Chapter Text
The absinthe had him smelling… “fresh” as Blitz used to put it. If fresh meant flammable, then surely he'd been right.
The room swayed a bit, making Stolas achingly feel like a pirate captain, holding onto door frames and practically crawling to his grimoire before he remembered he could use magic.
Tugging the book over with purple stardust, he smacked himself in the face with a hoot.
He squinted, waving and flitting his hands in the air, pages turning like soft wind-blown grass before finding the right one. Yes, he reasoned:
Going to the anti Blitzo party–a bad idea.
Going home with and sleeping with Better than Blitzo–if he remembered it well enough, probably a bad idea as well…
Doing magic while too drunk to get the actual words on the paper to stay still?...
Clearly, he made good choices when alcohol was involved.
It didn't matter. There was no one there to stop him, anyway.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Stolas could see the gift on his bed Vassago had left him to ‘cheer him up.’ The tag barely stuck out, spilling over the purple comforter.
Stolas sighed and took another heavy swig from a new full green bottle of liquid he didn't remember having magically floated to him.
The well-read hellaverse newspaper clipping mocked him from the ground and he glanced at his own image on the front page, tears leaking down his feathers and beak, unrestrained, not for the first time.
The truth was, it all hurt, and “good” and “bad” choices didn't actually make a difference, anyway.
Sober him might disagree, but sober him wasn't here–only the aching loneliness that ate at him day by day.
He looked through the pictures of Blitz on his phone, and once again at the opened gift on the bed.
Smoothing out the overly crumpled newspaper clipping, he reread the headline for the hundredth time before smashing it with force under his talons.
One last look around the empty room he'd trashed: toppled couch and bedside table. Then, he took another long swig of alcohol and finished the spell in a drunken haze.
***
Blitz was screwed. He knew it the moment he left Ver’s party.
He really knew it when he face planted into his 3rd container of cheese whiz ice cream while Bethany Ghostfucker screamed about how cold spectral jizz was.
He felt… nothing.
Feelings could stay bottled up like that, dead inside, until something brought them back to life.
That something was a newspaper article about Stolas.
Seeing the owl’s panicked, sad face on the courthouse steps in picture form wrenched at him. Stella smugly held Octavia to her chest, the owlette looking shell-shocked.
The headline:
Stolas of the Ars Goetia lost in a custody battle against his wife of 19 years. Set to pay an exorbitant amount of money in the divorce.
Big black, gossipy letters about the worst fucking moment in Stolas’ life, spread across sinstagram and every other social media website.
It shouldn't make things worse, knowing Stolas was hurting, right? You're supposed to want to spite your exes, not feel slashed through the heart when you see them cry, even if just in a black and white photo.
Opening his phone, he bought another set of horse plates and scrolled through the hell forums.
He'd heard about this group at the party, people talking about letting off steam about Blitz, not just once a year, but every day like a slam book. He pretended to be an ex and stole an invite, signing in at his lowest moment.
Anti-Blitzo-Discord: a place to talk trash about the mother fucking cocksucker in real time.
Not very clever.
Still, something was wildly wrong with him, because reading all the shit talk made him feel better. It was soothing in a tsunami of self hate to realize everyone completely agreed.
Especially as news about Stolas plastered his social media feeds, flooding him with fresh waves of guilt. It was nice to have someone else call him a piece of shit, outside of his own brain.
He'd fight them in real life, wave his pride on a banner and threaten to blow their brains out with a pistol if they talked like this to his face, but only because he fully agreed with them–
–and no one was fucking allowed to know that.
“Motherfucker thinks he's the real shit, dresses like a hobo.”
Blitz nodded, scrolling.
“Doesn't even listen, talks about himself all the fucking time and nobody cares.”
Yep.
‘heez a fuckin hoe bag’ Blitz typed.
It got a heart.
“The o is for obnoxious.”
“A shit clown if I ever saw one.”
Two hours.
Two hours of nodding, agreeing and spreading self loathing.
Someone pointed out how destructive he was. Another one lamented that he was a hot, selfish, insufferable asshole with an IQ of 2 and the self worth of a kicked, runt-litter puppy.
Low self esteem was pretty fucking selfish and self indulgent, if he thought so himself. He piled more cheese whiz and hot sauce onto a spoon.
‘uhhh yeah, right there. That's the kind of cock I like… barely there and dead as fuck!’
“That's right, dick him good, Bethany! Peg him with your spirit box!”
