The Universe Where You Didn't Have a Not-Divorced Party

by The_Great_and_Terrible_Lich_King

Summary:

Blitz was fucked.

Which wasn’t unusual; he was always fucked, save the few times he was doing the fucking. Which was quite often.

Not only that but he was very good at fucking people over, not that that was always a separate activity. And it was this talent for fucking that got him into this business in the first place. That is, the murder business.

But it didn’t really matter if he had something with more bullets, or even the bazooka Blitz was also very found off.

Because tonight, need I remind you, Blitz was very fucked.

~

The Timeline where Blitz is less put together and Stella didn't hate her husband to a comical degree, only a reasonable degree. A fic that focuses on the start of Blitz and Stolas's relationship, the difficulties of running a cross-dimensional start up in Hell as an imp, Stella girlbossing, kids and adults making bad decisions, and a wee bit of revolution.

Notes:

Blitz tries to break into the gay bird's house and good god he agonises over how bad of an idea that is.

 

Author note
Greetings, people are too happy so I’m changing some lore. Anything I don’t mention is more than likely the same as the show.
Blitz and Stolas didn’t meet as kids.
Blitz hasn't adopted Loona yet, nor has he gotten his van. Or an apartment, bro is coach surfing with the m&m’s with a grand total of diddly squat to his name.
Age is vague and silly, But Stolas and Stella are like in their late thirties and Blitz&Co are like late twenties.
For the wider world of hell I’ll be making various lore changes, mostly for the aesthetic tbh.
Timeline wise? Moving things around, the events of Hazbin hotel have all happened at the start of the story, doesn’t matter all that much.
I might make up words and terms, I’m sorry.

Chapter 1: Preface

Blitz was fucked.

Which wasn’t unusual; he was always fucked, save the few times he was doing the fucking. Which was quite often. He was quite the expert, in every sense of the word. He could fuck your mother, aunt, uncle, sister — he could clear the house in a single night and still have enough in him to fuck himself the morning after. Not only that but he was very good at fucking people over, not that that was always a separate activity. And it was this talent for fucking that got him into this business in the first place. That is, the murder business.

Working as a clown does awful things to the soul, wears it down, like a file. So all it took was one unfortunate acquaintance who owed several big people a lot of money for Blitz to flip on him. Not before, of course, giving him a good fuck as a send off. And once one was complicit in murder, as that acquaintance was very utterly dead thanks to him, what's one more really?

There is a very dangerous possibility that after, murder becomes one's whole personality. So was it for Blitz.

And also it should be mentioned now before it gets too late, that Blitz is a man of extravagance, and also a demon. Death and murder to him was a very split second, as he was a very small demon. Either you killed the Fucker or he killed you. Very simple.

So he walked the path least walked by any murderer of modern sensibilities, and chose a flintlock pistol as his instrument. When his co-worker pointed out that it might be wise to carry something with a few more chambers, accounting for the possibility that Satan forbid, you miss, Blitz conceded and bought a second pistol.

But it didn’t really matter if he had something with more bullets, or even the bazooka Blitz was also very found off.

Because tonight, need I remind you, Blitz was very fucked.

 

*****

 

It had been quite a while, in fact since he was child, that a house made Blitz seem so small. The Big Top had seemed so vast back then, and it could fit a whole crowd of imps and still have room for a dragon, yet this building only had three people in it. A wife, a kid and a Fucker who wouldn’t leave his damn house.

Blitz had scoped this mansion out for nearly three weeks at this rate. The kid left, the wife was barely there, and yet Mr. Fucker was a chronic shut in. Blitz had reckoned that well-to-do’s like demon royalty would be out all day spending money and leeching the fucking marrow out of the hard working populace. Though maybe he was giving them too much credit. Perhaps the house was this big as Mr. Fucker was in fact a dragon, sleeping on his horde.

Or more likely a slug. The wife was barely around so he was probably profoundly ugly or intolerable in some other way. He wasn’t cheating anyway, only those two and the servants came and went. Whatever the goings on were in that house were probably ten times as perverse as whatever he imagined, and Blitz’s thoughts were famously exotic.

Blitz moved again, changing his vantage point while ensuring he remained downwind of the hellhounds at the front gate. He never really considered hellhounds all that much, they were fucking expensive, so most of the people he put down were imps who could barely afford the next bullet in their chamber or keep their knives sharp. If this all went well, maybe he would get one, why the hell not? Given how much of a pain these ones were to deal with it’d be a good investment.

They were owned by the Goetic estate so there were no families to threaten or bribe. Loyal Fuckers too, apparently the Kennels were such a shithole they’d be grateful for a lifetime if you got them out. So the dogs were a no go for getting in.

But that wasn’t the problem, he could deal with that, it was the aforementioned Fucker who wouldn’t leave the damn house. Maybe he was overthinking it, maybe Mr. Fucker was comatose lying in pile of needles and piss in there. Maybe he could get in, get the stupid book, and the silvered spoon parasite wouldn’t notice for a decade. But, because things were never fucking easy, and being immortal, invincible, royalty and rich wasn’t enough; the bastard was a clairvoyant.

He had to pay the informant extra for the definition, but those were the ones that saw the future. And frankly that scared the shit out of Blitz. Because what even was that? Was that ‘read your palm, play around with cards’ kinda shit or ‘this Fucker knows you’re coming and has been waiting for weeks’ shit?

Could he even come back from this?

Even if he gave up, would he find the Demonic Authority at his door for a crime he was yet to commit? And he had had to pack up shop more times than he could count, it was part of the trade. getting sold out or caught. But then he could just hop a ring and lay low for a week, how the fuck was he supposed run off when this thing knew all his plans?

Was he already a dead demon?

Blitz shook himself. If he was fucked, he was fucked, but he wasn’t just going to do the posh shit a favour by being a hellfish in a barrel. Blitz never liked second guessing himself, he had damn good instincts. Satan, the only time Moxxie’s pedantic spinelessness would be useful.

He had planned to just throw a rope up onto that balcony, and haul himself up when the dogs changed rotation, but what if that’s what the Fucker wanted him to do? Sipping fucking tea and biscuits with his hand on a rotary telephone, ready to fuck him over to the authorities. Rotary? Oh no, that wouldn’t be classy enough for the bastard, he need something even more positively ancient. Like a landline, or the one you held up to your ear.

“Jolly good show firetoad! Thoust’ kind are cretin through and through!”

Blitz growled.

“Fucker.”

Maybe he’d have to do something really stupid, like turn up to the front gate, pop the mutt's brains out and kick the doors in. Then he’d see how much of a cretin he is when all his horoscopes get utterly fucked.

Blitz nearly did it, nearly threw the plan out like a used condom, but it was only for the fact that the alternative was, to put it mildly, really, really stupid that made him pause.
What if the Fucker knew that too? And if both plans were compromised, he’d pick the one where the dogs didn’t tear out his throat. Dying in some dark, cramped hole of a prison was at least in many ways more dignified than going out as a chew toy.

At least in prison, he could draw dicks on the wall as he starved.

With death decided and his estate hastily divided (M&M’s can have their sofa back) Blitz checked the wind again and then slinked towards the house. Half of the time, staking out this damn place was getting used to the grass. Its gentle hiss and rustle had nearly given him away to the dogs before he even knew about the clairvoyant. Lucifer certainly had gotten lazy; what place had flora in hell? Painting it red didn’t make it any less pretty.

Blitz took out the rope and angled himself, giving the thing a few swings as he lined up the aim. He hated this bit, not because he couldn’t do it, he could fucking do this in his sleep, but for the fact that it put him at the mercy of a crumbly bit of architecture. Not to mention the backstabbing fucks on your team who all too easily dislodge the grapple for greed of a bigger cut or bribe or whatever the fuck. And then you were left stranded on your back or pulling your arm apart gripping onto a ledge while the ghouls from the Authority try and put you down.

