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(He's dreaming.
He's just dreaming
He knows he's just dreaming.)
He's laying on the couch snuggled up to his boyfriend. The TV is on in the background, playing some animated horse show that Blitzo is obsessed with and that he tolerates only because Blitzo gets all wide-eyed and adorable when it comes on, but neither of them are paying attention to it. They're both taking the afternoon off, a much-needed rest after a very busy week, and Blitzo's face is buried in his chest, their bodies pressed together all the way down and their tails wrapped loosely together. They haven't spoken in almost an hour, but they don't need to. The comfort they find in each others' presence is the solace they're both seeking right now after too many days in a row being separated by their work schedules.
It's nice to get a moment to themselves, but eventually, the spell is broken when Blitzo wriggles against him and sighs. "Gotta piss."
"Then go piss."
"Mmmmrghnnooo.....too comfy."
"Blitzo, go."
"Okay," he says and then doesn't move.
"I swear to Satan, if you ruin our brand new couch—"
"Christ on a stick, fine, I'll go!" Blitzo heaves himself up and rolls off the couch, barely sticking the landing. He has to throw an arm out and whip his tail to one side to counterbalance, and the loud snap-pop-crack that comes from one of his knees is followed quickly by a string of curses.
As Blitzo limp-runs across the room and kicks the bathroom door open, he giggles and calls out after him, "That's why I have to start a solo career, by the way! How can I trust you to keep up with the pro-level clowning I'm doing these days?"
The only response Fizz gets is the sound of Blitzo emptying his bladder and the sight of a single-finger salute presented to him through the doorway.
"Hey, both hands on the wheel in there please! You can't aim that thing worth shit as it is, and I cleaned the bathroom this morning!"
The hand not only stays where it is but in fact starts moving, dancing around and wiggling in the air with no real pattern or rhythm. He doesn't want to laugh and reinforce Blitzo's idiocy, but unfortunately, they've known each other too long, know exactly how to make each other smile and laugh like doofuses.
Blitzo washes his hands and returns to the living room, quickly settling back down in the same position as before. They again go a long stretch without speaking, and just when he expects to hear Blitzo's snoring, he instead hears a quiet, "Love you, Fizzie."
(He's dreaming.
He's just dreaming.
He knows he's just dreaming.)
Fizz comes home drained and limping, every muscles in his body overworked and painful. He can barely walk, feet dragging with every step, and he honestly has no clue how he made it up the multiple flights of stairs to their apartment. He almost fell asleep on the bus ride home, and he's pretty sure he's only going to have the energy left to shower before sinking into bed and sleeping for fifteen hours straight.
His hands have to fiddle with getting the key into the lock more than usual, and when he finally manages to get the little bastard to unlock, the smell of a home-cooked meal hits him in the face. He steps inside, riding the scent waves like a fucking cartoon character, and sets down his backpack and rounds the corner into the kitchen. Fizz hadn't really planned on eating dinner tonight, but the smell of the food is so mouth-wateringly enticing that he's considering changing his mind.
"Hey," he says dumbly as he catches sight of Blitzo near the stove.
"Hey, babe," Blitzo replies as he dumps something into the huge pot he's standing in front of and gives it a stir. "How was practice?"
Fizz collapses with a whine into a tiny wicker patio chair and lays his head on the matching table, which they pretend is a dining room set. "Horrible. My everything hurts, and Mammon still isn't satisfied with the new routine. Says it's not bold enough, whatever that means. Says my juggling isn't tight enough, and my jokes aren't that funny."
Blitzo doesn't respond immediately, just keeps throwing spices and sauces and salt into the pot in various amounts until it tastes the way he wants it to. He grabs a couple of bowls and doles out the stew into both of them, adding a slice of crusty bread into each before bringing them over to the table.
Sitting down opposite to Fizz, he pushes one of the bowls across the table to him. "Yeah, you work for the King of Greed, were you not expecting this shit? He'll never be satisfied with anything. Plus he's a stupid bitch."
"Shut the fuck up," Fizz grumbles. They've had this argument too many times already, and he's not particularly in the mood to go through it again. Blitzo has been begging him to quit clowning for Mammon for the past few months, but it's a nonstarter. This has been his dream since he was a teen, and if he gives up on it now just because there are some bumps in the road, he'll never be able to live with himself. He keeps telling himself that once he adjusts to the new practice schedule—6 days on, 1 day off—it won't be so bad, but in his heart of hearts, he knows that's not really the issue.
"Just sayin'," Blitzo mutters around his spoon.
Fizz lifts himself up off the table and eyes the stew. It looks fucking delicious, tender chunks of meat and chopped carrots, potatoes, and mushrooms in a thick, creamy soup that he knows Blitzo dedicated his entire afternoon to preparing. He's always like this on his days off, going all housewife mode and making sure that Fizz comes home to a tasty and nutritious meal after he's spent the previous ten hours working his ass off with little to no break time.
Fizz sometimes wishes he could return the culinary favor, but the Clown Kitchen Ban™ is still in effect.
"You gonna eat or just eye-fuck it all night?"
"Blitzo..." Fizz groans.
"That prick doesn't let you eat lunch, so I know you're hungry."
"Didn't say I wasn't."
"Yeah, okay, then stuff your face."
Fizz hesitates for just a moment before grabbing his spoon and scooping up a bite. He hopes that Blitzo doesn't notice, but the scrutinizing gaze on him doesn't let up. This is another argument they've had too many times that he doesn't want to rehash right now, another reason why Blitzo wants him to quit Mammon. Really, though, it's not that big a deal; he just needs to slim down a bit so his silhouette on stage is more in line with the brand that Mammon is trying to build for him. He's supposed to be this lithe, lean acrobat, and having a paunch doesn't really fit in with that aesthetic.
He manages to get through a few more bites before he can't ignore the way the butter and heavy cream are wrecking havoc on his calorie deficit. Fizz pushes the bowl away and ignores the pointed look thrown at him from across the table. Blitzo means well, he knows that, but he doesn't understand. Mammon is risking so much on him, putting so much time and money into making sure his debut into professional clowning is the best it can be, so Fizz can't let him down. It'll be hard for a while, sure, but once he's popular and making good money, it will have been worth all the pain.
"I'm gonna shower," he tosses over his shoulder as he exits the kitchen.
He hears Blitzo say something under his breath but doesn't catch the exact words. Probably a good thing, because he's probably bitching about Fizz not finishing his dinner. Whatever. He turns the tap all the way and undresses as the water comes up to his preferred temperature (boiling), all the while avoiding his reflection in the small, unevenly-hung mirror above the sink. He scrubs the sweat and grime off himself as quickly as he can, because he knows that once the heat from the water starts to relax his muscles, he won't be long for this world.
He is in fact so sleepy when he gets out of the bathroom, wrapped up only in his favorite fuzzy robe, that he doesn't even argue when Blitzo presses that fucking bowl of rewarmed soup back into his hands again. He makes it through another few bites before his jaw gets achy from the chewing and he gives up again. Blitzo doesn't exactly look happy, but he also doesn't make any more snide remarks. The bowl gets covered in cling wrap and joins the big tupperware of leftovers in the fridge, and the two imps head off to bed. Blitzo will probably be awake for hours still, but he always joins Fizz under the covers and stays beside him until he falls asleep.
Which doesn't take long tonight. As soon as his head hits the pillow, he's basically out, and just before he drifts off completely, he feels Blitzo press a kiss to his forehead. "Love you, Fizzie."
(He's dreaming.
He's just dreaming.
He knows he's just dreaming.)
Somehow, Blitzo manages to score a whole entire full weekend off from LooLoo Land at the same time Fizz is scheduled to perform at Ozzie's, and so they decide to make a night of it. He only has to flutter his lashes at Asmodeus a little bit to score a free VIP pass, and the only condition is that he wants to meet Blitzo after the show, something about needing to see "the man who inspires all that lust".
After the show ends, he takes Blitzo backstage to make good on his promise, and while most of the night's other performers have already left, budding popstar Verosika Mayday is still hanging around. Ozzie brings them all a complimentary round of drinks in very phallic glasses—a thank you for their hard work, he says, and a toast to their future success—and the four of them shoot the shit for a little while in the green room as the other employees close up shop.
It's a lot of fun! He wasn't initially sure if Blitzo would play nice with Ozzie, especially when it's basically public knowledge in the Lust Ring at this point that the Sin wanted to get in Fizz's pants. He's never been pushy or rude or forceful, of course, has never been anything other than a complete gentleman each time Fizz politely rebuffs his subtle flirtation, but all the same, a part of him is hoping that bringing the reality of his relationship with Blitzo right under Asmodeus's nose might put a stop to the advances once and for all.
(Blitzo knew, of course, because Fizz couldn't imagine hiding something like that from him, and once his raging bitch-fit had subsided—during which he threatened to "shove my boot down the throat of every stupid fucking succubitch he owns", among many other stupidly violent and violently stupid things—he'd eventually made the "joke" that he would maybe consider a threesome if fucking 'the Big Horny Chicken' would help Fizz's non-Mammon-related career options.)
Once the other employees are finished with their nightly responsibilities and are ready to lock up, the four of them join the small group of people waiting by the back door. They're crowded together more than usual for some reason, and in the span of a few heartbeats, Fizz starts to feel himself get panicky. Without thinking, he busts through the exit, his only goal being getting both space and fresh air, but as soon as he's out in the alley, a voice he unfortunately recognizes as one of his creepier fans is calling out to him. Quickly crossing the tiny alleyway, the man reaches out and yanks Fizz into his arms. He struggles to get away, tries to call out for Blitzo or Ozzie or someone to help him, but all he can manage are a few strangled cries.
