The first thing Blitzø notices is a stuttering, raspy rumbling sound and an odd vibration against his clenched first. It nudges at the edge of his awareness, incessant, but he does not dwell on it.
He feels… fuzzy. Floating.
Not all there, as if disconnected from all senses with nothing to tether him to reality except the dull, grounding ache which reverberates through his horns, circling their base, slithering down behind his eyes, pulsing faintly. His mouth eyes ears veins feel as though they have been stuffed with steel ball bearings and cotton.
He makes to move, to rub the sore space between his eyes, to alleviate some of that soft throbbing pressure that seems to mount with each passing second…
But he finds that his limbs are no longer able to cooperate. They’re too heavy. They’re not his own.
He makes a displeased note low in his throat, and feels it trill off without his permission, as though attempting to match that strange rhythmic sound which has now grown to encompass his whole world. He settles instead for merely rubbing his face against what must be the arm of the couch.
Maybe, he hopes as he drifts off into fitful but thankfully dreamless sleep – maybe he’ll be able to make sense of this in the morning.
It is strange, though.
As his precarious consciousness fades, Blitzø can almost swear he hears a soft humming. Words, maybe, though he can scarcely make them out. There’s a light pressure, too, something whispering between his spines. A soft touch, a small comfort.
Wishful thinking. Must be.
Blitzø is, perennially… justifiably… deservedly, alone.
-
When Blitzø finally rouses, wakefulness creeping into his senses, he is not, in fact, alone. Not physically, at any rate. There is a warmth pressed against his front – or more accurately, he is laid bodily against something warm. And, if the movement of soft respiration is anything to go by, something living, breathing.
There is that rumbling, too. Two rhythms, distinct but coalescing into a singular sort of music. One is gravel, just short of grating. Loud and consistent for all of its peeks and catches. It stutters and wheezes but does not falter. If anything, it seems to raise in volume as Blitzø shifts. There’s a strange quality to the notes. It feels comforting somehow like… something comforting. Like a pony plush or Loona calling him “Dad.”
Blitzø, as a rule, is not given to metaphor.
The other trill is weaker, smaller. Broken and choked back and it takes a moment for Blitzø to register that this second… rumbling… is him. That he is purring. The realization shunts through him and he ceases abruptly.
Blitzø does not purr. He cannot recall the last time he had given into the urge. Purring was for dumb bitches who couldn’t handle their own emotions, or else, sappy sad-sack f*cks in boring ass monogamous marriages with sticky, sh*tty ass implings biting at their heels. It was for weak, soft-hearted pieces of sh*t newly dropped from their fat moms’ sloppy c*nts and Blitzø does not deserve --
“Hey, buddy,” a voice breaks his rumination. At first he thinks it must be Stolas and his heart thrums painfully in his chest. He rubs his face against the shape beneath him but no – not feathers. It hits him with the force of a tidal wave, and he has to consciously make the effort to keep breathing. The f*cking book – the crystal. His own inability to read the goddamn room.
What the f*ck. What the f*ck. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t – no. It was so much worse because Blitzø had meant it, did mean it. And what the f*ck did that say about Blitzø that his that his first reaction to someone he l- someone he cared about saying that they cared about him in return was to scream at them, berate them, try to drag them down to his level. Stolas didn’t deserve that, but part of Blitzø even now wants to keep yelling. Even when faced with Stolas’ tears, part of him wanted to keep on screaming, keep tearing the prince down. To hurt Stolas like he hurt Blitzø.
Of course its not Stolas, not after --
“Blitzø, I know you’re awake,” the voice comes again, the tone of it familiar. Of course it is. It’s Fizz. How and why it’s Fizz is another mystery entirely but Blitzø would recognize the voice of his childhood crush turned mortal nemesis turned… newly rekindled friend? Anywhere.
His eyes slowly slide open. It feels like sandpaper. He blinks in rapid succession to clear the feeling. It only works marginally.
This newfound alertness brings with it the realization of a dull ache suffusing his entire body.
“Fizz?” he mumbles into the other imp’s clothed chest, not bothering to lift his head. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question,” Fizz says, pushing himself up on his elbows. He is deceptively strong. The movement jostles Blitzø but he remains stubbornly attached to Fizz. Blitzø’s fists, he realizes, are clenched around the fabric of Fizz’s pink button-up. He is still wearing the previous day’s clothes – sans suspenders and choker, and with a few more buttons undone. It did not look particularly comfortable, Blitzø thinks guiltily. Though he supposes that having an entire adult imp laying on top of you for Satan knows how long probably isn’t terribly comfortable either. Typical Blitzø behavior, making everything just a little bit more uncomfortable for everyone else, even when he isn’t consciously trying. Stolas was right to --
Fizz continues: “You called me last night and you seemed… I don’t know, out of it.” His hand strokes up Blitzø’s back, toying with the spines protruding from his sleep shirt. There is still a slight purr underlining Fizz’s words. That had always been one of Fizz’s many talents, even when they were kids. A super secret special talent that he reserved just for Blitzø when Cash was being particularly overbearing or when the crowds were especially unreceptive to Blitzø’s brand of humor, or when Moma’s illness took a turn for the worst…
“I thought you were drunk at first, I almost didn’t come. But you just seemed, I don’t know – Catatonic? What happened, Blitzø?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it, Fizz,” Blitzø says, voice barely higher than a whisper. He makes to separate himself from Fizz, and it takes all of the energy he has in him to finally sit up. He shifts his weight, and Fizz moves his legs and tail out of the way to accommodate him, likewise pulling himself up so that they are sitting at opposite sides of Blitzø’s couch. Blitzø’s eyes settle on the floor, never once moving to catch Fizz’s gaze. “You can go now.”
Fizz snorts. “Yeah, Bud, not gonna happen. I’ll go make coffee.” And then, in one smooth motion as though practiced, he’s vaulting over the back of the couch, perennially the show-off acrobat, as though nothing has changed since they were snot-nosed little brats trading jokes and tricks between shows. f*cking over-achiever.
Despite everything, Blitzø finds it in himself to smile, just a bit. After everything – the kidnapping, the mess with Mammon, the whole pile of horsesh*t that had been his life up to this point and will continue to be his life probably forever – he still has trouble wrapping his head around the fact that Fizz, Fizz of all demons wants to be in his sh*tty f*cked up little life again. It warms his chest.
Now that Fizz is no longer in his bubble, Blitzø hazards a glance up. They’re in his apartment, surrounded by familiar sh*tty peeling wallpaper and familiar sh*tty furniture that he’d dragged off the side of some road or another.
He honestly does not remember how he got here last night. Doesn’t remember calling Fizz -
His eyes find Fizz, who has paused in the middle of the room. The former clown is, in that moment, frozen. It is, perhaps, the first time he is actually taking in the totality of Blitzø’s life – his sad little sh*thole. There’s a water stain over the door that spreads with each passing day. The light bulbs flicker and buzz, even when newly replaced, and every outlet has been painted over with no less than half a dozen coats of peeling, crackled paint. The carpet is stiff and mottled, the furniture full of holes. There is probably a week’s worth of dirty dishes growing sentience in the sink.
And, of course, the obvious.
Blitzø rarely brings guests back to his place, not wanting to disturb Loona’s peace, but when he does, it isn’t exactly for emotional, heart-felt conversations, and truthfully they rarely make it to turning the lights on.
Very few people ever see the monument to Blitzø’s self-hatred.
Blitzø’s apartment is far from bare. Dozens of drawings and photos, some framed, some tacked up more haphazardly, line every inch of available wall space. There are, of course, a not insignificant number of horse-themed drawings, but the majority of the space is dedicated to pictures of the people that mean the most to Blitzø – Loona, Millie, Moxxie… Moma. Barb. The horses from the circus. Fizz features in probably more than Blitzø should dwell on. There’s even one of Stolas in that ridiculous Loo Loo Land merch tucked in a corner, just out of immediate view.
Nearly every photo bares thick, black, obstructing lines of marker ink, blotting out the rot that festers the lives of these precious people.
Blitzø watches as Fizz’s eyes trace the photos. Neither of them speaks or makes to move. Neither acknowledges the other. There is a beat – a long pause that feels like a millennium but is likely only a second or two, and then Fizz turns toward the kitchenette and busies himself with making coffee.
Blitzø’s gaze snaps back down to the floor, hands fisting against the threadbare fabric out the couch. He move again until Fizz is shoving a mug of oddly lukewarm coffee into his hands. The coffee itself is lightish brown, paler than it ought to be, and there are a handful of rapidly melting ice cubes floating in it.