With a clink of stone, the grapple lodged itself in between the stone bars of the balcony. He inhaled. But it was okay, he was alone. He climbed up easily, the wind negligibly swayed the rope as he ascended. Over the balcony bars he went, landing silently on the black stone. The glass balcony doors were ajar, the darkness within leering at him. Normally he would gleefully smirk at the upper crust's carelessness, but…

Was this a trap?

Blitz couldn't bring himself to break eye contact with the room as he pulled the rope back up to him. He coiled it into his pack, wondering if he did so out of habit or to cut off the animalistic instinct to flee.

Move.

He slipped through the crack in the open door, fearful that pushing it open further would make it creak. Satan, it was a tall door. He never clocked it but the front door was probably this big as well. The ceiling, too, stretched far above his head, as lavish as it was big. Whoever had done the walls had done a good job, ruined of course by the tacky blue wallpaper branded by the Ars Goetia seal. But of course it just complimented the gaudy dresser and bedside table, made from some no doubt expensive wood (Millie would know), and, hells, was there a bathroom in here? Out of place however, was the bed. Fancy as fuck of course but it was unmade and unruly.

It reminded him of his own and that... that disquieted him, but he couldn't place why.

Breaking the illusion were the feathers strewn about it, glinting a deep blue in the darkness. Not a dragon then. Or weren’t they saying dinosaurs had feathers now? Fuck, what was the world coming too?

Blitz compartmentalized his disillusionment and surveyed the room, squinting in the pale light. Unlike his co-workers, he was born in the Pride Ring, so he wasn’t granted a boon by the other rings' benevolent despots. Technically, it was his Lord Highness Light Bearer of the Morning Star’s duty to bestow power upon Pride imps, but evidently, since he was squinting in the dark and still nursing a flame rash on his lower back, that hadn’t fucking come to pass.

In the end, what he was looking for was behind him, a grand curving bookcase stocked to the brim with tomes and texts, full with more words than Blitz would ever read in his whole damn life. He checked the bottom row and even the spines of these made his head spin. He took out his phone to check the picture he had. Not on the first or second row.

He was craning his neck for the third when he noticed the top of the case was spotless. Imps would have to clean this. Right on the money, there was a foldable step ladder hidden behind a pot with maps in it, or scrolls or whatever the fuck. Blitz carried it over, quickening his pace as he knew every second he spent here made his life prospects narrower. He hadn’t been pounced on yet — was the Fucker waiting for the Demonic Authority or was he just playing with him? He must know he was here by now or else what use was the clairvoyant Fucker?

Blitz skimmed the other three rows. Plants, Plants, Plants, Pirates? Did Hell have pirates? When did that happen and why did nobody tell him?

His eyes caught the last packed panel of books and found a rectangular slit of darkness. Fuck, that was it, wasn’t it? He hopped off the ladder and started tearing up the room, he was already dead anyway. The dresser, makeup and jewelry (he pocketed the gold, left the silver), the nightstand, more fucking books, bathroom, expensive fucking candles and a single bathtub (he pocketed the candles). Under the sofa, nothing, under the bed, fuck all.

Blitz was simmering. He wanted hot lead buzzing around him, eye boiler gas nipping at his feet, denotation, action, retribution for the room he wrecked. Anything but this suffocating silence. This dread that his death wouldn’t even be worth a visit from the Authority. What threat was he to the clairvoyant god of this house? He had no holy arms to put against him. What preparation need this Fucker to end his life? Need he even be in the same room? He could just disappear. He could just disappear him, not even murder, just vanishment, his remains not even to be eaten by hell kites. To be remembered by less people than there were fingers on his hand. Or perhaps a passing conversation a decade from now:

“We once had a thieving fire toad at the house, I lie not, what a fool he was.”

But no, no. Blitz growled to himself. He needed this. His team needed this.

He
Was
A
Fucking
Professional.

He crept out the door, damn the noise he made earlier, damn the panic.

Outside the room, Blitz felt as if he had just cleared a rise, only to find an even steeper climb ahead. It was vast, vast and tall. Forget a car, you could fit a fucking bus in here. The outside was misleading, it seemed to be even more grand than the exterior.

Even the frankly ugly wallpaper that continued out here felt primeval next to the intricately carved wooden barriers and cabinets. Effigies of bulls, scorpions and rams leered out from the wall, portraits of the Fucker’s eldritch line, incomprehensible swirls of cobalt and grey. Blitz closed his eyes. It was all just noise, noise that tricked people like him into bowing their heads and groveling for permission to breathe. But it was just a place, an old place, so it had public schematics, so he knew everything about this damn building. He owned this damn building, not them.

Upstairs.
Downstairs.

The floor he was on now just had the Fucker’s family rooms and if they treated magical heirlooms like lost socks, he was fucked. He didn’t have time to meticulously comb every room like that, especially with them being as big as they were, just by himself. Blitz was shocked he hadn’t been caught yet and he wasn’t about to test Lady Luck by brainlessly searching every nook and cranny.

Upstairs: office, Armory.
Downstairs: kitchen, sitting room, servants’ quarters.

Moxie was a reader, he left his books all over the place: sofa, countertop, his car. But this wasn’t just some “literary classic, sir”, it was a damn gateway to Earth, not something to be tossed wherever. So, upstairs. He started forward, drawing his flintlock. Pointless as it was, it gave him further courage as he ascended those steps, possibly never to descend.

Upstairs was darker still, formerly lit by candles now drowned in their own wax. Blitz kept to the walls, stooping his diminutive frame even lower. This part of the house reeked, what even was that? It smelt like honied rot, must be some kind of rich person weed.

He bumped into a massive ceramic pot, wincing as it rattled. Blue prints couldn't account for everything. Squinting in the dark, he made out several other similar pots. Was that the smell? Fertilizer? Millie had really undersold how shit it smelled, though he supposed shit it was.

Whatever, Armory first. He didn’t want to think about how he would get into the office yet, since if the Fucker was anywhere, he was there.

His thoughts faltered as a wetness settled on his shoulder. Blitz froze as cold flesh, sodden in viscous fluid, slithered down from his clavicle. From the pitch black, a dripping wet tongue looped around his neck. Blitz usually enjoyed tongue, and under other circumstances he would be phenomenally aroused, as it was it took all his professionalism not to shit himself. He fired out wildly behind him, and heard the shattering of porcelain.

The plant?

Oh fuck me and my father! Blitz thought as he tossed the useless gun and twisted himself around as the tongue pulled him closer. It was the fucking plant. A big, ugly lump in the darkness, illuminated only by its three mean, little red eyes. Blitz heard the hiss of soil as it ruined the carpet, all that first shot did was make its roots cold. He tried to hold firm as he fiddled for his other gun, but he slid closer nonetheless, its sinewy tongue so easily crushing his throat. Closer. Closer. His whole outfit was drowned in spittle, his and the plants.

Finally his fingers snatched the flintlock, using the tongue to line up the shot. With a splatter, bang and a puff of smoke, all that tension vanished and Blitz fell on his back. Winded, he heard another tongue swipe above him. Satan, there was what, six of them? Those two shots had definitely fucked him anyway, but his instincts got him to roll out of the way of a third tounge slamming the ground.

The tongue slipped from his neck as he furiously tore open the gunpowder sachet with his teeth and shoved the lead round down the chamber. He half-cocked the hammer, poured the powder down the barrel (saving some for the pan), snapped the frizzen over, fully cocked the hammer, and fired.

It hit something, Blitz was more relying on the consistent pattern of décor than actual aim.

