It's not the first time Blitzø has set foot in Angel's hotel room - since getting to know the leggy spider sinner, he'd invited himself in on more than one occasion, sometimes bringing a drink or several with him, other times just knocking softly on the door to let Angel know he was there if he wanted to talk. By all rights, he shouldn't be feeling this anxious just by being in the room with Angel but... this time it's different.
While he feigns disinterest, the very picture of the collected assassin, his tail betrays his actual mood as it curls through the air like an agitated cat and occasionally circles his legs.
"You really sure about this?" he asks, staring hard at Angel. "'Cause I don't need a pity fuck if you feel like you owe me, and we both know you could pull anyone you fucking wanted in this place with barely any effort."
Which raised the question he can't bring himself to say: why would Angel pick him of all people? The sinner is hot as fuck, manages to somehow be a classy bitch when he wants but has an edge that Blitzø respects, and he holds his own in a fight in a way that's impressive as shit to watch. So to suggest that they do anything when he could literally pick anyone else is just fucking weird.
"And you know, I figured after getting gangbanged by everyone in Val's employ at least twice, you might not be wanting to fuck for a while."
Angel is less composed and put-together than he normally is -- he's wearing socks instead of his usual boots, and some long, loose-necked sweater that slips down over his shoulder, fits soft and fluffy and lavender to his thighs. No pants, but that's sort of to be expected, considering why he'd asked Blitzø to come up to his room.
"It ain't the same and you know it, B," Angel snips back, in the middle of mixing up a couple drinks -- nothing too heavy, he wants to be clear-headed for this. His hands are a little shaky as he mixes up the vodka and triple sec, squeezes lime and lemon over top -- and not because he doesn't know how to make a damn cosmo. Because he's...excited? Nervous? Something?
Crossing to the bed, Angel perches on the edge, offering a glass to Blitzø and beckoning with another hand. "Ya think I'd do this if I didn't wanna? Like actually wanna?" It's a risk; Valentino could catch wind and lose his damn mind, go after Blitzø and every person he's ever cared about. He could and would beat Angel within an inch of his life if he knew. But here he is, taking that chance. "C'mon, I don't bite that hard."
The whole room is soft and cozy in ways he wouldn't have expected when he'd first met Angel, and it feels like being shown something private and vulnerable which, given how shit everything was with Val and their lives in general, probably isn't untrue. Still, he feels like this is a leap for both of them and he's both flattered and fucking terrified that Angel is willing to trust him this much.
"Well, yeah it's not the same but like..." He shrugs his shoulders, trying to find words without putting his goddamn hoof in his mouth for once. "Kinda thought maybe you'd not have great experiences with it, and I don't want you to feel like you have to..."
He falls silent as Angel offers him a drink - a good drink too, not the paint peeling shit he usually ends up with - and climbs up to perch on the edge of the bed as well.
"Fuck that, you can bite as hard as you want." It's said on reflex and he takes a healthy swig of the drink to try and remind himself to at least try not to fuck this up for a change. With some deliberation, Blitzø sets the glass down and leans in to cup Angel's cheek.
"Ok, but promise me it's because you want to and not 'cause you feel like this is what you have to do or the only way to show someone you give a fuck. 'Cause I have been there and I'm not doing it if that's why."
In Blitzø's defence, he'd forgotten that Stolas had needed to move their normal 'appointment' from the night of the full moon again and instead of heading to the goetian prince's estate, had returned to his own apartment. Loona was out again, and while it was nice that she was going out more with other hellhounds, it meant that the place was quieter than he was used to. Even the shitty neighbours weren't arguing for once.
So rather than checking his phone for messages, he'd set it aside and settled in for some good, old fashion binge watching Voxflix. He'd gotten through most of a particularly good romance flick when a fucking portal opened up in his apartment and he was almost immediately face-to-face with a slightly distressed Stolas.
It was then that Blitzø recalled a) that their agreement was tonight and that maybe those messages had been important after all and b) he had definitely been crying over this stupid film and did not look even remotely like the in control stud that he usually was.
"Fuck- I mean... Hiiii Stolas. Listen, I know how this looks--"
Stolas was looking forward to having a visit from his special little imp. Though it was unfortunate that he had to move the date. Some important business had suddenly come up and the goetic prince was worried that Blitzø would be unavailable if they had to change their previous appointment. It seemed like he had been busy recently, probably work related, since when given the option to show up on their usual nights, he opted not to show. Which again! He must be a busy fellow! Keeping a business afloat and all... But much to his relief, Blitzø agreed.
