Chapter Text
Blitzø and Loona had long since left for the office and Stolas was drifting.
When he had meekly voiced that he was thinking of staying home and having a quiet day Blitzø had been quick to agree. Quick to take his hands and lead him back to the sofa, wrap a blanket around him, turn on a soap marathon and make him a fresh cup of tea before leaving in a whirl of chaotic energy.
And Stolas…hadn’t moved. He wasn’t even certain he could move. He just stared blankly forward, unseeing, all his senses pointed inwards.
All of this was his fault. Every single selfish choice, every thoughtless word, every delusional action created a mountain of painful regrets, filled with the hopes and dreams of the people in his life that he consumed and crushed, cementing them into his escarpment.
He inflicted suffering on all of those around him, and the number of individuals most affected had more than doubled - Millie and Moxie. Loona… Blitzø.
Octavia.
He hadn’t stopped fucking up since the moment she had hatched. He should never have even had a child if he was only going to cause her agony.
No, not that.
Out of all the decisions he had made, bringing Octavia into the world was something he could never wish undone.
Although, he thought bitterly, that wasn’t actually a decision he had made. So it really wasn’t his to take pride in.
No, it was the decisions he himself had made that were so pernicious.
A narcissistic, delusional, selfish piece of shit . He just took and took and took .
And Blitzø…
When Blitzø had exploded back into his life, the only thing his precious friend had wanted was a way to kick start his burgeoning business. So fiercely determined to not only revolutionize his field by creating and monopolizing a subset of it, but to also make heretofore unseen advances towards dispelling the classist hierarchy in hell.
By stealing his grimoire. Legal? No, but not reprehensible.
Looking back, there were any number of different choices Stolas could have made. He could have found another way to help him, literally any other way. After all, he had always harbored a deep affection for his first ever friend.
Or, if not, he could have even just had him removed from the palace.
Instead he had…
He could barely remember how it had even started.
‘Follow me, Imp .’
He winced. No.
That was a lie. He could remember it perfectly as if etched into stone in his mind – he just wished the memory was fuzzier, hazier. That he could convince himself it was something they both had wanted. That he didn’t hear the reluctance in Blitzø’s voice. That he didn’t remember the way Blitzø had imphandled him to and fro, not out of passion, but to strategically bring himself close enough to the grimoire to steal it while Stolas was literally in his arms.
That last thought brought a ghost of a smile to his beak, bold and brazen to the last, his Blitzy.
It had started with a joke , or at least… mostly a joke on his part…with a side of wishful thinking. But when he fake-swooned and dramatically declared Blitzø had come to ‘ ravish him’ (he cringed in shame)...he didn’t really think anything would actually happen. Why would it?
“Stolas, please ! I-I need this book, please! I need this book, Stolas.
I will do anything .”
Stolas jerked as he felt a zap rattle through his skull. That was…odd. He blinked rapidly, momentarily curious, wondering what exactly had caused that sensation before the thought faded into nothingness, and his mind was once again looking at Blitzø, Blitz who was begging him for mercy.
His hands had been clasped in fucking supplication. He had been desperate. Ready and willing to make any sacrifice for his family. The ones he actually loved.
Stolas may not have known all of that back then, but even without knowing the specifics, he could never have imagined that Blitzø was actually there for… that reason.
No one would seek him out for…sexual gratification. No one. Not him with his scrawny, awkward, gangly body, his clunky, cringe-inducing dirty talk, and his deep well of unquenchable neediness. His greed. His thirst.
He sure as fuck didn’t hesitate for a second before casting himself as the heroine in some poorly-written erotic novel, making his token protest, clutching his fucking pearls and then swooning the second he was touched. Remembering the way he acted and the things he said made him want to fall through the center of hell past all the rings and die.
And then after all that, he’d guilt tripped Blitzø into fucking him.
And then again into a second round. And another and another and then into staying the night.
And then began their journey, a parade of moonlit trysts, memories he kept close to his heart…until it broke. Over the course of those nights, Blitzø had introduced Stolas to all manner of kinks and perversities, indulged every one of Stolas’ fantasies…no matter how ludicrous or embarrassing it must have been for Blitzø. Toys and roleplays, kinks and positions; Blitzø’s creativity and prowess was seemingly endless. And so was his enthusiasm…Stolas had thought anyway. Until that horrific night at Ozzie’s, when a single sentence from Blitzø dumped an icy bucket of water on his head, and suddenly every memory became tinged with a darker hue.
