Archive of Our Own ^beta

1. Preening

Stella

Thomp. Thomp. Thomp. Thomp. Ah, Stella must be home.

Stolas sat in front of the mirror and remained stone-faced as he wiped off his eyeliner for the umpteenth time, a once-white tissue now smudged coal black. He would groan out of frustration, but Stella was riffling around in the ceiling-length closet behind him, letting out her own noises of annoyance all the while, and he didn’t want to risk upsetting her further. 

Already he had rocked the boat once that night by begging and pleading to get out of this party. He knew no one there - his family pretended to know him on the best of days - and everyone was rude to him - subtly, of course. 

It was “unbecoming and pathetic of him to even consider not going”, he was told by his wife, accompanied with a sneer and a wagging finger. 

He redid his left eyeliner, hand slow, wrist shaking. 

“The feathers on the back of your head look a mess .”

Stolas frowned. He put his makeup tube down, corked it, and twisted his head to the side to see the offending area in the mirror. The feathers there, especially his pin feathers, are a bit out of order, so he ran a few fingers over them with an awkward stretch of his elbow. He only stopped once they had been reset into place. 

“Sorry.” He hummed, eyes downturned once more.

“That’s not good enough.” Stella scoffed, and Stolas watched her approach behind him in the mirror. “They still look fucking horrid, Stolas. I don’t- do you give any sort of fuck about your appearance? Like, at all?” Her voice rose and Stoles flinched, chair squeaking across wood flooring as he moved away from her anger.

Somewhere in the back of his throat, he found that teenage rebellion that hadn’t been fully squashed out at nineteen years old and responded, “Feathers on the back of my head are hard to reach. It would look better if you helped me:”

Stella stared. And stared. And then laughed, and Stolas isn’t sure what he expected, but her reaching out, grabbing one of his disorderly feathers and pulling it out in one, swift motion was certainly not it. Yelping in sudden pain, he reached his hand back instinctively and felt the area with the pad of his finger. When he brought it back in front of his eyes, there was blood settling in around the ridges of his finger-feathers. 

“Learn how to pluck them yourself in the mirror, you overgrown hatchling. That’s what I did.”

A piercing cry of a baby echoed from down the hallway, cutting off whatever Stolas would’ve responded with - probably nothing, anyways. Stella huffed, and turned, and left the room, dress pulled up by deft fingers and whatever outfit she had been looking for entirely forgotten. Stolas listened to make sure that Via’s crying had stopped before he dared relax.

Now alone, Stolas turned back to the mirror. He picked up his smaller hand-held mirror and held it behind his head, adjusting it in tandem with the larger one to view his feathers. Slowly, and with a bit of struggle, he began to preen himself.

Blitzø

When Stolas stumbles through the portal into his en-suite bathroom, it's not a moment too soon, because he immediately starts sobbing.

When his father invited him to that meeting, he said not a word of anyone else being there. Yet, when Stolas showed up today, right on time, having prepared himself to face his Father and his Father alone, he found ninety-five percent of the Goetia family sitting within a large meeting room. They called him there to discuss his status - to debate removing him from the family for dating an imp. So openly, so proudly , they had sneered.

Blitzø must be rubbing off on him, because the first thought that crosses Stolas’ brain was a sharp “Oh, fuck this.” Despite that, he didn’t leave. 

Via deserved the choice of whether she wanted to stay in this family or not. Being exiled means not only putting a target on his own back, forever known as an enemy of the Goetia family, an ex-brother, son, and nephew - but it would also burden Via with the weight of his decision, for the rest of her life. 

Want as he may, he could not make that call for her, could not take away her autonomy of choice. When she was old enough, she could decide if she wants to stay. Until then, he would put up with it, and fight for his right on his bloodlines family tree - even if he felt the prize a sham and he yearned for a better life, with more freedoms. 

So, he stood there, and attended the meeting. 

It had been so long, and so tiresome, and so grueling . Stolas thanks his lucky fucking stars that Stella wasn’t there - apparently, even his own Father, as detached as he was, was growing tired of her squawking and squealing. She had been absent from the meeting, as well as Andrealphus. The siblings were dreadful on their own, and together they were downright horrid. The owl prince was glad they weren’t there. 

Respiteful as it may be, Stella’s absence did not make the load of the impromptu family meeting easy by any means. For four hours Stolas had been ridiculed from every angle, for his appearance, his sexuality, his relationships, his precious family - Loona (and that one almost made him lose it). It was exhausting, and the possibly soon-to-be ex-prince finds himself collapsing onto the soft mattress of his and Blitzø’s shared bed the moment the portal closes behind him. Tears drag mascara down his face and stain both his feathers and now, sadly, his pillow, with black. 

He takes a few moment there, breathing in the sheets, the scent of home and safety and Blitzø , before he dares rise to his feet. 

Eyes risk a glance at the time and he relaxes, impulsively, when he sees that he at least has a good twenty or so minutes before Blitzø and Loona would be home from work. Via was in her room, probably buried nose-deep in a new sketchbook or entranced with a new band, so Stolas wasn’t worried about her coming in. Blitzø would come right to him when he got home, usually full of stories from the day, but at least the prince had a bit of time to clean up before then.

Legs and arms shaking from the weight of the day, the prince is able to maneuver and drag himself onto his fluffy stool - the one he usually sits on while he applies makeup. Eyes catch a good look at himself in the mirror, and he fights the urge to wince at the poor sight. Posture slouched, clothes disorderly and wrinkled from being nervously pulled at, black streaks running down his face and his whole, lithe frame shaking painted a pathetic picture. 

Worst of all, the feathers atop his head and around the edges of his neck were in total disarray. Throughout the hearing and following scrutiny, Stolas had found himself with his fingers buried in the back of his head, digging at the roots of the feathers there. It was an old, bad coping mechanism he had picked up during the early days of his marriage with Stella, and it always came back when he was stressed. 

The back of his head showed damage from the abuse, with patches of feathers missing and others fussed with or half pulled out. When he touches his fingers to the spots, a hiss of pain leaves him, and the pads of his fingertips are left stained with black. 

His gaze goes back to the mirror. No wonder they wanted to take away his Goetia title - look at him. Is this any way for a Goetia to act, never mind appear? 

Curse his father. Curse his father for inviting him to that meeting and purposefully tricking him into coming. Curse him for sitting by, having the courage to look bored, as his siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles all threw insults at Stolas and his family. Curse him for not being there when Stolas was a child. Curse him for having a butler raise his children, for never learning their names unless it was convenient, for using them as pawns. 

His eyes flit over to the bottle of pills, half-filled on his dresser. Curse his father for putting this beast inside of Stolas that will never, can never be happy. 

While his thoughts have been spiraling his hands have been moving, one reaching around his torso to hug himself and the other returning itself to bury snugly within head feathers. Moving on impulse, without even realizing, the prince’s fingers began to dig down into the roots of his head feathers, plucking them out one by one. Only the light sting of growing pain brought Stolas out of his panic, and he blinks a moment, taking in the sticky texture on his fingers and the small, growing pile of blood-speckled feathers gathered at his feet. 

Fuck, fuck. What was he doing? He can’t even panic right. If Stella were here, she would be grabbing his shoulders, shaking him, screaming Get a fucking hold of yourself already!

Actually, she probably would’ve left by now. Walked right out the door she realized Stolas was crying or panicking and returned to berate him for it when the coast was clear. If she returned, that is. Would’ve gotten angry at him for the way he acted back there - having the backbone to fight what those royals said about his father, about his daughters. Fingers dig and another few feathers fall. 

Goodness, he’s panicking. He needs a cold glass of water, or a few of his anti-anxiety pills, or-

“Stolas?”

The creaking of the door and the posing of his name from an all-too familiar voice bring racing thoughts to a screeching stand-still in Stolas’ mind. 

“Blitzø-” he starts, all he can think to say. When he finds the strength to turn around, to rip his eyes from his poor excuse of an appearance in the mirror and face his lover instead, he isn’t sure what he’s expecting to see. 

His small boyfriend stands in the frame of the bathroom, fists balled at his sides, eyes trained on Stolas’ just as Stolas’ are on his. Fear fills his body with a cold breath when he realizes that Blitzø looks mad - eyebrows furrowed, lips drawn back to show teeth, nose scrunched. 

He’s upset. He must be upset with Stolas for being so childish with his angst, for causing a mess in the bathroom. He opens his mouth to apologize but the imp is already talking.

“Did your dad hurt you?” He snarls, voice level despite how angry his face looks. Stolas leans back in slight confusion.

“What?” he repeats back, eyebrows furrowed. The back of his head stings.

“You had a meeting with your father. And now your feathers are on the ground.” Blitzø refers to the forgotten parts of Stolas laying on the linoleum floor. “It was that meeting, right? With your father?” A snarl comes up from his throat and he looks, somehow, even angrier. “Those stupid stuck-up fucking royals. Let’s see how he likes it when I rip out his feathers, huh? I’ll make him fuckin’ choke on them, assole deserves it, I’ll fucking-”

“Blitzø. It wasn’t my father.”

