"Rain-Soaked Vows"

Prompt: The rain lashed against the windowpanes, each droplet a cold reminder of the emptiness echoing inside Stolas. He stared at the half-empty bottle of Goetian whiskey clutched in his talon, its amber contents swirling like liquid regret. The sharp sting of Stella’s screeching call still vibrated in his skull, a grating counterpoint to the deeper ache – the terrifying silence where Blitzø’s laugh used to live. He’d forgotten the *sound*. Forgotten it. The realization hit him anew, a fresh wave of despair crashing over the dull, familiar pain of centuries. He tipped the bottle back, gulping down the fiery liquid. It burned, but it didn’t warm. Nothing did anymore. Not truly. He needed oblivion. He needed a distraction. Anything to drown out the ghosts whispering in the hollow spaces of his too-large, too-quiet house . The whiskey sloshed heavily in Stolas’ veins, blurring the edges of the world but sharpening the jagged ache in his chest. He needed Blixa. Needed her *now*. Not tomorrow, not after another sleepless night drowning in memories—now. Rain plastered his feathers flat as he stumbled through the slick streets of Imp City, the neon signs bleeding into watery smears of color. He knew her favorite haunt, a dimly lit bar tucked beneath a flickering casino sign called *The Rusty Spur*. Logic drowned in liquor; he pushed through the heavy door, the humid stench of cheap beer and desperation hitting him like a wall . The humid air inside *The Rusty Spur* clung thick with smoke and desperation, the clatter of dice and low curses blending into a dull roar. Stolas swayed near the entrance, rainwater dripping from his feathers onto the grimy floorboards. His bleary eyes scanned the haze until they locked onto Blixa—leaning against the bar, surrounded by three rough-looking Imps. One gestured wildly with a tankard, his laughter sharp and grating. Stolas’ heart lurched. He stumbled forward, ignoring the patrons who sidestepped him with muttered curses . The humid air inside *The Rusty Spur* clung thick with smoke and desperation, the clatter of dice and low curses blending into a dull roar. Stolas swayed near the entrance, rainwater dripping from his feathers onto the grimy floorboards. His bleary eyes scanned the haze until they locked onto Blixa—leaning against the bar, surrounded by three rough-looking Imps. One gestured wildly with a tankard, his laughter sharp and grating. Stolas’ heart lurched. He stumbled forward, ignoring the patrons who sidestepped him with muttered curses. One of the Imps nudged Blixa, pointing a clawed finger toward the entrance. "Uhhh, lady," he slurred, beer sloshing over his tankard. "You said you wasn't married. Is this your husband?" Blixa turned, her eyes widening as she finally registered Stolas—drenched, disheveled, and swaying dangerously close. Before she could react, Stolas lurched forward, wrapping his arms clumsily around her waist, his talons digging into her shirt. "Blixa," he mumbled into her shoulder, breath hot and heavy with whiskey. "Need to talk... 's important ." Blixa stiffened, her cheeks flushing crimson as she tried to pry Stolas’ talons from her waist. “Stolas? What the—get off me!” The Imps exchanged smirks, clearly enjoying the spectacle. One whistled low under his breath while another nudged his companion, nodding toward the drunken prince clinging to Blixa like a drowning man. Stolas only tightened his grip, burying his face in the crook of her neck, oblivious to her discomfort. “Can’t lose you too,” he slurred, his voice thick with desperation and liquor. “Not like him …” Blixa’s jaw tightened as she shoved against Stolas’ chest, her movements sharp with embarrassment. "Get off me, you drunken mess!" The Imps chuckled, leaning back in their stools to enjoy the show. Stolas stumbled backward, blinking rainwater from his eyes as he struggled to focus on her face—Blitzø’s face, twisted in anger instead of affection. "You don’t understand," he slurred, swaying dangerously. "Can’t lose you like I lost him ..." Blixa shoved him away again, harder this time. "You're making a scene!" she hissed, glancing at the grinning Imps. Rainwater dripped from Stolas's feathers onto the sticky bar floor as he stumbled, catching himself on a nearby stool. The room tilted violently. He blinked, trying to focus on Blixa’s furious face—so familiar, yet so painfully distant. "You don't... understand," he slurred, his voice cracking. "Every time... every time it happens again..." He gestured vaguely toward her, then toward the Imps. "You leave. They always leave ." Blixa’s expression hardened into something cold and unfamiliar—a look Blitzø had never once given him. "You’re pathetic," she spat, turning her back on him as the Imps erupted into louder laughter. Stolas stared at her shoulders, the line of them rigid beneath her jacket, and felt the world fracture. Rainwater dripped from his feathers onto the grimy floor, each drop echoing the shattering inside his chest. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stood there swaying as the bartender muttered about calling security . Stolas lurched forward again, his movements clumsy and desperate. He ignored Blixa’s sharp intake of breath as his taloned hand slid down her hip and fumbled against the fabric of her jeans, fingers digging clumsily into the seam near her thigh. "Stop fronting, Blixa," he slurred, voice loud enough to cut through the bar’s chatter. "I know you wet rn—these other men can’t please you like me." A collective gasp rippled through the patrons, followed by stifled snickers and one loud, mocking whistle from an Imp nursing a beer. Blixa froze, her face flushing crimson beneath the dim neon lights, humiliation tightening her features into a mask of fury . Blixa recoiled as if burned, slapping Stolas’s hand away with a sharp crack that echoed louder than the jukebox. "Get your fucking hands off me!" she snarled, shoving him backward with both palms against his chest. Stolas stumbled, tripping over his own feet and crashing hard onto the sticky floor. Rainwater and spilled beer soaked through his feathers as he looked up, dazed, at the ring of leering faces—Imps grinning, Hellhounds shaking their heads, all relishing the spectacle. Blixa stood over him, trembling with rage. "You think this is *romantic*? You’re disgusting!" Her voice cracked, raw with shame. The words sliced through Stolas’s drunken haze like shards of ice. *Disgusting.* Blitzø had never called him that—not even at his worst. Something primal snapped inside him. With a guttural growl, he surged upward, ignoring the ache in his ribs. Before Blixa could react, he hooked an arm beneath her knees and another around her back, lifting her off her feet in a bridal carry. She gasped, kicking wildly, but he held firm, crushing her against his chest. "You *want* fine?" he rasped, breath hot and whiskey-sour against her ear. "I’ll show you fine." He kissed her. Not gently. Not hesitantly. His beak parted hers with bruising force, tongue sweeping past her lips in a desperate, possessive claim. Around them, the bar erupted—jeers dissolving into stunned silence, glasses clinking forgotten. Stolas poured centuries of longing into that kiss: the phantom taste of Blitzø’s laughter, the ache of empty beds, the raw need to *feel* something real again. Blixa went rigid, then shuddered, a muffled whimper escaping her throat. Against all logic, her fists unclenched, fingers tangling in his rain-drenched feathers . The kiss wasn't gentle. It was a collision—beak against lips, desperation against shock. Stolas poured centuries of aching loneliness into it, his tongue claiming her mouth with bruising intensity. Blixa went rigid, then melted against him with a shuddering gasp, her fingers twisting deeper into his soaked feathers. Around them, the bar's raucous noise died, replaced by stunned silence broken only by the thud of a dropped glass. Patrons froze mid-sip, eyes wide as saucers. Even the mocking Imps fell quiet, their smirks dissolving into disbelief. Stolas didn't care. He kissed her like a drowning man finding air, pouring every shattered memory of Blitzø—the warmth, the stolen moments, the ghost of laughter he could no longer recall—into the fierce press of his lips against hers. He tasted rain, cheap whiskey, and beneath it, something startlingly familiar—a faint, smoky sweetness that echoed Blitzø’s favorite cigarettes. It shattered his drunken haze. Stolas broke the kiss abruptly, panting, staring down at Blixa’s flushed face. Her eyes were wide, dazed, lips swollen. A flicker of raw vulnerability flashed across her features before hardening into furious embarrassment. "Put me down," she hissed, voice trembling. "Right now, you fucking lunatic !" Stolas’s grip tightened instinctively, talons digging into her thigh as rain dripped from his feathers onto her face. "Blixa, please," he slurred, voice cracking under the weight of centuries. "We need to talk. Come with me." His eyes, wide and desperate, scanned hers, searching for any flicker of the soul he’d loved. "Just... come home. My home. Please." The last word dissolved into a ragged whisper, lost beneath the sudden roar of jeers erupting from the bar patrons. Someone shouted, "Pay the bitch, prince!" Another laughed, "He’s cracked!" The