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Chapter Text

“Goodnight, Blitzø,” Stolas bowed to the man in front of him unable to hide his disappointment. The night, admittedly, had been a disaster! Of course, he wouldn’t want to keep it going.

A curt, “Night,” followed. Tire screeching echoed across the palace gardens as Blitzø slammed on the gas, booking it out of there. In his wake, he left dust, billowing the shimmering fabrics of Stolas’ cape.

For a moment, all the owl could do was stare where the ghastly van had been seconds prior. Pieces of the night flashed in his mind: His public humiliation and Blitzø’s use of him, sure, but mostly the look on his face as he hid his own behind the menu. Stolas took a deep breath and looked skyward, trying desperately not to cry, before sitting on the cold, stone staircase of his home.

It was an hour or so before he forced himself up, trailing into the palace with little taps of his talons on the quartz floor. A few of the servants observed his dejection with worry but stayed far away. He wasn’t usually as temperamental as Stella, but the Prince wasn’t always aware of his actions in moments of high stress.

Stolas paused in the kitchen, pulling his favorite brand of absinthe from the cupboard, a glass along with it. The cup lightly clinked as he set it on the table, pouring nearly to the rim before grabbing it again. He huffed with a turn, sitting and hugging his knees on the soft cushion of the window seat.

Outside the delicate stained glass, the bird watched the bright lights of Imp City in the distance, taking a heavy gulp and closing his eyes. ‘It was just a rough night’ he thought humming ruefully.

“By God,” A small sob escaped Stolas’ beak as he continued to reflect. He thought that was how a date was supposed to go— you dress up, you ask about the other person, you eat and talk. Obviously, it wasn’t entirely his fault that the last part was spoiled, but even before the Sin of Lust had made his appearance everything Stolas seemed to do was wrong.

He threw the rest of his drink back, pouring another heavy cup and watching back the night in his mind. Had he been that unaware? It was clear once they’d sat down that their date was a ruse for his gain, for stalking his employees, not because he truly wanted to. But, there were little moments that nipped. He had to have some kind of feelings in return, otherwise they’d have cut ties long ago.

Empty again, Stolas paused before filling it again. ‘His broken look… I didn’t mean- It just…’ His heart ached leading to clutching his chest.

“Fuck it,” the owl voiced, standing at his full height and dropping his glass. Fragments shattered across the tiled floor. Unbothered, his free hand grabbed the wide green bottle while passing the table, chugging a good amount and walking further into his home.

Through the halls, he tried not to look at the extravagant paintings lining the walls, but inevitably did. Other than when he was with Via, it was clear how unhappy he was. Everything from leaning away from his wife to the obvious scowl pulling his beak served as a reminder.

Around him, the room spun. With another drink he smiled, welcoming the feeling as he stumbled into the dining hall. Circling the long table he gave his plants special attention, stroking their leaves as he finished the bottle.

“Ugh,” he groaned, throwing it aside and crumpling the floor that spun like a cyclone, snapping and summoning another. Eagerly he drank this new one, desperately wanting the numbness that came soon after. Thinking about what had happened… It was just too painful at the moment.

So he focused on another: the past full moon.

It had started normally, their usual rendezvous. Blitzø had climbed the balcony once again despite Stolas’ multiple offers to come through the front door, huffing and panting against the rail before stepping through the magnificent doorway.

He dropped the Grimoire with a thump, light dust puffing around where it landed.

“Jesus, Stolas. Thought you had servants or whatever,” the imp chided, his eyes searching the askew room. Various books and papers were strewn across the floor, as was a large blanket that served as the canopy above the unmade king-sized mattress. “Stols?”

“Oh!” Stolas’ heart face popped out of his cocoon in the corner, cuddled on the chaise by his bookshelves. “Sorry,” he apologized, wiping his eyes and standing. “Welcome back, Blitzø,” The owl dipped into his usual bow, stretching on his way back up.

“You good, Feathers?” His eyebrow raised.

“Yes! Yes, of course.” Stolas was quick with his words, his smile nervous. “It was just one of those days. Yes, I’m fine.”

“Good, good,” It was clear Blitzø didn’t fall of the facade, but he quickly shook it off, stepping into his own. “Cause I got a perfect way to cheer you up,” He growled sensually, sending a chill and a blush over Stolas’ whole body. The feathers between his neck and shoulders fluffed, his crotch wetting from just those words.

He gulped and moved towards his lover, bending down and grabbing his face gently, initiating a gentle kiss. Just one to get the night started—that is until he moved to pull away. Blitzø grabbed his face his time, pulling him back into a rougher kiss, his tongue exploring the cavern of the bird’s mouth. The two fought each other for dominance, leaning into the other as their tongues wrestled.

For a much-needed breath, they pulled apart, Blitzø taking the opening to shove Stolas backward onto the bed and straddling him. He laughed at how cute and pathetic the owl was, his whole face a pink hue.

“Do you have any specifics planned?” He was able to squeak out, scootching back and propping himself up on his elbows. Blitzø leaned in, grabbing his chin to hold his face. As he got closer, Stolas went in for a kiss, but the imp passed by to whisper into his ear.

“I sure do, you horny bitch.” He lowered from his position lightly, letting go of Stolas’ chin to push feathers apart on his neck. His hand then slid under the feathers of his head, lightly petting with his thumb as his mouth met Stolas’ skin. He sucked a section into his mouth, his tongue swirling before gently nibbling.

The prince moaned underneath him, his eyes shutting as he lavished in the pleasure.

“Oh~”

Blitzø peeked behind him when he felt movement, smirking into Stolas’ neck before pulling away. His hand stopped the bird from rubbing his thighs together, trying to find relief for the growing feeling between them. His ruby eyes shot open with a whine of complaint.

“Did I say you could?” Blitzø cocked his head, the ends of his claws scraping up the leg he held, pausing right before his hips. Stolas, for his credit, answered with a sad ‘no’, but bucked himself up to meet Blitzø’s hand. “Naughty bird, you’re soaked.”

The imp adored the effect he had on the man below him. The slightest touch sent him unraveling, and the power felt amazing.

“But Daddy said no,” He returned to Stolas’ neck, this time using more of his teeth, sinking them into his flesh and lapping at the trickle of blood. The owl squawked at the pain, only turned on more as Blitzø returned with his tongue.

As he continued, biting again closer to the prince’s collarbone, his fingers fumbled with the buttons of Stolas’ dress shirt, peeling the layer away, kissing down his chest while his hands moved to the belt. Whatever woes Stolas was dealing with before were long forgotten—now moaning of pleasure instead. Now naked on the bed, he sat up, pulling Blitzø into another passionate kiss, his knee pulling up to support him. Though it wasn’t what he planned, Blitzø obliged, feeling himself harden with the noises the bird continued to spout.

From the new spot, he realized, he could make this even better. His mouth still molded with Stolas’, Blitzø moved his arms in opposite directions. His left hand buried itself into the feathers on the back of his head, gripping them and lightly pulling back, while his right dipped between Stolas’ legs, the claw of his finger trailing the folds of his cloaca.

“B-Blitzy~” The owl shuddered under him, his talons gripping the plush sheets. Blitzø, ignoring the pet name tonight, continued to circle the hole before grinning and plunging in, his fingers only barely slicked from Stolas’ juices.

A loud, hitched moan filled the room, deepening while blitzø played, pulling Stolas’ head back and adding another finger. He pumped them in and out, barely touching the most sensitive spot with his claws. He could feel him getting closer to release, clenching around him with each thrust.

“Gkh- Blitzø,” Stolas choked out in a warning tone. His eyes were wide, pleading as he tried to hold back. “Please, I’m- I’m gonna…” He trailed into a moan, tears forming as he obediently waited.

“Alright. You’ve been good,” Blitzø chuckled while removing himself, palming his length while Stolas rode through his pent-up release. He watched the bird fall back onto the bed, sinking into the pillow as his chest heaved. He twitched and pulled himself away, ready for the main event, grabbing the canopy from the floor and ripping strips.

He had already fastened the owl’s ankles to the posts before he noticed, his look of confusion molding quickly into expectant understanding. Allowing his wrists to be bound in kind, Stolas couldn’t help but happily chirp, rubbing his face into Blitzø’s hand as he hovered over him again, wrapping the cloth carefully around each eye as an effective blindfold.

“Isn’t this-” Stolas began before being cut off, Blitzø smiling as he stripped, getting into place.

“You’re always going on about how amazing and life-changing that first night was… so, you know… I figured you could use some of that right now,” He answered, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment from showing the slightest emotions.

Stolas started to speak, deeply grateful and touched, but he barely got the imp’s name out. It was still Blitzø after all, and this was leading into feelings territory. So he slammed forward without warning, his entire cock filling the bird, stretching him into-

Stolas opened his eyes on the floor, slowly blinking into focus and using his arm to block the bright light above him. His head was pounding, a battle zone spread across his brain, stabbing a new spot with each movement. He groaned, sitting up in confusion before it all came back to him.

The bird stumbled upright, leaning against the grand dining hall table before slinking off to his bedroom, clutching his head, leaving the bottles on the floor, empty.

Chapter Text

He felt stupid, Stolas concluded, as he was painfully jostled on the back of a hell-horse. Of course, Stella had something up her sleeve. As soon as the prince had sat down for their “civil” conversation her demeanor changed. Her eyes flicked to the window every few seconds, and when she wasn’t throwing insults she had this wicked grin. He was already nauseous and had been all day, so he equated the pit in his stomach to that. When a bullet tore past his face and broke the window in front of him, he swore she almost clapped in glee.

He felt stupid for pausing. The surprise of this kind of assault wasn’t massive- there had been attempts on his life before. But this was unusual, especially in the high-end cafe they had met at. A rather tall imp- he swore he’d seen him before- stood on a table across the dining floor, an angelic revolver in either hand. His steed brayed beside him, flames shooting from his hair as he shook remnants of the window free. Stolas was slow to react, barely dodging another onslaught of bullets while trying to flee, one piercing his favorite hat. His Eldrich form took control for the escape but was forcefully shoved away as Stolas fell into the street, his body wrapped in a glowing white rope. Fuck. Fucking angelic weapons. Fucking Stella. At least Andrealphus seemed genuinely surprised, but his happiness was clear nevertheless.

Despite all that, he was worried about something else. The lone idea of calling Blitzø for help pulled his beak into a frown. The imp was adamant that bodyguarding was a “one-time thing”, and rescues fell under that category. The embarrassment of being kidnapped in broad daylight flushed his faceplate. What would he even say? It had been a month of silence between the two with a single day of contact spent searching for Via in the human world. They hadn’t talked about that awful night at Ozzie’s in any capacity- it weighed on him constantly, and he was sure it did on Blitzø as well.

The terrain of Pride slowly started to change underneath the horse’s hooves, bumping Stolas harder and more frequently against the creature’s hide. His stomach cramped on impact, almost sending bile shooting from his throat. He needed help. The owl momentarily hyped himself up before twisting his forearm to his waist, hassling his phone out of the pocket and into his grasp. He swiped past the reminder for his appointment with Asmodeus, quickly finding ‘Blitzy❤️’ in his contacts and pressing the dial.

“-hit. Stolas! It's really not a good time, buddy…” Just hearing the man’s voice calmed his nerves.

“I'm sorry it's a bad time yet again, Blitzy. But, umm...I seem to have found myself in a bit of a sitch. I'm tied to the back of a horse at the moment-”

“Pffttt...lucky bitch.”

“Um, well, no. Rather unlucky. I seem to have been stolen by that little cowboy friend of yours,” he realized, remembering him from the last Harvest Moon Festival.

“Ohh, which one?” The response almost made him want to slap his forehead. In the background of the call he heard judgemental mumbling before Blitzø’s right-hand man spoke up, asking about his captor. Stolas thought for a moment, humming as he looked up at the man behind the reins. He exuded confidence, dripping in natural charisma and good looks no doubt being a huge help. The imp grinned as he eavesdropped on the call.

“Umm...sexy?” The other line exploded in volume, with shouts of recognition and disappointment alike mingling. ‘Striker… yes, that was right.’

“Oh, for fuck's sake! Can't you just get away? Aren't you powerful?” Blitzø groaned directly into the mic. ‘If only’. Stolas mentally rolled his eyes.

“I believe he has bound me with blessed rope, which limits my ability to free myself, I'm afraid. So, I think you should come save me.” He knew it was unfair to ask him to drop everything for him. He was probably on a job or something, seeing as he was with his whole company. That didn’t stop him from assuming it would happen though.

“Oh, shit. Stolas, I can't today, alright?” The nerves he’d calmed upon hearing Blitzø’s voice acted up again. He was becoming increasingly concerned, barely hearing him explain what they were doing in Sloth.

“Oh,” The bird nervously laughed. “Well, I do agree that is very important...But, I-”

“Would you shut up already? I can hear you, by the way,” Striker’s tail whipped Stolas’ hand as he plucked the phone from his hands, growling something into the mic before crushing it to pieces, cackling.

‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck-Fuckity-Fuck!’ Stolas was left with his thoughts as they found themselves in Wrath. In comfortable territory, Striker sped up, taking them through paths far more dangerous than before. Twice he rode over a moving train, Stolas almost falling off each time. His annoyance grew as they rode across the plains, but he pushed it down. ‘Blitzø’ll be here any minute.’ The scenery changed so fast it made his head spin. One second they’re under the vast red sky, the next swinging from stalactites in a vast cavern.

The place seemed to be Striker’s personal lair. Rails and carts from the railway that previously commanded the space were strewn about lit by hanging bulbs. Save for the blue-tinged ambiance of a retro neon sign, lava pooling in various places provided the remaining light. They suddenly came to a stop, metal screeching as the horse’s hooves scraped the rails, and-

Stolas almost burst out laughing.

A group of imps, a mariachi band, finished a chorus above them. He hadn’t noticed them at the time, but they had followed Striker the whole way, singing all about his escapades. He briefly could remember pausing in front of them by the train. One imp in particular drew off from the others, continuing in a gratuitous solo. ‘Impressive!’

“Shut the fuck up! I’m tryin’ to do my fucking job! You comin’ in here singing about me for the millionth fucking time!” This new revelation added to Stolas’ amusement. “Leave me the hell alone, you freaks!”

‘How does one get his own theme song?’ He jumped as Striker slapped him with the spade of his tail, scowling. Oh- he had said that out loud. The imp lithely jumped from his steed, landing with the satisfying tap of his boot on terracotta. Stolas felt himself lifted by the man, being slung up onto his shoulder, the movement reminding him of his nausea.

They walked forward towards the line of track: a section curved almost perpendicular to the ground jutted out of the rock, and Stolas soon found himself bound to it. Striker pulled more angelic rope from his side and wrapped the bird, properly securing his upside-down form in place, before stepping back to admire his work. He would have looked around more, but his vision was stuck on the imp who was now sharpening a jagged, glowing dagger. ‘A blessed knife’.

“So, my wife paid you for this, hmm? Wouldn't a holy bullet have sufficed? Or can you not afford those?” It took a good chunk of will to hide his fear behind this aloof confidence. Really, he was shaking inside, but with Blitzø still absent, he needed to drag this out as long as possible. Insulting him felt like the safest bet.

“I was paid to give you the real royal treatment; your wife must really hate you,” He laughed as he waved the blade around.

“You have no idea…so, train tracks? Really? Seems a bit cliché, doesn't it?”

“It's a classic.” Stolas peeked around the cowboy, eyes meeting a giant stone erection.

“Is the giant statue of yourself also a 'classic' or...?” Rattles filled the cavern with the imp’s anger, throwing the rock he’d been sharpening against aside.

“Are you seriously judging me right now?” He threw his hat as well, comically landing on the bulging length of his statue-self.

“I'm just impressed you seem to want to suck your own dick this badly.” Okay, maybe this tactic wasn’t the smartest. This last insult sent the assassin over the edge, and he approached while ranting.

“Look. Not every ring is some fancy-ass city, with some fancy-ass mansion, that only fancy-ass royals get to live in. Some of us have hard lives to live. And some of us have everything we care about taken away by fuckers like you.

Stolas began his response, but never made its conclusion, screaming as Striker shot forward and plunged the knife into his shoulder.

Chapter Text

Pain shot through Stolas like a comet, the angelic steel of Striker’s knife searing, burning. It was a pain unlike any he had ever felt before. Focusing on it at least prevented him from feeling, or even noticing he had fallen to the canyon floor.

“You don't get to talk over me,” Striker growled, using his tail to slap the prince’s cheek as he moved to hover over him. “I don't have to listen to your bullshit!”

His pain worsened as the Imp dug the toe of his boot into Stolas’ shoulder, splitting and tearing the flesh further. A smirk spread on his face as he looked down at the heaving Goetia, continuing his monologue.

“All you royals ever do is try to talk over us!” He raged. Thinking now was his chance, the Prince focused all of his energy into petrifying his attacker but was left strained and confused. Bile rose in his throat for the third time that morning, his stomach in knots.

“Don't bother trying your little eye trick on me,” Striker lightly smiled. “Those ropes ain't gonna let you do anything.” He paused dramatically, his focus on the owl’s obvious nausea. “Got somethin’ to say about that? Your Highness?” Stolas was offered momentary relief as the cowboy lifted his foot before jabbing it back in place.

He couldn't help but puke, the added pain refuting his plans of swallowing, of not showing weakness. He gasped, the movement of inhaling sending pains to his arm.

“You seem to be forgetting,” he groaned, spitting as a frown overtook Striker’s face. “You are working for a royal right now!” An opening. Stolas kicked his lengthy talons, hitting the assassin square in the face. He almost was impressed by the Imp’s reflexes; the speed at which he recovered and grabbed his ankle was near nothing. He decided not to be as his leg was lifted slightly higher, his brain trying to predict Striker’s moves.

He practically watched the next assault in slow motion, realizing a moment too late his intentions as he brought his foot down full force.

Screw his shoulder; this was way worse. He could feel the bones snapping, splintering apart from one another, the fragments slicing into other ligaments and tissues. Inside, Stolas was screaming so loud he'd have gone hoarse nearly instantly, but he masked as much as he could. Striker was feeding on each and every reaction he gave him.

“Blitzø handles me rougher than that in bed,” He grunted before smirking. “Nice try.”

The assassin made a face, almost disgusted. He seemed more annoyed than anything, but that didn't change his course of grabbing his knife again and slamming it into the thigh.

Stolas found this time, that it was easier to hide his pain. The sheer amount of it appeared to be stacking up, sending adrenaline to block his receptors.

“Blitzy’s knife is bigger… and hits so much deeper,” he teased, not registering the cowboy had dropped his leg and moved closer.

“Being a smartass, hmm?” His tone had a new edge to it, the prince realized as he clutched the feathers of his head. He was getting fed up. He yanked up, smiling as the owl screeched in pain.

“Once I split your neck open and let you choke on your own blue blood,” He threatened, angelic steel pressed to Stolas’ throat. “You won't be worth any more than the tombstone you'll be buried under!” Thinking he had broken his spirit, Striker was even more angered at the lack of effect it seemed to have.

“Blitzy says far more dirtier things to me with much sharper objects at my throat.” He didn't even have the time to relish in his defiance before he was thrown to the side, Striker stalking off muttering curses and swears.

For a minute or two he held still, waiting for the imp to return. When it became clear that he was taking a break, Stolas rolled over and allowed himself to feel. Mainly his emotions, as the adrenaline coursing through his veins was doing wonders. He felt fear— true fear for his own safety, something he'd never felt before. His stomach cramped uncomfortably again, curling the owl in on himself as much as he could with his injuries and restraints. He could feel himself getting weaker by the moment, his obsidian blood pooling around him. He begged the universe for Blitzø to come rescue him before allowing himself to cry.

His respite was agonizingly short, as Striker returned almost as fast as he’d left. His face clearly displayed his impatience and anger as he stomped up to the prince once again, grabbing him by the rope and lifting him from the rails. The sudden verticality combined with his blood loss slipped Stolas away from consciousness as he was crudely thrown across the cavern, but not for long. He came to with bleary eyes and a throbbing cheek, having fractured his cheekbone from colliding with Striker’s self-portrait.

The distance between the two was large enough for the owl to make another attempt, this time pulling his leg up to pull apart the restraints, groaning as he burned, unable to get his talons under the enchanted rope.

“Not so fast, pretty bird,” Striker teased in his raspy drawl, catching Stolas off guard. He hadn’t noticed how close he had gotten, realizing his vision was getting worse by the minute. Suddenly, so was his breathing.

“Ecch-” The owl cried as Striker’s fingers enveloped his neck, squeezing violently, crushing his windpipe as he lifted him once again. Stolas couldn’t hide his reactions anymore, desperation seeping with his blood as he frantically looked for any way out, his pupils scanning as much of the cavern as possible. The more his vision faded to black, the more he struggled. Blitzø would come any minute; he just knew it. In a last-ditch effort, he slammed his head forward as much as he could.

Striker yowled as Stolas’ beak broke the tough skin of his hand. It didn’t draw much, but it was enough to majorly anger the cowboy who threw the prince back at the rails.

Stolas slammed against the steel and wood, the little breath he did have knocking straight out of his lungs. His chest heaved, whimpering as he brought air in and heavily panting as he let it out. He watched Striker as best he could, quickly recovering from his defense and returning, circling him.

“Well, this has been fun, but every good thing has to come to an end. Shame you won’t see your kid, again.” He continued to circle Stolas’ broken form, taunting and re-brandishing his trusty dagger.

“Don’t you dare breathe a word about my daughter,” Stolas growled.

“Ohh,” Teasingly intrigued, the snake-like imp knelt over his body. “Finally hit a nerve, huh?” And that he had. Stolas had tried not to think about his baby girl through the whole experience, knowing full well he couldn’t mask his pain with her on his mind.

“I swear, if you go near her, I will destroy you,” He lifted himself as high as he could in defiance, hoping for naught it was at least a little intimidating. Striker wasn’t a fan. With their proximity, Stolas was gunning to peck him again before hearing a thick squelch and being pinned to the ground, angelic steel through and through his initial wound, Cowboy imp weighing him down.

“Big talk. But, just that,” He laughed, twisting the knife further. “Any last words, Goetia?”

Stolas was rapidly losing any physical function. Numbness crept across his extremities, his heart and lungs burning with their strain, his last bits of energy wisping away like smoke. Yet he still believed Blitzø would save him, attempting to say as much before he was cut off by low chuckling.

“That rodeo clown told you he ain’t coming,” Striker yanked the knife from where it resided, positioning it over the prince’s chest. “Nobody is coming”

Stolas prepared himself for the plunging of the dagger into his heart, not ready, but willing to accept death.

Just as Striker reached the apex of his swing, his phone rang. Both demons paused in place. On the second ring, he gave in, answering with a casual ‘hello’.

From his position on the floor, Stolas could barely make out the voice on the other end, but he knew it was Stella. Striker eyed the damage he had dealt and the weapon responsible, adjusting how he sat on the prince. Stolas’ stomach exploded in pain from the pressure.

“I’m kinda in the process of killing him,” Striker grumbled, staring daggers into the prince, covering his mouth with his tail as he attempted to speak. Whatever Stella had ordered him, it had changed. He pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he growled into the phone.

