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“Well, tits. I gotta get to the store.”
Blitzø stands in the middle of the kitchen, staring down at the empty milk carton in his hand. He swears it stares back like some little bitch taunting him.
It’s been a month since he and Stolas moved into their new apartment, and it still feels more like fantasy than reality. Sure, they’d lived under the same roof before—back when Blitzø’s cramped one bedroom apartment became Stolas’ refuge following banishment—but this is different. This place is theirs, chosen together as boyfriends, a fresh start for them both.
There’s a shit ton more space than Blitzø is used to: a master bedroom with a bed so large it could accommodate Stolas’ towering length while leaving Blitzø feeling like a speck after years of sofa sleep. Tall windows that allow Pride’s signature crimson light to cast everything in a familiar hellish glow. And their home (damn—their home, his and Stolas’, Stolas’ and his) is decorated with a perfect blend of Blitzø’s old furniture and new pieces they had picked out together. Stolas had brought his own touches to the place, adding artwork that transformed bare walls into something that truly feels like home. But the kitchen, for the most part, remains Blitzø’s domain—because no matter what, on days when words fail him, when emotions clog his throat like honey gone thick, he can always whip up pancakes for Loona or work on perfecting Stolas’ favorite meal. His hands speak the language his tongue still hasn’t mastered, placing small gestures on plates that tell them what his heart wants to say.
Some days words fail him and Stolas both. Moving in and co-leasing as partners brought its own unique shitshow of crossed signals and tangled meanings. Miscommunications bloom like bruises in the worst moments—a sharp word here, a misread silence there, the occasional slam of a door that echoes too long in the halls. But like everything else that has weathered their bond, those moments always pass, leaving behind something deeper than the hurt that birthed them.
Now they’re settling into the gentle rhythm of coexistence in what Blitzø fondly dubbed “Malibu Blitzø and Stolas’ Dreamhouse” (Stola’ confused head-tilt at the reference made Blitzø love him more somehow). Their days unfold like some gay romcom Blitzø would never admit to watching—mornings shared with yawns and sleepy smiles, quiet moments stretched like warm confection before the workday claims them. Nights find them tangled together on their couch, a patchwork of peaceful moments: sometimes lost in mindless television shows, sometimes wrapped in the silk of Stolas’ voice as he reads aloud from a novel, sometimes melting into lazy kisses that grow heated enough to lead them, inevitably, to their bedroom. It’s a kind of peace neither knew existed, this gentle domesticity they’ve built together, precious as starlight and twice as rare in Hell.
It still takes Blitzø by surprise when he sees Stolas after entering a room, like a gift he keeps unwrapping. To know that out of every place Stolas could be, and out of all the demons he could be with, that Stolas is here, with him, and they’re building this life together.
As if on cue, Stolas appears in the doorway; a look of concern etched on his elegant features, his tall frame filling the space. “Is everything alright, dearest?” he asks, his voice a smooth contrast to Blitzø’s rough grumbling, rich with genuine care.
Blitzø sighs, tossing the carton into the trash. “Yeah, fuckin’ peachy.”
Yeah. It’s been a month into living together, and so damn near everything is in need of a restocking. Like Blitzø’s favorite cereal—the kind that tastes like sugar-coated cardboard and looks like multicolored ponies. He doesn’t even remember giving Stolas permission to share his sacred breakfast stash, yet here he stands with barely enough to fill half a bowl. And the final insult: an empty milk carton that had been put back in the fridge. Leave it to his pampered (ex-)prince to think containers magically refill themselves when returned to their proper place.
And now Stolas, Mr. Pampered himself, is crossing the room, a furrow marring his brow and red eyes fixing on Blitzø intently. Moving with the grace of both a royal and a predator, long body unfolding as he nears. “Is there any way I can be of help?” A question laced with genuine concern and a touch of awkwardness.
Blitzø snorts, a harsh sound, as he holds his bowl under the sink’s tap. Water splashes over the dry cereal—a poor demon’s solution to empty milk cartons. “Not unless you can shit out a Kinder Surprise egg full of groceries.”
Stolas giggles, dulcet and playful, like he didn’t just watch Blitzø pick up after his trash. “I’m afraid not, no.” His head tilts, endearingly bird-like. “But I heard you mentioning something about going to the store.”
“Yeah,” Blitzø nods absently, his mind already focused on 1) eating this handful of cereal and 2) combing through a potential shopping list.
Stolas takes a step closer, demeanor brightening. Blitzø hates it when Stolas looks like that—it always makes his knees weak, even when he’s trying to be annoyed. Because he’s annoyed right now.
