Somewhere is a Marriage in Need of Destroying

by Metemponychosis

Rating: mature
Tags: Sex, Profanity, Discord, Violence, Crossover, Narcotics, Main 6, Young Six, Princess Luna, Drama, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Comedy
Length: 4680

Luna hates bad parenting. Like, a lot.

This is a fact. Someone somewhere is happier than you are.
Sometimes, many people are happier than you are.
At some point, you need to realize that you are the problem.
You will often be too angry…
Sometimes too hurt…
Usually too proud to notice.
A few times, just too dumb, shortsighted, and unprepared.
Through pure chaos and sheer luck, the stars will align and worlds brush.
And once in a blue moon, you can change your life. If it doesn’t kill you first.

This is one helluva crossover, and it is all fun and games until the alicorns start talking in archaic English.

Published 2024-01-29 03:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2024-01-29 03:50:01 UTC

01 - Save Me From Myself!

Do you know what is the Ars Goetia?

It is part of a grimoire. Also known as the Lesser Key of Solomon, written by King Solomon. It has explanations of seventy-two demons known as the Goetic Demons, more commonly known as the Goetia, as well as the rituals required to summon them. It is where most names of demons mentioned in popular culture come from.

Supposedly, King Solomon was a really swell guy; the source of many stories about rightful and prosperous kingdoms. As the myth goes, he ruled over a really peaceful and reasonable region and handled that story where two women fighting over a child should split him in half. True story, some say. The point was that the genuine mother would rather lose her child than see him… You know… Thorn in half.

Well, the important thing is that this grimoire, like all grimoires, was a book of magic. It would allow one to summon spirits. Really useful because they were really intelligent beings cosplaying as birds. And that is why owls, and the night, are associated with magic, the arcane, astrology, but also astronomy, and precision measuring instruments. Some folklore says that King Solomon was not so impressive because he happened to worship the right god, but because he had access to the Goetia.

And that was all nice and cool until someone decided that Earth was no place for such beings, and if you had a pet owl, chances are that you could also end up in a really warm. So, the lore about the Goetia changed. They were no longer helpful spirits, but demons, spreaders of evil and dangerous knowledge. You don’t want your homely wife going out at night to read bones and talk to spirits, learning things like teas that make you happy, take away the pain, or that lets you have sex without having to worry about another mouth to feed in nine months. The horror.

The folklore pushed the Goetia into the bad place for demons. But do you know who didn’t like that?

Remember when it all got started and the guy that created everything in six days put two morons in a garden with a tree? He really liked them, so he said “Do not eat of this tree. Whatever you do, do not eat this fruit. This fruit is dangerous; it will kill you! Absolutely, and I mean, absolutely, do not eat this shiny red fruit. It is the most important thing in existence that you do not eat from this tree! Are we understood? Cool, bye.”

Well, there was also the first of many perfect beings that looked down at the garden where the creator had stashed his two pets he liked so much with the fruit. And he thought. “Holy shit, this is dumb.”

He channeled his inner furry and dressed as a snake and told one of the morons to eat the damn fruit. So, they ate the thing. Because humans are reasonable like that. They ate the fruit they absolutely must not eat because a snake told them. And he said “Hey Dad! They ate the thing! Do you love me now?!”

No. He didn’t. He got angry. He took his furry son and threw him in a hole, along with all his friends. And why is this important? Because when the kids of the two morons that ate the fruit heard of it, they put their fancy brains to work and figured that was the place for all the bad things to go. And that was how Hell was made.

Now, what does all of this have to do with My Little Pony? We’ll get there. For now, the important thing is that, unlike Equestria, Hell sucked. Big time. On one side were all the angry, edgy fallen angels. All bitter and angsty they had been cast out of Heaven, and more importantly, carrying flaming swords. On the other side were all the demons, all angry the humans kept dumping them in the hole. It was turning into a really ugly fight about to happen. So, the one they said was the most perfect being in creation, and also the most prideful, but that liked to cosplay as snakes, decided someone had to make that mess work.

He put his friends on one side and told them to chill. Then he took the spirits the humans now called demons on the other side and told them to chill too. He just needed a moment to figure things out. But the Goetia didn’t chill. They got busy in that place; it was terrible for them. Really cunning and conniving they were. They could not just chill. Constantly plotting, always creating trouble. So, their new boss spoke to them. “Alright! Take this fucking book. It will let you assholes back on the realm of the mortals. Keep an eye on them for me, will ya?”

And that book was the Ars Goetia.

