Archive of Our Own ^beta

He'd been looking for a sewing kit. He'd accidentally snagged a talon in the sweatshirt Loona had lent him and felt terrible. He wanted to stitch up the hole before it could stretch and warp the fabric. He'd never sewn before, but it was the least he could do. How hard could it be? He was still in disbelief that she and Blitzø had taken him in. A useless, feathery lump sitting on their couch -Blitzø's bed- and they responded with pancakes and comfy clothes.

Loona had set up a new phone for him, plugging in her and Blitzø's numbers. She also gave him a small pile of clothes and comfy sweatpants, Blitzø's clothes being far too small. The imp in question made him breakfast every morning. Even on the days he and Loona had to leave early, there would be food in the fridge and a little sticky note doodle. He had stashed a few of his favourite doodles in his new phone case.

He held the open blue tin in his lap, steadfastly refusing to believe he was crying. He had thought it was strange, a tin of biscuits in Blitzø's closet, but later he had watched Blitzø retrieve a button and a spool of thread from the tin. He'd watched Blitzø replace the missing button of his favourite jacket with, well, not precision per se, but certainly skill.

But instead of patches and thread, this time it was full of feathers. The shafts were dull and broken, they'd all clearly fallen out naturally, or been preened away. Each one had been carefully smoothed out, all the vanes lying flat and neat. The smell of his preening oil was strong, the scent of rosemary clinging to the newer feathers. Based on the strength of the scent, some of the feathers weren't even 48 hours old.

One of the tears he still refused to admit were falling plinked on the metal of the tin and he startled, slamming the lid back on the tin and stuffing it back into the closet.

He returned to his spot on the couch, trying desperately to distract himself. Blitzø and Loona were both at work and he was alone. Blitzø had offered him work at IMP, but they both agreed it wasn't yet safe for him to be out and about on the streets of Hell. So he pottered about the apartment for now. He'd learned how to wash dishes and vacuum and not set the kettle on fire. The toaster hadn't been quite so lucky. How on earth was he supposed to know the little spinny knob dodad was important!?

Once a week, Blitzø would bring home paperwork, and Stolas would sit cross-legged on the floor, bent over the coffee table. He went through all the invoices and requisition forms, ensuring that IMP wasn't being ripped off by various suppliers. If he noticed Blitzø staring more than usual, he dismissed it in the fog of numbers. He liked making the numbers come out all pretty and scouring the fine print for any subclause or error that Blitzø could take advantage of.

But right now, instead of his pretty numbers, all he could think about was how gently Blitzø had washed him that night. About how he never woke up with his crown feathers mussed, despite the rough fabric of the couch. About how carefully Blitzø helped him preen his shoulders and back. Stolas would sit on the floor, knees tucked up to his chest, engrossed in whatever piece of trash media Loona had found for them. The entire time, Blitzø's claws would sift through the fluff on his back. And the more he thought, he realised that there was never a pile of feathers after, and Blitzø always kept his pillow nearby.

Thinking further back, back far enough it hurt, he remembered how on the rare nights Blitzø had stayed, he would always curl into his chest feathers. How he'd once run a hand down Blitzø's clothed chest only to get a poke from a feather stuffed in his shirt.

He'd never thought anything of it. Dismissed it as a one-off quirk, or an accident. Blitzø had laughed it off, but left the feather where it was.

He kept them. He kept them all.

He waited to feel grossed out, or disquieted, or annoyed. That feeling never came. All he felt was loved. Like that little tin of feathers in a closet was the red string from his stories, connecting him to Blitzø. That, as long as his feathers were safe, he'd be safe too.

He gave up on the tears, letting them fall unhindered, and curling into Blitzø's pillow. The scent of gunpowder and cinnamon and- rosemary? Eyes streaming, Stolas moved the pillow to find a tiny heap of feathers tucked into the case.

He cried harder. This stupid, crass, impulsive, sweetheart loved him so much that he kept his feathers tucked into his pillow. He was careful to replace the pillow just as he found it, but not after tucking a fresh feather into the pile.