But fuck that, he wasn’t fighting through garden warfare to get killed by the Fucker at the end. Unless…

Blitz heard a distinct creak downstairs.

Fuck.

Blitz holstered his gun and dashed forward, sliding under another tendril that slashed above him to quickly snatch his fallen gun. Another tongue slammed now beside him, sending his gun flying from his grip, but not before he half cocked the hammer. Another two whipping tongues slashed at him and he dodged back, biting down on two gunpowder sachets and readying his other gun.

He took a half step back to pour the powder down sights and into the fizzle, only for a tongue to slash into his cheek, losing him the other sachet as it tipped down his throat. He stumbled back, gagging vainly to retrieve the ruined sachet (one of his more useful skills, the lack of gag reflex, betrayed him) as his other gun finally hit the ground behind him.

Blitz swept up the other gun with his tail into his hand as he fired the other flintlock, a set of red eyes in the dark vanished. Another tendril lashed in the darkness, but hit the carpet harmlessly a few feet before him. Out of range, still he backed up more, wiping the blood off his face with his sleeve.

Three down, four left, never liked leaving more alive than dead but in this case being alive took precedence. He whirled to leave, only to smack into something.

Blitz stepped back, eyes straining in the darkness, what was it now?

Four red eyes with white hot pupils glared down upon him from a twisted form of feathers and bone.
Its mass swallowed the whole hall ahead, like a collapsing black star.

“Fuck.”

That’s all that could enter Blitz’s head as an absence filled the room, brighter than bright, colder than cold, a swirling blue flame.

Fire. Of course it was fire, it was always fire.

Then all the candles in the hall ignited and that mind wretching vastness was gone. In its place was an elegant and sleek creature, very much exposed by his bedrobe, tufts of blue and grey feathers peeking through the pink robe.

Under other circumstances Blitz would be phenomenally aroused, as it was it took all his professionalism not to shit himself.

Chapter 2: And so they meet

Summary:

The gays finally meet after plant homicide.

Notes:

Sorry if the chapter is shorter.

“You killed my plants.”

The voice that came from the Fucker had not the booming command nor the comic high class angloism Blitz had imagined. It had this self-defeating softness to it, like the speaker had long since given up caring about what they were saying long before they had reached their third syllable. It was frustrating in a way Blitz couldn’t place, despite its pleasing melodic tenor.

“Well excuse me, your lordship! Try planting something a little less carnivorous next time!”

This was a particularly stupid thing to say, Blitz knew this as soon as he said it. He knew that the sensible thing was to grovel, begging to spare his nearest friends and family, but sensibility was never something that came out of Blitz’s mouth. It’s how he talked all his life, and evidently it’d be how he talked when his innards were shunted through space time.

The Owl demon tutted. “And I just fed them an hour hence.”

The Fucker then walked around him. While not as tall as previously, standing in his presence was much like staring up at a lamppost, and Blitz was the high, homeless imp talking to him. He stood stock still as the Fucker knelt down on his haunches behind him, assessing the damage and occasionally murmuring stock phrases like “oh, that’s not good” and “what a bother.”

Was this a confusion tactic? Or was he just playing with him? It certainly felt like he could just make a run for it, that all-encompassing presence had seemingly vanished. But what good would that do? Even if he did lock himself in a room or find a window, Blitz doubted he could flee the property now. That was a lot of frantic running to die in a slightly different part of the house.

He turned around slowly to examine the Fucker, the room now cast in a solemn dark blue. Completely fixated in performing an autopsy on his dead plants, he seemed to pay no heed to Blitz, his long tail plumage swept around his feet. A quick examination found that he didn’t have the book on him, which meant it must be up here somewhere, so frustratingly close.

If only it was like that King of Rings movie, that one all the nerdy twinks he fucked liked, where if he could just remove the book from his possession the Fucker would burst into a dramatic ball of fire as the mansion crumbled around him. Unfortunately, book or not, this particular dark lord had enough inherent False Creation to more than hold his own against a whole army of him.

The Fucker sighed for what must be the fifth time in a minute and, Satan’s fire, why was he finding that hot? He was barely dressed and playing with dirt and Blitz’s brain was already sending him shitty pick up lines. He shook himself, hard. Not your type, not even in the equation of fucking possibility. Of all the things that could ever happen to him, getting that bird ass was not one of them.

The Fucker sighed and rose to his feet.

“Well, come on then.”

Was this Fucker planning to escort him personally into death’s embrace?

“The fuck?”

The demon looked at him with mild confusion. “Aren’t you trying to rob me blind?”

Fury burned through his fear. “Are you fucking making fun of me?”

Blitz was beginning to think his mouth preferred him dead than alive. Yet, despite how much he’d dug his own grave, the bird demon kept passing him back the shovel.

“Unless you’re here to assassinate my plants, and it’s not like you have any holy arms. I have more stuff in my office.”

Blitz stayed where he was. “You… want to be robbed?”

“It doesn’t matter all that much to me.” The Fucker kept walking down the hall.

Blitz hesitantly followed. Was this a kink thing? He probed the extensive erotic library in his brain. Thief in the night here to steal your virginity? Oh that was a card he’d played before, more often than not people valued a good fuck then all the shit in their coffers. Or well, they thought they did until the next morning when Blitz cleared them out. That was all well in practice, but the foreplay fell apart if they just gave you the stuff. Fucking fantastic, he was critiquing a demon princes’ roleplay, not only his mouth but his dick too wanted him to die today.

“Et tu Brute?” Blitz murmured.

He kept behind as the Fucker ambled along, stumbling over nothing. Was he drunk? High? A bit of both? He sniffed and.. yes, definitely a whiff of alcohol. Blitz relaxed. He’d won the lottery of a lifetime. The demon lord of this castle was an amicable drunk. All he’d have to do was play along, wait for him to pass out, and get the fuck out of Dodge and hope the Fucker forgets or is too embarrassed to seek vengeance.

And yet strangely, he was a little disappointed. Satan, all of this stress was fucking with his head. After this was done he didn’t even want to drink, just lie on the M&M’s sofa and sleep for two days.

They reached the office’s double doors, which the Fucker opened with a lazy wave of his hand. The interior was much the same type as the room; expensive wood, outrageously spacious, and disquietingly messy. Both walls were backed with books, with an impressive model of the solar system connected to the room's skylight. That had been included in the archived plans too and was the reason why Blitz opted for the balcony over removing and then replacing the skylight.

Too many things that could go wrong. The last thing he wanted to happen was drop a whole nine planets worth of noise before he even set down in the house.

Maybe if the other two had been with him, Millie didn’t crack under pressure, and Moxxie (as much as he loathe to admit it) had the better fingers for fiddly mechanics than him. Millie could attest. He grimaced, look at him being all sentimental, he had made better from worse situations. That’s why they worked him after all, if he didn’t come through with some kind of job every week, they’d drop him.

He quickly scanned the books on the display shelves as the Fucker went over to his desk. He wished he could look at the picture again, all he could remember was that it was blue and it was ornate, which was a quarter of the books here. Not that it mattered. There didn’t seem to be any ladders in here. Judging by the dust and mess, it looked like his kind didn’t come here often. It was starting to dawn on Blitz that he had walked, perfectly of his own accord, right into the private sanctum of a damn eldritch fucking horror.

He joined the bird and hopped himself up onto one of the chairs, needing to stand to even see over the table.

“Now, I’ve been wanting to lose this pocket watch for some time now — and this paper weight is worth—” The Fucker stopped.

Satan’s demonic asshole, I’m dead, Blitz thought as the creature looked at him.

“Is that a damned musket?”

Blitz nearly laughed. Same fucking questions no matter how high he went — and he’d thought he’d go a day without someone deriding his weapon choice.