But regardless of whatever sexual scenario was on the menu, Blitzø returned again and again to a simple blindfold and a gag. In nearly every scene.
And of course he did.
A gag, so he wouldn’t have to listen to the pathetic, repugnant verbal filth that poured unceasingly from his beak. How could he be expected to keep hard enough to “ satisfy his perverted bird needs ” unless he kept his beak stuffed full with a gag or his cock (or both).
And the blindfold. So Blitzø didn’t have to meet Stolas’ moon-eyed gaze. The delusional, sappy, puppy-love look in all four of Stolas’ eyes.
And most importantly, so Blitzø didn’t have to keep up the pretense of looking like he was having a good time.
He imagined Blitzø rolling his eyes and curling his lip in distaste or, more likely, closing his eyes and thinking of someone, anyone else to get him through those nights.
His stomach roiled and he forced his mind to change tracks. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a less painful thought path to tread.
All roads lead back to Octavia. His precious little Starfire (Lucifer, even thinking that name made his heart ache with grief).
He couldn’t even count the ways he had fucked up his daughter. He’d failed her in every possible way.
Fuck being happy, he didn’t deserve to fucking live. The one piece of perfection in his life, the only light in the endless dark, and he had fucked it all up forever.
He should’ve tried harder . He should’ve spent more time with her. Every second that he could spare should have been spent with her .
He should’ve told her he loved her every single day, all the time, so she would never have any doubt in her heart, not one iota of insecurity about how much he cared for her. How she was everything to him.
“We were never enough for you.”
“You never loved mother, and you don’t love me .”
…Even if he had done all that, it seemed that his fractious relationship with Stella was a pivotal facet of his daughter’s pain.
And he had failed cosmically there too.
He had known, since he was 10 years old, that it was his destiny to study the stars, unlock the mysteries of the universe, and lead his legions as a Goetic Prince of Hell.
And that he was destined to do it with her at his side. But she was unhappy with him from the very beginning.
He should have made more of an effort to woo her – he should have lavished her with gifts and compliments.
Instead he had been too wrapped up in his own narcissistic bullshit, feeling sorry for himself, to truly try to ingratiate himself with his intended.
Even now, thinking about trying to create an affection between them, to please Stella, and make himself an even more vulnerable object of her scorn, it made him feel physically sick.
…Fucking Lucifer below , could he be a more selfish scumbag? Even after fucking EVERYTHING up, he can’t even stomach the idea of trying to do better?? Who the fuck was he to complain about his lot in life? He was a fucking prince of hell! Born with a golden spoon and all that.
Stella had made it clear from the very beginning that he was inferior and flawed in every way. The way he dressed, his scrawny waifish figure – not a shred of masculinity in his hollow bones.
And… He should’ve tried harder with her… In bed.
His memory of those… sessions they had had in order to produce an egg were fuzzy at best. But she had never held back about his…less than satisfactory performance - not to him or anyone else who would listen.
But that just proves the point. He should've practiced . He could have done research on how to please… Her. Asked…someone for some…manly advice.
His stomach twisted painfully at that thought.
He just…should have tried harder.
Then, he almost fell off the fucking sofa at the sound of that familiar grating cackle, brash with a touch of the kind of hoarseness that accompanied regular smoking.
Filled with dread, he slowly turned toward the sound, and there she was. Lounging gracefully on a settee that certainly hadn’t been there a few moments ago. Leaning back and laughing with a glint of vindictive satisfaction in her eyes.
“Yes, husband,” she said with a smirk. “You should have tried harder. You never appreciated the fucking gift you got in me. You should have been licking the floor under my feet in gratitude every day for the privilege of my mere presence .”
He could only gape at her in horror. This couldn’t be real, it’s just…not possible. What the fuck is wrong with me??
“Oh, darling,” Stella cooed, answering his silent question. “Do you really want to open that can of worms? Or what else have you been doing all this time, but ruminating on your complete disgrace. The way you’ve poisoned the lives of every single being around you like a pathetic, needy, sucking black hole. And you’d know , you’ve got two of those aaahahhahha.”
