg of his regal romper and tugged it to the side, stretching the fine stitching and no doubt warping the weave in favor of drawing the pads of his fingers over his mound. Caressing through the longer curls of feathers there, Stolas panted as he teased himself. Stroking over the slick fold of his sex with a single finger, blood pooling low in his abdomen and high in his cheeks as his talon came away with strings of slick clinging to the digit. 

"Pathetic." Stolas muttered to himself, face turned just enough to eye that finger coated with evidence of his desperation, lost in the heat of his mind to the point he did not even notice the pair of eyes watching him from the now occupied balcony. 

Chapter Text

Index and thumb met in a slick glide, rubbing the evidence of Stolas' arousal between two digits as he eyed his hand, knowing that he stood at a crossroad. 

Did he cave, giving into the physical want that gnawed at his loins, or did he wallow in his own self pity, yearning for a man who seemed determined to barely shoot him a glance most days? Regardless of choice, the outcome would be the same, but the simple fact he could choose was something of a rarity. 

His life thus far had been entirely predetermined. His role, his duties, the place he called home, the hordes he had under his control, his wife, and even his 'precautionary' heir. Everything had been written for him and the boxes beside them neatly checked, one by one until there was nothing left, and yet he was still a failure in the eyes of those around him. 

His father had not spoken to him since Octavia had hatched, his ex-wife despised him, and his fellow royals looked at him with disdain regardless of how much he tried. Oh and how desperately he had tried.

Preferring to avoid ridicule as much as was possible, Stolas tended to sequester himself away in the rooms of his palace. Shielding himself from the outside behind intricately carved doors, and gilded wallpaper where he was safe and things were predictable.

Nesting himself among his books and his craft until morning shifted to night before appearing again, Stolas found his days smearing into a blur of time as he busied himself, because if he managed to keep his mind occupied, he would not even register what he was missing. Nor the parts of his life that left him filled with such deep seated sorrow he was not sure how to escape it, save for a small handful of tiny white pills. 

The prince could almost taste their bitter coating as he lay there staring at his drying fingers, body curled in on itself as if he were a frightened child hiding away from the monster peeking from his closet, and in some ways he was. In all his years, the most frightening of things had always been the unknown. He could withstand the sharp slap of a palm, the harsh unforgiving stare of his father, cruel words and bitter actions. All of this he could manage, could dissociate and float away from, but uncertainty? He did not know where to even begin. There were so many ideas he could not seem to grasp, perspectives he was unable to comprehend no matter how hard he tried, and he does indeed try. 

Naive.

That was the word Blitzø had stamped on him weeks ago with a flick between his eyes, the expression on the imp's face exasperated as he gazed up at Stolas. The soft whip of his tail voicing his frustration just as well as his words had.

'For someone who's supposed to be smart and shit, you sure are dumb.' Blitzø had huffed, clearly annoyed with Stolas' questions over why he chose to walk seven blocks from the IMP office to purchase his iced coffee that morning when there was a rather elegant establishment one street over. Stolas had been interrupted mid-gush as he spoke of the variety of teas and finely milled espresso, pulled from his excitement by the heat in Blitzø's stare. A low simmering distaste filled that gaze, and the sight alone had the prince faltering as he reached up to rub the sting from his forehead, beak parted in shock over being called such a disparaging name.

'I am not-!' Stolas began, feeling his feathers fluffing in irritation as he instinctively drew himself upwards to loom over Blitzø subconsciously. Offended over the mere idea that-another flick to his forehead pulled him from his thoughts as the imp in front of him stared at him. Unbothered and unaffected by his display as he spoke over him. Silencing Stolas effectively as he snagged his throat and tugged him downwards, forcing Stolas to bend his spine at a near painful bow as Blitzø held his head down against the sheets. Pushing until those ruby eyes had to lift upwards to peek at the imp from beneath his eyelashes. 

'You're lucky you're so fucking pretty, because I sure as shit don't plow you into your fancy ass mattress for that brain of yours.' Blitzø's words slurred with a hiss of that forked tongue, the tip skating across the sharp points of his fangs as he gazed down at the prince held tight in his grasp. His claws wrapped snug around the long expanse of that delicate neck, Stolas' Adam's apple cradled in the heart of the imp's palm, resting there briefly before it quivered as the prince swallowed. Suddenly speechless, much to the obvious delight of the demon holding him. 

'Now, how about you put that beak to better use.' It was not a question, nor a suggestion, it was an order. One delivered with a firmness that had a small warble leaving Stolas' throat as he stared upwards in quiet adoration. His beak already moving before Blitzø even had the chance to ask the question he knew was on the tip of that forked tongue.

'Green'

Only then did Blitzø reward him with a pleased expression as he relaxed back against the mountain of pillows crammed behind him along the headboard. Draping his body effortlessly against them as if he belonged there, and in Stolas' eyes he could not think of a more fitting place for him to be as he was tugged closer. Pulled with a firm clench of fingers between Blitzø's mottled thighs, the prince was forced to crawl closer and settle into place as he moved to please and obey. 

All thoughts of the conversation fell from his head, washed away by the salty clang of sweat and musk that clung to his lover's skin at the junction of his thigh and pelvis. The way the sweat gathered there like blessed dewdrops had the prince moaning outright as he swallowed them. Bathing a line up and inwards to nestle his mouth just below that heavy sack, resting the weight of it on the crest of his beak as his tongue drew soft shapes along the sensitive skin of his perineum.

Perhaps he should have asked Blitzø to explain further, to educate him on why his suggestion had been so wrong, but instead all memory of the conversation seemed to fade away. His mind had gone blissfully empty as he obeyed every order, fulfilled every whim, until the irritated flick of that tail ceased, and instead slid to wrap around his wrist and lace through his talons in a way Stolas liked to imagine was romantic. He knew it never was, but he liked to hope that maybe one morning Blitzø would decide to stay and have breakfast with him. Would allow himself to wake up slowly as obsidian talons pawed along his toned back, petting him awake as the two stretched and tangled their limbs together in a cuddle as they awaited their meal to be brought to them, rather than the cold reality of rolling over to find Blitzø's side of the bed already chilled, telling Stolas he had left hours prior.

Shaking his head in an effort to return to the present, Stolas shifted to sit up and carefully folded the shirt in his lap. Lining the seams up with quiet concentration as he tucked the fabric back into a neat square, one he could not help but nuzzle one last time before tucking it back within the pillow for another time when desperation overwhelmed him. The tips of his talons stroked over the bundle a few more times before he withdrew his touch and sighed, gaze trailing to the open balcony doors and the dark night beyond. The soft chirp of nightly creatures left his beak turning upwards, a soft sad smile gracing his features as he listened. Lulled into a sense of comfort as they sang out in an array of chirps and clicks. An unintended symphony that Stolas could only ever appreciate. 

However all at once the noises seemed to stop, as if the conductor lifted his baton and hand to silence them. A faint rustle of foliage caught Stolas' ears and he found himself awash with relief and excitement.

He had been wrong! His dearest had just been occupied, no doubt working late and that was why he had not shown until now!

Unable to keep himself in place, the prince untangled his limbs and moved quickly out to the balcony, eager to greet his lover as he braced his hands on the stone railing and peered over to gaze down at the vine covered terrace that the imp usually scaled like a ladder to his room. However as his ruby gaze landed on the lush foliage, he found it stunningly barren of the imp he expected to find there. The excitement he had felt seemed to catch in his throat, thick and dense as he swallowed around it in confusion, head turning to search the area in the dark. Wondering just where he had gone, perhaps this was a prank? 

"Oh, ha ha, very funny Blitzy." Stolas hooted out a laugh, his hand fluttering up to rest the tips of his talons against his chin as he moved along the length of the balcony to search for that familiar silhouette. Eyes flicking to the trees, the roof, beneath the decorative furniture, only to come up empty handed and crushed. 

"Blitzø?" Stolas called for him once more, pacing back to the terrace to peek down at it once more, willing himself to have missed his lover clinging to the wooden beams, only to empty his lungs in a deep rattling exhale. His cheek dropped down against the railing, the cool stone rough against his feathers as he wilted on the spot. Legs folding beneath him as he closed his eyes and came to terms with reality. 

It had been the breeze. Blitzø was not coming tonight, whether because he was too tired or just simply did not want to see him, that was his choice, either way Stolas was alone. 

The next morning, while making their usual rounds, the two hellhound guards stumbled across soft impressions in the dirt beside the terrace. The scuff of boots smaller than their own had them rolling their eyes, gazing at each other with a shake of their heads as they stalked off. Dismissing the sight and scent of imp simply because it was not unexpected, they all knew what the prince of the palace was up to by now and chalked it up to one more reason they were glad they had last night off. 

Walking off to resume their rounds, neither of the hellhounds noticed the single blade of gnawed wheat discarded on the ground. 

Chapter Text

Sixteen years ago

‘Alright, my darling Starfire. We must not dally!’ Stolas clapped his hands to draw the attention of the small avian child who stooped low in the grass on uneven legs, her talons fiddling with the blades of foliage around her feet as she glanced upward. Squinting at her father as he moved to crouch down, his hands gently hoisted her upwards to stand upright, cradling her in the warm cup of his hands as he waited for her muscles to adjust to the shift in her balance before he carefully released her. His hands hovering around her briefly before they dropped to rest on the curve of his knees all while he offered his daughter a smile, delighted that she was able to support herself without him on such uneven terrain. Every day she was growing stronger and he could not be more proud of her.

