Actions

Work Header

The New Receptionist.

Chapter 14: A Swan And an Imp Walk into a Bar...

Summary:

How'd all this shit really start?

Notes:

Honestly, hate to admit...!

But I had a GOOD time writing this one.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

.






.







.






Well. He was fucked. 

He was hired to put a bullet into someone's head all the damn time. It was easy work, for easy cash. 

He was hired all the time, because he was good at that.

However,

He wasn’t good at “Ghost-face” style calls before doing the job, because assassinations don’t require a back-and-forth. 

All it should’ve taken, was his blessing-tipped rifle, a window, and That ditzy, blue-blooded fucker in range. 

And he would have this crazy fucking swan off his back. 

 

But no.

 

Now HE seemed bad at his fucking job, because this particular fucker has got some luck on his side. 

Luck in the form of 3 red little thorns now tearing the flesh from his side. 

If this was any other client, he would’ve dropped it and told them to kick rocks. 

That it wasn’t a skill issue, but purely because they weren’t worth the time of day.

 

But NO. 

It had to be a royal. 

A royal pain. 

 

The Now Marchioness of the Ars Goetia, one of the lesser keys little Sisters. 

 

Trying to put a hit out on her own husband.

 

And it wasn’t like the negotiation and consultation were smooth sailing either…

 

 

Stella fixed the capelet over her shoulders, her personal servant looking out the window as the car made a complete stop.

 

“Uh…Your highness, we’ve arrived.” She looked back at their supposed destination, seeming to be the exact address of the small slip of paper her mistress handed the driver. 

 

But why would her royal Highness want to go to a seedy bar on the outskirts of Wrath?

 

“Are you sure this is-” 

“It has to be. Come along now,” Stella pulled the hood over her feathers, her servant squeaking as she got out of her seat to help Stella out of hers. 

She took her hand gently, noting her outfit, Stella in a much more casual black cocktail dress revealing her stockinged legs, her hood covering most of her discernible features…for she didn’t have the magical understanding to conjure herself a disguise. 

Despite her mistress's displeasing attitude, she feared for her, looking from her and then the  concrete jungle she was about to thrust herself into. 

“Perhaps we should call a hellhound to escort you, Your Highness?” 

“Oh, please. I’m more than capable of doing this on my own.” 

“B-but if someone were to find you here…in such an outfit no less…”

Are you finished?” Stella looked at her, scanning the servant's face before sighing.

“Worry not. Wait for me here.” 

She walked with confidence, clutching her purse as she made her way to the bar, some demons whistling as she walked past.

 

Nice view!” 

 

Give us a smile, love?” 

 

She sneered, pushing past the doors and into the… den of duplicity. 

 

The Swan scanned the bar, seeing an empty spot and perched herself atop the barstool, crossing her legs and adjusting her skirt in a particularly captivating way that caught the attention of anyone in her vicinity. 

She looked from eye to eye, the sinners and hellborn alike gravitated towards this hooded stranger seemingly looking to own the place the minute she leaned into the bartop, gaining the tender’s attention. 

“What could I getcha’...?” The tender’s eyes were darting in places Stella wasn’t too pleased with, but she paid no mind, 

“Just a query, yet I'm certain you’ll have an answer for me.” She played the part, batting her eyes and swishing some of her feathers over her shoulder, the Bartender nodding vigorously.

“Oh, anything madam! I’m at your service!” 

She smiled, “You see…I am not from these parts…I don’t get off the Ring much….” She pointed upwards, the Bartender following along. 

 

“But…I know a lot about a certain someone… who could clean up a little mess for me?” 

It went a bit quiet, the Bartender looking at the other drunks before nodding in the direction of a back-door. 

 

“Well, you’re in luck, madam. He happens to be in right now.” 

Stella’s next smile came much more genuine, spinning around in her chair and holding out her hand.

“Then I hope you can take me to him…for a small chat?”  

“O-of course!” He was already running around the bar, taking her hand and helping her out of the stool, even making sure her heels weren’t hooked to the stool so she wouldn’t topple over, despite not having a single drink. 

 

Because everyone in that bar expected only a drunken sailor to ask for him. 

 

To bat against him. 

 

 

They met that night. 

 

A place in the back, with a pool-table and his favorite liquor.



He was fixing to stay in for only a short while before heading out. 

 

But the Bartender came knocking right before he finished his glass. 

 

He opened the door, and there the tender was standing, with a hooded woman 2 times his size. 

 

She looked at him curiously, before crossing her arms and tapping the lock on her purse. 

 

He remembered the first time looking into those eyes, and usually the eyes of a stranger didn’t tempt him. 

She seemed to get it too. 

 

“Got a lady here lookin’ for ya! Thought you’d have the…the time to chat.”

 

He looked from the bartender, to the lady, who was already walking in and inspecting the room, hands folded over her purse now.

 

And it looked heavy too. 

 

“...’kay. Beat it, go clean up some bar peanuts, or somethin’.” 

