Chapter Text
Stolas doesn’t belong anywhere.
The Goetian part of him, the part which sprouted in youth with ardor to never waver from bloodline and responsibility, had withered into an anguish that sought freedom for most of his life. And the deathless man in him, a prince of Hell reared with knowledge of the cosmos and all the prophecies tucked in between, had longed for a normal—much shorter—existence. Such damned circumstances would lead anyone into thinking themselves a tragic being, akin to a domesticated bird in immurement; and Stolas adorned his cage with hopeless romanticism. Daydream after daydream of how, if only he had been born as someone or something else, surely he would have been happiest. So why, then, after being stripped of his title, exiled from the palace, and stepping into the freedoms ostensibly aligned with what Stolas always imagined would bring him a better life…
Does he find immortality more painful than before?
It feels almost a waste, the decades he'd spent struggling to make better sense of his identity: the regal exterior, the ancient infernal interior, all the sorrow that thrives beneath it all. Because he's here now, working at I.M.P headquarters, already two weeks into a brand-new life, and still, perhaps more than ever, he's found himself an outcast.
A ghost belonging nowhere and to nothing.
“Now that’s what I call a good fucking day’s work!”
It’s Blitzø’s voice that distracts Stolas from the tumult of his mind. Lifting his eyes, he finds a portal open near the center of the room, the members of I.M.P already filtering through. Fresh from another accomplished bloodshed, indicative by their accomplished expressions: Loona, already scrolling through her phone, seemingly apathetic but an undeniable glint in her eyes; Millie, encircling her arms around Moxxie’s neck in embrace, showering on praise of which he nearly melts into; Blitzø, closing the portal behind them, standing a little taller than usual, visibly pleased. And it’s there, on Blitzø, as always, that Stolas allows himself a lingering stare for a beautiful moment.
Stolas has lost so much. He was forced to leave behind an entire world, a future he’ll never know, the daughter in possession of what little remained of his heart and, almost, his will to live entirely. The befall of tragedy of that caliber makes it nigh impossible to relearn joy. Still, Stolas feels its inkling at this time of day, almost to the hour, when he witnesses this side of Blitzø. Happy, triumphant, secure. He’s able to behold those faces most vividly right after Blitzø returns from a job; it’s only a transient moment, but easily Stolas’ favorite.
Blitzø looks at Stolas too. Or at least Stolas thinks he does, because no sooner than the imp’s gaze is caught, it’s back on everyone and everywhere but him. Stolas looks elsewhere in turn, willing his heart to relax. He and Blitzø are no longer lovers—and they never were, despite everything.
It was in the calm after the storm of Stolas’ banishment that they’d come to a mutual agreement to be friends: no more and, ever so fortunately, no less. Yes, it came with the price of losing whatever fragmented sense of belonging Stolas forged in the shelter of Blitzø’s bodily company, but a toll he is willing to pay. It keeps Blitzø in his life. Having him as a friend, no matter how bittersweet, is infinitely preferable to his absence.
—Stolas prefers it this way, really . His romantic yearnings had ultimately led to devastating everyone he’d ever given a shit about, after all. Now he clutches onto the silver lining of moving forward, his slate far from clean but closer to a damaged thing becoming soldered, like delicate pottery glued back together. A chance for Stolas to become new; not as intact as before, but hopefully better for the fractures. Maybe, upon completion of the mending, he’ll have forged true, meaningful relationships.
It’s why Stolas wants to welcome his co-workers back, to help nudge along his growth, but as always anxiety clamps his beak shut and won’t let go. Why is he like this? – he’s a member of I.M.P too, his initials scrawled on an employment agreement likely lost to the chaos of Blitzø’s desk, but he still feels like an intruder. An unpleasant sensation that soughs behind his breast before he quickly finds solace in the familiarity of it. He’s accustomed to being a spectator to camaraderie far more than a participant.
So, as he knows best, Stolas observes.
“Y’know, Moxx, maybe she’s right,” Blitzø wedges between Millie’s praises, delivering a congratulatory smack to Moxxie’s back. Stolas watches, unsurprised when Blitzø fleers the second the other imp dares to appear flattered. A routine heckling. “Yeah, you almost looked competent out there today. Unlike my Loonie, of course, who gave the largest prickbag two new gaping holes right before ripping him from facehole to asshole. Now that was fucking beautiful.”
“Sir, you can’t keep enabling her! I already told you!” Moxxie thrusts a claw in Loona’s direction; the hellhound responds by not responding at all, snout pointed at her phone screen. Millie sighs and begins rubbing circles near the base of one of Moxxie’s horns, a soothing gesture Stolas recognizes all too well. Meanwhile Moxxie, undeterred, shouts more: “She killed the one human that wasn’t a part of the hit! It was an innocent bystander!”
“Okay, well, and now he’s paint on the walls,” Blitzø counters with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, punctuated by an amused snort. “Place needed it too, if you ask me. I’ve seen cheap whores on the streets of Lust who bedazzle their jungle pussies better than those humans decorated that shitshack of a building.”
“First of all, sir, fucking ew ? Second, the only reason we didn—”
For some reason, striving as he is to remain within the comforts of a wallflower, Stolas’ body lurches up and onto his feet. Long-limbs bump against the secretarial desk in the process, causing a much too loud unceremonious rattle that stills the entire room. Everyone, even Loona, is looking at him now.
“Welcome back, everyone.” A few chuckles tumble from his beak out of nervous habit. How do you still not know how to read a room? a voice curses inside him, attached to a history of faces. He swallows. “I take it the mission was a success, if I’m hearing correctly. I had no doubt, of course, being that you all possess such a wide range of lethal prowess.” Millie smiles, the rest continue to stare, and Stolas fidgets as he continues, “Oh! I, well, I finished the allotted paperwork early, so I’m afraid I have been spending most of my time awaiting your return.”
Blitzø turns and beelines for his office at that, head shaking slightly. “We need to find more shit for you to do, Stolas. Can’t have you sitting around fingering your feathers while on my company time.”
Stolas blinks, the drop in his shoulders indiscernible. A portrait of practiced composure even when crestfallen.
It’s Moxxie who approaches him first. A reassuring smile is worn on his lips. “Thank you, your highness. You’ve been a tremendous help.”
Stolas dons a smile too, albeit meekly. “It’s been my pleasure, I assure you. And just ‘Stolas’ is fine, remember? Please.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that,” Moxxie says, the bow of his head instinctive.
“Sure you will, baby.” Millie saunters to Moxxie’s side, tilting his chin up with a tender push of a finger. She smiles at Stolas after. “’Sides, I really don’t like hearin’ it at home. Home’s supposed to be a place of comfort, y’know? All those rich people names and whatnot make it too formal and weird.”
