The problem with Blitzø -- among many, many problems; the guy is a year's subscription of issues, and Angel's almost definitely made it worse by his own existence -- is that he can be so nice. He can find Angel's last goddamn nerve and tapdance on it, and then he can turn right around and say something so fucking sweet that it makes any snarky retorts impossible. Because Angel knows what compliments and nice shit sound like when someone doesn't mean it.
And Blitzø means it. He cares about whether Angel's fully consenting and into it, and he may try to spin it so it seems like he's only worried about himself, but Angel can see right through that. So he tips his head into Blitzø's hand, huffing out a laugh. "Yeah, ya dumb fucker, you're the first person I've had a good time around in a fucking half-century. Like -- without the booze or the pills or whatever the fuck. You're the first guy who's made me laugh since I was alive."
Angel finishes off his drink, rolls onto his hands (and hands) and knees, leaning forward, into Blitzø's space, almost close enough to bump their foreheads together. "I ain't stupid. I'm not missin' a good thing after so much bad, yaknow? I'm not lettin' you get away, big guy. Not unless you really wanna go." There's a careful, practiced headtilt, a quirk of Angel's mouth, a flash of his teeth. Okay, so he can't totally resist getting a bit flirty. "You wanna go, Blitzy?"
His eyes widen a fraction as Angel speaks, saying some shit that he wants to argue can't possibly be true, that runs the risk of making him spiral with how fucking sweet and earnest it is and how undeserved he feels to have anyone say those things to him. Despite his efforts, there's a moment where it shows on his face how unsure he is about hearing that from Angel, from anyone, and a flush sweeps across his cheeks. He wishes he hadn't set the drink down now, suddenly wishing that he had something to hide his face in.
It's not helped at all when Angel leans in closer, enough to smell the drink on his breath and the lingering smell of scented soap from earlier, somehow more intimate than any perfume or makeup that the sinner might have put on.
Blitzø swallows, hard. A part of him that's been running almost his entire life is screaming to do it again now, leave because this is so much more than he deserves and he is so, so much less than Angel does. The words stick in his throat and choke like bile, but he swallows them down all the same, tries to remember that Angel is the one choosing this and that he knows what he wants.
He still can't find words and instead pulls Angel into an almost desperate kiss, a rough clash of their mouths and his lips parting as though his tongue could push the words directly into Angel's mouth. When he breaks is, breathing heavily and feeling more unbalanced than alcohol could ever be blamed for, Blitzø manages some form of an answer.
The blush is -- cute. It's cute, and fuck, Angel doesn't know what to do with that. It feels like something special, and feelings like that are fucked, because they never last. You can't build survival and safety on feeling like you're special to someone. You can't eat it, it doesn't keep the rain off. All it does is make you weaker, more vulnerable.
But he shoves that aside, one set of hands reaching up to cradle Blitzø's face, the other slipping off his jacket, sliding under the open neck of his shirt. Imps burn hotter than other sinners do, lit from within like coals, like sparks of flame. All Hellborn do, in Angel's experience, but there's something sharp and addictive about imps in general and Blitzø in particular. Talk about special.
That can be enough, Angel thinks, pressing closer and dragging his nails lightly over Blitzø's shoulders, digging in just the slightest bit. Even if he isn't special -- won't be in the morning, never is, not once, not with the lights on -- he can make someone feel special. His tongue curls into Blitzø's mouth, flicking across the edge of a fang, the fork of his tongue, drawing in his taste. "Well, then," Angel mumbles on a shuddery breath, eyes bright, near neon in the dim light. "Guess I better give ya somethin' worth stayin' for, yeah?" The sinner leans back, presses a hand to Blitzø's chest, urging him to lie back, to watch Angel peel off the loose, oversized shirt slowly, bit by bit, showing off his whole fluffy body, the pink of the heart pattern on his chest and down his stomach.
Christ, he feels like it's the first time he's ever been kissed - or what he'd always imagined that the first time should have been like. Heady and powerful, the taste of Angel's tongue mingling with alcohol into something entirely unique, the sinner's hands on him and sliding under his clothes, digging into his skin with the skill of someone with decades of practice bringing it all to bear on him alone. He could drown in this, let Angel sweep him away until he's lost in him and would do anything to stay there.
But he knows that won't happen for so, so many reasons.
All the same, Blitzø sucks in a breath like coming up for air as Angel pulls away and lets himself be pushed back down onto the bed. His head is still spinning and it's natural to put his hands on Angel's hips, holding on like this would turn into a dream in a moment's notice if he didn't.
"You've already done that," he manages, although his gaze travels up and down Angel's body despite his best efforts not to be distracted. "You're worth staying for. Even without all of this fancy shit."
It's a familiar dance, even without a camera -- occasionally Angel hooks up with a costar outside the studio or lets some sleazy hellborn businessman have a turn with him to solidify the Vee's various connections. Sometimes it's Val he's in bed with, addled by love potions and hazy with pretending it's still four decades ago, that they're still bright and passionate and something a hell of a lot like being in love. Even the fact that Angel's totally sober, that he's choosing this, doesn't keep his body from slipping easily into the familiar movements.
