Chapter Text
The first thing Stolas is aware of when he pushes open the intricately carved double doors into the lobby of Reggie’s is how instantly out of place he feels. It’s not unlike the feeling he used to have stepping into one of Stella or his father’s unnecessarily ostentatious galas full of what might have well have been complete strangers who he shared a mutual disinterest in interacting with. At least in those situations, though, he’d had the reassurance of a bottomless supply of alcohol to numb the discomfort as well as the certainty that if anyone had something critical to say about him afterwards, it usually wouldn’t be anything against his physical appearance. Now, though, as he shuffles in, much less unobtrusively as he’d hoped, given that he stands several heads taller than everyone else in the room, his anxiety is on the rise.
A few of the patrons standing in line for the front desk turn their heads, no doubt assessing the state of him. He knows he looks unkempt, his hair and feathers sticking out at unattractive angles after his most recent attempt at washing himself up in a public bathroom and his clothes dangling off of a frame that’s narrowed considerably after several weeks of infrequent meals. He’s making a beeline for a low settee tucked away in a dark corner. He’ll sit there and wait until the line is gone or at least until there are far fewer witnesses to the pathetic entreaty he’ll be making to the establishment’s owner.
He’s only just seated himself when a voice startles him back to standing.
“Your pride keep you from gracing us sooner?”
A well-dressed, blond succubus has appeared at the opposite end of the settee. He’s pristine, in a crisp white suit with hair smartly parted to one side and a wide, charming smile that’s all teeth.
“I kid, I kid. We were expecting you, but we appreciate the nuances of the individual journey.”
“I beg your pardon?” Stolas takes a step backwards, and his shoulders meet the ornately paneled wall.
“It’s Reggie,” the succubus proffers his hand. “Take a walk with me?”
Half the line has turned, some just their heads and some their whole bodies, to watch the exchange.
Stolas can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, and he offers Reggie a single, limp hand by way assent. Reggie’s fingers curl around his wrist with unexpected firmness, and the next moment, Stolas is being tugged along deeper into the lobby.
“Bruce,” Reggie pauses at the reception desk and leans in to speak to the burly, dark-haired succubus now manning the counter. He’s dressed in head-to-toe black and wearing shades, his appearance and solemn demeanor more befitting it would seem of a bouncer than a receptionist.
“Bruce, darling,” Reggie repeats, this time with a playful tap on the other succubus’ arm. “Can you break out the tablets and call up whoever isn’t otherwise engaged to help with the customers? I might be a bit.”
Bruce grunts and nods almost imperceptibly and lifts a phone receiver to his ear and begins speaking in a low, rapid-fire voice. Stolas isn’t able to catch even a single word of what Bruce says before he’s whisked past the desk, up a short flight of stairs, and around the corner into a long, dark, windowless corridor lined with doors.
“In my experience,” Reggie begins, his grip unrelenting, “folks will put off coming to me even when they’ve hit rock bottom. You see, many of those with less humble beginnings have this idea in their heads that all of this is somehow taking quite a big step down in the world and that coming here should be saved only for when they’ve exhausted all other avenues of survival. They want to be absolutely sure, so they’ll wait until they’re even one step below rock bottom, and then they’ll come to me in pieces, begging for me to put them back together. I can, of course…and I do. But simply being here and having made it this far isn’t a guarantee of anything. Most folks assume anyone could do what we do, that it’s just a matter of throwing off their clothes and lying on their backs. They don’t understand the craft or the artistry involved in pleasure, in the creation and consummation of lust. As I like to say, anyone with enough motivation and opportunity can fornicate, but very few know how to really fuck.”
Reggie has brought them to the very end of the hall to an aperture marked with a placard that reads the number ‘36’. He taps the cuff of his sleeve against the placard, and the adjacent door unlocks with a soft click. Reggie drops Stolas’ wrist and pushes the door open, gesturing towards the gaping darkness within.
“After you.”
The moment Stolas takes the first hesitant step across the threshold, lights flicks on overhead, warm, dim, and ambient, illuminating a mid-sized room furnished with only a large, circular bed covered in glossy white sheets and crowned with a neat cluster of pillows. The walls are draped in deep shades of sapphire, with two particular sections that double as both decorative and functional in concealing access to what Stolas presumes might be an alcove or wardrobe or even doors that perhaps lead into adjacent rooms. He’s drifting inward, Reggie pressing him gently forward with a hand on the small of his back, and the further he progresses, the more indistinct and less well-defined the edges of the room seem to grow to the point where Stolas’ mind is tricked, momentarily, into the illusion of the bed as an oasis of soft white in the midst of a boundless void.
