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It was a good thing there were already anchor points embedded around the door frame.
He’d put them there himself months ago after that fucking failure of a Full Moon Night, chaining up the door to his office to keep himself separate from the rest of his staff so that he wouldn’t taint them with the unbelievable bad luck he’d been blessed with all his life—just keeping him penned in, bingeing on Cryers and watching Bethany Ghostfucker porn. Now, those anchor points were doing wonders keeping Stolas’ body upright, stretched wide as a starshrimp or whatever those fuckers were called, as the bird endured another punishment. Not that he hadn’t asked for it.
“Let me not feel so sad.”
Blitzø heard the echo from their past conversation when he’d tried to apologize to the former owl prince. He hated how the words had fallen from the bird’s beak once more, hated how he’d do anything to make Stolas not sad anymore. There was too much pain and love and fucking history between them—not to mention how he still blamed himself for why the bird felt like shit in the first place. Who was he to deny Stolas what he asked for? After all, he’d never disappointed Stolas during all their previous scenes, and he certainly wasn’t going to disappoint him now.
“Want me to stop? You know what to say.”
The silence hurt him even more. More than seeing all the oozing welts under matted grey-blue feathers. Feathers. So many fucking feathers already on the dirty PVC carpet that spanned the office, wall to wall. The burdened silence made him so angry, and he knew the anger was misplaced. He knew it was not Stolas he was angry at. Not anymore.
“Fucking say something! Say something if you want me to keep going!”
Stolas sagged against the chains holding his now-frail body up. Were they even supposed to be doing this shit again? Stolas didn’t even have his powers anymore. Could he even heal like he used to? It didn’t fucking look like it, and the sight of the bird’s ichor-painted back incensed the imp assassin even more, especially as he tasted something sweet and cloying in the air.
“Yes. I deserve this.”
Crack.
The whip lashed out, hitting diagonally. Skin tore. Feathers, even more fucking feathers, floated down. Blitzø felt like each feather was another thread of his sanity torn from his frayed mind.
Crack, crack, crack.
Stolas’ back had already been striped by a rattan cane earlier. Tender from the paddle. Sensitive to the touch from the flogger’s lashes. And the bullwhip in his clawed hands was not helping. He wanted to stop.
He wanted to keep going.
“More.”
Stolas trembled, slick coating the insides of his thighs, matting the feathers there much as ichor matted his back and the back of his thighs. Blitzø exhaled loudly, dropping the bullwhip. He wanted to hold the bird in his arms, but he knew he would not be allowed.
“Pick something else.”
“Crop.”
“No—fuck. Something else. Please.”
“Cane.”
“We already fucking did that!”
“Paddle.”
“Christ on a stick, do you want me to just fucking beat you up?!”
“Preferably, yes.”
Stolas’ soft, cultured voice wavered a bit, but the conviction behind it did not. Blitzø felt like he was at the end of his proverbial rope. The more the imp wavered, the more Stolas sagged against his chains. It made his blood boil, seeing the bird’s battered body not healing straightaway like it should’ve been. Had him getting out the keys, unlocking the corny heart-shaped padlocks he’d purchased many moons ago, somewhere near the start of their arrangement.
The anger had him dragging the owl over to his desk, pushing him against it. Stolas, smart bird that he was, immediately got into position. Spread his legs, lifted his tail to present for his Dom like the good little slut he was, hole oozing so much slick it spattered on the floor only to be soaked up by the old, battered carpet.
Battered, just like Stolas' body was. Just as Blitzø's mind was. Yet, the bird's pussy dripped, and the imp's cock hardened, and, and Blitzø—
Blitzø wanted nothing more than to bury himself in there—get in as deep as he could so that the screaming inside his skull would quiet down for a change, even for just a second.
“I’m not fucking you.”
“Of course.”
The defeat in Stolas’ voice only served to fan the flames of the anger roiling inside Blitzø’s guts. He hated this. This used to be their normal. Most Full Moon Nights had been spent with him hurting Stolas, doing the most sadistic, most depraved, most humiliating things he could dream of to the owl while still getting his rocks off. They loved this shit. Blitzø loved having a royal at his mercy, just as Stolas loved the pain only Blitzø could give him.
So why did this feel so fucking wrong now?
Stolas had not moved an inch. Blitzø sat in his chair, watching, ruminating. This dance, he knew all the steps, but the melody had turned jarring. Offbeat, and not in a way he could explain. There was an itch under his skin. He wanted to scratch, to claw at his arms and legs and torso and face until each scale peeled off and left him a bloody mannequin. He wanted to scream and cry and curse at everyone and everything that led them here, with Stolas dripping slick and ichor all over his ratty office desk, barely breathing.
Instead, he picked up the crop.
“You think you deserve this?”
He trailed the looped leather end against the bird’s shredded backside.
“I do.”
Blitzø closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
He could see all their faces burning against his closed lids. All their sneering, arrogant faces. He wanted to rip them into pieces and set fire to them like a bonfire for his sins.
“Count them out.”