mockery clawed at him, but Stolas didn’t flinch, his gaze locked on Blixa’s furious expression . Stolas stumbled backward, still clutching Blixa against his chest as her furious struggles intensified. "Put me down, you drunken idiot!" she snarled, clawing at his arms. Rain plastered her hair to her forehead, mingling with the whiskey dripping from his beak onto her cheeks. The bar patrons roared with laughter, coins clattering on tables as bets were placed on how long she'd tolerate his madness. Stolas ignored them, his gaze locked on Blixa’s eyes—those familiar amber irises that held centuries of Blitzø’s fire. "Please," he rasped, voice raw as gravel. "Just... listen. Five minutes. That’s all I ask." His grip trembled, not from the alcohol but from the terror of losing her like all the others. A tall succubus leaned over the bar, her horns glinting under neon lights as she shouted above the chaos, "Gurl, you crazy if you don’t go with a literal prince!" She jabbed a finger at Stolas’s sodden feathers. "And not to mention he sexy as fuck!" Raucous cheers erupted, glasses clinking in agreement. Another imp chimed in, slamming his fist on a sticky table, "Shit, I’d make him my husband tonight if you don’t want him!" The crowd howled approval, one demon whistling sharply while others chanted, "Take the shot, Blixa! Free drinks if you do!" Stolas flinched at their vulgarity, but Blixa froze, her glare flickering between Stolas and the jeering faces. For a heartbeat, her resistance wavered—a crack in her anger . The bar erupted into chaos—demons pounding tables, shouting crude encouragements. "Gurl, you crazy if you don’t go with a literal prince!" a horned succubus bellowed, sloshing her drink as she gestured wildly at Stolas. "And not to mention he sexy as fuck!" Another imp vaulted onto his stool, fist raised. "Shit, I’d make him my husband tonight if you don’t want him!" Laughter and whistles sliced through the stale air, coins clattering as bets doubled. Blixa’s eyes darted across the room, her jaw clenched tight beneath the weight of their drunken frenzy. For a fleeting second, her struggle against Stolas’s grip weakened, her gaze lingering on the desperation in his rain-streaked face . "I said no—I'm leaving!" Blixa snarled, twisting violently against Stolas's iron grip. Her sneakers skidded on the beer-slicked floor as she shoved at his chest. "You said you were gay, remember? I always loved—" Her voice cracked, raw with betrayal. "No, I'm not doing this with you!" But Stolas wasn't listening. His talons dug into her waist as he hoisted her onto his shoulder like a sack of grain. Her fists pounded against his back, muffled curses lost in the roar of the crowd. "We're talking," he growled, staggering toward the exit. "That's final ." The bar erupted into chaos—cheers, catcalls, bets shouted over blaring music. Stolas ignored them all, staggering toward the exit with Blixa kicking and cursing over his shoulder. Rain lashed against the door as he shoved it open, the cold night air hitting them like a slap. Blixa’s sneaker caught the frame, nearly sending them both tumbling down the slick steps. "Put me down, you drunken idiot!" she screamed, rain plastering her hair to her face. Stolas tightened his grip, stumbling into the alleyway’s grimy shadows. He slid her down his body until her feet touched wet concrete, but kept her pinned against the brick wall, his talons framing her face. "Listen to me," he panted, breath reeking of whiskey. "Just... listen." Blixa’s chest heaved, eyes blazing with fury and something else—fear? Recognition? Stolas didn’t know. He fumbled in his coat pocket, fingers closing around cold metal. "Take this," he slurred, pressing a heavy, ornate silver ring into her palm. It was ancient, etched with constellations—the same one Blitzø had worn centuries ago. "Keep it. Please ." Blixa stared at the ring, rain dripping from her lashes onto the intricate constellations etched into silver. Her fingers trembled as they closed around it, cold metal biting into her palm. "Why?" she whispered, the word barely audible over the downpour. "Why give me this ?" Stolas pressed his forehead to hers, rain streaming down both their faces like shared tears. "I'm lonely," he rasped, the whiskey-thick confession raw against her skin. "That palace... it echoes. Please live with me." His talons trembled where they caged her against the wet brick. "It can be like an arranged marriage—no demands, just... not being alone." He swallowed hard, the ghost of Blitzø’s ring cold between their pressed palms. "I miss you. Miss us being friends. When I found out you were married..." His voice cracked. "It hurt. But you're free now. I'm sorry I pulled away. When you're not near..." He shuddered, pressing closer. "I drown. Please. Roommates. Share the bed. Be my arranged wife. Just... stay ." Blixa stared at the ring pressed into her palm—the constellation-etched silver glinting under the alley’s flickering neon—then back at Stolas’s rain-slicked face. His eyes were wide, desperate, pupils blown wide from whiskey and raw need. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, feel the tremble in the hands pinning her to the wall. "An arranged marriage?" she echoed, her voice flat, disbelieving. "Roommates who share a bed? Stolas, you’re drunk out of your mind." She tried to shove him back, but he held fast, his grip like iron. "This isn’t friendship. This is... madness ." Stolas dropped to his knees in the filthy alley puddle, rain plastering his feathers flat as he seized Blixa’s hand and pressed desperate, wet kisses to her knuckles. "Please," he rasped, royal posture bleeding into the plea—spine straight, head bowed like a supplicant before a queen. "Be my wife. Arranged, proper. You’d want for nothing—money, freedom, your own life." His voice hitched, talons tightening around her fingers. "Wife duties? Just... exist near me. Fill the silence." He pressed his forehead to her hand, rainwater dripping from his beak. "The palace is a tomb. I can’t—" A shuddering breath. "Live with me. Please ." Blixa froze, her tail lashing sharply against the wet brick wall. She could feel the eyes burning into her back—patrons from the bar had crowded the alley entrance, some leaning against the doorway, others shamelessly holding dripping pints. One imp even had a greasy paper bag of popcorn, shoveling handfuls into his mouth as he watched the drunken prince grovel. "Fucking hell," she hissed under her breath, cheeks flushing crimson beneath the rain. She yanked her hand free from Stolas’s grasp, the constellation ring cold against her palm. "Fine!" she snapped, voice tight with humiliation. "Get up, you royal mess. We’ll talk inside your damn house. But *only* talk." She shoved past him, tail swishing like an angry metronome as she strode toward the street, not bothering to see if he followed . The bar patrons erupted into raucous cheers as Blixa stormed away, their whistles piercing the rain. "Awwwwww!" crowed the imp with popcorn, grease shining on his chin. "You win, Prince!" Another demon slapped the wet brick wall, laughing. "Heard she's hard as hell to get between those legs—fucking lucked out!" A chorus of agreement rose as Stolas staggered to his feet. "Yeah! Usually fights like a hellcat," a succubus shouted, winking, "but melts like butter for royalty, eh?" Their laughter chased Blixa down the alley, sharp as broken glass . The alley echoed with crude laughter and whistles as Blixa vanished into the rain-slicked street. "Hardest legs in the Lust Ring to pry apart!" shouted a burly hellhound, raising his mug in mocking salute. "But look at her now—walking off like a tamed bitch for the prince!" Another voice, sharp with envy, cut through the downpour: "Bet she'll spread 'em quick for that royal cock and coin." Stolas swayed, the words hitting him like physical blows—each one twisting Blixa's reluctant agreement into something cheap and transactional. He stumbled after her, the patrons' jeers clinging to his feathers like the alley's grime . Stolas stumbled after Blixa, the alley’s taunts still ringing in his ears—*royal cock and coin*, *tamed bitch*—each word sharpening his shame. Rain plastered his feathers flat as he caught up to her near a flickering neon sign. "Blixa, wait—" he gasped, reaching for her arm. She whirled around, eyes blazing. "Don’t touch me!" Her voice cracked, raw with humiliation. "Those fucking vultures back there… they think I’m your whore now." "I didn’t mean to embarrass you," Stolas murmured, swaying slightly as he met her glare. The whiskey haze thinned for a heartbeat, clarity piercing through: her clenched fists, the tremor in her shoulders, the way she cradled her hand where he’d pressed Blitzø’s ring. "You’re not my whore." He stepped closer, ignoring her flinch. "You’re my soon-to-be arranged wife." Before she could protest, he swept her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as if she were glass. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t fight him this time—only stared up at him, rain tracing paths down her cheeks like tears . Stolas carried Blixa through the rain-slicked streets, her body rigid in his arms. Neon signs painted streaks of violet and crimson across her face, highlighting the tension in her jaw. She didn't struggle, but her silence was louder than any protest—a coiled stillness that made his feathers prickle. "They'll forget by dawn," he murmured into her damp hair, the whiskey still thick on his tongue. "Gossip dies faster than dignity in this ring." Her only response was the faint tremor in her hands, clenched tight against her chest where Blitzø’s ring lay cold between her fingers. The palace gates loomed ahead, wrought iron gleaming under downpour. Stolas tightened his grip as Blixa finally spoke, her voice stripped bare: "Put me down. Now." He obeyed instantly, setting her gently on the gravel path. She staggered back, putting three paces between them, her eyes darting from the opulent facade to his sodden form. "This isn’t companionship," she spat, rainwater catching on her lashes. "This is you dragging me into your tomb." The accusation hung heavy—a truth he couldn’t deny. The mansion stood silent behind him, every window dark, every curtain drawn. A museum of ghosts . Stolas flinched as if struck, the rain plastering his headfeathers flat against his skull. "It doesn't have to be a tomb," he rasped, gesturing weakly toward the grand entrance. "I'll open every window. Fill it with light. With... with plants." The desperation in his voice faltered under her withering stare. Blixa didn't move, her arms crossed tight over the constellation ring still clutched in her fist. Water streamed down her face like tears she refused to shed . Blixa’s laugh was sharp, brittle—a sound that cracked through the downpour. "Plants?" She shook her head, rainwater flinging from her braids. "You think ferns fix *this*?" Her hand slashed through the air, taking in the mansion’s shadowed bulk, his drenched finery, the ring biting into her palm. "I agreed to talk, Stolas. Not play gardener to your grief." She turned toward the gate, shoulders rigid. "Go sober up. Call me tomorrow if you remember any of this." Her steps were quick, decisive, already putting distance between them. "No!" The word tore from Stolas’ throat, raw as a wound. He flung out a talon, crimson magic flaring. A shimmering barrier snapped into existence across the palace gates—a wall of translucent energy humming with desperation. "You can’t leave." His voice crumpled, the rain blurring the lines between water and tears on his cheeks. "Please... live here. Just live here. I don’t want to be alone in the silence anymore." He pressed his forehead against the barrier’s cool surface, his breath fogging the magic. "The ghosts... they only whisper when someone else breathes ." Blixa froze, her back still turned. The shimmering barrier pulsed with Stolas’s magic, casting eerie crimson light across the wet cobblestones. Rain hissed against its surface. She didn’t look at him—not yet. Her shoulders tightened, knuckles white around the constellation-etched ring. "Put it down," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Or I swear, Stolas, I’ll shatter it myself."Rain plastered Stolas’s feathers flat as he slumped against the humming barrier, crimson magic casting sickly light across Blixa’s rigid back. "Please," he choked out, the words thick with rain and desperation. "Blixa... you’re my wife now." His talons scraped against the shimmering wall. "Don’t make me cage you in here." The plea hung raw in the downpour—a royal command twisted into a beggar’s whisper. Blixa whirled, eyes blazing amber fury. "Wife?" Her laugh sliced through the rain, sharp as broken glass. "You drunken fool. I’m holding your dead lover’s ring!" She flung her hand open, silver glinting cold against her palm. "This isn’t a proposal. It’s a funeral." Her gaze locked onto his, stripping away every pretense. "You want *him* back. Not me ." Stolas surged forward, ignoring the barrier’s electric hum as it dissolved at his touch. His arms wrapped around Blixa’s waist, pulling her against his soaked chest with bruising urgency. She gasped, stiffening as rainwater streamed between them, his feathers plastered cold against her jacket. "Stay," he rasped into her hair, voice cracking. "Just... stay." His embrace wasn’t gentle—it was a drowning man’s grip, raw and trembling. Blixa’s fists pressed against his ribs, but the shove never came. She stood frozen, breath hitching at the sheer, desperate weight of his need pressing into her bones . Stolas’ arms tightened around Blixa’s waist, crushing her against his rain-soaked feathers. "Stay," he rasped again, the plea muffled against her shoulder. She froze, breath catching—not at the command, but at the raw, trembling gentleness in his grip. No one had ever held her like this: desperate yet careful, as if she might shatter. His talons traced hesitant circles on her back, a stark contrast to the bruising force of his earlier kiss. Blixa’s fists, pressed against his ribs, slowly unclenched. "I never had someone so... clingy," she muttered into his chest, the words thick with confusion. Her cheeks burned despite the cold rain. Men in the Lust Ring grabbed, demanded, took—they didn’t bury their faces in her hair and whisper *please* like broken prayers. Stolas’ breath hitched, his embrace softening into something unbearably tender. "Obsessed?" he murmured, the ghost of a laugh trembling against her skin. "Perhaps." His beak brushed her temple—a feather-light touch that sent an unfamiliar warmth pooling low in her belly. "Is it so wrong to want you near ?" Stolas didn’t loosen his hold, his arms a trembling fortress around her waist. Rainwater streamed down his beak, dripping onto her collar as he pressed his forehead against hers. "Stay," he whispered again, the word ragged, stripped bare. Blixa shivered—not from cold, but from the sheer, unfamiliar weight of his gentleness. Men in the Lust Ring didn’t beg; they seized. They didn’t cradle; they pinned. His talons traced hesitant circles on her spine, a stark, bewildering contrast to the possessive force of his kiss moments before. She felt fragile in his grasp, yet strangely anchored. "I never had someone so... clingy," she huffed into his soaked feathers, cheeks flushing crimson beneath the downpour. The admission felt raw, exposing a vulnerability she usually buried deep . Stolas flinched at her words, his grip loosening just enough for Blixa to feel the tremor in his arms. "Clingy?" he echoed, voice thick with whiskey and something painfully vulnerable. His talon brushed a wet strand of hair from her forehead, the touch feather-light against her skin. "Is it... wrong?" Rain blurred the lines between his tears and the downpour as he searched her face. "Wanting you near? Needing... this?" His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, a silent plea beneath the storm's roar. The gesture was tender, almost reverent—a stark, disarming counterpoint to the crude jeers still echoing from the alley shadows. Blixa held her breath, caught between the instinct to shove him away and the unsettling pull of his raw, trembling need . Blixa’s breath hitched as Stolas’s thumb traced her jawline—a touch so gentle it felt like a betrayal of every rough encounter she’d ever known. Rainwater pooled in the hollow of her collarbone, cold against her skin, but his closeness radiated a feverish warmth. "Wrong?" she whispered back, her voice barely audible over the downpour. "It’s... overwhelming." She didn’t pull away, her hands still trapped against his chest, fingers curled into the soaked velvet of his coat. The constellation ring dug into her palm, a silent reminder of the ghost haunting this moment. His trembling arms held her like she was something precious, not conquest. It unnerved her. Lust Ring men took; they didn’t *tremble* . Blixa huffed, a sharp puff of breath misting in the rain-chilled air. But instead of pulling away, she ducked her head, a flush creeping up her neck despite the downpour. She took a single, hesitant step backward—not toward the street, but toward the looming, shadowed entrance of the palace. "Fine," she muttered, the word almost lost beneath the drumming rain. She didn't look at him, focusing on the slick cobblestones beneath her boots. "I'll... be your wife." Another step back, then she paused, finally glancing over her shoulder. Her amber eyes met his, wide and vulnerable beneath wet lashes. "So you be less lonely." A flicker of something softer crossed her face—hesitant, almost shy. "We friends, right? ? She swallowed, the old nickname catching in her throat. "And... I admit it. I miss you too ." Stolas’s breath caught—a sharp, wet sound lost in the rain. He stared at Blixa, the whiskey haze thinning enough to reveal the raw sincerity in her eyes. Slowly, he extended a talon, palm upturned. Raindrops pooled in his feathers like liquid stars. "Friends," he echoed, voice rough but steadying. "Always, B." His gaze flickered to the palace doors, heavy and dark. "It... it doesn’t have to be empty anymore ." Stolas’s talon trembled as he lowered it from Blixa’s temple, rainwater dripping from his feathers onto the cobblestones between them. The palace loomed behind him, its darkened windows like vacant eyes watching their fragile truce. He didn’t move to touch her again, afraid the slightest pressure might shatter this tentative closeness. "Come inside," he murmured, gesturing toward the grand oak doors. "Before we drown out here." His voice held none