‘Now pay close attention.’ Stolas cooed, adjusting the brim of the sunhat on her head to ensure those bright eyes stayed protected from the harsh beam of the pentagram above them. Satisfied that she was settled, he pushed himself up slightly and turned to gesture to a small stuffed plush peeking through the grass, the deep brown of its fur a sharp contrast to the sea of greens and blues around them. 

‘Do you see it, Via?’ The prince questioned, watching as his daughter’s face brightened and her talons clenched in the air, making a grabbing motion towards the toy as she clicked her beak. ‘Good job, Via! Yes! Just right there.’ He nodded, unable to keep the smile from his face as his chest filled with pride, with love .

He could never understand how a parent could not adore their child when all Octavia had to do was simply exist for Stolas to be absolutely beside himself. Ruby eyes briefly lifted to the palace, catching sight of a sneer in one of the windows before he hastily looked away, unwilling to allow his wife to ruin this moment for the both of them.

‘Now, my brilliant owlet, this sort of creature has a name. Do you remember it?’ Octavia snapped her beak shut and Stolas felt as if his heart may explode as he nodded. ‘Yes, darling! A hellrat! Goodness, you are so intelligent, my sweet girl.’ He praised before he took a few steps away, the sudden shift causing Octavia’s eyes to widen as she tracked his movements. Her hands outstretched for him as if to try and coax him to pick her up, but he refused with a tender shake of his head. Moving instead to loom over the plush, his movement slow and graceful as he stood there patiently. The soft breeze blew through the garden, gliding over the duo leaving Octavia giggling as it fluttered through her head feathers, sending them tickling over her grinning cheeks as she blew raspberries at them to brush them away.

‘Via~’ Stolas called, and instantly her attention was on him, peeking at him in curiosity as he pointed to the plush to redirect her once more. ‘Now, you may want to move quickly, I understand that once you find your prey there is a certain drive that might occur. You may want to rush for fear of losing your prize, but in actuality, time is not your enemy here. Lack of patience is.’ Stolas rattled on, knowing that she was most likely not comprehending everything he was saying, but he let the words flow freely regardless. Wanting to plant the seed of this lesson within her brain for later, so that maybe one day she could utilize what he was trying to teach her here.

The prince then suddenly shot a leg out and caught the plush in his talons, holding it down into the grass as he stood there and watched as his daughter let out a squeal and clapped her hands before stumbling forward a few steps to kneel and poke at the plush still held between her father’s talons. He let her examine his hold, lifting his leg slightly to allow her to see how he was grasping it before he released the plush, and its weight had it dropping to the earth in a heap.

‘If there is one thing I can teach you, may it be patience.’ Stolas muttered as he knelt to sit in the grass beside her, picking up the plush to walk it towards her in little jumps of his wrist. Bouncing it off the foliage and up onto her knee before pressing the pink nose of the plush to her cheek in a kiss. 

‘You are a predator.’ Stolas’ voice softened as he released the plush into his daughter’s hands, watching as she mimicked him, walking the toy through the grass around them with soft clicks of her beak. ‘It is in your blood, Octavia.’ Wide eyes glanced at him as he spoke her name, and he offered her a crooked upturn of his beak. ‘There will be moments when you will be tasked with something difficult, something you might not wish to do, but I beg that you be patient. As your father, I will ensure those moments are as few and far between as possible, but at the end of the day, I ask that you bide your time. Wait for your moment, and strike without hesitating.’ Stolas reached out to tap the soft egg tooth of her beak. ‘When all else fails, remember they are the prey you are hunting, not the other way around.’

The sound of harsh footfalls behind him left his spine stiffening, posture sharply righting itself as Stolas glanced back. Turning his head just in time to see his wife stalking across the pathway towards them, only to stop once the paved markers ended and she refused to step into the grass.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?! Teaching her how to catch vermin?! Like some Satan damned plebeian?!’ Stella shrieked, mortified as she held out her hand for Octavia. ‘Come now, Octavia! Do not listen to your foolish father! He is teaching you things we no longer need to know! We have people for that now!’ She rolled her wrist in the air, her beak wrinkled in distaste as she stood there a moment longer, her fuse growing shorter as the owlet simply sat there in the grass, her small talons clutching the fabric of her father’s vest.

Patience.

Drawing a tense breath, Stolas turned his gaze down to Octavia and leveled her with a small smile, and patted her little fingers to soothe her grip before he scooped her into his arms and stood. ‘Your mother wants you now, Via. Perhaps she will play tea with you? You do love that, don’t you, my sweet girl?’ He danced his fingers against the star pattern across her clothed belly, sending her squealing in his arms as he approached Stella, only for her to rip the fledgling from his arms. Pulling her quickly from her father as she sneered at him, plucking the plush hellrat from Octavia’s fingers before tossing it directly at Stolas’ chest. The dull impact did not even have him flinching as he stayed frozen in place, watching those wide eyes gaze back at him as they glazed with tears.

‘Do not fret, my owlet! I will see you soon for dinner!’ Stolas promised with a wiggle of his fingers, forcing a smile to his lips even as he watched Stella hastily deposit Octavia into the nearest imp’s arms before bidding them to follow her back into the palace. The slam of a door left him releasing his breath, his head rolling back as he closed his eyes and basked in the hellish light above. Urging himself to remember his lesson to bide his time just a little while longer. 

Present day

Comfort brought upon ignorance, Stolas was aware of that. Recognized that with power came the chance that one became too self-absorbed and unaware of the happenings around them. Instincts that had once been sharp, dulled over time to the point that when you needed them, they were not there for you to rely on. A card hidden and laundered too many times within your sleeve only withers into fragments of fragile paper when you go to lay it on the table. 

Except this time, Stolas had not even been aware he was playing a game and that was the most tragic part.

An invitation for conversation, to discuss the details of the divorce, and the possibility that he could have a life purely of his own, was far too sweet of an opportunity for the prince to pass up. It was not a meeting he wished to attend, not when the invitation had been printed on Andrealphus’ custom stationery and pressed with a seal that made him roll his eyes at the extravagance of the marquis, but it was a necessity. Not only for himself but for Octavia as well. For far too many years she had grown up in an unhappy household, and while he had done his best to hide the more unsavory aspects of their marriage from her, Stolas knew that Octavia had seen more than he ever wished her to. She deserved to wake up in a home where yelling was not the norm. Where items were not thrown. Where breakfast and dinner could be peaceful, not rife with tension. He wished to give that to her, to himself, and so he had arrived early only to find the siblings waiting for him.

The conversation had gone as he expected at first.

Right out of the gate, Stella began with the insults and even Andrealphus had rolled his eyes over her antics. He was the one who Stolas needed to direct his words towards, for at least he could keep up with the conversation, even if he seemed to wish to pull more and more assets from the prince with every passing minute. 

Sighing, Stolas held up his hand to prevent the small imp from filling his teacup. Irritated that they were doing this in public, where his reactions were forced to be kept contained, and yet Stella’s could be as boisterous as she wished. Lifting her middle finger to him as he was left darting his gaze upwards towards the ceiling to force himself to breathe and shove down all the things he always wished to say to her. All the things he had always wished he could say to her, however, today did not seem to be the day for those words to bubble to the surface. Instead, he found himself cut off as a sudden crash occurred behind him, the shatter of splintering glass causing his head to whip around only to witness a cloaked figure lifting the barrel of a gun in his direction.

Instincts took over once the first trigger was pulled, his form bursting into a sea of dark feathers while he swerved to the side and reformed. A look of shock and confusion on his face as he stared at the figure, only to realize neither Andrealphus nor Stella had moved from their positions. Stella turned her head to glance back at him, the look of smug satisfaction on her face telling him all he needed to know as another shot cracked through the air, and once again Stolas burst forth. His form moved through the open air of the teashop and towards the exit only for his body to suddenly reform in the tight embrace of a lasso. Cinched around his torso and arms in a sting of blessed rope that had him landing on the heated pavement of the alley.

“Oh dear…this is worrisome.”

He lay there in shock, knowing his pupils had made their appearance as he felt a presence loom behind him. He braced himself for the press of a gun barrel against the nape of his neck and closed his eyes to silently send a curse his daughter’s way for her protection, only to find hands grasping at him instead.

He could feel claws hook beneath the ropes behind his back, using the grip there for leverage as the figure hefted him up and over a broad shoulder. Slinging him as if he were an inanimate object rather than a prince of hell as he was carried towards the end of the alley. A sharp zip of a whistle rattled in his ears, causing him to wince while his captor called out only to be greeted by the appearance of a hellhorse. Had it been any other time, Stolas would have laughed at the image of the beast so clearly outside of its element in the busy streets of Pride, but he bit his tongue in favor of wriggling within his binds. Testing the knots only to gasp as he was tossed over the rump of the steed, knocking the wind from his lungs in a wheeze that went ignored as the rider climbed atop the saddle in a smooth practiced motion and settled into place where he patted the withers of the hellhorse to start them forward. 