A moment passed and Striker flipped his phone shut, leaning back into the painful spot from previous, breathing steady to calm himself. With the end of Striker’s tail still covering his mouth, Stolas’ cries and pleas hit a wall. He looked down as he talked, squinting in confusion at the owl and his pain. A devilish grin overtook his features in understanding, and he was suddenly back, chucking his phone so hard it smashed on the rocks in front of him. Thoughts swam so strongly in his vision, Stolas could almost see them reflected in his eyes. He watched the imp slightly deflate after his initial excitement. Begrudgingly Striker returned to finish, peeved and bored now that the fun had been taken out of it.

“Well, good news for you, Feathers. Your royal cunt said she don’t want you dead no more,” he huffed, suddenly holding the bird’s chin, keeping him in place as he tried to escape from his grasp. He was vaguely aware that the angelic blade hovered by his face. “But, she didn’t say what condition you had to be in.”

“I think these reds might be a pretty trophy,” Striker boasted, smiling as he dragged the blade above Stolas’ eye, sizzling his skin with even the slightest scrape. “Can’t have you seeing me again, can we?”

‘I can’t really see you anyway’ he jokingly thought, a huge pressure being lifted from his chest. He would live… but for how long? Inevitably, Stella would just hire someone else, or even this egotistical shit again to finish it some other time.

Striker moved off of him strangely, looking to some kind of loud commotion he only registered as a quiet horn himself. Free of the weight of the imp atop him, his stomach pains slimmed, eventually numbing as well.

This wasn’t how this day was meant to go. Not in the slightest. He should be at home with his Hella Novella, drowning his sorrows from dealing with Androalphus and Stella in absinthe— or maybe even in his study, working on the paperwork that was starting to tower.

A fight raged around him, but he couldn’t see or hear it. Unless someone, or something, was right next to him, it was white noise. There were some close calls, with a blade nearly piercing him, and rocks thrown above and around him, but he wasn’t worried as red dashed around him. ‘The female imp is here. I.M.P. is here, Blitzø…’

He would be okay.

Stolas smiled weakly to himself as the revelation, collapsing back as he lost the remainder of his strength. All he could do was focus on breathing, which was a herculean task on its own. He choked on his first intake, aspirating on the blood spilling from his mouth. The earth shook under him as the attack continued, rubble dropping unceremoniously on his tail, but clearing his windpipe. The Goetian prince gasped raggedly, each set more labored than the last.

Feeling the stillness of the Earth and air, Stolas pried his eyes open as much as he could. Four figures hovered over him. No- two. The subordinate employees, Mildred, whom he had seen previously, and her husband Moxxie. They seemed concerned and moved to pick him up. They didn’t wait, or call out for another… So where was-

His last thought came painfully real.

Blitzø didn’t save him.

Chapter Text

Sleep had been a wonderful comfort in wake of the morning’s events. The minutes turned to hours, the hours a full day, yet it was such a short reprieve. It had been empty, blissfully boring- dreamless. It wasn’t often that Stolas’ mind lay silent, so he enjoyed the break while it lasted.

Coming-to had been a whole other experience. His eyes had barely opened before the panic took over, the fear he had felt in the cavern returning. He fought against his seeming restraints, turning a Baphomet nurse to stone and kicking another far into the hall before being sedated by staff. He fought through the meds, body still in fight-or-flight, quickly growing sluggish and losing consciousness.

His second waking ran much smoother. The room was closed off, the curtains drawn in private, darkening the space considerably. Stolas’ bleary eyes blinked the sleep away, scanning the room before allowing himself to relax, finally registering his whereabouts. His legs and shoulder ached sporadically, drawing a twitch to the owl’s pale face. Discomfort pooled in his joints before he attempted to stretch. He found his wrists fastened to the rails of the bed, the cuffs lightly glowing. ‘Don’t freak out, don’t freak out’.

With a grounding breath, he noticed the remote on his lap, extending his talon and pressing the help button. The response was almost instantaneous. A wide-eyed Baphomet opened the door halfway before making eye contact and quickly running off. ‘Just great’.

Stolas understood why he was held by the angelic rope— he had almost murdered members of the staff for crying out loud— but the memories of being under the cowboy in that cavern just wouldn’t leave him be. Not with the constant reminder. The pounding of his heart helped to center the owl prince’s focus, leaving him calm as a larger figure entered the room, quickly shutting the door behind them.

The woman in front of him beheld many characteristics of the goat-like creatures of Sloth, but she herself didn’t feel common. The horns that wrapped her face were ginormous, jeweled chains hanging from the keratin appendages. Her eyes, akin to Stolas’ own, had no visible pupil and glowed golden. The sweet taffy pink of her arms clutched a clipboard, the note ‘classified’ on the front.

Stolas froze as his brain struggled to understand, his ears barely picking up her vocalizations before she carefully freed his wrists and stood at the foot of the cot.

“What’s wrong?” Anxiety swelled in his chest and churned up his throat. He felt like he had to puke, but it was dismissed in favor of repetitive worry. Something had to be wrong. Yes, he was Goetia, but this kind of treatment was not the norm.

The sin of sloth almost never saw patients.

Belphagor gave him a reassuring smile, pulling up a stool on wheels while glancing at his numbers. The air about her was a drug in itself, calming Stolas’ hyperactive fear with a gentle pet.

“Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia,” She began. “While the circumstances are quite horrible, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Her voice purred in a sleepy drawl, only further soothing the bird’s nerves. She was definitely the Sin.

“I-It is I who am honored. What brings the reclusive Sin of Sloth out for my case?” His tone, though regally formal, did nothing to hide the shake of his voice. I guess there are some things magic cannot fix. The sin’s face fell slightly at his question, her body stiffening before peeking behind her and snapping, the lock clicking into place.

“It will come as quite a shock, but I need you to remain docile and listening. Can you do that?” The owl nodded slowly, urging her to continue. Belphagor took a deep breath and slid forward, flipping open the contents on her board and angling so the prince could see.

“You came in with brutal injuries from the attempted assassination, as I’m sure you know.” A murmur of agreement. “My best doctors oversaw your operation; you should make a relatively fast and easy recovery.”

“But?”

“Your levels and bloodwork came out strange upon your admission. The tech paged me with questions and confusion, so I took it upon myself to discover the reasoning. Thank Satan that man is not the brightest.” She lightly chuffed the final piece, but her serious tone remained. “I’ve conducted preliminary observations and testing while you were out, and I have a fairly good idea, but for a certain diagnosis I will need to examine you.”

Stolas was confounded. Of what possible ailment he may have, he was unsure. He was practically immortal, and the surgery had been successful… any and every possible explanation just didn’t make sense.

“With all due respect, are you certain it is not a technical error? I’m not medically educated in the slightest, but this doesn’t seem right.”

“I triple-checked the readings. They are accurate- may I?” The sin gestured to his figure, receiving a nervous nod in response. Latex appeared on her palms as she fed Stolas instructions, having him lean back.

“The probability of what I suspect is statistically impossible, really. Though, I’ve come to believe anything is plausible anymore,” The doctor chittered as her gloved fingers gently prodded his abdomen, discomfort blooming under her touch. “Would you spread your legs for me, your highness?”

Stolas let out a squawk but listened obediently, his knees propping skyward and exposing his most private areas of which only three people had ever seen. With his core exposed to the hospital air, the cold took him over, the sudden chill had him shivering, but the Sin between his legs was embarrassing enough. She was only there a moment. Stolas couldn’t imagine any observation in that time frame would warrant answers, but whatever she had seen was enough.

She gestured for him to relax, allowing the bird’s legs to return to the bed as she resumed her position by his abdomen. Her hands expertly wove a spell above the prince, using her magic allowing for internal imaging on the screen of pure energy floating there.

Belpagor was almost solemn as she looked up at Stolas. His internal monologue came in an onslaught, kneading and pushing his patience to its breaking point.

“What is wrong with me? I beg you!” His plea seemed to register clearly; Belphagor nodded, gripping his unbroken arm and lightly bringing his talong to his lower stomach.

“Do you feel this?” She led him to specific places before he found what she had indicated: a small bulge protruding his skin where it usually would be flat. Stolas brows knit in confusion, in concern, his hand tracing the full shape before prodding and letting out a small whine.

“What…” The words died out as he continued to stare at his abdomen.

“Prince Stolas, you appear to be pregnant. Or rather, gravid.”

Silence.

“I- I beg your pardon?”

The doctor adjusted herself, turning the magic X-ray for his viewing.

“You’re carrying a life, an abnormal and possibly powerful one. May I ask your sexual history within the last few months?”

Stolas struggled to breathe. This was not at all what he could have imagined, and most definitely could not happen. He did not have the organs for this. He hadn’t even been intimate for some time. A few weeks, maybe?

‘Oh.’

He was half-tempted to search the room for hidden figures. Blitzø had an affinity for pranks, and though he hadn’t come to save him, maybe he came to cheer him up? In his own slightly messed-up way? The thought quickly receded— Blitzø was charming, but he wasn’t that charming. Any Sin would be difficult to rope into benign plans, especially Belphagor.

“I-I… I was with the man I love, maybe a month or so ago.”

“Not avian, I presume?”

“Imp,” he answered dryly, avoiding eyes he was sure would judge. “Wait, how-”

“As the fetus is hybrid, so too seems the process. Imps are bred through a womb, with gestation periods of six months give or take. It appears your magic may have adapted your anatomy to be a perfect vessel,” She gestured to the unclear image in fuchsia.

The scene was hard to decipher due to the abnormal formation, but it was clear a new organ— a womb— had sprung within him. Stolas squinted long and hard at the screen. There was the womb, but where was-

“It appears to have magic of its own, blocking my sight. Hopefully, I can find a way around it, but this could pose an issue.

“The unknown of it all is one thing: A hybrid of this nature has never been recorded, thus we don’t know what to expect. With this magic block, we’re only more in the dark. This is completely new territory. Dangerous, if I’m being frank. For you and this child.”

Stolas’ gaze returned to his protruding tummy, unable to unsee his condition. Fear clouded his mind, but was interestingly not the kind he’d thought. Yes, the situation had him anxious and terrified, but he found most of his thoughts turning maternally protective.

“What can we do?” Came hushed and quick, the prince’s hand coming to cradle the raised muscle.

“There are options, though some may be dead-ends.” A beat followed as she watched his eyebrow lift. “If termination was what you wa-”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay, okay,” the doctor raised her hands in surrender, stepping back as a biting, tense aura surrounded the owl. “Keeping it, okay… If that were not the case,” she side-eyed him, “I’m not sure if it would even be effective. With a barrier keeping me from seeing the being, I have no doubt the magic would fight for its preservation.”

“Our other options?” Belphagor sighed, returning the the wheeled stool on his other side, rolling up close enough to touch.

“Putting the little one up for adoption, the system, or keeping it, my prince. Regardless of the final path you choose, carrying this pregnancy to term will be difficult and dangerous, even past the physicalities of carrying and labor.”

Confusion once again commanded his features, the demon racking every inch of his fogged brain for reasons before it clicked.

“The Goetia will not be pleased.” Belphagor nodded solemnly.

“Perception and reception of this child is everything. With Hell’s track record, I do not see this going over well.”

“I suppose that’s why you took my case.” His words came out bitter, but the Sin was understanding. It wasn’t she who it was directed at.

“Indeed.”

The room settled into silence once again, Stolas letting each and every detail sink in. He was gravid. It was Blitzø’s. This was dangerous. He brought in a large breath, settling on his course as he turned to the goat.

“I am certain in keeping this child— this little miracle,” A smile found itself softly on his features for the first time in days. “May I ask the next steps?”

Chapter Text

Words flooded his vision as Stolas read through the list for the thousandth time, his robe slipping down his shoulder as he paced. His mind was constantly on the matter, and it was starting to bleed into his responsibilities. The star charts hadn’t been read in two weeks, nor had he properly watered the flora he held most dear. He had grown accepting and happy during his initial meeting with Belphagor, but that didn’t deter the knowing anxieties.

Public appearances were few and far between, though that wasn’t completely spurred by the pregnancy— even private appearances were slim. He worried for Octavia. His sweet Starfire had fallen into a cold mood as of late, lashing out, running to Earth once again with his stolen grimoire. That had been a whole excursion.

Stolas brought his hand to his face and pinched the fair skin between his more prominent eyes, slipping the medical sheet into a drawer on his way to the bath.

Bathing had always been a soothing activity for the owl, easing his sore muscles and steam opening his passages. The calming presence of bubbles and the lovely scent of lavender didn’t hurt either. He had found himself in the tub more often, which he hoped didn’t set off alarms to the staff.

Shimmering blue encased the hidden bronze faucet, sparking a cascade, Stolas’ mind elsewhere.

He stared into his reflection, allowing his robe to fall completely free as his hands framed the little miracle. It was still barely noticeable: easily concealed. By the looks, one could assume the prince had a large meal or was bloated. Even if his being gravid was normal, no one would suspect. No matter— it was no intention of his to be found out, and larger clothing combined with fewer outings would surely be amendable.

Stolas pulled himself away and checked the water. Pleased with the temperature and level, the prince eased in. Autopilot kicked in while his thoughts lingered elsewhere, gently lathering his feathers in silken bubbles.

He still had yet to tell Blitzø. It wasn’t something he was avoiding; if anything, it was something he was eager for. But he was also incredibly nervous.

Since their last full moon— of which resulted in the hybrid growing within him— they had yet to talk. Even in their most recent encounter, when he tasked I.M.P. with assisting in his search for Via on Earth, nothing of note was shared or clarified. Text had been their main communication, but that had led to a long absence. It was his own fault, he supposed.

He had thought a lot about their relationship— no, their arrangement— while he was in the hospital. Coming to terms with his own actions had been difficult. Realizing Blitzø wasn’t as happy as he had been hurt worse.

Making amends was his focus, and then hopefully a genuine, loving relationship.

Each time he reached the Imp, either inviting him over or trying to start a conversation, he left an easy out (of which Blitzø always took). Their whole relationship had been built on a transactional, forced interaction; Stolas didn’t want to continue that pattern.

Their arrangement had to end. He had come to the realization fairly quickly and had been preparing for their next meeting with fevered focus. Following his acquisition of an Asmodean crystal, he had been elated to learn they would unite the upcoming full moon.

It was the perfect time for everything. He would set their record straight. He would change things. Most pressing, he would share their miracle.

Stolas rinsed the remaining suds from his plumes before draining the basin entirely, removing himself with a soft shake. Preening oil in hand, he exited the room and returned to the bed, getting to work on the entirety of his feathered frame.

Multiple times throughout the task he needed to pause as cramps held him in place. Belphagor had informed him at his last check-up that this was perfectly normal in most pregnancies, but Stolas had his doubts. Regardless, it had become a staple in his day-to-day, a stark reminder of his vulnerability.

A knock resounded through the room, returning the prince to the present. He stood with elegance, whipping his robe over his figure again and stretching his long legs making quick work of the distance.

“Can I help you?”

“The mail, Your Highness,” The imp servant bowed gently before lifting the tray in his hands as high as he could muster. On top sat a single letter, plain and addressed to him.

“Thank you, Pringles.” The shorter man nodded before receding as quickly as he’d come, allowing the deep tone of the closing door to mask his escape.

The particular envelope in his talons was unusual for his stature. Mail was a rarity, usually only online orders, newspapers, and noble invitations. He wasn’t necessarily worried as he opened it, but that quickly changed upon reading the contents.

We know.

The words, though vague, held such immense meaning, striking with the force of a physical blow. Stolas’s heart pounded, his chest clenching uncomfortably tight, his lungs struggling to bring in air. Without realizing it, he had slid to the floor, the letter clutched in his trembling hands.

The words echoed in his skull.

Incoherency gripped his thoughts as he sputtered against the frame of his massive bed, afternoon blending to evening before the attack subsided. He shakily rose now that words would form in his head and tread the room much like he had hours before.

Someone knew. Someone knew, and they wanted him to know they did. Clear as a starless night, this was a threat. The sender had been smart enough to enchant the letter, as Stolas’ own spell couldn’t determine the author.

“We’re okay. We’re okay,” he whispered to himself while absentmindedly stroking his abdominal feathers. “We will be okay.”

———★✷★———

It was more of a miracle than the life inside him that Stolas had been able to sleep following the delivery of the letter. He guessed he had overexerted in his panicked state, but even then he was shocked, as the following three nights were spent wide awake.

It wasn’t the healthiest for him or his starburst, but the fear had him constantly on edge.

Stolas’s breath came in ragged bursts as he stood by the window, staring out at the murky horizon of Hell’s landscape. The letter lay discarded on his side table, its ominous words still searing into his thoughts. His feathers twitched with every anxious ripple coursing through his body, the gravity of the situation pressing down on him like a weight he could no longer bear alone.

He had already arranged to meet Blitzø in the coming days—a chance to mend bridges, to finally lay his heart bare. But now, everything felt more immediate, more dangerous. The walls of his palace seemed to close in around him, every shadow a potential threat, every unfamiliar noise a reminder of how vulnerable he truly was.

Stolas fumbled for his phone, his mind racing. He couldn’t wait any longer; the risk was too great. Blitzø needed to know now, not just about the miracle growing inside him, but about the danger that had slithered its way into their lives.

His fingers trembled as he typed, the urgency making his usually elegant script appear jagged and rushed: “Blitzø, can we meet sooner? It’s important.”

He hit send before his resolve could waver, watching as the screen confirmed its departure into the ether. The die was cast, and all that remained was to see where it would fall. He half-expected Blitzø to ignore it, to brush off the urgency as yet another of Stolas’s whims, yet he was quickly answered with a thumbs up.

Stolas glanced back at the discarded letter, a shiver running down his spine. He couldn’t afford to stay silent or delay. Whoever had sent that message knew more than they should, and the implications left him cold with fear.

He sank into the chaise beside his library, a mix of dread and determination settling in his hollow bones. The meeting with Blitzø had to happen sooner—everything hinged on it. If Blitzø truly cared, even in some small, unspoken way, then maybe they could face this together. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to go through this alone.

Staring into the dimming sky, Stolas clutched the fabric of his robe, his heart beating like a drum in his ears as he rubbed circles with his palm. “We’ll get through this,” he whispered, as if saying it aloud could make it true. “We have to.”

As the first stars began to dot the hellish sky, he waited, hoping against hope for a response that would set his mind at ease, or at least set the stage for the confrontation that now felt inevitable.

Chapter Text

Much like it had been for weeks, Stolas began his morning against his will, nausea overtaking his senses and spilling what little he had been able to stomach the night prior. It filled the air with a sick scent, underscoring the bird’s already foul mood as his alarm belatedly screamed. He had been waiting desperately for this day, yet now that it was upon him, he was terrified. Other than making it through the day-to-day and the divorce, their reunion was at the forefront of his mind.

Stolas stepped over the vomit and put on his favorite mauve slippers in one fell swoop, his comforter still wrapped tightly around his frame. The temperature had dropped during the night, intensifying the urge to stay tucked in bed, but he could lay idle no longer. The prince’s thoughts continued to linger on his lover, posing hypotheticals of ‘when I see him’ as he entered the bathroom.

His bare talons padded across the cold tile as he shuffled to the sink, the coolness of the marble countertop a stark contrast to the heat of his palms as he braced himself against it. His reflection stared back at him, the dark circles under his eyes even more prominent than the day before. He looked almost like a ghost of himself—gaunt and tired, with his feathers sticking up in unruly tufts. His eyes, once vibrant and full of life, now held a dullness that came from weeks of sleepless nights and endless worry.

The nausea still hadn’t fully subsided. He rinsed his mouth with water, the taste of bile lingering, before brushing the teeth-like structures hidden within his beak, as if he could scrub away the sourness that clung to his senses. He paused, leaning over the basin, and let out a shaky breath.

"Get it together, Stolas," he muttered to himself, his voice echoing slightly in the tiled room.

Today was meant to be a turning point. For better or worse, he would confront Blitzø and lay everything out. The thought of seeing him again after their time apart made his stomach twist, but he had to try. If there was any chance of fixing things, of starting anew, it would have to be today. But then there was that letter—the haunting words that had kept him up the past few nights looming over him—the threat that someone out there knew more than they should. Someone was watching. He could feel it.

Stolas decided to push the thought aside, trying to focus on the moment. He’d been doing a lot of that lately—compartmentalizing, burying the things that made his heart race and his skin crawl. He needed to be present. Today would be about Blitzø. About them.

He forced himself through his morning routine, each step more mechanical than the last. The bath helped, the warm water calming his nerves just enough for him to think straight. He sank into it with a sigh, letting the heat seep into his muscles, and his hands gently traced over the slight swell of his belly, the most visible reminder of the secret growing inside him. His baby. Their baby. The thought filled him with equal parts dread and hope.

The bump was more noticeable today, a small but distinct curve beneath his ribs. He could almost imagine a future where things were different—a future where Blitzø was by his side, and their child was safe and loved. A small smile tugged at his lips, but it quickly faded as anxiety crept back in. What if Blitzø didn’t want this? What if he laughed in his face, or worse, walked away for good?

His heart ached at the thought.

“Enough,” he whispered to himself, wiping a tear from his cheek. He couldn’t let himself spiral again—not now. He had to be strong, for himself and for the little life inside him.

With renewed determination, Stolas rose from the bath, drying off quickly and heading to his wardrobe, gently massaging preening oil into the tufts atop his head. He picked out a soft, flowing outfit that concealed his belly enough without being too obvious. It was comfortable but elegant, something that made him feel like himself again. It had been a while since he’d felt that way. Today was about making an impression—a real one, not the gilded, rehearsed nonsense he was used to performing.

As he dressed, his mind kept drifting back to the letter, the vague threats that left him feeling exposed. He hadn’t told anyone—not even Belphagor. He couldn’t risk it; It felt like any wrong move could send everything crumbling down, and he wasn’t sure he could handle another blow. But he’d keep his eyes open. He had to be cautious. He didn’t know who authored the letter, or even the extent of what they knew. It could potentially all be an elaborate prank as well.

When he was finally dressed and ready, he made his way to the kitchen. Octavia was already there, sitting at the table with a book, one of her headphones in. She looked up as he entered, her expression softening at the sight of him but clearly slightly agitated.

“Morning, Dad,” she said, bringing her spoon of sugary cereal to her beak. Upon seeing his renewed state, her mouth pulled into a slight smile. “You feeling better?”

Stolas nodded, forcing a smile. He hadn’t realized how obvious it was that he was struggling, and knowing Via had noticed had him feeling like a failure. She shouldn’t have to see her father like this.

“As well as can be, darling.” His voice was steady, but inside he felt like he was walking a tightrope. “How are you feeling today?”

Octavia shrugged. “Fine. Just... worried about you.”

His heart clenched, and he moved over to her, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Starfire, but you need not fret over me. I’ll be alright. I’ve just been stressed about today.”

“Yeah, you said you were going to see him again.” Via took the subject change with ease, not entirely believing it was the only stressor but accepting the answer regardless. She didn’t need to specify who. “You sure you’re ready?”