‘Yes, right there, Blitzy.’
He slammed the phantom voice from his head, knocking his horns hard with a palm and turning up the volume on the TV to drown it out.
The sex sounds continued as his spoon dropped to the floor and he sunk deeper into the bean bag.
His bravado was slipping. He was pretty sure everyone who knew him best would see it.
The ache was real and the now-too loud tv wasn't drowning out a fucking thing.
It never really did.
Blitzy… the motherfucker.
***
Months passed.
Millie had a way of bringing him back to reality. He wasn't better, but at least he had someone in his life worth showing up for besides his daughter. A melt down and an electrified demon later, the voices were… quieter.
Work went on.
Life went on.
Everything went back to the way it was except for one big hole that no one talked about anymore.
He was functional, but less than fine which was probably good enough.
Some nights he laid on the couch upside-down, horns curling to the floor and hooves cascading over the back cushions for hours. He could see better this way, he thought–blood rushing to his head, his heart forced to beat stronger so he finally felt alive and excited again. That is, until he’d pass out and roll onto the carpet with a thunk, waking up to Loona calling him a “dumbass.”
He was a dumbass.
A dumbass who missed Stolas; Only a dumbass would drive away the person they cared about at the same time their very skin was itching to be near them.
Mindlessly, he'd take the van down familiar roads, telling himself he hadn’t actually meant to drive outside Stolas’ palace at three A.M. and definitely hadn’t spaced out staring at that stupid fucking balcony, never once catching a glimpse of him.
Still, Blitz had enough spite left in him to deny every accusation outright, be more difficult on missions, cause more chaos, spend more money and drink more booze than before, because contrary to popular opinion, he could surely make himself fine.
What other choice did he have left? Beg?
He fucking wished begging would work. He'd do it.
God, he needed a new hobby–Ten new somebody’s to kill and preferably another seven, at least, to fuck. It wouldn’t fix him but maybe it’d make his brain just shut the fuck up for fucking five seconds, at least.
But the ache wasn’t leaving.
…
What if it never did?
His head fell into his hands as he let the van idle. God, he was such a pathetic mess. Maybe he’d buy everyone donuts and coffee tomorrow and they wouldn’t notice he didn’t sleep again, or at least would stop asking him about it.
He drove home and crashed on the couch and punched the pillows, kicking his feet repeatedly until all the extra-buzzy emotional energy subsided.
Yeah… it was better this way. Close the book or whatever.
What he wanted was for Stolas to take him back, let him comfort him somehow.
He'd figured out that one, too late, though, and the best he could do was stop lying to himself.
Pulling out his phone, he went back to the hate discord staring at a comment that said they wish Blitz burned in Satan’s toilet.
He hearted it.
Let himself embrace his fuck up and let every single hater be right about him.
Lean in.
***
More Months passed.
Business kept him busy, and the angry self-hate eased, just a little.
No more news of Stolas, for good or ill.
If Blitz was still apathetic, or a problem, everyone had stopped pointing it out by now.
Today some motherfucker wasn't able to pay for their hit and gave him a weak-ass apology and a gift card to Vox Tech.
He crinkled it up and shoved it in a drawer, shooing him off with less-than-accurate warning pistol shots before he kicked him through a window. He forgot about the gift card until a late night drinking session after hours.
Loona wanted to throw a house party and he told her he'd crash at the office with a bottle of scotch. He locked himself in–until the boredom set in and he rummaged through the desk drawers and pulled out the card, driving to a nearby 24-7 vox tech mart.
He saw it in the display window–a broken glowing sign with a V.R. helmet the shelf.
He kicked in the door to the shop and the bell chimed loudly.
“I’ll take that!” he yelled too enthusiastically, speech whiskey-slurred as he plunked the card down on the front desk and pointed a claw at the helmet. It had two circular holes cut into it for imp horns and the thing was bright red-orange.
The manager shrugged. “Don’t give no refunds, just so’s you know. The thing works but it’s proprietary so it's glitchy sometimes.”
“Fuckin’ big words… just ring it up, bitch,” Blitz said with a sneering smile, but in truth, he was a bit excited for the first time in awhile.
His heart was even doing the upside-down-on-the-couch thing all on its own.
“Feels real, right?” Blitz asked.
“Mostly. Connects to your brainwaves so you think you're actually doing shit when you're just sitting at home on your ass.”