“Then who? I don’t give a shit who it was, birdy - the Blitzø ass-kickin’ special is come one, come all lemme’ tell you-”

“It was me. I-” The look on Blitzø’s face at the confession makes Stolas’ stomach plummet. He’s going to get mad, they’re going to get into a fight, and then he’s going to leave- “I’m- it’s not what it looks like. I’m perfectly fine, Blitzø. I just…”

Blitzø stares at him. He stares back. “Bad day?” Stolas tries - shit, he has to fix this before Blitzø becomes tired of his silliness and leaves instead. “I know it’s a mess, and it’s not what you wanted to come home to - I apologize about that. Give-” his eyes dart to the side, “Give me five minutes and I’ll-...I’ll clean up the floor and I’ll be right out.”

“What the fuck- no , Stolas.”

Stolas all but whines, and turns around, going to say “No, I can, see!”, but he’s stopped when a hand, small and gentle and squeezing tight, fits into his.

The movement manages to snap him out of whatever hole in his mind he had been subconsciously falling into. Eyes flit down to find that Blitzø has moved across the floor during his rambling and is standing right in front of him, tail flicking behind his back, back and forth, back and forth. 

The imp pulls on their connected hands and Stolas allows himself to be lead, on shaky feet, out of the bathroom, and back towards their bed. It’s only when Blitzø gently pushes him onto the mattress and he complies, following blindly, that he finds his voice. “Dear, I have to clean up the bathroom.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Blitzø mumbles quietly in response. It’s soft, and with his head downturned as well, Stolas can’t read his expression. The imp reaches out and fluffs up the pillow behind Stolas’ head, then waves, rather neurotically, for the prince to lay down. His owl lover laughs, but complies, sinking into the silk and allowing his eyes to close just slightly. There’s still more he wants to say to Blitzo, though, so he opens his mouth, and then his eyes - only to find that the imp is no longer next to him. He knows his boyfriend is a literal assassin, but goodness, he’s quiet when he moves.

Stolas’ mind isn’t given much time to re-panic - he’s exhausted, anyways, all of his energy being used between the meeting and not screaming during it - because Blitzø re-enters the bedroom from the bathroon not twenty seconds later. He’s got a wet rag in one hand and their trashcan in the other, and he clambers his way back up onto the bed. 

“Turn away from me.” The imp requests, and Stolas does it on autopilot, showing the other his back. For a few moments, nothing happens - and then a warm, wet towel, gentle with its touch and rung out so to be made perfectly damp, presses against the sticky blood on the back of his head. With practiced precision, Blitzø cleans him, running the rag over the patches until they’re no longer black, but light grey, the color of Stolas’ skin. His touch is gentle, and he refuses to press hard, instead passing over the area lightly as many times as is needed until it’s clean. 

The prince can’t see the patch of missing feathers on the back of his head. He guesses the sight isn’t pretty. 

For a long stretch of time, they sit in silence. Blitzø continues to clean the others skin and Stolas feels the trials of the day catching up, shoulders slacking and eyelids drooping just a hair. He’s almost asleep, some time later, when he feels the dry side of the towel running over his injuries. Nothing touches him, and he thinks Blitzø must be done, now, when small, adept fingers begin to lightly preen him, running fingerpads over pinfeathers that have over-stayed their welcome and allowing them to fall free. Once detached from Stolas’ head, Blitz would discard them into the trashbin by the bed.

This wasn’t new. A pretty common part of aftercare, even long before their car-crash of a confession to one another, had always been preening. Blitzø takes out his feathers with practiced gentleness, Stolas chirps happily, and then they switch, with the owl pressing kisses all over the imps face and grooming him wherever he needs while the other laughs and shoves him away. Preening is a familiar act - they’ve done it before. So Stolas doesn’t know why, suddenly, there are tears in his eyes, or why it feels so close and intimate that he nearly couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t panicking - he knew panicking, had experienced it not thirty minutes ago - but it felt tight and weird, curling around his heart in a way he couldn’t comprehend.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Blitzø’s voice cut through his fog of emotions and thought. This was hard for him, too, Stolas knows - changes don’t happen overnight, and expressing feelings - emotions talks - they’re still hard for the imp, at times.

Still, he’s trying so hard for Stolas. The owl finds himself conflicted. Blitzø is trying, pushing through what makes him uncomfortable for him. The least he could do is be honest, talk, respond to that trying with trying himself. On the other hand, Blitzø is trying for him - for Stolas. He questions, deep down in his gut, where he refuses to look, if he’s worth the effort. 

“The whole family was at the meeting, not just my father.” He settles on as an answer, shifting his attention to the quilted comforter that was thrown over his bed these days. He pulls at the threads with distracted fingers. “They want to remove me from the family, I suppose. It doesn’t bother me much, but Via…” the breath he takes shudders his frame, just slightly, “I do not want to take the decision away from her.”

Blitzø is silent for a few moments before he hums. Stolas likes to think that he knows the other well, and he picks up on the slight rage, right underneath his voice, as he says, “Those fucking assholes,” then, “Yeah, you’re cool like that. Somethin’ you certainly didn’t get from those feathered cunts,”

Stolas laughs gently. “I agree with you there, dearest.” 

Blitzø continues to gently preen him, rolling the loose feathers in between his fingers until they fell out on their own accord. His touch was miles softer than the one Stolas applied earlier. “I’m fine, though. I’m sorry to have startled you so, having you walk in on…” he trails off and doesn’t finish his sentence. 

Blitzø is quiet but his ministrations atop Stolas’ head continue, so the silence scares him less this time. “Was this a self harm thing?” He asks, eventually, not beating around any bushes.

And well, isn’t that just the million dollar question? Stolas knows the silence doesn’t do anything to calm Blitzø’s nerves, just like the others’ silence earlier had startled him, but he wasn’t sure he had any answers. “I dont know.” he settles on, finally. “I do it impulsively - not often, just when I’m stressed or panicking. I don’t do it for the pain, it’s like picking at my skin, I just do it without thinking.” Long, slender legs, bent awkwardly, pull up to his chest and he wraps his arms around them. For a few moments, he feels like a fledgling again, his butler sitting over him and disciplining him for crying. “Stella never preened me - she thought the process childish and useless. I simply…became used to doing it myself, and I suppose I picked up this habit when I- enter into certain moods. It’s nothing, really.”

Blitzø doesn’t say anything. But he continues to preen him, and does so until the other’s head is clean of loose feathers. He applies an antibacterial cream to the bare areas that had been full just hours prior and presses a gentle, air-light kiss to the crown of Stolas’ head. The imp leaves, again, to fetch them both tea, water, and their warmest blanket from the living room. 

When he comes back, they kiss, and Blitzø listens to what Stolas needs to rant about that night - the meeting, his feathers, Stella, whatever. 

Stolas falls asleep preened, clean, and panicking significantly less than before.

2. Aftercare

Stella

Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. In. Out.

Stolas laid on top of their cold bedroom’s cold duvet, arm slung over his eyes so he didn’t have to see the cloud of shame that hovered over him. He and Stella had tried for a baby, again, and Stolas had been unable to become aroused, again. Tears burned behind his eyes but he refused to let them fall, not here, not while his wife is still unclothed and yelling at him behind the light ringing in his ears. He hated this. He wished he weren’t there. He didn’t want to be a Dad yet.

“-las! Stolas! Ugh, now you’re not even trying to fucking listen!” A pillow gets lobbed at his head and snapped his neck to the side, slightly rousing him from his thoughts. Every time they tried to do this, he felt a little more broken inside - like some piece of his puzzle isn’t fitting and he knows why, deep down, but it’s so scary, so against who he’s meant to be, the path laid out for him-

A hand grabbed the side of his head and shoved it roughly to the side. “ Useless .” Stella spat, and Stolas just barely made out the underlying fear in her voice. She is complicit in this too, he remembered. If I cannot have a baby, she will get in trouble for my inadequacies.  

“I’m sorry.” He croaked, because in that moment, he was.

“I’m buying pills in the morning that’ll make this work. That’ll make you work.” She sneered in his direction. The bed dipped, something shifted, and Stella left, the door wide open in her absence and the cracked window letting in a cold draft. 

Stolas turned over in bed and tugged his blanket closer. He stared out the window, into the open night sky, and tried to sleep.

Blitzø

Small as he is, Stolas’ imp lover makes a fantastic pillow. He knows this fact no better than when he’s snuggled up close, like he is now, post-orgasm and thoroughly fucked-out, still warm and tingly. His cheek is pressed tightly against Blitzø’z chest. The assassin is propped up against the headboard of their wooden bedframe, one hand running through the feathers atop Stolas’ head in a soft, repetitive motion and the other nursing a cigarette. Stolas puts one hand up in a silent question and the cigarette is passed to him.

One puff later, it’s passed back, and the nicotine is filling Stolas’ head with a rush of dopamine, fuzzying his world and spinning the ground beneath him. He was already feeling a bit floaty before, and as he properly settles down onto Blitzø’s chest, enjoying the soft rumbling of purrs against him, he dips lower. Weight settles thick in the edges of his subconscious, bones aching down to their core. He lets himself go boneless, entirely unsupported, against the chest of his imp, eyes closed and beak turned upwards in the smallest of smiles. Distantly he can feel a hand reach up, petting his head so gently. Trilling, he leans into the touch, and lets out a low sigh, like a tired dog ready for a nap.

