Chapter Text
PART I.
PRIDE
In his dreams, he was free.
There were a multitude of reasons why Stolas preferred sleep over wakefulness. To begin, when he slept, he did not have to think about Stella and Andrealphus' pending visit to the palace, where their combined presence would seep into the walls like a blight. It always left him peering into every dark corner for days after they returned home with their parents. Their visits had become more and more frequent as of late — a means to hurry along the courtship he had been expected to maintain for a decade now, ever since he had been eight years old and Paimon had first thrust a picture of his future wife in his face. There had been no courting on Stolas' part, and certainly none on Stella's, but their parents continued to maintain that they were a handsome couple who would one day rule Hell.
If the concept of marriage had been terrifying at eight years old, then it was no more welcome now on the dawn of his eighteenth birthday. Andrealphus — two years his senior, a marquis who had somehow wormed his way out of marriage by promising to maintain Stella's conservatorship while she was too young and foolish to make her own decisions, or some bullshit like that – had been in Stolas' ear for the last six months, counting down the days. Sometimes, he seemed to be Stolas' friend, telling him that marriage would not be such a cruel fate when it would make the pair of them brothers. Andrealphus was, after all, the more level-headed of the icy siblings. He did not pluck at Stolas' feathers or squawk at him for the smallest transgressions, and he seemed to be the only person capable of managing Stella's temper.
Then there were days when Stolas remembered that Andrealphus had been cut from the same cloth as Stella. He was cruel and vindictive, able to spin anything into a lie that resulted in Stolas being rapped across the knuckles until they bled or having to entertain a visit from his father. (And Stolas had learned from a young age: If Paimon had to come to the palace, there would be hell to pay.)
But in his dreams, Stolas was free.
The siblings did not seem to exist there at all. In fact, his dreams rarely took place in the palace at all. They took him to the deserts of Wrath, to the rainy cities of Lust, to the bubblegum skies of Sloth. In his dreams, he always knew that he was giving chase to something, to someone. And some nights, he saw glimpses of him: flashes of marigold eyes, of scarlet skin, the silhouette of long horns. A short succubus, perhaps, or maybe even an imp, which was precisely why Stolas had never breathed a word of his dreams to anyone. He was fascinated by the shadowy visions of this man — for the one thing he knew distinctly was that they were a man — and knew that he could not tell anyone.
He did not know whether it was worse to fall in love with a lower-born demon or to fall in love with a man, and he did not care to see which would have him killed first.
Long claws dug into the thick feathers of his hips. A welcoming pressure pinned him down, bucking into him, making his cloaca throb rhythmically with need – oh, Lucifer, he knew he needed this sensation, he needed to chase this high, he needed it needed it needed it oh Lucifer oh fuck —
"STOLAS!"
Stolas awoke with a start. The warm breath at his throat vanished, giving way to the coolness of the morning. And those golden eyes — fuck, they felt so distant now, almost completely faded into memory by the time his bleary eyes blinked away the last traces of sleep.
"STOLAS, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!"
Stella's sharp voice cut through the haze, bringing back every memory of the previous night. She and Andrealphus had arrived the previous afternoon alongside their parents. His servants had set them up in their rooms, and by the mercy of Lucifer, the only thing he and Stella ever seemed to agree on was feigning exhaustion whenever they were forced into close proximity to give them a reason to retire to their separate spaces. Paimon was due to arrive at some point, though one could never be sure what timeline he operated under or whether he would remember that he had a son at all. They only knew that he would arrive by that day, and Stolas' servants had promised that the man would not miss such an important date.
Which meant —
Yes, it was Stolas' eighteenth birthday.
His stomach lurched, and he turned just in time to avoid vomiting on the bedspread.
"Master Stolas," came a familiar voice from the other side of the bed, and Stolas offered a silent thanks to the universe that he had not turned in the other direction and been sick all over Mr. Butler. "Lady Stella is eagerly awaiting your arrival."
Even after eighteen years of his father's butler attending to him, Stolas had not yet been able to determine whether Mr. Butler had the driest sense of humor outside of Wrath or if he truly did not realize the hilarity in the things he said. It was not the mere fact that anyone in the ring of Pride could have heard Stella's shouts; it was the idea that she might have been eager to see any part of Stolas.
"I imagine she'll live without me," Stolas muttered, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. Immediately, the butler produced a handkerchief and held it out for him, and Stolas focused on wiping his beak and trying to breathe through his ensuing nausea.
"If that won't rouse you," Mr. Butler continued, "then you should know that your father is due to arrive soon."
