Chapter 1: New Arrival
Chapter Text
The Pride Ring isn’t usually soaked to the bone—not even after a heavy rain. But today’s downpour carries a strange thrill. A group of young imps race through the streets, chasing a pack of irritated sinners, their laughter echoing off the buildings.
“Beat it, you little shrimps!” a sinner growls, baring his teeth in warning. The children only shriek with delight and scatter in the opposite direction.
A few of them slam into Blitz as they dash past, nearly knocking him off balance. He snarls, clutching the young hellhound in his arms tighter.
“Fucking watch it!” he barks after them.
The rain doesn’t let up. Under the narrow overhang of their building, Moxxie and Millie stand in silence. Blitz kneels beside his five-year-old adopted daughter, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
She digs into her pocket and offers him a small sapphire pendant. “For you,” she says.
Blitz laughs and pulls her into a tighter hug. “Isn’t this from that snooty snow-chicken you pickpocketed earlier?”
“You saw that?”
“I see everything, Loony.” He pulls back, pride shining in his eyes. “I’m so proud of you, sweetie.”
Loona’s smile falters as Blitz rises and begins saying his goodbyes.
Moxxie shakes his head, clearly upset. “I should be the one going to that Goetia’s house, and you know it.”
Blitz swats the back of Moxxie’s head and ruffles his hair. “Suck my fat cock, Moxxie.”
Moxxie blinks quickly, looking away to hide the tears in his eyes. “I’d rather not, sir. We really need you here.”
Millie, always one step ahead, hands Blitz an umbrella. She takes his hand and gives it a firm squeeze. “Good luck, B. We’ll miss you. Don’t miss your train.”
Blitz lingers for a moment, taking one last look at his found family.
Chapter 2: Like Father Like Daughter
Summary:
Blitz learns more about the Goetia palace. He doesn't like it.
Chapter Text
The servants live apart, housed in a plain cluster of rooms across the meadow. That’s where Blitz is sent to eat breakfast.
He tries, charming as ever, to start a conversation—but the other servants don’t so much as blink. They stare straight through him as if he isn’t there at all.
For a moment, Blitz genuinely wonders if he died last night and just didn’t notice.
Before he can leave, something feels off. He looks down and notices one of his boots is missing from where he left it by the door. Laughter snickers behind him. He spins around, eyes narrowing to slits.
“Where the fuck is my shoe?!” he snaps.
The others share smug little looks. No one answers.
“Hey! I’m fucking talking to you!” he growls, stomping toward them, spines flaring out along his back. “If you know what’s fucking good for you, you wouldn’t fucking cross—”
A hand clamps around his arm.
It’s that same cranky imp from before, wearing a smug little grin like he’s been waiting all morning for this.
“Don’t keep His Highness waiting,” he says smoothly, dragging Blitz out the door.
Outside, the rain has turned the dirt path to sludge. Mud sucks at Blitz’s remaining boot as he storms forward, teeth grinding, tail lashing behind him.
He casts one last look back at the servants, simmering with rage.
Motherfuckers, he seethes.
Sure enough, by the time they reach Stolas’s office, Blitz’s right hoof is caked with dirt and grime. He glances down at it, half-expecting to be scolded for tracking mud into the palace.
“Your servant has arrived, Your Highness,” the imp beside him announces crisply. “Blitzo Buckzo.”
Stolas hums softly in acknowledgment, seated with rigid grace before a grand vanity mirror, his fingers gently rocking his daughter’s crib. He wears a tightly tailored white suit, pearls draped around his neck and threaded through his head feathers like a crown. His ruby-red eyes remain fixed on the child, blinking slowly—dreamily.
Blitz fidgets with the letter in his hand. Why the hell am I nervous? The guy’s at least nine feet tall, but last night… he’d seemed so small.
Then Stolas looks up.
Their eyes meet.
Stolas’s gaze stills, pupils shrinking into pale pinpricks.
Before Blitz can speak, the older imp smacks his horn. Blitz stumbles forward and quickly hands over the letter. “M-my reference letter, Your Highness. At your service,” he stammers, bowing his head.
Stolas doesn’t move. His eyes remain locked on Blitz, drinking him in, the way a man in a desert might look at water. Like something long-lost. Like something wanted.
“It’s you,” he breathes, like a prayer. “Blitzo.”
Blitz freezes. A cold pit opens in his gut. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck?! He remembers me?!
Stolas rises abruptly, his stool toppling over with a sharp clang. “Pringles, please leave us,” he says, breathless.
Pringles eyes Blitz with suspicion but obeys, bowing out of the room.
Blitz shifts, spine taut as wire. “It’s Blitz now,” he says stiffly. “The ‘o’ is silent.”
“I— I see. Okay. Blitz.” Stolas fumbles to smooth down his blue-gray feathers, eyes darting over him. “I thought— I feared something might have happened. Is your family... alright?”
Blitz grits his teeth, every nerve buzzing. “What are you talking about?”
Stolas’s voice falters. “I know it’s been nearly two decades, but all this time, I’ve worried... I thought maybe my father had—”
“My family’s fine,” Blitz cuts him off. “I’m fine, your Highness.” He bites out the title as his eyes drill into the floor, voice trembling under a forced snarl.
Stolas frowns, retreating slightly. “Please, call me Stolas.” He turns back to the crib and gently resumes rocking his daughter. “Is the palace to your liking?” he asks. “You used to complain how dark and dreary it was.”
Blitz stays silent.
Stolas smiles, a little too brightly. “My father adores his books. That’s why he doesn’t allow any proper lighting—especially in the library or my rooms.” He sighs, as if trying to find comfort in the thought. “Still, such a marvelous estate, yes?”
Blitz opens his mouth, but no words come out. What the fuck is he even supposed to say?
“Your expression is honest upon honest,” Stolas murmurs, gaze lingering. “It’s… beautiful, in a way. Raw. Like a flame.”
He tilts his head, studying Blitz.
“You and I... we look a lot alike,” he adds dreamily.
Blitz raises an eyebrow. “Uhhhh, no we fucking don’t,” he mutters.
Unbothered, Stolas settles into a velvet-lined sofa and opens the reference letter. His brow wrinkles.
“Oh, my head hurts far too much to deal with this today,” he sighs, then hands the paper back. “Could you read this for me?”
He leans back, eyes fluttering closed like he’s lived in this moment a hundred times before.
Blitz blinks rapidly, staring down at the letter. “What?”
Stolas hums, expectant and calm.
With shaking fingers, Blitz fumbles the paper open. The font is ridiculously tiny, the letters crawling across the page like skittering carpet beetles. Satan, he curses silently—he’d already forgotten what the marquis even wrote.
He forces a nervous laugh and crushes the letter into his claws. “Ahah! Yeah, it says here my previous clients had nothing but glowing things to say about me, ahaha. Yep. Real professional stuff.”
Stolas raises a brow. “Clients?”
“Shit—I mean, past bosses. Masters and all that!” Sweat beads along Blitz’s brow as Stolas continues to stare. “Y’know… ‘cause I’m a servant.”
Stolas blinks slowly. “Blitz… can you read?”
Blitz bristles. “Yes, I can fucking read! I can read it right now, see?!” He snaps the letter open and begins to ‘read’ aloud in a sing-song voice:
“Hello, Your Highness, my name is Moxxie McDibshit and Marquis Andrealphus said something about needing a personal servant or fucking whatever. Goetias like to treat their staff like rats so they can snap off their heads and spit out their bones—”
Stolas gently takes the letter back, skims it, then sighs. Without a word, he retrieves a book from his desk and opens it to a page. “Here,” he says. “Can you read this?”
Blitz deflates slightly. Not the Grimoire. He scowls.
“Wait a minute…” He narrows his eyes, then scoffs, stomping one foot. “These are runes, you asshole!”
Stolas smiles faintly. “So you can tell the difference.”
“Just because I’m dyslexic doesn’t mean I can’t tell ancient demon scribbles from regular text,” Blitz snaps. “Besides, you’re demon royalty. Shouldn’t you be jabbering in some infernal language anyway?”
Stolas shrugs with a huff. “I’m sick of that garbage. Father makes me read it every day.” He carefully closes the book, wraps it back in cloth, and returns it to his drawer.
He walks over to Blitz with a measured gaze. “Blitz, I’ll be frank with you—”
“Who the hell is Frank?”
Stolas pauses, hoots in laughter, and grins. “I mean I’ll be honest. You may curse in front of me. I’ll even overlook petty theft. We can improve your literacy together, but…”
Stolas leans down, bringing his face level with Blitz’s. “...you must never lie to me,” he says, voice low, dangerous in its softness.
Blitz swallows as Stolas leans close—close enough that his breath grazes Blitz’s cheek, warm and trembling. Blitz can smell the wine. Something in him wonders how it tastes.
“Understood?”
Blitz’s throat tightens. “Sure, Stolas.”
Stolas straightens, pleased. “Thank you.”
From her crib, the baby coos.
A grin breaks across the prince’s face as he gently lifts her, nestling her against his feathered chest. “Would you like to hold her?”
“Uh—” Blitz barely gets the word out before Stolas carefully places the bundle into his arms. Blitz stiffens, staring down at the star-speckled blankets wrapped around a tiny, feathery face. Big pink eyes blink up at him. A soft chirp escapes her, curious and sweet.
His heart melts a little.
“Her name is Octavia,” Stolas says, beaming. “My little starfire.”
Octavia bobs her head with interest. Blitz sticks out his forked tongue, and she squeals with delight.
Stolas claps, delighted. “Oh, you’re so good with children, Blitz! How wonderful!”
“Nah, not really,” Blitz mutters, gently swaying her side to side. “It’s not hard to entertain a baby.”
“You’d be surprised,” Stolas chuckles. He reorients his stool and settles into it, watching them with a fond, sleepy smile. “Some adults can't help their boorishness.”
Octavia chirps again and gnaws on Blitz’s fingers, blinking rapidly as he wiggles his claws.
“She’s… cute,” Blitz admits softly.
Stolas’s four eyes widen in pleasant surprise. “Oh, I completely agree! Other nobles… well, they’re not so sure. They say she pales in comparison to her mother.”
“Well, maybe that’s ‘cause she looks exactly like you,” Blitz says, glancing sideways at him. “Except the eyes. The eyes are different.”
He gently places Octavia back into her crib. She babbles after him cheerfully.
“Oh? But if you call her cute…” Stolas’s eyes glitter. “Perhaps you think I’m cute too?”
He lets the silence linger. Lets Blitz squirm.
Blitz glares at the floor. “Marquis Andrealphus said…”
“Mmm.” Stolas smiles faintly. “Of course he did.”
Then Stolas blinks, realizing who Blitz was talking about. He frowns. “You’ve met the marquis?” he asks, voice cool and clipped.
“N-no, not met, exactly.” Blitz coughs, trying to recall the script. “I’ve just… heard the things he said about you.”
Stolas’s expression hardens. “And what does he say?”
“He says that… at night, in bed, all he can think about is your—your assets. Your face. Of your face,” Blitz corrects quickly, grimacing.
“Hm.” Stolas frowns and clicks his beak. “Strange… Why in bed, I wonder?”
A long pause. They stare at each other.
Stolas blinks and shakes his head lightly. “In any case, I must go. It’s time for reading practice, and Father is waiting.”
He finally notices Blitz’s muddy hoof.
“…What happened to your shoes?”
Blitz’s eyes go wide as Stolas opens a towering wardrobe filled wall-to-wall with shoes in every material and color imaginable. Rows of pristine footwear line the shelves from largest to smallest, yet not a single pair looks worn or out of place.
“I cannot leave the palace,” Stolas explains, “but sometimes, wearing new shoes makes the same path feel different.” He gestures to the bottom shelf. “These are from my younger years. They should fit you. Choose whichever pair you’d like.”
“Damn,” Blitz whistles, snatching up a pair of sleek, black point-toe pumps.
Stolas blinks. “Those ones? Wouldn’t you prefer something… nicer?”
Blitz scowls. “What’s wrong with these?”
“Nothing, Blitz,” Stolas replies with a flutter of his hand, peeling off his white gloves. “I’m sure they’ll suit you better than they ever suited me. Oh—and I’ll attend reading practice alone today.”
Blitz frowns. “What? But it’s raining.”
“Yes,” Stolas hums. “Fetch me my umbrella and,”—he nods toward a cabinet near the door—“my gloves, please.”
Blitz opens a drawer. A dozen gloves, perfectly folded, lie in rows. He glances at Stolas, who shakes his head. The next drawer reveals even more—rhinestone-lined, ruffled, lace-drenched. Blitz’s eye twitches.
Wow. Holy shit. These are expensive as fuck.
Stolas still isn’t satisfied. Blitz opens the topmost drawer, and finally the prince nods. A pair of beige evening gloves.
But even after Stolas has made his selection, Blitz cannot stop there. Blitz’s fingers brush against velvet and silk, rifling through drawer after drawer. He trails his fingers through the rows. It feels… invasive. Like peeking inside someone’s diary. So many gloves, all pristine. Intimate. Waiting.
He glances up. Stolas is still watching him—his expression unreadable, his beak parted ever so slightly.
“You sure know how to pick a pair,” Blitz mutters.
“Oh, I only wear gloves I trust,” Stolas replies, voice cool. “The fit matters. So does the feel.”
He drops a golden wristwatch into Blitz’s hand.
“At noon, please knock on the library door. Until then, watch over Octavia.” He gives his daughter a kiss and disappears into the mist.
Through the window, Blitz watches the prince vanish behind the brush, satin umbrella glinting like moonlight.
The second he's out of sight, Blitz dives for the jewelry.
Rubies. Sapphires. Silver. Gold. The contents of Stolas’s drawers and boxes scatter across the carpet like treasure spilled from a vault.
“Hey, Octavia!” he calls, slipping on a pearl necklace. “Where does your dad keep his fancy-pantsy spellbook? Y’know, the priceless one I reeeally need to steal?”
She sticks her tongue out at him.
He snorts. “Fine, I’ll find it myself.”
Blitz rummages under the bed and finds several ornate gift boxes. One contains absinthe. Another holds a whip adorned with golden bells that jingle as he lifts it out. The last contains an absurdly long coil of rope.
He lifts the rope above his head. It’s longer than he is tall.
Blitz smirks. “Hey, is your dad into BDSM or something?”
Octavia groans.
He laughs. “Guess you wouldn’t know. Still no book, though.”
He parades across the room in peep-toe pumps, golden stilettos, and vinyl-gold heels before stuffing a pair of combat boots into a corner—Loona would love those once she’s big enough.
He throws open a closet and tries on crowns, bonnets, and hats of every design. Climbing onto Stolas’s stool, he grabs a massive, feathered monstrosity from the top shelf and plops it on. It falls over his face like a wounded bird.
Striking a pose in the mirror, he deadpans, “Gorgeous.”
Then he bounds to the crib. “Hey sweetie, look!” he says, bouncing his head so the plumes flounce around. “No offense, but this one reminds me of your loser uncle.”
Octavia takes one look and bursts into tears.
Blitz gasps. “Shit—sorry, sorry!” He yanks the hat off and tosses it aside. “Hey, I hate that bitch too.”
He doesn’t leave her side until she calms down. Once she’s settled and the room looks somewhat like it did before, Blitz glances at the watch. Almost noon.
He bundles Octavia in a waterproof nylon blanket and heads into the meadow.
The grass is immaculate, annoyingly dewy. Blitz scoffs. “How do you guys live with this much green?” His pace quickens as he passes the red tree. Just the sight of it makes his skin crawl. Didn't Stolas say his wife hung himself here?
Nope. Nope nope nope.
Soon he reaches a gently rustling creek, and just beyond it, the library: a plain, rectangular wooden structure. Unassuming. Large.
Blitz rubs the moss and mud from his borrowed shoes, then steps inside.
.
.
.
The moment Blitz steps into the library, he can no longer breathe.
Octavia is no longer in his arms. His arms are no longer his own.
Panic wells in his chest, but the only sound he can produce is the stuttering throb of his pulse pounding against his skin.
The darkness closes in from all sides—clawing at his throat, crushing his windpipe, leaving him half-alive. He becomes vaguely aware of whispering voices surrounding him, their words indistinct and formless.
Then his senses vanish.
And return—violently.
His vision floods with distorted light, rippling like reflections through water. A terrified warble escapes his throat as the blur resolves into something tangible.
A child.
Standing before him is a small owl with crimson, moon-bright eyes and an outstretched hand. That hand is broken, bruised, dripping with black blood. His eyes glisten with tears as he wails—loud, wordless cries from the hollow of his body.
Blitz swallows hard.
He knows this child.
It’s Stolas. A young Prince Stolas—and he is no older than ten years old.
Then the boy’s jaw unhinges, wide and monstrous. Royal blood pours down his chin, his throat, his trembling arms as his body begins to distort, twist, transform. The whispers rise into a chaotic crescendo—some unknowable, runic rhyme chanted in perfect disharmony, the sound of chiming bells spinning faster and faster.
Blitz screams.
He stumbles back, cracking his head against the library door.
And just like that—reality snaps back.
The lanterns swim into clarity. The darkness recedes.
Blitz blinks up at the grand, impossible sight of King Paimon, lounging loftily in a high-backed chair, encircled by towering shelves that stretch on for what could be miles.
Millions—billions—of books.
The king watches him with amused detachment.
At the king’s feet, Stolas kneels, his head bent—no, rotated—a full 180 degrees to stare directly at Blitz, wide-eyed and wordless.
“Oh dear,” King Paimon drawls. “A rodent has your child, Stolas.”
Blitz is on the floor, shivering. His tail and arms wrap tightly around Octavia, holding her as though she might be pulled from him by the shadows at any moment.
He thanks Satan he didn’t drop her.
“...Th-the fuck was that?” he whispers, voice ragged. If he had fur, it would be standing on end.
Stolas opens his mouth as if to speak—then closes it.
“If you wish to enter the library,” King Paimon intones, his voice echoing threefold through the vast chamber, “you must be open to knowing.”
His words thunder in all directions:
“When you preside over your silly little perceptions,” the king continues, “knowledge can do nothing for you. Even if it bashes you over the head with itself.”
He chuckles and pops a mint onto his black-stained tongue.
“Stupid imps,” he mutters. “They’ll never learn.”
Blitz, Stolas, and Octavia hurry through the rain, returning to the prince’s office. Water pelts their shoulders and patters against the stone path.
“My father is not a filthy man,” Stolas insists, adjusting Octavia in his arms. “But when he’s deep in thought, he… chews on his pens.”
“The library is fucking haunted,” Blitz mutters, clinging to the umbrella.
“Don’t be absurd,” Stolas snaps, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation. He glares over his shoulder. “And what kind of servant holds an umbrella only for himself?”
“Hey!” Blitz shoots back, gesturing wildly. “You’re literally thirty feet taller than me! What do you want from me?!”
Stolas doesn’t respond. He picks up his pace, nearly slipping on the slick stone as he strides ahead.
Blitz jogs after him.
By the time they reach the office, Stolas bursts through the door, thrusts Octavia into Blitz’s arms, and rushes to the bathroom—barely making it to the sink before vomiting.
Octavia immediately starts crying.
“Shhh—nonono, no, it’s okay,” Blitz murmurs, gently bouncing her against his chest. But her little face screws up even tighter and she howls louder. Blitz groans. “Aw, come on…”
He knocks on the bathroom door. “Stolas? You, uh… you okay in there?”
“I-I’m f…fine,” Stolas manages between dry heaves and coughing.
Blitz frowns and nudges the door open. The prince is hunched over the sink, trembling, feathers matted with sweat. Blitz steps inside, patting Stolas’s back with one hand while still rocking Octavia in the other.
The owlet quiets immediately at the sight of her father. She burrows her face against Blitz’s neck with a soft, wet whimper.
“Blitz,” Stolas gasps, eyes fluttering shut, “I don’t want to be seen like this…”
Blitz shrugs. “What, you want me to leave then?”
Stolas hesitates. Another cough tears through him. He barely manages to whisper:
“...No.”
Blitz nods and keeps rubbing circles across his back.
“You must’ve been reading a lot,” he mutters after a pause. “Told you reading was hard.”
Stolas vomits again.
Blitz stifles a snort. He brushes a damp feather from Stolas’s cheek, and for a moment, the prince leans into the touch without thinking.
“You're burning up,” Blitz mutters. “And your feathers are all fucked up.”
“Don’t look at me,” Stolas whispers, trembling.
Blitz lifts his chin, just slightly. “Too late.”
The following morning, Blitz eats breakfast alone in the servants’ living quarters.
One of the other imps approaches, holding out Blitz’s stolen boot. “I’m sorry I took your shoe,” he says flatly. “It was wrong. I won’t do it again.”
Blitz squints up at him. “Yeah, you sound real fucking sorry. Gimme that.” He snatches the boot out of his hand with a sneer.
As the servant turns to leave, Blitz casually swats him with his tail.
A few of the other servants chuckle and whisper behind their hands, casting glances his way. Blitz doesn’t look up. He just scowls and shovels a piece of bread into his mouth.
Later, he pulls out a scrap of paper and draws a picture to mail to Loona.
He misses home.
Chapter 3: Enter the Peacock
Summary:
Blitz and Stolas get closer. Maybe a bit too close.
The marquis arrives at the palace.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Stolas sits luxuriously in his gold-embroidered tub, steam curling from the surface of the water like silk threads. Rose petals clung to his soft feathers, bubbles lapping at his collarbone. He sighs, pleased, head tilted back against the porcelain rim.
“Marquis Andrealphus is coming over today,” Blitz called out, lazily twirling a strawberry lollipop between his lips. “That’s why I gave your kid a bath first. Nothing screams ‘stable household’ like a baby who smells like cinnamon.”
“She does smell lovely,” Stolas coos, eyes fluttering shut. “This is the first time she’s enjoyed her bath. How did you manage it?”
“My friend Millie swears by bribery,” Blitz replies, setting down his coat and rolling up his sleeves. “Give the kid candy, and suddenly the soap’s not the enemy.”
Stolas chuckles, feathers ruffling as Blitz approaches behind him and works up a lather between his palms. “Do I get one too?” he asks, tilting his head just enough for Blitz to reach.
Blitz scoffs. “You’re not a baby.”
“You’re eating candy yourself. What does that say about you?” Stolas teases, reaching up and swiping the lollipop straight from Blitz’s mouth. He pops it into his own with a smug little hum.
Blitz blinks, scandalized. “The fuck?!”
“Mm,” Stolas murmurs around the candy, biting down. “I’m merely keeping things fair.”
“You don’t eat a lollipop, you savor it,” Blitz growls, claws scratching through head feathers with more force now. “You can’t just chomp it like it’s—”
Crunch.
Stolas bites down, loudly.
“You deserve to be locked up right now.”
But then Stolas winces. His tongue flicks against his beak and he frowns, removing the lollipop to inspect it. A jagged shard gleamed under the light.
“Oh,” he mumbles. “That might’ve been too enthusiastic…”
Blitz sighs, already reaching for a towel. “Did you actually cut yourself on a lollipop?”
“I think so, yes.”
“I swear,” Blitz mutters. He storms over to the cabinet, comes back with a bottle of ointment, and drops to his knees beside the tub. “Open.”
Stolas does so, slowly. A thin black line runs across the middle of his tongue—small but striking against his palette.
Blitz squeezes some ointment onto his fingers. With little hesitation, he grasps Stolas’s chin, leans in, and slides two fingers into the prince’s mouth.
Stolas inhales sharply but doesn't move. His talon grips Blitz’s wrist—not to stop him, but to anchor him there.
Blitz’s fingers move slowly, gently. Back and forth. He tells himself it's just practical, just part of patching the dumb bird up. But his gaze drops.
To the soft feathers slick with moisture. The curve of Stolas’s waist. The pink hue blooming across his cheeks, down his chest, into the water. The way his mouth clings to Blitz’s fingers with every motion.
Blitz swallows thickly. His mind clouds over with heat.
He rocks his fingers more slowly now, deliberately. Stolas’s breath hitches. His mouth stays obediently open, his tongue pliant. But his eyes—his eyes meet Blitz’s, hungry and glassy and stunned, like he can't believe he's being touched this way.
“Bl-Blitzy…” he whimpers against his fingers, voice muffled and trembling. His talons slide down Blitz’s forearm, grazing damp skin in a way that makes Blitz’s stomach flip.
Blitz doesn't move. Can't. He stares at the petals clinging to wet feathers and the water trembling slightly with Stolas’s breath. Stolas's legs part under the warm suds. He wanted—
He wanted.
He yanks his fingers from Stolas's warm maw, as if burned. He can feel the moisture between his fingers. “Be...fucking careful next time.”
Stolas looks away, swallowing awkwardly. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, voice barely above a whisper. “O-okay.”
“Creepy bird mouth,” Blitz mutters, voice strained. He sits back hard, grabbing a towel and dabbing his own face with unnecessary force. Anything to cool down. Anything to forget the sight of Stolas’s mouth parting around his fingers like...
For a moment, neither of them say anything.
Then Stolas plucks the sharp bits from the ruined lollipop, smooths the edges with care, and offers it back—holding it to Blitz’s lips.
Blitz doesn't look at him. He doesn't trust himself to.
He leans forward and takes the candy into his mouth again. It's still warm and wet.
A pearly white limousine rolls into the circular drive, its surface gleaming like bone beneath the sun. The moment it stops, rows of servants lines up and bow low.
Marquis Andrealphus emerges in a swirl of white satin and arrogance, smoothing down his pristine feathers with practiced flair. His talons glint, manicured to needlepoints, and his icy blue eyes glow faintly behind jewel-encrusted lenses.
A servant scrambles to open the palace door. The marquis doesn't so much as glance at them as he sweeps inside.
“Oh, Stolas, dear, always a delight!” he croons, voice sugary and sour all at once. His feathers puff in a pantomime of affection. “Now”—he claps his hands with exaggerated cheer—“where is my lovely little niece?”
Stolas meets him with a measured smile. “She’s napping.”
“Well of course!” Andrealphus gasps, pressing a talon to his cheek. “Such a sensible princess, already prioritizing her beauty sleep. She’ll make her future husband so proud.”
Stolas’s stiffens. Even his eyes narrow into hard slits. “She’s not yet a year old. Kindly don’t speak of marriage.”
“Bah!” the marquis dismisses with a flounce of his wrist. “You were engaged to Stella at eleven, remember? Such is tradition! Besides…” He leans in with a sly little wink. “Everyone falls in love sooner or later.”
Stolas frowns, as if slighted.
Then Andrealphus catches sight of Blitz in the mirror—watching silently from behind. The marquis turns with a flourish and raised a single brow.
“So this is your new valet?” His tone is both amused and unimpressed.
Blitz grits his teeth and bows. “My Lord.”
With theatrical flair, the marquis pulls a delicate fan from his sash and prods Blitz’s face with it. “Hmph. Acceptable bone structure, for an imp.” He tilts Blitz’s chin with the fan. “Shame about the scars. So unsightly.”
Blitz’s jaw tenses—but he doesn't move.
Andrealphus leans closer, voice dropping. “I do hope you’re aware, my dear servant, that very high standards are expected for this position.” His breath is cool against Blitz’s face. “Should you fail… well. There may be screaming. There may be crying. And I assure you—I won’t be the one in tears.”
Blitz doesn't flinch. But his eyes, dark and narrow, burned.
“You needn’t worry,” Stolas interjects smoothly. “He performs his duties exceptionally well. And, more importantly—he’s excellent company. I’m grateful you found him.”
The marquis turns with a polished grin, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Oh, believe me—it was no easy task. Most imps are far too small to be of use. This one, at least, looked like he could lift more than a feather.” He gives Blitz a sidelong look, smug and knowing. “Keep an eye on our lonely prince for me, will you?”
Blitz says nothing. His fingers itch to wipe the smirk off that smug porcelain face.
Then, as if sensing it, Andrealphus reaches into his purse and produces a single gold coin. He holds it out daintily between his fingers.
Blitz glances at Stolas for permission, and Stolas nods. Blitz takes the coin and bows again.
An hour later, Stolas had departed for reading practice, leaving Blitz behind to tend to Octavia’s downy feathers. The little princess chirped softly in her sleep as he ran a comb through the wisps around her weird owl ears, careful not to wake her.
Then comes a knock.
Blitz opens the door to find a cheerful servant beaming at him. “His Lordship requests your assistance for a brief errand.”
Blitz groans, tossing the comb onto the nearby desk. “Tell His Lordship to shove it.”
She only giggles in response, already turning down the hall.
With a muttered curse, Blitz makes sure at least three hellhounds are stationed by Octavia’s cradle before he follows. The servant leads him briskly through golden corridors, stopping before one of the grandest guest suites in the palace.
She knocks lightly. “My Lord? The imp is here.”
A beat of silence.
“Very well. Get in here, imp.”
Blitz grits his teeth and pushes the door open.
Marquis Andrealphus stands before a full-length mirror, adorned in a glimmering baby-blue gown with pearl buttons and sweeping hems. He smooths the fabric over his hips with a satisfied hum, then glances at the servant beside the door.
“You may leave.”
She blushes and scampers out, shutting the door behind her. The click of her heels fades down the corridor.
Andrealphus doesn't move for a second. Then—
“FUHUHUHUH!” He throws his head back and twirls in delight, the fabric of his gown flaring like a storm. “Oh, what fun! What performance! Did you see Stolas's face? He's none the wiser! Oh, I do love a captive audience.”
Blitz crosses his arms. “You absolute fucking fruit basket.”
Andrealphus spins to face him, beaming. Blitz looks like he wants to kill the man.
“You gave me a fake coin!” Blitz barks, reaching into his pocket and yanking it out. “You glimmered it with charm magic, didn’t you? You frosty sack of overpriced feathers!”
“Ha! Only a thief would know the difference,” the marquis sing-songs. “And here I thought you were a valet.”
Blitz’s eyes darkens. With a growl, he winds up his arm, aiming to lob the coin straight at the marquis’s smug little face—
Andrealphus doesn't flinch.
And do you know why?
Before any of this—before the palace, the Stolas, the baby—Blitz had a business. And a kid he couldn’t let go of.
He's not just some palace-licking servant—he's the unspoken leader of I.M.P., a notorious Pride Ring gang known for theft, assassination, and general criminal finesse. They had to make a living somehow, and with Millie’s unsettling knack for smuggling children, Moxxie’s sharpshooting, and Blitz’s boundless charisma and impulsive brilliance, business was damn good.
Though their name—Immediate Murder Professionals—advertised one service, they also operated an underground adoption circuit. Abandoned babies and street kids were sold into stable homes instead of left to starve.
But Blitz had never been able to give up the gray-and-white hellhound he’d found curled in a soggy cardboard box. Half-starved, fur matted, and snarling at the sewer-creature trying to drag her away, she’d still had fight in her.
Blitz had blown the queef’s guts across a brick wall and scooped her up, still snapping at him with furious baby fangs. She bit him hard enough to draw blood, and he’d stared at her—bleeding and in awe.
Mine, he’d thought.
That had been three years ago.
The day Marquis Andrealphus arrived, I.M.P. was in the middle of a typical afternoon. Blitz and Millie were spooning malted milk into howling infants while Moxxie dismantled a rifle. Loona sat at the table, sorting stolen jewelry by value with a bored scowl.
A sharp knock echoed at the door.
Everyone froze. Blitz instinctively shielded Loona, raising a flintlock. Moxxie and Millie armed themselves—a Beretta and an axe.
The door handle creaked.
And then slammed open.
A gust of chill wind swept in as Marquis Andrealphus glided over the threshold in silk and spite, trailing a terrified underpaid servant behind him.
“Frivolous thieves and bastard spawn,” he trilled, kicking the door shut in the imp’s face. “Honestly, what happened to Striker?”
Weapons lowered, but eyes stayed wary.
The marquis sneered. “Do not gawk at me, you vermin. My sister hired an imp named ‘Striker’ to kill her husband and I haven’t heard a word since. I assumed you lot had your greasy hands in it.”
Millie’s eye twitched. She and Moxxie shared a subtle look.
Striker had worked with them—for about a month—until they caught him targeting Millie’s sister. Millie beat his head in with a mallet and left what was left outside a taxidermy shop.
“He quit,” Moxxie lies.
“We can kill the target instead, if that’s what you’re asking,” Blitz offered, spinning a knife between his fingers.
Andrealphus waved a hand. “Regrettably, my dear sister is now dead. I wish to shift tactics.”
Blitz yawned. “If it doesn’t involve stabbing, kindly shove it up your cloaca.”
“You don’t understand,” the marquis sniffed. “This helps you, too.”
He drifted closer to the table, his eyes barely flicking to Loona. Blitz tensed, spines rising—but Andrealphus simply picked through the jewelry like it belonged to him. “Mostly, of course, it helps me. Let me explain in terms even you bite-sized cretins can grasp.”
Loona eyed the bulge in his coat pocket, and while he monologued, she calmly pickpocketed him. Blitz bit his knuckle to stifle a laugh as she took a sapphire pendant.
