The Murder Drones Fandom Just Keeps Making Great Content

Schools should be teaching us this

Okay I’m currently furious that migraines are often so blindly easy to treat and I had to find this out myself at the age of 26 when I’ve been to a neurologist since I was 11 lol so I’m about to teach you two neat and fast little tricks to deal with pain!

The first is the sternocleidomastoid muscle, or the SCM muscle.

This big red section is responsible for pain around the eye, cheekbone, and jaw, as well as some temple pain. Literally all you have to do is angle your head down a little, angle it away from the side that hurts, and then you can gently pinch and rub that muscle. I find it best to start at the bottom and travel upwards. The relief is so immediate! You can increase pressure as you feel comfortable doing so.

Here is a short and easy video showing this in action

The second is a fast and easy stretch that soothes your vagus nerve, which is the nerve responsible for calming you down. The vagus nerve, for those unfamiliar, is stimulated by deep breathing such as yawning, sighing, singing, or taking a deep breath to calm your anger in a tense situation.

You can stretch this out by sitting up as straight as possible (this does not have to be perfect to work) and interlacing your fingers. Put your hands on the back of your head with your thumbs going down the sides of your neck and, while keeping your face forward, look all the way to one side with just your eyes. Hold that until you feel the urge to breathe deeply or yawn, or until you can tell there’s a change. Then do the same thing on the other side. When you put your arms down, you should clearly be able to turn your head farther in both directions. If the first session doesn’t get rid of your migraine, rest and repeat as many times as necessary. I even get a little fancy with it and roll my eyes up and down along the outer edge sometimes to stretch as much as I can.

If you need a visual here’s a good video on it. I know some of the language they use seems questionable but this is real and simple science and should not be discarded because it’s been adopted by the trendy wellness crowd!

I seriously cannot believe I didn’t hear a word of this from any doctor in my life. Additionally, if you get frequent recurring migraines, you may want to see a dietician. Migraines can be caused by foods containing histamines, lectin, etc. and can also be caused by high blood pressure in specific situations such as exercise, stress, and even sex.

If any of this information helps you I’d love to hear it btw! It’s so so fast and easy to do. Good luck!

@randoms-random-blog-of-random since you were a coward and blocked me after whining on my post, i'm making this here for you and everyone else still defending scott cawthon in 2024 since yes i "found something" and i'm letting you know. also next time, if youre scared of debate, keep your shitty little opinions to yourself.

i made this post three years ago when scott posted it. its picking up notes again because his actions have been so washed over by people like you that there are fans today who had no idea and are discovering this for the first time. for three years his minority fans have been argued down and our feelings belittled by people like you.

this is not a reaction for notes or popularity or for "drama". scott cawthon has not changed, he has in fact doubled down on his feelings about being "cancelled" with his shitty self insert fanfiction Monster. scott cawthon didn't just make "dumb mistakes". im frankly stunned at your lack of reading comprehension, that or your willful ignorance. scott cawthon donated as much as he legally could to almost every dangerous bigot in power in the american government, and also to Trump himself, one of the biggest catalysts in the popularity of facism and radical bigotry, and who is a bigot and a rapist himself.

scott admitted in his post that he doesnt care about all of this, in fact he might agree with trump when he mentions he wants "america to be strong against its enemies" which i find interesting because if you remember the "enemies" that Trump insisted were a threat to america, it was all just racism. scott has a huge Mexican fanbase, and yet he insisted that Trump had a great foreign policy, Trump's foreign policy being that Mexicans are all drug lords and rapists. scott has a huge LGBT fanbase, and yet he insisted that actually the monsters in power who want to take our rights away are better for us

scott admitted that although other politicians have "nicer things to say" about his lgbt and minority fans, he claims to actually know whats better for us and that happens to be the american economy, not having our bodily autonomy. speaking of that, he admitted to being against the choice of abortion, he probably popped the biggest fucking bottles when Roe V Wade was overturned. and when people expressed that he was literally contributing to the oppression of 90% of his fanbase, he pretended he was being witch hunted just like his favorite president did. he cried cancel culture because he will not and probably will never actually reflect on his beliefs and actions. evangelical christians are kindof like that.

these aren't "dumb mistakes". these are purposeful, unapologetic actions he's taken to fund facism and bigotry in america. he knows this, he's an adult. he's also not just "some guy" anymore, he's a fucking billionaire. he owns probably the most popular indie IP in the world right now. we already were willing to give grace to scott's imperfections, but what cannot be tolerated is using thousands of his fans dollars directly against them. being anti choice, loving racist predators, and acting like you know better for minorities when youre a cishet white christian man is not "being imperfect", that's being a proud bigot. he and you can both pretend and delude yourselves into thinking he ~actually cares and is a nice guy~ but no one who ACTUALLY cares about basic human rights would proudly admit to literally being against them and supporting every GOP freak that is actively stripping human rights away. i dont know what more to say. if that's something you can ignore, you live with an immense amount of privilege.

also, its funny that youre asking for proof when scott's public political donations were brought up June 2021 and are the WHOLE REASON that scott even posted this on reddit in response to the backlash. it appears he's managed to scrub his own information off of opensecrets which is, fucking incredibly suspicious, but here's the original screenshot of some of his faves that he thinks are sooooo much better for minorities actually because theyll make the economy better and nothing else matters right? i cant imagine anyone who agrees with Mitch Mconnel actually gives a shit about you.

