Archive of Our Own ^beta

People don’t like Stolas. It isn’t that they dislike him, exactly, it is simply that most folks don’t have strong, positive feelings about him. Or any strong feelings at all, really. Despite his royal status, his impressive height, and a curated wardrobe befitting someone of his refined tastes, Stolas doesn’t hold anyone’s attention.

Stolas stopped trying to figure out what was “wrong” with him years ago. By his estimation, there are a number of factors against him. A childhood spent in isolation. A marriage arranged when he was far too young and by a parent who didn’t truly know him. Access to too many books, too much responsibility, too much money.

On their own, any one of these might make a person… challenging. An acquired taste. Only possible to enjoy in moderation, if at all. All together, these factors created a Stolas that felt permanently behind. He’d missed the lessons on when to tone down his personality, how to develop a more universal sense of humor, and how to speak the language of reading rooms. Instead, he’d been doomed with a flair for the dramatic and to always laugh at the wrong times.

He is aware of his social shortcomings, of course, but they don’t bother him unless he lets them. Which, he doesn’t. He maintains a positive mindset. Spends a lot of time on selfcare. Takes time to reflect, rejuvenate, and all that.

Which is why he finds himself curled up on the couch with a pint of ice cream and his favorite soap opera on a Saturday night. The world of soap operas makes sense to Stolas. They star histrionic characters who are encouraged to demonstrate their feelings with romantic gestures or crimes of passion. They express their desires. They act on their desires. They endlessly pursue their desires. Everything in the world of soap operas is about desire.

Stolas stirs the ice cream around in his bowl. On the screen, Gabriella falls to her knees and wails upon discovering that her beloved, Alejandro, was tricked into marrying her evil twin sister.

“Poor, sweet Gabriella,” Stolas says, licking a stray bit of ice cream off the corner of his beak. “I’m sure you’ll win him back.”

Gabriella and Stolas have spent nearly every Saturday night together for the past fifteen years. Sometimes, he dreams that they’re best friends. In his dreams, they do all the fabulous things he imagines best friends do together. They visit the trendiest brunch places, go shopping for matching wardrobes, drink wine on rooftop bars. But mostly they talk. The Gabriella in his dreams has read all of his book recommendations and is sympathetic to his relationship troubles. It’s nice to have someone to talk to. Sometimes, Stolas pretends they’re best friends when he isn’t dreaming.

His ice cream is almost gone when his phone buzzes. Stolas sighs and pauses his show on a rather unflattering still of Gabriella – her mascara streams down her cheeks and a dribble of snot peeks out from her right nostril. Normally, Stolas wouldn’t derail his viewing experience to answer a text, but Via is on a weekend trip with her mom and might be trying to reach him. And, well, normally no one bothers to text Stolas on a Saturday night. Not so late, anyway.

When Stolas opens the message, his bowl of ice cream clatters to the floor.

Stolas scrambles to type his response. The ice cream oozes onto the carpet, sugar and cream binding to the fibers. It’s sure to leave a stain, sure to leave a lingering smell.

He presses send and waits. When the three dots appear, Stolas tightens his grip on his phone and holds his breath. He likes knowing that in this exact moment, Blitz also has his phone in hand. Likes knowing that Blitz is just on the other side of the screen. It helps Stolas feel connected to him, almost like their thumbs are tethered together in a finger trap of passion.

After enough time has passed that Stolas gives up holding his breath, another message pings in.

Stolas is up off the couch in seconds. His robe gaps open, one arm slipping off his shoulder and down to his elbow. There’s dried ice cream on the corner of his mouth. The tips of his fingers are sticky. He has no idea when Blitz will arrive, and he’ll need every moment to prepare.

If Stolas is a glass of water, Blitz is a frozen margarita served in a fishbowl with two crazy straws and a sparkler. The imp isn’t everyone’s go-to order, but he sure makes an impression when sliding down the bar. With Blitz, things like having too much money and a niche sense of humor seemed slightly more endearing. Or, at least, they made Blitz pay attention to Stolas in a way no one else had before.