The new date was marked and starred on his calendar, with each passing day crossed out to count the passage of time. Before he knew it, the day had finally arrived and he shot the imp a quick text expressing how eager he was to see him. In his excitement, he prepped his room for a pleasant evening. Tonight had to be perfect. Sitting on the edge of his couch, he waited. And waited... and waited. Where was he? Reaching for his phone he checked to see that there were no new notices. Opening their text thread, he saw that his first text was left unread. The owl's brow furrowed as he sent another message asking if he was alright? Still no response. Maybe just one more? Bling. A third text was sent. Still there was no reply from Blitzø.
Over an hour had passed since their agreed upon time and cold panic settled in his gut. Was he in trouble? Did something happen? For a moment he paced his bedroom debating on what to do. Should he go check on him? Would that be an invasion of privacy? Did he even want to see him? Eventually he decided to risk it and make a home visit. Summoning a portal he opened it right in the middle of the imp's living room. The first sight that greeted him was the tear stained cheeks, not even taking note of the TV that was playing behind him.
"Blitz?" Stolas properly stepped out of the glowing portal and it disappeared behind him. "I grew worried when you didn't show up. Are you alright?"
"Fuck- Yeah, I'm fine!" Still cursing himself, Blitzø scrubbed angrily at his eyes and felt his face flushing dark with embarrassment.
"I just- Fuck. You're gonna think it's stupid." Normally Blitzø would have told anyone who thought less of him for what he liked to suck an entire bag of dicks and offered to collect said bag for them. But for some reason it mattered what Stolas thought of him. He knew it was stupid and it shouldn't and that this was just meant to be an exchange of services, but it did all the same.
"It's this movie," he admitted after a while. "Sorry, Stolas. I didn't mean to blow you off, I just fucking forgot and then I started watching this shit and Mr Darcy's an asshole and he sucks at talking about his feelings but he's in love with Elizabeth so much-"
Fuck, he was making it worse. He clamped his mouth shut and felt himself flushing even darker. "Look just- just gimme like five minutes and I'll be ready, ok?"
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 fact that he would wind up facing Striker again one day hadn't escaped Blitzø's thoughts since he'd last beaten the other imp to protect Fizz. It was pretty fucking clear that Striker was carrying a grudge now and after the number of times Blitzø had handed the other hitman his tail, he could hardly blame him.
He would just have preferred it to be at a time that suited him more than this. But alone and without any clear advantage was probably exactly what Striker was after, and exactly what Blitzø had been trying to avoid. He remembered just as well as Striker likely did that during the tournament where they'd first competed, Striker had been stronger overall. In a one-on-one fight, Blitzø didn't imagine he'd come out as well as he had in the past.
So this? Both of them facing off in Wrath, all red dirt and fucking open space and nowhere for him to get easy cover or anything for him to use to his advantage? Fucking sucks.
"The fuck are you waiting for, asshole? I know you've been begging for a chance to get at me, so fucking make a move already!"
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.
The bad taste left in his mouth by their latest encounter was as tart as vinegar and the mouthful of defeat he had to swallow went down as smooth as broken glass. Even now, standing on a terrain that is both advantageous and preferable, he feels the subtle simmering of his rage threating to boil over just beneath the surface. Everything in him is pulled taut, like a rubber band on the very of snapping.
Ever the consummate professional, however, he manages to leash it long enough for a telltale smirk to bloom across his mouth.
Time waits for no man, if he is going to settle the score once and for all then this is the battlefield to do it on. Backup won't be coming to assist him today, he made certain of that. At the question he tips his hat low over his eyes, one hand sliding down to his waist so he can idly drum his fingers against the rope at his hip. The whole stage is set like something straight out of an old spaghetti western—without the tumbleweeds.
"What's your rush, Blitz? No one got your back today? Real shame, that, just means we've got all the time in the world. I'm gonna enjoy this."
Blitzø is well aware that this is exactly like some stupid fucking cowboy schtick, and therefore exactly Striker's scene, because apparently he can't even have a fucking horse riding lesson now without needing to keep his guard up. He was only grateful that apparently they both understood that involving the horses themselves was Too Far and this had ended up somewhere else.
