Chapter Text
They had found a solution.
The palace had been abuzz with confusion and tantalizing gossip for two long weeks. Paimon’s wrath had his overworked staff quivering with bated breath. Fellow Goetia had grown agitated with the wait. A postponed wedding, jilted families, the roaring unease that the curse’s sting would befall them next, and, at the center, Stolas.
Poor Stolas, Ars Goetia royalty, and ever so unlucky. He’d been ordered to keep to his bedchambers while spellcasters, cursebreakers, and studious noblemen alike would enter to inspect the buzz of dark magic enveloping him. They searched tirelessly for an answer until, at long last, it was found.
It was unconventional. Sex-related curses were rare, heavily looked down upon by Asmodeus and discouraged within the Lust Ring lest you face punishment, but there were still the desperate few crafty enough in their cruelty.
The heat of humiliation was fierce, yet Stolas had remained steady and calm even as his hands fought to fidget shyly.
He’d been counting his breaths since they told him what he must do. What must be done to him to rid him of this curse. If unbroken, he would remain infertile, unfit to marry, and unable to create a precautionary heir. A failure to his duty. There was no other way around it.
It could be worse.
Still, Stolas could not rest. He’d spent the day bathing in near-boiling water, exhausting every mixture of oils and fragrances. He’d scrubbed his skin raw, preened the hardest to reach areas, and lathered himself with sweet-smelling perfumes that sat heavy on his feathers. Some mix of lavender, eucalyptus, and powdery jasmine. He’d fussed over the pillowcases, anguished over the oil stains he’d left on the bedsheets, and had them changed once or twice. Thrice.
The gnawing sensation in his lower belly grew as the seconds ticked by.
When it was finally time, he had distantly wondered if he should wash up one last time, but he knew by the time his… gentleman came for him, he would not have time to get completely dry.
And Stolas could not bear being damp. Not for this.
A series of polite knocks had startled him out of his thoughts. He’d tensed, adjusted his sitting position at the end of the bed, pulling his robe closed tight. But he pondered again, and swiftly dragged himself backwards to lie against the pillows, loosening the tie and letting his chest feathers fall out. He breathed in, arching slightly.
Then he sat up again, anxious that he’d looked too eager. He’d closed the robe and kept a shoulder out, chin up. Legs uncrossed.
“Hello, your highness.”
Presented by one of his servants was a good-looking nobleman with a decent smile and average build. Stolas vaguely recognized him from meetings. He did not outrank Stolas but was still acceptably high-class with an adequate air of power, someone reasonable and willing to be discreet. Hand-picked by his father, just as all things were.
And Stolas knew he’d be okay.
Once the curse was broken, the wedding would be back on, and he’d be wed to a woman whose eyes glistened with violence. For the last eight years he had been resigned, sure that when he’d enter his marriage bed it would be to the tune of a funeral march. No longer was that the case. The target of someone’s rage had led him to a potential night of bliss.
It was almost romantic. Right out of a novel’s page, however unfortunate the circumstances.
He should be so lucky.
And he felt it. The anxiety, the hope, the fear, the joy of being touched by this stranger’s hand. Heavy and male. Stella would not be the first to touch him, and the thought alone was plenty enough to make his thighs fall open. A delicate movement that did not go unnoticed.
The warmth of the stranger’s breath against the subtle sheen of his feathers made them ruffle. His heartbeat quickened at the closeness, ribcage threatening to crack open from the intensity. It was simple work taking it. He’d looked towards the canopy, wary of eye contact. He’d not been kissed. He’d focused on Hell’s night creeping through the stained glass as the nobleman too crept in. It gave the scene a glossy tinge. Yes, romantic. Just like the stories promised.
Or, it could have been.
A sudden lurch had broken the moment.
Stolas had felt it in his lower belly. The gnawing that bloomed into a yawn, into a growl…
A crunch.
The treacherous snap of his body had made Stolas sit up with a gasp, though his shock was muted in the wake of his partner's screams. Doors had been slammed open immediately, weapons drawn as the guards took in the confusingly horrid sight.
By morning, there would be many retellings of what happened. Witnesses' knees trembled when they told Paimon and the council word-for-word how the scene looked. Their faces turned green with nausea when they described how they had to rip the man away because Stolas’ body would not let go.