Blitzø takes a sip, resists the urge to spit it back out. It is somehow simultaneously too bitter and too sweet. Too warm and too cold. Blitzø hums, corners of his mouth twitching. He takes another sip, keeps drinking until there’s nothing left but slivered ice cubes. He doesn’t look up until he finally sets the mug down, the chipped ceramic clattering against the warped particle board of the side table.
“So,” Fizz says, breaking the silence. He is once again settled next for Blitzø on the couch. He places a hand on the other imp’s shoulder. Blitzø is torn between flinching and leaning into the touch. He remains still in his indecision.
“So,” Blitzø echoes.
Fizz’s face, for the first time since he woke, pops directly into Blitzø’s field of vision, having ducked down to get a better view of his friend. His eyebrows are drawn and his mouth has settled into a frown. He looks upset.
Blitzø has upset him. f*ck. He really can’t do anything right. This time Blitzø actually does flinch, prompting Fizz to exhale a barely audible hiss of air from between his crooked teeth. f*ck. f*ck, he’s making it worse. He wants to disappear --
He feels a soft squeeze at his shoulder. Not harsh, not painful. A barely there pressure. It feels… not reassuring necessarily, but Blitzø feels more in his body at any rate. Fizz strokes his hand down Blitzø’s bicep, as though coaxing a scared horse. Blitzø manages, finally, to raise his head, though he cannot quite make eye contact. Fizz offers a small closed smile, corners of his lips ticking upward.
“So,” Fizz returns again, “What happened—”
Blitzø does not give Fizz time to finish his inquiry. Some quality of his presence, his warmth beside Blitzø, has the imp spewing his guts like a broken tap.
“I f*cked up, Fizz,” Blitzø blurts out, “I f*cked up. I f*cked up so bad!” His tail lashes in the air before latching on to the nearest stationary object, twinning around it tightly. The spade buzzes, restless. “I got there and I thought everything was normal but it wasn’t normal and he asked for the book and he just- just gave me this f*cking—” his hands flail, claws grasping in the air, grasping for the word “—Rock? And I panicked and then he was running and I was yelling and- and he was crying. I’ve never seen him cry before, Fizz. H-he was crying and I wanted- I tried to apologize. I was going to apologize but he- he---”
Something in the air sounds ragged to Blitzø’s ears. A strange pant-gasp-wheeze that echoes around his words and it takes him far too long to register that it is him, and that he is nearing the point of hyperventilation. Something hot tickles his cheek and oh – oh he’s crying too. He rubs at his eyes, attempting to quell the flow of tears, but it is futile. “He—”
Fizz sinks into Blitzø’s side, that raspy stutter-start purr echoing from his throat as he pulls Blitzø into a loose one-armed side-hug. “Hey, Buddy,” he soothes, other hand tapping lightly against the tight coil of Blitzø’s tail wound around his own. “Slow down. Take a deep breath.” He takes a deep breath, himself, 5-count in, a pause, and then exhalation. Blitzø attempts to match him, going through the motions albeit shakily. Fizz keeps count with a steady drum against Blitzø’s tail, repeats one, two, three more times until the worse of Blitzø’s panic has subsided.
When Blitzø seems calm enough, Fizz begins again. “I thought you were going to go and visit that prince of yours. You seemed excited about it… What happened?”
Blitzø shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he starts, his voice a whisper, lacking every ounce of its usual bravado, “I got there and he was just… sitting there. Not reacting to anything. He looked, I don’t know, sad I guess and then he just… looked straight through me and asked for his book back.”
“Book?” Fizz asks, a puzzled note in his tone. Blitzø realizes that he never actually explained their whole deal to Fizz – in the scheme of things, it hadn’t really seemed relevant.
“His book. Uh, grim-thingy. That’s the deal. I f*ck his thirsty bird bitch ass, I get his fancy book,” Blitzø says, gesticulating. Fizz co*cks his head.
“No offense Blitzø but you can barely read. What the f*ck do you need a book for?” he asks.
“Full offense, you little bitch,” Blitzø returns, though there’s finally a bit of levity in his tone. “It – look – It’s like a magic book? I need it for work.” He knows his answer is vague, but what does it matter at this point, anyway.
Fizz’s purr briefly gains an odd quality, almost like a … growl? It puzzles Blitzø but he doesn’t interrogate it. He feels Fizz tighten his hold - Blitzø’s tail judders against the sudden increase of pressure. He nods at Blitzø to continued.
“Uhm. Yea so. Magic book. He demands that I give the book back and I don’t know… I just panicked and then suddenly he’s giving me a rock – something about your chicken – and then he’s saying that he l-- he cares about me and I- we- it’s never…” The words are coming if fits and starts. Blitzø isn’t even sure that the words flooding out of him make sense – they’re barely intelligible to him and he’s the one saying them.
“It’s always been a – ah – transactional thing.” Blitzø huffs, “I didn’t think he would feel the s-- I didn’t know that-- I thought it was a sex thing. Like roleplay? I didn’t know he meant it.” His hands are in his lap now, claws digging into the calloused skin of his scarred palms, nearly hard enough to draw blood. His eyes itch.
“And then he was saying some bullsh*t about… how I made him happy, but only for a little while, and then he was running away. And- And I couldn’t think. I still-- and he wouldn’t give me a minute to-- he just kept walking away. I was just so-- So mad.” Blitzø is crying in earnest now, but he cannot stop talking. If he stops now, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to get it out. It’ll remain lodged in his heart forever, festering until it kills him. He continues.
“And Christ, f*ck, Fizz. I wanted to hurt him. What kind of piece of sh*t wants to hurt someone they lo- care about.” He whines, and it morphs into something more like a sob. “It hurt, Fizz. Like he was getting rid of me, treating me like a f*cking butler or some sh*t and I wanted to hurt him back but--- f*ck he was crying.”
“I didn’t think,” Blitzø manages, “I didn’t think that I could do that to him. I- I wanted to apologize. I was trying to apologize. Fizz, please believe me, I was trying to apologize – f*ck, this is too much emotion bullsh*t, I need a drink.”
Blitzø moves to get up from the couch, rubbing furiously at his eyes, but Fizz’s tail catches his where they are coiled together, tugging him back down. He makes eye contact with his friend, nods at him to finish his story. Blitzø’s hands are, he realizes, shaking. Fizz’s spade strokes the back of Blitzø’s in soothing, circular motions. In any other circ*mstance, Blitzø thinks, he would probably melt right there on the spot.
“f*ck,” he intones. “Fine. Christ you’re a needy bitch.” He breathes out through his nose. “sh*t- He – ah. I didn’t get a f*cking chance to say sh*t. He just f*cking tossed me out a portal like yesterday’s trash. I just kept f*cking screaming, but he never answered. I don’t even f*cking know how I got back home.”
Blitzø throws his head back, beating it once, twice against the back of the couch. His horns catch a bit, probably tearing the fabric further. Blitzø doesn’t care. He stares at the yellowed ceiling. The details of it fuzz at the edges of his vision. “So yea, uh. That’s it. Sorry I dragged you here. I don’t remember that either.”
They sit in tense silence for a beat, with only the background thrum of Fizz’s continued purring breaking through the quiet. Blitzø doesn’t understand how he can just keep doing that, and his heart pulses weakly at the thought. Despite everything, he’s thankful for it.
“f*ck,” Fizz says, finally, and Blitzø hums in agreement.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this.” Fizz gives Blitzø’s horn a tug. Blitzø is momentarily stunned by the touch – a shiver passes through him – but he bats Fizz’s roving hand away halfheartedly, refusing once more to make eye contact. He instead stares where Fizz’s unbuttoned shirt has slipped, at the joint where Fizz’s metallic arm socket meets white scar tissue and fights the urge to gnaw on his lower lip, if only for Fizz’s sake.
Fizz continues, unaware of Blitzø’s interior turmoil, or at least not saying anything if he is. “But I don’t think you did anything wrong here.” Blitzø’s head snaps up, the sharp, involuntary jerk of it nearly enough to give himself whiplash.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Fizz proceeds, “You are a certified, grade-A dumbass… roleplay? Really?” He levels a look at Blitzø, “But that prince of yours -”
“He’s not mine,” Blitzø denies.