The man handed him the helmet and swiped the card. Blitz left in a hurry and shoved it over his head, buckling it around his horns as he climbed into his car.
Feeling a sense of excitement for the first time in a long time, he pressed the “on,” button.
There was a stutter, then his vision went black. It took a moment for the machine to warm up and with a less than gentle knock of a fist to his helmet to help it boot up, Blitz was in.
Holy Satan’s Balls was this place loud! He’d “spawned" himself into a fucking fancy looking lobby, electronic music blaring. He yelled, yanking the thing off and throwing it, the round orange curve of the helmet bouncing. .
Rubbing at his recently assaulted ears, he stared at the helmet on the floor of the passenger’s seat. Was this thing really the solution to his apathy?
Satan, nothing worked anymore.
Dropping his head onto the horn, he letting it wail loudly until a pedestrian yelled at him, flipping him off. Opening his phone, he stared at the picture he’d secretly taken so long ago of him and Stolas in bed after sex.
He should really have deleted it. He should delete it now.
He wasn't going to.
The drive back to the office was slower than usual, followed by another long drag of alcohol. He sat on the couch giving the helmet another go, this time quickly finding the volume button.
He hiccuped, coming up with plan–he'd get virtually laid tonight. At least that'd do something for him.
***
Seven blue glowing circles formed a platform he “spawned” on top of. The music played, more softly now in the background. The circular disk he was on lit up briefly in bright red, then, the light washed over his entire body like a scan.
Welcome, user 1334 to the Virtual rings of hell, where you can fuck, suck, kill and debauch with impunity. NO angels allowed.
A translucent virtual image of that horny spider Blitz had watched porn of before appeared and started a “sexy tutorial.”
Blitz waved him off, calling him a tease. No way it was free to fuck him down here. Besides, Who needs tutorials? Blitz thrived on figuring things out as he went, anyway.
He stepped off the platform and rewrote his username to “bigcock69” before changing his mind and typing in Blitz. He pressed the Lust Ring option and watched as buildings rose in front of him like they were time- lapsed trees growing from the ground.
He shuffled through the settings, picking the least hideous of three generic free outfits provided–a leather jacket with black pants. After pressing accept, he looked at his reflection in one of the street's shop windows.
Not bad. He looked exactly like himself, scars and all.
The details in the simulation were pretty impressive. The whole city was the normal hellscape, but bigger, noticeably cleaner and… more;
Where there were normal signs, now they were 3d and floating.
Where people usually walked the streets of hell, now some flew with badass dragon-like wing mods while others rode on hover boards.
Every time he walked past a shop the music changed, a clear barrier between each property line with zero sound distortion.
Some shops were familiar and based on real life stores like 'Cocks and Docks Emporium,’ or ‘Ozzies.’
Still, there were a lot of places he'd never seen top side, like ‘Jizzcuzzi spa’ or…
Fucking wait… ‘Raymond's Rad Raunchy Ranch bar and grill’?
“Now that's the stuff,” he said to no one, already walking towards it.
He'd find a cowboy or become one and they'd have sex while watching Spirit in the background. Tonight was gonna be his night.
He walked to the swinging saloon doors, winking at a tall fellow imp cowboy. Yeah, he liked ‘em tall and lanky, just like that with a set of ass-less chaps and spurs. He'd buy him a drink and have him ride all—
“oof.”
The saloon doors swung against an invisible barrier, spitting him out on his ass.
A few people walking the streets laughed and he flipped them off.
Just as he was about to attempt again, a flashing status box appeared in front of him.
Saloon entry: 5 credits.
Well… fuck that.
He tried again with even less success as he was thrown back on the road a second time. Was that actually supposed to hurt in VR?
Rubbing his ass, he tried a few shops, all with the same results.
Damn it. Should've figured that greedy capitalist sinners would wanna milk them for all their money.
He flipped the direction of the virtual V’s tower and pride ring off specifically in petty retaliation and opened up his status window again.
How the fuck was he supposed to pick someone up with no alcohol and no money?
Just before Blitz was about to call it quits, a notification popped up in bright green glowing block letters–a new quest:
Rescue the Tower Maiden. Reward: 10 credits.
Oh, right. Games had challenges and shit.
Well that was fucking good timing. With no one left to keep his mind occupied tonight, he pressed accept.
When the task was officially taken on, the first set of instructions appeared in the air: Follow the lit up-pathway.
Glowing hoofprints suddenly bloomed on the ground, leading forward.
He started walking, turning his back on the Saloon and his cowboy sex fantasy for now.
The trek forward led from the paved roads of lust to the grassy outskirts of the city. He followed them as the noise and hustle began to fade, the city lights shrinking away behind him, until it was only the empty, dark countryside and the yellow glowing path.
The path wound from grass into a dirt trail of glowing hoofprints, going up and down small grassy knolls and hills, taking him further and further from VR civilization. In the meantime, the sun set, blood orange in the sky. Red veins of lightning threaded through the clouds, but not a drop of rain fell.
Blitz’s “body” felt the fatigue as the path wound on and on, despite the fact that his lazy ass was passed out on the company couch.
After time, the sun set fully, the only light left was the path and the stars in the shape of upside-down crosses pinned to the sky.
A virtual bird glared at him as it flew by and he threw a rock at it, barely missing it and it cawed in angry response.
“Christ on a stick, aren't games supposed to be fun? How long is this going to take, anyway?”
Finally the path stopped as he found himself reaching a tall wall, at least 30 feet in height, grey bricked with blinking eyes scattered across and embedded into the surface.
A new prompt appeared: climb the wall.
Blitz groaned, pausing.
He could log out, watch porn and pass out on the couch like every other night. Was this really worth all this fucking effort just to get some digital ass?
But, he'd come this far, and if Blitz was anything, it was stubborn.
“Fuckin’ fine.”
He kicked a heeled boot right into one of the embedded wall eyes, causing it to water as he began to use his claws to scale the concrete.
It was a long ass climb.
Out of breath, grunting as he clawed his way to the top, he used his tail to yank his body the last bit of the way before throwing himself into a sitting position atop the crest with kicking, dangling feet. He took five heavy gasps, collected himself and clapped his palms together for a job well done.
A stupid, boring, unnecessary job when he could go to an actual fucking bar and hit on someone the old fashioned way, but he was in too deep to think that, now.
Especially because what he saw next drove every other thought out of his brain in an instant:
A familiar, open balcony on the south facing side of palace walls.
A far-off haunting voice trailed from the open balcony doors which were almost the same height as his vantage point just a few feet away– so close he could jump the gap.
Blitz froze, listening, heart starting to beat faster in his chest as he tuned in to the singing:
‘And will you remember it well? Even after it all?’
The rich curtains waved as if moved by the sound of the music, and Blitz clutched at his chest.
It wasn't fair.
Why did shit like this have to happen to him? It wasn't fair being here unexpectedly in front of Blitz after all this time, being so beautiful, having a voice like that…
It was the first time Blitz had seen or heard from Stolas in eight months, and even if he knew he wasn't prepared for it, it was like a dam burst in his chest with the pressure of the resuscitated emotion.
He'd missed him so fucking much.
Every muscle in his body stilled like stone, not caring how, why, this was happening, just wanting to not be discovered so he could have a moment longer in this space where he could finally breathe again, even if his lungs were actually in total status.
Then, as if in revenge, the crow from earlier swooped by the open doors, cawing.
No.
Just a minute longer, before he sees Blitz and kicks him out again. Just fucking give him ten seconds, even. He'd pray to fucking Satan himself if he needed to.
Instead, the rich curtains were soon being parted by long, thin talons, red eyes meeting his.
Stolas blinked slowly, with stilted and groggy rhythm, before all four of his eyes widened in surprise and recognition. He opened his beak to speak first, but it was Blitz, whose shock finally started to recede.
His tail whipped in the air as he found his voice again, wishing it didn't sound so desperate:
“Stolas?”
Stolas’ top eyes narrowed in confusion, both of them frozen.
Blitz looked for a moment longer before the shock gave way to heart-wrenching pain, then he turned away abruptly. He bit the bottom of his lip, everything in him screaming for him to go to stolas… close the gap between them. Instead, he dug his claws in the wall to still himself.
“Blitz?”
The status window popped up once more, part-way see through, so the words appeared lightly across Stolas’ processing face:
‘Rescue the tower Maiden.’
Then, like an idiot, and before either of them could even say anything more, the crow cawed again and Blitz slipped and fell off the wall to his in-game death.
His display went dark, his chest gasping fast and ragged. It took a moment to remember where he even was, to clear stolas’s face from his mind, and a second longer to finally remember to yank his helmet off his head and throw it against the nearby wall with a thud that surely dented it.
“Fuuuuuck.”