"That's my girl," he mouthed silently. She pouted and adverted her gaze, secretly pleased.
“My sister,” Andrealphus said, placing a garnet necklace on the table. “And her husband—” a copper slave bracelet—“produced a daughter. Magical, powerful. More importantly, a princess.” A white class ring clinked beside the rest.
“Her grandfather is King Paimon—yes, that King Paimon. Lucifer’s benefactor. Ninth Pillar of the Ars Goetia. And he loathes my brother-in-law.” He dragged a golden chatelaine into the pile. “He believes Stolas is unfit to raise her.”
“He's not wrong,” Blitz muttered.
Andrealphus pretended not to hear. “My late sister planned to kill Stolas, inherit his fortune, and keep her royal title. But, alas, her mouth ran faster than her schemes. The rest of the family caught wind. Now she’s dead, her husband inherited her assets, and I—poor me!—am left to clean it all up.”
Blitz rubbed his eyes. “Can’t believe I stayed awake for that whole monologue.”
The marquis dangled the slave bracelet like a noose. “The great owl prince: fallen angel, commandant of 26 legions of demons, and a lonely little queer who’ll fall in love with anyone who so much as smiles at him. He is rife for manipulation. My aim is to seduce him, marry him, and—naturally—inherit everything he owns.”
He pushed the class ring toward the silver bracelet.
“My plan,” he said grandly, “is to get custody of the baby and his money. And you,” he pointed at Blitz, Millie, and Moxxie, “are going to help me.”
Blitz scoffed. “I’d rather crawl back to my ex and shit out her slut-whore children than help you. That was the most long-winded load of goose shit I’ve ever heard. And you touched our jewelry!”
“We were counting those!” Loona snapped.
The air turned sharp. Frost bled into the windows. Marquis Andrealphus’s eyes glowed an icy blue.
“Excuse me?” he hissed, feathers flaring.
“S-sir?” Moxxie’s teeth chattered. “L-let’s hear him out—”
“What’s in it for us?” Millie snapped, shaking ice off her legs.
“Fifty. Million,” the marquis growled. “You street scum should be honored I offer you anything.”
Blitz’s eyes widened. “Holy shit.”
“FIFTY. MILLION,” Loona echoed, grabbing his coat. “Dad, that’s so much money.”
Blitz hugged her close, muttered, “…Go on.”
Andrealphus arched a brow. “What was that?”
“Please continue, My Lord,” Moxxie said hurriedly. “Please.”
Blitz coughed, “Bootlicker.” Moxxie glared.
The marquis preened. “Paimon will not raise the child himself. He despises children. He’ll find a proxy. I will become that proxy. And to do so, I will win the prince’s heart. Seduce him. Marry him. And then… institutionalize him.”
He dropped the slave bracelet to the floor. It landed with a dull clang.
“This will work. He is fragile. Broken. Desperate. I need an imp to serve as valet and help coax him into my arms.”
“Is the prince hot?” Millie and Moxxie asked together.
Andrealphus ignored them.
Blitz stepped forward. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Excellent—”
“But I want the good shit.” Blitz grinned. “I want one hundred million. I want his capes. I want his jewelry. I want that fancy-ass spellbook.”
The marquis stiffened. “You know about the Grimoire?”
“Tch. I stole from him as a kid. He showed me the book. It’s real shiny. I want it.”
“Blitz!” Moxxie hissed.
But Andrealphus looked intrigued. “You stole from him before. And you lived to tell the tale? Impressive.”
Blitz kissed the top of Loona’s head and grinned wickedly.
“Oh, I’m full of surprises.”
…The fake coin smacks into Andrealphus’s plumage and instantly turns to ice, cracking apart on the marble floor with a brittle shhhk.
The marquis doesn't even flinch.
“Careful,” he says breezily, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder. “Don’t make me lower your wages.”
“Oh, fuck you!” Blitz snarls. “You should be thanking me for not telling the prince what a manipulative, self-obsessed cunt you are!”
“Your horrible personality cannot deter me today, you sickly little mistake,” the marquis chirps. He seizes Blitz by the arm and tugs him toward the gilded mirror. “Now pay attention. This—” he gestures at his reflection, batting his lashes—“is how you sell a fantasy.”
Blitz rolls his eyes so hard it nearly dislocates something.
“I’ve trained myself to blush on cue!” Andrealphus declares proudly, striking a demure pose. “If I make my longing seem genuine, then Stolas will be putty in my hands. Weak, lonely little queer that he is.” He reapplies his mascara with elegant precision. “Come on,” he adds, motioning to the mirror. “You try.”
“Yeah, no.” Blitz crosses his arms. “Like you said, you barely have to try with him. He gets starry-eyed if someone breathes near him with the right kind of accent.”
The marquis chuckles. “For once, I concur. He’s always struck me as the sort who just needs a good, long ravishing by someone who actually knows what they’re doing. That being said…”
He clicks the mascara shut and turns sharply, feathers flaring just slightly.
Andrealphus steps closer, his breath cool and precise against Blitz’s cheek.
“If I ever send you away to leave me alone with him,” he murmurs, almost fondly, “you will go. No questions. No delays. And you will not return until I say. I don’t care if you hear him cry. I don’t care if he screams your name.”
His voice dips, low and honeyed.
“Let him scream. That’s half the fun.”
Blitz’s stomach knots. His facade falters—just for a second—and he stiffens, eyes flicking toward the door as if weighing the distance.
“You’re fucked in the head,” he mutters, trying for sarcasm, but his voice comes out thin.
Andrealphus’s smile widens. "If you do your job right, then he will fall in love with me. And then there shouldn't be a problem. Do I make myself clear?”
Blitz narrows his eyes. “Yeah. Loud and fucking clear.”
“Good.” The marquis hums, pleased. “Then we understand each other.”
He steps away and retrieves a black velvet box from a drawer, offering it to Blitz. “Give this to Stolas. A token of my love,” he trills.
Blitz shoves the gift into his pocket. "Fine."
As he storms off down the corridor, boots thudding against gold-veined tile, Blitz's hand brushes against the wrapper crumpled deep in his pants pocket—the one from the strawberry lollipop he had shared with Stolas.
His stomach turns. Hard.
He can't explain it. Can't put a name to it.
But somehow, that stupid little wrapper makes him feel like he's already lost.
Notes:
Blitz: *sticks his fingers in Stolas's mouth"
Stolas: what are we
Chapter 4: Dinners & Dress Up
Chapter Text
Like most royal pricks, this 'Marquis Andrealphus' is a tasteless, no-dick-having piece of work.
Weeks before Blitz’s arrival at the palace, Moxxie, Millie, and Loona had been paraded around in every shade of gold imaginable as the peacock of a marquis attempted to “fix” Blitz’s behavior.
Blitz had crossed his arms, eyeing the lineup of swatches. “Uhh, do you want the rose gold, the white gold, or the—what the fuck…” He squinted at the tag. “...the fucking *green* gold!? They’re all gold! Which one do you want?!”
“No!” the marquis snapped, stomping his foot like a petulant child. “Are you stupid? You will never speak to him like that!”
“Right!” Moxxie chimed in. “Sir, you can’t swear in the presence of a prince. That’s very uncouth.”
“Even worse!” the royal howled. “You asked him a question! You mustn’t ask him anything! He must not think!”
Later, Blitz was elbow-deep in sequins, helping Moxxie into a glittery gown while the marquis scribbled out a forged reference letter.
“I’ve used the she-imp’s name,” the marquis said smugly. “A farm girl background is far less threatening than mafia spawn.”
Blitz burst into laughter while Moxxie pouts. “What the fuck?! Millie is ten times scarier than this baby-dicked whore bag!” He shot a grin at Moxxie, who looked seconds away from combusting.
“Sir, as amazing as my girlfriend is in every way, please refrain from such vulgar—”
“Baby dick!” Blitz interrupted, jabbing at Moxxie’s pants.
“Sir.” Moxxie swatted him off with the deadpan fury of a man who had clearly hit his limit.
The marquis ignored them both, folding the letter with a flourish. “I have your reference letter read, and it's perfect—naturally. I wrote it. Make sure you read it aloud to Prince Stolas so he thinks you’re not fraudulent.”
Blitz, of course, failed to mention he could barely read it at all.
“And if you enrage him and he kills you,” the marquis added, “make sure to fall backward. Don’t bleed on the carpet. It’s antique.”
Moxxie and Millie shared a tense glance. Blitz just shrugged.
“Easy peasy, big dick squeezy.”
They had all stood at the doorway to see him off. Blitz had hugged and kissed his adopted daughter, who gifted him a sapphire pendant she’d pick-pocketed off the marquis.
“I should be the one going to that Goetia’s house, and you know it,” Moxxie had said.
Blitz had swatted him and laughed it off—but maybe Moxxie was right. It’s hard to con someone you think might be a decent Goetia.
Then again, Moxxie’s the more empathetic one. He’d totally mess it up.
Not me.
Still… Blitz couldn’t shake a thread of guilt. Between the haunted-ass library, the demon-speaking nightmare of a father, and a brother-in-law who seemed just as interested in Stolas’s wallet as his ass, the poor bastard had every reason to be a wreck.
And he's a single father, on top of it all.
Blitz stares blankly at the open gift box in Stolas’s hands as the prince lifts the contents into the candlelight.
“Wow,” Stolas blinks, tilting his head. He lifts a shimmering earring between two fingers. “He gave me this? It’s actually… quite nice.”
That’s gonna be mine once we lock him in the psych ward, Blitz thinks dryly.
Stolas turns to him with a gentle smile. “Do you like the sapphires, Blitzy?”
“Huh?” Blitz startles. “Uhhh, I guess?” He squints at the vivid blue gems—then frowns. “Wait a sec…”
“Hm?”
Blitz groans, already annoyed. “What a damn cheapskate. These aren’t sapphires. They’re just blue spinels.”
“They’re not real?”
Unbelievable, Blitz thinks, one hand drifting to the pendant in his pocket—real sapphire, swiped clean by Loona. Only way to get the real deal from that bastard is to steal it.
He suddenly notices Stolas watching him, expectant. Blitz winces. Shit. Off-script again.
“Fuck—I mean—it’s fine!” he blurts. “Spinel is… nice too! Just ’cause it’s not pricey doesn’t mean he doesn’t, y’know… care?”
Stolas drops the earring like it’s diseased. “I hardly think so.”
“What?! Then you’re just as pretentious as he is.”
“I am not!”
“Are too!” Blitz scoffs. “What if I gave you something worth the three bucks I’ve got left in my suitcase—would that not be good enough for you?”
At that, Stolas’s entire face lights up. “You would give me a gift?”
Blitz goes stiff. “I—No?! I mean—I guess?”
Stolas turns back to the earrings, examining them with new skepticism. “Ah, but you’re right. I’ve studied gems before. I should’ve noticed. Spinel has a flatter luster. How did I miss that?” He sighs and cradles his head. “I swear, that cursed library is draining my senses.”
“You’re fine, Stolas. Reading’s a bitch. I get it.”
“You do understand,” he says with dramatic relief, lifting his head. “But tell me—how do you know the difference between spinel and sapphire?”
Blitz hesitates. “Uh… I’ve got a friend. Big nerd. Real gem geek.”
“A friend,” Stolas echoes, eyes warm. “I’m so glad you have friends you can talk to, Blitzy. I cannot speak with Andrealphus—not sincerely. You’ve seen what he’s like.”
Blitz huffs, trying to pivot. “There’s nothing wrong with spinel! Average people wouldn’t notice the difference. Only someone with real skill—like a professional-level pickpocket—could even tell.”
Stolas pauses, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly. “A pickpocket, you say?” His eyes slowly rake over Blitz’s body, thoughtfully. “...Huh.”
Blitz resists the urge to hurl himself out the nearest stained-glass window.
There’s no time for Blitz to dwell on how badly he’s botched things. He’s got a job to do—Stolas needs to be ready for a family dinner.
He trails several paces behind the prince as they make their way to the dining hall, more than necessary… but not nearly enough. Blitz’s eyes flick over Stolas’s frame, narrowed and interested. The prince is dressed to kill—wrapped in a deep blue velvet suit, tight in all the right places, embroidered with constellations that shimmer with every step. A silver pant chain clinks delicately against his thigh as he glides down the grand staircase, hips swinging with unconscious grace. His eyes—rimmed with violet shadow and thick black mascara—shine like dusk, and not a single blue-gray feather is out of place.
He’s gorgeous.
Like—stupid gorgeous. Blitz doesn’t get it. Why aren’t more demons throwing themselves at this man? Not even for the money—just for the thrill of it?
Demons be sleeping on this man instead of sleeping with him. Wild.
Stolas glances over his shoulder, catching Blitz mid-stare. “What are you looking at, Blitzy?”
“Nothing!”
The prince tries to smother his smile. He fails, obviously. “I’m flattered you think I look nice.”
“I never fucking said that,” Blitz grumbles. “Move your feathered ass.”
He shoves the dining hall doors open and steps aside to let Stolas through.
Inside, King Paimon watches with unreadable coolness. The marquis, on the other hand, immediately makes an ass of himself.
“Oh!” Andrealphus cries, toppling his chair in his rush to stand. His feathered cheeks go from ivory to crimson. “How magnificent! Your beauty transcends all space and time!”
Stolas blinks in surprise. Blitz nearly chokes. Even Paimon looks mildly appalled.
“Thank you… Andrealphus,” Stolas replies awkwardly, sliding into the seat across from him.
“I was just speaking with your father about the purpose of my visit,” Andrealphus announces, his flush vanishing like a switch flipped off. “I’d like to assist in preparing young Octavia for her royal duties.”
“You… want to help me raise her?”
“Precisely, my dear boy!” the marquis beams. “A princess thrives with two parental figures. Imagine it: your knowledge of astronomy and precious stones, combined with my mastery of ice and geometric theory—Octavia will be unmatched!”
Paimon’s gaze sharpens, slicing through the marquis’s smile.
Stolas doesn’t respond. Blitz watches as his silence stretches uncomfortably long.
Andrealphus presses on, voice sweetening with poison. “Surely you’ll consider it, given how poorly you’ve managed on your own. His Majesty agrees—the princess deserves better.”
Blitz’s tail lashes behind him. Fucking unbelievable. Babies hate Andy. Always have. What the hell does he know about raising anyone?
The marquis catches Blitz’s glare, and his expression sours.
“Stolas,” he says coolly, “must you bring your servant to hover like this? Can you no longer eat without assistance, or have you taken ill?”
King Paimon says nothing, but the look he gives Stolas is sharp as a blade. The prince’s eyes drop. He swallows.
“…Blitz, go check on Octavia.”
“Ah-ah-ah,” the marquis clucks. “See? You’re relying on an imp to raise your daughter. Wouldn’t you prefer a more… noble hand?”
Blitz's tail flicks, and he resists the urge to slam the fucking door on the way out.
Stupid. Fucking. Bullshit.
Your family’s effed up, Octavia,” Blitz mutters as he fumbles with the young owlet’s downy feathers, trying to braid them—somehow. Octavia warbles curiously, patting at her head as if trying to guess what he’s doing up there.
Blitz snickers and grabs a small hand mirror, holding it out for her. A wide smile spreads across her face the second she sees her reflection.
“You like it?” he asks.
Octavia screeches with glee and slaps her tiny hands on Blitz’s lap, beaming up at him.
Blitz pulls the mirror away dramatically, then reveals it again. “How about now?” She squeals and bobs her head, absolutely delighted. Drool drips from her chin feathers as she lunges for the mirror.
“No drooling, Octavia,” Blitz mock-scolds. “You’re a princess, remember? No basic peasant functions allowed—no shitting, no laughing, no crying, definitely no drooling.”
She ignores him completely and clamps the mirror between her beak, slathering it with even more spit. Blitz reaches to reclaim it, but she digs in, staring him down with a fierce little glint in her pink eyes that reminds him way too much of Loona.
Before he can retort, a sudden crack of lightning splits the sky, followed by a rumble so loud it shakes the windowpanes. Octavia freezes. The mirror drops from her beak.
Blitz dives and catches it just before it hits the floor.
Octavia’s head swivels toward the window. Her wide eyes shimmer with curiosity.
Blitz frowns and glances out after her.
He hadn’t even realized it was raining.
Wait.
What the hell—
Blitz’s breath catches.
Outside, in the middle of the storm, Stolas is standing alone—soaked to the bone, unmoving.
Shit.
“Stolas!”
Thunder snarls overhead. The prince stands motionless beneath the Copper Beech, arms limp at his sides, his gaze glassy and fixed on the blood-red leaves swaying in the storm.
“Stolas!” Blitz sprints forward, grabbing the prince by the wrists and yanking him under the umbrella. Stolas sinks to his knees without resistance, eyes still locked on the tree like it’s whispering something only he can hear. His mouth moves, but no sound comes out.
“Fuck,” Blitz hisses, shivering as rain soaks through his skin. “Stolas, what the fuck are you doing?”
He follows the prince’s line of sight to the tree and feels a chill crawl down his spine that has nothing to do with the cold.
“Stop looking at that,” he says sharply, tugging at Stolas’s drenched shoulders. “Let’s go. Come on. We’re going back to the palace.”
Stolas’s voice comes soft, cracked. “Where else would I go?”
Rain streaks down his face, but Blitz knows—knows—he’d been crying long before the storm began. Something clenches in his chest, and he instinctively reaches out, lacing their fingers together.
“C’mon,” Blitz urges. “Let’s go. I left Octavia in your room.”
That does it.
Stolas slowly rises, trembling, and without a word, lifts a hand.
The air warps.
With a quiet snap, reality splits open in front of them.
Blitz just stares. “You can… do that? You could do that this whole time?”
Stolas steps casually through the glowing tear like it’s nothing.
Blitz swallows hard and follows. Okay. Sure. No big deal. Just casually ripping holes through time and space. Totally normal prince behavior.
The prince closes his eyes, flushed and disheveled as Blitz pats him down with a warm towel. Rainwater drips from his feathers, his chest slowly rising and falling as he exhales a shaky breath.
“He kept pushing absinthe on me,” Stolas murmurs, voice slurred just slightly.
Blitz stills. “Did he do anything?”
“Hm? Like what?”
Blitz’s jaw tightens. “Did he… kiss you? Or—something?”
Stolas blinks at him, confused. “No, he didn’t. Why?”
Blitz throws the towel to the floor, irritated. “I don’t fucking know, okay? You look like shit, that’s why!”
Stolas snorts, brushing damp feathers back from his face. “Ah. You really do have a way with words.” His laughter fades quickly—but only for a moment. Suddenly, he whirls around, all four eyes alight. He almost hits Blitz with his tail. Blitz practically jumps back.
“Oh! Blitzy!” Stolas says, feathers ruffling with excitement. “I wanted to try something with you!”
“Watch where you’re fucking swinging your tail!” Blitz barks, shielding himself with his arms.
“I’ve noticed,” Stolas says smoothly, “how often you admire my wardrobe… even though none of it would ever fit you.” He straightens, one arm lifting to the ceiling, and with a flick of his wrist, summons a glowing book from the air.
Blitz’s eyes go wide.
There it is.
“Wait—is that…?” His tail starts wagging. “That’s your fancy book!”
Stolas beams, delighted. “Yes! You remember my grimoire! My father gifted it to me when I formally joined the Goetia family. It’s the most important thing I own.”
Blitz’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Where the hell were you hiding that?”
Stolas giggles behind a clawed hand. “That is my little secret, Blitzy.”
Blitz rolls his eyes. “Fine. Keep your damn secrets, featherbutt. I’ll just steal it later.”
The imp stands in front of the mirror as Stolas raises his hand. A wave of shimmering blue magic washes over Blitz, and in an instant, his body stretches and reshapes—until a tall, regal bird demon with red and white cardinal plumage stares back at him. Pupilless yellow eyes gleam in the glass.
A Goetia disguise?
“Wooo—oooh shit.” Blitz reaches out and touches the mirror. It's him, but as a bird. “Okay. Wow. This is fucking weird.”
Stolas watches, amused. “You don’t like it?”
“I never said that,” Blitz grins, turning on his heel. Then he breaks into a run. “Let’s play fucking dress-up—OW FUCK!”
He crashes headfirst into the closet wall, feathers flaring as he crumples to the ground.
“Blitz! Are you alright?!”
The cardinal groans from the floor. “Fucking peachy,” he mutters, face buried in velvet carpet.
The disguised servant rifles through waistcoats, corsets, jackets, capes, ballgowns, caftans, cardigans—hell, Stolas owns everything. Blitz greedily pulls the fanciest shit he can find from velvet hangers and towering wardrobes, draping himself in shimmering silks and embroidered lace like a raccoon in a royal costume shop.
Nearly an hour later, Blitz stands before the mirror, swathed in soft pink lace that sparkles under the chandelier. The ballgown cinches at the waist, flows to the floor, and makes his hips look phenomenal. He clips golden earrings onto his red feathers and gives the dress a dramatic twirl.
“This looks so hot on me,” he declares.
“You look like another Goetia,” Stolas replies, utterly unhelpful—and wearing nothing but laced shorts and a corset, his long legs crossed beneath him on the chaise.
Blitz grimaces. “That’s the rudest fucking thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Stolas laughs—really laughs—and the sound is maddeningly soft, his hands covering his flushed cheeks. His four eyes glisten, tears gathering at the corners, and he leans his head against the full-length mirror, still giggling.
Then the air shifts.
Their eyes meet in the reflection.
And suddenly, the room is too quiet.
Stolas’s gaze turns tender—hungry, even—and Blitz’s breath catches as the prince murmurs, “Now I think I understand what the marquis meant. Every night, in bed, I think of your face.”
Blitz blinks. “Uhh… What?”
Stolas’s dreamy expression falters.
Heat rises under Blitz’s feathers. “I’m your servant, Stolas. Not your fucking concubine,” he snaps, backing up a step and nearly tripping on the dress’s train. “Where’s that fancy book?”
“Everywhere,” Stolas replies airily, swaying slightly. He looks dizzy. Definitely tipsy.
Blitz groans inwardly. What the actual fuck.
“Alright, we’re done here,” he mutters, stepping behind the prince and tugging at the laces of his corset. So many damn buttons. And for some reason, his heart won’t stop hammering in his chest.
Stolas sighs softly, leaning into the touch.
Blitz swallows hard. He yanks the top off, forces the urge to bend Stolas over the damn mirror out of his head, and clears his throat. “Uh. So… birds don’t have dicks, right?”
Stolas slowly turns his head *a full 180 degrees,* staring at Blitz with such profound disbelief that the imp genuinely recoils.
Blitz coughs. “Uhhh. That wasn’t the question I meant to ask.”
Stolas blinks. “Why… would you be wondering that?”
“But you guys don’t, right? No dicks?”
“...Right,” Stolas says slowly, starting to sound concerned.
“Imps have dicks,” Blitz blurts. “Sharks have *two.* You’d think that’d make them better at sex but, like, *absolutely fucking not.*”
Stolas looks at the wall like he’s reconsidering every decision that led him here.
Blitz takes a deep breath. One that finally shakes a few brain cells back into place.
“…Are you really gonna let the King take your daughter away?”
Stolas freezes.
“It doesn’t matter how I feel,” he says quietly. “If he decides that’s what’s best… I won’t have a choice.”
Ominous. Heavy.
Blitz shifts uncomfortably. “What if… I dunno. There was another parent in the picture. Someone the King approved of. Have you thought about marrying again? Like the marquis?”
Smooth, Blitz. Real fucking subtle.
Stolas’s voice hardens. “You ask a lot of questions for a servant.”
Before Blitz can respond, Stolas grabs his shoulders, spins him around, and unzips the dress. The pink gown pools at Blitz’s feet.
They’re both nearly naked.
Blitz’s heart slams against his ribs.
Blue light passes over him as Stolas snaps his fingers. Feathers recede. Horns curl back into place. Blitz is an imp again. Just himself.
Stolas hums, trailing a claw down one of Blitz’s striped horns. Blitz swallows.
But then, mercifully, the prince steps away.
He crosses the room to Octavia, lifting her sleeping form gently into his arms. His voice softens into something barely above a whisper.
“I would do anything for my daughter,” he says. “Even if it meant millennia of suffering. Wouldn’t you?”
Blitz lowers himself to the floor, legs giving out beneath him.
“…Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Of course I would.”
He watches as Stolas hums to Octavia, rocking her gently, and for once, Blitz doesn’t know whether his chest hurts from jealousy, guilt, or something far more dangerous.
Several months ago, Blitz was elbow-deep in a war with Loona’s hair, tongue sticking out in concentration as he attempted a fishtail braid. It wasn’t going great, but it was cute, and Loona liked it—so by Satan, he was going to get it right or die trying.
He was so focused that her voice caught him completely off guard.
“I wonder why my real parents left me,” she said softly. “Maybe I did something bad.”
The brush slipped from his hand.
“What?” he breathed.
She didn’t look at him. Just stared ahead, calm like it was a passing thought—like she hadn’t just punched him straight in the soul.
“No,” Blitz said firmly. He dropped the brush entirely and scooped her into a tight, bone-crushing hug. “Hells no, Loony. You’ve never done anything to make them abandon you, okay? They’re just terrible people. That’s all there fucking is to it.”
Loona sighed. Like she didn’t really believe him.
So Blitz cupped her face in his hands and made her look at him, made her see him.
“Hey,” he said, voice low and serious, “if we’re talking about kids who should’ve been abandoned… that would’ve been me. Okay?”
Loona blinked. Blitz didn’t let go.
“I was a shitty thief when I was a kid. Messed up a job. Got caught. My whole family paid the price.” His voice grew thinner. “My sister disappeared. My parents? They were hung. Right in front of me. I was there.”
His hands were trembling.
“I was there when my mama died.”
Loona’s voice was barely a whisper. “Did… did she see you?”
Blitz’s throat tightened. “Yeah. She fucking saw me, sweetie. I was screaming over the crowd, begging her to forgive me. Telling her I was sorry. That I was a horrible son. That she never should’ve had me.”
He inhaled shakily.
“But you know what she said?”
Loona’s eyes were wide, her breath caught. “What?”
“She said, ‘At least I had you before dying. That means my life meant something.’”
Blitz tilted his head back and laughed—choked, shaking, tears streaming down his face. Loona clung to him as he cried, smiling through her own bright eyes.
He remembered his mother’s face. Defiant. Grinning. Flipping off the executioner with both hands as the rope snapped tight and her body went tumbling, tumbling down—
“If I ever do something bad,” Loona whispered, “would you still love me like that?”
Blitz didn’t even hesitate. He buried his face in her hair and broke down, holding her like he could shield her from every hurt in the world.
“There’s nothing you could do to make me stop loving you, Loony,” he sobbed. “Absolutely nothing.”
Stolas cradles Octavia gently in his arms, her eyes transfixed by the glittering garments strewn across the floor. Blitz kneels beside them and offers her a rhinestone-embroidered glove. She lets out a delighted croon, clutching it in her tiny talons and giving it an excited shake.
But her smile falters as lightning flashes across the sky, casting sharp silver light across the room.
“I know she hates the storm,” Blitz murmurs, “but she doesn’t even cry.”
“She’s my brave, strong girl,” Stolas replies softly. He strokes her cheek with a featherlight touch. “Let us look at something much nicer.”
He lifts a hand—and with a graceful sweep, the ceiling above them fades away, dissolving into the expanse of the night sky.
Octavia gasps. Magenta shooting stars streak across the darkness, dazzling and silent. She chirps and reaches for the lights, her wide eyes drinking in the spectacle like it’s her first time seeing magic.
“You like those ones?” Stolas asks, gesturing toward the vivid pinks.
She squeals with joy and kicks her little feet, talons waving in the air.
Stolas of the Ars Goetia—the all-powerful prince of Hell, the being who bends reality, who conjures stars and shifts flesh with a flick of his wrist—lowers his head and places a soft kiss against his daughter’s brow.
“Alright, my darling,” he whispers. “You can have them.”
Blitz’s heart flutters.
Not that he’d ever fucking admit it.
How had the marquis described Stolas?
“Magnificent.”
Yeah.
Yeah… that sounds about right.
Chapter 5: Uninvited
Summary:
The marquis seduces the prince. This doesn’t work.
But Blitz doesn't know that.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Stolas presses his soft face against the window, his warm breath misting the glass.
He’s leaving.
King Paimon draped in velvet and disinterest, is being carried away on the backs of several tiny imps. Their eyes bulge from the effort, but he pays them no mind—yawning, glowering over a book as if being hauled like furniture were beneath his notice.
Just a month, Stolas reminds himself. He’ll return—only to leave again. Still, even these brief absences feel like crumbs of freedom dropped from a feast he’ll never be allowed to taste.
Outside, Andrealphus crosses the meadow with theatrical grace, hiking up his jeweled hem to avoid the mud. He snaps at a passing imp and thrusts fabric into her arms with a scowl. She trips, nearly dropping it. His deep frown could curdle milk.
Stolas sighs, turns away from the window—and stops.
Blitz is watching him.
His crimson eyes are unreadable, flicking over the matted feathers clinging to Stolas’s temple. Neither speaks.
They do this often: stand there in silence, staring—like two opposing magnets held just close enough to feel the pull but not close enough to touch. The tension builds until one of them inevitably looks away.
Stolas never knows what Blitz is thinking. He doubts Blitz knows either.
The clock chimes from somewhere deep in the palace.
The marquis would be arriving soon for what he called “family bonding time.” Stolas tries not to flinch at the phrasing. He paces his study for hours, watering his plants, preening his feathers until they lie just right. He hands Blitz one of his horse books—an old, worn copy with hand-painted illustrations. Their fingers brush.
It lingers. Blitz doesn’t comment.
Stolas glances at the clock again. The hands are almost at noon.
At the stroke of twelve, he stiffens. “Check the hall, will you?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
Blitz pulls back the velvet curtain, opens the door, and peers out.
By the banister, Andrealphus is shaking a trembling imp upside-down by her tail. Her tiny arms flail as she cries, “My lord, please put me down…!”
A brown smear mars the hem of his otherwise pristine dress. The imp must’ve dropped it in the mud.
“Hey!” Blitz hisses. “Get in here!”
The marquis checks his golden pocket watch, raises an eyebrow, and shoos Blitz away like an errant fly. Then he turns back to the imp and starts berating her anew.
Blitz’s jaw drops. He slams the door shut.
“Well?” Stolas asks, already knowing.
Blitz growls. “He’s busy tormenting the help.”
Stolas’s expression falls.
Blitz swears under his breath. That face—soft, sad, like something wounded in the wild—makes him want to punch a hole through the wall or worse, actually talk about his feelings.
Stolas lowers himself onto the velvet sofa and looks up at him. The air hums between them.
“Why are you standing all the way over there?” he asks gently. He tilts his head with a sweet smile, and pats the empty cushion beside him. “Come. Sit with me.”
Blitz hesitates.
But before he can move, the door bursts open.
“Oh, Stolas!” Andrealphus trills, sweeping into the room with a forced smile. “Terribly sorry for the delay. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
Stolas rises at once. The smile he offers is polite, not warm. “No worries, Andrealphus.”
What follows is little more than noise.
Marquis Andrealphus fills the study with useless chatter as Stolas tends to Octavia. The prince moves with the practiced grace of someone focused—delicate hands scooping powdered formula into a glass vial, water carefully measured and poured. His attention is a world away, yet the marquis keeps touching him: a casual brush of the shoulder, a hand at his back, fingers skimming his sleeve.
Blitz's eye twitches.
The touches are technically innocent. Practically ornamental. But they crowd the space around Stolas like moths around a candle.
“Oh, such a promising little face!” Andrealphus croons, leaning over the crib. “She takes after you, Stolas, but those eyes? Her mother’s. It's too soon to expect any magical manifestation, of course, but eyes are the windows to the soul. Careful, she might mirror her mother’s temperament.” He chuckles at his own wit, as if expecting applause.
Stolas doesn’t answer. He’s measuring formula and gently swirling the mixture. The glow of his magic heats the vial slowly, evenly.
The marquis leans closer. Too close.
Stolas startles slightly when he finally looks up, only to find Andrealphus practically breathing down his neck. He drops his gaze to the floor like a reprimanded schoolboy.
“I do hope she’s more like you,” the marquis murmurs, fingers gliding along the base of Stolas’s head feathers. “Gorgeous. Tender. Wise.”
Blitz chokes on a laugh at Andrealphus's ridiculous attempts. Loud enough to be heard. Not loud enough to be reprimanded.
Stolas laughs, too—but it’s brittle. “Ah… I need to start boiling water. Excuse me.”
Andrealphus catches him gently by the shoulder, sighing like a stage actor in the third act of a romance. “Make your valet do it.”
“No, he should stay here,” Stolas replies, voice tight but polite. “I’ll call someone else.”
He rings the bell with one hand while steadying the vial with the other. Behind him, Andrealphus wiggles his jeweled fingers in front of the crib.