“Have a seat.” Reggie is gesturing towards the bed. He adds, “please.”
Stolas perches himself on the very edge of the mattress. Reggie steps directly in front of him, precisely at eye-level and cocks his head to one side. Stolas lifts his chin, intending to meet the succubus in the eye as would be appropriate in this moment to impart confidence and determination, but he can’t drag his gaze away from Reggie’s perfectly polished shoes.
Reggie chuckles softly, and all of Stolas’ insides are roiling with shame and anxiety.
“I’d ask what your story is, but I think I might already know it,” Reggie begins. “Stripped of your titles and powers, forcibly removed from the only home you’ve ever known, and finding yourself gracing the top of everyone’s blacklist in every last miserable corner of Hell…that come close?”
Stolas opens his mouth to reply, but the words are caught in his throat, so he settles on simply nodding instead.
“And so you wander around for weeks without a place to land until you happen to end up here. But how did you end up here?”
Reggie’s tail is flicking back and forth, possibly unbeknownst to Reggie himself. It doesn’t strike Stolas as a sign of irritation or impatience though. Eagerness, perhaps, but he can’t imagine for what.
“Asmodeus…I went to see him at one of his factories. We weren’t ever close, but I thought out of everyone, he might give me a few minutes and maybe a piece of advice or two,” Stolas gives a small shake of his head as if to dispel the lingering pain of the disappointment. “The staff turned me away before I could even open the lobby door. But then one of them stepped out after me and pulled me aside to talk to me and handed me your card and…I figured it was Ozzie’s way of ‘helping’ me without ‘helping’ me, if you know what I mean…and then it took a little while for me to come here…because I wasn’t sure at first, but now I am. Sure, that is…sure that I can do whatever’s asked of me.”
Stolas lifts his eyes to Reggie’s. The succubus’ face is fixed in an expression that Stolas can only describe as amused scrutiny. Stolas’ resolve wavers. It occurs to him that not so long ago, this might not have touched him so deeply. He’d often been on the receiving end of criticism and doubt from his peers, his family, and everyone else in-between, but over time he’d prided himself on his ability to let their negative opinions exist simply as noise, as something unpleasant that would come just as surely as it would go. The respite of silence would and did always follow eventually.
He’d had, too, the reassurance that came with his general, long-standing social unpopularity. He had no status to lose, no one he could disappoint who he hadn’t already, and no aspirations for anything better, so what did it matter what anyone thought? Nothing was ever good enough, no effort sufficient, no intention an adequate degree of genuine or heartfelt. Not for his father. Not for the other Goetia. Certainly not for Stella or her brother. Not for his only real, now estranged, romantic interest…and, perhaps most recently devastating of all, not for Octavia…
And now, sitting here in this room, the judgment evident in Reggie’s charming little crooked smile and the arch of that one single eyebrow, the dire hopelessness of it all is crashing over Stolas again and again. Practically overnight, subsisting at the most basic level has become predicated on his ability to win over largely unsympathetic strangers, and he’s been grappling for weeks with how bad he is at that, how bad he’s always been at that, and how this was probably the first and last thing Reggie noticed about him, but, to his credit, at least he’d had the decency to take him somewhere private to let him down.
Stolas is on the verge of standing and excusing himself in order to avoid having to hear his unfitness verbally spelled out to him yet again when Reggie’s grin widens, and, seemingly out of the blue, he’s clapping Stolas on the shoulder. The succubus strides over to one of the functional drapes and draws it aside to reveal a second door that’s decidedly plainer than the one they’d entered through.
“Well, maybe it’s that doleful little face of yours or maybe I’m just in a generous mood today, but I say why don’t we give you a shot, eh?” He turns the knob and lets the door swing open. “Bathroom’s in here. I’ll have you shower first and do whatever you need to freshen up. There’ll be a robe hanging on the peg on the wall. Put that on, nothing else underneath, and then head on back in here when you’re ready, and we’ll go from there. How’s that sound?”
