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Stolas & Blitz Pride Month 🏳️‍🌈❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

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If you follow me, I will follow you to the unknown~

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How Blitz Saved Stolas in Mastermind

Something I've been wanting to do for a WHILE is talk about a very, very specific scene in Mastermind. Seriously, it's, like, two sentences long, but it really stuck out to me, and I've been thinking about it since November. (Apologies if other people have talked about this before!)

Let me preface by saying, I LOVE English and writing. I minored in English with a writing concentration in undergrad, and I used to work in my college's writing center. When I didn't have appointments, I would study grammar rules and shit like that. While English is, in fact, a very stupid language, it is still quite fascinating.

The thing that really stuck out to me in Mastermind is Blitz's use of something called "passive voice" during the trial.

For those who may not know, passive voice is a way of constructing your sentences. It makes it so that the object of the sentence comes before the verb, and, in a sense, it can "hide" the subject. This is different from active voice, where the subject clearly does the verb to the object. For example:

Active voice: I (subject) kicked (verb) the ball (object).

Passive voice: The ball (object) was kicked (verb) by me (subject).

I've had MANY teachers tell me that using passive voice at all is a big no-no, and that's due to a couple of reasons. First, passive voice tends to create a more complex sentence, which can be harder for readers to interpret. And second, some people consider it too informal or "not proper" for writing because it's not as clear or concise as active voice.

HOWEVER

Passive voice is often still accepted when a person wants to remove blame or hide responsibility. For example:

The lamp was broken. The car was wrecked. The bank was robbed.

See how you still know what happened in all of those instances, but you don't know who did it?

That is exactly what Blitz does during the Mastermind trial.

After he admits to stealing the book (or "attempting" to steal the book as he says), he then states,

"Point is! It was given to me, okay? I was allowed to use it."

Instead of:

"Point is! Stolas gave it to me, okay? Stolas allowed me to use it."

Passive voice. Why?

To keep Stolas out of it. To protect him.

I believe that if Blitz had mentioned Stolas's name earlier, it would've been a surefire way to not only save Millie, Moxxie, and Loona but also his own life. I mean, look at how fast Satan was willing to change his tune once Stolas "confessed." Couldn't Blitz have just said, "hey, dude. Uh, actually, the royal who owns this book let me do all this, soooo, isn't he the one who should be in trouble here?" (Now, maybe Satan wouldn't have bought this since he wasn't willing to listen to most of what Blitz was trying to say that day, but that is an entirely different conversation.) He could've done that by using active voice.

But he didn't. He intentionally kept Stolas out of that entire conversation. In fact, Blitz never even mentions Stolas's name until Andrealphus already brought him up, until Blitz admits that he could've killed Stolas himself. But that still doesn't put any blame on Stolas. If anything, it just makes Blitz look more guilty.

I think we can all agree that Blitz isn't the type to throw his friends under the bus. Obviously, if Blitz and Stolas were on good terms, he would do anything to protect him. But they weren't on good terms.

This all takes place after the Full Moon, after Apology Tour, after all the screaming and the raging and the storming off in tears. Prior to the trial, the last time Blitz and Stolas saw each other, Blitz left still under the impression that Stolas was mad at him, that Stolas wanted nothing to do with him.

And even still, he didn't acknowledge the fact that Stolas did allow Blitz to use it (despite him stealing it first). Even though they weren't even close to speaking terms, Blitz still protected Stolas that day.

He could've tried to save his own ass. He could've been petty about the deal and said, "here, Stolas, this is what you get." But he didn't. Because even though Blitz has his own valid reasons for being mad at Stolas, he still loves him. And he'd still do anything to keep him out of danger.

Blitz tends to prefer actions over words (e.g., that's why Blitz gets upset when Stolas gives him the crystal. He interprets Stolas's actions as "you're throwing me away.") Stolas tends to prefer words over actions (e.g., that's why Stolas gets upset when Blitz roleplays with "I love you/I'll stay with you." He interprets Blitz's words as "this is a joke to me.")

But that day? They both chose the opposite.

Stolas's actions saved Blitz. And Blitz's words saved Stolas.

Isn't that neat?

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Blitzø & Eye Trauma:

I think it's a very deliberate setup

Fan theory time for me again! Apologies in advance because looking up the screenshots/writing the text for this one was a massive shot of angst. A couple of these scenes are ones I still find hard to rewatch.

Some of you very observant folks here have pointed out that Blitzø seems to have trauma revolving around eyes. Specifically, that Martha's death seemed to trigger it, and not having someone to comfort him afterward (like M&M had) probably exacerbated how poorly he internalized it...

(Who TF here first pointed out him being upset and hugging himself back in the office because I found it from one of you and didn't see it myself omg)

Even though he pretended it didn't affect him, it did. Heavily. To an extent that Martha was the only one of I.M.P.'s hits that Blitzø was seen apologizing to in Apology Tour...

And the references to the eyeball loss and lack of comfort showed up as traumatic hallucinations/memories in Ghostfuckers. At least two of the "potential death" Millies included eye trauma. He tried to find comfort in the hallucination of his mother, only for her to catch fire where he touched her (a representation of his guilt for causing her death, and self-loathing at destroying people he loves). The eyeball imagery was blended in with her skull pendant and the general symbolism of her death, along with his inability to stop it or apologize for it.

Basically, he has a lot of trauma-related emotions that the eye loss seems to symbolize. It might partly reflect on his own face injury in the fire. But ultimately, it's tied to his own mother's death: the one person he most wishes he could apologize to and help but will never be able to.

I think the eye trauma concept isn't just a choice they made just to tie to the pendant and his mom - it's a deliberate choice to link things together in the future.

Because some of you very observant folks ALSO pointed out how the show subtly displayed his mother and Stolas as visually similar from his viewpoint:

And we know Blitzø really only processed that Stolas can get hurt in the last few episodes. It's only the last few episodes that he's come to terms with Stolas being someone he can't fathom losing and will fall apart without. The one person he actually wanted to apologize to in Apology Tour.

That's obviously already been tested/laid bare in Mastermind, when he thought Stolas was going to die. But there's another element here.

Part of the Stolitz Apology Tour argument included accidentally admitting that he knew about Striker's first assassination attempt and didn't say anything. Up until AT and the following episodes, part of his struggle to fully process that Stolas can get hurt was because of how terrifying that concept was for him. He was heavily in his "I hurt anyone who cares about me" mentality, and it was so much easier to convince himself that Stolas' status/immortality was above needing Blitzø or being impacted by anything he did. In his panic/denial, he claimed there was no way Stolas could've needed his help - he should've been fine handling Striker on his own. (Gawd Stolas' face in this forever breaks my heart: "holy shit he really doesn't care")

These situations are tied together because of how the conflict with Striker went in Western Energy.

Because during Striker's attack/torture, after Stolas' death was already called off, he aimed for a very specific form of mutilation that was only prevented by M&M intervening:

He literally planned to cut out Stolas' eyes.

Like HELLO?!!! HOLY SHIT?!!

The attack Blitzø convinced himself Stolas wouldn't need him for almost ended with a repeat of his biggest trauma trigger.

And I think this is going to come back at some point. While I think one of the next incidents with Striker is going to involve Via being in danger, and I still vote that I want Stolas to be the actual one who takes down Striker, I think this IS going to be a full circle situation. I think Striker is going to bring this up. Because if he puts Via and/or Stolas in danger, this isn't going to be a Western Energy situation where Blitzø isn't there. And Striker is going to be his egotistical self; he's possibly going to gloat about how close Stolas came to death and claim he's going to make good on taking the "trophy" he wanted before he was interrupted. Maybe he'll actually attempt it, too.

Blitzø is not going to take it well that someone wants to hurt the guy he calls his heart, in the exact manner he associates with his own mother's death, which he already blames himself for.

There's no way Blitzø is going to be able to be level-headed. I think he's going to take it rather personally that this almost happened, and he tried to act like Stolas didn't need him? I don't think he's going to express it verbally to Stolas or anyone (not how he functions), but if he puts these two puzzle pieces together, he's going to flip his shit. He's over his denial, he's overcoming some of his self-loathing, and he's understanding that he can make his loved ones' lives better by being present and being himself. He is not going to actually have to repeat the fire trauma because he can help this time, and he sure as fuck isn't going to blow the situation off. And at the end of it, Stolas will still be there alive to hold on to.

Stolas' situation is partly a full reversal of the circus fire trauma. He's a person Blitzø couldn't bear to lose, lost, but actually got back. Blitzø has an opportunity to build something better with him, to make up for any hurt he's caused, and to say/do all the things he couldn't before. He's been doing that since the end of Mastermind. It isn't going to stop, and I think this is potentially going to be one more parallel along the way. One more "nobody around me is getting hurt like this again so long as I'm alive to try and stop it."

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Lo-Fi Blitz

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Murder, Tea, and Accidental Nobility

3336 words | Mature | Part 1/15 Author's AO3: PoisonedAce Story Link: Murder, Tea, and Accidental Nobility Summary: Blitzø is unexpectedly crowned a Prince of Hell by Lucifer himself, an outrageous move that shatters infernal tradition and thrusts the foul-mouthed imp into a world of court politics, assassination attempts, and silk-clad vipers. With Stolas at his side, stripped of his own power but determined to help, Blitzø must navigate a hostile nobility that would rather see him dead than seated beside them, all while juggling unresolved feelings and a crown that feels more like a target than a triumph. Meanwhile, Stolas struggles with his new lot in life and a bond with Blitzø that’s deepening in ways he didn’t expect. Together, they may just shake Hell to its foundations… or go down burning in the attempt.

😈👑😈👑😈👑😈👑😈

The Prince Who Was No More

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Stolas sank into the client couch at I.M.P., his talons catching on the threadbare upholstery and tearing a new gash as his lanky frame spilled over the armrests. The ceiling above him was a patchwork of water stains and cracks, a far cry from the gilded frescoes he used to wake beneath each morning. He inhaled deeply, the acrid scent of cheap coffee assaulting his senses.

"How the mighty have fallen," he murmured, his aristocratic drawl incongruous in the dingy office.

The city beyond the thin walls pulsed with noise, a relentless symphony of car horns, shouting, and the occasional gunshot. It pressed in on him, noisy and indifferent, like the rest of this cursed place. He longed for the hushed reverence of his estate, a place where even the rustling of leaves had seemed to know their place.

He shifted, wincing as a broken spring jabbed his back. "This infernal contraption hardly qualifies as furniture," he hissed, momentarily allowing frustration to pierce through his melancholy.

Memories of his former life flickered through his mind like Polaroids developing: familiar, imperfect, and too quick to fade. The vast, echoing halls; the library where he once read stories to Octavia; the delicate aroma of Hellfire tea wafting from the kitchens; the lush greenhouses he had tended himself; the quiet nights in his office spent charting constellations in solitude; and the dignified weight of power and purpose that had once rested upon his shoulders.

"What am I doing here?" Stolas whispered to the indifferent ceiling. The question hung in the air, unanswered and mocking. He turned, resting his cheek against the couch arm as he stared towards Blitzø’s office door. “I don’t regret what I did, but…”

He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the unfamiliar surroundings, but the incessant noise of the city, the discomfort of the couch, and the lingering scent of coffee constantly reminded him of his displacement.

"I suppose this is what they call 'rock bottom,'" Stolas mused, a bitter chuckle escaping his beak. "How quaint."

His gaze drifted to a chipped mug on the nearby coffee table, still half-full of the swill Blitzø called coffee, and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"From Hellfire tea to... this," he muttered, reaching out to trace the mug's worn handle. "Oh, how you'd laugh to see me now, Father."

He’d told himself it was temporary. Just until he got back on his feet, assuming he still could. But each morning, he was still here, no closer than before. And truthfully, he didn’t know how to move forward. Not yet. Maybe he never would.

The weight of his fall from grace pressed down upon him, heavier than any crown he'd ever worn. In this cramped, chaotic space, Stolas felt more lost than he ever had in the vast emptiness of his former life, and yet…

The mismatched furniture, the peeling paint, and the ever-present hum of life all exuded an unexpected warmth. Stolas found himself sinking deeper into the worn couch, its fabric rough against his feathers but oddly comforting. The air hummed with a strange kind of energy, so unlike the cold, reverent silence of his former estate.

“This room has everything I was raised to scorn…” Stolas murmured, his voice barely audible above the city's cacophony. "So why does it feel more honest than home ever did?”

A crash erupted from the adjacent room, splintering through his thoughts. Stolas jerked upright, feathers bristling, just as the door burst open.

"For the last time, Moxxie, that's not how you stab a hellhound!" Blitzø's voice rang out, sharp and exasperated as the lanky imp stormed in, dramatically wielding a stapler like a dagger.

Moxxie followed, his face flushed with frustration. "Sir, if you'd just listen—"

"Oh, I'm listening alright," Blitzø interrupted, spinning to face his employee. "I'm listening to the sound of our reputation going down the drain because you can't follow simple instructions!"

Stolas watched, wide-eyed, as Blitzø launched into a theatrical retelling of what could only be Moxxie’s botched assassination attempt. He leaned back as pens and paperclips became unwitting props, flung through the air.

"And then—" Blitzø paused, breath huffing in exaggerated puffs, "—you tripped over your tail and landed face-first into the remains of that succu-bitch!" He hurled the stapler into the wall behind the secretary's desk, right where Loona’s head had been seconds prior.

Millie stepped between the two, tightly gripping both of their shoulders until they began to wince. "Now, now, boys. It wasn't that bad. We can learn from this and do better next time, right?"

Loona, sprawled on a nearby chair, didn't even look up from her phone. "If there is a next time, I'm pretty sure that client's gonna want a refund."

Sensing an opening, Stolas cleared his throat and attempted to join the conversation. "Perhaps a more subtle approach would have been advisable? A Stygian bloom extract, maybe?"

The room went silent.

Moxxie turned to him, blinking. "...That’s completely impractical."

Loona finally glanced up, squinting at him. "What?"

Stolas’s feathers ruffled involuntarily, a nervous tic he thought he’d conquered long ago. “I, well, I merely thought—”

Blitzø cackled, cutting through the awkward silence. "Stygian bloom? What are we, fucking herbalists?" He sauntered over to the kitchenette, grabbing the coffee pot. "We're more of a 'shoot first, ask questions never' kind of operation, Stolas."

“Right, of course. Forgive me.”

As the argument raged on, Stolas remained silent, an outsider looking in on a world he barely comprehended. Cast adrift… The thought was both terrifying and oddly liberating. Perhaps this is what it took to finally learn how to swim.

The shrill ring of the office phone pierced through the room, silencing the argument mid-sentence. Blitzø's demeanor shifted instantly, his manic energy coalescing into something sharper and more focused. He snatched up the receiver, a predatory grin spreading across his face.

"I.M.P., where your problems disappear faster than a sinner's soul on Extermination Day," Blitzø purred, his voice dripping with faux sweetness. “How can we assist you today?”

Stolas leaned forward, drawn by the abrupt transformation. This was Blitzø as he'd never seen him before, professional, in his twisted way.

As the caller spoke, Blitzø's expressions cycled through a dizzying array of emotions. He rolled his eyes dramatically, mimed hanging himself with the phone cord, then suddenly snapped to attention.

"Oh, absolutely! We specialize in that kind of... delicate situation," Blitzø assured, winking at no one in particular. "Trust me, by this time tomorrow, your mother-in-law won't be a problem anymore, well, not for anyone topside, at least. Guaranteed or your money back!"

Stolas's eyes widened. Did he actually promise to… he thought, then caught himself. Of course, he had. This was I.M.P., after all.

Blitzø continued, gesticulating wildly with his free hand. "No, no, we don't do cash refunds. But hey, once word gets out how efficiently we handled your pest problem, you'll be fighting off the neighbors who want our services!"

Stolas was caught between horror and admiration. Blitzø's brazenness was appalling, yet beneath the crass exterior, there was an undeniable competence, a ruthless efficiency that both repelled and fascinated him.

It’s all so loud, so reckless, so wrong… Stolas mused, his gaze fixed on Blitzø's animated form. And yet, I can't look away.

As Blitzø wrapped up the call with a final crude gesture, the office erupted once again into the argument about the botched job.

Stolas hesitated as he watched Moxxie and Blitzø’s argument spiral. He opened his mouth to interject, only to snap it shut again. Maybe he shouldn't speak up.

But then Blitzø dramatically mimed stabbing a hellhound with a pen, and Stolas couldn’t help himself.

“I still think a tailored toxin could’ve—”

“No more flowers, Stolas!” Moxxie barked. “We’re not a florist with a death wish.”

Stolas ruffled his feathers, trying not to bristle. “I was simply offering an alternative—”

“And we are respectfully telling you it sucks,” Blitzø said cheerfully, already moving on. The coffee machine beeped, and he turned away, busying himself with preparing a cup for each of them.

Stolas sat back, chin resting on his fist, glowering at the floor as he forced himself to calm down. His feathers were still slightly puffed with irritation, and his pride smarted beneath the surface. He wasn’t used to being dismissed so casually, especially not after offering what, in his mind, had been a perfectly rational suggestion. But this place ran on a different kind of logic. Louder, rougher, and indifferent to titles or tact.

He exhaled slowly through his beak, trying to will the heat out of his cheeks. Maybe he was being overly sensitive. Maybe he still hadn’t accepted that his opinion didn’t carry more weight than anyone else’s. 

With a casual flick of his wrist, Blitzø slid the mug onto the coffee table in front of Stolas, saying nothing more.

Stolas stared at the steaming cup, his mind racing. Was this a peace offering? A mockery? Or simply a habitual gesture? He reached for it, his talons clinking against the chipped ceramic.

"Thank you," he murmured, barely audible. Blitzø just shrugged, raising an eyebrow as Moxxie launched into a rant about paperwork or some other trivial matter.

Stolas lifted the mug to his beak and inhaled deeply, then paused, frowning. This wasn’t coffee. He leaned in again, tilting his head slightly as the scent registered. It was tea. Peppermint, to be exact. Not his preferred blend, but far more drinkable than the burnt sludge he'd expected.

A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his beak.

Perhaps, he thought, watching the chaos of the I.M.P. office unfold around him, there’s more to learn here than I realized.

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Later that day, Blitzo kicked open the office door, a tray of Hellbucks drinks precariously balanced in one hand. “Alright, you insufferable cretins,” he announced, his voice a rasping cackle, "fuel up before we dive into this clusterfuck of a meeting."

Moxxie's eyes lit up as he reached for his cup. “Speaking of clusterfucks," he said, grimacing at the name Foxy written across the side before turning to Stolas with unexpected enthusiasm. “What's your take on Hellbound Melodies, Sire? That new musical about the tone-deaf siren?"

Stolas blinked, his hand pausing mid-reach for the cup Blitzø had been handing him, caught off guard by the sudden question. "Well, I..." he began, his mind racing to recall the show's details. "The orchestration was quite clever, though the second act felt a bit..."

"Disjointed?" Moxxie interjected, nodding vigorously. "Exactly! The composer clearly lost the plot after the kraken solo."

Stolas took a sip of his tea, nodding. "Indeed, though I'd argue the mermaid's lament in Act Three redeemed much of the—"

"Oh, come on!" Blitzø interrupted, rolling his eyes dramatically. "The only good part was when the siren's head exploded!"

The room erupted with arguments from all three sides. Stolas struggled to keep pace with their rapid-fire banter, his carefully constructed arguments drowned out by crude jokes, scathing retorts, and obscene gestures.

And yet, he noticed, they were including him. Awkwardly, yes, with sideways glances and stilted pauses, but the effort was there. Warmth bloomed in his chest, unfamiliar and not entirely unwelcome.

The conversation then moved on, but Stolas barely listened. His thoughts drifted elsewhere as he reached for his phone.

No new messages.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard. I should send her something. Just a quick check-in…

He typed out a simple, Are you well, my darling? But hesitated before pressing send. His heart clenched. Did she even want to hear from him?

With a sigh, he pressed send.

No messages. No response. Nothing. It had been over a month at this point.

The ache in his chest deepened.

He grimaced and took a long sip of his tea to keep from crying, his gaze drifting, only to be caught by the buzzing of Blitzø’s phone. 

The moment Blitzø glanced at the screen, his entire posture stiffened, drawing the others into a sudden, uneasy silence.

"Well, well, well," Blitzø said, forcing a grin as he read the message. With a flick, he clicked the screen off and tossed the phone lightly into the air, catching it with practiced ease. "Looks like Luci’s finally calling in a favor. Took him long enough! Maybe he wants me to train his royal guards. Teach ‘em how to add some flair to their murder! Hell, maybe he wants to hire me!  I did make a killer bodyguard for Verosika."

Stolas could see Moxxie’s eye twitch before the imp dragged a rough hand over his face. "Sir. That is Lucifer, the King of Hell. You are an imp. He is not hiring you for anything."