Flesh had to be strung apart, and when separated, Stolas’ body spat out the remains of the man’s shredded penis.
It was said Stolas had lain there, face pale with one trembling hand covering his groin, while his bedmate rolled around in his screams of agony. In between the gaps of his talons, glimpses of something sharp and white could be seen.
Teeth.
The curse remained unbroken.
-
It’s late.
The lights are dim and the music low, air heady with smoke. There’s no dance floor, it’s not that kind of place, though maybe you’ll still score a lazy quickie in the bathroom if you’re lucky. There is a throng of demons mingling, another night celebrating the weight of eternity. Suppose time doesn’t matter for sinners, much to the chagrin of busy hellborn. Blitzø can’t stand their lilting voices, hunched over a watered drink he could barely afford when he got it.
He craves another, but he’s down to coins and lint, and there’s no way he’s dipping into gas money for a pick-me-up. Sleeping in a dead van is the easiest way to get robbed or freeze to death, and he needs all he can to survive the week. No more drinks.
The bar’s gross anyway. The unpolished mahogany’s gone tacky, made worse by the sweat of his palms. He just can’t help but continue scratching at the worn wood. His old man used to make wooden coins for card games out of scraps. Blitzø considers the gamble before it’s interrupted by a loud round of laughter.
They’ve been chatting all night, cracking up every line and coughing through vape clouds. Fucking assholes.
It’d be easy slinking his way in. Blitzø knows how to have fun, say the right words, make the right promises, and piss off the drunks with loose wallets.
But he’s too exhausted.
Money’s getting scarce, and the nights are getting rough. He can only eat so many instant fire noodles before the sodium-rich stomach pains take a toll. He’s known how to take a beating, but it’s not worth it if he can’t guarantee standing after. At least the burns have finally healed over, the singular good thing he has going for him. But he knows they’ll always itch.
“You want another?” the bartender asks. This is their third time asking, patience growing thin. A fourth time is final, Blitzø will be kicked out, and he’d have to find somewhere else to loiter for the night unless he orders another.
It’s tempting. He really can’t afford it. He shakes his head, makes a show of grinning and tipping his glass. “Still working on it.”
It’s eyed warily, a small sipful of leftover ice tinged orange with the barest hint of something that was once strong.
“Whatever you say.”
Blitzø licks at the meager droplets when one of the demons from the rowdy group comes waltzing over, trailing his laughter over and hitting his clumsy shins on the hooks beneath the bar ledge. He doesn’t even flinch.
He slumps his gangly frame on the teetering barstool next to Blitzø, some loan shark from Greed with tequila breath that likes slumming it with sinners. “Hey, hot stuff. Get us another round, why don’t you?”
“Same tab?” the bartender asks flatly, already using their two extra arms to gather their shakers.
Sharkface just waves his hand dismissively with a brief grumble of incoherence and another bout of giggles. It takes all of Blitzø not to press, leg jiggling impatiently since the drunken fuck came near him. He eyes his sloppy suit, noting the slight bulge of a wallet at the left lapel. Hard to reach but not impossible.
But he really, really doesn’t want to get roughed up.
“Insane shit,” Sharkface says, and it takes a split second for Blitzø to realize he’s talking to him. “Sinners love crazy Hell stories.”
“I bet,” Blitzø replies, not missing a beat.
“Not exactly panty-dropping stories, makes my dick want to shrink just thinking about it! But even if it did, it’d still be big. I’ve got a big dick.”
“I bet.”
“I mean, even I couldn’t believe it when I first heard it, and I’ve seen it at all,” he continues, and it seems that whether he wants to or not, Blitzø is part of this conversation now.
He sighs, mustering a grin as he tries to assess the smattering of rings and chains on the shark demon. They barely glimmer. All fake. “Plenty of shit to see in this dump.”
“Here you go, Chaz,” the bartender interrupts, sliding over a platter of electric blue drinks adorned with little umbrellas and maraschino cherries. A headache in a glass.
This Chaz guy barely acknowledges them, picking one off and slurping obnoxiously.