“Yes and—”

The Fucker disappeared.

Blitz didn’t even have a chance to process before the demon reappeared again in a flash of black and red feathers, a now manic look in his eyes, all four of them.

“Oh that’s terrific! As a boy I was interested in pirates and I’ve always—”As the noble demon rambled he spun a musket by the trigger on his elegant finger. Blitz’s eyes widened and he leapt for the live weapon.

“Hey! Don’t—”

He just barely managed to grab the gun before it fired, angling it to fire harmlessly through some books.

“For fuck’s sake, do you want to die?”

Blitz turned back to face a very wide set of eyes. Was the demon blushing? He looked down to see he had cupped his hands around his, a jolt of electricity shot through him. Blitz had never humored hand holding — fuck that sentimental bullshit — unless he needed to pin to them down, he was not linking hands with a sappy one night stand.

But this…

His hands were soft. Not a bit of wear on them, it let him feel every sinew and bone that lay just beneath the skin. It thrilled him, a sensation that coasted the line between erotic desire and… something else.

Blitz released his grip and turned around, trying to compose himself.

Whatthefuck whatthefuck whatthefuck—

The bird laughed.

“I appreciate the concern for my safety but I’m quite indestructible.” He laughed again, a little desperately.

Blitz had grabbed the gun to stop it hitting him, he had just said that out of habit. It’s what you say to people who do stupid stuff with firearms. Like twirling it around by the trigger.

Blitz glanced over his shoulder to find him fiddling with his bedrobe. Had he… drawn it lower?

Whatthefuck whatthefuck whatthefuck—

He couldn’t actually… with him…

Blitz locked eyes with him and saw hunger in those burning pupils.

Once again, Blitz’s carefully honed social instincts acted upon their own initiative. Years of one night stands and two week benders had taught them to pounce upon the willing body that wanted to fuck. (Before they left you).

The Fucker’s chair quickly hit the floor along with his body, a series of “oh god, what are you doing?” turning every quickly into a series of “oh yes, don’t stop!”
And for the first time since its construction, the room saw something more than dry academics.

Notes:

Updates on Sunday btw, unless I run out of backlog.
Next time... The girlboss enters.

Chapter 3: Enter "The Wife"

Summary:

Stella is such a good mother and does not perpetuate the cycle of generational trauma /s She also does not kill any people/s

Notes:

Here comes the made up words, mostly trying to convey how aristocrats would talk about magic. Psychomymetik is two letters away from Psychomimetic which is a drug that induces hallucinations and paranoid delusions. So the idea behind this is that Stella is using a form of telepathy that projects her feelings of paranoia onto the staff, trying to turn them against each other to break class solidarity. Just like real life.

There was a very particular image of women like Stella. They were married, unhappily, into great wealth, and then went on to complain about their poor, poor husbands while wasting their money and doing little else.

These women were then thwarted by true love and forced to move into a slightly smaller house.

Stella in all her experiences, and by trade she met a lot of people, had only encountered one such creature, and her total and absolute compliance to the image was so utterly shocking that Stella needed to leave the room for a bit to re-orientate.

It was disquieting to see a walking, talking caricature stand next to you in a room full of normal people. Years of education that demanded her to examine things deeply and methodically told her that this person couldn't be so black and white.

It must be a long con, a show she put on. There must be further intelligence behind those vapid eyes.

Stella had spent some time with her. She wasn’t so unpleasant that she wasn’t entertaining, waiting for the mask to slip. She needn’t actually even have to like whatever was under it, just some indication that she was an actual person.

But that Freudian slip never came, and she disappeared. Fell from grace. Vanished from her circles.

Stella was married, unhappily, and complained about her husband but she certainly wasn’t the leech spouse. And certainly her husband was not going to be saved by true love.

That would require him to leave the house and wear clean clothes.

She was no means special in the wider Goetia circles, but she wasn’t uniform either.

Stella flicked on her indicator and turned onto the grounds of the estate. She missed the cold; the barren ice fields and glaciers, the frozen lake of Cocytus that surrounded her father’s estate.

Instead, she was greeted with the always disappointing rolling red fields, ill-tended by her husband, littered with wild flowers and cloistered shrubs.

Despite his affinity for botany, only houseplants saw the grace of his nurturing hand. In fact, it was really the only thing that ever saw his hand in that damn house.

The garden was an unruly mess she had to hear about again and again in daggered remarks every time someone came to visit, which was often.

That was the main problem, how damn close this house was to everywhere. In her parents’ house, you needed to boat out — it wasn’t even in the Pride Ring. Travelling by magic was uncouth, made you seem like you were in a scramble to get there, made you look desperate. Weak.

As it was, now any so-and-so could pop in every week to “check in” for forty agonizing minutes and talk about nothing. People these days were either losing the ability to be efficient in speech or they did it just to wreck her schedule.

Back home, visits meant something. They had to or else wouldn’t you look very silly, travelling three hours to spend forty minutes talking about the weather.

Stella blamed technology too — that was meant torture humans, not her. She longed for the time period where people sent letters she could lose or ignore strategically.

But no, she was born in the era of “message read” or “left unread”. With all the nasty new ways technology let others keep tabs on you, Stella worried for the spys employment prospects.

If she was ever unaccompanied in the presence of the inventor of the double blue check she would tear them to shreds. Years spent learning beautiful penmanship, curling and looping the L just right before her mother brought the ruler down on her hands, and here she was in her late thirties learning fucking Google Meets and digital spreadsheets.

Her boiling frustrations were cut off when she heard the music leak from her daughter's headphones.

“Turn that down or you’ll be deaf sooner than me.”

“Urgh, you’re such a buzzkill. Can’t you leave me alone for ten minutes?”

“You’ll only be thanking me when you’re not shoving hearing aids into your ear holes before you’re twenty.”

Octavia grumbled, “Maybe then I wouldn’t have to listen to you.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Thought so.”

Stella really thought she would hate children. If it wasn’t enough caring for that wet tea cloth of a man for the rest of her life, she had to carry his kid too? She swore in those awful nine months that she’d end up strangling her chick as soon as it hatched.

That had been ambitious — she could barely sit up after it.

Maybe because it was hers, or because she had put so much damn work into her, that she later refrained from smothering her in her sleep. But as she grew, Stella found that murderous intent vanished, and she no longer saw him when she looked at him or the arduously mediocre sex that made her.

She was Octavia, her Octavia, their Octavia, even he saw that. In every scowl or dirty look, Stella felt a piece of her soul looking back at her. The way she used to dress up like her mother when she was six or the little private dances she did alone now, uncouth as air guitar was for her station.

The fact that any goodness came of all this at all made her believe in the divine strength of miracle over sorcery. That pride in creating something that wasn’t just an itemized number on a check list.

Stella found now that she might not have minded more children, if her husband wasn’t utterly flaccid.

Oh Satan! My biological clock is running out and I don’t have to have sex with you anymore? How terrible!

“What do you want for dinner?”

Octavia gave her an affirmative hum. Stella looped her talon around the headphones and removed them from her daughter's head. They hit the car floor with a crack.

“What the hell Mom?”

When exasperated, Octavia sounded an unfortunate amount like her father. Stella fought a shiver.

“I was under the inclination that you wanted more responsibilities, yet when I let you decide what we’ll have for dinner, you defer to me.”

Octavia rooted around the floor for her headphones, which had unluckily slid under the car seat.

“That's not— it’s not like we even make the food. Can’t we just ask the staff to do whatever?”

Stella scowled. “The help? Decide for us? A Goetia must be firm and decisive. Our word is law and our history is the only history. Do you know why we drive, instead of being chauffeured?”