"Oh, ye of little faith, Moxx," Blitzø said, waving a dismissive hand. "Maybe if I act super confident, he’ll just assume I’m on his level and poof, instant promotion! And if that fails, I’ll just challenge him to a duel! Y'know, old-school style. Some fancy swordplay, a dramatic monologue, maybe a sexy outfit—"

"You would be instantly obliterated," Moxxie said flatly.

Blitzø paused. His grin faltered, just for a second. "Okay, yeah, maybe I need a backup plan," he muttered, tapping his chin. "Ooh! Loony, you got any, uh, dirt on Luci? Maybe some blackmail material?"

Loona barely looked up. "Yeah, sure, Dad. Lemme just Hellgle his search history. That should totally work."

"See? Now we’re thinking outside the box!" Blitzø clapped his hands and reached for his coffee, accidentally grabbing Stolas’s tea. “And hey, worst-case scenario, I just seduce my way out of this mess.”

Silence.

"He could literally erase you from existence,” Loona said dryly, though the subtle flurry of her fingers over her phone’s screen suggested she was trying to dig something up on Lucifer.

"Pfft. Please. If he were gonna smite me, he’d have done it already." He took a sip from the cup in his hand, then immediately spat it out. "Ugh, Stolas, what the fuck is this? Liquid disappointment?"

Stolas calmly slid Blitzø’s cup back toward him and reclaimed his own, cradling it protectively between his talons.

“Sir, a summons from Lucifer is no laughing matter. We should treat this with the seriousness it warrants—”

"What? Should we piss ourselves?" Blitzø interrupted, his forced grin stretching wider. "Come on, Moxx, where’s your sense of adventure?"

Millie stepped forward, her yellow eyes narrowed with worry. "Blitzø, sugar, Moxxie's right. This ain't just another client. It's the King of Hell!"

Even Loona looked up from her phone. Her red eyes flickered with an uncharacteristic spark of concern. "Dad," she said softly, the single word laden with meaning. He stared at her for a moment before she growled and looked away. "You should probably make a will."

Blitzø cooed at her and reached for a hug, only to be promptly kicked in the chest and shoved away. He forced another smile, but Stolas caught it, the flicker of unease beneath it, and the slight tremor in his fingers as he reached for his coffee.

Stolas didn’t move, but his feathers prickled with a cold dread he hadn’t felt since his fall from grace. His mind raced through the possibilities, each more dire than the last. Lucifer’s wrath was not to be taken lightly; he’d seen more than one Goetia fall to it.

Blitzø's manic energy faltered as he met Stolas's gaze. For a fleeting moment, Stolas was able to capture the flicker of genuine fear that passed across his face. "Stolas," Blitzø muttered, trying to keep his tone casual. "You’ve, uh... handled Lucifer before, yeah? What's his whole deal?"

Stolas hesitated, memories of Lucifer's whimsical charm and quiet cruelty flooding his mind. He smoothed his feathers, stalling.

“He’s... unpredictable. Capricious. He delights in chaos,” Stolas said, his voice tightening, “but it’s never random. There’s always a reason… and a cost. Once, he—” He stopped short, swallowing the memory. “A summons from him is never without consequence.”

Blitzø gave a nervous laugh. “So what, Stols? He gonna drag us to some royal dungeon and flay us with flaming violins?”

Stolas didn’t smile. “Or it could be an opportunity,” he murmured, though he didn’t sound convinced.

The tension in the room was palpable, a heavy blanket of dread settling over the I.M.P. office. Blitzø's usual manic energy had drained away, replaced by a jittery restlessness that had him fidgeting in his seat.

"Well, shit," he muttered, forcing a smirk as he grabbed his coffee. "Guess I’ll dust off my kneepads. Royal ass doesn’t kiss itself. Good thing I got a lot of practice with that."

Moxxie groaned, visibly paling. “Sir, now is not the time to talk about Stolas’s—”

“—feathers,” Stolas interjected smoothly, though his beak twitched in what might’ve been amusement… or embarrassment. 

Blitzø cackled, the sound too loud for the still-tense room. “Don’t worry, I’ll be classy. I’ll only flirt with Lucifer if I think it’ll save my life.”

Loona didn’t look up. “So you’re definitely flirting then.”

Blitzø pointedly took a sip of his coffee, ignoring Loona’s comment, but Stolas noticed the way his hands were just barely shaking. He’d never seen Blitzø falter, not like this. The tremor unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Blitzø suddenly grabbed a stack of papers from the head of the table and rifled through them. "Alright, enough doom and gloom," he muttered. "Let’s get back to business. Moxx, I need you to—" He shoved a paper toward Moxxie without looking. "Millie, can you—" Another paper. "Stolas, hold this."

Stolas blinked as Blitzø thrust a small pack of papers into his hands without hesitation. He had already turned away to keep barking orders at the others. The exchange had lasted less than a second and was completely unremarkable.

Did he…? Stolas glanced up, half-expecting a smirk, a jab, some offhand remark that would reduce the moment to a joke.

But Blitzø was too busy snapping his fingers at Moxxie, pointing at the whiteboard, and rambling about a "target-rich environment."

No show. No hesitation. No second glance. To him, it had meant nothing.

Stolas curled his talons around the paper, feeling the rough texture between his fingers. It was a mundane thing, just a contract, already smudged with Blitzø’s haphazard scrawl, but the gesture sent something strange and unfamiliar twisting in his chest.

Blitzø had handed it to him without thinking, without hesitation, a grand gesture or awkward deliberation. It was the same casual way he handed things to his actual employees.

To him, this meant nothing. Just another file. But to me... it meant I was seen.

Stolas stared down at the file before tucking the paper under his arm, smoothing his feathers. "I’ll get this filed right away, Blitzø," he said smoothly.

He had turned to leave the room, but something stopped him. He turned back and reached out, his taloned hand hovering inches from Blitzø's shoulder before pulling back. "Whatever happens, Blitzø," he said softly, "remember that you're not alone in this."

Blitzø stared at him for a moment. A soft, unreadable smile flickered across his face, then twisted into something wryer. “Yeah, yeah. Real touching, bird boy.”

Stolas nodded, but something in his chest tightened as he turned away. Behind him, the conversation had already moved on: Blitzø was launching into a rant about their next job, Loona scrolled lazily through her phone, offering dry interjections when warranted, and Moxxie mumbled something about “professional standards”. Back to the usual chaos. Familiar, but never quite his.

He still didn’t belong here. Maybe he never would.

But just as he looked down at the packet in his hands, he caught Millie’s gaze from across the room, a small, worried glance that lingered a moment too long. She offered a faint, knowing smile that he didn’t return.

Still, it helped to know he wasn’t the only one lying awake at night, wondering what would become of Blitzø.

[poisonedace]

[poisonedace]

Inferna Academy

8535 words | Mature | Part 8/11 Author's AO3: PoisonedAce Story Link: Inferna Academy Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Summary: Blitzo refuses to fade into the background, even as his father demands he play shadow to his childhood friend Fizzarolli at Hell’s elite university. “Fizzarolli’s our ticket to the big time.” “Don’t screw up.” “You’ll never make it on your own." Everything changes when he reunites with Stolas, a Goetia prince shackled by suffocating expectations. What begins as a quiet connection blossoms into a love neither anticipated, built on stolen glances, whispered conversations, and study sessions full of laughter. But their happiness is short-lived. Stella’s schemes threaten to tear them apart, straining their love and fracturing Blitzo’s friendship with Fizzarolli. A story of star-crossed lovers, broken trust, and fragile hope. Can Blitzo and Stolas find their way back to each other, or are they destined to remain distant souls, yearning for what could have been?

😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈

Chapter Eight: Where Words Don't Reach 😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈🔥😈 The darkness of the dorm was broken only by the faint glow of Blitzo’s phone screen. The dim screen cast long shadows across the closed curtains and ravenous plants, which snapped their small mouths towards him in annoyance.

The device emitted a muted hum, its low vibration amplifying the hollow stillness. The lingering scent of old linens and cheap soap hung in the air, mingled with the metallic warmth of his overheated phone. Outside, muffled footsteps passed through the hallway, briefly growing louder before fading, punctuating the oppressive quiet.

Blitzo sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring down at his phone. His eyes flicked across the screen’s notifications, each one a new wound he refused to tend to. The weight in his chest pressed harder as he focused on the top message, its presence like a splinter under his skin that refused to come out.

All of the unread messages from Stolas were impossible to ignore, but one stood out more than the others. 

Stolas: I hope you’re okay. Please talk to me.

His thumb hovered over the delete button, the faint static warmth of the screen tingling against his skin. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, as if the act of deciding was suffocating him. What would be the point? He scoffed to himself, a sharp, humorless sound. “What am I even supposed to say?” The words came out hoarse, more to the room than to himself.

The button remained unpressed. He let out a frustrated breath, tossing the phone onto the bed beside him. It landed with a soft thump, but the glow of the screen still burned in his periphery, refusing to allow him to forget about it. He lay there, staring at it for what felt like an eternity as his tail slapped against the floor with restless energy. The phone’s light dimmed further as the screen prepared to sleep.

The voicemail notification stared back at him. It demanded his attention, its persistent presence louder than the silence. For a long moment, he hesitated, his fingers twitching as if they might decide for him. With a muttered curse, he grabbed his phone and tapped the voicemail notification, breaking the silence with the faint crackle of static as it began to play for the fifth time that day.

“Blitzo, I know things have been... difficult. But I just want you to know I’m here if you need me.”

The warmth in Stolas’s tone, soft, tentative, yet undeniably earnest, twisted something deep in Blitzo’s chest. He leaned back on his bed, the cool surface of his comforter pressing into his spikes, his phone resting on his chest. The sincerity in his voice twisted something deep in Blitzo’s chest, a pang he couldn’t quite swallow.   

“I’m here if you need me.”

Blitzo snorted. “Yeah, right,” he muttered, his voice low and sharp, trying to mask the tightness in his throat and the wetness of his eyes. “Like I’m worth sticking around for.”

His hand tightened around the phone, knuckles pale against the dark casing. The static buzz of the voicemail faded into nothingness, leaving the room impossibly quiet. He hovered over the button again, but still he didn’t delete it, couldn’t bring himself to. The option sat there, glaring at him from the screen, and he stared at it, unable to take that final step. Why couldn’t he just get rid of it? Why couldn’t he let it go?

The answer came with a pang he didn’t want to name: Because it’s the only thing that still feels real.

His gaze drifted sideways, catching on the nightstand. Beside the half-empty flask, propped up against a worn stack of notebooks, was a book. Its edges were frayed, and the cover worn smoothly by countless touches. Stolas had given it to him during one of their study sessions. It had been a quiet day, the sunlight cutting through the library window, Stolas laughing as Blitzo stumbled over a particularly dense passage. “You’ve got to stop skimming, Blitzo,” he’d teased, his talons hovering just above Blitzo’s hand to guide his focus back to the text.

Blitzo reached for the book, his fingers tracing the embossed title with a slow, almost reverent motion. The faint scent of parchment and ink stirred a pang of nostalgia, bringing with it flashes of stolen moments, quiet smiles over a shared passage, the accidental brush of hands as they reached for the same page.

He turned the book over in his hands, his thumb tracing the creases along the spine. He hadn’t opened it in weeks. Not since things started falling apart. But the weight of it felt grounding, solid in a way nothing else was. The ache in his chest sharpened as his tail twitched restlessly against the bed. For a fleeting moment, he thought about shoving it into the drawer beside him, locking it away with everything else he couldn’t bear to deal with. His hand even hovered over the knob, the thought whispering at the edge of his mind: Bury it. Forget it. It’s easier that way.

But he didn’t. His grip tightened, and he set the book back down on the nightstand with deliberate care, as if moving it might disturb some fragile balance he didn’t fully understand. The silence pressed in again, and Blitzo leaned forward, pressing his face into his hands. His tail curled around his waist in an imitation of a hug.

“Birdbrain,” he muttered, the sharpness in his voice absent. The insult sounded hollow, almost affectionate, as if saying it out loud might lessen the weight in his chest. It didn’t.

The faint vibration of his phone rattled against the wood of the nightstand, and Blitzo’s head shot up. Another notification blinked on the screen, the familiar name making his stomach twist.

Stolas: Are you in our dorm?

Blitzo’s hand hovered over the phone, his fingers twitching. He wanted to open it, to say something, anything, but the words felt stuck in his throat, too raw, too vulnerable. His chest tightened, and he let his hand fall away. What’s the point?

The screen dimmed again, the glow receding until the room was once again steeped in shadow. The silence closed in, heavier now, broken only by the faint hum of the phone’s electronics and the restless tap of his tail against the floor. For a fleeting moment, the words from the voicemail played in his head again: “... I’m here if you need me.”

Blitzo leaned back, staring at the dark ceiling above him. The book and the unread message were just out of reach. He clenched his jaw, the tension locking his body in place as his thoughts churned.

“Then why does it feel like you’re already gone?”

The phone’s faint hum seemed louder all of a sudden, a reminder of everything unsaid. The voicemail lingered in his mind, the words echoing long after the silence returned.

~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

The grand Goetia hall loomed before Stolas, its towering marble columns rising like spectral guardians. The gilded arches gleamed faintly under the muted light that spilled through the stained-glass windows. Each pane bore scenes of their house’s legacy, bloody victories, celestial alliances, and the sprawling web of tradition that ensnared them all. The cold, polished floor stretched endlessly beneath his feet, each step echoing like a reminder of how small he felt in the presence of his family’s expectations.

The air inside was frigid, a biting chill that seeped into the bones and clung like an invisible shroud. Stolas adjusted his posture, his feathers ruffling instinctively against the suffocating weight of the room. The scent of polished wood mingled with the faint tang of old incense, an oppressive combination that always turned his stomach. It was the smell of ceremony, of duty, of chains.

His talons clicked softly against the marble as he approached the long, ornate table dominating the hall. It stretched endlessly, a monolithic reminder of their family’s power and their demands. The surface gleamed darkly, reflecting the flickering flames of the wrought-iron candelabras that lined the walls. The faint hiss of the flames filled the silence, an ominous rhythm that matched the pounding of his heart.

At the head of the table sat King Paimon, his father, the embodiment of control and unyielding authority. Paimon’s presence filled the room as much as the cold did. His robes shimmered faintly, the embroidered sigils of their house catching the pale light like constellations of power. The crown on his head, modest yet commanding, seemed to amplify his piercing gaze. Those eyes, cold, calculating, and ever-judging, fixed on Stolas the moment he entered. They bore down on him like weights, leaving him no room to breathe, no space to hide. The force of that stare alone felt like it could pin him to the spot, stripping him of any pretense of defiance.

To Paimon’s left sat Stella, poised and predatory. Her silver gown clung to her figure like liquid metal, its shimmer catching the light with every subtle shift. Her expression was serene, yet her smile was razor-sharp, the corners of her lips curling with an almost victorious satisfaction. Beside her lounged Andrealphus, his demeanor as cold as the room itself. He leaned lazily in his chair, his long fingers tapping a steady, deliberate rhythm against the polished wood. Occasionally, his claws brushed Stella’s arm, a gesture so casual it felt rehearsed, brimming with an unspoken alliance that tightened the noose around Stolas.

“Sit,” Paimon commanded, his voice low and resonant, brooking no room for defiance.

Stolas hesitated, his talons flexing against the cold marble before he lowered himself into the stiff-backed chair. The carved sigils on the armrests pressed against his palms, their intricate grooves biting into his skin as he gripped them tightly. His feathers puffed slightly before he forced them to lie flat, his jaw tightening as he avoided his father’s gaze. Instead, he focused on the table’s surface, where the faint reflection of flickering candlelight danced like restless spirits, mocking his inability to escape.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until Paimon finally spoke, his tone as sharp as a blade. “You’ve lingered long enough, Stolas. This engagement has become a mockery of tradition and honor. Whispers have been spreading like wildfire, questioning the stability of our house.”

The accusation struck hard, but Stolas’s face remained a practiced mask of neutrality. Inside, his frustration simmered. He inhaled slowly, the icy air biting at his lungs, and glanced briefly at Stella. She rested a delicate hand on the table now, her long nails tapping softly, a calculated rhythm that matched Andrealphus’s.

“The sooner we are united, the better for everyone, don’t you think?” Stella’s voice dripped with faux sweetness, but the underlying steel was unmistakable. “The Goetia name deserves its rightful dignity.” Her smile widened, devoid of warmth, as she tilted her head slightly. “Surely you see the necessity, Stolas.”

Before he could respond, Andrealphus spoke, his tone smooth and condescending. “Think of the optics, cousin. The longer you delay, the weaker you appear, not just to Hell, but to your own house. It’s unbecoming of a prince.”

His claws tapped again, more deliberate now, each click landing like a blow to Stolas’s composure. The weight in his chest tightened further, the icy grip of expectation coiling tighter with every word. He opened his mouth to protest, to argue, but Paimon’s gaze froze him in place.

“This is not up for debate,” his father said, his voice as cold and final as a tomb. “The arrangements will be finalized by week’s end. The ceremony will take place this Saturday.” Paimon’s next words cut deeper, his tone icy. 

The words hit Stolas like a physical blow. His feathers rippled as the air seemed to grow thinner, each breath harder to draw. “Saturday?” he echoed, his voice low and strained. He felt the weight of every eye in the room pressing down on him, waiting for his submission.

His talons gripped the armrests, feathers bristling as frustration boiled over. “Why must I be different?” The words burst forth before he could stop them, cutting through the suffocating silence. “Many Goetia have others on the side! Their marriages are arrangements, not prisons. Even you, ” He hesitated, his voice trembling but determined. “Even you, Father, are not bound to a single partner. Why must I sacrifice everything for this?”

The silence that followed felt colder than the hall itself. Had he gone too far? His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of defiance and dread twisting in his stomach. Stella’s hand stilled on the table, her icy gaze sharpening with faint amusement, while Andrealphus smirked, leaning back as though enjoying the spectacle.

“You dare compare your childish infatuation to the alliances and arrangements that have upheld this house for centuries?” Paimon’s voice was quiet yet edged with steel. He leaned forward, his towering form casting long shadows across the table. “Do not mistake our allowances for weakness, Stolas. What I do, what your forebears have done, is for the strength of this house. To secure its future. Not to indulge fleeting passions.”

Andrealphus’s fingers brushed against Stella’s arm in a casual yet deliberate gesture. She responded with the faintest smile, her icy gaze flicking toward Stolas with a hint of triumph as if the outcome of this confrontation had already been decided between them.

Stolas straightened in his chair, his jaw tight as he forced himself to meet his father’s gaze. “And what about my future?” he asked, his voice trembling with barely contained frustration. “Am I not allowed to choose even a piece of it for myself?”

Paimon rose to his full height, the crown on his head seeming heavier as he towered over his son. “Your future is this house,” he said, deliberate and final. “You are a prince of the Goetia, not some common demon who can afford to chase his whims. You will fulfill your duty, or you will fail this family. Do not test me again, Stolas. This house endures because we do not indulge weakness.” His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp, the words cutting like a blade pressed against Stolas’s throat.

The candelabras flickered as Stella leaned forward, her movements graceful yet deliberate. Her voice, soft yet cutting, filled the space between them. “Stolas, dear, it won’t be so bad. Many have made this work before. You’ll see.” Her smile widened, sharp as a blade, while her icy blue eyes bore into Stolas. Her confidence, her triumph, hung in the air like a suffocating fog.

Andrealphus’s claws brushed against Stella’s arm again, her faint smirk deepening as if the confrontation had played out exactly as they intended. Stolas caught the glance, his stomach twisting as the weight of their unity bore down on him. “It’s amusing, cousin, how you believe yourself above what the rest of us have endured. Marriage, alliances, duty, it’s not a punishment. It’s a privilege. Try to see it that way.”

He clenched his fists, talons scraping faint lines into the armrests. His rebellion burned hot, but it was fleeting. After a long, suffocating pause, Stolas exhaled, his shoulders slumping as his resistance crumbled. “Of course,” he said finally, his voice hollow. “If that is what’s required.”

Paimon’s gaze lingered, piercing and unrelenting, searching for even the faintest flicker of rebellion. When none came, he nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Then it is settled.”

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur of logistics and commands, but Stolas barely registered them. The words melded into a dull drone, drowned out by the pounding in his ears. His talons remained clenched against the armrests, his knuckles pale beneath his feathers. Every glance at Stella, composed and victorious, felt like a dagger twisting deeper into his chest. Andrealphus’s smirk grated against what little resolve he had left, a silent reminder of how thoroughly he was being cornered.

When the meeting ended, Paimon dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Stolas stood, his legs heavy, his breath shallow. Stella swept past him, her silver gown catching the light as she offered a parting glance, her eyes glittering with satisfaction.

“Don’t disappoint us, Stolas,” Paimon said, his voice low but laced with menace. The words hit like a cold blade, sinking into his back as he turned to leave.