“What if I went with you? We could make a day of it together.” There’s a tinge of hope in Stolas’ voice, a tentative excitement.
Blitzø turns, eyebrow raised. “It’s not that big a deal, Stols. I’ll make a quick run later today.” He hums then, downplaying the importance of the task.
But Stolas meets his gaze with unexpected seriousness, those otherworldly pupils dilating with emotion. “I understand, but... I would like to join you.” His voice softens—gentle but unyielding. “If I’m not imposing, that is.”
Blitzø stares, taken aback but seemingly unfazed. Knees weaker. “You’re actually serious?” He pauses, curiosity betraying his attempted indifference. Satan dammit. “Why?”
“Because I have never done so before. And I’m as much the head of the household as you are, now.” Stolas shrugs with grace, the soft junctions of his beak twitching upwards in a smile. “And before that, my prior station as prince would not have permitted it. The staff took care of most things.”
The wistfulness in Stolas’ voice hits Blitzø like a physical thing, stirring something protective in his core. He knows, now, the weight of Stolas’ past—how he’d been imprisoned within his fealties to the Ars Goetia, nearly suffocated. Knows, now, how loneliness had driven him to want for death more times than Blitzø can bear to count. And he knows, at last, how Stolas left everything behind to be with him. It still baffles Blitzø, how someone like Stolas could look at someone like him and see something worth sacrificing literal regency for. Even regency built on restriction and abuse had to be better than a lifetime with a low-ranking imp. Yet here Stolas is, looking at him like he’s worth it, and Blitzø spends each day trying to prove him right.
Blitzø will strive all he can so Stolas never regrets that choice.
Blitzø scoffs, veiling the gentleness with a smirk. “Aw, poor fancy birdie, never had to get his hands dirty and now he’s horny for commoner chores.” He shakes his head, but can’t quite hide the love in his grin. “Fetishizer.”
Stolas grimaces, sauntering over to lean against the counter beside Blitzø. Even relaxed, he towers over him. Giant bastard, Blitzø thinks fondly, his eyes trailing over Stolas’ form—the sleek strength coiled in that avian frame, the perfect marriage of feather and muscle that somehow manages to look both deadly and delicate.
“It is not that,” Stolas says dryly, clicking his tongue in that prissy way that shouldn’t be as cute as it is. “Though if you must insist on using labels, then romanticizing would be more appropriate.”
Blitzø chuckles, wrapping his tail around Stolas’ middle in comfortable claim. “Romantic? Fuck, babe, that’s worse,” he teases, still looking to rebound the sentimental tone. He drops his voice to something darker, more suggestive, the spaded tip of his tail tracing wicked patterns near Stolas’ groin. “Just rub one out to the idea like a normal pervert.”
Stolas makes a surprised squawk, his white faceplate flushing pink.
“Oh, stop it, you scoundrel,” Stolas blusters, swatting at Blitzø’s tail with feigned outrage. “Then what of the depictions of couples going about errands in novels, hm? Hell-a-Novella? It’s domestic, Blitz," he insists, and there’s that yearning again, soft and vulnerable beneath it all.
"Uh huh." Domestic. The word still sits weird in Blitzø’s mouth, even after all this time. It’s a fuckass word. "Do mess on this dick," he deflects, snickering at his own wordplay because damn, that’s good.
But Stolas, in true royal fashion, sweeps right past Blitzø’s brilliant contribution to continue his thought. “Truthfully, we have already done quite a number of things one might deem, well, connubial; but there is still much I have yet to experience with a partner. Such as, as you so tastefully put it, Blitz: commoner chores.” Stolas seems to collapse inward then, just slightly, feathers dulling as he looks away. “But you’re right. It is somewhat silly.”
Dammit.
Blitzø would carve out a piece of every ring in Hell for Stolas, if he asked.
Blitzø stares at his sad bowl of cereal, then at Stolas, feeling his resolve start to crack at the edges. There’s a whole day of potential errands before them—groceries to buy, laundry to do, that weird stain on the living room carpet that needs scrubbed. Nowhere near the romantic outings Stolas is probably expecting.
“You’d probably hate it,” Blitzø warns, but there’s no bite to it. “Especially the grocery shopping part. It’s crowded. Loud. Full of demons who wouldn’t know manners if it bit them in the pussy.” He pauses, studying Stolas’ face for any sign of regret. “Not exactly a spa day. Or bird bath day. Or whatever fancy stuff you’re used to.”
Stolas’ smile returns, albeit fragile, like he’s trying to mask the dejection. His body sways slightly in the possessive curl of Blitzø’s tail around him, seeking comfort in the contact. “I rather think I’ve developed a taste for things that aren’t proper.” His eyes gleam with meaning, and Blitzø feels a shiver trickle up his neck as Stolas scratches that sweet spot between his horns. “Besides, anywhere is tolerable with you, my darling.”