But the Goetia still did not chill. They were proud creatures, and they couldn’t just share the book. Oh no, no! That book had to belong to one of them. How else could they decide which inbred idiot was the most important inbred idiot? What? Did you think they just sat there? They bred too, and they made themselves into families. And the head of one of such families would inherit the Ars Goetia to give to their heir.

And that meant whenever an heir was born, one would have to marry them. Sounds reasonable until you remember the Goetia were not particularly humble. Because if they were, they would have learned something from watching the humans. They would have learned that some things were bad ideas. Like when they decided it was a good idea to marry two teenagers.

The two grew up together because they were not done growing up yet. But, for the simple fact one of them was a female, she needed to lay an egg. After all, someone needed to inherit the Ars Goetia. So, both did as it was demanded of them, and it was said that it was awful. Except they were in Hell, and everyone thought it was hilarious that it was so awful.

It was a fact that neither liked their situation. But he was powerful, and she was pretty. And an important fact was that strategical marriages were not flights of fancy, much less unilateral or easily broken. In that hellhound eat hellhound world, they had powerful enemies. Namely, the other Goetia and other demons. And fallen angels. And hellhounds. And the actual angels. And the humans. And the list went on. Vicious enemies ready to fall on the weaker prey. After all, all the legions in Hell, Heaven and anywhere were pointless if one could not pay for them. Demons gotta eat. Guns need bullets. The gist of it was that nothing kept the other Goetia from filling the current holder of the Ars Goetia full of blessed bullets and then giving it to another that would respect their oh so important traditions.

Why, one might wonder that shaking up things might even be fun.

That sounded fair for a bunch of backstabbing, inbred, arrogant pricks. Everyone had their place and their burdens to carry. But then, why were some so much lighter than others? Why were some allowed respite and others not? The fates conspired, but they certainly did not share their boon evenly. It was supposed to be funny, really.

But one of them didn’t find it funny. At all. She was trying to read a book, but unlike the Ars Goetia, her book was about nothing particularly complicated. It was a catalogue of all fashion material published in the Nine Circles of Hell, prepared specifically for her reading convenience, for she was wife to the Prince of the Goetia and she was the one that set trends. It contained all the fashion tendencies, from the tablecloth to window dressing, night gowns to lingerie.

She scoffed. “Oh, lingerie… Because I have so much use for those these days…”

Vibrant pink eyes shed magical energies, empty of irises or sclerae and yet they saw the flamingo feathers of the hideous monstrosity some brain-damaged daemonette had created and put to sale. What brain-rot had spread along the lower castes and caused some inglorious bastard from Diabolique to put that abomination for sale in their shop?

“Thirty. Thousand. Souls.” Her delicate beak pronounced every whispered syllable. Every little vibration in her throat soured her tongue. ‘Designed by Sirene Sew’… Images of vapid imps performing all sorts of intimate favors filled her mind’s eye and drowned her sanity before she could accept Diabolique would harbor that eyesore. She seethed. Her stare bored flaming holes into the high grammage paper. Her raging grimace widened.

A red imp, a lowly creature, no taller than 5 feet, impeccably dressed, had a fire extinguisher in his hands. He promptly used it before the fire had the chance to spread. But he made sure to keep enough of a distance that the elegant white and black creature couldn’t reach him, and yet not too far the burst could disturb the demoness. He had succeeded; she paid him no mind, and the fire was gone. He shuddered. The last one had not been so lucky.

“Phone!” the majestic and deadly creature screeched.

Could imps teleport? One would think so, otherwise the one who had just arrived probably had broken enough laws of physics to be classed Goetia. And that could not be. Not all Goetia had such powers as teleportation, and that was a sore point of contention in that household. It was a delicate balance. Not too fast as to enrage her, not so slow as to infuriate her.

That one too would survive, holding the purple pillow with the antique telephone on it. More expensive than the life of the young imp girl that followed him. Adequately trained, she kept her impeccable posture while the matron of the household picked up the phone.

“Dial,” she ordered, and the she-imp obeyed immediately.

So gracious was Princess Stella that day she even showed the imp girl what was the number. But, oh no. The fire had destroyed the last digit. Was that a six or an eight? Inexorably like the passing of time, the little imp dialed the number on the disk. It was antiquated technology, but its owner loathed the modern smartphones. No matter, the time was up, and the imp had to decide. Slowly her red finger approached the pink dial made of pearl-shell.

“I am waiting,” the sternness failed to intimidate the imp. No more intimidation could fit inside her little body.

Six. The imp went with six and spun the dial. A bead of sweat braved her knitted brow before someone finally spoke through the phone.