Few things were as effective for waking oneself as being doused in cold water, and it felt as though Stolas' veins had turned to ice. His hands convulsively shut around the edges of his blanket as he tried to remember how to breathe.
"It is a special day." The imp carried on with basic chores, like throwing open the balcony curtains and opening the closet to reveal Stolas' clothing for the day, all while taking great care to sidestep the puddle of sick Stolas had left behind. "Your father is very excited for you. In fact, I remember a time when you were excited to know your destiny and join the Goetia family..."
"And then I saw what my destiny was to be," Stolas muttered bitterly.
It was risky to say such things even in such private company, but how could he bite his tongue? Mr. Butler had been the closest thing he had ever found to a friend or a confidante. The man had been there on his birthday when he had received his grimoire and learned of his future marriage, and he had been the one to lead Stolas back to his chambers when he had begun to cry and Paimon had decided he did not want to deal with a miserable, ungrateful child for the rest of the day. Mr. Butler knew his fears, his bitterness towards Stella, his mistrust of Andrealphus, all of it. If he could not say such things to the man, then he truly had no one in whom he could confide.
"Young master," came the sighed response, and Stolas glanced away. He couldn't handle a lecture, not now, not when Stella was still shouting her way up and down the halls and doing anything but enter his chambers. (Thank Lucifer for that much. It would have been inappropriate to have a woman in his bedroom before they were wed, and Stolas had used that loophole every moment he could manage.) "I take it you had one of your dreams again."
Stolas' cheeks burned.
He had never shared the full details with the imp, but he had told him a few times — beginning shortly after his eighth birthday, when he had first begun dreaming up this imaginary friend — of the broad strokes. Back then, Stolas had dreamed of a playmate, a friend who played make-believe with him, who pretended to be a pirate and made cartoonish animals appear with just his breath. For a few years, he had shared intermittent details about the boy in his dreams until the dreams themselves had changed. Once Stolas had found those claws grazing his talons, or first felt that spaded tail wrap around his leg, he had stopped mentioning them, pretending that they had stopped overnight.
"No," he lied, but Mr. Butler watched him with an unwavering eye, and Stolas faltered. "How did you—?"
The imp's eyes dropped pointedly to the sheets. Stolas surveyed them for a moment, noticing that they were just a bit more tangled than usual. Then he became aware of the more damning evidence: His fingers grazed between his thighs, feeling the thick moisture that dampened the feathers around his cloaca, and his face burned hotter.
"Careful that you do not discuss it with the Lady Stella or your father," Mr. Butler said as he moved to retrieve a bucket. Stolas had no idea where it had materialized from, but he knew that it was time to get out of bed lest he be stuck staring at his own vomit. "Happy birthday, young master. Do try to enjoy it."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Stolas could not enjoy himself in this company.
They were seated around Paimon's throne room, as Stolas suspected his father's ass had never touched anything less than pure gold. Stella, as usual, sat beside her brother, and the pair were flanked by their parents.
Stolas had only met the older couple a handful of times before, namely when he had been eight years old and they had wanted to evaluate his suitability for Stella, then again at seventeen when he had been coached to ask them for the woman's hand in marriage. They were a pair of regal birds: their father a peacock, and their mother a secretary bird, with Andrealphus looking like his father's clone while Stella bore traits from them both. They had never been chatty in Stolas' presence, and it had taken him some years to begin wondering whether they feared Paimon's judgment or if they had evaluated him and been left wanting.
It did not matter. He would never escape them.
That left Stolas seated by himself, off to Paimon's left side. It felt symbolic, almost, that he had not even been seated at his father's right hand. He was little more than a bargaining tool, one that still had no idea what Stella might have offered to make the match worthwhile.
"The wedding will occur in one fortnight," Paimon announced, and immediately, Stella's parents began simpering over what a perfect date it was.
Stolas did not need to turn his head to know that Stella's face likely matched his own horror. One fortnight — a mere two weeks after his eighteenth birthday and several months shy of Stella's.
He had known in the back of his mind that this was always destined to be his wedding date. He had grown up receiving messages through his father's butler, hearing of the consultations and meetings Paimon had held regarding him. A sign of his father's love, Mr. Butler always promised him, but Stolas knew it for what it truly was: his father's legacy, distilled into his seventy-second son, already spread so thinly that he always needed a reminder of Stolas' name when he came to visit the cold, empty palace he had abandoned his son in.
"A spring wedding," Stella's mother said with a delighted toss of her long feathers. "Oh, Stella, won't that be lovely?"