He shook his head violently, trying to dispel the fucking nightmare he was living in, and another zing of pain shot through his skull.
“Aww, how saaaaad for poor Stolas,” she taunted. “The pathetic whore, spreading his twig fucking legs for the scum of hell only to find out that even the lowliest of creatures knows he’s not even worth fucking unless he can get something else out of it. Although, I bet it’s convenient for him to have you here, available for use at his fucking whim. Any hole is better than no hole, right Stol-Ass?”
Her evil smirk sharpened, “I wonder how long it’ll last before he’s wrung all the use out of you he can stand? Based on your performance with me , it can’t be long."
Zap!
Another painful shock lit up behind his upper eyes and he yelped, half in pain, and half in supplication for the spectre of his torment to leave him be.
“You’re nothing. You fucking hear me, you little bottom-feeder?? NOTHING.”
He cowered back into the sofa, shaking.
“You’re nothing. And you know you're nothing. Nothing to me. Nothing to that disgusting imp whore. And certainly nothing to your precious daughter.
Say it. Say ‘ I’m nothing.’”
He whimpered.
His ears were ringing so hard his head spun and…he smelled…Hell Roses? Petunias and…Basil? Just like the perfume Stella had favored in the first years of their marriage.
“ SAY IT! ”
And suddenly he was no longer in Blitzø’s apartment, on Blitzø’s sofa. No.
He was back in his bedroom in the palace. Pinned down by a white taloned hand splayed against the side of his face, pressing it down hard into the bed. Unable to move at all with her weight crushing him from above, all the way down his body to where… he didn’t want to look.
So he didn’t. All he could see was the embroidered crowns on the bed’s curtains. His ears were ringing, ringing and the overpowering stench of flowers and basil, filling his head, making him choke and struggle to breathe.
Above the ringing in his ears and pounding of his heart, he could hear her laughing.
Blitzø stopped on the way home to pick up some seasoned mice skewers – just because.
He was happy .
He sighed dreamily and looked up at the pentagram setting over the horizon in Pride. He couldn’t stop reliving that dance. Holding his precious birdie close, hearing his beautiful hooting laugh – not to mention showing off his masterful skillz (yeah with a fuckin ‘Z’ bitch ) of the ‘Fancy Dancy’ (as he called it), while on the railing of a fuckin FIRE ESCASPE, HA. Take THAT fucking bitch-ass would-be bird-stealer at that thrice-blessed fucking party, thinking he’s sooooo slick in his stupid fucking tank-top with his swoopy bitch hair. Fuckin BITCH probably spent hours in from of a mirror and he STILL looks like a himbo-fuckboi –
“-- DAD WATCH THE ROAD!” Loona shrieked, throwing a hand over his and righting the wheel that had been drifting into oncoming traffic and jerking Blitzø back to hell.
“...Oops…heh sorry Loonie,” he said sheepishly, carefully adjusting his hands to the “10 and 2 position” (HA – his internal mockery voice sounds like his Stolas impression, hilllariousss).
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Loona’s ears flattened and the beginnings of a growl rumbling in her chest – and then she sighed and her face softened into a cross between fond and exasperated.
“Thank the fucking Queen I looked up from my phone,” she snickered. “Three guesses for where your mind was – couldn’t possibly be on the beaky lookin bitch on our couch, now could it,” she teased.
Blitzø gasped in mock indignation, “ Loonie ,” he exclaimed. “What accusations, what lies, what an imagination you have –”
“It’s good to see you happy, Dad.”
His words stuck in his throat, creating a lump that was hard to swallow past.
“I – uh…I mean.”
“It’s okay, Dad,” Loona said gently ( two dads in like 30 seconds!!) , “I know things are really fucked up, and he’s fucked up but, I mean, who wouldn’t be. And…he saved your life. There’s nothing he could do that would make me anything less than grateful to him.” Blitzø’s lips quirked up into a quivering half- smile, but he kept his eyes on the road and his mouth shut.
“Ugh – I’m just saying… he’s family. And…he needs a lot of support right. But there’s no one in hell who could do a better job taking care of them than you, Dad.”
She hesitated, and he let the words hang there, giving her space to get everything she wanted to say out.
“...like you did for me,” she finished quietly. And then, in a much louder voice “OKAY that’s enough of that. I’m turning on some fucking tunes…that’s all the emotional bullshit I got in me today.”
