Archive of Our Own ^beta

Stolas had been off all morning.

Not in a way that prompted concern—not at first—but in the frustrating, achy, vaguely itchy way that made his skin twitch under feathers and his muscles coil for no real reason. The contractions—he refused to call them anything else—had started early, a series of rhythmic clenching in his lower belly and cloaca that had come and gone throughout the breakfast Blitzø had burned for them.

He’d waved them off. Braxian waves, he’d said—practice pulses. A completely normal avian phenomenon for someone who was gravid and nearing the final stretch of incubation. But by mid-afternoon, the ache had turned to tightness, and that tightness to discomfort, and that discomfort to sharp little pulses of pressure that wouldn’t go away no matter how he shifted.

Eventually, Stolas had given up the pretense of normalcy and retreated to their shared bedroom in the house they’d finally settled into after his banishment was lifted. It was a fairly sized home, newly rebuilt after the scandal and fire damage, tailored to their odd little family. Blitzø had insisted on a sunken living room and a walk-in weapons closet; Stolas had gotten his reading nook and an incubator chamber he had no idea how to use but was determined to pretend he did.

He made it to their bed, stripped himself of his robes, and collapsed into the mattress in nothing but silk boxers. The neediness burned under his skin now, and his fingers trembled as they drifted beneath the waistband. Maybe a little stimulation would help things settle.

That’s where Blitzø found him—not even trying to be quiet, for once.

“Well damn, I knew I was rubbing off on you but not literally,” Blitzø teased from the doorframe, arms crossed, grinning like a devil who’d caught Santa with his pants down. “You trying to lay this egg solo, or do you want the full nesting experience?”

Stolas groaned. “Don’t be crude, Blitzy. It’s… I’m just trying to take the edge off.”

“Oh, c’mon.” Blitzø crossed the room in a few strides, cocky confidence rolling off him in waves. “You’re moaning in our sheets with your hand down your pants, and I’m not supposed to assume you’re begging for my help?”

The prince opened his beak to protest, but a particularly tight cramp rolled through his abdomen, making him gasp and curl slightly. Blitzø caught that reaction immediately.

“…You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stolas lied. “They’re just practice. It’s not time yet. I— I’d rather be distracted.”

That got Blitzø’s attention in the right way. “Well, who am I to say no to a little egg-prep party?”

He pulled off his jacket and shirt in one smooth motion, crawled up beside the owl, and leaned down to brush a kiss against the sensitive feathers along Stolas’ throat.

“Let me help you feel good, Stols,” he whispered against his skin. “You don’t have to do this part alone.”

Stolas shivered, already panting from the pressure, but nodded. “Please.”

It wasn’t long before Blitzø had stripped them both fully, spreading Stolas out across the bed in a relaxed sprawl. His fingers were quick and familiar, knowing exactly how to stroke along the plush down surrounding his cloaca, teasing the swollen nubs that always appeared during his fertile phase.

“You’re so sensitive, Stols,” Blitzø chuckled with a swipe of his thumb, claw catching on the ridges of his entrance. The action sent a shiver up and down Stolas’ spine, bringing his back to arch against his will.

“You’re driving me mad,” the prince breathed, a mix of moan and laugh caught in his throat.

“Yeah?” Blitzø smirked, leaning down to nip along his collarbone. “Then maybe I should use my mouth next.”

It didn’t take long before he had Stolas writhing under him, gripping the sheets as Blitzø’s tongue teased and fucked his opening slowly. The stimulation helped at first, dulled the pain into a haze of pleasure. But the cramps never quite went away. They remained—a dull, urgent undertone to everything.

And then Blitzø pushed inside.

Stolas arched, mouth falling open with a shocked moan.

“You’re so damn tight,” Blitzø groaned, gripping the owl’s hips as he bottomed out. “I can feel you pulsing around me already.”

Stolas whimpered, head tipping back into the pillows, flushed and shivering. “I don’t know if this is helping or making it worse…”

Blitzø rolled his hips experimentally. “Just tell me if you want me to stop.”

Stolas didn’t.

Blitzø’s mouth latched onto the Prince’s neck, teasing a patch of feathers that had ruffled in response to his breath. Stolas writhed, not in pleasure, but something sharper — need edged with panic. His fingers clutched at the sheets beneath him, nails gouging deep furrows into the plush fabric. His hips rocked, not from rhythm but from some primal, involuntary twitching. There was pressure building. Not the good kind.