Stolas knew that Stella was responding, that her shrill voice was filling the hall, but it sounded as if it were coming from somewhere deep underwater. Perhaps he was the one in the water, drowning, slipping further and further from reality.
His vision tunneled, the edges of the room closing in around him. If he swung his head in one direction, he saw Andrealphus' clenched jaw and the acidic stare Stella gave him. If he looked the other way, it was simply his father, regal and composed, speaking as though this were a business deal and not the rest of Stolas' life —
He did not realize he had stood until all of the eyes in the room were on him. His throat squeezed shut, his words escaping in a wheeze.
"I object."
Paimon's talons sank into the flesh of his arm. Stolas felt feathers plucked from his skin beneath the fabric of his shirt. Andrealphus leaned in to whisper something in Stella's ear as her scathing, pink eyes followed him. He knew that he had done something wrong, that he was intended to sit there as quietly as he always had, but something dark and ugly blossomed in his chest — something that felt increasingly like despair, and he knew that to remain silent now would mean to drown —
His father dragged him to one end of the throne room. Whenever Stolas had entered his father's chambers, he had been so intent on trying to meet the man's eyes that he had never taken time to explore anything in the space around them. He certainly had never noticed the door to a side chamber, which Paimon tore open with the same force he used to grip Stolas' arm, and the demon threw Stolas inside to find his footing on the cold stone beneath him.
This room was smaller, more confining — the sort of room that likely only existed to give the servants a place in which to stage items before they brought them in to Paimon. The space was constricting, enough so to press down on Stolas' lungs as his father leered over him, hard gaze fixed on him and him alone.
"What," Paimon snarled, eyes narrowing, "is the meaning of this? Have I not made clear the importance of this union?"
His father had. Stolas could remember being a child, old enough to question his place in Hell but young enough not to yet understand that such questions were forbidden. Back then, he had worked for weeks prior to one of his father's visits to muster up the courage to ask him about his engagement. Why was it necessary? Why did it need to be Stella? Why did it need to be set so shortly after he entered adulthood, before he had any time to make something of himself, when he was still unprepared to become a father? Why — Stolas never dared ask — had Paimon been given the privilege of a long, seemingly infinite lifespan, time enough to raise more than seventy children before Stolas, while his son would be robbed of any time?
The answer, as always —
"I know you are too narrow-minded to pay any heed to prophecies." Paimon spoke as though Stolas had not spent night after night over the last decade poring over his grimoire, studying because the stars and prophecies were one thing he loved about his place within the family. "Were you any brighter, boy, you would understand what this means. You would know that you are destined to sire a child who shall be lain on the eclipse, whose power will —"
"What use is power," Stolas argued, mouth running faster than his mind, for he had already fixated on every detail his father had ever given him, trying to find a loophole, an escape, anything, "if I have no idea how to wield it? Or how to raise a powerful child?"
Stolas loved his father. Truly and genuinely, he could not imagine a life without Paimon. Perhaps the man was too ancient and too powerful to understand the protests of a teenager or understand the feelings of someone too young to yet acknowledge their immortality, but Stolas appreciated that Paimon was — at his core — still an understanding being. The man paused, surveying Stolas through that mask-like face, his crest lifting in curiosity.
"Speak plainly. What are you asking of me, boy?"
Stolas licked the edges of his dry beak. His heart thrummed with the answer: he needed time, time enough to figure out why his dreams had been pointing him in one direction for the last decade, time enough to find out if the figure from them was real or just the idle fantasy of a lonely boy. He could shut his mouth, keep his head down, fall into an unpleasant marriage with a woman he barely tolerated and certainly could not love, so long as he knew he was not leaving the potential unexplored.
He could not admit to any of that. All he could insist upon was time and freedom, and the prayer that Paimon would see the use in either.
"I have only known life within the palace, Father," Stolas began carefully, the idea forming a fraction of a second before his words. He had never been a tempestuous thing, prone to flights of fancy, but oh Lucifer, he needed this — a chance of escape, a delay, something to provide him with a fleeting moment of happiness before it was robbed from him. "You have ensured I was educated well in the ways of leading legions, in military strategy, in magic, yet I fear that I... I... that I might –"
"Don't stutter," Paimon scolded, and Stolas swallowed hard, praying that his criticism would not be the downfall of his plan.
