Chapter Text
Another day at the office, and the chaos machine ran smoother than ever, miraculously. Everyone had fallen into their roles like cogs in a very unhinged, mildly homicidal clock. Moxxie and Millie, M&M, were the muscle, the married mercs, the ones who brought love, bullets, and body bags in equal measure. If it needed stabbing, shooting, or dramatic screaming mid-combat, they had it covered.
Loona and Stolas had worked out a shift system that somehow didn’t end up in a bloodshed. Loona handled mornings, half-asleep, caffeine-deprived, and ready to murder anyone who dared ring the front desk bell. Stolas took the evenings, as he was biologically more suited to, gliding in like a sparkly peacock with a PhD in flirtation and "accidental" arson.
And Blitzø? Blitz was... well, Blitz. Self-appointed leader, chaos conductor, and walking HR violation. He paced the office with “wild” ideas, questionable goals, and the energy of a caffeinated raccoon in a recycling bin. Was he organized? No. Was he inspirational? Also no. But dammit, the rules he made were what kept the business going. Mostly.
Sure, the printer caught fire twice a week (most working printer), and someone replaced the coffee with holy water once (RIP that one intern), but overall? Just another normal day at I.M.P.
One evening, an hour before closing time, the crew were lazily waiting for a client. Polishing guns, counting bullets, writing off 50 plushy ponies in tax returns and so on… M&M left, leaving only Stolas and Blitz in the office, Loona too, left to have a sleepover with a friend.
The office was unusually quiet, like the calm before someone accidentally activated the broken vending machine. The usual hum of bickering, weapon polishing, and Millie’s cheerful murder stories had faded, leaving only the soft buzz of the ancient overhead lightbulb and the click-click-click of Stolas tapping lazily at the keyboard with one clawed finger.
The only source of light was a small, dim table lamp shaped like a screaming cherub, casting a warm glow over a mug that read Best Hooter , the “T” was written with a black marker over another letter. Steam curled from the tea inside like a ghost escaping from a very judgmental kettle.
Stolas sighed dramatically and let his forehead slump onto the desk, narrowly avoiding the sticky note that simply said “DON’T TOUCH THE PENCIL SHARPENER (AGAIN).” Boredom had sunk its claws into him, and not even sinstagram could save him now, he’d already liked a post of Asmodeus doing a thirst trap in five separate outfits and two suspiciously similar captions.
Deciding he might as well move, he dragged his elegant, feathered self down the hallway to the meeting room, because apparently, even royalty wasn't above office wandering when left unattended.
The meeting room had the sterile, half-used feel of a space designed for productivity but only ever used for yelling and impromptu food fights. The long table was covered in old coffee rings, weapons schematics, and a singular sticky patch that no one had dared ask about since 2021. The whiteboard was a masterpiece of Blitzø's creativity, covered in indecipherable plans, childish doodles of “possible hors names,” and one very enthusiastic drawing of what appeared to be Moxxie in a tutu riding a bicycle.
Stolas tilted his head. “Huh,” he muttered, squinting at the corner where someone had attempted a motivational quote and given up halfway through. ‘TEAMWORK IS JUST—’ it read, before trailing off into a jagged doodle of a flaming skull.
The chairs were another mystery. There were at least twelve of them. Stolas had counted. He did not know why. There were only five employees, and even when Stolas himself joined for “official” meetings (meaning: flirting with Blitz and accidentally dropping his files all over the floor), they never used more than four.
Outside the grimy window, life in Hell rolled on. Cars zipped by in reckless, screeching lanes of traffic. An imp across the street tried to sell what looked like cursed socks. A pair of teenage demons threw rocks at a stop sign while a third picked pockets with the enthusiasm of someone doing community service.
Stolas sighed again and turned away from the window. His eyes landed on the filing cabinets, lined up against the far wall with an unnerving amount of space in-between them. He glided over, more out of boredom than curiosity, and began opening them one by one.
Client files. Client files. Half-eaten, rock-hard donut. More client files but dipped in coffee.
And then, something... different.
One drawer slid open with a faint clink , revealing a collection of items that made Stolas freeze: bunny ears, a black leather corset, coiled rope, fishnets, and a glittery whip that had definitely been used more than once. He arched a brow, then looked beneath them, and found the photographs.
They were unmistakably Blitz’s work. His grubby fingers photobombed the edges of most frames, and the camera quality screamed “stolen from a pawn shop.” But the subjects? Demons. Posing. Wearing the very items he’d just found. Some looked proud. Some looked embarrassed. Some looked like they were mid-sneeze or not giving consent to take a picture.
Stolas rifled through them cautiously, until his eyes landed on something that made him jump back, M&M. Absolutely not. Quickly, he shoved those into the back of the drawer like he’d never seen them.
But then... he saw himself.
At first, he blinked. Then again. These weren’t selfies. He hadn’t posed for these. In every one, he was either looking away, adjusting his robe, reading, or, worse, blindfolded. He hadn't known Blitz took these. He hadn't known it.
His heart fluttered, half flattered, half horrified.
“Huh...” he whispered, one finger tracing the edge of a photo where he looked particularly dramatic mid-stretch.
Then, as the silence of the office settled around him again, accompanied by the distant sound of someone outside yelling “HOW DO YOU SPELL SIMPLETON!” an idea sparked in his brain.
A terrible, wonderful, glitter-drenched idea.