Blitzø shoves three spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth, trying and failing to fight off a smile as his tail tightens dotingly around Stolas. “You say that now, but wait until some over-metastasized cumshot is screaming their head off in the hot sauce aisle while their Karen mom bitches at the manager about expired coupons.”
“Sounds delightfully chaotic,” Stolas retorts, using Blitzø’s tail as an anchor to draw closer. “Though I can’t help but wonder if you’re more concerned about my being in urban spaces than you are my delicate sensibilities.”
Oh. Blitzø turns to face Stolas fully, tail unwinding just enough to let him move but not letting go completely, throat tight with words he’s not sure how to voice. Because yeah, maybe he is a little worried—not about being seen with Stolas, of course fucking not, but about the whispers that follow them, the judgmental stares that make Stolas’ shoulders tense even when he pretends not to notice. How, after everything Stolas has given up, after every step he’s taken to distance himself from the corrupt Ars Goetia, lower imps still treat him like their personal punching bag, like somehow his displacement has made him fair game for their bitter spite. And Blitzø is pretty sure Stolas doesn’t want their little “romanticizing” day interrupted by the sight of his boyfriend dismembering some random asshole in the produce section.
But Stolas is looking at him with such open affection, such desire to share even this mundane piece of Blitzø’s world, that the worry crumbles like wet paper.
“Fine,” Blitzø sighs, dumping the rest of his cereal into the sink. “Since you really wanna do chores, let’s do this thing.” He treats Stolas to a smile, all assurance and warmth, to coax the same onto the owl's features. He feels a little dizzy looking at him. “‘Cuz, y’know, it’ll take some weight off my shoulders.”
“Oh, Blitz! Really?” Stolas trills a gleeful owlish chirp, his white pupils morphing into star shapes. “This is going to be so much fun, my darling! How do we begin? What labor do we perform first?”
Blitzo takes a second to think. “Probably should start by haulin’ ass down to the laundromat.”
“And then what?” Stolas is practically vibrating.
“Calm down, four eyes.” Blitzø kisses Stolas’ waist, as high as he can without lifting his hooves off the ground. “Then we’ll go to the store.” A pause. “But if any bastard tries to take a picture of you buying fucking Wacky Charms, I’m throwing claws.
Stolas’ laugh is a musical chirr. “My hero,” he teases, bending down to press his beak against Blitzø’s forehead in a gentle kiss. “Though I rather think I’d prefer those colorful pony-shaped ones you’re so fond of.”
“‘Course you fucking would, you cereal thief,” Blitzø grumbles, but he’s already reaching for his keys with his free hand, his tail reluctantly unwinding from Stolas. “Now, come on. Before I change my mind.”
If Loona were in the room with them instead of locked away in her bedroom like always, Blitzø knows she would make a comment about him being pussy whipped. She’s been saying it a lot lately—Blitzø is not sure why, and he sure as shit doesn’t agree.
Because the correct term would be cloaca whipped. Duh.
---
It’s not the first time they’ve stepped into the apartment complex’s laundromat together, but it is the first time they’ve entered with the purpose of cleaning clothes. Their previous visit had been spurred by frantic desire, fingers intertwined, and lips barely parted during a commute home. Blitzø had shoved Stolas into the confines of the laundry room, unable to wait those few minutes to reach the privacy of their apartment. Memories of their bodies crashing against the machines, Stolas’ legs wrapped around Blitzø to anchor him in place, the moans Blitzø had torn from his throat—all still echo in his mind.
Now, the sounds Stolas emits are innocent: soft, wondering hoots as he measures out detergent like Blitzø had instructed. Noises that have Blitzø fighting to maintain a neutral expression because they’re too goddamn cute.
"Okay, Stols," Blitzø begins, standing atop a stool to reach the high washer, tossing their clothes inside. "Now, add the soap."
“Right.” Stolas approaches the washer with caution, as though it might spring to life and bite him. His gaze flickers back to Blitzø, seeking reassurance. "Is there a technique to this?"
“Fuck nah,” Blitzø simpers, hopping down. “Just pour that sauce into the musk heap and she’s good to go.”
Stolas trickles the detergent in with precision, the refinedness behind his movements charming Blitzø because, fuck, of course it does. Blitzø swears he woke up one random morning and, boom, suddenly everything Stolas does became impossibly attractive. Like the way Stolas closes the washer’s lid and turns to look at Blitzø expectantly, awaiting his next instruction. Or the way he beams when he follows through by twisting the machine’s dial to set its wash cycle, pushes the START button, and looks down at him with a proud smile breaking across his soft face.