Blitzø is sure that’s the end of that, already thankful for the reprieve when a glass is pushed towards him.
“Yeah, but I bet you haven’t heard anything like this before.”
And well. A free drink’s a free drink. Blitzø’s eyebrow quirks, and it’s ample prompting to get Chaz’s motormouth running. It’s a good time killer talking to an idiot. The bartender doesn’t look too keen on throwing Blitzø out anymore, and that’s all he can ask for. Most of what Chaz says, he can’t keep up with. The guy’s too busy slurring and tripping over his words as he tries to tell his tale. Something about knowing a guy, who knew a girl, who knew a guy. In the midst, he keeps trying to get a few flirts in, but it’s clear that the guy doesn’t have a warm bed for Blitzø to sleep in. Not worth his time.
“Cleaning up over a guy’s one-night stands and not even getting to see any of the action? I work for crazy motherfuckers all the time, but even I wouldn’t work for a dick shredder. Can you imagine that?” Chaz says, shaking his head.
“Eh, I’ve cleaned up for worse. Money’s money,” Blitzø confesses. He’s scrubbed porta-potties at the circus for free. The thought gives him an unpleasant squeeze in his chest.
“Money shmoney, anyone who works there is out of their mind,” Chaz throws back the rest of his drink. “That’s why everyone’s leaving.”
The lazy sway of Blitzø’s tail stills. “Uh, everyone’s leaving?”
“I bet they’ll hire anyone at this point. I don’t like messing around with royals… Though I’d bet they wanna take a ride on the Chaz mobile. I’m kinda masterclass like that. But that’ll get messy, and I’m not really political, ya feel?” Chaz rambles while Blitzø’s spines have perked up, ears burning at the insinuation.
A royal, huh?
He and Barbie used to sneer at them behind their backs. When Cash told them to be on their very best behavior because there’d be bluebloods in the crowd, they would sulk together and mock their uppity accents. Even Fizz, the spoilsport, couldn’t help his giggles when they moaned and chittered about tea and riches. His mom would do her best to scold him, but she still smiled when Blitzø stood atop the table to proclaim that he’d never work a day in his life for them if it were up to him.
But they’re all gone, and all that’s left is himself and the coins, and the lint, and the overdraft in his bank account.
“Got a name for this royal, or is it all talk?” Blitzø prods and gets his answer beautifully.
“It’s…” Chaz glances around and leans in to whisper. “Paimon’s son. Some leggy bitch.”
-
Chaz’s stolen wallet may have only held receipts and dust, but the information he offered was crucial.
After that, he’s on the prowl for more. It takes some nosying into the waves of murmuring gossip to sink his claws into something real. A palace hiding at the very edge of pride, more vacancies than they can handle, and a real ballbuster for a boss. There’s a lot of kooky shit thrown around that Blitzø waves off.
A shitty job that is quick to fire its employees is nothing to note. A job with cushy benefits, quarters to sleep in, and food to eat, losing its workers because they’re the ones who keep quitting…
He’s heard the metaphors, and Blitzø can pick up the inane shit they’re spilling. The boss is a fucking nightmare, a real deviant, and demons are leaving fast when they realize they can’t handle it. The job offers are met with resistance, and the vacancies are weighing heavily on them. They’re desperate. And Blitzø has known desperation for the past year.
If he can stomach that suffering, he can stomach a brat of a royal who thinks he’s got what it takes to break Blitzø. He sticks his snout where it doesn’t belong, and an interview is secured soon after.
Hell has nothing on a savvy bitch.
When he got to the palace, the ornate ostentatiousness gave him pause. The wealth oozed from the building, making him feel out of place. Even the shined stones could cost a pretty penny. He was in unknown territory, which made him feel like a caged animal. What made him move forward was the solemn air, quiet even with water rushing somewhere nearby.
He’d half-expected to be torn apart by whatever haunts the hallways that had demons so flighty. All he met was a butler who sighed as he led him to a large room with a gorgeous chandelier with dangling chains. His claws ached to touch and take.
An imp was the one who conducted the interview.
From what he saw, the butler was not scarred nor showed any sign of serious injury. He stood tall, though shorter than Blitzø, and remained curt as he explained he was the head butler, Dingles, or something ridiculous like that.