The downside of that was that there was sweet fuck all for him beyond a lot of sand, which yeah he could use that a bit but there's only so much throwing shit in someone's face will get you. So that left the backup plan, which was also usually the only plan: irritate the shit out of Striker and hope that he fucked up enough for him to get an opening.
"Christ on a stick you're a needy fucker. Are you still mad that I didn't take your deal and fuck you like you wanted back at the Harvest Moon Festival?"
His gaze flicks over Striker and, without warning, Blitzø throws himself towards the other imp. "Come to daddy, bitch!"
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."
Why in the hell is it always a sex thing with these guys? There's a moment where his expression briefly shifts into something reminiscent of here we go again before he slips back into character and cracks his neck, gesturing for Blitzø to make the first move. One of them isn't going to be walking away from this particular encounter and he's confidant the victory will be his.
"Dust on the wind, deal's old news."
When he lunges, he is there to meet him, tilting his face down to sneer into his. A quick sidestep keeps him from getting barreled into as he grabs a fistful of his coat and throws his weight into an attempt to pin Blitzø to the ground. He hasn't even gone for his own weapons yet, grinning like the cat that got the canary. Oh, he's got a plan this time and he'll enact his retribution viciously.
"No, I'm keen on livin' and the word 'round here? Says you bring Death with you. Hell of a thing to do to the ones who care about you, ain't it?"
A month ago and Blitzø would have thought anyone saying he wouldn't immediately try to murder Striker on sight must have gone a little too hard on the booze available on the Barge. Now... well he wasn't trying to murder Striker anymore, although a good amount of the Barge probably didn't realise it. Truthfully, it was not that different from the Pain Games they'd first competed in after they met. A chance to see which of them were fast or stronger, a chance to let loose with some of the more violent tendencies their kind had.
And fuck if Blitzø didn't need that sometimes, especially after almost a year in this place and no regular hits to take out. So in a way it was an understanding, that either of them could start a fight with the other and know that it didn't mean shit beyond having an outlet.
Plus it made custodial a fuckton more interesting.
He'd been feeling wound up of late too, was pretty sure others close to him could feel it, and so it probably didn't take Striker much by surprise when Blitzø rounded a corner at speed during his shift and launched himself at the other imp with a snarl.
An understanding that Striker was all the more calm and collected about than anyone might have expected, especially with all of the bullshit that happened between the two of them back in Hell. But he was mostly chill with the entire situation as he'd understood that fucking up his contracts had been due to him ending up going after people the other imp actually cared about for some reason or another. Even if it had ended up with him having some new scars, the most obvious being the one around his eye, but only if you knew where to look and looked long enough with how much paler his skin was compared to purebred imps. The bonuses of being a hybrid, he guessed.
Custodial was boring as shit but it at least gave him something to do when he felt like it and maybe give him some kind of... leverage if someone wanted to bitch about the fights the imps would get into from time to time. It'd still get cleaned up, just take a little longer for it to get done, not that he cared about their opinions to begin with.
Luckily he was never off guard while outside of his room, knowing full well that these little attacks could come at any time from Blitz and he wasn't about to let him get the jump on him like that. Which is precisely why he's calculating the speed and when he launches himself to duck just at the point he's about to hit him. If he doesn't regain his composure quick enough he'll be taking the mop he's currently using and slamming the wood down against the other imp.
He'd expected the dodge and hits the ground, rolling and ignoring the sharp blow from the mop only to spring into a flip and aim another kick at Striker's head. Blitzø doesn't expect it to be quite that easy though, and pushes the advantage, landing and following up with a series of blows to try and crowd Striker back against the wall.
Since the other imp had arrived, he'd gotten more of a chance to remember how Striker fought since their first encounter around the Harvest Moon Festival, and while the paler imp has an advantage with strength and height, Blitzø is pretty sure he's slightly faster and more flexible and tries to use that to his advantage.
In hindsight he should have expected for the blow to not do anything, but at the same time it's a useful weapon to have at his advantage even if it wouldn't do any real damage. That had... been somewhat the point as he wasn't out to kill him, of course not, but it could make a useful defense weapon, too. As is evidenced by him using it to block the kick and a few of the blows, not seeming too bothered by the ones that do hit. It'd take more than that to really bother him.