He took a deep breath. Was he ready? Material-wise, he was all good. The Asmodean crystal sat in an intricately carved case back in his room, wedged between some of his favorite books from childhood. There was a solid plan: Blitzø would arrive in the evening as he usually did, and Stolas would set him free. The speech came after, but he debated on sticking to the script he’d meticulously crafted in worry. But, emotionally? He wasn’t quite sure. With so much weighing on his chest, he knew it was the right thing to do for all parties, but his heart paused. If this didn’t go well? Maybe it was the excess of hormones raging through his lithe frame, but the phrase ‘I’m going to die alone’ flashed rhythmically across his mind.

“If I wait until I’m ready, I’m afraid nothing will ever change.”

She nodded, her gaze searching his face. He wished so desperately to hold her—to tell her everything would be okay just like he used to—but the fear stopped him. He knew he would eventually have to tell his little girl. He really wanted to. But the message implied danger for not just Stolas and his baby, but for any of his known associates. Maternal protectiveness drenched his vision, guilt once again framing his thoughts as he pulled away.

“Just... be careful, okay?”

He smiled softly, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “I will. I promise.”

The rest of the morning was a blur of nerves and anticipation. Stolas tried to eat but couldn’t stomach much more than a few bites, infinitely glad Octavia had left for school and didn’t have to see. His mind kept wandering as to what he would say, how Blitzø would react, and what would come next.

———★✷★———

Blitzø’s fingers gripped the cold stone as he scaled the palace wall, his muscles burning with the effort. His thoughts were a tangled mess—resentment, fear, and a stubborn sliver of something he refused to call hope. It was supposed to be just another full moon, another night of half-hearted passion and cheap thrills, but something felt different tonight. He wasn’t sure why he’d brought the bag full of toys and candles; maybe it was just easier to pretend everything was the same.

Reaching the familiar balcony, Blitzø swung himself up and over the railing. His boots hit the marble floor with a soft thud, and he crouched low, listening. The curtains billowed slightly in the breeze from the open door leading into Stolas's bedroom. Blitzø crept forward, peering inside, and saw Stolas standing by the window, gazing out into the night, his back to the door.

“Hello-hello-hello, Stolas,” Blitzø called, his voice upbeat yet rough with a mix of annoyance and something else he couldn’t quite name. “You’re lucky I’m in the mood to climb. Especially with this giant bag of goodies.”

Stolas turned slowly, his eyes landing on Blitzø with a mix of surprise and nervous anticipation. “Blitzø...” he said softly, his voice laden with an emotion that immediately set Blitzø on edge. “You’re here.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Blitzø interrupted, stepping fully into the room and swinging his bag around to his front. “Brought some, uh, fun stuff. Plenty to play with tonight,” He grinned, pulling various toys, candles, and gear upward for display.

Stolas’s eyes flicked to the bag, then back to Blitzø. The tension in his expression didn’t ease. He took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly. “Blitzø… do you have my book?” he began, voice carefully measured. Blitzø tensed with a nod, muttering as he held it out to him. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Blitzø’s brow furrowed, his stance growing defensive. “What’s this about, huh?” he asked, crossing his arms. “You got something to say, then say it. Don’t waste my time with all this dramatic bullshit.”

Stolas nodded, his heart pounding as he reached for the Grimoire. “I’ve been thinking a lot about us, about how things have been,” he said, lifting the book and holding it between them. “And I’ve realized... this arrangement we have—it isn’t right. Not for you, and not for me.”

Blitzø’s eyes narrowed, and he felt his stomach drop. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice rising. “You gonna just up and take the book away? After all this time?”

“I’m taking back the Grimoire,” Stolas agreed softly, wincing at the immediate flare of betrayal in Blitzø’s eyes. “But I’m not leaving you with nothing. I’m giving you this.” He reached into his robe and pulled out a small, pristine box, opening to reveal a golden glowing crystal. His hand shook as he took Blitzø’s hand, magically embedding the rock into his gauntlet. “This is an Asmodean crystal. It’ll let you and your team legally continue your work without needing the book.”

Blitzø stared at the crystal, his chest tightening with anger and panic. “So you’re just cutting me off?” he snapped, his voice dripping with venom. “Taking away what I depend on, and then tossing me a bone? Like I’m some kind of charity case?”

“No, Blitzø, it’s not like that,” Stolas quickly tried to explain. “I’m trying to—”

“Trying to what?” Blitzø barked, his voice harsh and accusatory. “Make yourself feel better about screwing me over? You think this makes it right?”

Stolas’s resolve began to crumble, but he took a breath and pressed on, desperation evident in his voice. “Blitzø, there’s more to this than just the book. I need to tell you—there’s something that’s happened, something you should know about, I’m... I’m preg—”

“Save it!” Blitzø cut him off sharply, his eyes blazing with fury. “I don’t wanna hear any more of your bullshit excuses! You think I’m stupid? You think I can’t see what’s happening? You rich types, you just use us imps whenever you feel like it and toss us aside when we’re no longer fun, huh?”

Stolas’s throat tightened, the unfinished word dying on his lips. His hands trembled, his heart aching. He couldn’t do this—couldn’t let Blitzø see him break down like this. “Blitzø, please, I don’t want to argue...” he whispered, turning away, trying to retreat further into his home.

“Oh, don’t you dare walk away from me!” Blitzø shouted, following him, his anger boiling over. “You think you’re better than me, huh? Just ‘cause you got some fancy title and a big-ass house? You think I’m just some toy you can play with and then throw away?”

Stolas felt the tears start to blur his vision, the words taking him back to the cavern in Wrath. Striker had said the same thing while bleeding him dry. His heart was breaking, his emotions all a chaotic swirl of guilt, fear, and sorrow. “Blitzø, please,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Let me explain; You don’t understand...”

“Don’t understand?” Blitzø’s voice was nearly a snarl. “I understand perfectly. You’re just like all the other royals, using us when it’s convenient and ditching us when it’s not. I’m not some broken thing for you to fix or feel sorry for, you got that?”

That was it. Stolas couldn’t hold back any longer. He stopped walking, finding himself in one of three vast empty ballrooms, A sob escaped him, raw and filled with all the pain he’d been bottling up. He tried to speak, but his voice was lost in the wave of emotion that crashed over him. Tears spilled down his cheeks, and he turned his face away, ashamed and vulnerable.

Blitzø’s anger faltered at the sight of Stolas breaking down, his face dropping and eyes going wide. “Shit, wait, Stols. I’m sor-”

Stolas couldn’t bear it anymore. His heart felt like it was being torn apart. He raised a trembling hand, his voice barely a whisper, laced with a broken sob. “Goodnight, Blitzø.”

With a sudden flash of magic, Blitzø found himself standing outside the front door of the palace. The cold night air hit him as he staggered back into the side of the van, the engine not yet cooled from his arrival. The echo of Stolas's tears still rang in his ears, and for a moment, he felt a strange, hollow emptiness settle in his chest.

He turned to look back at the grand doors of the palace, his fists clenched and his breathing ragged. “Damn it,” he muttered to himself, his anger giving way to something far more painful, far more real. He wasn’t ready to confront it, wasn’t ready to admit how much this hurt.

And so, with a growl of frustration, he stormed away from the palace, leaving behind the wreckage of what could have been.

Chapter Text

Stolas stood frozen in the middle of the room, his breath hitching as the faint echo of his magic still resonated in the air. His mind was spinning, thoughts colliding with each other like a violent storm. His chest felt tight, his throat burning as he struggled to keep the tears at bay. Every second stretched painfully as he replayed the confrontation over and over, the weight of everything that had been said crushing him under its force.

He found his feet moving, his gaze shifting to the ornate wall of the corridor where a portrait of him, Stella, and a much younger Octavia hung—a remnant of a life that felt a thousand years away. The sight of it made his stomach churn with disgust. Without thinking, he stepped forward, his feet moving on their own as he reached up and tore the painting off the wall with a growl, the frame cracking in his grip. He flung it across the room, where it collided with a sickening crunch against the opposite wall, the glass shattering.

Violence was not his first response to anything, nor was it a reaction he particularly enjoyed.

But, this just wasn’t enough.

He stormed through the hall, his emotions bubbling over like a cauldron on the brink of boiling. He ripped down another portrait, his fingers digging into the canvas, tearing it with a visceral rip. It crashed into the delicate table underneath it, wood splintering on impact. His breathing became more ragged with every destructive act, his feathers puffing out in distress as he continued his rampage, leaving a trail of ruined memories in his wake.

By the time he reached his bedroom, he felt the anger waning, replaced by a deep, crushing sorrow that settled into his hollow bones. The room was dimly lit, the moon casting pale red shadows across the floor, directing his vision to his spellbook. His eyes landed on the grimoire—his grimoire—lying on the bed where Blitzø had left it. The sight of it sparked a fresh wave of bitterness. He approached it slowly, his hands trembling, and picked up the book. ‘I was so happy to receive you… look at what has come of it.’

His fingers tightened around its spine, and with a roar, he hurled it across the room. It struck the wall with a dull thud, sending a vase and an alarm clock on the bedside table crashing to the floor. The grimoire fell to the ground, its pages splayed open and fluttering. This raw burst of emotion triggered a reaction—his magic, long suppressed and now unstable, surged out of him, responding to his sorrow. Books flew off his personal library shelves in a violent cascade, each one slamming against the walls and floor, filling the room with a deafening chorus of thuds and crashes.

Panting heavily, Stolas stumbled back into the bathroom, his breath ragged, his mind still fogged with rage and despair. His reflection stared back at him from the large mirror above the sink, his feathers in disarray, his eyes wild and brimming with tears. He couldn’t stand the sight of himself—this broken, pathetic version of the prince he used to be.

With a guttural cry, he lunged forward, his fists slamming into the mirror. The glass spider-webbed under the impact, cracking and splintering. His fists came down again and again, each blow harder than the last, until the mirror finally shattered, pieces raining down around him like jagged raindrops as he slid to the floor.

The pain of the cuts went unnoticed, overridden by the turmoil raging inside him. Blood trickled from small wounds across his hands and arms, but he barely felt it as he sank further to the cold bathroom floor, his chest heaving with broken sobs. Tears streamed down his face, and he ripped at the feathers on his chest in a frantic attempt to find some kind of release, pulling until there were raw patches of skin exposed, leaving bald spots where his once-proud plumage had been.

He curled into himself, his hands still tangled in his feathers, his body wracked with silent, convulsive sobs. There was nothing left in him but despair, an endless abyss that he couldn’t escape. He wanted it all to stop—the pain, the loneliness, the feeling of being utterly broken. His magic, still unstable and mirroring his emotions, crackled around him, making the shards of the mirror vibrate and hum.
He took one more look at his fractured reflection, the multitude of broken images staring back at him with wide, hollow eyes. His breath hitched in his throat, a strangled cry escaping him as he felt the last of his strength slip away.

And then he heard it—a soft voice, trembling with fear and concern. "Dad...?"

Stolas’s head snapped up, his breath coming in shallow gasps as his vision cleared just enough to see Octavia standing in the doorway. Her eyes were wide with terror as she took in the destruction, her gaze finally settling on him, crouched on the floor amidst the shattered glass and blood.

For a moment, he could only stare at her, his heart twisting painfully in his chest. All the words he wanted to say, all the apologies and explanations, got stuck in his throat. His lips trembled, but no sound came out. The role reversal heightened his sense of failure to his little girl.

Without a word, Octavia crossed the room and knelt beside him, her hands reaching out to gently pull his bloodied hands away from his chest. "Stop, Dad, please..." she whispered, her voice breaking.
The sound of her voice, so soft and filled with worry, broke something deep inside him. His body crumpled, and he collapsed into her arms, his sobs finally breaking free in full force. She held him tightly, whispering soothing words as he clung to her like a lifeline, tears soaking into her shoulder.

She cradled him like that for nearly an hour, allowing the room to fall silent except for the sound of Stolas's ragged sobs and her soft comforts. She held him close, her arms wrapped tightly around his trembling form, feeling the shuddering breaths that racked his body. Octavia allowed him to get it all out of his system, her eyes assessing his condition and what she had seen. The static feel in the air from residual magic kept the owlet on alert while she watched the smallest cuts already start to heal.

Slowly, Stolas’s sobs began to quiet. His breathing became steadier, though still uneven, and the weight of his exhaustion pressed down on him like a heavy blanket. Octavia didn’t let go; she simply kept holding him, her own heart aching as she felt him break apart in her arms.

When she finally pulled back slightly, she looked into his tear-streaked face, her own eyes soft with worry. “Dad... what happened?” she asked gently. She could see his eyes were distant, hollow, still trapped in the aftermath of his own rage. “Please, talk to me.”

Stolas’s breath hitched, his throat tightening around the words he needed to say. He looked at her, and something in her steady gaze seemed to anchor him, pulling him back from the brink. He swallowed hard, trying to find his voice.

“Blitzø,” he managed to croak out, his voice torn raw and trembling. So quiet. “We… we fought. I tried to set it right, to tell him everything with… with my feelings, and... the baby... but he—” His voice broke again, a fresh tear spilling down his cheek. “He didn’t even let me get all the words out. He thinks I’m abandoning him, that I’m taking everything away from him… that I could never—” he trailed off as he mentally returned to the previous hours. His last addition came out in an even quieter whisper. “He said the same things that assassin did in Wrath.”

Octavia froze, her brows furrowing in delayed process. “Baby… Dad, what baby?” she asked, her voice filled with confusion and an edge of hurt. “What are you talking about, Dad?”
Stolas blinked, realizing in his emotional haze what he had spilled. His eyes widened greatly, panic flickering across his face as he jumped and clutched to her arms.

“My dearest, Via… I—I am so sorry. I haven’t… I didn’t… this isn’t how I planned it.” He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. It was clear to the teen just how true his regret was. “I am… I’m gravid, beloved.”
The words hung in the air, and Octavia's expression shifted from confusion to shock, her eyes widening. She pulled back slightly, her hand still resting on his arm but her body tense, her gaze locked to his stomach.

“You… you’re pregnant?” she repeated her voice barely above a whisper.

Stolas nodded in grief, his feathers trembling as he buried his face into the crook of his daughter’s neck. “It’s not meant to be possible. Belphagor confirmed it after the attempt on my life… I was trying to tell Blitzø tonight, but… things didn’t go as intended.” His voice wavered, and he continued to lean into her, unable to meet her eyes.

Octavia’s mind raced. She’d known her father’s relationship with Blitzø was complicated, but this… this was something else entirely. She felt a mix of emotions—confusion, hurt, worry—all swirling together. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked softly, her voice breaking slightly. “I’m your daughter. I… you’ve been weird… I should have known.”

Stolas’s heart twisted at the pain in her voice. He pulled back swiftly to hold her shoulders, meeting her eyes directly. “I’m sorry, Via,” he said quietly, his voice thick with guilt. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want you to worry… and I wasn’t even sure how I felt about it myself. Everything has been so… chaotic.”

Octavia took a deep breath, trying to process everything.

“So… all this time, you’ve been dealing with this alone? And now you’ve got Blitzø mad at you on top of it all…” She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Dad, this is a lot to handle. You can’t just keep everything bottled up like this.” Stolas nodded, his eyes brimming with fresh tears.

“I know… I know you’re right,” he whispered. “It’s just… I’m so afraid, Via. I don’t know what I’m doing, and everything is falling apart.”

Octavia’s expression softened, seeing the fear in his eyes, a fear she hadn’t seen in him before. “It’s going to be okay, Dad,” she said softly, taking his hands in hers and standing. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now. One step at a time, okay?”

Stolas nodded again, his breathing finally starting to even out. “You’re right,” he murmured and then stood as well. “One step at a time.”

After a moment of silence, Octavia’s eyes flicked to his bedside table, where his phone lay amidst the chaos. She let go of his hands and stood, carefully stepping around the broken glass. She picked up the phone and held it out to him. “Maybe… maybe you should make an appointment to talk about all this?”

Stolas looked at the phone in her hand, his mind still foggy with emotion. “I… I suppose that would be wise,” he said quietly. His hands were still shaking as he took the phone from her, his thumb hovering over the screen before pulling up Belphagor’s contact.

Octavia watched over his shoulder as he drafted the message, asking for a private audience ASAP. Sensing her confusion, he turned with a supplemental note.

“For many reasons I will get into later, she is the only one who knows—was…” A small sense of relief washed over him as he hit send. It wasn’t much, but it was a start, and having his daughter in the loop took so much weight off the prince’s shoulders.

Octavia noticed the tension in his shoulders ease just a bit. She placed a hand on his back and rubbed in small, comforting circles. Stolas leaned into her touch, his eyes growing heavy with the weight of his exhaustion. He hadn’t realized just how drained he was until now. He let out a shaky breath, leaning more of his weight into her frame.

“Thank you, Starfire… I’m so sorry for leaving you in the dark. I am so sorry you had to see me like this.”

She shook her head firmly. “I am mad, but, I’m here for you, Dad. I always will be. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

The sincerity in her voice touched something deep within him, and for the first time that night, a small, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

“Yes, you do,” she replied gently, guiding him to support himself with his own two feet. “Come on, let’s get you to the couch. You need to rest.”

“The couch?”

“Unless you want to sleep in this disaster of a room?” One look was all it took to answer that question. With Octavia’s help, Stolas made his way to the living room, his limbs feeling heavier with every step. She settled him down on the couch and pulled a blanket over him, tucking it around his shoulders. He looked up at her, his eyes filled with gratitude and lingering sadness.

“Will you stay?” he asked quietly.

“Of course,” she replied, sitting down on the floor beside him, her back leaning against the side of the couch. She took his hand in hers again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Just try to sleep, Dad. You need it.”
Stolas closed his eyes, his body finally surrendering to exhaustion. As he drifted off, his grip on Octavia’s hand remained firm, a small but vital tether to the one thing in his life that still felt solid. And with that, for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to feel a small measure of peace.

Chapter Text

The sun continued to rise in the sky, casting a golden glow across Stolas’s garden as he lounged by the pool. He had hoped that the tranquil setting would ease his mind, but the shadows of the previous night clung to him like a shroud. Even with Via’s reassurances and support, the dark thoughts remained. A large relief of her knowing was his extended wardrobe. Stolas had stuck to larger encompassing clothes, and now that he didn’t have to hide from her, he was wrapped in a light robe that tugged at his curves. In his hands was a cheesy romance novel he had started months ago. He read at a steady pace, trying to find solace in the gentle breeze and the sound of water.

He was totally immersed in the separate world when Blitzø’s unmistakable figure appeared, striding confidently through the garden. He hadn’t seen or heard him enter, but Stolas was certain that the imp had climbed the wall… again. Blitzø was dressed in his usual work suit, a sharp contrast to the serene setting. The imp's arrival was anything but subtle; his confident stride and the way he surveyed the area spoke volumes. He seemed completely unaffected by the previous night.

Stolas looked up from his book, barely concealing his irritation. The sight of Blitzø in that sharp suit only deepened his sense of frustration. Blitzø’s presence was an unwanted reminder of the emotional wreckage left in the wake of their recent confrontation. Stolas had hoped for peace, but now that Blitzø was here, the tension was palpable.

Blitzø approached, his eyes roaming over Stolas with a mixture of curiosity and desire. He couldn’t help but notice the prince’s disheveled appearance—his robe slightly askew, the telltale signs of exhaustion etched into his features. Near-healed jagged cuts could be seen decorating his feathered arms. As Blitzø’s gaze settled on Stolas’s midsection, he noted the weight gain and the loss of feathers. It was clear that something was wrong, and Blitzø's curiosity turned into concern, though he masked it with a facade of confidence. Blitzø’s internal thoughts were a mix of skepticism and confusion. He had always seen Stolas as an object of desire, but now, seeing him in such a state, something else flickered in Blitzø’s mind—a dawning realization of vulnerability that he hadn’t anticipated.

Blitzø tried to push through, his voice dripping with an insistence that Stolas found repugnant. He moved closer, making a lewd comment about Stolas’s "tight, feathered ass." The words were meant to provoke a reaction, but instead, Stolas’s face tightened with a deepening scowl. He was trying to keep his composure as Blitzø continued to talk, but the discomfort in his body was overwhelming.

“Come on, Stolas. We don't do words, we do sex!”

“As shocking as this might seem, Blitzø, I am not in the mood to ‘do sex’ with you, nor even ‘do words’ with you. I have asked you to leave, so, how about you respect that?”

As Blitzø closed the distance, Stolas felt a sold twinge in his side. It started as a dull sensation, the muscles of his abdomen constricting tighter the longer it drove on. He brought his hand to the chair in front of him for stabilization while Blitzø continued on, eventually noticing an invitation addressed to the owl sitting on the tea table.

“I got an invite to this anti-Blitzo party- An honorary extension for being your freshest ex,” Stolas surmised bitterly as Blitzø launched into another rant, including his views on romantic relationships and his egocentiric view that proved he didn’t care.

“So what are you doing here, then?”

“Uh, I- Waiting for you to realize how good an angry fuck would be right now!” Stolas dropped his face again, his eyes returning to his now iconic glare. He threw his hand in the direction of the gate, yelling at the imp to leave.

“I'm tired of this. I'm uncomfortable with how you're speaking to me now.”

“Oh, come on, Stolas. You can't tell me this isn't a kinky fantasy of yours.” Blitzø pulled himself up onto the tabletop, almost matching the bird’s height and pulling him close by the tie of his robe. “You want me to show your rich, prince-y ass what a real fuckin' is.”

Stolas involuntarily flushed a bright red. Despite his current emotions, Blitzø was right in some ways. Hormones pumped through his blood, and the prince felt his libido spike, his core quaking. He mentally cursed this reaction. “S-stop,” He was able to pull himself away

“Ha!” Blitzø’s laugh was cut short as it led into his gloating. He knew Stolas. With a hop off the table, he continued. “You get off to getting plowed by people you look down on.”

The comment stung once again, almost matching the constricting muscles of his torso perfectly. “I don't look down on you! How many times… If my words ever gave that impression I sincerely apologize, but my actions…” Stolas trailed off momentarily, watching Blitzø’s face slightly soften before his anger returned. “You—You speak like that vile Striker friend of yours. The one who almost killed me? Remember him?”

Stolas had never intended to hold a grudge for Blitzø’s lack of appearance, especially when he learned exactly why he couldn’t join his employees. Still, it felt like abandonment.

“I do not—I didn’t think—I stopped him the first time, didn't I?” Stolas could only stare at his former lover as the information sunk in, and along with it came more waves of pain. His hand flew to his lower stomach as his breath hitched, wincing while he tried to continue the conversation. ‘He had known. He didn’t try to stop it—didn’t even bother to give a warning…’

The prince turned on his heel trying to mask his agony while Blitzø continued to speak, oblivious to the severity of Stolas’s condition. How could Blitzø have kept this from him? His internal rage flared, mingled with the physical pain, creating a storm of emotion he could barely contain.

Stolas’s discomfort escalated as he jokingly leant into Blitzø’s idea of him, belittling the man he loved. “Is that what you were waiting for? Blitzø, if I actually believed any of that for a minute we would never have been public!” His voice drew into a cry as the pain started to become unbearable. It felt like his insides were in a dull meat grinder. “Why would I have let everyone see my feelings for you—my support of you—fuck!” The prince crumpled over his frame, his face contorted in a tortured look.