Confusion and panic is flooding Stolas’ mind, and he’s on his feet in an instant. “I–you want me to–to what? W-why?”
“Relax, babe,” Reggie lifts a placating hand. “I have my business’ reputation to uphold, and I can assure you that you won’t find a single businessman here in the Lust Ring who would willingly sell a product they can’t personally attest to the quality of. It’s just not done. I mean, think about it. Would you hire a dancer who you’d never seen dance or a singer you’ve never heard sing?”
The logic is sound, Stolas can’t argue that, but it still feels like being asked to jump into the deep end of a pool with weights tethered to his ankles. He already can’t breathe, already knows this’ll only end with him drowning.
“You’re free to leave, of course,” Reggie is clicking on the bathroom light with a small shrug of his shoulders. “If it sounds like too much too soon. But I’m not really the type to extend an offer twice. I’m more of a now or never guy. And considering that this is your first real break..and maybe your only…but it’s entirely up to you!”
Reggie strolls over to the door to the hall and props this one open too.
“So which door will it be?”
Stolas thought the choice was already made, that he’d decided already before he even walked in, but the out is tempting. He could leave if he wanted. Find something different, something he’s more confident in. Maybe he’s been too hasty and given up too quickly. Maybe he’s not thinking clearly. Maybe it’s the exhaustion and the dehydration and the gnawing ache in his belly. Maybe it’s the physical soreness from sleeping on asphalt and pavement and the occasional scorched earth. Maybe it’s huddling in the backdoors of alleyways and other the secluded exterior nooks and crannies while he waits for the pain in his feet to subside so he can shuffle into a few more businesses that he already knows don’t want him and have doors slammed in his face and impatient or frightened hands waving him out. Maybe it’s wondering what the limits of his immortality are as he watches imps and hellhounds in similar predicaments curl up in corners and draw their final gasping breaths. Can he starve to death? Die from exposure? Could the heat exhaustion or dehydration take him down? Would he even care if it did though? Would anyone care? Probably not.
So then the question becomes whether his feelings in this moment really should matter at all. Really, if anything matters at all anymore? Perhaps both doors will lead to the same place in the end, and there isn’t actually a choice to be made here but just the illusion of choice. Or maybe they won’t, and maybe he should just be grateful he’s being given an opportunity others aren’t, those others who might actually enjoy the work or who might be worse off than him and in greater need of it and who’ve done far less harm than him and who actually deserve to be given a chance to start over…
But then again, maybe it’s fitting that this is where he lands. Maybe it’s fitting that it’s not easy or ideal…that it twists his insides up with apprehension…that it brings him back to his worst nights with Stella…that it’s just one more way of disappearing, becoming nothing, living without living. Which is, perhaps, exactly what he deserves.
Stolas glances at Reggie one final time, takes in the confidence of his expectation, and slowly makes his way into the bathroom and shuts the door.
—
When Stolas finally takes down the robe off the bathroom peg and slips into it, two things stand out right away. The first is that the fabric, which he’d assumed was opaque when he’d first spotted the dark swathe of material behind the door, is completely translucent and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. The second is the fit. It’s snug in all the right places with the sleeves falling perfectly to his wrists and the hem of the train only just brushing the floor. The measurements seem unsettling exact, the sort of thing he might expect putting on a piece of clothing from his own wardrobe when he’d had one, but not what he might expect from an arbitrarily selected garment at an establishment whose average staff member tends to be well under half his height and, if Reggie and his sunglass-wearing companion at the front desk were any indicator, have substantially more impressive physiques. Stolas can’t say what the full implications of this are, but it seemed now that when Reggie had said they’d been expecting him that that hadn’t been just a phrase he’d tossed out to make conversation. He’d actually meant it, which makes Stolas all the more uneasy. He’s no longer simply walking into a situation where he’s vulnerable but one in which somehow, someway investments have already been made without his knowledge and where nothing short of a full return, whatever that looks like, will be demanded.
Stolas is struggling to keep his hands from shaking as he turns the knob of the bathroom door to re-enter the room.
The room is substantially brighter than it was before, and Reggie is standing by the bed, his back to Stolas, hands clasped at the base of his spine and tail slowly oscillating from left to right and back again. He takes his time pivoting to face Stolas, his expression surprisingly warm and easy.