Blitzø sold himself with a grand spectacle that went unappreciated. A multitude of selling points, a half-manic grin, and a puffed-out chest. He could be strong, he could protect, he could be a perfect fit. He still chortled ugly when asked how well he takes orders. The butler looked ready to dismiss Blitzø right then and there.
In the end, he promised to do good. A choked-off ‘please’ escaped him, the last of his dignity spread thin.
In a split-second moment, he saw the way the butler’s eyes flickered and how his eye bags reflected a similar fatigue.
He left, mildly dejected but holding on tight to the ember of hope.
Two nights later, while eating the last of his heart in a fast food restaurant’s parking lot, a call came ringing. Blitzø got the job. He’d be expected to live in the servant’s quarters and start immediately. The relief was instant, his forehead hitting the horn, and he’d let a few tears soak into the faux leather of his steering wheel.
He’ll worry about the whole working for a Goetia thing later.
When Pringles– turns out that was his real name, though it wasn't much better than Dingles– shows him his quarters, he lets out a breath. He is told they are on the smaller side, and Blitzø’s laughter sounds wet in response. He’s never known privacy, only big cuddle piles, elbows jabbing in his side, and seeing a bunch of imp ass in the communal showers. After that, he had a cold hunk of metal for a house with newspapers used as curtains to hide him from the outside. Smaller side, yeah fucking right.
He’s allowed a night to gather his bearings, eat warm food, and take a shower.
His whole body jitters when Pringles pauses in his bevvy of information that Blitzø had begun to tune out. He’s brought back with a cleared throat.
“A note, Mr. Buckzo,” Blitzø fights a furrowed brow at the sound of his family name that Pringles is insistent on using. “We really do value… Discretion here.”
Blitzø doesn’t attempt to parrot back the word, squinting instead, and Pringles sighs with his whole chest.
“Rumors are rumors, we can not stop what is already out there, but… When it is time to deal with the prince’s condition, it would be best not to… Talk.”
Ah, he gets it. This is about the prince’s penchant for slutting it up, yeah, Blitzø has heard all about those clean-ups.
“No tattle-taling about the shit that goes down in here. Got it, Prings.”
He’s given a withering look in response.
“Look, don’t look so worried. I can handle it,” Blitzø promises. “Besides, I’ve handled real crazed lunatics and perverts. They may not have been royalty, but I bet they pack a much meaner punch than your boss, alright?”
“Our boss.”
“Our boss, yeah. Yeah.”
Another sigh, smaller this time with an air of forlorn acceptance. “I will leave you for the night. I’ll be here in the morning with your uniform. And again… Please take my word on discretion seriously. It’s bad enough that photographers are trying to invade the prince’s privacy and making our jobs harder. He doesn’t need to know about what’s being said further.”
Blitzø can’t resist the roll of his eyes.
“Yeah, wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings, huh?”
“Yes,” the imp says simply. “It does little good to have him upset.”
“Wouldn’t want to get him upset, then. I heard he’s a real dickeater when he gets all pissy,” Blitzø jokes, smile straining when Pringles just shudders in response.
He is mildly scolded for his language, but ultimately is left alone to bury himself in cozy blankets. The warmth is welcomed, though his mind remains stuck on the interaction.
Oh well. It’s not as if he’d be there long.
One day, he’ll look back on this era and write it off as temporary insanity. Working for a royal? Please. It’s all part of a greater scheme. In fact, he’d tricked those chucklefucks into hiring him, and they had no idea what had happened till Blitzø skedaddled, leaving them all in the dust. Yeah. All he needs is a month or two taking advantage of the shelter, the free food, and the biweekly paychecks. That should be enough to get by and move on to the next thing. Bigger and better than before.
Still, the prince must be a real pain in the ass to elicit a reaction like that.
Blitzø is not eager to meet him.
-
It must be a scam.
Blitzø is used to shady shit. He had to get down and dirty to piece his life back together, half-blind and body broken. His spines would spring tense at the whiff of danger lurking around a corner, usually some asshole with a knife and hungry for loose change off a battered imp.
He’s expecting nightly royal fuckfests, mentally gearing up to mop up a bukkake load of cum, or at least get thrown around a bit by some tetchy bitch.