The grand doors loomed ahead, their dark wood carved with symbols of Goetia triumphs. As they swung open, the hinges groaned, their echo reverberating through the hall like a dirge. Beyond the threshold, the hallways felt colder, the shadows deeper, the weight on Stolas’s shoulders heavier.

The candelabra flames behind him wavered, their light dimming slightly as the heavy doors began to close. The resounding boom chased him down the corridor, each reverberation a reminder of how thoroughly he had been silenced.

The polished floor beneath his talons reflected his wavering form as he walked, each step heavier than the last. The faint hum of his breath was the only sound in the suffocating silence, louder than the judgment he had just endured. It was the silence of resignation.

Ahead, the shadows seemed endless, and for the first time, Stolas truly wondered if he would ever escape them.

By the time he returned to his room, the weight of the evening had settled firmly on his shoulders, leaving his movements sluggish. He closed the door behind him with a soft click; the echo was muted compared to the resounding boom of the hall’s doors. The contrast was stark; this space, though dim and quiet, offered a false sense of refuge. The judgment he had left behind still followed, lingering in the corners like ghosts of his choices.

The candle on his desk flickered weakly, its glow barely reaching the far walls, where the shadows stretched and twisted like unspoken truths. Stolas sank into the chair with a sigh, his posture stiff and his feathers ruffled from the lingering tension. He glanced at the desk, its surface cluttered with failed attempts at clarity, scraps of paper, smudged ink, and the faint grooves his claws had pressed into the wood.

The silence was heavy, punctuated only by the faint crackle of the wick and the sound of Blitzo’s breathing, steady and oblivious, grounding Stolas even as it reminded him of everything he was about to lose.

Blitzo was sprawled across the bed, his small form bundled in a worn quilt. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. Even in sleep, his tail flicked slightly, the faintest sign of restlessness lingering beneath his otherwise peaceful demeanor. A soft murmur escaped his lips, indistinct and fragile, like the echo of a dream. The muted pink of the moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the way his body seemed to melt into the bed.

Stolas glanced over at him, his gaze softening. For a moment, the storm inside him quieted, replaced by something tender and fragile. He watched the way Blitzo’s face relaxed in slumber, the usual sharpness in his expression dulled by dreams. It was rare to see him like this, unguarded, vulnerable. Stolas’s talons twitched against the desk, itching to reach out and brush them against Blitzo’s cheek, but he didn’t move. Instead, he turned his eyes back to the half-written note before him.

The paper was crumpled where his claws had pressed too hard, and smudges of ink marked his failed attempts to express his thoughts. The candle’s flame cast a faint, uneven glow over the parchment, and the jagged shadows mirrored the chaotic jumble of his feelings.

He read the words again, his eyes heavy with exhaustion:

Blitzo, 

I—

The words mocked him, as hollow and incomplete as his resolve. What could he say? How could he possibly explain everything without pulling Blitzo deeper into the chaos that was his life? His talons pressed against the desk, the faint scrape of keratin on wood filling the silence. He glanced back at the bed. Blitzo murmured again, shifting slightly in his sleep, his face burying further into the pillow. Stolas’s chest tightened with an ache that refused to subside.

He wanted to protect him. Blitzo didn’t deserve the weight of this world, the chains of duty and expectation that had crushed Stolas for as long as he could remember. Yet selfishly, he wanted to keep him close, to cling to the warmth and light that Blitzo brought into his cold existence.

For a fleeting moment, Stolas allowed himself to imagine a world where things were different, where duty didn’t dictate every breath, and where he could hold onto this fleeting warmth without fear of breaking it. But the thought was a cruel mirage, vanishing as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind only the bitter sting of reality.

“It’s better this way,” Stolas whispered, the words catching in his throat. His claws trembled as he crumpled the note further, his grip tightening until the parchment was nothing more than a crushed ball in his hand. “He deserves someone who can give him more. Someone who isn’t... this.”

The candlelight flickered again, its weak flame threatening to go out. Stolas stared at it, the glow reflected faintly in his eyes. Like hope, he thought. Fragile. Fleeting. Destined to die out when left unprotected. He turned the thought over, his jaw tightening, before tossing the crumpled note into the wastebasket. The faint rustle as it landed felt like a punctuation mark on his decision, final and unchangeable.

Stolas leaned back in his chair, his head tilting upward as he stared at the cracked ceiling above. His talons drummed lightly against the desk, the faint sound lost in the quiet of the room. Behind him, Blitzo murmured again in his sleep, shifting slightly but remaining undisturbed. The sound sent another pang through Stolas’s chest, a cruel reminder of what he was about to lose.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, and the familiar scents of the room —parchment, faint ink, and Blitzo’s worn leather jacket, tossed in the corner —filled his senses. The ache in his chest didn’t subside, but he forced himself to rise from the chair, his movements slow and deliberate as he crossed the room.

The flickering candle behind him cast a long, distorted shadow across the wall. He stopped a few feet from the bed, gazing down at Blitzo’s sleeping form. The moonlight brushed against his face, softening his features in a way that made him seem almost ethereal. Stolas felt his throat tighten again, and he looked away quickly, unable to bear the sight for too long.

“Goodbye, Blitzo,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. He wasn’t sure why he said it or what he truly meant by it. Perhaps it was a final attempt to hold onto something fleeting, a confession masked as a farewell. The words lingered in the air, unheard, lost to the stillness of the room.

He turned away, his steps lighter as though he feared waking the one he couldn’t bear to disturb. Back at the desk, Stolas leaned over and extinguished the candle with a sharp puff of breath. The flame wavered, then died, its absence leaving the room in near-total darkness. It’s better this way, he thought again, the words ringing hollow even in his mind. Snuffing out the candle felt like extinguishing his last, fragile hope, a deliberate act of surrender.

As the room plunged into shadow, the faint sound of Blitzo’s breathing filled the void. Stolas sat down heavily in the chair, his wings drooping, his claws pressing lightly against the desk. He stared at the faint outlines of the wastebasket in the darkness, the crushed note just barely visible in the moonlight.

“Tomorrow,” he told himself, though the weight in his chest told him otherwise. The words would never come. He closed his eyes, the sound of Blitzo’s steady breathing grounding him even as it deepened his ache. The shadows crept closer, consuming everything in their path, and for the first time, Stolas wondered if he would ever find a way out.

~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

Curiosity tugged at Blitzo, though unease gnawed at the edges of his mind. As he moved to retrieve it, a fragile and fleeting flicker of hope sparked deep in his chest. His gaze landed on the Goetia seal, its faint shimmer catching the dim light. His stomach twisted. That seal was never good news.

Still, a part of him dared to hope. It could be something personal. Something from Stolas. A note, an apology, something to show this was more than it seemed. His fingers hovered above the envelope, hesitating. Then he snatched it up, his motions quick and abrupt, as though touching it too slowly might confirm his worst fears.

The weight of the envelope felt heavier than it should, the crisp edges sharp against his skin. He turned it over, his breath catching in his throat as the insignia stared back at him, unyielding. “What now?” he muttered, his voice low and sardonic, but it did little to mask the unease curling in his chest.

He tore the envelope open, the sound loud and jarring in the quiet room. The parchment inside was smooth and unblemished in his calloused hands. His eyes scanned the text, each word striking harder than the last.

“You are cordially invited to the union of 

Prince Stolas of the Goetia and Lady Stella, 

this Saturday at...”

The invitation slipped slightly in his grasp as his hands began to tremble. The words blurred, but their meaning was painfully clear. The flicker of hope inside him extinguished, replaced by something hollow and cold.

“Cordially invited,” he muttered, his voice dripping with venom. “At least I made the guest list.”

The bitterness in his voice didn’t mask the ache spreading in his chest. He crumpled the invitation slightly in his grip before flinging it onto his desk. It landed with a hollow slap, sliding to rest against the base of a precarious stack of books. Blitzo stared at it, his tail flicking erratically behind him, faster and faster as his thoughts spiraled.

The room felt colder now, and the silence pressed down like a weight. The light filtering through the thin curtains flickered faintly, like a hesitant pulse, mirroring the erratic beat of his heart. His breathing grew heavier and uneven, and his chest tightened with a mix of frustration and despair.

He stood abruptly, pacing the small space. His boots thudded against the floor, the sound loud and jarring in the stillness. “What’s the point?” he hissed to himself, his voice low and sharp. “Why am I even here? Fancy schools, fancy people... It’s not for me. It was never for me.” His steps quickened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “They don’t want me. They never did. Just another reminder that I don’t belong.”

The ache spread through him, a sharp and relentless weight. He grabbed his duffel bag from under the bed, yanking it open with a sharp motion. Clothes were tossed inside haphazardly, a chaotic swirl of fabric and emotion. His hands shook as he moved, his breaths coming short and fast, each exhale catching in his throat like it couldn’t escape completely.

Then his eyes fell on the book.

It was still on his nightstand. As he reached for it, his mind unbiddenly conjured the memory. He could still hear Stolas’s soft laugh and the warmth in his voice as he leaned in closer than necessary, pointing at the book’s title. 

“You might surprise yourself, you know,” Stolas had said, his voice soft but playful as he tapped the cover. “It’s not all boring.” There had been a glint in his eyes, something teasing yet kind, that had pulled a small, begrudging smile from Blitzo.

Blitzo’s thumb had lingered on the embossed title for days after, tracing its curves during restless nights. Now, the book seemed to stare back at him, daring him to decide.

The book wasn’t just a gift; it was a symbol of warmth, of connection, of a life that felt impossibly far away now. The invitation, with its cold formality, was the opposite. Both objects sat before him, pulling him in opposite directions: one a reminder of belonging, the other of rejection.

Blitzo exhaled shakily, drawing his hand back. “No,” he muttered, his voice weak, more plea than command. He didn’t pack the book. He couldn’t. But he also couldn’t leave it behind. It stayed where it was, perched on the edge of the nightstand, as Blitzo stood frozen, staring at it with something like defeat.

The invitation on the desk caught his eye again, its elegant script glinting faintly in the dim light. He stepped closer, picking it up with a sharp, jerking motion. For a moment, he simply stared, his thumb brushing against the raised insignia of the Goetia seal. 

The cold formality of it stung worse than anything else. It was a reminder of how far out of reach Stolas’s world really was, a world that didn’t have space for him.

Blitzo let the invitation fall back onto the desk. He didn’t crumple it further, but he didn’t smooth it out either. Instead, he sat heavily on the bed, his head falling into his hands as he fought to catch his breath. Around him, the room remained still, the tension coiling in the air like a silent storm waiting to break.

The book stayed on the nightstand. The invitation stayed on the desk. And Blitzo stayed sitting there, staring at the floor as his mind churned. 

“I can’t stay here,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, cracking slightly under the weight of his thoughts. “But... where the hell would I even go?”

The silence didn’t answer, leaving the question hanging in the air like the weight in his chest. The flickering light through the curtains dimmed slightly, and for the first time, the quiet felt like it was closing in, leaving Blitzo truly alone.

~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

The gym was filled with the rhythmic thuds of feet landing on mats, punctuated by the sharp bark of the coach correcting a student. Blitzo lingered near the edge of the practice floor, arms crossed and posture stiff. His eyes tracked the other students; their movements were fluid and precise. Fizz was at the center of it all, executing a flawless routine. Every flip and landing drew quiet awe from the others.

Blitzo’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, his jaw tightening before he looked away.

“Blitzo!” The coach’s sharp voice sliced through the air. “Get your head in the game! You’ve been coasting all week, and it’s not cutting it!”

Blitzo flinched, his shoulders rising slightly before he exhaled sharply. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his jacket, bunching the fabric under his grip. “Actually, Coach...” he started, his voice quieter than usual. He took a step forward, his movements stiff and jerky. “Can we talk? Like... now?”

The coach raised an eyebrow, crossing their arms as they motioned for the other students to continue their drills. “Alright, Blitzo. Let’s hear it. What’s going on?”

Blitzo hesitated, his smirk faltering as his hands fidgeted with the hem of his jacket before he shoved them into his pockets, forcing a nonchalant air. “I’m leaving the academy,” he blurted out, the words tumbling out faster than he’d intended. “Thought you should hear it from me.”

The coach blinked, their brows knitting in disbelief. “Leaving?” they echoed, their tone incredulous. “Blitzo, this has to be a joke.”

Blitzo let out a dry, humorless chuckle, shrugging one shoulder. “No joke. It’s been fun and all, but... I’m not exactly thriving here. Time to cut my losses and move on.”

The coach stepped closer, the sharpness in their tone softening into something almost pleading. “Blitzo, don’t do this. You’ve got talent, a real gift. You’re rough around the edges, sure, but with time—”

Blitzo cut them off with a quick wave of his hand, his laugh sharper now, brittle. “Time? Coach, I’ve been training since I could walk. Literally. The circus was my gym, my life...” His eyes flicked toward the center of the floor, where Fizz was mid-routine, his movements seamless. “But that’s over now. No circus, no big top. No point in training for something that’s gone.”

The coach frowned, their frustration evident in the way their arms crossed tightly over their chest. “Blitzo, the circus might be gone, but that doesn’t mean your talent is. You’ve got something real, and it’d be a damn shame to waste it.”

Blitzo’s jaw tightened as he shook his head. His smirk flickered back into place, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, drive doesn’t pay the bills, Coach. And it sure as hell doesn’t make me fit in here.” He glanced toward Fizz again, his gaze softening briefly. “You’ve already got the real star. Fizz is all you need. He’s got all the talent, the charm. Me? I’m just taking up space.”

The coach’s shoulders sagged slightly, a mix of frustration and sadness crossing their face. “You’re wrong, Blitzo,” they said quietly. “But I can’t make you see it if you won’t let me.”

“Appreciate it, Coach. Really. But this just isn’t my place.” Without waiting for a response, Blitzo turned on his heel and strode toward the exit. His boots echoed against the gym floor, the sound too loud in his ears despite all of the background noise.

Blitzo pushed open the door, the cool air brushing against his face. The noise of the gym faded behind him, replaced by a quieter hum of the campus beyond. He stopped for a moment, his hand gripping the doorframe as he exhaled shakily.

“Guess that’s it,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. For the first time, the finality of his decision hit him. He’d said it out loud, made it real, but its weight pressed harder now.

He kept walking, his boots echoing in the empty corridor. His tail wrapped around his leg, squeezing with nervous energy, his mind churning with thoughts he didn’t want to face. The path ahead felt darker, less certain than he’d imagined. But he kept moving, his pace steady, his steps heavy, as though stopping might let the doubts catch up to him.

An hour later, Blitzo was sitting on his bed, the wedding invitation clutched tightly in his hands. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a streetlamp filtering through the blinds, casting long, fractured shadows across the walls. Around him, his packed bags lay in silent testimony to the decision he’d made, the one he kept telling himself was right. But the longer he stared at the invitation, the harder it was to convince himself.

The faint ticking of a clock echoed in the room, each second stretching into an eternity. The sound gnawed at him, a steady reminder of how little time remained. Blitzo exhaled shakily, his eyes flicking to the desk where the book from Stolas still sat. It seemed to mock him, a reminder of moments he’d convinced himself mattered more than they did, moments that now felt impossibly far away.

He stood abruptly, the wooden floor creaking beneath his boots. His tail lashed sharply once before hanging low, subdued, and lifeless. The invitation crumpled slightly in his grip, his claws leaving faint indentations on its surface. He paced the small space, his steps uneven, as though he didn’t quite trust his legs to carry him. His gaze swept over the room, the walls that had heard his late-night rants, the desk cluttered with sketches and failed attempts at letters he’d never sent, the bed that had once felt big enough to hold two.

His pacing brought him to the edge of his desk. His eyes caught on a sketch buried beneath scattered papers. He hesitated before pulling it free, the edges slightly smudged. It was a quick, rough drawing he’d done one quiet evening, the lines capturing Stolas mid-laugh, his gaze soft and his smile warm. Blitzo had drawn it without thinking, unable to resist capturing the way Stolas had looked at him that night. Now, the image felt like a punch to the gut, the memories it stirred cutting deeper than he’d expected.

The invitation in his hand crackled as his grip tightened, his claws tearing into the edges. His breaths quickened, uneven, and shallow. The weight of everything, the memories, the decisions, the hurt, pressed down on him like an unrelenting tide.

“I’m sorry, Stolas,” he whispered, the words breaking as they left him. His voice sounded foreign in the quiet room, small and fragile. He clutched the invitation tighter as though holding it could somehow contain the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. The paper crumpled further, its pristine form now marked with his frustration and grief.

He turned back to the desk. His hand hovered over the book, brushing its spine lightly as though seeking some kind of solace from its worn cover.

Blitzo slumped into the chair, his knees weak and his head bowed. His fingers lingered on the book’s spine before pulling back. He stared at it, his vision blurring with tears he refused to let fall again.

The room fell into stillness, broken only by the faint hum of the school outside. And then, unbidden, Stolas’s voice played in his mind. An old voicemail from before everything went to shit, warm and hopeful, it echoed louder than the silence.

Hey, Blitz, I'd like to know if you'd like to meet for coffee...

Blitzo let out a sharp, bitter laugh that quickly dissolved into a choked sob. The warmth of the memory clashed with the cold finality of the invitation before him, the two realities grinding against each other like jagged edges.

His hand hovered over the book again, trembling slightly, but he didn’t pick it up. Instead, he reached for the invitation, holding it for one last moment before tossing it onto the desk. It landed beside the sketch, the three objects forming an unintentional tableau of everything he was leaving behind.

Leaning back in his chair, Blitzo let his head fall against the back of it. The ache in his chest refused to subside, no matter how many deep breaths he took. His gaze drifted to the window, where the faint glow of the streetlamp barely pierced the darkness.

He knew he couldn’t stay. The decision was already made, but it felt heavier, now like every step forward would only drag him deeper into the dark. And yet, a small, quiet voice whispered in the back of his mind, a voice he hated for daring to speak.

What if it’s not the only choice?

The thought lingered, fragile but persistent, as Blitzo shoved it down, his jaw tightening. Hope, he told himself, only made things harder. He stood, the legs of the chair scraping softly against the floor, and grabbed his bags. His movements were slow, reluctant, but steady. He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t fight. Not this time.

The room fell silent as Blitzo reached for the door. Behind him, the invitation, the sketch, and the book remained where they were, their presence a quiet reminder of the path he was leaving behind.

Blitzo didn’t look back. 

On the other side of campus, Stolas sat by the grand window in the library, his tall frame silhouetted against the moonlit courtyard beyond. The faint glow of the lamps inside cast long shadows across the polished floor, their edges wavering like unspoken thoughts. A crumpled note rested in his talons; the ink smudged where his hand had lingered too long, his grip too tight. The words on the page were simple, but they carried the weight of everything he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Blitzo,I never meant—

The sentence trailed off into nothingness, the ink bleeding faintly at the edge where his pen had hesitated for too long. Stolas sighed, leaning back in his chair, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. Around him, scraps of parchment lay scattered across the desk, each marked with failed attempts, lines scratched out, words hastily erased, phrases that faltered under the weight of what he truly wanted to express. The usually fluid motion of his writing had failed him tonight, his thoughts refusing to translate onto the page.

For the first time, the eloquence he prided himself on had abandoned him. No matter how hard he tried, the right words refused to come. His talons tapped against the desk in frustration, echoing faintly in the stillness. He glanced toward the courtyard, where shadows stretched endlessly under the pale moonlight. His chest ached with the weight of all he hadn’t said, couldn’t say, as though the silence itself was pressing down on him.

He found himself staring at the blank spaces on the page, willing the right words to come, but they never did. Each attempt felt hollow, insufficient, a pale imitation of the depth of his feelings.

The distant chime of the clock tower broke the silence, marking the late hour with a deep, resonant toll. Stolas’s gaze flicked to the clock’s faint outline, then back to the note in his hand. His thumb brushed over the smudged ink as if trying to erase the weight of his hesitation. The parchment felt heavier than it should, the empty spaces mocking him, reminding him of his failure.

He let out a weary sigh, his breath fogging the glass as he gazed out at the courtyard below. Shadows stretched endlessly under the pale moonlight, their shapes twisting and shifting with the breeze. The night was quiet, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the distant hum of campus life, a stark contrast to the chaos inside his mind.

Behind him, the sharp rhythm of heels clicking against the floor heralded Stella’s arrival. Her presence was as cold and commanding as ever, her silhouette cutting sharply against the warm glow of the library lamps. She stopped just inside the doorway, her arms crossed, her voice cool but insistent. “Stolas, we need to discuss the arrangements. The seating chart is a disaster, and I refuse to let anyone think this is anything less than perfect.”

Stolas didn’t turn immediately. His talons hovered over the note, his feathers ruffling slightly before smoothing themselves again. He straightened slowly, his movements deliberate, as he donned the familiar mask of composure. “Of course, Stella,” he replied, his voice polite but devoid of warmth. His tone was measured and practiced, carefully neutral, like a dulled blade just enough not to cut.

