Blitz Treats All Of His One-night Stands, Or One Week Stands, Like They're A Lover. That's The Reality

Blitz treats all of his one-night stands, or one week stands, like they're a lover. That's the reality he doesn't let people see when they're not in bed together; in bed is the only place his walls actually come down, and he lets himself be incredibly affectionate. He loves to praise his partners. He'll do dirty talk if he thinks they want it. He'll do damn near anything he thinks they want.

But what he wants? Is to give affection, both physical and romantic.

Blitz confuses his one night stands, I think, by being really goddamn nice to them in bed, and afterwards. He loves holding them. Snuggling them. Being the big spoon. He treats them like a lover in love...

So when he then doesn't call them a few days later, I don't think anyone can blame them for aching. Blitz mixes every damn message. Treats them like they're all that matters when they're together, and then afterwards, doesn't understand why this one night stand sent him a voice memo where they're obviously crying.

He's starting to figure that out, post Apology Tour. He'll get there.

"Fucking tell me about it." Blitz sat down heavily on the barstool next to Roth, folded his arms, and plunked his forehead down hard on them. "That whole thing was--you know, I'm obviously the actual fucking worst at coping mechanisms," he said with a little snort, lifting his head to look at his friend, "but that shit was something else.

"And some of the fuckers there I don't even know. It's just fun for them. Feels good, I guess. Safe. Hating people. I--I get that." He sat up straight and poked at a fading moisture-ring someone's glass had left on the bar. "But like, this asshole Dennis. He wanted to fuck me at a Bee party. I kind of remember it, mostly that he was really like, you know, fucking grabby. I remember the taste of his breath more than anything else, I was so fucked up and drunk. Apparently, Bee insisted my daughter take me home because I was so 'not okay,'" Blitz made air quotes, "and yet this fucker, Dennis, is now entitled to hate me? Cause he couldn't drunk-assault me?

"I've done a lot of shit, man, but I've never fucked someone who was too wasted to consent. Fuck that. Fuck everyone at the party. I mean fuck me, too. But... Jesus fucking Christ. So does just like, everyone know about that shit? It was on the radio, right?" The imp leaned back now, clacking the ends of his horns against the back of the barstool. It made a satisfying sound, so he did it again, and when the bartender finally came over, he just flipped him off rather than order a drink.

“Now, far be it from me, but throwing a yearly hate party for one Imp is too much. It reeks of scorned bitch vibes.”

The secret was the same now as it had always been: when Blitz asked Fizz to look at him and count, it wasn't because he thought it would fix anything, but because he was terrified, too. Always terrified of losing his friend, of not being enough of one day not being able to hold on hard enough when Fizz's hands needed to let go. Blitz had always been afraid of his best friend's anxiety attacks, because he knew, he knew inadequate he was, how unable to help. But as long as Fizz could take that pause, then it couldn't be a crisis beyond repair, right?

The fear had shown in Blitz's eyes before, and it did so now, although he tried to hide it. And when Fizz spoke, he nodded and let out a shaky breath. Life wasn't going to mean shit if Fizz wasn't there in it, even if they were enemies; Blitz would willingly go hand-in-hand off a cliff with this man, if that was what it took.

"Keep your--" His voice shook. Blitz cleared his throat and exhaled shakily, gripping the wheel of the stolen car tightly. "Keep your head down. If you can get down there, curl up down on the floorboard in front of your seat. Don't stick any part of you up til we're outta this. Fuck this shit, and this shitty ring, and this shitty fucking day." Blitz abruptly tore his jacket off and tossed it over Fizz to give him something to help hide under, the dark colors way less likely to stand out than Fizzarolli's colorful clothing--or scar tissue.

This was all a nightmare. It had all happened so quickly, and the painful goodness of actually being able to talk to each other about the shit that had been choking them both for fifteen years, but none of this shit felt real. None of it. People trying to kill his best friend, his first love, trying to take Fizzie out of the world--

No. Never.

Never, never, never.

Blitz punched the radio as the tires squealed and they tore out of there. The sound quality was terrible, classic rock blaring in and out, in and out, but that went along just fine with the car's engine. It roared and revved and seemed likely to shake apart any time Blitz slowed down.