Preening was an intimate process. Not in a sexual way, hell's no. Stolas shuddered at the thought, curling tighter around Blitzø's pillow. But it was rarely done by strangers. It was a social process between close friends, a nurturing one between parent and chick, and a bonding one between mates. It was an I love you, I trust you, I want to be near you.

It was something he had never expected to have. He would have rather torn his feathers from his skin one by one than accept Stella's touch. When Octavia was a nestling, he'd spend hours preening her, desperate to make sure she knew what complete and utter love felt like. Once she was old enough to preen back, clumsy and slow, he always made sure she couldn't see his face. She didn't need to see how quickly he teared up. They weren't always sad tears, mostly joyous in fact. But not something she needed to burden herself with.

Accepting preening from Blitzø had been…hard. He didn't know how to explain the significance of the act. He wanted it, by the Seven Sins did he want it, but the last thing he wanted was for Blitzø to feel uncomfortable at the significance, or worse, obligated. There had been lots of crying when he finally explained, and afterward, Blitzø had curled around him, gentle hands preening his crown feathers.

He was always gentle. He didn't touch without warning, or pull Stolas around like he used to. He would wait for Stolas to lean back before starting on their ritual. If Stolas shifted, or adjusted in any way, Blitzø immediately stopped the touch until Stolas lent back once again.

Stolas knew imps connected through scent. Bonded mates would often share clothes or jewelry or bedding until their scent melded together. The same was true of family bonds. Blitzø would only clean Loona's fur off his jacket once the black fabric became obscured.

When Stolas was (pretending to be) asleep on the couch, he'd often feel Blitzø press his cheek against his, a single, soft nuzzle before retreating to his beanbag. Scent marking. It made Stolas' chest hurt. He never wanted it to stop.

Blitzø sucked at grand gestures. He also wasn't always particularly great at always saying the right things, or reading a room. All things Stolas recognised as love from his stories, and thought were the only way to love.

But Blitzø always made him breakfast, trying different foods every day until they found things Stolas liked or recognised. He always texted if they'd be home late, or left a note if they left early. He cleaned out the drain in the shower without even once bitching about the heinous combination that was hellhound fur and goetian feathers. He always bitched about Stolas’ silly soaps, but would sit and watch every episode. He'd given up his couch, his only space, curling into his beanbag like the world's happiest, spikiest cat. And the feathers.

Avians didn't keep feathers, except maybe the first few from their nestlings. Fallen feathers were paid no attention to, unless they were an annoyance or overly numerous.

But Blitzø did. Had been for a while, if the condition of some of the feathers, brittle and faded, were any indication. He kept them in his couch pillow, and Stolas was certain that if he checked, he'd find some in the beanbag.

Should he say something? Should he tell Blitzø he'd found his stash, and it was okay?

After agonizing, he decided against it. He didn't want Blitzø to think he had to stop.

But every now and then, he'd sit with the tin. Not doing anything with it. Just sitting. A tangible demonstration of the fact someone loved him.

There'd been close calls, days when he lost track of time or Blitzø got home early and almost caught him red-handed. Thankfully, he'd always been able to hide the tin or himself before he was caught.

One day, he had to shove the tin under the couch cushion, and sit on it for 45 minutes until Blitzø took a shower, and he could sneak the tin back into the closet.

He vowed to stop fussing with it, but he couldn't resist. The tin became a weird kind of security blanket. As long as he could see fresh feathers being added, he could reassure himself that Blitzø was going to keep him.

-----

Stolas smelled like rosemary and Blitzø was going fucking insane.

Well, to be fair, he used to smell like rosemary. Now, he smelled like rosemary, cinnamon, cheap hellhound shampoo and gunpowder. Like warm blankets and plant pollen from the little pot out on the balcony. Like printer paper and stamp ink. Like the burning wreckage of the old toaster and electrical smoke.