As he rose, the note slipped from his fingers, tumbling to the floor in a quiet crumple. His gaze lingered on it for a fraction of a second, but he didn’t bend to pick it up. Instead, he turned to face Stella, his hands clasped behind his back. The paper lay at his feet, abandoned, the faint draft from the window rustling its edges but never carrying it away.

Stella’s expression was unreadable, her lips pressed into a thin line. Without waiting for further acknowledgment, she pivoted sharply, her heels clicking as she walked down the grand hallway. Stolas followed, his steps measured but heavy with reluctance. His eyes stayed forward, focused on the long corridor that stretched before them, its polished floor gleaming under the soft glow of the chandeliers above.

Stella’s voice echoed faintly in the vast space, listing off details of the wedding with mechanical precision. “The centerpieces need to be adjusted, blue roses are too ostentatious. And the guest list, honestly, Stolas, did you even look at the names? I’ve had to rearrange half the seating already.”

Her words blurred into background noise, a distant hum that barely registered. Stolas nodded occasionally, his responses automatic and hollow. “Yes, of course,” he murmured when prompted, though his mind was elsewhere. The weight in his chest grew heavier with every step, the burden of unspoken words pressing down on him.

Behind them, the note remained on the library floor, its crumpled edges stark against the polished wood. The faint breeze from the window stirred it once more, but it stayed where it had fallen, a quiet testament to everything Stolas had chosen to leave unsaid.

As the grand hallway stretched on, Stolas’s gaze flickered briefly to the side, catching his reflection in one of the towering windows. The man who stared back looked regal and composed, but the emptiness in his eyes betrayed the truth. His movements were precise, his posture flawless, but his mind was far from the present moment.

The faint echo of the clock tower’s chime lingered in the air as Stella’s voice droned on. Stolas’s talons flexed behind his back, a quiet, restrained motion that betrayed his inner turmoil. The words he’d never sent, I never meant..., played on a loop in his mind, louder than Stella’s demands, louder than the steady rhythm of their footsteps.

Later that evening, Stolas found himself walking across the courtyard, the cool night air brushing against his feathers. The moonlight bathed the campus in a blood-red glow, casting long shadows that shifted with the breeze. His mind raced, and the weight of the crumpled note he’d abandoned in the library pressed on him like a physical burden. He needed to clear his thoughts, but every step seemed to take him further from resolution.

Then he saw him.

Blitzo’s figure stood near the gates, his silhouette sharp against the glow of the street lamps. A duffel bag hung from his shoulder, its weight dragging him slightly to one side. In his other hand, he clutched a half-broken suitcase. Stolas’s breath hitched. The sight was like a physical blow; the posture, the finality in Blitzo’s stance, it all screamed of departure.

No.

The word echoed in Stolas’s mind as he quickened his pace, his talons flexing involuntarily at his sides. He called out before he could stop himself, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “Blitzo!”

Blitzo froze, his tail flicking before he turned, his eyes narrowing as they met Stolas’s. The moonlight illuminated his face, and Stolas saw the weariness etched into his features, the kind of exhaustion that went far deeper than just lack of sleep.

“What are you doing?” Stolas asked, his voice softer than he intended. It carried a rawness he didn’t bother to mask, desperation, uncertainty, something fragile that clung to the air between them.

Blitzo hesitated, his hand adjusting the strap of his bag as he forced a smirk onto his face. “What does it look like, feathers?” he said, his tone light but brittle. “I’m leaving.”

Leaving.

The word struck Stolas like a blow. His gaze flicked to the bag, then back to Blitzo’s face. “Leaving?” he repeated, the word barely audible. “You’re... leaving the academy?”

Blitzo nodded, the smirk faltering for just a moment. “Yeah,” he said roughly, his voice tinged with something Stolas couldn’t place. “Not exactly thriving here, you know? Figured it’s time to cut my losses and move on.”

Stolas’s talons curled slightly, his composure threatening to fracture. Move on. The phrase churned in his mind, refusing to settle. “And you weren’t going to say goodbye?” His tone was soft, but the edges of his words carried a sharpness he couldn’t suppress.

Blitzo shrugged, looking away. “Didn’t think it mattered,” he said, his voice flippant, though his posture betrayed the lie. “You’ve got your big day coming up, anyway. The last thing you need is me hanging around, getting in the way.”

Stolas flinched at the bitterness in Blitzo’s tone. The words stung more than he cared to admit. He took a step closer, his talons gripping briefly at the fabric of his cape. “Blitzo,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost pleading, “don’t go. At least... not yet.”

Blitzo’s breath hitched. His tail lashed once, then curled tightly around his leg as he gripped the strap of his bag with trembling hands. His gaze flicked to the gate, then back to Stolas. “I’ve already made up my mind,” he said, his voice softer now, resigned. “There’s nothing left for me here.”

For a moment, Stolas hesitated. He could see the pain Blitzo was trying so hard to hide, the walls he’d built around himself threatening to collapse. Why couldn’t he just say it? He didn’t have the right words, but he knew if Blitzo left tonight, everything would unravel.

If he leaves now, it’ll be the end of everything we’ve built, everything I never realized I needed until it was slipping away. Stolas’s mouth dried, making it hard to swallow as the thought crossed his mind, unbidden but undeniable. He knew, deep down, that losing Blitzo wasn’t just about their fleeting connection. It was losing the one part of his life that felt real, untainted by duty or expectation.

“Then give me one more night,” he said, the words leaving his mouth before he could think better of them. “Just one night. That’s all I’m asking.”

Blitzo blinked, caught off guard. His grip on the bag tightened, his claws digging faint marks into the strap. “One night?” he echoed, the words barely above a whisper, heavy with disbelief.

Stolas nodded, his eyes steady but filled with something deeper, an unspoken need. “Just one night,” he said. “Please.”

The air between them felt heavy, charged with the weight of everything unsaid. Blitzo’s gaze flicked away, lingering on the gate for a moment as if weighing his options. Memories of Stolas’s laugh, soft, genuine, and rare, flashed unbidden in his mind. The quiet nights they’d spent working side by side, their silences more meaningful than words.

What could one night possibly change? The thought was quiet, insistent, a whisper against the roaring uncertainty in his mind.

The clock tower chimed in the distance, its toll cutting through the stillness with measured finality. The sound echoed, fading slowly into the quiet night. A faint rustle of leaves whispered through the courtyard, stirred by a breeze that carried the cool scent of earth and stone. Blitzo’s boots creaked softly as he shifted his weight, the subtle sound amplified by the silence. The stillness between them stretched unbearably, each passing second growing heavier, more suffocating, as though the air itself held its breath.

Blitzo’s claws flexed against the strap of his bag as he stood frozen, caught in the pull of two opposing paths. His shoulders sagged briefly as though the weight of his decision threatened to crush him. His grip on the bag strap tightened, the faint creak of leather breaking the silence as his tail lashed once, erratically, before curling tightly around his leg in resignation.

Stolas’s heart pounded as he watched Blitzo. He didn’t dare speak again, knowing he couldn’t push any harder. Instead, he held Blitzo’s gaze, silently begging him to stay. His gaze never wavered, his eyes locked on Blitzo with quiet, desperate patience. Yet, as the final chime faded into the silence, neither of them moved.

Blitzo shifted, his figure blurring slightly in the shadows of the moonlit courtyard. Stolas inhaled sharply, his talons curling into his palms as he braced himself.

And then the silence swallowed them both.

[poisonedace]

The Birth of the Radio Demon

7462 words | Mature | Part 2/3 Author's AO3: PoisonedAce Story Link: The Birth of the Radio Demon Summary: Desperation drives Alastor to do the unthinkable: summon Lucifer himself. In the shadow of his father’s cruelty and his mother’s pain, Alastor wades into the unknown, determined to end the cycle of violence—no matter the cost. But meddling with demons has consequences, and some lines, once crossed, can never be undone. TW Notice: This story contains depictions of domestic abuse, emotional trauma, animal death (including sacrifice), graphic violence, and themes of supernatural horror. It also includes psychological manipulation, childhood trauma, and moral ambiguity. Please read with caution and take care of yourself.

~o0o~~o0o~~o0o~ Part Two ~o0o~~o0o~~o0o~

His Father’s Murderer

The sun that bathed the living room in brilliant white light had long since faded, replaced by a crimson tableau of smeared blood and overturned furniture. Alastor stood in the center of it, trembling hands fisted at his sides, eyes wide and full of shock, fixed on his father’s prone form as it lay across the floor. 

It was over, but the thought did little to comfort Alastor. He shook as he hugged himself, trying to stop the quivering.

How many times had he thought about this moment?

How often had he wished for it? For his father to be gone and for him and his mother to be free from the abuse?

Now the violence would end, his father’s reign of terror was broken, and yet, it was a victory that felt hollow. He tried to picture his mother’s face, imagined telling her, and the thought curdled inside him. He swallowed hard. She was safe now. It was finished. 

But what would he tell her?

His eyes darted over the carnage: the shattered remains of their old china littered the floor like broken teeth, and the oak coffee table, tipped on its side, had a leg snapped clean off. Years of violence were reflected in the destruction. He stepped forward, then back again, unsure, but needing to do something. He couldn’t just leave it like this. He couldn’t let her see this, not now, not ever. The thought of it wrapped around him, suffocating. He had to act.

“God, what have I done?” Alastor whispered, his voice trembling as guilt gnawed at him. He bit his lip, breathing in deeply and forcing himself to assess the scene with some semblance of composure. The air was thick with the pungent smell of blood; it seeped into his nose, settled on his tongue, and pricked at his sanity. Keep it together, he told himself. There was no one else to fix this.

His eyes flicked toward the ruined couch, where his old baby blanket lay. He snatched it up and draped it over his father’s body without ceremony. But it was an empty gesture. It barely covered him, and what it did cover, and the areas it did cover, caused it to become soaked through with blood almost instantly. He stared at it hollowly.

Headlights slashed through the window, dragging shadows across the bloodstained walls. They stretched, warped, twisted, too long, too unnatural. For a breathless moment, Alastor was certain someone had seen. Neighbors. Police. His mother had come home too soon.

His mind supplied the images: the door crashing open, the horror in their eyes, the questions he couldn’t answer.

He held still, like a deer in the headlights. Listened. Waited.

But no one came, and the silence stretched, too long, too thick.

Then, a flicker. A ripple along the wall. A flash of light. The soft flutter of wings.

Or something like them.

His eyes caught the shadows, and he watched them play across the walls. They moved with a purpose, just like when he had broken into the church several years ago. The church…

“Lucifer,” Alastor breathed. Lucifer had taken the book with him last time, but this time he had something else, the notebook he’d used to take notes.

The shadows chased him as he sprinted to his bedroom. When he crashed through the door, he could almost hear their silent snickers. They danced along the walls, stretching, shifting, and growing larger.

He rummaged in a frenzy for the old journal. Every second scraped at his nerves, fueling an anxiety that made his fingers clumsy. He yanked open the drawers, rifling through their contents, but found nothing. Clothes, jax, scraps of paper. His pulse hammered. Not here.

Then, in his peripheral he caught a flicker: in the corner of the room, shadows stretched and morphed into a form he recognized from the church, their toothy grins mocking him.

“What do you want?” he hissed, voice shaky.

The shadows didn’t respond. They only slithered across the walls, curling and shifting like ink in water until the darkness was pooled beneath his bed, stretching toward the loose floorboard. 

Stumbling forward, heart pounding, he dropped to his knees and pulled out the years' worth of junk he had shoved under there when pretending to clean. His fingers scraped against the loose floorboard, forcing it up.

Dust billowed. He sneezed, an involuntary burst of sound that only seemed to amuse them. A ripple of silent laughter echoed from the walls.

“Oh, do shut up,” he snarled, digging his hand into the gap. His fingers brushed velvet, and relief jolted through him.

He pulled out both a small velvet bag and the tattered notebook beneath it, clutching them as though they might anchor him.

Alastor sat upright, placing the journal and bag into his lap. For a brief second, everything seemed possible. But then the shadows crept back in, slinking across the floors, and reality pressed hard against him. He remembered what he'd done, remembered why he needed the journal. His father was dead. His mother was unaware. He was caught somewhere in between.

He stood on unsteady legs and brushed himself off, ignoring the snickering shadows as they swirled around him. Through the flickering hallway light, he reentered the living room and set his burden on the battered couch. The book flipped open, landing on the page with Lucifer's sigil and one sentence written in red ink and a script he didn't recognize.

The second time is easier than the first, as a connection had already been forged.

With grim resolve, Alastor began to push aside the furniture, toppling the last of the broken chairs to clear a space. No turning back, he reminded himself, no time for second thoughts.

He tugged his father’s body aside, gagging at the wet trail it left in its wake. If his mother came home to this…

He almost vomited at the mere notion of her discovering everything. He did throw up when he finally pulled back the blanket completely, confronted once more by the reality of his father’s still form. He dropped the blanket back over him and wiped his mouth, forcing himself to continue, for her sake, if nothing else.

A breath, half panic, half resolve. A vision of his mother walking in now: shopping bags hitting the floor, her mouth open in horror, and he choked it back, back into the pit it came from. She could never see this. Never know.

Revulsion hit again, a wave of bile threatening to crash over him. He hunched, bile rising, throat burning. There was a moment when he thought he might not be able to see it through. Only for a moment, and then he was on his feet again, moving, pushing through the disgust to something colder.

He was running out of time. He had to keep going. One more shove, one more pull, and the room would be clear enough to work with.

His gaze fell to the journal, and he reached over to take it in his hands. He ignored the shadows as they began to swirl around him. He flipped through the pages until he found the instructions. The memory of last time flared, young, desperate, hopeful, and afraid. Now, he was just afraid.

Draw the sigil with chalk in the middle of the room or field. Make sure the area is clear and you can easily walk around.

Right. The sigil. Alastor had done this before. He could do it again. He snapped the book shut, hard enough to send a puff of dust into the air. He stepped back into the center, away from where the body lay just out of view, and knelt.

His hands trembled under the weight of the journal. The blood-streaked wood beneath him felt colder now, and the house was unnervingly silent.

He could feel the shadows watching. They had been restless since the bedroom. He had seen it, one of them stretching, distorting, just for a moment. He had told himself it was a trick of the light. But now, here, as he drew the first stroke of chalk, a jagged white stroke on blood-stained wood, they stirred again.

He worked quickly, each shaky line forming the familiar sigil. The white chalk was smeared red where the floor was still wet, the shape uneven but whole. The air grew heavier, thick with something unseen, a charge beneath his skin, a pressure in his lungs. Determination pushed him forward, drove him past the panic gnawing at his insides. This had to be perfect. This had to work. He would make sure of it, even if it killed him.

The sigil took shape beneath him, its twisting, ancient design sprawling outward. He gritted his teeth and kept drawing, ignoring the way the flames from the candles on the desk guttered and shrank, as if something were breathing them in.

Then, movement.

The shadows stretched higher. Too high. Too long. Like figures rising to their feet.

Alastor froze; the chalk crumbled slightly between his fingers. He turned his head just enough to glance at the walls.

The shadows had changed.

What had once been simple, familiar shapes now loomed unnaturally, their edges warped, their heads craning at odd angles. One of them had grown taller. Much taller.

His pulse spiked.

It stood at the edge of the sigil, just beyond the candlelight, half-formed, half-real. Its limbs were too thin, too jagged, stretching into something no longer human. Its mouth split wide, rows of elongated teeth flashing in the dim glow.

And worse, far worse, were the antlers.

They jutted in jagged, twisting branches, curling toward the ceiling like bone stripped bare. Sharp. Broken. Wrong.

Alastor couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t just looking at him, it was waiting.

He pushed his fingers, chalk-stained and trembling, to keep going. One stroke at a time, one line at a time, he sealed his fate.

Leaning back, he studied his work. The sigil was complete and pristine despite the blood-smudged floor. He was certain it would work.

It was better than last time. Leaps and bounds better.

He wiped his hands on his pants and pushed himself to his feet. The shadows twisted, stretching across the walls, flickering with the candlelight. He ignored them.

Turning to his father’s body, he grabbed the feet and began to drag. The corpse left a fresh slick of red in its wake, and he grimaced through his gag reflex. The scent of iron thickened the air, clinging to the back of his throat.

He caught the shadow in the corner of his eye, laughing. It was so animated that Alastor was sure that if the shadow could make sound, the room would boom with it.

He froze. Then, with a scowl, he dropped his father’s feet with a thud. His patience snapped.

He turned to the writhing figures along the walls, frustration burning through the fear. “Instead of sitting there laughing, you could help me.”

The largest shadow stilled. And Alastor swore it was looking at him like he was stupid.

Maybe he was.

He was definitely insane, if nothing else.

He shook his head and grabbed the legs again, dragging them to the middle of the sigil. Much to his annoyance, the blood smeared across the chalk, breaking the circle. He had to remake that part. It was much less precise now, blurred by fresh red lines and panic.

He pulled the blanket back, and the horror seized him.

The limbs sprawled like a marionette with cut strings, splayed and unnatural. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. The dead eyes stared back, accusing, cold.

His breath caught in a sharp and violent gasp. He wasn’t ready. Not for this. But here it was, real and undeniable. It nearly broke him. He doubled over, vision swimming, and thought he might be sick, thought the revulsion might tear him apart. But he gritted his teeth and pushed through.

His breath came in fits and starts, uneven and ragged. His mind strained under the weight of it all, barely holding together. He wanted to run, to hide, to make it go away. But he knew that was impossible. He forced himself to keep going. Forced himself to finish what he had started.

Memories flashed, taunting. The fights, the bruises, the nights of never knowing. But also, his mother’s face. Soft. Afraid. Hopeful.

For a second, he hesitated. For a second, he wondered if it had been worth it. The panic clawed at him, almost won.

But the desperation was stronger. He pictured her finding out, saw her tears, heard her screams. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t. The sheer horror of it drove him past the fear, past the doubt, past everything.

Alastor’s fingers dug into his palm. He had to finish the ritual.

He stood, took the candles from the velvet bag, and placed them evenly around the circle, lighting each one with careful precision.

The air crackled as he reached for the blood-soaked blanket, his hands slick with sweat. Moving on instinct, he twisted the fabric and let the blood drip before each candle, watching the flames hiss and flicker in response.

The presence at the edge of the room remained still, not growing, not moving, just there. Watching.

Alastor didn’t dare turn his head. He didn’t need to. He could feel its gaze pressing against him: hollow and patient.

~o0o~~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

Alastor's mother moved through the market with steady, careful grace. Produce vendors watched her as she passed, calling out to the hurried and the desperate, never to her. Her pace was measured, dignified, each step a testament to composure. They whispered about her, but they didn’t know the half of it. They never did.

The bags of vegetables hung from her arms, swaying slightly as she navigated the crowd. There was no indication of hurry, no sign of trouble. Her face remained a picture of serene poise. She smiled politely, exchanged nods with the vendors, a polite word here, a knowing glance there. It was all routine, all so perfectly, wonderfully routine.

Carrots, celery, and ripe tomatoes, all carefully selected. Her thoughts, though, were anything but settled. They flitted to Alastor, to the tension at home. She shook it off, focused on the task at hand and filled her basket with quiet precision. She had made it through worse. She could make it through this.

Even as the worry gnawed at her, she let none of it show. Only a trained eye would have seen the way her fingers clutched the bag, the way her shoulders drew tight before releasing.

Thomas, the greengrocer, waved as she approached. His hands were dusty with soil and flour, and his smile was wide. "Evening, Miss B," he called out. It looks like you'll have quite the feast tonight!"

She returned his smile with a calm, practiced one of her own. "One can always hope," she said. Her voice was light, controlled. It carried no weight, no hint of what she was feeling. It couldn’t. It never did.

He leaned over the counter, lowering his voice. "And how's the young man? Haven't seen him in ages."

She hesitated, a small fracture in her composure, before regaining it effortlessly. "Studying," she said. "You know how Alastor is. Always with his nose in a book."

The answer satisfied him. He chuckled and packed her bag with onions, peppers, and a bundle of leafy greens. But her own words left her uneasy. Lies and omissions. She’d had her fill of both. She wondered if Alastor had.

Her hands tightened on the bag, fingers pressing into the fabric. He had changed before, too, that night.

The memory flickered at the edges of her mind like a candle guttering in the wind. He had come home pale but strangely… light. Not unburdened, but clearer somehow, as if a weight had lifted. She had thought, for a fleeting moment, that it was a good thing, that he had been freed of whatever fear had been haunting him.

But it didn't last.

As the years passed, something darker had settled in its place. Something she couldn’t name. It wasn’t in his eyes, nor his voice. It was in the air around him, in the way the light never quite touched him the same way.

At first, she had told herself it was just growing pains, that boys changed, hardened, and became men. But sometimes, when the house was quiet and she caught him staring into the dark like he was waiting for something to stare back and she’d wonder.