“How is my favorite niece?” he sing-songs.
Octavia grunts. Loudly. Her downy face scrunches in visible protest. "Bleh!"
Blitz grins, covering his mouth to stifle the laugh tearing its way out of him.
Stolas turns—just a little—but it’s enough for him to spot Blitz's amusement. He smiles at Blitz.
Blitz grins back, all teeth and charm and something dangerously close to softness.
Andrealphus pauses. Sees it too.
The warmth drains from his face, replaced by thinly-veiled disdain. “Well,” he huffs, waving dismissively, “she’ll grow used to me soon enough.”
Without warning, he loops an arm around Stolas’s waist, pulling him close. “As will you, my dear prince.”
“Mhm,” Stolas murmurs, distracted, his gaze still locked with Blitz.
Stolas and Blitz watch each other, taking in every detail and enjoying it.
Andrealphus notices. His expression curdles. The mask slips for just a moment.
“That’s enough for today,” he snaps, too quickly, stepping back with a flick of his hand.
The spell of the moment breaks, but something lingers in the air. A thread, invisible and taut, connecting Stolas and Blitz across the room.
Stolas finally looks away, giggling shyly. Blitz's heart pounds.
“Blitzy?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you help me with something?”
It’s a rare morning of sun between storms. Out in the meadow behind the estate, the world feels still and golden. Stolas has brought out his collection of flowerpots, arranged carefully in a little wagon. Blitz turns for one second to admire the estate’s obnoxious spires, and when he turns back—
“WHAT THE FUCK?!”
He lunges. A pack of tiny imp assassins surrounds the prince, dragging at his limbs with ropes and tiny daggers. Blitz barrels into them like a firestorm—cracking one’s skull against a rock, tearing the dagger from another and stabbing through her eye with his own black point-toe pump.
The remaining imps scatter like frightened insects.
“Oh, Blitzy! You’re so strong!” Stolas beams, clapping the best he can with his wrists bound.
Blitz mutters under his breath, slicing the ropes off with shaking hands. “Why didn't you yell? I thought you needed help watering a damn plant.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, Blitzy,” Stolas says breezily, rubbing his wrists. “Attempted kidnappings happen now and then. One of the many burdens of being wealthy and beautiful.”
Blitz stares at him. Decides, wisely, to move on. “What’s all this crap?” he asks, nodding at the flowerpots.
“I’m hunting for fuchsias and clematises. I thought I saw some out here.” Stolas thrusts an open botany book into Blitz’s face, pointing to illustrations of delicate pink and purple petals. “Aren’t they pretty?”
Blitz shrugs. “The colors match your kid’s blankets. And her eyes.”
Stolas’s smile lights up. “Exactly, Blitzy!”
They start wandering through the field together, pulling the little wagon behind them. The wind tousles Stolas’s feathers and lifts the hem of his jacket. His jacket flutters open at the collar, just enough to show a glimpse of his throat. Blitz wants to bite it. Or wrap it in his scarf just to keep it warm. Either way, he hates himself for thinking it.
Blitz eventually mutters, “You’ve been more active since the marquis came around. Guess you like him a little, huh?”
Stolas hums. “You think so?”
“What? Didn’t you say he was better than your wife?”
“Only because I didn’t have to live with him. To be fair, I avoided her to the best of my ability too. I regret it now.”
The clouds shift. Sunlight snuffs out. A breeze cuts through like a blade.
Stolas’s voice softens. “I wonder about you. Is… your mother dead?”
Blitz’s hands curl into fists. His tail whips at the question. "Why the hell do you ask?"
Stolas tilts his head. "My mother is dead, and my father... Well, you see what he's like." He looks out into the field and sighs. He looks at Blitz with sweetness, but Blitz reads pity. "I know that I am naive, but I don't pretend to care."
Blitz finds it difficult to trust that.
“What happened?”
Blitz sneers. “She was hanged.”
Stolas’s throat bobs. “Did she hug you, when you were young?” His tone is wistful.
“Yeah. Lots.”
“That’s nice to hear, at least.” Stolas murmurs. "I never knew my mother. She died in childbirth. It's as if I had strangled her myself."
Blitz stops walking. He turns to Stolas, who solemnly looks at the cloudy sky.
"I wonder what would have happened if I were less cowardly; if I had been more agreeable and helped conceive Octavia earlier, maybe she would have had a mother."
Blitz drops the wagon’s handle.
"Sometimes I think about what could have been if I weren't alive. And I suddenly realize the burdens I've placed upon everyone."
Their eyes lock. Blitz thinks about their first childhood meeting. He thinks about his dead mother’s skull choker around his own neck. He thinks of Pringle's warning: “Anyone who steals will be executed. That goes for their family, too. I’m sure you won’t fall prey to such greed… Blitzo.”
"I'm so sorry, Blitz. I should have never been born."
"Don't.” Blitz yanks on Stolas’s arm until they’re face-to-face. “Don't say that.”
Stolas chokes up, shaking his head and sinking to his knees. Blitz won’t stand for that, "If you weren't alive, then you would have never had Octavia. You said it yourself: you'd do anything for her. Right?"
“Of course I would.”
"Yeah? And don't you think your mom would have felt the same?"
Stolas’s eyes widen, red encircling white, as Blitz moves close enough to hear every watery sigh falling from his lips. The prince clutches the imp’s arms, the intensity of Blitz’s eyes making his knees weak.
Blitz puffs out a shuddering breath and cups Stolas's heart-shaped face, peering fervently into his eyes. He has to drill this sentiment into his prince’s head: "If your mother were alive, she'd say to you, ‘At least I had you before dying. That means my life meant something.’"
Stolas's eyes well up. He opens his mouth, but cannot manage a word.
“Okay?”
Stolas closes his eyes and nods tearfully.
The tension between them trembles and calms. Blitz exhales slowly, watching how his breath ripples across the prince’s soft blue-gray feathers. Stolas sniffles and hoots softly, and warmth blossoms in the imp’s chest. He leans forward, and Blitz can feel his warm breath against his lips. Even crying, he’s unreal. Blitz looks down at him—eyes rimmed red, feathers ruffled, his eyes fluttering shut...
With a jolt, Blitz remembers that he has to stay on script: “Oh, damn! I just forgot!” He grabs Stolas’s hand and sits him down on a large rock. “I have to check up on Octavia!”
“So suddenly?” Stolas pouts, trying to rise. “Can’t I come—”
“No, no, no.” Blitz gently pushes him to sit. “Stay. It’s gonna rain. I’ll be right back.”
Stolas smiles, brushing his hand over Blitz’s forehead. “Alright, dearest. I trust you.”
Blitz swallows hard and nods. He jogs down the hill, only to find Marquis Andrealphus sauntering toward them.
“Wish me luck,” the marquis chuckles as he passes.
“Break a leg,” Blitz growls, meaning every word.
In spite of himself, instead of heading off, Blitz ducks behind a tree and watches them.
"Oh, Stolas, dear! What a coincidence…!"
Stolas frowns at the marquis’s approach and edges toward his flowerpots, ignoring him. Andrealphus kicks the wagon aside. His voice rises—abrasive, entitled—as he chatters and corners him.
His hand runs along Stolas’s arm. The prince shrugs it off.
Then—the audacity—he pats Stolas’s ass.
The slap echoes. Stolas knocks his hand away and stumbles back.
Blitz’s claws dig into the bark, tearing long strips as his chest heaves. His pupils shrink to slits. The tree groans under the pressure of his fury.
Andrealphus glances up—and sees him.
Maintaining eye contact with the imp, the marquis leans in…
…and presses a kiss to Stolas’s temple.
Blitz’s spines flare. He turns away before he can witness more.
His feet drag against the dirt, heels digging into the earth.
Right back on script.
Fucking great.
Blitz wants to kill someone. Something.
Every day, the marquis finds a new excuse to slither into Stolas’s life. And every day, Blitz is forced to witness it. To endure it.
Like now.
He trails behind them up a hillside blanketed in wild poppies. Stolas moves quietly ahead in a white jacket traced with golden spirals and an inverted Luciferian cross. The prince almost looks like himself again. Almost.
Meanwhile, Marquis Andrealphus wears one of his ridiculous blue-and-white monstrosities—somewhere between a ballroom gown and a swan costume that lost a fight with a bedazzler.
Blitz lugs a box behind him. It's filled with every absurd math tool known to demonkind: compasses, yardsticks, protractors, scrolls of parchment, whatever. Blitz could lift ten of these boxes if he wanted. Instead, he lets it gouge the earth behind him, inch by inch, like a tiny act of defiance.
I'm in fucking agony. I should’ve never agreed to this job.
“Hey, imp.” Andrealphus peers over his shoulder. “Did you get everything?”
“Yes, my Lord,” Blitz mutters. “The rulers, the compass, the protractors, the set squares. Even the goddamn scrolls.”
The marquis sniffs. “And my stationery?”
“Your what?”
Andrealphus throws his head back in exaggerated laughter. “‘What?’ he says! And what good are the tools if we’ve nothing to write with? Go now.” He flutters a hand like he’s swatting a fly. “I left the box in Octavia’s room.”
Blitz scoffs and looks at Stolas for direction. He doesn't like what he sees (which is a first).
Those pretty eyes are blank and lifeless. He slips on rhinestone gloves over his dainty hands like armor.
“Go ahead, Blitz,” he murmurs.
Not Blitzy. Not his darling Blitzy.
Just Blitz.
The imp scowls. But then—
Andrealphus slides his hands around Stolas’s waist with a possessive, mocking ease. “Don’t hurry back.”
Panicked, Blitz drops all of the supplies and dashes down the dirt path. He has no time to waste.
He doesn’t waste time with gates.
Scaling the palace walls, he kicks open the balcony doors to Stolas’s chamber. Octavia’s nursery is just beyond. Blitz barrels inside—and freezes.
Shhh. The baby is asleep.
He tiptoes through the room, eyeing the curled-up owlet in her nest of blankets. There—on the desk—sits a hideous white box stamped with the marquis’s sigil. He snatches it—
—and pens spill across the carpet.
Blitz’s body goes rigid. He curses silently, scrambling to gather the fallen pens. But the lid slips—
“Shit, shit, fuck!” The box crashes to the floor with a clatter like a thunderclap.
Octavia jolts upright mid-hoot and lets out a sharp, indignant wail.
“Fuck! Sorry, sweetie—!”
She glares at him with big watery eyes before launching into a full-on scream. A hellhound guard pokes his head in, eyebrow raised.
Blitz groans and scoops her into his arms. “I know, I know—I’m the worst. Just—just give me a second, okay?”
She snaps at him—not quite a bite, but definitely a nip of protest. She’s been cranky for days now, and Blitz knows why. She’s too young to name it, but she feels it: the shifts in mood, the unwanted presence, the marquis who doesn’t belong.
Blitz bounces her lightly in his arms, trying to hush her.
But his eyes flick to the clock.
Too long.
He’s been gone too long.
He left Stolas alone. With him.
His chest tightens. His grip on Octavia steadies.
He has to go back. Now.
“Your Highness!”
Blitz barrels across the field, stupid pens and pencils clenched in both fists.
Shit, shit, shit—where the fuck are they?!
“My Lord!” he shouts, voice breaking on the wind. His whole body shakes—adrenaline? Fear? He can’t tell. His breath stutters as panic rises in his throat. If he touches that stupid owl—if he so much as breathes wrong—
No reply.
“Your Highness!” he calls again, whipping his head around, crashing through trees. His pulse is thunder. His mouth is dry. "Stolas!"
He hears a noise behind a tree, and he immediately follows it. He stumbles into the clearing and freezes.
His blood turns to fire.
That fucking peacock has his hands all over Stolas.
Andrealphus’s mouth is latched to the prince’s in a grotesque, open-mouthed kiss. He’s rocking him gently in his lap, squeezing his hips, fingers digging into soft flesh. Stolas tilts his head back and lets him—lets him shove his tongue down his throat, lets him press those clawed fingers lower. His arms are looped loosely over the marquis’s shoulders, and a soft sigh escapes his throat as he straddles him.
Blitz’s heart ruptures.
He should look away. He should stop staring. But Stolas—Stolas is breathtaking. Flushed, wide-eyed, feathers mussed from the wind, from the marquis’s greedy hands. It’s disgusting. It’s unbearable. And yet, he’s never looked more like something divine—like a painting you’d want to tear from the wall and keep for yourself.
“Stolas…?”
The prince’s eyes snap open. He tears away from the marquis like he’s been burned, stumbling upright, feathers flared and eyes wide—white pinpricks of panic locked onto Blitz.
He looks like he’s drowning.
“Blitz…”
But it’s too late.
Blitz dumps the supplies to the ground—pens spilling, rulers clattering, scrolls unfurling—and turns on his heel.
He doesn’t run. He storms.
The palace doors rattle on their hinges as he kicks them open.
“Hey! Servants can’t use the front—” an imp calls out from the floor, halfway through scrubbing.
Blitz kicks the pail, sending a tidal wave of water and soap crashing across the tile. The imp shrieks. Blitz doesn’t look back.
He thunders up the steps, ripping off the stupid black point-toe pumps mid-sprint and hurling them at one of Stolas’s ghastly portraits. The frame cracks. Good.
His body aches with something between rage and grief.
He crashes through Stolas’s bedroom doors.
The scent of him is immediate—floral, clean, royal. Familiar. Addictive.
Blitz dives onto the bed, yanks the covers over his face, and breathes in deep.
Stolas’s scent clings to the sheets like a ghost—velvet and ozone, feather-oil and magic. Blitz rubs his face into the pillows, lets the smell set his veins alight. Let it drown him. Let it suffocate him.
He rolls onto his side and curls in on himself. His chest aches. His stomach coils.
And worst of all, he feels a traitorous burn between his legs that won't likely go away on its own.
Fuckin' hell... can't believe I had to see that shit.
Stolas is beautiful. And seeing him like that…
Sighing softly, so pliant in Andrealphus’s lap, with that dazed, vulnerable look on his face…
Blitz lets out a frustrated groan and slams his head against the bed that he's not supposed to be in.
And why is he so upset, when everything's going according to plan?
His eyes are wet.
Fuck this.
He roughly grabs his crotch, squeezing through his tight pants as he imagines the scene playing out differently — it's his lips on Stolas's, his hands roaming his slender waist. Stolas would... well, he would like it. Blitz isn't stupid. He knows. Stolas won't stop looking at Blitz, always smiling and flushing pink and getting in his personal space...
It's his fault. All his fucking fault...
With shaking hands, he unzips his fly, freeing his erection. Blitz strokes himself roughly, gasping, picturing Stolas beneath him. His pretty face, his warm voice. He hates it. He hates it so much.
Fuck that bird-stealing feather duster of a marquis... he grunts, thrusting into his fist. Andrealphus most definitely sucks terribly in bed. He has no way of knowing how Stolas needs to have his tight little holes ruined for anyone else. I’d fuck him so full, he’d be dripping for days—he’d let me, he wants me, I know he does. Sweet, pretty little bitch, I could satisfy him, I could make him... Blitz grits his teeth, chasing his release with desperate need. Drool trickles down his chin as he pants heavily, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing obscenely.
He makes a wet, pained sound. "Stolas, Stolas...," he moans. Amidst the pleasure, he can't shake his self-hatred away; it all feels far too bitter to enjoy the imagined, honeyed gasps from Stolas's beak. With each stroke, his head echos what he knows: I'm the worst. I'm the worst. I don't deserve him.
With a strangled groan, Blitz reaches his peak, spurting thick ropes of cum all over his hand, some dribbling down his fingers and hitting Stolas's bedspread. His hips jerk erratically as he rides out the intense waves of pleasure. He's too lost to care about the mess; he milks every last drop from his twitching cock, imagining it painting Stolas's pretty white feathers, trying to imagine how Stolas would sound as he cums.
"Ohhh fuuuck, Stolas!" he sobs breathlessly, his entire body trembling. "Stolas, Stolas, Stolas..."
As the high starts to fade, though, bitter reality crashes back in. Blitz slumps against the bed with a whine, spent but still achingly hard inside.
Everything hurts. He lets out a sob.
Okay what the fuck was that.
Blitz wants to slap himself.
He does, and a tear runs down his face. But it's still not hard enough, so he hits himself again. He feels so disgusted with himself, he could cry again. And he almost does.
Why did he fucking do that?!
He rubs his eyes frantically to stave off any tears. He wipes his hand on the sheets.
This is Stolas's bed. He should clean it. He should care about the mess.
He doesn't.
Whirling off the bed, he quickly tucks himself back into his pants and scurries away. He feels like a diseased little rat and it twists in his gut. He's about to leave the room when his eyes land on the desk.
On a book.
A very specific book.
Whatever Blitz was thinking before was gone. He bolts toward it.
No fucking way.
It’s just… sitting there.
He reaches out—slowly, reverently—and brushes his fingertips over the gilded sigil on the front.
“STOLAS,” it reads, embossed in gold.
The grimoire.
Blitz’s breath catches. His hands tremble.
He flips it open. He can’t read most of it—yet—but that doesn’t matter.
He jumps from shame to enlightenment in a heartbeat, and he hangs onto the hope like it's all he has.
This could save his business.
This could save his family.
This could change everything.
But as the weight of the book settles in his palms, so does the weight of something else.
He stares down at the shimmering pages, his expression focused. His knuckles whiten; the only problem is that Blitz has no idea what he’s doing.
Not with the grimoire, and definitely not with Stolas.
Notes:
Lots of smut next chapter. I hope you're ready. ;)
Chapter 6: Eyes on the Prize
Summary:
Blitz is not good at self control.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Stolas won’t come home until late tonight.
He has a reading performance for the citizens of Wrath.
He’ll sit alone at the center of the library’s grand stage—composed, majestic, terrifying. Regal garb will drape from his shoulders, the silks dyed in deep reds and oranges, gold threads coiled like serpents. The garments will cast long shadows across the marble floor, conjuring the ghost of his father behind every movement.
Wrath’s nobles and highborn sycophants will watch with breathless anticipation as madness cracks the air like a whip. They’ll delight—quietly, grotesquely—as black blood spatters the ancient floors. Words, once sacred, will rot in the prince’s mouth and burn holes in the world around him.
Andrealphus will sit in the front row.
He’ll watch in rapture.
He wants to see it—to see Stolas unravel just enough to taste the hidden violence humming in his bones. The prince’s repressed power will pulse, flickering through the hall like a dying star.
And Blitz?
Blitz won’t be invited.
He never is. He doesn’t belong here.
The night grows darker. Stolas should be in bed by now. Blitz hadn’t bothered to check.
[...Hellow Mille-Billy—how are you lovebirds doing? Everyone's bong here. Amiss you guys. We shud go to Lust and buy some toys for Mox. It will be fun… You should come visit me…]
Blitz scribbles nonsense letters in the dead of night. The grimoire has driven him half-mad. He needs to keep his hands busy, to distract himself from the nightmares that had sent him staggering away and dropping the book back onto Stolas’s desk:
Imps had swarmed him from the stands, hurling rot and insults as he stumbled off stage. Pain bloomed in his cheek where rocks struck him. He fled long before the curtain call. The only good thing about that night was getting out before the audience demanded a refund.
His poster had proudly advertised his work with child prodigies Fizzarolli and Barbie Wire—probably the only reason anyone had bothered to show up at all.
Who the fuck rides the coattails of his dead sister?
[...The prince is super anoying and a big nerd. Moxxie would LOVE him. They are so alike. They talk on and on and on for hours. You better keep an eye on your mans, Mills…]
What the fuck is wrong with me?
[...I’m kidding also. I know you two are super married. We need the money to get a big wedding for all your fam to cum to...]
His pen punctures the paper and digs into the wood beneath his bedsheets. He desperately wants to help Moxxie and Millie with their wedding. They’d been dreaming about a fancy ceremony for months. Blitz even made Moxxie write up a budget.
But as Blitz always says, “Everything good costs money,” and they just didn’t have enough to make it happen. The couple had agreed to tone it down—but Blitz wouldn’t let it go.
“We’re in love,” Millie had told him—as if he needed the reminder. “We don’t need that fancy a ceremony, B.”
“Yeah, but you guys need the money—”
“We don’t need money. We only need each other.”
And just to prove the point, Moxxie and Millie melted into each other’s arms and started making out right in front of him.
“Ew,” he muttered, heart fluttering.
[...How do you do it, Mills…? I tried being alone, but I couldn’t take it…]
Another memory slithers into his mind—lying alone in a cold, empty apartment, popping too many pills with one hand, the other down his pants, waiting for the high to kick in. Because what else was there?
Without Loony or the rest of his so-called family, there had been no one to live for—nothing to look forward to.
[...How do you trust that kind of happiness? I can’t help but push away anyone who gets too close…]
He remembers all the times he fucked randos—behind dumpsters, in shitty apartments, in strangers’ homes—leaving behind a trail of condoms and borrowed clothing before dashing off with a wallet or a key to their safe. He’d wipe the sweat and cum onto his leg and start counting cash.
One time, the guy only had twenty bucks, and Blitz had topped for four whole hours. He was exhausted. Sometimes life just gave you the short end of the stick.
And who was he to judge?
[...Who could even love me…?]
A sudden thump echoes from Stolas’s room. Blitz’s pen freezes mid-stroke.
Stolas had been trying to help him with penmanship again. Blitz never got far in school—there wasn’t money to keep him enrolled, and no one was paying him to give a damn.
Lately, he wasn’t improving. Maybe he was just stupid.
But Stolas didn’t think so.
“A good night’s rest improves memory consolidation,” he’d said gently. “Have you been sleeping well?”
“Consolida-fucking what?”
“Consolidation, Blitzy.”
Blitz bristled at the tone—too soft, too careful, like a parent trying not to spook a wild animal.
“I know that,” he snapped, glaring at the workbook in front of him.
He did know. Too well.
But he didn’t want to remember.
He needed to forget.
He rips up the letter in his lap just as Stolas’s call bell rings. Probably another nightmare.
Ring.
He just needs to get the book. Steal the rubies. The sapphires. Anything of value.
Then take his family far, far away.
Ring. Ring.
He needs to help Millie and Moxxie finally have their dream wedding.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
He needs to take Loona somewhere safe. Somewhere where stealing won’t get her executed.
RingRingRingRingRing.
He needs to stop thinking about Stolas.
Something snaps.
The bell’s string frays and breaks with a sharp twang. The little silver dome wobbles, then clatters to the floor.
Blitz exhales slowly.
Then, without a word, he leaves the cupboard and heads for Stolas’s room.
The hallway is quiet, save for the soft flicker of candlelight licking the walls. Blitz’s steps slow as he nears the door. It's cracked open slightly, just enough for sound to leak out.
He hears the rustle of bedsheets, the choked whimper of someone twisting in place. Stolas.
Blitz pushes the door open the rest of the way, and darkness greets him—soft and heavy. The curtains are drawn. Only the faint glow of the meadow outside spills in, casting everything in violet shadow.
Stolas lies sprawled across the mattress, chest rising and falling too quickly, his robe clinging to his sweat-slicked feathers. He’s curled in on himself, knees drawn slightly toward his chest, hands clenched in the sheets. His feathers are mussed, his face tearstained, his beak parted in a quiet, breathless gasp. Every part of him trembles.
And Blitz freezes in the doorway.
He feels it immediately—that pull. That deep, awful ache that settles in the pit of his stomach and coils low.
Stolas looks so scared. So small. So real.
Not like a prince. Not like the terrifying arcane noble that could burn cities with a whisper.
No—like this, he’s touchable. Devastatingly touchable.
"I called you. I've been calling you," Stolas whispers, hurt in his eyes. He sits up, and his robe slides down his shoulders. "Did you not hear me?"
Blitz swallows hard, jaw tight, pulse thudding in his ears.
And he hates it. Hates how badly he wants to cross the room, kiss away the sweat on his brow, press himself into that trembling warmth and let instinct take him over.
But he walks forward anyway. Slowly. Eyes never leaving the pretty owl on the bed.
The prince's eyes are glassy, dazed, and when they find Blitz, they light up in recognition. He reaches toward him like a child reaching for comfort in a nightmare.“Blitzy… I-I can’t sleep.”
Blitz breathes in sharply.
His resolve is already breaking.
Without a word, Blitz crawls into bed beside him. “Okay.”
Stolas immediately clutches his shoulders and pulls him close, dragging him on top with shaking hands.“Please help me.”
Blitz's eye twitches. He grabs Stolas's robe and yanks it off. Stolas gasps but makes no move to cover himself. His eyes glint in the dark, and his head ducks shyly.
“Okay,” Blitz murmurs again, quieter this time.
The prince’s body is so soft, so warm. Blitz drags his claws gently down his sides, earning a sigh that melts into a shiver. Stolas parts his legs with aching ease, arching into the space between them with a soft whimper. Blitz brushes back the downy feathers, fingers finding the slick heat of his folds, teasing along the entrance with maddening care.
"Mphhh, what are we doing?" Stolas moans, his head tilted back.
Blitz can't resist.
Because the lonely prince deserves something good. Something real.
Because fuck the script.
Blitz pushes his fingers in, slowly at first, sinking into velveteen heat. Stolas moans, head falling back against the pillow, every breath a gasp. He rocks into the motion eagerly, grinding down with shameful, desperate rhythm. Blitz feels him clench and twitch around his fingers, each thrust wet and obscene, and the heat rising in his belly turns to wildfire.
“A-ah!” Stolas cries out, voice cracking with every buck of his hips. “Oh, fuck!”
It’s like he’s been waiting all night to be touched. Waiting all his life.
He comes far too fast—back arched, feathers trembling, voice a keening sob that echoes off the walls. Blitz doesn't stop until the trembling stills, until all that's left is a broken breath and a soft, gasping “thank you.”
Then Stolas leans up, presses a tender kiss to Blitz’s cheek.
Because of course he has to be sweet about it.
They lay there in the quiet.
Stolas’s breath steadies. The prince melts into the mattress, his body glowing with aftershocks. And as silence creeps back in, Blitz’s clarity does too. The moment sharpens.
He shifts, about to slip away.
But Stolas wraps his arms around him tightly, murmuring into the curve of his neck:
"Won’t you stay? I’m not feeling well.”
Blitz hesitates. He turns, meets Stolas’s solemn gaze in the dim light.
“Why?” he rasps, throat thick.
Stolas sighs and reaches for his wrist, fingers curling around it delicately.
“He proposed to me.”
Blitz’s claws dig into the blankets. No fucking way. So soon?
“What…did you say?”
“I… I told him I’d think about it.” Stolas traces absent patterns along Blitz’s forearm, talons brushing pale skin. “I suppose I’ll have to marry him. I need to think about what’s best for Octavia.”
Something ugly flares in Blitz’s chest. He wants to scream. Or bolt. Or punch a wall. Or maybe just press himself into this stupid, broken bird until neither of them can think.
“Still…” Stolas’s voice goes soft. “I’m uncomfortable with the things he keeps alluding to. Bedroom expectations. I know that’s supposed to be part of a relationship, but I… I worry it’ll be like before.”
“The same as…?”
Red eyes blink up at him, wide and glistening in the dim light.
“My late wife… she had to do everything.” He lowers his voice, shame thick in his throat. “I don’t know why I couldn’t do it. Rumor has it that making love to me feels like… intercourse with a corpse.”
Then, quietly—too quietly—he nuzzles Blitz’s neck, breath warm against his skin.
“But with you… oh, darling, it feels so different.”
A moan slips from him, unbidden and delicate, and Blitz’s body tenses as Stolas starts nibbling gently along his collarbone.
“Blitzy… will you touch me again?” His voice trembles with eagerness. “It’s so exciting when you do it.” A grin crosses his pretty face—mischievous. "In fact, we should do this all the time... I think it's only fair..."
Blitz knows this is a bad idea.
He knows this is a terrible idea.
But his heart is hammering in his chest, and all his better judgment is sinking into the mattress along with his restraint. Fuck.
“How do you want it?” he murmurs, already knowing the answer.
Stolas stammers, clearly unprepared to be handed the reins.
“I… uh… well, whatever you’d prefer?”
“You’re asking me for a favor,” Blitz says flatly, “not the other way around.”
Stolas blushes—blushes like Blitz hadn’t just had his fingers inside him a moment ago.
“I suppose… I want a kiss?”
Blitz exhales sharply through his nose and reaches past him, tugging open the bedside drawer.
Whatever.
It’s just sex.
He can give the prince his kiss, get him off again, ease those fears for the night (it's the least he can do, really)—
—and that’ll be all.
From the top drawer, Blitz pulls out a lollipop—glossy and deep red like the heart of a cherry. He unwraps it lazily, then drags his tongue along the length with a slow, deliberate swirl.
Stolas stares, mesmerized.
Blitz runs the candy across his lips, letting it glisten with spit, sucking it back into his mouth before pulling it out again—his eyes locked on the prince the entire time. Every wet click of his tongue is maddeningly slow, indulgent, obscene.
Then, without a word, he presses the candy to Stolas’s beak.
The prince opens for him immediately, breath catching. His beak parts in a soft sigh, and Blitz slides the lollipop into his mouth. Stolas sucks tentatively at first, letting the sweetness spread across his tongue, but soon he’s moving with it—forward, back, in and out—his legs twitching with every slow thrust of candy.
"Mmm, mmm," Stolas moans along the stick, their eyes locked intensely.
Blitz groans internally, his own cock rock hard and straining against his zipper. He strokes along Stolas's upper thigh and gently withdraws the lollipop, letting a thick strand of saliva stretch between them before snapping. He watches Stolas’s dazed expression for a beat, then places the candy back in the drawer without breaking eye contact.
Then—he leans in.
Their faces are close now. Breath mingling. Stolas’s lashes flutter. Blitz pauses, hovering just a second longer to feel the heat between them…
…and kisses him.
It’s slow. Too slow. His lips press to Stolas’s with maddening softness, barely a brush, then more, then deeper—sinking into warmth. Stolas hoots faintly into his mouth, his feathers shivering under the weight of the moment, his heart fluttering wildly in his chest.
Blitz pulls back for a breath—but Stolas is already reaching for him, dragging him in again with trembling hands. The next kiss is messier. Greedier. His tongue slides into Blitz’s mouth, desperate and seeking, and Blitz meets him there with a growl low in his throat. Their mouths crash and melt, tongues tangled, wet and breathless.
Stolas gasps between kisses. “I want—I want—” he stammers helplessly, his voice trembling against Blitz’s lips.
Blitz doesn’t answer. He just grabs the prince’s waist and pulls him in, sliding a hand to the small of his back until their hips grind flush.
Stolas lets out a shaky whimper, his claws digging into Blitz’s arms. He’s melting—unraveling—beneath the weight of the kiss, the touch, the warmth.
And Blitz can’t stop.
He doesn’t want to.
This is what addiction feels like.
“I want it to be you who holds me.”
Blitz doesn’t answer—not with words. He just clutches the prince tighter, pressing a trail of kisses down his plush, trembling chest. His hands roam with practiced ease, stroking along shaking thighs, soothing and teasing in equal measure.
He ducks lower, nudging between Stolas’s legs. The heat there is overwhelming, and Blitz doesn’t hesitate. He drags his tongue along the prince’s entrance—slow, firm, deliberate.
Stolas chokes out a moan, arching off the bed like his body can’t contain the feeling. Blitz laps at him again, again, groaning low at the taste, at the way Stolas flutters and clenches beneath every stroke.
“I want to be tied up!” Stolas gasps suddenly, eyes wild.
Blitz pauses—then grins. A sharp, wicked thing.
“Yeah?” he growls.
He reaches under the bed, tail curling around a familiar box. Rope. Stolas swallows thickly as Blitz rises and grabs his wrists—not rough, but with purpose—and binds them tightly above his head to the bedpost.
The prince goes quiet. Breathless.
He lies there beautifully wrecked—arms stretched, legs splayed across the sheets. His flushed chest rises and falls, his feathers damp with sweat, his eyes blown wide with need.
And that face—that fucking face—blushy, needy, too pretty for his own good—drives Blitz to the edge.
“I need you inside me,” Stolas whimpers, voice breaking. "Right now."
So demanding.
So goddamn perfect like this.
Blitz’s eyes darken. He crawls over him slowly, hungrily, his mouth hovering just above the prince’s.
“You really want to be mine that bad?”
Stolas nods, biting his lip. A mess of feathers and heat and desperation.
And Blitz—Blitz is ready to give him everything.
Withdrawing his slick fingers, Blitz makes quick work of shucking off his pants and underwear. His thick, veiny shaft springs free, flushed an angry red and leaking copiously.
Stolas’s eyes go wide.
He stares—gasps—completely awed.
His gaze drops to Blitz’s cock, and he lets out a needy little whimper, legs twitching with anticipation. The ache in his entrance intensifies.
“I’m going to lose my mind if you don’t fuck my brains out right now,” he moans, half-wailing.