So far, there’s no threat of that in the palace, yet each morning starts with a nasty surge of anxious adrenaline, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for the beast to arrive at his door. Three days in, and most of what he’s seen of this infamously deranged prince is the flutter of loose feathers at the end of a trash can.
They’re soft, blue-tinged, and delicate to the touch.
“Uh,” a fellow worker exclaims when they spot Blitzø arm deep in the garbage, fingering some feathers.
Whatever. It doesn’t make any sense.
Pringles gives him menial tasks, and they’re all fucking boring. He’s given tour after tour, eyeing the annoyingly intricate architecture, all of it cold and a waste of riches. There are plants he’s told not to go near and portraits draped in velvety fabrics that are not meant to be seen. The staff is small, smaller than it should be, but all efficient and uninterested in conversation, much to Blitzø’s chagrin.
His jokes are wasted here.
The butler get-up is stupid, and the workflow isn’t enough to have the time go by faster than a crawl. It’s another day of dusting clean shelves, sweeping polished floors, and loitering uselessly till he chases Pringles down. When he asks if that’s really it, he’s waved off.
artwork by: Chelsey
“We’ll be training for clean-ups later this week,” he’s told, which quells some of the bubbling rage and confusion in his stomach. Other than that, there is no violence, no humiliation, no prince. There’s nothing to do except go to his room to overthink and stare at the fucking ceiling, trying to will the puzzle pieces to fit.
The room darkens as night falls, and nothing comes together.
His tummy is full of warm food, his skin is shiny from their fancy bars of soap, and the soft give of the mattress has done wonders for his back. It must be a scam. That or they’re really playing nice, buttering Blitzø up with deluxe treatment so that when the real job starts, he won’t take off running right away.
Clean-up training is soon. Soon, he will figure out what everyone is so scared of.
Like clockwork, the whisper of sleep begins to dull his senses. His breathing slows, and his vision flattens into a dreamy swirl when it suddenly fractures by a sharp, blood-curdling scream. It shatters through, and he sits up like a man dying, chest heaving and tail whipping as he stumbles out of bed, hitting his hip against the marble flooring.
His knees slip and slide till his hooves manage to stumble to his room door, all the while the screams persist. He claws at the door handle and then clutches it in his grasp, fear stopping him in his tracks.
There is no call to action, no other voices, just the haunting echo of pain that floats from the other end of the palace.
Blitzø pants, hand soaking durable brass with sweat from where he’s still holding it.
Quiet comes after, the only noise left from his own stuttered wheezes. His bottom lip trembles until his teeth clench and he’s shoving the door open, stepping out into the hallway and whipping his head in both directions. Not a demon in sight.
A nightmare?
No. He is more than familiar with that realm of Hell, the smoke, the lick of fire. This was nothing of the sort. It was real.
His neck strains, hearing the sound of muddied voices but unable to make out the words. They don’t come any closer; they must be far off, where he imagines the prince’s master bedroom is to be located. Curiosity twinges, but his legs lock, trembling too badly to step forward. All he can do is slink back to his room, closing the door with a soft click and creeping under the blankets, a pathetic veil of safety.
Blitzø wonders. Is that what fucking sounds like for the prince? Does he kill them brutally at the end? Will he be in danger of that? If he fucks up, will he be sent into whatever torture awaited the other guy? Will his pain be echoed through these hallways, too? What has he gotten into, really?
He curls up, longing for circus days and cuddle piles, a small army to protect each other. All he has is himself. He waits until they come for him next.
They never do.
-
No one speaks of it.
They eat breakfast in silence, all tidied up in their uniforms and ready to start another monotonous day. His memory’s selective, a bit like Swiss cheese, but he concentrates hard to count every one of them, then recounts just in case. He swears they’re all here.
Not one of their own, then.
He glares at them all, trying to see through any crack or slip, but it’s all air-tight save for one who pales under Blitzø’s surveillance. When mealtime ends, they get to tidying without a care, as if the day could be spent twirling a fucking duster after whatever happened the night prior. Business as usual. His sanity hiccups, anger beading his forehead.