“Over here, please.” He gestures to the space directly in front of him.
Stolas’ legs are suddenly lead, and the handful of steps to cross the room to stand in front of Reggie are almost physically painful.
“Lose the robe now, babe.”
Stolas’ arms move automatically, undoing the sash and pulling the light fabric off his shoulders. The robe flutters into a gauzy pool at his feet, and his whole body feels stuck somewhere between feverish and numb. He fixes his gaze on one of the lights peeking out from the recess of the ceiling overhead.
Reggie’s gently tapping his inner thigh. “Feet shoulder width apart. I’m just looking for right now, babe. Gotta know what I’m working with here.”
Stolas shifts his feet slightly further apart. Reggie drops his hand and leans forward so his face is level with Stolas’ groin. A quick glance down reassures Stolas that he is really just looking, the top of his blond head tilting back and forth as he takes him in with an impassive expression.
And then Reggie straightens up and walks around behind him and pats his tail.
“Still just looking. Your anatomy’s a little different is all.”
He’s lifting the feathers carefully and delicately and stooping over. It takes several long moments for him to not find what he’s looking for.
“Interesting,” he drops Stolas’ tail and circles back in front of him. “And your human form. Does the anatomy change to match the form or does it all just stay the same down there?”
Stolas tears his gaze from the overhead light and looks down at Reggie. His expression is strangely neutral, though not entirely unfriendly. Stolas feels the pressure in his chest ebbing just a degree. He’s not sure he expected, perhaps suggestive commentary or groping hands or leering at the very least, but certainly not Reggie’s cool, businesslike demeanor.
“It-it changes.” Stolas’ voice comes small and distant, a surprise to even his own ears.
“You mind if I take a look at that too then?”
“I can’t–”
“Oh, you can in here. Anyone who wants to can while they’re in the rooms if they’ve done it before and have the know-how. So let’s see it then.”
Stolas gives a small shake of his head by way of assent and shuts his eyes and makes the shift. He’s instantly much more self-conscious in the form than he remembers being before. Fully nude, his human form feels even more exposed and more vulnerable than his regular one, the skin too smooth and hairless, his height and vision cut in half, and far more sensitive areas than seem reasonable to have to manage.
He and Reggie are both at eye-level now standing fully upright which brings a flicker of a smile to Reggie’s lips.
“Is everything functional in this form or is it all just for show?” He’s making a slow loop around Stolas as he assesses him anew from top to bottom.
“It–it all works.” He flushes a little at the admission and feels the heat go straight to his ears. Another of what he considers the less desirable quirks of this form.
“Well, we’ll find out, won’t we?” Reggie finishes his circle and stops in front him. “You can shift back and put the robe on and sit down.”
The relief of being back in his proper body and having some semblance of clothing on again is damn near overwhelming. Stolas settles himself down on the edge of the bed, legs fold beneath him and the length of the robe bunched in his lap to provide a welcome modicum of modesty.
Reggie is pacing in front of him, hands clasped thoughtfully under his chin.
“So…my initial thoughts. You’re striking overall. Figure leaves a little to be desired. You’re a little too straight up and down right now. The clients will want you thin, but with a little more shape. Which we can fix, of course. That and your posture. You're a little slouchy. Maybe you aren’t even really aware, but it makes you look a little less than confident. You do have a nice face, though, an even nicer one with makeup I imagine. Versatile anatomy is always a plus, yours even more so than most. I’ll admit, we don’t have anyone on staff even right now with quite as much range. Usually it’ll just come down to differences in size between forms, but with you…that’s something unique. Not to mention your background. We don’t use names around here or advertise with faces, but folks will know who you are and what you are…were…however you prefer to think about it. And the clients talk. They talk to everyone except the gossip rags because we’re very strict about that. Which leads us, of course, to my single outstanding concern. Folks will book you the first time because of a titillating image on a tablet or because you seem different or new and exciting or because you were a royal or maybe even because it’s a species thing…but the second they leave, they’ll tell everyone and their brother how it was. Which isn’t a problem if they’ve had an exceptional time and feel they got their money’s worth and can’t wait to see you again, but less so if you were just alright or if, Satan forbid, they had a bad time. What you have to understand, is you are, in a sense, pitting yourselves against other professionals who not only have years of experience on you, but, for our succubi, who also have a natural ability to ramp up a client’s sex drive just by touching them, some just by looking at them. Because they’ll all tally you up at the end of the day, and if you don’t end up being one of the best lays, if not the best lay they've ever had, it’s not going to work out for you here. All of which is to say, you have a lot going for you, maybe more than you realize. But you’re either going to have to actually believe that or figure out how to really sell it that you do.”