Stolas sits back down, respectfully placing himself closer to the imps’ eye-level, and blooms with a real smile at last. The married pair had scarcely known him outside of bodyguarding, dubious rescues and whatever secondhand stories Blitzø may or may not have disclosed, and yet they’d opened their home to him like lifetime friends. He’s certain pitied hospitality played a part in their invitation, after initial arrangements to stay in Blitzø's apartment proved untenable due to the inevitable awkwardness. After two restless nights, it had taken a toll on both his and Blitzø’s ability to focus at work, and that’s when Millie and Moxxie had intervened. Their apartment, like Blitzø’s, was small and modest, but filled with a love Stolas can only assume comes with happy marriages. They’d reminded him of warmth, when his world had locked him out with frost.
“You’ve both been most kind.” Stolas puts his hand over his heart and exhales before speaking again. “As soon as my savings are adequate, I will secure a place of my own, I promise.”
Millie gives an empathetic tilt to her head. “Don’t fret so much. You’re welcome with me and Moxxie for as long as you need. And the company’s been nice.”
“Yeah, it’s the least we can do,” Moxxie adds, grinning, “and honestly, if I’m going to have a roommate, I’m just glad it’s someone that shares similar taste in the arts.”
“Alright, sluts, time to close shop!”
Blitzø emerges from his office with loud footsteps and a sharp whish of tail; his gait brimming with an indignance that extends all the way to his face in an almost pout. It’s a display Stolas has come to regard common now that he’s grown closer to Millie and Moxxie. Which honestly wouldn’t concern him as much if Blitzø didn’t also avoid looking in his general direction so often. Or how, somedays, he and Blitzø barely exchanged more than a handful of words total, while other days brought Blitzø affably hovering about Stolas’ desk again and again, the back-and-forth in atmosphere teetering on maddening.
Not that Stolas is clueless, and they’ve coupled enough times in the past for him to have a pretty good idea at what Blitzø’s behavior implies. It’s a clumsiness, he knows, feeling it too, that comes with navigating a friendship built on unusual foundations (very unusual, in their case). A dance rehearsal of sorts, to discern where they should hesitate, step or swivel to not come across as estranged nor flirtatious. Which, oh, can be so difficult on the days Blitzø swings a little more to the latter, when he catches Stolas staring and smirks instead of scowls. When he leans against Stolas’ desk, demanding the minutes from the morning’s meeting, and his tail brushes against the back of Stolas’ leg, just light enough to be overlooked.
The tension, when there, is taut as wire. Or maybe Stolas is imagining it? Whatever the case—he can ignore it. An awkward phase is bearable (he’s already lived a life of one), especially if it leads to him and Blitzø being okay, together, at the end of everything. There is worry, of course, whether that’s a possible thing for them to achieve, no matter how hard they try.
All Stolas can do to stop the surmounting thoughts is tell himself how it wouldn’t be Blitzø, charming and brilliant and intoxicating as he is, if he weren’t left feeling bewildered by him.
“Now if you three are done sucking each other’s pussies, what say we grab a couple drinks at the place down the street?” Blitzø is grinning now, a wide spread of fangs. “TGIF so drinks are on me, why the fuck not!”
Millie and Moxxie exchange a look before nodding in unison.
“Good idea, B.”
“If you insist, sir.”
Just as Blitzø is about to invite Loona, her voice shouts from halfway out the company door: “Yeah, hard pass on the nursing home gig. Have plans. Will be out late.” Then she’s gone.
“Kids ,” Blitzø says, scoff peppered in endearment. His shoulders are raised when he finally turns to Stolas. “You too, birdbrain. It looks like you could use a stiff one.” An uneased pause. A flushing to his face. “And by that, I mean a drink, not a—hell, we all know you’d love a stiff cock, am I right?”
Blitzø throws his head back and laughs and laughs. It’s awhile before he looks at Stolas again.
---
The establishment they enter is one of very few in the city prioritizing service to lower hellborns: the furnishings range from miniature enough for the smallest of imps to aptly sized for the average hellhound, with a section designated for any demon larger tucked away in an alcove. Fortunately, Blitzø leads them to a table that is at least three feet from the ground, and he even takes it upon himself to drag over a chair with slightly longer legs for Stolas to sit on (—what a sweet gesture, Stolas’ heart murmurs even though it shouldn’t). Still cramped arrangements for a goetia, but not terrible. Stolas tries not to let the limited space force his spine to curve, but hunches with the sobering realization that this is just one more place he’s not meant to be.
But it’s alright. Stolas resolves to enjoy the evening. If not in celebration for surviving his second week of exile, then to savor time spent with the people who’ve made it worth living.
A press near his ribs recenters Stolas’ focus. He hears himself hoot before he sees that it’s Blitzø sitting beside him, gently nudging with his shoulder. Their proximity is a surprise considering how they’d left the office. Having Blitzø choose the seat next to him, leaving Moxxie and Millie sitting their opposite, feels like a privilege.
“You good?” Blitzø’s voice carries an unexpected tenderness. He’s looking Stolas up and down, arm still grazing his torso, his face inclining closer.
“I—What?” The feathered skin under Stolas’ shirt and blazer burns like fire. For a moment he sees an echoing spark, or a flame, in the darks of Blitzø’s eyes. Ignore it, ignore it . “Ah, well. I’m fine. Thank you.”
“You’re acting weird,” says Blitzø. He rolls his eyes. “Fuck, what am I talking about? Your poshy, oiled up ass is always acting that way.” He positions back into his seat and nods at the stout hellhound standing at their table expectantly, pen and paper held in its paws. Stolas hadn’t even noticed. “Now pick your poison, Stolas. Me and M&M already did.”
“Right. My apologies.” Was this hellhound a sommelier of sorts? Stolas opens his beak, closes it, then opens again. “What wine would you recommend?”
The hellhound’s posture is as terse as his reply: “No wine served here, hoots.”
“Oh, um, well, I—” Stolas feels put on the spot, strange, and foreign. He opts for the first thing he can think of. “Do you have absinthe?”
“That’s more like it,” the hellhound says with a wink, jots the order down, and ambles away to the bar.
With a sigh of relief, Stolas returns his attention to his tablemates and is startled still by the array of dubious expressions that greet him.
“Didn’t take you for the heavy hitter type,” Millie says, an eyebrow raised high to match the mischievous bend at corners of her mouth.
Unsurprisingly, Moxxie leans cynical. “Are you sure that’s what you want? Isn’t absinthe the drink known to induce hallucinations? Make you see green fairies?”
“Oh. I have never experienced anything quite like that, no.” Stolas’ hoot is gleeful. He claps his hands together, exalted at the thought of impressing them. “Although, and perhaps a bit embarrassing to say, I am not tenderfoot with its potation. It was what I had been partaking when Blitz came to the palace that first night before lending him the grimoire, in fact.”
Had Stolas looked aside but a second later, he’d have missed Blitzø’s dorsal spines twitching skyward, as if reacting to the memory. Whether it’s a response or forethought, Stolas isn’t sure, unaware of how the feathers framing his faceplate are ruffling in kind.