He can fake it for an hour, sweeping up nothing and wiping stained glass, sniffing the air for a taste of feather dust until he can’t anymore. He lets the broom hit the ground and chases down a confrontation, startling a cook and a maid along the way.
“Pringles! You fucking asshole, where are you?!” he calls out, pushing open closet doors and marching across stupidly long hallways with his hands curled to fists at his sides. “Pringles!”
He storms past the fancy bullshit, the statued bird heads, and into the main room with the glittering chandelier and impossibly big windows. There, he finds Pringles and the pale servant from breakfast, looking more green around the edges. They both snap to attention, Pringles furrowed brows lifting until he groans at the sight of Blitzø’s ire before turning away easily, the fucker.
“We will discuss this later,” Pringles excuses the sick-looking man who squeaks in distress.
“But–”
“Later,” he snaps and turns his focus to Blitzø, who only comes closer to the scene. They’re left alone, the other worker running off, lower lip trembling, and eyes brimming with tears.
“The fuck was that about?” he can’t fight the need to ask, watching the skimpering imp turn the corner.
“None of your concern. More importantly, why are you here?”
Blitzø squints and shakes his head to the matter at hand, strengthening his stance and baring his teeth. “Excellent fucking question, cause I also wanna know why I’m here.”
Pringles stares at him blandly like the pompous dickhead he is.
He asserts himself, heated now. “I’ve been doing jack shit, and you know it. I’m not one to complain about a cushy fucking job, but you know everything that goes down around here, right? Head butler and all that? So, wanna tell me what the fuck that screaming was about last night?”
Finally, a twitch, a crack in the armor as Pringles squares his jaw, a look of tension. Guilt. “... I did not know the noise would reach your quarters. There should have been soundproofing magic added.”
“Way to answer the question, dick.”
“It will be a part of your training… Clean up can get…” Just as Blitzø feared. “I was hoping to ease you into this. I can have a word with Prince Stolas to enchant your room,” he says, and Blitzø growls in frustration just hearing sir fuckwad’s name.
“Funny, that prince of yours–”
“Ours.”
“Funny, how I’m working for this guy and haven’t seen or heard shit from him. Pretty bad management if I do say so myself,” Blitzø grits out. “Where is our prince, then, if not killing some poor fuck?”
“Kill?” Pringles sputters, taken aback for once, “He doesn’t– your highness wasn’t killing anyone. It doesn’t–” he composes himself. “You should not listen to baseless rumors.”
“Then maybe I should meet the guy,” Blitzø snaps back, taking pride in the way Pringles shuffles with uncertainty. “What? Is that too much to ask now? I don’t need to be here, y’know. You’ve been making it work being short-staffed, right? What’s another imp walking out, huh?” he goads despite the alarm bells of regret blaring in his mind. Fuck. What the hell is he talking about? He hasn’t even received his first paycheck, and he’s threatening to walk out?
He’s a split second away from taking it all back when Pringles tenses, a quick “don’t” choking out and dying in his throat.
Blitzø looks down at him, the desperation a weird look for someone so uppity. “Let me meet him,” he says, firm. “I should at least meet the guy who's signing my fucking checks before I have to clean up after his dick.”
Pringles frowns, but his resolve crumbles apart before his eyes. “... Very well. Though the prince may still be asleep.”
Blitzø snorts, “What a life.”
“I’ll go get him.”
“Nah,” Blitzø says. “I’ve had enough of that. I’m following you. We’ll wake our precious little royal boss from his beauty sleep together. Consider it a part of my training or whatever.”
“You,” Pringles starts and huffs, “are really pushing it.”
“You could fire me.”
They walk in tense silence, Pringles' steps steadfast while Blitzø remains a few paces behind, radiating smugness.
They walk for longer than anticipated, Stolas’ chambers located in the east wing. The entire palace lacks subtlety in its decor, all of it ancient and disgustingly opulent, though with every covered portrait reading like a halfhearted attempt at artistry. With all the empty spaces, it feels unfinished.
At the end of the hall are intimidating plants flanking a, frankly, absurd-looking door. They shift with curiosity as they get closer, their teeth sharp and healthy. Pringles pauses, sighing before knocking three times.