A trembling exhale hitched in Stolas’ throat, followed by a guttural grunt that tore free before he could swallow it back. He jerked, stiffened. The contraction lanced through his abdomen like a fist twisting deep inside, dragging claws along every nerve. Wetness slicked down his thighs — not from arousal, but from the strange, mucous-laced discharge his body had begun producing without consent.

Blitzø froze.

His eyes flicked up.

“Stol? That—uh—that didn’t sound like a ‘keep going,’” he said, half-joking. But the humor died when he saw Stolas’ face, strained and pale beneath the deep flush of exertion. His eyes were pinched at the corners, his beak parted slightly, saliva glistening at the edge of his tongue as if panting helped push through the pain.

“Blitzø,” Stolas rasped, voice gravel-choked and low. “It hurts.”

The air changed.

“What kind of hurt?” Blitzø asked, suddenly still, hands pausing on the prince’s thighs. “Like, a cramp? Or like—like I-fucked-up-your-back-again hurt?”

“No,” Stolas gasped, digging his claws into Blitzø’s shoulder for anchor. “Inside. Deep. Lower. It’s—ah—“ Stolas curled in on himself as the cramping spiked, inadvertently swallowing Blitzø’s frame with his own. With his feathers smooshed against skin, it was impossible to ignore the way the imp froze.

“Stolas,” Blitzø’s tone, combined with the lack of swears or innuendos, scared the prince even more. His pin-white pupils pricked into existence as he watched his lover’s shrink. “I don't think this is a test-run.”

“No I-I’m fine. Just… just give me a second?” Abruptly, Blitzø went to pull out, the spikes on the underside of his shaft catching as he went. Just as soon as he started he was quickly stopped, Stolas’ limbs and cloaca clamping down on him. The assassin grunted. Around him, the pressure and heat drove him towards completion. Were the situation different, he would have given in. “Where- what?”

The Prince fluffed up indignantly as Blitzø tried again, movements jerky as his composure slipped.

“Stolas, stop!” Blitzø’s large mottled palms found Stolas’ sweat-covered cheeks, holding him in place and grabbing his undivided attention. Despite the pained confusion and slightly angered expression on his face, he was practically glowing.

“Just because it's not fully helping doesn't mean-” Blitzø brought his left hand to the bird’s beak, stopping his protests with a muffled complaint.

“Egg-bert-”

“How many- we’re fine!” Stolas groaned, frustration taking precidence “Sweet Lucifer. I'm not a mammal. Late-stage coitus is perfectly-”

“No, Stols.” Blitzø would have dragged a hand down his face if he weren't petrified. “I can feel them!” Instead, he placed his palm against the side of his prince’s large distended middle.

Silence fell as the words seemed to get through, Stolas’ frown deepening.

“W-what?”

“My dick is touching the egg—at least, I’m pretty sure it's the egg. You didn't shove a toy up there, did you?”

“No!” The accusation was so wild, but the only other option was terrifying. “It's… now? I-” Stolas gripped Blitzø’s shoulders, pant intensifying as his breath quickened. He had been promised at least another week before the laying; Stolas wasn't ready in the slightest.

Once again, his muscles tensed, pinching and burning as they rippled under his skin and feathers. The cry that left his beak pitched high above the owl’s usual register. The scream cracked the air, not with volume but with desperation. His whole body seized, curling in on itself like a bird trying to protect its nest from a storm. Something shifted inside him, a hard, unyielding mass pressing down, fighting to exit through too-small channels. His cloaca throbbed with agonizing pressure, the lips already swollen, reddened, parting ever so slightly with slick sound. Not from pleasure. From strain.

Blitzø’s panic was ever-growing, fueled by the sensation against his groin and the reaction of his boyfriend in his arms. When Stolas fell backwards into the pillows, chest heaving and tears collecting on his lash line, the imp damn near jumped.

“W-what- what do I do, Stols?”

“Oh, I wonder. Might as well finish while you’r-”

“Really?”

“No! Pull out, for heaven-sakes!” The owl cried.

“-gentle!”

Blitzø pulled out slowly, carefully, catching the way blood mixed with fluid clung to him as he did. Stolas groaned at the sudden, not-so-empty ache. His legs trembled as he instantly tried to rise. Each movement shifted his abdomen, twinging and making apparent that now omnipresent pressure dropping to his pelvis.