The sharp clip of hoofbeats against pavement was grating enough that Stolas almost did not register the sound of car horns and screams of road rage as they traversed through Pride. The continual rock of his body as they moved through the streets made Stolas grateful he had only managed two cups of tea because surely the intense motion paired with being flopped on his back would have him gagging had he indulged. Silently thankful for that small bit of mercy, the prince took his chance to eye the demon in front of him. His gaze shifted from curved banded horns atop his head to the wide brim of a leather hat before tracking the profile of the imp’s face. The elongated sharp lines of his snout were oddly familiar, and yet Stolas could not place where he had seen this imp before other than perhaps the vague answer of Wrath.

Shifting his talons, his fingers toyed with his clothing, wedging up under the ropes to feel for the seam of his pocket before slipping inside to squeeze his phone out from within its confines. Thumbing the passcode, Stolas moved automatically to the saved contact of the one demon he knew he could count on. His finger hovered over the button to call the imp before the pieces of his mind fell into place.

“OH! You attended the Harvest Moon Festival!” Stolas announced, his mind conjuring up the image of his dear Blitzø standing on stage with the other imp. Yes! That was it exactly! Surely Blitzø would know who he was and be able to save him! His thumb tapped the button and he heard the phone ring only once before his knight in shining armor answered.

Blitzø was not coming to save him.

Watching his captor shatter his phone in a single clench of his fist, Stolas found his gaze following the device as it was tossed recklessly over the imp’s shoulder where it bounced off the ground leaving him blinking owlishly for a brief moment before he tipped his head at Striker and squinted.

“Oh shit.” Stolas rocked his head to the other side, lifting his brows. “Am I in danger right now?”

That was not the question to ask because a moment later the tail that sat coiled in the blessed ropes, the very tail that was ensuring that he stayed atop the hellhorse, rattled in clear irritation, and a sharp glare was leveled behind the slope of a stiff shoulder at him. His answer came in a quick call that left the imp’s lips and the jostling pace suddenly increased as the steed rushed forward, forcing Stolas to crowd against the saddle with his body hunched to keep himself in place. Though he considered trying to roll off, he thought better of it because the fact of the matter was he knew he could not outrun either of the beasts in front of him should he land on his feet, and that was the best-case scenario. Sighing, Stolas settled in and supposed he might as well try and observe this ‘Striker’ knowing that sooner or later the assassin was bound to slip up. 

They had bypassed the elevator entirely, a fact that seemed to stump the Goetia as he lay there attempting to not breathe the dust kicked up from galloping hooves. He wanted to ruminate on that fact a little more, question how many other ways to traverse the rings there truly were, but the blazing heat above had him squinting, his feathers fluffed up to allow for better airflow against his overheated skin as he dropped his cheek to rest on the muscled croup of Bombproof. 

The name was something he had picked up as Striker spoke to his stallion, directing the hellhorse over to a thin stream that poured through two boulders along a rocky cropping. Slipping from the saddle, Striker removed the bridle first before reaching out to hook a hand in the blessed ropes that cinched around Stolas’ body to yank him down. Tossing him to the grit-covered ground where he let him lay groaning, stepping over the goetia’s body in favor of stooping beside the stream to cup handfuls up to his lips, swallowing the cool water with a sigh as Bombproof moved to do the same. The two drank their fill before Striker dipped his waterskin into the stream, the slow roll of bubbles as it filled left Stolas licking his parched beak. His mouth suddenly far too dry for his liking as he shifted on the ground. Twisting his body to force himself onto his front to shield his eyes from the blinding heat above. Pressing his forehead to the sand, Stolas drew a few tense breaths and reasoned silently with himself that surely he would not die of dehydration, it was impossible, wasn’t it?

He racked his mind with the history books he had read, accounts from old that had discussed goetian anatomy and their superior healing capabilities. Was dehydration ever mentioned? The prince pursed his beak before settling on the assumption that he would be fine . He could go without water for a while longer, and should he die from going without, well he supposed that would be a rather humorous death only because it meant that Stella would not be granted the satisfaction of directly killing him.

An amused huff left him, only for the noise to shift to a squawk as claws gripped the blessed ropes and yanked him upright. Forcing him to sit back on his haunches, leaving him squinting into Striker’s displeased face. Brows furrowed heavily over the acid-like stare pinning him in place, not that it made Stolas finch which he assumed was its intended purpose, instead, Stolas arched a brow in return only to have his chin grabbed and lifted.

“Drink.” Striker hissed, the spade of his tail rattling as he dug his claws into the short feathers along his jaw, pinching until Stolas obeyed and opened his beak only for the waterskin to be tipped over the bottom half of his face. Striker had no interest in being gentle or ensuring that the water went into his mouth, instead, he squeezed the leather pouch to force more water into Stolas’ sputtering face before he released him, turned on his heel, and stalked towards the stream to refill. The action took only ten seconds, and yet it left the prince gasping for air, coughing up the droplets he had inhaled while blinking away the water that clung to his eyelashes.

Squinting through the droplets, Stolas shook his head sending his feathers trembling to disperse the water. His shoulders shook as he coughed a few more times and he found himself feeling more parched than before while he was taunted by his sodden clothing and the way the ropes seemed to burn each time they pinched his damp feathers whenever he shifted. Catching his breath, Stolas lifted his head towards Striker as he replaced the bridle and turned to meet his stare.

“I believe you would have been better off not giving me anything at all.” Ruby eyes met stinging acid and with a snarl the cowboy moved forward, hauling Stolas back onto the back of his hellhorse as he climbed atop. With a shove of his tail through the blessed rope, coiling it tight in his grasp, Striker wasted no time in ushering his steed forward as he barked out.

“Shut your beak and consider yourself lucky your wife had strict instructions!” He simmered over the howl of the wind whipping over them with increasing speed while their mount resumed their rough ride. Jostling their riders and leaving Stolas wincing as his legs flailed with each footfall.

“Ah, yes. Very lucky.” Stolas’ chirp was answered by a rattling hiss. 

Within the next hour, Stolas realized that he had located the first weakness in the assassin’s armor and thankfully for him, it was a condition he could easily meet.

What he learned directly after that revelation was that it did not even need to be him , it could be anyone , and the makeshift mariachi band supplied itself to give Stolas’ voice a break. Allowing him to appreciate, in an odd way, a song about his captor that was rather catchy if not a little worrisome. How had such a ‘well-known’ assassin, Stolas sure had never heard of him, managed to go uncaptured for so long? Not only that but how had Stella hired him? It wasn’t as if wanted posters had phone numbers.

The prince contemplated asking, but unfortunately, his mind shifted to other matters as he struggled against his bindings. His body twisted upside down and bound to the train tracks in a way that had him stretching his legs out to brace himself against something, anything , only to flail a little while further before huffing and allowing his legs to hang limply as he shifted his attention over to the imp who was strategically sharpening his blessed dagger in a bid to intimidate. 

A failed effort because frankly, his mind reasoned a duller blade would be far more painful than one sharpened to a glass finish, but he was not about to argue over that. Instead, he decided to go back to whittling away at Striker’s nerves in hopes of tripping him up. All he needed was just one opportunity to turn the tide in his favor, he could be patient enough for that.

“So, my wife paid you for this, hmm?” Stolas drawled, his tone almost casual as he watched the imp pause and tuck away his sharpening stone. “Wouldn’t a holy bullet have sufficed? Or could you not afford those?”

The brief flat look that Striker shot him was enough to leave Stolas schooling his expression to a blank mask.

“I was paid to give you the real royal treatment.” Striker’s face broke into a sharp grin, gesturing the knife in the air for emphasis before pulling it close to his face to examine the blade, expression darkening. “Your wife must really hate you.” The imp chuckled, the sound low and throaty leaving Stolas nearly rolling his eyes.

“You have no idea,” Stolas replied easily enough, his attention pulled from Striker now that he knew that topic of conversation was not going to get him very far. Instead, he focused on the confusing accumulation of objects within the abandoned mine shaft.

“So….train tracks? Really?” The prince drawled, tone shifting slightly as he pushed as much judgment into his words as he could manage. “Seems a bit cliche, doesn’t it?”

Striker’s response was quick and clipped, far too fast to be casual.

“It’s a classic.”

Stolas lifted a brow at that, latching on to the assassin’s irritation like a moth to a flame.

“Is the giant statue of yourself also a classic or..?” He found himself gazing at it upside down, squinting at the horrendously oversized appendage cast on the front of it with mild amusement. Overcompensation. He tucked that tidbit down for later.

The hiss that greeted him had the prince dragging his eyes down to see Striker clenching his fists, shoulders rounded forward as he held the knife in a white-knuckled grip for a few beats before tossing down his sharpening stone while turning to face him. Pulling his hat off, an odd sight, Stolas watched it arc in the air before landing on the stone boner with precision.

Honestly, that was mildly impressive.

“Heh, are you seriously judging me right now?”

“I’m just impressed you seem to want to suck your own dick this badly.” The words fell out of his beak almost instantly, testing just how sore of a spot the assassin’s inadequacies were.

Quite a lot, as Striker placed a hand on his hip and lifted the hand still gripping the knife to his temple as if the pressure from the side of his palm alone could quell the headache that was Stolas of Ars Goetia.