Blitz never has a problem with Stolas's proclivities. He goes along with things as part of their contract, yes. And for an extra paycheck, sometimes. But there is something more there, a mutual sort of craving. An appetite. Stolas recognizes it the same way you might recognize a scent from childhood, comforting and intimate, unremarkable to everyone else, familiar in a way that only you understand.

Around Blitz, Stolas can be amorous and unrepentant, specific in his desires. He can describe any of his hundreds of sexual fantasies without fear of judgment, including the vile and aberrant ones Stolas previously thought would rot at the edge of his psyche and be trotted out only when the usual visions of whips, chains, and gags weren’t cutting it for whatever reason.

Blitz will listen with a quirked eyebrow or a flash of sharp, yellow teeth. He’ll say things like “shit, you’re more of a whore than I thought,” and “fuck that’s fucking twisted even for you,” “you’re going to be a good little slut and let me fuck the shit out of you, right?” Things that get Stolas all riled up. Things that leave him slick. Dripping. Aching to be stretched and filled. And Blitz will oblige.

Blitz had fucked him with his horn once, back when they first started sleeping together. Stolas had begged for it. He’d wanted to Blitz to fuck him with every one of the imp’s phallic-like appendages. Checking off dick, tongue, fingers, toes, tail had been a sexy little game. Horns were last on the list.

Impractical as it was, all Blitz had said was why not? He’d try anything once. Blitz had laid face down on the bed, arms crossed under his chin, and told Stolas to get on with it before he changed his mind.

Stolas had eased himself onto the tip, pushed back until Blitz’s horn was embedded so deeply that it felt like being split in half, then slid even deeper. It stretched Stolas at an odd angle, the curve scraping against his insides every time he moved. Stolas had chased the pain, chased that pleasure, until he came screaming Blitz’s name while practically sitting on his head.

There had been blood in the toilet bowl for a full three days afterward. Stolas hadn’t been able to sit down without a grimace for a week. He still hadn’t forgotten the way his cunt shuddered and clenched around Blitz’s horn as he came. How it felt like he was trying to pull Blitz inside, a python unhinging its jaw to swallow its prey whole.

The doorbell rings twenty-seven minutes later. Stolas flits down the stairs, bedecked in ruffles but without his cape. He’s going for something more casual. Something that says “Oh, this? Why, I only wear this when I’m lazing about at home. I’m tickled that you find me so beguiling in this outfit, Blitzy.”

Blitz manages to ring the doorbell four more times in the time it takes Stolas to give his appearance a final once over and open the door.

“Good evening, Blit–”

“The cab driver is a fucking asshole. Pay the guy, would you?”

Blitz shoves past Stolas and stalks into the house. Stolas peers out the door to see an imp in a flat cap tapping his foot. The cab is still running on the curb. Stolas begs apologies, hands the cabbie a wad of cash, and sends him on his way.

“Ah,” he says, locking the door, “we’re alone at last.”

When he turns around, Blitz isn’t there. He tilts his head and listens. There’s the sound of glasses clinking and doors slamming from the kitchen. Stolas makes haste in the direction of his guest.

“Ah,” Stolas says again, this time with Blitz in his sight, “we’re alone at last.”

“What?” Blitz looks up from the bottle of red wine he’s dumping into a pint glass. A bit of it sloshes over the edge and splatters across the marble countertop. Stolas hurries to grab a paper towel and another glass.

“The cabbie,” Stolas says, dabbing up the spill, “I sent him on his way. Now, I have you all to myself.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Uh, thanks.”

Blitz finishes filling his glass. Stolas leans across the counter and taps his proper wine glass with a spindly finger. Taking the hint, Blitz splashes the rest of the wine into the glass. There’s only enough left to fill it a quarter of the way.

Stolas sweeps the glass into his hand with a flourish and takes a sip.

“To what do I owe this spontaneous visit?” He asks, running a fingertip around the rim and batting his eyelashes in a way he hopes is enchanting. He’s seen Gabriella use the same move to great success at least three hundred times.