When Blitzø returned, having thrown on his pants and scavenged every towel in a fifty-foot radius, the owl was straddling a makeshift nest of pillows. His legs were spread as far apart as was comfortable, arms supporting the brunt of his weight in front of him with his tail fanned wide behind his back.

No matter what he tried, Blitzø was of no comfort to the prince. Any touch was met with a snapping beak, any word cut off by a squawk. Though he was unfamiliar with avian labor, he knew primal instincts were not to be messed with. As much as he yearned to help, Blitzø knew forcing it would only make things worse.

“Okay. Okay, I’m here. I got you, alright? You gotta breathe through it. I’ve seen, uh, birthing videos before. Just—don’t hold it in.”

But Stolas was already panting, birdlike and shallow, head thrown back as another contraction gripped him. His legs strained apart, talons clenching at the sheets. The pressure surged, volcanic and unrelenting, a sense of splitting, like something was tearing him in half from the inside out. He sobbed through it, throat tight with effort, tears burning hot trails from his eyes.

Blitzo knelt in-front of him, eyes wide. The swelling at his entrance was more than the normal with rarousal—it was blooming, pulsing with the oncoming arrival. A glint of slick opalescent shell pushed just barely into view, like a pearl caught in muscle.

“Shit. Shit, okay—Stolas, I see it. It’s real. You’re laying.”

Stolas let out a strangled cry, and his whole body bore down. His arms snapped open involuntarily, feathers puffed and twitching as he anchored himself to Blitzø. The imp winced as warm, black blood trailed down his arms—-Stolas’ talons carving half-moons into his shoulders.

“I can’t—I can’t—“ Stolas began in a wretched mantra, voice hoarse and thready.

“You can, Stol. Look at me.” Blitzø leaned in, gripping his face gently but firmly, forcing eye contact. “You’re doing it. I got you. Just keep going. I’m gonna help guide it out, alright?” His beak opened to respond, but cut himself off as his face scrunched in agony. Instead he nodded vigorously, tears falling with each shake.

Blitzø reached down with one hand, gently pressing around the distended rim of Stolas’ cloaca, which was spasming around the slick tip of the egg. Warm, sticky fluids coated his fingers, and Stolas let out a raw animalistic keen as Blitzo applied the faintest pressure.

“Push, baby. You’re so close.”

Stolas fell forward into his lover’s frame as another contraction wracked through his body.

The egg moved. Slowly, torturously.

“Fuck—” Stolas gasped into Blitzø’s chest, sobbing, panting, everything tightening and loosening in unpredictable pulses. His thighs shook violently. A deep, stretching burn tore through him as the widest part crowned, making his entire lower body feel like it might rip.

Blitzø kept whispering. Praise, nonsense, loving filth.

“That’s it. That’s my birdy. You’re so good, Stols. Almost there. Just a little more. You’re doing it.”

The moment the egg slipped free was not a pop—it was a collapse. A wet, slurping thud against the towels Blitzø had spread without even realizing he’d done it. Stolas cried out, his whole body spasming, then sagging in on itself.

Blitzø caught the egg carefully—it was warm, slick, smooth. Pale eggshell with flecks of red. He stared for a moment, awed. Then quickly set it aside in a nest of towels to keep warm, heart still hammering.

Stolas was trembling, gasping shallowly, sweat-slick and trembling with aftershocks. It was barely even a minute before another ripple passed through him. He whimpered. His chest heaved with exertion, each inhale a whimper, his hands gripping Blitzø’s wrists like a drowning man clinging to driftwood. The first egg sat safely off to the side, gleaming in its makeshift nest of towels, but Stolas wasn’t looking at it.

He was staring at the ceiling with wide, unseeing eyes.

And then he moaned—no, wailed—as his spine arched violently off the bed, feathers flaring in all directions.

Blitzø’s heart dropped. “No—no, no, no, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Stolas’ claws dragged across his own stomach, as if trying to scrape something out, sheer desperation trembling through every muscle. “There’s—” His voice cracked, impossibly hoarse. “There’s another one. I—I didn’t know. I didn’t feel it before—”

A wave of terror washed across his face as the next contraction seized him like a vice, his whole body curling forward, then snapping back. Blitzø caught him before he slammed into the pillows, holding him tight, whispering frantic reassurances neither of them believed anymore.

“Another egg?” Blitzø breathed, eyes darting downward.