Blitz lets out a shaky laugh, voice thick with arousal. He kneels between Stolas’s shaking legs, slick fingers guiding himself to the prince’s entrance. Gripping Stolas's hips bruisingly, he notches the broad head of his cock against his entrance. "You want this bad, don't you, dirty bird?"
Stolas holds his breath, bracing against the ropes, eyes locked on Blitz with flushed cheeks. He nods.
Blitz has half a mind to remember that Stolas hasn't really done something like this before. So he pushes in—carefully, slowly.
Stolas gasps. His entire body tenses.
“...Ow,” he mutters.
Blitz freezes, his forehead glistening with sweat, muscles trembling from restraint. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh
“You okay?” he asks, breath catching.
“Y-Yes, darling. It’s just—” Stolas shifts, trying to adjust, and hisses softly. “You’re so… big.”
Then, suddenly, he starts giggling. Giddy. Adoring.
Blitz’s cheeks flush crimson. He averts his gaze, somewhere between smug and mortified.
“Do you want me to pull out?”
“Oh hells no, Blitzy.” Stolas ducks his head into Blitz's shoulder, breathing into his neck. “Just… go slow, okay?” He smiles shyly. “I’ve never done this before.”
That hits Blitz like a punch to the chest.
He steadies himself with a breath, hands gentle at Stolas’s hips.
“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” he says softly, voice dropping into something gentle.
Stolas’s lashes flutter. His gaze softens like dusk. “I know.”
And just like that—Blitz leans down and kisses him again.
Somewhere in the tangle of lust and ropes and laughter and aching softness…
This feels like more than a favor.
Blitz trembles with the effort of keeping a snail’s pace, nails biting into Stolas’s hips as those slick, pulsing muscles squeeze around him. His gaze stays fixed on the prince’s face—watching it shift from cautious interest… to pleasure… to open, unguarded rapture.
It’s beautiful.
It’s devastating.
He starts to move faster.
Stolas moans—loud, raw, unashamed—and Blitz gasps, hips jolting as the prince’s folds tighten greedily around him. Every thrust earns another broken gasp, another twitch of those delicate thighs. The prince’s white pupils flare with unrestrained bliss, his beak parting to scream for more.
“I need you to be so deep within me,” Stolas pleads breathlessly, “that you’ll never be able to wash yourself out of me!”
Blitz’s mind goes blank.
Fuck.
He can’t help himself.
Like the no-good thief he is, he drinks in the sight—Stolas’s flushed chest, his glassy eyes, his trembling legs—and takes. Takes everything.
“Oh!” Stolas sobs, his body thrashing as the imp grabs his thighs and fucks up into him, relentless now. “Blitzy—oh fuck—please!”
His talons dig into the sheets, searching for balance, for something solid. Blitz’s tail curls tight around his, binding them together in a silent promise of you’re mine.
Stolas cries out again, voice high and keening.
Blitz snarls and thrusts harder, drunk on the sound, on the scent, on the way Stolas moans his name like it’s holy. The prince clings onto the rope binding him, holding on for dear life as Blitz pounds into him.
He’s close. So close—Blitz can feel it.
“Ah—ahhh—ahn! Blitzy, oh hells, that feels so wonderful—”
“Fuck,” Blitz hisses, white heat flaring behind his eyes. The prince’s body clenches like a vice, dragging him deeper. He buries his face in Stolas’s damp feathers and sets a brutal pace, heart hammering as the prince begins to convulse and wail—tipping right over the edge—
—And Blitz shoves him straight through it.
Stolas screams his name as he comes, body trembling, tears spilling from his eyes as his pupils explode into white, fixed on the stars above.
Blitz has never seen anything so beautiful.
The sight—and the scent—of Stolas’s release pushes him over the edge. He groans deep in his throat and spills inside him, held tight by warmth and softness and that beautiful, gasping cry.
“Ohhh—hh—so good,” Stolas pants, collapsing back into the sheets, sweat glistening across his heaving, fluffy chest.
Blitz exhales shakily and pulls out, dazed, falling onto his side like the breath’s been knocked out of him.
He has all of three seconds to recover before Stolas scoots forward and catches him in another kiss—slow and lingering. The prince cups his cheek with one hand, humming softly into his mouth like he never wants to let go.
“You see what good comes from wanting?” he murmurs, eyes misty. “I want so much of you, Blitzy… I’ll never have enough.”
And damn—why does that almost move him to tears?
Blitz clears his throat roughly.
“What’s the fuss about?” he scoffs. “If you want another round, quit talking like a tragic romance novel and just say it.”
Stolas’s eyes widen—stunned, like Blitz had just handed him the entire world.
The imp’s face goes red.
“Well?” he mutters, pretending not to notice.
Blitz loathes royalty. There's no doubt about that.
He hates everything they represent— the gaudiness, the apathy, and abject cruelty they subject the rest of the world to.
He fucking despises the heartless, pretentious bluebloods who murdered his family. So when Marquis Andrealphus hired him to help seduce and betray his late sister’s widower, Blitz had jumped at the chance.
The plan was to steal Prince Stolas’s priceless jewels, lavish garments, and—most importantly—the ancient Grimoire. Bleed the noble bastard dry.
But nowhere in their little agreement did the Marquis mention that Prince Stolas would be so...
Fuck.
How was Blitz supposed to know?
Blitz tears of Stolas's restraints and scoops him into his lap, clinging to his softness and immediately fucking into him. Blitz can feel Stolas drooling into his shoulder, gasps and moans leaking from his jaw.
The prince's mind goes blank, consumed entirely by the overwhelming sensations coursing through his body. Each brutal thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure-pain radiating outward from his core, leaving him gasping and writhing in Blitz's lap.
As their mouths clash in a heated, dominating kiss, Stolas surrenders to the onslaught, his own hips rising to meet each punishing stroke. He clings to Blitz, nails digging into his back as he loses herself to the primal rhythm of their coupling. Tears continue to flow unchecked down his cheeks. There's a strange, exhilarating sense of freedom in giving himself over so completely, in submitting to Blitz's mastery. Stolas's inner world narrows to the pulsing heat of his cock, the coarse rasp of his horns against his cheek, the raw power of his movements claiming his body so utterly.
Blitz's thighs slap heavily against Stolas's ass with every savage thrust, the lewd sound mixing with his ragged breathing and the creak of the bed beneath them. Sweat beads on his brow, dripping down to mingle with the tears streaking Stolas's face.
Blitz gets rough—deliciously rough. Goddamn, you're such a tight little slut... Squeezing my cock so good,
Blitz growls against his feathers, nipping at him.
Stolas gasps at the bite, mind going blank.
Blitz's fingers dig into the soft flesh of Stolas's thighs, holding him in place as he pistons into him with wild abandon.The headboard scrapes against the wall as Blitz rocks back, then slams forward again, driving Stolas down onto his lap. Fuck, I'm close... Gonna fill this royal cunt with my cum,
he snarls, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his release.
Stolas's vision blurs, his entire existence narrowing to the relentless pounding of Blitz's cock and the coiling tension building within him. Every nerve ending is alight, singing with pleasure as he claims his most intimate depths. Yes, yes, please... Fill me!
Stolas begs shamelessly, his voice hoarse from screaming. He's never felt so alive, so utterly consumed by desire. The thought of Blitz's hot seed flooding his body only heightens his arousal. As Blitz's thrusts become increasingly frantic, Stolas meets each stroke with equal fervor, his hips undulating to draw him deeper. He can feel the telltale tingling at the base of his spine, signaling his impending climax. Oh hells, I'm going to... Ahhh!
With a guttural roar, Blitz buries himself to the hilt inside Stolas's spasming sheath as his orgasm crashes over him. Thick ropes of hot cum paint Stolas's insides, each pulse sending aftershocks rippling through his twitching cock. Fuuuuck, take it all, you filthy little cumslut!
Blitz bellows, his voice raw with pleasure. He holds Stolas down firmly, grinding his pelvis against the prince's as he empties every last drop into his receptive body. The intensity of his release seems to trigger Stolas's own climax, his thin frame shaking violently as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over him. Stolas's inner muscles clamp down on Blitz's still-spurting cock, milking him for every precious drop. As the final tremors subside, Blitz collapses back in the bed, panting heavily.
Stolas whimpers, still impaled on his twitching cock. He tries to get up, looking exhausted. It's obvious from the flush in his face that he's not used to having so many orgasms at once.
Blitz smirks. Aw, what's wrong princess? Already tuckered out?
he teases, giving a slow grind of his hips that makes Stolas gasp. We're just getting started though.
Blitz stands abruptly, keeping Stolas speared on his shaft as he pulls him off the bed—rearranging them. By the time I'm done, you won't remember your own name— only mine.
Stolas's whine is his only response.
The prince must have come eight, maybe ten more times before his body finally gives out—shuddering, glowing, utterly wrecked. Only then does he go still, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted in a soft, satisfied sigh.
Blitz lies curled up on the other side of the bed, comfortably distant. Just close enough to be polite. Just far enough to breathe.
He’s used to this part. The aftermath. The too-warm sheets, the lingering smell of sweat and sex.
But then Stolas lets out a little sigh. Even in his blissful exhaustion he reaches out, and makes sure that the blanket is covering Blitz's body. Blitz's heart seizes in his throat.
"Goodnight, Blitz."
He knows if he stays in Stolas's open arms, he'll be done for. So he stays rigid and does not go anywhere.
"Night."
Notes:
Follow me @barnowlhowl.bsky.social if you want <3
Chapter 7: Chilling Glare
Summary:
Blitz makes the marquis mad.
M&M pay him a visit.
Chapter Text
Blitz grinds his teeth and glares at the crumpled sketchpad in front of him. He tries to focus on his half-finished doodles of Moxxie, Millie, and Loona, but his hand trembles with barely suppressed rage. Andrealphus is here again, oozing his way into the office like a plague in satin.
Remember who you're doing this job for, Blitz reminds himself. Moxxie. Millie. Loona. He erases a smudge on Moxxie's bowtie, only for the paper to tear under the pressure. His jaw tightens.
Octavia is safely curled up in the corner of Stolas’s office, dozing with a blanket over her head. But Andrealphus—**fucking Andrealphus**—is hovering much too close to the prince, draping himself in feigned professionalism.
Stolas, sweet idiot that he is, is sitting obediently at the desk, working through a page of geometry problems, brow furrowed with effort. He’s wearing little half-moon glasses that keep sliding down his beak, and his feathers are puffed in nervous focus. Blitz almost growls aloud—he looks like a damn baby bird trying to impress a vulture.
The marquis leans in under the guise of “tutoring,” letting his claws graze over Stolas’s back. The prince jolts.
“Andrealphus…” Stolas says gently, voice small. Too small.
Blitz’s tail lashes behind him like a whip. The air whistles from the speed. Andrealphus turns with a scowl. “Imp. Stop squirming. You’re distracting His Highness.”
Blitz doesn’t look up. He doesn’t trust himself to. He’s already breathing too hard. Moxxie. Millie. Loona. He draws angry little flames around Loona’s ears. He adds tears to Moxxie’s dumb baby face. Just keep drawing. Just keep—
“Wait…” Stolas whispers. Soft. Unsure. Almost apologetic.
The marquis only chuckles.
Moxxie. Millie. Loona. Moxxie. Millie. Loona. Moxx—
Then comes the sound of rustling. Scuffling. Stolas’s little talons drag against the tile. Andrealphus’s claws dig into his waist.
“Andrealphus, stop!” Stolas says again, louder now, panicked.
Something inside Blitz snaps.
He slams his hands on the table, knocking over his pencils, and explodes, “HE DOESN’T FUCKING LIKE IT, YOU SHITTY, CHICKEN-LEG-HAVING WHORE!”
Everything stops.
Stolas recoils, clutching his arms around himself like a frightened child. His feathers tremble. Andrealphus’s expression sharpens like a blade, and a sheet of frost creeps across the tile from under his feet.
The marquis stalks toward Blitz, tall and venomous. “Here,” he growls, flicking a coin toward him like a bribe. “Be a good little dog and run along.”
Blitz catches the coin mid-air, inspects it. Pure gold. Real. Priceless.
He turns toward the door—then stops.
He spins back around, tail flicking, stance loose but ready.
“You’re trying to fuck him, right?” Blitz says, voice casual but lethal. “Go ahead. I’m staying.”
Andrealphus stares. Offended. Confused.
Blitz flashes a grin. “Hope that won’t be a problem.”
“You *will* leave this office!” the peacock sputters, his feathers fluffing in outrage. “Immediately!”
Blitz tosses the coin back. It pings off Andrealphus’s ridiculous feathery shawl and clinks against the floor like a tiny declaration of war.
“My job,” Blitz says flatly, “is to look after Prince Stolas.”
A beat of silence.
And then—
A small, fragile smile curls at the edge of Stolas’s beak. His eyes are glassy. Shy. Grateful.
Marquis Andrealphus looks ready to spit fire. Er—ice.
And Blitz sure as hell doesn’t give a fuck.
“Your mail.”
Later that day, Blitz is stomping through the rose garden behind Stolas’s estate—grumbling about flower petals sticking to his boots—when an imp messenger scurries up and hands him a single envelope.
Blitz rips it open without stopping and starts reading, lips moving silently as he deciphers the spiky handwriting:
[...Dear Blitz,
I hope you are doing well and staying out of trouble. I’m thankful that His Highness has been teaching you to spell better. I didn’t expect him to be so courteous, but at least now I can finally understand the words that you write…]
Blitz snorts. “Shut the fuck up, Moxxie,” he mutters.
[...A new client asked us to murder a small gang of fallen angels. They’re called ‘CHERUB.’ You might remember them—they used to cross between Heaven and the living world. Got kicked out for doing their jobs badly…]
He rolls his eyes. Figures. Heaven-borns always get golden parachutes when they mess up. He and his crew? They got hellfire and student loan debt.
[...To make up for their mistakes, they’re gathering secret info on the rulers of Hell. The client says they’re stealing work from real reporters, so she wants them dead. One of them’s already been taken out. The last two will be spying on King Asmodeus during the upcoming Lust Ball. It’ll be hosted at King Paimon’s palace…]
Blitz frowns.
That’s right… Stolas has another damn performance coming up.
Which means—another trip to the library. Blitz hates that place. Every time Stolas comes back from there, he’s a fucking mess. Sometimes he cries, sometimes he vomits, sometimes he just stares in the mirror for hours like he’s waiting to see someone else in the reflection.
Blitz swears the library’s haunted. No one can convince him otherwise.
[...Millie and I will be attending the ball to stalk and kill the remaining CHERUB agents. We’re dropping Loona off in Wrath—Sallie Mae’s agreed to babysit. She’s the only one tough enough to handle your daughter. We’ll come visit you in a few days. Let us know if you need anything.
Sincerely,
M&M]
Blitz’s expression softens. His chest swells with pride at the mention of Loona—his vicious, precious hellhound.
Just the thought of reuniting with Moxxie and Millie for a good ol’ fashioned murder-spree fills him with manic glee. No Goetia drama. No opera house politics. Just blood, bullets, and banter.
Fuck yes!
He’s had enough of rich demons and their emotional maelstroms. Time to get back to what he’s best at: killing shit with the fam!
He turns to the last part of the letter.
[...P.S. Loona told me to send this drawing. She didn’t say please. She also bit me. Twice.]
Blitz lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “Attagirl, Loony!”
He flips to the second page and chokes on another laugh.
It’s a crude, blood-splattered drawing of Loona and Blitz blowing demons’ brains out. Moxxie’s decapitated head sits like a fuzzy little hat on Loona’s ears. He’s even smiling in it. Kind of.
Blitz’s heart melts. God, he loves his kid.
He kisses the corner of the drawing like a goofball, folds it up, and slides it carefully into the inside pocket of his jacket—nestled right next to the sapphire pendant.
And then Blitz just walks on, smiling like a lunatic, boots crunching flower petals underfoot.
Blitz is grinning ear to ear as he strolls past the servant quarters and heads back toward the main building. His jacket feels a little warmer with Loona’s drawing tucked inside, and for once, the sun doesn’t feel like a spotlight he needs to hide from.
But then he sees something...odd:
Half-toppled statues scattered across the pristine garden, lying awkwardly between patches of tulips and blood-pink roses. Their jagged positions break the springtime serenity like broken teeth in a smile.
Blitz frowns. That’s weird.
He steps off the dirt path and crouches next to one. It’s a stone imp—small, terrified, mouth frozen in a scream. Her eye is missing. Blitz raps his knuckles against her arm.
Hollow. Cold.
His brows knit. That’s not a statue. That’s... something. Someone. Someone who was once living.
This is same imp who lunged at Stolas in the meadow weeks ago. The one he tackled to the ground while Stolas was picking those pink-and-white flowers.
Blitz's spines raise. Something’s not right.
A long shadow spills over him.
“You.”
He doesn’t even have time to stand. A hand clamps around his throat and hoists him into the air. Ice floods his limbs before he can struggle, locking his body in place mid-snarl.
“Get your fucking hands off me!” Blitz growls, his spines rattling like warning bells.
Andrealphus is furious—his feathers puffed, his expression venomous. “I thought I’d found an imp useful enough to help me. But you’re just—stupid.”
Blitz sneers. “What, pissed Stolas won’t let you hit it?”
“That is the least of my concerns!” the marquis snaps, shaking him violently. “What will your companions think when you return empty-handed? When your daughter starves because you were too busy playing knight for a prince who thinks of you as dirt under his feet?!”
Blitz bares his teeth. “Shut the fuck up—!”
Andrealphus leans in, freezing cerulean eyes boring into his. “You’re a disgrace. A failure of an imp. Do you really think I can’t see what’s happening here?”
“The fuck are you talking about?” Blitz spits.
“You’re jealous.”
His blood turns to ice—not from the magic.
Blitz stiffens, heart slamming against his ribs.
No. No, no—how does he know?
Andrealphus watches his panic like a predator. “Oh, don’t be so coy,” he coos cruelly. “I know you wish to be with me."
What.
"And honestly, who could blame you? Stolas gets to have me, and yet—he throws it away. It must be so frustrating for you.” His feathers ripple in a self-satisfied preen.
Blitz rolls his eyes so hard he thinks he dislocates something.
“But your job isn’t to pine. It’s to make him marry me. Do you understand? Without him, I lose everything. If that child of his is taken permanently, I get nothing!”
“Ugh! You’re the one driving him off!” Blitz snarls. “You keep fucking touching him when he tells you not to! He has no one in his life, and you keep reminding him why!”
Andrealphus stiffens. “He is lucky I even tolerate him! You vile, drooling creep!”
The marquis flips Blitz upside down and slams him headfirst into the gravel. Ice cracks and splinters into his neck and shoulders. The world spins.
Blitz groans. “Fuck—!”
Andrealphus’s heel comes down hard on his cheek, grinding it into the dirt. “Or perhaps I should just tell Stolas what you really are. A thief. An assassin. Scum.”
“Do it,” Blitz growls, lips bloody. “And I’ll tell him you’re plotting to lock him in a madhouse and drain his fortune dry.”
The marquis inhales sharply through clenched teeth. Magic crackles from his palm, coating his fingers in frost. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
Blitz’s breath catches. “Wait—!”
“So do me one last favor and die falling backward.”
The ice around him tightens. Blitz arches in agony as pressure builds in his limbs, lungs collapsing under the cold, vision going white. His eyes bulge. His tongue flails against the roof of his mouth. He tries to scream, but nothing comes out—
Then—
Crack.
Everything stops.
The frost dissolves into harmless snowflakes.
Blitz hits the ground, coughing violently, spit trailing from his lips as he gasps in greedy, hoarse breaths. “Guh—!”
He lifts his head, blinking through tears—and freezes.
Andrealphus is standing stiffly, clutching one arm like it’s burning. But it isn’t burning.
It’s stone.
From elbow to fingertips, his once-baby-blue sleeve has calcified into lifeless marble. His expression is caught somewhere between pain and disbelief.
“You… you are one lucky imp,” he rasps.
Blitz stares, slack-jawed, blood running cold for a different reason now.
“The… the fuck…?” he breathes.
Andrealphus bares his teeth. “Leave. Or I’ll turn you into ice and melt your corpse into IMP’s drinking water.”
Blitz doesn’t wait for a second offer. He stumbles to his feet and bolts, adrenaline drowning out the pounding in his head.
Blitz returns to Stolas’s room to find the prince standing silently by Octavia’s door.
He’s still, almost reverent, watching through the cracked doorway as she shifts in her sleep. Her little feathers twitch when she murmurs, curling tighter into her nest of blankets.
A soft smile plays at the edge of Stolas’s beak. When he notices Blitz, the smile transforms—warm, familiar, and mischievous.
“Hello, my dear Blitzy,” he sings.
“Hey.” Blitz plops down on the bed with a grunt. “What’re you doing?”
Stolas closes the door with a gentle click and smooths out his red gown with graceful fingers. “Just watching darling Via nap the day away.”
He crosses the room and settles beside Blitz, knees touching. “Is it normal for a baby to sleep so much? She hardly wakes—unless it’s to eat or toddle to the bathroom.”
Blitz huffs a laugh. “Yeah, don’t worry. That just means she’s an easy kid.”
“Oh, what a relief,” Stolas sighs, hand to his chest. “Was your daughter the same?”
“Psh. No.” Blitz snorts. “She’d scream her head off if she knew you wanted her to nap. And she’d snarl in her sleep. Like, full-on werewolf noises. It was terrifying.”
Stolas giggles, muffling it behind his gloved fingers. “What a handful,” he coos.
Then he pauses. His eyes flick toward Blitz’s neck—and the glow in them dims.
He leans in, fingers brushing the bruised skin under Blitz’s jaw. Blitz stiffens.
“What’s this?” Stolas asks, softly.
Blitz flinches. Shit. Andrealphus’s frost must’ve left a mark.
“Uh… a horse fell on me,” he mutters.
Stolas squints, unconvinced. “A horse? How would a horse be positioned to fall directly on your neck? Unless—Blitz, are you bruised elsewhere too?!”
He places both hands on Blitz’s shoulders, frantic now. “Did something happen?”
“I’m fine!” Blitz says quickly, pulling away—but not fast enough. Stolas’s hands ghost along his ribs, and Blitz sucks in a sharp breath.
“S-Stop, Stolas—I’m fine, I swear—”
The prince falters. He folds his hands in his lap and stares down at them, clearly distressed, but unwilling to push. “...Okay, if you say so, Blitzy.”
Blitz turns away, hugging himself.
Stolas doesn’t stay distant for long. He inches up behind him and buries his face into the crook of Blitz’s neck, voice barely above a whisper. “You saved me from the marquis today, Blitzy.”
“I didn’t save you,” Blitz mutters. “He’s just… he’s not…” He groans and rubs his temples. “He shouldn’t be touching you like that.”
“No, he shouldn’t,” Stolas agrees softly. He places a gentle kiss to Blitz’s scarred cheek. “You’re the only man I’d ever want to ravish me.”
Blitz’s arms fall slack. A shiver runs down his spine.
He likes hearing that. A little too much.
Stolas’s hands trail down his arms in delicate, teasing lines. “Soooo…” he hums, rising to his knees behind him, “I was thinking…”
Blitz turns—and freezes as the prince lifts his gown, revealing wet feathers surrounding a pink little hole slick with arousal.
“Perhaps you’d like… a reward,” Stolas purrs, voice dipped in velvet, “for being my valiant rescuer?”
Blitz’s mouth goes dry.
The look on Stolas’s face is devastating—half-lidded ruby eyes, tongue flicking over his lips, body flushed and pliant and soaked with want.
“How does that sound, my sexy little imp?”
“Yeah, sure,” Blitz blurts.
He tackles him back onto the mattress and sinks his teeth into his neck.
It was, of course, all part of Stolas’s plan.
The moment Blitz was writhing on top of him, Stolas gently coaxed off his shirt, murmured healing spells between moans, and ghosted his fingers over every bruise the marquis left behind—whispering care into each one.
…Naturally, Blitz still fucked him afterward.
Hard.
The days pass in a languorous haze.
Andrealphus still visits—far too often—but the hand-wandering has simmered to a minimum. Whether it’s out of caution or wounded pride, Blitz isn’t sure. He doesn’t care. Octavia sleeps more soundly now, curling into her blankets like a flower folding in for the night.
And Stolas… Stolas has his talons buried so deep in Blitz’s head, he’s practically nested in there.
Blitz tells himself he’s looking forward to Moxxie and Millie’s visit—that he needs to see them again after months of navigating opera politics, flower fields, and fanatical, featherass-filled mornings. That once they arrive, he’ll get back to normal. Reset. Remember who he is.
But until then…
They keep having sex.
A lot of it.
Now that he thinks about it, they’ve been anything but discreet:
In the bathroom, Blitz undresses Stolas with the reverence of someone performing a sacred ritual. He washes him gently, gliding cloth over delicate plumage, rubbing him dry with patient hands that tremble more than he’ll admit.
In the bedroom, he touches and kisses and fucks until Stolas is limp and blissed-out, finally still, finally silent, finally able to sleep without nightmares clawing through his chest.
In the meadow, Blitz lays him down among the petals—knees open, feathers splayed—and thrusts into him until the prince moans a skyful of stars into the daylight. The dirt clings to his back and feathers, so they end up in the bathroom again, starting over, mouths meeting like they can’t bear to be separate for more than a breath.
It’s not Blitz’s fault.
It’s not.
Stolas is just so… needy. So open. So trusting in ways he shouldn’t be. Who else is going to take care of him? Certainly not that scumbag marquis, with his claws and his threats and his disgusting sense of entitlement.
But still—Blitz knows better. He knows he should stop. Andrealphus would kill him, if he ever found out. Or worse—he’d hurt Stolas.
And yet…
Blitz doesn’t stop.
He kisses Stolas like he’ll never get the chance again. He undresses him like he’s fragile and rare. He holds him when he thinks he’s asleep. He traces the feathers around his heart-shaped face and tells himself it doesn’t mean anything.
He doesn’t want to think about why.
Not yet.
The night before Stolas’s Lust Ball performance, Blitz blinks open his eyes to find that Stolas has him swaddled up in his arms like a little doll. He cranes his head to stare at his soft, heart-shaped face and that sweet little smile as he sleeps.
He slowly raises a hand to brush away a stray feather from his face. Then he slips from Stolas’s warm embrace and moves to the window.
Blitz squints his eyes and presses his face against the glass. Amidst the darkness, he recognizes two pairs of yellow eyes glowering up at him. He beams. Perfect timing.
“There he is!” Millie whispers, leaning against her boyfriend. Moxxie and Millie watch Blitz’s silhouette stalk over to the balcony. His shadowy figure perches onto the railing, and he shouts, waving his arms:
“Watch this!”
“Sir!” Moxxie calls. “What are–?”
Blitz jumps off the balcony and crash-lands flat onto his face. Moxxie looks at him incredulously as Millie giggles at his endearing foolishness. How is he not dead yet?
“Hey, guys!” Blitz chuckles. As he stumbles to his feet, he pauses halfway to hack out a long, gray feather. The wet thing flutters onto the floor.
All three imps stare at it.
Blitz shrugs. He clears his throat. “So anyway–”
Moxxie’s face is pinched together in disgust. “Why was that in your mouth?”
“Don’t worry about it, Mox! I haven’t seen you guys in fucking forever! Bring it in!” He drags M&M into his arms and squeezes them so tight that their eyes pop from their sockets.
When they’re finally set free, Millie tilts her head at him and smiles uneasily. “Hey B, good to see ya too! But why are ya wearing nothing but a fancy cape?” She stretches out the material, murmuring, “Ooh, this is nice.”
“I just woke up, assholes!” Blitz snarks, rubbing his eyes. “This was the closest thing lying by the bed.”
“The bed?” Moxxie raises an eyebrow. “I thought they made you sleep in a cupboard.”
Blitz yawns. “Nah, I sleep with Stolas.” The smaller imps exchange a bewildered glance.
“What?” Moxxie deadpans.
Blitz waves him off. “By the way, Mox, you know the gun that Striker had? The blessed one? I need it.”
“ What ?! Why ?!”
“I’ll tell you why! That fuckin’ bluebird’s a fucking bitch! He tried to fucking turn me into a popsicle and smash me into smithereens!” Blitz scowls. “I need that thing in case he tries that shit again.”
Moxxie regards him with apt seriousness. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. I’ll bring it tomorrow after the ball.”
“After the balls? Can’t you just bring it during the balls?”
Millie laughs. “It’s ‘ball’ not ‘balls,’ Blitz.”
Blitz looks at her. “I have two balls,” he says, dead serious.
“Actually, sir, I don’t know if you’d be allowed in. Imps aren’t usually allowed to attend unless they’re performing.”
Blitz’s face drops. “Huh?”
Moxxie sends his girlfriend the most infatuated expression and pulls her in by the waist. “Millie and I will be sharing a duet together in celebration of our fifth year together.”
"While we're at it, we can have a full view of the party and take out those heaven-folk! It's the perfect cover!" She giggles and presses her forehead to his. He melts under her touch, and they give in to the desire to kiss each other, tongues lapping fervently.
“Ew, cut that out,” Blitz groans, recoiling.
“Sorry, sir,” Moxxie huffs, melting into his girlfriend’s arms and not looking very sorry at all. “We’ll see you after the performances are done, and I’ll get you the blessed rifle.”
Blitz waves him off. “Nah, it’s fine! I can come with you guys, no problem! I used to be a circus performer, how hard can it be?”
Moxxie frowns pensively. “No, sir. I’ve planned it to just be me and Millie.”
“Okay!” Blitz says dismissively. “So did you guys write the lyrics down or something? I can just–”
“Sir!” Moxxie cuts in. “It’s just for me and Millie. Exclusively me and Millie. Specifically without you there.”
“Sure, I get it!” Blitz says, not getting it at all. “Shit, it’s late, and I gotta get back to bed. It was good seeing you guys! I’ll see you love bugs later!” He gives them one last squeeze and prances off, whistling as he goes.
Moxxie growls and throws up his hands. “Honestly! It’s like talking to a wall!”
“Awe, don’t stress yourself out, sweetie,” Millie hushes him, pressing her lips to his. “Our performance will be jus’ fine.”
“Thank you, honey.” Moxxie sighs and finds comfort in the crook of her neck. “As long as you’re by my side, nothing can ruin this for me.”
The doting imps link their arms and retreat into the night.
Blitz watches the loving couple through the bushes.
He can’t wait for tomorrow.
Chapter 8: In Lust We Trust (Part 1)
Summary:
Blitz and Stolas go on a "date." Things sure do happen!
(PART 1)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Moxxie straightens his navy tie just as Millie prances up, fluttering her lashes and twirling in her matching blue dress. He swoons dramatically. She catches him mid-faint with a giggle, and they link arms like the lovebugs they are, eyes locked, skipping into the pavilion together.
Behind a bush, Blitz peeks out, eyes gleaming.
There they are...
Fluorescent statues of naked men and women lounge around the tinted windows, thier legs spread and mouths sensually agape, waiting to be admired. Indigo and pink lanterns dangle from the ceiling, scattering sensual light across the dim hallway. From behind the grand golden double doors, a slow, decadent waltz floats out from the ballroom.
Blitz squints.
Is this a party or an actual orgy?
Moxxie and Millie are quickly ushered in by an incubus doorman. Blitz creeps after them—but just as he slips from the shadows, a clawed hand yanks him back by the tail.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the incubus growls, fangs glinting.
“HEY! Look, but don’t fucking touch!” Blitz snaps. “I’m with them!” He points after the couple, now racing hand-in-hand toward the lantern-lit stage.
The incubus rolls his eyes. “Right. Only couples are allowed to perform. Those two are bisexual. You, on the other hand, are bi-yourself.”
Blitz glares. “Are you kidding me?”
“I mean it.” The incubus grabs Blitz by the skull collar and pulls him nose-to-nose. “No date, no entry.”
Blitz locks eyes with him. Then his gaze drops...to his chest. Then lower. Then lower.
Okay. Maybe he could work with this.
The incubus blinks, dumbfounded.
Blitz coughs, trying to sound sultry. “Your eyes are pretty, uh...?” His voice falters.
Shit, what’s his name?
“...Daddy?”
Nailed it.
A second later, Blitz goes sailing through the air. He lands face-first in the mud outside, heels skidding. “YOU UGLY-ASS PRUDE!” he yells, wiping sludge off his pumps with a snarl. His tail lashes like a pissed-off cat.
Great. Now what?
Then—bing!
Of-fucking-course.
A devilish grin spreads across Blitz’s face.
He jumps to his feet and bolts for the library.
Stolas slouches by the open door, the frigid night air curling around his feathers like a judgment. Behind him, the muffled echoes of laughter and music thrum through the ballroom walls—mocking, lewd, and far too alive for the hollow ache in his chest.
Thank the Hellscape it’s over.