Blitzø could watch him forever; shit, he wouldn’t mind washing a mountain's worth of bloodied clothes and mildewed towels every single day, if this were the sight promised him.
( art @ mellitude )
Stolas’ attention snaps back to the washer, his breath catching. Blitzø follows his line of sight, noting his boyfriend’s captivation at the churning clothes visible through the washer’s lid. “How fascinating!”
“Yeah?” Blitzø settles onto the bench placed in front of the machines, phone in hand. “Fascinating enough for you to stand there the whole hour?”
They can’t leave their laundry; this apartment complex is an upgrade, sure, but Blitzø’s been burnt by thieves one too many times every other place he’s lived.
"Does it truly take that long?" Stolas frowns, taking a seat beside him, long legs bending awkwardly.
“What, bored of our domestic bliss already?” Blitzø mocks, batting his eyelashes for dramatic effect.
“Don’t be silly.” Stolas inclines his beak skyward, pouting. He peeks at Blitzø and smiles, obliquely. “I’m relishing my time with you.”
Blitzø meets his coy stare full-on, flashes Stolas a row of devilish fangs. The memories of their time in this room flood him again, so deluged that his claws move on instinct and over to flex a caress along Stolas’ thigh.
“Oh, yeah? You want that relish made with cucumber?” Heh. He’s on a roll with wordplay today. “‘Cuz I got a red one for ‘ya.”
Stolas startles only for a second before making a sound that is surprisingly more purr than hoot.
“Oh, dearest.” He drags an ink black talon down the ridge of one of Blitzø’s horns, his smile as wickedly pointed as the imp’s natural crown. “For the next hour, I’m yours to pickle as you please.”
Hell yeah. They can do this real fast.
Blitzø wastes no time pouncing onto Stolas, their shared ardor whirling as wildly as the soapy mixture spinning out in the machine beside them. The rhythmic tumbling of fabric provides a steady backbeat to the slapping of their bodies coming together, time becoming as fluid as the water swishing through their abandoned clothes. The washer’s chime barely registers through their passionate haze, but they manage to stumble over, transfer the damp clothes to the dryer, and tumble right back into each other’s arms before the first warm cycle begins. Their renewed fervor matches the machine’s rising heat, lasting through every toss and turn.
After, with both cycles complete, Blitzø and Stolas sit on opposite sides of their freshly dried laundry, sorting and folding with careful hands that still tremble with afterglow. They share glances across the warm fabric mountain between them, fingers brushing as they work, the air still thick with satisfaction and the lingering scent of fabric softener.
“Oh! Look!” Stolas exclaims, fishing out and holding up one of Blitzø’s shirts: a dark sleeveless turtleneck with a keyhole cut. “I so love when you wear this, Blitz. You look absolutely dashing in it.”
“You say that about all my outfits, slut.” Feeling the rise of heat in his cheeks, Blitzø moves his attention away from the compliment and back onto the pile of dried clothes. They feel just as hot. Luckily, he spots something in the pile that makes him sneer. “Speaking of sluts, lookie here…”
He dangles a pair of red lace panties with theatrical flair, holding them like a prized trophy between his clawed fingers. The delicate material catches the light, so gossamer-thin it promises to hide nothing when worn. Feeling particularly devilish, Blitzø brings them to his face, inhaling deeply with exaggerated pleasure. He leers around the lace to fix Stolas with a smirk. “Freshly clean but I can still smell your puss on ‘em.”
Stolas bites his bottom lip right as a small sound escapes him, caught between a sultry moan and a delighted laugh. “I’m not surprised, darling, considering how positively ardent we were the night I wore them.”
Laughter bubbles between them; it’s Blitzø who falls silent first, mesmerized by the sight of Stolas’ elegant fingers deftly folding each piece of clothing with increasing skill. A warmth sparks in his chest, then a realization kindling into flame. He’s never known happiness could exist in moments so mundane, so simple. Now, watching the former goetic prince contentedly fold laundry beside him, all he can think about is how he wants the rest of his life to be filled with these kinds of moments. But only if Stolas remains a part of them.
The tip of Blitzø’s tail taps against the floor in a slow, contented rhythm, keeping time with his pulse.
( art @ Lilivae_Art )
---
With the laundry neatly folded and tucked away, they face the next and worst challenge on their domestic adventure: the grocery store. Blitzø leads Stolas to his regular spot, a hole-in-the-wall place that’s been his go-to since before I.M.P was even a fever dream. The building looks like it’s been through several wars and lost every single one, but the prices are the most affordable in Imp City, a hidden gem for lower hellborn like himself.