The swelling had returned—no, it had never gone down. The brief reprieve had been a lie. And now his cloaca was already bulging, distended and trembling with the weight of a second intruder. But this one felt worse. Different.

Too big.

The skin around the rim had already stretched beyond what seemed possible, reddened and raw from the first delivery. Now it was forced to expand again, and farther. Stolas sobbed helplessly, clawing at his thighs as the weight inside pressed lower, heavier, crueler.

“I can’t—I can’t do it again, Blitzy—I can’t—it’s too big—”

“You can. Baby, look at me, look—” Blitzø cradled his face, but Stolas was shaking so badly his beak clacked from tremors. “You’re strong. You’re the strongest bastard I know, alright? You can do this. I’m right here.”

“I’m going to tear.”

Blitzø froze.

There was no exaggeration in that voice. Just certainty. A quiet, shaking truth.

The next contraction hit like a sledgehammer. Stolas screamed, a broken, animal sound that made Blitzø’s blood go cold. It was raw panic and unbearable pain woven into a single moment. His cloaca bulged outward, wider this time, the trembling rim already slick with blood-streaked fluid.

Then Stolas’ body went still. Too still. He lay on the bed, slack-jawed, his pupils blown wide as a low, ragged sound began deep in his throat. It was somewhere between a trill and a growl, rolling out of him in an uneven pulse, like he was being taken over by some internal frequency that only he could hear.

Blitzø, hands soaked in blood and slick, dared to move closer. “Babe…? Talk to me.”

Stolas snapped upright with a suddenness that made Blitzo jolt.

The prince’s eyes were glassy, wild. Every feather on his body puffed outward like a cornered animal. Blood dripped in winding trails down his thighs, stark against lavender skin, but he didn’t seem to register it. His talons flexed. He gave a sharp, breathless chirp—almost inquisitive, almost threatening—then swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood.

“Whoa, hey! Hey, bad idea, that’s a bad fucking idea!” Blitzø scrambled forward, arms out. “You are—Stolas, you are BLEEDING. You’re literally dripping blood like a horror movie pigeon!”

Stolas hissed at him.

It was birdlike: a chittering, crackling snarl. His body hunched instinctively, and he began padding slowly across the room on shaking legs, head low, feathers fluffed, dragging one hand against the wall for balance. The blood left behind little smudged prints. His gait was uneven, primal, driven by some leftover instinct etched deep into the bones of an ancient avian lineage.

The physical and mental stress had tripped the Prince into a primitive mind, and Blitzø didn’t know what the fuck was happening.

“Satan’s taint, are you possessed? Do I need an adorcist? A bird whisperer? Some goddamn breadcrumbs?”

He tried to reach for him again—gently this time—but Stolas snapped, lashing out with his beak. Blitzø yelped as sharp pain bit into the meat of his forearm. It momentarily shocked him out of his fear. “Ow! Unholy hell, you actually bit me! You drew blood, you feathery asshole!”

whirled around, panting, chest rising and falling in ragged, primal stutters. He pressed both clawed hands against his lower abdomen as another contraction rolled through him. This time, it bent him at the waist, a strangled screech tearing from his throat. He dropped to his knees, then caught himself with a groan, clutching the edge of the bed like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.

Blitzø stood frozen for half a second—torn between his concern, his own rising panic, and the blood now dripping from his arm.

“…Right,” he muttered, wiping his mouth on his shoulder. “Cool. My boyfriend is possessed by prehistoric egg demons and I’m the emotional support imp on shift. Great.”

But despite the sarcasm, his eyes were already scanning for danger. For more towels. For anything. His heart thundered in his chest.

Stolas’ back arched again, a horrible sound escaping him—guttural and wild. His thighs quivered, soaked in blood, and from between them, Blitzø could see the beginning of the second egg forcing its way down. 

Stolas gave a trembling trill and let out another shriek as his knees buckled. He slumped lower, but still clung to the bed, eyes unfocused, breath shuddering.

“Alright,” Blitzø whispered, voice tight as a garrote, “You wanna go full velociraptor mode? Fine. I’ll play the dino zookeeper.”

He stepped forward carefully, crouching just behind Stolas. The heat radiating off his lover was staggering, and he could see the way the skin around his cloaca strained and shuddered—already split in places, slightly torn from the first delivery.

Another scream tore from Stolas, and this time, his talons slammed into the floor. He hissed again, jerking away from Blitzø’s touch, but the imp didn’t budge.