There is no sign of life from inside, but the imp is turning the golden knob anyway. He swings the door open and gestures Blitzø inside.
He tenses. He had wanted this. He is not a creature meant to be left in the dark. If he has an opponent, he needs to suss them out or die trying. This palace could be livable then. This time can pass him by without a hitch if he just has a proper face behind all the gruesome talk. It isn’t allowed to be this easy.
He walks through the threshold, expecting a monster lurking in the darkness, but instead, he’s hit by the stink of booze and antiseptic.
Thick velvet curtains fight the sunlight from seeping in, making the grand room feel heavy with gloom. It should be breathtaking, what with the decorated wallpaper and the bookshelves full of fancy embossed books that still shine in the darkness, but when coupled with several of them scattered on the ground, splashed with sickly green liquid from the bottles of liquor scattered about… It does the opposite.
In fact, it’s all very… Unsexy. He smells the air again, not a hint of sex or semen or slick.
Everything appears thrown around, all leading to the bed itself, extra fancy with its elaborate canopy and button-patterned headboard, but even that is a disaster of rumpled sheets half hitting the ground, strewn across messily, and curling near the end into a fat, huddled heap.
It hits him then that this so-called prince is the heap.
Blitzø stands awkwardly, glancing over at Pringles, who appears unamused. The other imp bravely goes towards the lump, hand unafraid as he nudges it.
“Your Highness,” he says, voice flat in a way Blitzø had thought was only reserved for him. Guess he uses that bitch tone with everyone that gets on his nerves. Impressive. He shakes the blanket cocoon again, this time a chirrup creaking out from beneath it. “Your Highness, allow me to introduce our newest staff member.”
He takes a few steps back as the blankets shudder, a stretched-out, feathery arm punching out, long taloned fingers unfurling shakily.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” Pringles replies, without a hint of humor. It’s mid-afternoon.
A warbling groan is heard.
Pringles turns towards Blitzø, tilting his head as a silent gesture to come on over. It feels like one big joke as Blitzø wills himself over, footsteps heavy on the expensive tiling, each thud making the blankets shuffle and shift.
The arm smacks itself, trying to tear through the blanket fortress until a shoulder is exposed, and through that hole, an equally feathery head pops out, successfully escaping the fortress of blankets. His neck tilts freakishly, the feathers framing him grey— no, blue-tinged, Blitzø’s mind unhelpfully reminds— and his red eyes gleam unnervingly. All four of them.
When he looks over, it is slow and unseeing.
The hungry monster from the rumors. He seems young despite his stained purple undereyes and the little white feathers by his beak smeared with green blotches. Blitzø zeroes in on them, mouth gone dry at the sight of them.
“Your highness,” Pringles says, “apologies for waking you so suddenly. I’m here to do introductions.”
“Oh,” he says, and it’s barely a syllable. Barely a sound. And still Blitzø feels a sweat beginning to bead at the back of his neck. It only worsens when the heap shifts, more of the prince peaking out as he sits up, movements languid.
The blankets caress him as they slip down his body, revealing his upper torso, plumage fluffing out like they were some kind of feathery tits. He’s all tousled, terrible bedhead, and the stink of booze intensifies.
“Already?” His voice is low, yet melodic, like each word costs a fortune. Blitzø can tell that his scrutiny measuredly pulls away from his head butler to Blitzø. It’s all in the way Stolas’ chin tilts and his beak angles. It’s sharp. Could be deadly. A zing shoots through his spine to his tail that whips against his will.
Stolas blinks again, a quartet of eyes shimmering with disbelief. “An imp?”
Blitzø squints while Pringles coughs lightly. “Yes, sir, this is Blitzø Buckzo, he’s–”
“An imp’s never tried before,” Stolas interrupts easily, like it’s habitual. “How… novel.”
It’s an immediate stab.
Blitzø may not know what the fuck he’s talking about, but he still fights the snarl. This is no beast nor monster. Just another fucking blueblood with a silver spoon shoved up his ass and a penchant for alcoholism. More of his frame is exposed, tall, much taller than expected, and fluffy, but arrogant all the same. It’s almost disappointing.
“Tried what?” Blitzø can’t help but snark and receives a gentle jab in the ribs from Pringles, whose face is scrunched in exasperation.