“Mm. We will have to get back to that eventually – anyway. You’re both morons, but that f*cking Owl needs a reality check.” Fizz crosses his arms. “It’s clear he doesn’t know you very well if he though you were going to react well to any of that. And I’m not thrilled that he what – was holding your livelihood over your head this entire time. What the f*ck, Blitzø?” Fizz is staring him down. Blitzø shrinks into himself.
“I know I can’t expect every royal out there to be like Ozzie, but he seemed like he was on the up and up! That prince has another thing coming if he thinks he can just treat you like -”
“You don’t get it, Fizz,” Blitzø interjects. “I hurt everyone. It was only a matter of time before I hurt him too. He was right to toss me out. Better he recognize that I’m not worth it now before I get the chance to completely destroy his life, if I haven’t already.”
He pulls his legs into his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and drops his head so that his forehead is resting against his knees. “I’m really not worth it, Fizz,” he mumbles. Emotional exhaustion crashes through him. It echoes in his voice. “You can go home now. I just need to sleep it off.”
“Hold your horses there, cowboy,” Fizz says, voice soft. “That’s my friend you’re talking about there.”
Their tails are still tied together. Fizz reaches out to touch Blitzø’s shoulder but the other imp flinches, shrugging him off.
“Fizz, please, I’m not in the mood.”
“Blitzø—”
“I ruin lives, Fizz!” Blitzø yells, pent energy bursting forth. “That’s all I’m good for. You out of anyone should know that best!”
“You didn’t ruin my life, Blitzø,” Fizz snorts, defensive. “We’ve been over this. I’m alive. I’m in love. I have you --”
“You keep saying that but there’s no way you actually believe it. I destroyed you. I destroyed mom and Barb and Verosika and I hurt Stolas – bad – and it’s only a matter of time before I destroy Loona and Millie and Moxxie too! I don’t want to be like this! Something inside me is just f*cking wrong I guess! Because I can’t f*cking stop!”
His eyes are burning, his vision blurred. His skin feels too, too f*cking right. He throws his hands up in the air as he rages, hoping to dispel some of the energy bouncing around inside of him.
“You’re better off without me, Fizz!”
His tail jerks to the side, half-consciously. It fights against the bind of Fizz’s own, but Fizz holds steady. The former clown extends his prosthetic limbs to wrap around Blitzø, clinging to him bodily.
“You are all better off without me!” Blitzø sobs. “The sooner you realize that, the safer you will be.”
The order of operations from here is hazy – Blitzø is not fully aware of what is happening to be honest. He feels cold pressure – Fizz’s hand – on his face. Fingers catching and wiping away tears. There’s a chill of embarrassment that accompanies it, but Blitzø is too far gone to dwell in it at the moment. He feels his head being turned to the side, the ghost of a breath on his cheek. A faint press of… something, there. And then when he blinks his eyes open, he’s staring directly into Fizz’s.
“Blitzø,” he croaks, voice raspier than normal. He looks like he is going to cry, but that can’t be right. “You’re worthy of love, you know that right?”
Blitzø can’t help but laugh. It’s a dark, burbling thing that catches in his throat and settles heavy in his chest like tar. “I’m really not, Fizz.”
His voice is monotonous. And it feels disconnected from him somehow, like he’s sitting on the ceiling, watching his own lips move, hearing the words tumble out, but has no control over it. He wants to keep yelling, to push Fizz away, but he just can’t muster the energy.
Fizz crowds closer, pressing his forehead against Blitzø’s. “You are,” he says, simply, though there is a clear edge of challenge in his voice, like he wants to start a fight but is holding back. His hands are cupping the sides of Blitzø’s face now. “Blitzø, you don’t need to be perfect or good to be loved. I know it is hard to believe but f*ck, Blitzø – you are loved.”
A feeling like lightning jolts up Blitzø’s spine and abruptly he’s shoving Fizz away.
He’s on his feet.
He’s moving toward the door.
Can’t think. Can’t think. Can’t think can’t think can’t think.
His mind is racing and he cannot settle on any one thought. He needs to run. He needs to get out of here. He can’t handle this. He can’t --
And suddenly, Fizz’s hand is on his wrist. The hold is firm, pressure unwavering. But he doesn’t pull or tug. It’s just, there. Blitzø stands there a moment, eyes cast down to the ground. And then something breaks inside of him, his heart hammering, his blood rushing in his ears, and Blitzø f*cking sobs.
He sobs for Fizz and their broken childhood. He sobs for Barbie and all the little ways he has ruined her life, all the ways she has hurt him in turn. For Moma, and how he couldn’t save her.
For Loona and all the pain she had to endure before he even met her. For all the mistakes he made trying to help her. Even for the happy moments which feel few and far between.
For Stolas, in so many ways he cannot interrogate right now.
For himself, though he cannot stop the deluge of guilt that accompanies it.
And then, he’s just standing there. Wrung out, exhausted, but breathing and alive and himself. And not alone.
Fizz has folded himself around the other imp, arms wrapped tight around his torso, tails tied. His purr, loud and strong and steady ripples though Blitzø’s chest. He’s babbling, only semi-intelligible, but the words Blitzø catches are sweeter than anything that he deserves, and finds his face heating at it. He pushes his face against Fizz’s shoulder.
Blitzø finds himself purring in response. The rumble is strong, resonant. Ir seems to catch Fizz off guard, and the imp stiffens a bit in Blitzø’s embrace. A sharp edge of panic lances through Blitzø. His skin pebbles, the muscles of his legs tense, ready to run.
But the tension subsides just as quickly, staved off by Fizz rubbing his hands against Blitzø’s back in soothing circles.
“You with me there, Blitzø?” Fizz finally asks.
Fizz pulls back just enough so that their eyes meet.
Blitzø manages a watery half-smile. “Yea, Fizz… Thanks.”
“Good,” Fizz says, hauling the other imp back to the couch, “Because you’re f*cking stuck with me.”
-
The pair spends the next few hours absorbed in each other’s company. Blitzø laying with his face planted firmly in Fizz’s chest, both of them purring and cuddling like they used to when they were just kids. At first, they are quiet, companionable. There’s a soft, lazy lull between them and neither feels the need to fill it. It is… pleasant.
Blitzø’s life has been – is – hard. He has always had to work every angle. Talk, fight, f*ck to keep himself from drowning. Even when indulging himself, there is always a little air of threat to it. Some transaction that needs to be made to keep himself out of the red.
It is strange, now, to be cocooned in the arms of someone who knows all of his faults, intimately. Who had seen him at his absolute worst. Who had borne the brunt of his mistakes. And who, despite all of that, is choosing to be involved in his life anyway, absent a trade, a deal, an exchange of funds. No favors for favors. No price tag. No hoops or hurdles.
Blitzø can’t really fathom it, and he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth here. “Mmm horses…” he mumbles.
“What the f*ck are you talking about Blitzø?” Fizz half-purrs, voice hoarse and vibrating as though he was caught unaware and not fully prepared to speak.
“Um, nothing,” Blitzø mutters, ignoring the hammering of his heart.
As the minutes pass into hours, Blitzø does grow a bit restless. He fishes his cellphone from where it has fallen, forgotten between the couch cushions. He shoots off a barely legible text to the M&Ms, confirming that he is alive, and ignores the wall of text that Moxxie sends in response in favor of replying with a string of increasingly nonsensical emojis. He texts Loona as well, almost dies on the spot when she replies that she is glad he’s okay, and confirms that she will be out for the night. He scrolls aimlessly through social media and avoids rereading Stolas’s message thread like the plague.
Eventually, his stomach rumbles, and they agree on delivery – some burger place that Fizz wanted to try since he isn’t in Pride often. The food is fine, the dinner conversation is better. It starts inconsequential, flitting from topic to topic. Nothing too deep, just a welcome distraction from everything else that is wrong in Blitzø’s life.
But they keep talking long into the evening, the conversation morphing into something a little more personal. Ruminations on nostalgia, stories of their shared history – skirting around points that are still a little too sore to dwell on – catching up. It’s good. Really good. Like settling into a warm old coat and finding that it still fits perfectly.
Mid-sentence, Blitzø looks up to find that Fizz is staring at him. He co*cks his head to the side.
“What?” he asks, “Is there sauce or some sh*t on my face?” He swipes at his cheek just in case.
Fizz shakes his head and leans closer. A smirk settles across his lips, a glint in his acid green eyes. “Would it,” he starts, stroking a metallic finger across Blitzø’s horn – tip to base and back again. A shiver ripples down Blitzø’s spine. Amusem*nt hangs heavy in the former clown’s voice. “f*ck up the moment if we made out right now.”