As soon as he could, he got into traffic, into populated areas, and Blitz did what he could to treat this like a hit, to think of Fizz as a client, not as the only goddamn thing he'd cared about for so long that... Nope. Nope. He got into the traffic pattern and drove with the flow, constantly checking for a tail, for any sign that this whole shitty thing was a bigger setup...

But it didn't seem to be. And slowly, slowly, Blitz relaxed. He eased up his grip on the wheel, breathing a little more deeply, and pulled up in front of a group of punkass looking teens, rolling the window down.

"Hey, losers. You wanna buy a car?"

"Uh... how much?" The young shark who'd spoken looked surprised but very, very interested.

"Twenty bucks." It would cover the Hellevator toll to get back to the Lust ring, at least; Blitz had been too focused on weapons and fighting during their escape to get any of his cash back.

The kids conferred, the cash was gathered, and Blitz shut the car down.

"We're not too far from the Hellevator," he said, looking around one more time before he actually got out of the car, gun in hand. No one seemed to be watching them--certainly no sign of that fucker, Striker. It looked clear. "You good to go, Fizz? We'll go on foot from here to the ferry, get the fuck out of this shithole."

The attempt at a distraction did nothing to calm his nerves. Inside, they squirmed like furious wasps, their stings sharp and relentless, threatening to make him sick. It wouldn't be the first time FizzaRolli succumbed to anxiety-induced nausea in front of Blitzo, but after fifteen years, he was hoping not to appear as vulnerable and pitiful as he had in his youth.

Despite the years that had passed, Blitzo evidently remembered one of the tactics he had come up with to soothe him. His feelings about this were mixed, but he'd overthink that later, once he was calm and secure again. He gazed intently into the other's eyes, trying to concentrate solely on that. The red irises stood out against the glowing yellow. In his mind, he began counting to ten, taking his time.

It was somewhat effective; it staved off the crippling anxiety attack that would have certainly left him inert. But he was simply trading now for later. His prosthetic was damaged, and a confrontation with Mammon loomed in the future. But presently, their priority was to get out of the scrapyard. They were possibly lingering on mafia-controlled land, and the chance of more gang members arriving to inspect the havoc was imminent—he was useless, and he questioned how much more fight the other had in him. "Blitzo?" he called out, mentally noting the 'o' was meant to be silent now. "Please, take me home. I just want to go home."

Fizz broke their gaze first, blinking away the moment before settling back into the car. This time, noticeably absent of his chipper quip about royal jesters. Blitzo had always been much kinder to him than he was anyone else. Opening doors and offering chairs; he even once carried him piggyback up a flight of stairs to avoid the mess of spilled popcorn and sticky carnival cotton candy. But Fizz wasn't in the mood to reminisce over the good times; it felt too soon, too muddled with confusion.

Tears were welling up in the performer's eyes.

"Please, I just want to go home," Fizz pleaded again, his voice breaking with a raw desperation that made it even froggier than usual. As an ever-sensitive Imp, he had always worn his heart on his sleeve, contrasting with Blitzo's tougher, more assertive demeanor. Fizz always admired Blitzo's courage, his ability to confront anyone regardless of who they were. Despite years of wishing for that same boldness, Fizz found himself very much unchanged after more than a decade. "I have a penthouse in Lust. Can you take me there? Please?"

All he desired was to burrow into his bed and stay there indefinitely; to never step on stage again, to never answer to Mammon again. The tears he'd been holding back finally flowed down his cheeks, hastily erased with the frilled edge of his jester's garb—that was another thing. He never wanted to wear this costume ever again. The world seemed perpetually overwhelming, incessantly loud, and always frightening.

Blitz really can't stand knowing he hurt someone he cares about. I'm not just talking about the fire, either.

We all know that he immediately tried to apologize once he realized he'd genuinely hurt Stolas at the end of Full Moon, though he was portaled out before he could finish the words.

But even in Truth Seekers, when the truth serum caused him to tell Moxxie he had shitty taste in music, he IMMEDIATELY apologized, like as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and even started CRYING while lamenting about having hurt Moxxie and lied to him a lot.

Idk I just think it's important to point out that underneath all the trauma, Blitz is a big ole softy who can't stand knowing he's hurt the feelings of people he cares about.