“Look-” The imp breathed through his nose, lowering his hands in agitation as he gestured about, continuing spewing words that Stolas only half listened to. He was well aware that most did not live in palaces, and that most of the residents in hell were not royals. Those were simple facts, but for some reason Striker seemed to hinge his words on those statements, pointing an accusatory claw at him as if Stolas had been the one to set the standards. 

“-and some of us have everything we care about taken away by fuckers like you.”

Ah. So he was a scapegoat then.

Stolas peered up as Striker approached, inching closer as his tail whipped sharply behind him, the crack of irritation obvious as it sliced through the air every few seconds as if emphasizing the hitman’s words. Their faces hovered together far closer than the prince would have liked, the imp’s hot breath coasting over his beak leaving him narrowing his stare as he opened his mouth to respond.

“I have no-” Stolas jolted as a palm reached out to rest along the bent beam of the train tracks, blocking him in as Striker leaned closer, inching further into his personal space in a way that drew the prince’s attention to the point that the sudden sink of a blade into his left shoulder caught him off guard, preventing him from swallowing the call of pain as it ripped from his throat.

The blessed blade sliced cleanly through his feathers, burying into the meat of his shoulder where it sizzled, searing into him with a holy heat that took his breath away. 

The next few seconds happened so quickly that his brain did not even register what happened until a boot connected with his abdomen, kicking him as he dropped down and rolled along the tracks to lay sprawled across them. The splintered and rotted wooden beams beneath him caught and tugged at his feathers while his head swam. His vision swirled briefly and he tried to blink away the bloom of pain across the crown of his scalp, the dull throb roaring in his ears as Striker circled him, his lips moving and yet his words went unheard. The spade of his tail cut across the prince’s face in a harsh slap that had Stolas wincing, his breath leaving him in panting heaves while he tried to pull himself together.

“I don’t have to listen to your bullshit.” Striker seethed in front of him, lifting his leg just as Stolas realized that perhaps he went about this the wrong way. The weight of that boot crushing into his injured shoulder cemented that idea, dark blood gushing beneath the heel of the imp as he ground it in place, rubbing grit and dirt into the wound as he loomed over him, eyes glowing in unholy anger as he hissed.

“All you royals ever do is try to talk over us.” 

Stolas steeled himself, feeling as if he were on the borderline of this situation worsening with each growing second. He needed to act and do so now .

Drawing himself up, he peeled open his eyes, the red glow of them bursting while his pupils focused on Striker, only for his power to fizzle out just as he felt the familiar build of it begin. A cold chill suddenly overcame him and he felt his magic shy away from him, dancing just out of reach leaving him powerless in a way he had never experienced.

It was then, as Striker dropped down to rest a hand on his chest and loom over him, that the reality of the situation finally struck him. 

“Don’t bother trying your little eye trick on me. Those ropes ain’t gonna let you do anything.” The imp smirked down at him, the whip of his tail a near-constant sound as it rattled through the air behind him. 

“Got something to say about that-” Striker’s voice hitched, sounding suddenly excited as he leaned back, the foot on his shoulder lifting briefly before suddenly pitching downwards. Forcing another gush of blood to spatter over the toe of his boot. “-your highness?”

Stolas writhed, twisting beneath the pressure as he felt a droplet of sweat pebble against his temple and trail down his cheek. His body twisted, forcing Striker to shift along with him to maintain the pin of his shoulder.

“Well, you seem to be forgetting-” He spat the words, lifting his head off the ground to glare at the assassin as he tensed his body. “-you are working for a royal, right-” He had a brief moment to mentally and physically prepare himself before he rolled to the side, leaning into the pressure of his shoulder as his leg shot out. Slamming his talons against the imp’s shoulder, knocking him off balance. “-now!”

The satisfaction of seeing Striker falter, stumbling back from the force of his kick, filled Stolas with a rush of much-needed adrenaline. His heart fluttered heavily in his chest, his beak lifting in a smirk even as claws caught his ankle in a punishing grip, squeezing tight around his talons as his leg was pulled to its full length. Extended and held still, a booted foot lifted to skirt over his knee and thigh before shoving downwards. The wet snap of bone left Stolas’ eye twitching, the pain radiating upwards in a rush that made him break out in a cold sweat, but he refused to falter. Refused to allow Striker the satisfaction of seeing the pain in his face as he instead said the first thing that came to mind.

“Blitzø handles me rougher than that in bed..nice try.”

The look of unfiltered rage on his captor’s face was worth the shove of a dagger through his thigh, the pinch as it pierced through his flesh and spilled his blood a mere afterthought as Stolas opened his beak once more.

“Blitzy’s knife is bigger-” Stolas’ eyes cut over to the statue pointedly before returning to the infuriated imp. “-and hits so~o much dee~eper.” 

A growl left Striker as he rapidly released his leg in a shove, pushing Stolas onto his side while he rounded on him. Circling him twice, he muttered under his breath a string of words the prince didn’t bother straining to hear.

“Being a smartass, hmm?” Darting down to kneel beside his head, Striker’s claws tangled in his head feathers, tightening in his quills as he yanked the prince’s face up to his. A sharp squawk pulled from Stolas’ beak in time with Striker hissing into his ear while he pressed the edge of his blade to his throat.

“Cause once I split your neck open and let you choke on your own blue blood, you won’t be worth any more than the tombstone you’ll be buried under.” Out of reflex ruby eyes squeezed shut briefly at the sight of the dagger before Stolas turned his face towards Striker. His head leaned back to rest on the slope of the imp’s shoulder, his beak upturned in a smirk as he spoke, watching as the pale skin of the hitman’s cheeks darkened with every word that left his throat.

“Blitzy says far dirtier things to me with much sharper objects at my throat.”

The growling hiss that left Striker was near animalistic as he retreated, dumping Stolas down to the ground in a heap before he stalked forward. Putting distance between them while the imp curled in on himself, the tightly wound muscles of his body clear even from this distance. However, rather than focus on Striker, Stolas took a moment to breathe. To fill his lungs with slow and measured inhales as he allowed his head to roll back, just in time for a single tear to drip down his cheek. The sensation of it was almost grounding and he closed his eyes to focus on its path. Feeling it trail down through the short feathers along the slope of his jaw before dripping onto the curve of his neck and soaking into his soiled cloak.

With his distraction now gone, Stolas mentally schooled himself to keep his movements to a minimum no matter how desperately he wished to fight against his bindings. The more he attempted to struggle, the more his heart would beat and the faster he would bleed out. A glance downward proved that his break was fortunately closed in nature, and he could not help but release a sigh of relief while also silently hoping that he was not internally bleeding.

At least with a compound fracture, he knew that was serious but this could be a ticking time bomb if Striker planned to take his time with him.

The thought chipped away at his mind, sinking its teeth in as he found his gaze trailing over towards the imp who paced back and forth along the far wall, seemingly grumbling to himself.

Why was he not killing him? Surely that was what Stella wanted, so why all the unnecessary steps? The public kidnapping, the long ride to Wrath, the lack of a single holy bullet to be seen…

I was paid to give you the real royal treatment.

Ah, yes. She wanted him to suffer.

How utterly predictable and unsurprising, though if Stolas had to make a suggestion he would find it far more painful to be locked in a room with his wife, than to be sprawled atop train tracks in the pits of Wrath. At least here he did not have to put up with her constant complaints and verbal abuse that tended to evolve into something physical once Stella realized he was not listening to a single word she said. Which frankly was true every time she opened her beak nowadays. 

Just as he caught himself chuckling at his internal thoughts, he found a shadow stretching over his form. Blocking out the lanterns hanging from above and the soft glow of the river of lava that trickled down in a snaking curve behind the imp who seemed to have pulled himself together.

“Look here, feathers.” Oh, the nickname gave him a small jolt, the sound of it spilling from unfamiliar lips leaving him automatically scowling much to the delight of the assassin who seemed to smirk in response. “We’ve got some time to kill, so pick your poison.” He gestured to a table covered in various tools that Stolas could only half see, the angle leaving much of the contents up to guess although he made out the distinct shape of a hammer and the handles of what looked to be a pair of pliers.

“Oh, I’m not picky.” Stolas mused, refusing to play the part he was being looped into. The frustration creasing Striker’s brow was worth the pain that followed as the imp sheathed his dagger and stalked forward, drawing his leg back before allowing it to sweep forward, catching the prince in the abdomen, forcing all the air from his lungs in a wet wheeze that left him gasping. His body lay on his side, the force of the strike sending him onto his injured shoulder, drawing a pained garble from him.

“ Oh, I’m well aware you’re easy to please, your highness.” Striker stalked around him, the toe of his boot dropping down to pinch the base of his tail against the ground as he leaned his weight against the thin bones. Applying just enough weight to send Stolas’ beak parting in a silent cry, his next exhale shuddering out of him as Striker lifted his boot and instead scuffed it up along the goetia’s back, forcing the fabric of his cloak to gather along the tied ropes in a bunch of excess material. Gazing down, the imp slid his foot down the curve of the prince’s spine, tracing it slowly before applying enough weight to roll Stolas over onto his stomach. Pinned down beneath the weight of his own body against his bruised ribs, Stolas sucked in a few tense breaths before speaking in a thin warble.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He managed only to be met with a laugh as Striker knelt beside his head, retrieving his dagger from his side to skim the blade through his cloak. Clipping its length before tossing the fabric to the side he focused on drawing the tip of the blade down the dip of the prince’s spine, applying just enough pressure to catch on the fibers of the fabric, the soft rip sending a spike of fear through Stolas. His mind instantly jumped to the worst-case scenario, picturing the blade plunging into his spine to sever his nerves, rendering his limbs useless. His throat clenched, bottom lip trembling for a split second as he pressed his face harder into the mining dust before he forced his words out, even if they tasted like bile on his tongue.

