CW/TW: mentioned/referenced abuse; both emotional/psychological and sexual
This is in no way a Stella-sympathetic fic. I am portraying her as she is in canon - a sadistic abuser, a control-freak, an entitled classist and a bigot.
This fic is from her POV; so it will present her interpretation of things. While she is clearly aware of and embraces her treatment of Stolas I believe she would still justify her actions, think that she's in the right all the time regardless of what she does.
I hope despite her rose-tinted glasses it will be obvious how despicable and cruel Stella is, and that she is in the wrong.
...
How dare he.
How fucking dare he.
There were many things that her sack-of-shit husband had done over the years that Stella could curse him for. Being useless (lazy, even) in the bedroom. Being a ditzy daydreamer who didn't take his status or role seriously. Cluttering their palace with his stupid potplants. Being too soft-hearted with their offspring.
The way he acted like he was tolerating her presence at best; her gorgeous, perfectly-poised presence. For their whole fucking marriage, he'd just been 'tolerating' her! Not appreciating her, as she bloody deserved; a Goetia of the finest bloodlines prepared her whole life for ascension into the upper echelons of Hellish society. She could very well easily say how dare he on that account.
Even on their wedding day he'd looked like he was marching to his execution. Well, if that's what he expected from this bloody farce then that's what she'd give him. And she did.
When Stolas entrusted her with his botany collection, that one and only time, she let those bloody weeds wither away. Whenever he holed away in his study to read or stargaze or play drag show dress-up, she would find a way to interrupt him. Soon enough, Stella found herself hosting parties and functions befitting of their Goetial prestige, and if they squeezed Stolas's me-time and forced him to stand by and listen to her gossip about his failings, well then that was a happy little coincidence, wasn't it?
When he'd claimed not to be in the mood, on certain nights while they were still trying for their one-and-only heiress (and a few times after that egg had been hatched), she'd forced herself on him, and still brought him to climax inside of her. She'd known Stolas was homosexual, all along (it was so fucking obvious), and she'd taken pride that she could bend his base carnal instincts against his conscious will.
When he'd started drinking improper amounts at improper hours – first heady bloodwines, then Absinthe – she'd slink behind him and remind him what a failure of a man he was, a coward resorting to drink instead of facing reality. And she'd redoubled her efforts when he'd started popping antidepressants.
It was frustrating, infuriating work at times keeping him in line, for she had to do it constantly.
Still, Stella accepted (as gallantly she could) most of Stolas's rank flaws, as a tradeoff for the social perks her marriage granted her. This, after all, was what she was meant to be. A princess, a social butterfly. The ring on her finger was not a shackle tying her to a husband, it was her key to power. Influence over fine social circles, admiring looks from her lessers, a foot in the door for impressing the higher royalty of Hell; the Seven Deadly Sins themselves.
And she had control over him, both subtly in public and openly in their home. He was weak-willed and submitted to her, apparently for the sake of their offspring; he went to such great lengths to shelter and spoil Octavia it was almost laughably sad.
She took some savage joy out of impressing that truth on her impotent mate; that his technically higher status was meaningless, that she could control their family affairs and all he had to do was fulfill his obligations and waste his time stargazing.
None of it was what he wanted, that was abundantly clear. But it was what he deserved. And for a time, that status quo was maintained.
These past few months, though, had been a succession of final straws.
Cheating on her with - of all things - a commoner imp. Oh, that certainly was it. Sullying their bedsheets with the seed of a bottom-feeding, inferior, subservient being. AND by the sounds of it (and the shreds of their beds velvet curtains clearly used as restraints and a blindfold) her insolent twinkish fag of a husband had been the submissive one in that encounter!
He'd debased himself, to a lower class! To a lesser species! He'd perverted the natural order of things!
For fucks sake, he could have had the decency to commit adultery on her with someone from the proper social caste! That would have been at least acceptable, at least made tongues wag in the right manner when she exposed him for it. (No one but Stolas needed to know that Stella had also cheated on him, and she'd made sure to pick the proper partners when she needed a better shag than she could squeeze out of her 'husband'.)
And then trying to divorce her, in his lust-addled mania! Announcing it in front of her peers with absolutely sickening and improper glee, while they were caked in a splattered cake tainted by impish filth!
She'd clamped down on that nonsense quickly, made the piece of shit cower and babble about the wellbeing of their heiress again. She'd gotten on with trying to patch up the damage already done to their (her) reputation. The silence of her tea-party peers could be bought, but gossip spread and once-polite eyes became judgemental or pitying.
Her lifestyle was at risk. She could not afford to be seen as a barren failure of a lady or as a sob story. She could not afford to lose the comforts she was accustomed to or the social sway she'd wielded for years. The imps could not be given a reason to rise up and revolt against the proper order of Hell, in any form or manner.
And Stolas had to be put back in his place as well.
But then he'd kept on sleeping with that fucking imp! Again and again, with regularity, dirtied their bed more! Flirted with the little beast in public, even – on his revolting annual escapade to roll in the dirt of the Wrath Ring with its backwards rural population!
And now, Stolas attended one of Asmodeus's shows with that wretched assassin, and look where it had gotten him! On the front pages of the tabloids, his infidelity laid bare for all to see along with this imp's sordid past – then passed out drunk amidst his weed-infested hallways – then warbling some self-pitying ballad out on the balcony.
Had he really fucking believed he was going on a date with this Blitzo? Of course that little waste-of-flesh didn't love him back, those imps weren't capable of higher thought and emotion anyway. She couldn't even comprehend how much of a fucking star-crossed airhead Stolas was to miss the obvious that this imp only wanted to use him to steal and thieve, to use him (like she used him) to access Goetia wealth and treasure and claim it with dirty claws.
And yet…the way he'd stood up for himself for once in his goddamned existence, just a moment ago, and grabbed her arm before she could slap sense and fear and consequence into him, and ordered her to leave with a firmness in his voice she'd never heard before…
If Stella took a moment to imagine herself an observer on this sordid affair, she could almost see how one could be impressed that Stolas actually had the guts.
But why was any of this impressive when it was a complete and utter betrayal of blood ties, of hierarchy, of Lucifer's trust and leadership? And this was even with his sickening dreams shattered and defeated; instead of accepting his lot and crawling back to her he still defied the bloodlines that had made him a Prince of the Ars Goetia, defied tradition, defied propriety, defied her.
Ungrateful, ignoble, pathetic, selfish imp-sucking deviant.
All he'd ever had to do in their marriage was the bare minimum to make sure they (or more importantly she) looked good. Act proper in public. Prepare their daughter to be wed off. Make a bloody effort to pleasure her once in a while, perhaps.
But it seemed that was too much to ask, to demand of him.
How dare he. How dare he even exist.
Not that much of it really mattered, now. She'd packed her bags long ago, as soon as Stolas's debauchery reared its ugly head again, and finally started exploring the avenue she should have taken all along: elimination.
Being a widow would garner her sympathy, improve her odds of remarrying and keep her social standing in reasonably good graces. The only thing Stella regretted about assassination was not seeing the signs and doing it sooner.
If this latest assassin was as good as he claimed and didn't miss the fucking mark again, Stolas would plague her existence no more. And if this 'Striker' did fail again, well, she'd kill him for it and find another. Or do the dirty work herself; she had Goetial powers too, after all.
Stolas would pay dearly.
He deserved it.
He deserved it all.