There’s a pit forming in Stolas’ stomach. “So…what does that mean exactly? I’m not sure I understand…”
Reggie reaches up and loosens the bolo tie around his neck. “It means you show me.” The tie is on the floor and then his suit jacket, his vest, his shoes. He walks over to the door to the hall and stations himself in front of it. His expression is unnervingly pragmatic. “We’re going to do a little roleplay. I’ll be the client, and you be whatever you think is the most alluring version of yourself for me.”
Stolas’ heart is in his throat. “I don’t know that I’m quite ready…I mean, of course, I can…but right now?! I’m not–”
“You can only ever be so ready and even if you’re not, you find a workaround and make it work.” Reggie slips his hand into his pants pocket and pulls something out. “Here. Take this.” He tosses it across the room towards the bed. Stolas extends a single hand to catch it out of the air and misses, accidentally knocking it to the floor. He pushes himself up onto his knees and moves to reach over the side of the bed. He stops up short though as it registers that Reggie’s just tossed him a travel size bottle of lube.
“You’re not exactly soaking your panties for me, babe.” There’s a faint smile creeping back onto Reggie’s face. “Not that I expect you to be. I’m a big old nobody to you still. Though, so is every client until you start getting regulars.”
Stolas’ fingertips close around the bottle, and he pulls himself back up onto the mattress.
“But if you need a minute…some folks have particular things they like to run through in their head. Some like to finger themselves. Others just wait for visual stimuli from the client. You have a preference?”
“I–I don’t know…” Stolas sets the bottle off to one side and is trying to regulate his breathing and the expression on his face, so he doesn’t appear unduly panicked. He can count on one hand the number of people he’s slept with in his life, and there’s nothing he can ‘run through’ in his head which wouldn’t be ultimately upsetting for one reason or another, and the thought of touching himself in front of a relative stranger or this same relative stranger putting on some sort of display for his benefit…
Reggie seems to sense the turmoil in Stolas’ mind even without him saying anything. “Of course, you’re always in good hands if it’s a succubus that walks in. They’re naturally very attuned to what you might or might not be feeling, and anyone who isn’t an ungenerous bastard will give you a nudge in the right direction. They understand it isn’t really a good time if it isn’t mutual.”
Reggie’s hand has disappeared behind one of the drapes, and the lights at the room’s edge dim until only the soft glow of his eyes are visible. An overwhelming calm has stolen over Stolas that’s giving way to a pleasant all-over warmth that’s prompting him to push himself upright onto his knees and shake off the robe because he is suddenly desperate for the relief of the room’s cool air on his body.
“The first thing you should always establish,” Reggie begins, his voice seeming oddly far away even as he approaches the bed, his shirt half undone, “is what the client is looking for. Some of them will be very specific, some a little more vague, and some want you to tell them what to do. How about we start with you asking me what I’d like to do with you this evening?”
Reggie’s shirt is on the floor, his muscled torso on full display now. He props one knee on the mattress and places his hand on Stolas’ bare hip. Stolas is instantly, euphorically light-headed as if all the blood has gone rushing out of his head all at once. He’s aware of his cloaca swelling and throbbing, and he’s overcome by the sudden and very urgent need to touch himself, to assuage the intense ache if even for a moment. His hand is moving of its own accord when Reggie, having climbed fully onto the bed, catches him by the wrist. With his other hand, the one now burning like fire on Stolas’ hip, he brings their pelvises together in one quick motion. Stolas can feel Reggie’s erection through his pants, and the physical awareness of this deepens the growing agitation between his legs.
“So what are we doing tonight?” Reggie prompts as he swivels his hips ever so slightly causing Stolas’ whole body to spasm in anticipation.
“So what are we doing tonight?” Stolas repeats breathlessly.
Reggie removes the hand from his hip and grabs hold of Stolas’ other wrist and pushes him onto his back. He leans in to whisper his reply, “I’m going to fuck you until you break, babe.”