“ Wait! Please-” Shame filled him as Striker tipped his head back and laughed , his blade lifting briefly as he sheathed it at his side, allowing Stolas to breathe easier, only to be rendered frozen once more as claws caught the rip in his romper and pulled, shredding the fabric covering his lower back in a sickening snap of threads that left him unable to breathe. 

“Let’s try that again, Your Majesty .” Striker drawled, each word punctuated with another yank of his claws as they sliced through his clothing. “I’ve been watching you for weeks. Camped out in clear view of that big cushy bed of yours.” He hissed into Stolas’ ear, leaning down to draw a deep inhale of the scent clinging to the feathers at the nape of the prince’s neck, tongue flicking out to taste the fear lingering in the air between them. 

“Your desperation is disgusting. How many nights did you force me to watch you embarrass yourself? Spreading your legs like a lowly whore, begging for an imp who can’t stand you. An imp who doesn’t even show up.” Striker leaned back, the palm of his hand resting heavily over the small of that feathered back as he pushed , pinning the lithe form to the ground beneath his weight. 

“It’s about time someone showed you just how fucking pathetic you are.”

Chapter Text

Over the years, there were instances where Stolas thought that had things been different, he could have loved Stella. 

Certainly never in a way that hinged on fiery passion as he was very aware of his preference towards men, and not in the way that centered on sickly sweet adoration, but perhaps in a quieter sense. 

A deep-seated acknowledgment of who she was at her core. Behind the biting words, behind the bravado of violence. 

The glimpses of Stella he had spied when she had first been presented to him. 

Stolas had sat for hours, watching Stella’s parents' desperate attempts to please his father who loomed next to him on the grand sofa. The longer Paimon sat silent, the more strained the couple's expressions became, and Stolas could see the sweat prickling on their temples even from a distance. 

Then they had clapped their hands and, much like a trained pet, Stella had automatically run through her routine. 

They pulled invisible strings and Stella complied, a polite smile on her beak that never reached her eyes. Eyes so full of despair and anguish that Stolas found his own stare glued to her, transfixed by the reflection of himself in her.

She never looked at him, at least not directly. Her stare swam over him briefly but never stopped, only landing on the fine points of his crown as she focused on maintaining her posture while she sang. Back pin straight, shoulders lowered, and chin lifted as she warbled. 

The sound hurt his ears, and he cut his gaze over his father who tapped his talons against his knee. 

Paimon was not pleased, and just as he noticed this, Stella's parents did as well. The singing was abruptly pulled to an end as the swan’s mother gestured to the grand piano in the corner, and like a marionette, Stella stalked towards it. Nearly floating across the marble ground before settling in a poof of her skirts on the sturdy bench. 

Not a single second was wasted, and the silence in the parlor was filled with the dance of her talons against the keys. 

The Swan of Tuonela .

Stolas recognized it immediately and found himself tipping forward, talons folded in his lap as he watched her shoulders move beneath the fabric of a dress that looked to scratch just as much as the suit he had been buttoned into did. It was only then, as Stolas watched her recite the tale of a swan swimming around the isle of the dead oblivious to the hero’s task to kill it, that Paimon released a hum that sounded almost pleased. 

The swan rocked on the bench, swaying side to side as she lost herself in the piece. The strike of her talons against the keys ranged from soft to powerful, carrying Stolas through the story with rapt attention as he witnessed her play. Her eyes were closed now, pinched shut in a serene expression while she tuned them out. Focused instead on the slide of cold ivory tickling her fingers.

“Enough.”

His father clapped his hands, interrupting Stella just as a poisoned arrow struck the hero, the last notes ringing out as she held her hands above ivory. The faintest tremble in her talons as she waited for judgment to be rendered, though she was not kept in suspense as Paimon stood, forcing Stolas to push himself from his perch. Standing beside his father with his hands clasped behind his back, playing his part of the perfect prince.

Paimon did not look at him, nor did he look at Stella, his attention was on her father who seemed to shrink beneath the powerful presence of his king. 

“So long as she is fertile, the arrangement is maintained,” Paimon stated, reducing the teenage girl behind the piano in an instant. 

Stolas watched her suck in a sharp breath and could see the shake of her hands as she dropped them to her lap and squeezed , no doubt digging into her flesh as her father hastily assured Paimon of her health. 

Stella never played the piano again after that, at least not while they had lived together. 

He knew because his gift to her on their wedding night sat untouched in their parlor. The gift was a personally crafted piano, carved and inlaid with splinters from the Tree of Knowledge. It had taken years to create, and he had used more influence than he had cared to part with for such a thing, but he felt compelled to offer her something that would be hers, and hers alone.

An escape.

An acknowledgment of mutual suffering at the hands of their families. 

But the keys went unplayed. The books of music yellowed on the stand with each passing year until Stolas put them away and had the servants cover the piano with a sheet to protect it from dust. 

Only once had he ever seen Stella perch at the bench in front of it, and that had been many moons ago. 

Just after Octavia had hatched, Stolas had wandered the halls like a phantom. 

Full of grief, anger, and a confusing mix of adoration for the chick he had never wanted, yet now had. 

Octavia had been needy, incessant in her desire to be held, fed, and sang to. When it was clear that Stella was not going to take an active role in parenting, the burden fell to Stolas who bumbled his way through feedings and changings until he simply held Octavia in her nursery and cried along with her. 

It had been such a fitful night, that once Octavia had been tucked into her bed, Stolas paced the palace. Full of too many thoughts to simply lay down and allow sleep to claim him. He trailed along the maze of corridors until a light caught his attention, calling out to him to investigate. 

That was when he saw her, seated at the piano with her hands lifted over the keys. Never touching and yet she played silently, talons tapping in the air an inch from contact. Her arms stretched outward, miming her piece in what Stolas could only assume was an accurate rendition of the muted song, simply because Stella herself only ever accepted perfection. 

His lungs burned as he held his breath, lingering there in the doorway. Unwilling to even suck in a lungful of air for fear of interrupting the odd sense of tranquility that spread over the swan. 

It was here that he wondered what she would have been if she could have chosen her future. If not for her parents’ deep-seated yearning for power, where would her passions have taken her? 

Would she have been a pianist basking under the light fixtures trained to her every move? Would she have glowed beneath the adoration shown to her for her talents, rather than the wealth and power she had married into? 

A fact Stolas knew Stella was painfully insecure of because she had told him, though at the time she had not even known it was him who she was speaking to. 

He easily recounted the memory, Stella smelling half-pickled by liquor as she fumbled through the bedroom door. 

His bedroom door.

Her arrival had startled him from where he had been tucked against the headboard, book propped in his lap as he read another parenting guide. Assuming the worst, Stolas had shrunk in place, body tensing at her stumbling approach. Fearing the sharp dig of her talons or the howl of her displeased voice but even that treatment was more preferable to the grind of her body against his own. 

He felt bile wick up his throat at the thought. 

“Stella.” He had called for her, the reminder that her room was back down the hall on his tongue, though it never came as he watched her face tip up to him revealing an expression that had him closing his book abruptly.

Fat tears welled in fuchsia eyes, spilling over her pale cheeks and sending streams of mascara to dot along the collar of her stained dress. For the first time, Stella’s image of perfection shattered as she released a shuddering sob. Her body swayed in place only to topple and catch one of the posts of the bed. Clinging onto the wood like a lifeline, gripping so desperately that she left claw marks across the surface as her balance tipped to the left. 

Before he realized what he was doing, Stolas was up on his feet. The book magically appeared on the nightstand as he pulled on his robe and approached her cautiously. Palms lifted as he inched in, a low coo in his throat, the same one he used to soothe Octavia when neither food nor drink would satisfy her tiny flailing body. 

“I cannot do this anymore.” Stella had managed between her tears, her body tipping once more only for Stolas to catch her shoulders and direct her to the bed, and for once she complied. 

Pushed to sit on the edge, Stolas kept his hands in place. Pushing down not to hold her there, but to ground her in the moment. Offering stability even though a part of him wanted to turn on his heel and leave her there to cry herself to sleep. 

Alone. 

But there was a flicker of empathy in him, a small seed that remained untouched by cruelty, not yet entirely bitter because he knew what expectations did to someone. Knew how it felt to have your entire life laid out for you before you were born, the only difference was that Stolas was still useful. 

Stella was not. 

She had her chick and succeeded in her duty regardless of the pain and scars she had given Stolas in the process, but he knew even those wounds were not only his. 

They had both been forced. 

He knew that, but it did not quell the disgust that rolled through him as her hands darted up to grip his robe for support. It did not lessen the wave of nausea that gripped him as she pressed her face into the fabric and sobbed, curling towards him for a comfort he could never offer her.