Blitzø lets out an abrupt, uncontrolled snort, his face heating. “Oh the clown’s got jokes now,” he grouses, the sudden tension broken. Something thrums low in his gut. A new kind of tension mounting. “Laugh it up Fizzies! No need to kick a guy when he’s --”
Fizz’s hand catches Blitzø’s chin, thumb tracing the corner of his mouth. His eyes level with Blitzø’s, pupils dark and dilated. Pink irises a mere sliver, nearly consumed entirely…
Blitz inhales sharply, nearly chokes on the air bubble that gets stuck in his throat. Hacks lightly to clear it.
Oh! Oh, fuuuuuuck. Blitzø catches a quick, rhythmic drumming sound at the edge of his consciousness and oh no that’s his heart? Racing. His tail spasms behind him.
He feels very suddenly lightheaded.
“Ah-” he manages, finally, intelligently.
Fizz leans forward, warm breath sweeping against Blitzø’s lips. Blitzø nearly goes cross-eyed as he tracks the movement. His thoughts are racing – what does his breath smell like? f*ck, is it onions? What the f*ck was on that burger again? f*ck. Can Fizz see how badly he’s blushing. His face must be dark gray at this point. Christ. Why is he acting like some stuck up f*cking virgin. His tail won’t behave, lashing and whipping and seeking out Fizz’s. It’s not like this is his first f*cking kiss or anything. So f*cking far from it. Blitzø has had his tongue in all manner of orifices and ----
And then, Fizz’s lips meet his, and Blitzø is unable to suppress the full body shudder that overtakes him. He is momentarily dumbstruck. Unable to – for shock or fear or pure, unadulterated, mind-numbing horniness – do anything. Frozen stock still as all of the blood in his body fleas southward. Fizz makes a questioning noise, but does not break away. His hand slides from Blitzø jaw to the back of his neck. The other twins around Blitzø’s horn. Without breaking contact, he draws Blitzø closer, deeper, and the other imp finally gains there wherewithal to act.
Blitzø presses forward, slow at first and then frenzied. He nips at Fizz’s lips and Fizz nips back, all teeth and tongue. He licks past Blitzø’s lips, forked tongue tracing the contours of his teeth and the roof of his mouth, and Blitzø responds in kind. His hands flail a bit, unsure of positioning, and then scrabble for purchase against Fizz’s shoulders.
Fizz pauses momentarily, lips stilling against Blitzø’s. f*ck. He f*cked up. He f*cked up and now Fizz is going to stop and they’re never going to speak again. He’s ruined things again and -
Fizz pulls back by just an inch or two, then places a comparatively chaste kiss against Blitzø’s lips and then another. Blitzø blinks.
“Stop thinking so hard, idiot,” Fizz giggles. The hand formerly tucked against the assassins neck - Blitzø shivers as it moves – traces down Blitzø’s arm, coming to rest at the hand which now cups Fizz’s shoulder. Maintaining eye contact, Fizz moves the other to tug at his twin-tailed jester cap, pulling it free. It drops to the floor with a jingle. “You can touch my horns. I trust you.” And then his lips are back on Blitzø’s.
Blitzø f*cking whines, hands jerking up to cup the base of Fizz’s shattered horns and he falls back against the former clown. His claws massage the skins there, carefully tracing the sensitive joint between scale and keratin. Fizz shudders against him, moaning into his mouth. The sound and vibration of it pulses straight down to Blitzø’s groin.
Horns are special. It is hard to explain to demons that aren’t imps, and Blitzø certainly never bothered to bring it up to Stolas… But touching horns like this is a sign of affection between imps – something reserved for close family and ah – lovers. To entrust the care of one’s horns to another is a sign of deep, encompassing love and fondness. It is not something done lightly.
The fact the Fizz, of all imps, is trusting Blitzø, of all imps, with his horns, after everything is... heady. Blitzø’s mouth waters. He breaks the kiss, pulling away just enough to pull Fizz even closer, dragging him into the crook of Blitzø’s neck. He peppers the base of Fizz’s horns with open mouth kisses, careful to avoid the damaged keratin and raw edges. Fizz lets out a short giggle that morphs into a moan as Blitzø mouths a particularly sensitive area. Blitzø attacks the spot again, allowing his teeth to scrape gently, not enough to break the skin, and follows that up with a kitten lick. He nuzzles the space between Fizz’s horns and is unable to suppress the loud – embarrassingly so – purr which issues from his throat.
It is at this moment that Fizz finds an opening, biting the side of Blitzø’s neck nearly hard enough to break the skin. Blitzø groans in surprise and arousal, throwing his head back. Fizz’s tongue darts out, placing soothing licks against the newly inflamed skin. The ministration is followed by more nips and licks and pecks until Fizz has once again found Blitzø’s mouth. He’s kissing him again, deep, moaning into it, and Blitzø responds in kind.
Fizz’s hands work their way under Blitzø’s t-shirt, mapping the plains of his chest and stomach as they move against each other. He makes a displeased noise when the shirt gets in the way off his exploration.
“Off,” he says, and Blitzø doesn’t need to be told twice. The garment is sailing behind the couch before either of them can blink.
Fizz hums, content. His lips join his fingers. He latches on to Blitzø’s collar bone, sucking a hickey into the mottled skin. He presses a fingertip into Blitzø’s side, wiggling it back and forth.
Blitzø squirms, wriggling out of the way. He can feel Fizz’s teeth pressed against the skin of his chest in a self-satisfied grin. He repeats the action, this time from the other side.
Blitzø is unable to control the gush of laughter that escapes his mouth. He’s not sure what does it – the actual sensation of being tickled, or the absurdity of the situation. He can’t remember the last time someone had even tried – it was probably Fizz, back when they were brats. This – decidedly – does not feel like a children’s game.
“Cut it out, Fizzies!” Blitzø calls, though the demand dissolves into cackling as his friend’s fingers catch a sensitive spot. Fizz continues the assault until Blitzø’s face and chest hurt from laughing.
“Ah there’s the smile I was looking for,” Fizz says. He’s laughing too, a full-chested thing that has Blitzø’s stomach fluttering. “I always loved your smile, you know. So f*cking pretty.”
Blitzø’s face feels hotter than it ever has before. He throws his arm over his face in a futile attempt to hide his growing blush.
“f*ck! Fizz! You can’t just say something like that!”
“Hmm,” Fizz says, as though contemplating Blitzø’s statement. He pulls himself up Blitzø’s body so that he is sitting on his stomach. In the transition, Blitzø feels something hard brush again his bare skin. That fluttering feeling returns with intensity.
Fizz clicks his tongue, drawing Blitzø’s attention back toward him. He drops his arm, though he’s sure his face is still on fire. Fizz catches his eyes. The former clown raises an eyebrow.
“No, I think I can. There’s no way you don’t know that you’re hot as sh*t,” Fizz says finally. He doesn’t give Blitzø even a full second pause before he’s tickling him again.
“f*ck, Fizz!” Blitzø laughs, shoving at the former clown. “If we keep going like this, I might get the impression that you want me to f*ck you.”
Fizz butts his head under Blitzø’s chin, giving his shoulder a playful tweak. “I mean, I was thinking the other way around,” he says with a suggestive lilt in his voice, “But I certainly wouldn’t say no to either.”
Wait. Wait, what the f*ck. What the f*ck.
Fizz seems to sense Blitzø’s distress. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. We can just go back to making out, or talking.”
“Ah, f*ck. No. Please?”
Fizz co*cks his head to the side. He places his palm flat against Blitzø’s chest. Blitzø is not sure how the sensors in Fizz’s prostheses work, but there’s no way the other imp can’t feel the way Blitzø’s heart is hammering in his chest.
“Please, what?”
“Please,” he repeats, cringing at how needy his voice sounds, “Ah – f*ck me.”
“No need to tell me twice!” Fizz intones, and then he’s propelling himself off Blitzø with the grace and ease of a trained acrobat. Blitzø is left feeling a bit bereft. His eye track the movement, setting on the former clown, who is now standing, hovering over Blitzø where he lounges on the couch.