“Nope. Nuh uh. I don’t care how bird-brained you are right now, I’m not letting you fall face-first into your own egg juice. Sit the fuck down.”

Stolas tried to bite him again. This time, Blitzø ducked it, then shoved a pillow under Stolas’ knees and gently lowered him down. He bled on the floor. It was thick now—deep black, smeared across his inner thighs like paint on cracked porcelain.

“I know you’re in pain,” Blitzø said softly. “I know it’s too much. But you don’t get to faceplant and die, okay? That’s my job if we get audited. You just—” His voice cracked. “You just have to get through this. I know you can.”

Stolas whimpered.

His claws tightened around the bedding. Another contraction rolled through him, and his beak clacked together in pain. But his next noise wasn’t a snarl.

It was a low, rasping sob.

His head sagged.

“Blitzy…” he whispered, voice shredded from earlier screaming. “Blitzy—I’m—”

“I’m right here, songbird.” Blitzø scooted in, arms gently wrapping around him from behind, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. “I got you.”

“…It hurts,” Stolas gasped.

“I know. I know—-I’m so sorry.”

Blitzø could feel everything.

Every twitch. Every jerk. Every shudder rolling down Stolas’ spine like an aftershock. His arms were locked tightly around the prince’s middle, one hand splayed against his taut, trembling abdomen, the other curled protectively around his chest. His chin rested against Stolas’ shoulder, close enough to feel the damp heat of the other’s panting breaths.

Stolas was shaking. Not just trembling—shaking. Like his bones were threatening to rattle loose from the sheer effort of holding himself together. His sobs came in choked, unsteady bursts, his throat catching with every exhale as his body convulsed in Blitzø’s arms.

And below, he could feel it. The solid, slow shift of the second egg pushing down, distorting the prince’s body from the inside.

“Oh fuck,” Blitzø whispered, his breath ghosting over Stolas’ feathers. “Okay, okay—it’s moving, I feel it, I got you.”

Stolas keened. The sound didn’t even resemble speech anymore. Just a broken, strained cry—mournful and overwhelmed—as his thighs jerked inward. Another contraction hit him like a lightning bolt. His whole body seized and Blitzø felt the prince spasm—hard.

His abdomen clenched under Blitzø’s palm like a coiled spring about to snap. Every muscle tensed so violently that Blitzo thought for a moment that something must give—and then it did.

A wet, awful sound. Flesh tearing.

Stolas screamed.

Blitzø felt it—heard it—in stereo. The way Stolas’ body split around the egg, the stretch too much, too far, too fast. A hot rush of blood surged against his lap, down Stolas’ legs, thick and slick.

“Shit— okay, okay, it’s alright, I know, I know, just—breathe, baby, please breathe!” Blitzø’s voice was frantic now, trembling. His arms never loosened. He held him tighter, grounding him, steadying him as Stolas writhed and gasped and chittered like a wounded animal.

Then it came.

A final, body-wracking push.

Stolas’ hands clawed at the side of the bed. His talons dragged deep gouges into the fabric as he bore down, screaming into the sheets. His back arched like a bow pulled to its limit, and his head snapped back—hard—right over Blitzø’s shoulder. His beak was wide open, eyes rolled back and streaming, feathers flying loose from the strain.

Blitzø held on. Every muscle in Stolas’ body was contracting around that egg, and he felt it—Gods, he felt it—surging downward, burning, stretching him to his limits.

And then—

A rush of fluid.

A thick, wet sound.

A heavy thud as the second egg slipped free and hit the towel-covered floor between them.

The tension broke all at once.

Stolas collapsed forward with a strangled sob, his whole body going limp like a marionette whose strings had been cut. His hands slipped from the bed, claws dragging limply. Blood and slick coated his thighs, staining the sheets, the floor, even Blitzo’s lap. The prince crumpled into the crook of the bed and Blitzø’s arms, chest heaving, completely spent.

Blitzø stared, stunned, for half a second. Then gently—so gently—it was like touching glass, he cradled Stolas back against him, guiding him down to the side of the bed.

“Stolas…” he whispered, brushing sweat-drenched feathers from the prince’s eyes. “Can you hear me? Baby, you with me?”

There was no reply. Just the slow, ragged sound of Stolas breathing.

Still alive. Still here.

“…That’s my songbird,” Blitzø murmured, voice cracking as his bloody hands cradled the prince close. “You did it.”