Blitz has moved to the breakfast nook, half of his wine already chugged down his gullet. He smacks his lips and looks up at Stolas from where he sits at the table. His eyes are red-rimmed and a little unfocused.

“I was out with Moxxie, but the dick went home early.” Blitz’s words slur together on the ends, slipping too quickly down his tongue and colliding at the bottom. “Said something about Millie needing him at home. He’s pussy whipped.”

“Shame about your little friend, but I’m delighted that you chose to continue your evening with me,” Stolas says.

He slides onto the bench next to Blitz. The wine is already making him feel emboldened, so he drags a long, feathered foot up the side of Blitz’s leg. The imp raises an eyebrow and glances down at the foot pressing into his thigh, but doesn’t move. Stolas's chest fills with a warm sort of ache, the pang of joyful excitement when you’re trying hard not to get your hopes up.

“You never go anywhere. Besides, it’s after bar close and I was still thirsty.” Blitz throws back the dregs of his wine to illustrate his point.

“You deserve to let loose.” Stolas is walking his fingers up Blitz’s arm now. The alcohol makes the imp more open to physical contact, and Stolas intends to relish it. “You’re such a hard worker.”

“I am?” Blitz coughs a little, runs his hand along his horn. “Uh, fuck yeah, I am. It’s tough being the boss.”

“Mmhm.” Stolas leans over so his beak is centimeters from Blitz’s ear. “I know a few things we can do to let off a little steam.”

He moves his long fingers to rest on Blitz’s leg. Even through his clothes, the imp is hot to the touch. Stolas lets the tip of a finger graze the inside of his thigh, smiles when Blitz shivers under his ministrations.

“Stolas–”

“I’m thirsty too, you know.” Stolas's voice is warm syrup pouring over waffles, filling every crevice, drowning the plate. “But you’re the only thing I want to swallow.”

“Fuck,” Blitz breathes, maybe a little embarrassed and a little aroused. The sound of his voice sends a tremble of desire up Stolas's spine. “Straight to the point, huh? You want to get dicked down that badly?”

Stolas smiles, “Come on, Blitzy. Take me upstairs and quench my thirst.”

Despite the imp’s inebriated state, Blitz manages to tie Stolas to the bed. Each one of the prince’s limbs are secured to a different corner of the bed by the straps and leather cuffs Stolas keeps in his nightstand drawer for situations such as this.

“We’re going to need this, too.” Blitz clambers up the bed with a blindfold in hand.

“Oh, do we have to?” Stolas asks, lifting his head to make it easier for Blitz to secure the blindfold over his eyes. “I want to look at your handsome face while you have your way with me.”

“Stolas, I’m going to fuck you so dirty that you won’t want to watch.”

Stolas shivers with erotic anticipation. He enjoys the manufactured desire that comes with BDSM. The idea that someone could be so desperate to ravish his body however they crave that they tie him up sends Stolas quivering and panting at the first jangle of a pair of handcuffs.

The bed shifts. Stolas gasps in shock and pleasure when he feels Blitz’s finger stroke his hole.

“Fucking drenched already,” Blitz says, mostly to himself. He takes his sweet time coating his fingers in the juices that leak from Stolas's slit, caressing his folds, sliding that slick finger over his clit. It’s slow. Maddening. Stolas pulls against his restraints, cunt clenching around nothing.

“Ahh, Blitzy, I want you inside me.” Stolas spreads his legs wider, pants a little, lifts his hips to follow the path of Blitz’s finger, tries to guide him inside. “I’m so tight. Don’t you want to stretch me out?”

Blitz pinches his clit, twists. Stolas throws his head back and groans, a guttural sound ripped from the dark part of him that always wants, wants wants…

“You’re not in any position to be making demands.” Blitz’s voice is gravel under the wheels of a pickup truck. He presses down hard on Stolas's clit, eliciting a squawk from the prince. “I’m going to play with you until you break.”