of the earlier desperation—just a quiet exhaustion that seemed to seep into the rain-soaked night . Blixa hesitated, her gaze flickering between Stolas’s outstretched hand and the imposing palace doors. Rain plastered her braids to her neck, the cold seeping through her jacket. She took a slow breath, the constellation ring’s edges biting into her palm. "Fine," she muttered, stepping past him without taking his offered talon. Her boots echoed hollowly on the marble foyer as she entered, shoulders stiff with lingering tension. The air inside tasted stale—like dust and forgotten laughter. Stolas followed silently, the doors sealing them in with a soft thud that amplified the stillness. He watched her pause beneath the crystal chandelier, its unlit crystals catching dim streetlight from high windows. Her eyes scanned the vaulted ceilings, the empty hallways stretching into shadows. "It’s… bigger than I remembered," she said flatly, rubbing her arms against the chill. He saw her shiver—not from cold, but from the weight of the silence pressing down . Stolas watched Blixa shiver beneath the chandelier’s gloom, her silhouette swallowed by the cavernous foyer. He snapped his talons once—a sharp, echoing crack—and flames roared to life in the twin hearths flanking the grand staircase, casting jagged shadows that danced across her wary face. The sudden warmth did nothing to thaw the tension in her shoulders. "I’ll show you your rooms," he said quietly, gesturing toward the east wing. "They overlook the gardens. Or… what’s left of them." The admission tasted bitter. He hadn’t tended the roses since Blitzø vanished . Stolas paused at the foot of the grand staircase, rainwater still dripping from his feathers onto the marble. "Nah," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and lingering whiskey. "We can sleep in the same bed." He gestured vaguely upward, talons trembling slightly. "Arranged married, remember?" The words hung in the stale air, less a suggestion than a weary plea against the echoing silence. Blixa stared at him, her expression unreadable in the firelight’s flicker. He didn’t wait for protest, turning to climb the steps with heavy, deliberate movements. Each footfall echoed through the hollow vastness of the palace. "Master suite’s big enough," he added over his shoulder, the forced casualness cracking at the edges. "Separate blankets. Separate sides." The admission felt raw—a desperate compromise between his need for proximity and her palpable discomfort. He paused halfway up, leaning against the banister as if the climb had drained him. "Just… less ghosts when someone breathes beside you ." Blixa’s eyes narrowed, lingering on the staircase’s shadowed curve. The firelight caught the silver ring still clenched in her fist—cold, heavy, a relic of someone else’s love story. "Separate sides," she echoed flatly, the words tasting like ash. She didn’t move. Not yet. Rainwater dripped from her jacket onto the marble, each drop echoing in the cavernous silence. Stolas paused on the landing above, silhouetted against the gloom, waiting. His feathers were still plastered dark with rain, shoulders slumped under the weight of whiskey and want. The air hummed with the unsaid: *Don’t leave me alone with the echoes* . Blixa climbed onto the vast canopy bed, sinking into the plush velvet comforter. She stared at the intricate constellations painted on the ceiling—a mirror to the ring still clutched in her hand. "So," she began, her voice unnervingly calm in the cavernous silence. "Wife duties?" Her gaze slid sideways to where Stolas stood hesitantly near the bedpost, shedding his damp coat. "Do you want me to cook? Clean? Arrange state dinners?" A brittle edge crept into her tone. "Or is the duty just… breathing nearby ?" Stolas froze, coat halfway off his shoulders. The question hung sharp as broken glass in the firelit gloom. He turned slowly, his rain-damp feathers catching the flickering light. "No," he murmured, the word rough but clear. "No duties." He gestured vaguely toward the towering windows overlooking the tangled, rain-lashed gardens. "Just... be here. That's all." He sank onto the edge of the bed, the ancient frame groaning softly. The distance between them felt vast, filled only by the drumming rain and the ghostly chill seeping from the stone walls . Blixa’s gaze swept the cavernous master suite—dust thick on carved obsidian furniture, discarded scrolls piled haphazardly beside an overflowing ashtray, velvet curtains half-rotted where rain had seeped through cracked panes. The neglect was palpable, a physical weight in the air. Without a word, she slid off the bed, her boots silent on the cold marble. She yanked the heavy drapes apart first, moonlight slicing through grime-coated glass, then seized a discarded silk robe from the floor, tearing it into ragged strips with sharp, efficient motions. Stolas watched, motionless, as she dipped a strip into a vase of stagnant water and began scrubbing the nearest windowsill. Dust rose in choking clouds, mingling with the scent of mildew and rain. "You don’t have to—" he started, voice hoarse. Blixa didn’t look up. "Someone does," she muttered, scraping hardened wax off a candelabra with her thumbnail. Her movements were sharp, almost angry—the rhythm of someone drowning silence in action . Blixa worked in furious silence, scrubbing layers of grime from the windowsill until the glass gleamed with fractured moonlight. She attacked the dusty scrolls next, stacking them into precarious towers beside the bed, her movements sharp and efficient. Stolas watched from the edge of the mattress, his talons digging into the embroidered coverlet. Each swipe of her makeshift rag seemed to scrape away another layer of his neglect, exposing the raw shame beneath. He opened his beak to protest again, but the words died as she knelt to wipe a sticky ring of dried wine off the marble floor—a stain from a night he couldn’t thin to be human. Her knuckles whitened around the cloth . Stolas watched Blixa scrub the wine stain, her knuckles white against the damp cloth. The silence stretched taut between them, broken only by the rasp of fabric on stone and the distant drumming of rain against the windowpanes. He saw the tremor in her shoulders—not exhaustion, but suppressed fury. This wasn't cleaning; it was an exorcism. She was scouring away the ghost of his grief one stubborn patch at a time. When she finally sat back on her heels, breathing hard, her gaze swept the room with cold assessment. "Tomorrow," she stated flatly, "we air out every room in this tomb. And you're helping ." Stolas nodded mutely, the weight of her command settling over him like a shroud. Moonlight caught the freshly cleaned windowpane, casting fractured silver across Blixa’s determined face as she tossed the filthy rag aside. Her eyes held no warmth—only the hard glint of a taskmaster surveying a battlefield long abandoned. He rose slowly, feathers rustling in the sudden stillness of the room that felt less like sanctuary and more like a cage they’d both been sentenced to occupy . Stolas drifted toward the balcony doors, his talons clicking softly on the polished marble. Moonlight spilled through the clean glass, illuminating dust motes dancing in the sudden stillness. He traced a claw along the damp wood of the sill Blixa had scrubbed raw. "It used to smell like ozone after storms," he murmured, voice thick with memory. "Blitzø loved it. He'd fling these doors open and stand there, laughing as the rain soaked him." The ghost of that laughter echoed in the silence, sharpening the ache beneath his ribs. He didn't turn, but his shoulders slumped under the weight of the confession . Blixa watched him from the center of the room, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The moonlight carved harsh lines across her face—exhaustion warring with lingering disbelief. His words hung heavy, another layer of dust settling on the already suffocating air. "So that's it?" Her voice cut through the quiet, sharp as shattered glass. She gestured vaguely toward the balcony, toward the ghost he'd invoked. "You drag me here, force me into this... arrangement... because you miss *him*?" A bitter laugh escaped her. "And you think my face in your palace will make the whispers stop?" She took a step closer, her boots echoing on the marble. "Fine. You want warmth? Company? Fine. But tell me this, Prince." Her gaze locked onto his hunched shoulders, raw and unflinching. "Will sex help you stop being depressed ?" The question hung in the air like a physical blow, sharp and crude. Stolas froze mid-step, his talon slipping off the damp windowsill. Moonlight caught the sudden tremor in his feathers along his spine. He didn’t turn, didn’t breathe, the echo of Blixa’s words—*sex*, *depressed*—ricocheting through the cavernous silence of the room. Centuries of carefully constructed composure cracked like thin ice beneath the brutal simplicity of it. His beak parted slightly, but no sound emerged, only the faint rasp of his own strained breath . Stolas finally turned, his movements slow, deliberate. Moonlight carved hollows beneath his eyes, deepening the exhaustion etched into his features. His gaze, when it met hers, wasn't defensive or angry—just profoundly weary, stripped bare. "No," he