Swallowing, Stolas closed his eyes and breathed. Forced down his disgust, his hatred, and focused on the image of the scared girl performing in front of his father, her entire life crafted around being the womb to carry a royal egg. 

Stolas knew he owed her nothing, not with how she had processed her grief with rage and violence, but at the same time, she was under his protection. Had been sworn to be his bride beneath his seal, and that meant something. 

His grip tightened on her shoulders, but he kept his chin pointedly lifted. His eyes were sealed closed as the mother of his child cried to him until the fabric of his robe was limp and sodden with her tears. 

Her words were a rough combination of begging to be taken from the palace and a wish for control of a life that was never her own. 

While he was sure that Stella wanted words of comfort, he could not offer her anything more than the space to process her feelings in companionable silence. It was a time and place where he reserved himself to not judge her, even if it was difficult when her plea for one man’s name shifted to that of another before her words shifted to her hatred for him. 

Even then, he kept his beak closed until she exhausted herself and allowed him to tuck her into bed.

Wedging pillows behind her to keep her propped on her side, Stolas spared one last glance at the swan before he left his bedroom to retire to his study. Knowing he would have to answer to her angry confusion in the morning as well as her hateful accusations, but for now, he offered her the one kindness she never seemed capable of showing him.

Mercy.

Present

The dance of a blessed blade across his spine had the feelings within Stolas shifting from fear to annoyance. 

He was well aware that Striker was toying with him as the imp brought the knife’s point to bounce off the jut of his vertebrae just enough to sting his flesh, but not enough to cause any damage. 

Over and over again the knife trailed up and down the exposed portion of his back. 

Sliding just beneath his ribs down to the base of his tail and back again in what felt to be a mockery of a caress all while the imp spoke against the feathers of his neck. His words barely registered as Stolas tried not to breathe in the fine layer of soot and dust beneath his cheek. 

“What? Got nothin’ to say, feathers?” Striker almost sounded disappointed and the weight curled over his back lifted as the demon shifted back onto his heels. Squatting over Stolas’ prone form for a few achingly awkward seconds of silence before claws gripped his crest and forced his face into the ground at a jarring speed. Knocking his forehead against compact earth sending his vision swimming at the edges.

“ I asked you a fuckin’ question, and you’ll answer. ” Striker hissed only for Stolas to cough in response as he sucked in a lungful of dust, the wheezing chirps that escaped him only seemed to enrage the imp further as he held him tighter to the ground. Leveraging his weight over him and applying it downward to press along the side of the prince’s skull.

The splitting headache he received as a result left him squirming, legs kicking fruitlessly to shift the pressure threatening to cave his head in. 

“Hnng, yes?” Stolas managed, unsure of what the question had even been at this point. Focused solely on the way he almost heard his skull creak beneath the imp’s palm. 

Stifling his groans, he tried to roll his weight but the burning sear in his shoulder left his attempt failing once Striker sank his claws into the wound. Two fingers pressed deep into the split flesh, hooking to drag through torn muscle forcing the prince’s voice from him in a sharp cry. 

“You know, I’m startin’ to think you want this to happen.” Striker drawled, his voice thinned by the rapid pant of his breathing as those two fingers shifted to slide deeper and steal Stolas’ breath away for the second time in less than a minute. 

“Well, I don’t!” He managed over the wet squelch of those fingers writhing within his shoulders, only for them to pause. The intrusion was a simple agony he managed to grit his jaw to breathe through. 

“Could’ve fooled me.” 

The pressure along his head lifted, and Stolas shuddered at the head rush he received. The gush of blood to his aching skull left him turning his face against the ground, muffling the next noise of misery that threatened to escape as he bit his tongue. Catching it with the blunt corner of his beak for a pinch of pressure that he could focus on. A pain he could control rather than the ones inflicted upon him. 

“Night after night, you drown yourself at the bottom of a bottle.” Striker lowered his weight, sitting on the curve of Stolas’ lower back while he kept his fingers buried deep in the wound. An ever-present reminder of the situation that the prince found himself in. 

“Trying to numb the pain of your privileged fucking life.” He hissed, two fingers scissored open within his shoulder, pushing back against the burn of his muscles as his body fought to regenerate against the influence of the blessed ropes.

“A life so many of us can only fucking dream of!”

Stolas found himself unable to even flinch in the face of the imp’s anger, especially because those words, regardless of their source, rang a little too true to his ears.

Not that he would admit that, not to the demon above him so full of rage that Stolas only felt the need to add to it.

“Shall I apologize for my birth, or should you?” The words left him before claws rolled him over onto his back and found his throat. Hands gripped at the slender curve of his neck, dwarfing the vulnerable column of feathers and tissue while they squeezed. Strangling a rush of air out of the prince’s lungs in the process, Stolas met the caustic glare of the demon above him, unable to do much but attempt wheezing breaths which only enraged the imp further.

“ This is what you want, ” Striker announced with such conviction that it almost made Stolas pause in attempting his next inhale, almost, but after a beat, he tried once more despite the snap of jaws above his face.

“ You crave death .”

Oh.

Those words sank into him deeper than Striker’s blade had, and Stolas knew for a fact it had cleaved straight through to the other side. 

He tried to shake his head, to deny it, but the imp only loosened his grasp just so he could suck in a few breaths as he spoke. Words whispered directly into his ear with shocking conviction.

“ You want me to kill you. To save you from this life you hate so much. ” Striker drawled, thumb pressing against the swell of Stolas’ adam's apple. Toying with it as it bobbed with each inhale and swallow beneath the pad of his finger.  

Stolas opened his beak to retort, but his voice refused to cooperate, only managing a low chirp that sent the imp smirking as he leaned back to trail the two blood-smeared fingers up the bruised expanse of his throat before roughly dragging across his beak, leaving trails of black along white feathers.  

“Honestly, your cunt of a wife probably didn’t even need to hire me. She could have given you this rope and I bet you would have done the deed yourself.” Striker flicked the bindings clenched tight around his torso. 

His tongue felt far too big for his mouth all of a sudden. Useless as it moved and yet was unable to produce sound save for garbled whines. His denials went unheard, but he knew they were hollow.

He had danced with the idea many times growing up, and far more recently in the aftermath of his very first date. A date that had been a spectacular failure, not just in his eyes, but in the eyes of every demon that had occupied Ozzie’s that night.

The image of Blitzø’s disgusted expression as he sat behind the wheel of his van came to mind and Stolas stilled, lifting his gaze upwards to stare at Striker who seemed taken aback by the sudden meet of their eyes. 

Stolas still held out hope for something more between himself and Blitzø, if that was not the case then their outing to look for Octavia would not have gone so well. Blitzø wouldn’t have been by his side the entire time, holding onto his hand as they ran through the streets on a hunt for their daughters. The warm scarred flesh of Blitzø’s palm pressed against his own had been a marvel in the glamour of his disguise, one Stolas had hated to pull from yet felt compelled to in favor of embracing his owlet. 

However, no matter the time they had spent together, Blitzø was not coming to save him. He had chosen his daughter’s doctor appointment over his rescue and Stolas did not have it in him to blame him. Only himself, because he knew that if the positions had been switched, his Via would have been deposited at home through the nearest portal in favor of assisting the imp.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

His affection was onesided.

For all his yearning, he could not seem to sway the imp to partake in anything more than just the physical aspects of their deal, a deal that had only caused him to resent himself further. 

“I’m right, aren’t I?” The words dragged him back to the present moment as Striker caught his chin and tipped his head up, angling Stolas’ face into the light of a lantern as he quietly appraised what he saw there before hooking his thumb into the joint of his jaw and sinking pressure into the fragile bone.

His reaction was immediate, beak wrenched open by the force as the imp’s grit-covered fingers suddenly shoved into his mouth. Pressing down across the dry expanse of his tongue where they pinched and pulled the muscle out from between his beak. Holding it firmly with a look that edged a little too interested for Stolas’ liking.

“All that power at your fucking fingertips-” Striker leaned closer, breath hot on Stolas’ face as he watched in stunned horror as the imp flicked the fork of his tongue over the prince’s in a slow drag. “-and you don’t even use it.”

He cringed, inwardly and outwardly at the sensation, the taste, and he attempted to turn his face away only for the harsh slap of an open palm to strike him across the cheek. The sudden impact had him blinking, stunned briefly before Striker dropped a palm to his chest and dragged it down. Sliding it over the bundle of ropes to the expanse of his abdomen covered by his romper. His talons twitched at his sides and he once again squirmed, not that it did much besides widening the smirk on the imp’s lips.

“You could’ve turned me to stone once I fired that first bullet, but you didn’t.” Striker pointed out, thumb flicking one of the buttons of his romper idly. 

“Because you knew how this was going to end. How it was always going to end. With you. Six feet under.” Striker's touch stilled, lingering on the polished metal. 

“Except, I’m sure you wanted your ‘Blitzy’ to be the one to do it. Sick bastard that you are. Well, hate to disappoint you, Your Royal Highness, but I guess you have to settle for me.”

He withdrew his knife and skirted the blade across the front of his abdomen, slicing the fabric and leaving a thin black line of blood across his stomach in the process. 

The motion was slow, drawn out to make it as painful as possible even though the cut remained more superficial than Stolas expected. 

Throughout it all, the prince kept his beak shut, gaze locked on the hybrid and his attempts to instill fear, unsure where he was truly going with this. 

