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Blitzø swears some asshole in Hell has placed a curse on him.
It’s the only explanation at this point for the fucking abysmal month he’s had. One shit show after another, circling around from infuriating to hilarious to all the way back to a place where only a rigorous slaughtering of humans stood a chance at making Blitzø feel better. Or a good fucking. Satan, he needs both.
Instead, Blitzø’s out in the middle of Wrathian nowhere, slamming the horn of his company’s van with an open fist, because the four wheeled heap of metal just had to break down and stall now. But this is what he gets for coming down to the redneck shithole they call a ring of Hell, isn’t it; fuck, he can’t even check out some late-night shooting range recommended by Millie without his face being shit all over by fate.
If Blitzø had to guess, he’s about halfway back to Pride and, at this hour of night, the only thing with a heartbeat for miles.
“It’s fine,” he says through grated fangs, punches one more honk out of the steering wheel for good measure before moving his left arm to glare at the Asmodean crystal embedded atop the glove fitted there. It feels like the damn thing is staring back at him expectantly. “I just gotta portal back home and worry about towing this bitch first thing in the morning. Y’know, as if there isn’t a new client booked for a meeting first thing in the fucking morning.”
Blitzø covers the crystal with a hand, grimaces to himself, and scrubs hard. Once, twice, three times, and…
As soon as nothing happens (because of course nothing happens), Blitzø growls deep in his throat, the primal sound strained with ire. He tries hard not to think about how much easier this would be with the book. A quick call to Loona, a request she open a portal, and boom—he’d be asleep on his couch by now, probably. But no, because the book is no longer a tool for I.M.P. to use, and he’s here, stranded alone in his van, slinking an arm down to rub a crystal against his torso like some teenaged horndog.
“Come on, come on.”
All he needs is to provide enough friction to satisfy the kink crystal long enough for it to squirt a way back to his apartment building, right? That should be easy enough; and there’s no way he’s putting his mouth on it again, not after last time.
Can’t brute force it. Treat it right.
“Just fucking work already!”
Blitzø shoves the back of his hand into the crotch of his pants, pressing the crystal there and grinding slightly, as if hope exists for it to unzip his pants and start sucking his dick right there. It’s only then, all at once, that Blitzø realizes how fucking idiotic the situation is, and he pulls his arm back like an indignant beast scorned.
No. He’s not about to let some Asmodean crystal be the judge of him, out of or in the bedroom. Or van. Or anywhere.
“Nothing but an ugly piss colored rock!” Blitzø rips the glove off and nearly flings it out the car window. And he would have, too, if a gross amalgamation of shame and guilt and weakness hadn’t stilled him. He settles for throwing it over his shoulder and letting it fall somewhere into the back of the van, where it could join the rest of the piled-up trash.
Blitzø considers calling Moxxie, but it’s a transient thought. He’s sure both he and Millie went to bed hours ago anyway, right after telling each other how madly in love they are and that they’re excited to wake up so they can spend the next day glued at the hips. Like always. Losers.
—he doesn’t feel like fucking with them right now.
More than that, Blitzø doesn’t want to see anyone right now, if he can help it.
He doesn’t need help, anyway. Sleeping inside a vehicle for one night won’t hurt, if the handful of years he spent doing exactly that were anything go by. Hell, he might even get a good night’s sleep like this, out in some outback, kind of like camping.
Yeah.
Blitzø grabs his phone and proceeds to send Loona a lie via text message. Something about running into an old friend from college, that he won’t be home tonight as a result, and how she might need to reschedule a few of tomorrow’s clients in the chance he’s late coming in. Simple, Blitzø thinks, foolproof. And when a minute passes without reply, it’s a good a sign as any that his daughter is asleep. Finally, he can relax.
Shrugging off his jacket, Blitzø shifts into a hint of recumbence along the van’s lengthy front seat and glances out the window up at the sky, albeit obliquely. Absentminded, he thinks about how he’d be able to see a full moon in the sky tonight, if he were back on Pride. It’s the first one since his and Stolas’ last. Not that Blitzø is keeping track or anything, nor does he care. Shit, it doesn’t even matter. It never did.
Still, an idle mind is oft to wander, and Blitzø, believing he deserves respite after the worst few weeks in all of Hell, lets it happen.
He thinks about the deal he had with Stolas, how he’d definitely be fucking the prince’s birdbrains out right now, at this very minute, if it were still in place. Stolas would be spread apart at the knees, so good and wide, whole cunt on obscene display for Blitzø to bury his cock deep inside. He’d writhe and moan with every thrust, slap, cut and bite, no matter how ruthless, and beg Blitzø for more still. And Blitzø would oblige all night long by manhandling Stolas into one position after the next; press and claim all over and into Stolas’ body—so soft, he was always so soft—until stricken numb with crests of pleasure only the tight clamp of birdpuss around his dick could bring.
The very memory of Stolas’ searing wet stretch, drag and pull is enough to make Blitzø tilt his head back and release a groan despite himself.
He hates that he’s still thinking about Stolas, a month later.
“Satan dammit,” he grumbles, bare hand running a line up his face in frustration, stopping when fingertips meet the strong base of his horns. Then he peers down, at the ridge forming from his erection straining against the inside of his pants, and curses Stolas’ name under his breath whilst reaching down to unfasten the button at his waistband.
Fuck it. It’ll be good practice for the Asmodean crystal.
“I hope you’re listening back there, you hunk of defective shit.”