"It's perfect," Striker agreed. It wasn't perfect. It was small and they were going to be too damn close to each other for either of their comfort, but it would do the job. Looking around for some extra barrier, he grabbed a metal door off of its tracks from under a counter. It was loud, but there was so damn much noise out there right now, no one was likely to notice, and it might help protect them.

Once they were inside, he nodded to Fizz to help him. The metal door was flimsy enough that they could bend it into shape inside the closet with them--line the wall and cover the lower half of the door. It wasn't much, but it was something, a secondary barrier in case things got worse. If shrapnel tore through the closet door, the metal liner they'd added might at least slow it down some, at worst.

But it's something, he reminded himself, and we get by on every little something.

Now, with nothing left to do, it was just the two of them in a little closet, eyes gleaming in the dark. Moving carefully, so as not to bump or step on the clown, Striker sat down against one wall. He stretched out his legs and folded his arms, trying to at least pretend he was comfortable, calm. That things were alright. Pretending could get a person a lot farther than giving in.

"So. Fizzarolli, right? How you been? Been a while since you an' I crossed paths." He chuckled and closed his eyes. "Guess violent chaos is our theme."

For a brief moment, Fizz freezes at the sound of that familiar voice. Oh, fucking hell, not HIM. He didn't even have to look to know his guess was right, who else could it be? Face set in a grimace, he follows closely behind Striker not wanting to get left behind. & Definitely not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.

He winces at the sound of glass shattering & ducked inside the restaurant with him. "Yeah, thanks, oh knight in shining armor." he grumbles, still freshly annoyed that they had run into each other ——— again. 

At least this time was different, well, sort of. 

He nearly jumps at the sound of the massive boom. Eyes wide, he stands close behind Striker, hands awkwardly clinging to their arm. He was shaking. "Quickly, though, please." he hisses, wide eyed gaze searching the room for what they had mentioned. "I'd like to keep myself in check. Or else Angel's gonna get my fucking title." 

Not saying he didn't adore working with Angel, but like hell he was gonna be the second favorite star. Head shakes at the thought, squinting as he sees something in the far corner of the restaurant. 'Wait, wait. What's that ? " Stepping forward, he tugs at their hand, pulling him along as he ducks towards a closet that looked hopefully big enough for two. 

This was going to suck. 

"What about there ? " He pulls the door open, sighing as it reveals to be empty. & Definitely enough space for two. "It's ... better than nothing, right ? " 

for @helluvaflames plotted starter for Millie and Vox to meet

-

Just because Vox was usually too busy to leave Vee tower didn't mean that he never did. There were certain things he could and would make an exception for, and hiring assassins was one of those things... not that he did it on a regular basis, but really, it was the principle of the thing. As someone who traded in everyone's data, he knew exactly how easy it was for an email or a text to be picked up by the wrong party. And with something this delicate, well... there weren't many beings capable of hacking Vox's personal encryptions, and he would almost certainly feel them the moment they began to try, but that didn't mean he wanted to risk it. So, for once, he went on an errand personally.

Dressed in a sharp navy-blue suit, beautifully tailored by Velvette, he knew he wasn't exactly low-profile; he was arguably one of the most recognizable Sinners in Pride. But maybe, maybe that was more of an issue for Pentagram City?

Maybe here in Imp City, it wouldn't be so bad...

Why the fuck am I even worrying about this? Vox wondered with an irritated little huff. What did anyone care what he did, or where he went? And he wasn't some princess bound to her tower, he was allowed to go places... and apparently, to go to those places in a very crabby state of mind.

By the time his driver dropped him off, Vox felt like biting someone. Get a grip, he told himself, smoothing his jacket. Nobody here has done you wrong, they certainly don't deserve to be snapped at. So, he kept a smile on as he wandered down the street, looking for the building...

Ah! There it was. And it was...

Nice?

Dilapidated was the word. The gentlest word, really. Dilapidated, depressing, run-down, shabby...

Don't look down on anything here. Imps are major subscribers.

Vox went in, but rather than risk the frankly questionable elevator, he cheerfully zapped himself up through the electrical network. Stepping out in a landing, he spotted the sign on the door and knocked, smiling cheerfully as he waited to see if any assassins were in today--

And as he maybe, maybe started to second-guess his life choices.