Stolas had his first - what research would come to teach him is called - “sub drop” with Blitzø a few months ago and, quite frankly, he had panicked. He never had one with Stella - never felt comfortable enough - so he had no idea what was happening, nor how to deal with it. Thankfully, Blitzø did - “I’m a man whore!” he had announced that night with a wide grin, which, despite Stolas feeling so out of control, like always , earned a hoot of a laugh out of the prince. 

It didn’t happen every time they slept together. Drops typically occur when Stolas is already stressed from other things, or in a particular headspace already. He still didn’t fully understand it, but he and Blitzø work better with it now.

All four of Stolas’ eyes are switching between being lidded and fully closed as he drifts, peacefully content under Blitzø’s repetitive pettings. After a few moments of silence, with Stolas slipping deeper and deeper into his mind, further from his body, he barely registers Blitzø ask, “You with me, baby?”

Stolas hums, but it’s an automatic response, and it earn an affectionate chuckle out of Blitzø. Something shifts in the sheets around them and Stolas is being lifted. A much smaller body than his carries him out of bed, into the bathroom, and places him on the toilet. He sways slightly, back and forth, as his brain swims between his ears, and Blitzø presses a gentle kiss to his forehead. Stolas leans into it like a cat boppings it’s owner and the imp laughs affectionately. 

A hand reaches out and gently cups Stolas’ face, thumb rubbing up and down his cheek in gentle, repetitive motions. The owl leans into that, too, all four eyes closed as a low trill emits from his throat. Blitz reaches his hand up and holds the other side of Stolas’ face, cradling him like a rose, a budding flower, something beautiful. The movement is so painfully soft, and he sighs, loudly and somewhat involuntarily. He’s rewarded yet another laugh, a tail wrapping around his upper calf for a fleeting moment, then unraveling. 

“Okay, okay, hold on. I gotta fill the tub and I can’t focus when you’re lookin’ all cute and shit.” 

Stolas just hums in response. Back and forth, back and forth he sways. 

As the water climbs, Blitzø rifles through their bathroom pantry, emerging with an armfull of variously colored bathing products. He has soaps and preening oils and shampoos and conditioners, all spilling out the corners of his arms. “What’d’you wanna smell like?” He asks, struggling to shift them around and then holding one up. Stolas doesn’t answer, so the imp picks one - “Fuckin ‘A Thousand Wishes’, whatever that means,” - and puts it by the tub. 

Using his tail to turn the knob off, Blitzø helps Stolas, still floating, still swaying, settle into the tub. 

The imp climbs in front of him, turning around to wash the avians’ front. He uses his size to climb around, slithering from Stolas’ front to his back with his forked tongue producing. He washes the prince down completely and repetitively. Quiet gives way to soft humming, a song Stolas doesn’t know but is now deeply in love with. The owl melts, boneless against the loofah rubbing up and down his back, knees, arms. Blitzø starts to purr again and Stolas slips ever further into the pit of his mind, sludging uselessly in the water. 

He hears, against his ear, a deep but gentle chuckle. “I gotcha, pretty bird.” Blitzø hums, and there his arms were, supporting Stolas’ lithe frame with ease in the gigantic bathtub. He continues to whisper soft words of encouragement and praise, riled on by the way Stolas’ neck feathers fluff. Chitters and hoots of contentment give way to low, bone-deep breathing, fatigue washing over his brain and body. Blitz is so comfortable.

He’s puddy, now, and Blitzø moves him with practiced ease and care. “There ya’ go, I gotcha’. Fuck, birdy baby, you were so sexy tonight. Did so good.”

Only when they’re both clean does Blitzø remove them from the bathtub and drain it, watching the water run down the pipes. He wraps Stolas up in the warmest, fluffiest towel they own and leads him back to their shared bed, laughing quietly at the way the bird stares at him, eyes lidded, barely there. He guides the prince underneath the covers and they settle there, snuggled together, bodies pressed close, as they breathe in each others presence. An imp tail wraps itself firmly around a feathered leg and uses the leverage to pull their bodies even closer, skin touching skin wherever possible.

Stolas cracks his eyes open and gazes upon Blitzø’s face, lose from sleep and the release of sex. Talons drift up and cup his lovers face, caressing his cheeks, right below his eyes. “How’re you feeling?” Stolas asks, voice riddled with sleepiness, satisfaction, and a low loss of control. Blitzø breathes low. 

“Fuckin’ awesome, Stols.”

Stolas lets out a low sound from the back of his throat, a mix between a hum and trill. “Allow me to take care of you, too.” He moves like his limbs are full of water and weight as he flips them, positioning Blitzø against his chest and enveloping him from behind. Since Stolas is so much bigger than Blitzø, he practically hides the other between the walls of his arms and the bedsheets. 

Stolas feels a small set of teeth nip playfully at his arm; not nearly hard enough to break skin, but enough to have him laughing with the air of a tickle. 

“We take care of each other, idiot.” Blitzø hums into the quiet between them, and it’s the last thing Stolas hears before he slips off to sleep, hooting and hugging his lover as close to his chest as he can manage.

3. Weight & Eating

Stella

Shockingly, Stolas did not want to be at that party. At all. 

Various Goetian royalty shuffled around him, dressed to the nines in their best attire. Personally, the prince thought them gaudy and obnoxious, but his own threads didn’t fare much better. Stella picked them out - they’re weren’t to his liking, but he was too tired with Via’s recent sleeping schedule to put up any sort of fight. His owlette had been twelve years old, then, but nightmares had been creeping their way back in to her young mind just the same as they did seven, eight years before.

Stolas rubbed at his eyes and took a glass of wine off of a passing waiters’ tray. Thoughts plagued his mind, but he didn’t have to drown in them if he didn’t want to. He could drown in alcohol, instead. Much more pleasant. 

The owl prince tipped the glass to his lips and let the fancy red swirl in his palette. His four eyes trailed, slowly, over to the table of finger foods laid out for the guests. His shoulders relaxed, if just a little. 

He hated these parties, truly dreaded them to his core. But, the one positive, without question, was the mice-on-a-skewer the family chef made. Oh, they were simply to die for. Stolas loved them, and as much as he despised this flaunt of wealth, his families obnoxious attitudes on full display, he always found a bit of comfort in knowing he would be able to eat one of his favorite meals of all time. They sat out at that party, just the same, perfectly cooked and the optimal shade of sizzled brown. He slid his cape towards the table to grab two- no, three. 

This night was horrific. He deserved it. 

Stolas gripped his - one already half eaten, and oh, goodness, are they better this year? Is that even possible? - three mice-on-a-skewer’s tightly, giving a solid attempt at hiding them behind his back as he moved. The prince makes his way back to the gathering of Goetia’s he had previously slipped away from. It wasn’t enough to simply show face - if he didn’t interact at these parties, Stella would get angry, and Stolas…didn’t want that.

He slid in right next to Stella, who was turned to her left, laughing loudly and obnoxiously with one of her cousins. Her dress flutters as she turns towards the movement, and her eyes immediately train on the two mice (and one empty stick) hidden half-heartedly behind his back. A smirk pulls at the edges of her mouth.

“Do you really need that many?” She sneered, and her cousin, who had turned towards Stolas as well when Stella shifted her gaze, smiled. Her husband turned and smiled at him as well, and suddenly, he feels trapped.

For a moment, anger swells in Stolas’ gut, in his brain, behind his beek. He lifts his hand as if to say something - and then lowers it, slowly. Glimpses of a door closing and a much smaller Via flashed through his head as he hummed, quietly, “It’s a compliment to the chef, dear!”

Stella rolled her eyes so hard Stolas worried they may pop right out of her head. “It’s certainly not a compliment to your body.” She turned to the group - a circle of ten Goetian royals, all looking at them, all looking at Stolas, and continued. “I mean, seriously - I watch him eat enough for fifteen fuckin’ people and he still looks like an emaciated stickbug!”

The group around them practically shakes the ball room with the force of their laughter. A few flat hands hit Stolas on the back, as if saying, C’mon, laugh! You know it’s funny!  

Stolas did laugh, but it was forced. A few moments later, he slipped away, and threw the two remaining mice into the trashcan near the entrance. He didn’t get any more. In fact, he didn’t eat any mice at all for three months after the party. 

Blitzø

Years later, Stolas is forced, entirely against his will, to attend the same party. Blitzø insists, upside down and sideways, that he attend as well, ignoring Stolas’ fair and repeated warnings of bigotry and general offensiveness. 

“You know,” Stolas hums to his lover from where they stand against a wall, well removed from the mingling body of party guests. “One of the only good things about these parties is being able to see you in a suit.” He picks mindlessly at the mini h’ourderves plate he had been handed by a walk-by waiter; namely, a puff-pastry dessert. “Well, that and the food.”

Blitzø whistles, looking up at Stolas with that mischievous glare, forked tongue poking out just a hair, and rumbles out, “Careful, birdie. I’m not above finding some rich pricks empty bedroom.” 