The moment they step inside, the contrast hits harder than Blitzø expected. Stolas, even dressed down, looks like a masterpiece hanging in a dollar store—royal bearing under flickering fluorescent lights that haven’t been changed since Hell’s creation. He towers over the other shoppers like some exotic creature that took a wrong turn and ended up in a hellhog pin, turning every head in the store.
The whispers start immediately, because of course they do. Blitzø catches fragments of conversations, sees the pointing fingers and wide eyes of demons who think they know all about Stolas’ “fall from grace” because they read a three-sentence article in the corner page of some porno magazine. But Stolas, in a move that makes Blitzø’s heart do that weird flippy thing, acts like he doesn’t hear a single word. Instead, he simply threads his fingers through Blitzø’s, looking at their joined hands like he’s holding something precious instead of standing in an aisle with dented soup cans.
Whatever, Blitzø thinks, a smirk tugging at his mouth. Let them stare. That’s right: the tallest, hottest demon in this dump is holding his hand and smiling at him like he hung the fucking moon in Pride’s sky. He’d be jealous too.
Stolas occasionally gives his hand a gentle squeeze as they walk, and Blitzø keeps getting distracted by the sight of his horse-printed tote bag swaying from the goetia’s shoulder. Something about seeing an image of a horse draped across his boyfriend makes his heart do a few stupid somersaults. Fuck. On second thought, with that tote, Stolas is without a doubt not only the sexiest bitch in the store, but in all of Hell, Heaven and Earth combined.
( art @ tsundereblitz )
“This establishment is so quaint,” Stolas remarks, audibly delighted as he reaches up (way up, the show-off) to pluck a box of pancake mix from a shelf. He places it in the tote with their other items. “I can’t believe you’ve been coming here since you were a teenager, Blitz. And now we’re here—together.”
“It’s just a store, Stolas,” Blitzø rolls his eyes and shoulders in tandem, feeling a little embarrassed. “And you can call it a shithole, it’s fine.”
“I would never!” Stolas’ tailfeathers flap mildly, like a punctuation to his exclaim. “I was trying to be romantic!”
Blitzø stares blankly, though his traitorous heart skips a beat. “Right,” he says, firm but gentle, quickening his pace so he’s a step ahead of Stolas, hiding his lovestruck grin. “Nothing like swappin’ body juice in aisle 3. Come on, there’s still shit we gotta get.”
“Right. Sorry,” Stolas concedes, sounding anything but, and trails after him.
Their next destination is the poultry section, where Blitzø begins to scrutinize the array of wrapped and packaged meats. “Loonie’s favorite is chicken,” he murmurs, before freezing mid-reach as a morbid realization hits him like a gunstock to the face. They’re standing in front of what’s essentially a wall of bird corpses. He turns to Stolas, a crooked smile ready on his lips in case he needs to defuse an awkward moment. “Uh... is this, like, offensive?”
“Not at all,” Stolas answers immediately, his voice eversoft. “There is a vast difference, my love.”
Blitzø nods, feeling like his brain misfired like it was Moxxie on a bad hit. Of course Stolas wouldn’t be offended. It’s not like imps are comparable to actual reptiles or grasseating cloven bitches; so, duh, the same principle applies to avian goetia and actual fucking birds. Sometimes his mouth really does run faster than his common sense.
Not wanting to reveal the momentary short-circuit in his confidence, Blitzø strikes a casual pose, hands planted on his hips and tail swishing languidly. “Pssht. I knew that.”
“There is quite a lot to choose from,” Stolas observes, unperturbed, his gaze sweeping over the options.
Time slows then, as Blitzø watches Stolas examine chicken breasts with the same careful attention he’d give to appraising art or studying stars. In these stretched moments, Blitzø can’t help but reflect on all the ways Stolas has carved out a permanent residence in his heart without even trying.
It’s in the little things—how Stolas never makes him feel small or stupid when he asks a dumbass question, how those big bird eyes light up with genuine interest when Blitzø rambles about horse facts or a successful hit. It’s in the way Stolas never demands more than Blitzø can give, never expects him to be anything other than the chaotic mess he is. Those same eyes that once commanded legions now look at Blitzø like he’s putting on the greatest show in Hell, when all he’s doing is existing in the same space.
Stolas doesn’t push him to practice more, try harder, be better—he just... gets him, truly and deeply, in ways that still make Blitzø’s chest tighten. He always has, right from the start.
Satan fucking dammit, he’s so in love with this ridiculous owl.