Beside him, Blitzø’s whole demeanor changed, his usual bravado replaced by genuine concern. He reached out, his expression softening as he tried to support and comfort the hissing owl in front of him. The tips of his fingers reached the lip of Stolas’ upper arm before the bird flinched and jumped away from him.

Stolas’s vulnerability overwhelmed him. He felt exposed and fragile, and having an audience only made it worse. He needed to get away, to find some semblance of control amidst the chaos. He couldn’t bear to be seen like this, exposed and hurting. His resolve to leave became stronger as he struggled to straighten up. The cramps were relentless, making every movement a battle. Stolas’s thoughts raced, his mind clouded by the physical pain and emotional turmoil.

“Stols—”

“Blitzø, leave! Please!”

“Let me help, I—”

As he stumbled toward the door, Blitzø’s attempts to reason with him were drowned out by the internal chaos Stolas was experiencing. His feet threatened to trip him as he stumbled up the stairs to the side door. With one final, pained look, Stolas managed to escape the garden and retreat to the sanctuary of his home, leaving Blitzø standing in the dimming light, grappling with the shattered pieces of their encounter. He watched as Stolas made his way inside, his movements jerky and erratic, a stark contrast to his usual grace. He was desperate for solace, but the reality of his situation only seemed to close in tighter. The confrontation with Blitzø had brought his inner turmoil to the forefront, leaving him in a state of emotional and physical disarray.

Why couldn’t he have left him be?

———★✷★———
The Halloween party hosted by Verosika was in full swing when Stolas arrived, dressed in an elaborate Dracula costume. He had accepted the invitation, not out of genuine interest but to avoid rudeness and to distract himself from his turbulent thoughts. Despite the festive atmosphere, it was evident from the start that this was not going to be a pleasant evening.

As Stolas stepped into the human world, he was greeted by a sea of flashing lights and vibrant decorations. The party was in a grand mansion, decorated with a macabre elegance fitting for Halloween. Everywhere he looked, there were mocking references, whether in the form of cruel decorations or whispered jabs, following the theme advertised.

He attempted to blend in, grabbing the nearest drink without checking its contents. He didn’t care what it was as he downed the glass. He felt eyes on him—whispers of questioning and rumor that only led him to another drink, then another. As the alcohol began to take effect, Stolas meandered through the crowd, progressively letting loose. The drinks flowed freely, and Stolas had become increasingly inebriated. The sting of the earlier revelations began to blur, replaced by a sense of reckless abandon.

Verosika, ever the center of attention, had drawn most of the guests outside for a speech, Allowing Stolas, a moment of respite. Even drunk off his ass, crowds were not his thing. The prince slumped on a plush couch deep in the corner of the house. He was too far gone to notice the commotion or hear his name called in invitation to join the pop star on stage. Instead, he found solace in his private sanctuary amid the chaos.

With a drink in hand and the room spinning slightly, Stolas began to sing softly to himself. His voice was a mix of melancholy and resolve as he crooned a song to the baby growing inside him.

“I don't think you meant to hurt me. 'Cause I don't think it meant a thing at all…”

The volume of his voice wavered as he continued, his emotions pouring out as he musically coped with the situation.

“Now I know, now I know, now I know there's one thing I can't keep.”

The room around him faded as he focused on his song, the weight of his worries momentarily lifted by the act of vocalizing his deep-seated emotions. In that moment, the world outside seemed a distant memory, and the only thing that mattered was the small life he was nurturing and the promise he made to protect it from the heartache he was experiencing. He got considerably quieter, some words failing to even exit his beak.

A small but sturdy, “Hey,” came from the doorway, pulling the owl from his mind and turning to see the speaker. He squinted and groaned as his blurry vision allowed him to see. Blitzø had appeared at the edge of the room, a stained sheet draped over his shoulders to shield himself from curious eyes. Once he was sure Stolas was aware of his presence, he approached with cautious concern, the sight of the prince so disheveled and vulnerable continued to tug at his heart.

“I figured I’d find you here… Stolas, I’m sorry about last night. I’m sorry about this morning… I—I’m sorry."

Stolas looked at him, his head rolling without proper support. “Mmm—why’d you show up there? Why’d you show up here?” He drunkenly whined, leaning back into the couch and dropping the bottle he’d recently finished.

Blitzø's expression softened as he tried to explain, but the words fell short on his lips. He tried reaching his hand out instead, palm not making it before Stolas shifted uncomfortably, trying to process his current reality. The alcohol made his thoughts fuzzy, and he couldn’t quite grasp the sincerity of Blitzø’s concern. After a moment of awkward silence, the owl jumped up, dangerously wobbling as he attempted to stand up in one swoop. He stumbled towards a corner and tried to open a portal, the blue energy thinner than he usually wielded. In the back of his conscious mind, Stolas cursed himself for putting himself in this compromising of a situation before he remembered the possible symptoms Belphagor had listed him and cringed. The portal sputtered and flickered, finally stabilizing into a view of the bustling train station of the 7 Rings.

Blitzø, observing the scene with concern, asked gently, "Where you going there, Stols?"

Stolas squinted at the portal, realizing it was not what he intended. "I’m going home," he said, his voice tinged with frustration as he tried to correct the portal. His attempts only seemed to make things worse, and he muttered drunkenly to himself, the image shifting to some hotel back in Pride.

Blitzø saw Stolas struggling and stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You’re not in any shape to get home by yourself. Let me take you."

Stolas sighed, too drunk and defeated to argue further. "Fine," he mumbled, allowing Blitzø to guide him out of the party.

As they made their way to Blitzø’s company van, Stolas’s mind continued to whirl, but the warmth of the imp’s presence provided a small comfort amidst the chaos and unknown territory.
Blitzø carefully maneuvered Stolas into the passenger seat of the van, struggling to push the seat back to accommodate the bird’s elegant long legs. He helped tuck Stolas's tail in before closing the door with a quiet thud and jumping into the driver’s seat. The car roared to life, and the van sped off into the night.

The ride was enveloped in a heavy, uncomfortable silence. The only sounds were the rumbling of the engine and Stolas’s occasional mumblings. Blitzø attempted to strike up a conversation, but his words fell flat, swallowed by the oppressive quiet.

Turning the radio dial, Blitzø lowered the volume and let soft music fill the van, hoping it would soothe the awkwardness of the ride. The gentle tunes mingled with the steady hum of the engine, creating a tenuous sense of calm.

When they finally arrived in front of the palace and parked, Blitzø discovered Stolas had passed out, slumped in the passenger seat and resting his head on his right shoulder. He stared at the prince’s serene yet troubled face, feeling a pang of sympathy for the turmoil that seemed to cling to him even in unconsciousness.

With a determined sigh, Blitzø gently lifted Stolas into his arms, cradling the bird like a bride. His lips set into a thin line as he navigated through the vast mansion, the halls empty save for the butler, who quickly made himself scarce upon seeing the situation. Blitzø carried Stolas through the long hallway, the absence of several paintings from the walls leaving him on the edge of his seat. The palace just didn’t feel the same anymore. It was dark and brooding compared to the usual vibe.

As he approached the bedroom, he felt Stolas move against his chest, yet the bird did not stir. Abdominal cramps, like what he had seen that morning. The sensation was unsettling, and Blitzø’s worry deepened. He entered the room and was immediately struck by the mess—a chaotic aftermath of Stolas's breakdown. Books were scattered across the floor, wood and ceramic splintered in piles, with Stolas’ own feathers adding to the clutter.

Blitzø carefully maneuvered through the mess, gently setting Stolas on the bed as he woke slightly. Speaking in soothing tones, he offered kind words and a gentle back rub, trying to provide comfort while he helped Stolas out of his outer layers.

Turning to set aside the discarded pieces of costume on a nearby chair, Blitzø was startled to see Stolas begin to undress completely. His face flushed scarlet while his eyes traced Stolas’ frame. The prince fell on his back into the pillows, and Blitzø’s eyes lingered at his stomach, noting the pronounced weight gain and the subtle curves that should not have been there. His mind raced with confusion. Stolas was practically immortal—what could be causing these changes?

He didn’t think on it too long, speculating it might be stress and an upset stomach, but the sight was troubling. He carefully navigated through the sea of books on the floor and made his way to the bathroom. As he entered, he was hit with the sharp scent of blood. Small pools of it were scattered among the shards of a large broken mirror. What the fuck happened?
Quickly, he grabbed some medications and a cup of water, his thoughts racing as he prepared for Stolas to wake up. He didn’t want to delve into the extent of the damage just yet, but his concern for Stolas grew. Blitzø mentally noted to send the butler on his way out.

As he placed the pain pills and water on the nightstand, he noticed additional anti-nausea medication. His initial belief that Stolas had an upset stomach was reinforced, though it did little to ease his worry. Something more was going on, but he had lost the privilege of it being any of his business. Blitzø turned to leave but was halted by the sound of Stolas crying his name softly in his sleep. The sound tugged at his heart, and he paused, his expression softening with empathy before he stepped out of the room with a sad smile.

Chapter Text

Stolas sat in the sterile waiting room of Belphagor's clinic, tapping his foot anxiously against the tiled floor. He had moved this appointment up by a week, and he could feel the judgmental glances from the receptionist boring into him. The last few days had been a mess—a spiraling, uncontrollable mess.

The door to Belphagor’s office opened, and a nurse beckoned him in, her gaze questioning his purpose. Stolas took a deep grounding breath, trying to steady himself as he entered the room. He noted the smell of antiseptic and a strange blend of herbs, an identical blend to his previous visits. Belphagor believed in mixing modern medicine with more archaic forms of care. Right now, Stolas would take all that he could get.

He was only alone for a moment, his back to the door as he stood in the center of the exam room. His talons fiddled with the edges of his cape. A nurse came in, barely speaking as she took his blood pressure, then drew some and left him in silence again.

The prince zoned out, his gaze stuck on a poster on the wall, a smiling baby hellhound the subject.

“Stolas, sit down,” Belphagor slid in silently, gently shutting and locking the door. Her voice was patient yet firm as she gestured to the sterile examination cot in front of him. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed, nor that he was still standing. As opposed to her upbeat and kind approach upon their initial meeting, it was clear the Sin had her own problems to deal with. The curled horns framed her piercing eyes that zeroed in on him with concern and irritation. “I wasn’t expecting you this early. What happened?”

Stolas shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his feathers, which were still somewhat disheveled from the previous night. As he sat, the paper on the cot crinkled obnoxiously loud.

“I... I thought it best to see you sooner,” he mumbled, his voice wavering. “I... haven’t been in a well state as of late.”

Belphagor’s eyes narrowed as she breathed in, her abilities sparking and informing her of his ailments. “Tell me everything,” she commanded, not giving him room to evade.

Stolas sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I tried to talk to the baby’s father… It was—well, it was a disaster.” The prince paused with a turn of his head, attempting to hide the tears pricking at both sets of his eyes. “I’m afraid my reaction was rather self-destructive.”

His guilt was palpable in the room.

Belphagor crossed her knee over the other, leaning forward with the squeak of her chair. “How so?”

“I—” Stolas’ hands shook in his lap, the emotions and images taking the forefront. He pulled the collar of his shirt down, revealing the bare patches of skin on his chest. “I made such a mess of the palace, of myself. I hurt—and Via found me… and—” He choked out a sob, unable to continue as he curled in on himself. The Sin gave him time to recover, her lips pulled in a thin line. “I told her about the baby…”

Belphagor’s face softened lightly at the one positive outcome. “There’s more you’re not telling me.”

The owl prince took a deep breath before launching into the next event, detailing the previous morning in shattered bits of the most relevant information. He occasionally glanced at the Sin of Sloth to gauge her reaction, feeling exposed and extremely judged. She stopped him mid-sentence as he continued on to the night.

“And why, exactly, would you go to a party like that? Especially in your condition?”

“I didn’t want to be rude,” he replied weakly. “I thought it could make for a good distraction… I should have anticipated, but it wasn’t… It was terribly dreadful. I got so incredibly drunk, and then Blitzø showed up, an–”

Belphagor's expression turned sharply stern. “Drunk? You were drinking?” she repeated, her voice steely. Stolas flinched at the anger that pooled there “Stolas, you’re pregnant. You should know better than to drink alcohol. It could be incredibly harmful to the baby.”

The realization hit Stolas like a cold wave. “I—I didn’t think about that,” he stuttered, his eyes widening. His hand instinctively went to his abdomen, his heart beginning to race. “I was drunk... and pregnant. I could have... I could have hurt—” Tears returned to his eyes, his breath catching in his throat. How could he not have realized? It was common knowledge and something he had first-hand experience with. He practically had to monitor Stella 24/7 when she was with Octavia for that exact reason. Stolas’ talons dug into his palms, the pricks of pain dragging him from his self-hatred and mantra of failure.

“Yes, you could have,” Belphagor cut in, her tone unforgiving. “You’re not just risking your own health now, Stolas. You’re risking that baby’s life. And with everything you’ve told me about your tendencies... you’re walking a very dangerous line.”

Stolas’s head dropped, guilt continuing to drown him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I…”

Belphagor sighed, her stern gaze softening just a fraction. “I know things have been difficult for you,” she said, a bit more gently. “But this is serious, Stolas. You’ve got to take better care of yourself, especially now. I’m not just worried about the alcohol; I’m worried about everything. Your stress, your breakdowns—none of this is good for you or this baby.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes still on the floor. “I’ve been feeling... terrible,” he admitted. “Physically, yes, but mostly mental—it’s worse than ever. I’ve been meaning to ask you for my usual refill for that.”

Belphagor’s expression darkened again. “Happy pills? Absolutely not,” she said sharply. Stolas’ eyes grew wide, his jaw dropping slightly in shock. “Mixing those with alcohol or even just taking them right now could be catastrophic. You need to stay off anything like that until the baby is born. We don’t know how it will affect either of you in this state.” She stood from the stool in a jagged motion. “Please, tell me you haven’t been taking anything besides the vitamins I gave you.”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’ve been out for months.” Stolas visibly relaxed a bit. The knowledge that he’d done something right, even unintentionally, was soothing.

“Good, good.” She nodded, her expression softening slightly but still firm. “I understand how difficult it is, but you can’t afford to make mistakes like that. Not now—thank you.”

A nurse handed the Sin a paper copy of Stolas’ numbers, making eye contact with the prince before promptly running away. A mix of humor and guilt took over his features; she had been the one he turned to stone that first day.

Belphagor’s hooves clopped upon the linoleum floor as she traversed the room, stopping in front of the sink and washing her hands diligently. “You mentioned briefly how you felt physically. Could you elaborate on that?” She dried her palms swiftly, covering them in blue latex nearly as fast.

Seeing her approach, Stolas lay back on the bed, moving into place and pulling the layers of his clothing back, exposing his feathered midsection.
Stolas took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “I’ve been constantly nauseated, though it’s been getting better as of late. So tired of throwing up,” He joked as her gloved hands pressed gently into his stomach, their owner humming in response. “The cramps have been so bad. They’re not every day, but they hit like a truck and last for hours. My muscles are so sore afterward.”

His eyes lingered on the Sin’s face as she examined him, noting the subtle knitting of her brows in concentration. “There has been dizziness as well, sometimes lightheadedness. I believe that’s tied directly to my lack of energy—the thing I’m really worried about, though, is my magic... it’s been weaker, not functioning as usual. I could barely open a portal here this morning…”

Belphagor listened carefully, her face unreadable as assessed. “All of that makes sense given your circumstances,” she said. “You’re carrying a being your body isn’t designed to carry. We need to keep a close eye on you.”

She hummed again, her hands away to create the magical ultrasound. “I can’t really confirm at the moment, but I’m fairly certain you’re carrying an egg. There’s a certain firmness.”

“An egg?” Stolas echoed, his eyes widening in slight surprise.

“Yes,” Belphagor confirmed, her tone clinical. “I can hear a heartbeat, which is a good sign. I am slightly concerned about the size, though. You’re about three months in, but the development reflects about half that period.”

Stolas nodded, a mix of relief and worry bubbling up. “Is that... bad?”

“It’s not ideal, but not entirely bad,” she said carefully. “You have to consider the hybrid nature of the child, as well as their magical capabilities. The average gestation of an imp-goetian is unknown. Plus, if I had to guess, the barrier created by the baby takes a lot of energy, which could slow the process.” She disposed of the screen with a flick of her wrist, gesturing for the owl to sit up.

“It should be manageable as long as you take it easy and avoid anything that could cause stress or harm. With your body’s initial incapability to carry, and all the unknowns, complications are probable—You could lose this child if you’re not careful.”

Stolas completely froze at the possibility.

Her gaze softened but remained serious. “Stolas, you need to promise me you’ll take care of yourself. If anything feels off, even the smallest thing, call me immediately.”

He nodded, swallowing back his anxiety. “I promise.”

Belphagor gave him a small, encouraging smile. “Good. Now let’s get you stabilized. You need rest and calm—no more reckless behavior.” She finally looked over the sheet of readings, setting it down just as fast. “There’s still alcohol in your system. I’ll send a nurse and IV in. You’re free to go when it’s empty.”

———★✷★———

Stolas left the clinic feeling a heavy mix of dread and determination, his arm lightly throbbing where the IV had slipped under his skin. He was considerably lighter coming home than he had been in leaving. Getting all of that off his chest had been invigorating, the ease in opening the return portal supporting this.

When he got back to the palace, he found Octavia curled up on the couch, the TV flickering with an old movie. She looked up at him with her big, worried eyes, setting her bowl of popcorn and Twizzlers on the coffee table.

“Dad, are you okay?” she asked, her voice small.

Stolas managed a weak smile, his heart aching with love and fear. “I will be, my star,” he said, moving to sit beside her, pulling her into a hug. “I will be.”

Chapter Text

The sights and smells of Lust lingered in his mind as Stolas stood from the couch and approached the now open doors to Asmodeus’ study as he had done mere weeks ago. His heart hammered against his ribcage while he strode forward, the Sin looking up from his desk as he entered.

His check-up three weeks ago had been mind-opening in many a sense. The guilt of his mistakes still weighed heavily on Stolas’ shoulders, but he was doing much better now. Like a good patient, he followed Belphagor’s instructions to a T. Rest, relaxation, no stress. When he wasn’t spending time with Octavia, who consequently convinced him of his current actions, he used his time to learn. Several books on gravidity and pregnancies, including the imp edition of ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’, had joined his already overflowing collection of books.

Obviously, he couldn’t compare his own situation directly to those in the prep books, but he figured having a solid knowledge of both sides could be beneficial. At this point, he was certain he’d be pregnant a long while. He had already surpassed the usual three months of a goetia, and based on where he currently was, it would be longer than the average six months of an imp. He was quite glad it was an egg. Everything he had read and seen about live births looked horrifying.

“Hey, Birdie Babe,” Asmodeus stood from his grand desk with a grin, his voice a seductive drawl. “I was a little surprised to see you on my calendar again so soon. How have you been? Did your imp like the crystal?”

Stolas’ heart spiked at the questions, but he kept a polite and friendly smile. “I will not lie; I have been better.” He approached, following as he was led to a regal yet comfortable lounge setup. The large armchair was ironically heavenly, and he was glad for the roaring fire to his right. Even with all the layers to hide his condition, Stolas was freezing.

“And?”

“The crystal is serving its purpose, thank you.”

Stolas sat down heavily on the chair across from the King of Lust, his feathers ruffled with anxiety. He anticipated a welcoming and supportive response, but one can never be too sure. Especially with something like this.

“I’m afraid I am in need of your help, Asmodeus.” His tone came as uncharacteristically solemn to the Sin, piquing his attention. “I seem to have found myself in a very precarious situation, one I can no longer handle on my own.”

Asmodeus leaned forward, his gaze locked completely on the owl in front of him. “Alright, talk to me, babe. What’s got you all twisted up?”

Swiftly, Stolas found his hand to his stomach as he urged himself to continue. With a deep breath, he reached the base of his neck, unclipping his large cape before setting it to the side. His vest followed suit, the owl’s hands trembling while he fumbled at the buttons. The King in front of him maintained a questioning look, though was undisturbed by his strip-show. As he reached the bottom of his dress shirt, Stolas stood, allowing the translucent white fabric to fall down his arms.

Cold nipped at his exposed skin, adding to the uncomfortable status of the prince. Belphagor had been the only one to see them completely exposed like this. He figured the fear would never quite go away.

Asmodeus’ brow furrowed, his mouth opening to speak but promptly closing. Stolas could practically see the cogs turning in his brain, even more so when the rooster circled him in surveillance. Once he had sat once again, the prince practically fell into his chair, hastily pulling each of his articles back on.

“Wow, Stolas… I honestly don’t know what to say. Wouldn’t this be more of a Bel thing?”

“Belphagor is the sole provider on my case, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m keeping this baby.” His hands twirled in his lap as he tried to find the words. “I was hoping for some additional assistance, more so in protection.”

Asmodeus looked at him in concern. His face prompted the lengthy explanation of all Stolas had been through, from the assassination attempt to his most recent medical advice.

“So, that’s why I’m here. You know the political and social landscape of Hell better than anyone. I need your help to navigate this—to protect myself, to protect my child.” The prince returned to cradling his unborn, gently rubbing as a dull pain swept his abdomen.

Asmodeus leaned back, his gaze becoming more serious. “You’re asking a lot, Stolas. But I can see you’re desperate. And you’re my friend.” He paused, considering. “Alright, I’ll help. First, we need to keep a close eye on Stella and any other potential threats. I’ve got contacts who can monitor her activities and keep us informed of any future attacks.”

Relief washed over Stolas, and he nodded. “Thank you, Ozzy. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Asmodeus waved him off with a dismissive hand, though there was a softness in his eyes. “Don’t get all mushy on me now. I’ll also give you some temporary protection spells for your home and your body. They’ll help shield you and the baby from immediate harm, but they’re not foolproof. So you still need to be careful.”

Stolas nodded again, grateful. “Anything helps. I’m just… I’m so tired of feeling this vulnerable.”

With a flick of his wrist, Asmodeus summoned a small, glowing amulet and handed it to Stolas. “This should help too,” he said. “It’s an amulet that will adjust your physical appearance—won’t make that belly of yours disappear, but it’ll help you hide it under clothes as you get larger. But fair warning, wearing it might make you a bit more out of breath than usual.”

Stolas took the amulet, his hands trembling slightly. “Thank you, Asmodeus. I can’t express how much this means to me, truly.”

Asmodeus gave him a knowing smile. “You just take care of yourself and that little one, alright? And don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. Literally anything.”
Stolas nodded, feeling a sense of comfort for the first time in days. Maybe things weren’t hopeless after all.

———★✷★———

The red sun bled through the windows of I.M.P headquarters, dancing on the empty meeting table and reflecting down the hall. Blitzø sat in his cluttered office, staring blankly at his desk. His mind kept drifting back to his recent encounters with Stolas—the changes he had seen in him, both physically and emotionally. There was something different about Stolas lately, something beyond his usual theatrics. Something that had unnerved Blitzø, even more than usual.

“What the hell is going on with him?” Blitzø muttered under his breath, frustration and confusion bubbling up inside him. He was used to Stolas’s antics, his flirtations, his constant need for attention. But lately, there was a vulnerability there that Blitzø hadn’t seen before. And it bothered him. A lot.