“Yes, it is me.” The great demoness’ voice became calm and collected. She wrapped her slender black finger on the cord while a pair of servants carried the fainted imp away. Crossing her legs under her skirt of white and black feathers, she relaxed against the couch. “Yes. I want number twenty-five. Yes. Twenty-five. No. No. I want it. Five of it. Send them to my cousins before next Thursday. Yes. The fat one too. I don’t care. They are all going to wear the flamingo dress. Make it happen. I don’t care it is an exclusive I want five. Well then, I suggest you tell miss Sirene to get her face out of your crotch and start working on my dresses!”

The phone-holding imp was prepared for the impact as she slammed the handset back at its cradle. He kept staring at her, though, with a raised eyebrow at her peculiar choice of words.

“What?” she squawked at the servant. “Wait. What is this noise?”

“It appears to be music, madam.”

“Why are you still standing here?”

Once her imps were gone and she could think again, she could make out the cheerful notes of a melody coming from the hallway. Since none of her incompetent servants seemed inclined to investigate that noise, she took it upon herself. Her slender frame rose effortlessly from the white embroidery to twelve feet of height. Her skirt glided above the rich marble floor, and she navigated the hallway swiftly like a stalking predator. A high-fashion, runway-trained predator capable of crossing a minefield with the grace of a swan, balancing her gold crown on her head as if it was part of her.

Giggling. She heard giggling along with the song. She could not make out the lyrics, but it was definitely too cheery a song for her refined, classical tastes. It filtered out of her daughter’s room, through the heavy white door. It certainly filled the adolescent little squirt with a sense of impunity, but when Stella tried the handle, someone squeaked on the other side, and an object crashed to the floor.

“Just a second!” a young female voice called from inside just before the cheery music changed into gunshots and screaming people.

Stella had often been underestimated, but she was far from naïve. Nevertheless, that was not the problem. She had encountered a locked door in her house, and not any door, but the door to her daughter’s room.

“Why is this door locked?” the fiery foundations of Hell shook with her aquiline screech.

Instants later, the door opened and on the other side was the slender owl-faced child that came out of the egg Stella had laid. Delicate beak like her father’s red shining eyes and lead-gray plumage for hair and tail. A delicate creature much like her mother, but dressed in garish pink and yellow under the ‘fashionably messy’ jacket. Her golden crown stood over her beret. Innocent red eyes expectantly staring at the taller demoness, a desperate fake smile and the reek of teenager who thought themselves clever.

“What were you doing?” the pink eyes squinted and stared down at the younger demoness with the cold of the Sheol. Her tone, the lament of the drowning souls in the Stix.

“I was just watching a movie.” The youngling’s calm demeanor was worrying. After all, if Stella had to tremble in terror before her mother’s gaze, it was only fair her own daughter too would respect her so. On the television next to the bed, helicopters flew over a blazing inferno to the glorious melody of Richard Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen, the third act… Ride of the Valkyries.

Apocalypse Now. Good. A comedy. The girl was learning, and the music proved adequate as Stella took her first steps into her daughter’s room. Wisely, the child moved out of her way and kept her little lying beak quiet while her brow let a frown show. Surveying the room showed nothing out of the ordinary. The girl’s music listening gadget, the neatly organized books for her private classes, the closed wardrobe, and the closed windows. Pink rugs and an ornate sofa.

“What are you doing?” the teenager asked as Stella swung open the wardrobe’s doors. Nothing more than neatly organized clothes. Her slender hand reached to the bottom and searched from one side to the other. Nothing. The bathroom? All ordinary. Under the bed, not even motes of dust.

“I will give you one other opportunity.” She turned to the teenager in the blink of an eye and to the sound of roaring flames on the television. “What were you doing, Octavia?”

“Nothing!” was that a hint of dread in her voice? A shift in tone, hands holding together. A trembly smile. “I was just watching a movie!”

All clean, nothing suspicious. But the youngling forgot something important: it was too clean. Innocence does not tremble. And yet, Stella said nothing. She prowled her way out of the room and closed the door behind her. Silence reigned. Stella had been Octavia’s age once too, and she knew all the little tricks of the horny, awkward teenagers with no friends when they were alone in their rooms. At the count of thirty, she opened the door again.

Octavia’s shriek mimicked the horror of the condemned. Sitting on her bed, she hid a small object in her hands against her chest and the television… What a horrible day for a mother to have avian eyes. Their near miraculous potential for telling nuanced colors apart saw itself wasted on the garish colors of countless little equines. They danced. They danced to cheerful music. Cute little horseshoes everywhere, a thousand blobs of colorful madness twirled before her eyes. A pink monstrosity in a white dress appeared on the screen.

A horrified gasp escaped her. Right forearm covering her eyes, her left arm was too short and her fingers too slender to keep at bay that abomination. Fire and brimstone be cursed; that was damnation. “Aah! My daughter! My beautiful daughter is a brony!”