Fizz is in the process of shucking his clothing to the floor. He makes a cursory effort to actually unbutton his shirt before giving up halfway through and ripping the remaining buttons. One flies off and hits Blitzø’s horn with a little ping! He makes quick work of his pants as well, and then he’s there in front of Blitzø with nothing on except a part of lacy hot pink panties. Blitzø’s eyes zero in on the bulge tenting the front of Fizz’s underwear, co*ckhead pressing over the elastic. It’s bigger than Blitzø would have though, slim but not overly so, with a slight curve to the left. Blitzø watches, enraptured, as Fizz readjusts himself.
“Like what you see?” Fizz asks with a wink. Blitzø managers to drag his eye away from Fizz’s co*ck, up his scarred, lithe chest, finally coming to rest on his face. Fizz is smiling but there is a distinct gray flush to his cheeks.
“Yes,” Blitzø says, simply, brain not cooperating enough for jokes or sarcasm.
Fizz’s grin widens as he returns to the couch. He pushes Blitzø against the arm, hiking a robotic knee under him to gain leverage. With practiced ease, he pulls Blitzø’s boxers down to his thighs. His dick, half-hard, pops free over the waistband with a little bounce. Fizz giggles.
“Could you not laugh at my dick?” Blitzø groans.
“Ah c’mon, Blitzø,” Fizz sing-songs. “He’s a cute lil fella.” His hands are busy, trailing down the contour’s of Blitzø’s back, metallic claws scratching lightly against the skin there. Blitzø arches into it, back muscles flexing.
His tail, however, is free. It slithers into Blitzø’s bare lap, curling loosely around the base of his dick. It traces circles around the flush, straining length, only occasionally pressing against the weeping slit or dancing playfully down the rigid shaft – playful. Never enough pressure to provide delicious, much-desired friction or pleasure. Just enough to tease and confound.
Blitzø ruts up, and it met with Fizz’s spade slapping the tip, supplying a jolt of light, sharp pain.
“Ah!” Blitzø grunts, squirming, annoyance forgotten.
With a smirk, Fizz leverages Blitzø’s distraction to grasp the base of the other imp’s tail, giving the delicate flesh there a squeeze and a tug.
It feels- honestly a bit like sticking a metal fork in an electrical outlet. A sharp, delicious zap of pleasure zips through him, and Blitzø throws his head back, jaw falling open. His tail writhes spasmodically, doubling back to wrap around Fizz’s arm. Fizz tuts, flicking the spade.
The double barrel pleasure of Fizz’s tail on his dick and hand on his tail has Blitzø screaming like a succubus whor*. His abdominal muscles flex and twitch, thigh clench as his hips raise in little aborted thrusts, desperate for relief. The coil of Fizz’s tail remains frustratingly loose, just enough slide of skin-on-skin to send soft tingles of pleasure though Blitzø’s nerves.
Fizz kneeds the base of Blitzø’s tail again, other hand caressing the edge’s of the spade tip in soft back-and-forth motions. And – the thing is – the thing is – for all of Blitzø’s experience, and there was a lot of that, few of his bed partners had every really bothered with tail stuff beyond some admittedly poorly thought out attempts at tail-themed bondage, and maybe the odd tug in the heat of the moment. May it’s the novelty of it, or maybe Blitzø is just thirsty for this clown in particular, but Fizz’s attention on his tail sets Blitzø’s mouth watering. Little mewls of pleasure escape his mouth unbidden, and he moves to bury his face in the couch to hide his mortification, cheeks glowing.
And then Fizz’s hand isn’t on his spade, metallic fingers instead taking up residence beneath Blitzø’s chin, coaxing him to look back up. His robotic arm extended so that he can caress Blitzø’s face, cheek… thumb eventually coming to rest against Blitzø’s bottom lip, fingers curving around the edge of his jaw. Fizz’s face is flush deep gray, and there is this little sparkle in his pink-on-green eyes that has Blitzø staring.
f*ck he’s beautiful.
“Look how good you’re being for me,” Fizz praises after a beat, petting Blitzø’s jaw and cheek. A shudder of pleasure shoots through Blitzø. His dick jerks to full attention, pointing up toward his belly.
And oh. Oh, isn’t that a revelation. It is not secret that Blitzø likes acknowledgment for a job well done as it were. There are few thing he wouldn’t try once if it would please a partner, but it was rare for anyone, in any context, to stare Blitzø down like this and just… see any kind of goodness in him. The shape of the words warm him from the inside out and leave him feeling strangely raw. He thinks he may do just about anything to hear Fizz say them again.
Blitzø finds himself leaning forward, hands cupping Fizz’s face, pulling him on top of Blitzø. He pulls them together in a sloppy kiss, fangs clattering together. His forked tongue laps into Fizz’s mouth, relishing the little groan Fizz looses in response. Fizz licks back, pricking his tongue on ridges of Blitzø’s sharp teeth in his haste. The salty iron flavor of blood fills their joined mouths, and a frenzied, heady feeling washes over Blitzø, tingling down to his hooves.
He manages to slip his thigh between Fizz’s legs, hitching it to rub against the other imp’s straining erection. Fizz ruts against him, throwing his head back to release a gasping, cut-off moan. When their lips part, a silvery string of saliva remains, connecting them.
“f*ck, Blitzø!” Fizz cries as he continues to hump against the assassin’s thigh, leaning forward now to mouth the juncture of Blitzø’s neck and shoulder. With each movement, the soft bulge of his stomach rubs against the sensitized length of Blitzø’s hardened co*ck, but he continues to evade anything more than the barest teasing slip. His hands instead move to massage the delicate skin of Blitzø’s hips and thighs, pinching and rolling the flesh between metallic fingertips. Blitzø grinds his pelvis up in response and finds himself pushed back into the couch, Fizz’s hands planted firmly on the crests of his hips.
“Ah, ah,” Fizz tuts, licking a stripe against Blitzø’s neck, leaving gooseflesh in his wake, “A good boy waits his turn. You want to keep being good for me, don’t you?”
And Satan f*cking help him, Blitzø finds himself nodding. Fizz makes a pleased sound. He rewards Blitzø by trailing the knuckle of one hand up the length of Blitzø’s dick, eventually peaking at the head. Slowly, much too slowly, Fizz’s fingers circle his co*ckhead, tapping lightly against the hole. Fizz seems to delight in the sparking little spasms this produces, and the silent, open-mouth panting it elicits from Blitzø.
A moment too soon, Fizz pulls away and Blitzø cries out audibly. “Fizz, please!” He whines, and the f*cker has the nerve to laugh. He answers with another kiss, swallowing his lover’s complaints. His hands move, now circling around Blitzø to cup his ass, massaging the cheeks as their tongues tangle. Thumbs catching the dips at the base of Blitzø’s tail, he trails his fingers down Blitzø’s crack. The dry tip of one finger presses shallowly into his hole, which flutters against it. Blitzø chokes a moan, nearly biting down in the process. He moves to bury his head against Fizz’s neck, mewling as the other imp continues to trace his entrance.
There’s something to this strange unhurried teasing. There’s no real… demand in it. Blitzø doesn’t feel the usual urge to perform, like his entire worth is attached to his skill as a lover. He’s allowed to just exist in this weird indulgent limbo between comfort and the burning, maddening tension which builds with every little aborted thrust of Fizz’s fingertips. Every little nip and kiss and stroke. And f*ck it all, Blitzø is a little worried that he’s going to cum basically untouched like a weird little teenage pervert.
Blitzø cants his hips. Whether he is trying to escape the fingers’ press or force them further inside is anyone’s guess. His thigh presses harder against Fizz’s swollen dick. The lace of his cute pink panties is sodden with precum.
“Hold on,” Fizz says suddenly, lightly pushing Blitzø back. Blitzø yelps at the indignity, but Fizz ignores him in favor of snagging his discarded pants from the floor and rummaging through the deceptively deep clown car pockets. He tosses out random bits and bobs carelessly onto Blitzø’s stained carpet – crumpled paper, what appears to be a small butt plug, long latex balloons and the corresponding pump, his cellphone, bedecked in a bedazzled pink case baring the phrase “#1 Clown co*ck,” and the odd coin – before producing with a noise of triumph a small bottle of industrial grade lube.
Blitzø levels him with an unimpressed look. “You just carry around lube in your pocket?”
“A Hellscout is always prepared,” Fizz returns with a giggle and a mock salute. He pauses – “f*ck, no condoms though. Is that going to be a problem?”
“I’m clean,” Blitzø answers quickly, “And I uh -” He stares down at his own chest. Wow he didn’t know the flush went down this far. Was the room getting hotter? The thought of Fizz filling him is intoxicating. His hips twitch.