It had been weeks since he’d last seen him, and the thoughts only became stronger. Backing off like Stolas had asked had been difficult, much more than he cared to admit. They were both wrong in the things they had done, but Blitzø had come to understand just how genuine the bird’s intentions had been, only leading his mind back to that godforsaken blueblood.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He needed advice, and he knew exactly who to ask.

He swung in his seat once before hopping to the floor, waltzing into the other room with fervor. Loona sat at the desk as usual, scrolling on her phone instead of doing actual secretary work.

“Hey, Loony,” Blitzø chimed at his beloved daughter. “Got a minute?”

Loona glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “What do you want?”

Blitzø sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I... I need some advice. About... Stolas.”

Loona’s eyebrow shot up even further. “Geez, finally. What’s going on?”

Blitzø hesitated, trying to find the right words. “I don’t know, okay? He’s been... weird lately. Different. And I don’t know what to make of it. I mean, I thought I had him all figured out, but now I’m not so sure.”

Loona rolled her eyes. “You mean you thought he was just some rich creep who liked to mess with you.”

“Exactly!” Blitzø blurted out. “But now... I don’t know. There’s something more going on, and it’s making me think. Maybe... Maybe I’ve been wrong about him.”

Loona put her phone down, her expression softening just a bit. “Blitzø, you’ve never exactly been great at the whole ‘feelings’ thing—”

Blitzø huffed. “I don’t need a lecture, sweetie. I just... I need to know what to do. Should I talk to him? Should I just let it go? What?”

Loona sighed, leaning back in her seat so much she nearly fell. “Look, if you’re really that confused, maybe it’s time to stop running from your feelings and actually talk to him. Like, genuinely talk to him. Not your usual ‘joking around and pushing him away’ bullshit. If he’s changing, maybe it’s time for you to change how you deal with him too.”

Blitzø stared at her, taken aback. “Wow, Loony, that was... surprisingly insightful.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” Loona grumbled, picking up her phone again. “But seriously, Blitzø, figure your shit out. Before you screw things up even more.”

Blitzø nodded slowly, a determined look settling on his face. “Yeah... Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

A determined grin took over his face as he returned to his office, his phone already in hand, missing the caring look his daughter threw his way.

Chapter Text

The air was ice as Stolas took a deep breath, feeling the solid weight of the amulet settle against his tightened chest. It had been a while since Asmodeus had gifted the artifact, three weeks or so, yet this was the first time he’d worn it save for test runs. The moment the necklace placed at his collarbone his whole body tingled with the sensation of magic.

The first look in the mirror had the prince sobbing in shock, hormones taking over as he stared at his flat stomach. It was quite literally his worst nightmares come to life. In his panic, he barely noticed the movements within him, which only made him sob harder. Octavia had been needed to comfort him following that. The memory made him scowl. He hated having to put her in that position; it only made him feel like more of a failure.

Being out and about helped soothe that. As much as he disliked how he physically felt under the amulet’s effects, it was such a huge emotional boost. He’d barely left the palace in four months, his only leave being for Belphagor’s office or his visit to Ozzy. It was such a relief for his trip to not be related to his pregnancy. He didn’t have a whole lot particularly planned other than ordering a tea and exploring the chosen area: a fairly new commercial district aimed at the nobility of Pride.

He would have much rather gone in the generic public, but he wanted to lay low, even if his belly was hidden.
The area was stunning: definitely fit for any member of the Goetian family. Despite the red that was common of Pride, the intricately designed buildings and quaint shops were anything but. Stolas couldn’t help but ogle at the shimmering columns and delicate wrought-iron fences as he stepped through his portal, heaving from the exertion while sitting to regain his wit against a grand quartz fountain. It was almost too much.

His first destination was “Daffodils”, a well-reviewed cafe along the central walkway. Everything about the business screamed welcoming, from the kind-smiling goldfinch manning the counter to the original artwork hung beside plants and cozy booths.

The prince had intended to sit a while and enjoy his peppermint tea, but found himself ordering to-go when he realized how crammed the establishment was. His anxiety spiked as he caught demons doing double-takes. He knew it was because of his royal status, but his conscious screamed that they knew.

He quickly took his leave.

He allowed himself to wander, following his long legs wherever they decided to lead him. Paisley sprung along the gates to a lovely yet small park. He was glad once he’d passed, as the scent quickly became overwhelming.

Walking through the marketplace, Stolas found his gaze drawn to a small, modest store he hadn’t noticed before. The front door was the most intricately carved in the district, with simple drawings of lavender and ivy adorning the mahogany. Curiosity got the better of him and he stepped inside, the soft chime of the bell above the door announcing his entrance.

The store was quaint, filled with various trinkets and oddities. On the ring-up counter hung a neatly designed sign, indicating the homemade and small businesses that supplied the store. As he meandered through the aisles, past the hand-dipped candles and wood-worked furniture, the owl’s eyes caught sight of a section dedicated to maternity. His heart gave a strange, hopeful flutter at the sight of the crocheted plushies and knitted booties.

He wandered over, fingers gently grazing the soft fabric of assorted onesies and blankets. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to pick out these things for his own child—the adorable little outfits, the soft sensory toys, decorating their room—His fingers stopped on a tiny pair of mittens, and he imagined slipping them onto little hands. A small smile tugged at his beak, and his heart swelled with a mix of fear and anticipation.

Could he really be a good father to this child? Could he protect them from all the darkness around them? He had tried his best with Octavia. He had tried so desperately. There was plenty he’d done right, sure, but his shortcomings shadowed many.

Stolas felt her presence before he heard her, his feathers fluffing up in warning akin to the fur on a cat’s neck. It stopped him cold.
Her voice cut through the serene atmosphere like a knife. "Well, well, well. Look who decided to crawl out of their pitiful little nest."

Stolas turned sharply, his body sustainably tensed. Standing in the aisle, blocking his path, was Stella.

It had been months since he’d seen her as well, but that was more than welcome. She looked him up and down with a twisted smirk, eyes gleaming with malice. "What are you doing here, darling? Stocking up on baby supplies?" she sneered, her voice dripping with venom.
Stolas swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Anger coursed through his veins at just the sight of her, but there was also fear. "Stella," he replied evenly, trying to keep his voice steady. "I didn’t expect to see you here."

"Nor I, you," she responded, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "You’ve been keeping quite the low profile lately. Demons are starting to talk. Rumors about why that might be..."

It was clear the wretchful peahen was trying to bait him, to pull him into some cruel verbal game. But he was tired, and his nerves were frayed. "I’m sure you’re behind some of those rumors yourself," he shot back, a sharp edge in his voice. "You are surely behind many things. I know it was you who hired that assassin.”

Stella’s expression didn’t falter. She tilted her head, her smirk growing wider. "An assassination attempt? Oh, my dear, you’ll have to be more specific. I do have so many enemies, after all."

"There’s no point denying it," he continued, his tone cold and unwavering. "I know it was you."

"Perhaps," she said with a shrug, her eyes gleaming with mock innocence. "But without proof, darling, what can you really do about it?" She leaned in closer, her smile wide and cruel.

“He literally told me.” He stared with a blank face.

"Even still, you have nothing concrete. You know, it’s almost a pity. If only you were more competent at handling your affairs, maybe you'd still have a semblance of control."
Her words were like poison sinking into his veins. Anger flared up, hot and uncontrollable, his feathers bleeding black and red for a moment. But just as quickly the color retreated, the magma cooling stone-cold. There was fear of the truth in her words, fear of what she was capable of, and fear of how alone he was in this fight. He felt tears sting the corners of his eyes, but he forced them back.

There was no way in all the 7 rings that he would give her the satisfaction of seeing him break.

"Goodbye, Stella," he chuffed, voice tight.
Elegant long legs carried him swiftly to the exit, his heart hammering in an attempt to break through, but he came to a stop early. His eyes had scanned the merchandise as he passed and locked onto a plush pegasus, making the impulse decision to buy it.

He paid quickly, his hands trembling, before stepping outside. The amulet around his neck pressed down on his chest, seemingly heavier, reminding him of the secret it concealed. He needed to get out of here.

Where there was Stella, there was usually Andrealphus.

The memory of the elemental staring at him during the attack flashed in Stolas’ head before he pushed it away and raised his hands.

Shining blue energy sputtered to life between his palms, but that was as far as it could go, flickering weakly in the air before fading out entirely. He tried again, but it was no use. He could not make the portal. He was stuck walking home.

‘You exhausted yourself on the trip over. Plus, you’re creating a magical hybrid that has already drained your magic before. Stress probably doesn’t help. Stupid.’

He started the journey with a deep breath, letting the cool air soothe him for a moment. There was a small comfort in not being fussed over by Octavia, not having to hide his pain behind forced smiles or entrap her in caring for him. The owl let himself enjoy the feeling of anonymity as he walked. It wouldn’t take too long to arrive at the palace—maybe ten, fifteen minutes? Despite this, he could barely continue without his body betraying him—his breath became ragged, and dizziness washed over him in waves. He had to stop several times, leaning against the cold stone walls of buildings, waiting for the spinning in his head to stop. The journey had nearly tripled in length.

When he finally made it home, a mix of relief and exhaustion swaddled his frame. The intention was to go lay down, recover from the afternoon’s events, but that was put on the back burner as a growl echoed in his stomach. A detour. Stolas waltzed straight to the kitchen, barely thinking as he hastily prepared a strange snack of frozen mice, pickles, and caramel. The odd combination somehow seemed perfect, and he devoured it hungrily. Once done, he made his way to the bedroom, his body heavy with fatigue.

He carefully lifted the amulet from his neck first thing, setting it in the case on his side table, and undressed. The strange feeling of the weight shifting from his chest back to his lower abdomen was an instantaneous relief but was also disconcerting, a reminder of the burden he was carrying.

Slipping into his favorite robe and bunny slippers, the prince sighed and leaned back against his plethora of silk pillows, closing his eyes for what only seemed a moment. But then, he heard a disturbance—a faint noise, like something scraping against the balcony outside. His eyes snapped open, his body going rigid and a hand coming to his bump. A moment later, he heard a heavier thud.

A cold sweat formed on his brow as his heart began to race. He slowly got up, moving toward the balcony door in apprehension. Each step felt like a lifetime, his mind filling in the blanks, conjuring images of who or what might be out there. He reached for the handle with a trembling hand and pushed.

The chill of the night air greeted Stolas like an old friend, but it did nothing to calm his nerves. He stepped outside, scanning the balcony. There was nothing out of place. Then he saw it—a dark shape near the railing, the moon illuminating the other side and leaving its form in darkness. As he moved closer, he realized it was a bird. An owl. A dead owl. Its neck was grotesquely twisted, feathers stained dark with its red blood.

The breath caught in his throat, and he felt his stomach churn. At the creature’s limp foot, a piece of parchment was crudely tied, dark stains soaking through. With shaking hands, he untied the note and unfolded it. The words, jagged and cruel, leaped out at him:

“Not everyone you care for will be so lucky.”

Terror gripped him like a vice. His vision blurred; his knees weakened. He staggered back, clutching the note to his chest as if it might vanish, his breathing growing erratic as the panic rose within him like a tidal wave. His thoughts spiraled—images of Octavia hurt, Blitzø ambushed. The idea of his loved ones suffering because of him, because of his actions, was too much.

Stolas pressed his back against the cold brick wall of the balcony, trying to ground himself, but his breaths were still shallow, heart pounding wildly. He closed his eyes tightly, but the darkness behind his eyelids only intensified his fears. The note’s words repeated in his mind, louder and louder.

He debated, his mind racing. Should he tell someone? Should he warn Octavia? Blitzø? Asmodeus? But the thought of dragging them into this, of risking their lives... No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear to endanger them. The risk was too high. His fear for them overpowered his own dread.

“No… I can’t,” he whispered to himself, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I have to handle this alone.”

Slowly, he slid down the wall, his body curling in on itself as he hugged his knees to his chest. The stars above twinkled coldly, indifferent to his plight. He focused on them, trying to match his ragged breaths to their imagined rhythm—in and out, in and out. Little by little, the panic began to ebb away, replaced by a hollow exhaustion.

“I have to protect them… no matter what,” he whispered to the night, his voice barely audible. His eyes stayed on the stars, seeking solace in their distant, unwavering light as he leaned his head back against the wall, the weight of his choice settling heavily on his shoulders.

Chapter Text

Stolas sat in his study, eyes lingering over the series of notes and gifts scattered across his desk—the awkward but strangely endearing attempts from Blitzø to reach out. Each letter was different, filled with scratched-out words and rambling thoughts. It was clear that Blitzø had put a lot of thought into the notes, his little doodles of himself and Stolas carefully representing the words he attempted to say. Each one tried, in its own way, to convey regret or perhaps something more.

“Hey, Stolas. So, uh... I’ve been thinking. Not that I do that often. I mean, about you. Well, okay, I’ve been thinking about you a lot, and not just in the usual way, which you know is the sexy way. But like, in another way? The ‘I’m sorry’ way. Look, I suck at this. I just—”

Stolas let out a breath, setting the letter aside. He could almost hear Blitzø's voice in the scratchy writing that definitely belonged to his daughter, filled with the same uncertainty and bravado that had characterized their entire relationship. For all their chaos, he couldn't deny he missed it. He missed Blitzø’s presence—his reckless humor, his biting remarks, and even the moments of surprising tenderness. At this point, he would take the egregious spelling and grammar.

The prince leaned back in his chair, his mind swirling with conflicted feelings. Part of him still ached from their last encounter—the last one he could remember anyway—from Blitzø’s careless dismissal of his feelings. The hurt ran deep, but the sincerity of Blitzø's recent gestures made him pause. They were messy, imperfect, but they were Blitzø.

‘Maybe… it’s time I reach out myself’, he thought, a small ember of hope flaring in his chest. But the moment he considered it, doubt quickly crept in.

What would he even say? What could he say that wouldn't make him sound desperate or foolish? He wasn't sure if Blitzø even wanted to hear from him—or if this was just another game.

Stolas picked up his phone, staring at the blank message screen for what felt like an eternity. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, heart pounding in his chest. ‘Just something simple’, he told himself. ‘Something casual. Start small’.

He typed out a message:

Hey, Blitzø. I got your gifts. I wanted to say—

He frowned.

It sounded too formal. Too stiff. He quickly erased it, his thumb sliding across the screen in frustration. He tried again:

Blitzø, about your last letter… I was thinking—

No, that wasn't right either. Too ambiguous. He erased it again, feeling a flicker of annoyance at himself. Why was this so difficult? Why did it have to be so complicated just to talk to him? He wrote another:

I miss—

Stolas’s breath caught, and his fingers hesitated over the screen. His stomach twisted, not from nerves this time but from the now-familiar cramping. A sharp, almost tearing pain radiated through his abdomen, stealing the air from his lungs. He let out a quiet groan, his body instinctively curling in on itself as he rolled into the fetal position.

He clutched at his stomach, breathing through the pain, his phone slipping from his grasp and landing softly on the carpet. He squeezed his eyes shut, riding out the wave of agony that seemed to last an eternity.

‘I can’t deal with this right now’, he thought, his head spinning. ‘Not tonight’. The pain was exhausting, wearing him down, and his emotions were already raw from everything else.
For a moment, he allowed himself to just lie there, cradling his aching body and letting the tension ebb away bit by bit. His mind felt foggy, caught between the lingering dread of what lay ahead and the faint, flickering hope that maybe—just maybe—there was still a chance for something different.

‘Tomorrow’, he decided, feeling the heaviness settle in his chest. ‘I’ll figure it out tomorrow.’
With great effort, he stretched his arm out, fumbling for the phone. He turned it off, the screen going dark, and allowed himself to sink deeper into his pillows. His thoughts remained tangled, drifting between memories and half-formed plans. As his eyelids grew heavier, his last conscious thought was a quiet, almost wistful whisper.

‘Please… let tomorrow be kinder.’

———★✷★———

Stella's voice cut through the dimly lit room like a shard of ice.

"I thought I hired you to get rid of him," she hissed at Striker, her tone edged with frustration and disdain. "What’s taking so long?"
Striker leaned back in his chair, his hat tilted just enough to obscure his eyes, but the grin on his lips was unmistakable. "Things ain’t always that simple, Ma’am," he drawled. "He’s more slippery than a snake in oil. And then there’s his current... condition."

Stella’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across her face. "Condition?" she repeated slowly. "What are you talking about?"

Striker’s grin widened. He wasn’t about to give her everything, but he knew just enough to keep her interested. "Let’s just say your princely ex has gotten himself a bit more vulnerable lately. Makes things a tad more complicated."

She leaned in, her expression darkening. "If you know something, I suggest you stop playing games and get to the point."

"Easy now," Striker chuckled. "I’m just sayin’ you might want to be patient. Or, if you’re in such a hurry, maybe I need a little more incentive to... expedite things." His grin turned sharper. "Gettin' rid of a prince ain't exactly a budget job, after all."

Stella considered his words, tapping her nails against the table. "Fine," she said finally. "But I expect results. Soon."

Chapter Text

Blitzø paced back and forth outside the gates of Stolas’s estate, his nerves buzzing under his skin like static. He’d been here before, standing at the precipice of what felt like another massive mistake. His last visit had ended with Stolas kicking him out, his feathers ruffled, and his eyes filled with barely contained hurt.

‘I’m not leaving like that this time’, Blitzø thought, clenching his fists at his sides. He was determined to do this right, even if he had no idea what “right” looked like.

He hadn’t heard back from Stolas after sending all those awkward notes and gifts. Loona had rolled her eyes at his attempts, but he'd tried to be genuine, and now... now he needed to face Stolas in person. It was the only way he knew to break through the walls they’d both built.
Taking a deep breath, Blitzø marched up to the door and banged on it with more force than necessary. The hollow echo rang out, amplifying his heartbeat in his ears.

A few moments passed before the door opened a crack, and Stolas peeked out, his eyes narrowing with surprise, then guarded apprehension.

“Blitzø? What are you doing here?” Stolas’s voice was weary, edged with an annoyance that barely masked his underlying vulnerability.

Blitzø squared his shoulders. “I came to talk. For real this time.”

Stolas stared at him for a long moment, as if weighing the sincerity in Blitzø’s eyes. Eventually, he sighed and opened the door wider. “Fine. Come in.”

The inside of the palace felt heavy with silence. Stolas led him to a sitting room, his movements slow and careful, almost as if he were afraid of triggering something. Blitzø followed, his eyes scanning the room for signs of change. Everything looked the same—almost too pristine. As if Stolas hadn’t let himself live in these rooms for a long time.

“So,” Stolas began as he sat down on one of the plush chairs, his posture stiff and his gaze averted, “what exactly did you want to talk about?”

Blitzø took a seat across from him, trying to find his footing. “I... I wanted to clear the air. About... us. About what’s been happening.”

Stolas’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and wary. “What’s been happening? You mean the way you’ve been avoiding me for months after... after I—”

“After you said you loved me?” Blitzø cut in, his voice harsher than he intended. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm himself. “Yeah. That.”

Stolas’s feathers bristled slightly, a sign of his rising agitation. “I bared my soul to you, Blitzø. I told you how I felt, and you—”

“Blew it off. I know,” Blitzø interjected, his voice dropping. He stared down at his hands, the fight suddenly draining out of him. “I know I did. And I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to handle it... Still don’t.”

Stolas’s expression softened, but he didn’t speak, waiting for Blitzø to continue.

“I’ve always been shit at this stuff—feelings, being vulnerable... all that crap. And with you, it’s a thousand times worse,” Blitzø admitted, his voice cracking. “You’re this... this fucking prince and I’m just some low-life Imp who breaks into places and kills for a living. How could I believe you meant it? That you weren’t just playing with me or... or pitying me?”

Stolas’s face twisted with hurt, and his voice was barely a whisper. “I never pitied you, Blitzø.”

“Yeah, well, it felt like it sometimes,” Blitzø shot back, bitterness leaking into his tone. “You got all the power. You could end this whenever you wanted, and I’d be left with nothing. You don’t know what that’s like.”

“Then what do you want, Blitzø?” Stolas asked, his eyes searching Blitzø’s face. “Do you want me to say I’m sorry for loving you? For hoping for something more?”

Blitzø’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t know what he wanted—only that he was tired of the way things had been.

“I want... I want to know if there’s something real here,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I want you to know I’m not just here out of pity. Or because I’m scared you’re gonna hate me if I don’t show up.”

Stolas’s gaze softened, his eyes shining with something unreadable. He hesitated, feeling the weight of his next words.

“You say that now, but I need to know if you’re truly willing to stand by me, Blitzø. Not just out of obligation or because you feel bad. I’ve been through enough to know the difference,” Stolas said, his voice steadier than he felt.

Blitzø’s jaw tightened. “I’m not here because I feel bad. I’m here because I care—”

“Then prove it!” Stolas’s voice suddenly rose, breaking with emotion.

A thick, charged silence hung in the room, heavy with unresolved emotions and the tension of everything left unsaid. Blitzø’s words hovered in the air, and Stolas found himself staring at the Imp with a mix of longing and uncertainty. His heart raced, his chest tightening with the weight of everything he wanted to say but couldn't—everything he wanted to feel but was terrified to acknowledge.

The flickering firelight danced across Blitzø’s face, highlighting the hardened lines that softened ever so slightly as he sat there, seemingly waiting for something. The vulnerability in his eyes wasn’t something Stolas had seen often, and it stirred something deep within him—something he’d tried to bury.

Without fully realizing it, Stolas moved closer, his breath catching in his throat. The distance between them seemed to shrink, his emotions boiling over in a heady mix of fear, anger, and desperate longing. Before Blitzø could react, Stolas’s lips were on his, capturing them in a fierce, needy kiss.

Blitzø stiffened, caught off guard. For a split second, his instinct was to push back, to keep up his defenses—but the warmth of Stolas's lips, the desperation in his touch, broke through his hesitation. He melted into the kiss, his body responding almost automatically as he pulled Stolas closer, his hands finding purchase on the prince's waist.

The kiss deepened, quickly turning feverish. Their mouths moved against each other hungrily, months of tension and confusion pouring out in a heated, reckless embrace. Blitzø’s hands roamed over Stolas's sides, feeling the delicate tremor under his touch, while Stolas's fingers tangled in his spines, pulling him closer still.

For a moment, it was like nothing else existed—their minds blanking out everything but the sensation of each other, the way their bodies seemed to fit together in a way that almost made sense. Stolas’s feathers ruffled against Blitzø’s chest, and the Imp responded by pressing in harder, a low growl escaping his throat as he kissed Stolas deeper, more urgently.

But then, reason cut through the haze.

Stolas's eyes fluttered open, reality crashing back down on him like a frigid wave. ‘What am I doing?’ The thought screamed through his mind, and with a panicked gasp, he tore his face away from Blitzø’s, shoving him back with a force that surprised even himself.

“Wait—stop!” Stolas sputtered, breathless, his cheeks flushed and his heart pounding as if it might burst from his chest. He scrambled back, his hands trembling, trying to catch his breath. His beak still tingled from the kiss, his body humming with confused desire, but his mind was spinning with the enormity of what had just happened.

Blitzø was equally breathless, his eyes wide with surprise and his lips slightly swollen. He seemed to be processing the abrupt halt as well, his expression caught somewhere between longing and guarded confusion.