His performance. The humiliation. The forced climax before a sea of masked strangers. The shame of letting strangers see his body, his want, his sin. He had survived it only by closing his eyes and imagining Blitz—sharp and reckless, loud and real—like a lifeline yanked through drowning waters.
Now, alone in the dark, Stolas’s four eyes gleam with exhaustion above bruised eye bags. He turns toward the library, hoping to disappear for a while.
The room greets him with silence and a hundred reflections. Mirrors bolt across the walls, warped and wide. He catches sight of himself—his lanky figure slumped in a sheer, floral lace blouse, chest heaving like a deflated balloon. Red eyes blink back at him, tired and ugly in this light. The wind moans through the cracked window.
He looks away with a groan.
No more of that. Please.
The door shuts with a heavy click.
“Stolas!”
His heart stutters.
He turns, breath catching. That voice. He steps into the moonlight, neck craning. “Blitzy?”
There—in the meadow, under the lantern-flecked sky—comes a familiar blur of red and black. Blitz bounds toward him like a comet, reckless and radiant. Stolas’s breath escapes in a soundless gasp. He hurries forward, a smile already unfurling on his face like a petal in spring.
“Hey Stolas, can you come with me to the party?” Blitz calls out as he approaches, barely out of breath. He skids to a stop in front of him, kicking up a few blades of grass. “You were just about to head over, right?”
Stolas blinks, dazed by the sheer presence of him. “Oh—yes, Blitzy. I was just about to transport myself there. But…” His voice falters as reality creeps back in. He frowns, tapping the edge of his beak. “I don’t believe you’d be permitted. Asmodeus arranged the guest list and hired staff. The only imps allowed inside are part of a couple, for... ambiance.”
“Right, couples,” Blitz says quickly. “So if you and I go—together—it’s fine, right?”
Stolas freezes.
You and I.
The words echo in his ears.
His feathers burst into soft plumes. White heart-shaped pupils bloom in his wide, cerise eyes.
“A-ah!” A broken giggle bubbles out of him. “Y-yes!” he breathes, eyes shining with warmth not even the most sacred light of Heaven could match. “Yes-yes-yes, that won’t be a problem at all, Blitzy!” He clasps Blitz’s hand in both of his, bouncing slightly, his whole body suddenly weightless. “Oh, my stars, yes!”
The mirrors could shatter for all he cared. Stolas doesn’t need them.
Blitz averts his eyes. His stomach twists, heat crawling up his neck and pooling in his face until he feels nauseous.
Why the hell is he reacting like this?
It’s not like they’re an actual couple or anything. Besides, he's got a job to do right now.
“Uh... okay?” he mutters.
He keeps his gaze glued to the ground, pulling faces at the dirt—but doesn’t let go of Stolas’s hand. The prince leads him toward the golden double doors.
The same incubus doorman blocks the entrance, glowering. “What are you doing back here?” he snaps. “First of all, you cut in line, and second of all, you—”
The words die in his throat.
His eyes catch their joined hands. His gaze travels slowly up Stolas’s arm, along his tall frame, up to his long neck, and finally to the cold stare of his royal face.
“Shit,” the incubus squeaks.
“Is there a problem?” Stolas asks coolly.
“N-no, Your Highness! Sweet Lucifer, I’m so sorry.” The incubus bows so fast he nearly falls. “Please—please—do come in.”
“Ugh.” Blitz flips him off with a scowl as they pass through the doors.
He yanks his hand away and surveys the ballroom. Mirrors and multicolored candles sparkle across the space. Royals, overlords, and succubi chatter and pose in segregated groups—while the most powerful demons lounge above in their personal balconies. Tables piled high with wine, chocolates, and more wine encircle the room.
Blitz squints across the ballroom. At the far end stands a long, dramatic stage lit by... pink, phallic lamps.
Classy.
Where the fuck are M&M?
“Over here, Blitzy!” Stolas chirps, leading him up a spiral staircase to a balcony adorned with his ridiculous golden sigil and enchanted starry drapes. The constellations shimmer and drift across the fabric—definitely some kind of magic flex.
Blitz skips the velvet chair entirely—thing’s too big anyway—and marches straight to the railing. He whips out a pair of binoculars from his jacket pocket. Perfect. He’ll spot Moxxie and Millie from up here in no time.
“Blitz, who are you looking for?”
He waves him off. “No one,” he grumbles, eyes twitching with focus.
“If it’s Andrealphus you’re worried about, he’s gone to visit King Paimon. The king still hasn’t returned from his business abroad. You’re safe with me here.”
Blitz hadn’t even thought about Paimon—but yeah, that guy definitely wouldn’t be thrilled to find his son cozying up with an imp. The reassurance gives him a shred of relief.
“What kind of royal prick doesn’t attend his own damn party?” he mutters.
Stolas chuckles uneasily. “Well, he has his own ways of... supervising.” He hesitates. He glances around nervously. “But we’re alone up here. We could, um, still hold hands... if you’d like.”
He giggles. Like they’re sharing some romantic secret.
Blitz frowns, confused. “Hold hands? Is that your fancy way of saying ‘foreplay’ or something?”
Stolas freezes, blinking rapidly. “W-we could do that too! But I meant it literally. Just... holding hands. No one to disturb us.” He clasps his hands, smiling earnestly. “Isn’t that sweet?”
Blitz turns to him, grimacing. “Why would you want to do that?”
The smile flickers. “Uh!” Stolas laughs nervously, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I... I just thought—”
Blitz’s tail twitches. Fuck. He didn’t mean to upset him. But before he can say anything, Stolas snaps back into cheer.
“Drinks!” he says brightly. “Would you like something? There’s red and white wine being served below. I could ring for a bottle if you’d like!”
He tilts his head, smiling like this is all normal. Like he’s just some guy offering his date a drink. Like all that sex had been more than giving a desperate, lonely prince a lick of affection. Like they could be—
No. Stop.
Blitz stiffens, gaze snapping back to the stage. “I really don’t care, Stolas.”
Stolas falters. “Oh…”
Blitz leans forward, slinging his arms over the banister, trying to push the whole conversation from his mind.
Stop thinking about Stolas. Focus.
Where the hell are those two?!
A blur of scintillating color catches Blitz’s eye.
There—near the catwalk’s edge. Just above the stage, tucked behind the battens—an inch of fluffy, glowing wool. Angelic sparks pulse softly from the stranger’s hidden form, haloing the shadows.
Blitz narrows his eyes and instinctively reaches into his coat for the flintlock.
But before he can aim—
The lights cut.
And a jester explodes onto the stage, flipping in from above. Mechanical arms whir and extend with a metallic vrrrm as he cartwheels through the air.
“WELCOME, WELCOME, my lecherous fellows!” he shrieks into a mic that amplifies every syllable with Lust Ring flair. “So good to see so many beddable bodies tonight!”
Pole dancers swing down from silken cords, striking impossibly sensual poses around him.
Blitz’s stomach drops. “No fucking way…”
The jester lands with a dramatic spin, striking a pose. His bells jingle.
“The name’s Fizzarolli—the one and only! Built by King Asmodeus himself and ribbed for your pleasure!” He cackles, hips gyrating as he struts down the stage, dripping with glitter and ego.
“Fuck—no, no, no!” Blitz ducks under the balcony banister, shielding his face. “Why the fuck is he here?!”
Stolas blinks at him. “Blitz?” he asks, worried. “Are you—?”
“Before we begin tonight’s sinful showcase, give a round of applause to His Royal Highness, PRINCE STOLAS—for that steaming performance earlier!”
All eyes swivel to their balcony.
Stolas stiffens. Blitz throws himself to the floor. The prince offers a tight, elegant wave, wrist turning in practiced grace. His feathers fluff slightly.
Fizzarolli whistles. “Damn, that was hotter than a brimstone bath, Your Highness!” He smirks, leaning into the mic. “Way better than your last attempts.”
The crowd laughs while Stolas’s smile trembles.
Blitz stiffens, and his tail twitches again. "What? What the hell were they making you do?" he mutters. Stolas ignores him.
The jester grins. “You’re way more into it this time! What happened, huh? Got a secret lover giving you some new tricks?”
Stolas tugs at his collar, laughing awkwardly. “O-oh, well…”
Blitz groans and folds over himself, hiding his face in his hands. Fucking kill me now.
“I’m just messin’ with ya!” Fizzarolli winks. “Now, for the rest of this shameless night, we’ve got a lineup so hot, all demons will belong to Envy!”
Spotlights whip across the room. The dancers twirl. Fizzarolli throws both arms wide.
“First up: Verosika Mayday and the SQUIRTERS—”
Blitz visibly shudders. “Fuck me, she’s here too?!”
He slumps to the floor and curls up beside Stolas’s feet. Nope. Nope. Fucking nope. He’s not moving. He’s not leaving. He’s staying right here in his dumb little royal hideout until this whole damn party burns down.
“...But before we dive face-first into Verosika’s breasts and body glitter,” Fizzarolli purrs, “we’ve got some imps from the ring of Wrath!”
A pause. A beat.
Fizz stares at the names on his prompt card.
“M&M?” he deadpans. “Seriously? That’s your act name?”
Moxxie and Millie bound onto the stage, completely unbothered.
“Hell yeah!” Millie chirps.
Fizzarolli wrinkles his nose. “That is the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard.” He shrugs. “Whatever. Knock yourselves out!” With a whoop, he launches into a handstand and cartwheels offstage—legs extending comically long as he flips straight into King Asmodeus’s balcony.
Moxxie approaches the mic with a polite smile. “Hello everyone! I’m Moxxie, and this is my beautiful girlfriend, Millie. Thank you so much for letting us perform tonight. We hope you’ll enjo—”
“Just get on with it!” a drunk patron yells.
Moxxie shrugs, adjusting the worn strap of his acoustic guitar. The homely instrument looks almost out of place under the lurid lights and gilded chandeliers. As he begins to strum, a few demons in the crowd exchange confused glances.
Blitz peeks over the balcony banister, eyebrows scrunched. What the actual fuck are they playing?
“Oh, my sweetie,” Moxxie sings sweetly.
“My beloved Moxxie~” Millie croons right back.
“I love you~!”
Blitz flinches like he’s been slapped by a Hallmark card. He groans and slinks back down to the floor, dragging a hand over his face. Stolas glances between him and the performance, visibly puzzled but not displeased.
Millie continues, voice full of twang and unshakeable cheer:
“I pine for your touch over our photographs,
Heart reaching out for my other half.But then ya’ prance right in with blood on your face,
Your lips get me moonin’, beggin’ for another taste!Oh! And with a kiss, my heart beats staccato again!
It’s such a curse, when your lover’s your best friend!"“Oh, my honey~!”
“Oh, my sweet Moxxie~
I love you so much, I do~!”
A slow spotlight swirls around them like they're the stars of a musical no one asked for. The crowd is silent—some cringing, some tearing up, and one succubus visibly mouthing "what the hell".
Blitz rolls onto his back and mutters, “Kill me. Kill me now." It is so embarrassing to listen to this when Stolas is RIGHT there.
Meanwhile, Fizzarolli snickers and leans into the massive figure looming beside him. Cloaked in shimmering fabric, the towering demon says nothing—but his chartreuse eyes gleam with deviltry.
As Moxxie and Millie belt out their cute duet, the stage below them glows with a searing pink sigil. Steam coils upward from the radiant, curling letters:
ASMODEUS.
With a blazing burst of color and heat, a colossal figure materializes onstage. The imps freeze, staring up in awe and horror as his towering silhouette casts a sinuous shadow over them.
A hush falls.
“HIS MAJESTY—KING ASMODEUS!” someone cries.
Gasps ripple through the ballroom. Succubi and nobles drop to their knees. Even the air seems to still, crackling with sensual power.
The King of Lust glares down at the love-struck Wrath-ring 'peasants,' his rich, velvety voice oozing disdain:
“What’s that treacly drivel I hear?
It’s awfully wrong.”
Fizzarolli, now draped across his shoulder like a designer shawl, croons:
“I wanna blow my brains out!
Blech! Is that a love song?!”
Asmodeus scoffs, his golden teeth flashing.
“Blasphemous virgin and vixen,
In denial and in drought—
Of my essence.”
They throw their heads back and fill the hall with vulgar, booming laughter. The crowd joins in—eager to mock anything so unsexy as romantic fidelity.
“How boring! I pity them!” Fizzarolli jeers.
“So do I, Fizzie dear,” Asmodeus purrs, casting a smoldering glance at his jester. “So let us… educate them.”
The ballroom plunges into flashing color as jazz erupts from the speakers. Rainbow lights spiral around the king’s striped, sultry suit as he begins to sing, voice rich with carnal delight:
“Moan out loud and sing it strong,
‘Bout our britches, boners, and bitches!”
Fizzarolli snarls toward Moxxie and Millie:
“Shut yo’ goo-goo-eyed asses up—
Or you’ll be swimmin’ with the fishes!”
The music swells, horns blaring, the beat infectious and obscene. Asmodeus waltzes around the shivering imps, dragging his fingers along their faces like a predator appraising prey.
“All we wanna do—what do we want, baby?”
“Fuck me backward, fuck me sideways!
We wanna get crazy!”
“What do we need—what do we crave, baby?”
“Suck me off, toss me off!
Not a single angel can shame me!”
From the safety of Stolas’s balcony, Blitz suddenly scrambles to his feet. “Fuck! Someone’s gotta help M&M out!”
His tail lashes like a whip as his eyes sweep the room—and then narrow sharply.
Up near the rafters, on a narrow catwalk above the stage, two familiar figures skulk into view. They’re armed with sandbags, saws, and various dangerously heavy objects. Blitz’s eyes flash.
“Fucking hell—there are angels on the catwalk!” he hisses, jabbing a finger outward.
Stolas blinks, leaning forward in his throne. “Darling, you’ve been so tense all evening. What’s—?”
“There!” Blitz grabs him by the frilly collar and yanks him forward. “Look! A piss-colored sheep and an ugly-ass manbaby!”
Stolas squints—and frowns. A pulse of red light flickers through his eyes. “So I see… Cherubs. I’ve heard whispers of them meddling in the affairs of sin. Sanctimonious little pests.”
He raises his hand, fingers glowing with power. But the magic peters out before casting. He hesitates as he sees Blitz's fingers twitch around his flintlock, and his eyes widen.
“Blitz—do you have a gun on you?! What are you planning?”
Blitz tucks the weapon deeper under his coat. “I have a plan. Just stay here, alright?”
But Stolas floats after him, feathers slightly puffed, eyes gleaming. “Can’t I come with you?”
Blitz stops mid-step and whirls on him. “Seriously?”
Stolas clasps his hands like a kid pleading for candy.
Blitz sighs. “Fucking fine. But you do everything I say. Got it?”
Stolas gasps, eyes going full heart-shaped. “Oh! Yes! Of course! Let us do that!”
Blitz groans and grabs his hand, yanking him down the balcony stairs. He ignores the light feeling in his chest as Stolas hoots happily.
Onstage, Millie and Fizzarolli are locked in a heated rap battle about the meaning of love—rhymes flying like bullets as Millie throws hands and words. Above them, the King of Lust shoves Moxxie into a chandelier, arms draped like a smug cat, as Millie screams at him mid-bar:
“You stuck my MAN up in the ceiling, you giant glittery GIMP?!”
Backstage, Blitz bolts through the curtains and up the narrow stairwell that leads to the upper ledge. Stolas trails behind him, feathers flaring slightly as he huffs, out of breath but stubbornly keeping pace.
At the top, just beyond the rigging, the cherubs huddle behind a cluster of battens and stage lights. Blitz slows, ducking behind a coil of rope. From the shadows, he hears their muffled conversation.
“The lust demon and the clown imp seem... really close,” the male cherub whispers.
The female ewe scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous, Cletus. Fornicators don’t feel love. They’re all about premarital mating and selfish pleasure—”
“That’s right,” Cletus groans. He flutters upward, wings twitching with determination as he flies toward a massive lighting fixture, its chains pulled tight and reinforced with clamps. “Let’s loosen this one too. If we time it right, we’ll crush the Lust Lord where he writhes!”
He grabs a wrench and starts unfastening a bolt.
“Deus Vult!” the ewe hisses gleefully, clutching her holy rope like it’s a relic of judgment.
Blitz’s grip tightens around his flintlock. “Oh for fuck’s sake.” He jumps out with his gun raised, “Hey, the fuck do you think you're doing?!”
The two cherubs shriek and draw back, eyes widening in terror as they look not at Blitz— but at the demon just behind him.
“Oh golly, it’s a prince!” the ewe cherub shrieks.
“Don’t look directly at its eyes, Keenie!” Cletus jabbers, pulling out his angelic crossbow. “Go for the tiny red one. Those imps are the lowest of the lows!”
They swoop toward him, weapons ready to fire, but Blitz merely ducks out of the way as gold protrudes through the wall behind him.
“Fuck you!” Blitz snarls. He streams toward them and fires. The cherubs cry out and scatter in opposite directions.
One bullet whizzes through the ewe’s wing, and she shrieks and crashes onto the catwalk, gold blood blemishing the floor. Another rips through the rope holding up a lighting fixture, and it smashes against her legs, pinning her to the wood.
Stolas grins wide, his fervid gaze tacked upon Blitz.
In fact, everyone’s attention hones onto the imp, clearly astonished by his marksmanship. “Cleanse the unclean!” Cletus hollers, diving low and firing golden arrows at Blitz. The imp twists away with ease and chases him down the catwalk.
“Ugh, you loathsome beast…!” Keenie yaps, straining for her crossbow. Stolas strides up to her and steps on her hand before she can grab it. She wails in pain and squeezes her eyes shut, not daring to look up at him— yet she grins, elated.
“You two are heavy enough,” she mutters. "You're going to pay for what you did to Collin."
The prince tenses as the frontmost part of the catwalk lurches forward under their weight. His eyes tack onto the saw that embeds into the ledge’s wood, and he realizes that the cherubs must have severed it.
Stolas stumbles to the side, and an angelic arrow pierces the air beside him. He regards the female cherub with indifference.
“Filthy demon!” she mewls, aiming her arrow straight between his lower set of eyes. “I swear, I will demolish you abominations before you fester further! God wills it!” She screams as the pipes abruptly plummet onto the stage, dragging her down with them.
“God can’t help you here,” Stolas drawls, watching her fall.
Cletus calls out to Keenie and dives after her, but Blitz shoots again, taking out his leg, and the cherub goes caterwauling and careening through the air.
Blitz loses his footing as the ledge gives away. “Oh, FUCK!” he shrieks before he free-falls toward the stage below.
Stolas's eyes go wide as he watches him fall.
“Blitz!”
Stolas dives after him without thinking. His form erupts into a storm of crimson and black, eldritch feathers snapping around Blitz like a net. They vanish midair in a burst of magic—
—and reappear safely on the ground, wrapped in each other.
Keenie’s breath is knocked out of her as her back rams against the wooden stage. Her bleary eyes strain upwards to the electrical conduit and other lighting equipment hurdling down toward her tiny body.
The cherub screws up her face and wails, “Oh, the horror! This is not what Jesus died for! GOD PLEASE!!!”
CRASH.
A large lighting fixture crashes upon her, breaking every piece of her angelic body.
Blitz would have met the same fate.
But instead—he’s in Stolas’s... arms?
What even is Stolas right now?
All he knows is that he's surrounded by warmth and feathers and magic.
And somehow…
He’s never felt safer.
Blitz blinks up at the wicked mass of feathers, breathing hard.
"...Stolas?"
Notes:
I'll try to update the second part tomorrow as a treat. Yippeee
Chapter 9: In Lust We Trust (Part 2)
Summary:
Blitz and Stolas go on a "date." Things sure do happen!
(PART 2)
Notes:
Getting you this one early because this was supposed to be part of the last chapter, but oof! It was TOO LONG
Happy Father's Day <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Black feathers spiral through the air as the dust clears.
Blitz lies stunned, mouth parted, chest heaving as the last remnants of smoke curl away—revealing the tall, familiar figure cradling him close. Malefic energy flickers faintly across the floor, but all he sees is Stolas, glowing in the aftermath.
The prince is holding him—really holding him. One hand supports Blitz’s back, the other gently cups his knees to his chest, protective and tender, like he’s something precious.
Stolas looks at him, breathless. “Are you alright?”
Blitz doesn’t answer. His body trembles. He shuts his eyes tight, overwhelmed, until Stolas reaches up to softly stroke his neck—fingers grazing the imp’s skin with reverence.
“Oh, Blitzy,” he murmurs, disheveled and windblown, yet smiling as if nothing else exists. “Did it hurt… when you fell for me?”
Yes. God, yes. Every part of it.
But Blitz can’t say that. Won’t. His chest twists. His hands clench.
So instead, he grabs the prince’s face.
His fingers slide along soft cheeks and trembling jaw as he cups him desperately, breath hitching—
And their mouths crash together.
It’s frenzied. Messy. Hungry.
Their lips slot together perfectly, despite the height, despite the chaos, despite the ache of unsaid things. Blitz lets out a broken sound as warmth floods his chest, curling through his ribs like sunlight slipping into shattered cracks.
“Oh, my darling,” Stolas gasps against his mouth, and that’s it—Blitz is gone.
He clutches tighter. His hands slide into the prince’s feathers, tugging him down, crushing their bodies together. His lips part, and their tongues meet in a frantic rhythm—both desperate to feel, to taste, to be known.
Blitz presses his forehead to Stolas’s as they gasp into each other, lips bruising with every exhale.
Please don’t go. Please stay.
He says none of it.
But he kisses like he means it. Like he’ll shatter if he doesn’t.
Stolas answers with just as much passion—his long fingers framing Blitz’s jaw, eldritch wings curling forward, encasing them both in their own private heaven.
They’re lost in it—utterly, stupidly lost.
Below, the audience watches, stunned.
Moxxie chokes. “Oh my—Blitz?!”
Millie gasps too, though a small, delighted smile pulls at her lips. She leans toward her boyfriend and whispers, “Blitz shoulda told us he’s dating the prince.”
Their lips break apart with a gasp, their faces flushed as they stare each other down with love and lust. But the rush of heat vanishes—
Only to be replaced by a creeping chill as King Asmodeus descends, three grinning heads leering like carved jack-o'-lanterns in a haunted ballroom.
“Prince Stolas~,” the sin sing-songs, voice dipped in sugar and poison. “I was right... Something's different about you tonight.”
Stolas jerks back with a choked gasp, lips still wet, eyes wide and darting like prey caught in the open.
Fizzarolli sidles up beside the king, exchanging a wicked glance. They rub their hands together like giddy gremlins preparing a feast.
And then the king sings:
“Well, well, well, now what’s this mess here?
Paimon’s sweet son, so sinfully queer!
No wonder your wife took the plunge last year—
Now that little mystery’s suddenly clear!”
Stolas goes stiff. “Your Majesty, that’s not—”
His arms slacken. Blitz nearly topples from his grip.
The king turns to the crowd, voice dripping with mock sympathy:
“His wife's hardly been dead for what, a year? And he’s already moved on? How heartless!”
A gasp echoes through the ballroom, followed by hissing boos.
“Daaaaamn!” Fizzarolli howls. “Will he forget about his daughter next? Not much of a family man, huh?!”
“I wouldn’t…” he breathes, his voice breaking. But it’s too soft, too late. His shoulders cave in as he glimpses the Goetia nobles in the crowd—eyes sharp, full of disgust. He trembles. He's cornered.
Laughter and gasps ripple through the crowd. Someone yells, “Shame!” Another mutters, “Poor Octavia…”
And Blitz—oh, Blitz is done.
He snarls and steps forward. “Hey now! Maybe if his family wasn't such a—!”
But Fizzarolli cuts him off, booming:
“That fucking BLOWS! You’d think it couldn’t get worse—
But that Blitzo right there? Oh baby, he’s not just a curse!”
All heads whip toward him. Blitz freezes.
Fizzarolli throws both arms wide, voice rising with theatrical flair:
“He’s not just any clown, Ozzie—
He’s the ENTIRE CIRCUS!”
Laughter erupts—sharp, cruel, and all-consuming.
And just like that, the warmth of their kiss is gone.
Replaced by fire.
Shame.
Rage.
And eyes. So many judging eyes.
And as if it couldn't get any worse!
“Oh, Blitzo~?”
A sultry voice ripples through the air, smooth and venom-laced.
Heads turn—all of them.
Atop the spotlight-drenched stage stands Verosika, bathed in rosy glow, her curves haloed in heat. She strolls forward with the grace of a predator, every step punctuated by the sway of her hips. Her plush lips curl into a wicked smirk as she lifts the mic to her mouth.
A roar of her name bursts from the crowd as she starts to sing:
“He made me feel worthless—
Just a suck-you-bitch to please!
Every lover after treated me better,
But he’s only chasing fees.”
The crowd gasps—some laughing, some leering.
Blitz grits his teeth, his tail twitching violently behind him.
Verosika sees it—and grits her teeth in anger:
“Oh, don’t you throw another fit—
You know damn well you’re full of shit!
Bitchin’ like I ever misconstrued it—
So be a man and fucking prove it!”
“Oooh!!” the crowd howls.
Stolas flinches. Her eyes cut to him next. She clicks her tongue with sympathy.
“So now His Highness is your new mark?
You like his jewels, his royal spark?
His regal, ostentatious pose?
An imp and a prince–that’s funny!
Her gaze sharpens—pinning Blitz like a butterfly to a board.
“He’s a heartbreaker—and a coward, too!
Our sex life gave me hell, it’s true.
He doesn’t do love, honey—he runs from it!
All he wants to do…”
She eyes Stolas, the sharpness in her eyes fading.
“It’s not you.
It’s the money.”
She holds the final note with venomous poise—and the crowd erupts.
“All he wants to do—”
“It’s not you, honey!”
“He’s only in it—”
“Only in it for the money!”
Their chant builds, echoing through the ballroom like a judgment.
And Blitz just stands there—face burning, fists clenched, humiliated under a thousand staring eyes.
And worst of all?
Stolas is watching him.
Blitz makes a break for the edge of the stage—fight or flight, and he's picking flight.
But he doesn’t get far.
Fizzarolli cartwheels into his path, grinning like a devil in drag. “My turn~!” he cackles, twirling the microphone between his palms like a dagger.
“Oh no you don’t—you fucking don’t!” Blitz snarls, his voice cracking. He shoots a glance at Stolas—pained, pleading.
But the prince doesn’t move.
Fizz lifts the mic and sings:
“Remember what you meant to me?
You fucked it all up—can’t you see?
You’re so unlovable, it’s true—
A walking mess, through and through!"
Blitz flinches as laughter breaks out again.
Fizz steps closer.
"You’re a selfish whore,
Can’t get enough!
You wreck it all—then call it love.
You bleed your friends dry, then cry,
So go ahead—look me in the eye!”
He yanks Blitz forward by his collar, dragging him inches close—close enough to whisper the kill shot.
And in a low, venomous growl:
“You’re the reason your mama died.”
The ballroom erupts.
“OHHHHHHHHHH!!!” the audience bellows, drunk on bloodlust, hungry for more.
Stolas covers his mouth with both hands, pupils glimmering in horror as the jester and singer gang up upon Blitz. Every bone in his body stings to defend him, but their audiences’ eyes are as reflective as the mirrors shimmering all around the estate and he’s being watched —and his legs render him stalk still—and he doesn’t dare to move anywhere.
Blitz stumbles backward.
Each word slams into his chest like a hammer—humiliation, fear, and heartbreak tearing into him as he stands there alone.
Completely alone.
They won’t stop. They refuse to stop.
“Selfish!” Verosika spits.
“Cruel,” Fizzarolli sneers.
“A prick!”
“A fool!”
“A douchebag!”
“An asshole!”
“A limp dick!”
“A tool!”
Each insult cuts deeper. And Fizzarolli’s voice cracks with genuine fury now. His smile has warped—gone from performative to personal. His hands shake. His face twitches. He’s not performing anymore.
Ozzie senses it.
The towering sin of lust leans down and scoops Fizzarolli into his arms. The jester wraps himself around him like a vine, burying his face in Ozzie’s chest with a violent tremble.
The music softens.
Warm green hues shimmer from Ozzie’s eyes as he strokes a thumb along Fizz’s face—soothing, indulgent, soft.
He sings:
“Now, now, Fizzie,
Wrath’s not the way to be~
He’s not worth the ache inside,
Not when you’ve still got me.”
Ozzie strokes a lazy circle on Fizzarolli’s stomach, his voice low and teasing, like molten sugar:
“What do you want… what chu want, Fizzie, baby~?”
Fizz’s eyes glint. He snaps.
“I want you to hump my bulging lump!
I wanna watch—I’m sick of waiting!”
He writhes in Ozzie’s arms, grinding his hips with wild abandon, drool slipping past his lips as he ogles the king with feral hunger:
“What do you want, big man? C’mon, don’t get lazy!”
“I want to thrust, succumb to lust!
It’s a must that you lay me!”
They throw their heads back and belt in sync:
“We don’t wanna wait no more!
Let’s sing about lovers doin’ it on the floor!”
Verosika leaps in from the side, voice curling with venom:
“Thanks to him, I don’t do love anymore~!”
Asmodeus lifts the next note with sultry bravado:
“That’s all we wanna do, ba—”
CRACK.
Fizzarolli is blindsided. A flying object—was it a shoe? A mic stand? A rogue spotlight?—smashes into him and launches him offstage.
The music cuts.
The audience gasps as one.
“BABY?!” Ozzie shouts, panic-stricken, already diving after him.
Millie and Moxxie soar through the air, clutching the frayed end of a torn rope still dangling from the shattered catwalk. Bullets blaze from both directions as they pursue the baby-faced cherub zigzagging above the chaos.
“Repent, you hellspawn!” Cletus screeches, clutching his glowing golden crossbow. “I’ll smite your king and baptize you all in holy fire!”
He turns midair, takes aim at Asmodeus—who pays no mind, too busy scurrying offstage, clutching Fizzarolli’s limp body with genuine panic written across his three faces.
Cletus locks onto the sin of lust.
He pulls the trigger.
But he never gets the chance to fire.
A volley of bullets slice through him—blazing, fast, fatal. His cherubic body bursts into a spray of feathers and shredded robes, tumbling to the stage in smoldering pieces.
Millie and Moxxie land hard on the stage, feet slamming into his twitching remains.
Millie lands in a perfect crouch.
Moxxie stumbles—but Millie catches him mid-wobble and pulls him upright with a radiant smile.
Moxxie melts.
“Oh, Millie.”
“Oh, Moxxie~”
He twirls her by the hand and bursts into song:
“I love us and everything we do~!
The look on your face while we’re out killin’
Makes my heart sing loud—it’s so damn thrillin’!*”
Millie giggles and twirls back into his arms.
“Doesn’t matter who we kill or who we spare,
I can weather the storm, long as you’re there!*”
She kisses his cheek.
Moxxie flushes, clutches at his heart like he’s been struck by Cupid’s arrow.
“And now my heart beats staccato again~!
It’s such a curse, having my lover as my best friend!”
Together, in perfect harmony, they belt out:
“Oh my sweetie, how I love you!
All I wanna do… is to tell you—
That ‘I do~!’”
The audience is stunned.
Some confused. Some crying. One succubus near the bar is fanning herself and whispering, “They killed a baby to declare their vows… that’s so hot.”
Stolas stands frozen, his feathers disheveled, his face flushed from earlier passion—now replaced by longing. He watches as Millie and Moxxie press their lips together with such sweet, unshakable devotion.
A real couple.
He turns slowly.
Blitz is watching him—with an unreadable, hard stare.
Stolas swallows and hesitantly reaches for his hand—
But Blitz flinches, pulling away like the touch burns.
Then, without a word, he hops off the stage.
“Sorry for wasting your time,” Blitz mutters, not looking back.
Stolas doesn’t stop him.
Backstage, Fizzarolli groans, blinking the stars from his eyes.
Ozzie lets out a huge breath and nuzzles their foreheads together, cradling him with immense relief.
“Alright, very nice, very nice. Good show,” he hums, voice gentle.
Then—
Without warning—
He grabs Moxxie and Millie by the tails and hurls them out the golden doors.
“Now fucking leave.”
BAM.
They crash-land in the middle of a lavish, dimly-lit hallway. Velvet curtains sway around them.
They both blink.
Then burst out laughing, arms around each other, tears streaming as the absurdity catches up to them.
Their joy ebbs as they notice Blitz storming past.
Moxxie straightens, concerned. “Blitz—”
“I’ll be right there,” Blitz says through clenched teeth.
Millie sighs, watching his back recede into the shadows. She shares a look with Moxxie—part sympathy, part sadness.
“Sorry about your date night!” she calls.
Blitz doesn’t turn around.
His tail flicks once, sharply.
“Shut your mouth,” he snaps.
“We’re not dating.”
Stolas returns to his chambers a half-hour later, robes stained with shame, feathers tousled and dull.
He barely says a word when he sits on the couch and offers his foot forward with a quiet gesture. Blitz obeys—automatically, wordlessly—settling before him and rubbing slow, practiced circles into the prince’s talons.