rasped, the word barely audible. He looked past her, toward the darkened hallway leading deeper into the silent palace. "Sex... it's just another sound echoing in the emptiness afterward." His talons flexed uselessly at his sides. "It doesn't fill the quiet. Nothing does ." Blixa flinched, cheeks burning crimson as Stolas’s quiet rejection echoed in the sudden stillness. Her fingers twisted the torn robe strip into knots. "Oh," she mumbled, gaze darting away toward the shadowed canopy bed. "I... yeah. You're gay. Right." She cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably on the velvet chaise. "Can you... leave the room? Just for a minute?" The blush deepened, creeping down her neck. "I need to—" Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the crackling hearth. "*Handle* something ." Blixa’s cheeks burned crimson, the heat spreading down her neck as she stared at the ornate rug beneath her boots. Her fingers twisted the torn robe strip into a tight knot. "Oh," she mumbled, the word thick with embarrassment. "I... yeah. You're gay. Right." She cleared her throat sharply, gaze darting toward the shadowed canopy bed like it held an escape route. "Can you... leave the room? Just for a minute?" The blush deepened, painting her ears scarlet. "I need to—" Her voice dropped to a strained whisper, barely audible over the hearth's crackle. "*Handle* somethingBlixa’s cheeks burned crimson, the heat spreading down her neck as she stared at the ornate rug beneath her boots. Her fingers twisted the torn robe strip into a tight knot. "Oh," she mumbled, the word thick with embarrassment. "I... yeah. You're gay. Right." She cleared her throat sharply, gaze darting toward the shadowed canopy bed like it held an escape route. "Can you... leave the room? Just for a minute?" The blush deepened, painting her ears scarlet. "I need to—" Her voice dropped to a strained whisper, barely audible over the hearth's crackle. "*Handle* something ." Stolas stared at Blixa, the raw hurt in her whispered request slicing through the lingering tension. "Why," he murmured, the word catching like thorns in his throat. "Why won't you let me stay?" His voice was a low, wounded rasp, feathers trembling slightly as he took a hesitant step toward her. "Is my presence... that unbearable?" Moonlight traced the damp tracks still clinging to his cheek, making him look less like a prince and more like something lost and rain-drenched. "After everything tonight, after dragging you here... you push me away the moment it gets real ?" Blixa huffed, the sound sharp and flustered in the stillness. "No, not that," she snapped, cheeks blazing crimson as she refused to meet his gaze. Her fingers knotted the torn robe strip tighter. "It's just... uhh..." She swallowed hard, the blush deepening to an almost painful shade. "Can you leave? Just for a second?" Her voice dropped to a near-inaudible whisper, eyes fixed on the floor. "Please ." Blixa huffed, the sound sharp and flustered in the stillness. "No, not that," she snapped, cheeks blazing crimson as she refused to meet his gaze. Her fingers knotted the torn robe strip tighter. "It's just... uhh..." She swallowed hard, the blush deepening to an almost painful shade. "Can you leave? Just for a second?" Her voice dropped to a near-inaudible whisper, eyes fixed on the floor. "Please ." Stolas didn’t move. He watched Blixa’s flushed face, the way her knuckles whitened around the shredded silk. The confusion in his gaze sharpened into stubborn resolve. "I don’t want to leave," he murmured, the words thick with exhaustion and lingering whiskey. "I don’t feel like being alone." He turned away from her flustered protest, his talons fumbling with the clasps of his rain-sodden coat. It fell to the marble with a wet slap. Without ceremony, he peeled off his damp tunic and trousers, revealing the dark, downy feathers beneath. The chill air raised gooseflesh along his arms, but he ignored it, pulling a soft,threadbare nightshirt over his head.over his head . Stolas peeled off his damp tunic, the fabric clinging stubbornly before yielding with a wet whisper. Moonlight spilled across the sharp angles of his collarbones, tracing the deep V-cut of muscle that arrowed down toward his hips. Water still glistened in the dark downy feathers dusting his abdomen, catching the firelight like scattered obsidian shards. Blixa’s gaze snagged there—a traitorous flicker—before she jerked her head away, fingers tightening around the torn silk strip until her knuckles ached. The blush, already fierce across her cheeks, deepened to volcanic crimson. She busied herself with aggressively folding a discarded velvet throw, avoiding the sight of his bare torso like it was a live wire . Stolas stood bare-chested by the firelight, water droplets tracing paths down the sharp V-cut of muscle that arrowed toward his hips. The dark downy feathers dusting his abdomen caught the flickering light, each one glistening like wet obsidian. Blixa kept her gaze locked on the dusty rug, but her peripheral vision betrayed her—the lean strength of his torso, the subtle flex of his shoulders as he reached for a threadbare nightshirt. Heat flooded her cheeks, a fresh wave of crimson that burned hotter than the hearth. She busied herself with violently rearranging the scroll pile, knocking one tower askew. "Just leave the room for a minute ," she muttered, voice tight . Blixa squeezed her eyes shut, the heat in her cheeks a roaring furnace. She could *feel* Stolas standing there, half-dressed and oblivious, the damp scent of rain and feathers filling the space between them. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a traitorous rhythm screaming *look at him*. But she wouldn't. Couldn't. He was gay. He was grieving. He was a drunken mess who’d just demanded an arranged marriage out of sheer loneliness. And now, sprawled half-naked and damp on the massive bed, he was the absolute worst kind of temptation – utterly off-limits and completely unaware. "Stolas," she gritted out, her voice strained, "get out. *Now* ." Stolas blinked, the command slicing through his whiskey haze. He pushed himself upright on the bed, the worn nightshirt gaping slightly at the collar, revealing a hint of dark down. "But... it's my room," he mumbled, genuine confusion softening his features. "Where would I go?" He patted the space beside him, the mattress groaning softly. "It's warm here. And... not alone." His gaze drifted past her, unfocused, already retreating into the fog of exhaustion and alcohol. He sank back onto the pillows with a heavy sigh, one arm flung over his eyes, utterly oblivious to the tension coiling in the air like a live wire . Blixa’s breath hitched as Stolas sank back onto the pillows, the worn nightshirt riding up to expose a lean strip of feathered hip. Moonlight caught the damp trails still glistening on his collarbone, tracing the vulnerable curve of his throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image burned behind her lids—the unconscious grace of his sprawl, the warmth radiating from him in the chilly room. Every nerve screamed with a hunger she couldn’t name, sharp and humiliating. He was drunk. He was grieving. He’d never want *this*, not from her. Her knuckles whitened around the constellation ring still digging into her palm, its cold metal a feeble anchor against the heat pooling low in her belly . Blixa huffed, the sound sharp and furious in the stillness. She spun away from Stolas’s sprawled form, her back a rigid line facing his. The mattress groaned as she flung herself onto the far edge, putting as much cold, empty space between them as the massive bed allowed. Her tail lashed against the velvet covers like a whip. *Idiot*, she seethed silently, nails digging into her palms. Couldn’t he feel the tension crackling in the air? Couldn’t he smell her frustration? He lay there, damp and oblivious, breathing softly while her skin burned and her thoughts spiraled into places they had no right to go. Why couldn't he just *leave*? Stolas shifted, a soft rustle of feathers against linen. He mumbled something incoherent into his pillow, utterly unaware of the storm raging beside him. Blixa squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the image of his bare shoulder gleaming in the moonlight, the curve of his spine beneath the thin nightshirt. It was maddening. He’d hauled her here, dumped his grief in her lap, and now slept like a stone while she wrestled with this raw, clawing need. She wanted to scream. Or shake him. Or—*fuck*. She pressed her thighs together, the ache sharp and insistent. Just five minutes alone. Was that too much to ask ? The room plunged into darkness as Stolas murmured a drowsy "Night," his voice already thick with sleep. Blixa held her breath, muscles coiled tight until his breathing deepened into the slow rhythm of unconsciousness. Finally. She shifted carefully onto her side, back turned to him, the mattress barely whispering beneath her weight. Her hand slid down, fingers trembling as they found the damp fabric between her thighs. She bit hard into the corner of the pillow, the feathers stuffing her mouth, muffling the first choked gasp as her fingertips pressed against the aching heat . Blixa pressed her face deeper into the pillow, feathers tickling