---
Time dissolves once they’re drinking. The tavern’s tawny lighting casts a comforting haze, like a physical manifestation of their intoxication. Muffled music from cheap quality speakers drifts down from above, a constant hum cushioning any silence. And perhaps it’s the alcohol after two weeks of abstinence, or the buzz easing his tension, but Stolas finally feels on the precipice of returning to a long-missed sense of belonging someplace. It's a sad truth, that he’s always been able to find a home at the bottom of a bottle, but tonight, at least, he’s not alone.
“And then—” Moxxie laughs so hard he snorts, “and then he said her best performance was during curtain call!”
At some point in the evening, between one or two drinks, Millie had shoved her chair over with Moxxie’s. Relatively quiet now, she pillows her head on Moxxie’s shoulder, smiling softly, anyone’s guess if she’d been listening to her husband’s ramblings. Blitzø, in comparison, had been listening, and was nearing a limit.
“Moxx, if you don’t stop talking about shitass musicals, I swear to Satan I’ll take this bottle and shove it so far up your hole it’ll make your wife’s strap jealous.” He quickly finishes his drink in a single gulp so he can wave the empty bottle like one would brandish a weapon. “Titty fucking Christ, I thought being drunk was supposed to make people fun.”
“Hey!” Moxxie is quick to retort, emboldened by intoxication. “They’re not shit or ass! And you’re not fun, Blitz! Yeah, that’s right! Do you even have hobbies?”
Blitzø laughs and inclines his head, unfazed. “No comment on the strap, huh? Okay, so how far can she get it up there, anyway? Or should I ask you, Mills? You’ll tell me.”
“Come now, Blitz,” Stolas starts, heart fluttering at how Blitzø yields for him, hazing his wits as potently as the absinthe, “let’s refrain from such invasive queries tonight, hm?”
They’re sitting close now, because at one point in the evening, after two or three drinks, Stolas found himself scooting nearer. It started with a lighthearted mocking of his cravat, a playful tug of Blitzø’s viselike claws, an unspoken suggestion. Blitzø had made the first move, his tail surreptitiously grazing the side of Stolas’ leg. And when Stolas (dazingly, greedily, foolishly) reciprocated with a shy caress of his own, the response had been immediate: Blitzø’s tail enfolded around his leg in a gentle, nostalgic wrap.
And now, minutes having passed, they sit like this. A secret embrace between tail and talon, hidden below the table, neither daring to acknowledge nor relinquish.
“Fine, whatever.” Blitzø rolls his eyes, then fixes Stolas with a smirk that is far too soft. “But don’t act like you don’t wanna know too.”
Millie's stillness is broken by a knowing hum. Her gaze is piercing despite the drinks she's downed. "Y’know what, let’s turn this around, B," she suggests, her eyes flicking up at Blitzø through veiled lashes as she gestures between him and Stolas. “Jus’ how far can Stolas here get his up you?”
Stolas nearly spits what he’d sipped from his glass. He feels the comforting pressure of Blitzø’s tail constrict around his talon a little tighter, then it’s withdrawing to stretch tall in agitation. Stolas aches for the contact to return, but forces himself to ignore the pang.
"Bitch!" Blitzø's fists slam against the table, his voice booming in sync with the sound. His eyes are wide, the red of his complexion darkening. "You said you'd never bring that up!"
Moxxie's laughter peals out.
“Eat my ass and choke on it, both of you!” Blitzø barks, face contorting with a snarl.
"Actually," Millie simpers, rising from her seat and intertwining her fingers with Moxxie's. "How about we catch a LuciBer ride home, baby?" Her voice drops huskily. "I'm craving something far sweeter to eat."
"Oh! The ice cream we bought yesterday! Yay!" Moxxie squeals, not catching the undercurrent innuendo.
"Sure you don't want your big feathered unicorn to go with you?" Blitzø sneers, jerking a thumb in Stolas’ direction.
Millie and Stolas shoot him a withering look.
"A feathered unicorn? You sound ridiculous, sir!" Moxxie giggles irreverently, leaning into Millie for support and affection. "That would be called a Pegasus!"
Blitzø's expression drips with mockery. “Sheesh. You really are a vanilla bastard, aren’tcha?”
“Come on, Moxx.” Millie ignores whatever else Blitzø might spew, tugging Moxxie towards the exit but not before casting a glance at Stolas. “Shoot me a text when you’re on the way home, okay, chickie?”
“Of course,” Stolas replies, an earnest smile on his face as he watches the couple depart.
Blitzø calls out as they leave the bar. “Go easy on his lil’ baby ass, Mills! I need him walking by Monday!”
The silence that falls around Blitzø and Stolas is oppressive, the weight of them being left alone sinking in. Blitzø studies him, a blush rising to his cheeks before tossing back another large gulp of his drink.
Stolas clears his throat, curiosity getting the better of him. “You spoke with Mildred about such things? About us?”
“What? Oh, yeah, like, one time. Had no one else to ask about buying a strap.” He shrugs, tone dismissive. “Not like it mattered. You were shit at dicking me down.”
Stolas thinks of the night he embraced Blitzø, burrowing silicone deep inside, and the unraveling he’d made of the normally dominant imp. The ways he’d heard Blitzø moan unbidden like he never had before. Was it a lie?
“I’m—” Stolas stops himself, but his eyes betray a flicker of hurt. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter.”
“Unless you wanna give it another shot.” Blitzø drawls, sly and dirty, looking at Stolas from the corner of his eyes.
It’s too much. The vacillation in how he’s being treated by Blitzø is suffocating. From cautiously to callously, coyly to coldly. It needs to stop.
“Would you stop, Blitz?” Stolas' voice is weary.
“Stop what? I haven’t done anything.” Blitzø's response is defensive, his shoulders squaring.
“It’s the disrespecting of boundaries.” Stolas' tone turns firm. “ Our boundary, Blitz, the one we agreed to together.”
“Shut up, Stolas. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Fuck you.” Blitzø angles forward so both elbows are resting atop the table. His hands cup either side of his face, expression obscured and watching Stolas obliquely when he speaks again, voice considerably smaller. “I don’t know how to do this, okay?”
“Do what?”
Blitzø nearly curls in on himself. “The whole, y’know, the… oh, Christ on a stick! I’ve never been friends with someone I used to fuck!”
Stolas’ thoughts flap like the pages of a book caught in a windstorm. A novel full of things he could say, and surely would say if he’d had a couple drinks more; in the end, only three words come out: “Neither have I.”
“Someone I fucked a lot,” Blitzø adds, all at once facing Stolas with roving, penetrative eyes. A flash of tongue wets the corner of his mouth. “So many times.”