His hands disappear from Stolas’ wrists momentarily and yank the rest of his clothes off in one swift, seamless motion, and then they’re back with a vengeance, jerking both his arms above his head and pinning him in place.
Stolas can feel the head of Reggie’s cock pressing teasingly against the lips of his cloaca.
“You ever sleep with a succubus before?” He’s slowly easing his cock into Stolas, inch by inch.
“J-just once.”
A series of images, unbidden, flash through his mind of the stranger from Verosika’s party, the one he’d eventually stumbled upstairs into one of the spare rooms with. He remembers being fairly drunk, the succubus too at this point after having downed a few shots of liquid courage on their way to the room. Stolas’d been the first to flop onto the bed, the room swimming in the happy haze of his inebriation, while the succubus kissed him and asked if he could touch him. He remembers nodding and fumbling with buttons so the succubus could get his hands down his pants and his fingers inside him. He’d been ecstatic in his arousal and had kept going on and on about it having been so long since he felt so good, and at some point, the succubus had pulled his pants all the way off and swapped out his fingers for his dick, which Stolas very vaguely recalls asking him to do. And then they’d gone at it, both still half-clothed, sloppily knocking limbs and teeth and making more than enough noise to alert the whole party to what they were up to, until the succubus’ thrusts came to an abrupt halt.
Stolas was trying to mentally string together the words to ask him why he’d stopped. The succubus was leaning back on his haunches and pushing the hair out of his eyes. “You called me ‘Blitz’.”
Stolas had scrambled upright to face him, vehemently shaking his head. “I didn’t–I don’t think I did…did I?”
The succubus’ face was sympathetic. “You’re really fucking drunk, man. I mean, I’m not far behind you on that, but it’s still kinda a mood killer, ya know? And it’s only been a couple days for you, so it’s okay if this is just way too soon.”
”It’s not…it’s not too soon. I want this!” Even as he’d said it, he’d realized he didn’t, but he’d still extended a hand toward the succubus’ rapidly deflating cock. “Please…I’m sorry if I fucked things up…I was having a good time, and I think you were too…and I didn’t mean anything by it…”
The succubus had pushed his hand away gently. “It’s all good, man. I think I should probably be heading out anyway. It’s, like, 3am.”
“Maybe I could see you again?” Stolas couldn’t imagine a second, sober encounter going much better, but it seemed like the polite thing to offer.
The succubus was zipping up his pants. “Maybe,” he replied noncommittally. “But maybe not, like, right away. Maybe let things settle down a bit and if I’m still on your mind you can hit up Verosika for my number.”
He gave Stolas a small, half-hearted wink. He’d already guessed that Stolas would never ask Verosika for his number and that this was it, but he couldn’t have really expected anything else.
And he’d walked out, just like that, without another word or a backward glance, his head held high, while Stolas, still partially undressed, curled up under the sheets to wallow in his confounding and instantaneous regret.
“That’d be a hell of a line to use on a first time client,” The impact of Reggie’s hipbones colliding suddenly and painfully with his jolts Stolas out of his reverie. “You ever sleep with a prince before? And you pose yourself all coy-like and then just let your knees fall open as you say it. It’d drive anyone fucking wild!”
Reggie slams into him again, hip-deep, Stolas lets out a small, involuntary gasp, the intensity of the motion and the abrupt sensation of being overfull focalizing as an almost unbearably sharp pressure in his lower abdomen.
“So you do make sound,” Reggie pants as he rams the full length of his cock in again and elicits a second, shriller noise. “You have to be careful. If you’re too quiet, the clients might make the mistake of thinking you’re not enjoying yourself. Some of the more reactive ones might assume you think you’re too good for this…or too good for them to be more precise. And they will find ways to put you in your place.” He punctuates each sentence with a forceful thrust and then settles into a slower, gentler rhythm. “Come on, then. I’m going to need you to move with me a little here and not just lie there like a corpse. We’re in this together, you and I, just like a dance. If you’re not doing it with me, then it’s just something that’s being done to you and that’s never a place you want to be.”