“Stolas, it’s—”

“No, I... I can’t,” Stolas interrupted, his voice shaky. He ran a hand through his tousled feathers, struggling to pull himself together. “I can’t just... fall into this again. Not without knowing if you’re serious. If this is real.”

Blitzø blinked, still dazed from the kiss but quickly regaining his composure. “I told you I’m trying to be real with you, Stolas. What more do you want?”

Stolas’s eyes met his, fierce and blazing with a mix of hurt and hope. “I want you to prove it. That this isn’t just some game or... or another trick to mess with my head. I can’t go through that again, Blitzø.”

Blitzø stared at him, his breath still coming in shallow gasps. For a moment, he looked like he was about to argue, to throw his walls back up—but instead, he swallowed hard, the sincerity returning to his gaze.

“Alright,” he said slowly, his voice raw. “I’ll prove it. I don’t know how yet, but I will. Just... don’t shut me out again. Not yet.”

Stolas’s chest heaved with every breath, his heart caught somewhere between dread and cautious optimism. He’d been burned before, hurt in ways that still ached deep inside—but as he looked at Blitzø, he saw something there, some small flicker of honesty that he desperately wanted to believe in.

“Okay,” Stolas finally whispered, his voice barely audible but steady. “Then we’ll see, won’t we?”
And for a brief moment, amidst the lingering tension and the charged air between them, there was a glimmer of hope—a fragile but undeniable sense that maybe, just maybe, they could find a way through this mess together.

Chapter Text

Stella paced the length of her lavishly decorated temporary office, her frustration palpable while snapping at one of her brother’s imps to fetch more tea. Striker had been late arriving, and she was in no mood for delays. She wanted her soon-to-be ex-husband dead so terribly badly. Being a weak excuse of a man, of a Goetia, was one thing, but to publicly humiliate her with an affair? With a lowly plebian? Whenever she thought of it, Stella seethed.

She had been so close a few months ago. Despite being glad Andre convinced her to stop before she lost all chances of settlement, it had eaten at her continuously. Now that she had evidence of his shady sex deals with that toad, the Princess couldn’t wait any longer. She was certain his assets and title would remain in her grasp, or at least be Dowager. Yes. She had never been more confident.

A gentle knock clinked on the frosted door, receiving a sharp question in response. Stella turned to see the butler she had set away previously, a fresh teapot in his grasp. “A sir Striker is here to see you, my Lady,” he said, switching the pots and perfecting the placement of the ceramic dishes.

“Fine. Leave us.”

The imp—a Ronaldo or something, she never deigned to give or learn their names—quickly skirted out of the sitting room, undoubtedly ushering the assassin inside before closing the hefty door.
As he entered, Stella fixed him with a sharp, expectant gaze.

“You’re. Late.”

“My apologies, Ma’am,” Striker rolled, his wrathian drawl highlighting the undercurrent of sarcasm. I’ve been a lil’ busy with your assignment.” The imp-succubus hybrid smirked, plopping into the plush chair opposite the peahen. She could only glare as he propped his nasty boots up on the crystalline table.

“Tell me everything,” Stella demanded. “I want to know exactly what you’ve been doing. Time is money, and wasting mine would not be wise.”

Striker, though visibly weary from whatever his recent actions had been, didn’t hesitate. “I’ve been keeping tabs on your cheatin’ birdie, leavin’ him lil’ messages to mess with his head. In a few days, I’ll have him over the edge.” Stella smiled cruelly, yet paused as something nagged at her. Sensing deceit, her eyes narrowed.

“And what else? You’ve been withholding information. What about his ‘vulnerabilities’ you fail to mention this time?”

Striker hesitated for a moment. This extra information had been his one ticket, his leg-up on the prissy princess before him. There was clear threat in her tone, and the cowboy’s shoulders slumped in resignation. He was almost finished with the job anyway. Could be more interesting with the bitch in the loop.

“Your whore of a husband is pregnant.”

Stella’s eyes widened in shock. “Pregnant? A [weak-excuse-of-a] man? With an imp?” Her minuscule brain seemed to process the confusion quickly, shifting immediately to anger and disgust. “How revolting. The bloodline, the impurity...” As she weighed the implications, the princess’ expression twisted into a wicked grin.

“This changes everything. If I can use this against him, it could be even more devastating than I imagined.” This was a Satan-sent miracle for sure. The nail-in-the-coffin for the divorce and an end to the pitiful man’s existence. “I am not pleased you kept this from me, but I suppose I can allow it for a price.”

Striker’s face hardened with his brow raised. “And that would be?”

“An audience! I would adore the entertainment of seeing his conclusion,” Stella leaned forward, folding her talons together and resting them under her chin.

The imp gruffed, “Yes, Ma’am.”

Stella’s grin grew wider, her mind racing with new, malicious possibilities. “Good. I’ll be in contact.”

———★✷★———

Stolas had spent the day in the garden, basking in the rare moments of peace he could find amidst the chaos of his recent life. He enjoyed the sunshine, the fresh air, and the quiet solitude. He was mainly glad to be back among his plants. It had been a while since he himself had tended to them, both from a lack of strength and motivation. He had quite missed their company, the way the bulbs rubbed into his touch and leaves shook in a mock wave. It was one of those rare days where the weight of his burdens seemed a little lighter, if only for a few hours, and the prince was glad to have used his time productively.

The positivity clung to Stolas’ shoulders like one of his favorite capes, lighting up the halls as he returned inside. The reprieve of the garden had been much needed, and the tranquility as well. With Octavia at her mother’s (or rather, her uncle’s), he had anticipated a lonely and boring weekend, probably curled on the couch and catching up on Hell-a-Novella. He had stopped watching a few weeks ago, upset by Gabriella’s pregnancy scare.

A gentle chime and rumble sounded from Stolas’ pocket before the owl fished the phone from his hip.

Blitzø had resumed his habit of sending lewd and/or slaphappy memes, bringing a smile to Stolas’ face as he approached the bedroom. It had only been a few weeks since they reconnected, but it honestly felt like they had never been apart. In-person meetings were few and far between, but the two were constantly texting or calling, the latter preferably. It was a personal preference to hear his love’s voice, but also a relief to not have to decipher the crude spellings and errors.

Stolas suddenly stopped moments before his door, the hell horse meme sliding back into his pocket as he looked down at his foot. He had stepped into a wet spot on the carpet, a strange occurrence for this side of the palace. It wasn’t quite as smooth as water, but not near-gelatinous either. In the darkened light of the hallway, he couldn’t entirely tell the color, but it was definitely dark. He pulled his foot back, realizing it was slightly tacky, and sniffed.

He didn’t have the nose of a hellhound, but the coppery scent told him he had stepped in blood.

Apprehension slammed away any residual happiness from his day as he struggled to swallow. Someone had been in his house while he was out front.

The bird slowly trailed forward, following the weaving line of blood down the hall a-ways. His heart pounded in his chest as he followed the gruesome path, his mind racing with panic. Each step felt heavier than the last, the ominous sight pulling him deeper into dread.

He was led to a door he rarely used, a room that had been long empty, tucked away, and neglected. It had once been a playroom for Octavia, housing her dolls and other playthings as a young owlet. Stolas hesitated for a moment before pushing the door open, his breath catching in his throat as he stepped inside.

He nearly collapsed.

The room reeked of metal, blood coating a good chunk of anything and everything displayed. The walls were adorned with nightmarish scenes: scribbled drawings of death, of pain, and sorrow. A figure that seemed to be himself was etched in a few, his eyes empty black pits.

Toys, blankets, and clothes scattered the floor and covered any extra furniture in the room, most soaked in black or torn to shreds. Stolas struggled to breathe, walking further in to inspect the mockery of a nursery. The centerpiece made his blood run cold.

In the middle of the room was a shattered crib, surrounded by dead flowers and blood-stained blankets. The mobile above the crib was made of broken, charred bones, twisting slowly in the dim light and the light breeze from the open window. Whoever was doing this knew specifics about Blitzø as well, he realized with shock. Many of the plushies strewn about were equestrian.

The prince turned to leave but was stopped dead in his tracks once again. He was unable to keep the bile down as he read the message scribed on the interior wall, hunching and painfully emptying his stomach.

Painted in stark, cruel letters, it read: “Your baby is already dead.”

The room was a brutal assault on Stolas’s senses, a psychological attack designed to shatter his already fragile sense of security. The intimate knowledge in the contents, combined with the gruesome scene, made it clear that the one behind all of this knew far too much about Stolas’s personal life and fears.

Stolas’s vision blurred with tears as he staggered out, the overwhelming shock and horror of the scene taking its toll. His head spun with the hallway, quickly becoming an issue as he stumbled about, dizzy and disoriented. The message on the wall echoed in his mind, each word a painful reminder of his deepest fears.

He had already failed this baby.

Stolas backed up into the wall, sinking to his knees. His hands shook uncontrollably as he tried to process the invasion, his eyes darting between the room in front of him and the blood-smeared runner. Each beat of his heart was a thunderous drum in his chest; He wanted to scream, to lash out, but all he could manage was a choked sob.

The escalation was terrifying and driving him to the edge of panic. The idea of the room, once a symbol of hope for his future, had been turned into a twisted reflection of his nightmares. It was clear now that this wasn’t just a threat, but a personal, intimate enemy who knew just how to hurt him the most.

As the weight of the situation settled over him, Stolas knew he couldn’t stay here. He had to get out, to find safety and regroup. His mind was a whirlwind of fear and anger, but he forced himself to stand, wiping the tears from his eyes with a trembling hand. Blitzø was his first thought, but he quickly changed his mind. He had already decided to tell him about their sweet star soon, but not like this. Asmodeus would surely help.

Stolas rose and stumbled away from the room, his heart pounding as he made his way back to his own quarters. The trail of blood seemed to mock him, each step a reminder of the nightmare that he left behind. Once safely inside his room, he slammed the door shut and locked it, trying to steady his breathing.

But even as he tried to calm himself, the panic continued to gnaw at him. The words written in blood were a chilling reminder of how close the danger was, how personal and invasive the threat had become. Stolas felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead, his mind racing with thoughts of what might happen next.

In the aftermath of the horrifying discovery, Stolas’s anxiety surged. His heart and lungs ached with the weight of his fears, and the words on the wall echoed in his mind like a cruel mantra. Right now, he just wanted to curl up in bed and steady his nerves. As he rushed further into his room, he was brought to a stop once again.

A trickle of warmth dripped between his legs, running down his thigh and appearing as it ran past the hem of his romper.

Looking down, he saw blood—his own blood—and felt an overwhelming wave of terror. His mind immediately jumped to the worst conclusion: a miscarriage.

‘No! Please, no!’

Too fast, Stolas ripped the phone from his pocket, dropping it in his haste and lack of coordination. The screen was heavily cracked, but it would still work. Despite the blur of his eyes and the distorted image behind broken glass, the owl was able to open the call log, dialing faster than he ever had. It rang an agonizing two times as he sank to the floor.

She picked up.

Desperate and sobbing, he fumbled with the shattered device. “Belphagor... please... blood...” he choked out.

A portal of brilliant magenta whirred to life across the room instantly, the Sin of Sloth rushing forward in less-than-professional garb. Belphagor, recognizing the urgency in his voice, had dropped whatever she had been doing—Stolas didn’t want to think long on exactly what—to help him. After this ordeal had passed, he would thank her profusely.

The goat took in the sight of the panicked and distressed prince, her expression softening with concern. Belphagor quickly assessed the situation, her calm demeanor providing a stark contrast to Stolas’s hysteria while her magic scanned his vitals.

“Stolas, it’s alright. It’s just some heavy spotting. It’s common and not necessarily a miscarriage.” Seeing his lack of belief, she conjured her X-ray spell, turning the magic screen to show that they were both okay.

Relief tried to take precedence, but panic still tightly gripped the steering wheel. Stolas couldn’t move; he couldn’t speak, couldn’t regulate his breathing. His lungs were so tired from the rapid back-and-forth, and his primary eyes stung from overexertion.
She guided him to his bed, her gentle touch helping to ease his anxiety. As she tended to him, she spoke soothingly, trying to calm both his body and mind. “You need to rest. Based on your size, the baby is likely coming soon. It’s important to stay calm and follow your birth plan.”
Belphagor sat beside him, her presence a comforting anchor. She began discussing his birth plan, focusing Stolas’s thoughts away from his immediate panic. “We’ve planned for a safe and controlled environment for the laying, and the incubator is all set up. It’s important to stay focused on that. We have everything prepared.”

The conversation helped ground Stolas, allowing him to shift his focus from his fear and panic to the practical aspects of his impending labor. As Belphagor continued to speak, Stolas felt his breathing steady and his heartbeat slow, his mind calming as he listened.

He clung to the hope and reassurance Belphagor provided, allowing himself to be guided through the crisis with her support. For the first time since discovering the gruesome scene, he felt a small sense of control returning, bolstered by the presence of someone who genuinely cared for his well-being.

Chapter Text

Blitzø couldn’t help but grin as he spotted the palace down the road. It had become second nature to him, returning to his prince following the long day at I.M.P. in the near month (twenty-eight days and nine hours, but who was counting?) since they had officially reconnected. Things weren’t always perfect. There were disputes, of course. After his third night of surprising the bird with his usual wall-scaling entrance, Stolas had become so upset. He hadn’t been intending to fight, but knowing the owl’s reaction was related to whatever he had been hiding, Blitzø kinda lost it as well.

He didn’t spend the night.

For the most part, the road to rebuilding their fractured relationship was wonderful. So wonderful, that Blitzø’s own lack of self-worth and hatred often took the backseat. It had surprised him at first how needy he was, how honest and open. Well, in private at least. Putting his walls down in public was still an issue, and occasionally came up on bad days.

Blitzø pulled into the circle drive, parking his tattered van between the fountain and the grand staircase. The time read 5:29. In his excitement, the imp had arrived an hour early. He blinked the surprise away, checking his breath in his scarred palm before unceremoniously unwrapping and tossing a mint into his maw. The crinkled plastic fell somewhere by the pedals. Oh well.

It felt odd to be on time, much less early. Blitzø Buckzo had never been punctual a day in his life, not even for the business he lovingly crafted from the ground up. The closest he’d ever gotten was picking Loona up from some party in Gluttony, but he was grasping at any chance to not be alone. Yeah… let’s not think about that night.

Of the handful of dates they’d gone on, this was the first Stolas had specifically proposed. Blitzø was over the moon, funnily enough. As his prince had asked, he took note of small body movements, uncharacteristic. He was nervous, the imp realized. He was nervous and practically bouncing with anticipation. Stolas had been like that the first few times they met up, but not anymore. With their tender conversations, frequent “romantic” moments (Blitzø didn’t see them as such, but the owl was adamant), and rekindled understanding, Stolas had been calm. Unlike how their relationship had been prior to that Full Moon, the two were completely comfortable with one another.

Blitzø had a sneaking suspicion that tonight was the night. Stolas would lay all of the cards on the table and tell him whatever he had been hiding.

Finally, the imp couldn’t wait anymore. Thirty minutes wasn’t too early, was it? Probably not. Besides, Stolas had a tendency to be fully prepared hours before an event, sometimes even longer.

He exited the van in a simple slide, hitting the lock twice and moving towards the steps, being careful to not hit the bouquet of flowers in his hand. For the life of him, Blitzø couldn’t remember what each one meant, but he had done extensive research knowing that was a thing Stolas enjoyed. The main message of the bundle was a confession of love. Thinking about it brought a bright blush to his already (mostly) red face.

In his momentary blunder, the van keys slipped from his grasp. A slight groan escaped his lips in frustration as he dipped to pick them up, smoothing the edges of his fancy suit as he stood fully.

Something wasn’t right. Something was wrong. The spines on his back rose in warning, but Blitzø could see nothing out of the ordinary. Was it just because he knew Pringles would be the one to open the door? That guy hated him, and dealing with him alone was a pain, but his quills had never stood on end around him before. Maybe it was the nerves? It was a big night after all.

Yeah. ‘Yeah, that must be it’, he concluded. With a breath, the imp began to climb the stairs.

‘Yeah, that wasn’t it!’ The next thing he knew, Blitzø was on the ground, his head swimming as an ache ran through his left horn. Someone was here. They towered above him from this angle, moving quickly and unperturbed. From the roughness of their hands and the warm scent of hay, he figured this fucker was from Wrath.

And who did he know that hated Stolas and was from Wrath?

Striker.

The realization had Blitzø quickly on his toes and squaring up. He found the bouquet had landed near the front tire of the van, disheveled and slightly wilted. It wasn’t what he wanted to present the Prince with, but the circumstances surely warranted an understanding. Nice, pretty flowers are lovely. But what is more lovely than saving your life and bringing you (less than pretty) flowers?

Blitzø found his footing at last and swung, aiming for the now burned side of Striker’s face. The cowboy smirked and ducked, knocking Blitzø’s knees out from under him and pinning him to the ground. Having once again hit Pride’s floor, disorientation was his middle name. Striker said something he couldn’t quite make out. Did he have a concussion? He probably had a concussion. Blitzø struggled against the man’s hold, kicking and biting after realizing the fucker had taken his pistol.

His breathing jumped in pace as he fought, putting everything he had into it. He couldn’t let him get to Stolas. He couldn’t let him get to Stolas. He couldn’t let him…

———★✷★———

Stolas couldn’t help the smile that played on his face as he twisted in the mirror. Blitzø would be arriving in an hour or so (possibly later, knowing his sense of time), and he could barely contain himself.

The past few weeks had been amazing for not only himself, but he knew for his partner as well. It wasn’t quite what he had imagined of love previously, but his novels and films were fiction. They were real. The bird couldn’t ask for anything more. Well, he could, but that was the purpose of tonight.

Their little star wouldn’t be a secret anymore.

Stolas had processed the fear and anxiety in the days leading up to the announcement and was very well aware and respectful of the fact that Blitzø might not want this baby. He was hopeful, of course, and figured he knew him enough to say he probably would be accepting, but it would be naive to assume completely.

Usually, Stolas would have already been dressed: prim and proper, waiting for his knight to arrive. His body had other ideas and had crashed after a particularly hard morning. He had woken up at 4:00 on the dot, nearly falling out of bed in the struggle to prepare, his gut twisting in that all-too-familiar way.

The bath helped calm his nerves and freshen the life in his feathers, but it also ran longer than intended, stressing the bird out even more. Preening took a long while as well, though at least his lavender-scented oil took care of any perfume issues. An hour after he had woken, Stolas was circling the bed, hand to his truly huge tummy, while perusing his outfit options.

With how important the night would be, he wanted to look his best for his love. Not too nice that he made the other feel inadequate or underdressed, but put together and (hopefully) sexy. It was of his own preference as well. Many of his outfits in the past months had been painfully bland to his own taste. With needing to be comfortable and barely leaving the palace, the beautifully crafted articles from the modiste sat untouched for a long time.

He had narrowed it down to two: the first had comfortable but refined high-waisted button-ups, a silk blouse tucked into the band, and an astonishing cape swirling with indigo constellations. The second was perhaps a bit more regal, with a velveteen vest cupping his bust overtop a pale pink button-up, the pants ruffled on the side, paired with an equally grand yet feathered cloak.

After a lengthy back-and-forth, Stolas settled on the first outfit. It would allow his fluffy chest feathers to peek out, and he knew how enamored with his plume Blitzø was.

So here he was now, anxiously counting down the minutes while applying the finishing touches. He nearly poked himself in the eye with the wand of his mascara and redid his eyeliner three times until it was just right. Yes, the nerves may be back. After one spritz of glitter (a gift from Blitzø, saying it looked like he was covered in stardust), he was ready.

He waited until 6:30.

Then, 7:00.

8:30.

‘Did my darling forget? Maybe he’s stuck with a lengthy hit.’ The thoughts nawed at him like acid, doubt and worry eating at his contented mind. He blinked and cocked his head. ‘Did I do something wrong? It’s Friday, right?” The prince rose, abandoning his phone on the sheets while gliding to the balcony, grimacing with another cramp. Blitzø hadn’t answered his calls or texts, so it didn’t really matter. Plus, he would hear if he did. Stolas would only be outside momentarily anyway. He needed the fresh air.

Not only did it calm his nerves, but Belphagor had stressed at his last appointment that keeping on top of healthy habits would need to be a priority, given the times that he did not. She had also given him an estimated laying period, which was a relief to have. The Sin of Sloth had been able to coax the little one into allowing her to peer through the veil; she guessed it was because the child was nearly ready, but she seemed pleased that her presence may have influenced the outcome.

The image wasn’t clear enough to detect sex, but it was enough to display the extent of the child’s hybrid nature. Little nubs that would turn into horns adorned their head, a tiny beak settled on the face below. Their legs would be cloven, and it was noted their seeming lack of tail was (probably) only temporary, and would appear as they grew more of the feathers that were barely visible on the crown of their head.

Stolas had cried first seeing them. He had cried with relief, knowing his child was okay, that he hadn’t messed them up from his mistakes. He had cried out of fear, realizing just how much danger their appearance might put them in Hell's society. But, for the most part, he cried with joy. After months of painful and tiresome symptoms, the fruit of his labors was nearly here. And they were beautiful.

He imagined the little one now, floating inside the egg while he leaned over the balcony and sighed at the stars beginning to peek through the pentagram. He began to search for his favorites when his peripheral vision was noticed.

I.M.P.’s van was parked in front of the palace. ‘Blitzy is here!’ Ignoring the frustration of his love being late and not answering his messages, Stolas swooped with a grin, slipping his phone into the pocket of his pants and donning Asmodeus’ amulet. He only paused briefly to get used to his tighter breaths and slimmed figure before practically skipping down the hallway. ‘He must have just pulled up,’ Stolas mused, thankful that his staff had been sent home for the night when he almost bit the dust rushing to the front door. He took a big gulp before opening the palace.

“Good Evening, Darling. I hope-” The words died in his throat. Confusion hooked his features before breaking into a playful grin. “Oh, I see. We’re playing hard-to-get.” The thought quickly died as well once he spotted the tattered flowers by the car. Heliotrope, blue salvia, white carnations, and asters were tied together in a once magnificent bouquet, baby’s breath scattered throughout the stems.

Tears pooled in his eyes as Stolas rushed forward, the carefully crafted message of love and devotion yanking his heartstrings painfully. He wouldn’t just abandon such a nice gesture as this. “Blitzø?” He stood again, heaving while searching the area. “Blitzø?” Something cold and sharp dug into the flesh of his talon. Stolas winced lightly before he pulled the culprit into the air, worry completely cemented as the van keys came into view.

Other than Loona and I.M.P., this van (no matter how shitty) was his baby. Those keys almost never left Blitzø’s pocket.

Stolas shook and fumbled for his phone, dialing the imp’s number in a last-ditch effort, clenching his teeth as his body tensed again. It rang twice before picking up. Relief flooded his veins before his blood ran cold.

“Blitzø! What happened? Where are you? You left the van and-”

“Hello, lanky birdie.” The voice was menacingly smug, clearly smiling into the phone as he spoke.

“Striker," A noise akin to a growl erupted from his throat. "What have you done with Blitzø?”