 

The tender was gone in a puff of dust, and the woman was standing in the middle of the room. 

 

“You lookin’ to keep this discreet, I reckon?” He closed the door slowly, looking back at her. 

“Hardly, I’m standing before you, aren’t I?” She opened her purse, “I’m only meant to do this quickly, I need this done as soon as you can.” 

With a gloved hand, she handed him a picture. 

He kept his arms folded, but she still stepped forward, practically crushing the photo into his palm once he saw no other option.

 

“And whose ‘this supposed to be?” He turned it over, and he became as silent as she was. 



It was a photo of a Mighty, Prince Of Hell.

 

A member of the Ars Goetia, one of hell's supreme families harboring one of Lucifer's most loyal kings. 

Being one of the King-in-questions Sons. 

 

Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia…

 

And damn…

 

Had to be a picture of him with his kid no less? 

 

“I need. Him. gone.” She said simply, venom dripping from her words.

This was usually how clients would appear before him when they wanted something done. 

 

But frankly, this woman probably had enough rage to kill him herself…

 

“Heh. No dice... yet .” he smirked, watching her face, “What else you got in that bag?”

 

The lady huffed, “Depends. What have you got in store for this…” She gestured to the photo, finding the words to describe him. “ Traitorous embarrassment?” 

 

He was skeptical, walking towards her, but she didn’t seem intimidated. 

Usually do the ole’...Blow to the brains.” He shrugged, mimicking a gun in his hands and pointing it towards her. 

She took offense to this, 

“Back-” She warned, But he didn’t listen. 

“Or are you looking for a Tarantino flick for this guy? ‘Cause that’s not my gig-” 

 

BAM! 

 

He barely even noticed her getting a pool cue from off the table, slamming it between the two of them and causing him to instinctively withdraw backwards.

He growled, reaching for his belt.

You bi-” 

“-Ahem.” She jerked her hand to the latter side of the pool table, his pistol sitting idly near a now melted cup of brandy. 

He groaned, his tail feeling his blade tucked into his boot. 

Doesn’t mean I can’t cut you, lady. What gives?” 

I could feel your breath on me!” She said as if it were reasonable, “And I could smell the cheap alcohol you were wetting your tongue with no less…Sir.” She stated, placing the cue back on the table and even leaning backwards onto it. 

The moment she met him, she held herself to a much higher standard, despite ordering someone dead like a…

 

“But I’ve come here because I’ve been told…that you are the best for this particular job,” 

  She put a hand to her purse, “I’ll pay you accordingly, if you make this man nothing more than a distant memory… Or are you not the best after all?” 

Striker glared, “I see my reputation precedes me, but damn lady, what’s with the attitude?” 

“I’m merely returning yours, Sir.” Her patience was wearing thin, and that made two of them. 

“But do your ears not work, or is the customer always right? I said I'd pay you, and all you have to do…Is get. Rid. of. Him.” 

She seemed to already be ordering him around despite nothing truly starting, and he was annoyed already. 

“...Well I only take cash up front, He crossed his arms, trying to call her bluff, “You better have the green to fork over for-” 

“Payments are not an issue, I’ll provide weapons and any other funds.”

He raised an eyebrow, wondering if she really did her homework.

“Gonna take some heavy-duty gun power to knock down a fella like this.” He shrugged, “That being a…” 

She nodded, “ A blessing-tipped rifle? Or perhaps a pistol will suit you better?” 

Hm. 

She had it all figured out, huh?

He was partly impressed, waiting a couple of seconds to see if she was going to crack. Maybe burst out laughing? Realize this was becoming real and back out? 

“...Oh. You serious, lady? You gonna trust me with that?” 

 “Just as long as your success is insured.”

He was about to speak again, but she grumbled, “Are you going to keep being skeptical, or are you going to take me up on my offer? Is this how negotiations usually work with you?”

 

 She finally showed the cash, her bag consisting mainly of it. It was all in organized, green stacks, Old Mammons face smiling back at him. Calling to him. 

 

“Well I’ll be-” 

 

 “-But don’t think i’ll be giving someone like you any sort of money right now?” She spoke as if he was crazy, but she was the real crazy one in this situation. 

 

“What? Needa see what I can do first?” 

 

She laughed, a snobbish, guttural laugh that fit her form. It made him feel small, a growl coming from the back of his throat. 

 

Satan, why was he tolerating this bitch in the first place? 

 

That’s it.” 

 

Without a warning, his blade was wrapped in his tail, throwing it past her head and nicking her capelet in the process, striking the wall behind her. It was enough air to make the hood slip from her head, revealing her face and show the sneer she permanently wore, magenta eyes casting a shine that silenced his momentary pride. 

He faltered, realizing who this stranger was, “...You…?” 



She glanced at the wall, then rolled her eyes, pulling a switchblade seemingly out of nowhere, 

 

“Hmph. If you’re going to kill my husband, you’ll need to work on your aim first.” 