Octavia stopped rummaging and rolled her eyes. “Yes. Never let an inferior being do a task you are capable of doing better. I’ve heard it a million times.”

“And yet you never take it to heart. You must learn that every act is a political act for us. You put a firetoad at the wheel and you put your life in their hands, you might as well say your life is nothing but chaff.”

Octavia kept her eyes down. “Yes mother.”

Oh yes, she hated her, probably as much Stella had her own mother. That was hard, slowly watching blind adoration turn into rebellious derision. But she needed to learn. As much as she wanted to let her listen to her perverse music all day, she needed to prepare her.

They were both caged birds, and Stella needed to brace her for that.

“So, what are we having for dinner?”

Octavia clenched her fist. “Sautéed capybara with a side of pickled eel, lightly scorched.”

“Why?”

“Because—”

“Wrong. Try again.”

Octavia noticeably restrained herself from cursing out her own mother. “Do not question me.”

“Good. Never show even a sliver of hesitation. What you project to your subjects and peers is the difference between advancement and a poisoned dinner.”

Octavia remained silent, pointedly not facing Stella, gazing fixedly on the unruly gardens beyond. She could hate her if she must, but no matter what, Stella would raise a strong daughter, give her an arsenal more than pretty writing and ballroom dances.

They sat in silence for the rest of the drive. She kept the radio off so her daughter could listen to her music properly, not that she had any interest in listening to garish prize shows in the first place.

Upon reaching the house, her daughter threw open the door and stormed inside. Stella sighed and followed after her, making it in time to hear the bang of her door upstairs.

She massaged her brow as the help took her bag and coat. She was to have tea with Marquees Adeleina in an hour.

Before then, Stella would need to alert the kitchen staff to tonight's meals, finish organising that thing for Octavia’s school, send out invites for the Half Moon Gala in two weeks, organise transportation for her husband’s trip down to Wrath for the Harvest Moon Festival and confirm the running of joint Legion operations with Duke Amdusias.

Stella blinked. Slow day, was there something she was forgetting?

Oh right.

Talk to her husband.

My prince, I’m home! How was your day today?
Urgh.

It was like drawing blood from a stone. In fact, it was worse than that, that was something she could actually do. Stolas was such a sinkhole of conversation, even checking in made her feel like was wading through a valley of molasses.

Oh wow, you organized your bookshelf again? All day? Wow, how productive!

And it wasn’t like she could just write him off either because he was frustratingly handsome.

Oh Stella, you got one of the pretty ones!
She would have preferred someone ugly, or old, or lusty, if they just worked with her, even a little.

Instead he did nothing and did it spitefully. Like it was some grand, private rebellion only he understood. She had tried everything and all it ever got her was contempt.

Stella ascended the steps up to the third floor, passing her daughter's room, her music blasting through the door and shaking the very house. Her hand brushed the handle.

They used to spend so much time together.

Now it was stolen moments, in the car, at dinner. Anything else and it felt like she was taking her hostage. Octavia was also holding her own private rebellion, one she understood more, but nonetheless one with the same disposition as her father’s.

Of course, they were still close. As usual, he reaped the rewards of all her hard work. He still got to play the doting father, on his own time of course, when he didn’t prefer the bottle.

Stella’s train of thought stopped as soon as she reached the third floor and her senses caught the scent of sulphur and saltpeter. Her eyes widened as they caught on Stolas’ mauled plants.

No.

In an instant she flashed into his office, black and pink feathers left in her wake as she bared her talons. Only for the office to be untouched and her husband unimpressed.

“Good gracious Stella, is it that vital that you must see me now?”

Stella’s relief boiled over and settled into irritation.

“My Prince, are you aware that some degenerate has pocketed your flora with lead?”

“Oh? Is that so? A pity, they were doing so well.”

“Yes, yes, very tragic. Glad to see you’re none the worse for it. What happened?”

“Hmm, how should I know?”

“How should— you were here!”

“And I heard nothing of it. Honestly Stella, is it really such a matter that requires such a fuss?”

“Someone. Broke. Into. Our. House.”

“And whatever they took, we can buy back.” Stolas returned his gaze to his book, his special way of conveying that whatever conversation they were having was beneath his notice.

“Such hysterics over nothing.”

“Think.” Idiot. “Why would a thief go to such lengths to steal what they can easily take elsewhere?”

Stolas put down his book in a huff.

“Oh I don’t know, the challenge? How should I know the minds of imps?”

Stella narrowed her eyes “How do you know that this is an imp’s work?”

The demon prince flinched. It was at this time that she noticed that his bedrobe was a degree more unruly than it typically was.

“W-well you think a hellhound could do it? Anything higher has more sense.”

Stella didn’t have time to interrogate him further, he could keep his secrets for now, her mind was racing. She’d need to cancel tea, push back her whole calendar, check the armoury and—

“What hellhounds were on rotation?”

“Ares and Tomahawk, why?”

“And you heard no report?”

“No, Stella—”

She stretched out her mind to where she knew his proper robe lay and called it to her hand. She tossed it onto the table.

“Get changed, we’re leaving.”

“Stella!”

“If they didn’t take anything then they surely left something here. Bugs, poisoned needles in our bed sheets or whatever other foul nonsense lower minds think off. Get changed but don’t touch anything and don’t leave this room.”

Stolas frowned but kept his tongue in line. “I’ll make Octavia aware of your decision then.”

“Yes, good, whatever. Get changed first.”

Stella turned around as he disrobed, telegraphing a psychomymetik message to the house's help, injected with all frustrated vitriol she possessed in droves.

“Cease all operations and convene immediately in the North-East wing. Organise yourself orderly in a line from oldest indentured to newest. Failure to do so timely will result in termination.”

She took a breath, feeling the whole house scurry to obey her. Stella risked a fleeting peak at her exposed husband, as he, with a robotic elegance, prepared to disguise himself as an exemplar of high society.

Why did he have to be so frustratingly pretty? Other uglier men wouldn’t have her caught in the doorway, wishing him to clasp his delicate fingers in hers and whisper her name as he—

“It’s rude to stare, Stella.”

His voice was cold, curt and cutting, his eyes four lakes of frozen fury.

Stella managed a scoff. “Like I was looking at your twig ass. Your desk is out of alignment.”

He turned to look and she flashed out of the room, back down to the sitting room, away from futile fantasies. She collected herself, pushing down all that rage and disappointment into the depths of her heart.

What did she expect? It wasn’t like he was going to fall in love with her suddenly, seventeen years of marriage were a testament to that. No matter how much she gave to this family, how many hours she spent at night planning and contriving, he would only ever see her as a nuisance.

She clenched her fists and then released them. Control yourself Stella , didn’t need Octavia seeing her in an even worse light, nagging her poor ever suffering husband. A sigh hissed from her beak.

Stella strode purposely to the front door and threw it open with a thought, calling her dogs.

Ocativa flashed in behind her.

“Mom, what’s going on? I heard your announcement.”

That message was meant only for the help, but she clearly tapped into it.

Good.

“Your lessons are going well. There’s been a break-in. We’ll be moving to the summer house briefly until the vermin are washed out. Wait in your room, your father will be there shortly. Don’t touch anything.”

“What? I just got home! At least tell me where tele-traveling?”

“Depends on your father, unless you’ve made some unprecedented bounds in your studies.”

Stolas’s grimoire was powerful, but it was only really meant to travel to the mortal realm, it couldn’t instantly transport you anywhere in hell directly. He’d need to open a portal to the mortal plane, and then from their return to hell, which was “terribly so much work” in his words.

Octavia looked to the ground.

“Long distances are still… difficult.”

“The car it is then.”

“But that’s three hours! Can’t we just stay with Agares?”

“Duke Agares. Can you tell me why we cannot do that?”

