Bodyguardian

Striker froze in the bushes of the hell nettle, wincing because of its stinging foliage. Through the undergrowth, he watched Stolas, who was sitting on a bench in a public park, bent over a battered notebook. No fancy clothes, no guards. Just a skinny, gray-feathered demon in a worn jacket too big for his frail shoulders. Long fingers with black claws were tracing on the paper, sketching something. Probably his fucking stars again, those that can't even be seen in Hell. Or dull plants. Or a lover's penis... who cares. “All right, Mr. Ex-Goetia”, Striker hissed, carefully removing a heavy pistol with silver angelic metal from a holster on his belt. Certain death, even for a higher demon. “Fate gave me a chance to work off an old debt”. Stolas didn't even move, lost in thought. Stupid bird, Striker thought sarcastically. It used to be guarded by legions. And now? He's sitting here like a target in a shooting gallery. It's like a gift. Striker took aim at the depraved owl, gripping the handle, a hooked finger smoothly laid on the trigger. “Now”, the long-awaited contentment made my heart beat faster, “now I will hear the crunch of these fragile bones…” A glowing yellow tail wrapped around his arm and tugged. Striker heard only a nervous shot and the cracking of branches from above and to the side of the startled Stolas. The demon looked back angrily at... nothing less than an angel outside paradise! “Fuck it!!!” Losing all his vindictive dignity, Striker darted through the bushes deeper into the park, where the winged and toothy creature could not reach him. Stolas, who had just looked up from writing fiction about the vicious feelings of a demonic aristocrat for a sun-haired Exorcist, looked at it all as if spellbound, but did not have time to be afraid. Yes, no one could ward off demons like a guardian angel! But, looking at Mirlal, you wouldn't say that this gentle femboy is capable of being both a machine for disposing of the wicked and a warm friend who is ready to comfort in difficult times, and even a personal psychologist.… "Is everything okay?" Mirdal noticed that Stolas was looking at him as if hypnotized. Olwdemon flinched when Mirdal waved a paw in front of his eyes. He leaned back on the bench, feathers on his neck slightly ruffled with embarrassment. “Oh, no, no… That is, yes! It's just... uh... you did a particularly... impressive job with that killer today," his voice was trembling, and his claws were tapping nervously on the notebook. Mirdal modestly lowered his eyes in response to the praise. “It seems that he ran away on his own out of fear”. “That is right…” Stolas constantly forgot that Mirdal was not so harmless, that after communicating with him, incubi from churches came out with fractures. But the more dangerous a friend is, the more dangerous he is.… Stolas forcibly cut off the thought, hurriedly putting the depraved notebook into his inner pocket: “Does my dad still pay for the protection of his negligent son, since you're always hanging around me?” “No”, the Light Dragon answered honestly, sitting down on the bench. Stolas felt a wave of light and heat from the golden side next to him, and therefore, resisting unnecessary sensations, he stood up abruptly: “I have work to be done! As I want to pay you for friendship and service, but you don't accept sex…” he stumbled out of the blue and shook his dizzy head: “Black holes, what nonsense I say”. As luck would have it, Mirdal only began to worry about him more, coming almost close to catch Stolas in case he was about to fall again. The angel's eyes filled with sympathy: "Hey... you can barely walk..." he put a gentle palm on his forehead, checking his temperature. Thoughts raced through Stolas' mind, which he desperately tried to suppress: those gentle paws could touch him not only with care, but also with passion. The four red eyes widened impossibly, the pupils, on the contrary, narrowed to cloudy sparks: "I'm... perfectly fine!" His voice trailed off as he pulled away and pressed his back against the rough trunk of the infernal cypress. The plant rustled its needles with displeasure. "It's just... uh... the lunar cycle! It's a very uncomfortable period for us owls..." the demon swallowed nervously. "Please... just... give me a minute." He closed his eyes, trying to pull himself together, but immediately opened them again, because in the dark the same image floated before him — shining, holy and so incredibly desirable. Mirdal pressed his ears to his long wavy hair in embarrassment, trying not to look at his underfucked friend and employer, but every now and then returning his gaze with concern and a thirst for protection: “Yes... this imp chose the moment to try to attack you... it's good that everything worked out, and he got away with it! Will keep silent about your weakness. Hope it will pass soon. Or do you need to help with something?” “You're too kind to me, Mirdal. But I... can handle it. It's just a temporary weakness. Demonic nature, you know,” he laughed nervously. The feathers on his chest fluffed out softly, and his tail twitched involuntarily. “Although... if you could... just stand by? In case I…” He didn't finish his sentence, feeling his legs give out. Mirdal grabbed him under the armpits, as if Stolas was about to faint. Owl-demon was