He frowns. There are scars there. On the soles of Stolas’s feet. Why? He doesn’t ask.
He just presses a little softer.
After a long, quiet stretch, Stolas exhales and smooths his robe.
“I know today was a disaster,” he says softly. “But... it made something clear to me.”
Blitz tenses, jaw tight. “Don’t.”
Stolas continues anyway, voice light but fraying at the edges.
“It doesn’t matter what happens out there. As long as you’re with me… I’ll be content. We could share clothes. Shoes. Talk about our daughters. Walk through the meadow at dusk. I wouldn’t need anything more.”
Blitz yanks his hands back, eyes narrowing.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” he snaps. “You’ve got all this money—and you never use it for anything that matters.”
Stolas blinks, startled. “What do you mean?”
“The more money I have, the more shit I get to do!” Blitz growls. “There are seven rings of Hell. Stairs that lead to all of ‘em. There’s the living world—and you’ve got a goddamn magic book that can take you anywhere! And you just sit here!”
Stolas stares at him for a long moment, then lets out a quiet, sad laugh.
“King Paimon won’t let me leave,” he says. “You’re the only real adventure I’ve ever had.”
Blitz averts his gaze. “A man who loves you is someone who can protect you. If you marry the marquis, you won’t have to be scared anymore.”
Stolas frowns. “Why does that matter? I don’t love him.”
Blitz scowls. “You do, though.”
Stolas jerks his legs away and sits up straighter on the sofa, feathers ruffled. “You keep saying that. But I’m telling you, Blitz—I despise him.”
“Then why do you stare out the window like you're waiting for him?” Blitz snaps, turning to face him. “Why do you smile in your sleep? Why do you hum like you're living in some cringe-ass fairytale?”
He bats his eyes in a mocking imitation, face twisted with frustration.
Stolas’s beak tightens. Then he whispers, “You really don’t know?”
Blitz glares at him—but says nothing.
Stolas leans forward, eyes soft and brimming. “I have no one but you and Octavia in this whole world. If I told you I loved someone else...”
His voice catches on the last few words. He stares straight into Blitz’s soul.
“...would you still ask me to marry him?”
Blitz flinches. His eyes drop. His hands curl into fists on his lap.
“Yeah,” he mutters.
Silence.
Stolas doesn’t speak. Blitz doesn’t look up.
Stolas rises, his back turned to the servant.
“You cannot have the grimoire, Blitz. When I’m gone, it will belong to Octavia.”
Blitz freezes. His spines bristle.
“...What?”
Stolas conjures a gleaming gem and gently presses it into Blitz’s hand. It’s diamond-shaped, pulsing with golden light—like sunlight frozen in crystal.
“This is an Asmodeus crystal,” Stolas explains. “It can take you anywhere. Wrath. Lust. The living world.”
Blitz stares at it, awestruck. A small, surprised smile tugs at his lips.
But then—
“Now you may go.”
Blitz blinks. “...‘Go?’”
Stolas finally turns to face him, his expression unreadable.
“This is what you came for, isn’t it? Like before—charm me, steal from my palace, and vanish for decades.” His voice is quiet. Controlled. “You were my first friend, Blitz. We could’ve left it at that.”
A sick chill settles in Blitz’s stomach. “What—what the hell are you talking about?”
Stolas doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.
“You tell me who I should love, but I would never place those limits on you. You want magic. You want money. So take it.” He summons a satchel and drops it into Blitz’s arms. The imp nearly buckles from the weight.
“Stolas—!” Blitz snaps, eyes wide. “You’re putting words in my mouth!”
The prince exhales slowly. Then, with an aching softness:
“I just want to do what’s best for you.
And it’s clear… you don’t want to be mine.”
His voice is calm, but final. It cuts like glass.
That I don’t want to be his?
He’s the one—he’s the one who—
Blitz’s breath hitches. His blood roars in his ears.
Then he explodes.
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you!” he snarls. “Like you haven’t been treating me like some kind of fucktoy!”
His claws twitch.
“You act like we’re playing house—asking me to touch you, calling me sweet things like I’m part of one of your dumb little fantasies!"
His voice rises, cracking at the edges.
“And the only reason we even know each other is because my dad made me rob you in the first place! So don’t stand there acting like this is fucking special, because it’s not!”
Blitz’s shouting jolts Octavia awake.
She lets out a sharp screech, pink and white eyes brimming instantly with tears.
Guilt lurches in Blitz’s stomach.
Stolas is already moving, rushing to her side, cooing softly as he rocks her cradle.
“Shhh, my little owlet. It’s okay. Everything’s…”
“Stolas, I’m—”
“It’s okay,” Stolas murmurs, voice thin with exhaustion. “I understand.”
He doesn’t look back.
“You don’t have to apologize. Just go.”
But Blitz doesn’t move. His feet stay rooted.
“I didn’t mean—!”
In a sudden motion, Stolas whirls around, grabs him by the arm, and marches him toward the door.
“Blitz,” he says firmly, “do the kindest thing for yourself. Don’t come back.”
The door slams shut behind him—hard.
A heavy click sounds as the lock turns.
Blitz stands in the hall, staring at the dark wood. His breath catches in his throat, the prince’s last words echoing like thunder inside his skull.
Don’t come back
He can’t make anyone happy. He’s just a selfish asshole.
So why does he hesitate?
Blitz crawls under the cupboard—where he was supposed to sleep all along. But he rarely had to. Not when Stolas kept inviting him into his bed, night after night. Not when he let himself curl on top of the prince, roll his hips against him, make the grand Goetia moan and beg—
He squeezes his eyes shut.
Stolas’s voice still echoes in his ears.
He shifts aside a few loose wooden boards and finds it: a half-eaten lollipop. The one he’d stashed weeks ago.
He sticks it in his mouth, hoping—idiotically, desperately—that he might still taste him on it.
But all he tastes is sugar and the salt of his own tears.
You're the reason your mama died!
Of course he’d ruin everything.
It’s what he does best.
Notes:
Alright! Guys, I just wanna let you know (if you haven't seen the Handmaiden) that things get really kooky from here on out. The timeline seems funky. You might not like where things are going or you feel like you missed something! That's intentional! Just stick with me, people. You'll see... trust me...
Stolitz for the win!
Chapter 10: The Wedding
Notes:
⚠️ Content Warning: Please mind the tags, my friends!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The next day arrives as if nothing had happened.
Stolas crosses his legs and steadies his face, though he trembles from talon to plume. He raises the golden mirror with both hands. “Hello, Father,” he says flatly, his voice hollow—drained of everything warm.
The mirror doesn’t show his reflection. It shows King Paimon’s ever-watchful scowl.
“In one week, I will relieve you of your parental duties, owl boy.”
Stolas’s grip tightens. The golden handle fractures in his claws, splintering into glittering shards that spill into his lap.
“Yes, Father.”
“If you’re foolish enough to flee with the princess, just remember the library’s basement.”
Then, just like that, the king’s image vanishes—replaced by blank, polished silver. Stolas stares into it, his expression locked and unreadable.
He tosses the mirror onto the table with a sharp clatter, exhaling shakily. Only then does he notice Blitz lingering in the doorway.
The imp tilts his head slightly, eyes questioning. What happened?
Stolas doesn’t answer. Instead, he rises with a sudden, rigid energy. “Help me gather my things. Crystals, jewelry, potions—everything.” His tone sharpens. “You should be good at that.”
Blitz averts his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck with an awkward chuckle. “Heh… yeah. Sure.”
“I’ve accepted Andrealphus’s proposal,” Stolas says, each word clipped and cold. “On the condition that I take you and Octavia with me. We leave tonight.”
Blitz’s tail flicks, tense and uncertain.
“No need to be so stiff, Blitz.” The prince exhales again, this time softer. He brushes past him into the hallway, adopting the breezy tone of someone preparing for a weekend escape. “Shall we go somewhere nice?”
Blitz hesitates. Then follows.
Under cover of night, the servant and prince move side by side through the palace’s yawning corridors, silent shadows fleeing a gilded cage. Their arms strain under bags heavy with fine vintages, crystal balls, and stolen gold. Stolas cradles his daughter close and never looks back.
They cut through the meadow. Red leaves tumble from the great Nothofagus fusca, painting the air with the color of blood and autumn. Stolas glances up—just once—at the old noose swinging lazily from a gnarled branch.
“C’mon, Stolas,” Blitz whispers, gentle but urgent, drawing him forward into the dark.
They run. Through tall grass. Through silence. Until dawn rises in a hazy bloom of crimson and gold, chasing their shadows across the earth.
At the riverbank, the marquis waits beside a bobbing rowboat, arms crossed and impatient. The dock groans under their steps as they approach. Without greeting, Andrealphus snatches the heaviest bags and thrusts the oars at Blitz.
“We’ll need multiple trips to haul all your trinkets,” he mutters with a flick of his head at Stolas. “We elope in southern Sloth. Come now. The train is waiting.”
Blitz grunts under the weight, half-dragging the bags into the boat.
Stolas lifts one leg into the vessel. It lurches. He sways, unsteady, breath caught in his throat—until Blitz’s hands close around his waist, steadying him. Carefully, the imp guides him down onto the bench.
The prince exhales in a trembling gasp and clutches Octavia to his chest. When Andrealphus turns away, Stolas reaches across the bench and squeezes Blitz’s hand.
Sloth. That’s where the hospital is.
Blitz remains uncharacteristically quiet. He only laces their fingers together and squeezes back.
As they board the southbound train, a stampede of rowdy sinners floods the platform like a crashing wave.
“And then the weirdo shot up an anti-gun violence store!” one of them cackles. “Funniest shit I’ve ever seen!”
“I wish I was fucking there!” his companion howls, doubled over in laughter.
Stolas shrinks against Blitz’s side, wincing as the chaos surges past. The smell of smoke and sweat lingers in their wake.
Andrealphus makes a show of draping his arm over Stolas’s shoulders—only to be shrugged off with a silent, sharp shove. The prince lifts his chin and strides toward the passenger car. Blitz follows close behind, never far from his side.
They eat lunch in stiff silence.
Andrealphus dines on white truffles and oblong tea, sipping like royalty. Blitz gnaws on a stale roll of bread. Stolas quietly feeds Octavia her formula, but doesn’t touch a bite himself.
Blitz tears his roll in half and slides the larger piece across the table. “Eat,” he mutters.
Stolas picks off a crumb. It dissolves on his tongue like ash.
Later, the prince sits by the window, cradling Octavia as the landscape rolls by. He narrates the shifting hues of the sky to her in a whisper:
“Red… orange… yellow… green… blue… indigo… and…”
He pauses, breath catching softly.
“…I’ve never seen the sky so pink before. Look at it, dear."
Octavia looks into the sky and warbles, reaching outward.
By the time they arrive in Sloth, Stolas is so underfed his knees nearly buckle. Blitz catches him just in time, slipping the sleeping baby from his arms.
Wordlessly, the imp bears the weight—his and theirs—as they ascend the steep, winding hill to some stranger’s lodging.
The crescent moon gleams overhead, a delicate sliver of silver suspended in the black.
Inside the cramped, crumbling lodging, Stolas lies back against the mattress, staring up at the water-stained ceiling as Blitz buttons his wedding shirt. The garment is painfully plain—just a crisp, formal thing that technically fits him. Which means, of course, that it looks absolutely wrong. Stolas looks stunning in everything, and this? This makes him look… ordinary. Faded.
“I can’t do this again,” Stolas murmurs, eyes tracking the slow crawl of a cockroach as it slips across their luggage.
Blitz follows his gaze. “Of course,” he mutters under his breath. “Fucking Sloth. No one here’s even heard of a mop.”
The bug disappears into a cracked seam in the suitcase, and to Blitz’s surprise, Stolas doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t even blink.
Blitz exhales slowly through his nose, then bites his lower lip—too hard. Copper floods his tongue. Fucking ow.
“I could kill him,” he says, quiet but pointed. “Right now. Just say the word.”
Stolas doesn’t react. Doesn’t even look at him. “I’ll be okay,” he replies, barely audible. “I’m just… being emotional. It’s my wedding day, after all.”
Blitz’s jaw clenches.
He doesn’t say what he’s thinking—that this feels more like a funeral than a wedding. That Stolas looks like a ghost already. That he doesn’t want to watch this happen.
Instead, he adjusts the prince’s collar with careful fingers, brushing against the side of his throat. Stolas, ever so pliant, lets out soft moan and lets him play with the sensitive feathers there.
“Yeah,” Blitz says roughly. “Emotional.”
The ceremony is empty, rushed, and lifeless. A transaction disguised as matrimony.
The marquis flips a wad of bills to the rando imp officiating the event—payment for the ceremony, the lodging, and his silence.
The imp whistles as he runs his fingers through the cash, eyes glittering with greed. “Pleasure doin’ business with ya!” he cackles.
Under an uneven wooden arch strung with dying flowers, Andrealphus and Stolas stand side by side. The officiant, barely pretending to care, drones out the most half-assed vows imaginable:
“I say, I say, do you vow to be committed to each other? To not steal…”
Blitz sits alone on a rickety bench behind them, Octavia asleep in his arms. He rolls his eyes.
“…To not commit adultery…”
Stolas glances over his shoulder. His gaze locks with Blitz’s. A quiet spark—hungry and haunted—burns in his eyes.
“…To not lie…”
Andrealphus yawns. “We agree to those terms,” he says, dismissive, answering for them both.
The imp tips his oversized hat with a toothy grin. “Then let’s wrap this puppy up!”
Stolas slides a gaudy ring onto Andrealphus’s finger, then drops a yellow carnation into his lap like it’s a discarded napkin. He holds out his hand for something—feathers flaring when Andrealphus hesitates.
Blitz narrows his eyes. Stolas is asking Andrealphus for something? Huh?
With an annoyed sigh, the peacock Goetia produces a small glass vial from his pocket.
Stolas inspects the contents with cold precision. He hums, seemingly satisfied, and tucks it into his suit pocket. Something shifts in him. He straightens. Composed. Controlled. Dangerous.
From the bench, Blitz watches all of this in silence. His tail lashes, anxious and confused.
“I say, I say, I pronounce you husbands!” the officiant shouts. “Enjoy consummatin’ the marriage, you two!” With that, he stuffs the cash into his shirt and bolts into the night, laughter echoing down the hill.
A chorus of crickets buzzes in the dark outside, indifferent and eternal.
Inside, the air feels thin.
Blitz drapes Stolas’s soft red robe over his shoulders, fingers brushing trembling feathers. The prince doesn’t respond. He sits in silence before the mirror, refusing to meet his own reflection.
His voice comes quietly, almost like a thought that escaped before it could be hidden.
“How can a child thrive without a father’s love?”
A pause.
“How can sex be bearable without passion?”
Blitz’s hands still.
That’s when he realizes—Stolas isn’t asking. He’s resigning.
Blitz jerks away like he’s been burned, his breath catching. “You’re not doing this,” he snaps, voice cracking under the weight of too many feelings. “Put some clothes on. Now.”
Stolas doesn’t move. His tone is eerie in its calmness. “It’s alright, Blitz. He won’t force me to do anything.”
“I don’t care!” Blitz barks. “I don’t give a single fuck what he does or doesn’t do! You don’t want this, and you know it!”
There’s a pause.
Then Stolas turns to him slowly, his eyes hazy but smiling—a broken sort of smile, the kind worn by someone who’s already accepted the worst.
“I want something,” he whispers.
And then he kisses him.
It's not loving. It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. His grip tightens around Blitz’s wrist like a lifeline, like he's begging someone—anyone—to make him feel alive again, even if just for a second.
Blitz's mouth collides with his in stunned resistance. His mind screams wait while his body remembers everything they’ve ever been. But this isn’t that. This is wrong.
“Stolas—” he tries to pull away.
But the prince won’t let him. His grip is clawing now, clinging. Blitz hears footsteps in the hallway—Andrealphus. He stiffens, panic thrumming through his spine. He taps frantically on Stolas’s arm—Don't do this. Please stop.
The doorknob turns.
Blitz shoves with everything he has, breaking free just as the door creaks open.
Andrealphus steps in, smug and watchful. Blitz lowers his head and wipes his mouth. It does nothing to stave off the taste of Stolas on his tongue.
Behind him, Stolas chuckles softly, like they’ve shared a joke no one else understands.
But it’s not funny.
The marquis’s gaze slides down Stolas’s barely-draped body. “Hm,” he says, low and satisfied. "There you are."
Stolas doesn’t answer. He stares beyond him, toward Blitz—who has paused, horrified, just watching them.
Their eyes meet.
Andrealphus notices. His smile vanishes. “Out,” he snarls.
Blitz doesn’t move.
So Andrealphus shoves him into the hallway.
Blitz snarls, shoves back, claws bared. “Don’t touch him.”
He charges again—this time to get to Stolas—but the marquis grabs him around the middle, dragging him out like an unruly dog.
“No!” Blitz howls, limbs thrashing. “Stolas—STOLAS!”
The door slams in his face.
And behind it, Stolas says nothing.
Blitz lies stiffly on the narrow cot, barely breathing. Beside him, Octavia coos softly from her crib.
The walls are paper-thin.
It doesn’t take long before the noises start—punched-out gasps, ragged and strained, leaving Stolas’s beak like wounded cries in the dark.
Blitz flinches. He clenches his jaw and forces himself upright, kneeling beside Octavia’s cradle.
To drown it out—to drown himself out—he begins to sing, his voice hoarse and uncertain, clinging to a lullaby his mother used to hum:
“Baby moon and mother starshine,
Speak no reply,
To the monster in their house,
That helps them get by.
Be happy, my dear moon,
My lifeline, my only.
Be happy, my dear mama,
My sunshine, if only.”
His voice cracks mid-verse, but Octavia squirms gently to the rhythm, tiny hands curling. Blitz offers her his finger, and she clasps it in her downy talon. He rests his chin against the crib’s edge and watches her drift.
“You know your dad loves you, right?” he whispers. He nods toward the white lily Stolas left on her blanket. “That’s from him.”
She lets out a soft hoot as he strokes the fluff on her head.
“He puts up with a lot of shi—terrible people. All to give you a life. Like your mom. Like that no-dick snow chicken. Like…”
A pause.
“Like me.”
His claws tighten into his palm until they draw blood.
Another sound from the next room—a whimper this time, high and ragged. A sob? A moan?
Blitz hears every sharp inhale. Each wavering pitch. His own breath catches. He leans forward, eyes wide, searching for meaning in the noise. Is he hurt? Is he scared?
If Stolas called out—just once—if he said his name, even breathed it…
Blitz would tear through these walls. He’d grab the blessed rifle stashed in his duffel, shove it barrel-deep into that peacock bastard and splatter feathers across the floorboards.
But Stolas doesn’t call.
He’s not Blitz’s to save.
So Blitz sits back. Silent. Waiting. Listening.
Only once the noises fade—only once it’s finally over—does Blitz allow his eyes to shut.
And even then, he doesn’t sleep.
“Psst! Stolas!”
The next morning, Blitz bursts into the room without knocking, heart pounding. Andrealphus is gone—thank fucking Satan.
He finds Stolas sitting on the floor, motionless, wrapped in his robe. Blitz exhales in relief. “How did it go?” he hisses, crouching.
Stolas just stares at him.
A lead weight sinks into Blitz’s gut.
“Stolas,” he whispers more urgently, gripping his shoulders. “Talk to me.”
The prince blinks slowly, his eyes glassy. “Did you sleep well, my dear owlet?” he asks, voice soft and wrong—like he’s speaking to someone who isn’t there.
Blitz recoils, as if struck. “…Octavia’s in the other room.”
Stolas blinks again, as if coming into focus. A too-wide smile crawls across his face. “Oh! Hello, darling.” He shuffles forward on his knees and wraps his hands around Blitz’s hips. “Let’s play dress-up again. Would you like that?”
Before Blitz can answer, a gentle aura of magic surrounds him. His limbs twist and grow —his feathers deepen in color. He topples backward with a thud, now looking down at himself as a cardinal.
“What the—?!” Blitz starts, disoriented.
Stolas has changed, too.
He now sits in Blitz’s form—small, white-haired, striped-horned. A diamond marks where his beak should be. His eyes are open and unfocused, pupils visible, shining and foggy.
He’s tiny. Smaller than Blitz’s usual form. Almost childlike.
The impified Stolas slumps forward and rests his cheek on Blitz’s stomach. “We’re being watched,” he murmurs. “I can tell.”
His gaze flicks to the cracked door.
Peeking through the gap is that same strange imp from the ceremony—Wally. He snickers when caught, then scurries away with cartoonish glee, not even trying to be subtle.
“It’s that freak Wackford,” Blitz mutters. “Snow chicken must’ve paid him to keep us from running.”
Stolas hums. “Oh, but we will… won’t we, Blitz?” He nestles closer, voice drowsy and broken. “I can’t live like this. I’d rather you hold my legs while I dangle from a tree.”
Blitz flinches.
“That’s not funny,” he mutters, sitting up and tapping Stolas’s shoulder. “Change back into a bird. You need to get dressed.”
“No,” Stolas replies, smiling faintly. “I’d rather wear your clothes instead.”
Before Blitz can argue, Stolas is tugging at his sweater. Blitz groans and strips it off. The oversized fabric swallows Stolas’s smaller form as he pulls it on, giggling. His white hair falls into his eyes. The sleeves drag far past his wrists.
“You and I, we look a lot alike,” he says dreamily. “Like mirror images. Don’t you think?”
Blitz stares at him. His chest tightens. “Stop it,” he snaps. “Stolas, stop that. You sound like you’re…”
He chokes on the words. “…actually going crazy.”
A snicker echoes from the hallway.
Blitz spins around. Wackford is peeking in again, wide-eyed and entertained.
“Oh my fucking Satan—FUCK OFF!” Blitz snarls, storming to the door.
Wackford vanishes like a greased weasel.
Blitz slams the door, breathing hard. Behind him, Stolas curls up in the too-big sweater, smiling faintly to himself.
"Oh goodness gracious, I have a dick now."
"Stolas, put that away."
A few days pass in eerie quiet.
Then Blitz sees him—Andrealphus—lounging on the porch like a man without a care in the world, a cigarette pinched between two pale fingers. He stares into the dreary pink sky, eyes half-lidded, smoke curling lazily around his beak.
Blitz storms up the steps, fists clenched, vision shaking with fury. Consequences be damned.
“You!”
Andrealphus turns his head slowly, dragging his eyes down Blitz’s frame. The imp is still dressed in the ridiculous ballgown Stolas insisted he wear—a flamboyant swirl of reds and golds with far too many sparkles. It clashes violently with his feathers.
The peacock prince hums. “That Goetia disguise is horrendous,” he remarks dryly. “And mulberry purple does nothing for your complexion.”
Blitz bristles. “Stolas is literally going fucking insane. Why aren’t we putting him in the madhouse already?”
Andrealphus exhales a perfect ring of smoke, utterly unbothered. He withdraws a gold watch from the folds of his sequined cloak, checks the time, and sighs.
“Patience, pigeon. The paperwork takes time. The marriage must be certified, and his assets liquidated. It’s all rather boring, really.”
Blitz grits his teeth—and then groans as he notices movement by the side of the house.
Wally Wackford is tiptoeing toward Stolas’s room again, holding a clipboard and a pair of opera glasses. Just as he leans in, the door creaks open and Stolas pokes his head out, smiling brightly.
“Hello~!” the prince chirps.
Wally shrieks, startles, and topples head-first down the porch steps, limbs flailing.
Blitz groans. “Did you really have to pay that stupid bitch to spy on us?”
Andrealphus shrugs, tapping ash off the cigarette. “You’re welcome to kill him. Just make sure to rob him first—his savings are pitiful, but I’ll take every coin.”
He takes one last drag of the cigarette, burning it down to the filter in a single inhale. He holds up the used stub, admiring it with quiet satisfaction.
“I’m truly a remarkable man.”
Blitz just stares at him, stunned by the sheer audacity.
“…You’re a fucking lunatic.”
Andrealphus smiles faintly, watching Wally’s body roll into the ravine.
After a week, Andrealphus finally does it.
It’s raining.
Stolas stands in the garden, drenched, rocking Octavia in his arms. The begonias he planted are bowed and battered under the storm. He's still in his imp form, still unrecognizable.
Octavia claws and bites at him, confused and upset, trying to wriggle free. Stolas only hums, listlessly, as if her distress doesn’t register.
At least he’s short now—short enough for Blitz to easily hold the umbrella over both their heads.
From above, Wally Wackford perches on the roof with binoculars, leering with faux discretion.
“Do you not have anything fucking better to do?!” Blitz shouts at him.
Wally jumps—and slips. A squawk echoes as he plummets off the roof. Goodbye Wally Whatever-the-fuck.
Behind them, the sound of footfalls on gravel grows louder—slow, deliberate.
Andrealphus appears, trudging up the path, two swollen briefcases in hand. His cloak is soaked at the hem but immaculate above the waist. Regal as ever.
Blitz drops the umbrella without thinking. It tumbles into the mud as he bolts forward, gown dragging behind him, rainwater splattering up his legs.
Andrealphus reaches the porch, sets the bags down with a heavy thud, and smooths his cloak like nothing in the world could possibly wrinkle him. Then he gestures. “Open it.”
Blitz’s hands tremble as he undoes the string and unclasps the buckles. He throws the case open.
He gasps.
His pupils dilate.
Inside is more money than he’s ever seen in his life. Bills bursting at the seams. A fortune so massive it doesn’t even look real.
Andrealphus smiles faintly. “The smaller case is yours. You may take whatever clothing remains in Stolas’s room.”
Then he reaches into his inner coat and retrieves the grimoire, holding it out between two fingers like a parting gift. “I believe this also belongs to you.”
Blitz snatches it, hugging it to his chest. He’s buzzing—his tail can’t stop twitching.
Behind him, Stolas finally approaches. He stares down at the open case, unmoving, then up at Blitz.
His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Andrealphus watches the exchange with a smirk, studying his husband’s reaction like a curious scientist dissecting an insect.
Blitz glances at him, then back at the cash. The impossible wealth. The power he’s always wanted. And he can't help it—he smiles. A quiet, giddy smile. The grimoire warms his chest where he clutches it.
Stolas sinks down beside them and buries his face in his hands.
Octavia clutches his arm, blinking through the rain. Her voice trembles.
“What kind of servant,” Stolas whispers, “only holds an umbrella for himself?”
Blitz doesn't reply.
Andrealphus rolls his eyes. “I’ll summon a doctor,” he mutters, turning away as Octavia begins to cry.
The rain keeps falling.
No one moves to pick the umbrella back up.
Blitz turns the blue spinel earrings over in his palm, watching how the edges catch the hazy pink light and scatter it across his skin. They sparkle like they don’t know what they’re about to represent.
He tenses as footsteps approach behind him.
Andrealphus arrives, flanked by a tall Goetia in a pressed suit and two goat demons in sterile white coats. All three carry the same sterile chill as an operating room.
“They’re from the madhouse,” Andrealphus murmurs, just loud enough for Blitz to hear. “You know what to say, don’t you, Blitz?”
Blitz glances at the hospital staff—their blank faces, their hands clasped politely in front of them like they’ve done this a thousand times. He nods.
They gather around a low table in the center of the lodging. The mood is thick with unspoken tension. No one speaks at first.
Andrealphus sits at the far end, eyes fixed on Blitz like a vulture waiting for movement. The hospital staff sit in crisp, practiced posture, waiting. Blitz stares through the window at the patio.
Outside, Stolas is rocking Octavia, humming softly as he tilts back a bottle of absinthe. Rain mists across his imp-form feathers. His eyes are distant. He doesn't notice the gathering inside.
“My name is President Buer,” the brown thrasher demon says smoothly. “Great President of Hell, and overseer of all infirmities. These are my nurses.”
One of the goat demons nods. “You’ve been looking at that imp for some time,” she says gently, like addressing a child. “Who is that?”
Blitz doesn’t hesitate. His voice is cool, detached. “That’s Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia.”
“And who are you?” the other nurse asks, cocking his head.
“Blitz Buckzo,” Blitz replies. “Servant to the royal family.”
A pause.
The nurses exchange a glance. President Buer hums, fingers steepled under his beak. “And what kind of care, in your professional opinion… does His Highness require, Blitz?”
Blitz doesn’t respond immediately. Andrealphus’s eyes are drilling holes into him.
His gaze falls to the blue spinel earrings still resting in his palm. He inhales shakily, and clips them onto his head feathers.
“Blitz.” Andrealphus’s voice is low, edged with warning.
Blitz forces himself to speak.
“…Honorable Buer,” he says, voice stiff. “I believe the prince should be taken to a place where he can’t harm himself. Or… anyone else.”
The words taste like rot in his mouth.
The nurses nod. “We understand.”
Buer makes a quiet note. “We’ll begin the intake proceedings immediately.”
Blitz doesn’t look back at Stolas.
As far as Andrealphus knows, we’re right on script.
Notes:
Like I said before... things aren't what they seem... Don't trust me... Don't trust the characters...
I'll try to get the next chapter out tomorrow... DW STOLITZ ENDGAME TRUST
Chapter 11: The Madhouse
Summary:
The prince consort is pleased with everything that's happened here.
Notes:
Blitz and Stolas love each other I SWEAR trust me trust me trust me, you will see!!!!
*claps hands* commence the angst!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s time to go.
Wally’s beat-up van rattles through the countryside, belching smoke and skipping over potholes like a drunken insect.
Stolas presses his forehead against the window and watches the wildflowers passing them by while Octavia snuggles her fleecy face into his chest. He turns away from the window and stops short when he notices Blitz staring at him. The prince’s white hair is matted against his forehead where he'd pressed it flush against the glass.
They do this often: gaze at each other in silence, each trying to read the other’s mind. Neither speaks. Neither dares. Eventually, the tension grows too thick, and they always look away.
Today, they don’t.
Blitz lets out a quiet, wet laugh—half breath, half sigh—and looks down at his lap. Then he looks again.
Still watching.
Still wondering what it means.
Stolas tilts his head slightly. His voice is distant. “I like Blitz’s company,” he says, like a child remarking on the weather. “Thank you for bringing him to me. I’d like him not to be put underground.”
Blitz blinks. What the fuck does that mean?
Andrealphus catches Blitz’s eye in the rearview mirror and offers a smug little smile, like he understands. Like this is going exactly to plan.
“We’ll make a quick detour before dinner,” the peacock prince announces, placing a cigarette between his beak. Blitz notices the shake in his talons as he lights it.
Before the flame even touches the tip, Stolas shoves the car door open.
The car door bursts open.
Blitz screeches in alarm and snatches his tail before he can plant his pretty face and precious daughter on the pavement.
“Shitshitshit, fuck—STOLAS!”
“Stop the car!”
Wally panics. “Wuh—woah, I say—I SAY—WOAH!”
The van skids.
Andrealphus’s face slams into the dashboard with a sharp squawk.
Blitz pants, still gripping Stolas’s tail like a lifeline. “What the fuck was that?! Are you trying to kill yourself?!”
But Stolas is calm—eerily calm. He gently adjusts Octavia in his arms, steps out, and walks to the edge of the road.
He bends over.
And picks flowers.
Blitz watches, slack-jawed with rage. “Are you fucking kidding me?! You nearly died—for flowers?!”
Stolas says nothing as he returns to the van, settling wordlessly into the seat beside Blitz. The van lurches forward again. From the front seat, Andrealphus lets out an agitated hiss, smoothing his ruffled feathers.
“Would it kill either of you to avoid another incident?” he snaps. “We’re almost there. And why in hell are you two still in your disguises?"
Stolas turns, brushes back Blitz’s feathers, and gently tucks a pink camellia into his head feathers.
He smiles.
Softly. Quietly.
"I like us like this," is all Stolas says.
The vehicle rolls to a slow crawl in front of a towering, grim structure. Even beneath the cotton-candy glow of the pink sky, the building looms—sinister and immovable. Gray cobblestone walls. Barred black windows. And from deep within, the unhinged wails of the damned cut through the air like broken glass.
A rusted sign reads:
Belphegor’s Institute for the Mentally Insane.
Andrealphus steps out first, brushing nonexistent lint from his cloak. He raps his knuckles against Stolas’s window.
“Let me hold Octavia, Stolas,” he says coolly.
Stolas presses a kiss to his daughter’s forehead, whispering something only she can hear before reluctantly handing her over.
She chooses this exact moment to sneeze violently all over Andrealphus’s pristine feathers.
“Ugh!” he recoils, holding her at arm’s length like she’s a cursed relic.
Blitz bites back a laugh and offers his hand to Stolas. The prince takes it, unsteady, squinting up at the asylum like he’s just woken from a dream and found himself in a nightmare. He stumbles slightly as he steps down.
“You may go now,” Andrealphus mutters to Wally.
“Do I get a tip?” Wally asks with a hopeful wiggle of his brows.