Nothing can stop the heat which proliferates through Stolas and pools between his legs, pulsing urgently. No. Blitzø shouldn’t be looking at him like that. He shouldn’t be enjoying how Blitzø is looking at him like. He shouldn’t want, want, want—
“I believe I want another drink,” he says, rapidly, a little choked. He has to adjust so his thighs are pressed together, firm. He gulps down air. “How about you?”
Blitzø blinks. “Yeah.” Treats him to a roguish smile. “Shit. Let’s hallucinate up some little green fairy skanks.”
---
If someone had asked Stolas a couple years ago where he envisioned himself being today, the answer would have been straightforward, rehearsed, nothing short of an edict to his role as an Ars Goetia. He’d probably be in the middle of conducting a study on an intriguingly dark stretch of space or documenting the birth of a new and incredibly bright star. In every hypothetical future, he never would’ve imagined living outside the palace, reduced to an exiled nobody, and most definitely not loitering outside a dive bar at 2 A.M. while drunkenly sharing a cigarette with the imp he’d imprinted onto in childhood.
Back-and-forth he and Blitzø get lost in conversation, their bodies warm and dazed with alcohol, their lungs filling with smoke and mirth. This is nice, Stolas thinks, comparing it to the afterglow of sex, the kind they used to occasionally savor, unaware he’d spoken the words aloud.
Blitzø shifts and clears his throat, extending his arm to offer Stolas the cigarette but looking in the opposite direction. Stolas takes it readily, their fingers twitching with every exchange, giving subtle caresses that neither draw attention to. With both hands free, Blitzø rests them on his hips, settling back into one of his cocksure stances, then leers at Stolas with a grin.
“Fuck. Stolas. Y’know what I haven’t done yet?” His speech is slurred, and he almost topples over when he moves to roll on heels of his feet but he’s quick, nimble, to catch himself with what can only be indoctrinated grace. He is still smirking. “Your performance review.”
Stolas lightly taps the cigarette to remove some ash. Only his upper eyes blink. “Performance review?”
“Uh, yeah? Shit, it’s been, what, a month since you started working for I.M.P?” Blitzø gesticulates a fist near his mouth, a crude pumping motion. “I know you’ve been sucking on silver spoons your whole life, Big Bird, but in the real workforce there’s protocol that needs followed.”
Stolas can’t help himself. He takes a measured drag and directs the exhale down towards Blitzø’s face, laughing and hooting when Blitzø smacks through the smoke with halfhearted indignance. Honestly, a little bit of sass is what Blitzø deserves after being so obscene. That, and his statistics are dreadfully inaccurate.
“Two weeks,” Stolas corrects, because it matters. Because the flustered look on Blitzø’s face is worth it.
“Wh—Satan’s dick cheese, you’ve actually been keeping count?” It’s Blitzø’s turn to chuckle. “Whatever. Point is, your feathered ass is way past due. Now… c’mere.”
Stolas can’t quite breathe when he hears the drop in Blitzø’s voice, sees the come-hither curl of a claw, his fluting bird legs turning him to face the shorter demon and bringing him down into an obedient crouch. Quickly, he takes another draw from the cigarette as a precautionary measure for nerves, but it feels like his heart has already vaulted high into his throat. He has to inhale around it, and his exhale is an audible shake when he blows skyward.
“Okay.” He gulps, looks at Blitzø. His white faceplate burns with something that can’t be blamed on alcohol’s flush. “How do we begin?”
There’s a deeper ruddiness to Blitzø’s cheeks now, too, that wasn’t there before. “By you keeping that freaky beaky shut and listening to the big boss man.” He taps the bridge of Stolas’ beak with an index claw, breath heavy with hedonism and bourbon and something else Stolas can’t place. It’d be so easy for Stolas to lick that digit, and Satan, does he want to, but he pushes through to hone his focus like a good employee. Like a good friend. “Critique number one: fucking tone down the fancy talk when taking client calls.”
Well. That’s enough to wring out Stolas’ building arousal, for now.
“You don’t like that I speak professionally with clients?” He raises an eyebrow. “But as secretary, I’m technically the face of the company—”
This time his beak is forced shut by the press of Blitzø's hand.
“You’re the face under my boot if you interrupt me again, bitch.”
Oh—my. No.
A good friend. Friend, friend, friend.
“Critique number two: your filing is ass. It took me five whole minutes to find a file from last week because you just had to move shit around, didn’t you?”
Blitzø releases Stolas’ beak, permitting him a chance to respond, but nothing comes forth. It’d be easy to mention how the files had been improperly alphabetized, that he’d corrected them, but Stolas fears he will unravel to an incoherent mess under the influences of alcohol and lust. He unravels a little now as Blitzø cuts through the silence with a domineering rumble in his throat, his tail whipping the air behind him like a ravenous animal ready for its next meal.
“Critique number three: whatever pretty shit you put on your feathers before strutting into the office, stop.” Blitzø’s forked tongue flicks out just enough to taste the air between them. “The smell is distracting my employees.”
Blitzø leans closer, looking set to bite, and Stolas’ groin pulses with desire to be the victim.
“Your clothes, too. Have you seen the way those drumsticks look? I mean, shit , Stolas.”
Blitzø’s mouth doesn’t fully close, but he quietens for some time before biting his lip. Then he tilts his head slightly, in the same way he used to right before they would kiss, practiced and perfect despite how different their bodies, and fervor sears under Stolas’ skin like verdure blooming after rain. Forgetting himself, Stolas closes his eyes, and, forgetting everything else, begins to lean forward.
Because ‘friends’ is such a flexible moniker, is it not? A simple kiss upon a friend’s hand is considered polite; a kiss to their cheek a kindly greeting; and a kiss of their lips—
Embers fall from the neglected cigarette, singeing Stolas’ knee. He winces, recoiling from the sudden sting and near-miss of a kiss both. With embarrassment, he attempts to regain his composure.
“I’m sorry. My…drumsticks?”
“Your legs. Thighs.” Blitzø keeps at it, still watching with starving eyes, their yellow smolder darkening, reminiscent of a predator in wait. “The things I used to hold apart when I slammed my dick all up in that slutty birdpuss of yours.”
Stolas squawks.
He rises, unsteady but creating distance, because being too close to Blitzø and drunk is a dangerous combination. His hands shake, unsure, so he offers the cigarette back. The air between them is stark now, which Blitzø, demeanor rough like a deckled edge but inherently gentle, picks up on. It shines through as he carefully retrieves the cigarette, claws avoiding another caress with Stolas’ talons. With how he settles back, appearing detached.
Neither move to speak. But they must.
“Blitz,” Stolas sighs, his mind no less a slurred mess than it was a couple minutes ago, “we just talked about this. You can’t say such things.”
Blitzø shrugs, and if he’s feigning nonchalance Stolas can’t tell. “Already did.” At least when he smirks this time, he’s gracious enough to obscure it by bringing the cigarette to his lips. “And we talked about that like five drinks ago. We’re different men now.”