quite thin and light, fortunately. "Why don't you come home?" to give the owl strength and, possibly, overcome his illness, Mirdal poured a little healing invigorating energy into him. Stolas shuddered, a warm golden light spread all over his body. His face began to burn, either from internal warmth, or from embarrassment. “Damn... it really helps..." Goetia exhaled slowly, the tension in his muscles gradually easing. “But... uhf, Mirdal... this is too much..." his voice sounded hoarse and ragged, and his delicate paws helplessly clutched at the fur of the angel's skin. "I... I should not… we can't…” Stolas's breathing quickened, and his vision blurred from the mixture of sacred energy and demonic lust: “If you think that I will stop flowing from the consecration now, then you are mistaken! Now I only have more energy to annoy you!” Mirdal exhaled noisily into his open mouth, arching towards Stolas in surprise and involuntarily rubbing his own furry crotch against the fluff of his crotch, where a slit also began to open behind the fur. There was an obvious sucking sensation under his flat stomach, as if the angel had not only transferred his energy to Stolas, but also taken a part of him into himself, poisoning him with desire and sweet fire: "We're going to embarrass ourselves." “W-we have already embarrassed ourselves…” Stolas looked around the park to see if passersby had stopped nearby, “but I cannot... stop”, he pressed his forehead against Mirdal's shoulder. "I wonder if you'll still be saint after this…” he didn't finish his sentence, only moaning faintly as his hips involuntarily moved, rubbing against Mirdal's fur. "Are you... are you sure you're comfortable standing up?" Mirdal dug his hind paws into the turf of the path. His legs were tense, they felt tired, and, in addition, they hurt, as if after a long run. But the friction between the crotches was figuratively electrifying and literally exciting. The smooth but disheveled feathers and the seductive figure of the demon were tempting to rub against them once again. "Don't you want to find a... more comfortable place?" Mirdal stroked Stolas's chiseled sides and ruffled the feathers on the bones of his skinny pelvis. Stolas knew it was dangerous. What if someone sees... if Blitz finds out... if Octavia understands… But his demonic nature had already defeated his mind, and the owl nodded weakly: “Your place…” the voice was trembling with shame and desire. “It is... definitely softer there than on our old couch.” Before pulling away, Mirdal carefully inserted two or three fingers into the slit of Stolas, wiggled them as much as the elastic tightness allowed, as a promise of what would happen after. Stolas gasped as Mirdal's fingers penetrated inside, his cloaca convulsively contracting around them, releasing a fresh stream of juices. The beak opened slightly in a silent moan. Having released the owl, the angel opened the portal to his house, entered there and looked around, waiting for the guest who had fallen into debauchery. The passage to another reality shone in front of him, beckoning, frightening and exciting at the same time. Stolas, however, hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside. Once in the angelic chambers, he froze at the entrance, nervously running his claws over his jacket. He didn't know where to go, so he just stood there, trembling. Mirdal carefully removed the jacket from Stolas' shoulders, hanging it on a clothes hook: "Now we're not going to worry about Stella or Blitz catching us, but about Lamira," was the name of Mirdal's wife. The angel himself looked playfully at the owl and put his hand on his shoulder, which was still wearing a red shirt — the only thing that remained on Stolas from clothes. “Well, you're in heaven now, demon! Don't even know what to do to you for this unholy desecration..." Mirdal's palm went lower, tracing the fluff on the owl's chest. "Chain you up so you can't touch yourself where you shouldn't? Or just arrange to bask in the softest clouds and replace all the darkness in you with joyful light? Can a demon fall back, hmm?” “Choose for yourself... my holy executioner,” his claws gripped the edge of his shirt, as if trying to hold on to the last crumbs of decency, but his eyes burned with passionate submission, "I am your prisoner now!" Mirdal led Stolas into a cramped, modest bedroom with wooden walls, but the most important thing was that there was a dragon-sized double bed, so soft that it was comparable to a cloud. Stolas, shyly tucking his tail feathers between his legs, timidly climbed onto the bed after Mirdal, digging his claws into the coverlet. He spread his legs slightly, exposing the raised, slightly damp feathers around the slit. His four eyes stared at Mirdal with a wild mixture of shame and anticipation: "Angels can sin too, right?" He ran a claw along his crotch. Mirdal tried to hide his own excitement behind a laugh and squeezed his hips, hiding his slit. The angel's long, flexible tail wrapped around Stolas' legs and pulled on his tail, thereby only increasing the tension in his crotch. Stolas yelped, the sparkling pain-pleasure made him arch. And Mirdal was running his claws over his partner's tempting belly under his shirt and felt an incredible tension in Stolas, which he wanted to relieve, an