Stolas chuckles, slipping his thumb into the cream atop is food and then slipping the finger into his mouth, sucking while maintaining dead eye contact with his lover. He removes his thumb from his mouth with a pop and says, “Duly noted. Well, then I certainly wouldn’t want to mention how seeing you in a suit makes me want to suck the absolute soul out of your-”

“Prince Stolas!”

Both Stolas and Blitzø jump considerably, having leaned closer and closer to each other throughout the interaction and startled back apart by the noise. Blitzø grumbles, quite annoyed, while Stolas fixes his hat from falling off his head. 

“Hello, Uncle.” He hums, omitting a name, mostly because he couldn’t remember it.

“It’s been ages! How are you?” Stolas didn’t bother opening his beak to answer - the man would continue talking, anyways, because he didn’t care for an actual conversation. “I’ve been good - but I wanted to pull you over - I’ve heard about your new…proclivities!”

Stolas groans inwardly. This shit again. ‘You and Stella seemed so happy!’ becomes incredibly annoying, especially when you know it’s a complete lie. Everyone at this party knew how miserable that marriage was, they were simply mindlessly jealous because they couldn’t get out of their own miserable arrangements. It took Stolas a long time to realize that. 

The prince drifts away from his thoughts - his uncle is still talking, more at him than with him, anyway, so there’s no need for him to pay attention. His empty hands fiddle uselessly in front of him.

Stolas turns to say something to Blitzø - or silently ask the other to get them out of this conversation - when he’s faced with another mouse on a stick, inches away from his nose. Blitzø holds it out to him, absentmindedly taking a sip of his own, refilled drink as he hums, “You like these.”

Stolas can’t deny the blush on his face as he takes the stick from Blitzø’s hand. “Thank you, darling.” He hums, signing off the gesture with a soft kiss to the top of Blitzø’s head. His uncle sputters, finally drawn from his endless yabbering by the display of affection, and Blitzø’s face changes color to match his pink cocktail.

The owl prince was naive enough to think that his uncle would get annoyed, or disgusted, and leave after that. But the man always was a bit stupid. 

“I guess nothing’s changed, has it, Stolas?” The taller avian laughs as if he’s said one of the funniest things ever - as if Stolas should be laughing, too. His gaudy mustache bounces with the movement and Stolas wishes again that he had more alcohol in his cup. A few of his family members within close proximity have turned at the comment, and a few are giggling. 

Instinctively, he takes a half step backwards - so many eyes, so many eyes -  but then he feels, almost immediately, a familiar tail coil it’s way around his thigh. Blitzo is glowering by his side, fingers flexing at his side.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” The imp snaps, smaller by them by three feet yet baring his teeth and snarling his words as if they were equal. When Stolas looks closely at his lover's face, he sees anger - drawn eyebrows and a fire in his eyes. 

Stolas’ uncle gives the assassin an entirely unimpressed look out the corner of his eye, bushy mustache curling up to his nose with the sneer on his lip, then turns back to his nephew. “You’ve just always been a wonder, boy! Always stuffing your face,” Stolas subtly put the stick down, behind his back. Blitzø watches that with anger. “yet you never gain any weight! Stella said it best, she did!” The royal snorts with a laugh, actually reaching forward and poking Stolas’ side with his finger. The owl moves away from the touch sharply, but it burns into his side. “What did she call you again? An emaciated stickbug!”

Many of the royals around them barked out in laughter at this. More people were watching now, so many eyes, so many heads turning in his direction. The prince was already the laugh of the town - any excuse they had to look at him, to whisper amongst themselves in judgment was a respite from their own, sad lives. The owl’s hand reaches up and grips the fabric of his black dress shirt, bunching it in between his fingers and feeling the silk on his feathers. 

“-Stickbug!” Someone laughs. He thinks it’s his cousin, but he can’t be sure, because he hasn’t spoken to her in seven years and she probably looks different now. His heart is beating so loud, and he wonders if everyone else can see it too - if they can see the scars, the fear in his eyes when Stella raised her voice or her hands. 

Can they see right through him? Into his heart, into his soul? 

They’re still looking at him, laughing, whispering. Stella’s comment rings through his head and he tries to making himself smaller, but they’re all looking at him, just looking at him , and the eyes - 

“Okay, listen up, you fucking dustbags!” 

Stolas’ head snaps to the sound of that voice. Blitzø, to even the playing field, had climbed atop one of the nearby tables. He now glared down at the party guests, instead of up , tail whipping behind him angrily and fingers itching at the knife he had strapped to his thigh. Stolas had made him promise not to bring any heavy firearms, but he didn’t say he couldn’t bring a blade. He couldn’t kill these fuckers, even if the look on his face right now said that he was not happy about that fact.

“If I hear another one of you pathetic fucks saying something shitty about us, about Stolas , I will personally make sure you fucking regret it. ”

Someone in the crowd scoffs. “With what, your horns ?” They ask. Some others laugh. 

Blitzø flashes them a bright, wide smile, moving to brandish his weapon one fast flurry of movements. He points it near the man who spoke up, eyes narrowing. With a simple flick of the wrist and a steady breath outward, the knife flies forward, perfectly skimming the royals feathers before lodging itself into the wooden wall behind him. The man flies back, hand shooting up to check for blood, while Blitzø just smiles, wide and crazy. “With my professional assassin abilities, asshole. That knife won’t kill ya, sure, but it won’t feel good if it buries itself into your eye, will it? Quite frankly, you assoles fucking deserve it. An eye for an eye, or whatever. But I don’t feel like getting blood on my shirt tonight, because that “stickbug” over there is going to rip it off of me later with his sexy fucking arms and then I’m going to fuck his sexy fucking body. SO!,” He looks around the room, scanning the crowd. “Any more complaints?”

Silence. 

Blitzø hums, and nods. “Good. Now,” he hops down from the table and grabs Stolas’ hand, muttering “C’mon, pretty bird - this shit is fucking stupid anyways.” He brings the owl prince - whose following actively, but still confused - over to the table of appetizers. With wide arms he scoops up at least five or six mice-on-a-stick’s, flips off the royals, and waved with his hand for Stolas to open a portal. 

The prince does so, all while laughing. It starts as soft giggles when they’re stepping through the glowing doorway, into their front garden, tumbling right to the rim of the fountain. It becomes heavier after the portal ziiip s closed, leaving them alone in the quiet garden. The owl prince is…he doesn’t…he’s laughing, still, but he’s not very sure why, because there’s still a tight panic in his chest that hasn’t had time to uncoil yet. Limbs extend far as he collapses on the stone of their fountain, back slouching, shoulders falling, and the edges of his mind heavy. 

Blitzø sits next to him, laughing at first and then falling somber along with Stolas’ body language. “They had the funniest looks on their faces, Stols. Like,” he imitates the face, poorly, but it has Stolas hooting with laughter once again, gripping onto the stone to keep himself from tumbling into the trickling water below them. His brilliant lover goes through a few of his relatives - his uncle, his third cousin twice-removed, his father, each impression funnier and more ridiculous than the last. They were exaggerated at best, but Stolas could feel that knot unraveling around his heart, little by little, grip releasing. He breathes a little deeper.

The laughter dies down between them and Stolas twists his torso, dipping long fingers into the cool - almost cold - water of the fountain. Back and forth he swishes his hand, chittering quietly at how grounding the temperature was against his wrists, his palms. His heartbeat, which had been raging against his ears when they first stumbled onto their property, was only now beginning to calm. 

He wondered, distantly, why he had panicked like that. Perhaps he was truly out of practice with Goetian Royalty bullshit. 

“Those assholes always treat you like that?”

“Hm?” Stolas turns back to his darling, “Ah, usually, yes. I don’t see them often nowadays, so it doesn’t bother me.” He removes his hand from the water and tucks it neatly into his lap. It’s cold.

“But you did. When you were married to Stella.”

The sudden name drop of his ex-wife has Stolas a bit quiet, sitting up and crossing his hands over his lap. Two years now, he thinks distantly. Two years of actual happiness. 

After a few moments, he hums again, “Yes, I did.”

“And she would say shit about you? In front of others?”

“I suppose, occasionally. Octavia was never there - it was never that big of a deal.”

Blitzø blanches at him for a moment. “Baby, we’ve been over this. Your wife of fifteen years treating you that goddamn shitty is absolutely that big of a deal . ”

“I- simply meant that Octavia wasn’t hurt.”

“Well, sure, that’s good. What about you?”

“What?”

“ What about you?” Blitzø leans in, tail flicking behind his body in the way Stolas loves so much. He only lets himself follow it with his eyes for a moment before he focuses back on Blitzø’s face, close to him, serious. 

“I suppose I didn’t… love it when she did that in front of other people. She was bad to me, Blitzø, but y ou’re not . So I’m okay, now. Really.” He reaches out a hand, cupping and lightly scratching Blitzø’s cheek. The imp leans into it, tail moving to wrap around the others wrist instead instead of wagging, anchoring him close. Soft purrs fill the night air around them, complimenting the flow of water from the fountain, and Stolas is galaxies more comfortable here than he ever was at that stuffy gathering. 

“Still.” Blitzø murmurs against the feathers on Stolas’ palm. He turns his face and presses a kiss there, then nuzzles into it again. “There’s shit that happened to me a long time ago. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t effect me anymore.”