Stolas's thighs tremble. He’s almost ashamed to admit that he could easily come from this, from Blitz taking control and roughly fingering him. But he locked shame out of his bedroom a long time ago, prefers to entertain it over coffee in early morning hours after Blitz leaves, makes small talk with it at Octavia’s birthday parties and the rare family dinner.

Blitz fingers Stolas open, sliding one finger inside up to the second knuckle. Stolas bites his tongue to keep from begging for more. He’s so hungry for this that he would happily take Blitz’s entire fist inside, and it wouldn’t be enough. He never gets enough.

“Oh, fuck,” Stolas breathes when Blitz slips a second finger inside. “Please fuck me, Blitzy. I need your big, thick, throbbing–”

A jolt of exquisite pain steals whatever he was about to say as it shoots up his body. Blitz digs his sharp fingernails into the tender flesh inside Stolas, scraping them along his shuddering walls as he pulls them out.

“You’re not a good listener are you, bitch?” Blitz says. The bed shifts again and Stolas hears the imp’s feet land on the carpet, listens as he walks across the room and starts rifling through drawers. “Let’s lay down some fucking rules. Who’s the one tied up?”

“I am.”

The sound of another door opening. Slamming it shut. The drawer of the nightstand sliding open near Stolas's head. A hum of satisfaction out of Blitz before it snaps shut.

“And who tied you up?”

The sound of Blitz’s voice moves past him. Stolas shivers when he feels the imp hop onto the end of the bed and crawl up between his legs. He feels himself leaking onto the sheets, forming a wet spot.

“You did.”

“That’s right. So, who’s the boss?”

Stolas smiles, says “you are, Blitzy” in a sing-song way. He loves it when they play, when they do a little scene together. Blitz is the consummate performer, taking the lead and giving Stolas his cues. And Stolas is committed to hitting his mark every time. He has his lines memorized, knows the choreography by heart, puts his own spin on things. Stolas thinks about the circus, sometimes, and how things might have been different if they were both performers.

Stolas has several fantasies about Blitz fucking him in the center ring. Most of them involve him spread open before an audience while Blitz uses his body in the most carnal, unsavory ways. Or swings him on the trapeze so they can bang midair. Or makes him do tricks and jump through hoops like a trained poodle, bending him over and taking him like a bitch in heat only after he completes his routine.

There is one fantasy, though, that Stolas only enjoys on special occasions. It’s perverse in its simplicity, depraved in its purity. In this fantasy, he watches Blitz perform from the wings, follows him back to his dressing room afterwards, chats with Blitz while he takes off his stage makeup, shares all the things he loved about the show. When they kiss, it’s soft and intimate, the way kisses look in the movies. Then, Blitz pushes him up against the vanity, or lays him out on the floor, or pulls him into his lap and they… And when Blitz comes, he says… And, well, Stolas knows it will never happen like that. Besides, he’s satisfied with their contractual obligations. Completely fulfilled. Not wanting for a thing.

“I call the shots around here,” Blitz says. “And you’re going to take what I give you without fucking complaining, capiche?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

Something hard and cool presses against Stolas's hole. Blitz rubs it against him, more maddeningly slow strokes up and down his slit.

Stolas says, “Enough teasing, when are you going to–”

Blitz flips a switch and the vibrator thrums to life. Stolas moans as pleasure rumbles through him, strains against his bindings as he forces his hips against the toy. Blitz grinds it against him, holding it steady against his pussy.

“Fuck, that’s so, unh, g-good.”

Blitz moves the toy in slow circles around his hole before bringing it up to his clit. Stolas throws his head back when the vibrator makes contact with his most sensitive place, toes curling into the sheets, fingers clutching at the leather straps to hold himself in place. His pussy quivers and drips. Blitz lets out a low laugh and presses the vibrator harder against Stolas who is shaking so much that the bed moves with him.

“You’re too fucking easy,” he says, going back to drawing tight circles around Stolas's entrance. “All that talk about wanting me to fuck you and you’re falling apart because of a silicone dick with a motor inside.”

He turns the vibrator higher, pushes it into Stolas's clit with a vengeance. The prince’s knees shake, his back arches, his mouth falls open in silent arousal. It’s all too much, seismic waves humming from his clit through every nerve in his body. An earthquake of overstimulation. A battering of pleasure.