I just wanna know why you don't seen to like Scott Cawthon, I tend to stay far away from drama so I ligetatmently have no clue.

He is a republican who donated money Trump and Mitch McConnell

God bless Todd Philips for making a movie that takes a gigantic steaming shit on the Joker IP and all the edge lord freaks that identify with it. They wanted a vessel for their revenge fantasies at the expense of Arthur's humanity. He did not give the people what they wanted, he gave them what they fucking deserved, and for that, I respect the fuck out of him!!

They ruined everything

Electric State what have they done to you

there's a special kind of evil in using marginalized identities as a shield to protect abusive men. Being mentally ill does not give you a right to be a bad person. Anyone defending Wilbur on the side of "uwu stop being ableist" can go fuck themselves.

we passing the base blooben test with this one.

Hell yeah feelings ✊😔

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.

Written by @elsodex and illustrated by me!

So, this took root 1 day to write, me 100 hours to draw and you 10 seconds to read (spend a little longer plz?)

Really proud of this one! I wanted to practice action and experiment with different coloring styles and I thank root so much for being patient as I tried out different things. Root, I loved going back and forth with you over the pages at every stage. I adore how you captured both Talanah's and Aloy's voices as they casually converse while fighting an angry Thunderjaw. Hope you enjoyed the Sunhawk teasing her Thrush!!

after seeing the godawful trailer, I did a reread of the Electric State and i cannot physically understand how the russo brothers did not "see potential" in the story

i'll admit, i underappreciated the writing on my first read! going over it again there is so much richness to the character building and the dread of the atmosphere. There's a vibe that I can only describe as desiccated americana and i love it. The world is rotten and dying, and there is really nothing left to do but go on for going on's sake.

anyway i'm doing a very large essay on Stålenhag's whole body of work, but the Electric State holds a special place in my heart as the first of his books I discovered and the most resonant to me, so i just had to share my thoughts right after the reread.

This is less about the artwork, which i could talk about for ages, and more just a general overview of the story themes specifically!

(Moderate general spoilers? i don't go into much detail, and it's not a story overly reliant on its plot twists anyway)

The hopelessness of The Electric State is rather unique among Simon Stålenhag's works - his other books, set in Sweden, are much more fondly nostalgic, though they of course offer strange horrors of their own - but of a much more physical, immediate level.

The Electric State is different. It takes place in an alternate 90s US even more drowned in consumerism and blind greed than our own. A civilization that is crumbling, not from nuclear war or global crises or meteors, but by its own hand, by capitalism driving itself into the ground. The perfect pleasure machine, the neurocaster headset, leaves people twitching, comatose creatures whose minds lie in vast Silicon Valley servers as their bodies are left to starve.

Michelle does not have the privilege of escapism. She is one of the few left to wander a silent world, an apocalypse without people to see it. She is privy to the horror of watching the inevitable trajectory of a world falling to its death, and feels only recognition that it's probably better this way.

Michelle is never sad about the end of America. She doesn't ever reminisce about how good things used to be, or how we should have "appreciated it while we had it." But she certainly does reminisce.

She has the memory of her foster parents, who derided the government "coddling neurine addicts" like Michelle's mother. She has the memory of her grandfather coughing himself to death in their tiny apartment, irradiated from his lifetime of underpaid work assembling gigantic war drones. She has the memory of her mother overdosing on a drug the government hooked her on during her service in the military. She has the memory of her first and only love, a love which the world hated, how it kept her alive in her foster home of Soest City, and how it was ripped from her by the pastor.

Unlike Stalenhag's other stories, there is no element of nostalgia or quiet undertone of hope. Only disgust for what came before, and quiet fear for what comes next.

The horror of the Convergence, the eldritch machine god hivemind, is not even very relevant to the story - if anything, it's a side plot. When Michelle faces actual danger, it's never from giant robot gods in the mist; it's from cops and hotel clerks, from doomsdayers hoarding guns and a FBI agent hunting her down. She lives in fear of other people, of people who say they want to protect her.

But when she sees the gigantic silent machines wandering through the mists of Oregon, she isn't afraid. It's almost peaceful. The Convergence is beyond understanding. It grew out of the servers where millions of minds seeking oblivion from the world went to escape, and they converged into something unknowably vast who wanders the world in a hundred million thoughtless bodies. It's otherworldly. It does not fear, it does not dream, it does not hope, it does not hate. Maybe that's better.

I was scared. But I also felt something else when that thing stepped out of the mist in front of our car. I can't think of a better word than awe. Like when you suddenly become aware that you've walked into the wrong part of the woods and come face-to-face with a gigantic wild animal. Beyond the grotesque, there was also something else - something majestic.

And in its wake, the citizens of Point Linden, hundreds of people linked together, their neurocasters connected to the oily god in the mist, floated across the ground in front of the car, and they looked almost happy. Calm and peaceful, they moved past the car and formed a single group again behind us, and soon disappeared into the mist again.