Fizz gives a knowing grin. “Oh, I getcha, Buddy.”
In one fluid motion, he rocks back toward Blitzø, crowding into his personal space. His lips are back on Blitzø’s, licking against them with renewed fervor. Blitzø’s hands catch Fizz’s hip, fingertips grazing the waistband of the former clown’s panties. He fiddles with the elastic, gazing up at Fizz through his lashes.
“Can I?” he asks, sparing a meaningful glance to Fizz’s still clothed co*ck. The other imp nods, makes an obscene gesture with his hands, and leans back enough for Blitzø to shift their weight.
Fizz places the bottle of lube on the back of the couch. “A tool for later,” he jokes. Blitzø snorts in response as he busies himself with flipping their positions.
Fizz braces himself on his elbows and Blitzø makes quick work of his panties. There is of course, a lingering appreciative look as Blitzø takes in the full picture of Fizz’s co*ck straining against the soaked sheer mesh of the lace. He traces a finger along it’s contour, delighting in the shudder which passes through Fizz as he does so. But ultimately, that thin fabric is an obstruction to Blitzø’s goal. Indelicately, he rips them down Fizz’s thighs and tosses them behind him without much care or thought.
Before him, Fizz lays completely bare, from shattered horns to metallic hooves. Blitzø takes in the totality of him – his cute, grinning face and shining pink-on-green eyes, pupils fully dilated and filled with hunger. The scarred flesh of his chest and belly, currently coated in a thin sheen of sweat. Abdominal muscles flexing in arousal. That thin whip of a tail, flicking lightly back and forth, tipped with a perfectly shaped spade. The black metallic sheen of his prosthetic limbs, attached near seamlessly at his shoulders and thighs, lighted with a soft blue glow Blitzø has come to associate with the Lust Ring. Blitzø’s breath catches.
Fizz is f*cking stunning. Blitzø had always thought so, even when they were so very young, when he first realized what beauty even was. When he realized that the reason he always wanted to be with Fizz wasn’t just because Fizz was his best friend, and that the ugly, cloying jealousy he was feeling wasn’t of Fizz but the people that surrounded him.
He had, literally, dreamed about this for years. He remembers, hazy and sepia-toned and with a light edge of embarrassed nostalgia, the hot summer nights he spent cooped up in his bunk just daydreaming. It was almost sweet, how innocent his fantasies were, divorced then from the realities of adult sexuality and the messiness of real relationships. And then, of course, when puberty hit and he learned that jerking off was the most worthwhile venture for staving off teen imp boredom, Fizz had featured near exclusively in the movies he created in his head. He’d thought often of taking the other imp apart with his tongue, the sounds he would make, the taste. In their youth, Blitzø had always been too chickensh*t to actually bring any of this up to his best friend, who had always shied away when their conversations turned to topics of sex or love or even crushes. Not that Blitzø had been much better - even now the thought of Fizz’s affections sets his heart and mind racing, stealing his words from his tongue. His teenage self, who once spilled a full 32-ounce soda in his lap, stuttered that he’s pissed himself, and then booked it when Fizz had made a suggestive joke in his direction - never stood a chance.
-- And then, it was all gone in a blaze of green hellfire, and for a long time, Blitzø couldn’t think back on any of this without being burned up by green-tinted tendrils of guilt. But even then, even when Blitzø had built up a facade of resentment toward the Great Fizzarolli - the Sin of Greed’s spokesclown, the Sin of Lust’s f*ckdoll – the ghost of Fizz, his first love, still lingered in the dark of night. When he was laying in a pool of his own vomit after a fortnight of binging drugs and booze in Gluttony – when his heart was shattered time and time again because he just couldn’t do f*cking anything right – when his own f*cked up head had him staring off into the void and wondering what if – he’d sometimes wake to the phantom sensation of arms holding him in embrace, the whisper of love and affection in his ears, the small comfort of what could have been ---
And maybe this never really was about sex. But damn if Blitzø won’t take anything that Fizz is willing to offer. If it’s just friendship, or just f*cking, then so be it. Blitzø will, selfishly, take what he is given. Try his best not to f*ck it up, though it is a forgone conclusion. He’ll relish every drop of affection, and when Blitzø is inevitably alone again, when he inevitability chases Fizz back out of his life, he will at least have these moments to keep him warm at night.
Fizz sticks out his forked tongue and taps Blitzø lightly against the chest with his prosthetic hoof, shattering his reverie. “Hell to Blitzø,” he says. His voice is light but there’s an edge to it. “I know I’m not the prettiest belle at the ball, but you’re going to make a bitch self conscious with all that staring.”
Blitzø’s head jerks up, his eyes wide and his face fully flushed. “No, Fizz! It’s just um…” He doesn’t know why this is so embarrassing. He’s about to get f*cked by this clown. Something as inconsequential as the resurgence of a nearly two decade old crush shouldn’t be anywhere this mortifying. “You’re so f*cking pretty, Fizzies, and I’m really not w-”
“Nope, none of that,” Fizz says, leaning back up enough to take Blitzø’s horn in his hand. The pressure of the grip sends tingles down Blitzø’s spine. He pulls Blitzø close enough to place a small, nearly chaste peck against the mark on Blitzø’s forehead. They’ve had their tongues inside each other’s mouths – f*ck, he’s about to have Fizz’s dick in his mouth – something so innocent shouldn’t have Blitzø’s heart about to pound out of his ass and yet -
“I care about you,” Fizz continues, “And I want you. If you don’t want to keep going, that is fine.” He pets Blitzø horn. “But just so you know, I am not doing this out of pity. You are, I cannot stress this enough, my friend and also,” he smirks, “So f*cking hot.”
“Yea, yep,” Blitzø manages to the backbeat of Fizz’s giggling. He gives a salute and then is damn near face-planting into the other imp’s crotch. Fizz’s legs spread to accommodate him, giving Blitzø an eyeful of straining red co*ck.
He slumps down further, breath ghosting over Fizz’s groin. He watches with fascination as Fizz’ dick twitches and goosebumps appear on the skin of his thighs. Fizz’s hips shift.
Blitzø is torn – half of him wants to take this slow, savor the moment. And half of him wants to choke on Fizz’s co*ck immediately. He reaches his right hand to trace along Fizz’s thighs, something akin to awe rising within him as he feels the muscles there tremble under his fingertips.
Blitzø moves his left hand to press against the soft plane of Fizz’s belly, applying just enough pressure to pin the other imp down. He ducks his head, placing a nip against the hollow of Fizz’s hip. His tongue flicks out, tracing the edge of it, down, down, to the peak of his thigh. He mouths the skin there, sucking on it, and feels the hard length of Fizz’s co*ck brush against his cheek as he does so.
Despite his eagerness, the pent excitement building in his stomach, he takes the torturous, teasing pace Fizz had favored before. He draws nonsense shapes with his fingertips on the skin of Fizz’s stomach, indulging in the little shivers it produces. His right hand curves around Fizz’s hip, cupping his ass, giving it a little squeeze.
Fizz does not rush him, but responds with little, whispery hums and moans, with soft, shallow jerks of his hips. He teases Fizz slowly, teeth and tongue and fingers cataloging each part of him. It isn’t until Blitzø nuzzles the base of Fizz’s co*ck that the other imp is given to action.
In the span of a second, the thin whip of Fizz’s tail is coiled around to column of Blitzø’s neck – not tight enough to choke, but enough to provide light pressure to the sides of his throat. The sensation startles a moan out of Blitzø. Leveraging his tail like a leash, Fizz inches Blitzø’s head closer,
His hands find Blitzø’s horns, fingering the skin at the base, holding steady. Fizz is staring down at Blitzø with a half-lidded expression, cheeks flush, mouth parted. His tongue darts out to lick at his lips. He inclines his head.
“You’re doing such a good job,” he says, voice low and gravely. “I want to feel you on me.”
The praise shunts a wave of pleasure through Blitzø’s limbs – his tail springing up, poker-straight at the suggestion it carries – and something much more frenzied builds in his gut. He nuzzles at the base of Fizz’s dick one more time, then licks a long, wet stripe from root to tip, drawing a sharp, bright moan from Fizz. He lathes the head, drool pooling on his tongue, dribbling down the shaft. Tucking his lips around the sharp peaks of his fangs, he pulls down, enveloping as much of Fizz’s co*ck as he can in one go without gagging. His left hand drags down to encircle the inches that do not fit. His right hand slips to thumb Fizz’s perineum.