He has no idea when the door behind him opened again, but the next thing he's aware of is a loud crunching sound emanating from above his head and Blitzo screaming and cursing and tearing Fizz away from his stalker. He's pushed into someone's hands and dragged away as the other demons circle protectively around him. The only sound he can hear above the ringing in his ears is the thudding of Blitzo's fists, and then suddenly there's fire, bright blue and white hot flames, a gurgling yelp, and so much blood.
When he finally summons the courage to open his eyes again, though truth be told he's unsure of when he shut them, Fizz sees Blitzo approaching him, his outstretched hands covered in black liquid. There are splashes of it on his chest and face, too, his right eye is completely encircled in it, and for a moment, the fear that Blitzo has been injured in the fight grips his heart, squeezing at it so tight that he can't breathe. He's asking if Fizz is okay, probably clocking how he can't take his eyes off the blood-splatter staining his clothes and skin because he immediately switches gears and begins reassuring him that he isn't hurt.
"I'm okay," Fizz says once he's able to catch his breath. "I'm okay, I'm—"
He glances away and sees the charred corpse laying on the ground in a growing pool of black blood just a few feet away from him. Asmodeus is standing beside it, staring it down as if he expects it to jump back up and start swinging. Ozzie killed that guy, Fizz thinks distantly, and the very idea that he's the reason someone lost their life makes his stomach roil.
He doesn't remember much after that, just recalls being gently pushed into Blitzo's van at some point. It isn't until they get back to their apartment and Blitzo is washing the blood off himself that Fizz finally notices how bruised and shredded his knuckles are. Blitzo must have beaten the prick to a pulp before Ozzie got there.
Blitzo lays a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?" he asks again.
Fizz nods, not trusting himself to say more. Turns out, the instinct is a good one, but it doesn't really matter because he starts shaking and hears his breathing turn quick and shallow and he feels the tears running down his face before he can try to stop them from welling up. He's enveloped in his partner's arms, and Blitzo holds him tight and gently rocks him until he stops crying.
"Did that fuckhead hurt you?" Blitzo asks. "Didn't seem like it, but we couldn't really get through to you at first, so…"
"No," he whispers. "He grabbed at me, but you got there before…before—" He can't bring himself to finish that sentence. "I'm okay. Just scared."
"Okay good, fuuuuuuuck I was so worried."
Blitzo tries to break the hug, but Fizz squeezes tighter, not ready to let go yet. Even though they're in the privacy and relative safety of their own home, he keeps feeling like he's back in the alleyway, a sense of impending doom coursing through his body as if moving out of the shelter of Blitzo's embrace will cause something bad to happen to him.
"C'mon, babe," his boyfriend murmurs, "we should go to bed. Can't spend all night canoodling in the bathroom. I'm tired as fuck, and I'm not the one who put his whole clussy into doing a dildo-juggling striptease."
He tries to protest but the only sound that makes its way out is a petulant squeak. It sounds terribly pathetic even to his own ears, so he can't blame Blitzo for chuckling at him under his breath. In the end, the other imp resorts to picking him up and carrying him across the hallway into their bedroom. He gets plopped carefully down onto the edge of the bed, but as Blitzo sets about his bedtime routine, Fizz finds it difficult to move. He needs to change into his pajamas, or at the very least take off his shirt and jeans, and he needs to do his skin care too, needs to oil his horns and hooves, needs to—but it all feels so fucking impossible right now. All he wants to do is flop down on top of the comforter and pass out.
He blinks, and somehow, he's in his pajamas and lying under the covers, and he feels the mattress dipping slightly as Blitzo slides in beside him. He turns over and curls into his boyfriend's chest, immediately feeling safer as Blitzo holds him close.
A few weeks later, Blitzo comes home from work and tells him about a visit he received from a certain someone while he was working that day.
"You really think this is a solid offer?" Fizz asks, not because he doesn't believe what his partner is telling him, but because it seems too good to be true.
Blitzo shrugs. "She gave me her manager's business card and wrote his direct extension on the back. Don't see why she'd do that unless she was serious."
"But being a bodyguard, though? Don't hellhounds sort of have that market cornered? Why would she want an imp protecting her?"
Blitzo scoffs. "Excuse the fuck out of you, Mr. Internalized Racism, but imps are just as good at beating sleazeball stalker ass these days as everyone else."
"That's not what I meant," he protests, even though it kind of is. "I meant...would anybody even take you seriously as a deterrent?"
"Woooooow," Blitzo deadpans as he rolls his eyes. "Been working my balls raw in those fuckin' self-defense classes for you, and this is the thanks I get. Your vote of confidence is overwhelming, Fizz."
"That's not—that came out wrong…."
"Besides!" he continues quickly. "I don't need to be all tall and yoked and snarly and intimidating like a guard hound if I've got a fucking gun."
Blitzo forms his hand into the vague shape of a pistol and fires pretend bullets at multiple angles across the room. Fizz sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Any idiot can buy a gun and put holes in people, Blitzo. And why would you pivot to firearms if the thing that impressed Verosika was your hand-to-hand skills?"
Blitzo shrugs. "Can't hurt my chances if I'm good at both."
"Also you just think guns are cool," Fizz points out.
"Guns are cool, bitch! Okay, okay, listen: picture me aiming a sniper rifle! Or shoving a revolver in some stupid bitch's face! Or—or hiding a fuckin' flintlock in my blazer or something! Shiiiiit, that'd be so fuckin' sexy. And every time some shitstain tries to get close to you or Verosika, I could be all, 'Hey fuckface, if you wanna leave with both your heads still attached, then back the fuck up!'"
Normally a speech like that would have Fizz cracking up, but honestly he's barely paying attention to it. That night at Ozzie's was the first time Blitzo met Verosika, but she'd been at the club with him a handful of times before. She was a phenomenal performer, had a great voice and knew how to entrance a crowd and wind them around her finger, but the way she drank backstage kind of scared Fizz, made him hesitant to support Blitzo's potential decision to switch jobs. Being one of Verosika's bodyguards would mean being around her 24/7 while she was on tour, and with Blitzo's family history of alcohol abuse, Fizz can't help but wonder if this opportunity would only hurt him in the long run.
His concern must have been showing on his face, because Blitzo reaches over to take his hand. "If you don't want me call," he says seriously, "I won't."
"But you're miserable at LooLoo Land."
He almost misses the pained expression that flits across his boyfriend's face. Almost. He catches the way Blitzo catches himself, his face going blank out of habit and his gaze momentarily stretching out into middle distance. He corrects himself quickly, though, and tugs Fizz closer, wraps an arm around him and tucks him underneath his chin. Although it's disguised as affection, Fizz recognizes the move for what it is: Blitzo doesn't want him to read on his face whatever emotions he's having trouble containing.
"'S just a job, babe," he mutters, his cheek pressed against the rise of Fizz's horn. "It's easy, it's within walking distance of the apartment, and the money's decent enough if my boss lets me have overtime. I don't really give a shit what I do for work—" An obvious lie. "—but you've got a dream, and you've worked so fuckin' hard to get where you are. I don't want to mess any of that up by being a whiny little bitch, y'know?"
Fizz could be an asshole and point out that, lifelong dream or not, in any other context Blitzo would be (and is, constantly) trying to get him to quit working for Mammon. He could be an asshole and point out the excitement with which he approached Fizz about the chance to have a more exciting and fulfilling career, one that maybe suited him better than standing by a shitty wooden cart every day and making shitty balloon animals for shitty kids and their even shittier parents. But he knows the voice controlling the narrative in Blitzo's mind right now isn't his own, knows that the conversion they're actually having right now is about if Blitzo deserves happiness and success as an individual or if his only role in life is going to continue to be the sacrificial lamb laid up on the alter of Fizz's happiness and success.
And just for the record, fuck Cash Buckzo.
"You should call," he says around the lump in his throat that he hopes Blitzo can't hear. "See what the pay and the schedule would be like. We can talk again once we have more details."
"Okay." Blitzo pulls away just enough to look down at him, a smile tugging at his lips. "Love you, Fizzie."
(He's dreaming.
He's just dreaming.
He knows he's just dream̴i̷n̷g̵.)
Movement beside him stirs Fizz from his slumber. He's normally a sound enough sleeper to put up with Blitzo's nighttime rotisserie nonsense, but this isn't that. This motion is subtle, gentle, intentional: a body presses in close against his side, a hand runs up his chest under his pajama top, a warm mouth leaves a trail of kisses along his shoulder and neck.
He's barely awake but he smiles all the same. "Morning," he murmurs, his voice slightly creaky from overnight disuse. He tries to turn his head and capture Blitzo's mouth with his own, but the other imp is more interested in retracing his steps, moving further down and pushing Fizz's shirt up so he can litter his chest with kisses as well.
"I'm so fuckin' hard right now," Blitzo says by way of greeting. "Had that orgy dream again, and you know what it does to me."
Fizz rolls his eyes. The dream in question is about all of Blitzo's ten million horse OCs in what he describes as "a great big sexy horse sex pile". "So you woke me up—before my alarm, fuck you very much—so you could take your sexual frustration out on me?"
"No," Blitzo replies as his fingers delve past the waistband of Fizz's boxers. "I woke you up before your alarm so I could dump my cum in you, fuck you very much."