A shiver ran through her, sharp as a blade.

She couldn’t let herself fall apart. Not now, not here. She nodded to Thomas, tucking the produce into her bag, and offered a final smile before moving on. A thin veneer, but a necessary one.

Her heart raced, but she forced it to slow, forced her mind to stay quiet. The worst was over, she told herself, even as the doubts lingered, even as they grew. She would go home. They would be fine. They had to be.

Pausing, she took a long, measured breath and let it out slowly, watching it curl in the cold air. The market buzzed around her, a cacophony of voices and sights. She had practiced tuning everything out but what needed doing. The church bell rang, signaling that it was five.

The time. The hour. She was late.

A chill ran through her, a sudden, sharp dread. It nearly stopped her, nearly broke her resolve. She wouldn’t allow it. Not when Alastor needed her to be strong. Not when the past needed leaving behind.

She walked, her steps quicker than before, her pace betraying the worry she had worked so hard to suppress.

The world was vivid and alive around her, but she felt detached. She was only half there, only half seeing. Her thoughts were at home, with Alastor, with whatever storm awaited them both.

~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

The air was dense, heavy. The temperature had plummeted, sending a chill straight through to his bones. He opened the journal, flipping to the page that had sealed his fate. To the page that might just save it.

Te invoco, Lucifer, rex inferni... His voice was raw, desperate. Venite ad me et exaudi precationem meam. It cracked, but he repeated the chant. Again. Three times, with every ounce of breath, of strength, of madness he had left.

The room went still, and for one sickening moment, Alastor thought he had failed and it had all been for nothing.

Then the candles flickered, spitting wax and shadows.

His father’s body began to sink, a slow and monstrous descent into the floor. The floor itself seemed to writhe and tremble. It moved without moving, changed without changing. Alastor’s pulse thrummed, a wild crescendo of anticipation and terror.

Shadows rippled. The walls shuddered. A rush of air swept through the room, and for a moment, he almost believed it. A rush of hope surged in his chest, and he had to believe it then for he had succeeded.

Lucifer stood in the body's place.

He surveyed the bloodstained room, his face impassive, his eyes like twin gold flames. His voice cut through the air, sharp as glass: “Alastor, what the fuck did you do?” The words echoed in the silence, jagged and unyielding. He stood at the center of the ruined room, a stark figure, and the air seemed to bend and twist around him.

Alastor let out a hysterical, breathless laugh, a sound that bordered on madness. “I…I had to,” he gasped. His body trembled, barely holding together, and the words spilled from his mouth in a torrent. “You don’t understand.”

Lucifer fixed him with a steady gaze, the fire of anger, and something else flickered deep within. He looked bemused, Alastor thought. But also annoyed, like a father finding a child ankle-deep in mud. Lucifer shook his head, the disdainful kind of smile playing on his lips. “Always so dramatic,” he said.

Alastor’s panic rose, choking him. The room pressed down on him, heavy, relentless. “Please,” he whispered, each word a plea, each word a desperation. “My mother… she can’t find out.”

Lucifer’s expression flickered, pity mixed with irritation mixed with worry. Its unpredictability nearly broke Alastor, waiting, hoping, dreading. It was a joke, and he was the punchline.

His eyes darted around the room, frenzied in search of something solid, something that made sense. They landed on a glinting trophy on the mantle, a stark reminder of happier times, before this, before now, before everything.

“We almost made it,” he whispered, the words hanging in the cold air. “She wanted to dance in Harlem.” 

The dream seemed distant, faded like an old photograph. He pictured his mother, her graceful movements, her hopeful smile. But those hopes, those dreams, like his own innocence, were gone.

Lucifer’s sigh filled the room, a gust of exasperation tinged with consideration. He studied Alastor, who stood on the edge, eyes wet, body trembling, so pathetically fragile in the face of the devil’s seeming indifference.

“You think you can run from this?” Lucifer’s voice was low and dangerous. “That if I fix it, all is undone?”

Alastor had to believe he could. They had to believe that anything was better than the alternative. “I can,” he said, though the certainty in his voice sounded like a stranger’s. “I will.”

Lucifer chuckled, a deep and resonant sound that echoed off the walls like another kind of curse. “Perhaps,” he said, drawing the word out like taffy, “it’s time to summon the authorities.”

Alastor froze, heart dropping, world crashing. Authorities. He knew what that meant. Knew exactly what would happen if they came. They wouldn’t care. Wouldn’t listen. They’d see a Black boy with blood on his hands, and that would be the end of it.

“No,” he choked out, panic flooding him, engulfing him. “No! You saved me once.” His voice cracked, a raw and painful sound. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Lucifer stood silent, letting the weight of Alastor’s desperation fill the space between them. He looked at the boy, really looked at him, and for a moment, his eyes softened. 

Alastor stood trembling. And then, as if to punctuate the thought, the door creaked open, and a rush of cold air heralded the arrival of another kind of answer.

Silence, dense and all-consuming, swallowed the room. Then came a rustle of feathers and a shift in shadows. A new voice, both strange and familiar, followed.

“Prince Stolas.” 

The name echoed through the air, cutting into the thick tension and slicing into Alastor's desperate plea.

The owl demon was as regal as he was dramatic, his entrance theatrical and well-timed. His face was a pale mask, his eyes layered upon eyes, and they all regarded Lucifer and Alastor with an amused curiosity.  “Sire,” he said, the word stretched, sing-song. “What are you doing?”

The King of Hell narrowed his gaze, a sliver of anger in his golden eyes. “Stolas,” he replied, sharp and direct. “You dare?”

The exchange left Alastor breathless, his heart pounding, a spectator to the cosmic show. Stolas’ arrival shifted everything, adding a new layer of uncertainty. Alastor stood alone, caught in the eye of a storm he didn’t understand, the drama playing out around him both irrelevant and impossibly important.

Stolas held silent for a moment, matching Lucifer’s stare before sighing. “Oh, my dear King. Perhaps it is time to step back. Let the mortal consequences unfold.”

Lucifer hesitated, indecision hanging heavy in the bloodstained air. Alastor’s heart raced, each beat an echo of terror. It couldn’t end like this. It couldn’t.

He fidgeted frantically, desperate as the weight of their deliberations pressed down on him, suffocating. His fate, his mother’s fate, balanced on the razor’s edge of demonic whimsy.

The owl demon seemed to hold his breath as he waited for Lucifer’s response. His presence felt like another kind of joke, and Alastor was certain he was the punchline. Again. He could almost hear the laughter, hear the audience calling for the curtain to fall.

Everything was unbearable. He was stuck, a helpless player in their cosmic theater. He couldn’t let it end this way. Not when he was so close. Not when he’d tried so hard.

He looked between them, his eyes pleading, his body shaking. The anxiety built, a tension in his chest, familiar and terrible. He was trapped. He was helpless. He was a child again.

Lucifer weighed his options, the pause stretching into eternity, taunting. Alastor wanted to scream, to force his hand. But it wasn’t his hand. Not anymore.

The decision wasn’t simple. Not with Stolas here. Not with the two of them pulling in opposite directions. The stakes were high, the tension unbearable. And Alastor, so small and fragile, felt himself bending under it, close to breaking.

He swayed on his feet, caught in the web of their cosmic politics, caught between hope and despair. He wondered if this was how his father had felt, if the fear and helplessness of not knowing would finally do him in.

He wondered. He waited. He watched as Lucifer turned toward him, cutting through the silence. “I will help, but listen well, Alastor, because this will be the last time." His words were heavy and binding, twisting like a knife, both promising and threatening.

Stolas groaned, hiding his feathered face in his talons, but neither Lucifer nor Alastor paid him any mind.

Alastor’s pulse thrummed with anticipation and terror. Hope flared in his chest, bright and flickering, like the flames that surrounded him. He was afraid to believe it, afraid it was another cruel game, but the old devil nodded. It was real. It was happening.

With a snap of Lucifer's fingers, the furniture began to mend itself, and the china lifted and returned to its place in the cabinet. Even his baby blanket was folded neatly back onto the couch, as if nothing had happened.

Stolas watched with disdain, eyes half-lidded, unimpressed. But even he couldn’t stop Lucifer, just advise as best he could.

The room shifted and settled as all of the blood vanished like smoke. It was untouched. Pristine. A world away from the chaos Alastor had thought would end him.

He stood in disbelief, a shivering mass of dread and relief. This couldn’t be true. Couldn’t be happening. 

But it was.

He was still in shock, still trembling and on the verge of collapse.

Lucifer’s voice echoed in his mind, a low and menacing whisper.  “Deceit casts a long shadow.”

Nothing remained buried forever…

“This won’t end as neatly as you hope,” Stolas said, barely above a whisper. 

Alastor took one unsteady step toward the couch, and the world tilted.

The weight, the terror, the relief, it all crashed over him at once. His knees buckled.

“It never does.”

“Not now, Stolas,” Lucifer said, exhausted.

Then the darkness took him.

~o0o~o0o~Harlem Nights: Ten Years Later~o0o~o0o~

The air pulsed with the sound of jazz. Neon signs flickered in the misty darkness, bouncing off the wet pavement. Police sirens wailed in the distance, and heels clicked against the pavement. Inside a smoky club, tucked behind a rundown pawn shop, was a completely different world, where power shifted hands in whispers and contracts. 

Lucifer sat above the crowd at a small, velvet-draped table, a cigarette smoldering between his gloved fingers. He wasn’t listening to the music; instead, his eyes were trained on the blurred figures dancing in the hazy light below. 

He exhaled smoke in a long, lazy trail just as the door to his left opened. Two young men, the oldest no older than twenty-two, stepped inside. Both wore suits too nice for their bloodline, the kind of tailored confidence stitched with stolen money and borrowed threats.

The eldest led with cocky determination, adjusting his cufflinks like they were brass knuckles. “Mr. Morningstar,” he said. “Word is, you’re the kinda guy who makes dreams come true.”

Lucifer turned his head, unimpressed. “Dreams are expensive.”

The younger one trailed behind with a lazy gait, dragging a finger along the table’s edge as he scoffed, “Christ, Johnny. Ya sound like a goddamn sales pitch. Just say it, ya wanna sell your soul so the old man’ll quit pretendin’ you don’t exist. Maybe he’ll throw ya a pat on the head and a shiny watch for your troubles.”

Johnny snapped his head around. “Tony, don’t start.”

Anthony rolled his eyes and flicked his curls back with a dramatic sigh. “Nah, go ahead. Sell that sorry soul o’ yours for a corner office and a pair o’ patent leather shoes. Just don’t drag me down with ya. Somebody’s gotta keep an eye on Molly.”

Lucifer’s lip curled in faint amusement. He liked this one. “And you are?”

“Anthony,” he said, flicking his cigarette ash into a whiskey glass.

“He’s my brother,” Johnny snapped, clearly embarrassed.

Anthony smirked. “Unfortunately,” he added, settling into the chair like he owned it. “Also, the prettier one, but don’t get your hopes up, I ain’t here for no deals. You’ll have to settle for Johnny’s soul. I got standards, see?”

Lucifer chuckled and leaned back, waving a hand to show Johnny that he should lay out his offer. Anthony merely leaned over the edge and watched the dancing, his eyes trailing the dancers with vague interest. 

He found his gaze drifting as Johnny talked about names, power, territory, nothing he cared about, as he lived in Hell. He sat up straighter as a familiar tug pulled at him. Lucifer frowned and leaned forward as the curtain swayed, and someone stepped through, Alastor.He was much taller now. Almost a head above the crowd. If he strained, he could hear his voice, much deeper now, practically resonant. His presence, quiet but cutting, commanded the space with unsettling ease. 

He could feel Anthony’s eyes on him, noticing the boy sitting straighter and looking down at Alastor with curiosity. “Friend of yours?” He raised his eyebrows, watching as Alastor and his mother moved like the music lived in their bones. There was something formal there, his back straight, movements crisp, but there was a grace that couldn’t be taught. 

“We’ve met,” Lucifer said after a moment, whistling as he watched Alastor lift his mother off the ground without breaking rhythm, spinning her as if she weighed nothing. Her smile bloomed wide. Alastor didn’t reach his eyes.

“Shame they’ll neva win,” Anthony muttered.

Lucifer’s eyebrows knitted, “Why not?”

Anthony leaned over the rail, squinting down at the dance floor. “You ain’t spent much time topside, have ya?” he said, voice low and amused. “This whole gig’s fixed tighter than a bank vault. Been rigged since Wednesday. Pops paid off the judges.” Anthony nodded his head towards the judges, “And even if he hadn’t? C’mon. Mixed kid dancin’ with his Black ma? They ain't never gonna let 'em win. Not in this town.”

Lucifer said nothing and merely watched the proceedings as the dancers lined up. The judges sat clustered at the edge of the floor, tallying slips in the polished box between them. 

He snapped his fingers. 

Anthony blinked, squinting towards the judge’s table. The box, just for a second, rattled. The lights above it flickered. A few slips on the table shifted as if caught in a breeze. The judges frowned and leaned in. 

Anthony glanced over at Lucifer, eyes wide. Lucifer smiled without turning his head.

Anthony bit his lip, trying not to grin. He leaned back in his seat, arms folding with theatrical flair. “Okay. That was hot, Short King.”

Johnny slammed a hand on the table. “Are you even listenin’ to me?”

Lucifer turned back, mildly exasperated. “Yes, yes, seven-year claim, dominion clause, very impressive,” he murmured, waving him off like a housefly. He pulled out the contract. “Sign here and we’re good to go.”

Anthony snorted, “Idiot.” He watched as his brother signed, only for Johnny to slump forward the instant the parchment lit with golden fire. “Is he okay?”

Lucifer barely glanced over his shoulder. “He’ll be fine with some sleep.” He folded the contract and tucked it into his pocket, already turning back to the dance floor.

Out on the floor, the final count was tallied. “And the winners are…”

A pause. A murmur in the crowd. Lucifer and Anthony leaned forward with interest. 

“Alastor and Mirabelle!” 

There was stunned silence before stilted clapping began to go through the crowd. Mirabelle clutched Alastor’s arm, delighted. Alastor blinked in surprise, his head snapping to the judges, eyes narrowed as if expecting a correction. 

But none came. 

Mirabelle tugged at his sleeve to step forward, but Alastor hesitated. He gave her a polite smile, but his eyes scanned the crowd, stopping as his eyes trailed up to the balcony and stopping as he found Lucifer. 

Their eyes met, and Alastor narrowed his gaze further. 

~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

The stilted applause, as quiet as it was, was disorienting. Alastor stood frozen as his mother clutched his arm, beaming in disbelief. 

“Alastor, we won,” she said breathlessly. 

He nodded slowly, but his feet didn’t move. Something was wrong, something didn’t feel right.

They had danced well, exceptionally so, but he knew they weren’t meant to win. That he was sure of, he had seen the judges earlier, bored and distracted. The crowd’s attention even tilted towards the pre-picked pair with the golden shoes and movie connections.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

His mother tugged at his arm again. “Come on, let’s go.”

He let her guide him forward, moving like someone underwater. The cheers around them felt far away, dulled by the roar in his ears. As they neared the front of the stage, he let go of her hand.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

Her eyes flickered with concern. “Alastor, ”

“Go get our prize, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He leaned down to press a firm kiss to her temple before slipping away into the crowd, weaving through the stalled dancers and smoky laughter, heading up the stairs, straight for the man standing against the balcony’s railing. 

There were two other men with him, but Alastor hardly gave them notice. “What do you think you’re doing?” Alastor hissed, pulling Lucifer so he could face him. 

Lucifer merely arched a brow, pulling his arm out of Alastor’s hold. “Pardon.”

Alastor nodded towards the judge's table, arms crossed over his chest. “That contest was rigged from the start. We weren’t supposed to win, but somehow we did.”

“You were magnificent, take the wins as they come,” Luficier said, with a wave of his hand. “Maybe the crowd changed their mind.”

“No,” Alastor said flatly. “You did something. Why?”

Lucifer leaned on the railing, looking him over. “Why would I bother rigging a dance competition?”

“You tell me.” Alastor’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t do anything without a reason.”

 A long pause stretched between where Lucifer didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a deep drag from his cigarette. 

Anthony leaned forward into Alastor’s view, grinning like he’d just pulled off a heist. “You got moves, kid,” he said. “A real knockout. You and your ma earned that win, no question.”

Alastor’s jaw clenched, but he otherwise ignored him. “I don’t like being used.”

Lucifer met his gaze then, eyebrow raised. “Neither do I.”

Anthony raised his eyebrows and settled against the railing, looking between the two with interest.

Lucifer tipped his head towards Alastor’s mother. “Go enjoy your win with your mother, Alastor. Time here is too short to be wasted on things such as this.” 

Alastor didn’t thank him. He merely stood there a moment longer, staring Lucifer down with calculating eyes, before turning on his heel and walking back down the steps towards the stage.

Lucifer watched him as he trailed back through the crowd to return to his mother’s side. She was laughing, wiping a handkerchief beneath her eyes as he bowed theatrically, just a shade too stiff. The audience adored him. The applause swelled.

“Strange fella, that one,” Anthony muttered, straightening his cuffs with a snap. “Anyway, thanks for the show, Short King, but I gotta drag this schmuck home before he tries to sell my soul for a sandwich.”

Lucifer looked up at Anthony, a tight smile on his face. “I will see you soon, Anthony.”

“Not too soon, I hope,” Anthony added with a crooked smile, then paused when he caught that look on Lucifer’s face. “... Hey, that was a joke, y’know?”

Lucifer offered him nothing but a weary, wistful smile before turning back toward the stage. The brothers slipped out through the back door, Johnny half-limp, his head lolling as Antony propped him up with a grunt. “Cristo, sei pesante come il peccato,” Antony muttered under his breath. “If you think I’m coverin’ for your sorry ass with Pop, you better wake up swingin’.”

A sudden gust of wind followed, sharp and cold, as the door slammed shut. It rustled the velvet tablecloth, tossed scattered napkins into the air, and sent a crumpled newspaper sailing straight into Lucifer’s face.

SEVENTH MAN FOUND DEAD IN NEW ORLEANS STRING OF MURDERS

Families Left Unharmed. Abuse Allegations Emerge Postmortem.

Lucifer frowned and scanned the article. 

“All victims were known to police…” “No signs of forced entry...” “Other family members were out of town or away at the time of the attack…” “Details of injuries suggest premeditation... A pattern…”

He flipped the page. 

“The latest death follows mere days after the victim was arrested on charges of domestic violence. He had been released earlier that day. The attack happened at night. Neighbors report no strange noises, and there were no signs of a struggle.”

“Well, isn’t that interesting?” said a dry voice beside him.

He groaned, lowering the paper slowly, rolling his head back to stare at the owl prince. Stolas, resplendent in a midnight jacket with lace trim, stood with his arms crossed and eyes glimmering with smug amusement. 

“Oh, shut up, Stolas.”

“What did I say?” was his reply, tone airy.

“You’re thinking it.”

“Only because it’s painfully obvious.” Lucifer turned to glare at him, causing Stolas’s smirk to grow. “You really didn’t know?”

Lucifer said nothing as he watched Alastor. His arm was wrapped around his mother’s waist as they swayed gently to the music. She looked up at him, pride and affection reflected in her face.

But Alastor wasn’t returning the look. He turned her gently, stepping back into the rhythm, but his eyes, those clever eyes, were locked with Lucifer’s. 

Lucifer inhaled sharply. What did I miss?

Stolas tilted his head, watching them. “You always underestimate the quiet ones.”

Lucifer didn’t answer. His fingers tightened on the paper. The headlines blurred, but the implications burned clear.

Seven deaths.

Seven broken homes, their abusers dead and gone.

“Alastor, what have you done?” Lucifer muttered, gripping the newspaper until his fingers began to rip through the pages. 

Alastor spun his mother one last time, her laughter soaring through the room, high and bright over the crackling jazz. And when she came around in his arms,  Alastor raised his chin, a dark smirk crossing his face as he noticed the change in Lucifer’s expression. Seven... and counting.

The band played on. The lights glittered. And the shadows beneath Alastor’s shoes were starting to move of their own volition. 

~o0o~o0o~o0o~The Voice on the Radio~o0o~o0o~o0o~

Hell had always been quick to adopt the worst of Earth’s inventions: guns, cigarettes, bureaucracy, porn. So, it was only a matter of time before it welcomed radio with open, blood-slicked arms. 

Lucifer kept one in his study, not a Hell-made mimic, but a true Earth-created set that he had taken from a Westinghouse during one of his stints above. The casing was cherrywood, and the dials turned with a satisfying click! 

Earth’s channels filtered through in bursts: weather reports, ad jingles, news alerts, swing music warped by static. One of his favourite things to do was listen to one of the serial stories they played on Sunday nights with Charlie, whenever she had the time to do so, which was becoming less and less as time passed. 