The room seems to have grown cold despite all the physical exertion, and Stolas is struck with a paralyzing sensation of unreality, that it’s all some bizarre dream that he’s going to wake up from to find himself who even knows where and who even knows when. He grapples with this, tries to make it real by mentally retracing every step that’s led up to this point. He’s looking for gaps, inconsistencies, illogic, anything that breaks open the world and spills its artifice. But it’s all there, all solid, the full narrative of a shitty life and bad decisions, and the haze in his mind is bursting, clearing, and all at once he’s hyper-aware of everything. The softness of the bed beneath him, his own clammy skin, the way his limbs are shaking, Reggie’s weight against his pelvis, his cock slipping in and out of him, the claws of his hands digging into his wrists. There’s only the faintest scent of sweat and warm skin, the muted sound of their bodies colliding.
And then Stolas feels the regret, a thousand times more intense than it was the night of Verosika’s party, ballooning in his torso to the point of suffocation, and he starts to panic as he goes through the physical motions of inhaling and exhaling only for his lungs to remain crushingly empty. He’s thrashing in an effort to extricate from Reggie’s grip because he needs him to stop, so he can sit up or stand up or roll on his side or whatever it ends up being that sets him right again, but Reggie reads the resistance as the response to his direction for more physical engagement and doubles down and throws all of his weight into the restraint. Stolas opens his mouth to try to squeeze out a word, a cry, anything to indicate that something's wrong.
Stop…please...
It’s a silent, useless plea in his mind. But surely, Reggie must be able to see it in his face.
“That’s the idea, babe. Just like that. Now we’re fucking dancing.”
I can’t breathe…
Stolas can feel the fight ebbing out of him even as moves to initiate one last, half-hearted tussle, but Reggie, anticipating this, yanks one of his arms cross-wise, twisting the upper half of his body sideways and pinning both his wrists together with one hand and using his now-free hand to grab hold of one leg and hike it over his shoulder as he pummels Stolas’ swollen, dripping cloaca furiously with his cock.
He’s breathing again in gasps and groans and whimpers, and he can hear Reggie praising him, telling him what a ‘beautiful fucking job’ he’s doing and a half dozen other things that fail to register.
There’s a small black smear on the sheets next to his pinned hands, and it’s only then in the moment he catches sight of it that Stolas becomes aware of the small twinge in his wrist marking where Reggie’s claws had dug in with enough force to draw blood.
And it’s that little dab of blood that swims in his vision and pulls him back into his mind and away from the present.
“Is that blood?” Blitz is looking from the tips of his claws to a spot on the lilac sheets just below Stolas’ elbow. “Oh shit, did I–?”
They’re sprawled out across Stolas’ bed catching their breath after what must have been their sixth or seventh round of the night.
Stolas barely glances down, too busy relishing his post-coital euphoria to really care. “It’s nothing.”
Blitz makes an impatient huffing sound and nudges Stolas onto his side. “Nothing? You might have told me I was clawing your back open. I mean, fuck…that looks bad.”
Stolas rolls over to face him and cups Blitz’s chin in his hand. “Come midday tomorrow, it’ll be like it never even happened.”
His smile is reassuring, but Blitz is pulling his face away, his expression clouding.
“Can I patch you up at least then?”
“Oh, that’s hardly necessary.” He waves him off, hoping Blitz’ll take the initiative to clasp his hand. “It’ll take care of itself.”
“Right,” Blitz’s gaze drops to the blood-tinged tips of his claws. “You know, we’ve been at it for a while, and I’m getting a little tired. You maybe want to call it a night?”
Stolas doesn’t, not really, but as he considers it, he feels equally content with the idea of them just lying there and drifting off to sleep together.
He shrugs, going for nonchalance, “If that’s what you want.”
Blitz nods slowly. “I guess you can, uh, shoot me a text whenever if you think you might wanna, um, you know, do whatever. Or I’ll call you.” He’s hopping off the bed and gathering up his scattered clothing.
Stolas sits up a little too fast.“You know you can sleep here if you want. It’s just us in the house.” He gives Blitz his most sincere smile. “And I really wouldn’t mind the company.”