“Seriously?”

“Deadly.”

Octavia seethed.
“Because it shows weakness, because favors would have to be returned, because you need to give your host due warning.”

Stella nodded “ It is improper to start a sentence with because. Return to your room, perhaps you can convince your father to use the grimoire.”

Octavia clenched her fists.
“No.”

Stella turned sharply “No?”

“You can’t just keep ordering me around, I’m not your servant mom!”

Tomahawk and Ares arrived, taking a knee before her, their muscular forms cowed and trembling. Stella narrowed her eyes. Someone must have told them about the announcement. Such loose tongues in this house. Stella turned back to her daughter, unbudgingly with a glare that nearly rivaled her own. She couldn’t help a morsel of pride flutter in her chest, that will of steel would serve her well.

Stella’s gaze fell back to the dogs.

“Stay at your own peril.”

Then to the hounds.

“The last few hours, report.”

Ares began, choked and Tomahawk interceded.

“We did our usual sweep. Nothing out of the ordinary, Your Highness.”

“So you heard nothing?”

Tomahawk wavered, seemingly caught on something, but Ares saved him the trouble.

“No, Your Highness.”

“Rise.”

The two hellhounds got to their feet for the last time. A brief sweep of her talons cleared their necks from their shoulders, a ghost of a yelp only to be expressed in a bubble of blood, blood that spilled over the veranda like wine from a shattered chalice.

Blood and bone trickled into the dark hungry gaps of the wooden porch, all deeply red.

They died as they lived, silently. Their heads made barely a squeak on the veranda.

“What the fuck!”

“Language.”

“Language? Fuck language, you just—you just—”

“Killed them. If this upsets you I fear we have much work to do.”

“But why? They didn’t do anything!”

“Exactly. I didn’t pay for deaf dogs.”

“Just because— you couldn't've just fired them!”

“And what? Pawn defective goods onto someone else? If slaves cannot serve they are better dead. At least then the worms can have some use of them.”

“They’re not slaves! They’re people!”

There was a hurt in her voice, one a weaker woman would have caved to.

“And you’d have me spare them? Have mercy on some useless mutts? Their negligence put our whole family in peril. Had things occurred differently, it would be our bodies on the veranda!”

Stella sharply pointed at the already stinking corpses and Octavia flinched.

“Maids clean, Cooks cook and Dogs bark. Am I clear?”

Octavia trembled, little tears fighting to escape. There was a choked affirmative.

Stella turned to the corpses and grimaced. Such expensive suits ruined. She couldn’t bear to look at them anymore.

She began to raise one dripping red talon, ready to flick the bodies into oblivion with pink telekinetics.

Octavia caught her arm.

“Can I do it? So I can practice magic…”

A poor lie.
She would allow it.

“Do it timely, we leave soon.”

Stella hovered for a moment more and then flashed quickly to the armoury. She took stock of the weaponry and found only a musket misplaced. Curious.

She then appeared in the North-East wing of the house, appearing right next to Cinder, who she knew fed scraps of gossip to the dogs. Before the help could even perceive her, Stella dug her talons through Cinder’s teeth and scraped out her tongue, alongside a chunk of her face.

Cinder collapsed as Stella walked to face the lines of servant imps, coldly displaying the tongue before her.

“A human expression, ‘loose lips, sink ships’.”

She let the tongue hit the floor, as Cinder sobbed and spasmed and pooled her broken teeth back to herself. Even while dying, Stella’s gaze kept the imp from doing anything uncouth, like screaming.

“What have I done to earn you lot as a crew?”

They all remained silent and did not move, even if some of their eyes wanted to. Stella kept track of those eyes’ owners for later.

“This is not a socialising event. You speak only when I need of it or if you must communicate an order to a member of staff. You do not chat. You do not banter. You do not communicate with anyone outside of your station.”

Cinder gargled.

“There has been an attack upon our house. A holy armament has gone missing. Together we are going to rediscover this weapon and we are not going to leave this room until we do. You will be given waivers to allow a search of your homes, bank transactions and phones. You will sign these and willingly hand over any and all smart devices to me. Any relevant information to what has occurred today should be provided to me immediately.”

Beautiful silence, the older staff didn’t even tremble.

They could hate her, look at her with disgust, call her a monster, the very marrow of this house could hate her as its occupants did.

Irrelevant.

Under her watch
This
House
Would
Never
Fall.

“Let’s begin.”

Notes:

The Gays will return...

Chapter 4: All The Light You Cannot Keep

Summary:

Blitz finds out he has a type and is not happy about it. A deal is also struck.

Notes:

A very special thanks to anonymous for helping me fix my tags and paragraphs! I've very new to this site, but I'm sure you knew that already. My apologies if I mislead folks.
In any case,
Behold!
Gay people!

“Oh that was bloody excellent!”

The bird chattered on as Blitz lay breathless on his back in the study. All around him were strewn sheets of paper, his feathers sticking to his sweat. How the fuck did he have enough air in his lungs to blab? His own barely had enough to think.

But Satan’s ass, he loved to hear him talk anyway. Something about that melodic voice eased all the stress from his bones. 

In the past, many voices had called out to him in the night, siren calls of lust, hunger, fear and anxiety. They all put so much upon him, expecting him not to buckle, not break under all of that.

Yet, somehow, this voice made him feel like he could bear that weight. The bird had called him his “big strong knight” and plenty of other wonderful names that made it feel like a set of armour had manifested around his naked skin.

A textbook damsel in distress. How could he have missed it? 

His heart beat at a pace until now only reached when machine guns were involved and only presently did it begin to drop. Blitz kept his eyes glued to the rotations of Venus on the ceiling, deathly afraid that if he looked at the bird in this state he’d fuck him again. 

Or worse. Cuddle.

What the actual fuck was wrong with him?

Ignoring the fact that he fucked an eldritch demi-god that was two rungs off Lucifer in the hierarchy of demons paupers like him couldn’t even dream of fucking, his brain was a clusterfuck of sentimentality. Him. Of all people wanting to do sappy gay shit with a fucking upper crust leech, him.

Blitz fucked, then he left, then he fucked again. Good practice for infernal trash like him. Blitz knew well enough that himself and relationships were never a good fucking idea and what the fuck did you expect to happen, Verosika?

Fuck!

The buzz faded as the ghost of regret drank his good mode dry. It was just sex and he was just tired. 

All it was. 

All it ever was.

All it ever was going to be. 

…

It was good sex though. 

…

Really good.

That was it. It had just been a while since he’d actually had great sex. Sure, he’d always do his part — only five star fuckings on his end — but when you fucked one bitch, you’d fucked them all. It did the job, but you’d forget it an hour later. 

He sat up. That begged the question, how did some inexperienced twink fed on a course of straight vanilla sex give him a good time? What was it about him that made Blitz’ mind and heart ache in this way? 

Unless the wife was more of a freak than Blitz gave her credit for, the bird learned very fast. Or maybe… Was Blitz just into the thing he was?

Was he a monster fucker?

Blitz had to admit that topping an incomprehensible nightmare creature definitely did things for him...

It could be height too, it was a lot of work keeping all of that satisfied. Most lower class demons weren’t all that tall; the difference between a short imp and a taller one was barely a few feet. Unless you were from Envy of course, a grim reminder that you could be more fucked than Blitz right out the gate. 

Now calmer, assured in his wholly unwholesome intentions, he risked a peak at the bird. 

Fuck. Still unbearable fucking pretty.

Satan’s teeth, it was all of him. It was all of him that he liked. How in all the circles of Hell was that possible?

Blitz could tolerate himself lusting over his svelte waist and full hips, but why the fuck was he attracted to his stupid laugh? Why did he notice the particular way his eyes lit up when Stolas was happy? 