It had become a habit. Late hours, drink in hand, sleeves rolled up past the elbows, he would sit by the set and let Earth whisper to him. The inauguration of Herbert Hoover, the signing of the Lateran Treaty, the Sino-Soviet Conflict, the arrest of Al Capone… He always turned the dial too far, searching for something else, something more. 

Lately, he had taken to hovering over stations from New Orleans. 

Not because he expected anything in particular. Not because he was looking for anyone. Just curiosity. That was all. 

The static was always worse on that frequency. The signal flared and fizzled like a dying flame. The voices came and went, too fast or too slow, swallowed by crackling pops. The longer he listened, the more he convinced himself that he was being ridiculous. 

But still, he found himself turning the dial back again and again. 

And that evening, the fire caught.

First, it was just rustling static. Then a sharp pop! of a needle settling, a piano, tinny and sweet.

Then, a voice. 

Lucifer sat straighter, not sure he had heard correctly at first. 

It was a man’s voice. Polished, precise. Rich with warmth and edged with something sharp. It curled around each word like it enjoyed the sound of its echo. 

“—en quite the tumble, hasn’t it? The ticker tape’s gone still, the phones off their hooks, and Wall Street’s finest are discovering just how sturdy a window ledge really is…”

Lucifer’s hand froze above the dial. There was a lilt in the voice, a lightness utterly at odds with the subject matter. Lucifer knew that cadence. That charm hiding a knife. He knew it the way a dreamer knew their nightmares by first word.

“Alastor,” he whispered. The radio hummed.

“Yes, the crash came swift and unforgiving. Stocks once worth a fortune have evaporated into ash right before our very eyes. The public’s in shambles, desperate to salvage what’s already gone. Panic selling, panic buying, as if hysteria ever paid a bill.” 

A dry chuckle, and then. “Over the next year, millions will likely find themselves without work. The lines at stores will lengthen, but the shelves will be all but empty. The soup will thin, and frugality will not be a virtue, but a necessity. Families will likely find themselves huddled around single lamps, stretching dimes to dollars, pride into porridge… but, fear not, dear listeners. For in every disaster comes opportunity. Empty storefronts mean lower rent. Less noise, slower pace. Perhaps, when the dust settles, we will find the quiet to be… peaceful.”

Lucifer stared at the radio, silent. A breath of static followed, like laughter was trying to climb from the speaker. Still, Lucifer couldn’t move. 

Broadcasts weren’t supposed to reach Hell like this. Not this clear, nor this loud. But Alastor’s broadcast was. Lucifer leaned forward, breath shallow. 

“... and for all of you listening in the dark,” the voice continued, hushed now, intimate, “don’t worry. We’ll keep the lights on for you. For as long as they last. Until next time, dear listeners…” 

Static met Lucifer’s ears, followed by the flickering of the candle on his desk.

Lucifer sat very still, deaf to the hissing of the radio, unsure what to make of what he had just discovered.

He thought himself the puppeteer, pulling strings from behind velvet curtains, tilting fate with a gesture, a whisper, a warning. But the strings were gone now. Alastor had cut them, one by one. There he stood now, confident, deliberate, untouched by fear. Lucifer hadn’t permitted this to happen, hadn’t even felt it, hadn’t seen it happen until it was too late to do anything about it. 

“What game are you playing now, Alastor?” Lucifer pressed his fingertips together, trying to steady them. The voice on the radio didn’t belong to the young boy who sought rescue. It belonged to a man who had made peace with the shadows. 

He dragged a hand down his face. “You arrogant bastard,” Lucifer muttered, voice like broken glass.“You were warned, and I—”

Stolas’s voice drifted back through memory, “A fire that, left unchecked, might yet consume him… and far more… even we can only influence so much… you always underestimate the quiet ones…” And Lucifer, full of his pride, had scoffed.

Now, the quiet one was on a murder spree and had found a microphone.

He laughed bitterly. “Well, you reap what you sow.”

The static answered.

He was no longer the hand behind the curtain. He was just another listener.

He turned off the radio.

[poisonedace]

pride blitzø + stolas 🏳️‍🌈

i needed to draw them together wearing those outfits, like c'mon they are perfect for this theme they're so in love 🖤🖤

[poisonedace]

GAYY BIRDSSS!!

[poisonedace]

👀

[poisonedace]

Stolas and Valentino

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of Sexual Abuse, Sexual Assault, and other forms of abuse. If you cannot handle this post, I completely understand. Please scroll to save your mental health points.

Introduction

Hello all, if you're here you know who I am. If not, it is I, Amalthea, the Ultimate Stolas Kinnie and Stan. Back at it again, being forced to defend Stolas purely because people cannot read. This essay may be long so buckle the hell up ya'll.

I want to make it clear; I have no desire to discuss this topic. I have no desire to have to spoon feed to literal adults the narrative of this show.

I have no desire to explain basic logic to a a fandom that should be mature enough to dissect a piece of media beyond the surface level.

Despite my love for literature and media analysis, this entire fandom has exhausted me of any desire to continue refuting the same damn arguments. If you need context please check my reblog to a post accusing Stolas of being a Sexual Abuser here. Play nice in the comments and do not antagonize the original poster. Play nice, I mean it. Be rude to them and I find out you follow me? You will be blocked.

This essay will be discussing the differences between Val and Stolas. I want to note that I am not going to feel good while typing this. If I cut points short and you want to expand on them in a constructive way, please do reblog and add on. I can only do so much.

Stolas And Blitz's Dynamic and Agreement

When it comes to these two, many people get it twisted as to what their actual agreement is. So I will be taking Stolas's direct words from Murder Family. I want to note that Stolas and Blitz are implied to have been discussing the terms of this arrangement while I.M.P. was still functioning. Meaning prior to the agreement, Blitz got free access to the book for at least a month or more without any obligation to Stolas physically.

All of these things matter because many people like to imply the agreement is all Stolas's fault, when in actuality they have been discussing this arrangement and it's terms for at least a month.

The arrangement is as follows, these are Stolas's exact words;

Stolas: Then, let me keep it simple: Once a month, on the full moon, you return the book to me, followed by a night of…paaassionate fornication~ Aaand you get to keep it all the rest of the time, hmm? Sound fair, my little Imp?

Many people have misconstrued this to mean Stolas will withhold the book from Blitz and hang his power over Blitz's head. This cannot be further from the damn truth.

We find out during Full Moon that Blitz was able to come and go as he pleased within the arrangement and still keep the book from an interaction he has with Moxxie;

Blitzo: Well, it's the-- first of all, fuck you. It's the Full Moon, I got to meet up with Stolas tonight. Felt like dressing up a little since it's been a few months since I've been inside of his feathered ass.

Moxxie: A few months?!

Blitzo: Yeah, the bird started giving me more ways out of our monthly fuck-sesh. He'd be all like "Oh, Blitzy, I know it's the Full Moon tonight, but you don't have to come if you don't want to, Blitzy", so I've just been taking breaks from having to plow his feathered ass into his fancy ass mattress.

Note Blitz's language here because it matters. Firstly, both Blitz and Moxxie note Stolas has let Blitz get away with this for several months. Mind you, Blitz has had the grimoire the entire time and maintained ownership of it, even after the events of Seeing Stars when Blitz lost the grimoire to Octavia.

I.M.P. has remained functioning the entire time despite Blitz not fulfilling his end of the agreement. So while through Blitz's lens it may have felt like Stolas held power over him, Stolas never in any regard implied he would or ever did utilize the power he had over Blitz. Therefore, no, you don't get to paint Stolas as a sexual abuser when he actively is not participating in that behavior.

If when I was a child, I accused my parent of harming be, but there was no active physical harm going on, I cannot call that abuse just because I feel like my parent might hurt me.

If someone is eyeing me in a bar, but makes no attempt to bother me, touch me, or come into my space, I cannot accuse them of sexual harassment just because I feel uncomfortable.

These examples are different, but there are specific definitions to the words "abuse" and "sexual harassment", there is specific criteria for both because they are serious crimes.

Just like being a "sexual abuser" has specific criteria that needs to be met in order for it to actually be sexual abuse. The user I responded to accused Stolas of abusing Blitz, but unfortunately for all of you I had to recently refresh on my sexual harassment training for my job and therefore I am well acquainted with the topic and what the legalities regarding it are.

I want to remind everyone, that Stolas and Blitz are not in a formal business relationship. Stolas isn't Blitz's "boss", but an asset. That's all Stolas is, Blitz is still the boss of I.M.P.

For a baseline definition lets establish the type of sexual harassment Stolas is being accused of which is quid pro quo sexual harassment as defined the Department of Administrative Services; "One party forces the other party to offer sex in return for recruitment, promotion or salary raise within the first party's powers, and threatens to demote, cut the salary or even fire the second party if rejected. In Latin it means “this for that”. This is usually the most blatant kind of sexual harassment. This occurs when employment decisions are based upon an employee’s willingness to grant sexual favors in exchange for working benefits such as promotions, increases, preferred assignments or punishment such as being demoted or fired. This type of harassment, typically involves a harasser who has authority over the victim. According to federal guidelines, a single “quid pro quo” advance may be considered harassment if it is linked to an employment benefit."

This is the definition of "quid pro quo" sexual harassment and is a very real issue. I will try to be graceful and faithful to this definition throughout this essay. If I do anything you deem unacceptable or inappropriate, please DM me or comment and I will have no problem holding myself accountable for that.

Now the main thing with "quid pro quo" sexual harassment is the person being harassed needs to be forced into the situation.

Question 1: Was Blitz forced to sleep with Stolas for work-related benefits?

Based on the canon of Helluva Boss, no, this is fundamentally untrue. Firstly, Stolas and Blitz only slept together when Blitz wanted to as noted before;

"He'd be all like "Oh, Blitzy, I know it's the Full Moon tonight, but you don't have to come if you don't want to, Blitzy", so I've just been taking breaks from having to plow his feathered ass into his fancy ass mattress."

Blitz's own words. He was allowed to come and go as he pleased within the arrangement dependent on his own consent and comfortability.

The second major thing with "quid pro quo" sexual harassment is that the person is threatened with some type of punishment and or consequence for not complying.

Question #2: Did Stolas ever threaten Blitz with his status or ever utilize it against him in relation to their arrangement?

Again, based on the canon of Helluva Boss there is no substantiative evidence to prove Stolas ever threatened or held his power over Blitz's head.

The narrative goes out of it's way to show us this is all Blitz's interpretation of their relationship, something that is not set in reality as displayed in how Blitz views Stolas during his Bad Trip.

While Stolas is in a position of power, he never exercises it.

On top of that, within I.M.P. Stolas is merely a resource, not a "boss" over Blitz. The companies policies, pay, and schedule are not dictated by Stolas.

Therefore, these two do not fall into the realm of criteria for this type of harassment, but I will set that aside.

Power Dynamics in Stolitz

When it comes to the power imbalances within Stolitz, I want everyone to know I understand why people feel so passionately about the dynamic these two have.

It isn't quite a boss and employee relationship, but it is someone with power being in an arrangement with someone else who doesn't have access to the same resources.

However, I need us all to remember these men are both close to their 40s and had ample time to decide whether this agreement was worth pursuing or continuing.

I ain't saying it doesn't have it's issues, but I do worry many of you are projecting your personal traumas onto these two.

Stolas is not the boss who hurt you.

Just like Blitz isn't the person who abandoned me or hurt me, hence why I can sometimes be hostile towards him.

Neither of those things should cloud our judgement and or analysis of the show.

I'm sorry for what happened to you that you feel this strongly on this topic, but your lived experiences and hurts cannot be applied to everything.

Just like my divorce related trauma is not applicable to Octavia and Stolas, your lived experiences with an awful boss are not applicable to Blitz and Stolas.

Many times within the show Blitz makes it clear this was his choice. He chose to sleep with Stolas and chose to pursue a prolonged arrangement with him.

Putting aside the circumstances of Murder Family, Stolas and Blitz had been discussing the arrangement and terms for roughly a month before Stolas proposed what he proposed.

Blitz was already planning to pursue this venture of his own free will and volition, regardless of how you want to analyze the situation. He used the grimoire that entire month and therefore, he was already planning to have something with Stolas, the terms just had not been set.

None of us were in the rooms when the terms were discussed, but conversations were had and therefore, Blitz is complicit in this arrangement, he was willingly complicit by utilizing the book and entertaining the idea with Stolas.

This is a staunch difference to a "quid pro quo" sexual harassment, and is just two adults with resources exchanging them for favors. As Stolas said it's simply favors for favors and no one is getting punished for not complying.

As much as Stolas is guilty for taking advantage of the arrangement, Blitz is just as guilty as noted by my mutual @yasmiralotta 's post Blitzø 👏 and 👏 Stolas 👏 both 👏 used 👏 eachother 👏 to get 👏 what 👏 they 👏 wanted. This essay details the way they BOTH utilized one another.

I have no desire to break it down any further than that.

Vox and Angel

Discussing Valentino and Angel is a difficult subject for me. Just due to how- graphic and explicit the situation really is. However, if people want to keep making false equivalency's between him and Stolas I will have to explain what Angel and Val's dynamic is.

As of right now, we do not know the exact terms of Angel and Val's agreement. What we do know is Valentino is Angel's boss and dictate's what Angel can and can't do on studio grounds.

We know within the show that Angel's work conditions are beyond deplorable.

Firstly, he works 16 hour shifts.

Secondly, he is physically abused for not complying with what Valentino wants.

Lastly, Angel is bound to Valentino for the rest of his afterlife. Therefore, he is under Val's control.

Angel is often physically and sexually abused for not complying with Valentino's orders.

This is the actual definition of quid pro quo sexual harassment. More specifically Angel has to perform a certain way or he gets physically harmed. Even when Val says he wants to go to the Hotel to kill Angel, Vox stops him because of the optics regarding it and offers to call in the lowest earners to supplement Val's need to kill someone;

Vox: Well, lemme call up the lowest earners this month. *walks to TVs*

Valentino: Ohh, you know me too well. *chuckles and blows smoke*

Val keeps his employees in place based on their numbers. Don't perform well? Well you're either going to be abused sexually OR killed. That is someone exercising their authority to an extreme degree.

Angel's daily life involves some type of sexual abuse.

Conclusion

I apologize for not- expanding more on Val and Angel, but I do think my point is made pretty clear.

Stolas and Val are NOT the same.

Stolas is by no means anywhere NEAR as cruel or vindictive as Valentino is.

Angel becomes paralyzed with fear if Val's even upset with him.

Blitz openly insults Stolas to his face and walks out alive.

In a room where fire is surrounding him, Angel could only worry about Val being mad at him.

In situations where Stolas needed help, Blitz was able to reject him and handle his daughter.

These are vastly different situations and therefore should be given that respect. Dislike Stolas, love him or hate him, I don't care.

However, making stuff up about Helluva Boss with no research and or analysis is actually asinine.

Amalthea out!

[poisonedace]

Was thinking about Octavia and Stolas and got sad about it 😭

Feelings and junk under the cut~

This one's been sitting awhile and in that time I've gone from feeling relatively certain about what I'm trying to express, to no longer having any idea what I'm expressing, to once again feeling kinda sure about it! It was meant as hopeful but I can't fully say it ended up that way; the little perspective shift at the end was originally intended as optimistic, because without it things felt to 'final', but in retrospect I might've just made it worse 😂 I had all kinds of feelings going into this, thinking about all the little private ways we try to measure our worth in other people's lives and how badly that can miss the mark, but more than anything I think I was trying to ask myself something from Octavia's perspective. When someone goes through something life-alteringly traumatic, eventually they always find a new normal. No matter how devastating something is in the moment, given time, things will always settle. So what does that feel like when you are the thing someone you love is 'settling' from? It's not fair to assume that someone's life is better without you in it just because they're still out there living. But what does it feel like, to see first-hand that they have either somewhat healed or hidden a wound that you carved in them yourself. Because you don't want them to hurt (well, you kinda do a little) but you also don't really want them to forget (even though you told them they should) and then it all becomes a jumbled mess in your head. Thankfully, I don't think Via and Stolas are going to be estranged long enough for this to become the kind of obstacle I'm portraying here. Pretty sure I accidentally stumbled into some of my own old teenage angst there - always a fun time 😂 I handled this a little clumsily, I think, and I have a few nitpicks with the formatting (beefing with past me's approach is a time-honored tradition for these things 😌) but it's sincere and I'm still happy with it~

[poisonedace]

Stolas ❤️🌙🍷

[poisonedace]

Lows in the High Teens

8,804 words | Teen | One-Shot Pairings: Stolas/Stella (Engaged), Stolas/Blitzo, Stolas & Stella Author's AO3: PoisonedAce Story Link: Lows in the High Teens Summary: Their betrothal was born of duty, not desire. But in the margins of court life, Stolas and Stella found something unexpected: an uneasy companionship built on sarcasm, stolen wine, and mutual loathing for the world around them. One reckless night at an imp-run circus was meant to be a harmless act of rebellion. It wasn't meant to bring Blitzo back, at least not in a way that unraveled everything Stolas thought he knew about himself.

~o0o~~o0o~~o0o~Lows in the High Teens~o0o~~o0o~

~o0o~~o0o~~o0o~A Poisoned Ace One-Shot~o0o~~o0o~

The ballroom glowed with infernal candlelight and polished resentment. Every corner of the space was filled with posturing nobles and stiff conversation, laughter that didn’t quite reach the eyes, and clinking glasses that masked backhanded compliments and thinly veiled threats. Against the far wall, tucked just past the reach of the chandelier’s light, stood two teenagers who looked like they belonged, and very clearly wanted nothing to do with it.

“Could this be any less entertaining?” Stella arched an elegant eyebrow as she surveyed the crowd, her feathers gleaming like icicles as they caught the light. “If one more ancient bore asks me about wedding plans, I’ll gouge my eyes out with a dessert spoon.”

“Don’t let them go to waste,” Stolas said, casting a disdainful glance at the nobles pecking around the buffet. “They’d have to one-up us with flaming steak knives.”

They snickered into their glasses, schooling their expressions when a stately woman turned to glare at them. Stella leaned closer to Stolas. “Look,” she said, subtly gesturing towards the woman as she turned her back. “Did you see her earlier? Already scouting for husband number four.”

“They’ve hardly buried her third!”

“Yeah, and she still thinks she’s subtle,” Stella muttered, swirling pale pink Hellwine in her glass. She nodded toward her brother, where the duchess was already circling like a vulture, elbowing Stolas to get his attention.

“The moment she stopped poisoning the first one, I lost all respect,” he drawled, grinning and shaking his head as Andrealphus cast them a desperate look over the duchess’s powdered shoulder.

Stella snorted into her glass. “He deserved it.”

“Oh, absolutely. But subtlety used to be an art form.” He took another deep drink from his glass and nodded towards her brother. “Do we save him, or let nature take its course?”

Stella smirked into her glass. “Let him suffer. He’d sell us both for a headline and a decent photo.”

Stolas laughed softly, the sound low and bitter. “Then may she bleed him dry, and toast us with the remains.”

They weren’t meant to be friends, not really. Goetia pairings weren’t about compatibility, after all. They were about bloodlines and political peace, about power and posturing. But somehow, between childhood galas and endless etiquette drills, arranged playdates and joint appearances, Stolas and Stella had found common ground.

Now, with their betrothal officially announced, they’d been forced into a whirlwind of public appearances to “foster closeness,” as their parents called it. And they were growing closer, but mostly through whispered insults, stolen wine, and a mounting talent for getting into trouble together.

A throng of nobility passed them like an overdressed weather system, leaving a trail of perfume and flattery in their wake. A young count smirked in Stolas’s direction, showing off the scandal of newly enhanced horns.

“I’m told those make him much more virile,” Stella murmured.

“In that case, let’s hope they sprout another foot.”

A burst of rich and real laughter escaped her. Stolas beamed, his pupils showing before quickly hiding away again. Their mutual scorn for the gathering felt warm and comforting, like sitting too close to the fireplace and daring it to burn.

Stella took his arm, a gesture both intimate and defiant. “They’ll talk about us, you know. Standing over here, sneering at everyone.” She pointed at Vassago, who was in the middle of the crowd, sending them warning looks. “Your brother is about to come over here.”

“It’ll be nice to be talked about for something true,” Stolas replied, his tone playful yet full of longing. “Vassy won’t say anything unless he suddenly wants his rendezvous with Andrealphus to make the front page of the Sunday edition of Hell Times.”

Stella rolled her eyes, but her sharp and satisfied smile lingered. She left Stolas by the wall to grab a new glass of wine. When she returned, Stolas was silently frowning at his phone. She waited a minute or two, looking around for the latest Goetia to snark about, when she realized he still hadn’t put his phone away.

“Unless you’re looking up how we can both fake our deaths, I don’t see what is so urgent that you can’t put down your phone,” Stella said, eyeing him over her glass.

