Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Blitzo,” the voice called, and he just growled under his breath.

He’d already had that argument with the dipshit receptionist and very nearly devolved into violence because fucking sure. She was too braindead to be able to read his name right, but she could sure read the purpose for his visit loud enough for the whole waiting room to hear. The only reason he’d slunk away to sit in the corner with every eye watching him, rather than start a fight, was because he was too tired to jump to the bloodbath he wanted.

Fuck, he was so tired.

Sleep had never been easy, but for the past few weeks even on the nights he managed to get a solid few hours he was waking up exhausted. It didn’t make sense, he was used to being sleepless, so if that had been the only problem he would have sucked it up and just made sure that the crew didn’t see him falling asleep behind his desk. But this time he was getting snappy, more so than usual, and fucking up a shot only soured his mood, and that meant he went into the next job so pissed that he just fucked it up again. It was Moxxie of all fucking people who had been the one to pick up his slack and then rather than berate him ask if he was okay.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Holding it together was one of his skills, until he slammed the door to his office and sobbed. Bawled his eyes out and didn’t stop no matter how many times he told himself he had no reason to, that he was just being a little bitch and didn’t need this shit. He was being a fucking mess.

He'd really noticed things going to shit a couple of weeks ago, just after the full moon, and had put it down to... Nothing. Because he was doing fine. Being tossed aside was something he was more than used to, so he just grit his teeth and got back to work.

But if he thought about it, really thought about, there had been something wrong with his head (more so than usual) for a while before seeing Stolas, he’d been a mess when he’d been kidnapped with Fizz and he hadn’t exactly dealt with taking Loona to the hospital or the news that Stolas had been injured particularly well. He’d gone looking for Barb for fuck sake.

All of that in the space of a couple of weeks.

It was sitting with his back pressed against the door, tears falling straight to the floor with the way he stuck his head between his knees to try and stop the sobs from making him puke, that the realisation started to sink in.

Everything had been put down to the sleepless nights and exhaustion, but he was sick to shit of his own body, and clearly it hated him back. Even when he was hungry the smell of most things put him off, and what little he did manage to get inside himself had him bloated and cramping. He was lucky enough that he hadn’t properly been on the rag in over 15 years, and he still wasn’t, but it sure felt like his body was trying to make up for it. Shit even his tits hurt, which sucked ass because he didn’t even have tits. Why the fuck did his body pick now of all times to decide it was baby season?

And then it clicked.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he knew. The test he grabbed on his coffee run felt like a formality, but instincts were one thing, hiding away in the shitty little cubicle they had at the office with his head in his hands, looking down at the 2 little lines, that was something else entirely.

He was pregnant.

In all honesty he hadn't even really been sure he had the internal plumbing for this kind of thing to work. Sure once upon a time he'd thought about kids, but life hadn’t gone to plan, and then he’d adopted Loona, and he didn’t need to think about how the hell he was supposed to go about having them anymore. All he needed to worry about was being safe rather than sorry, which circled back to the real problem. Body capable or not, how the fuck was he pregnant?

The only guy he’d fucked recently was Chaz, and... Fuck. Sure they’d used protection, but he could hardly trust that asshole to rubber up correctly. After all Blitzø had told him twice that he was fucking the wrong hole, before just accepting that he was getting it in his typically underutilised pussy. Great, just fucking perfect, he'd thought the worst he had to worry about with that guy was a slew of STDs, not a fucking child.

With that settled, he knew there was no way in hell he was having that guy’s kid. They’d come out looking like an ugly little Striker, and he shuddered thinking about that asshole.

This time he had no choice but to get over his absolute hatred of hospitals. The longer he put this off the worse it would get, and unlike most of his injuries he really couldn’t convince himself that this one would just go away. Thankfully the clinic was a little more responsive than the other wings of the hospital and he didn’t have to predict that he was going to going to fuck up 5 years in advance.