“The challenge,” Stolas answers, lilting voice dripping pure mockery, and it sets Blitzø aflame with what must be fury. He’s got half a mind to believe the prince is still drunk with the way his shoulders shimmy and sway, fighting his way ungracefully out of the blankets and–
“That’s not it!” Pringles exclaims, scandalized while Blitzø’s eyes nearly pop out from their sockets as the naked lower half of the bird’s body is momentarily exposed.
He’s a fucking mess, the way he flops ungracefully on his back, thighs on display, and quills sticking out in all directions as he lets his legs fall halfway open before chirping in surprise when Pringles hurriedly throws one of the hundred blankets scattered about to cover the shameless owl.
But it’s too late, the image now burned into Blitzø’s memory.
“What the fuck?!” he shouts, shielding his eyes as Pringles continues to stack the slut bird with blankets.
“Your Highness! He is a new member of the staff, not a caller!” If it wasn’t for the fact that Stolas had flashed him like Blitzø was some kind of imp whore gigalo, he would take more than a fair share of amusement at how frantic the usually composed head butler is.
The prince is mostly buried, only his pale faceplate left and glassy eyes blinking out of time. Definitely drunk.
“Staff,” he says, muffled.
“Staff,” Blitzø confirms, grin tight. “Thanks for the warm welcome, your royal birdness.” The Goetia simply stares through him, not paying him any mind, and then he turns what he could of his head to Pringles.
“Not a caller?” Fucking prick.
“Not at all, sir.”
“Very well,” Stolas’ eyes slip shut, sinking further into his sad pile, only his beak visible. “If that was all… Thank you.”
“What?” Blitzø blurts, “That’s all?! I–”
“You’re welcome, Your Highness. Let us go, Mr. Buckzo,” Pringles cuts in swiftly, and it is not a suggestion. He commands them out, tiny hands shoving at Blitzø’s back as he sputters in indignation. It does not get the attention of the owl, who has become one with his fortress. Lazy fucker.
The door is shut, and before he can shout obscenities, Pringles beats him to the punch.
“Are you satisfied?”
“No, I’m not fucking satisfied! What the fuck was that?!”
“That,” Pringles spits, “is our boss. His Royal Highness, Stolas of the Ars Goetia, who so happens to be a complete non-threat to you or any of the staff.”
“I thought he would be some kind of dangerous dick muncher, not some drunk, horny slut that spreads his legs for anyone that enters his room. The fuck was that about?” The image flashes again, and Blitzø keeps having to bat it away.
“A misunderstanding. He thought you were a caller,” Pringles explains as if that clears any of it up. “That is business we will have to attend to. It will be part of your training this weekend.”
“... Clean-up duty.” Guess he already knew that, didn’t he?
“For the challenge, yes. We must assemble, welcome the callers, and be prepared. And no, we will not be witnessing the… Events that take place.” Pringles sighs, looking like he’s aged ten years. “But, we will aid him after. Clean. You will make sure he is unhurt and also–”
“Hurt? He’s a fucking prince, can’t he heal?”
Pringles frowns at the interruptions, glaring hard until Blitzø backs down. “... Anyways, the prince will undoubtedly apologize for mistaking you for one of them. I had hoped he would at least be lucid when waking, but… Anyways. None of this was my intention.”
Freaky sexcapades were one thing, but it still didn’t explain…
“The screams?” he says weakly.
“It will be okay,” Pringles replies firmly. The most sincere he’s sounded this whole time.
Blitzø’s head continues to spin.
“He flashed his fucking bird puss at me!”
“If one does not… Insert himself, then it will be fine.”
With that, there is little to do but retreat to his quarters. He’s seen the face of all the gossip and the terror, and all he’s left with is a pounding heart and a headache.
When his eyes slip shut, he can see it still.
In two movements, Stolas had displayed himself, baring everything. There was no way he could miss the long, tantalizing shape of his torso, where his feathery tummy went soft and how the blueish color faded into ivory around his groin. And then that quick flash of a deep onyx slit hiding partially behind little downy feathers.
The worst was his face. Inebriated and foggy, but accepting all the same. Ready to be taken.
He can’t shake it off.