Stolas scratches behind the other’s ear to hear the purring again. He’s rewarded accordingly. “All we can do is make better memories together, dearest. And, personally, I think we’re doing an exceptional job at that.”

Blitzø smiles widely, mischievously. “Oh yeah, pretty bird~? Well, we can go inside, and make some even better ones. ”

Stolas shudders, a low hoot careening with the feathers down his neck. “Oh, Blitzy~...please…”

Blitzø’s smile only widens and it goes right to Stolas’ crotch, his arms finding their way to loop around his lovers’ neck and pull him ever closer. The other’s hand find purchase at his waist like they below there, squeezing him, pressing their bodies so that no space existed between them. They breathed lightly upon each others lips for a few moments before connecting and kissing, lazily, gently, with the sounds of the fountain behind them. There’s heat in their passion, a promise of what’s to come, but it isn’t rushed. They have time, and they both finally know that.

“C’mon then, baby.” Blitzo pulls away slowly, smiling at the way the bird prince chases his lips, misses their presence. He reaches up and drags his left thumb across Stolas’ lower lip, catching a little bit of spit there, then quickly catching his chin and tilting his head up. “Let’s go inside. We’re going to…” Blitzø leans forward suddenly and scoops Stolas up, one hand between his shoulder blades and the other tucked underneath his ridiculously long knees. It’s awkward, considering their size difference, but Stolas’ squeals and throws his arms around his imp’s neck just the same. Blitzo stands tall and proud, a stupid smile on his face as he declares,“watch a movie and eat some mice!”

Stolas stares at him. Blitzø pauses, then continues, “Well, you can eat some mice. I’ll make some popcorn and I’m good with that.”

“...You torture me, darling.”

“Oh, please. We’ll bone after the movie, you horndog.”

“...Alright. I’m okay with this arrangement, then.”

“...Does it have to be Spirit again?”

4. Childbearing

Stella

Stolas laid on the bed. He thought of nothing and felt nothing. It’s month three - perhaps four - of them trying for Via. Nothing was taking. Every egg Stella had laid turned out infertile and no change, no new position, no new method helped them fix the problem. Nothing worked .

The world spun and Stolas felt another needle, the trademark sharp and sudden sting in his neck, sink into his skin and pump into his veins. All four of his eyes watered and blurred and the room around him swam again, just like it had been for the past…day. Two days. He wasn’t sure.

A hand grabbed a fistful of his head feathers and hoisted him up. The movement nearly had him vomiting, but he swallowed it back down. Silence persisted for a few moments - he couldn’t see anything, could only make out a blurry mess of lights and shapes - before he felt the push of air against his ear. 

“You will get in trouble if we cannot do this.” Stella whispered, inches away from him. “ I will get in trouble if you cannot do this. Paimon demands it of us, Stolas - stop fucking it all up!” She shoved his head down sharply, but the pillows made the impact light. 

He didn’t need to turn to see the fear in her eyes - he could hear it in her voice, in the slight shudder, in the nervousness of her steps. “We are going to keep doing this until you can figure it the fuck out .”

They continued for the rest of the night. They both cried.

Blitzø

The beeping of trucks and people swearing amongst the stretching city buildings outside of his bedroom balcony sets the mood of Stolas’ smoke tonight. The cigarette ash falls onto the perfectly white banister and he swipes it away with two fingers, watching the smudge of black it leaves. He takes another drag and is rewarded with the slightest of buzz in the corners of his mind and the tips of his fingertips, nicotine filling his brain, scrambling his neurons.

This balcony has such strange associations for him. For years, it was a place he would escape to when everything inside the palace became too much. The owl prince would read stories to young Octavia here and would be yelled at, slapped across the face here by his ex-wife. He kicked her out, right here, caught her hand with one of the strongest acts of defiance he had dared exhibit in years.

Breathe in, breathe out. The smoke dances across the air in front of him, stretching up towards the skyline of the bright city. 

The soft, slow crreeeaakkk of the balcony door snaps him out of his thoughts and he turns to smile at Blitzø. The imp steps onto the balcony, closes the door behind him, and holds out his hand expectantly as he walks up to the owl. With an affectionate laugh, Stolas hands the cigarette over and watches, leaning on one hand, as his lover takes a deep inhale. 

“The girls are staying up to watch a horror movie.” Blitzø hums, tapping the cigarette the side of the railing before handing it back to Stolas, who hums in acknowledgment as he takes it. “Via seemed all excited about it so I rented them a copy while we were out.”

Stolas smiles and nods. “Oh, that’s lovely! None of us have anything to get up for tomorrow, so I’m sure they’ll be awake until the flames rise.” He waves his hand towards Blitzø, whose feet are immediately engulfed in the gentle, blue glow of Stolas’ warm magic. The assassin laughs, never quite used to the feeling, as he begins to meditate above the ground. He floats just high enough to be level with his husband, gazing well over the railing and towards the beeping screeches of the city. 

Long ago, Stolas had installed a physical platform, but Blitzø had complained that he hated “needin’ a fuckin’ booster seat!”, so Stolas got rid of it. 

The imp in question leans forward and rests his chin upon his hand, seemingly lost in the few for a few, stretching seconds. “Y’know, something ridiculously cute happened at the mall today. We were walking and there was this fuckin’ adorable kid and his Mom, and she was standin’ by the couches and he was- he was learning how to walk, I guess. Loonie and Via were totally staring and the Mom noticed and she, like, ushered them over and let ‘em help the kid. They were holding his hand and he was so small and it was- here, I got a video-” 

Blitzø fumbles for his phone, producing it from his pocket, using his face ID, and quickly swiping to open his pictures. He scrolls past the horse or two he found on Pinterest while he was waiting for the girls to pick their clothes at Hot Topic and settles on the video he took, showing it to Stolas. They both audibly “Awwee” as they watch their daughters - filmed shakily, of course, because it’s Blitzø - lead a small, stumbling, half-imp half-hellhound hybrid through his shaky toddler steps. Via steps away for a moment, and the baby quickly follows her to the other side of the screen, making, what Loona calls loudly, “Grabby hands!”. 

Stolas feels like he could melt. “Oh, darling, that’s just precious.” He coos, leaning into his husbands proximity, his body warmth. The video replays and they watch again in silence, both smiling, as the baby takes his steps and their daughters fuss. The child is so cute. He’s small - smaller than Via was at that age - and his impish features are only just beginning to show, small lumps upon the top of his head a sign of horns to come.

Stolas stares at those lumps. And stares. And stares. His eyes trail to the childs tail, imp in nature and curling around himself, his own legs, too excited to sit still. Then, he looks at the mother - her beaming smile, her radiating kindness. She looks so happy .

Something heavy, all of a sudden, settles into his chest as he watches Blitzø, still laughing, tuck his phone back into his pocket. “The girls totally loved it, too. Like, y’know - they were grumbling less than usual, so...” He waves his hand in a “Duh!” gesture, before returning to gazing out over the city. A soft smile still graces his lips - one Stolas didn’t know for the first year or so they knew each other.

For a few long moments, silence stretches between them, the only background sound being the noises of a nearby city and the softer, gentler trickling of the mansions’ familiar fountain. 

Something bubbles within Stolas’ chest. His beak opens, then closes, then opens again. A dam in him, well-fortified against cracks, was rumbling, and for once, he felt mildly less afraid of the oncoming flood.

“...Y’know, I could, uhm..” He clears his throat and looks outwards, purposefully not at Blitzø, anywhere but Blitzo. A car horn beeps in the distance. “I could bear us a-a child. If we so wanted.”

Silence. 

“...What?” then, “What the fuck, wait, what ?”, then “You can d o what ?”

Stolas takes a deep breath in, then a deep breath out, and rings his hands together where they are, resting atop the balcony railing. “I…there is a spell Goetian males are able to cast that-that essentially creates a womb out of magic and makes it possible for us to carry. It is rarely used, and when it is, families often hide this fact and claim the female counterpart of the relationship produced the egg. But it is not…” his eyes shift leftward and his fingers grip around the wood of their porch railing. “Unheard of.”

Blitzø, for lack of a better word, gawks at him. His mouth hangs slightly open and his eyebrows are high as he asks, slowly, “You knew about this, and you never told me?”

“Of course I knew, darling. I, well…” he takes a deep breath in. The metal of his wedding ring sits heavy upon his finger and he feels, not for the first time, like a traitor. “I carried Via, after all.”

Blitzø needs to be brought a chair from the inside of their bedroom. 

Only once he’s seated comfortably and not about to lose his shit does he gesture for Stolas to “Fuckin, continue , please.” For all intensive purposes, it’s said a lot softer than Stolas really expected it to be.

Stolas explains that Stella never inseminated. They tried for six months straight, and despite it being the worst six months of Stolas’ life, it amounted to absolutely nothing . Every egg was infertile and no Raising Fledglings book was helping. Time had been closing in on them - Paimon expected a precautionary heir from every marriage within a year of I do , and Stolas was nearly nineteen. 

In the end, the decision had been made for him - he notices the way Blitzø’s face scrunches at the wording but he doesn’t interrupt and Stolas appreciates that - and the spell had been cast, allowing him to become gravid. He laid a fertile egg almost immediately. He was loopy and drugged and spent most of it barely conscious, but he remembers pain. He remarks, guilt swarming his eyes, that he was shocked Octavia didn’t come out with resulting complications from whatever toxins were in his system at the time. Perhaps his magic protected her. 