Perhaps he wanted Stolas to beg for his life? 

He thought back to the plea that had been pulled from his throat earlier when the blade had first touched his spine, and mentally retracted it. 

Those words had not been spoken out of a fear of death, but a permanent state of being that he knew would only make his life that much more excruciating.

No, he was not scared of dying. 

He only wished it would happen on his terms rather than anyone else’s. 

Silence greeted the assassin, and when he saw the quiet resolution spread across Stolas’ face, a snarl ripped from his throat. 

Interpreting Stolas’ reaction, or lack of one, as a challenge. 

Dual sets of eyes took in the seething rage that claimed the hybrid's face, settling into the sharp edges as Striker's expression contorted to a mask of fury.  

“ You think you're in control here?! ” Striker lifted the blade, aiming to plunge it into the soft expanse of his stomach, but stopped short. The tip of the blade sizzled against the quill of a feather, smoldering to an ember the longer the hybrid held himself in place. 

The thin thread of his patience visibly splintered as Stolas tipped his chin up regally in response. 

“ That's it! ” 

Dread welled up in time with the blood beading across his abdomen, a sinking sensation curling low in his stomach as claws hooked in red fabric and pulled, sliding it down his thighs to gather at the backward curve of his knees.

“ You want to act all high and mighty? Fine. ” Striker's voice seemed to rattle In his throat, vibrating as the spade of his tail sliced through the air behind him unrestrained.

“ You asked for this. ”

Stolas knew that was untrue, but he refused to give the imp the satisfaction of an argument knowing that his silence wormed its way deep beneath the hybrid's skin far better than his words would. 

An assumption that was proven correct almost immediately as the assassin wedged his hands between Stolas’ knees and pushed. Shoving them apart to make room for himself as he slithered into the space, claws scratching lines up through the soft expanse of his feathers to dig into the curve of his hips with a squeeze that made one of Stolas’ eyes twitch. 

“Oh? Got something to say?” Striker mocked, digging the tips of his claws into his flesh in a painful pinch before one hand shoved between his thighs, held open by the imp's body crowded over him. 

A trailing touch slid lower, ghosting over longer curls of feathers before stilling. 

“ Nothing? Really? ” 

Stolas kept his gaze trained on Striker, jaw clenched tight to keep the warble in his throat at bay once claws scrawled down through the finer tufts of his feathers to paw directly over the seam of his sex. 

A wave of nausea struck him at the sensation, his hips reflexively shifting back in an attempt to pull away, only to be yanked back in place by the singular grip on his hip. 

Another growl left Striker through bared fangs, but no other words escaped him for some time after that. His focus locked between Stolas’ thighs and the slide of his finger between the folds of his lips, his touch curling to stroke directly over the dry rim of his entry. 

His touch was unrushed and thorough, spreading him wide with a thumb and forefinger all so that the imp's toxic stare could take in the sight of the dark flesh in front of him framed by short downy tufts. 

Stolas’ parched throat swallowed hard and he tipped his head back against the rail beam, the warm metal soothing against the cold sweat that began to bead across his body. The contrast of sensations grounded him, working against his need to draw himself from his body like he had hundreds of times before. 

His eyes locked on the cave ceiling and he coached himself not to focus on anything in favor of allowing shapes and colors to blend together in a smear. He felt the slow tug of himself, could feel the escape exit open, and he accepted the invitation extended to him. 

He knew he could dissociate, and had perfected the art of slipping one's mind from their physical form, but the jarring sensation of a thumb catching and stroking at the small jewel of nerves cresting his cloaca sent him plummeting back into his form. 

The escape exit slammed shut in front of him, and all at once he was too aware of the imp between his legs pawing over him with deliberately quick motions. 

It was too quick, too abrupt, setting his nerves alight and forcing a startled gasp from his beak at the pain. 

“ You like that, don't you? ” 

Stolas rolled his eyes, not that the action was recognizable given his lack of pupils, but he followed through for his own sake.

“You're rather bad at this.” His hoarse voice, hardly above a whisper, sounded far too loud as it left his damaged throat. His words squeaked at the edges as he lay there, watching the shift of emotions flicker across Striker’s face from his peripheral.

His retort came in the form of two dry claws breaching his body. The very same fingers that had previously taken residence in his shoulder.

The searing burn as the digits forced their way inward, parting his muscles with a brute shove into his unprepared body, pulled an unrestrained coo of pain from Stolas. His eyes squeezed shut, his body going stiff as the form above him seemed to steal the very air from his lungs. 

His lungs burned almost as sharply as the space between his thighs, the agonizing friction of those two digits shoving inward before pulling out to repeat the action all over again, broke his ability to keep his pained warbles at bay. The spill of noises from his throat in an endless chirp seemed to please Striker, his hunched shoulders lifting to straighten proudly as he continued to stretch the tight ring of muscle clenched around his fingers. 

Striker was talking, Stolas watched as his lips moved, but the sound was lost to him as another gasp was ripped from him once those claws curled within him. They hooked against the soft spongey bundle of nerves where they pressed, massaging and stroking over the spot that usually had the prince writhing and pleading for more, instead he only felt bile sting his throat.

He knew this tactic well and he had to wonder if Stella had shared this bit of information with the assassin. 

Had she told him just how to locate it? How hard to press to force his body to react? Had she gone into detail on how she had to work him to the edge of an unwanted orgasm time and time again before she hooked their legs together and prayed this time would take? 

When he closed his eyes, he could almost feel feathers along the wrist brushing against his inner thigh. 

Unable to fight the urge any longer, Stolas wrenched his torso to the side and heaved. Bile and what little water still left in his stomach hit the dirt in a splatter, forcing the movement inside him to falter briefly before stopping altogether.

Striker was speaking once again, but he only managed to pick up a singular word as he heaved once more. 

Ungrateful.

He was flipped as if he weighed nothing, body flopping back down on the tracks as his face was shoved into the acidic puddle seeping into the parched ground. 

More words were said, but all Stolas could focus on was the acrid stench of his stomach contents and the clatter of a belt being undone. 

His eyes lifted to the statue in front of him, tracing up the cold stone before fixating on the hat perched. 

He could only silently hope that the proud display hidden by a leather brim had been an artistic liberty.

Time moved far too slowly after that, the next few minutes felt like hours and perhaps they were, but he had no way of knowing. All he knew was that the imp yanked his tail sharply to draw him up to his knees, putting pressure on the still gaping wound of his right leg before he speared the vanes of his long feathers to the side. Pinning it up and out of the way with the burn of the blessed blade, freeing both hands which caught and stroked over the curve of his thighs. 

Claws scratched along the surface of his legs, the sting they left in their wake letting him know that he was bleeding before once again he found himself speared by digits. He pressed his face against the dirt to muffle the startled groan that threatened to escape with every pointed thrust before the touch once again fixated on that spot within him.

Every rub, every knead, had Stolas shaking his head. Garbled refusals on his tongue as he was worked over with such intent that his thighs began to quiver and the painfully dry insertion began to lessen with the presence of his own unwanted arousal making its appearance. 

It’s not your fault. It’s a natural uncontrollable biological reaction. 

Stolas recalled whole libraries he had read on the subject after his marriage and how they had emphasized that at times the body responded in ways you did not want it to, but that regardless of how it responded it did not mean you wanted this to happen. That you asked for this. 

“You’re gettin’ wet, feathers.” Striker almost purred down at him, his words sharp and just as pointed as the claws pistoning inside him. 

The sound of his own body sickened him, the wet glide as Striker scissored him open almost echoed in his ears and he wished he had it in him to vomit once more. Wish he could somehow make himself all the more disgusting so that the imp refused to touch him, but Stolas knew what this was.

It was not about sexual attraction. 

It was about power, control, and humiliation. 

This was to serve as a reminder that he was truly at the imp’s mercy. He could have been caked in filth and Striker still would have held him down and used his own body’s reaction to his incessant touch as punishment. 

When Striker withdrew, the prince sucked in a deep lungful of air, held it, and then released it with a shaky exhale.

He wanted his lungs empty for what was to come. Wanted to ensure he made no noise when the assassin entered him knowing it would only aggravate the hybrid further once he was denied the satisfaction of hearing his pain. 

The warmth behind him shifted away and Stolas listened as Striker fussed with his belt once more, his head turned and eyes averted from the sight as he focused on the neon glow of the lights pointing to a small shack. The full-sized bed within sat covered in tattered sheets, and the smallest shred within Stolas was grateful that this was occurring here rather than on a mattress, forever ensuring a wide gap between this forced copulation and passionate nights spent gripping silk sheets. 

There was no mistaking what this was, and thankfully his brain stayed blissfully silent. Refusing to even conjure a single image of mottled red and white. 

The wet slide of skin drew his attention to the movement behind him, and it was with some smug satisfaction that Stolas realized Striker had to coax himself into getting erect. Clearly this was out of his wheelhouse, out of the norm, and the prince felt his feathers ruffle in response to the satisfaction that bloomed in his chest.

“Ah yes,” Stolas drawled, voice cracking as he chuckled against the earth. “-so the statue is indeed compensating for something.” He patted himself on the back mentally for that, especially once he heard the snarl of fangs and the hiss of frustration behind him.

