Chapter Text
The neon lights of imp City flickered in the distance, casting eerie shadows across the grimy streets. Blitzø, a young imp with a heart and body as battered as the city itself, stumbled through the alleys, his mind a whirlwind of torment and despair. The air was thick with the stench of decay and the distant echoes of his own screams.
From the moment he was born, Blitzø had been nothing more than a commodity, a plaything for the rich and powerful. His father, Cash, had sold him to the highest bidder since he was a child, parading him around like a prized possession to perform mindless tasks and duties. The memories of those early years were a blur of lavish parties and cruel hands, each touch leaving a mark on his fragile psyche.
The turning point came with the fire at the circus. Blitzø's hands trembled as he recalled the inferno that had engulfed the tent, the screams of the audience, and the smell of burning flesh. It had been an accident, a tragic mishap caused by his own clumsy self. But Cash had seen an opportunity, twisting the disaster into a chance to bind his son even tighter.
"Sign the contract, Blitzø," his father had growled, his eyes cold and calculating. "You owe me. You owe everyone."
And so, Blitzø had signed, sealing his fate with a pen dipped in his own blood. The contract was a noose around his neck, a promise to work and to now to sell his body without escape. He was no longer a son; he was a slave, a puppet for the whims of the wealthy and depraved.
Among the countless nights of torment, there was one that stood out like a beacon in the darkness. It was the night his father sold him to the Great Pamion, a wealthy and influential demon. Blitzø was taken to a grand mansion, where he met Stolas, the Great Pamion's son. Stolas, with his gentle demeanor and kind eyes, was the first person Blitzø's age to show him any semblance of kindness.
They spent the night playing games and laughing, a rare moment of innocence in Blitzø's life. Stolas shared his toys and stories, making Blitzø feel, for the first time, like he was more than just a pawn in someone else's game. It was a night Blitzø would never forget, a brief respite from the cruelty of his existence.
But as the sun rose, the illusion shattered. Blitzø was returned to his father, and Stolas faded into a distant memory. He never saw him again, and the kindness Stolas had shown him became a painful reminder of what he could never have.
The years that followed were a blur of endless nights, each one more brutal than the last. Blitzø was passed from one rich demon to another, each encounter leaving him more broken and empty. He felt like a doll, a thing to be used and discarded, his dreams and aspirations crushed under the weight of his father's ambitions.
As the abuse piled on, Blitzø found solace in the only thing that could numb the pain: drugs. Chasing the high that would make the world go away. The needles and pipes became his best friends, offering a fleeting escape from the reality of his existence.
Now, as he wandered the streets, Blitzø felt like a ghost in his own body. He was a shell, a hollow vessel drifting through life without purpose or desire. Even death seemed like a distant, unattainable dream. He was a prisoner in his own mind, trapped in a cycle of abuse and addiction, unable to find a way out.
The neon lights flickered again, all Blitzø could do was keep moving, one step at a time, through the endless night of his existence.
Blitzø trudged up the creaky stairs to his loft, the weight of the night's horrors dragging him down. The client, a grotesque demon with a penchant for extreme play, had left him feeling violated and filthy. The stench of the demon's unwashed body clung to his skin, a nauseating reminder of the depravity he had endured.
His small apartment loft, attached to his father's massive home, offered a semblance of privacy, but it was a hollow comfort. The loft was a shabby affair, with peeling wallpaper and a floor that creaked with every step. Despite its condition, Blitzø had tried to make it his own, organizing the few belongings he had in a vain attempt to create a sense of order in his chaotic life.
The dim lighting cast long shadows across the room, accentuating the worn edges of his furniture and the faded curtains that did little to block out the harsh neon glow from outside. Blitzø's eyes fell on the small, ripped couch, a relic from a bygone era, and he sighed deeply. It was his sanctuary, the one place where he could attempt to escape the cruelty of his existence.
Without hesitation, Blitzø made his way to the tiny bathroom, the tile floor cold against his bare feet. He turned the shower knob to the hottest setting, wincing as the scalding water cascaded over his skin. The steam filled the room, creating a foggy veil that blurred the harsh reality of his surroundings.
Blitzø reached for the bar of soap, its rough texture scraping against his palms. He began to scrub his body with fervent intensity, tears streaming down his face as he tried to wash away the filth and the memories. The water ran red with his own blood, mingling with the soap suds and creating a sickening, pinkish hue. He screamed into the steam, his voice raw and broken, as the scalding water and harsh soap burned his skin.
"Get it off," he choked out, his hands trembling. "Get it all off."
He scrubbed and scrubbed, until his skin was raw and his muscles ached. Only then did he allow himself to step out of the shower, his body shaking with exhaustion and emotion. He wrapped himself in a threadbare towel, the rough fabric abrasive against his sensitive skin.
Blitzø shuffled back to the main room, his movements slow and mechanical. He turned on the small, ancient stove, the burner sputtering to life with a reluctant hiss. He poured some oatmeal into a chipped bowl and added a splash of water, stirring it with a spoon that had seen better days. As the oatmeal warmed, he brewed a cup of coffee, the bitter aroma filling the room and offering a small comfort.