“Don’t be absurd,” Stolas scoffed, stealing the glass from her and taking a deep drink from the wine, causing her to gasp in faux outrage. “This isn’t some low-rated fanfiction version of Romeo and Juliet.”

“Well, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, darling?”

Stolas choked on the wine. “You’re ridiculous,” he gasped, dabbing at his cloak with the handkerchief she offered, though he was grinning by the end of it. “It’s nothing like that,” he said finally, locking his phone and slipping it into his pocket.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m a noble liar,” he sniffed. “There’s a difference.”

“Only in your deluded little owl brain.”

He didn’t answer. His fingers absently brushed the silk lapel of his jacket, smoothing down a wrinkle that wasn’t there. Stella narrowed her eyes, catching the shift in his posture, the stiffness, the unease beneath his usual theatrical composure.

“Okay. Spit it out.”

“What?”

“You were looking at your phone obsessively like it’s going to hatch. What are you brooding about?”

“I don’t brood,” he said defensively. “I... meditate.”

“That’s adorable,” she deadpanned. “What’s on the phone, Stolas?”

He hesitated, then sighed, digging out his phone and unlocking the screen. He turned it toward her. There, on his Hellgle feed, was a colourful pixelated flyer:

THE SEVEN RING IMP CIRCUS – ONE MONTH ONLY. Featuring FIRE-EATING, FLYING ACTS, AND MORE. Tonight. 9:30 PM. Entry by Duskglass Token.

“Oh no,” Stella groaned. “Not the Imp circus again.”

“They were wonderful,” Stolas said, suddenly animated. “You weren’t there the first time! My father took me when I was barely tall enough to see over the front row. There were these little imp boys with balloon animals, one of them made a wormhorse. It was ridiculous. I loved it.”

“You’re only romanticizing it because it was the first time your father acknowledged your existence for more than five minutes.”

“... possibly. But it isn’t the only reason.”

Stella gave him a look before reaching around him to take two champagne flutes from a passing imp. He gratefully took it from her, downing it in one gulp. “Don’t you want to do something unscripted for once?” Stolas waved his hand around towards the droning mass before him. “Something ridiculous?”

“I’m already marrying you. Isn’t that enough absurdity for one lifetime?”

“I’m serious, Stella.”

She sipped her drink, pretending to consider it. “You’re not even pretending to mingle.”

“Why would I?” Stolas scoffed. “I’ve already seen Hell’s finest attempts at inbreeding.”

She laughed, loud enough to draw a glance from a passing socialite, which she returned with a venomous smirk. “You’re going to get us both exiled.”

“Only if we’re lucky.”

There was a beat of silence, during which Stella studied him carefully. She’d seen this mood before, restless, romantic, too sharp for his own good. He always had that glint in his eye when he was chasing something he didn’t quite understand, some impossible idea of freedom, meaning, or whatever came closest. And tonight, he looked more like a moth drawn to flame than ever, some mix of defiance and yearning, like he wanted to burn down the entire social order and write bad poetry in the ruins.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “What would you say to sneaking out?”

“You’re serious about this?”

He nodded and tapped the screen again, bringing the flyer back up. “Popcorn. Fire-juggling. Possibly a demon who swallows swords poorly.”

She smirked. “What kind of Goetia bride sneaks off to an Imp circus?”

Stolas placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “The kind doomed to marry a delicate, feathered disaster who writes sonnets to the moon and cries during opera.”

She scoffed. “You do cry at the opera.”

“Only when the soprano is off-key,” he said with practiced dignity.

Their eyes met. There was laughter there, and a strange tenderness underneath it. Stella raised her glass, and Stolas mirrored her. They clinked once, silently, and downed the rest in tandem.

Moments later, they slipped out through a side curtain behind a gaudy floral arrangement, passed a pair of distracted hellhounds, and disappeared into a servant hallway they both knew better than they should. One narrow staircase, a concealed alcove, and a lot of whisper-hissing and suppressed giggles later—

“Going somewhere, hermanito?”

Vassago’s voice rang out from the shadows just as they turned a corner. He leaned against the stone wall like he owned it, a wine glass in one hand and smugness dripping off every syllable. His tie was loosened just enough to look deliberate, and a faint smear of plum lipstick ghosted the edge of his jaw.

Andrealphus stood a few feet behind him, his spine painfully straight and his feathers immaculate, except for one collar wing that sat slightly askew and the fine edge of glitter along his temple that hadn’t been there earlier. He looked like he’d rather be crucified upside down than chase after his wayward sister and her ridiculous fiancé.

“Oh, fantastic,” Stella muttered. “The peanut gallery.”

Stolas groaned. “Seriously, Vassago?”

“Oh come on,” Vassago drawled, pushing off the wall and strolling toward them. “You disappear during your own engagement ball and think no one will notice? You're not exactly subtle, mi principito dramático.” He flicked Stolas’s collar. “Feathers and all.”

“I’m blending in,” Stolas muttered, brushing him off. “Like a dignified shadow.”

“You’re glowing, estúpido,” Vassago said cheerfully. “And she’s wearing heels that sound like they’re trying to file for divorce.”

“They’re limited edition,” Stella said, lifting her chin. “Unlike your sense of self-control.”

Before Vassago could retort, Andrealphus cut in. “What exactly am I supposed to tell King Paimon?”

“Tell Father, Stella and I are preparing for the wedding,” Stolas said without missing a beat, his voice syrupy with mock propriety. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Vigorously… Possibly with cotton candy.”

Vassago barked a laugh. “He’s going to love that.”

Andrealphus, to his credit, didn’t explode; he just inhaled with all the repressed judgment of a man who’d already rewritten their exit speech three times. “You’ll regret this,” he said, voice thin with exasperation. “You’re going to humiliate the entire line if you keep treating these formal events like playgrounds.”

“Oh no,” Stolas deadpanned. “Not the legacy.”

Vassago snorted. “No one’s paying attention. Half the room thinks you two already eloped, the other half assumes you’re plotting each other’s murder.” He turned to Andrealphus. “Besides, would you really drag them back in front of everyone so that Stolas can recite another poem about the chandeliers?”

That earned a quiet sigh from Andrealphus, which Vassago took as permission.

Vassago stepped aside with a lazy flourish. “I didn’t see anything. Entiendes?” he said, raising his glass. “As long as you bring us back something fried and probably illegal.”

Stolas gave him a sweeping bow. “You’ll get a taffy stick and my eternal gratitude.”

“Perfecto. Put that in writing.”

Andrealphus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just don’t get caught.”

“Relax,” Stolas said sweetly. “If Vassago had done his job properly, he’d have left you with more than a stray red feather and a mussed collar. Maybe then you wouldn’t be so insufferable.”

Andrealphus made a strangled sound of offense, adjusting his collar too forcefully.

Vassago, still leaning against the wall with his wine glass, didn’t flinch. His grin only widened. “¡Qué lástima! He hadn’t complained,” he drawled. “But if you’d like to give me pointers, hermanito, I’m sure your experience is… extensive.”

Stolas tilted his head, eyes glittering with mischief. “Oh, I’d offer a demonstration, but I left my chalkboard and safe word upstairs.”

With that, Stolas and Stella darted past their brothers before any further lecture could be launched. Vassago gave a mock salute as they passed, then casually reeled Andrealphus against him, the Marquis’s hushed, muted protests fading as Stolas and Stella slipped through a narrow servant door and out into the gardens.

Outside, the air whipped at their feathers, sharp and invigorating. Stella’s heels clicked against the cobblestone as she caught her breath. “Your shoes are ridiculously loud,” Stolas complained as they stopped, already summoning the glowing ring of his portal beneath his talons. “Ready?”

Stella looked back at the ballroom, still glowing faintly in the distance. “Let’s go,” she said, breathless and grinning.

With a flick of his hand and a swirl of glowing sigils, the portal opened before them. Bright carnival lights flickered on the other side, accompanied by the faint sound of calliope music and the smell of roasted sugar and smoke.

~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

The portal closed behind them, leaving behind the cool stone of the Goetia courtyard and replacing it with trampled dirt and the smell of burnt sugar.

Coloured lights blinked erratically from where they hung on crooked poles, casting garish shadows across tents that sagged with age and use. Demons of every shape and caste bustled between booths, laughing, jeering, bartering, and shouting over the calliope’s off-key notes. The scent of popcorn mixed with sulfur and sweat, and somewhere in the distance was an explosion, loud enough to make a few lesser imps scatter.

"Did I mention the smell?" Stella asks, the elegance of her curled lip at odds with her tightly gripping hand. "We may not survive this, dearest."

Sweetness and smoke choke the air, and Stolas breathes it in like oxygen. His feathers shift through shades of excitement, the spontaneity electrifying him. "It's more incredible than I remember," he gushed, all four eyes sweeping the scene as if to capture every wild, ungoverned inch. The chaos, the color, the grime, it was crude and loud and utterly beneath his station. And it was wonderful.

Stella tugged slightly at his hand. He looked down. She was frowning, her shoulders tight, and her eyes swept the crowd like they were surrounded by vipers instead of screaming children and balloon vendors.

“Stolas…”

“It’s fine,” he said, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “We’re completely safe.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t pull away either. He guided her further in, weaving past tents and booths that offer everything from edible madness to carnival games only the most gullible would try. An imp on stilts passed by them, towering with precarious glory as others tossed glitter bombs at him to try and juggle.

The sights and sounds grind at Stella’s composure, but she lets Stolas eagerly guide her towards what looked to be an abandoned food truck.

"Deep-fried sugar scorpians? Is that a typo or an assassination attempt?" Stella asks, her voice a perfect mix of disbelief and sarcasm as they dodged a goblin loudly accusing a ring toss operator of rigging the game.

“Is that blood?” Stella muttered under her breath as she side-stepped a puddle of blackish goo on the floor.

“I think it's blackberry syrup,” Stolas replied, sniffing the air. “Probably.”

They passed a stall with cracked glass jars labeled Mystic Tonics and another featuring a bony dog-faced demon juggling knives blindfolded. Stolas grinned at that. Stella did not.

Then they passed a faded canvas tent tucked between two food stands. Its front flap was embroidered with cheap gold thread: Madame Veetra Sees All. Inside, a single red lantern glowed dimly, illuminating the eyes of the imp that resided inside.

The mystery is too much for Stella to resist, and she paused, intrigued despite herself. She was about to move on when Stolas gently pulled her back. “For Satan’s sake, Stella, just go get your fortune told.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You hate that crap.”

“I do,” he said smoothly. “Because I can predict the future already. Even if it’s not ours.” Her expression softened a little at that. His hand moved to the small of her back. “But you love it. So go, indulge your inner ghoul. I’ll meet you at the main tent when you’re done?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she gave him a crooked smile, almost girlish. “Fine. But if she tells me I’m dying tomorrow, I’m blaming you.”

He rolled his eyes and gave her a theatrical bow. “It’ll be my eternal shame.”

With that, she turned on her heel and made her way toward the glowing red tent, disappearing through the flap with her chin held high.

Stolas watched her go with fond exasperation, then turned away and pulled out his phone. He opened the same image he’d been staring at all evening: the circus flyer, pixelated and overexposed, stamped with fire-eating promises and badly kerned text.

But his eyes weren’t on the lettering.

They were on a teenager, blurry but unmistakable, in a ridiculous leotard and spiked collar, perched on a unicycle, juggling flaming pins with a manic grin.

Blitzo was older now, taller, absurd, magnetic, as audacious as ever.

Stolas hadn’t seen him since they were children, since that awkward playdate neither of them had asked for. But he remembered him: the chaos, the energy, the impossible confidence that lingered like gunpowder smoke.

He was so caught up staring at the image that he didn’t see where he was going until he tripped. One foot caught on something low and solid, and he went stumbling forward with an undignified squawk.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he blurted, catching himself and spinning around. His feathers puff with embarrassment, and he smooths them down with his hands.“I didn’t mean to…”

The figure he’d tripped over groaned and pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Why don’t you watch where the fu—”

Their eyes met.

“Stolas?!”

“Blitzo!”

Blitzo blinked, his expression turning from disbelief to a crooked smirk. “No freakin’ way, I figured you’d be locked away in your palace waiting for your princess to come…” He gave him a long, pointed once-over. “Or is it prince?”

Stolas opened his beak, then promptly closed it again. “I, well, that’s… It’s not... That’s not really…”

Blitzo raised an eyebrow. “Wow, I’ve broken you already? That must be a record.”

“I didn’t expect—” Stolas began, flustered, trying to recover some composure.

“—to land on me like a goddamn wrecking ball?” Blitzo cut in, laughing. “Or maybe you were aiming? Can’t blame you for wanting some of this.” He gestured to himself with exaggerated confidence.

Stolas’s laugh was surprised and breathless. “Yes, well,” he recovered, smoothing his ruffled jacket with performative dignity, “I do try to make an entrance.”

“You tripped over me, jackass,” Blitzo pointed out, brushing himself off with dramatic flair.

“Kinda poetic, don’t you think?” Stolas offered. “Nobility falling for an imp?”

“Poetic? You fell straight into my ribs.” Blitzo rubbed the spot with a wince. “I think one of them’s cracked.”

“Well, you were crouched in a poorly lit walkway like a sewer goblin. How was I supposed to see you?”

Blitzo crossed his arms. “Maybe don’t scroll your Goetia group chat while walking through a circus, Your Highness.”

Stolas gave him a look. “I was... looking for you.”

Blitzo blinked, caught off guard. “For me?”

Stolas gathers himself with an eloquent shrug. "I recognized you on the flyer," he says, each word deliberate and a touch dramatic as he turns on his phone and shows him the pixelated image. "It's been a long time, Blitzo."

The imp is caught off guard, and for a heartbeat, his façade falters. Then his smirk returns, even sharper. "Look at you, remembering the little guy," Blitzo shoots back. "Most nobles can't see past their own beaks."

“You burned yourself into my brain, Blitzo. That kind of chaos leaves a mark.”

That shut Blitzo up, just for a second, like he hadn’t expected to matter enough to be remembered. “Daddy know you’re here mingling with the riffraff?”

“It's best he not find out,” Stolas admitted. Blitzo raised a brow, momentarily taken aback.

"Well, color me surprised," Blitzo says, his bravado skipping a beat. He cocks his head and looks at Stolas more closely, more curiously.

A burst of static crackled over the loudspeakers. A voice, half-bored, half-buzzed with static, echoed through the circus grounds.

“Next show starts in ten minutes. That’s ten minutes to grab your snacks, your booze, or make some questionable life choices, folks.”

Blitzo flinched, glancing toward the performance tent. “Shit, that’s my cue.”

“Break a leg,” Stolas said. “I’ll be in the crowd watching.”

“You’ll probably be the only one laughing,” Blitzo said dryly. He turned like he was going to bolt, then hesitated. A grin crosses his face, something challenging, conspiratorial. "Meet me after the show," he tossed over his shoulder, already turning away. "Midnight. Behind the big top"

Stolas watches him slip into the chaos, losing him almost immediately in the crowd. A second later, his voice cut through the crowd: “No, I said the stilts go backstage, not up your ass, are you new?!”

Stolas stood frozen for a moment, blinking like a firework had just hit him. "I'll be there," he called, although Blitzo was already gone, and dazedly walked to the main circus tent, wincing as he stepped over popcorn and sticky drinks that had fallen on the ground. When he finally reached Stella’s side, his feathers were ruffled, his eyes wide, and he looked like he’d just stumbled out of a fever dream.

“You’ve got that dazed look again,” she said dryly. “Fall in love with the funnel cake on the way here?”

“How’d your fortune go?” he asked breathlessly, ignoring the jab as he settled into the seat beside her. She’d chosen spots closer to the middle, trying not to be too obvious, though their height and clothes still drew attention.

Stella huffed, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed. “Apparently, I’ll be receiving life-changing news soon.”

Stolas gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “Oh gods, you're being forced into an arranged marriage, aren’t you?”

She elbowed him, grinning. “Idiot.”

He laughed and wrapped an arm tightly around her, allowing her to rest her head against his shoulder.

“Do you think Pringles can do that?” Stella asked, tilting her head toward the stage where an imp was balancing on a ball, juggling lit torches with alarming confidence.

Stolas snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to the side of her head. “Pringles can’t even balance on a rug.”

“He has long legs.”

“He has no coordination.”

“To be fair, the statue breaking was our fault.”

Stolas let out a guilty hum. “I maintain it was already structurally unstable.”

“You dared him to ride it like a horse.”

“He accepted. That’s consent.”

The lights in the tent dimmed, and a flare of red and gold burst at the center ring, drawing the crowd's attention. Then came a voice, loud, cracked from too many cigarette breaks, and full of flair: “Ladies, lords, and all you beautiful degenerates in between... welcome to tonight’s main event!”

Spotlights swiveled and cut through the tent as two figures flipped into the center ring, landing in a perfect crouch before rushing with a dramatic bow in perfect synchronization.

Blitzo.

He looked taller under the lights, sharper, more alive. His costume glittered where it shouldn’t, tight in all the wrong places, and his grin was feral.

Stolas froze. His arm slipped from around Stella’s shoulder. He didn’t notice. He was on the edge of his seat before he realized he’d moved.

The music cut.

Darkness.

A beat of silence.

And then, neon.

Another performer, a sharp-eyed, smirking female Imp in neon fishnets and a black-lit bodysuit, slid into the ring alongside Blitzo. The two of them cracked long glow sticks over their thighs in sync. The chemical light flared green, then blue, then a flickering ultraviolet that danced against the dark.

The crowd whooped.

The calliope was gone now. In its place, the low pulsing intro of a very different soundscape took hold.

Kiss me, ki-ki-kiss me...

The unmistakable thrum of Katy Perry’s "E.T" dropped like a bomb in the tent.

The crowd gasped as bursts of ultraviolet light splashed onto the tent walls, revealing hidden images. Painted sigils and illusions are only visible under blacklight.

On the line “Could you be the devil?” a flare of crimson tore through the upper tent, forming a flickering image of Lucifer himself, maniacal grin under a large white hat.

Then the lights shifted. “Could you be an angel?” another image shimmered across the cloth, this one softer, taller, and feathered. It was familiar: a stylized shape in glowing white and soft gold, tall and lean, crowned with feathers shaped like a halo.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was close enough. Stolas inhaled sharply, the sound catching in his throat.

Stella blinked. “...Was that…?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He was staring at the ring like he’d been slapped. Like the world had tilted on its axis and left him behind.

Down in the pit, Blitzo moved recklessly, joyfully, and dangerously precisely. He threw a glowing baton to the other imp, who spun it overhead like a lasso of light, the beat thudding in time with their movements.

Stolas didn’t breathe. Not really.

He wasn’t watching a circus act. He was watching someone set fire to the version of himself he’d always been told to be, and laughing while it burned.

Blitzo twirled one final baton into the air, caught it behind his back with a dramatic bow, and dropped into a split that made half the crowd scream.

The music cut. The lights burst back to life in a flood of gold and red.

For a moment, the tent was silent. Then the crowd exploded.

Roars. Cheers. A few whistles loud enough to rattle the flameproof bunting above the ring.

Stolas clapped harder than anyone. Too hard.

His talons snapped together, fast and sharp, echoing above the general chaos. His eyes were wide, still fixed on the ring like Blitzo might disappear if he blinked.

Beside him, Stella stared. At first, at the stage. Then at Stolas.

Slowly, she lowered her hands into her lap, her expression somewhere between amused and suspicious. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you clap that hard for anything that didn’t involve opera or someone falling on their face,” she said lightly. “I was expecting you to start throwing roses.”

Stolas startled, blinking rapidly as if just remembering she was there. “It was a very engaging performance,” he said, smoothing his lapels and adjusting his cuffs.

“Engaging,” Stella repeated, unimpressed.

“Technically impressive. Energetic. Visually stimulating. Confident staging.”

She tilted her head. “You’re rambling.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re absolutely rambling.”

Stolas coughed into his fist. “I’m simply appreciating the art.”

“Right. And you were just enthralled by the lighting design?”

He hesitated. “Among other things.”

She squinted at him, more curious than suspicious. “You’re weird tonight.”

He coughed delicately. “Thank you.”

“Not a compliment,” she said, but her voice had softened. She leaned back and picked up her drink again. “Just... don’t embarrass me, alright?”

She sighed in exasperation when she realized her words had fallen on deaf ears. Stolas was already on his feet again, hooting and clapping with such enthusiasm you’d think the ringmaster had just set fire to a satanic priest on stage.

The show ended with one final flash of fire and glitter, and as the crowd surged towards the exits. Stolas was still reeling as they exited the tent, the performance looping through his mind like a favourite song on repeat. "Try not to drool, Your Grace," she said. Her voice is light but not weightless. Stolas stumbled over a denial that fools neither of them, his mind elsewhere.

"Was I that obvious?" he asked, a hint of playful guilt in his voice, as if caught with a talon in the cookie jar. His eyes, though, are distant.