old depression, which the owl wanted to temporarily forget with a new unusual partner. Mirdal's claw passed along the slit of the Stolas carefully, not wounding, maybe only slightly tickling and entering the very shallows. Stolas shuddered all over, his cloaca immediately contracted in a futile attempt to catch this tantalizing contact. With his other hand, stirring the feathers on his neck, Mirdal bent his partner's head to his slit and rubbed it against his beak, squinting with pleasure. A high, trembling moan escaped from the beak, Stolas froze for a second, stunned, but then, with a high and trembling moan, he stuck his tongue out of the beak to lead along the angelic slit. He knew it was a sin for both of them. That he's a demon, that he's an angel, that Lamira is somewhere nearby, and Blitzo… But he had already been dragged into this mess. All that was left was a burning desire that had been accumulating for years, sometimes under the guise of a prince, sometimes as a victim of circumstances. Mirdal closed his eyes, opened his mouth, stretched out his legs from the sweetness. He inserted his fingers into the depths of the Stolas, massaging the tender flesh there, rubbing with soft pads, spreading out to the sides to pull, not to the point of pain, but so that the cloaca could not even contract, but only tightened and excited the genital nerves. Stolas howled, shaking, and ragged, hoarse sounds came out of his beak. Knowing how much Stolas loves power over himself, and just wanting to rub his slit against a hard beak and feel his tongue deeper, Mirdal pressed the poor guy's head into his crotch, even wrapping and clamping his breathing holes. Stolas was trapped, and it was driving him crazy: "Mmmph!" Mm-hmm!.. A fire raged inside him — the lack of air, the fingers stretching him so indecently, the tongue with which the angel forced him to work deeper and deeper.… And then he felt a wave coming over his head. A trickle of clear liquid gushed around his fingers in a silent orgasm. Stolas was drowning in angelic flesh, but even that didn't stop him — he continued to lick, begging with this movement not to let go of him, not to give a break. When Mirdal finally loosened his grip, Stolas collapsed onto the bed, beak ajar, eyes rolled back, feathers ruffled, and drops of his juices trickled down the inside of his thighs. “I... never... just... by fingers…” he croaked, breaking into a squeak. "Didn't you and Blitz experiment with erotic asphyxia in bed?" Mirdal guessed that Stolas was lying, but he had no idea why: he just quarreled with his lover, did not want to poison a romantic moment in the company of a hot angel with conversations about exes, or maybe he wanted Mirdal to catch him in deception and "punish" him more. Stolas rolled his eyes: “Oh, we HAD experimented... but Blitz is a complete coward in this regard! He's afraid he'll accidentally strangle me to death, and then he'll have to explain himself to Via. And he's also sure that I'm being overly dramatic and just want him to hold my neck tighter... which, however, is absolutely true!..” “If anything, Blitz knows who to call to resurrect you! And about the fingers… Maybe even less will be enough," Mirdal, inhaling deeply from tenderness for his friend and partner, cut off one of his long tail feathers with his claw for the sake of his addiction to self-abasement and inserted it to the full depth into the Stolas, stirring the ticklish villi. The feather was so light that the cloaca shrank as if empty, only getting stirred up in the most secluded places by the object that used to be part of the body, but now seemed to be attacking it. And Stolas howled, arching his body. He had never imagined that tail feathers could be used like this. Part of his pride, decoration of Goetia… And now one of them was treacherously tickling him from the inside out, making the sewer shrink in vain, tremble with overexcitation. He was overwhelmed — not even physically, but with sensations that Mirdal was sucking out of him like juice from a ripe fruit. "I can't stand it...P-please, at least something more…" “Well, no… You don't even deserve to breathe," feeling that Stolas particularly liked it, Mirdal took a transparent bag from under the bed, put it on Stolas' head and tied it around his skinny neck. And then, as if nothing had happened, he hugged him and began to rub his crotch against him, dispersing the feather inside more strongly, gently stroking his stomach with his fingers and palms. “Your hell will be scorching and painful”. Stolas trembled as the bag stretched over his head — his beak opened convulsively in an attempt to inhale, but only pulled the plastic deeper. Stolas tried to tear the package with his beak and claws, but it wouldn't work, because the demon wasn't going to get out of it, but just pretended and played: "Mmmph!" The air was running out. Oxygen starvation clouded consciousness, but the sensations… they only got sharper. Every movement of the feather inside, every touch of the angel's paws on the retracted stomach, every crushing thrust of the crotch against the trembling body — all this collapsed with renewed force. A new wave of juice gushed out, and his legs convulsed. And the worst part was that Stolas didn't want it to stop. When the world began to blur and his body