“Jesus…fucking Christ.” Is all Blitzo can say, after a couple of moments. Stolas has had his back to him while he was talking, choosing to gaze out over the palace garden and grip the railing for dear life instead of watch his lovers facial reactions. He doesn’t know what that particularly response means, but he gives a quiet laugh to it all the same. 

“Yes.” he agrees, softly. “Jesus fucking Christ indeed.”

Silence. Talons tighten their grip on the wooden varnish, dragging lines across it, and the avian prince can practically feel his heart beating in his chest. He isn’t afraid of rejectionor repulsion - the ring that sits on his fingers reminds him daily that Blitzo is very much not like Stella.

No, he knows this news will only make Blitzo mad at Stella, not him. 

There hasn’t been any movement behind him for a few long moments now and the owl finds himself saying, rather quickly, like he has to fill the space of silence, “It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you. I just-”

A tail wraps around his wrist and pulls him down, suddenly. He’s wrapped up in Blitzo’s arms. Tears are running down his face, and the sudden movement makes him acutely aware of their cold tracks on his cheeks - when did he start crying?

All the two do for a few, long moments is hold each other. Blitzo’s arms have looped around Stolas’ neck, keeping him close and running a hand up and down the back of his head. Stolas’ face is pressed right against the imp’s chest and the owl takes a moment to breath in, breath out, revelling in Blitzo’s scent, his proximity.

Breath in, breath out. “Okay.” Blitzo says, slowly, leaning back. When Stolas gets a good look at his lovers face, awash in the moonlight, he has to try not to gasp, because Blitzo has watery eyes and damp cheeks to match his husbands. Was Blitzo crying, too?

They lean away from each other and Blitzø swipes at his under-eyes with the base of his arm. “So - so Stella got you pregnant?” He asks, voice shaking a little, eyes still confused.

Stolas looks to the side. “No. Stella is not Via’s mother - not biologically. It would crush her to know that and I- I’ve never had the strength.”

Blitzø blinks. “So wait. Whose the father? Who-” His eyes widen, and he stares at Stolas, slowly, his eyebrows knitting closer and closer together. “Some guy - you - Stolas, what the fuck ? That’s so- what the fuck ??”

Stolas waves his hand because tears are coming up again and it’s all he can think to do. “I-I would rather not linger on the details. I’ve been healing from it for over twenty years now, I-”

“What the fuck?” Is all Blitzo can say - and he repeats it a few times after, too, just for good measure. The seat is being on-and-off used, because Blitzo keeps getting up, pacing, sitting back down, and then pacing again. His eyebrows are furrowed but his eyes are soft, and Stolas can’t tell if he’s more angry or upset. Probably both.

The imp sits back down again and rests his head in both of his hands. “This - is horrible, Stolas. What the fuck?” He looks up at the other and the prince would be more surprised at the look in Blitzo’s eyes if he hadn’t seen the tears earlier. He looks sad , desperate, upset to his bones.

“Why have you never told me?” The tone Blitzø uses, thankfully, isn’t sharp - isn’t mean. It’s curious and soft and a little desperate - desperate to understand, to help. “We’ve been together for four years , Stols. We’re married. ”

The owl realizes he’s hugging himself, arms wrapped tightly around his middle and torso. He squeezes a little harder. “I despise talking or thinking about it, to be honest with you. If I- don’t talk about it, maybe it’ll feel less real. And, more than that-” he looks towards his house, where his precious daughters are awake, bonding, “I dread the idea of Octavia seeing herself as a burden, or a-a mistake in my past. I adore her so wholeheartedly, but the ways in which she came into my life were…were-” 

A hand reaches out and takes Stolas’, intertwining their fingers and squeezing gently. The touch grounds him, and the owl reaches his other hand up to run through his hair, parting it and undoing some lingering tangles. 

“I get it. I’m not mad. I guess - I mean, it hurts, a little, but I understand your reasoning. I didn’t tell you about-” he swallows, “the circus until, like, a year ago, or somethin’.” 

Stolas sighs as his lovers hand trails up to cup his face, turning it to the side to kiss him quickly and gently. The avian returns the gesture with a smile. “I can’t lie, darling. When I see children, sometimes, I simply..” he fiddles with the side of Blitzø’s shirt collar, running soft finger feathers over expensive material. Looking at the wrinkles is easier. “I want . Perhaps it would be nice to try again! I love Via - more than words can express do I love both our daughters.” he feels guilt swell as he looks to the side, “But I also want, perhaps selfishly, a fertility period that I could enjoy. Plus..” His cheeks burn with a light blush, “I’ve been getting baby fever, sometimes. Imp children are simply…the cutest thing I have ever seen, ever .”

The mood from before has dissipated, if slightly, because Blitzø barks a laugh at that and rises to his feet. With a wave of a feathered hand Blitzø is floating again, rising up to meet his lover and kissing his lips, his cheeks, his forehead. 

“Can’t lie, Stols, that kid at the mall today was totally makin’ me think about us.” he smiles lowly, evenly, and leans forward, pressing a slow, biting kiss to the skin at Stolas’ neck. His husband groans and whimpers from the back of his throat, arms looping around the other's neck and dragging him impossibly closer. Their body heats mix as Stolas turns, placing his lover's rump on the railing and slotting himself in between two imp legs. The lovers pull apart and smile at one another, eyes swimming with love and the moon reflecting bright across their wedding bands. Fingers intertwine with fingers and metal clinks against metal.

“I’m open to the idea of trying.” Blitzø hums gently, allowing their foreheads to press together once more and staying there. “We need to talk more, and plan shit out, and right now I kinda just want to fuck and cuddle, if that’s okay. But I-I feel like we could do it. We could be,” he swallows and looks to the side, some emotion burning his cheeks bright, “parents. The two of us. Together.”

They’re hugging again, body heat pressed close together, lips finding lips like it’s instinct. Stolas is emotional, again, but he isn’t crying now - he has no reason to. Still, Blitzø’s fingers burying into the feathers on the back of his head and pulling him ever closer makes him shake just a little bit harder. 

“That’s okay. We don’t need to make any fast decisions, darling.” Stolas hums through his feelings, resting his head upon the imp’s horns and resting there. Despite the hard material, he always finds his position quite comfortable, and it’s made better by Blitzø pressed close to his chest and his purring lightly in the night air. There’s a soft breeze. 

“...What would you want to name them?”

“I just said we didn’t have to make any decisions, my love.”

“Sure, but just, like, hypothetically .”

“...I like Cassiopeia, or Cassie, for short. But it’s a little silly.”

“No, I like it! Cassie is cute! She can be Cas for short but then people may think we like fuckin’ Supernatural or something.”

“Super-what?”

“It’s an Earth thing. It’s weird. I like Misty!”

“...You’re just saying that because of the horse.”

“So?”

Stolas laughs, and holds his lover close, and smiles until his cheeks hurt. They stay up late that night, testing the limits of a new spell - Blitzo was kind of excited, now, and didn’t want to wait after all - and burning with the brightest love the whole time. 

When they fall asleep, wrapped around each other, Stolas is smiling, thinking of the mice he’ll make himself for breakfast, come morning.

5. Fighting

Stella

The fight had been over something incredibly silly - as they so often were. That morning, Stella had stomped into Stolas’ room - they were sleeping separately, now - and told him that they were visiting her brother, Andrealphus, in an hour. 

Stolas hated Andrealphus. Being around his brother-in-law sent the prince into a full-blown panic attack in the early days after Octavia’s conception. It had been a real bother to excuse his sudden outbursts and frequent trips to the bathroom in front of his families prying eyes, and Stella didn’t exactly work to make it easier for him. 

It was mildly better now, if not only because this marriage trained Stolas on how to expertly hide those kinds of fears and emotions. From the moment he was told about the impromptu lunch, he knew he had no sort of say in it, so all he did was hum, give his starfire a kiss on the cheek, and remove himself to get changed. 

And, well, that’s where the fight started. Stolas had slipped on something nice - simple pants and a shirt he didn’t totally hate. Apparently, though, Stella DID hate that shirt, and Lord knows she made that opinion known.

“Change. Now. That top is hideous .”

Stolas liked that shirt. He liked it a lot. In fact, looking in the mirror, it was the only part of the reflection that he didn’t hate right now. Eye bags hung heavy underneath his eyelids and his shoulders sat slouched, lowset, defeated. 

Octavia’s raising was mostly falling onto him - which, quite frankly, was fine. He was so head-over-heels in love with his daughter that he trusted himself more than he did Stella, even if being a father for a life so little was still…mind-numbingly terrifying.

Love his daughter as he does - and he does, fiercly - raising her was hard. He was tired, down to his bones, and if Stella was going to force him to spend the one day he may have spent taking a nap or reading with ethe man who-...

He was going to wear something comfy. He told her such. 

“What?” His wife’s eyes flashed with anger and Stolas had half the mind in him to take a precautionary step back. “Why do you fight me on everything, Stolas? Why are so stubborn?” 