With his meager meal in hand, Blitzø curled up on the couch, the ripped fabric catching on his damp skin. He turned on the shitty TV, the static and flickering images a poor distraction from his thoughts. The news anchor droned on about some distant war, the words meaningless in the face of his own personal hell.
Blitzø finished his oatmeal, the taste of ash in his mouth, and set the bowl aside. He leaned back against the couch, the worn cushions offering little support. The TV flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls, but Blitzø barely noticed. His eyes were closed, his mind a whirlwind of pain and longing.
Soon the imp drifted into a fitful sleep, his dreams haunted by the ghosts of his past and the demons of his present. The night stretched on, endless and unyielding, a mirror to the emptiness in his heart.
Then suddenly the loft was plunged into a sudden, harsh light as the door banged open, jolting Blitzø from his uneasy slumber. His father, Cash, stood in the doorway, his silhouette a menacing shadow against the neon glow from outside. Cash was a short figure but just as menacing, he was clad in a tailored suit that did little to hide the cruel set of his jaw and the cold, calculating gleam in his eyes. His horns, a testament to his demonic lineage, curved menacingly above his brow, casting eerie shadows on his angular face.
"Get up, you lazy piece of shit!" Cash barked, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You think you can sleep the day away while I'm out here working my ass off?"
Blitzø bolted upright, his heart pounding in his chest as he met his father's furious gaze. Cash's eyes were like chips of ice, devoid of any warmth or compassion. He loomed over Blitzø, his presence dominating the small space, making it feel even more claustrophobic.
"You're a disgrace, you know that?" Cash sneered, his lip curling in a snarl. "A useless, good-for-nothing imp. You should be grateful for every penny you earn, but no, you have to sleep it off like some pathetic idiot."
Blitzø's hands trembled as he clenched the ripped fabric of the couch, his knuckles shaking . He knew better than to argue, better than to defend himself. Cash's words were like daggers, each one finding its mark with brutal precision.
"Tomorrow night, you're attending a high society party in the Lust Ring," Cash continued, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "Sins, overlords, and goetic beings will be there. You better do your best to please every single one of them, or there will be hell to pay. And I don't mean the kind you're used to."
He leaned in closer, his breath hot and foul on Blitzø's face. "You'll suck cock, spread your ass, and do whatever the fuck they want. And if you don't, I'll make sure you regret it for the rest of your miserable existence. Understood?"
Blitzø nodded, his movements jerky and uncertain. "Y-Yes, Father," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Cash gave him one last, lingering look, his eyes filled with a mix of disgust and satisfaction. Then, with a final, dismissive snort, he turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The loft was plunged back into dim silence, the only sound the distant hum of the city and the ragged gasps of Blitzø's breathing.
Blitzø sat frozen for a moment, his mind reeling from the encounter. Then, the dam broke, and he crumbled, his body wracked with sobs. The tears flowed freely, hot and bitter, as he curled into a ball on the couch, his shoulders shaking with the force of his grief.
"Stop it," he choked out, his voice raw and broken. "Stop being such a pathetic fool. This is your life, your job. You're nothing more than a whore, and you know it."
He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regain control of his emotions. "At least the socialite parties are better than those low-life clients who can barely afford their tabs. The abuse is always worse with them, more brutal, more degrading."
As he tried to calm himself, Blitzø's mind drifted to the party the next night. Who would be attending? Would any of them show him even a shred of kindness? And then, like a flash of lightning in a stormy sky, his thoughts turned to Stolas.
Would Stolas be there? The question hung in his mind, a desperate hope amidst the despair. Would he look the same as Blitzø remembered, with his gentle demeanor and kind eyes? Or would the years have changed him, hardened him into someone just as cruel as the rest?
Blitzø's heart ached with a mix of longing and fear. Would Stolas even remember him? Would he see Blitzø as just another body to use, another pawn in the twisted games of the elite? The thought was a knife to his heart, a painful reminder of the chasm between his dreams and his reality.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing the tears across his cheek. He knew it was a lie, a desperate attempt to find some shred of comfort in his miserable existence. Every night was a horror, every encounter a new depth of degradation. But he clung to the illusion, a lifeline in the storm of his despair.
He stood up, his movements slow and mechanical, and made his way to the small kitchenette. He poured himself a glass of water, the liquid cool and soothing against his parched throat. As he drank, he looked out the window, his gaze falling on the neon lights of the city.
Somewhere out there, Stolas was living his life, untouched by the cruelty and filth that Blitzø endured. The thought was a knife to his heart, a painful reminder of what he could never have. But Blitzø pushed it aside, locking it away with all his other hopes and dreams.
He turned back to the couch, his steps heavy with resignation. Tomorrow would be another night in hell, another round of abuse and humiliation. But he would survive it, as he always did. Because that was all he was worth, all he would ever be.
Blitzø curled up on the couch, his body aching with exhaustion and his mind a whirlwind of pain and longing. The TV flickered in the background, its static and flickering images a poor distraction from his thoughts. As he drifted into an uneasy sleep, Blitzø knew that tomorrow would be just another day in his endless night of torment.