her nose as her fingers worked frantically beneath the covers. The friction was maddening—too dry, too rough—leaving her swollen and throbbing instead of satisfied. She bit down harder, stifling a whimper of frustration. Every shift of her hips bumped against Stolas’s back, a jarring reminder of his oblivious presence inches away. Her tail lashed against the sheets, tangling in the velvet as she chased relief that kept slipping away. The wetness was there, a slick heat between her thighs, but her touch felt clumsy and alien in the suffocating dark . Blixa pressed her face deeper into the pillow, feathers tickling her nose as her fingers worked frantically beneath the covers. The friction was maddening—too dry, too rough—leaving her swollen and throbbing instead of satisfied. She bit down harder, stifling a whimper of frustration. Every shift of her hips bumped against Stolas’s back, a jarring reminder of his oblivious presence inches away. Her tail lashed against the sheets, tangling in the velvet as she chased relief that kept slipping away. The wetness was there, a slick heat between her thighs, but her touch felt clumsy and alien in the suffocating dark . Blixa’s breath hitched, fingers trembling as they pressed harder against the slick heat between her thighs. The rhythm faltered—too frantic, too desperate—leaving her aching and unfulfilled. She bit back a frustrated groan, the pillow muffling only half the sound. Stolas shifted beside her, his tail feather brushing her calf in sleep, a jolt of electricity that made her flinch. *Stop it*, she snarled inwardly, nails digging into her own skin. *He’s not yours to want*. But the image burned behind her eyelids: the moonlight on his collarbone, the lean curve of his hip, the unbearable nearness of his warmth. Her body screamed for release, a relentless pulse echoing the rain still tapping against the window . Blixa’s fingers stilled, slick and trembling, as Stolas murmured in his sleep—a low, incoherent sound that vibrated through the mattress. Her breath caught, pulse hammering against her ribs. She waited, frozen, until his breathing deepened again. The ache between her thighs sharpened, insistent and raw. She pressed her forehead into the pillow, feathers scratching her skin. *Just finish*, she commanded herself, nails biting into her thigh. But her touch felt foreign, clumsy. Every brush of her own fingers only echoed the ghost of his warmth beside her—the lean line of his back, the scent of rain still clinging to his feathers. Frustration coiled tight in her belly, hot and humiliating. She squeezed her eyes shut, chasing a release that danced just out of reach . Blixa’s breath hitched, fingers slick and trembling as she pressed harder against herself. The rhythm stuttered—too rough, too shallow—leaving her gasping into the pillow. Stolas shifted, his tail feather brushing her ankle, and she froze, heart slamming against her ribs. Moonlight carved his silhouette: the vulnerable curve of his spine, the dip of his waist where the nightshirt had ridden up. Heat pooled low, sharp and insistent. She squeezed her thighs together, biting back a whimper. *Almost there* . Stolas stirred, his feathers rustling against the pillow as a choked gasp cut through the stillness. He blinked, bleary-eyed in the moonlight, turning toward the tense shape beside him. "Blixa?" His voice was thick with sleep, laced with confusion. "What's wrong?" He reached out instinctively, his talon brushing her rigid shoulder. She flinched violently, jerking away as if burned, her hand yanking back beneath the covers. Her breath came in ragged, shallow bursts, her face buried deep in the pillow, shoulders hunched defensively. "Nothing," she hissed, the word muffled and strained. "Go back to sleep ." Stolas blinked, the last dregs of sleep clinging stubbornly. "Why you so angry?" he mumbled, his voice gravelly with exhaustion. He squinted at the rigid line of her back, the way her shoulders trembled slightly beneath the covers. "And biting the pillow?" His talon hovered uncertainly near her arm, not quite touching. "Did... did I hurt you ?" Blixa stiffened, every muscle locking tight. "I'm *not* angry," she spat, the lie sharp and brittle against the pillow. Her thighs clenched together beneath the covers, the frustrated ache throbbing with renewed intensity. "Just... go back to sleep." She burrowed deeper, pulling the velvet comforter up to her ears, desperate to hide the furious blush she knew was scorching her neck. The dampness between her legs felt like a glaring secret, a humiliating counterpoint to his oblivious confusion . Blixa squeezed her eyes shut, grinding her teeth as the tension coiled tighter, unspooled. "Go. To. Sleep," she hissed through clenched jaws, the words muffled by velvet. She pressed her thighs together hard, rubbing them against the sheets in a desperate, furious rhythm. The friction was maddening—too much, not enough—leaving her trembling on the edge without release. Stolas's warmth radiated inches away, a taunt. She wanted to scream. He sighed, the mattress shifting as he rolled onto his back. Moonlight traced the vulnerable line of his throat, the flutter of his pulse beneath downy feathers. "Can't," he murmured, staring at the painted constellations overhead. "Too quiet." His hand drifted absently to his own chest, talons splaying over his heart as if holding something in. "The silence... it eats at the edges after dark ." Blixa choked on a breath, the raw ache between her thighs sharpening into something jagged. *Leave. Please just leave.* The plea screamed silently in her skull. But Stolas lay beside her, a warm, feathered barrier to the solitude she desperately needed. His talons still rested over his heart, that vulnerable gesture making her own chest tighten. She squeezed her eyes shut, grinding her teeth against the need to shove him off the bed. Five minutes. Was it truly impossible ? Blixa’s nails dug into her palms, the constellation ring biting into her flesh. "Stolas," she ground out, her voice trembling with the effort of control. "Please. Just step outside. For one minute." She kept her face buried, every word muffled by velvet. "I need air. Or... something." The lie tasted like ash. Her thighs pressed tighter, the damp fabric chafing, the need a live wire sparking under her skin. If he didn’t leave, she’d shatter . Stolas turned his head on the pillow, moonlight catching the confusion in his half-lidded eyes. "But it's raining," he murmured, his voice a drowsy rasp. "And cold." His talon drifted toward her rigid shoulder again, stopping just short of contact. "Are you ill? You're trembling." The genuine concern in his tone scraped against her raw nerves like sandpaper. She felt the heat of his gaze, the unbearable weight of his obliviousness pressing down on her. Every ragged breath she took felt too loud in the suffocating silence . Blixa recoiled from Stolas's hovering talon as if it were a branding iron. "I'm *fine*," she snapped, the words cracking like ice. She yanked the covers higher, cocooning herself in suffocating velvet, but the tremors only worsened—a visible vibration along her spine. The dampness between her thighs was a searing brand, her own traitorous body mocking her. *Just get out*, her mind screamed. *Give me this one shred of dignity* . Stolas frowned, the drowsy haze in his eyes sharpening into stubborn confusion. "I won't leave," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and lingering whiskey. He propped himself up on one elbow, the worn nightshirt slipping off his shoulder, revealing the dark downy feathers beneath. Moonlight traced the vulnerable line of his collarbone as he studied her rigid, cocooned form. "You acting weird, Blixa." His talon reached out again, not quite touching the velvet lump she'd become. "Like... like I scare you now? After everything?" The hurt in his rasp was raw, unguarded. "Did I break something worse tonight ?" Blixa’s jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. *You stupid, oblivious idiot*, she screamed inwardly, her face still buried in the pillow. *Can’t you smell it? Feel it?* The heat radiating from her own skin, the damp silk clinging between her thighs—it was all because of *him*. The moonlight on his collarbone, the lean line of his hip, the way his feathers caught the firelight. Every nerve was raw, screaming for release he’d never give. She squeezed her eyes shut, nails digging into her palms until the ring left crescent indents. *Just leave. For fuck’s sake, just walk out that door .* Blixa’s thoughts raged, a silent torrent against Stolas’s infuriating cluelessness. *Stupid, beautiful idiot. Can’t you feel the heat coming off me? Can’t you see how hard I’m biting this pillow?* She squeezed her thighs together, the slick friction a maddening counterpoint to his gentle, misplaced worry. *It’s not fear, you feathered moron. It’s this—this raw, clawing need you sparked without even trying.