Blitzø didn’t move at first. He just knelt there in the mess, one arm around Stolas’ loose stomach, the other trembling slightly where it cradled his chest. Blood smeared the skin of his arms, his thighs, even his cheek where Stolas’ talons had apparently caught him during the frenzy. The sting was sharp. But he didn’t care.

Slowly, like the fog after a storm begins to thin, Stolas stirred. His head shifted faintly against Blitzo’s shoulder, beak dragging a trail of heat across his collarbone.

“Mmmh…” A broken sound. Barely a voice. But real.

Blitzø pulled back just far enough to see his face. “Hey… hey, look at me.”

Stolas’ eyes cracked open. Bloodshot. Glassy. But focused—eventually—on him.

“There you are, birdy,” Blitzø whispered, smoothing trembling fingers over a sweat-drenched cheek. “You did so good.”

A weak flutter of feathers. Stolas’ hand came up, clumsy and uncoordinated, to grasp at Blitzø’s wrist. He didn’t speak—couldn’t—but the way he leaned into Blitzo’s touch said everything.

Blitzø helped him sit back, easing his weight carefully against the bed, and pulled a clean blanket from the pile nearby. He wrapped it around Stolas’ narrow frame, tugging it snug to hold in the warmth. Then, with a kiss to the prince’s crown, he whispered, “Rest. I’ve got it from here.”

Stolas didn’t argue. His eyes slipped shut again, and his breathing softened into something steadier—less strained, more rhythmic. His talons twitched once in Blitzø’s grip, and then stilled.

Only then did Blitzø rise, slowly and stiffly, wincing as his joints protested. The room was a wreck—sheets half-pulled off, towels soaked, a trail of blood from the bed to the center of the floor. And in the middle of it all—

The eggs.

He stepped closer, careful not to let his shadow fall too heavily. One lay nestled in the folds of the blanket he’d dropped earlier. Smaller, neatly formed. The other—larger, glossy, still faintly slick—rested nearby, resting in a shallow dent of bloody fabric.

Blitzø crouched slowly beside them.

“Holy shit…”

He reached out—then hesitated. His fingers hovered over the smooth surface of the larger egg, trembling. It was real. They were real.

“…They’re real.” A laugh bubbled up in his throat, startled and unsteady. “You really—we really—holy fuck.”

Gently, he cleaned each egg with a warm, damp cloth, inspecting them like priceless artifacts. The shells were firm. Whole. Warm to the touch. He could almost swear one of them shifted faintly beneath his hand.

Blitzø blinked hard, then leaned forward, forehead resting lightly against the edge of the incubator as he set them inside. “Alright, you little chaos gremlins. Just stay put in there. No weird shit yet, okay?”

The machine hummed softly to life.

Then came the cleaning. The towels went into a trash bin. The floor was wiped down, the linens stripped, a new blanket laid out at the edge of the bed. Blitzø worked quietly, methodically, pausing only once to glance back at Stolas—still asleep, breathing slow and even.

Once the chaos was gone, Blitzø slid into the space beside him.

The blanket shifted slightly as he settled down. Stolas stirred—just a twitch at first, then a low murmur as he instinctively leaned toward the warmth. One arm reached out in his sleep, wrapping loosely around Blitzø’s waist. His beak pressed into the crook of Blitzø’s neck, feathers tickling his throat as he sighed contentedly.

Blitzø finally released the tension in his own body, stroking the feathers of his love in relief.

“…Falsies my ass,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around his prince. “Next time you say ‘false contractions,’ I’m calling the goddamn ambulance.”

”Bold of you to assume there will be a next time,” Stolas chuffed in exhaustion.

”Shhh…” He smiled sweetly, kissing the Prince between his eyes. “How you feelin’?”

”Incredibly sore,” he hummed. The two were comfortable in silence for a while, nuzzling one another in comfort. Eventually, Blitzø continued.

”You’re gonna need stitches, babe.” Stolas winced, as if the reminder shot to his torn flesh.

”My magic will kickstart the healing process as I sleep—I assure you I’ll be fine.” Blitzø pulled away slightly to eye his boyfriend, who knowingly huffed. “If it is truly what you wish, then you can check just how unabashedly destroyed my cloaca is—after I rest.” 

The imp begrudgingly agreed as he kissed the top of Stolas’ head and closed his eyes. More would come later, and they would definitely need their rest.