He smelled like family. Not family in the way Barbie used to smell, but in the way that Loonie and Millie and Moxxie smell like family. Their scents melded by choice, and not just proximity.

The feather collection had been an accident. It started back when the deal was still new and fragile and weird. He'd torn the apartment to pieces, trying to figure out why everything smelled like herbs, until he got stabbed by his own jacket. The feather had gotten stuck in his sleeve.

He fished it out, leaving it on the side table to bin later. He never did.

It spiraled on from there. His favourite feathers were the tiny cute ones framing Stolas' face, and the long fluffy ones from his chest. He would shove them in his pockets, his boots, even down his shirt.

It had become a problem, little piles of feathers hidden around the apartment. Stuffed in the couch cushions, in the lining of his jackets, he even had one tucked into his flintlock holster.

When Stolas had come to stay, all hollow-eyed and clumsy, Blitzø was more focused on getting him healthy. But once Stolas got a little better, and more aware of his surroundings, Blitzø realised the ticking time bombs surrounding them.

Great job idiot, you've got creepy little piles of your Not-Boyfriend’s feathers stashed around like a fucking stalker. Jesus H Christ he's gonna think you're making a fucking skin suit.

Then came the B-grade spy movie shenanigans as he tried to move each stash before Stolas could uncover how weird he really was.

The pillowcase was easy, he just shifted those into his beanbag while Stolas was in the shower.

The pile in the bathroom drawer almost got him caught. He was helping Stolas set out some of his toiletries when Stolas innocently reached for the drawer. Panicking, Blitzø reached around with his tail, knocking over a bunch of bottles off the edge of the tub.

With Stolas distracted, he scooped the feathers out of the drawer and froze. There was no lid on the bin and no other places. With Stolas beginning to turn around, he panicked, and took the only option he could think of. He stuck the handful of feathers into his boxers. Playing it off as an itch under his waistband, he smiled at Stolas as he turned to show him the cute feather brush he'd picked out, decorated with little flowers.

The feather shafts stabbed him in the soft skin of his thighs and bits, and he had to work hard to keep a straight face. He was almost excited to shuffle into the kitchen and toss this lot in the trash can.

The closest call was the jacket. He'd been slowly taking the feathers from the pocket of his jacket and moving them into the tin. That was until Stolas took the shortest shower in the history of hell and almost caught Blitzø digging through his own pockets. Thinking quickly (but not well), Blitzø shoved the last feather into his mouth. This was far from the first time he'd swallowed a feather, the little fuckers were unavoidable during sex, but it was certainly not his idea of a good time.

It was fine, he was coping. Then Stolas started letting him help with preening.

Oh he was fuuuucked.

Not only was he surrounded by that smell, he got to run his claws through the fluff. Stolas would tuck his weird knees up by his chest, eyes fixed on the TV. Blitzø honestly couldn't tell you a single thing about what was playing. Every time, he focused completely on the soft feathers in front of him. He was so careful not to tug or snag or damage any of the feathers. Carefully, slowly, he would clear away the dull and broken shafts, building a little pile next to his thigh.

At first, he'd dispose of the pile after each preening session, determined not to let Stolas find out about his obsession.

But gradually, he started tucking them into the pillow at the end of the couch. Each night, he'd grab his pillow and retreat to the beanbag, adding the feathers to its lining. Every morning he'd chuck the pillow on the couch, ready for the evening's preening session.

Eventually the pile in the beanbag got too big. He panicked, shoving the excess into the tin that held his sewing kit. He emptied the spools of thread and needles into an old takeaway container, and shoved the sewing kit turned feather stash into his closet.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

Then the house of cards came tumbling down.

The hit was a bust, the target unreachable. Who the fuck had a panic room in their apartment?? He sent the team home, and Loona headed to Gluttony directly from the office.

He picked up takeaway for him and Stolas, planning on suggesting a movie night or a snuggle. While they were still in a weird limbo state of relationship purgatory, affectionate physical touch was back on the table. Well, back on the couch. Blitzø could have kicked his past self in the dick, cuddling was the fucking tits. Not only was Stolas warm and soft, he could reach the itchy spots around his spines. Fucking bliss.

Back at the apartment, arms full of food, he juggled the bags and his keys to open the door. Shoving it open with his shoulder, he walked into the room, ready to call out a greeting.

Instead, he locked eyes with Stolas who was sitting on the couch, the blue tin open on his lap.

They stared at each other for way too long, before they both unfroze at once.

“I swear I'm not making a skin suit-”
“- I wasn't snooping darling I swear!”
“Huh?”
“What?”

Stolas tilted his head, momentarily distracted from the absurdity of the situation. “What exactly is a skin suit darling?”

Satan, he was gonna marry this adorable idiot. Wait, fuck, focus.

“It's a sinner horror movie thing- wait hold on. Not important. You're not mad?” Blitzø cut himself off, setting the takeaway on the counter and immediately wished he hadn't. With his hands empty he started picking at the skin on his hands, pressing the tips of his claws into white scar tissue. “I'm so sorry Stols, I can bin ‘em, here, I'll get rid of them.”

Immediately, Stolas cuddled the tin to his chest protectively, scooting down the couch as Blitzø approached. “Don't you dare. This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.” His voice was thick with tears and Blitzø, thoroughly baffled, sat cross-legged at the other end of the couch as Stolas composed himself. Fuck he made him cry. He made his pretty birdie cry- wait. The sweetest thing? Huh?

“Darling, why didn't you just ask me?” Stolas reached out a hand - still cradling the tin in the other - and Blitzø grabbed it with both of his. “I would have given you all the feathers you wanted, why did you feel the need to hide them? And I swear I wasn't snooping” Stolas rushed out the last part in a panic, face bright red. “I snagged Loona's sweater and was looking for a sewing kit.”

“You're… not mad.” Blitzø stated. It wasn't a question. He was still trying to process the whiplash of this entire situation and hoped saying it out loud would get it through his thick skull.

“Why in the 7 rings would I be mad at you?”

Blitzø shrugged one shoulder, still hanging on to Stolas’ hand and idly swiping his thumb through the short down on Stolas’ wrist. “Dunno. You birds don't go by scent like imps do, didn't want to make you uncomfy.”

“That's exactly why I'm not mad!” Stolas spluttered slightly, trying to find his next words. Sighing, he set down the tin so he could hold both of Blitzø's hands in both of his. “The fact that I'm not like you, and don't have the same bonding rituals, but you still want to include me in them? It means the world sweetheart”

“Don't you birds have bonding rituals?”

Stolas shook his head. “Not like imps do. And the ones we do have were not ones I wished to share with her. Which makes this even more special.” He nodded at the blue tin in his lap.

Blitzø nodded slowly, putting the pieces together. “That the uh- aropreening you were talking about?”

“Yes, allopreening is typically shared between bonded pairs. It's not always romantic, but it's an intimate process”

“Wait fuck, I haven't fucken, bird proposed to you by preening you have I? Cause I swear I wouldn't do that shit to you without asking” Blitzø looked somewhat terrified at the prospect.

Stolas spluttered again, this time with laughter. “No darling, allopreening is mutual. And while I would love nothing more than to preen you, your lack of feathering means I will need to think of a better option.”

Reassured, Blitzø thought for a moment. “Hey, maybe we could use your shed feathers to make me a bird shirt or some shit.” With a final squeeze to Stolas' hands, he vaulted over the back of the couch, retrieving the bags of takeout. He passed Stolas' over the back of the couch, circling the arm to sit down with his own. “Or we find me a really long wig.”

Stolas covered his full mouth with one hand, having already dug into his noodles. “I love the enthusiasm, but I was thinking more like helping you with your horns”

“Thaaaaat would be easier,” Blitzø nodded, getting started on his own dinner. “I'll teach you how to use the rasp.”

-----

That's how Loona found them hours later. Blitzø cross-legged on the floor in his PJs, lent back against the couch as Stolas dabbed a small cloth in a tub of wax. The rasp had gone surprisingly well, the soothing vibration almost putting Blitzø to sleep. He taught Stolas how to file at the sharp points, and smooth out any nicks or splinters in the keratin.

He'd been so damn pleased with himself that Blitzø, desperate to keep this going, got out the little tub of buffing wax and showed Stolas how to work it into the keratin.

“You just scoop some wax on the cloth and rub it along the horn, it's easy. Here, you try”

This time, he really did fall asleep. Stolas hummed softly, keeping up the movements even as Blitzø's head lolled against a feathered thigh.

Hearing the door, he rotated his head 180 degrees to greet Loona, mouthing a sorry in response to her wince.

“Hey nerd, did my dad make it home safe? Or am I bailing him out of jail again?”

Stolas laughed softly, tilting his head down. “Come see him.” He whispered.

He straightened out his neck as she rounded the couch to look at her father. He didn't miss the affection in her eyes as she crouched next to them both. She poked lightly at his arm, and he just grumbled, turning further into Stolas' thigh.

“Oh yeah, he's fuckin’ out. You want me to put him to bed?” She tilted her head towards the beanbag.

“No thank you my dear, I think we'll be sharing tonight. But if you wouldn't mind taking this for me?”

Loona easily accepted the tin of wax and the cloth, ducking into the bathroom to put them away, and brush her teeth. From the bathroom, she watched the bird scoop up her dad under the armpits like a cat, manhandling him onto the couch. He grumbled, tossing and turning until Stolas laid down too. As soon as he found the bird, it was like someone had hit the off button. He went contentedly limp, staying on the cushions by only the way of luck, and Stolas' arm looped around his waist.

Loona snorted a little at the sight of a 90 foot tall goetia on their couch. He was just so fucken’ long. Nonetheless, she retrieved the horse blanket from Blitzø's beanbag, padding across the living room to drape it over them both.

“Thank you very much” Stolas whispered, careful not to disturb his armful of sleeping imp.

“Yeah well, you had your hands full” Loona gestured at the situation. Stolas smiled, dragging Blitzø's pillow under his head and snuggling down. “He is quite the handful isn't he?”

“Damn right. Glad he's got you to supervise now.” She grinned at her dad's Not-Boyfriend, who grinned back.

“G’night Stolas. Thanks for taking care of him.” She headed for her room, pausing with her hand on her door knob. She glanced back at the cuddle puddle on the couch and caught Stolas pressing a kiss to the black mark on her dad's forehead, running his weird beak along Blitzø's horns. Flicking an ear, she heard Blitzø purr kick up. She wanted to be grossed out, but it was honestly pretty fucking cute. Still, she couldn't get too complacent.

“If I wake up and this place smells like sex, I will kill both of you” The threat held little weight and Stolas took it for what it was.

“I assure you Loona that, should that occur, I would save you the trouble by killing both of us myself” Stolas vowed.

“Good, I'll hold you to that.”

He watched her slip into her room, twisting the knob so it wouldn't click and disturb Blitzø.

“Goodnight dear” He called out in a whisper, knowing she would be able to hear him.

“G’night Blitzy” He sighed, pressing one last goodnight kiss to the black mark on his lover's face. Blitzø grumbled, shoving his face into Stolas' chest, coiling his tail down a feathered thigh.

Sleep came easy that night.

-----

[13:30] Loona🐺- [SENT IMAGE]

[13:31] Loona🐺- So when's the wedding?

[13:35] Bossman- FUVK
[13:39] Bossman- he tod me it was only the feathr shit!

[13:41] Loona- I'll ask Millie to start picking out flowers. He likes carnivorous ones right? We can serve rat at the reception

[13:45] Bossman- DONY U DARE IM COMING BAXK RN

[13:47] Loona 🐺- ❤️🖕

[16:01] Bossman- how do i fiud his ring size