Chapter Text
After Blitz was done with work, he rubbed the crystal and both with Stolas they entered the apartment.
The lighting was harsh. The couch was falling apart. Stolas’ plant was in the corner, Blitz got it for him in Greed, it was a vegetarian plant, feeding through its mouth with organic, non-processed biowaste. Stolas put a note on it that read: "DO NOT FEED COOKIES" as Blitz tried to, multiple times.
Stolas stood in the middle of the chaos, still in the leather corset, rope, fishnets, and those pitiful, droopy bunny ears. And despite his outfit practically screaming fuck me now, Blitz had the gall to be rummaging through the fridge like nothing had happened.
“I swear on my plant’s life,” Stolas muttered, feathers puffing up in a righteous fluff of irritation, “if you open one more expired yogurt, I’m going to peck your eyes out in your sleep.”
Blitz, halfway through sniffing some orange covered in mold, paused. “Look, I know you’re mad.”
“Oh, do you? How astute of you, Blitzy,” Stolas snapped, elbows crossed so tightly it was a miracle the corset didn’t burst, as his hands were still tied. “Perhaps the teleportation tantrum didn’t tip you off. Or maybe the way I’m dressed like a lust whore and you’re ignoring me again wasn’t clear enough.”
Blitz closed the fridge with his hip. “I get it, alright? I’m a dick. I didn’t appreciate the effort. You looked… really hot. Like, confusingly hot. Like, ‘I need therapy and maybe ice water’ hot.”
Stolas narrowed his eyes. “And yet you sent me to the toy box. Like some desperate teenager with a boner.”
Blitz winced. “Okay, yes, I said that, and I meant it, at the time , because I was stressed and maybe dangerously caffeinated, and your thighs were doing something to my soul, and I panicked.”
Stolas huffed, dramatically flopping onto the couch, narrowly avoiding the corner spring trying to kill him. “You seem to panic at the worst times, whenever I ask for your attention. I’ve seen demons with less fear of commitment than you have over a hug.”
“That is not fair,” Blitz said, pacing now, clearly uncomfortable. “I’ve hugged! And I don’t fear affection ! ”
Stolas just turned his head 150 degrees again, full owl-mode, refusing to look at him, beak high, eyes glowing faintly like a spiteful nightlight.
“Stop doing that. It’s weird. And guilt-inducing.”
Stolas said nothing.
Blitz groaned. “Fine! You want a real apology?”
No answer.
“I was a jerk. You got dressed up for me, like, full-blown fantasy fuel, and I blew it. Because I suck at emotions. And attention. And sometimes… being around people who actually like me.”
Still no answer.
“And… if it makes you feel better, you can punish me later. Tie me up with that rope, spank me with a cursed spatula, whatever gets the feathers ruffled, Your Highness.”
Stolas slowly turned his head back around. Blinked once. Then, with a sniff, said, “This is not about punishing Blitzy .”
Blitz grinned. “What about I apologise? Like really, really hard?”
“Try me.”
Blitz dropped to one knee immediately. “I am so, so, so sorry I didn’t fuck the shit out of you at work.”
“And?”
“…And that I let paperwork come between me and the sexiest bird-shaped goddamn fever dream in the rings of Hell.”
Stolas narrowed his eyes. “Hmm. Acceptable.”
He stood, hips cocked, rope swinging slightly.
“Now be a good boy and help me out of this rope and corset.”
“You got it, babe,” Blitz said, cracking his knuckles like he was about to disarm a bomb.
Stolas accepted the apology with the dignified grace of a wronged soap opera protagonist, chin tilted high, feathers slightly ruffled, and a smug glint in his eye that said yes, I forgive you… but you’ll wish I hadn’t.
Because Blitz may have escaped the bunny ears incident with his dignity barely intact, but the next week?
He’d be begging for mercy.
It started subtly. Monday morning, Stolas changed right in front of Blitz, making sure Blitz got the full display of him. Bending over and slowly pulling his sleeping shorts down while Blitz was still eating breakfast in the kitchen. And putting on black panties and a skirt.
When the duo was at work, and Blitz went out of his office, he found Stolas, with his legs crossed on the front desk, sipping tea, flipping through a magazine like he owned the place. Which, emotionally speaking, he kind of did. He wore a dangerously low-cut blouse made of black lace that shimmered slightly when he moved. The slit in his skirt was high enough to qualify as a threat. Blitz walked into a filing cabinet.
“Oh? Hello, Blitzy,” Stolas said, batting his lashes. “You’re looking rather tense. Did you sleep poorly? Perhaps… alone? ”
Blitz grunted something about coffee and retreated like a wounded animal.
Tuesday, he wore leather. Not like “edgy teen at a punk concert” leather, dominant, thigh-high, fresh-from-a-succubus-biker-gang leather. Corseted, zippered, scandalous leather . He overdressed on purpose, throughout the day, he put off pieces of clothing, but only in Blitz’s presence. Just casually. Right at his desk. Usually while Blitz was trying to lead a meeting.
“Stolas, for Satan’s sake, could you maybe not take your shirt off while we’re talking about murder rates in California?”