“ Shut the fuck up .”

A few more wet strokes sounded and Stolas found himself smirking.

“ Performance anxiety? ” 

The roar that left Striker’s throat was all that Stolas had to prepare himself before his head was lifted and slammed against the ground. His vision went dark and his next breath was filled with dirt and debris as his face was roughly rubbed into the earth. Held there with the firm pressure of a hand on the back of his head while the other continued to pump up and down the imp’s length.

“ I said: Shut. Up. ”

Another breath entered his lungs, wet and filled with damp dust sending his diaphragm fluttering with the need to cough.

His breath left him in a ragged cry against the earth, his voice echoing down mining tunnels as Striker wrenched his head up. Holding his back bowed by his crest of feathers, his grip unrelenting as he continued to fumble with his cock, forcing blood south with every pull and tug of his fist.

Neither of them said anything once the tight clench of Striker’s fingers directed the blunt head of his shaft against him. Nudging against the bruised ring of muscle briefly before he paused.

No.

Hesitated .

The prince panted for air, held in an unnatural arch with no way to support himself as he peeked over his shoulder back at the imp just in time to see the expression of uncertainty flicker across Striker’s face.

Out of his wheelhouse indeed.

“ You don’t have to do this. ” Stolas gasped out, meeting the caustic stare that jolted to his face. 

He could see the hesitation grow with his words, a quiet consideration creasing the imp’s brow as he stilled. Stolas could work with this and maybe if he chose his words correctly, he could avoid this altogether.

“ You don’t want to do this. ”

The rage that burst to life in those acid green eyes made Stolas painfully aware that those words had not been the ones the imp needed to hear.

And just like that, the little leeway Stolas had was ripped from him as Striker released his grip on his crest feathers sending his upper body crashing painfully across the train tracks. He barely had time to register the pain sparking to life across his ribs before his voice was punched from his lungs by the sudden splitting of pressure mounting between his legs.

What was once a dull press became a blistering agony that sank inward with nothing but muscle and grit behind it. Instinctively, his body tensed around the intrusion in an effort to force it out, but Striker held firm and used his newfound grip on his hips to haul the Goetia backward to spear him deeper. Carving out a space within the prince’s body the size of himself through grit teeth.

With what little slick his body had produced earlier having dried, Stolas could not contain the cry of pain wrenched from his damaged throat. The hooting howl of misery stung his vocal cords as he registered each ridge scraping along his insides once Striker was sheathed fully and buried to the hilt within muscles that could have been made from stone given how unyielding they were. 

Tears welled in his eyes and fell on their own accord without Stolas’ acknowledgment, his mind unable to focus on anything other than the sensation of raw friction once the assassin’s hips began to move. The tight grip on his hips spoke volumes of the force required to slide inward once he pulled out, his body staunchly refusing the wax and wane of thrusts within him.

The demon behind him was quiet, the only sound escaping his clenched jaw being the harsh pull of his breath whenever he rocked forward, still only half hard.

Some part of his brain registered that this was not pleasurable for Striker either, the dry unforgiving squeeze of his body rubbing sensitive flesh raw with every movement was sure to be far removed from what the assassin would prefer, but once again this was not about sex. 

This was about an ancient punishment rendered so deeply that Stolas felt it within the fabric of his being. 

The next thrust slid inward aided by the evidence of his body tearing, unable to keep up with the brutal stretch any longer. 

Neither of them looked down at the drip of black blood.

Instead, Stolas turned his head around to steal another glance at Striker, who squeezed his eyes shut. A look of intense focus marred the imp’s face, and the prince had to wonder what he could possibly be thinking about now of all times. Though he could harbor a guess once he felt the shaft pistoning within him begin to stiffen further, swelling with blood and heat as the impact of their hips became slick in a mockery of arousal.

Dual sets of eyes watched intently as Striker’s cheeks darkened in a flush, sweat beading across his brow, plastering white strands to his cheeks while he began to pant. The deep rock of his hips shifted to something quicker as the imp began to chase after something that made Stolas grit his jaw.

No.

He refused to allow Striker to imagine anything other than what he was doing to him right now. 

Drawing another breath, Stolas screamed .

The wail of his battered voice interrupted Striker’s tempo, the assassin’s hips stuttering before freezing entirely as the imp’s eyes shot wide. Yanked back to reality by Stolas’ audible agony.

Striker’s lips opened a few times, unable to form any words before he slid a hand back through his sweat-dampened hair. Smoothing it away from his face as he turned his gaze upwards, away from Stolas’s body shivering in pain, away from where their bodies sat joined together, away from the damage caused by his hands. 

Stolas was not sure what he expected to happen, but the return of Striker’s grip to his waist was not an option he considered. Not when the assassin shifted him, pushing and pulling at his body until he resumed his thrusts at an angle that struck that bundle of nerves tucked towards his abdomen.

The sharp intake of breath that it pulled from the prince was all the confirmation the assassin needed before his quick pace resumed. The blunt head of his cock struck endlessly at the spot within him, pulling noises from Stolas that he would rather choke on than allow escape his beak, but his mouth yawned open without his consent, releasing a torrent of cries that spurred each thrust onward.

It hurt, by the seven rings, it hurt but his body functioned as if it were two separate beings rather than a united front. He had assumed that this special brand of misery would cancel out any pleasure, but he should have known better. Should have known that his experience at the mercy of scarred hands had shown him the bliss he could reach when both mingled together. 

The next moan that ripped from his throat was one that Stolas leaned into, forcing his mind away from any thought of him as he felt Striker lean over the curve of his raised hips.

“ Shit .” Striker groaned into the blessed rope, body draped over his back as he wedged an arm beneath Stolas to fumble his fingers down between his thighs. Claws caught and pulled on his feathers with a dull sting before finding the jewel of nerves at the crown of his cloaca. Fingers rolled over the bud with sharp intent while the ridges along the underside of his shaft set Stolas’ nerves alight in a rush of unwanted pleasure. 

Each thrust punched his breath out with it until Stolas’ head swam, the lack of oxygen getting to him as he dropped his cheek down to the earth in a whimper that had the shaft within him pulsing hard, two strong twinges accompanied by slurred curses beneath the assassin’s breath.

“I’ve got to- Ah, fuck.” Striker groaned, rubbing quickly over Stolas as he picked up the pace, the dull smack of his balls striking against soaked feathers ringing out in the cavern. “-give it to the rodeo clown. It’s hard to say ‘no’ to a pussy like this.” 

Stolas cringed at the mention of Blitzø, shaking his head as he felt the jarring movements of Striker’s fingers slow to tease over the bud of nerves. Stroking along the small rise of flesh before pinching it lightly, the act was enough to make the prince cry out as he inched ever closer to the build of pressure low in his gut. 

He could feel the dam there faltering, his struggle to keep the forced build of his climax to a low simmer failing him as Striker adjusted his thrusts once more. Sinking to strike the deepest parts of himself, the sensation causing his pupils to burst to life as he panted, mind going to mush as his blood flow was rerouted downward.

“ Fuck, that’s it. You’ve got me in a fuckin’ vice, don’t you feathers? ” Stolas felt the coil of a tail cinch around his thigh as his pleasure mounted, the action too similar to the ones that had played out beneath the glow of the full moon.

He felt his inner muscles start to flutter, pulsing tightly around Striker much to the assassin’s obvious pleasure, his orgasm building rapidly until he felt himself crest over the edge with a howl of a name on his tongue. His thighs trembled, slick and blood poured from between his thighs to stain the ground further as he went boneless. The only thing keeping him somewhat upright was the forearm braced beneath his hips.

But that disappeared almost as soon as he had climaxed, sending him to sprawl against the earth helplessly gasping for air.

Stolas did not even register Striker withdrawing before he was rolled onto his back, the face above his own carried a look of unbridled fury as the assassin retrieved his knife from the vanes of his feathers, and sheathed it at his hip.

“ That rodeo clown isn’t here, princess. ” Striker hissed, shoving Stolas’ legs up towards his bound chest all so that he could ease himself back inside the tight heat of the prince’s limp body. Filling the space he had just occupied before he resumed his thrusts, though this time the purpose had shifted.

No longer was Striker attempting to offer him the balm of ecstasy, no this was purely for the assassin who snapped his jaws above him and hissed as if he were feral. 

“ Look at me. ” A callused hand darted out, grasping his jaw to force his gaze to the imp whose expression only darkened beneath the prince’s unfocused stare. “ Don’t you dare breathe his name again. Whose cock did you cum on? ”

The sink of Striker’s claws into his cheeks had Stolas jolting, realizing with clear delay that he was being asked a question.

“Mmn, ah…yours.” He managed with a slur, his entire body refusing to cooperate as the rush of adrenaline seemed to leave him all at once, taking every ounce of energy and fight along with it.

His orgasm dulled before it faded entirely, leaving the familiar feeling of shame to replace it. He lay there, little more than a doll as Striker moved within him. His body rocked by the force of thrusts he could no longer feel, the pain of being stretched too wide, too deep, too everything, no longer registering as he blinked slowly. Finding it increasingly more difficult to open his eyes afterward.

“ That’s right. Mine. Mine! ”

Not even the sudden catch of spines could cause the prince to peel his eyelids open, the implication hitting him just before the rush of liquid heat filled him.