“It’s not what it looks like, mom!” Octavia screamed and sobbed.

Like a striking snake, she snatched the small object Octavia was holding. She ignored the teenager’s squeaking protests and held the object for scrutiny under the pink gleam of her eyes. It was a small equine figurine. Quite richly done in fine wood, gray paint, and real horsehair, Stella must admit, but still a small equine playing a cello, or leaning against it, it mattered little to her. The cute minute thing held the bow of the instrument, as though she moved it by the strings. On the TV, they talked with squeaky voices. Little winged horses flew around like a rainbow of cherubins, cute little horns in their heads sparkled with magic. Cute little horses everywhere.

“Why can’t you watch pornography and do drugs like a normal teenager?” She screamed and held the tiny equine before her daughter. “I will cane you for this!”

“You’re overreacting!” Octavia caught her little pony back from her mother’s hand. “Like you always do! Oh my god! Why are you even here? You had moved out of dad’s house!”

“Watch that language, young lady! And give me that thing! Now!”

“Her name is Octavia! Like me! And she plays a cello.” Her daughter shouted again, distancing herself and putting the bed in between them.

“Does that thing have to become a Prince of Hell too?” Stella launched herself over the bed, reaching for the teenager, but missed. “Does she have to live with relatives that will eat her alive for her weaknesses? Does she hide in her room with… With a pony toy? Or did you think you would be rid of me? That you would do anything you wanted because your limp-dicked father would let you? Divorces do not erase ties of blood! You are mine! And I will make you a decent lady of the Goetia if it kills you!”

Driven away by the yelling and self-preservation instincts, the household guards never arrived, much less the imp servants. Only one other would come, drawn by the peahen’s screaming. Because, if she was not screaming at him, then she was screaming at their daughter. And that hurt more than all the yelling she could unleash on him. What was he doing? Irrelevant, he arrived at the door to Octavia’s room faster than the Divine Comedy became stale.

A slender avian body and a seemingly fragile frame with delicate fingers. A regal tunic, adorned with golden buttons, covered it; gray trousers let his black, thin legs exposed. His top hat seemed to be part of his black feathers and held his crown made of gold. Any pretense of composure crumbled into nothing even before his slender figure passed the door. Thirteen feet tall, Prince of the Goetic demons, twenty-six infernal legions under his command; two sets of red eyes, deep with magic, brimming with the power of a demigod and twisted with pain.

He stumbled into the room reaching for the two wrestling women, leaving by the door an imp. He stood less than half the height of the slender and elegant clowns making a scene. Devoid of any expression, his yellow eyes settled behind the spectacle to see poor Via stepping back, demonic eyes shining with magic, but terrified large eyes brimmed with tears at the same time. She used to scream. To yell at them to stop. But not anymore; she only distanced herself from them.

Meanwhile, Stella would yell, scream, shout, and hit Stolas. Again and again. And the giant wuss just stood there and took it until he started yelling, too. ‘This is all your fault!’ ‘No. It is yours!’ ‘Cheater.’ ‘Monster.’ Excuses, excuses, accusations, and blame tossed around. She accused him of coddling the girl, and he raised his voice, telling her she was insufferable. One day Stolas would lose his nerve and Stella would cease to exist. Like, poof. Wouldn’t even know. And then, all shit would break loose. Even the Morningstar might get involved. And nobody wanted the head-honcho ringing your bell when you lived in Hell.

The imp’s yellow eyes aimed at the rich marble floor, and he adjusted his black leather coat. Stella had started crying and Stolas sighed helplessly. Watching that mess from the sidelines was getting annoying. They have been in that for too long. Something needed to change.

His eyes aimed at the floor again.

Anything.

Octavia was not in the room anymore. A silent gasp escaped, and every muscle in his red body tensed. He looked again. The room was white, well illuminated, and the girl was wearing that stupid pink and yellow shirt of hers. She could not be hiding. One window was open, and the tail of her black coat slipped outside.

“Shit. Shit! Via, no!” the imp launched himself from the door’s frame and ran in between the tall beings, straight at the window. “Get your heads out of your asses; your daughter is running away!”

He leaped through the window and into the cool air. The paved ground rushed at him from three stories below and he landed on his feet to see Octavia’s dark slender shape running past two hellhound guards. Equipped with tactical gear and assault rifles, the anthropomorphic wolves were no match for her nimbleness.

“Octavia! Don’t do this! Stop!” he shouted, himself never stopping, sprinting over the stone mosaic. Holy cow, that girl could run! She was already leaping over the stone outer wall of the mansion grounds.