“You’re dripping all over the bed,” Blitz says, twisting the toy against Stolas without letting up. “What’s got you so worked up?”

“Y-you,” Stolas chokes out, pushing his hips into the mattress to try and escape the devilish buzzing. Blitz doesn’t let him get away, keeping the vibrator glued to his clit with every movement.

“Hmmm, I think you’re lying,” Blitz says in a clinical way. “You want this toy to make you come.”

Another flick of the knob as Blitz adjusts the vibrator to its highest setting. The toy purrs like a train engine, pulverizing Stolas's clit. Every muscle in Stolas's body tightens and he pushes himself so high off the mattress that he’s almost levitating. He moans something unintelligible, begging for Blitz to stop, to go harder, to make him come. It feels like he’s being repeatedly struck by lightning. It feels like his body has melted away until the only thing left was his nerves.

“Do you want to come?”

Stolas cries out, does his best to form the word “yes,” fails.

Blitz asks him again. “I didn’t fucking hear you. Are you going to be a little slut and come?”

“Y-yes, ngh, s-s-s-sir.”

The vibrator is a battering ram at the door of Stolas's desire. It hits him over and over, splintering his arousal. Stolas moves his hips against its onslaught, losing himself in the delicious thrum. He’s close. He wants to come. He needs the release, has craved it all day, wants Blitz to make him–

The humming stops. Stolas groans and thrashes against the straps, blindly searching for the source of his pleasure. Blitz pulls it away, leaving Stolas's cunt aching and sloppy. Stolas feels the edge of orgasm slipping away, disappearing over the horizon like a handsome cowboy. He wants to follow it. He wants the satisfaction that only comes with sex. He wants, wants, wants…

“I told you that I’m the one in charge.” Blitz sounds mean now, a bully pushing kids down to steal their allowance. “You’re going to come on my dick, or you’re not going to come at all.”

“Then…” Stolas is breathless, voice raw from screaming, “what are you… waiting for… fuck me.”

A flash of movement and the crush of Blitz’s hand around his neck. Stolas gasps and gags, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“Still asking me for things,” Blitz says. “I’m going to have to find a way to shut you up.”

There’s the sound of a zipper being undone. Then, the smell of musk, tang of sweat, and the briny scent of precum. Stolas's mouth waters.

“You’re mine to play with however I want.” Blitz rubs the head of his cock over Stolas's beak, up his cheeks, down his chin. “That’s what you like, isn’t it, bitch? You want me to use you?”

Stolas nods, nuzzles Blitz’s cock, nips at it. The imp sucks in a breath. There’s the sound of skin rubbing against skin, and Stolas knows Blitz is touching himself. He can picture the imp sliding his hand over that massive, red cock. Knows exactly how cum pools at the tip of his dick, forming creamy beads before rolling down the tip. Thinking about how the sight of him tied up and begging for it is what has Blitz hot and bothered sends another wave of arousal crashing through him. There is real passion here, real desire. No one else wants him in this way. No one else relishes him in this way. No one else really looks at him at all.

There’s a sharp pain on the back of his head as Blitz grabs a fistful of feathers and tilts his chin up. When he lets go of Stolas's neck, Stolas rushes to suck in air before Blitz forces his dick down his throat.

He chokes a little and Blitz moans. The imp holds the back of his head and drives his cock down until his cockhead presses hard into the back of Stolas's throat. Spit spills over the edges of Stolas's mouth as his jaw stretches to swallow all of him.

“Not so demanding now, huh?” Blitz asks a lot of questions when they’re fucking. He likes to hear Stolas answer in the affirmative. Stolas thinks he does it to feel powerful, but it’s a little embarrassing. A little cute, too.

Blitz ruts against his throat. Stolas gags and slurps, doing his best to run his tongue along the underside of Blitz’s dick. His skin tastes a little of sulfur, a little of salt. The flavor of it goes straight to Stolas's clit. He jerks his hips up against nothing, cunt pulsing with need.