With a sigh, Andrealphus flicks a gold coin at him.
Wally gasps and snatches it mid-air, cackling as he peels off down the road—even as the coin begins to melt in his palm.
They approach the facility.
A row of hospital staff waits silently at the gates. President Buer, his wings tucked tight. The two nurses from before, both holding clipboards. A massive hellhound crouches beside them, still as a statue.
Blitz walks beside Stolas, who now barely reaches his shoulder. Once a proud nine-foot prince, now a small, quiet imp in the open daylight. His pupils scan the building. His shoulders rise, small and unsure, as the screams inside echo louder.
Blitz watches him falter.
Then, without thinking, he reaches out—grabs his wrist—and pulls him into a hug
“Oh—!” Stolas exhales, surprised. He doesn't move for a long moment, and then he sinks into Blitz's embrace. Blitz can hear his heart thudding quickly in his chest.
For a few moments, they just stand there in the middle of the driveway, clinging to each other. Blitz’s arms tighten. His eyes squeeze shut. He doesn’t want to let go. Not yet, at least.
Stolas shifts, trying to pull away. He has a worried expression on his face.
Blitz hates to see it. He holds him tighter.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know Andrealphus is watching. Just… just tell me you’ll be okay.”
“I will,” Stolas replies quietly, “if you will.”
“…Fine.”
Only then does Blitz loosen his grip. Stolas steps back. Then another step. And another.
He’s almost in the street when Andrealphus smoothly places a hand on his shoulder, guiding him back toward the building.
President Buer steps forward, his voice calm and practiced. “Hello, Your Highness. We’ve met before. Do you remember me?”
Stolas blinks up at him, pupils flicking from his face to the building and back again. He doesn’t answer.
Blitz stands across the driveway, arms wrapped around himself, talons digging into his elbows. He watches the Stolas, who now seems impossibly far away.
Even now, Blitz can't look away.
But President Buer isn’t looking at Stolas.
“Your Highness?” he asks again.
He’s looking directly at Blitz.
The brown thrasher sighs and nods at the hellhound beside him. Without hesitation, the beast lumbers forward and clamps a massive paw around Blitz’s wrist.
Blitz rips away. “The fuck?!” he barks. “Get your filthy paws off me!”
“There’s no need to be upset, Your Highness,” a nurse says gently. “Just come inside with us.”
“The hell?!” Blitz whips his head back and forth. “No. No, no, no—You’ve got the wrong guy. I’m an imp,” he says, jabbing a claw at his very cardinal-looking face.
The other nurse tsks. “Still thinks he’s an imp. Poor thing.”
Blitz’s feathers flare as he points frantically at Stolas. “That’s the prince! I told you already!”
He spins toward Andrealphus, face wild. “Hey, asshole! Tell them!”
Andrealphus grins, delight twinkling behind milky white claws as he titters into his palm. “Oh, Blitz,” he sighs with mock affection. “You’ve done your part so well, despite some hiccups here and there. Truly, I couldn't have accomplished anything without your naivety. But alas… I don’t like sharing wealth with little thieves. I hope you understand.”
He blows a kiss.
Blitz flips him off—unimpressed by the betrayal, but still raw from the sheer audacity. Before he can speak again, the hellhound lunges, pinning his arms.
“Your Highness!” Blitz screams, thrashing violently. “Stolas, help me—!”
Stolas steps forward. "Wait."
All eyes shift to the prince.
Stolas comes closer, his eyes downcast. His voice quivers. “My poor prince…” he says softly, “…I’m afraid he’s gone mad.”
Blitz freezes.
Tears gather at the corners of Stolas’s eyes. “He needs to be taken to a place where he can do no harm to himself…”
He swallows.
“…and does no harm to others.”
“What the fuck?!” Blitz howls. “HOW FUCKING COULD YOU?!”
“Please refrain from that language, Your Highness,” a nurse drones, already unfolding restraints.
“WHAT THE FUCK—” Blitz is shrieking now, legs kicking, claws scraping the brick as the nurses swarm him. “YOUR HIGHNESS, PLEASE—”
Stolas doesn’t respond.
He walks calmly to President Buer, his imp body regal in its own tragic way. His tail flicks as he removes two small items from his common clothing: a folded drawing and a blue sapphire pendant.
“If I may…” he says.
Buer holds out his hand.
Stolas lays the items gently in his palm. “Could you give these to His Highness? He treasured them deeply… before his mind went.”
Blitz bellows in the background, spit flying, eyes wide and feral. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLES! I WAS RIGHT—YOU’RE ALL A BUNCH OF SCHEMING, POMPOUS, LYING—*”
Stolas ducks his head… and laughs.
Blitz is clawing at the pavement now, leaving dark scrapes as he’s dragged inside, shrieking his throat raw. “STOLAS! STOLAS!! You son of a bitch!”
The asylum doors slam shut behind him.
The sudden silence is deafening.
Stolas adjusts a daffodil into his hair and turns to Andrealphus.
“My daughter is hungry,” he says, voice calm and clear. “Take us somewhere to eat.”
Notes:
STAY WITH ME PEOPLE IT'S NOT WHAT IT SEEMS
wait wait wait wait wait!!!!Blitz loves Stolas, Stolas loves Blitz, it's in the tags! Trust me. Wait!
Next chapter next week, as always.
Chapter 12: When Blitzo was Here
Summary:
Prince Stolas adored his daughter more than anything else in the world. She was the only good thing in his life—his only purpose for living.
When King Paimon threatened to take her away, Stolas had no choice but to team up with Marquis Andrealphus and make some…questionable life choices.
But could Stolas really bring himself to forsake Blitz? There had to be another way.
(PART 2)
Notes:
Sorry for taking so long! I've been incredibly busy recently. I hope u enjoy this chapter.
Time to rewind ⏪️⏪️⏪️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“No! I’m not a son of a bitch—I’m not!”
The golden bell shimmered in Father’s hand like a holy relic—sickening in its sanctity. Without a word, he pressed it into the boy’s mouth.
It rang: A bright, beautiful chime, muffled only by the soft, strangled scream that followed. Stolas thrashed and cried, but the sound was reduced to whimpering around the cruel metal lodged in his throat.
“Hold out your hand, owl boy.”
He flinched instinctively. But the imp at his side seized his wrist, yanking it forward. And then—
Crack.
The bells met flesh. Pain screamed through his delicate talons, sharp and searing, white-hot and instant. His body lurched, and he shook his head frantically. A sob exploded from his chest—muffled, pathetic. Mr. Butler's face twisted with focus as he fought to pin the boy’s trembling arm still.
Crack.
Again. The whip bit down. Another scream tore loose, shrill and helpless. Black blood smeared his dark knuckles, not that anyone could tell or care.
Father clicked his tongue. “It’s one thing for you to feel pain. But must you make your bitch crying everyone’s burden?”
Crack.
A final chime rang through the chamber, delicate and damning. His body convulsed. His eyes rolled back as blood ran in thin, glistening beads down his trembling wrist. A groan slipped past the bell in his mouth—soft, breathless, defeated.
He held out his broken hand, obediently this time. Blood dripped down his forearm, staining his sleeve. Red moon eyes shimmered behind a veil of tears. But he didn’t cry out. Didn’t flinch. He swallowed back the sound.
He had just turned eleven today. He wasn't a child anymore.
Father tapped his talons against the photograph on the table with calculated rhythm.
Stolas didn’t look. He didn’t need to. He already saw that girl's face burned into his memory—that snarl, that hideous gleam in her eyes as she choked the life from her pet.
And "that girl" would be his bride: Marchioness Stella.
“If you plan to test me with impudence toward your lovely fiancée,” Father said, voice low and venomous, “then you had best remember the sting of these bells.”
The whip was passed to Mr Butler. The bell was tugged from his mouth, slick with saliva and blood. He must have bit himself, somehow.
“I’m sorry...” His voice came out cracked, frayed.
“Speak up!”
“I—I’m sorry, Father!”
A scoff. “If you were truly sorry, you wouldn’t still be sniveling. Hold your head high. You ought to feel honored to bear the Goetia name. Without it, you’re nothing. Best remember that.”
Stolas didn’t argue. He didn’t breathe. He simply nodded and stared at the floor, dizzy from pain.
Father clapped, cheerful as a ringmaster. “Enough of this performance. The real one begins now. They've gathered in the pavilion.” He turned on his heel. “Come along. And imp—clean him up, will you?”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
Mr. Butler took the boy’s ruined talon in a handkerchief and began to squeeze. Blood gushed between his fingers, slick and dark. Stolas shut his eyes, jaw clenched tight, and braced himself against the scream clawing up his throat.
Mr. Butler cleans his wounds and bandages him carefully.
The flesh heals in a matter of minutes, ready to be bloodied anew.
Whenever his birthday came around, the young prince was granted a grand collection of gifts and a few hours of entertainment—never too much, of course. Play, after all, was not to be prioritized. His father insisted that Stolas be exposed to the performances of others, not for his own amusement, but to observe—to learn how best to present himself when the time came to meet expectations.
The performances varied. Some were tolerably pleasant; most were dreary. Anyone could recite the scriptures, but few could make them sing. Stolas preferred the ones with music—vivid, trembling harmonies that made him feel something—but his father had always discouraged any fondness for song. Apparently, to love music was to possess a passion unsuited to a mighty prince of Hell.
Stolas wished it weren’t so.
He had assumed that this year’s circus act would blur into the rest—forgettable and flat.
(He couldn’t have been more wrong.)
From his private balcony, nestled above the assembled crowd, the prince surveyed the chaos of the carnival: the jarring clang of cymbals, garish costumes, and the same tired gags. And yet, amid the racket and spectacle, one performer caught his attention.
This imp was different.
He didn’t just make Stolas laugh—he ripped laughter out of him. Loud, unrestrained giggles burst from the prince’s throat, and soon his chest ached with it, eyes stinging with tears he couldn’t blink away fast enough.
The imp was clever. There was a wild, roguish charm in his grin—something untamed, something alive.
And yes... Stolas found him cute.
Their eyes met as the imp, mid-flourish, picked up on the unexpected sound of royal laughter cutting through the noise of spinning knives and shrieking hell-horses. When he smiled—wide and triumphant—it was like watching the world shift into color.
“Ha! At least someone has a sense of humor!”
Ah, that approval.
Stolas raised a hand to his cheek. It was warm.
By the time the performance ended, Stolas could hardly recall the other acts; his gaze had been ensnared by one circus boy. As the imp bowed and turned away, a quiet ache tightened in the prince’s chest, a melancholy bloom he hadn’t expected.
“Oh, don’t go just yet,” he murmured, resting his cheek against his palm, already slipping into daydream. “I don’t even know your name…”
Behind him, the mirror shimmered.
When Stolas returned to the library’s grand entrance, he was startled to find his father already waiting—and not alone.
“Ah, you’ve finally stopped brooding,” the elder Goetia said with a roll of his eyes. “Thank Lucifer. I’ve brought you one of the little circus mice who managed to lift your dreadful mood.”
He gestured toward the circus’s thoroughly inebriated ringleader, who was knocking back vodka with one hand while shoving his son forward with the other.
“Oh!” Stolas flushed, his heart giving a sudden leap. “It’s you!”
The young imp trudged forward, clearly against his will, wearing a scowl as deep as a trench.
“In light of your earlier display,” his father said coolly, “I’ve procured you a playmate.”
“Really?” Stolas gasped. Excitement shot through his veins like lightning. “Oh—thank you, Father!”
He clasped his hands together, eyes bright with delight as he beamed up at the towering figure. His father responded with only a disinterested hum before turning away, the heavy library doors creaking open in his wake.
One adult took his leave.
The ringleader groaned, swayed dramatically—and then collapsed face-first into the grass.
Ah. Two adults took their leave.
The imp boy scoffed and crossed his arms tightly, as if to shield himself from the moment. There was a flicker of embarrassment in his posture—shoulders drawn in, gaze averted.
“I’m Stolas!” the prince blurted, clumsily pressing a hand to his chest, as if that might steady the frantic rhythm of his heart. “What’s yours?”
The boy sucked on the inside of his cheek and offered a shrug—half-hearted, guarded. “It’s Blitzo, your highness.”
“Oh, you can just call me Stolas.”
That made Blitzo glance up and really look at him. There was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, the wariness of someone unused to softness. But he didn’t look away.And just like that, butterflies took flight in Stolas’s belly.
Blitz narrows his eyes. "Um… why is your hand bleeding?”
The prince’s eyes widened. Heat rushed to his face when he realized that his bandages had come off somehow, and the wound had opened back up. He instinctively tucked his injured hand behind his back and gave a breathless laugh, but Blitzo was already circling around him, peeking over his shoulder.
“That looks really cool.”
A rush of joy bloomed in Stolas’s chest. He immediately brought the hand forward again, palm up like a prized treasure. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Blitzo said, inspecting it with the casual authority of someone used to getting scraped up. “But you should probably put a band-aid on it. Or it'll get, like, slimy and gross.”
Stolas ducked his head, cheeks glowing with sheepishness. “I… I don’t have any bandages right now.”
Without ceremony, Blitzo turned on his heel. “Let’s go see Barbie. I think she has some.”
He didn’t wait for a response—just took off, darting through the tall meadow grass like a spark caught in the wind.
Stolas hurried after him, breath catching in his throat, heart pounding as fast as his feet. They raced past the treeline until yellow and red tents rose into view.
He noticed the dark stains on the canvas. Blood, perhaps. He didn’t ask.
There were so many folds in the canvas, and Blitzo slipped through them so fast, that to follow him felt like chasing color itself—red and yellow flashing around the prince in a dizzying flurry.
At last, they burst into a small clearing. A handful of young imps were playing there, laughter ringing in the warm air. One of them—whom Stolas recognized from the performance—was launching balloon animals into the sky with a makeshift air pump. His grin widened the moment he spotted Blitzo.
“Hey, Blitzo!” he chirped.
“Hiya, Fizz!”
But the imp's smile faltered as soon as he noticed the fluffy newcomer trailing behind. His whole expression twisted into confusion. “What.”
Nearby stood a girl who bore a striking resemblance to Blitzo, though her curled, jet-black horns marked her as distinct. Stolas guessed she must be his sister—perhaps even a twin.
Blitzo swatted a balloon horse out of the air and trotted up to her, where she was balancing on a crate, rhythmically spinning hula hoops around all four limbs.
“Hey, Barbie, do we have band-aids?”
“What did you do?” she groaned without looking at him. She hopped off the crate and kicked it over with practiced flair. Beneath it lay a small, beat-up pack of bandages.
“It’s not for me!” Blitzo declared, snatching the pack and grabbing Stolas’s hand to inspect the wound more closely.
The prince let out a startled squeak. He’s holding my hand. His cheeks flared with heat, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to contain the giddy flutter rising in his chest.
Barbie finally noticed the newcomer. Her head snapped around, and the hula hoops spun wildly off-course, clattering to the ground like startled birds. “Why is there a prince here?!” she hissed, leaping backward and grabbing Fizz by the arm.
Fizz yanked her closer by one of her horns and whispered something that made her eyes roll with theatrical exaggeration.
“Papa’s a piece of work,” she muttered, then zeroed in on her brother. “Blitzo, you have to wash the wound first! You’re doing it all wrong!”
“I am not!” he barked, digging his heels in as she tried to shoulder past him. “No, let me do it!”
“Yeah, Boobie, you suck!” Fizz cackled.
Barbie grabbed a dented canteen, popped the cap, and unceremoniously dumped its contents over Stolas’s hand. Cold water splashed down his wrist, and the blood thinned into a red trickle.
She tossed the canteen behind her without looking.
It hit Fizz on the head.
“Ow!”
Before Barbie could make another move, Blitzo triumphantly slapped a red band-aid onto Stolas’s talon and grinned like he’d won a duel. His sister glared at him, arms crossed, unimpressed.
Stolas held up his dripping hand to admire it—his feathers damp, the water still clinging to his wrist. But all he saw was the tiny red bandage. He smiled, flushed and glowing. “Thank you.”
Blitzo and Barbie both recoiled, eyes wide. They exchanged a baffled look and mouthed in perfect sync: “Thank you?What?”
Stolas had to cover his mouth to hide the laugh bubbling up. They really were twins—like reflections in a carnival mirror.
“Don’t get too close,” Fizz called from across the clearing, voice full of mischief. “You’ll get Sammy!”
“Sammy?” Stolas echoed, puzzled.
Barbie smirked. “He means salmonella. He thinks you’re gonna poison us or something.” Then, seeing Stolas’s furrowed brow, she added with a shrug, “Don’t worry. He’s just jealous that Blitzo gets to spend all afternoon with you instead of him.”
“I am not!” Fizz protested.
“And Blitzo’s just mad that Fizzarolli upstaged him again,” she said slyly.
“I am not!” Blitzo barked, spinning around to scowl at both of them.
Fizz stuck out his tongue. “The prince can’t even be your friend if he doesn’t like horses!”
Blitzo immediately turned back to Stolas, all urgency. “Do you like horses?”
“Why, yes! I have several books on horses. Would you like to see them?”
“Are there pictures?”
“Of course there are pictures.”
“He has pictures!” Blitzo shouted, already darting out from under the tent flaps. “Bye, Fizz!”
“Blitzo, noooooo!!!”
Stolas led Blitzo into his lavish room. The imp scoffed at the towering bookshelf—then immediately buried his nose in a stack of equestrian books, utterly absorbed. Meanwhile, Stolas perched beside him with a volume on the living world’s solar system. He rang a little bell for refreshments, nervously peppering Blitzo with, “Are you having fun? Truly? Is there anything else you’d like?” The lonely prince had never hosted a guest before; he was desperate to get it right.
Blitzo was all bright smiles, waving his favorite horse book in the air and scattering cookie crumbs across the polished floor—though Stolas couldn’t care less.
“I’m a clown, happy clown, I’m a clown, whoo-whoo!” Blitzo sing-songed, prancing in circles.
Stolas giggled around a chocolate chip. “A clown or a cloud?”
“A clown, not a cloud!” Blitzo crowed—and promptly leaped onto the bed, bouncing so hard the mattress squealed. “I’m flying in the air because I am a cloud!”
Stolas laughed, cheeks aching. Blitzo watched him, eyes sparkling, clearly delighted by every scrap of amusement he could pull from the prince.
“I’m flying! Whoopsie-doo—whoa!”
The sugar hit full force. Blitzo hurled the horse book across the room. “Be free!” he howled. Stolas collapsed sideways with helpless cackles.
“Blitzo, what on earth—” he gasped.
“Stolas!” Blitzo dropped to the floor in a flip, grabbing his shoulder. “Hey! I’ve got the bestest idea ever—”
“It’s just best idea, not—”
“Shh, shut up!” Blitzo beamed, practically vibrating. “It’s genius.” He slung an arm around Stolas’s shoulders. The prince’s heart stuttered.
“All these other books? Bad. Inside is bad, like heaven—too many rules, too dark and stuffy. So we gotta save the shiny, expensive things before they get infected. We take them outside.”
“That makes no sense,” Stolas snickered—then softened under Blitzo’s gleaming eyes. “But… alright. If that’s what you want.”
“Yes, yes, yes! Let’s do it!”
They tore through the mansion, filling their arms with gold, jewels, enchanted trinkets, even exquisite silver cutlery. Cabinets slammed, chests flew open.
Then, with a shared breathless grin—the kind only childhood conspiracies forge—they started hurling treasures out the window.
Stolas nearly pitched his beloved grimoire after them, but Blitzo lunged to grab his arm. “Whoa, hey! Non-horse books are dumb anyway, not worth saving!”
"This book is important!"
“You— you almost touched me with it!” Blitzo shrieked. “Stolas, nooo, the book infected you!”
Stolas broke down laughing, tears springing to his eyes. When he reached for Blitzo, the imp squealed and bolted.
“Gross! You’re an angel now! You can’t catch me!”
Was this it—what having a friend felt like? Was this tag? Stolas chased after him, laughter snatching the air from his lungs as they burst out into the crimson meadow.
Wind tore through his head-feathers as he sprinted. Blitzo glanced back, grinning just to see Stolas still on his tail, before scaling a tree with squirrel-like ease.
“Blitzo-o-o!” Stolas wheezed, reaching for the branch where the imp dangled his tail just out of reach.
Blitzo teased him, swinging it close, then yanking it away. Stolas nearly caught it, face flushed and puffed from the effort.
Eventually Blitzo flipped off the branch and dashed deeper into the meadow.
Stolas followed—until Blitzo vaulted over a small stone fence. Stolas skidded to a halt, talons clawing at the earth. His heart thundered.
“C’mon, Stolas! Why’re you so sloooow?” Blitzo taunted, waving from the other side.
Stolas clasped his hands to his chest. “I… I’m not allowed to leave the estate.”
Blitzo tilted his head. “Aw, come on! You’re no fun!”
oh
There it was. The old sting.
Tears pricked hot behind his eyes. He edged closer to the fence, heart pounding, Paimon’s stern warnings echoing in his skull.
“I’m really not allowed,” he whispered.
“Why?”
Stolas bit his lip, hugging the grimoire to his chest. “I’m sorry.”
Blitzo’s teasing smirk faded, replaced by curiosity. He hopped back over the stones. “Why’re you sorry?”
“Because…” Stolas fidgeted with the ornate buttons on his coat. “I’m being a bad friend. I’m not any fun at all.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s alright,” Stolas sighed, bowing his head. “I’ve never had a friend before. I suppose I’m simply not very good at it.”
“Stolas, I was just teasing!” Blitzo blurted, eyes wide, scrambling to figure out why the prince suddenly looked so crestfallen. “Hey— you can tag me if you want…”
Stolas hesitated, then delicately tapped his grimoire against Blitzo’s shoulder. “You’re… it?”
Blitzo nodded, but then his gaze dropped to the ornate spellbook. “That thing’s gotta be real important to you.”
“Oh, it’s not just any book, Blitzo.” Stolas brightened, clutching it close. “It’s my grimoire—my one-of-a-kind spellbook. It’s the key to all my studies of the living world’s skies and magic. Truly, it is the crux of my existence… to serve the Goetia family.”
“Uh, sure…” Blitzo scratched his neck, finding that choice of words a little eerie. “Me, I’m gonna have a giant office for my circus business one day. Be so rich, people will have to listen ‘cause I’m the boss.”
“An imp, a boss?” Stolas giggled behind his hand. The idea was absurd—and utterly adorable. “Well, if any imp could be, it’d surely be you.”
Blitzo tried to smother a grin, then planted his fists on his hips. “Stolas, I’ve got a serious question for you. How does it feel to be—IT! TAG, YOU’RE IT!”
“What—no! Blitzo! That’s cheating!”
“It is not!”
“Yes it is!”
Laughing wildly, Blitzo sprang into the red tree and swung from a thick branch. Stolas scrambled after him, little talons scrabbling uselessly at the bark. He puffed out his cheek, glaring up.
“Ha! Look at you!” Blitzo snorted, inching closer and offering his hand. “It’s easy. Just do exactly what I say.”
“Yes, alright… let us do that,” Stolas sighed. He took Blitzo’s hand, half-climbing, half-flailing—and ultimately was hauled up by sheer imp determination.
They perched together, legs dangling, gazing out over the glowing meadow. Somehow, with Blitzo beside him, the estate looked bright and new, like a secret world meant just for them.
Too soon, a distant voice called Blitzo’s name.
Blitzo’s shoulders drooped. “Aw, gotta go.”
“Already?” Stolas’s heart pinched. “But… what about everything we tossed out the window?”
“I’ll clean it up,” Blitzo said with a shrug, hopping down in a scatter of crimson leaves. “My dad can help.”
Of course. Imps always cleaned up after Goetia messes.
Stolas squeezed his eyes shut and jumped after him. His talons bit the ground hard, sending a sting up his legs.
Don’t cry, don’t cry…
Fiddling with his claws, he whispered, “Thank you for today. Will I—oh!”
Blitzo caught his wrist and tugged him into a quick, fierce hug. Stolas’s breath hitched. Before he could even blink, Blitzo was already trotting off, waving over his shoulder.
“You’re fun, Stolas! Seeya!”
The prince stood there, watching until Blitzo was just a dark speck among the grass. When he pressed his fingertips to his cheeks, they burned hot.
"...ever see you again?"
“Seeya,” he’d said—so casually, as if it were certain they’d meet again. Stolas clung to that tiny promise for years, nursing the fragile hope that one day, they would.
He had a stuffed imp doll, gifted by some long-forgotten servant when he was just a hatchling. In his daydreams, the doll came alive. Together, they’d read books, climb trees, play endless games of tag. It was never “I’m going to the meadow to play by myself,” but always, “I’m going to the meadow to play with Blitzo.” It was like an imaginary friend—only better, because their friendship had once been real. And perhaps, if he was very lucky, Stolas might feel that same dizzy, unshackled joy again.
He climbed the red beech tree every day. For someone who agonized over every heartbeat, every breath, these small moments of triumph mattered. They proved that even someone as bound and helpless as he was could still learn to climb.
It meant he held some tiny jurisdiction over his life.
It meant he was almost happy.
Which was lovely—while it lasted.
Several weeks after Stolas’s eleventh birthday, his fiancée began living at the palace. She was precisely the sort of demon he instinctively wanted to avoid—but Father insisted they spend as much time together as possible, even forcing her to attend his reading lessons.
Stolas sat before his book, voice droning over the dense text on gluttony:
“To be heavenly is to purge yourself of food and wine. But what of the rotund Dives, who drew a clear line between what is yours and what is mine? His fearsome dogs bit apart the guests of Dives, blood teeming from their bony apertures—”
Suddenly, Father’s enormous talons clamped around his tiny face, cutting off his breath. Stolas choked, flailing helplessly, his little claws scratching at Father’s scaled hand. Across the table, Stella and Mr. Butler simply watched.
“You feel that?” Father’s voice was a low rumble, sinister with satisfaction. “The frantic beat of your heart, the scramble of your thoughts as your head empties for want of air?”
A muffled, desperate wail clawed from Stolas’s throat: I can’t breathe! Please! I’ll be good—please—!
“That’s how you sound when you read, you feckless little fool. All that frantic scampering. You must think when you read. Ask yourself questions. Use that worthless head.”
He released him at last. Stolas gasped in a lungful of air, then slumped forward, forehead thunking onto the open book. He lifted his head unsteadily, eyes bleary, and tried to find his place. In a trembling voice, he continued:
“… In this light, the hypocritical churches commended the poor, pesky peasants for their starvation, while the intemperate were the rich…”
He read the line again. Then again. Then again. Too tired. Too distracted. Too utterly miserable. He was starting for a fourth time when—
The angelic whip cracked across his cheek. His jaw clenched to stifle a cry. Tears sprang hot in his eyes.
Stella burst into shrieking laughter at the sight of his flinch, delighting in his terror—until Father’s hand lashed out, striking her across the face.
She froze, eyes huge, indignant tears trembling on her lashes. Rage quickly chased away the shock. She screeched, fists balled, but Mr. Butler stepped behind her, gripping her arms to keep her still.
Father struck her again. White feathers burst into the air and drifted to the floor.
“Stop! That hurts!” she howled, legs kicking furiously, rattling the table.
“Listen, peacock girl. I know you’re a little crazy. That’s fine—it seems to run in your family. However,” Father drawled, his voice dropping like a blade, “your future husband will need that temper of yours to keep him in line. If you fail and get out of hand… well, I’ll have to send you somewhere special.”
Stella’s feathers flared, trembling with barely-contained fury. “What?” she hissed.
“There’s a fine institution in Sloth, founded by King Belphegor himself. I hear they lock patients in dainty birdcages and slowly bury them in the ground. If they behave, they’re tossed stale bread and water in their pits. If they misbehave, they throw down more dirt—until they finally find peace. I’d rather not see you put underground, Stella. But if you give me no choice…”
A strangled sound escaped her throat. In a flash, she clawed her fingers into Mr. Butler's eyes. The imp grunted, loosening his grip, and Stella tore free.
She bolted for the library doors, her scream echoing through the vaulted room:
“I want to go home! I want my brother! Andrealphus! Andrealphus!”
She didn’t get far. A red arcane glow enveloped her, freezing her legs mid-run so she thrashed wildly in place. With a casual flick, Father dropped her back into her chair.
“Screw you! I hate you! I’m not crazy!” she spat, shaking all over. She glared at Paimon, thought better of it, and whirled onto Stolas instead. Her claws dug into Stolas’s throat, clutching so tight he whimpered. She leaned in close, eyes wild. “Say I’m not!”
Stolas’s gaze darted from her flushed, furious face to his father’s cool, disinterested stare. “N-no…?”
“You liar!”
She shoved him off his chair. He hit the floor hard—then curled up with a strangled yelp when her foot smashed into his groin.
Stolas screwed his eyes shut, biting back tears.
“You liar, liar, liar!” Stella shrieked, looming over him. “Say it again—say I’m not!”
Father merely licked the tip of his pen and went back to his book.
As it turned out, Stella didn’t just have a taste for tormenting her pets.
The very next day, she turned her fury on the palace staff. Two young maids tried to slip away up the grand staircase, but Stella darted after them, cutting them off with frightening speed. She slapped one so hard her entire small frame twisted from the force—then the imp stumbled backward, clutching her swelling cheek as she tumbled down the steps.
“You think I don’t hear you whispering about me?!” Stella shrieked, white feathers bristling like knives. She raised her hand to strike the second maid, who let out a pitiful whimper and cringed away.
From the top of the staircase, Stolas’s eyes went wide. “Stella, I don’t think you should—”
“Oh really? And what will you do about it, huh? Tell me!”
Her wild eyes locked on him. Before he could react, she lunged—fist tangled in his shirt collar—and hurled him down the stairs.
His small body flew through the air. He landed hard on his back, breath knocked clean out of him. Gasping, he stared up at the painted portraits of himself lining the wall—each one staring down with solemn, unblinking eyes.
Everyone already thought Stella was mad. Over time, she’d come to embrace it. Driving everyone else to madness made her feel strangely better, too.
On their eighteenth birthdays, they made solemn vows:
To be faithful.
To not steal.
Stella promptly threw herself into lavish parties, frivolously bleeding Stolas’s coffers dry.
To not commit adultery.
Yet she quickly took a liking to a seagull lord and a falcon lady, slipping away to their beds after her decadent feasts.
To not lie.
Well—Stella had at least one virtue. She was never secretive. Especially not on the night of their only successful copulation.
“What a pathetic excuse for a man,” she spat, mashing her cloaca against his, grinding without rhythm.
Stolas lay back and stared blankly at the wall, mind splitting under the dissonance of searing heat and numbing cold. He inwardly clawed for some lifeline that didn’t exist.
Their sex was rare, performed purely out of grim duty. Both Father and Stella insisted an heir be produced. And though Stolas longed for a child more than anything, he still found himself doing all he could to avoid these encounters.
But he had to. It was his duty.
“You’re so fucking humiliating,” she would sneer, hips stuttering in vicious, frustrated jerks. “Fucking do something!”
Stolas shuddered, wishing the sheets might swallow him whole.
Minutes—or hours, he couldn’t tell—passed in agonizing blur until his body finally gave in. Stella shoved him away with a disgusted groan.
“Feels like rutting with a corpse,” she laughed, collecting the sheets around her. “Though the thought of your death is exciting enough for me.”
Something in him cracked. He asked, softly, “Have you been plotting to kill me?”
Stella never could keep a secret. She lit her post-coital cigarette, exhaled smoke into his face.
“It’s your own fucking fault, Stol-ass. You’ve all the magic in the world to leave this prison—yet you do nothing. If I finally squeeze out your egg, with even half your power and an ounce of spine, it’ll be my ticket out.”
“You know what will happen to you when His Majesty finds out.”
Her eyes glinted with mad defiance. “Who the fuck could stop me?” she snarled—and pressed the burning tip of her cigarette into the soft flesh of his cheek.
“Not you. Not anyone.”
Stella’s body hung from the Copper Beech tree.
It had only been days since she’d finally laid a fertile egg. Now imps scattered the meadow, gasping and pointing—though none seemed truly grieved.
Even Father drifted from his library to watch the spectacle. “Well,” he remarked flatly, “this was inevitable.”
“Your Highness,” a servant ventured, wringing his hands, “shall we cut down the tree?”
“I’d like to keep it," Stolas mumbled, feeling faint. "And the holy rope as well.”
That red tree bore anomalous fruit.
As a widower, Stolas often practiced dangling from it. He would climb the gnarled trunk and settle on the broadest branch—the same one Blitzo had once laughed upon. The same one where Stella had died.
Then he’d let himself slip, his slim body dropping until it jerked to a halt, held only by the grip of his talons. There he would sway, pendulum-like, in the sullen breeze.
His glassy eyes roamed the meadow, then drifted up to the window of his room—where his child lay, still incubating in her egg. She would hatch in a matter of months.
And knowing this, he’d dig his talons deeper into the bark and hold on a little while longer.