“Guards! Guards, to the front wall!” Stolas’ already soft voice cracked as the two slender shapes showed on the window.

“Octavia, come back here right now!” Stella’s raging cry grated across the yard.

The imp reached the wall and jumped. He had to kick at it twice, but managed to grab the top and pulled himself up to see past it. The cobblestone street went both ways and into the service access way of two neighboring mansions, and that was where Octavia headed. A pair of Goetia, walking by, noticed the commotion.

“Hey, bird-face! That’s your princess running away!” he yelled, still negotiating the top of the wall.

The two tall demons, both shades of blue and wearing white robes, reached for Octavia and talked to her. Nonetheless, they held her and tried to calm her down, but nimble Octavia proved again to be nimbler. Once she freed herself, they chased her into the service way, and the imp finally managed to hop down to the floor, then resumed his chase. Halfway there, the pair of slender shapes too had vanished into the alley. And they screamed.

Not the normal kind of screaming in fear. It was the gut-wrenching, horror-filled wail of existential dread you couldn’t hear even in Imp City. The imp’s legs never carried him faster in his life. Entering the alley, he passed a pair of statues and turned to look at them.

Blitzo was not the kind to fear. He was usually too busy kicking ass to fear anything, but an icy wave crawled up his spine at what he saw. White, shiny salt. Their beaks hung open, and their arms and hands covered their faces, twisted in horror. He drew his pistol, red and adorned with flames, a modern .45 with demonic ammunition unlike anything on Earth. At the same time, he turned his back to the statues and the alley’s entrance, and he saw what caused their twisted grimaces.

Octavia lied on the cobblestone, and the shadows loomed over her. A pair of eyes stared back at him, filled with pure silver like the moon. They shone as if the stars in the sky wanted to settle their grievances and pelted him with their stellar wind. He raised his hand to protect his eyes and their light stung at his hand, but he aimed his gun anyway and shot that thing thrice, right between the eyes, but to no effect.

“Motherfucker, could at least pretend it hurt.” He complained, lowering his gun, dumbfounded, still with his eyes locked with the ones in the shade. They filled him with queasiness, but he could not look away.

Finally, a black mass of feathers and dark flames sprouted from the floor by the entrance and made itself into Stolas. His red eyes were wide, and tears stained the white plumage in his face.

“Octavia.” He said, putting forward his long arms, one of them covering his face. He approached with tentative steps. “I am her father!”

Soft chiming filled the air as a blue light enveloped Octavia’s unconscious body. The dark within the dark shifted and stood. The shining horn filled the alley in blue and an equine creature rose from the floor, mighty wings spread like a pissed off angel. Blitzo’s head raised, watching as the creature behind those eyes rose. They shifted with a scowl. Their righteous fury showered the imp like a raging storm. His arm and hand hurt; flaming needles dug into him. Next to him, Stolas too shielded his face, but offered his right hand.

“Please. My daughter.” His soft voice begged. “Give me my daughter.”

“Neigh.” The beast spoke to them. A female timbre, filled with spite, loathing, and the righteous fury of the Destroyer. “Thy parenting rights art forthwith forfeit.”

Whatever it was, that horrible sensation intensified tenfold when the horn on its head shone even brighter. Blitzo felt like he was turning inside out, and his stomach wanted a word. Stolas hunched over him with his back to the creature. An explosion of silver showered the ground past them. The wave of nausea passed, and the owl-demon stood to let the imp double over. Blitzo’s dinner greeted him again from the cobblestone, but his head soon cleared. When he stood again, he was alone with Stolas.

“Are you… hurt?” Stolas’ soft voice asked.

The imp coughed and wiped his mouth. “No. Thanks.”

A dozen slender, bird-faced demons watched from the edge of the alley. Wide eyes at the statues of salt, terror written across their faces. Dread in their hushed voices. Until one of them summoned the courage to go to them.

“Your Highness. Are you injured?” she asked. A mid-aged and quite fat one for the standards of the slim Goetia wearing her feathers like she was a French stylist from the 1920s. She gasped, brushing grains of salt from Stola’s arms.

The ever-gentle Stolas assured her he was fine, but she didn’t seem convinced. “Where is Octavia, your highness?”

He simply shook his head.

“Stolas, what the fuck was that?” the imp asked with his voice barely raising above a whisper, still holding his gun.

He never responded. Instead, Stolas stared at the alley. It was no longer dark and no trace of what had happened remained. And when his wife’s shrill cry of his name grated his ears, he wondered how in the Nine Circles of Hell he was going to explain that a creature supposed to be just a toy took their daughter away. Then he remembered that every single Goetia in that place was going to blame him. Again.