“Yeah, you fucking like that? You like the way I make your throat my bitch.”

Desire is building inside Stolas like a magma pushing against the Earth’s crust. The leather cuffs strain to hold him as he squirms and struggles.

“You have a hot little mouth,” Blitz says. “I’m going to fuck it so hard that you lose your voice. Then you won’t be able to talk back, you’ll just have to take it.”

The press of Blitz in the soft cavern of his throat is too much. The thick sound of pleasure that coats Blitz’s voice is too much. Knowing that Blitz wants him is too much. Stolas is going to erupt.

“Fuck, you’re the best cocksucker I’ve ever had. It’s like you were made to suck me off.”

Stolas lets out a strangled cry as he comes. His pussy tightens around nothing, quivers as pleasure explodes behind his eyes like an array of shooting stars. Blitz pulls out of his mouth, watches as Stolas gasps and moans, a long thread of spit connecting the tip of his dick to Stolas's tongue.

“Just from that?” He asks. Stolas groans, circling his hips, nerve endings oversensitive and sparking from his clit down his thighs and up his belly.

“I told you,” Blitz says, the bed shifting under him as he crawls back down toward Stolas's throbbing pussy, “that you’re going to come on my dick.”

A crack of arousal shatters through Stolas as Blitz guides his dick inside his hole. The sensation is too much, his body still raw from the orgasm. He screams as Blitz drives into him, as he begins to fuck him with violence.

“What, you don’t want it now?” He heckles.

“I… shit... want it.”

“I’m going to fuck you so hard that you’re ruined for anyone else,” Blitz says, moving at a frenzied pace, breath coming in hot little puffs. “When I’m done with you, the only thing that will make you come is my dick.”

“Please,” Stolas says, his cunt white hot and soggy from overstimulation. Every thrust is a snap of a whip, pain and pleasure and stinging desire. He needs to come, needs Blitz to come, needs, needs, needs.

“You’re such a fucking whore.” Blitz is really getting into it now, grabbing at his hips, adjusting the angle so he can reach the spot he knows Stolas likes. “You beg to get used by me. Being my cocksleeve is the only thing you’re good for, and you know it.”

Stolas whines, fists the sheets. “Fuck, Blitzy.”

Another thrust. Pleasure ricocheting through his body. The wet squelch of Blitz’s cock pounding into his quivering pussy. Pleasure draping itself over Stolas, suffocating him, making him feel tight and heavy.

“No one else knows what a desperate slut you are.” Blitz’s voice is ragged, his cock drumming a stuttering staccato inside Stolas. He’s close. “I’m the only one who gets to use you like this.”

“The only one,” Stolas agrees.

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good around my dick. You’re all mine, aren’t you, baby?”

Stolas moans with pleasure, pride, and a feeling that shines like liquid gold in his chest. The last one he won’t name, vows to lock it away better next time.

“All yours.”

“I’m going to fill you up,” Blitz says. “I’m going to pump you full of my cum. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Ah, ah, Blitzy, come inside me.”

“Yeah, ask for it like the cumslut you are. Beg me for it.”

They’re both close. Stolas squeezes around Blitz’s cock, works his cunt in tandem with the imp’s thrusts, revels in the way the other’s breath catches in his throat. He knows the choreography by heart, he’s memorized all his lines.

“Empty your cock in me, Blitzy. Shoot inside me until I’m a cream-filled donut. I want to feel it in my stomach, I want your cum dripping down my thighs for the rest of the week.”

“Stolas,” Blitz says his name like an accident, like he bumped into it and sent the name crashing to the floor, “shit, you’re so fucking–”

“Take off my blindfold,” Stolas says, words rushing together with the urgency of his impending orgasm. “Please, I want to see you, I need to see you when I–”

A tug. A rush of light. Stolas blinks all four of his eyes. When he opens them, his heart thrashes in his chest. Blitz looks down at him, a sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead and collarbone. He’s handsome, powerful, a true leading man. And he’s staring down at Stolas like he’s a magnificent and wild thing. Like he sees him.