“Your little plaything belongs to me now,” he laughed. “Can’t guarantee he’ll be around much longer. He calls your name so beautifully.”

“You keep your filthy hands off of him!” Stolas screeched, his form fluttering in vermillion and obsidian feathers.

“Now, now, your Highness. Let’s not be too brash. It’s not good for the little one.”

Bile rose in Stolas’ throat at the revelation. Striker knew. He knew about his gravidity. He could be the one behind the threats. He most likely was. Stolas’s mind raced. Despite his fear, he knew he couldn’t leave Blitzo to die. He would never forgive himself if Blitzø died, much less if it were his fault.

The prince straightened his posture, trying to muster all the intimidation he could, falling into a plea quickly. “Let Blitzø go. I’ll do whatever you want. Just let him go, please.” On the other end of the line, Stolas picked up smothered protests. He imagined his love, beaten and bruised, gagged and bleeding.

Striker’s voice grew colder. “You have one hour before I start the countdown. I suggest you make your move quickly. You know where.”

The call dropped.

If one had peered into Stolas’ brain as he rushed about, there would be nothing but fearful determination. He acted purely on instinct as he threw together a bag. The grimoire was the first thing he grabbed, followed by as much first aid as he could find in his personal bathroom. As an afterthought, he threw in a bottle of absinthe he had long stashed under his bed. Blitzø would appreciate a distraction from the pain.

Stolas ignored the leeching of energy as he split open the air, a portal tearing into Wrath growing until it was large enough to pass through. He didn’t have time to waste on calling for a ride.

The instantaneous temperature influx mixed horrendously with his drained body, tripping the prince up on the terracotta floor as the portal collapsed behind him. He hated it—how he couldn’t get up and move. Five minutes of reprieve were all he allowed himself before hoisting his cinder block bones from the ground.

In front of him, he noticed for the first time, was an abused railway. It wound into the mountain ahead, disappearing in the mouth of a narrow cave. Just being back here sent shivers down his spine and brought phantom pains to his shoulder and leg. No. He wouldn’t get caught up on it. Blitzø needed him. He couldn’t allow his love to suffer the same fate he had.

By sheer will alone, Stolas trudged forward, supporting himself on the rough walls. The tunnel was much longer than the one Striker had brought him by the first time and squeezed in a good few places. That stallion would not have made it through here, that’s for sure.

Sweat rolled down his feathered brow as the owl approached an opening bleeding a combination of neon and warm bulbs.

Stolas stumbled into the familiar cavern, barely able to keep himself upright. The place remained in disarray from I.M.P.’s rescue all those months ago; The stains of obsidian all but highlighted the fact. His heart pounded in his chest, and every step took a herculean effort. Eerie shadows cast across the rough-hewn walls as he walked further in, ignoring the extended twinge in his gut.

Turning a corner, his eyes locked onto the horrific sight before him: Blitzø bound against the toppled statue of Striker, his jaw swollen and gagged. A gash ran across his forehead, blood mixing with the dirt on his face as it dripped down his temple.

Continuing to ignore the pain and exhaustion that clawed at him, Stolas sprinted towards Blitzø. He fell to his knees beside him, dropping the bag at the imp's feet. His hands shook as he tried to free Blitzo from his restraints. “Blitzø, I’m here, darling. I’m here,” he murmured, trying to comfort him even as he struggled to untie the bonds.

Blitzø’s eyes shot wide with panic. Desperate sounds choked into the uncomfortably tight gag while he continually looked at Stolas, then behind him.

“Shh… I’ll have you free-” his words momentarily hitched as he rode through another spasm. “Free shortly.” Stolas had completely forgotten about why he was here; the threat and trap were a distant whisper. His only thoughts were on Blitzø, and getting him out of this situation.

The ropes were not angelic, but that didn’t make them any easier to remove. Intricately tight knots wove around the imp, digging into his flesh all over. No rock close was sharp enough to act as a makeshift blade, and without a real one, Stolas’ only option was to undo the tied threads by hand.

“Mph!” Blitzø started wiggling now, scraping his horns against the stone to gesture with his head.

The pieces had just begun to come back when the already minuscule amount of air was wretched from his lungs. He was flying backward with a strength he had never wanted to encounter again. The cowboy came into view just as he slammed into metal across the cavern. His blood marked the area surrounding him, and memories came flooding back.

The rail welcomed him as an old friend, almost comforting as the phantom pains returned. No—not phantom. As he steadied into complete consciousness, the ache in his abdomen cranked up a few notches and spread to his back.

Like a dance, Striker approached, swiveling and dipping in an animalistic fashion. It was almost funny, Stolas noted. The right side of the assassin’s face was now bleached white, much like Blitzø’s own. When or how it happened, Stolas was unaware. The two were alike in so many ways—now another—and yet the roles were so concrete. He almost considered the imp handsome before coming to his senses.

“So, Princey has finally come to play hero. Back for more?” A twisting grin split his face in half as a glint fell upon it, neon reflecting off the white glow of angelic steel in his palm.

Stolas’ eyes locked onto the dagger instantly, his body locking right as he had planned to move. Petrification in mind, he flashed his eyes to no avail.

No magic.

“I told ya’, Blitzy,” he teased over his shoulder, stalking closer. “Your blue blood can’t do shit.”

Air ceased to move, and Stolas met Blitzø’s gaze as the rattling figure loomed.

Chapter Text

Blitzø tugged at the rope with increasing intent, the little Stolas had been able to undo serving as a perfect catalyst. Had this not been a lethal situation, he would have been mad at the Prince. How hard is it to understand cues? He called before—he knew Striker was there! Stupid bird. Seeing him tossed like a paperclip had ceased any of those thoughts, Blitzø wincing himself as Stolas collided with a vertically running rail.

Keeping his eyes on him, Blitzø continued to fight through the ropes. He thrashed in sets to maintain his energy, but slowly and surely was making progress. Even the gag had started to loosen. That was a relief on its own; the sides of his mouth were surely bruised.

The cave of sorts was laughable to Blitzø as he realized this was where Stolas had been tortured before. Mox and Mills had made a mess of the place in the most wonderful way possible, tearing the (questionably decorated) space apart. Only the bed back in the shadows hinted at residence. And, based on the overcompensating statue he was fastened to, it belonged to Striker.

Stolas found his eyes while the cowboy assassin stalked closer, silently sending an “I love you” that had Blitzø seething. He felt the message hard in his ribs, his heart crumbling. No goodbyes! No!

Blitzø struggled harder, feeling the ropes loosen to an almost comfortable embrace. He couldn’t see it, but he knew Striker brandished his angelic dagger.

When he had first awoken on the encased railway, the fuck had taunted the shit out of him with it. He only managed to cut Blitzø’s forehead, but his words burned far more than the blessed blade.

“I’mma gut your blue blood master like a lunker from Envy,” he recalled Striker goading him. It was one of the few sentences he could pick up, the others having something to do with a “little one”, an “abomination”. He had no clue what that had meant, nor did he really have the capability to think about it until later.

The dagger shot towards him, skitting close but just out of reach. Finally, he was doing something! Stolas had kicked the knife from Striker’s grasp in a desperate move, almost smiling at the tiny win. Blitzø wiggled harder. Just… another… few…

Stolas screeched in pain, shooting Blitzø’s vision back to him. Striker had caught his leg and sharply snapped it, allowing the twisted limb to fall in fury. Fuck.

“Do something! Use your magic, anything!” he cried out, realizing afterward that the gag had fallen to his shoulders. Why wasn’t he fighting back? There were no angelic ropes holding him, no weapon stuck in his frame. It made no sense and was frustrating beyond belief. Stolas did not have this much of a death wish.

Striker flicked his head to the side, apparently remembering the used bait. His teeth split in a laugh while his eyes flashed a dangerous idea. The assassin’s grip found the skin at the back of Stolas’ neck, dragging him as if it were the scruff of a hellhound.

The more the fucker touched his bird, Blitzø added another method of torture to an ever-expanding list. He would get him for the first time, mimicking the ways he had played with Stolas to a tee. Striker had already been served for his time with Fiiz, but a little more was surely deserved. And, obviously, any and everything he did today would be paid for handsomely.

While he wiggled further, Blitzø stared at the scene in front of him, puzzled. The pain Stolas was reacting to didn’t seem to come from his contact with the jagged floor. It seemed instead that his stomach was the issue. Those cramps he tried so hard to hide were back, the imp was sure of it. Yes, he could see the muscles tightening under Stolas’ now torn shirt as Striker dropped him at last, a good ten feet away.

The ropes no longer restrained his arms, bringing a grin to Blitzø’s face. The rest of this would be easy. Laughter brought him to a pause, bewilderment overtaking his smile as he glanced at the cackling cowboy. It was genuine, somehow more terrifying than one would think.

What could be so funny?

Water pooled under Stolas’ thighs, Blitzø realized. Did he pee himself? I guess that was a little funny? If that was your sense of humor.

“Oh, how delightful,” Striker taunted. “Looks like your little prince or princess is making an appearance. How fitting.”

What the fuck did that even mean?

Blitzø brought his focus back to the ropes, twisting and pulling, even using his teeth, like a madman. If Stolas peed himself, he had to be incredibly scared. He needed to get out of these restraints as soon as possible.

Caught in his peripheral vision, Blitzø witnessed the prince trying to kick again, but the attempt was futile. Striker twisted his leg viciously, breaking it a second time. He screamed out a string of expletives, the agony forcing him to vocalize his suffering in warbled bird calls.

Blood roared in his ears from the overwhelming anger, allowing his protective nature to fully take the reins. With a burst of determination, Blitzø stretched his torso and arms down in front of him. The knife, long forgotten, glistened in the dust. It was so close. Almost—

“Hey, Boss!” Blitzø’s hand gripped the knife and he looked up, his eyes meeting those of his wild opposition. Striker looked at Blitzo with a sadistic smile, then lifted his booted foot high above Stolas. “Congratulations, Daddy.” With brutal force, he brought it crashing down, the heel slamming and stepping into his stomach with the force of a hydraulic press.

He couldn’t hold back the domineering growl that ripped from his throat, snapping his jaws at the fucker and pulling the knife close. Stolas had gone limp, his beak held open in a silent cry.

“I’m coming, Stols. You’ll be okay!” The first rope dropped from around his frame, the sawing motion of the blade continuing into the next. Then another. Just a few more. Breaking his honed concentration, a heavy necklace landed at his feet.

The jewel encased in dainty silver slowly dimmed from a vibrant indigo, turning near-matte once the glow cleared. Blitzø recognized the piece instantly. In the past weeks, he had never seen Stolas without it.

Stolas…

The knife stopped completely as Blitzø froze. In front of him, Striker’s smile widened as he stepped away from Stolas’ form on the ground—a much larger Stolas than had been there a moment before.

The owl prince’s stomach was bloated to an unnatural degree, his skin taut and feathers matted. If he didn’t know better, Blitzø would say—

He couldn’t be. How would that even be possible?

It took only moments, but to Blitzø it felt like an eternity as the pieces slotted together.

Stolas had something he was hiding.

He had been cramping for weeks.

The weight gain.

The nausea.

And had he- he totally tried to say something that full moon.

Striker’s words at least made sense now.

Stolas… Stolas was pregnant—had been for a while, clearly. Was it his? It had to be his. How the fuck was this possible?

Silent tears trailed down his face as a fire lit in his gut. Hurting his bird was one thing. But, hurting his kid? Absolutely not.

The final rope’s snap echoed beside Striker’s awful glee, the opening number to a symphony of grunts and impacts. Like a panther, Blitzø launched at the cowboy full-force, tackling and rolling him down the rail, away from Stolas, out of view but forever in the forefront of the assassin’s mind.

Striker had improved his hand-to-hand combat skills since the last time they’d met. Every punch, swipe, and kick were calculated, the force behind them contained but strong. He would never admit this out loud, but Blitzø was scared, and not winning. Sure, he got a few good hits in, but it was not lookin’ good.

Neither was Stolas.

The Prince was awake, thank Satan, but clearly out of commission. The pool of liquid beneath his legs had bled black and grown substantially. It clung to his dishevled feathers and filled the cavern with a copper taste. In the quick glances Blitzø could take, he noticed the permanence of the shaking white pupils in those infinite rose eyes.

That, and the fact that he was still silent.

This really wasn’t good.

Chapter Text

Stars. Stolas loved the stars. They were his destiny, his sole purpose—and, for the longest time, his only companions. He had last felt their embrace weeks upon weeks ago, having been relegated to watching from afar as of late. His favorites, Sirius and Cor Noctua, seemed to cry just as much for him as he did for them.

It was an ironic twist to see them now, his vision sabotaged in the searing pain flooding his system.

He was confused by the change in feeling. Then, nearly every sensation had blotted out from the intensity of the torture as his life was slowly leeched away. Comparatively, this hurt way worse, and he was hyper-aware of every drop pumped from his veins, every shard of bone traveling along the stream courtesy of his demolished legs.

The second Striker’s boot had come down, Stolas’ only thought had been on his little starlight. He was unfamiliar to the direct feeling of laying but knew something had to be wrong. It was akin to shredding meat, he decided, as he came out of the initial shock, like his guts were tearing one another apart. 

The cavern was a maelstrom of chaos and fury around him, but the Prince didn’t notice. While he pulled his shattered limbs to curl himself in the fetal position, Stolas’ shaking eyes found purchase on the sunken shape of his distended abdomen.

A strangled cry finally made its way out his beak at the confirmation. Fear overtook the debilitating agony monopolizing his system, adrenaline coursing back in with the paternal instincts. It was Stolas’ belief that the egg had shattered within him. As his body moved to bring his little one to the world, it pushed and pulled the shards of debris, ribboning his insides and potentially their little one.

Another contraction hit as he determined this, his cry transforming to a terrific screech. With the steady stream of tears from all four eyes, the owl Prince was practically blind. The imps’ continued shouts, growls, and footfalls all but disappeared.

How long had it been? Minutes? Hours? ‘ My starlight won’t make it’ repeated endlessly in his skull. He needed to get them out. Even without the present danger of internal injuries, without the protective and life-sustaining barrier of the shell, his owlette would die.

It took everything in him to outstretch his arms and pull, dragging the dead weight of his body as far away from- Striker.

The imp was suddenly on top of him, his hands tearing at Stolas’ faceplate.

‘Blitzø!’ Where was Blitzø? The skin above his brow split open, Striker’s claws trailing down the left side of Stolas’ face. The most the owl could move was his head. He turned to avoid the inevitable, squinting his eyes shut in protection. ‘ Is he dead?! Please don’t be dead' . Striker’s smile dripped venom as he forcefully held Stolas in place, his hand pausing to spread the lids apart.

As he was forced to watch his own mutilation, the Prince was suddenly reminded of their last meeting—particularly how it ended. The assassin had planned on taking his eyes.

Striker’s talons slowly dipped into his eye socket, the tips carving into his tissues with a pain momentarily worse than all else. 

And then the imp was gone, his hand blessedly removed as he was launched over Stolas’ frame. Blitzø, thankfully alive, had tackled Striker with all his remaining strength. They rolled away, a tangle of fury and combat, leaving the Prince to suffer alone once again.

If his eye were still there, it was irreparably damaged. No sight, not even blurred, came through it. The remainder of them lost focus as a muddy vignette set upon the world. The objects nearest were now dusty blobs on a background of those even dustier.

It was becoming increasingly hard to focus, to stay awake. Each breath he swore would be his last, the inhale jagged and agonizingly weak. The puddle underneath Stolas could nearly be classified as a pond or small lake now, the heat only further tempting him to fall asleep.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad? To just let go? The only one who really needed him now was the baby cradled in his womb, and he was certain they were already dead or would be very soon. Octavia was an adult now, and even with their recently mended relationship, he couldn’t see her destroyed without him. Stella would clearly be glad, having hired Striker in the first place. And, Blitzø…

The past few weeks with Blitzø had been a fairytale. While he didn’t quite know if the ex-clown loved him, there was definitely care there. He would be distraught, but he would live. He had his employees, his best friend, his daughter; Blitzø was the toughest demon Stolas knew. As devastating as it was, they could one day reunite in whatever afterlife awaited Hellborne.

No. He had given up that mindset a while ago. But, he was tired; it hurt so bad. Maybe a little nap? He could keep fighting it after. Yes.

It was as if his body waited for the decision to be made. Everything hit at once, like the finale in a fireworks display. It felt like Stolas’ entire middle had torn in half, serrated by the bone and shell fragments, ripped by overexerted muscles. 

The scream that ripped through him took all but a sliver of his remaining energy, echoing against the walls of stone throughout the old railway. It drowned out the matching cry of his attacker. 

Stolas fell limp

———★✷★———

It was too quiet, Blitzø realized slowly, staring down at the hilt of the gleaming dagger embedded in Striker’s chest. The cowboy had put up an incredible fight, that’s for sure. Only a moment ago, Blitzø was sure he was a goner until he sliced off the tail that choked him. Taking away the assassin’s careful balance had allowed him to tackle the fucker off of Stolas, and-

Stolas!

Blitzø mentally slapped himself upside the head as he threw himself backward. Scurrying towards his bird, he blanched.

He was so pale. Three crimson eyes peered out in slits, unfocused and dull like the slight ajar beak below them. The sweet and calming scent of his lavender oil was gone, the coppery taste of blood overpowering it completely.

“Stols?”

Blitzø knelt down at his side, trying to ignore the sea he waded in. There was so much blood.

“Stolas.” The imp gingerly lifted the unresponsive Prince. His large hands supported the base of his fussed head and the shoulder opposite himself, gently pulling his lover in an embrace.

The movement seemed to bring him to. Even without the white pin-prick pupils showing, Blitzø knew his bird enough to tell he was looking at him.

“Hello, Darling,” he smiled, voice hoarse yet full of loopy affection. “May I ask a favor of you?” Blitzø sighed in relief.

“I’m not sure you’re really in a position for that, but shoot,” He chuckled dryly, his face scanning the cavern for any further danger or a possible escape.

“There is absinthe in my bag. I need you to fetch it and that horrid blade.” Stolas had to be out of it. What in the seven rings was he asking?

“Not that getting wasted is a bad idea, but why?” Anxious suspicion coated the imp’s words in wax, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. Yes, Stolas was definitely out of it—the fucker smiled before continuing, his eyes half-closed.

“It seems I cannot- that is- I…” As a ripple of pain took his body, the owl seemed to fall back to lucidity. “I need them out,” he turned his head away in shame.

Blitzø’s own trailed down the bird’s broken frame, suddenly remembering the extent of his condition.

“W-what?” His eyes shot wide as the Prince’s request registered. “No, what- no! You’re already fucked up to Earth and back. I’m not gonna fucking kill you!”

“Blitzø. Please. If you don’t, our starlight dies!” The ‘our’ and nickname brought the imp pause. “If there is even the slimmest possibility that they are still alive, they won’t be for much longer.”

“Stolas-”

“I have hung on this long; I can hang on longer. We can deliver, and then you can find your crystal and get us to Sloth-”

“Stols-”

“I command you as a- as a Prince of Hell,” the energy Stolas had exhibited was fleeting. His limbs slowly fell limp as the words fought into the waking world.

“I love them just as I love you. Please…” The tear slipped from his eye as he fell back again, body curling as far in on itself as possible. Pained hoots were all that continued.

Blitzø cursed under his breath as he laid his spasming boyfriend back on the slickened cavern floor and jumped to a run. It was where Stolas had left it, having dropped the bag when attempting to free him from the ropes.

The toppled statue seemed to sneer at him as he snatched the bag. A bottle of green alcohol peeked out of the top, nestled between heaps of bandages and the all-too-familiar grimoire. He barely paused on his way back to wretch the knife from Striker’s chest, scraping his knees as he slid back to Stolas’ side. The thoughts ran from one side of his head to the other. He barely noticed his actions.

His nose crinkled at the strength of the absinthe as soon as he’d twisted the cap. A swig couldn’t hurt. Or two. Yeah- for courage. 

The knife came next, doused in alcohol to clean and disinfect—if Stolas made it out of this, he sure as Satan didn’t want an infection. The vibrations in the air as he flipped the blade rattled his bones.

The rest of the bottle doused Stolas’ lower midsection.

Blitzø hovered over Stolas’ broken form, his hands shaking. The absinthe’s harsh fumes stung his nose and eyes, but it was nothing compared to the sharp blade glinting in his grip. His heart hammered so violently in his chest he thought it might burst, but he forced his breaths to steady.

“For fuck’s sake, Stols,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the pounding in his ears. “You better survive this shit, or I’ll—I don’t know what I’ll do. But don’t make me do this alone, you bastard.”

The only response was a weak, guttural whimper from the owl Prince.

Blitzø adjusted his grip on the blade and positioned himself. The blood-soaked feathers of Stolas’ abdomen clung to his trembling hands as he pressed the tip of the knife down.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

The first cut made his stomach turn. The resistance of muscle beneath the blade and the grotesque sound of tearing flesh sent his mind reeling, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. Stolas’ entire body convulsed, and a keening cry tore from his throat, but he didn’t pull away.

“It’s okay! It’s okay!” Blitzø croaked, his voice cracking. “I got you. I got you.”

Each movement of the blade felt like an eternity, but eventually, he made the incision large enough to slide his hands through. His hands were slick with blood, the obsidian seeping through his clothes and painting his scars as he reached inside. His heart raced faster than ever as he felt around, hoping—praying—that he didn’t fuck this up. Pointed shards sliced at his palms like a defense mechanism, but he ignored the pain.

Finally, his fingers brushed against something small and warm, the few tiny feathers soaked yet still soft.

“There you are,” he breathed, almost disbelieving. Carefully, he cradled the tiny form and drew it out. A fragile, blood-slicked hybrid lay limp in his hands, downy feathers matted and four eyes shut. He couldn’t tell the sex, but he didn’t care. He instantly loved them.

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head as he gently wiped her face. “No, no, no. C’mon, baby. Breathe. You gotta breathe.”

He rubbed their back, his touch desperate but tender. When that didn’t work, he leaned down, pressing his lips to that tiny beak to give a few shallow puffs of air.

“Please,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Please, kid. Don’t do this. Don’t you fucking do this!”

A sudden, weak gasp cut through the silence, followed by a wailing cry. The baby’s chest rose and fell, shaky and uneven, but alive. Blitzø sobbed in relief, clutching them close as tears streamed down his face.

“That’s it,” he choked out. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

His hands were still trembling as he inspected the baby more closely. There was a deep gash on the thigh, likely from one of the shards that had pricked him. Blitzø quickly tore a strip of fabric from his shirt and wrapped it around the wound, staunching the bleeding as best as he could.

“You’re tougher than you look, kid,” he murmured, his voice softening. “Guess you take after your dad, huh?”

The realization hit him like a freight train. Her dad. Blitzø looked over at Stolas, who was barely holding on. His breaths were shallow, his eyes half-lidded, but he was watching them.

“She’s… beautiful,” Stolas rasped, his voice so faint it was almost a whisper. So it was a girl. They had another daughter.

Blitzø crawled to his side, the baby still cradled in his arms. He held her out so Stolas could see, though the tears in his own eyes blurred his vision.

“She’s alive, Stols,” he said, his voice trembling. “She’s alive. You—you did it.”