The problem is him hitting the wall and he's hissing to himself with that all too familiar sound of rattling while he drops the mop and attempts to reach out to grab for Blitzø's neck with his hands to maybe get him to stop and dig claws into skin. His tail moves to grab for one of his wrists, hoping to use the momentum of the movement to get the hit to miss or, maybe, dislocate if he was lucky.
Blitzø jerks back but it's not fast enough as Striker gets a grip on his wrist and throat, yanking hard enough that he can feel his balance shift...
So he rolls with it, years of circus training kicking in as he instead moves closer and spins them both, using Striker to break his fall. With any luck he'll get the other imp pinned beneath him and loosen the grip on his throat, although with how hardy they both are, he knows it won't buy him much time.
For as much ranch hand training that Striker has, it absolutely doesn't help him in this particular situation. Especially since he's far more used to using his strength for things than his agility and he actually yelps a bit in surprise as he finds himself on his back. His grip falters for just a moment on his throat, tail remaining tight to have something to cling to, eyes wide for just a moment as he tries to pull his composure back together.
Shit, when's the last time someone actually managed to get him on the ground like this? Been a while, that much he can absolutely say and it's almost impressive. He bares his own teeth at the imp above him, almost taunting in the way he does so, but oddly not pushing him off yet.
His free hand grabs for Striker's throat and Blitzø squeezes as well, matching the pressure around his own neck. He's flushed and panting, equally riled up by the challenge. Sure, he'd had a couple of fights with other inmates here, but it's nothing like imps fighting and it's surprising to realise he's missed that.
Blitzø shifts his weight, making sure it's not quite so easy for Striker to throw him off, and pauses as his thigh presses against the other imp's groin.
Usually he'd fight against the hands squeezing around his throat but those bared teeth switches to him panting in turn, though it probably doesn't come as any surprise to Blitzø that it's absolutely good panting and showing off that forked tongue of his that comes with the territory of his being a hybrid. He keeps his grip on him tight, tail thumping against the ground finally even as he's managing a breathy laugh at the words.
He's not wrong by any stretch of the imagination, even while rolling his hips up to make that point clear. "What can I say?" Nothing is the answer, especially as he's curious as to how much longer the other imp is going to keep that up.
He absolutely should not be considering fucking Striker against the wall or floor during their custodial shift for any number of reasons Blitzø is sure will eventually make themselves known. It's just that his dick is currently drowning them out, as he hopes Striker's is as his tail slides between them to press against where he can feel the other man getting hard.
He shifts his weight more deliberately now, pushing Striker's legs further open with his own as his tail continues rubbing and teasing against him. He's curious as well how far Striker will let him go, and as the other imp pants again, Blitzø tightens his grip on Striker's throat as he grinds his tail hard against his clothed cock.
"Look who's a fucking needy bitch. Bet you'd love me to bend you over right here where anyone could come by~"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Angel {addickted}
While he feigns disinterest, the very picture of the collected assassin, his tail betrays his actual mood as it curls through the air like an agitated cat and occasionally circles his legs.
"You really sure about this?" he asks, staring hard at Angel. "'Cause I don't need a pity fuck if you feel like you owe me, and we both know you could pull anyone you fucking wanted in this place with barely any effort."
Which raised the question he can't bring himself to say: why would Angel pick him of all people? The sinner is hot as fuck, manages to somehow be a classy bitch when he wants but has an edge that Blitzø respects, and he holds his own in a fight in a way that's impressive as shit to watch. So to suggest that they do anything when he could literally pick anyone else is just fucking weird.
"And you know, I figured after getting gangbanged by everyone in Val's employ at least twice, you might not be wanting to fuck for a while."
a gift and a treasure!!!
"It ain't the same and you know it, B," Angel snips back, in the middle of mixing up a couple drinks -- nothing too heavy, he wants to be clear-headed for this. His hands are a little shaky as he mixes up the vodka and triple sec, squeezes lime and lemon over top -- and not because he doesn't know how to make a damn cosmo. Because he's...excited? Nervous? Something?
Crossing to the bed, Angel perches on the edge, offering a glass to Blitzø and beckoning with another hand. "Ya think I'd do this if I didn't wanna? Like actually wanna?" It's a risk; Valentino could catch wind and lose his damn mind, go after Blitzø and every person he's ever cared about. He could and would beat Angel within an inch of his life if he knew. But here he is, taking that chance. "C'mon, I don't bite that hard."