Stolas scoffs at Blitzø’s attempt at deflection, but a smile follows. “What about the performance review?”
“Final critique: you’re not face down, ass up.”
“Blitz! ”
Blitzø startles with a scowl, looking prepped to argue, but tempers to apologetic. “Damn. Thought you always liked my jokes.” He holds his hands up, palms facing forward, presenting his submission. “Alright. Too far. M’sorry.”
“It’s—it’s alright.” Stolas clasps at the hem of his blazer, fidgeting the rich fabric betwixt his fingers. He tries to not look at Blitzø. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered to know you still find me appealing.”
“You serious?” And there’s humor in his expression. A nonanswer. Blitzø nods upwards, a motion so small it’s almost unnoticed. “Kinda too bad we’re doing the friends without benefits thing. It’d be the perfect night for some fun.”
Without arrangements and the weight of princely duties, Stolas has little reason to monitor the cycling of the skies anymore. So it only dawns on him then, with Blitzø’s help, that it’s a full moon night—the first since his banishment. The delayed realization brings a strange, bittersweet sense of relief. It means they’re both unshackled from the expectations which burdened that fragile bond they formed well over a year ago. Now, they have the freedom to simply be. No pretenses, no obligations. Just Stolas and Blitzø.
“Oh, quite disappointing,” Stolas jests, with a chortle. He slides a hand over his cheek feathers, smoothing them down. “But I’m grateful for this friendship, Blitz. I realize I’ve made things complicated with my abrupt inclusion to your company. And that my being around you is often, well, awkward, to say the least, but I cannot overstate how happy I am to be here with you.”
A pause.
“Ten feet from an alley garbage bin?”
“Oh, shut up.” Stolas is openly laughing now. If he were anymore intoxicated, he’d have collapsed to a giggling heap. “You know what I mean.”
“Kinda. Don’t know how you can do the fancytalk bullshit when hammered.” A pause. A smile. “But yeah. I got you, Stols.”
Oh.
A tender smile is all it takes for Blitzø to break him. Stolas swears the ground beneath his talons pulses, forcing him to step back in attempt at regaining balance, but nothing can stop the spinning. Even after tenured years experiencing the gravitational pull of stars and planets firsthand, Stolas is convinced there is no stronger attraction than the one he feels towards the imp beside him. Blitzø, with his big office and self-assured stride, forging a life by doing what he wants to do. Blitzø, freely climbing a tree in Stolas’ childhood parterre, ascending higher and higher, while Stolas remains anchored to the ground below, the grimoire’s weight in his lap a heavy reminder of eternal obligations. Blitzø, forever rooted in a sense of belonging somewhere and to something, a mortal imbued with a spirit far more everlasting than Stolas’ ichor could ever be.
And Stolas desperately wants to feel the weight of his gravity once more. If only tonight, to have him anywhere and everywhere, pulling him in or pressing him down, for Blitzø to indulge all his sensibilities and shame and selfishness like before. Oh, if only he could. If only Stolas hadn’t ruined everything. If only they were strangers instead of friends.
As his friend, Stolas smiles back at Blitzø with a love unfurling under the suppression. A nervous rush comes, heedless and palpable, when Blitzø’s own smile falters in reply. Stolas braces for mockery, but Blitzø merely returns the cigarette to his mouth with a hum, inhaling deep and his eyes making work of Stolas’ body.
“Blitz?”
The response comes shrouded in a haze of exhaled smoke. That signature smirk plays on Blitzø's lips, his voice its usual rough timbre:
“Fuck it.”
The last thing Stolas’ mind registers is Blitzø carelessly flicking the cigarette, the hot ochre tip arcing towards the pavement, and then everything snaps. In an instant, Blitzø is on him, the force of his pounce sending Stolas staggering backward. Blitzø’s thighs wrap around Stolas’ torso like a vice, his fingers fast to burrow in Stolas’ head feathers and his maw even quicker to lick into his gasping beak. Stolas’ body readily forfeits to the loss of balance, back arching against the brick wall he’s now pinned against, his hands finding purchase on the worn leather of Blitzø’s jacket and his gasps becoming moans inside his fanged mouth. Blitzø flinches and scratches his claws deeper into Stolas’ scalp but lets him breathe into him still, and juts his groin forward to press against Stolas’ abdomen, offering something more.
“You’ve been wanting this,” Blitzø says after breaking the kiss, low and aching, each syllable a hot puff on Stolas’ tongue. “I can tell. You want this so fucking bad.”
Then he’s taking Stolas all over again, unrestrained, with tongue and hands that know no bounds, and all Stolas can do is make a strangled sound that they both know is a confirmation. Stolas wants to touch Blitzø’s body all he can, to be touched in return, to have his loneliness unmoored, to forget who and where and why he is—
Stolas pulls back this time, overwhelmed, but Blitzø is relentless. He cranes in, mouth chasing after Stolas’, and when he turns away, Blitzø seizes the opening with tongue and teeth to claim the line of Stolas’ jaw and southward until he’s kissing directly above his collarbone. Stolas' pulse roars in his ears, the sound rivaled only by the primal growl of satisfaction that rumbles from Blitzø, every kiss and bite a scorch on skin under feathers.
“You want this,” Blitzø repeats again, this time into the bight of Stolas’ neck, wetting the feathers there while his tail snakes around to press against his thighs. Then he pushes the spaded tip in between them, petting and grinding right where he wants him most, and Stolas is suddenly very aware of how aroused he is. “Fuck . You’re wet. Wanting me makes you so fucking wet.”
“Blitz, please—” please, stop. Please, keep going. Please, don’t make me feel good when I am undeserving after everything I’ve done. Please, lie to me, tell me I’m worth all the burdens sowed. Please, never bring me too close again. Please, hold me.
When words finally catenate, spoken aloud, it’s not his voice, but Blitzø’s, that pleads.
“Tell me you want me, Stolas.”
“We shouldn’t,” Stolas murmurs, tongue heavy in his beak. His quills feel like pins, plumage fanning wide to bare hints of the skin beneath longing for Blitzø’s touch. A subconscious request, silent but clear. Blitzø chuckles low with understanding, fluent in the language of Stolas’ body, his fingertips kneading into the downy dells and caressing Stolas’ cheek. Stolas has to finish his thought through a full body shiver. “We’ve had too much to drink.”
“And we haven’t had this,” Blitzø rolls his hips, grinding on Stolas more pointedly, “in such a long time. Come on. You want it again, Stolas. You miss being fucked by this dick.”
If Stolas were a stronger demon, he would have ended the night there. If Stolas were sober, he’d warn Blitzø of the regrets undoubtedly awaiting them, should they couple. If Stolas weren’t so desperate for belonging, he’d smother the sparks and protect the precious relationship they’d managed to rebuild. He’d ask Blitzø what it is he wants, what he misses, and for once not dither in fear that the answer might not be him. But—Stolas knows the fires won’t fade, lingering in his chest with the memory of Blitzø’s sinewed skin, accommodating mouth, commanding thrusts. And the ache of abandonment gnaws at his soul, rends him with yearning.
Stolas has never felt so weak, so tired, so lonely.
“I—” Stolas gasps, and can’t stop now that he’s started, “oh, fuck, I do, Blitz. So badly.”
“Then let me.” Blitzø sounds seconds away from whimpering, his desperation belied by the unhesitating nudge of his palm to Stolas’ face so he can look into his eyes. “Let me.”
“Let you…?”
He looks at Blitzø, and in the imp's eyes, he sees a mirrored reflection of his own state—that same bone-deep weariness, that same raw longing. It's like witnessing the death of a star, only to discover it was never a star at all. A reminder that’s grown more and more clear to Stolas, lately: Blitzø is no different from him, no better or worse, no one to be placed upon a pedestal and revered. He's marred by flaws and imperfections, just as lonely, just as weak, just as sad and wanting.
“Use me,” Blitzø says, with broken finality, forbidding reply by kissing Stolas again.
Everything after is dizzying: the soft glow emanating from Blitzø’s wrist, the hum of the Asmodean crystal, the thickened air torrenting with magic. It feels like he’s floating mid-air, enveloped in his submission to Blitzø, when he abandons all caution. With newfound desperation, he deepens the kiss, while his hands, once hesitant, roam with rough urgency. Seeking to be held not as a discarded demon prince, but a man desired, a soul seen, a heart that still beats with the hope of being Blitzø’s someone. Even if, and he knows, it is an illusion he can never fully reclaim.
Lost in those feelings of weightlessness, Stolas doesn't register the subtle shimmer below them until it's too late. A portal, hastily placed by Blitzø, had opened beneath their feet, and suddenly Stolas feels the stomach-dropping lurch of freefall. His legs, once floating as if on a cloud, now crumple, sending him crashing to the ground in a graceless heap. Blitzø, caught off guard, is flung from atop him, connecting with tile floor face-first. The impact is jarring, and Stolas’ laughter is instantaneous, a welcome release of the tension that had been building between them.
“Shit eating hell!” Blitzø pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, pouting. “Stop laughing, asshole, I fell on my goddamn boner!”
“Oh, my.” Stolas adjusts into a sitting position, giggling the while. He begins to inspect their surroundings. A familiar bathroom. Modest, only a few square inches away from feeling cramped, and, once he sees the Horse Lovers Are Stable People t-shirt hanging to dry above the bathtub, knows they're in Blitzø’s home. “A bit of warning would have been helpful for us both, darling.”
A flicker of surprise flashes in Blitzø's eyes, then pyres with sultry heat. "Haven't heard you call me bullshit like that in forever," he slurs, his voice low, the mood resumed. With unsteady but deliberate movements, Blitzø begins to crawl towards him. He parts Stolas' legs, making room for his small body, eyes never leaving Stolas' face as he closes in. As he rises onto his knees, his hands drift down to his pants, lowering the zipper with a tantalizing hiss.
Blitzø tugs his pants down in one swift, fluid motion. The fabric of his briefs hitches and lowers with it, stopping just at the crest of his thighs, his erect cock springing free and bobbing with pent-up tension. The sight alone is enough to wrench a moan from Stolas' throat—how long has it truly been since he last beheld Blitzø like this? It feels like an eternity, a lifetime of longing and denial, and it must show on his face, because when he finally tears his eyes away from the enticing sight to look back up at Blitzø, he’s met with a cocky, knowing grin. The imp's expression is a potent mix of triumph and challenge, as if daring Stolas to act on the desire that hangs between them.
“Now, how about you kiss it better, birdie?”
When Stolas’ talons make contact with Blitzø to wrap around his waist, it's as if he's embracing hot iron. Something almost somatic. He guides Blitzø further up into a standing position with gentle yet insistent pressure, and Blitzø offers no resistance whatsoever, allowing himself to be maneuvered with a mindless compliance that Stolas can only dream is reserved for him alone. It feels as though no time has passed since their last night of intimacy, the ease and familiarity between them a testament to the bond Stolas has long tried to dismiss as mere fantasy.
But it’s as natural as breathing, and, with a shuddering inhale, Stolas licks his bottom lip, smiles up at Blitzø, leans in. The bridge of his beak presses directly beneath the head of Blitzø's erection, delivering a featherlight kiss. The action is rewarded by the sound of Blitzø straining to hold back a groan, a noise so hypnotic that Stolas is ensnared with desire to reduce him to a blabbing mess. His talon roves with a mind of its own, wrapping around the base of Blitzø's cock while his tongue makes work of tracing a stripe up the underside all the way to the tip, dutifully licking the bead of precum there that was seconds from spilling. The flavor is addictive, inundating to his senses, and Stolas needs more. His jaw slackens, mouth falling open to take Blitzø in with practiced skill, carefully angled to avoid lacerating skin with the hooked end of his beak. His tongue wraps a couple inches worth, to add delicious friction.
“Shit.” Blitzø throws his head back, eyes furrowed shut, hands trembling like a chord being strung when he reaches out to massage the back of Stolas’ head. “That’s it, baby,” he pants, already sounding close to the edge. “Show me how much you’ve missed this.”
Spurred on by the desperation in Blitzø's words, Stolas begins a rhythm. He bobs his head, licks and laves Blitzø’s cock until his mouth is a mixture of salt and wet, like the shameless heat building between his thighs. Above him, Blitzø’s voice chokes and breaths hitch. Below, Stolas can hear one of his hooves stamping against the floor, the motion wild and uncoordinated, like an animal restraining its charge. But Stolas knows all the ways to unravel Blitzø, to splinter his control, and wants nothing more than to be the one to do it; a caprice to prove–selfishly, guiltily–that his attentions are neither too much nor not enough. That he’s worth keeping, this time.
The moment Stolas makes a soft owlish chirrup from the back of his throat, it’s over. A sob-like moan rips from Blitzø as orgasm hits, his claws digging into Stolas' headfeathers, his hips snapping forward as he spills white-hot into Stolas' beak. The head of his cock hits the back of Stolas’ throat, but he is more than happy to take it, swallowing around him. And when he glances up at Blitzø, white pupils having emerged in the depths of his eyes, he's surprised to see tears shimmering in the corners of Blitzø's, with a gaze blown and unfocused. Had Blitzø really cried? The thought has Stolas offering a soothing coo, the vibrations rolling onto Blitzø's overstimulated skin. Blitzø's body jolts in response, another pulse of cum spilling onto Stolas’ tongue, and watches wordlessly as Stolas licks him soft through the aftershocks.