Notes:
Follow me on bluesky!
https://bsky.app/profile/barnowlhowl.bsky.social
Chapter 13: The Agreement
Summary:
The prince performs for the King of Pride.
The marquis and the prince form an agreement.
Notes:
Hiya guys! I for one am so ready for the new Moxxie + Blitz short on August 2nd! The Circus's 3rd anniversary is also coming up at the end of this month
AND MISSION ZERO??? HELLO??? NEW STOLITZ SCENES THAT WILL RECONTEXTUALIZE THEIR RELATIONSHIP??? YES PLEASE
Not a lot of Stolitz this chapter, mostly Stolas, but dw you'll see Blitz soon <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It was time for Stolas’s most important performance of the year.
For weeks, imps flitted through the grand library like ants in a hive—sweeping floors, polishing ancient relics, and rearranging glowing runes on the marble tiles to spell out King Lucifer’s name. The walls glittered with gemstones in imperial hues of amethyst, ruby, and gold. Towering chandeliers bathed the space in a soft, golden glow, illuminating statues of lions, horses, and—most galling of all—peacocks.
Peacocks. Stolas's frown deepens. I truly despise peacocks.
Stolas took his place at the front of the hall, the weight of the spellbook heavy in his gloved hands. The crisp rustling of its pages echoed across the massive stage. From the corner, his father watched with eagle-like intensity. When their eyes met, the old man gave a slow, solemn nod of approval.
Hm.
Outside, a caravan of sleek vehicles curved into the palace drive—stretch limousines and enchanted carriages bearing the crests of overlords and royalty.
A pearlescent white limo crawled up the drive. Inside, Andrealphus exhaled a lazy ring of cigarette smoke, staring coldly at the somber palace rising before him.
“I worship pride incarnate!”
Doctor Faustus had cried. “Let me pursue power, without my eyes ever watching God.”
Stolas’s voice dropped an octave, becoming something ancient, unholy:
To the heavens, the doctor shouted: "Twenty-four years, and I’ll sell my soul, for Lucifer is better than you!’”
Thus, Mephastophilis—Lucifer’s own servant—rose from the flames.
The nobles sat in reverent silence, cloaked in the warm glow of candlelight at their circular tables. All eyes were on the Goetia prince. His crimson gaze flicked through the room, analyzing every face, every reaction, measuring worth and weakness.
“Why do you seek dark magic under the guidance of King Lucifer?”
Mephastophilis asked. “Speak.”
At the head of the audience, King Lucifer crossed one elegant ankle over the other and smiled wistfully. “Ah, I remember this tale like it was yesterday.”
Beside him, Queen Lilith gave a pointed eye-roll, though her lips betrayed fond amusement.
Stolas tilted his chin upward, allowing an aristocratic arrogance to settle into his voice.
Doctor Faustus pointed his nose to the sky and said, ‘I am the most important person of my time.’
Stolas looked into the audience. President Marbus, a striking young Paradisaea demon, watched from her seat near the dais: Barely seventeen, already wed, and visibly pregnant. Her glowing feathers had dulled. Her eyes were distant.
Stolas faltered—just slightly—at the sight of her.
'My community depends on me,' he recited, his tone heavy with veiled emotion.
'And it weighs me down. If I were to vanish, they would crumble.'
Their eyes met. She looked away.
From the shadows, Paimon watched the exchange. He seemed to relish how the performance rattled the nobles, and how Stolas’s demonic vibrato stirred discomfort even among the strongest.
"I must know everything that happens in this world,” Stolas continued, voice growing deeper, darker.
“If I do not do it—no one will. And it will all fall to ruin.”
In the corner, Father silently mouthed the words alongside him.
“I shan’t be molded into some flimsy, obedient mind—reading blindly from the hypocrite God's scripture,” Stolas proclaimed, voice low and cutting.
“Science is defined by the powerful, not by what is just.
I am already great.
But I want to be better.
I need to be better.
I desire the King of All Sins to curse me.”
When Stolas struck another final cadence with perfect clarity, the old man closed his eyes in quiet, hungry satisfaction. "Mmm. Mmm..."
Then Stolas's gaze faltered.
At the edge of the crowd, half-veiled by elegant shadow, stood a familiar figure:
Everyone's least favorite Goetia.
Andrealphus.
Ughhhh.
What is he doing here?
Andrealphus tilted his head, beak curling into a saccharine smile that barely masked the contempt underneath.
Stolas’s voice thickened with disdain as he pressed forward:
Mephastophilis offered only a nod in reply. The demon hissed,
‘God is merciless. He feels nothing for your struggle.
So take Lucifer’s wisdom—
and this she-devil as your wife.’
At those words, Andrealphus closed his eyes. He could almost taste the forbidden fruit—
rich, ripe, and bitter—its juices slick against the back of his throat, staining his thoughts with hunger.
On stage, Stolas lifted his chin and swept his gaze across the audience, ensuring every noble drank from that same chalice. He wanted them to feel it.
A hush fell over the room.
Swollen with conceit, Doctor Faustus grew mighty indeed, wielding magic beyond all mortal dreams.
But when the twenty-four years had passed,
King Lucifer himself returned—
to collect his prize.
‘Not yet!’ Stolas shouted, voice hoarse with desperation.
‘I have not yet savored this curse!’
But it was far too late.The Sin of Pride had already wound its noose.
In front of the crowd, Stolas wrapped his talons around his throat. And squeezed.
A noble near the front clutched his chest, coughing into his palm as the tension grew unbearable.
“Aaaaaaakh—gaaahhk—!”
Stolas's face contorted. Black flushed beneath his feathers as royal blood thundered in his ears. His body convulsed—
and yet his eyes remained open, and yet he kept choking himself, choking himself under the guidance of his father.
In the crowd, Andrealphus’s throat bobbed. He tried to swallow down the lump that had suddenly grown there.
His eyes darkened with unease as Stolas choked onstage—deliberate, methodical, and unrelenting.
If Paimon so asked Stolas to kill himself on stage...
Stolas would do it.
Paimon watched for a while, and then nodded his head.
And Stolas let go of his throat, gasping faintly, and fell into silence.
Doctor Faustus had, in body, descended into Hell.
But in spirit—
‘Anywhere untouched by God is Hell,’ he intoned, voice low and steady.
'You’ve always been feasting on the fruits of my realm, Faustus.
It isn’t until you choose the devil’s apple—
that you realize you were never Heaven’s child,
only its obedient puppet.
Waiting.
Praying.
Ignored.’
From the front row, King Lucifer let out a delighted laugh.
“Haha, yes, yes! I did say that! Not quite so poetically, but the spirit’s the same!”
Queen Lilith slapped his knee with a sharp glare. “Hush.”
C R A C K
Stolas's eyes grow wide.
Without warning, a beam of angelic light split the ceiling.
Gasps and shrieks erupted as holy light poured into the library, and from it descended a small, lamb-like cherub with glowing wings and a theatrical pout. He hovered above Stolas like a scolding schoolchild.
“Stop it, heretic!” he squeaked.
A murmur of confusion stirred through the crowd.
“What is a cherub doing here?” an earl barked.
“It’s those damn C.H.E.R.U.B. folks again!”
“I—I’m Colin!” the cherub blurted, wobbling in the air. His tiny hooves trembled. “A real fallen angel! Not a f-fake one like the prince here!”
He puffed his chest with cartoon bravado, barely masking the panic in his wide, glistening eyes.
Stolas tilted his head up toward the cherub, forcing the emotion from his face.
“Good evening, Colin,” he murmured. “Where are your little friends?”
“I—I came alone!” Colin stammered. “The others wanted to take a more... violent approach. But I saw Princess Charolette’s Happy Hotel—a-and I thought maybe we could talk this out?”
He shifted midair, voice squeaking like an unoiled hinge.
“Y-you know... help you understand why you’re... so incredibly, tragically in the wrong?”
A roar of annoyance rippled through the audience.
King Lucifer’s eye twitched.
Queen Lilith pinched the bridge of her nose.
But Stolas—still and composed—kept his eyes locked on the trembling cherub above, and gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head.
He had expected this visit.
“The symbol of holiness,” he said, “is simply an illusion.”
With a flick of his talons, reality peeled open, unraveling like silk—
—and behind it shimmered the cosmos.
The audience gazed upward in awe.
In the heavens above, a luminous distortion shimmered: a perfect halo of light.
Einstein’s Ring.
Stolas showed them a dead galaxy hung between a distant star and their vantage point in Hell.
And the light of that star, bent by the gravity of absence, wrapped around the void—forming a ring of mirror images.
But then—as the gas-starved galaxy died and dissolved into the dark—the starlight ceased to bend.
The halo unraveled into a singular pinprick of light.
“A halo,” Stolas murmured, “is merely a star’s reflection—
bent into a circle by the corpse of a galaxy.”
His voice dropped to a whisper, dripping with wicked delight.
“Heh. How demoralizing for God’s followers.”
The demons in the audience stirred—some chuckled, others sighed with exhilaration.
A few nobles raised their glasses in quiet toast.
“Ah, amazing!” King Lucifer cackled, spinning a rubber duck around his clawed finger.
“What say you, you dumbass sheep?”
Colin trembled.
Dozens of glowing, slitted eyes bore down on him—Goetia and overlords alike, grinning with teeth far too sharp.
The little cherub let out a strangled squeak.
“U-uh… umh!”
It was very clear poor Collin had not thought this through.
In a panic, he darted toward Stolas’s portal—
but the prince snapped it shut with a flick of his wrist, in half the time.
Paimon rose to his feet at last.
The air thickened. Ancient energy pulsed through the room like a silent roar.
The chandeliers flickered—then burst into darkness. Pitch black.
“Stolas,” Paimon rumbled, his voice granite grinding over bone.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful?”
Stolas exhaled, quietly.“Yes, Father.”
As his eyes adjusted to the shadows, Stolas glanced back toward the audience—and found Andrealphus still watching him.
Unblinking. Beak parted in anticipation.
Why is he still looking at me like that? Stolas felt a twinge of discontent. Get lost.
Mr. Butler scuttled onto the stage, carrying a white cloth and a loop of glowing, angelic rope.
The imp bowed low, then gently blindfolded the prince. With practiced precision, he wound the rope tightly around Stolas’s torso, binding his arms to his sides. Only a sliver of his right hand remained free—his pinky left bare, dangling with purpose.
Stolas exhaled, blindfolded and bound.
He could hear Mr. Butler's footfalls echo across the far end of the library, approaching the wall-mounted switch.
Above him, Paimon’s voice rang out, smooth and imperious:
“My son bears a gift that shames the very light of Heaven.
In servitude to Lucifer, he stands before you—”
Click.
The switch snapped into place.
The hardwood floor beneath Stolas split apart with a groan.
From the void below, spears of angelic light erupted—piercing through his talons with divine wrath.
Black blood splattered across his ankles.
He winced as he was stabbed for show.
But made no sound.
Not a single scream.
Only the tightening of his jaw.
“—with but a single finger free,” Paimon continued, “and his body stretched taut in agony.
And yet, with that finger alone, he could reduce this cotton ball of a cherub into… lamb chops.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the audience.
Paimon’s voice dropped, turning cold. He nods to his son with mild interest: “Observe.”
Stolas raised his pinky, reaching into the air.
His hearing sharpened—locking onto the frantic flutter of Colin’s wings overhead.
Found you.
Red arcane light bloomed around the cherub in midair, and Colin froze—paralyzed up to his neck—then dropped like a stone onto the stage.
A collective cheer went up from the crowd.
“Please don’t kill me!” Colin wailed, limbs twitching. “I didn’t mean harm! I-I just—!”
“WAIT!!”
The shriek of King Lucifer’s chair dragged across the marble floor as he sprang to his feet, eyes wide with sudden excitement.
Colin blinked up at him, drenched in terror, lips trembling.
“Can you sing ‘Beep Beep I’m a Sheep’?” the King asked brightly.
“Lucifer, really,” Queen Lilith muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose again.
“I—I don’t know w-what you’re talking about!” Colin sobbed.
“Damn. Okay.” Lucifer frowned, sitting back down with a disappointed sigh. He stroked his rubber duck mournfully.
“Go ahead. You can kill him I guess.”
Stolas went ahead. With a flick of his pinky, the eldritch glow intensified.
Colin’s tiny body convulsed as golden blood burst from his eyes, nose, and mouth.
He gurgled, flailed, and shrieked—until his cries dwindled to choking gasps, and finally, silence.
“This,” Stolas declared, “is the power pursued when no eyes watch God.
Good riddance.”
“Outstanding!” King Lucifer applauded, slamming his goblet against the table. Ducks went flying. "Fantastic!"
Paimon beamed—so wide, in fact, that soft little hoots escaped him. "Hoo Hoo Hoo Hoo Hoo Hoo..."
And in rare moments like this…
Stolas could almost believe his father approved of him.
Mr. Butler pulled off the blindfold. Stolas opened his eyes, and met Andrealphus’s from across the room.
They stared at each other.
With a casual twitch of Stolas's pinky, a peacock statue behind the marquis silently simmered out of existence.
Andrealphus’s beak curled.
He looked away.
After the nobles had filtered out of the library, Stolas remained behind.
Kneeling beneath one of the extinguished chandeliers, he whispered a healing spell into his torn talons. The divine residue still clung to his skin, dampening his powers—but at least the bleeding had slowed. His blood began to clot.
He took a moment to breathe. Then, he turned his gaze to the lump of purple fluff lying limp on the stage.
“You're alive, aren’t you, little cherub?” he murmured.
The mangled ball of wings and wool gave a faint shudder but didn’t respond.
Without a word, Stolas conjured a small portal and tossed the twitching body inside.
Finally. That’s over with.
He barely had a moment to collect himself when—
Footsteps...
Startled, Stolas let out a soft hoot and glanced toward the corridor.
“I never would have expected such violence from that sickly twig of a body,” came a smooth, amused voice.
“Is that your doing?”
Andrealphus.
Stolas’s heart kicked into gear.
“Beauty is cruel by nature,” Paimon replied flatly.
“It didn’t come naturally to him. I had to train him… thoroughly.”
Stolas’s eyes darted to the tall mirror behind him. His fingers snapped open the grimoire, and with barely a breath, he hissed out the confounding incantation.
The spell distorted his form—folded his presence—and in an instant, Stolas vanished into the mirror’s reflection, just as Paimon and Andrealphus stepped into the room.
Within the glass, the library inverted itself, but Stolas could see everyone just fine.
“The owl boy is considered a fallen angel,” Paimon said casually. “But in his case, it’s merely a classification. It denotes that his powers rival the divine.
Fallen angels are difficult to manage. I usually marry them off quickly—secure a few powerful offspring before they turn on me. Then I dispose of them. Such a waste of talent.”
Andrealphus seated himself at one of the round tables, legs crossed, golden pocket watch gleaming in his hand.
“I’m sorry for your troubles, Your Majesty,” he said, voice light but unreadable.
Paimon waved a hand dismissively, pacing the polished floor. “This one obeys me. Unlike my erstwhile offspring."
Stolas's eyes glint in the darkness.
"He’s the only fallen angel I’ve allowed to live long enough to sire a child,” Paimon continued. “I had her evaluated. His egg, I mean. Or the... your sister's egg. The kid's destined to surpass him.”
Stolas’s breath caught. He pressed closer to the glass—face hovering inches from the silvered surface.
Octavia...?
“Interesting,” Paimon said, pausing mid-step and turning to look at Andrealphus. “That you would come here so quickly after the boy lost his wife.
Are you trying to seduce him?”
"WHAT? Fuhuhuhhuhh..hhuuuhhh..huhuhhh..."
Stolas scowls at the sound of Andrealphus's laughter.
“Just because I’m homosexual doesn’t mean I’d court any man my age,” Andrealphus muttered, irritated.
“Especially that man.”
“I’m heterosexual,” Paimon replied with a smirk, “and I’d mount any woman who could bear me a child if I felt like it.
You queers and your abstinence.”
There was an ugly silence.
Andrealphus stared down at his watch. Then slowly, he spoke, “I met Stolas’s eyes… briefly.”
“There was no real desire in them. Nothing. He looked dead inside.”
A pause.
“Perhaps you should go easier on him during training.
Stella didn’t much enjoy having… relations with a corpse, after all.”
Paimon glanced over at Andrealphus, caught off guard—then barked out a laugh “AHAHAHA! Peacock boy, you’re funny! Andy-phallus, was it?”
From within the mirror, Stolas stifled a snort.
“Marquis Andrealphus,” the marquis corrected coolly.
“Yes, yes. Whatever,” Paimon waved a hand. “A child doesn’t need a father’s love to thrive. Sex can be bearable without passion.
And one does not require compassion to wield power, peacock boy. Yes, yes. This is what I taught him. And he had learned it well.”
Stolas watched, quiet and still, as his father’s reflection drifted past his shelves—talons idly grazing the spines of his most beloved books.
Then, casually—too casually—Paimon spoke again.
“By the way,” he called over his shoulder, “If you’re trying to ingratiate yourself with him to get at his fortune, don’t bother.
He’s too soft for fatherhood. I’m removing his custody of the princess.”
Stolas froze.
No.
Andrealphus’s voice was smooth as ever. “You truly don’t think he’ll resist?”
“Of course not,” Paimon said, without turning.
“He knows what will happen if he doesn’t comply.”
No.
No—no—
Not her. Not my daughter. Not my little girl.
Stolas slapped a hand over his mouth, but it couldn't hold back the scream that tore from his throat—muffled, broken, and raw.
Tears welled and blurred his vision as he backed away from the mirror, breath hitching, shoulders trembling.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
A incantation flew off his lips—his voice cracking through it—and a portal bloomed behind him.
And then he ran. Ran. Ran.
The mirror flickered, leaving the library undisturbed.
Back in the physical world, King Paimon chuckled to himself as Andrealphus lit a cigarette in silence.
“Strange,” Paimon mused aloud, smirking.
“Why would an ice demon be so fond of smoking?”
Andrealphus didn’t answer.
He simply exhaled—and watched the smoke curl into the dark.
Stolas returned to his chambers in quiet disarray, his feathers ruffled, his voice uneven.
“Pringles,” he rasped, “how is my daughter?”
The imp straightened at the question. “Good. I—”
“Alright then. Out.”
He waved a hand dismissively.
“Good night, Your Highness,” the imp mumbled, backing away.
The prince made his way into Octavia’s nursery, forcing a smile onto his beak as he caught sight of the tiny bundle of feathers nestled in her crib. She blinked her wide, luminous eyes up at him and chirped sweetly.
Stolas leaned down and pressed gentle kisses to her head, his voice cracking with tenderness.
“Hello, my sweet owlet. Who’s the most precious girl in all of Hell?”
Octavia squealed, her little wings flapping as she bobbed her head in delight.
Stolas let out a breathy laugh and scooped her into his arms, holding her close.
“You’re right, of course.
Did you wait up for me again?”
She nipped at his fingers in response, and he chuckled softly.
“I told you I’d be a little late saying goodnight. My poor girl, learn to be patient.”
Back in his room, Stolas changed into his robe and returned to the rocking chair, gently cradling Octavia in his arms. He rocked her back and forth, her head nestled into his chest feathers.
His smile faltered and his talons that held her trembled. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes as he held her tighter, pressing his cheek to hers.
And then, in a voice thin and wavering, he sang:
“Father’s words are gospel,
Deemed worthless, it’s true.
My power is nothing
If I can’t have you.I, too, grew older
Without knowing her name.
My butler once told me,
‘You shouldn't be blamed.’Hush now, my starfire,
There’s no other way.But when I am gone,
you will be okay.
My beautiful girl,
You shame the moon
The strongest of all,
To save hell from doom.I’ll love you forever,
You know that it’s true.
And I hope when I’m gone,
You’ll still know it too.You’ll only get older
And never know my name…But it’s for the best.
and you’re not to blame.”
Tears spilled freely now. He ducked his head into her feathers and breathed her in.
“Oh, Octavia…”
She let out a soft warble.
And Stolas pressed another kiss to her cheek, as if the world were ending and this was the only thing keeping him from falling with it. He wept bitter tears.
When Stolas turned his head toward the window, a familiar silhouette caught his eye.
Andrealphus.
Standing outside, gazing up at Stolas’s window like a predator watching a cage door unfasten. Even from a distance, that insufferable smirk and delicate, predatory gait were unmistakable.
“Ugh. Via,” Stolas muttered, voice low as he rocked her gently. “Your arrogant uncle’s leering from below. Shall I run him off?”
But he didn’t wait for her answer.
Andrealphus was already making his way inside the palace.
Stolas swore under his breath and carefully tucked his baby into the cradle. He gave her one last kiss, then hurried across the room, rifling through a drawer before slipping on a pair of gloves—black silk, trembling fingers.
Footsteps ascended the stairs.
A knock at the door.
“What do you want?” Stolas hissed through the wood. “My servant is in the next room, and I’ve no desire to be tangled in some sordid rumor with you.”
The door creaked open just a fraction—uninvited.
Andrealphus entered without waiting.
“Hello, Stolas,” he said, smoothing back his head feathers with languid ease.
“I’ll be honest. When I heard dear Stella died, my first thought was that seducing and marrying you would be the most elegant way to steal your inheritance. Naturally, I’d dispose of you afterward.”
He chuckled. “However, I know you too well. Seducing you would be—”
“Impossible,” Stolas said, already standing in the doorway, cold and composed.
Andrealphus took him in—his posture, the red-rimmed eyes, the gloves trembling faintly on his hands.
He sneered.
“My, my. How you’ve let yourself go.”
Stolas wiped the dampness beneath his eyes and narrowed them.
“Don’t try to ingratiate yourself with me. If you're not here to propose theft and murder, then what?”
Andrealphus stepped closer, unbothered.
“Oh, no, I’m still proposing marriage.”
He moved into the room, running a slow finger along the bookshelf’s edge. “But unlike your last arrangement, this one would set you free.”
“Explain.”
“I can take you and your daughter far from here. Far from King Paimon. You’ll never see his face again. Doesn’t that tempt you… even a little?”
Stolas scoffed.
“What do I think?” he said, bitterly.“I think you’re full of shit, Andrealphus.”
The marquis’s expression darkened.
“Would you really rather live without her?”
“I won’t live without her.”
“Oh?” Andrealphus leaned forward, voice cooling. “And how do you intend to ensure that? Do you have a plan, darling?”
Stolas turned away, gaze fixed on the Copper Beech just outside his window, its branches still in the windless night.
Andrealphus followed his line of sight—and then laughed.
“Ah. That’s real smart, Stolly.
Take your own life, and your daughter will be married off and bred like a broodmare. Ten more little princes. Ten more miserable, hollow copies of you.”
His tone turned mocking. “Tell me—what exactly are you planning?”
A long pause.
Then Stolas whispered, barely audible—
“Don’t you understand? It doesn’t matter.”
“Father will find me. He’ll drag me to the basement.”
Andrealphus was quiet for once. Then he asked, confused, “The basement?”
“Owl boy.”
Stolas’s eyes went misty.
“Yes, father?”
The little eleven-year-old prince stood before the mirror, peering anxiously at his reflection.
But it wasn’t his own face staring back.
It was Father’s, carved in storm and fury. His glower boiled behind the glass—cracking it beneath his rage, shattering like ice across the floor.
Stolas stumbled back, crying out as shards rained down around him, stinging his legs and talons.
“Tapestries—gone! Jewels—gone! Even the silverware—gone!”
Suddenly, Father was behind him.
His massive talon clamped around Stolas’s thin elbow, and the boy winced.
“How could you let an imp steal from right under your nose?!”
“I’m—I’m sorry, Father!” Stolas cried. “Blitzo and I were just—just having fun—”
His eyes glowered with derision. “‘Fun,’ eh?”
Father’s voice turned low, lethal.
“Well then. If it’s fun you want...”
He leaned down beside his son, dark eyes burning his flesh. “Let’s go somewhere fun.”
The trapdoor to the library’s basement creaked open like a mouth unsealing. Father dragged him downward, claws scraping wood, until the door sealed shut above them.
It was cold.
It was dark.
Something was alive down there.
Something moving.
Something hungry.
Stolas whimpered in the blackness, his feathers bristling, his eyes wide.
Then—click.
A single candle flared to life in Father’s hand.
The flickering light cast shadows across the basement floor.
And that’s when Stolas saw them.
Fizzarolli?
No—too still.
Barbie...?
No—too broken.
Please blink, he begged in his head, staring at the girl imp's body.
Please blink, blink, blink...
But she wouldn’t.
The imp girl lying closest to him had soft curls, tattered ribbons. Her skin was torn, her eyes fixed open in glassy disbelief. She looked so much like Blitzo—if not for the black, swirly horns, Stolas could have sworn—
The boy beside her was half gone.
Literally.
Half a torso, torn from groin to collarbone.
Father had already begun sorting their limbs into labeled jars.
And Stolas—just a child—screamed.
“NO! Please, Father—please!”
But Paimon didn’t flinch.
He never did.
Because this is how things are, and always have been, in their family.
In Hell.
This is how imp families are punished—for daring to take scraps. For trying to feed their own.
When he was finished, Father turned toward the cracked mirror in the basement’s corner. He muttered a few ancient words, and the silver warped like mercury.
Then, he shoved Stolas inside it.
Trapping him in the reflection.
Alone.
Cold.
Stolas didn't even beg to be let out. He knew that it would be no use.
“That,” Paimon said, brushing off his hands,
“should give you plenty of time to think about the value of an imp’s life.”
The mirror dimmed, and the room grew still.
Stolas sat there for hours. Maybe longer. There was no time in that place. Only the cold surface beneath him, and the faint stains on the glass.
Imps aren’t even worth a shilling— this was a valuable lesson that everyone knows.
Name one Goetia who does not.
Name one Goetia who does not.
“That day I was lucky,” Stolas whispered, his eyes still unfocused. “That day, I just stood there. I just watched.”
He looked up—eyes locking with Andrealphus’s grim expression.
“B-but if I ever end up there again…”
A pause.
“Well. You know. We both know what happened to Stella.”
Andrealphus tensed, before he let out a slow sigh, his fingers digging into the lining of his fur coat. "It wasn't a suicide, then."
"No," Stolas mumbled. "It wasn't."
Andrealphus nodded, as if he already knew. "We understand each other, then." Between his pale fingers, he pulled out a small glass vial filled with a shimmering, opalescent liquid.
Stolas tilted his head in a question.
Andrealphus smirked: “Thrice-blessed saint’s tears. Far more potent than holy water.”
“One drop puts you to sleep for hours. Five could drop a hellhorse. And if you crave death within sixty seconds…”
He twisted the cap, teasing the dropper between his fingers.
“...drink it all.”
He held it out to Stolas, eyes glinting.
“With this, he will never take you to the basement again.”
Stolas lunged forward to take it—
but Andrealphus pulled his hand back with a little smile.
“Ah, ah, ah.” He wagged a finger, relishing the moment. “It shall be my wedding gift to you.”
Stolas exhaled sharply through his beak and turned away, striding across the room. Thinking to himself, he gathered Octavia gently into his arms. She cooed and curled her tiny talons into the folds of his robe.
He held her close, stroking her feathers as he spoke—his voice cool, deliberate.
“...I have an idea. My daughter and I will never be free without severing ties to the Goetia line.
I need someone... dispensable.
Bring me an imp. Someone without compassion. Someone no one will miss.
We’ll lock him away—under my name.”
Andrealphus grinned. “I think I can arrange that.”
Stolas nodded once, slowly. “There’s a facility in the Ring of Sloth. Founded by King Belphegor himself. I’ve heard they chain patients in birdcages and bury them… one inch at a time.”
Andrealphus raised a brow. “‘Chain patients in little birdcages?’ Sounds like a lie to scare children.”
Stolas’s eyes darkened. His voice dropped. “My thoughts exactly.”
The marquis tilted his head, tone suddenly casual. “Don’t you already have a servant? Mr. Butler, wasn’t it? I didn’t peg you as the type to fire a loyal subject on a whim.”
Stolas kissed the top of Octavia's head and grinned wickedly.
“Oh, I suppose I'm full of surprises.”
So out went Mr. Butler, and in came another imp, who was escorted through the narrow servant hall just behind Prince Stolas’s bedroom.
The hallway was dim, claustrophobic, and painted in long, crooked shadows as Pringles led the way with mechanical indifference.
He paused at a tiny door set into the wall.
“This is your bed,” he said, gesturing to the open cupboard. A single, threadbare blanket was draped inside, folded once.
The imp blinked at the dark hollow, bristling.
“I sleep in here?”
Pringles rolled his eyes.
“Prince Stolas wakes easily. Nightmares.”
He nodded toward the heavy double doors directly across the hall, where Stolas lay in wait.
“He’s right behind that door?” the imp asked, a sharp note of disgust in his voice.
From within, Stolas’s crimson eyes narrowed. The new imp followed Pringle's gaze, his bright eyes catching the faint light. Stolas could only see his eyes, and his breath caught at their beauty.
Pringles said nothing more and took his leave.
The imp gave an exaggerated huff and stomped into the makeshift bed, muttering curses under his breath. His tail flicked in sharp, irritated motions, knocking against the walls and trailing the edge of the blanket with little sparks of frustration.
He didn’t know he was being watched.
Through a small, near-invisible peephole in the door, Stolas observed him breathlessly.
This imp... seems familiar.
Something about the shape of his shoulders.
The flick of his tail.
The way he muttered under his breath like the world owed him something.
Stolas pressed closer to the peephole, his gloved hand tightening on the doorframe.
Stolas couldn’t place him.
Not yet, at least.
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed, my dears <3
Pages Navigation
DojoLoach on Chapter 1 Wed 21 May 2025 05:30AM UTC
Comment Actions
Eve_Wong on Chapter 1 Wed 21 May 2025 06:04PM UTC
Comment Actions
DojoLoach on Chapter 1 Mon 26 May 2025 07:47PM UTC
Comment Actions
Ladyfee on Chapter 1 Thu 29 May 2025 10:06AM UTC
Comment Actions
Eve_Wong on Chapter 1 Thu 29 May 2025 10:10PM UTC
Comment Actions
Heartfullkings on Chapter 1 Mon 16 Jun 2025 06:28PM UTC
Comment Actions
Eve_Wong on Chapter 1 Mon 16 Jun 2025 06:32PM UTC
Comment Actions
MelStryder07 on Chapter 1 Sun 20 Jul 2025 07:26PM UTC
Comment Actions
MelStryder07 on Chapter 1 Sun 20 Jul 2025 07:53PM UTC
Comment Actions
Ladyfee on Chapter 2 Thu 29 May 2025 10:56AM UTC
Comment Actions
Ladyfee on Chapter 3 Thu 29 May 2025 02:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
ulieunha (bomyokoi) on Chapter 3 Mon 30 Jun 2025 06:40PM UTC
Comment Actions
Cami_readsandcries on Chapter 3 Mon 14 Jul 2025 02:45AM UTC
Comment Actions
Eve_Wong on Chapter 3 Mon 14 Jul 2025 03:29AM UTC
Comment Actions
Ladyfee on Chapter 4 Thu 29 May 2025 10:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
Cuppycakke on Chapter 5 Sun 25 May 2025 08:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
Eve_Wong on Chapter 5 Sun 25 May 2025 09:09PM UTC
Comment Actions
Cuppycakke on Chapter 5 Sun 25 May 2025 09:24PM UTC
Comment Actions
stolasstarr on Chapter 5 Sat 31 May 2025 01:35PM UTC
Comment Actions
Ladyfee on Chapter 5 Sat 07 Jun 2025 09:43PM UTC
Comment Actions
Eve_Wong on Chapter 5 Sun 08 Jun 2025 02:57AM UTC
Comment Actions
Ladyfee on Chapter 5 Sun 08 Jun 2025 02:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
Eve_Wong on Chapter 5 Tue 10 Jun 2025 02:03AM UTC
Comment Actions
Angiekuzz on Chapter 6 Sat 31 May 2025 09:09PM UTC
Comment Actions
Eve_Wong on Chapter 6 Sun 08 Jun 2025 03:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
Ladyfee on Chapter 6 Sun 08 Jun 2025 02:35PM UTC
Comment Actions
ulieunha (bomyokoi) on Chapter 6 Tue 01 Jul 2025 01:40PM UTC
Last Edited Tue 01 Jul 2025 01:43PM UTC
Comment Actions
Eve_Wong on Chapter 6 Tue 01 Jul 2025 05:00PM UTC
Comment Actions
Odayaka on Chapter 7 Sun 08 Jun 2025 02:53AM UTC
Comment Actions
Angiekuzz on Chapter 7 Sun 08 Jun 2025 07:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
Eve_Wong on Chapter 7 Tue 10 Jun 2025 02:00AM UTC
Comment Actions
Ladyfee on Chapter 7 Thu 26 Jun 2025 11:17PM UTC
Comment Actions
Gero_Nimo on Chapter 8 Sun 15 Jun 2025 02:01AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation