Chapter Text
It was concerning, the sense of comfort that familiarity brought.
Skirting the fringes, he danced between feeling utterly forgotten and like every eye in the room had set its sights on him, some collective hive mind he simply wasn't privy too. Goetian events were an enigma he'd never managed to balance correctly. He was used to gentle work, to light touches against buds, and leafing through pages that were over a hundred years his senior, and yet he never could find the delicacy that was expected of him at these events, no matter how hard he tried. More than likely he was meant to learn that gentleness was a weakness, one he was supposed to overcome.
Even when expectation had tried to crush him under its weight, he’d fought that lesson with every fibre of his being.
Once, he'd hated the fringes, hated the laughter across the room, hated the longing loneliness that welled up inside him. Now, he almost pitied them.
In only a couple of hours, when they all returned to their cold silk sheets and the dead eyes of the statues that no doubt lined their hollow halls, he’d be back in his apartment. Their apartment. The one they chose.
Losing the palace was unexpectedly one of the best things that had ever happened to him (besides Via's hatching and Blitzø’s whirlwind return, of course.) It had taken some (significant) adjustment to get used to the cotton that sometimes caught on his feathers, bundling up to keep the heating bill down. But for the first time in his life he felt free.
He got to choose all kinds of things, wallpaper, drapes, where the bookshelves would go. Things he'd never given a second thought to, but they were his decision. All with the trusty final say of Via and Loona of course, it was their home too when they wanted it to be, and, in all honesty, they were usually right. The freedom of choice had gone to his head when he'd tried to choose chartreuse for the kitchen. Blitzø was just far too enamoured with him to say so.
Because Blitzø... Blitzø loved him.
It was a novel concept he was still getting used to, one that Blitzø was also learning how to navigate, but over time they'd started to translate one another's love languages. Stolas appreciated words, things laid out to him in black and white, with no room for misinterpretation, a clear and concise ‘I love you’.
But for Blitzø, his actions often spoke louder than his words, and Stolas had slowly learned to unravel them. The quiet 'I love you' in a homemade breakfast, tea just the way Stolas liked it, doing whatever he could to make it easier for his family. So Stolas supposed in a way that he was lucky Blitzø had yet to serve up a dish he didn't enjoy. The imp had immediately and without resistance, inserted himself as head chef of the household, because as the saying goes, the stomach was a sure way to the heart, something Blitzø quietly admitted he'd probably picked up from his mother (and Stolas didn't let the enormity of that statement pass by him, just let it settle.)
The fact that Blitzø was an excellent cook really shouldn’t have come as such a surprise to Stolas. They’d made dinner together a few times in the past, where Blitzø expertly pulled together something delicious, and Stolas spent thirty minutes learning how to dice a carrot. By the third or maybe the fourth time he should have realised it wasn’t a fluke, that Blitzø was just good at making food, but it only really sank in when they finally moved into the new apartment together as a family.
He certainly wasn’t complaining. The food usually tasted incredible, it left him full and satisfied in a way that, if he was being completely honest, he hadn't felt in years, and to know that it was a sign of the love pointed in his direction made it all the more enjoyable.
Everything was perfect.
Until it wasn’t, of course.
Being stripped of everything had been hard for a long time, at least until he was able to fight for the two most important things he’d lost, his daughter and his title (and really only one of those mattered). Even if he still lacked the wealth or standing, being a prince afforded him some liberties, like being allowed a small portion of his power, enough to conduct his duties. And Lucifer, he’d missed the stars, missed the gentle hum in his veins, the simple swirl of his wrist that made things easier.
Unfortunately it also meant he was expected to attend to his other princely duties. And that apparently meant sulking at the edge of a compulsory gala. One of those stuck-up parties that he’d frankly always hated, spending them longing to be at home with a book and glass of wine. Now that he could remain at home with a book, a glass of something non-alcoholic but close enough to bring back the feeling, and Blitzø… It was a one-horse race.
Instead he was bound to expectation, watching the ‘festivities’ from the side-lines as he nursed something that he was told was non-alcoholic, but trusted about as much as the night's guests. His eyes wandered over the party, the familiar sneering faces of the court, and occasionally his gaze caught longingly on the little trays of canapés circling the room. They were always more for show at these events, another ridiculous tradition he still barely understood. Why go to all of those lengths for a display that would be almost entirely wasted? A show of power, of exorbitant wealth, he'd realised, but that reasoning only made less and less sense to him as time went on.
Once upon a time he'd have found a modicum of pleasure indulging in the unnecessary display, in taking his pickings, but tonight... Tonight he risked both his image and his outfit with such wanderings.
As if spurred on by the thought, another sharp twinge made Stolas tense and gasp quietly, his hand dropping to his waist, to the tight fabric and boning beneath, his stomach protesting it's confinement and making itself known. The one blight in his otherwise close to perfect life.
The issue hadn't exactly crept up on him, he’d noticed the slight changes. His thighs started to brush when he walked, the buttons on his romper were a little harder to fasten, his feathers were healthier, but fresh ones were forming to fill new gaps. It was still something of a revelation though, to look in the ever-traitorous mirror on an otherwise unremarkable morning, to roll away a sheath and reveal a brand-new feather, only to finally notice the slight doughiness of the skin beneath his fingers.
Slouched over on the stool in front of the vanity that was just low enough to allow Blitzø access, the little pocket of softness at his middle had dipped, ever so slightly, against his upper thighs, who themselves were looking markedly plumper. His hips looked softer too, more pronounced but in gentle slopes that his feathers accentuated. Even his chest had looked fuller, the feathers there thicker, denser, making his plumage puff out, but he knew well from running his hands through to straighten them out, that it wasn’t the fault of his feathers alone, his ribs were no longer so easy to feel.
Satan, somewhere along the way he'd gotten fat.
It really shouldn’t have surprised him. Given that Loona was a hellhound and Blitzø was highly active in his job, mingled with the fact that the assassin’s devotion was piled into his meals, all added up to mean that the imp had a habit of delivering rather... Affectionate portions. Via had taken to shuffling her leftovers towards Loona when Blitzø wasn’t looking, extras that the eldest daughter accepted instantly. Stolas probably should have done something about his own portions too, because it felt like they'd been getting bigger, like Blitzø had taken his empty plate as a sign of needing more and he really, truly, didn’t. Not when it was clearly starting to wreak havoc on his figure.
The worst part in all of it though, was the fact that he didn’t hate it, per se, he might even go as far as to admit that there was a sense of comfort that blossomed in his chest, when Blitzø’s hands seemed to pay extra attention to the little pockets of softness around his hips and thighs. His body caved far more easily to familiar teeth, yielding like dough under the strong hands that pinned him down. It was a pleasant sensation; one he could have found himself getting more than used to. If it wasn't for that loathsome thing he'd had hanging over his head his whole life. Expectation. The hungry little beast that wanted to leech every ounce of joy from his life and leave him with his bones picked clean.
Yet duty called, so he’d spent the week mentally preparing to don the metaphorical vestiges of a royal. Only now that he stood amongst the carrion, he wished he’d put as much effort into his physical preparations.
Unfortunately, his cowardice had won over his anxious need to over prepare, and he’d waited until the last possible moment to try on his regalia, knowing that there wasn’t a chance in hell it would fit him like it used to. The inches of feathered flesh that stood between the two edges of fabric was proof of that.
At the very least he’d had the forethought to concoct a backup plan, a corset he'd worn a couple of times before. Blitzø had raked gold and scarlet eyes over Stolas’s body, taking in the tight black fabric and the matching garters, ass completely exposed, and he'd whispered a desperate, ‘fuck, you're beautiful,’ that had made Stolas’s heart flutter and his cloaca throb.
How far he'd fallen.
It had been a struggle to pull the clasps together, even the most forgiving ones, having to push at and mould his body until he was able to squeeze himself into a shape that the corset would accept, and even then, it did so begrudgingly. Despite winning the fight, he bore the scars, his middle aching in its confines. The boning wasn't exactly cheap, his wardrobe being one of the few things he'd managed to recover, but it didn't make it hurt any less as his quills were forced against his skin.
All he needed to do was take shallow breaths, stand far enough away from the crowd that they couldn't hear the garment creaking every time he shifted in discomfort, and perhaps he could make it through the evening with his image still intact.
Or at least, that had been the hope. But nothing was ever so simple.
As the little entourage swanned their way across the hall, Stolas knew that they had him in their sights. He recognised them from parties at his own palace, which contrary to expectation, was usually a bad thing.
It meant, for the most part that they were old acquaintances of Stella’s, and whether that made them friends or simply people wanting to ingratiate themselves with her, he'd learned very early on that anyone willing to associate themself with his ex-wife was someone he'd rather avoid.
He was clearly not to be given the option.
“Prince Stolas, a pleasure to see you,” a marquis’ wife he vaguely recognised announced with a beaming smile on her small, sharp beak, her bright yellow eyes shining with intrigue and malice amidst the tangerine feathers of her faceplate and half exposed chest. A couple of quiet snickers rang up behind her, as if it were an inside joke he was too foolish to understand. Birds of prey, the lot of them.
With a roll of his eyes Stolas quickly quipped back, “I haven't seen you in so long,” his voice hinting that it hadn't been long enough for his tastes, punctuated with an inquisitive, “It's been even longer since I've seen either of your sons, I hear your youngest has been getting his professors’ attentions?”
Her beak pursed for a moment, and Stolas was sure Octavia would delight in knowing the news of her terrible college-mate's escapades had certainly made their way home. But quickly the fake smile flashed back onto the marchionesses features, wicked, as she sweetly hummed, “How is single life treating you? You're certainly looking a lot... Healthier, since the divorce.”
And of course the hyenas surrounding her barked their approval.
Perhaps he lacked the graces that she'd honed over years of backstabbing and conniving, or perhaps what he truly lacked was the ability to give a single shit about what some petty rich arseholes thought of him (perhaps his short temper was an indicator he’d also been spending too much time with Blitzø, but he'd take the imp's company over theirs any day of the week). His feathers bristled in agitation as he spat back, “I am not single, thank you very much. And I wouldn't be mentioning divorce so freely given what I've heard about the state of your own marriage, people will be thinking you have aspirations.”
The smile disappeared as her little pack chuckled, muttering amongst themselves, so quick to turn on one another. As her smile dimmed, she didn't bother to retrieve her facade. Stepping closer, Stolas pulled back his drink, but otherwise didn't flinch. Instead he held her gaze with a confidence the court still refused to expect from him. It visibly irked her, his refusal to back down, but still she hissed, more viper than songbird, “That’s right, that little imp you've decided to keep. But no money, barely a title, I'd lay off the petit fours if I were you, before it realises you've let yourself go entirely.”
“How dare you,” Stolas snapped, “Blitzø- Blitzø is-...”
But the words were escaping him. Faltering, falling over one another as his thoughts started to slip away. Blitzø loved him, loved him despite the hardships they’d faced. Perhaps loved him even more because of them. But now that Stolas thought about it, had... Had Blitzø’s hands been lingering as often as they used too? Was the little scrunch between his brows as he ran his hands through the plumage more than just a figment of Stolas's imagination?
No, Blitzø loved him, loved even the flawed parts of him. He didn't say it out loud quite as often as Stolas would have liked, but that's what the food meant, the little gestures. They meant that Blitzø loved him. That's what he told himself...
But what if they didn't? What if-
“Enjoy your evening,” cut off his thoughts, the voice deceptively sweet as it pulled his mind back to the cruel smile on the pointed beak. Had she said something else he hadn't heard? Shit, he'd been so lost inside his own head.
Before he could even begin to think of a comeback, she turned away, having had the final word, and sauntered off into the crowd.
As the entourage finally turned away to follow after their ringleader, Stolas took a deep steadying breath to clear his mind, and only realised with the stabbing pain in his side, that it was a mistake. That his night was only about to get worse.
The effect was almost instant, the reason for the creaking becoming apparent, as he felt the clasps of the bodice give way slowly. Eyes wide in horror, he looked down to his waist and could practically see as each hook gave up under the strain, and his feathers pushed harder and harder against his regalia, the scarlet fabric filling out. Frozen in absolute despair, he watched as gaps formed between the buttons, another clasp bending under the strain, unable to contain him. Much more, and the buttons themselves would give way, displaying his overindulgence for everyone to see. The image made his cheeks heat with embarrassment and... Something he would unpack later. Right now he needed to leave, before he destroyed what little was left of his dignity.
With an apology thrown over his shoulder, Stolas tossed his almost full glass onto the plate of a passing imp, desperate to make his escape, but the movement only made matters worse. Mercifully he was out of the hall by the time another clasp relinquished its hold, and he felt a button on his romper give up a fraction more space, holding on by a thread.
There was no time to spare. Eyes darting down the marble hall, his talons clicked in staccato as he quickly made his decision, a beeline for the guest bedroom he could vaguely recall being down the corridor.
Bursting into the room, he dashed towards the en suite so he could inspect, and hopefully pause, the damage. Another clasp burst open as he slammed the door behind him, and locked eyes with his pitiful reflection just in time to watch the struggling button give way. With a clatter it ricocheted off the mirror, pinging around the sink as Stolas found his eyes transfixed on the swathe of slate grey feathers poking through, the fabric bulging open to try and contain him.
For seconds he could only watch, his face flushing with what had to be embarrassment and not the strange yet familiar warmth building in the pit of his confined belly. What a time for his shame kink to rear its ugly head. He thought that the long talk he and Blitzø had about knowing his worth had rid him of that particular deviancy but what other explanation was there for the fact that he looked at himself, miserable, bloated, hiding away in a guest bathroom, and felt horny. Satan, what a fucking mess.
The fabric groaned under the strain of his body, and Stolas was yanked back to reality. His trembling fingers fiddled with his romper, opening it quickly to reveal more pudgy skin and thick feathers, but perhaps he could still salvage the outfit. Some way to salvage the night.
With the final button undone he barely touched the corset, when the final clasp gave way, fabric bursting, and his gut springing forward with a gentle bounce that made something catch in his chest. Hot and heavy, he was finally able to breathe without the fabric constricting him, but even then, it took him a moment to catch his breath. As he inhaled slowly, the adrenaline dissipating, he slid down onto the toilet seat, legs shaking, and let his head sink into his hands.
It was pitiful, he was a prince for fuck's sake, and there he was hiding in a guest bathroom at a gala. The shame welled up, doubling as he looked down at the reason for his hasty escape. Pushing aside the red fabric, his belly pressed outwards, and he couldn't believe he'd managed to fit himself into the bodice to begin with.
How could he have let it spiral so far out of control that he couldn’t even manage a single evening? He desecrated his own body for what? For love? Was that the reason he was going to use to justify his most recent failings? He’d been using it for a while, why he’d called for a divorce, why he’d been a horrible father, why he shirked all of his duties and threw his head on the chopping block. Why not use it as the excuse for this too?
Except that under his own fingers it felt far less like the outcome of affection, and more like despite everything, despite the freedom he’d managed to carve out for himself, he wasn’t even capable of controlling his own body.
The hands that trailed down his torso, grabbing at the pitiful lumps of flesh, tensed as Stolas heard voices drawing close, practically on the other side of the door. Of all the bedrooms in the entire fucking estate, they had to choose this one. Just his luck.
He tried to keep his breaths shallow and even, slightly easier now that he was actually capable of breathing. He wasn’t usually a voyeur, not unless it was part of whatever latest kink he was trying out with Blitzø, but he couldn’t make himself known now. ‘Disgraced prince Stolas runs from party to cry in bathroom half-naked.’ Of course, a perfect way to repair his reputation.
A low voice on the other side of the door laughed loud and unabashed, cawing, “And his daughter is of age and still doesn’t have a suitor, that should tell you all you need to know.”
Stolas rolled his eyes. Idle court gossip he didn’t have the time or patience for. But he recognised the voice, a marquis, he could see the man’s raven like face in his mind’s eye. What a delightfully intriguing distraction, the robin starting arguments in the ballroom as her husband wandered away from the party.
“It’s frankly difficult to watch,” a woman’s voice sang with a haughty laugh. Stolas couldn’t put face nor name to the grating laughter, but of one thing he was certain, it wasn't the marchioness. Oh, if only he'd had this tasty little scandal to hand earlier.
“Speaking of hard to watch, did you see my idiot wife trying to start a fight with him earlier?” the raven chuckled, and Stolas felt his blood run cold, feathers rising in agitation. “He was always so scrawny; I can’t imagine how much he must have let himself go.”
“I rather pity the poor thing. Throwing his whole life away for an imp, he was clearly unstable before the whole divorce,” she clucked, something like pity in her voice that had Stolas wrapping his arms over his chest, a familiar grasp at comfort. “Your Clara had a point, though. After all he's thrown away, I can’t imagine his little plaything will be too keen to hang around as he throws his body away too.”
“Oh trust me, it was never about the sex, I've heard the prince is horrible in bed. Stella was always saying so.”
The woman gasped, chuckling as she asked, “You think he was a sugar daddy then?”
“Well he certainly looks the part now, that second chin has aged him at least-...”
Stolas didn't stay to hear the rest. He couldn't risk being found, as his breathing started to hitch, and his chest grew tight. Talons gripping hard enough that he could feel them piercing fabric and feathers. He waved his hand and stumbled forward into the portal. His body dragged him straight to the floor of a more familiar bathroom. His chest ached with the air that eluded him.
How was it fair? That those two gossip mongers could steal away at a court sanctioned party for a quick fuck, and nobody would bat an eye. But he was cast out for the crime of falling in love, for wanting more than a dismal little life trapped behind jewelled bars. Ridiculed, hated, made an example of. All for hoping he could be happy. How was it fucking fair?
Already desperate breaths started to quiver as he realised tears were running down his cheeks, and what a state. He was almost blessed by his shaky legs, because if he'd seen his own reflection rather than crumpling... If he'd seen the pitiful streaks of mascara, outfit ruined, clutching himself...
He should never have gone. He should have made some pathetic excuse that would have had their tongues wagging no more than his presence, rather than stand awkwardly by the sidelines waiting for his chance to be ground up by the rumour mill.
A loud pounding came from the other side of the door. Magic hummed at his finger tips, heart beating so fast he thought he might pass out. And then a familiar voice, pitched down, a growl beneath the words as Blitzø barked, “Listen up fucko I'm going to give you 3 seconds to open this door before I start putting holes in it and sell your body parts to fund the repairs!”
“It's only me,” Stolas called back quickly, trying to leave the tremor out of his voice, but hearing the thickness.
For a moment Blitzø was silent, and Stolas’s whole body tensed, worried that he was out of practice, but then the voice called back, sweeter, gentler, “Didn’t expect you back yet babe, you nearly gave me a fucking heart attack.”
“I’m sorry, I should have forewarned you. I couldn’t stand to be there any longer,” Stolas admitted, enough of a half-truth that it didn't make his chest hurt any more than it already did.
But Blitzø caught on immediately, barking, “Shit, what happened? Who do I have to kill?”
“No-one,” Stolas called back quickly, feeling the panic rise in his voice, but quashing it, taking a deep breath before he reasoned, “It’s fine Blitzø, you know how those events are, I snuck away and managed to escape.”
“If you say so,” Blitzø muttered, sounding unconvinced, but he dropped it, instead offering, “I’m cooking up dinner. Did they at least feed you at that fancy shindig or were they serving shit like ‘ordervs’ and flavoured foam?”
It would’ve probably been good for him, to wipe off his make-up and join Blitzø for dinner, to feel the comfort and warmth and love. But his eyes drifted down to his belly, still poking prominently through his shirt. He couldn't do it, he couldn't... Relinquish complete control in pursuit of love. He'd find another way. He'd make it work. So he mumbled, “I- I ate a little. I’ll be fine.”
But Blitzø immediately insisted, “I made enough for two, or if you're not feeling tacos, I think we’ve still got leftovers from the stew the other night I could-”
“I said I’m fine, Blitzø,” he snapped, recoiling from the sound of his own voice.
The words on the other side of the door sounded closer, pressed up against the wood as Blitzø asked, “Are you sure everything’s okay? You wanna open the door?”
“No everything’s fine, I just-…” Stolas began, then huffed out a sigh, hands falling uselessly between his thighs as he tried to ignore the issue long enough to get through a single conversation. “It was a Goetic event, you know how they are. I’m exhausted, I think I'll get cleaned up and have an early night.”
“Yeah, sure. Need me to call it for the evening?”
“No,” he answered quickly, but gently this time. “No, I’m quite alright, thank you, darling.”
“Sure, but give me a shout if you wanna chat, kay...? Love you,” Blitzø mumbled after a short pause, and Stolas believed him.
“I love you too darling,” he returned, a small smile pulling at his beak.
Through the door, Stolas could hear the quiet sound of claws trailing down the wooden door, as Blitzø lingered for a moment longer, before the tap of hooves grew quieter across the living room floor.
He was loved, despite what the Goetia might think. They didn't know the first thing about having someone they cared about, and who really truly cared for them in turn. After all, under their thumb he'd never believed it possible, and yet he'd found somebody, funny, and gentle, and fierce.
But that could change. If he let the words become reality, if he let things continue to spiral and get out of hand.
No.
He was in control now, he owned his life, made his own choices.
Starting now, he'd make things right again.