“I didn’t mean to—I didn’t even last a minute.” Blitzø’s voice is hoarse when he finds it, but the embarrassment is clear. Stolas lets his cock fall from his beak so he can offer a smile. Blitzø tries to look away. “It’s—it’s because I’ve got massive whiskey dick right now, alright? Shut up.”
“Blitz. I don’t care.”
Stolas barely needs to rise to reach Blitzø’s mouth with his own. And Blitzø opens to him, their tongues twining, sharing the taste of satisfaction and release both. Another chirrup builds deep in Stolas’ throat, like an itch needing scratched, something primordial and cossetting and only ever heard between mated goetia. Stolas does everything to stifle it down. Blitzø, though, lets a purr roll free, a rumble deep in his chest.
Stolas can count on one hand how many times he’s heard it.
Blitzø seems to realize this, pulling back from their kiss with a grimace. "Alright, enough of that, you cock drunk slut," he snorts, giving Stolas a shove that puts him flat on the floor. "Bar’s closed."
“Must you be such an infuriating prick?” Stolas rolls his eyes, twisting back to grab the edge of the bathtub and using it to hoist himself onto his knees. It’s his turn to snort then, when he looks over his shoulder to find Blitzø staring. He fans his tailfeathers to the side and upwards, making them stand taller than Blitzø is now, then wiggles enticingly. “Or perhaps it’s your turn to show how much you’ve missed this, hm?”
No matter how many times they’ve danced this dance, Stolas’ nerves never fail to flutter at the next step, strong as they were their first night together. Goading Blitzø with provocativeness is the easy part, as is the inviting him hither to claim and defile, to beckon the sear of tension and sex; but the moment the bait is taken, as soon as Blitzø’s shedding his pants and sauntering up behind him, already half-erect, a swarm of butterflies soar through Stolas’ veins.
“Smug ass bird,” Blitzø mutters, his palm settling heavy onto the small of Stolas’ back. This time, the pressure is a directive, not a shove, of which Stolas obeys. Stolas’ long body bends like a drawn bow, torso resting atop the lip of the bathtub, his hands planted inside against the cool porcelain. His ass lifts with the positioning, how Blitzø wants. “Won’t miss these gay ass pants, that’s for damn sure.”
“Pardon?”
A ripping noise, a whish of air, and Blitzø has clawed open his slacks, laying Stolas bare and helpless, his wet cloaca exposed. A squeak leaves Stolas, and then there’s silence, a stillness that runs a little too long, enough time for doubt and shame to bubble to the surface (is something wrong? Blitzø normally would have made a crass remark by now. Has it been too long, has he become unsightly?). Stolas tries to shield himself with his tailfeathers, but Blitzø grabs hold of them, grip tight and unyielding, holding Stolas in place. It’s then time resumes, Blitzø finally making a sound—whimpering:
“Pretty.”
The endearment is unexpected, catches Stolas off guard, leaving him breathless. But before he can fully process it, Blitzø is already dropping down and craning in, mouth and tongue covering Stolas’ pulsing cunt, a sensation so intense it elicits a whine from Stolas' gaping beak that bounces off the bathroom walls. Both sets of his eyes snap shut, lights bursting behind his lids in a riot of shape and color that mirror the heady lapping of Blitzø's tongue.
“Oh, oh—fuck!” Stolas’ shoulders shake when Blitzø’s hands move to spread him wider and bury his tongue further in. Blitzø hears how Stolas’ mewling crescendos, swirls and flicks and swirls his tongue, lightly scrapes fangs along the sensitive border of his cloaca. It’s better than Stolas remembers. “Ah, Blitz, there.”
Stolas cants his hips as much as his position allows, bent awkwardly over the bathtub’s edge, thighs pressed firm against the unforgiving base, utterly at Blitzø’s mercy. As if to highlight the fact, or perhaps torture him, Blitzø pulls back, humming and growling and panting, and Stolas can feel the stare of eyes on his cunt. He bites his lip, fights the instinct to squirm, not wanting to break the spell.
But then, Blitzø is returning, murmuring against Stolas’ warmly wet slit.
"Daddy's home."
Blitzø's words are honeyed poison, dripping with intent to set a mood, to recreate the lewd nights of their past, to wear once more his role of the irresistible, dominant imp Stolas had come to know. But his voice cracks, a faint fissure in his armor, a vulnerability that Blitzø unvaryingly shields but Stolas perceives. It’s like catching a glimpse behind a theater’s curtain, witnessing the hidden mechanisms and tangled ropes which mesmerized audiences were never meant to see. The raw, unvarnished version of Blitzø laid bare for Stolas alone.
The thoughts deluge through Stolas in full body shivers, his voice a breathless mantra of "yes" when Blitzø's lips seal around him again. When Blitzø sucks the well-wetted rim of his cloaca, pace and rhythm maddening, leaving Stolas' vision blurring at the edges. All the while, Blitzø is moaning words, mouthing prayers and oaths into Stolas’ cunt, a litany of praise unintelligible through mouthful of feathers, skin and wet.
Stolas' talons flex, feathers rustle wildly, his entire body a coiled spring teetering on the precipice. His beak opens to take a large gulp of air, signaling the overture to his orgasm. And then, Blitzø withdraws. Again. This time, Stolas cannot stop himself from baying, the cry of frustration shattering the air, his body arching in protest.
"Wh—are you trying to drive me mad?" he huffs, head spinning 180 degrees to glare.
The ire dissolves once Blitzø comes into focus. The imp, having risen to stand, at a complete halt, his eyes transfixed where his mouth had been, cock straining and heavy in his fist. Poised and ready to take Stolas. Then his stare inches upward, meeting Stolas', wide and vulnerable, his body visibly aquiver.
“Let me,” Blitzø pleads, again, as he had done outside the bar, starts to rub against Stolas’ entrance. He looks small, fragile. “I swear to shit I’m going to make you feel good, Stolas. Let me. Use me.”
An array of emotion roils within Stolas. Concern wars with confusion, tenderness with frustration, lucidity with drunkenness. Amidst it all, an unshakeable urge to balm whatever ails Blitzø, then and now and then and now. Always.
“Blitz, please don’t say that,” Stolas answers, ever so gentle. His voice is unperturbed, but his body, belying him, trembles on the spot. He may never fully grasp the depths of the imp’s desires, but he does know what he himself wishes to give . Aches to surrender everything he is in answer. “All I want is you.”
If it was the right thing to say, Stolas will never know; but Blitzø obliges, pushing his cock against his cloaca at a moment’s notice but sliding inside him slowly, so they both can feel every inch of the bind. Stolas’ head reels back forward, for looking upon Blitzø thereafter would render him shouting things they need kept unsaid. So the words tangle in his throat like he’s sure vines have overgrown in his bygone palace garden, leaving room for only a pleasured wail to seep out and fill the air. Blitzø wheezes and, too, makes a sound, a loud moan unlike any he’s ever given before, and it echoes in Stolas’ mind long after. It ricochets when Blitzø girds Stolas’ hips with his hands and begins to rock into him, shallow and languorous, as Stolas squeezes his cock with the flex of his thighs.