“Mmhm.” Blitzø bites his lip, leaning back to admire the view: Stolas’ ass. “But, y’know, I already got all the poultry I want right here.” His hand shoots out, delivering a spank with an echoing smack, hopefully reaching every nosy bastard in every aisle.
Stolas lets out a startled squeak, every visible feather on his body ruffling on end, his face ablush. He attempts to school his features into a scowl when he notices people staring, though a smile betrays him. “Blitz!”
“What? You said it’s not offensive,” Blitzø shoots back, a mischievous curl playing on his lips as he winks, snatching up a package of chicken breasts and shoving it into the tote. He strikes it from the shopping list with a pen, right next to the doodles he made of him and Stolas surrounded by hearts.
---
They’ve almost gathered everything for checkout when Stolas suddenly goes still near the final aisle, the familiar click-click of his talons faltering on the scuffed linoleum. Blitzø glances over his shoulder to find him transfixed before a display of plants, looking like someone just showed a demon their first exposure to magic.
“Y’wanna buy one?” Blitzø asks, feeling like he already knows the answer.
“I’d enjoy looking at them,” Stolas admits, with the soft voice he uses when he’s trying not to seem too eager about something.
Blitzø doesn’t say anything more. They drift over to the display, and immediately Stolas is in his element, transforming from fallen prince to botanical aficionado. His long fingers weave around leaves and petals with reverence like he’s conducting an orchestra, his voice taking on a melodic quality as he identifies each plant for Blitzø. Happy chirps and soft coos intersperse his impromptu lecture, his passion for the hobby unmistakeable. And Blitzø, again, finds himself entranced, marveling at how the crimson of Stolas’ eyes seem to deepen when he’s excited, the gentle way his fingers cradle each leaf like it’s made of spun glass. It’s one of those interests Stolas has that might as well be written in ancient hieroglyphics found topside for all Blitzø understands it, and yet he could listen to him ramble about bullshit like soil pH for hours.
But then Stolas goes quiet, his expression clouding over into something melancholic. Blitzø looks closer and sees him cradling a small potted succulent, its leaves a dull green beneath a single defiantly bright pink flower atop its crown.
“What’s wrong?” Blitzø asks, eyebrow climbing toward his horns in concern.
“This one is particularly weak,” Stolas says, cupping the pot. “They planted it in a soil nowhere near porous enough.”
“Looks fine to me,” Blitzø replies, wiggling an extended claw near the flower like he’s poking at evidence. “See? It even has a dopey gayass flower sprouted on it.”
“I’m afraid that’s not real,” Stolas informs, sadness seeping into his voice like water into dry earth. “Whoever potted this succulent must have affixed it for what I assume are decorative purposes.”
“That’s dumb,” Blitzø agrees, feeling helpless in the face of Stolas’ distress. He hates seeing him this way, all dimmed light and drooping feathers. “But you really shouldn’t expect much from a store like this, babe. Shithole, like I said.”
“I suppose,” Stolas sighs, then regards the cradled succulent like one would a wounded animal. “You poor thing. You would be so much better off without that artificial flower. You’re beautiful as is.”
Blitzø’s heart clamps tight as he listens to Stolas’ words, his mind drawing parallels he can’t ignore. Him, a being long broken, his spirit stained by a past that never seems to stop scarring. A life composed of regrets, and a heart planted in barren soil and wilting potential. But Stolas had seen beyond those flaws, had spotted beauty where Blitzø had only seen wreckage, and nurtured it until he bloomed into something Blitzø never thought possible. Stolas had fallen in love with him; and, even after Blitzø had tried to wilt away into nothing, even after he’d pushed Stolas away with thorns grown sharp from fear, even after his rotted roots had spread so far they threatened to strangle anything good that dared grow close, Stolas had come back. He had looked at all that damage Blitzø has done and still saw something deserving of replanting. And he fell in love with Blitzø again.
“You should get it,” Blitzø says, voice small but sincere, and he must look away because the weight of the moment is too much.
“Really?” Stolas’ head whips around so fast his feathers ruffle, surprised.
“Yeah,” Blitzø confirms, looking at Stolas again but aiming for a casual expression (and probably missing by a mile). “I know you miss those bigmouthed asshole plants you used to have.”
Stolas doesn’t respond, just stares at him with an intensity that makes Blitzø feel like he’s standing in direct sunlight, his body buzzing from head to toe with a warmth that makes his vision blur at the edges.
“I know it’s not the same, but—” Blitzø swallows, tries again. “You’re good at the whole ‘making things better’ schtick,” he says hastily, fearing he might faint if this moment stretches on.
“That’s a great idea,” Stolas beams, a loving smile unfurling. “Thank you, Blitz.”
Time slows again.