“Darling, I can’t focus when I’m sweaty. You wouldn’t want me distracted during work, would you?”
Blitz banged his head on the whiteboard.
By Wednesday, Stolas was in his teasing form.
He sauntered around the office in Blitz’s favorite colors, red, black, and disaster, wearing see-through mesh and a crop top that left nothing to the imagination and everything to regret. He chirped seductive little songs under his breath, arched his back when reaching for pencils, and somehow managed to be everywhere Blitz wasn’t supposed to look at all times.
And then came the meetings.
Thursday, just before a big pitch with a demon arms dealer, Blitz chugged his energy drink and immediately felt like someone had set his blood on fire. His pupils dilated. His heart tried to punch its way out of his chest.
“Why is my dick twitching ?!” he wheezed, sweat pouring down his face.
Stolas sipped his tea. “Hmm? Oh, I don’t know, Blitzy . Can you stop being a horny-dick and focus for once?”
Stolas knew what he wanted, to get Blitz’s dick hard in front of everyone, embarrassing him. He slipped some crushed viagra into the energy drink, some meaning three tablets.
Blitz sat through the entire presentation vibrating like a broken jackhammer, legs crossed, eyes wide, jacket held firmly in place. Grinning awkwardly while trying not to explode or touch himself.
Friday was the final blow.
Stolas wore a dress and nothing else beneath it. He passed by Blitz’s desk once every five minutes, each time “accidentally” dropping something, his pen, a folder and… glasses? Bending rather than squatting over to pick the things up, pulling onto the dress, the outlines of everything could be seen. Blitz hadn’t gotten a single thing done that day.
But every time they got home? Stolas would ghost past him without a word. No flirtation. No cuddles. Not even a tail flick. He’d curl up on the sofa with a romance novel, sigh dramatically, and say things like, “I hope somebody in this book knows how to appreciate their lover,” while pecking on bread like a city pigeon.
Blitz was unraveling.
By Saturday morning, he was fully broken. Eyes bloodshot, hands twitching, a whisper away from begging.
He stared at Stolas, who was making coffee in nothing but a pair of heart-print boxers, Blitz’s boxers and a look of smug detachment, and finally snapped.
“Okay. Okay. I get it! You win! You’re a hot, manipulative bastard and I’m an idiot who turned down the sexiest day of my life! Please, please stop driving me insane, I haven’t slept, I haven’t worked, and I’ve almost exploded in four different client meetings!”
Stolas slowly turned, sipped his coffee, and blinked owlishly.
“Oh? I don’t know what you are talking about Blitz.”
Blitz collapsed to his knees. “Please. For the love of me, either kill me or let me make it up to you.”
Stolas smiled, leaned down, and whispered in his ear: “You can start… by being my pet and worshipping me like you should for the weekend.”
Blitz whimpered. “Can I at least keep the coffee?”
“No.”
Oh, Blitz worshipped him, alright.
By Saturday afternoon, Blitz was on all fours, both metaphorically and literally, offering Stolas praise like he was a damn altar. He massaged Stolas’s talons. He fetched his tea. He ironed his clothing. At one point, he even read an entire chapter of "666 Shades of Slay: A Succubus Romance" aloud in a sultry voice while Stolas lounged across his lap, very poorly that was, humming contentedly.
“You’ve been very obedient today, Blitzy,” Stolas purred, lazily dragging his finger along the rim of Blitz’s chin.
“I’d sell my bones for five minutes of friction right now,” Blitz growled through gritted teeth.
“Mmm, but desperation looks so good on you.”
By the time they left for groceries, Blitz was a live wire, frustrated, twitchy, and constantly adjusting his belt like it had personally betrayed him.
The worst part? Stolas looked normal. Sort of. If your definition of "normal" included too tight pants, and a mesh turtleneck that showed everything . He floated beside the shopping cart like he was having the time of his life, arms folded behind his back, occasionally pointing at things with dramatic flair.
“Blitzy, do not forget the toilet paper.”
Blitz looked at it, it was on the highest shelf, way out of his reach. Even though Stolas could easily hand it to him, he just wanted to see him suffer, so he climbed the shelves and threw a pack into the shopping cart.
“And get Loona the white yolk eggs, not the red ones, she said it is better for her fur.”
“Wouldn’t know,” Blitz muttered under his breath, eye twitching.
“What was that, darling?”
“I said yes, of course , precious owl prince of my ruined libido.”
Stolas giggled. Actually giggled. It was a high, airy little sound that made three other customers in the aisle simultaneously blush and walk into things.
He kept teasing him the whole trip.
When they passed by the frozen section, he bent down very slowly to check the temperature of a bag of peas, giving Blitz a full view of mesh-clad hell-cheeks. Blitz nearly choked on a sample sausage.
At the checkout line, Stolas whispered, “If you behave, maybe I’ll let you look at me tonight.”
“Let me look?!” Blitz hissed, desperately fumbling with coupons he never even brought.
“I said maybe. ”
By the time they got home, Blitz had carried every single grocery bag, put everything away, fluffed the couch cushions, lit candles, and even laid out Stolas’s slippers like an offering.