She reached for the dial, but before she could turn on the stereo he reached out and touched her forearm, “Thank you, Loonie. Being your dad…it’s a gift.” He choked up and there were no more words to be had.
He let go and saw her swallow out of the corner of his eyes (which were decidedly NOT filling up with any kind of liquid, thanks), and nod minutely before turning the stereo all the way up.
He swiped at his eyes with his sleeve as the radio blared:
You were the spicy little demon
With the bleach blonde hair
Fiendin' for some semen
When I caught your stare
Thought it might be love
But you went too far
Fucked all of my friends
And blew up my car
Blitzø and his daughter shouted along with every word that came out of the stereo at the top of their lungs the rest of the way home, Blitzø’s heart filled with hope and bursting with love.
“Heyyyyyyyyy, Stolass,” Blitzø couldn’t help but burst out with as he strode into the apartment, mice-treats in hand, and reached for the light switch. “I got a speciallll treat for yo–”
“Dad,” Loona put her hand on his upper arm, freezing him in place, his opposite arm still outstretched.
The apartment was still, silent and dark. His heart plummeted in fear – did Stolas leave? Was he taken?? He wouldn’t have gone back to the palace, right???
Loona nodded towards the sofa, and Blitzø finally noticed the head feathers peeking up over the back of it.
“Oh,” he blew out in relief. “Stolas, you almost gave me a hea–”
“Dad, I don’t….think he’s okay,” Loona said in low tones. “I don’t think he’s asleep but…I’m gonna head to my room, just…text me if you need me…I’m gonna put in headphones.”
The spines on his back raised and flexed in alarm, but he nodded as she disappeared into her room without making a sound. Blitzø set the bag of food on the table as he passed and made his way over to the living/sleeping room towards the barest hint of headfeathers peeking over the sofa’s back.
“...Stols?” he started, but his voice died in his throat as he circled the sofa and froze.
Stolas didn’t so much as twitch in response. Blitzø slowly looked him over, starting up the long lines of his arms, which were splayed, one across the backrest and the other down the couch’s arm, looking stretched and taut to the point of pain, with his fingers twitching minutely. He was slumped over on his side, as if to lie down to relax… except his legs were drawn tightly to his chest. And his head was leaning onto his arm, but the tension in his neck and shoulders was so severe Blitzø wasn’t sure he was putting any weight down at all.
As he watched, Stolas’ talons dug down into the upholstery and scratched slowly inwards, ripping and shredding, and it looked like he’d been clawing at it for quite some time.
And that wasn’t the only place with scratches.
Stolas’ arms and thighs had streaks of black seeping up from under his feathers in long lines as if he had dug in his sharp talons and ripped down, leaving four lines of carnage. On each appendage. The feathers next to him on the sofa and carpet (also blood-colored) only added to the mounting fear in Blitzø’s chest.
When Blitzø finally brought himself to look fully into Stolas’ face, his fear scurried up the rope and hit the fucking panic bell because…
Jesus Fuck.
His eyes.
All four were open so wide they were nearly round, and they would have looked petrified in fear, if it weren’t for the fact that they looked completely empty. Vacant. Lifeless.
“Hey, uh, hey Stolas,” he began again.
There was no response.
“Pretty birdie?” he tried, hopefully.
Nothing.
Well, not nothing. Stolas didn’t look up or say anything. He just dragged his talons through the lines in the upholstery, carving just a bit deeper.
At first Blitzø worried that he wasn’t breathing, but as he reached the end of the sofa, he noticed that he was breathing…just so quickly and shallowly that he merely looked like he was shaking in terror.
Those aren’t mutually exclusive, he thought grimly.
But as Blitzø leaned in closer, he found he could hear something.
Tiny puffs of air were leaving his beak, and despite Blitzø not having super owl-hearing, he could just make out the words…well word that Stolas was repeating over and over.
“Nnothingnnothingnnothingnnothingnnothingnnothingnnothing…”
Blitzø inhaled slowly, let it out in a controlled stream and forced himself to step closer to his extremely unwell birdie.
I have got to snap him the fuck out it.
He ignored the voice of caution in his head, and reached slowly out to cup Stolas’ beautiful face in his hands.