Why did he enjoy that more than sex?

Since when did he care about anything more than pleasing himself?

Just as Blitz was about to say something, anything, to distance whatever the fuck this was from himself, the bird turned to him. He was beautiful, but notably tired, ruffled and surrounded by the once perfectly ordered office they’d just wrecked.

Then he smiled at him.

One that was deep and genuine rather than thin and malign. One that said, “Out of every person who could be in this room with me, I’m glad it’s you.”

Whatever cynical quip Blitz had planned to say caught in his throat and then he was grinning like an idiot too.

He knew he had a fucking ugly smile. All his teeth were crooked as shit and, if showing that off wasn’t bad enough, his eyes never knew what to do when he was smiling. Put a gun to his head and Blitz still couldn't make them look anyone in the eye. People had likened it to the face a constipated lizard made after you just bashed in its skull. 

It was fucking agonising showing his pug-ugly shitface to this beautiful creature. But this was what he thought the bird wanted, so he suffered through it. 

Satan, how long did he have to hold this? It was disgusting, he was fucking disgusting.

He should have just fucked him again, he could do that, he was good at that. He was quite the expert, in every sense of the word. He could fuck your mother, aunt, uncle, sister — he could clear the house in a single night and still have enough in him to fuck himself the morning after. Not only that—

The bird’s smile widened. Blitz again, for a moment, felt at ease. It was okay. He was okay. He wasn’t fucking this up. Somehow.

“So, uh… Didn’t catch your name,” Blitz started. Or more stumbled really. He glanced around the room to see if their activity had dislodged the Grimoire from its hiding place. Any excuse to break eye contact. 

It was a fucking stupid question. Why the hell did he need this Fucker’s name? It was probably in the information he gathered, he could look it up when he got home. He didn’t need this aristocrat's damn name — this was a one fuck deal just like everything else. 

Reality started to close in around him.

Oh right, he thought, he could fucking kill me at any point. Oh right, I let my dick get the better of me and instead of taking advantage of his drunk ass, I decided to have an affair with a Satan damned Prince of Hell. Once he sobers up, I’m dead. I’m so fucking dead. Great fucking plan Blitz, start up an imp-run business in Hell my ass!  

The demon laughed. Once again, Blitz fought against an onslaught of irrational feelings and impulses that were most certainly going to get him killed one day, if not today.

“I guess we did our introductions out of order. I’m Stolas.” Stolas did a little bow. Or, well, tried to. He was still sitting but his long arms made the gestures of one.

Cute.

“Never fucked a Stolas before.” Blitz cringed as soon as he said it. He didn’t know how he was still alive. If the shoe was on the other foot, Blitz was sure he’d have killed himself ten times over.

Stolas smiled sheepishly. “Aha yes, it is a bit of a reserved name. I’m sure not many— Well, that’s beside the point. I, too, haven’t fucked a man before.”

Oh. Oh, this is... 

It’s not like he hadn’t awakened people before, but he wasn’t aware he had this kind of reach.

Now it was all falling into place. Stolas wasn’t just magically attracted to him, he was just the first man he’d met who wasn’t some stuck-up, straight asshat. Throw any horny guy at him — at least one who didn’t consider matrimony sacred — and this would be the result. That was it. This wasn’t anything special, he was just a lucky bastard. 

He let those foreign feelings die in his chest. Just get through this and don’t die.

“Well uh… Congratulations and you’re welcome. I should probably— Before your wife… Y’know.”

“My wife? Oh my wife, Lilith above! Yes! It would be very ill-advised that you be here when she gets back.” 

With a sudden burst of uncharacteristic energy, Stolas sat up, jostling with his bedrobe as he began to wave the room back into order. 

As Blitz put his pants back on, he couldn't help but stop and stare at the flashing blue and black cosmic energy rearranging the fallen books and pages. It was as beguiling as the wielder.

Phantom falling stars raced left and right as Stolas conducted with a casual hand. Blitz had always thought of magic as yet another killing thing, another a sign of the higher class’ complete domination over them. He hadn’t seen much because when he did Blitz got the fuck away from it; an imp like him had no chance against something like that.

Never in a million years did he ever think he would find it beautiful. 

Then it was all gone and the room was as it started. The bird could nearly sit back down at the other side of the table and it would be like they hadn’t fucked for some four hours at all. 

‘Nearly’ was the key word. The table was a bit off alignment, but Blitz didn’t feel like he was in a place to give pointers.

He threw back on his shirt, a set of muted reds and blacks in the name of stealth. Usually all black would do the trick, but the Fucker having a bright red lawn threw a spanner in the works. He spent two fucking days of this operation looking for the right fuckass shade of red. Glad that was fucking worth it. 

Still covered in plant slobber, Blitz doubted he would be wearing this again. He wondered if Stolas had a magic way to remove mucus. He crushed the thought before it could bloom further.

Stop.

“You clear up pretty fast. Fuck in here often?” Blitz asked.

Stolas’ demeanour grew grim. “Oh, no. Not much fucking takes place in this house.”

Irrationally, his chest ached. He was screwing this up again. What ‘this’ was, even Blitz didn’t know. The longer he was with Stolas, the less he thought his life had ever been in danger. Even though that was stupid. Of course it was.

“It’s Blitz.”

“Hm?”

“What was it you were saying? Formalities? My name's Blitz, the ‘O’ is silent.”

A bit of light returned to Stolas’ eyes. “Thank you, Blitz, for humoring this old bird.”

A collection of the things Blitz had stolen, and Stolas had willfully relinquished, settled into his hands. 

Holy fuck, he was rich. That hadn’t hit him yet. He’d been so caught up with not finding the book that Blitz hadn’t let himself take in the spoils of his adventure. 

“Uh, sure. Anytime,” he said, entranced by the gold and silver baubles. 

After a beat he nearly choked on his own tongue. The fuck did he mean anytime? Yet before he could backpedal, Stolas said in a tone way too fond, “I’d like that.”

It was like his whole person turned to stone, like every part of him solidified to brace Blitz for the impact of those words. But whatever expression flashed across his face saw the demon retract and the light dim from his eyes. 

“Ah but of course, you probably won’t be coming back here. It’d be unfair to— We all have our own stations, don’t we?”

Blitz unpetrified.

This was the fucker you wanted? He scolded himself. He’s just like the rest of his kind. You’re a novelty, a toy to take out of the box and then tidy away so he can return to his proper life.

And yet it hurt so much to be reminded of what he was, how little and small that thing was. How ugly and base he was compared to this glorious monster. 

He wanted to go home and sleep and drink for a thousand years.

Blitz simply nodded in response.

“Well, I’ll just escort you back. Can’t have my plants giving you more tongue than I did!”

“Sure.” 

Blitz let whatever joke that was die and beach itself. He started forward and the bird followed silently. He dared not look back at him to see how he was feeling or even take in how pretty he was. Because soon, he would never see him again and he needed to get used to that.

Perhaps he had a nice picture in a magazine he could pleasure himself to on a slow day, just like Verosika. 

Satan’s ass, this had been a bad idea. He was lucky he was going away with only some confused feelings and a pit of emptiness in his stomach. 

They came down the stairs. On the second floor, Blitz made for Stolas’ room. 

“Uh, Blitz? Where, might I ask, are you going?” 

Out of your life. “Don’t get excited, just leaving from where I came from.”

“Oh no! I didn’t mean—” Stolas coughed. “You can just take the front door. Surely you’re tired after our, ahem, activities?”

“Speak for yourself.” 

Yet Blitz continued down the stairs. He was exhausted and secretly thankful to not have to take the rope down. 

They arrived at the first floor, though ironically for him, it was his final one.