began to weaken, Mirdal untied the package himself. Stolas collapsed on the bed, his beak gasping for air, and tears rolled from his eyes. The feathers were wrinkled, the cloaca was aching and throbbing, and the tail was twitching. "I am an angelic whore..." insatiable madness burned in four cloudy red eyes. His mouth was slightly open in heavy breathing, and his eyes were shining from the ecstasy he had experienced. "But dirty as a demon!" Mirdal pulled out a feather from his trembling interior, which had fallen off from waterlogging, and threw it into a slobbery bag, teasing Stolas that he would do the same to him ... although it was clear from the cheerful eyes that the angel was doing all this out of tenderness and willingness to arrange an unforgettable rest. Almost a renewal! “Get up, let's go to the garden to the meditation pond, we need to wash you well. Don't you think you went overboard?” when Mirdal teasingly shook the bag with the ruined pen, the demon moaned faintly, but there was no shame in his gaze: "Overdoing it?.. He laughed, his claws trembling on the tattered sheet. “You are no close to Blitz's records for injuries during sex. I didn't even bleed!” Taking Stolas out into the hallway, the golden-haired man began to unbutton his shirt, and Stolas weakly raised his arms to help the angel pull off his last clothes: “Angelic... perversions,” the beak opened in something between shock and admiration. "Those not taught in Hell! Are you sure you want to walk me naked through the garden?” Owl-demon's voice sounded uncertain, but his eyes showed excitement at the very idea. The thought that someone might see him so torn apart made him get fired up again. He could already imagine Blitzo banging his head on the table, Loona twirling at her temple, the old servants whispering, Stella screaming, and Octavia looking at him with contempt. He took a step forward, ostentatiously straightening his back — to let everyone see what he had become. “The inner garden,” Mirdal broke off the fantasy. And he took his hand, tracing the center of his palm with his thumb as he led him into the courtyard, to a placidly murmuring stream that filled a picturesque pond, framed by unkempt, but wildly beautiful bushes and stones, stacked picturesquely. "Now that you're a little satified… Is it possible to find out why humiliation turns you on so much? And not every one, either, because you don't like it from Stella. How can help your soul calm down and... not blame yourself... for what?” Stolas froze at the water's edge. The beak opened slightly, but no words came out — just a quiet, trembling exhale. He looked at his reflection in the pond: a demon with eyes full of shame and... relief? Okay... he had to say this, not for Mirdal, but for himself. “Two reasons. If not more, but so far I have only realized two in myself. First of all, I've done so many stupid things in my life that I don't think the punishments fate has given me are enough. I would like to add more myself. Then I stop self-blaming for a while, because the bad demon got what he deserved, justice was restored, and I can talk to the rest of them on equal terms, as if I was pure. However, my methods of self-punishment often harm others... and everything starts all over again. And secondly... when I give myself up to suffering voluntarily, I feel better than when evil just happens to me, without my will. Or at the will of someone else. If you or Blitz are fucking me harsh, it's not because you like the way I cry, but because I asked," Stolas paused, suddenly realizing what it sounded like: a prince of Hell, eager to be humiliated in order to feel control. The irony would be funny if it weren't for the bitterness in his voice. "As for the soul..." he suddenly pressed his forehead against Mirdal's shoulder, "... it's already calm. Thank you for that”. And then he stepped into the water, dragging the angel with him — as if washing away not dirt, but years of loneliness. "So... just don't stop. Even if I ask for it”. Stolas's eyes were burning—not with the flames of hell, but with something much more dangerous: hope. Mirdal followed him into the water and gently placed his palms on his chest: “And if want to do what you ask? If want to help?” "Even I can't make you. You would then stop communicating with your christian pseudo-friends and erase your abusive mom's number from your phone. And then you would have killed Andrealfus, taken all his souls and contracts for yourself, and become a solar demon," Stolas licked his lips. “And then you would definitely stop pretending to be someone bizzare and blaming yourself for your lack of kindness, righteousness and Light nonsense. Well, how are you going to punish me for such sacrilege, huh?..” “Take a deep breath. You won't get any more oxygen today!” slightly hugging, but not squeezing, his neck, Mirdal pushed Stolas under the water and sat on him, hugging his pelvis with his hips: “Bulb-bulb, waterfowl!” Stolas choked not so much from the water as from delight when Mirdal pinned him to the bottom. Bubbles burst out of his beak, and his feathers shot up like a dark cloud: "Mmmph! Gurgle!” Owl-demon struggled under the water, but not to escape — just to feel the weight of the angel on himself, his hips squeezing his pelvis. The claws dug into the bottom of