* Her nails dug deeper into her palms, the ring a cold brand. *No, you didn’t break anything worse. Just leave the fucking room! * Stolas frowned, the drowsy haze in his eyes sharpening into stubborn confusion. "I'm not leaving," he insisted, his voice thick with sleep and lingering whiskey. He propped himself up on one elbow, the worn nightshirt slipping off his shoulder, revealing the dark downy feathers beneath. Moonlight traced the vulnerable line of his collarbone as he studied her rigid, cocooned form. "And stop biting that pillow. I can't sleep with your ass keep hitting my back." The blunt observation hung in the air, raw and unvarnished. "You're trembling like a trapped bird. What's wrong ?" Blixa snapped her head around, eyes blazing. "Stolas, for fuck's sake, *read the room*!" she snarled, the words tearing from her throat like shrapnel. "Get out! Dammit, I said I only need a *minute*!" Her voice cracked, raw and desperate, echoing off the high ceiling. She shoved herself upright, the covers pooling around her waist, revealing the furious flush staining her neck and chest. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the velvet, knotted robe strips forgotten . Stolas recoiled as if slapped, the raw fury in Blixa’s voice slicing through his whiskey haze. His feathers bristled, confusion hardening into frustration. "Stop *telling* me to leave my own damn room!" he snapped, shoving himself upright. Before she could react, he lunged across the mattress, talons snatching the edge of the velvet comforter she’d clutched like armor. With one sharp yank, he tore it away. "What are you even hid—" The words died in his throat . Stolas froze, the torn comforter dangling from his talons. His gaze locked onto the damp silk clinging to Blixa’s inner thighs, the frantic flush spreading down her neck, the way her hand had jerked back from beneath the rumpled fabric. A slow, dawning understanding widened his eyes. "Oh," he breathed, the anger evaporating into something softer, almost gentle. "You’re... aroused." The words hung in the air, quiet but stark in the moonlight. He tilted his head, genuine confusion replacing his earlier frustration. "That’s okay. I don’t mind you touching yourself. Why were you being so weird about it ?" Blixa recoiled as if scalded, scrambling backward across the mattress until her shoulders hit the carved headboard. Her tail lashed wildly, tangling in the sheets. "Don't *look* at me!" she shrieked, yanking the torn robe strips over her lap, her face a mask of crimson fury and humiliation. Every muscle trembled—not with desire now, but with the raw, exposed shame of being caught. Stolas's casual acceptance felt worse than disgust, a spotlight on her pathetic desperation. "Just turn around! Go !" Stolas blinked, the torn comforter still dangling from his talon. He didn't turn away. Instead, he slowly lowered the velvet, his gaze tracing the furious tremble in Blixa's shoulders, the way her knuckles whitened around the shredded robe strips. "But it's natural," he murmured, his voice losing its edge, replaced by a weary softness. "You don't need to hide." He shifted slightly, the mattress groaning, his own feathers rustling as he settled back onto his side, propping his head on one hand. Moonlight caught the faint sheen of dampness still clinging to his collarbone. "I've spent centuries alone in this room. I know what silence does." His eyes, no longer clouded by anger or alcohol, held a quiet, unsettling understanding. "It makes you ache in places you didn't know were empty ." Blixa stared at him, her breath trapped somewhere between her throat and her lungs. The raw vulnerability in his words—the quiet admission of centuries spent aching in the dark—struck her harder than any accusation. Her fingers loosened their death grip on the robe strips. The frantic heat of shame began to cool, replaced by a different kind of trembling, one born of shared, unspoken loneliness. Moonlight painted silver streaks across the space between them, highlighting the tension still thrumming in the air, but now laced with something fragile and new . Blixa’s gaze dropped to her own clenched fists, the constellation ring a cold, accusing weight. "I know you're gay," she whispered, the words scraping raw in her throat. "And I’m... like this." She gestured weakly toward her own trembling body, the damp silk still clinging, the flush burning her skin. The humiliation was a physical thing, thick and choking. "It’s pathetic. Wanting someone who could never..." She trailed off, unable to voice the rest, the truth hanging like a shroud between them—her unwanted desire, his immutable nature . Stolas watched her, the moonlight softening the edges of his feathers. Slowly, deliberately, he crossed his arms over his chest, the worn nightshirt stretching across his shoulders. "Well," he murmured, his voice low and steady, devoid of judgment. "You never asked." His gaze held hers, unwavering. "I may be gay, Blixa, but that doesn't mean I mind helping." He tilted his head, his expression shifting to something softer, almost concerned. "You look like you're struggling. Like it's causing you pain, trying to find release alone in the dark. Do you... want help ?" Blixa’s breath hitched, her knuckles bone-white around the shredded robe strips. The raw offer hung in the air, shattering the fragile tension. Her gaze darted from Stolas’s steady, unflinching eyes to the vulnerable curve of his throat, then snapped away. "I’m not some charity project," she rasped, the words thick with shame. "You pity me." Her tail lashed once, a sharp crack against the headboard. The ache between her thighs hadn’t faded—it pulsed hotter, sharper, under the weight of his scrutiny . Stolas sighed, a soft puff of air stirring the feathers at his temple. "You stubborn, I see," he murmured, a faint blush warming his cheeks. He twirled a nervous finger in the air, avoiding her burning gaze. "I may be gay, but I don't like seeing someone I arranged to... take care of... so uncomfortable around me." He swallowed, the words thick and hesitant. "And well..." His blush deepened, spreading down his neck. "I've never seen a pussy before." He finally met her stunned eyes, his own wide with a mix of earnest curiosity and awkward vulnerability. "So... can I see yours? This would be my first experience ." Blixa stared at him, her flush deepening to a mortified crimson. "You... *what*?" The words choked out, disbelief warring with the absurdity of his request. His blush mirrored hers, genuine and endearingly awkward, fingers twisting in the air like a flustered scholar. The raw, painful tension of moments ago fractured, replaced by something bewilderingly surreal. "You want to... *look*? Like it's some kind of... specimen?" Her voice cracked, half-horrified, half-hysterical. The sheer, unexpected innocence of his proposition momentarily eclipsed her shame . Stolas flinched at her tone, feathers ruffling defensively. "Not a *specimen*," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. "Just... curious." His talon traced an invisible pattern on the velvet sheets. "I've read anatomical texts, of course. Detailed illustrations. But seeing one... alive?" He risked a glance at her, his blush deepening. "It’s different. And you’re... here." The implication hung between them—her presence, her heat, the raw humanity of it all. He shifted awkwardly, the mattress dipping. "Would it help? If I looked? Maybe... understood ?" Blixa stared at him, her flush deepening to a mortified crimson. The raw vulnerability in his request—the sheer, awkward innocence of it—cut through her shame like a knife. This wasn't the leering lust she knew from men; this was Stolas, earnest and blushing, fingers twisting nervously in the air like a flustered scholar presented with a baffling artifact. Her own trembling felt different now, less like humiliation and more like... shyness. A strange, fluttering nervousness she hadn't felt since she was a girl, faced with something entirely new and terrifyingly intimate. Why was *she* the one feeling so exposed and hesitant? She’d agreed to be his wife, however strange the arrangement, yet here she was, frozen, as shy as he was blushing . Blixa’s blush deepened, a scorching heat spreading from her cheeks down her neck. This wasn’t the crude, demanding lust she knew from other men—Stolas’s curiosity was pure, almost childlike, wrapped in awkward sincerity. She’d agreed to this strange arrangement, to be his wife in name, yet here she was trembling like a virgin under his hesitant gaze. Why did *he* make her feel so exposed? Her fingers fumbled with the torn robe strips, knuckles white. She couldn’t meet his eyes . Blixa squeezed her eyes shut, the blush burning her cheeks like fire. With trembling fingers, she slowly parted her knees beneath the thin silk of her nightgown. The damp fabric clung to her swollen folds, the ache a visible, vulnerable curve in the moonlight. She pressed her forearm hard against her face, hiding behind it as if it could shield her from the intensity of his gaze. "H-here," she whispered, the word cracking with humiliation and something softer—a raw, fluttering shyness. "It's... it's yours to see." Her thighs trembled, the heat radiating outwards, a silent plea tangled in her shame . Stolas leaned closer, his breath warm against her inner thigh. Moonlight glistened on the slickness staining the thin silk, tracing the swollen outline beneath. He tilted his head, a scholar presented with a living text. "It's... flushed," he murmured, his voice hushed with awe. A talon hovered, tracing the air an inch above the damp