Fizz laughs and wiggles his shirt over his head and horns. He considers whacking Blitzo with it but decides against it. He's starting to wake up a bit more, and he can feel every small, delicate, delicious movement of his partner's fingers against his cunt, can feel himself getting wetter with every passing second. His legs part on instinct as Blitzo pushes his underwear down and throws them unceremoniously off the bed.
"Plus, y'know," he adds quickly as he spreads Fizz's lips and scents the air with his tongue, "yesterday was shot day." Blitzo settles between his legs, an arm wrapped around each of Fizz's thighs, and his claws dig into the soft flesh they find. "Your pussy's always ridiculously good after shot day."
Fizz smirks, on the cusp of making a joke, something about sex being the most fun type of exercise he can think of to help the testosterone absorb into his system, but then Blitzo's mouth is on him and he nearly jumps out of his own skin. There's none of the soft teasing and slow build-up there usually is when Blitzo goes down on him; he just pushes through Fizz's folds with his tongue, finds his t-dick, and sucks. It's so intense so quickly that he's panting and keening and reaching down to take hold of Blitzo's horns in no time flat.
He comes, and it's almost disappointing in a way how fast Blitzo pushes him over the edge. He hasn't even bothered to use his hands, choosing instead to hang onto Fizz for dear life. He has a moment of anxiety as he comes down from his too-quick, unsatisfying orgasm, wondering if Blitzo intends to just shove his cock in him while he's still barely wet. He knows better, Fizz knows he knows better. They've been together since they were teens, so it isn't like Blitzo is unaware of what he needs, of the time and patience it takes these days because of the HRT to make sure he's ready.
But then Blitzo nuzzles his inner thigh, lavishing the tender skin there with bites and hickeys and wet, open-mouth kisses, and Fizz relaxes into his touch. His momentary doubt vanishes as Blitzo's hands roam over his torso, pausing to pinch and tug at his nipples, and as the renewed assault of sensations pulls a guttural moan out of him, he feels the mouth ghosting over his cunt twist up into a grin.
The pace this time is much slower, Blitzo's exploration of him more methodical, making sure that every erogenous zone he has is not only hit but given its full due in the spotlight. One finger gently penetrates him, and then another joins shortly after, going straight for the spot inside him that cuts off his brain and makes his whole body thrash. Just when Fizz is sure he's on the brink of orgasm again, mindless and trembling and only able to vocalize a mumbled string of yesyesyes, Blitzo pulls away from him completely.
Fizz tries to yank him back into place, but his movements are weak and uncoordinated enough that Blitzo deftly avoids capture. In his desperation, he reaches down to touch himself, but Blitzo catches his hand to stop him. He tries with his tail too and almost gets away with it, but just as the spade gets to its goal, Blitzo's tail is right there to swat it away.
"Oh, fuck me!" Fizz swears, hips canting up, seeking any sort of pressure to get himself off but finding nothing.
"Yeah, I'm trying to," Blitzo chuckles. His other hand casually grabs Fizz by the back of his knee and shoves his leg up into his chest, and the stretch makes his cunt lips slide open, fully exposing his dick. The movement makes him feel vulnerable and powerless and so fucking turned on. Blitzo holds him there like that for a long moment, and when Fizz has the wherewithal to shift the focus of his gaze to his boyfriend, he's just staring at his handiwork, his smug grin glistening in the moonlight. "Satan, Fizz, you're so fuckin' pretty."
Coming from anyone else, that word would trigger his dysphoria like crazy, would zap away any and all remaining desire in him and leave him drier than a Wrathian desert. Would push him to the brink of tears, remembering all the times people, knowingly and unknowingly, misgendered him, called him a 'pretty girl' or a 'sweet little thing' or any number of other demeaning phrases. Coming from anyone else, being called pretty would be a red flag, an instantaneous no.
But not from Blitzo, not from one of the only people in his life that accepted him as a boy from the very beginning and defended him from bullies and pricks and well-intentioned but ultimately hurtful strangers every single time. It feels like the compliment it is coming from him, makes Fizz fell warm inside and deeply, truly loved.
"So pretty," Blitzo continues, sliding two fingers back inside him, "and so fucking needy." He gives a little chuckle as Fizz tries to encourage him to go deeper and faster by bucking his hips, but he refuses to take the bait. "Fuckin' look at you, all drenched and quivering and begging for it just from getting your box munched a little."
"Not my box," Fizz says, unable to completely suppress his laugh. "You're so bad at dirty talk."
"Not according to your cunt," he counters, and before Fizz can get out his own witty retort, Blitzo pulls out again and slides his fingers through his lips, gathering up his slick and swirling it around experimentally with his thumb. His lips pull back in a wicked grin as he leans forward, cock grinding against the back of Fizz's leg, and offers up his hand. "See for yourself."
He opens his mouth, Blitzo shoves his fingers inside, and as Fizz tastes himself, more wetness leaks out of him. Fuck, they're going to have to change the sheets after this, aren't they?
"Tastes good, doesn't it?"
"Mhmm," Fizz replies around Blitzo's claws.
"Yeah, you taste so good, baby. I could spend the rest of my life neck deep in your pussy, and I'd never get over how tasty you are." The hand retreats from his mouth, and this time, three claws work their way inside him, finally pumping into him as hard and deep as he'd wanted. "You proud of yourself for getting me so hooked on your cunt? Shit's more addictive than H-8. I'd do anything you asked if I got to eat you out as a reward."
Blitzo's thumb drifts up to the top of his slit and glances along his engorged t-dick. He's gotten lucky with bottom growth; his cock is big enough to be an enjoyable mouthful and to visibly twitch and throb when he's aroused. Blitzo must be on the same wavelength too, because he says, "You remember the first time we realized your dick was finally a good size to properly blow? I spent hours sucking you off. Only stopped 'cuz you insisted that we needed to eat dinner." He applies more insistent pressure on his cock, running this thumb up and down the length of it. "But then once our bellies were full, I got on my knees and hoisted your leg over my shoulder right there in the kitchen so I could have my dessert. Had to pin you against counter to keep you upright."
Fizz whines at the memory, too far gone to be capable of a real reply. He angles his pelvis to take Blitzo's claws deeper, and the change is just enough to set his whole body on fire, make him gasp and keen and grab at the sheet underneath him. This is good, it's so good, it's so fucking good, it's exactly what he needs but it's not what he wants. He's got just enough brainpower left to try and reach for Blitzo's cock, but he's rebuffed once again. His answering pout is lethal.
"Not yet," Blitzo clarifies. "Wanna get you off again before I get my dick wet. You're almost there, I can tell by how desperate you are. You make the sexiest noises when you're damn near brainless, you know that? Just a dumb slut begging for something to fill you up. Doesn't even matter what, my cock, my fingers, my tail, a toy—and maybe it doesn't even have to be me, huh? Bet you'd go buckwild if Big Blue was fucking you."
The mention of Asmodeus takes him by surprise, as does the way his cunt gushes in response. He'll have to examine that reaction later, however, because right now he just wants to indulge in the fantasy that Blitzo narrates to him.
"The way he flirts and gives you whatever the fuck you ask for—he's so down bad for a slut in a neon jester costume, and I can't blame him 'cuz I am too." Blitzo glances up at him through hooded eyes and smirks. "You'd let me watch, right? I'd wanna watch him fuck you. He's probably got a cock the size of a city bus, and I'd wanna watch you take it all. It'd be a struggle at first, but between the both of us, me and him, we'd make sure you could do it, make sure you're relaxed and all stretched out and pussy soaked as shit so he can just slide that fucking monstercock right inside you."
Fizz's tail flails out, flinging itself around Blitzo's wrist like a snap bracelet. "Please," he begs, his voice hushed and slurred in his desperation. "Please, Daddy, 'm so close…."
The title has its usual, predictable effect on Blitzo, whose smug grin is spreading across the entire lower half of his face. He lets go of Fizz's leg, which flops down against the mattress, and leans forward to balance his weight on one hand at Fizz's side. "Aww, what's wrong, baby? You really wanna fuck Ozzie that bad? You're such a whore, Fizz. You really so fuckin' turned on by the idea of getting plowed by your boss while your husband watches and praises you and—?"
He honestly can't tell if Blitzo doesn't finish his sentence or if his choked shouts of pleasure and the pounding of his own pulse are too outlandishly loud and simply drown out anything else. His whole body seizes up, back arching up off the bed so suddenly that it's almost painful, and Blitzo backs off a bit but never stops moving, working him through his peak in the same persistent and surprisingly gentle way he always does.
He's shivering by the time he comes back to reality, teetering on the edge of overstimulation. Before he can muster up his voice, though, Blitzo is already removing his hand and guiding Fizz's legs back to a more neutral, comfortable position. He lays on his side again and kisses Fizz deeply, their tongues intertwining for a long moment.
"You good?" Blitzo asks. "Hurting? Stiff? Need a break or anything? Water or—"
"Wait, no—" Fizz can't help but laugh and raise his left hand, glancing several times between his bare ring finger and the stupid idiot he's chosen to make a life with. "Husband? Husband?"
The initial crinkle of Blitzo's eyebrows is replaced very quickly by shock. "Heh, husband? Who—who said that? Not me! I—I—I—"
Fizz pushes him away as his laughter rings out in the stillness of the early morning. "We're gonna talk about that later," he says, "but more importantly: if your dick isn't inside me in the next ten seconds, I'm literally gonna die."