Blitzø wastes no time spitting into his hand, unzipping his pants and reaching down to pull his throbbing cock out in one swift motion. He cradles the weight of it in his palm, a shuddering breath halting in his throat as he gives the first few languorous strokes along the underside, bringing it to full girth, his knees instinctively creating more space for him to indulge. When he closes his eyes, he’s reunited with visions of sharp talons black as ink caressing the curve of his horns, sliding down his front, all the way down between his thighs. Blitzø’s already bucking up into his fist, firm and desperate, mind raking through memories and fantasies both.
Stolas tied and pressed into a mattress, birdpuss wet and dripping. Stolas shoved against a wall, canting hips and feathers in slick disarray, pleading for more. Stolas placing a reassuring hand across the small of Blitzø’s back, knelt behind him, sliding silicone deep inside his ass. Stolas’ hands, Stolas’ mouth, Stolas’ cunt—Stolas. Stolas.
“Stolas,” Blitzø exhales, the sultry taste of the name as savory as he remembers, but the aftertaste overpowering – bitter. His hand falters, mind snapped halfway back to reality, mouth agape and shoulders tensing. He has to fight the urge to spit.
Because Stolas should be forgotten, he’s in the past, something not worth dwelling on.
And Blitzø wasn’t enough.
He wasn’t enough as a one-night stand, and so the bird had turned him into a monthly fuck session. And when that monthly fuck session was no longer enough, he had tried to convert Blitzø into something more permanent. Stolas had looked at him and, somehow, saw the possibility of more.
“Fuck you,” Blitzø says, a little choked, recentering himself. He tightens his grip around his hard cock, resumes pumping, and tries to steer his thoughts away from feathers crashing against his pelvis.
—or maybe Stolas was pushing him away, had finally come to his senses and could see Blitzø for the desecrated pile of shit he is, destructive and disappointing, how he’d never be able to live up to or become whatever fantasy Stolas wanted him to be.
The latter must be it; it makes the most sense, though Blitzø can’t decide which reality hurts more.
But it’s so obvious, in hindsight. Stolas had “made up his mind” for them both, long before Blitzø made the stupid mistake of looking forward to seeing him, dressing up for him, actually letting him see those pieces of himself. It didn’t matter how flowery the bird peppered the words, or how loudly he wailed at some fucking Halloween party, Blitzø had heard him loud and clear.
The Asmodean crystal was a parting gift as much as it had been a proposal. The ultimate “you can ditch for free” card. Because if they give you chances to ditch, they probably want out themselves.
Same as always, in the end, Blitzø had been disposed of. Same as everyone else, after enough time, Stolas was done with Blitzø’s destruction.
A good thing, too. Whatever “relationship” they could have had together would have been a joke. Blitzø’s sure of it.
“Fuck you,” Blitzø says again, catching a clouded glimpse of himself in the reflection of the car’s window. Furrowed brow beaded with sweat, slack mouth, tight shoulders. Fuck, is this what he always looks like when his dick gets attention? He looks downright pathetic. “Fuck you.”
A warm coil begins to raft in Blitzø’s core as he strokes a little faster, then ebbs away just as quick. He groans in aggravation, determined to prove to the Asmodean crystal in the backseat that he’s at least competent enough to pleasure his own damn self, and switches to using his non-dominant hand so the other can reach over for his phone again. Hurriedly—grudgingly, he unlocks it and taps the Gallery app.
Immediately, the screen is taken over with a photo which Blitzø took what feels like forever ago now, of him and a sleeping Stolas, in bed and blessed out. He makes a mental note to delete it after this wank.
For now, he’ll use it one last time.
With a combination of thumb and tail-spade, Blitzø zooms in on Stolas’ face. He focuses there, on the prince’s beak, as if he might be able to hear breathless moans and dulcet hoots if he stares hard enough.
“Shit,” he hisses, clenching his jaw tight, a surge of pleasure finally rocketing through him completely.
Fuck, he’s so pent up.
Warmth spreads towards Blitzø’s chest, groin, fingertips. He drags the photo to bring Stolas’ body into view like in a trance, gaze burning as if the contours aren’t memorized on the patterns of his fingertips already; still, he beholds. Circles his thumb over the head of his dick, smearing the wetness collected at the slit. He can almost feel the tameless grind of Stolas against him, every supple swivel and aching sinew.
Stolas would be moaning his name, telling him how good it feels to be fucked, honored to be the imp’s little whore, only ever his, as if the Goetia’s veins weren’t full of ichor in comparison to Blitzø’s mortal grime. He’d moaner louder then, most likely, because Blitzø would grip a handful of feathers at the back of Stolas’ and pull hard, with intent of inducing a tremor he could feel straight down onto his cock.The coil is so hot in Blitzø's belly now, tightly wound and ready to snap.
“Blitz,” Stolas would whine, through tears he could hear, “I’m coming to come!”
“Come for me,” Blitzø rasps to himself, to the Stolas on his phone, nearing his own release. “All over me, birdie.”
Stolas’ name comes tumbling out of his mouth like a scream when he arches his back and lets the orgasm roll through his cock and seize every muscle within his body, horns creating fresh lacerations into the upholstered seat beneath him, keeping him in place like stakes in dirt. The phone falls from his hand abruptly, lost somewhere between gas and brake pedals, but Blitzø doesn’t notice. All he can focus on is the scatter of colors behind his clenched eyelids and the hot drops of ejaculate that land on his skin.
It’s the first satisfying nut he’s had in months, which is – wait, how many times has he thought himself pathetic so far tonight? Well, add it to the count.
The world is gray and dizzying when Blitzø opens his eyes, body collapsing. Overhead, the plush toy pony strung from the headliner wobbles slightly from the action, gives him something to focus on while he steadies his breath, and all his senses return. The stale smell of the van hits him first, then the unnerving quiet.
He wants to look for his phone.
He doesn’t want to see what’s still on the screen, when he finds it.
Pathetic.