No longer pinned, Fizz jumps at the sudden on-slot of pleasure, thrusting deep into the wet cavern of Blitzø’s mouth with a shout. Blitzø sputters a bit, eyes watering when the co*ckhead strikes the back of his throat, but he does not pull away. He takes a second to adjust to the sensation, his own dick throbbing, near painful.
After half a beat, Blitzø takes to the task in earnest, bobbing his head to meet Fizz’s thrusts, drawing out little mewls and moans that sit heavy in the pit of Blitzø’s stomach. He pulls all the way back, so just the head is between his lips. His long, prehensile tongue snakes down the length – writhing, pulsating. He savors Fizz’s squirming, and the fluttering in his own chest, and then slurps the entire length back down. He swears he hears Fizz mumble a “Good boy,” between moans and the sound of it startles him to purring, the vibrations of it rattling his teeth and tongue, and zapping straight through Fizz’s co*ck. A pleased, floaty feeling settings in Blitzø’s bones, and he can’t help but purr louder.
There’s pressure pushing against his horns now. Blitzø glances up to see Fizz pushing him away. He makes a sound of hurt confusion, but allows Fizz’s co*ck to slip out of his mouth with a wet pop! Blitzø’s face is slick with drool, tongue is sticking out like a hellcat caught mid-grooming. Fizz presses his thumb against the fork of it. His tail tightens around Blitzø’s neck, squeezing reassuringly before unwinding entirely. Blitzø co*cks his head, bereft.
“f*ck, Blitzø,” Fizz says finally, voice breathy. He moves his hand to stroke Blitzø’s cheek. “If you want me to f*ck you, I’m gonna need you to stop. I feel like my brain is about to leak out my dick.”
It takes Blitzø’s brain a moment to catch up with what Fizz just said, but when he does, he’s scrambling to get his limbs under him, drawing back enough so that Fizz can sit up fully.
Fizz shifts their positions, leaning into Blitzø. Thumbs folding around the edges of Blitzø’s jaw, Fizz brings their faces together, nuzzling Blitzø’s forehead and then his cheek before setting his lips against Blitzø’s in a firm yet soft kiss. When he pulls back, he is smiling, eyes bright.
“Fizz,” Blitzø says, voice thick with meaning. There are a lot of things that he wants to say. A lifetime’s worth. Maybe with time he’ll be able, but for now he settles for returning the gesture. He presses his forehead against Fizz’s, eyes shuttering closed. They sit like that for a moment, basking in each other’s aura.
Eventually, Fizz works a hand between then, resting it on the center of Blitzø’s chest. He pushes, coaxing Blitzø to lay down against the arm of the couch. Blitzø does so, falling against it, legs arched at the knee and spread. Fizz settles between them, peppering kisses down Blitzø’s chest and belly. One hand comes to once again grasp the base of Blitzø’s tail, prompting that zappy-sparky feeling which courses though his entire body. His skin tingles. The other hand falls to Blitzø’s lap. Fingers curl around the length of Blitzø co*ck, and he pumps up and down in slow, deliberate motions, paying special attention to the head, which he circles with his thumb on the upstroke. He pauses for a second, deliberating, pulling his hand away momentarily – spits in his palm, a long string of drool issuing from behind his fangs – then returns to his ministrations. Blitzø keens at the slick slide of Fizz’s hand, canting his hips up. Fizz takes the opportunity to pass his other hand beneath Blitzø’s tail, groping his ass checks.
As Fizz picks up the pace, Blitzø feels that familiar warm pressure pooling in his gut and groin. He jerks into it, moaning. “f*ck, Fizz! I’m about to cum.”
Fizz squeezes the base of Blitzø’s dick, staving the worst of it off. Blitzø groans, half pained, half in mind-numbing pleasure. “Please!”
“Not yet, baby boy,” Fizz says, hand moving instead to pet Blitzø’s belly apologetically.
And f*ck. After spending nearly his entire adult life being called daddy by bed partners, there’s something a little overwhelming in the syllables of “baby boy” that has Blitzø f*cking trembling. He throws his hands up to hide his eyes and burning face, squirming at Fizz’s touch.
Fizz lets out a soft chuckle. Not mocking, just amused. His spare hand slips between Blitzø’s ass checks, tickling at his perineum before tapping his hole with the second knuckle of his index finger.
“This okay?” He asks, pressing closer into Blitzø’s space. Blitzø peaks through his fingers at Fizz. The other imp looks just as aroused as Blitzø feels, but there’s a mischievous, sh*t eating grin on his face. Blitzø manages to pull his hands away from his eyes with some effort, and returns the grin in kind. He nods.
Fizz ducks down a bit, hiking one of Blitzø’s legs over his shoulder for better access. Blitzø’s tail flails a bit, scrambling for purchase to keep his balance during the abrupt shift. Fizz’s arm shoots out and snags the bottle of lube from the back of the couch. Popping it open with a deft thumb, he coats his fingers and dribbles a little on Blitzø’s hole for good measure. Blitzø feels himself twitch involuntarily at the temperature.
Free hand massaging Blitzø’s thigh in concentric circles, the slick tips of Fizz’s metallic fingers trace a path down to his entrance. The tip of his middle finger circles the rim and then presses inward, colder and stiffer than Blitzø is used to but to be honest, Blitzø doesn’t bottom often and the last time he did, f*cking Chaz hadn’t bothered preparing him at all, so this is a bit of a novel experience.
With practiced ease, Fizz’s finger f*cks into him, a second finger joining the first soon after. He starts slowly, allowing Blitzø to adjust to the intrusion. As with before, Fizz seems to take pleasure in being slow about this, savoring the incremental slide of his fingers inside Blitzø as the assassin presses down, seeking friction.
“Fizz! Please!”
With a kiss to Blitzø’s thigh, Fizz’s fingers press into his prostate, wriggling against it. It sends a jolt though Blitzø, who falters at the wave of pleasure, muscles tensing and tingling all over.
“Use your words there, Blitzø,” Fizz says as he continues to thrust his fingers into Blitzø. He adds a third, scissoring Blitzø open with every thrust, striking his prostate with each pass. Blitzø bites his bottom lip to keep from screaming. His hands flail in the air, desperate for something to grab onto to ground himself.
He feels pressure welling up once more, precum beaded at the slit of his co*ck. He rolls his hips, and Fizz follows the motion, rubbing inside of him. And f*ck – so much for not cumming. He’s so f*cking close, the edges of his vision blurring.
Until Fizz pulls out, empty feeling pulling Blitzø back from the edge. Blitzø yelps, turning a glare toward his lover. Fizz smirks and gives him a mocking little wave. The bastard.
“Well f*ck me!” Blitzo growls as the little waves of pleasure ebb away. He’s panting now, chest shuddering, abdominal muscles rolling. He feels the urge to squeeze his thighs shut but Fizz’s hands keep him from doing so.
“Gladly,” the former clown returns, pushing one hand flat against the clenching muscles of Blitzø’s stomach. The other hand fists his own co*ck, giving it two quick pumps. His eyes flick up to meet Blitzø’s. “If you’re ready that is.”
Blitzø’s heart thunders in his ears. f*cking sh*t, dreams do come true apparently. He nods and babbles something that is probably affirmation. The smile Fizz gives him has him f*cking glowing.
Fizz takes a second to adjust himself, pressing his co*ck against Blitzø’s gaping entrance. In one swift movement, he is sinking into Blitzø, all the way to the hilt. Whereas everything leading up to this point was slow and lazy, seated inside Blitzø, Fizz is off like a horse to the races. He pistons in and out of Blitzø with reckless abandon, striking that spot within him with every other thrust.
It’s rough, messy. Blitzø relishes in the frenetic energy of it, drool pooling in his mouth. His tail corkscrews and curls in on itself as the pleasure washes over him.
At one point, Fizz nearly slips entirely from Blitzø’s clenching hole, only the tip remaining, before jackrabbiting up and burying himself to the root, slamming against Blitzø’s prostate. His legs f*cking shake, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Fizz’s hand finds Blitzø’s dick again, stroking it in time with his thrusts. Blitzø arches into it, screaming so loudly that his neighbors will probably have something to say about it in the morning.
“f*ck, Fizz, I can’t -” he calls, eyes screwed shut. But Fizz does not stop, speeds up if anything. He thrusts in deep, holding Blitzø tightly as waves of relief crashing through him, coating his stomach with thick ropes of cum. Fizz holds him through the aftershocks, caressing his sides, pressing wet, open-mouth kisses to his heaving chest. Blitzø feels like a live-wire, spasms shooting through him with even the lightest touch.