“Fuck ,” Blitzø’s head falls against the middle of Stolas’ back. “Stolas, fuck, you’ve missed this dick real bad, huh?”
“I—”
“You missed it almost as much as I’ve missed fucking your tight, tight ass,” Blitzø interrupts, slurring against feathers and crashing his hips forward. His fangs sink into Stolas’ skin, then he licks at the infliction like a starving demon would a plate. Like a hellhound would its mate’s muzzle. “Shit, Stols, ah , I missed this.” Bite, thrust, lick . “I missed you.”
As soon as Blitzø says it, Stolas nearly loses his mind. He reaches back to spread himself wider with one taloned hand and angles so Blitzø can curve into him deeper. “Fuck me, Blitz. Please.”
It’s not at all how Stolas imagined them coming to be this way again—on a grimy bathroom floor, surrounded by shattered tile and rusted fixtures, a toilet looming beside them. It's crude, sordid, a far cry from the romance etched into his memories and even further from the dignity one would expect of a prince (renounced or not). Yet, he can't summon the will to care, because in its own twisted way, it's perfect. Blitzø never fucked him like royalty before, and he doesn't now. But he does fuck Stolas like he’s someone who matters. Like he’s someone who belongs—
Like Stolas belongs to Blitzø.
Pleasure wings to numbing heights as Stolas grinds flush against Blitzø’s groin, feeling every inch of him. Blitzø rolls his hips, sleeking and stretching him from inside, as though determined to get closer still. Stolas’ body lurches with every push and pull, until his hands can no longer hold, until he drops to his forearms, a wrist the only thing separating his face from the bathtub flooring. His flesh and blood impossibly hot, the sounds of their fucking so loud he cannot discern between the harsh slapping of skin and the frantic bating of his own heart.
“Don’t stop, Blitz, don’t—”
“Yeah, you like that, bitch?”
“Yes,” he yelps, the word punched out of him by the ruthless snap of Blitzø’s hips.
“It’s good? I make you feel good, Stols?”
Another slap. “So—fuck—so good.”
“Say it,” Blitzø rasps, voice strained, like choking back tears, “say you want me to keep fucking you. Like before. Yours.”
Stolas can no longer form words, with Blitzø hot and full all the way inside, hitting a spot that wrings noises out of him he’s not sure are his own. They knock together one more time and then Stolas is coming, sobbing through it, deaf and blind as he blanks, the sensation of Blitzø emptying into him all that’s left.
When Stolas revives, Blitzø is pulling out, their mixture of cum spilling out from his spent cloaca and trickling warm down his feathered thighs. He feels stuffed with it, branded.
"Blitz," Stolas wheezes, wishing he could draw the imp close. But he's too spent to muster the strength to move from his position draped over the bathtub's edge just yet. He notices a small puddle of his drool glistening on the porcelain flooring. "Blitz?" he tries again, voice laced with concern at the quiet.
A rustling of movement, the toilet seat clattering open, and then the gut-wrenching sound of retching.
Stolas forces himself upright despite the soreness of his body, spinning around. He finds Blitzø hunched over the bowl, his body heaving.
“Blitz!? ”
“Fuck me,” he drawls, spitting and coughing. He’s leaned so far in, his voice nearly echoes inside the bowl. “This isn’t in response to us smashing our shit together, just in case you, y’know…”
“Shh,” Stolas eases, scooting to rub small circles on Blitzø’s back. “I know. We indulged a shy too much tonight.”
“Yeah.”
The weak affirmative is all that’s given.
Stolas can tell he’s been sobering, the warmth of alcohol seeping from his system and sharpening everything around him, replaced with a creeping chill of regret. He can only assume it’s the same for Blitzø. They never discussed what would happen if they crossed this line, never considered the possibility that a drunken hookup would even happen. Now, as he eyes Blitzø's hunched form, he can't help but wonder if he’s ruined everything.
“Shall we tidy up and make our way to bed?” Stolas asks, trying to keep his tone light despite the churning in his own stomach.
“Yeah.”
---
The cleanup is a swift, stilted affair, the silence between them thick. Blitzø puts on a crumpled pair of sweatpants he’d previously left in the bathroom corner, while Stolas has no choice but to go bottomless, his own pants too tattered. By the time they collapse onto Blitzø's couch, Stolas on his back and Blitzø draped atop him, exhaustion cloaks them both, heavy and insistent.
Blitzø shifts his head into the softness of Stolas' chest feathers, the gesture familiar from full moons past; almost like a nuzzle, and it stirs something in the recesses of Stolas' chest. Their eyes lock after, mouths still unspeaking. Blitzø blinks at him, eyelids moving so slow Stolas swears the imp is dozing off. His heart pounds in his ears, the awkwardness of the moment mingling with residual affection. Absentminded, staring at Blitzø’s lips, Stolas begins to lean in, drawn to the thought of sealing the rift.
Blitzø dips his chin down and away, his voice but a mumble against Stolas' chest. "I threw up. Nasty bitch.” He tugs at the blanket draped over the back of the couch, pulls it down to cover himself completely. No longer in view, hidden as if he can't bear to look at Stolas any longer.
Then… there’s nothing. Blitzø feels so far away to him, unreachable, no matter how flush his body lies against his own. Stolas bites back the questions that rise in his throat, keeps his beak closed to keep from speaking. He's learned to be silent in moments like these, to not push Blitzø for words he's clearly unwilling to give.
It’s like a splash of reality, a reminder of the drunkenness of their hookup and the potential for morning-after remorse. A hollowness spreads through Stolas then, the seat cushions beneath him turning to unforgiving stone. The couch, not built for his large frame, creaking when he fidgets his weight. He doesn't belong in this space, or any other he’s come to occupy. Maybe not in Blitzø’s life at all, for that matter.
He believes, with sinking certainty, that Blitzø is already regretting this. Regretting him.
Overhead, the ceiling fan turns in a staccato rhythm. Stolas counts the squeaks the panels make in intervals, waiting for Blitzø’s breathing to slow and his heart to stop crying. As the minutes tick by, only after his mind has run through all the ways in which tomorrow might unfold, fatigue catches up, lulling him to sleep, into dreams of acceptance and rejection, of connection and solitude.
The next thing Stolas knows, he's jolted half-awake, eyes cracking open to the sound of a door slamming shut. He forces himself up onto his elbows, peering blearily across the room to catch the blur of Loona's silhouette absconding into her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her. The last thing, before sleep pulls him under once more, is the feel and sound of Blitzø's steady purring.
Stolas can count on two hands how many times he’s heard it.
He can't help but wonder, as he drifts back to unconsciousness, if he'll ever hear it again after tonight. If he'll always be alone, forever the outsider, the other, looking in on the things he can never truly have.