 

She threw her blade without much of a second thought, knocking his own out of the wall and flat onto the floor with a heavy noise. 

 

He looked from the blades, then back at her face. She glared at him, then straightened out her skirt and ran a hand through her feathers, adjusting her capelet,

as she put her hood back on.

 

“Once I see the life dwindle from his eyes, you will earn a payment worth as much as your work.” 

 

The sneer she had soon melted as she walked to the door, turning her head once more to give him one last glance. 

 

“Alright then.” He hummed, a melting-pot of conflicting emotions and the sight of green still in his vision. 

“Pleasure to be…workin’ with ya…?” He tilted his hand, making her grimace and roll her eyes,

 

“Ugh, Madam, or Miss will suffice.” She pulled open the door, her heels clicking against the asphalt. 

 

Let’s hope this is worthwhile.” 

 



It’s been too many phone calls. 

 

Too many stakeouts.

 

Too many run-ins. 

 

He’s gotten so close, yet so far. 

 

And this motherfucker’s picture has practically found a new permanent home in his back pocket.

 

Right next to Stella Goetia’s number, scribbled on a napkin. 

Still somehow smelling of the Swan’s perfume. 

It was somehow sticking to him in the worst way.

 

Everyday, she’d squawk his name incessantly. 



Over the phone, 

 

Across the table from him behind a menu at a dormant diner,

 

Even in her very own home, now no longer hers on account of her recent divorce. 

 

To a man that should’ve been shot beneath the light of the Harvest Moon. 






Still, warranted or not. 

 

She was constantly mocking his work, mocking his character. 

Pushed every single one of his buttons to a point he thought about taking that Blessed rifle between her eyes. 

 

Even sometimes making him believe her.

 

But oh…

 

Oh…



Oh, she was wrong. 

 

Why?

 

Because, 

 

He was Striker.

 

And He? 

 

He was gonna beat this fucker down and shut her yappy beak if it was the last thing he’d ever do.

 

.




.




.



STRIKER, FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK, IF I DON’T SEE HIS BRAIN MATTER. ALL OVER THE PAVEMENT. I SWEAR-” Stella screeched into the phone, Striker not even bothering to flinch away, he was much too used to it. 

 

“I told you, m’am! I’m gonna go up there tonight.” Striker said like it was all no big deal, little did she know the expression he had on his face. She stamped her foot, 

 

“ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME RIGHT NOW?” 

 

Striker looked at his pistol on the nightstand, grabbing it and checking the barrel.

 

“Least not now, m’lady.” 

 

Let’s just say…Stella didn’t take too kindly to Striker’s jokes, groaning. 

 

SATAN, Just get this fucking DONE! I’m getting tired of your…your…!”

 

“My what…?” 

 

She reached for a word but just sighed, “ No word can even begin to-” 

Striker chuckled, “ Aw, you out of steam?” 

“A-ARE YOU?! SATAN, I’M ALREADY HUNGOVER ENOUGH…AND YOU ARE JUST ADDING TO MY HEADACHES!” 

Now he reeled back, her screech almost as shrill as a fucking teapot, Striker about to officially lose his patience. 

 

Look, I did what you asked, didn’t I? Called him? Aren’t you gonna give me some grace for that?”

 

He could almost see her glare, matching it with more teeth. 

 

“You didn’t call anyone! You hired some amateurs, that ended up making him LAUGH instead of making him…PEE HIMSELF LIKE THE FUCKING BABY HE IS!” 

 

Yeah? He’s the baby? Striker mused, grabbing the bottle from the nightstand and taking a swig, 

Wanting to follow her down the drunken-river.

“Well? This shit’s goin’ down, and then we can finally finish this. And remind me not to take jobs from upper-ring Elites like you again.” 

 

He expected to be greeted with another scream, or insult, but instead, this seemed to finally pin the old Swan down, only jagged breath being emitted from the other side. 

 

Hm. Our work will be concluded soon enough then?” 

Yeah. Finally.” 

Stella fidgeted with the phone-chord, “...We’ll be rid of him? Tonight?” 

Striker didn’t like repeating himself, “ What I said, didn’t I?”

“Really? Like the last times you said you’ve done it, will tonight be any different?”  

“Ought to, Found out where the fucks live, so he should be there tonight.” 

 



Now, they both shared jagged breaths, Striker looking at the rifle and turning it in his hand. 

 

...Hey, m’lady?” 

 

Stella didn’t like whatever was going on in her chest, pressing a hand to it and wincing.

 

...What?” 

 



“You gonna let me keep the rifle?” 



.





.




.

 

Notes:

MWAHAHAHAH we'll be back to our regularly scheduled Blitz and the gang action shortly!

Just needed to delve a BIIIT deeper into Stella (and by extension, Striker's) Little engagement to REALLY set the mood.
They got somethin' WEIRD goin' on...

 

LEMME KNOW WHAT U THINK, MY SWEETIES!!!