And yet?
Stolas barely brushed his arm as he passed by, heading to the bedroom with a book in hand. “I’ll be reading for the next hour. Please don’t interrupt me unless a new episode of Drama-oh-drama comes out. And even then, make sure it’s actually good.”
Blitz stood there, alone, staring down at himself.
It had been six days. Seven days of longing, tight pants, crushed viagra, and no relief. He looked like a man on the brink of either transcendence or medical intervention.
But he didn’t dare complain. Because maybe, just maybe , if he kept being good, tomorrow he’d earn the right to touch. Or breathe too close. Or, God forbid, be seen.
And as he settled on the floor outside the bedroom, arms folded and tail twitching, he muttered to himself:
“I think I’m into this. Which is probably bad. But also kinda… great? …Damn it.”
By sunrise, Blitz had entered a state of quiet, vibrating misery. His libido had passed the normal threshold of frustration and reached the “I need a relief no matter what .” He’d cleaned the apartment twice. He’d rearranged the knives by color and trauma level. He’d even alphabetized Stolas’s entire occult book collection. ( “Necronomicon,” “Necro-Pornicon,” (what???) “Neck-Romance: A Vampire’s Love Story” (that one was shit)… )
Still no touch. No kiss. Not even an accidental brush of feathers against his horn.
And so, Blitz did what any desperate, emotionally unstable, eternally edged imp would do.
He locked himself in the bathroom.
At first, he just stared at the faucet. Then the mirror. Then the hand soap, wondering if it judged him. He didn’t plan to do anything. He really didn’t. But there’s only so much denial one can take before the biological need to not implode takes over.
“Okay, Blitzo,” he whispered to himself, sitting on the toilet lid like it was a confession booth. “Just a little relief. He’ll never know. He’s probably meditating or… doing yoga. Owl stuff.”
Blitzø groaned in frustration, his little fingers gripping his shaft with a desperation born of denial. He'd been at this for an hour, jerking furiously only to back off when he felt the telltale tightening in his balls. "Stupid edging! Stupid owl!" he muttered, scowling at his reflection in the mirror.
The lock clicked open, and in strode Stolas, looking more regal and irritated than usual. "Still at it, I see," the owl drawled, eyeing Blitzø's predicament with a mix of disapproval and amusement.
Blitzø squeaked, letting go of his aching cock like it had burned him. "I-I was just... resting my wrists!" he stammered weakly, making no effort to cover himself.
Stolas rolled his eyes. "Don't make me ask you twice, little imp. Hands behind your back. Now."
Blitzø swallowed hard, but did as he was told. His wrists overlapped at the small of his back as he stood there, trembling with pent-up need and shame. Stolas circled him slowly, taking in the sight of his lover's cock straining upwards, the shaft flushed dark with arousal.
He bent closer, beak barely brushing Blitz’s ear.
“The moment your hand touched that belt…” he whispered, “you lost the game.”
“ WHAT GAME?! ”
“The game of willpower. ” Stolas smirked, turning sharply toward the door.
“Wait, NO. You can't just, STOLAS I AM BEGGING— ”
"Such a messy, impatient creature," Stolas sighed, he turned around, reaching out to trail a single feather-light touch down Blitzø's chest. "You've made a terrible mess of yourself."
Blitzø shivered, his cock twitching as if begging for more. But Stolas kept his touch maddeningly light, tracing patterns on Blitzø's skin that only heightened his frustration.
"I'm going to count to ten," Stolas said coolly. "If you're not soft by then, I'll hide your favourite horse-ride toy."
"Fuck," Blitzø whimpered, closing his eyes as he tried to will his body to obey. He focused on the feel of the cool tile beneath his hooves, the faint scent of lemon soap, anything but the aching demand of his flesh.
Slowly, reluctantly, his cock began to soften. By the time Stolas reached ten, it had dropped to half-mast, the glistening head no longer a swollen mushroom cap.
"Good boy," Stolas purred, giving him a kiss on the cheek. The imp shuddered and whined, torn between the urge to thrust into the air and the knowledge that he'd be denied again if he misbehaved.
Stolas guided him to tuck himself away, ignoring the way Blitzø's dick leapt as it was imprisoned once more. With swift efficiency, he buckled Blitzø's belt and stepped back to admire his handiwork.
"There. Presentable again," Stolas declared. "Let this be a lesson in patience, my dear Blitzø. I promise, when I finally allow you release, it will be worth the wait."
With that, he turned on his heel and glided out of the bathroom, leaving Blitzø standing there, hard as ever, desperately trying to hold onto his last thread of control. It was going to be a very long night.
The door clicked shut behind the prince with a quiet, cruel finality.
And Blitz was left alone.
Again.
Hand towel askew. Dignity in ruins.
From the other side of the door, he heard Stolas cheerfully call out: “I’ll be making pancakes, darling! Extra syrup, just like you like it. ”
Blitz fell face-first onto the bath mat and groaned into the floor.
He wasn’t sure if he hated or adored this bird.
Probably both. If he didn’t get a single touch till the next day, he thought he would die.