It was a vast open plan kitchen, dining and sitting room; a house within a house really. With the sheer size of every room, you could probably get one hundred homes out of the bottom floor alone. Imp homes, anyway. The TV was off and that was giant too, a behemoth of flat, black glass that reflected the room dimly back at him. 

The door was in sight, this whole ordeal was almost behind him, and he paused only briefly to admire the upholstery. 

Blitz was reminiscing about the time he hid inside a sofa for three days to dodge a particularly unpleasant loan shark (the rats were lovely company) when he saw it. 

Just sitting there, completely unhidden and undefended, taunting him with its brazen ornate markings, was the Grimoire. Not even neatly set down. Moxxie would have had a fucking conniption about the spine or the page integrity or whatever the fuck. 

Currently, Blitz was having a conniption of his own. Reading was supposed to make you smart, but clearly today’s events proved the fucking contrary.

He could have done this job in fifteen minutes. He’d fretted for days about future sight bullshit when the damn magical conduit for all that was was strewn on the couch like a Satan damned used porn mag.

What kind of stupid dumbass motherfucker leaves the source of all their power out in plain view, flung open, dogged eared and— Were those fucking sticky notes? 

It was the same kind of stupid dumbass motherfucker who spins a gun by the trigger. The same kind who lets you rob their house. The same kind who sleeps with people like him.

Again, that foreign ache welled up in his chest and he stopped walking. 

“Blitz?”

Hastily, Blitz tried to move his gaze from the book but Stolas was too fast.

“Oh! I’d been wondering where I’d put that.” Stolas guided the book over to him with his magic, far out of his reach.

He should leave it.

Blitz knew he should leave it. Just get out of here with his life and the cash. But of course, even while thinking this, his mouth was beginning to move, hands itching to roll the proverbial dice one more time.

Because never in his life had he ever been fine with just good enough. Blitz knew damn well it was why it would never work out with Verosika or anybody else.

It was why nobody stuck around. Because he always wanted more than he damn deserved.

“So that’s the thingie?”

“Yes. The repository of all my knowledge and uh power and uh.” Stolas waved a dismissive hand as he spoke “ Urgh, it’s all just a lot of math really.”

Blitz nodded. Personally he’d tolerate a bit of sums to fuckin manipulate space, but that was just him. 

 You’ve unfortunately  reminded me that I actually had some more—” Stolas sighed, any remaining light in his eyes vanishing. “—preparations to see to. I don’t mean to hurry you along, but for your own safety I’d recommend you get on ahead of my wife.”

“Right, yeah. Listen, what about the dogs?” Blitz stalled, mind racing to think anything to drag out this conversation. He had absolutely no means to take that book from him (no non-suicidal means, anyway) but maybe if he could keep him talking…

“You needn't worry, I dismissed them as soon as they’d discovered you’d broken in. They won’t say a word.”

“Uh, thanks.” Blitz was blanking. It was at this moment that he realised for all the shitty pick-up lines he knew, it did nothing for his small talk. Blitz’s eyes scanned the room, looking for anything to trigger some demonic inspiration.

Stolas narrowed his eyes at him.

“Is there something else you're looking for?”

Fuck it, you only die once. 

“That.” He pointed at the Grimoire sitting loose in Stolas’ hand. Blitz was surprised by how steady his own hand was.

Stolas blinked in surprise. “Pardon? You want my— Whatever for?”

Then it all came waterfalling out.

“So I’m in the killing business and I— Well, I was thinking one day about how much competition there is for jobs — what a fucking pain in my ass that is — so I thought about how to get my crew a bit of exclusivity. And well, y’know them sinner types always have a stick up their ass about some grudge on Earth and they’re fucking loaded as shit so we could overcharge ‘em, but I needed a way to cross over, but the Asmo-whateverthefucks are tracked and then I hear of some Fuc— bird who has some way to get there so...”

The last bit of air left Blitz’s lungs and he shut the fuck up. He had taken a bit of drink before this job for nerves, but that was definitely out of his system by now. So Blitz was perfectly sober and thus able recongise what a stupid fucking asshat he was. 

The following silence gave him plenty of time to agonize over how every word he said was the wrong one. Blitz had forgotten to be convincing, the one time it would actually benefit anyone other than himself.

Convince a popstar to fuck him?

Fuckin charisma for days!

Convince the most talented people he knew of his batshit and frankly ludicrous business plan?

Totally bought it! Oh yeah, steal a high-profile magical grimoire integral to a demon prince’s bloodline, I’m sure he’s not going to fucking notice that’s missing!

And do it all by yourself because you're a total badass and didn’t have a damn mental breakdown and rail the fucking aristocrat!      

 Stolas laughed.

Blitz bristled. “Did I say something fucking funny?”

“No, not at all. Or well, slightly amusing I must admit. First, you strip me of my belongings. Then my clothes. Now you want my Grimoire. You’re a dreadfully dangerous imp to be around.”

Then, in an act so unexpected it made Blitz briefly believe he was hallucinating, Stolas handed him the book. Stacked the damn thing on top of everything else he’d given him.

Well, that was fucking easy.

…

Why the fuck was that so easy?

“You're just giving me this?”

Stolas sighed. “You’re very persuasive.”

“No the fuck I’m not. I mean, what the fuck is your deal, what’s the catch?”

Blitz was sick of thinking in circles. It didn’t seem to matter if he was careful or not.

“I… Well, I guess my deal is, this is all very exciting. You’re very exciting. And I’m not quite ready to let that go.”

Blitz barked a laugh. “So it’s bloody collateral. To fucking entrap me in your perverse little fantasy.”

That was more like it. He knew what this was, he could work with this. His heart was breaking but that was fine. He was a professional. Professionals made deals and exchanges.

“Selfish, isn’t it?”

“Fucking ‘course, but that’s never stopped rich fuckers like you before, has it?”

“No! This isn’t— I don’t want—”

“Yes, you fucking do. You want to fuck me six ways from Sunday every day and I want the damn tome of the universe. Seems pretty simple to me. 

“It doesn’t… just have to be sex.”

Blitz leered. “Yes, it does.”

“You were much more charming in bed.” Stolas noted glumly.

“Yeah, I get that a lot. So, do we have a deal?”

“...Fine. I’ll need the book back every full moon.”

“Then I’ll fuck you every full moon.”

“Thrilled. What’s your phone number?”

They exchanged contacts coldly. Any of what either of them felt earlier had been clearly crushed.

Good.

Everything was as it should be.

Nothing had happened.

The deep darkness that nestled in Blitz’s heart reared its corrosive head and drained the intoxicating light from the room. Kept him in line, kept him from hoping, kept him cutting his face out off every photo he kept.

There is nothing for you here, birdie.

He was all swallowed up and spat out bitterness. The dregs of the dregs of a person.

He was doing Stolas a favour, not leading him on that he was anything other than born and bred gutter filth. 

Stolas explained the book to him. It all went over his head. Moxxie could just do it for him.

He turned to go after the bird had run out of things to say.

“Blitz.”

What was wrong with him?

“Despite what you might think… I eagerly await your return.”

Satan, why did this have to happen? This had all happened because he couldn't even do his own damn job right.

He should be dead. He deserved to be dead. He was only alive because some closeted owl liked imp ass.

But that was him, able to fuck his way out of anything. 

Blitz, the Fucker himself.

The imp left without a word.

Notes:

I'm back in college now....
I'm unconfident that I'll get the next chapter out by Sunday.
Perhaps every second Sunday?
Until I'm violently killed, as is rite of passage for every A03 writer, I'll try get it out by next Sunday.

Next time, Enter Millie.

Notes:

You can directly track Blitz’s state of wellbeing by how many Flintlock pistols he has.