“Hey birdie? Are you oka-–”
As his fingertips made the barest contact with the face-framing feathers, Stolas’s body went impossibly more rigid for an interminable second, before he let out an absolutely ear-splitting screech and bolted, flailing wildly, throwing himself over the back of the sofa.
It all happened faster than Blitzø could process, one second he was reaching tenderly out, and the next he was staring up at the ceiling, dazed, partly from hitting his head on the coffee table, but mostly from Stolas kicking him right in the fucking face.
Fuck.
Stolas’ spirit slowly started to seep back inside his own body.
Fuck fuck fuckkkkkk.
He could still hear the echo of his own scream, could still feel it burning his throat. His whole body felt electrified, his feathers ruffled up in alarm.
What the fuck had happened? Where even was he?
His mind felt foggy, and he strained to remember… anything that had happened.
…He couldn't remember anything…up until he had felt himself scrambling, desperate to get away, away, away.
He slowly opened his eyes and raised his head an inch.
He was huddled down on the floor next to…the back of the couch? What the fuck?
It was then he realized that his breathing, rough and labored, had an echo.
For a second, his blood ran cold, remembering the cruel, shrill voice that haunted him, and he tucked himself down again, peering under the sofa to see…oh.
A familiar pair of boots and the end of a tail.
Blitzø was home.
For a second he felt a wash of relief break over him at the realization.
…until the implications hit him.
Oh Lucifer. He’d made a fool of himself hadn’t he? Throwing himself over the back of the sofa. Good fucking grief , he rolled his eyes inwardly.
Well. Best get off the floor and make his apologies.
He had just straightened up to his knees when Blitzø walked around the sofa to him.
He opened his beak to apologize (and try to play it off as no big deal) and froze.
There were two large gashes across Blitzø’s face, and there was a darkening bruise forming around Blitzø’s left eye.
Stolas didn’t wonder for a second if perhaps this was an injury acquired on a hit that day. He knew exactly what had happened. And if there was any doubt in his mind, the throbbing in his right claw that made itself suddenly and insistently known would have instantly dispelled it.
He looked up at Blitzø’s beautiful face from his knees, and swallowed hard.
“Oh…oh my Lucifer, Blitzø,” he started shakily. “I am SO so sor–”
“Hey,” Blitzø said emphatically, taking a few steps closer to him. “None of that now, Stols. It was—“
Blitzø broke off mid-sentence as Stolas flinched violently away from him, cowering backwards, throwing his arms up over his face.
Blitzø stopped short, and his arms fell to his sides.
“...Stolas. I’m not–”
“I’M SO SORRY,” he staggered to his feet with a sob. “I’M SO…SO..”
He fled to the only room he could (the bathroom) and locked the door.
He brought a shaking hand up to his face, and leaned back, sliding all the way down to the floor, collapsing in a heap of tears and self-recrimination.
When the first sob ripped its way out of his beak, he shoved his fist inside it to muffle any sound, crawled forward on the floor and reached up blindly to turn the water from the faucet on to drown out any noises he couldn’t stifle.
He ruined everything.
He hated his bitch of an ex-wife with a burning passion…but Stella was right about one thing.
“I wonder how long you’ll last before he’s squeezed all the use out of you he can stand? Based on your performance with me, it can’t be long."
And every fucking thing he did pushed his luck more and more. And now… now he’d hurt him. Physically . He felt sick. He couldn’t stand himself. It was too much to fucking bear. He wanted out of his mind. Out of his skin. Without conscious decision he began to rip into his skin again, scattering bloodied feathers on the floor.
Fuck. He’s making another mess. He can’t even breathe without fucking things UP. He’s..he’s….
He felt a wail building in his throat and knew he had to stop it. The last thing that he wanted was for Blitzø to burst in here to comfort him.
SLAM.
That was the last thing he needed, he thought disgustedly. How cute. Just rake some fucking craters in his beloved’s face, then throw a little bitch fit and have Blitzø comfort him.
SLAM.
He really was disgusting. Disgusting and pathetic and….nothing.
SLAM.
He was starting to feel dizzy from the multiple bashes of his head into the floor, so he lowered himself fully onto it and closed his eyes.
He had to get his shit together. But honestly…where the fuck would he even start? Maybe he’d just….lie here for a few moments…rest his eyes…
He closed them and sank into the welcome darkness.