Blitzo gives a mostly-sarcastic salute and moves so he's sitting cross legged on the bed, patting his thighs once he's comfortable to invite Fizz into his lap. Eagerly straddling Blitzo's hips, he eases down onto his cock, arms drawn lazily around his neck. Fizz can't resist the soft smile that overtakes his lips when their eyes lock and he sees Blitzo's whole face shining bright with both wonder and passion.
This is without a doubt his favorite position. He loves the closeness of it, the fact that the intimacy is so powerful and profound. There are no barriers between them like this, either physical or emotional. Blitzo wraps his arms around Fizz's back tightly, tilting his face up to steal a kiss, and they spend a minute or two basking in the simple enjoyment of being joined together in such a sensual embrace.
…or at least that's what Fizz assumes is happening at first. But then Blitzo lays his head against his shoulder and takes a slow, deep, shuddering breath, and Fizz notices the full-body tremble that runs through the demon underneath him. He lets out a chuckle as the pieces get put together. "You're about to blow your load, aren't you?"
"Oh fuck you," Blitzo mutters.
"Yeah, I'm trying to," he parrots from earlier. He leans back a bit so that Blitzo can't hide his face anymore and lays a loud, playful smack of a kiss on his brow. "I mean, personally? I take it as a compliment when you're a two-pump chump. Not gonna lie, watching my cool, confident Daddy squirt his Simp Goo in me the second I clench down on him is a pretty big turn-on."
"I'm not a fucking simp."
"You're not a simp, you're the simp. Major League Simp. Chief Executive Simp. King Simp, even."
"Go choke on a microcock, bitch."
"Says the simp who begs for one on the regular."
"Yeah, well, that's how I know it's possible, so get to it!"
Fizz laughs, and the slight movement of his body pulls a sound from the depths of Blitzo's soul that's half pleasure and half exasperated agony. It makes Fizz wants to laugh even harder at the sheer absurdity of the situation, but he does his best to repress his giggles. Eventually, though, Blitzo gingerly shifts his hips to test the waters, and when he doesn't immediately bust, Fizz rocks into him in response. With a couple more pumps, Blitzo is fully bottomed out, the tip pressing deliciously against his cervix, and Fizz's eyes flutter shut.
"So big," he whimpers.
"Yeah?"
"So big," he repeats because his brain is currently melting out his ears, and the only thing important enough to continue devoting processing power to is the feeling of Blitzo's cock filling up every inch of him.
"You like it when Daddy fucks you good and deep like this, baby?"
"Yes…!" he gasps.
"Yeah? Why don't you bounce on Daddy's cock and show me how deep you can take it, huh?"
He does, very enthusiastically, and their lovemaking devolves from there into desperate grinding and half-baked dirty talk interspersed through whines and grunts and high-pitched moans. Fizz comes again before Blitzo does (which at this point is just plain impressive), and all of his limbs feel boneless and heavy as he tries to catch his breath. Blitzo's hold on him changes, one hand coming down to grip his ass and the other settling between his shoulders, and in one fluid motion that frankly defies explanation, Fizz finds himself lying on his back with Blitzo on top of him, somehow still seated inside him.
He wastes absolutely no time bringing his knees up to hug Blitzo's waist and wrapping their tails together. His boyfriend takes the hint, leaning forward on his forearms and snapping his hips into Fizz over and over again, single-mindedly chasing his own release. It doesn't take much to push him over the edge, and specifically, it's the refrain of Fizz begging to be bred that finally makes him come. He's acutely aware of how vigorously Blitzo ruts into him, of the rush of warm seed that floods his cunt soon after, and for a fleeting moment, he thinks he might orgasm again from the cervical stimulation alone. It's not quite enough, though, but it's fine. Getting off four times in one session is perhaps a little much to expect at this time of the morning anyway.
The moment Blitzo recovers, however, he resumes pumping into Fizz and snakes his hand down between them to jack him off. The combination is sinfully good, and in no time at all, he feels his entire body shaking.
"Atta boy," Blitzo says, smugly grinning from ear to ear. "Just like that. Be a good little slut and come for me again."
A shriek bursts from his throat as the pleasure crests and rips through every part of him. He almost feels like he's dying, heart pounding and desperately gasping for air, and well, they must call it "the little death" for a reason, right? He can certainly imagine much worse ways to go.
The spell ends soon enough, though, and he almost cries when Blitzo pulls out. "Noooo, not yet, not yet…"
Before he can respond, though, the peppy tune of Fizz's alarm sounds. It's loud and shrill, which is perfect for waking him up, but right now, the dancey little song makes him want to throw his phone against a wall. Blitzo does him a solid by reaching over and turning it off.
"Thanks," Fizz mutters as his boyfriend settles down beside him again. They curl together, enjoying the last remaining moments of intimacy before the demands of the day will require them to once again be apart. He basks in the attention, the lazy kisses being littered on his face, the soft stroking of fingers against his hip, the loose tangle of a tail around his calf. He can't imagine a place in Hell he would want to be more than right here, safe and cherished in Blitzo's arms.
"Love you, Fizzie."
(He's dreaming.
He's just d̸r̶e̶a̵m̷i̴n̵g̶.̸ ̷
H̴e̸ ̸k̸n̷o̴w̷s̵ ̵h̵e̸'̸s̸ ̵j̸u̵s̸t̸ ̶d̸r̷e̷a̶m̵i̸n̶g̴.̷)
"Oh hey," Blitzo says as they're eating breakfast, "I forgot to tell you—Momma called me yesterday. Said she wants to have dinner with us and Barbie soon. When's your next day off?"
"…today's my only day off for the next like, two and a half weeks. Mam's got me on tour in Envy and then in Sloth, and when that's over, I'll be at Ozzie's all that last weekend."
"Shit," Blitzo mutters, mood taking a visible nose dive. "I remember you telling me about the tours, but—ugh, I guess it just crept up on me."
"Yeah…" he sighs. Fizz hasn't forgotten about it for a single solitary minute since he was told. He's been actively dreading this for the last few months. "I tried to get Mammon to break up the tours a bit, but he insisted it would be better to just get them out of the way all at once."
They both know that by "better", Mammon invariably means "more profitable for himself", so there's no need to say it aloud.
"At least your paycheck will be pretty sweet when you're done?" Blitzo attempts, but the veneer of confidence in his voice is belied by the shared knowledge that no, his paycheck will still suck because Mammon will find some way to screw him out of a good chunk of what he's owed, will tell him it's to compensate for his hotel stays or his meals or new costumes or equipment that he absolutely doesn't need but that Mam will purchase regardless. He'll be forced to push those stupid fucking sex bots in every city they visit, and he'll see maybe a couple bucks from each one, meanwhile Mammon will be making disgusting and invasive comments about his body and how important it is for him to stay skinny, people like 'em skinny Fizzie, and raking in the dough hand over fist. He'll stay at the venue for hours after each of his shows interacting with fans, the only positive moments in the whole shebang, but it will be sullied for him regardless because Mammon will charge an exorbitant sum for everything, every photo, every autograph, every toy, every smile, every microsecond of his time and attention, and these demons who look to Fizzarolli as a bright spot in their otherwise dreary existences will fork over whatever the asking price is because they adore him, and he'll go back to his room at the end of the night and pass out for a few hours, only to wake up and repeat the same shtick again the next day.
I can't do this much longer, he thinks to himself for the millionth time, but he's still not brave enough to admit it out loud.
He manages to get through dinner with the family without breaking down, but as Blitzo and his sister are washing the dishes, Tilla corners him. Of course she could tell something was bothering him, neither he nor the twins have ever been able to hide anything from her. He tries to put on a brave face and deny anything's the matter, but she elbows him in the ribs and gives him that stare of hers that feels like she's looking directly into his soul.
"Come on," she coaxes, taking his hand in hers, "out with it, Fizz. You tell me what's wrong, and I'll rustle up a way to fix it."
She can't. Even if her health wasn't in such a bad place right now, this is the one thing she doesn't have the ability to fix for him. Tilla's a stubborn ol' bitch and he's lucky that she's always been one of his biggest supporters, but this is a mess he got himself into and if he wants to get out of it, he's going to have to nut up and do it alone.
"Just…work stuff," he concedes, because Satan only knows it's impossible to lie to this woman. "Mam's being an asshole like usual."
She hums knowingly. "I see…."
He's content to leave it at that, because he really doesn't want to ruin their otherwise lovely evening, but the words refuse to stay buried inside him. "I'm leaving town tomorrow, and I won't be home for a pretty long time, and it's...it's just—" He has to swallow down the sob that's threatening to burst out of him. "I'm so fucking tired."
"You know what you should do, baby?" Tilla says as she leans into his side and squeezes him tight. "You just look that over-bloated cocksucker in his beady little eyes, put both middle fingers in his face, and scream, 'Fuck you! Here's my two minutes' notice. Fuck you!'"
He sputters with laughter because that's the absolute last thing he expects her to say, and that's part of the reason why he loves her so much. Blitzo takes after her a lot, especially in his creative use of swears and insults , and he wonders (not for the first time) if he loves Tilla because she's so similar to her son or if he loves Blitzo because he's so similar to his mother. "Momma, what the fuck?"
She laughs with him for a long moment. "Now you tell me that wouldn't solve your problem."
"I mean, you're not wrong," he starts, "but I…"
I can't just quit, is what he wants to say, but can't he? It's not like he owes some terrible debt to Mammon or anything, and Blitzo has been angling for him to quit for years now, and Asmodeus is always talking about how he'd love to have Fizz at the lounge full-time, and he certainly doesn't want to regret not being able to spend more time with Tilla before she passes, and—
He folds in on himself, hands covering his face and supporting himself with his elbows against his lap, and he breaks. He sobs and Tilla holds him, and before he knows it, Barbie and Blitzo are there too, and they all affectionately dog-pile him until he gets himself together again.