"I fear that I may be ignorant of so much of Hell," Stolas hurriedly finished. "The few times I have been outside of Pride, I have been absconded away to royal meetings. The only hellborn I see regularly are the servants. I only wonder if, before I take my place as a true prince of Hell, it would benefit me to continue my studies. To... take a tour, so to speak, and familiarize myself with the denizens of Hell so that I may rightfully rule."
There it was. A ridiculous proposition, made to a man who had never so much as glanced at one of the imps around the palace. It was a stupid idea, a foolish plan, positively insane and —
"Well," Paimon murmured, eyes narrowing, "I suppose that is an idea."
"What?" Stolas blurted out, but he snapped his beak shut without Paimon seemingly realizing that he had spoken.
"It isn't unheard of for a Goetia to embark on a Grand Tour," he continued, now ignoring Stolas entirely. It gave the owl a moment to smooth over his expression, to maintain a neutral expression as though, yes, this was precisely how he had always expected his father to respond to such a large request. "Sitri and Vassago did the same in their youth, yes... Though, of course, neither of them were beholden to marriage..."
"This would not replace my marriage." The words were bitter in Stolas' mouth, but he could tell when a trickle had to be goaded to create an avalanche, and the only chance of evading his fate was to bury it as thickly as he could. "Merely... postpone it, so that I might come back more prepared than ever."
Though Paimon did not respond to him directly, the man hummed a note of consideration. Stolas' heart beat a rapid tattoo against his narrow ribs. If, by some miracle, Paimon said yes – if he was granted an extension before his sentencing as Stella's husband — if —
He did not know what he would have done with such freedom. It felt impossible to imagine existing outside of the palace and the handful of annual events that had marked the passage of time throughout his childhood. He would have been permitted — expected — to travel the Seven Rings, and there, he could piece together his visions. Total, unfettered access to the rest of Hell. A possibility to question the people around him, to piece together a fuller image of the imaginary man, to figure out whether he existed. To perhaps meet him, and then...
Paimon grabbed Stolas' arm once more, dragging him from the room and back out into the open. The assembled family did not seem particularly pleased with his antics, with Stella's father half-rising from his seat and Stella's own talons digging down into the soft cushion of her armrests. Only Andrealphus seemed to bear a neutral expression, but his bright eyes did not leave Stolas' face once.
"My son has made a good point," Paimon announced, and everyone's anxieties blossomed into quiet rage. Stolas averted his gaze as he stood erect at his father's side, silently praying that his presence would serve as protection enough from the consequences that followed. "He is too young and stupid, you see, and letting him run amok as a ruler would only sully both our names."
Not quite what he had tried to express. He glanced at the ground as Andrealphus snorted. Petty insults were better than Stella, Stolas reminded himself. He could take it.
"So I have decided to send him on a Grand Tour. Let him learn a thing or two about Hell, then come back and marry Lady Stella. Let him get a bit of" — Stolas could feel Paimon's eyes on him as the man gestured lamely at him — "that out of his system first."
"Your Highness." The first protest came from Stella's mother, whose long lashes batted in Paimon's direction. "Surely, you remember all you said about the timing of this event. You said it yourself — our Stella is such a suitable match as she is of the right age, and she will be fertile around the —"
A muscle jumped in Stella's jaw. In another life, Stolas thought, he might have felt bad that she was being treated like his broodmare, existing only to provide him with an egg at just the right time. In this life, though, he could feel the stinging on his wrist from where she had plucked his feathers earlier in the day, and his ears still rang with her shrill screams.
"I considered that," Paimon said with the tone of someone who had not. He glanced at Stolas, giving him a once-over. And then his gaze went to Andrealphus, who stiffened and met his gaze coolly. "Luckily, our boys will be fertile in the same window."
"What do you mean, Father?" Stolas' voice came out higher than he would have liked, but he could see Andrealphus — who had always picked up on the undercurrent of court politics better than he — sweep a slender talon across his own throat to make his rage towards Stolas clear.
"I mean that it's unfair to expect Stella to carry an egg when you're the one running about on your Tour," Paimon answered with a dismissive wave. "Andrealphus will accompany you, and he will put an egg in you. Just be back when it hatches, and everything will work out."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Everything did not work out quite as Paimon described.
Stolas survived dinner and the passive-aggressive questioning he received about his planned journey. He attempted to take each question into stride, to maintain some air of stoicism that made it seem as though he had been planning it all along. He dug deep into his mind for any facts he knew about the other rings, about exotic plants he wanted to see in Envy, or about recent news related to the Sins and their realms. It seemed to be enough to impress the elders at the table, but Stolas knew from Stella's acerbic stare and Andrealphus' clenched fists that he was only postponing the true punishment awaiting him.