Stolas snapped. “Me, stubborn? Are you being sarcastic ? I give into everything you ask! I fight you on nothing! You’re angry because I won’t change my outfit for a casual lunch with your brother, whom you hired, against my will, to conceive Via with me!” His hands ball into fists where they rest against the smooth wood of his bedroom vanity. “I will not change!”

They screamed at each other. Stella left. A month passed.

Octavia is only five and every morning when she awakens and asks for her mom, quiet voice croaking “Is Mommy home yet?”, Stolas felt a spear of guilt impale him. 

He had been so selfish. If Stella has gone for good because he thought it worthy to pick a fight, and his own actions had left Octavia without a mother…he didn’t know how he would cope with that, that grief, that guilt. His owlette needed her mother - as much as he hated the woman, had truly learned to despise her, he would hate himself ever more if he left his darling girl without a Mom.

When Via asked, every morning, he told her that her mother left for a temporary trip. He couldn’t look her in the eyes while he said it, but he did pet her hair with a gentle motion.

Thankfully, Stella did, eventually, come back. It was 4:39pm on a random Tuesday, a little over five weeks after she left, and she entered with no knock, no announcement - like nothing had occurred, like she had been gone for hours. Via caught news of her mothers return and barrelled into her arms, squealing with happiness and peppering her cheek with kisses. 

Stolas was angry. He was so, mind-numbingly angry. Stella did not get to leave, to abandon their family like that when Stolas had sat through so much of her abuse, just for the sake of that little girl. She shouldn’t get to hurt their daughter and return as if nothing happened, to a celebration. He was so, so angry, he could barely breathe.

He welcomed her back with a short “Hello, Stella” and said nothing else on the matter.

Blitzø

Fuck. The pillow is getting wet. Stolas turns over. 

The window to his and Blitzø’s bedroom is open just a crack, a soft breeze ruffling the dark, flowing curtains. The owl prince sighs and flicks his wrist, using his magic to float another box of tissues in his direction. He lets them fall uselessly onto the bed. 

He’d fought with Blitzo a few hours ago, now. Stolas had supposed to pick Loona up at the IMP and take her to a doctors appointment. No shots, thankfully - a checkup. But it was mutually agreed that Stolas would get her better care if he was the one that took her, based on status alone, and he had quickly agreed to the plan. But then he didn’t show. 

Blitzo had been especially mad during the subsequent fight - things relating to his daughter tended to do that, and Stolas understood - really, he did. The real issue arose when Blitzø would. not. stop. talking. over. him. Every time Stolas opened his mouth, tried to explain his side and why he and Via had never arrived at the office, he was spoken over. Blitzø’s anger barrels it’s way through any logical conversation they could’ve had and it leaves Stolas frustrated.

Perhaps, if the owl prince felt a bit more in control of his emotions lately, the fight would not have upset him quite as much. Blitzø and him had fought before - the ring on his finger, reflecting in the soft moonlight shining in through the portal in the corner, is a sure testament to that fact. So why did this one hurt so bad? Stolas likes to think that he handles it a lot better nowadays in comparison to how he did at the beginning of their relationship, but now he isn’t quite so sure. Stress has been piling lately and it feels like the fight was just a cherry on top, the pebble added atop structure ready to fall. He feels… drained . Emotional. Why is he so emotional?

He doesn’t want to be, but he’s here, laid in bed, wrapped up in the sheets, and sniffling away poorly concealed tears. It’s not like the imp hadn’t had his own issues and stressors as of late. I.M.P.’s business had been booming, which was amazing news, but it also meant his husband was out a lot of late nights, and topside more days than he wasn’t. The extra hours, paperwork, and kills had been taking it out of the assassin and Stolas hadn’t meant to make something else harder for him. Is that why Blitzo is so mad? The avian closes his eyes, tightly, and imagines himself as Blitzo - overworked, frustrated, exhausted, and then let down by one of the only people you trust, who doesn’t show when you need him too. 

His insides curdle and he turns, curling himself into a ball upon the silken sheets. Tears bubble up in his eyes and press paths down the feathers of his face.

What if Blitzø leaves? What if he gets mad enough and doesn’t come back? What if-

The bird pushes himself up, allowing the cover atop his body to naturally fall around him. With a flick of his wrist, the tissues move themselves into a nearby trashcan, and with a groan he pulls himself upward, repeating the same motion to make the bed. He travels to their bathroom on tired feet and washes his face, splotchy and red with tears. Each step of skincare is performed robotically, arms moving while his head repeats what he said - what he could’ve worded better. Makeup is re-applied in a similar fashion, charcoal black framing his eyes by a mechanical hand, mind unfocused. 

Blitzø had yelled at him. Perhaps he deserved it - he was the one who failed to pick up Loona, even though he had promised to. He had tried to tell Blitzø why that had happened - another assassination attempt from his surly ex-wife, this time targeting him and their daughter.

That was a whole other can of worms and even going near it brings a dull ache behind his eyebrow. That assassin coming out of nowhere at the mall was a wake-up call at how his family, even now, is still woefully unsafe. Because of him, because of the targets on his back. 

That thought brings more tears to his eyes, so he swallows thickly, bites his tongue until the tears dry out of his eyes, and applies his mascara. 

On numb legs he carries himself out of the bathroom and down the hallway. Via is asleep in her bed upstairs, choosing to nap after the trauma of today, and Stolas can’t help but check - again - to make sure she’s still there. She is, eyes closed, blanket moving up and down with her breaths. Satisfied, he clicks her door shut, and moves next door, to his eldest daughter. Loona is awake and here, now - she had properly missed her appointment earlier, after all. She’s sitting at her desk, one hand scrolling aimlessly through her phone and the other supporting her head. She glances up when he enters, but doesn’t yell or kick or snap “Not now, get the fuck out!”, which is a positive. 

“Hello, dear.” Stolas swallows thickly. He’s suddenly nervous.

“Hey.” She looked up at him, and the look on her face is…difficult to read. Perhaps “not as annoyed” was a proper way to describe it. “I heard about what happened. You okay?”

“Oh- yes, sweetheart. I’m quite alright. Via is too, if not a little shaken.” 

“Oh, I know. I talked to Via when I got home.”

Stolas walks over, sitting down on the end of Loona’s bed and running his flat palm absentmindedly down the thick blanket - a Sinsmas gift. “I want to apologize. For earlier. I’m-” he fiddles one of the ties on his robe, instead, “I know you were expecting me, at I.M.P. today, and I’m so very sorry I never showed up. I can’t imagine how you felt, sitting there and waiting for me. I’m so deeply sorry if I made you feel abandoned with my absense, and that you missed the appointment because of my own follies. I will try and reschedule one as soon as possible - I’ve already planned to call tomorrow.”

Loona blinks at him. Even if they aren’t related, she looks shockingly like Blitzø when she stares at him like that. “You’re joking, right?”

The words surprise Stolas. “I’m not.” He shakes his head. “I would never joke about leaving you or disappointing you, dearest. I am truly sorry.”

“Stolas, you got attacked . Why the fuck would I be mad at you about that?”

The owl picked at the thread that ran free from the rest of the blanket. “Well, I still neglected to pick you up. And you didn’t know what was going on, so I’m sure you were confused, and felt abandoned.”

“I mean- sure, I was confused, ‘cause you never drop the ball on shit like that. So I kinda assumed something sorta fuckin’ important had come up.”

All Stolas can do is hum. That familiar pull of exhaustion creeps into his mind, tugging at the edges of it, like he’s been up for a week straight and all his body wants is a warm bed and a soft pillow. Four eyes trail towards the window to Loona’s bedroom, slightly open to let in a breeze, and his eyes trace the sky outside for a few moments. 

“…Listen, Stolas. My dad-“ Loona looks to the side, suddenly very interested in the wall, “-he just…he’s like that sometimes. He loves you, like, a fuckin’ lot. So if he’s being stupid, he’ll come around. Just give ‘im time. Even if he doesn’t always deserve it.” She mumbles the last part.

The prince turns towards his eldest daughter and gives her a gentle, tired smile. Leaning forward, he presses a kiss to her crown of her head, one that has Loona batting him away with half-seriousness in her waving hits. “Thank you, darling. You always say exactly what I need to hear.”

Loona grunts. “Yeah, whatever.” In seconds, her nose is back in her phone, and Stolas lifts himself off her bed, bidding her a gentle goodnight. 

When he leaves the room, he lets the door click behind him, quietly - and all at once the mansion feels entirely too quiet once again. The halls are devoid of Blitzø’s usual yelling, all of the staff have gone home for the night, and both kids were in their rooms, retired for some alone time. It’s quiet.

There’s a small plant - just a teenager still, ever-growing (right out of her pot), that Stolas placed right in between his daughters’ two rooms. The little thing framed the space nicely, and a wide window lining the east hallway awashed it in the perfect amount of sunshine for it’s sprouting body. The owl prince stops, now, smiling down at the green creature as she keens her head up to see him, be closer to him. He chuckles gently and kneels, reaching out a hand to pet the little thing on her head, her leaves. This plant is particularly affectionate - it’s the breed - and she leans into the touch, wriggling and reacting. 