Despite the badgering he’d been receiving from Loona and his employees to get his moody ass checked, he didn’t bother mentioning the upcoming appointment, just subtly made sure that a couple of days later they had an afternoon clear so he could call an early finish, send everyone home whilst claiming to stay at the office and get some good boss points as well. They didn’t need to know, and all going to plan they would never need to know.

At least that was how it was supposed to go.

“You're between 8-12 weeks along, probably the upper end, it's a surprise you haven't noticed,” the candleheaded bitch of a doctor chuckled, before looking away from her clipboard to stare him straight in his wide bloodshot eyes. He couldn’t trust anyone in this place to not be completely incompetent.

“Woah hold your fucking horses there, 12 weeks, there’s no way I'm 12 weeks, the only dick I've had in me in a long time was only 4 weeks ago.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, tilting her head, tone clearly condescending, and if he hadn’t already disliked her...

“Am I sure?! I think I’d remember getting dicked down so bad that they put a baby in me, and I know that sure as hell wasn’t happening 12 weeks ago.”

“Well that's what your hormones suggest, but if you're certain we could do a scan to verify.”

Blitzø looked to his phone and quickly answered, "I've got shit to do; besides, it doesn't make a shred of difference if it's getting flushed, now can you do whatever the hell it is you do that let’s me get on with my life?"

"Actually it does matter,” she argued much to Blitzø’s rising annoyance, “after 10 weeks the procedure differs. If you can’t confirm when you conceived, we'll need to do an ultrasound, or you’ll have to book another appointment for the procedure.”

He would be 10 weeks by the time these assholes decided to get their shit together, so he groaned, “Fuck, fine, let's get this over and done with.”

“Excellent,” she muttered in that same condescending tone, as if put out by the scan that she'd pushed him into having, “A transvaginal scan would work best. Please can you remove your pants and hop up on the bed?”

“No,” he stated bluntly, not entirely sure what she meant, but knowing for certain she wasn’t putting shit near any of his holes. “Listen bitch, nothing trans nor vaginal is going down here. If you want to see my dick so bad just tell me.”

She squinted her eyes and looked back at her clipboard for a moment before nodding to herself and coyly announcing, “I see this kind of thing all of the time. Imps who didn’t know they could get pregnant.”

Whatever was written on that board, he fucking hated it. And he didn’t like the implication that he was just another whore on her checklist who’d fucked his way into a problem. But who was he kidding, that’s exactly what he was.

Didn’t stop him coming off a little too aggressive when he said, “I lie down, you cover me with goo, and wiggle your stick around, I fuck off and get on with my life, that’s it.”

“Sounds like it isn’t the first time you’ve said that,” she mumbled quiet enough that he wondered if he’d heard her right.

“Yeah, winning attitude you have there, toots, bet they’re lining up to fuck you.”

That struck a nerve, and he flashed her a grin, receiving a scowl as she started with, “It would be easier to-…”

“Goo, Stick, fuck off. That’s. It,” He repeated through gritted teeth. In response she just rolled her eyes and gestured vaguely towards the bed.

As he lay back on the shitty hospital bed, he pulled the layers of clothing aside and looked down at his middle and... Shit. He'd avoided looking, the one time he'd showered since figuring it out he'd specifically skirted around his stomach, but now... There was something there, hardly there, but there. With the amount he’d managed to eat over the last few weeks he should have lost weight, and sure he could see his ribs a little more than he’d like, but there under his usually flat belly there was a small mound.

He didn’t know shit about being pregnant, but he knew that you didn’t start to look pregnant a month in. Was he wrong? But he couldn’t be wrong, he’d only had one dick close enough, and one asshole dumb enough to infect him with their fucking baby batter. So why was he already sporting the smallest but undeniable little bump. Unless-…

“Fuck!” he shouted out when ice cold gel splattered against his abdomen, snapping him out of his own head.

The doctor ignored him, but he could see the bitch smiling as she smeared it around, looking at the screen rather than him. “Warn me next time.”

“Good news, there hopefully won’t be a next time,” she stated with too much cheer, and he almost threw a fist at her, but she quickly added, “you're only 8 or 9 weeks along, so if you're serious about terminating you can still do so at home.”