Stolas stared at the contents of the drawer like it had personally challenged his dignity to a duel, and unfortunately for dignity, it was losing. His eyes darted to the door. Empty hallway. No voices. No footsteps. Just the buzz of the overhead light and the occasional creak of doors outside the office.
He looked back at the drawer.
“Well,” he said to absolutely no one, “it would be a shame to let perfectly good fashion go to waste.”
Within minutes, the meeting room had transformed from 'mildly depressing break space' to 'dressing room of sin.' Stolas had kicked aside several of the unnecessary chairs, cleared a corner of the table, and turned the whiteboard to face the wall, because even he had limits on who could see what.
He held up the corset. Black leather. Laced. Slightly singed at the edges. He sniffed it. Burnt gunpowder, demon sweat, and... strawberries?
“Classic Blitz,” he muttered, before slipping it on with a graceful twist of his arms. It was definitely a size too small, but Stolas wasn’t about to let that stop him from serving. He sucked in, yanked the cords tight, and struck a pose in front of the reflective filing cabinet.
"Yes. Tragic. Sensual. Uncomfortably tight," he purred.
Next came the fishnets. He raised a leg onto the table like a stage performer on their final encore, nearly knocking over a pistol . (with a tiny heart). The fishnets slid on surprisingly well, likely enchanted for maximum stretch, and the rope? He tied a knot with his fingers and mouth.
Finally, he picked up the bunny ears. They were absurd. They were slightly bent. They were missing glitter on one side. They were perfect.
He plopped them onto his head and turned to the cabinet again.
The Stolas staring back at him was something else.. A leather-clad fever dream. A royal owl in full peep-show mode. He fluttered his lashes at his reflection, then posed dramatically with his hands over his forehead.
“If this doesn’t get Blitz’s attention,” he murmured, “then I might just sit on his dick.”
Just as he reached for Blitz’s old digital camera from the drawer, he heard the front door creak open.
“Hey, anyone here?” Blitz’s voice called out. “The horse store had a sale and, wait, where is everyone?”
Stolas froze. Half-glamorous, half-winded, and very much tangled in a rope he definitely didn’t know how to untie.
"...Oh dear. Well… Can’t be helped now…" he said, blushing under his eyes.
Stolas stood outside Blitz’s office door, now fully decked out in the scandalous ensemble. Corset straining bravely against physics, fishnets hugging every regal curve, rope draped like avant-garde handcuffs, and bunny ears twitching with anticipation. He took a breath, dramatic, sultry, a little wheezy from the corset, and strutted in like a burlesque show collided with a war crime.
“Blitzy~,” he sang, voice dripping with velvet.
Blitz didn’t even look up.
He was hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously on a stack of disorganized papers, a pen clenched between his teeth and a third cup of coffee vibrating next to his elbow. Something behind him was smoking, possibly the heating, possibly Moxxie’s lunch, but Blitz didn’t care. His laser focus was locked onto the latest batch of I.M.P. paperwork.
“I said Blitzy~ ,” Stolas purred again, sauntering in with all the grace of a royal runway model performing for one extremely caffeinated gremlin.
Blitz grunted.
“I got dressed up for you…” Stolas said, stepping closer. “And by dressed up, I mean very much the opposite. ”
Still nothing. Just a scribble, a sip of coffee, and a muttered, “Where the fuck is page four—”
Stolas leaned over the desk, pushing aside a folder with his hip so Blitz could get a better look at the show on display. “I found your special drawer, darling. The one with the photos… and the corset... and the rope.” His voice dipped to a whisper. “You’ve been very naughty.”
Blitz paused. Finally. He looked up.
His eyes flicked up and down Stolas’s outfit. His expression didn't change.
Then he said, flatly, “Toy box is in the breakroom.”
Stolas blinked. “…What?”
Blitz capped his pen, flipped a paper, and said with all the energy of an imp reciting tax law, “Toy box. Breakroom. Below the table. Knock yourself out, preferably not literally, we’re still paying off that last ER visit.”
“But, Blitzy, darling,” Stolas leaned in, lips inches from his ear, “I need you to ravish me. Right here, against the copier. We could laminate a memory.”
“No sex in the office,” Blitz said, without a second thought.
Stolas stared at him, stunned. “Since when ?!”
“Since just now,” Blitz muttered, flipping a page and writing "Client dead. Discount offered.”
“It’s a new rule. Very official. Carved it into this very desk with a knife, super binding. You were probably too busy being majestic or preening your feathers.”
Stolas huffed. “You can’t just make up rules to avoid acknowledging this!” He gestured grandly to his outfit. A bunny ear drooped in shared disappointment.
Blitz shrugged. “I’m busy. Got three contracts to revise, a demon lawyer on hold, and I think Loona’s vet sent me a bill. Unless you can file taxes in a corset, I ain’t got time.”
Stolas straightened up, fishnets creaking slightly. “So that’s it? You’re just going to deny me while I stand here dressed like… like the punchline of your dreams?!”
Blitz finally looked him in the eye, expression somewhere between exhaustion and feral patience. “Stolas. Please. Just go. Use the toy box. Or find a mirror. Or do that weird thing where you astral project into a cuddle puddle. I need to finish this before Moxxie brings me another color-coded complaint.”
Stolas pouted. Glared. Then flounced dramatically toward the door, mumbling, “You’ll regret this.”
“Rules are rules,” Blitz called back. “And if you touch the stapler again, I’m banning feathers from the office too.”