For just a moment, the weight on Stolas’ shoulders feels a little lighter. “Would you like to come with me?” He asks the sprout sweetly, and it wriggles in reaction to his voice. The avian scoops up the clay pot - painted with an extravagent “Starry Night” rendition, by Via - and makes his way back to his room. “Perhaps you can keep me company.” he says, gently, and he’s reminded, for a moment, of years past.

He shakes the thought away.

Stolas makes his way back to their bedroom. He may as well read, or do something else to occupy his time that isn’t crying or replaying the argument to pinpoint exactly what hurt and why. It wasn’t helpful for his mental space, he knows, but he also didn’t have a good first example in the whole “healthy romance” department. He reaches out and wraps a hand - his ringed hand - around their bedroom door, pushing it open. 

There, sitting on their bed, was Blitzø, shuffling through the covers as if he was looking for something. The lump in the bed where his body pokes up shuffles to the left, then to the right, light grumbling and mutters of “stupid, stupid-” muffled under the cover of the duvet. 

The creaking of the door hinges as Stolas pushes it just a little further open alerts the imp to his presence and Stolas watches as sheets freeze, then ruffle with a vengeance, shifting to the left and right before falling to the side and revealing a disheveled-looking imp. Wide, black eyes stare at him, blinking, and they just sort of stare at each other for a few long momets. Stolas opens his beak to say something - anything, to fix it, to apologize - when Blitzø is, with an entire lack of grace, stumbling off the edge of the bed.

“Darling!” The owl prince cries at the resounding THWACK of Blitzø’s head and horns colliding with their wood flooring. The imp scrambles to get his feet underneath himself, limbs flying as he stands back up and desperately brushes down his suit and torso.

“Fine, I’m fine!” He cries, and fixes the other with a look that seems…upset? Angry? Conflicted? “But you! Loona texted me and- I didn’t fucking know Striker came back!”

Something in Stolas’ face changed. Tilted eyebrows and soft, tear-dotted eyes raised slightly and he huffed, not without anger, “Well, you didn’t let me say anything in between yelling at me, so I never got to tell you!”

That had Blitzø closing his mouth, taking a guilty, half-step backward. Immediately Stolas feels the sting of regret tighten around his neck, the cold breath of a door closing, of an empty bed. He’s talking, rather quickly, before he really has the chance to think about it - “Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”

“No, no, I-” Blitzo stops, and sighs, a hand half-raised in a gesture falling raising to run down his face instead. Eyebrows knit together and a heavy expression settles between his eyes, his eyebrows, the thin line of his lips. “Fuck, Stols, I’m sorry . I was a total dick. I was stressed and I took it out on you and didn’t let you explain and I just…” He trails off, eyes downturned, still refusing to meet Stolas’. 

The bird himself is listening intently, standing at the front door, his little plant grasped tightly in his hands. The little thing rubs against his hand and he feels himself relax, just slightly.

A reflexive smile flashes across his face before he really has the mental power, or processing time, to stop it. “I know you didn’t mean badly, Blitzy. And I made my own mistakes, too -  should’ve called or texted you for help. Instead I was determined to handle everything myself, and put myself and Via in danger in the process. Never mind poor Loona sitting and waiting for an hour. It’s okay, really - I forgive you if you forgive me.”

Blitzo meets his eyes, and all at once, Stolas is filled with a sort of fear . Blitzo doesn’t look happy - he doesn’t look relieved, or content. He still has that look on his face - knitted eyebrows and lips drawn all wrong and tight and fingers grasping like they don’t know where to rest, what to grab. For some reason, the expression lights a sort of fire within Stolas, and feels panic bubble lightly below his chest, in his ribcage. What if Blitzo left?

The other sees right through him, yellow eyes boring into his and narrowing in an accusatory glare. “You don’t have to forgive me that fast. I don’t- I- fuck, I’m bad at this.”

Like the transparent wings of a butterfly, Blitzo sees right througb him without even having to try. Maybe it’s the five years of courtship under their belt; maybe it’s the lifetime of having known each other.

Regardless, it doesn’t stop Stolas from the sudden wave of nausea that rolls over him. “Not to distract, Blitzy, but I do think I need to sit down for a second.”

He reaches out to hold the bannister of the bed - just in case, he didn’t feel like he was going down quite yet - but he’s surprised with Blitzo, instead, holding his hand and guiding him over to the soft - now unmade - sheets of their bed. Only after Stolas is sitting does Blitzo let go of him, plopping down to take a seat next to them.

For a few moments, they sit in silence. Stolas’ fingers twitch against the satin below him.

“Once,” he hums, slowly, into the darkness of the bedroom. “Stella and I got into a fight, when Via was quite young - six or seven, maybe smaller. I don’t remember what it was about. A shirt, I believe. I got mad at Stella, which I rarely did, and she left. She didn’t come back for a month and I wholeheartedly believed I had chased my daughters’ mother away from her daughter, that I had left Via without a Mom.”

Long legs come up and tuck directly underneath Stolas’ chin, longer arms wrapping around to keep them in place. “I know you’re not her.” he whispers, and he hates that he has to verify that, hates that it’s a problem to be highlighted, “but I just - get frighted. That if I don’t forgive you fast enough, you’ll leave, and I won’t see you again.” 

“Oh, fuck, Stols-” arms wrap around his middle, tugging him down, and then, once he’s within proper reach, re-wrap around his neck. The avian prince is pulled into a proper hug and a hand, soft and gentle so unlike an assassin, find and intertwine into the feathers on the back of his head. The extra leverage is used to push themselves ever closer, and Stolas sinks into his husbands warmth. “I’m sorry. Fuck . I know I could scream it from the rooftops, but fuck that bitch and her stupid manipulative bullshit.”

Stolas laughs, quietly, wetly. He didn’t realize he began crying and he’s hit, once again, with how strangely emotional he feels. This fight has left him positively exhausted, he’s crying talking about things that happened twenty years ago now, and he just feels…raw.

Oh well. It’s probably nothing.

His lovers warm words, low and close to his ears, bring him back. “I may leave to blow off steam - I can’t promise I won’t want to get out of the house to clear my head, and I know that’s not what you want, anyways. But Stolas - listen to me.” Blitzo reaches forward and cups Stolas’ hand, one cheek cupped in each palm, and forces their eyes to meet. It’s painfully romantic - right out of one of his soap operas. “I will never leave and I will always come back. There’s no way in hell I’m leaving unless you want me gone, and even then you’d probably have a hard fuckin’ time. Okay?”

Stolas leans back, slowly, and wipes his tears elegantly with the curve of his wrist. “Okay.” he whispers, exhaustion seeping into his voice. His plant - held delicately in his lap and rubbing her little face up and down his face for comfort up until this point - is placed, gently, on the bedside table, and given a pat on the head. Stolas sits back, then lays down, and Blitzo follows, both demons on their sides and facing each other. 

“So?” Blitzo asks, gently, “Tell me how you really feel.”

Fingers twitch. “I suppose you talking over me…hurt. As did your anger. But I do understand that you have been stressed lately, and I do genuinely think I could do better with reaching out for help.”

Blitzo breaths, gently, into the space between them. “Eh, we both make mistakes. We learn.”

Stolas smiles gently and brings his hands together in front of his chest, twirling his wedding band around his fingers and feeling the cool metal against his feathers, his skin. Dr Kranger, his therapy, had warned agaisnt this - against making the mistake of falsely believing Blitzo would do whatever Stella did, of taking what he learned in his past marriage and applying it to this one. It wasn’t fair to Blitzo, nor to himself, to believe Blitzo of being capable of leaving him the same way Stella had.  

Instead, he smiles and reaches out, grabbing Blitzo by the collar and bringing him in for a gentle kiss. It’s not sexual, or rushed - it’s gentle, filled with love, and devoted. When they pull apart the imp is smiling, love-sick eyes swimming with a red-hot blush on his cheeks. The bird prince laughs at the expression, then tries to kiss it away (he can’t) (it just makes it worse).

“Learn we do, darling.” He whispers, tilting his head forward and allowing his cheek to rest lighty against the others chest, right next to his steady, thumping heartbeat.

Bitzo was nothing like Stella - nothing at all. Where Stella was cold, and mean - not in love with him at all, which was fine, but cruel and unapologetically so - Blitzo burned bright, both with his passion and with his love. He treated Stolas so gently, so lovingly, even if so much of it was shown in his own, Blitzo-way. 

No, Stolas thins as he lays, cheek pressed against Blitzo’s chest, bedroom filled with purring. Blitzo is absolutely nothing like Stella. They are in love, truly, honestly. The hand entangled in his head feathers right now holds a ring that he owns the matching pair to. And he said yes entirely willingly - so fast he could barely pronoun them right, a total of three letters and yet he found himself tumbling over them just to get to kiss Blitzo again. 

“You’re thinkin’, pretty bird.” The hand in his hair presses gently, urging Stolas closer, to relax even further. “Go to sleep. It’s late as fuck.”

Stolas remembers once again, come morning, how much not like Stella Blitzo is, because when Stolas wakes up and immediately vomits into the toilet, Blitzo’s first question - after rubbing his back and getting him some water and steadying him on his feet - is “Holy fuck, do you have an egg?!?!”