Stella tilted her head, a gesture of exquisite pity. "Only to anyone with eyes," she replied.

Stolas conjured a portal, its swirling magic casting familiar shadows across their faces. "I'll take you home," he said, not meeting her eyes as her family mansion shimmered into view on the other side.

Stella raised a feathered brow, knowing and gracious. "And then?" she prompted, watching him with the precision of someone who's waited a long time for this moment.

"Then," Stolas admitted, "I think I might need some air." The words sound unconvincing even to him, a clumsy mask for the pull he can't deny.

Stella stood in the doorway, a shadow of concern softening her usual poise. "Don't get lost."

Stolas rolled his eyes and kissed her beak. “I have the stars to guide me, I never get lost.”

“See you for dinner tomorrow, Stolas.”

"Goodnight, Stella,” Stolas winked, and the portal snapped shut between them, leaving him alone outside the main circus tent. He stood there for a full five seconds before he exhaled hard, shook out his feathers, and turned towards the main circus tent.

The circus grounds were quieter now, emptied of most of the crowd. Food stalls were packing up, stray lights flickered, and a few imps in greasepaint were dragging props behind the curtains. He spotted Blitzo some paces away on the other side of the tent, pacing and spinning a glow stick between his fingers, throwing it up and catching it with ease.

Stolas approached, a little more hesitant now that the crowd's roar had faded and only his heartbeat seemed to be making noise.

Blitzo looked up when he heard him approach. “Look who didn’t get dragged back to his golden cage.”

“I told you I’d be here,” Stolas said, quietly proud of himself for keeping his voice steady.

“Yeah, well, Goetian princes don’t exactly have a reputation for being reliable.”

Stolas didn’t argue that. Instead, he offered the smallest smile. “Shall we?”

Blitzo squinted at him, then jerked his head toward the back fence. “C’mon.”

They slipped through a gap in the wood and walked across a patchy field until they reached a small rise overlooking the circus grounds. From here, the noise was just a dull hum, lights like dying stars. They fell into an awkward silence, then Stolas reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a slim silver case.

“Don’t tell me that’s demon cocaine,” Blitzo muttered.

“Do I look like I’d share that?”

Blitzo snorted. “Fair.”

Stolas popped open the case and revealed a pair of neatly rolled joints. He offered one without a word.

Blitzo took it. “Wow. Royal contraband. Should I curtsy first?”

“Only if you want me to light it for you.”

Above them, the stars pulsed through Hell’s haze, faint and scattered like someone had tossed salt across blood red velvet.

Stolas tilted his head back, scanning the sky. “You see that cluster there?” he asked, pointing. “Just above the haze line, near that stretch of orange glow.”

Blitzo squinted. “Uh... the one that looks like a weird triangle?”

“Yes! But not a triangle,” Stolas said, a little too eagerly. “That’s part of the Pegasus constellation. Or, well, the Earth version of it. Here,” He reached out with one hand and made a small motion, twisting his wrist in a slow, deliberate circle.

The air shimmered. The Hell-smog above them rippled, and in its place bloomed a tapestry of stars, not the bleak, flickering red of their sky, but something impossibly bright. Mortal. Real.

Blitzo’s eyes widened before he could catch himself. “Whoa.”

Stolas glanced sideways. “Impressed?”

“Pfft,” Blitzo scoffed, turning away. “I’ve seen better illusions at a strip club birthday show.”

“I’d ask what sort of strip clubs you frequent,” Stolas murmured, “but I’m not entirely sure I want the answer.”

Smiling faintly, he turned back to the conjured sky. With a lazy stroke of his finger, he drew delicate golden lines between the stars, the magic trailing behind in soft, glowing stardust. “There. See the shape? Head, wings, legs outstretched, that’s Pegasus. It’s technically inverted, but once you find the square, the rest follows.”

Blitzo frowned. “I don’t see anything with legs. Just a bunch of dots. You're just high.”

“I am high,” Stolas agreed, “but I’m also right.” With another flick of his wrist, the stardust bloomed brighter, arching from star to star in a wide, prancing silhouette. A horse appeared in midair, elegant and ancient, wings flared in a glittering arc.

Blitzo sat up straighter, eyes locked on it. “Oh shit.” He caught himself, then tried to shrug it off. “I mean... yeah, okay. Fancy.”

“You like it,” Stolas said, his voice soft.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Blitzo kept looking at it, lips twitching as if trying to hold back a grin. “It looks like the hellhorses we use in the fire-lasso routine. The big ones. You know, the ones that try to bite your fingers off if you feed ’em too slow.”

Stolas raised an eyebrow. “You think Pegasus resembles a carnivorous, flaming circus steed?”

“Well, yeah. The shape. Kinda wide in the back legs, big-ass chest, dramatic as hell. Total diva energy.”

That pulled a laugh from Stolas, low, surprised, warm. “I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

Blitzo flopped back into the grass, folding his hands behind his head. The constellation floated above them in silence. “You ever just... make a new constellation?” he asked. “Like, decide the sky should look like something else?”

“I’ve tried,” Stolas admitted. “But the real ones always shine through eventually.”

Blitzo made a face. “That’s either really deep or really annoying.”

“Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

They smoked in silence for a while, the kind of silence that felt heavier and more honest than conversation. The stars, real and conjured, flickered in tandem above them. Stolas let the magic fade slowly, letting the mortal sky dissolve back into the murky Hell-haze overhead.

“So,” Blitzo said eventually, exhaling smoke. “Did you ever become a writer?”

“You remember that?”

“Yeah. I remember.”

“No, he’d have burned every book while I watched.” Stolas turned his head, staring at him. With the sharp angles, the smeared neon makeup, and the quiet beneath all the bravado, he looked real in a way no one else ever did.

“I always thought about writing to you,” Stolas said. “After that day. But it felt stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Blitzo replied, exhaling through his nose.

Silence again.

The kind that settled like mist, clinging to their skin, curling in their lungs. Smoke drifted between them in lazy spirals, fading into the dim sky above. Somewhere far off, the calliope wheezed a tired, off-key lullaby. The rest of the world had blurred to a backdrop.

Blitzo lay still, blinking up at the sky like he was trying to find something in the haze again, anything, maybe, other than what he already felt settling in his chest. Then, slowly, he turned his head.

“Are you staring at me?” he asked, almost flat, casual.

Stolas didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

Blitzo raised an eyebrow, more curiosity than irritation. “Why?”

Stolas didn’t look away. “I don’t know,” he said, and he meant it. “I just… can’t stop.” His voice came out quieter than he meant it to, barely above a whisper, caught somewhere between awe and apology. And that, more than anything, made Blitzo still.

The tension wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even romantic, not exactly, not yet. It was just there, pulling tight like thread between them, invisible and undeniable.

Blitzo shifted.

No sudden moves, no bravado. He just leaned forward slowly, like the air itself had tilted, and he was following gravity’s new direction. He stopped only when their foreheads brushed. Skin to skin, breath to breath.

Stolas inhaled too quickly. He didn’t mean to. He could feel the flutter of it, his pulse, Blitzo’s breath, the faint, trembling hush of everything else going quiet around them. He stopped short, close enough for their foreheads to touch. Close enough that Stolas could smell smoke and sugar and the makeup Blitzo wore.

“Just so we’re clear,” Blitzo murmured, not pulling away, “this is definitely gonna be your most embarrassing life choice.”

Stolas let out a shaky breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I hope so.”

"Then do it," Blitzo challenged, his voice a whisper.

The kiss wasn’t immediate. They lingered there, caught in that breathless stretch of almost, close enough for the space between them to hum, like a thread pulled taut and ready to snap.

And then it happened.

Tentative. Ungraceful. Not some sweeping, storybook kiss, but a soft, uneven press of mouth to beak, uncertain and untrained. Blitzo’s lips were chapped. Stolas’s beak made the angle awkward. Their chins bumped. It was clumsy, graceless, absurd.

They pulled back for half a second, blinking.

Then they tried again. Slower this time. Warmer.

And when their mouths found each other again, the second kiss settled into something steadier. Delicate. Disarming. Tasting of ash and laughter and the deep, aching sweetness of being wanted, not in spite of who they were, but because of it.

It didn’t feel safe.

But Lucifer, it felt true.

They didn’t talk much after the kiss. They didn’t need to.

The silence between them had changed, no longer tense or tentative, but full. Comfortable, even. Stolas stayed close, arm brushing Blitzo’s shoulder, watching the constellation he’d conjured begin to fade into the Hellsky haze. His heart was still hammering, but it no longer felt like a warning.

Eventually, they wandered back toward the circus. Blitzo peeled off with a muttered “Don’t make this a thing,” and Stolas grinned like it already was.

He portaled home sometime after, weightless and heavy all at once.

~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

The next day, Stella came over for dinner. There was nothing formal about it, just cold leftovers reheated with lazy spellwork and a bottle of stolen wine neither of them could remember uncorking. They ate barefoot in his room, their forks clinking against mismatched china, and argued affectionately over which Hell-a-novela romance to put on as background noise.

An hour later, they were curled up together on Stolas’s bed, the pillows a mess and the screen flickering softly across their faces. A film played on, ignored, some predictable plot about a barista who fell in love with a crown prince pretending to be normal.

Stella was warm beside him, her head on his shoulder, legs tangled with his under the blankets. She laughed at all the wrong parts, and Stolas, still half-drunk on nostalgia and not nearly as far from Blitzo’s kiss as he should have been, let his talons trail gently along the feathers of her arm.

She looked up at him, her eyes soft with something like trust. He hesitated, his smile half-formed, unsure of what promise he was about to break.

She kissed him. It was slow and sure and full of something that should have felt safe.

He didn’t pull away. And maybe he should have. Maybe that would’ve been kinder. But he let it happen because part of him wanted to. Because she was Stella, and they were supposed to be each other’s forever.

And so it began.

They were tangled in sheets, half-dressed and half-laughing, limbs sliding over silk and each other in an effort to find a rhythm. It was clumsy, more elbows than elegance, more fumbling than fire. Stolas winced as her heel jabbed his shin, and Stella hissed when his talons caught her feathers for the third time.

“Ow, ow, ow! You’re on my feathers!” he groaned, pulling back when her feathers caught in his feathers..

“Sorry!” she winced, blinking fast. “Satan, sorry, my eye. You elbowed my eye.”

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean, wait, let me just, damn it, ow!”

“Okay,” she said sharply, exhaling as she tried to push through the chaos. “That’s it. We’re done with foreplay. Come here.” She swung a leg over his hips, straddling him with purpose.

Stolas tried not to panic. He really did.

But then he looked up, past her, past the bedposts, and caught sight of one of his romance books. The cover was a heavily stylized portrait of some ancient prince, bare-chested, posed with a sword, and wearing not nearly enough clothing. The prince was muscular, symmetrical, and painfully statuesque.

And... oh. Oh no.

That was it. That was the shape he'd been chasing in every wrong place. The wrong body. The wrong kiss. The wrong person. Blitzo hadn’t been a one-off.

Not a glitch. Not a fluke.

Not some flicker of nostalgia that got out of hand.

His hand, now trembling, was resting on Stella’s thigh. His eyes widened. His entire body went rigid.

“Stop,” he blurted. “Stop, stop, stop.”

Stella froze, her weight still pressing down on him. “What? Are you okay?”

“I… yes. I think... I just… maybe we should wait?” His voice squeaked, too high, too thin.

“Wait?” she repeated, incredulous. “Wait, now? After all of that?”

“Yes,” he said quickly. “I just think, you know, with the... spells, and the ceremony, and everything that’s... expected...”

Stella tilted her head. “Stolas,” she said, suddenly softer. “I love you.” The words landed wrong. They twisted in his gut, tightening something already straining under pressure.

“I love you, too,” he said automatically. And it was true. He did love her. Just not like this. Not the way she needed. Not the way he was supposed to.

She leaned down again, trailing kisses against his neck, and Stolas’s body locked. “No, wait. Wait! Stella, please, stop.”

“What now?” Her voice was tinged with frustration.

“Stella,” he gasped. “I’m gay.”

She stilled. Slowly, she pulled back to look him in the face.

“What?”

“I’m gay,” he repeated, the words finally tumbling out like they’d been waiting years to breathe.

There was a pause. For one beautiful second, she didn’t react at all. Then, Stella snorted. She tried to cover it with her hand, but it came out anyway, sharp, high, ridiculous. She laughed. Then snorted again.

“Stella?” Stolas asked, blinking.

“You kill me,” she gasped through a giggle. “Gods. Gay. You’re hilarious.”

His expression didn’t change.

Stella’s laughter died in her throat.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, Satan. You’re serious.” Her voice was already rising. “Stolas.”

“I was going to tell you… ”

“When? After we married? After the coronation? After I’d given you heirs?!” Her voice cracked. She reached over and grabbed the pillow above his head, hitting him over the head with it. “When were you going to let me in on the joke?!”

“You’re my best friend, why would I ever joke about something like that?!”

“Was any of this real? Or was I just a dress rehearsal for whatever pretty little man you were dreaming about?”

He flinched. “No! You matter to me. You’ve always mattered to me!”

“Not enough,” Her voice rises, taking the temperature of the room with it. The volume, the pitch, the intensity of years spent believing in something that’s evaporating before her eyes. “Not enough to be honest. Not enough to let me choose. Not enough to not humiliate me.”

“I never meant to humiliate you.”

“Then what did you mean to do?” she demanded, voice shaking now. “Because I swear to the bleeding pits, I cannot tell if I’ve been lied to or just used. Which is worse, Stolas? Because right now they feel the same.”

Stolas opened his mouth. No words came, then he tried again, “I-I never meant…”

Stella stepped back from the bed, shoving her dress down over her hips with trembling hands. Her voice was quieter now. More dangerous. “You never meant to lie? Or you never meant for me to find out?”

He tried to move toward her, reaching out. “Stella, please. Please just listen. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear, I never wanted to hurt you.”

She looked at him, really looked. Her eyes were bright red, not with rage, but something worse: betrayal.

“Do you know how horrible this feels?”

He flinched at her words like they struck something vital. His voice barely made it past his throat. “Stella, please.”

She turned away.

He scrambled off the bed, almost tripping in his haste. “Wait, wait, don’t go. Please don’t go. Can we just talk? Just for a second, please.”

She didn’t stop.

He reached for her wrist, fingers trembling, just barely catching her hand.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” he choked. “I didn’t mean to lie to you. I swear, I didn’t.”

“You didn’t mean for me to find out,” she said coldly.

“That’s not fair,” he said, stepping in front of her. “That’s not what I— you’re my best friend. Please, just stay. Just talk to me. You matter more to me than anyone, more than…” His voice cracked. “I can’t lose you.”

She stared at him, jaw tight. He tried to hold her gaze, but her eyes had gone somewhere far away. And then she took a step back.

He followed. “Please, Stella,” he whispered, trying to touch her arm again, but this time she jerked away from him.

“Don’t,” she said, quiet and sharp. “Just don’t.” She cuts him off, her words a final, desperate barricade against the truth he's laying bare.

Her heels clicked against the marble as she crossed the room. The door didn’t slam; it shut firmly and cleanly, like closing a book.

He stood frozen, arm half-raised, staring at the space where she’d been. The silence left behind was the loudest thing in the room.

Then, slowly, he sank to the floor beside the bed, one hand curled uselessly in the fabric of the comforter. His breath hitched. His throat tightened.

By the time he made it to the balcony to see if he could call her back, the tears were already falling, silent and unsteady, sliding down his beak as the wind scraped past his feathers like punishment.

He gripped the railing like it was the only thing holding him together.

And when he broke, he broke all at once.

Not softly. Not nobly.

But like something crashing open. Something lost. Something, finally, horribly free.

~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

Morning came in fragments.

Stolas hadn’t moved from the balcony until the sky had gone dull and colorless, until his limbs were too heavy to carry the weight of himself. At some point, he’d crawled back to his bed, still naked, feathers mussed and limp with dried tears. The silence of the palace was crushing. It was the kind that echoed. The kind that asked questions when no one else dared.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. Just lay there, curled beneath the weight of his ribs, trying not to think about the way she’d looked at him. About the space between what he meant to say and what she had heard. About the door closing behind her.

He stayed lost in those thoughts until he heard quiet footsteps, and finally, the creak of the door.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. It was her. She paused in the doorway like she was unsure if she’d made a mistake. Like she might still turn back.

He didn’t move. Just watched the way the light curved around her silhouette.

Eventually, she crossed the room.

She sat beside him, carefully, like he might vanish if she shifted too fast. He didn’t reach for her. Not yet. He just waited, his breath caught somewhere in his throat.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, gently, almost reluctantly: “You’re still my idiot,” she muttered, flicking one of his fallen feathers off the sheets. “Just a slightly gayer one.” It wasn’t meant to be cruel. If anything, it was her peace offering, a truce.

He let out a sound, half laugh, half sob, that caught in his chest like a wound waiting to be ripped. "I'm sorry," Stolas finally says, his voice small and rough, the words carrying a world of tangled emotion.

"I know," Stella replies, her hand finding his with a softness that surprises them both. The contact is tentative, but it holds them like a lifeline.

Before she could say anything else, he surged forward. His arms wrapped around her tightly, desperate, shaking. He buried his face in her shoulder, holding her like someone who’d nearly drowned. His voice, when it came, was thick and raw. “I couldn’t stand to lose you,” he whispered. “You’re the only person who’s ever truly seen me. Who stayed. Not when I was unbearable or ridiculous or broken. You stayed.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.

“I love you, Stella. I always have. Not the way you thought. Not the way either of us planned. But gods, I love you more than I know how to say. You matter more to me than anyone else in Hell ever could.”

She exhaled slowly, like letting go of something sharp. And then, carefully, she wrapped her arms around him. Her hold was just as tight. “I know,” she said softly. “And I love you too, you idiot.”

He made a soft cooing sound against her neck, part relief, part apology, and pressed closer. His whole body shook with it, a trembling inhale after too long underwater.

“I mean,” she added, her voice dry but quieter now. “I’m stuck with you legally and emotionally, either way, might as well make the best of it.”

He laughed into her shoulder. It came out hoarse.

They stayed that way for a while, tangled in each other, in grief and relief, in all the things that could’ve broken them but hadn’t. Not quite. And then, without lifting his head, Stolas tilted forward and brushed his beak gently against hers.

Not a kiss.

It was just a gesture, an ache, a kind of apology; his voice wasn’t steady enough to give it. “Thank you,” he whispered. The words slipped out, soft and broken: “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you…”

She said nothing, just closed her eyes and let him lean into her. Her fingers curled lightly at the base of his neck, grounding him as he whispered it again.

“Thank you.”

The words didn’t fix anything. But they meant everything. And in the quiet that followed, something between them held.

Not romance. Not regret. Just love, complicated and unmistakable. The kind that chose to stay.

~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~o0o~

The days didn’t get easier right away. There were still long silences, still awkward moments where one of them forgot how things had changed and had to relearn how to speak around the new shape of their bond.

But they found their rhythm again.

Slowly, carefully, they carved out a space between them that wasn’t romantic but was just as fierce, something forged from shared history, bruised trust, and a love that had bent without breaking. They attended functions side by side, whispered biting commentary behind fans and champagne flutes, and even managed to convince their families that their union was progressing beautifully. Which, in its strange way, it was.

They traveled together when protocol demanded it, and Stolas always found a way to make her laugh. She stopped looking at him like a betrayal, and he stopped looking at himself like a fraud.

They healed. Not perfectly. But enough.

And then, one night, months later, they found themselves on the balcony again, shoulder to shoulder, watching from a distance as the circus began packing up its tents and equipment. The circus's glow dimmed, and its vibrant magic was packed away until next season.

Stolas leaned over the railing, his chin resting on his folded arms. His eyes tracked the distant movement, as if he could still catch one last glimpse of a red tail or a flash of firelight.

“I’m going to miss him,” he said, voice pitched somewhere between wistful and whining.

Stella didn’t look at him. She just reached over and stole his teacup without ceremony, sipping as if it were hers. “You really do have the worst taste in men,” she muttered. “If I have to marry anyone, I’m glad it’s someone who picks the worst possible crushes. Makes me look reasonable by comparison.”

Stolas rolled his eyes, snatched his napkin, and lobbed it at her head. She dodged it with the grace of someone who had spent years perfecting the maneuver.

He was still laughing when she stood, brushing off her skirt and stretching lazily.

Stolas blinked. “Where are you going?”

She smirked over her shoulder. “To the circus.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Remind me again what kind of bride sneaks off to an Imp circus with her gay best friend?”

Stella’s grin turned fond. “The best kind.”

And then she was gone, back in his room to grab her cloak, her laughter trailing behind her like starlight.

Stolas stayed behind a moment longer, the wind ruffling his feathers. He watched the last spark of carnival light disappear and smiled, tired, content, and a little in love with the world again.

[poisonedace]

Hungry deer 🦌