It came after dinner, when Paimon had gleefully suggested that Stolas share his chambers with Andrealphus that night, much to everyone's consternation.
"It seems wrong when they're both unwed," their mother murmured, and their father did not hold back the venom on his tongue when he added, "And men."
But Paimon, a shape-shifter whose powers had only manifested in Stolas so much as to allow such an arrangement to take place, had batted off the protests, said enough about his son's genitals to leave Stolas wishing for death, and bade them all goodnight.
Stolas quietly retreated to the stairs, hearing the click of Andrealphus' heels behind him like a specter come to haunt him. And behind him —
"Stolas, you fucking imbecile," Stella hissed. "Do you know how much you are embarrassing me?! Having my husband carry an egg like a woman — bedding my brother — if you think I'll ever lay a hand on your pathetic, scrawny, gay arse —"
Andrealphus shut the door on her, earning an irritated shriek and the stomping of her heels as she retreated down the hallway.
He might have thanked Andrealphus had Stolas not known that a worse punishment was sure to follow.
The peacock was, by far, the more level-headed of the siblings and certainly the more sympathetic to Stolas, but he knew better than to expect kindness. His hope for escape had simply roped Andrealphus along, securing a new chain on each of their shackles and ruining yet another life. Stolas collapsed onto the end of his bed, head held in his hands and eyes pressed tightly shut as though it could conceal him from the rest of the world.
"I did not plan for this to happen," he muttered.
"No, I wouldn't think so," Andrealphus answered smoothly, and he perched on the bed a respectable foot away from Stolas. "You certainly did not seem rehearsed during your... fit with your father. Really, Stolas, if you wanted to maintain the lie that this was all planned, you need to work on managing your outbursts."
He sensed a note of amusement in Andrealphus' tone, which had Stolas curiously lifting his head from his hands. The other man sat watching him, beak curved in — amusement? Only Stolas could not comprehend what would have him handling such a situation with so much grace rather than fury. His panicked outburst was affecting both of them; he could still remember conversations he'd had with Andrealphus over the years, where the other man had stated how glad he was to have avoided the obligation of marriage and fatherhood in favor of focusing on nobler endeavors. Even if the egg that Stolas would be forced to carry would technically be his and Stella's, at least publicly, would Andrealphus be able to step away? To merely exist as a distant uncle, pretending that none of this had happened and he bore no resentment towards Stolas?
After all, Stolas had felt little but rage over the entire situation since he had become old enough to truly understand what it meant. As a child, he had simply pictured playing house with a new friend, finally having company in the lonely palace. To carry an egg at eighteen, to sacrifice his entire adult life to raising it, to be forced into a marriage he did not want with a woman he would never love, ruining any chance of truly feeling love...
"You look so serious," Andrealphus mused, interrupting Stolas' thoughts.
Yes, the other man looked amused as his pale eyes traveled over Stolas' face. Then he lifted a slender hand, palm approaching Stolas' face —
Stolas ducked, wincing away from the familiar gesture before he could catch himself. Andrealphus blew out a puff of laughter.
"Really, Stolas? I would have thought you understood what our parents sent us here to do."
Of course he knew. There was no space left for sidestepping the matter or being too embarrassed to understand the implications of his father's words. This was simply the life cycle of a Goetia: being born and educated, reproducing, serving one's purpose until the next generation stepped in as a replacement. Every talk he had ever received — awkwardly delivered by servants or handled by his father's enchanted mirror, held by his butler — had circled around the notion that eventually, he would need to bed Stella and put an egg in her somehow. No one ever discussed the mechanics of how it would work, and they certainly had not explained how to receive the egg, but it had always been clear that it was expected to happen eventually.
Stolas toyed with the seam of his trousers, glancing away.
"Are you not... upset that we — I mean to say — I hadn't expected —"
"Of course I'm upset with you," Andrealphus snapped. "However, I cannot deny that there are certain... perks to the arrangement."
Stolas' head snapped up, heart pounding in his chest. Could it be that he was not alone? That there was another man out there who also wished to avoid a woman's touch? But Andrealphus kept talking, and he realized that it was not what he had meant.
"Lucifer knows my dear sister isn't bright enough to make any use of having ties to Paimon's bloodline."
Did that mean Andrealphus did plan to parent their egg in some form? When he considered the siblings — Stella's shrillness and fury, Andrealphus' quiet calculation and intelligence — Stolas immediately knew which influence he would have rather had on his child. Andrealphus might have had his flaws, but at least he could manage his temper. He had never laid a hand on Stolas the same way Stella so often pinched him and plucked his feathers to vent her annoyance. He was well-read, educated, quiet, all things Stolas felt he could have managed in a child.