fabric. "Like... like a ripe fruit." His own blush deepened, visible even in the dim light. "Does it... hurt? Being so full ?" Blixa flinched at his breath on her skin, the intimacy of his observation sending fresh tremors through her. "N-no," she stammered, her voice muffled by her arm. "It's... it's just how it gets." She squeezed her eyes tighter, the damp silk clinging like a second skin. "When it's... like this." The admission felt raw, exposing a vulnerability deeper than flesh . Stolas propped himself up on one elbow, his earlier drowsiness replaced by bright, giddy fascination. "So this is a pussy," he breathed, his voice hushed with wonder as he leaned closer. Moonlight caught the slick gleam between Blixa’s trembling thighs, and his feathers ruffled with excitement. "It’s so beautiful—like a hidden bloom flushed with dew." His talon hovered, not touching, tracing the air above her damp silk. "Teach me how you please yourself. I want to know everything. Do you... cum? Is it like men? Show me !" Blixa flinched at his breathless enthusiasm, the sheer giddiness in his voice scraping against her raw nerves. "Stolas—" she choked out, her arm still clamped over her burning face. His wide-eyed, fascinated stare felt more invasive than any crude demand. "It's not a... a lesson !" Stolas blinked, his giddy expression faltering at the sharp edge in her voice. He drew back slightly, feathers flattening against his skull. "Oh," he murmured, the excitement dimming into something softer, almost apologetic. His talon retreated, curling into a loose fist on the velvet. "I... I didn't mean to make it worse." He shifted his weight, the mattress groaning softly. "It's just... I've never seen anything like it. It's... alive. Warm." His gaze drifted back to the damp silk, a flicker of that raw wonder returning despite himself. "Like a secret garden under moonlight ." Blixa’s blush deepened, a scorching wave that spread down her neck and across her collarbone. The sheer poetry in his observation—*a secret garden under moonlight*—was somehow more intimate than his earlier clinical curiosity. She pressed her thighs together instinctively, but the movement only heightened the slick, aching pressure between them. A fresh pulse of wetness bloomed against the thin silk, impossible to hide. She squeezed her eyes shut, mortified . Blixa couldn't stop blushing. The heat felt like a brand across her skin, intensifying with every ragged breath. Worse—uncontrollably worse—a fresh pulse of wetness bloomed between her thighs, a traitorous slickness that soaked deeper into the thin silk. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it to stop, but the sensation only grew, a humiliating counterpoint to Stolas's quiet observation about secret gardens. Her body was betraying her completely . Blixa’s entire body burned with humiliation. She felt the fresh, unmistakable slickness seep into the silk, a traitorous flood she couldn’t suppress. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, a futile attempt to hide the evidence, but the damp patch darkened, glistening faintly in the moonlight. Stolas’s gaze, sharp and observant as ever, didn’t miss it. He tilted his head, his earlier poetic wonder replaced by blunt, bewildered curiosity. "What was that?" he murmured, leaning closer, his voice hushed. "Like... water? Or something." His brow furrowed, genuine confusion knitting his feathers. "Did you... pee? I thought you were just flushed, but that’s... different ." Blixa recoiled as if struck, her mortification spiking into white-hot fury. "I did *not* pee!" she hissed, her voice trembling with rage and humiliation. She yanked the shredded robe strips over her lap, but the dark, spreading stain on the silk was undeniable. "It's... it's just... *more*." The explanation died in her throat, choked by the absurdity of defending her body's betrayal to this clueless prince. Her blush felt like it was searing her skin off . Blixa’s voice dropped to a raw whisper, her eyes fixed on the tangled sheets. "You're... different," she admitted, the words thick with shame and something softer. "Nobody’s ever been fascinated. Not like this." She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his bewildered gaze. "And when I get wet down there... it means my pussy *likes* you. Women only get wet around men they... want." Her blush deepened, a furious crimson spreading across her cheeks and throat. She couldn’t believe she was explaining desire to a centuries-old prince. "It’s alive. Responding to *you* ." Stolas stared, his expression shifting from confusion to dawning wonder. His gaze traced the damp silk clinging to her trembling thighs, the flushed skin beneath, as if seeing it for the first time. "It *likes* me?" he breathed, the words hushed with reverence. A slow, tentative smile touched his lips, his earlier awkwardness melting into something softer, almost tender. "Like... a flower opening to the sun?" He tilted his head, his crimson eyes wide with innocent fascination. "But it's *you*. It's alive because of *you* ." Blixa couldn't stop blushing. The heat felt molten as Stolas's innocent request hung between them—raw and vulnerable as an exposed nerve. Her thighs trembled where they pressed together, the damp silk clinging to every curve. "S-spread...?" she stammered, the word catching like thorns in her throat. His crimson eyes held only earnest curiosity, no judgment, no mockery—just pure, unguarded wonder. It undid her defenses one trembling breath at a time . Stolas nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Please," he murmured, his voice soft as moonlight on feathers. "I want to see it bloom." His talon hovered near her knee, not touching, a silent question in the stillness between them. Blixa’s breath hitched, the heat pooling low in her belly. Slowly, hesitantly, she let her knees fall apart. The damp silk clung to her folds, outlining every swollen curve, every glistening crease. Stolas leaned closer, his breath warm on her inner thigh. "Oh," he breathed, wonder softening his voice. "It’s... trembling ." Blixa held her breath, the air thick with the scent of her own arousal and the faint ozone tang of Stolas’s magic. His talon hovered, tracing the trembling outline beneath the silk without touching. "It’s like watching a storm build," he whispered, his voice hushed with reverence. Moonlight caught the slickness where the fabric clung, revealing the flushed, parted lips beneath. A soft gasp escaped Blixa as his gaze lingered on the swollen bud at her apex, hidden yet unmistakable in its urgency. Her hips gave an involuntary twitch, seeking friction against nothing but air . Stolas’s gaze remained fixed on the trembling outline beneath the damp silk, his crimson eyes wide with rapt fascination. He leaned closer still, the scent of her arousal mingling with the ancient parchment smell of the room. "May I examine it more, please?" he asked, his voice hushed and reverent, like a scholar granted access to a sacred text. His talon hovered just above the soaked fabric, tracing the air over her swollen folds without making contact. "It moves with your breath. Like... like a living thing all its own." His own breath hitched, feathers rustling softly as he shifted. "May I touch the silk? Just to feel the heat ?" Blixa’s blush deepened to an almost painful crimson, spreading down her neck and across her collarbones like spilled wine. She gave a stiff, nearly imperceptible nod, her knuckles white where they gripped the shredded robe strips. Stolas’s talon descended with feather-light precision, the very tip brushing the damp silk just above her mound. A sharp gasp tore from Blixa’s throat as the contact sent electric jolts through her core—not from his touch, but from the sheer, unbearable intimacy of his focused study. His talon traced the soaked fabric, mapping the heat radiating from her swollen folds. "So warm," he murmured, awestruck. "Like sunlight trapped beneath velvet." His crimson eyes lifted to hers, wide and earnest. "Does the heat mean it wants more ?" Stolas’s talon paused, hovering just above the damp silk. His crimson eyes lifted to meet Blixa’s, wide with earnest curiosity. "Can you show me how you... umm... masturbate?" he asked, his voice a hushed blend of reverence and awkwardness. "I’d love to see it. To understand how a pussy works." He shifted closer, feathers rustling softly. "And to know how to please you, since... well, I’m gay, and you’re my arranged wife." The admission hung in the air, raw and vulnerable, stripping away any pretense . Blixa stared at him, her flush deepening to an almost painful crimson. The raw vulnerability in his request—the sheer, awkward innocence of it—cut through her defenses like a knife. Her fingers trembled where they clutched the torn robe strips. Slowly, hesitantly, she slid her hand beneath the damp silk, her knuckles brushing the swollen heat between her thighs. Stolas leaned forward, his gaze rapt, moonlight catching the wonder in his crimson eyes. Her middle finger found the slick, throbbing bud at her apex, and she circled it once—a tight, practiced motion that drew a sharp gasp from her own lips. "Like this," she whispered, her voice raw with shame and something else—a reluctant surrender to his fascinated gaze. "It’s... sensitive here