“Stolas,” Blitz says again, less surprised this time, more reverent.

It’s all Stolas needs to push him over the edge. Feels his cunt tense repeatedly around Blitz’s dick, trying to suck him in, trying to pull him under. His orgasm runs him over like a train, crushing his bones, his feathers, his guts into a paste along the tracks.

Blitz groans and spills inside him, hips jerking on their own accord until he’s empty. A contented glow stretches across his face, and Stolas commits it to memory, already knows he’ll play it back later when he has to make his own fun.

Blitz lets go of his hips, drops his head forward so it rests on Stolas's stomach, and doesn't pull out right away. If he wasn’t bound to the bed, Stolas would reach down and caress his horns, trace the curve, maybe prick his finger on the tip.

Afterwards, Stolas traces the scar on Blitz’s chest. He doesn’t know how it got there, only knows that Blitz didn’t have it when they were kids. Blitz smokes a cigarette from the pack that Stolas started keeping for him on the nightstand. The expected side effect of this is that the scent clings to his silk sheets for weeks afterwards. The unexpected side effect is that now the smell of tobacco turns him on.

“You know,” Stolas says, curled around Blitz in such a way to avoid the large wet spot on the sheets, “we’re only a few days away from the full moon. If you want to count this as our monthly visit, that’s fine by me.”

He feels Blitz tense under his touch. When he looks up, all the honey-golden smiles and soft glances Blitz only doles out after sex are gone, zipped away behind a stony expression.

Stolas has disappointed enough people in his life to know when he’s stepped in it. It feels like walking down the stairs and missing a step – the shock of stepping forward onto nothing, losing his footing, scrambling to regain his balance. The trouble is, Stolas isn’t skilled at figuring out what he did to cause the disappointment. Too few childhood friends, too many books, too much money. Try as he might, Stolas never rights himself and always ends up in a heap at the bottom of the proverbial stairs.

“I’m happy to keep to our usual arrangement,” Stolas stutters, reaching for Blitz’s shoulder. The imp pulls away. “I just want to be respectful of your time. Things are so busy at work, I’d hate for you to take time away from your clients for something as trivial as our little trysts.”

Blitz says, “Whatever. It’s your night. If you don’t want me to come over, I won’t.”

Blitz pushes out from under the covers and throws his legs over the edge of the bed. Stolas feels like he’s being squeezed, words getting lodged somewhere in his lungs, his throat, his teeth.

“I do want you to come over, Blitzy! Our moonlit rendezvous is the highlight of my month. My apologies if I offended you, I–”

“I’m not fucking offended,” Blitz says, words peppering over Stolas like hail on a window. “I’ve just got shit to do at home. Loona’s waiting up for me.”

“Of course.”

“This was a booty call,” Blitz says, struggling to step into his pants and walk toward the bedroom door at once.

“I understand,” Stolas says. “Please feel free to call me when, uh, you’re next on the prowl for booty. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. You did too, I hope?”

Blitz shrugs on his shirt. He’s fully dressed now and types away on his phone.

“It scratched the itch.”

“Let me call you a cab,” Stolas says, pulling the covers up to his chest, suddenly cold. “It’s so late.”

Blitz waves his phone. “Beat you to it. My ride’s here.”

“Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe?” Stolas says it like a question, like he’s begging.

Blitz says, “sure, whatever,” and leaves.

Stolas stays in bed until he hears the sound of the front door slamming. He counts to one hundred on the off chance that Blitz will decide that it’s too late, actually, and spending the night together is the most responsible course of action. Counts to one hundred a second time, just in case.

He doesn’t come back. The bed feels suddenly suffocating, smells too much of sex, smells too much of Blitz. Stolas slips on his discarded robe and walks down the hall to the TV room. The ice cream has dried into a crusty stain on the carpet. Gabriella is still paused on the screen, mascara streams, snot bubble, and all.

Stolas drops himself on the couch and resumes the episode. On screen, Gabriella wails.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, bestie,” Stolas says, “like always.”