Andrealphus hooked a talon beneath Stolas' chin, forcing his eye contact. The gesture sent an icy jolt down his spine.
But a new warmth pooled between his thighs.
"Imagine the power they could have." Andrealphus let go of Stolas' face, and he found himself immediately missing the coolness of his touch. His skin felt too heated beneath his feathers, too flushed, and there was only so much he could do to puff up and cool himself down. "Your magic combined with my own... It may be proper decorum to arrange Goetias with those who possess more neutral magic, but I suspect the older generation only does so out of fear. Imagine the power our child could possess."
That, too, had been a part of the lectures he had received growing up: There was an art to arranging marriages, and Stolas' eldritch magic, borne of the stars and prophecies, required someone from a powerful magical lineage who possessed little magic of their own. A vessel that could contain his genetic contribution, he had been taught, while not diluting it with lesser magic. It had been simple enough to accept at face value for so long, but seeing his father so easily throw Andrealphus his way made him wonder. Had it just been another way to stop him from objecting to Stella?
"I... I like the sound of that," Stolas quietly admitted.
A child strong enough to protect themselves. One with enough power that they could perhaps be of use to the Goetias in a way that did not include a forced marriage or reproduction. Power enough to make them untouchable, to put them on a pedestal that no one dared touch. It was a dream come true.
"Besides," the other man continued, looking pleased as he leaned closer, "there's no harm in a tryst. Something to get the urge out of one's system before you are locked into matrimony."
"Oh!"
Andrealphus' hand was on his thigh, and Stolas could not think.
He knew, dimly, that he had heard such rumors circulate. Stella enjoyed relaying gossip to him when they were forced into public together, and Stolas would half-listen as she told him about other teenagers sneaking off to do things before they were arranged or about older couples having affairs behind the other's back to assuage their needs in a loveless arrangement. It sometimes had him wondering if he would have been capable of the same. (He was not, Stolas had decided. He had tried looking around at parties, but he could not find any other girls who stole his interest. The only demon who could hold his fascination was one that very well may not have existed, who had only ever appeared in his dreams.)
"I don't know what you mean —" Stolas started to say, but Andrealphus cut him off with a sigh.
"For Lucifer's sake, Stolas. Do you still think anyone believes you like women? Look at you."
He did as he was told, glancing down at his body. Before he could take in any of the alleged clues — the clothes that had always been chosen for him, the slender frame he had had as little say in as any other aspect of his life — Andrealphus reached for him again, pulling him into a rough kiss.
The peacock's beak did not land quite on his mouth, but rather, at the edge of it. Andrealphus cupped both of his cheeks as though to prevent Stolas from drawing away — and, certainly, he wanted to pull away, to take a moment to breathe and compose himself. For every centimeter Stolas drew away, Andrealphus would push forward, nipping at his throat, lapping at his feathers, squeezing those talons around Stolas' throat until his voice came out thin and thready.
"Are — you—?"
Stolas could practically hear the rolling of Andrealphus' eyes as he answered, beak still against his throat, exploring the feathers and feverish skin there. "I have the freedom to do as I please, so you best take advantage of the few opportunities you'll have."
Five months of carrying an egg. One month before it hatched. However much time it took for him to become gravid. That would be all of the time he was afforded, and then he would be back at the palace, forced to marry Stella and remain so that he could fulfill his duty. He was promised six months, and any additional time would be a gamble.
Which meant, optimistically, he had perhaps a year in which to find the imp in his dreams, to understand why his face would not leave his subconscious, and to decide what to do next. And there was a very high chance that when he did come across the imp, he would be noticeably gravid — already damaged goods, promised to another life and unable to stay.
He liked men. Somewhere deep down, he had always known it. It simply hurt too much knowing he would never have another chance to act on it.
Shaking hands encircled Andrealphus' slender waist. The man felt sturdier beneath his touch than Stella, more substantial — not necessarily thicker, yet somehow so much more real. His feathers were cool to the touch, as was his beak when he leaned in for another kiss, slower and more intentional than his previous kisses. It did not feel the way Stolas imagined from the novels that he had steadily been adding to his library; it lacked the warmth of tender lips, and Andrealphus' tongue was not half as exploratory as the protagonists' in those stories. It felt almost clinical, like it was a job that needed to be done.