“Glad you fucked up,” he grumbled, not at all glad, and only more confused, “but 8 weeks still doesn't make any fucking sense. Should I be able to see it?”

“It's not typical, but can show up on slimmer frames, and well... I don’t want to make the decision harder for you.”

“Harder? The fuck is that supposed to mean. Is there a problem?”

And then it clicked. 8 weeks meant... It meant a whole lot of things that he wasn't ready to think about, but the thing that kept on playing on loop was the hellhound party. He'd been throwing up for almost 3 weeks afterwards, put it down to drinking way too much of the wrong stuff and just accepted it. If he was 8 weeks along, it might not have been alcohol poisoning, it could have been... Shit, had it been morning sickness? Had he drank his body weight in who the fuck knows what, and all that time he’d been...

"Are they okay?" He asked quietly. It was undeniably the worst, but it wasn't the only drink he'd had in the last 2 months, far from it. Satan, he'd had a fuck ton of coke thrown in his face, been drugged, joined in too many fights to count. Maybe he didn’t need to make the decision, it was already made for him. It wouldn’t lessen the pang of guilt, but he wouldn’t have to think.

"They seem healthy," the doctor explained, and he wasn’t sure if it was relief or regret that he felt most, "Let me guess, you've had some wild nights? We get this kind of thing all the time. Imps are hardy, they’re one of the few species that can breed with just about anything.”

The last part shouldn’t have made something click inside his head, because he already knew it couldn’t be entirely imp, it had been months since he’d actually fucked another imp. But 8 to 9 weeks ago the only guy he was fucking was Stolas, and that wasn't possible. At least, he was pretty sure that wasn't possible. What other explanation was there though? That he was home to the second coming of Christ. Yeah, fucking right.

He almost wanted to ask, if it had happened before, but some imp walking into the abortion clinic, asking if it’s possible to get pregnant off a Goetia. Like that wouldn’t raise alarm bells somewhere, and he didn’t have time for that shit. Not with the absolutely insufferable bitch he’d ended up with as a ‘caregiver’.

Besides none of that fucking mattered, because he realised with sudden clarity that he’d already fucked up.

Are they okay?

When had he started thinking of the problem as a kid rather than something that was fucking up his day? He knew when, the moment he’d done the mental maths and realised there was only one fucker who could have done this to him. That was... bad. Or at least, bad if he was still planning on getting rid of them.

Them. Fuck.

The nurse continued to talk, drawing him out of his own head. “My only suggestion is that if you're even considering keeping them, you hold back on any parties from now on. You don't want to test their limits."

"What's the fucking problem then?" he asked, ignoring the suggestion that he might be more on the fence than he thought.

She went quiet, as if reconsidering, before asking, "Do twins run in your family?”

Oh fuck.

“There's 2 of them...” He muttered.

“Yep, here's baby 1," she said, cold wand pressing into the right of the mound before roaming over to the upper left, "And this is baby 2."

"They're-... They're actually in there,” he stated dumbly, because even with a few days between the test and the appointment he hadn’t really sat down to think that he was pregnant, that this wasn’t just some illness where he’d pop a few pills and it would all go away.

“That's why your hormones are so high and you’re starting to show, but you're still definitely 8 or 9 weeks along. I can tell from the development," she explained before looking away from the screen towards him, and her smirk disappeared. Given her previous bedside manner, her voice was offputtingly tender as she asked, "Would you like a picture of the scan?"

He was quiet, looking at the screen, at the two little blobs as if squinting hard enough might let him spot some spindly legs or a beak or just fucking something to stop him from going absolutely insane. Whether or not they were his really shouldn’t have mattered, because Stolas had fucking left. Like everyone else. He’d handed off the crystal and made it pretty fucking clear that he was cutting off the deal, and Blitzø had taken the push and run.

It shouldn't have changed anything, the idea that they might be his. And yet, he looked to the doctor, swallowing away the lump in his throat and nodded.

He stashed both the prescription note she gave him and the two little photos in his back pocket.

This was… This was not how the appointment was supposed to go.