He led with all the anger choking his heart. Stolas obeyed. The owl’s body quivered with each hit, shaking more and more the higher the number went. Blitzø’s arm felt like it would fall off from the force, so he switched to the other, bringing down each strike with unfettered fury, imagining he was punishing those faces that mocked him each time he closed his eyes.
Tears blurred his vision. They poured down his cheeks in a silent river. He didn’t even realize it was him sobbing until the crop broke, splintering against Stolas’ ass, until he heard the bird speak.
“Blitzø? Bli—Hemlock. Hemlock!”
He couldn’t breathe. Talons, sharp-as-knives talons, cupped his grubby cheeks, working as quickly as they could to wipe off tears. But they couldn’t stop the onslaught, the liquid waterfalling down Blitzø’s face as inevitable and torrential as scream rain. The imp recoiled as arms reached for him, trembling in their sweat-dampened hold.
Stolas had safe-worded.
Fuck! Can’t he even do this one thing right? Stolas had asked him for something simple. Just a fucking simple scene. They’d done this fucking thing a fucking million times—why was he such a fucking failure?
“Darling. Please—”
“I’m s-sorry.”
A trilling coo sounded beside him. When had Stolas taken him into his arms? Why was Stolas even hugging him? He was such a fucking disappointment. He couldn’t even do one fucking thing right. He should’ve just sucked it up. He should’ve just kept going. He should’ve just di—
“Blitzø—”
“Don’t.”
It felt like it had been years since they last kissed. Why was Stolas kissing him? A shaky breath shuddered out of Blitzø’s chest as he kissed the bird back. He probably tasted like salt and despair. Stolas wouldn’t want him anymore. Why did Stolas even want him in the first place? He was nothing. He was just some pathetic imp. He was—
“Darling. I’m here. You’re okay. Everything is okay.”
Blitzø sobbed, holding on to Stolas as if he would die if the bird ever let go.
The former prince pressed his body against Blitzø’s, kneeling on the dirty floor so that their heights matched for once. Blitzø had never felt so small, so insignificant. He’d had the world in his claws, still did, and all he could do was ruin it. Ruin him. He was such a fucking piece of shit.
“Darling, please. Can you speak? What can I do?”
Stolas sounded so scared. Was he scaring him again? Can’t do one fucking thing right. This was supposed to help Stolas not be sad anymore, and now he was scaring the bird. Fucking fuck!
“Kiss me.”
Stolas kissed him. Stolas’ hands roamed over his body, caressing, touching, kneading. Blitzø felt like he was on fire, each pass of talons burning a brand that went soul-deep. Their tongues slid against each other greedily, helplessly, achingly. His cock stirred to life under Stolas’ ministrations.
Against his better judgment, Blitzø surged up, claws gripping the owl’s hips, laying him on top of his table after clearing the mess on it with a swipe of his tail. Stolas had never looked prettier, lying on his back, ichor splashed all over the wood, making him look like one of those paintings in an art gallery. The bird's legs spread wide, always inviting, a siren's song. He could feel how Stolas was ready for him, cunt swollen with need. And Blitzø could never look a gift horse in the mouth, anyway.
“I’m sor—I need, fuck, Stolas, can I? Please, I need—”
“Yes, darling. Take me. Take what you need.”
Blitzø exhaled into the kiss, relief flooding his veins. He blindly lined himself up for paradise. Heaven would never take the likes of him, never in a million years, but this felt as close as he would ever get, pushing into Stolas so smoothly, as if Heaven’s gates were opening up just for him. He felt Stolas whimper into his mouth, and he tried to silence them both by kissing the bird harder, tried to say all the things he couldn’t say with just the movement of his body.
They knew this dance. They’d done this dance a million times before—but it felt new to Blitzø. His heart pounded wildly in his chest. Stolas. Stolas, Stolas, Stolas. Each heartbeat was a silent plea, a prayer to be heard, to be accepted, to be… loved.
He could taste salt, smell ichor. Feathers, so soft and damp under his clawtips. His blood sang with each pump of his hips, Stolas’ walls as soft as silk, gripping him firmly like a vice clamp. Blitzø felt like dying and being reborn with each passing second.
“Stolas, I’m—Stolas, I—”
“Shhh. You don’t have to say anything.”
Was this what space looked like? Stars exploded behind his closed lids. It felt like every atom of his body had shattered. He heard Stolas cry out, felt the body underneath him tremble and shake. The spikes along his length anchored him inside Stolas, letting him spill and flood every last bit of sanity inside Stolas as an apology, a peace offering of sorts.
Blitzø tried to catch his breath, laying his head on that warm bed of fluff on the owl’s chest.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for that.”
“You don’t even know what I’m saying sorry for.”
“Oh?”
“You safe-worded.”
“I did.”
“I must’ve done something wrong.”
“Oh, darling.”
Blitzø felt a peck between his horns—Stolas’ version of a kiss.
“I did it for you.”
And wasn’t that just a kick in the balls?
“Fuck.”
“You just did.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
And so Blitzø did the only way he could think of—he kissed that bird again.
Fin.