Andrealphus' hands, though, were not as frigid as he expected. They did not wander for long as they slid along Stolas' chest and landed at the buttons of his shirt. The first slipped through its buttonhole, popping open and immediately making Stolas aware of the chill in the room. The second gave just as easily, then the third, and soon enough, Andrealphus was pushing the fabric over Stolas' shoulders, exposing his body.
It felt strange to bare himself when Andrealphus remained fully clothed, but the embarrassment that pooled in Stolas' stomach warmed him. The shame was somehow enticing, exhilarating, lacking the painful edge it normally carried. He wanted Andrealphus to take charge. He wanted to be commanded by someone older, to be looked at and adored and allowed to lie back, passively accepting whatever came his way as he had always been taught. He wanted Andrealphus to toy with him, to tease him, to replay every insult he had said over the years but to repeat them with a new adoration.
Andrealphus did none of that.
He hooked a sharp talon beneath the waistband of Stolas' pants. Popped the button open. Ground his palm against the mound of Stolas' cloaca and the smaller, softer feathers that surrounded it. The tips of his fingers worked Stolas open, grazing along his slit —
"Cold," Stolas gasped. "Please — Andrealphus —"
"Shut up," the peacock snapped, and Stolas knew that this was not for his pleasure.
The other man continued to palm his cloaca, the gesture sending a jolt of ice through Stolas. He wondered if Andrealphus was using a hint of his magic — he could remember reading seductive scenes where people played with temperature, slipping ice cubes into their mouths or dripping candle wax onto one another's skin. Stolas had thought he would have liked it more, that the cold temperature could have somehow warmed him under his collar the same way reading those scenes did, but his body felt frozen. He did not know what to do, could not decide where to put his hands except to grasp the sheets, could not remember any of the charming dirty talk that they used in those books. He was scared — so fucking scared, so fucking nervous, and he could not remember anything he unconsciously did in those dreams that left him waking up flushed in soaking sheets —
"Kiss me?" he whispered.
Yes, he knew that had always been a part of it. He always awakened with memories of being kissed, being held, being prized.
Andrealphus settled for planting a hand around Stolas' throat, and — oh. It was not the gentleness he imagined, but it sent a rush through him. He was being held, just in a more dangerous way that his body wanted, needed, craved down to his very core. When those slender fingers tightened just slightly, he gasped out a moan — a thready sound, barely audible to his own ears, drowned out by the squishing sound of Andrealphus pumping his fingers into his tight hole.
"That is all it takes to get you going, isn't it?" the other man said. His fingers curled inside of Stolas, and he writhed beneath his touch. His talons curled into the sheets, his head empty and numb, his body floating somewhere far, far above them. He could not inhale, could not breathe, yet he would rather suffocate there than be anywhere else. Yes, yes, that was all it took to get him going, to make him desperate, to leave him keening and silently begging for more —
Andrealphus thrust his fingers in hard and deep, and Stolas let out a silent sob. It hurt, but he liked that it hurt. He liked being dragged back into his body, feeling present and grounded after so long feeling like a passive observer to his own life. He wanted to be hurt more — spanked, fucked, used —
"No wonder they chose my sister for you."
And all that once, the desire vanished.
Was that what he was begging for? Stolas had figured out early that an eternity spent with Stella would mean an eternity spent at the receiving end of her anger. It had confused him at first; he couldn't understand how someone could have carried so much rage in their heart and let it explode so violently. Even when he was angry and sad and hated his father, he kept those emotions turned inwards. Stolas never shouted at the servants, never broke things around the palace, never blamed anyone but himself. He sometimes plucked a feather or two, causing just enough damage to remind himself of the consequences if he became too upset.
Then there was Stella, who had no qualms plucking his feathers, either. Who sometimes picked up his books and plants to throw them at him. Who would break portrait frames and throw things into the fireplace, who wanted her emotions to be seen by all, who left destruction in her wake. Who sometimes shoved him or smacked him — little offenses, things that did not truly hurt, but which always left Stolas feeling a little off-kilter. He understood her anger. He just could not imagine a life in which he could have shown it the same way and not been blamed.
Andrealphus crouched over him, straddling Stolas' thigh. He lifted one of the owl's legs, draping it over his hip. Somewhere along the way, his pants had vanished, even if he kept the rest of his clothes on. He felt cold, as cold as his words, and Stolas hated it — hated him, hated his awful sister, hated that their parents had insisted they do this —
But Andrealphus ground into his body, lubricated by slick, frozen feathers meeting Stolas' burning body. The friction made Stolas buckle and writhe, wanting more, needing more, chasing the pressure as his pulse thrummed in his ears. He wanted to be far from his room, to retreat to a space that had not been profaned by Andrealphus' presence — but, oh Lucifer, his body and his mind were too disconnected, and he could only pay attention to the whims of the former. He needed a release. He needed Andrealphus' aching coldness. He needed to give in.