Stolas managed a weak smile, his bloody hand reaching out to touch her. Blitzø adjusted, carefully pressing the baby against Stolas’ chest for a moment.

“Our… little starlight,” Stolas whispered before his hand fell limp.

“No!” Blitzø cried, clutching the baby close again. His tears fell freely now, soaking into the feathers of the tiny creature in his arms. “Don’t you fucking die on me, Stolas! Don’t you dare!”

But Stolas didn’t move.

Blitzø’s sobs echoed through the cavern, raw and unrestrained. He looked down at the baby, her small chest still rising and falling, and then back at Stolas.

“I can’t do this without you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Please…”

Chapter Text

Up is down; day is night; nothing is right anymore.

It took everything in Blitzø’s being to leave Stolas’ lifeless body, their warbling newborn cradled in his limp arms, in search of his Asmodean crystal. The book, at first, was the plan, but the assassin quickly remembered why he’d had Loona take charge of it in the first place.

Oh, Loona.

His Loonie was a big sister. Would she want to be? He could imagine the anger on her face—the look of barely concealed fear and hurt at being “replaced”.

Not the time.

Blitzø’s heart raced, hammering against his ribs, yet the cavern was so cold, so still, it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

The cavern was suffocating. The thick air clung to his skin, heavy with blood and dread. His eyes searched the shadows, his heart racing as his mind spun a hundred miles a minute. Where the fuck is it? His frantic hands swept through piles of debris, tossing aside broken rocks and crumpled fabrics. But there was no time for careful searching. Not now. Stolas… Stolas needed him.

He could still feel the heat of his lover's blood soaked into his clothes and hands, could still see the lifelessness in his eyes—eyes that had once sparkled with so much warmth and life. ‘ Satan, don’t let him die’ , Blitzø pleaded silently, forcing his hands to move faster, to clear away the mess faster. ‘Where the hell is that crystal?’

Every minute that passed felt like an eternity. The pool of blood beneath Stolas was growing, dark and endless, like the night sky itself, and the baby’s wailing cut through Blitzø’s panic like a blade. His stomach churned, nausea rising as his thoughts spiraled out of control. He hadn’t been prepared for this. For any of it.

‘Fuck! What if I fuck it up?’

His mind screamed at him, but he shoved it aside. No, not now. Not like this.

His hands found it—there. The Asmodean crystal, dislodged from his glove where it normally lived: a simple thing, gleaming amber like a shard of starlight, but it was his only hope. Blitzø grabbed it, the jagged edges pressing into his palm, but he didn’t care. He barely noticed as he scrambled back to Stolas, his body moving on autopilot, every instinct screaming at him to act.

When he reached Stolas again, the sight hit him like a physical blow—his bird… his beautiful, broken bird. Blood stained the ground, and the pale moonlight flickered across Stolas’ battered form.

Stolas was slipping, and with every second, the blood pooling around him seemed to grow deeper, darker, heavier. The inky crimson that stained the stone floor felt as if it was swallowing them both. Blitzø’s hands trembled as he gripped Stolas’ broken body, desperately trying to coax him back to consciousness. But the bird’s chest wasn’t moving. His eyes, once so full of warmth and love, were dull—lids barely cracked, no life behind them.

“No. No, no, no...” Blitzø muttered to himself, panic creeping into his voice as he desperately pressed his palm against Stolas’ cold chest. He felt for the pulse—nothing.

Stolas’ body was limp, far too still.

Blitzø’s own breath hitched in his throat, choking him as his hand moved to Stolas’ throat, searching for something—anything. His fingers brushed over the owl’s skin, but it was as though there was nothing left to grab onto. His heart stopped, just for a second, before the panic surged.

“Please, Stols, come on, please,” Blitzø gasped, but no reply came. He could hear the baby’s wails, the tiny creature crying from his side, but the sound only made the pit in his stomach deepen. It wasn’t enough. The baby wasn’t enough if Stolas... if Stolas was gone.

The cold terror surged through him.

“No, no, no, I can’t—I can’t do this again. Not without you,” he cried, hands shaking as he placed his fingers over Stolas’ chest again, his breath erratic. He fumbled for a moment, fingers trembling with fear before he positioned his hands properly.

“Please, come on...”

Blitzø leaned down and began chest compressions—hard, frantic, desperate. Each push was a plea, a silent cry for Stolas to fight, to live. The seconds stretched into eternity as Blitzø continued, sobbing between each push.

He didn’t know how long he’d been doing it, but time felt irrelevant now. Stolas was gone. His chest was unmoving, his skin cold. The baby’s cries filled the silence, but it felt like a distant echo, as though they belonged to someone else.

“Please... please don’t do this, Stolas. I—I can’t lose you,” Blitzø sobbed, choking on his own tears. His voice broke on the words, the raw agony of the moment leaking out in frantic gasps. He pressed harder, trying again, trying to force life back into Stolas’ broken body, knowing every second counted.

A minute passed. Then two. He couldn’t even feel the time slip by. His chest burned with the effort. Then, suddenly, just as Blitzø thought he might collapse from the pressure of it all, a faint flutter.

His heart caught in his throat as he felt the tiniest tremor beneath his hands.

No way. No way.

Stolas' chest rose, a shallow, faint breath that broke the eerie silence. Blitzø blinked, disbelieving, and then pressed harder, forcing more air into Stolas’ lungs as his heart began to slowly—barely—start to beat again.

“Stolas, please,” Blitzø sobbed, his voice a strained whisper. “Come on. Don’t leave me.”

Stolas’ chest rose again, and Blitzø collapsed beside him, gasping for breath. His heart was racing, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more.

Stolas’ eyes flickered, then slowly, the hazy fog lifted from his gaze, though he was still barely conscious. His lips parted, but he didn’t speak.

Blitzø’s breath caught, and he clutched Stolas’ hand, trembling. “You’re… you’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. Please, don’t go. Please.”

The tears welled up again, but this time, there was a soft, whispering sense of hope.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice breaking. His lips brushed against Stolas' forehead, and with trembling hands, he carefully, gently pressed a kiss to his lover’s lips. It was a promise, one that only the broken man could understand.

He could barely hold himself together as the crystal in his pocket pulsed, the energy demanding he move—get Stolas to safety, to somewhere that could help. He shoved it into his hand, and the world blurred as a portal ripped open before him.

The hospital’s sterile smell hit Blitzø first as he staggered through the portal, the stress of the moment still clinging to him. Nurses rushed forward, pushing gurneys, their faces blurred by the overwhelming wave of exhaustion and panic. Stolas was quickly taken from him, his battered form being whisked away with the baby in tow.

Blitzø didn’t watch them go. He couldn’t.

He stood frozen, numb. His mind had gone blank, a hollow emptiness settling in. His legs didn’t work. His arms felt too heavy. His body trembled, but it wasn’t from the cold or the shock—no, this was something deeper, something far worse.

He stayed there, motionless, a ghost of the man he had been just hours before. Time had stretched into something unrecognizable. The people around him moved, voices muttering, hands reaching out to him—but it didn’t matter. It was all a blur. His chest hurt, his stomach twisted, and yet, none of it seemed to matter. All that mattered was that Stolas was still... still alive, somewhere. He was alive, and the baby was alive.

But Blitzø wasn’t.

His thoughts fractured, spiraling further into the numbness. His hands shook, his fingers twitching as though they were too heavy to move. Loona was there, eventually—frantic, worried, her voice calling his name, but he didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

“Blitzø!” Loona’s voice was sharp with panic as she grabbed his shoulders, shaking him gently. "Dad! Come on, snap out of it! We need you."

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t speak. His body obeyed her command, though, letting her guide him through the chaotic blur of people until they reached the recovery room. Blitzø collapsed into a chair beside Stolas’ bed, his eyes instinctively finding his lover’s broken form.

Stolas was pale—so pale. His skin stretched tight over the jagged bones of his face, bandages wrapped around his arms, legs, stomach, and shoulder. His left side was covered in pale gauze.

The sterile white walls of St. Ann’s Hospital felt like they were closing in around him. Blitzø was a shell of himself—his eyes hollow and empty. He hadn’t moved since they arrived. His mind felt like it was still back there, in the cavern, with Stolas’ heart failing in his hands.

Loona had tried, again and again, to get him to respond, but Blitzø was unreachable. He just stared, vacant, as the soft beeping of the machines monitoring Stolas’ recovery seemed to mock his inability to function.

Loona, frantic and worried, paced the room. “Dad, come on… You need to snap out of it,” she urged, kneeling beside him and putting a hand on his shoulder. “He’s alive. He’s still here.”

But Blitzø didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The image of Stolas lying cold and lifeless in his arms haunted him. The feel of Stolas’ heart stopping, the helplessness he felt in that moment, was a weight he couldn’t shake.

It was only when Loona placed her arms around him, pulling him close, that he finally flinched, the first sign of life returning to his body. He leaned into her touch, tears silently streaming down his face as the reality of what had happened sank in.

Stolas was alive. But Blitzø had almost lost him.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry,” Blitzø whispered, his voice hoarse with the weight of it all.

Loona hugged him tighter, her voice soft, but firm. “Don’t be sorry. He’s alive because you didn’t give up. You kept going. You kept fighting.”

Blitzø nodded numbly, still not fully processing the extent of what he had just lived through. But somehow, as he sat there, Loona's warmth, the hum of the machines, the slow but steady rise and fall of Stolas’ breath, were enough to pull him from the edge of the abyss.

It wasn’t over. They weren’t done yet. But they would be okay. For now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Death was peaceful; or, as peaceful as it could be. One second he’s suffering, the next floating amongst the stars, eternal emptiness welcoming him with open arms. At long last, Stolas’ brain sat silent. Why had he been fighting this?

A blur of red and white crossed his mind’s eye, a muffled but soothing voice accompanying. In response, butterflies fluttered within his chest. A coo fell from his beak at the familiarity. Why? 

The blur faded, the brief glee suddenly gone.

He was born of and for the stars, reading and sharing their insights about Heaven, Hell, and the world between. He was Stolas, 13th of the name, prophet of the heavens. That was all.

So why? Why would he react this way to a whisper of a being? What was this? Who was this?

Another blur came, grey and slightly blue, much like himself. This voice was feminine and posh, raw and angry. Despite the aggression, his heart ached. She had to be his family. Did he have a family?

The red returned before pulling the grey away, and he was alone again.

A faint but steady beeping gripped his conscience. Once Stolas noticed it, the signal wouldn’t go away. Such an incessant noise—-an irritating noise.

A weight settling on his chest finally snapped him from his scowl. It’s touch was warm, yet vulnerable: a shivering blob of black and red. The same light feeling came upon him. 

Family. I have a family. Love. I love them. Why aren’t I with them? The beeping sped up, and the blob cried.

Baby. A baby. My baby.

And then he fell.

——————————————————————————

Coming-to was not nearly as peaceful as dying. Upon waking, every muscle ached. The throbbing of his head seemed to travel through his entire vessel, building particularly at his stomach and leg. He couldn’t muster the energy to open his eyes, though he almost did just to shut off whatever sourced the beeping.

Florals gently came to his radar, his favorite of lavender the most prevalent. Where…

He had been in his room, getting ready for a date. Was he still—-no—-Blitzø had been kidnapped. Blitzø. He went to his rescue. 

Striker. Striker was there, bringing his foot down on his… oh Lords.

It all came flooding back.

Blitzø knew about their Starlight—-he had delivered their Starlight. She was here. They did it. Nothing had gone to plan, if his current hospitalized situation were any indicator, but they were here. They were alive.

From his left, Stolas heard a door slide, and his lids snapped open.

His sight was iffy; it was bleary and not the field of vision he was used to. Lords only knew how long he’d been asleep. While blinking away the fog, the red and white blob from the stars came into focus. Stolas tracked every minute movement.

Blitzø slouched into the room with a steaming paper cup, his frame sagging and haggard. The poor imp looked exhausted, as if he had not seen sleep in eons. Knowing how the assassin was, he probably hadn’t.

As much as he wanted the man in his arms, Stolas was content to look for now. In their couple of in-person meetings since trying at a relationship, he hadn’t spent too much time actually looking at his love’s face. Eye contact had always made his skin crawl, but with Blitzø it set his heart alight. Stolas didn’t trust himself to look then; he was sure it would have divulged into sex, and they weren’t doing that anymore.

Now, he allowed himself to steadily watch, a smile pulling at his beak while the imp leaned back into the waiting chair he had hopped onto, his majestic horns curving over the back. His sigh was deep and drawn out, tail completely limp.

He definitely had not slept since they got here.

When did they get here? From the state of Blitzø’s cuts and bruises, perhaps a week. He wanted to be shocked, but the trauma to his body had been extensive. If anything, he was shocked it wasn’t longer.

Suddenly, he was staring into those beautiful amber-ruby eyes.

”Stolas,” he whispered as if he were dreaming. After rubbing his eyes and looking again, he realized. “Stols!” Blitzø jumped up from the seat, dropping his coffee as he skirted to Stolas’ side. The sight almost made the owl laugh.

Blitzø was careful in making contact, his hands shaking and eyes shooting to every inch of his Prince before he swiped his thumb under Stolas’ dominant eye, shooing the tears away. When had he started crying? Meeting his gaze again, he noticed the imp, too, had watery eyes.

”Blitz-y” his voice was rough from misuse and dry, but Blitzø acted as if he were the prettiest songbird, grinning. The nickname, long stored away, was the breaking point. His smile morphed to a frown with a quivering lip. Silent sobs racked Blitzø’s body as he collapsed into Stolas’ once impressive plumage.

The gentle light of the pentagram filtered through the cracks in the blinds. While not as beautiful as true moonlight, seeing it brought the same feeling of familiarity, of safety. The two chairs in the room, plush and sized for Goetic demons, were pulled close to one another. Light hospital blankets and personal effects were thrown onto the cushion, a thoroughly rummaged-through gift basket on the floor underneath. By the door, three vases and a few cards sat on the counter. Beside them, slightly hidden from view, were bags and boxes of gifts.

”Never do that to me again. I lo—you’re my heart, Stolas,” He at long last whispered into Stolas’ feathers. It wasn’t lost on him that the imp had started on the ‘L’ word. He knew how much Blitzø struggled in sharing his emotions. He answered in kind, skirting around the phrase.

”And you are my light, Blitzø.” His right arm came over the assassin, his fingers knotting between the spikes that stood on end. Though he couldn’t see the color change, Stolas could feel the warmth of blush seep into his chest. Without thinking, his beak met black and white keratin, chipping away imperfections and grime.

Once he was satisfied with his preening, Stolas rubbed his faceplate against Blitzø’s horns, coming to rest against the imp’s forehead. The circus mark there recieved a kiss. They stayed like that for a while, holding one another, gentle but snug.

Drawing a final breath of Stolas’ scent, Blitzø pulled back, eyes more bloodshot than previous.

”If you’re up for it, we have a lot to talk about, Pretty Bird,” Blitzø thinly smiled, their hands meeting.

”I concur. But first,” Stolas straightened up as much as he could. “I would like to see our baby girl.”

Chapter Text

At the sight of his Starlight—-the first proper look—-Stolas trilled in that primal, animalistic way that had attempted to be squashed from him by the age of nine. He had loved the life inside him immensely; it felt almost impossible to feel any more. He had been wrong.

Maybe it was the botched laying that attributed the additional favor, or the fact that he had been the carrier. Via, his beautiful, wonderful girl, was the star in his sky. He was almost ashamed to say this love surpassed that for his firstborn. Octavia, regardless of his love for her, had been forced upon him. Her mother, a cruel witch, his age that of a child.

Had he already replaced his girl? He had promised to never leave her, never replace her…

The guilt ate away at his quickly recovering consciousness, flashing briefly on his face before the wonder replaced it. There would surely be a conversation later, he noted, as Blitzø had most definitely seen the split, but that could wait.

Lowered to his chest, their little one chirped in glee, settling into his plume before looking at his face analytically.

She was almost a perfect mix of the two of them, with red imp legs fading into the softest downy he’d ever felt. A few of her true feathers were coming in at her crown, maroon, nearly hiding the stubs of developing horns. The eyes on her faceplate reflected Blitzø’s perfectly, though he was slightly shocked to see another pair squinting at him further up. The second eyes were pure amber, pools of gold with pricks of white focused on him. Once her powers fully developed, he was certain the pupils would fade.

Gunpowder and leather stuck to her form, overpowering the ‘new baby’ smell tenfold. He suspected she spent little time in a crib.

The little hybrid cocked her head sideways, nearly making Stolas laugh. Many moons ago, Blitzø had mocked the ‘creepy’ nature of his neck flexibility, particularly his ability to rotate it a full 180 degrees. Their daughter inheriting that trait felt almost like fate—like something chosen specifically to spite the im

Smiling, Stolas mirrored the baby, rubbing their beaks together when she excitedly trilled. She recognized him as her momma.

The unknown fear was quickly soothed, and he brought his arms up to cup her form closer. His brows knit as he looked her more over, protective instincts flaring.

”What happened to her leg?”

”Oh, uh… Doc said it happened when the egg broke. Messed you up real good too,” Blitzø was almost awkward about it, hopping up and scooching forward to his side; he was adorable.

”I’m surprised she is not underdeveloped. Usually, an egg’s hatching would take place a month after being laid, though I suspect her imp genes have something to do with that,” Stolas mused, looking up to his partner as the baby buried herself in his plumage. Now that Belphegor would have access to vitals and hormone levels, he would be very interested in learning how an imp-goetia hybrid was constructed.

Blitzø’s face contorted in an unreadable way, Stolas’ flushed in mild embarrassment. 

”I-I fear I am still a little out of it, so, if you could please voice exactly what you wish to know, that would be much appreciated.”

“How… how did this even happen? When did this happen? I haven’t dicked you down for a good while, and you’re a dude.”

”From what Belphegor could guess, my magic acted on whim of my unconscious desires, allowing me to conceive and carry-“

”Your magic made your bird-puss a real-puss?”

”I believe I used less vulgar phrasing, but, essentially. I was still male, just with adjusted reproductive organs.”

”Was?”

”Well, I suppose I am still male. It is a notion of mine that the form wasn’t permanent, though I suppose I could still possess those features.

”So… I could knock you up again?”

Stolas' entire face flushed, the idea equal parts enticing and a ‘hell no’.

”For protection reasons!” Blitzø rushed out, his face now matching his bird’s. “Gotta know if we ever fuck again to wrap it up.” His usually boisterous attitude was on break, and Stolas was eating it up. This tentative and shy side of his love? It was like a dream come true-to finally be let inside his walls.

”O-of course, yes. There are a plethora of contraceptives we could use in that… scenario. We will have to wait and see if it will be necessary.

blitzø looking away as he recovers

“Our last true rendezvous, I am fairly certain, is when I conceived.”

Blitzø’s eyes shot in different directions as he really thought about it, comparing times and events, before shooting wide.

”You were pregnant when Striker was torturing you, weren’t you? Shit!” The imp seemed to fold in on himself, slightly heaving with sped breaths. “And i didn’t come for you—-both of you—-fuck!”

”Blitzø,” Stolas gently pulled his love’s hand from his face, revealing amber eyes once again, before threading their fingers together. “It is not your fault- it is not. You had perfectly valid reasons for not coming, and neither of us knew…”

The stress lessened in his frame, but Blitzø was still clearly agitated. “When…”

"In the hospital after that nauseating debacle, if you can believe it," Stolas chuffed a humorless laugh.

"I’m not mad—I wouldn’t have wanted to share that with me either, but… why didn’t you tell me?"

"I tried, darling. I admit I could have been more persistent, but I was hurt and scared."

"You started to tell me that last full moon." Blitzø sighed, shaking his head in disbelief at himself.  "You tried to tell me so much that night… Birdie, I am so sorry."

”There are no innocent parties. I could have done things differently, perhaps stopped to consider your perception. It is in the past.

”Yes, but- Stols, I am so sorry. About everything. I-! should have been there to support you! Octavia told us how hard of a time you had.

Attentive shame shot through his spine. “Via! Where is she? Oh, Lords, I completely forgot-“ Blitzø closed his beak with a laugh.

”She said you would do that—-good kid when she’s not yelling at’chu.” Following the Prince’s warning, he continued. “Loonie and her are having a sleepover at the palace. They’ll be by again in the morning before work and school.” Stolas visibly relaxed.

”You’ve formed a routine?”

”Yep!” Blitzø cheered, popping the ‘p’. “The girls come in every other day for you and junior here. Had to fight yours a bit, but finally got it in her head that you would want her to still be living her life or whatever.” A hearty laugh shook Stolas’ whole form, jostling the imp-owlet and sending shock waves through his stomach.

”Oh, don’t make me laugh!” He winced, still laughing, bringing his free hand to clutch at the bandages nearest to Blitzø. 

He wanted to confront the man on the hypocrisy of sending Via home to rest when he himself would not, but that was a whole other beast. They had plenty of time to work on Blitzø’s self-acceptance and care later.

As the last waves of laughter subsided, Stolas brought his hand back to the assassin’s.

“Thank you. For saving us, for coming back into my life… I have missed you so.”

The sputtering returned with an aversion of gaze, and Stolas warmed as his love responded in kind.

”Is there anything else you would like to know?”

”I had a fuck-ton more,” He nervously scratched at his neck before turning back to face the owl. “I can only think of one right now.”

”When you recall the others, I would be happy to provide answers.” He assured, signalling for him to continue.

”So… what are we calling Squirt, here?”

”You haven’t named her?”

”I was waiting for you! Plus, I’m shit at naming. She would have ended up as ‘Ketchup’ if that had been left to me, so…”

”Well, thank you for sparing her that fate,” Stolas chuckled at Blitzø’s expression of feigned offense. “I’ve been referring to her as Starlight, much like Via is Starfire…”

”Any good star names?”

“Myriads…” Without intending to, Stolas began to hum a tune he’d once sang to a young Octavia. How daunting a task, to choose the name of such a complicated sentient being. Plants were easy: they didn’t care for names the same way demons did. A demon’s name was everything. Names have power.

An image was slowly coming together, cementing quickly in place.

”Amalthea. Amalthea Tilla Buckzo-Goetia.” Stolas’ words turned upward into a ‘coo’ as he watched Blitzø stiffen and turn away from him once again. The silence droned on following the suggestion. 

Was it that bad? He still had much to learn about imp culture; maybe it was insulting in some way.

”W-we can always go with something else an-“

”Stols,” Blitzø sniffed and wiped his eyes, turning back to the Prince with a smile touched by melancholy. “It is perfect.”

The assassin brought himself even closer, resting in the crook of Stolas’ arm. While they looked at the sleeping babe, their heads came together with a contented sigh.

There was plenty left to worry about. Recovery and health specifics for both himself and Amalthea took priority, but he wouldn’t so soon forget the threat that his ex-wife posed. With Striker disposed of, Stolas was completely uncertain how she might react. What he did know was that he was no longer alone. He had a family—a real family.

Blitzø, Loona, Octavia, Amalthea, and himself would figure everything out together, and that was enough.

Chapter Text

I finally got around to figuring it out, so here ya go! They are in chronological order, with the first taking place relatively early-mid story. The other three are very clearly the last few chapters :p