Until Blitzø says something to throw him off, to make him pause, kneeling over the imp. Angel hesitates, eyes wide, sitting back on his heels for a moment, something fragile and soft shivering in his chest. "You -- don't gotta lie to me," he manages, hating how his voice shakes, how his throat is tight and his heart is thudding. "I mean. You don't gotta be nice. I don't..."
Need it, want it -- but no, he does. Angel wants it so bad, wants someone to look at every ugly little thing he is and call it gorgeous anyway, wants to curl up in someone's arms and let them touch him without worrying about if he's moaning right or letting the camera get his good side. He wants it so fucking bad. And it's written all over his face as he laughs, as the facade slips a little bit more. "Fuck, I dunno if I know how to be treated nice anymore."
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And Blitzø means it. He cares about whether Angel's fully consenting and into it, and he may try to spin it so it seems like he's only worried about himself, but Angel can see right through that. So he tips his head into Blitzø's hand, huffing out a laugh. "Yeah, ya dumb fucker, you're the first person I've had a good time around in a fucking half-century. Like -- without the booze or the pills or whatever the fuck. You're the first guy who's made me laugh since I was alive."
Angel finishes off his drink, rolls onto his hands (and hands) and knees, leaning forward, into Blitzø's space, almost close enough to bump their foreheads together. "I ain't stupid. I'm not missin' a good thing after so much bad, yaknow? I'm not lettin' you get away, big guy. Not unless you really wanna go." There's a careful, practiced headtilt, a quirk of Angel's mouth, a flash of his teeth. Okay, so he can't totally resist getting a bit flirty. "You wanna go, Blitzy?"
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It's not helped at all when Angel leans in closer, enough to smell the drink on his breath and the lingering smell of scented soap from earlier, somehow more intimate than any perfume or makeup that the sinner might have put on.
Blitzø swallows, hard. A part of him that's been running almost his entire life is screaming to do it again now, leave because this is so much more than he deserves and he is so, so much less than Angel does. The words stick in his throat and choke like bile, but he swallows them down all the same, tries to remember that Angel is the one choosing this and that he knows what he wants.
He still can't find words and instead pulls Angel into an almost desperate kiss, a rough clash of their mouths and his lips parting as though his tongue could push the words directly into Angel's mouth. When he breaks is, breathing heavily and feeling more unbalanced than alcohol could ever be blamed for, Blitzø manages some form of an answer.
"Stay. I... wanna stay."
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But he shoves that aside, one set of hands reaching up to cradle Blitzø's face, the other slipping off his jacket, sliding under the open neck of his shirt. Imps burn hotter than other sinners do, lit from within like coals, like sparks of flame. All Hellborn do, in Angel's experience, but there's something sharp and addictive about imps in general and Blitzø in particular. Talk about special.
That can be enough, Angel thinks, pressing closer and dragging his nails lightly over Blitzø's shoulders, digging in just the slightest bit. Even if he isn't special -- won't be in the morning, never is, not once, not with the lights on -- he can make someone feel special. His tongue curls into Blitzø's mouth, flicking across the edge of a fang, the fork of his tongue, drawing in his taste. "Well, then," Angel mumbles on a shuddery breath, eyes bright, near neon in the dim light. "Guess I better give ya somethin' worth stayin' for, yeah?" The sinner leans back, presses a hand to Blitzø's chest, urging him to lie back, to watch Angel peel off the loose, oversized shirt slowly, bit by bit, showing off his whole fluffy body, the pink of the heart pattern on his chest and down his stomach.
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But he knows that won't happen for so, so many reasons.
All the same, Blitzø sucks in a breath like coming up for air as Angel pulls away and lets himself be pushed back down onto the bed. His head is still spinning and it's natural to put his hands on Angel's hips, holding on like this would turn into a dream in a moment's notice if he didn't.
"You've already done that," he manages, although his gaze travels up and down Angel's body despite his best efforts not to be distracted. "You're worth staying for. Even without all of this fancy shit."
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Until Blitzø says something to throw him off, to make him pause, kneeling over the imp. Angel hesitates, eyes wide, sitting back on his heels for a moment, something fragile and soft shivering in his chest. "You -- don't gotta lie to me," he manages, hating how his voice shakes, how his throat is tight and his heart is thudding. "I mean. You don't gotta be nice. I don't..."
Need it, want it -- but no, he does. Angel wants it so bad, wants someone to look at every ugly little thing he is and call it gorgeous anyway, wants to curl up in someone's arms and let them touch him without worrying about if he's moaning right or letting the camera get his good side. He wants it so fucking bad. And it's written all over his face as he laughs, as the facade slips a little bit more. "Fuck, I dunno if I know how to be treated nice anymore."