Stolas gasped as the building pressure exploded inside of him. It felt so much more intense than anything he had ever managed in private with only his own fingers or pillows to grind against. His thighs shook with the pressure of holding themselves open, and Andrealphus did not slow down; he latched his talons into Stolas' skin, holding him still as he continued to rock against him, until —
A new slickness flooded Stolas' legs, cold and foreign. It filled his cloaca like a pressure he could not avoid, so different from the fingers he had used to explore himself in the past. His stomach turned. If knowing that he was full of Andrealphus was not enough, then the realization that it was intended to make him gravid was.
What was he meant to do once he began carrying an egg? And worse — what was he meant to do if this did not take and he had to return to bed with Andrealphus again and again and again?
The other man patted his cheek. It felt more like a slap.
"It'll be interesting traveling together," Andrealphus said as he climbed off, and Stolas knew that it would not be the last time.
He heard Andrealphus collect the few pieces of clothing he had discarded, slipping them back on without another word. His chamber door opened, and Stolas kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling as the other man departed. Unsure what else to do, Stolas kept his legs bent and open, wondering if the chill from the open balcony would help him get used to the frigid cold inside him now.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
In his dreams, the imp held Stolas' hips with a loving tenderness.
It was not that the imp was soft. No, many of the things he did in Stolas' dreams would have probably left bruises on another demon less capable of healing themselves. However, there was a difference between violence and possession, and Stolas found himself adoring the latter. He could see those golden eyes peering down at him as the imp thrust into him, again and again, each motion heavy and filling yet supported by big hands and gentle fingers that brushed over his feathers.
Penetration was not the standard for avians. Their anatomy was largely internal, and Stolas' fingers were familiar with the sensitive nubs around his cloaca that swelled and ached with need when he touched himself. It was only after his dreams about the imp turned sexual that he dared let himself explore more — wondering how it would have felt to be filled with something so concrete, to have flesh rocking in and out of him, to feel someone fill him so deep down. It had always felt so good, so intense, so wonderful, except now...
Stolas choked out a cry, and the imp stopped. The edges of the dream began to fracture, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not grasp the dissolving edges of the picture to explain to the imp why he was so scared.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Stolas awoke to find his bags packed.
He feared for a moment that having the servants pack for him meant that he would be forced to travel with an entourage. Though the palace had been largely empty all his life, there had always been enough security on the grounds that he never dared dream of escaping. Now, when all he wanted to do was slip away to find the imp from his dreams, he dreaded the idea of being surrounded by hellhounds who would know the moment he was out of earshot.
Another part of him feared being left alone with Andrealphus.
His answer came shortly after a tense breakfast, when he found himself being ushered outside. Andrealphus' parents doted over the peacock, loudly speaking their concerns about such a ridiculous trip and their well-wishes about his less-than-desirable company. Stella certainly did not hold back about her thoughts regarding it all.
Stolas remained stiffly to the side, beak clamped shut, very nearly thankful that Paimon had seemingly disappeared overnight and that he was not there to see him off.
The only person he had was Mr. Butler, who eyed him for a long moment.
"Prince Stolas," he said quietly, then seemed to pause as though debating what he wanted to say next.
Stolas eyed him warily. One hand massaged his lower stomach, where he could still feel the uncomfortable pressure of the previous night. He wanted to hear Mr. Butler tell him that this was a foolish plan, that he somehow knew a way to escape Paimon's conditions, that Paimon had changed his mind overnight. But after a long moment, the imp simply sighed.
"Do be safe, won't you?"
Stolas clenched his hand into a fist, forcing himself to pull it away from his stomach and the imaginary thing growing there. His first time would surely not have been enough to leave him gravid. He couldn't be. If the timer to his return was already counting down, then what chance did he have of finding that imp from his dreams?
"I will," he answered quietly.
"Hurry along," Andrealphus called out from somewhere behind him. "I want to get this over with."
Something flickered in Mr. Butler's expression. Stolas looked away.
"I'll try," he corrected before stepping away to join Andrealphus.
It was time to begin their descent into Hell, and given the emotions roiling in his stomach, it only seemed fitting that they begin in Wrath.