“Anytime, Stols.”
---
Back at home, Blitzø invites Stolas to help him prepare dinner, for the first (and maybe last) time. Stolas’ lank is cumbersome and transforms the kitchen into an impromptu obstacle course for Blitzø to work around more than it is an assistant. But curiosity clasps at Blitzø’s mind, wondering how Stolas will integrate into what was once a solitary routine. To witness if Stolas will continue to surprise him. To let Stolas bring his heart aflutter a little longer, before the day is gone. And amidst the speckling of herbs over chicken slabs, Stolas sweetly says, “Perhaps our next kitchen should be larger when we move to a proper house.”
A warm shiver spiders down Blitzø’s spine; makes his face warm too. Only Stolas can say shit like that so easily, like the bird is already married to the idea of them owning a home together. Like he’s never considered how committing to Blitzø is also committing to a life of being hurt. Like he believes Blitzø to be someone who deserves love in spite of it.
But, again, because he’s promised Stolas he’ll start to believe the same, Blitzø forces a smile. “We spend one taint-sucking day grocery shopping together and now you want a mortgage? Y’sound like some U-Haul lesbian.”
“Pardon?” Stolas’ upper eyes blink first, then his lower. He clicks his tongue. “Hmph. I’m going to take that as a compliment. As should you when I’m proposing our future home, Blitz.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Malibu Blitzø and Stolas’ Dreamhouse.”
“Not at all, but there are features to privately owned residences that you find scarce in complexes.” He nudges Blitzø’s shoulder with the back of his hand, capturing the imp’s attention, then hands him a cheesecloth. “A lawn, for instance. One with a charming garden.”
Blitzø busies himself covering the seasoned pieces of meat, but still, he joins in on the daydream, silently. Thinks of how the succulent they bought today would be first to take root in their garden.
Stolas must be reading his mind, because the owl tips his head toward the largest kitchen window where he’d given the succulent a home on its sill. It sits there looking somehow more dignified now – perched and potted in the right conditions, faux flower removed, and, if Blitzø had to guess, looking better than it ever had in that crowded store.
“She would be given the most special of spots in the garden.”
“She? It’s a plant.”
“It’s more than that.”
Blitzø doesn’t argue. Not because he’s run out of kickass comebacks – no, he’s got a whole arsenal of those locked and loaded. And not because he’s too busy sliding the pan of chicken into the oven, though he makes a show of focusing on that. The truth sits deeper, in a place he’s only recently learned to acknowledge: it’s because he understands exactly what Stolas means about things being "more than that."
With Stolas, everything carries the weight of deeper meaning. Words become promises, whispered with such reverent love they might as well be prayers. Simple moments transform into memories that feel scripted by fate itself. Even their first meeting – a dark mark on Blitzø’s childhood, when he was presented as Stolas’ birthday gift like some living toy – had somehow, impossibly, led them here. Their second first meeting as adults, what should have been a one-night stand, blossomed into something far beyond coincidence, beyond explanation, beyond the boundaries of what Blitzø once thought possible for someone like him.
There are memories that still ache like an old wound: a repeating cycle of Blitzø’s autonomy being stripped away while Stolas lived out romantic fantasies. There are times Blitzø wishes he’d shared Stolas’ feelings right from the beginning, when they were children; instead, it took him almost thirty years to catch up. Now, it’s fucking ironic: Stolas willingly gifts himself, his love, to Blitzø, every day. And Blitzø, with the choice finally his, gives the same in return.
But Blitzø is not thinking about any of that. He’s definitely not thinking about how Stolas taught him to see the soul in simple things – how a plant isn’t just stems and leaves, but a living creature with purpose. And he’s absolutely not thinking about how he’s applied that same idea to his heart: how it’s more than just the muscle pushing blood through his veins. It’s also Stolas, the living, breathing love of his life.
When Blitzø turns from the oven, a smile threatens to break through his disinterested facade. He fights it for all of three seconds before giving up, crossing the kitchen to bury his face against Stolas’ feathered thighs, hiding the expression he can’t control. His arms wrap around the owl’s slender abdomen, holding on like a bastion.
Whatever. If Stolas wants the plant to have she/her pronouns, then she’ll have them.
"Christ on a stick," he mumbles into the soft plumage, voice thick with humor and love, "do we really need another daughter?"
Stolas’ answering hootful laugh is soft and abiding. His arms are, too, as he embraces Blitzo in return. They stand there in their too-small kitchen, holding each other, while over on the kitchen’s largest windowsill, their first plant-child basks in the evening light.