YOU ARE INDEED
"Well, yeah it's not the same but like..." He shrugs his shoulders, trying to find words without putting his goddamn hoof in his mouth for once. "Kinda thought maybe you'd not have great experiences with it, and I don't want you to feel like you have to..."
He falls silent as Angel offers him a drink - a good drink too, not the paint peeling shit he usually ends up with - and climbs up to perch on the edge of the bed as well.
"Fuck that, you can bite as hard as you want." It's said on reflex and he takes a healthy swig of the drink to try and remind himself to at least try not to fuck this up for a change. With some deliberation, Blitzø sets the glass down and leans in to cup Angel's cheek.
"Ok, but promise me it's because you want to and not 'cause you feel like this is what you have to do or the only way to show someone you give a fuck. 'Cause I have been there and I'm not doing it if that's why."
Stolas {noctuagoetia}
So rather than checking his phone for messages, he'd set it aside and settled in for some good, old fashion binge watching Voxflix. He'd gotten through most of a particularly good romance flick when a fucking portal opened up in his apartment and he was almost immediately face-to-face with a slightly distressed Stolas.
It was then that Blitzø recalled a) that their agreement was tonight and that maybe those messages had been important after all and b) he had definitely been crying over this stupid film and did not look even remotely like the in control stud that he usually was.
"Fuck- I mean... Hiiii Stolas. Listen, I know how this looks--"
no subject
The new date was marked and starred on his calendar, with each passing day crossed out to count the passage of time. Before he knew it, the day had finally arrived and he shot the imp a quick text expressing how eager he was to see him. In his excitement, he prepped his room for a pleasant evening. Tonight had to be perfect. Sitting on the edge of his couch, he waited. And waited... and waited. Where was he? Reaching for his phone he checked to see that there were no new notices. Opening their text thread, he saw that his first text was left unread. The owl's brow furrowed as he sent another message asking if he was alright? Still no response. Maybe just one more? Bling. A third text was sent. Still there was no reply from Blitzø.
Over an hour had passed since their agreed upon time and cold panic settled in his gut. Was he in trouble? Did something happen? For a moment he paced his bedroom debating on what to do. Should he go check on him? Would that be an invasion of privacy?
Did he even want to see him?Eventually he decided to risk it and make a home visit. Summoning a portal he opened it right in the middle of the imp's living room. The first sight that greeted him was the tear stained cheeks, not even taking note of the TV that was playing behind him."Blitz?" Stolas properly stepped out of the glowing portal and it disappeared behind him. "I grew worried when you didn't show up. Are you alright?"
no subject
"I just- Fuck. You're gonna think it's stupid." Normally Blitzø would have told anyone who thought less of him for what he liked to suck an entire bag of dicks and offered to collect said bag for them. But for some reason it mattered what Stolas thought of him. He knew it was stupid and it shouldn't and that this was just meant to be an exchange of services, but it did all the same.
"It's this movie," he admitted after a while. "Sorry, Stolas. I didn't mean to blow you off, I just fucking forgot and then I started watching this shit and Mr Darcy's an asshole and he sucks at talking about his feelings but he's in love with Elizabeth so much-"
Fuck, he was making it worse. He clamped his mouth shut and felt himself flushing even darker. "Look just- just gimme like five minutes and I'll be ready, ok?"
no subject
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?"
no subject
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."
Striker {savors}
He would just have preferred it to be at a time that suited him more than this. But alone and without any clear advantage was probably exactly what Striker was after, and exactly what Blitzø had been trying to avoid. He remembered just as well as Striker likely did that during the tournament where they'd first competed, Striker had been stronger overall. In a one-on-one fight, Blitzø didn't imagine he'd come out as well as he had in the past.
So this? Both of them facing off in Wrath, all red dirt and fucking open space and nowhere for him to get easy cover or anything for him to use to his advantage? Fucking sucks.
"The fuck are you waiting for, asshole? I know you've been begging for a chance to get at me, so fucking make a move already!"
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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.
oh you gon savor something
Ever the consummate professional, however, he manages to leash it long enough for a telltale smirk to bloom across his mouth.
Time waits for no man, if he is going to settle the score once and for all then this is the battlefield to do it on. Backup won't be coming to assist him today, he made certain of that. At the question he tips his hat low over his eyes, one hand sliding down to his waist so he can idly drum his fingers against the rope at his hip. The whole stage is set like something straight out of an old spaghetti western—without the tumbleweeds.