He and Blitzo take their leave shortly afterward, and as they're saying their goodbyes, Tilla waggles her eyebrows and raises a half-hearted middle finger at him. As if he needs reminding. He smiles weakly and mirrors the gesture back at her, which earns him a curious glance from Blitzo.
They go home, and he starts packing, and every subsequent item he drops into his suitcase weighs heavier and heavier on his heart. Packing is always the worst part for him, having to acknowledge exactly how long he'll be gone this time, and once his bag is zipped up and stowed by the front door, he goes to Blitzo, who's sitting on the couch watching My Little Hellpony edits on NV, and spends the rest of the evening in his lap. They go through this song and dance each time, both pretending they're not upset Fizz is leaving again. Years ago, packing for a tour meant also having to endure Blitzo's sour mood until some tiny and insignificant thing sparked an argument, but these days, he prefers to ignore any and all signs that Fizz is going to be gone until the morning comes and he can no longer deny it.
The cadence of these mornings are always the same. Blitzo wakes up early with Fizz like he always does so they can have breakfast together, one last scrap of peace that will tide him over until he gets back home, and then Blitzo drives him to whatever insane place Mammon tells him they're meeting at, and they share a hug and a kiss, and the only farewell he gets is a quiet, "Be safe, okay? Love you, Fizzie."
(H̵e̶'̷s̴ ̶d̴r̸e̸a̵m̶i̸n̵g̶.̶ ̷.
̵H̵e̶'̸s̶ ̶j̷u̶s̷t̷ ̷d̶r̵e̶a̴m̷i̶n̷g̷.̴ ̵
̸H̷e̴ ̴k̶n̶o̵w̶s̶ ̸h̷e̵'̷s̸ ̷j̷u̷s̷t̷ ̵d̶r̴e̸a̵m̶i̸n̷g̸)
"You think you could sweet-talk The Big Cock into giving me one of those fancy rocks of his?"
"Why the fuck do you want an Asmodean crystal?"
"Had an idea for a new business. Trust me, it's gonna be great. Just need to be able to get top side."
"Top side. Like, the Living World?"
"Yeah. So picture it: you're a Sinner who just ended up in Hell, right? Must suck major ass that you can't clean up your loose threads anymore, right? So if they've got anybody they want offed, they can pay me to go take care of it for 'em."
"…alright, I guess I can ask him about it, but I highly doubt he'll say yes."
"Hell yeah! Love you, Fizzie~!"
(Ḧ̸̰́e̶̤͠'̵̣̒s̶̝͋ ̷̳̐d̶͉̂r̵͉̐ẽ̵̥a̸͇͆ḿ̷͚ỉ̷̮n̴͈̉g̸̢̐.̷̪̽ ̸̘̓
̷̬̚H̵̺͗e̵̡͆'̴͍̕s̵̬͋ ̴͈̐j̵̙͑ű̴̦s̶͕̀t̸̳́ ̵̱͝d̷͓̍r̴̡͑e̶̘̒ą̷̽m̴̯̅ï̴̥ń̶̥g̸͖̋.̴̬̌ ̸̙̇
̴̥͗H̷̪̕ẽ̶̳ ̴̳͑k̸̨͝n̸̛̟ȯ̶̫w̶̒͜š̴̻ ̶̬̈h̷̟̉ȇ̴͎'̶͖̎s̵̫̅ ̴̯̅j̸͉̽ụ̸̈s̶̠̎t̴̘̀ ̴̩̚d̷̝̀r̶̞̕e̸̹̒a̷͖͊m̵̱͊ï̵̙n̸̢̽g̵̖͑)
"Blitz? Just…drop the 'o'?"
"Yeah. Blitzo is…well, let's face it, it's not even that good of a clown name. But Blitz—that's the name of a man who kick ass and takes names, right?"
"It's certainly more forceful."
"Yeah, exactly! You wouldn't trust a pathetic loser named 'Blitzo' to go revenge-kill your cheating ex, but you'd sure as shit trust a professional assassin named 'Blitz' to get the job done."
"Yeah, I see your point."
"Sooooooooo…?"
"If you really feel that strongly about changing your name, then of course I'll support you."
"Love you, Fizzie."
(H̶̛̟̥̏e̷̙͈͖̓̓͘'̵̥͖̇̋ͅș̷̨͉̈́̈́ ̴̧̩̋͆̌d̵̪́̀r̸͍̀e̵̳̥̬̅a̷̡͍̐̌̊m̸͎͍̊͊i̴̝͚͕͑̄n̷̟͚̫̏ġ̷͔͠.̵͚̂̃ ̷͖̏
̶͚͒H̴͉̕è̴͇̒͘'̷̱̆s̵̢̑̂̂ͅ ̸̪̃̆̚j̶̟͕̇u̶̫͗̐̍s̴̘͖̰̾̋̊t̶̛̼̾ ̶̼̎͐̈́d̸̢̲̔ṙ̵̢̲e̸̟̬̦͛͌́a̷̢̜̙͗̍m̷̨͙̮̉͗̊i̵̪̮͑̃n̵͎͈̉̀͠g̴̬̞̋.̸̩̬̦̑̑͝ ̶̖͈̅͗͠
̸̨̳͚̋͆H̵͇̤̻̽̈̋e̶̬͇̻̐͝ ̸̡̾͌͝k̴̭̜̒n̵̬̩̗̍o̸̰͒͘w̷̺̝͗ͅs̷̥̹̬̐ ̵͎̪̘̆̀ḩ̸̻̫̔̐͝e̸̤͓̔'̶̬̰̥̍̑̔s̸̲͖̈ ̴̫̓̔̌j̷̲͓̀͠u̷̜̕ş̴̽̀ť̵̛̻ ̶̛͚͍͂d̸͖͖̈́̆̄r̷̲͛̎̕ͅẻ̸̡̫̩̊̕ą̵͉̤͊m̷̮̰̬̒̈́i̵͉̠̎̈̈́ņ̷͖̳̉̈́g̶͉͍͔͠)
"Love you, Fizzie."
(H̵̛̅͐̈̓͋͝ͅe̵̻͎̜̩͇̼͍͖͐̉͑ͅ'̵̩͚̻̝̽̓̀̃̀̉́͋̓ş̶̟̉̕ ̸̥̤̖̟̻̫̼̈́͌̿͌̊̎̚͝ͅd̵̢̺̟̭͙̮̜̆̆͗̽͆́̏̑͝ͅṛ̵̼͇̺̜̘͖̞͌͂͆̏́̎e̴̢̺̰͇̳͖͖̭̋a̸̠̟͊̂̕͝m̸̡̧̢͓̺̟̗̺̜͊̈́͂͒̔̅̈́̓̑i̶̻̚n̶͚̲̿̐̃g̵̰͕̥̋.̷̫̄͝ ̷̨͎̝̥̣̠̀́͊͊̀͐͋̈́̕
̷̱̮̘̀̈́H̴̪̮̮̅e̷̡͙͇̭̗͓̹̲̋̐͛̈́̓̀̾̀͘͜'̴͚͕͍͙̯̝̩̆̈́s̴̝̯̟͉͈̼͛͜ ̴͈͋̿̀̽j̴̢͍̺̖̳̥͙̳̓́̄͛̎̒u̵̢͍̞͚͙͎̠͇̥͋͆̋͒ş̷̱̝͈͔̼̈̌̈́͗̈́́͒͆̕t̶̙̅̍͌ ̵̖̠̒͊͛͝d̷̨̡͉͇͕̙͕̈̓̽̅̈̕̕͘͜ͅŗ̶̼̥̫̤̻̲̯̣̉̋͋̀̀̾͘͠ē̴̗̜̬̪̖̔́ä̶̛̯̥̪͎́̅͂̆͋͘͜ͅṁ̵͓̱̼̣̘̆̔̉̾̈́̂͜͝͠i̸̡̧̮̱̳͚͔͎͌͒̀̑̏̇̽̓̿n̸̲̦̼͑́g̶̖̦̪̙̗̦͔̜͇̽.̵̤̜͙̰͊͗̈̈́́̂ ̶̺͕͉͇̪́͝
̶͇̖͔͉̺̫͇̫̔͛͒H̵̩̠̹͂̂́̊̒̄͛e̵̪̫̯͉̜̫̓̄̄̎̒̿̀̚͜ ̷̡̢̨̺̣͙̹͈̍́̽̾k̵̨̧̟̗͙̱͖̈ͅn̸̢̦̓́̊̀o̴̡̯̫̟͈̻͂̌̑̐̋̊͘͝͠ẇ̴̨̮̞͖̑̿̍̄s̸̮͖̰͕̈́̒̀ ̸̱͉͒̅͘ḥ̶̡̜̂̉̈́̚e̷̢̛̛̜̱͈̪͇̣̜̔̂̄͗͗̆'̸̢͉̳̞̳̈̔͆̃s̵̨̯̯̻̦̫̥̗̤̋͂̂͛̃͑͝ ̴̧̢̞̗̤̝̤̥̉̈̒̇̓̆ͅj̵̨͎͊͌̎́͋̀u̷̟͋s̵̢͔̲͎̗̣͐̃t̷̤̗̝͖̰̊́̍̑͑͛͛̚͘ ̵̼͆̏̈́̊̈́́̃͋͝d̴̫̟͌̓̉̍̉ṟ̵͎͍̈́͐̀̑̈̀̈́͝͝e̶͖͔̹̬̤̜͎̐̄̌̀á̴̩̟̥̩̰͎̩̈́̒́́̚m̵̗̭̈̈́̉̂̓̌̚į̷̢̛͔͕̘̣̝̟͋͌̆́n̸̢̛̯̯͈̱̻̬̮̯͒͗̈̍̂̎̕g̵̛̬̰̱̠͉̣̱͍̖̃̈́͐́̓̒̆͝)
"Love you, Fizzie."