---
The dinner they made together sits warm in Blitzø’s stomach—the chicken ended up a little on the overcooked side, dry with crispy edges that crackled when chewed. But Loona had given Stolas a smile upon finishing, a rare seal of approval worth more than any five-star restaurant review, a boost of confidence not lost on Stolas, before retreating to her room once more.
Which left Blitzø’ and Stolas to enjoy the remainder of the evening together, and they do so as they have the whole day: domestically. A slice of cake—something Stolas had selected at the store, overly decadent and rich, a choice he insisted on despite Blitzø being convinced the cheaper cakes taste the exact same. To accompany it, a glass of red wine that Stolas sips like it’s liquid gold, a rare treat he’s allowing himself after nearly a year of almost total abstinence. A quiet testament to the changes he’s been making.
When Blitzø passes the dessert plate to Stolas, he catches sight of garlic powder dust clinging to his feathers—remnants from earlier when Stolas had sneezed into the seasoning bowl. He doesn’t point it out, not like he would have before they were dating, back when he was an asshole. A quiet testament to the changes he’s been making.
Okay, fine. He doesn’t point it out because it’s fucking adorable. Sue him.
Blitzø decides he’ll let Stolas make the call on when they go to bed. Waits for him to rise from the table and extend a talon toward him, beckoning with those lithe fingers, and Blitzø follows without question. He follows like he’s being pulled by invisible strings, as if Stolas had somehow retained enough of his old powers to weave enchantments with nothing but a gesture and knowing smile. Maybe he has—it would definitely explain the way Blitzø feels bespelled every time the taller demon is close to him, speaking his name, looking his way.
In their bedroom, Blitzø promptly begins his undress, shedding the day with each layer of his clothing. He strips down to nothing but his briefs, slides under the covers of their bed, and releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. It’s only then that Stolas starts to remove his own clothes, once Blitzø is good and settled, when he knows for a fact that he has the imp’s full attention. Revealing silky down feathers, he bends so the moonlight can accentuate the softer lines of his body, every inch of him likely an imprint on Blitzø’s fingerprints by now. Stolas flashes a smile; cheeky, yes, but adoring above all, hinting at no fatigue towards Blitzø after a day of constant togetherness.
For once, Blitzø isn’t tired either, nor is he looking forward to sleep. He used to use dreams as an escape, to temporarily travel back to places and moments untouched by tragedy and loss, but not anymore. Those same dreams would place him somewhere devoid of Stolas, and that thought is more nightmarish than any he’s known before. He’d stay awake forever to extend the day, if he could, to look at Stolas a little while longer, to count each feather on his body. All things to prove he’s here. They’re together. And nothing is taking this away.
Maybe it makes him the biggest, dumbest sap alive, but being with Stolas surpasses any dream, as far as Blitzø is concerned. Still, he can’t help but tease:
“So. What’s the final verdict on chore day, Big Bird?" Blitzø props himself up on one elbow when Stolas joins him under the covers, tail quick to slither over and find his thigh. “Fuckin’ lame, right?”
Stolas turns to face him, eyes glowing softly in the darkness. “No. Every second was a dream come true.”
“You won’t be saying that when we gotta do all this shit again in a couple weeks,” Blitzø snorts, but his hand finds Stolas’ under the covers anyway.
“Hmph. Shows what you know.” Stolas nuzzles closer, feathertips tickling Blitzø’s chest. “I would do it all again tomorrow. Every day, in fact.”
“Stop lying, bitch. You sound like you wanna be my tradwife.”
“Y-Your... wife? As in, spouse?”
“You’re so fuckin’ gay,” Blitzø laughs, pulling Stolas closer, so he can finally shove his snout into that extra soft cluster of plumage at Stolas’ chest. His special spot. “Love you.”
“And I you,” Stolas whispers against one of his horns. It’s like a sacred prayer. An oath. “I always have, from the first moment I laid eyes on you.”
The words hang in the air between them, another configuration of love confession in their ever-revolving ways to say ‘I love you’. Each one feels like the first. Each one rending Blitzø into something soft and vulnerable.
Only for a second, though.
“C’mere, bitch,” Blitzø growls, and rolls them so Stolas is pinned beneath him. His dorsal spines stand at attention. “It’s time for a lil' more of that do mess on this dick fun.”
“The word is domestic, Blitz,” Stolas says, laughing into his mouth.
The room then brims with the word as Blitzø cups Stolas’ face in his hand. As his lips finds Stolas’ beak again and again. As his kisses follow his drifting fingers, down Stolas’ neck, chest, belly. And the day’s tasks fade like smoke, leaving only this - warm feathers beneath Blitzø’s hands, shared breaths trembling in the dark, and the certainty that, with Stolas here, his life is no longer a chore.