Fizz pulls Blitzø to him, setting the other imp in his lap. He loops his tail and arms around Blitzø, pulling at assassin’s loose-limbed body to his chest. Blitzø burrows into the crook of his neck, panting. Fizz remains seated deep inside of him, but after Blitzø’s first org*sm, the frantic nature of their previous coupling has subsided into something sweeter.
The drag of Fizz’s co*ck against his prostate feels too much. Not uncomfortable necessarily, not painful. He feels… full. In more ways that just physical. In more ways than he can describe. He pulls up some, to alleviate some of the pressure, but Fizz pulls him back down, sending another jolt through him. His mewl is muffled by the slick skin of Fizz’s neck.
“You’re so good for me,” Fizz says, simple as anything. It makes Blitzø want to cry a bit. And to argue, because he’s not. But in the end, he says nothing, just keeps himself pressed against Fizz as they rock into each other.
After a moment, some of that buzzy pain-pleasure subsides, and Blitzø finds his co*ck filling once more. Fizz takes notice and picks of the pace a bit, but never nears his previous speed. Fizz’s purr is back, too, lilting and higher-pitched now, almost joyous in pitch. It suffuses Blitzø’s entire body where they press together. He attempts to match it. His own purr seems odd to his ears. He can’t quite place what it is, wants to stop, but continues because it brings a smile to Fizz’s face.
Fizz takes his time, taking Blitzø apart.
His fingers trace up Blitzø’s half-hard co*ck. The flesh tingles painfully, oversensitive. Blitzø shoves his hand away, hissing at the sensation. Fizz levels him with a look, winks, drags his finger feather-light across the shaft, thrusts hard into him as he does so.
“f*ck!” Blitzø cries out, “sh*t!”
“f*ck,” Fizz replies. He rolls his hips, thrusting into Blitzø, striking something deep within him that has the imp seeing f*cking stars. He fists Blitzø’s flagging co*ck in earnest now. The torture of it is nearly blinding. Blitzø doesn’t know if he can cum again but he knows that he’s not going to last much longer.
“If only my teenage self could see me now. I used to have such a huge crush on you, y’know.”
“Buh?” Blitzø replies, intelligently.
“Mmhmm,” Fizz affirms with a smirk and another, deeper thrust. And another.
Blitzø’s mind is racing but the haze of pleasure prevents thoughts from solidifying fully. A stream of nonsense burbles from his throat as the jolts of pleasure crest in him once more. He feels Fizz’s thighs shaking under him.
The former clown buries his face into Blitzø’s chest, groaning loud as he pounds deep into Blitzø, filling him. The sensation of Fizz’s cum coating his insides shoves Blitzø over the edge, and he finds himself cumming for the second time with a shout. His co*ck twitches and spurts. His slit contracts, but nothing actually comes out.
Fizz’s softening co*ck still inside him, Blitzø throws himself back, pulling Fizz on top of him. They lay there for a moment, panting.
“Hey Blitzø,” Fizz rumbles, eventually.
“Hm?”
“Up for another round?” He asks, fingers dragging once more along Blitzø’s flaccid shaft. The sensation edges far more toward pain than pleasure. His hips flinch away, and he lets out a little yelp. He scrubs his hand down his face and glares up at the former clown who is now giggling.
“f*ck no,” he manages with a laugh of his own. They fall back into silence, laid against each other, trading soft rumbling purrs. Subconsciously, at least of Blitzø’s part, their tails tie together.
After a long while – at least it feels like a long while – with Fizz near dozing on his chest despite the fact he’s still buried in Blitzø to the hilt, Blitzø finds it in himself to break the silence.
“Hey Fizzies?”
“Mmm?” the other imp groans, cracking one eye open.
“Did you mean it?” Blitzø asks after a beat, staring at a weird stain in the fabric of the couch that he hopes isn’t ji*zz, refusing to look Fizz’s way.
“Mean what?” there’s a puzzled note in the sleepy imp’s tone.
“When you said you used to have a crush on me, when we were kids.”
“Oh, that,” Fizz says. He rubs his face on Blitzø’s chest, hums sleepily. His fingers work circles into whatever available portion of Blitzø’s flesh that they can reach. Despite it, Blitzø feels the anxiety ratcheting up within him, heart pounding. Fizz continues, unaware. “Silly. I still have a crush on you.”
With that, any amount of calm in Blitzø’s body fleas. Before he can get a single thought rattling around in his head, he’s pushing Fizz off of him – co*ck slipping out his ass – and he’s running to the bathroom, cum slipping down his legs.
He slams the door, slumps down onto the toilet. The porcelain clunks as he sits down a bit too quickly. Bracing his elbows on his knees, he holds his head in his hand, staring blankly at the chipped linoleum of the floor as he sh*ts Fizz’s kids out of him.
He sits there for f*ck knows how long, unable to really process anything over the sound of his own heart ricocheting through his head. With no more insight that he had before he freaked the f*ck out no f*cking reason, Blitzø cleans himself up, flushes the toilet, and splashes some water on his face. His gaze avoids his own reflection in the mirror.
And then he just stands there with his hand on the doorknob, paralyzed. There is absolutely no way that Fizz stuck around after Blitzø f*cking ran like that. Not even twenty-four hours later, and here he was, f*cking up yet another relationship because he couldn’t deal with other people holding any kind of positive regard for him. Blitzø wants to scream, to ram his head into the door, to run after Fizz who is probably halfway back to Lust right now. He a little bit wants to yell as Fizz, because what kind of dumbass looks Blitzø’s way and says, “Yep, that’s the one that I want.” But he settles for just staring, unmoving, at nothing.
Until the doorknob rattles, and the door pulls open, because in all of his haste and dumbassery, Blitzø forgot to lock the door. Fizz is standing in front of him, still nude but with a My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape. Fizz says nothing, just holds out a mug to him.
Blitzø takes it – the same nasty not-iced coffee that Fizz had made before – chugs it anyway. Stares unblinking at Fizz the entire time. He absently chucks the ceramic mug behind him when he finishes, and flinches when he hears it shatter on the bathroom floor.
They stare at each other for another beat. Blitzø in dumbstruck awe, Fizz with an impossibly soft smile.
“Me too!” Blitzø finally yells without context, breaking the silence. The urge to slam his head into the door returns.
He is ready to about-face and run back into the bathroom when Fizz grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together. His tail loops around Blitzø’s.
“I know,” Fizz says simply, dragging his lover back to the couch.
-
They don’t talk about it, not tonight anyway. Blitzø isn’t ready for it, not really. But for once – for the first time in such a long time – that feels fine. For now, they’re content to lay together, meshed together on Blitzø’s sh*tty little couch in his sh*tty little apartment, bringing some measure of comfort to Blitzø’s sh*tty little life. And Blitzø prays that he is some comfort to Fizz as well.
Blitzø settles against Fizz’s chest, nuzzling into the juncture of his chin and neck. His eyes begin to drift close and --
f*ck! f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck
Fizz’s hand stops its stroking motion as tension shoots through his new lover. It rests against the small of Blitzø’s bare back, just above the base of his tail, which is now beginning to wind. He pats lightly as if to say, calm the f*ck down – which Blitzø does not, f*ck you very much, Fizz -- and hums. “Mm?”
“Uh. f*ck. sh*t – your rooster. Is he --” Blitzø isn’t sure he wants to finish the sentence. He is used to being a homewrecker at this point but he doesn’t want to hurt Fizz. Never again. And he doesn’t particularly want to get his sh*t rocked by an honest to f*ck Sin.
Fizz cuts his friend off, cackling. “Blitzø, I love you --” Blitzø’s face darkens and he shoves himself further into Fizz’s neck, refusing to make eye contact. His tail is a nark, though, spade slapping against the side of the couch like an overexcited hellhound pup. “—But you’re a f*cking idiot.”
“Hey!”
Fizz’s cackling – that bitch – trails into stifled giggling. His stroking resumes and Blitzø has to suppress the purr which threatens to burst forth. It sounds a bit like a hiccup. “As if Ozzie and I haven’t been f*cking nasty while I describe in explicit detail all the ways I was gonna take you apart for the past month at least. There is a lot more where that came from, baby boy. I have so many ideas for next time.”
Christ on a goddamn motherf*cking stick, Fizz is gonna be the death of him.