H̷̡̛͚̰̝͍̫̼̱̐̈́̇̑̆̾́̉̕é̶̼̻̯̠̩̙͂̈́͘'̵̡̧̛̳͚͙̼̲̙̞̞̮̱̹̘̓͋̾̊̓͌̈́̍͋̓͘̚s̸̲̎̊͗̿̋̅̐̽̀̈́̒̚͝ ̵̛͇̪̙͔̒̏̅̐̕͝d̶̢̟͓̻̱͖͈͇̜̎͒͊̏͑̎͐́̋͝͝r̴̡̢̟͇͙̹̀͋̒̂͘e̵̢̡̳̮̘͓̗̦̝͆̆̂̃́͂͐̏̊́͝͠ͅa̵̠͍͕͗̔̐́̒m̴̢̑͗͊͂̏́͌̽̆͆͆̀į̸̢̢̨̺̼̩͊͑͋̅̓̆̇̓͛͆͒͠͠n̴̼̱͕̟̦̟̱͓̳̥̻͓̿̕g̶̡̘͓̝̘̲͉̽͒̂̉̃͝͝.̷̢̨̢͈̟̙͖̦̺͔͓̭̞͉͌͜ ̵̢̡͚͔̯̣͔͈̱͕̤̱̪̼̆̍͑̽̉̚͠ͅ
̴̢̝͓̙̦̱̈̂̊̏͆̈́
̵̛̛̫̙̩͔̝̳̼̞͗̒͘͘̚Ḧ̸̢̧͈͙̼̺̝́̄̇͒̄̿̋̅͌͝ȩ̷̱̀̿̄̈̄͒̃̌̎͐̚͘̚͜'̴̤̯̬̯͚̙̪̞͌̏̊̏ͅs̸͔̘̠̩̹̭͉̠̱̓̎̒ ̸̹̓̈́͑̑̓̃̉̀̇j̶̨͇̠̟͕̝̲͉̙͕̰͈͇̽̒̐̎͋̕͠ŭ̴̼̻̘̪͈̬̜̹̞̟̒̓̽̏̚͜͠ͅs̶̨̧̗͕̻͖̹̼̘̥͙̞̱̰̈́̍́͋̀̈̏̿̿̕̕͘͘͘͠ͅţ̴̛̲͉̼̻̦̻̬̻͎͛͂̆͛̀̏̂̈́̀̏͛̚ ̸̦̼͎̳͈͓̈̆̂d̵̡̘̹͉͚̳̳͙̈́̋͆̀̑̚r̶̠̳͖̯͓̯̎̽̐̀̀͐͋͋̔́̍́͝e̷̢̺͚̺̣̰͒̓̾̋͌͘̕ȧ̷̝͎̤̜͚̫̜̏͑͗m̷̧̨̛̳̠̮͓͙̜͒̍̀̽͋̌̚͜i̷̛̥̤͇͎̼̠̲̖̓̈́̏͌̉́̄́̃̂͋͌̉́n̶͓͔̪͔̅̒̊̇͠g̵̦̬̱͈̝̩͎͍̳͍̤͎̻͝.̶̨̡͉͈̼̺͓̼̪̥̤̪̆͗̋͒̈͋̚͝ ̵̧̧̦̤̭̻̺̄̋͊̎̔͂̿̍
̸̨̺̠̰̐
̶̧̡̨̬̜͉͖̜̠͕̟͙͊͠Ḧ̶̫̻̲͇́͛̒̓̽̒͒̏̌̀̚ę̴͔͇̫͖̲̘̞̽ ̵͚͚̖̦͕̬͓̟͉͍̃́̌̆̐̉̔̚͝k̷̗̤͋͊̈́̄͠͠͝n̴͖͕͔͍͉̪̱͐͛ớ̴͙̞̐̀͛̎̿̋̈́̄̚͝ẅ̶̨̡̗̦̩̤͉̒̆̌̕s̴̨̡̱̻̞̦̟̮͚̃̈̾̄̑̓̎̊͋͌̿́̏̄ ̴̠͎̫͎̍̈́̋̄́͐̚̚̕͝͠͝͠h̶͇̲̖̟̦̼̹̰͎̰̮̟̔̔͑é̸̱̬̫̀̑͠'̸̯̥̫̩̣̘̱̥̥̦͉̗̅s̶̨̫̥̹̹̀́͒͠ ̸̝̯̹̳͕̲̱̣̀̓́̐͂̂̂̃̌͜ͅj̸͍̠̗̭͈̱̞̿̿̾̿̀̅͜͝͠ͅū̶̡̡̡̹̖̝͍͕̻͓͓͖̪̱͕̓͒͂̒̄͌́̂͒̎͒͒̅͝ş̵̥̰͈̻͓̖̭̖̤͂̈̌̑̑͌̏͝͝t̸͖̙̟̗̯͚̼̱͖̻̖͆̉̾́̌́̔̊̍̊͒̂̄̆̓ ̶̡͍̪͓̩̥̪̯̩̟̀̍͗̽̎͐͜ḑ̷̠̙̺͔̣͚͙̥̺͇͉̦̉͌r̶̨͈̺̦̻̘̼͑̎͆̀͐͊͑͘͝ẻ̶̡̛̛͔̘̬̗͇̔̒̍̈́̇̀̔̊͆̈́a̸̢͚̜͖͙͍̱̪̳̱͇̲̮͊̀͆͂͛̚m̸̡̫͔̠̮̖͎͉̖̝̝͑̆̈́͑̓̕į̶̡̧̱̦͙͕̹̺͇̘̿͐̽͆̈́̈́̈́͒̈́̕͜͝n̵̫͗̂̄̓͂̏̿̆͝g̷̼̞̹̮̳͈̼͕͎̺̯̬̗̬̫̔̂̊̕.̵̨̧̺͖̝͙̙̣̗͉̮̪̫́̀̄͌̒͆̿͌͒̋̀͘̚͜͜
̶̡̬̟̙̯̬̥̟͇̠̜̦͙̩̓́
̷͉͖̂͆̇͋̐H̵̝̣̑͌̈͌̄̒̇̏͌͊͐̒̂̕͝è̵͚̻̣̩̩͖̼̩͖̯̜̊͋͜͝ͅ'̶̺̼͍̮͖̮̩̖̳̰̽͗̈́̿s̷͎̹̳̥͓̞̍̈́͊̆́̃͋̋̓͂̐̚͝ͅͅ ̷͖̩̟̠̓͗̾̏̊͛̍̐̊̾̉̈̄͝d̸͇̳͚̲̝͓̲̙̗̹͕̮̜̽ͅr̵̡͓̳̫̮̦̟̟̄͆̏͂̄͝ẻ̶̢̒̑̓̏̃a̴̮̯̖̻̣̥͍͙̳̿m̸̧̧̛͕͖̳̰̥̞̼̦̽̋̈́͐̀̍͆̕͜i̵̙͇̖̝͖̠͙̘̇̎̓n̷̖͚̥̈̽̒̋̂̈́̀̓͗͆̑̉͘ǧ̶͍͍̹̮͖̱̼͂̀̀̍̿̍̄̾̚̚͝͝.̵͈͖̖̖̘̭͕̜͕̇́̂̉́͋̌̆̆̕͝͝͝ ̷̨̛͕̖̪̫̣̱͈̹̱͔͕̘͎̹̌̀̅̀̋̽͗̂͛̎̓̾͝
̵̡̨͇̼̃̑͋̅̇͋̅̓̏
̷̝̫̝̰̊͗͒͋͋͒͗̌́̏H̴͇͙̟͙̟̠̰͙̘͙̬̠͆̊̍͛̐͘̕e̷̻͇͚̺͉̜̠̰͆̃̀͌̉̀͛͒̀̃͑͗̓'̸̤̙͐͆͗͐̈̄͘̚͝͠s̶͈̱̩̬͕͚̏̈́̄̓̓̏̅̏͊̓̈́̉͌͝ͅ ̸̧͇͈̠̫̳̞̟̻̆̀͑̓̅͌j̶̢̝̃̊́̾͌̈́̕͘̚͠͠ͅṷ̵̢̹͙̇̅̃̒̃͐̀͝s̷̪̱̰̯̭̙̟̟͖͉̳̒͜t̵̢̰̩̤͖̘͈̩̦̜͆͋́͌̀ͅ ̴͖̃̍͆͗̓͝͝ḋ̸͎̯̹̆͐r̶̢̹̝͛̂̋̊̏̊̔͋̐̏̈͂̅͘e̸̢̺͉̙̹̟̳̼͉̱̪͂̾̿ͅa̶̝̒̒̇͐͛̒͗͊̐̕͠m̵̰̼̳̹̝̈͒̀ī̷̧͖̯̣̤̌n̴̪̤͑̔̓̈́̐͋̀̈́͋͐ḡ̶̢̗̹̭̝̝͔̀̏͜ͅ.̶̺̲́̌̾̂͆͝ ̸̡̺͕̹̬͓̗̀̀̑͐
̴̧̳̱̥͉̪̥̙̯̙͙̝̜̥̓͑̂̎̑̓́͑̓̄̋͗͆͝
̶͕̥̊̀̀̈́̕H̷̨̢̡̙͎̣͉̭͍̙͚̦̀̆͊͋̑̀̑̏̀͆̈́̉̍̄ȇ̴̛̠͎͒̍̌͘ ̷̛̺̼͈͇̌̒̐̍̎̈́̽̔́͋̾͌͠k̵͈̫̞̰̥͎͖͈͋̏̅̓̌̐̕n̸͓̩̘̯̬̆ŏ̶̱̠̦̒̉̍͒͑̒w̵̢̧̛̗͕͚̫̼̻̞̩̲͕͇̼̐̊̀̈͋̒̾́͜s̸̡̮͍̲̋̄̇̃ ̸̺̞̹͆̏͌̉̊̓͗̈́̊̕̚ḩ̶̡̢̩̱͈͙̰̮̝͊̏̈́̾́̐͌̓͒̎͆̚̚͝ẻ̶̢̥̭̙̲͍͍̬̗̼͍̩͙̪͈̂͑̀͂̑́̓͒͋̂͆̓̚͠'̶̧̧̛̛̣͍̥͙̪͎͖͓̒͆͐͛̑̈́͊́͒̚̕͜͜͝s̵̘̿̏̃̏̔̓͒̈͠ ̵̼̠̹̌̊͒̀̍̄͘j̸̨̠̤͓̲̙͔̪̗̥̹͕̖̈́́͌͊́͋̕͠ͅȗ̴̜̠̝̖͔̻̦͚̹͗̂̌͜s̷̨̡̜̤̺̥͓̜̹͒͊̄̋́̉̓̓̎̇̍͜͜͝͝ͅt̴̹͊͊̐̈͑̈́̃̊̚ ̸̢̛̭͈͎̪̑̅̓͒̅͊̓̈́̌̀̌̚̚d̶̢͈͖͍̝͎̺̞̞̬͛͐͂̀͊̏̆ͅͅr̶̩̭̆̐͛͆̑̈̇̚͝e̸̬̜̥̮͑̏̈́͗̑̈́̌̂̋͠͝ȃ̴̧̢̱͍̗͎̥̹̹͖͇͈̂̉̂̊̒͐̔̊̆͝m̴̡̯͚̹̜̬͎̘̋̈̚i̶̢̡͓̱̙̭̼̹̯̰̺̙̖̣̓͐̑́̀͆͒̈n̸̟͐́̆̐̏̚͜g̶̳̩̬̝͕͍͈͉̲̠̯̀͘͜ͅ.̸̡̠̼̘͍͙̲̭̥̪̺͚̻̯̯̒́͌͋̾̈́̈̍̌̃̕͠͝͝
̷̬̝̟̥͖̲̖̱̲̦̘̯̿͌̌̽̑́͋̊̃̀̎͘͝
̶̮̲͚͙͎̙̞̫̞̜̤͍͇͐̈̈́͜͜J̸̧̡͚̙̩̻̯̜͔͇̰̙̗̄̅͂͐͂͂͂̀͗̀͑̿͘͝ͅǘ̸̡̦͕̱̘̰̺s̴̬̲̉͑́̏̀͆͆̏̋̿̈̚͝͝͝ţ̴̝̰̺̣̫̜̭̹̜̞̱̫̲̀̏̕͠ ̶̨̩͍̹̗̗̽̀̉͑d̴̥͉̼̰͙͎̠̈́̊̅͆͘̚͝ŕ̴̢̖̦͔̙́͂ě̴̡̱̺̣̞̬̦̺̆͗͊̋̈́̿͆͝a̷̱̳̮̟̠̯͑̊̑̃̎͌͒̇͆͘m̴̨̛̛͕̺̹̟̪̬̺̻̯͙̅́̂̋̉̈̿͗̊̀͠i̴̧͚͕̝̪͉̥͓̟͓̣̝̤̇͊̂̅͗͒̂̕n̴̢̹͙̫͚͖̹̊͂̾̎͗̑̓̐̆́̌͆̑͆̕ĝ̶̗̠̬̳̝̓͆͒͜ ̸̡͉̬̥̺̪̲̱̥̭̹̅̋̈́͐͗̊J̶̧̳̬̪͖̺͔͈̭̲͙̟̌͛͒̈́͆͂͌͂͜ͅú̴̡̹̤͉̖͕͉̠̪͖̬́̒͐̂́́̃͛͌̉̋͝͠ͅș̶̢̡͙̪̪̪̖͛̆͛̋̓̾̈́͊̿̐̚ͅͅt̵̥̥̤͈̗͖̹̺͊̀͜ ̷̛̛̦͍̪̌̍̓̐̀͗̓͆͠d̶̺̳͍͕̆̊͝r̴͓̻̳͓̲̰̍̒̅͂̾̀͗̎̋̄̀̊ḙ̵͍͔͉͕͎̉͌́́à̸̠̥̹͔ḿ̴̡͈̥̤̬̩͐̈́̋̒̊̊̈̓̈́͂̓̉̕̚i̶̗̳̝͠n̸̰̳̻̲̥͚͇͂̏͝g̶̨̛̜̣̻̲̠̜͈̬̮͑̏͆͆̿̾̏͆̏̚̚͘ ̸̧̬͈͚̼͕̖̺͍͇̖̲̄͊̒̎̑́̒̐J̷̳͈̲̠̺̤͙̦̄͑̀̍̍ū̸̹̳͖̞̟͕͖̹͔̙͆̾͘͝͠͠ͅs̵̪͖̣̋́̕͝t̷̨̝͍̘̙͙̲̦̥̼̯͚͙̮̑̇͐̃͗͛̀̈́͑͌̓̽̚ ̷̨͖͙̙͚͊̅͑d̷͎̠̤̳̩̻̆͑̏̈́̅̋̆͐̒̈́͋͠͠r̶̹̾̽̓͗̈̄̔͝͝e̸̡̛̘̤̞̱͐̔̀͋͛̅̓̓̊̈́́͋̕͘͜ȃ̷̠̈́m̸̮̙̥̫̣͍̟̉̐̃́̿̈́͌͘i̸̟̲̦̓̐͂͘͝ǹ̷̠ģ̶͉͈̖͔͔̻̬̗͈̱̽̊̈́̀̍̑̀̈͒͑̾͜ ̶̨̧̡̞̥̺̜̫̜̪̘̙̇̈́͒̈́͒J̷̛͙͇͙̰̅́̏͊̑͌̍̔̋̓͘͝͝͝ử̵̡̠̭͇̞̣̪͓̰̐̈̈́̓̒͒͜͝s̴̘̻̜̩̰̈́̈́͌̉͆̓̈́̏͘t̶̝̳̖̫͍̹͍̦͕̒̂̐͌͊͑͆ ̸̬̝̾̀̊̃́̆̍̀͠d̸̛̹̐̍̽̽̈͊̈́̕͘͠͠͠ŗ̵̛̮̫̭͎͎̙̪̱̖̂̈́͑͊̓̉͊̄́̃͌͜ė̸͉͙̼̱̫̣̠̳̠̝̪̞̝̘̀à̴͚͌̾͌͊̑́͗m̷̛̼̜̖̳̜̩̩̣̓͛̈́́̌̈́̓̓̿̍̆̕i̸̘͎̣͇̰͔̖̞͂́̐̅̚̕͜ṇ̵̢̡̛͙̠͕͔͕̜̯̤̩͚̻̉̃̑g̷̣̼̲͔̥̰̖͉͔̠̖͔͐͗̀̽̆͑͑͝ ̶̝̜͖̍̿̅J̴̩͖̌̍́̊̏́̾ủ̴̬̫͈̥͇̋̅͑̀̑͐̒̋̓̽̎͘͝͝s̷̮̬̪̠͕̠̿̾̇̅̋̅̍̿́͊͆̓̏̍̇t̷̨̥͉̝̮̼̱̱̯̜̄ ̶̡̗̟̙̤̃̈́̏̔̅͆̍̓͋̒̇̉d̸̘̐͑̈̀͂̒͗̔̓̐̈͘͝r̴͍̞͔̦̍͛̔̂̌̿͊ę̶̰͕̖̘͚̫̖̳̠́͗͑̔̒̓̎̊á̷̛̦́̌̊̈m̵̨̨̢̪̺̪̭̤̻̖̯͂̾͛́͗̉͒̍͝ǐ̶͍̬̙͇̙̩̼̫̲͎́͐̅͋ņ̸̦͔͚͖̬̤̪̖̯̣̕g̶̺̖̦̯̦̞͓̊̒̀̀̎̀̑̕ ̶̧̠̦̼͍̮͌̾͆̕͜͝ͅd̵̢̢͙͍͖͙̫̟͓̩͆̍͆̌͂̓͗ͅr̷̤͈̮͚͌͋̽͋̿̒̄̓͝ę̶͉͎̱̳̪͎̥͙͓͇̦̦̯̇̂̈́͘ͅá̵̧͎̘͈̙̳͇̦̥̗̦̬̙ͅm̷̯̱̜͕̀̀͒͛̑́͌̈͘͝ï̷̛̟̺͙̈́̾͂̈́͘n̵̫͓̈́͐͆͜͠͝g̶̜̾̾̌͂̃̅͜ ̷̧̯̳̖̘͙̭͂͂͌͗͐́̍͂͗̍̑͒͝͝d̷̨̫͎͓͙̱̭̝̗̩̖̥͇͔͓͌̓̉̍̊͒͒͗̂̀̒͗̕r̴̢̞͍̞̩̅̓̋͝ḛ̷̡̧̞̱͚̥̠̙̼̜̦̮̭̩̀a̴̢̗͖̻̦̺͓͎͖͈̫̲̲̗͐̾̏́͗m̸̞̝̺̱̥͚̤̮̬̏͋̈̋ĭ̷̛͙͙̙̈́̑̎̊̏͐͊͋̀͘͜n̵̡̪̣̭͖̒̋̃́̄̈͝͠g̵̡̨̙͚̩͕͚̯͓͈̹̙͛͒̈́́̾͌̅̿̕̕͝ͅ ̷̟̣͍̼̆̾̃̈́͌̀́͌͌̓̕͝͝͝ͅd̷̮̗̱͔͔͉̖̪͙̞͖̗̀̽̔͜ŕ̷̞̖̮̩̟̝͕̲̜̪̥͊̑̃́͛̃̾̑̎̕͝e̴͚̻͛̈́͛̍̋̒͐͝ā̵̢̡̲̞̲̹̥̫̩̖̝̞̽̌̏̋̂͐̚m̶̧̫͇̩̱͓͔̹̺̥̮̹̲̺̊͊̑̿i̷̝̾̊͒̿͋̒̊̊͆̃̾̀͝͠ń̶̟̹̺̭̪̭̬͚̭̞͙̪͋̓̈́̾̀̆͐͛̾͘͜͠g̶̯̿̍̇͆̄̈́̈́̉̽̑͂͑̕ ̸̧̢̨̡͓͈̱̥͙͚̯̩̊ͅḓ̵̗͙̠̥̬͎͔̟̈́̈́̈͑̉͆́̈́̑̈́r̵̛̝̟͐̋͛͛͐̂̈́͒̏̈́͛̉̕͠ë̸̜͖͎̘͕̯̖͖̬̖͓̥͔́̐̂͑̑̓̆́͋̊å̵̘̼̟̟̻͖̞͈̗̲͑̒͒̈́̓͘͜͜m̸̝̺̮͇͈̖͇̩̜̰̟̑͗͒͆̆̏̍̃̆̆̍̅͝i̵̬̯͔̱̜̣̬̒͋̈́͐̄̃̈́͌̏̒̕n̴̘̫͕̣̦̘̹̪̆̀̃͝͝g̴̡̛̫̲̘̯̗͚̖͍̱̫̋͑͊̀ ̵̻̳̂̄̿͑̂͊͐̆̾̕̚d̴̝̥̙͓̯̟̹̟͖͕͈̥̓͒͜ȓ̶̡͓̬͓̯̞͖̪̳̥̫̹̑͗̈e̵͎̦̰͇̻̼̣̺͔͊̉̈́́̓̽̆͆̇̇͐a̶̻͎͎̐̓̆̀̍̆̑̍́̚m̷̨̡͓̣͕̭̹̣̳͙̯͙͖̣̀̌̈͋̿͛̑̕ḯ̵̩̦̜̓̎̎͋ñ̸̡̢͔͉̝͖͓̦͒̋̆̀̃͆͝g̷̨̤̖̱̿̎͂̊̃ ̴̪͕̙̗̦̇͗͂d̴̛͔̞̘̹̋̿̓̀̔̊͛̀̕r̴̼̘͖̲̗̱̀̐̿͑̐̔ë̴͇̞̣̗̬̥̍ḁ̶̡̡̛͉̳̗̮̱̪̯̙͓͆̀͗̈́̈́̿̄͒͜͝ͅm̵̢̡̛̲͇̠̘̳͍̦̭̬̘̾̋̀̿͂̈̀i̴̝̳̒͑̈̍̿͆̕̚͝n̶̪͗̅͗͂̔̽̂̓̅͘͝g̵̨̧̮͇̥̠͉͇̞̀̍͝ͅͅ ̶̢͈̙͈̱̻̖̻̭̰͍̝͇̈͑̌̈ͅͅd̴̬̬̜͑̃͗͠r̴̡̧̨̧͚͈͓͎̭̊̏̇̈́͗͑̒̓̇̐̊̒͜ȩ̵͍̬̩̻͍̲̭̾̇́̍͋̂̒̓̔͊a̷͔̰̳̝̜͇̹͇̬͎͕̮̫͚̫̅̓̀͂͑́̉̈̄̚m̸̢̛̜̜̺̲̘̲̥͉̻̮͎͙̜̈̇̽̈́̓̔̈́͊̿̄͠͝i̴͉͉̩͖͋̽̕̚̚n̶̨̧͍̺̫̫̱̳͒̀̉̓͠g̴̡̩̮̖̮̗̪̞̞̊̈́̑̈̕͠ ̸̢̲̟̥̟̼̝̺̋́̿ͅd̸̡̨̦̘̜̩̫̻̺̞̗̳̼̗̆̔̂̀̚͝ͅr̸͓̜̗͈̝͔̔͊͐͛̍͂́̇̚ę̴̲̜̝̝͚̙̮̮̱͉͗͛̐à̷̢̛̛̺̻̖͔͋̿̀̑̈́̉̾̑̕̚͝ͅm̷̨͔͎̞͉̭̠̯̰̙̘̖̓͊̌͋̄̀i̴̭̭̥̐̐́͗̿́͘͝n̷̛̛̹̖̱͔̺̗͂͗̇̈́͛͒̽͂̂̐̊͘͠g̶̙̼̮̞͉̼͈̻̉̾͑̿̃͂̽̄̀̏͘͜—̵̨̺̘̺̲̦͖̺̩̗̦͔̤̇̉
"Love you, Fizzie."
***
He wakes with a start, heart pounding and sucking in air as fast as his lungs will cycle through filling and emptying. He scrambles upright on Ozzie's chest, but the change in position just highlights the roiling nausea that churns in his belly. He clambers down from the bed, accidentally kicking his partner in the head in the process, and he's got just enough time to stumble into the en-suite bathroom and throw himself in front of the toilet before his stomach upends itself. The sight and smell of his half-digested dinner just makes him sicker, and he spends what feels like an eternity caught in a loop of puking and then trying to catch his breath before puking some more.
Ozzie follows after him of course, sits down beside him and rubs his back and coos comforting nonsense at him until his body stops trying to revisit every meal he's ever eaten.
It's only when Ozzie asks him if he's okay that he realizes he's been sobbing the whole time too. He reaches over and grabs several wads of toilet paper so he can wipe his eyes and mouth and blow his nose, and he's thankfully only interrupted by a wave of nausea once as he attempts to get his face in order.
"Just peachy, babe," he responds, his voice hoarse and harsher than usual.