Blitz seems to debate this for a moment in his head before replying, “I–that’s–I’m not sleeping over. I’m–I need to go home.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
But Blitz had made a noncommittal grunt and continued to dress in silence. And then he’d crossed the room and climbed down the balcony without even so much as a ‘goodnight’ or a backwards glance, and it was in that moment that the fear had really struck Stolas for the first time. The fear that Blitz didn’t feel the profound connection he felt, that he was only doing this to keep Stolas off his ass about the grimoire. He clearly hadn’t trusted Stolas would have loaned it to him if he’d just asked, and the timing of him taking it coinciding with their first night of physical intimacy…he wanted to believe that had been real and not just a means to an end…because Blitz had come back all on his own and more than once…but his visits were coming fewer and farther between and he’d starting skipping the casual conversations Stolas had once enjoyed so much and going straight to foreplay and then, just like tonight, leaving the moment it became apparent there was no more sex to be had, either because one or both of them had hit their physical limits or because the mood had inexplicably soured.
Stella’s unsolicited opinion on the matter was that he was just an easy fuck, though not an enjoyable one she’d made sure to add, because he had no backbone and no will of his own. He’d let himself be chewed up and spit out before he’d ever actually do something about it. And as much as Stolas’d tried to tune out her spite, this hadn’t felt too far off the mark. And maybe this was the unbridgeable difference between him and Blitz. Blitz didn’t let anyone push him around. He knew what he wanted, and he seized it before anyone even had a chance to tell him ‘no’. And then he left…just like he had tonight…
Stolas feels like his heart might actually crack in two as he replays Blitz’s unfeeling departure over and over again in his mind. And so he lies awake and begins to devise his own ruin. A proposition to delay the inevitable, prolong the impossible, and keep the world from going dark for a little while longer.
And, of course, Blitz had been justified in his hurt and resentment. Stolas might have done something sooner, might have never even made the deal in the first place if he’d trusted his instinct and read the signals Blitz had been sending him all along. But he’d been so wrapped up in his own misery, his own self-pity and ignorance and insecurity and his desire for something that was never there…he hadn’t wanted to let go, and he’d let his desperation drag him down. It didn’t matter that he’d tried to make amends, far too little and far too late. The point of unforgivable had come and gone. And he hadn’t known what to do with how misunderstood and angry Blitz had felt in the end, so he’d shut him out and stopped listening, stopped trying to see anything but his own heartbreak…and then he’d gone out and gotten drunk at a party and fallen into bed with the first attractive stranger who’d crossed his path. And, if Reggie doesn’t toss him out on his ear, the stranger at the party would only be the first. The first of hundreds if not thousands of strangers that aren’t Blitz, that could never be Blitz…
Stolas is aware of the tears stinging in the corners of his eyes only a moment before they fall. This is followed by the awareness of pain shooting through every inch of his limp body which, in his mental absence, Reggie has managed to contort into even more excruciatingly unnatural angles.
“You’re everything, babe. You know that, right?” Reggie’s caressing the leg draped over his shoulder. “Fucking…everything…”
A tremor passes through Reggie’s body, and Stolas can tell from the way he’s digging his claws into his flesh and the violent pulsing of his cock inside him that he’s just climaxed. Reggie lets out a soft groan and shuts his eyes to ride out the orgasm. He’s still poised between Stolas’ legs and pressing himself in until the very last, until the sticky warmth of his cum begins to leak out between the oblique spread of Stolas’ thighs.
Reggie sighs and pulls out, his half-erect cock dripping as he begins to rearrange Stolas’ limbs and pull him into an upright, seated position. He slips off the bed and retrieves Stolas’ discarded robe off the floor and drapes it around his shoulders with an odd tenderness. He then disappears into the bathroom and returns wearing a second robe, this one plain white cotton and also seemingly tailored to his physical specifications. He clambers back onto the bed and seats himself on his haunches in front of Stolas.
Stolas is running hot and cold in turns, and he’s struggling to focus his wandering mind on anything but the sudden burning in his eyes.
A single tear rolls down his cheek, and Reggie flicks it away with the tip of a finger.
“No crying now, babe.” Reggie is squeezing his shoulder in a gesture that feels like it’s meant to be reassuring. “You’re so fucking beautiful, and folks are going to love you so fucking much.”
Stolas can feel his body succumbing to fatigue, and he’s pitching forward directly into Reggie’s waiting arms.
“Oh, babe,” His grip is secure and strong but far from comforting. “ It could be worse for you. It could be so, so much worse.”
Reggie’s smile looks like a promise.