"What's your rush, Blitz? No one got your back today? Real shame, that, just means we've got all the time in the world. I'm gonna enjoy this."
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The downside of that was that there was sweet fuck all for him beyond a lot of sand, which yeah he could use that a bit but there's only so much throwing shit in someone's face will get you. So that left the backup plan, which was also usually the only plan: irritate the shit out of Striker and hope that he fucked up enough for him to get an opening.
"Christ on a stick you're a needy fucker. Are you still mad that I didn't take your deal and fuck you like you wanted back at the Harvest Moon Festival?"
His gaze flicks over Striker and, without warning, Blitzø throws himself towards the other imp. "Come to daddy, bitch!"
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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."
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"Dust on the wind, deal's old news."
When he lunges, he is there to meet him, tilting his face down to sneer into his. A quick sidestep keeps him from getting barreled into as he grabs a fistful of his coat and throws his weight into an attempt to pin Blitzø to the ground. He hasn't even gone for his own weapons yet, grinning like the cat that got the canary. Oh, he's got a plan this time and he'll enact his retribution viciously.
"No, I'm keen on livin' and the word 'round here? Says you bring Death with you. Hell of a thing to do to the ones who care about you, ain't it?"
Striker {hick_for_hire}
And fuck if Blitzø didn't need that sometimes, especially after almost a year in this place and no regular hits to take out. So in a way it was an understanding, that either of them could start a fight with the other and know that it didn't mean shit beyond having an outlet.
Plus it made custodial a fuckton more interesting.
He'd been feeling wound up of late too, was pretty sure others close to him could feel it, and so it probably didn't take Striker much by surprise when Blitzø rounded a corner at speed during his shift and launched himself at the other imp with a snarl.
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Custodial was boring as shit but it at least gave him something to do when he felt like it and maybe give him some kind of... leverage if someone wanted to bitch about the fights the imps would get into from time to time. It'd still get cleaned up, just take a little longer for it to get done, not that he cared about their opinions to begin with.
Luckily he was never off guard while outside of his room, knowing full well that these little attacks could come at any time from Blitz and he wasn't about to let him get the jump on him like that. Which is precisely why he's calculating the speed and when he launches himself to duck just at the point he's about to hit him. If he doesn't regain his composure quick enough he'll be taking the mop he's currently using and slamming the wood down against the other imp.
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Since the other imp had arrived, he'd gotten more of a chance to remember how Striker fought since their first encounter around the Harvest Moon Festival, and while the paler imp has an advantage with strength and height, Blitzø is pretty sure he's slightly faster and more flexible and tries to use that to his advantage.
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The problem is him hitting the wall and he's hissing to himself with that all too familiar sound of rattling while he drops the mop and attempts to reach out to grab for Blitzø's neck with his hands to maybe get him to stop and dig claws into skin. His tail moves to grab for one of his wrists, hoping to use the momentum of the movement to get the hit to miss or, maybe, dislocate if he was lucky.
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So he rolls with it, years of circus training kicking in as he instead moves closer and spins them both, using Striker to break his fall. With any luck he'll get the other imp pinned beneath him and loosen the grip on his throat, although with how hardy they both are, he knows it won't buy him much time.
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Shit, when's the last time someone actually managed to get him on the ground like this? Been a while, that much he can absolutely say and it's almost impressive. He bares his own teeth at the imp above him, almost taunting in the way he does so, but oddly not pushing him off yet.
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Blitzø shifts his weight, making sure it's not quite so easy for Striker to throw him off, and pauses as his thigh presses against the other imp's groin.
"Hah! Been that fucking long, has it?"
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He's not wrong by any stretch of the imagination, even while rolling his hips up to make that point clear. "What can I say?" Nothing is the answer, especially as he's curious as to how much longer the other imp is going to keep that up.
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He shifts his weight more deliberately now, pushing Striker's legs further open with his own as his tail continues rubbing and teasing against him. He's curious as well how far Striker will let him go, and as the other imp pants again, Blitzø tightens his grip on Striker's throat as he grinds his tail hard against his clothed cock.
"Look who's a fucking needy bitch. Bet you'd love me to bend you over right here where anyone could come by~"