"You wanna talk about it?"
"No," Fizz gasps as another wave of nausea hits him. There's nothing left in his stomach to come back for revenge, but that doesn't stop the bile rising in his throat anyway as he thinks about what the actual fuck his subconscious just inflicted on him. The dream is fading, almost all the fine details slipping away into the aether, and the only thing he solidly remembers now is— "Just a nightmare."
"Okay," Ozzie replies, his voice deep and soothing as always. He lets the subject drop, because the word "nightmare" is at this point nearly synonymous with anything approaching the subject of the fire. He almost feels bad about misleading his boyfriend, but he'd rather die than have to explain what just happened and how much his heart once ached for the things from that stupid fucking dream. "You want some water? Crackers?"
"Maybe—" Another retch interrupts him. "Maybe when that stops happening."
Ozzie hums and nods. The big hand on his back moves slowly, fingers curling and straightening against his shirt. "Should I get Precious?"
Having his emotional support animal there to emotionally support him certainly makes sense, but it seems like more trouble than it's worth. "Nah, if you get her out of her crate, everybody else will want to be out of theirs too, and I don't feel like dealing with all that right now. It's okay, Oz, I'm starting to feel better, I promise."
"Alright," Ozzie sighs, and Fizz tries his best to ignore how doubtful his partner sounds. "Whatever you say, Froggie."
He pulls Ozzie closer, snuggling into his chest as those big, strong arms he loves so much embrace him. His stomach seems to settle more as his nerves respond to the increased feeling of safety and security that Ozzie's presence always induces, and within a few minutes, the post-panic adrenaline crash hits him.
Ozzie notices too as he goes fully limp in the Sin's grasp. He stands up and deposits Fizz on the bathroom counter with a gentle but firm order to wash his mouth out before they go back to bed. Ozzie wanders off momentarily as he brushes his teeth and comes back with a bottle of water, which Fizz gratefully takes a hesitant gulp of. His stomach doesn't immediately protest at the intrusion, which gives him the confidence to take another sip, and then another, and then finally to exit the bathroom altogether.
As he slides off the counter, Ozzie catches him and hoists him up into his arms so that they're of a height. The Sin presses their foreheads together, and Fizz blooms under the attention, his favorite of the few types of skin-to-skin contact left available to him. Thinking about the hows and whys of that will just upset him again, though, and he doesn't want to allow that fucking asswipe he used to call a friend to intrude on his life any further. Bad enough that he showed up to the club a few nights ago and basically derailed the whole first half of the show, so Fizz definitely isn't going to let him take up any more of his time at home either.
Unfortunately, Ozzie then says, "Love you, Fizzie."
And he can't stop himself from gagging.