the pond, the incomplete tail convulsively thrashed, raising the murk. And the most beautiful thing was that the air was running out. His head was already buzzing, his consciousness was blurred, but somewhere in the depths of his soul Stolas knew that Mirdal would not let him drown. The angel was just making him feel that edge... and it was perfect. As the darkness at the edge of his vision began to thicken, he finally felt himself being pulled to the surface. He collapsed onto the shore, his beak gasping for air, and his body trembled with coughing and incredible excitement. "You... you almost killed me...!" Stolas grabbed Mirdal by the shoulders, his eyes completely wild. Then, unexpectedly, even for himself, he laughed — hoarsely, hysterically, happily. "Do it again, please." "It won't be that easy this time! Want to feel your torment…” — Mirdal lowered the head of the owl-demon back into the water, and, in contrast, held his pelvis to the surface in order to run a deft tongue into the still wet, but already clean crotch. The angel's ears pricked up, catching every gurgle, every splash, and every muffled mumble. Stolas howled violently under the water, his body arched, claws dug into the muddy bottom, legs twitched convulsively. He was caught between two sensations: suffocation — his lungs burned, his consciousness grew cloudy, water filled his beak; and unbearable pleasure — an angelic tongue scraped him from the inside, as if trying to get to the most demonic essence. The interior shrank in vain, giving out new trickles, which were immediately washed off with water. But Mirdal didn't stop — he could feel the demon fluttering excitedly beneath him... and how his struggle for air was gradually weakening. At the last moment, when Stolas' body was already limp, Mirdal pulled him out. The demon collapsed onto the shore, spitting out water, and his slit spontaneously contracted, as if still trying to hold his tongue: “I... I'm coming... without... hands... just from... your mouth and... death..." whispered Stolas, before consciousness finally passed out. He woke up fully healed and rested for the first time in a long time, as if the years of tension had dissolved in the water of that pond. A torn feather has grown back. Mirdal had just finished combing Stolas' hair, pulling away from him with a smile: “It's lucky that you played under supervision, it would be dangerous to do this alone!” "Now I smell like damp incense," Stolas touched the tail, which was intact, as if nothing had happened. Angelic Healing… It always left this strange mark: physical integrity and mental nakedness. "I can imagine how Blitz will tease us”. Stolas sat up, stretched, and, lo and behold, his back did not crack, and there was no usual fatigue in his eyes. Even the beak seemed less sharp on the tongue, as if an angel had scraped all the sarcasm out of it. “Well, home?” Mirdal asked. “Of course, it's not as beautiful and well-equipped as here… But there are also those who love you”. “Yes... home”, the demon got up, put on a washed shirt and suddenly hugged Mirdal, hiding his beak in his golden mane? - “thanks. Not just for... that”. Then he pulled back, with his usual theatrical grace, and took a step towards the portal. But before entering, he turned around with a playful squint: "If I'm really drowning, will you fish me out instead of trying to drown me more?" "Next time it's my turn to suffer," Mirdal took his hand with tenderness and kissed it like a princess, without ceasing to look into his happy eyes with cunning. “love you too, and keep you safe”. Stolas froze, every time this scoundrel surprised him until his feathers stood on end. The claws of the kissed hand trembled in the air, as if he didn't know where to put them. "Your turn?" He snorted, but there was excitement in his voice. "I don't even know if you can stand my fantasies," he bent down one last time so that their foreheads touched, and whispered, "I'm going to throw you into space, sun. Without water. Without air. Just... me”. Then he pulled back, turned gracefully, and stepped through the portal, waving his whole tail again. But most importantly, he was smiling. Not theatrical. It's not fake. For real. He had an angel who would pull him out of even the deepest waters. Only this angel wouldn't be himself if he hadn't ruined the romance of the moment: "Tell Blitz he's not putting the squeeze on you." Stolas whirled around, his beak parted in mute shock—but the portal had already closed, leaving only a golden glow and a malicious angelic wink. He froze in the middle of Blitz's office, feathers ruffled, claws clenched.… It wasn't a scream. Not swearing. It was a grinding noise: “THIS... THIS HOLY MAN!!! Okay... okay!.. Next time, I'll stick my feather... right in your holy mouth!!!” No one answered him in the empty office. Octavia, not wanting to imagine what kind of perversions her father was indulging in now, sat on the bed in her room and was startled by a wild scream and the crash of a vase broken by Stella, reached for her headphones: "It's adult madness season again," she muttered, turning up the music at full volume. Mirdal wrote in his diary: "The therapy session was successful. The client showed healthy aggressive reactions instead of passive depression. Ready for further rehabilitation."